A big CGI Denzel Porter takes a sledgehammer and SMUH-ASHES a CGI window as the words Breaking News emerge from the shattered window. While this happens, super fucking rad guitar riffs are blaring!

It’s so visually splendrous, you never think about how much money was spent animating a man smashing a window with a sledgehammer, a thing that could have been shot live for forty dollars.

The logo swoops and star-wipes as we cut to a set desk with none other than Wrestling’s #1 Reporter*. (according to Breaking News Monthly, the sports magazine that Porter owns).

Porter flashes a grin, nodding towards the camera.

“Wrestling Fans! If you’re standing up, SIT DOWN! You’re in the right place. You’re watching BREAKING NEWS! Hosted by Denzel Porter. Over the next hour, we’re projecting the marquee March Event of the wrestling world, XWF’s March Madness! An event that is so popular, it has actually overtaken the NCAA’s March Madness in terms of viewership.”

Porter reaches off-screen… raising a glass of tea to his lips.

“And unlike the NCAA, Theo Pryce actually cuts his talent a check.”

Porter smiles as he tosses the prop drink over his shoulder.

“Point being, if you’re sitting there with a busted bracket, if you dumped money in your office pool and put it all on Charlie Nickles and now you can’t rub two nickels together to get a soda from the vending machine… If you lost it all betting on Sarah Lacklan and now, ax’ly, the only firestarter you can see is YOU setting your busted bracket on fire… Drain the bathtub, put the toaster back in the kitchen, let’s talk wrestling.”

Porter nods over to his right.

“With me today, we’ve got Steve Sayors.”

A balding man, drenched in flop sweat, pads a Burger King napkin across his forehead. You’ve heard the camera may add 10 pounds, but does it also add Atopic Dermatitis?

“Great to be here, Mister Porter!” Sayors says as confidently as he’s capably of… Before meeking bending his neck towards his host submissively. “Are… uh… are you  you going to put me through an… uncountable amount of tables again?”

“Rule #1 of entertainment, Steve! Never tell the audience something that’ll happen later! Let them be surprised in the moment!”

…Sayors pulls out his inhaler.

“And, to my left, we have golf legend AND the man whose dining habits contribute to 40% of Hooters’ business revenue, John Daly!”



John Daly lifts up a glass of vodka.

“Happy to be here, DP.” Daly grins, before looking off-camera, lifting his glass. “Can I get a refill? Oh! And an order of chicken wings?”

Porter clears his throat. “Daly, this is a TV studio. We don’t serve food. I don’t even know how you got a glass of vodka on my set… At 9 AM.”

“Oh, I brought this from home. I’ve had a glass of vodka in my hand since 1997.” Daly lifts his glass, toasting Porter. “Which is probably why the last time I won a major championship was 1995.” Daly sips.

Porter shakes his head, straightening his cards. “...This is why I only like to cover wrestling.”

“Now, Steve!” Porter erupts, lifting a card to his face. Steve reflexively covers his face, as he does whenever anyone says his name.

“YOU! Are famously terrified of Mark Flynn.”

…For once, Sayors breathes easily. Even… confidently?

“Yes, Mister Porter. I’m also terrified of disappointing my boss, spiders, answering phone calls, open spaces, closed spaces, failure, success, and twins.”

“…You’re afraid of twins, Steve?”

“Not all the time. Just when I’m standing in front of one… I always feel like the other is right behind me.”

…

…Sayors quickly peeks behind himself.

“I’m not a twin, Steve.”

“You never know, Mister Porter. Anybody could be a twin. That’s what makes them terrifying.”

…Denzel shuffled his papers together.

“Point being, you’re TYPICALLY afraid of bad-mouthing the current reigning Universal champion.”

“And yet! You’ve been pretty outspoken about his chances being slim defending the Universal Title at March Madness… Why?”

“Well, simply put, Denzel, Bourbon’s victory on Weekend Warfare put a dent the size of a ham hock in Flynn’s credibility. Flynn has been one of the most braggadocious Universal champions in the history of wrestling. And before last week, no one had shut him up, so we critics just had to believe it was true. Now? Wave after wave of Flynn criticism is washing ashore!”

***

Irwin itches his neck awkwardly, as the usually craven, cowardly Steve Sayors bad-mouths the Universal Champion on his television screen.

…Maybe if he speaks and drowns out the noise, he’ll block some of the negativity heading towards his champion.

“Mark Flynn was humiliated!” The TV fizzes. “Embarrassed! In a match where HE picked the stipulation! And furthermore, I th-”

“...Can I get you a… A Powerade, sir? To replenish your electrolytes?”

…In the chair in front of Irwin…

No sound.

A single hand lifts. And waves away. Banishing the offer.

…A click. The volume on the television increases several notches.

“-nn spent weeks verbally attacking Bourbon for losing in the first round of March Madness. And then HE not only LOSES, but actually gets himself disqualified to keep the ti-”

“Are you sure, sir?” Irwin raises his voice again, trying to be non-obvious in his efforts louder than Sayors’ criticism. “We have fruit punch! And grape!”

The Universal champion spins in his chair. “SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, IRWIN.”

…

Flynn spins back. Irwin is struck silent on the spot.

“I’m watching the fucking JACKALS spring from their burrows…”

***

“I’m just saying.” Steve finishes his surprisingly sharp salvo. “Mark Flynn may have been a fighting champion before… But after his recent loss, he looks like what he’s always claimed the other Uni titleholders were… A PAPER CHAMPION.”

***

SLAM! Flynn stands up so hard and so quickly, his office chair clatters to the floor behind him.

Irwin flinches, quaking in his boots.

“PAPER CHAMPION?!?” Flynn screeches incredulously.

“What about the fact that I’ve been Uni Champ for 174 CONSECUTIVE DAYS? What about the fact that I’m one title defense away from tying the record for MOST SUCCESSFUL DEFENSES AS UNIVERSAL CHAMPION?!? WHAT ABOUT THE FACT THAT I HADN’T LOST A MATCH IN SIX MONTHS?!?”

“Now, Steve. Some people *could* argue that Flynn has been Uni Champ for 174 consecutive days…”

“YEAH!”

“That he’s one title defense from tying the record for most Uni Champ Title Defenses.”

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAH!”

“And that he *did* go a whole six months without losing a match.”

“YES! YESSSSSSSS! THANK YOU, PORTER. AT LAST, SOMEONE SPEAKS THE TRUTH.”

…Porter clears his throat.

“Of course, it’s also worth noting that Flynn’s loss six months ago… Was ALSO to Bobby Bourbon. In a six-man tag match.”

…

“Shuddup, Porter...” Flynn spits.

“In fact, Mark Flynn has NEVER beaten Bourbon in a match WITHOUT the North Korean War Criminal, his tag-team partner who he tossed into an electrical box months before his Universal Championship reign started, just after NK was the sole survivor of the 2022 WarGames.”

“The sole survivor of a team I COACHED, PORTER. IT’S NOT A FUN FACT IF YOU DON’T FINISH THE FACT.”

On the screen, Porter lets this thought permeate through the air, thoughtfully. “One *could* posit the question whether Mark Flynn was the powerhouse of the tag-team…”

…Flynn grits his teeth.

“Don’t say it. Don’t you FUCKING SAY IT, DP.”

“Or… the WEAK LINK.”

KER-UNCH!

Flynn squeezes his fist so hard around the TV’s remote control, that the device splits into bits of plastic and wiring.

***

Denzel lifts up his hands defensively, as if ready to be attacked for that suggestion.

“I’m just saying! NK still has, throughout his career, NEVER lost against Bobby Bourbon, while Flynn has never won without NK.”

Porter lifts another card to his face.

“Of course, this isn’t just *any* Main Event Universal Title Match. This is Mini-Golf Master MAYHEM…”

Porter squints, pulling the card closer to his face…

“Or… is it Meyhem? Regardless, Daly! You’re a golfing legend.”

“And amateur gynecologist.” Daly winks into the camera.

…Porter exhales.

“Yes, I saw you scribbled that on your intro card and chose not to read it.” Porter straightens his notes. “Nevertheless, you know golf! Flynn took a huge upset loss in his own game of Chess Wrestling! Do you think that Flynn stands any better chance going toe-to-toe in a sport of Bourbon’s preference, an all-out putt-putt war?”

Daly scoffs. “Absolutely not, Porter. You wanna be good at golf? You need a GUT. All the best golfers have them. Phil Mickelson. Seve Ballasteros, Jack Nicklaus… You wanna put the ball in the tin cup? Ya gotta be built like a tuna can.”

Porter squints, typing on his keyboard. “...That can’t be right… Lemme do a quick google.”

…

Porter is bemusedly surprised.

“Hmm. I just checked golf.com and… Apparently, their official stance is… exactly what John Daly is saying.”



“‘Zactly. Now, look at our two competitors.”

Daly points to his left.

“On one side, you have the 291-pound grizzly bear that is Bobby Bourbon. Built like a goddamn GOLFER. Like he’s gotten mozzarella sticks from the diner at the clubhouse, every day for the last twenty-eight years.”

Daly gestures clumsily to his right.

“Then, on the other side, you’ve got Mark Flynn. A little 200-pound shrimp.”

Porter still seems irked.

“Flynn IS, by all accounts, an elite-level athlete.”

“And I’m sure Russian gymnasts can work uneven bars. Put ‘em by the pole at a strip club in Tuscaloosa, Florida, they’re gonna get booed back to Moscow!” Daly guffaws. “Different sports, different body types. Flynn may be built for wrestling, but I wouldn’t trust that SHRIMP to carry my clubs, much less swing one.”

Daly takes a swig from his vodka glass.

“Long story short, folks. You ask me who’s walking out of March Madness with the Universal Title? I’ll say the same thing I said to the judge who said ‘You can either have custody of your kids or this crate of Jack Daniels’ whiskey…”

Daly grins. “I’m going with Bourbon.”

***

“God DAMN IT.” Flynn howls. “Isn’t this show supposed to be BALANCED? Shouldn’t they have found SOMEONE to talk about why I’M going to win?”

“Of course, this is a debate show. We do like to get other perspectives.”

“THANK YOU.”

“So, we did find a man that thought Flynn would pull out the victory at March Madness.”

Flynn rubs his hands together.

“Here we go! Here comes FAIR and BALANCED JOURNALISM.”

Denzel clatters his notecards together and beckons off-screen.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, ELON MUSK!”

…

Flynn quietly stands up. As the obese South-African son-of-blood-emerald miners clumsily jogs to the desk.

…

Flynn walks to the television just as he awkwardly places a headset over his skull.

“Thanks for having me, D-”

CLICK.

Flynn’s index finger rests on the power button.

The screen slowly dies.

…

……

Flynn takes a deep breath.

Inhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaale.

…

Phooooooooooooo-exhaaaaaaaaaale.

“...Magnificent…”

…

Irwin coughs.

“Pardon, sir?”

…

STOMP STOMP STOMP! Flynn marches across the ring and jams a finger into Irwin’s face.

“In fact.” Flynn grins. “It’s BETTER than Magnificent. It’s AMAZING. IT’S FUCKING STUPENDOUS, IRWINNER.”

Flynn grits his teeth as his eye twitches.

“You know why? Because THIS is where I excel. THIS MOMENT. RIGHT HERE. When the world thinks I’ve been knocked down. That I’ve retreated to a low point.”

Flynn coils back towards his Head Simp, advancing menacingly. Irwin shields his face, terrified.

“Like a CORNERED TIGER. I’m merely POISED to STRIKE at the heart of my opponent. PIERCE his defenses. And TEAR HIS FUCKING THROAT OUT.”

Flynn’s eye twitches like a cockroach on an electrical line.

“Bourbon spent his whole cycle, wallowing in self-pity at a fucking bus stop and assaulting his LAST FAN… While I actually PREPARED FOR OUR FUCKING CHESS MATCH. And somehow HE WON.”

…

“Y’know what Bourbon’s promo proved, Irwin?”

…Irwin clears his throat.

“...That XWF Clash is a fun game initially, but the pay-to-win microtransactions eliminate the strategy elements of a game with longevity… Hence, why an idiot like Walter was able to have long-term success playing it?”

…Flynn shrugs.

“Correct. But, also.”

Flynn jams a finger so hard into Irwin’s nose, it bends inward like an eclair.

“THE OPTIMAL PATH IS REAL, IRWIN.”

“BOURBON LOST EVERYTHING. He LOST his crown, lost his company bonus, GOT SHOT at a bus stop… AND ALL OF A SUDDEN, He wins a match against the Universal Champion? CLEARLY, the TRUTH SHINES THROUGH.”

“THE PIERCING LIGHT OF THE OPTIMAL PATH IS REVEALED.”

…

“And at this nadir. In this trench of despair where the world turns against me… As I fall back to the bottom…”

KERASH! Flynn mule-kicks the television behind him!

The television caves in on itself… Its interior walls collapse and it jellifies into sparks and wires.

“I FIND MYSELF BACK ON THE OPTIMAL PATH! CLIMBING ANEW! And once more, MY DESTINY IS SEALED AS THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPION.”

…Irwin tries to smile, somewhat terrified.

“U-u-uh… I can see your reasoning, sir.”

Flynn nods wildly, as if he can will something into truth by saying it aloud and then agreeing with it himself.

“YES! And if Bourbon wants something spectacular! Something insane and wild and violent and macabre and devastating and MAIN-EVENT CALIBER?!?”

Flynn reels his head all the way back and headbutts through the air. THE MEGANOD™.

“Then, that’s what he’s fucking getting this cycle! We’re going big, Irwin. Big BIG BIIIIG BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG!”

Flynn grabs Irwin by the collar.

“I’m thinking Mark Flynn: The Muscial: The Movie. I’m going to be the first goddamn Universal Champion to make a promo so fucking good, it’s going to win AN OSCAR, EMMY, TONY AND GRAMMY.”

…

“Isn’t a Grammy for Albums… Not movie… wrestling promos?”

“I’ll win a Grammy for the promo’s soundtrack, Irwin.” Flynn swats his hand through the air. “Don’t ask stupid questions when you should know the answer.”

Flynn claps twice.

“That’s it. I’ve found my FUCKING MUSE, Irwin. Now, we just need a film crew.”

Flynn claps twice.

“Rally the bootlicking simps.”

…

Irwin sweats.

“Um. About that…”

Flynn claps again. “What’s the problem, Irwin? Do my simps need to be rallied? Do they need to hear the VOICE OF THEIR GOD to SEND THEIR HEARTS SOARING?”

Flynn shoves Irwin into the wall, past him.

“W-w-wait, Mister Flynn! Just a second!”

“ATTENTION, SIMPS!”

Flynn shoves the door open… to the factory outside his office.

…

……

Empty.

Flynn looks over the railing.

The factory producing Mark Flynn merchandise…

Has completely stalled.

…Flynn is white in the face.

“Irwin… Where the FUCK are my simps?!?”

…Irwin stammers.

“The… contingent stakeholders... Have… *cough*... declined to aid you.”

***



***

Flynn squints… Perplexed.

“B-b-but!” Flynn is so angry, he nearly can’t speak.

“I don’t get it! I’m the Universal Champion! I thought I had a legion of brainless sycophants to co-sign literally anything I say, as long as I win!”

…Irwin nods slowly, holding eye contact with Flynn.

…

Flynn’s nose twitches.

“Ah, right... As long as I win.”

Flynn sighs, scratching his head.

…

“TRAITORS.” Flynn eventually spits. “LOSERS.” He adds.

“And, most of all…” Flynn sticks a finger in the air. “UNNECESSARY. They didn’t leave, because they’re FIRED.”

“...Can you… fire… volunteers?” Irwin presses.

“I JUST DID, IRWIN. I don’t need any of them. Y’know why?”

Flynn points across the factory.

To the opposite office.

Where Future-Flynn oversees operations.

“BECAUSE I ONLY NEED ONE PERSON IN MY CORNER: MYSELF.”

LEAP! Like an Olympic sprinter, Flynn hops the railing down the stairs to cross the factory! Irwin double-takes, jogging slowly after Flynn.

“W-w-wait, sir! Your… guy… person… Has specifically asked not to be disturbed.”

“Fuck that and fuck YOU, Irwin. This is an all-hands-on-deck situation. And by all-hands, I mean ‘me, myself and I’.” Flynn calls over his shoulder as he speeds like a bullet across the factory floor, hurdling over conveyer belts…

Irwin slowly slumbers, taking the long way around, and cradling a stitch in his side.

Flynn climbs up the railing of the stairs like a goddamned polecat.

At the bottom of the stairs, Irwin lies on his back, exhausted from minor exercise.

“ALL RIGHT, YOU.” Flynn screeches, outside the door. “It’s time you FUCKING pull your weight.”

Flynn punts open Future-Flynn’s office door. “What’s the plaaaaaaaa…?”

Just in time to see Future-Flynn…

Standing in front of a blue portal.

…Future-Flynn looks back over his shoulder.

“Oh. Hello.”

…

Flynn peers past his future self, into the swirling blue vortex.

“What’s on the other side of that?” …Flynn’s face lights up. “Oh! Are we going back in time to kill Bourbon when he’s a baby?” Flynn presses his thumb into his palm, like he’s squashing a bug, grinning with glee.

“No. It’s simply a portal to another dimension.”

…Flynn waves his hand.

“What? That’s stupid. I’m Uni champ in this dimension! We’re not leaving.”

“We’re not. I am.”

…

Future-Flynn adjusts his tie.

“I was… hoping to avoid any… exit-interview… awkwardness.”

Flynn’s eyes widen.

A vein in his forehead expands to three times its size.

“...Exit… Interview? You’re fucking LEAVING?!?”

“Correct.” Future-Flynn bats back disinterestedly.

“Just because of Bourbon!?!? We can beat him!!!”

“Yes. *I* can. Easily.” Future-Flynn nods. “But, I find it… unbecoming to continue to save you from yourself. So, I’m… moving onto… alternative pursuits.”

…Flynn’s eyes wander maniacally. Lost in a sea of confusion.

“...But…I’m YOU. You’re ME. You’re abandoning yourself?!?”

…Future-Flynn checks his watch.

…He nods, deciding he has time for a brief interaction.

“See. That, Mark, is where you’re wrong.”

Future-Flynn lifts his wrist…

Gasp! He has a W.E.I.R.D. Jay Omega’s dimension-hopping wrist device!

“You and I may share DNA. We might even share a unique organism signature across spacetime fabric. That only Mark Flynns may possess.”

…FWIP! Future-Flynn grabs Flynn by the collar and drags him up to his face.

“But, I… would never. NEVER be the fucking prancing, preening, vain circus clown that you are.”

Future-Flynn drags Flynn into the air, so his feet dangle inches off the ground.

“I could tolerate the constant plotting, the frequent betrayal of anyone you call an ally, the transparent disdain you have for anyone that isn’t you… The fact that you think that millions of people boo you means that you’re over with the people.”

…

“But, YOU put yourself above the company.”

Future-Flynn shakes his head.

“And for that reason, I’m off to find a better Flynn.”

…Future-Flynn drops Flynn back to the ground.

“You’re a bad brand, Mark. Best of luck in your future endeavors.”

…Future-Flynn turns and steps toward the portal.

…Flynn is incredulous. He’s so mad, his voice is going hoarse just *thinking* about screaming.

…

“So, that’s it? After 174 days as Uni Champ? You’re leaving?!? Just… So long, good luck?!?”

…

Future-Flynn walks through the portal…

He turns around…

And smiles as the portal closes behind him.

“I don’t recall saying ‘good luck’.”