The limo door closes behind Vinnie Lane. Within seconds, the owner of the XWF is driving away from the front steps of Congress.

He takes a deep breath and lies back, drawing comfort from his custom, zebra-print fluffy car seating.

It should go without saying, no real zebras were harmed in the making of this seating. But it is “majorly comf”.

Vinnie exhales and his whole body seems to deflate for a second. Then, he shakes his head.

“Driver? Could you roll up the partish? Need some temp privacy, dude.”

Vinnie’s driver, the blonde bombshell in pink and black pinstripes, sporting aviator sunglasses, nods with a smile and presses a button. The limo partition lifts.

Vinnie reaches for his retro totally-normal-to-have-in-2022 car phone in the middle console of his backseat, with is shaped like a microphone.

The phone rings once. Not even once, like half-a-ring.

“Hello.”

Vinnie immediately puts on his friendliest voice. Which is his default voice anyway.


“Hey! Flynnerino! Glad I caughtcha. Was hopin’ we could chat-chat for a m-.”

“No. Not now. Call me in exactly 11 minutes. Not 10. Not 12.”

Before Vinnie can question if he should start timing now or when the call ends, he hears nothing but dial tone.

“...Uh, okay.”

Vinnie reaches for his right sleeve and pulls it up to wrist. He’s sporting a Casio Calculator Watch. Hitting a few buttons, he starts a timer…

…

That moment, Vinnie’s stomach rumbles.

***

NK briefly turns to glance at the security camera in the corner of the room…

“NK!”

NK snaps to attention turning back towards Flynn, who is even less expressive in his face and tone than usual.

“I’m going for a walk.”

***

Agent Marie Davenport eyes the camera feed intently, while her hands shift and open various tabs on her two of her three computer monitors.

On the leftmost monitor, she has Flynn’s phone data, complete with automated transcript generation. Mark Flynn had just gotten off a nine second phone call with XWF CEO Vinnie Lane, where he told him to call in 11 minutes.

Flynn was obviously making moves to take this call privately.

Which was not an option.

…

She hits a button on her desk.

“Have Agent Redd Spahtz come to my office immediately.”

“At once, Agent Dav-”

“I’M HERE!”

Agent Redd Spahtz, a usually pink-faced man, was red-in-the-face. He had visible pit stains brewing under his arms… His face was drenched in sweat. As if he had expended every ounce of his energy to come at his master’s call.

He bows at the waist subserviently. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Agent Davenport. Whatever you need, I am here for you.”

“It’s Flynn.”

“Absolutely, I’ve been ready to replace that FREAK on the Beacon assignment since Day One. Now, I have an 11(, arguably 12)-point plan to maximize mission success.” He reaches into his right pants pocket, which his hand is slightly too big to reach into comfortably… “I have my presentation on a thumb drive and I am ready to present at a moment’s notice!”

“Shut up.”

Immediately, Spahtz tries to draw his hand up to his forehead to salute. He ends up lifting his right hand so hard, it snags on his pocket and tears a hole in his pants.

As Spahtz’ pants fall around his knees, sporting a pair of boxers covered in hearts, Davenport leans forward with a small device the size of a pen tip.

“Flynn is about to make a phone call. When he does, I need you close by to listen in.”

Spahtz is shaking he’s so excited. “Absolutely, I will not let you down, Lady Davenport! I mean, Agent Marie! I m-”

“GO!”

“Absolutely, of course. Just, I’m gonna make a quick stop at my office to grab a new pair of p-”

“NOW!”

Spahtz grabs the device in his right hand, his boxer shorts quivering as he speeds past the air conditioner to the room’s exit.

***

Vinnie’s limo awkwardly shifts backwards and forwards, trying to straighten out so it could enter the McDonalds Drive-Thru.

…

…The partition drops an inch.

“Vinnieeeeeeee. I don’t think the limo can do drive-thruuuuuuuuu…” Vinnie’s driver says in a thick New Jersey patois.

Vinnie… okay, he does that thing that’s not a scoff, but not quite a gasp? It sounds like a cough, but it’s very intentional.

There isn’t a word for it. And if there is, no one has used that word since 1988.

“Bummer.”

Vinnie taps his chin

“...What about curbside?”

***

Flynn hits the bottom of the stairs and starts taking them two at a time… About 15 paces behind him is a black and red blur, trying to both hide in plain sight and appear nonchalant at the same time.

Eagle-eyed and attentive workers at the Bureau of Interplanetary Security and Defense might notice a blurry figure, diving between hallways… If they’re listening very closely, they might notice a beeping sound…

As Flynn hits the top of the stairs, he cuts 90 degrees to take a left towards a long hallway, with windows on both sides…

Redd Spahtz, still sporting a suit jacket and tie on his top half and heart boxers on his bottoms, crouches, hiding behind the wall at the end of a long hallway… He counts off about 15 seconds of distance between himself and Flynn, trying to tail the sunovabitch without giving away his position…

Flynn had just left his office, and had been going up and down hallways, strolling casually MENACINGLY, with his hands in his pockets POSSIBLY HOLDING A WEAPON OF SOME SORT.

“I have you in my sights, you little freak! There’s nowhere to hide…” Spahtz mutters, looking down at the light in his right hand. The device Davenport gave him beeps… A red light blinking atop it. The closer Spahtz keeps Flynn, the faster it flashes.

Flynn walks forward down the hallway, calmly but with intent in his pace.

As he walks, From the left comes a cart from IT, full of computer-y components, wires and bits… From the right, a cart full of letters from the mailroom…

Flynn stops in his tracks.

Spahtz is so focused on trying to be invisible and casual, he almost doesn’t notice until it’s too late that Flynn’s stopped walking… He quickly backpedals, diving behind a nearby trashcan…

…

…

After a few seconds, Spahtz peers out.

The mail cart and the component tray have passed each other and now heading in opposite directions…

…

And Flynn is gone.

“...Dagnabbit, sunova…”

Spahtz scurries forward to the spot Flynn was just at… He desperately points the device, first down the hallway Flynn was going…

It starts to slow...

Then, down the hallway the computer cart heads down.

It’s even slower…

Finally, Spahtz spins, pointing it towards the mailroom cart.

…

It blinks.

Spahtz scurries forward a couple steps closer.

It quickens.

Spahtz breathes a sigh of relief.

“Nice try, Flynn. Except by ‘nice try’, I mean… NOT ONE!”

…

Spahtz remembers to make up a better line later when he tells this story to Davenport, before running down the hall after the mail cart…

***

A line of cars is honking at the limo parked in a curbside pickup spot. The 30 foot long vehicle has completely boxed anyone from escaping the incredibly thin drive-thru lane…

Of course, how could CEO Lane know that when he went with the soundproof interior upgrade?

Vinnie dabs at the corners of his mouth, wiping the thinnest residues of burger grease off the corners of his mouth.

Lane checks his watch. 2 minutes before the call…

Just enough time to finish these fries…

***

Spahtz rolls down the hallway, closing the distance between himself and the employee wheeling the mail cart.

It’s very possible Flynn is such a master of physicality, the young intern from the mailroom has yet to detect that the weight in the cart has increased by 200 pounds.

Spahtz creeps along the wall, now just eight feet away from the employee and the cart… He leans his face directly into his wrist.

“Davenport, it’s Spahtz. Flynn’s taken position inside a mail cart. It’s currently being wheeled by an intern. Requesting permission to neutralize the intern with deadly force.”

“...What? No. Why would I give you that?”

“...”

Before Spahtz can explain why this intern’s murder is mission-critical, the intern leaves the cart outside of the mailroom, disappearing inside the door…

“Disregard, I’ve handled the situation.”

“Did you just kill that intern?”

“No, I… Never mind!”

Spahtz crouches, speeding across the floor…

***
Lane wipes his fingers, free of fry grease

He sighs happily. What a great day.

Now that his fingies are clean, Lane once again grabs hold of the microphone car-phone in his center console and punches in Flynn’s number.

It rings once…

***

Just as Spahtz creeps up to the mail cart, putting his back against the plastic exterior, it starts ringing…

Spahtz’s hands almost bobble the gun on his belt, but he holds on…

The phone picks up…

A digitized voice begins… “Hey Flynnerino! Take Two on the phone call!”

Immediately, Spahtz stands upright, pointing a gun into the mailcart.

“Freeze! Agent Redd Spahtz, commandeering this phone call!”

“Whoa, who’s that?”

Spahtz steps over the side of the cart to submerge himself. He is now waist-deep in mail.

…

He figured he’d be able to feel Flynn in here…

“Oh, just ignore him, Vinnie…” Flynn replies.

…Also sounding digitized.

Spahtz dips his hands below the surface of the letters, towards the sounds of the voices…

And finds a device.

Spahtz wraps his hand around it. And pulls it up!

It’s an iPhone. Flynn’s phone.

The number dialed reads ‘*73’.

Spahtz gasps. “Call forwarding…”

“He’s about to drop off.”

That moment, the phone blinks black… Dead battery.

Spahtz slams his thumb against it. “Wait, wait, Flynn! FLYYYYYYYNN!”

That moment, the mail cart, with its maximum load of 300 pounds, collapses under Spahtz’s weight.

The moment after THAT moment, the intern comes out and sees his mailcart crushed and a man standing waist-deep in letters!

“Bruh, what the hell!”

Spahtz runs out of the mail cart, his hearty boxers waving as he sprints.

***

After several minutes of trying to jog and figuring out the best way to explain the scenario to Davenport, Spahtz finally gathers the courage to lean into his wrist.

He’s one hallway from Davenport’s office and closing the distance…

“Agent Davenport! I lost Flynn. He forwarded the call from his number to another device. But, I’m headed your way, and I’ve already determined the four most likely locations he could have gone to: Number One, Brazil! Number Tw-”

As Spahtz turns the corner into Davenport’s office, he sees… Flynn sitting across from Agent Davenport’s chair. A phone between them.

“Oh hey! It’s that dude’s voice again!”

Flynn leans back in his chair, smugly satisfied. “Yeah, he gets around, Vin.”

Flynn waves a hand at Spahtz, smiling giddily.

“Coordinated a phone call with Vinnie, figured Marie would want to listen in so I brought the call to her office.”

Davenport doesn’t give Spahtz the dignity of even looking his direction.

“The objective resolved itself. As you were, Spahtz.”

Spahtz takes a step forward. “Maybe I could… um… take notes on the matters disc-”

“AS. YOU. WERE.”

Spahtz… red-in-the-face, turns about-face, the ass of his boxers plain-to-see. He goes to exit.

“Spahtz?”

“Close the door on your way out. This discussion…”

Flynn chuckles.

“Is need-to-know.”

“And you don’t.”

***

“See, here’s the reason any combination of Bastards isn’t worth our time.”

“What’s that, Mark Flynn?”

“Transparency. It’s glaringly obvious what they’re trying to do.”

“Haha, of course! Their tactics are childishly simple, a rube could understand them.”

…

“Perhaps you should elaborate though. For the benefit of our audience.”

“…Okay, NK. Did you notice how Bobby took 100% of the lines roasting me?”

“Of course I did, Mark Flynn! Nothing escapes my razor-sharp attention.”

“Right. So you noticed that Charlie…”

Flynn circles his hand like, ‘what logically follows?’

NK mirrors the action… But his mouth remains agape, with anticipation.

Flynn sighs.

“Charlie was targeting you.”

“Was targeting me! Haha, yes, of course, I noticed that, Mark Flynn! A slow American child or a False Korean wild dog might have noticed that, it was so obvious! Hence why I said it before you did, Mark Flynn!” NK laughs confidently.

Flynn sighs, pinching the sides of head.

“What I mean is, Charlie and Bobby are trying to recreate the conditions of the very first tag title match we faced the Bastards in.”

NK strokes his chin, thoughtfully. He snaps his fingers.

“Hoho! I comprehend you, Mark Flynn. You claim, similar to the Tornado Tag match we had versus Them No Good Bastards where we first won the tag team championships… Charlie and Bobby aim to move us into separate, simultaneous, one-on-one physical battles. In an attempt to neutralize our ability to work as a tandem!”

“Exactly. And on the one hand, it makes sense. They did a lot better in match one than match two.”

…

“On the other hand, we’re talking about two matches that they LOOOOOOOOST. ”

”Way to pick a strategy that’s already failed!”

Flynn and NK double over laughing. They low-five and stand back up.

“First off, Bastards. Let’s start with the obvious.”

“In match the first, WE successfully split Bobby Bourbon and Thunder Knuckles into two separate one-on-one fights.”

“You’re coming into this match, testing out OUR playbook.”

“That’s like attempting the triangle offense against Legendary coach Phil Jackson!”

“Or trying to nibble on a shark that got your blood in its nostrils. You’re not going to beat the master testing out his moves and doing them WORSE..”

Flynn and NK nod knowingly.

“Not to mention, good luck to the Bastards, sticking to a long-term strategy when they have ZERO attention span.”

Flynn scratches his head. Now it’s his turn to be perplexed.

“Whaddya mean, NK?”

“I mean this, Mark Flynn! In order to maintain an isolation strategy…”

“As we often do.”

“A team requires razor-sharp attention.”

“Full focus.”

“Just so! And the Bastards have proven INCAPABLE of holding an ounce of focus.”

“What makes you say that? I mean, sure, Bobby and Charlie could both probably use a Ritalin prescription…”

“Mark Flynn! In our first meeting, you and Bobby Bourbon had battled into the crowd. You were unconscious! Bobby Bourbon had begun doing prop comedy bits with a bucket of popcorn and your unconscious body!”

Flynn’s eyes narrow angrily.

“Shuddup! Bobb-o just got lucky.”

NK taps his nose and points at his partner.

“Exactly so, Mark Flynn! Bobby Bourbon had found ONE. SINGLE. OPENING. And failed to exploit it!”

“Tag team wrestling is about creating weaknesses… and EXPLOITING them! We repeat this each and every cycle.”

Flynn nods knowingly.

“And Bobby didn’t. Bobby couldn’t!”

“Bobby Bourbon had victory in his palm! And he left victory to protect his partner from injury at my hands!”

Flynn smiles and snaps his fingers.

“And then later, Bobby and TK got distracted by APEX’s music! The idiots were hypnotized long enough for us to steal the win!”

“They took their eyes off the ball!”

“Or as you might say, Mark Flynn…”

NK pushes his hand against his forehead to hide his hairline.

“THEY. LOST. FOCUS!”

NK laughs again. Flynn seethes angrily at being mocked for his receding hair. He balls up his right fist, points out his middle knuckle…

“Heheheh-AGHHHHH!” And dead-arms his totalitarian partner. NK flips onto his back, cradling his tricep…

Flynn sighs, and pulls his partner back to his feet forcefully by his non-maimed arm. NK fights against his desire to shed a tear, by breathing harder than anyone’s ever breathed before.

“You make a good point, NK. The Bastards have a goldfish’s attention span. Which is why, when they fought us last time, they produced DUSK - TIL - Bastard Knight!”

NK finally forces the tear back up into its duct.

“What do you mean, Mark Flynn?”

“Remember the joint BastardNet put out against us? Part one: TK and Bobby own a strip club.”

“…Ah! Yes! I recall it, though I didn’t quite understand it. I thought TK and Bobby owned an entertainment company?”

“…They do. It was fictional. They were doing a From Dusk Til Dawn parody, NK.”

“…Ah. I’ve never seen the film. I’ve only ever seen Iron Gi-“

“Iron Giant and Juwanna Mann, yes, yes. Then, remember the second promo? A bunch of vampire hunters roll in to kill the vampire dancer.”

“Yes! I recall! What… um… What American movie is that referencing?”

“That’s the best part, NK! It’s STILL From Dusk ‘Til Dawn! It’s the same movie!”

NK is mesmerized! “My word! What a delightful journey! I must rent this movie from the Blockbuster in Pyongyang!”

“Yeah, like trash talk aside, From Dusk ‘Til Dawn rules!”

“…But why does the movie end with 30 minutes of William Sadler rambling about nothing?”

“…That’s not how From Dusk Til Dawn ends, NK.”

“Then WHY did Bobby Bourbon and Thunder Knuckles end their parody that way?”

“…That’s a legitimate question, NK. About two third of the way through, they just… uh… switched it over to a parody about Demon Knight. A different movie that… uh… doesn’t have anything to do with vampires. Cuz… I dunno.”

“It’d be funny if they compared two movies that contrasted each other in a weird, funny way: Like There’s Something About Mary and Predator.”

“Or Iron Giant and Juwanna Mann.”

“But instead, they just… maybe ran out of steam for their first idea and just… picked another one to carry them to the finish line.”

“Hence, Dusk Til Bastard Knight. The Bastards had a plan that they abandoned halfway through for no reason.”

“That barely played off their original plan.”

“As I said, Mark Flynn. The Bastards are INCAPABLE of focus.”

Flynn and NK grin, satisfied.

“Though, maybe that’s why they brought Charlie Nickles into their flock? He seems to have been focused on the Universal Title for many, many months now!”

“Pfffffff!” Flynn sputters, rejecting that hypothesis with his whole body. “Charlie has ONE THING on his mind: The Uni Title. He’s not focused, he’s SIMPLE.”

“A slight but SIGNIFICANT difference. In one corner, you have two men who are separately incapable of concentration. And against them, you have us. The tag-team that can take a single thoughtless mistake and turn it into victory.”

“Bringing Charlie to a match where he has to focus is like partnering in a three-legged race with a quadruple amputee.”

“But this is no three-legged race, Mark Flynn.”

“Agreed, NK. It’s an ass-kicking contest.”

“And Charlie Nickles? Bobby Bourbon?”

“You’re about to get your asses KICKED CLEAN OFF.”

***

“The dude is a ghost, yo.”

“For clarity, you’re referring to the minority shareholder, correct, Mister Lane?” Davenport leans into the phone, typing as she speaks…

“Bingo Bango, mamacita. Almost a year ago… some anonymous homey started purchin’ up XWF stock. There was a huge… uh, what did Theo call it… oh, INFLUX! There was an INFLUX of rando’s buying up our stock. Remember the whole gamestonk deal? The AMC surge? For some reason, the internet meme stock community love XWF and they bought up our stuff like crazy…”

Flynn and Davenport nod at each other. These details align with their existing knowledge…

“Uh-huh, can’t imagine why the internet would love an occasionally-hyper-violent, ultra-theatrical bloodsport.”

“Right?!? But… as that was happening, as a bunch of little dudes were buying up little pieces… We started getting transactions under… odd names.”

“...Odd names?”

“So… The stocks were connected to overseas accounts with names in Japanese letters.”

“Kanji.”

“Whoa, Bless you. So, we figured we had a Japanese investor dipping his toe in… We figured wrestling is big in Japan, we do shows in Tokyo all the time, it made sense. Then, the dude kept making larger and larger market orders… We tried to reach out and ask if he’d like a tour of headquarters, maybe do a meet-and-greet? Radio silence, dude. Like, whoa. Then, Theo thought to try and translate his name to English.”

“...And?”

“Gibberish. Literally, yo. He was buying stock under the name ‘Mojibake’, which is apparently the Japanese word for when you decode text incorrectly? I dunno, must be a weird joke? So, Theo tried to block future purchases from the account.”

“How’d that go?”

“Well, ‘Mojibake’ stopped making purchases. Then, some Russian dude, ‘Oптимальный путь’, started placing large stock orders instead. Picked up right where the Japanese dude left off. Theo blocked that one.”

“If I may ask Mister Lane, Why didn’t XWF pull the plug and stop selling stock?”

“We did, yo! We shut the whole thing down, allowed selling only for, like, a WEEK! ...That’s when we started seeing like, posts online. Daytrading message boards were flooded with posts asking if anyone owned XWF stock and wanted to join a private club… Like, whoa, y’know!”

“And there’s reason to believe that the source of these posts is the same dude that was buying up stock?”

“Theo, he cross-reffed the… uh… IPs… and… Look, Theo did some computer-y dealies and, like, he’s really, really sure!”

“Sounds legit.”

“So, we play nice. The dude obviously has money to throw around. We try to ping him. We even offer him an interview for a seat on our board. But whoa! The dude won’t say a word!”

“...So, the dude keeps putting money in your pocket? Jeez, what a terrible problem, Vin.”

“...No, that’s like the good part, Flynn!”

“...No, I’m being sar-... Never mind. Then, what’s the downside in all this?”

“All of a sudden, WHOA, we start seeing unaccounted for minutes on company phone lines. Unexplained purchases on the company account. New company hires that weren’t Ok’d by Theo or myself.”

“Whoa...(ugh, dammit, now I’m doing it)... So, Rober… I mean, gibberish guy… He’s found controls inside the company? He’s actually able to conduct business on XWF’s behalf?”

“Ch’Yeah!”

“So, Mister Lane, you’re claiming that this anonymous shareholder might be the source of the Beacon we’re looking for?”

“Yo, can I be straight with y’all?”

“Of course, Vinnie. It’s not like anything you say or do could be used against you in a court of law when talking to government officials.”

“Suh-weeeeeet! So, like, I don’t know anything about this Bacon dealie. But, I do know we started seeing more, like, robots and timey-wimey dudes and magic stuff in the last 12 months. And THAT weirdness coincides with the stock weirdness!”

“So, it sounds like you don’t like this guy AND we don’t like this guy. Any way we can help get rid of him?”

“I mean, Theo did that… reverse spock spliff!”

“Reverse stock split.”

“Yeah! That took out all of this dude’s underlings! But, he apparently had bought up enough stock that he held his ownership! So… if we can help exterminate this dude wichy’all, some teamwork would be mucho welcome!”

Davenport sighs, then flicks her wrist. Flynn gives a thumbs up and leans into the phone.

“All right, Vinnie. Great job. You really helped us out.”

“Any time, Flynnerino! Glad I could help after you backed me up with that majorly harsh Senate hearing.”

“I’m just glad Christopher K. Clinton was around to consult on your case.”

“...Chris…? ...OH! Right, yeah. Theo told me about this. I’m just supposed to go along with it and pretend like you don’t pretend to be a lawyer sometimes.”

…

“So, yeah! Give me regards to Chris C, yo!”

Lane hangs up.

Flynn slips the phone back into his pocket.

“There, see? Lane’s clear. I let you listen. And I also tricked your lapdog with technology from the 1970s. All in all, great day.”

Davenport makes a note in her notebook, where she had been documenting relevant details. She doesn’t give Flynn the attention he so desperately seems to crave.

“So, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go back to handling this investigation and you’re gonna go back to leaving me alone.” Flynn flashes a peace sign and heads for the exit.

“I didn’t bring you on this assignment to play cowboy, Flynn.”

Flynn stops in his tracks. He meets Davenport’s cold calculating stare.

“YOU didn’t bring me in at all. You arrested me and had me declared mentally incapable of handling myself. It’s either work under you or sit in a storage locker and wait for death. But working under you, doesn’t mean I work with you.”

“I need you to play nice. I get you feel your half-a-dick wiggle making Agent Spahtz look like an idiot, but you won’t win playing solo ball.”

“See, that’s the funny thing, Marie.”

“Agent Davenp-”

“Marie.”

Flynn leans closer.

“I don’t need to play solo ball. I share the court with people I trust. But I don’t trust Agent Spahtz. And I don’t trust you.”

Flynn raises his index finger.

“There’s only one man I trust. One person that hasn’t let me down.”

Flynn smiles.

“And that man is the North Korean War Crim-”

An explosion! The room shifts! Trophies and books are knocked from the shelves onto the floor!

The fire alarms set off! The sprinklers spray from the ceiling above!

Davenport hops into action covering her computer with her arms…

That moment, Flynn’s pocket vibrates…

He fishes out his phone…

And sees a single text.

From NK.

“Okay, promise you won’t be mad…”