EP: 005
DATE: 10.20.2025
ARENA: THE PINNACLE
We cut backstage, where we find Dan Stein playing tour guide to SHOOT Project’s latest talent acquisition, Aaron Dearinger and his family. Dan appears to be in a bit of a hurry, looking at his watch, running his hand through his hair, etc. He walks with his business suit on, sans the jacket.
Aaron stands with his arms crossed, a plastic spit cup held haphazardly in one hand, the side of his mouth stuffed with a gob of chew. He’s leathery tan and blonde, though there isn’t much left of his golden locks but a few sparse hairs on the top, and he has your prototypical biker mustache. He isn’t saying much because his baby blue eyes say it all for him; this is strictly business. He wears a cut off black tee with Dale Earnhardt Jr. blazened across the front of it and a pair of broken-in cowboy boots.
His wife Laney wears a smart white button up dress shirt and a pair of tight blue jeans accentuating her curves. She has curly brown hair and bright pink lipstick, and if she’s uncomfortable, she’s trying to diffuse the feeling with make believe positivity.
Laney: The facilities are world-class, Mr. Stein. We truly appreciate you giving us a tour of the Pinnacle. Isn’t that right, girls? Say thank you.
The Dearinger’s two daughters couldn’t be more opposite of each other. The older girl, Gracie, is about seventeen and has dyed black hair and painted fingernails. She looks like she could be in the Addams Family and is clearly less than thrilled to be there. Wimerbley, the young pre-teen, is pigging out on some cotton candy.
Wimberley: Thank you Mr. Stein!
Dan Stein: Hey, anything for our next great talent and their wonderful kids, right?
Laney suddenly looks a bit taken aback here. She blinks, trying to process the comment.
Laney: Next great talent. Huh. Is that what talent enhancement means? That’s what it says on the contract Aaron signed.
Aaron’s shoots daggers at his wife with those blue eyes of his before she can get going.
Aaron: That’s enough Laney.
He spits in his cup, then reaches for a handshake.
Aaron: Thanks again, Mr. Stein. You ain’t gonna be disappointed.
This beautiful moment for Aaron and family is about to be set on fire.
A low whistle followed by that cat growl thing cuts through the air before Mr. Stein can respond,
King Homewrecker: Damn, baby - you’re going to get a ticket for parking that dump truck back here.
Tiny mesh shirt, giant fucking crown. King Homewrecker completely ignores Aaron and does a little walk around Laney. He was definitely fluffing it a bit before walking up.
King Homewrecker: How’s about you ditch the nerd and Jed Clampett and come back to King Homewrecker’s room? We can see what your hollers smell like.
Homewrecker sniffs the air in a way that makes everyone uncomfortable. Aaron IMMEDIATELY starts forward, his spit cup clattering on the cement ground, but Laney springs in front of him.
Laney: Aaron, NO.
Both teenagers behind the couple suddenly stand to attention, alarmed and awake. Dan steps in between the two men, careful not to touch either of them.
Dan Stein: Jesus Christ, Homewrecker, knock that shit off. I don’t have all night to be breaking up a backstage fracas. Calm yourself.
King Homewrecker: Oh, King Homewrecker is calm. I’ll be seeing you, lady.
KHW blows a kiss to Laney before brushing some dust off his tiny mesh shirt at Aaron.
King Homewrecker: Good luck, Hillybilly. King Homewrecker hopes you sign up for the additional life insurance. Will make sure your Queen and King Homewrecker have enough coke money after you wind up a paraplegic.
Another wam-bam-thank you ma’am for King Homewrecker as he exits stage right, doing what he does best: leaving an awful taste in the mouth. Aaron stares after him intensely, and it takes Laney tugging on his arm to finally dislodge him from his spot. The scene fades.
Just as we come back from commercial break, we see Eryk Masters and Jason Johnson.
Eryk Masters: Welcom b–
Before Eryk can get anything out, static interrupts the current feed of Zenith and we are privy to a previously recorded video.
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
Playing it back in his mind like a classic film from a modern streaming device, The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ, Arthur Pleasant, surveyed the scene strictly from memory. A grin as wide as the day was long creased his scarred and war-torn face as the events from DAYBREAK unfolded. Every intricate detail had gone down precisely as he had envisioned, and in some instances, surpassed even his own impossible expectations.
The introduction of The Nameless Monster, a creature of immense and terrifying proportions, had an immediate and dramatic effect upon the audience. There was a collective gasp and a distinct sound of jaws thudding to the arena floor as he (or perhaps it?) emerged from the curtains with sheer size and an otherworldly, beastly appearance.
However, if that wasn’t enough of a reason to inspire awe and dread, the unexpected detail of the overhead goggles and breathing respirator completed the job of sparking terror. Was this a real-life manifestation of a comic book monster like Bane, or something even more enigmatic? Time, as the Deacon would have it, would only tell.
Sammy Rochester was a towering figure in his own right at 7’2”, built like a mountain at 515lbs, yet with an inexplicable innocence about him. A child trapped within a hulking frame, stood with a tightened mask that looked suspiciously like it had been previously someone’s face. Initially, he appeared disoriented, almost lost amidst the swirling chaos, despite their meticulous planning. A flicker of fear seemed to cross his face, hidden though it was beneath the unnerving flesh-like mask: a momentary hesitation as if he were grappling with the unfolding spectacle. Or, perhaps, stuck in the purgatory of his own mind in being amongst other monsters.
And then there was Lou. The Deathmatch Debutante. A living, breathing embodiment of DEPRAVITY. The passage of time since Pleasant had whispered those five words in her ear within the hallowed corridors of the Epicenter had done nothing to diminish her unwavering loyalty. It blazed forth from the encroaching darkness, a brilliant and unyielding beacon of light.
The DeMONSTRance, after months of strategic planning, was finally revealed.
So, the inevitable gathering ensued.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ and DEPRAVITY sat up front in an emptied meeting hall while their congregates Sammy Rochester, Deacon, The Nameless Monster, and two figures cloaked in crimson hooded robes, all looked up at Arthur and Lou. The unidentified persons paid no mind to the others sitting near them, shielding their identity in the front row from the rest of this hellish gathering.
It was a scene straight out of a horror film: two towering figures, a cult leader with his frothing, freakish pet, and another enigmatic individual, all shrouded in an air of unsettling mystery to the untrained eye.
Arthur’s gaze swept over the assembled figures, a subtle shift in his posture announcing his intention. With deliberate steps, he approached an old and worn wooden podium, its surface scarred with the history of countless speeches and declarations. The aged wood groaned faintly beneath his touch as he placed his hands upon it and hunched over ever-so slightly to accommodate his height and the seemingly lowered microphone.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: My beloved congregation, I want to begin tonight’s meeting by simply thanking you all for coming today.
He paused, allowing his welcoming demeanor to fill the space.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: I understand this may have been an inconvenience for many of you, but it was essential. I needed to see us all together, in the same room, to truly see what lies behind your eyes. To understand how you all feel about what transpired at the Daybreak. Because what happened at Daybreak? That was but a flicker of what’s to come for THE LIE that is SHOOT Project.
Arthur considered everything The Deacon had said, nodding his head.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: My friend, that's a fair point, and I agree with you\!
Pleasant's eyes scanned the room, seeking other opinions
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: Does anyone else have anything to add? This is an open forum, my fellow congregants. Please, feel free to stand and share your thoughts. This… unlike an event hosted by THE LIE,, is a safe place.
One of the hooded figures rises slowly, crimson robe shifting as they stand. The voice that emerges is male, deliberate, slightly lower than natural—like someone pressing their vocal cords down to obscure familiarity.
Hooded Figure: The old pillars are cracking. We have seen it firsthand. The ones who built their empires on lies and nostalgia? They are starting to understand that the ground beneath them was never solid. It was always ash. We have been... lighting matches in the remaining areas that they sought sanctuary.
A pause. The figure's head tilts slightly, as if considering the room.
Hooded Figure: What you did, what all of you did, at Daybreak? That was a testament of trust in concept. The past thought it could hold the future accountable, but the future does not apologize. It devours. So we are here because of what you are building—what the DeMONSTRance represents—that is what we have been searching for. A place where chaos is not punished. Where breaking things is not measured as weakness. Where we do not have to pretend the old gods deserve our mercy.
A beat.
Hooded Figure: We shall bring fire and we shall bring fury. And we are just getting started. So if you will have us? Then we are yours. Harbingers of your holy message. There is a commonality in our design, and thus, we shall be your priests, we shall be your prophets. The long arms of justice to your cause.
Arthur Pleasant listened intently, a slow smile spreading across his face as the Hooded Figure spoke. When the voice finished, a palpable silence hung in the air, broken only by the faint creak of the old church. Arthur pushed away from the podium, his steps deliberate as he approached the figure. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now gleamed with an almost reverent light.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: My friend… my prophet. Your words… they are a symphony to my ears. You have articulated the very essence of what we are building, and THE TRUTH burns in the skies with our names written in fire. Chaos is not just accepted here; it is the very foundation of our rebirth. To hear you speak… it’s as if you’ve peered into my very soul and given voice to its deepest desires.
He extended a hand, palm open, a gesture of profound acceptance.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: You are not merely welcome here. You are essential. You are the fire. You are the fury. You are the harbinger, and indeed, you shall be our priest. Our prophet. Together, we shall not just light matches, but set the world ablaze. Welcome home.
Everyone in attendance claps out of respect for The Hooded Figure’s words.
Pleasant paused for a moment at the podium and rubbed his chin.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: And speaking of fire and fury? Let us not forget the very embodiment of DEPRAVITY herself. Lou. Many of you saw her at Daybreak, a force of nature, the living, breathing embodiment of not only unwavering belief, but of what it can achieve. Her very presence electrifies the air among us\! A current of conviction that hums with the promise of transformation. She is a living, breathing paradox – a vessel of chaos, yet guided by an unshakeable, almost sacred, loyalty.
They all nod in unison. Almost creepily so.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: Her dedication, her unwavering commitment to our cause, it is not merely admirable; it is a beacon that cuts through the deepest, most suffocating darkness. As we traverse the inner workings of THE LIE and the doubt and complacency it shrouds everyone in, Lou stands as a defiant flame. She BEAMS as the illuminating path forward with an intensity that cannot be ignored. She is not merely a congregant, a face in the crowd; she is the Deathmatch Debutante. She is FIERCE. She is UNYIELDING. She is the heart of the DeMONSTRance, and every beat of that heart echoes with the rhythm of revolution.
DEPRAVITY cloaks herself in Pleasant’s robes as she remains on her knees. She squeezes her ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ with a contentedness not seen before as Pleasant showered her with praise.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: My children, this is just the beginning. But already, I feel a sense of accomplishment from our emergence at Daybreak. Tonight, we patrol the halls of The Pinnacle as Zenith meanders on with its pretenders, courtesy of THE LIE. Tonight… we continue to shake the foundations with our presence. Now, unless any of you have anything to add to this meeting… I think it’s time we head back down to The Pinnacle.
Everyone seems to be in agreement as Arthur Pleasant grins from ear to ear at what he has assembled.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: Well, then. For now? That is all, friends. Lou? Sammy? You will ride with me to the show. As for the rest of you? I will see you tonight.
The previously recorded feed goes to static.
Eryk Masters: What in the hell was all of that?\!
Jason Johnson: These people… this group… I just don’t know. There’s been a lot of attempted coups and revolutions throughout SHOOT Project history. But this… Demonstrance or whatever the hell they’re calling themselves?
Eryk Masters: Feels different, right?
Jason Johnson: Precisely. We all saw what they did at Daybreak. It sent a chill down my spine. And after watching THAT creepfest?\! It just sent several more.
Eryk Masters: I don’t like it, Jason. Not one bit.
Jason Johnson: Let’s go to our next match, yeah? I need something slightly less demonic and disturbing to watch.
Singles Competition
Gabriel Tuck
Ultimo Muerte II
Abigail Chase stands with microphone in hand, positioned with Harv Norris and Rick Hull. Both men are still showing signs of their brutal encounters. Harv has residual bruising around his ribs, Rick’s knuckles are still taped, but both wear their World Tag Team Championship belts with pride. Roy Vezina is noticeably absent once again.
Abigail Chase: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here with the SHOOT Project World Tag Team Champions, The Punch Line. Tonight you face The Last Vanguard in the main event. After your victory against the Collins Brothers at Daybreak, how are you feeling going into—
Off camera, some voices can be heard heckling the interview.
Michael Collins: Boo, you suck, Punchies.
Rowland Collins: Go back to Ottawa! Yer curlin’ team sucks!
The Punch Line turns their attention to the commotion. The Twins wear their Empire t-shirts, blue jeans, and work boots. They’re definitely not prepared for a fight tonight. Michael throws a handful of popcorn in Hull’s face as he walks on camera.
Harv immediately grabs Rick’s arm as the striker’s eyes flash with murderous intent.
Harv Norris: Easy, Rocket! Easy! Them cowardly bastards aren’t worth gettin’ disqualified over!
Michael laughs, throwing more popcorn haphazardly at their faces, then wiping his hand on Abigail’s shirt with a smug grin.
Michael Collins: Yeh, boyo! Listen t’ yer lad.
Rowland Collins: Would be a shame if ye got into a little spat before yer World Tag Team Title Match tonight, aye?
Michael smiles at the two of them with popcorn stuck in his teeth. Rowland smirks.
Rowland Collins: A-course, watchin ye lads lose tonight would be pretty cat’artic.
Hull and Norris step forward, and Michael shoves Hull, causing Norris to shove Rowland, and Abigail to back away from the scene. Words fly back and forth, an international cacophony of assorted curses, until a fifth voice cuts through the fracas.
Corey Lazarus: Whoa, whoa, whoa, WHOOOOOAA, boys!
The ruckus comes to a pause with the introduction of Corey Lazarus and Dustin “Thunderwolf” Kelser to the interview. Abigail's attention is turned to tonight's challengers, the Last Vanguard, as Dustin adjusts one of his gloves. Both men are almost completely suited up for the night's main event, sporting their gear save for a few small touches (Dustin his gloves, Corey his elbow pad). Lazarus adjusts the silver-rimmed Ray Bans covering his eyes, pulling them down to take a good peak at both the current champions and the Collins Twins.
Corey Lazarus: It seems like the hostility just needs to come down a few notches, dig?
Thunderwolf: Let’s not blow a rotator cuff on emotions, felluhs. You’re at a 10; the venue only paid for a 6.
Corerey Lazarus: Right?! I mean, hey, look at us! We're here, taking a bit of a stroll between warm-up drills, just chatting about some last-minute ideas.
Rowland Collins: Aye? What might that be?
Thunderwolf: Openers, closers, and which corner becomes a crime scene - first man in, last man standing, and whose face meets which knee. The basics.
Corey Lazarus: Merchandise rights, raising brand awareness, entrance music…that last one has been a hell of a hang up.
Thunderwolf: Are you just mad that I can't understand a word in that song you wanted to use? It's just growls and snarls and somebody jerking off on their guitar. We need more stomp-stomp-clap, less woodchipper karaoke. Give me a dirty riff, four-on-the-floor, and a clean spot for the crowd to howl. Hook over heaviness. Chant over chaos. Something the fifth row can yell after two beers and still be on beat—“LAST! VAN! GUARD!” If the track sounds like a blender wrestling gravel, save it for leg day. We’re walking out to something that says “champions,” not “my amp is a war crime.”
Corey Lazarus: A hell of a lot better than some rail-thin pincushion crying into a microphone.
Thunderwolf: That’s low, even for you. Let's just go with the song that Gregory found.
Corey Lazarus: Fine by me. I can deal…what were we talking about, again?
Dustin looks directly at Rick Hull, sizing him up.
Thunderwolf: …1996, by the looks of it.
Rick looks himself up and down, hoisting his Tag Team title over his shoulder.
Rick Hull: Watch it. You seem to be forgetting who the champs are.
Harv Norris: And how we earned ‘em, b’y! We just beat them Collins Brothers for the belts! We been through absolute hell and back defendin’ these titles! And now you’re gonna walk up here and start chirpin’ at us like we’re some second-rate team?
Corey turns to face Rowland, looking him up and down with disgust on his face. At his hair, at the smug look on his face, at the Empire logo on his shirt. Corey's eyes never leave Rowland's, the sentiment returned in kind, as he raises a hand, pointing to Michael first, then sticking that same finger into Rowland's chest.
Corey Lazarus: Yeah, hey, soooooo this conversation doesn’t, like, involve either of you two, so why don’t you am-scray, dig? The adults are talking.
Rowland and Michael start to protest, but Rick Hull steps forward, pushing Rowland back with a casual shoulder check. His intensity is enough to make them think twice about continuing, drawing the complete attention of everyone in the general vicinity.
Harv Norris: (turning back to Vanguard) Ye know what? I’m sick of this nonsense! We’re the champions! We proven it enough! We won’t tolerate this disrespect no more, b’y!
Rick Hull nods in agreement as Harv steps in front of Thunderwolf, himself inches away from tonight's challenger.
Rick Hull: Right now.
Harv Norris: We don’t wanna wait for no main event! We’ll take ye on RIGHT NOW if that’s what it takes to shut everyone up!
Corey Lazarus smiles, that trademark devilish grin spreading across his face.
Corey Lazarus: Beautiful, it's a date!
He adjusts his Ray Bans.
Corey Lazarus: Unless you’re a pair of gawdy nish-bitches, otherwise? I’m glad we can just get this out of the way, sooo…
The Last Vanguard and The Punch Line stare each other down, the tension palpable.
Thunderwolf: Let’s make it official. Right now. For those championships.
Rick Hull and Harv Norris exchange a quick nod.
Harv Norris: Let’s go, b’y! We’ll show ye exactly why we’re the BEST tag team in this company!
Corey then turns his attention to the Collins Twins.
Corey Lazarus: And you two?
He rips his Ray Bans off and glares at Rowland with unblinking eyes, staring him down over Rick Hull's shoulder with that trademark devilish grin still across his face.
Corey Lazarus: After we win tonight and take those titles from these two? I guess we’ll put those belts - our belts - on the line against you two. Anytime. Anywhere.
Rowland Collins: Ye mean t’at, lad?
Corey steps around Hull, his intensity unmistakable.
Corey Lazarus: Anytime. Anywhere.
Rowland smirks. He turns his attention to Thunderwolf.
Rowland Collins: Won’t be t’e last loss t’e Empire ‘ands ye, Lad.
Thunderwolf: We'll see you in a few minutes…
Dustin turns from Rowland and back to Rick Hull.
Thunderwolf: …b'ys.
The Last Vanguard starts to leave as Rick and Harv prepare to head to the ring for their impromptu championship match.
Harv Norris: (calling after them) Ye better be ready, Vanguard! Cause The Punch Line don’t back down from nobody! We been through hell to wear these belts, and we ain’t givin’ ’em up without a FIGHT!
Rick Hull: They’re ours.
Harv Norris: GORDIE!
As The Punch Line heads toward the ring, the camera cuts to Michael and Rowland Collins looking at each other.
Michael Collins: Are you t’inkin’ what I’m t’inkin’?
Rowland nods approvingly, knowingly, and pats his twin brother on the shoulder.
Rowland Collins: Aye, lad. Aye.
She was mostly changed and ready to go for her match. The gold-and-white top trimmed in blue with matching designed short-shorts, the difference being bare feet instead of laced-up boots. The boots would go on later.
Madison Seton was simply rockin’ to some tunes, but her pre-match, “get hype” ritual was interrupted. Nothing done on purpose, but rather happenstance. The SHOOT World Heavyweight Champion had just entered the private, luxurious locker room of The Empire. Madison has a small smirk seeing Joshua Breedlove enter and confidently makes her way towards him.
Madison Seton: Got a moment?
Breedlove looks at her, slightly quizzical eye.
Breedlove: For my favorite Seton?
He pauses.
Breedlove: I guess I can’t make that joke now. Bummer. Anyway, what’s up?
She grins as she leans against a nearby wall and crosses an ankle over the other.
Madison Seton: You still like me best.
Her expression loses a bit of confidence as she crosses her arms across her chest.
Madison Seton: So… I wanna ask you something. About Izzy’s Open Challenge stuff. What if someone in The Empire were to want to answer that? Asking for a friend.
Breedlove thinks on it for like, .5 seconds.
Breedlove: I’d tell them to go for it. We aren’t a charity, you know? Izzy knew what she was getting into when she, one, went for both belts and two, decided to go with open challenges.
He shrugs and then smiles.
Breedlove: So, tell your “friend” to go for it.
A wide grin begins forming, basically giving herself away before she fights it back. She speaks calmly.
Madison Seton: How wonderful. Because that friend is me.
Breedlove very sarcastically feigns surprise.
Breedlove: Whaaaaat. Oh my god. No way. Anyway, good luck and go get ‘em. I’m sure if she’s going to lose, she’d rather it be in house.
World Tag Team Championships
The Last Vanguard
Thunderwolf
Corey Lazarus
The Punch Line (c)
Rick Hull
Harv Norris
The Dance With the Dead remix of “We Will Rock You” cues back as the timekeeper grabs the SHOOT Project World Tag Team titles, looking to hand them over to the referee…but Corey Lazarus intercepts them, slinging one over his shoulder before he hands the other to Thunderwolf.
Jason Johnson: A little anxious, isn't he?
Dustin looks at the belt in his hand and then to his partner, his brother from another, as Corey celebrates wildly.
Samantha Coil: Your winners of the match, and NEWWWWWWW…
Lazarus takes a lap around the ring, swinging the belt around wildly, and then climbs to the middle turnbuckle in the corner.
Samantha Coil: …SHOOT Project WORLD Tag Team champions…
The Punch Line bail out of the ring, Harv Norris hanging his head as Ray Vezino checks on Rick Hull. Thunderwolf leans through the ropes, extending his hand to Harv, getting a quick and respectful shake in return.
Samantha Coil: …the LAST VANNNGUARRRRRD!!!
Lazarus hoists the belt up high over his head, slapping his chest three times before he holds up three fingers, mugging for the camera.
Corey Lazarus: Three! Count ‘em, three! Count ‘em, THREE-time, babe!
Corey nearly falls off the ropes from his celebration but Thunderwolf saves him, grabbing him by the back of the head.
Thunderwolf: …are you good?!
Corey smiles and nods, holding his Tag belt up.
Corey Lazarus: Yeah, babe. Cheers!
Dustin obliges, shaking his head and letting out a laugh. They tap the belts together as Kelser laughs, Corey dropping to his knees and strapping the belt around his waist.
Eryk Masters: The team of Dustin Kelser and Corey Lazarus, the Last Vanguard, making an immediate impact here in SHOOT Project with…oh, what is this?!?
The house lights turn awashed in crimson. A creeping noise reverberates through the Pinnacle, like electricity crawling under skin, followed soon by the pounding industrial bass of “After the Flesh” by My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult.
Thunderwolf freezes. Corey rises to his feet, his Tag belt secured.
Eryk Masters: Oh… oh no.
Jason Johnson: Wait—wait a second, that’s—
Eryk Masters: That music…
The red hue deepens until it’s almost black. Lazarus clenches his fists as he turns toward the curtain. Thunderwolf’s breathing quickens as he starts to pace, eyes scanning every corner of the arena like a soldier back in the trench.
Jason Johnson: Look at Kelser—he’s rattled. He knows what that song means.
Movement—just at the edge of the barricade. Thunderwolf’s head snaps to the side.
The crowd parts like a living tide.
Something—or someone—is stirring on the far side of the ring.
He leans over the ropes, scanning, heart hammering.
Then, without warning—
From the rafters.
Two black-clad figures descend on ripcords, silent as sins—Chance Kelser and Hannah Kelser, the fallen children of the wolf.
Eryk Masters: Oh my God—IT’S THE KELSER TWINS! THEY’RE—THEY’RE DROPPING IN FROM THE RAFTERS!
They land between Lazarus and Thunderwolf, feet hitting the mat in perfect sync.
Chance unclips his harness, pulling a baseball bat from his back.
Hannah lets hers drop—a bo staff, sleek and polished.
The lights begin to strobe red.
And then they move.
Hannah strikes first—whipping the staff into Lazarus’ midsection, spinning, and cracking him across the back. Corey folds, gasping, trying to roll away as she delivers a precise downward shot that sends him sprawling to the apron.
Chance turns his fury toward his father. The bat arcs wide—once, twice—Thunderwolf blocks with his forearm, a thunderclap of flesh and aluminum. The third strike hits ribs—CRACK—and Dustin drops to a knee.
Eryk Masters: THAT WAS HIS RIB! I HEARD IT POP!
Chance presses the bat to his father’s throat, pinning him back against the mat.
Their eyes meet—one blazing with fire, the other swimming with disbelief.
Thunderwolf: …Chance… don’t.
Chance: Do you not remember what you taught me, father?
He tightens the choke, the handle biting into Dustin’s windpipe until Misty’s scream cuts through the chaos from ringside. Through a gritted, primal smile, Chance whispers…
Chance: …never hesitate…
…and releases the choke on his progenitor, slamming the but of the baseball bat once more into his side for good measure as Hannah steps over Lazarus’ body, pulling off her long coat to reveal a FRONTLINE II TURBO t-shirt. She tears it from her body, revealing the corset beneath, and drops the shredded remains atop the fallen Hollywood Kid.
Eryk Masters: The Kelser Covenant are sending a MESSAGE tonight, and using the new Tag Team champions to do it!
In a similar fashion, Chance casually drops his own coat, revealing the EXIT MUSIC shirt beneath…the classic logo obscured with the same symbols adorning Chance's forehead streaked across it in vibrant red paint. He, too, rips the shirt from his body, discarding the scraps on the near-corpse of his father, his victim.
Jason Johnson: Security is finally making it down to the ring!
The swarm of guards charge the ring, but the Kelser Covenant give them the slip as the lights, once again, go out. Seconds pass in slow motion before the house lights return, revealing a ring devoid of the abyss-worshipping attackers, filled only with the beaten and battered Tag Team champions of the world.
And then…bagpipes. Guitar.
Eryk Masters: THAT’S…THAT’S DROPKICK MURPHYS.
Jason Johnson: You don’t think…
Eryk Master: I absolutely do think!
“The Boys are Back” by Dropkick Murphys blares over the PA system, causing the fans to erupt in a chorus of boos. Walking out from the back are the Collins Twins, each carrying pints of the black stuff. The boys wear exactly the same thing they wore earlier in the night - Empire t-shirts, jeans, and boots. Michael holds a microphone in his other hand. He takes a sip of his Guinness and then puts the microphone to his mouth, pointing down to the ring where Thunderwolf and Lazarus are struggling to get to their feet. His music dies out.
Michael Collins: Aye, lads. Congratulations on t’e victory tonight. Seems we’re not t’e only ones with whom ye have a debt to pay.
Lazarus pulls himself up by the ring ropes, and falls over it as he looks up at the Collins Twins. Lazarus goes to say something, but Michael cuts him off.
Michael Collins: Oh, boyo. Even if I could make out a word yer sayin me brother and I don’t give a flyin fook.
The crowd boos. Michael takes a moment to revel in the hatred. He smiles and puts the microphone back to his mouth.
Michael Collins: ‘Anytime, anywhere’ was it, Rolly?
Rowland Collins nods between sips of his Guinness.
Michael Collins: Perhaps ye shoulda chosen yer words more carefully.
Michael hands the microphone to Rowland Collins, whose grin is as wide as can be. Rowland takes another sip of his beer and licks the head off of his lips. Again, he grins at the ring.
Rowland Collins: Laz, ye just don’t know when to shut up, and I banked on t’at notion. See, I’m a smart fella - I did well in school, brought home great marks, graduated at t’e top o’ me class. But all t’at studyin’ I did never helped me when it came to playin’ ye like a fiddle, Lad, and t’at’s just what I did. So, we’ll be ‘avin’ our tag title match, right here on Zenit’ 5!
The crowd erupts in a mixture of boos and cheers. Rowland and Michael raise their glasses.
Rowland Collins: Just as soon as we finish our pints.
The camera finds us backstage, with SHOOT Project’s own Abigail Chase standing next to the former Deathmatch Debutante, now known as DEPRAVITY, and her attire shows a clear shift toward that mindset. A collar around her neck, her face painted, Lou stands next to Chase in a leather open-cup harness, black electrical tape X’s across her nipples, and a wild look in her eye.
Abigail Chase: I’m here with the newest member of the DeMONSTRance, coming off of a shocking betrayal at Daybreak.
DEPRAVITY just chuckles, rolling her eyes.
Abigail Chase: And I suppose the big question on everyone’s mind is “why?” Why turn on your best friend and partner for over 10 years?
DEPRAVITY: Why? Why is the wrong question, Abby. The real question, the only question that matters, is “why not?” Why shouldn’t I? Friendship? Love? I’d argue that those are all the more reason to do what I did. To take her out during this time of upheaval in SHOOT Project, so when she comes back, it’s to the Truth. In reality, Abigail, I saved her a great deal–
Before she can continue, a gray streak PLOWS into her abdomen, tackling her into the backdrop, knocking it over and showing the rest of the backstage area. Cormac Nelson stands over her, staring down at her with pure malice. DEPRAVITY just starts to laugh.
Cormac Nelson: What’s so fucking funny?
DEPRAVITY: I knew you’d never be able to resist.
As quickly as Cormac got onto the scene, so too does Sammy Rochester, grabbing Cormac by the head, and tossing him like a ragdoll to the floor! He rolls over, trying to get to his feet, and Sammy assists him with two hands on either side of his head! He pulls Cormac to his feet, only to throw him once again over a catering table, sending silverware flying! Cormac gets to his feet, pulling a fork out of his arm, and dives at Sammy, but Sammy knocks him away with a single swat! As Cormac gets to his feet, Sammy spears him into a vending machine, leaving a huge spiderweb crack in the glass! Cormac falls on his front, and Sammy puts a knee on his back, holding his face on the ground with one hand! Cormac struggles, but the massive Sammy Rochester is too much for him!
DEPRAVITY saunters over, sitting in front of Cormac’s face cross-legged.
DEPRAVITY: You know, Arthur wanted me to do to you what we did to Jane. Wanted to just wipe you out and be done with it. But I asked him to reconsider.
I said to him, “Just beating him up… he won’t get the message that way. He’s dense, like his dad. If you really want to break him, you need to show him how powerless he really is. Make him watch, and be able to do nothing. And then tell him to go home.”
He thought you’d actually take him up on that. But I knew better. I know you, Cormac, and you’re too honorable to just walk away. Even now, after this, I just know you’re gonna try and come back again and again. I’m counting on it, actually.
Because here’s what’s gonna happen, Cormac, and the best part is I can tell you all of this and you’re still gonna do it, because you’re stubborn and pigheaded. What’s gonna happen is you’re gonna come back, and keep throwing yourself at this wall, and try and try to get “justice” or “vengeance” or whatever against the DeMONSTRance… and it’s gonna look like you’re succeeding for a little while, chipping away at it. And just when it looks like you’re going to finally beat Goliath…
…that’s when we close the trap and show you how much time you just wasted. That all your efforts, all that struggle, all that bluster, was for nothing. Because it’s the time of the ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ now. It’s a shame you chose this path, Cormac. I was really hoping it wouldn’t turn out this way… but I guess I knew better.
She looks up at Sammy and nods, and the giant SMASHES Cormac’s head with a forearm, sandwiching it between his arm and the floor, and leaving Cormac unconscious! DEPRAVITY smiles, putting a hand on Sammy’s cheek, and Sammy picks her up on his shoulder as they walk away.
Tag Team Competition
The Sunflower Cartel
Wilder Meadow
Miles Driftwood
King Homewrecker & King Oso
Homewrecker
Oso
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ walks through the corridors in his white and black robes, with the monstrous Sammy Rochester at his side with a chain draped from his neck, hanging down to his mid-section. Once they round the corner, Arthur and Sammy stop suddenly, annoyance creeping over Arthur’s face and the suggestion of such as Sammy's knuckles crack just by making fists.
Holden Nobody, with the Resistance World Championship slung over his shoulder, stand in his way as the camera zooms out slightly.
Holden Nobody: Hey there Arty, fancy running into you here? Set any puppies on fire or anything lately?
Pleasant’s eyes tell the story of a man uninspired by another man’s insults.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: You think because you managed to get a couple bits of offense against me in the biggest match of your young career, it suddenly gives you carte blanche to speak to me? Let alone, speak to me like that?
Arthur chuckles. Sammy, though, doesn’t find Holden’s brazenness funny at all. He goes to move forward–which, for a moment, causes Holden to flinch given how insanely huge Sammy is–but Pleasant places a hand on Sammy’s abdomen, signaling for him to not beat the new SHOOT Soldier to a bloody pulp.
Our ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ’s eyes then meet the shiny new championship belt on Holden’s shoulder.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: It’s cute you’re a champion now, too. Does that make me number one contender to (squints hard like he can’t see the name) whatever indie bullshit title you now carry? Because, I must decline my child. It is of no interest to someone as good, and important to the future of SHOOT, as I am!
Holden looks unfazed by everything said to the DeMONSTRance leader.
Holden Nobody: Listen, that’s…that’s mighty fine and all, I know you’ve got a lot of unkind things to say about me, and I get it. I’d be upset too if some Nobody was able to kick out of my finisher, so I get why that’s frustrating.
Arthur looks livid for a moment, but he closes his eyes and smiles. Opening them wide again, he nods as if to say “good one”. Holden continues before The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ can clap back.
Holden Nobody: But I’m not here to ask for a rematch or anything of that nature. See, you beat me fair and square, but what your big…
Holden looks up at Sammy, eyeing him up and down.
Holden Nobody: Whatever we want to call this…well, he didn’t treat me very nicely.
Holden stands as tall as possible, still dwarfed by both men, but fully not backing down.
Holden Nobody: I want you next week, big boy. Zenith 006…
Holden nods at both men, looking as though he’s going to walk away, but he stops, rethinking things. He turns back to Arthur.
Holden Nobody: Oh, and, if you’d be so kind, I want it to be No Disqualification. I figured I’d ask you, cuz I don’t think Toddler-zilla here gets to make his own big boy decisions.
Sammy tries to move forward a second time, but again, Pleasant holds back the gargantuan.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: You’re either an idiot, or suffer from brain rot from the bars you took a pummeling in for the mere pennies you’ve won. Do you NOT see the specimen before you?
Arthur removes his hand this time, and Sammy slowly steps forward. With the way he’s breathing through the mask, you can tell he wants to brain Holden right where he stands.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: No, I get it though. You see, you’re not the only perceptive person here. You want to prove yourself a killer in the land of the giants. You see my congregation of dangerous people and, since your life is so utterly hopeless because of how hard you worked to get an opportunity to be a part of THE LIE, you know where you need to shoot your shot. But, challenging Sammy here? No, kid. That’s… that’s not the way you want to do it at ALL. Save your arrows and bullets for a fight you can win. Or, better yet, a fight you can survive.
Holden Nobody still does not back down from the threatening words of The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ. He takes a small step forward, getting even closer to the two giants.
Holden Nobody: I know you’re a dangerous man, Arthur, and I know that your associates are dangerous people. Dangerous, yes.
Holden smirks.
Holden Nobody: But you ain’t scary. Cancer is scary. Dying alone is scary. The vast emptiness of the universe is scary. You?
Holden shrugs.
Holden Nobody: You’re two big dudes in need of an ass whoopin’, that’s all. I’ll see you next week, big hoss.
Holden backs up, not giving Arthur and Sammy his back, patting his Resistance World Championship.
Pleasant laughs loudly as Holden continues to widen the distance between them.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: Sammy?
The colossus of a man looks at his leader. As usual, he does not speak, but utters a grunt.
The ĜÓḎṦĘꞤḊ: Show him. Show…him… why all the things that are scary to Holden Nobody…
…all cower in fear in the face of The DeMONSTRance.
Sammy grunts again, pounding his fist into his hand.
We transition elsewhere.
Skwee skwee, skwee skwee
The sound of a squeaky set of wheels echoes down the hallway, moving towards a singular target: Maxine Gillespie. She walks Peaknuckle on her leash, as it's so important to make sure her dog gets plenty of walks, even if he is an ungrateful, spoiled boy. Her eyes drift towards the source, and something between a smile and a sneer breaks out across her features.
Because here comes Pigpen.
But the frequent skwee skwee isn’t from him, it’s from his student, Chadwick Kyle, who looks positively fucked up–honestly, in ways that aren’t a match for his beating at the hands of the Unholy Cyber Army. The spinal halo and body brace make sense. The wheelchair makes sense. Even the boot on his left leg could be reasonable. But he’s also rocking a full Invisible Man/Mummy, wrapped in bandages from his wrists to the crown of his head, leaving just his eyes, mouth, and a tuft of red hair exposed on the crown. He’s also holding a crumpled sheet of yellow legal pad paper. As they arrive at the pair, Pigpen puts on the breaks and bows without a hint of sass or irony.
He then fires up a cigarette.
Maxine Gillespie: HA! Walking your dog as well, toots?
Pigpen: Chad Fuck Kyle not dog. Chad Fuck Kyle piss through tube.
Chad Kyle: Hey, I offered to help, it’s–AH, FUCK!!
At his outburst, Matsumoto casually reaches over and cranks one of the wingnuts on his halo, digging the screw in deeper.
Pigpen: Shh. Read letter. Make it good. Read like Frasier Doctor Cranes.
Maxine raises a coy eyebrow.
Chad Kyle: “Maxine. When you are not around”--dude, is this literally the lyrics to the Frasier theme song?
Pigpen: I am listening..to Frasier to learn better talking, my English is too fuckup. Go!
Chad Kyle: “Maxine. When you are not around I am tossing salads and scrambled eggs, because the blues are calling. I have to take care of a stupid fuck child person named Chadwick. It is a stupid name, but not as dumb as the stupid dog’s name.” You’re mean.
Pigpen: Yes.
Chad Kyle: “I am hoping for death. Maybe a piece of table break off and stab stupid dog in the throat. Maybe he get cutting on his skin and gets infected and dying slowly. Maybe he just piss and shit himself of fear so much that his inside parts fall out. And he dies.”
Maxine looks at Pigpen with severe sexual energy. Peaknuckle literally pisses on the floor.
Chad Kyle: “The stupid dog is bigger than me but is stupid and not good at fighting. I am King of All Death and he now in my world. I will do to him what Frasier Doctors Crane should have done to stupid Eddie when he was dragging his stupid dog asshole on leather couch. I do not have apartment in Seattle to throw your stupid fuck dog off of, but I have tables and stairs and chairs and lightbulbs and a fork. Maybe it take Pigpen all five matches, but I will murder your dog. I am mean and violent at wrestling. I will murder your dog.” Dude.
Pigpen nudges him, if by ‘nudges’ you mean socks him in the shoulder.
Chad Kyle: “Forever doesn’t end tonight”--I think he means forever’s gonna start tonight, though.
He holds the letter as aloft as he is able to in his current state.
Chad Kyle: Then there’s a bunch of X’s and O’s and I think his fingerprint in blood. Is that your fingerprint in blood?
Maxine snatches the letter from Chad, folds it up and sticks it in her bosom as she speaks.
Maxine Gillespie: Of course it is. My darling Pigpen does all of his work in blood.
She reaches out, caresses Pigpen's cheek before she withdraws her hand, as if not everything she did was calculated, as if she didn't realize she was doing so.
Maxine Gillespie: But you're one down, Pigpen. Two more strikes, and you're out. Isn't that right? I know Japanese people love baseball so I assume you understand the analogy. I don't want you to swing and miss, darling.
She lowers her head, almost-whispers, looking Pigpen in the eye with pouty lips.
Maxine Gillespie: Maybe, if you win tonight, Chad Fuckface Kyle won't be the only… cocksuck you're talking about in the future.
Maxine looks down at Peaknuckle, who hovers over a puddle of his own urine.
Maxine Gillespie: Stupid god damn dog.
We can see Chad Kyle pull as much of a face as the bandages allow. As for The King of All Death? With the promise of what might be terrible fellatio, but what would certainly be gross fellatio on the table, Pigpen grins a mouth full of yellowed, broken teeth, executes another bow, and begins to wheel his charge away with considerably more pep in his step.
Skwee skwee skwee, skwee skwee skwee
Match 2 of 5
Peaknuckle
Pigpen Matsumoto
Fuzzy pink sports coat, purple oakleys…a dress shirt half-way unbuttoned revealing a wreath of gold necklaces…Johnny Vignochi smiles a gold-toothed grin as he stands behind a podium, a dozen sports reporters jockeying for position below him. Cameras are flashing, people are yelling questions…somebody even almost hits Vig accidentally with a boom stick. Of course, these folks aren’t all there to see him.
Eryk Masters: I’ve got word backstage that the previously scheduled press conference concerning former SHOOT Project superstar and Premier Champion NC-17 is about to begin. And it looks like his manager and agent, Johnny Vignochi, will be leading the proceedings.
Jason Johnson: These guys are bad news, Eryk. Always have been, always will be.
Behind the gaunt talent agent is a familiar face we haven’t seen in a loooong time, in a state of condition NOBODY’S used to seeing him in.
The “Cream of Obscene” NC-17 sits slumped in a wheelchair, an oxygen mask attached to his face. His red mohawk is limp, his eyes half-lidded, his tattooed body hidden beneath a quilt like a sickly old grandma.
Jason Johnson: When we last saw NC-17 in SHOOT Project, he had just won the 2024 Master of the Mat and was number one contender to the World Heavyweight Championship. But man, how the mighty have fallen. An attack at the hands of Vae Victis and Lindsay Troy and now look at him. It’s been a full year since he’s last competed!
Eryk Masters: I dunno, Jace. Something doesn’t pass the smell test here.
Everybody in the room is focused on NC-17, but unfortunately it’s Johnny Vig with the microphone. He taps it a couple times before spreading his bony arms and welcoming his guests.
Vig: First of all, I’d like to thank everybody for bein’ hea. This whole thing, it’s been a long time comin’. I know ya’s all prolly gotta bunch of questions, so let’s go ahead and get started. We’ll take a question from you…yah, the guy up front in the yellow raincoat.
Reporter 1: It’s been over a year since NC-17 was last seen in SHOOT Project, and there have been rumors swirling about his health. Obviously there’s some validity to said rumors. What can you tell us about his current health conditions? Is Mr. Seventeen able to tell us himself?
Vig: As you all know, my client was violently assaulted last year at the hands of Lindsay Troy’s GOONS. Well, take a good hard look at him, folks. This is the end result. The man ain’t been the same since…we’re still lookin’ into our legal options on that front. Next question! Yes, you, in the back…the bald lady in the tracksuit!
Reporter 2: Some pictures have been leaked to the media…pictures of NC-17 “training” with Scottie Barnes at a hotdog eating contest. Is this a potential new partnership? And what of the allegations that NC-17 is a part of a black ops science experiment being run out of Brookhaven National Laboratory?
Vig: The only thing my client has been trainin’ is his bladder to go in a bedpan. Look at ‘im fuh Christsakes, he couldn’t tell ya what he had for breakfast, nevamind whateva the hell Brookhaven’s ‘spose to be. And Scottie Barnes isn’t nowhere NEAR the same hemisphere as NC-17, so I don’t know where ya got that from. Can we dispense with the crack-pot conspiracy theories and focus on the matta at hand?
Reporter 3: Mr. Vignochi, Jeff Thibald with the Daily Circlejerk. If your client is so incapacitated, why have you assembled this press conference today? Is this a retirement announcement?
Johnny Vig laughs, spittle flying out into the front row of reporters.
Vig: HA! You losers WISH. No, JEFF, nobody’s retirin’ today, and this isn’t a press conference.
The commentary team sounds apprehensive.
Jason Johnson: Then what is it?
Vig: Ladies and germs, this is a PRODUCT launch.
There is a collective groan from the assembled reporters, and suddenly 1-800-OBSCENE is flashing on television screens across the nation. Johnny Vig removes a tube of medical cream from his suit pocket and the cameras zoom in on it. The label reads “CREAM OF OBSCENE”, and the logo is of a little sperm with a mohawk and beard not unlike NC-17’s. You can almost feel Eryk Masters’ disappointment through the television..
Eryk Masters: Oh God. Here we go.
Vig: Got a rectal rash that won’t go away? Pesky case uh psoriasis that don’t clear up? How about cold sores. We all get ‘em, amirite? CREAM of OBSCENE is a topical cream sponsored by YOURS TRULY and approved by the FDA, or what’s left of it, after a healthy campaign donation to RFK Jr. Thanks Rob! Ya doin’ the lord’s work!
The assembled reporters begin to file out of the press conference room, many of whom are grumbling and swearing. But Johnny Vig isn’t finished.
Vig: That’s not all! CREAM of OBSCENE is ALL NATURAL minus a couple uh flame retardants, and it’s SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN not to cause cancer in 2 out of 10 monkeys it was tested on!
Jason Johnson: Wait…what?
Vig: Don’t leave! THERE’S MORE.
Eryk Masters: There’s always more.
Vig: Crippling car accident? Doctor tells ya you’ll neva walk again? Trauma surgeon tells ya there’s nothin’ he can do? Just put a lil’ of this stuff…behind ya knees…
Now Johnny’s got the cap off and he’s squirting the ointment on his finger. It’s a bright sickly yellow color. He’s on all fours, lifting NC-17’s legs and applying it on various parts of his body, desperately looking back at the exiting ensemble in hopes that somebody’s still watching.
Vig: Under ya armpits…top of ya buttcrack and…VOILA!
Suddenly NC-17 RIPS the blanket off his lap and TEARS the oxygen mask off his face, jumping up out of his wheelchair!
Vig: IT’S A MIRACLE!
NC-17: NO, Johnny, it’s CREAM of OBSCENE.
1-800-OBSCENE. 1-800-OBSCENE. CALL NOW and get the LOW INFLATION ADJUSTED PRICE of $39.99!
$39.99?
$39.99!
Jason Johnson: Can we cut the cameras? How do we turn him off?
NC-17: And for the low inflation adjusted price of $39.99, YOU TOO might be able to walk again!
A lengthy legal disclaimer flashes at the bottom of our screen, too fast for anyone to read. NC-17 squirts some of his “product” in his hand and gels his red mohawk up to full mast.
Meanwhile the camera swivels to the dwindling press pool, where we see some other familiar faces. A very dumb looking Scottie Barnes stands looking dumb while the Mean Teen seethes.
Mean Teen: what the fuck is this god damn bullshit. He can walk!?
Scottie: Hey cool, I think 17 is feeling better!
Mean Teen: you dumb fuck! We spent millions on him. Government and private. (she counts off on her fingers) Dod, Omega Section, the Department of Agriculture subdivision of wheat and bio weapons, The Rand Corporation, General Mills…. Millions! How did he fool the scientists! These guys are the best of the best!
Scottie: Do you think he can get me some of that cream? I have had this weird thing going on…(he looks into his own shorts and sort of cringes).
Mean Teen: I am going to have this motherfucker taken apart- call the assault squad, the kill team, call Stacy and Heather B- I am not fucking around.
NC-17: SCOTTIE MY BOY!
Seventeen suddenly sees the pair, as they’re the only two left in the room besides Vig. He tosses Scottie a tube of cream.
NC-17: I’M BACK, BABY! Here, first one’s on you! $39.99! Ya can’t get that price at COSTCO!
Scottie reaches for his wallet and pulls out his debit card, but the Mean Teen slaps his hand.
Mean Teen: Scottie you fuck we arent giving this motherfucker another dime- he set the program back a year! What am I going to tell Dick Cheney?
Scottie: I thought he was dead…
Mean Teen: yes, he is. Shut up, focus. (to 17) How did you trick the organization?! Who do you work for? Paragon? Caldor?
Johnny Vig answers for his client.
Vig: Worse. Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey. They’re our sponsor as of last Tuesday. It’s ovah, kid. Maybe the shadow government shoulda thought twice before puttin’ a little girl in charge of their super soldier program.
He looks at Scottie and frowns.
Vig: I mean…case in point.
Mean Teen: little girl!!!
Scottie: wow I love Fireball. Can I get samples?
Meant Teen: little girl?!??!??
Vig: Sweetheart, what are you, 13?
Mean Teen: (speaking into her ear piece) yes…now…the Cali rite and torture team. Not not Jon’s team, the meaner ones. Wes, get me Wes…. I’ll show you who the little girl is! I’ve toppled multiple democratically elected governments! And not the ones you think! Nice ones where tourists go!!!
Johnny leers at the Mean Teen, his gold tooth twinkling. He’s giving major Joe Pesci menacing Macauley Culkin in Home Alone vibes.
Vig: Oh yeah? Is that right? Then why don’t ya put ya money where ya mouth is kid? Zenith 006. NC-17’s return match against…Scottie Barnes.
In the background, NC-17 and Scottie seem to be rummaging behind the podium together like a couple of regular old pals.
Mean Teen: fine. but I’m am not taking the torture team off the table.
Scottie: (enjoying a sample of fireball) what’s all happening now?
Eryk Masters: And there you have it, folks. The return of NC-17 next week against “Street Fighter” Scottie Barnes.
Jason Johnson: God help us all.
The scene slowly fades, our last view of Scottie and NC-17 toasting one another obliviously.
Singles Competition
Aiden Vanity
Madison Seton
Dustin “Thunderwolf” Kelser. “The Premier Attraction” Corey Lazarus.
Two living legends with over fifty illustrious years of experience and dozens of title reigns between them, the latest coming in the form of the SHOOT Project's very own World Tag Team championships.
The Last Vanguard.
To say that these two have had one hell of a night so far would be an understatement. Challenging one of the most acclaimed teams of the era in the form of the Punch Line. Lining up potential title contenders before they'd even won the belts through their dealings with the Collins Twins.
Besting the duo of Harv Norris and Rick Hull to become the NEW SHOOT Project World Tag Team champions. The first time for Kelser to hold the belts, the third for Lazarus.
Proof positive that two of the standard-bearers from what could be considered a bygone era, their peaks coming beyond the confines of a SHOOT ring, were still at the forefront of elite athletic competition.
Who could have dared to ruin their momentous return to the spotlight?
Why, only Thunderwolf’s own flesh and blood. Chance and Hannah.
The Kelser Covenant.
Corey Lazarus: …your little fuckface brats, man…
Corey holds an ice pack to his neck, stretching his arm out, opening his hand and closing it repeatedly as a medic shines a flashlight into either eye. It may be an old fashioned way of checking for early signs of a concussion, but it's an effective one.
Corey Lazarus: I better not have another stinger. I'll kill those little Halloween Happy Meal shitheads, I swear…
Dustin is barely in any better shape, a medic listening to his lungs via stethoscope, checking for any internal damage after the attack to his ribs.
Thunderwolf: Dial it back, Core. At the end of the day? Those are still my children. Right-wrong-or-indifferent.
Corey Lazarus: Yeah? Well, whoop-dee-fucking-doo, babe! I don't exactly see Ricky pulling this kind of stunt, do you?!
Dustin winces as the medic tending to him pushes against one of his ribs, speaking through gritted teeth.
Thunderwolf: We’re really pinning this on me?
Corey Lazarus: That's…goddammit, I told you I don't have a concussion!
Corey turns and lobs the ice pack against the wall, startling the medic checking on him. They back away, a hand held up.
Medic #1: You're right, you're right. Standard protocol, is all.
Corey Lazarus: Just where the fuck does he get off, Dusty? We have to defend these against those McBastards!
Thunderwolf: And who handed them the blank check, Corey? Huh? That’s literally wrestling one-oh-one. You take care of business, you pack up, you go home… or you go to a hospital. You’ve lived this life long enough to know better than to do that kind of stupid shit.
Corey rips his Tag belt from the bench beside him and leaps to his feet.
Corey Lazarus: The L-A-Z doesn't shy away from getting another 1-2-3, dig? Never have, never will.
Thunderwolf: Don’t mistake what I’m saying for cowardice, I don’t run. I show the fuck up.
Corey Lazarus: Exactamundo, hermano del alma! You had your leg practically torn off of your body before and still came back to snatch victory from the poisonous vagina dentata of defeat. So why the worry?
Dustin takes a quick, deep breath and seizes, the very action of sucking wind so sharply sending buzz saws through his chest and up his throat.
Thunderwolf: It clicks when I breathe, Corey. Never had that happen before, Corey.
Corey Lazarus: Pfffft! Did you not hear what I just said? Hey! Earth to Dustin! These beauties right here…
He holds up his Tag belt, slapping the center plate emphatically.
Corey Lazarus: …belong to these beauties right here!
Corey first points to Thunderwolf and then to himself, his boiling rage at the earlier attack melting away into his trademark devilish grin.
Corey Lazarus: Now, slick, are you going to sit there and cry like a scolded puppy, or are you going to pop a few Aleve and bear those teeth of yours?
Thunderwolf rolls his shoulders and waves someone appreciatively onto the scene. Misty comes into frame with an ice-cold can of Starbucks Doubleshot Energy (Mocha), and a handful of OTC painkillers. He pops the tab of his drink and guzzles down half the can with the pills.
There’s genuine worry in his lover's eyes that says, “Let’s call it a night.” Despite herself, she gives him a reassuring smile and a hug around the waist, which causes him to recoil just a bit. Thunderwolf kisses her on the forehead and takes a step back.
Thunderwolf: Tape it up and point me to the fight, love. Dillion?
Lazarus looks at him strangely at first, fearing the possibility of CTE. He mouths, “but my name’s Corey.” Thunderwolf slams the rest of the can in one fell swoop.
Thunderwolf: You son-of-a-bitch.
Corey looks him in the eye and the two smack hands high and hold it into a shake.
Thunderwolf: Let’s do this.
The joyous laughter that escapes Corey's mouth nearly maxes the EQ board, the audio distorting for a brief moment.
Corey Lazarus: Let's rock n’ fucking ROLL, sport!
Corey pats Wolf on the back, but the impact causes the Last Pillar to shake and pull away, a menacing glare in his eyes.
Corey Lazarus: Oh, uhhh…right.
Thunderwolf: Less slam dance, more line dance.
He says with a chuckle, still clutching his chest with one arm.
The Kamatayan shoulders both of her titles, letting the reaction of the crowd wash over her, clearly not in any rush.
Eryk Masters: Sia taking her time here, but to be fair, she’s probably earned it, right?
Jason Johnson: What earned? She got lucky in a gigantic match–everyone else softened Vito up for her, Eryk.
Eryk Masters: Really?
Jason Johnson: Really. Paper champion, up there. Vito Valentino is the people’s champ.
She angles her head up, looking from the front row to the rafters, slowly turning. After a while, a chant breaks out, a Goldberg-styled Iz-Ee, Iz-Ee, Iz-Ee–and Sia can’t help but break into a grin and bow her head. She brings the mic to her face, then lowers it again, collecting herself before raising her head back up, a smile on her face.
Izzy: So…this is fucking crazy, right?
The double champ shifts, keeping both belts on her swole shoulders like pauldrons.
Izzy: Listen, when you’re a professional athlete–a fighter, a wrestler, a gladiator–you have to keep yourself pumped up. Tell people that you’re the man. Tell it to anyone who will listen. Tell it to your coaches, your opponents, the fans, the cameras. Most of all, tell it to yourself. Over and over. That can feel like belief, but it isn’t the real deal. It’s just a really effective placebo.
She slaps the belts on her shoulders–first one, then the other.
Izzy: But this? This is real. This is as real as it gets. And this means that I walk out of here right now, get hit by a car, retire from the business on a whim, just up and disappear? I’m in history forever. I’m immortal now.
Sia paces, chewing her lip, letting the cheers happen as she considers how to put things.
Izzy: Problem is…I’m still hungry. Problem is, I want more. Problem is, I’m not convinced.
Jason Johnson: Me either.
Eryk Masters: She’s holding the straps, man.
The crowd begins to yell at this, the cacophony bleeding into cheers and applause, as if to tell her that she deserves it. That she should be convinced. To that, Izzy begins to walk around the ring, addressing each portion of the crowd with a shake of her head and the wave of her hand.
Izzy: Nah, nah, this isn’t a pity party. I’m not saying I don’t believe. I’m saying that I got a taste and I want more. I’m saying that I wasn’t trained to duck a challenge, and I wasn’t raised to be anything but the best. And as much as my upbringing felt like bricks on my chest? It turned me into someone who will never stop. Never the fuck ever.
With a chuckle, she drops her arms to her side, thinking over her next words.
Izzy: God, I always hated the guys who came out here and just talked. Guess that was just because I didn't have anything to do with it. Haven't even said it–this was just the preamble. What I want to say is this.
She uses her free hand to slap the Empire State Championship. Once, twice, three times. It’s clear she knows showmanship, letting the anticipation build before roaring into the microphone.
Izzy: This right here? Up for grabs. Anyone back there wants this belt, please, please do me the favor of coming out here and trying to take it from me.
Eryk Masters: Big words from the double champion, putting one of her belts on the line just a little bit after winning it!
Jason Johnson: C’mon, go through…
Eryk Masters: What are you doing?
Jason Johnson: Putting a hundred up for Vito coming out and cleaning her clock on Kalshi.
Sia peels off her jacket, tossing it to the floor, and hands her belts off to the referee. He holds the Empire State Championship aloft as the crowd buzzes and Izzy Two Belts paces in the ring, eyes never leaving the entrance ramp, waiting as the noise builds. When no one shows fast enough for her liking, The Kamatayan brings the mic up again and furrows her brow.
Izzy: Come on, y’all are boring me. Slap some boots on and see if you got what it takes, yeah? Or am I gonna have to stomp all the way back that and drag one of you out here like a–
All of the sudden, the lights dim. Sia tosses the mic with a thud and can be heard on the parabolics yelling ‘Let’s go!’.
Empire State Championship
Avalanche Anderson
Izzy Sia (c)
The remnants of "Make Way for the King" are sounding out over the speakers as a dangerous trio enters the ring. The World Heavyweight Champion first, Madison Seton second, and lastly Laura Seton. As they take their spot mid-ring, a mic is presented, which Madison quickly snatches. As the music fades, a borderline psychotic grin forms on the younger Seton.
Madison Seton: From the highest of highs, brought out to all of you, in the lowest of lows…
Her grin grows as the crowd boos her first words.
Madison Seton: The GREATEST stable of all wrestling history has gotten even greater! The wonderful, honorable, invincible… World… Heavyweight… CHAMPION of champions, JOSHUA BREEDLOVE–
She points proudly to the head of The Empire, who shrugs his shoulders and holds the World Championship high in the air. A new look of proud seems to overtake Madison as she speaks excitedly again.
Madison Seton: And one of the best ever, not just “for a girl,” but THE… BEST… OF ALL-FUCKING-TIME… a role model extraordinary! The person your kids can admire and likely whom you adored as a kid… the longest reigning SHOOT Project Worrrrrld Heavyweight Champion… my sister… LAURA SETON!
She begins a round of applause while the crowd boos as she hands the mic off to Laura, who seems to wonder what's gotten into Madison. Yet, as Laura takes the mic, the booing grows stronger.
And stronger.
Jason Johnson: Everyone here has the same thought: Why? And hopefully this talented woman has enough answers.
Laura simply stands as Madison looks on gleefully, still clapping proudly. Laura turns her head, the crowd booing further as Laura looks towards each section. After a moment, she raises the mic.
Laura Seton: I'm sure you're all looking for an acceptable response…
She stops to again look into the crowd. The SHOOT fans taking a chance to boo again during her short pause.
Laura Seton: … and I think whatever I say isn't going to be enough.
…
So I'll just speak the truth.
I have not joined The Empire because it's the coolest thing out there, nor is it because I'm suddenly besties with Joshua Breedlove.
I joined for me.
I'm doing this for myself. Because after all this time, all the shots my 44-year old self has taken? It's what you've all chanted at me at various points the last couple years.
I deserve this!
Her words fall flat. Yet, there's no look of anger as she's booed. Though that doesn't mean she's not getting frustrated.
Laura Seton: I can't count how many times I've seen the line skip me. I can't even begin to tell stories of others being favored for something, even after I proved myself. I could be right on the precipice; right at that chance where I may be the next number one contender.
Then you have people with credentials like an X or another legend. They sign a contract and POOF!!
I'm back to “earning my shot.” Back to hoping to being noticed. Staying hungry because there was always a reason for someone to swipe away my main entree. But I played along because that was “the right thing to do.”
Well, now it's my time. I've earned that right to skip the line myself…
She shakes her head as the crowd boos her.
Laura Seton: I finally start thinking about ME… what everyone wanted me to do in the first place–and I'm being booed? Where's the double-standard?
She gives a final shake of her head and waves a hand.
Laura Seton: Whatever… Anyways…
Her attention floats to the World Heavyweight Champion.
Laura Seton: You and I have a couple things to discuss.
He’s received his own microphone, and while safe money is that it’s on, he still pops his hand on it a couple of times to make sure.
Joshua Breedlove: I’m nothing if not approachable. Let’s discuss.
Laura Seton: Number one, I'm not in this to be your lackey. I'm not going to save you every time you get in trouble. I'm not running out and diving in this ring every time you need saving.
Joshua Breedlove: Here’s the thing about that – my goal is not to put you in a weird position or an awkward spot, but if I decide that I need you, you’re there. Unquestioningly. United. If you have a problem with something I do publicly, we discuss it privately but otherwise you serve the cause just like I do. What it won’t be is some tacky shit like “running out and diving in this ring” or whatever. That is stupid and a waste of your time and talent.
He laughs.
Joshua Breedlove: But what it might mean is something like… go tag with your sister and win the tag championships or, let’s say Vito Valentino was still the Premier Champion and we didn’t have Izzy 2-belts in our midst… I say I want you to take that championship from Vito and bring it to the Empire. If, god forbid, something happens and I’m no longer the World Champion, and reclaiming the title is not something that’s on the books for me, but might be for you? If we need to stand up for this industry and I want you by my side in a Wargames match or something like that, you’re there and I can trust that you’ll be there.
Breedlove nods.
Joshua Breedlove: THAT is what I need from you and that’s what you signed up for when you picked up the black envelope. I’m not a delicate blossom in distress, and if I ever am, I have other measures in place so that my safety is nearly always guaranteed.
Laura Seton: And that's all well and good. I accept all that… on one condition. Not now. Not necessarily our next pay-per-view. But eventually?
She points at the World Heavyweight Championship as she looks Breedlove right in the eyes.
Laura Seton: I get another guaranteed shot at that.
Joshua Breedlove: I’ll do you one better. We’ll make sure you get a guaranteed shot at this even if, god forbid…
He does the catholic cross with his hands.
Joshua Breedlove: …I’m not the champion anymore.
She smirks, a sly growing of it as she side-eyes her sister and extends a hand to Breedlove.
Laura Seton: Deal.
Standing between the two sisters, he takes Laura’s hand and then takes Madison’s hand and raises them both high into the air. A show of solidarity and force.
World Tag Team Championships
The Collins Twins
Michael Collins
Rowland Collins
The Last Vanguard (c)
Thunderwolf
Corey Lazarus
“The Boys Are Back” cues up as Michael Collins runs to the timekeeper's table, ripping the Tag Team titles away. He jaws with a few folks in the front row as, in the ring, Corey Lazarus pulling himself to his feet. What Thunderwolf does is a little different - instead rolling over, clutching where his chest meets his stomach, and then with one mighty pull of the middle rope - stumbles himself up, leaning into the ropes to support himself. The Last Vanguard look to each other, doubt creeping quickly across their face as the realization of what's just occurred settles in. Across from them stands Rowland Collins, a booming wave of laughter bellowing from deep in his chest in pure satisfaction.
Samantha Coil: The winners of the match, and NEWWWWWWWW SHOOT Project World Tag Team champions…the COLLINS TWINS!!
The fans all boo in unison as Michael rolls in, handing his brother one of the belts. The Collins Twins, on behalf of the Empire, hoist the Tag belts high into the air, basking in the clear, concise, and excessively visceral condemnation from the men, women, and children that have filled the Pinnacle this evening.
Eryk Masters: I can't believe it.
Jason Johnson: They've done it. The Collins Twins have finally won the World Tag Team Championships again.
Eryk Masters: And they made sure the Punch Line weren’t champions when they did it!
Thunderwolf doesn’t last on his feet for long, instead collapsing in the corner, his arms grasping tightly at his midsection. He leans against the ropes and then falls through, tumbling to the floor where Misty barely manages to catch his head to keep it from cracking the floor. Corey dives after him, the Last Damn Icon checking on the Last Pillar.
Jason Johnson: And they're just mocking them.
Rowland rushes to the corner, climbing it and waving at the Last Vanguard on the floor. He kisses the center plate of his Tag Team title, hugging it tightly, mockingly, as Michael clutches at his own ribs, dropping against the ropes.
With every breath a struggle for Dustin Kelser, Lazarus rises and takes a wild swing at Michael, a quick warning more than an actual attempt at a strike, turning back to Thunderwolf as he yells to the referee, to the timekeeper, to anyone that can hear. Misty begins yelling like a banshee in unison with Laz as Wolf is visibly losing oxygen.
Corey Lazarus: Get somebody out here! Medics, vets, the National fucking Guard…SOMEONE!!
Misty Starks: HE CAN’T BREATH! COREY HE CAN’T BREATH!!
Michael backs away, daring Corey to enter the ring as Rowland faux-cries, wiping away nonexistent tears. The Twins shake their heads and turn away from the fallen Last Vanguard, once more raising the Tag Team titles high overhead.
Eryk Masters: Three teams have now been able to lay claim to being the Tag Team champions of the World tonight. That has to be a record, Jason.
Misty cradles Thunderwolf’s head in her lap, begging him to hold on, his breath short and labored. Medics rush out from the back, wheeling an empty gurney behind them, and beeline over to Thunderwolf on the floor. Rowland catches a glimpse from the corner of his eye and turns to watch the show, howling with laughter at the misfortune of the former champions. He smacks Michael to get his attention, both Twins now holding their ribs in parody of Kelser as he's loaded onto the gurney.
Jason Johnson: And right there, in that ring, are the ones who are holding them last. Rowland and Michael. The Collins Twins.
Michael climbs the corner and straps his Tag belt around his waist, waving “goodbye” to the Last Vanguard as the gurney is rolled up the ramp. Thunderwolf pushes the medics away and tries to stand, his fist balled as he steps back toward the ring, but collapses again, choking for air. Corey drops to a knee between Wolf and the ring - and the Collins Twins - and shakes his head, motioning back to the gurney.
Eryk Masters: There's still some fight left in Dustin Kelser, that's for damn sure.
Jason Johnson: The spirit may be willing, Eryk, but the flesh…
Rowland holds the ropes open, daring both former champions to come back into the ring. He slaps the center plate of his Tag belt as he hangs it over his shoulder, shaking his head.
Rowland Collins: Ye don't want more, lads. Anyt'ing ye had left in yer tank? It's all gone.
Michael leans through the ropes and his jaw goes a mile a minute, his brogue making it hard to understand every word but the intent is clear.
The Punch Line? The Last Vanguard? Neither of them are champions. Not anymore.
The COLLINS TWINS rule the Tag Team division in SHOOT Project. The EMPIRE runs the show.
With that, the scene fades as the credits roll.