“And the villain, the wretched cad and fiend… was defeated! He was cast out… and never heard from again…”

The storybook closes. The pull cord on the bedside lamp is yanked and the lights turn off.

A kiss on the forehead. Sheets tucked in.

Footsteps to the door.

“Good night, son. Sleep tight.”

“Dad…” A voice calls from the bed shakily.

“Was that story true?”

The father laughs. “True as any tale can be.”

“…So was the… Was the bad guy real…?”

The father laughs even harder.

“Oh! I wouldn’t worry about him, son. No ones heard from him in a long time… And the longer he stays gone, the weaker he gets. Don’t think about him. Just get some sleep.”

The father leaves the door open just a smidge, then leaves.

…

……

After a few seconds, a pair of small footsteps hit the floor. Tip-toeing to the bathroom.

A small hand reaches for a switch and the lights come on.

For a moment, it’s just a child, looking at himself in the mirror.

He can’t explain what possesses him to do what he does next. But he feels… profoundly compelled.

He leans his face as close to the mirror as he can… and whispers…


…

…

“Mark Flynn.”

…

…

“Mark Flynn.”

…

…

“Mar-“

Suddenly the light flickers and dies.

…

And a sinister laughter fills the room…

***

The camera pans through the speakeasy… NK sits behind the bar, dressed as a bartender, wiping the inside of a glass, giddy as a pig in shit.

And sitting at the bar, still dressed in his white zoot suit with black stripes…

The Most Hated Man in the XWF…

Overrated…

Free-Win…

Mark FUCKING Flynn.

A glass slides along the bar and rests neatly in his hand.

He swizzles the liquid around in the glass, before looking up at the camera and smiling.

“Thad.”

“Thaddeus Duke.”

“Good ol’ Thaddy War-Bucks!”

Flynn smiles wide.

“Did you think the greatest trash talker in XWF history would miss promoting this match?”

“Did you believe the man that tore Johnny Madison verbally in half... That melted Mastermind’s mind with only the machinations of his mouth... The single man that could shut up Three Times Better Sid Feder in his prime... Would really skip giving you a little verbal thrashing before this match?”

Flynn puts a hand to his chest, taking mock offense.

“Frankly, I’m hurt. And here I thought you’d been scouting me, Thaddy Boy.”

Flynn leans back against the bar comfortably from his stool, setting down his drink.

“See, that’s what I don’t get about this new generation, Thad… You all love to talk. But you don’t say anything.”

“I fought Dolly. I fought LSM. I fought the Wizard. I’ve fought a handful of people that really love to sneak in a little trash talk every time the camera’s on them.”

“The problem? It’s weak. It’s uninspired. It’s LACKING, Thad.”

“Shit like, where’s Flynn? Why’s Flynn so quiet?”

Flynn’s eyes defocus and he blindly palms his hands in the air…

“Flynn isn’t promoting the match?!? He’s falling behind! I can’t find his trash talk?!?! Where could he be?!? Is he scared?!?”

Flynn cackles and slams his hands on the bar.

“You know the people who say shit like that?”

“People who end up flat on their back, counting ceiling tiles and arena spotlights… Pounded into the mat, napping through a 3-count. Just another victim of Mark Flynn.”

Flynn reaches over and takes a sip of his drink. He breathes in, letting the bubbles percolate on his tongue... Then he sets it back down.

“You see, Thad. I’m old-school. When I want to tell a story, I tell a story.”

“And when I want to trash-talk… Like a cobra, I unleash a load of verbal black embalming fluid from my bottomless venom sac. And by the time I’m done unloading wave after wave of my rhetorical onslaught, I’m standing in front of a withered corpse.”

“A former threat.”

“Oh, you couldn’t find me in the dark? You were looking for me? Surprise, I was in front of you, with a baseball bat, letting you pitch into my strike zone so I could knock your words back down your fucking throat.”

“When I talk, I don’t need to talk a second time. The matter is resolved… Cuz I’ve fucking finished the conversation.”

Flynn rubs his hands together, smiling.

“Of course, Thad. That’s the only real overlap between your… choices in conversation topics and the choices of my most recent conquests.”

“Unlike your peers… You’re paying an amount of respect.”

“While other people like to imply I’m over the hill, past my prime… Dare I say, too old for another run with a belt.”

“You’ve referred to me as one of the best to ever run the ropes.”

“Which, get rid of ‘one of’, and you’ve got a factual statement.”

Flynn winks.

“You’ve said you’re looking for new challenges to push you to your limits... which is why you sought me out. That I’m one of the best... second only to you...”

Flynn smiles…

“Oh, Thad. You licensed some Beatles Covers… You Watched a couple of my Promos to nail my speech patterns… And you called me out three times…”

“You shut off your lights, looked in the mirror, and said ‘Mark Flynn’ three times…”

“And now, you’re staring down your worst nightmare. A fucking real-life bugaboo. A legend, a mythical hunter, spoken of only in whispers and murmurs, that feeds on prey.”

“Just.”

“Like.”

“You.”

“Thad.”

Flynn takes off his Pachuco hat and sets it on the bar.

“You listened to your Papa Sebastian’s stories about the Great Mark Flynn… But unlike my friend NK and the test he just passed, you might have taken the wrong lesson from the stories you heard...”

“And I know you said you have no interest of who I faced seven years ago… But deep down, I’m an educator, Thad.”

“I think the best way to prepare ourselves for the future is to learn from the past.”

“And I’m about to teach you just how hard you fucked up.”

Flynn stands up off his barstool and crosses the bar. He ends up next to a file cabinet standing against the wall.

“People act like I just got into the investigation game, Thad. That my new turn as a detective might be out-of-character…”

Flynn opens up the middle cabinet and his fingers start trickling through a number of files and folders…

“Truth is, I’ve been investigating my entire career.”

Flynn pulls out three folders…

Then shuts the cabinet.

He walks back to his stool and sets the folders down on the bar.

“See, Thad. You’re acting like I’m playing off in gimmick-land, dodging you.”

“Do you not understand that these stories are FOR you, Thaddeus?”

“The Kenta Kobayashi Maru. I need you to understand that this exercise is for your edification, Thad, my boy. I’m desperately trying to help you understand the situation you put yourself in...”

“The test you can’t pass? That’s you, Thad. You’re the exam everyone is sure I’m doomed to fail against. Thinking there’s no way I’ll find a path through.”

“And in those fights… Where I get called ‘Overrated’, where I get called ‘King of the Mid-Carders’... where I get called a ‘Free-Win’? Those fights are the ones where I have a very… VERY GOOD record in…”

“I’m a Big Game Hunter, Thad. You’re the best to ever do it? I’m so fucking glad to hear it.”

“Cuz those that call themselves ‘the best’ are the guys I get the biggest fucking thrill from striking down.”

Flynn grabs the first folder off the bar.

“Hope you’re ready for a history lesson, Thad. Cuz we’re going way back.”

“To some of the first cases I ever worked…”

“And the hunting trophies I claimed along the way…”

***

THE CASE OF THE ITALIAN DJ PERP: TRISTAN SLATER

I was new to the beat. At that point, I had only turned a few heads working the streets. But in no time, I’d taken down an ex-serial killer and ended a few small-time nogoodniks.

Before you knew it, I got called up to the big leagues. Working opposite the World Heavyweight Champion. THE Tristan Slater. A blonde-haired blue-eyed slab of beef that looked like a doodle Hitler probably drew in the margins of his trapper-keeper before he failed out of art school.

Slater was a killer. Hell, he was a killer’s killer. Jose Chavez. Chuck. Caleb Rothchild. These are names and careers that evaporated out of the history books. Footnotes hiding shattered dreams. Potentials snuffed out after coming up short against THE Tristan Slater.

He had 16 wins under his belt and not a loss to his name.

And I was next in the batting order. Or the gallows, depending on how you look at it.

I’m not exaggerating. At the time, the XWF was Slater and beneath him, a death row of talent that would sign a contract, lose and get the axe. Slater hadn’t shied away from that either. He had organized a grotesque calendar tour of conquests, basically marking each superstar’s death day from the industry.

I’ll never forget my own death day. August 15th, 2012.

I aimed down the sights of a pea-shooter. And got blown away by a Colt 45. Outgunned, outshot, outperformed. My first shot at the top title ended with me coming up short. Just like everybody else who had tried.

And for a split-second, my career looked as dead as a doornail at a disco for dodos. But, other people losing to Slater killed their appetite. Me? It only made me hungry…

I got… creative. Went Full “Gimmick-Land”, as you might say…

I wore a mask. Just like I did against you the first time we met, Thad. I dressed like an Italian DJ, Robert Miles, that guy who made that trance music so people wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel? Apparently, he bit the bullet a few years later. Never met him. Just thought he looked enough like a guy wearing a plastic mask that I could pull it off.

I wasn’t wrong.

“Robert Miles” played the part of a valet for a drunken Russian boxer from Nintendo Fun Club Wrestling. I bided my time with a joke belt… Watching and waiting… Prodding Slater from outside… Picking apart his mental defenses…

See, Slater, as I mentioned, had his whole career mapped out. He wasn’t concentrating on the here-and-now. He was daydreaming on how he was going to beat The Brand’s undefeated streak. How he was going to break 42 and 0. He swept through his planned routing of the entire roster, but I began to circle his daily meal and it frustrated him to his core… That some insect, some gnat was going to try to fuck up his parade course of victories.

He was obsessed with cementing his future legendary status… And he lacked… focus.

I picked up a 24/7 briefcase. The game’s equivalent of a desert eagle. And I came up behind Slater. And I blew him to Hell.

I took the belt. He got it back in a rematch.

A child that wasn’t paying attention to the details might take the wrong lesson here, Thad. He might believe that I needed a briefcase to win and that Slater proved it was a fluke when he took it back.

But, I wasn’t done yet. I wouldn’t be done until I’d evened the score…

2 months later, THE Tristan Slater and I faced off. Both aiming for a mid-card belt, the European Championship. Something Slater said was beneath him. He planned to throw it in the garbage after he won it.

He was still thinking about the future, even then.

Another competitor in the match had started off their promo congratulating him for winning. Because how could Slater lose? Not counting briefcase cash-ins…

His wrestling record was 22-0.

I was somewhat less eager to crown him King… Because I’d just spent the last two months whittling away everything he was. His self-assuredness, his cocky attitude… He had just come back from a break he needed to ‘find his smile again’. And I knew when you pull a piranha out of the river… He doesn’t flop back in and start hunting… His gills are full of air… He suffocates, surrounded by that which gives him life… The predator becomes easy prey.

That night, I beat him legitimately. No briefcase. His first ever loss in his entire career. A man everyone considered untouchable had been fucking sullied... with a loss to Mark Flynn.

22 wins.

1 loss.

The European Title never touched a trash can.

Thought the same can’t be said for Slater’s career…

***

Flynn peers into the records.

Flynn snaps the case shut.

“A fool might say I proved I was better than Slater.”

“But, you and I know better, Thad.”

“A match isn’t about who’s the best of all-time.”

“It’s about who’s best right now. This moment.”

“The thing that allowed me to surpass Slater that night… was full-focus.”

“Slater never found his focus again… and his career was never quite the same…”

Flynn chuckles fondly.

“‘Never Quite the Same’... Isn’t that what your dear old dad said? When you went back and watched my matches with your old man, way back when? I was a legend that lost to your papa and never quite got my mojo back…”

“It’s possible your dear old dad never told you about my other big-game trophy… After he got the better of me...”

Flynn opens another case.

“This is the story of the real man who killed me. And what I did to him when I came back...”

***

THE CASE OF THE ZENITH OF ZEALOTS PERP: ELI JAMES IV

The year was 2014… I woke up six feet under and felt every inch of the earth I’d been shallowly buried under. I dug like a mole night and day… crawling my way out of terra firma, waking up in a graveyard with a dozen other forgotten names.

Still never learned who the fuck Jack Hoff was...

Some young gun had managed to sneak up behind me and put a slug in my back. I’d gone from being the hunter to the trophy.

The problem was… They forgot to double-check their work and ended up leaving the job half-done.

I hit the streets trying to gather clues. It wasn’t much work, because the kid had spent the last six months telling people he’d done in Flynn after every hello and before every goodbye.

Eli James IV.

He had been preaching his own name… Putting himself on high. When people asked for proof to back up his claims, he’d drop my name. If someone tried to call his bullshit, my name entered the mix.

I’d become a killing curse for a cultist cleric.

My name was a wizard’s spell… as it were.

Just like how you found me, Thad… Theo Pryce was looking in parts of the library they tell you kids not to explore… And he found where you could dig up Mark Flynn…

Theo wanted the Trios belt… but I had my sights set on other goals...

I saw across the ring the man who killed me. And somehow I felt it every time he lobbed my name at some poor schmuck… And I knew the time had come for vengeance…

I attacked Eli, dragged him outside the ring and flayed into him with every spiteful cry, the embodiment of the vengeful anger that those he had laid in his wake still blazed from their graves…

Theo didn’t get his belt that night, but I got what I wanted… The first step into Eli’s mind.

A month later, we were in the ring together. One-on-one.

Again, plans were made for Eli’s coronation. Get this, Thad. His singles record?

22-0.

You can’t make that kinda shit up.

I screamed like a banshee that week. I howled with the great and furious anger of a dead man, laid low by a coward’s ambush…

Eli had little to say in retort. Mild corrections, but he could not deny the truth.

He could not take back his weaponizing of my name...

And at the end of the night…

Eli James’ singles record was 22 wins.

1 loss.

Just another head in the trophy case.

For Mark Fucking Flynn.

***

Flynn closes the case file.

“Eli didn’t lack focus, but he had bit off more than he could chew.”

“He had me beat on an off-week and decided from a lucky break that he could wield my name like a fucking holy weapon of his divine right.”

“And he had earned it. He had my name in his W column.”

“But it’s a two way street, Thad. And when you go calling out someone’s name… Don’t be surprised when they come looking for you.”

“When people go hunting for Flynn, sometimes they get the better of him. Sometimes, they even put him down in the ground. They say a few words, drop a handful of earth and call him a corpse...”

“But I haven’t been dropped into a grave yet that I didn’t climb out of. And when I get back to the surface… I’m very, very dangerous to those who keep my name on their tongues…”

“Like you have, Thad.”

“Of course, you might be confident because you grew up getting tucked into bed with stories of your dad getting the better of Old Man Flynn. Visions on the inside of your sleepy little eyelids of your father’s triumphant victory over the monster that lives in the woods...”

“Maybe you really still believe I was never the same after your papa pulled out the win…”

Flynn reaches behind him and claws in the last file...

“Let me… re-educate you…”

***

THE CASE OF THE FOCUSED FATHER PERP: SEBASTIAN DUKE ...MARK FLYNN

Yep.

I was at the top of the world. The US Title around my waist. My second reign as the XWF World Champion… They’d thrown away the World Heavyweight Belt due to Slater’s ALLEGED substance issues.

The guy was in the middle of a messy divorce. He wrestled his last match the same week he was testifying for custody of his son.

So, the US Title was the de facto king’s crown. And I wore it with pride.

I had been promoting an upcoming showdown with Angelus, my foil in the XWF at the time…

I’d been itching from a distance to tangle with my next big case… Mister Mystery, the zombified corpse everyone was terrified of coming anywhere near…

I was salivating about the upcoming Gauntlet City where I would vy to become the King of the XWF…

I was a kid in a candy shop.

I’d made the same mistake Slater had before me… I started planning my conquest of the entire globe and lost track of what was happening behind my back.

I made the ultimate mistake.

I.

Lost.

Focus.

The week your dad and I met… I’d spent more words tangling with Johnny Madison… Mister Mystery… Unknown Soldier… Angelus.. By the time I got to your dad, he had me right where he wanted me. In the sights of his gun. Dead to rights.

No cover to hide behind.

Spent bullets in my chambers and empty pockets…

Which is probably where I learned to save the trash talk for just… the right… time.

Sebastian knew how to ration his artillery.

He didn’t fire until he saw the whites of my eyes...

He had won a war of attrition. A brilliant victory play.

Duke’s victory that night would educate me of the folly of my ways. And introduce me to a new… method.

That was the night… The Optimal Path first appeared in front of me.

It took time, fermenting in my morphine-addled mind… But, once the idea took root, my path became clear.

The path that would lead to my return to the top of the XWF…

...

I refuse to discount your dad. Credit where credit is due. And full credit is due to ol’ Sebastian.

Papa Duke is one of the greatest XWF wrestlers of all-time.

One of.

Wink.

But, his big win? His US Title win? Something that will never be repeated.

He didn’t get lucky. He earned the kill that cold March night. But we both know how he picked up his win over Overrated Mark Flynn...

He was focused.

I was not.

A mistake I will NEVER make again.

***
Flynn snaps the last case file shut.

“Now, Thad. Thank you for your patience. I’m sure you’re asking, like most of you young people around here do… What the fuck does any of this have to do with me? Thaddeus Duke! The Greatest XWF Superstar to Ever Wrestle!”

“Not just a future XWF Hall of Famer! But the OCW Savage Champion, a company whose Hall of Fame I'm also campaigning for a spot in!”

“And I have an upcoming feud to blow off against Corey Smith that I’m planning down the line! As well as a feud with Dolly Waters! My calendar is getting booked for six months in advance now!”

“And then, you’ve got my fucking TV miniseries appearance on THE SPLAT NETWORK!”

“MY UPCOMING RECURRING ROLE ON MORNING STAR PRODUCTIONS' "THE AFTERLIFE"!”

"MY CONSTANT FUCKING SOCIAL MEDIA FEUDS!”

“I’M A BRAND, FLYNN! I’M PEPSI, I’M AMAZON! CATCH MY FUCKING KIDS’ NEW REALITY TV MINI-SERIES ON INSTAGRAM LIVE! CHECK OUT THE CELLS ON THE RIM OF MY FRESHLY BLEACHED ANUS SPLIT VIA MITOSIS ON MY FUCKING MICROSCOPE’S TIKTOK ACCOUNT!”

“WHAT'S THAT?!? OF COURSE, I’M FOCUSED ON YOU FLYNN! WHAT ON EARTH WOULD MAKE YOU THINK OTHERWISE?!?!?!”

Flynn pitches his glass against the back wall of the bar like a fastball. The glass clips the top of a bottle of liquor… and its contents flow and cascade down to the floor…

NK sighs and reaches under the bar and retrieves a mop… He starts cleaning the mess.

Flynn spins back and looks at the camera with fire in his eyes.

”I won’t say you’re not a threat, Thad. Because you are.”

“I’ve taken on the best this company’s ever had walking down its halls in its 22 year history.”

“And I’m excited for this, Thad. This is thrilling for me.”

“I’m a big game hunter, Thad. And beating you will feel like bringing home a goddamn dragon’s head to mount on my wall.”

“But I’m as serious as cancer.”

Flynn winks.

“When I say.”

“You.”

“Lack.”

“Focus.”

“I won’t say you’re not focused at all. And honestly, your most recent matches? Reggie Estrada and Ciela Luiz?”

“You could have beaten them while planning out a Thanksgiving dinner for your whole royal family..”

“Me? I’ll require a little more of your concentration.”

Flynn smiles.

“I know, Thad, I know… You were harping on me picking on you for your lack of focus in your first promo of the match… Pointing out you’d been calling me out for 2 months, that you’ve been begging like a kid on Christmas Eve to open your present… to get in the ring with me… Isn’t that focus enough?”

Flynn shakes his head, without breaking eye contact with the camera.

“No.”

“It’s fucking not.”

“Because, it’s not enough to go into a match with Mark Flynn, regular focused.”

“It requires FULL FOCUS.”

“I don’t have a TV Show appearance the night after Relentless, Thad. My last sitcom was seven years ago and until Gator starts trying to pin me again or Paramount Plus calls, there’s no reboot in the works.”

“I haven’t been in a commercial since I dropped the X-Treme Title.”

“I don’t have an acting agent, a book deal, or a Twitch schedule. Because I’m not a FUCKING part-timer.”

“I have no idea what my wrestling calendar looks like the night after Relentless.”

“I don’t even have a fucking flight booked out of Chicago.”

“As far as I’m concerned, the last event in my fucking life is that Ironman match and I’ll be taking every breath in my body, every red blood cell in my veins, every fucking microjoule of energy running down my spinal column and using it to CRUSH you… Thaddeus Duke.”

“THAT’S WHAT I MEAN WHEN I SAY I AM FULLY FOCUSED.”

“...”

“Can you say the same, Thad?”

“Are you treating this match like it’s your fucking masterpiece? The culmination of everything you’ve ever bled, ever sweat, ever vomited for the love of this sport?”

“Or somewhere, deep down… Are you thinking about what’s coming up next? Your next match? Your next photo op? Your next breakfast time Instagram post? The next fed you’ll show up in? Your next late night appearance on JIMMY FUCKING FALLON?”

“When you were watching game tape to study up for this match… Were you reaching for your phone to live-tweet like you do when you watch OCW, subtweeting all your new pals into being humiliated?”

“Are you thinking about your kids? Are you thinking about their happiness?”

“Are you thinking about your people? Are you thinking about their survival?”

“Cuz let me tell you something, Thad. If you’ve let your mind drift one half of a split-fucking-second. If you take your eye off the ball in the ring, for a fraction of a modicum of an INSTANT…”

Flynn snaps his fingers.

“You’re already dead.”

“I’ve got a wide arsenal of tricks and treats, Thad.”

“But my deadliest weapon will always be…”

“FULL.”

“FOCUS.”

“And going into Relentless? I have it.”

“And you don’t.”

Flynn leans back and takes a deep breath, satisfied. He is completely in the moment.

“Thad. Kid. Young blood.”

Flynn beckons and the camera tightens in his face.

“You’re deserving of this fate.”

“You’ve done everything in your power to demand this match. You cried, whined and begged for a man gone seven long years to return for some dream match you imagined from dreams of your father’s days…”

“And you’re about to lose in glorious fashion on the biggest stage possible.”

Flynn cackles.

“It’s true what they say. Be careful what you wish for.”

Flynn cracks his neck.

“And I can’t wait to do this, Thad. I can’t wait to be the fitting, LOGICAL CONCLUSION to your tyrannical dominant reign over Warfare.”

“I can’t wait until your legacy as Hart champion is cast permanently into the past, that belt a relic of a time when you were ‘the best’ and ‘at your peak’… and your accomplishments become a distant memory… while I carry the SuperContinental belt as my first trophy to a new era… of Mark FUCKING Flynn. Seven years later and STILL Taking down “the best” at ‘their peak’.”

“Like you said, Thad. You’re only 22.”

“You’ve had 22 years without a real challenge. 22 years of stomping around the jungle like a prideful gazelle, thinking you’re the king of the Serengeti… 22 years of chewing through chaff and dry grass like Reggie Estrada and Ciela Luiz...”

“Unaware that your preening and prancing has caught the attention of a leopard, returning to his old hunting grounds… salivating at the though of sinking his teeth into your jugular vein and dining on your fucking carcass as you choke on your own blood.”

Flynn smiles deviously.

“You’ve had 22 years of thinking you were the best in the world. The best that this business had to offer, Thad.”

“But after Relentless? As we look upon the dawn of a new year in the XWF?”

“That figure is going to be…”

“22.”

Flynn sticks an index finger in the air.

“And 1.”

“The start of year one of knowing better. Knowing that the best man to ever run these ropes… is named Mark.”

“FUCKING.”

“Flynn.”

Flynn cackles heartily. NK flips a switch behind the bar and the lights go out.