The ding of an elevator.

Metal soundlessly parts the ocean before Moses as a four-wheeled cart leaps from tile onto on the hallways’ carpeted floors.

A crimson fez with a stringy yellow tassel bounces up and down behind the cart.

A blonde-haired blue-eyed, beefcake bellhop, dressed in all crimson, with good trim along his collar, wheels a cart, overflowing with the most decadent treats the mind could imagine.

Grapes off the vine, glistening, freshly watered. Strawberries, sliced into perfectly trimmed slices, straighter than a straight edge…

A small diorama of gummy bears, wearing togas of gelatin in a lifelike diorama of the streets of a Roman city.

And at the center of the culinary presentation, a giant erupting chocolate fondue volcano. Its cocoa-flavored magma bubbling down a slab of German chocolate cake, to entomb the gummy bear townspeople, forever preserved in sweet, bitter dark.

Dark chocolate to be exact.

The wheels come to a stop at Room 921.

Three knocks at the mahogany door.

…

Two more knocks.

…

Four mo-

The door swings open!

And who is standing in the doorway?

What fiendish fiend fervently finds in the foundations of fraternity fulcrums to facilitate ferociously foul malfeasance?

What twisted terror toils to tear to tatters the tiniest treads of tip-top traditionally-trustworthy tactics?

Who else but that PRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK, the North Korean War Criminal?

…Wearing a complimentary hot pink, monogrammed-with-the-Velvet-Rabbit’s-insignia, bathrobe.

Despite his billed height of eight feet, fifteen inches, his eyeline barely clears the pectoral of this massive stud of a bellhop.

His gaze tilts upwards toward the big blonde boy.

“...Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeees?”

The bellhop reaches up to tilt his cap. “Welcome basket, sir. Compliments of…” The bellhop reaches into his coat pocket to double-check the name on the card.

“‘Chronic’ Chris Page! Addressed to his favorite talent to manage… Enjoy!”

He sets the card on the tray. It’s got a picture of ‘Chronic’ Chris Page’s winking face.

NK’s eyes light up! He claps his hands delightedly!

“Aha! Recognition! Finally, my due glory is at hand! While a PEDANT might have claimed Christopher Page has never publicly addressed our financial relationship… or formally extended a contract to my person… I kneeeeeeeeeew such efforts to acknowledge my greatness had merely been lost in your inefficient, American postal system!” NK beams with pride, tears brewing at the corners of his eyes. “Truly! Nothing could spoil th-”

“Hey, jackass.”

Pushing past the War Criminal, who despite his best resistance, is shoved to the wall, we see…

In a spotless black suit and tie.

Mark Flynn.

King of the Midcarders.

“Pretty sure these are for me.”

NK’s bottom lip puckers! He stomps his fuzzy-slippered feet in protest!

”How can you be so sure, Mark Flynn?!? There is every reason to believe this cart of sweets was DESIGNED for a celebration of my meteoric rise to superstardom?!?”

…Flynn sighs.

And takes two steps out of the way.

The bellhop pushes the cart into the room.

Atop the volcano diorama of confections is a bouquet of red and white roses.

The whites congeal and overlap to serve as a background… So that the reds may spell out ‘MF’.

…

“Perhaps it stands for… ‘My Favorite… North Korean War Criminal’!”

“No, it doesn’t.”

NK crosses his arm dejectedly across his chest. The bellhop releases the cart inside the room, pulls a flawless 180 degree turn and heads out the door.

“Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to… your business. And on behalf of the entire staff, thank you for choosing the Velvet Rabbit.”

Flynn rolls his eyes, hand resting on the door.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, kid.”

Flynn gently pushes the door closed.

But, at the last moment, a foot sticks into the space between the door and the room.

…

Flynn pulls the door back open, teeth clenched, grumpy to be aggressed upon.

As the door opens, the bellhop remains present. His hand extended outwards.

“Tip, sir?”

…Flynn grins. “Tip? Sure, I’ve got a good one.”

He lifts his right arm and extends his elbow outwards to the bellhop.

“You wanna block a door? I’d recommend practicing using your elbow meat.”

Flynn’s left hand reaches out and squeezes the musculature around his elbow joint. The bellhop squints confused.

“See, the squishy meaty bit around your elbow can act as a natural cushion to rebound off a forceful slam of the door.”

WHAM!

Suddenly, Flynn slams the door as hard as he can! The bellhop’s foot is crushed… His face seizes in pain! He hops to one foot agonized, before his naturally large upper body destabilizes him! He falls flat on his ass.

The looming shadow of the King of the Midcarders stretches over the bellhop as he leans his way out the door.

“That bony area behind your toes doesn’t have the same dampening effect.”

Flynn reaches into his front pocket, and flicks a bill with his middle finger.

A tenner falls down on the bellhop like a fluttering leaf as the door closes to the outside world.

***

“I mean it, Mark Flynn! I grow WEARY of the ignorance of the wrestling world! WEARY, I SAY!” The North Korean has been pacing around the room non-stop, pointing and yelling, pacing and howling. The front desk has received several complaints.

Flynn seems inattentive to the complaints of his tag-team partner. Instead, he sits in a lounge chair, turning over the card that came with the welcome basket…

Blank.

“I am a premier wrestling talent! The greatest on the globe! Possibly the greatest to ever grace the larger multiverse!”

Flynn sighs, flicking the card away.

“And yet! Even facing these undeniable facts, I am given NO opportunities to shine! The Denzel Porter Invitational? NOT INVITED! Leap of Faith! INTERCEDED UPON BY DUBAI’S CRIMINAL UNDERBELLY! Where was XWF security?!?”

NK, still wearing his hot pink bathrobe, continues to stomp and preen furiously as he marches up and down. Following him closely is his Second-in-Command, The Man They Call Kato, who attempts to brush his hair and properly coif his hair, which is highly difficult given his commander’s refusal to sit still. Still, he’s doing a fine job given the impossible work conditions.

“And Today!” NK stops in his tracks and points to the heavens, as if accusing the universe itself of injustice. As he points, Kato moves double-time to utilize this brief period of non-movement, weaving a comb into the luscious mane atop his head. “At an event put on by our advocate and ally, ‘Chronic’ Chris Page, I go COMPLETELY UNBOOKED! The month after Asian American and Pacific Islanders Month! And somehow, they opt to have NO REPRESENTATION IN THEIR MAIN EVENT!!!”

“...Isn’t Mister Raion Kido wrestling in the main event, sir?”

“Semantics, Kato!”

NK stomps, jostling his hair out of position. Kato quickly corrects it.

Another stomp! ANOTHER! Kato’s hands deftly whip around the commander’s head, securing the tufts of hair back into place.

“I ask you, Mark Flynn?!? Is there anyone more deserving of an opportunity to shine than I?”

Flynn squeezes his temples impatiently.

“I mean…” Flynn’s hands extend outward, as his thumbs point inward. “This fucking guy. I beat Charlie Nickles once.”

“Me as well!”

“Dolly Waters twice…”

“I have matched that!”

“PETER VAUGHN THREE DIFFERENT TIMES…”

“...I did that!… Once!”

“AND I was the MVP of that Leap of Faith match… ASK ANYBODY. I almost killed Bobby Bourbon with a cinderblock to the helicopter! I DESERVED that briefcase. And somehow… my goddamned agent decided to occupy his Fatal 4-Way XWF Universal Title main event, with ZERO of his clients.”

Flynn sighs, exasperated. He stares down at the tray of culinary delights before him. His brow descends, his sneer extends.

“Plus, why the FUCK am I in the CANNABIS CUP? I’ve been goddamned sober for eight years!”

NK blushes sheepishly.

“I must admit, I too have never tried even a modicum of…” NK lifts his hands to deliver a set of finger quotes…

“That ‘STICKY ICKY’.”

“I’ve been clean since 2014. And my fucking agent sends me this. A tray of edibles. At 4:20 in the afternoon. With a picture of his winking face on it like a fucking can of Chef Boyardee. ‘Enjoy’. Hardy har har har!” Flynn extends his leg, kicking the cart away from him. NK catches it with both hands, narrowly maintaining his balance.

“A question, sirs, if I may?”

Flynn and NK turn towards the North Korean’s second-in-command, still effortlessly weaving the perfect configuration of hair onto his commander’s dome.

“...Hit us, K-Man.”

“We-”

“I AM THE ONE WHO PERMITS YOU TO SPEAK, KATO.”

…NK’s screaming sets a hair out of place…

……

“Proceed.”

Kato, unperturbed, immediately reaches up and remolds the hair to his commander’s head.

“Well, sirs… If you both are so unhappy in ‘Chronic’ Chris Page’s lack of recognition in the prestige you bring to his brand…”

Kato examines his clients’ hair through a box made of his index fingers and thumbs… He reaches into his front pocket for a bubble level. Which he sets gently atop his commander’s head.

It goes left… Then, right…

…

Center, exactly!

Kato snaps his fingers in triumph, before retrieving the bubble level and returning it to his pocket.

“Then, why do you remain his client…s?”

Flynn leans back in his chair, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

“Honestly? Being a CCPE client pisses people off.” Flynn grins fondly, reminiscing on Thunder Knuckles’ pyramid scheme video, the many complaints lodged about CCP accompanying his many clients to the ring…

Flynn beams, thinking about just how effortlessly irritating such a status has been.

“Half my gameplan in the ring is to irritate my opponents’ until they’re making mistake after mistake and I get to peel their defenses open like a fucking orange peel. It’s efficient for me to piss people off when they just hear the name of the guy who reps me.”

NK lifts his index finger. “And I am so rarely acknowledged! I appreciate that Page, while his consultation has been limited, has decided to include me in his flock of clients…”

Flynn raises a finger himself to correct his partner that Page still only seems to tag NK to intend to tag Flynn… Before he thinks better of it.

While he lifts his arm, he does catch his watch in the corner of his eye,

“Hmm, 4:45pm. It’s a little over an hour ‘til the big fucking Cannabis Cup press junket…” Flynn scratches his stomach. “You guys wanna see if this fucking town has a Denny’s we can fill up at?”

Kato smiles. “Indeed! You would not catch me turning down an opportunity to dine, Coach Flynn…” Kato hesitates, rubbing his neck. “Despite, of course, my homeland being INUNDATED with the finest cuisine… naturally.” Kato reaches into a knapsack of his limited personal effects to weave his cosmetics tools back to their places.

Flynn waves off the obligatory nationalist propaganda. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He points a finger gun at his partner, as he reaches over to grab his wallet off the desk. “NK, you in?”

NK thrusts his fist in the air, excitedly. “Of course, I shall join you! But, I shall not consume or imbibe anything myself! To be frank, I have sated my appetite nigh-completely from Christopher Page’s gift basket.”

…

……

Flynn and Kato slowly rotate in their positions toward the North Korean War Criminal.

Who they both have just noticed…

Is snacking on three or four chocolate-soaked gummy bears at a time.

…

Flynn clicks his tongue.

“NK… Um. How long have you been snacking off that cart?”

NK blushes, as if being shamed for his dietary decisions.

“I exert myself regularly, Mark Flynn! I shall burn off all-excess calories well before the night of the event!”

…

“That said, I shall disclose that I have been consuming these delightful treats, since shortly after the cart arrived. This mutually-shared agitation has compounded in me a desire to snack! Out of stress!”

…Flynn bites his bottom lip. He looks over at Kato, who is terrified, squeezing his fists in alternating intervals, frozen in the most profound fear.

Flynn carefully strides across the room. NK shimmy-dances a little gummy bear across the air and is about to pop it into his mouth…

Suddenly, Flynn plucks it out of his hand and sets it on the tray.

NK pouts! “Mark Flynn! I was going to eat that…”

“Bud.” Flynn grabs NK by the shoulders and looks him square in the eye. “Did you hear me say those were edibles?”

NK scoffs. “Yes, of course, I did, Mark Flynn. Though, I admit I may be unfamiliar with your Michigan vernacular. I believe more Americans would simply use the term ‘food’.”

Kato is rapidly unwrapping his bindle, rifling through his possessions, muttering the words ‘first aid, first aid, first aid’, to himself.

NK glances over at Kato, his brow curving in confusion.

“I… Is something the matter?”

Flynn gently guides NK down to the chair behind him.

“Okay. NK. Listen to me very carefully.”

NK nods, determined to take in every instruction.

“You’re about to get rea
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***

“...y am I here? That’s the million dollar question.”

Flynn sits out on the patio of the hotel room, looking down at the city below him. Behind him, we see Kato trying to perform the heimlich maneuver to eliminate the… edible confections from his commander’s system.

Flynn sighs… Scratching his face, ignorant to the scene behind him.

“Charlie Nickles is an untalented idiot. But he makes a fair point. Why the fuck do I stick around in CCP Enterprises?”

“I figured when Thad retired and Vaughnie lost for the third time in a row against me… That was it. I’d secured my place as Top Dog under Boss Page. If he wanted the XWF Uni Title under the CCPE mantle again, he’d have to send in ol’ ‘King of the Midcarders’ Mark Flynn...”

Flynn reaches into his pocket and pulls out a joint… One that had previously been secured to the side of the giftbasket.

He pinches it between his fingers…

…and sighs.

“But… Not the fuckin’ case. Chris Page gets the rare opportunity to book his own show, completely absent of my so-called friend Theo Pryce’s intervention… And look who’s up to bat against ol' Alias. Not the guy who took him to his very limit on Savage a few months ago. Who came within a hair’s breadth of finishing the World-Eater’s undefeated streak.”

Flynn shakes his head.

“No, we had to give those spots to…”

“0-for-2-versus-Alias Charlie Nickles.”

“Still-Coming-Out-of-the-Lowest-Point-In-Her-Career Dolly Waters.”

“And Choke-Artist Raion Kido.”

“Meanwhile, the most talented wrestler in Page’s roster. The SINGLE GREATEST WRESTLER TO EVER LIVE.”

“Is up against…”

…

“Diamond.”

“Steeeeeeeeeeele.”

Flynn sighs… As he stares down at the glorious lights of the city of sin. Beautiful dancing neon signs, a world of decadence and temptation.

So near… And yet so far away.

“Sorry. I mean, Diamond Steele-Lohan…? Boy, that doesn’t roll off the tongue very well.”

Flynn scoffs. Meanwhile, behind him, inside the hotel room, Kato has ripped open his tiny travel suitcase and rifles about it, as NK sits on the sofa, pounding his own chest and reading from an autobiography of Kim Jong-Un, trying to excise the marijuana in his system like an Evangelist Preacher. Weed be gone!

Flynn turns toward the camera.

“Someone who must be too busy lead-singing, playing rhythm guitar and begging the wrestling industry to acknowledge her birthday… A plea which garnered little traction.”


Pictured Above: The Saddest Fucking Thing I've Ever Seen

“To send to Chris Page’s lawyers a roster page and bio. We’re just hours away from our contractually-set deadline to acknowledge our round one opponent, and no one’s heard one peep from Miss Steele… Lohan.”

Flynn scratches his nose disinterestedly.

“Of course, I’m not the kind to take someone’s lack of presence at the surface level. Hell, Charlie Nickles has made a whole career out of rolling in last minute and he’s getting a THIRD CHANCE TO FUCKING LOSE.”

…

“So, I delved deep into the bowels of Zion Wrestling’s tape library… And what did I find?”

“Recently? A month and a half of underperformance.”

“In her most recent appearances…. Diamond’s Gemstones were demolished easily… She failed to win the Zion Wrestling Championship. She lost her prized YouTube belt.”

“Even in the realms of her own joke company, Diamond is falling down to the bottom rung of the ladder. Keep in mind that I DESTROYED Zion Wrestling’s Kai Morgan in the one REAL XWF match he had. Meanwhile, Diamond Steele is desperately struggling to keep her head above water. Both in the Zion Wrestling talent pool and in the relevant category of the larger industry.”

“And somehow, Chris Page saw fit to pair the BEST WRESTLER he works for. With this FUCKING NOBODY.”

Behind Flynn, Kato’s desperate shaking hands has finally rifled open the first aid kit. NK is writhing on the floor, trying to induce vomiting onto the shag carpeting of the living room.

Suddenly, Kato dives ontop of his commander! In his hand, he has an epipen! NK crawls desperately, bucking like a rodeo bull, as Kato clenches his grip onto his commander’s back. HE HOLDS THE EPIPEN HIGH OVER HIS HEAD LIKE A KNIGHT OF GREAT DESTINY!

In a flash, Flynn’s hand reaches backwards and opens the window a crack.

“GODDAMMIT, YOU CAN’T OVERDOSE ON MARIJUANA. He’s FINE… He’s just gonna get really high.”

Kato and NK both look over sheepishly, still remaining in their positions, but listening at full attention to the more knowledgable… ex-drug addict.

“He’ll be okay, just… Let him ride it out, and get him a… glass of water or somethin’...”

Flynn sighs, shutting the window again. Kato scrambles off his commander and the two dash into the kitchen to the sink…

“Where was I? Oh, right. Diamond Steele.”

…

“Lohan.”

Flynn cracks his knuckles.

“I didn’t just review your recent LACKLUSTER, MEDIOCRE history in the ring.”

“I also took the time to watch gametape of your failures.”

“Now, a PEDANT. A FOOL. Might point out we two use similar playbooks. Not only in our maneuvers, (we both enjoy employing the German Suplex, the Fujiwara armbar, maintaining a submission hold as close to the count of 5 as possible…)”

“First off, just because we have the same tools in our toolkits, does not make us the same caliber of craftsmen, if you catch my meaning.”

…

“Which I assume you wouldn’t, because your conduct is that of a simpering clown.”

“So, to be explicit, you’re fucking garbage in the ring. Your german suplex is clumsy, your armbar has four plainly obvious escape routes I could ITEMIZE and FAX to you that you couldn’t prevent given your ABOMBINABLE technique. You’ve picked out an effective playbook, but what you lack is the talent and mental acumen to maximize success utilizing that playbook.”

“Now, it’s worth noting that we also both enjoy to… let’s say, bend the rules.”

Flynn sticks his index finger in the air.

“There is ONE main difference, though.”

“I.”

“AM.”

“SUCCESSFUL.”

Flynn grins mischieviously, as he turns his finger downwards, point it down the barrel of the camera.

“Again, you cheat like a fucking fish might try to walk up a flight of stairs. Your feeble, underhanded tactics. Your mistimed, easily-countered post-match attacks. You attempted to attack Brown and Mars with the Zion Championship belt and ended up catching a superkick to the face… You stuck around too long after stealing a win off Mars and took another beating from Faye Brown. I mean, can you go one episode of Mayhem without getting your ass handed to you?”

Flynn shakes his head, befuddled.

“I mean, Jesus, Diamond. Watching you feebly try to outmaneuver your opponents is like watching Elmer Fudd trying to hunt rabbits. It’d be funny if it weren’t so fucking predictable that you’ll fuck it up. You might as well mail your intentions to your opponent is how transparent your offense is.”

Flynn pinches the air in front of him like he’s holding a pen.

“To Whom It May Concern,

Here is a list of all the ways I plan to attack you before, during and after our match.

I may also occasionally cackle nefariously for the brief time it works, then mutter ‘Curses!’ and disappear into a puff of smoke when it inevitably fails.

Because I am a Saturday Morning Cartoon Villain.

Sincerely,
Diamond Steele…

Lohan
Dictated But Not Read”

Flynn walks forward to the edge of the patio, letting his forearms rest again the metal safety bar. He looks down, hundreds of feet above Sin City.

He continues to pinch the joint…

…

Before letting it fall.

The joint drops, catching the wind, gliding down toward the bright lights of the city.

The illicit substance headed back to the den of temptation from whence it came.

Behind Flynn, sitting in a lounge chair, NK alternates chugging two different glasses of water. The top of his camo fatigues are drenched by his quivering hands…

Kato sits beside him, slowly stroking his commander’s hair to keep his superior officer calm.

NK sets down the glass and does it back to subordinate.

Both seems very confused and distraught.

“Diamond, I bet you’re thinking… Flynn’s sober. He’s not gonna go all-out in a fucking tourney called ‘The Cannabis Cup’. He wouldn’t want his name associated with this fucking competition.”

“WRONG.”

“I AM THE SINGLE GREATEST WRESTLER WHO EVER LIVED. EVERY TIME I RUN THOSE ROPES, I GO FROM OPENING BELL TO THE MOMENT MY OPPONENT’S BEATING THAT MAT, BEGGING FOR MERCY AT 100%. FULL FUCKING FOCUS.”

Flynn points once more down the barrel of the camera.

“This is not a tournament featuring the best of one company. Nor is it the best in the industry. This tournament is another opportunity to demonstrate that I AM THE BEST WRESTLER IN THE WORLD. And I’m using my opening match to set the fuckin’ tone so everyone else knows to stay out of my fucking way as I take my rightful place at the top of this sport.”

“I hope you enjoyed the flight to Las Vegas, Diamond Steele-Lohan. I hope you take all the time in the world with one of your trademark entrances with your dogshit, vapid-pop band, where you’re carted down to the ring on a fucking set on wheels.”

“I hope you enjoy every second of what will end up being a very short amount of time competing in the Cannabis Cup.”

“Because you’ll be leaving the ring in a bodybag.”

“Plain black plastic. Not a trace of glitter or neon light.”

“A rotting carcass be abandoned in the morgue, while her bandmates fight over who gets to play fucking rhythm guitar now.”

“A cheap headstone reading… Here lies Diamond Steele…”

…

“Lohan.”

“Died young.”

“Left a corpse that was fucking CAKED in cheap makeup.”

Flynn grins nefariously, glancing again down at a city that’s his for the taking…

As the scene fades to black…