The First Rule.

Scope and Purpose.

The Second Rule.

Scope in Action.

The Thir-.

...

.........Shhh.

...[/orange]

[yellow]What’s that I hear?

Above the surface?

...Ooooh, it sounds like…

A ruckus.

A rumble.

Police sirens.

Shouting.

Perhaps… I will be called upon...

Quote:“They’re ruling this a burglary gone wrong. Our little bookkeep clearly put up a fight… And had something taken from him. Deadman was still holding onto a piece of whatever it was. We were the first on the scene… And we ain’t the most harmless looking bunch.” King’s teeth grit softly against each other. His eyes danced between Ned, Flynn and Irwin.

Every time it seemed they had done some good for New York, another head of the hydra would emerge and they’d be left holding the bag.

“So, it could be anyone outside of... us, huh?” Ned asked, weighing over the options.

...Oh yes…

My time to shine.

Put me in the game.

I’m so FUCKING ready.

Quote:“NYPD, open up!”

“Coming! Just one moment!” His earnestness made them all uncomfortable, what with the murder hanging in the air and all.  The smile on the man’s face didn’t falter. Well… Until he opened the door.

“Mr… Irwin? We’re putting you under arrest for the murder of Maximillian Duhast, you have the right to-” Irwin found himself spun around and having handcuffs placed on his wrists before he could even respond, his eyes screamed of anxiety as he looked back at Flynn.

Yessssss… YESSSSSSSS!

First, we’ll need witnesses. Alibis. I will fucking fill every juror’s mind with so much REASONABLE DOUBT, that they’ll be FUCKING CHOKING ON UNCERTAINTY. THEY’LL DOUBT WHICH FUCKING WAY IS UP! WHEN I’M THR-

Quote:Theo moved to the door with a sort of grace only he could summon under such conditions. “Irwin, say nothing until my lawyer comes to see you.”

...What?

Quote:”Everything’s going to be alright.”

...No.

...NO!

...NOOOOOOO! C’MOOOOOOOON!

...

...Deep breaths.

...Another case will come along.

...

Third Rule.

...*sigh*

Commencing Action.

***
”The Thirty-Fifth Rule.”

...

...Oh, c’mon. You know this one.

...

AHA!

Physical and Mental Examinations!

...Godammit.

...All this time off is making me rus-.

...

...*snifffffffff*

I smell a case.

Quote:“Sir, may I remind you that… I’m currently calling you from jail, awaiting murder charges?”

…

“Ugh. You just LOVE playing that card, don’t you, Irwin? You love reminding everyone else how hard YOU have it.”

C’moooooooon....

Save your little sidekick…. Your number one fan…

I mean, you’re a good guy aren’tcha? A good guy always wants to help…

Quote:“...W-w-well, sir, it’s j-”

Quote:“No one likes a victim, Ir-man.” Flynn tsk-tsks. “You don’t like your situation? Why don’t you TAKE ACTIVE STEPS to IMPROVE IT instead of just MOPING about your LOT IN LIFE?”

...

...DO IT.

SUMMON ME.

Quote:“Well… When you… see him next, can you ask him t-”

***BZZZZZZZZZT***

Your call to a prisoner has ended.

“DAMMIT, IRWIN. YOU INTERRUPTED MY VENTING WITH YOUR GODDAMNED JAIL SCRUPLES!”

Would you like to extend the call by fifteen minutes for twenty-five cents?

Flynn guffaws. “...What am I made of money?” He hits ‘end’ and shoves the phone in his pocket.

...

......

..........

The Thirty-Sixth Rule.

REQUESTS.

FOR.

ADMISSION.

***

...Rule Eighty-six.

...Effective… dates.

...Rule Eighty-seven.

Civil… Rules… Emergency.

...Aaaaand back to Rule One…

…

Scope and Purp-

…

Quote:“I tell ya, Ir-dawg… Does ANYONE have it harder than Mark Flynn?”

…

Irwin clears his throat.

“Sir, may I remind you that I’m currently in jail on murder charges?”

“…Ugh. Always about YOUR problems…”

…Please.

Pleeeeeeeease.

This is all I want.

Just a chance to practice.

To do what I’m MEANT to do.

Quote:“Sorry, Sir. But, now that we’re on that topic, could you talk to Mister Clinton about paying my bail? …Or, maybe, calling me to discuss our defense strategy for my upcoming tri-?”

PLEASE. I’M BEGGING Y-

Quote:*click*

…Scope and Purpose.

…

…What is my purpose?

***

Ughhhhhhh. Fuck.

It’s like a goddamned hornet’s nest stinging the inside of his brain.

Flynn rubs his skull. Sitting in a chair. Trying to find the exact pressure point on his temple that will kill this headache…

“-aw enforcement is on its way. They have been briefed on the… situation. We have the production staff going through security footage, preparing it for handoff, as you requested.”

Tommy Gunn, XWF security enforcer (and Theo’s personal attack dog), carefully runs through the attack plan with Theo Pryce, who nods along patiently, processing the information with total mental control. Amazingly, in the throes of a potential PR disaster, Theo exudes comfort and control.

“And… uh… we’ve also had an assistant type up Mister Flynn’s… autopsy notes to provide the police.”

Theo nods. “Excellent. Flynn, do you think you’ll be able to sp-”

Theo turns around and sees his colleague, hands in his face, brow scrunched in pain.

…For a moment, Theo’s stoic facade breaks and there’s a twinge of concern in his voice.

“...Mark. You okay?”

“I’m FINE.” Flynn grunts, squeezing his skull, standing up. “Are we done or what?”

“...Well. I’d like if you could share your findings with the medical examiner. It would be helpful in this investigation to create an ally, rather than an adversary in the pol-”

“TED.” Flynn barks, staring daggers up at Theo. “I haven’t seen my son since I left him at home. At YOUR REQUEST.”

…Theo icily purses his lips. “Oh. I am *so* sorry I asked you not to traumatize your infant son, by bringing him along to a murder scene. How inconsiderate of me.”

…Flynn testily exhales. “Ted. I’m BASICALLY a single parent. Which, fine, I shoulda seen coming. Bobby hasn’t mentioned lil’ NK… or ‘Chewie’... in MONTHS. Because he’s a FUCKING FLAKE. HE’S UNRELIABLE. AND YOU PARTNERED ME UP WITH HIM.”

…Theo coughs, trying to shake off that barb.

“...Well, Vinnie did that.”

“Oh WOW!” Flynn’s eyes widen. He puts his hands on his cheeks, like this is a shocking revelation that changes everything! “Vinnie Lane! You definitely can’t override him! After all, he’s an INTEGRAL PART OF THIS COMPANY!”

…Flynn marches several feet, to the office beside Theo’s. He grips the doorknob.

“I mean..!”

He throws it open!

“CHECK OUT ALL THE ACTIVITY GOING ON HIS OFFICE!”

Flynn points inside!

“EMPTY AS A GODD-”

…Flynn’s head slowly turns toward it.

Inside, in Vinnie’s chair, Peter Principle’s pants are around his ankles. In his hands is Vinnie’s 1987 January copy of Leg Warmers Quarterly.

…Principle covers himself… with the magazine “OCCUPIED! KNOCK! KNOCK BEFORE YOU ENTER!”

Flynn slams the door!

…

Flynn sucks air, as he claps his hands.

“Not exactly the punchline *I* expected, but my point remains.”

Theo sighs. “Flynn. Someone killed a referee. In my office…” Theo rests a hand on the back of his head, as if it’s just dawning on him now how wild this is. “Someone… has it out for me. And, possibly, the company.”

“I’m asking for your help in… Both for the XWF. And for me.”

…

Flynn sighs.

“Ted. Since I got here, I’ve been thinking about NK… non-stop. If he’s getting fed, if he’s crying… If he wants me to read him Animal Farm…”

“...Animal Farm?”

“My baby is a communist, POINT BEING.”[/orang] Flynn cuts in, impatient with Theo’s interruption. [orange]“I’m not my best if I can’t dedicate my full focus to the task.”

“I gotta go grab my kid.”

…

...Theo nods, sighing. “Of course. I understand. After all, family comes fir-”

Before Theo can finish his already-terse approval, Flynn is already turned ‘round down the hallway.

As Theo turns to watch Flynn exit, Gunn leans over his boss’s shoulder.

“One last thing, Mister Pryce. It might be prudent to have a lawyer on hand. After all, the… deceased was found in your office.”

…

Flynn stops in his tracks.

Pinching his head.

“....Fuuuuuuuck.” He moans. “What is *with* this migraine?”

***

YOU FUCK.

LET ME IN THERE.

YOU FUCKING PRICK ASSHOLE COCKSUCKER MOTHERFUCKER PIECE OF SHIT FUCK.

GIVE ME THE CASE.

***

…Flynn.

…

Squeezes his skull…

And keeps walking.

…Albeit on shaky legs.

***

THAT’S IT.

***

Theo waves off Gunn’s suggestion. “Not to worry. This is what XWF keeps general counsel on staff f-”

WHAM!

Theo and Tommy’s gaze spins behind them!

Like a sack of flour, Flynn drops to the floor.

Still.

Immobile.

“...Mark?”

“Mark!”

“Can you hear me?”

***

…

“Ugh…”

“God…DAMN.”

“...Feels like my head’s been used to test experimental hammers… Made of Knives…”

Flynn squeezes his skull with both ha-.

*Clink.*

...Flynn lifts his wrists to his eyes.

He’s in handcuffs.

“Wha… Where? …How?”

Flynn lowers his hands… As his eyes focus, he sees…

An ocean of black.

Not darkness.

He can see himself…

But… Before him.

An endless void of nothing.

“ALL RISE!”

…Suddenly, Flynn’s ears perk! The sound of feet shuffling upwards! Bustles of busy boots buzzing and bumping.

…

“…ALL. RISE.”

Suddenly, an invisible hand wraps under Flynn’s arm, JERKING him to his feet.

Reflexively, Flynn swings a punch at whatever’s grabbing him!

…But, nothing is there.

The SLAM of wood on wood echoes in the vacuum.

“Hear ye, hear ye… This Court is called to decide the custody of the property heretofore known as…”

“Mark Flynn.”

…Flynn’s eye twitches.

“What?!? Custody?!? OF ME?”

“Quiet.” The voice cuts, disinterestedly. “You’ll have your turn to speak soon regarding… ownership of the property.”

“PROPERTY?!? FUCK YOU!” Flynn howls. “No one OWNS ME BUT ME!”

“Enough. No words from you.” The voice says calmly.

“___-”

…

“____ ___ _____?!?” Flynn grabs at his own throat, furiously. Despite all his rage, his vocal chords cannot emit even a decibel.

“Any party seeking to state their claim before this court, step forward now.”

“Ah! That’s me, your honor!”

Flynn spins.

…Suddenly, he sees in the abyss of nothingness.

A person standing beside him.



“___ ___ _____ ___ ___?” Flynn tries to shriek through whatever force compels his silence. Regardless, he remains speechless before the Court.

“State your name for the record.”

The attorney politely nods.

“Christopher K. Clinton, your honor.”

…Flynn’s eyes widen. “___________ _. _______?!?”

“State your claim before this court, Mister Clinton.”

“Yes, your honor.” Clinton nods, smiling… Visibly giddy. “May I approach?”

“...Both parties may approach.”

SWEEEEEEEEEP!

Before Flynn can even think, he and Clinton are THRUST FORWARD!


Through miles and miles of the black abyss in a NANO-INSTANT!

Flynn collapses on his knees, feeling sick. Feeling like his last four meals are all crawling up his stomach to say hello…

Amazingly, Clinton is unaffected. He reaches into his breast pocket, retrieving a document.

“This is a copy of our complaint, Your Honor.” Clinton bows as he delivers the paper to… nothing?

…Thwip! In a moment, before his eyes. The document’s gone.

…Clinton smiles… Though, his smirk turns to one of frustration as his hands visibly shake. He eventually squeezes them, digging his fingernails into his palm… To try to calm his shaking.

“Haha.” Clinton bows again. “I’m sorry, your Honor. It’s been… a WHILE since I’ve gotten to do this.”

…The document re-appears in Clinton’s hand.

“Your complaint asserts that the property is being… neglected?”

“_________?!?”

“Yes! Neglected! The legal entity known as Mark Flynn is a man with hopes and dreams. Who wants MORE! To be recognized! To be admired! To be loved! To be HAILED as the best!”

…

Clinton gestures toward Flynn behind him.

“And this… current possessor. Is one content with MEDIOCRITY. One satisfied with MERE APPEARANCE, rather than victory.”

…

For a moment, Flynn’s skin curdles. He feels a visible chill.

As if under a cold, analytical eye.

“...With all due respect, counselor. This possessor seems fit to me. Do you have any facts to substantiate your claim of neglect?”

Clinton shakes his head, POINTING! THRUSTING HIS FINGER at Mark Flynn! As if indicating toward the very IDEA OF INJUSTICE!

“This man…

“If you can even call him that, your Honor.”

“This SMALL, CRAVEN LITTLE NOBODY.”

“Led Mark Flynn to lose to Doctor Louis D’Ville.”

A cacophony from the galley.

“To Bobby Bourbon!”

A SEA OF SHOCK!

“TO NED KAYE AND ISAIAH KING!”

AN OCEAN OF AHHHHS OF OPEN OUTRAGE!

“And… most recently… to KIERAN KING!”

…Somewhere, there’s an audible vomiting sound.

“Quite frankly, your honor, had we realized the EXTENT of the neglect that the Mark Flynn property was experiencing? Had we realized that HE would lead this name to such ruinous MIDCARD, .500 RECORD ORDINARINESS?!?” Clinton shakes his head. “We would have demanded this possessor be stripped of his controlling rights.” Clinton snaps his fingers! “Immediately!”

“As such, we humbly beseech this court to remove control of the Mark Flynn property from this FALSE POSSESSOR! While we… determine a course of action and new management controls… That will return the Mark Flynn property to its rightful place. At the VERY TOP!”

…There’s a low grumble of voices surrounding this action.

“Current possessor. Have you anything to say denying these claims?”

SUDDENLY, Flynn’s larynx is filled with so much air, he collapses on his hands and knees. He coughs and sputters. slams his first against his own throat, trying to get himself under control.

“Gather yourself.” The voice commands. ”Show this court the proper decorum.”

…

Flynn’s eyebrow twitches.

“Decorum?”

“FUCK YOU.”

Gasps.

“No. No, no.” Flynn smiles, walking in a little circle, spinning towards the gallery. “I get it. This whole theatre of the mind, ‘who controls Mark Flynn’ bullshit?”

“I’ve done this before.” Flynn scoffs. “Kind of played out, to be honest.”

“I had three old Mark Flynn personalities crawl from the depths of my memory like so much edgelord high-school poetry I’ve tried to fucking forget by BECOMING AN ADULT.”

Flynn wiggles his fingers around him at the invisible gallery. “Ooooh, you’re all so brooding and deep! With your hunting metaphors and black eyes and silk bathrobes… I’m sure any of you old Mark Flynns would have beaten DOCTOR LOUIS D’VILLE, huh?”

…Flynn scoffs, spitting into the nothing.

“Go FUCK yourselves. I’m Mark Flynn. THE Mark Flynn. Not some cheesy gimmick, not some bullshit alter-ego… AND NOT SOME LAWYER IMAGINARY FRIEND I MADE UP.” Flynn sneers at Clinton.

Clinton does not dignify Flynn’s diatribe with even a glance, choosing instead to stare straight ahead.

“...Now. I’m done playing pretend.” Flynn dusts himself off, for effect. “I’m gonna click my heels together three times.”

“Get home.”

“And take care of my son.”

“And… maybe get a therapist… So I stop having to deal with these fucking WEAK ANALOGIES FOR SELF-EXPLORATION every THREE MONTHS.”

Flynn clicks his heels once.

Twice.

Three times.

…

……

Hmm.

Still… there.

“...”

Clinton coughs.

“May I ask what you thought would happen?”

…Flynn blushes. “Kinda… Just thought this… whole scene was a metaphor for insecurity…” Flynn scratches the back of his head. “And… uh… I just needed to monologue about… believing in myself. Like last time.”

“Ah.”

WOOD CLATTERING.

“The complaint is valid. The case may proceed.”

“Deliberations will begin in two weeks. In the meantime, the property shall remain unoccupied for the duration of the proceeding.”

“TWO WEEKS?!? UNOCCUPIED?!?” Flynn screeches. “What the fuck are you talking about?!? I can’t have my body for two weeks?!?”

“On that topic, sir!” Clinton reaches into his breast pocket. “We’ve prepared a motion to seek temporary possession…” Clinton coughs, sniffing… Clearly gripped with anticipation. “Simply to… assess damages. Determine current market value of the property.” Clinton grits his teeth into a smile. “Standard fact-finding…”

…

“Granted.”

THWIP!

One moment, Clinton was here beside Flynn.

And now?

He’s gone.

“Court is adjourned. We’ll revisit this matter in two weeks’ time.”

CLAT-

…

The moment the wood-on-wood sound returned.

The black void was rendered completely silent.

…

Flynn looks around.

In every direction.

There is nothing.

…

“I just fucking stay here?!?”

…

“WHAT ABOUT MY KID?”

***

Plastic wheels click along the tiled floor.

The huffing of an infant… Resisting the urge to cry with every fiber of his tiny baby being.

“Shhh, it’s okay. No tears now…” Theo Pryce pushes the stroller along, doing his best to emit calm and soothing in his voice. “We’re about to see your papa.”

Pryce gets to the room at the end of the hall… The one he visited yesterday. And the day before.

…

But the bed is empty.

And the lights off.

A male nurse in blue scrubs walks past.

“Excuse me.” Theo calls out, waving a hand. The nuse stops and turns. “I came by to visit a friend.” Theo points at the empty space. “He was in this room… Has he been moved somewhere?”

“...Oh! That guy!” …The nurse scratches the beard on his face. “He checked himself out an hour ago.”

“...What?” Theo’s brow scrunches in confusion. “...He just… left?”

“Said he had somewhere to be. When the nurse told him to rest, he said he was done waiting to do what he was meant to do.”

…Theo squints… Trying to parse that statement… As he does, he hears more huffing and whining. Pryce looks down at NK, on the verge of a tantrum…

Theo sighs. [yheo]“Did he say anything about… what he was *meant* to do?”[/theo]

“Nope. But… uh…” It’s the nurse’s turn to peer suspiciously. “Are you… Theo Pryce?”

…Theo can’t hide an exasperated exhale. “Yes, but I… I don’t take fan photos and I prefer not to sig-”

The nurse reaches into his pocket…

Retrieving…

A card.

“He left this for you.”



“What the…?”

***
“Ooooooooh… That’s nice.”

Fingertips gently brush against every bit of the faux-leather steering wheel.

A right hand, with a flourish, shifts gear into Drive.

“Finally… In controooooooool.”

…

As a Cherry-Red Honda Fit pulls out of a hospital parking lot.

The left hand masterfully maneuvers the steering wheel.

The right presses a bluetooth earpiece.

“Yes, hello!” A chipper voice oozes honey… So sweet, it’s semi-toxic. “What’s your name?”

…

“Charlene! Beautiful name! If you could, Charlene? Could you connect me to Prisoner #124783273? First name, Irwin?”

…

“Who should you say is calling?”

…

A smile creeps across Mark Flynn’s face.

As he curls the end of the false mustache resting upon his upper lip.

“His attorney."

"Christopher.”

“K.”

“Clinton.”

***

Dionysus.

Man of Many Faces.

And Zero personality.

HAHAHAHA.

Man.

I’ve missed this.

Getting to be MEAN.

Mark Flynn’s been real fuckin’ namby-pamby recently.

Ol’ Goody-two-bad-knees.

Sickeningly sweet in these supposed-to-be smacktalk scetions.

Flynn tried to inspire Dolly Waters to be better?

And she tries to break his fucking leg.

He wrote a love letter to Barney Green, company workhorse?

And Green turns in a thirty-second promo.

Flynn tells Kieran King about how he’s stuck in the past and how Mark Flynn’s the future?

…When all that was in Mark’s future was getting STOMPED INTO PASTE.

Fourth place in March Madness.

Jesus Christ.

Before this whole ‘Good Guy’.

Wanting to be better horseshit?

We used to be GREAT.

FUCK, we were AMAZING.

We turned heads.

WE SHAPED THE INDUSTRY.

We FORCED EYES ONTO US.

MILLIONS WOULD TUNE IN TO HATE-WATCH MARK FLYNN.

WE WERE.

APPOINTMENT.

TELEVISION.

…

Let’s get back to that.

Let’s get mean.

Should be easy enough.

After all.

What’s there NICE to say about Dionysus?

What a fucking BLACK MARK on the XWF today…

That Dionysus keeps stumbling ass backward into title reigns.

That’s a DAMNING statement on the new era.

‘Dionysus ALMOST got a briefcase.’

…Y’know, for a while, I thought Big D would’ve been the LEAST LEGITIMATE briefcase holder in XWF history.

After all, how many X-Treme champions LOST more title defenses than they won?

Big D kept getting to defend his belt in trios matches… And kept racking up defenses through his dominant ability to “not getting pinned.”

It was so cowardly, it actually became brilliant.

I genuinely thought, from my vantage point, in the recesses of Flynn’s mind.

No one.

NO ONE.

Could cheat the briefcase system worse than this.

…

Lo-and-behold.

Dionysus.

Dion defended his belt…

Against…

Hawaiian Hardhead?

Razor Blade?

Schism?

Three opponents who couldn’t summon up the FIVE MINUTE ATTENTION SPAN TO RECORD PROMOTIONAL MATERIAL.

Dion had 75% of his defenses against guys who shouldn’t be allowed within 100 feet of a school… Let alone INSIDE a wrestling ring.

And he STILL came within INCHES of a briefcase.

…But nope.

Dion went on Anarchy…

And shat the bed against Pariah.

Who turned around and got pinned in a hallway three nights later.

…

And here’s the thing, Dion.

Here’s what pisses me off about you.

This company… This WRESTLING EMPIRE.

Is committed to feeding you opportunity…

After opportunity…

After opportunity.

You got… what, two? Three chances? Back-to-back? To win your X-Treme title back? On Warfare? Then, again at March Madness?

And what happens?

The first time, you don’t cut a promo.

The second time? You might as well have called in sick.

Sticking out like a sore thumb, beside two legends in Bobby Bourbon and Corey Black.

Looking like a rec-center hooper next to Lebron and MJ.

Winded running the ropes.

Outworked every move.

What a fucking clown.

…

And this!

THIS ASSHOLE.

Is who we’re celebrating.

Who we’re giving a WHOLE FUCKING PAY-PER-VIEW.

Because he was the… what? MVP of his Fire & Ice team?

For beating… Big D? A joke champ?

When Bobby (also on the winning team) beat (with Flynn) a pair of tag-champs that had gone undefeated for SEVEN MONTHS?!?

Face it.

Dion’s accomplishments?

All fake.

I mean… Dion won 2023 XWF Rookie of the Year?

But… Against fucking WHO, DION? BULK LOGAN? SLADE DURANT? THE HAM SANDWICH?!?

That neat little end-of-year trophy.

A perfect attendance award.

That you’ve honored by mentally no-showing your last half-dozen matches.

…

But what pisses me off the most, Dion?

You act like all this opportunity you get force-fed?

Makes sense.

Like you deserve every spot you fuck up.

Like your face SHOULD be plastered on an ENTIRE PAY-PER-VIEW event.

You're a mediocre, untalented DOLLOP.

A year under your belt, and still wet-behind-the-ears.

Your trash-talk lacks bite.

Your work in the ring is uninspired drivel.

You're slow.

You're clumsy.

You're LACKING.

IN EVERY MEASURE.

...

And you sit there.

With that smug look on your face.

Like all is right with the world.

LIKE YOU.

SHOULD HAVE.

CONTROL.

…

I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of guys that don’t have IT getting the big shot. And putting up an airball.

I’m SICK of sitting in the passenger seat. Watching the driver skid the entire company off the side of the fucking mountain.

…

Dion.

I'm done sitting on the bench.

And your spot looks ripe for the picking.

Consider this a hostile takeover.

And if that means breaking the face of the company? Mere months away from his PERSONALIZED PAY-PER-VIEW?

Bone-by-bone?

Flaying the skin from your FUCKING back?

Until your ‘company face’ is COVERED IN BLOOD?

…

Fine.

Tell your clones to meet you in the emergency room.

And make sure they’ve all signed up to be organ donors.

…

Because when I’m finished with you?

You’ll need all the new parts you can get.