The gentle whisper of the tide.

The waves lick and lap at the edges of the beach.

The ebb.

And flow.

The push.

And pull.

The ocean’s waters.

Gentle and calming in appearance.

And yet, its power is immense.

Hurricanes.

Tsunamis.

Tidal waves.

The ocean has wrought the greatest of man’s achievements to rubble.

Consumed coastal empires.

The ravages of time have the mercy of leaving artifacts.

Rusted treasures of a forgotten empire.

When the ocean consumes?

Nothing is left in its wake.

…

For now, though. On this day.

The ocean is calm.

Almost imperceptible in motion.

Gently weaving backwards and forwards.

As if caught in a loop.

…

And sitting on the beach.

Flat on his back.

Eyes up toward the sky.

…

Is Mark Flynn.

…

He faintly wriggles against the beach.

But despite his efforts.

He is bound by ropes that have trapped his arms to his sides.

His ankles restricted by a million tiny knots.

He’s been strapped against the beach…

…

Flynn twists his shoulder off the sands…

Making one last feeble attempt to effectuate some escape of this predicament.

…

Before exhaling impatiently.

And accepting his fate.

Staring into the sun.

The ocean laps at the soles of his bare feet.

He flinches uncomfortably… But eventually the tide recedes once more.

…

It will return, though.

If he can’t free himself from this purgatory of his own creativity?

The waters will eventually sweep around him…

He will be consumed whole…

Swallowed into the abyss.

…

And.

For a moment.

A thought creeps across Flynn’s mind.

Would it be so bad?

To leave it all behind?

To accept his fate?

To rest?

…The corners of Flynn’s eyes flicker.

They depress downwards…

As the blackness creeps in…

Flynn lets his eyes close…

…

And for a moment…

There is silence.

…

……

“Papa?”

…

A quiet voice cuts through the silence.

A weak light… Obscuring the pitch black darkness.

With the last remnants of his strength, Flynn forces his tired eyes open.

…

“Papa, wake up!”

…The voice is coming from… below.

Flynn exerts all the energy he has left in his tired body.

To lift his head…

Juuuuuuust enough off the ground.

To tilt his head toward his chest.

…

There.

Sitting upon his heart.

Is a tiny.

Eight-year-old.

NK.

…

“...Hey.”

Flynn’s eyes soften in recognition.

“I dreamt about you.”

…

“You were… bigger, though.”

Indeed, the dream-child communist is about the size of a caterpillar, creeping along Flynn’s chest.

“Get up, Papa!” NK’s voice screeches urgently. “What happened to you?”

…

A low, guttural exhale.

Like the last winds of a dying storm, creeping slowly…

From Flynn’s lungs… Down to his chest.

…

“Kid...” Flynn wheezes.

“I don’t even know how to explain how I got here…”

---

Previously…

…

Fuck.

You mean, I really have to try and explain this shit?

…

Okay, fine.

Let’s start in Colorado.

In 2013, my tag-team partners (Theo Pryce and Luca Arzegotti) got picked up on a possession charge.

Theo had one phone call.

And he called me.

…Not gonna lie.

Pryce probably should have called someone else.

See, I was detoxing for my XWF return.

Trying to kick a morphine addiction cold turkey.

I was lying on the floor of a storage unit I call home…

In the most remote nowhere town in Iowa…

I couldn’t lift my arms. I couldn’t feel my legs.

I couldn’t THINK. I was so gone in that moment, it felt like re-learning how to walk.

I had to answer my phone almost entirely with my neck muscles.

…And nose.

…I told ol’ Ted I probably needed some time to rest.

To sleep.

But Theo insisted.

Quote:"Flynn. I need someone I can trust. You are the man for this job."

…

So.

I called upon this…

Voice in my head.

Or…

Alter-ego.

…

People keep asking me to explain it.

But, it’s… complicated.

…

Short version.

Theo called Mark Flynn.

And he got…

Christopher K. Clinton.

A fast-talking, unlicensed lawyer.

…Who drove 14 hours.

At twenty over the speed limit.

From Iowa to Colorado.

Bailed out Theo and Luca…

And brought party favors for the High Society After-party.

…

Let’s fast-forward. Just a bit.

2021.

I’m partnered with the North Korean War Criminal.

We’re climbing the ranks of the tag division.

I’m going on adventures… Keeps the threads of the multiverse tethered.

Lest the universe be torn in ‘twain.

…

And… it comes across my feed.

That Big Money Oswald is throwing his weight around.

Trying to SUE Latina Submission Machina to get his Billion Dollar Belt back.

…

Now.

Nine times outta ten?

Ninety-nine times out of 100?

I woulda said… Who cares?

…

But.

There was a little voice in my head.

Begging me to let him out.

…

So, I closed my eyes.

…

When I woke up?

Big Money Oswald had had his mouth shut.

LSM’s mother had sent me a lengthy email.

Short version: ¡Gracias, mucho, señor gringo!

And the voice had receded back inside my head.

…

He popped out.

Very selectively.

Clinton made Oz look like a dummy once more, when Ozzy tried to accuse Vita Valenteen of match-fixing.

…Clinton even popped out to represent the XWF against ME, when I sued the XWF for carrying out a conspiracy to hold me down!

…That bastard won, too!

…

So.

You might be asking?

What is Christopher K. Clinton?

Is he Mark Flynn? Is he a dissociative identity? Is he an imaginary friend? Is he just Flynn, putting on a fake mustache and fucking with people?

…

And to that.

I gotta be honest.

I’ve never been a big, ‘inward-thoughts’ guy.

I’ve never tried to unpack who my mental roommate is.

…

To some degree, I thought I understood him well enough to tolerate his co-tenancy in my brain.

I liked fighting with my fists.

He liked fighting with words.

…So long as we weren’t fighting each other?

Two peas in a pod.

…

Until.

I tried to turn over a new leaf.

I became a GOOD GUY.

I even got a kid I parent.

…

Well, co-parent.

With Bobby Bourbon.

…I still consider it an 80/20 split.

That asshole was only seen with my sone ONCE IN THREE MONTHS!

AND IT WAS AT A GODDAMN BIKER BAR!

…

But, I digress.

My priorities shifted.

I had someone relying on me.

…Someone that needed me to be there for him.

Twenty-four.

Seven.

Three-sixty-five.

…

So, I skipped a handful of chances to interject myself into legal shenanigans.

I didn’t demand to defend my sidekick when he was accused of murder.

I let Ned hire a… quote ‘real attorney’ unquote… to protect the Notorious Gym from a buyout, rather than throwing myself in the mix.

I even let Theo use XWF general counsel.

…

And.

Clinton.

Didn’t.

Like that.

…

So… he summoned me into my own brain.

Suing for custody of my physical body.

In front of a court comprised of my ego, id and superego.

…

Now.

Believe it or not.

I’d been here before.

I’ve been around the block.

I once had a fist fight with my past identities to assert myself as the one true Flynn.

I get this is… USUALLY… some metaphor about pushing through and believing in myself.

So, I said a few lines about me being the real Flynn.

Clicked my heels.

And was ready to be back in Kansas.

…

Unfortunately…

Something’s…

Different.

…

I’m stuck inside my own head.

And Clinton is out there driving my body.

…

And…

He’s not having the easiest time.

…

Christopher K. Clinton is one hell of a Christopher K. Clinton.

But, despite calling my body his home.

…He’s not *quite* Mark Flynn.

---

“I FUCKING LOST?!?”

Whack! A paper cup is smaaaaaaaaacked across the board room! Flecks of water spray onto the unsuspecting faces around the executive table.

…

Clinton’s nostrils flare. He slams both his hands against the table, as he stares daggers around the room.

“WHAT. THE. FUCK.”

Clinton shakes his head, as he presses a finger into his own chest.

“I. DO. NOT. LOSE.”

…Clinton’s eyes widen as he points around the room.

“WE. DO. NOT. LOSE.” Clinton’s finger rapidly points to each sitting party around the room.

It’s a whole cacophony of Mark Flynns. Dozens upon dozens upon dozens of Mark Flynns, all ‘hear-hearing’ and banging their fists against the table in agreement.

“SO!” Clinton cuts in. Immediately, the table-knocking subsides. “WHAT HAPPENED?”

…

It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

…

“GOD.” Clinton shakes his head, disgusted, as he reaches over to a water cooler beside his chair, refilling his water cup. “It’s even worse than I thought!” Clinton quickly chugs down the cup, before crushing it in his fist and dropping it to the floor.

“The ‘Mark Flynn’ property is in SIGNIFICIANT DISREPAIR.” Clinton sneers, as he reaches under the cooler for another paper cup. “The old tenant COMPLETELY RUINED MARK FLYNN! WHY ELSE WOULD WE LOSE TO DIO-FUCKING-NYSUS!”

Clinton raises his cup to sip…

“Fallacy.”

Clinton’s eyes widen! HE HACKS UP A LUNG, sputtering water onto the floor!

“WHO SAID THAT?”

The crowd of Flynn parts toward the source of that comment.

Sitting near the center of the table is ‘The Beast’ Mark Flynn (est. 2012), wearing a purple robe and holding a wine glass.

“I said…” The Beast repeats. “Fallacy.”

The Beast swizzles his glass (to aerate his beverage) before taking a sip.

“Had you won, you would assert it as proof that your taking of Flynn’s body immediately fixed things.”

“Instead, you lost. So now, you pass the blame onto the prior Flynn you deposed.” The Beast grins, nodding. “A clear falla-”

WHAP! SPLASH! A paper cup hits the Beast square in the face!

It does zero damage, but the water and shock does seem to throw the Beast off-guard!

“NOW IS THE NOT THE TIME FOR FINGER-POINTING!” Clinton spits, as he straightens his tie.

…Free-Win Flynn (est. 2014), wearing a bright-red sweater, leans into Robert Miles’ (est. 2012) ear. “Wasn’t HE just finger-pointing?”

The mute Robert Miles shrugs, scratching his nose.

“WHAT I WANT TO KNOW IS… How did this happen?” Clinton exhales impatiently as he spins around, pulling down a projector screen.

“THE PLAN WAS SO SIMPLE.” Clinton reaches into his pocket for a little mouse-clicker. He rapidly presses it as slides whir across the screen.

“AXIOM A => NEW MARK FLYNN LOSES.”

Click.

“AXIOM B => OLD MARK FLYNN DIDN’T.”

“Point of order.” RECORD PROFITS™ Mark Flynn (est. 2022), wearing a pair of jet black sunglasses, raises his hand. “Can we amend branding on this presentation from ‘old’ to ‘classic’? It’s more appealing to that 35-54 demographic.”

Click.

“So. We go BACK to the CLASSIC Mark Flynn formula. We BEND RULES. WE infuriate our opponent! We throw away that namby-pamby ‘Good Guy’ horseshit!”

The group of old Mark Flynn personalities all nod in unison, like, ‘everything good so far’.

“And.”

“We STILL FUCKING LOST.”

Clinton throws up a boot, kicking the side of the projector! The projected PowerPoint buckles, now stuck at a 37 degree angle…

One Flynn clears his throat.

“Technically, that was not the archetypal progenitor of the Mark Flynn moniker. To insinuate we reverted to the primordial Flynn formula would be a ludicrous taradiddle.”

…

“...Stupid Flynn talk stupid words.” ‘Whore for Gold’ Flynn (cir. January 2013) scratches his beard, regarding the overly verbose Flynn (from his very first promo) with disgust.

They all do.

“Look.” Free-Win raises his hand, demanding the floor. “Clearly, the game has changed. If we want to turn this ship back toward success…”

…

“Thereby bringing forth an apocalypse that consumes the world in an all-encompassing defeat at our hands and none other...”

…

“We need to adapt!”

A handful of Flynns knock on the table, physically denoting their agreement with that statement.

…Clinton’s eye twitches at the idea of someone else making a valuable contribution to this meeting.

“I mean… Well, yeah!” Clinton nods, with a sneer, like that comment was obvious. “But that’s what we’re doing! That’s what MY PLAN WAS. We adapt… by regressing!”

…

“Technically.” The Beast chimes, wiping the end of his robe against his now-wet nose. “Regression is the *opposite* of adap-”

WHAP! Another paper cup straight to Beast’s schnozz!

…

Clinton exhales, as he reaches under the cooler for another cup. “So. Fine. We amend the formula. We come up with the secret recipe to success and we COOK IT! AGAIN! AND AGAIN! AND AGAIN! UNTIL WE’RE BACK ONTOP OF THE X-TREME WRESTLING FEDERATION!”

Clinton grins as the Flynns knock on the boardroom table in unison, firm in their agreement.

“If anyone can figure it out, boys? It’s US.” Clinton spreads his arms around the room. “We comprise the most DEVIOUS MIND in the HISTORY of WRESTLING! We just have to put our heads…”

…

“Er, head. Together. And the answer will become OBVIOUS.”

“Indeed, an incredibly simple objective. To succeed, we must simply create something wholly original.” Says Free-Win.

“But, with that distinct Mark Flynn flavor.” Insists RECORD PROFITS™.

“But something we’ve never done before!” Raises The Beast.

“But something that doesn’t feel too out-of-character, like we’re doing something new JUST for the novelty of it.” Says the scientist Mark Flynn that invented a state-of-the-art wrestling simulator.

“It needs to be EPIC in scale.” Says the Mark Flynn from Bobby Bourbon’s promo who thinks science is the Bill Nye theme song.

“But, ideally fits within a very small timeslot. Like, the length of an Instagram reel. Or a Quibi.” Corrects RECORD PROFITS™.

“It should embrace the complex, heroic tapestry of history we’ve been a part of in our XWF tenure.” Says the villainous Ser Mark Flynn from Kieran King’s fantasy fable.

”But, not too much, lest we scare off people who haven’t seen our work before!” Says the Mark Flynn that immediately died in ALIAS’s alternate universe apocalypse.

“It should be FUNNY! MARK FLYNN USED TO BE FUNNY!”

“But, it shouldn’t throw away the emotional growth and maturity he’s cultivated through his friendship with Ned Kaye.”

“BUT! Flynn should be CRAZY!!”

“But, also, not too crazy! We have a kid now!”

“Right! NK should be around for it!”

“But, like, not TOO much. Babies aren’t typically around for action-adventure romps through space and time.”

The Flynns all nod, at each other, pleased. Like they’ve come up with a clear recipe for success.

…They all then expectantly turn toward the head of the table.

Where Christopher K. Clinton stands.

…

“Right.”

…

“Yes.”

…

“So, I’ll just…”

Clinton sniffs… Exhaling heavily.

“Implement… All of those… suggestions.”

Some Flynns nod, like, yes, exactly.

Other just stare.

…

Clinton clears his throat.

“Would you all… just excuse me for a moment?”

---

“HRRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFF!”

…

“Fuuuuuuck.”

…

“...When did I eat chicken salad?”

Clinton slaps the lever on the toilet… And his lunch is flushed away to…

…

Wherever the internal plumbing in Flynn’s brain goes?

This whole concept is a mess.

“FUCK!” Clinton spits, slamming his fist against the bathroom’s paper towel dispenser. A bit of paper shoots out the end. “EVEN THE GODDAMN INTERNAL NARRATOR IS LOSING THE PLOT HERE.”

Clinton rips off the paper towel and dabs at the corners of his mouth… Trying to wipe away the traces of nerve-vomit before he storms back into the meeting.

…As he does, he catches eye-contact with himself in the mirror.

…

He points a finger at himself.

…

He exhales.

“You can fucking do this, you know that?”

“You once sued the manufacturers of steel ring steps for gross negligence!”

“You once filed a class-action lawsuit on behalf of color-blind wrestlers that they couldn’t see referees’ stripes clearly and that was discrimination!”

…

Clinton sticks his face up to the mirror.

“YOU! CAN DO! ANYTHING!”

Clinton sticks his finger against his reflection’s nose. His reflection naturally does the same.

“You’re CHRISTOPHER KAY GODDAMNED CLINTON.”

“But, you’re not Mark Flynn.”

“AHHHHHH!” Clinton squeals, swatting in the air… He had gotten his face so close to the mirror, he hadn’t seen the presence creep up behind him…

…

…

Clinton looks this bathroom up-and-down, suspiciously.

“Who the HELL are you?”

…

Clinton sneers. “Withdrawn. Stupid question.” Clinton crosses his arms. “Obviously, you’re a Mark Flynn, right?”

“In a way.”



…

Clinton’s sneer goes from one of disgust to one of vague discomfort.

“Well.”

…

“Good talk. I’m gonna…” Clinton slides his back against the wall, not wanting to turn away from this ultra-threatening entity. “Go… Be around… Other people. In a group sett-.”

WHAM! Beside Clinton’s face, an arm smacks the wall.

Clinton sucks air, seething, putting his hands in front of his face.

“I see potential in you.”

“Oh man. That is… SO NICE of you to say. And NOT WEIRD!” Clinton tries to duck under this guy’s arm. “I better…  get back to my desk right now to… draft a meaningful, THANK-YOU card.”

The Opponent doesn’t move as Clinton narrowly slips out of his grip! Clinton turns on the jets, trying to dash out the door!

“I know why you lost.”

…

Clinton’s stopped.

…

“Oh yeah? Is it because I didn’t follow all of those chuckleheads’ THIRTY-SEVEN DIFFERENT AND WHOLLY OPPOSITE STEPS TO SUCCESS.”

…The Opponent’s face doesn’t move a muscle.

“Ignore them. That gaggle comprises Flynn’s inner doubts. They despise him almost as much as they despise themselves. They’re so used to whining about the direction the car is going… They don’t even realize they have no idea how to drive.”

“...Well. So, if I shouldn’t listen to them.” Clinton’s arms cross skeptically. “Why should I listen to you?”

“Because I actually know the secret to success. The old recipe you failed to recreate.”

“WHADDYA MEAN?” Clinton spits, furiously! “I did everything just like OLD FLYNN WOULD DO.”

“Exactly. That’s the opposite of what Mark Flynn would do.”

…

…Clinton squints.

“...Fuckin’... what?”

“Mark Flynn creates these ‘alernative personalities’… To solve problems.”

“To do what he believes he cannot.”

“Mark Flynn’s secret… Deep-down.”

“Is he’s afraid he’s not enough.”

“That he can’t do it.”

“Then, his sick, terrified little brain.”

“Crafts Some idealized version of himself.”

“Someone that can do what he cannot.”

…

The Opponent reaches out.

And presses a finger into Clinton’s chest.

“That’s you.”

“...That doesn’t make any FUCKIN’ SENSE.” Clinton sniffs, trying to understand these… Confucian riddle. “If Mark Flynn’s brain created me to solve a problem… Then why would I LOSE?!?”

“Because *you’re* trying to act like Mark Flynn. And Mark Flynn thinks that Mark Flynn can’t get past this hurdle himself. So, how could you by acting like Mark Flynn?”

…

Clinton scratches his head.

“I can’t tell if that makes sense… Or if it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I simply mean this.”

The Opponent’s hand rises.

“If you want to win?”

Until his finger touches the center of Clinton’s brow.

“Don’t be Mark Flynn.”

“Be Christopher K. Clinton.”

“Because that’s who Mark Flynn created to win.”

…

---

…

Okay.

Take Two.

Last time, I might’ve tried so hard to bring back that Mark Flynn formula.

I forgot to add the ingredients…

All style…

No substance.

So, let’s call this one a do-over.

Consider this my opening statement.

…

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury.

What we have before us this week?

Is an open-and-shut case.

Razor Blade.

Is a man guilty.

Of the crime of delusion.

He is guilty of gross negligence.

In that no one can say the dumb shit he spews on a regular basis…

Without GROSSLY NEGLECTING reality.

…

I present to you.

Exhibit A. See this prior statement made by my opponent.

Quote:and if Dick Drizzle or the other men and women gets a Championship shot  before I do then I mind as well build a Storyline with Sebastian Everett- Bryce
Universal Championship so when I enter this battle royal I'm going to throw every single one of those men and woman over the top rope and I will be the last man standing and put everyone on notice and when that's over I'm coming for John Black's Revolution Champion cause he already defeated your American nightmare like two or three times that I can count but my point is this if I don't win this battle royal or fight John black Revolution Champion the next Anarchy then Sebastian Everett-Bryce.

First of all.

Let me apologize to this court for exposing you to the radioactive levels of stupidity that spew from Mister Blade’s FESTERING GOB.

I’m having the bailiff provide each member of the jury a transcript of Mister Blade’s promo.

I’m also giving you each a pencil.

Try your hardest to diagram the subject, verb, purpose and meaning of this FUCKING NOVEL.

…

Nigh Impossible, right?

Pencils down.

For the benefit of justice.

I will attempt to untangle this verbal Gordion Knot.

See.

Mister Blade starts with the initial premise that

1. If Blade loses the battle royal on Anarchy (which he did), he will challenge the Universal champion to a match.

So far? Dumb, but no more than your average mouth-breathing jobber with delusions of grandeur.

Then! Mister Blade continues this thought that…

2. Blade will NOT lose the over-the-top battle royal, because he will throw out each and every man and woman to win.

Again. Standard.

Perhaps perplexing that he didn’t begin a new sentence to make this point.

But, still. Fine.

However! There is still more thought to unfurl!

3. When Blade wins, he will challenge John Black for the Revolution Title! Who he has lost against, and I quote, “like two or three times”

Not exactly a vote of confidence when your own promo mentions the multitude of times you’ve failed to defeat JOHN BLACK of all people.

BUT, FINALLY, WE REACH THE PROMISED LAND! THE END OF THE SENTENCE, WHERE MISTER BLADE CONCLUDES…



4. If Blade loses the Battle Royal OR doesn’t fight John Black, he’s immediately coming after Sebastian Everett-Bryce.

…

So.

Just to be clear.

In this one sentence, Mister Blade…

1. Presents his contingency plan for his failure. Which is “Demand a match with the toughest guy in the company.”

2. Promises he won’t fail! And will win the whole battle royal!

3. Confesses that he will face John Black, a man he has lost to every time he’s faced him!


Then,

4. presents, like it’s a BRAND NEW IDEA… his plan for failure… Which is “Demand a match with the toughest guy in the company.”

Honest-to-God?

It’s crystal-clear evidence that Razor Blade might have a goldfish’s attention span.

He literally forgot the beginning of his sentence.

Before he’d reached the end of his sentence.

This instant in time…

Perfectly captures the defendant. Mister Razor Blade.

A goddamned mental INVALID.

A fucking FOOL.

How can he hope to unravel my masterful submission holds…

When he can’t fucking wrestle his own words into a COHERENT THOUGHT.

How can he hope to challenge my superior mental intellect?

When he can’t fucking SPELL THE WORD ‘CHALLENGE’.

Wrestling?

Is a mental game.

It’s about the pre-work.

The preparation.

It’s knowing your opponent's next move...

Plotting five steps ahead.

…

I ask you.

How can Razor Blade possibly predict my FUTURE moves?

When he can’t even remember his PAST statements?

…

I rest my case.

Just like Razor.

Will be resting under my boot.