…

Irwin scratches his head.

”So.”

…

He scratches his head again.

…

”Okay, let me see if I have this right.”

”You’re wrestling ‘Micheal Graves’.”

”Correct.”

”For the Anarchy Title.”

”You’ve got it.”

”...But also, YOU’RE Micheal Graves.”

…Flynn bobs his head up-and-down.

”For the sake of argument, let’s say, it’s possible that I’m Micheal Graves.”

”...Who will be wrestling Mark Flynn.”

”Yessir.”

”For the Anarchy Title.”

…

Irwin nods, smiling, like okay, I’ve got it.

…

Before it contorts back into a frown.

”...Okay.”

…

”So… what’s the plan?”

”Wel-”

”That’s easy!”

The two turn to the room’s corner, where Miss Furry, (Student of Gravy), is in the storage unit’s makeshift kitchen, brewing herself a pot of tea on top of Flynn’s hot plate.

”No offense, Student Flynn. But Master Graves will *easily* defeat you! He’ll wrangle you like CATtle! But, at least, it’ll be eduCATional for you!”

…

Irwin leans toward Flynn. ”...Sorry, who’s this? And did she just pronounce ‘ed-u-ca-shun-al’ like it’s got the word ‘cat’ in it.”

”Oh, right. Uh… Furball, this is Ir-dawg. Ir-dawg, th-”

”Dog?!?” The bearded woman’s back clenches as she pounces up on the counter on her hind legs! She knocks the tea to the ground as she does, slipping off the counter and onto the floor, face first!

…Flynn exhales.

”Yeah, she… uh…” Flynn exhales. ”Look, just don’t say dog around her.”

”*You* said Dog, around her!”

”Dawg?!?” Miss Furry, once again, tries to leap to show off her catlike reflexes, but again, trips over her own feet and lands on her face.

”For God’s sake…” Flynn exasperatedly reaches for a bottle, before sprays Furry in the face!

Furry hisses!

”Back to your room! Scat, cat!”

Furry scampers across the floor into a closet!

…

Irwin squints.

”Hey, wait, that’s *my* closet!”

…Flynn grits his teeth.

”I wouldn’t, if I were you. Her litter box is in there.”

…

”So, wait. She doesn’t know you’re Gravy?”

”Doesn’t seem like it.”

…

Irwin scratches his head again.

”Well… what about him?” Irwin points to his side.

…

The camera pans over to reveal Peter Parkor, sitting in a chair with his legs crossed.

…

It’s Flynn’s turn to scratch his head.

”Frankly, I have no idea. Poor kid knocks himself unconscious so often, I don’t think we’ve actually had a chance to speak.”


…Irwin leans over and waves a hand in front of Peter’s face.

…He doesn’t move an inch.

…

”Okay.” Irwin nods. ”I think I get it.”

Irwin points at both the unconscious kid in pajamas and the closet housing the cat-cosplayer.

”These are… what, your lackeys? Meat shields? The whole ‘unionizing’ and ‘collective action’ and ‘elevating jobbers’ game is… what, a ploy? A con? To get back to the Uni title scene, right?”

…Flynn sits back in his chair and squints.

Parsing out Irwin’s assessment.

…As if he’s trying to figure out if that’s what he’s been doing all along.

…

Finally, he shakes his head.

”Nah. Nah, I think… I think I really want this. I want wrestling to be… a better place.”

…

”Are you dying?”

”What?!?”

”You have to tell me if you’re dying!”

”I’m not dying, Irmano!”

…

”Is that what you’d tell me if you *were* dying, though?”

”FOR FUCK’S SAKE, I’M NOT DYING!”

…

Irwin grabs his chair.

And swings it beside Flynn’s.

”Okay, sir.”

“Then…”

“Why do you want this?”
…Flynn sneers.

”Oh… what? Is it *so* out of character for Mark Flynn to want to make wrestling a better place? To make better working conditions for his coworkers?”

…

”Yes.” Irwin nods. ”It’s one-hundred percent out-of-character.”

”Oh c’mon, Irwinner!”

”Sir, I’ve watched you dislocate… SO MANY PEOPLE’S ARMS!” Irwin retches, almost getting sick just thinking about the physical carnage he’s witnessed. ”So… excuse me if I’m a little skeptical at you deciding your coworker’s *shouldn’t* be maimed for the crime of sharing a ring with you.”

…

”Sigh.”

”Fair enough..”

…

”I’ve been having this dream.”

”Dream?”

”About NK.”

…

The two look over to the crib in the corner. Where a small (officially) one-year-old infant naps.

”I dream he’s grown up. And he’s running the ropes. And he’s good, man. He’s everything I’d wished I could be.”

“The GUY.”

“The ONE.”

---

Quote:That moment, jogging in! NK! Wearing a blue robe… Much like the one Flynn dons, but child-sized.

‘Prince of the Midcarders’.

---

”...And then, he gets hurt.”

“And I wake up.”

“And I feel like I can’t breathe.”

…

“I’m old, Ir-wig. By the time, he’s 17, I’ll be… FUCK, Sixty?!?”

Flynn exhales.

”If he ever decides to wrestle… I won’t be able to protect him.”

…

Flynn sighs.

”But maybe…”

“I can protect him then.”

“If I can make things better now.”

…

Irwin side-eyes the infant in a crib.

”Mister Flynn.”

Irwin sets a hand on Flynn’s shoulder.



“How can I help?”

…

”What size tights do you wear?”

…

”What?”

---

Mark Flynn.

We both knew it’d come to this, huh?

We’ve discussed shedding the self.

Embracing the collective spirit.

…

But, it’s all talk until we kill the ‘ego’

In ‘egomaniac’.

You like playing lawyer, Flynn?

Let’s count your crimes.

You’ve maimed.

Brutalized.

Bullied.

Tortured.

Punished.

Tormented your coworkers.

You’re a poison to the union.

You play people’s weaknesses and fears like a fiddle.

Convincing them that the only way is going solo

To hunt alone.

Climb the ladder alone.

…

That’s what you did, right?

You ascended THE MOUNTAINTOP.

Reached the Universal Title!

…

And what awaited you?

Nothing but the long fall back to Earth.

…

Let’s be honest.

Mark Flynn is already dead.

A name belonging more in the pages of anicent history.

Than the here-and-now.

…

Now, it’s just a matter of freeing the living.

From this spirit of Wrestling’s Past.

This toxic sludge poisoning the well of hope.

…

The Union rises.

And Mark Flynn.

The vestige of the past.

Drops into his Grave…

…

s.