Post by markflynn on Nov 19, 2022 18:30:46 GMT -5
OOC:_Continued_from adambarker1981.proboards.com/thread/15739/stressing-drivers-licenses-deep-state
Hey, Flynn.
“...Mmmm.”
Flynn.
“mmmmmmwhat?”
There’s a low humming sound. Time to wake up.
“....Owwwwwww, my neck…”
…Or, actually, is it a droning?
Flynn tries to retract his hands toward his face to rub his eyes awake…
But his hands remain bound behind his back.
…Flynn shakes his wrist. Metallic.
“...Am I in handcuffs? Fuuuuuuuuuck… What did I do last night?”
…Hey, I’ve been thinking about that sound. After much deliberation, It’s a buzzing.
“...Is that a… white noise machine?”
…Actually, is that a… roaring?
“If I turn it off, will you shut up about it…?”
How're you gonna do that? Have you ever turned off an alarm-clock-white-noise-machine in handcuffs before?
“Yeah.”
…Wait, really?
“One time, Mister and Mrs. Thad Duke invited me over for breakfast. I had gotten them a four-slice toaster for their wedding. Anyway, one thing led to another, and it turned int-”
NEVER MIND.
“...Oh, no, It’s not what you think. You see, Thad wanted t-”
I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW.
…Flynn shrugs, rotating onto his side, carefully as to not tweak his shoulder…
Flynn paws around for wherever this alarm is…
The sheets around him feel less snug and comfy and more… wool. The… ‘mattress’ is made of felt… and plastic?
“...Hmm. Odd.”
…Wait, what’s in this ‘bed’ with him?
Weird lumpy… tarp?
Oh! Here’s something solid!
…
Something solid. But rubber.
“...Is this a…?”
Flynn extends his arm along the rim of the object. It is round… And reaching into it, it has a metal interior with jutting round bits.
“...Spare tire?”
…
“Oh, right.”
…
“I’m in the trunk of a car.”
That moment, the engine roars louder. Someone is stepping on the gas….
OH RIGHT! Those two cops kidnapped you.
“Yeah. No thanks to you.” Flynn mutters, as he twists onto his side and tucks his knees up to his chin. As the car accelerates, the bunchy tarp behind Flynn shivers and rattles…
Oh, C’mon. You’re blaming ME for this?
“Of course I am, you BLITHERING idiot.” Flynn growls, as he relaxes his shoulders.
First of all, let’s agree to no name-calling. It’s non-productive and can lead to hurt feelings.
“Fuck you.”
Secondly, I’m your rational internal monologue. 99 times out of 100? You shouldn’t run from law enforcement! Let those overworked goons make a procedural mistake and walk a free man with no criminal record.
“Right.” Flynn exhales, as he slooooowly extends his shoulders downward. “Well, I think TASING ME IN THE NECK and LOADING ME IN THE TRUNK are two MAJOR PROCEDURAL ERRORS IN THEIR INVESTIGATION.”
Agreed, but I feel larger context clues indicate these men aren’t actually taking us to the police station.
“Wow. Great powers of deduction there, Sherlock.” Flynn retorts. The King of the Mid-Carders tries to think flexible thoughts as he brings his handcuffed wrists forward, under his ass…
…Past the tips of his toes…
SUCCESS! His hands are now in-front of his wrists!
Flynn exhales. He reaches up an index finger and a thumb to rub his eyes.
“There we go. No more rheum.”
Rheum?
“That gunk in your eyes when you wake up.”
Oh! You mean sleepy-dust.
…Flynn shuts his eyes tight, shaking his head. “I was better off with that mirror-hallucination.”
Ouch! You can’t be serious!
“I am.”
You’d rather be in this trunk with mirror-Flynn? The one who told you to fight a jelly monster to become a better janitor? In order to beat Peter Vaughn? He was WRONG about that, by the way.
“He was RIGHT about running from the fake-cops.”
A broken clock’s right twice a day.
“...Counter-point: It’s a really valuable time to be right when you’re identifying dirty cops.”
…Mirror-you is a LUNATIC.
“...I’m having an argument with a voice in my head about the value of a second voice in my head. Let’s not throw around the word ‘lunatic’ willy-nilly.”
…
“...”
…
“No thoughts on that, huh?”
…The car speeds.
“...What? You giving me the silent treatment now?”
…But, the tarp behind Flynn stops shivering.
“C’mon, I know you’re there.”
…
“SAY SOMETHING.”
…Suddenly, the tarp moves! In a flash, a bicep wraps around Flynn’s throat!
“Who are you?!? Why’d you take me?!?” Whispers a hushed, panicking voice.
Flynn would love to answer that question (‘Mark Flynn’ and ‘I did not’, respectively) … But he’s currently being choked.
It is non-optimal to conduct an interrogation to a subject currently being choked.
…What?
Obviously, this person, of currently unknown identity, is frightened and feeling cornered. Behavior: irrational. Best route: Escape, restrain and confront with irrationality.
Flynn, despite lacking oxygen and air-flow, still manages to roll his eyes. Fuuuuck, is this a third voice in my head?
In a wrestling environment, you are capable of 247 unique escapes from this sleeper hold position.
Flynn’s eyes widen.
…Okay, THIS voice, I like. Pick up the pace, though, bud. This guy’s chokehold is professional.
Your preferred means of escaping a sleeper hold such as the one you currently being subjected to would be a backwards roll over your opponent to break the grip, followed by a waistlock.
“per…fect…” Flynn wheezes…
Flynn tries to roll backwards… Over his attacker’s front…
CLAT! But his knees collide with the trunk’s roof!
Flynn clatters back to the trunk!
“D-Don’t do that! TELL ME WHO YOU ARE!” His attacker, now more panicked after the escape attempt, GRIPS the choke even tighter!
“LEMME GO!”
…The irony of being asked to release someone who currently has you in a vice-grip rear-naked choke is not lost on Flynn.
Unfortunately, a backwards roll into a waistlock would be impossible, due to the low height of the trunk. In fact, due to the trunk’s low clearance, 244 of your 247 potential counters are spacially impossible.
…Fuck. Okay, you coulda LED with that.
The edges of Flynn’s vision start to blacken.
Oh shit, no way I’m passing out in TWO back-to-back fights, Flynn thinks.
Flynn concentrates.
VOICE. If I CAN’T backwards-roll…. Into a waistlock… Instead I sho… should…
Optimal Counter from this position is a forward-head-thrust to loosen the grip several inches, followed immediately by wristlock, tucked against your waist to prevent your opponent from choking with their dominant arm.
Okay… Let’s make One small adjustment.
…Flynn’s head droops into his opponent’s elbow’s interior…
…
“...Oh God, is he unconscious?”
The grip loosens, just a hair, in a flash of uncertainty.
…Which is all Flynn needs.
WHAM! Flynn backwards-headbutts his opponent in the face!
“OW! Owowowow!” The grip… is immediately surrendered.
Hmm, okay. The chokehold was professional, but… not exactly the toughest shell in the tortoise exhibit.
In a split-second, Flynn twists his arms up and latches around his attacker’s wrist.
“Oh God! Look, I… I can’t tell you anything. My sources are confidential!”
…Sources?
“LISTEN.” Flynn hisses, trying to cue his trunk traveling companion to lower their voice. “I don’t know who you are.”
“...Then, why’d you kidnap me?!? That’s crazy!” The other voice whispers. “Even crazier than that weird-talking-to-yourself game you played to tell me you knew I was here!”
…Oh God. She heard you talking to yourself. That’s humiliating.
Flynn rolls his eyes. Great, Rational voice is back.
…Which… Okay, let’s approach this rationally.
“...Why would I kidnap you? Jam you in a trunk? CLIMB into the trunk with you? And conduct an interrogation in here?”
“...Uh… Privacy? For your… nefarious purposes!”
…Flynn is exasperated.
“Okay. Follow-up question. Why would I do that…” Flynn raises his wrists, which jingle metallicly.
“IN HANDCUFFS.”
RRRRRRRGH. Suddenly, the car comes to a stop.
The whirring of the engine stops.
Actually, I think that’s like a… low rumbling.
Don’t start that again.
In the darkness, the voice next to Flynn falls into a hush.
“What was that?”
“Two of Las Vegas’ Finest.”
“Wait, cops? Two of ‘em grabbed me off the street while I was working a story. Did they take you too?”
Story? Must be a journalist.
“Listen, where’s the nearest harbor?”
“...What?”
“If they were getting rid of the car, they might try to dump it in a big body of water. Where’s the nearest harbor?”
“...You’re not from Vegas, are you? It’s a big desert. Only water around is Lake Mead, 25 miles away.”
Haha, criminals dumping a car in a harbor? Careful, Mark. Your Michigan is showing.
Flynn grimaces. “Shhhh, wait.”
Outside of the trunk… A shifting. Mechanical. Like a lever.
Tarp Voice whispers, “What’s going on out there?”
“They parked. If there’s no water around, they’re probably gonna pull us out of the trunk.”
“Oh, God. What do we do?”
“Well, I’m handcuffed, but I think I can isolate and neutralize one if the other can’t jump me. How good are you in a fight?”
“...Uh… I take a women’s self-defense class Tuesdays and Thursdays…”
“Women’s se-...Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhh.”
“What?”
“…Never mind. Listen. When that trunk pops, we leap out. While they’re surprised, drive your fingers THROUGH their eyes and their throat. Not at, THROUGH. Like you’re trying to hit something BEHIND them. Get free, run north. Don’t stop until I’ve caught up with you.”
“Uh…I might have an issue with the plan.”
“…This isn’t a fucking committee. Hop out, hit ‘em, run.”
“…But… the h-“
The sound of car doors opening.
“SHHHHHHH…”
…footsteps.
…Around the car’s side…
Closer…
…
……
Then…
…Further away.
“…What’s happening?”
“...Dunno. Maybe they’re phoning whoever’s the brains of this operation?”
“You sure they’ll pop the trunk?”
“Think so. How do you dispose of a car quick if there’s no water?”
…A CRANK.
The vehicle jolts forward. Flynn rolls face-forward. The voice-in-the-tarp shivers.
Mechanical grinding. Like a chain being pulled.
“Now what?”
“Uh… we’re moving.”
…A distant crunching.
Shattered glass.
Compacting twisting metal.
“Oh… Right.”
Getting louder.
“Car crusher.”
***
STAGE-LIGHTS.
Close-Up on Flynn’s grinning face.
“I know what you’re thinking. How the Hell will Flynn get outta this mess?”
The camera zooms out.
Flynn is in a glass tank.
And strapped into a straight jacket.
Which is wrapped in chains.
“After all, I’m facing three! COUNT ‘EM, THREE opponents this week.”
“Slight shift in difficulty after I DECIMATED LIL’ Sammy Voxx last Brawl.”
“To the untrained eye, this seems like a real challenge…”
“But, then. That’s the difference, isn’t it? TRAINING. EXPERIENCE. A FUCKING LIFETIME DEDICATED TO THE SPORT OF FUCKING KINGS.”
“And my opponents? Known quantities. Foreseeable. Predictable.”
“So… Let’s run through it.”
Flynn nods off-screen.
Suddenly, next to Flynn’s feet, the tank starts filling up with water.
“We’ll start with Mac Bane. Three-time Sin City Wrestling Champion. Las Vegas Wrestling Scene Legend.”
Flynn wriggles himself carefully, tucking his neck to his chest and shimmying a chain loop up-and-over his skull…
“First, let’s unpack his international wrestling accomplishments.”
…
“Oh right, he has NONE. Mac Bane signed with XWF, traded wins with that bottom-tier guttertrash Marf. Then, he dropped a loss to Vaughn with the SuperContinental on the line.”
Flynn bobs and weaves, detangling loops hanging diagonally, to straighten the chains…
“Mac Bane got TROUNCED in the Cannabis Cup against Paul Montouri, SECOND ROUND. Then, he got absolutely destroyed in WarGames earlier this year by Raion Kido. Captain Ned Kate’s secret weapon… The THREE-TIME SCW CHAMPION…”
“Pinned after ZERO ELIMINATIONS.”
A few more… Water up to his ankles.
“THEN, Mac-Attack was invited to the Tara Fenix Charity Event. Representing Team CCPE, the most dominant brand in wrestling today. Against Team Corey Black and the the four intern-level scrubs he could stitch together from Action Wrestling.”
“And offered this fucking layup of a match? This zero-risk opportunity to FUCKING SHINE on the international circuit?”
“Mac.”
“Fucking.”
“Cancelled.”
Last one untangled! The chains are now looped solely around Flynn’s middle!
“Compare head-to-head?”
Flynn compresses his shoulders inward…
And the chains drop to his feet!
“I WON the Cannabis Cup. My now-tragically-deceased student WON WarGames. And a month later, I beat the man that eviscerated Mac Bane for a title that Mac will never be in the SAME FUCKING ROOM WITH… Let alone win.”
“I led Team CCPE to a dominant 4-2 lead; a lead we kept even after I was ILLEGITIMATELY DISQUALIFIED.”
Flynn steps over the chains.
“THAT’S who Mac Bane is. A fucking non-entity. The big fish in the kiddie pool of Sin City Wrestling. Getting LAPPED every time he tries to swim in the pool with fucking adults.”
Water’s now up to Flynn’s shins. Flynn shifts his attention to the straight jacket on his body…
“JOHN CABLE.”
Flynn runs his right arm, bound to his chest, up across his left shoulder…
“Long time no see, Johnny Boy! Unlike most of these children we call co-workers, I remember your old 2012 XWF run.”
“Like it was FUCKING YESTERDAY, Basic Cable.”
“Let’s sum it up, shall we?”
Flynn brings his right hand up and behind his back… He burrows his head through the gap between his forearm and bicep…
“Loss to Tristan Slater.”
“Tantrum.”
“Loss to Karl Cross.”
“Tantrum. Expletive-Laden Resignation Letter.”
“And scene.”
Pop… Like a soda-bottle. Flynn’s head slips through the gap… His arms now free at his sides!
Flynn draws his bound hands up to his mouth! Using his teeth, he works to loosen the straps!
“Haha, now, now.” Flynn smiles with a mouthful of strap. “Keep your hair on, John-John. I acknowledge that was a long time ago. I mean, 2012 is Ancient History! Who can keep track of ‘who threw a hissyfit every time they lost a match’ or ‘who left a PERMANENT black mark on this sport by taking performance-enhancing drugs’...”
Flynn leans his head closer to the hard cam.
“I do. I keep track. And we’ll get to you in a moment, Slater.”
Flynn smiles. The strap drops! His arms are free! Flynn works his hands behind his back to undo the last bit of tension…
Water’s up to Flynn’s thighs…
“But, still! Point remains, Cable. 2012 was a long time ago. Most people, as they get older, calm down and see the bigger picture. They stop letting minor disagreements set them off.”
PHEW! Flynn exhales as the tension relaxes! With one swoop, he tugs the straightjacket up-and-over his head like a t-shirt.
Flynn grins, reaching into his pocket! He retrieves…
A cell phone.
“In fact, why don’t I scroll through Cable’s Twitter to see John’s demeanor recently…”
Flynn lifts his phone to his face…
…
His face contorts in horror.
“Oh.”
…
“Nah, you’re still an angry guy, Cable. Feuding with irrelevant nobodies. You’ve been blocked more times on Twitter than all the fake Elon Musks combined. Seriously, how the fuck is Sonya Benson only the SECOND-dumbest WGWFer on Social Media?”
Flynn grins, dropping the phone. It sinks into the water, now at waist-level and climbing.
“Shit, John. Starting to seem like 2012 really was yesterday with anger issues like these.”
“And I love to see it, John-o. My entire wrestling style is built around frustration. Like a fucking chess grandmaster, limiting your options, slicing down your escape routes… As you feel increasingly trapped… as the powerlessness BOILS inside you… As the RAGE BREWS… That feeling of IMPOTENCE as you BLUNDER and BLUNDER.”
“Like a cobra wrapping itself around your throat… The harder you mindlessly struggle… The more certain your demise.”
Flynn places his hands on the glass pane of the tank…
“And finally, he whose career should have stayed dead.”
“TRISTAN.”
“SLATER.”
Flynn sticks his right thumbnail against his teeth… He gently chews it straighter.
“Hey, Slater.”
Flynn glances at his thumbnail, whistling. Pleased.
“What a throwback, huh?”
Flynn digs the thumbnail against the pane’s screws… Twisting his hand, loosening the bits…
Water laps up his hips…
“Last time we shared a ring was… November 2012.”
“The night of your first big return. Claiming your rightful throne. As the XWF’s TOP GUY.”
As he unscrews the glass case’s bolts, Flynn straightens his left thumbnail against his teeth…
“You pulled strings to snake a spot for the XWF European Title. You declared that you’d ANNIHILATE everyone else, win the belt, then throw it in the trash can. Because it was fucking beneath you.”
“That’s how you’ve always thought, Slater. Your opponents are worm, amoeba, LESSER FUCKING LIFEFORMS. Not foes to evaluate on equal grounds, but tools to make you look as impressive as possible.”
Flynn cranes his neck sideways, as he starts undoing screws two-at-a-time! One with each hand! Water’s up to his chest…
“Which is why, that fateful night, the man YOU called ‘The King of the Midcarders’... That YOU called ‘Mark Fucking Flynn’.
“BEAT.”
“YOU.”
“THOROUGHLY.”
“The ‘Glorious’ Slater was OUTDONE, humiliated like he’d never been before.”
Flynn presses on the glass… Loose, but not quite enough… He stands on his toes, trying to free a few more bolts…
“I’m the only guy in wrestling history that can claim he beat Tristan Slater… WHILE he was juicing.”
Water’s up to his throat.
“And I’ve only gotten better, Slater. While you’ve atrophied… Sslothed on the couch, picking up mass like a beached whale. While you’ve launched half-a-dozen failed stop-and-start returns… (Your one-night return against Dock. Your plodding, joyless tag matches at crossover shows…)”
“I’ve been here. Competing in main event after main event after MAIN E-FUCKING-VENT.”
“On the wrestling world’s biggest stages.”
Water to his mou-
The moment the water might shut Flynn up, he shoves the pane loose!
Water spills everywhere from Flynn’s feet… Flynn smiles, as his water-logged boots lift out the tank… Over the chains and the straightjacket…
“And winning… EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.”
“That’s who I am, Slater. I’m the BEST. WRESTLER. IN THE WORLD.”
“I make the impossible look easy.”
“And Monday Night? With the aid of Peter Vaughn and Fred Debonair. Two wrestlers NEAR my level and willing to take direction from the greatest wrestling tactician to EVER LIVE.”
Flynn spins… And undoes one last screw.
…The glass case shifts…
And the four walls collapse to the stage floor! Glass shatters everywhere!
…Flynn, smiling like the cat that ate the canary…
Holds up the screw that undid the case.
“We’ll DISMANTLE YOU.”
“Piece.”
“By.”
“FUCKING.”
“Piece.”
“...Mmmm.”
Flynn.
“mmmmmmwhat?”
There’s a low humming sound. Time to wake up.
“....Owwwwwww, my neck…”
…Or, actually, is it a droning?
Flynn tries to retract his hands toward his face to rub his eyes awake…
But his hands remain bound behind his back.
…Flynn shakes his wrist. Metallic.
“...Am I in handcuffs? Fuuuuuuuuuck… What did I do last night?”
…Hey, I’ve been thinking about that sound. After much deliberation, It’s a buzzing.
“...Is that a… white noise machine?”
…Actually, is that a… roaring?
“If I turn it off, will you shut up about it…?”
How're you gonna do that? Have you ever turned off an alarm-clock-white-noise-machine in handcuffs before?
“Yeah.”
…Wait, really?
“One time, Mister and Mrs. Thad Duke invited me over for breakfast. I had gotten them a four-slice toaster for their wedding. Anyway, one thing led to another, and it turned int-”
NEVER MIND.
“...Oh, no, It’s not what you think. You see, Thad wanted t-”
I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW.
…Flynn shrugs, rotating onto his side, carefully as to not tweak his shoulder…
Flynn paws around for wherever this alarm is…
The sheets around him feel less snug and comfy and more… wool. The… ‘mattress’ is made of felt… and plastic?
“...Hmm. Odd.”
…Wait, what’s in this ‘bed’ with him?
Weird lumpy… tarp?
Oh! Here’s something solid!
…
Something solid. But rubber.
“...Is this a…?”
Flynn extends his arm along the rim of the object. It is round… And reaching into it, it has a metal interior with jutting round bits.
“...Spare tire?”
…
“Oh, right.”
…
“I’m in the trunk of a car.”
That moment, the engine roars louder. Someone is stepping on the gas….
OH RIGHT! Those two cops kidnapped you.
“Yeah. No thanks to you.” Flynn mutters, as he twists onto his side and tucks his knees up to his chin. As the car accelerates, the bunchy tarp behind Flynn shivers and rattles…
Oh, C’mon. You’re blaming ME for this?
“Of course I am, you BLITHERING idiot.” Flynn growls, as he relaxes his shoulders.
First of all, let’s agree to no name-calling. It’s non-productive and can lead to hurt feelings.
“Fuck you.”
Secondly, I’m your rational internal monologue. 99 times out of 100? You shouldn’t run from law enforcement! Let those overworked goons make a procedural mistake and walk a free man with no criminal record.
“Right.” Flynn exhales, as he slooooowly extends his shoulders downward. “Well, I think TASING ME IN THE NECK and LOADING ME IN THE TRUNK are two MAJOR PROCEDURAL ERRORS IN THEIR INVESTIGATION.”
Agreed, but I feel larger context clues indicate these men aren’t actually taking us to the police station.
“Wow. Great powers of deduction there, Sherlock.” Flynn retorts. The King of the Mid-Carders tries to think flexible thoughts as he brings his handcuffed wrists forward, under his ass…
…Past the tips of his toes…
SUCCESS! His hands are now in-front of his wrists!
Flynn exhales. He reaches up an index finger and a thumb to rub his eyes.
“There we go. No more rheum.”
Rheum?
“That gunk in your eyes when you wake up.”
Oh! You mean sleepy-dust.
…Flynn shuts his eyes tight, shaking his head. “I was better off with that mirror-hallucination.”
Ouch! You can’t be serious!
“I am.”
You’d rather be in this trunk with mirror-Flynn? The one who told you to fight a jelly monster to become a better janitor? In order to beat Peter Vaughn? He was WRONG about that, by the way.
“He was RIGHT about running from the fake-cops.”
A broken clock’s right twice a day.
“...Counter-point: It’s a really valuable time to be right when you’re identifying dirty cops.”
…Mirror-you is a LUNATIC.
“...I’m having an argument with a voice in my head about the value of a second voice in my head. Let’s not throw around the word ‘lunatic’ willy-nilly.”
…
“...”
…
“No thoughts on that, huh?”
…The car speeds.
“...What? You giving me the silent treatment now?”
…But, the tarp behind Flynn stops shivering.
“C’mon, I know you’re there.”
…
“SAY SOMETHING.”
…Suddenly, the tarp moves! In a flash, a bicep wraps around Flynn’s throat!
“Who are you?!? Why’d you take me?!?” Whispers a hushed, panicking voice.
Flynn would love to answer that question (‘Mark Flynn’ and ‘I did not’, respectively) … But he’s currently being choked.
It is non-optimal to conduct an interrogation to a subject currently being choked.
…What?
Obviously, this person, of currently unknown identity, is frightened and feeling cornered. Behavior: irrational. Best route: Escape, restrain and confront with irrationality.
Flynn, despite lacking oxygen and air-flow, still manages to roll his eyes. Fuuuuck, is this a third voice in my head?
In a wrestling environment, you are capable of 247 unique escapes from this sleeper hold position.
Flynn’s eyes widen.
…Okay, THIS voice, I like. Pick up the pace, though, bud. This guy’s chokehold is professional.
Your preferred means of escaping a sleeper hold such as the one you currently being subjected to would be a backwards roll over your opponent to break the grip, followed by a waistlock.
“per…fect…” Flynn wheezes…
Flynn tries to roll backwards… Over his attacker’s front…
CLAT! But his knees collide with the trunk’s roof!
Flynn clatters back to the trunk!
“D-Don’t do that! TELL ME WHO YOU ARE!” His attacker, now more panicked after the escape attempt, GRIPS the choke even tighter!
“LEMME GO!”
…The irony of being asked to release someone who currently has you in a vice-grip rear-naked choke is not lost on Flynn.
Unfortunately, a backwards roll into a waistlock would be impossible, due to the low height of the trunk. In fact, due to the trunk’s low clearance, 244 of your 247 potential counters are spacially impossible.
…Fuck. Okay, you coulda LED with that.
The edges of Flynn’s vision start to blacken.
Oh shit, no way I’m passing out in TWO back-to-back fights, Flynn thinks.
Flynn concentrates.
VOICE. If I CAN’T backwards-roll…. Into a waistlock… Instead I sho… should…
Optimal Counter from this position is a forward-head-thrust to loosen the grip several inches, followed immediately by wristlock, tucked against your waist to prevent your opponent from choking with their dominant arm.
Okay… Let’s make One small adjustment.
…Flynn’s head droops into his opponent’s elbow’s interior…
…
“...Oh God, is he unconscious?”
The grip loosens, just a hair, in a flash of uncertainty.
…Which is all Flynn needs.
WHAM! Flynn backwards-headbutts his opponent in the face!
“OW! Owowowow!” The grip… is immediately surrendered.
Hmm, okay. The chokehold was professional, but… not exactly the toughest shell in the tortoise exhibit.
In a split-second, Flynn twists his arms up and latches around his attacker’s wrist.
“Oh God! Look, I… I can’t tell you anything. My sources are confidential!”
…Sources?
“LISTEN.” Flynn hisses, trying to cue his trunk traveling companion to lower their voice. “I don’t know who you are.”
“...Then, why’d you kidnap me?!? That’s crazy!” The other voice whispers. “Even crazier than that weird-talking-to-yourself game you played to tell me you knew I was here!”
…Oh God. She heard you talking to yourself. That’s humiliating.
Flynn rolls his eyes. Great, Rational voice is back.
…Which… Okay, let’s approach this rationally.
“...Why would I kidnap you? Jam you in a trunk? CLIMB into the trunk with you? And conduct an interrogation in here?”
“...Uh… Privacy? For your… nefarious purposes!”
…Flynn is exasperated.
“Okay. Follow-up question. Why would I do that…” Flynn raises his wrists, which jingle metallicly.
“IN HANDCUFFS.”
RRRRRRRGH. Suddenly, the car comes to a stop.
The whirring of the engine stops.
Actually, I think that’s like a… low rumbling.
Don’t start that again.
In the darkness, the voice next to Flynn falls into a hush.
“What was that?”
“Two of Las Vegas’ Finest.”
“Wait, cops? Two of ‘em grabbed me off the street while I was working a story. Did they take you too?”
Story? Must be a journalist.
“Listen, where’s the nearest harbor?”
“...What?”
“If they were getting rid of the car, they might try to dump it in a big body of water. Where’s the nearest harbor?”
“...You’re not from Vegas, are you? It’s a big desert. Only water around is Lake Mead, 25 miles away.”
Haha, criminals dumping a car in a harbor? Careful, Mark. Your Michigan is showing.
Flynn grimaces. “Shhhh, wait.”
Outside of the trunk… A shifting. Mechanical. Like a lever.
Tarp Voice whispers, “What’s going on out there?”
“They parked. If there’s no water around, they’re probably gonna pull us out of the trunk.”
“Oh, God. What do we do?”
“Well, I’m handcuffed, but I think I can isolate and neutralize one if the other can’t jump me. How good are you in a fight?”
“...Uh… I take a women’s self-defense class Tuesdays and Thursdays…”
“Women’s se-...Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhh.”
“What?”
“…Never mind. Listen. When that trunk pops, we leap out. While they’re surprised, drive your fingers THROUGH their eyes and their throat. Not at, THROUGH. Like you’re trying to hit something BEHIND them. Get free, run north. Don’t stop until I’ve caught up with you.”
“Uh…I might have an issue with the plan.”
“…This isn’t a fucking committee. Hop out, hit ‘em, run.”
“…But… the h-“
The sound of car doors opening.
“SHHHHHHH…”
…footsteps.
…Around the car’s side…
Closer…
…
……
Then…
…Further away.
“…What’s happening?”
“...Dunno. Maybe they’re phoning whoever’s the brains of this operation?”
“You sure they’ll pop the trunk?”
“Think so. How do you dispose of a car quick if there’s no water?”
…A CRANK.
The vehicle jolts forward. Flynn rolls face-forward. The voice-in-the-tarp shivers.
Mechanical grinding. Like a chain being pulled.
“Now what?”
“Uh… we’re moving.”
…A distant crunching.
Shattered glass.
Compacting twisting metal.
“Oh… Right.”
Getting louder.
“Car crusher.”
***
STAGE-LIGHTS.
Close-Up on Flynn’s grinning face.
“I know what you’re thinking. How the Hell will Flynn get outta this mess?”
The camera zooms out.
Flynn is in a glass tank.
And strapped into a straight jacket.
Which is wrapped in chains.
“After all, I’m facing three! COUNT ‘EM, THREE opponents this week.”
“Slight shift in difficulty after I DECIMATED LIL’ Sammy Voxx last Brawl.”
“To the untrained eye, this seems like a real challenge…”
“But, then. That’s the difference, isn’t it? TRAINING. EXPERIENCE. A FUCKING LIFETIME DEDICATED TO THE SPORT OF FUCKING KINGS.”
“And my opponents? Known quantities. Foreseeable. Predictable.”
“So… Let’s run through it.”
Flynn nods off-screen.
Suddenly, next to Flynn’s feet, the tank starts filling up with water.
“We’ll start with Mac Bane. Three-time Sin City Wrestling Champion. Las Vegas Wrestling Scene Legend.”
Flynn wriggles himself carefully, tucking his neck to his chest and shimmying a chain loop up-and-over his skull…
“First, let’s unpack his international wrestling accomplishments.”
…
“Oh right, he has NONE. Mac Bane signed with XWF, traded wins with that bottom-tier guttertrash Marf. Then, he dropped a loss to Vaughn with the SuperContinental on the line.”
Flynn bobs and weaves, detangling loops hanging diagonally, to straighten the chains…
“Mac Bane got TROUNCED in the Cannabis Cup against Paul Montouri, SECOND ROUND. Then, he got absolutely destroyed in WarGames earlier this year by Raion Kido. Captain Ned Kate’s secret weapon… The THREE-TIME SCW CHAMPION…”
“Pinned after ZERO ELIMINATIONS.”
A few more… Water up to his ankles.
“THEN, Mac-Attack was invited to the Tara Fenix Charity Event. Representing Team CCPE, the most dominant brand in wrestling today. Against Team Corey Black and the the four intern-level scrubs he could stitch together from Action Wrestling.”
“And offered this fucking layup of a match? This zero-risk opportunity to FUCKING SHINE on the international circuit?”
“Mac.”
“Fucking.”
“Cancelled.”
Last one untangled! The chains are now looped solely around Flynn’s middle!
“Compare head-to-head?”
Flynn compresses his shoulders inward…
And the chains drop to his feet!
“I WON the Cannabis Cup. My now-tragically-deceased student WON WarGames. And a month later, I beat the man that eviscerated Mac Bane for a title that Mac will never be in the SAME FUCKING ROOM WITH… Let alone win.”
“I led Team CCPE to a dominant 4-2 lead; a lead we kept even after I was ILLEGITIMATELY DISQUALIFIED.”
Flynn steps over the chains.
“THAT’S who Mac Bane is. A fucking non-entity. The big fish in the kiddie pool of Sin City Wrestling. Getting LAPPED every time he tries to swim in the pool with fucking adults.”
Water’s now up to Flynn’s shins. Flynn shifts his attention to the straight jacket on his body…
“JOHN CABLE.”
Flynn runs his right arm, bound to his chest, up across his left shoulder…
“Long time no see, Johnny Boy! Unlike most of these children we call co-workers, I remember your old 2012 XWF run.”
“Like it was FUCKING YESTERDAY, Basic Cable.”
“Let’s sum it up, shall we?”
Flynn brings his right hand up and behind his back… He burrows his head through the gap between his forearm and bicep…
“Loss to Tristan Slater.”
“Tantrum.”
“Loss to Karl Cross.”
“Tantrum. Expletive-Laden Resignation Letter.”
“And scene.”
Pop… Like a soda-bottle. Flynn’s head slips through the gap… His arms now free at his sides!
Flynn draws his bound hands up to his mouth! Using his teeth, he works to loosen the straps!
“Haha, now, now.” Flynn smiles with a mouthful of strap. “Keep your hair on, John-John. I acknowledge that was a long time ago. I mean, 2012 is Ancient History! Who can keep track of ‘who threw a hissyfit every time they lost a match’ or ‘who left a PERMANENT black mark on this sport by taking performance-enhancing drugs’...”
Flynn leans his head closer to the hard cam.
“I do. I keep track. And we’ll get to you in a moment, Slater.”
Flynn smiles. The strap drops! His arms are free! Flynn works his hands behind his back to undo the last bit of tension…
Water’s up to Flynn’s thighs…
“But, still! Point remains, Cable. 2012 was a long time ago. Most people, as they get older, calm down and see the bigger picture. They stop letting minor disagreements set them off.”
PHEW! Flynn exhales as the tension relaxes! With one swoop, he tugs the straightjacket up-and-over his head like a t-shirt.
Flynn grins, reaching into his pocket! He retrieves…
A cell phone.
“In fact, why don’t I scroll through Cable’s Twitter to see John’s demeanor recently…”
Flynn lifts his phone to his face…
…
His face contorts in horror.
“Oh.”
…
“Nah, you’re still an angry guy, Cable. Feuding with irrelevant nobodies. You’ve been blocked more times on Twitter than all the fake Elon Musks combined. Seriously, how the fuck is Sonya Benson only the SECOND-dumbest WGWFer on Social Media?”
Flynn grins, dropping the phone. It sinks into the water, now at waist-level and climbing.
“Shit, John. Starting to seem like 2012 really was yesterday with anger issues like these.”
“And I love to see it, John-o. My entire wrestling style is built around frustration. Like a fucking chess grandmaster, limiting your options, slicing down your escape routes… As you feel increasingly trapped… as the powerlessness BOILS inside you… As the RAGE BREWS… That feeling of IMPOTENCE as you BLUNDER and BLUNDER.”
“Like a cobra wrapping itself around your throat… The harder you mindlessly struggle… The more certain your demise.”
Flynn places his hands on the glass pane of the tank…
“And finally, he whose career should have stayed dead.”
“TRISTAN.”
“SLATER.”
Flynn sticks his right thumbnail against his teeth… He gently chews it straighter.
“Hey, Slater.”
Flynn glances at his thumbnail, whistling. Pleased.
“What a throwback, huh?”
Flynn digs the thumbnail against the pane’s screws… Twisting his hand, loosening the bits…
Water laps up his hips…
“Last time we shared a ring was… November 2012.”
“The night of your first big return. Claiming your rightful throne. As the XWF’s TOP GUY.”
As he unscrews the glass case’s bolts, Flynn straightens his left thumbnail against his teeth…
“You pulled strings to snake a spot for the XWF European Title. You declared that you’d ANNIHILATE everyone else, win the belt, then throw it in the trash can. Because it was fucking beneath you.”
“That’s how you’ve always thought, Slater. Your opponents are worm, amoeba, LESSER FUCKING LIFEFORMS. Not foes to evaluate on equal grounds, but tools to make you look as impressive as possible.”
Flynn cranes his neck sideways, as he starts undoing screws two-at-a-time! One with each hand! Water’s up to his chest…
“Which is why, that fateful night, the man YOU called ‘The King of the Midcarders’... That YOU called ‘Mark Fucking Flynn’.
“BEAT.”
“YOU.”
“THOROUGHLY.”
“The ‘Glorious’ Slater was OUTDONE, humiliated like he’d never been before.”
Flynn presses on the glass… Loose, but not quite enough… He stands on his toes, trying to free a few more bolts…
“I’m the only guy in wrestling history that can claim he beat Tristan Slater… WHILE he was juicing.”
Water’s up to his throat.
“And I’ve only gotten better, Slater. While you’ve atrophied… Sslothed on the couch, picking up mass like a beached whale. While you’ve launched half-a-dozen failed stop-and-start returns… (Your one-night return against Dock. Your plodding, joyless tag matches at crossover shows…)”
“I’ve been here. Competing in main event after main event after MAIN E-FUCKING-VENT.”
“On the wrestling world’s biggest stages.”
Water to his mou-
The moment the water might shut Flynn up, he shoves the pane loose!
Water spills everywhere from Flynn’s feet… Flynn smiles, as his water-logged boots lift out the tank… Over the chains and the straightjacket…
“And winning… EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.”
“That’s who I am, Slater. I’m the BEST. WRESTLER. IN THE WORLD.”
“I make the impossible look easy.”
“And Monday Night? With the aid of Peter Vaughn and Fred Debonair. Two wrestlers NEAR my level and willing to take direction from the greatest wrestling tactician to EVER LIVE.”
Flynn spins… And undoes one last screw.
…The glass case shifts…
And the four walls collapse to the stage floor! Glass shatters everywhere!
…Flynn, smiling like the cat that ate the canary…
Holds up the screw that undid the case.
“We’ll DISMANTLE YOU.”
“Piece.”
“By.”
“FUCKING.”
“Piece.”