A boardroom.

Shades drawn. Faces shrouded in darkness.

Murmured whispers and mutterings, like a dark incantation summoning the old and new gods of capitalism together in unholy union.

On one side of the table, a legion, a cacophony… A cadre of executive-level corporate lawyers.

Masters of the macabre arts: Merger & Acquisition…

They move as one.

Like an ancient army from an antique land.

Exchanging forms seamlessly…

Sign, pass right, notarize, initial terms…

Across from this unstoppable legion of infernal attorneys?

Who else but Mark Flynn. Clicking a ball-point pen, disinterestedly… Like, whatevz. Same shit, different energy.

Sitting on Flynn’s left is Irwin, Flynn’s #1 fan and quasi-sidekick (formerly his villainous henchman).

To Flynn's right… Flynn’s secret weapon in contract negotiations…

A false mustache.

…Irwin looks down at the ‘stache…

“Why is the mustache’s chair taller than mine?”

“SO HE CAN SEE, IRWIN.” Flynn hisses, angrily.

…

Irwin scratches his head.

“Wait, hold on… So… Wait, do you mean he can see?” Irwin’s index finger taps at the air, trying to add up the various illogical premises in his head. “...Is your attorney something you summon by putting on the mustache? Or… can he see our world through your mustache prop?”

Flynn snarls, as his eye wildly twitches.

“IT’S. COMPLICATED.”

“Enough.” Bites the first attorney in the legion. Immediately, the rest of the legal legion sits, flanking their voice like a demonic choir speaking a language of heathens and rebrobates: legalese.

Irwin leans back, terrified by the threatening aura of the Contractual Contingent…

Flynn grips the table, emitting strength.

“Our client has summoned usssssssss…” Hisses the Judicial General of this army of attorneys. “To ecksssssssssplore… The possssssssibility of an… amicable transsssssssaction.”

Flynn nods.

“Yes.”

…

“Ssssssssssssssssss…” Flynn adds on an extra-long hiss after his affirmative answer.

Quote:Helpful Law Hint: The same way you make your self look bigger to frighten bears, to frighten attorneys, you make your S sounds longer than theirs! Try it the next time you’re being sued, kids!

The lawyers briefly recoil in curious terror at Flynn’s formidable hiss length.

But with a snap of his fingers, the Judicial General summons his troop back to tranquility beside him…

“Our client will entertain a reassssssssssonable offer. What isssssssssss… your opening position?”

Flynn clears his throat.

“One d-”

“DEAL!” Says a voice beneath the boardroom.

…

Curiously, Irwin glances under the table… Pulling up a tablecloth.

…

Under the executive boardroom table.

Is the Richest Man on the Planet. Elon Musk.

The 100% owner of the most valuable platform on the planet…

Guaranteed to revolutionize the future!

I’m, of course, referring to…



The LFL’s Elon Muskrats!

…

(He also owns Twitter X).

“Ssssssssir, pleasssssssse...” Pleads the Judicial General of X’s corporate lawyer army, tilting his elastic snakelike neck down beneath the table. “You cannot acccccccept agreementsssssss without conssssssssssidering the long-term effectsssssss of your decision.”

Elon kicks his feet in the air, as he doodles in his Emerald Mining coloring book.

He sticks out his bottom lip and pouts. “But, I’m bored! I’m booooooooooooored. Buy it!”

…

“Ssssssssir, Misssssster Flynn is not here to ssssssssell you something, he issssss here to buy from you.”

“THEN SELL IT!” Elon smacks the ground childishly with his fists!

“...Ssssir, shouldn’t we try to… obtain, at least… closssssse to the value of the asset? After all, you bought it for… forty-four billion dollarssssss.”

“I DUNNO! JUST… JUST DO IT!” Elon pouts, hiding his face behind his coloring book.

It goes without saying, his emerald crayons have NOT stayed inside the lines.

“...Ssssssir.” The lead attorney leans down to Elon’s eye level (as that typically soothes Musk’s tantrums)... The other attorneys follow the lead beneath the table.

…Flynn leans toward Irwin, speaking surreptitiously out of the side of his mouth. “Damn. I knew buying Twitter would be easy, but this is CAKE!”

Irwin clears his throat, leaning into Flynn’s ear. “About that, sir. Um…” Irwin scratches his head, struggling to find the proper wording for his… criticism.

“I’m… *relieved* that you haven’t spent the last week building some… global mind control device…”

Flynn scoffs, dismissively. “Oh, please, what am I, a VILLAIN? Only a BAD GUY brainwashes the entire planet…”

“GOOD GUYS (like me) buy information channels, then gradually filter information allowed on the platform until public opinion sways in their favor.”

…

Irwin’s eye twitches. “See, there’s my concern… That *sounds* evil… In fact, that might be more evil than just… building a mind-control device.”

“What?!? Ridiculous!” Flynn waves his arm dismissively. “My method preserves the comfortable illusion that the viewers remain in total control of their minds, unaware they’ve been influenced to do my bidding.”

…

Irwin blinks. Like… is he being pranked at this point?

“Sir… everything you’re saying makes this plan sounds MORE evil.”

“Irwin, I’m telling you, once you see it in action, you’ll see it’s not evil. It’s just mentally manipulating 300 million American fans… (and a significant chunk of the international wrestling market), into ignoring their current thoughts to agree that I’m a GOOD GUY.”

…

“See, I…” Irwin shakes his head. “I feel like I should record what you’re saying and play it back for you.”

“That’s stupid. I can hear myself just fine, IRWIN.” Flynn sneers.

Ignoring Irwin’s protests, Flynn pulls out a piece of paper from his… sock? He clicks his pen, scribbling. The Legal Legion crawls back up from under the table, having partially quelled their client’s kicking-and-screaming.

“Look, I’m going to write down a number…” Flynn clicks his pen closed… And slides it across the table. “And you can decide if it’s… generous enough for you…”

The Judicial General leans forward to peek at the sli-

“SOLD!” From under the table!

“Ssssssssir.” The Judicial General leans under the table once more. “Pleassssssssse! Stop accepting deals we haven’t actually LOOKED AT.”

“I DON’T CARE! TAKE HIS DEAL!”

Flynn pumps his fist.

“YES! YOU JUST SOLD YOUR MIND CONTROL APP FOR ONE DOLLAR!” Flynn opens the slip of paper from the middle of the table!

Indeed, it reads ‘ONE DOLLAR’!

Flynn leans back in his chair, confident in his victory.

…

The Judicial General exhales, exasperated.

“Missssster Flynn, I wasssss hoping we could ssssssave this for a rainy day… But, we will have to declare…. Takessssiessss Backssssssiessss.”

…Flynn gasps. “You fiend!”

…Irwin double-takes. “...W-w-wait! The offer was made and accepted! I’m no lawyer, but… In contract law terms.” Irwin side-eyes Flynn. “Aren’t there no takesies backsies?”

…Flynn strokes his chin.

“Hmmmm… Lemme check with my attorney.”

…

Flynn grabs the mustache, ducking under the table.

…

A moment later, Christopher K. Clinton (who looks like Mark Flynn with a false mustache, but is NOT Mark Flynn) emerges from beneath the table.

“That’s correct.” Clinton says, straightening his tie, as he points at the snakemen attorneys with disgust! “No Takesies Backsies!”

“Yeah! So, we win!”

Clinton clears his throat. “Unless, of course, you brought…”

As if on cue, the Judicial General reaches into his front pocket… And retrieves a golden slip of paper.



…The J.G. slides it across the table.

Irwin looks down, stunned. “...Wait, is that real?”

…

Clinton grunts.

He picks up the card off the table.

…He brings it close to his eyes, scanning every fleck of ink on the card for the slightest imperfection.

…

He sniffs the card.

…

He presses his tongue on the card.

…

He licks his lips.

“Damn. It’s real. You can tell by the official ABA sticker in the corner.”

“...If that’s how you can tell, why did you lick it?”

Clinton pockets the card. “Backsies recognized.”

SUDDENLY, THE PAPER FLYNN WROTE HIS OFFER ON IS CONSUMED IN FLAMES!

…

Ash remains.

…

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Irwin cries out! “D-d-did that paper just explode?!? …Because you declared backsies?”

…

“Heheheheh…”

The Legal Legion all guffaw. Chortling, elbowing each other, like, get a load of this guy.

“Unbelievable!”

“Has this guy never seen backsies declared?”

“What an amateur!”

The JG eventually tames his snake den, before revolving towards Clinton and Irwin confidently.

“Perhapssssss, thissssss issssss your colleague’sssss firsssssst contract negotiation?” The JG coos mockingly.

…Clinton blushes.

“Irwin, you are EMBARRASSING me.”

Irwin sinks into his chair, perplexed… Is the law just magic? But, Flynn hates magic!

“Now, that you’ve spent your backsies… The final dance begins.” Clinton leans over the table. “State your demands.”

“I WANT GRAHAM CRAC-”

BUMP! The entire table jumps a half-a-foot in the air.

…

Musk stands up, rubbing his scalp, a lump already brewing on his skull

“I WANT GRAHAM CRACKERS!”

The JG reaches down to the waistcoat of his pinstripe executive, three-piece suit… And twists the back of his waistband to his front…

“Do you want a bandaid for your booboo, Mister Mussssssk?” The JG asks plainly, as he opens up a first-aid kit, featuring a cartoon dinosaur wearing a stethoscope!

“NOOOOOOOO!” Elon stomps his feet! “I want GRAHAM CRACKERS!”

…

The JG sighs.

“Did anyone bring… graham crackerssssss?”

…

The Legal Legion, prepared with every instance of contract law, every possible negotiating contigency within the infinite realm of mediation and settlement…

…

And not one of them brought a zip-loc with graham crackers.

Not even the apple sauce to dip them in…

“Foolssssssss…” The JG mutters, rubbing his slit-like reptilian pupils. He spins back to the opposite end of the table.

“Missssssster Flynn… and company… perhapssssss we might reconvene at Twitt…”

…

JG groans.

“X Headquarterssssss. To complete thessssse negotationsssss.”

…Clinton strokes his chin.

“Let me verify that my client is amenable to moving locations…”

Clinton dips back under the table.

…

A moment later, Mark Flynn (who looks like Christopher K. Clinton without a false mustache, but is NOT Christopher K. Clinton) emerges from beneath the table.

…

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Flynn rubs his nose disinterestedly.

…Irwin tugs on Flynn’s sleeve, leaning into his ear.

“Sir, I dunno… Should we really head to these guys’ headquarters? We’re giving them home court advantage.”

…Flynn scoffs.

“Irwin, they may be omnipotent corporate lawyers… But they’re working for a gibbering buffoon.”

Flynn points his thumb backwards over his shoulder toward Elon Musk, currently holding a green apple marker up to his nose, sniffing it, as his attorneys struggle to get him to put the marker down.

“Trust me. There’s NO THREAT at Musk’s headquarters that we can’t handle…”

---

MuskCo Headquarters…

ChadGPT Testing Facility

Sitting atop a sterile white table…

Is a human-sized, rubbery wrestling dummy…

And atop the dummy’s head… A gala apple.

”…Ready… Aim…”

BZZZZZZZZZZZT!

From across the room, a screeeeeeEAMING red laser pierces through the air!

The apple…

Is unfazed.

…

The wrestling dummy…

Was fucking vaporized into bubbling goo.

…

The Programmer looks at the Analyst, who bites his lip.

“Uh… Sorry, sir. We’ll make a quick fix to… recalibrate targeting. Next time, you’ll hit the apple.”

“I wasn’t aiming for the apple, you foolish American programmer.”

…

The North Korean War Machine (piloting Chad GPT’s flawless form), taps his right temple…

His shining red eyes return to a neutral cerulean blue.

“Increase power to occipital energy banks…”

The Programmer dry-swallows… Spinning back toward his computer.

NK(GPT) smiles insidiously.

“If I’m going to destroy Mark Flynn…”

“I need… MORE… POWER.”

---

Fuckin’ told ya, kids.

Someone call Joey Wheel-and-Dealer.

What were the betting odds that I’d make it to a 24/7 briefcase?

One in five-hundred?

One in five-thousand?

Maybe one in five million?

…

I’m not exaggerating.

In order to get to where I am?

I had to do LITERALLY the IMPOSSIBLE.

I had to do what NO MAN HAS EVER DONE BEFORE IN THE HISTORY OF THE XWF.

I had to defend my X-Treme belt at WARGAMES.

Against Twenty-Three of the best superstars working today.

Cream of the Fucking Crop.

Do you understand how elite the XWF is? How SUPERIOR this company’s talent is to EVERY OTHER FEDERATION IN THE WRESTLING WOLD?

I competed against twenty-three of the greatest to ever run the ropes…

And I outlasted.

EVERY.

SINGLE.

ONE OF THEM.
…

Check the record books.

Scope those stats.

Since the company’s became a corporate entity in 1999, no one…

LITERALLY ZERO.

X-Treme champions.

Have ever entered WarGames with the belt…

And left still holding it.

…

ZERO.

IN TWENTY-FOUR YEARS.

…

And then Mark Flynn rolls in.

Battling the narrative perpetuated by morons.

Mark Flynn lost his Universal Title…

He’s looking down the barrel of FORTY-FOUR years old.

This has gotta be it.

He’s over-the-hill.

He’s receding in ability.

Get him a cane.

Get him a walker.

Buy up him up a nice spot in the old folks’ home.

So we can all gather around the bed…

And watch him wither…

And die.

…

And I heard those critiques.

And I fucking DISPROVED them.

I went out week-after-week… Putting on the finest fucking matches of my career.

I outlasted Bobby Bourbon.

I pinned Corey Smith.

I dismembered the good Doctor.

And I put Mieky Graves into his gra-...

…

*throat-clear*

…

I don’t know.

I didn’t like how that felt coming out.

…

CUZ I DIDN’T KILL HIM.

…

I KNOW I WROTE THE LINE.

…

Just…

Just cut it out later.

…

Back to it.

I beat everyone worth beating on my climb back to the top of the card.

And I secured a 24/7 briefcase.

The SILVER BULLET of the XWF.

Put this weapon in the hands of a low-tier goober…

A walking joke.

And for as long as he(-or-she) holds it, he(-or-she)’s the biggest threat in the locker room.

…

Now, imagine what happens when a fucking WRESTLING GOD like me has one.

I haven’t lost a match since MARCH.

My 2023 record? 11-2. One of THE best records for the year in XWF.

Tack on me holding the Uni for longer than any other Uni champ has in the year 2023… And I might be the first man to REPEAT XWF Star of the Year.

THAT’S THE MAN YOU’RE CALLING WASHED-UP.

…

And it was all going to culminate at Leap of Faith.

I’d just side-stepped seven rodeo clowns, in the THUGS and The Misfits.

And victory-lapped my way effortlessly to this briefcase.

I was going to tease a cash-in on Corey Smith.

Like fucking poetry, Corey.

The stanzas perfectly match up.

TWO YEARS AGO. Corey Smith STOLE MY MOMENT… the match before the Main Event of Night 3 of Relentless.

He cashed in on Thaddeus Duke before the officials could consider adding an overtime to our hour-long draw…

And I became a side-character in my own fucking masterpiece.

A FIVE-STAR MATCH ON THE BIGGEST WEEKEND IN WRESTLING.

…Turned into an hour-long intro to Corey Smith’s big cash-in.

…

And, yes, I am a Good Guy.

Yes! I am THE GOOD GUY.

…

But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t get into some well-intended mischief.

I was going to wait until Corey beat TK…

Then, my music would play.

And for a minute… Corey would know EX-ZACTLY how I felt.

When I heard his music blare over the X-Tron…

And realized that the night I thought was mine…

Was being taken from me.

…

I’d stand over Corey.

I’d lift up my briefcase.

The world would, once again, mischaracterize me.

They’d believe I betrayed my principles and was going back to being bad…

…

And I’d grin.

And say ‘No.’

‘Not tonight.’

…

Sigh.

But, once again…

My moment was stolen from me.

Someone locked the door to the X-Treme champ’s dressing room.

And by the time maintenance broke the lock, Corey had already gotten himself intentionally DQ’d.

What a start for the fledgling champ.

Now, he’s hiding in his cage for his first defense.

…

But, don’t worry, Corey.

I’m not cashing in this Warfare.

Someone in the back has it out for me.

Someone decided to FUCK WITH MY MOMENT.

It could’ve been Bobby. He’s had a weird mad-on for me ever since it became clear I was locking down this briefcase. He’s started name-dropping me in promos, daring me to cash-in first.

Could be ol’ Bobb-o trying to get in my head.

…

Could be Corey.

…

Okay, hear me out.

I know the kid is squeaky clean.

Gosh, gee whilikers, I sure do love my boyfriend and my hippie commune! Top Ten Lists! If it was good enough for Letterman thirty yeas ago, it’s good enough for me!

But… Somewhere… Deeeeeeeeep down in Corey.

I got a gut feeling The Engineer is still in there.

…

And maybe he’s looking around at the XWF.

And knows who the real threat is to him breaking his own championship record.

…

I got a suspect list a mile long.

One thing’s for sure, though.

It ain’t Slade Durant, haha.

Sure, Slade's is a villain.

Exactly the kind that would run afoul of a GOOD GUY like me.

But, from what I gather, Durant ain't quiet.

Exhibit A

Quote:

Slade Durant’s Twitter.

That’s right, Slade. I ain’t gonna play the whole “Who the HELL is Slade Durant?” card that idiots like to cut on newcomers.

I do my fucking pregame research. I know who you are, just fine.

You’re loud.

You’re boisterous.

You’re cocksure.

You're the kinda guy that'll harass an opponent (see: Chet Dakota) with tweets to get a rise out of him.

And… can I be frank?

I’ve gone back and watched old tape.

You’re good.

…

Okay, admittedly, you weren’t great when you lost in a minute flat to Chet Dakota for the WCC championship.

Quote:

As seen on Chet Dakota’s Wikipedia!

But, on average.

You’re good.

…

Problem?

You’re stepping in the ring with someone great.

Someone phenomenal.

A ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME TALENT.

THE.

GREATEST.

WRESTLER.

OF.

ALL.

TIME.

…

Since Day One.

And Slade…

Eventhough I KNOW it wasn’t you who fucked my plan?

…

I’m sending a message to whoever did.

Newsflash, idiot.

Fuck with Mark Flynn?

You’re gonna end up a SKIDMARK on the mat.

Just like ol’ Slade Durant.

Welcome to the XWF, Sladey-poo.

And rest in peace.