Season Break
Backstage, and the locker room of The Empire is housing two members: Kamatayan Izzy Sia, and Mike 'de los Huevos' de los Huesos, your Pantheon champions. The belts sit on a chair with nothing else on it, afforded a sort of altarlike presence in the corner of the room on their own. Sia is rolling her shoulders, working her neck, getting loose. Mike is seated in front of a mirror, beginning to hash out the trademark skull design he adorns his face with every night. It's clear something is eating at Sia, the way she keeps pacing and working out the same shoulder. Finally, she speaks.
Izzy: You ever feel like you're never done proving it?
De los Huesos sits back in his chair, lowering his greasepaint stick that he uses to give himself his trademark skeleton face. Idly, he scratches his beard, using the mirror to look at his partner.
Mike: You gotta come off that shit. You see the belts, right?
Izzy: I'm being serious, dude.
Mike: Me too, shit! The fuck you gotta prove now? That's what, your third fuckin' belt? Know how many people 'round here ain't even sniffing that shit? Pigpen Matsumoto been draggin' his saggy nuts onto the canvas for like…ninety years? And what's he got?
The Kamatayan drops down into a deep squat and extends a leg out, stretching. Stretching gives her something to do while she sorts through what's gnawing at her. Mike shrugs and continues to draw the skull on the side of his head. First her left, then her right, her conditioned quads seemingly straining against her flesh–then she pops to her feet.
Izzy: So we know one another. We're even what I'd call friends, even if you try to big bro me at every opportunity.
Mike: Worked on Joey!
Izzy: Yeah, I'm just a smidgen different. Imperceptable, I know. The point is, we're buddies, but I was never really up on how to be a team player. You were, you came up in tag wrestling. And we're gonna go out there and lay these belts on the mat and say "Someone back there has to have the balls to take this." But that's gonna ring false, because I'm not even sure I got the balls to hold onto it. But then there's what you're talking about, right? It shouldn't ring false. So I just feel like I'm too uptight. Too in my own head.
Mike raises a finger in a classic "a-ha!" moment–Sia shakes her head.
Izzy: No, I'm not going to smoke up before I fight. That's suicidal, I'm a lightweight. I just wish I knew when that shit would stop scaring me so much.
Mike sets the paint down, grabbing a disposable 1G vape–his concession when he has to be indoors, despite the displayed warnings that one, in fact, shouldn't vape. He takes a long hit, looking her up and down, and when he speaks, every word is accompanied by a puff of vapors.
Mike: That'll never stop, dummy.
Izzy: Thanks, your warmth is a real example for the rest of us.
At this, de los Huesos pops to his feet, getting in her face. With a gloved hand, he taps her in the temple with his finger, and when she stares daggers at him, he grins a mouth full of gold and diamonds.
Mike: Listen. I know you think I'm trying to pull rank on your ass, but this is me talking legit. I can smoke up before a match. I can act like this ain't shit to me and let my nuts hang. I can do that shit. You can't. Not cause you need more experience, or because you gotta lift another weight or learn another hold. You're fuckin' good enough, deadass. But you ain't a "relax and show up" fighter, Iz tha Wiz. You're just like you sensei or whatever you call him.
Izzy: Oh yeah? How's that?
Mike: Obsessed. Brain keeps moving right up until the bell rings. You thrive on these nerves, man. So stop fuckin' fighting what makes you strong. Lean into it. The insecurity, the fear, all of it. Ride that nervous energy right out there, look the hard cam direct in its face, and tell it all with your eyes. Tell 'em with a look. "I'm obsessed with this shit. You're just a weekend warrior. You're outside but you ain't outside."
Their eyes lock in this moment. Mike's, perpetually stoned. Izzy's, displaying a restraint and rage…which slowly shifts to confidence. Warmth. A smile across her features. Mike returning it. Playfully, but with more strength than either of them expected, Sia pushes him in the shoulder, causing him to stumble back in surprise.
Izzy: Sorry. But you're right. I always get too in my head around here. Feel like I don't fit in or belong.
Mike: But do you actually wanna? You wanna be like the rest of 'em mugs out there? Cookie cutter and doing the same tired suplex and saying the same tired "I'm the greatest" or "I'm the spookiest" shit? Yadda yadda put my ass to sleep, hand to God.
Izzy: …point.
Mike: Look, I know you think I'm just fucking with you all the time, which…like, maybe that's 90 percent of the time. But trust me, I'm happy with you by my side out there. And if someone wants to bring three, four, five six–I don't give a fuck. We don't have success without the Grim Reaper.
Izzy: You're right, Mike. Hey. Thank you.
She begins to roll her shoulders again as he waves it off like it's no big deal. Mike walks back to the mirror. But she stops short, turning to him, with a cocky grin.
Izzy: Besides, who can really step to us?
Mike: I dunno. Creep Church? The hockey guys?
Izzy: Fuck that, Slap Shot is zero problem for me.
Mike: "Slap Shot"?
Izzy: Some old hockey movie with dudes dressed up as the Dudley Boyz. C'mon fuckboy, time to stretch out.
Mike: God, you are so just like him.
Izzy: Fuck off. I'm prettier.
Mike stands, popping his neck.
Mike: Babe, you're looking at the pretty one in this tag team. Make it a trio, I'm still the prettiest. All the way up to fed vs fed with some scrub-ass promotion.
Izzy: Cool. Hindus, now.
Mike: Asshole.
Despite his protests, Mike begins the calisthenics, warming himself up as Izzy starts to tape her wrists. She watches his form with the steady eye of a teacher, which she was for some time. And, given their dynamic, it appears she still is. Once he rips 20, he begins to walk over to the mirror again–and Izzy Sia clears her throat.
Mike walks back like an annoyed child.
He hits the squats again. Izzy laughs to herself. Then she looks at the Pantheon belts and smiles more broadly.
But her eyes are pure determination.
EP: 009
DATE: 1.12.2026
ARENA: THE PINNACLE
The room is sparse. No streamers, no snacks, no flat-screen TV showing the show feed. Just a bench, a few lockers, and the hum of the air conditioning.
Jamie Johnson, the Benchmark, sits on the bench, lacing up a black wrestling boot. He pulls the laces tight, methodical and precise. He doesn't look at the camera. He speaks to the floor.
Jamie Johnson: Everyone wants to talk about the "numbers game." They see silhouettes in the dark and they get nervous. They think I'm building an army to protect myself.
He stands up and stamps his heel to settle the boot.
Jamie Johnson: That implies I'm afraid. That implies I need protection.
He looks up at the camera. His eyes are dead calm.
Jamie Johnson: I don't need protection. I need infrastructure.
The shot opens up a bit more and two men stand on either side of the locker room door. They are dressed in matching matte black jackets with the Grappler's Guild emblem on the back. They stand at ease, hands clasped behind their backs. They look like they could walk through a brick wall without breaking stride.
Jamie Johnson: You can't build a legacy on a foundation of chaotic, ego-driven amateurs. You need professionals. You need men who view this ring not as a stage, but as a job site.
Jamie walks over to the first man, the thicker, stockier one.
Jamie Johnson: Joe Quinn. The Anvil. A man who understands that simple force, applied correctly, solves complex problems.
He walks to the second man, the one with the sharper features and taped fingers.
Jamie Johnson: Dan Richards. The Hammer. A technician who can dismantle a human being's joint structure in under thirty seconds.
Jamie stops in the center of the room.
Jamie Johnson: Together, they are Spinebuster Island. These guys have been toiling, grinding for years. Now? Now they punch their ticket. Now, they're open for business. You'll see them in action later.
He turns to the door.
Jamie Johnson: Trey Willett… you're the first ticket on the docket. You're messy. You're emotional. You're inefficient. Chaos personified.
Jamie Johnson: Consider this your performance review.
Jamie nods to Quinn and Richards.
Jamie Johnson: Let's go to work.
Quinn opens the door. Richards follows. Jamie walks out last, the camera following him into the hallway.
The lights in the arena fade into darkness, the swell of an orchestra overcoming the soundscape throughout the Pinnacle. Ennio Morricone's "the Ecstasy of Gold" plays as the closing moments of the 20-Person Battle Royal from Zenith 009 play again over the SHOOT Project VideoWall.
Eryk Masters: The final three, and we can FEEL the tension in that ring!
Corey Lazarus strikes with elbows and right hands to both Chance Kelser and Arthur Pleasant, his uncharacteristic closed fists meeting their marks. The video jump cuts to Corey hooking Arthur for a German suplex as Chance springs off the ropes with a flying kick, but Corey pulls Arthur in the way before driving an elbow into Chance's spine, tossing him against the ropes…
Jason Johnson: Corey's got Chance on the ropes…AND HE'S OUT!!
…and sending him to the floor with a picture-perfect dropkick. The music swells with intensity as Lazarus drills Arthur with the BOX OFFICE BOMB, unceremoniously throwing him over the top rope afterward.
Samantha Coil: Your winner, and NEWWWW…
The song reaches its midpoint crescendo, freezing on an image of Corey holding the World Heavyweight title high over his head as confetti falls all around him, and then?
Silence.
An old fashioned, black and white film countdown rolls, the film flickering…
Slayer. "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida." The stark thrashing contrast to the classic western score sets the tone as a single figure slowly emerges from the entrance set, sporting a white SHOOT tee with a black and gold waistcoat, a pair of black acid wash jeans, and the unmistakable glamor of the SHOOT Project World Heavyweight championship around their waist.
Samantha Coil: Please welcome to the ring at this time, your NEWWWW SHOOT Project World Heavyweight champion…COREYYYYY LAAZZZZAARRUSSSSS!!
COREY LAZARUS has arrived, and the microphone in his hand is letting everyone know his intentions at the moment.
Eryk Masters: For the first time in months, Jason, Corey Lazarus is coming down to the ring and isn't interrupting the show.
Jason Johnson: That's the World Heavyweight champion, Eryk. When you hold that title? The world stops at your leisure.
Corey takes his time walking down the ramp, posing for pictures and selfies and slapping hands all along the way. He pauses, turning to the ring, and flashes his trademark devilish grin as he pounces onto the apron, pulling himself to the middle rope with one hand raised high.
"PLEASE!"
"TAKE MY HAND!!"
Corey hops down, giving an exaggerated stage bow on the apron before he steps between the ropes. Laz looks around the Pinnacle and holds up a single finger, nodding, and then slowly drags it across his throat. The music is cut and Corey goes to speak, drowned out by the SHOOT faithful.
"L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!! L-A-Z!!"
Corey laughs, shaking his head.
Corey Lazarus: Well, well, well…I'd say it's good to see that New York hasn't lost its touch, but I think I've said that one just a few times too many, so how about I just get some of the old mushy gushy out of the way, dig?
Corey looks around the entire arena, pointing to every corner of the building.
Corey Lazarus: To each and every single one of you, be you in the Pinnacle right now or watching from the comfort of your own home; whether you've been in my corner since I took that first step into the ring all those years ago or even just tuning in for the very first time; whether you've loved me, hated me, or just hated to admit to yourself that you begrudgingly respected me? I say, from the bottom of my heart…
He stops in his tracks, a hand over his heart.
Corey Lazarus: …thank you.
Another exaggerated stage bow follows, swarmed with an approving choral chant.
"YOU DE-SERVE IT!"
**clap, clap, clapclapclap**
"YOU DE-SERVE IT!"
**clap, clap, clapclapclap**
Corey Lazarus: So with that out of the way, let's get right down to some business.
He clears his throat as he rises to his feet, finding the nearest camera to affix his focus to.
Corey Lazarus: Two weeks ago, Artie, I called my shot, right here in this very ring. I told you that I'd be getting that proverbial pound of flesh for what you've done to me and mine, and that little appetizer I gave you? When I dropped you right down on the back of your stupid fucking head in a vain attempt at knocking some sense into you? That was nothing but a little teaser trailer for what's coming your way tonight.
Corey smirks, shaking his head.
Corey Lazarus: The only concern that I have, chief, is whether or not you'll be able to reach down deep into those urine-stained trousers that are begging for even a gentle rain and dig deep for whatever shred of yeast-raised dignity you have left in order to face me like a man, because any cause worth fighting for? Any mission worth dying for?
He leans in close to the camera, the jovial tone flaking away from his voice.
Corey Lazarus: It doesn't mean a goddamn thing if it comes from the mouth of a pussy-ass bitch like you.
Corey backs away and into the center of the ring, a hand held up with fingers at the ready.
Corey Lazarus: See, I've been called a lot of not-so-polite things over the years, Artie. I've been called a scoundrel. I've been called a disgrace. A menace, an embarrassment, a dirty rotten wife-stealing son of a whore…but I've never been called a liar.
Each descriptor is counted with a raised finger, closed at the end.
Corey Lazarus: I've said this enough times over for it to be canonical in every corner of this business, but the L-A-Z speaks the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and this warped little fantasy of yours? Starting tonight, it all starts crumbling down and burying you in its rubble. Your pet sharks are going to smell blood in the water, a little nugget of doubt cast into those shallow puddles of gray matter between their ears, and then we'll all see how loyal to the cause they really are.
Corey pauses after the last of his words escape his mouth, sucking wind through his teeth.
Corey Lazarus: Next up on the docket, there's some heat in the locker room tonight, boys and girls, because even though I'll own up to chopping down that cherry tree, or a mighty oak, or even an ancient California redwood, I do still have that Quick Draw McGraw tendency to shoot from the hip first and ask questions later. So, to address these issues, allow me to…!
Ghost's "Lachryma" cuts Corey off, the frustration evident behind his forced chuckle. Lazarus shakes his head and looks up to the top of the ramp at the entering THUNDERWOLF.
Jason Johnson: Dustin Kelser is HERE, Eryk! And he doesn't look like he's too happy!
Eryk Masters: I'm sure Dustin hasn't exactly taken too kindly to some of the things that Corey's said since becoming the World champion, Jason. Especially at that press conference on the 15th.
Jason Johnson: Can you blame him? For over 25 years, they've been partners, they've been BROTHERS, and after some of the things that Laz has let slip?
Kelser walks down the ramp, his arms casually spread out to the crowd and dragging his fingers across all that reach across the barricade. His eyes never leave Corey's figure in the ring, the World champion opening the ropes for his long-time friend and partner. Dustin smirks as he pulls himself to the apron, stepping into the ring.
Corey Lazarus: Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the ring at this time, the one, the only, DUSTIN…"THUNDERWOLF"...KELLLLLLLL…!
Kelser wastes no time and snatches the microphone from Corey's hand, leaving the World champion speechless. The crowd "ooh"s and "aah"s as Laz doesn't move, flabbergasted, masking it with a wide and shit-eating grin. The music cuts off and Dustin walks to the opposite end of the ring, his back to his partner.
Dustin Kelser: Core…let me ask you a queston…
Lazarus shrugs and stands up straight, adjusting the World title belt around his waist and dusting off the shoulders of his waistcoat. Dustin turns, sizing Corey from head to toe and back again as he walks toward him.
Dustin Kelser: …what in the holy name of AC Slater are you wearing?!
Corey nods and laughs at himself, looking at the gaudy fashion choice he's made. Wolf shakes his head, tutting at his partner.
Dustin Kelser: We've both had some questionable choices in gear over the years, and it's not like we didn't live through the era of frosted tips and bad goatees, but…fashion choices aside, Corey, and I mean this with everything in me…congratulations.
Corey pats the center plate of the World title around his waist, backing up into the corner and firing off a pair of finger guns to Kelser. Dustin returns with one of his own…
Dustin Kelser: Right back at you…babe.
…and lets the acid hang in the air for a moment. Corey's joviality dampens, all too familiar with that tone in Wolf's voice, and the smirk disappears from his face.
Dustin Kelser: Now that the niceties are nicely cataloged, let's move on to more pressing matters - namely, hell, I don't know - maybe what happened at Redemption.
He lets it hang in the air for a minute, flipping and catching the microphone in one swift movement.
Dustin Kelser: You damn near lose an eye, my son proves what kind of man, or rather, boy, that he truly is, I get my ribs cracked - again - and faux crucified to boot. My daughter, who isn't a wrestler at all, gets served a warm dish of assault and battery resulting in two broken arms, and the wrong set of nimrods arrested. You've conveniently dusted all of that aside however because - hey! Fuck everyone man, fuck the plan, you're the SHOOT Project World Champion! The L-A-Z in the place-to-be-bay-be!
The sarcasm drips as his brows furrow. The crowd hums with a collection of both cheers and boos.
Dustin Kelser: The truth of the matter is, I'm a little salty. Not so much on the fact that I won the Redemption Rumble and somehow you're the champ - let's make that make sense - but I digress. No, Corey, it's that goddamn mouth of yours. Go back and watch the tape. Gregory, Cliff, Malcolm… every person up there that actually gives a shit about you, nearly stroked out over your ego. And that's the thing. That's the real thing that I've never been able to get past on you. It's this… perception of reality that you live in. A world where you're the authority on all things and the rest of us are expected to just forgive whatever bullshit comes out of your mouth.
Corey nods, chewing on each word coming from the #1 contender carefully. He shrugs and nods, walking to the ropes to call for another microphone.
Dustin Kelser: Words have consequences, Corey and I….
He's abruptly cutoff, which brings in another mixture of crowd ramblings.
Corey Lazarus: For starters, babe, I'm going to let that initial aggro slide a bit since it's abundantly clear that some words landed a little differently than I'd wanted, but for future reference, slick?
Corey walks up to his partner, cracks in his "polite" and "respectful" facade starting to show on his face.
Corey Lazarus: Never rub another man's rhubarb.
Corey "clinks" the microphones together, backing away and outside of striking distance. He pulls his waistcoat away just a little bit, letting the overhead lights shine on the SHOOT Project World Heavyweight title for a moment.
Corey Lazarus: I was hoping we'd have this kind of chat in private, because I'll fully admit that I've always had a tendency to phrase things a little more aggressively than I might intend to, but Dusty, I have a serious question for you…what exactly did I say that wasn't true?
More "ooh"s filter in from around the Pinnacle.
Corey Lazarus: It is a veri-goddamn-fiable FACT, Dusty, that you have never, EVER, beaten me.
Lazarus holds up a hand as Dustin goes to answer…
Corey Lazarus: …hold on, tiger, hold on…because the reverse is also true! In all those years, with only that one time we can point to fiftee-no, SIXTEEN, years ago? The Hollywood Kid has never, EVER, beaten you.
Lazarus steps toward Dustin, laying a hand on Dustin's shoulder.
Corey Lazarus: And that's why Reckoning Day is going to be so amazing, my brother. You and me. In the main event. For the single most prestigious prize in this entire sport, my SHOOT Project World Heavyweight title. So let's just cool down, slick, and take a little breather, and…!
Dustin casually pushes Corey's hand from his shoulder, staring directly into Laz's good eye.
Dustin Kelser: I don't give a damn about our match right now, Corey, don't you get that?! It is literally the last fucking thing on my mind with what happened to us, to our family for Christ Sakes! Even Fiona's mom, the Queen of Extreme herself, Enika Engel! Get over yourself! We've got a war ahead of us, not a battle of egos.
He takes in a deep breath…
Dustin Kelser: I love you Corey, you are my brother, no matter how we try to cut it… but you're also a pompous dick. And I knew, I always KNEW, the moment that when the chips were on the table and it came down to your ego vs. actual responsibility, which of the two would win out. This is WHY you weren't a pillar of the community, our community. This is the reason WHY you were always second-in-command, and never the one calling the shots. This is WHY you can't be counted on and WHY I'm always the one left to clean up your mess. You can't get your head out of your ass long enough to see the big picture.
Corey nods, listening to every word hurled his way. They all sink in, every vowel finding their mark, and he backs up a step as he hangs his head low.
Corey Lazarus: If that's how you want to play it, Dusty? If you want to pretend that just by us being in the position we're currently in that we've already won…then why wait?
Corey looks up and takes a step forward, reaching behind to unclasp the buttons holding the World title around his waist.
Corey Lazarus: Let's just skip the next month and a half of this "will they/won't they" shit, jump right over the "partners who can't get along" scenario, and settle it. TONIGHT.
Lazarus rips the World title from his waist and holds it high above his head. He tosses the microphone out of the ring, beckoning Wolf to step up. Dustin drops his microphone on the mat, shaking his head at the lack of care shown for what's happened, and begins to walk forward, the two brothers starting to sound off on one another…until they're halted by a slow, sinister applause…
clap. clap. clap.
Both of the Last Vanguard's attention turn to the entrance ramp as Arthur Pleasant walks out. The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ smiles wide, his hands slowly meeting in that methodical and condescending applause.
clap. clap. clap.
Corey and Dustin share a look and separate, each man taking a corner and readying themselves. Their attentions turn to the crowd, waiting for an ambush…but it never comes. The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ taps his left eye, pointing down to Lazarus and Kelser before he turns, leaving the arena just as soon as he entered it.
Jason Johnson: The Empire retains! Izzy Sia and Mike de los Huesos survive the onslaught of Spinebuster Island!
Eryk Masters: Barely, Jason. That was a war of attrition. But the Pantheon Champions found a way to win.
In the ring, Izzy Sia and Mike de los Huesos are battered. Mike is clutching his ribs near the turnbuckle. Izzy is down on one knee chest heaving as she clutches her title belt against her stomach.
The referee tries to raise their hands, but the celebration is short-lived.
Joe Quinn and Dan Richards are already up.
They don't look tired. They look insulted.
Richards rips off one of his wristbands and throws it at the canvas. Quinn wipes sweat from his forehead and stares a hole through Mike de los Huesos.
The referee tries to get Spinebuster Island to leave the ring. Quinn simply steps forward, shoving the official into the corner with one massive arm. It's effortless power.
Jason Johnson: Uh oh. This isn't over. Quinn and Richards aren't leaving.
Eryk Masters: They're cutting off the ring, Jason! Look at the positioning!
Quinn and Richards split. Quinn blocks the ramp side, looming over Mike. Richards blocks the announcer side, stepping toward Izzy.
Izzy forces herself to her feet. She's exhausted, favoring her left leg, but she raises her fists. She doesn't back down an inch.
Jason Johnson: These two teams are about to tear this arena apart!
Suddenly, a blur of motion sprints down the ramp.
Jamie Johnson hits the ring!
He slides under the bottom rope, not in a panic, but with urgent precision. He sprints right into the center of the conflict, throwing his arms out with one hand pushing against Quinn's massive chest, the other grabbing Richards by the shoulder strap of his singlet just as he lunges toward Izzy.
Jamie Johnson: (Off mic, shouting) STOP. Not yet.
Quinn looks ready to run through Jamie to get to Mike. He's snarling, veins popping in his neck. Richards is trembling with adrenaline, glaring at Izzy.
Jamie Johnson: I said not yet. Your time will come.
Jamie shoves Quinn back a step. He glares at Richards until the technician lowers his hands. The tension is thick enough to choke on.
Jason Johnson: Jamie Johnson calling off the dogs! He stopped them just inches from a massacre.
Eryk Masters: He had to, Jason. Look at who is standing across from him. That's Izzy Sia. That's Mike de los Huesos.
Jason Johnson: There is so much history in that ring right now. Jamie and The Empire… they ran this place together once. They were a family.
Eryk Masters: It goes deeper than just The Empire, Jason. Jamie and Izzy… they came up together. They suffered together at Blackhawk Gym. They were tortured by Nate Robideau side-by-side.
Jason Johnson: Exactly. Iron sharpens iron. Jamie knows better than anyone how dangerous Izzy Sia is. He knows that if you back her into a corner, even exhausted, she will take a piece of you with her.
In the ring, the silence stretches.
Jamie turns slowly. He finds himself face-to-face with Izzy Sia.
They are three feet apart. Former stablemates. Former training partners.
Izzy stares at Jamie. She doesn't look grateful for the save. She looks defiant. She clutches the Pantheon title tighter, daring him to make a move.
Jamie stares back. His expression is unreadable. It's not hate. It's a cold, calculating assessment. He looks at the belt on her shoulder, then up to her eyes.
Jamie gives the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. Not of respect, but of acknowledgment. I see you.
Jamie Johnson: (To Quinn and Richards, voice low) We're done. Exit. Now.
Jamie points to the ropes.
Quinn spits on the mat, glaring one last time at Mike, before stepping through the ropes. Richards follows, still keeping an eye on Izzy.
Jamie is the last to leave. He backs away slowly, never taking his eyes off The Empire, until he drops to the floor on the outside.
Jason Johnson: A stay of execution for the champions? Or a strategic retreat by the Grappler's Guild?
Eryk Masters: With Jamie Johnson? In the past? He ruled himself emotionally, really tried to tap into that "thing" that the Real Deal had, but this Jamie Johnson? With this guy? It's always strategy. He knows he can't win this war tonight. But looking at his eyes… the war is definitely coming.
Jamie adjusts his hoodie, turns, and marches his team up the ramp. In the ring, Izzy Sia watches him go, her expression hardening. She knows this isn't over.
Trey sits on the bench in front of his locker. It was getting harder and harder to take his boots off after a match. That's one of the wonderful side effects of aging. You wouldn't think that pain in your back would affect so many other parts of your body. When he stood, he had to start at a slouch before being able to stand straight again. When he sat, he had to arch his back for a few seconds to stretch it before he was able to get about accomplishing his task.
Taking his boots off was different. He had to bend to unlace them. He had to bend his knee and pull his leg close into his body, resting it on his lap to try and pry the boot from his foot. All of it made his back scream in agony.
For the past several shows he couldn't feel the pain. He just removed his gear, got in his car, and went back to his house to get back to work clearing the wreckage. Today was different. Today he felt everything.
If you look closely at his face, you could tell something was different this time. Sure, his face contorted into a crooked pained expression with every move, but right after that subsided, you could see a smile come across Trey's face. For the first time since getting back to the SHOOT Project, he was actually taking some time to reflect on the match he just had. And all he could manage to do was smile.
Trey Willett: I shouldn't be this happy. I really shouldn't be. I've never been happy getting my ass handed to me. For the majority of my career I would take my licks, get back to the locker room and go over everything that went wrong and how I would do it better the next time.
The same routine as before, Trey takes the second boot off before tossing them both into his locker. As he stands, we can see that he leans forward, slouching his back for a moment before overcorrecting his posture and attempting to stretch his spine.
Trey Willett: The thing is, nothing went wrong tonight. There isn't anything that I can do but smile and be proud. You can hate me, you can be angry with me, Hell you could never think about me again. But you are good. You are damn good. You did exactly what you said you were going to do and I can say that the SHOOT Project is going to remember who you are, the same way that they remember me. The same way that they remember your dad.
Trey reaches up into the top shelf of his locker to grab a small, leather toiletry bag. He rifles through it for a moment, getting the few things that he needs to take a quick shower before retreating the arena.
Trey Willett: I want to thank you for giving me the push that I needed. You were right. I didn't belong here anymore. Not the way that I had been existing. I can't simply keep walking around a shadow of my former self. I can't just show up, expect the nostalgia pop, and get back to working like nothing ever happened. I don't want to be a "special attraction." I don't want to be fan service. You saw me, Jamie. Hell I should have known you would. No one ever saw through me like your dad did. And by god did that man call my shit in the least political way possible. I was embarrassing myself every single time that I stepped into the ring. I was taking a piss on the legacy that I had worked so hard to create. Worst of all, I wasn't treating this place with the reverence and respect that it deserved.
After grabbing hold of his soap and shampoo, he tosses the bag back into the locker. Turning, he reaches for a towel and starts to make his way towards the shower. As he turns the knob the whoosh of water can be heard as steam rises from behind the curtain.
Trey Willett: I'm not so conceited to think that this was all about me, all about waking me up. You wanted to make a statement and you did. Hell, I'm so proud of you. You saw a roadblock in me, and you busted past it. But it did wake me up. It stirred something in me that I thought was dead. You brought me back. I probably shouldn't thank you for kicking the shit out of me, but I'm going to. And I'm going to thank you the only way I know how.
Being fully aware that there is a camera on him, Trey wraps the towel around his waist before getting dropping his pants to the floor. He steps into the shower from the far end, trying to keep the water from his towel and pulls the curtain. He tosses the towel over the curtain. The camera lens fogs over from the steam, obscuring the picture.
Trey Willett: The only way that I know to thank you for bringing me back is to get back to work. Zenith 11. I don't care who it is. I don't care if they're brand new, a vet, former champ, or nobody. I want back in the ring. I actually want to be there for the first time in a long time. I'm going to come down, and I'm going to give whoever the Brass wants to put me up against the fight of their lives. My comeback tour has been delayed for too long as I wandered through my fog. But Zenith 11 is the first stop on my way back to who I was always supposed to be. Focused on me. Focused on the art. Focused on making one last mark on the business that I love so much. I'm going to leave it better than I found it.
Everytime the cameraman attempts to clear the fog on the camera lens, it seems to immediately come back. Finally, he gives up. The camera moves from a gray fog to a black as the scene ends.
What appears on the screen is the chyron of note, that this was recorded earlier–and somewhere else, unless SHOOT HQ happens to house a run-down, budget minded physical therapy gym.
Inside, a beleaguered man in scrubs is coaching a diminutive person on the parallel bars as he slowly makes steps, seemingly working himself back to a regular gait. But the person is still leading with their shoulders taking most of the weight of gravity.
They're also wrapped head to toe in bandages, invisible man style.
They're Chad Kyle, it's just Chad Kyle learning to walk again. Which means that not far from them–and in fact you can follow the cloud of cigarette smoke–is Pigpen Matsumoto, King of All Death, somewhat sobered by his string of recent losses. And yet, mysteriously, booked still booked, because by some blessing of the pure dice-rolling nature of fandom, people dig him.
Pigpen: 'Ooh, Matsumoto-san, we are wanting blood!' All of you pig fucks. Chadwick-uh, pig fuck. Nurse boy? Pig fuck.
He takes a drag, not caring for the look of annoyance from the physical therapist, who certainly didn't spend 8 years of school to be called 'nurse boy.'
Pigpen: John Napalm? Pig fuck. Highest order pig fuck. Pigpen Matsumoto is King of All Death and Pigpen Matsumoto not calling you Bob Bulldog Brisco. Not cool enough. Pigpen call you Gil Chesterton, because you sniveling piss child of a man.
Two things are apparent: Pipgen is continuing his binges of Frasier to get his English skills up, and they're working, in their way. Even if it just allows him more colors to paint variations of an F-Bomb. In the background, Chad completes his walk, and settles into his provided wheelchair, indicating to the therapist his hands, which have been bound up in a mitten of bandage wraps for what has been months at this point.
Pigpen: John Napalm big man in death wrestling. Big man. Used to be scary. Now he old and he not built of same concrete as Pigpen Matsumoto. King of All Death bleed you shits dry until I finally croak, yah? But John Napalm have his balls fly off, and nut shot no longer work! That worse than dying. To be scary man and now just fucking mortgage watching cholesterol man. Put Pigpen down like a dog in a field before this. Chadwick-uh! I ever start being pussyman pig fuck like John Napalm, you shoot me!!
Chad Kyle: Sure thing!
Pigpen: Belt is mine. Blood? Mine. Career? Mine too. People deserve to remember better man than who you become, Gil Chesterton. You fuck.
To punctuate this, Pigpen plucks the smoldering cigarette from between his lips, then puts it out on his tongue without even a flinch across his scarred features. From behind him, the therapist finishes fiddling with something, then reveals his handiwork–literally. Chad Kyle's hands are free. He flexes his fingers, and though it's hard to see, the boy is clearly giddy. He tries out the trifecta: Rock and roll horns, 'the shocker', and finally the Dane Cook-trademarked superfinger, or SuFi.
Matsumoto stands, adjusting his belt.
Pigpen: Come on, bastard of Earth. You watch Pigpen bleed man half to death. Then we toughen you up some more.
The therapist considers saying something. Maybe about how it feels like Chad might be in a bit of an abusive thing, maybe about how Pigpen shouldn't have smoked the six cigarettes he's had, maybe about the nurse boy crack, maybe about payment.
He elects to wash his hands of it. The scene cuts away as Pigpen wheels his student out.
The camera opens on Eryk Masters standing in what appears to be a professional training facility. He's wearing a sharp black Grappler Gear hoodie with gold accents, the logo prominently displayed across the chest. Behind him, various pieces of wrestling training equipment are visible—ring ropes, heavy bags, and weight racks.
Eryk Masters: What's up, SHOOT Project faithful? Eryk Masters here, and I want to talk to you about something that's become essential to my life—Grappler Gear.
Eryk holds up a sleek black gym bag with the Grappler Gear logo emblazoned on the side.
Eryk Masters: For over two decades, I've been at ringside calling the action, watching the greatest athletes in the world put their bodies on the line. And you know what I've learned? It's not just about what happens in the ring—it's about how you prepare. How you train. How you show up.
The camera cuts to a montage of Grappler Gear products: hoodies, training shorts, compression gear, workout tanks, gym bags, water bottles, and training gloves—all in black and gold color schemes with clean, professional designs.
Eryk Masters: (voiceover) Grappler Gear isn't just clothing. It's a mindset. Whether you're training for the ring, hitting the gym, or just repping your passion for this business, Grappler Gear has you covered with premium quality apparel that performs as hard as you do.
Cut back to Eryk, now wearing a black Grappler Gear workout tank, holding a pair of their signature training gloves.
Eryk Masters: I've worn a lot of gear over the years, folks, but nothing compares to this. Moisture-wicking fabric. Reinforced stitching. Designs that don't just look good—they FEEL good. When you put on Grappler Gear, you're not just getting dressed. You're gearing up for battle.
The camera zooms in as Eryk points directly at the lens.
Eryk Masters: Head to GrapplerGear.com right now and use code ZENITH for 15% off your first order. That's GrapplerGear.com, code ZENITH. Whether you're a wrestler, a fan, or just someone who demands excellence from their wardrobe—Grappler Gear is for you.
Eryk crosses his arms, the Grappler Gear logo visible on his chest as the camera slowly zooms out.
Eryk Masters: Train hard. Look good. Gear up.
GRAPPLER GEAR • GRAPPLEGEAR.COM
USE CODE: ZENITH FOR 15% OFF
The camera is handheld, slightly shaky, following Jamie Johnson from behind.
He is walking alone. No Quinn. No Richards. He has shed the "General" persona of the ring and is now just a man on a mission. The Grappler's Guild hoodie is zipped all the way up.
He walks past the medical room. Past the production crates. He is moving deeper into the Pinnacle, towards the area reserved for the Empire.
Jason Johnson: Jamie Johnson is on the move again. He's been busy tonight. Where is he going? The exit is the other way.
Eryk Masters: He sent Quinn and Richards to the showers. This looks… personal.
Jamie turns a corner. The hallway is quieter here. The roar of the crowd is just a dull thrum in the distance.
He slows his pace. The camera pans around to get his profile. He isn't angry. He looks resolute. Like he has an unpleasant chore to finish before he can go home. He stops in front of a door.
The camera zooms in on the gold nameplate:
MADISON SETON - PREMIER CHAMPION
Jason Johnson: Oh no. You have to be kidding me.
Eryk Masters: That's The Empire's locker room, Jason. That's the Premier Champion's door.
Jason Johnson: That's his family, Eryk. Madison Seton is his sister-in-law.
Jamie stares at the nameplate for a long beat. He takes a breath, reaches out, and turns the handle. The door is unlocked. He opens it.
Inside, the camera catches Madison Seton sitting at a vanity, scrolling on her phone. The Premier Championship belt is resting on the table next to a water bottle.
She sees the door open in the mirror. Her eyes go wide. She spins around in her chair, instinctively reaching for the title belt.
Madison Seton: Jamie? Hey.
Jamie steps into the doorway. He fills the frame, blocking the hallway light. He doesn't step fully inside. He just leans against the doorframe, looking at her, then at the belt, then back at her.
History hangs heavy in the air. It's complicated in some ways, less so in others. Madison Seton is married to Jamie's younger brother, Jack, but he's been out of touch. Deliberately.
Jamie offers a small, tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
Jamie Johnson: Hey, sis. Let's chat.
Jamie pulls the door shut right in the camera lens.
Arthur stands up and slaps Lazarus across the face, again and again, sending a big elbow into the World champion's face that sends him reeling back. Corey spits and pounces at Arthur, peppering him with right hands before locking him in a clinch. He throws knee after knee toward Pleasant's face, many of them blocked, and forces the ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ into the corner. The referee rushes in, issuing a standing 5-count.
1! 2! 3! 4!
Referee: Get him off the ropes!
Lazarus shoves the referee away, knocking him down the mat before going back into it with Arthur in the corner.
Eryk Masters: That's a fine right there.
Jason Johnson: It may be a fine, Eryk, but it's not like he can't afford to pay it!
The referee gets back to his feet just as Arthur breaks free, poking Corey in his good eye. Pleasant whips Corey around, trading places, and starts hammering down on the World Heavyweight champion in the corner. The referee marches back in, trying to get in between champion and challenger.
1! 2!
A stray shot lands across the referee's jaw from Arthur, sending the referee scrambling through the ropes and to the apron. He barely catches himself, watching on in shock as Arthur continues sending fist after fist to Lazarus. Corey starts fighting back, the two men forcing the match into more of a hockey fight than anything else, and the referee shakes his head.
Referee: Nope. Not tonight!
The referee calls for the bell, much to the timekeeper's surprise.
Eryk Masters: He's calling for the bell?!
**DING DING DING**
The ref turns to Samantha Coil, telling her something as Lazarus and Arthur continue duking it out in the center of the ring, both men starting to waiver and their strikes getting sloppier.
Samantha Coil: Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has officially declared this match a NO CONTEST!!
"BOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
Jason Johnson: I'm not sure I agree with that one…
Eryk Masters: Yeesh! I can't remember the last time a World Heavyweight Title bout ended in a no contest!! Fans aren't gonna be happy about this one!!
Arthur nails Corey with a backhand that rocks him, but Lazarus catches him off guard with a surprise mule kick to the chest that sends him down.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
Chance and Hannah Kelser. Sammy Rochester. DEPRAVITY. The DeMONSTRance floods from the back.
Eryk Masters: Oh great…here THEY come…
Jason Johnson: NOT…GOOD.
They charge down the ramp, a stampede of grotesquerie hurling itself into the ring in service of its prophet. Corey can barely manage to get to a knee before Chance drills him in the face with a spinning roundhouse kick.
Eryk Masters: CHANCE WITH THE BENEDICTION!!
Lazarus is offered little quarter as DEPRAVITY pounces on him, dropping her fists to his face and head with feral precision. Arthur stumbles to the floor, ripping the microphone from Samantha.
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: (breathing heavily into the mic after all the fighting) Sit down, Samantha. Your services are no longer needed tonight.
Corey manages to shove DEPRAVITY off, his brow busted wide and pouring crimson juice over his good eye. He scrambles to his feet, trying to make distance, but backs directly into a DEVASTATING clothesline to the back of the head from Sammy that shakes the ring posts.
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: You ever feel like you're fighting an uphill battle, Corey?
Lazarus starts to crawl toward the ropes, desperate to pull himself up, but Hannah cuts him off with a boot to the side of the head. Corey swings wildly in defiance, only hitting air as Chance kneels beside him, cold and indifferent.
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Well, that's because you are. Every step of the way, you are fighting uphill. Why is that, I wonder? Hmm? Is it an image you have to keep up? Is it a reputation as a tough guy that you don't want to see tarnished? Come on, Hollywood 'Kid'. Enlighten us!
Chance swipes some blood from Corey's face, licking it delicately from his gloved fingers. He savors every moment of it as DEPRAVITY slides out of the ring, unearthing a steel chair from beneath. A commotion grows within the crowd…
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: No? No words? You won't enlighten the masses any? That's a shame, Corey. Because it's been right in front of you this entire time. The answer. The WORDS. All you had to do was heed them. But, instead, you just continued fighting. Uphill. On ice. With no traction on the bottoms of your feet.
Eryk Masters: RICKY TENET!! RICKY IS HERE TO SAVE HIS FATHER!!
…a rabble that EXPLODES as Ricky Tenet shoves a fan out of their front seat, launching their unfolded chair like a heat seeking missile into the back of Arthur's head. The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ's sermon ceases as Tenet pounces on him, a blitzkrieg of blows coming from all angles to the fallen Pleasant. Ricky changes focus and dives into the ring, immediately tackling Chance and feeding him elbows and fists galore.
Jason Johnson: Watch out, kid!!
In his primal rage, Tenet ignores the gargantuan monster until it's too late. Sammy RIPS Ricky from with an iron grip on the back of his neck, raising him high before slamming him FACE FIRST to the canvas. DEPRAVITY rolls in with the chair, placing it over Corey's face before playfully slapping Sammy, pointing at the father and son.
Eryk Masters: He's not…no, no, NO…!
Jason Johnson: A SECOND DIRT NAP ONTO THE CHAIR?!?!
Sammy lifts Ricky up again and slams him face-first to the chair, forcing Ricky to headbutt the steel into Laz's face. Tenet spasms after the impact and then rolls away from his father, his own face now a crimson mess. Arthur crawls into the ring, licking his chops…
…and then Ghost's "Lachryma" cues up and the Pinnacle goes wild.
Jason Johnson: It looks like help is about to arrive!
Eryk Masters: HERE IT COMES!! HERE COMES THE THUNDER!!
All eyes turn away from the massacre unfolding in the ring and to the entrance stage…a barren wasteland devoid of life.
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Hahaha. (Checks on the back of his head for blood) No, no. It's not there. That salvation you're looking for? It's not there, nor will it ever be so long as you choose unwisely.
Eryk Masters: What does…can we get a…wait, what? I'm getting word that there's a commotion in the back?!
Jason Johnson: Get a camera back there right now!!
The cameras cut backstage as wild footsteps echo through the halls, shouting heard from all angles. Down the corridor we hear his voice…
Dustin Kelser: Someone get me the fuck out of this!
The camera rounds the corner to find THUNDERWOLF bound to a railing by one of the loading docks, his arms spread and handcuffs connecting each wrist to the cold steel behind him. Blood masks his face, his clothes tattered and torn, as he screams.
Dustin Kelser: Get these cuffs off! Get them fucking off of me!
A rash of security rushes in, frantically searching for a key to the cuffs as the feed goes back to the ring. Back to Arthur Pleasant's wicked smile.
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: This is it, Mr. Icon. The moment in which THE LIE reveals itself to you. Where the unfortunate reality of your situation finally becomes all too real for you. I mean, what did you think was going to happen? You just show back up here, win the World Title, and think THE LIE will erase your 'search history'? No, my child. THE LIE is about to expose you for the rot you really are.
Pleasant nods to Sammy, who then hoists Lazarus up to his feet, holding his arms behind his back. Ricky struggles against the grasp of both Chance and Hannah as they drag him to his knees, holding his arms out wide. DEPRAVITY taunts Corey, just outside of his reach as he kicks at her, desperately trying to escape the ever-tightening grip of the monster he's bound by. Arthur kneels before Ricky, holding the dazed Tenet by the chin.
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Child, I am sorry that it has come to this. I truly am, (he chuckles and leans close to Ricky's face) but the sins of the father must be visited upon the son.
Arthur smiles as he rises, backing into the corner. DEPRAVITY goes to the floor and rips the World Heavyweight title from the timekeeper's table, haphazardly tossing it into the ring.
Eryk Masters: …no…!
She follows as Chance and Hannah bring Ricky to his feet, dragging him like a life-sized doll to their pastor. Chance picks him up on his shoulders and passes him to Pleasant, turning him upside down in the process while Hannah helps steady it.
Jason Johnson: …where the HELL is security?!?!
DEPRAVITY unfolds the chair and then snatches the World title like a sack of garbage from the mat, placing it atop the chair so that its center plate faces the lights above. Finally, some semblance of order looks to return as a plethora of SHOOT security begin rushing the ring…
…but it's just too late.
Eryk Masters: NO, NO, NO…!!
Arthur leaps from the middle rope with a Cradle Tombstone to Ricky, driving the son of the World Heavyweight Champion through the title and.
Jason Johnson: GOD DAMMIT!!
Narcolepsy. A career-threatening move that no one has seen Arthur Pleasant execute in years. With the added impact of Ricky's head crashing down upon the thick faceplate from the SHOOT Project World Heavyweight Championship on TOP of the unfolded chair, people shriek with soul-crushing concern.
Arthur crawls over to Ricky's carcass as Corey kicks and screams, tears falling from the father's face and mixing with the blood that still flows. Pleasant casually brushes his hair from his face, ripping one of the now-deformed side plates from the World title belt. Holding it up for the whole audience to see, Pleasant just laughs.
And laughs.
And laughs.
Eryk Masters: This is one of the most sickening acts of violence I've ever seen from Arthur Pleasant.
Jason Johnson: Considering all the acts of violence we've seen from him already, that's quite the statement.
Pleasant kisses the shiny gold side plate with "The Last Damn Icon" etched into the gold piece before pulling the microphone up to his lips again. He calmly whispers into it, while caressing his hair that has blood seeping into it from a surefire laceration.
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: Goodnight, sweet prince. Praise me…
He lowers himself to Ricky's downed frame. His narrow, evil-filled eyes just catch sight of Corey Lazarus from across the ring.
The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ: …praise be.
Pleasant stuffs the foam of the microphone into Ricky's mouth—the gagging echoing out throughout the Pinnacle in between wet, junky coughs. He rolls out of the ring, DEPRAVITY and the Kelser twins soon to follow. The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ looks to Sammy and nods, causing the masked behemoth to drop the Hollywood Kid and casually exit the ring himself. Security surrounds them, flanked now by a smattering medical personnel, as Corey inches his way to his son.
Eryk Masters: This is…I don't…
Corey sobbingly clutches his son's hand, the father's tight grip not returned. EMTs dive into the ring, one desperately trying to pull Lazarus away while another checks Ricky's vitals.
Jason Johnson: I do, Eryk. This is… fucked up
The deed is done. The DeMONSTRance have proven their point.
Again.
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