1993

The shouting was constant.

Through the apartment complex’s thin walls, Flynn could always hear families bickering.

About food. About rent.

Their voices sharpened with anger, perhaps to obscure the fear underneath.

Hypothesis: Anger makes powerless people feel in control. If not, why do people lash out at each other for things they couldn’t control? Illogical.

The couple in 208, immediately left of Marcus’s bedroom, bleated furiously, as they typically did at the month’s end.

*She* wasn’t producing milk.

*They* needed formula.

*He* needed to work more hours at the plant.

*They*... (different ‘they’, Marcus inferred)… told *him* his pay’s getting cut.

*They* (*he*-and-*she*) couldn’t AFFORD *him* losing his job.

…

Marcus knew these words. Their definitions were plain, their context uncomplicated.

What teenage Marcus struggled with was… ‘Why?’

Why should it be difficult for this couple to survive?

Had they done something wrong to deserve poverty?

Their baby couldn’t have. They’d just been born.

Why should any infant go hungry?

…

Marcus turning fourteen had been a mixed bag.

While the world remained rigid in its illogical customs, Marcus had memorized enough rules to blend within it.

From those early days of FourSquare, Marcus adapted, mimicking his classmate’s alien behaviors.

He’d even gone whole weeks without being labeled ‘freak’ or ‘psycho.’

Most excitingly, he’d discovered, if he remained quiet, his peers would *converse* around him.

Previously, they’d take constant account of his presence, dropping their voices to a whisper.

Now? He could listen.

Listening was a thrilling new privilege. Floodgates of data had opened unto him.

People’s thoughts, ideas, hopes, fears, dreams, secrets, and wishes…

Yet, Marcus still longed-for the puzzle’s centerpiece.

WHY?

Why were things this way they w-?

KERASH!

Someone pitched glass at Marcus’s wall. 208’s argument, as usual, had soured into screaming.

…

That was enough listening for one day.

Marcus pressed ‘POWER’ on the remote on his nightstand.

A small television in his bedroom’s corner lit up.

Flynn observed others perform this act when conversation had become uncomfortable.

When silence hung too long.

Someone would invariably suggest seeing what’s on TV.

The baby began weeping next door. The family’s screaming merged into an orchestra of hopelessness—a three-part chorus pleading for deliverance.

Marcus raised the volume…

---

DING!

”Aha! My latest invention is ready!”

Socks slide across a kitchen floor…

An inanimate plastic wrestler bobs in a child’s hands!

”Tread cautiously, Doctor-Professor Bobby! That’s no microwave! That’s a portal to an ACTIVE VOLCANO!” The paint’s *completely* worn from the toy’s body, after years of being lobbed against walls and jabbed against food.

”DUH, RUSSELL-THE-MUSCLE, MY FAITHFUL SIDEKICK!” Eight-year-old Bobby bellows at his plastic companion! ”But! Science cannot be restr-... restric-... SCIENCE RULES!”

Suddenly, Bobby hucks his plaything airborne Its limbs splay outwards, landing on a wrestling ring carpet/playmat!

Young Bobby’s fingers extend, precisely as a cat-burgling brain-surgeon…

Click! The microwave’s door opens!

”AHHHHHHH! VOLCANIC STEAM VENTS!!” Doctor/Professor Bobby shields his face! His hands karate-chop away the “steam”... (accompanied by genre-appropriate karate sound effects!)

”If I don’t act quick… The volcano’s gonna melt off my eyebrows!” Suddenly, Bourbon’s eyes light up! ”That’s it! My magically-scientific goggles!”

Bobby reaches above his eyeline, pulling down… swimming goggles!

Voila! His eyes! Protected!

”Great thinking, Doctor/Professor!”

”Now, my invention…” Bobby retrieves…

A Pizza Bagel tray…

Covered with Bubbling-Hot Fruit-Roll-Up…

…Bobby pinches a bagel off the plate… Dripping with melted green fruit-flavor-tubing…

He scarfs it down!

…

”YESSSSSSSSS!” The eight-year-old celebratorily leaps, almost one-foot in height! ”THE PERFECT COMBINATION OF SWEET-AND-PIZZA! I DUB THEE… SWEET-ZA!”

”And that concludes Barbarian Baboons of Biloxi!” The TV announcer… announces! ”Next up…”

Bobby baseball-slides onto the playmat with his snack plate, scooping up his action figure! ”Grilling Guerilla Gorillas!”

”Grilling Guerilla Gorillas!”

”YESSSSSSS!” Bobby reclines, prepared to ingest pure, RAW entertainment.

”...Unfortunately, network executives have… discontinued ‘Grilling Guerilla Gorillas’...”

”What?!?!”

”...Due to ongoing litigation between the show’s writers, National Geographic, several private militias, and… George Foreman.”

”Instead, we’ve prepared… Educational programming!”

”EDUCATIONAL?!?!” Bobby grimaces, disgusted!

Bobby reaches for the remote…

…Juuuuuuust out of reach.

…Meanwhile, Bobby’s snackplate rests upon his belly like an otter.

The *perfect* TV-watching position.

…

Bobby grabs another Sweet-za bagel.

---

*Dr. Schizz’s Chemical Anarchy Hour*

A dimly-lit, public-access-looking set.

A folding table, covered in beakers, chemicals and… a fishbowl?

“What is science?” A voice calls from off-set.

“Science is mathematics. Art. Life-or-death. The secret language with which we commune with the underwriters of our very existence.”

“Our desperate attempts to discern truth through tea-leaves, footprints, scribbled-out notes found on our very DNA.”

“And… Most-of-all! Science IS knowledge! A guiding light in the dark cavern called consciousness.”

“Through science, we watch stars glimmer brightest before they fizzle. We observe tides hungrily devour something as certain as the land beneath your feet! We witness nature’s ultimate killing machines, sent into early extinction by an unfortunate roll of cosmic dice.”

“Science is a looking glass, through which we SEE our world. We SEE ourselves.”

“In that reflection, we see truths that… nefarious powers… have tried to hide.”

Dr. Schizz enters frame, ”Through the scientific method, we’ve learned the power of… combining forces, remember these words…” Schizz declares, raising two small vials in his mismatched hands. His aviator sunglasses glint in the dingy lab’s overhead-light. A crooked smile, both welcoming and menacing, creeps across his face. ”See, you must remember today’s lesson… Because you’ll be LIED to later.”

“The system doesn’t *want* you experimenting. It’ll tell you NOT to combine forces. It THRIVES when you keep separated. SEGREGATED.”

Because UNITING these forces… into one COMPOUND… can tear through the ‘status quo’ like a blackhole ripping through tissue.”

He shakes one vial. ”Potassium” He shakes the other. ”Sodium. He leans into the camera, sharing a secret with the home-viewers.

”Harmless separately. But, just add water…”

Dr. Schizz tips both vials into the fishbowl, resting ominously on the table.

BOOOOOOOOOM!

A fiery explosion bursts from the bowl! Water, glass shards, and goldfish guts go flying!

The camera lens cracks, leaving a roadmap of fractures as smoke curls upward. Unbothered, Schizz dusts his labcoat’s shoulders.

”This,” he gestures to the chaos, ”is SYNTHESIS. Separately, these elements are inert. Controlled. Together? They’re the catalyst for revolution.” he lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply…

And exhales a puff, curling like an anarchist’s grin.

”Now, imagine walking into your local bank- a cesspool of greed, teeming with bloodsucking, monkey-suit-wearing leeches. Toss these ingredients into the fountain. BOOM. Instant wealth redistribution…”

Schizz smiles. ”And the moneychangers will scatter into the streets like rats ablaze. The temple shall be purif-”

WHEEE-OOOOOH! Distant sirens faintly wail.

Schizz doesn’t flinch. Instead, he adjusts his glasses with deliberate calm.

“Remember.” His voice lowers into a conspiratorial growl, ”The police aren’t evil men. They’re patsies. Their bosses? *Those* are the monsters-beneath-your-bed. The boogeymen that want you…”

“Poor.”

“Uninformed.”

“Obedient.”

“So, you won’t search for The Big Rock Candy Mountain.“

“The police’s mission? To keep things *exactly* as-is. That’s why…” He crushes his cigarette beneath his boot, staring into the lens.

”...we have to change it.”

”With knowledge, one may truly see what’s hidden in plain sight…”

“Unjust systems.”

“Apathetic institutions.”

“Obelisks, hungrily consuming the common-man’s lifeblood, with no endgame but to ceaselessly fester.”

”Look around. Feel something’s wrong? You’re right.”

“Something IS wrong.”

“First, they’ll fib.”

“Saying nothing’s wrong.”

“Then, when the truth shines, they’ll confess that something’s wrong.”

“But that it can’t be fixed.”

“That’s the biggest-fib-of-all.”

“Someone can fix it.”

“You.”

“You can disrupt the system.”

“Together.”

The sirens grow louder! Red and blue flashes invade the frame. Heavy boots pound outside the studio. Schizz doesn’t waver, his grin widening as he leans into the camera.

”Science, dear viewers, is disruption.”

The studio door slams open! Officers pour in. Schizz raises his hands mockingly, fingers wiggling in fake surrender. The last image is his laughter as he’s tackled to the ground, his voice echoing over the chaos!

”G’ahead, piggy! Lock me up! You can’t arrest an ide-!”

KRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRSH*static*

---

In his bedroom, Flynn’s eyes are wild! Dilated! Supping on every word as if receiving testimony from on high!

“I don’t understand… Because the system doesn't *want* me to understand...”

Across the country, Bobby didn’t hear a rallying cry for revolution, but a wondrous spectacle. ”Didja see that fishbowl explode???” He nudges Russell-the-Muscle! ”I wanna explode stuff someday!!

…THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT!”

---

”LIVE FROM BASTARDNET STUDIOS! IT’S…

“BOBBY BOURBON’S BUSINESS BEATDOWN!”

STARWIPE!

Bobby Bourbon stands before a graphic animation of stock prices rising.

“I’m Bobby Bourbon. You’ve seen me dominating the XWF AND dominating aquatic world-hunger in my all-terrain food truck, making hot meals for down-on-their-luck seals.”

We see footage of Bourbon, jamming a skewer through a two-foot-long bratwurst, before hucking it into the ocean like a javelin!

Before the snack hits saltwater, a seal leaps, catching bratwurst!

“But I’m also CEO of BourbCo, the brand America loves! You’ve bought all our products! The Nuclear-Powered Carbon-Monoxide Detector! Smart Boogie Boards! And ‘Flamin’ Hot’ Insulin!”

“You’ve seen my ideas, America! Now, show me yours!”

“And if I don’t like ‘em? I’ll punch you in the throat!”

---

The Camera pans around the BastardNet set! Bobby Bourbon lounges in a throne.

A neon glow casts brassy hues over the latest-and-greatest BastardNet Production.

A gaudy billionaire’s lair designed to evoke wealth and power.

Beside Bourbon’s throne are Mark Cuban, leaning smugly into his billionaire bravado brand, and Cyberjaw, the man with a cybernetic jaw, who looks unimpressed.

Bobby vacantly stares into a shark tank positioned in the room’s center. A lifeless display of purposeless fish, circling the glass walls pointlessly.

Moving.

Yet trapped. 

Bobby feels off today… distant. His gaze is empty, longing. Not for the gaudy set…. More. Something deeper. Something he can’t quite articulate, yet it’s nagging at the edges of a long-lost memory.

Flashes of neon. Like sparkling potassium and sodium eruptions. Only… less awe-inspiring.

It’s the faint clinking of a “Champagne SuperSoaker”, presented by self-absorbed inventor-entrepreneurs, backed by the hollow golf-claps of corporate approval… It all feels wrong. Bobby’s thoughts drift. Back to an exploding fishbowl. To chaos. Tto fun.

A trio of idly rich entrepreneurs prattle about THE holiday toy for the “8-12”, “income: $2.5 to $5 million” demographic.

Bourbon exhales impatiently. His knuckles rap against the throne’s arm..

”Could you please… give a shit, Mister Bourbon?” Miss WIlson chirps in Bobby’s production earpiece. ”Sponsors aren’t paying for the ‘Bored Bobby Bourbon Show’.”

Bourbon glances upwards at the Executive Suite, a panopticon looming above the set… where the sponsors sit in judgment of his creation.

Bourbon sneers, indignant at the idea of being critiqued by stooges who cannot create themselves...

“Imagine this….”

The lead inventor enters the spotlight, cradling his gleaming prototype like treasure.

“…A Champagne SuperSoaker!”

The perfect marriage of excess and absurdity.

“The ultimate plaything for the elite! A dazzling symbol of status and indulgence, made for PREMIUM children! Children who need to take the edge off between their tennis lessons, designer drugs, and music festivals! Relax OPULENTLY! This toy says, ‘I’m better than you!,’ with every luxurious spray!”

”Champagne SuperSoaker?!? That’s an idea I can… SINK my teeth into!” Cyberjaw elbows in, before pointing his chest at the camera.

His t-shirt reads ‘CYBERJAW-SHOPZONE.BIZ’.

Bourbon, slouched in his oversized chair like a jaded king, sneers. His gaze drifts lazily to Mark Cuban, clearly enthralled by this pitch… And Cyberjaw, rotating so his t-shirt always faces the hardcam.

“And it’s not *just* a toy… it’s an experience!” The inventor cranks up his enthusiasm, “Privileged kids! Drenching each other in extravagance! Because why settle for water when you spray the bubbly?”

Bobby scoffs, as his fingers fidget with a domino, sitting on his throne’s arm.

---

On a rooftop overlooking the BastardNet studio, Flynn, Schism, and A Literal Gorilla curl a banner reading…

WARCHEST

Behind them, the glowing cityscape hums with constant, capitalistic chaos.

Schism adjusts his aviators, one lens cracked from an earlier dispute with ALG. He squints at Flynn, furiously scribbling on a Denny’s napkin.

”Alright, Banksy… he extends the napkin to the Revolution’s ‘mouth’, “Here’s your script. DO NOT DEVIATE!” Flynn smacks the napkin. “WORD-FOR-WORD.” 

Schism takes the napkin, wielding it like an ancient scroll. He skims the first line, lips twitching with amusement.

”’The workers… the industry’s foundation…’ Foundation. Perfect word. Solid. Strong. But also… isn’t it funny how foundations are always buried? Hidden beneath layers of…

”NO AD-LIBBING! VERBATIM!”

Schism tilts his head, a Cheshire grin spreading beneath his cracked aviators, ”But the real revolution lies *between* the words. What lies in your precious napkin’s creases?”

”Syrup, mostly. Look, no Confuciain riddles! Just READ THE PITCH!”

ALG huffs impatiently in the background, grappling the zipline cord to the BastardNet Studios’ rooftop.

Schism leans closer to Flynn, his voice dropping conspiratorially.

”You’re thinking small. The script isn’t the point. The revolution's not built on ink.” Schism taps Flynn’s temple ”...it’s in the chaos you unleash.”

…Flynn pinches his brow. “Look. *I’ll* set you up. JUST KEEP IT SIMPLE. Bobby won’t vibe on worker’s rights allegories. Bourbon’s so stupid, he’d get locked outta his house trying to tell a knock-knock joke.”

”Tragic as a revolutionary who SEES in a lost soul an enemy rather than a recruiting opportunity.”

…Flynn blinks.

”You talking about me? Listen here, you lit-”

ALG roars triumphantly, pulling the cord that ignites the trio's zipline. The trio’s flies off their feet! Flung through the air…

---

“No! NO!” The CSS lead inventor stomps with disapproval! “Because then it wouldn’t BE a Champagne SuperSoaker!”

…

“It would be a ‘Sparkling Wine SuperSoaker’! The liquid AND the plastic MUST come from the Champagne region of France!”

Both Cuban and Cyberjaw hungrily lap up this tyrannical little man’s pitch. Meanwhile, Bourbon’s cracking his knuckles, with the urge to crush the inventor’s he-

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAM!

The Revolution bursts through the BastardNet studio’s glass ceiling, in an eruption of neon light!

The stunned room freezes as Flynn, Schism, and ALG dangle above the set.

…

“REVOLUTION!” Flynn releases the zipline, landing on his feet! “What is it?”

“Webster’s Dictionary defines ‘Rev- ’’

“Excuuuuuuuse me!” The Champagne SuperSoaker’s inventor storms up! “We’re still mid-pitch! It’s OUR turn, old man!”

Flynn squints at this dork.

“Old man? Cute. Never fear, shortstack, we’ll keep this brief.” Flynn adjusts his tie…

”Ladies, gentlemen, cyborgs… whatever capitalist nightmare spawned that bourgeoisie squirt gun, allow me to present… The Future! Flynn gestures dramatically toward Schism. ”Behold! The MOUTH of the Revolution!”

Schism grins wildly, freeing the crumpled napkin from his pocket, unfolding it with the exaggerated reverence of a sacred text.

”Ah. The pitch.” Schism squints at the napkin, his tone mockingly dramatic. ”The workers are the industry’s foundation, their hands building the dreams of others while they are left to-” He pauses, tilting his head. ”No, no. All wrong.”

Flynn’s eyes bulge. ”WHAT? Stick to the-”

”The revolution doesn’t live here.” he declares, tossing the napkin. ”It’s not in pretty, pre-baked speeches. The revolution lives in the cracks of this facade.” He gestures at the BastardNet set, arms wide, voice booming. ”In the lies we tell ourselves about *progress*, about *success*. LOOK AROUND! Champagne SuperSoaker? A metaphor! A shining beacon of everything wrong with-”

Schism points accusatorily at the inventors,

-YOU! Fools locked in gilded cages of their own absurdities. Awash in self-adulation. Emblems of polished irrelevance, veneers of perfection masking ROT beneath.

Flynn practically tackles Schism, clamping a hand over his lips. ”Okay! That’s enough, ‘MOUTH’. Flynn forces an uneasy laugh, ”What my… colleague MEANS is… The revolution is about *YOU*. Giving *YOU* the power! To ascend above the status quo! Not merely surviving, but THRIVING!”

”Thrive… Schism pulls Flynn’s hand away just to mutter, ”... a candy-coated dream. Like the Big Rock Candy Mount-

”SHUDDUP!”

“Maybe you whiners should ORGANIZE your pitch BEFORE you cut into someone else’s presentation.” The Champagne SuperSoaker’s inventor scoffs.

…Flynn’s eyebrow twitches.

“Ok. Who the HELL invited Goth Richie Rich?”

“That’s Rupert OSWALDO Foxtrot-Leopold! And, before your interruption, I was amidst explaining my invention’s tragic backstory!”

ROFL pulls out a handkerchief, dabbing at his cheek.

Suddenly, a streak of tears appears where he wiped.

“My mentor, best friend, and girlfriend! Were all tragically killed!”

*sob*

“...Testing the Champagne SuperSoaker.”

“Which is why I tatt-”

WHAM! Flynn headbutts ROFL!

The inventor drops like a scarecrow! His shoddy plastic toy clatters to the ground.

Cyberjaw gasps! Cuban’s aghast!

…Bourbon claps!  ”YES! THAT I can sink my teeth into!”

”Hey! That’s my line!”

Flynn shakes his head, woozy post-headbutt… He claps twice!

Schism and ALG jog across the set, holding the ‘WARCHEST’ banner…

However, it tore in their zipline entrance, now reading [n]‘WAR…T’[/n]

…Flynn glances backward… And double-takes.

…

”...A wart!” Flynn pivots. ”That’s wrestling management! A blemish! A TUMOR! A MALIGNANT CANCER on this sport’s LUNGS! Ceaselessly FESTERING. Blocking the airways with which REAL WRESTLERS draw BREATH to LIVE!

”But, there’s a CURE! For a small investment of…” Flynn snaps his fingers… ALG hands over a balance sheet.

Flynn nods at it.

”All your money! Breathe life into the Worker’s Revolution TODAY!”

Bourbon rapidly takes notes, enthralled…

Cuban raises his hand.

”Um… what return-on-investment can I expect?”

”Great question. When the Revolution comes, *you* will be excised painlessly.”

…

”Well... As little pain as… convenient to me.”

”…I’m out.”

”For that, you’ll be first-in-line.” Flynn winks.

Cyberjaw raises a hand.

”Could you tell us how this ‘Revolution’ idea started…  So I can… SINK my te-”

”I’ll take this one!”

”...C’mon, Bobby… I gotta say the whole catchphrase to maximize sales…”

”See.” Bourbon points down at Flynn. ”Marx here gets fussy when every camera isn’t pointed his way. So, he’s seizing the means of production and redistributing screentime... so it all goes to him.”

”Childish accusation, Bobb-o! This is bigger than us! Just because YOU can’t grow up doesn’t mean the rest o-”

”Also…” Bourbon double-checks his notes. ”Your face is dumb.”

”YOUR FACE IS DUMB.”

Schism leans forward. ”The gladiator that slays the lion doesn’t win the coliseum’s riches… his freedom… or even meat from his kill. His only reward? Another meaningless battle.”

”What he said! And…”

…

”What?”

”Your fighting instinct is natural… The systemic mechanisms that displace the fruits of war? Man-made. Artificial.”

…

”RIGHT.” Flynn points at Bourbon. ”You! You’re putting down the Revolution because you’re part of the PROBLEM! A VENOMOUS PARASITE! A CEO dressed in the working man’s uniform!”

”Lenin, we’re *both* wearing wrestling tights.”

…

”REGARDLESS!” Flynn pivots. ”YOU’RE the CORRUPTION infecting our sport! Management’s propaganda-spewing mouthpiece!”

”Ulyanov, weren’t you, just months ago, tryna replace Theo as Wrestling’s Big Boss?”

…

”I plead the fifth.” Flynn blushes.

”So, in summary.” Bourbon clicks his Russell the Muscle-brand ballpoint pen. ”You WERE climbing the management ladder… YOU got passed over for Thaddy Dearest… Now, YOU’RE claiming that management needs overthrowing. Do I have that right?”

…

Flynn wags his finger. ”Aha! Once again, the moneymen manipulate ‘FACTS’ to serve their narrative!”

…ROFL dizzily grips his invention… Flynn scoops him onto his feet!

”WE! The real workers! Won’t be tricked into dancing for your dollars! Because CLASS WARFARE UNITES U-”

WHAM! Suddenly, ROFL catches Flynn in the skull with the Champagne SuperSoaker!

”FUCK YOU, COMMIE!”

Bourbon giggles delightedly. ”Cut to commercial. This finale needs rewriting!”

”When we return, Bobby Bourbon makes his decision! Who gets money to launch? Who gets throat-PAUNCHED!”

---

”YESSSSSSSS!”

Bourbon scribbles like a madman on a blank script template… Laying bellyfirst on a playmat, labelled ‘DIRECTOR’.

”And THEN, Communist Flynn catches a SOUP CAN to the face! Delicious BourbCo-brand soup! For his family! For every family!”

Bourbon’s legs excitedly kick behind him.

”What’s that, Mister Bourbon?” The headphone on Bobby’s ear chirps.

”Miss Wilson!” Bourbon rolls onto his back! His 291-pound linebacker body kips-up with mechanical PERFECTION!

Adjusting his headset. ”When Flynn loses, I want his face captured in 4K. Break out the motion-capture balls! I want BastardNet subscribers to take a VR tour of the EXACT MOMENT Flynn looks stupidest!”

”Mister Bourbon. It sounds like you’re… rigging the show for Flynn to lose?”

”Haha, yeah.” Bourbon rubs his hands fiendishly. ”It’ll be hilarious.”

”I’m glad you feel that way. Because the sponsors have agreed Team Revolution loses.”

…

”...Pardon?”

”It’s business. The Champagne Supersoaker’s parent company sponsors the show. The choice makes itself.”

…Bourbon pulls in his mic, his voice drops to a whisper. ”Whatchu talking ‘bout, Wilson? The sponsors own the invention? I thought this was a… reality-competition show?”

”Ohhhhh.”

…

”No. This is an advertorial that LOOKS LIKE a reality-competition show. The audience THINKS they’re watching a TV show, but they’re watching a 22-minute commercial.”

”...What?!?” Bourbon’s reviled to his core! ”...I made this show to be entertaining!”

”It CAN be. But as a secondary objective. The main purpose is to trick parents into buying hunks of Chinese plastic. The same sales model as the Grilling Guerilla Gorillas.”

”You shut your goddamned mouth about Grilling Guerilla Gorillas!”

”I’m confused. What’s the problem?”

”I’ll tell you the problem! I’m not rigging my gameshow just because the sponsors want me to!”

”Mister Bourbon, you were *literally* about to rig it yourself.”

”YEAH, WHEN IT WAS ENTERTAINING. THERE’S NOTHING ENTERTAINING ABOUT DOING IT FOR MONEY!”

…Miss Wilson exhales, impatiently.

”Mister Bourbon, as your image consultant, I must remind you of your contract.”

”The selection of the winner on Bobby Bourbon’s Business Beatdown is 100% in the sponsors’ hands.”

”...But, I’M the judge!”

”Correct. And the sponsors determine how you’ll judge.”

”It’s decided. Take the money.”

”There’s nothing you can do, underst-?”

Click. Bourbon shuts off his headset…

And wanders off set.

---

”...Okay. We mighta… lost the plot somewhere here.” Flynn rubs his aching new skull-shiner.

”Really?” Schism’s eyes are fully dilated, taking in the scene with wonder. ”To me, we’ve never been closer to Eden.”

”How d’ya figure?” Flynn exhales. ”In TWO MINUTES, I abandoned the movement’s collectivist ideals and played right into Bourbon’s hands! Stupid competition show…”

Flynn buries his face in his hands. ”This is the default, man. Senseless intraclass violence.”

”...I’ve been doing this so long… I thought ONCE, I could do it with a purpose. That I could control my own strings.”

”And I just ended up a puppet again.”

”A puppet puppeteered by a puppet. Enough to make wooden eyes weep.”

”...Wait, how’s Bobby a puppet?!”

”Who? That sad-eyed boy in the monkey-suit? Whose face lit up like fireworks when you walked onto his playground?”

”Bourbon’s my ARCH-ENEMY!”

”And yet, he roasted you with Russian Revolution deepcuts. I mean, “Ulyanov”?”

“He recited your whole redemption journey like Pliny the Elder.”

Schism taps his nose. ”BusinessBoy may think he hates you, but he’s begging to buy what the Revolution’s selling.”

”Whatchu talking about?!? Bobby’s a corporate stooge! The CEO of half-a-dozen companies! He’s the ENEMY!”

…

That moment, Schism’s eyes focus from their idle dilation.

”He’s not an evil man. He’s a sucker. Like you. The bosses? Those are the real monsters.”

”...Why’s that sound… familiar?”

“Society’s a poem. A rhyme scheme you could set your watch to. All your lives, you two’ve entered the arena, itching to throw hands, when you should be joining them.”

“Comrade, you and SadBoy are forces. Trained to use your forces against each other…”

“The system doesn’t *want* you deviating. Experimenting They want you to keep these chemicals opposed.”

…

”But, Join forces?”

“And disrupt their entire scheme.”

---

DING!

Bourbon, equipped with oven mitts, retrieves a plate from a microwave.

On it, pizza bagels, covered in Fruit Roll-Ups.

…Bourbon stares at his concoction…

He nibbles.

…

Bourbon spits it out.

”That was so much better as a kid…”

Knock-knock.

Bourbon glances up…

Flynn’s in his doorway.

Bourbon eyes him suspiciously.

”Something wrong, Bob?”

”...Not according to my sponsors.” Bobby stews angrily. ”BastardNet’s ROLLING in dough. What could be wrong?” Bourbon bitterly jams another melted Fruit-Rollup-Pizza-Bagel into his gob.

”But something IS wrong, isn’t it?”

Flynn steps forward.

”If you feel like something’s wrong? You’re right, Bob.”

…Bobby sneers. ”Whatever. Can’t fix it now. Too late.”

“See. That’s the biggest-fib-of-all.”

“Something’s wrong. But, you can’t do anything about it.”

”I thought the biggest fib was the greeting card industry.”

”...What?”

”Like, how did we, as a society, get tricked into buying paper on holidays? Ever think about how ‘Merry Christmas’ on cardstock? It’s basically 100% overhead.”

”GODDAMMIT, BOB, I’M MID-CALLBACK.”

…

”Look. When I first got here, I saw you like I’ve always seen you.”

“As an opponent.”

…

“ But right now?”

“I see a partner.”

“A force of nature. Ready to react.”

“And disrupt.”

---

Back on set, we see Mark Cuban. “It’s Champagne SuperSoaker. Obviously.”

”Cyberjaw votes Champagne SuperSoaker!”

Bobby looks at Flynn, conflicted. His brow furrows.

”So, my vote’s moot at this point?”

”Bobby, c’mon. Obviously, the people want a delivery system for champagne more than class equality.”

”But it’s my show.”

There’s an awkward silence on set as Bobby reaches up…

And lowers goggles over his eyes.

He reaches over, flicking the domino on his throne.

The domino clacks into another, and another, and another, which finally sets off a mouse trap. The trap’s bar pulls a string pulling a goldish bowl, which lands on a seesaw, launching a cannonball!

The cannonball flies through the air, knocking a Russel-the-Muscle action figure off the director’s chair onto a scale, turning the opposite side up, which knocks into a broom handle. The broom handle tilts, and connects with the set’s light rigging…

The lights wobble rafters above…

Upon which sit two vials.

Potassium.

And sodium.

They teeter…

And pour into the shark tank!


Glass, water, and shark EXPLODE EVERYWHERE! THE SET RUMBLES AND FLOODS!

Sparks shoot! Cables become soaked! Electrified sharks convulse, snapping at grips, hands, and other non-union staffers!

Mark Cuban rushes off-set with Cyberjaw as the set’s walls collapse! Bobby poses defiantly, as the BastardNet set is destroyed. A bevy of suits commands the Champagne SuperSoaker team to stop Bobby.

”I vote Revolution.”

ROFL et al all rush Bobby as Schism, Flynn, and ALG emerge into view!

Flynn takes one down without hesitation!

Schism drops another like holiday weight!

ALG starts pummeling a loose shark.

Finally, only ROFL remains standing.

…ROFL swings!

Bobby ducks! AND PUNCHES HIM IN THE THROAT!

”Didn’t like your pitch.”

Bobby grips ROFL by the collar.

”You didn’t start this.”

“But we’re finishing it.”

Flynn beams like a kid at Christmas. He grabs ROFL by one leg. Schism grabs the other.

The three LAWN-DART ROFL into the wall supporting the Executive Suite!

It buckles and collapses under the Revolution’s might. The Executive Suite lurches, the structure groans.

The temple of entertainment?

Purified.

---

‘Sup Seb. What happened to Corey Black? Didja upgrade your entourage to feature people duller than you? Aurora and Lucy pack all the flash and sizzle of cold tapioca, and their wrestling style’s just as easy to digest.

So, my dad lives in Florida.

Yours lives rent free in your head.

Mine taught me to throw a baseball.

Yours taught you angst. Teenage angst. Grow the fuck up.

Mine doesn't come on TV. He's proud but I'm the relevant one here.

Yours has somehow taken up more XWF promo time than Latoya Hixx! And he doesn’t work here.

Look.

Fuck your dad. I'll beat his ass before breakfast, eat his Full-English then wash it down with chocolate milk.

Mope for all of us. You three combined can tell everyone about the sins of your past and it won't even match my rap-sheet. I'm ready to steal an old fogey's breakfast because I can.

And no, Aurora, I'm not taking your breakfast. I don't need Xanax to combat my own self-doubt. You want to talk about a languishing tag-team scene in the XWF?

You could ask Seb about that, he'll be in your corner. Corey Black, not so much.

Because if at first you don't succeed, I guess that's it. Self-doubt won again, time to hunker down in a safespace.

Kinda why you went on a whole fucking tangent about “breathing life into the tag-division” and lo, here we fucking are, ladies! You’re not even defending your titles. New era, indeed!

So, why the fuck are SEB and Lucy harping nonstop about some UGWC bullshit on Twitter instead of hyping Warfare’s main event? Not the first time that the XWF’s penultimate representative, the Universal Champion, has decided to tongue the assholes of UGWC fans while claiming to be the closest thing to Thad since Dolly Waters. And yes, penultimate.

You’re looking at the ultimate. The Revolution, while Thad swoons for another company’s marketing shill. I’ma beat someone’s ass for that shit, and lucky, I got three to choose from!

Each ready to spread the woes of their own goddamned privilege and entitlement.

Speaking of privilege and entitlement…

You wanna know why Thaddy Warbucks likes SEB so much?

Why Dictator Thad, Sovereign of the Iluminatus State and DeFacto XWF Chief-of-Operations looooooooooooves putting his best buddy in the primetime slot?

Because, when Thad puts SEB in the main event, he's basically inserting himself in the slot.

Think about it.

Thad picked an avatar with the name of the father he decapitated.

And they both love sharing their deep-seated trauma on television…

Seriously, Thaddy-Please-Love-Me. Jay-Z was screaming at Beyonce to take him back in concert and even he’d be uncomfortable watching you and Sahara trade videos about who Frankie wants to live with.

…

But, we’re oversimplifying.

No, Thad can see himself in SEB…

Because there's nothing actually inside of SEB.

He's a hollow, little nobody-boy. No values, no beliefs, no soul. He's as internally vacuous as the Tinman. With the Scarecrow’s spine.

Want proof? Leading up to his big Uni match against Misty, he claims that Misty’s a chump and that Dolly was superior…

Quote:I want the version of you that people will reference in promos in years to come for your talent and bravery. I want to beat the very best version of you.

And seeing as Dolly isn’t around anymore, I guess I’ll have to make do with what I have in front of me.

Then, at WarGames, a week later, whoops, turns out SEB thought Dolly sucked all along.

Quote:GG already picked Misty and ended up with Dolly and the jury is still out as to whether that’s an upgrade or not.

Before Leap of Faith, SEB called me a coward for waiting to cash in my briefcase.

Quote:I think you waited until you had no choice - like a coward, you were waiting for the easiest moment.

Then, at Relentless, whoops, never mind, turns out I fought with “honor and dignity”.

Quote:Because unlike your Crucible brethren, you didn’t fight for that Universal Championship with honour and dignity.

Fucking WHAT?!?

I sat down... and devoured every single SEB promo I could... trying to come up with... ANYTHING.

A coherent worldview?

A cause, a belief, a FUCKING OPINION that SEB holds.

Does he believe in justice? Righteousness? Climate Change? Letting Taco Bell round up to the nearest dollar?

And the end result... Of what SEB believes in…

Is Nothing.

SEB’s a blank canvas.

Hence why he keeps airing promos about his dead friends. The corpses he abandoned on his road to the top have more personality... EACH AND EVERYONE OF THEM... dripping in the blood and bile he left them in.

Surprised SEB, XWF’s Universal-champion, spent all cycle promoting UGWC?

SEB’s got the loyalty of a leaf in the wind.

SEB’s the asshole that would change jerseys at halftime.

SEB’d gladly cut a pro-Israel promo tonight and a pro-Palestine promo tomorrow.

Why? Because he's above things like a moral-compass. Or principles.

Actually having values would force him to question every choice he's made, every back he's stabbed, every dead friend he left rotting in the road...

no, see, he tattooed the date they died on his arm. It's fine, see? Symbolic gestures are WAY more important than actually fixing the industry that KILLED ALL YOUR FRIENDS, SEBBIE!

…Are you fucking too dense to get it, SEB?

YOU’RE the TOP GUY.

Y’wanna hear me say it?

YOU’RE.

THE MAN.

THE FACE OF WRESTLING.

YOU have the POWER to FIX THIS.

The industry that killed your old partner.

That physically broke your coach’s body.

You could make their loss MEAN SOMETHING.

You could ADVOCATE.

SPEAK OUT.

DO SOMETHING.

ANYTHING.

…

But you wouldn’t, wouldja?

Because if you exorcised your demons, you couldn’t puppeteer the ghosts of your past like macabre marionettes.

A parlor trick.

An illusion to make you APPEAR INTERESTING.

No. SEB doesn’t want things better for everyone.

Why would he?

He’s comfortable.

SEB's a rich champion. With a rich boss-friend. He doesn't need values, because the system’s fine as-is.

Any efforts we make to change the game, SEB sees as whining. He'd rather tell his co-workers to shuddup.



Sorry, SEBula.

The only road to Revolution…

Is through you.

…And Lucy and Aurora are just along for the ride.

The two claiming to represent the XWF’s Next Major Shift.

Only represent a fortifying of the status quo.

…

The Revolution had no reason to come after you two.

Look.

What.

You.

Made.

Us.

Do.

Champagne SuperSoakers.

Schism’s words hang in the air, his cracked aviators catching the light like a predator’s gleaming eyes.

That’s our opponents. Glittering distractions. Toys for the idle rich. Pretty, polished, and utterly useless for actual Warfare.

Know what happens to toys when children grow bored?”

He steps forward

They break. They’re discarded. Forgotten. All that remains is the mess left behind… Merry goddamn Christmas.

You, SEB, are the epitome of the CSS. Acronyms and all. A man drenched in champagne and ego, pretending it’s ambition. You spray your wealth, your accolades, your name, as if they’re weapons. But you’re a hollowed-out shell. Shiny plastic casing. Wholly artificial.

And Lucy?

Aurora?

Congratulations. You’re his accomplices. Echoes of the same hollow promises. Cheap plastic molds. That shatter at the seams when pressure’s applied.

He pauses, tapping his temple, unlocking hidden truths.

Funny thing about the CSS is this…

No matter how much expensive booze you fill it with, it’s still a toy.

A gimmick.

Something to keep the masses entertained while the real power operates behind the scenes. And you three? he chuckles, You don’t even realize you’re pawns. Cogs in the machine you think you control.

But we’re not here to play your games, kids. We’re here to rip them apart. To smash your plastic thrones and send your champagne dreams spilling into the gutters.

The Revolution’s no gimmick.

No toy.

It’s potassium meeting sodium mixed in with the… he pulls down his aviators long enough to wink ...waters.

It’s an explosion you can’t stop.

Pure. Unrelenting. Chaos.

He leans into the camera, his grin curling into a snarl.

You thought you could bottle success, SEB. That you could control it, package it, and sell it to any halfwit monkey-suit-wearing bootlicker who’s never heard a robot attempt to mimic human speech. The executives might lap that shit up, kid, but success isn’t champagne. It’s gasoline.

And we’re the match.

Come, ye’ soiled rags of the molotovs.

Seb.

Lucy.

Aurora.

Bring your stupid toy guns.

Your rehashed, overplayed promo lines.

But remember this: when The Revolution is done, you won’t just lose…

You’ll shatter. 

And the shards of your doomed empire will be all that’s left for the history books.

The aviators come down again, revealing his hypnotic-yet-threatening dilated pupils, his voice now a whisper that cuts like a scream.

Welcome to your story’s end, kids. The next chapter SEES The Revolution.

---

”Bob! Now that you’re a Revolutionary, we can talk warfunds! We’ll need all the money w-”

”Oh. I just breached my contract. I’m flat broke.”

…

Dont worry, boss! I’ve found the real treasure!

Schism picks up the Denny’s napkin from the flooded wreckage. It’s drenched and torn, the ink mostly washed and running down the edges.

It’s the quest!

He slaps the napkin on Flynn’s chest,

The map to The Big Rock Candy Mountain!

…

”FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-”