Backstage
PROTECT THE INVESTMENT
The show opens cold, before any music, before any videos, before any pyro. The Pinnacle has offered a brand new vision for the SHOOT Project, one of idolatry and opportunity. No opportunity, though, was taken advantage of more than this one. The World Heavyweight Champion. Joshua Breedlove.
He’s in his lockerroom, the only notable figure in the room. There are some worker-bees milling about him, putting together what looks like a display case on wheels. A lock is affixed to it, the display case is plexiglass, immaculate and clear, which puts a big grin on the face of the World Champion.
Joshua Breedlove: Amazing. You guys have done great work. Real Deal must have given you all a raise for coming to New York, there’s no way this would have been so good in Vegas.
Breedlove muses, the workers are not impressed or even really paying much attention to him.
Breedlove: Is everything just… that much better in New York?
He looks at the display case.
Breedlove: Obviously.
Off to his side, there’s a very securely locked briefcase, one that you might see in use for a very high value collection item. It has multiple locks, failsafes if you will. He presses his thumb to a biometric sensor and the briefcase opens slightly. He smiles as he opens the lid and the gleam of gold lights up his face.
The SHOOT Project World Heavyweight Championship looks back at him.
Breedlove: And now I put you where you belong, a place that is so much nicer, safer, and better than any place you’ve been before.
One of the workers opens the case and Breedlove slides the championship in. It gets locked in front of him. He puts his thumb onto the stand’s biometric sensor to pair it to the case and is also handed a set of keys. A backup, if you will. The last remaining worker takes a step back, about to leave the room.
Breedlove: Wonderful. You are dismissed.
He turns.
Breedlove: Thank you for your he– well, well…
A new figure has appeared, one that’s obscured from the camera. Breedlove is delighted to see this individual, even a little surprised.
Breedlove: Yours is a face that I’ve not seen in quite some time. You are definitely not who I was expecting to lighten my doorstep so early into the evening. Come come. Let’s chat. What a pleasant surprise.
Out of view, the door shuts behind the figure, making an audible click as the scene shifts from the lockerroom and the second episode of Zenith… begins.
EP.: 002
DATE: 08.25.2025
ARENA: THE PINNACLE
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
NXSTV
FLASH! WOOSH! WOOSH! WOOSH! Blue letters with gold outlines fly across the screen at Mach 2 before a sonic boom turns the screen a bright white. The letters fade into focus…
…and then the logo slides to the bottom right corner of the screen as a stylish middle aged man, his face lifted multiple times and forced into a plastic smile, turns to face the camera. Surrounding him are augmented clips of an assortment of interviews with celebrities, actors and musicians and professional athletes alike. He wears a gray and black tiger stripe waistcoat over a sand-colored shirt, the collar undone to reveal a leathery tan and sleeves rolled up to show off the faded tribal tattoos creeping down his arms.
Hank Spurlock: Tonight, on NXStv, we sit down to chat with the star of On the Downside and the Black Circle, Corey Lazarus, and he tells us all about his return to the world of professional wrestling!
The scene cuts to clips from 2002’s On the Downside, highlighting Corey’s role in particular. He argues with a football coach and throws a beer bottle against the wall, cut to Corey running down a rainy alley with tears streaming down his face.
Hank Spurlock (voiceover): It feels like just yesterday that Corey Lazarus made the splash as “Larsen” in 2002’s dramatic hit On the Downside, and since then he’s been a star on the silver screen…
Cut to a clip of from an episode of Degrassi Night School, finding Corey as “Alec” arguing with Stefan Brogren’s series star “Snake.”
Hank Spurlock (voiceover): …television…
Corey Lazarus (as “Alec”): And what made you so special, huh? Why’d Coach leave you alone when he made me go to his house?!
Hank Spurlock (voiceover): …and, of course…
Cut to Zenith 001. Corey Lazarus stands in the center of the SHOOT Project ring, basking in the adulation surrounding his return to the sport he’s loved so much over the decades.
Hank Spurlock (voiceover): …the ring.
Fans (in clip): L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!!
The scene cuts to Corey seated in an office with wife Karen Miller-Lexington, the duo reading through contracts and laughing.
Hank Spurlock (voiceover): After spending the years since 2018 behind the camera, heading the production studio Platinum Knights with his wife Karen Miller-Lexington, he has made a decision that some would call “controversial,” but one that Corey…
Close-up on Corey on a film set, checking the dailies of that day’s shoot.
Hank Spurlock (voiceover): …says is a necessary one.
The scene cuts to Hank and Corey seated across from another in canvas folding chairs, surrounded by the typical darkened background and the focal point of picture-perfect lighting that all of these kinds of entertainment-based interviews share.
Hank Spurlock: So you haven’t been in a ring in years, not even for an appearance, and now you’re intending to go back to it full-time.
Corey nods, one ankle resting across the opposite knee, and rests his hands in his lap as if he were carrying something, fingers interlocked, thumbs tapping against each other. One could call these the acts of nerves and be right in any other case, but it’s clear from Corey’s facial expression that he isn’t nervous, per se. He’s bored.
Corey Lazarus: Yeah, babe. That’s right.
Hank Spurlock: So, after seven years away, you have one of the hottest production companies in Hollywood, you’re garnering more respect in the entertainment industry than ever before, a beautiful wife, a beautiful daughter, two films you’ve nurtured from page to screen just this summer are already getting awards talks…
Lazarus nods along, tonguing the inside of his lower lip as he adjusts himself. He sits up straight and leans in, readied.
Hank Spurlock: …and now you’re just saying “goodbye” to all of it. The question on everyone’s mind right now has to be…why?
Hank smiles, his face contorting into a caricature of pleasant emotion. Rehearsed. Professional. Phony.
Corey Lazarus: Well, slick, it’s simple when you look at it. When you really look at it. This business we’re in – show business, I mean – has always been about competition, in one way or another. Warner wants the DCU to catch up to Disney’s MCU, Rian and Dave both want another Oscar, Cregger wants to prove that Jordan isn’t the only comedian that can make a good horror flick, and it’s all…well, it’s all just filled with so much…
Corey catches himself before he lets the words slip out too far, literally cupping his hand as if the very idea of saying it is a flyball…
Corey Lazarus: …caca, you dig?
…and then “tosses” it back to Hank. Spurlock ignores it, but still flinches a little when the “ball” is sent his way.
Corey Lazarus: The wrestling industry, the business, the sport…it takes away so much of that pleasantry and it just lets anyone involved get it all out, and that’s why the fans stick by it. There’s pageantry, showmanship, pomp and circumstance, to be sure, but at the end of the night? It isn’t about who can grease the most palms or whose name is on whose guest list, it’s about getting your hand raised and showing – proving – that you’re the best at what you do.
Hank hides a smirk behind his hand as he rests his molded face against it.
Hank Spurlock: But why now? You’re 47 years old, you’ve become a family man, and you’re willing to put it all on the line. Why?
Corey smirks right back at him and sits up straight, adjusting the collar of his tailored Armani suit.
Corey Lazarus: It’s personal, tiger.
Hank Spurlock: How so?
Hank holds up a hand, sensing a blink of hostility in Corey’s face.
Hank Spurlock: If you don’t mind me asking, of course.
Corey Lazarus: No, no, it’s cool. You can’t say something like that without expecting someone to ask you to elaborate, right? The long and short of it, you see…
Corey takes in a big breath and lets it out slowly.
Corey Lazarus: A few years back, I was approached by some folks that were putting together a three-day event.
Hank Spurlock: Homecoming, right?
Corey snaps his fingers, giving Hank a wink.
Corey Lazarus: Bingo! And they gave me a list of names that they’d already signed on to have a match, to compete. I’d already taken some of them down, already done what I could with some others, and…
Hank Spurlock: One of them was Dustin Kelser, correct? Thunderwolf?
Lazarus smiles, knowing Hank, or at least one of the many stage hands he’d seen him verbally abuse this afternoon, has done his homework.
Corey Lazarus: Sure, he was on there, but I knew that there was someone he was gunning for, so I decided to just let ol’ Wolfie Boy howl at his own moon. We’re friends, we’re brothers, we’ve got it out of our system forever ago, yadda yadda yadda. Anyway, there was this one name on that list, a guy that I used to be cordial with, who I’d also been on the other side of, and he stood out, because with him? It was personal. It wasn’t about the title he had, even if there’s always room for more of those in my collection, and it wasn’t about prestige, pride or honor…it was because he was someone that I’d always been told was out of my league, dig? From the first time we crossed paths up until the last, every single person told me that there’s no way I’d get that W, and I was offended, Hank. I took it personally.
Corey clears his throat and stares Spurlock in his beady, botox-laden eyes.
Corey Lazarus: Do you know what I did, tiger? I ran him out of the entire sport. I did what the Hollywood Kid has always been the best at and I took everything he could throw at me and I got right back to my feet, dusted myself off, spit in his good eye, and I walked away when he was carried out. I won. Not just against him, babe, but against every single person that said, either to my face or clucking away behind my back, that I wasn’t on that level. I’ve done it at every stage of my career, every part of my life. Hollywood, wrestling, when friends and family weren’t sure that I’d stay clean after rehab forever ago…you name it, dude, and I’ve come back from the great beyond to hold my head up high.
Hank clearly begins to look uncomfortable, sensing the hostile undertone in Corey’s words.
Corey Lazarus: So when I have someone ask me why I’m coming back to the sport that I’ve loved since I was just a boy, to the stage that gave me the kind of ego boost that let me achieve everything I’ve done, that pushed me to do it, and I hear the kind of doubt in their voice that you’ve had in yours since that camera turned on?
Hank stammers, adjusting himself in his chair.
Hank Spurlock: I mean, I didn’t, like, I didn’t mean any offense by it, I just…!
Lazarus holds up a hand, cutting him off. He’s not losing his cool, like he would have in his younger years. He’s owning the moment. He’s taking control.
Corey Lazarus: No, no, man, it’s cool, you dig? Hey, I get it, alright? If I were in your shoes and someone told me the same things that I’ve been saying? Of course I’d have my doubts. It makes sense! No harm, no foul, we’re cool. But when I hear it, Hank? You’re damn sure that I take it as something personal.
Lazarus chuckles, shaking his head.
Corey Lazarus: And that’s been the talk since the ink dried on the page, just “Old Man Lazarus” coming in to embarrass himself. Folks in the office have said it, there’s been chatter throughout the locker room about it, the social medias…you get the picture, champ. But me? The L-A-Z? I’m here to show that yours truly has always, and will always, be a few steps ahead. To make those three bullet points stick in people’s craws.
He holds up a finger for each word…
Corey Lazarus: Life. Deal. Rock.
…and then gives us a hint of his trademark devilish grin.
Corey Lazarus: Because this old dog still has a few tricks up his sleeve, and my presence alone casts a shadow that can plunge entire cities into darkness. It’s toppled empires, it’s raised the tides, and I’m going to keep proving it time and time again. And that, Hank? That’s just life. All you can do is deal with it. Rock n’ [BEEP]ing roll.
The scene fades back the Pinnacle…
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
FEAR & LOATHING
THE COLLINS TWINS
CURTIS ROSE
ALEX VAKA
VS.
MICHAEL COLLINS
ROWLAND COLLINS
Backstage
BEFORE THE STORM
Abigail Chase walks through the backstage hallway, microphone in hand, excited about SHOOT Project’s return and eager to grab an interview. She spots Aiden Vanity on his phone and quickly approaches him, raising the mic. He’s clearly not impressed.
Abigail Chase: “Aiden, can I get a word with you?”
Aiden Vanity (on the phone): “Hold up, bro, I’ll call you back. Some fangirl just ran up shoving a mic in my face.”
Aiden slides his phone into his pocket and shoots her a cold glare, already annoyed she’s wasting his time.
Abigail Chase: “The return of SHOOT Project has everyone buzzing. The show was a huge success with fresh new talent, big matches, and of course the Battle Royal to crown the first Empire State Champion. Unfortunately, you were eliminated from that match by Dinosaurio Pequeño. What’s going through your mind after that?”
Aiden Vanity: “Really? That’s the first thing out of your mouth? I’m insulted. Embarrassed, even. I was eliminated by some fossil playing dress-up. That’s pathetic—and yes, I’m furious about it. The fact that SHOOT Project keeps letting these costumed nobodies—talentless hacks, mind you—step into the same ring with me is beyond a joke. It’s an insult to me and to this business. You want the real reason I lost? Tank sabotaged my aura before I even stepped through those ropes. That’s the only explanation.”
Abigail Chase: “Or maybe it was just one of those days where nothing went right. Losses happen, but how you respond says everything about you—”
He pulls a strip of tape from his pocket, rips it with his teeth, and slaps it right over her mouth. As the crowd react with jeers, he smirks into the camera.
Aiden Vanity: “Finally, peace and quiet. You’re welcome.”
Seconds later, from off-camera view, a beefy arm moves into frame and removes the tape from Abigail’s mouth. Tank steps into view, and wastes no time getting into Aiden’s personal space. His words, though low and calm, barely mask the irritation he’s feeling.
Tank: Now Mr. Vanity. Ol’ Tank gon’ talk to you nice and clear. So you pay him some heed, ya dig? I don’t think much at all of dose of our profession dat push around and bully the backstage sort. Especially women. Dose dat do it? Cowards. Weak. Pathetic. Spineless.
Now I’m gon’ be upfront, ‘cause dat the the kind o’ man Tank is. I don’t like you. You focused on all the shallow things. But I’m a man dat believe people sometimes have a bad day. And dat? (Gestures to Abigail) I’m willing to believe you just havin’ a rough one today. But you gotta confirm it cher.
Aiden rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck.
Aiden Vanity: “Spare me, Tank. I can’t stand people like you. You’re like motivational posters, always trying to shine a light on the bright side of things like anyone cares. You think preaching your little ‘do the right thing’ garbage makes you noble? The reality is it makes you pathetic. Let’s not forget — you lost in that Battle Royal too. The only difference is, I actually admit when something ticks me off. You bury your embarrassment under that fake positivity, like it’s some kind of shield. So you can take that corny outlook of yours, roll it up real tight and shove it.”
Tank: (soft chuckle as he rubs his chin) Damn…I ain’t never in all my years hear a man flap his lips so much…and still not say a damn thing. You just a little Chihuahua ain’t you? Fresh from the groomer, feelin’ yoself, thinkin’ the whole world at your fingertips.
Tank’s demeanor takes a rather sudden shift. His normal jovial nature fades within seconds. His loose, relaxed stance and body language replaced with a wide and rigid stance. The smirk is now a scowl. And his eyes intense.
Tank: Now let me tell you somethin’…BOY. You don’t know a damn thing about me. You so in your own head you can’t see the forest for the trees. You think big Tank can’t say when somethin’ piss him off? I prove you wrong right dis second, ‘cause you just pissed me off big.
I was gonna go in dat right with you tonight and just have some fun. Rough you up a little sure, but you be fine. But now? (Voice drops to just above a whisper) now Tank might just hurt ya.
Aiden mockingly trembles.
Aiden Vanity: “Oh, I’m shaking in my designer boots, Tank. It’s really terrifying. Let me guess—this is the part where you puff your chest out, growl and then say you’ll ‘do the right thing’ and save it for the ring. That’s the smartest decision you could make, honestly because the second you lay a finger on me out here, you lose before the bell rings and we both know the last thing your career can survive is another embarrassing loss. See, that’s the difference between us. You’re some caveman who gets by on swinging fists and empty threats. I don’t need to yell or get red in the face. I already know the outcome of our match. I walk in the ring flawless, win, I walk out flawless. You’ll be left gasping for air, clutching your ribs, trying to remember how your career is going downhill so fast. So bark all you want, big man. But soon you’ll find out real quick that this pretty face doesn’t just shine under the lights—it makes careers disappear.”
Tank’s eyes narrow to slits and a slight grin spreads across his face.
Tank: I think you a bit confused on what Tank defines as “the right thing.” ‘Cause right dis second, the right thing kinda feeling tossin’ your carcass from one end of dis hall to the other and messing up dat perfect hair o’ yours.
Tank punctuates that last part with a shove, one which Vanity instantly returns. Within seconds, a swarm of officials who had been anticipating this surround and separate the two men. The arena erupts, the fans on their feet as both men strain against the pile of referees. Tank is shouting over the chaos, pointing a finger in Vanity’s face. Vanity, meanwhile, laughs it off, smirking, fixing his hair, and yelling insults back, calling Tank a washed up caveman and promising to embarrass him even more tonight as both are barely dragged away.
IN THE RING
WRONG
The arena lights dim as the familiar sound of a goal horn BWAAAAMS through The Pinnacle. But tonight, there’s no pyro, no elaborate entrance. Just the opening riff of “Raise a Little Hell” by Trooper as a single spotlight illuminates the entrance ramp.
Roy Vezina emerges alone, but he’s dressed to kill. Gone is the camping gear, he’s back in his element wearing a custom-tailored charcoal gray suit with red pinstripes, a crisp white shirt, and a red tie with small maple leaf patterns. Most importantly, draped over his shoulder is one of the SHOOT Project World Tag Team Championship belts, gleaming under the spotlight.
He walks with the measured confidence of a man who has finally achieved his destiny, taking his time down the ramp as the New York crowd rains boos down on him. Roy drinks it in, a satisfied smirk playing across his face.
He climbs the steel steps with ceremonial precision, steps through the ropes, and moves to the center of the ring. The music fades as he produces a microphone, adjusts his tie, and surveys the hostile crowd with obvious pleasure.
Roy Vezina: Well, well, well… New York City. The Big Apple. The city that never sleeps. And apparently, the city that never admits when it’s wrong.
BOOOOOOO!
Roy Vezina: Oh, save it. Save your boos. Save your anger. Save your wounded pride. Because standing before you tonight is Roy Vezina – manager, strategist, and architect of the greatest upset in SHOOT Project tag team history.
He adjusts the championship belt on his shoulder, making sure the camera catches the gold gleaming.
Roy Vezina: You see this? This beautiful piece of gold and leather? This represents something that every single one of you said would NEVER happen. The Punch Line as World Tag Team Champions.
The crowd’s boos intensify, but Roy just smiles wider.
Roy Vezina: From day one, DAY ONE, you people doubted us. When we walked into SHOOT Project, you dismissed us as “just another team.” When we started winning matches, you called it “beginner’s luck.” When we were declared the Tag Team of the Year, you laughed. You actually LAUGHED at us.
Roy begins to pace, his voice rising with indignation.
Roy Vezina: You preferred your precious Collins Brothers, those beer-swilling, pub-brawling, lucky-charm-believing wannabes who treated the World Tag Team Championships like a part-time hobby between street fights and barroom karaoke!
He stops and points into the crowd.
Roy Vezina: You cheered for the Atomic Punks! You got behind the Unholy Cyber Army! You threw your support behind the Wild Ones! Hell, some of you were even rooting for the HEXXX! ANYONE but The Punch Line!
Roy’s voice drips with sarcasm now.
Roy Vezina: And why? Why did you doubt the most technically sound, most professionally dedicated, most systematically superior tag team in this entire division? I’ll tell you why, because we’re Canadian. Because we represent excellence, discipline, and championship pedigree. And you people… you people prefer mediocrity.
BOOOOOOOO!
Roy Vezina: You prefer your champions sloppy. Unprepared. Fighting in underground boxing matches instead of studying tape. Taking a shot instead of maintaining peak physical condition. Getting into random street fights instead of perfecting their craft.
He holds up the championship belt now, cradling it like a newborn.
Roy Vezina: But guess what? All your cheering, all your hoping, all your willful ignorance couldn’t change one simple fact, The Punch Line IS the best tag team in this division. We WERE the Tag Team of the Year. And now, we ARE your World Tag Team Champions.
The crowd’s hatred is palpable, but Roy feeds off it.
Roy Vezina: And to all the teams out there, and oh, there are SO many teams out there, who think they’re going to waltz in here and take these championships from us… let me save you some time and embarrassment.
Roy counts on his fingers as he speaks.
Roy Vezina: Collins Brothers? You had your chance. You blew it. Coltons? You’re welcome to try, but you’ll get the same result. Lucha Fitness? All the acrobatics in the world won’t help you when you’re facing systematic superiority. Fear & Loathing? The only thing you’ll be loathing is the day you challenged us. Neon Saints? The only thing neon about you will be the bruises we leave behind.
He pauses for dramatic effect.
Roy Vezina: Because you see, these championships… they’re not just around Harv and Rick’s waists anymore. They’re not just in their possession. No, no, no. These titles are now the property of the Great White North. They belong to Canada. They represent Canadian excellence, Canadian superiority, and Canadian dominance over American wrestling.
Roy’s voice reaches a crescendo.
Roy Vezina: Every defense will be a reminder of your failure to recognize greatness when it was standing right in front of you! Every victory will be proof that The Punch Line doesn’t just deserve these championships, we’ve EARNED them through hard work, dedication, and an unwavering commitment to being the best!
He holds the championship high above his head.
Roy Vezina: You doubted us when we said we were the future of tag team wrestling. You were WRONG. You doubted us when we said we’d be champions by the end of the year. You were WRONG. And when you doubt that we’ll be the longest-reigning, most dominant World Tag Team Champions in SHOOT Project history… you’ll be WRONG again.
The crowd is in full revolt now, but Roy just grins.
Roy Vezina: So bring your challenges. Send your best teams. Line them up from here to the Canadian border. Because The Punch Line – Harv Norris, Rick Hull, and the man standing before you, will continue to prove, match after match, defense after defense, that you people wouldn’t recognize championship material if it performed a perfect tag team sequence right in front of your faces!
Roy adjusts his suit jacket with one hand while holding the championship with the other.
Roy Vezina: The Punch Line has arrived at the mountaintop. And from up here, we can see just how wrong all of you really were. We are the best tag team on the planet. We are YOUR World Tag Team Champions. And there’s not a damn thing any of you can do about it.
He drops the microphone with authority as “Raise a Little Hell” hits again. Roy holds the championship belt high above his head with both hands, turning slowly to show it off to every section of the booing crowd.
As he exits through the ropes and back up the ramp, Roy takes his time, savoring every boo, every jeer, every sign of the crowd’s frustration. The camera holds on him as he reaches the top of the ramp, championship belt gleaming on his shoulder, the vindicated expression of a man who told everyone exactly what would happen and then made it come true.
Backstage
CA->NY
We cut to the backstage area. A tight shot of rolling suitcases humming softly over the concrete floor slowly pans back to reveal SHOOT’s newest tag team. The hallway buzzes with background noise—crew members moving gear, distant ring sounds echoing faintly. Enter: LEO CRUZ and JOÃO RIBEIRO.
Both men are decked out in matching black-on-black SoCal Stretching Crew hoodies—simple, clean, aggressive. Cruz leads the way, stoic and imposing. João follows close behind, more charismatic and soaking in the moment, with oversized designer shades sitting awkwardly over his visibly battered, cauliflowered ears. Unlike Cruz, he seems to enjoy the attention and the validation it brings.
They pass through the hallway like sharks through a reef—quiet, controlled, and unmistakably dangerous. Other competitors and crew instinctively give them space. A few nod. A few just stare.
Jason Johnson: The SoCal Stretching Crew are in the building, folks. Leo Cruz and João Ribeiro. These two have been setting Southern California on fire with their unique style. And tonight… they make their SHOOT Project debut!”
Eryk Masters: Don’t let the jiu-jitsu medals and submission trophies fool you, Jason. This isn’t a dojo. This is SHOOT. These guys might’ve been killers in SoCal, sure, but here? They’re in deeper waters. Let’s see if they swim… or sink.
SINGLES MATCH
N/A
DARKSPADE
VS.
SCOTTIE BARNES
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
CHAMPION PRIVILEGES
The scene opens in the backstage corridors of The Pinnacle during Zenith. Harv Norris is wandering around wearing his Punch Line jersey, but he’s added a homemade laminated badge that says “OFFICIAL ARENA INSPECTOR – VIP ACCESS” in comic sans font, clearly made on a hotel business center computer.
Harv approaches a concession stand worker who’s restocking merchandise.
Harv Norris: (with exaggerated authority) Excuse me there, b’y! Harv Norris, World Tag Team Champion and Official Arena Quality Inspector!
He flashes his homemade badge quickly.
Merchandise Worker: Um… okay?
Harv Norris: Right, so as part of me championship duties, I need to conduct a quality assessment of yer merchandise! (picks up a t-shirt) Now this shirt here, how do I know it meets championship standards without testing it myself?
Merchandise Worker: Well… you could buy one?
Harv Norris: Buy one? B’y, I’m not buying it, I’m TESTING it! For quality control! See, if I don’t make sure these shirts are champion-worthy, what happens when other champions come through here? Bad shirts could damage the entire championship brand!
The worker looks confused but intrigued by Harv’s logic.
Harv Norris: Tell ye what, I’ll take this shirt (holds up an expensive hoodie) and give it a full 24-hour championship durability test. If it passes, ye can use me endorsement for marketing! “HARV NORRIS APPROVED!”
Merchandise Worker: I… I don’t think I can just give you merchandise…
Harv Norris: (looking disappointed) Oh. Well, that’s a shame. I was gonna tell Roy to recommend this stand to all the other champions, but if ye’re not interested in quality assurance… (starts to walk away)
Merchandise Worker: Wait! Um… maybe I could let you have a shirt? Just a regular t-shirt though.
Harv Norris: (brightening) Now yer talking! Ye got anything in me size with a nice Newfoundland feel to it?
CUT TO: Harv now wearing his new free Josh Breedlove t-shirt, approaching a catering setup where workers are preparing food.
Harv Norris: (to a catering worker) Right, b’y! Harv Norris, World Tag Team Champion! I’m here for me pre-scheduled champion’s food tasting!
Catering Worker: Food tasting? I don’t have anything on my list…
Harv Norris: (pulling out a crumpled napkin with writing on it) See? Right here! “Champion food safety evaluation – 8 PM!” Champions gotta make sure the food is safe for all the wrestlers, ye know!
The catering worker squints at the napkin, clearly unable to read whatever Harv scribbled on it.
Harv Norris: Now, I’ll need to sample… (starts pointing) …that sandwich there, couple of them cookies, some of that fruit salad, and maybe one of them fancy bottles of water!
Catering Worker: I really should check with my supervisor…
Harv Norris: (looking concerned) Oh no, b’y! Ye can’t wait for supervisors when it comes to food safety! What if there’s a problem and wrestlers start getting sick? The whole show could be ruined! Ye’d be responsible!
He leans in conspiratorially.
Harv Norris: Between you and me, I’ve got a very sensitive Newfoundland palate. I can detect food problems that regular people miss. It’s like a superpower, but for sandwiches!
The catering worker, now genuinely worried about potential food safety issues, starts loading a plate.
Catering Worker: Well… I guess if it’s for safety…
Harv Norris: Exactly! Yer being a hero, b’y! Protecting all the wrestlers!
CUT TO: Harv approaching a merchandise cart, now carrying his plate of food and wearing his free shirt.
Harv Norris: (to the cart operator) Evening! Harv Norris, World Tag Team Champion! I’m here about the championship promotional materials!
Cart Operator: Promotional materials?
Harv Norris: Aye! See, as champions, we’re supposed to get promotional items to hand out to fans! Builds goodwill, ye know? But nobody told me where to pick them up!
Cart Operator: I… I don’t know anything about that…
Harv Norris: (looking at items in the cart) Well, what about these here keychains? Perfect for promotional purposes! And maybe one of them little foam fingers! Champions need foam fingers!
Cart Operator: Those are for sale though…
Harv Norris: Right, but think about it, if I take a few of these and hand them out to fans while wearing me championship belt, they’ll see how great yer merchandise is! It’s like free advertising!
He picks up a keychain and examines it.
Harv Norris: Plus, I could tell people where I got it! “This excellent keychain came from that lovely cart by the north entrance!” Ye’d probably sell dozens more!
The cart operator considers this.
Cart Operator: Well… maybe just a keychain?
Harv Norris: And the foam finger! Champions always need foam fingers! It’s practically required!
CUT TO: Harv now loaded down with his acquisitions, approaching a janitor’s cart.
Harv Norris: (to the janitor) Right, b’y! Quick question, ye got any extra towels? Official champion business!
Janitor: Towels?
Harv Norris: Aye! See, champions sweat a lot during matches, and regular towels just don’t cut it! We need premium arena towels! The good stuff that ye keep for emergencies!
He leans in like he’s sharing a secret.
Harv Norris: Between you and me, Roy’s been complaining about the towel quality in our locker room. Says it’s not up to championship standards. If I could get him a proper fancy towel, it might save yer whole cleaning department from getting a bad review!
Janitor: (worried) A bad review?
Harv Norris: Champions have a lot of influence, b’y! But if I show up with one of yer finest towels, I could tell him how helpful and professional the cleaning staff is!
The janitor hesitates, then pulls out a couple of premium towels from his cart.
Janitor: These are the good ones we use for the COO’s office…
Harv Norris: Perfect! Ye just saved the day, me friend!
FINAL SHOT: Harv walking down the hallway, arms full of free merchandise, food, and towels, looking extremely pleased with himself.
Harv Norris: (to camera) And that, b’y, is how ye conduct proper championship business! Everyone’s happy, the workers feel important, the merchandise gets tested, the food gets safety-checked, and the towels… well, the towels are just really nice!
Roy Vezina appears at the end of the hallway, sees Harv loaded down with random items, and stops dead in his tracks.
Roy Vezina: HARV! What in the hell are you doing?!
Harv Norris: (grinning) Championship quality control, Roy! I’ve been making sure everything in this arena meets our high standards!
Roy Vezina: You’ve been STEALING!
Harv Norris: Not stealing! Quality assurance! There’s a difference!
Roy Vezina: (rubbing his temples) Please tell me you didn’t tell anyone you were representing The Punch Line…
Harv Norris: Of course I did! We’re champions now! We got responsibilities!
The camera captures Roy’s look of horror as Harv continues down the hallway, completely oblivious to the chaos he’s potentially created.
FADE TO BLACK
Text appears on screen: “No actual arena employees were harmed in the making of this segment. Several, however, were very confused.”
SINGLES MATCH
N/A
ULTIMO MUERTE II
VS.
LOU
IN THE RING
WHAT'S NEXT?
We head back to ringside, with Vixtrola’s “Gunboat” playing throughout the arena. Already approaching the ringsteps is now ex-World Heavyweight Champion, Laura Seton. It’s normal seeing her in her red leather jacket, jeans and black boots.
Not so normal seeing her minus the World Heavyweight Championship.
Eryk Masters: Gotta give credit to Joshua Breedlove, like it or not. He managed to do what no one else could do for over a year, and that’s wear Laura Seton down enough to keep her down.
Jason Johnson: He got her two weeks ago at the Zenith premiere, but something in me tells me she isn’t going away quietly.
Laura receives a mic and approaches mid-ring, the crowd showing their love for the fan favorite.
Laura Seton: I appreciate that. Thank you…
The audience has another round of an ovation before she speaks again.
Laura Seton: I gotta admit, it feels kinda weird being out here and not having that World Heavyweight Championship in my possession.
She cracks a sly smile as the crowd gives a mixture of cheers, respecting her reign and boos, that Joshua Breedlove now holds said Championship. Laura holds quiet for a few seconds after the crowd quiets down. Her view off in the distance. Taking in The Pinnacle. Reviewing her career to the moment. She regains her focus on the “now.”
Laura Seton: Once upon a time, almost a quarter-century ago, in a federation not-so-far away, I competed for the first time. Back then? Women wrestlers were a novelty. They were eye candy at best. If one knew how to wrestle and was successful? Hah… it was a matter of time before she broke. Women weren’t supposed to be on the same level as the guys.
I’m not saying I broke the machine, don’t get me wrong.
But I didn’t break. And while my previous New York federation wasn’t where I stayed put for long nor did I gain tons of success there–that was my start. I had my success and walked away for a bit. Even when I returned with LEGACY, things weren’t like they are. Yes, you were beginning to find women World Champions around the globe in 2008–but in some places, women were still a novelty. Maybe a women’s division at best. Or somewhere–hey, don’t get me wrong on this.
Rob Belote was a wonderful man to work for.
But damn if I had to sell myself to him. It wasn’t easy to get my shot in LEGACY, even with what I had done, I still had to prove myself. The first true, active female competitor in LEGACY. And you can ask guys like Stein and X… I proved myself. I earned EVERY BIT of honor I got. I vaulted higher than probably Rob himself thought I’d ever go. And he wasn’t afraid to actually give me legitimate chances because he saw how successful I was becoming. We never got to see my ceiling though, as LEGACY burned out. Sooner than anyone hoped.
And yet, there was the competitor.
She has a wider sly grin, even going so far as to look directly at Jason Johnson at the commentary table.
Laura Seton: I faded out for a few months, but there was this place that was relentless in calling me and messaging me. This place called SHOOT Project.
Another healthy cheer from the New York crowd.
Eryk Masters: You pay her to say that, Jason?
Jason Johnson: Not a dime.
Laura specifically points to Jason.
Laura Seton: It was this man, right here. Every time you all cheer me? You’re cheering him. Because he was just down… my… back about coming in here. Competing. Doing every fucking thing I do. Being the fucking best I can. “You’ll get what you deserve.” My first run here was amazing, but things were certainly different here. A lot of you told me I should “see you next Tuesday…”
She has a laugh as does the crowd.
Laura Seton: And I could wax on further, but extremely long story abridged? Look at SHOOT’s history. All the amazing wrestlers that have become a World Heavyweight Champion here. Just becoming a World Heavyweight Champion here is a feat in itself. A surreal experience that words could never fucking explain.
That I got to feel that sensation TWO MOTHERFUCKING TIMES!!??
You know how many people would kill to hold that title for a day? The absolute select few to hold it over 300 days??
…
She falls silent with a few tears coming to her eyes that she quickly wipes away, though her voice has a quiver as she continues.
Laura Seton: It seemed ungodly for someone to hold that title for so long… The opposition itself for such a streak makes it seem like you had to break wrestling itself…
And yet…
For OVER ONE FUCKING YEAR…
She can’t even finish the sentence without breaking into a small cry that, again, she tries wiping away quickly. The crowd understands the point and has another massive ovation for her.
Eryk Masters: I don’t know if she can finish her thought.
Jason Johnson: I guarantee you she doesn’t need to. It’s a different environment today than ever before in SHOOT, but you can’t deny Laura Seton had one of the best title runs ever here.
The lights go out. The drumroll hits on a timpani playing over the Pinnacle’s state of the art sound system. It’s a rolling crescendo leading to gold and red spotlights shining at the top of the ramp. The crowd, recognizing what’s going on, begins booing. A familiar chant signaling the beginning of HIS theme song takes over the drumroll, some lyrics, and then…
“MAKE WAY FOR THE KING”
With the hit of the title comes the hard hitting beat that’s accompanied HIM for years now, and in pure BREEDLOVE fashion, he walks out to the top of the ramp dressed in a black button down dress shirt, black slacks, and black shoes. He does not wear the world title around his waist.
Eryk Masters: Is that…
Jason Johnson: I was going to comment about the fact that the champ is not wearing the title, but…
Clemson Dean, the Empire’s Administrator, and Arthur Osborne, Breedlove’s personal historian, wheel a reinforced display case containing the SHOOT Project World Heavyweight Championship. They leave it at the top of the ramp next to Breedlove before making their way back to the back.
Jason Johnson: Well… this feels weird because I want to criticize Joshua Breedlove right now, but he’s giving that title an amazing amount of reverence.
Eryk Masters: He has said that the image of the championship is what’s most important to him… I saw that Spitter exchange between him and Corey Lazarus.
Breedlove is slow clapping as the music quiets and then he is handed a microphone.
Joshua Breedlove: Congratulations, Laura. I mean it, sincerely.
The crowd doesn’t know how to react, so they mostly don’t.
Joshua Breedlove: You’ve been an ironwoman at the top of this company for over a year, something that not a single other person in the 25 year history of this company can say. Not a one. People have gotten close, but nobody’s actually done it, except for you. That’s amazing.
He pauses.
Joshua Breedlove: Give it up for Laura Seton.
He’s flat, but he gestures to the crowd who cheers albeit a bit confusedly, and to Laura Seton who is on guard and not sure what to expect.
Joshua Breedlove: But as with all things, it was time. Time for you to experience that loss, time for you to step back and witness this…
As he says that, he motions to himself and then to the championship next to him.
Joshua Breedlove: Time for the era of Laura Seton to end, and for the Breedlove Era to begin once again, because the only thing that’s better than feeling the sensation of holding that championship two times?
He smirks.
Joshua Breedlove: …is holding it for a third, which is what I’m doing right now. The OTHER thing I’m doing right now is coming out here to chat. Have a discussion, if you will. About your future. About my future.
Pausing, he lets that hang for a moment, allowing the crowd to refocus and get interested as well.
Joshua Breedlove: About our future together.
Eryk Masters: I’m listening.
Jason Johnson: Same.
Laura cocks an eyebrow at him, but he holds a hand up, gesturing that he’ll get to it.
Joshua Breedlove: I’ve said it before, you’ve had a long career. You’ve had a historic career. You’ve been grinding for so long in this business. I know you’re tired. The WORLD knows you’re tired, so we’ve been chatting over in the Empyrean Forge. I think, and with the backing of the rest of the Empire, we think that the time for you to take a load off has come and there’s no better way to do that…
He smiles.
Joshua Breedlove: …than to join us and truly conquer this place.
The crowd explodes into a soundbath of confusion, not really knowing what to make of the offer. He’s made it before, but it seems like it’s become an actual serious offer, rather than just posturing and hubris.
Joshua Breedlove: Leave this world of struggle and toil behind you, prolong your career if you want, and represent the Empire. Our Empire. And if you need some help deciding? I’ve invited someone who knows you very well to make their own case.
Laura can’t help but lightly chuckle at the offer. At how serious Breedlove actually is. It wasn’t every day she received an offer like this. Heck, even her own group was built around her, not specifically from an invite.
Laura Seton: I don’t know where you come from, Joshua, but my career?
No shortcuts.
Haven’t had the luxury of even one. You’re right, I’ve been grinding for damn near that quarter century. It’s just how I am. It’s what I do. And if I want a shortcut?
I have my rematch clause–
The crowd gives a cheer hearing what sounds like a challenge from the ex-champion. Yet, before more can be said, attentions are turned to the entrance way. No theme music plays, but a figure appears on stage.
Eryk Masters: Is that…?
Jason Johnson: I think someone picked up on a cue. It feels like it’s been ages since we’ve last seen Madison Seton!
Wearing black shorts with a red top, her hair down, Madison takes in the cheers of those in the crowd that recognize her right away before quickly making her way to the ring.
Eryk Masters: She’s had a handful of matches at house shows here in the northeast in between her Indiana Fever games–its been over a year since we last saw her on TV.
Jason Johnson: Gotta give her credit, she’s stayed in excellent shape. Certainly, there’s little time to relax being a mom of a one year-old and, as you said, playing basketball too.
Madison gets in the ring and gets a mic. She steps to one side of Breedlove and Laura.
Madison Seton: First things first; we had terrible news during our time away and I don’t think we’ve had any official salute to him. So please, a moment of silence for not just my own childhood hero but surely yours too…
Hank Hercules…
Eryk Masters: She… she can’t be serious, can she? Most of what he did was before she was even born!
Maddie lowers her head as the crowd indeed takes the chance to honor The Hankster. The moment passes before she looks back up, raising the mic as she looks right at her sister.
Madison Seton: Well, you know something SISTER…
The crowd gives a cheer as she starts, though she has a quick moment of confusion at the start of her mock-Hank speech.
Madison Seton: Wow… that’s really weird when you really are my sister…
A quick shake of her head before getting back to business.
Madison Seton: You’ve always had this certain way, Laura. And it’s worked for you. It has. I’ve seen it firsthand God knows how many times. And I know you have this idea about The Empire. The same that everyone else here has held for years.
That we’re spoiled.
We get what we want.
We don’t have to “try” in the traditional sense. I’ll be the first to tell you it’s all bullshit. Being in The Empire throws you right in the pressure cooker. While this is Breedlove’s group, he only hand picks the finest. The ones that have potential or are already the best. Because he wants his group, not just himself, to be number one.
You have to have and keep that “fever” in order to roll with him.
Laura smirks at that last line.
Laura Seton: Oh, that’s good from you. “Fever.” I get it.
Madison has a quick smirk back before continuing.
Madison Seton: And everyone helps everyone. Yes, it’s been over a year since I’ve had a televised match, but–I mean, you’ve seen the support. Care packages. Pep talks and a general willingness to listen. It’s like a whole ‘nuther family. So what’cha say, Laura?
What’cha gonna do, when Breedlove and The Empire and The Madster wanna run wild WITH you!??
Laura just gives a stern look to her sister as part of the crowd cheers the channeling of The Hankster.
Laura Seton: No.
Madison has a sigh as she rolls her eyes before looking at Breedlove.
Madison Seton: Told you this wouldn’t work…
She mumbles something off-mic as she holds a glare towards Breedlove. Her free hand goes to her hip as she shakes her head.
Madison Seton: You know, this is all your fault, you stupid motherfucker…
A quick whirlwind of a spin by Madison. Her right leg raises.
WHACK!!
Jason Johnson: Oh my God, you have to be kidding me…
His voice is of disbelief. The crowd sits in just as much disbelief, even if just momentarily.
As Laura falls to the mat, not knowing what hit her.
Eryk Masters: She just cheapshot her sister. I can’t believe what I’m seeing right now.
The atmosphere changes, with Masters’ voice the perfect telltale, sounding like the wind just got sucked out of him. Madison drops the mic and stands over her sister, yelling at her.
Jason Johnson: I’m sure… I’m sure if she caught her in the back, they could’ve talked this out. Laura would have let her better explain.
Eryk Masters: But that’s not the point! This is your family! Someone you’re supposed to care about!
As the boos come pouring down, Madison stands over Laura and gives her a double middle finger.
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
PILOT: BLACK SHEEP'S EATS AND BEATS COMMERCIAL
Narrator: Are you sick and tired of those boring sidewalk sloppies they servin’ you over there at the other guys’ truck? (You know who you are).
A young boy stares at a limp burrito that’s literally pulling itself off the plate to hopefully fall to a splattered death. The boy looks very sad.
Narrator: Then tuck your ear into the palm of your hand and aim it toward the sky! That’s right! what you’re hearing is the absolutely laid back and menacing sound of pioneering rap artist Schoolly D!
The young boy nods and smiles wide. He follows the narrator’s directions.
Suddenly a huge food truck comes floating down from the heavens, with Angel’s wings and all! Who is that behind the wheel? Well, that’s none other than YA BOI! It’s Black Sheep Baez!
The young boy is astonished!
Narrator: Black Sheep’s Eats and Beats is turning the corner to provide the streets with the joy and decadence that it rightfully deserves. Are you an aficionado for street food? Have you ever wanted to sink your teeth into an alcapurria while Vito Valentino taps out? Have you ever wanted to drive your fork into a slice of flancocho while watching Aiden Vantity lose wrestling matches? Are you preparing to get soulful with a sorulito while you cheer on your favorite wrestler? (Black Sheep Baez)
Black Sheep Baez hands the now happy child a plate full of premier Puerto Rican food. He pats the child on his head and then turns to the camera with a thumbs up.
Narrator: Black Sheep’s Eats and Beats. Turning a corner near you, soon! And that’s…on God!
An unnecessarily quick zoom in on BSB’s face.
Black Sheep Baez: All proceeds go back to our favorite friends: the children!
A gigantic Black Sheep Baez smile. The child would be smiling, too, but he’s bobbing for pinonos right now. Fade.
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
THE DARK MARKET
SOCAL STRETCHING CREW
BRYAN WILLIAMS
ERIC THOMPSON
VS.
JOAO RIBEIRO
LEO CRUZ
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
A WARNING
Earlier in the Day
The camera opens up on Dan Stein sitting in his office, leaning over his large desk in one of the floors of The Pinnacle. Standing across from him behind the chairs is Ultimo Muerte II, wearing his ring gear with his arms across his chest. Dan sighs, sliding a piece of paper across the table toward him.
Dan Stein: Typically, when you’re hired on to a wrestling promotion, you cut a promotional video. Hype your match, bring eyes to the product, that sort of thing. I don’t know how much wrestling you’ve done in Mexico, but in the SHOOT Project, that sort of thing is just expected. As such, this is a written warning. You wanted a contract in SHOOT Project, you got it, but now you have to live up to your end of the bargain. It happens again, and it’ll be a monetary fine. If it continues to happen, there’ll be further repercussions up to and including termination of said contract.
Stein looks at Ultimo Muerte II, then stands up himself.
Dan Stein: Or, you can just tell me where Alexia Prescott-O’Haire is, and I’ll be a little more lenient with you on that. Really, the choice is yours.
The pregnant pause permeates. Stein sighs. He taps the paper on his desk.
Dan Stein: You don’t have to sign this for it to go in your files, but it’d be great if you did.
Ultimo Muerte II breathes deeply, then steps forward. He grabs a fountain pen from Stein’s desk and stabs it into his thumb. Muerte II puts the pen back in its place and grabs the paper with the other hand, and puts his bleeding thumb down on the signature line while staring Stein in the eyes. Muerte II then turns and walks out of the office, leaving the door open behind him.
Dan looks down at the paper and spins it a few times on the desk. Dan sighs.
Backstage
DIALED IN
The show fades into Black Sheep Baez, backstage, hopping up and down, stretching, and standing beside the beautiful Mary Kelly. The crowd’s cheers come crashing through the thick walls. Baez stops stretching and smiles as he listens to the burst of love from his adoring fans. If there were any lights out in the arena then his smile turned them back on.
It also helps that Mary gets a lot of cheers, too.
Baez is ready to wrestle. Born ready. His shirt is prepped to be torn away and tossed to some lucky fan in the crowd. He represents his culture through the colors of his gear, and the ink that settles into his epidemic canvas. Puerto Rican pride, baby, and his teams get love, too. He looks at Mary as she nestles the microphone under her delicate chin.
Mary Kelly: Folks I am backstage with Black Sheep Baez.
The floor rumbles beneath them. The walls bow. The roar of the crowd is epic, to say the least. The only thing perhaps strong enough to battle this wave of sound would be the Hawk Moth (look it up, and thank later).
Production attempts to drown out the noise.
Mary Kelly: Sheep, I think you know what the big question is.
Now the mic is where Sheep likes it: in his sphere of influence. He definitely knows, and by the look on his face? He’s got an answer. He’s face to face with the gorgeous Mary.
Black Sheep Baez: Say less bae, I see you. Needless to say they asked ya boi to return and put some respect back into this division. They says this division went from Premier to Low Tier. Ya boi didn’t leave the legacy of his championship in the hands of some Fullmetal Alchemist ass Gluttony ass dude. Nah, bet.
Now he’s looking at the camera, at you, at Vito Valentino, and the world.
Black Sheep Baez: Real talk. We all got hit wit dude’s word vomit the other day. No disrespect, Vito, but we finna need to talk about the tone of your promos cuh. Heard a young buck in the crowd call you Cheeto Boringtino bro. I think we can collaborate and work on that delivery.
Baez shares a look of concern, his eyes widen, and his chin may have quivered under the goatee. He looks back at Mary.
Black Sheep Baez: So, look at it like a bookmark. Some folks in this life just blessed enough to get another chance and do it where they left off. It’s called respect. That’s what I have with SHOOT, and that’s what I gots in the back. It was an easy negotiation and y’all damn right know that when they told me that my number one clause was still in effect?
Sheep looks back at the camera with a devilish grin.
Black Sheep Baez: Yolo, cousin. Ya boi grabbed a pen faster than Aiden Vantity fadin’ into obscuritity and signed that contract on the dotted-muhfreakin’-line cuh!
His exclamation comes from deep within the loins. There’s more bass to it and with a little dramatic yip at the tail end.
Black Sheep Baez: Look at it however you wanna peep it. Check the watch as you do, fam.
He raises his arm to show his Richard Mille Flyback Chronograph Felipe Massa 18k Rose Gold watch. That’s a lot of money on one man’s wrist. It’s a pretty nice watch, too.
Black Sheep Baez: Ya boi dialed in.
He winks at Mary, and she smiles.
Mary: You’ll have to elaborate on the number one clause.
Baez acts surprised.
Black Sheep Baez: Oh, you ain’t hip to that? Girrrrrl, ya boi know why. That’s because my legal team enacted it, engineered that beeb, aint nobody else got this type of luxury. That’s just the type of people I rep around me. The clause? I’m the first Premier champ. Therefore I have a limited amount of rematches in an attempt to retain and represent my championship with pride. Periodt.
Black Sheep Baez: Listen, we can talk all damn day about the fact I’ma get my championship back. We can go down the list of disrespect Vito threw at me as if I wasn’t payin’ attention. At the end of the day? It’s all inevitable, cuh. This comeback ain’t because I’m just tryin to clown and take home a paycheck. Y’all already know the drive and passion. If you can’t see it in my eyes then you ain’t lookin me in’em. Get real, player. This the real thing. You see the man has changed and if you don’t feel the need to acknowledge that then you’ll wind up like the rest below me.
He looks up and points.
Black Sheep Baez: Lookin’ up.
Then, he returns another wink at Mary, smirks, and jogs out of frame. She catches the camera as he jogs by, nods with a bright grin, and we fade.
SINGLES MATCH
N/A
TANK
VS.
AIDEN VANITY
Backstage
THE SEARCH FOR MORE PIZZA
The Collins Twins walk through the halls of The Pinnacle with black Empire t-shirts and their ring gear on. They seem to be chatting it up about their victory against Fear & Loathing, as they’re miming moves back and forth to each other. As they come to the area where the pizza party was held, we see Chad Kyle standing with a stage hand.
Chad Kyle: And after I beat Corey Lazarus tonight, we’ll have…ANOTHER PIZZA PARTY!! RIGHT HERE!
Michael and Rowland both laugh to themselves and shake their heads, continuing to walk past the area. Chad notices them.
Chad Kyle: Hey! Uh…Twins!
Michael and Rowland choose to ignore his call out, but Chad races over to them. He comically slides in front of them, putting his hands up to stop them.
Chad Kyle: Guys! It’s me! You found me!
The Twins look at each other, then back at Chad.
Michael Collins: …oh, hey, Chad.
Rowland Collins: Yeah, we, uh…didn’t see you there.
Chad nods, dropping his hands to his side.
Chad Kyle: It’s okay, I get that a lot. So, what did you want to say to me?
Michael and Rowland again look at each other, this time with confusion. Rowland sighs, rubs his nose, and looks at Chad.
Rowland Collins: Listen, Chad…we, uh…liked the pizza party you threw last Zenith.
Michael Collins: Yeah, laddie, it was really bitchin’.
Chad’s eyes grow wide.
Chad Kyle: Really? Bitchin’? You mean that?
Michael nods, patting his brother on the shoulder. Rowland nods, too.
Rowland Collins: Yeah, it’s just that right now isn’t a good time for us to talk. We just got done with our match, and you’ve got your match coming up later tonight…it doesn’t make sense for us to talk brass tacks, you know what I mean?
Michael Collins: Yeah. Let’s postpone this talk until…
Rowland and Michael share a smile at one another, then back to Chad.
Michael Collins: …after you beat Corey Lazarus tonight. Then we can really dive deep into it. You need to be on your game with Laz, though, Chad. Can’t have you thinking about the cool things we’re about to propose to you. And, you need to get your pound of flesh, right?
Chad nods, rubbing his fists.
Chad Kyle: Yeah! Nobody talks trash about MY pizza parties!
Michael and Rowland feign getting hyped up.
Michael Collins: That’s the spirit, Champ.
Rowland Collins: Yeah, boyo! You win that match, we’ll talk FOR SURE next Zenith.
Chad Kyle: You swear it?
Michael and Rowland nod.
The Collins Twins: We swears it.
The camera pans around behind the Collins Twins, where both of them have their fingers crossed behind their backs.
Cut.
SIGNAL INTERRUPTION
BLESSED
The screen cuts from static to a flat black. One assumes maybe this will lead to an image–but it never does.
Just a voice.
Ragged, rasping, only vaguely feminine in it’s pitch. It sounds not so much like someone talking as someone pressing air out of a corpse, all gravel and dryness making every syllable of it’s deep mountain drawl drag on like an axe blade on a grindstone.
“They stayed callin’ that place out the desert the ‘City of Sin’.
Can’t say as I found it to be as such.
Oh as sure as the day of Judgement is coming, there was sin in that place. Seeped from the pores of everyone there. Lust and avarice and drunkenness fell from their flesh like rivers of sweat, so much that it contaminated the dirt and stripped it into nothingness, stripped it to sand. Made it so even the innocent born there carried with ‘em a stain.
But ‘City of Sin’?
No sir. That’s New York City.
Alla that humanity stacked on top of one another like sardines. Alla them buildings trying to touch Heaven like the good book didn’t tell us what happens when man’s hubris outpaces his reverence for the land he was given. That Vegas? It’s just a sore. Sits out there in the middle of nothing. Isolated. Cut off. Cancer like that’n can’t spread.
Soon as the ships landed this place was a rot that consumed everything in it’s path. Turned crop to rust. Turned grass to piss-soaked pavement. Turned quiet pastoral life into a grind where you bleed yourself for ten cents so a man who wouldn’t look at you twice could make so much money that he would forget fear.
He’d forget respect.
Lessons come in lots of forms. The Almighty teaches us in interesting’ ways.
But y’all never did listen to the lessons. Never paid attention to the teachings. Took your eye off the ball.
And now he ain’t in the mood for lessons.
He ain’t in the mood for hymnal.
He ain’t in the mood for your foxhole conversions or deathbed confessions.
He’s only in the mood for blood.
And the red right hand will do his grisly command.
Death don’t have no mercy. Have a blessed day.”
And just like that: back to static, then back to the feed.
SINGLES MATCH
N/A
CHAD KYLE
VS.
COREY LAZARUS
Backstage
A FATHER DOWLING MYSTERY
The air backstage at Zenith is a thick, humid cocktail of stale sweat, cheap hairspray, and the metallic tang of ambition. Fluorescent lights hum, casting a bright yellow glow on fresh paint. Through the thin walls, the roar of the crowd is a distant, hungry beast, a constant reminder of the spectacle outside.
Arthur Pleasant moves through the labyrinthine hallways of the Pinnacle with the casual grace of a man who owned every inch of the state of the art facility and its brand new infrastructure. His tailored white suit, almost that of a bishop’s out of congregation, is a pristine island in a sea of grunge, absorbs lights, reflecting nothing but its own impeccable sheen. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of sandalwood and something subtly floral, like a hothouse orchid, clung to him, a stark contrast to the arena’s raw aroma.
He isn’t hurrying, yet he seems to cover ground effortlessly. His polished dress shoes make barely a sound on the clean concrete floor. Just as he was making headway towards his destination, a voice, raw and jagged as broken glass, cut through the din.
“The Deathmatch Debutante” Lou: Well, if it isn’t the Godsent.
Arthur pauses, his head cocked ever so slightly, a predator sensing a rival. Lou stands a few feet away, her arms crossed over a frame that spoke of coiled strength and a history of hard knocks. Her eyes, as piercing as ever, holds a fire that even Arthur’s polished facade couldn’t easily extinguish. There is no fear in them, only a simmering contempt.
Lou: Who the fuck do you think you are, Elder Smith? You suddenly had an epiphany and now you’re Mr. High and Mighty? Psh. Just another false prophet.
Arthur’s smile barely flickers. He takes a single, deliberate step closer, his eyes unblinking as they bore into hers. He says nothing, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and heavy, between them. His gaze, devoid of malice, but brimming with pity, speaks volumes. It’s the look of a craftsman admiring a flawed but honest piece of work, a glister of amusement dancing between their depths.
Lou: What, now you want to be quiet? Really? Half the time we can’t get you to shut up.
Nothing.
Lou: Fucking say something, Father Dowling!
Pleasant chuckles wryly.
“The GODSEND” Arthur Pleasant: Why? You have already made your judgments. Why even attempt to change your mind? Hm? Should I fear your fists pounding me into oblivion? Should I dread more insults being spat at me like venom from a deadly snake? You tell me, my dear, dear, Lou… my Deathmatch Debutante. What, oh what, would you like me to say? More to the point, what should I say that will have any bearing on what you think of me, and what you think you know about me?
Lou, for the first time, finds herself without a biting retort. Her jaw tightens, a muscle twitching inside her cheek. She shifts her weight, her arms are crossed as they grip her own biceps. The indentation marks of her own fingers can be seen on her skin, an indication of her growing frustrations with Arthur Pleasant’s words.Yet, beneath the anger, there’s a flicker of something else– a nascent curiosity–softens the hard edges of her gaze. She narrows her eyes, scrutinizing Arthur, a silent question forming in the depths of her psyche.
Arthur Pleasant: Mm. I see. So, the mighty talker Lou, silenced by Father Dowling. Listen, it’s easy to be labeled a false prophet. Especially when there is no evidence to back up what I am saying. But fear not, Lou. Soon, the evidence will present itself and I am confident beyond all the years of wisdom between us that you will look at me in a different light. Much like others in SHOOT Project, if I’m being honest. And I am. Pinky swear!
The GODSEND moves closer to Lou, who actually flinches. But Pleasant assures her he has no designs for a physical altercation. On the contrary.
It all happens so quickly. He reaches out… and it barely registers to Lou that Arthur has wrapped his arms around her in a swift, almost clinical embrace. It’s not affectionate, not a gesture of comfort. It’s firm, brief, and utterly bewildering. She feels the crisp fabric of his suit against her arm, the subtle scent of sandalwood brushing past her, and then he pulls away, leaving her standing there, arms still crossed, but now feeling strangely exposed.
He goes to move ward, but stops, pivots, and returns to her. His lips nearly touching her earlobe, it is here where Arthur delivers what can only be described as an inaudible whisper.
Letting what was said truly marinate in the moment, Pleasant whistles and hums an indistinguishable tune as he walks off into the opposite direction from where Lou was headed before the exchange of words.
Lou stands in stunned, confused silence for a moment. Her expression speaks volumes: confusion, fear, curiosity. She slowly turns her head to face where Arthur just exited before the camera cuts away.
Backstage
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Less than a hundred feet from the Gorilla position, within the guts of the SHOOT Pinnacle, lies the West Channel. A corridor lined with rooms intended for excess storage of SHOOT merchandise, for the quick movement of gear from one end of the building to ringside, and for all of the backstage personnel that make the shows work – stagehands, security, the ring crew, etc. – to travel without impedance.
The camera closes in on Corey Lazarus as he leans against the wall, pressing his forehead against it. He’s still in his ring gear, a towel draped over a shoulder with an ice pack pressed against his neck. His left arm rises, crawls, up the wall to full extension, his hand balling into a fist before he curls his bicep, leveraging his weight to stretch his deltoid and trapezius muscles.
Corey Lazarus: …damn…that hit a little harder than I…!
A muffled round of “pops” are heard just before Corey lets out a slow, deep breath. He backs away from the wall and tilts his head toward his right shoulder as he pulls his left arm across his chest, holding the stretch for a moment before the ice pack falls to the floor.
Corey Lazarus: Dammit…
Corey slowly releases the stretch and kneels down to pick it up, stopping as a pair of booted feet appear inches away from his finger tips, the toes hovering a hair away from the fallen ice pack.
Corey Lazarus: Hey, do you mind? I’m right in the middle of something, and…
The boots step back and hold still.
Corey Lazarus: …hey thanks, babe.
Corey picks the ice pack up and slowly stands up straight, the camera following him as he rises.
Corey Lazarus: Well, I’ll be damned. I knew I’d be running into you, sooner or later.
The camera pans out further. Chance and Hannah stand framed in the hall lights. Chance is dressed in a black, high-collared jacket that cuts off at the elbow, his red undershirt buttoned to the top. His gloves are black leather with white crosses stitched on the back, boots polished with white trim catching the low glow. His facepaint is sharp — white and black with streaks of crimson feathering outward like cracks, the Greek letters etched into his brow. His expression is still, unreadable, save for the faint curl of his lip.
Hannah beside him is elegance turned sinister. Her platinum hair falls in sculpted waves against her shoulders, the thin black headband across her forehead gleaming with the inverted cross. A fitted black skirt and sheer V-cut top cling to her frame, sheer sleeves fading into long gloves. Her legs are wrapped in patterned nylon that catch the light differently with every shift, ending in red heels with metallic clasps that tap lightly against the floor. A red inverted cross pendant swings ever so faintly as she tilts her chin, smirk tugging her lips.
Hannah Kelser: Mister Lazarus. You appear… worn thin. The body remembers every fall, every strike.
Chance Kelser: (a chuckle, low in tone) And the body betrays.
Corey grins, shaking his head. Impressed.
Corey Lazarus: You know, you both still have those sharp tongues, just like your old man. He’d…
Chance steps forward sharply, the smile erased. His eyes bore through Corey, voice leveled and deliberate.
Chance Kelser: Do…not…speak…his name.
A tense pause. Hannah’s gloved hand rises, resting lightly against Chance’s arm. He doesn’t flinch, but the gesture smooths the moment. She turns her gaze back to Corey, words soft but biting.
Hannah Kelser: What my brother intended to say, is that we do not require introductions through another man’s shadow. We choose to stand in our own light.
Corey holds up his hands, backing away a step.
Corey Lazarus: Fair enough, kids, fair enough. Trust me, I know a thing or two about having a grudge against your father, but hey, you’ll always be family to me, dig? Uncle Corey’s still allowed to say hi, right?
Chance tilts his head, repeating it back with a hollow grin, mocking cadence.
Chance Kelser: “Uncle Corey.” A toy title. An empty comfort for when the nights grew too quiet.
Hannah Kelser: (smirking) Though, you always did wear it well. Like a crown made of glorious thorns.
Corey’s expression falters, his grin wavering. Chance leans closer, his voice dropping lower, dripping with venom.
Chance Kelser: Family is not a word, Corey. It is a Covenant. A pact. Chosen by more than mere blood or brotherly love. And you… you were never invited to our little soiree.
Hannah leans in closer, her smile tightening, eyes narrowing as she whispers just loud enough for the microphone to catch.
Hannah Kelser: You mistake yourself for kin. Kin endures. You? You were convenient. And convenience is always the first thing left behind.
A beat of silence. Corey’s jaw tenses, the warmth drained from his face. Chance lets the smirk creep back, just enough to twist the knife.
Chance Kelser: “Uncle Corey.” The kind of made-up title people outgrow before children even learn to speak.
Footsteps from the hall draw their attention as one of the SHOOT Project Soldiers not booked tonight is here anyway. Josh Kaine looks the three of them up and down, raising a curious eyebrow. Two folks who were probably related by blood and like him, probably got accused of getting stuck in a Hot Topic more than once. The son of Sinnocence holds up his hands, clearly wanting no beef with these two if they have beef with Corey.
Josh Kaine: Man, I feel like I just walked up on a real awkward-ass conversation.
He pauses, chuckling to himself.
Josh Kaine: Yeah, yeah I did. What’d you say to these folks, Mr. Lazarus? Tryin’ to force your signed headshots on them too? Or are they tryin’ to be all scary-like? Damn, y’all the silent goth types?
The twins exchange the faintest glance between them, then turn in unison, their silhouettes trailing down the hallway. Kaine turns to Lazarus.
Josh Kaine: Man, it’s gettin’ real easy to see why everyone, even your own kid, finds you fuckin’ exasperatin’. My mama would tell ya that you’re gonna get more flies with honey than vinegar, Mr. Laz, but…eh, ain’t much you can do at your age to stop bein’ a dick. You have a good night, Mr. Laz.
Ever polite, even in speaking his mind before Josh Kaine takes a cue from the now departed twins to go back the way he came and leave the veteran alone in the hallway. The camera lingers on Corey, his hand still clutching the ice pack at his side, his breath uneven — visibly shaken, his old confidence cracked.
Corey Lazarus: …man, I’m glad Ricky never had a goth phase…
Whether Corey is just having a laugh or reassuring himself, he sighs, and starts to walk away, the opposite direction of either the Kelser Covenant or Joshua Kaine. Lazarus turns over his shoulder to make sure of the distance between them and himself. He shudders a little, out of primal response, and then snaps his fingers before walking further down the hallway.
Backstage
WHEN YOU POKE THE BEAR, YOU WAKE THIS GRIZZLY MOTHERFUCKER
Vito Valentino, fully dressed in his pink and black gear, appears in a corridor with the SHOOT Project PREMIER Championship slung over his shoulder. Usually, he likes wearing it as a traditional title belt. But sometimes, it felt only natural for the SmashShow himself to carry the championship around on his big, broad shoulders.
It certainly does make airport arrivals and legions of fans all recognizing who he is a bit uncomfortable, though.
As Vito strides down the corridor, the rhythmic thud of his wrestling boots echo off the concrete as his mind is laser-focused on the impending chaos of the trios tag team main event. He’s clad in his signature ring gear, the vibrant colors a stark contrast to the grim determination etched on his face. Every muscle on his spectacular frame is coiled and ready, a testament to years of grueling training and an unyielding will to dominate.
Suddenly, a familiar figure leaning casually against an impeccably painted wall catches his eye.
Vito Valentino: Well, holy shit!
It’s Frog, his oldest and most trusted childhood friend, with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he playfully waves what appears to be a VIP backstage pass to the Pinnacle and its Zenith proceedings. The laminated card, usually a coveted symbol of exclusivity, seems almost an extension of Frog’s perpetually carefree demeanor.
Frog: Thank Christ SHOOT moved to New York. I don’t think I can afford those tickets to Las Vegas anymore.
Vito Valentino: We comped you, knucklehead.
Frog: Oh, that’s right.
A genuine chuckle, a rare sound amidst the pre-match tension, escapes Vito’s lips. The sight of Frog, ever the jokester and master of improbable connections, never fails to break through his serious facade. It’s a fleeting moment of levity, a silent acknowledgment of their shared history and the unbreakable bond that transcends the brutal world he commits himself to.
Frog: You see the game today?
Vito Valentino: Nah. Been busy preparin’ for my match tonight. I heard we finally won, though. Can I get a YAAYmen? Ugh.
Frog: Well, if it’s any consolation, Volpe’s out of the line-up moving forward. Or, at least, for the Nats.
Vito Valentino: Yeah, until he gets a single in game 2 after Boone puts him in again. Then he’ll be just good enough in the eyes of the office that Boone’ll put him the fuck back in full-time.
They both share a laugh. Because with how bad things have been going for the Yankees as of late, if you didn’t laugh, you’d need a good cry.
Frog: But hey, I won’t keep you, dude. I mainly wanted to find out… you know…
The cameras zoom in on Vito’s face, which is currently a mask of utter perplexity. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, if a deer looked like it could benchpress a tank. His brow furrowed in confusion as he tries to process Frog’s statement. The audience could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as they all watched on from the state of the art monitors all across the Pinnacle.
Frog: C’mon, man. You know what I mean! We’ve been over this a hundred times. Don’t tell me you’re playing coy now..
The SmashShow, ever the smooth operator, starts to speak, but hesitates. A slight frown creases his usually placid expression.
Vito Valentino: I really d-
Suddenly, as if a celestial lightbulb had flickered on directly above his bald and tan head, Vito’s face lights up with a flash of understanding. His eyes widen slightly as the pieces of the puzzle click into place.
Vito Valentino: You mean my date with Sarah from last Tuesday? Why didn’t you just say so, Frog? You’re always so cryptic!
Frog: Detective Valentino, this guy. Always playing dumb until the last minute. You know I like to keep things interesting. Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?
Again, they both chuckle, the easy camaraderie between the two men evident to everyone watching. The tension in the hallway, which had been thick with Vito’s confusion, dissolves into an uncomfortable laughter.
Vito Valentino: Nah, it went well. I liked her. I think she liked me. We’re gonna see each other again sometime this coming week.
Frog: You should take her to a Yankees game.
Vito Valentino: I wouldn’t subject her to that kind of disappointment so early into the relationship. Besides, I told her she could pick the place, activity, or whatever she wants to do.
Frog: I hope she picks a Yankees game.
Vito Valentino: Fuck you, Frog.
As if on cue, the lightheartedness in the corridor vanishes and is replaced by a storm of conflicting emotions on Vito’s face.
Frog: What’s up. Veet? You look like someone just shit in your protein shake.
The mention of his match, and specifically the implications of the last episode of Zenith, bring a familiar, unsettling tension to his jaw. His eyes, which moments before had held a playful glint, now darkened with a mix of anger and self-reproach.
Vito Valentino: Man, I still can’t believe that little prick Black Sheep Baez got under my skin like that. The way he tried to sucker-punch his way to the PREMIER Title… I let him piss me off so bad, Frog. I almost ended the kid’s career right there, and I’m afraid I might do it for real tonight. Dude’s back is glass as fuck and I took advantage of it.
Frog: Fuck that, man. I saw what he tried to do. I also saw he put out a breaking news bulletin that tried to poke the bear some more after you uploaded your promo.
Vito Valentino: I actually found that funny as hell, to be honest. Hahaha.
Frog: Man, fuck him!! You can’t let him get away with that!! He’s a goddamn “Next Year is Our Year, Lawl Mets!” idiot!!
Vito Valentino: I mean, yeah, but still… I’m not gonna hold that shit against him and try to end his career over it. That’s somethin’ a Philly fan would do.
Frog: Fair enough. I guess I just don’t like the guy. Rubs me the wrong way.
Vito Valentino: I get it.
Vito silently steams for a few seconds, then finally lets it out.
Vito Valentino: You know what? It’s not even about the cheap shot, or the bulletin, or even the Mets thing, though that definitely doesn’t help his case. It’s the sheer fuckin’ disrespect, man. He’s walkin’ around like he runs this place, like he’s earned ANYTHING, and he hasn’t. Not a damn thing. He fuckin’ bailed on this place when the going got fuckin’ medium. He’s just… there. He was the first PREMIER Champion, but his reign has been long forgotten And now he’s trying to drag my name through the mud, tryin’ to get a rise out of me.
Vito’s eyes narrow, and he clenches his fists, the knuckles turning white. The earlier levity has completely vanished, replaced by a simmering fury that threatens to boil over.
Vito Valentino: I’ve been in this game for years, Frog. I’ve spilled blood, sweat, and tears in every damn arena across the globe. I’ve been a World Champion on the other side of that fence. But you know what? More importantly, I’ve earned this championship, and I’ve more than earned the respect that comes with it. And then this little punk ass pre-paraplegic comes back for another cup of coffee and proclaims I’ve just been keepin’ this title warm for him when I’ve defended it against some of the toughest competitors this side of the sun. That’s not keepin’ shit warm, Frog. That’s thinkin’ he can just waltz in and take it all away with a sneak attack and a few well-placed insults. But you know what?
Frog smiles, liking that he’s seemingly fired up his friend.
Vito Valentino: Not on my watch. He’s gonna learn. Fast.
He paces back and forth, the tension in his movements palpable. His voice, usually a booming declaration of confidence, is now a low, dangerous growl.
Vito Valentino: He wants to “poke the bear”? Well, the bear’s awake now. And he’s hungry. And this Grizzly motherfucker’s got a whole arsenal of powerbombs with his name on them. Every single one of them is going to be delivered with extreme goddamm prejudice.
Vito stops pacing, fixing Frog with an intense stare. There’s a gleam in his eyes that promises pain, a glint of the ruthlessness that makes him “The SmashShow” and one of the most dangerous competitors in the entire business.
Vito Valentino: I’m not just going to beat him tonight, Frog. I’m going to make an example out of him. Every time he thinks about disrespectin’ a champion around here, every time he tries to cut corners, he’s goin’ to remember tonight. He’s goin’ to remember the feelin’ of hittin’ the mat, over and over again, until his back is screamin’ and his lungs are burnin’ and his voice is cryin’ out for the indies to come and save him again.
Frog: You gotta remember, though, it’s not just him you gotta worry about. He’s got Izzy Sia and Pequeno Dinosaurio in his corner tonight.
Vito nods.
Vito Valentino: I know. And that’s the problem. Those two are NO joke.
He thinks on it for a second.
Vito Valentino: So they’re gonna do what they’re gonna do. And I’m gonna do what I gotta do if it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do.
The PREMIER Powerhouse punches Frog playfully on the shoulder like a best friend would.
Vito Valentino: Thanks for comin’ to see me before my match, dawg. I’ll see you after at McCabe’s?
Frog: Wouldn’t miss it, brother!
Vito nods and heads off in the direction of Gorilla.
Ready to get him a delicious rack of lamb.
TRIOS TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
VITO VALENTINO
GABRIEL TUCK
JOHNNY NAPALM
VS.
