Post by markflynn on Oct 20, 2022 19:05:02 GMT -5
Seb’s Pirate’s Hat drifts on the sea breeze, like a graceful dove gliding on the gentle island waves of Waikiki.
Twisting in the wind just above the beautiful blue waves… Toward the white sandy beach…
The hat gingerly kisses the crest of the shore, before another gust of wind kicks it back dancing into the air…
With one last gasp of life and freedom, the hat looms over the beautiful, white sands…
…
And into the ugly concrete parking lot…
The smog seems to wound the pirate hat, like a bird with a blown-off wing, trying with the last of its might to stay in the air… Crawling into the street.
Where it’s quickly devoured by the hungry grill of a public bus.
“ALL RIGHT, EVERYBODY! LAST STOP! THE MOTEL SIX WAIKIKI! CHEAPEST HOTEL ON THE ISLAND!”
…
“GET OFF MY BUS!”
With that, a group of tourists, rapidly taking pictures, flashing and gasping at the wondrous miracle of nature that they’re polluting just by their presence.
This island’s natives have BEGGED non-Hawaiians to stay away, that they might reduce the local economy’s toxic dependence on tourism.
And those pleas were ignored. The tourists disappear into various shops to mindlessly purchase, consume, repeat…
…
And just behind them. Wielding a little black suitcase on wheels. The only man wearing a dark suit and tie on this beautiful 94 degree beach day.
Mark Flynn.
Slung over his shoulder in a plastic bag? The shirtless James Raven t-shirt that Sebastian Everett-Bryce had apparently chosen as a team uniform.
“That’s kinda ironic, isn’t it? A t-shirt with a guy not wearing a shirt? Like rain on your wedding day…”
Flynn sighs, staring down at his cell phone.
To the passerby, the screen is black… All Flynn can see is his reflection…
However, in his eyes, Flynn sees his face… Smiling and waving at him. Not matching his actual dour, grumpy expression.
He squints. “...Huh. So, this is still happening? The weird talking reflection thing?”
“Seems like it! Oh! Do you think I’m a tumor? We should probably get me checked out.”
Flynn sighs, sliding his sunglasses off his face and into his front pocket. “...No Time.”
The loose right-back wheel plain black suitcase loosely clicks against the concrete under him.
Flynn walks up to the path of the Motel 6. His reflection in his phone rubs its hands together (he does not).
“Oooooh, the ol’ Motel 6! The perfect spot to relax for $17 a night! We can rent a movie from 2004! We can run on a treadmill from 1997! We can AVOID THE SHOWER AT ALL COSTS!”
…Flynn keeps walking past the entrance…
“Hey!” Flynn’s reflection bangs his fist on the inside of the phone screen. “You missed your turn! …I’ll open up Maps! Recalculating...”
“I’m being followed.”
“...What?!?”
Flynn lifts his cell phone from his chest to his face. “Check my six.”
The reflection peers past Flynn… And sees three street toughs trailing behind him. Also, dressed in suits. One is whistling. Another attempts to leisurely read a newspaper while speedwalking to match Flynn’s brisk 4.5 mile-per-hour tread.
They’re trying to appear as non-chalant as possible, while also obviously focused on not losing Flynn.
Reflection-Flynn rubs its eyes in disbelief. “Wow! Do you think they’re fans? I didn't know we had those...”
Flynn subtly shakes his head an inch back-and-forth, trying to maintain the illusion that he hasn’t clocked the trio on his trail. “If they were, they’d have walked up to say hello…(or fuck you), instead of trailing Team CCPE to the airport.”
The reflection scratches its chin. “...These guys have been following you since the airport?!? Why didn’t you just tell your four friends about ‘em? You’re the five best wrestlers in the world.”
…Flynn sneers downwards at his reflection. “First off, I would hesitate to call that pack of hyenas my friends. They’re … not even associates. We just happen to have the same agent. I feel the same camaraderie with most of them as I do with people who happen to go to my dentist.”
“...You haven’t seen a dentist in years. Oh, we should also see a dentist! I’ll make an appointment in your calendar app…”
“SECOND OF ALL!” Flynn mutters angrily, shaking the phone, which jostles the Reflection-Flynn off his balance. “My teammates are all splitting off onto their own misadventures to prepare for our match against Team Corey Black. The best thing for the squad’s performance is that I handle this on my own.”
Flynn turns a corner, pressing his sunglasses against his nose with his middle finger. “THAT’S why I played the situation so cool at the airport…”
***
[BACK AT THE AIRPORT]
The five members of CCPE are all hovering around a Cinnabon.
As Vaughn, Bryce, Lux and Raven mutter about something-or-other, the match not taking place on a cruise (obviously, it’s been listed on the website as such), nor are we fighting Team Hitmaker (again, the schedule had been updated on Tara Fenix’s 2nd Twitter… ARE MY TEAMMATES EVEN CHECKING FENIX’S SECOND TWITTER?!? IT’S LIKE WE’RE NOT EVEN TRYING TO WIN), Flynn is staring at the logo for the airport Cinnabun.
Thinking about the sugar and fat entering his system. Weakening him.
The idea makes him furious. Which works. He wrestles best when he’s angry…
.And that’s when his eyes for the briefest moment make eye contact with this federal-agent looking motherfucker…
The guy flinches behind his newspaper. Next to the other two goons who reflexively shiver.
“God, amateur hour over there…” Flynn mutters, pushing his sunglasses up against his nose, to ensure his eyeline is hidden.
He tilts his neck toward Vaughn, (the only guy here he has a modicum of respect for) and bumps his shoulder with his fist.
“HEY VAUGHN.” He says, transparently and intentionally loudly. “I’LL GO PREP THE TEAM’S… SECRET WEAPON. YOU GUYS… uh… GO BOWLING. FOR TEAM UNITY. SOMETHING UNIMPORTANT TO OUR LARGER ENDS.”
…
“WHICH I AM WORKING TOWARDS.”
…
“AND AM LEAVING TO HANDLE RIGHT NOW.”
…
Vaughn glances at Flynn, perplexed.
“...What?”
Flynn bumps Vaughn’s shoulder twice, then leaves, his clicky suitcase trailing behind him…
Vaughn shakes his head, like whatever…
Bumblingly, the trio of goons shifts to follow him…
***
[THE PRESENT]
Reflection-Flynn lifts a thumbs-up. “Smooth! There’s no possible way they saw through your atrocious acting.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Let’s just say there’s a reason the Oscars haven’t called.”
“Fair.”
“Or the Splat Network.”
“...Ouch.”
Flynn turns a corner… into an alley.
He shoves his suitcase, as it rolls off to the brick wall beside him. He wrenches his wrist inside his collar, tearing his tie off.
“Hopefully these guys fight better than they trail. I could use a workout.”
In Flynn’s left hand, Reflection-Flynn cracks his knuckles. “Hell yeah. Three-on-two, I like those odds!”
“...Three-on-one. Somehow, I don’t think a stress hallucination is going to bring much oomph to this fight…”
“Oh, Don’t be so hard on yourself!”
…
“...Hey, wait, you’re talking about me!”
Finally, the trio comes around the corner…
“All right, boys.” Flynn says, stretching his neck. “You ready to play ‘Pull the Arm Off the Jackasses’?”
The goons eye each other…
Before the center one reaches into his pocket…
And pulls out a 9 millimeter automatic.
“I think we’d rather play, ‘Come with us quietly and we won’t blow a hole in your liver’.”
…Flynn exhales, lifting his hands into the air, lifting his phone and that plastic bag with James Raven’s abs t-shirt over his head. Above him, on his phone screen, his reflection protests…
“Hey, no fair! You can’t bring a gun to a fist fight!”
Flynn eyes up at his reflection. “Fine, if it WERE three-on-two... Any thoughts?”
“...You ever see Two Towers?”
Before the front goon with the gun can say anything else, the one to his left leans into his ear…
“Actually, Tommy, the boss would probably prefer his liver intact.”
‘Tommy’’s eyes widen. He tilts his head back towards his associate.
“DON’T SAY MY REAL NAME, GREG.”
The gun shifts just an inch to the left and ‘Tommy’ yells.
The reflection-Flynn glances down at Flynn.
“Toss me.”
Now or never.
“YOU HAVE TO TOSS ME.”
Flynn reels his arm back…
‘Tommy’ spins back toward their targ-
WHAM! FLYNN’S PHONE CATCHES ‘TOMMY’ SQUARE IN THE SCHNOZZ! A GEYSER OF BLOOD ERUPTS FROM TOMMY’S NOSTRILS!
Tommy collapses backwards onto his spine! The gun clatters to the concrete alley!
“Oh what th- HRK!” The swish of plastic around his face!
In a flash, Flynn has taken ‘Greg’’s back and wrapped the plastic bag around his face, choking him out! Saliva and coughs cover the immaculate airbrushed chest of James Raven!
Goon #3 (unnamed) approaches to defend his colleague, but Flynn, without loosening his grip on the bag, reels back his foot and WHAM! Catches him with a boot to the skull! The third thug drops, retracts his head straight into the brick wall behind him and goes limp!
Greg’s hands desperately weave through the air to free himself.
“Shhhhhhhh, shhhh shhh shhh…” Flynn says, slowly weaving him to the ground. Greg’s struggle weakens… And weakens… Until he passes out, flopping to the concrete below.
“...Am I okay? I feel... wrong.” The phone screen has cracked right down the middle from landing on concrete… The reflection has a large gash in its face.
“You’re fine.” Flynn says, not looking at all. “Now. We get intel…” Flynn mutters, tucking the phone into his pocket, as he hovers over ‘Tommy’, blood still gushing from his nose.
Flynn mounts the wounded thug.
“Hey…. Hey. Look at me.” Flynn says, grabbing the mook by the sides of his face. ‘Tommy’ squirms and struggles in his grip, trying to breath out of what’s left of his nose.
“I'm low on time. So, let’s set our agenda. I’m going to ask who you work for. Then, You're going to say you can't tell me. Then, I’m going to break both your arms. Or we can skip to you telling me.”
“Or…”
A voice behind Flynn! He turns ar-
BZZZZZZZZZZZT! A THOUSAND VOLTS SHOOT INTO FLYNN’S NECK! A TASER!
Flynn seizes! His body flops to the ground, his head rocking against the concrete.
“You have quite the constiution, Flynn…”
A chuckle.
“Let’s find out how strong your LIVER is…”
The edges of his vision blacken… And Flynn passes out.
***
Boy, howdy, folks! Your ol’ pal Flynn might have be in for some trouble this time!
…I should be clear, I’m referring to my recent kidnapping. The one you just watched.
The match we’re headed to at the TFCC? Fuckin’ CAKEWALK.
They said that the Tara Fenix Event wouldn’t be a cruise, but clearly no one told the booker. Because, Team CCPE is set to CRUISE over Team Corey Black / Action Wrestling.
‘Well, wait a second!’ I hear you mouth-breathers complaining already. ‘Tara Fenix is having this headline her whole charitycruise event! Clearly, she thinks this is going to be a good, competitive match.’
First off, if I may take an aside, fuck Tara Fenix and her bullshit ‘Charity Event’. What the fuck has ‘independent wrestling phenomenon’ Tara Fenix accomplished worthy of running a multi-day cruise?
She had two. TWO BIG-LEAGUE MATCHES. In the XWF. She has an 0-1 record at Relentless, the REAL biggest annual event in wrestling history. She barely beat Atara Themis, then she disappeared back into her legion of internet bot fans and hipsters.
It goes to show how tasteless the average fan is today. What the fuck has TARA FENIX done to warrant polluting Waikiki with the smell of thousands of disgusting, obese wrestling smarks?
JACK and SHIT.
‘But Flynn’ you say, your gullet so full of cheetoh dust and mountain dew from a lifetime of poor dietary choices, that every time you speak, it looks you can see your own orange breath. ‘What of her charity work? Even IF Tara Fenix couldn’t wrestler her way out of a cardboard box… Shouldn’t we celebrate Tara Fenix’s incredible fundraising? She’s the Mother Teresa of the wrestling industry!’
Fuck you. Tara Fenix, like Mother Teresa, is a false idol, adorning herself in gold and accolades and money so you ignore the rust and dirt hiding beneath her shiny surface.
Look at the charities Tara Fenix is working with:
Autism Speaks? It’s been referred to by Autism Advocates as a glorified hate group. Under their glossy, problematic puzzle piece logo is a heaping helping of bullshit, including its history of claiming Autism needs to be cured, and portraying autistic people as non-verbal screaming aliens.
Susan G. Komen? For fuck’s sake, Susie G partnered with water bottle retailers, Ford Motor Company, KFC, Home Shopping Network and oil fields services? Guess what these companies all have in common? Their products use so much Bisphenol A that it turns out their employees are statistically more like to get breast cancer than the average person. Susan G. Komen might as well slap a pink ribbon on a carton of cigarettes. AND THEY WOULD, TOO.
It’s not about a good cause for these fucking people. It’s about getting your name out at all costs. When someone wants to raise money for cancer, they think Susan G. Komen.
And when a wrestling fan wants to throw two months’ of their parents’ salaries at a good cause, they buy tickets to the Tara Fenix Charity Event.
BUT! Celebrity-Run Charities statistically do more harm than good. Your money is going towards a member of the out-of-touch uber-wealthy. Someone who sends her chambermaid to buy avocado milk from a farmer’s market for $23 a gallon and who can afford RENTING A CRUISE TO CELEBRATE HER BIRTHDAY.
EVEN WORSE, an INDEPENDENT WRESTLER. Someone with a MIDDLE-SCHOOL education. Someone that only ever went to a high-school to wrestle in their gymnasium for 30 people.
Tara Fenix is a fraud, both as a wrestler and as a charity organizer. If I had to bet, (and you all know I love gambling…), Fenix only setup this charity cruise as a tax hidey-hole so she didn’t have to kick the government 20% of the profits from her t-shirt sales, convention appearances and feet pics sold off her OnlyFans…
She doesn’t give one SOLITARY SHIT about making the world a better place.
She just wants her name in lights, on the marquis of the fucking arena.
…
Which ties in neatly to my point. Why am I fighting in this giant golden idol to a fraud that I don’t respect one iota?
…Because it’s another chance to prove that I am…
THE.
GREATEST.
WRESTLER.
IN.
THE.
WORLD.
Since Day One.
It’s another chance to shine a light on the fucking FRAUDS that pollute this industry. That hide at their kids’ table, playing with their sippy cups and pretending that THEY BELONG IN THE RING WITH ME.
The God-damn XWF Universal Champion.
The Winner of the CANNABIS FUCKING CUP. A tournament that featured 9 other wrestling companies. AND I BEAT EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM.
How did Action Wrestling do? One of them (Holden Ross) barely limped into the second round… Before getting his head taken off.
The other? Lissie Hope? …I read her name on the Event poster. I’ve watched the fucking feed on that three-day weekend over and over and OVER AND OVER. And I can’t find one SECOND of her on the show.
Action Wrestling showed up to the biggest crossover wrestling event in the history of this business.
AND SHAT. THE. BED.
And now, Corey Black…
Facing the most star-studded team of elite athletes.
Better than 1992 NBA Olympic Dream Team, the 1998 New York Yankees and EVERY HARLEM GLOBETROTTER ALL ROLLED INTO ONE…
The talent pool of Chronic Chris Page Enterpises! THE SINGLE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AGENT OF WRESTLING TALENT ACROSS THE FUCKING MULTIVERSE!
James Raven. Peter Vaughn. Sebastian Everett-Bryce. Xavier Lux. Mark Flynn.
Five World Champions across multiple companies. Including three men who regularly enter the conversation for Greatest-of-All-Time (myself, Raven and Vaughn).
And who are we up against?
Five members… Of Action Wrestling.
The bottom of the fucking talent barrel.
With its Microsoft-Paint -ookin’ blue-and-yellow logo.
Its crowds in the dozens.
Its fanbase niche.
Its talent lacking.
And Corey Black didn’t even have the FUCKING DECENCY to recruit the best Action Wrestling had to offer.
TWO Action Wrestling World Champs.
Their CRUISERWEIGHT titleholder…
And a Rookie of the Year.
…
And if you think for one FUCKING SECOND that Team CCPE will relax? Just because our opponents are beneath us?
No.
FUCKING.
Chance.
Team CCPE is standing on the world’s stage in Waikiki.
Another chance to demonstrate why we’re the best talent this industry has to offer.
And we’re going to tear through Corey Black’s RAGTAG REJECTS like the terminally-ill Make-a-Wish kids that they are.
And while they lie wounded in the center of the ring, bleeding profusely… Gnashing their teeth… Wondering what the hell just DECIMATED them?
The answer?
EXCELLENCE.
DOMINANCE.
TEAM CCPE.
Led by Mark.
FUCKING.
Flynn.
***
On his back… cold metal.
Flynn’s eyes snap open…
“Ah, good. You’re finally awake.”
Flynn is on an operating table. Under thick leather straps.
A shadowy figure shuffles to the side… Standing over a workbench… Perhaps he’s gathering tools…
“I prefer to work on… the conscious.”
Flynn grimaces. He shifts… but he’s held tight. Okay, the ol’ Meet the Villain routine.
Gotta set the tone on this interaction juuuuuuuust right…
“Who the fuck are you?”
Nailed it.
“Allow me to introduce myself…”
The man steps into the light.
“I AM THOMAS F. NEALON THE THIRD! PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAN LIVER FOUNDATION.”
…
Flynn’s brow scrunches in confusion.
“...Huh, Okay...”
“...Something the matter?”
“I was kinda expecting like… I dunno… someone from Action Wrestling. Y'know a guy who stood to gain from spying on my team.”
Nealon chuckles, twirling a scalpel in his hands.
“Ah, therein lies the rub, Mister Flynn. You see, the American Liver Foundation DOES stand to gain from your loss. You see, Tara Fenix has already pledged a… significant donation to our organization for your match.”
“...Ok. And?”
“And naturally, we allocated it towards an… unconventional investment opportunity. One that would reward us based on… accurate prediction of the outcome of your match.”
…Flynn’s eye widen. “Wait. You gambled a charitable donation? On a wrestling match? AND YOU BEAT ON TEAM COREY BLACK?!?”
“At 10:1 odds, the funds our organization would receive would be… MUCH… Greater.”
“Hey!”
A voice calls out above Flynn… Flynn glances up.
There’s a large pane of glass above him… In it, he sees his own reflection. Smiling, also tied up.
“Long time, no see!” The reflection weaves its left hand under the third leather strap and waves.
…Flynn exhales…
He tests the same strap the reflection wiggled through…
…Just loose enough…
He’ll have to play this perfectly.
“...What the Hell would the American Liver Foundation need with 10 times Tara Fenix’s donation?”
Nealon smirks, lifting his hand up to a pulley against the wall.
“The answer, unsurprisingly… is livers.”
Nealon tugs the pulley. The curtain on the wall parts… And we see dozens of cages…
Housing white mice. With HUMAN-SIZED livers growing on their backs.
Beating. Wriggling. Shooting out metabolic fluid.
“HEALTHY… LIVERS.”
Flynn grimaces.
“Oh, what the fuck? What the FUCK is this?”
“Synthetic livers, Flynn. Livers bred in scientifically attenuated environments. Testing the exact conditions for PERFECT. LIVER. HEALTH.”
Nealon walks forward, hovering at the surgical table's edge.
“Even you, With your ‘healthy athlete lifestyle’... What horrors have you subjected your liver to! With your seedy past! Your opioid and morphine addictions! You’ve done irrevocable damage to an incredible miracle of biological evolution! THE LIVER IS TOO PERFECT AN ORGAN FOR THE HUMAN RACE TO SULLY!”
…Nealon cackles.
“So… The American Liver Foundation’s goal is… To mold the perfect being! One that will house and care for the liver, one that would put its liver’s health above its own. The American Liver Foundation’s goal, after all, is not human health… But LIVER HEALTH.”
…Flynn's finally worked his left hand under the table and is untying the other straps…
“Wow. Here I thought Susan G. Komen was the worst charity on the poster. You’re ACTUALLY insane. You think you’ll breed some alien creature that’ll let a liver live parasitically off of it?”
Nealon laughs again…
“Haha… We don’t NEED to BREED some fantastical monster to take care of our livers, Mister Flynn.”
Nealon reaches down to his white, button-up shirt… And begins to disrobe…
…
And we see under his shirt as he peels his chest free.
SIX LIVERS, BEATING, WRIGGLING. HOOKED INTO HIS ENDOCRINE SYSTEM WITH TUBES AND WIRES!
“You see, Flynn! I AM THE SUPERIOR BEING! I AM THE LIBERATOR OF LIVERS!”
Nealon leans over Flynn, holding the scalpel above Flynn’s right hip.
“And now… I plan on adding one more… to my family… Somehow, Mister Flynn… I doubt you’ll be as effective as a member of Team CCPE… After I’ve REMOVED YOUR LIVER…”
With Nealon right above his face, Flynn grits his teeth… As he tries to surreptitiously loosen the top strap behind his back…
“I promise you, I’ll do what I can to preserve your quality of life as you slowly die on this table…”
“As we say at the A.L.F., LIVER… and LET LIVER…” Nealon unleashes a hideous bout of laughter… He drives his scalpel upwards into the air!
“Oh shit, I can’t look…” Flynn’s reflection covers its eyes…
…
THE SCALPEL DRIVES DOWNWARDS!
…
Just as Flynn wriggles to the left! The scalpel stabs into the strap, splitting it!
And with his bindings cut, Flynn has enough slack to bend upwards…
WHAM! And drive his forehead into the nose of Thomas F Nealon III.
Nealon collapses into a pile of blood and puss, batting defensively with one arm… As he covers his precious surgically-attached organs with the other…
“Doh… Doh, pwease…” He says, his nose too crushed to speak unobstructed.
Flynn slides off the table. Standing over the liver-lover.
He cracks his knuckles.
“I’ve never tortured a man with six livers before…”
“Doh… I bweg qoo… Nah by libbers!”
“...But, I have a pretty solid idea on WHERE I’m going to start with you…”
“NAH BY LIBBERS!”
***
Forty-five minutes later, Flynn walks out of the storage unit where Nealon planned to dissect him…
His fists are covered in blood and liver fluid…
Flynn reaches into the plastic bag, still hanging over his shoulder. And quickly wipes his hands free of gunk and residue on James Raven’s perfect abs t-shirt.
He stuffs the shirt back into the bag.
“GodDAMN!”
Flynn’s hands, now wiped clean of mess, fish into his pocket. He retrieves his phone and sees his Reflection, smiling.
“Did you have to chop that guy in ALL SIX OF HIS LIVERS?”
Flynn shrugs. “If he had more, I’d hit him in those too… Makes for one less band of power players trying to get involved in our match. And if it’s five-on-five, straight-up? No bullshit? We got this in the bag.”
Reflection-Flynn nods. “So, Mission accomplished?”
Flynn glances down at his left hand.
“Almost.”
In his left hand, Flynn has… a cage…
A moving, wriggling, squeaking cage.
Flynn sets the wriggling cage onto the ground.
“I’m sorry, fellas. Growing a massive liver on your back… Nobody would ask for the life you were given…”
…Flynn sighs.
“But, I’m of the belief that you only get one. So…”
Flynn flips open the latch. The cage door drops to the floor.
“Enjoy it.”
…And what happened happened next?
Well, in Waikiki, they say…
That hundreds of lab mice.
With full-sized human livers attached to their backs.
Scampered and scattered and scuffled onto the streets of Waikiki’s biggest tourist district.
A panic ensued.
Dozens of Haoles were trampled in what would known as the Great Liver-Rat Excursion of 2022!
The American Liver Foundation did not respond to our email for comment.
OOC:wordcounter.com_word_count:3995
Twisting in the wind just above the beautiful blue waves… Toward the white sandy beach…
The hat gingerly kisses the crest of the shore, before another gust of wind kicks it back dancing into the air…
With one last gasp of life and freedom, the hat looms over the beautiful, white sands…
…
And into the ugly concrete parking lot…
The smog seems to wound the pirate hat, like a bird with a blown-off wing, trying with the last of its might to stay in the air… Crawling into the street.
Where it’s quickly devoured by the hungry grill of a public bus.
“ALL RIGHT, EVERYBODY! LAST STOP! THE MOTEL SIX WAIKIKI! CHEAPEST HOTEL ON THE ISLAND!”
…
“GET OFF MY BUS!”
With that, a group of tourists, rapidly taking pictures, flashing and gasping at the wondrous miracle of nature that they’re polluting just by their presence.
This island’s natives have BEGGED non-Hawaiians to stay away, that they might reduce the local economy’s toxic dependence on tourism.
And those pleas were ignored. The tourists disappear into various shops to mindlessly purchase, consume, repeat…
…
And just behind them. Wielding a little black suitcase on wheels. The only man wearing a dark suit and tie on this beautiful 94 degree beach day.
Mark Flynn.
Slung over his shoulder in a plastic bag? The shirtless James Raven t-shirt that Sebastian Everett-Bryce had apparently chosen as a team uniform.
“That’s kinda ironic, isn’t it? A t-shirt with a guy not wearing a shirt? Like rain on your wedding day…”
Flynn sighs, staring down at his cell phone.
To the passerby, the screen is black… All Flynn can see is his reflection…
However, in his eyes, Flynn sees his face… Smiling and waving at him. Not matching his actual dour, grumpy expression.
He squints. “...Huh. So, this is still happening? The weird talking reflection thing?”
“Seems like it! Oh! Do you think I’m a tumor? We should probably get me checked out.”
Flynn sighs, sliding his sunglasses off his face and into his front pocket. “...No Time.”
The loose right-back wheel plain black suitcase loosely clicks against the concrete under him.
Flynn walks up to the path of the Motel 6. His reflection in his phone rubs its hands together (he does not).
“Oooooh, the ol’ Motel 6! The perfect spot to relax for $17 a night! We can rent a movie from 2004! We can run on a treadmill from 1997! We can AVOID THE SHOWER AT ALL COSTS!”
…Flynn keeps walking past the entrance…
“Hey!” Flynn’s reflection bangs his fist on the inside of the phone screen. “You missed your turn! …I’ll open up Maps! Recalculating...”
“I’m being followed.”
“...What?!?”
Flynn lifts his cell phone from his chest to his face. “Check my six.”
The reflection peers past Flynn… And sees three street toughs trailing behind him. Also, dressed in suits. One is whistling. Another attempts to leisurely read a newspaper while speedwalking to match Flynn’s brisk 4.5 mile-per-hour tread.
They’re trying to appear as non-chalant as possible, while also obviously focused on not losing Flynn.
Reflection-Flynn rubs its eyes in disbelief. “Wow! Do you think they’re fans? I didn't know we had those...”
Flynn subtly shakes his head an inch back-and-forth, trying to maintain the illusion that he hasn’t clocked the trio on his trail. “If they were, they’d have walked up to say hello…(or fuck you), instead of trailing Team CCPE to the airport.”
The reflection scratches its chin. “...These guys have been following you since the airport?!? Why didn’t you just tell your four friends about ‘em? You’re the five best wrestlers in the world.”
…Flynn sneers downwards at his reflection. “First off, I would hesitate to call that pack of hyenas my friends. They’re … not even associates. We just happen to have the same agent. I feel the same camaraderie with most of them as I do with people who happen to go to my dentist.”
“...You haven’t seen a dentist in years. Oh, we should also see a dentist! I’ll make an appointment in your calendar app…”
“SECOND OF ALL!” Flynn mutters angrily, shaking the phone, which jostles the Reflection-Flynn off his balance. “My teammates are all splitting off onto their own misadventures to prepare for our match against Team Corey Black. The best thing for the squad’s performance is that I handle this on my own.”
Flynn turns a corner, pressing his sunglasses against his nose with his middle finger. “THAT’S why I played the situation so cool at the airport…”
***
[BACK AT THE AIRPORT]
The five members of CCPE are all hovering around a Cinnabon.
As Vaughn, Bryce, Lux and Raven mutter about something-or-other, the match not taking place on a cruise (obviously, it’s been listed on the website as such), nor are we fighting Team Hitmaker (again, the schedule had been updated on Tara Fenix’s 2nd Twitter… ARE MY TEAMMATES EVEN CHECKING FENIX’S SECOND TWITTER?!? IT’S LIKE WE’RE NOT EVEN TRYING TO WIN), Flynn is staring at the logo for the airport Cinnabun.
Thinking about the sugar and fat entering his system. Weakening him.
The idea makes him furious. Which works. He wrestles best when he’s angry…
.And that’s when his eyes for the briefest moment make eye contact with this federal-agent looking motherfucker…
The guy flinches behind his newspaper. Next to the other two goons who reflexively shiver.
“God, amateur hour over there…” Flynn mutters, pushing his sunglasses up against his nose, to ensure his eyeline is hidden.
He tilts his neck toward Vaughn, (the only guy here he has a modicum of respect for) and bumps his shoulder with his fist.
“HEY VAUGHN.” He says, transparently and intentionally loudly. “I’LL GO PREP THE TEAM’S… SECRET WEAPON. YOU GUYS… uh… GO BOWLING. FOR TEAM UNITY. SOMETHING UNIMPORTANT TO OUR LARGER ENDS.”
…
“WHICH I AM WORKING TOWARDS.”
…
“AND AM LEAVING TO HANDLE RIGHT NOW.”
…
Vaughn glances at Flynn, perplexed.
“...What?”
Flynn bumps Vaughn’s shoulder twice, then leaves, his clicky suitcase trailing behind him…
Vaughn shakes his head, like whatever…
Bumblingly, the trio of goons shifts to follow him…
***
[THE PRESENT]
Reflection-Flynn lifts a thumbs-up. “Smooth! There’s no possible way they saw through your atrocious acting.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Let’s just say there’s a reason the Oscars haven’t called.”
“Fair.”
“Or the Splat Network.”
“...Ouch.”
Flynn turns a corner… into an alley.
He shoves his suitcase, as it rolls off to the brick wall beside him. He wrenches his wrist inside his collar, tearing his tie off.
“Hopefully these guys fight better than they trail. I could use a workout.”
In Flynn’s left hand, Reflection-Flynn cracks his knuckles. “Hell yeah. Three-on-two, I like those odds!”
“...Three-on-one. Somehow, I don’t think a stress hallucination is going to bring much oomph to this fight…”
“Oh, Don’t be so hard on yourself!”
…
“...Hey, wait, you’re talking about me!”
Finally, the trio comes around the corner…
“All right, boys.” Flynn says, stretching his neck. “You ready to play ‘Pull the Arm Off the Jackasses’?”
The goons eye each other…
Before the center one reaches into his pocket…
And pulls out a 9 millimeter automatic.
“I think we’d rather play, ‘Come with us quietly and we won’t blow a hole in your liver’.”
…Flynn exhales, lifting his hands into the air, lifting his phone and that plastic bag with James Raven’s abs t-shirt over his head. Above him, on his phone screen, his reflection protests…
“Hey, no fair! You can’t bring a gun to a fist fight!”
Flynn eyes up at his reflection. “Fine, if it WERE three-on-two... Any thoughts?”
“...You ever see Two Towers?”
Before the front goon with the gun can say anything else, the one to his left leans into his ear…
“Actually, Tommy, the boss would probably prefer his liver intact.”
‘Tommy’’s eyes widen. He tilts his head back towards his associate.
“DON’T SAY MY REAL NAME, GREG.”
The gun shifts just an inch to the left and ‘Tommy’ yells.
The reflection-Flynn glances down at Flynn.
“Toss me.”
Now or never.
“YOU HAVE TO TOSS ME.”
Flynn reels his arm back…
‘Tommy’ spins back toward their targ-
WHAM! FLYNN’S PHONE CATCHES ‘TOMMY’ SQUARE IN THE SCHNOZZ! A GEYSER OF BLOOD ERUPTS FROM TOMMY’S NOSTRILS!
Tommy collapses backwards onto his spine! The gun clatters to the concrete alley!
“Oh what th- HRK!” The swish of plastic around his face!
In a flash, Flynn has taken ‘Greg’’s back and wrapped the plastic bag around his face, choking him out! Saliva and coughs cover the immaculate airbrushed chest of James Raven!
Goon #3 (unnamed) approaches to defend his colleague, but Flynn, without loosening his grip on the bag, reels back his foot and WHAM! Catches him with a boot to the skull! The third thug drops, retracts his head straight into the brick wall behind him and goes limp!
Greg’s hands desperately weave through the air to free himself.
“Shhhhhhhh, shhhh shhh shhh…” Flynn says, slowly weaving him to the ground. Greg’s struggle weakens… And weakens… Until he passes out, flopping to the concrete below.
“...Am I okay? I feel... wrong.” The phone screen has cracked right down the middle from landing on concrete… The reflection has a large gash in its face.
“You’re fine.” Flynn says, not looking at all. “Now. We get intel…” Flynn mutters, tucking the phone into his pocket, as he hovers over ‘Tommy’, blood still gushing from his nose.
Flynn mounts the wounded thug.
“Hey…. Hey. Look at me.” Flynn says, grabbing the mook by the sides of his face. ‘Tommy’ squirms and struggles in his grip, trying to breath out of what’s left of his nose.
“I'm low on time. So, let’s set our agenda. I’m going to ask who you work for. Then, You're going to say you can't tell me. Then, I’m going to break both your arms. Or we can skip to you telling me.”
“Or…”
A voice behind Flynn! He turns ar-
BZZZZZZZZZZZT! A THOUSAND VOLTS SHOOT INTO FLYNN’S NECK! A TASER!
Flynn seizes! His body flops to the ground, his head rocking against the concrete.
“You have quite the constiution, Flynn…”
A chuckle.
“Let’s find out how strong your LIVER is…”
The edges of his vision blacken… And Flynn passes out.
***
Boy, howdy, folks! Your ol’ pal Flynn might have be in for some trouble this time!
…I should be clear, I’m referring to my recent kidnapping. The one you just watched.
The match we’re headed to at the TFCC? Fuckin’ CAKEWALK.
They said that the Tara Fenix Event wouldn’t be a cruise, but clearly no one told the booker. Because, Team CCPE is set to CRUISE over Team Corey Black / Action Wrestling.
‘Well, wait a second!’ I hear you mouth-breathers complaining already. ‘Tara Fenix is having this headline her whole charity
First off, if I may take an aside, fuck Tara Fenix and her bullshit ‘Charity Event’. What the fuck has ‘independent wrestling phenomenon’ Tara Fenix accomplished worthy of running a multi-day cruise?
She had two. TWO BIG-LEAGUE MATCHES. In the XWF. She has an 0-1 record at Relentless, the REAL biggest annual event in wrestling history. She barely beat Atara Themis, then she disappeared back into her legion of internet bot fans and hipsters.
It goes to show how tasteless the average fan is today. What the fuck has TARA FENIX done to warrant polluting Waikiki with the smell of thousands of disgusting, obese wrestling smarks?
JACK and SHIT.
‘But Flynn’ you say, your gullet so full of cheetoh dust and mountain dew from a lifetime of poor dietary choices, that every time you speak, it looks you can see your own orange breath. ‘What of her charity work? Even IF Tara Fenix couldn’t wrestler her way out of a cardboard box… Shouldn’t we celebrate Tara Fenix’s incredible fundraising? She’s the Mother Teresa of the wrestling industry!’
Fuck you. Tara Fenix, like Mother Teresa, is a false idol, adorning herself in gold and accolades and money so you ignore the rust and dirt hiding beneath her shiny surface.
Look at the charities Tara Fenix is working with:
Autism Speaks? It’s been referred to by Autism Advocates as a glorified hate group. Under their glossy, problematic puzzle piece logo is a heaping helping of bullshit, including its history of claiming Autism needs to be cured, and portraying autistic people as non-verbal screaming aliens.
Susan G. Komen? For fuck’s sake, Susie G partnered with water bottle retailers, Ford Motor Company, KFC, Home Shopping Network and oil fields services? Guess what these companies all have in common? Their products use so much Bisphenol A that it turns out their employees are statistically more like to get breast cancer than the average person. Susan G. Komen might as well slap a pink ribbon on a carton of cigarettes. AND THEY WOULD, TOO.
It’s not about a good cause for these fucking people. It’s about getting your name out at all costs. When someone wants to raise money for cancer, they think Susan G. Komen.
And when a wrestling fan wants to throw two months’ of their parents’ salaries at a good cause, they buy tickets to the Tara Fenix Charity Event.
BUT! Celebrity-Run Charities statistically do more harm than good. Your money is going towards a member of the out-of-touch uber-wealthy. Someone who sends her chambermaid to buy avocado milk from a farmer’s market for $23 a gallon and who can afford RENTING A CRUISE TO CELEBRATE HER BIRTHDAY.
EVEN WORSE, an INDEPENDENT WRESTLER. Someone with a MIDDLE-SCHOOL education. Someone that only ever went to a high-school to wrestle in their gymnasium for 30 people.
Tara Fenix is a fraud, both as a wrestler and as a charity organizer. If I had to bet, (and you all know I love gambling…), Fenix only setup this charity cruise as a tax hidey-hole so she didn’t have to kick the government 20% of the profits from her t-shirt sales, convention appearances and feet pics sold off her OnlyFans…
She doesn’t give one SOLITARY SHIT about making the world a better place.
She just wants her name in lights, on the marquis of the fucking arena.
…
Which ties in neatly to my point. Why am I fighting in this giant golden idol to a fraud that I don’t respect one iota?
…Because it’s another chance to prove that I am…
THE.
GREATEST.
WRESTLER.
IN.
THE.
WORLD.
Since Day One.
It’s another chance to shine a light on the fucking FRAUDS that pollute this industry. That hide at their kids’ table, playing with their sippy cups and pretending that THEY BELONG IN THE RING WITH ME.
The God-damn XWF Universal Champion.
The Winner of the CANNABIS FUCKING CUP. A tournament that featured 9 other wrestling companies. AND I BEAT EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM.
How did Action Wrestling do? One of them (Holden Ross) barely limped into the second round… Before getting his head taken off.
The other? Lissie Hope? …I read her name on the Event poster. I’ve watched the fucking feed on that three-day weekend over and over and OVER AND OVER. And I can’t find one SECOND of her on the show.
Action Wrestling showed up to the biggest crossover wrestling event in the history of this business.
AND SHAT. THE. BED.
And now, Corey Black…
Facing the most star-studded team of elite athletes.
Better than 1992 NBA Olympic Dream Team, the 1998 New York Yankees and EVERY HARLEM GLOBETROTTER ALL ROLLED INTO ONE…
The talent pool of Chronic Chris Page Enterpises! THE SINGLE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AGENT OF WRESTLING TALENT ACROSS THE FUCKING MULTIVERSE!
James Raven. Peter Vaughn. Sebastian Everett-Bryce. Xavier Lux. Mark Flynn.
Five World Champions across multiple companies. Including three men who regularly enter the conversation for Greatest-of-All-Time (myself, Raven and Vaughn).
And who are we up against?
Five members… Of Action Wrestling.
The bottom of the fucking talent barrel.
With its Microsoft-Paint -ookin’ blue-and-yellow logo.
Its crowds in the dozens.
Its fanbase niche.
Its talent lacking.
And Corey Black didn’t even have the FUCKING DECENCY to recruit the best Action Wrestling had to offer.
TWO Action Wrestling World Champs.
Their CRUISERWEIGHT titleholder…
And a Rookie of the Year.
…
And if you think for one FUCKING SECOND that Team CCPE will relax? Just because our opponents are beneath us?
No.
FUCKING.
Chance.
Team CCPE is standing on the world’s stage in Waikiki.
Another chance to demonstrate why we’re the best talent this industry has to offer.
And we’re going to tear through Corey Black’s RAGTAG REJECTS like the terminally-ill Make-a-Wish kids that they are.
And while they lie wounded in the center of the ring, bleeding profusely… Gnashing their teeth… Wondering what the hell just DECIMATED them?
The answer?
EXCELLENCE.
DOMINANCE.
TEAM CCPE.
Led by Mark.
FUCKING.
Flynn.
***
On his back… cold metal.
Flynn’s eyes snap open…
“Ah, good. You’re finally awake.”
Flynn is on an operating table. Under thick leather straps.
A shadowy figure shuffles to the side… Standing over a workbench… Perhaps he’s gathering tools…
“I prefer to work on… the conscious.”
Flynn grimaces. He shifts… but he’s held tight. Okay, the ol’ Meet the Villain routine.
Gotta set the tone on this interaction juuuuuuuust right…
“Who the fuck are you?”
Nailed it.
“Allow me to introduce myself…”
The man steps into the light.
“I AM THOMAS F. NEALON THE THIRD! PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAN LIVER FOUNDATION.”
…
Flynn’s brow scrunches in confusion.
“...Huh, Okay...”
“...Something the matter?”
“I was kinda expecting like… I dunno… someone from Action Wrestling. Y'know a guy who stood to gain from spying on my team.”
Nealon chuckles, twirling a scalpel in his hands.
“Ah, therein lies the rub, Mister Flynn. You see, the American Liver Foundation DOES stand to gain from your loss. You see, Tara Fenix has already pledged a… significant donation to our organization for your match.”
“...Ok. And?”
“And naturally, we allocated it towards an… unconventional investment opportunity. One that would reward us based on… accurate prediction of the outcome of your match.”
…Flynn’s eye widen. “Wait. You gambled a charitable donation? On a wrestling match? AND YOU BEAT ON TEAM COREY BLACK?!?”
“At 10:1 odds, the funds our organization would receive would be… MUCH… Greater.”
“Hey!”
A voice calls out above Flynn… Flynn glances up.
There’s a large pane of glass above him… In it, he sees his own reflection. Smiling, also tied up.
“Long time, no see!” The reflection weaves its left hand under the third leather strap and waves.
…Flynn exhales…
He tests the same strap the reflection wiggled through…
…Just loose enough…
He’ll have to play this perfectly.
“...What the Hell would the American Liver Foundation need with 10 times Tara Fenix’s donation?”
Nealon smirks, lifting his hand up to a pulley against the wall.
“The answer, unsurprisingly… is livers.”
Nealon tugs the pulley. The curtain on the wall parts… And we see dozens of cages…
Housing white mice. With HUMAN-SIZED livers growing on their backs.
Beating. Wriggling. Shooting out metabolic fluid.
“HEALTHY… LIVERS.”
Flynn grimaces.
“Oh, what the fuck? What the FUCK is this?”
“Synthetic livers, Flynn. Livers bred in scientifically attenuated environments. Testing the exact conditions for PERFECT. LIVER. HEALTH.”
Nealon walks forward, hovering at the surgical table's edge.
“Even you, With your ‘healthy athlete lifestyle’... What horrors have you subjected your liver to! With your seedy past! Your opioid and morphine addictions! You’ve done irrevocable damage to an incredible miracle of biological evolution! THE LIVER IS TOO PERFECT AN ORGAN FOR THE HUMAN RACE TO SULLY!”
…Nealon cackles.
“So… The American Liver Foundation’s goal is… To mold the perfect being! One that will house and care for the liver, one that would put its liver’s health above its own. The American Liver Foundation’s goal, after all, is not human health… But LIVER HEALTH.”
…Flynn's finally worked his left hand under the table and is untying the other straps…
“Wow. Here I thought Susan G. Komen was the worst charity on the poster. You’re ACTUALLY insane. You think you’ll breed some alien creature that’ll let a liver live parasitically off of it?”
Nealon laughs again…
“Haha… We don’t NEED to BREED some fantastical monster to take care of our livers, Mister Flynn.”
Nealon reaches down to his white, button-up shirt… And begins to disrobe…
…
And we see under his shirt as he peels his chest free.
SIX LIVERS, BEATING, WRIGGLING. HOOKED INTO HIS ENDOCRINE SYSTEM WITH TUBES AND WIRES!
“You see, Flynn! I AM THE SUPERIOR BEING! I AM THE LIBERATOR OF LIVERS!”
Nealon leans over Flynn, holding the scalpel above Flynn’s right hip.
“And now… I plan on adding one more… to my family… Somehow, Mister Flynn… I doubt you’ll be as effective as a member of Team CCPE… After I’ve REMOVED YOUR LIVER…”
With Nealon right above his face, Flynn grits his teeth… As he tries to surreptitiously loosen the top strap behind his back…
“I promise you, I’ll do what I can to preserve your quality of life as you slowly die on this table…”
“As we say at the A.L.F., LIVER… and LET LIVER…” Nealon unleashes a hideous bout of laughter… He drives his scalpel upwards into the air!
“Oh shit, I can’t look…” Flynn’s reflection covers its eyes…
…
THE SCALPEL DRIVES DOWNWARDS!
…
Just as Flynn wriggles to the left! The scalpel stabs into the strap, splitting it!
And with his bindings cut, Flynn has enough slack to bend upwards…
WHAM! And drive his forehead into the nose of Thomas F Nealon III.
Nealon collapses into a pile of blood and puss, batting defensively with one arm… As he covers his precious surgically-attached organs with the other…
“Doh… Doh, pwease…” He says, his nose too crushed to speak unobstructed.
Flynn slides off the table. Standing over the liver-lover.
He cracks his knuckles.
“I’ve never tortured a man with six livers before…”
“Doh… I bweg qoo… Nah by libbers!”
“...But, I have a pretty solid idea on WHERE I’m going to start with you…”
“NAH BY LIBBERS!”
***
Forty-five minutes later, Flynn walks out of the storage unit where Nealon planned to dissect him…
His fists are covered in blood and liver fluid…
Flynn reaches into the plastic bag, still hanging over his shoulder. And quickly wipes his hands free of gunk and residue on James Raven’s perfect abs t-shirt.
He stuffs the shirt back into the bag.
“GodDAMN!”
Flynn’s hands, now wiped clean of mess, fish into his pocket. He retrieves his phone and sees his Reflection, smiling.
“Did you have to chop that guy in ALL SIX OF HIS LIVERS?”
Flynn shrugs. “If he had more, I’d hit him in those too… Makes for one less band of power players trying to get involved in our match. And if it’s five-on-five, straight-up? No bullshit? We got this in the bag.”
Reflection-Flynn nods. “So, Mission accomplished?”
Flynn glances down at his left hand.
“Almost.”
In his left hand, Flynn has… a cage…
A moving, wriggling, squeaking cage.
Flynn sets the wriggling cage onto the ground.
“I’m sorry, fellas. Growing a massive liver on your back… Nobody would ask for the life you were given…”
…Flynn sighs.
“But, I’m of the belief that you only get one. So…”
Flynn flips open the latch. The cage door drops to the floor.
“Enjoy it.”
…And what happened happened next?
Well, in Waikiki, they say…
That hundreds of lab mice.
With full-sized human livers attached to their backs.
Scampered and scattered and scuffled onto the streets of Waikiki’s biggest tourist district.
A panic ensued.
Dozens of Haoles were trampled in what would known as the Great Liver-Rat Excursion of 2022!
The American Liver Foundation did not respond to our email for comment.
OOC:wordcounter.com_word_count:3995
