THE PUNISHER

…that rousing start to a night of good old-fashioned sanctioned violence and buffoonery, to a place and time that offers more of both.

Even the casual viewer will notice the EARLIER TODAY (but not earlier than 6am, but before the show starts) graphic festooned in the top left of the screen.

Your garden variety big mammerjammer of a pop lets loose as HBIC Lindsay Troy’s face appears on camera. She glowers ahead, and despite all the hooting, not from owls, and indeed a great deal of hollering from fans in the arena, she seems to be possessed of a barely contained rage.

Lindsay Troy: I have one question: Are. You. Freaking. Kidding. Me?

The camera pans back to show her seated at her desk, but it doesn’t yet reveal who she’s got such vitriol for. 

Lindsay Troy: (pre-empts any response) Don’t answer that question. I want you to silently reflect on whether or not you are, in fact, freaking kidding me. Don’t say anything. Just do me the favor of looking like two people who are thinking about the migraine you have caused me.

While we still haven’t seen the two people in question, we’re getting warmer on the answer of who she could be referring to.

Lindsay Troy: (turns to her left) I don’t know why I thought you’d know better, but seriously? Do not respond. (turns to her right) And I’m stone cold certain you know better, but have made it your life’s work to see how quickly you can turn every hair on my head gray. Do NOT respond.

The camera begins a slow pan outward.

Lindsay Troy: So tell me, one more time, why it is that Dam dropped not only an impressive amount of contraband on my doorstep, but also you two incompetent children who he said gave him, “more trouble than a gator with a toothache?”

And now, the camera flips around entirely and, shot from the side, shows all three figures involved. The two incompetent children in question are, respectively:

Tony Gamble. The crowd virulently boos, loud enough to feel it in your temples anywhere in the arena, while somewhere a small syndicate of incelsmen heartily cheer.

*and* 

Chandler Tsonda. The crowd lets rip with a megaton pop that causes Cleveland to register a miniscule, but scientifically knowable, earthquake.

It is also now clear that there is a great deal of, well, stuff behind Lindsay Troy’s desk. It’s not clear why. A very disappointed looking Enemigo stands guard over the stack of disallowed items. 

Nova and Sonny Silver would be proud.

Chandler Tsonda: (very cautiously, at a whisper) Do we talk yet? By the way, fuck you Gamble, you rotten little parmesan bitch.

Tony Gamble: (whispering back) Go Pho kyerself, Tussonda, you spoiled little priss. You’re a huge prick, and I’ve been watching TikTok to learn the moves I’m going to bust out when I dance on your grave.

Troy raises a finger and both men stop. It’s like having two very-well trained dogs. 

Lindsay Troy: So many words. And yet, no one is saying why I am looking at this.

From behind her desk, she pulls out of the great pile of things: a gleaming well-polished sword. Already, she hears TAL’s footsteps running down the hall as he logs into Jabber.

Chandler Tsonda silently raises his hand.

Lindsay Troy: (losing patience) Chan Chan, do not screw me around.

Chandler Tsonda: OK, so, the sword is mine. But I do have a good, sober reason for bringing it here. (nods towards Gamble) I was going to slit his tires, and maybe, just for a little laugh, take the hand of one of his idiot cronies who stomped my shit in last week. But just a hand!

Lindsay Troy: (pulls another item from the pile) So this is yours too?

It’s a tube of some kind in military green. It’s about three feet long, but clearly has some kind of trigger apparatus.

Tony Gamble: No, that one’s mine. 

Lindsay Troy: Do I want to know what it is?

Tony Gamble: That…depends. If it were an army surplus flamethrower, would you want to know that? Because if not, it’s a, uh, whadayacallit, a fidget spinner.

Lindsay Troy: What the fuck is wrong with you?

Chandler Tsonda: If I may…

Lindsay Troy: No. You may not.

The head of PRIME pinches the bridges of her nose and mutters something under her breath, probably something about the truly thankless job of being in charge of this place. Then she starts pointing to random things in the pile.

Lindsay Troy: That?

Chandler Tsonda: Chloroform rag.

Lindsay Troy: This?

Tony Gamble: 12-pack of poison-laced lime Lacroix.

Chandler Tsonda: God, you’re a fucking sicko. I would never drink anything but peach-pear.

The President and CEO once again raises her finger, and quiet reigns again.

Lindsay Troy: We’re resuming the “do not speak unless spoken to” etiquette. My final question, and I already regret it, is what is in this box.

She gestures with both hands towards a sealed wooden box. In the pile of what are almost exclusively weapons of mid-grade destruction, it stands out as looking pretty harmless. Lindsay Troy points to the Model Citizen, giving him permission to speak.

Chandler Tsonda: It’s too small for Gamble’s Napoleon complex, but waaaaay too big for his talent. Sorry, sorry. I’m following the rules. No idea. Honest.

She gives him a look that says “even if I sort of like you, not today, partner.” Lindsay now points to Tony Gamble for the same reason.

Tony Gamble: Easy, the box is empty. 

Lindsay Troy: Scarface, why is the box empty?

Tony Gamble: It’s a decoy box so Dam wouldn’t find the real one. Hello, I’m not a complete idiot.

Lindsay Troy: Make no mistake, you still are. Where’s the real one?

Tony Gamble: Depends. (looks down at his watch) Frank and Dom might be running late, so it’s either just outside the arena, or currently sneaking in the back of the arena. Allegedly, that is. 

Lindsay Troy: The next words out of your grinny little mouth are going to be answers to my questions.

Tony Gamble: Sheesh, this place used to be fun. When Devin was around, we tried to kill each other on every show.

Lindsay Troy: (interjecting, scowling) When Devin was around, this place reeked of black nail polish and sadness. Plus he ran PRIME into the ground, didn’t pay people for a year, and the company almost died. You want that again?

Tony Gamble: …fine. You make a fair point. If you really need to know, the box has scorpions in it, OK? And if it weren’t narc city here, those scorpions would already be in Tussonda’s duffel bag. With any luck, he’d be halfway into toxic shock. Cancel culture is making life really boring these last few years.

This, it turns out, is the final straw for the patient-to-a-point Troy.

Lindsay Troy: I’ve heard enough. Seen enough. You’re just…I need you out of this office.

Tony Gamble: Say no more boss. I’ll just grab my fidget spinner and be on m—

Lindsay Troy: (cuts Gamble off) Because I am in charge of this place, a place you two goons were clearly going to turn into a warzone while trying to kill each other, here is how we’re going to deal with the Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber saga.

The Sultan of Style looks on the verge of saying something. He is nearly falling out of his chair, visibly biting his lip.

Lindsay Troy: Chandler, if you ask me which of you is Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber, I will make you wrestle Helen in the Roller Cage at Colossus.

He puts his hands up very innocently, as if to say: “Fair enough.”

Lindsay Troy: Punishment #1: you’re banned from physical contact with one another. If I can’t trust you not to shoot poison darts at one another, then you’ll operate on nursery school hands-to-yourself rules.

You can actually see Chandler Tsonda shaking from the effort to bite his tongue. Tony Gamble yawns, and does a “ok, wrap it up” gesture.

Lindsay Troy: Punishment #2: you deal with (gestures vaguely at their toxic masculinity and inability to solve any problems except with fists or weapons) all this by facing each other at UltraViolence. The ban on physical contact is lifted when the bell rings for your match.

Both men, with similar aims, smirk at the thought of maiming the other under the bright lights.

Lindsay Troy: You both have big matches tonight. I’m sure Adam Ellis and FLAMBERGE will be looking to deliver their own punishment to you boys. Any questions?

There is just a little enjoyment in the smile that crosses the Queen of the Ring’s face, as she underscores the challenges ahead in Gamble and Tsonda’s respective title matches. Maybe the matches aren’t punishments, per se, but they ain’t Friday afternoon at the happiness factory either.

Chandler Tsonda: OK, so let’s say I am diagnosed with a terminal illness. And I work with the Make-A-Wish foundation to secure one final joy on this mortal plane. And my greatest wish is to just rock Gamble right in his stupid little pig face. Hypothetically speaking, would this be permissible under the ban on… (sees the face Troy is making) no, you know what, no questions, I’m good. 

Tony Gamble: (gestures behind Troy) You throwing that stuff in the lost and found?

Lindsay Troy: You two were just leaving. (points to the door) Bye bye, goobers. 

The two men both push in their chairs and walk towards the door. Of course, both at the door, they are very close to one another, so they show a real respect for the decorum of the office and an understanding of what mistakes they’ve made thus far.

Just kidding, they are both flipping birds at each other as they exit, though they are technically not making any physical contact. The camera stays with the steel door, which closes behind them. 

Lindsay leans back in her chair and groans.

Lindsay Troy: It’s times like this that I really hate being the Boss and not being able to punch everyone here. You know?

Enemigo XXI nods and offers her a comforting pat on the shoulder.

Lindsay Troy: Thank you. Can you ask Dam to come in here? We need to get rid of all this.

Another nod from Enemigo XXI, who takes his leave. Lindsay looks at all the contraband and grabs the sword and flamethrower.

Lindsay Troy: (shaking her head) Idiots.

On that note, we head to the ring and give Lindsay Troy some level of peace. For now.

Now…

We cut to ringside!