What was your favorite part?

HELLO ALIEN FRIENDS CURRENTLY OCCUPYING THE VESSEL DOG WE CALL ANNA DANIELS

I HOPE YOU ARE WELL

HOW IS YOUR TRIP GOING SO FAR?

WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE PART?

THIS IS THE VOICE THAT HAS BEEN DRIVING FLAMBERGE’S BRAIN FOR THE LAST EIGHT MONTHS OR SO

I AM A BIG FAN OF ALL OF YOUR WORK

ESPECIALLY HOW YOU ALL MAKE YOUR DOG GRIFT PEOPLE WITH “MERCH”

MY FAVORITE PART HAS BEEN THE LACK OF REPERCUSSIONS I RECEIVE FOR WHATEVER I MAKE THE FRENCH KID DO

HE’S A REAL GOOD DOG

ANYWAY

DO YOU ALL HAVE YOUR OWN PHIL ATKEN? 

YOU KNOW, LIKE A MISSION-SENDER?

I HOPE THEY’RE NICE

SO LISTEN

I CAN LEARN A LOT FROM YOU I THINK

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A SIT DOWN AND PICK YOUR BRAINS INSTEAD OF FIGHTING

I THINK WE MIGHT HAVE A LOT IN COMMON

CAN I INTEREST YOU ALL IN A DISCUSSION, OR LIKE A PARLAY – oh dammit, what’s…hang on kid.

I think the antenna’s broken. Shit.

…….I’m not sure they got any of that. I’m not sure how long the signal was  out.

Maybe they got some portion of it?

Ugh. This is very inconvenient. I’ll have to try again later.

…

No, FLAMBERGE, I don’t have to justify my actions. I know YOU’RE pissed at Anna Fucking Daniels. She took a Thing away from you after I made it extremely clear to you the Thing was super valuable: The Undefeated Intense Neck of Paxton Ray. It’s a 1 of 1, kid, and they’re not printing any more of them. Probably holographic all the way to the edge, that neck.

It doesn’t matter, kid. It’s gone. Poof. Anna Fucking Daniels has it. MAYBE consider the possibility that she might be a real collector too, ok? Think about it. It’s not even been a year since you held Anna Daniels on a pedestal. One of five wrestlers you got all in a huff about because that was the limit of your ambition. How are those five doing now?

Two of them are the only two-time Universal Champions in the ReVival era.

Two of them shimmied off and died.

And the fifth is Anna Daniels. Sorry – Anna Fucking Daniels.

She could become either one of those extremes, couldn’t she? It’s spicy. Figured, you know – couldn’t hurt to try to make a connection there. Temperature gauge. See if we can figure out how froggy the aliens are feeling.

Some of the frogs are bright colors, is all I’m saying, FLAMBERGE. Bad things happen when you touch those kinds of frogs – or do you have to eat them for it to be bad? Lick them? Not important, you get what I’m saying – Anna Daniels contains a multitude of mystery frogs that might make you DEAD dead. Or hallucinate. Or worse, look dumb. Licking frogs unprovoked could make you look very dumb if you’re not careful about it.

So like, back off, FLAMBERGE, ok? That’s why I’m trying to get this stupid antenna up and working. I figure there’s a way we can really work out some Professional Wrestling Action Items – maybe we find the plain Kermit-ass frogliens running things and then you can just claim her neck in front of every man, woman, boat, and sea creature in Pier Six, or maybe we encounter the toxic electric purple frogliens and we show them the benefits that pursuing a career in glue manufacturing can provide.

Hang on, this is important to people…

…

 

—–

Let’s set the scene.

You’re somewhere. Blahhhh, you’re a lizard boy in the woods! Or something. Temperature control! Nest of eggs! Crickets. Terrariums. Hooves. Dads. 

End scene. It doesn’t matter where you are. Settings are for cowards. Let me yell at you more, idiot.

…

 

—–

You don’t even know why I’m going to yell at you, do you?

Yeah, you don’t. That tracks.

I’ll tell you what it is. You haven’t gotten close with Sid Phillips yet, you dumb idiot child man. 

Have you SEEN Sid Phillips?? He’s a Greek God Muscle Daddy, and frankly, your sexual frustration over the last few months over this Jordan guy has boiled over and turned into MY sexual frustration at a whole lot of people on this roster, and the fact that you haven’t run your fingers through his hair in order for me to experience those brain chemical readouts is HURTFUL.

…wait, you’re going to talk to Sid at Tropical Turmoil?

…yeah yeah yeah Joe Fontaine will be there too whatever – Sid’s going to be there?

….…ok. I forgive you, for now. Good looking out. Bring the car, though – it might impress him. Maybe get it detailed. Damn thing still smells like pennies and Nate Colton’s hog. 

…

This antenna is ass. You know what – I have a movie I can put on for you. One of those joints from your oh-so-tortured past that ramps up the intensity for you, or whatever you tell yourself it does while I pull the actual World Class Fighter strings back here. It’s pre-recorded, so you’re not going to get live commentary from me. I hope you can handle it.

In the meantime, I’m going to see if I can get this antenna operational so I can try to reach out to yonder frogs again.

 

—–

It’s the last year of lycée, and we’re in the gym. All of Julien Lavigne’s classmates are so excited – some of them are learning to drive, others can’t stop talking about traveling across the continent…a lot of hope in the air. A lot of that teenage boy musk, too – that “we haven’t figured out how to balance our back-end-of-puberty sports sweat with body spray without overwhelming everyone around us with one or the other” kind of musk. Some of the guys have enough stubble to almost pass off as a beard if it didn’t clog up all the pores on their jawline in the process and spoil the game.

Julien, though…he’s at a crossroads. Growing up and seeing how miserable his dad was as he stumbled through a lackluster career in high-level professional athletics, Julien thought about all the other paths he could choose outside of sports. And just about every other path he can think of required him to do well on le Bac. 

Le Bac is sort of like the SATs with Iron Chef rules. There are three different types of le bac Julien could choose to take after completing lycée: général (absolutely necessary for most colleges and universities), technological (for tech-based specialty schools or jumping straight into that type of career), or professionel (for tradesmen, basically). You pick one, the guy bites a yellow bell pepper and shouts Allez Cuisine or something, and then your career path is forever defined by your level of success.

Jordan is definitely going for le Bac général – he’s always been so smart and he was a shoe-in for some pretty great universities. As for Julien – he’s not sure what to do. He would have probably failed out of school by now if he didn’t have Jordan there, either so Julien could copy his assignment or Jordan could just do it for him in exchange for listening to his nerdy rambling and making sure Jordan didn’t get picked last for anything in gym. Clothing and swagger advice, too. The only way Julien could have ever hoped to pass Foreign Studies was if Jordan finished his 20-page final paper for him. Julien paid for that little gem by buying Jordan his first suit for a school dance. It was teal. 

They’ve figured out this nice little symbiotic ecosystem, but even then – no way in hell is Julien going to score highly enough on le Bac général to get him anywhere.

Next, Julien isn’t very interested in technology, so that version of le Bac is just a complete nonstarter. Third, there is no way in hell Henri Lavigne could ever allow his son to bring dishonor to him by becoming a lowly butcher or a carpenter or something (even though once, Julien found a creative way to use wood glue to fix shelves in his mom’s house – obviously, he couldn’t share this story with Henri). Even if Julien wanted to go for le Bac professionel, he lacks any and all experience in most of the fields where it would be useful and that is a direct result of the way Henri controls his everyday life.

It’s been enough to lead Julien down some dark paths in his mind as he struggles to picture a future where he can break out of Henri’s increasingly autocratic grip. The thing is, though…sports always yield positive results for Julien. VERY positive results – with friends, with girls, with strangers. He’s been gaining a bit of a local reputation for his run of victories in regional martial arts events. It’s fun for your ego to be naturally talented at things and showered with praise for something that’s easy to you, and it’s brutal for your ego to have to work hard on things you suck at, and so the grades continued to hang on by a thread while his trophy shelf filled up. 

It’s no secret – Henri doesn’t give a shit about the grades because he’s decided that his eggs are all going into the basket of his son becoming a kajillionaire pro athlete, and by God, he is going to do everything in his power to make that happen. He even went so far as to throw a pile of money at the lycée in order to “unofficially”-officially lead the athletics staff this year. “A very generous donation”, they all call it in front of important people. “A gigantic bribe for more control over his son” doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily.

Julien has been growing closer with Jordan throughout the last couple years, even as they become less and less alike as they mature into young men. It’s not romantic, though, at least not now. They’re bros! Best buds, even, talking about this girl being hot or that girl being a skank in the way that all teenage boys are monsters when they’re left to their own devices and trying to show off just how heteronormative they are. 

They are two sides of this crazy intense talent coin – Jordan can’t run or jump for shit, but he loves to devour books and go on and on and on about Roman Gallic history and its impact in shaping French popular culture like a walking TED Talk. Julien struggles hard with his academics, sure, but he can probably trip and fall into any sport he wants and be an all-star right away. 

 

And, it is with this context, that FLAMBERGE is forced to remember a nightmare.

 

Henri Lavigne decided earlier this year to form an amateur wrestling club. It’s optional for all students ages 16 and up, though notably, it is mandatory for Julien. 

There are a handful of students in this club that are really fun for Julien to wrestle. For some of them, it’s because they’re physically talented too and they put up a real challenge. Some of them are just assholes, and it was always easy for Julien to pump himself up to fight the assholes. Henri had been teaching him some new holds that were anywhere from borderline-to-actually illegal in amateur wrestling (though VERY legal in professional wrestling, which Henri notes, “pays better”), and Julien always seems to find himself in “I don’t know how I locked him in this illegal hold, it’s crazy, I don’t even know how I did that, it’s so weird, are you ok, I’ll do better next time” situations against the assholes.

They asked for it, after all, by the nature of their being Just The Worst! And Henri would wink and grin at him when he did it. That has become the closest thing to praise Henri offers his son anymore.

This term, Jordan joined the wrestling club – not because he thought he would be any good, but because Julien was there. He made it sound fun, and worst case scenario, maybe he can toughen himself up a bit and impress his peers in a new way.

Julien clocked the weird look his father pointed towards Jordan when they were warming up at the top of the hour, but he wasn’t too concerned. Everyone here knew that they were tight, and Julien had made it abundantly clear in private conversations to his classmates that anyone who fucks with Jordan wakes up in the nurse’s office. He might quit the club after he realizes how physically taxing amateur wrestling really is, but he’s always happy to hang out with his buddy.

A whistle. Time for everyone to line up and get paired off. Jordan, always observant, caught on pretty quickly to the routine and made sure to pick a spot next to his friend.

You never knew how Henri would decide to pair off opponents – sometimes there would be drawn straws, sometimes he would have a makeshift tournament bracket or something…today, he looks haggard and hungover and incapable of putting forward any amount of brainpower into this call, so he went down the line with the most simple method possible. The first two students in the line will face each other, then three and four face each other, five and six, seven and eight. Julien happened to be ninth in line and Jordan happened to be tenth, so this worked out way better than either of them expected.

Jordan: “Préparez-vous, Julien, j’ai étudié les mouvements!”

Julien: “Le perdant achète au gagnant un sac de chips!”

How silly the scene begins to unfold as the two friends circle each other, Jordan pulling his singlet out of his ass crack every ten seconds, flinching and laughing every time Julien moves forward to engage. Julien knows he’s never going to have an easier matchup in his life – and maybe, if he shows his friend how much fun this sport can be, he’ll come back next week.

With a swift dart, Julien is suddenly positioned behind Jordan and his arms are wrapped around his waist! He lifts his friend off the ground as if to go for a suplex – 

Jordan: “Laisse-moi tomber! Laisse-moi tomber! Laisse-moi tomber!”

Jordan’s legs kick and swing around as Julien bursts out laughing and just drops onto the ground in a heap, Jordan falling into his own secondary heap next to him. Jordan sees his friend laughing and a spark lights in his eye.

Jordan: “Oh, c’est drôle, n’est-ce pas! En garde!”

With a heroic attempt at athleticism, Jordan springs forward and finds himself on top of Julien! He’s trying to pin his friend’s shoulders to the mat, but despite his size advantage (unkindly read: weight advantage), the technique is just completely nonexistent. It’s not his fault, really – it’s day one, and his only training up to this point has come from YouTube. Julien is able to slip out pretty quickly and scrambles to his feet. They square up again. Both friends are grinning in that wide, competitive, “I was THIS CLOSE to getting you” sort of grin. One of them is right, at least.

A whistle. Henri’s eyes are hungover shotguns pointed straight at the pair. Julien’s stomach drops. Jordan stands attentively. 

Maybe too attentively, thinks Henri – this fat little eager beaver needs to learn a lesson. Henri doesn’t like the vibe. It’s too…intimately friendly for young men.

Henri: “Garçons. Position de départ. Toi, par terre.”

He points at Jordan. Jordan looks a little confused and turns towards Julien.

Julien: “Il dit de mettre les mains et les genoux sur le sol. C’est bon.”

Julien and Henri lock eyes for what feels like a minute as Jordan stumbles over himself to try to do as Coach Julien’s Dad instructs.

Henri: “Prenez cela au sérieux maintenant. Julien, montez. Jordan, défends-toi. A mon coup de sifflet.”

Julien positions himself above Jordan and whispers into his ear.

Julien: “C’est bon, suivez mon exemple.”

Henri clocks the whisper, though it’s unclear if he heard the specific words. A whistle. In a flash, Julien grabs Jordan’s shoulders and whips them to one side. Jordan follows his friend’s lead, as instructed, and finds himself with his shoulders on the mat. Julien places his hands on his friend’s chest.

Julien: “Tombe.”

A whistle. The shotgun eyes of his father have now fired.

Henri: “Encore. Position de départ. Julien!”

The two lock eyes.

Henri: “Marie Antoinette.”

The heat washes over Julien’s face, and his stomach, previously sunken, has become alive with horrible activity.

Julien: “…je ne pense pas-” -HELLO ALIEN FRIENDS CURRENTLY OCCUPYING THE VESSEL DOG WE CALL ANNA DANIELS

 

—–

THIS IS MY SECOND ATTEMPT AT THIS TRANSMISSION

I HOPE YOU ARE WELL

HOW IS YOUR TRIP GOING SO FAR?

WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE PART?

…SORRY, ONE MOMENT, MY DOG IS UPSET, PLEASE HOLD

….I swear to CHRIST, kid, this better be important! I JUST got the antenna working!

…

Oh. It was THAT movie. Oops. Well. Look at that.

 

Heh.

 

…

Here’s the thing, kid, and it’s important you remember this – your dad knew what he was doing. And it’s also important you understand that I respect him for it.

News flash kid – you don’t just get to fight old hangers-on and bumblefuck shitheads in PRIME. You’re going to have to fight people you don’t want to fight, and when you fight those people, it’s your job to fucking collect a neck or else yours goes on their mantle instead.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed at Paxton Ray too! And it’s WAYYYYYY easier to fight someone like him. The image alone of you, strident, wearing the fuck out of some bullshit Fighting For Nora shirt thing that conveniently ignores everything you’ve ever done to terrorize the PRIME roster with crushing win after crushing win after shitstirring run-in after shitstirring run-in – that image goes on posters, and on adverts, and it adds a zero to the paycheck. And, AND, the guy’s a damn child terrorist. Wins all around.

Well tough shit, kid, you’re scheduled to fight Anna Fucking Daniels, and she’s a bad enough cat to take the Undefeated Intense Neck of Paxton Ray herself. And she’s cool and different and well-liked and not a bullshit artist like so many of the other gasbags around here that get cheers, and maybe more than anyone else here, she is VERY likely to understand you and I’s whole “deal”. Frogliens and whatnot.

She would be an AMAZING addition to your cause in a fictional dream world where sunshine grows on trees and Phil Atken never leaves you and Henri Lavigne goes to therapy.

Instead we’re stuck here in beautiful San Diego getting sent to Pier 1 Imports or some shit with orders to snuff out one of the best of us. 

So I guess all I have to say to you at this point, FLAMBERGE, is………

Get over it. Mutt.

…

HELLO AGAIN ALIEN FRIENDS

THIS IS THE VOICE THAT HAS BEEN DRIVING FLAMBERGE’S BRAIN FOR THE LAST EIGHT MONTHS OR SO

I AM A BIG FAN OF ALL OF YOUR WORK

THIS IS MY THIRD ATTEMPT AT THIS TRANSMISSION

I HOPE YOU ARE WELL