“Hmm… You know I’m not sure if I can decide, it all looks like it will weaken my immune system, ravage my digestive tract and slowly kill me over time…”

The peaceful melodic tones of screaming children in twelve member families, squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder into one dreadful misplaced stench. Like sardines in a Play-Doh cup.

“Man, how could anyone choose… It all looks like a David Lynchian nightmare, if David Lynch had just eaten bacon for a week straight…”

In some unseen corner, a man on the verge of cardiac arrest watches as his son is sang a public domain ‘Happy Birthday’ song.

A snap.

“I’ve got it.”

The waiter snaps back to attention, eager to get this duo’s order processed.

"Can I get one of those mozerella sticks wrapped in American cheese and sourdough bread that are ironically making American children doughy and generally mozzarella stick shaped? And do you have anything that generally reduces the nutritional value of this meal to zero?"

"...Do you mean a side of ranch dressing?"

A set of fingers press to lips and kiss the air. "Glorious. Beyond glorious. And my associate here..."

A menu wriggles and seizures at the air to the opposite end of the table. Two elbows rest jagged, the suit that contains them hovering above a table so covered in forgotten crumbs, dropping in a vat of grease would make the table legally breaded and almost as edible as options number one through seven on the lunch menu. The torn upholstery behind him squeaks whenever he tries to move an inch out of place.

"...Just bring something edible out. I don't plan on eating it."

"All right... Two Fried Cheese Melts. Need anything else, ask for me. I'm Trevor."

The one standing of the three shifted his chest toward the table, his right hand indicating to a small plastic rectangle clipped to his chest.

Neither of the sitting pair turn to humor this light-hearted activity.

A nervous chuckle.

"Thanks ... for coming to D..." Noting the lack of interest in both parties, he coughed nervously before disappearing to the back.

A tearing, a splitting of atomic bonds on a microscopic level. White powder dumped into Brown liquid, quickly swirling into a vacuum vortex.

"Lose your appetite, Walter?"

Flynn lifts his red cup of sweet tea off the table, reeling back as he loudly slurps sweet tea, the straw sucking in like a collapsed lung.

Witastick looks on at this display with a reserved disgust, tugging his tie tight. Once his neck turns scarlet, he relieves the pressure.

"Thank you, no. I ate... today... At some point."

Flynn shrugs, cackling as he pulls two more pink packages out of the container which he rips open like a hyena's ribcage and drops, paper and all, into the contained tsunami he's spinning in circles.

Under his breath, Flynn start making a high pitched screaming sounds as the armada of Commodore Sweete N. Lowe drops into the depths of the Bermuda Triangle.

"My substitute-based hubris has cost my innocent tea sailors their lives..." He whispered to himself in mock life-changing realization.

A single drop rolls down Flynn’s right eye, in the form of tea dripping down the straw he has presses into his eyelid.

“Poseidon, why must you abandon me in my time of… Wait.” Flynn turns up to his guest a moment, “Is Poseidon the God of all liquids or just water? Do you know if there’s a God of tea I can beg for forgiveness from?”

Witastick remains unamused, momentarily raising a glass of water to his lips before noticing that he isn’t 100% certain whether the brown tint is from the glass or its contents. Subsequently, he lowers the glass back down to the table, before sighing.

“Not that your sorry excuse for an ocean-faring drama isn’t enthralling, Flynn. But, may I ask why I’ve been invited here?”

Flynn looked up from his beverage-oriented scene of tragedy and carnage. “Oh yes. I had some information to share with you.”

The pair share a smile. Flynn leans over the table and with the wag of a finger, beckons Witastick to inch closer. Witastick abides, his curiosity overtaking him for a moment.

Flynn nods. “Ready to hear something I don’t think you’re aware of?”

Witastick nods, humoring him.

Flynn grins wide…

Before returning his back to the cushion behind him.

“It’s pronounced ‘BORE’-fare.”

Witastick… pauses a moment.

“Flynn.”

“I have to tell you, I feel like as a manager, you should have corrected me well before this point.”

“Flynn, we both know you’re too much of an egotist not to share with me the information that you're keeping to your chest.”

“I mean, I had to find out this information from Paul Heyman of all people. It made sense in retrospect, looking at your roster.”

“And while you enjoy this brief surge of superiority, in the end, you’re just dancing for my amusement, like a dog or a slow child.”

“Of course, Heyman isn’t the only one calling your show that but I suppose he’s the one who originated the phrase. Must be catchy though considering how many people chanted it during the commercial breaks on Monday. One of the many things Heyman invited me to consider while I debated mentally switching over to his brand.”

Witastick’s eyes widen.

And narrow.

“If you feel like you belong on the C show, then you’re welcome to go back to where you belong…”

Flynn cackles as returns to spinning his straw in his drink. “There’s the barbs, Walbert. There’s that old Witastick charm.”

Witastick… blinks a moment, before sighing.

“If you’re done wasting my time, I actually have a piece of business with you.”

Flynn oohs mockingly as Witastick pulls a pair of rubber gloves out of his pocket. He slide them onto his fingers gingerly…

“One of the highest rated weekly segments in Warfare history was your continued escapades after being launched by Crimson Cobra into the waters of Singapore. Your tormenting of an XWF employee, your constant disregard of the well-being of all involved parties…”

Flynn bites his lip as he stirs his drink back into an inescapable vortex. “Everyone loves a good father-son coming-of-age story.”

Witastick reaches under the booth between his legs. “Point being. Your sudden disappearance has left a gap in the conclusion. Your re-emergence onto the scene has left a wide fan base clamoring for a concluding installment to your adventures in Singapore.”

Flynn doesn’t bother looking up. “Well, if there’s one thing I proved last Wednesday, it's that I don't give a shi-“

The table nearly collapses under the weight of the briefcase, launched onto the table by Wallace Witastick’s right arm.

The plastic cup de-balances and floods onto the table, unleashing a tsunami of sugary brown. Flynn’s drink spills between his legs as crumbs shoot in every direction. Tea pours off the side of the table, directly onto his shoes. The last thing to slip off the table is two empty torn-open pink packages onto his pants.

The only thing left, as Wallace Witastick clicks open his briefcase…

“$500,000.”

Flynn, still holding a dripping straw… finally looks up.

“So...” Witastick smiles, pulling out the treats for his obedient mutt.

“How’d you make it out of Singapore…?”

To be continued…

***

A pole sticking out of the ground. A blue rectangle sitting atop the pole. Like a lighthouse for those weary of the land.

A rusted brown metal bench. The emptiness of a road.

A bus stop.

Night.

The roar, the scream of a giant blue banshee.

The owner of the scream, a gargantuan beast on wheels, enters, opens in its mouth, and exits, a whirlwind of forgotten air slips into the abyss.

Left in its wake, now the sole occupant of the bench, is a small bearded man.

“I’ve gotta tell you.”

The spark of a match.

A puff of smoke.

A yellow… blackened smile…

“It’s good to be back.”

He folds one leg over the other as he twists a crick out of his neck, shaking of dust from inactivity and rust from age.

“And at the same time…”

A sigh.

“Disappointing.”

“I mean, here’s Mark Flynn’s big return.”

“The triumphant ending of Caesar’s voyage home.”

“The King of the Mid-Carders back to Warfare to rule over his unwilling subjects.”

“And where am I?”

“At a bus stop, picking up two snot nosed kids fresh from the minor leagues.”

"Waiting like a parent watching a toddler potty training for these two filthy urchins to spew half-formed waste from the orifice they've never quite been able to master."

"Watching them fail and feeling the slightest bit of shame as the exact thing I expected to happen..."

"Did."

Flynn rubs his eyes trying to stay awake as he shifts his chest into his knees.

"Kids, you'll get your turn in the sun. And Nero can pretend he's not excited to see some fun insanity return to play the black side against his white first move."

"But instead. Allow me to deliver a more universal message. Logical earnest words of advice from the Future Hall of Famer. Not shooting for laughs, but for you to truly understand where you are.”

Flynn takes another drag off his cigarette, his yellow teeth blur the line between the tar lining his gums and the smoke…

“A lot of you, particularly my opponents this week, seem to come from a place where they feel like they’re making it… Right on the verge of success.”

“They’ve been signed to the world’s bravest wrestling promotion. Signed anywhere betweena quarter million to multimillion dollar contract.”

“You’re paying your bills.”

“You’re getting your mama, brother and illegitimate children back into rehab where they belong, Bane.”

“You’re starting to get high off the success and actually challenging above your weight class, Shawn.”

Flynn leans into the camera.

“Side note and official piece of advice number 1.”

“If Steve Davids is above your weight class.”

Wink.

“Kill yourself.”

Flynn turns back to the ring he’s blown floating into ash

“Central thesis of this little diatribe? A lot of you don’t understand where you are.”

“You feel the sides caving in and you think it’s the pressure that will make you up your game.”

“You feel the heat on the back of your neck, that stinging sensation on your heels to jump higher and think this is an oven, cooking the best and brightest stars of the wrestling world and that any one of you will one day challenge your way up and take the Mad King Johnny’s crown straight off his head…”

The tip of the cigarette glows orange and Flynn blows another circle into the air.

“Let me tell where you are, now that I’m back.”

“The heat is hell fire.”

“The sides caving in is you giving up the ability to escape.”

"That feeling that your heels are burning is your flesh melting into the walls and your muscles liquifying into Jell-O."

Flynn clicks his tongue.

"How's that for Product Placement, Wally? Signing me back in picking back up those big bucks?"

"You see kids, I got picked up because I know how the business works. My contract I signed was for my mouth and my skills in the ring."

“The contract you signed was for your eternal soul.”[/color]

Flynn weaves his free hand through his hair as he shakes his head.

“Do you know what happens to men who come to the XWF?”

“They come here, they excel, they plateau, they stop excelling, and they leave broken. They leave so broken, the Board of Directors censors their names out of segments so audiences don’t look them up and wonder where they went.”

“Young men in their twenties go the way of the tail bone and just started getting grinded down into useless extra parts that eventually get shredded off completely into dust and chalk residue.”

“They get sent a letter that ‘Wishes them the best of luck in all their future endeavors.’”

“And then find a hole to spend ages 26 through 37 before dying of painkiller overdose.”

“Bane, please. Save that money for your family. Make sure you’re getting plenty of cash into a bank account for your baby’s mama. Or father if that’s how you’ve chosen to live your life.”

“I’m not intolerant.”

“Hero, start challenging Bryce. World-1 International. Referees. Wet mops. European Champion CM Punk. That ilk.”

“Because that shiny new loss on your record just gave me a pretty good idea of what lifespan you have left in the XWF.”

“Kids, desperately try to fight against what I’ve said. Fight it with every fiber of your being. Lie to yourselves. Lie to each other with your twitters and your hashtags and talk about how the last Grand Slam Champion of the XWF doesn’t have an idea of how the chain of command works.”

“Be stupid kids. It doesn’t matter much to me.”

“Because that big money contract? Sold you into slavery.”

“Welcome to Hell.”

“Welcome to the man that’s going to spend the rest of your ‘career’ maiming and torturing you until you can’t find the will or the prescription necessary to get back into the ring.”

Mark Flynn pops his cigarette into his mouth to free his hands. He starts counting on his left hand’s fingers.

One.

“Tyler Decker.”

Two.

“Sinister.”

Three.

“Angelus.”

Four.

“Cassius Stonne.”

Five.

“Raymond Hatcher.”

Mark Flynn waves his extended fingers with glee.

“Special guest appearance in that one by our own Neonero.”

Flynn grins as he glances at the watch on his wrist. He places his open left hand on the bench and pushes himself to his feet.

“That was run 1. Those names were my personal favorites in my first eight months wreaking havoc and destroying lives in the personal hellhole you flies keeping crawling into in search of honey.”

Flynn pops off and starts walking forward into the camera.

“And who better to start run 2 with…”

Right index finger.

“Than Bane Williams…”

Right thumb.

“And Shawn Hero?”

He stops in the center of the road.

Turns right.

As in the distance.

A roar.

“Don’t worry about beating me, boys.”

The scream of a giant blue banshee.

“After all…”

The owner of the scream… a gargantuan beast on wheels…

Flynn takes one last drag of cigarette.

“No one beats the devil at his own game…”

The bus blows through… howling down the road at sixty miles an hour…

And exits.

A whirlwind of forgotten air slips into the abyss…