COMMERCIAL: THE MADHOUSE
The Fistfight at High Noon is over, and the Madhouse has closed its doors. So many people took part in the insanity, but now they have all gone.
Let’s meet the founder. He sits in a small room, hunched over a desk, scribbling away with a pen and muttering to himself.
“Flag Match, at the United Nations…”
He is not scribbling on paper. He used that all up…which is just as well, because his pen ran out of ink ages ago. Now, he is scratching his thoughts into the desk itself.
“Would they fight inside the train, or on top of one?”
His name is Brian McCoy, and twenty years ago he had the world at his feet. He’d been put in charge of a major promotion, despite being half the age of most people in such a role and having no real experience.
Because Brian McCoy has ideas.
“Philadelphia Street Fight. Of course they’ll have to reroute traffic…”
Under his stewardship, the Pacific region constantly led the entire National Wrestling Council in ticket sales, viewership, and top-tier title reigns. When the NWC collapsed, Brian quickly rebranded his territory as the Diamond Wrestling Syndicate, turning it into a national brand on the strength of a loaded roster, innovative matches, and strong sponsorship ties.
“They’ve got to have those set pieces around somewhere. So, American Gladiators or Double Dare?”
Brian was heralded as a visionary…but it would turn out there was one area where he had a startling lack of vision. He tried to deal honestly with his roster, and expected them to do the same.
“We can rent a bouncy castle…we’ve got a skunk-a-pult…”
In less than six months, the Diamond Wrestling Syndicate was a distant memory. Torn apart by rampant egos, changing trends, internal plots, and spies. Always with the goddamn spies.
“I wonder how many people can fit on Henry Keyes’ airship.”
The wrestling business has taken everything from him. His career, his family, his mental health. It has left him a fractured soul, broken so completely that the pieces can never be reassembled. Unable to face the world, and only able to sustain himself through the charity of those who remember what he used to be.
“How many scuba suits could we get on short notice?”
Brian wishes he could leave it all behind. He would love nothing more than to find a regular job, live a normal life, and forget that he was ever part of this bizarre carnival where every ride turns into a sausage grinder; every animal act ends in blood and tears. He wants to leave so very, very much.
But he can’t.
“No, we couldn’t get him; he’s dead. But if Charles can get his time machine back…”
Because Brian McCoy has ideas…