The sound of wind swooping through the open window of a building.

…A literal fucking tumbleweed just rolled by.

Which is wild because we’re inside the factory floor of the XWF merchandise factory.

…Currently, nothing is being produced.

Flynn’s simp army has left him.

His Future Self disappeared down a portal to another dimension, entirely of his own volition.

And Mark Flynn?

The Current Universal Champion?

What’s he up to now? Faced with his greatest challenge to date?

…

…Flynn is lying on the floor of the empty factory. His face pressed just inches from his phone screen.

His thumbs rapidly hammer on his phone screen, in the game's chat feature...



“I have no idea why anyone plays this... It’s for children and the mentally feeble.”

…Flynn swipes his thumb across the screen.

A little trumpet sound plays.

“...Oh, I won... Another booster pack…”

…

Jogging around the corner, exhausted… Cradling a small black device in his hands…

Is Flynn’s Head Simp, Irwin.

Irwin rapidly tries to regain his composure, wiping the sweat from his brow, and pressing his glasses back to his face.

“Mister Flynn!” He presses the device out over the face of the object of his worship. “Look what I found!”

It’s… an old-school camcorder.

“Just like the kind you used to use for your first promos in the XWF! Back when you would record in that storage unit! Real indie stuff!” Irwin revolves the camera onto his eye and punches the record button

“Mark Flynn!” Irwin calls, pointing the camera at his subject. “In just a few short days, you’re defending your prized possession: The Universal Title against The Grand Poo-B.O.B., Bobby Bourbon!” Irwin takes a fist, pretending like he’s holding a microphone and extends it down towards Flynn. “How do you feel?”

…

……

Flynn hasn’t looked away from his phone.

CHIRP!

“Oh. Terry_Tutorial just challenged me to another battle.” Flynn’s rolls over on his back and rapidly thumbs the screen.

A guitar riff plays as a 16-bit Vinnie Lane calls out ‘Let’s Clash, Yo!’

…

Irwin hits the stop button. “Uh, Mister Flynn?”

“?” Flynn… says. Like he doesn’t make a sound. Or say a word. It’s almost inappropriate to use the word ‘says’. It’s more like his lip twisted upward like he was going to say something, but that would require too much energy.

“Shouldn’t we… Do something to prep for Bobby Bourbon?”

Flynn exhales. “Why? Bobby Bourbon didn’t do SHIT to prep for chess wrestling. He sat at a bus stop, got shot, then assaulted a fan.”

Flynn sighs, dejectedly as he lets the phone drip down his barely-gripping hands… With juuuuust enough strength the small device it doesn’t fall on his face... “I guess that’s what qualifies for TOP TITLE CONTENDER ENTERTAINMENT.” Flynn shakes his head. “That’s the fucking guy that Theo Pryce would rather have the belt on instead of me. That’s the FUCKING ASSHOLE that Theo gave a blank check to, in the form of Bobby getting to pick the stipulation for our match.”

Irwin lifts the camera and hits record again.

Flynn sneers, waving his hand dismissively. “No, no, no. Put it down.”

…Irwin weaves his finger in the air, like ‘No! Keep going, this is good!’

“I SAID PUT IT THE FUCK DOWN.”

…Flynn side-eyes his Head Simp, enraged.

“I’m not a FUCKING ANIMAL in the zoo… And I’m not a trained SEAL that’s gonna bounce a ball on my nose just because you brought a fucking bucket full of fish to my tank.”

Flynn turns his head and spits on the ground.

“Not everything needs to be turned into FUCKING CONTENT, Irwin…”

…

…

Irwin clears his throat.

“Sir… if I may. The first chapter of your Optimal Path book is titled, and I quote…”

***



***
“...I was CLEARLY exaggerating in the book, Irwin. Not EVERYTHING…”

***



***

“...” Flynn puffs out his bottom lip disgusted. “Be that as it may… We’re not turning my pity party into a promo.” Flynn rolls over on his front, still tapping on the screen. “If that means you're leaving like every other fake fan? Fine. Go.”

…Irwin dejectedly hits the stop button, and lets the camera droop to his side…

…

For a moment, Irwin glances over at the big beaming red exit sign, leading outside the factory.

…

Irwin takes a seat next to Flynn.

…

Irwin scratches his neck, peering over Flynn’s shoulder

“So… Whatcha doin’?”

“I downloaded that XWF phone game. I’m seeing what the fuss is… Apparently, it’s good enough that just referencing it got Bourbon in the running for promo-of-the-month...”

…Irwin nods.

“Oh… Neat. Is it… fun?”

“Is it supposed to be? It’s the same fucking thing every time. Beat the opponent. Get a new opponent. Play the same lousy cards I’m dealt. Win despite the cards. Wash, rinse, repeat…”

A Five-Card Booster Pack opens up on Flynn’s screen…

…

Somehow, Flynn drew five Steve Sayors cards…

"Please... Don't use me in battle. You might bend my edges!" Begs the top Sayors card.

“Nothing ever FUCKING changes. It’s like I’m in purgatory. Like I’m fucking Dante wandering through Seven Levels of Hell…”

Irwin tilts his head to the side confused. “...Wait, are we still talking about your XWF phone game?”

“I’m fucking SICK of it, Irwin. I’ve spent six months selling my fucking soul to the lowest bidder. I’ve monetized, I’ve advertised, I’ve FUCKING INCREASED THE DIVIDENDS OF THE SHAREHOLDERS, MONTH-IN and MONTH-OUT.”

Flynn lets his head fall back against the concrete.

“And what did it get me, Irwin?”

Irwin opens his mouth.

“Shut up. That was obviously rhetorical.”

Flynn sighs, lifting his phone back to his face.

“My simps abandoned me. My so-called friend Theo Pryce is EVEN MORE TRANSPARENTLY plotting to strip me of my belt… EVEN WHILE I MAKE HIM RECORD PROFITS… THE MOST FINANCIALLY SUCCESSFUL WRESTLER IN XWF HISTORY…”

…

“And Bobby FUCKING Bourbon. Built like a beached whale and with an IQ of 60… The kind of moron that spells Mayhem with two E’s… Is going into March Madness with fucking MO-MENT-UM…”

…

“I literally ABANDONED MYSELF.” Flynn shakes his head. “My Future Self just fucking up and left.” Flynn buries his face in his hands.

“I’ve writhed and struggled and bled for ten years. And I don’t have anybody in my corner.”[/orange]

…

“Beside Elon Musk. And fuck that guy.”

…

Irwin clears his throat… As he surreptitiously lifts the camera.

“Well… What are you gonna do about it?!?” Irwin hits record, as he beams elatedly. This is it. The moment that Flynn is fed up with the status quo and decides to fight for himself!

…

……

Flynn exhales.

“I’m going to play Mastermind in Attack mode.” Flynn mutters, pressing on the screen…

SCHWING! On Flynn’s screen, a tiny Kiwi pops up on the screen.



“Chur, bro.”

…Irwin exhales, disappointedly turning off the camera, looking over Flynn’s shoulder to peer at the screen.

“Wait, that card says Mastermind is… Five Foot Six?” Irwin double-takes. “He isn’t *that* short...”

“He used to be… before the surgery.” Flynn shakes his head. “Where do you think all that ‘Mastered your Mind’ t-shirt sale money went?”

…

Irwin snaps his fingers.

“Oh! What if we do a throwback?” Irwin lifts the camcorder again, pressing the Record button. “Remember your debut promos? You used to diagram, dissect and point-by-point outline the perfect counter to your opponent’s trademark move! What if we did that with the BobbyBomb?!?”

Flynn’s lips sputter dismissively.

“Too easy. Bourbon’s finisher is a dull-as-dishwater powerbomb. There’s no ART to countering it. It’s like countering someone falling asleep. I mean, facebuster, hurricanrana, cross-armbreaker, crossface chickenwing… There are more easy counters to a powerbomb than I have fingers on my hands…”

Flynn lifts a finger in the air.

“Plus, hack. What am I? Fucking Gallagher? Wheeling out a DECADE-OLD routine? Should I smash some watermelons while I’m at it?”

Irwin grits his teeth, pressing the pause button... “Too soon, man. He *just* passed away…”

“What? …WAIT?” Flynn sits up with a start from the ground, suddenly in a panic! “DID GREGORY WATERMELON, INVENTOR OF THE WATERMELON, DIE?”

…Irwin tilts his head to the side.

“...No. Gallagher died.”

…

“Oh.”

Flynn returns to lying on his back, disinterested.

“Didn’t even know he was sick.” Flynn says with a flick of his finger.

…

“Hmm… I think I’ll set down a Bobby Zi in defense mode…”



…Irwin surreptitiously lifts the camera.

“Well… Okay! Maybe we could do another Brand Evaluation for Bobby? You already did his whole XWF career… But maybe we can go over his OCW record? Or his crossover shows!”

…

“Irwin.”

Flynn twists his head up…

“I color-coded, diagrammed and documented… EIGHT…. YEEEEEEEEEEEEARS. Of Bobby Bourbon matches… JUST.”

“LAST.”

“WEEK.”

“I watched Bourbon literally show up to matches DRUNK, ASLEEP, and in a pile of his own EXCREMENT.”


Seriously. This was a title match on an XWF PPV.

“I showed the last time Bobby Bourbon was Universal Champion… And how it ended with Bourbon screaming at a mid-carder to pin him… Until Vinnie Lane had to strip the belt off his ass.”

“I had to watch MORE THAN ONE R*pe match. A match type that SHOULD NOT FUCKING EXIST. Bobby wants to shit on my fucking matches as TOO NICKELODEON.”

Flynn stares daggers into Irwin’s camcorder...

“HEY BOB. AT LEAST I NEVER COMPETED IN A FUCKING MATCH ABOUT SEXUAL ASSAULT.”

Irwin bobbles the camera, nervously.

“O-oh shit! Uh! Are you cutting a promo? Should I be recording?”

…Flynn shakes his head.

“Nah… Just… Force of habit.”

…Flynn exhales.

“And somehow… SOMEHOW… This fucking ASSHOLE scored a single DQ win on me… One that I INTENTIONALLY TOOK… and the ENTIRE world wants him to have the title now.”

…

“So, no, Irwin. I’m not watching another FUUUUUUUUCKING Bobby Bourbon match. For as LONG AS I FUCKING LIVE…”

Flynn flips his phone back to his face and lies back down.

…

…Irwin exhales. He lies down on the floor next to Flynn.

“But you know what *really* pisses me off?”

…Irwin squints.

“Mister Flynn. You’ve spent this entire conversation talking about what *really* pisses you off.”

“It’s the FUCKING double-standard.” Flynn says, ignoring Irwin’s sass. “The FUCKING hypocrisy.”

“Bobby wallows in a pool of his own misery at a bus stop. Whining about how he’s gone from millions of dollars, to hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“While the fucking XWF fan is buying tickets to shows and swag at the merch stand before they plan for groceries… Bobby Bourbon is out here cutting promos about how he doesn’t get to take the private jet anymore…” Flynn cranks his fists in front of his eyes, like a child crying. “Oh, boo hoo. I’m Bobby Bourbon. I’m only *moderately* wealthy now…”

“...Meanwhile, I cut one promo in six months where a couple people turn on me… And all of a sudden, I’M THE BITCH who’s WALLOWING in SELF-PITY.”

Flynn SLAMS HIS HEAD BACKWARDS AGAINST THE FLOOR.

…

Irwin grits his teeth.

“...Did… Did that hurt?”

“BOBBY.” Flynn says, not missing a beat. “Complains that I’m booking Nickelodeon matches and gimmicks and kid stuff. And what the FUCK does he do when Theo gives him the pick? He picks a FUCKING MINIGOLF match. Straight out of an episode of Wild ‘n Crazy Kids! Straight from UNIVERSAL STUDIOS FLORIDA!”

FLYNN REELS HIS HEAD BACK… OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

…Red seeps from the back of his head.

Irwin wrinkles his nose.

“...Uh. I think you’re… *cough*... bleeding.”

Flynn relaxes his neck against the ground.

“Not the first time.” Flynn says, as he presses the phone against his face.

“Seriously, this game is awful. Why do people play this?”

…

Irwin sighs.

“They don’t, sir.”

…

Flynn looks to his right at Irwin.

“Whaddya mean? This is that viral sensation game that XWF put out.”

…Irwin exhales, shaking his head.

“No, sir. That game is XWF Clash. It looks like you downloaded… XWF Brash, which is an illegal Portuguese game created in 2014… That basically just took XWF wrestlers and made them into…” Irwin squints. “Looks like Yu-Gi-Oh cards.”

…Flynn slowly turns back to the screen, squinting.

“...Hmm. That explains why the only other person on the server is ‘Terry_Tutorial’.”

…

“And why these cards are so out of date… Ezekiel Carter-Williams IV… Jack Hoff…” Flynn’s eyes suddenly widen.

“Oh shit! Just got a rare Crimson Cobra!”



…Irwin frowns looking at the screen.

Flynn points the image at his Head Simp. “You probably don’t know this guy. Fuckin’ asshole kicked me into a bay in Singapore once…”

“I remember him.”

…Flynn side-eyes Irwin.

“...You *remember* Crimson Cobra?”

…

Irwin reaches into his pocket protector…

And retrieves a single cigarette.

“It was my first XWF show. It was 2013.”

Flynn disinterestedly keeps playing his game. “No smoking in here, I-Dawg. Fire code.”

…Irwin doesn’t listen.

“Crimson Deadly and Crimson Cobra came out to the ring. Deadly did all the talking… About how they were the future of tag-team wrestling. The crowd cheered.”

…

“Cobra kept… looking at me. Like, mean-mugging me.” Irwin takes a drag of his smokeable.

“Like, here this guy was. In a sold-out arena with people chanting his name… And he was staring at my shirt and fucking FURIOUS.”

Flynn… glances away from his phone. “Your shirt? He was mad… at your shirt?”

“I was wearing a shirt, repping my favorite wrestler. He had just beaten Cobra the week before…”

…Flynn leans back, scratching his bleeding scalp.

“...” Flynn scratches his head. “Why does this sound… familiar?”

“Cobra and Deadly drop the mics… They walk up the ramp… The whole crowd whooping and hollering… Suddenly, the camera cuts to me as Cobra walks by, not cheering like everybody else…”

…Flynn’s eyes go wide.

“Oh fuck.”

“And he slaps me in the face. Then, on the commercial break, he tells security to kick me out” Irwin sighs. “I spent $495 for a front row seat… AND signed a liability waiver… To watch 12 minutes of wrestling… And a bad promo.”

…

Flynn pockets his phone and turns on his side.

“Ho-lee shiiiiiiiiiit.” Flynn murmurs, mesmerized. “It… It was you.” Flynn squeezes his temples, trying to piece this shit together. “You were that kid that Cobra slapped in the face for wearing a Mark Flynn shirt!”

Irwin takes another drag, rubbing his cheek, reliving that moment...

“Yup.”

...

“I… I genuinely didn’t know they made shirts with my face on them ‘til I saw that segment.”

“They didn’t. I had to screen-print it myself.”

Irwin pushes the lit end into the ground until the flame sizzles dead.

“Those other simps… They joined up because you were Uni Champ. Because you sold record-setting books and t-shirts. And they were convinced if they did what you did, they’d get successful.”

Irwin side-eyes Flynn.

“But… I’ve been a fan since day one, man.”

Irwin exhales, pushing himself off the ground.

“It might not be Thad Duke’s 60 million Twitter followers. Or the millions of people that subscribe to BastardNet to watch rejected porn stars try to act next to Thunder Knuckles…”

Irwin raps his knuckles on the ground.

“But, you got one fan that’s diehard.”

…Flynn’s eyes widen and narrow looking at Irwin. Like he’s trying to figure out if he’s being tricked.

…Irwin sighs.

“Anyway, not like you’d care. Should I pack the camcorder back in the closet wh-?”

Irwin spins around to where Flynn li-...

…

Gone.

Just a small pool of blood where he smacked his head.



Irwin spins around.

At the front of the factory, Flynn pulls a pitch-perfect K-Turn  in a compact Cherry Red Honda Fit.

(That one he stole from Redd Spahtz, his old boss from the government.)

((Cuz continuity.))

Irwin is perplexed.

“...What are you doing?”

Flynn scoffs, like that’s a stupid question.

“I just found out I have ONE real fan, Irwinner. Not fucking letting him down by half-assing it.”

PUNT! Flynn kicks open the car-door.

“Get in, loser. We’re beating Bourbon.”