He’d been covering a lot of ground. Ran into Bennet, saw Jamie come in, and now he was looking for the other half of the Groseros, the Salt King, Oso. Saltmaster. Salt central. He laughs to himself and is startled as a gruff voice speaks out. 

“Main eventing now?”

Paria looks up, then starts to chuckle.

King Oso: Don’t go forgetting the little people, superstar. 

While he’s being gruff and sort of standoffish for a guy who’s now hugging an old pal, we can see that King Oso is smiling.  This is good-natured, not at all containing the choked rage of his interaction with Timothy Roy.  

El Paria: Oso, my man. I’m glad to see you here. I was psyched when I heard you and Bennet were coming over, and I was NOT AT ALL surprised when I heard that you didn’t like Tim Roy when you met him earlier. 

Paria waves a hand.

El Paria: Where you holed up at, though? Did SHOOT take care of you? If not, I can talk to ol’ Real Deal and get him to get SHOOT to step up.

King Oso: No thanks, kid.  Got myself a few considerations put into my contract. 

He waves Paria closer, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. 

King Oso: I got them to throw in a per diem for food.  I’m using that scratch to pay for my lodgings for a couple weeks until I find an apartment, then I’ll start pocketing that too.  I’ve always told you, bleed–

El Paria: –’Bleed these bastards for all their worth’.  You never saw an angle you couldn’t exploit.

The burly luchador holds his arms out. 

King Oso: What can I say?  They didn’t wanna be money marks, shouldn’t have gotten into the money mark business.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go find that goddamned peacock they call my tag partner.  At least I need to make sure he’s taped up–that meeting with that motherfucker Roy would have been a lot smoother if he had decided to stand up for Chingons Groseros.  You can’t give these snakes an inch, they’ll take a mile every time, and I’m too jet lagged to teach every person in this locker room why we shouldn’t be underestimated. 

He shoulders his bag.

King Oso: If I don’t see you before? 

Hand out for a firm, businessy shake. 

King Oso: Make that big cabron bleed.  

El Paria: You fuckin’ got it.

We cut away…

Another SHOOT show and another moment where ya boi, the proud and energizing Premier champion, is wandering the halls of the Epicenter.  Black Sheep Baez really should attempt to do something different, but for now he’s as creative as he can get.  This may be all the producers may allow him? Who knows, and who really cares?  Not the fans, because we can hear their cheers rattling the walls of the fine establishment.  There’s a sea of BSB fanatics in attendance, and that club’s roster seems to grow exponentially by the week.

The focused champ has something on his mind, and it could be Chic Grillbreast, but it also seems to be something else.  He’s looking around like he’s searching for something.  It’s definitely not his Premier championship belt which is snapped snug around his waist.  It’s definitely not a t-shirt, or a sleeveless one for that matter, because he’s rocking a disgustingly olive green sleeveless Rage Against the Machine shirt with Rosie the Riveter on the front.  That’s the shirt that lists on the back how women are treated unequally in the workplace, albeit that’s slightly changed for the better these days.  It’s still a bussin shirt to rep.

Who’s he looking for?  What’s he looking for?  Is it Chic Grillbreast?  What about Maddie Seton?  It’s definitely not the stagehand who’s leaning against a large black case that reads “AUDIO” with a SHOOT Project logo spray painted right above it.  The headset wearin’ young buck is scrolling through something on an Ipad when he’s confronted by Baez.

Black Sheep Baez: Ay, yo, homie, have you seen Lexi Gold?  Hot lil babe with blonde hair, about yay high (he holds his hand up to guesstimate her height), got a bit of a rack on’er, and she might be actin’ outta pocket?  Might be carryin’ a weird lil doll?

The man shakes his head because he has no idea where she is.  Why would he?  He’s not her keeper.  Baez nods as he keeps movin’.  His focus is like a spear straight ahead as he traverses the hallway.  The search continues.  His face suddenly switches gears and he stops with a smirk as the camera takes a swift pan to show that Maddie Seton stands just a few feet away and her eyes are directed at the Premier championship wrapped around his waist. 

Black Sheep Baez:  Well, prolly wouldn’t hurt to ask ya, but have you seen Lexi at all tonight?  Ya boi’s growin’ a bit worried because she was actin’ a lil off her rocker a couple weeks ago, naw’mean?  

Maddie’s initial grin seeing Baez disappears at the mention of Lexi.

Madison Seton: Man, fuck her.  If she’s gonna be all moody and that BS, it’s best not to see her until inside the ring.

Ya boi finds that slightly amusing.  However, Baez has his reasons, and he certainly ensures that Maddie gets a response.

Black Sheep Baez:  Daaaaaamn.  If only the Storm could’ve shot as good against the Liberty like you shootin’ shade right now.  Ya’ll been dancin’ all over the Barclay’s Center while the good folks of Brooklyn exited in disappointment.  But, I get it, and facts is facts, somethin’ in my gut just tellin’ me there obviously nothin’ good happenin’ with ya girl.  You may not give a shit about what’s goin on with her, but ya don’t have that relationship with her like ya boi do.  She’s part of my roots.  But, ya know what?  You right.  It’s all about inside that ring.  Speakin’ of inside that ring – ya boi finna have to hurdle over that massive mound of four limbed protein monster if we meetin’ toe-to-toe at Eternal for this coveted strap.  On GOD.

Madison Seton: You want a guaranteed defense against Muscles?  Act the robot.  He seems to have issues with intelligente artificial. Lexi’s erratic, so knock off Chick and at least one of us will be on a hot streak going into Eternal.  Cuidado, tamalito.

It’s apparent that ya boi is a tad confused, but that seems almost natural in some instances.  

Black Sheep Baez:  Act…act…the robot?  For real for real?  You want ya boi to domo arigato mister roboto?  Yo, on the real tip, this is one of the many reasons I love this company.  Ya boi just got the craziest advice, for real.  Advice against the most shredded dude in the entire company.  Advice against a dude who sleeps three seconds a night.  Advice against a dude whose red meat farts stink up the entire epicenter on specific days of the week.  Dude eats garlic pills.  And the advice I get is to act like artificial intelligence?  This shit just writes itself, on God.  But, yee, you do you, and…be careful homie.  We both need to go into eternal healthy and ready to kick each others ass.  I’m tryna stay as positive as possible with what’s goin on with my homie Lexi, so, look, you do what you paid to do but just realize that the outcome may be fuckin’ critical.  Bet.   

BSB is on a mission, and he’s not stickin around for more chit chat so he pats Maddie on the shoulder and walks past her.

Black Sheep Baez:  Nos vemos en Eterna, amiga.

He’s pretty sure of himself, right?  He’s got a huge match at Revolution, yet he still firmly believes that he and Madison Seton will be going mano y mano for the Premier championship at Eternal.  He continues searching for Lexi Gold, albeit he should be gearing up for his own match.  Suddenly Mary Kelly walks past BSB and he stops her.

Black Sheep Baez:  Yo, Mary, have you seen Lexi Gold?

Mary Kelly:  I have not.

Black Sheep Baez:  Aight, bet.  Thanks.

So, the journey continues as the Premier champ and Mary Kelly part ways.  Is he going to find her?  Who knows?  Either way, this doesn’t seem to be going as planned and, well, speak of the devil!  No, not Lexi Gold, but, Baez stops on a dime because standing before him, in all his protein filled glory, is the man ya boi is going to face at Revolution: Chick Grillbreast.  An audible gulp from the champ.  A rather confident smile from the contender.  

Black Sheep Baez:  Sup big dawg?  Any chance you run into Lexi Gold while you stompin’ through these halls?

Chick Grillbreast: No, I haven’t seen Snake Lady since I wrestled her. I am actually on my way to meet up with Dan Dragon so we can go over the last minute stuff for my match with… hey, wait a second, I’M WRESTLING YOU!!

Chick’s eyes grow as big as saucers, and the vein in his forehead starts to twitch. Is he thinking about softening up the Black Sheep before their match for the Premier Championship?

Chick Grillbreast: No, no, I have to stay calm. Dan Dragon said it’s not nice to hit puny nerds outside of the ring. Anyway, no, Lexi Snake Lady, I haven’t seen her.

Imagine the look on Baez’s face as one that’s a mix of concern, humor, fear, and perhaps even a shade of sadness.  There’s a strong possibility ya boi could be crinkled like a coke can, regardless of this monstrosity calming himself down.  So, BSB stands his ground with the soles of his boots firmly on the hallway floor.  Chin up.  Belt tight.  Shoulders tense.  Eyes maybe just a tad teary, but that’s just a lil salty residue don’t get it twisted.  Trust the process.  Ya boi still has the intestinal fortitude even if he’s staring the human form of creatine dead in it’s muscular pupils.

Black Sheep Baez: Yee, you tell Daniel Dragon ya boi said muchas gracias.  Need to voicemail you some facts right quick.  Let’s be careful with the puny nerd talk though home slice.  You spittin’ at the longest reigning, greatest Premier champion of all time. No doubty abouty.  On God.  You best be grateful that Magic Johnson up in the creative suite done booked you for an opportunity to try and dethrone the hottest champion in all of SHOOT.  Ain’t happenin’, but they know what brings the money money.  So, Mr. Grillbreasteses, you go strategizer bunny with Daniel-san.  Ya boi is confident that he finna slay all damn day.  Feel me?

Chick looks as if he smells burnt toast. Maybe he is, because funky jive talk could make the three brain cells left in his head go kersplat. That’s a possibility. Anyway.

Chick Grillbreast: NONE OF THOSE WORDS ARE IN THE BIBLE.

The Black Sheep flashes a wry grin.

Chick Grillbreast: AND SECONDLY, ONLY PEOPLE WHO HAVE THE SAME MUSCLES AS ME ARE PUNY NERDS. So that’s, uh, the guy who played the Mountain on Game of Thrones, uh, STRONK in the gas wrestling company, and, uh, I’m not sure of anyone else right now. SO YOU ARE A PUNY NERD, BLACK SHEEP.

Ever seen the meme with the dude from Dexter and all the equations just keep fading past him? Word.  That’s ya boi.  Perplexed like the day he was born.

Black Sheep Baez: So you sayin’ I’m as muscular as you?  Wait, doesn’t that make you a puny nerd? YO WHY ARE YOU YELLIN’? AND WHO THE FONK IS STRONK?  AND IT DEPENDS ON THE BIBLE! ON GOD! BEEP BEEP WHO GOT THE KEYS TO THE JEEP!

Chick Grillbreast: Hey, uh, do you know if there’s anyone from the USADA around here? Because I need to take some drugs because YOU’RE GIVING ME A HEADACHE! ARGH!!

Chick punches the wall behind him. It reveals Felix Mullen eating a bowl of ramen while wearing only a Pinkblack t-shirt and his jockstrap.

Felix Mullen: DO YOU MIND?

Black Sheep Baez and Chick Grillbreast: Sorry.

Chick turns around to face Black Sheep again.

Chick Grillbreast: Anyway, I gotta go find some aspirin or at least some of that ibexpoffin, ibanez, uh… THE OTHER PILL.

The goings on within the confines of the Epicenter, folks.  Chic leaves the Premier champ in a state of bewilderment.  Baez watches an annoyed Felix Mullen try to put the wall back together.

Black Sheep Baez: Yo, you ain’t seen Lexi Gold by chance, have you?

Felix Mullen: Are you serious?

Ya boi can’t help but laugh.

Black Sheep Baez: Maaan.  I love this place.  And that’s on God.

Fade out on his enthusiastic pearly white smile.  Damn, not gonna lie, but he truly does have a beautiful smile.  That’s some good genes.  Alright, fade out for real.

After the bell, as Dennis and Benjamin raise their titles up high, a commotion draws their attention away from mugging to the hard camera.  There’s a noise from the crowd, screams of excitement and fright, as from three positions every member of the Unholy Thunder Army hops the guardrail and makes a beeline for the ring! 

Other Guy: Ha, done told you, ‘Ryk!  They insulted the Lords of Hell, now the chickens are coming on to roosters!

Eryk Masters: ‘Coming home to roost’–malapropism aside, this isn’t good for the Coltons!  They’re outnumbered and I don’t know if any of their family are even in town!

Benny and Denny don’t attempt to run, be it from bravery or a lack of options or both, instead opting to stand tall, back to back, brandishing their belts as weapons.  Power Devil is the first in the ring, punching his own palm and grinning.  Superbeast then hops the top rope, landing with a thud and rolling his shoulders, baring his teeth. Thunder Fist then slides in and pops to her feet, spitting out her gum and taking a high boxing stance.  The crowd is screaming in displeasure as the three-man team close in on the Coltons–who decide with a glance and a nod to not let this be on their enemies terms!!  Benny dives forward and brings the faceplate of the belt right into Superbeast’s face, and Dennis does the same with Power Devil!!

Eryk Masters: The Coltons aren’t backing down, numbers advantage be damned!  They’re showing incredible heart here!

Benjamin Colton turns, ready to bring that sweet belt music to Thunder Fist, but Judy has him well scouted, folding her body practically in half and unloading an uppercut to his exposed ribs that absolutely crumples him!!  She brings her right hand back and socks him above his ear so hard that he spins!! 

Other Guy: Broad!  Day! Light!  Did you see his head snap around?  BenjiColts is gonna be lucky if he isn’t concussed!

Eryk Masters: I’m not sure heavier hands exist than those of newly-christened Thunder Fist, but the champions have a bigger problem brewing!

Now it’s absolute bedlam as the crowd’s boos become deafening.  With the numerical advantage, the three Demons of Cyber-Roppongi start really laying into the Coltons–Dennis attempts to stave them off with belt shots, but when he’s turned attempting to give one to Power Devil, he gets booted in small of his back by Superbeast, crashing forward into Power Devil’s grasp at a quick speed!  Power Devil knees him in the side and then raises him up in a suplex position before LAUNCHING HIM TO THE MAT WITH A PILEDRIVER–SON OF MIRACLE HELLRAISER!! 

Other Guy: Fuck!

Eryk Masters: Succint, and really lacking in poetry, but I can’t help but agree!!  That move can end careers!!

Other Guy: You have to figure they’re gonna be lucky to get out of this one without an injury, ‘Ryk! 

Eryk Masters: Someone get security out here, they aren’t stopping!!

With both members of the Colton team at least dazed, the Army gets to work, laying in a blanket party of boots and hard kicks.  They’d be content to brutalize the Coltons likely until security makes their appearance, but there’s only one thing that could cut their momentum off. 

You got the touch!

Power Devil turns his gaze to the entrance, scowling. 

You got the power!

Superbeast looks with murderous intent in his eyes.  Thunder Fist joins him, all three members of the Unholy Thunder Army are awaiting the arrival of Dan Stein, and the crowd is erupting in cheers that are so loud–the team doesn’t notice that Dan has leap the guardrail by the announce team and slid into the ring behind their backs!!  He rushes Superbeast and grabs him by the legs before dumping him over the top rope!!  Thunder Fist is the first to notice and turns to deal with what’s happening, but Stein is waiting, bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting for his opportunity…and when she turns, he gets his window, and SUPERKICKS her through the ropes!!  The crowd explodes!! 

Eryk Masters: Dan Stein!  Dan ‘The Lights’ Stein is here to even the odds!!

Other Guy: I’d talk shit, but…Dan Stein!!

Power Devil turns, now entirely outnumbered–but he doesn’t run!  Instead, he rushes Dan Stein, but gets caught in the ribs with a low kick!!  Dan mounts the back of his neck, leaning over for the waistlock…Benjamin and Dennis Colton scramble to either side of the struggling Lord of Hell, and all three nod quickly before they assist Stein in FLIPPING POWER DEVIL ONTO HIS SHOULDERS, RUNNING FORWARD, AND DUMPING HIM OVER THE TOP ROPE TO THE FLOOR WITH A LAUNCHING THREE-MAN POWERBOMB!! 

Eryk Masters: Holy shit!

Other Guy: He landed so rough dude!!

Indeed, Power Devil crashes to the floor having gotten a solid five feet of clearance from the ring, landing his lower body on the mats outside and his upper on the entrance ramp with a sickening thud!!  Though he looks firmly dazed, he tries to pop to his feet immediately, getting to standing and rushing the ring before collapsing to a knee, shaking his head!  His brain apparently not getting the news that the nerves in his body are sending it, he attempts to climb the apron, being goaded by a positively fired up Dan Stein–but Thunder Fist and Superbeast finally corral their brother and calm him down!!  Superbeast pulls Power Devil back on spaghetti legs as Thunder Fist starts barking threats at the combined might of the Coltons and Stein.  Though we can’t hear what she say’s her body language tells us enough. 

She makes the universal symbol for a championship belt. 

Then points her finger and draws the thumb of her other hand across her throat. 

We cut away… 

Abigail Chase: Mr. Roy! Tim!

SHOOT Project’s intrepid back-stage interviewer runs to try and catch the lumbering Timothy Roy as he makes his way to the ring. He turns around and flashes a wave to Abigail before turning his back and continuing on his walk.

Timothy Roy: Sorry! I’d love to but I’m on my way to my match.

Abigail Chase: Just a few minutes of your time! Please! The fans really want to hear from you.

Tim stops, letting Abigail catch up before he holds up two fingers.

Timothy Roy: Two minutes. Go.

Abigail turns to the camera and gestures for Tim to stand at her side. He towers over the interviewer.

Abigail Chase: I’m here with Timothy Roy just ahead of his match against Pigpen Matsumoto and the Willett Clan. After your big win against Pigpen last week, do you think the addition SHOOT’s newest tag team will be a benefit, or are you worried?

Tim smirks.

Timothy Roy: Look, I may not see eye to eye with Bennet Bronco and King Oso, but when it comes to competing in the ring, we’re all professionals. I am excited to compete against Matsumoto-san and with a family as well known in the industry as the Willetts.

Abigail Chase: I suppose that’s something you and your opponents have in common.

Tim flinches slightly and shakes his head.

Timothy Roy: I appreciate that, Abigail. I think… I know that the Roy name has had it’s ups and downs; and I’m just hoping I can make up for my recent actions and make sure the legacy ends with more ups than downs.

Abigail Chase: And you think that defeating Pigpen Matsumoto a second time will be a step towards that?

Timothy Roy: Matsumoto-san is a legendary hardcore fighter who was a peer of my uncle’s. They never met in the ring, but they are cut from the same cloth. Proving myself – to myself – against Pigpen is the first step towards that goal, yes. What is it you’re trying to get at?

Abigail Chase: Well, Tim, you’ll have to forgive me but you’ve spent the majority of your time here as a hired hand – first for Jacob Mephisto against Azraith and then for Blaze Claymore against… well, everybody. You’ve seemingly done a 180 and the world just wants to know-

Timothy Roy: If I can be trusted.

Abigail shrugs as Tim closes his eyes and sighs.

Timothy Roy: I wonder that myself, sometimes; and I know I have a lot to make up for.

Tim opens his eyes and is now looking directly at the camera, a fiery, passionate 5,000 yard stare that at one time could have come off as intimidating. Yet… this is something different. Something almost… invigorating.

Timothy Roy: So, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many obstacles are thrown in my way. I will sweat. I will bleed. I will fight. I will run through walls. I will walk through fire. I will fly through tables. I will climb ladders. I will throw myself into barbed wire, C4, and broken glass all for one purpose… to do what I should have done from the very beginning. To remind people what it truly means to be a Roy.

Tim smirks.

Timothy Roy: And, SHOOT Project, that is exactly what I intend to do.

Abigail goes to say something but Tim cuts her off.

Timothy Roy: Your two minutes are up.

She lowers the microphone as Tim nods to her and turns back, continuing his path to the area floor and the SHOOT Project ring.

Pigpen doesn’t have time for friends. 

At least, that’s the perception. 

Not that he helps matters.  His face is perpetually in a scowl, probably froze that way from years of hatred.  He’s living in the United States on a semi-permanent basis, but so far hasn’t gotten much of a grasp on the language outside of threatening people.  He’s taken with slugging gin, oddly enough, in his off time.  He chain chiefs Japanese cigarettes by the pallet full, and probably hasn’t been not nursing multiple facial lacerations in the span of maybe 40 years. 

So he’s not easy to like. 

And it’s not like he intended to disregard the invite from the Willetts–brokered by Eddie E, who it turns out has a decent handle of Western Japanese Dialect–but he just…did.  But he can’t avoid them on show day.  So when the door to his locker room FLIES open, courtesy of Skeeter’s size 14 Shaq Full Press shoes, he’s legitimately shocked.  

Skeeter: Well Lookit here!  I heard there was some wrasslin’ ta git done.  And I heard you was the man we was gonna step in the ring with ta git it done.

Skeeter bursts into the locker room, Sherman close behind him.  As Skeeter pulls up a chair and sits next to the befuddled looking Pigpen, Sherman stands stoically behind him,  He only offers a “Mhm” in response to Skeeter’s opening salvo.

Skeeter: Hell’s fire man.  We been tryin to git hold a ya since we got the note we’d be wrasslin together this week.  We was hopin to go out to tha bar, get a bit a that ole Turkey in us and talk…what was we wantin to talk bout, Tank? 

Sherman nods his head, not moving his arms-folded stance.

The Tank: Stratergy.

Skeeter nearly comes up from his chair, one arm raised high, finger pointed to the air.

Skeeter: Stratergy!  Hells yeah, son.  We’s gotta get that stratergy down.  Now we ain’t got much time left, so we’s sure glad we found ya.

Pigpen is still looking at the Willett clan in utter bewilderment.  To his credit, Skeeter’s volume has been a consistent 11 since walking into his dressing room.  His eyes widen, and he gives a short shake of his head before going back to adjusting his gear for his match ahead.  Skeeter pulls out a tattered spiral bound notebook with “Skeeter’s Top Secret Match Notes” scribbled across the Realtree camo front.  He starts furiously flipping through pages.  Pigpen attempted to look over to see what is scrawled on them, catching glimpses of stick figures drawn on each page.

Skeeter: As you can see, Tank an I have detailed our keys to victory this week against Ole Tim Roy and those guys whose names I can say.

Tank: Are they…like the team that shouldn’t be named?

Sherman looks a little concerned for a moment.  Pigpen is not amused.

Skeeter: Hell naw, Tank.  They aint a team of VoldeyMorts.  I just dont know hows ta say their names.  Calm down, Tank.  They aint no math magicians.  Just wrasslers with weird names is all.

Skeeter resumes going through his notebook.  Surprisingly, the faster he flips through the pages, the more is seems to resemble a crudely drawn flip book.  Skeeter appears to be hyper impressed with himself as he can barely hide his smile. 

Pigpen Matsumoto: [ What the fuck, though. ]

Skeeter: Whatsat?

Pigpen Matsumoto: [ The fuck even are you?  Pigs from the county fair?  Fucking American asshole–this is not a sport where you can just order whatever you want like at burger restaurants this isnt…fucking Fuddruckers.  ‘Ooh, I want cheese on the burger and the on the fry and on my diet coke’ fuck you, fuck you a thousand times. ]

Tank perks up at the mention of Fuddruckers amongst Matsumoto’s rapid-fire Japanese

Tank: Fudruckers.  I aint understand nothing you just said, but I do know a fellow RuckerWrecker when I see one.  

Skeeter turns around and motions with his hands for Sherman to settle down.  He turns back to PigPin.

Skeeter: I ain’t need to speak no other language to understand tha tongue of tha warrior.  I gots what this here man is sayin, Tank.  He says he’s amped to head down to the ring with us, kick some ass, then go out and kill some burgers at Fuddruckers.  And Imma tell you this, I am down with all that.  Here I thought I was just gonna have to go over tha ins and outs of my plan for success.  But this ole boy got it down.  Step 1?

Tank: Kick Ass!

Skeeter puts his hand back in the air motioning with each number.  One finger turns into two.

Skeeter: Step Two?

Tank: Pin Timmy Boy and the Voldeymorts!

Two turns to three.

Skeeter: Step Three!?

Tank: We all three go out and demolish some fried pickles and burgers at Fuddruckers!

Skeeter jumps up from his chair and the two WIllett boys start high fiving each other.  They both turn to Pigpen and put their hands together, looking towards Pigpen to put his hand in.

Pigpen Matsumoto: [ God help me. ]

He places his hand in, pops a Seven Star in his mouth, fires it up, and shouts through a haze of cigarette smoke.

Pigpen Matsumoto: Fuddruckah!!

To this, the trio can cheer.  And seemingly, agree. 

After all, everyone likes burgers and beers.  We cut away…

It was a normal afternoon in SHOOT Project headquarters, the hustle and bustle of an office that’s in high pressure mode, with two main shows, a REIGN show, a REIGN PPV, and a SHOOT Project PPV, all on the horizon. So, when Ignatius Albert Martin walked into the building, he was a little surprised at the office’s overall pace. 

An intern walked by him without even lifting his head, two secretaries were gossiping in a breakroom, and IAM just kept walking through. He doesn’t get recognized until he gets to the desk of one of the Real Deal’s assistants who identifies him immediately. 

IAM: Hey Sharon, I got an appointment with Josh, he ready for me or nah? 

Sharon clicks around on her computer a little bit, presumably checking a calendar of some kind. She clicks away and then looks back towards him.

Sharon: Yep, you’re right on time. He’s in with the Sin City Scoundrels right now, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you going on ahead. It sounds like they’re almost done. You’re his last meeting for the next couple of hours.

IAM nods and makes his way through the waiting area and as he reaches the Real Deal’s half-opened door, it opens and both of the Scoundrels make their way out. They nod their head at IAM, who nods back.

IAM: Mike, Luke. 

Real Deal appears from behind the tag team. He’s wearing jeans and a “Real Deal” t-shirt, owing to a more casual tone in the office lately. He motions to IAM to walk in, and IAM obliges.

Real Deal: Iggy, glad to see you! We’ll keep it quick, I’m sure you got stuff going on and I’m ready to do something else besides sit at a desk for a couple hours. 

IAM: Heard that and can certainly relate. Uhh, long story short man? I’m ready to get back into it. I want to earn my way back, you know? Get back into the hunt, so to speak. I know we got Eternal coming up, and I’m guessing you got some Triad stuff in mind…

Real Deal nods, seeing where this is going.

Real Deal: Yeah man, I have these three exhibition matches I gotta get booked. You want in on one of those? I’m thinking maybe the Iron Fist one or something. 

IAM: That’d be perfect. We talking old Iron Fist rules or new ones? 

Real Deal: Oh, old. Last man standing style. 

IAM: Nice. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Who you got for me? 

Real Deal ponders that for a moment, comes to a decision, and smiles. 

Real Deal: Ohhhh yeah. That’ll be fun. We’re gonna do Ignatius Albert Martin’s return match at Eternal… it’s going to be an Iron Fist rules match… and it’s going to happen against Mushigihara.

Real Deal leans forward, closer to IAM.

Real Deal: Work for you? 

IAM smiles.

IAM: Works for me.

Black.

Robideau is holding court–unbooked, he still has responsibilities as the face of the company, for ill or for good.  Championship on his shoulder, decked head to toe in Aimé Leon Dore, and surrounded by a semicircle of media folks with their phones at the ready to hear any of his newest bon mots, soundbites, insults, or promises.  One towards the front jostles a bit before speaking up. 

Reporter: Nate, lots of words have been said about the fact that you’ve got zero interest in facing Azraith DeMitri.  While Azraith hasn’t made an official statement, he’s been clear in his interest in you, so–

Robideau: Let me cut you off there, Melton.  Listen, everyone, I get a lot of you want to ask about Azraith, me not facing Azraith, who I will be facing at the pay per view, all of that.  I’m only going to address this once, so make sure you’re recording.  Everyone ready?

There’s amurmer from the crowd. 

Robideau: I.  Am not.  Facing.  Azraith DeMitri.  Whatever he wants to do, it won’t involve me, trust me.  And as far as the big show goes?  I’ve given Josh Johnson ample notice, as has my management team, as have my legal counsel to that fact.  So either he comes up with an opponent that I actually feel some way about facing, or I guess the PPV is getting main evented by Timothy Roy or Mr Canadian or someone else.  I’m not going to put this belt on the line against some scrub just to say that it’s being defended, we’ve already seen that.  I’ve told him to put out the feelers for another opponent, and if he decides to make it a legal matter, I fucking welcome it.  Because my case is air tight. 

He grins. 

Robideau: Someone else.  

As soon as ‘else’ leaves Nate’s lips, the camera cuts abruptly.  The crisp production of SHOOT Project officiality snaps to a crisp, overly smooth digital picture about twenty feet away from the media gaggle.  One can see shadows covering the ground, the cameraperson keeping themselves hidden.  The change in perspective also comes with a change of audio quality.  What was once a crisp conversation is now vaguely echoing muddles.  Everyone can see the mouth of a reporter near the front of the scrum moving, and Nate nodding his head slowly, but everyone sounds like the parents from Peanuts cartoons.

Robideau: ….absolu…..I’m incr……oud o….contri….

The shot moves forward several steps, keeping to the shadows but trying to close the gap between itself and the champion.  It moves behind a large, squared off concrete support pillar, getting close enough to see the satisfied grin on Nate’s face.  The shot’s focus tends to fluctuate, floating between Nate’s face…and the SHOOT Project Heavyweight Championship.  Deep, rumbling breaths permeate everything, like the idling of some infernal engine, waiting to be let loose.

After what looks to be Robideau’s last sentence, the reports start to disperse.  As everyone turns from Nate, the camera quickly darts to the next closest column, just a few feet away now.  Just inside the last of the shadows.  Out of view of the media finally, there looks to be a release of Nate’s posture.  A relaxation.  He lets the championship slide off his shoulder and holds casually in his right hand, at his side.  He starts to turn back to the door of his executive-style office slash locker room, but stops.

Robideau: Is…someone there?

The rumbling stops, breath caught.  Nate stands in the muffled silence that can only be found in the bowels of a huge concrete building.  Just the hum of fluorescent lighting and distant footsteps clicking that for all intents and purposes might as well be a world away.  Nate’s eyes narrow as he scans the area…but the camera is unmoving in its gaze of him.  Wherever it is, Nate can’t see it.  After about fifteen or twenty seconds of scanning, his stance softens again, but the relief he seemed to show when the reports left is gone.  A lingering concern seems to wash over the champion as he turns again, lingering for another second or two before stepping into office.

As the door closes, the shot loiters on it, moving several steps closer to it before suddenly veering off, rapidly looking to the ground as it moves quickly before cutting to black.

Dan Dragon! Yes, keep going. Yes! YES! KEEP GOING DAN DRAGON! Yes! Yes! YESSSS!

The camera whips around to find Daihm Ferguson massaging Chick Grillbreast’s shoulders. The Premier Champion challenger launches off of his bench and turns around to wrap Daihm in a giant bearhug.

Chick Grillbreast: YOU DID IT! Now I can take on the Black Sheep Boyz!

Daihm Ferguson: Baez.

Chick turns around and looks confused. 

Chick Grillbreast: Dan Dragon I am NOT biased. I will fight anyone!

Daihm waves his hand and laughs.

Daihm Ferguson: Come on, man. We gotta get you to your match.

Daihm reaches down and pulls Chick up. The lumbering beast stands up and staggers forward, falling into the Dragon’s arms. The two lock eyes before Daihm awkwardly pushes away and reaches for the door. However, before he can open it, the pair find themselves standing across from a smirking Maximo Fisico – one half of Lucha Fitness – blocking their way out into the Epicenter Hallway. 

The luchador is even closer to nude than their previous encounter, not wearing his robe and simply wearing his bright pink speedo, showing off his incredibly tanned, muscular, and oiled body. Daihm’s face goes red as Chick looks to forcibly move Maximo out of the way; however, Maximo holds up his hands in a gesture of peace and stands out of the way.

Maximo Fisico: Lo siento amigos, I don’t intend to cause you any troubles. I apologize for my partner’s words earlier. His pasión can get the better of him. I am not here to distract from your match, Señor Grillbreast. I would like to have a word with Señor Dragón, if it isn’t too much trouble.

Daihm blinks in disbelief while Chick steps in front, looking to protect his friend.

Chick Grillbreast: NO WAY! THE ONLY PERSON WHO GETS TO HURT DAN DRAGON IS ME AND EVEN THEN I AM APOLOGIZING FOR IT PROFUSELY AFTERWARDS.

Maximo smiles disarmingly, and despite his mask making him look like some kind of pansexual gremlin, it is shocking how charming he can appear.

Maximo Fisico: I have no violent intentions, whatsoever, I promise you. Now, I do believe you have a big match to get to, no?

Chick looks over to Daihm who simply nods back and sighs.

Daihm Ferguson: Look, I’ll be out there in a bit and I can take care of myself; after all you’ve been a great friend and trainer this past year.

Chick beams, but then turns his attention back to Maximo.

Chick Grillbreast: If you say so, Dan Dragon, but I’M WARNING YOU.

Chick confidently walks past Maximo Fisico, who clearly restrains himself from touching the Premier Championship contender’s muscles. After several seconds and Chick is out of eyesight, Maximo turns his attention back to Daihm who takes a slightly defensive stance as the member of Lucha Fitness steps into the Daihmbreast locker room. 

Maximo quietly shuts the door behind him and turns the lock. He sees this causes even more tension in Daihm, but Maximo remains as disarmingly charming as ever.

Maximo Fisico: I saw the way you looked at me, hermoso. I see the way you’re cheeks turn red when I look at you, oh-

Daihm begins to blush again.

Maximo Fisico: -just like that. So pretty, so gentle, yet…yet you are a dragón, so I know there is a fire there. En fuego, just like that mop of red hair.

Daihm Ferguson: Listen, I don’t know what this is about but-

Maximo Fisico: Such a pretty accent, hermoso. Do you hear that often? I imagine not, but there is something so harsh yet exotic. ¡Dios mío! I love your outside, but…

Maximo steps forward, stepping into Daihm’s bubble.

Maximo Fisico: But I’d love to know more about your insides. And something tells me you’d like that very much too.

Daihm attempts to step past Maximo, ignoring the innuendo in his voice.

Daihm Ferguson: You presume incorrectly, then. Now, if you’ll excuse me.

Maximo puts his arm in the way of Daihm, placing his palm against the wall with force, blocking Daihm. He is now very close, almost face to face, so much so that Daihm can feel Maximo’s breath on his neck.

Maximo Fisico: Do you think he’ll give you what you want? I know you try to say you are friends, but I see how you react to Daihmbreast.

Daihm is taken aback by Maximo’s near perfect pronunciation of his name.

Maximo Fisico: Mi belleza, he doesn’t even say your name correctly. He doesn’t even try.

Maximo moves his arm and steps out of the way. Daihm, whose face is beet red at this point, darts for the door, unlocks it, and heads out. As he does, he pauses – for a split second – before continuing out into the hallway.

We are left with a scene of Maximo cackling lightly as we cut back to in-ring action.

A faint popping sound crackles out over the speakers, as SHOOT Project fans and friends around the world affix their eyes to the glowing Epicenter video wall, and the face of SHOOT Project’s owner, the Real Deal. Josh Johnson. Crowd pops, natch.

Eryk Masters: It’s the boss! 

Other Guy: A man who’s been doing a lot more behind the scenes these days than in front of the camera, and I’m sure he’s grateful for that.

Eryk Masters: Yeah, there’s been some movement in the business world since SHOOT now exists under Reality Check, Incorporated. Should be interesting to see if there are any other changes on the way because of that.

Real Deal: Wonderful, hello everyone! I’m, you know… not a big fan of taking up a lot of TV time, but I wanted to take a minute and talk about the Legacy of the Triad, the sub-heading for our upcoming PPV event, Eternal.

The camera zooms out and there are three championship belts sitting in front of the Real Deal on the desk in his office. They are worn looking, but long time fans immediately know what they’re looking at. 

Real Deal: The original Rule of Surrender Championship.

He places a hand on it.

Real Deal: The original Rising Star Championship.

He moves his hand to that one.

Real Deal: And the original Iron Fist Championship.

He moves his hand to the middle, arriving at that title belt.

Real Deal: I’m the only guy in history that managed to capture all three of these at once. Back then, they had a crazy stipulation that meant that if you won them, you immediately got a World title match and you were cemented in the SHOOT Project hall of fame. I don’t believe I would have been part of the first class otherwise.

The crowd boos at the notion, but Real Deal laughs.

Real Deal: Men and women fought tooth and nail for these belts and they made a lot of SHOOT Project soldiers very famous; legendary, even. I’m not going to run down the list of eventual world champions because like I said… I don’t want to take up a lot of time, but I do want to honor these men and women. That’s why we named a whole event after this whole thing! 

Real Deal laughs again, and the crowd slightly pops.

Real Deal: So we’re going to have three Triad matches at Eternal, folks. I’m going to tell you what they’re going to be, right now. First, newcomer Roy Vezina will take on Laura Seton in a Rule of Surrender match. If you’re unfamiliar, Roy, it’s a submission match. You can only win if you make Laura Seton tap out. Laura Seton’s probably got a little bit of a Rule of Surrender axe to grind, since I retired that title in favor of the Premier Championship, but I digress.

Next up, we’re going to have an Iron Fist match. And I’m not talking about the best two of three falls match that we started doing in recent memory, I’m talking about an OLD SCHOOL Iron Fist match. If you can’t answer the 10 count, you lose. Last person standing. That match will be fought between none other than Ignatius Albert Martin and Mushigihara! 

Finally, we’re going to wrap up the celebration of the Triad’s legacy with a match that would have fit in any era in the SHOOT Project, including this one. It would have fit with the Laws of Survival, it WAS a part of the early days, but we’re going to have a DEATHKORE MATCH. 

He waits for the crowd pop and is obliged.

Real Deal: Pigpen Matsumoto and Timothy Roy will be the two participants in this contest, and you’ll see a LOT of barbed wire, some explosives, and PLENTY of blood. 

I may end up throwing the three winners of these matches into a triple threat at Ruination or Revolution and giving the winner of that match some kind of shot at some kind of title, but we’ll see about all of that.

There you have it folks. A special night with three special matches! I’m going to get off this screen and let you all enjoy the main event of the evening, as El Paria takes on Azraith DeMitri! 

That match is next! 

Cut.

A burst of static cuts to a shot of another Epicenter hallway.  Several people move by the elevated shot, staring at concern, but otherwise moving past without saying anything.  The low, bestial breathing that permeated these shots still does so now.  After a few seconds, the shot moves forward, walking slowly, casually through the hallway.  That soft bobbing that accompanies it reflects no fancy stabilization that most SHOOT Project productions have, and the jarring, buttery smooth 120fps indicate a small, handheld camera of some kind.  After several seconds of walking, and people carefully and nervously moving out of the way, the shot reaches its destination.

It stares, along with all of you, at a metal door.  There’s a simple sign etched into the middle of it:

SHOOT Project Heavyweight Champion:

NATE ROBIDEAU

The shot stares at the sign for several seconds, before it seems to take a step backwards.

A brief inhalation of breath.

SMAASHHH!

In a swift, brutal display, a massive leg comes into frame and KICKS the door inwards, destroying it’s lock and sending splitters of wood and metal clanging and crackling everywhere!

Robideau: What the FUCK?!

The shot almost seems like it’s glaring at Nate Robideau, unmoving and silent except for the slow, steady breath.  Nate is cycling emotions rapidly, from anger, to concern, perhaps even exhaustion.  The shot takes a step forward, passing the threshold of the door.  Nate shakes his head.

Robideau: Look man, I’m tired of this shit, alright? 

No response.  The shot takes a step closer.

Robideau: Nah, nah, I get it, see you want me to snap, right?  You want me to lose it and unload on you because that gives you the justification.  But I’m not gonna play your sick game, got it? 

No response.  One step closer, it’s about several feet away from Nate at this point.  Nate’s face turns into a dismissive scowl.

Robideau: I bet you want to hurt me so fucking bad right now.  But you aren’t gonna, because you know it’d end up just like last time.  All these bullshit psychological games you’re playing, stalking me, mailing me your teeth?  It’s worth nothing.  That getting through to you, man?  Your tactics are nothing.  You’re nothing.  You’re obsolete. 

No response.  Another step forward, within the range of a lunging kick, if needed.  Nate forces a too-casual laugh, folding his arms across his chest.

Robideau: God, you just can’t help yourself, can you?  Greedy old bastard.  Yeah, sure, I called down this thunder–but I ate everything you fed me and I still got the win, okay?  Accept it.  Accept it with grace and humility and fade into the shadows where you belong, just a remnant of an era that everyone feels ashamed of.  You’re dark ages, you’re medieval.  We’ve advanced as a business and a people and we don’t need Azraith DeMitri, get it?  So just…fuck off.  Fuck off, stay out of my business, and get away from me before I find a legal recourse here. 

No response.  Another step closer. 

Robideau: Come on man.  Say something. 

No response.  Another step closer.  Everyone could hear Nate’s breathing now, rapid and short, as Azraith DeMitri closes the gap completely.  A free hand raises up and points up a finger in the universal symbol for ‘one second’.  Finally, the camera moves, being placed gently onto a shelf that’s beside the two men.  Everyone can finally see the beast.  Casual wear, black tank top and bluejeans.  Black/blue hair tied into a tight ponytail.  You can realize that he’s been holding the camera up to his one good eye, the other still covered by an eyepatch after Nate’s vicious attack weeks ago.  No smile, no grin, just a blank slate staring at Nate, once again getting right in front of him.  Nate clenches his teeth, stancing up.

Robideau: Say something!  Fucking SPEAK TO ME!

No response.  Nate huffs and finally rears back, burying his fist into Azraith’s face!  The bigger man stumbles backwards half a step…then instantly snaps back to erect of spine and staring a dagger at the champion. 

Robideau: Oh fuck you, man, fuck you.  Just get out of my way and let me move on, okay?  Let me move o–

He stops himself, putting his hands up. 

Robideau: …don;t even worry about it, Nate.  You’re talking to a wall.  Did I beat the psycho back into you or something?  You’ve lost it, man. 

No response.  At the words ‘you’ve lost it’, something finally breaks inside Azraith.  A small grin curves his lips, exposing the chromed fang that replaces the canine Nate beat out of him.

Robideau: Say something! 

His shoulders slump, finally.  Hanging his head low, he pinches the bridge of his nose before speaking. 

Robideau: Look…okay, okay.  I give you a rematch and this shit stops, right?  No matter the outcome.  I win again you fuck off.  For good.  No more headgames, no stalking me, none of this ‘stand there and remain silent’ headgame stuff.  I beat you again and you’re gone, agreed? 

For a moment, he says nothing.  Then, slowly, a nod. 

Robideau: Fine, fine!!  Get out of my fucking way, I’ll call Johnson tomorrow.

Az takes two methodical steps back, and finally one to the side as Nate stalks off.  With the framing of the shot, you could just see Azraith from the neck down, his facial expression no longer visible.  There was a moment of silence, then…

DeMitri: …was that so hard?

Black.