THE LAND OF MAKE BELIEVE

WHOEVER DID THIS…

There was no transition, or preparation, to the first words that could be heard coming from Arthur Pleasant’s extreme potty mouth. 

“I literally fucking stood there with my fucking cock in my goddamn hand.” he said to his comrade, his hired prispeshnik, Yuri Reznikov. 

An apoplectic Arthur paced back and forth in the locker room right before the main event of ReVival 34 was set to go live on the ACE Network.

“This is UNACCEPTABLE, Yuri! UN..AC… CEPTABLE!” said PRIME’s ferociously fanged nightmare.

“And by the way?! Who subscribed to the fucking ASS Network?! Because now I’m getting all sorts of junk mail and random texts every couple of mi-”

Ding.

“Sonuvabitch.”

Pleasant looked down at his phone and saw the following on the AoD (Always on Display) of his iPhone.  

TAWNI’s A$$ ADVENTURES 2NITE, SWEETIE. MAKE SURE TO POP BY, CUZ YOU’LL DEFINITELY BE POPPING. IN YOUR PANTS. AS IN CUM.

Pleasant kicked in someone’s locker out of pure anger. With his extensive Muay-Thai background, that locker never even stood a chance.

“I mean, seriously now. On top of dealing with random, uninventive spam texts, I have to worry about this fucking chud machine, Mister Papolov Papyrus Viewmaster, waiting to take a piss to confront me?! Then there’s the whole way he did it. At the fucking urinal?! There were about nine other goddamn ones to choose from, and he goes and chooses the one right next to me?! Fucking penis envy, much?!” He continued to rant and rave.

With his hands on his hips, he shook his head while his thoughts were collected.

Ding.

“Oh for FUCK’s SAKE!!”

He looked down at the display again.

“Oh, now this one’s a bit more creative.”

BE SURE TO JOIN US ON FOR THE LIVE CAM SHOW OF ONE OF ASS NETWORK’s HALL OF FAME ADULT ENTERTAINERS, MISS ASA HOYT, AND HER TWO HANDYMEN, “FILLIN’” DILLON HOLZ– LOOK FOR SOME MASSIVE DP ACTION! DON’T FORGET TO SUBSCRIBE AND BUY THOSE BOING COINS TO TIP THEM TOO!

At least they got a comma in there correctly. “Fillin” Dillon Holz IS a great name.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket again, Pleasant continued his rant.

“I bet he does the same thing to people at the movie theater! Yeah. YEAH. He’s totally one of THOSE… what was that term the trendy little fucks used once upon a time to describe the overly ambitious attention-seeking try-hards out there? Edgelords, was it?!”

Yuri simply nodded. There was not much he could say about the matter given Arthur was intent on finishing this rant, but he was committed to hearing it through at that point. 

“Did you know I’m hearing the PRIMEranians out there have developed an acute case of paruresis after seeing Mortimer sidle up to me like that? I had to look it up, Yuri. And I regret that decision 100%. Because it means being too afraid of public bathrooms to take a proper piss, and now I think I’ve developed this phobia through inception!”

“Goddamn him.” Pleasant thought after he stopped his rant.

A few moments later, Yuri, who had been standing opposite Arthur Pleasant with his massive arms folded and a knee bent as his size thirteen boot was planted firmly at the bottom of another locker, repeated what he just said.

“Da. What a psychopath.” Yuri acknowledged apathetically.

Surprised Yuri agreed with him in such a monotone way, Pleasant sneered.

Thus began ‘Part II’ of what would likely be a trilogy of tantrums.

“Naaaah. Nah, nah, nah, nah, NAAAAH. Mortimer is the antithesis of a psychopath. He’s a dumb jock inside the body of an awkward fucking dork, creating this multi-layered chasm of idiocy that hasn’t been seen since the dawn of man. Mr. PeePeeVee wants to be a psychopath, sure. But there’s wanting and actually being, and I don’t have to tell you which category he falls under.” a very angry Arthur Pleasant finished.

“Da. What a psychopath.” Yuri rolled his eyes as he began to tune out Arthur, but the Provocateur noticed his boredom.

“The fuck is your problem?!” Pleasant rebuked.

“Eh ehm.” cleared the throat of a man wearing dark sunglasses, a hat, and what was clearly a fake beard and mustache.

“Why are you letting this guy live rent-free in your head?” said a familiar voice from an incognito man who could’ve been the Unabomber 2.0 for all anyone might’ve known.

Arthur stopped pacing back and forth. Thinking about it for a moment, he sighed exasperatingly.

Arliss Peters was right. But even so, Arliss was the one who insisted on wearing that dumb get-up. So perhaps Arthur’s mind wasn’t the only one Mort had been living rent-free in. 

“That’s rich coming from a guy who insisted on looking like Mr. Potato Head tonight.” Pleasant stated plainly.

“True,” Arliss admitted. “But I cannot ignore what happened to Myron. He’s an INTERN, and he was beaten so savagely at the hands of someone six inches taller and about fifty pounds heavier than he. I’m not about to make my presence known for this guy to come out of a closet and Michael Myers me.  Carpenter version, of course.”

Pleasant took a seat on the wooden bench. Before he could say, or even think, about anything, his phone chimed again.

Ding.

FUCK!

This was followed by another…

Ding.

FUUUUUUUUUUCK!

Pleasant looked like he wanted to scream.

Again, he looked down onto his iPhone’s AoD where he saw back-to-back naughty spam texts.

JD “BEST BOY” COLINS AND HIS NINETEEN INCH SHLONG ARE SURE TO DESTROY ANNA BRUNK’s TINY LITTLE HOLE! FOR THE SALE PRICE OF $129.99, MAKE SURE YOU TUNE IN TONIGHT ON THE ASS NETWORK! 

The next one arrived in timely succession.

BROCK “THE COCKANATOR” HUTCHINSON RETURNS AT-

Enough. Whoever did this…

Trying to recollect his thoughts, Pleasant put his hands at his temples and began to massage them.

“You’re absolutely right. He shouldn’t be. ULTRAVIOLENCE is right around the corner. I’ll deal with him then… and ONLY then.”

“In the meantime, Arliss… why are you still wearing that ridiculous mask? We’re amongst friends here. It’s a safe space.”

Pleasant stood up from the wooden bench and smiled wide. Terrifyingly.

“You know… how I feel… about masks.”

Arliss gulped.

A MOST EXQUISITE VINTAGE

A sweet, digestible melody played over the speakers inside an exquisite Italian ristorante. Golden forks were placed to the left of a white plate with a panoramic, very rustic-looking view of Tuscany imprinted onto them. The matching knives and spoons were placed to the right, of course. The expensive-looking cutlery and their placement were tell-tale signs of some mighty fine dining.

Tony Gamble sat alone in one of the booths tucked away in the corner of the undisclosed restaurant, this being done most likely by design so as not to accidentally bump into a fan who wanted his autograph. After a good ten minutes or so, Tony let out a bored sigh and picked up one of the golden spoons from his plating. He tapped it anxiously on the edge of the table where its point of impact had become muffled by the tablecloth that laid upon it.

A man who wore a simple black hoodie with its hood up, and dark sunglasses to hide his face, had approached the table with a certain quickness unmatched by even the stealthiest of ninjas.

Refusing to look up at this rude fan of his, Gamble sighed with extreme annoyance.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not signing autographs today.”

There was a distinct smirk from the man who slid across from the leader of the Gamble Adoration Syndicate. If one could smell facial features, this one could’ve been described as putrid.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t give two wet shits and a dry fuck about getting an autograph. Especially from the likes of you, short stack.”

Arthur Pleasant’s maniacal eyes peered out from beneath the hoodie. He reveled in the shocked realization on Tony Gamble’s face. This was the last man he ever thought he’d see sitting across from him at a fancy-shmancy five-course, Michelin three-star, Golden Spatula-winning restaurant. 

“Well, you’re not a big star like me, ” Tony placed his hand flat on the table and dragged it towards his lap. The fork and knife beneath it went with him… “So you’ll never really get it.”

Pleasant chuckled as Gamble took away the steak knife. Leaning back, with his elbow resting across the back of the booth, Arthur removed his sunglasses and folded them to hang inside his McKenna Blue “24-HOUR RULE” t-shirt that could be seen just inside his unzipped hoodie. He stared a hole into his counterpart, similar to when they locked eyes all those weeks ago at ReVival 31 as Gamble gave chase to Arthur over the guard rail and into the audience. On that night, a toothy grin gave The Grin a full stop. 

“Relax, Mr. TMZ! You needn’t worry about me going all psycho on you here in the middle of such a nice restaurant. Besides, my issue was never with you, Superstar. It was with your fat, dopey, man-child of a friend and, of course… the most rational, down-to-earth fan club president a celebrity like yourself could ever hope for.”

The tone in Arthur’s voice went low and deep. So low and deep that it nearly came to a dog’s rabid snarl.

Beneath the table, Arthur’s hand dipped into his pocket and produced a torn piece of fabric. 

It was… Morty’s torn piece of mask.

“I want you to deliver a message for me, Anthony. I want you to tell that fucking halfwit Morty, or whatever stupid, poorly conceived name he has bestowed upon himself at this point, to meet me in the middle of the ring at ReVival 35. Because of this prolonged, bitter conflict between us? This fucking vortex of stupidity your boy initiated that has us circling your David to our Bulls of Bashan?”

Pleasant leaned forward across the table. Gamble leaned back so as to not get too close to him. Flashing his fanged maw, Pleasant pointed to the missing one from his set. The hole that was left behind had dried blood stained all around it. From the blackened hole, if one were to stare into the abyss where the incisor once was, one might be able to tell that it bled at a constant rate from the level of force from which it was ripped from his mouth.

“I said I was going to finish it and finish it I shall. Only I won’t need a thick piece of rebar to do it.” Pleasant concluded as he stood up from the booth.

Just as he did, a waiter stopped by the table with a gloriously expensive-looking bottle of Merlot. Arthur took the torn piece of mask and placed it in the waiter’s breast pocket, patting it against him as if it were a C-Note.

“Make sure my friend here gets nothing but your finest. And uh,” he said, pausing as he looked directly at Tony with a sinister fleer glued to his unsettling visage, “Nothing but your best vintages, good sir. Our friend here will have… hmm…perhaps a 1995, wouldn’t you say? I hear that’s an exquisite one! Put it on his tab, too. Hell, make it three bottles!” he said, snickering at the idea of Tony Gamble spending about $10,000 on wine. 

Leaving Tony Gamble, the waiter, and Morty’s ripped piece of mask behind, there was a sense of confusion and apprehension left in Arthur’s wake.

“Has he seriously not brushed his teeth since that night,” Tony shuddered at the thought and was glad he had kept his distance. He could only imagine the horrid stench that lingered if that were the case. “Why did I say that out loud…or that?”

LAND OF MAKE BELIEVE

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bothered by my in-ring performances as of late. I… don’t want to care, see. I really don’t. But I do. 

Goddammit. 

Ten years ago I started wrestling in deathmatches abroad. Six of those ten years had me literally fighting off piranhas in a tank and being thrown into shards of glass until you could see the blinding light reflecting off my backside from outerspace. Six years of lighting everything on fire and jumping into the blazing infernos. From age sixteen, that’s what I was doing. You look up “reckless abandon” in the dictionary and you’ll see my ugly mug above its definition.

And you know what? I came back to the States not for an easier schedule. No. I wanted to fucking ruin the pro-wrestling business for everyone. I wanted those soft-ass pundits and jerk-offs to puke at the sight of the most horrific human destruction possible. Horrible, terrible, fucking detestable garbage wrestling.

And goddammit… somehow I started competing. 

Somehow… I started to give a shit.

From there, I quickly found out I was actually damn good at this American traditional bullshit. So then I started winning.

But just as fast as it all started, it all ended. 

I started losing.

And losing.

And fucking losing. 

That? It hurts like a motherfucker. 

Two and FOUR?! Are you fucking KIDDING me?!

Maybe lazy sacks of shit like the eGG Bandits find some type of solace in laziness and utter complacency, but not me. 

God. Is it that I hate this business? Did my father really ruin pro wrestling for me so much that I wanted nothing more than to make a mockery out of it, or does the business simply hate me?

You know what, though? It doesn’t really matter. Because regardless of this mythical glass ceiling that pro wrestling seems hellbent on keeping me under, I’m not changing who I am. Not to fit anyone else’s narrative. Not to blend in with the boring garbage I see uploaded to PRIME’s servers every couple of weeks.

I’m not changing. Period.

Knocking Kohime Mori’s brainstem so hard and loose with a buzzsaw kick that she’s now just an NPC in the PRIMEverse felt so fucking good that I think I just might do it again. Walking out there and embarrassing Darin Zion just like he’s used to being embarrassed no matter where he actually decides to give everyone his 100% focus? I love it. I love it all. So, I’ll take the wins.

But I want more.

A lot fucking more.

And I want more than these glorified goddamn freebies that keep landing my way. 

 I said I’m not changing. But I do need to change up my arsenal. My timing. My defensive maneuvers. 

So why don’t we reflect on that for a moment?

• What happened: FLAMBERGE got the slip on me and collected my neck in my debut match.

 

• What should’ve happened: I should’ve been the one standing across the ring from him with my hand raised after ending a streak before it ever took hold of everyone’s attention. Only, instead of collecting a neck, I should’ve collected a jaw from the floor that belongs to a man who fucking flops around on it all week.

 

• What happened: I lost my grip on Jared Sykes while he was on my shoulders, ready to give some Calamity Pain, only to allow him to drop me on my head with the OMEGA-13. 

 

• What should’ve happened: As soon as I felt the skinny little shit slip behind me, I should’ve used my wrestling acumen to bring him down into a victory roll for the one, two, three.

 

• What happened: That masked coward TAL dropped me on my head with a RUSSIAN Neck Drop like the hypocrite he is. You know, given his unabashed abhorrence towards all things Ivan. 

 

• What should’ve happened: I should’ve ripped that stupid fucking mask off his face and revealed to the world The Anglo Luchador was actually Dave from accounting. Then crushed his windpipe with the Sleep Paralysis.

Then there’s the one that I consider the last straw:

• What happened: Adam Ellis forced me to tap out for the first time in my entire career.

 

• What should’ve happened: I should’ve outsmarted the young upstart like I have before and dealt with his bullshit grapplenomics accordingly.

That one?! That fucking SHOOK me to my goddamn core. 

In the ten years I’ve been doing this, all over the world, I have never had someone squeeze me so hard that I couldn’t deal with the pain anymore. Not even John Sektor, a man with whom I consider to be the greatest submission artist in the world, could get me to do that. And yet, his protégé… could?!

Fuck that.

I’m fucking DONE with this losing shit. 

FUCKING. DONE.

Especially against brain-damaged dipshits constructing their own timelines and universes and nonsensical playwrights like Scott Hunter.

I’m done not giving 1000% every time I walk out there. I’m done seeing the ‘24 Hour Rule’ advertisement go up on PRIMEview, thinking it’s meant for me when I should’ve realized all along it was designed for the fragile little cunts who can’t take a loss and refuse to learn. I’m done living in the ‘Land of Make Believe’, thinking I can simply skate by this roster with head fuckery and playing carnival games chasing some mythical Giant Fucking Panda.

I see you Scott Hunter, and I’m focused on beating you. Maybe for the first time in a long time, 100% focused. 

Despite Mortimary Poppins waiting around the corner to try and shove an umbrella up my ass and open it to his sick and perverted delight, I see you standing there like the bright neon lights of a city skyline under a dark night sky. I’ll deal with Mortimer when it hits the hardest and hurts the most: at ULTRAVIOLENCE.  

But you? I’m making you a special project of mine for ten, twenty-minutes TOPS at ReVival… uhh, what are we on now? Thirty-five? Yeah. Thirty-five. I’m making you part of a personal goal of mine at Thirty-Five in ways I should’ve been dealing with my opponents all along.

I’m suffocating you with the offensive onslaught equivalent to that of a plastic bag strangulation.

I’m torturing you with wrestling moves that have once made me a viable threat in this business.  Moves that have afforded me victories over former World Champions and Hall of Famers alike in promotions all over this country and across the fucking world. 

From garbage eater to world beater. That’s my story.

And I’d like to think I can continue that story here in PRIME. But in order to do that? I need to start winning.

And in order to win, I need to start seeking out people’s truths and exploiting them for my own benefit. 

Here’s YOUR real truth, Scott.

You’re a comedy act. A goofy little eccentric who likes to use the figure-four-leg lock in a not-so-subtle sarcastic way because it’s such an outdated maneuver in a UniMultiverse full of new and exciting finishers. Well, I’m a fucking killer, Scott. Figuratively. Literally. Whatever you want to call it. I’ve dealt with delusional clownshoes my whole career, from HOW to HERE, and at ReVival 35, the laughing turns to silence while the world watches you gargle with your own fucking blood. 

Don’t get me wrong, though. I realize you’re just trying to find your way here, Scott. I get it! In a dark world where people like to take this shit too seriously, the shining light of a comedian is a real breath of fresh air. PRIME could use a guy like you from time to time after the mundane technical suplex machines that trot around here. So go ahead and make people laugh by putting on some puppet show with taxidermied raccoons and used fleshlights. You’ve given the fans something to look forward to on ReVival episodes from here on out.

But that’s… all you’re gonna get.

So go ahead.

Be funny. 

Tell us another joke.

Wear a funny three-piece suit made out of white tiger kittens.

Take us on a tour through a veal factory where you’re saving a baby cow only to accidentally run it over in your own garage.

No?

Well, let me tell you a joke then.

Scott Hunter walks away from Arthur Pleasant under his own capacity, without any gaping wounds, and with his arm raised in victory.

Ba dum tish!

Do you like it, Scott? I can hear them all laughing now.

What can I say, PRIME? 

I told you Arthur Pleasant, the man, wasn’t changing.