There’s always been a gap in professional wrestling.

Between what it is…

…and what it used to be.

Between a commercialized product…

…and something primal.

Something impromptu.

Unpredictable.

Violent.

The kind of wrestling that didn’t promise anyone a finish, just the possibility that something big might happen.

-versus today-

Centralized.

Formatted.

Refined.

Still talented as hell…

…but lacking something.

Something…ancient.

Something…with a soul.

Every once in a while…

that gap closes.

Not slowly.

Not carefully.

Suddenly.

Loud.

Undeniable.

-CLACK-

And then just as quickly…

it breaks open again.

Slips through your fingers.

Gone before you can name it.

-FLICK-

-CLACK-

-FLICK-

-CLACK-

The owner of XWF, Vincent Lane, flicks open an old lighter.

-FLICK-

Closes it.

-CLACK-

Again.

-FLICK-

Again.

-CLACK-

He leans back in his chair.

Legs kicked up.

Eyes locked on a television replaying the unsanctioned street fight between Frances Marigold and Kentucky.

The chair shots.

The screams.

The headbutts.

Again.

And again.

And again.

-CLACK-

Dude…

He shakes his head.

Half laugh.

Half disbelief.

…that’s the good stuff.

A beat.

…that’s real.

Across from him…

An uncomfortable looking Frances Marigold.

Not uncomfortable in the meek kind of way.

Rather he’s folded into the chair like it owes him money.

Not intimidated.

Not impressed.

Just…

wrecked.

Hungover.

Sweat running down through the dried blood on his forehead.

His hands gripping the armrests.

White-knuckled.

Not from fear.

But from staying upright.

It’s nostalgic for me- - -

Lane says, suddenly animated, turning and slapping a third man in the room on the back.

Hard.

The contract negotiator nearly folds over the desk.

- - -you know what I’m saying, right?

The man adjusts his glasses.

Straightens his tie.

Forces composure.

Ah-yes-well-the returns on Mr. Marigold’s match indicate a broader engagement across multiple audience segments-

He glances at Frances.

Pauses.

Recalculates.

…a… nostalgic preference for this… style of content.

Lane doesn’t even look at him.

Still watching the screen.

-FLICK-

-CLACK-

I knew it.

Slowly, a grin spreads across his lips.

Almost dangerous.

When I was a kid…

He leans forward.

Finally engaged.

you’d go to a VFW hall to watch the territory guys…

Sometimes you didn’t know if you were watching a match…

After a pause, his eyes flick to Frances.

Then back to the screen.

…or a problem.

-FLICK-

-CLACK-

Vincent stares at the lighter in his hand for a moment.

He doesn’t remember where it came from exactly.

He doesn’t even smoke.

It’s just some dusty relic he found laying around in the XWF memorabilia vault, but something that was hard to ignore.

Maybe it was a memento from a previous owner of the XWF or something.

A keepsake from one of the territories they bought out years ago.

He turns it over.

His thumb resting on the wheel.

-FLICK-

A small flame blooms from the butane and flint.

He watches it.

Not careful.

Not cautious.

Just…

thinking.

Y’know dudes…

He leans back again.

THe flame still burning.

…we don’t do enough stupid stuff anymore.

The contract negotiator freezes.

Sir, I would strongly advise against any phrasing that could be interpreted as-

Vincent waves him off without looking.

Relax.

Frances squints at the flame from across the table.

Eyes half-lidded.

Head pounding.

He leans forward slightly.

Like a moth.

Like a drunk.

Like both.

Hey.

A beat while he pulls a cigarette up to his lips.

…borrow your light?

Vincent smirks.

Slides the lighter across the table without breaking eye contact.

It spins a few times before stopping in front of Frances

Frances fumbles for it.

Misses the first time.

Grabs it the second.

Brings it up.

-FLICK-

The flame sputters to life.

He blinks at it.

Slow.

Confused.

Like he forgot what comes next.

The contract negotiator leans in, he seems tense.

Mr. Marigold, I must insist you exercise caution with-

Frances brings the flame toward his cigarette.

Misses.

Brings it closer.

Misses again.

The flame licks the edge of a stack of contracts on the table.

Nothing happens… until it does.

And then suddenly a tiny curl of smoke emerges.

Vincent watches.

Doesn’t move.

The negotiator notices first.

…sir?

The paper darkens and-

- - -FWOOMP- - -.

A small tongue of fire jumps up from the stack.

SIR.

Frances finally lights the cigarette.

He takes a long drag and lets out a satisfied exhale.

Thanks.

The fire spreads.

Slow at first.

Then not.

Vincent leans forward.

Eyes lighting up, not with panic as they should, but with interest.

Well I’ll be damned…

The negotiator scrambles to his feet.

FIRE! THERE IS AN ACTIVE FIRE ON THE CONTRACTUAL SURFACE-

He grabs a folder and starts smacking at it.

Making it worse.

Frances watches the flames.

Head tilting slightly.

Like he’s trying to remember something important.

Hey…

A beat.

…that smells like Memphis.

Vincent lets out a loud, genuine laugh

See?!

He points at the table that's now actively burning.

That’s what I’m talkin’ about

THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE TALKING ABOUT, SIR! WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE FINALIZING MR. MARIGOLD’S CONTRACT

The fire crawls across the surface, licking at the lacquer on the fancy tabletop.

Vincent stands up, his hands on hips, admiring the scene.

No no no... this is exactly it!

He looks at Frances.

Grinning.

Unplanned. Uncontrolled.

He pauses.

…we’re doing a flaming table match!

The negotiator freezes mid-panic.

…I’m sorry?

Frances takes another drag.

Looks at the fire.

Then at Vincent.

Then back at the fire.

Do I get paid extra?

Vincent doesn’t even hesitate.

Probably not.

Vincent looks at the contract negotiator,

Does he get paid extra?

Well, I’d love to answer that, but Mr. Marigold has literally set his brand new contract on fire!

Yeah. So probably not.

Frances nods.

Fair.

He flicks ash.

Right into the flames.

The table burns.

The room fills with smoke.

The negotiator is screaming for help.

Vincent is smiling.

Frances is smoking.

And nobody is putting the fire out.

-CLACK-

For a second…

it feels like something old found its way back.

-FLICK-

And it didn’t come to fit in.

It came to burn.
—----------

Later that night…

Frances Marigold is seated on the concrete floor this time, his back against a dented locker.

His trusty guitar leaning against a nearby wall. Still missing a string.

Cigarette dangling from his lip, ice-cold beer in his hand.

He squints into the camera.

Like he’s trying to remember why it’s there.

…Jordan Penn.

He nods.

Like that helped.

You got a lotta names, don’t ya?

A sip.

Director.

King.

Black Sheep.

Every-rett-Brise

He mispronounces it.

Doesn’t care.

Sheepy-sheepy-bah-bah-sheepy…hell, I seen your little parade, too.

He gestures vaguely upward.

Helicopters… masks… little fellas crawlin’ around on all fours…

He squints.

…what was that, a birthday party? Baby brother’s big day?

His crooked grin fades as quickly as it arrived.

You look like a man who needs a lotta people around him to feel like he’s in charge.

He taps his chest with the cigarette.

Ashes falling on his shirt. He doesn’t brush them off.

I ain’t never had that problem.

A pause.

He scratches his beard.

You talk like everything’s a plan.

Like you wrote it.

Like you sittin’ backstage somewhere… pullin’ strings from one of those goofy director chairs…

He wiggles his fingers, like a bad puppet motion.

…tellin’ everybody where to stand.

He leans forward.

Eyes a little clearer now.

You ever been somewhere there ain’t no backstage, Jordan?

Silence.

No script.

No camera.

No boys wearin’ costumes to make you feel important. No Charlie Nickles draggin’ your fancy ass across the line…

No… what is it… brother… twin? whatever…

No one else’s shine to stand in.

He exhales smoke.

Slow.

Just a room fulla people… waitin’ to see if you make it out.

The line feels heavy, like Frances is casting out for a big fish

But then he immediately ruins it

I got stabbed once behind a Dairy Queen.

He chugs at his beer

…wasn’t even over nothin’ good neither.

He nods like that proved something.

You ever been stabbed, Jordan?

He squints harder.

…or do you got a guy for that?

He lets out a wet, ugly chuckle and takes another chug, missing his mouth a little.

You think you’re dangerous cause you like pain?

He shrugs.

That’s cute.

Tapping his temple.

I forget to stop.

He leans forward again.

Closer now.

You hurt people because it makes you feel somethin’.

I hurt people because I don’t.

All that money… all that power… all them little masks…all that shitty scream-o music…

He gestures again.

You still gotta convince people you’re in charge.

I seen what happens when it’s just you out there in the ring.

Ain’t much left, is there?

When the chips are down, and Jordan Penn is all on his lonely… he’ll fold quick as fuck.

Frances shakes his head.

You’re one shitty self-proclaimed Director, Jordan Penn.

And me?

Well they’ve been calling me an Outlaw…

You know the difference between us?

Outlaw ain’t somethin’ you frame.

Ain’t somethin’ you film.

Ain’t somethin’ you plot, and brand, and curate for an audience.

He jabs the cigarette toward the camera.

It’s what’s left…

…when nobody’s comin’ to help you.

He lets those words hang

Then of course he ruins it.

He grabs his guitar.

Strums it wildly.

Out of tune.

YOU GOT A WHOLE LOTTA PEOPLE, JORDAN!

BUT YOU AIN’T GOT NO FIGHT!

YOU’RE JUST A SHEEP IN WOLF'S CLOTHING, JORDAN!

He stops.

Looks down at the guitar.

…that didn’t sound right. The subject sucks.

He tosses it aside.

Leans in one last time.

Quiet now.

You think you run things, huh? You’ve even got some gold to prove it to yourself, huh? Good thing for you that it ain’t on the line…

A pause.

…because Monday…

A grin creeps in. Slow. Mean.

…I’m gonna strip away everything else you got.

Every mask.
Every made-up persona.
Every desperate little name you carry around like it means something.

And then?

I’m setting it all on fire, boy.

He flicks the cigarette.

It hits the floor.

Still lit.

He doesn't stomp it... he just lets it burn.

Watching that smoke curl up, nice and slow... like it's go nowhere else to be.