MC84 - Heist'd

The Office of the Pappy’s Pawn of Putnam proprietor.

A dusty ceiling fan turns sluggishly overhead. Reclining in a squeaky office chair, a young man scrolls on his phone, lost in the endless wormhole of short-form videos. The air is thick with mildew and resignation, the walls adorned with faded posters of bands that had broken up well before he was born.

He’s doomscrolling–alternating between wrestling clips, conspiracy theories, and thirst traps—when the sudden click of bootheels echoes through the room. He jerks upright, nearly tipping his chair, his attention snapping to the doorway.

His jaw drops faster than his phone, which clatters onto the desk. Standing there, framed in the doorway, is none other than The Mothman himself, Montague Cervantes. The younger man freezes, his expression swaying between disbelief and awe.

The Doctor-Professor meets the boy’s wide-eyed stare with an air of bemused gravitas, as though he’s been patiently waiting for far longer than he actually has. Leon’s gaping mouth quivers before he stammers a sound that might’ve been, “Montague,” or possibly just a nervous squeak.

Montague, unimpressed by the lack of decorum, glances at the phone screen laying face-up on the desk. He tilts his head, recognizing the loop of a “Money Maker” compilation video.

Montague: Ah, I see. You’re a mesmerized fan. Permit me.

With a flourish, Montague extends his hand, pulling an almost reflexive handshake from the young man.

Leon: Uh—I'm Leon.

The contact seems to snap Leon out of his daze. He swallows hard, straightens his posture, and clears his throat.

Montague: Very well, Leon. I was expecting to meet with a Leon, but you appear entirely unprepared for my arrival.

Leon: Oh, uh, yeah—well, I’m Leon Jr. My granddad, Leon Sr. owns the shop. I’m just holding down the fort while he’s out.

Montague’s gaze sweeps the room, his brow furrowing at the lack of an elder Leon.

Leon: He’s at some picker convention today. Left me in charge.

Montague’s lips purse, and he exhales sharply, nodding once, before turning on his heel to leave.

Montague: I see. A wasted effort, then.

Leon panics. He bolts upright, nearly knocking over his chair in the process.

Leon: Wait! Maybe I can help you?

Without breaking stride, Montague dismisses him with a casual wave.

Montague: Highly doubtful, my young friend. If you weren’t expecting me, how could you possibly…?

Leon scrambles after him, his confidence suddenly swelling.

Leon: No, seriously, I know this place better than anyone! If it’s here, I’ll find it.

Montague pauses mid-step, his curiosity piqued. Slowly, he turns, fixing the boy with a scrutinizing look.

Montague: Very well. I need a laserdisc containing the 1991 film Oscar.

Leon blinks, processing the request, his eyes darting around the cluttered shelves and cases. He hesitates just long enough for Montague to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

Then, Leon’s face lights up.

Leon: Old Bill!

Montague: Old Bill?

Leon grins, enthusiastically clapping his hands once.

Leon: Yeah! There’s this old guy at the swap meet—Bill. He’s got laserdiscs. I bet grandad was going to send you to him!

Montague: And where might I find this swap meet?

Leon slaps the cash register, popping the drawer open. He snatches a set of keys and brandishes them triumphantly.

Leon: I’ll take you there myself!

Montague’s mouth quirks into a wry smirk. He gestures toward the door with a flourish.

Montague: Lead on, Junior.

—

—

Gravel crunches underfoot, kicking up little puffs of dust as Leon leads Montague through the vast sprawl of the swap meet. The marketplace stretches for acres, a cacophony of haggling voices, restless livestock, and the occasional bark of a mongrel standing guard over a questionable selection of goods. The riotous patchwork of stalls makes the Showman feels right at home.

They pass a young woman peddling mismatched mannequin parts, an elderly man hawking off-brand action figures—Iron Cop, Galactic Warrior Zok—when Leon suddenly grips Montague’s sleeve, eyes alight.

Leon: There.

The booth stands at the end of the aisle, pressed beside a rusty food truck boasting Corn Dogs and More! On a creaking metal stool far too small for his bulk, Old Bill surveys his kingdom through one good eye, the other clouded over and milky. Deep wrinkles carve his face into a relief map of hard living. A battered cowboy hat sits askew on his head, and across his lap rests a thick, gnarled club with a bent handle worn smooth from years of use.

Montague steps forward and clears his throat. Bill does not look up.

Montague: Are you Bill?

Old Bill: Might be. You buyin' or browsin'?

Montague’s eyes flick to the milk crates stacked in the back, their plastic cases catching the dim light.

Montague: I’m searching for a very particular laserdisc—the 1991 film Oscar, starring Sylvester Stallone.

Old Bill: Never heard of it.

Montague exhales slowly, patience thinning. His shoulders slump.

Montague: So you don’t have it…

Old Bill: Didn’t say that.

He gestures vaguely at the crates behind him.

Old Bill: Help yourself. Ain’t like I’m gettin’ up.

A flicker of irritation tightens Montague’s jaw, but he strides past the old man and kneels by the stack. His fingers sift through titles—The Last Action Hero, Cyborg Cop—until, unbelievably, his fingers land on his prize. He hoists it aloft, triumphant.

Montague: I have it!

Old Bill: Fifty.

The price drops like a hammer, but Old Bill doesn’t even turn his head.

Montague raises an eyebrow at Leon, who shrugs.

Montague: Did you say fifty?

Old Bill: Dollars. That’s the price.

Montague’s expression softens, setting the laserdisc back down with exaggerated care before turning to reason with the man.

Montague: I can find laserdiscs online for less than ten.

For the first time, Old Bill lifts his cane, pointing it directly at Montague like a gnarled finger of fate.

Old Bill: But not that one. You wouldn’t be here if you could.

Montague’s lips purse. Shrewd old bastard.

Montague: It’s a box office failure. Almost no one’s heard of it.

Bill shrugs, already turning his attention back to the marketplace.

Montague glances at Leon, who seems to have lost interest, now casually inspecting a display of homemade slime at the next booth. Then, with subtle precision, the young pawnbroker glances up at Montague, taps his nose with one hand and then his coat with the other. He winks.

Montague barely suppresses a smirk.

Old Bill: We got a deal, or you moving on?

Montague exhales, shaking his head.

Montague: I’ll take my chances. Good day, sir.

With a dramatic flip of his cloak, he turns on his heel and strides away, Leon falling into step beside him.

—

—

They make it almost to the parking lot  before Montague throws out an arm, stopping Leon in his tracks. Ahead, two security guards stand at the exit, arms crossed, eyes locked onto them.

Without hesitation, Montague yanks Leon sideways, disappearing down an aisle.

Security Guard: Hey! Stop them!

From somewhere, a stereo system cranks to life—Hans Zimmer’s "Coward" from Rango. Montague spots an unattended Vespa, its dull red paint barely catching the sun.

Montague: Get on.

Leon: Seriously?

Montague swings a leg over the seat.

Montague: Do you have a better idea?

Leon hesitates only a second before hopping on. The Vespa roars to life with an unexpectedly throaty growl, and they peel out, kicking up dust and gravel in their wake.

The guards give chase, their furious shouts drowned by the rising music. Montague weaves through narrow aisles, skimming past tables stacked with fragile antiques. A makeshift display of plastic dinosaurs teeters ahead, balanced precariously on a plank across two barrels. Without missing a beat, Montague flicks a hand into his coat, pulls out a pilfered laserdisc—The Rocketeer—and flings it into the barrels.

Clong

The makeshift structure collapses, the board tilting into a perfect ramp.

Montague guns the Vespa. They hit the ramp and launch into the air in glorious slow motion, a flock of startled ducks bursting skyward around them.

Leon: Is this really happening??

Montague grins, reveling in the spectacle.

Montague: It’s all part of the show!

Behind them, a guard commandeers a golf cart, roaring after them in absurd pursuit.

Leon: This thing’s got an onboard computer!

He reaches around Monty and fumbles with buttons. The Vespa clicks ominously, tiny missile launchers sliding from its sides.

Leon: Defense mode!

A volley of mini-rockets explodes a fruit stand, sending gunk of every color flying. The Vespa streaks through the billowing flames, neither rider looking back at the mushroom cloud that grows behind them.

As they turn another corner, Leon glances over his shoulder.

Leon: That didn’t stop them!

Montague, unfazed, pulls another stack of stolen laserdiscs and begins frisbeeing them at their pursuers. Discs ricochet wildly, toppling security guards like bowling pins. Unfortunately, one clips a wire, sending a massive Antique Farming Tools banner draping down over the Vespa.

The Vespa skids to a halt, entangled.

Leon: Now what?!

Before they can formulate an escape, an old blue pickup truck screeches to a stop between them and the security guards. Behind the wheel, a man eerily similar to Leon smirks down at them.

Leon Sr.: Get in!

Monty and Leon tear free from the banner, vault over the truck’s fender, and land in the bed just as Leon Sr. peels out.

A security SUV pulls alongside. Leon Sr. grimaces, yanking the wheel hard. The vehicles collide—metal groans, tires scream—and the SUV careens into a stall selling acrid homemade perfumes. The resulting explosion rocks the truck.

Leon Sr. tries to restart the engine. Nothing.

Leon Sr.: I’m getting too old for this shit.

Montague and Leon bolt from the truck, sprinting through the gate—only to find Leon’s car surrounded by actual cops.

Leon: We’re trapped!

Montague smirks, tilting his chin skyward.

Above them, a helicopter descends, a rope ladder swinging freely.

Leon: Where did that come from?!

Montague waves a hand dismissively before grabbing hold.

As they climb into the cockpit, Leon yanks the Oscar laserdisc from his pocket, waving it triumphantly.

Montague puts on a headset and leans back, utterly satisfied.

Montague: Mission accomplished.

—

—

The Office of the Pappy’s Pawn of Putnam proprietor.

Montague lounges in the same office chair where he’d first met Leon, boots arrogantly planted on the blotter. Out in the lobby, the telltale sounds of frantic rummaging betray Junior’s location, but Montague pays it no mind.

His attention is elsewhere, fixed on the laserdisc cradled in his hands. Fingers glide along the cover, savoring every detail—like Logan longing for Morph, but with satisfaction instead of sorrow. Then, without preamble, he speaks.

Montague: You collect accolades like I collect lost relics, Donovan. But here’s the difference—I cherish mine. You, on the other hand, stack names like plastic trophies in your kids’ playroom, barely letting the dust settle before you start hunting for the next one. This company has been your personal sandbox for years, and you’ve sculpted the landscape to suit your perfect little narrative. You’ve manipulated the office, twisted the system, ensured that everything aligns with your legacy.

His voice darkens, sharpened to a razor’s edge.

Montague: And somehow, you’ve gotten away with it. That is—until you made the mistake of penciling me in as another checked box on your ever-growing ledger.

His smirk curls into something predatory.

Montague: Right now, you think of me as just another laurel, another notch in your self-aggrandizing saga where you play the righteous hero. But Donovan, this game you’re playing is about to turn on you. You believe you’ve mapped it all out, that you’ve accounted for every variable. But see, you can’t plan for me.

He leans forward, fingers tapping idly against the desk, his gaze glinting with malice.

Montague: You love playing the grand architect, stacking your bricks just so, ensuring every piece fits into place. But I’m the bastard wind that knocks it all down.

The contempt in his tone drips like venom as he practically spits out his next words.

Montague: "The List of Hastings."

His eyes roll before he waves a dismissive hand.

Montague: That concept is so old and tired that even Dave Rydell has adopted it lately. And the most egregious error with the list? You’re already looking past me. I’m not the foremost name in your head, am I? No, you’re already lining up Alan, Zane, or Phrixus…

At the mention of the former Creative Director, Montague’s gaze flickers toward a large, leafy fern in the corner. He cocks his head, listening. Then, without hesitation, he snatches up an ancient counting machine from the desk and hurls it into the plant with a deafening crash.

A beat of silence.

Leon’s head pokes through the office door, unimpressed. Montague meets his stare with equal impatience. After a moment, Leon simply shakes his head and disappears back into the lobby.

Montague exhales through his nose, his irritation simmering beneath the surface.

Montague: There’s an anniversary show coming up, and it’s clear just how desperately you want to be standing at the pinnacle of it all. Donovan Hastings, headlining Coalescence—what a beautiful dream you’ve woven for yourself.

His smirk widens.

Montague: But your desperation has inspired me. Now, it has become equally important to me that you don’t.

He leans back, stretching his arms behind his head as if settling into a throne.

Montague: Between now and then, we have four shows. The first one sees your precious championship at risk. I would strongly suggest you realign your focus, Donovan, because if you think you can coast through this, you’re making a grave miscalculation.

His grin fades into something more resolute.

Montague: You’ve been so busy curating your collection, ensuring every piece fits neatly onto your shelf. But I promise you this—whether I take the title from you or not, I will make damn sure you don’t make it to that headline spot. I’ll be your shadow, your constant, unshakable reminder that you don’t control everything.

He shrugs.

Montague: So go ahead—try to look past me. I dare you. Because I’ll be right here, forcing you to stare at me for far longer than those few fleeting seconds you spare for a trinket in your cabinet.

Leon: Got it!

Montague glances up just as Leon strides into the room, triumphantly brandishing a laserdisc player.

Leon: Told you we had one.

Montague grins.

MC83 - Rundown'd

Monica: “Welcome to The Rundown, with Monica Reynolds!”

“Tonight on the program, we’ll be discussing the tragic DCA crash and what we know so far, as well as the ramifications of the collapse of German Chancellor Olaf Scholz's coalition. But first, we’ll be diving into the impacts of the polar vortex that has frozen much of the country under unseasonal weather conditions.”

“States in the South, including Florida, Louisiana, and Texas, have experienced unprecedented snowfall and ice, causing significant disruptions. The effects of this polar vortex are being felt far and wide. The eastern United States has faced treacherous road conditions, numerous school closures, power outages, and flight cancellations. Major cities like Washington, D.C., and Louisville, Kentucky, saw heavy snow, while Kansas and Missouri dealt with blizzard conditions. The extreme cold led to numerous vehicle accidents, stranded motorists, and advisories urging residents to stay indoors. Over 250,000 customers were left without power, and airports are grappling with major delays.”

“Joining us tonight to discuss the aftermath are senior FEMA official Mark Hammond, glaciologist Dr. Evelyn Harland, and transportation infrastructure expert David Patel. And… wait a second… UGWC Cooperative Champion Lucy Wylde?”

Monica: “Let’s go first to Dr. Harland. Doctor, what caused this unusual event?

Dr. Harland: "Thanks, Monica. To put it simply, the polar vortex is a giant mass of cold air that usually sits over the Arctic, kind of like a cold bubble. It’s kept in place by fast-moving winds high up in the atmosphere. Normally, it doesn’t stray too far from the North Pole.”

“But in this case, something unusual happened. The air up in the Arctic warmed up more than it normally does, and this weakens the winds that keep the vortex contained. When those winds slowed down, the cold air in the vortex had nowhere to stay and it started to spill out, moving much farther south than usual.”

Monica: “I know this is a touchy subject, Doctor, but what responsibility do Americans, and the broader world, carry for this event?”

Dr. Harland: "Monica, the polar vortex itself is natural, but climate change is making these events more extreme. The Arctic is warming faster than the rest of the world, which weakens the winds that usually keep the cold air contained. So, while we can't blame this event on climate change alone, the rising global temperatures are definitely making these kinds of extreme weather events more common. It's a responsibility we all share to reduce emissions and slow this trend."

Patel: "I appreciate Dr. Harland’s perspective, but when it comes to transportation disruptions, we need to focus on the real, immediate issues. This event, like so many others, highlights the fundamental problems in our infrastructure. Our roads, airports, and rail systems are constantly underfunded and in need of maintenance. Airlines cancel flights not because of the weather, but because they don’t have the proper equipment or systems in place to handle snow and ice, especially in regions that rarely see it. The same goes for public transit and highways—too many cities and states simply aren’t investing in the right kind of infrastructure to prepare for these events, whether it's a mild winter or an extreme one.”

Monica: “Mr. Patel, are you saying these regions should have been prepared for this, despite not normally having to deal with these kinds of conditions?”

Patel: “Yes, the weather was harsh, but the real issue here is a lack of preparation and foresight. We’ve seen this year after year, and polar vortexes happen even in the Southeastern United States often enough in history. Infrastructure needs investment, consistent maintenance, and proper planning. Until we address that, we’ll continue to see these avoidable disruptions, no matter what the weather's doing."

Monica: “Um… Lucy, do you have anything you’d like to add?”

Lucy: “You know what I think?”

Monica: “Uhm, no… I–”

Lucy: “I think it’s about time for Alan to actually do what he’s been flirting with doing for what… six months now?  I mean for Christ’s sake, what WILL it take to make you go away, Alan?  Another kid?  Well chop, chop Al.  Get on that.  Pump and jump, Al.   Pump. And. Jump.  But noooooo… We can’t get that lucky, can we?  You see, I’ve got better things to do here than watch you desperately try and suck whatever ego stroking you can get out of this business before you disappear for good.  Teaming up with TRAVIS PIERCE to come for our Cooperative titles?  COME ON. Even that guy that drives race cars with the face of a petrified squirrel can see how far you’ve fallen, Al.  Is that really what you want your kid to see?  You and Pierce?”  

Monica: “I’m afraid that’s not entirely on topic, Ms. Wy–”

Lucy: “Next thing I know, you’re gonna be coming for my Coop championship too, you son of a bitch.  But let me ask you this… what the HELL are you going to do with a CHICKEN?!  She’s mine!  And I’m sure as hell not letting Travis get within ten feet of my Coop title - I know a chicken fucker when I see one… Don’t ask me how, but it’s true.  Keep your eyes to yourself, Trav.  I know it’s difficult when you look at us - it’s so unfamiliar to see people being the best at something for so long and think… why not you?  It’s probably got something to do with that plywood-esque personality of yours.”

“I don’t even know why I’m here, honestly.  This isn’t even the title match.  But hey, all of this still stands in a few weeks when there’s a little more on the line than having to suffer through another Donovan Hastings sighting. Between that and teaming with the Professor of who the fuck cares, M.D., I can barely contain my excitement.  Then again, maybe I’m the crazy one.  I mean who doesn’t LOVE a title match preview within a title match preview?  I’m sorry, but who are you again?”

Monica: “... Alright. I’m sorry, Mr. Hammond, but we’ve run out of time for this segment. We’ll have to move on, but I would like to have you back to discuss FEMA’s priorities in the wake of this disaster.”

---

“Did you do that?” Montague asked, eyebrow raised in a bemusement.

Sebastian stepped closer to the monitor in the room from where they’re currently watching Lucy’s appearance on The Rundown. He squinted, then leaned in closer to look at his BFF’s screen.

“Ha - I assumed someone would move it,” said Seb grinning. “Most excellent.”

Sebastian turned away from the monitor and makes eye contact with his long-time rival, Montague. For his part, Monty smiled approvingly.

“Well done,” he intoned, a genuine smirk appearing.

“Mmmm,” said Seb, clamming up a little, stepping away from Monty. “So, you. Me. Same team. Little awkward really… I’d appreciate it if you could wait until after the match before you spring whatever little trap you have planned for me and my BFF.”

Montague gives a single nod, slowly acquiescing the point.

“That’s a fair request,” Monty admits, “and no guarantee I can give will assuage your suspicions. However, I can share, with a grain of salt, that my focus is on Donovan Hastings, and perhaps to a lesser degree, Alan Wallace. I don’t find much entertainment in rehashing a rivalry that ran out of fuel long before our most recent Cooperative Championship bout.”

“Hastings, I can understand - but Wallace? Take it from someone who knows - picking a fight with Vain when you have no reason to is a recipe for disappointment,” said Seb, clicking his tongue. “You might want to keep your eyes on Donovan - because splitting your attention is a mistake that you can’t quite afford.”

Seb pauses and furrows his brow before shaking his head.

“Why the hell am I trying to help you of all people?” Seb asked. “This is the fucking Twilight Zone - do you have Tempest hiding somewhere around here?”

Montague’s eyes widen suddenly, and his smirk turns to a full grin.

“Do you know where he is??” he asked. Sebastian fixed him with an impatient stare.

“My time with The Effervescent Eight-Pack is coming, and I have no intention of interfering with the current sequence of events playing out for the Empire of Calamity and… The Sexy Weapons?” Montague shuddered at his momentary lapse in creativity. Sebastian smirked.

“You know as well as I do that no team involving Travis would have a name without “Piercing” in there - probably be the Piercing Clit Whisperers or something equally banal,” said Seb, before he also shuddered. “Oh god… Piercing Vanity?”

Seb made a wretching sound and began to fan himself, before sitting down on the edge of the seat - Seb glanced up at Monty who seemed to have a moment of epiphany.

“Clit Piercing?” Monty offered.

They both blank face for a moment before wisely moving on.

“At any rate,” Monty continued, “The World Champion is at the end of the road with the most unexpected plot twists, and so I’ll pursue that for now, and for as long as I’m entertained. Until then, you and Lucy can consider yourselves… off the hook?”

“Well in that case,” said Sebastian standing back up having regained his composure. “It looks like you don’t have to worry about the two of us returning the favour.”

Seb tentatively held out his hand.

“A truce…” Seb said, calmly, not taking his eyes off Montague.

“A truce,” Montague agrees, extending his own to grasp Seb’s.

They shake, before Seb turns back to the monitor again and looks on proudly at the screen upon which his BFF is currently mid-rant.

“You know, I have to say…,” Seb said, swelling with unmitigated pride. “That is a fantastic picture of me.”

---

Monica: "In our next story, researchers have found new ways to store renewable energy more efficiently. One method turns excess energy into heat. Another method lifts heavy blocks with extra energy and lowers them to generate power. Could this be the answer to alternative renewable energy sources?"

"Tonight, we welcome battery technology expert Dr. Olivia McFadden, CEO of the clean energy startup EcoVolt, Ethan Ruiz, and energy storage scientist Dr. Kai Lawson. And... um, ok... UGWC's Doctor-Professor and World Championship #1 Contender, Montague Cervantes?"

Monica: “Dr. Lawson, can you explain to us how these new energy storage processes work?

Dr. Lawson: "These new storage methods capture excess energy and save it for when demand rises. Take thermal storage—extra power is converted into heat, stored in materials like molten salt, and later used to generate electricity. It’s efficient and smooths out supply fluctuations."

"Gravity-based storage works like a massive battery, but with weight instead of chemicals. Extra energy lifts heavy blocks; when power is needed, they’re lowered, driving generators to produce electricity. Simple physics—storing potential energy and converting it back when required. Both methods prevent waste and ensure a steady power supply."

Monica: “How long before we could possibly see these energy-storage methods adopted on a wide scale?”

Ruiz: "Look, we’re at a breaking point. Right now, we waste an obscene amount of renewable energy just because we don’t have the storage to keep it. Every time the wind dies down or the sun sets, we fall back on fossil fuels when we should be using the energy we already captured. These storage solutions aren’t just convenient—they’re the difference between a sustainable future and clinging to outdated, polluting systems."

"We don’t have time to ‘gradually’ transition. The planet isn’t waiting for us to get our act together. Every step we take toward efficient energy storage means fewer emissions, less pollution, and a real shot at breaking our dependence on fossil fuels. If we don’t invest in these solutions now, we’re just dooming ourselves to the same old cycle of waste and environmental destruction."

Montague: “May I say something here?”

Monica: “Um, sure, go ahead, Doctor.”

Montague: “Doctor-Professor, please. Thank you, Monica.”

He clears his throat.

Montague: “Donovan is kind of like an antiquated coal plant—still chugging along, still wielding control of the grid, even as the world fights to move on to more sustainable, forward-thinking Entertainment Professionals. He hoards power instead of distributing it, ensuring that only he benefits.”

Monica: “I’m sorry, who?”

Montague: “True innovation isn’t about clutching onto old power—it’s about adaptation, about allowing energy to flow where it’s needed most. If you check the UGWC grid, you’ll see Donovan’s been siphoning the current for far too long.”

Monica: “Dr. McFadden, I can see you trying to say something, but you appear to be muted.

Montague: “Hastings talks about ‘collecting’ me like I’m a trophy for his mantle, but I’m not an artifact for his museum of past glories—I’m the energy source that’s about to power the future of UGWC.”

Monica: “I’m sorry, but we have to move–”

Montague: “You know what happens when infrastructure is built on arrogance instead of adaptability? Blackouts. Hastings strutted into last week’s triple threat like he was going to engineer an acquisition—then I pulled the plug.”

Monica: “I’m sorry, folks, we appear to be having technical difficulties–”

Montague: “This six-person  battle isn’t just a match—it’s a test of sustainability. Does UGWC keep running on the same old power-hungry dynasty, or do we shift to something more efficient, something dynamic, something unexpected?”

Monica: “Montague, while your enthusiasm is appreciated, I’m not sure how this relates to energy storage.”

Montague: “Oh, but isn’t that the very essence of energy? Control? Efficiency? Who gets to store the power, and who is left in the dark? Why, it’s the very same principle Donovan Hastings operates under. He hoards it, manipulates it, and ensures that no one else can power their own rise without his assessment of how it will brighten his own bulb.”

Monica: “I don’t think Donovan controls an entire wrestling company like an energy grid…”

Monty: "He doesn’t need to own the power plant—he just needs to have his hands on the switch.”

Monica: “I think it’s time for a commercial break…”

---

Backstage, whilst Montague’s current segment plays on a monitor, the UGWC Cooperative Champions - The Empire of Calamity - relax in the green room. It is, however, uniquely quiet between the two BFFs. Lucy is currently on her phone, smiling in that way that suggests that she’s probably texting Thaddeus, and Sebastian’s usual constant vigilance has given way to a middle-distance stare that he’s adopted almost exclusively since the previous Sunday.

Lucy takes a deep breath, a satisfied smile upon her mischievous face, before dropping her phone in her lap and turning to face her fellow Cooperative Champion.

“Everything okay, BFF?” she asks. Seb blinks.

“Hmm?” asked Seb.

“You seem to be somewhere else entirely,” said Lucy. Seb glances at the screen and Montague’s current monologue.

“If only,” Seb grumbles. “Just thinking about the match this week - everytime I think things should be fine, that Pierce, Hastings and Wallace could never trust one another, I remember who we have to trust to watch our backs and I can’t help but wonder…”

“Whether we’d be idiots to assume he won’t stab us in the back?” asked Lucy.

“Right,” said Seb. “I mean, we called a truce. And I want to believe it’s real, even if it’s just until the end of the show this week. And honestly, as much as I can say about anyone, Monty is the kind of person who I’d expect to walk up to you and stab you in the gut. But, given the fact that there’s two of us and one of him…”

“If he was going to try something, he’d be better doing it while we’re not looking,” said Lucy.

“You just get me, BFF,” said Seb with a smile.

“Of course I do,” said Lucy, glancing down at her phone and biting her lip. She tilts her head as she looks at the screen. “Jesus…”

“I don’t want to know,” said Seb.

“Some would say you already do,” said Lucy raising her eyebrows. Seb’s mouth curls into a half-smile.

“No comment,” said Seb. Lucy began to type away on her phone as Seb cleared his throat, but didn’t look at his best friend. He closed his eyes, and began to talk

“Look, neither of us have had the best week this week. You and Aurora lost the Tag Titles and I lost the Uni… And, honestly, I’m on a bit of a downward streak right now. Vain, the Roth tournament, losing to Adeyemi… I just wanted to let you know that I can see what’s happening, and I’m trying really hard not to fall into old habits,” said Seb calmly. He opened his eyes and turned to look at Lucy, who was still looking at her phone and smiling. “Hello? Earth to Lucy?”

“Sorry, what?” she said. “Oh god, I’m sorry Seb, I was distracted. What were you saying?”

“I was just saying that…” Seb began, but as he did, My Name Is Human begins to play on Lucy’s phone.

“Oh shit - it’s Thad. I just need… Sorry…” Lucy answered the phone. Seb’s eyes returned to the monitor, which had changed to something else entirely. Seb leaned back in his seat, his eyes glazing as his mind began to wander again. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when…

“Okay, sorry BFF. No more interruptions, what were you saying?” Lucy asked. But as she did, the door opened as Montague made his way inside looking incredibly happy with himself. A frustrated looking researcher glanced at Seb.

“We’re ready for you,” she said. Seb nodded and got to his feet, fastening his jacket.

“When you get back, we’ll pick up on what you were saying, okay?” said Lucy.

“Its okay,” said Seb with a smile. “It was nothing.”

Lucy reached out and took his hand and squeezed it. But Seb pulled it away, and followed the researcher out of the room.

---

Monica: “Up next, we bring you a remarkable story from the world of medical innovation. Towana Looney, a 53-year-old woman from Alabama, has just become the longest-living recipient of a genetically engineered pig kidney transplant.”

“Here to help us dive into her incredible story, we welcome Dr. Juliana Hawthorne, senior researcher in Xenotransplantation, bioethics professor Dr. Lena Rivers, Marcus Caldwell, a recipient of a genetically modified pig heart, and... of course... Sebastian Everett-Bryce, UGWC Cooperative Champion.”

Monica: “In the interest of hearing from our entire panel, I’m going to open the floor, but ask each of you to respect one another’s–”

Seb: “I’m sorry, did you just say he has a Pig’s heart?”

Monica: “Yes - it was a procedure that saved his…”

Seb: “People will put anything in their bodies these days - ask my BFF, she knows allllll about making inadvisable choices about what to put in your body.”

Monica: “What… That isn’t… This in entirely irrelevant…”

Seb: “Irrelevant? My two best friends gallivanting around the world like a pair of horny teenagers? I can assure you it’s relevant to almost every scenario you can think of.”

Monica: “How about the topic in hand… The genetically engineered Pig Kidney?”

Seb: “If it was genetically engineered, why is it a pig’s kidney? Why not a human?”

Dr. Rivers: “That is a fantastic ethical question which…”

Seb: “Quiet on set please. We’re recording a live television show…”

Seb rolled his eyes and Dr. Rivers looked mutinous.

Seb: “Sorry, Monica - you were saying?”

Monica: “I wasn’t saying anything…”

Seb: “Oof - that’s highly unprofessional Monica - dead air is a criminal offence in television.”

Monica: “No, I mean, I was trying to let Dr. Riv…”

Seb: “If you want to make it in the big leagues, you can’t be allowing dead air, Monica. Ironically, I learned that from Travis Pierce. You’ve heard of him I suppose? You media-types all know each other. Jobs for the boys and all that - and people call me privileged. Well anyway, Travis always used to do the most unprofessional things on his shows - so I learned that if I just did the opposite of what he would do, then I’d always come across as professional. This is a good example - I used to say something, and then he’d sit there in front of the camera, his mouth bobbing open and closed like a dead fish. Much like yours is now - thing is, he would always edit his TV shows so he looked like less of a moron. But you’re live, Monica. I don’t think you have that luxury.”

Monica: “...”

Seb breaks into a wide smile. Monica continues to stare at him with her mouth slightly agape.

Seb: “Ahhhh I see - star-struck. I understand that - I am, by far and away the biggest star that you’ve probably ever had on this show. Sorry BFF, but it’s true. Afterall, the reason that UGWC’s biggest event of the year was so successful this past December - not just the fact that Alan Wallace and I tore the house down with the undoubted match of the night, but just the very prospect of seeing me in action was enough to sell out the entire arena. AND they got to see me twice. TWICE. You know how special that is, right? What’s that Marvin?”

Seb held his hand to his ear. Marcus looks off camera and points to himself.

Marcus: “My… My name is Marcus?”

Seb: “You asked how did Horizons go for me personally? … Well… Shut up pig dick, no-one asked you.”

Marcus: “It’s a heart not a… a… a…”

Seb: “We can call it a Hastings if we’re not allowed to say dick on this network. That’s okay. I’ll be willing to accept that substitution.”

Monica: “Mr. Everett-Bryce, do you have ANYTHING to say about…”

Seb: “The upcoming match this week? Surely I do - the way I see it, Hastings, Pierce and Wallace have about as much chance of successfully mixing as Bleach and Rubbing alcohol - anyone know what that makes when mixed together?”

Seb begins to point around him to the various other talking heads on their screens. Dr. Hawthorne slowly, and with clear trepidation, raises her hand.

Seb: “Yes Dr. Pricklewhore?”

Dr. Hawthorne: “Chloroform?”

Seb: “Ten points to Hufflepuff - that’s right. Because the three of them together is going to put everyone the fuck to sleep. I can see it now - Alan Wallace stomping around swinging his dick like Thor’s hammer acting like he’s the picture of reserved modesty talking about how he knew he would win at Horizons but it was the fight of his life and I was such an incredible challenge, all while Travis Pierce sneers from the corner about how he’s the best member of his team despite having barely winning a relevant match since the last Trump administration. Then there’s Donovan “The Legacy” Hastings who will just continue to pontificate about how he’s the greatest Champion to grace UGWC and always will be - until he goes back into an awkward semi-hibernation for two years after he loses.”

The talking heads, the host, the producers, the audience have the appearance of a group of people watching a terrible car crash and having no physical capability of walking away.

Seb: “Here’s the deal - Lucy and Me? We’re the greatest Team in the history of this and any other company. Fact. We’re the best in the business. And if it was just us? I’d still like our chances. But it’s not, is it? We have a Doctor-Professor of our own. And whilst the Empire of Calamity and The Showman may not be much better of a mix than Alan, Donovan and Travis, the reaction will be so much more impressive. Because we’re going to blow… your fucking… faces off - you’ve been warned, gentlemen. See you on Monday.”

Seb smirks and winks at the camera, before turning to face Monica;’s direction - ever the professional.

Seb:”Monica - back to you in the studio.”

Seb gets to his feet and starts to pull out his ear-piece. But producers appear to try and keep him in his seat. Monica looks shell-shocked as she turns back to the camera.

Monica: “... I would just like to take a moment to… Apologise… For… Well everything that you’ve just seen there. We’re going to take a commercial break and when we come back, we’ll be moving on to our final story of the evening.”

The commercial credits begin to run, but Monica can very clearly be seen mouthing the words “What the fuck?” off camera.

---

Lucy’s attention continues to be taken by her phone - the seemingly ever-present smile, unphased by the fact that The Calamity was now spending some one-on-one time with the… Ahem… Professor of Who The Fuck Cares… Montague, however, seems to be surveying his soon-to-be partner with particular care. Leaning leisurely into his seat, one arm draped over the back, Montague makes no effort to gain Lucy’s attention.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not about to be on the receiving end of it.

“The fuck you looking at?” asked Lucy, glancing up from her phone briefly.

“Just taking everything in, Ms. Wylde,” said Montague. “I always like to have all the answers before questions start being asked.”

“What questions?” asked Lucy.

“About where your focus is - your Cooperative Championships? Your inevitable record-breaking World Heavyweight Championship victory? Our match this Monday?” asked Montague, with his mouth curling into a smirk. “Or perhaps it’s on that brain-rotting device in your hand, and the brain-rotting conversation that you’re inevitably having right now.”

“Listen fucker, you have no idea what you’re talking about.” said Lucy, scowling - and yet, as she replied, she dropped her phone to her side. Lucy climbed to her feet and stepped towards the Doctor-Professor who merely tilted his head in amusement. “You know, you might be able to make Seb believe that we can trust you - but I still think you’re a sneaky fuck, and I’d be just as happy if we took you out of the equation before we stepped out to the ring. I’d trust me and Seb on our own more than I trust you to do anything stood by our side.”

Montague shook his head, enjoying baiting Lucy.

“Poor Lucy - it must be awfully bleak living in a world where every glass is half-empty. Maybe you should take a leaf out of your partner's book. See the good in the world. See that people are capable of being more than what you expect them to be. Perhaps if you’d been able to look past the superficial, you wouldn’t have let Donovan steal the World Championship from you,” said Montague with a smile.

“Motherfu…” Lucy began, but she paused.

“Ahhh,” said Montague. “I sense I may have brushed an exposed nerve. But let me be perfectly clear - whatever you think of me, I respect this company and this business. And without a doubt, both you and Sebastian have been two of the most dominant superstars UGWC has ever seen. And whilst I may have no interest in your dull personal lives, I am very much respectful of your professional ones. And while I know you seem to think I’m merely wasting everyone’s time, I would very much like to take what Donovan Hastings holds - if for no other reason than just to see how he’d react.”

“So you want me to believe that the reason that you’re going to work with us is because you want to take the title from Hastings - and you want me to believe that you think that the best way to do that is to work with us rather than against us?” asked Lucy, with not just a little scepticism. “It’s not like we’re going to help you.”

“I neither want, nor need your help,” said Montague simply, raising his left hand, palm up. “I merely have no desire to stand side by side with the Lord of Pain and your next Cooperative opponents. On this most rare of occasions, I can say without doubt that… The Empire of Calamity are the chosen company in this upcoming carnival.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed, still suspicious, but her body language changed. She seemed less confrontational. She backed away slowly and returned to her seat, picking up her phone one more time.

“Just know that if you stab us in the back, I’ll smother you to death with your own top hat,” said Lucy. “Not a joke - a promise.”

“Heard and understood, Ms. Wylde,” said Montague as Lucy returned to her phone, and Montague glanced at the screen where the exasperated host is trying to take the show to a commercial break.

---

Monica: “Welcome back. In our next story, we’ll meet a hearty new microorganism capable of surviving in space. Scientists have dubbed it ‘Conan, the Bacterium.’”

“Please welcome our panel of experts…”

Monica: “Oh forget it!”

She hurries from her chair and abandons the broadcast completely.

MC82 - Pop'd

In the back room of the mysterious Blockbuster Video, Leroy wipes sweat off his brow with a violet handkerchief before stuffing it into the back pocket of his navy Dickies and sighs. He takes up his tools and dives back into the open glass case, clinking and clacking as he continues trying to repair the ancient popcorn machine.

The bolts and springs scattered across the white shop-cloths hint that the world’s last Blockbuster technician has had a long struggle today. The kettle lid pops free, clanging against the glass. Leroy bites back a curse, his fingers tightening around the wrench.

Before he can give up on the infernal machine, the sound of a hinges whining interrupts his frustration.

A utility closet stands in the south corner, its floor hatch now yawning open. Montague emerges, brushing away bits of grime and dust accumulated on his jacket during his trek through the tunnels that house Tragedia’s army of misfits. He pulls out an apple and takes a bite, emerging from the utility closet and into the back room with an easy smile.

Montague: Well well, look who’s tinkering away.

Leroy: Montague! You always know how to make an entrance.

Montague: The curtain never falls, my friend, not while we breathe. I thought I heard you were the only one who could handle a diva like this?

Montague gestures to the disassembled machine with a playful eyebrow raise. Leroy grimaces, running a hand through his thinning hair.

Leroy: This thing’s more stubborn than a mule, let me tell ya. Trying to bring it back from the brink.

The Showman narrows his eyes, appraising the machine without moving any closer.

Leroy: You here for Jacky? She’s out, probably at that town council shindig…

Leroy trails off as Monty moves closer to the machine without speaking. He hooks his fingers under the edge of the machine’s frame with a tenderness, as if afraid of hurting it. Holding with his left hand, he flicks at one of the rubber feet with his right, knocking loose a greasy wad of gray paper. He sets the machine down gently as Leroy moves to unravel the wad, revealing a faded, torn promotional poster for the direct to VHS release of Puppet Master II.

Monty steps back, his face unreadable. He strokes his goatee until finally, a flicker of “Eureka!” crosses his face. He steps up to the counter again and throws open several drawers beneath the popcorn machine.

Rifling through the unorganized collection he pulls out a DVD case with no insert and wedges it beneath the machine. Satisfied, Monty leans in to close the drawer with his hip, but suddenly freezes and turns to hold Leroy’s curious, if patient gaze. Leroy meets his eyes, brows knitting together in the center in a silent question. A slow smile spreads across Monty’s face as he holds up three plastic boxes that resemble old CD jewel cases.

Montague: Remember these?

Leroy leans back with folded arms, straightens up, then steps closer.

Leroy: GD-ROMs.

He chuckles, shaking his head.

Leroy: Three glorious days in the sun before everyone went DVD crazy.

The Mothman places one of the cases down next to the popcorn machine, his fingers lingering on the cover.

Montague: Oscar.

He breathes, his eyes wide with reverence.

Montague: This, my friend, is a lost treasure.

Leroy smiles gently, enjoying Montague’s excitement.

Leroy: I never really saw Sly as any sort of revered lead; what makes this one so special?

The Showman licks his lips, forcing himself to pull his loving gaze away from the GD-ROM cover. Reaching for the apple, he takes another bite as he searches for a way to explain.

Montague: I’m as much a cinephile as anyone, but my first love will always be live performance. It’s raw and precarious, without the benefits of clever editing and location establishment. That’s why, when a film comes along that could easily be improved with a stage adaptation, it carves a special place in my own personal criterion collection.

Leroy: I get it. It means the story and characters are strong enough to stand on their own, even without all the Hollywood bells and whistles.

Montague: Precisely! Reservoir Dogs, The Room, 127 Hours…these stories could be told live, through dynamic talent, with minimal set dressing or special effects. And this…

Monty gives in to the pull of the cover once again.

Montague: But this… Oscar is special. A gem, always overlooked by the dullards of modern cinema. And to find it on GD-ROM!

Leroy: You want it?

The Doctor-Professor blanks, blinking slowly as he rises to meet Leroy’s eyes.

Montague: ¿Es verdad?

Leroy: Sure! I was going to throw those out eventually anyway.

Hugging the case to his chest, Montague’s eyes grow heavy with water for a moment. He blinks them away and clears his throat as he mutters his thanks.

Leroy: Say, if you’re into obsolete media like that, I know a guy who has hundreds of EVDs from China.

Monty’s head tilts a bit as a small, contemplative smile crosses his lips.

Why does Donovan Hastings seem to spend more time in an executive’s office than in the ring? Review the UGWC archives from 2024, and you’ll find him sitting across the desk from the likes of Ooley, Peterson, and Deimos—not lurking like Fear, but boldly holding court as their equal.

And why not? Peterson is practically his mouthpiece in the Consortium, a puppet whose strings Hastings has been yanking for years. But here’s the kicker; the Immortal Lord isn’t content with merely influencing his own path. He’s advising on challengers for other champions as well. And he does so with impunity.

The entire fourth quarter of UGWC programming last year was essentially a Hastings production, and wouldn’t you know it? The year ended with Donovan Hastings as World Champion for the seventh time.

Seven.

And because of his self-serving manipulation, he hovers over the rest of us, ensuring that no one else gets near that milestone without first confronting him.

Does this mean Hastings actually runs UGWC? Is he the shadow puppeteer behind every major decision? Surely not. After all, that would mean his record-breaking success isn’t just the result of his so-called brilliance, but of blatant self-interest and unearned power.

Let me be clear: I don’t deny the man’s talent or his impact. The “Hastingsphere” is a testament to his ability to turn chaos into profit, and UGWC’s innovation owes no small debt to his machinations. But there’s a difference between influencing the industry and rigging it. While he cultivates an image as a shadowy think tank, his tactics are pure Elon Musk, ruthlessly applying selfish pressure. If Donovan Hastings craves power, then he should hang up his boots, sit behind a desk, and channel that intellect into shaping the future of this company—officially.

Instead, he clings to his captain’s hat, steering the ship while claiming he alone knows what’s best for the future. His legacy is already secure, yet, he continues to ensure the spotlight remains fixed on him, no matter the cost to UGWC’s integrity.

Donovan’s already achieved greatness, he doesn’t need to keep stacking the deck. He needs to know when to step aside and let the next act take the stage.

This fixation on a skewed perspective of legacy isn’t unique to Hastings, of course. It’s a plight shared by many of our elder statesmen.

Last week, I had the rare opportunity to tangle with one of those, as fleeting as it seemed with the distractions running about. Just a tease, really, but I trust the result also left Alan wanting more.

The Doctor-Professor recommends raising the stakes.

Why did Wallace accept Sebastian’s challenge? No need for an answer. He’s likely crafted an explanation that barely scratches the surface. Though I’ve had the misfortune of minimal interaction, it has afforded me the benefit of outside observation where Alan is concerned, and what I’ve noticed is that he didn’t truly feel danger to his legacy until Sebastian came knocking for retribution.

Losing to Lucy was one thing, but he’s recovered from a Calamity humbling before, as so many of us have had to. Alan has maintained a sparkling reputation despite it. But if Vain couldn’t go around the bend with Sebastian and come out on top on the biggest stage only one year later? That’s a ding to the ol’ legacy that might not buff out.

And so, he beautifully orchestrated a refresher lesson for the Empire. He’s a chessmaster when the stakes are at their highest, when something he treasures is in danger.

Wallace should combine his passions! There’s a timeworn idiom that says, ‘Your children are your legacy.’ And why shouldn’t they be? No need for his legacy to be split between his highly-decorated history and his growing family—he should bring them along! Let them see the head of the household building the foundation that will secure their future, all while instilling in them the skills and knowledge they’ll need to survive.

Will they face danger if Alan blends these worlds? They will, but it’s clear now—his best emerges when something he cherishes is at risk. And let’s be honest, doesn’t family deserve the best?

It’s unfortunate that we’ll once again have to share, even if it’s with a much more interesting opponent in Donovan, but I hope this is the beginning of a long and complex game.

Will they play along?

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