Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

Briiii-

*click*

“Hello! This is Ned Kaye.”

“NEDERICK! WE BREATHED FIRE AND HAD ICE IN OUR VEINS, BABY KAYE-BY! WE CAME, WE SAW, WE KICKED ALL KINDS OF ASS! I WON TAG GOLD! And God Willing, next Pay-Per-View, maybe you’ll wrestle someone NOT named Chris Page. I MADE RESERVATIONS AT THE DENNY’S AND WE ARE TAKING A TRIP IN A SPACE SHUTTLE! TO THE MOONS OVER MY-HAMMY, NEDDY! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

…

“Neduardo? You there?”

"If you’re calling about a Notorious Gym membership, please press one. For tour options, please pr-”

*click*

---

Briiii-

*click*

“You’ve reached the Isaiah King Corporation. This is Elizabeth. How may I redirect your call?”

“SEND ME STRAIGHT TO THE TOP, LIZZIE. STRAIGHT TO THE MAN HIMSELF. THE BIG BOSS MAN!”

“...Sorry?”

“Mister King OF THE UNIVERSE! Big Izzy! I’m calling him before he calls me!”

…

“...Okay. I can send a call to Mister King’s extension… And who may I say is calling?”

…

“The man whispering great wisdom in the king’s ear, Lizaroo! The Merlin to his King Arthur! HIS GENERAL! THE MASTER OF HIS HOUSE! The KEY to his greatest VICTORY YET! That man? Is ready to hit Chi-Town and MOTHER.”

“FUCKING.”

“PARTY.”

…

“So… I should tell him a… Mister Merlin… is calling?”

…

*exhale*

“Lizzo. Tell Zay-zay that… MARK. FLYNN. IS. FUCKING. READY. TO. CELEBRATE.”

“Understood! Hold for just a moment, Mister Mart.”

…

“Did you just call me ‘Mart’?”

*click*



*click*

“GODDAMN. FINALLY. ZAY ZAY. Question One! WHEN ARE YOU SETTING UP A PRIVATE LINE FOR YOUR KINGDOM’S GODDAMN WRESTLING VIZIER.”

“Question Two. WHERE ARE WE PARTYING? PRIVATE LIMO?!? PRIVATE PLANE?!? ARE WE BUYING A MICRONATION WHERE IT’S LEGAL TO HUNT MEN FOR SPORT?!? CUZ I AM FUUUUUUUUCKING REEEEEEEEADY.”

…

“Actually, it’s still me, sir. Elizabeth.”

…

“Unfortunately, Mister King isn’t taking calls at the moment. But, Mart, If you’d like to leave a number, we’ll have a representative of Isaiah King Corporation reach out within two business d-”

*click*

---

Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

Briiii-

*click*

“Hello. It’s Theo Pryce.”

“Theo, it’s Flynn. Pick up the phone.”

“...I… what?”

“C’moooooooon, Theo, pick up.”

“...Mark. I am currently speaking to you. This is Theo.”

“Goddammit, stupid answering machine, just give me the beep so I can leave a message!”

“...Flynn. This isn’t an answering machine.”

“Goddammit. Next time, PICK UP THE PHONE, PRYCE.”

*click*

---

*BEEEEEEEEEEEP*

"Bourbon. It's Flynn."

...

"Go fuck yourself."

*click*

---

Quote:The smell of burning rubber.

The sky is choked with smoke.

Someone tries to cover my eyes, as if they might spare five-year-old me this horror. This ghastly carnage.

But their fingers can’t block the blazing inferno occupying every inch of the sky. Like a moth to the flame, I can’t look away.

I’m too frightened to even shield my face…

Or block my eyes…

…

Standing before me.

Engulfed in blood and fire…

Bathed in a crimson sky…

…

The XWF’s Crimson Cobra.

Forty-feet tall.

…

“Sorry. Back up.”

…Genieve Tate pinches the rim of her glasses, straightening them atop her nose.

“…You’re saying the XWF’s Crimson Cobra… A wrestler who retired around 2013… killed your parents?”

…Irwin’s brow contorts in confusion, staring down at his phone (he and Miss Tate are Zooming.)

“What? Miss Tate, where’d you get that idea?”

“...You, Irwin. You started this call saying you’d had a waking nightmare about your parents’ death.”

…Irwin smiles in immediate understanding.

“Ohhhhh. No. It wasn’t *exactly* a nightmare about my parents’ death.”

…

“I mean, yes, the imagery of the sky consumed in flame? The burning rubber smell? The crying, screaming people, sprinting and running in terror?” Irwin scratches his chin in acknowledgement. “Yes, that was definitely my parents’ death.”[white]

…

[white]“But, no, The ‘Crimson Cobra part’ was a different thing. He kicked me in the face once for wearing a homemade Mark Flynn shirt at a show!”

…

Miss Tate bridges together the tips of her index fingers in front of her face.

“Irwin. I think we’re on the verge of a breakthrough here.”

“...Breakthrough?”

”Yes. Your fractured psyche has inexorably tied the trauma of losing your parents in a…”

…Miss Tate scrunches her nose, puzzled.

“Sorry, how’d they die again?”

“Dirigible explosion.”

…

Miss Tate shakes her head, like it’s taking every fiber of her being not to focus the entire conversation on that. Yet, she manages.

“Your mind has tied together a horrible memory with your love of Mark Flynn.”

“Wow! Neat!” Irwin smiles, fully fascinated by and engaged with whatever Miss Tate is saying.

“That’s… One means to describe this phenomenon.” …Miss Tate purses her lips, trying to remain patient. “Another way would be… Avoidant attachment.”

“...Avoidant attachment?”

“Yes, Irwin. You’ve essentially substituted being Mark Flynn’s #1 fan in place of… a loving relationship with the parental figures that you’ve lost.”

…Irwin blushes, smiling.

“Wow! You’re really smart, Miss Tate! That’s a lot of big words!”

“Irwin.” Miss Tate’s face remains stern. “The mind is a fragile, explosive organ. And yours has attached your entire mood and demeanor to the approval of a narcissistic megalomaniac.”

Irwin blushes.

“I mean… Not my entire mood.”

“Irwin. You openly wept tears of joy when Mark Flynn thanked you.”

…

Irwin’s eyes get dewy just remembering that briefest gesture of gratitude.

“Irwin!” Miss Tate calls.

Irwin snaps to attention.

“Listen! At first, I wanted you to be able to separate yourself from Flynn so you’d stop feeling a background extra in your own life. But, now? I genuinely think if you don’t, you’ll have a full psychotic breakdown.”

Irwin shakes his head.

“But, Miss Tate! Mister Flynn and I have been getting along great! He thanked me! He let me ride in the front seat of his car!”

A cold sweat creeps across Miss Tate’s forehead. “Irwin… That’s even more dangerous!”

“...What?”

“Listen, Irwin. You’re an addict. You CRAVE to the crumbs of approval Mark Flynn gives you. Your brain is shooting endorphins through every fiber of your body any time he so much as tolerates you. And now, he’s giving you more affection?!?”

“I know!” Irwin beams! “It’s great.”

“Irwin. We need to start operant conditioning ASAP! If you’re ever going to break this dependence, you need to start weening yourself off of Mark Flynn! Before it’s too la-”

WHAM! Irwin’s office door is kicked open.

…

Okay, ‘office’ is a generous word.

It’s the pantry in the storage unit Flynn lives in…

That Flynn lets Irwin sleep in.

Immediately, Irwin’s face lights up like Santa Claus just strolled in!

“MISTER FLYNN!” Irwin smiles ear-to-ear. “I thought you’d be celebrating your grand victory with your allies!”

…Despite the gleaming, golden belt on Flynn’s shoulder, Flynn’s visage is stewed in bitterness. He glares at the ground, gritting his teeth.

“Irwin…. Wanna… do something?”

“...Uh…” Irwin blinks. “I don’t understand, Mister Flynn. Do you… need me to accompany you for a mission? A scheme, perhaps?”

…Flynn exhales.

“No.” Flynn clears his throat. “No, just… uh…”

…

Irwin’s eyes widen, ready to receive whatever information Flynn will provide.

…

Suddenly, Flynn’s face contorts in rage.

“LOOK. WANNA HANG OUT OR WHAT?!?”

…

“Hang… out?”

…

Flynn scowls, fire in his eyes.

“JESUS, IRMANO. OPEN YOUR GODDAMNED EARS. MY NIGHT OPENED UP. DO YOU WANNA GO TO DENNY’S OR NOT?!?”

…

…In the twinkle in Irwin’s eyes.

It’s like twenty simultaneous Christmases.

It’s like the childhood wonder of the first time you saw fireworks had passionate, unbridled sex with the warm glow of the first time you held hands with someone you like-like as a child and that sex created a baby and that baby was LEARNING THAT GOD EXISTS AND LOVES YOU.

…

…

Irwin tries to take a deep breath.

“Miss Tate, I am so sorry. I am going to have to call you back…”

…

“Because I am about to GO HAVE THE GREATEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE.”

“Irwin, wait! Your brain can’t handle th-”

*click*

---

Lou.

Starting to feel like we stuck in each other’s shadow, huh?

Can’t get out of each other’s way?

The last time we faced off, one-on-one.

I reminded you how similar our journey was.

Relentless 2021.

We both had a once-in-a-lifetime matchup.

And we both… didn’t quite hit the target dead-center.

I drew Thad.

You lost to ALIAS.

…Of course, the contrast was what happened after.

You disappeared into the void.

Like a mythical creature, vanishing into the mist.

Leaving the few that saw him to wonder if he was ever really there in the first place.

Meanwhile, I FUCKING CAME INTO WORK.

I showed up every chance I had.

I fucking fought every match I could.

Fighting tooth-and-nail.

Climbing the ladder rung-by-rung.

Before finally reaching the mountain top.

…

2023.

Relentless.

Goddamn, Lou, the booking team must have a single-digit number of ideas.

Because they copy-pasted your road and mine.

Both of us had a briefcase on the line.

Both of us had an opponent, seeking to prove themselves by defeating ESTABLISHED TALENT.

Opening the pages of XWF legend and scrawling their name into the margins…

With a victory on the grandest stage of them all.

…

We both won this time.

Once again, the journeys synch up perfectly.

Lou and Mark.

Mark and Lou.

Relentless pals.

…

And once again.

Once the road led away from Relentless…

The paths diverged.

Because once again.

Just like 2021.

Doctor Louis D’Ville.

Took his briefcase.

Grabbed a chair on the sidelines.

And rode the bench.

WHILE MARK FLYNN.

MISTER 24/7/365.

THE FUCKING WORKHORSE OF THE XWF.

GOT BACK IN THE RING.

I BEAT BOBBY BOURBON TWICE.

I BEAT THE CURRENT UNIVERSAL CHAMPION.

I ENDED THE TWO-HUNDRED-PLUS DAY REIGN OF THE TAG-TEAM CHAMPIONS.

…

That’s the difference, Lou.

That’s been the difference.

Is the Good Doctor a Legend? Absolutely.

Is he one of the best to ever run the ropes in an XWF ring? Anyone claiming otherwise would be a goddamn fool.

Is he a WarGames winner?

…

Haaaaa.

Just yanking your leg, Doc.

Giving the old doctor a reflex check.

…

But, the difference is.

Week-in and week-out.

Every hour.

Of every minute.

Of every second.

I’m here.

Fucking.

WORKING.

…

Haha, it really does get eerie sometimes, Lou.

Remember last year?

Last Christmas?

We both tried to glimpse into the future.

Both haunted by portents of what the XWF might become…

You saw a world where the main event would be the Chuckster and Jenny Myst…

A world where the ocean, once swimming with talent, withered to ditchwater and pondscum.

And I foretold ALIAS’ return.

…

Haha, goddamn.

Two wide misses, huh, Loobastank?

…

The future is here.

We stand at the dawn of a new age.

With a new generation of talent.

Guys that remember ALIAS or Robert Main as clearly as they remember Lee Stone or Steve Jason.

Just names in the history book.

Etchings on gravestones.

It’s a new era, Lou.

Gator’s a part-time commentator. Thad’s in a businessman halloween costume, trying to make Uncle Theo proud.

Sebastian Duke’s dead. Johnny Madison is in jail.

…Honestly, I’da thought Vinnie Lane got #MeToo’d, but even odds, he’s trapped in one of those salon hair dryer chairs…



…

The only two relics left from a forgotten age.

Are you.

And I.

And we two may be alike.

But, brother, they broke the mold when they made us.

There’ll never be another Dock.

And there’ll never be another Mark Flynn.

…

But, in a month, the rules change.

The game will shift.

Guys like us? The old guard?

Will either adapt.

Or die.

…

And Louie?

MARK.

FLYNN.

WILL.

NOT.

DIE.

I DIDN’T FUCKING FIGHT THROUGH A BROKEN GODDAMN NECK.

EIGHT LONG YEARS OF RECOVERY.

To let a fucking RULEBOOK ADDENDUM send me back to the ground floor.

It took ten years to touch the mountaintop, Lou.

And if I have to throw you off the cliff to stay up here?

So.

FUCKING.

Be it.

…

This time, Lou?

How about you walk back into the void…

And stay there.