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*&@*$&@*$!ake a frien&$*#&$*#$&@(

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*$#($voe yo**((@#*

---

Blacktop.

Before his eyes, children stand in a line.

Chalk on the asphalt.

One square. Two intersecting lines, squiggly, drawn an unsteady hand, toiling to create the illusion of straightness.

Occupying the square? Four children, His age.

They smack a ball with their hands.

It dances from child-to-child.

Those in line watch.

They ooh.

They ahh.

Mesmerized.

As he observes, there’s a pulsating, throbbing sensation in his skull. His eyes flutter. His breath quickens.

His mind parsing.

Deciphering.

Dissecting.

What does it mean?

What are they doing?

“HEY FREAK!”

…

The line and the players spin His direction.

‘Freak’ is what they call Him.

One participant has taken possession of the ball.

“You can’t play!” Says the boy with the ball. “No Freaks allowed.”

…

“What is it?”

“…What?”

“What are you doing?”

The child-with-the-ball squints at Him like He’s stupid.

A look he’s not unfamiliar with.

“Four-Square, idiot. And you can’t play!” The kid points back the direction He came from. “RUN HOME, FREAK!”

…

He doesn’t move.

His eyes never leave the ball.

…Eventually, the child in the square beside the ball-haver pipes up impatiently. “Joey, just play already! Recess is almost over!”

…’Joey’ tries to stare at Him so hard that He runs away.

…But eventually, the buzzing of the line and his fellow players become too much.

“Ugh, fine.” Joey’s brow scrunches in anger as he smacks the ball.

The ritual resumes. The ball dances once more…

From one square-to-another.

From one’s right hand to another’s left.

Again. And ag-

…A miss. The child that begged ‘Joey’ to resume the game? Mis-timed his strike. It sails straight up and lands on his square.

…

The ritual stops.

For a split-second, there’s a silence.

Anticipation.

Like all the air in the world just disappeared.

…

Just as quickly, the silence is broken.

“YER OUT!” ‘Joey’ howls with excitement!

The line of children howls along with ‘Joey’, a humming.

A whirring.

A buzz of electricity in the air, like a chorus of pure chaotic energy uniting into a single concentrated force capable of anything.

The ‘out’ child stomps his feet! his brow furrows in rage… An indignant fury.

At what? At fate? At himself? At the ritual? At ‘Joey’?

…Then, without protest, he angrily accepts this outcome and leaves his square.

Running back to the end of the line of children.

And the ball dance resumes.

…

He tilts His head to the left.

…

Then to the right.

…

He steps carefully.

Cautiously.

His motions as furtive and invisible as possible.

As if trespassing in a strange… wonderful, new land.

…

He steps… behind the ‘out’ child.

To the back of the line.

---

The Rules.

God, I love ‘em.

Without the Rules?

We don’t have a level playing field.

Hell, without rules, we don’t have a sport.

We’re just a menagerie of maladjusted misfits with mental illnesses, meandering through miserable, meaningless machinations.

Two guys beating the everloving shit out of each other on the street? An unobserved, amateurish back-alley brawl between two anonymous nobodies? That’s a crime.

Even if both guys wanted to fight? Even if no one was harmed but the players?

Still, a crime.

Unorganized combat breaks our society’s rules.

Letting guys fight wherever, whenever they want? It’s a concept outside the norm.

Freakish.

…

But, book an arena?

Sell seventy-thousand tickets?

Line the halls with t-shirt stands?

And popcorn trolleys?

And men-in-striped-shirts-lobbing-bags-of-peanuts?

Maybe hang forty-foot banners depicting the combatants?

License entrance music?

Buy tens of thousands of dollars for pyrotechnic explosions on entrances…

And THEN, after you’ve checked all those boxes… you have two guys fight?

…

That’s entertainment.

That’s a sport.

That’s not only a sport, that’s a BUSINESS CONGLOMERATE.

Billions.

Upon BILLIONS.

UPON BILLIONS.

Of dollars.

…

And why?

Because the rules.

Create the illusion.

Of control.

By creating a system of rules…

A matchmaker… A booker, if you’ll pardon what some may consider a dirty word…

Seeks to establish order.

To a system fueled by chaos.

Combat is, in its purest, most unfiltered form…

The desperate struggle to survive.

A being at odds with another.

Having to choose…

To either kill.

Or be killed.

There are no rules of engagement in the natural world.

The act of living is an act of war.

With every breath you take, you rob someone else of precious, life-giving oxygen.

…

Existence.

Is a zero-sum game.

There will always be too little food.

Too little water.

Too little gold.

To share.

…

There is no peace in a world with more than one man.

There is only battle.

…

And the booker.

Tricks himself.

Tricks the world.

Into believing that he’s corralled the Beast.

That it’s safe to approach the wild animal.

Step closer and admire the creature.

You are safe, for the monster sits inside of a cage.

One made of rules.

And, in this way.

By this method.

We permit ourselves to accept the illusion of safety.

Of security.

…

I’m here with seventy-thousand other people.

Some of them brought their kids.

They’re selling merchandise outside.

Of course, I’m safe.

Why wouldn’t I be?

So close to a life-and-death struggle.

Between two of the deadliest demons that ever escaped Hell.

…

There are ropes around the ring.

There’s a little man in black-and-white stripes.

There are rules.

Of course, I’m safe.

…

And then, just when you let yourself disappear into the moment.

As your fears start to calm, like the death of a wind soothing the push and pull of the ocean’s tides.

For a split-second, there’s a silence.

Anticipation.

Like all the air in the world just disappeared.

…

And then?

There I am.

---

Four-Square: A Treatise

Four-Square is a game requiring a minimum of four players.

And four squares.

OBSERVATION: Technically, the configuration of the four squares creates a square, so technically, the game includes five squares, one comprising all four.

THOUGHT: Is it possible to occupy the fifth square if a player could take possession of all lower squares at once?

The game of four-square is, roughly and imprecisely, a game of territories.

The four players each assume four roles: King, Queen, Jack and Peasant.

The aim of the game is to take possession of the King square.

OBSERVATION: ‘Joey’ is always King.

The only means by which a player may ascend from a lower role is for a player with a higher role than that player to be ‘OUT’.

EXAMPLE: If a queen was ‘OUT’, the Jack would move into the former Queen’s territory, while the Peasant would move into the Jack’s square. The old Queen travels to the back of the line. And the child at the front of the line enters the game as the new Peasant.

THOUGHT: What is ‘OUT’?

He had spent many a sleepless night pondering this question. Laid awake grasping at philosophical straws, trying to answer a question with feeble words and inarticulate thoughts, when the concept seemed to lay at the core of his very being.

Based on the context clues He could gather: (1) the anger a player physically expressed when they were told they were ‘out’ and (2) the delight and exuberance ‘Joey’ (or occasionally, another player who had successfully ‘KNOCKED OUT’ another) at the chance to declare that player out, He had come to two conclusions.

First: ‘Out’ was the worst thing you could be.

Being removed from the competition.

Being forced to the end of the line after the eternity of waiting.

Standing in a line, moving slower than grains in an hourglass.

Being ‘OUT’.

And being forced to return to the back of it.

Was a Hell. A purgatory. A punishment bestowed on those who had failed.

Failure was a crime. And being ‘OUT’ was the sentence.

Second: He didn’t know how to express OUT. He couldn’t provide a dictionary definition or write a formula that perfectly expressed what ‘OUT’ was.

But, He was.

He was ‘OUT’.

He felt ‘OUT’.

Not in FourSquare, but… In a larger sense, everywhere else.

He was ‘OUT’.

He had been pushed ‘OUT’ without getting a chance to play.

And he loathed it.

…

Gameplay

The token that denotes active play is a red, round rubber ball.

About the size of an adult’s skull.

Players may touch the ball with their hands, but may NOT grasp the ball DURING GAMEPLAY.

During gameplay, one of the four players attempts to bounce the ball into the territory (see: square) of another player.

Gameplay begins with the King. He has initial control of the ball and thus decides the first player to challenge.

If the ball touches the inside of a player’s square, and the player in possession of that square fails to keep the ball in play (either by missing the ball, or smacking it outside of the play area (see: the four squares).

That player is ‘OU-’

“YOUR TURN! GO!” Calls a voice behind him.

He snaps to.

Finally.

He has reached the front.

Quickly, before anyone can protest His presence, he steps forward.

‘Joey’, holding his spot at the King Square with an iron fist, grimaces. He grasps the ball to his chest, clasping his wrist with his other hand.

NOTE: The ‘King’ role may also have some unspoken powers, such as the power to ‘call timeout’. Additionally, the ‘King’ sometimes declares ‘do-over’, challenging the winning ball-strikes of other players.

More observation is required to determine what constitutes a challenge-able strike.

“Go away!” Sneers King ‘Joey’, “I toldja! No FREAKS on MY court!”

…He bends His knees.

Shows ‘Joey’ the back of His hands.

And beckons with His fingers.

NOTE: This gesture indicates to the King that you are ready to begin play and even invites him to strike the ball at you first.

SECONDARY NOTE: This indication is non-mandatory as, occasionally, the King will strike the ball at a player who did not make the gesture. Protests that a player ‘was not ready’ are only effective when the un-ready player is King (see: ‘Joey’).

…Despite His gesture, Joey glowers angrily at Him, clutching the ball to his chest.

“Joey! C’mon! Let’s plaaaaaaaay alreadyyyyyyyyy!”

…’Joey’ mean-mugs the Queen urging him to initiate play.

…

‘Joey’ groans.

“Whatever. He’ll be out in a sec… NO ONE TELL THE FREAK THE RULES.”

“I know the ru-.”

Joey smacks the ball at His square.

NOTE ON STRIKING TECHNIQUE: The technique offering the most control seems to be an open-palm smack. Players occasionally attempt a backhanded strike, but subsequent imprecision leads to frequent unforced errors.

THEORY APPLIED: Let’s play it safe. Open-hand strike.

He drives his palm through the air…

His eye laser-focues onto the ball.

…

CONTACT!

The ball sails back towards its origin! The King square!

The King takes a step back…

AND SMACKS it straight down into His peasant square!

The ball rebounds into the sky over His head!

“YER OUT, FRRRRRREAK!” ‘Joey’ mocks, grin gushing with sickening delight as the ball sails upwards.

...No.

He takes several steps back.

Staring into the sky… Wincing through the sun’s burning light.

Eye on the ball….

Eye on the ball…

…

He squints…

…It’s dropping like a rock.

Right toward him.

NOW!

He stretches as low to the blacktop as possible.

He scoops his hand under the ball’s landing point.

And catches his palm under it.

He swipes his hand up!

The ball zips through the air!

Landing on the King square’s line!

…Joey’s eyes widen…

He scrambles forward.

Trying to tip it back into play…

…

……

The ball ricochets off the side of ‘Joey’’s hand…

And out of bounds behind him.

The King is dead.

Long Live the King.

He sidesteps one over, from Peasant to Jack.

NOTE: The Jack square has no unique properties, but occupying it may offer some tactical advantage, as it is rarely the first square attacked by the King sq-

“NO!” ‘Joey’ plants his feet, pointing to the back of the line. “YER OUT!”

…

Parsing existing knowledge…

…

No. In every instance, this play was legitimate and within the rules He’d observed.

“No, YOU’RE out.”

The former Queen has grabbed the ball of the ground and tries to squeeze past ‘Joey’ into the King square.

But, ‘Joey’ extends his arms, blocking access with his whole body.

“No! He… he hit the line!” ‘Joey’ points at the line.

Yes, His struck ball had hit the line.

NOTE: We’ve observed this is legal play.

“The line is out!”

His head shakes. “The line is in.”

“Shuddup, FREAK! You don’t even know the rules!”

“A line strike was counted as ‘in’, twenty-seven plays ago.”

“...What?” ‘Joey’ squints confused.

…He points to the King square.

“King-to-Peasant, Peasant-to-Queen, Queen-to-King, King-to-Jack, Jack-to-Peasant…”

As He recites his recollection play-by-play, he points at each square in turn.

‘Joey’’s face gets redder… His lips purse tighter and tighter.

“Peasant-to-King, King-to-Queen, LIIIIIIIIIIIINE TOUCH!”

He bends low to touch the exact chalk-bit that the ball touched.

“Queen is ‘Out’.”

…

“GET OUT! I SAID GO AWAY!” ‘Joey’ abandons the kingly shelter he’s made in his rules and instead resorts to just screaming at Him to leave.

“‘Joey’, c’mon…” The newly-crowned King groans impatiently. “Lines have always been in… You’re out.”

…’Joey’ coldly stares, refusing to move.

…He (the Jack)...

Shows the new King the back of His hands.

And beckons with his fingers.

…The King goes to str-

‘Joey’ sprints at Him!

Driving tackle, throwing Him to the blacktop!

“I TOLJA! FREAKS AREN’T ALLOWED!” ‘Joey’ howls as the former king mounts Him.

QUERY: Perhaps this is a… post-play arbitration proceeding.

NOTE: ‘Joey’ is much bigger than y-

SLAM!

‘Joey’’s fist collides with His nose, slamming the back of his skull against the concrete.

Immediately, every part of his skull hurts.

…Then, his head feels… wet.

Dizzy… light-headed.

‘Joey’ reels back his fist.

…But blurry figures peel him away.

“YOU FREAK!” Joey squeals. “YOU FREEEEEEEAK!”

“Teacher! TEACHER!”

…He sniffs…

He tries to breathe…

Something liquid gushes in his nostrils…

Like if you held your head underwater and inhaled…

…He snorts.

His nose flushes out.

…

He squints down…

His shirt.

Covered in red.

---

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaand…”

…Flynn squints, itching the back of his head…

Rapidly blinking… Searching his mind for any detail he’d left out.

…

“Nope, that’s it. That’s the story of the first time I bled.”

…Flynn smiles, a glimmer in his eye, as if he’d just wrapped up his fondest memory.

“God, FourSquare’s a great game. Like, my… THIRD-favorite sport…”

…

Flynn bends at the waist, looking downward.

“Well, whadja think? Good story, huh?”

Sitting atop the high-chair in front of him, the North Korean War Baby (the infant he co-parents with Robbie Bourbon) absentmindedly blows bubbles.

…

“...Riveted.” Flynn grins. “ENTHRALLED, even! On the edge-of-your-seat!” Flynn taps his index against the edge of the high chair to punctuate his point. “See, *they* say… communication is best for a developing brain. Not just words, but NARRATIVE structure. The rhythm of what child development professionals call… ‘big-boy talky-talk’!”

NKWB opens his mouth… and pushes his tongue out.

…Flynn smiles. “Ah! The story made you TOO smart… Now you’re a WISEGUY!” Flynn gently squeezes NKWB’s cheek.

“Now.” Flynn claps, as he reaches for his belt… Retrieving a jar of high-protein formula.

“Grubtime.”

---

“I wouldn’t have expected it either!” Irwin grins, talking into his phone. “But, Mister Flynn’s taken to clone-fatherhood like a duck to water!”

“Quite a change from screaming at Shania Twain to… put the baby back into her uterus?” Genevieve Tote mutters.

“I think Mister Flynn just needed competition to bring his best self! If he were a single parent, he might be flailing… But, with Mister Bourbon to… ‘compete against’ as a co-father? Mister Flynn feels right at home!”

“...That’s sick…” Tote’s voice drips venomously. “Flynn needs to compete to be a father?”

…Irwin sighs, standing, opening the door to his closet office in Flynn’s storage unit. “It’s… It’s hard to put into words. But, competition! The drive to be the best… It activates a different part of Mister Flynn’s genius brain!”

“Didn’t Flynn start spewing Bill Nye the Science Guy lyrics when asked about science?”

Irwin shakes his head, closing the door behind him. “That’s my point! When he and Mister Bourbon were allies, Mister Flynn had no immediate adversary to compete against! When he battled ALIAS, Mister Flynn built a state-of-the-art one-to-one wrestling simulator engine! When he lacks that…”

…

“...Hang on, I’ll show you.” Irwin presses the phone’s speaker button as he side-shuffles into the main storage unit area… Where Flynn's heating up a bottle on… what appears to be an open George Foreman grill…

The plastic bottle begins to melt…

But, the milk is heating!

…According to a food thermometer Flynn just pulled out of the bottle.

…Irwin shakes his head, but continues, hiding the speaker phone behind his back.

“Say, Mister Flynn!”

“Yeah, I-dawg?” Flynn disinterestedly replies, as he gently lifts the bottle off the grill… Wraps it in a cloth, and presses it toward WarBaby’s lips… “Here comes the corner splash… You’re the turnbuckle…” Flynn smiles, as WarBaby’s lips wrap around the bottle…

“Imagine…” irwin purses his lips thoughtfully, mapping the best way to demonstrate this phenomenon. “You're wrestling someone, and your opponent sets up an… Argentine backbreaker? What would you do?”

…Flynn squints at the WarBaby, still holding the bottle for him as he thinks…

…

“Depends on if my best approach were to wrestle tactically or positionally.”

“...Tactically or positionally?”

“Two schools of thought, Ir-dawg.” Flynn smiles, as he gently peels the bottle away from WarBaby’s lips. “Tactical wrestling involves applying an immediate counter to any maneuever. It’s an approach I subscribed to completely back in 2012… Basically, if you can counter any move the opponent throws at you, why care about your position in the ring?”

Flynn chuckles his younger self’s folly, as he returns the bottle into his Unky-Flynn utility belt of bottles and nappies…

“Of course, the answer is… you care because your position is a vital component of your decision crafting the counter. If I were against the corner? Outside the ring? On the apron? Position is VITAL in determining optimal tactic routing. There’s an interesting scholarly article in Academic Wrestling Quarte-”

“Right.” Irwin nods. “Follow-up question… What DAY of the week is today?”

…

Flynn rapidly blinks.

“...Uh…”

Flynn’s forehead vein visibly pulsates.

“...What’s the …OPPOSITE of Thursday? It's THAT... right?”

“...What?”

…Flynn scoffs. “I’m not a FU-...”

…

Flynn leans down, gently pressing his fingertips against WarBaby’s ears.

“A fucking calendar-man, Irmano.” Flynn murmurs, limiting his expletive to a gentle whisper in front of his infant. “Want the day of the week? Check your fuuuuuuu… your calendar.”

“Of course, sir.” Irwin stutters as he lifts his phone to his eyes. “It’s Sat-…”

Suddenly, irwin’s phone chirps.

“Oh…” Irwin’s eyes shift in focus. “Um… I’ll call you back, Miss Tote.” He whispers, ending the call.

“Mister Flynn.” Irwin clears his throat, flipping the screen around. “This… email just came in.”

…Flynn squints.



…

”Last-blood-battle-royale…”

...

Flynn tilts His head to the left.

…

Then to the right.

---

”I don’t know…I can’t understand what happened myself.” Theo Pryce shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

As if holding in the last bit of patience he has left.

“I thought I had the makings of a dynamite team: Ned Kaye and Isaiah King!”

Theo shakes his head, spreading papers across his desk.

”All the figures were right. Their styles perfectly match. Their ethoses synch up like yin-and-yang!”

…

“But, all they want to do is fight each other! Even after winning the tag-team champioinships, they’re still constantly each other’s throats...”

…

”Yes, their feud great for ratings, but I’m…” “This isn’t about ratings.”

“I want a team. Of people that I can rely on.”

…

“I mean, they fight well together… But, when they’re NOT competing, they’re oil and water…” Theo grabs his temples, trying to squeeze out a solution. ”I need something that can bring them toget-”

*KNOCK*

”Hold that thought.”

Theo ends the call, rises from his desk… And opens the door to his office.

…Standing in his dooray.

Mark Flynn.

Wearing one of those chest-mounted baby carriers, with WarBaby on his chest.

…

Theo raises his phone.

And snaps a picture.

”Couldn’t resist.”

”New match?”

…Theo’s eyebrows raise.

”...What?”

Flynn raises the Free-For-All poster to Theo’s eyes.

…Theo nods.

”Oh. Yes. Free-For-All.” Theo sighs. ”Well, Flynn. Here to complain a Last-Blood-Battle-Royal is… some conspiracy against you?” Theo shakes his head. ”As far as I’m aware, you’re not a hemophiliac, so… You’re as capable as everyone el-”

”I have questions.”

…

”About the rules.”

Theo squints.

…

Then, he smiles, somewhat tensely..

”...Is this… a joke?”

…

Theo sighs.

”Look, Mark. It’s a last blood battle royal. The stipulation is self-explanatory. What POSSIBLE questions could you have?”

…

Flynn pulls out a pad and paper.

“Suppose a competitor is bleeding before the bell rings, will that bleeding result in elimination or must a post-bell-ring bleeding commence for elimination to ensue?”

“Is there a minimum threshold of blood exposed to be eliminated?”

”How do the rules handle the possibility of internal bleeding? Will referees be able to monitor our veins and determine if blood has exited a competitor’s circulatory system, BUT remains within their intergumary system?”

”Suppose *I* touch a bleeding competitor, and their blood gets on me… Does the XWF have DNA specialists on standby to determine the blood’s source? If so, what are these specialists’ credentials?”

”Imagine I surgically replace my internal veins with a cybernetic, externally-based circulatory system. My blood remains inside my veins BUT exterior to my skin. Would that make me automatically eliminated OR impervious to elimination?”

…

Flynn flips to the next page.

“If Sloane Taylor begins her period mid-match...”

”JESUS CHRIST.”

Theo grabs Flynn by the arm.

Pulling him in the office.

---

This is my domain.

This is where I thrive.

The unknown.

The unexplored.

The bold new frontiers of wrestling.

A completely new match-type.

Conceived of by the twisted minds of Vinnie Lane and Theo Pryce.

Free-For-All.

A completely level playing field.

We all have exactly as much experience wrestling in this match.

Zero.

…

This environment?

This is where I thrive.

I devour rules like a starving animal.

My mind conceives of limitations and loopholes as naturally as my lungs draw air.

I never cheat.

I’m a GOOD GUY.

But, the rules can bend at a wide, wiiiiiiide angle…

Before they ever break.

…

You fucking tourists.

You ringhacks from outside the XWF.

You fucking Twitter conquerors.

You PEASANTS.

Wanna come into my square.

And steal my kingdom?

Lemme ask you this…

…

Have you measured the thickness of your own skin?

Have you evaluated the minimum blade length required to draw blood?

Have you mapped and studied the elevation of Dallas, Texas to determine how it might affect circulation and blood coagulation?

…

If you haven’t?

Then, you haven’t prepared for this match like I have.

…

I’m strong.

But I’ve never been the strongest guy.

I’m quick.

But I’ve never been the fastest guy.

And while some label me a ‘twisted genius’?

I’ll acknowledge that I might.

MIGHT.

Not be the very smartest guy.

…

But, what I am?

Is the most focused.

The most DEDICATED.

The MOST FUCKING PASSIONATE.

THE MOST ARDENT ZEALOT IN MY PURITANICAL WORSHIP OF THIS SPORT.

This might be your job.

But this is MY religion.

…

I’m going to prove Sunday night.

Before the ENTIRE WRESTLING WORLD.

As your fans tune in, to watch the greatest combat program ever made.

That Mark Flynn BLEEDS wrestling.

…

And the rest of you?

Just bleed blood.