Zenith 008

The camera sweeps across a raucous crowd inside The Pinnacle in New York City. The lights are bright, signs are waving, and the energy is electric. The camera cuts to the announce desk where Eryk Masters and Jason Johnson are seated, looking serious but energized.

Eryk Masters: We are live from The Pinnacle in the heart of New York City, and welcome to SHOOT Project Zenith! I’m Eryk Masters alongside Jason Johnson, and Jason, the air in this building is thick enough to cut with a knife. We are just weeks away from Redemption, but tonight, we might witness the total destruction of the roster before we even get there!

Jason Johnson: You aren’t kidding, Eryk. Last week was a car crash—literally and figuratively. We saw families implode, champions fall, and crimes committed. But tonight? Tonight is the fallout. Tonight is the Summit.

Eryk Masters: That’s right. Dustin "Thunderwolf" Kelser demanded it. He wanted everyone in one place. He wanted the Empyrean Forge, the Kelser Covenant, and The DeMONSTRance all in the ring at the same time. Well, Dan Stein has granted that wish in the most volatile way possible. Our main event is a catastrophic Fatal Four-Way Tag Team Match involving the leaders of all three warring factions, plus the reunited team of Thunderwolf and Misty Starks!

Jason Johnson: It’s a tactical nightmare, Eryk. You have the World Champion Joshua Breedlove and Laura Seton representing the gold. You have DEPRAVITY and Sammy Rochester representing pure chaos. You have Chance and Hannah Kelser representing a blood feud. And then you have Thunderwolf and Misty Starks, fighting for the soul of their family. I don’t see how this match ends in anything other than a riot.

Eryk Masters: But that’s not all! We have a new Empire State Champion in the building! After shocking the world and dethroning Izzy Sia last week, Johnny Napalm makes his first defense tonight against the massive King Oso! Can the veteran brawler hold onto the gold against a literal giant?

Jason Johnson: Napalm has the grit, but Oso has the size. It’s going to be a slugfest. And speaking of slugs... we have to talk about King Homewrecker. After the vile things he said and did to Aaron Dearinger’s wife, Josh Kaine has stepped up to defend the honor of the "Hillbillies." This isn't about wrestling holds, Eryk; this is a grudge match.

Eryk Masters: And finally, Jason... I honestly can't believe he's even in the building. After hitting Emiko Fujimoto with a car last week—an attempted murder caught on camera—NC-17 is scheduled to compete tonight against Aiden Vanity.

Jason Johnson: He should be in a cell, not a wrestling ring. But the contract was signed, and if Aiden Vanity isn't careful, he's going to find out that the "Cream of Obscene" isn't playing a character anymore. He is dangerous, he is unhinged, and he is live tonight.

Eryk Masters: The road to Redemption is paved with bad intentions! Let’s head to the ring for our opening contest!

Eryk Masters: Fans, we're being told that Abigail Chase is backstage standing by with Ricky Tenet, who has something to say about both the DeMONSTRance and Darkspade. Abigail, take it away!

The cameras cut backstage, where Abigail Chase is standing before a SHOOT Project banner. Beside her stands RICKY TENET, adorned in a black SHOOT Project logo hoodie and a pair of jeans. His hair is slicked back, drawing attention to the hints of bruising around the bridge of his nose, courtesy of Arthur Pleasant and DEPRAVITY at Zenith 007. Tenet takes a quick look at the camera and then turns his eyes to the floor, tapping his thumbs against his hips.

Abigail Chase: We're here with Ricky Tenet, who has demanded an interview, right now. Ricky, this is highly uncharacteristic of you, usually known for being one of the more soft-spoken and polite Soldiers in the locker room, and just a few minutes ago you were…

Ricky Tenet: Miss Chase, ma'am, I'm really sorry to cut you off, but I've had something to say for a while now, and I finally decided that tonight is the night to let it out, and if we keep, like, dragging this on, or whatever? I'm just, like, super, super low-key scared that I'll bail out of it, right?

Abigail Chase: Oh, uhhh…sure. What's on your mind, Ricky?

Ricky nods, taking in a deep, calming breath. It doesn't work very well, though, as he clicks his tongue a few times over, desperately shoving his hands into his pockets to hide their tremors.

Ricky Tenet: Right, right…what's on my mind? What's on my mind is that I've had this grade A, USDA grass-fed creep on my case for what feels like forever now, to the point where I can't sleep at night! I can't go to the gym without seeing him, can't listen to a playlist without hearing his voice in my head…I can't even take a shower without thinking he's right there! Waiting! For me!

Ricky's breathing increases, deeper and a tad more frantic. He nervously runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes tight as he raises his head.

Ricky Tenet: And…an-and I…I just have had ENOUGH!!

His eyes shoot wide open, staring at the camera. Abigail steps back for a moment, startled by the sudden outburst.

Ricky Tenet: For two months, Darkspade, you've been following me! You've been breathing down my neck! Sending me messages late at night, knocking on my door! And you've been laughing about, cackling about it, the entire time! J-just…just where in the FUCK do you get off, you twisted piece of SHIT?! Are you just that insanely bitter?! Fine!! Fine, fine…

Ricky turns and slams his hand against the steel crate off to the side of the interview area, a loud THWUNK echoing down the hall.

Ricky Tenet: …fucking FINE!!

He does it again, knocking the stack back an inch, nearly tipping it over as Abigail backs away further.

Ricky Tenet: You want me so bad, Darkspade?! You want to make my life such a hell that I can't even eat dinner without glancing over my shoulder?! FINE!!

Ricky slams an elbow into the stack…and then his head!

Ricky Tenet: FINE, FINE, FINE!!

He slams his head into the stack again and again, knocking the top crate over and causing Abigail to drop her microphone. Ricky, blood trickling down his face from a busted eyebrow, rips the microphone from the concrete below, blood droplets landing on it and their impact against the metal screen buzzing over the speakers.

Ricky Tenet: YOU!! And ME!! REDEMPTION!!

Ricky reaches forward and grabs the camera, wrenching it closer to him.

Ricky Tenet: But afterward, you ancient son of a bitch? We are DONE. Win, lose, I don't care…because I'm just going to hurt you, you twisted bastard. Do you understand? HURT! YOU! And then we are DONE! That - THAT - is the bargain!

He catches his breath, just realizing that he's bleeding as SHOOT Security arrives on the scene.

Ricky Tenet: And Arthur? Oh, you…ohhhhhh Arthur…you better pray that my father knocks some sense into you tonight, Arthur, because if there's anything - anything - left over?

Ricky smirks, chuckling to himself.

Ricky Tenet: …then I'm coming right for it.

Backstage in catering, the room is quiet where even the fluorescent lights seem tired. Austin Anderson sits alone at a table near a humming vending machine, the glow from his laptop the only real light on his face. A half-finished bottle of water rests beside him. His bag is slumped at his feet. He types with the slow, methodical focus of someone trying very hard to stay busy, to stay calm, to not think about the things boiling under the surface.

The silence is suddenly interrupted by the arrival of an enemy. Austin startles at first before he realizes who it is; not NC-17, but his long-time manager and handler, Johnny Vignochi. Johnny’s wearing a purple silk shirt and shades and is draped in gold bracelets and rings. He’s also carrying a bouquet of flowers and has his hands up defensively.

Johnny Vig: Before ya whack me over the head with that laptop, I want ya to know I had nothing to do with the attack last Zenith. I come in peace; look, flowers for Emiko.

He sets them on the table and backs away in an attempt to present his peaceful intentions.

Johnny Vig: Emiko Fujimoto is a generational talent…a true ring general. This thing between her and NC-17, should’ve been handled in a RING. PROFESSIONALLY. An international star like Emiko deserves nothing less. I don’t condone what happened, Austin, I really don’t. Fuck, I tried to keep it from happenin’, but…

Johnny throws up his hands in defeat and sidles up next to Austin at the table uninvited, as if he’s lamenting to an old pal.

Johnny Vig: ...Seventeen? He’s a fuckin’ maniac. You think he listens to me? Pfft. All the drugs, all the alcohol, all the bumps to the head…sometimes it’s like dealing with a rabid dog off a leash. If I even had an inkling he was capable of…of…running somebody ovah…

Johnny pinches the bridge of his nose in exhausted frustration.

Austin stares at Johnny for a long, silent moment. His fingers hover over the keyboard, but the words on the screen stop mattering. His jaw flexes once. Then again. He closes the laptop slowly, deliberately, like the lid itself is the only thing keeping him from lunging across the table.

Austin Anderson: Johnny… I want you to listen very carefully. Because I am fighting a profoundly violent instinct right now, and clarity might be the only thing saving your skull from becoming a cautionary tale.

Johnny freezes, half-leaning on the table, half-shrinking back on instinct.

Austin Anderson: You bring flowers. You bring excuses. You bring… contrition, or some facsimile thereof. And I can appreciate theater, Johnny. God knows I built a career on it. But do not mistake my appreciation for forgiveness.

Austin exhales slowly through his nose, the way someone does when they’re counting backward from ten to avoid a felony.

Austin Anderson: Emiko Fujimoto is lying in a hospital with bruised ribs and a concussion because your… client decided vehicular assault was a viable career strategy. This wasn’t chair shots. This wasn’t mind games. He attacked her with a car. A car, Johnny. He turned two tons of steel into a weapon.

Austin’s voice hitches for a moment, just enough to reveal something raw beneath the fury.

Austin Anderson: And God help me, I have no idea why she didn’t press charges. None. I asked. I pushed. She just looked at me and said it wasn’t the path she wanted to take. I respect her. I do. But I do not understand it. Because if someone had done that to me, we wouldn’t be having a conversation. We would be identifying bodies.

Johnny raises both palms.

Johnny Vig: Austin, I swear to God, I—

Austin Anderson: Don’t. Please. Don’t swear anything to God on my behalf. He and I have an arrangement, and your name isn’t on the guest list.

Austin leans forward, eyes locked on Johnny’s like a vise tightening.

Austin Anderson: You think I don’t know NC-17 is unstable? That I haven’t studied him? Watched him implode and flourish and implode again? I know exactly who he is. I know exactly what he is. I just didn’t think even he would cross the threshold from buffoon to attempted murderer.

Johnny winces at the phrasing.

Johnny Vig: I’m tellin’ ya, Austin, I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t know. And if I thought he was gonna pull… that… I’d have chained him to a radiator.

There’s a flicker, brief, razor-thin, of amusement behind Austin’s eyes. But it dies instantly.

Austin Anderson: Johnny, hear me. I am not blaming you for NC-17’s choices. He is a grown man with a broken compass and a volcanic ego. But I am telling you that if you walk into my line of sight and try to soft-shoe your way around this, I am going to assume you are here to run cover for him.

Johnny shakes his head nervously.

Johnny Vig: No cover. No excuses. I just… I wanna make this right. Somehow.

Austin Anderson: Good. Because right now, the only reason you’re still standing is because Emiko would want professionalism. She cherishes honor in that ring. Even when it’s not returned. And I will not dishonor her by fracturing your jaw in a supply closet.

Johnny gulps.

Austin finally leans back, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t disappear, it coils.

Austin Anderson: You tell NC-17 something for me. Word for word. Burn it into your memory. Ready?

Johnny nods quickly.

Johnny Vig: Y-yeah. Shoot.

Austin’s voice lowers, not a whisper, but something colder, more deliberate.

Austin Anderson: Tell him I am counting the seconds until he steps foot in a ring. Because out here? In the parking lot? That’s his world. Chaos. Stupidity. Recklessness. But inside that ring? That is mine. Between those ropes, I do not need horsepower or bumpers or headlights. I have technique. I have discipline. I have purpose. And when he and I finally cross paths in the place where he cannot hide behind a steering wheel, there will be a reckoning so thorough, so precise, so exquisitely painful, he will beg to be hit by a car again.

Johnny goes pale.

Austin stands, sliding his chair back quietly. Too quietly.

He picks up the bouquet and sets it back into Johnny’s hands.

Austin Anderson: Take these to the hospital yourself. Look Emiko in the eye. And pray that the next person who visits her bedside isn’t me. Because I cannot promise you I’ll be in this generous a mood again.

Johnny clutches the flowers like a lifeline.

Austin steps past him without another word.

Backstage, and Peaknuckle is on all fours. This in and of itself is hardly notable, so long as you're in the wrestling industry and "hooper height giant who thinks he's a dog" isn't that notable to your carny sensibilities.

But what is notable is that Peaknuckle's handler/guardian/owner Maxine is perched on his back, legs crossed. In her left hand is a book–Love of a Samurai, which has all the vibes of a Harlequin bean-flicker–and in her right, a rolled up newspaper. Every time the dog-man trembles, twitches, or whines? He catches a slap right in his face.

To this tableaux wheels in Chadwick Kyle, somehow inexplicably still wrapped in head to foot bandages like a shitbird Joshua Graham. Pigpen is pushing him in his wheelchair, having donned an ill-fitting suit jacket over his normal gear,a freshly pulled flower ( roots and all ) on his lapel. He bows respectfully, deeply as he can go, then clears his throat and lights a cigarette. Chad looks down at the paper he is holding.

Chadwick: "Maxine. I have failed you in the Best of Five series to kill your dog. I have lived with shame in the days since and found Pigpen Matsumoto in the bottoms of bottles. It is like the episode of Frasier where he gets in an argument with the Martin Crane over stupid shit for soul mutt Eddie and must having dinner with the homeless."

Chad looks up, first to Pigpen, who nods, somber. Then he looks back to Maxine. He takes a long moment to study her face, trying to make sense of it all, and seems more confused than he was before. Then he shrugs with a small wince and continues.

Chadwick: "Pigpen became rock bottomed." Not what that means.

Her expression doesn't change, her position doesn't move. She's affixing Pigpen with a critical look, as if she's trying to determine if he's completely full of shit. He doesn't falter once.

Chadwick: "Pigpen Matsumoto is King of All Death, but against your stupid dog, he has been King of All Shit. This ends at PPV…if you will let me."

Chad looks over to Pigpen.

Chadwick: It says here in those little bracket thingies that I'm supposed to wait for the song?

To this prompt, Pigpen reaches into the backpack hanging off the seat of Chad's wheelchair, retrieving a small boombox. He sets this down on the ground, pressing play on the tape that's pre-loaded.

After a few moments of hiss…fucking "Kiss From a Rose" starts playing.

There used to be a greying tower alone by the sea

You became, the light on the dark side of me

Chadwick: "Maxine, you are become my power, my pleasure, my pain. Just like Batman is singing now from his hit song. No fancy gimmick to match. No 'wrestling'--" Says that I'm supposed to spit here, but I can't turn my head, so…"Just war. Combat. A man and a stupid mutt trying to kill the persons in the ring. Not just for helping you, the most beautiful woman in world. Not just for murder a stupid dog. But because your rose is in bloom, and light hitting gloom." The fuck does this mean dude?

Pigpen: Read.

Chadwick: "I am asking, humble lead, for not only to be given chance to murder your dog who is also your son. I am asking–" Yo, you serious about this, Pig?

Pigpen: Yes. Most serious.

Chadwick: "I am asking for, if I should be winning…your hand in marriage."

I've, been, kissed by a rose on the grey

I ( I've ) been kissed by a rose on the grey

With a grunt and an exhale of cigarette smoke, Pigpen begins to lower himself to one knee. He has to back off after his first attempt, grumbling and rubbing his lumbar. He then braces himself against the chair and starts to lower, his back leg clearly having a muscle spasm as the ancient hinges of his knee brace grind. We hear various parts of him pop with loud staccato pops at least three times. He finally makes it, and scoots himself to rotate leftwards, so he is looking directly at the object of his affection.

A coldness on her face that not even February could muster.

Maxine: Why can't I stay mad at you?

She lowers her head, shamed herself.

Maxine: It appears I have developed some… affection towards you, Piggly Wiggly.

She drags her finger gently under his chin, only to scratch it violently.

She's speaking his language.

Maxine: But if you want me to surrender my maiden status, and take your last name for my own, you cannot fail again.

Maxine glowers at him.

Maxine: I will not marry a failure.

Pigpen nods, his jaw resolute and set. He snatches the cigarette from his lips and crushes it in his hand, likely too nerve-damaged to feel the burn from the lit tobacco.

Pigpen: At big show? Knives. Trash can. Table. Fire. Everything. Every hit. Every drop of shit dog's shit blood. Love letter.

A keen eye might spot the slightest bit of swoon in Maxine's knees.

She pulls at the ends of her suit jacket, folds her arms over her chest.

Maxine: Actions speak louder than words, Piggly. It's pretty quiet, isn't it dear?

Matsumoto smiles a genuine smile of broken teeth and years of tobacco use.

Pigpen: Not for long, cherry blossom.

He spits directly on Peaknuckle, then fires up another cigarette and begins to wheel his trainee away.

Pigpen: Not quiet for long.

Now that your rose is in bloom

A light hits the gloom on the grey

The camera opens in the talent parking lot, backstage of The Pinnacle. Many extras and stage workers are hustling around trying to get to where they belong from their perches. The camera pans around the parking lot until it catches a 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500 roaring into the lot. The windows are completely tinted so it isn’t until the car stops, wheels screeching, and the occupants jump out that the camera reveals The Collins Twins. Michael Collins driving, Rowland Collins riding.

The men stand to their feet, each with a World Tag Team Championship belt on their shoulder. Both men wear black Empyrean Forge sweatshirts and jeans, and a stern look on their faces as they walk toward the backstage area. That is, until Abigail Chase cuts them off with her microphone, walking in front of them to get them to stop.

Abigail Chase: It’s been awfully quiet from the Collins Twins since The Punch Line revealed the 1897 Niagara Falls Cross-Border Athletic Accord and earned their rematch for those belts you two are proudly wearing. Why is that?

Rowland and Michael look at each other and smirk.

Rowland Collins: Good afternoon te you, too, Abigail.

Michael Collins: Just right down to brass tacks, aye?

Abigail Chase: You wouldn’t happen to be worried about your championships, would you? You have yet to beat The Punch Line in any sort of match. Are you scared they’re going to beat you again at Redemption?

Michael looks at Rowland, Rowland looks at Michael and then down at Abigail. Rowland’s usually playful demeanor is replaced with all business.

Rowland Collins: We Collins Twins aren’t scared a’ anyt’ing, Lass. T’at includes some outta shape Canucks who have ta find century old treaties te get our attention. We knew they’d find a way to make our lives Hell the way we did theirs.

Michael Collins: We’re t’e kings o’ t’is division now, Abigail Chase. It’s time we started actin’ like it.

Instead of looking at Abigail, they turn their heads and stare into the camera.

Rowland Collins: At Redemption, we’ll give you t’e beat’n you so desire, Punchies. We’ll bloody ye up and make ye feel somet’in’ again if that’s what ye want. We’ll give you your shot. All ye had te do was ask.

Michael Collins: But that’s it. After we beat you 1-2-3, we don’t want to see yer faces challenging for our belts ever again.

Rowland Collins: None o’ t’is back and forth bullshittery. Ye worked yer asses off to win the belts the first time. Clawed yer way out of mediocrity into something special. But now, it’s down to one shot. Yer last bullet in the chamber, as it were.

You better not miss.

The Collins Twins stare at the camera for a moment. They then walk past Abigail’s outstretched arm and into the backstage area, leaving Abigail Chase to cut the camera.

Just as they take a few steps, Harv Norris and Rick Hull walk into frame from the opposite direction, clearly having been nearby the entire time. Both men are in casual clothes. Harv is wearing his Punch Line jersey and Rick is in a black hoodie. They walk with purpose.

Harv Norris: Outta shape?! OUTTA SHAPE?!

The Collins Twins stop and turn around, immediately tensing up.

Harv Norris: B’y, the only thing outta shape around here is that ridiculous car ye just parked! What is that, compensating for somethin’? Looks like somethin’ a guy buys during a midlife crisis!

Rick Hull: 1967. Good year for cars. Bad year for the Collins family tree, apparently.

Michael Collins: Oh, here we go…

Harv Norris: And ye got the NERVE to call us “outta shape”? Rolly, I’ve seen yer diet, b’y! Ye eat more potatoes than an entire Irish village during harvest season! The only exercise ye get is liftin’ pints!

Rowland Collins: At least we didn’t need a hundred-year-old treaty to get a title shot!

Harv Norris: It was an amendment called 2025 Niagara Falls Friendship & Wrestling Accord, thank ye very much! Get yer dates right! And it wasn’t a hundred years old, it was signed in October! By an honorary moose! Show some respect for international diplomacy!

Rick Hull: And it worked. That’s what matters.

Michael Collins: Worked? Ye conned yer way into a title match!

Harv Norris: CONNED?! We invoked a legally binding amendment to a treaty witnessed by municipal authorities and wildlife! That’s called being SMART, Mikey! Something ye’d know about if ye spent less time polishin’ that fancy car and more time studyin’ the rules!

Rick Hull: Your “last bullet” talk is cute. But we don’t miss.

Rowland Collins: We’ll see about that at Redemption, won’t we?

Harv Norris: Aye, we will! And when we take those titles back, the first thing we’re gonna do is park PROPERLY! Look at yer car! Ye’re takin’ up TWO spots! TWO!

The camera abruptly cuts to a quick shot of the Mustang from moments earlier, parked at a ridiculous diagonal, shamelessly straddling two clearly marked spaces.

Harv Norris: That’s the most disrespectful thing I’ve seen all week, and I watched ye try to duck out of defendin’ those titles!

Rick Hull: Running. Like always.

Rowland Collins: We’re standin’ right here, aren’t we?

Rick Hull: Now. After we made you.

The two teams are now face to face in the parking lot, Abigail Chase wisely stepping aside.

Harv Norris: “Last bullet in the chamber”… b’y, ye talk like yer in some kind of action movie! This isn’t Hollywood, this is professional wrestling! And at Redemption, we’re gonna remind ye that when it comes to actual WRESTLING, not hidin’ in luxury boxes or drivin’ fancy cars or quotin’ movie lines… The Punch Line are STILL the best tag team ye’ve ever faced!

Michael Collins: Then why don’t ye have the belts?

The question hangs in the air. Harv’s jaw clenches. Rick’s eyes narrow.

Rick Hull: Temporary condition.

Harv Norris: Aye. Very temporary. Enjoy ’em while ye can, boys. Take ’em to bed with ye. Cuddle ‘em. Give ‘em names. Because after Redemption, they’re comin’ home to Canada where they belong!

Michael Collins: Big talk from men wit’out any gold.

Harv looks down at his empty shoulder, then back at Michael with a grin.

Harv Norris: See, here’s the thing, lads. Ye talk about how we had to “claw our way out of mediocrity.” Well, at least we CLAWED! What did YE do? Ye waited! Ye watched! Ye ambushed! And when the chaos settled, ye scooped up the belts like scavengers picking at a carcass!

Rick Hull: Vultures.

Harv Norris: EXACTLY! Vultures in Empire t-shirts!

Rowland Collins: Keep talkin’, Harv. It’ll make putting ye down at Redemption that much sweeter.

Harv Norris: Oh, I’ll keep talking, b’y! I’ll talk all the way to Redemption! I’ll talk all the way through our entrance! I’ll talk all the way until we’re standing in that ring with OUR championships back around OUR waists, and YOU two are lying on yer backs wondering what happened!

Rick Hull: Last bullet in the chamber?

Harv Norris: Aye! Ye said we better not miss! Well, here’s a Newfoundland hunting tip for ye: we NEVER miss when the target’s this big and this slow!

Michael takes a step forward, but Rowland puts a hand on his chest, holding him back.

Rowland Collins: Redemption. We’ll see who’s slow.

Harv Norris: Aye, we will! And we’ll ALSO see who can actually beat who in a straight-up fight! No ambushes, no attacks, no hiding! Just four men, two teams, and the truth!

Rick Hull: They won’t like the truth.

The Punch Line walk off-camera, leaving the Collins Twins standing in the parking lot, both men gripping their championship belts tightly, their earlier confidence clearly shaken by the verbal sparring.

Abigail Chase, who has been watching this entire exchange with wide eyes, slowly raises her microphone.

Abigail Chase: So… any response to that, gentlemen?

The Collins Twins stare in the direction The Punch Line walked off, then look at each other, then back at Abigail.

Michael Collins: …did he say it was signed by a moose?

Rowland Collins: An HONORARY moose, apparently.

Here's the complete segment with the banner and all content: ```html

Eryk Masters: Coming up next, Josh Kaine takes on King Homewrecker in an attempt to help SHOOT newcomer Aaron Dearinger defend his family's honor.

Jason Johnson: That's right, Eryk. King Homewrecker has made a lifestyle out of stealing other people's wives, if even just for a few hours, and he's run afoul of Josh Kaine, who's made it clear since day one in the SHOOT Project that he has no time for bullies.

Eryk Masters: Let's cut it back to the ring with Samantha Coil so we can get this contest underway!

The cameras focus on Samantha Coil in the center of the ring, holding the microphone up.

Samantha Coil: The following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL…!

Samantha's cut off as a thunderous drum roll comes over the PA system.

Eryk Masters: …or maybe not…?

Slayer. "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida." The fans erupt in cheers and chants as COREY LAZARUS struts out from behind the curtain, geared up for a match despite not being booked this week. In one hand rests a microphone, in the other a briefcase. His flashes the camera his trademark devilish grin and blows it a kiss, making his way down the ramp.

"L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!!"

Corey Lazarus: Alright, alright…go ahead and cut the music.

"In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" is cut as Lazarus climbs the steps, pausing for a moment on the apron.

Corey Lazarus: Samantha, my dear old friend, I'd like to offer my formal apologies for interrupting your angelic voice, but babe? I made a promise two weeks ago that never quite came to fruition, a whole lot of lawyer talk and issues with the State Athletic Commission and blah blah blah…

Jason Johnson: …is he talking about the challenge to Arthur Pleasant?

Eryk Masters: He has to be, Jason. Laz made that challenge at Zenith 007, putting up $250,000 of his own money if Arthur could last 10 minutes in the ring with him.

Corey steps between the ropes, nodding to Samantha as she exits.

Corey Lazarus: …but everyone knows that the Hollywood Kid is a man of his word, so I intend to follow through.

He carefully places the briefcase on the mat and turns to face the hard cam, lifting his silver-rimmed Ray-Bans over his head.

Corey Lazarus: Normally, if I come out here with a microphone in my hand, that usually means that yours truly is about to make someone get their feathers so riled up that they make a pretty stupid decision. I laugh, they cry, you all rejoice, and then we call it a night, dig? Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's just not what's going on in the Pinnacle this evening.

He pauses, a smirk appearing in the corner of his mouth.

Corey Lazarus: Because tonight is a special kind of night, right? It's the last Zenith of the year! The season finale! And we're gathered here tonight, right as the ages-old demigod known as Mariah Carey has begun her annual feasting of our very souls in the tradition of yuletide merriment, to have what is, in this business, called the "go home"...

Corey turns to face the other side of the crowd and holds his free hand up, emphatically forming the quotation marks with his index and middle fingers.

Corey Lazarus: …show before our next big Pay-Per-View event. In this case, that would be Redemption, live from right here in N-Y-C, and see, folks, I'm…

He searches for the words, grasping at them with his finger tips. Corey's focus goes to his hand, softly snapping his fingers as he inches his tongue closer and closer to forming the phrasing he desires.

Corey Lazarus: …I'm here in the spirit of giving, dig? Two weeks ago, just a few short steps behind that curtain up there, I had a camera in my face, and some lowly stagehand named Kevin was mumbling something about talking to the lovely Abigail Chase about the match that my main man Dustin and I were going to have with the Punch Line.

And that's where the trouble started.

Corey lowers his hand, closing his eyes.

Corey Lazarus: Because, at that moment, I wasn't thinking about Rick Hull or Harv Norris. I wasn't concerned with how they'd likely need to blend up some poutine so they could suck it through a straw when Wolfy and I were done, and the idea of giving those two McPussies that stole our World Tag Team titles from us their receipts for pulling that spineless shithead stunt of theirs was firmly on the backburner. All I could think of, all I could conjure in my mind's eye…

He opens his eyes, slowly staring up at the nearest camera.

Corey Lazarus: …was you, Arthur.

Corey lowers the microphone and wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Corey Lazarus: About how you decided to step outside your little safe zone and stick your nose in my son's business. About how you laid you laid your goddamn filthy hands on my boy, MY PRIDE AND FUCKING JOY, Ricky Tenet.

A chant begins in the balcony, growing by the second.

"LET'S GO, RICKY!! **clap, clap, clapclapclap**"
"LET'S GO, RICKY!! **clap, clap, clapclapclap**"

Corey Lazarus: Do you hear that, Artie? Do you hear these people?

Louder. Louder.

"LET'S GO, RICKY!! **CLAP, CLAP, CLAPCLAPCLAP**"
"LET'S GO, RICKY!! **CLAP, CLAP, CLAPCLAPCLAP**"

Corey Lazarus: That noise? That beautiful chorus? That is the collective shouts of thousands of people that know you - yes, you, junior - have fucked up.

There are so few things that a rat bastard like yourself, surrounded by a myriad of mental misfits, truly values in this world, and it's obvious that your own pride isn't one of them, so I figured that I'd try something different. I promised it two weeks ago, Artie, and I never break a promise, so feast your beady little eyes on this.

Lazarus snatches the briefcase from the canvas, laying it hooked over his forearm as his finger unlocks the lid. He opens it wide, revealing stacks of US currency.

Corey Lazarus: Go ahead. Zoom on in.

The camera zooms in, showing multiple images of Benjamin Franklin. An assortment of ooh's and aah's filter from each section, Corey's smirk dissolving into a cold, serious glare.

Corey Lazarus: Two-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars, Artie. A quarter mill. All for you, champ. Think of this as an early Christmas present, all tax-free, on the one condition that I laid out for you. Not Lou, not Sammy, not anyone else from the pack of rabid vagabonds you've deluded into thinking that your words mean a goddamn thing. Just you. Arthur fucking Pleasant. Ten minutes. Right here. With the Last…Damn…Icon.

Lazarus snaps the briefcase shut and places it back down on the canvas. He turns to face the ramp, sliding off his entrance jacket.

Corey Lazarus: I have all night, you piece of monkey shit, and I'll have Gregory Price tie this company up with so much litigation if anyone tries to get cute and drag my ass, kicking and screaming, from this very spot until you find the balls to…

No music. Just someone tapping on a microphone. Before long, The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ makes his way out in his wrestling gear.

Eryk Masters: Looks like someone's about to try and get himself $250,000!

Corey can't even finish his tirade before The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ raises the microphone to his mouth, letting a cackle reverberate throughout The Pinnacle.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: …be more like Sammy. Stop talking.

Shaking his head, the audience is already raining the boos down upon the DeMONSTRance leader.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Before I get into your brave, confident little challenge, I'm going to say a few things. You're gonna get mad all over again and probably try to cut me off, but I'm just going to indulge myself with the idea that maybe you just tired yourself out with that embarrassing rant. You need anger management, my child. Ask HR about some kind of program. I'm sure they have it!

Corey looks like he wants to murder Arthur. Like, more than he did when he first came out to the ring. Arthur snickers as he watches Laz seethe.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: My, my, my! People say I'M a nepo baby around here when, truth is, X didn't even know I existed until I made my way here on my own merits. But Ricky? You and your son are just a sad example of the nepo baby syndrome running wild around here.

Arthur holds up a finger as they begin to boo him.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: No, no. I'm going somewhere with this, I promise!

Pleasant continues, a smirk widening on his face as he sees Corey pacing like a man who wants to fight somebody outside a bar.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: So… it wouldn't be so bad, or painfully sad, if you were someone from the past who actually did something significant around here. But last I heard, upstarts from the UWA have accomplished more than you have. Me? I'm an Iron Fist Champion. I'm a MASTER of the MAT. I'm a man who scared Azraith DeMitri out of SHOOT because he didn't want to lose another finger.

"BOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Fact is, my child…

Corey Lazarus: WAIT! Wait, wait, wait…are we…? Oh. Oh no, Artie. Oh, sweetheart, you…folks, we're listing credentials now! Isn't that right, Captain A-Hole? Is that really what you want to do? With the guy who knocked Osbourne Kilminster right the fuck out two - count 'em! - TWO times for that same Iron Fist title? With the THREE-TIME World Tag Team champion? Should I even go into the things that I've done while you were still using a Sharpie to make that peach fuzz on your chinny-chin-chin look thicker?

"FUCK 'EM UP, COREY, FUCK 'EM UP!!"
**clap clap clap**
"FUCK 'EM UP, COREY, FUCK 'EM UP!!"
**clap clap clap**

Corey winks at the ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ, bowing as the Pinnacle continues cheering him on.

Corey Lazarus: Wait…wait, wait…shhhhh…the little cub scout over there looks like he has some more to say! Well go right ahead, padre. The floor is yours again!

Arthur grins, amused by Corey's insolence.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: …as I was saying, child, all I see—and the rest of my congregation sees, as it so happens—is this weird comeback story from an old Soldier of SHOOT returning that nobody really asked for in the first place.

He winks at Corey, whose proud indignation slowly changes to frustration as he shakes his head.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: You stand there all mad because we hurt your kid with a big boo-boo after he mistakenly got in our way, and now you're… seething. Ooooooo.

A beat and Pleasant follows it up before the crowd can start chanting their usual denigrating chants toward Arthur. Before Lazarus can offer any sort of retort.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: You're an embarrassed, wreck of a man pretending to be a good father, hurling insults at the greatest revelation this company has ever been blessed with! So Ricky's, shall we say, predicament? Corey. That's… well, that's actually on your hands.

Eryk Masters: Corey looks like he's about to roll out of the ring and make a beeline for Arthur.

Jason Johnson: He better be careful, you never know where the rest of the DeMONSTRance are lurking. This could be another one of Pleasant's games; baiting someone in an emotional state into making an impulsive mistake.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Tell Richard we hope he gets well, and that there's a place at the table with us if he wants it!

Corey actually laughs at this, knowing how ridiculous Arthur sounds.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: So with that small business out of the way, it's time to address the next order of business. Your… open challenge.

The arena starts cheering, hoping Arthur accepts it.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: I've had a couple of weeks to think about your brazen challenge from this past Zenith. Ten-minutes to "last" with you in the ring, you say? $250,000, you say? That's amusing.

I've the last few weeks to think, but to be honest, I knew the moment you puffed your chest out at me what my answer was going to be. And that answer?

That answer is no, my child.

"BOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: While I appreciate the offer, both as you serving as tribute for me to show the world why I am the most dangerous wrestler alive, and the nice little prize you want to dangle in front of me as the proverbial carrot…I'm just not interested in wasting my time with a nobody. I'd rather face Holden Nobody for free for an hour, because at least there's someone who's more of a somebody than you.

As for the money? You don't know me at all, do you? I don't do what I do for the money. I do what I do because I like to express myself in the chaos I create. I do what I do because THE LIE can't buy its way out of our crosshairs, and neither can you.

Request…denied!

Corey shakes his head, tonguing the inside of his lower lip. He clears his throat and leans against the ropes, the closest he can get to Arthur without leaving the ring, running up to him, and driving an elbow into that jackal-like grin of his.

Corey Lazarus: See, babe…can I call you "babe"?

Arthur motions to answer, but is immediately cut off as Corey continues.

Corey Lazarus: See, babe, that attitude right there? That little "I'm all about the chaos" vibe you're putting out there?

Lazarus, of course, forms the quotation marks with his fingers, stepping back from the ropes for just a moment.

Corey Lazarus: It's pathetic, dig? It's the kind of incel shit that some Heath Ledger quoting imbecile who surrounds himself with the biggest losers possible would flap their gingivitis-ridden gums about, all the while they're struggling with controlling their bladder so they don't embarrass themselves on live television, especially when it burns each and every time. Now, with that all being said, there are two things that I need to say to you right now. One…

Corey holds up a single finger - you know the one - and winks.

Corey Lazarus: …go see a doctor about that last part, slick, and two? I guess I need to be just a tad bit more direct…

Corey steps forward again, sitting on the middle rope, holding it open. He leans out of the ring, waving Arthur in, his eyes burning as they focus on the ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ.

Corey Lazarus: …come on over and see if anything you just shat out of that truckstop fuckhole of yours has some weight, you pussy-ass punk bitch!!

Arthur cackles again, shaking his head.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Poor baby doesn't like the answer they got. Well, that's the thing about life. You don't always get what you want, my child. However, since I am in a kind and giving mood—especially after your relentless display of good manners, let me give you your…

Pleasant raises two fingers in the air. The simple act seems to silence the crowd as they wait in suspense.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: …consolation gift.

His fingers snap and a commotion fills the audience along the barricade. Figures emerge from the crowd, blurred shapes that seem to emerge from the shadows.

Eryk Masters: SAMMY ROCHESTER!! DEPRAVITY!! THE DEMONSTRANCE IS HERE!!

They surround the ring as Lazarus backs into its center, Arthur casually stepping further and further down the ramp.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Oh, no. Tsk, tsk, tsk! Corey, babe. May I call you babe? I…was so nice to you. I opened the portal for you. It was right THERE! Ready for you to take a step and save yourself from a well-earned chastisement. But… you just couldn't help but keep feeding yourself lies. Your fragile ego wouldn't allow you to turn the other cheek and leave an untenable situation you got yourself into. Well, BABE…it's too late. Now the disrespect will be dealt with!

Arthur stops as he reaches the ring, drawing Corey's full attention.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: And it will be dealt with accordingly. So if you wish to be a martyr for a lost cause? Then let us oblige.

Arthur pulls himself onto the apron, causing the rest of the DeMONSTRance to do the same. Lazarus sighs and cracks his neck to the side, quickly throwing a few warning jabs in the direction of Sammy. The silent monster barely flinches, stepping slowly over the top rope…

Jason Johnson: He's surrounded! And Sammy's closing in!

The crowd ROARS as three men run out from the back. THUNDERWOLF. RICKY TENET. HOLDEN NOBODY. All three rush out, sprinting down to the ring at mach speed.

Eryk Masters: But here comes the cavalry!!

Corey connects with an elbow to Sammy's jaw that barely affects the beast as Ricky and Holden slide into the ring. Thunderwolf grabs Arthur by the ankles and yanks him off the apron, trading shots at ringside, while Holden and Corey double-up on Sammy with right hands and elbows. Ricky swings wildly at Depravity as she leaps back from the apron, laughing at the young man's attempt to strike her.

Jason Johnson: And Sammy still won't go down!!

Holden and Corey trade off on Sammy with chops and elbows, Nobody throwing a few nasty right hooks in for good measure, but the silent giant stays on his feet. Rochester grabs both men by their throats, looking to hoist them up, but Ricky rushes over and KICKS HIM LOW!

Eryk Masters: Thunderwolf and Arthur Pleasant, duking it out on the floor…!

Thunderwolf has Arthur reeling for a moment, but he dodges low before the killshot - cracking a wicked elbow shot to Wolf's ribs, causing the Hall of Famer to drop to a knee. He boots the eldest Kelser in the face, catching him square in the bridge of his nose. Arthur then grips Dustin by the throat and pulls him up, staring him in the eye.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: You escaped me ONCE…now, where were we?!

Depravity rolls into the ring with a steel chair in her hand and strikes, slamming the chair across Ricky's back. Tenet falls down and covers up, allowing Depravity to send another chair shot his way, this time to his face. Sammy shrugs off the attacks from Holden and Corey once more, firing off shots on both of them that send them dropping down.

Outside, Arthur grinds Dustin's face into the steps, readying to boot him in the back of the head.

Eryk Masters: He could break his neck!! Arthur Pleasant is about to break Thunderwolf's neck!!

!!!***LIGHTS OUT***!!!

Jason Johnson: What is going on now?!?

Murmurs. Stirs. The crowd chatters amongst itself.

!!!***LIGHTS ON***!!!

Eryk Masters: CHANCE KELSER?!?!

Chance stands between his father and the ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ, pointing his baseball bat directly at Pleasant's face.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Hmph. How… inconvenient.

Arthur steps back, his grin fading for a brief moment, before Chance strikes.

Eryk Masters: AND HE'S HERE TO SAVE HIS FATHER AGAIN?!

Chance drives the bat into Arthur's gut before cracking it across his back, sending Pleasant down into a heap. The Prophet turns his attention to the ring, watching as Depravity grinds the chair into Ricky's throat while she laughs wildly. He slowly rolls into the ring and, in a heartbeat, attacks!

Jason Johnson: DEPRAVITY DOESN'T SEE IT…!

CRACK

Lou falls to a heap, clutching her back before bailing out of the ring. Chance pivots and smacks the bat into Sammy's back, drawing the monster's attention. Rochester turns and eats a shot across his midsection, doubling over, and then finally drops after another shot across his upper back that BREAKS THE BAT.

"HOLY SHIT!! HOLY SHIT!! HOLY SHIT!!"

The behemoth rolls out of the ring as Thunderwolf climbs in, crawling to Corey to check on him. Holden helps a bloodied Ricky to his feet, drips of crimson falling to the canvas, as Chance aims the broken shard of the bat left in his hand toward the DeMONSTRance.

Jason Johnson: Here comes security!!

SHOOT Security bumrushes the ring, two dozen strong, with a few of the NYPD's finest in tow for good measure. The brawl looks as though it's ready to continue before Arthur holds up his hand, staying his congregation in their place.

"LET THEM FIGHT!! LET THEM FIGHT!!"

Eryk Masters: Things are finally starting to calm down now, SHOOT Security restoring some order…

Security swarms ringside as Sammy and Lou join Arthur and the Deacon halfway up the ramp. Most of the guards surround the DeMONSTRance, one of the NYPD officers having his taser drawn and at the ready with his eyes locked on Sammy. Arthur cackles as Depravity crouches down on all-fours, forming a living bench for the ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ to sit down on as he slowly applauds the efforts of the men in the ring.

Holden Nobody. Ricky Tenet. Corey Lazarus. Thunderwolf. Chance Kelser.

The five stare daggers at the DeMONSTRance, goading them into the ring as a massive wall of officials separate them from ringside. Chance turns to face the others, emotionless, and affixes his gaze upon his father. He raises the wreckage of the baseball bat in Dustin's direction as Corey, Ricky, and Holden ready themselves for more.

Dustin steps in front of the others, inches away from the splintered wood drawn toward his face. Chance rears back…and drops what's left of the bat…

…before he marches into his father, wrapping his arms around him tightly. Wolf immediately accepts the embrace, tightening his grip on his son as he fights back tears.

Eryk Masters: Father and son, reunited here tonight!

Dustin has his son back. Chance has his father back. Dustin demands a microphone and is obliged, walking back to the center of the ring.

Thunderwolf: (His voice is rough, breathless, but steady. He keeps one arm around Chance, as if physically anchoring him to this side of the line.) Let me remind you, you son of a bitch, you fed me your blood. You beat me with a chain. You tried to do what better men have tried to do for ages, and failed. You tried to end me. End the family. You don't get to walk away from all of this unscathed.

Corey and Ricky look on, cautious but optimistic. Holden's stare never drifts from Sammy Rochester on the ramp.

Thunderwolf: You and your kind don't belong here, Arthur. And that's what this really boils down to, isn't it? That you're a manchild, not a wrestler, but a manchild who wasn't swaddled enough as a babe, and as a result, needs to throw tantrums and cheapshots to try and get a point across. That's not being inspirational. That's being a bitch!!

The entire Pinnacle roars. Dustin eyes up the entire DeMONSTRance.

Thunderwolf: You people... you goddamn people have no idea what you just woke up.

He looks at Arthur, his eyes cold and hard. The Beast was back.

Thunderwolf: You came for my family. You came for my blood. And you thought you could break us. But all you did was remind us all of who we are. All you did... was bring us back together.

He tightens his grip on Chance's shoulder. It's a possessive, protective gesture.

Thunderwolf: So here's how this ends. You don't get to deny us. You don't get to retreat to your shadows. We're finishing this. At Redemption. Me. Corey. And my son, Chance Kelser.

He points directly at Arthur.

Thunderwolf: Against you, Sammy, and Lou: ELIMINATION RULES!

Once again, the Pinnacle pops hard.

Thunderwolf: No more games. No more sermons. No more bullshit. Just a fight. And when the smoke clears, the only thing left standing in that ring will be the family you were too stupid, too weak, and too powerless to kill.

He flips the mic like a water bottle and lets it hit the ground with a static laden thud. The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ cackles and waves at the quintet in the ring, commanding his flock to retreat as they calmly make their way back up the ramp. The challenge is laid down. The family is reunited.

And the trap is set.

```

Josh Kaine stands up as his music hits, panting heavily from his hard-fought match against King Homewrecker. The son of Sinn hasn't had the best run of luck lately, but damn if he doesn't look pleased with how tonight has turned out.

Eryk Masters: An impressive victory by Josh Kaine tonight!

Jason Johnson: Agreed Eryk. Great bounce back match, especially considering King Homewrecker is no slouch. He doesn't look quite as smug tonight.

Josh turns in the ring, looking out over the gathered crowd in New York City before making his way to the ropes. Kaine motions for a mic, giving his thanks to the ringside attendant that passes one up to him. Them Bones slowly fades out over the PA, giving way for Kaine to address the audience.

Josh Kaine: Don't got much to say here, folks, so I'll keep this brief.

He walks to the prone man in the ring who is struggling to get up before squatting down next to him. The younger man breathes a little heavy, tonight's battle hadn't been an easy one.

Josh Kaine: I know you got a name to live up to and all, Homewrecker, but you picked the wrong home to try'n fuck up. Dearingers are friends 'o mine and you can keep any mention o' Aaron's family out of your cakehole from now on.

He reaches out with his free hand, gently tapping on the man's face.

Josh Kaine: You hear me?

But it wouldn't be a Homewrecker match without some type of hijinks. The crowd begins to buzz as a large, masked figure hurriedly makes his way through the Pinnacle audience; if he'd had less clothes on, we'd recognize him from his latest promo. His signature mask is what gives up the ghost though, especially considering he already competed earlier in the evening.

The unexpected roar through the crowd should have drawn Josh's attention, but Kaine doesn't look up. Not until he's knocked to the ground by none other than King Oso!

Eryk Masters: Wait a second, Jace! That's King Oso!

Jason Johnson: We know King Oso and King Homewrecker have seen tag team action previously, but this is certainly a new development!

Eryk Masters: The big man is REALLY giving it to Kaine!

The mic gets knocked out of Josh's hand as he gets shoved forward, his hands shooting out to stop his fall. Oso starts raining down elbows and kicks to Kaine's shoulders and ribs.

Suddenly King Homewrecker has found new life. He's laughing as he gets to his feet, dusting himself off and flexing as King Oso works. Boos fill the arena. Paper fountain drink cups begin to pepper the ring and Homewrecker is LOVING IT. He signals something at a ringside attendant and a moment later two red hats are thrown into the ring.

Make Lainey Moist Again.

After Homewrecker puts his on, he judiciously affixes the other atop Oso's masked facade. The two share an adrenaline pumped handshake straight out of Over the Top as New York City hisses and curses them, Josh Kaine rolling around helplessly in the ring.

Eryk Masters: This is disgusting. Two on one? Kaine never had a chance.

Somebody starts to ring the bell in an attempt to clear the ring, but what are peasants to a king? Two kings actually. Now Homewrecker starts laying them in; at first a rib stomp or two, a slap upside the head, a little trash talk. As he's jawing at Kaine, it's clear he's getting progressively more pissed. At one point he grabs the ropes and starts mudhole stomping Kaine while King Oso takes a turn to flex and soak in the vitriol of the audience.

Jason Johnson: Okay, I think this has gone on long enough.

As if on cue, the filthy electricity of Sturgill Simpson's "Fastest Horse in Town" flips the arena boos into cheers, and both Kings suddenly stand at attention in the ring with fists raised.

Eryk Masters: That's Aaron Dearinger's music!

Aaron doesn't come down the ramp though! Instead he jumps out from the front row wearing fan apparel! He slides into the ring and meets Homewrecker blow for blow! The crowd is on their feet!

Jason Johnson: DOWN GOES HOMEWRECKER! HOMEWRECKER IS DOWN!

Now it's King Oso's turn! But he catches Aaron by surprise as Homewrecker hits the mat! He's got the advantage!

Eryk Masters: And there's Kaine! Josh Kaine is up! He hits Oso from behind with the double axehandle!

Jason Johnson: Now Kaine and Dearinger are stomping Oso mercilessly!

But Homewrecker QUICKLY drags his newfound buddy out of the ring from under the ropes before the assault can continue! Homewrecker and Oso are holding each other up as they walk up the ramp backwards, Kaine and Dearinger staring them down! The Pinnacle is going nuts!

Eryk Masters: You know, I'd heard rumblings about a drunken uncle type event at the Dearinger Thanksgiving backstage. But if there was any unease between Kaine and Dearinger…it looks like that was put to bed TONIGHT.

Jason Johnson: No doubt this was a statement Eryk. It looks like the playing field's been leveled.

As the Pinnacle continues to drown out Dearinger's entrance music, Dearinger himself gestures at them before extending a handshake to Kaine…

…who wastes no time in accepting it.

Eryk Masters: And we're not even at the main attraction yet. Stay tuned folks, don't go anywhere! Still ahead! The Fatal Four-Way MAIN EVENT. Kelser on Kelser violence! Sammy Rochester! Laura Seton! And don't forget the World Champ, JOSH BREEDLOVE. ONLY on ZENITH.

Jason Johnson: I'm getting word that we're gonna head back to the lockerroom, right now. Breedlove has some things he wants to get off his chest going into this massive main event match!

Eryk Masters: I'm sure he'll be so very humble and chill.

The scene then shifts and it's SHOOT Project's World Champion, Joshua Breedlove, on his own with the World Championship belt hanging behind him. He's sitting on his lockerroom's bench, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him, looking down. The crowd gives him the reaction you'd expect – boos. He lifts his head up and has a smile on his face.

Breedlove: I love that reaction. Love dragging the disdain and vitriol from the people, both in the stands and here, backstage. It drives me. Moves me. Motivates me. In many ways, I am a chameleon. I don't react the same way every time, you know? I act scared sometimes, I act defiant others, and the times in between I just do what I want.

He pauses, takes in a deep breath.

Breedlove: Except for right now. First, I'll just be right up front and say it… Sammy Rochester is terrifying. I can deal with professional wrestlers of all shapes and sizes, but the thing that sets Sammy Rochester apart is that at his core, he's not a professional wrestler.

Breedlove shrugs.

Breedlove: Everyone else? When you start to break us down, even me, it's all the same. We're all professional wrestlers. Yeah, some of us have different baggage, some of us have different skills, different stories. At the end of the day, though, when the bell rings it's just professional wrestlers battling for supremacy. Everything else? Everything else is just marketing.

Without looking, he points up and back at the World Championship.

Breedlove: I'm a master at marketing. I'm so good at marketing people take shots at me and my colleagues for no reason, just because they know that doing so earns them valuable credibility with the fans. It's just simple math. I don't fault them for that, I encourage it. The attention they give me just builds my legend and sets me apart from everyone who came before me and for the people who'll come after me. This match we're about to go into? Me and Laura? This shit is a clusterfuck that we got invited to, and accepted the invitation to, because we need a warmup before Redemption.

He smirks.

Breedlove: Before I put X-Calibur in the dirt. The rest of it? The rest of it is just setup for the future. Breedlove Vs. Thunderwolf? Breedlove Vs. Chance Kelser? Breedlove against anyone in that match (except for Sammy Rochester) is just absolute money. I HOPE one of them wins the Redemption Rumble, so I can do what I do and make them a star in the SHOOT Project without even trying. But until then? For tonight? We'll have to settle for what's going to amount to a brawl and whoever wins? It'll mostly be because of luck. Unless it's me. That'll be because of skill.

He laughs.

Breedlove: There are some truths and inevitabilities in this organization. One, I am the most recognized World Champion that the SHOOT Project has ever seen. Two, eeeveryone wants a piece of me because they see dollar signs and fame. Three, X-Calibur is about 30 years past his prime and is only trying to get at me because he sees the flame of his career being extinguished slowly and he's trying so desperately to perk it back up. Four, same might be said for Thunderwolf but I don't know him well enough to really go there yet.

He stands, turns, and pulls the World Championship off of the wall.

Breedlove: Either way, there's work to be done. I am the inevitable and the rest of you are just scrambling to live in my shadow.

He walks towards the opened doorway of his lockerroom and stops for a moment before slapping the wall and walking out.

The final bell has rung. The winning team has been announced. This means nothing to the SHOOT Soldiers in the ring…or around it.

Arthur Pleasant makes his presence known as he stalks down to the ring, meeting Thunderwolf on the floor with a pair of snug right hands. Joshua Breedlove trades shots with Chance Kelser as Depravity drags Laura Seton to the floor by her hair, slamming the former World champion's face into the ring steps.

Eryk Masters: The match is over! The bell has rung! But nobody is listening! The dam has broken, Jason!

The bell rings again and again in a frantic, incessant plea for order that goes completely ignored. Sammy Rochester grasps Breedlove by the throat and tosses him like loose garbage into the corner, charging in with a splash into the corner that knocks the wind out of the World champion. Arthur rolls Dustin into the ring and makes his way toward Chance, cackling all the while. The referee waves his arms for a moment, realizes he is standing in the middle of a collapsing building, and bails out under the bottom rope.

Jason Johnson: Forget the match, Eryk! Look at the ring! It's a war zone!

In the center of the canvas, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and violence. Misty Starks is trying to get to her feet, wiping hair from her face, scanning for Dustin. She doesn't see the blur of black leather rushing her from the corner.

Hannah Kelser hits her with a spear that would make a linebacker wince.

It isn't a wrestling move. It is pure, unadulterated hatred. Hannah drives Misty into the mat, screaming over the roar of the crowd, her face twisted into a mask of feral rage. She belts her with hammerfist overtop of hammerfist, the meat of her hand connecting with her mother's forearms as Misty covers up.

Hannah Kelser: HE MAY HAVE FORGIVEN FATHER! BUT I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!

Hannah grabs a handful of Misty's hair, dragging her toward the ropes. The West Virginia born brawler's instincts kicking in, clawing back, raking her nails across Hannah's cheek, desperate to create separation. She fires off shots on her daughter in turn as they tumble through the middle rope, crashing onto the thin mats at ringside, a tangle of limbs and fury.

Dustin Kelser sees them fall. He stumbles up, blood trickling from a cut near his hairline. He turns to help his lover, but Arthur Pleasant catches him off-guard, slamming a knee into Dustin's ribs.

Laura shoves Depravity off and tackles her to the floor, floating over and hooking her into an armbar before Breedlove rolls out, pulling his fellow member of the Empire away.

Arthur throws a right hand. Wolf blocks it—muscle memory taking over—and fires back a stiff jab that snaps Arthur's head back. The crowd pops! Wolf isn't done!

Eryk Masters: Wolf fighting back! He's not going down without a—

WHAM.

Sammy Rochester and Depravity blindside him. The massive Sammy levels the legend with a meat-hook clothesline that turns Dustin inside out. As Wolf hits the mat, Depravity is on him instantly. The BDSM queen screams with delight, driving her heavy boots into Wolf's healing ribs.

Jason Johnson: The numbers game is too much! They're swarming him!

Sammy grabs Wolf by the throat, hoisting him up. Arthur wipes blood from his lip, grinning. They have him.

CLANG.

The sound of steel on flesh rings out like a church bell.

Chance Kelser is back for the rescue AGAIN as he slides into the ring like a phantom, a steel chair in hand. He swings it like a baseball bat, cracking it across Sammy's massive back. Sammy roars, dropping Wolf. Chance doesn't hesitate. He spins and drives the edge of the chair into Depravity's midsection, doubling her over. He swings a wild haymaker of a chair shot at Arthur, who barely scrambles out of the way as he bails to the floor.

Eryk Masters: CHANCE! Chance Kelser makes the save! For the third time in a row, the son steps in to protect the father!

Chance stands over his father, swinging the chair in wide, violent arcs, keeping the monsters at bay. He reaches down, offering a hand to Wolf. Wolf, gasping for air, looks up at his son and takes the hand.

Sammy starts to march back to the ring but is knocked forward as a figure leaps over the barricade…

Jason Johnson: COREY LAZARUS JUST BLINDSIDED SAMMY ROCHESTER!!

Father and son stand up, back-to-back. Wolf raises his fists. Chance raises the chair.

"KEL-SERS! KEL-SERS! KEL-SERS!"

Seeing the direction that the tides have begun to turn, Joshua Breedlove and Laura Seton decide to cut their losses. Breedlove grabs his World Heavyweight title and Seton's arm, shouting to her.

Joshua Breedlove: We're done. It's time to let the trash take itself out.

They walk around the ring as the chaos between the DeMONSTRance, the Covenant, and the Kelsers continue between the ropes. Fists flying, flesh meeting the business end of a steel chair, hair being ripped from scalps. Breedlove sneers at the chaos as he and Seton begin to briskly walk up the ramp, turning back once to hoist the World Heavyweight championship belt high above his head.

Jason Johnson: The World Champion is retreating! He wants no part of this family drama!

They reach the top of the ramp. Breedlove turns again to give one last mocking wave…and backs right into a solid wall of humanity.

He stops dead in his tracks and, slowly, turns around.

Standing there, in street clothes—jeans, a leather jacket, holding a metal catering tray—is X-CALIBUR.

Eryk Masters: X-CALIBUR! THE HALL OF FAMER IS HERE! AND HE'S… BLOCKING THE EXIT?!

Breedlove's eyes go wide. X-Calibur smirks. Like he just got a checkmate in a game of chess. With a dangerous grin, he points the tray at Breedlove.

X-Calibur: You. Me. RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!

Breedlove panics. He charges, swinging the belt as X-Calibur ducks and smashes the tray directly into Breedlove's face!

THWANG!!

The champ stumbles backward, dazed, rolling down the ramp toward the ring to escape the madman.

Seton screams and jumps on X-Calibur's back. X-Calibur reaches back, grabs her by the collar, and snaps her over with a pristine Judo throw onto the steel stage!

"HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT!"

She winces with her back cracking across the stage. She isn't done though as she rallies up her adrenaline and goes charging back in with a picture perfect dropkick, knocking X off his feet.

Breedlove, clutching his nose, scrambles back into the ring to get away from X-Calibur... and backs directly into Thunderwolf.

The crowd noise shifts. It changes from a roar to a low, electric buzz. Flash photography begins to snap and shudder around the arena.

Wolf turns around. Breedlove turns around.

They bump backs. They step apart. They turn.

For three seconds, time stops. The center of the storm.

Thunderwolf, the Icon of the Past. Joshua Breedlove, the Champion of the Present.

They lock eyes. Wolf, bloody and battered. Breedlove, clutching his title, nose bleeding. The hate is palpable.

Jason Johnson: Oh my god. Look at this! The Last Standing Pillar and The World Champion of SHOOT Project, face to face amidst the chaos!

Before a punch can be thrown, chaos reclaims the ring. Adding to the fray are Michael and Rowland, the Collins Twins, as they hop the barricade and hit the ring like hitmen. On their way in, Michael delivers a drive-by chop block to Arthur Pleasant, sending the leader of DeMONSTRance crumbling.

Eryk Masters: The Collins Twins?! They just took out Arthur?!

But they aren't here for The DeMONSTRance. They pivot immediately, locking eyes on Corey Lazarus as he brawls with Sammy in the corner. Laz barrages Sammy with elbow after elbow to the temple, knocking the giant loopy. A series of sharp kicks follow, taking the big man down to his knees, but the Collins Twins swarm Lazarus, stomping him into the mat. Wolf sees it and breaks his staredown with Breedlove to save his best friend, tackling Rowland Collins. Breedlove sees an opening and stomps Wolf in the ribs.

The ring is a meat grinder. Everyone is fighting everyone.

Then, a roar from the entrance tunnel.

Rick Hull and Harv Norris sprint past X-Calibur and Laura Seton brawling on the stage. They hit the ramp at a dead sprint.

Eryk Masters: THE PUNCHLINE! THE TAG TEAM DIVISION IS IMPLODING!

They slide into the ring. Hull spears Michael Collins! Norris tackles Rowland! The Punchline and the Collins Twins begin a hockey fight in the center of the ring, punches flying wild.

Chaos erupts all over the ring and up the ramp. Everyone is fighting everyone, a preview not only of the World Heavyweight and World Tag Team title bouts but also the Redemption Rumble.

Arthur catches Chance with a massive toe kick to the ribs and signals for the end. Sammy grabs the loose steel chair and slams it across Chance's knee. Arthur points to Chance's kneecap.

Eryk Masters: No! Not the knee! They're going to shatter it the same way Thunderwolf's knee was shattered over twenty-years ago!

Sammy raises the chair and crashes it down around Chance's knee again. Chance is down, clutching it to himself. Wolf is tied up again with Breedlove, the latter of whom is raining down shot after shot against Thunderwolf's face.

VROOOOOOOOOOM.

The sound rips through the arena PA, louder than the crowd, louder than the fight. A high-RPM engine revving redline.

Jason Johnson: WHAT IS THAT...?!

A black motorcycle roars out from the back, skidding around X-Calibur on the stage. Ricky Tenet is riding. Holden Nobody is on the back, holding two Kendo Sticks as if they were lances.

Eryk Masters: THE CAVALRY! RICKY TENET AND HOLDEN NOBODY!

Ricky guns the engine, driving the bike down the ramp. The crowd parts as he skids to a stop, Akira-style, and parks it right at ringside. Holden hops off, tossing a Kendo Stick to Ricky.

They hit the ring swinging.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The shots rain down on Sammy and Depravity. The sound is like gunshots. Ricky Tenet is swinging for the fences. Holden Nobody is a whirlwind of violence, clearing the space around Laz.

The sheer volume of incoming fire forces DeMONSTRance and the Empyrean Forge to retreat. SHOOT Security and officers of the NYPD surge down the ramp, separating all aggressive parties once again.

Arthur Pleasant drags Sammy out and calms the monster down, Depravity at his side while a dozen guards form a tight barrier around them. Breedlove rolls under the ropes, clutching his title as the Collins Twins surround him, escorting him and Laura out through the crowd as the Punch Line go to give chase, halted by five of the NYPD's finest from giving further chase. Hannah is ripped away from her mother, held aside as Misty rolls into the ring.

Atop the ramp stands X-Calibur, pointing the metal catering tray down to the ring.

Thunderwolf stands in the center. Battered. Bleeding. Breathing heavy. Next to him are Corey Lazarus and Misty Starks. Behind them are Ricky Tenet and Holden Nobody.

And to the right of Thunderwolf...is Chance Kelser.

Wolf looks at Chance. Chance looks at the chair in his hand, then tosses it down. He looks at his father.

Wolf offers a hand.

The crowd holds its breath.

Chance takes it.

Wolf pulls him in, raising his hand high.

Eryk Masters: LOOK AT THIS! FATHER AND SON! UNITED AGAINST THE DARKNESS!

Jason Johnson: The lines are drawn! The families are at war! Redemption is going to be a bloodbath!

Wolf screams at the hard cam, adrenaline pumping, pointing at the retreating Arthur Pleasant. Chance stands beside him, stoic, his face unreadable.

The show fades to black on the image of the Kelser men standing tall, shoulder-to-shoulder, while the arena shakes with the noise of the crowd.