I’M STILL HUNGRY
The following footage was electronically sent to the PRIME production team earlier today…
Rezin: Arright, gang, listen up…
The view abruptly comes in, and we immediately see the face of PRIME’s Five Star Champion, “The Escape Artist” Rezin.
Rezin: I hope you’d be willin’ to forgive your forever loyal and forever LIT Five Star Champion for not bein’ present tonight in my corporeal form… but as all of ya oughta know by now, there ain’t a dull moment in the life of a face-kickin’, Zippo-flickin’, scab-pickin’ PUNK ROCK sum’bish like ME!
Some things to take in here: He’s wearing a neck brace. And a hospital smock. And he’s behind the wheel of an ambulance. There’s a briefcase with banknotes sticking out the sides in the seat next to him. The meatwagon is blazing down a highway like a bat out of hell.
Despite the circumstances, Rezin nonchalantly drags off a spliff caught in the corner of his mouth.
Rezin: I also know that things have been pretty quiet outta Camp Crustpunk since UltraViolence, and I DOPE-ly apologize to anyone who might have been left hangin’ on the ever-chaotic misadventures of this ol’ Goat Bastard. Rest assured though, when I get back to Vegas…
A devilish glint fills Rezin’s eye.
Rezin: I will MORE than make up for my absence!
Sirens! And not the kind belonging to this particular emergency vehicle.
Rezin’s wild and bloodshot eyes pop open when he looks into the sideview mirror and presumably sees cherrytops flashing back at him.
Police: (on loudspeaker) You in the ambulance! Pull over, immediately!
The Escape Artist groans and eyerolls, like this was a problem as mundane and everyday as taking out the trash.
Rezin: Gimme a sec, gang…
He reaches off camera and, amazingly, procures a pipe bomb. Because it’s well-known that anarchists just have these things sitting around on standby.
The real anarchists, anyway.
He lights the fuse with the burning cherry off his joint. It sparkles ominously.
Rezin: One… two… three… four… twenty. Heh heh… wait, where was I? Oh well, fuggit, ACAB or whatever…
He drops the pipe bomb out the window and–
The ambulance shakes and swerves briefly off the peal of the explosion before steadying itself and resuming its wild ride down the freeway. Meanwhile, we hear the squeal of another set of tires preceding the dulled bang of a vehicle running itself into the ditch.
Glancing into the sideview again, Rezin grins and nods approvingly. No more sirens.
Rezin: As ya can no doubt see, gang, I’m a bit pressed for time here, so I’ll say my piece and let ya get back to the action…
From whatever off-camera void where he summons up homemade explosive devices, he retrieves the Five Star Championship of PRIME and rests it on his shoulder.
Rezin: For the time being, I find myself in the rare and extraordinary position of being the reigning Five Star Champ AND top ranked wrestler in the company, so I think it’s safe to say by now that I’ve more than proved my worth in this industry. But don’t get me wrong, cause I ain’t one to sit back and rest on my laurels…
His hands tighten their grip on the wheel while he continues to grinning like a jackal.
Rezin: Whether I’m a champ or a chump… number one or number zero… bringin’ it hard, fast, and PUNK ROCK is the ONLY WAY I know how to roll!
Daring and defiant as always, he slaps the face of the belt.
Rezin: So no matter what this world throws at me, whether it be roid-raging bear wranglers juiced up on STRONK or giant cowboy kill-machines with arms the size of friggin’ construction beams…
He winces slightly while tugging at the foam brace around his neck, but his fiery gaze doesn’t leave the camera.
Rezin: …ya can bet your normie ASSES that for as long as Hell’s Favorite Hoosier carries this strap, he’s gonna bring a fight worthy of EVERY DAMB STAR etched on it! So bring your best, PRIME! Bring your worst, too! Cause I’M! STILL!! HON-GRYY!!
More sounds from the road. The Goat Bastard suddenly perks up and pays attention to what’s ahead of him.
Rezin: Speaking of…
No sirens this time. Instead, a… jingle?
Rezin: …ICE CREAM.
Rezin’s nostrils flare and his lips curl back into a voracious, predatory snarl. His maniacal grin widens while he slams down on the accelerator.
Rezin: EEEEYYYESS CRRREEEAAAAAAMMM!!!
The ambulance shakes upon impact as Rezin rams the rear of what we can only assume to be an ice cream truck.
Rezin: I SCREAM FOR EEEEYYYESS CRRREEEAAAAAAMMM!!!
A second impact dislodges the camera from its mount, and footage returns to static…
Then we fade to Nick and Richard, shaking their heads in disbelief.
Richard Parker: How has that idiot not blown himself up yet?
Nick Stuart: I’m not sure, partner. Folks, we haven’t confirmed the Five Star Champion’s exact whereabouts since he was reportedly “decapitated via clothesline” the other night during another promotion’s event. Initial reports indicated that he was taken to a medical facility, but…
Richard Parker: Ugh, lemme guess… the Escape Artist did the thing that he does.
Nick Stuart: Our producers would also like me to remind you that the thoughts and opinions expressed in the previous video package do not reflect those of the ACE Network.
Richard Parker: Yeah, I can’t imagine they think highly of a drug-addled, bomb-making nutjob as a face for the company. The sooner this idiot loses that belt, the happier a whole lot of people are gonna be.
Nick Stuart: Be as it may, the ever unstable “Escape Artist” Rezin continues to dominate the ranks of PRIME as the Five Star Champion, leaving chaos and carnage in his wake.
Richard Parker: And smoke. And–OH! Don’t forget roaches. Both kinds of roaches.