Backstage
CHAD'S BACKSTAGE BASH!
We open the scene backstage. Inside of the Pinnacle, SHOOT Project management was certain to add a banquet room. The decadent sconces, crown molding, and giant chandelier in the center of the room suggests that this is meant to be a room for not only parties celebrating a great show or Premium Event, but to be rented out at a high price for celebrator events. Nothing but the highest class available for the Empire State.
The elegance of the ballroom is muted somewhat by the outlandish decorations that Chad Kyle has painstakingly placed throughout the room. Hanging from the fancy chandelier is a cornucopia of black and yellow balloons. The Crown molding has, attached with only the finest in scotch tape, a Large Batman banner that says “Happy Birthday Chuckie” with the batman logo on either side of it.
In the center of the room there is a rather uneven row of tables. On the first table is a large punch bowl with paper batman cups beside it. There are several 2 liter bottles of orange soda next to it and there is some sort of mystery green punch inside of the bowl. In the center table, is a large full-sized sheet cake with Batman actions figures on top of it. On the Cake is written “Happy Zenith #1” in terribly scripted black piped icing. On the third table is a rather incredible spread of pizza with every combination of topping that you could imagine. Of all of the things inside this room, the pizza appears to be the highest class item, and the thing that was selected with the most care to detail.
At the main entrance to the ballroom we can see Chad Kyle standing next to two security guards in SHOOT Project T-Shirts. He is wearing his ring gear, and has a comically large messenger back slug over his shoulder. Inside the bag, we can see that he has batman gift bags packed as tightly as he can get them.
Indeed, Chad expects quite the crowd.
Chad Kyle: Remember guys, Everyone is welcome. Let them in, show them to me so that they can ge their gift bag. This is incredibly important because at the end of the night, just as the Main event ends, we’re all going to blow on our Kazoos like it;s New years eve.
The security guards nod in agreement, but seem concerned as to why they are even there if everyone is allowed into the party.
Chad Kyle: OH! I almost forgot. This is the most important part. If Aiden Vanity shows up, don’t let him in. He mocked my party, he cant come. I mean. I’s still gonna give him a gift bag. After all, everyone deserves a gift bag. But he definitely can’t have any pizza. OK OK. He can have one slice of pizza. But no cake.
Chad begins to walk away as the security guards just shrug their shoulders, unsure about what to expect from tonight. Just as Chad gets only a few steps away, he swings wildly back around towards the guards.
Chad Kyle: Fiiiiiiine. If he wants a slice of cake he can have one too. Jesus. Just come and get me if Aiden shows up. I’ll take care of him. Other than that, here, take this and enjoy the party.
Chad takes two party bags out of his pack and hands one to each of the security guards.
Chad Kyle: Don’t forget. You guys are the important harmony part of the Kazoo gang. If you guys don’t blow the kazoos no one will. That would be an absolute tragedy. Good god, this is going to be the best party ever! OH! Don’t forget the most important part of your job! You have to make sure you remind me when I’ve got like ten minutes to curtain. I have to make it back downstairs in time to claim my number one contender spot. I’m so excited I can barely stand it. Here we go, Zenith! This is going to be the best night EVER!
Chad bounces away from the security guards like a proud parent getting ready for his kid’s surprise party. Chad makes his way over to the wall, flips a switch and the lights go down, revealing a fog machine, strobe lights, and a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. With the flip of a switch the music begins.
The scene fades to black to the dulcet sounds of Los Del Rio’s Classic love song “Macarena.”
EP.: 001
DATE: 08.10.2025
ARENA: THE PINNACLE
ON STAGE
WELCOME TO NEW YORK
The Pinnacle is a building that stands like no other in New York City. Overlooking the city’s vast landscape, it sits ready and willing to provide its patrons with the level of entertainment that has been promised, hyped up, and desired since the SHOOT Project announced its move.
The camera opens, the crowd is in a frenzy, but there’s no noise. The new ring, the new arena, the new video wall… it shines brightly, telling a story that can only be told in New York City.
Soon, the volume starts to creep up, the sound of the crowd going from pure silence into white noise into a dull roar and then finally, a level of noise previously unexpected by those in attendance, the New York crowd giving it everything they’ve got. It’s a nod to the prestige and royalty that is the SHOOT Project. This is their proclamation of fandom, their acclaim.
New York City welcomes the SHOOT Project.
The SHOOT Project is ready for Zenith.
New York City is ready to take off.
Then…
“WE CAME TO TELL THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUUUUUUTH.”
Golden pyro with red tints throughout explodes into the arena, the brand new stage a canvas for color and light. As “Chuuch!” by Bun B hits the speakers, the New York City crowd, already on their feet, somehow come even more unglued for the beginning of the show, the beginning of this new era. And not wanting to let the people down, the Real Deal appears at the top of the stage.
He’s dressed in a black suit with a purple button down shirt and black tie, he’s got a microphone in hand, and you can see the relief on his face as he walks out to the capacity crowd who’s here for the same thing he’s here for.
The SHOOT Project.
He makes a cut motion with the hand that has the microphone and the music immediately stops, leaving only the chanting, cheering, and noise of the New York crowd. He closes his eyes for a moment and just soaks it in, before getting down to business.
Real Deal: I didn’t know what to expect when I walked out here. I thought there’d be some excitement, I thought there’d be some noise, but this… this is way beyond what I could have ever imagined.
The crowd roars in approval at him, causing a smile to break across his face.
Real Deal: This is it, folks. This is our love letter to the art of professional wrestling, and this is why we did all this work, took the gamble of taking all this time off, all so that we could bring you this. This was the end of something wonderful, but the beginning of something amazing, and I’m here to tell you right now that what we have in store for you tonight?
He pauses.
Real Deal: You won’t regret being here, that’s all I can say. Now, as is my tradition, I’m not going to stay out here well beyond how long I should be. Instead, I’m going to let you all get what you paid to see, and that’s the best professional wrestling in the world, right here in your home. So, goodnight for now, and to you, New York?
He bows.
Real Deal: Thank you.
Backstage
UNTIL YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A STAIN
Backstage.
The company is full of specimens. Sculpted greek gods, superheroes, models.
And then there’s PIGPEN Matsumoto.
Oldest man on the roster. Somehow, his temporary deal keeps getting renewed. He looks like roadkill, his entire existence a collection of scars and healing wounds, both his knees buttressed by some of the largest joint supports currently manufactured, the carvings in his face only emphasizing his permanent scowl.
And when he speaks, it’s a motorcycle tearing down a residential neighborhood.
PIGPEN: New York. Pigpen come here, just kid. Pigpen make men bleed all over Kanarsie.
He actually chuckles, which is as mirthless and dry as you’d expect coming from him.
PIGPEN: Promoter come to me. I wipe blood from eye. He say, “No more, Pigpen. You don’t come to New York. You finished.”
Now, a sneer.
PIGPEN: [ All because the fucking pretty-boy wrestlers here are all so scared of getting their stupid fucking faces carved up. So scared they run to the boss man and try to blacklist the Viceroy of Pain himself?! ]
He spits.
PIGPEN: All pussy, all bitch made.
Matsumoto waves his hand dismissively before popping a quick middle finger.
PIGPEN: Chad-uh Kyle small boy who thinks he a man. Feels bad for him, yeah? Lou is experience with this world. Johnny Napalm have real cred where I come from. Hard people. Fight hard, bleed, not afraid for face like pussyman Gene ‘The Dream” Jardine. Pigpen stab Lou? Lou come back and stab twice. Pigpen take chair to Napalm? Napalm put Pigpen through table.
The old timer begins digging into the pocket of his jeans.
PIGPEN: Pigpen love tap Chad-uh Kyle he cry to management. ‘Pigpen so scary!’ Fuck you. Fuck.
No smoking sign be damned, the aged deathmatch warrior pops a Seven Stars–’The Silent smoke. The choice is richness!’–into his mouth and fires it up with a disposable lighter. He doesn’t bother to pull it from his lips, which makes the fact that his next barrage is in a mumbled machine peppering of Japanese a relief–he’ll be subtitled.
PIGPEN: [The thing about a stupid fuck like Chad Kyle is he’s the type of loser pussy who will talk shit and annoy you and then when you finally take the bait he wails like a child. That’s what you are, Chadwick. You’re a fucking child in the real world, and the real world is a violent place that chews on raw meat like you until you’re nothing but a fucking stain. I don’t even–hold on. ]
He takes a draw that works the cig down by 25 percent in one hit before pulling it an exhaling, pointing to the camera.
PIGPEN: Pigpen Matsumoto don’t care about Lou. Pigpen Matsumoto not afraid of Johnny Napalm. Pigpen Mustumoto don’t give a fuck about title shot.
The battered warrior draws his thumb across his throat–across numerous healed scars and wrinkles–then spits on the floor.
PIGPEN: Pigpen Matsumoto ending Chad Kyle career.
With one more drag, Pigpen drops the cigarette to the floor, stomping it out. And with one more middle finger, he hobbles off.
We cut away…
FOUR WAY ELIMINATION
#1 CONTENDERSHIP – EMPIRE STATE CHAMPIONSHIP
CHAD KYLE
PIGPEN MATSUMOTO
LOU
JOHNNY NAPALM
Backstage
WORST. PARTY. EVER.
Josh Kaine didn’t really know what the hell he was doing here, but there was free beer and cake. Free sustenance of any kind was always a good way to get the son of Sinnocence to make an appearance. His blue eyes roam the space, noting the faces in appearance before bringing the bottle up to his mouth. Josh took a long draw, taking a few steps back and bumping into someone.
Josh Kaine: Oh shit, I’m sorr–
He didn’t know the face, nor the younger one next to it.
Josh Kaine: Sorry man, ain’t meanin’ to bump into no one.
Corey Lazarus: Don’t worry about it, slick.
Corey brushed off the black and gold waistcoat after Josh stepped back and then scanned around the room from behind his silver-rimmed Ray Bans.
Corey Lazarus: Say, have you seen the birthday boy around? I have his gift right here, first impressions and all, but don’t know where…Ricky, you haven’t seen him, have you?
Ricky O’Reilly looked to his left and right, in awe of who he’d been rubbing elbows with. He’d met plenty of actors and singers and other starlets at various functions over the years, of course, but it seemed that none mattered as much to him as right now.
Ricky O’Reilly: Uhhhhh, wh-who? Dad, I don’t even…I’m not even sure where I am right now, to be honest.
Corey Lazarus: Oh, so starstruck! Calm down, junior, and just shake some hands, or whatever. Not too firmly, of course, because if you pick a fight back here then I have to get involved and your old man just doesn’t feel like doing all that just yet, you dig? Why…hey, let’s start with this guy right here!
Corey reached down and grabbed his son’s hand, practically handing it over to Josh.
Corey Lazarus: Ricky O’Reilly, this is…uhhh…uhhhh…
Josh Kaine: Josh Kaine, nice to meet ya, man. You got a helluva good ring name there. Don’t feel bad none though, I don’t know no one here either. I just came for the free food.
Josh shook the younger man’s hand before glancing back to his father.
Josh Kaine: Don’t mean to be rude none, but who’re you again? I don’t rub elbows with the vets too often when they ain’t needin’ their asses saved or whooped.
Corey Lazarus: None taken, babe. Corey Lazarus.
Laz extended his fist out for a bump, his gaze focused elsewhere.
Corey Lazarus: …is that OG? Is he drinking again?
Before Josh could bump his fist Corey withdrew it and leaned over. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.
Corey Lazarus: No, I don’t think it is. Good thing, too, because he still owes me for the bail I posted for him back in Mexico City. Oh, Corey Lazarus, by the way, but don’t worry…
Corey slapped Josh on the arm, still not once looking him in the eye.
Corey Lazarus: …I know you’re just playing with that “I don’t know you” thing. There’s no way you wouldn’t recognize the star of Air Bud vs. MechaShark II, everyone’s seen that one, dig?
Josh glanced to the spot on his arm where he was struck before a frown slid into place. He looked to the man’s son, an expression of ‘this really your dad?’ on his face. Clearly, the younger man was not impressed.
Josh Kaine: Naw, don’t go much for the F-list movies. Tryin’ to find a good one’s like tryin’ to eat your way through a whole big table of shit. Ain’t very appetizing so I’ll leave you to shit table. Nice to meet ya, Ricky. You too, Mr. Lazarus.
Corey Lazarus: Right, right…oh, before you go…
Corey tapped Ricky on the chest and motioned toward Josh. Ricky looked at his father, perplexed, and his father just shook his head.
Corey Lazarus: The glossies, Ricky.
Ricky O’Reilly: Oh, right!
Ricky reached into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a pre-signed 8×10 of Corey Lazarus from the set of Immoral Conduct V: the Wreckoning. He handed it over to Josh, who took it without having given it a glance. He didn’t give the old man a chance to give him anything else before taking another draw from his bottle and heading back to the other side of the room, having finally spotted his little sister, Jesse.
Corey Lazarus: Well, he’s kind of a prick, huh?
Ricky O’Reilly: Oh, him? Uhhh yeah. Sure. Say dad, I’m going to grab a drink over there, you want anything?
Corey Lazarus: Honestly, I think I’m good. Let’s just leave this Chad kid’s gift on this table right here, I’ll leave a note on a napkin, or something.
Corey pulled another stack of the pre-signed Immoral Conduct V 8x10s from Ricky’s messenger bag, leaving them in a neat stack on the table behind him. He brushed some crumbs from the cheap pizza away and placed a napkin’s corner under the stack before he pat his pocket for a pen.
Ricky O’Reilly: Here you go.
Ricky handed his father a Sharpie, the cap off.
Corey Lazarus: Thanks, sport. “To Chad, always my number one fan. Best wishes, stay strong.” Alright, cool. Let’s rock n’ roll on out of here.
Corey dropped the Sharpie on the floor and walked away with Ricky not far behind, the stack of signed 8x10s left for Chad Kyle to find later.
Custodian: Trash…trash, please?
A Pinnacle custodian soon came by to clean up the trash from the tables and the stack of 8x10s caught his eye.
Custodian: Hey…isn’t this the guy from Air Bud vs. MechaShark II? My nephew’s going to love this!
The custodian grabbed the stack of 8x10s and placed them on his cart before he moved along…
Backstage
THE BARBARIANS ARE AT THE GATES
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
SHOOT has oftentimes found itself the home of factions, tribes, gangs, stables. But those games tend to be one consumes another, a violent round of big bank take little bank–rarely do we see an actual honest to god merger.
But we’re seeing one.
Backstage–in a new backstage, no less–stand four individuals. Three are geared out for combat–the other is wearing the rich luxury athletic clothes of someone who still can only think/eat/breathe combat.
Josh Breedlove stands tallest among them, the regality of his bearing either a fact of his vibe or a sculpted affect, but either way…he commands the room. He’s relaxing against the wall, idly checking on his nails.
In front of him, pacing out some energy, is the lean and mean Dominican Dream himself, Mike de los Huesos. His shape up is immaculate, the beard oiled, the facepaint immaculate, the gold fronts in like he’s fresh off a post on Cocaine Blunts.
Izzy Sia is to the side, the newly yoked Kamatayan doing combo drills and shaking out her limbs, likely visualizing the match at hand. But there’s a relaxed good humor in her face, either be it from a sense of fatlism or confidence.
And leaning against the wall on the opposite side of Breedlove is Nate Robideau, the former champion relaxing in his luxury track suit that still bears his name stitched in the breast, still a bouldery mass of meat even though he’s now in his career’s offseason. And he’s the one who decides it’s time to talk, clearing his throat and addressing the camera directly.
Robideau: Kind of wild to be here at the beginning of two eras. I was present for the first show of the rebirth era in Vegas. Now I’m here for the first show of our New York era, the Zenith era. In between? Well, some shit happened. Some rivalries were born. Some were buried too. Some turned into something…bigger.
Breedlove looks up, eyes peering right into the camera. This moment had been a long time coming, so he was taking his time. You know, within reason.
Breedlove: Bet y’all never thought you’d have ever seen me standing side by side with this guy, right? The guy that nearly ended my career, put me on the shelf for over a year, you know… THAT guy.
Robideau sports a slight smirk at the recollection, out of Breedlove’s eye line.
Breedlove: And you might be thinking… that’s crazy, how could that be a thing? The answer is simple. I know a smart business move when I see one, and there’s no better move than this. Bringing the Empire’s business together with Nate’s Blackhawk Gym is really just… logical. Nate brings the best out of his students and he did so with limitations that would have shuttered most other aspiring educators.
He shakes his head.
Breedlove: But not Nate Robideau, and not the Blackhawk Gym. For as much as we went back and forth, I’ve always respected the hustle there. The loyalty. Izzy Sia still doesn’t like me.
Breedlove says that while motioning a thumb in Izzy Sia’s direction.
Breedlove: So when we discovered there was an opportunity here to really build something big, I got the checkbook out. Proverbially. Nobody writes checks anymore. And lest you think that this was a charity case, absolutely not. Nate was ready to go halfsies on this venture, and I took him up on that offer. That’s why we’re standing here today.
Izzy: It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s that I think you’re a chapped asshole on a good day.
Breedlove shrugs, offering no rejoinder.
Izzy: But I’m also someone who wants to admit when she was wrong. Was I suspicious of this? Sure. Who wouldn’t be? We were two houses dedicated to destroying one another. But the thing is…all of you watching, right? You haven’t seen the thing they’re building. Not just the physical space–the talent. The machine that’s being built to back people just like me. The investment of time and money that these two have laid out? Your faves could never. Your other gyms could never. This is bigger than the Sanctum and bigger than Blackhawk. And I don’t have to thank Kru Robideau, who saw in me what no one else did. But Joshua Breedlove? Lemme shock the world. He deserves my thanks.
Mikey: Whoa, stop the presses!
He steps forward, in front of everyone, baring his golden teeth before grinning.
Mikey: See, for the rest of ‘em? This is just a move. For me though, this is me coming home. I’m like the Pope of Dyckman, you don’t understand. And I could sit here and lay out the accolades, but everyone already knows me. Mikey de los Huevos, King of Kings, Dominican Bret Hart, Dominican Kirby Puckett, the Dominican Jokic. But peep this, true believers, Excelsior 3:16: “A homecoming deserves a gift, or in this case, three.”
Izzy: We could run the table.
Mikey: Right?
He moves back towards the bulk of the group.
Mikey: We could take it all. End the first Zenith and everyone has a belt? That’s some on notice shit. That’s “lock up your daughters cause the barbarians are at the gates” vibe.
Breedlove: And that’s the plan. Walk in with no belts. Walk out with all the belts. Could y’all imagine how arrogant I’m going to be if the whole lineup holds all the titles by the very end of the first Zenith?
He laughs.
Breedlove: I mean, I’m going to dominate Spitter. It’s not even a question. The Collins Twins, Izzy, Kirby over here, and me? Champions? Absolutely.
Robideau: But.
He grins, cocking his head towards breedlove.
Robideau: As my business partner is fond of reminding me…all that success is kind of shooting dynamite off in an empty field without a brand to tie it to. A brand that speaks to excellence.
Breedlove: Elevation.
Mikey: Precious metals.
Izzy: Transformation.
Robideau: When you dig someone out of the earth, they’re raw material. And most of the times, that raw material is of…unknown quality. Maybe it’s great, maybe it’s crap. But you don’t know until you put it to flames and see what the hell it’s really made of. That’s true not just for people who sign with us, but SHOOT Project and the sport at large. We are the test of fire. We will show you what your true quality is.
Breedlove smiles.
Breedlove: My true quality is legendary.
He nods, slightly aloof.
Breedlove: But in all seriousness, what we really wanted to come here to do today was to announce ourselves to the world. In this ring? The Empire still reigns, outside of it? Something a little more… divine… is happening. We’re forging the next generation of combat star while continuing to press our current generation into the diamonds that they are. So we figured a name befitting that endeavor would be appropriate.
He looks over to his former rival, now business partner.
Breedlove: Nate?
The Blackhawk steps forward, rubbing his hands together in a decidedly cocky positioning. He hits a mark where the other three are behind him–Breedlove in the center, Izzy to the right, Mike to the left.
Robideau: Welcome to the ascent of the Empyrean Forge, ladies and gentlemen.
There’s no fadeout, no cheer.
Just a hard cut.
Black.
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
ERIC THOMPSON
BRYAN WILLIAMS
VS.
GARRETT REID
LOGAN HART
Backstage
NEW CITY, SAME AIDEN
The camera shows a hallway backstage. Aiden Vanity is walking through it, shirtless, with a small bottle of body oil in his hand. He’s rubbing the oil on his chest and arms, making sure every muscle shines. His tan is darker than usual—almost too dark—but he’s clearly proud of it.
Aiden Vanity (talking to himself): “Man, I look amazing. Just look at this skin. This body. I’m glowing. Nobody looks like me.”
He stops at a mirror on the wall, flexes, and nods at his reflection.
Aiden Vanity: “I should be on a billboard or something.”
As he keeps walking, he continues talking to himself and smirks. A crew member walks by and glances at him. Aiden catches it.
Aiden grins.
Aiden Vanity: “Yeah, I know. It’s hard not to stare.”
He tosses the empty oil bottle behind him. Off to his side, from a distance, comes a voice that while rough is still tinged with some joviality.
Tank: “You gon’ just leave dat bottle dere, for anyone to slip on? Not a good look.
Aiden stops, turns, and gets an eyefull of the New Orleans Monster himself, Tank. He kicks the bottle towards Aiden, a non-verbal request to pick it up and properly dispose of it.
Aiden scoffs, refusing to follow orders.
Aiden Vanity: “Oh my bad, Captain Clean-Up. Wouldn’t want anyone to mess up your precious boots. I forgot I was surrounded by hall monitors instead of wrestlers.”
Aiden chuckles, clearly not impressed by the new addition to the SHOOT Project roster.
Aiden Vanity: “Thanks for the reminder, big guy. Next time I need help with trash I’ll know exactly where to look.”
Tank just chuckles. If he’s annoyed, he’s covering it with an air of amusement.
Tank: y’know, dat dere mouth gonna write out some checks dat booty can’t cash pretty boy.
Tank struts casually over to Aiden, shoulders and general demeanor loose. But it serves its purpose. Showing the size difference between the two men.
Tank: Don’t worry none though. Big Tank don’t pick no fights over litter. He handles bigger messes…you know what I mean?
Aiden Vanity: “Wow. Just…wow. Did you rehearse that back in the swamp, or does bad grammar come naturally when you’re built like a bulldozer with half the vocabulary?”
He tilts his head mockingly, looking Tank up and down.
Aiden Vanity: “You talk real big for someone who’s going to be just another body on the ground when that battle royal starts. I’m not here to pick fights with litter either, Tank. I’m here to win, steal the spotlight, and to make sure everyone in that match knows exactly what real talent looks like. So when that bell rings, don’t take it personally when I send you back to whatever truck stop you crawled out of. Just remember—you ran your mouth, and the better man shut it for you.”
Tank rubs his chin, shakes his head and chuckles again. Low and raspy.
Tank: Cher, you pretty as a peach, but you talk like never had ya jaw tested.
Tank takes one step closer, fully shadowing Aiden now.
Tank: Thing about battle royals. You ain’t gotta be “the better man” to stay in dat ring…you just gotta be the badder man. An’ dat? Dat’s dis ‘ere big Tank.
Tank leans back, scanning Vanity’s oiled up chest with a smirk.
Tank: So you go on ahead and keep worrying yoself about dem lights, camera, dat tan. Tank? He gonna worry about who he throwin’ clean over dat tope rope, ya’ watahmean?
Tank then shrugs nonchalantly.
Tank: An’ if dat mean you pretty boy? Well, I guess we gon’ find out if dat shine help ya glide through the air.
Backstage
SHOOT PROJECT'S WAYWARD SON
The locker room. It had been so long since Trey had his own locker, a space where he had to prepare for battle. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. That rush of anticipation as you lace your boots. That feeling of butterflies that you get just before you step out into the hallway to make your way down that ramp. You can hear the rising chant from the crowd all the way back in the back. A mix between elation from the previous match, to rumbling excitement for the next match.
All of the sound clears into a dull background as he clears his mind. Focus only on the match before him. Giving the people what they came to see. Being the best damn show on the card every night. It is his safe place. A place to clear the machine, ready for what’s next.
He looks into the locker room, his name freshly painted onto the top. Full-time roster members get permanent lockers. It’s always been that way.
Jesus he really was back wasn’t he?
It was all just a little too much to take in at once. He could hear the crowd thumping. That bit of calm that he had, slowly being destroyed by the knowledge that in just a few moments he would be emerging from that curtain once more. New crowd, new opponents, new SHOOT Project.
The noise gets louder and louder in his head. Frantically, he reaches forward in his locker, running his hands down the fringe in his jacket. It was new too. Finally, a part of an old man that fit into the new SHOOT. New SHOOT, New Willenium.
Silence Again.
He almost managed to get himself centered again. Almost…
Janet: Trey…
Her voice wasn’t unfamiliar or totally unwelcomed, but definitely a surprise. Her voice cracked with the type of meek uncertainty that comes along with the notion of whether of not it really belonged there anymore. Trey’s Ex-Wife. She had been here before so many times. But not since…Not since Corazon. Not since she lost her husband to that monster.
Trey Willett: Janet!? How the fuck did you get back here? What are you even doing here?
Janet sits on the bench next to Trey, putting her arm on his shoulder.
Janet: Nice Fringe. Nice to see that you’ve gotten more understated in your retirement…
The two of them share a small laugh before Trey is knocked back into reality. He realizes that she didn’t answer either of his questions. Typical.
Trey Willett: Again, how did you manage to get in here?
Janet: It wasn’t all that hard. Security stopped me at the gate, but Dan happened to be walking past. He saw me and told them to let me past. I swear, I heard him say something like “That’ll show that asshole” and he walked off. At least you’re still good at making friends.
Janet laughs half-heartedly as Trey rolls his eyes. They both know she isn’t there to rag on him. She could have done that over the phone. No. In all the years that they were together, she never came into the locker room before one of his matches. She knew that he would desperately try to hide his nerves behind bravado. Seeing her made it all the more difficult for him to choke that down. Even now. She knew that. She knew him. There was a reason that she was here. There was no way that it was a good one. Not for Trey anyway.
Jane: More to the point, What in the actual fuck are YOU doing here? You promised me that you were done with this. Putting your body out there, getting the hell beat out of you every night. I was finally done worrying about you every week. And now? Now you’re ten years older. That’s ten years on your back. Ten years on your knees. Ten years on what’s left of that little brain of yours. You swore to me, Trey!
Exasperated, she slaps both of her hands down on her knees. She is clearly trying hard to hold back tears. She’s trying even harder to hold back slapping him in the face. They hadn’t been married. Not for a long time. The distance between them was, more often than not, insurmountable. But she still loved, still cared. She still worried about him. Wrestling was just too important to him. His legacy just meant far too much. There was a time that she would watch, she would cheer, she would cry, she would worry. She hadn’t turned SHOOT on since his last match until his Hall of Fame induction night. She hadn’t even watched him fight Chad Kyle.
Trey Willett: How did you even know I was coming back? I didn’t think you paid attention to any of this stuff anymore?
He doesn’t even look at her face. He can’t. He knows the answer, even though he asked the question. She doesn’t want to watch. She doesn’t want to see the news, but she can’t help it. His name comes up and she finds herself right back there. Waiting by the phone to hear that He is in the hospital, that he took it one step too far this match. She didn’t watch the matches, but she read the dirt sheets. She still kept track of him. No matter the distance, no matter the time, she still loved him. At least a small part of her did.
Janet: You absolute jackass. You were done! It was over. And our son…our idiot son followed you right into it! But he’s out. I heard that he didn’t renew his contract. They’re speculating that he retired. Thank god. Both of you were out. I could finally breath. But now…Here you are. Putting those ugly ass boots back on and wearing that stupid fucking mustache!
She reaches up. Almost to slap him. But she instead pulls at the corner of his handlebar mustache. When Trey yelps in slight pain, she can’t help but laugh. She is furious, but it’s almost nice to be poking at him again. Her feeling of ease is quickly erased when she looks up at Trey’s face. She sees his look of concern, can feel his uncomfortable demeanor. She knows when he is about to tell her something that she wont like. She’s seen this face far too many times in her life. She braces for the disappointment that he always seems to bring to these moments.
Trey Willett: How long has it been since you’ve spoken to Brandon? Oh Janet. Listen. I have my match. I can’t deal with this right now. Tell you what, go upstairs. Get some pizza in the banquet room. Talk to Josh. He’ll fill you in on everything. Right now, I have to focus. I have to get out there and win. We need this. He needs this. All I can tell you is that I promise: It’s not about me anymore. It’s not about us. I just need your support. One last time. Find Chad, get pizza, then find Josh.
Confused, Janet pulls away from Trey. He grabs her by the hands and looks her in the eye. He says “Repeat it back to me.”
Janet: Find Chad, Get Pizza, Find Josh. Got it.
More confused now than ever, she stands and begins to walk to the door. Just before she walks out of the room she turns back to Trey one last time before he finishes getting ready.
Janet: Trey…It’s good to see the Wayward Son back home…
Without saying another word, Janet walks out of the locker room. Trey, fighting tears for a moment, runs his fingers down the fringe of his jacket one more time. Center. Focus.
It’s Time…
Backstage
HAWAIIAN PIZZA
The scene opens on what can only be described as the most bizarre backstage party in SHOOT Project history. The SHOOT Project catering area has been transformed into a child’s birthday party fever dream. Faded Batman streamers reading “Happy Birthday Chuckie” hang at odd angles from the ceiling. Yellow and black balloons bob sadly in corners, and fold-out tables are covered with mismatched pizza boxes from one of Brooklyn’s pizza places.
Chad Kyle bounces around the room like a caffeinated golden retriever, wearing a Batman cape over his wrestling gear and wielding a kazoo like a conductor’s baton.
Chad Kyle: This is gonna be the BEST backstage party in SHOOT Project history! Batman pizza party! BATMAN PIZZA PARTY!
He spots movement at the entrance and his eyes light up like Christmas morning.
Chad Kyle: OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! GUYS! THE PUNCH LINE IS HERE!
Roy Vezina enters first, wearing a designer suit and sunglasses indoors, surveying the scene with the expression of a man who’s just walked into a crime scene. Behind him, Harv Norris looks around with genuine curiosity, while Rick Hull brings up the rear, stone-faced as always.
Roy Vezina: What… in the actual hell… is this?
Chad Kyle rushes over with the enthusiasm of a puppy who hasn’t seen his owner in years.
Chad Kyle: ROY! HARV! RICK! Welcome to my SUPER PIZZA PARTY! Isn’t this AMAZING?! I got streamers and pizza and kazoos and—
He shoves three Batman-themed party favor bags at them.
Chad Kyle: PARTY FAVORS! Everyone gets party favors! There’s gum and rings and kazoos in there! You gotta blow the kazoos! It’s a rule!
Roy stares at the bag like it might contain anthrax.
Roy Vezina: Chad… what is this supposed to be exactly?
Chad Kyle: It’s a pizza party! Josh Breedlove got us all the pizza! And I got decorations! I found them on marketplace! Some kid named Chuckie was apparently having a Batman birthday party, but then I guess he didn’t need them anymore, so now they’re OURS!
Harv opens his party bag and immediately pulls out a plastic Batman ring, examining it with scientific fascination.
Harv Norris: Well, would ye look at that! A proper superhero ring! Haven’t seen one of these since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, b’y!
He puts it on his finger and holds it up to the light.
Chad Kyle: RIGHT?! And there’s GUM! And KAZOOS! Try the kazoo, Harv! TRY IT!
Harv pulls out the kazoo and gives it an experimental toot. The sound it makes is somewhere between a dying goose and a broken bicycle horn.
Harv Norris: Beautiful! Like the fog horns back home in St. John’s!
Chad Kyle: EXACTLY! Rick! Rick, you gotta try the kazoo!
Rick Hull stares at Chad for a long moment, then at the party bag, then back at Chad.
Rick Hull: No.
Chad Kyle: Aw, come on! It’s a party! Parties are supposed to be fun!
Rick Hull: I don’t do fun.
Chad Kyle: But… but it’s BATMAN! Everyone loves Batman!
Rick Hull: I’m more of a Punisher guy.
Roy Vezina: Chad, I appreciate the… effort… but we’re here for professional reasons. We’re preparing for our match against the Collins Brothers, not attending a six-year-old’s birthday party.
Chad Kyle: But Roy! It’s not just any party! It’s a SUPER pizza party! And look!
He points to a table covered in pizza boxes.
Chad Kyle: Pizza! The best in New York! Well, probably not the BEST best, but it’s really good! And there’s pepperoni and cheese and even Hawaiian!
Harv perks up at the mention of food.
Harv Norris: Hawaiian pizza? What kind of pineapple we talkin’ about here, b’y?
Chad Kyle: The BEST kind! The pizza kind! Come on, you gotta try some!
Roy watches in horror as Harv actually walks over to investigate the pizza situation.
Roy Vezina: Harv! We have a match to prepare for! We can’t just—
Harv Norris: Roy, b’y, a man’s gotta eat. And this pizza smells better than anything we got in Vegas.
He grabs a slice of Hawaiian and takes a big bite.
Harv Norris: Oh, that’s the good stuff right there! Chad, me son, ye know how to throw a party!
Chad Kyle beams with pride.
Chad Kyle: I KNOW, RIGHT?! And we haven’t even gotten to the games yet! I was thinking we could play pin the cape on the Batman, or maybe musical chairs with the Batman theme song!
Roy Vezina: Games? GAMES?! Chad, we’re professional wrestlers, not children at a birthday party!
Chad Kyle: But… but everyone’s a kid at heart! Even scary guys like Rick!
He looks hopefully at Rick, who is standing perfectly still, arms crossed, looking like a statue of disapproval.
Rick Hull: I wasn’t a kid at heart when I was actually a kid.
Chad Kyle: That’s… that’s actually kind of sad, Rick.
Suddenly, Chad’s face lights up with an idea.
Chad Kyle: OH! OH! I KNOW! Roy, you should give a speech! Like, a toast! With kazoos as background music!
Roy Vezina: A speech? At a children’s party? Absolutely not.
Chad Kyle: But you’re so good at talking! And this would be perfect practice for when you guys become tag team champions! Champions probably have to give speeches at parties all the time!
Roy considers this for a moment, his ego clearly wrestling with his dignity.
Roy Vezina: Well… I suppose addressing the SHOOT Project roster about our inevitable championship victory could be… strategically advantageous…
Chad Kyle: YES! SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!
He starts chanting and blowing his kazoo. Harv, still eating pizza, joins in with his own kazoo performance.
Roy Vezina: Fine! FINE! Everyone, if I could have your attention!
The handful of wrestlers scattered around the party area turn to look at Roy, who has positioned himself next to a particularly sad Batman balloon.
Roy Vezina: Ladies and gentlemen of SHOOT Project, as we stand here in this… festive… environment, surrounded by the dreams of some child named Chuckie and the finest pizza Brooklyn has to offer…
Harv gives an appreciative nod and takes another bite.
Roy Vezina: I want to remind you all that you are in the presence of wrestling royalty. The Punch Line didn’t come to New York to play games or eat pizza or blow kazoos…
Chad Kyle: But kazoos are fun!
Roy Vezina: We came here to elevate this company! To bring championship excellence to a tag team division that has been languishing under the mediocre reign of the Collins Brothers!
A few wrestlers in the background start booing good-naturedly. Roy feeds off their energy.
Roy Vezina: Tonight, when we take those World Tag Team Championships, this pizza party will be remembered as the moment when the old guard officially passed the torch to the new era of excellence!
Rick Hull: The pizza’s actually not bad.
Everyone turns to stare at Rick, who is holding a slice of pepperoni and has apparently been quietly eating this entire time.
Chad Kyle: RICK LIKES THE PIZZA! This is the BEST DAY EVER!
Roy Vezina: Rick… you’re eating party food?
Rick Hull: Man’s gotta eat.
Harv Norris: That’s what I told ye, Roy! Sometimes ye just gotta live a little!
Roy looks around at the scene, his partners actually enjoying themselves at a ridiculous Batman-themed pizza party, Chad Kyle beaming with joy, and various SHOOT Project wrestlers having a genuinely good time.
Roy Vezina: You know what? Fine. FINE! Give me a slice of that pizza. And a kazoo. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.
Chad Kyle: YES! Roy’s joining the party! This is AMAZING!
Roy takes a slice of pizza and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls out his kazoo.
Roy Vezina: But I’m not wearing the Batman ring.
Harv Norris: More for me, b’y!
He puts on a second ring and holds up both hands, admiring his new jewelry.
Chad Kyle: This is perfect! We should take a group photo! With the streamers! And the kazoos! And—
Rick Hull: Don’t push it.
Chad Kyle: Right! No photos! But this is still the BEST PARTY EVER!
As the scene fades, we see The Punch Line actually relaxing for once, Roy grudgingly enjoying his pizza while maintaining his dignity, Harv collecting Batman rings like they’re rare artifacts, and Rick eating in stoic silence while occasionally nodding approval at the food quality.
Chad Kyle bounces around them with his kazoo, completely oblivious to how surreal the entire situation is, just happy that his party is bringing people together.
Chad Kyle: BEST PIZZA PARTY EVER! BATMAN! PIZZA! PUNCH LINE! WOOOOOO!
The camera pulls back to show the full scene, professional wrestlers eating pizza under Batman streamers that say “Happy Birthday Chuckie,” with kazoo music providing the soundtrack to the most wonderfully bizarre backstage segment in SHOOT history.
IN THE RING
GODSEND
Bells ring out into the audience, followed by organ music.
Ten chimes.
Each one of them confused the audience more than the next.
Did someone die?
Is this a ten-bell salute for Hank Hercules and his Hankamaniacs?
No. It is not.
Thank God.
Soon, there’s a graphic that appears on the SHOOTron, and everything becomes clear(ish).
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
They chime, each toll a measured cadence against the rising crescendo of whispers in the crowd. Not the eager murmurs of anticipation, but the hushed, almost reverent awe of a crowd bracing itself for a slew of words they may not be ready to hear. Ten bells, a perfect, symmetrical count, each note a declaration that the old Arthur Pleasant– The Provocateur – is dead.
Eryk Masters: So, uh, has Arthur… been born again?
Jason Johnson: I… don’t… I… can’t… well, what the fuck is this?!
He walks with the grace of a man unburdened. Stopping at the ramp way, he falls to his knees and raises his arms to the heavens.
That’s when the blistering drums and frenetic guitars hit the state of the art speaker system inside the Pinnacle. “Slum Planet” by 3TEETH slaps hard.
🎵TASTE THE WASTE OF OUR NEON DISGRACE🎵
🎵DEFORMED CHILDREN MADE FROM CORPORATE GOD’S GRACE🎵
🎵BETTER WEAR A MASK BECAUSE THE AIR MELTS YOUR FACE🎵
🎵NO ONE WINS THIS HUMAN RACE.🎵
Clad in a brand new black and white attire, the juxtaposition of church bells and the industrial metal of 3TEETH disorients any observer within Arthur Pleasant’s vicinity.
Eryk Masters: Still using that theme…?
Jason Johnson: Yeah, I’m not sure what to make of this. It’s like he’s presented this change, but there’s a part of him that refuses to let the old Arthur die.
Pleasant’s shoulders seem to carry the weight of a thousand unseen revelations. His eyes, once a battlefield of doubt and rage, now hold a chilling serenity. There’s a a quiet conviction that borders on something that resembles fanaticism.
Arthur Pleasant “unsheathes” a microphone from within the pocket of his trenchcoat. With the throat cut motion of his thumb, his music is supplanted by the excited, if cautious, SHOOT Project faithful, who are all ready to see the first ever SHOOT Project Empire State Champion crowned.
Arthur Pleasant: This summer break was my crucible. A time of solitude and silence, spent in the stark, unyielding landscape of my own fractured psyche.
The fans listen on intently as Pleasant comes closer to the ring with each measured step. The fans of New York City may hate the man as much as the fans of Las Vegas, but like his words were spoken in Sin City, they have not failed to capture the audience of the Big Apple.
Arthur Pleasant: While others sought solace in the sun, I delved into an abyss, and from its depths, I emerged…a changed man.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Eryk Masters: Yeah, I don’t think they’re buying it.
Jason Johnson: Are YOU?!
Eryk Masters: You know me. I always try to give even the biggest pieces of shit the benefit of the doubt, but with Arthur Pleasant? It’s a game of gullibility. Always has been.
Arthur Pleasant: My sons and daughters of SHOOT Project: do not let the white I now wear fool you. I am not a man reborn of some fictitious light, but of an omnipresent shadow. Not a prophet of hope, but of stark, unvarnished reality. I need you all to understand this. Please.
The boos lessen. Not acquiescing to his pleas, but rather letting their curiosities get the better of them.
Arthur’s voice, when it is spoken, is not an endless supply of maniacal drivel, but a low, guttural hum. A changed voice that resonates not in the air, but in the very marrow of the Pinnacle’s bones.
Arthur Pleasant: The world hungers for a shepherd. But the sheep?
An almost imperceptible smile quivers on the edges of his chapped lips.
Arthur Pleasant: They deserve a fucking wolf.
Seemingly forged in the fires of self-discovery, there’s still a glimmer of the monster from within.
Arthur Pleasant: They have all sought to break me. Jeffrey. The Breedlove Empire. Other promotions. Some defunct. Some crawling along in their own bubble.
He lowers his voice into that of a whisper. His gaze sweeps over the Pinnacle, lingering on each face looking back at him through each flickering moment of comprehension.
Arthur Pleasant: But I am still…here. Others have sought to silence this… this synthetic “truth”. But the silence? The silence is where I found my voice. And the darkness? Mm. The darkness…is where I discovered my light. For you cannot have one without the other. And I, rest assured SHOOT Project, am the great balance between them.
I am the equilibrium where opposing forces meet.
I am the GODSEND this shiny new version of SHOOT Project needs…and starting tonight? You will bear witness to the blood-soaked beginnings.
The light he speaks of is clearly not some beacon of hope, but the stark, unforgiving illumination of his own self-proclaimed “divinity”.
Eryk Masters: Did I hear him correctly? Did he refer to himself as… the GODSEND?!
Jason Johnson: Yes. Yes he did, E$.
He can feel it. That… sensation. Of how the eyes from beyond the veil all judge him as a false prophet. Maybe so. But he can hear some of the people start t believe. A faint, VERY faint “Ar-thur! Ar-thur!” chant breaks out among the front row and various other sections.
Eryk Masters: No way. Are these people serious?! Have they forgotten what a deplorable piece of shit this guy is?!
Jason Johnson: Maybe. But one thing’s for sure, Eryk.
Eryk Masters: What’s that?
Jason Johnson: The Church of Arthur Pleasant has seemingly arrived.
There’s nothing more beautiful than the terrifying conviction of a true believer. And in the quiet, unsettling authority of his presence, the crowd begins to believe him too. A new Arthur Pleasant has arrived, and it seems he’s brought his own congregation.
BATTLE ROYAL
EMPIRE STATE CHAMPIONSHIP
MIKE DE LOS HUESOS
TREY WILLETT
ARTHUR PLEASANT
DINOSAURIO PEQUENO
JOSH KAINE
AIDEN VANITY
GABRIEL TUCK
TANK
Backstage
PIZZA PARTY!
Backstage. Really, it’s the center of attention for SHOOT Project’s soldiers tonight – Chad Kyle’s pizza party. Chad is mingling with some UWA talent in The Pinnacle to support the mothership, as it were, trying to get them to blow on a kazoo. The camera pans away from Chad, catching the World Tag Team Champions entering the fray.
Our champs wear their belts on their shoulders, and black Empire t-shirts along with their ring gear. Their gear was specially made for Zenith 1, a brand new red, black, and gold trimming that really makes them stand out. Michael stops in his tracks, flicking the back of his hand on his brother’s chest. Michael sniffs the air to make sure.
Michael Collins: He’s got it.
Rowland Collins: He doesn’t! Does he?!
Michael and Rowland look at each other, giddy about what they’re about to uncover.
Michael Collins: The mad lad actually fuckin’ did it.
Rowland calls out to Chad, interrupting what conversation he was having.
Rowland Collins: Hey! Chad! You got the anchovies and pineapple pizza we wanted?!
Chad Kyle absolutely loses his SHIT. Chad abruptly ends his conversation with the UWA talent and nearly scooby-doos his legs to get to the Collins Twins. Michael and Rowland cross their arms over their chest.
Chad Kyle: Anchovies and Pineapple, third box from the top, second stack from the right, and two Monster Energy Drinks™ waiting for you, too. Not my first choice in pizza but anything for my friend Joshua Breedlove’s friends. Hey, you guys want a kazoo?
Chad pats himself down, looking for a kazoo to hand out. Rowland lightly shoves his brother out of the way to sprint to the pizza box. Michael smiles, extending out a hand to Chad.
Michael Collins: No, Chad. We’re your friends, too.
Chad, taken aback, blinks repeatedly. He stops looking for the kazoo.
Chad Kyle: You…you mean it? You’re my friends?
Rowland walks back with two plates, one piece of anchovie/pineapple pizza on each, and a kazoo in each hand. Rowland speaks with his mouth full after already eating a small piece.
Rowland Collins: We mean it. You came through for us. You keep coming through like this and people are going to really like you, I guarantee it.
Chad’s eyes grow comically wide and water. Michael takes his plate and kazoo from his brother and nods.
Michael Collins: It’s true. Maybe you’ll even earn a certain t-shirt?
Michael looks down at his Empire shirt. Chad’s face appears to go blank, as if in shock. Chad stammers for a moment.
Chad Kyle: Buh…buh…buh
Rowland and Michael look at each other and their twin senses tingle. Rowland nods.
Rowland Collins: Listen, Chad, we really appreciate the pizza, but we have a match to get ready for.
Michael speaks with an exaggerated American accent.
Michael Collins: Yeah. But this party looks totally radical, Dude.
Rowland Collins: We’re really bummed to have to leave our friend like this, but…hey, next Zenith, let’s talk about what it means to be friends, yeah?
Michael Collins: I’m sure you can make it, right?
Chad’s head bobs forward on his shoulders.
Chad Kyle: Absolutely. Zenith 2! I’ll be there.
Michael and Rowland nod.
Both Twins: Good.
Rowland Collins: We’ll be seeing you then, Boyo.
Chad Kyle: Can’t wait! It’s gonna be BITCHIN!
Michael takes a bite of his pizza. The Twins walk by Chad, each placing a hand on his shoulder as they do. The camera follows the Twins away from the Pizza Party, leaving Chad to fist pump in the air behind them.
Michael Collins: Told you he’d come through.
Rowland Collins: Let’s hope it’s not the last time.
The final shot is of a trashcan as they walk by. Two kazoos go flying into the bin in slow motion.
Black.
Backstage
274
The air in the backstage area is thick with the scent of liniment, sweat, and anticipation. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a harsh glow on cinder block walls adorned with faded promotional posters. Road cases are stacked haphazardly against one wall, alongside scattered athletic bags and discarded water bottles. The distant roar of the arena crowd provides a constant, vibrating backdrop, occasionally punctuated by the sharp crack of a slam or the muffled thud of a body hitting the mat. Wrestlers and crew members move with purpose, their faces a mix of focused intensity and nervous energy. The tension is palpable, a mix of raw emotion and the calculated artistry that defines the pro-wrestling business.
Walking into the camera’s framework is none other than the SHOOT Project Premier Champion, Vito Valentino.
The roar from the Pinnacle’s over-capacity crowd is deafening, even from the backstage area. The hometown hero… has come home.
Loud chants of “Vi-To! Vi-To!” fill the arena from 20,000 screaming SHOOT Project fans as the camera widens. Appearing to his left is none other than long-time SHOOT Project interviewer, Abigail Chase.
Acknowledging the crowd, Vito smiles wide behind his trademark pink-tinted sunglasses. With the Premier Championship snapped around his waist, Abigail gives it a moment before breaking through the passionate New Yorker’s chants.
Abigail Chase: Well, Vito! It’s safe to say this is quite the homecoming for you tonight.
Vito chuckles, and before he can say anything else, another “Vi-To! Vi-To!” chant breaks out into the Pinnacle. Clearly, the love and admiration they have for The SmashShow is as genuine as genuine gets.
Vito Valentino: (Voice thick with emotion) It… it really is, Abigail. This… this is something else. Every time I step out there, every time I hear them, it’s…
He trails off, a lump forming in his throat. He takes off his pink sunglasses, revealing eyes that are slightly red-rimmed.
The renewed roar of the crowd, the continuous “Vi-To! Vi-To!” chant, washes over him like a warm embrace. It’s a sound he’s heard before, but never in such an extolled manner.
Tonight, in the concrete jungle he calls home, it’s different.
It’s a balm to a wound that’s still raw, still aching. His Pops, a man who instilled in him the grit and determination needed to survive, let alone thrive in a business like professional wrestling, would have loved this. He would have been beaming, probably even a little teary-eyed himself, watching his son, the kid from Bay Bridge, Brooklyn, standing tall, belt around his waist, in front of a sold-out New York crowd.
Vito clears his throat, blinking rapidly. He’s always prided himself on being The SmashShow, the confident, sometimes boisterous champion. But in this moment, surrounded by the energy of the people– HIS people–the veneer cracks. He’s just Vito, a son who misses his dad, a man who finds solace and strength in the unwavering support of his community.
He looks into the camera, trying to make eye contact with as many faces as possible from behind the lens, sending a silent thank you for every cheer, every chant, and every moment of genuine affection. It’s more than just wrestling; it’s connection, it’s family, it’s home. And tonight, more than ever, it feels like the one place where the pain of loss can, for a few glorious moments, be overshadowed by the overwhelming power of love.
Vito Valentino: This is magical. Never in my life, as a young Italiano from Bay Ridge, did I ever expect to receive such a warm and loving reception like this. It means the world to me. It really does.
Abigail nods, smiling at the emotions pouring out from Vito’s face.
Abigail Chase: Tonight, Vito, you’ve got a massive title defense ahead against Izzy Sia, the inaugural Firestarter tournament winner. How are you feeling, stepping into the ring against someone who’s just come off such a series of dominant performances?
Vito Valentino: (A determined glint in his eye, the raw emotion from earlier replaced with focused resolve) I’ll just go on and say it right here. Izzy Sia is fuckin’ phenomenal. There’s no denyin’ it. To go through a grueling tournament like the Firestarter, to beat every single person put in front of her, that takes incredible talent, fortitude, and a hunger that’s truly inspiring. She’s earned every single bit of the hype surrounding her, and she’s a legitimate threat to this championship.
He pauses for a moment, tucking the sunglasses into his “Critical! Energy” tank top.
Vito Valentino: But let me be clear: this belt, this Premier Championship, it’s been around my waist for 273 days. Nine whole months to the day, in fact. That’s not just a number; that’s a testament to the blood, sweat, and tears I’ve poured into defending this title against every challenger. It’s a testament to the belief this community has in me, and the legacy I’m building. Izzy Sia is a force, absolutely. But she’s facing the SHOOT Project Premier Champion, right here in MY backyard. And I didn’t come this far to not make it to 274. I didn’t come this fuckin’ far to give it up now. Not tonight. Not EVER!
The crowd absolutely roars at Vito’s candid and confident answer. Yet another “Vi-To! Vi-To!” chant breaks out, at which point The SmashShow just laughs and basks in it.
Abigail Chase: Izzy Sia has been on an absolute tear lately. What challenges do you anticipate she’ll present that might be different from your previous opponents?
Vito Valentino: (Taking a deep breath, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips) Look, every opponent brings a new set of challenges to the table. That’s the beauty of this business, and it’s why I love it so damn much. With Izzy Sia? Heh. It’s not just about her raw leg strength or her incredible athletic ability, though she has both in spades. It’s about her adaptability. ‘Cause she just finds a way to win, even when things aren’t going her way. She’s like Chad Kyle in a way where he finds a way to keep his name in people’s mouths, even though he’s an ugly fuckin’ scab on the entire existence of SHOOT Project. Fuckin’ eh tenacious. She’s got that killer instinct, that refusal to stay down, and that’s a dangerous combination. She doesn’t just stick to one game plan; she evolves, she adjusts, she finds the weakness. That’s what makes her so formidable. THAT is what made her The Firestarter.
Pausing, he cracks his neck with a quick, diagonal bob of the head.
Vito Valentino: But the thing for me about all of that? I’ve been studying her. Night and day. I respect what she brings. I respect the company she keeps when she’s training. But she’s not the only one who’s been training. This entire summer break I’ve been preparing for everything and anything. I know what I’m up against. I know who I’m defending this title from. But tonight? I’m ready for the fight of my life. And Izzy? She’s gonna need more than ice, pain killers, a shiny new t-shirt, and some fuckin’ weed to feel better for the next thirty days, never mind tomorrow.
The crowd responds with an elongated “OHHHHHHHHHH!”.
Abigail Chase: You’ve always prided yourself on being a fighting champion. What does it mean to you to defend the SHOOT Project Premier Championship here, in your hometown, against a rising star like Izzy Sia?
Vito Valentino: It means everything, Abigail! This isn’t just another title defense. This is my house. This is New York fuckin’ City! This is where I learned to fight, where I learned to hustle, where I became the man and the champion I am today. To stand in this ring, with this belt around my waist, in front of my people, against someone as legitimate as Izzy Sia… it’s a dream come true, and it’s also the biggest challenge of my career. And you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve been waiting for a moment like this since Dan Stein signed me to that contract for last year’s Master of the Mat. I’ve been chomping at the bit for a chance to truly cement my legacy, to show the world, and especially everyone here tonight, exactly why I am what I say I am when I call myself the PREMIER Champion. Tonight, I’m not just defending a title; I’m defending my home, my honor, and the unwavering belief these incredible fans have in me. I’m ready to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that The SmashShow is the forever Premier Champion!
It’s clear that Vito is pumped for his match, as he’s nearly pacing at this point in time.
Abigail Chase: One more question, Vito.
Vito Valentino: One more question, Abigail, and it’s time to let this lion out of his fuckin’ cage!
VI-TO! VI-TO! VI-TO!
Abigail smiles, enjoying the incredible response Vito has been getting throughout this entire interview.
Abigail Chase: Many are calling this a true test of your reign. What’s your message to Izzy Sia, and to the fans who will be watching tonight?
His eyes narrow. A low growl replaces the earlier exuberance. The Premier Champion stares directly into the camera, his eyes burning with an almost frightening intensity. Unlike anything we’ve ever seen before.
Vito Valentino: You think you’ve seen a fight, Izzy? You think you’ve pushed yourself to the limit? Tonight, you’re gonna find out what limits truly are. You talk about being the Firestarter, about burning bright. Well, I’m the goddamn storm that extinguishes ALL fires. You wanna go for a jog after tonight? You might wanna consider a swim in the Hudson instead, because these streets? This city? They belong to me, baby. Always have, always will. And as for the fans… you know what you’re gonna get. You’re gonna get a champion who leaves every single piece of himself in that ring. You’re gonna get a champion who defends what’s his with everything he’s got. You’re gonna get The Premier Powerhouse, and tonight, I’m gonna Brooklyn Hammerplex my way to victory. Fuckin’ BET!
“Some Kind of Monster” hits and the crowd becomes even more unglued than they previously were. With a nod and a wink, Vito steps away from the interview area, no doubt heading towards Gorilla.
Abigail Chase: Well, there you have it. The hometown hero is ready for a fight, and I think it’s gonna be one for the ages. Back to you guys!
SINGLES MATCH
PREMIER CHAMPIONSHIP
IZZY SIA
VS.
VITO VALENTINO (c)
POST MATCH
THE FIGHT FOR NEW YORK
Jason Johnson: Valentino’s done it! Vito Valentino is still the champion!
The referee calls for the bell. The SmashShow rolls off Izzy Sia, defeating her cleanly to retain the championship, and his eyes widen. He catches his breath. The referee is quick to retrieve the belt, but Vito is slow to his feet.
Jason Johnson: What an amazing fight, and what a showing from Izzy Sia. We’re no strangers to her prowess in the ring, but what a display against someone the magnitude of Vito Valentino. Wow, and to think we still have two more matches.
Eryk Masters: Yeah, well, the SmashShow better keep an eye over his shoulder. This is a new era, Johnson, and I’ve been in the business long enough to know that hype like this attracts all the flies. He’s got a lot of’em comin’ his way.
Vito meets the referee in the center of the ring. The champ can barely stand after such a grueling battle with one of the finest challengers to come his way. “Some Kind of Monster” by Metallica comes crashing through the speakers.
Jason Johnson: You’re looking at New York’s finest, a premier athlete, and SHOOT Project’s Premier Champion, holding the strap high above his sweat soaked head.
Eryk Masters: Pfft. That’s not a head. That’s an empty vessel with a stupid face on it.
Jason Johnson: Eryk, please. A little respect? These fans are cheering not simply because one of their own represents what it means to be “premier”, but he represents that New York winning state of mind. That’s our Premier –
Blackness engulfs the arena. Fans pull out their cell phones to use the flashlight. One-by-one the crowd becomes tiny flickers of light – like staring into a diamond. What they hear next is more a revisit from a nostalgic grave. Someone blowing into a VHS cassette, and then inserting it into the VCR.
Jason Johnson: Um…
Eryk Masters: Hell yea, see? Flies, Johnson. FLIES…this is the Zenith era of SHOOT Project, baby. Now it’s getting REAL good.
The screen above the stage lights up.
Now, press play.
It only takes about 3.5 seconds for it to hit. Instant high throughout the entire crowd; a contact haze. The lights pop on as his logo hits and we all start grindin’.
Jason Johnson: HO
Eryk Masters: LY
Jason and Eryk: SHIT.
The crowd, Vito Valentino, and even Izzy Sia (who’s still present so don’t sleep on her chillin’ somewhere outside the ring) are in disbelief. Fans erupt as the People’s Champion, the leader of the On Godtourage, the first ever SHOOT Project Premier champ, Black Sheep Baez, struts out onto the stage just knowing that he’s about to get bombarded with a hurricane’s level of absolute respect. His cheshire grin is complimented with welling eyes.
Jason Johnson: The last time we saw Black Sheep Baez it was in October of 2023 and he was losing the Premier Championship to NC-17.
Eryk Masters: Really nice of him to leave the title in the hands of that piece.
Jason Johnson: Since then – Baez has travelled the globe, learning from some of the all-time greats, even defeating some former world heavyweight champions along the way. He’s really developed into a superstar. This is a big deal!
Eryk Masters: Welcome back, Bitch Ass Baez.
Baez pauses in the center of the stage, modeling a sleeveless Black Sheep Baez t-shirt (probably one of the rad ones you can find on SHOOTShop – and currently promoted on his absolutely stellar music video that you’re watching), but there’s also something peculiar about the former Premier champ’s fashion sense. He’s dressed to wrestle. His tights are blue and orange because Baez is a huge Mets fan (as should any New Yorker), and his boots match the scheme. The crowd’s batshit response is deafening, and Baez is humbled by it.
Sheep takes a brief moment to absorb their love, but he quickly realizes what he’s here for. He’s been holding on to a microphone since he stepped back onto the scene. Baez’s gaze calibrates on the big man in the center of the ring and he raises the microphone slowly toward his glossy caramel lips. It’s not about the big man, per se. It’s also not necessarily about what that man currently holds tightly in the palms of his Italian mitts.
This is about closure. Baez fills with excitement and he instantly turns into the Master of Ceremonies. Anyone that knows Baez knows this: he’s lookin’ for the tribe vibe, and he’ll do whatever it takes to generate his energy back into a crowd.
He signals to pause his music, and they do it.
Black Sheep Baez: ON GOD – They says they takin’ over New York.
The crowd loses their shit.
Black Sheep Baez: BET!
He screams over their enthusiastic waves of fandom. The herd of SHOOT Soldiers, a fine example of why New York is one of the best states of the Union, work together to turn the volume down a few notches and give their champion the time he deserves.
Black Sheep Baez: Check it. You can’t go into a new era in my neck’a’the woods and not expect ya boi.
If the crowd could cheer, they would, but he’s gotta get it all out.
Black Sheep Baez: This isn’t a litmus test. This is a gyat’damn battle cry. I’ve run through the flames. I’ve calibrated my sight. Lemme get them cross hairs right.
He says as he closes an eye, raises his hand up to look like a gun, and points his finger toward Vito Valentino. The pupil of his open eye moves in and out with the light as he designates the imaginary scope onto Vito’s forehead.
Then he drops the gun and stares at the meathead with both eyes.
Black Sheep Baez: Ay yo, Vito, what say you and I show our peoples what it is we do, yea? See, ya boi here is the PREMIER Premier Champion; and proud of it, too. And you? Well, you’ve been kind enough to hold onto that prize for me, keep it warm, and feed it that gabagool. Brass tacks, fam, I want my belt back, V, and I’m sure you understand the lengths I’ll go to get what’s mines. It’s that New York state of mind, Pimpin’. On God. You know how this go, OG, ‘cause we two New Yorkians. You know. The types that greet a Preacher with a grin and a gun. Feels me?
They want to, but there’s something about the smirk on Baez’s face that keeps the fans on a lower volume than normal. Their bodies creep forward as if being magnetically pulled toward him. It’s as if the universe wants everyone to know that they’re about to get slapped in the face with a heavenly bonus.
And so Baez announces, adjusting his posture to look a tad more sophisticated, mainly for the sake of delivery, clearing his throat with the look a firework would give you if you could see its face before it explodes…
Black Sheep Baez: Ya boi just signed a contract that states he in this for the long run.
Jason Johnson: What!?
The fans respond in a similar fashion, with excitement, and intrigue, but also questioning how everything has led to this point, right here, tonight.
Black Sheep Baez: A contract that states he finna get a couple shots at the Premier championship.
Eryk Masters: Oh, it’s getting good now, Johnson.
The temperature of the room is increasing like mercury rising to potentially explode the bulbed end of the thermometer.
Black Sheep Baez: And, can ya boi add a lil cherry on the top of this?
Jason Johnson: Please do. Please do.
Black Sheep Baez: The first shot?
You may have heard the pin drop, but it was overtaken by this bombshell. Baez slithers toward the closest camera, and with a devious grin:
Black Sheep Baez:…is right fuckin’ now.
Operation Send the Crowd into a God Damned Frenzy has commenced. Women over the age of 50 have collapsed. Some kids are crying. Men are calling their wives to rename their first born “Al”. Baez’s music video starts to play (“Cisco Kid” by Method Man). He rips off his shirt, throws it into the crowd, and then leaves smoke behind as he bursts toward the ring and shows off his extreme quickness.
Eryk Masters: What! This is happening right now?
Jason Johnson: This is the Zenith Era, Eryk! Haha! This is great! I’m loving every bit of this!
Eryk Masters: Vito Valentino, on the other hand, can’t believe it. Sure, this is the New York era and it’s pretty neat that Black Sheep Baez is back, let’s put the two NY GOATS against each other, but to get a shot after Vito just defeated Izzy Sia? I mean, does this guy really deserve it? Valentino is getting kinda screwed here.
Jason Johnson: That’s kind of a good point, Eryk, but there’s obviously a clause we’re missing on the air. Either way, who cares? This is fire!
IN THE RING
IT AIN'T THAT EASY
Jason Johnson: Oh my GOD! Eryk, that’s not good for Black Sheep Baez. His back has always been an issue, and that’s what Valentino is about to exploit.
Eryk Masters: You know what? I wasn’t going to make the joke –
Jason Johnson: Then don’t, Eryk. The human body does weird shit. Some people just have bad luck, OK? Mind your business and call a damn good fight. Let’s hope that NOBODY gets that hurt.
Eryk Masters: Bu –
Jason Johnson: You do know who I am related to, right?
The referee doesn’t start a count, but instead pauses the match once they see that a medical official is en route. Baez took a nasty fall to the outside and most of the impact was on his upper back. Historically Baez should be crippled but a handful of back surgeries have kept him standing. Somehow he’s capable of falling ten feet down onto a hard surface and only losing his breath? He’s a medical marvel.
The medical official and the referee tend to the fallen superstar. Baez slithers toward the barricade and uses the structure to pull himself up. The referee and doctor are there to assist and they can see that Black Sheep took a pretty impacted bump. Baez’s eyes are bloodshot, he’s breathing like he smokes three packs’a day, and he keeps giving them the cringe face every time he goes to take a step. It’s called pain, and it’s simply part of what we do here. Valentino yells for Baez to get back into the ring, and even mumbles something passive aggressive in regard to the Mets.
Jason Johnson: You know a classic rivalry when you see one, especially when they start going after their favorite baseball teams.
You don’t say silly things about the Mets, especially if you’re a Yankee fan, and not expect to get that look. Yea, that look. The one that Baez is currently giving Vito. The look that decompresses the soul. Nothing else needs to be said, and Baez dives toward the ring apron, but he’s only halfway under the ropes before he’s pulled back outside the ring!
Eryk Masters: YES!! Izzy FUCKIN Sia!!
The New York crowd is a passionate bunch and their rally cry for Baez is interrupted.
Jason Johnson: Izzy Sia pulled Baez out of the ring! Instead it’s Izzy Sia that dives under the ropes!
Valentino steps forward and drives his boot toward Sia, but Izzy pushes off to the side while Vito’s sole crashes onto the mat. Sia sweeps around the big man and Vito peers over his shoulder to see her get set up. The SmashShow turns around and lunges toward her but the sole of her boot strikes underneath Valentino’s chin and the superkick nearly decapitates the Premier champion! Valentino takes two steps back, his chin points to the Heavens, emptiness in his eyes, and animated birds float around his sweaty bald dome. Nobody shouted TIMBER, but they should have, because Valentino came crashing down onto the mat like a felled redwood. His face slaps the canvas and spit flies all around. The referee signals for the bell!
Jason Johnson: You’ve got to be kidding me, Eryk, they’re going to award this match to Valentino via disqualification.
Eryk Masters: Well, yeah, that’s how these things work, Jason. You can’t have someone interfere in the match and try to decapitate your opponent and expect you to take advantage; and perhaps the win. There are rules to follow here.
Jason Johnson: You can see the absolute look of disgust and disappointment on the look of Baez’s face. He’s slapping his hands onto the apron, furious, but this can’t be the only time he’s getting a chance, right? He just returned. This isn’t the last we’ll see of these three. It can’t be.
Eryk Masters: The look says it all, Jason.
Baez sees Izzy, but she doesn’t see nor care about Sheep. What matters to Sia is the fact that she worked hard to stand where she is, tall above a motionless Valentino, but it came after her moment had ended. The moment that was immediately erased by Black Sheep Baez’s return. The moment that was forgotten in the midst of the Baez-Valentino battle for the strap. The moment that everyone threw to the side when “Cisco Kid” hit the speakers. Izzy Sia doesn’t see nor care about Black Sheep Baez. She almost doesn’t care about Vito Valentino anymore, either; nor is the feeling really aimed toward being a champion. She just wants everyone to see this moment, and take a good look at it. You can’t forget about Izzy Sia, and Vito Valentino will always remember what size shoe she wears.
Jason Johnson: Folks, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of these three, and with Baez’s return now spicing things up? This is going to get real good, and real fast. Welcome back, Black Sheep Baez. Another phenomenal addition to such a historical night.
Eryk Masters: We’re partying all night long, Johnson.
Vito Valentino takes one final look from his spot on the ring floor. There’s a part of Vito that’s excited the match is over, he’s still the Premier champion, but the other half of him isn’t happy it ended like this.
Izzy Sia stares right through him.
Baez throws his hands in the air and walks away. He got his moment, but he’s leaving without the gold. He’d love to charge into that ring and drive his knee into Sia’s face, but he’s in this for the long haul now, so there’s plenty of time to play plastic surgeon. This battle has just begun, and Baez knows that the stakes have increased. Nothing ever comes that easy.
IN THE RING
THE LAST DAMN ICON
The house lights go out, cascading the Pinnacle crowd in darkness. The Video Wall comes alive with text…
brink of time media presents
a platinum knights production
The Video Wall comes to life with a familiar countdown, sending the fans in attendance into a frenzy as a trio of thunderous drumrolls cue up…
Slayer. “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” Images of the Brown Derby, Sunset Boulevard, Pacific Park, and other landmarks of Hollywood phase into each other, the silhouette of a man walking toward the camera growing larger and larger until a blast of pyro from around the stage brings the song into full gear.
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby
A single spotlight focuses on the entrance curtain, the fans roaring as the one and only COREY LAZARUS steps through. Tailored Armani slacks, Gucci leather square-toed shoes, and an open black and gold waistcoat resting over a white tee bearing the SHOOT Project helmet across the chest.
Don’t you know that I want you?
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, honey
Samantha Coil: Ladies and gentlemen, making his way to the ring at this time, please welcome back…
Don’t you know that I’ll always be true?
Corey slides his silver-rimmed Ray Bans up over his head, holding back his shaggy brown hair, and there’s no amount of preparation or propriety can hide the beaming, genuine smile that explodes across his face as he hears the fans chant.
L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!!
Samantha Coil: …COREYYYYYY LAAAAZARUSSSS!!!
Laz checks the face of his platinum Rolex and taps it emphatically, looking back out to the crowd, speaking directly to the camera in front of him.
Oh, won’t you come with me?
And take my hand?
Corey Lazarus: Well, would you look at the time?
Oh, won’t you come with me?
And walk this land?
He drops his sunglasses back down over his eyes, rushing to the barricade and leaning into the mass of fans swarming him, holding an arm up and screaming along with the crowd.
PLEASE, TAKE MY HAND
Corey pumps his fist to the beat of the drums and hops off the barricade, walking down the ramp with an assured swagger. He takes his time walking around ringside, giving each fan that reaches toward him a fist bump or a high five, pausing to take a few selfies along the way.
Jason Johnson: I know he’s a returning legend and all, but his song’s looped around already. Can we hurry this up?
Corey slides into the ring and holds his hand out to Samantha, requesting the microphone. She hands it over as Corey calls for the music to be cut, pausing for a moment to lock eyes with Samantha again. He smirks and then holds open the ropes for her to exit. The house lights come back up as Lazarus strolls to the center of the ring, readying himself to speak…but the crowd cuts him off before he can start.
WELCOME BACK!! WELCOME BACK!!
Corey lowers the microphone and takes a breath, his voice shaking despite his attempt to not let it show.
Corey Lazarus: …thank you.
Pop. A few scattered “WELCOME BACK” chants continue, fighting off pockets of “L-A-Z” throughout the building. Lazarus leans forward and performs an exaggerated stage bow, basking in the adulation, before standing back up and clearing his throat.
Corey Lazarus: Let it never be said that the Big Apple has lost its touch.
Pop. The cheap kind, sure, but it’s still there.
Corey Lazarus: It is absolutely, utterly insane to think that the last time I was out here, in a SHOOT Project ring, was over a decade ago. It feels like just yesterday, I swear. There I was, standing next to the Lunatikk Crippler as some assholes thought they’d keep us down with some chains, and there all – most? Some? Yeah, some – of you were, cheering us on, and now here we are…well, here I am.
Because Crip? He never returned my calls. Not once. And those bastards that figured they’d use us as stepping stones to further their own careers? Their names are so lost to history that you need to arrange a trip to the company archives months in advance just to find out what they were.
But here I am.
And that’s been the story my entire career, all 25 years of it. There’s always someone looking to make their name at my expense, to carve out their place in this great sport using my blood to fill in the gaps, and one by one by one? They’re all just names, some random statistic that some old mark can rattle off at trivia night to score a free appetizer, and still, each and every single time, when the cards are called…
Corey slides his Ray Bans to the tip of his nose, leaning toward the nearest camera…
Corey Lazarus: Here. I. Am.
…and then slides them up over his head, taking a breath.
Corey Lazarus: There may be plenty of other legends coming back to this ring after all the boys and girls in the back have spent the last 5 years busting their asses and breaking their backs to remind the world just what sets this company apart from everyone else, and they very well may all deserve your respect for lacing up their boots and stepping between these ropes, but there is one simple fact that each and every single one of them, from A-B-C to X-Y-Z, knows deep down inside.
There is only one man that can be called the Last Damn Icon, and he’s the one holding this microphone right now.
Corey motions to continue but pauses, cut off by the crowd chanting his name.
L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!!
Corey Lazarus: I’ve stared down Masters and made them feel like peasants. I’ve toppled a Pantheon of would-be gods, I’ve brought order to Chaos, and I won’t think twice about doing any of it again, because no matter what people think of the words that come out of my mouth, about the methods that I’ve employed to get the goddamn job done, they all know, deep down inside, that they quiver at the very thought of their name being across from mine on the marquee. They know that win, lose, or draw, the hardest fight of their lives comes from yours truly, the Hollywood Kid, and that I’ve earned that reputation through 25 years of blood and iron, of making an impact each time I stepped in front of the camera and looking good doing it.
He rips his Ray Bans off and shows the world his trademark devilish grin, showing it off to each corner of the arena.
Corey Lazarus: I was told before walking through the curtain by some know-it-all production assistant, fresh out of USC, that there was some heat on me for calling out every name worth saying this past week, and to do my best to smooth things over. I’m no stranger to letting my mouth run wild, in case anyone hasn’t noticed…
He raises an eyebrow and shrugs.
Corey Lazarus: …but I refuse to bend the knee because some slack-jawed Sally is more worried about retweets, about someone’s “huwt widdle feefee’s”…
Corey makes the quotation marks in the air with his fingers, quickly turning it into a “jerking” motion before “throwing” it errantly over his shoulder.
Corey Lazarus: …than they are about actual results, so if you have a problem with anything I’ve been saying? If you want to come do something about it?
Here. I. Am.
This is where I belong. It’s where I’ve always belonged, no matter how often I’ve been told the contrary, no matter how often I may have ever thought otherwise, and I am just begging – BEGGING – for the next time someone gives me a reason to prove it; for somebody, anybody, in that locker room to call my bluff and say that I’ve lost a step.
Because the L-A-Z is here, babe, and there’s still enough gas left in this tank to cross that finish line and look good doing it. And that? Heh…
Corey runs his hand through his hair, calming himself down and smirking into the camera.
Corey Lazarus: That’s just life. Deal with it. Rock n’ roll, ladies and gentlemen.
He holds the microphone to the crowd, letting them finish it.
ROCK N’ FUCKING ROLL!!!
“In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” cues back up. Corey leans through the ropes and hands the microphone back to Samantha, giving her a quick hug after so long of not seeing one another.
Eryk Masters: Some strong words from the returning Corey Lazarus, to be sure.
Jason Johnson: And none of us can wait to see who takes him up on his offer! Do you want to put anything on it, Eryk?
Eryk Masters: Not with this locker room, Jason.
Backstage
SKATES UP, BROTHER
Cut to the backstage area where Mary Kelly stands in front of the camera with The Collins Twins, complete with their World Tag Team Championships over their shoulders. Michael and Rowland both look frustrated, not at Mary Kelly, but at the boos raining down on them from the fans in The Pinnacle. Mary puts the microphone to her mouth, but before she can speak, Michael takes it from her. She moves to say something, but Michael turns and faces the camera. The boos just get louder.
Michael Collins: Sorry, Mary, there’s not a lot of time for small talk right now. See, your World Tag Team Champions have a match coming up against a couple of Canadian pranksters that seem to have taken the world by the balls.
Rowland leans into the microphone.
Rowland Collins: Not us. We can see through the bullshit theatrics and quirky one-liners. These…these…GOONS have been getting too much respect around here, and for what?
Michael leans down.
Michael Collins: How long have they been in the SHOOT Project without winning these tag team championships?
Rowland Collins: Too long.
Michael Collins: And that time keeps tickin’, because tonight isn’t any different. We’re going to show The Punchline why having a dumb name and merch that gets the fans going isn’t everything you need to be champion in the SHOOT Project.
Rowland Collins: Tonight’s a huge night in New York City. It’s the first ever SHOOT Project Zenith, and the Collins Twins want their name in bold letters in the papers tomorrow. We’re going to make sure that happens.
Rowland smirks.
Rowland Collins: Let me put it this way, Goons. You’re going to hit the ice, skates to the sky. And you won’t be getting up until long after the third period. So tape up your sticks, wear your best gear, and get your best Roy Vezina pep talk.
Michael Collins: We don’t want any excuses for how this all goes down tonight.
Rowland Collins: The Collins Twins with their hands raised, and another reset for The Punchline. Now if you’ll excuse us, Mary.
Rowland nods at his brother, who then hands the microphone back to Mary Kelly. Both brothers then walk off camera stage right, and head toward the ring.
IN THE RING
THE LIST
The Pinnacle falls into complete darkness. The sea of wrestling fans fall silent, the only sound being the ambient hum of anticipation echoing through the massive venue.
A single, pristine white spotlight cuts through the blackness, illuminating the entrance ramp. From behind the curtain emerges a distinguished gentleman in an immaculate black tuxedo, complete with white bow tie, pocket square, and gleaming cufflinks. He carries himself with the bearing of a diplomat, moving with measured, ceremonial steps down the ramp.
The man reaches the ring, climbs the steel steps with dignity, and steps through the ropes. A ring announcer hands him a microphone and a small glass of water. He takes a moment to compose himself, adjusting his bow tie, smoothing his lapels, and taking a careful sip of water.
The silence is deafening.
Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen…
His voice carries the weight of authority, like he’s addressing the United Nations.
Announcer: Throughout history, the great nation of Canada has produced individuals of exceptional talent, character, and achievement. Legends who have shaped not just their homeland, but the entire world.
He pauses, letting the moment breathe.
Announcer: Wayne Gretzky. The Great One. Terry Fox. A hero who ran across a nation with one leg and touched millions of hearts. Celine Dion. A voice that conquered the globe. Alex Trebek. The beloved host who made knowledge entertaining for generations.
The crowd starts to murmur, unsure where this is going.
Announcer: Gordon Lightfoot. The poet laureate of Canadian music. Michael J. Fox. Who brought joy to millions while battling his greatest opponent with courage. Pamela Anderson. International icon. William Shatner. Captain Kirk himself.
A few boos start to bubble up from the audience.
Announcer: Neil Young. The godfather of grunge. Joni Mitchell. The voice of a generation. Leonard Cohen. The master of melancholy. Rush. The holy trinity of progressive rock.
The boos are getting louder, but he continues undaunted.
Announcer: John Candy. Who made the world laugh. Jim Carrey. The master of comedy and drama. Ryan Reynolds. The irreverent action star. Keanu Reeves. The internet’s beloved gentleman.
The crowd is getting restless now.
Announcer: Pierre Trudeau. A political icon. Tommy Douglas. The father of universal healthcare. Lester B. Pearson. Nobel Peace Prize winner. Frederick Banting. Who discovered insulin and saved millions of lives.
Boos are now raining down, but he raises his voice with pride.
Announcer: Roberta Bondar. The first Canadian woman in space. Chris Hadfield. Who made space exploration accessible to all. Margaret Atwood. Literary genius. Alice Munro. Nobel Prize winner.
He’s really hitting his stride now.
Announcer: Maurice Richard. The Rocket. Gordie Howe. Mr. Hockey. Mario Lemieux. The Magnificent One. Sidney Crosby. The Kid. Connor McDavid. The Next One.
He’s building to something now, his voice getting more passionate.
Announcer: Tim Hortons. A national institution. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Symbols of justice and honor. The Canadian Armed Forces. Protectors of peace and freedom.
Announcer: Shania Twain. Country music royalty. Bryan Adams. The voice of summer. Nickelback. Love them or hate them, they conquered the world. The Tragically Hip. The soundtrack of a nation.
The boos are thunderous now, but he’s not finished.
Announcer: Martin Short. Comedy gold. Eugene Levy. Eyebrow icon. Catherine O’Hara. Comedic genius. Rick Moranis. The everyman hero.
Announcer: And now… TONIGHT… in this very ring… you have the distinct privilege… nay, the HONOR… of witnessing the next names to be added to this illustrious list of Canadian excellence…
The crowd’s boos reach a fever pitch.
Announcer: The future SHOOT Project World Tag Team Champions… The embodiment of Northern superiority… The living, breathing representation of everything that makes Canada the greatest nation on Earth…
He throws his arms wide, his voice reaching a crescendo.
Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen… THE PRIDE OF THE NORTH… THE PUNCH LINE!
BWAAAAAAAAAAAM!
The goal horn EXPLODES through The Pinnacle like a sonic boom. The arena lighting system erupts in a spectacular display of red and white spotlights that zigzag across the massive venue like laser-guided hockey pucks, creating patterns that look like they’re skating across the crowd.
“RAISE A LITTLE HELL” by Trooper blasts at ear-splitting volume as pyrotechnics explode in red and white bursts that would make Canada Day jealous.
Through the smoke and lights emerge THE PUNCH LINE.
Roy Vezina leads the charge, but tonight he’s taken his fashion game to championship levels. He’s wearing a custom-made red tuxedo with white trim, complete with tails, white bow tie, and a red maple leaf boutonniere. In his hands, he carries a massive Canadian flag that he waves like he’s leading a parade.
Behind him, Harv Norris and Rick Hull sport matching custom Punch Line hockey jerseys – red with white trim, “PUNCH LINE” across the chest, with their names and numbers on the back (Harv #99, Rick #1). Harv has a second Canadian flag tucked into his belt and is carrying a hockey stick like a battle axe, while Rick carries his hockey stick like a club, his expression promising violence.
The trio reaches the end of the ramp and stops, taking in the wall of boos crashing down on them like an avalanche.
Roy raises his flag high above his head and begins waving it in slow, dramatic arcs. Harv starts doing hockey stick tricks, spinning it like a baton. Rick simply stands there, menacing and silent, occasionally banging his stick on the ramp for intimidation.
They begin their march to the ring, Roy strutting like he’s already won the championship, Harv high-fiving invisible fans while grinning maniacally, and Rick walking with the slow, deliberate pace of an approaching storm.
As they reach ringside, Roy climbs the steel steps with ceremonial precision, while Harv slides under the bottom rope and Rick steps through ropes.
Once in the ring, they move to the center and face the crowd. Roy places his hand over his heart, Harv raises both his flag and hockey stick, and Rick crosses his arms, stick held vertically like a staff of office.
In perfect unison, they throw their arms up in their signature pose and bellow:
ALL THREE: GORDIEEEEEE!
Red and white pyro explodes behind them as more spotlights dance across the arena. The announcer, still in the ring, raises his arms and shouts over the music:
Announcer: Your FUTURE World Tag Team Champions… THE PUNCH LINE!
TAG TEAM MATCH
WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIPS
RICK HULL
HARV NORRIS
VS.
MICHAEL COLLINS (c)
ROWLAND COLLINS (c)
Backstage
WHERE IS SHE
The Pinnacle. The ultimate arena in entertainment. SHOOT Project’s new home, complete with shiny floors and new home smell. Or, was that pizza? Everyone enjoys pizza in their new place. Chad Kyle entertains Johnny Patriot at the pizza table, offering the much larger man a Monster Energy Drink™. As the camera pans around the hallway, Dan Stein stands with a phone to his ear and a hand pulling his suit jacket back so he can put it on his hip. For the first time in years, Dan doesn’t have a cane. The camera zooms in on COO Stein.
Dan Stein: Everything’s going well. There’s a couple big surprises left in the show, I’m sure, and things are clicking. How are you doing? How are the kids?
Dan looks around the hallway, waving over at Chad and Patriot before talking again.
Dan Stein: Give her a kiss goodnight for me.
Just then, Dan’s eyes catch someone.
Dan Stein (to Molly on the phone): Hey, I have to run. I’ll see you when I get home tomorrow. I love you.
Dan waits for her to say it back and then ends his call. As he walks forward, the camera reveals who he saw.
Dan Stein: I was wondering when you’d get here, Muerte.
For years, Ultimo Muerte was presented as a much larger, more physically imposing wrestler. This person, however, was a smaller luchador, under six foot and under a buck-eighty. This person was the one that greeted Dan Stein in the Epicenter in Las Vegas just before the move. This person…was not our typical Ultimo Muerte. This man does stand with his arms folded across his chest like Ultimo Muerte I, however, and waits for Dan to speak.
Dan Stein: I still have your contract on my desk, ready for you to sign. Just wanting to ask you a few questions first. You know, standard “where the fuck is my cousin’s wife” type questions.
Ultimo Muerte II doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Barely breathes.
Dan Stein: Y’know, the other guy was much better at being scary just standing there.
Again, nothing. Dan sighs.
Dan Stein: It’s been three months now, just tell me where she is.
Absolutely stonewalled. Dan looks at Ultimo Muerte II and shakes his head. Dan looks at the ground, then back into the eyes behind the mask.
Dan Stein: Fine. I can’t make you tell me where she is. But when you sign that contract to become an official SHOOT Project soldier again, I can make your life a living Hell until you do.
Ultimo Muerte II nods, slowly. Dan bobs his head.
Dan Stein: Alright then. I’ll see you up there.
Ultimo Muerte II doesn’t say anything as he walks past the COO. Dan turns and watches him leave, putting his hands on his hips. Chad Kyle starts to walk toward Dan, but Dan exaggerates a smile at him, and taps on his watch, turning and heading toward production, leaving Chad with his head down and a Monster in his hand.
MAIN EVENT
WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP
JOSHUA BREEDLOVE
VS.
LAURA SETON (c)
POST MATCH
CELEBRATION AND AN INVITATION
As the bell sounds its final sound, Joshua Breedlove gets to his feet and is handed SHOOT Project’s World Heavyweight Championship. He’s got tears in his eyes, legit ones. He drops to his knees, just staring at it. Holding it. He’s joined in the ring by members of the Empire, who all mostly had a rough night. Mike de los Huesos is there, the Collins Twins, Yarbury, Hanzo, all out to congratulate him.
Laura Seton has gotten back to her feet and is leaning against the top turnbuckle on the opposite side of the ring. He turns and looks directly at her, making eye contact while being handed a microphone.
Joshua Breedlove: You’re amazing. Absolutely incredible. A true hall of famer in every sense of the word. Beating you… I almost can’t believe it.
The crowd cheers at Breedlove’s acknowledgement, allowing him a quick smirk.
Joshua Breedlove: But I told you this is what was going to happen. I was going to get here eventually. I was going to take this championship and end this reign. The fact that it’s the longest World championship reign in SHOOT Project history? That just makes it sweeter, but it’s time now. SHOOT’s moved into a new era, this championship?
He pauses, never unlocking his eyes from her.
Joshua Breedlove: Also time for a new era, and what about you, Laura? What’ll be next for you? You’ve been burning it at both ends for what seems like decades now. Are you done? Do you want more? If you do, I’m going to ask you right here, and right now to join us.
The crowd gasps in shock and the other members of the Empire look a little stunned as well. Breedlove still hasn’t taken his eyes off of Laura Seton, who is also visibly surprised.
Joshua Breedlove: Come to the Empire. Extend your career. Reunite with your sister and take a proverbial load off. You’ve been hustling and grinding for years, you’ve earned a break. A break from all of the expectations of being Laura Seton. A break from all of the expectations of being THE hero of professional wrestling.
He smiles.
Joshua Breedlove: Cut those chains. Free yourself from those expectations. After all… you deserve it.
The crowd is stunned, Breedlove is still smiling. He finally breaks his gaze with her and turns to look back out to the capacity audience and he holds his championship up high in the air. The crowd responds with a mix of cheers, boos, and shock.
Eryk Masters: That’s gonna be all the time we have tonight, folks! Thank you SO much for-
Jason Johnson: Wait, we’re not going to talk about that?! Breedlove just invited Laura Seton… his GREATEST RIVAL into the fold at the Empire?!
Eryk Masters: I’m as shocked as you are, but we’ve gotta go!
Jason Johnson: I want answers, Eryk. I want them now.
Eryk Masters: Unfortunately, you’re probably going to have to wait until Zenth 002! LIVE FROM THE SHOOT PROJECT’S PINNACLE in NEW YORK CITY!! Thank you, New York! Goodnight!
