Bubba King

There was no concert in session in The Paycom Arena, yet it was played by a conductor all the same. A new face of dread. The Existential Crisis For PRIME was no longer a crustpunk or a marauding Soviet experiment. The Murder Rumble transferred ownership of title. Not old enough to drink, just past the age of signing up for Selective Service. The future is now. Tyler Adrian Best was relishing his moment. “Boo all you want. Shit, I’ll boo right along with you.” His scornful smirk was built for flashbulbs. “This changes absolutely nothing but BOOOOO.”

Lindsay had asked Brandon to come to Oklahoma City, and as he waited, he watched the monitor. In the moment, he couldn’t deny what he was feeling, the GrandGODson seasoned his charisma with an air of inevitability. Helplessness imparted.

“Keep on booing while Hayes Hanlon tries to limp his way into our Universal Championship match with that belt still around his waist–”

After the fallout of the Murder Rumble, a call. Word had filtered through to Lindsay about the rampage the Tower of Babel had gone on after his elimination. The late night conversation ended on an inference; he was going to be the upcoming challenger to Hayes Hanlon and the Universal Championship. The Rumble didn’t matter to him anymore. All it stood for was a means to an end; regaining the Universal Championship many believed he never lost in the first place. Nobody else knew, yet still, Tyler’s words curried with him only antipathy. So after everything I’ve done, you want to make me an afterthought? You better hope Hayes can beat me, you little shit, because if not…

“–And keep booing when I take that championship…my Universal Championship…” Tyler hunched over for dramatic effect, a smile so wide he couldn’t hide his teeth. The words that followed were his flag plant. If nothing else was to be taken from what he said, what came next would be central to his whole being. A defining moment. The kill shot. “…and march it straight to Lee Best’s front door.”

That…was it. This. The gravitas, the inevitability, all of it…and with this closing declaration, Brandon’s eyes were wide, his jaw agape. But then, he came unglued. Laughter. Outright, deep bellowing guffaws. After a few moments, tears flowed from his eyes. He clutched his stomach in mirthful pain. Of all the things Tyler could say, of all the things he could mark this assault he was about to embark upon…he made it about taking the Universal Championship to High Octane Wrestling. A statement more than tone deaf or preposterous. Something more. Derivative. Rerun. Plagiarism. It hadn’t even been a year since Cancer Jiles would make the crux of his Universal Championship threat the exact same, and when he managed to succeed, it was supposed to be Armageddon. Everything PRIME stood for, all its lineage and history, gone in lights, camera, and pucker kiss.

And then…there was nothing. The Universal Championship never left the sight of Lindsay Troy and her security detail. Jiles, for everything Brandon hated about him, was know for his grandiose heists of private land and sea aircraft. He was Ocean’s Eleven waltzing out of a cyrochamber. In the end, all that came from PRIME’s end times was…a luxury box and grapes. He’d executed. He’d survived Julian Bathory and broke the lineage of the most coveted title in all of professional wrestling by putting Phil Atken out of the sport.

Now, a teenager was going to attempt to stage the exact same thing without any of the froth or penchant for larceny, even giving the promotion months of lead time to stop it. Not that their doomsday clock protections would be necessary. That’s why Brandon couldn’t stop himself from howling. He’d never seen someone so thoroughly cut off their own fifteen minutes, doing so with such ‘gotcha’ bravado.

Never had he witnessed someone lose a Universal Championship bout months before it even took place.

 

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Many would have something to say about Hayes Hanlon after losing the Universal Championship so soon after winning it back, but Youngblood wouldn’t be one of them. He, more than anyone, understood just how devastating losing it could be. Nine months. A too quick recovery. The questions of if he still had it or if Phil Atken had taken away the last visages of his prime. Now, mere mortal. Rumor had it he was either going to leave PRIME all together or retire from the sport for good. Yet he didn’t. Despite the valley, time brought healing. After such an odyssey, the answer was resounding. Utterly spent, physically exhausted, but once again, The Diamond was Universal Champion. Hanlon was every bit the hoss he thought him to be, the embodiment of the ReVival. He had the chance to be better than all the rest, but not on this night.

Despite the battle to reforge his dream, his accomplishment wasn’t the lasting mark of the evening.

In two weeks, laughter had given way to the taste of iron.

Cecilworth Farthington and FLAMBERGE had done a number on him with their kicks. He’d seen their pairing coming from miles away. No amount of toxic smoke could obfuscate the obvious. But for them to be the welcome party for Tyler Adrian Best, to form such an alliance, despite all TAB had done to Cecilworth at Culture Shock, despite a modus operandi in stark contrast to The Financier’s lifetime disdain of Lee Best, he hadn’t foreseen that.

It made him all the angrier for it.

I Kneed A Hero. Infamous. A proclamation in both the literal and subtextual. And with no defense, Brandon ate every bit of it. Coral and Colton had run them off, the trio gathering at the top of the ramp in the T-Mobile Arena. Through glassy eyes, Brandon watched them hug as his own friends raised him to shaky footing.

Suddenly, they stopped. Colton pointed to the splotch on the canvas from where Brandon had lain. Coral’s words drew his attention. “Jesus…Brandon…your teeth.” There they were; shards broken off from his incisors. Stooping to a knee, the Tower of Babel swiped them up, clutching them in one hand while his other held his title. A scowl lipsticked with gushing red.

If this was the start of a war, Brandon was damn sure going to make Tyler pay the price.

 

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Over five hundred miles away, the Covington family watched on as the jackals continued their assault. They weren’t alone. Amy was there, as were Cody’s two best friends from as long as he could remember, Andy Faber and Chloe Tarvish. The night was supposed to be a celebration, not just for Brandon, but for the upcoming Wisconsin Championships in wrestling. Just three more wins, and Cody would close an undefeated season with a State Title. Cheddar trudged in aggressive circles as best as he could near the television, barking at the figures attacking his dad. Cecilworth Farthington, FLAMBERGE, and now, Tyler Adrian Best.

As they kicked the new Universal Champion to paste, tinnitus filled Cody’s ears, his eyes wide, his mouth dry. Fury. Fury at what he was watching. Andy tried to reach over to reassure him, but he ripped his arm away. Everyone else saw the knee. Everyone except him. He’d shot to his feet, storming from the living room to the kitchen, pacing back and forth across the tile. A growing migraine. Sweat was beading over his forehead.

“It’s going to be okay,” Chloe started, arriving in the kitchen, trying to comfort him. “I’m sorry dude…”

He was muttering, the words falling in a rabid drool. A cultic chant. “…can’tbelievehe’ddothiscan’tbelievehe’ddothis…”

She drew near, her hand pressing against his chest to stop him. She hadn’t heard what he was saying, the tone too low. “Your dad is going to kick the shit out of those assholes. You know he will.”

Chloe was always a tomboy. Dressed in baggy shorts and a loose hoodie, she loved basketball and, if Eau Claire Memorial weren’t such assholes, would’ve been on the wrestling team. While Andy was always his bro, it was her who had the deep conversations. That knew Cody inside out.

So she thought.

His eyes were wild, staring right through her. She thought it was rage from seeing his father being hurt. They weren’t. He’s like the rest. He’s just like the fucking rest! I thought you understood! I thought you knew better than anyone! Wounded. Betrayed. But you didn’t. 

It should’ve been you, FLAMBO. But you’re just like the fucking rest of them.

You’re the only one who could understand. I thought you saw the truth. You piece of shit. You piece of shit!

 

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Batten down the hatches and prepare for the onslaught. Temporary crowns staved off the root pain. In the aftermath of united glue, there was growing concern amongst the members of PRIME for their safety. For their future. There would be escalation in Denver. There had to be. Brandon prepared himself, alongside the perpetually distracted Nate Colton. The Diamond still trusted the Next if something went down. Alone in their locker room, monitoring what was transpiring. When would the Glue Factory strike? They’d be there when they did.

Flanked by lawyers, Tyler stood alone. “–You know, on account of you being there for less than a shot of espresso and running back to PRIME with your tail between your shitty, culturally appropriating legs.”

“The Blanco thing must make for amazing family projection.” Colton snarked. “Can’t help but notice the absence of certain assholes.”

Brandon wasn’t in the mood. “They’re going to take out Tom. Jump him from behind. You ready? Because the second they show up, we–”

“–If you think I kicked your ass, my dad would beat the fucking shit out of you inside one of those shitty fight club cages. Just saying.” And with that, he, along with all his attorney’s, were gone. The Anglo Luchador merely stood there. Perhaps he too was waiting for the surprise assault. It never came. This was a solo sojourn. Were there cracks already in paradise?

And so they waited. For Cecilworth versus Rezin. For the Intense Title match. Waited for something. Anything. Yet nothing came. After all the bluster, after The Lannister’s Send Their Regards, after proclamations…nothing. It was as though the Universal Championship was an afterthought. Tertiary to ‘family’ business and HOFC matches.

The last words spoken by the supposed centerpiece, the existential threat, the inevitable Champion.

After that?

Stark silence from someone who had all but made themselves an afterthought for his own ascent.

 

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I’m sorry for what’s about to happen to you, Tyler.

You never had a chance. I don’t mean this match; I mean in life. Training and building to this very moment after being abandoned from birth. Unwanted. Undesired. Despised. You’ve risen despite this, a weapon forged by the legends of today to strike against the future. You won War Games within your first handful of matches and had the chance to become a trendsetter. What happened? You punted being a World Champion so you could carry the Icon and continue the legacy of your father. In settling for second, you lost, and with it, that legacy went into the ether with Jace Parker Davidson. Humiliated, you disappeared. All the while, the man you allowed to become World Champion went on to further erase your father’s legacy as he broke his reign for longest in Chicago history. Even if dad doesn’t say it, there’s anger toward you because of your failure. Thrown off the dole and cast out into the world, unable to stand the sight of you. But you’re young! You could get it back!

Your old man ensured you never got the chance.

I’m sorry he doesn’t love you. When you came to PRIME, you could’ve been anything. Instead, you did everything you could to get his and your grandfather’s acknowledgement, giving up any semblance of yourself, taking on their personalities. Their tactics. Their speech. An iteration. Think about it; you came in here wrestling strictly second generation wrestlers, not because of your ability, but because of the name you wear. You have to wonder, after all the time Lindsay Troy spent with you, if this is all she sees in you. So many people despise you for being given the chance to enter the Murder Rumble thirty-seventh, but that’s bullshit; you won the right. But dig beyond the surface and ask the question why you were even afforded the opportunity; is it the same reason your grandfather did similar for you in War Games? Do they think you don’t have the ability to last? You won the Murder Rumble. What have you gotten out of it? A match weeks ago against Freeman that was slotted for popcorn and piss breaks? You’re so talented and young, yet here is the wrestling world, thinking so little of you that they have ‘coddled’ you going into this fight.

You eliminated me! Everyone knows I’ve been unable to bounce back from that massive setback. Making my feet touch the floor is so embarrassing and all encompassing that I’m still struggling with the devastation. My career left in tatters. And oh boy, the aftermath. You proclaimed you were taking the Universal Championship to Chicago and putting it on your grandfather’s desk! Such a bold and original idea, he’ll surely acknowledge you then. Now, you might not have the ability to steal battleships or jets, and Lindsay has proven, with Jiles, that she can stop this from happening, but you’ll figure it out.  You became a leader of your own group; The Bestinati! It’s not like you’ve spent more time serving papers and hyping matches for your father than you have in virtual silence. You’d never do something so boring.

I’m being facetious. You’re so deep into it that you don’t realize just how much of an NPC you are. Along the crease of your single dimension, you’re just a child doing everything he can to try and make his family love him. Tragically hooked on what he thinks will accomplish just that. Made into nothing more than a bystander in his own life, unable to trust himself to the point where he took daddy’s knee for his own. After all, everything that makes you Streets is poison. Either replicate or fail.

Or perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe it isn’t seeking love. Maybe Tyler Adrian Best is just an empty vessel. A bully with a glass jaw with an identity so wrapped up in bullshit he doesn’t know how to act like a human being. A wish.com Angelo Deville with edgelord and pop culture references in place of purple prose and racism. How ironic; shades of the same coin, both getting their asses beat and losing to me in Tropical Turmoil main events. This isn’t arrogance. The biggest accomplishment of your entire career only served to get me to my ultimate goal a few weeks ahead of schedule. Think you can repeat? This time, my feet touch the floor, the match continues, and I get to snatch you from safe harbor and drag you out for spinebusters and suplexes, just like in Phoenix. Am I supposed to be intimidated? Worried because of what you’ve done? 2-11-1. Know what that is? That’s the combined record in 2023 of the guys you’ve managed to beat since you walked into this place. Baby Shit Soft; the TAB strength of schedule experience.The one guy you’ve faced aside from a slumper, a rookie, and a dipshit? He dumped you on your head and made every bit of septic swagger spurting out of your mouth null and void from then on.

You had a chance to finally stand on your own with the spotlight on you. What did you do? Plagiarized Jiles. Became background curtains in Farthington’s sequel stable. Outside news posts about someone else’s Aerial Kickboxing bout, you’ve been silent for the last month. You haven’t wrestled the last two. You busted my teeth and since then, all you’ve managed to do is serve papers? Are you even showing up to San Diego? That’s not a rhetorical question either; you’ve proven incapable of even the barest of minimums. Your aloofness versus my life’s work. You’re damn right I asked for this.

I’m going to enjoy smashing you. Throwing you around. My elbows crushing against your skull and busting you clean open. Folding you in half over and over and over and over again in a big ole Suplex Family reunion. Your family can’t tilt this pinball machine in your favor. No EPU agents are coming, no surprise Hall of Famers ready to bail you out as a pity favor for wrestling’s Jim Jones. No, it’s just Troubled Tyler’s no good, awful trip to San Diego. And as you lay there, begging for mercy, know that your old man is going to be too busy jerking himself off to get off his lazy ass to do anything about it. just like he did during Culture Shock when his son had a chance to achieve something that actually mattered. Can’t even get off the couch and stop grinding MUT tokens to offer an attaboy. Don’t like it? Not my problem. Same goes for the gaslighting for why you’re a miserable piece of shit. You do the things you do and think a simple smirk and handwave will fool people into having empathy for you. You offer no humanity, no humility, flashing the doe eyes when it’s convenient to try and get away with everything. Fast food catharsis; you’ve done nothing to earn compassion or belief. You’re alone by choice. Farthington gave you refuge despite you spitting on him. He helped make you early on. I can already see your crocodile tears and excuses when he barbecues you after I leave in a heap of your own piss, shitting on his manor floor for the umpteenth time.

So do your boilerplate. Drop some words about how you’re taking me out back to burn a slug in the back of my head. Pound your chest with the same derivative sewage your dad would. I don’t give a shit because I don’t sweat guys who’ve had single years where they have more losses than I’ve had my entire PRIME singles career. My last three active years? You can count the losses on one hand with a thumb to spare. Every one of them either involved Universal Titles or Hall Of Famers…except for some obnoxious asshole prone to babyfits because PRIME didn’t love him. After Coral whooped his ass, that guy hasn’t been heard from since. Shame for you, Tyler, that Scott’s the one who benefits from the lone fluke, and even then, he couldn’t get it clean. The bar is closed. Tropical Turmoil is going to be everything you’ve spent your life building towards, and it’s great, because you’ll have as much agency there as you do in the rest of your life. Tyler Adrian Best; Brandon Youngblood’s third successful Universal Title defense.

Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean this. It’s okay. You can trust me. Look…I know this is going to be your first time, and that can be very scary. Don’t be. Just settle down and don’t get too excited. It’s going to be okay. Just stare at the lights and relax; it’ll be over before you know it.

The Tower of Babel will take real good care of you.

You called it yourself without even realizing, bud; this is a rerun. You’re this summer’s Randall Knox.

Now fuck off back to Chicago. Be sure to tell them you won’t be needing a carry on.

 

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The final percussive beats of ‘Trust Me’ by Brad Fiedel vanguard the arrival of the Universal Champion. Lone moments lingered, the Petco Park crowd buzzing in anticipation. And while Tyler Adrian Best stood at the ready, no attention was paid to him. The lights fell. The battle cry rang out through the San Diego sky.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE

LET THAT GALAXY BURN

From that very moment, an eruption of raucous cheers. Brandon Youngblood powerwalked from the Argyle position and down the ramp, the championship fitted on his waist. On this night, all traces of red had been stripped from his attire, replaced by PRIME blue. His focus was singular. When all was said and done, The Diamond would put an end to this charade once and for all.

On high, from the Western Metal Supply Company deck, the Covington Family sat. Melissa had her cowbell, a set of binoculars with Travis just in case. Nestled between them was Cody, his eyes narrowed, his fixation a mirror of his own blood father.

“He’s going to rip that kid apart.” Melissa beamed.

And as Brandon stomped his way up the ring steps, Cody licked his lips. Don’t you dare fucking lose to him. Don’t you dare even think about giving this away too. Nobody is putting a goddamn end to you.

Nobody except me.