Mark Flynn’s Locker Room Thirty Minutes Before March Madness’ Main Event…

“This is it.”

“Yessir.”

“We stand on the precipice of greatness. Of FUCKING LEGEND, Irwinner.”

“Yessir.”

“If we can leave tonight with the belt… My title reign will be longer than motherfucking ALIAS'. Three short months away from Engy and Bob Main.”

…

“If we clear this hurdle, Irwin? No one… NO ONE… Will ever... EEEEEEEEEEVER say."

"That I’m not the Greatest Wrestler to Ever Live.”

“Not those people in the crowd.”

“Not those fucking loser armchair critics.”

“And not Theo Pryce.”

“...Yessir.”

…

“I detect a lack of enthusiasm from you, Irwin. You should be more excited about this than I am, I-dawg.”

“...Yessir.”

…

“Irwin. What’s your fucking damage?”

…

……

“...Uhhhhhhhh…”

“Not a trick question, Ir-man. Nor was the question rhetorical. What IS your FUCKING damage?”

“...It’s just… Sir, you offered me as a vessel… For the devil. So you could sell your soul.”

“...Ugh. Are you STILL upset about that, Irwin? Leave the past in the past.”

“...It was an hour and a half ago… I was occupied by the DEVIL. And a North Korean War Criminal?!?”

“Exactly, so many things have happened to us. We were different people, then. We’ve both matured so much. How about we act like it and let sleeping dogs lie?”

“You… lied to me.”

“Irwin, I didn’t lie.”

“Yes, you did, sir!”

“No, I didn’t. A lie would be if I made an untrue statement. I never TOLD you I wasn’t sacrificing you, because I never said anything about it. That means it was not a lie, but instead deceit by omission.”

“...That’s not better, sir.”

“I didn’t say it was, Irwin. I was simply correcting your poor word choice.”

…

“Do you trust me, Irwin?”

…

“Again, sir… No offense. But, I was forced to host the LITERAL DEVIL.”

“Oh my God, Irwin. Do you have a degree in archaeology? Cuz you keep DIGGING UP THE PAST.”

“It. Was. NINETY. MINUTES. AGO.”

…


“...Sir.”

…

“Listen, mi Ir-mano.”

…

“You’re right.”

“Wel-...Wait, I am, sir?”

“Okay. Listen, Irwin.”

“You’re my fucking NUMBER ONE FAN. This isn’t just about me. This is a fucking coronation.”

“For me and for you.”

“When all those other FAKE RATFINKS walked out on me… *You* stuck around. *You* bet on me when everyone else took their chips off the table and walked. *YOU*... are about to reap the benefits of being the first, last and only Flynn mark. You’re about to be the only fucking guy in the casino wrestling nerd-ery wit a winning ticket in his hand.”

“You’ve given me your trust. You’re about to be rewarded for your emotional investment TEN MILLION TIMES OVER.”

“And in that spirit? Tonight? You’re not just a witness. You’re a stakeholder.”

“...Wh-wh… What do you mean, sir?”

“Take this.”

…

“...A remote control?”

“When the time comes… IF the time comes. I’m going to call on you. When I do, you’re going to press that switch.”

“...What happens when I press the switch?”

“Trust me, Irwin.”

“...Sir, it’s just… I really do believe in you. I know you can beat Bobby Bourbon.”

“Loving this statement so far, Irwinner. I think we can cut it right there..”

“But.”

“Oooh, I hate buts after positive statements.”

“BUT… I’m just… concerned. You’ve gotten very addicted to excess and grandiose plans… Y’know, an amount of showboating.”

“Presentation sells tickets, Irwin. Hell, it fills arenas.”

“...I know. And I do want to trust you. Just… Promise we stick to the plan, Mister Flynn? We’re just gonna beat Bobby Bourbon at mini-golf? Keep it simple?”

“Oh puh-leez, Irwin. I’ve spent my entire career meticulously planning perfectly designed counter-attacks. I basically INVENTED sticking to the plan and keeping it simple.”

“And you’re not gonna go rogue?”

“Of course not. Everything is gonna go smooooooooooooth…”

***

The Backstage Area Nine Minutes After March Madness’ Main Event…

“OH MY GOD, GET THE EMERGENCY KIT.”

“Stay with me, you sunovabitch. You can’t leave us!”

Whatever Irwin is lying on… It feels like plastic… His hands grip behind him, he feels metal bars…

His eyes flutter open… He’s on a stretcher.

“It’s time to call it, Doctor Martinez. Time of Death, Eleven Twen-”

“Shut up… I can save him. I know I can save him!”

Irwin’s chest is bursting… His heart feels like it’s made of concrete… It hurts to breathe.

Despite every part of his body hurting, Irwin struggles to force his eyes open.

…The lights are off. The air is cold.

Irwin’s in the back loading dock.

“The ambulance is on its way… Stay with us.”

“I…It… It really hurts.”

“You can’t leave us… You can’t LEAVE ME. I can’t LIVE without you…”

“…What?”

“Stella, back off, you’re too close to this.”

“You get the FUCK off me, Derrick! You can’t send me out… I love him… I LOVE HIM.”

“STICK TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH. Do you duty as a medical professional that primary works Pay-Per-View wrestling events…”

“I’ll never be okay… Not without him.”

“...Do… Do I kn-”

“Wait a sec…”

…Suddenly, the air around Irwin shifts. Shadows loom over him.

“Oh. The kid that had the anxiety attack is coming to. We should unstrap him.”

“There’s NO TIME. We have to save HIM.”

“GIVE IT UP, Stella. I love him too… But there’s NOTHING we can do now.”

…

“...N-n-n-no… NooooOOOOOO.”

The two shadows hold each other comfortingly, lost… Hopelessly, hopelessly lost…

Irwin gathers the strength to tilt his neck off the gurney and look over…

On the ground next to him…

Is theoldering, burning remains…

…The carnage and twisted limbs.

Of the animatronic gorilla.

The doctors take turns pounding on the robo-mini-golf-primate’s chest.

“What will I tell our child?!?! That their father… Our robotic NED KAYE of the Year winner is deeeeeeeead… *sob*...”

“Oh… Oh God.”

That’s right. That’s the gorilla that Irwin exploded when Bobby Bourbon climbed to the top of it… When he pressed the switch Flynn gave him…

…

Mister Flynn!

That’s right… Mister Flynn lost the Universal Title…

That must have been around the time that Irwin passed out from sheer, ultra-comprehensive despair…

Where is h-?

Suddenly, Irwin’s pocket buzzes.

Swiping with some deep strength in the core of Irwin’s self… The same reserve that parents reserve for pulling cars off their children… Irwin wrenches his hand into his right pocket…

And retrieves his phone.

He pulls it to his face…

“H-h-hello?”

“Irwin. We did it. Hehehehe*COUGHCOUGHKEROUGH*...”

“...Mister Flynn, are you alright?”

“Oooooh…I’m more than alright... I’m fucking immorta-*HRGH GARGH*... Oh wow, that’s an amount of blood out of my face…”

“...What do you mean, Mister Flynn? Where are you?”

“We stitched ourselves into the tapestry of LEGEND, Irwin. We fucking carved ourselves a place on the MOUNT RUSHMORE OF WRESTLING. NAY, MOUNT OLYMPUS. WE ARE FUCKING GODS, IRWIN.”

“... Mister Flynn. You do know you lost, right?”

“Oh please, Irwin. Don’t be naive. You think just because I LOST the match, my reign is over?”

…

“Yes? That’s how title belts work.”

“Oh, Irwin, you fucking rube. You mark. You fucking road apple.”

“...Road apple?”

“The match was a fix. Rigged. And I won anyway! And by cheating me, the XWF has invited the wrath of the COURT SYSTEM, Ir-dog. I’m suing the state court, the federal court, the motherfucking PEOPLE’S COURT. I’LL TAKE THIS ALL THE WAY TO THE BATTLE CREEK MALL FOOD COURT IF I HAVE TO!”

“...You’re going to appeal your loss?”

“Damn right. What Bobby did violated EVERY REGULATION of mini-golf. And SEVERAL of the Geneva Convetions!”

A beep on the phone.

“Meet me in Florida, Ir-dawg. Where XWF has a headquarters. Where the government will step in and CORRECT THIS INJUSTICE…”

…

“I promise you, Irwin. I PROMISE YOU. This fight is NOT OVER.”

***

Florida Disctrict Court - The Wednesday after March Madness

The judge’s gavel knocks twice.

“Case dismissed.”

…

“Shit.”

***

Mark Flynn is in a suit, standing on a television set. Sitting on the edge of a desk like this is an afterschool special.

He peers up at the camera, sage wisdom from a multi-decade career in his eyes.

“When primitive man first curled his hand into a fist to strike another, he couldn’t have realized the future he was openings…”

“The same way stick figure cave drawings led to the works of Michaelangelo and Da Vinci, the first to invent combat made way for the greatest artform ever to grace intelligent life… Professional Wrestling.”

“And with the advent of wrestling, we saw the greatest contributions to HUMAN CULTURE in the form of physical violence…”

Flynn walks across the set to a series of easels, covered in sheets.

He rips them off… And reveals a set of diagrams.

“The piledriver.”



“The brainbuster.”



“The backbreaker.”



“These maneuvers were invented by the greatest minds of their generations and used on human canvas, people that, had the technology been available at the time, been fucking PERMANENTLY POSTERIZED, and their humilating MAIMING would hang in the finest museums today.”

“Yes. Every day, we celebrate the greatest maneuvers in the history of this sport, the greatest sport ever invented, by innovating in bold, new directions to maim each other in ever more entertaining ways…”

…

“Then.”

“Some people invent moves that are dogshit.”

…

“This is a special about the Leg DDT.”



“The Leg DDT, popularized by Thunder Knuckles is a fucking trash move.”

“The ORIGINAL DDT was invented by Jake ‘The Snake’ Roberts. The first time he ever performed the manuever, several people called the police, because they were certain they just witnessed a FUCKING MURDER, is how great the DDT is. It delivers impact straight to the top of the head and is the wrestling equivalent of a ‘WIN BUTTON’... Which is why about 85% of uncreative indy wrestlers’ finishing moves is some variation of a DDT.”

“The Leg DDT takes everything great about the OG DDT, and throws it away.”

“It neither is high-impact enough to take someone out for a three-count, NOR is it particularly joint-exploiting enough to cripple the target for life, for a day, or even for several minutes.”

“But, Flynn, you say, sitting there with drool dripping down your cheek like a fucking moron… If the Leg DDT is such a shit move, how was TK one-half of one of the longest reigning tag-team champion teams of all-time? With the most devastating move in wrestling: The…”

Rainbow Laser Death Sequence!

“...However, the Rainbow Laser Death Sequence is just a Bobby Bourbon vertical suplex… Where on the way down, TK grabs onto your foot and falls backwards.”

“If anything, he’s forcing deceleration and CUSHIONING an already acceptable vertical suplex.”

“Thunder Knuckles’ contribution to the Rainbow Laser Death Sequence is like the fucking guy helping you move that holds onto the middle of the couch while you and another guy actually carry it by the ends. He provides no support, carries no weight… Pretty much, all he’s doing is getting in the way in a fashion that APPEARS to be work.”

“But, TK hasn’t really worked the XWF since he robbed a win off Rob Main.”

“And if he thinks for a half-of-a-split-fucking-second, that he’s got a CHANCE IN HELL…”

“AGAINST THE GREATEST.”

“UNIVERSAL.”

“CHAMPION.”

“WHO.”

“EVER.”

“LIVED.”

“Mark Fucking Flynn.”

…

“Then, when he tries to grab me by the leg, for his shitty, awful, low-impact, low-damage, MIDCARDER finishing move..”

“I’m going to break his grip.”

“Wrap him in a front facelock.”

…

“Hoooooooold.”

……

“Hoooooooooooooooooooold.”

……..


“As the blood drips from his toes, down to his skull… As his face reddens, as his eyes bulge, pressurizing out of his fucking sockets.”

“Then, I’ll drop him straight on his fucking skull.”

“And the last thought that crosses his fucking mind before I cave it in like a tin can with a sledgehammer…”

“Will be…”

“Fuuuuuuuck…”

"THAT." 

"Is a finishing move.”

Flynn grins.

“The End.”