Mark Flynn Fighting System Tip #17: There are an endless number of referees backstage. Keep attacking them until one comes out with bad eyesight.

An empty arena.

A barren wrestling ring.

Thousands of seats unoccupied.

A massive gathering space, a place that tomorrow will be occupied by a capacity crowd.

Silent.

The calm before the storm.

The waves receding into the ocean.

A voice suddenly bellows into every corner of this holy temple.

"This is really something, huh?"

At the announcer's booth. In an empty arena. In the middle of a night.

Mark Flynn.

Headset gingerly looped around the back of his head.

Slowly rising up out of the chair behind the booth.

"A little cliche, I recognize, the whole empty arena schtick. Don’t need to tell me it’s been done. But it's hard to expand creatively in this world where everything is held within the tightest of boundaries."

Flynn opens his hand and rests his palm on the top of his skull.

"Your inferior, impossibly dense minds..."
Flynn stares into the empty chairs that surrounds him and sighs…
“Perhaps a tool to help you understand the error of your ways….”
Flynn grins.

“Allow me to do what I do best…”
“And illustrate…”
Flynn taps the headset at his ear. A loud thunking sound can be heard echoing again and again through the arena.
“You see, the headset is a perfectly functional device for amplification.”
Flynn twists the microphone portion extending from his ear up and down to demonstrate the device in question.
“Invented in 1910, over one hundred years ago. The original design has since been elaborated upon and expanded most certainly. But the central idea that the best means to transmit and increase sound through the use of wired connections has remained.”
Flynn stepped away from the both, the cord dangling under him tightening ever so slowly.

“It took thirty-five years for someone to even consider altering the design entirely…”

Flynn walks all the way to the timekeeper’s table, the cord tightening close and closer until finally it starts creeping off the ground.

“Thirty-five long miserable years of clinging to an antiquated blueprint by men who didn’t see a problem wit-“

Flynn extends his hand to weave his finger affectionately over the surface of the timekeeper’s bell…

Only to feel the slight tug of the headset’s cord stuck to the broadcast table, yanking, the plug jimmying out of position ever so slightly.

Flynn sighs… The sound fading in and out of the audio system burrowing into every corner

And yanks the plug out. It streaks across the ground like a snake in the grass.

The sudden lack of input screeches into the air…

And dies.

His actions silent.

The camera changes to a side view of the ring, traditionally utilized during wrestling broadcasts.

Suddenly, Flynn is unheard AND unseen…

A click.

A beat, a middle finger tapping against a microphone.

And slightly off-view of the camera, a man starts climbing the steel steps up to the ring…

He steps through the ropes, wielding in his hands a small black stick. He grips tight as death to his shield and weapon.

Flynn looks around the empty seats and smiles.

“Thirty-five years after the first man invented amplification, a man invented the wireless microphone.”

Flynn holds it up briefly, sliding his right hand beneath it, showing off his technological marvel to the astounded no-one in the empty arena seats.

“And yet, while this device is equally as powerful, and eliminates a variety of difficulties presented in the older system, some people still cling to the outdated means of communication.”

Flynn shrugs.

“People like this are viewed as luddites and ridiculed.”

Flynn paces the ring back and forth, calmly, almost strolling, the only sturdy focused thing about him, the microphone held steadfast to his mouth.

“If you don’t understand Facebook, you’re a grandfather. Everyone on the XWF roster seems to be twitting or masturtwating, I don’t know the exact terminology.”

Flynn stops and turns to the not crowd.

“Our entire society, civilization itself, is built around the idea of constantly surpassing itself, forcing its way to improvement through the embracing of new applications of technology. The pioneers are rewarded, those who refused to get on the ship are left in the past.”

Flynn smiles and shakes his head.

“So, why is it that the last old man on the roster… The Most Hated Man in the XWF…”

“Has to tell you kids how to cheat?”

Flynn scratches his head, closing his eyes… The smile running away from his face.

“Honor is held as a tradition, but no one laughs off the last advancement-hating old man that demands we remember honor.”

“Rather these men are heralded as the keepers of a forgotten age. The young men that celebrate it, the ‘good ones’…”

“…Why?”

Flynn licks his lips, savoring that word as it crosses his tongue a couple more times.

“Why… why…”

“Why?”

He finally swallows it down.

“No one celebrates the man that still tinkers with ham radios, no one would rather utilize wooden teeth replacements over simple dentistry options.”

“So, why in the name of God’s Green Earth, am I still frowned upon for…”

Flynn snickers.

“Creative Solution Seeking.”

Flynn shrugs.

“I have to tell you, there are a lot of things I want to discuss and not a lot of time to do it.”

Flynn taps his wrist.

“So, let me tell you kids... The three young bucks I’m about to go swinging against.”

“That I’m the youngest mentally going into your chance for the big time. I’m the quickest, I’m the sharpest, and I don’t have an outdated ethics system or moral code like any of the rest of you might subconsciously cling onto.”

“Eye rakes? My transition move of choice.”

“Low blows? Is there any other kind of Mark Flynn kick than one to the bean bags?”

“Brass knuckles before the bell rings? Stampeding into matches that aren’t mine? Riding other people’s hard work?”

“Those are the subtitles of the three autobiographies I had ghost written for me then claimed as my own work.”

Flynn cackles.

“I’ve found a way to steal my way into every main event, every shot at the big time, every big title and Wild Card Weekend is going to be no different.”

“I stole the Top Title from a man literally no one else could beat. Then, I beat him for real.”

“When Team XWF was going to war, I was told I was being left off the team. Two mysterious disappearances later, guess who gets his callback?”

“I maimed Mr. Mystery so hard that suddenly the unstoppable rampaging rhino stumbled around the ring lobotomized, easy pickings for Angelus. Then, I came down to the ring and did the same thing to poor Angie. Madison being King was a big deal, sure, it’s a great headline.”

“But, Flynn gets disqualified, eliminates Mystery had to remain on a couple choice minds.”

Flynn winks as he leans on the top rope.

“And how did I get cheating in sports so popular? How is it that people have started considering a third dimension to this game we’re playing?”

Flynn presses the top rope down as he leans over salivating.

“I did it in front of you and put a face and a logo on it. I made cheating a stance people could debate and get behind. And they did.”

“Some people who get cheating, Slater, Page, riff raff like that… Idiots who cheat behind the scenes?”

“They get kicked out.”

“But, when I cheat for eight straights months, decide to sit at home and watch five straight seasons of the L Word on DVD and decide to stroll back onto the scene.”

Flynn waves his hand through the air, painting headlines on the roof.

“Flynn, the conquering hero returns!”

“Future Hall of Famer Mark Flynn back with a vengeance.”

“Mark Flynn… Finally Back…”

Mark taps the side of his head with the mic, before sliding it back across his face to his mouth.

“When I come to the ring, I don’t steal the show, the show becomes about me.”

“I’ve been back for two weeks and I’m already back in the main event.”

“I even begged upper management to let me smooth back in.”

“But, let’s face it.”

“America loves a cheater. Audiences don’t love a hard worker. They love a man who breaks the overcomplicated system in half. Who doesn’t think twice about splitting the Gordian knot to get what he wants.”

“That’s what I do.”

“And that’s what I’m doing tonight.”

“Fatal 4Way? Awesome, I love having more than one target.”

“And there are no three more ready targets than the three rubes I’m itching to con.”

Flynn stretches into a lounge against the ropes.

“There are two morons in this match, I have to tell you, are the easiest marks I’ve ever made.”

“A giant blubbering doofus who actually uses the phrase ‘lone-wolf’, who claims he’s going to use his mind to outwrestle his three opponents.”

“When based on his linguistic skills, I couldn’t imagine him using his mind to twist open a jar of pickles.”

“And whatever the Hell Scott Charlotte is…”

“The Devil? Is that it? Is the Sixth or Seventh Devil this year to come to XWF? Soldier then Duke then Ann Thraxx? Somewhere along the line, didn’t Gilmour confess to dong worshipping old Beezlebub?”

“Sorry, Scotty, I think old Glue Gobbling Gilmour beat you too the whole devil entering you schtick.”

“Maybe you should consider trying something that hasn’t been so played out, they’re aren’t new spots on the map.”

Flynn’s wrist wisps through the air as he marks straight down and up.

“Checkmark minus. Please re-do the assignment.”

Flynn then blinks and grins.

“Finally, good old Mr. Satellite.”

“Oh, Satellite. If there’s one thing I love, it’s a little heated back and forth. And I appreciate you hitting me on things like how old I am, how past my hay day…”

“Give Michael James my compliments at whatever Trash Talk-for-Rejects writing workshop you two are frequenting.”

“And that point on Dukey. Man, you sure got me, Satellite.”

“I mean, I didn’t get Madison interfering on my behalf when you found a way to the unthinkable.”

“In fact, I defended my title successfully before Witastick sent a wild gorilla to screw me.”

“But, hey! Way to leave out important details for the sake of making yourself look moderately impressive.”

“Must have been really hard considering what you have to work with…”

Flynn bites his lip.

“It’s so rare I get to beat someone… smaller than me…”

“Weaker than me…”

“Sporting less arms than me… A little snack… a morsel I can devour whole and move onto bigger creatures… That’s what this match is for me, Satellite…”

Flynn taps his nose as an evil grin takes to his face…

“Satty… Before I go… Let me tell you what I meant to let you know… In January… I know you were itching to hear what I had up my sleeve... A-…

Suddenly, footsteps are heard. Thousands of footsteps, echoing off every surface… a hivemind, thundering…closer…

Flynn cackles.

“Oh good. They’re here.”

Flynn turns back.

“The big dance is starting soon and the judges are taking their seats.”

“Don’t worry though, Satellite.”

“You’ll hear what I think about you…”

“Just as I’m sliding the belt off your blood-splattered waist.”

Exit Flynn.

Enter Night.

Enter Warfare.