Post by markflynn on Dec 31, 2022 19:59:23 GMT -5
Unlike other egomaniacs in this industry, Mark Flynn was quite comfortable with his mortality.
Flynn’d spent his career analyzing the weaknesses of assholes certain of their own in-ring invincibility. High on their own fumes.
Despite every asshole who’d attended wrestling school for three-months-or-less claiming they were UNBEATABLE… Flynn watched game-tape, dissected their style, and found their weakness. Achilles Heels.
It was always obvious. Flaws so glaring, they glowed shimmering red. Like the weak point on a video game boss.
Point being, Flynn was smart enough to realize… When you find a thousand different ‘immortal’ wrestlers vulnerable? You’re also vulnerable.
All men are mortal. Flynn’s a man. Flynn’s a mortal. - Socrates, basically.
You bury enough men, you become intimately aware that, someday, you’ll end up in a grave yourself.
…
However.
This is NOT how Flynn pictured dying.
Trapped in a car’s trunk. Hands-cuffed in front of his chest.
Headed into a car-crusher.
“Car-crusher?!?”
Next to some lady who must’ve ALSO pissed off two Vegas cops.
“Y’know, a car-crusher? Those things at scrapyards that crush cars into cubes?”
“...I know WHAT a car-crusher is.”
“Seemed like you didn’t.”
“I’m FAMILIAR, asshole.”
“Great. Then, I assume you also know that people shouldn’t be fed into car crushers? Despite being a ‘car crusher’, it will crush… Just about ANYTHING.”
“...Yes, I also get that.”
“Good. We’re on the same page.”
“W-W-well, what do we do?”
What do any of us do? Live, then die.
“Shuddup, I’m thinking.”
“I… Wait, are you talking to me?”
No. In fact, Flynn was speaking to a voice in his head. A voice of reason. Which had reasonably accepted that somethings in this world you will never understand.
Like, why are there multiple voices in Flynn’s head? Would Flynn ever figure that out? Maybe if he thinks really hard, he’ll solve it in the next…
68.75 seconds.
“68 seconds?”
“68 seconds ‘til what?”
Based on the sounds of the car crusher conveyer belt, we’re likely inside an EZ Crusher brand Model-A+.
“...Wait, you can tell the MODEL of the car crusher? How?”
Remember when you fell into a YouTube hole? You watched nothing but car-crushing clips for a week straight?
“...Oh. Yeah.” Flynn smiles nostalgically… “Goddamn, I love car-crushing footage… The irony.”
“...Oh God. I’m dying with an insane person.”
The Conveyer Belt length of the Model-A+ is 550 feet. Based on the slowly-increasing volume of the car crusher and applying a soundwave equation, solving for distance, then calculating distance differential as a time function to calculate velocity, we’re moving at approximately 8 feet/second.
“...AND?”
“And I don’t want to die AT ALL, let alone with a guy having a debate in his own head.”
550 divided by 8 is approximately 68.75 seconds. Q.E.D. We will be crushed at that time.
Hey, Mark? You think your stats-voice is some Rainman, on-the-spectrum shit? Maybe we have the ‘tism?
Flynn exhales.
“...Okay. We have one minute to get outta this car before we’re mashed like potatoes.”
“...How do you know that?”
The EZ Crusher brand Model-A+ has a con-
“ShuddUP. I just know, okay?”
“...Okay. So, what do we do?”
“This is actually easy. Since 2002, cars have emergency release levers installed inside the trunk.”
As required by a 2001 mandate passed by the U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA).
Flynn rolls onto his knees, pressing his face against the rear trunk…
“It should even glow in the dark. I’ll pop that sucker and we’re outta here.”
“Oh! Great!”
Flynn’s eyes peer through the darkness, searching for neon-green…
…
……The grinding gets louder…
A presence scampers up behind Flynn. “...Is it there?”
…Flynn cranes his neck backward, impatiently.
“Look, Lady. You have eyes. Feel free to HELP ME LOOK.”
…
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
Flynn returns to scanning the trunk’s rear.
It should be easy to find, right?
Federal Regulations dictate that the trunk emergency release lever be placed in on th-
“On the inside of the trunk-opening-mechanism, I KNOW.”
“...Wait, no! It’s down there!”
“What? Where?!?”
“On the floor!”
Flynn peers down at the trunk-bed.
And sees a small bright neon-green tab.
That’s not the location required by federal safety standards.
“Pull it!”
…
Flynn sighs.
He reaches down…
And peels the tab off the floor.
“Pretty sure it’s ALSO against safety standards to disconnect the lever.”
Affirmative.
Daaaaaaaaaang. Those fake cops *actually* thought to break the emergency lever?
Game recognize game.
“...Oh God… We’re actually going to die.”
AND! They threw you in the trunk and haven’t popped it since! That means they had the foresight to break the lever, THEN kidnap you. That’s three whole planning-moves ahead!
“Stop talking… I can’t think.”
“I… I’m sorry. I’m just scared… I think that’s REASONABLE! Given our IMMINENT MORTALITY!”
Odds of survival going through the 37-second car crushing cycle ar-
“Shut…UP!”
…
Flynn inhales.
As his heart-rate stabilizes, he hears gears whirring. Automated grinding.
Flynn raises his hands to his face, trying to rub his temples, physically jumpstarting his brain…
…Unfortunately, he’s still handcuffed. He exhales as he just rubs his right temple, his left hand dangling…
…
“How long?”
“...Was I supposed to track the time?!?”
33 seconds.
“Great.”
Flynn wriggles backwards, bellyfloping onto the trunk bed… Facing away from the trunk…
Flynn! That’s TOWARD the car crusher!
“What are you doing?!? That’s toward the car crusher!”
Hey, that’s what I said! Something, something, great minds are right twice a day!
Flynn’s eyes struggle through the darkness.
“All cars have a lever to drop the backseat… So you can get into the interior.”
…
“Unfortunately, that latch is NOT glow-in-the-dark.”
“...Oh! OH! Idea!”
BEAM! A bright light illuminates the space before Flynn…
There’s the latch!
Flynn sighs with relief.
“Fan-TASTIC. Where’d you get a flashlight…” Flynn’s hand extends to tug the lever…
“Oh, actually, it’s my cell phone.”
…
Flynn spins back on his trunk-mate.
“...You had a phone… THIS ENTIRE TIME.”
“Yeah, I…”
…
“Oh. I should’ve called someone…”
Hindsight’s 20/20.
20 seconds.
Flynn yanks the latch.
“No time now.”
He presses the backseat forw-.
IT JAMS.
“C’MOOOOOOOOON.”
Flynn shoves his shoulder into the flap. It barely budges.
“Dammit, something heavy’s in the backseat… FUCK.”
Flynn drives his shoulder back an inch. PUSH! Back an inch! PUSH!
…He feels a presence beside him!
“PUUUUUUUUUSH!” The heat from two hands shoving against his back… He shoves too!
WHAM! Clatter! Something falls off the backseat! There’s light!
“GO-GO-GO-GO!” Flynn crawls on his stomach. The presence worms beside him.
13 seconds.
Flynn wriggles into the backseat.
His eyes rapidly dart back-and-forth around the car, taking in the scene.
On the backseat’s floor… Is a
…A fucking skyscraper model?
…
“File that away.”
“File what away?”
Flynn peers backwards at his 4 o’clock.
Behind him? A freckled, auburn-haired woman. Button-up shirt. Sweaty.
Probably because she’s been in a hot trunk all-day.
8 seconds.
Flynn belly-flops forward, diving into the front seat.
Through the windshield, he sees…
Oh FUCK.
The slamming press of the car-crusher CRUNCHES the car’s hood.
“Okay… Shit.” Flynn flops onto his back in the driver’s seat, drawing his legs into his stomach…
The woman peers down, puzzled AND terrified.
“What are you doing?”
Flynn speaks quickly, rocking his body, building up speed.
“It takes about 60 pounds-per-square-inch to break a windshield. I’ve got one chance to kick it an-”
Click.
…Flynn peers up across his belly.
At an open car door.
The woman…
Just… Unlocked the door.
And crawled out the car.
…
“...Flynn, You fucking idiot.”
CRUNCH! The press CRUNCHES THE CAR’S FRONT INTO FLATTENED SCRAP.
No time.
Flynn rocks his body out…
JUST AS THE CRUSHER SHATTERS THE WINDSHIELD!
Bits of plexiglass zip through the air… Into Flynn’s air… Biting into his arms…
He crawls forward against the conveyer belt. And rolls off the belt.
That red-headed woman scampers about five feet ahead, toward the light of the car crusher’s tunnel.
“PSSSSSST!” Flynn hisses. “COME BACK!”
The woman spins on him. “Back in THERE?!? NEVER.”
Flynn presses his finger to his mouth. “SHHHHHHHHHHHH.”
…
Flynn measures the perfect volume. Juuuuust enough to be audible over the car crusher, but inaudible for anyone waiting outside to ensure they’re dead… “THEY… might… still… be… out there.”
The woman’s eyes widen. She nods.
Still, she crawls forward.
Flynn’s face contorts in rage.
“GET… BACK… HERE…” He angrily gasps out.
“I’M… CHECKING…” The woman hisses back.
…She crawls to the tunnel’s edge…
…She exhales.
…
And peeks her head an inch around the corner.
Ducks right back in.
“SMOOOOOOOOOOOOOTH.” Flynn bites, venomously.
…
The woman peers back over her shoulder.
“THEY’RE… DRIVING… AWAY…”
…Flynn double-time-crawls beside his survival companion.
…
An empty desert. Nothing but sand, cacti and scavenger birds for miles.
A winding road, headed back toward a gleaming, silver city… A blindingly bright glimmer amidst the yellow sands.
And headed back towards it.
Small, black speck-of-a-car.
…
Flynn breathes relief.
And rolls out of the tunnel.
THUD!
“AH…” Flynn gasps with pain. “Fuck… *Right* on my keys…”
Despite popular conceptions of sand’s softness, in a big enough pile, it’s like landing on concrete.
You dropped 3.7 feet to the ground.
“No… talking… right now…”
Flynn breathes a sigh of reli-
HRGH! 120 pounds of graceless, falling woman falls directly on top of Flynn. Somehow, she accidentally drives *both* elbows into his stomach.
“RGHHHHHH!” Flynn moans, all air driven out of his exhausted lungs… He collapses on his side…
“Oh! Sorry!” The redhead squeaks, scrambling to her feet. “I didn’t me-.... Holy shit! You’re Mark Flynn!?!?”
Our reputation precedes us! Ask if she wants an autograph!
Flynn grimaces at this redhead.
“...Yeah.”
From the ground, he backward-rolls onto his feet… Standing up.
Flynn gives this woman another up-and-down.
…
We’ve seen this woman’s face recently.
We have? Say hello! Remember to be polite and non-sarcastic! You catch more flies with honey than with salt!
“...Who the FUCK are you?”
…Perfect.
The redhead squints back, then exhales.
“Name’s Pat Balko. I’m a writer.”
Earlier today, you skimmed an article written by ‘Pat Balko’.
“...Oh!” Flynn’s eyes widen. “You… uh…” Flynn snaps his fingers, trying to jog his memory further. “You write for the… uh…”
She exhales, nodding her head. “Las Vegas Wres-”
“Las Vegas Wrestling Monthly! Right!”
The story you glimpsed was about Pam D’Monium’s death.
…Flynn nods.
“...Yeah, I read that obituary on Pam.” Flynn draws his eyes downward, trying to act like he’s someone capable of empathy. “Real shame about h-.”
SNAP! Balko snaps his fingers.
“Right! That’s the story I was chasing when those cops nabbed me!”
…Flynn sniffs, scratching his cheek. “‘Story’? You already wrote an obituary. Pam died after that match with botch factory, Sonya Benson. What other story is there?”
Balko shakes her head… She pats down her shirt and pants pockets… Searching for something…
“I got a lead from an anonymous source!” Balko checks her back-pockets… Peering downwards… Neglecting a large red notebook in her chest pocket.
…Flynn reaches out as she searches. She’s suddenly taken aback as Flynn’s fingers pinch upon her chest.
“H-h-hey! You creep!”
Flynn retracts his hand and holds the notebook in front of her face.
…
She blushes, snatching it out of his hand. Quickly, she flips it open!
“See! Right here!”
She sticks the open page into Flynn’s gob.
“Apparently, after the match, Pam was medically cleared for another local show on the Vegas strip! A day later, she cancelled. A day after that…” Balko draws a finger across her throat.
Flynn peers into the pages. It’s chickenscratch arrows drawn to various names and dates.
The makings of a conspiracy theory corkboard. A girl after our heart!
“Something smells fishy. Naturally, I ask the booker of the local fed to meet me for coffee. I’m across the street from the spot when two cops tell me they saw me jaywalking! A fake charge!”
“Were you jaywalking?”
“...Yeah, but it’s a victimless crime! Who cares?!?”
“Acknowledged. Go on.”
“Anyway, they left their ticket pad in the squad car, I have to come with them, blah-blah-blah. Next thing I know, WHAM! I turn the corner and there’s a bag over my head! And I wake up in that trunk, next to you!”
…Hmm. Why would two cops…
Or two fake-cops…
Kidnap a journalist chasing Pam D’Monium’s last-minute booking cancellation…?
Maybe it’s a new city policy against jaywalking!
…
Flynn clears his throat.
“Fascinating.”
…
Flynn turns 180 degrees and walks away.
…
The redhead stomps after him.
“W-w-wait! Where are you going?!?”
As Balko jogs beside him, Flynn doesn’t break stride. He stomps past discarded metal and junk.
It becomes clear that this car-crusher is part of a scrapyard…
Flynn spits. “I have a score to settle with two cops…”
Balko scoffs, while speed-walking to keep pace with Flynn.
“Wait! Do you really think two rando cops just decided to murder us because we were jaywalking and… uh… What were YOU doing?”
Flynn side-eyes Pat.
“LITERALLY nothing. I was checking into a suite at the Velvet Rabbit.” Flynn exhales. “Those cops asked if I’d come to the station and answer questions… One taser later, I’m in trunk city.”
…
Balko strokes her chin.
“See! You’re MARKED. Someone has two dirty cops in their pocket and they sent them after US.”
“Two dirty cops about to get fuckin’ ERASED.”
Get in the bodybag, Johnny! Yeeeeeeeeeah!
Balko shakes her head.
“Flynn, I’ve listened to your WGWF promos… I get it. You *hate* Vegas.”
Balko taps the temple.
“But you gotta *think* like you’re in Vegas.”
Flynn peers grumpily at this muckraker.
“If you scrub those two dirty cops, their boss’s gonna send four more after you. Then, eight! And… the one after that!”
Sixteen.
...This muckraker’s bad at math. But, she has a valid point.
“If you’ve pissed someone off in Vegas? Someone with boys-in-blue on their payroll? You gotta cut that weed at the root.”
…
“Okay.” Flynn snorts, irritatedly. “You seem to know your way around this hellhole that God forgot.”
Balko smiles widely. “I call it ‘Vegas’. But, yeah. I know a thing or two about a thing or two… Ex-PECIALLY about the local wrestling scene.”
…Flynn grimaces. Ugh, local wrestlers. Talentless saps, working in wrestling gyms, living off t-shirts sales. Disgusting.
“Neat.” Flynn fake-grins, trying to mask his loathing of local artists, wrestlers-or-otherwise. “So… Who were you chasing? Vis-a-vis this ‘Pam scoop’?”
…
Balko scratches her neck.
“Well… nobody yet. I start with local bookers! You work the street first and let the story reveal itself to y- HEY! STOP!”
Having confirmed Balko has no *real* leads, Flynn has already made for the exit once more.
LATCH! Balko grabs Flynn by the arm.
“Look! I swear I’ll help figure out who tried to kill us! I just need a… a favor! Not even a favor really! More like… A combining of resources! Toward a common goal!”
…Flynn tugs his arm out of her grip.
“What resources are we… combining?”
Balko rubs her hands together.
“*I* bring my nose for a story! And you… get me a sitdown with Chris Page!”
…
“My agent?”
Balko nods with fervent passion.
“Page’s the last guy to successfully book Pam for a show.”
…
Flynn scoffs.
“Page loves to hear himself talk. Just call his media wrangler.”
Balko shakes her head, her auburn, frizzy hair bouncing back-and-forth.
“He’s too big for local wrestling papers! I can’t get an interview! I PROMISE! Gimme five minutes with him and I’ll know who’s behind this…”
…Flynn eyes the journalist up-and-down, suspicious.
Balko presses her hands together, pleading.
…
“...Alright.”
Balko pumps her first.
“YES! Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou!” Balko spits, her face red with excitement. “So! When can we setup an interview?”
Flynn sighs. “We’ll swing by Page’s spot. After we run a few errands.”
“...Errands?”
First, we’re at a junkyard in the middle of the desert. We should figure a way back to civilization.”
“...Oh! Idea!”
…Balko scoops her phone out of her pocket. A little pink Samsung Galaxy.
“An Uber could get us… in...Forty-five minutes.”
“...OR.”
Flynn whistles.
Balko peers up.
Flynn tilts his neck at the junkyard’s entrance… A truck caked in rust. Junkyard logo on the side.
Keys in the ignition.
Balko blushes.
“You’re gonna steal that car?”
“Point #1: It’s a scrap car. It’s a victimless crime. Like jaywalking.”
“SECOND.”
Flynn lifts his hands.
Reminding Balko that he’s still handcuffed.
“You want to talk to Chris Page?”
Flynn grins.
“Then, YOU’RE stealing that car.”
…
Balko dry-swallows.
***
Rolling down the highway…
Rocking gainst the bumpy desert road.
A truck caked in the rust.
And sitting in the passenger seat?
Peering over a large tome, flipping through its pages.
It’s Mark Fucking Flynn.
He peers up at into the camera.
“Kids. What do I have that no other WGWF competitor has?”
“An actual wrestling background?”
“A retirement plan?”
“A high-school education?”
Flynn grins.
“Correct on all three counts! But what I was thinking of, more specifically, was adaptability.”
“Sometimes, things don’t work out like you wanted to. Sometimes, you try plan A and it blows up in your face. Plan B fizzles. So, whaddya do? You ADAPT and REACT. Like I just did surviving a goddamned car crusher.”
Flynn rapidly skims the documentation…. Onto the next page. Speed-reading with his finger zipping across the words.
“All of these buffoons have a skillset thinner than an anorexic flounder. They’re playing this battle royal the same way they would a regular match.”
SNAP! Flynn slaps the book shut! And lifts the cover to the camera.
It’s a copy of Over-the-Top Battle Royal Annotated Rules, 4th Ed. (1984).
“Newsflash, you fucking CHUMPS. In order to adapt, you first have to have total comprehension of your situation.”
“RULE: Any competitor INSIDE the ring who goes OVER-THE-TOP-ROPE and BOTH FEET touch the floor is ELIMINATED from the match.”
“Which inversely implies that, in order to be eliminated from the match, you must first ENTER the ring. So, the wisest decision is to delay entering the ring as long as possible.”
“And you can only be eliminated if BOTH FEET touch the floor. Which means a one-legged man can NEVER LOSE A BATTLE ROYAL!”
Flynn grins tapping the side of his head.
“Still, I think I’ll save ‘cutting off my own foot’ for another day. I think I can reverse-engineer the rest of these rules to serve my needs.”
Flynn smiles, pointing into the camera.
“That’s what separates me from the rest of you fucking BUFFOONS. Over a decade of experience… and a clear understanding of what I can and cannot do. That’s why I’m the only competitor smart enough to hold an illegal submission up to the count of four. That’s why I knew exactly how far I could bend the rules to disadvantage Buster Gloves, while not putting Vaughnie at risk for disqualification.”
“I.”
“KNOW.”
“WRESTLING.”
…
Flynn slips the book back open and resumes speed-reading, his hands rapidly skimming and flipping pages.
“And I know a lot of you rubes are sitting there, muttering to yourself, Flynn forgot all about me. Of course *I* know how to play the game!”
“FRED DEBONAIR! Who went into a fucking trios match with ZERO INTEREST in working with Vaughn and I.”
“RAION KIDO. A man who went into a submission match with me in XWF and claims he *accidentally* tapped out, having slammed his fist against the ground.”
Flynn cups his hand to shout into the camera.
“NEWS FLASH, MORON: THAT’S WHAT TAPPING OUT IS.”
…Flynn gleams.
“Speaking of people too stupid to know what words mean… Did you see Tristan Slater on Dark?”
“Calling ME a coward.
“Claiming that *I*... Am the one ducking *HIM*.”
…Flynn shakes his head.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Slater. Back in 2012, you got popped for steroids, then you disappeared over to WGWF, where they had laxer testing guidelines.”
“I stayed in XWF. Winning World Titles. Winning the Uni. Having the most dominant fucking year of my career 10 years after the fact.”
“Where the fuck have YOU been? Wallowing in self-pity. Occasionally ballooning to 300 pounds of PURE GUT. If you wanted a fight, Tristan? You coulda brought one to me YEARS AGO.”
“...Even in our heyday, Slater? 2012? When we first locked horns? YOU were the coward. YOU injected cheetah blood and bull sperm into your goddamned veins, trying to compete at a level that you couldn’t reach the way I did NATURALLY.”
Flynn presses a hand to his heart.
“I *bend* the rules, Slater. But, you broke them. You *broke* them so hard, you got the title we battled over fuckin’ STRICKEN FROM THE RECORD BOOKS. That’s how badly you disgraced this sport. Even the belts you SULLIED were WASHED FROM HISTORY.”
Flynn shoves his finger right back into the camera.
“YOU’RE the coward, Tristan. You were in 2012. And you are now. S’why I broke your injection arm, you JUNKIE.”
“Only difference between 2012 & now? You learned to pay for clean urine. And I’ve gotten so good? No matter how you *enhance* your performance, you can’t match what I do EFFORTLESSLY.”
…
“At the day’s end, there are two… AND ONLY TWO men who have a CHANCE of walking out of the Rumble with the WGWF World Heavyweight Championship.”
“Peter Vaughn.”
…Flynn waves his hand in the air, iffily. Like maybe.
“And MARK. FUCKING. FLYNN.”
…Flynn sneers.
“And those of you making the Vegas betting pools might be thinking to yourself… ‘Vaughn beat Flynn on the first night of Brawl’... ‘Vaughn just won World Series of Wrestling!’... How can Mark Flynn beat Peter Vaughn?!?”
“The same way I’ve done time and time again. I beat Peter Vaughn on XWF Warfare. At the Denzel Porter Invitational. I outperformed him at the Tara Fenix Charity Event. And I coached four jobbers to nearly sweep his WarGames Team.”
“Vaughn won the biggest interfed contest in wrestling today… That did NOT invite Universal Champion AND Winner of the Cannabis Cup, Mark Flynn. Because if I HAD been invited. They would have cancelled it halfway through… After it would become MATHEMATICALLY IMPOSSIBLE for any of those FUCKING REJECTS to get CLOSE to my score.”
Flynn’s face contorts in a look of mock-stupidity.
“But Flynn! What about Brawl Night One? Vaughn beat you!” He says in a voice even more grating than his normal tenor.
…
“Cue the clip.”
“Twenty-four hours before I wrestled Vaughnie on the first-ever WGWF Brawl.”
“I punched Raion Kido in the elbow so many times…”
“That I BROKE. MY FUCKING. HAND.”
“That’s the Flynn you beat, Vaughnie.”
“Wounded Flynn.”
“Flynn at half-speed.”
“And we still wrestled to a stalemate. You had to grab a handful of tights AND tangle your feet into the ropes to beat me with a BROKEN FUCKING RIGHT HAND…”
“From Vaughn. To Kido. To Slater. To Debonair. All the way down to Sam FUCKIN’ VOXX?”
“Read off any name you want from the WGWF Roster. I’m BETTER. I’m SMARTER.”
“I am…”
“THE.”
“GREATEST.”
“WRESTLER.”
“WHO.”
“EVER.”
“LIVED.”
“And I know. All you fucking self-worshipping troglodytes are wholly and completely beatable.”
“All men are mortal.”
“And I plan to prove it. By tearing through each and everyone of you like a freight train through tissue paper.”
“When stacked against wrestling’s biggest stars?”
“The night ends… With every other man, woman, child, enby and fucking lizard-person lying outside the ring, bleeding and unconscious.”
“As I raise to the world… MY WGWF World Heavyweight Title.”
…
…Flynn reaches the last page.
”Now…”
And frisbees the book out the window.
“Let’s Rumble.”
Flynn’d spent his career analyzing the weaknesses of assholes certain of their own in-ring invincibility. High on their own fumes.
Despite every asshole who’d attended wrestling school for three-months-or-less claiming they were UNBEATABLE… Flynn watched game-tape, dissected their style, and found their weakness. Achilles Heels.
It was always obvious. Flaws so glaring, they glowed shimmering red. Like the weak point on a video game boss.
Point being, Flynn was smart enough to realize… When you find a thousand different ‘immortal’ wrestlers vulnerable? You’re also vulnerable.
All men are mortal. Flynn’s a man. Flynn’s a mortal. - Socrates, basically.
You bury enough men, you become intimately aware that, someday, you’ll end up in a grave yourself.
…
However.
This is NOT how Flynn pictured dying.
Trapped in a car’s trunk. Hands-cuffed in front of his chest.
Headed into a car-crusher.
“Car-crusher?!?”
Next to some lady who must’ve ALSO pissed off two Vegas cops.
“Y’know, a car-crusher? Those things at scrapyards that crush cars into cubes?”
“...I know WHAT a car-crusher is.”
“Seemed like you didn’t.”
“I’m FAMILIAR, asshole.”
“Great. Then, I assume you also know that people shouldn’t be fed into car crushers? Despite being a ‘car crusher’, it will crush… Just about ANYTHING.”
“...Yes, I also get that.”
“Good. We’re on the same page.”
“W-W-well, what do we do?”
What do any of us do? Live, then die.
“Shuddup, I’m thinking.”
“I… Wait, are you talking to me?”
No. In fact, Flynn was speaking to a voice in his head. A voice of reason. Which had reasonably accepted that somethings in this world you will never understand.
Like, why are there multiple voices in Flynn’s head? Would Flynn ever figure that out? Maybe if he thinks really hard, he’ll solve it in the next…
68.75 seconds.
“68 seconds?”
“68 seconds ‘til what?”
Based on the sounds of the car crusher conveyer belt, we’re likely inside an EZ Crusher brand Model-A+.
“...Wait, you can tell the MODEL of the car crusher? How?”
Remember when you fell into a YouTube hole? You watched nothing but car-crushing clips for a week straight?
“...Oh. Yeah.” Flynn smiles nostalgically… “Goddamn, I love car-crushing footage… The irony.”
“...Oh God. I’m dying with an insane person.”
The Conveyer Belt length of the Model-A+ is 550 feet. Based on the slowly-increasing volume of the car crusher and applying a soundwave equation, solving for distance, then calculating distance differential as a time function to calculate velocity, we’re moving at approximately 8 feet/second.
“...AND?”
“And I don’t want to die AT ALL, let alone with a guy having a debate in his own head.”
550 divided by 8 is approximately 68.75 seconds. Q.E.D. We will be crushed at that time.
Hey, Mark? You think your stats-voice is some Rainman, on-the-spectrum shit? Maybe we have the ‘tism?
Flynn exhales.
“...Okay. We have one minute to get outta this car before we’re mashed like potatoes.”
“...How do you know that?”
The EZ Crusher brand Model-A+ has a con-
“ShuddUP. I just know, okay?”
“...Okay. So, what do we do?”
“This is actually easy. Since 2002, cars have emergency release levers installed inside the trunk.”
As required by a 2001 mandate passed by the U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA).
Flynn rolls onto his knees, pressing his face against the rear trunk…
“It should even glow in the dark. I’ll pop that sucker and we’re outta here.”
“Oh! Great!”
Flynn’s eyes peer through the darkness, searching for neon-green…
…
……The grinding gets louder…
A presence scampers up behind Flynn. “...Is it there?”
…Flynn cranes his neck backward, impatiently.
“Look, Lady. You have eyes. Feel free to HELP ME LOOK.”
…
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
Flynn returns to scanning the trunk’s rear.
It should be easy to find, right?
Federal Regulations dictate that the trunk emergency release lever be placed in on th-
“On the inside of the trunk-opening-mechanism, I KNOW.”
“...Wait, no! It’s down there!”
“What? Where?!?”
“On the floor!”
Flynn peers down at the trunk-bed.
And sees a small bright neon-green tab.
That’s not the location required by federal safety standards.
“Pull it!”
…
Flynn sighs.
He reaches down…
And peels the tab off the floor.
“Pretty sure it’s ALSO against safety standards to disconnect the lever.”
Affirmative.
Daaaaaaaaaang. Those fake cops *actually* thought to break the emergency lever?
Game recognize game.
“...Oh God… We’re actually going to die.”
AND! They threw you in the trunk and haven’t popped it since! That means they had the foresight to break the lever, THEN kidnap you. That’s three whole planning-moves ahead!
“Stop talking… I can’t think.”
“I… I’m sorry. I’m just scared… I think that’s REASONABLE! Given our IMMINENT MORTALITY!”
Odds of survival going through the 37-second car crushing cycle ar-
“Shut…UP!”
…
Flynn inhales.
As his heart-rate stabilizes, he hears gears whirring. Automated grinding.
Flynn raises his hands to his face, trying to rub his temples, physically jumpstarting his brain…
…Unfortunately, he’s still handcuffed. He exhales as he just rubs his right temple, his left hand dangling…
…
“How long?”
“...Was I supposed to track the time?!?”
33 seconds.
“Great.”
Flynn wriggles backwards, bellyfloping onto the trunk bed… Facing away from the trunk…
Flynn! That’s TOWARD the car crusher!
“What are you doing?!? That’s toward the car crusher!”
Hey, that’s what I said! Something, something, great minds are right twice a day!
Flynn’s eyes struggle through the darkness.
“All cars have a lever to drop the backseat… So you can get into the interior.”
…
“Unfortunately, that latch is NOT glow-in-the-dark.”
“...Oh! OH! Idea!”
BEAM! A bright light illuminates the space before Flynn…
There’s the latch!
Flynn sighs with relief.
“Fan-TASTIC. Where’d you get a flashlight…” Flynn’s hand extends to tug the lever…
“Oh, actually, it’s my cell phone.”
…
Flynn spins back on his trunk-mate.
“...You had a phone… THIS ENTIRE TIME.”
“Yeah, I…”
…
“Oh. I should’ve called someone…”
Hindsight’s 20/20.
20 seconds.
Flynn yanks the latch.
“No time now.”
He presses the backseat forw-.
IT JAMS.
“C’MOOOOOOOOON.”
Flynn shoves his shoulder into the flap. It barely budges.
“Dammit, something heavy’s in the backseat… FUCK.”
Flynn drives his shoulder back an inch. PUSH! Back an inch! PUSH!
…He feels a presence beside him!
“PUUUUUUUUUSH!” The heat from two hands shoving against his back… He shoves too!
WHAM! Clatter! Something falls off the backseat! There’s light!
“GO-GO-GO-GO!” Flynn crawls on his stomach. The presence worms beside him.
13 seconds.
Flynn wriggles into the backseat.
His eyes rapidly dart back-and-forth around the car, taking in the scene.
On the backseat’s floor… Is a
…A fucking skyscraper model?
…
“File that away.”
“File what away?”
Flynn peers backwards at his 4 o’clock.
Behind him? A freckled, auburn-haired woman. Button-up shirt. Sweaty.
Probably because she’s been in a hot trunk all-day.
8 seconds.
Flynn belly-flops forward, diving into the front seat.
Through the windshield, he sees…
Oh FUCK.
The slamming press of the car-crusher CRUNCHES the car’s hood.
“Okay… Shit.” Flynn flops onto his back in the driver’s seat, drawing his legs into his stomach…
The woman peers down, puzzled AND terrified.
“What are you doing?”
Flynn speaks quickly, rocking his body, building up speed.
“It takes about 60 pounds-per-square-inch to break a windshield. I’ve got one chance to kick it an-”
Click.
…Flynn peers up across his belly.
At an open car door.
The woman…
Just… Unlocked the door.
And crawled out the car.
…
“...Flynn, You fucking idiot.”
CRUNCH! The press CRUNCHES THE CAR’S FRONT INTO FLATTENED SCRAP.
No time.
Flynn rocks his body out…
JUST AS THE CRUSHER SHATTERS THE WINDSHIELD!
Bits of plexiglass zip through the air… Into Flynn’s air… Biting into his arms…
He crawls forward against the conveyer belt. And rolls off the belt.
That red-headed woman scampers about five feet ahead, toward the light of the car crusher’s tunnel.
“PSSSSSST!” Flynn hisses. “COME BACK!”
The woman spins on him. “Back in THERE?!? NEVER.”
Flynn presses his finger to his mouth. “SHHHHHHHHHHHH.”
…
Flynn measures the perfect volume. Juuuuust enough to be audible over the car crusher, but inaudible for anyone waiting outside to ensure they’re dead… “THEY… might… still… be… out there.”
The woman’s eyes widen. She nods.
Still, she crawls forward.
Flynn’s face contorts in rage.
“GET… BACK… HERE…” He angrily gasps out.
“I’M… CHECKING…” The woman hisses back.
…She crawls to the tunnel’s edge…
…She exhales.
…
And peeks her head an inch around the corner.
Ducks right back in.
“SMOOOOOOOOOOOOOTH.” Flynn bites, venomously.
…
The woman peers back over her shoulder.
“THEY’RE… DRIVING… AWAY…”
…Flynn double-time-crawls beside his survival companion.
…
An empty desert. Nothing but sand, cacti and scavenger birds for miles.
A winding road, headed back toward a gleaming, silver city… A blindingly bright glimmer amidst the yellow sands.
And headed back towards it.
Small, black speck-of-a-car.
…
Flynn breathes relief.
And rolls out of the tunnel.
THUD!
“AH…” Flynn gasps with pain. “Fuck… *Right* on my keys…”
Despite popular conceptions of sand’s softness, in a big enough pile, it’s like landing on concrete.
You dropped 3.7 feet to the ground.
“No… talking… right now…”
Flynn breathes a sigh of reli-
HRGH! 120 pounds of graceless, falling woman falls directly on top of Flynn. Somehow, she accidentally drives *both* elbows into his stomach.
“RGHHHHHH!” Flynn moans, all air driven out of his exhausted lungs… He collapses on his side…
“Oh! Sorry!” The redhead squeaks, scrambling to her feet. “I didn’t me-.... Holy shit! You’re Mark Flynn!?!?”
Our reputation precedes us! Ask if she wants an autograph!
Flynn grimaces at this redhead.
“...Yeah.”
From the ground, he backward-rolls onto his feet… Standing up.
Flynn gives this woman another up-and-down.
…
We’ve seen this woman’s face recently.
We have? Say hello! Remember to be polite and non-sarcastic! You catch more flies with honey than with salt!
“...Who the FUCK are you?”
…Perfect.
The redhead squints back, then exhales.
“Name’s Pat Balko. I’m a writer.”
Earlier today, you skimmed an article written by ‘Pat Balko’.
“...Oh!” Flynn’s eyes widen. “You… uh…” Flynn snaps his fingers, trying to jog his memory further. “You write for the… uh…”
She exhales, nodding her head. “Las Vegas Wres-”
“Las Vegas Wrestling Monthly! Right!”
The story you glimpsed was about Pam D’Monium’s death.
…Flynn nods.
“...Yeah, I read that obituary on Pam.” Flynn draws his eyes downward, trying to act like he’s someone capable of empathy. “Real shame about h-.”
SNAP! Balko snaps his fingers.
“Right! That’s the story I was chasing when those cops nabbed me!”
…Flynn sniffs, scratching his cheek. “‘Story’? You already wrote an obituary. Pam died after that match with botch factory, Sonya Benson. What other story is there?”
Balko shakes her head… She pats down her shirt and pants pockets… Searching for something…
“I got a lead from an anonymous source!” Balko checks her back-pockets… Peering downwards… Neglecting a large red notebook in her chest pocket.
…Flynn reaches out as she searches. She’s suddenly taken aback as Flynn’s fingers pinch upon her chest.
“H-h-hey! You creep!”
Flynn retracts his hand and holds the notebook in front of her face.
…
She blushes, snatching it out of his hand. Quickly, she flips it open!
“See! Right here!”
She sticks the open page into Flynn’s gob.
“Apparently, after the match, Pam was medically cleared for another local show on the Vegas strip! A day later, she cancelled. A day after that…” Balko draws a finger across her throat.
Flynn peers into the pages. It’s chickenscratch arrows drawn to various names and dates.
The makings of a conspiracy theory corkboard. A girl after our heart!
“Something smells fishy. Naturally, I ask the booker of the local fed to meet me for coffee. I’m across the street from the spot when two cops tell me they saw me jaywalking! A fake charge!”
“Were you jaywalking?”
“...Yeah, but it’s a victimless crime! Who cares?!?”
“Acknowledged. Go on.”
“Anyway, they left their ticket pad in the squad car, I have to come with them, blah-blah-blah. Next thing I know, WHAM! I turn the corner and there’s a bag over my head! And I wake up in that trunk, next to you!”
…Hmm. Why would two cops…
Or two fake-cops…
Kidnap a journalist chasing Pam D’Monium’s last-minute booking cancellation…?
Maybe it’s a new city policy against jaywalking!
…
Flynn clears his throat.
“Fascinating.”
…
Flynn turns 180 degrees and walks away.
…
The redhead stomps after him.
“W-w-wait! Where are you going?!?”
As Balko jogs beside him, Flynn doesn’t break stride. He stomps past discarded metal and junk.
It becomes clear that this car-crusher is part of a scrapyard…
Flynn spits. “I have a score to settle with two cops…”
Balko scoffs, while speed-walking to keep pace with Flynn.
“Wait! Do you really think two rando cops just decided to murder us because we were jaywalking and… uh… What were YOU doing?”
Flynn side-eyes Pat.
“LITERALLY nothing. I was checking into a suite at the Velvet Rabbit.” Flynn exhales. “Those cops asked if I’d come to the station and answer questions… One taser later, I’m in trunk city.”
…
Balko strokes her chin.
“See! You’re MARKED. Someone has two dirty cops in their pocket and they sent them after US.”
“Two dirty cops about to get fuckin’ ERASED.”
Get in the bodybag, Johnny! Yeeeeeeeeeah!
Balko shakes her head.
“Flynn, I’ve listened to your WGWF promos… I get it. You *hate* Vegas.”
Balko taps the temple.
“But you gotta *think* like you’re in Vegas.”
Flynn peers grumpily at this muckraker.
“If you scrub those two dirty cops, their boss’s gonna send four more after you. Then, eight! And… the one after that!”
Sixteen.
...This muckraker’s bad at math. But, she has a valid point.
“If you’ve pissed someone off in Vegas? Someone with boys-in-blue on their payroll? You gotta cut that weed at the root.”
…
“Okay.” Flynn snorts, irritatedly. “You seem to know your way around this hellhole that God forgot.”
Balko smiles widely. “I call it ‘Vegas’. But, yeah. I know a thing or two about a thing or two… Ex-PECIALLY about the local wrestling scene.”
…Flynn grimaces. Ugh, local wrestlers. Talentless saps, working in wrestling gyms, living off t-shirts sales. Disgusting.
“Neat.” Flynn fake-grins, trying to mask his loathing of local artists, wrestlers-or-otherwise. “So… Who were you chasing? Vis-a-vis this ‘Pam scoop’?”
…
Balko scratches her neck.
“Well… nobody yet. I start with local bookers! You work the street first and let the story reveal itself to y- HEY! STOP!”
Having confirmed Balko has no *real* leads, Flynn has already made for the exit once more.
LATCH! Balko grabs Flynn by the arm.
“Look! I swear I’ll help figure out who tried to kill us! I just need a… a favor! Not even a favor really! More like… A combining of resources! Toward a common goal!”
…Flynn tugs his arm out of her grip.
“What resources are we… combining?”
Balko rubs her hands together.
“*I* bring my nose for a story! And you… get me a sitdown with Chris Page!”
…
“My agent?”
Balko nods with fervent passion.
“Page’s the last guy to successfully book Pam for a show.”
…
Flynn scoffs.
“Page loves to hear himself talk. Just call his media wrangler.”
Balko shakes her head, her auburn, frizzy hair bouncing back-and-forth.
“He’s too big for local wrestling papers! I can’t get an interview! I PROMISE! Gimme five minutes with him and I’ll know who’s behind this…”
…Flynn eyes the journalist up-and-down, suspicious.
Balko presses her hands together, pleading.
…
“...Alright.”
Balko pumps her first.
“YES! Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou!” Balko spits, her face red with excitement. “So! When can we setup an interview?”
Flynn sighs. “We’ll swing by Page’s spot. After we run a few errands.”
“...Errands?”
First, we’re at a junkyard in the middle of the desert. We should figure a way back to civilization.”
“...Oh! Idea!”
…Balko scoops her phone out of her pocket. A little pink Samsung Galaxy.
“An Uber could get us… in...Forty-five minutes.”
“...OR.”
Flynn whistles.
Balko peers up.
Flynn tilts his neck at the junkyard’s entrance… A truck caked in rust. Junkyard logo on the side.
Keys in the ignition.
Balko blushes.
“You’re gonna steal that car?”
“Point #1: It’s a scrap car. It’s a victimless crime. Like jaywalking.”
“SECOND.”
Flynn lifts his hands.
Reminding Balko that he’s still handcuffed.
“You want to talk to Chris Page?”
Flynn grins.
“Then, YOU’RE stealing that car.”
…
Balko dry-swallows.
***
Rolling down the highway…
Rocking gainst the bumpy desert road.
A truck caked in the rust.
And sitting in the passenger seat?
Peering over a large tome, flipping through its pages.
It’s Mark Fucking Flynn.
He peers up at into the camera.
“Kids. What do I have that no other WGWF competitor has?”
“An actual wrestling background?”
“A retirement plan?”
“A high-school education?”
Flynn grins.
“Correct on all three counts! But what I was thinking of, more specifically, was adaptability.”
“Sometimes, things don’t work out like you wanted to. Sometimes, you try plan A and it blows up in your face. Plan B fizzles. So, whaddya do? You ADAPT and REACT. Like I just did surviving a goddamned car crusher.”
Flynn rapidly skims the documentation…. Onto the next page. Speed-reading with his finger zipping across the words.
“All of these buffoons have a skillset thinner than an anorexic flounder. They’re playing this battle royal the same way they would a regular match.”
SNAP! Flynn slaps the book shut! And lifts the cover to the camera.
It’s a copy of Over-the-Top Battle Royal Annotated Rules, 4th Ed. (1984).
“Newsflash, you fucking CHUMPS. In order to adapt, you first have to have total comprehension of your situation.”
“RULE: Any competitor INSIDE the ring who goes OVER-THE-TOP-ROPE and BOTH FEET touch the floor is ELIMINATED from the match.”
“Which inversely implies that, in order to be eliminated from the match, you must first ENTER the ring. So, the wisest decision is to delay entering the ring as long as possible.”
“And you can only be eliminated if BOTH FEET touch the floor. Which means a one-legged man can NEVER LOSE A BATTLE ROYAL!”
Flynn grins tapping the side of his head.
“Still, I think I’ll save ‘cutting off my own foot’ for another day. I think I can reverse-engineer the rest of these rules to serve my needs.”
Flynn smiles, pointing into the camera.
“That’s what separates me from the rest of you fucking BUFFOONS. Over a decade of experience… and a clear understanding of what I can and cannot do. That’s why I’m the only competitor smart enough to hold an illegal submission up to the count of four. That’s why I knew exactly how far I could bend the rules to disadvantage Buster Gloves, while not putting Vaughnie at risk for disqualification.”
“I.”
“KNOW.”
“WRESTLING.”
…
Flynn slips the book back open and resumes speed-reading, his hands rapidly skimming and flipping pages.
“And I know a lot of you rubes are sitting there, muttering to yourself, Flynn forgot all about me. Of course *I* know how to play the game!”
“FRED DEBONAIR! Who went into a fucking trios match with ZERO INTEREST in working with Vaughn and I.”
“RAION KIDO. A man who went into a submission match with me in XWF and claims he *accidentally* tapped out, having slammed his fist against the ground.”
Flynn cups his hand to shout into the camera.
“NEWS FLASH, MORON: THAT’S WHAT TAPPING OUT IS.”
…Flynn gleams.
“Speaking of people too stupid to know what words mean… Did you see Tristan Slater on Dark?”
“Calling ME a coward.
“Claiming that *I*... Am the one ducking *HIM*.”
…Flynn shakes his head.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Slater. Back in 2012, you got popped for steroids, then you disappeared over to WGWF, where they had laxer testing guidelines.”
“I stayed in XWF. Winning World Titles. Winning the Uni. Having the most dominant fucking year of my career 10 years after the fact.”
“Where the fuck have YOU been? Wallowing in self-pity. Occasionally ballooning to 300 pounds of PURE GUT. If you wanted a fight, Tristan? You coulda brought one to me YEARS AGO.”
“...Even in our heyday, Slater? 2012? When we first locked horns? YOU were the coward. YOU injected cheetah blood and bull sperm into your goddamned veins, trying to compete at a level that you couldn’t reach the way I did NATURALLY.”
Flynn presses a hand to his heart.
“I *bend* the rules, Slater. But, you broke them. You *broke* them so hard, you got the title we battled over fuckin’ STRICKEN FROM THE RECORD BOOKS. That’s how badly you disgraced this sport. Even the belts you SULLIED were WASHED FROM HISTORY.”
Flynn shoves his finger right back into the camera.
“YOU’RE the coward, Tristan. You were in 2012. And you are now. S’why I broke your injection arm, you JUNKIE.”
“Only difference between 2012 & now? You learned to pay for clean urine. And I’ve gotten so good? No matter how you *enhance* your performance, you can’t match what I do EFFORTLESSLY.”
…
“At the day’s end, there are two… AND ONLY TWO men who have a CHANCE of walking out of the Rumble with the WGWF World Heavyweight Championship.”
“Peter Vaughn.”
…Flynn waves his hand in the air, iffily. Like maybe.
“And MARK. FUCKING. FLYNN.”
…Flynn sneers.
“And those of you making the Vegas betting pools might be thinking to yourself… ‘Vaughn beat Flynn on the first night of Brawl’... ‘Vaughn just won World Series of Wrestling!’... How can Mark Flynn beat Peter Vaughn?!?”
“The same way I’ve done time and time again. I beat Peter Vaughn on XWF Warfare. At the Denzel Porter Invitational. I outperformed him at the Tara Fenix Charity Event. And I coached four jobbers to nearly sweep his WarGames Team.”
“Vaughn won the biggest interfed contest in wrestling today… That did NOT invite Universal Champion AND Winner of the Cannabis Cup, Mark Flynn. Because if I HAD been invited. They would have cancelled it halfway through… After it would become MATHEMATICALLY IMPOSSIBLE for any of those FUCKING REJECTS to get CLOSE to my score.”
Flynn’s face contorts in a look of mock-stupidity.
“But Flynn! What about Brawl Night One? Vaughn beat you!” He says in a voice even more grating than his normal tenor.
…
“Cue the clip.”
Back to… Relentless! 2022
Raion immediately locks the hold back in, but somehow Flynn is still able to sense the severity of his predicament, and unconsciously begins teeing off on Kido’s elbow again.
Over-and-over Flynn connects knuckle to bone, until the top of his hand is split open and bleeding. The sight of his hand is ghastly. It’s swollen, bleeding and purple, but not all is lost, as Kido’s elbow looks the same.
Raion immediately locks the hold back in, but somehow Flynn is still able to sense the severity of his predicament, and unconsciously begins teeing off on Kido’s elbow again.
Over-and-over Flynn connects knuckle to bone, until the top of his hand is split open and bleeding. The sight of his hand is ghastly. It’s swollen, bleeding and purple, but not all is lost, as Kido’s elbow looks the same.
“Twenty-four hours before I wrestled Vaughnie on the first-ever WGWF Brawl.”
“I punched Raion Kido in the elbow so many times…”
“That I BROKE. MY FUCKING. HAND.”
“That’s the Flynn you beat, Vaughnie.”
“Wounded Flynn.”
“Flynn at half-speed.”
“And we still wrestled to a stalemate. You had to grab a handful of tights AND tangle your feet into the ropes to beat me with a BROKEN FUCKING RIGHT HAND…”
“From Vaughn. To Kido. To Slater. To Debonair. All the way down to Sam FUCKIN’ VOXX?”
“Read off any name you want from the WGWF Roster. I’m BETTER. I’m SMARTER.”
“I am…”
“THE.”
“GREATEST.”
“WRESTLER.”
“WHO.”
“EVER.”
“LIVED.”
“And I know. All you fucking self-worshipping troglodytes are wholly and completely beatable.”
“All men are mortal.”
“And I plan to prove it. By tearing through each and everyone of you like a freight train through tissue paper.”
“When stacked against wrestling’s biggest stars?”
“The night ends… With every other man, woman, child, enby and fucking lizard-person lying outside the ring, bleeding and unconscious.”
“As I raise to the world… MY WGWF World Heavyweight Title.”
…
…Flynn reaches the last page.
”Now…”
And frisbees the book out the window.
“Let’s Rumble.”