An hour before GLOBAL Domination 07 begins

Hidden in an alleyway just outside of the arena, a man breathes deeply as he shivers in the cold night air. His black hair is messy with dirt and rain, his clothes and beard are caked in filth. It looks like he hasn’t washed in days.

He’s one of the many… unfortunate people to suffer at the hands of society. Budget cuts, lay-offs, rent arrears and evictions. These are all words painfully, intimately familiar to this lonely man standing out in the cold.

And like many of his kind… he has found someone to blame.

It had been a breath of fresh air, a warm ray of hope when Daniel Dream appeared on his tv. He was a TRUE hero, a true AMERICAN. He was just what this country needed to save it. A leader, a champion to pull them free of this rotting, dying economy, but then…

HE ruined it.

The man grips the hilt of his Glock as he growls at the memory. Sean Darring, that unamerican, lying coward, had fooled everyone with his nice guy act and stolen ANOTHER title. Just like he had done when he was The Natural. A leopard never changes its spots. The man knows it. Sean Darring is as fake and hollow as his ex-wife.

A manic grin lights up his eyes as he fingers the trigger. No-one had noticed him as he waited outside the building wrapped in a filthy trench coat. No-one cared about him.

But that all will change tonight.

He smiles as he imagines it now.  Walking up to the “champion” as he gives those fake smiles, his weapon concealed in his jacket. He imagines pointing the barrel at Darring’s lying face. “For America!” he would yell. The fans would scream, the weapon would fire-

“It’s not going to work.”

The man whirls around in a panic! Someone had seen him? Seen him armed? Who?!

He hears the sound of footsteps echoing off the alley walls.

“Freeze!” he snarls. Aiming his weapon at the sound of the voice. “I won’t hesitate, I swear to God!”

The voice that responds is female. Smooth, deep, and as cold as the night winds.

“You fire, and everyone in the block is going to hear it. What happens to your plan when every security guard in the building comes running?”

The man’s arms tremble. She’s right. If he fires now, he’ll blow his chance, but if she screams for help, he…

“Besides. It wouldn’t work anyway.”


That takes him off guard for a second as the source of the voice comes into view, some freak wearing a mask. One of those italian face masks he’d seen on tv. This one is made of silvery, reflective material like a mirror, except cracked. Giving a broken, shattered reflection of the world. She’s taller than average, her body concealed by silken black robes that flutter ethereally in the wind as she steps closer.

“You’re a fan of the nephilim.” she says. It isn’t a question, but it sparks one in response

“The wha-?”

“The wrestlers.” She clarifies.

“How did you-?”

She points her finger at his chest and the man almost feels embarrassed as he remembers he is still wearing his now months old “Bet on Dream, Bet on America” t-shirt beneath his trenchcoat

“And now, you have some petty idea of glory or revenge in your head and you plan to take it out on one of the nephilim once they arrive. Don’t bother asking how I know, people like you are as common as head lice.”

Her insulting words provoke a growl from the man. “What, you think those lazy rent-a-cops can stop me? I’ve snuck past them before, I can do it again!”

“No, I mean THAT.” she points at his gun “Isn’t going to work.”

At the uncomprehending look on his face, she sighs.

“You don’t know much about physics, do you?

With a growl, the man swings his pistol at the bitch’s face! Hoping to smash her stupid mask along with her teeth!

He almost trips over as the blow hits nothing but air.

“Physics lesson number one. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Therefore, whatever force something exerts, it must be able to withstand that SAME force or be pulverised by the reactive force. A boxer, for example, must be durable enough to withstand the force of their own punch without their own arm shattering.”

He whirls around, the bitch is now behind him. Arms folded.

“Now, my first question. Did you watch Death Wish 2015?”

He’s about to make another charge, but the odd question stops him in his tracks.

“Uh… y-yeah?”

“Excellent. Now tell me: How much does Darren Best weigh?”

He tilts his head in confusion. Where on EARTH is she going with this?

“Two hundred and twelve pounds, why?”

“So a two hundred and twelve pound man fell from a fifty foot high Titantron and not only SURVIVED an impact of over fourteen thousand joules of force, but was able to stay conscious for three seconds afterwards. And yet… despite withstanding an impact force comparable to a small explosive, Sean Darring inflicted enough damage to him to make him tap out. In OTHER words… Sean Darring exerted force comparable to tens of thousands of joules of energy, and based on lesson number one, if he can EXERT that force, he can…”

“…Withstand it.” the man completes. Horrifying realisation dawning on his face.

“Don’t be fooled by their appearances. Despite what they may look like, despite what they may have convinced themselves, the nephilim are NOT human. I have seen them perform feats of strength, speed and endurance beyond ANY human, regularly using moves that would be impossible for a normal human to use without cooperation. I have seen their kind fall from twenty foot cages and keep fighting. I have seen entire rings shattered and broken from the impact of their bodies while the wrestler survived. I have seen them wield sledgehammers and steel chairs with enough force to crack bone and cave skulls, I have seen them shrug off moves over and over again that would cripple your kind. I have seen them crash through walls, windows, furniture, even bulletproof glass and be only temporarily stunned. So tell me…”

She points at the weapon that now feels very small in his hands.

“What, EXACTLY, do you expect a mere pistol to do?”

The Glock clatters to the pavement as the man flees in horror.

For several seconds after, the only sound is that of papers fluttering in the alleyway and the passing traffic.


“And here I thought you would have enjoyed seeing him cause anarchy.”

There is a hard edge to the Lady in the Broken Mirror’s voice as he addresses this newcomer.

“There is a DIFFERENCE between random violence and true anarchy, brother. The first is quickly quelled and forgotten about by society. The second, can bring civilization to its knees. A difference YOU seem to have forgotten Alex!”

Dropping down from his perch on the windowsill. Alex Reyn stands in front of the lady who does not flinch from his presence. Despite her words though he doesn’t seem angered. If anything, his expression is curious

“I find myself… incredibly… VEXED by your recent choices, brother. Instead of using the opportunity handed to you on a silver platter and taking that title, you waste time on a personal vendetta with the Rich family from two years ago, and doom your OWN chances at that belt for… WHAT, exactly? Your pride?”

Alex actually gives a low growl.

“I am the East Wind of Adversity, sister. My losses and victories must be untainte-”

“You’re beginning to annoy Her too. Alex.”

Alex Reyn falls dead silent.

“Pride? Honour? You sound like one of the mortals.I wonder if you’ve been in that body too long, O’ SPIRIT OF CONFLICT.”

Her words drip with sarcasm as she repeats his title back to him.

“Remember, brother. The only thing you “must” do. The ONLY thing Adversity NEEDS to do is test the mortals before we remake their world. THAT is your purpose. Not to safeguard your own wounded pride at the EXPENSE of your duties.”

She’s looking at him hard in the eyes as she continues.

“Do you have ANY idea how many strings I’ve had to pull to keep the humans off your back? You no longer have the veil of relative anonymity to protect you. This is not  a small league where your actions could fly under the radar. GLOBAL is run by the human elite.’

Alex scoffs.

“Scoff all you like, brother. But you’d be a fool to ignore the power they have. Their resources in many ways rivals our own and if they decide to call in a full manhunt on you… Even YOU cannot defeat an army. If we are to remake the world once again, we NEED to bring the elite to their knees and that requires gaining their resources. For that I need you in a position of influence. We NEED to make you their champion Alex. No more of these self-destructive games.”

There is a long pause before Alex Reyn inclines his head.

“I… apologise for disrupting your plans and…”

He hesitates for a second like a man avoiding an uncomfortable subject.


There’s a moment of almost reverent silence from both before he continues.

“That said, my code serves a purpose beyond my pride. If I am to test them. If I am to truly fulfill my role as spirit of Conflict, I must be a TRUE warrior. How can I expect to bring them to a higher level of valour if I myself am tainted by cowardice? How can I promote the strong without exterminating the weak? And how can I TRULY test their courage and tenacity, if they don’t fear for their lives when facing-”

The Lady holds up a hand and her brother stops speaking.

“I know all of this, brother. I’m not telling you to stop your ways outright. I am telling you you need to be CAREFUL. You’ve become more and more reckless these last few years. More arrogant. You need to remember to pick your moments. If you had just WAITED for the right moment to go after the Riches once you were champion, I could have pulled strings, froze their assets like I did Mr. Price. The elite don’t care when those poorer than them come to harm, but Frank had status, power in the industry. You attacking him makes the elites feel unsafe. You haven’t stirred up the hive yet, but you DID agitate it. You need to be careful not to provoke a swarm.”

She takes a long sigh.

“So far, the situation isn’t unsalvageable. The Rich family is going to try to send Law Enforcement after you, but my resources in that area, and our reputation, should close off that avenue to them. That only leaves attacking you in the ring as an option. I take it you’re NOT going to finish them off before they become a threat?”

“No. I gave my word that I would not harm them.”

“And I don’t suppose I could persuade you to break your word?”


She shakes her head, but there’s a small chuckle “You and that code of yours. Very well. I’ll just have to pluck some threads to keep them distracted. Good luck in the tournament, brother. I have some things to arrange.”

There’s a body a few paces away – hidden between the corner and a dumpster, back pressed against the bricked and dirty wall. 

He hadn’t dared to breathe the moment Alex Reyn had appeared in the scene, and even now that the coast is clear, his breaths came out as quiet wheezes, as he can’t stop his arms from shaking violently. 

His hands are pressed against his chest, and in them, is his trusty recorder – one that he clicked on out of habit the moment the discussion had started, even as he hid himself into the shadows and stench of the alley. 

One hand detaches from the mess, twitching and trembling, before he carefully combs through his hair with the fingers – hoping it will calm him down enough to get out of this rather compromising position. A few shaky breaths later, he finally manages to swallow at least some of that big lump inside his throat down, before taking a look at the recorder. 

“… The heck am I supposed to do with this?” he whispers, before forcing himself to stand. Busted leg or not, he needs to get somewhere safe and rethink his career choices – this? Is way above his pay-grade. Especially since this sounds like a conspiracy he can’t just uncover, shove into the limelight, and then let the more experienced people deal with the fallout of everything – truth might be a weapon, but in this situation…

He doesn’t even know who he can turn to. Who to warn. Who to stay away from, aside from Reyn. 

‘Nope, nope, focus Tobbs.’ he shakes his head, breaking himself out of the fear and shock. Another deep breath of the disgusting air around him, and he focuses his eyes forward. 

He has some research to do.

LOGO b&w


The day after GLOBAL Wrestling takes Miami, a hand raps on a nondescript door somewhere in the neighboring state of Georgia. A few seconds pass with no answer, prompting the hand to knock again, more firmly this time.

“Alright, alright, I’m comin’!” The grumble from within is followed by a curt question. “Whozat?”

“Are you the wrestling security guys?”

A moment’s silence elapses.

“Who wants ta know?” The accent from the other side of the door is pure New York Brooklyn, and seems incongruously out of place literally across the country from the Big Apple.

Once again, the knocker chooses to deflect.

“I want to hire your services.”

This time, the door does open, revealing a tall, lithely muscular man somewhere in his thirties, with a prematurely receding hairline in a widow’s peak, a long, aquiline nose and thin, austere lips, clad in a dark suit and wraparound shades which give him a look somewhere between a mortician and a member of the Men in Black. He gives the shabby, seedy man across from him a long once-over, before speaking up again.

“You gonna pay for it? We ain’t no charity ‘ere, buddy!”

The would-be client does not miss a beat. “Depends if you’re the guys I heard about from my contacts, who specialize in wrestling security…”

The dark-suited man nods, wiping the other’s spittle from his cheek. “That’s us, all right. Best in fifty-one states.”

It is the second man’s turn to appraise his interloper, whom he squints intently at for a long second before stepping in closer and lowering his voice. “Yeah. That’s what I heard. Heard you see things my way on other matters, as well.. So, tell ya what…” He reaches into his pocket and produces a large wad of cash, waving it in front of the security expert’s nose. “…this right here’s an advance. You do good, there’s more where that came from. I can get you hired where I work too – nice bundle like that every couple weeks…”

The sight of actual money clearly piques the interest of the man in shades, who jerks his head towards the inside of the building, motioning for his interloper to come in. The shabby man promptly complies, stepping out from the landing into the somewhat dingy, dimly lit office on the other side of the door.. He barely has time to take in the one high window, the couple of cheap prepacked desks and the overall grubbiness of his surroundings, however, before a female voice calls from what is presumably a second room in the back.

“Who is it?”

“Client, boss.”

“Bring him through, won’t you?”

“Sure thing, Miz D.”

Before the weaselly man can turn his attention back to his prospective employer, however, he is distracted by the sight of a third figure – a hulking, broad shouldered man hunched over a desk too small for him, his elbows jutting out in either direction as he makes his way through an overstuffed deli sandwich.

“Jesus tapdancin’ Christ!” The thinner man steps forward, angrily swatting at the sandwich wrapper. “Look atcha, ya fat goddamn slob! Embarrassin’ yaself in front’a a client! Sit up straight, willya? And wipe ya mouth, you look like a goddamn cow chewin’ cud!”

“Sorry, man!” To the shabby man’s surprise, the broad-shouldered giant meekly shuffles to a more straight-backed position, before accepting the napkin his co-worker is handing him and using it to wipe his mouth. “I didn’t think nobody was gonna come in…”

“Yeah.” The thinner man scoffs. “That’s ya problem. Ya don’t THINK.”

Here, he finally turns back to his would-be client. “Fat slob over here’s my partner. We’re a package deal. You hire me, you hire him, too.” He side-eyes the thicker man. “Though some days I ain’t too sure WHY I keep the sumbitch around…

The shabby man shrugs. “Fine by me. More the merrier.”

The man in shades nods curtly, before indicating a door at the end of the room. “Right. Let’s go meet the boss.”

The two men then promptly cross over into what turns out to be a separate, much brighter and much better appointed office. In sharp contrast to the main room, the furnishings here are high-quality and immaculately preserved, with the obvious centrepiece being single, large oak desk at the far end, behind which sits an attractive twenty-something brunette in an impeccably cut cream-coloured business suit, her well-groomed appearance and composed demeanour almost diametrically opposed to those of her prospective client. The man’s unkempt, worn-out look does not, however, seem to faze her for more than a second before she offers him a warm, if somewhat plastic, smile.

“Afternoon. Please have a seat.” The man promptly acquiesces, as the brunette continues to study him intently. “How can I help you, Mr…?”

The woman’s attempted eye contact fails, as her prospective client appears intent on scanning every inch of the room around him. Only after he is seemingly satisfied does he finally reply.

“Truth. John J. Truth.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Truth. My name’s…” The woman leans over the desk, clearly intending shake her interloper’s hand, only to be left more than a little surprised when he doesn’t return the gesture.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I thought I was gonna be talkin’ to the boss of this joint.”

A perfectly plucked eyebrow goes up. “You…are…Mr. Truth.” The genteel tone, which had vanished for just a moment, promptly makes a return. “Now, what can I do you for?”

The man, however, remains guarded. “No, no…I don’t think you’re getting it, darlin’. I need to see the BOSS. The BIG boss.”

“I AM the big boss, Mr. Truth.” The brunette’s tone has suddenly lost its honeyed edge and become sharp and curt. “If you wish to hire my two associates’ services, you’re going to be dealing with me. There is nobody else for you to talk to.” A little of the previous Southern-belle charm then returns to her tone. “And trust me, I am more than capable of addressing any concerns or requirements you might have with regards to our operation.”

It is Truth’s turn to lean forward, squinting at the woman in front of him. “Is there really nobody else? No one at ALL?”

“Afraid not, Mr. Truth. Just little old me, and those two strapping young men you met out there. You know how it is with small firms…”

“Yeah…they’re strapping, all right.” The thought of having the two men he just met run security for him – ESPECIALLY the hulking sandwich enthusiast – seems to overpower some of Truth’s misgivings, as he gives the briefest and most imperceptible of nods.

“Fine. I guess you’ll do.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Thing is, darlin’…I’ve been having some issues with a couple of green-card dodgers. Pretty sure they’re terrorists, too. This one motherfucker never takes off his mask…y’know?” The brunette nods, giving Truth all the encouragement he needs to continue. “To be honest with you, sweetheart…at this point, I’m fearing for my life. Way I see it, there’s way too many motherfuckers those two sons of bitches could be working for. People who don’t want the Truth to get out there. Hell, I got a notion a couple of them are hitmen for the Chinese government. Or those bastards from the Orion belt. Either way, they’re probably just using wrestling as a cover to take a hit out on me.”

The woman affects a suitably concerned expression as Truth sits up straight once again.

“So, I asked my contacts in the Dark Web, and I got told your boys specialise in dealing with that sort of thing. I was even sent a couple of videos, but to be honest, darlin’…it looked like they were wrecking a couple of kids. So, what I wanna know is…are they the real deal?”

Truth once again reaches into his jacket to retrieve the wad of notes he previously presented to one of the firm’s seemingly two employees. “So here’s what I’m gonna do. I wanna hire your boys on for my company’s next show. As a kind of trial run” The GLOBAL wrestler throws the stack onto the table. “I told your man out there – this here’s an advance to cover that one. They do well, I’ll be looking to take ’em on full-time. I’m pretty sure I can get ’em hired at the place where I work. Fancy place outta Hollywood. Bunch’a bastards, but at least they pay you.” He points at the stack of bills on the desk in front of him. “That there’s what I made this past couple weeks. Would’a been more, but assholes slapped me with a fine for speaking my mind. Like I said, some people don’t want the Truth to get out…”

The brunette woman studies the offer for a moment, her body language perfectly neutral, then calls out to her associate, still looming just below the threshold, and who almost immediately pops his head around the doorjamb. “You wanted me, boss?”

“I did, Washington, yes. “The smile the woman directs up at the besuited man is warm, but the glint of something icy in her eyes offsets it. “Why don’t you go on ahead and run Mr. Truth through the welcome packet?” She turns to her brand-new client, the devilish grin still on her features. “Sounds like his workplace is in dire need of some Border Control…”

LOGO b&w


Somewhere on the Internet, another Twitch stream is in progress, hosted by GLOBAL Wrestling’s only officially sanctioned streaming hosts, the ebullient duo known as Trouble Roxx. As the chat begins to pick up, one of the members of the pair – red-haired self-appointed leader Teagan Trouble – takes advantage of a break in the videogame being played to glance over at the text box and greet those just joining in.

“All right! The chat’s poppin’ right now! If you’re just joining in…hey, what’s up, guys? You know who this is.” The girl points at herself, then her partner. “I’m Trouble, she Roxx, and right now, we’re getting the moves put on us by a couple of Players!”

“That’s right, baby!” In a split screen, fellow tag team hopeful Kid Chameleon glances up from the game for a quarter of a second to acknowledge the host. “That’s how we do! We keep it up allll night long!”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re talking about Fornite.” Teagan Trouble rolls her eyes at her opponent’s antics, then turns her attention back to the game, just in time to kill one of the characters on screen.

“Paul! Come on, man! I gotta carry your ass here too? Keep up, dog!”

Paul Sanders’ only response to his partner’s goading, however, is to get up and move towards the back of the hotel room the two partners are currently lounging at. As he bends over to retrieve something from the mini-fridge, Kid continues the campaign by himself, single-handedly taking on both members of Trouble Roxx, as well as the remaining AI players taking part in the arena Battle Royal. As luck would have it, Sanders comes back just in time to see the skilled gamer pull out a particularly impressive move, which causes Teagan and Izzy to reel back in their respective seats, each of their faces an over-the-top caricature of shock.

“WHOOOOAAAA!” Despite her mugging, Teagan sounds genuinely impressed. “How d’you pull THAT off, dude?”

“Skillz, baby!” Kid Chameleon takes a moment to dab in acknowledgement of his own awesomeness, currently being paid similar homage in the chatbox. “You know I’m PogChamp!”

“’Skillz’, huh?” The Roxx redhead gives her counterpart a playful side-eye. “As in HACKER skillz? The ones you used to hack into the game and put Aimbot on there?”

“Nah, baby. I’m talking GAMER skillz! Gamer skillz for daaaaaayyyyssss!”

Teagan, however, does not let up the ribbing. “Come on, dude. Be honest, now. ARE you a hacker? Do you be like…” The redhead strikes a surly pose, comically deepening her voice and furrowing her brow. “…’I’m in’?”

Predictably, variations of the meme in question immediately begin to be posted in the live chat, prompting Teagan – who, like her partner and two opponents, has momentarily returned to the Fortnite lobby – to turn to that section of the stream.

“All right, chat, listen up – we’re CANCELLING the Players right now, for being DIRTY CHEATERS!” Almost instantly, the memes are replaced by variations of #cancelled, which scroll by so rapidly as to be almost indiscernible. In amidst all the comment spamming, however, one viewer drops a slightly different observation, which garners Teagan’s attention.

“fight it out in the ring lol

losers have to buy the other team VBucks”

Again, follow-up comments are almost immediate, as more and more stream watchers get behind the idea.





The redhead, however, is still assessing the initial comment, from user “thedropkickking”.

“Losers buy the other team Vbucks? I can definitely get behind that!” She then turns back to her partner and opponents. “How ’bout you guys? You down?”

Izzy is the first to answer. “Yeah, why not? Les do eet!”

Teagan then turns to the Players. “Guys?”

Sanders gives no answer either way, other than a shrug, while Kid Chameleon gives back as good as he got a moment earlier.

“Sure…if you wanna get schooled in there as well…”

“Yeah…I don’t think so, buddy.” Despite the trash talk, Teagan is smiling through the obviously playful exchange. “You can’t use your hacker ‘skillz’ in the ring…” Then, turning to the camera, she makes the announcement semi-official. “You heard it here first, guys! TROUBLE ROXX VERSUS THE PLAYERS, for all the Vbucks!”

Izzy echoes her partner “ALL of the Vbucks. ALL of them!”

“And, heck, since this is all about Fortnite…why don’t we have the match in a FORTNIGHT?” The redhead grins big at her own clever play on words. “Yeah! Sounds like a plan. Right, guys? We good?”

The three remaining streamers acquiesce, causing the chat to explode with exclamations of unbridled excitement. With that, and one last call of “make it happen, GLOBAL” from Teagan Trouble, all four streamers turn their attention back to their Nintendo Switches, in preparation for another round. Soon, the two teams are once again engrossed in the virtual Battle Royal, leaving the fans in the chat to digest and discuss the prospect of the real, live match between them hopefully happening at Domination a couple of weeks in the future.

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A man smiles. He is sitting on a comfortable looking swing on the porch of an old wood-panelled house, looking out over dried grassy land that stretches out over the horizon. In his hand he holds a white metal mug, some of the paint flaking away from the enamel mug. 

As he gazes over the horizon, the sun setting slowly, oranges and purples slowly filling the sky, he takes a sip of his drink. 

“Ahh,” he sighs, “a lovely decaffeinated cup of GREEN TEA.”


“Oh boy.” The man says, his smile dropping and his spare hand pressing on his stomach. 

“Gotta run!”

He pops the mug down on the boards of his porch and sprints into the house. 

The rest can be left to your imagination. 


LOGO b&w


Backstage – “The Legend” Sean Darring is standing by in a gray suit and gold tie with the matching golden prize known to the world as the GLOBAL Championship sitting on his right shoulder. He is talking to the ever-so-popular Jackie James. The two men seem to be laughing and reminiscing about the “glory days.” GLOBAL’s press officer, Alicia Fawkes, tells Sean Darring that the committee will see him in just a bit.

Jackie James takes the cue and tells the legend, “Chat later tonight. Good luck!”

As Jackie James exits to the right. The Legend turns to the camera and addresses GLOBAL Nation while waiting for his meeting.

“I have been fielding many questions about what is next for the GLOBAL Championship title and, more importantly, the number one contender, ALeczander The Great.”

Not only are fans around the globe more than likely booing … even the cameraman lets out a soft boo from behind the camera (talk about heat!).

Darring acknowledges the soft boo playfully, “We all agree.” Then he continues, “I am headed into a meeting with the GLOBAL Championship committee in just a few minutes. I am looking for their blessing to issue a Global Challenge.”

The Legend pauses, letting the moment sink in.

“Long passed are the days of champions defending their titles only on big shows. Long passed are the days of champions saving their defenses for only those deemed eligible by a rankings system. Who knows how long I left in this industry? I will not carve my last bit of legacy sitting on the merits of my past accomplishments. Next Domination – I want to defend this title.”

The Legend points to the illustrious golden prize on his shoulder.

“I want to earn the right to continue to be called champion. So that brings us to Aleczander The Great, The Hall of Famer ….”

The Legend grins, most likely thinking about the opportunity of eventually wrestling him.

“You interrupted my moment. You wanted to make your status, your name… your intentions known.”

The Legend nods reflecting on the last Domination.

“Mission accomplished. You are right, and you are the number contender. Hell, you are the Hall of Famer! You deserve the first shot at this championship belt.”

The cameraman zooms in on the gorgeous golden title. The GLOBAL logo proudly sits across the center of the championship belt.

“How about next Domination? Be the first man to step in the ring and challenge me for the Global Championship. There is nobody I would rather face than the man who earned the spot of number one contender. Be the first in my Global Challenge. Let’s make history, Aleczander.”

Alicia Fawkes returns and tells the Legend the championship committee is ready for him.

“Aleczander, I will await your response.”

The Legend pats the championship gold one final time, and with a legendary smile, he turns to discuss his plan with the GLOBAL championship committee.

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The scene opens to “Big Kid” Chris Smith standing in the forefront of what looks to be a basic living room. The 390-pound mastodon has a rye smile on his face and almost presentable attire as he begins speaking.

“Parents, do you worry about your kids on-line?” He begins. “You really should be if you aren’t because there are cyber threats all around us. They can attack a cell phone, a laptop, or even wireless GPS devices!”

He starts walking slowly as he continues to speak.

“I feel it is my duty to explain the dangers of on the internet to you because, from what I can tell these days, you parents are doing a piss-poor job of taking care of things on your end.”

He walks through a door and in the background we see Gemini sitting at a desk. On the computer screen behind him is a scantily clad lady obviously doing a web came show for her “fans.” He seems very intent on the show and doesn’t even notice his friend walking in.

“Like this right here,” says the Big Kid as he motions toward the masked cam fan.

Gemini jerks around. “Would you quiet down.”

“Right now, Gemini is thinking that he is having a night to remember with a girl focused on him, but…”

He pauses for effect.

“But,” Smith continues, “the girl is actually not private with him, but broadcasting to…well let’s just find out.”

He walks over and the camera zooms on the “Consuela” show and it shows a number 1,384 next to the small cam icon. Suddenly Gemini snaps and turns and starts slapping at the camera guy.

“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!!!” He yells. “I’m on a date with my girlfriend!”

The camera moves away as Smith steps away also and just shakes his head in disappointment.

“This is what allowing unfettered internet access can cause,” he adds. “And it is a danger to the bank accounts of our adults and the morality of our children. So do what you know you should do and cut off that internet to your young people.”

He takes another look back just as Consuela starts the motion to remove her top and then turns back to the camera, blocking the view from the Global viewpoint.

“It really is the least you can do to protect them,” He states as he puffs out his chest a little for his tag line. “This message was brought to you by me, Chris Smith. I’m doing it for the kids.”

And from the background we hear Gemini yell out


As the screen starts to fade out we here him continue muttering, “Kids always messing with my life and trying to keep me from getting down the way I want to get down. I tell you….”

Black screen for the end.

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Backstage, The Bro stands by with Jimmy Classic and “The Suplex Ninja” Trae Larkin. The young, arrogant, and brash duo are dressed in their usual loud fashion: fur Coat and sunglasses. Before the Bro can speak, the microphone is taken by Jimmy Classic, who turns and spits his gum out and speaks.

“Let’s get a little serious here. It’s no secret we have made our intentions clear. We have set our sights on the famous and legendary family – The Rich Family.”

The Bro attempts to lean over, but Trae Larkin quickly pulls the young reporter back and in his place as Jimmy Classic continues.

“We were celebrating on the beach of Miami last week, and just like all of you, Global-Nation, we also saw firsthand the destruction of Freddie Rich. It was a heartless and shocking display of violence on a battle-tested legend.”

Jimmy Classic slowly nods, shockingly sympathizing with the Rich Family.

“That … we … absolutely … loved.”

Trae Larkin and Jimmy Classic howl in laughter to the point that The Bro is uncomfortable.

“It must have been hard to watch Alex Reyn start the process of exterminating GLOBAL of the dastardly “Rich” problem. Trae and I plan to continue what Alex Reyn started on the next Domination. Rich Family, you have been ducking, dodging, and weaving us since the opening night in GLOBAL. The disrespect you have shown us shows what kind of family you are.”

Jimmy Classic removes his sunglasses, talking straight into the camera as if he is talking to the Rich Family themselves.

“Declan, Todd, and Donny … you have ignored us just like you did Freddie as we all watched his legendary career end.”

The Bro doesn’t want any part of this “interview.” even though he hasn’t been a part of it from the start, he has now slid away from the duo as the firey Trae Larkin speaks.

“Next Domination, we challenge ANY Riches. We don’t care if it’s Donny, Declan, Todd, or Freddie rising from the hospital bed. We want two Riches inside that ring, and we aren’t going to accept being ignored anymore.”

The disrespect for the legend has made everyone in the arena and probably watching at home uncomfortable, which fuels the disrespectful duo.

“We are tired of hearing about how good the Rich Family is. It’s time for the future to become the present. And, hey, for the rest of the Rich Family, maybe you can celebrate the rest of the Rich retirement party, just like you did Freddie’s hospital visit.”

More laughs … disgusting.

“We look forward to seeing at least two of you next Domination.”

Trae Larkin looks at the Bro, who is shaking his head, and he tosses the microphone towards him as the Prime Time Athletes walk away laughing.

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The feed returns to the ring just as the first few chords of ‘Paranoid’ herald the arrival of GLOBAL Wrestling’s most controversial athlete, who even “Downtown” Brown puts as little effort as possible into introducing, delivering his usual spiel in a flat, deadpan monotone.

“The following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, from parts unknown, weighing in tonight at two hundred pounds…The Man Who Fell to Earth…John J. Truth.”

The moment he emerges onto the platform, the man known as John J. Truth is pelted with a veritable deluge of boos, as the camera goes out of its way to look for signs protesting his very existence in the company – of which it finds several.



CANCEL THIS MAN (with a large cut-out photo of John’s face)


From the announce desk, the reaction is no less vitriolic.

“Uggggghhh…not THIS guy!”

“I think this New York crowd share your opinion, Allie. Unfortunately, he IS scheduled to fight here tonight…”

“Maybe so, Lucas, but I think you’ll both agree management needs to do something about this man’s opinions and actions towards other members of our roster.”

“Absolutely, Al. Don’t count on it, though. If they’re STILL keeping Reyn around after he seriously injured Victor Ingram Price AND Freddie Rich, building a safe workplace environment is obviously low on their list of priorities…”

Unfortunately, none of his two counterparts has a counterpoint to Deltzer’s argument – and even if they did, they would have been interrupted by Truth, who is now standing in the center of the ring, microphone to his lips, jeers still showering him from all sides.

“Oh, no! And we’re going to have to LISTEN to him, too? UGH!”

The negative reaction Allie becomes the official voice of does not, however, deter the controversial superstar, who proceeds with his address regardless of any reaction.

“My name is John J. Truth…and I call bullshit.”

The booing becomes deafening enough to almost drown out Truth’s next few words, which he pushes out regardless.

“I call bullshit on a company that lets one of its employees get attacked, not by one, but by TWO other guys…and not only does not fire them, but forces THE OTHER GUY to FACE ONE OF THEM in a match! So it’s fine for you snowflakes to demand your little ‘safe spaces’, but ol’ John J. here can go [BLEEP] himself – is that how it is?”

“Actually, yeah…that sounds about right. In fact, I wish The Great Wall would hurry up and get here and take this guy’s safe space away!”

Once again, no one has any arguments to brook against Allie’s observation – much to the contrary, almost the entire arena is now answering Truth’s question with a chant of “YES!” This visibly irks the controversial superstar, but he seems adamant to let nothing stand in the way of the Truth.

“Oh, yeah? Well, [BLEEP] you people too!”

Nuclear heat presumably generates at these words from the opinionated wrestler, who, once again, simply raises his voice to speak over them.

“Yeah. I said it. [BLEEP] you too. You people just can’t wait to see old John get hurt again. Well, you can FORGET IT. I’m not wrestling here tonight. I know my rights! This is workplace harrassment and discrimination, and I do NOT have to put up with it!”

“Did he really just bring up—”

“Yup. Yes, Lucas. He did. Pot, meet kettle.”

“Too right, Allie.”

Still entirely unaware of how he is coming across, Truth is now lowering himself into a seated position in the middle of the canvas.

“What NOW?!”

Lucas’ exasperated question is answered a moment later, when the wrestler once again brings a microphone to his lips.

“That’s why, right here tonight, I’m having a sit-down protest. Starting right now, I’m parking my ass right here on this canvas, and I ain’t moving until the suits back there do something about those two illegals that attacked me.” The camera catches his cocksure smirk in close-up as he smugly concludes. “Ball’s in your court, assholes. Fire those two jackoffs, and you can have your ring back, so you can give your precious little Main Event slot to that other illegal asshat who goes around throwing people in hospital but doesn’t even get fined. As long as you keep up this discriminating double-standard bullshit, though…I ain’t moving.”

With that, John puts down his microphone, staunchly refusing to fight even despite referee Powell’s intimations that he needs to go to his corner and prepare to fight.

“Even Powell can’t make this guy budge. He has willpower, I’ll give him that…”

“Yeah, Al, but you can tell by the look on Powell’s face that he would snap this sucker in half, if they let him…”

As Lucas, Allie and Mark reach an uncharacteristic consensus about the latter’s observation, an odd thing happens. Rather than the barrage of boos they have been directing at Truth, the fans begin…to cheer? A moment later, however, it all becomes clear, as the controversial wrestler finds himself being lifted off the ground by the scruff of his shirt, and spun around so that he is face to face with both his opponent for the evening, and his smirking manager. It is Xiang who speaks first, his tone just as honeyed, polite, yet also menacing as the last time he addressed Truth.

“Hello, friend…”

With that, he once again fires a few quick words to The Great Wall in their native Cantonese, causing a grin to spread across the big man’s features. The Chinese hulk takes a step forward, his hand reaching for John’s throat, Powell’s hand reaching for Wall’s arm, and the timekeeper’s hand reaching for the bell…

…only for two figures to come vaulting over the audience barricades on either side of the ring, bowling over Powell and knocking him unconscious as they rush forward to engage the towering Asian and his manager directly!

“What the—who are THESE guys?!”

“I don’t know, Lucas, but that one fighting The Wall is almost as big as he is!”

“That’s right, Mark. And he seems to be quicker, too!”

In fact, the larger of the two men appears to be holding his own remarkably well against the imposing Great Wall, while the smaller one appears to have had no issues subduing the Chinese colossus’ manager, whom he has rendered unconscious. He is, therefore, free to join his larger colleague, as well as John Truth, in a three-on-one assault on Wall, which has the unlikely effect of getting fans to cheer for the Asian behemoth – much to the announce team’s surprise.

“Is this really happening right now?”

“I guess when you’re fighting John Truth, it doesn’t matter what the fans think of you – you’re going to get cheers. I gotta admit, that’s impressive. Imagine getting THAT MUCH hate anywhere that ISN’T the Internet?”

“Sadly, Mark, this is no laughing matter.” Lucas sounds positively repulsed. “It appears Truth has found himself some…ugh…ALLIES. Because ONE of this guy wasn’t bad enough, apparently…”

“Whatever the situation is, it looks like Wall has finally met his match…matches?”

As Deltzer tries to figure out how to refer to the situation, a roar emerges from the stands once again, as yet another figure comes pelting down the ramp and into the ring at full speed, swinging a steel chair.

“PRINCIPE! EL PRINCIPE is here, and he’s out for blood!”

Indeed, the luchador comes in like a wrecking ball, swinging for the fences, though not altogether indiscriminately; on the contrary, he definitely has a target, and that target just happens to have his back turned to Principe right at this moment. Seeing his opportunity, the divisive GLOBAL superstar swings as high and as strongly as he can…



…and The Great Wall goes down from not one, but two blows to the back of the head, prompting a somewht appropriate cry from Mark Deltzer.


Even with one obstacle down, however, Principe still has three to contend with – and, unlike with Wall, he does not have the element of surprise against them; nor are they about to stand idle and wait for him to make his move, as evidenced by Truth immediately barking “get him, boys”, and the two newcomers rushing at the luchador. Thinking on his feet, Principe swings the chair at the one closest to him…

…only to feel it get wrenched out of his hand by the second one, who comes in at his blind angle! Taken completely by surprise, the luchador is not quick enough to react, and soon finds himself crumpling to the mat, hoisted by his own petard; predictably, Truth’s two acolytes – as well as the man himself – waste no time profiting from the opportunity, and promptly pounce on the Prince of Lucha, punishing him with stomps, and once again causing the stands to erupt with hate.

“Oh, great! And they get to come out on top, as well…” Lucas makes no attempt at disguising the disgust in his voice as the three men continue to punish the downed luchador, then congratulate each other on a job well done, completely ignoring the nuclear heat descending upon them from all around the Hammerstein ballroom. As they begin to walk up the ramp, the jeers are reinforced by an assortment of flying objects, from soda cups to sauce packets and half-full boxes of french fries, some of which even manage to hit their target.

“This New York crowd going out of their way to show their displeasure here, but those three men don’t look too bothered by any of it…”

Sadly, Lucas’ remark rings true, as the overwhelmingly negative reaction only seems to embolden the three men, with Truth not hesitating in flipping several birds at the crowd, while the smallest of his two opponents jawjacks to front row fans; still, as they line up on the ramp and look around at the chaos they created, their clothes are definitely bearing the marks of the crowd’s hatred. Their attitudes, however, remain unfazed and unaltered, with Truth in particular exsuding smugness as he requests a microphone and brings it to his lips to address the crowd.

“That’s right, you bastards. Things are about to change around here. Starting right now, all you illegal sons of bitches are on notice. ‘Cause from now on…GLOBAL Wrestling has Border Control.”

With that, the three men promptly turn and disappear through the curtain towards the backstage area, leaving the furious and hate-filled New York crowd, whom they deprived of what might have been a highly satisfying and cathartic match, to attempt to regain composure, so that they may enjoy the rest of the show.

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The Boiler Room of Hammerstein Ballroom, New York – Now

Deep within the dimly lit boiler room, amongst the occasional drip of steam from the ceiling, behind the red pipes running horizontally and vertically, crisscrossing the room, a hooded figure stands, her face almost entirely covered, her body concealed from head to toe in the black robe.  Her chin is pot-marked, and from it protrude a few sharp orange powdery shards.

She is standing completely motionless, except her mouth, which is mumbling something over, and over, and over.

“I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos. I am Doritos. You are Doritos. We are Doritos.”

She lifts her head, and looks deep into your soul.

Her face is a mess of orange shards and powder, one eye is completely white, the other a deep brown as it always has been.


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The sound of a steel chair against bone echoes around the small locker room of Jerry David, who staggers forward, falling to the floor, blood already gushing from his head.  This battle appears to have been raging for a while now.

E Z Rah steps forward with a steel chair dangling from one hand. He looks down at Jerry, who rolls onto his back and stares up at E Z.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not?” E Z asks, repeating Jerry’s answer from last week when asked if this blood feud was over.

“Never.” Jerry hisses before spitting a mouthful of blood at E Z.

E Z lifts the chair in the air again, aiming to drive the edge of the chair into Jerry.

Jerry raises a boot.


E Z arches over in pain, grasping at his bruised, calloused penis. He leans on the chair for a moment, but Jerry kicks it from under him.  E Z collapses to the ground.  Jerry rolls up to his feet and launches himself across the room, landing on the back of E Z, choking him.

The men roll around on the floor, E Z’s arms wave around, looking for anything he can grab hold of to give himself some leverage. His head is as red as Jerry ‘The King’ Lawler mid-heart attack. He is fading.

“Choke, mother fucker!” Jerry is repeating as E Z falls unconscious.

Jerry tosses E Z to the ground, stands up, dusts off his blazer and opens the locker room door.

However, as he leaves the locker room he is again set upon by E Z, who screams, and hops on Jerry’s back, forcing the piggy back!  Jerry takes a few steps forward into the corridor of the arena, flinging his body first hard-left, then hard-right, but E Z has a tight grip on the piggy back and isn’t showing signs of releasing the devastating hold any time soon.

Then E Z raises his head high in the air and thrusts it down, into Jerry’s shoulder, biting him!

Jerry lets out a scream and rushes backwards, back towards the locker room which has a window to the right of the door.  He drives the back of E Z’s head into the window, which cracks on impact. E Z’s vice-like grip of the piggy back is broken and he slumps to the ground, holding the back of his head.  

Jerry isn’t done. He stomps E Z right in the ches–NO!

E Z grabs Jerry’s foot and gives it a hard twist, sending Jerry tumbling to the ground, his knee and ankle twisted. He groans in pain as E Z now gets back to his feet.  Jerry gets onto all fours, but E Z takes a few steps up, trying to run but just not having the steam for it.  He punts Jerry in the ribs and sends him rolling down the corridor.

“Nah, it ain’t over,” E Z huffs, his breathing laboured like the exhausted gasps of a COPD patient climbing a flight of stairs, “you right man.” 

E Z walks towards Jerry, his legs feeling like they are made of lead.  Jerry has managed to get up to all fours.

Another weak punt from E Z! He sends Jerry rolling further down the corridor towards a loading bay, the shutter of which is open.

Neither man has anything left after the months of brutal brawling. They are exhausted.

Blood smears the concrete floor of the corridor as Jerry crawls towards one of the walls, pulling himself up.  He turns towards E Z who has continued his advance and the two start to exchange lazy, exhausted blows to one anothers face and body.

Jerry shoves E Z weakly and E Z’s back hits the wall.  E Z rebounds and shoves Jerry, who hits the opposite wall of the corridor in the same way.  Jerry rebounds from the wall and boots E Z in the midsection.  E Z crouches over and Jerry grabs his head, but E Z launches himself upwards, hitting a European uppercut! There is barely a slap, but Jerry staggers back towards the loading bay. Teetering on the edge.

Below, a drop of at least ten feet promises only a hard landing on either the concrete floor, or a poorly parked dusty black car.

Jerry sees E Z jogging towards him, but there’s nothing he can do. It’s too late, and besides, he’s so tired.

E Z spears Jerry David off the loading bay!

They SOAR through the air, bracing for their landing.

They MISS the car and land directly on the concrete floor.

Medics, referees, and backstage staff all rush out to the scene.

“Someone call an ambulance!” one of the medics yells.

A referee rushes off to make the call.

Neither man has moved in the moment following the massive spear into the concrete. But now… One man is twitching, groaning, and rolling onto his stomach.

E Z Rah rises to his feet, standing above the medics, the referees, the backstage staff and Jerry David, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. His body is broken, his penis is without doubt throbbing in an unpleasurable way from the months of trauma, and yet his hatred continues to push his body onwards.

A medic tries to grab hold of E Z, but E Z grabs him by his lapels and, powered entirely by hatred, finds the energy to hurl him out of the way, tossing him to the concrete.

Referees shout at E Z, who is limping towards Jerry. The referees try to block his path, but E Z punches one, then another.

Meanwhile, Jerry David is dragging himself to his feet using the car bumper, then bonnet for support. As he turns around a medic approaches him, but Jerry kicks the medic, slamming his head into the car bonnet! The medic collapses to the floor, having been knocked out by a man powered only by his loathing for E Z Rah.

Each of the men go on to assault every single staff member standing between them, punching, throwing and in one instance headbutting the innocent bystanders, until only the two men remain. Jerry bleeding profusely from his head, E Z huffing for breath and swollen in ways you cannot imagine.

“I fucking hate you, Jerry David.” E Z says between heavy breaths.

“I fucking hate you, E Z Rah.” Jerry says between heavy breaths.

Then E Z walks right by Jerry, opens the car door and sits in the driver’s seat of the car.

Jerry spits blood on the windscreen of the car but E Z simply starts the car up, and reverses away from the loading bay.

Jerry glares at the car as E Z retreats.

“Yeah.” Jerry huffs, leaning his hands onto his knees, “You better run, you PUSSY!”

The car stops.

The window opens.

The head of E Z Rah pops out.

“What’chu say?”

“I said,” Jerry huffs, “I said you better run.”

E Z’s head pops back in the car. Then back out.

“What else’chu say?”

“Then I said you’re a PUSSY!”

E Z Rah’s head pops back in the car again.

The car tyres screech and spin, smoke coming from them and the car is no longer in reverse.

It’s in DRIVE!

The car hurtles towards Jerry. Jerry steps to one side, but not quick enough.  The car clips his legs and sends him flying into the air, the back of his head cracking the windscreen before his body rolls over the car and to the concrete floor.

The car doesn’t stop. E Z spins it around and heads off up the street towards the arena exit.

Nobody is left to help Jerry, who lies motionless on the ground amongst a group of other injured people – those who came to help him – referees, staff, medics. 

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“Bad Bitch” by Bebe Rexha signals the entrance of ‘Queen’ Bianca Davis. At the top of the ramp two men stand, each holding a long trumpet horn, which they blow in unison.  A few moments later ‘Queen’ Bianca Davis steps through the curtain wearing a long robe, her tiara and holding a sceptre, which she raises in the air.

‘Downtown’ Jason Brown stands in the centre of the ring, microphone in hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall!”

“One fall!” the audience shouts back at him. Hilarious. Very clever.

“Making her way to the ring, ‘Queen’ Bianca Davis!”

Bianca continues down the ramp, waving at the peasants audience. An entourage of four men, all dressed in crisp black suits and wearing sunglasses follow closely behind her.

“And in the ring, Alf Alferson.”

Alf looks up from his belly button when he hears his name mentioned and appears a little bit surprised to find himself standing in a wrestling ring.  He points one finger in the air.

The entourage hurry in front of Bianca, one lying face down on the floor near the ring apron, another even closer to the ring apron crouches on all fours and the remaining two men stand at opposite sides of their entourage colleagues, where they each take the hand of Bianca.  Bianca steps first on the man lying face down, then on the crouched man, using them as steps, before getting up onto the apron.  Facing the ring, she holds both arms out. Her sceptre is taken from her before the two standing entourage members take her gown from her.  Beneath the gown she wears a sports bra and matching tights in a regal purple. She is also wearing matching high heels.

Bianca steps through the ropes and stretches out her arms, goading the fans who respond by booing her.


As the bell sounds, a lute strums a chord.

“What is a lute?” asks nobody – a lute is like a small, acoustic guitar from yesteryear. 

‘Queen’ Bianca Davis turns and looks up the ramp where she sees, at the same time as the audience, that a man dressed in regalia not dissimilar to Henry VIII stands, holding a lute.

Then all at once the lights go out in the arena.

A few moments pass. The crowd murmurs quietly.

A single spotlight illuminates the stage where the lute player once stood, but in his place is a man, kneeling, a huge grin plastered across his face and JAZZ HANDS.

The Jester.

“Thou hast rejected your jester
and left him to fester.
Yee hast cast him aside
even though he has tried
to prove that his love is real.

“Now you will find
that a lady unkind
will be punished in ways of the crown.

“PAHHHHHHHHHH!” he finishes his poorly rhymed poem, his tongue lapping around the black face paint around his lips. He drops to a knee and JAZZ HANDS!

The spotlight is extinguished just as The Jester hits a backwards roll, rolling away from the light.  

A few seconds later, the arena lighting is restored.  Bianca is already out of the ring, running up the ramp and screaming at her entourage.

“He can’t have got far! FIND HIM!” she screams at her entourage as she runs up the ramp, through the curtain and into the backstage area.

In the gorilla area Bianca scans her eyes around and grabs a stage hand by his shirt.

“Where did he go?”

The stage hand grabs at his headset to stop it falling off and shrugs, having only been paid as an extra without a speaking part.

The entourage fan out, searching the area. Bianca tosses the stage hand to one side and continues her search.

Back in the ring, the referee shouts “Ten!” and signals for the bell.


‘Downtown’ Jason Brown makes the announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your winner via countout… Alf Alferson!”

The crowd applauds as Alf Alferson finishes digging in his ear with his index finger, inspects what he has found in there, then points that same finger in the air.

Alf Alferson goes 3-0.

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The scene opens up to a somewhat dimly lit bar. At the bottom of the screen, white letters appear briefly…

The night before Domination 6

And then they disappear. The bar is not a seedy one, but rather one connected to a swanky hotel. The camera moves slowly around until it focuses on a solitary man sitting at one end of the bar. As we get closer, we see it is “The Legend” Sean Darring nursing his favorite drink.

“Well if it isn’t a fellow CWF hall-of-famer.”

Darring bristles a bit and then turns to see “Too Cool” Chris Hopper with a grin on his face, knowing how such an accolade resonates between them as if it is a private joke between them.

“Yeah,” Darring says as he stands up, “The hand those out like hot dogs at baseball games. Damn, how you doing, Chris.”

The two men shake hands and yank into the “bro hug” before sitting down. Chris motions to the bartender with a single finger and the low rent chemical engineer goes to work on his shot of Jack Daniels.

“Same old thing, really.” Hopper answers. “So, you know what you plan to say tomorrow?”

Darring slowly nurses his scotch before responding.

“Some.  It’s going to be good to be home. I am going to let the moment dictate most if it. I stopped planning these things years ago. The one thing I learned about a wrestling show is that you never really know anything.”

The two men have a good laugh. The Legend then tosses a hard ball question towards his old friend.

“So when are we going to get Too Cool back in the ring, my friend?  Don’t tell me you don’t miss it.  Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to slap a few of these young kids around?”

“Honestly,” he slowly starts his answer before taking a sip of his drink and then finally continues, “I don’t feel I need to jump in anywhere since I’m still at nineteen and I honestly can’t remember where you are by comparison.”

There is obviously a brotherly connection and the chiding is part of their normal dance.

“But as a wise man once said,” He continues grinning, “the only thing that is for sure is that nothing is for sure.”

The Legend grins and mutters, “It’s probably best since you would have to face me.”

A serious moment?  Nah… both men shake their heads and continue to sip their drink.

“You know in all my years I never once got to be in my home town with the big strap,” the King of Cool laments. “It really would have been fun to be in Indianapolis or even Louisville with the belt and have the chance to celebrate with my friends and family. Anybody special coming in?”

The Legend thinks for a few moments and you almost see a small moment of sadness on his face, but it’s quickly erased.

“It’s no secret I traded every meaningful relationship for this business.   But, those who still love me will be on hand and I can’t wait to thank them for sticking with me.  God knows, I don’t deserve it.”

A big drink this time as the Legend finishes his glass.

“The things we sacrificed for our legacy.”

The two share a moment of silence, both seemingly thinking of the depth of that statement.

“Well buddy,” Chris steps up from the chair, “Congrats on the title. You have earned it and I’m happy you have it. Go out and do us old heads proud, alright?”

The Legend nods towards his good friend … maybe his oldest friend left.  He turns as Chris Hopper begins to head out and says, “By the way .. I am pretty sure this was number twenty.”

The look of disbelief on the 19-time World champion’s face is palpable, then just as fast his face turns to a look of nodding agreement with a hint of mockery. We see him mouth the words “If you say so, champ.”

With that, Darring is again left at the bar, grin on his face, knowing he got under his buddy’s skin.  The legendary smile returns as he says …

“Bartender, one more.”

The screen fades out slowly.

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The “The Maltese National Anthem” hits the PA system, and the fans give a respectful thumbs down to the hard-nosed veteran, except one. Who has become the traveling Malta mark – we have seen this guy at the Globe holding up his homemade Malta flag and wearing his “Malta Tough” shirt.

Lucas Quinn comments, “We all have our favorites, and no question this guy loves Son of Malta.”

The Mark jokingly responds, “He may be the only one.”

The dangerous Son of Malta emerges from the curtains, standing and looking around the arena. He finally begins walking down the aisle way, only stopping to salute the homemade Malta flag and fist-bumping “Malta Mark.” He then turns and walks up the ring steps heading into the ring, preparing for his match.

Until …

No music, no fanfare needed … and outsteps the third brother of the legendary Rich Family, Declan Rich.

Allie says, “Listen to those fans, Lucas and Mark! These fans support Freddie and the Rich Family after Freddie was taken to the hospital after his war with Alex Reyn.”

Lucas Quinn questions, “You have to wonder what kind of mind frame the youngest Rich is in after watching his big brother get decimated,”

The Mark pipes in, “Declan has long been rumored to be the most talented of the Rich family, but rough around the edges. It will be interesting to see how he rebounds mentally against a veteran like Son of Malta.”

Declan Rich taps his heart, thanking the fans and their reaction as a small – “Freddie” chant breaks out in respect. Declan Rich slaps the hands of Global-Nation as he walks down the aisle way, only stopping in front of the camera and saying – “This is for you, Freddie.”

Allie gushes, “Declan is wearing his heart on his sleeve here tonight. All of our hearts are with Freddie and his recovery, and it’s hard not to be a Declan fan here in this match.”

Lucas Quinn responds, “Will that be enough? Son of Malta is always ready to fight, and Freddie’s situation isn’t going to affect him one way or another.”

Declan Rich joins the Son of Malta in the squared circle and raises his hand, causing GLOBAL-Nation to roar in full support of the young Rich brother. Except for the one Malta mark, the camera focuses on him booing Declan Rich and waving his Malta flag proudly for his favorite wrestler.

The Mark laughs adding, “I bet this guy’s bedroom would make us all uncomfortable. I bet there is Son of Malta merchandise all over it.”

Allie asks, “What is wrong with that?”

Lucas Quinn somewhat agrees with Deltzer saying, “He looks nearly thirty.”

Referee Shane Staggs has the assignment for the night. He stands between the two GLOBAL wrestlers and calls for the bell.


In a mutual sign of respect for Freddie and what Declan is going through, the Son of Malta uncharacteristically holds his hand out for a respectful handshake as Declan Rich nods, accepting it as both men back away and start to circle.

Lucas Quinn comments, “The Son of Malta rarely shows any emotion and is about as close as an iceman as this industry has seen just showed a little bit of emotion and understanding for what Declan is going through.”

The Mark adds, “The Son of Malta understands Alex Reyn and his reign of terror all too well.”

The two men continue to circle around as the Son of Malta looks for that opening. Declan Rich, full of emotion, is hesitant, sidestepping and dodging any attempt that Malta attempts. Finally, the two men lock up, and Malta quickly locks a headlock. He uses his body to send him to the mat keeping the headlock locked. Declan Rich uses his legs to lock head scissors on Malta as they go to the mat. Malta quickly positions himself to break out as both men are back on their feet.

Lucas Quinn says, “Son of Malta may be the standard bearer when it comes to being a warrior and technical wrestling. Declan Rich is far from a slouch. Some have wondered if, in a few years if Declan may be one of the top wrestlers and a top contender for a singles title.”

The two men go to lock up, and Malta has an arm, but Rich reverses it and locks the arm behind the Son of Malta.

Malta counters it …

Rich counters …

Malta counters …

Roll up behind by the Son of Malta.




The Mark says, “A few mind games going on in there as both men not wanting to make the first mistake. The Son of Malta went for that pin knowing that it wouldn’t win, but to slow the match down and get more into the head of Declan Rich.”

Both men right back up, but Declan Rich responds with a dropkick that backs the Son of Malta up. Then hits an armdrag takedown. The Son of Malta is back up and is taken right back down with a hip toss. Malta is back up and is taken down one more time with a running clothesline, and the fans love it as the Son of Malta rolls under the bottom ropes to reset.

Allie says, “Declan Rich is full of emotion and adrenaline. It’s hard to game plan for that.”

And just as Allie says, Declan Rich puts his body on the line as he hits a plancha on Son of Malta.”

Lucas Quinn says, “Declan Rich just put his body on the line and took Malta out, and listen to these fans!”

Declan Rich leaps up, full of emotion and adrenaline, and lets out a Rich Family scream.

The Mark says, “Declan has been holding that in for weeks. You can see it in his eyes tonight.”

Declan Rich rolls the warrior, Son of Malta, under the ropes and back inside the ring. As Rich climbs to the ring apron outside the ropes, Son of Malta stumbles to his feet and is quickly taken back down with a springboard missile dropkick. Rich grabs the right leg of Malta and hooks it for the cover!




Declan Rich is right back up, pulls the Son of Malta up, and whips him into the corner with a big Irish whip. Declan is right behind Malta, but the veteran gets a boot up to slow the Rich brother down. He pulls Rich in close and lands a stiff high knee, followed by Malta locking a hammerlock slowing the intensity of Declan Rich down.

Lucas Quinn says, “The Son of Malta slowing the match down and putting out the fire with which Declan Rich entered the match.”

The Son of Malta trips Declan Rich and has him face-first on the mat. The Son of Malta locks on a cross knee lock.

Allie, “The Son of Malta is known for keeping matches at a comfortable slower pace. He works the limbs until he has an opening for that deadly Maltese Cross.”

The Mark asks, “Is there a more automatic submission move in GLOBAL? Even Sean Darring’s legend lock doesn’t match the Maltese Cross.”

Declan Rich fights, refusing to give up as the Son of Malta keeps that deadly cross knee lock hooked.

Lucas Quinn says, “While I agree the Maltese Cross is automatic, it appears Declan Rich is fighting through the knee lock, and the Son of Malta lets it go and STOMPS on Rich’s back.”


… brutal stomp by the Son of Malta stops Declan Rich from reaching the ropes. Malta yanks Declan up with force, lifts him, and flattens him with a German suplex.


Even the force of that suplex didn’t keep Declan Rich down as he popped back up, holding him back only to eat a flying spinning heel kick by Malta.


The Mark shouts, “Son of Malta is like a cannon ball coming at you at nearly 250 pounds.”

The Son of Malta grabs the ankle of Declan Rich and twists locking on an ankle lock!

Lucas Quinn asks, “I know Declan came out fired up, but I wonder if his inexperience is quickly showing as the Son of Malta is having his way with different limbs on the younger Rich brother.”

Allie sympathizes, “I think we all hoped that Declan could come out here and fight in his brother’s spirit, but it may have been too much to ask with such a huge challenge in singles action with the Son of Malta who just picks apart every weakness you have.”

The fans continue to support Declan refusing to give up, and neither does Declan. Declan is able to maneuver himself to spinning out of the ankle lock and back to his feet into a waiting Son of Malta, who brings him right back down with a snap and throw.

The Mark says, “Impressive counter by Delcan, only to find himself back on the mat again.”

This time the Son of Malta pulls up Declan Rich and hits a bridging northern lights suplex for the cover.






Allie agrees with the fans, “So close! We are all thankful Declan was able to kick out there. It would be heartbreaking to see him come out and fall like that after all the emotion and support Global Nation is giving him.”

We now have a split screen for those watching at home. The Prime Time Athletes are in the back watching the TV monitor as they laugh and point at Declan Rich’s misfortune. Meanwhile, in the ring and on the other side of the split screen, The Son of Malta is returning to work on Declan Rich, sitting on the back of Rich with a chin lock.

Lucas Quinn disgustingly asks, “What do these two hooligans want? Nobody is amused. You said your peace earlier tonight.”

Allie agrees saying, “They are just here to rub salt in the wounds of everyone, and now is not the time.”

The Mark adds, “Not that I agree with these two’s words or actions. But, if you want the Rich Family to notice you, this is how you do it.”

The Son of Malta now transitions the chin lock into a half-nelson as Declan Rich approaches his feet. The Prime Time Athletes continue to mock the Rich Family and, most notably, Freddie Rich as they hold their throat, mocking his injury.

Lucas Quinn angrily says, “Come on now! Whoever is working production – cut their feed.”

The Son of Malta continues to work Declan Rich over keeping the match at a pace that he is comfortable with. He pushes Rich against the ropes and sends him across, and as Rich roars off, he ducks under a clothesline. Declan Rich hits the opposite side, and baseball slides through the open legs of Malta. As the veteran turns around, Malta eats a boot to the head from an enzuigiri!


… The Son of Malta stumbles staying on his feet, but not for long as Declan Rich lands a double knee face breaker!


Allie shouts, “Declan Rich isn’t going away easy! How convenient the feed to the Prime Time Athletes cut as soon as Declan mounted a comeback.”

Declan Rich is back on his feet, shaking the cobwebs and hitting a leg lariat!

Lucas Quinn marvels, “Listen to these fans! They are willing Declan to a comeback here!”

Declan Rich is now entirely in the zone hitting his triangle dropkick as Son of Malta rolled to the outside ring apron and used the ropes to get to his feet!

The Mark says, “There is that Triangle Dropkick. We have seen Declan use that to lead to finishes many times!”

Lucas Quinn says, “Declan isn’t wasting any time, understanding fully that any second he wastes is a second the Son of Malta’s brain thinks of the next series of moves.”

Rich rolls out quickly pulls up and rolls the Son of Malta back into the ring. He follows Malta back in, pulls Malta up, and sends him hard into a corner with an Irish Whip. Declan quickly follows Malta, and as the veteran comes off the ropes, Declan scores a fast, point-blank dropkick!




The fan’s support fires Declan Rich up even more as he calls for the veteran to get to his feet, and as the Son of Malta does, he is taken right back down with a brutal, sick kick!



Global Nation is now chanting – FREDDIE !!! FREDDIE !!!

Allie follows up, “This is tearing my eyes!”

Declan Rich drops and hooks the leg as the fans go insane, and the announcers scream!




….. INSANE DISAPPOINTMENT POP as Shane Staggs waves the win away as he points to the Son of Malta’s boot on the bottom ropes.

Lucas Quinn questions Staggs, “What!?!?! I don’t know about that. I am not one to question a referee but come on, Staggs, you can’t break our hearts like that!”

The Mark backs Staggs up, “I know we all want to will Declan to a victory tonight, but Malta with a heads up veteran move surviving Freddie’s nightmare.”

Declan Rich pounds his fist on the ground, but he begins nodding as he gets back to his feet and gives the “heart” sign to the camera as a message to his brother.

Allie, “That heart sign can only mean one thing! Will we see Filthy Rich?”

The fans are in full support of Declan as he sets up for the piledriver part of the cradle piledriver … However, the veteran blocks it … then hits the superstar kick, stunning Declan Rich!


Then, Son of Malta lands a snap belly-to-belly overhead suplex folding Declan Rich in half and deflating the fans, except one, the Malta mark, who finds himself on camera waving his homemade Malta flag in joy.

Lucas Quinn sounds down, saying, “That suplex took the air out of the arena and Declan Rich.”

The Mark adds, “The Son of Malta is a true warrior. If he weathers the storm, then you are all but doomed.”

… piggybacking off what Deltzer just said, The Son of Malta locks on the double undercut … cross face as the fans go silent.

Lucas Quinn says The Maltese Cross is hooked. Nobody survives the Maltese cross.

… however, Declan Rich is refusing to give up! He adamantly shakes his head no, giving Global Nation hope and the roar of their cheers in support and encouragement for Rich!

Allie hopefully says, “Declan has the fighting spirit of the Rich Family and all of Global Nation! He is fighting through the insane pain of possibly Global’s most dangerous submission hold!”

Referee Shane Staggs continues to check in on Declan Rich, who refuses to give up. The Son of Malta rears back, showing some concern in his eyes as Declan Rich continues trying to fight and reach and edge his way to the ropes.

Lucas Quinn excitedly shouts, “I can’t believe it! Declan is surviving the Maltese Cross!”

… The fans are going wild as Declan shakes his head no last time, forcing the warrior … the veteran … the Son of Malta, to give it his all one final time, locking the Maltese Cross the unsurvivable finishing move one final extension.

Declan …

Taps …


Allie says, “What heart … I know Freddie is at home proud of his brother tonight. So much emotion and Declan fought one of the toughest men in GLOBAL and took him to the limits.”

The Winner of the Match …. THE SON OF MALTA …..

The Son of Malta raises his hand as he notices Declan Rich, disappointed, still on his knees on the mat. The warrior extends his hand in respect and helps Declan to his feet.

Lucas Quinn says, “The Son of Malta won, but Declan Rich has earned the warrior’s respect and all of ours around Global Nation! What heart, what toughness, what a display of what we all hope to become, Mark and Allie.”

The Mark agrees, “The Son of Malta goes into the record book the winner, but there are no losers tonight. We all witnessed a breakout performance by Declan Rich.”

Allie adds, “The Prime Time Athletes better be careful. They may get what they ask for.”

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Giovanni Ferrari, President of GLOBAL Wrestling, sits behind his desk in his office at GLOBAL headquarters.  He is well dressed, as always, but this time is addressing the audience directly, his hands folded calmly and neatly in front of him, resting on the desk.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the carnage caused by E Z Rah and Jerry David over the tenure of GLOBAL Wrestling has been costly both on a financial and physical basis. And it is on this basis that I have come to a decision.

“Neither man may lay a hand on the other until our next Pay-Per-View, Gold Rush.

“Any man who lays his hand on the other will be fined six months salary.

“Regarding the Pay-Per-View, it seems appropriate that I now make arrangements for a match to take place between the two men so that they might finally settle their differences. And to keep things exciting, there will be a special stipulation for this match.

“What that stipulation will be, I have deferred both the decision and the announcement to a man who has undergone life-altering injuries during the course of this blood feud. He, and he alone, will decide the stipulation for this match, and will announce it himself in due course.

That man is E Z Rah.

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Backstage at the Hammerstein Ballroom, the luchador known as El Principe puts the last of his gear inside his sports bag, zips it up, and heads out of the locker room, heaving a sigh of relief. As much as he likes what he is lucky enough to be able to do for a living, there is always an element of satisfaction about packing up for another night and getting to go home and relax with a six-pack in front of the crappiest ‘telenovela’ Mexican TV has to offer – which, flight time notwithstanding, is exactly what Principe intends to do with his upcoming day off. Hell, he thinks to himself, if he is lucky, he may even be able to find a ‘telenovela’ to watch on the plane.

So absorbed is the masked wrestler in his visions of the flight home and subsequent downtime that he fails to notice when three figures come rushing up from a dark corner to jump him from behind; as such, before he is able to so much as react, he is being pinned down against the concrete floor by someone much heavier than him, and punished with repeated, clubbing blows to the back of the head.

“Hold him down, boys.” The familiar voice causes a ripple of unbridled rage to pass through Principe’s body, and he redoubles his efforts to break free. Every time it appears as though he might be able to overpower his assailants, however, another blow lands, and he feels himself getting pressed up even harder against the cold, hard arena floor. He is, therefore, unable to do much more than glare as the owner of the voice stands directly in front of his face, smirking down from six feet above him.

“Payback’s a bitch, you goddamn BLEEP.” The man smirks at the nerve he knows he just struck with the use of the ethnic slur. “You wanna jump me? Guess what – I’m gonna jump you right back. Eye for an eye, motherBLEEPer. That’s how we do things on the LEGAL side of the border.” The man’s smug tone, coupled with his casual, wanton use of unforgivably racist and demeaning terminology, cause Principe’s anger to flare up once again, leading the luchador to respond in the only way he can: by spitting on the other man’s shoes, while uttering a few choice words of his own.

Pinche gringo pendejo!

This, in turn, draws a gasp from what Principe deduces to be two figures holding him down, while the man he so vehemently loathes appears too stunned and shocked to speak, a grimace of sheer fury slowly contorting his face as he realises what just happened. That mask of hatred ends up being the last thing Principe sees before his face gets repeatedly smashed into the concrete by the man’s boot, even as his accomplices resume the assault on Principe’s back and neck. It is, therefore, through a mask of blood and bruises – mercifully hidden underneath his physical mask, on which dark pools have begun to spread – that Principe next sees his opponent, his own face now inches from the luchador’s, whose mask he is tugging on, the better to ensure he is seen and heard.

“Looks like this pinscher gringo just whupped your ass, ‘amigo’…” The man’s cackle is as odious as his words as he directs a casual kick at the luchador “I oughta make you spit-shine these goddamn shoes, since you like hockin’ loogies on them so much…But I think you learned your lesson, didn’t you, you BLEEPing BLEEP?” Another casual kick from the steel-caps crunches Principe’s nose, as the man chuckles mirthlessly. “After today…I think you’re gonna remember us. Ain’t he, boys?”

The man’s two accomplices snicker nastily as he once again addresses Principe directly. “Tell you what, ‘compadre’…why don’t I help ya, just in case?” He smirks. “The name’s Truth. John J. Truth. But you can call me Boogeyman. ‘Cause from now on…I’ll be your worst nightmare.”

With that, Principe’s hated rival finally lets go of his mask, causing the worn-down luchador’s head to crumple back onto the concrete, its thud muffled by the man’s call of “better watch your back, ‘ese’”. He then calls for his accomplices to join him and, a moment later, all three can be heard walking away, cackling, hooting and hollering, leaving the crushed and weary Principe to seethe on the floor, all thoughts of six-packs and soap operas long gone from his mind, and replaced by a single other: revenge.

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Do you want to SAVE THE WORLD?

Do you?

Well, we at the Pointless Recycling Facility (PRF) have some GREAT news!




Did you know that if you recycle the can your dog food came in, you can SAVE THE WORLD?




That’s right!

You can single handedly offset BIG OIL by recycling your tiny, insignificant




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Because BIG OIL isn’t the problem.


So think on, you fucking slob, the next time you toss your Coca Cola™ bottle into the regular trash.

You’re killing dolphins, etc.

(this has been a message from the PRF, sponsored by SHELL.)

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The Informer stands backstage, holding a microphone.  Flight cases and scaffolding poles line up against the corridor wall behind him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a medical update on Jerry David.

“Jerry was taken to a local medical facility to have his injuries assessed by medical professionals.  They have found that he has several broken ribs but is expected to make a full and speedy recovery.

“My sources indicate that Jerry has heard about the match at the Pay-Per-View, which he welcomes, but feels that the stipulation being set by E Z Rah is, and I have to stress that this is a direct quote, ‘absolute fucking horse shit”.

“It sounds like the GLOBAL fans are in for quite the fight come Gold Rush.”

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A Lesson in Reality: Shae
Protecting The Truth: Pedro
Ready Player One: Pedro
Segment Four: Here
Queen Bianca Vs. Alf Alferson: Scott
Advertisement: Scott
Global Challenge: Brian
Segment Six: Here
Do Your Duty!: Chris
Segment Eight: Here
Match Two: Here
A Rich Problem: Brian
Segment Ten: Here
Segment Eleven: Here
Segment Twelve: Here

John J. Truth Vs. The Great Wall:
Advertisement: Scott
Segment Thirteen: Here
Drive: Scott
Segment Fifteen: Here
E Z Rah & Alex Reyn Vs. : Keegan
Chance Meeting: Chris
State of the Nation: Scott
Truth Hurts: Pedro
SoM Vs. Declan Rich: Brian
Advertisement: Scott
Medical Update: Scott
Segment Twenty: Here
Main Event: Here
Finale: Here

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