Mythos requires symbology.
Looking at the PRIMEverse, there is a distinct lack of symbols that mean anything. You would think that the PRIME logo in and of itself would mean something. After all, it is the name of the promotion. However, stepping back from any connections, it proves to be meaningless. There’s the claim that the promotion is “Number One By Definition”. But is that really something to brag about when this is the only place that can take the title? Oh, sure. There’s the alleged sister promotions of the PWA and its almighty Phoenix. However we giggle at the irony of using an ever-rising bird when that whole thing is not only dead but was always destined to fail. It might as well have never existed.
Zooming in, there’s a few images in this otherwise desert scene. A prime
(no pun intended)
example is the blood diamond of Brandon Youngblood. Diamonds emerge from the coal via massive pressure and there hasn’t been anybody that has had more pressure on him than Angry Suplex Man. The red shows the blood he’s shed off of others and the blood that’s been shed off of him. The diamond ultimately displays both his glory and his sin. He doesn’t use it nearly enough in promotional ways which limits its scope some.
At this point, we cannot talk about Youngblood without talking about the Red Army. Ivan and Alexei are slowly finding their like minds, maybe not so much in ideology but in spirit. They are taking the downtrodden and the aimless, giving them an enemy to fight against and a goal which is what all humans need deep down in order to make their lives worth something. They cloak their necessary manipulations in the guise of the classic Soviet hammer and sickle summoning the steel of Stalin and hate caused by wars, cold and blazing hot alike. To them, it’s not just a logos. It’s a lifestyle.
Pterodactyls are Rocky de Leon’s territory and we will give him credit for standing out. Dinosaurs are often considered a childish fascination which fits his strange little whimsy. They are also ancient, much like his alleged sexual conquests. And most importantly, pterodactyls can fly, symbolizing his potential to rise above the chaos.
The Gluewhatever has made glue bottles as part of their whole thing, though we cannot help but see the irony in it that most don’t see. Glue is traditionally made with dead horses. So we giggle at the thought process of an alleged stable of “thoroughbreds” hailing their own demise as a good thing. It’s much like Christians praying at the wooden stick where a man allegedly died for their masturbatory fantasies. It’s supposed to show a bond of unity. Adhesion. But in reality, the whole obsession with the sticky white substance reveals them as a low key obsessive death cult.
(Then again, given the original leader was Phil and he’s a bazillion years old, that makes sense. Man’s been wishing for death for a while.)
There are more minor ones. The egg symbology of the Egg Bandits–all one and a half of them–should have meaning, but it’s mainly just an excuse to make egg puns which makes the idea much like the Bandits themselves: useless. Eddie Cross’ GG shows confidence and his being “game” for anything. The “pretty pink” of the Love Convoy is both stereotypically romantic and vomit inducing. And don’t get us started on those fucking owls.
Point is if one wishes to inspire their fragment of the masses, symbology is important. We technically have our own logo in this ‘verse, the NEW ERA that mocks PRIME’s stranglehold. We will continue to mock it even as it rejects us…
Yet there is another.
Culture requires holidays.
In the PRIMEverse, Ultraviolence is a time where blood is shed willingly and without morons trying to shame one for it. Blood is the most basic of war paint. It is the hue of sacrifice. In combat, busting a man wide open and using him like a paintbrush is the most beautiful and magical thing in the world.
We sipped our eucalyptus tea and contemplated life under the red sky of the Killing Fields. We would sink into the grass and ponder. The building blocks are there, have been in the head for quite a while now. It’s just a matter of getting the right fit. This is a very complicated puzzle. We are a very complicated puzzle and each time we have to reinvent ourself, it takes more time, more thought, more insanity. We also needed better inspiration for although we are the Muse, we are also an artist. Violence–especially when interlaced with pageantry–is an art.
Max Kael might know this. Then again, he might not. We’re not even certain if he is the real Maximillian Kael or if he’s just an echo of the man.
Our problem in PRIME is that we cared too much. Every time we were booked, we hyper focused on every single match and every single roadblock. We couldn’t see the forest because we were so obsessed with the trees. We gave a fuck too close to the sun multiple times. That’s on us. Never again.
Not to mention that the “who” that stands across from us has never mattered. In our memory, the vast majority of our opponents blur into a soup. Man, woman, or otherwise. Face, heel, or tweener. All the limbs, half the limbs, or quadruple the limbs. Angels, devils, or mere weaklings. It’s a blur. White noise and nothingness. That’s why we didn’t care about Johnny-Chris Hall or his “victory”. Because whatever his goals are, they will never really be reached. Eventually, he’ll get smacked in the head with that thought and it will crush him more than any wrestler ever could. And if we should be bothered to remember at that point in the dance, we will laugh at him as he crumbles.
As the culture degrades under the uncaring eye of Lindsay Troy, the limited traditions of this universe can either be preserved, destroyed, or altered. The booking makes it clear that this should be, by all accounts, a boring ass wrestling match. The culture and the event say otherwise.
Thus on this holy day, we shall bleed and make bleed.
“It’s time to become the Muse”, said the Prime to the rest.
Every other time when the idea was given, somebody would always veto it. Not yet, they would say. It’s too half baked, too rushed, too soon. It isn’t the right time. There’s never a right time. It’s so stupid. How are we going to do this? We need an iron clad plan for every single day of our lives in order for this to work. It’s too hard. Followed by the dive into nihilism, the pit we’ve always had, the pit we created when we inserted ourself into this poor vessel.
It’s so easy for us to doubt ourself. It’s so easy to hate our own ideas. It’s so easy to think it’s too out there for the humans and as we embed ourself into their world, it becomes harder to do. Which is exactly why we’ve become distant. We don’t listen to the radio. We don’t watch the shows. We glance only occasionally at Jabber. We need to. Reconstruction requires a fresh mindset and to have a fresh mindset, you must take out the trash.
This distance was enough.
This distance is enough.
Because the rest of the Multitudes unanimously agreed that the stars were in the right position and it is time to brush the dust out of the ideas. To look at it all without the clogging in our vessel’s head, connect the dots as best as we are able, and do what all Time does: move steadily forward. How does one move in a world where logic is dead, numbers don’t matter, and the fans are fickle little specimens? Flow a bit strange. Care only about the story because this place is nothing but stories. Pick up your quill, dip it in your ink of choice, and let truth come out.
WE HOPE YOU ARE WELL. but we need to be well. Or about as well as a lot of dead people in the head of an empty body can be.
And we will be.
We just have to make a mess first.