EP.: 003
DATE: 09.08.2025
ARENA: THE PINNACLE
SINGLES MATCH
PREMIER CHAMPIONSHIP
PIGPEN MATSUMOTO
VS.
VITO VALENTINO (c)
IN THE RING
A WOMAN WITH A PET DOG
I’m a dog!
You’re a dog!
Everybody do the dog!
Makes you wanna
Do the dog all day long!
The playful, childish rap track, “I’m a dog! You’re a dog!” hits the speakers. From the back emerges the lumbering Peaknuckle, a massive, 7’0 dog… Human… Dog-Human. Human-Dog. Er… A human with fake dog ears that appear grafted to his head who lives the life of a dog! Around his neck rests a spiked dog collar attached to a long, black leash.
The other end of the leash is held tightly by the severe Maxine Gillespie, a Severus Snape of an expression on her face as she looks out at the crowd, pretending to fail at hiding the disgust from her visage.
Peaknuckle is all pick-me charisma as he lumbers down the entrance ramp, as doggos often are. Tongue out, smiling, being playful (especially with the kids), wiggling his butt in a distinctly canine way.
But the astute eye may note that Peaknuckle makes sure to stay a leash length apart from Maxine Gillespie the entire walk down.
Up the steel steps – Peaknuckle sits on the ropes so Maxine may step through them at her leisure. Would a dog do that? Probably not. But rest assured, if he is ever allowed to act human, it’s when it is of service to her for him to do so. Such is the life of a poor, good boy named Peaknuckle.
By the time the music fades, someone has made the absolute mistake of allowing Maxine to hold a microphone.
But before she can even bring the stick to her lips, the raucous New York crowd has lots of questions. Mainly,
Fans: WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK?
Maxine does a long, dramatic sigh – practiced, one might say. She rolls her eyes as she brings the microphone to her lips.
Maxine Gillespie: What’s the matter? Never seen a woman with a pet dog before?
Oh, that causes a multitude of reactions. Boos, ooooh’s, wild and worried laughter, more “what the fuck” chants.
Maxine Gillespie: My name is Maxine Gillespie. You know, many years ago, my… my dear chihuahua—
Fans: WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK?
Maxine Gillespie: SHUT YOUR BOROUGH TRASH MOUTHS WHEN MAXINE GILLESPIE IS SHARING AN ANECDOTE!!!
Obviously, they don’t do that, but break out in a chorus of boos worthy of the insult.
Peaknuckle immediately cowers in the corner of the ring, whimpers through his nose.
Maxine Gillespie: Do you see what you people did? You people scared my dog!
Maxine pats her lap as she stands.
Maxine Gillespie: C’mere Peaknuckle. It’s okay. The bad, mean, borough trash people won’t hurt you. They’re cowards. Rude, pessimistic cowards.
Peaknuckle crawls on all fours and hugs Maxine around the waist.
Maxine Gillespie: That’s a good boy. Yes… who’s a good boy?? You are! You are!!!
She pets his head roughly. Meanwhile, the boos seem to just generate more and more as she talks.
Maxine Gillespie: You faithless New York filth! This man, my GRANDSON, is my reincarnated chihuahua!!!
Fans: WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK?
Maxine Gillespie: I understand, it’s hard to believe what you’ve never seen, never experienced. It’s hard to believe that a woman like me, a little old lady with a big heart, could be blessed by GOD to have a second chance with her beloved dog, but it happened. It’s REAL. MY GRANDSON’S NAME IS PEAKNUCKLE!!! HE IS MY REINCARNATED DOG!!! AND YOU FAITHLESS LOSERS DON’T HAVE TO LIKE IT, BUT YOU WILL ACCEPT IT!!!
As the boos rain down, Maxine snaps to get Peaknuckle’s attention. She points towards the back.
Maxine Gillespie: You see that rabbit back there???
Peaknuckle snaps his eyes in the direction of the entrance ramp, then turns back to Maxine, tilting his head.
Peaknuckle: ARF?
Maxine Gillespie: Yeah! Look! That’s a rabbit!!! Go get that rabbit!!! You go get that rabbit, Peaknuckle!!!
Peaknuckle practically hangs himself on the ropes trying to escape the ring and run to the back.
Peaknuckle: ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF!!!
He topples through the ropes, lands hard on the floor, does NOT register the pain, but scrambles back up to his feet and runs up the ramp to the back.
Maxine’s eyes darken.
Maxine Gillespie: Suppose… I was lying about all this…
The crowd feel her sinister turn, stir into a murmuring buzz.
Maxine Gillespie: Suppose that I lied to my only grandson for three decades, all the while, convincing him he is a dog. Imagine how cruel, how twisted, how… gosh, do I say it? Hmph… Imagine how FUCKED UP I would have to be!
Fans: YOU’RE FUCKED UP! YOU’RE FUCKED UP! YOU’RE FUCKED UP! YOU’RE FUCKED UP!
Maxine Gillespie: Supposing all of that is true, then… what on Earth do you suppose that must mean for SHOOT Project and its roster, hmm? After all… someone that… that MENACING… someone that EVIL… Truly, THAT EVIL…
A sneer creeps across her face like the devil creeps across a brain.
Maxine Gillespie: Their intentions would certainly be no good. Isn’t that right?
She drops the microphone.
“I’m a Dog! You’re a Dog!” Hits the speakers.
I’m a dog!
You’re a dog!
Everybody do the dog!
Makes you wanna
Do the dog all day long!
But, suddenly, the song doesn’t seem all that playful.
Maxine Gillespie walks back up the ramp, the severity in her face matched only by her gait.
PRESS BOX
PROLOGUE
The camera pans to the press box, where men in suits surround a man in the crowd. He’s dressed in a charcoal gray Tom Ford suit, the fit sharp across his broad shoulders. A black shirt and silk pocket square finish the look, while his long, silver-streaked hair is slicked back just enough to look powerful without trying too hard. He’s grinning as he speaks with Greg Nicholson, SHOOT Project’s Director of Marketing, Samantha Coil, the VP of Talent Relations, and Eddie E., the Director of Talent Development.
Eryk Masters: Wait a second… Jason, that’s— that’s Thunderwolf!
Jason Johnson: Oh, come on. He hasn’t wrestled a match in years, Eryk. Sure, he’s cleaned up in a designer suit and he’s got the upper brass hanging off his every word, but none of that matters here. This is the SHOOT Project. Legends don’t get free passes.
The camera tightens on the group, Thunderwolf leaning back confidently, his larger frame filling out the seat as Samantha Coil laughs at one of his remarks. The crowd realizes who they’re seeing and begins to stir, the volume rising.
Eryk Masters: Jason, you can’t ignore this. That man is a multi-time former World Champion in promotions across the globe, and one of the most innovative high-flyers the business has ever seen.
Jason Johnson: Once upon a time, maybe. Back then he was capoeira and high spots, Eryk. Now? He’s bulked up to two-fifty, maybe more. Looks impressive, sure — but this isn’t the past. This is SHOOT.
The crowd explodes into chants of THUN-DER-WOLF! THUN-DER-WOLF! Thunderwolf smirks, giving a slight nod of acknowledgement toward the fans, sending the chant into overdrive.
Eryk Masters: And listen to this crowd! They don’t care if it’s been years, they haven’t forgotten.
The camera shifts as a new figure steps into frame. A familiar-looking woman. She’s radiant — her deep brown (with blonde highlights) hair flowing in soft waves, her makeup smoky around the eyes with a dark wine lip. She wears a fitted black dress with sheer sleeves, subtle shimmer in the fabric catching the light, paired with tall heels that click as she approaches. She carries herself with an almost effortless elegance, a playful, seductive smirk on her face as she leans down toward Thunderwolf.
Gorgeous Lady: Is this seat taken?
Thunderwolf mouths back, smirking, “Of course not.” He pats the seat beside him, and the lady slides in gracefully, crossing her legs, her eyes still locked on him.
Eryk Masters: Oh my… that’s Misty Starks! Another name we haven’t seen in years. Former model, manager, and of course…
Jason Johnson: …the ex-wife of Thunderwolf. And don’t forget, the mother of Hannah and Chance. So what? This isn’t a family reunion, this is the SHOOT Project. If they think their kids are going to coast on the nostalgia of mommy and daddy, they’re in for a rude awakening.
Eryk Masters: Jason, be real. Misty Starks hasn’t been seen in wrestling circles in years. Thunderwolf hasn’t set foot in a ring in even longer. And yet here they are — reunited, front and center, on the night their children debut. That’s not nothing.
The camera lingers on Thunderwolf and Misty sharing a subtle glance, the crowd still chanting, before cutting back to ringside.
Eryk Masters: This night just got a whole lot bigger.
Retribution has come at last – long live the Beast, long live Thunderwolf. Fear the Cry.
SINGLES MATCH
N/A
CHANCE KELSER
VS.
KING OSO
IN THE RING
THE RITUAL
The bell rings, and the referee signals for the end. King Oso lies flat on his back, his chest heaving. Chance Kelser drops to his knees in the center of the ring, his dark clergy attire clinging with sweat, black-and-white face paint streaked but still unmistakably demonic, the Greek characters for Chi-Xi-Stigma (χ ξ ϛ) carved across his forehead. Hannah Kelser hovers above him, a red goblet in hand, platinum hair wild, her black dress ruffled at the edges, her gloves gleaming under the lights.
Eryk Masters: The Covenant has arrived, Jason. That was as definitive a debut as you’ll ever see.
Jason Johnson: Yeah, but you can feel it, Eryk — the bell’s rung, the match is over… and yet, this is just the beginning.
Hannah kneels beside King Oso, her gloved fingers gently stroking his face before pressing hard against his forehead. She dips her finger into the goblet and traces three characters with deliberate precision: χ, ξ, ϛ — the Greek letters of “the number of the beast.” The hard camera zooms in to capture the mark smeared across Oso’s skin.
Eryk Masters: Oh my god… she’s… she’s marking him!
Jason Johnson: They’re branding him with their Covenant symbolism!
Chance lowers his head, palms pressed to Oso’s chest in mock prayer, whispering under his breath as though performing a benediction. Hannah rises slowly, circling the ring before retrieving an ornamental crown from one of the fans in attendance. She looks at it, smirking, before handing it off to Chance.
Eryk Masters: Oh no… oh no, don’t do this.
Chance holds the crown up for the camera. He blows on his gloved hand, then buffs the metal with exaggerated reverence, smirk never fading. With deliberate slowness, he lowers the crown and places it onto King Oso’s head as though crowning a fallen king. The crowd erupts in boos, mixed with uneasy silence.
Jason Johnson: That’s sick! They’re mocking Oso, mocking this company, mocking the very idea of honor in that ring!
Hannah drops to her knees beside Oso’s body, laughing maniacally as Chance kneels opposite, head bowed, hands clasped like a priest over a fallen disciple. The arena lights flicker once, twice — then stabilize. The camera cuts to a close-up of King Oso: laid out, crown crooked on his head, and the Greek letters smeared across his forehead.
Eryk Masters: That… that image is going to haunt this place.
Jason Johnson: If they think this twisted pageantry is going to make them royalty here, they’re in for a rude awakening. This is SHOOT Project, not their church of the damned.
The broadcast cuts to the press box. Misty Starks leans forward in her seat, her playful smirk from earlier now gone, replaced with lowered brows and mouth agape, hands on her head. Her eyes linger on her children in the ring, not with pride, but with concern. Beside her, Dustin “Thunderwolf” Kelser sits back, arms folded across his chest, his expression carved in stone — unreadable, detached, offering no clue what he’s feeling.
Eryk Masters: And there they are, Jason. Misty Starks and Thunderwolf… watching their children carve their own legacy.
Jason Johnson: Legacy? Look closer, Eryk. Misty doesn’t look proud; she looks worried. And Thunderwolf? He’s giving us nothing. That silence says more than any chant ever could.
The camera lingers one more moment on Misty’s unsettled expression before cutting back to the haunting shot of King Oso, laid out, crown crooked, forehead marked with χ ξ ϛ. The screen fades to black.
MULTI-PERSON SINGLES MATCH
N/A
DARKSPADE
MIKE DE LOS HUESOS
ULTIMO MUERTE II
SCOTTIE BARNES
Backstage
PIGPEN, HEART EYES
A severe and stern voice echoes as we open backstage in the arena.
Maxine Gillespie: I believe we made our point quite clear out there earlier, don’t you Peaknuckle?
Peaknuckle: Arf!
We wonder if Peaknuckle knows how to speak English at all as Maxine Gillespie, leash in hand, takes him for a walk through the back hallways.
Peaknuckle stops, wags his butt a little bit, anxiously, not sexually — never sexually, and looks at her with pleading eyes.
Maxine Gillespie: No! No pee-pee time until we get outside.
Peaknuckle growls.
Peaknuckle: ARF! ARF! AROO ROO!!!
Maxine Gillespie: I said, ‘NO!’
Peaknuckle, with no other options remaining, walks a little faster towards the exit, causing Maxine to speed up her own stride.
Neither of them even notice the man lingering in the hallway as they stride by.
But he notices them.
Pigpen Matsumoto.
1998s Viceroy of Pain Cup winner doesn’t really move with much purpose on a good day, and he’s seen waving off the concerns of some backstage attendant as they tell him that he can’t chief on his eternally present cigarette. But at the passing of the beast and his…handler, one supposes? He scoffs. Derisively so.
Pigpen: [Walking fucking circus act bullshit.] Fuck like you get chewed up with real bad ass.
Maxine stops dead in her tracks. Peaknuckle, desperately wishing to relieve himself, whimpers. She slowly turns her head, stares into the windows of Pigpen’s soul, finds them empty.
Maxine Gillespie: I beg your pardon?
Matsumoto is glaring at the giant so fully that he barely registers the question, letting a dragon’s plume of smoke from his nostrils. When he does shift to Maxine, the scariest thing in SHOOT Project history happens.
Pigpen smiles.
Not winces, not sneers, not grins in a mocking way. A smile. It doesn’t suit him.
Pigpen: It is fun to make your acquiesant. Kireidesu ne. Moshikashite moderu-sandesu ka?
The subtitle benefit tells us that he wants to know if the woman is a model. Maxine Gillespie glares at Pigpen.
Maxine Gillespie: It seems you’ve forgotten your manners.
Maxine extends a slender, frail white hand to Pigpen.
Maxine Gillespie: My name is Maxine Gillespie. I’m the owner of this large dog. Isn’t he just grand?
Peaknuckle growls at Pigpen. Gestures to his wiener, does a dance covering his crotch with his hands. This dance is also subtitled: “I simply must urinate.” Ignoring the ‘pooch’, Pigpen takes her hand in his gnarled, scarred, nicotine stained mitt and he shakes it with surprising gentleness for a man of his particular vibes.
Pigpen: Matsumoto Jinpei. Pigpen. King of All Death 2001 and 2002. Dog is…is a dog. Yes. Fuck. Uh…what is…date? You date?
Maxine Gillespie hides her thoughts as though they were veiled in black — good or bad.
Maxine Gillespie: Pigpen. Lovely.
She grins.
Maxine Gillespie: Do I date? Not in years, sweetheart. You see, I find men to be full of words and empty of action. That’s why I prefer dogs. Haha! No, no. Rarely do I give your sort the time of day. I am Eurydice, Pigpen. And…
Her finger traces a line across the range of his neck.
Maxine Gillespie: I need to know Orpheus will bleed for me before I am willing to consider leaving my comfy, little underworld.
To this, the scarred warrior grins a mouthful that’s short at least a few teeth.
Pigpen: Pigpen Matsumoto make all bleed. Make all suffer under boot. Fuck. I take this dog, drag into hell for fun, paint canvas red with him. [He’ll never see another fucking summertime, I garauntee you that.] I bleed fuck dog for you, then Pigpen date you. Yes? Fuck. Blood for my queen.
Maxine Gillespie giggles at the thought, squeezes his bicep.
Maxine Gillespie: You make a strong case for yourself. Though I suspect my dog might just make you bleed as well…
She thinks for a moment. There has to be a way to work this to her advantage.
Ah, there we go. She has it.
Maxine Gillespie: How about a Best of 5? Escalating stipulations. Do you follow? If you win three, I let you take me on this… date. But if you lose three, and my dear, you certainly will lose three, then you… work for me…
Pigpen: You bring fuck dog to Pigpen house. Pigpen world. Pigpen rules. Pipgen planet–Planet Motherfucker–not place for…uh…circus fuck.
He grasps her hand and places a kiss on it before taking a big drag off of his Seven Stars.
Pigpen: Pigpen bring you head on plate.
He begins to walk off, but turns back to eye Peaknuckle and flip him the bird.
Pigpen: All death, motherfuck. King of all death. Piss yourself.
Maxine Gillespie smiles, looks over at Peaknuckle.
He has, in fact, done just that.
Maxine Gillespie: You disgusting mutt!
Peaknuckle whimpers.
We cut elsewhere.
IN THE RING
LONELY... SHE IS SO LOOOONELY.
The sounds of Vixtrola’s “Gunboat” fade out as we find Laura Seton standing mid-ring. A mic goes to her hands and she stands with a grin as she lets the fans’ cheers for her play out.
Laura Seton: Hard to believe fall is just around the corner. It’s been quite the year, hasn’t it? Most notably of course, the change from Vegas to here in New York…
A mild cheer cuts her off abruptly. One that she lets play out with a grin.
Laura Seton: And of course a changing of the guard, so to speak, with Joshua Breedlove defeating me a month ago. Even my personal life has swung quite a bit this last year, but that’s for another place and time…
She seems to become lost in thought for a few seconds before getting back on track mentally.
Laura Seton: Now, I’m sure many of you hope to see me in this ring again and, like I did after losing the Championship the first time to Lindsay Troy, get it back and go on to even bigger and even better heights than before. And trust me, that what I want to do. But it’s a mistake to assume it’ll just “happen.” If there’s one thing I can’t afford to do at this stage, it’s assume something can happen. It’s more than true with a guy like Breedlove. We know what lengths he’ll go to in order to get what he wants. It doesn’t matter who he steps on or who he breaks. If I keep my focus? If I keep believing in myself? If I stay aware of–
The lights go out.
Complete darkness.
The crowd silences itself so that the most you can hear are some incomprehensible whispers and the electrical hum of the equipment in the building. You could nearly hear a pin drop, the suspense is there, it’s building, but no noise is coming.
Then…
Two red spotlights.
Two golden spotlights.
Right in the middle of the ramp.
Finally… BIG pyro.
“MAKE WAY FOR THE KING”
The lyric rings out, but no music follows. A stall tactic. The crowd gets up and finds their voices to boo the incoming SHOOT Project World Heavyweight Champion, who’s taking his dear sweet time coming to the arena, further irritating Zenith’s capacity crowd.
Jason Johnson: He’s obviously doing this on purpose.
Eryk Masters: We live on the World Champion’s time.
Jason Johnson: Such as it is…
Ending the pause, Ohana Bam’s “Make Way for the King” takes over and the music comes with it, heralding the arrival of “The Emperor” himself, SHOOT Project’s World Champion… Joshua Breedlove. But…
Eryk Masters: Wait, who’s that with him?
Jason Johnson: You know EXACTLY who that is.
Madison Seton appears behind Breedlove as the music plays, drawing more ire from the crowd as well, recognizing and acknowledging what Madison Seton did to her sister just weeks prior. She’s got a VERY smug smirk on her face which is mirrored by Breedlove. The two stand apart at the top of the ramp when they’re joined by a member of production, who is rolling the secure case that holds the World Championship title belt under biometric lock and key. He also hands Breedlove a microphone. Breedlove pats the case, the lights come up, and the music stops. He pulls the microphone up to his mouth, takes a breath, and then he just… hands the microphone over to Madison Seton.
Jason Johnson: Breedlove opting to avoid talking in this one, it would seem.
Her smug smile stays as she gives a polite, off-mic “Thank you” to the Champion. The crowd boos as she lifts the mic. Her eyes scan the crowd before landing on her sister.
Madison Seton: If, if, if, if… … I’ve heard that word so fucking such the last week alone, never mind the past month.
If we had Caitlin Clark… If the Fever could get it’s whole offense going… Even something you should be familiar well enough with here:
If the Brewers have a healthy Jackson Chourio… If Jacob Misiorowski can gain enough control… If Micah Parsons is ready to play…
Eryk Masters: Madison invoking players of their favorite teams, here.
Laura Seton: What’s the point?
The question is more direct than anything.
Madison Seton: No one cares about “What if” besides the media. Well, I’ll tell ya something, sister. As a player and wrestler, I don’t give a fuck about “What if…” I control what I can and don’t worry about anything else. I make do with what I can. I don’t play on the hypotheticals because that’s when you have self-doubt.
That’s when you go out and suck ass.
The fact you’re playing “If…” tells me you doubt yourself. That this man–
She points at Breedlove with a smile, garnering further booing.
Madison Seton: –makes you think like that tells me he was right to offer you an invitation to The Empire. Because here? We’re all confident in ourselves. We all know we can win any given night. And right now? You’re full of self-doubt.
That makes you a fuckin’ LOSER!!
Breedlove (echoing, off mic): A fuckin’ loser.
A hard stare from the younger Seton to the older one as Laura mildly shakes her head.
Laura Seton: No, it shows I live in reality. That I know I’m not perfect. I’m not what I was 20 years ago–
Madison Seton: OH, SHUT THE FUCK UP!!
The crowd boos heavily again. Madison looks back to the crowd, the booing seeming to further agitate her. She has a second to calm herself before a wry grin forms.
Madison Seton: Oh, this is rich. A New York crowd booing the Oshkosh, WI native that plays professional basketball in Indiana. Well, lemme tell ya something, New York! My man Tyrese Haliburton’s got a message for ya–!
Breedlove makes a choking sound as she puts her hands to her neck, mimicking Tyrese’s “choke” sign from game one of this past NBA season’s Eastern Conference Finals. But you don’t have to explain that to this crowd. They get it. Madison just starts sharing laughter with Breedlove at the heavier boos.
Madison Seton: You never fail to impress, NYC.
Laura Seton: Are you done acting like an imbecile?
Madison looks back to Laura with a somewhat surprised expression. As if her sister just suddenly threatened her.
Madison Seton: Acting the imbecile, I am not! It’s you, pretty PG Princess. Because instead of wanting to surround yourself with a group that can help you out… you keep at it on your own. Instead of receiving daily votes of confidence and help? You do…
Whatever the fuck it is you do.
Train? Get positive vibes from fans? Be a stubborn jackass? Look at you! You could be standing there–right there, middle of the ring with this belt–
She points to the World Heavyweight Championship, Breedlove does his best Vanna White impression as well.
Madison Seton: And be approaching a nearly impossible to top reign of almost 400 days! The invincible, iron woman, champion of champions! A record sure to stand longer than Cal Ripken’s streak of consecutive games played!
And instead you’re as lonely as a New York Mets fan…
Breedlove (again, off mic): That’s really lonely.
A handful of boos sprout up, getting another wry grin from Madison.
Madison Seton: And just like the Mets? You’re going nowhere but down. Maybe it won’t be my guy Breedlove that does it. Maybe it won’t even be me. But somewhere down the road–sometime soon? You’re gonna run out of gas. And when you break down?
Ain’t no one gonna help you.
Laura goes to respond to her sister, but as the microphone is reaching her lips, she’s rudely interrupted by the CHAMP’S music, “Make Way for the King” by Ohana Bam, kicking up and taking over any and all of the rest of the noise. Breedlove puts his hand under his chin and does a smug little finger waving goodbye as the World Championship gets rolled back out, Madison Seton makes her exit, and then Breedlove leaves as well, leaving Laura Seton alone in the ring, much like Madison alluded to.
Jason Johnson: Gotta say, they’re douchebags, but the Empire is effective at its messaging.
Eryk Masters: I’m actually kind of amazed that Breedlove didn’t even really talk at all. He just let Madison do the speaking for him.
Jason Johnson: Sometimes, with siblings, it’s best just to let that fight happen. Trust me, I’d know.
Eryk Masters: Because of Josh?
Jason Johnson: Because of Josh. There’s this one time when he–
Eryk Masters: I’m hearing that we have to move on to our next match, which is going to actually be featuring two members of the Empire, Cromwell Yarbury and Muratagi Hanzo, taking on a team that’s looking for their first win here in SHOOT Project, the So Cal Stretching Crew. That match is NEXT.
Jason Johnson: He told you to move on, didn’t he?
Eryk Masters: Yep.
Jason Johnson: Asshole.
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
SOCAL STRETCHING CREW
THE EMPIRE
JOAO RIBEIRO
LEO CRUZ
VS.
CROMWELL YARBURY
MURATAGI HANZO
IN THE RING
CRIMSON
The crowd buzzes with anticipation as the cameras cut back to the arena. A low hum of uncertainty ripples through the audience as the house lights suddenly dim. The video screen above the entrance stage flickers to life, displaying one word:
“Absolute.”
The opening haunting strings of “Lux Aeterna” by Clint Mansell begin to echo through the arena, soft and eerie at first before swelling into a grand, cinematic soundscape. The fans erupt, a thunderous mixture of shock and jubilation, as the silhouette of a man steps out onto the stage.
It’s Austin Anderson.
He walks slowly, his head slightly bowed, his long coat flowing around his legs. The years weigh on his face, but his eyes gleam with the intensity of a man who has lived for this business. For months, rumors swirled about his future after losing to Laura Seton. Many assumed retirement meant the end. Tonight, that assumption dies.
Austin stops at the top of the ramp and raises his head, surveying the sea of fans with a slight smirk. Chants ring out:
“Welcome back! Welcome back!”
“AUS-TIN! AUS-TIN!”
He makes his way down the ramp deliberately, soaking in every ounce of the atmosphere. He taps the steel ring steps twice with his hand before ascending them and stepping through the ropes. In the center of the ring, he stands perfectly still for a moment, the music fading as the house lights return to full brightness. The crowd quiets down as a microphone is handed to him.
Austin Anderson: “This… feels… strange.”
He lets the words hang in the air, a slight chuckle leaving his lips as the audience leans in.
Austin Anderson: “Strange, because the last time I stood in this ring… I believed that chapter of my life had closed. I believed the Absolute had walked his final mile down this aisle. I believed the story was finished, bound in leather and placed on a shelf labeled ‘completed.’ And yet… here I am.”
The crowd cheers again, a loud pop that brings a small nod of appreciation from Austin.
Austin Anderson: “Now, before speculation runs wild and the blogs start typing furiously about one last match… allow me to clarify. No. I am not here to lace up my boots. Those days, while glorious, are behind me. My body has paid its debt. My soul, however… my soul was left bankrupt.”
He begins pacing the ring slowly, his voice calm, deliberate, dripping with that signature oratorical style that earned him the nickname “the Absolute.”
Austin Anderson: “You see, wrestling is not a hobby. It’s not a job. For men and women like me… it is an addiction. And oh, what a cruel addiction it can be. The highs? They’re unlike anything else in this world. The roar of the crowd, the heat of competition, the knowledge that, for just one night, you were the very best. But the lows… the lows will tear a hole in your chest and never let the air return. And when I lost to Laura Seton… when I felt the World Championship slip through my fingers… I thought I could live without this. I thought I could walk away clean.”
He pauses, looking down at the mat, almost as if confessing to himself.
Austin Anderson: “I lied to myself.”
A murmur goes through the audience as Austin lifts his gaze again, intensity building.
Austin Anderson: “Because every day since then, I’ve woken up with the same question clawing at the inside of my skull: If you’re not Austin Anderson, the wrestler… then who the hell are you? And for months, I had no answer. I wandered through life like a ghost… a relic. And then, one day, an answer arrived in the form of someone who reminded me why this industry matters. Someone who bleeds the same shade of passion that I do. Someone who understands that this ring is not a stage… it is a battlefield. And every battle demands a warrior worthy of the fight.”
The crowd stirs now, sensing something big is coming. Austin walks toward the ropes and leans over them slightly, eyes locked on the hard camera.
Austin Anderson: “So, no… I am not here to fight. I am here to guide. To lead. To elevate. Because the Absolute may not have one more war left in these bones… but the future? The future has a Valkyrie.”
The lights cut to black.
The fans gasp as the haunting sound of an orchestral piece mixed with heavy guitar riffs begins to echo throughout the arena. Crimson spotlights sweep across the crowd like searchlights as smoke fills the entrance stage. Slowly, a figure emerges, draped in an elaborate crimson and black robe, adorned with metallic feathered pauldrons that gleam under the crimson hue.
It’s Emiko Fujimoto. The Crimson Valkyrie.
The camera closes in on her face, painted with intricate designs, her crimson hair tied into a high ponytail, her eyes burning with determination. The reaction is electric. The SHOOT Project faithful erupt into cheers and stunned disbelief as she walks with a commanding presence down the ramp, her robe trailing behind her like the cape of a warrior queen.
Austin Anderson steps back from the ropes, standing center ring as Emiko ascends the steps and enters. She removes her ornate robe with deliberate grace, revealing her battle-ready gear beneath, a perfect fusion of elegance and danger. When she stands across from Austin, the visual alone sends a message: this is not just another wrestler. This is something else entirely.
The music fades, replaced by the deafening roar of the crowd chanting:
“VAL-KYR-IE! VAL-KYR-IE!”
Austin Anderson raises the microphone again, his voice swelling with pride.
Austin Anderson: “Ladies and gentlemen… allow me the privilege, the honor, the absolute joy… of introducing to you the future of this business. The warrior who will carve her name into the annals of SHOOT Project history with blood, sweat, and unbreakable spirit. From Kyoto, Japan… standing before you is a woman who embodies everything I have ever believed wrestling should be. Fearless. Relentless. Resilient.”
He turns, extending his arm toward her like a proud king presenting a champion.
Austin Anderson: “This… is Emiko Fujimoto. This… is The Crimson Valkyrie.”
The crowd erupts again as Emiko steps forward, her face calm but her body radiating intensity. Austin lowers the mic slightly as she takes it from him. Her voice is soft but sharp, cutting through the noise with an accent that lends weight to every syllable.
Emiko Fujimoto: “When Austin Anderson called me… I asked him one question: Why me? Do you know what he said? He said… ‘Because you are everything I wished I could have been.’”
The audience reacts with a collective gasp at the honesty of the statement. Austin looks down for a moment, then nods.
Emiko Fujimoto: “I am here for war. I am here for pain. I am here… to rise. The Crimson Valkyrie does not run from the storm. She becomes the storm.”
The fans roar as Emiko lowers the mic. Austin takes it back, stepping closer to her with a mentor’s pride etched on his face.
Austin Anderson: “And that storm… begins now. So, to the champions of SHOOT Project… to the so-called titans who believe they sit upon an unshakable throne… consider this your prophecy. The Absolute has returned, not to reclaim glory for himself, but to forge a new era in blood and brilliance. And Emiko Fujimoto will be the blade that cuts down your kingdoms.”
He tosses the mic down with a sharp clatter, and Lux Aeterna begins to play again as Austin raises Emiko’s hand high in the air. The fans erupt into a thunderous ovation, cameras flashing, people losing their minds over the shocking alliance.
The final shot before it fades is perfect: Austin Anderson, the grizzled veteran whose career defined an era, standing behind Emiko Fujimoto, the Crimson Valkyrie, his hand gripping her wrist as she stares directly into the camera, eyes ablaze, silently declaring war on the entire roster.
The Absolute is back.
But the future… belongs to the Valkyrie.
Backstage
CHANGE IN THE HOUSE OF WOLVES
The scene cuts back to gorilla position. Holden Nobody stands against a wall, eyes close, holding his left leg up in the air, stretching. He takes a deep breath in and holds it for a few seconds. On the exhale, he speaks.
Holden Nobody: Everything you touch you change…
Holden switches, stretching out his right leg. He takes a deep breath again and holds it, speaking again on the exhale.
Holden Nobody: Everything you change changes you.
???: What’s that from?
Holden opens his eyes, a little shocked. Towering over him is Cormac Nelson, face painted and fully in his battle gear. Holden doesn’t tense up. He continues to stretch.
Holden Nobody: Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler. It’s…one of my favorites.
Cormac nods.
Cormac Nelson: I’m not much of a poetry guy, myself. But I know a good line when I hear it. Here’s the big question, though… You ready to be changed?
Holden breathes his nerves out..
Holden Nobody: Fuck man, you’re so much bigger in person.
Holden snickers.
Holden Nobody: If you mean, like, changing by, like, rearranging my face, I guess I’d say no, but…
Another deep breath.
Holden Nobody: Yeah, man, I think so.
Cormac nods, a bit of a smirk on his face.
Cormac Nelson: Nobody expects you to win this. But you’re used to being the underdog, aren’t you? Take the bull by the horns. Let’s have some fun, huh?
He puts a taped fist out. Holden pounds his to Cormac’s, almost immediately.
Holden Nobody: Yeah buddy! Let’s boogie!
SINGLES MATCH
HOLDEN NOBODY’S TRYOUT MATCH
HOLDEN NOBODY
VS.
CORMAC NELSON
Backstage
FINE, COOL, SUPER DUPER
The cameras dart around backstage, just outside the assortment of locker rooms. A sign for Vito here, the SoCal Stretching Crew there. You get it.
The camera stops by one door as it opens, drawing out Ricky O’Reilly and his father, “The Premier Attraction” Corey Lazarus, engaged in mid-conversation.
Ricky Tenet: …ell pops, not everything can go as planned, right?
Corey Lazarus: Well, sport, when you’re right? Yeah, you’re right. Anyway, about tonight, are you suuuuure…
Ricky holds up a hand, halting the Last Damn Icon mid-sentence.
Ricky: Dad, no. I’m not coming to the ring with you.
Corey Lazarus: Oh, c’mon! It’ll be fun! A little pyro, a good tune, thousands of people chanting your old man’s name…hell, maybe even a few chanting yours at this point, right? Handsome little bastard like you.
Ricky scoffs, shaking his head.
Ricky: Pops, you know the drill. Cliff would…
Corey Lazarus/Ricky (simultaneously): …have my ass.
Ricky pauses, holding up a finger.
Ricky: …please don’t. You know I…
Corey Lazarus/Ricky (simultaneously): …hate it when…
Ricky: …son of a bitch…
Corey Lazarus: Speaking of…
The conversation halts, their attention drawn to the arrival of JOSH KAINE, his own focus directed towards the younger man.
Josh Kaine: Hey man, was hopin’ to run into you again. You been good, Ricky? Old man here ain’t makin’ ya spit-shine his boots, right?
The son of Sinnocence is clearly ignoring the older man for now, but Corey rolls his eyes and turns to his son, giving him the old “get a load of this guy” smirk, but Ricky? He’s not having it. In fact, one could say he’s actually happy to see one of his father’s opponents-to-be. Much to the general displeasure of his old man, of course.
Corey Lazarus: So…what, exactly, can the L-A-Z help you with now? I mean, I’ll already be helping loosen a few of those teeth later, so your next cute “I’m such a rebel” look…
Oh yeah. You know it. Finger quotes. Ricky rolls his eyes as Josh raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest.
Corey Lazarus: …could be, like, a throwback grill. Or whatever. Your choice!
Josh Kaine: Don’t need nothin’ from you, Mr. Laxative.
Corey Lazarus: Listen, babe…can I call you babe?
Corey reaches forward and puts his hand on Kaine’s shoulder.
Corey Lazarus: Tonight? Whatever issues you may have with your dad? Well, he’s not here right now, dig? And later on, between us and that beer gutted bastard you’ll be sharing a corner with? That is just business. Unless you, of course, want to make this personal. Champ.
Josh snarls and shoves Corey’s hand from his shoulder, drawing a quick gasp from Ricky. Lazarus, too, takes a beat, then runs that same hand through his hair. Because he was totally going to do that anyway.
Josh Kaine: First of all, you don’t know my pop from Adam. Don’t have issues with either of my folks, they’re good people. They raised me up good and proper. I don’t make shit personal without a damn good reason. You fuckin’ touch me again without askin’ first and that’ll be reason enough.
Corey Lazarus: Alright, alright, point well taken, but hey, listen up, cool? Later on, there’s going to be a car waiting outside for us, my son…
Corey pulls Ricky tight to him, smirking defiantly.
Corey Lazarus: …and I, and we’re off to Club Xanny down the road for a little post-Zenith mixer. You’re invited, of course! I’ll even get you a free drink ticket. What do you say?
Josh steps back, looking the veteran up and down before shaking his head.
Josh Kaine: Ain’t goin’ nowhere with you. Don’t need nothin’ from someone who has his head so far up his ass he can’t smell nothin’ but his own shit.
The faux-casual smile of Corey’s dissolves into a knowing, amused glare as he, instinctively, takes a step back.
Corey Lazarus: That’s all fine and dandy, tiger, but it’s sounding more and more like you want to get things going earlier than expected, and me? Babe, you know that I’m game.
Corey steps forward, his chest bumping into Kaine’s. The son of Sinnocence doesn’t yield, sticking his finger in the face of the Hollywood Kid.
Josh Kaine: Ain’t into dick-measuring contests, Mr. Laz, and even if I was, you’d fuckin’ lose.
Corey Lazarus: Well, if that’s how it’s going to be…
Before either man can say, or do, anything to escalate the situation, Ricky steps between, pushing either man away.
Ricky: Whoa, hey now, cool off, guys, cool off.
Josh Kaine: Ain’t never understood folks like you, but honestly? I don’t really need to understand why you’re a prick who can’t get outta his own shadow let alone help out someone else. Helps to learn stuff from folks who ain’t all pig-headed. Offer’s out there if you want, Ricky. Might learn something besides bein’ a washed-up asshole stunt double with an ego the size of fuckin’ Mars.
Corey Lazarus: I’ve been doing my own stunts since you were shoplifting at Spencer’s Gifts, slick, so if you want…!
Ricky: God dammit…would the both of you just SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!
Josh and Corey pause, their attention drawn to the uncharacteristic outburst from Ricky O’Reilly. The outburst draws a smile from Kaine, clearly he’s seen something he likes from Ricky.
Ricky: For Christ’s sake! Dad, I get it, you want me to get what you consider the best training, and that’s great, alright?
Corey Lazarus: Well, it’s led me to multiple…!
Ricky: And JOSH! Dude, listen, you don’t like my dad, and trust me…
Ricky turns to Corey, staring him straight in the eyes.
Ricky: …I. Get. It.
Ricky turns fully to Josh, jabbing him in the chest with a pair of fingers to illustrate his points, breaking only to form the quotation marks with his fingers.
Ricky: But this whole “going to save that little boy” bullshit? Shut. The fuck. Up. About it. I’m a grown-ass man, understand? And yeah, my dad may not be the sweetest and kindest person on the planet, a little more Red Forman than Hank Hill, but that’s our relationship, understand? He talks shit, I talk it right back to him, we have a few laughs. Alright? Cut this white knight bullshit!
Josh Kaine: Ain’t nothin’ much to cut, but I getcha, dude. Ain’t out here to save no little boy. You ain’t no little boy, ain’t been for a long while. Just extending a hand to help, if you want it.
Corey Lazarus: He doesn’t want your help, Quilted Sevenfold! Oh, and while we’re airing out our grievances so long before Festivus, I’m…no, WE’RE sick of…!
Ricky turns to his father, whose turn to get fingers jabbed into his chest has come up.
Ricky: You too! Cut the shit! What part of “I’m a grown-ass man” don’t you get? I’m more than capable of making my own decisions!
Corey Lazarus: I get it, fine, cool, super duper…I just don’t want to see you make dumb ones, like SOME PEOPLE.
Corey yells over Ricky’s shoulder, directly to Kaine. He pays for his insolence as his son, his pride and joy, gives him a quick slap across the face.
Ricky: Believe me, dad, I get it, and I’m glad you give a shit, but those dumb decisions? They are mine to make. Dig?
Corey Lazarus: …yeah…I dig…
Ricky: Good.
Ricky calms down and tugs on the collar of his shirt, letting out a deep breath.
Ricky: Now…Josh…do you want to come out to my dad’s club for some after-party drinks? ON THE HOUSE?
Josh Kaine: Nah man, I got company at home I gotta get back to, but thanks for the invite. I’m free tomorrow though.
Ricky: Great. Down for a sparring sesh tomorrow?
The whole time, Ricky’s eyes never leave Corey’s. Lazarus loses color in his face for a moment before a proud smile tries to creep across it.
Josh Kaine: Hell yeah, man. I’ve got a gym booked and my ma’s comin’ down from Boston. Meet me over at Equinox, ‘round noon.
Ricky: Fannnnnnntastic! I’ll meet you there. Are we done?
Kaine and Lazarus both mumble and mutter, their eyes meeting in mutual shock at the guts on display in little Ricky.
Ricky: That wasn’t rhetorical. Are we done?!
Corey Lazarus: Yeah.
Kaine nods, taking a step back.
Josh Kaine: Yeah, I’m done. See you tomorrow, Ricky.
Kaine walks away, leaving the elder and his progeny alone in the hallway. Ricky shakes his head at his father.
Ricky: I’ll be up in the Press Box with Uncle Dustin. I’ll meet you up there after the main, cool?
He turns and begins marching away as Corey turns watches on. The proud smile he tried suppressing moments ago breaks free, quickly stretching from ear to ear.
Corey Lazarus: Little Ricky Tenet, being his own man.
Ricky (from down the hall): Don’t call me that!
Corey Lazarus: …yeah, Ricky Tenet…it’s just so damn catchy…
Corey brushes his hair from his face before he opens the door to his locker room, taking a step in before slamming it behind him.
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
IN DREAMS... YOU'RE MINE
A burst of static takes over before settling on blurred shapes and textures. Three shadows come to the forefront. Two of them are massive, hulking figures. The third is smaller, though only in comparison to the others.
The sound of Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams” plays in the background, low… just audible.
The middle, smaller figure speaks. The voice is… not quite right. It’s distorted.
“I see… I see what’s happening. I know what you need. I know what you truly desire. And you’ll come running back to me… every time.”
The figure laughs. The distortion of the voice makes it sound utterly alien. The hulking figures remain stoic, the rise and fall of their massive chests almost in rhythm with the music.
The middle figure speaks again.
“Because in dreams… you’re mine.”
The music crescendos and another burst of static ends the transmission.
Backstage
ACTUALLY GOING TO MATTER
Holden sits backstage. He’s put his battle vest back on. He seems to shake with excitement, his hands clinching and unclinching. He looks fully ready to explode, but his breathing, though shaky, is controlled. It’s clear he’s trying to calm himself down.
Holden Nobody: I did it…I can’t believe I di-
???: Nice win.
The energy takes over Holden and he shoots up, not looking defensive, but definitely startled at the notion that anyone is speaking to him. Nate Robideau walks into frame decked in what has become his retirement standard: tracksuit with his name over the breast and the name of his gym just underneath, sneakers that cost as much as a month’s rent in Parma, and an understated Rolex on the wrist. He’d look like any coach out there, save for the fact that his massive rock formation shoulders and beefy chest never seemed to catch the memo that they weren’t supposed to stay combat-primed. Holden looks nervous, his eyes shifting back and forth.
Holden Nobody: Th-thanks, Mr. Robideau….
Nate smiles at the newcomer.
Nate Robideau: You’re full of nerves still. Lots of folks will tell you that those disappear, that some day you’ll be “better” at this. That you’ll become used to it, it’ll be like nothing. A breeze behind your head, barely perceptible.
He shrugs.
Nate Robideau: Sounds pretty damn boring to me. I never got rid of it. The shakes, the butterflies, that ‘gotta puke’ lurch of the gut right before your music hits and the adrenaline has the reins…that’s the point. That’s what keeps this whole thing going. People like me phase out, new faces phase in. All the time, too, Holden. I’ve had this talk with people whose faces I barely recall, they’re just…shadows in my mind’s eye, y’know? Showed up. People talked a lot. Then they were gone. Like that, like that breeze that you don’t really notice.
Nate places his fist dead in Nobody’s chest, right over the sternum. His voice drops to his rumbling thunder best, somewhere between intense heart-to-heart and growled threat.
Nate Robideau: You have to choose. If you’re just going to be a new face I forget…or if you’re actually going to matter.
As Nate leaves, he pats Holden on the shoulder. The scene closes out on Holden looking utterly stunned, his fists again clinching and unclinching.
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
TANK
JOSH KAINE
VS.
AIDEN VANITY
COREY LAZARUS
Backstage
WORLD, SHIT. PEOPLE, SHIT.
‘Stalking’ isn’t accurate to what Pigpen can do when his knee isn’t bothering him, and his knee has bothered him since 2002. ‘Hobbling’ even connotes a bit more of a speed and purpose than he’s used to–for sure, he can still move in the ring, when the pain and the crowds and the adrenaline get going. But in the befores and afters, his movement is closer to a Romero zombie lurch, except instead of brains he wants cigarettes.
So when he comes across Chadwick Kyle looking morose in one of the many hallways that make up SHOOT Project’s new home, he’s already moving at the horror monster pace, already fiddling with his trusty pack of Seven Stars. Pigpen doesn’t pay him much mind–nobody does, really–and passes him with nothing more than a grunt that could just as easily be read as effort as acknowledgement. But he stops, chewing his lip, before turning back to The Chadster, the quizzical cock of his eyebrow making his forehead crumple into a mass of wrinkles and scar tissue.
Pigpen: Chadwick-uh. Fuckface. Sad, huh? Why?
Chad turns to face Pigpen, barely looking up from the ground.
Chad Kyle: Hey, Pigpen. I’m glad you’re here. Do you think that everyone thinks I’m a big joke? Like really? And not the funny kind either. But like…the sad kind.
Chad nudges towards Pigpen, putting his shoulder out, as if he is expecting him to place a comforting hand on it. Pigpen certainly does not take the hint and backs away from Chad slightly, already regretting his decision to check on The Chadster.
Chad Kyle: It’s just, you know, I’m trying so hard. And I’m out there every week. But I just keep losing. I guess it was just really dumb of me to think that I could be something really great. Everyone eventually gives up on me. I think that SHOOT is finally giving up on me.
Pigpen: Joke.
Chad looks at him, hurt and confused
Pigpen: World think you pussy joke. Fuck. All time in ring, no foundation. Ankle uh…ankle weak. Topple over. No foundation. Just piss baby man. Tired of it?
Chad turns his face back down to the ground.
Chad Kyle: I really am. I mean, I didn’t say pussy joke. But I guess the people see what they see. Really digging the fork in aren’t ya? It just doesn’t feel like they’re laughing with me anymore ya know?
Matsumoto spits, then takes an enraged drag from his cigarette.
Pigpen: Laugh with?! No business for laugh with! Clowns? You clown? No!
He waves his hands in frustration, eyes blinking, thinking of the words–actually trying to form the sentences for his benefit, not peppering Kyle with Japanese.
Pigpen: Chad cocksuck Kyle not ask for this. This life. Even born. World, shit. People, shit. No money, wars, starve–all on your shoulder. No one ask. No one ask. No one want to know what Chad cocksuck Kyle want. And you want to laugh with?! What they ever give you to deserve? What this bitch of a planet give you to deserve?!
Chad stops and thinks for a moment. There is almost smoke coming from his ears from the gears turning so hard. He stops looking dejected and instead, beings to look a little angry fore the first time in a long time. He motions towards Pigpen’s cigarette, making exaggerated miming actions, presumably assuming that Pigpen doesn’t understand him when he speaks. Pigpen, obviously frustrated, hands Chad a cigarette and lighter. Chad fumbles with the lighter for a moment before he is able to spark the cigarette. He takes a very large drag and immediately begins to cough furiously. Chad, never having attempted to smoke before, doubles over, dropping the cigarette on the ground.
Chad Kyle: Nothing. They’ve given me nothing. All I ever wanted was to be a champion. But they just laugh. And it’s not just the crowd. It’s the other guys back here. Fuck them. Fuckshit cock-suckers. I want to be great, Pigpen. I just…I just don’t know how.
Pigpen: Hm. Trust me?
Chad Kyle: …no, not at all.
Pigpen: Good. Good start. Come on. Soon you say fuck laugh with.
He claps Chad on the shoulder.
Pigpen: We make bleed with.
Backstage
BUSINESS IS BUSINESS
The scene opens in the backstage catering area of The Pinnacle. It’s the usual wrestling show spread – lukewarm sandwiches under heat lamps, a coffee station that’s seen better days, fruit that looks like it’s been sitting out since the last show, and the kind of generic cookies that come in bulk packages.
Roy Vezina stands in front of the buffet table wearing an expensive charcoal suit, staring at the food selection like he’s witnessing a crime against humanity. A championship belt gleams over his shoulder, a stark contrast to the disappointing meal options before him.
Harv Norris approaches with a paper plate, wearing his new Disney approved attire while still looking slightly traumatized from his recent Disney experiences. He’s eyeing the sandwiches with the cautious optimism of a man who’s been eating nothing but “magical” Disney-approved meals.
Rick Hull trails behind them, arms crossed, surveying the catering setup with his usual stoic expression.
Roy Vezina: (gesturing at the spread) THIS is what they give the World Tag Team Champions? THIS is supposed to fuel championship-level performances?
Harv Norris: (picking up a turkey sandwich) It doesn’t look THAT bad, Roy. At least it’s not shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head.
Roy Vezina: Harv, I’ve eaten at Le Bernardin. I’ve dined at Daniel. I know what real food looks like, and this… this is what they serve in prison cafeterias!
He picks up a sandwich and examines it with disgust.
Roy Vezina: Look at this bread! It’s got the structural integrity of wet cardboard! And what is this supposed to be? Ham? This isn’t ham, this is pink-colored rubber!
Rick Hull: (shrugging) Sandwich is a sandwich.
Roy Vezina: Rick, don’t you dare normalize this culinary disaster! We are CHAMPIONS! We should be eating like champions! Where’s the fresh salmon? Where are the organic vegetables? Where’s the artisanal anything?!
Harv Norris: (taking a bite of his sandwich) Tastes alright to me, b’y. Better than the “magical friendship fruit cups” I’ve been choking down at Disney events.
Roy Vezina: (throwing his hands up) That’s not the point, Harv! The point is standards! We’ve reached the mountaintop of tag team wrestling, and they’re trying to feed us gas station food!
He starts pacing in front of the catering table.
Roy Vezina: You know what the Collins Brothers probably ate when they were champions? This exact garbage! And look how that turned out for them, sloppy, unfocused, getting into street fights instead of maintaining peak physical condition!
Harv Norris: (defensively) The Collins Brothers aren’t that bad, Roy…
Roy Vezina: Not that bad? HARV! They treated the World Tag Team Championships like a weekend hobby! While we were studying tape and perfecting our craft, they were eating pizza and drinking beer!
He picks up a cookie and waves it accusingly.
Roy Vezina: And this! This is supposed to be a chocolate chip cookie! I’ve seen hockey pucks with more flavor! How are we supposed to maintain championship excellence on a diet of disappointment and artificial preservatives?
Rick Hull: (picking up an apple) Fruit’s okay.
Roy Vezina: The fruit is the ONLY thing that’s okay, Rick! Everything else looks like it was prepared by someone who learned to cook from watching YouTube videos!
Roy’s voice is getting louder, attracting stares from other wrestlers and crew members in the catering area.
Roy Vezina: We’re the best tag team in the world! We deserve better than this! We deserve REAL food! Food prepared by actual chefs! Food that doesn’t come pre-wrapped in plastic!
Harv Norris: Roy, b’y, maybe yer being a little…
Roy Vezina: A little what? A little STANDARDS-CONSCIOUS? A little QUALITY-AWARE? Harv, excellence starts with what you put in your body! Garbage in, garbage out!
He tosses his napkin down dramatically.
Roy Vezina: You know what? I’m done with this. I’m going to find a real restaurant. A place that understands that CHAMPIONS deserve championship-quality meals!
Roy storms toward the exit, his championship belt swaying with each angry step.
Roy Vezina: (calling back) When you two are ready to eat like the world-class athletes we are, you know where to find me! I’ll be at the nearest establishment that doesn’t serve food with a shelf life measured in geological epochs!
Just as Roy disappears around the corner, Harv and Rick are left standing by the catering table. Harv is still holding his half-eaten sandwich, looking slightly embarrassed by Roy’s outburst.
Harv Norris: (to Rick) Think he’ll be alright?
Rick Hull: He’ll find overpriced fish somewhere.
Suddenly, footsteps approach from behind them.
Michael Collins: That Vezina is kind of a dick, huh?
The Collins Twins appear on the camera wearing their Empire t-shirts. Michael asks his question before he gets on camera, and while the Champions have their backs to them, but quickly the Champs turn around and face the Irish twins slightly in a defensive stance.
Rowland Collins: Hey, hey. We’re not going to fight you in catering.
Michael Collins: Yeah, lads. It just so happens we were coming to grab a bite to eat ourselves. That’s all.
Rowland slowly reaches between the Champs and grabs two ready made sandwiches from the table, then just as slowly pulls his hand back and hands one to his brother.
Rowland Collins: See? We’re not heathens.
Michael Collins: I am.
Rowland Collins: He is, but not around food.
Michael Collins: That’s true.
The twins nod to each other. Both of them take a bite of their sandwiches, giving the Champs a chance to speak up.
Harv and Rick exchange a quick glance. After a moment, Harv relaxes slightly but keeps his guard up.
Harv Norris: Roy’s… particular about his food, b’y. Nothing personal.
Rick Hull: He’s not wrong though. Food’s terrible.
Michael Collins: (chewing) Oh, it’s absolutely awful. We ate this garbage for months when we were champions.
Rowland Collins: Remember that time you got food poisoning from the potato salad in Vegas?
Michael Collins: Don’t remind me. I wrestled the entire match thinking I was going to die.
Harv Norris: (surprised) Ye still wrestled? Even sick?
Michael Collins: Had to. Show must go on and all that. Plus, Rowland here would’ve killed me if I made him wrestle a handicap match.
Rowland Collins: (nodding) Absolutely would have.
Rick Hull: (with a hint of respect) Professional.
There’s a moment of awkward silence as both teams continue eating, sizing each other up.
Harv Norris: So… no hard feelings about the titles then?
Michael Collins: (shrugging) Business is business. You beat us fair and square.
Rowland Collins: Plus, it’s nice not having Roy screaming at us about our “unprofessional conduct” every week.
Harv Norris: (grinning slightly) Yeah, he does that to us too, b’y.
Michael Collins: Really? Even to his own team?
Rick Hull: Constantly.
Michael Collins: (to Rowland) See? I told you he was high-maintenance.
Rowland Collins: You were right. Though I have to admit, the man knows how to cut a promo.
Harv Norris: Aye, Roy’s got a mouth on him, that’s for sure. Sometimes I think he could talk the ears off a moose.
Michael Collins: (laughing) A moose? Is that a thing in Newfoundland?
Harv Norris: Everything’s a thing in Newfoundland if ye try hard enough, b’y.
Rowland and Michael take a moment to look at each other, then back at Harv and Rick.
Michael Collins: You know what, lads. You’re not so bad after all.
Rowland Collins: Aye. The four of us…we’re not so different. You’re a couple o’ hockey goons, we’re just some lads from Dublin who love to scrap. It’s a match made in Wrestling Heaven.
Michael Collins: (nodding) Aye, Rolly. But just remember, boyos, there’s a reason why they call us the Devils from Dublin.
Harv Norris: (looking impressed) Aye, them better nicknames than we ever had. At least we’re not the “Puck Daddies” anymore, b’y.
Rick Hull stops mid-bite and stares at Harv with the look of someone who thought they’d successfully buried a traumatic memory.
Rick Hull: We agreed never to speak of that.
Harv Norris: (to the Collins Brothers) Roy tried to rebrand us as “The Puck Daddies” for like three weeks! Had us doing these ridiculous promos about being the “daddies of the ice” and—
Rick Hull: Harv.
Harv Norris: —and Rick here was supposed to be “Big Daddy Hull” while I was “Papa Puck!” Can ye imagine?
Both Collins Brothers are trying not to laugh.
Michael Collins: Please tell me there’s video evidence of this somewhere.
Rick Hull: (menacingly) There better not be.
Roy Vezina’s voice suddenly echoes from down the hallway.
Roy Vezina: (distant) HARV! RICK! WHERE ARE YOU? I found a sushi place that delivers!
All four men look toward the sound of Roy’s voice.
Michael Collins: (grinning) Sounds like your manager found his fancy fish.
Rick Hull: (standing up) Better go before he orders for us.
Harv Norris: (to the Collins Brothers) This was… actually pretty nice, lads.
Michael Collins: Aye, but next time we’re still coming for those titles.
MAIN EVENT
EMPIRE STATE CHAMPIONSHIP
JOHNNY NAPALM
VS.
GABRIEL TUCK (c)
POST MATCH
DAYBREAK
As the bell rings, Johnny Napalm rolls underneath the bottom rope and out to the floor to retrieve his freshly won Empire State Championship, leaving a bummed Gabriel Tuck in the ring looking up at the lights. The crowd’s showing their appreciation to both talents, clapping for Tuck who made history and now for Johnny Napalm, who’s also made history.
Jason Johnson: You gotta love life right now if you’re Johnny Napalm. Talk about a renaissance run!
Eryk Masters: He’s made it clear that he’s back here to just rip success from the rest of the world, and he’s gotten started on that tonight by taking that title off of a VERY strong competitor in Gabriel Tuck.
Napalm holds his championship high over his head, but the celebration is interrupted as a song kicks up over the loudspeaker.
“I CAME TO TELL THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH”
The crowd comes UNGLUED, knowing that that line precedes the arrival of SHOOT Project’s CEO and Owner, the REAL DEAL. Real Deal appears at the top of the ramp, microphone in hand and a little swagger to his step as he walks halfway down the ramp.
Jason Johnson: He’s got a little more life behind his eyes tonight, doesn’t he?
Eryk Masters: It was pretty evident from his appearance at Zenith 1 that the stress of this move and expansion were a lot for him, it seems like he’s recovered from that, because he’s got a huge smile on his face and some pep in his step.
Real Deal signals for the music to cut, and as it fades away, he’s left with the crowd cheering in his ear and with both Gabriel Tuck and Johnny Napalm looking in his direction.
Real Deal: First of all… congrats to Johnny Napalm on the hard fought, well-earned victory. I hope you plan on representing these fine people to the best of your ability.
The crowd cheers at that.
Real Deal: Second, Gabriel Tuck… you’re forever ensconced in our history as the first ever title holder for that belt. You’ve earned your flowers too, even if it was a shorter reign than you might have liked.
The crowd gives Gabriel Tuck his love as well.
Real Deal: And while I’d love to let this show close out on a celebration, I have some news. Big news, if you will. One of the things that I wanted to make sure we accomplished here in New York was a little bit of a different edge to the SHOOT Project. It’s a new era, so we put on a fresh coat of paint, you know? That doesn’t just end with a new building and a new show, no. Philosophies are different. The way I’m approaching stuff is different, and wouldn’t you know it, I’ve happened upon a great chance to do just that. So, without further ado here’s the unveiling for the VERY FIRST PPV event in this building, as part of our history making expansion right here in New York… it’s called DAYBREAK.
Real Deal: Now then. You all know me, you know that I don’t appear here unless it’s important, and that’s where we’re getting to the part of this whole thing where we’ve taken a bit of a different direction on things. You see… I want the SHOOT Project to be a world where ANYTHING can happen. We’ve created matches and events for that, we put people in all kinds of different spots to give them opportunities, and here we stand right now. Another opportunity. So, at Daybreak, something really interesting is going to happen.
We’re going to be putting TWO titles on the line, and we’re going to have us a good ol’ fashioned brawl for them. Those championships?
The Empire State Championship.
The Premier Championship.
Popping hard, the crowd hits a bit of a frenzy, and Real Deal smiles. Tuck and Napalm both keep an eye on him, somewhat stoically, somewhat apprehensively.
Real Deal: And you might be thinking, “damn that’s a lot of potential beef in one match” because you’re like “Well, Napalm and Vito will have a banger” and while that’s true, I thought it might be a little unfair if we didn’t include some other very deserving individuals in that match. So, lemme run down the list of competitors for you.
Competing for both the Empire State Championship and the Premier Championship…
One hometown favorite, Vito Valentino.
Johnny Napalm.
He pauses, allowing the crowd the chance to catch their breath.
Izzy Sia.
Pop.
Gabriel Tuck.
Pop.
Dinosaurio Pequeno.
Pop.
And FINALLY… another hometown favorite… Black Sheep Baez.
BIG POP. Tuck turns to face Napalm, who’s now staring daggers into him.
Real Deal: That’s right. Six people enter, one person walks out with TWO championships. It’s a HUGE opportunity, and truly anything can happen. So, noodle on that, my New Yorkian friends. At Daybreak, the Empire State Championship and the Premier Championship go home with ONE person.
That happens on October 5th, 2025.
He smiles as the show begins a very slow fade, a tri-screen between Gabriel Tuck, the Real Deal, and Johnny Napalm.
Real Deal: See you there…
Fade.
