Post by markflynn on May 31, 2023 14:41:03 GMT -5
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…
Riii-
“VAUGHNIE!”
“Flynn.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure? In the mood to shoot the shit with your ol’ amigo? Chew the fat? Talk shop?”
“Business, Mark.”
“FEH. You don’t need to call me to make sure I’m doing my JOB, Vaughn. I’m no fucking incompetent.”
“I’m taking extra care, Mark. Everything MUST be in place by Sunday. If we haven’t completed our summoning ritual by WarGames… we’ll enter battle at an untenable disadvantage.”
“Don’t say ‘we’ like *I* had anything to do with *YOUR* decision. Quick reminder, Vaughnie. Did *I* tell *YOU* to draft a DEAD GUY?”
…
“Lemme answer that: NO. I didn’t. Because, in my estmations, a VITAL quality of a good teammate? Is that they be ALIVE, VAUGHNAROO!!!”
“If you’d competed with Outcast, you’d understand he’s worth the effort. Resurrecting him is a… minor hurdle to guarantee the defeat our adversaries.”
”Yeah, yeah, yeah. Short version: Your ol’ pal Flynn’s gotta bail your ass out by participating in some voodoo woo-woo ballyhoo.”
“I called for a status report, Mark. Is the… ‘artifact’ in your possession?”
“It’s coming together, Pete. I asked my… legal connection, Christopher K. Clinton… to make an inquiry into the evidence intake where they stowed away relevant ac·cou·tre·ments from your dead pal’s… accident.”
“And?”
“Everything’d been left in the evidence locker…. Save for one thing.”
“...Naturally, the only thing missing…”
“Is what you told me to snag. Correctamundo, Vaughnie.”
“Unacceptable. There’s no replacing that artifact, Mark. It’s a… mandatory component.”
“Don’t get your coveralls in a twist, Vaughn. My attorney made a FOIA request with the evidence intake for who requisitioned this… important thing. The name data was… corrupted. But, we have the address they mailed it to. We’re en-route now. Consider it done.”
“...I’ll consider it done when the artifact’s in your possession.”
…
“Pete, when you ask Mark Flynn to do a job… And he says ‘consider it done?’ Consider it done. Do you ask for a status report from the chef after he’s already served you brekkie, Vaughn-Vaughn? No. Cuz JOB’S DONE. As far as YOU’RE concerned, I HAVE THE FUCKING THING. ANYTHING ELSE?!?”
…
“...Yes. I thought you should know. Our other teammates have retrieved THEIR necessary artifacts.”
“OHHHHHH, GOOD FOR THEM.”
“...Y’know, If you’d told me *last week*, that on my team… Former Universal Champion Mark Flynn would be… Bringing up the rear…”
Vaughn accompanies his remark with the subtlest snicker.
…One he knows will get under Flynn’s skin.
…*SPIT-SOUND*
“...You want a status update, Vaughn? YOU called ME for a status update?!? HERE’S YOUR STATUS UPDATE, VAUGHN!!! IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, I’LL HAVE THE ARTIFACT, HOW’S THAT, PETEY?!?”
…
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“YOU SUNOVAB-”
*click*
“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!” Flynn tosses the phone to his compact Cherry Red Honda Fit’s backseat.
“Irwin! How far now?!?”
Irwin, Flynn’s lackey, tucks his hand into his sleeve… Rubbing away condensation on the windshield…
“GPS says we’re less than a mile away… But, I can’t see a thing! There hasn’t been a streetlight or roadsign in nearly an hour… This could be dangerous… Maybe we should stop and get our bearings?”
Flynn scoffs. “And let Vaughnie mock me another MINUTE LONGER?!?” Flynn slaps the dashboard! “UNACCEPTABLE! FULL SPEED AHE-”
POP! The car’s whole left-side drops a quarter-foot…
…
The sound of rubber flopping under the car.
“...I think that was a blowout…”
“DAMMIT, IRWIN! Why didn’tcha stop? It’s CLEARLY too dangerous to drive!”
“...Sir, y-”
Suddenly, the GPS chirps. On Irwin’s screen, a left arrow…
Irwin’s face lights up as steers the wheel…
“We’re here!”
…
“But… Where’s here?”
Irwin squints… Then pinches his nose, disgusted.
“Ugh… I must’ve driven too hard on the flat… Smells like burning rubber…”
Flynn shakes his head.
“That’s not burning rubber.”
Flynn inhales deeply…
“Brimstone…” Another sniff, ingesting aromas like a sommelier. “And sulfur.”
The fog scatters…
Irwin covers his mouth… Stunned speechless.
…Flynn smiles.
“Of course. Where would a devil lead us…?”
“But Hell….”
“Michigan.”
***
The Fit limps on its busted wheel into a parking spot.
…Outside an ol’ brick-and-mortar building.
The only light in the misty fog? A neon sign… accompanied by a glowing beverage lit on fire.
“GOOD INTENTIONS - Bar & Hotel”. Vibrant red letters.
…Irwin dry-swallows.
“Uh… M-m-maybe, I should… Stay here a-a-a-and watch the car?”
“No one’s stealing a Honda Fit, Irwin. Even MICHIGAN carjackers have *some* taste.” Flynn grabs Irwin by the ear. “GET IN THERE!”
Like a scalded dog, Irwin rushes out the car… Flynn exits…
***
An eerily quiet pool hall. A half-dozen unoccupied tables.
A bar covered in cobwebs.
Flynn sniffs, like a bloodhound tracking.
“Smell’s getting stronger.”
Flynn nods toward a sign on the wall. ‘Smoking Bar’.
Irwin drags his shirt’s collar above his nose. “Ugh, My allergies are killing me… I HATE smoking places…”
“Then, this might not be the place for you…”
Irwin dives behind Flynn!
At the pool table at the hall’s end… chalking up his cue…
A man in black.
Skin pale-white as a 3 AM moon…
He beckons.
“Up for.. a game?”
…Flynn steps for-...
…He’s held.
Flynn spins ‘round.
Irwin clings to Flynn’s back, weighing Flynn down.
Flynn YANKS Irwin by the ear.
“GET IT IN GEAR, IRMANO.” Flynn drags Irwin, stammering and stuttering, down the hall.
…The man-in-black continues to chalk.
“So… Glad to finally meet you… Mark Flynn.”
…Flynn takes off his jacket.
“...Wondering how I know you?” The man-in-black chuckles… From his front pocket, he retrieves a cigarette… He takes a long drag…
And exhales smoke…
“One could say… I’m very familiar with your wo-”
“So, you’re, like, The Devil, right?” Flynn sniffs.
…
The mysterious stranger coughs. “Wh… Pardon?”
“Look, I have shit to do (and a janitor to shut up).” Flynn tosses the jacket onto a stool beside the pool table. “So how about we skip the whole ‘I know your sins, I’ll have your soul soon enough’ bullshit.”
…The mysterious stranger adjusts his collar. “...J-just… What makes you say I’m… the Devil?”
…Flynn snorts, stifling a laugh. “Sorry. The bar’s called ‘Good Intentions’... As in, the road to Hell's paved with…”
Flynn offers a mild golf-clap. “Wow, someone’s sure getting full mileage out of their English Degree, huh?”
…The man-in-black’s eyebrow twitches.
“W-well… I didn’t *name* the bar… I just frequent it…” The mysterious stranger clears his throat, trying to resume his air of dark mystery. “I frequent many dens of… ill repute.”
Flynn guffaws. “Ohmigod… What was THAT?!? Mister Beelzebub, PEOPLE don’t talk like that. ‘Ill repute’, fucking what? Oh, and when Irwin was complaining about smoke?” Flynn takes on a dopey, mocking tone. “If you don’t like smoking places, then, this might not be the place for you…” Flynn wheezes, laughing. “Oh my God! Like, cuz, people burn IN HELL! So there’s smoking there! WOW… Are those lines prepared, or are you just a HACK naturally?”
…The stranger’s face reddens… Fire burning in his eyes…
“...Y’know, Mark… I appreciate a sense of humor… Perhaps, We’re not so diff-”
“SKIP!” Flynn snatches a pool cue off the wall.
TheDevil man-in-black’s nearly breathing fire, he’s so red-in-the-face. “WHAT?!?”
Flynn itches his inner ear. “I’ve gotten enough ‘Not so different, you and I’ speeches to last me a lifetime. Hearing another? THAT’S my Hell.” Flynn grabs chalk off the wall, and dusts it against his cue. “Look, I ain’t telling you how to do your job, Mister Beelzebub. But, you REALLY should’ve done this song-and-dance with Mac Bane. He woulda loved some dramatic monologue back-and-forth. Duality of man, are any of us redeemable, what is the value of a soooooooul?”
Flynn retches with disgust. “Me? I’m the team pragmatist. I am a BUSINESSMAN. I meet opponents where they are. I learn how they work. I take them on. And I WIN.”
“And, since you dragged me to Michigan, instead of Georgia.” Flynn tosses the chalk cube away. “I’m guessing you’re not challenging me to a fiddle contest.”
…
“Which, I’m not gonna lie, I’m DISAPPOINTED I’m not getting a golden fiddle out of this. I spent THREE WEEKS watching Charlie Daniels’ Master Class…”
…
The man-in-black… half-smiles. A sharp incisor sticks out his mouth…
“You… believe… a mere mortal.. can defeat me?”
…Flynn streches his neck, non-chalantly.
“Yep.”
…
“Are you willing to… wager?”
Flynn’s nose wrinkles.
“You mean, bet my soul?”
The mysterious stranger chuckles.
“Flynn, we’re both well-aware your soul isn’t worth the nickel you’d sell it for.”
…
“Hurtful.” Flynn sniffs, wiping away a mock-tear…
“Instead, perhaps something you actually value?”
“Listening.”
“Your talent. Your in-ring ability. Wager that and…” The Devil sneers confidently, as he grabs a rack off the wall. “We’ll stop wasting each other’s time and start… doing business.”
…
“Deal.”
The Devil extends his hand.
…Flynn sneers. “I don’t shake hands since 2020.” Flynn spits on the floor. “Unsanitary.”
The Devil scoffs.. “...If you think simple obstinance will throw my game… I must say, I expected more from you, Mark…”
…Rapidly, the Devil racks… Balls magnetically drawn to his hands. In record-time, the table’s set for a game of 8-ball.
“Irwin.” Flynn grabs his henchman by the ear.
“AH! AH! What?!?!” Irwin swats helplessly at Flynn’s hands.
Flynn stands him up straight.
“…You see that hotel next door? Go there, checkout a room and…psstpsstpsst…"
“For a man so straight-to-business…” The man-in-black smiles, like a cat cornering a mouse… “You seem to be stalling, giving your friend there an errand...”
…Flynn sneers. He side-eyes Irwin.
Irwin looks confused, but nods and exits.
Flynn lines up his shot.
“I guess it’s time…”
“For all hell to break loose…”
***
Let’s start off by answering the question on every WGWF stan’s mind…
Where the Hell has Mark Flynn been?
Back at WrestleWars… I’d finally trapped Tristan Slater in a steel cage.
He couldn’t run into a crowd…
Or a parking lot…
Couldn’t hide behind LVPD…
Mano-e-mano. One-on-one. Where he’s insisted for ELEVEN YEARS I’ve never beaten him.
And I CRUISED on that dim goon. Made him look like the amateur-calibur FRAUD he’s been since he glad-handed his way to the XWF World Title all those years ago… Picking his opponents, stat-padding his wins in a desperate attempt to beat The Brand’s record.
And once more, Flynn PROVED that ol’ Tristy-poo is NOTHING SPECIAL.
…But, where’d that leave me?
I respect Page, but he’s a showman. An old-school guy. He books battles between GOOD and EVIL. And until WGWF gets a goodie on its roster worth a damn… my pal Petey’s gonna hold the TOP TITLE until time fuckin’ IMMEMORIAL.
Which means Flynn ain’t gettin’ a shot.
And despite all my LAMBASTING ‘FAKE GOAT’ James Raven, his schedule’s too full losing crossover matches to dignify my ACCURATE CLAIMS of his CONSTANT FAILURES with response.
…So, why’s Flynn back now? Has a worthy goodie-two-shoes finally risen to challenge Vaughnie? Is Jim Caedus the hero prophesied?
…
Not on your FUCKIN’ life.
Jimbo.
Y’know what’s funny to me?
My teammates, talented as they are, calling this fight ‘WGWF versus XWF’.
…Now, there are multiple reasons this label doesn’t perfectly fit.
One being, despite my WGWF dominance… I’m XWF through-and-through
…But, could you say the same, Caedus?
Could Lycana?
Could Rob Main?
No. Let’s face facts.
This fight isn’t WGWF vs XWF.
This fight is ACTIVE competitors…
Versus QUITTERS.
Rob Main retired almost two years ago. He lost a HUMILIATING scrap to career midcarder, Thunder Knuckles. Then, he looked clueless and lost in that ring… When I CRUSHED him and Ollie, with only a scrawny North Korean War Criminal in my corner. He retired the night after I beat him.
The last time Rob showed his face on XWF programming? Speaking at The Engineer’s Hall of Legends Induction… That’s his contribution now.
A part of history? NOT EVEN THAT. Someone *also-present* when the TALENTED reigned. A WITNESS to greatness. That’s Rob Main’s value today. Because he will NEVER ACHIEVE anything CLOSE to what he once was EVER AGAIN.
The Omega, the historically-dominant Uni champ? Dead. Now, we’re left with Rob Main, a shell of a shell. One who will huff-and-puff… But run out of air in his weak, geriatric lungs before the house’s walls start to tilt.
Lycana? A what-if story. She’d reached a point that so few do… The step before the mountain-top. She main-evented an XWF PPV, battling for the Uni. She’d battled Alias and Corey Smith on back-to-back shows, two of the best IN WRESTLING HISTORY.
And what’d she do, after coming up short? Did she dig deeper? Did she train harder? Did she desperately seek that last piece of the puzzle that would carry her to GODHOOD among the Greatest-of-All-Time?
…No.
She quit.
Folded-up shop.
When the going got tough, Lycana packed her bags, tossed her lil’ werewolf bindle over her shoulder and decided if she couldn’t be the best without TRYING? She wouldn’t compete at all.
A QUITTER. A LOSER.
…
Speaking of losers.
Jimbo.
My, how times have changed…
Team WGWF versus Outsiders…
Y’know what that reminds me of?
XWF November 2021.
When Bad Medicine was invaded by OCW’s outsiders…
Peter Vaughn, Xavier Lux, Betsy Granger (who ironically, was still under XWF contract, and not *technically* an outsider)...
They came to OUR front door. Seeking a FIGHT from our best.
…And who was our best at the time?
You, Jimboree.
XWF Universal Champion.
The TOP GUY.
The BEST THERE IS.
And ol’ Petey ENCROACHED ON OUR LAND. DEMANDED a fight.
What did you do, Jimbo?
…At Fire & Ice? With THE Top Title on the line?
You rolled over…
And played dead.
You let a fuckin’ OUTSIDER STEAL the TOP PRIZE IN ALL OF WRESTLING.
You got your ASS handed to you by an OCW minor-leaguer.
You QUIT.
…
Now? Fast-forward two years…
Pete traveled the world, riding the momentum off DESTROYING you, becoming a FIVE-TIME World Champion…
…And you want another chance?
YOU wanna ACTUALLY FIGHT NOW, JIMBO?!?
…
Too little.
Too late.
Because Jimmy-Jam?
You… and Diet APEX behind ya?
That withered skeleton, Rob Main?
That blue-haired career-quitter, Lycana?
That constant career disappointment, Dolly Waters?
And whatever the fuck a ‘Spencer Adams’ is?
Team Vaughn’s gonna do what you couldn’t do…
Two long years ago.
And clear the TRASH off our land.
***
…Irwin rushed through the bar door.
“Sir, I did it!”
Irwin smiled, jogging over to the pool table…
Where things look… one-sided.
All but two striped on the table… Meanwhile, every solid’s as far away from a pocket as geometrically possible…
Irwin glances up at Flynn.
“Sir… Which are you?”
…Flynn blushes.
“The one that’s bad at pool...”
The Devil lines-up… And buries 9-and-13-balls simultaneously. “He’s solids… And we’re just about done here…”
Flynn side-eyes Irwin. “Where the HELL have you been?!? (pardon-the-pun)! I said to be back IN FIVE MINUTES!”
…
“IT’S BEEN SIX-AND-A-QUARTER!”
Irwin fishes into his back pocket while subserviently bowing for mercy. “I’m sorry, sir! The clerk was an odd fellow… When I tried to give him my credit card, he spent a surprising amount of time explaining the hotel’s departure policy for customers…”
“Is that ‘You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave’?”
“…Something like that.”
Irwin blushes, offering Flynn what’s in his hand…. A book?
Flynn SNAPS it from Irwin’s grip. “FINALLY.”
The Devil lines up his final shot. “Eight-ball… Corner pocket…”
“Hey, Devil.”
The Devil glances upwards… As Flynn tilts in his direction…
A Hotel Bible.
“Straight from the nightstand.”
“WHAT?!? But, HOW?!?”
“Even at a hotel being run by the Devil, a Mormon’d stop by to drop off an ol’ King James…”
THE DEVIL HISSES LIKE HE’S BEEN HIT WITH ACID! He stutter-steps backwards…
STRIKING THE CUE-BALL!
“Gasp!”
The cue-ball strikes the 8-ball!
The 8-ball…
…
Bounces in-and-out of the corner…
Back into the cue ball…
…
Which is buried into the corner pocket behind it.
Irwin delivers a fist pump!
“YES! Nicely done, Mister Flynn!”
Flynn tsk-tsks. “That’s a scratch, Ol’ Scratch. Guess I wi-”
Flynn spins…
…As the pale white skin of the “mysterious stranger”... rips…
As smoke billows from his nostrils…
As he tears the seams of this… mortal costume…
“...Shit.” Flynn grabs Irwin by his neck-scruff and hightails it for the exit…
***
“Get the keys! GET THE KEYS, IRWIN!”
The two stumble-and-bumble to the parking lot…
“Sir, the tire’s still flat! We’ll nev-”
Irwin gasps… “Look!”
The Fit looks immaculate… Its flat tire fixed…
…And sitting on its hood.
…An… action figure?
Flynn takes it in his hands…
He squints at it, lifting the figure’s arm, up-and-down…
…
“Yup.” Flynn snorts. “This is it.”
Irwin squints down, perplexed. “An Andy Murray action figure?!? This is on eBay for fourteen dollars! It’s not even rare!!!”
Flynn peels a plastic bag out of his pocket and dips the toy inside it. “It’s THE figure… I’ll explain on the road.”
Irwin walks toward the driver’s side… When he suddenly pats his wallet…
“Oh, one moment, sir. I left my credit card with the hotel clerk… Incidental charges and all th-”
Irwin’s about to turn around… When Flynn grabs him by the collar!
“Oh… Irwin” Flynn tsk-tsks. “Don’t let him do it.”
Irwin’s eyebrow wriggles curiously. “Do what?”
“You turn around for one last thing… Then, all of a sudden…” Flynn’s eyes widen in mock surprise. “Where’d it go?!?! It was just here! The bar, the hotel… Gasp! Or was it?!?!”
Flynn shakes his head. “Call your bank and get another card.”
Irwin purses his lips.
“...What about your jacket?”
“...Jacket?”
““The one you tossed on the stool before your wager?”
…
Flynn’s face reddens.
“...Shit, I *love* that jacket. Okay, go back and get th-”
Flynn turns around.
…
Naturally, the bar and hotel are both gone.
“...Godammit.”
A distant sinister laughter fills the air.
…
A shiver creeps up Irwin’s spine. “...What now, Mister Flynn?”
Flynn sneers.
“We’re going to Hell.”
…
“And I’m getting my FUCKING JACKET BACK!!!”
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…
Riii-
“VAUGHNIE!”
“Flynn.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure? In the mood to shoot the shit with your ol’ amigo? Chew the fat? Talk shop?”
“Business, Mark.”
“FEH. You don’t need to call me to make sure I’m doing my JOB, Vaughn. I’m no fucking incompetent.”
“I’m taking extra care, Mark. Everything MUST be in place by Sunday. If we haven’t completed our summoning ritual by WarGames… we’ll enter battle at an untenable disadvantage.”
“Don’t say ‘we’ like *I* had anything to do with *YOUR* decision. Quick reminder, Vaughnie. Did *I* tell *YOU* to draft a DEAD GUY?”
…
“Lemme answer that: NO. I didn’t. Because, in my estmations, a VITAL quality of a good teammate? Is that they be ALIVE, VAUGHNAROO!!!”
“If you’d competed with Outcast, you’d understand he’s worth the effort. Resurrecting him is a… minor hurdle to guarantee the defeat our adversaries.”
”Yeah, yeah, yeah. Short version: Your ol’ pal Flynn’s gotta bail your ass out by participating in some voodoo woo-woo ballyhoo.”
“I called for a status report, Mark. Is the… ‘artifact’ in your possession?”
“It’s coming together, Pete. I asked my… legal connection, Christopher K. Clinton… to make an inquiry into the evidence intake where they stowed away relevant ac·cou·tre·ments from your dead pal’s… accident.”
“And?”
“Everything’d been left in the evidence locker…. Save for one thing.”
“...Naturally, the only thing missing…”
“Is what you told me to snag. Correctamundo, Vaughnie.”
“Unacceptable. There’s no replacing that artifact, Mark. It’s a… mandatory component.”
“Don’t get your coveralls in a twist, Vaughn. My attorney made a FOIA request with the evidence intake for who requisitioned this… important thing. The name data was… corrupted. But, we have the address they mailed it to. We’re en-route now. Consider it done.”
“...I’ll consider it done when the artifact’s in your possession.”
…
“Pete, when you ask Mark Flynn to do a job… And he says ‘consider it done?’ Consider it done. Do you ask for a status report from the chef after he’s already served you brekkie, Vaughn-Vaughn? No. Cuz JOB’S DONE. As far as YOU’RE concerned, I HAVE THE FUCKING THING. ANYTHING ELSE?!?”
…
“...Yes. I thought you should know. Our other teammates have retrieved THEIR necessary artifacts.”
“OHHHHHH, GOOD FOR THEM.”
“...Y’know, If you’d told me *last week*, that on my team… Former Universal Champion Mark Flynn would be… Bringing up the rear…”
Vaughn accompanies his remark with the subtlest snicker.
…One he knows will get under Flynn’s skin.
…*SPIT-SOUND*
“...You want a status update, Vaughn? YOU called ME for a status update?!? HERE’S YOUR STATUS UPDATE, VAUGHN!!! IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, I’LL HAVE THE ARTIFACT, HOW’S THAT, PETEY?!?”
…
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“YOU SUNOVAB-”
*click*
“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!” Flynn tosses the phone to his compact Cherry Red Honda Fit’s backseat.
“Irwin! How far now?!?”
Irwin, Flynn’s lackey, tucks his hand into his sleeve… Rubbing away condensation on the windshield…
“GPS says we’re less than a mile away… But, I can’t see a thing! There hasn’t been a streetlight or roadsign in nearly an hour… This could be dangerous… Maybe we should stop and get our bearings?”
Flynn scoffs. “And let Vaughnie mock me another MINUTE LONGER?!?” Flynn slaps the dashboard! “UNACCEPTABLE! FULL SPEED AHE-”
POP! The car’s whole left-side drops a quarter-foot…
…
The sound of rubber flopping under the car.
“...I think that was a blowout…”
“DAMMIT, IRWIN! Why didn’tcha stop? It’s CLEARLY too dangerous to drive!”
“...Sir, y-”
Suddenly, the GPS chirps. On Irwin’s screen, a left arrow…
Irwin’s face lights up as steers the wheel…
“We’re here!”
…
“But… Where’s here?”
Irwin squints… Then pinches his nose, disgusted.
“Ugh… I must’ve driven too hard on the flat… Smells like burning rubber…”
Flynn shakes his head.
“That’s not burning rubber.”
Flynn inhales deeply…
“Brimstone…” Another sniff, ingesting aromas like a sommelier. “And sulfur.”
The fog scatters…
Irwin covers his mouth… Stunned speechless.
…Flynn smiles.
“Of course. Where would a devil lead us…?”
“But Hell….”
“Michigan.”
***
The Fit limps on its busted wheel into a parking spot.
…Outside an ol’ brick-and-mortar building.
The only light in the misty fog? A neon sign… accompanied by a glowing beverage lit on fire.
“GOOD INTENTIONS - Bar & Hotel”. Vibrant red letters.
…Irwin dry-swallows.
“Uh… M-m-maybe, I should… Stay here a-a-a-and watch the car?”
“No one’s stealing a Honda Fit, Irwin. Even MICHIGAN carjackers have *some* taste.” Flynn grabs Irwin by the ear. “GET IN THERE!”
Like a scalded dog, Irwin rushes out the car… Flynn exits…
***
An eerily quiet pool hall. A half-dozen unoccupied tables.
A bar covered in cobwebs.
Flynn sniffs, like a bloodhound tracking.
“Smell’s getting stronger.”
Flynn nods toward a sign on the wall. ‘Smoking Bar’.
Irwin drags his shirt’s collar above his nose. “Ugh, My allergies are killing me… I HATE smoking places…”
“Then, this might not be the place for you…”
Irwin dives behind Flynn!
At the pool table at the hall’s end… chalking up his cue…
A man in black.
Skin pale-white as a 3 AM moon…
He beckons.
“Up for.. a game?”
…Flynn steps for-...
…He’s held.
Flynn spins ‘round.
Irwin clings to Flynn’s back, weighing Flynn down.
Flynn YANKS Irwin by the ear.
“GET IT IN GEAR, IRMANO.” Flynn drags Irwin, stammering and stuttering, down the hall.
…The man-in-black continues to chalk.
“So… Glad to finally meet you… Mark Flynn.”
…Flynn takes off his jacket.
“...Wondering how I know you?” The man-in-black chuckles… From his front pocket, he retrieves a cigarette… He takes a long drag…
And exhales smoke…
“One could say… I’m very familiar with your wo-”
“So, you’re, like, The Devil, right?” Flynn sniffs.
…
The mysterious stranger coughs. “Wh… Pardon?”
“Look, I have shit to do (and a janitor to shut up).” Flynn tosses the jacket onto a stool beside the pool table. “So how about we skip the whole ‘I know your sins, I’ll have your soul soon enough’ bullshit.”
…The mysterious stranger adjusts his collar. “...J-just… What makes you say I’m… the Devil?”
…Flynn snorts, stifling a laugh. “Sorry. The bar’s called ‘Good Intentions’... As in, the road to Hell's paved with…”
Flynn offers a mild golf-clap. “Wow, someone’s sure getting full mileage out of their English Degree, huh?”
…The man-in-black’s eyebrow twitches.
“W-well… I didn’t *name* the bar… I just frequent it…” The mysterious stranger clears his throat, trying to resume his air of dark mystery. “I frequent many dens of… ill repute.”
Flynn guffaws. “Ohmigod… What was THAT?!? Mister Beelzebub, PEOPLE don’t talk like that. ‘Ill repute’, fucking what? Oh, and when Irwin was complaining about smoke?” Flynn takes on a dopey, mocking tone. “If you don’t like smoking places, then, this might not be the place for you…” Flynn wheezes, laughing. “Oh my God! Like, cuz, people burn IN HELL! So there’s smoking there! WOW… Are those lines prepared, or are you just a HACK naturally?”
…The stranger’s face reddens… Fire burning in his eyes…
“...Y’know, Mark… I appreciate a sense of humor… Perhaps, We’re not so diff-”
“SKIP!” Flynn snatches a pool cue off the wall.
The
Flynn itches his inner ear. “I’ve gotten enough ‘Not so different, you and I’ speeches to last me a lifetime. Hearing another? THAT’S my Hell.” Flynn grabs chalk off the wall, and dusts it against his cue. “Look, I ain’t telling you how to do your job, Mister Beelzebub. But, you REALLY should’ve done this song-and-dance with Mac Bane. He woulda loved some dramatic monologue back-and-forth. Duality of man, are any of us redeemable, what is the value of a soooooooul?”
Flynn retches with disgust. “Me? I’m the team pragmatist. I am a BUSINESSMAN. I meet opponents where they are. I learn how they work. I take them on. And I WIN.”
“And, since you dragged me to Michigan, instead of Georgia.” Flynn tosses the chalk cube away. “I’m guessing you’re not challenging me to a fiddle contest.”
…
“Which, I’m not gonna lie, I’m DISAPPOINTED I’m not getting a golden fiddle out of this. I spent THREE WEEKS watching Charlie Daniels’ Master Class…”
…
The man-in-black… half-smiles. A sharp incisor sticks out his mouth…
“You… believe… a mere mortal.. can defeat me?”
…Flynn streches his neck, non-chalantly.
“Yep.”
…
“Are you willing to… wager?”
Flynn’s nose wrinkles.
“You mean, bet my soul?”
The mysterious stranger chuckles.
“Flynn, we’re both well-aware your soul isn’t worth the nickel you’d sell it for.”
…
“Hurtful.” Flynn sniffs, wiping away a mock-tear…
“Instead, perhaps something you actually value?”
“Listening.”
“Your talent. Your in-ring ability. Wager that and…” The Devil sneers confidently, as he grabs a rack off the wall. “We’ll stop wasting each other’s time and start… doing business.”
…
“Deal.”
The Devil extends his hand.
…Flynn sneers. “I don’t shake hands since 2020.” Flynn spits on the floor. “Unsanitary.”
The Devil scoffs.. “...If you think simple obstinance will throw my game… I must say, I expected more from you, Mark…”
…Rapidly, the Devil racks… Balls magnetically drawn to his hands. In record-time, the table’s set for a game of 8-ball.
“Irwin.” Flynn grabs his henchman by the ear.
“AH! AH! What?!?!” Irwin swats helplessly at Flynn’s hands.
Flynn stands him up straight.
“…You see that hotel next door? Go there, checkout a room and…psstpsstpsst…"
“For a man so straight-to-business…” The man-in-black smiles, like a cat cornering a mouse… “You seem to be stalling, giving your friend there an errand...”
…Flynn sneers. He side-eyes Irwin.
Irwin looks confused, but nods and exits.
Flynn lines up his shot.
“I guess it’s time…”
“For all hell to break loose…”
***
Let’s start off by answering the question on every WGWF stan’s mind…
Where the Hell has Mark Flynn been?
Back at WrestleWars… I’d finally trapped Tristan Slater in a steel cage.
He couldn’t run into a crowd…
Or a parking lot…
Couldn’t hide behind LVPD…
Mano-e-mano. One-on-one. Where he’s insisted for ELEVEN YEARS I’ve never beaten him.
And I CRUISED on that dim goon. Made him look like the amateur-calibur FRAUD he’s been since he glad-handed his way to the XWF World Title all those years ago… Picking his opponents, stat-padding his wins in a desperate attempt to beat The Brand’s record.
And once more, Flynn PROVED that ol’ Tristy-poo is NOTHING SPECIAL.
…But, where’d that leave me?
I respect Page, but he’s a showman. An old-school guy. He books battles between GOOD and EVIL. And until WGWF gets a goodie on its roster worth a damn… my pal Petey’s gonna hold the TOP TITLE until time fuckin’ IMMEMORIAL.
Which means Flynn ain’t gettin’ a shot.
And despite all my LAMBASTING ‘FAKE GOAT’ James Raven, his schedule’s too full losing crossover matches to dignify my ACCURATE CLAIMS of his CONSTANT FAILURES with response.
…So, why’s Flynn back now? Has a worthy goodie-two-shoes finally risen to challenge Vaughnie? Is Jim Caedus the hero prophesied?
…
Not on your FUCKIN’ life.
Jimbo.
Y’know what’s funny to me?
My teammates, talented as they are, calling this fight ‘WGWF versus XWF’.
…Now, there are multiple reasons this label doesn’t perfectly fit.
One being, despite my WGWF dominance… I’m XWF through-and-through
…But, could you say the same, Caedus?
Could Lycana?
Could Rob Main?
No. Let’s face facts.
This fight isn’t WGWF vs XWF.
This fight is ACTIVE competitors…
Versus QUITTERS.
Rob Main retired almost two years ago. He lost a HUMILIATING scrap to career midcarder, Thunder Knuckles. Then, he looked clueless and lost in that ring… When I CRUSHED him and Ollie, with only a scrawny North Korean War Criminal in my corner. He retired the night after I beat him.
The last time Rob showed his face on XWF programming? Speaking at The Engineer’s Hall of Legends Induction… That’s his contribution now.
A part of history? NOT EVEN THAT. Someone *also-present* when the TALENTED reigned. A WITNESS to greatness. That’s Rob Main’s value today. Because he will NEVER ACHIEVE anything CLOSE to what he once was EVER AGAIN.
The Omega, the historically-dominant Uni champ? Dead. Now, we’re left with Rob Main, a shell of a shell. One who will huff-and-puff… But run out of air in his weak, geriatric lungs before the house’s walls start to tilt.
Lycana? A what-if story. She’d reached a point that so few do… The step before the mountain-top. She main-evented an XWF PPV, battling for the Uni. She’d battled Alias and Corey Smith on back-to-back shows, two of the best IN WRESTLING HISTORY.
And what’d she do, after coming up short? Did she dig deeper? Did she train harder? Did she desperately seek that last piece of the puzzle that would carry her to GODHOOD among the Greatest-of-All-Time?
…No.
She quit.
Folded-up shop.
When the going got tough, Lycana packed her bags, tossed her lil’ werewolf bindle over her shoulder and decided if she couldn’t be the best without TRYING? She wouldn’t compete at all.
A QUITTER. A LOSER.
…
Speaking of losers.
Jimbo.
My, how times have changed…
Team WGWF versus Outsiders…
Y’know what that reminds me of?
XWF November 2021.
When Bad Medicine was invaded by OCW’s outsiders…
Peter Vaughn, Xavier Lux, Betsy Granger (who ironically, was still under XWF contract, and not *technically* an outsider)...
They came to OUR front door. Seeking a FIGHT from our best.
…And who was our best at the time?
You, Jimboree.
XWF Universal Champion.
The TOP GUY.
The BEST THERE IS.
And ol’ Petey ENCROACHED ON OUR LAND. DEMANDED a fight.
What did you do, Jimbo?
…At Fire & Ice? With THE Top Title on the line?
You rolled over…
And played dead.
You let a fuckin’ OUTSIDER STEAL the TOP PRIZE IN ALL OF WRESTLING.
You got your ASS handed to you by an OCW minor-leaguer.
You QUIT.
…
Now? Fast-forward two years…
Pete traveled the world, riding the momentum off DESTROYING you, becoming a FIVE-TIME World Champion…
…And you want another chance?
YOU wanna ACTUALLY FIGHT NOW, JIMBO?!?
…
Too little.
Too late.
Because Jimmy-Jam?
You… and Diet APEX behind ya?
That withered skeleton, Rob Main?
That blue-haired career-quitter, Lycana?
That constant career disappointment, Dolly Waters?
And whatever the fuck a ‘Spencer Adams’ is?
Team Vaughn’s gonna do what you couldn’t do…
Two long years ago.
And clear the TRASH off our land.
***
…Irwin rushed through the bar door.
“Sir, I did it!”
Irwin smiled, jogging over to the pool table…
Where things look… one-sided.
All but two striped on the table… Meanwhile, every solid’s as far away from a pocket as geometrically possible…
Irwin glances up at Flynn.
“Sir… Which are you?”
…Flynn blushes.
“The one that’s bad at pool...”
The Devil lines-up… And buries 9-and-13-balls simultaneously. “He’s solids… And we’re just about done here…”
Flynn side-eyes Irwin. “Where the HELL have you been?!? (pardon-the-pun)! I said to be back IN FIVE MINUTES!”
…
“IT’S BEEN SIX-AND-A-QUARTER!”
Irwin fishes into his back pocket while subserviently bowing for mercy. “I’m sorry, sir! The clerk was an odd fellow… When I tried to give him my credit card, he spent a surprising amount of time explaining the hotel’s departure policy for customers…”
“Is that ‘You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave’?”
“…Something like that.”
Irwin blushes, offering Flynn what’s in his hand…. A book?
Flynn SNAPS it from Irwin’s grip. “FINALLY.”
The Devil lines up his final shot. “Eight-ball… Corner pocket…”
“Hey, Devil.”
The Devil glances upwards… As Flynn tilts in his direction…
A Hotel Bible.
“Straight from the nightstand.”
“WHAT?!? But, HOW?!?”
“Even at a hotel being run by the Devil, a Mormon’d stop by to drop off an ol’ King James…”
THE DEVIL HISSES LIKE HE’S BEEN HIT WITH ACID! He stutter-steps backwards…
STRIKING THE CUE-BALL!
“Gasp!”
The cue-ball strikes the 8-ball!
The 8-ball…
…
Bounces in-and-out of the corner…
Back into the cue ball…
…
Which is buried into the corner pocket behind it.
Irwin delivers a fist pump!
“YES! Nicely done, Mister Flynn!”
Flynn tsk-tsks. “That’s a scratch, Ol’ Scratch. Guess I wi-”
Flynn spins…
…As the pale white skin of the “mysterious stranger”... rips…
As smoke billows from his nostrils…
As he tears the seams of this… mortal costume…
“...Shit.” Flynn grabs Irwin by his neck-scruff and hightails it for the exit…
***
“Get the keys! GET THE KEYS, IRWIN!”
The two stumble-and-bumble to the parking lot…
“Sir, the tire’s still flat! We’ll nev-”
Irwin gasps… “Look!”
The Fit looks immaculate… Its flat tire fixed…
…And sitting on its hood.
…An… action figure?
Flynn takes it in his hands…
He squints at it, lifting the figure’s arm, up-and-down…
…
“Yup.” Flynn snorts. “This is it.”
Irwin squints down, perplexed. “An Andy Murray action figure?!? This is on eBay for fourteen dollars! It’s not even rare!!!”
Flynn peels a plastic bag out of his pocket and dips the toy inside it. “It’s THE figure… I’ll explain on the road.”
Irwin walks toward the driver’s side… When he suddenly pats his wallet…
“Oh, one moment, sir. I left my credit card with the hotel clerk… Incidental charges and all th-”
Irwin’s about to turn around… When Flynn grabs him by the collar!
“Oh… Irwin” Flynn tsk-tsks. “Don’t let him do it.”
Irwin’s eyebrow wriggles curiously. “Do what?”
“You turn around for one last thing… Then, all of a sudden…” Flynn’s eyes widen in mock surprise. “Where’d it go?!?! It was just here! The bar, the hotel… Gasp! Or was it?!?!”
Flynn shakes his head. “Call your bank and get another card.”
Irwin purses his lips.
“...What about your jacket?”
“...Jacket?”
““The one you tossed on the stool before your wager?”
…
Flynn’s face reddens.
“...Shit, I *love* that jacket. Okay, go back and get th-”
Flynn turns around.
…
Naturally, the bar and hotel are both gone.
“...Godammit.”
A distant sinister laughter fills the air.
…
A shiver creeps up Irwin’s spine. “...What now, Mister Flynn?”
Flynn sneers.
“We’re going to Hell.”
…
“And I’m getting my FUCKING JACKET BACK!!!”