Saturday, April 22nd - Less than an Hour after the End of Weekend Warfare’s Broadcast

An XWF Press Conference. A network of interconnected microphone wires, like a bouquet of roses all in front of an empty chair.

It’s a serene, quiet scene. One of hushed murmurs and relaxed small talk between reporters..

Until…

“HAHA! Did you MOTHERFUCKERS see that?”

A flash. Another! A whole barrage of photography as, who else stomps onto the scene and into center stage, but Mark Flynn.

“YES!” Flynn shoves a chair out of the way! It clatters loudly off the stafe. Flynn is clearly riding a wave of adrenaline from his back-and-forth submission match.

“Hope King in Rags Finn Kuhn has enough spare rags to tie together a sling, cuz I just dislocated his FUCKING ARM.”

Flynn slaps his knee, cackling at his own joke, as he takes a seat in front of the microphone bundle and yanks the whole batch of live mics under his chin. He wipes away some sweat from his receding hairline, grinning.

“Let’s get this party started!” Flynn shoves a finger into the crowd of journalists. “Sayors!”

Steve Sayors, a man whose skull is consistently half-male pattern baldness, half-rash, (but never in the same way twice), meekly raises himself up with his pad in hand.

“F-f-first off, Mark. Uh… Congratulations on your victory tonight over Finn Kuhn!”

Flynn shoots a finger-gun and a wink towards Sayors. “Thanks, Steve. I think that’s a perfect note to start this interview off on, no more needed from you. Next, let’s go t-”

…Sayors stutters, cutting back in. “Uh, well, I… uh… Did have a question to follow that… comment.”

…Flynn exhales. “...Ugh, FINE. Question, then. GO.”

Sayors hands shiver, but he peers down at his pad.

“Some Uni champs, after dropping the belt, go on a re-tooling journey where they might take a few losses. But you’ve taken on two very game opponents in Finn Kuhn and Thunder Knuckles and scored two impressive wins! What do you credit your post-title success?”

“Oh!” Flynn claps his hands, delighted! “Glad you asked, Steve! I’ve actually found a new journey to go on, to keep my drive going. My success comes from always experimenting, pushing past my limits. Being willing to retool my game and do things I’ve never done before to keep climbing. And that willingness to explore my limits is exactly why I’m the BEST THERE IS in ALL OF WRESTLING TODAY.” Flynn dusts his knuckles on his chest, smugly.

“Oh! Wow!” Steve’s lip curls curiously. “Um… Quick follow-up? What new tool are you experimenting with?”

“Different submission grips?” The editor of Tap Out Weekly guesses in the crowd.

“Or a new strength training regimen?” Calls out the cub reporter for Muscles Monthly.

“Ha… Wrong and WRONG. I’ll tell you EXACTLY what I’ve done.” Flynn proudly beams, then leans into the microphone like he’s sharing a secret.

The journalists lean in, their pens ready to write.

“I’m a…” Finger-quotes. “GOOD GUY now.”

…

The camera flashes slowly stop.

…

The sea of hands… droop.

Flynn looks around the room, like, oh yeah, that’s right.

…

Finally, one hand picks back up. Flynn points at him.

“Steve, again. Whaddya want to know?”

…Sayors lets clears his throat.

“Just… uh… Could you repeat that? I might not have… understood it correctly.”

“...What?” Flynn’s brow scrunches with confusion. “What’s to understand? I’m a good guy now.”

…Curiously, another hand in the crowd raises.

“You, Wrestling101.com!”

…The W101 reporter clears his throat. “How?”

“...What?”

“How are you a good guy now?”

Flynn snaps his fingers. “Ah, Well, I DECIDED to become a… good guy some time last week.”

…The W101 reporter is clearly confused. “...You… decided?”

“Yes.” Flynn says in serious tones, like a player announcing he’s leaving the home team. “It was a difficult decision to shift my brand to… good. But, after extensive research, switching moral codes is the most logical decision for my long-term success. Did you know that… Theo Pryce… my SO-CALLED friend. Just hands opportunity after opportunity to these ‘face’ wrestlers?!? Doesn’t that strike you as unjust?!?”

…Another hand raises. “...Sorry, do you mean that you think it’s UNJUST… That well-behaved people get rewarded? That’s… karma.”

“FEH.” Flynn mutters. “Karma is just another form of BIAS AGAINST ME.” Flynn shakes his head, smiling fiendishly. “BUT! I’ve trapped Theo in his own policy. Because how could he possibly justify working against me… Now that MARK FLYNN IS THE TOP FACE IN THE COMPANY!!!”

Another journalist’s hand shoots in the air. “...Mister Flynn, if I may… Didn’t you… Recently…” The journalists checks his notes… He nods, confirming what he thought. “Consume the souls of several amateur wrestlers to build your strength, in a sort of… capitalism allegory? As a… Venom Monster of sorts?”

…

Flynn clears his throat, adjusting the mic bundle closer to his chin.

“Yes. That is correct.”

…

“But!” Flynn’s finger points upwards! “That was before. While I was a bad guy.” Flynn stuffs a thumb in his chest. “I’m a good guy now.”

“...Right, but like… How, though?”

Flynn’s face reddens, exasperated. “You keep asking that stupid fucking question!!! I already answered how I became a good guy. I DECIDED THAT I AM GOOD NOW.”

…The W101 journalist clears his throat. “Right, uh… I don’t know if that’s how being good works, per se.”

…Flynn’s brow furrows, perplexed. “...What do you mean?”

“...Well, it’s just… Uh…” The journalist is clearly finding some challenge explaining how being a good person works to a 43-year old man. “People don’t… typically… just decide they’re good. They… uh… Practice good behavior. Y’know, do good works. Promote justice.”

Flynn’s face lights up! “HAHA! You FOOL! You absolute CLOWN. You just stepped in it now! Because I have a clip, SHOWING me doing something for justice!”

Flynn points to the TV screens behind him.

“Tech nerds, get my match up on the screen!”

The screens turn on… Flynn flips around to watch his match…

Quote:

MARK FLYNN - vs - FINN KUHN Submission Match

DING! DING! DING!

With the match beginning, Mark Flynn and Finn Kuhn exchange glances across from each other. Both men’s faces seem to be clouded, trying to focus on the match at hand, but there’s a glint of something sinister in Flynn’s eyes as the two circle around the ring. The two seem to be exchanging some words, but the camera can’t quite pick it up.

“Okay, now… Rewind! And boost the audio 50 percent, nerds.”

The tape rewinds…

“…Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand. PLAY! NOW!”

Quote:-omething sinister in Flynn’s eyes as the two circle around the ring.

Flynn mutters just loud enough to pick up…

“This one’s for JUSTICE.”

Finn squints, not sure if he heard Flynn correctly.

“...What?”

“JUUUUUUUSTICE.”

THE! TWO! LOCK! UP!

“Stop the clip!”

The match freezes. As Flynn smugly turns around, satisfied that he’s proved his point.

“See? Pummeling Finn Kuhn? Breaking his arm? I did THAT for justice. So…” Flynn nods his head, extends his arms behind his head confidently. “Pretty sure, that settles it, right? Mark Flynn.” Flynn taps his chest confidently. “GOOD GUY.”

…The journalist starts to… sit back down. For a second, he realizes that, there might be no point in arguing this…

…

But something, DEEEEEEP DOWN, compels him to keep chasing the story. He stands up once more…

“Okay, soooooo…” The journalist’s right hand weaves through the air, as if he might pick the right words out of the air in front of him. “You can’t just say ‘This one’s for justice’ before doing something and call it doing a good thing.”

…Flynn’s eyes narrow. His gaze rotates around the room, calculatingly… Trying to understand this concept of ‘good’ like it’s Multi-Variable Euclidean Astrophysics (in Portuguese).

“No. No, no, no…” Flynn shakes his head. “See… I beat up a guy. And said it was for justice.” Flynn’s finger dances through the air… He nods again, sure that he has the right answer. “Just like Raion Kido does! Raion Kido punched a fucking guy in the liver like FIFTEEN TIMES. And everyone thought that was a good thing to do, right? I did the EXACT SAME THING.”

“Sooo… No. It’s not REALLY the same thing.” The journalist decides to challenge, lifting his left hand. “Kido put down Micheal Graves with 15 straight kidney punches because it’s the only way to put a wild card like Graves down for the count…”

The journalist drops his left hand and lifts his right.

“Yooooou… Dislocated a man’s arm.”

“...Yeah.” Flynn sneers. “But… With a… sort of… heroic flair!”

Another journalist stands up, ready to protest as well.

“Hey, sooooo… Isn’t ‘dislocating someone’s arm’ the exact same thing you did when you were Uni Champ, bullying and assaulting jobbers like ‘The Jessica Anderson’ and ‘Job Guy’? These things you did before you… decided you were a good guy?”

…

Flynn scratches his nose. “Okay, FIRST OFF. I was ALWAYS helping those jobbers. I WANTED THEM to SUCCEED on the Optimal Path. I was giving valuable television time to underappreciated young talent!”

“By cutting a promo on how awful they are and then breaking their arm on live television?”

“... NO! Cuz it… It gave them a BOOST!” Flynn picks his phone off the conference table and jabs it toward the media defensively. “The Twittersphere went nuts! ‘The’ Jessica Andeson actually won a match after I inspired her! And #JobGuy was trending all night after our confrontation.”

“...Right. And… How many matches has Job Guy been booked for since you broke his arm?”

…

“...Uh… Well, none.” Flynn sheepishly clears his throat.

“And why is that?”

…Flynn coughs. “He’s currently taking time to…”

…

“…Focus on the… Recovery…”

…

“Of his broken arm.”

…The journalists start to murmur and make notes…

“LOOK!” Flynn jabs his finger angrily into the media in attendance, trying to take back the offensive. “I scrapped through a TOUGH FIGHT tonight! Against a larger opponent.”

… “Finn Kuhn is 6 foot 1…”

“AND I’M SIX FEET TALL. HE IS BIGGER THAN ME. LAST TIME I CHECKED, SIX FOOT IS SMALLER THAN SIX-ONE!!!” Flynn howls furiously.

…No one in the crowd has a comeback for that… incredibly pedantic correction.

“I’m JUST saying…” Flynn breathes easy, having taken back control of the narrative. “I took on a LARGER opponent, like a HEROIC UNDERDOG! And I FOUGHT with my WHOLE HEART! And overcame the ODDS!” Flynn nods, happily. “Which… check your notes… THAT’S A THING HEROES DO.” Flynn mimes a basketball shot, then winks. Nothing but net (logically).

…The W101 reporter turns over the page on his pad. “...And how do you respond to the fact that dislocating Finn Kuhn’s arm tonight forced him to cancel his aftershow plans?”

…

Flynn’s eyebrow twitches confused. “Finn Kuhn had… aftershow plans?”

“Yes, he was going to spend some time tying balloon animals for…” The journalist double-checks his notes again.

“Terminally-ill children.”

…

“What?”

***

Meanwhile, just outside the arena’s loading docks… An ambulance pulls away, in the direction of OKC’s nearest major hospital.

Just inside the loading dock, a handful of sickly children, holding balloons and wearing hospital garb… Disappointedly watch as the ambulance drives away.

Above their heads is a banner. On it is a smiling Finn Kuhn. Below his smiling chin, in big bubble letters: ‘The King in Rags Makes the Kids Balloon Stags!’...

Two staffers on ladders quietly tug the banner down to the cold concrete below.

A child hooked up to a dialysis machine on wheels coughs.

***

…

“Y’know.” Flynn squints around. “...If I may, I’d like to take the temperature of the room and…” Flynn rubs his temples. “Make sure all our stories leaving this press conference are straight and ACCURATE. Cuz it seems like some of us aren’t GETTING THE MESSAGE THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULLS. MARK FLYNN… is a GOOD GUY NOW.”

Flynn gives a quick look around the space. “Okay… Now. Who thinks I’m a good guy?”

Flynn raises his hand in the air.

…

……

It’s the… only hand in the air.

Flynn lifts his other hand in the air. “Okay, hold on! Let’s… try wording that differently!”

Flynn drops his hand back down slowly, like showing everyone it’s okay to drop their hands, cuz they’re starting over.

(Of course, irrelevant. Since Flynn’s was the only hand in the air, Flynn’s is the only hand to drop.)

“Okay! WHO HERE…” Flynn spreads his arms around, miming that this question covers the entire space. “Thinks I’m a GOOD GUY…” Flynn points at himself, raising his hand once more.

…

“And keep in mind! A BAD GUY would leave this chair and BREAK all of YOUR arms, right!?!” Flynn adds, nodding like, hey, good point, huh?

…Suddenly, a room full of needle-thin journalist's arms shoot in the air.

Including both of Sayors’ arms.

(He’d lift both feet too if not for gravity… And his chronic bi-pedal plantar fasciitis.)

Flynn claps his hands! “There we go!” He stands up, pointing at the mob of muckrakers… Before leaning down to their level, once last time. “When you all go and write your stories about Warfare tonight, I hope you remember how you just voted!”

With that, Flynn smiles and takes his leave, satisfied. He pumps his fist in the air and cries out!

“For justice!”

***



THWAKRSH! A remote is embedded in the broken glass of the flat-screen TV.

“GODDAMN REPORTERS. They changed their story AFTER I left and couldn’t threaten them anymore!?! HOW IS THAT FAIR?!?!” Flynn stews in an easy-boy recliner, crossing his arms, fuming.

“Do you mean… How is fair that they said one thing under pain of being maimed and then said something else when they were safe?” Irwin, Flynn’s #1 (and only) fan considers, as he enters the room with two bottles of Fruit Punch Gatorade in-hand.

…Irwin sets one down on the end table beside Flynn’s recliner as he unscrews the other and takes a sip.

Flynn snatches his electrolyte replenishment off the table. “It’s UNETHICAL to say one thing, then do another. Not a GOOD GUY thing to do at all!” He mutters as he chugs his Gatorade like it’s the last bottle on Earth.

“...Sir. I think we need to seriously think about how we’re approaching your… Face Turn.”

“It’s already decided, Ir-dawg.” Flynn wipes at the red stains on his lips and beard... “I’m a Face. A GOOD GUY. We’re not approaching ANYTHING. WE’RE ALREADY IN IT.”

“Of course, sir.” Irwin says. “But, the problem isn’t whether or not you’re a good guy, but instead… Do people KNOW you’re a good guy?”

…

Flynn’s eyebrow twitches with interest, leaning forward in his recliner.

“Whatchu talkin’ bout, I-man?”

“If we want people to think you’re a Good Guy, sir? We have to MAKE them think it.”

Flynn’s lips purse thoughtfully. “Oooooooh, I like that.”

“It’s EXACTLY like your Uni Title run, Mister Flynn. You were ALWAYS the best wrestler in the world, but it wasn’t until you won the belt and proved yourself undeniably that anyone else would acknowledge you as the best.”

…Flynn strokes his chin, thoughtfully. “Mmmmm…. I see what you’re saying, Irwin. I have to PROVE that I’m a good guy.” Flynn snaps his fingers, leaping from his recliner so hard that the chair flips onto its back behind him with a thud!

“That’s it! JUST LIKE THE FAKE WRESTLING NEWS and THEO PRYCE worked TIRELESSLY and CEASELESSLY to keep me from being acknowledged as the VERY BEST WRESTLER IN THE WORLD… Now, they’re working to keep me from being recognized as a GOOD GUY!”

“...That’s not exactly what I meant, sir. I was th-”

“Ohohohoho…” Flynn wrings his hands fiendishly, like a Saturday Morning Cartoon villain. “They’ll see… They’ll see just how Good I can be. They’ll CHOKE on my BENEVOLENCE! They’ll BLEED FROM THE EYES at my GOODNESS! I SWEAR ONCE MORE, Irwin! That Mark Flynn will be the GREATEST FACE in XWF HISTORY! Even if I have to PUT DOWN EVERY OTHER WRESTLER IN THE COMPANY TO DO IT. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.” Flynn giggles maniacally, like an unhinged lunatic!

…

“Hmm.”

…

Flynn groans, spinning towards his simp, angrily.

“THERE YOU GO HMMMING AGAIN, IRWIN!!! WHAT IS YOUR DAMAGE?!? I’m in the middle of my… GOOD GUY LAUGHTER.”

…Irwin’s hands weave through the air, trying to find the right words.

“Sir, I think we have a core problem that we need to get over before he can really move onto… the ‘putting down’ of every other wrestler in the company.”

“...”

“There’s a…” Irwin searches carefully through his mind for the perfect way to say this without getting his limbs snapped off at the hinges… “Let’s call it… A Messaging problem.”

“MESSAGING PROBLEM!?!” Flynn recoils, horrified. “Ir-mano. What could be wrong with my MESSAGE?!? I am the GREATEST SPEAKER TO EVER LIVE. I’ve fucking rended the flesh of my opponents’ backs with WORDS ALONE. My foes have been left WEEPING AND BLEEDING after I’ve dropped the mic on their FEEBLE, BATTERED BODIES.”

“Right, see.” Irwin puts his hands together and points at Flynn. “This is what I’m talking about. The whole demeanor… Maniacal laughter… Promising your foes will weep and gnash their teeth, bleeding to death on the floor before you… It just…” Irwin grunts. “It doesn’t align with a ‘good guy’ brand.”

…

“Wait, It doesn’t?”

Irwin shakes his head.

…

“Well… What DOES?” Flynn’s eye twitches. “I mean… What does a good guy… do, anyway?”

…

Irwin grits his teeth.

“I dunno. I’ve never liked face wrestlers, to be honest.”

Flynn shrugs. “...I mean, who does, really?”

…Irwin strokes his chin.

“Maybe we can ask a face wrestler for some… input? Get some pointers?”

Flynn frowns.

“...Ehhhhhh… I’m not exactly on the… best terms with… ANY face wrestlers, I-man.”

“What about Raion Kido?”

“Nearly broke his arm at Relentless after calling him Choke Artist for a year.”

“Finn Kuhn?”

“Actually DID break his arm last week. Made him cancel an event making balloon animals for sickly children.”

“Jay Omega?”

“Broke into his locker a bunch of times with NK, searching for anti-XWF-Universe contraband. Did not have a warrant, either. VERY UNCONSTITUTIONAL.”

“Blue Tango?”

…Flynn sucks air.

“Pretty sure he’s still sore about me ending NK’s career. They were WarGames teammates ‘n all…”

…Irwin exhales, rubbing the bridge of his glasses.

“Maybe, we should scrap this idea, Mister Flynn. I mean, is there a single face on the roster that doesn’t dislike you? We’d basically need a wrestler incapable of disliking anyone!!!”

…Irwin shakes his head…

…Then, his face contorts in fear, realizing what he just said.

He spins around…

To see Mark Flynn’s eye… FURIOUSLY TWITCHING.

“What the FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!?!”

“N-n-n-no, sir! I-i-i-i-i just m-m-meant that!”

“Hoooooooooooooooow FUCKING DARE YOU, IRWIN?!?!”

Flynn begins a charge…

Irwin panickedly tries to retreat!

…But trips over the extended recliner… He tries to crawl away, shielding his face from the infuriated Flynn.

“I-i-i’m sorry, M-M-Mister Flynn! I-I-I just meant th-!”

Flynn scoops Irwin off the floor by his throat.

“SOMEONE INCAPABLE OF DISLIKING ANYONE, IRWIN?!?!? THAT’S THE ONLY WAY I C-...”

…Flynn’s anger fades.

…

He snaps his fingers and drops Irwin to the ground.

Irwin coughs, as air rushes back into his lungs.

“That’s it!”

Flynn grins, scooping Irwin back into the air by his collar, and placing him on his feet.

“Irwin, GREAT NEWS. One of us is a genius.”

…Irwin smiles, as he beats his chest, coughing.

“T-t-thank you, si-”

“And it’s me.”

Irwin frowns, wiping Flynn’s spittle off his face.

“Oh.”

“I’VE GOT THE ANSWER. What kind of wrestler is incapable of disliking anyone, you ask?”

…Flynn wrings his hands fiendishly.

“How about a wrestler that’s incapable of feeling?”

***

“I’m just saying.” The Programmer sighs, as he slides on his coat, just inside of the offices of MuskCo Wrestling Futuristics. “It’s been TWO Anarchy cycles. We were undefeated in three straight cycles. Why did they stop booking it?”

“Why the Hell do you care?” The Analyst groans as he slides on a pair of wool gloves. “The checks from Elon are still clearing, aren’t they?”

“What do you meeeeeeeean?” The Programmer whines, pushing open the door to the frosty, wet night outside. “There’s no way Elon just keeps paying us if his Rock-Em Sock-Em Robot isn’t making him money?!?!”

“Please.” The Analyst exhales, as he slips through the door himself. “If Elon wasn’t willing to dump money on something unprofitable that lets him think he’s cool, why does he still own Twitter?”

…

“Cuz the Court MADE him buy it?”

“Haha.” The Analyst chuckles fondly. “True enough. Trust me, though. He spent too many weeks tweeting about how Chad is the future of wrestling to give up without looking like an ass. Something he’s terrified of at all times.” The Analyst knocks twice on the glass front door.

…Then once.

…

Then thrice quickly!

The sound of automated mechanical locks! The front door is secured.

“As long as we’ve got our robot meal ticket in there? We’re set for life.” The Analyst grins. The two MuskCo contractors split off to their cars…

…

And who should emerge from the dumpster near the front door… But Mark Flynn.

Flynn creeps quietly to the front door…

He takes a deep breath.

…Stretching his fingers, cracking his knuckles.

…

He knocks twice.

…Then once.

…

Then thrice quickly!

The glass flashes green.

And the door to MuskCo opens…

Flynn grins, as he lurks inside…

“This one’s for justice…”

***

“THE GENERIC HEEL.”

Flynn spins toward the camera delightedly.

“GH the Great! A nearly 50-time WORLD Champion!”

“A man who went undefeated for 30 years. HOLY FUCK! Those are some INCREDIBLE Statistics!”

Flynn claps his hands, genuinely impressed.

“And I should know, I used to be The STATS GUY around these parts…”

…

“I mean, I don’t do the whole stats guy routine anymore.”

Flynn leans in like he’s sharing a secret.

“Kinda started to get old. Y’know, doing the same shit, day-in and day-out for an extended period of time.”

“No growth. No development. No real direction.”

Flynn’s eyes start to relax in the camera and his face detenses. Calmly just calling it how he says it.

“Wallowing in a sea of stagnancy. Just plugging in the formula and watching the exact same routine play out the exact… same… way.”

Flynn tsk-tsks, imagining what an awful life that would be.

“God, imagine if I did the same dull format for a year…”

“Or even worse. Imagine if I did a joke a year ago, got tired of it, then accidentally won a title with the joke and now was stuck having to resurrect a weak running gag that I had already gotten bored with to the point of abandoning ONE WHOLE YEAR AGO.”

“That would just be the wooooooooooorst.”

…

“Anyway, what was I talking about…?” Flynn scratches his head…

“Ah, that’s right!” Flynn snaps his fingers. “THE GENERIC HEEL!” Flynn starts up another one man round of applause.

“The man! The MYTH! The LEGEND! The ELITE COMPETITOR who hasn’t lost a single match in THIRTY YEARS.”

…

……

“Except, y’know…” Flynn pulls out a pair of reading glasses from his tights… And a notepad from behind his back.

“The March 17th, 2022 Edition of Anarchy - vs - Calvary.”

Quote:

“Or the April 7th Edition of Anarchy - vs - Vita Valenteen.”

Quote:

“Or the May 12th Edition of Anarchy - vs - Dolly Waters and Jason Cashe w/ Ruby.”

Quote:

“Or the June 9th Edition of Anarchy - vs - Vita Valenteen.”

Quote:

“Or the June 23rd Edition of Anarchy - vs - TOMMY FUCKING WISH.”

Quote:

Flynn flips his pad back to the front. Turns out, he had to flip through three separate pages of Generic Heel losses to get through them all.

“Oh… But, see… None of those count, right?” Flynn purses his lips like he’s made a faux pas. “Because of your ironclad Anarchy contract.”

Flynn snaps his fingers!

From stage right, Irwin scrambles out… In one hand he has a water bottle. In the other, he has a multi-page document!

Irwin, with the efficiency and precision of a NASCAR pit crew, pulls away Flynn’s pad, and replaces it with the sizeable document!

Flynn opens his mouth and FSH! Irwin hits him with a slug of water from the bottle, then forward-rolls back off-screen.

Flynn wipes his mouth before lifting the contract to his face.

“Fortunately, for the six-month window I held the Universal Championship and lifted the XWF into this glorious era of RECORD PROFITS™, I had… executive access to internal documents… Like your contract.”

Flynn clears his throat and adjusts his glasses.

“CLAUSE 69. Thus Declareth GH the Great that no match shall be counted against his record IF over the course GH’s opponent appears to secure victory by any of the following means…

Count-Out.

Disqualification.

GH’s Forfeit.

GH’s “Five-feit” (used in a sentence: “GH forfeited that match so hard, he basically five-feited”)

Any Scheduling Conflict with Bingo night at GH’s geriatric facility.

Any Act of War.

Any Act of God.

Any Act of Ares, the Greek God of War.

Touching All Four Corners of a Ring in a Bullrope Match.

Touching All Six Udders in a Milk-the-Cow Match.

Shaving GH’s head in a Hair vs Hair match.

Shaving GH’s happy trail in a Stomach vs Stomach match.

Putting GH through a Table in a Tables Match.

Putting GH through a Flaming Table in a Flaming Tables Match.

Putting GH through a Painful Divorce in an ‘I Can’t Do This Anymore’ Match.”

Flynn sighs and folds up his glasses, dropping them back into his tights.

“I’d keep going, but I think your contract writer got distracted, because from there, it stops being a list of match conditions and turns into a pre-nuptial agreement between you and your seventh wife.”

Flynn shakes his head.

“I guess that’s what makes records really impressive, huh, GH? Not athletic achievement, not success, but THOROUGH CONTRACT CLAUSES!!!”

Flynn shakes his head. “Your undefeated record is no accomplishment of yours, but your agent.”

“If I haven’t myself clear yet, allow me to elucidate my meaning… GH’s so-called, undefeated record is 100% GRADE-A BULLSHIT.”

…

……

“Pause for effect.”

…

“If you want direct proof of how fuckin’ UNTALENTED GH is, how about the fact that he couldn’t get his shit together to avoid a count-out at the hands of FUCKIN’ CALVARY?”[

“He (or if you believe GH’s spin team, a body double repping his brand) lost a match against TOMMY FUCKING WISH. Who actually used GH’s own move against him!”

“GH may be undefeated, by the terms of his bullshit contract, but he sure has wrestled six matches on Anarchy… And only won TWO of them.”

Flynn shrugs.

“Again, I promise, I’m not a Stats Guy anymore, buuuuuuuuut…”

Flynn’s finger weaves through the air, doing some quick mental math.

“Six matches last year… Winning two of them… Carry the three…”

…Flynn grins.

“Adds up to a GIANT FUCKING LOOOOOOOOOOOOSER, GH.”

Flynn cackles, wringing his hands together fiendishly.

“Of course, I’m sure the GH Buffs out there... Those old fogies that insist old XWF is better than today’s XWF and insist that wrestling was BETTER before these new-fangled inventions like the color television… And desegregation.”

“They’d insist that GH is an (almost) FIFTY-TIME WORLD CHAMPION.”

…

“Two points on rebuttal.”

Flynn winks.

“Point one. Generic Heel was a World Champion in the 70s and the 80s. Back then, G.H. was wrestling against plumbers and volunteer firemen. People that were getting paid $200 a night to get in the ring.”

“Part-timers in leotards, who’d smoke between matches.”

“GH was the best of a generation of MEDIOCRE LOSERS without the talent to WORK ON THE RING CREW, let alone actually COMPETE in today's XWF.”

“WRESTLING IS A SPORT. And with technological innovations and collective research in wrestling technique, the talent of the average athlete has climbed leaps and bounds to the point that your World Champion in the 1970s is as good as the fucking MINOR LEAGUERS who even VINNIE LANE would think twice about hiring.”

“Want an example?”



“NBA Hall-of-Famer George Mikan was an NBA MVP in the 50s. He was a gangly 6 foot 10 nerd who would trip over his own shoes twice trying to run down the court. And back in the 50s, NO ONE COULD STOP HIM.”

“Put him in today’s game? Mikan would get punched through like TISSUE PAPER. Today’s centers can work the paint, shoot outside, shoot from three! George Mikan couldn’t put a ball in a basket from four feet away.”

“Put George Mikan in today’s game and they wouldn’t hand him a fucking broom to sweep the arena, let alone put him anywhere NEEEEEEEAR THE COURT.”

“Want a more direct comparison, kids?”



“JAMES RAVEN was the Universal Champion in the old XWF… Then came back and won it again in 2017.”

“He’s the so-called People’s GOAT. He dominated the entire sport through the 2000s and the 2010s. No question. No doubt.”

“Look at him in today’s wrestling. The 2020s. James Raven wrestled in an elimination match at the Tara Fenix Charity Event and went out in record time.”

“He competed in the World Series of Wrestling and finished FIFTY-NINTH out of SEVENTY-TWO.”

“That’s the so-called Greatest Wrestler of All-Time from FIVE YEARS AGO.”

“That’s how fast wrestling moves nowadays. Last generation’s once-in-a-lifetime is this generation’s GARBAGE.”

“So, hope you don’t mind too much if I say GH could take those almost-FIFTY World Championships and couldn’t trade them in for a FUCKIN’ BALL-IN-A-CUP (the toy that first hit the market back when GH was relevant), let alone a SINGLE TITLE WIN IN TODAY’S SPORT.”

“Which brings me to Point Two. GH’s (almost) 50 World Title Wins.”

“Now, if you join me in a quick trip through the annals of this company’s history… You might notice that… GH has NEVER been Uni Champ.”

“GH, despite his illustrious career all over the world, has not EARNED a space in the XWF Hall of Legends.”

“But, how? How could GH claim to be an (almost) FIFTY-TIME WORLD CHAMPION if he never held the top XWF belt?”

Flynn grins mischievously.

“Again, I point you to the time GH wrestled in. The 70s and 80s. The Territory Wrestling Days! Basically every fucking bumfuck town that could put 20 asses in a circus tent spray-painted a belt gold and called it a ‘World Championship’ belt. GH managed to gladhand and tickle the balls of enough buck-toothed wrestling promoters that would let him dance with the belt, then disappeared when it was time for him to defend it.”

“How does a guy become a 50-time world champion… Without losing forty-nine championship matches?”

“GH losing his smile 49 times. Faking injuries, changing names and skipping towns.”

“GH’s World Titles include bullshit like the Great Lakes World Championship Wrestling belt. The Upper Mid-Lower-South Midland-Odessa Regional Worlds Championship Belt. And the Timid Deer Ranch Homeowner's Association World Wrestling Championship.”

“...You know what I held, GH?”

“The UNIVERSAL TITLE. THE SINGLE GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT IN THE ENTIRE WRESTLING MULTIVERSE.”

“I’ve beaten Five-Time World Champion, Peter Vaughn… An ACTUAL Uni-Title holder.”

“I DESTROYED Cage Coleman… Indie wrestling darling, whose trophy room is full of INFERIOR World Title belts from company’s that couldn’t hold a FUCKING CANDLE to the XWF.”

“And Cage actually won a world title in a year that starts with ‘2’, GH.”

Flynn winks.

“But, for one second, let’s throw all that out.”

“The fact that I’ve won the Uni Title and you haven’t.”

“The fact that I’ve dominated the A-Show, while you’ve missed dates to swim across the ocean on the fucking C-Show that is Anarchy.”

“The fact that I am the Single Greatest Wrestler Who Ever Lived And the Third-Longest Reigning Universal Champion of All-Time… While you’re an overweight, sad has-been who stumbled ass backwards into the last title reign you’ll ever have in your pathetic excuse of a career.”

…

“Forget all that.”

…

“Forgotten already? I figure it must be reeeeeeeal easy at your age.”

Flynn grins…

Before pulling the contract back up to his chin.

“GH… I took a long hard look at your contract. I got real close and read every word I could.”

“Parsing for weaknesses…”

“That’s what I do, GH. I take the most complete defense, the most impenetrable wall of an opponent… And I find exactly where they’re weakest and I strike there…”

Flynn takes his index finger.

And jabs it into the contract.

“HERE! CLAUSE 420. At any point, Generic Heel may rescind this contract AND/OR any of its terms.”

…

Flynn giggles diabolically.

“So… GH.”

“If I tap you out? I’m sure your contract will block my victory.”

“If I pin you? I’m sure it’ll turn out you were a body double all along.”

…

“But.”

“If I take your arm in that ring.”

“Twist it out of its socket.”

“And push and pull.”

“Crank and churn.”

“As your veins snap. As your shoulder blade turns purple.”

“As I BLEED YOU FUCKING INTERNALLY AND COMPLETELY.”

…

“You’ll beg me to stop. You’ll plead with me, screaming until your vocal chords give out.”

…

“And I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll really consider it.”

“And GH… I’ll stop.”

…

“Once you rescind your loss avoidance clause.”

“Once you embrace defeat the only way your contract will allow.

“Once you accept that the first ever Generic Heel loss in THREE DECADES...”

“Will be at the hands…”

“Of Mark.”

“FUCKING.”

“FLYNN.”

Flynn squeezes his fists so hard his knuckles crack.

“Your first loss.”

“And, after I’m done with you… your last.”

…The screen fades to black.

…

……

It pops back in real quick.

“Oh! Uh, and uh… This one’s for justice!”

Flynn finger-guns and winks into the camera unconvincingly.