Desert Sex Reunion Tour & Stud Experience: Desert Sex vs Nickles & Makel

[Alex Smiley]

This is the place where the burritos--I mean roleplays--go.

Hype: Scorpio and Aaron Roberts are getting the band back together, declaring Desert Sex as the truest experts ever known...but former True Experts Georgie Nickles and Sandy Makel might have something to say about that.

RP Deadline: May 27, 2018 - 11:59PM Eastern

[Quadzilla]

Black. Like all good openings of everything, pretty much ever. D. WONG PRODUCTIONS.... Now we're talking! The black fades and we are greeted by the sight of two grown men, either having some incredibly rough sexual encounter, or they're fighting. Yes, they're fighting. The larger man has just been forced down by his smaller, slightly feminine opponent. Who then clambers on top, and the third man (this is saucy), pats the mat three times. We then fade to see the two men embrace and upset, it appears the big dude, handsome as he is, has to say goodbye. He walks up the ramp and the screen fades.

PRESENT DAY

We re-open to a man sat in what appears to be an editing suite of some kind, his well groomed hair, glasses and impeccable skin shine through. He adjusts to make himself comfortable and starts to talk to the camera.

MA: My name is Marc Abrigo. For a long time, I worked behind the scenes in the global wrestling promotion TFWF. Whilst working there on the creative side, I had a job unlike any other in the company. I ended up as a musician in the wrestling band, Desert Sex.

The screen transitions to a montage of clips, all equally terrible. The two guys fighting earlier, it transpires were both in the band, and one-time best friends. We see several cheesy videos, bad hair and even worse dress sense. The scene climaxes with the smaller member of the duo shooting fireworks from a guitar shaped like a penis. Yes, this really happened.

MA: We're here today, because after six years and rumours of a reunion bubbling through my contacts, I wanted to see what happened to the man who lost his career in 2012. One half of Desert Sex, and a man with a most unusual exaggerated sense of his own self-importance, vanity, and worst of all, his genetalia. "The Cobra", Aaron Roberts.

Marc adjusts in his chair, apparently feeling uncomfortable. The room he's in is bright and doesn't appear claustrophobic, he however does not seem to feel at ease.

MA: Allow me to start with the band... Desert Sex was probably the greatest period of my life. Oh, don't get me wrong, the band was terrible. But I'd literally never played an instrument before, and -- I'm being completely serious here -- I was absolutely the most talented person in that group.

Marc exhales, his LucasFilm T-Shirt sagging with his breath.

MA: I'd learned off of YouTube what a 'fret' was on a guitar, and when I tried to show Aaron, he kept saying, 'No need to be nervous, mate!' To this day, I can't say for sure that Aaron ever knew his guitar needed to be plugged in. The truth be told, maybe that was actually a blessing. He couldn't have played a tune if they'd tied him up and threatened to make him watch Kliq matches on repeat. It was that bad.

Marc shakes his head, clearly torn between fond memories and deep, repressed memories. We assume it's more likely the latter.

MA: Anyway, with this in mind, I thought it would be interesting to see whatever happened to Aaron, he went off the radar after Death or Glory, and there many rumours. He joined a cult, he started a cult, he was a swinger, he started a swingers club. At one point I heard he was selling bathroom cleaning products in a shirt and tie... Heh. The objective of this film is to find the man they called "The Cobra", and establish what really happened after he lost his career, and what brings him out of the shadows now, for one night only?

Marc turns to the desk full of computing and editing equipment on his right, and picks up a sheet of paper, he quickly flicks through the content to remind himself, before looking again at the camera.

MA: We first caught up with Aaron in early 2013, a little after six months following his exit from TFWF. For the first time ever, now you can see what happened.

The scene transitions to a quaint countryside village in rural England, we see Marc, this time wearing a shirt and trousers walking towards a large gothic-era home, the camera moving in line with the steps the cameraman is taking.

MA: So we're here in Gloucestershire, England to catch up with TFWF Hall of Famer Aaron Roberts after his retirement at last year's Death or Glory, he seemed keen to talk when I offered him the chance so let's see what he has to say.

Marc approaches a gate, opens the steel latch and walks into an overgrown garden. It would appear to us as though the grounds are not being maintained. Marc battles through foliage and overgrown grass to get to the front door. A large wooden door, with a knocker in the shape of a cobra. It would appear, that we are in the right place. Marc knocks loudly three times.... And we wait. We wait a bit more and Marc knocks again. He looks to the camera and gives a quizzical "I don't know" look. He is about to knock again when the door is pulled open in dramatic style.

AR: MAXIMILLIAN! How are you?! It's great to see you still have that dreadful dress sense! Come on in to The Cobra's palace!!

Aaron is wearing an over the top elaborate smoking jacket, his dark hair needs cutting, and he looks as though he hasn't slept for about three weeks, give or take a couple of hours.

MA: My name is Marc...

Aaron drags Marc inside and there's trash everywhere. Bottles of booze, pieces of clothing, a bronze statue of Aaron dressed in a toga adorns the full focus of the entrance hall. Last time we checked, Aaron wasn't old enough to live in Ancient Rome, but these are strange times we live in. So, to each their own.

The two men walk into a large reception room, possibly worse than the toga statue, is a huge portrait of Aaron above the fireplace. He is sat atop a grizzly bear with wings and is holding a sword. Beneath the bear are a few familiar faces from the TFWF. Strangest of all, is Aaron's left hand, which is holding a severed penis.

MA: That's quite the painting...

AR: It's beautiful isn't it Maximillian? It shows the struggle of being held back by the man and having one's balls gripped by the chains of oppression. Deep inside the painting you'll find struggle, torment, and a sexual being on a level far above anything someone like you would ever have experienced.

MA: It's just you on a bear with wings, holding a cock and a sword. Isn't it a bit... I don't know, it's almost as though – As if you're trying to prove something?

AR: Nonsense!! The Cobra grabs life by the balls and he pulls tight!! You only need to ask the fourteen ladies in The Cobra's bed last night what he's all about!!

MA: I see...

At this moment there's a thud behind us. The camera pans and we see a woman, probably in her early fifties dressed in a cocktail dress. She looks dishevelled and moderately embarrassed as she picks up her belongings she clearly just dropped.

AR: Here's one now Maximoo! Diamond darling, tell Maximillian about how much fun you had last night with the nine-inch jackhammer of justice!!!

D: When are you going to pay me what you owe?

AR: Errm, ahem. Call me later baby, love you!!

D: Whatever, dickhead.

Diamond walks out of the house, clearly certain she isn't getting paid for services rendered anytime soon.

Aaron looks to try and shrug off what just happened, but it's clear Marc has questions.

AR: Don't. The Cobra knows what you're thinking... You're thinking how could you land a woman like that?

MA: Actually, I was wondering if you now have herpes...

AR: Is she a friend of yours?

MA: ... Shall we, move on?

AR: A lay a day keeps the pipes from freezing over. That's what they say!!

MA: That's not a saying, and whoever they are. That's not what they say.

AR: Whatever Max, do you want to see The Cobra's vision board?

MA: Vision board?

AR: Yes Maximillian! The vision board! Where the Cobra is going to be in six months' time!!!!

MA: Sure, let's see this vision.

AR: Follow me!

Aaron stands and hurries towards an adjacent room. This room is smaller than the reception room and there isn't any grandiose terrible art or statues, so that's nice. The room appears to be an office, and a laptop and phone are on a desk near the window, and on the wall is a notice board. With some terribly hand drawn images that appear to determine what's happening for Aaron in the next six months.

AR: Here Maximillian!! Look! Right now, The Cobra is recording his debut solo album, who needs those terrible musicians when you can have out and out talent like The Cobra?! Then, that will sell 37 copies, and that will pay for The Cobra's round the world holiday to London, Southend-On-Sea and Peterborough. Then The Cobra can retire richer than he ever dreamed!!!!

MA: I'm not convinced—

AR: Nonsense! Look Maxaroo, The Cobra sings a couple of tunes, he plays a couple of tunes, he signs some autographs, he smashes some hoochies, he looks himself in the mirror and... Yeah... The Cobra is the greatest gift that ever did come to planet earth.

MA: When did you last get a good nights sleep?

AR: Sleep is for the weak! Who needs sleep when you can have coffee, red bull and these little blue tablets that make the nine inch stallion with Valium stand up for hours at a time?!

MA: Well, honestly – I think you maybe need to take a few days and chill. You seem buzzed and it appears that leaving the TFWF left you with a lot of time and.... Space?

AR: TFWF, who needs it? Not The Cobra.

MA: Yeah, but you've not really been up to much since you retired...

AR: Maxidoodah, The Cobra has plenty of cash stowed away for a rainy day, don't you worry about that.

MA: Ok whatever you say. For now, I think we should take a break and meet again soon. You're clearly busy here.

AR: The Cobra is an artiste, and an impeccable lover. Go forth young Maximillian and do you. If you see that bastard Pedro at any point you tell him The Cobra hasn't forgiven him.

MA: You mean Michael? Last I heard he'd set up an online business and was making huge waves...

AR: HE KNOWS WHAT HE DID!!!!!!! Look, it's too much. The Cobra can't talk about it, if you see him, you tell him he is not forgiven.

MA: Okay... Well Aaron it's been, interesting. Let's meet again soon...

AR: Bonjour mon ami!

Aaron leaves the room with gusto, as if he has somewhere to be. Marc looks at the camera, exhales and looks mildly disturbed.

The scene transitions again back to a montage, this time to a series of empty halls and autograph signings where images of Aaron not entertaining anyone are clear. Things look bleak for The Cobra. Marc narrates the entire scene.

MA: Following the initial meeting, Aaron did release an album, if you could call it that. It would be fair to say it was not well received and frankly – It was terrible. Aaron paid for a tour that sold four tickets and my research leads me to believe he signed two autographs, one of those to himself. During the latter stages of 2013, he'd run out of money from his TFWF days and was declared bankrupt. The cocktail of whatever he was on when we met earlier that year clearly took a toll. I reached out to Aaron towards the end of 2013 but got no response. To that end, I reached out to his former manager, Michael. A man who had taken to his post-wrestling career with gusto. Now operating a successful online retailer. I met him in New York, where he happened to be on business.

We again transition to New York, a brief show of the familiar skyline and the buzz the city has. We quickly settle inside an office where Marc is sat across a desk from Michael, the man who used to be Desert Sex' PA. He is wearing a high-quality suit and the office is decorated with clearly the finest material. Michael is well groomed and looks a world apart from the man that used to be bullied by Aaron and Scorpio.

MA: Michael, thank you so much for meeting us. I guess I'll cut straight to the point, what happened after Death or Glory and the career vs career match between Aaron and Scorpio?

M: Marc, it was bizarre. I'd been on this ride with those guys, they treated me like shit sure, but the whole experience was a great learning curve for me. That night, Scorpio triumphed and as Aaron technically was my boss I was out of a job too. I took the pay cheque and used it to fund a start-up. Today I sell coffee to people that's been dyed, so you can drink every colour of coffee you ever imagined. It turns out, people are stupid!

MA: Ha so it seems. So, have you had any contact at all with either Aaron or Scorpio since that night?

M: Aaron did find out the phone number to the office and called a fair few times. But it was always in the middle of the night and he'd leave these long, rambling messages. "Scorpio wants the band back together", "Why does nobody love me?", "Pedro where is my croissant?". He sounded to me like a broken man.

MA: The Pedro thing, he repeatedly called you that....

M: He paid me well and at that moment it was a good gig, it was annoying, and he clearly thought he was above the little people, but today I feel kind of bad for the guy. I did try to reach out but when I did his phone was dead. I truthfully worry that now the TFWF is gone, he might never recover. He was a dick sometimes, but I think deep down his heart was well placed.

MA: Who knows... Look Michael, I understand you're busy, but thank you for your time. If we manage to catch up with Aaron, I'll let you know. Good luck with everything.

M: Cheers guys.

The scene fades back to the studio, Marc is still sat and poised to address us once more.

MA: After the meeting with Michael, it seemed we wouldn't get hold of Aaron and that the project, this project was destined to fail. It was almost three years before we heard anything. When I discovered what had become of a former TFWF superstar I was shocked. Just watch this.

The scene fades, and we see a clean shaven, short hair Aaron driving a car, we can't be sure from here, but the car doesn't look very spacious, and it certainly doesn't look expensive. Aaron is wearing a shirt and tie.

MA: So Aaron, it's good to see you again. Today in 2016 what exactly is it that you've been up to since we last saw you?

AR: I had a bit of a mental breakdown to be honest.

MA: I was worried about how things were, what are you doing today?

AR: Well, after my issue I spoke with numerous charities, doctors, priests... It turns out Marc that I definitely had an ego problem, and that I probably don't have a nine-inch penis.

MA: Thanks for that...

AR: Today I am selling high quality bathroom products to businesses. Top of the line things. Cleaner, toilet roll, air freshener. It's probably the best thing that ever happened to be honest.

MA: Didn't you win the intercontinental title once?

AR: That's all in the past. Today I like to try and sell some Shitaway, then go home to my modest apartment, read the paper and get a good nights sleep.

MA: That sounds awful.

AR: It's the Glos Vegas Dream Marc... Honest...

MA: So, you haven't considered stepping back in the ring?

AR: No. Never. I had a great eight years with TFWF, but that ship sailed and caused me a lot of emotional problems I never truly recovered from. I don't ever picture doing it again.

MA: Well Aaron, that's a shame.

The scene fades, and we are now talking to a middle-aged man in a suit, his face looks tired and his hair is greying. He looks unimpressed to be speaking with our plucky protagonists.

AR: And that way, the Shitaway will save you hundreds of pounds a year.

MAN: I am not interested in whatever cheap, knock off shit you're trying to sell. I have a supplier and they are not some tin pot outfit working out of the boot of a car!!!

AR: But the flavours—

MAN: GET OUT OF MY BUILDING!

The angry businessman storms off leaving Aaron looking quite dejected. He turns away and starts to head towards the exit. At this point, a guy walks through the door Aaron is heading toward. He stops and stares at Aaron.

DUDE: Are you Aaron Roberts?

AR: Yes?

DUDE: The Cobra???

Aaron suddenly looks a lot more interested in what the dude has to say.

AR: Yes. Are you a fan? Want a picture?

DUDE: Nah mate, you were fucking shit. Hahahahaha.

With that, the dude walks off. Aaron looks at the floor, his face tightens. He ejects a long breath and walks out of the building.

Back inside the car, Aaron clearly looks uncomfortable.

MA: That was uncomfortable.

AR: He'll come around. They'll call in a week to test some of the air freshener...

MA: I meant the guy...

AR: Hater Marc. Everyone's a hater...

Aaron looks dejected as he turns the ignition and starts to drive away. Marc looks unsure as to what he should say. The scene fades.

We cut back into the studio and Marc is there once again. He looks straight to the camera.

MA: With that meeting, the bungling terrible salesman, and the rejection of a TFWF fan. Aaron looked lost and alone. After that day in 2016 I decided we couldn't air the footage as it was too much. To see a guy fall from grace and apparently not yet reach rock bottom. It was a shock, and as someone I would consider an associate. It was distressing to see.

Marc adjusts in his chair.

MA: So imagine my surprise, when a few weeks ago I get a call telling me that Desert Sex are reuniting for one night only at The Experts Invitational, Chaos Reigns. I thought it was a hoax, but I got the details so I could contact Aaron to find out what had happened and what had changed his mind after that day in the car.

The scene changes again. This time we're inside a gym, there's a worn wrestling ring in the centre and surrounded by weight machines, cardio equipment and the usual stuff you expect to see in a gym. Aaron is doing some shadow boxing near a mirror when Marc approaches. Dressed in athletic gear and his old TFWF shirt, he looks in shape and ready to go, quite the contrast from the last time Marc saw him two years ago.

MA: Aaron! What the hell? What's happened here?

AR: MAXIMILLIAN!! Your dreams have come true!! The genetically superior, nine-inch totem pole of wisdom toting, rugged, handsome, incredibly funny and most of all modest entertainer the world has ever seen is back!!!!

MA: I hear you're reuniting with Scorpi-

AR: SCORPSAROODADOO! Let The Cobra tell you Maxadingaling, The Cobra stared at the abyss and the abyss stared right back. But oh boy, The Cobra met this beautiful Russian strumpet from the internet and she changed his life!!!

MA: You got a girlfriend?

AR: Technically a bride, and she stayed in St. Petersburg, and The Cobra never met her. And she took his money... And he lost his apartment.... But she did something magical Max!

MA: Robbed you blind?

AR: She gave The Cobra his spark back!!! So, The Cobra looked in the mirror, he said "Ain't no party like a Cobra party!" and he set to work. Clang, bang, find the chicks, nail the chicks, fix his hair and get back into the body of the peoples champion. The man the world missed!! THE COBRA MAXIMILLIAN!!!

MA: And now you're entering the one night only show in Siberia?

AR: The Cobra got a call, some guy calling himself Matt, Mart, Miff...

MA: Michael?

AR: PEDRO!!! That's the twat!

MA: What did he say?

AR: He said, and The Cobra quotes.... "Sir Cobra, greatest of all time, legend of sexy and master of love. There's this thing and Scorpio's going, and he thought you could get the band back together...."

MA: And?

AR: The Cobra said STOP YOURSELF PEDRO. The Cobra hears, he hears the roar of ALLLLLL the Cobramaniacs worldwide!! He hears the chanting, the wishing, the praying. So The Cobra put down his bottle of gin, he turned off the Elton John. He stood up, he did raise forth an eyebrow, and he did say.... How much are they paying?

MA: You what?

AR: Maximillian... The Cobra needs to eat, sure he gets mad pussy, but he can't get enough protein know what The Cobra is saying??

MA: Wow you really are back...

AR: EVEN BETTER NEWS MAXAROO, The Cobra has a match, and they've put him in the ring with two and a half women!!!!!

MA: Two and a half women?

AR: Well Scorpio is basically half woman. There's that chick Georgie who used to follow The Cobra around like a lost lustful puppy. She knows the nine-inch genetic jackhammer of justice is what she wants!!!!!

MA: But Sandy Makel....

AR: Is probably a fine looking woman herself!! She's hanging around that Georgie chick with the legs and the face and the breasticles....

MA: I don't think-

AR: SILENCE MAXATRON! This chick Sandy can join the queue, The Cobra's fan club has skyrocketed seven percent since Svetlana left him!

MA: How many people?

AR: The Cobra's mother, The Cobra's cousin John and Scorpio.

MA: Seven percent?

AR: John gained a few pounds...

MA: ...But...

AR: It doesn't matter Maxi-pad. What matters is that The Cobra is looking hench. He has the billions and trillions of Cobramaniacs worldwide. The Cobra has a killer tan and he's going to have two and a half chicks in that ring. Scorps on one side. The bionic lesbians on the other. The Cobramaniacs screaming and running wild. Then The Cobra is going to do what he does best Max Headroom...

MA: Beat them up?

AR: Rock their bloody socks off!!! The Cobra bought himself this new guitar... Well he borrowed it without permission, but he'll give it back. He's going to stand there and Georgie will get on her knees, Sandy will follow. The two chicks will beg The Cobra to play just one more time. Then The Cobra is going to sing 9-5 by Dolly Parton.

MA: What?

AR: The chicks dig Dolly Maximillian.

MA: But what about the match?

AR: The Cobra will kick some ass, kiss some ass, kiss some babies, sign some autographs, high five Scorps and go home with a big ass pay cheque!!!!

MA: So this is just a one-time deal?

AR: Max..... They couldn't afford The Cobra more than once!!! Three hundred dollars they're paying The Cobra!! THREE HUNDRED!!!! That's like fifteen lap dances!!!!! And The Cobra knows all about lap dances. He has a nine inch-

MA: Yeah, yeah I got it. So you really think this match will be that straightforward?

AR: Sure Maximillian, Georgie and Sandy probably think they're the toughest chicks in their yoga group or something, and they probably are. But they're chicks Maxaroo. Little sexy, beautiful women... And The Cobra? Well just look at him Max!!! He's all muscle, steel and sex appeal!!! Two chicks won't beat up The Cobra unless he's paying them to do it!!!!

MA: You haven't realised that Sandy...

AR: Sandy bla blah... The Cobra doesn't care where she comes from, what she's seen. Who she had to cuddle to get her place at The Cobra's dinner table. Maximillian, you have been a solid ally of The Cobra. So The Cobra is going to promise you this. You come to the show, which they'll probably rename "Comeback of The Cobra" by the time it's happening. You watch The Cobra get in the ring, you watch him tease the little women that they may have just a hint of a chance against The Cobra... And then BAM!! It's goodnight Maximillian. Because The Cobra will be victorious on his swan song.

MA: You're confident.

AR: Maxidizzle. The Cobra is The Cobra, come on... You're not looking at a pencil neck dweeb who can't sell toilet tissue to some dickhead in a suit! You're looking at the genetically superior chick magnet from Glos Vegas!! You're looking at a walking, talking, sexual healing legend Maximillian!!!! The Cobra will walk in the ring, he'll do his thing for the Cobramaniacs, and then he'll leave. Him and Scorps will party like it was 1999 and then the world as you know it will be right and sane once more. The Cobra is BACK Max Payne. Nothing can stop the legend, nothing will measure up to the legend... And if you're wondering Max Girth.... That's a nine-inch genetic super soaker with a high-pressure hose!!!

MA: Vivid...

AR: Maxapoo, do The Cobra a favour. You go speak to the women, you make sure they know The Cobra is coming fully loaded and ready to rock and roll. They can do their makeup and nails and look pretty, but they need to ask themselves if they're ready to step it up with the legend. Georgie may be super-hot and a bit of a creepy stalker of The Cobra and that's fine. This new Sandy chick may be equally hot. But The Cobra doesn't discriminate when it comes to kicking ass and chewing gum. And right now Max, he wants to chew some ass.

MA: Oh... I see. Do you have anything else to add?

AR: When it's all said and done. When the smoke clears, and The Cobra's hand is raised and the Cobramaniacs are screaming his name... "Cobra... Huge Cock.... Cobra.... Best Guy Ever... Cobra.... Big Juicy Arms...." The death and destruction of two chicks at the hands of the legend and his mate Scorpio. MaxBot 3000, Desert Sex rides again. The Cobra is in the hot seat and he's shooting for the danger zone. If the two chicks aren't ready.... They're getting decimated and put back in history and The Cobra's statue will finally be erected in Glos Vegas.... Hehe.... Erect...."

MA: Well Aaron, I think you've said a lot. Some insightful comments, and it's refreshing to see you're back to what we assume is normal... I guess thanks for the time and being here today, and good luck in Siberia.

AR: The Cobra needs no luck. He needs a big bowl of blue M&Ms, a hand-crafted mojito made with the rum of a thousand year old monk, and a face massage. The Cobra will rise once more Max Damage, the world will know. The Cobra rises, like a call to arms or a happy ending. The Cobra and Scorpio will reunite, and they will be victorious. See you in Siberia, Nebraska!!

MA: It's Siberia, Russia.

AR: Details shemales Maxatron. Be well!!

Aaron turns and starts shadow boxing again. Marc looks at the camera with a quizzical look on his face.

The camera fades and back in the studio Marc look at the camera once more.

MA: Well, there you have it. In a weird and frankly bizarre journey. We've seen a man go from his psychotic break, through a dead-end job and seemingly back again. He's unusual and he's certainly one of a kind. We will see Aaron Roberts once more teaming up with Scorpio. In some ways it's like they never left, and in some ways maybe they probably should have stayed away. I'm Marc Abrigo, thank you for watching.

The camera zooms slightly out as the credits roll and we gradually fade to black.

END

[Russ]

Comeback of the Century

Our scene opens on a theatre in London's West End. It's night time, but the street is still bustling with tourists coming for the shows, peddlers selling their wares, and party-goers stumbling from bar to bar. We settled on the glittering lights spelling out "Life's A Drag - The Newest Sensation!" across the theatre's display. To the side, down an alleyway, a small crowd is gathered nervously awaiting the arrival of the show's star. Many fans are in wildly-coloured wigs, some are sporting over-sized sunglasses and earrings, and others are wearing t-shirts displaying the main attraction's time as a professional wrestler in an attempt to show the longevity of their dedication.

"Excuse me, step aside... make way!"

The voice of a security guard cuts across the crowd, whose excitement grows even further. They step back from the door and many bring out phones, ready to snap a selfie with their hero. The door opens and screams erupt as out steps the star steps out - a twinkling pink gown adorning his body, a luxurious blonde wig flowing down his shoulders, his face made-up to perfection. He smiles and blows a kiss to his adoring fans, stopping to pose for photographs with many of them as he goes. One fan begins to cry at finally meeting her idol, and he stays by her offering comforting words; another steps forward for a hug, and he nonchalantly waves off the security guard's attempts to intervene, embracing the fan with true warmth and love. Finally he reaches the end of the aisle between the crowd where his car is waiting, and another security guard opens the door. He blows a kiss to the crowd and curtsies to them all, daintily holding his gown's skirt, before carefully climbing into the back seat.

"The usual route, Miss Crème?"

Crème de la Crème nods his head and smiles, relaxing into the back seat of the car. He couldn't believe how successful the show had been; everybody had told him it would fail, nobody wanted a drag queen on the West End any more, it was an old tired art form. It was sold out every single night, crowds gathered at the stage door to see him leave every single night, the reviews were outstanding every single night.

Crème gives one last wave to the fans before his car begins to pull away, gently turning left onto the main road. The glittering lights from the theatre fronts wash through the windows as the drag queen stares out of the window, up at the display of his own show; his name up in lights, his face six feet tall on the posters, tourists snapping selfies next to his image. Crème de la Crème was a star, he was a household name, the wrestler in the dress who sung on stage seven nights a week. A smile forms over his rogue lips and his eyes rest on the theatre's doors as one opens. A man in dark clothing steps out, the hood of his navy blue jacket covering his light brown hair; he speedily works his way down the stairs, his beaten trainers barely making contact with the concrete before he descends the next step. The figure reaches the car and opens one of the back doors, climbing in next to Crème. He clips on his belt and turns to the glittering star, pulling down the hood of his jacket.

Crème de la Crème: "Another wonderful show, if I say so myself."

The man smiles and sighs as the car pulls away into the London traffic. Crème rests a hand on the man's knee, a comforting and friendly gesture. One in a glittering pink dress and inches of make-up, the other as plain and monochromatic as could be; the two cut a perfectly juxtaposed scene. Crème turns to face his friend who in turn meets his gaze.

Crème de la Crème: "And I know I've said it every night since we opened, but thank you. The music, the lyrics, the choreography, it's all yours and you've made it fabulous. Thank you, John."

John gives a warm smile to his friend, and pats Crème's manicured hand gently.

John: "I put together some dance moves and wrote some lines that rhyme, they're nothing without the star giving them energy and meaning on the stage. You've made the show what it is today, you've made it Olivier-Nominated. You've made you a star."

Crème nods his head meekly and sighs deeply.

Crème de la Crème: "You know, I've always been uncomfortable with how one-sided this partnership is. It's our show..."

John: "My days in the limelight are done, darling. I'm happy being 'writer' or 'producer'. Honestly... I'm happy."

Crème de la Crème: "So you say. Listen, I got an interesting phone call yesterday. Looks like they're putting together a little... reunion..."

He turns to John, who immediately looks away, first down at his feet, then out of the window. His left hand clenches against his own thigh as his head rests in his right hand. For a few seconds there is a tense silence in the back of the car as it passes through the central London scenery. Crème looks despondent as he drums his fuschia false nails against the car seat.

John: "... 'they'?"

Crème de la Crème: "The Experts."

John: "What have I said? What have I said for five years?!"

Crème de la Crème: "I know! I know, he's gone, you're just John the writer and producer of a drag act. I know! But five years is a terribly long time darling. The world is so grey and plain without a little glitter in it..."

John: "That's why we cover you in false eyelashes and hip pads and send you out to sing 'I Will Survive' every night a week plus Saturday matinée. I was the glitter in the grey, and now it's you."

John begins to shake his head slowly, staring down into the darkness of the foot-well. He'd packed his tights and boots away five years ago, he'd embarked on another career, his past was fully in the past.

John: "I've said it before Crème, and I'll say it again. He's dead. Scorpio is dead. I write drag shows, I choreograph dancing, and I keep my head down. Fucking hell I leave the theatre by a different exit to avoid the fans. Please Crème, leave him dead."

At first Crème goes to make a response, before sighing and thinking better of it. Slowly he pulls his curly blonde wig off, resting it in his lap, feeling defeated. He looks to his side as the man once known as Scorpio stares out of the window, street lights intermittently illuminating his face. He isn't crying, he isn't angry, he isn't smiling; he's simply staring. For five years since the Last Monster Standing he had lived as a normal man, a writer and producer, in normal clothes, with nothing but a light layer of foundation covering his handsome face. For five years his hair had been a regular colour. For five years nobody had screamed his name. For five years he hadn't felt the pain of a night fighting for his life in a wrestling ring.

For five years he had been fine. And fine was good enough.

*****

"Stay still, we're almost done contouring ok..."

We open a few days later as Crème de la Crème stares at his face in a mirror surrounded by lightbulbs. Backstage at the 'Life's A Drag' theatre he smiles and closes his eyes, while John paints foundation along his cheeks, creating fierce and bold lines. He steps back and admires his handiwork, before adding another layer of black eye shadow to Crème's face. The drag queen keeps his eyes closed as John picks up the hair net designed to keep his own hair down, carefully taping it to Crème's forehead. He then selects a large, white-blonde wig, and lowers it into place. He applies the glue around the edges and steps back, taking in the image of the transformed former wrestler.

John: "Et voila!"

Crème opens his eyes and takes in the view, paying careful attention to the new accentuation of his cheekbones. He smiles widely and turns back to his partner in crime, winking.

Crème de la Crème: "It's fabulous! Honestly I love it. Well done!"

John: "I thought we could change it up. Right... three minutes to show time... you best get going."

Crème gets to his feet, a large black evening gown tumbling into place, its fur-lined edges resting on the floor. He places one hand on his hip and stretches out the other, staring into the middle distance like an old Hollywood diva. John gives a nod of approval and Crème lifts the hem of his gown, slipping his feet into some severe silver stilettos. He turns around as John spritzes him with perfume, completing the outfit.

John: "Knock 'em dead, darling."

The drag queen pouts and blows a kiss to his friend, who replicates the move. Crème turns and pushes through the dressing room door, his heels clipping their way down the corridor, eventually fading to silence. John stares at the closed door and sighs heavily, falling into the chair Crème had been sat in previously. He gazes at himself in the mirror and reaches out, tracing his own features with a finger. This was a face that used to stand twenty feet tall on billboards. This was a face that inspired millions of fans around the world. This was a face that would strike genuine fear into the hearts of some of the best wrestlers on the planet. Now look at it... sombre, plain, in the shadows shying away from the limelight.

The click and creak of the door opening again takes John away from his thoughts. He quickly drops his finger from the mirror and pulls his phone out of his pocket, pretending to be in the middle of a text.

John: "What did you forget this time? Your purse?"

There's no response from the drag queen, before a familiar voice cuts through the silence...

"Girl, you're like the internet... with you, my boo, I just wanna connect..."

A smile creeps over John's mouth as he recognises not just the voice, but the lyric. It may have been sung in a slow, haunting way, but it was still unforgettable.

"Girl, you're like a pirate... 'cause when you come around my hands are on my deck."

John turns to his left, locking eyes with the singer. The brown hair spiked on end, dark sunglasses perched on his nose, a leather jacket featuring and entwined Cobra around the right arm. The man's smile is wide and warm as he takes a step towards his old friend. Aaron 'The Cobra' Roberts had always been a big presence in any room, but right here, and right now, he cut a larger presence than ever before. Briefly a wave of emotion floods over John, taking his breath away.

The Cobra: "For you I'll be the captain, swallow me like plankton, you're a whale of a tale to telllllll..."

He steps forward and whips off the sunglasses, pointing at John to carry on the song. John smiles but shakes his head, almost disbelieving.

The Cobra: "Barnacles... on... my..."

Aaron continues gesturing towards John who shakes his head further, trying to avoid all eye contact. It's clear John is pleased beyond belief to see his old friend, but is doing all he can to avoid joining his old life again. The Cobra eventually steps forward, right up to John, gripping his head with both hands. He forces eye contact and smiles...

The Cobra: "I said... Barnacles on my..."

John sighs.

John: "Barnacles on my butt, I got 'em."

The Cobra: "Barnacles on my butt, my bottom."

Both: "Barnacles on my butt, I'll have 'em all my life... yeaaaaaah... Barnacles on my butt, I'm bitchin', barnacles on my butt, they're itchin', barnacles on my butt, I'll take you for my second wife... yeaaaaaaahhhhh..."

The two smile and reach forward into a warm, friendly embrace. They stay wrapped in each other's arms for a few seconds, before slowly and naturally pulling back. A few moments of silence descend in the room as the two look at one another, and Aaron pulls up a second chair, swinging a backpack off his shoulder and onto the floor.

John: "Let me guess, you're here for a friendly catch-up, no strings attached, and absolutely nothing to do with this fucking Experts reunion show."

The Cobra: "Absolutely mate. Not here at all because Crème phoned me and told me you were more against returning to the ring even more than you were against Cher not going on a fifth 'Final World Tour'. I'm absolutely just here for a friendly natter. No alternative motives. And I definitely haven't already told them to start advertising the 'Desert Sex Reunion Tour and Stud Experience'."

He gives a smile and John rolls his eyes, settling back against the seat.

John: "The 'Desert Sex Reunion Tour and Stud Experience'?"

The Cobra: "You see the fucking genius part of it is, you can just abbreviate it down to DeSeRT SEx".

John: "... genius."

John gives a sarcastic smile before standing from his chair and heading to a fridge in the corner of the dressing room. He pulls a wine glass down from the top of it and a bottle of ice cold Chardonnay from inside, pouring a large portion. He turns to Aaron and tips the glass forward, asking if he wants one too.

The Cobra: "No ta. The Cobra has got himself clean from every impurity in his body. He learnt his lesson after the last bender... when those photos ended up on the internet..."

John: "Ah..."

The Cobra: "Not the proudest moment."

John: "Mmmm... you still touting that 'nine inches' bullshit after that?"

The Cobra: "... fuck off."

John: "It's not what you've got, it's what you do with it. I guess."

The Cobra fires an unimpressed stare John's way, before he settles back and John re-takes his seat. He takes a sip of the sweet wine and places the glass down on the surface, sighing deeply before he looks up to meet his old friend's gaze. Aaron raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

John: "So you want to do the show then?"

The Cobra: "It's been seven years since the world was gifted The Cobra in spandex fighting other burly men. It's not so much me wanting to do the show, rather having to. With Donald Trump as President, Theresa May as Prime Minister, the fucking Kardashian's still breathing doesn't Planet Earth deserve something good for once?"

The man formerly known as Scorpio takes a sip of his wine and nods to Aaron, urging him to continue.

The Cobra: "They need us back. They need the band back together again! Come on mate, one more night. One last time lacing up the boots, one last cheer from the crowd as 'I Touch Myself' plays out, one last time dropping some cunt with a double AGR. C'mon John, we were amazing. We were stars. We were the best of the fucking best and we can do it again!"

John: "I'm done with it all, I've said it so many times now..."

The Cobra: "I know, I know, I know... but also we can't just let fucking MDK take all the glory."

John: "Oh right, so Tenegra's signed up? Well shit pass me a pen and a contract I'd love nothing more than to share a locker room with that misogynistic, forty-a-day, greasy-haired fucker again."

The Cobra: "Fine. Well without us there the only talent on the card is Fresh and Benevolence. What an absolute waste of time!"

John: "Oh I'm sure they'll still manage to fill a stadium and send everyone home with smiles on their faces."

Aaron shakes his head and throws his arms out, looking nothing but exasperated.

The Cobra: "Mate, they've even got Legion!"

John: "Who?"

The Cobra: "Y'know, the religious guy in TFWF?"

John: "James Onlee?"

The Cobra: "Nah mate, quiet guy, kept himself to himself..."

John: "... Jack Hondo?"

The Cobra: "No! You remember him, bald, a bit of stubble..."

John: "... Kirsta Lewis?"

Aaron lands a playful punch on John's arm and the two share a laugh, before Aaron cocks his head to one side and looks his friend up and down. John meets his gaze and offers a smile.

The Cobra: "So, what do you think?"

John: "You know my answer..."

The Cobra: "But why? You were so good! You were Scorpio, the S-Factor, The People's Camp, The Most Decorated Bitch in TFWF History! You held every fucking title that company had going, you were the fan favourite, the hero they loved to cheer. Why don't you want that back for one more night? Why can't we throw some fucking feather boas on, kick some arses, and have a laugh one last time?"

By this time Aaron is standing from his chair, almost pleading with his old tag team partner. John can't look him in the eye as he reaches for the glass of wine, knocking back a large gulp. He stares down at the floor, his arms crossed over himself as he begins to speak in a whisper.

John: "That last battle. Mosa. He turned me into something I didn't think I was capable of. When I started I was a guy who could fight well, styled brilliantly, and made people laugh. I was a comic who could throw a mean kick... then I tasted success... then I got some gold. I couldn't stop. Higher up the card, the next title, the next accolade, the next record. I became one of the best in TFWF history but it changed who I was. That last fight made me something I wasn't; it wasn't because I wanted to win some gold, it wasn't because it made a few thousand people cheer. It was because I wanted to beat him. It was because I wanted him to fucking bleed. He made me a monster!"

He reaches forward and takes The Cobra's hand, running his own finger along it.

John: "Fighting you was the hardest thing I ever did. That year took it out of me, and at the end of it you got to walk away. I carried on for two more years. Two years. It fucking broke me Aaron... I can't go back..."

He lets Aaron's hand go, before turning back to his glass of wine and draining the final few drops. John places it down with a hard chink, and looks up to face his old friend, a tear falling from his left eye. Aaron gives a comforting smile and nods his head, showing he understands and won't push things any further.

The Cobra: "I'm sorry... I didn't want to upset you..."

John: "It's fine, honestly. The show will be good, but it just won't have me there. Who knows, I may even watch and cheer you on."

The Cobra: "That'd be nice. Let's... stay in touch yeah? Five years was too long."

John nods his head slowly and stands up, leaning forward for one last hug with his former tag team partner. The Cobra puts John's back before the pair step apart, and Aaron wipes away the lingering tear drop on John's face. He picks up the backpack and swings it over his shoulder, backing out of the room. Aaron pulls on the door handle and opens it up, going to step out, before something catches his mind. He places the bag back down again and zips it open...

The Cobra: "I almost forgot, found this when I was going through some old stuff. Thought you may like it..."

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a lavender-coloured hairdryer. There are cracks in its plastic which have been carefully glued back together again. Aaron admires Scorpio's old signature weapon, running a hand along the top of it, before he throws it over to John. He catches it easily and stares down at Vidal the Hairdryer, memories of his time wielding it flashing through his head. Those glorious times, smashing it down on an opponent to take the TFWF Tag Team Championships alongside Aaron; those times he was a winner, a champion, a hero. A small smile cracks over his face.

The Cobra: "They were the good old days, weren't they?"

Aaron nods his head before swinging the bag back up on his shoulder and exiting the room. John smiles and settles down into the chair, clutching Vidal to his chest. His hands caress the plastic slowly, bumping over the rough glue fixing the times Vidal had broken against an opponent's skull. He places the hairdryer down on the dressing table by his side and smiles, staring up at the ceiling.

"Yeah. They were the best days."

* * * * *

"Coming up next, is it almost the end for Theresa May? We'll be discussing the latest parliamentary scandal on the News Roundup tonight at te--"

John lifts the remote control and hits the off button, silencing the TV presenter mid-sentence. He looks at his diamond-encrusted silver watch and sighs. How old was he getting? Ready for bed at nine forty-five, the old John would have screamed with disapproval. He pushes himself up off of the sofa and heads out of the apartment's lounge, flicking the light switch on the way out. Lazily stepping into his bedroom he casts an eye across the divinely decorated room, the long duck egg blue curtains drawn, the eight cushions on the bed already moved aside to make room for him. John moves through the room and into the walk-in wardrobe, turning on the light. He looks around the almost endless cupboard doors and mirrors, running a hand along the beautiful wooden doors and their ornate handles. He settles on one in the far corner and pulls the door open, revealing the night wear inside; hangers upon hangers of designer pyjamas, all perfectly pressed and hanging in colour-order. He smiles and selects a set of Calvin Klein blue lounge pants, hooking the hanger onto the door handle of the adjacent cupboard. John goes to close the cupboard door, when his eyes settle on a large box coated in gold leaf.

With a sigh he reaches down and lifts the box off the floor of the wardrobe. He slowly sets himself and the box down in the middle of the room, a slight nervousness about his actions. He runs a hand along the top of the box, round the corners, down the sides. His finger settles on the clasp, and he closes his eyes, almost not wanting to open it. The contents of the box would bring it all back, would flood him with emotions and memories, would test his resolve about this Experts reunion.

He flicks the clasp, and the box lid clicks open. He pushes the top back.

The first thing that catches his eye is the glittering silver of a championship belt. He reaches inside and picks out the TFWF Intercontinental Championship, the last title he held as Scorpio, the title he got to keep when the company shut its doors forever. He runs a hand over its edges and his shoulders loosen, before he places the belt down. John was proud to be a champion wrestler, he was proud to be one of only three to hold every title the TFWF had, but keeping the championship represented him at his worst. The all-out war he fought with Drake Mosa, the battle that left his body scarred forever. It was just one of the wars that had left him broken and bruised, and even five years later he still ached, he still hurt.

John looks back into the box, pulling out another item. A small golden microphone fixed onto a wooden platform; "Lifetime Achievement Award - Papua New Guinean Music Association" inscribed on the bottom of it. A smile breaks out across his face. This was one of the two awards Desert Sex had won, Aaron had the other one. How had such an awful band been so heavily accredited for its music? He gives a single laugh and leans back against the cupboard behind him, twisting the golden microphone around in his hands. He places it down next to the Intercontinental Championship and grins; they were good times in Desert Sex, they truly were.

He turns back to the box and reaches inside again, this time feeling a series of fabrics. One after the other he pulls them out; sequinned tights, feather boas, a leather jacket. The costumes of the S-Factor, the loud and proud colours, the tight fits, the pieces that made him an icon. There was a certain enjoyment in these clothes; a power in layering the make-up, setting the hair, and putting on those clothes.

John pulls a pair of the sequinned tights to his face and inhales deeply. Somewhere in there he could still smell that mix of sweat of blood that graced every wrestling arena. Somewhere in there he could hear the roar of the crowd, the chants of his name, the applause when he nailed his signature moves. Somewhere in those clothes Scorpio wasn't dead; somewhere in those clothes he was still alive and well, ready for another night under the spotlights, ready for another battle against the best opponents professional wrestling had to offer. Could he do it? Could he risk exposing that monstrous side of himself after five dormant years?

He was happy being in the shadows, an unnamed associate who wrote variety shows for an old drag queen in London. He wasn't on Instagram, he wasn't on Twitter, he wasn't on television. Scorpio was confined to the archives, a name brought up on forums and a figure watched on DVDs looking back at the glory days of the TFWF. He had escaped that past, he had moved on from the bloodshed and brutality, and yet he ached to go back...

John places the clothes down by his side and lets out a long sigh.

He reaches into his pocket, scrolling through his contacts, finally settling on the name he's looking for. The phone dials, finally a click, and a voice at the other end.

"Aaron, it's me. Listen..."

* * * * *

The wheels of a black stretch limo crunch on the pure white snow as the camera pans up. The license plate of the limo reads "GL1TT3R4ZI", the windows blacked out, obscuring the occupants. The camera pulls up further revealing the limo to be driving through the Siberian wilderness, the burnt-out shell of the prison in the middle-distance. Slowly Lady GaGa's "Applause" plays in the background and the camera follows the limo on its approach, as voices cut over the noise of it all...

Scoop Anderson: "And up against Black Death we have a newcomer to the TFWF, a young man who thinks the world of himself. We'll see what the world things of him tonight..."

The car reaches the prison's outer wall, and the gates begin to open with defeaning creaks. The howl of a Siberian wolf is heard in the distance, and the wheels continue to crunch against the snow, passing into the yard of the prison.

Scoop Anderson: "Here we go, Exile on the approach, throwing for the clothesline--"

Snoop Jones: "But it's ducked! He's caught Exile - a roll-up out of nowhere! Count it out - one, two, three! He's done it! We have a new TFWF Light Heavyweight Champion!"

The limo pulls to a stop next to the dilapidated prison wall, and the engine cuts dead. The back door clicks open and the camera focuses down on the ground next to it. A black leather boot swings out of the car, the piercing heel pushing into the frozen ground. It is soon joined by a second high-heeled boot...

Snoop Jones: "Desert Sex are a team on the up, and tonight they've taken the TFWF Tag Team Championships. International music stars, Papua New Guinean Lifetime Achievement Award recipients - TWICE, and now decorated in TFWF gold."

The camera follows the boots up to a large, grey and white fur coat. It pulls out revealing the back of a tall figure, the large fur coat covering his entire frame, a hood covering his head. The man places a hand on his hip and looks up at the Siberian Facility, before step by step he begins to approach the rusted main door.

Scoop Anderson: "Fallen Angel is on the approach, he smells blood and this may be all she wrote..."

Snoop Jones: "Here we go! That damned boy band wannabe is going to regret the day he went to war with The Career Killers! He'd have his career killed if he even had a career. Angel going for the gut kick now, setting up for the Cradle Killer - WAIT WHAT?!"

Scoop Anderson: "HE'S BROKEN OUT OF IT! HE FIGHTS FREE, HE'S CAUGHT ANGEL'S ARM - PAPARAZZI FLASH! PAPARAZZI FLASH OUT OF NOWHERE AND THE CAREER KILLERS ARE STORMING THE RING TRYING TO STOP THIS - BUT THEY'RE TOO LATE! ONE! TWO! THREE! HE'S DONE IT! THE KID HAS DONE IT!"

Snoop Jones: "WHAT?! This has to be a mistake! It can't be! A flagrant homosexual is the TFWF Undisputed World Heavyweight Champion - it must be a sign of the apocalypse!"

The figure continues to strut towards the facility, and the rusted door slowly creaks open. 'The Cobra' Aaron Roberts steps out from inside the prison in a trademark Cobra-branded leather jacket. He leans against the door frame and gives our main character a nod. The figure reaches up with both hands - each covered in fine black velvet gloves - and pulls down the fur hood of his jacket. Underneath he is perfectly coifed, with a few blonde and silver stripes through his otherwise chestnut hair. He stops and looks towards the Cobra as the camera begins to swing around...

Scoop Anderson: "They're on the balcony, I can't believe this, somebody stop them!"

Snoop Jones: "The final night of the TFWF and these two are going at it hell for leather. Drake Mosa called him a monster and now he's showing exactly how monstrous he can be. The concrete is feet below, the metal and wood of the tables, I can hardly watch."

Scoop Anderson: "And it looks like he's going for it... no... not the AGR... he jumps -- NO! THEY'VE FALLEN FIFTEEN FEET ONTO THE WOOD, METAL, AND CONCRETE! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!"

Snoop Jones: "You've gotta hand it to him - he may be camp, he may be feminine, he may be annoying as hell, but nobody can doubt the S-Factor BRINGS IT!."

Behind the beautiful fur coat is an over-sized rose-coloured scarf. The camera pans up the body, settling on the figure's face. He slowly lowers his diamond-encrusted sunglasses, pushing them to the bridge of his nose so his bright green eyes peer over the top of them. He purses his lips, the light rose lipstick making them stand out perfectly. He runs a hand through his hair, and stares straight into the camera.

"Forget Cher, forget Madonna, even forget when Britney got a Vegas residency... THIS is the comeback of the century... THE BITCH... IS... BACK!"

* * * * *

"Ladies and Gentleman, the time has come... introducing the two-time winners of the Papua New Guinean Lifetime Achievement Award in Music... former TFWF Tag Team Champions... formerly simultaneous TFWF Undisputed World Heavyweight and Intercontinental Champions... The S-Factor... The Cobra... CRÈME DE LA CRÈME... AARON ROBERTS... SCORPIO... THIS IS... DESERT SEX!"

Cheers go up amongst the small gathering of fans, and the rhythmic snap and flash of the photographers' cameras fills the small Siberian convention centre. The Experts are hosting pre-show press conferences for the small contingent of dedicated fans who have travelled into the wilderness, and the world's press are there to document every event in the build-up to the return of the biggest wrestling franchise in history. From a curtain to the side comes Crème de la Crème, his usual blonde wig atop his head, his face plastered with make-up, and a beautiful soft-pink Chanel skirt and jacket combo clinging to his body. He steps to one side of the curtain and puts a hand on his hips, gesturing.

Seconds later the curtain is parted as The S-Factor and The Cobra step out together, one hand raised above their heads. Scorpio lowers his sunglasses and surveys the crowd, posing for the cameras, while Roberts smirks and begins to gesture towards some of the women in the audience. Scorpio throws him a severe look and he quickly stops, joining in the posing as the cameras snap and flash repeatedly. A compere directs all three members of Desert Sex to the table at the front of the room and its hundreds of microphones angled to each spot at the table. Scorpio takes the middle seat, while The Cobra sits to his right, and Crème perches on the left.  The People's Camp shrugs off his fur coat and removes his sunglasses, taking a sip of water from the glass on the table.

Compere: "Ladies and gentleman the band is back together! In just two short days Scorpio and Aaron Roberts will face off against the deadly duo of Georgie Nickles and Sandy Makel, in a match many are already touting as the show-stealer. So... members of the associated press, fans of the Experts... ask away!"

The compere turns to the audience, and many hands immediately shoot up. Scorpio and Aaron look from one another, before turning to their mentor and manager, the man in the bleach-blonde wig. Crème de la Crème points at a journalist in the front row, who stands up, notepad in hand.

Journalist: "Desert Sex, welcome back to the forefront of professional wrestling. How does it feel to be back together?"

Scorpio: "I think that's one to be turned back on you beautiful people. The greatest band in the history of this sport is ready to play one last song... how does it feel that we're back together folks?"

The assembled fans give a big cheer, many standing from their chairs and applauding. Scorpio and Aaron share a grin at the response and the S-Factor displays the palms of both of his hands in a 'what did I tell you?' gesture.

The Cobra: "Simple fact is the wrestling world has been gagging for something unique, talented, and marvellous like D-Sex. For five long, long, looooooong years they've been forced to watch run-of-the-mill wrestlers fight bland, boring matches. The glitter, the pageantry, the SPLENDOUR of Desert Sex was gone from the world... until now. The Cobra and his fabulous buddy here are back and we are ready to dominate the Experts for one night only. How does it feel to be back? There's only one thing that could feel better - a night with the Cobra, enjoying the pleasures of the nine-inch burrito of bliss--"

Scorpio: "AARON! What did we say?! This is our glorious return, we are grown-up professionals coming back to show the world what they've been missing. What are we not here to do?"

The Cobra: "... we're not here to pick up women, catch STDs, and miss the match due to crotch rot."

Scorpio: "Correct! What my esteemed colleague meant was that this reunion has been five long years in the making, and the greatest tag team of all time are ready to climb back in the ring and put on a show the world will never forget. We've been out of this game for too long, and we're itching to get back between the ropes and throw shots with two of the best of all time. We can promise you this... it's going to be fabulous."

He smiles and turns to Aaron, who gives a shrug and quietly sips at his glass of water. The journalists and fans raise their hands, itching to be the next to ask a question, and Crème leans into his microphone.

Crème de la Crème: "The lady in the divine Givenchy dress. Honestly darling, the only person that could look better in that is me - work it bitch!"

Journalist: "Uh, thank you. This one's directed at Scorpio - you've had a pretty tumultuous time with Georgie Nickles in the past. What's it going to be like taking her on one more time?"

The S-Factor smiles widely and sits back in his chair, pondering the answer carefully. He runs a manicured hand through his beautiful hair and cocks his head to one side.

Scorpio: "The Rebel Child and I have had our wars, that's perfectly true. We fought in the same company for five years, we crossed paths multiple times, sometimes I came out victorious, sometimes she did. Coming up against Georgie Nickles in this reunion will be nothing short of a pleasure I'm sure; she's a former True Expert Champion for Versace's sake. She's a woman who knows her way around the ring, she can take down anyone - has taken down practically everyone - and getting to test ourselves against her will be a true challenge."

He pauses briefly and takes another sip of water, slowly rocking the glass back and forth as the water swishes from side to side. Scorpio looks up to the crowd, and leans into the microphone.

Scorpio: "That... being... said..."

The Cobra and Crème both grin as Scorpio pulls out a pair of opera viewing spectacles and places them over his eyes, a smirk forming on his lips.

Scorpio: "That doesn't mean I won't be reading you to filth my darling. I sincerely hope you're watching this - well, of course you are, Russia has most of YouTube blocked so there's little chance you're engrossed in your atrocious Goth make-up tutorials. Georgie my dear, it's been five long years, and I think we've both changed. It has to be said you're still as legendary as ever... but I guess now it's a touch less legs and a touch more dairy?"

He raises a single eyebrow as Crème claps and Aaron leans into his microphone.

The Cobra: "The Cobra just wants to say Georgie, he doesn't mind if you've put on a little extra weight. He may ask for a discount off the bill, but he honestly doesn't mind..."

Scorpio snaps his fingers and shakes his head, dropping the opera glasses down.

Scorpio: "Of course it's 2018 and we don't fat-shame; it was far too easy a target. Truth is even Desert Sex aren't at the peak of physical fitness they were five years ago... we're all going into this match that bit older and that bit rustier. But Georgie, Sandy, don't think for one damn minute that means you're getting a sub-par Desert Sex. It's been almost a fucking decade since Aaron and I joined forces. We know each other better than we know ourselves, we don't have to speak to communicate in the ring, we work as one unit to take down the competition. Georgie... Sandy... be prepared to be on the end a double AGR, and be prepared to end your big reunion exactly as you ended your TFWF careers; not quite as good as the greatest boy band professional wrestling ever saw."

Scorpio smiles as Crème leans forward and disconnects one of the bundle of microphones, lifting it above his head and dropping it on the desk - mic drop.

Crème de la Crème: "You better believe it sisters! You see Desert Sex are the top - the power top - and we never come from behind. We'll take you and we'll take you hard, as only two men experienced in the ring can take you. Another question... yes you, no not you, the other one. The one in desperate need of a manicure - yes you baby."

A flustered-looking man stands up, checking out his nails, before he leans forward into a microphone to ask his question.

Fan: "Uh, right. You've spoken a lot about Georgie Nickles, but what about her partner? Sandy Makel is a former True Expert Champion just like the Rebel Child - that's gonna be a tough accolade to overcome?"

Scorpio: "Now listen up - the only reason yours truly never held the True Expert Championship was due to a... complicated... relationship with the head of the Experts. I hear things have changed recently, so who knows, maybe we'll get a bit of glitter on that title for a change."

He stares briefly into the camera filming this press conference, before inhaling deeply and continuing his point.

Scorpio: "But you're absolutely right, they're both True Expert Champions, they're both absolute stars and on top of their game. We've said before this is a hell of a challenge. Sandy Makel is one of the most accomplished bitches of all time -  a TFWF Undisputed World Heavyweight Champion, a TFWF King of the Deathmatches, and the first ever TFWF Golden Ticket Match winner! Of course it would be a couple of years until someone won the second Golden Ticket, and successfully cashed it in..."

The S-Factor pouts into the camera as Crème leans forward, going to pick up the bundle of microphones for a second mic drop. Scorpio flashes him a quick look and he attempts to smoothly transition the move into three snaps of his fingers, before settling back into his chair.

Scorpio: "But much like Sandy's last actual title reign, that's all ancient history. In two days' time we're climbing into the ring against a man who can throw any bitch around the ring without a second thought. I've been hit by the Seven Out before and honestly it fucking hurts. The man knew what he was doing back then, and that's when he was wrestling through a drug-induced fog. Listen Sandy, I know you've been battling your demons, and I'm proud as hell to come up against you clean and healthy. You've waged a serious war and come through that... but you're about to find out that was the second hardest fight you've had... Truth is Sandy we're excited to be battling you at your best, but you must understand neither Aaron or I have had a substance problem. We're pure, clean, and ready to take o--"

He's interrupted by Aaron whispering in Scorpio's ear. The crowd look confused as The Cobra seems sheepish, clearly triggered by something Scorpio just said. The S-Factor's eyes narrow before he turns to Aaron.

Scorpio: "I don't think that truly counts as substance abuse. But fuck... you need to stop... seven little blue pills a day?! That can't be healthy darling."

He remains staring at Aaron for a few seconds, before turning back to the camera to continue addressing Makel.

Scorpio: "Sandy, you're a damn good fighter, and you're going to be a damn tough opponent. There's a reason you won the first Extreme Tournament here in Siberia, and having now experienced the bitter cold for myself I'm even more impressed. You're a hard as nails Queen, but we've been a well-tuned tour de force far longer than you've been able to stop topping your cornflakes with a touch of white powder. We have the advantage bitch, and we're going to take it. There's just one thing left to find out... what exactly does your fate involve?"

Crème reaches under the table and lifts out an over-sized dice much like the one held by the King of Risk himself; although, of course, this one is covered in purple glitter unlike Makel's solid gold. Crème dramatically rolls it on the table, and The Cobra leans over.

The Cobra: "Five! Not just the number of platinum singles Desert Sex have put out... but now the number of AGRs we promise to deliver to you two..."

The Scorpio: "The fates have spoken. It would appear chance is not in your favour my darlings."

Both Scorpio and Aaron hold up five fingers, directing them at the camera, before Crème leans forward and points out one last member of the crowd to ask a question.

Fan: "Just quickly, now the band is back together, can we expect a new Desert Sex single?"

The Cobra: "Listen sweetpea, you can't top perfection. What you're looking at here are two of the greatest musicians to grace the 21st Century's musical scene; and we did it occasionally with broken fucking fingers! Rumour has it Hendrix faked his own death because he heard The Cobra was coming with a guitar in his hands, and it would have been nothing short of embarrassing for the world's greatest guitarist to have to relinquish the crown to Gloucester's finest. Notice how Adele only made her big comeback once D-Sex was off the radar? And now she's suddenly decided she's taking another fucking break now we're back? The Grammys, the VMAs, the Teen Choice awards -  they're filled with people shaking in their heels because the greatest fucking band in the world is back."

Scorpio: "Truth is they needn't worry. We've made our mark, we're two-time Lifetime Achievement Award winners, we're the most decorated tag team in TFWF History, we've got nothing left to prove. Well, nothing to prove beyond we're better than Dice n' Lice over there. The Desert Sex Reunion Tour and Stud Experience is a one-time only event..."

A few of the cameras flash, capturing the moment Desert Sex have confirmed this is their one and only reunion, while a sea of hands raise from the crowd. The compere steps forward and shakes his head, looking apologetic.

Compere: "I'm afraid that really is all we have time for. The sun's about to set and in Siberia that means it's wolf-dodging time... I'll leave the final comments to Desert Sex before we finish. Aaron, Scorpio, Crème, anything you'd like to leave us with?"

He steps aside as the three members of Desert Sex turn to one another, and finally the People's Camp leans forward into the microphones. He brushes back his fabulous hair and a smile forms on his painted lips...

"This reunion may be a one-time only event, we may all be a few years out of our prime, and we may be fighting for little more than bragging rights... but don't think for one second that means we're not bringing every fucking thing we have. Georgie... Sandy... Desert Sex are treating this like it's a damn war... and at the end of it all, when the dust has settled and the two of you are regretting ever signing up to this event, there will be one word echoing round the shell of the Siberian Prison... fabulous."

Fin.

[Kenfucius]

Sometimes, you just have to go back to the beginning.

History lesson. In 2005, a fresh faced 25 year old punk with a flashy entrance and an even flashier piece of arm candy strolled into the fondly remembered wrestling juggernaut of the time, TFWF. He thought of himself as a hot-shot, a sure thing. He even had some success, claiming his maiden title before his second pay per view.

The kid just didn't have a clue what it was like to have a target painted on his back.

Quickly, the kid had someone on his trail. Cocky guy that thought of himself as a ladies man who wanted to take not only this rookie's belt, but the woman by his side. He had some credentials to him too. He'd just made the finals of TFWF's annual King of the Death Match tournament earlier that year, so he was tough as hell, because nobody even got INTO that tournament without being tough, let alone making it all the way to the final match. He was thought of as an up and comer, a real blue chip prospect, and he wanted some gold to seal those predictions.

The punk with the gold and the girl had been plugging along, doing good... and suddenly, this guy came right at him. We're talking threats, beat-downs, the whole nine yards. They fought in the ring three times. First time, the kid got lucky, managed to retain. The second time, though... damn. He got a whooping, tried to stop his girl taking a hit and got knocked into next week. Cost him his title. It was his first major loss, first major setback.

He learned something that day.

Now, this kid, he liked to take risks, liked to gamble, and he wanted that first major title of his career back. At first, our ladies man, now ladies champ, he wasn't interested. He had what he wanted... almost.

So the kid offered him a wager. Title v. Girl. The winner walks away with both the belt and the valet draped over them.

It was a different time. You couldn't get away with something like that today, people would riot. Still, it was the first time anyone had seen, for real, exactly what that kid would do to get what he wanted. He thought nothing of the risk. He had taken that loss, analysed it, and come to the decision in his own mind that it was not going to happen a second time. He was so sure of himself that he was willing to risk looking like a laughing stock, while subjecting the woman he was closest to in the whole world at the time to a horrible uncertainty.

Tell me Aaron, am I ringing any bells for you? Does hearing this tickle something at the back of that brain, if you can call it that? Do you remember this?

I do.

I remember making that wager, and I remember beating your ass, and getting my title back.

I don't know whether to thank you or not, really, given everything that's occurred in the past thirteen years. I don't think I'd be able to say all the things about myself and my career that I can say these days had it not been for your easy to manipulate lechery and small-minded, unearned ego. You, Aaron, taught me to be ruthless. Because the thing I never said back then, that I can admit to myself now? I was mad at myself for not letting you do what you were going to do to Selina the night you beat me. I should have let you, because if I had, I would never have needed to make that bet, I could have just put you down from your blindside without you putting a big dirty blot in my copybook.

The Sandy Makel that once conquered TFWF, conquered SCW, conquered the Experts in this God forsaken prison... he might never have been born without you. The punk kid of 2005 could have done none of those things, but the man I became in the aftermath of that has done things in his career that ninety-nine percent of people to step between the ropes will only ever be able to have wet dreams about, you and your buddy included.

So, yes, I should thank you. I should thank you for being my beginning.

Unfortunately for you, Aaron, I don't think you're going to like how I do it.

Because the person I became, thanks to you, outgrew your orbit a decade ago.

-=-=-=-

"The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is now."
Chinese proverb.

5.11.18[/u

The knock on the door cut through the subdued chittering of horse racing commentary on the television, making Sandy glance up towards the shaded window by the entrance of his house. Tree branches shadow-danced in the breeze, melding with the silhouette of someone standing on the step. Sandy closed his eyes and allowed a breathy sigh to escape him. The knocking had been insistent, but not thunderous, and the solitary figure - female, from the looks of it - ruled out yet another mistake visit from the local authorities looking for his delinquent neighbor. Standing up, he examined the room. It wasn't prepared for visitors, too many dirty clothes and half-finished books strewn around, but Sandy wasn't home often enough to be as fastidious as he liked to be.

Another knock, with an uptick in force. Sandy growled and clenched his jaw at his visitor's impatience. Standing up, Sandy hit the power button on the TV remote to kill the screen, no longer feeling the need for the background noise. A third knock gets him moving to the door, which he drags open with a scowl.

Georgie: About time, Diceman.

Sandy blinked in an attempt to clear his vision, making sure that he was actually face to face with Georgie Nickles, and not dealing with some blue-haired hallucination. Surprise flashed through his mind, then melted away. Of course. He'd gotten the invitations, and no doubt so had she. Of course she was here. The sheer inevitability of the whole thing made almost made Sandy feel idiotic for being unprepared for it. For her. The Rebel Child was about to bring another cause of hers crashing into his life, calling him back from the brink again.

Sandy let his gaze drop, focusing on Georgie's throat, and the old scar from her last time in the ring, courtesy of a ball-point pen thrust into her trachea.

Sandy: That healed up pretty good.

Georgie raised a hand to her throat, tracing her fingertip across the scar slowly, then shrugging.

Georgie: Yeah. Though, not going to lie, I'd rather be choked than stabbed.

Sandy nodded and smiled at his old friend slyly.

Sandy: So I've heard.

Georgie gave Sandy the sweetest smile she could muster. The effect was mildly chilling, which Sandy assumed to be the intent.

Georgie: Keep it up, Sandy, I'll use the pen to help you get rid of kidney stones you don't know you have. You gonna let me in, or what?

Sandy: I'm not really set up for company, but sure.

Sandy stepped back, away from the door, and let Georgie follow him into the house. Sandy could feel her gaze surveying his abode, probably surprised. Georgie was well aware of Sandy's habits of cleanliness, so seeing his home so cluttered and unkempt would have thrown her.

Sandy: I'm not home much. I travel for work. You want something to drink? I got water, apple juice, or V8.

Georgie glanced at Sandy as he hovered by the doorway to the kitchen.

Georgie: Could use a beer, honestly. The airport crowd was dialed up to maximum chucklefuckery. Failing that, you can put the V8 in some vodka. Haven't had a Bloody Mary in awhile.

Sandy shook his head at her, trying to keep himself from twitching. Georgie might have noticed a tightness across his eyes for half a second - probably noticed it. She was sharp, and Sandy couldn't hide his tells from her the way he could from most.

Sandy: You're outta luck, I'm afraid. Don't keep any booze in the house these days.

Georgie: That's new. Never known you not to be stocked at the bar. What's up?

Sandy paused. Of course, no harm in telling her. He felt his nerves jangling at doing it, but Georgie, of all people, she'd understand. Still, the thought of saying it out loud to someone from his old life sent a shudder through him, almost as if he was scared of it.

Maybe because it was the first time he'd had a chance to tell someone he considered himself to be close with.

Sandy: Well...

Sandy slipped his right hand into the pocket of his jeans, grabbing something. He glances at it for a second with a wry grimace, then flips it Georgie's way. He watches as she grabs it and looks at it, her eyes widening.

Georgie: Is this what I think it is?

Sandy: Yeah. One year. I got no dice and one chip. Hence the lack of drink options. If you're gonna do something, do it right, you know? I don't even drink caffeine anymore.

Sandy dropped into his chair, reaching up and taking back the one-year sobriety chip when Georgie offered it back. He looked at it again, then rolled it from knuckle to knuckle with the smoothness of long practice, trying his best to ignore his guest's stunned staring. Not that he should be surprised. Telling anyone that he'd given up gambling for good, along with everything else, was probably as surprising as telling someone that water was, in fact, dry.

Sandy: Twelve-stepping is a bitch.

Sandy slides the chip back into his pocket, then gestures towards the sofa. Georgie looks at it, pushes a few stray books to the side to make room, and sits down.

Georgie: I didn't know.

Sandy: I didn't tell you.

Georgie: No, you've never been the best about keeping in touch.

Sandy flipped Georgie a smirk, which, to her, was the first glimpse of the Sandy Makel she remembered.

Sandy: Pot. Kettle. African-American.

Georgie nodded, then smiled, shaking her head a little.

Georgie: Never thought I'd see the day...

Sandy: Yeah, me neither. Turns out, I don't believe in a higher power and I sure as shit ain't in the mood for handing out apologies. Other than that, I'm getting by just fine.

Sandy stopped talking, but to Georgie, he seemed like a coiled spring. He started tapping his fingertips against the back of his hand, rocking slightly in his chair. He was looking at her, but not, more like through her. Something under the surface was bubbling, percolating like the coffee maker he no longer used. Sandy's ability to remain calm had always been one of his greatest assets. He was a gambler, a hustler. He never showed a tell that he didn't want anyone to see. She found it... unnerving.

Georgie: Look, Sandy, I...

Sandy: I know why you're here.

His tone demanded quiet, Georgie, of course, wasn't going to afford him that luxury.

Georgie: I'm here to see my friend.

Sandy: Right. It's been over two years, I forgot how much of a fucking trek it was to get to New Jersey from Baltimore...

Georgie: I don't live there anymore, Mike and I split.

That brought Sandy to a stop for a moment.

Sandy: I didn't know.

Georgie: I didn't tell you.

Georgie followed that up with a quick grin at throwing Sandy's earlier words back at him. Despite himself, he couldn't help but laugh.

Sandy: Touche.

Sandy stood up again and started pacing.

Sandy: Anyway, I've gotten the calls. I've gotten the emails. Now you're here.

Georgie: You didn't return the calls or reply to the emails, and this is something you and I talked about a long time ago.

Sandy nodded slowly, then gave Georgie a wry, mirthless smile.

Sandy: I know.

Sandy took a deep breath, steeling himself for his next words.

Sandy: I can't do it.

Georgie blinked. Looking for some sign of a joke, or an angle, something to indicate this was one of Sandy's games.

She found nothing.

Georgie: Why not?

Sandy: Because I'm clean, and I want to stay clean, and wrestling wasn't a job, or a sport, or a calling for me. Wrestling was a gamble. I'm done gambling.

Georgie mulled that over. She understood him, understood his point of view. Guilt clouded her for coming here and disturbing that. If Sandy had a chance to recover from his vices and demons that shouldn't be disturbed, but...

Georgie: It doesn't have to be that way, you know? That's always been your choice, but you can work a smarter style, a safer one. Hell, you might be better off doing so. I saw you go in Sin City before it closed, you were killing it.

Sandy sneered momentarily, then started staring at the hardwood floor, his voice quiet as he replied.

Sandy: I was cheating my ass off to pay off a loan shark with win bonuses. Sin City might look like a nice addition to my resume in the record books, but it's not a time in my life I'm proud of.

Georgie stood up, feeling very suddenly uncomfortable. Sandy wasn't one to show his weakness, not even to those closest to him. Seeing it happen now, suddenly, threw her.

Georgie: I shouldn't have come.

Sandy gave her a glance, making a failed effort at warmth.

Sandy: If you'd come here for any reason other than this, you absolutely should have. You're always welcome.

Georgie smiled at Sandy's grace, even if he was obviously in a less than perfect frame of mind.

Georgie: Look, I'm in town for the weekend. If you want to hang out, we don't need to talk about this. If you change your mind, if you feel like you can, that'd be awesome. If not... I get it, and anything you need, you know you can always find me.

Sandy smiled at her, but it was a half-hearted effort that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes.

Sandy: Maybe I'll take you up on that. Take care, General.

Georgie gave him a quick grin at the decade-old nickname, and allowed Sandy to show her out. Once she was gone. Sandy went back to his living room, staring at the fireplace with the photographs of his family that wouldn't talk to him anymore. He grabbed the frames, carefully placing them on the sofa by his books, then, once the wooden top was bare, he pressed a small button on the side and listened for the click, lifting to top to reveal a hidden compartment.

He looked inside, staring the his golden, twelve-sided die. The talisman he'd carried with him forever. He heard it singing to him, a sweet lullaby whispering through his brain.

A craving.

Sandy: Fuck!

He slammed the compartment shut again, a lot more forcefully than was necessary, and looked at himself in the mirror for a long time, then reached for his phone...

-=-=-

I've been called arrogant. I've been called egotistical. I've been called a narcissist. Hell, someone once told me I was so self-centred that I probably video myself jerking off just so I can watch it back to rub out a second one. That may be one of the most delightful insults anyone has ever aimed at me to this day.

Yet, for all of that, I've never really liked looking in a mirror.

Plenty of reasons for that. Plenty of things about my reflection to not like, quite a few of which are already part of the public record, so I don't feel the need to tread over that old ground. Honestly, though, one of the most annoying parts of looking in the mirror is that I just don't look quite as impressive as I should. Given all the things I've done, all the people I've beaten... I should just have more of an aura about me.

I shouldn't look at my reflection and see Scorpio.

That's not a disservice to him, actually. Let's be honest. Scorpio is a former TFWF champion, like myself. A former winner of the Golden Ticket, like myself. He's stepped into the ring with the likes of Level-One after earning a True Expert shot, like myself.

Pretty impressive, really.

Except... well... I just did it better.

Golden Ticket? Not only did I win it, I was the first. TFWF champion? I didn't beat one man for it, I beat five inside Hell's Prison. True Expert? I didn't blow it. He lost to one man, I beat thirteen out of twenty in a gauntlet match, never mind winning the tournament to win the title a second time.

Plus, not for nothing, I'm a better singer than him too. I just didn't blow six months worths of checks buying my own shit in my mom's name to get a hit single to prove it. That's why Desert Sex never had a follow-up album. Poor guy couldn't afford to be anything more than a one-hit wonder. Scorpio, for all the things he's done, is the living definition of one and done.

Trust me, I know, because it's the same thing they all said about me when I was walking around with the TFWF and True Expert titles simultaneously. I know the difference.

I see the things they said about me when I look at him.

I look at you, Scorpio, and, aside from your aborted musical career, your greatest claim to fame is the simple, inescapable fact that you are almost, but not quite, Sandy Makel. You're what I could have been, if I'd taken my foot off the gas, or told myself that I was happy avoiding the ring instead of taking the leap of faith that I could still hang by going to SCW.

They can call me a narcissist if they want, but honestly, Scorps, I'm humble enough to look at myself in the mirror and see you. The flash in the pan that I could have been. The talent I could have wasted.

Whereas you? You're arrogant enough to look in the mirror and think you see me.

But you never were, never are, and never will be.

You had the shot, you had the skills...

But you've never had the heart

Such a shame, Scorpio. You could have been Sandy Makel... and now, all you are is a barnacle on Sandy Makel's butt.

And in Siberia, you are going to be scrubbed.

-=-=-

"There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them."
Andre Gide

5.11.18

Crowds were already beginning to gather on the boardwalk. The winter had been harsh, and gone on far longer than usual, but the sudden upturn in weather had dragged the shoobies, as the South Jersey natives loved to call the weekend holidaymakers from Philadelphia, down to the beach. Voices filled the air, laughter of children and parents, and the occasional threatening caw of hungry, scavenging gulls. The sea salt smell carried on the breeze, a powerful enough scent to mask the usual pizza and cotton candy. Sandy watched the crowd pass from his bench, ball cap pulled down low and shades on in an effort to make sure he wasn't recognised by a stray wrestling fan. He kept his hands clasped tight, trying not to betray the shaking.

When the coffee cup was put in front of his face, he started, then glanced up. Harry, no last name, was in his early fifties, and looked ten years older than that. Hair and beard of solid gray, and a wrinkled, worn-down face that had lived hard. Harry had been sober for twelve years, and for the last ten months had been Sandy's sponsor. Harry had talked Sandy off the ledge on more than one occasion in the time they'd known each other, and had vouched for him six months earlier when Sandy needed a job. Sandy was eternally grateful to the gruff old man, and tried to make sure he never bothered him with anything less than a crisis. Taking the coffee cup, Sandy sniffed at it suspiciously, glancing at Harry as he took a seat beside him on the bench.

Harry: Don't worry, it's decaf.

Sandy nodded, and took a sip, slowly so as not to accidentally spill on himself from the tremors he couldn't manage to quell. It was lukewarm, which was a blessing under the blistering heat in the air.

Sandy: Thanks.

Harry: I still don't get why you won't drink normal coffee. You know that they make a pot of decaf at the meetings specifically for you, right?

Sandy nodded, smiling a little bit.

Sandy: I don't drink that either. Is there some special store that provides meetings with coffee beans that taste like Satan's swamp-ass?

Harry gave him an irritated look and a gruff harrumph sound. The perfect indicator of his age, Sandy thought. Nobody under fifty could make that sound with enough gravitas to avoid being unintentionally hilarious.

Harry: If you were paying out of your own pocket for something that was going to be in a room full of gamblers and drug addicts, would you bring the good stuff?

Sandy: When you put it like that...

Harry nodded sharply. The two of them sat in silence after that, sipping their coffees and inhaling the sea air. This was Harry's style. Silence until it becomes so oppressive that you talk. It had taken a long time for Sandy to give the man his trust, and this was why. It would never have worked if Harry had pushed him. Much as it galled Sandy to make the comparison, when it came to trust, he was a skittish kitten, staying away until he got used to the scent not meaning something harmful. It was why it had taken him weeks before he was willing to share at a meeting for the first time, despite going almost every day. It was only after he had made that step that Harry had offered himself as a sponsor.

Sandy inhaled sharply, his words, when they came, were quiet and halting.

Sandy: I've been offered a chance to wrestle again.

Harry looked at him with narrowed, quizzical eyes.

Harry: Not the first time. What's the problem?

Sandy looked around, watching the families carousing through the boardwalk. The outpouring of happiness around him made him think of the people no longer in his life, wonder where they were and what they were doing.

Sandy: It's the first time I've wanted to say yes. The fact that I want to say yes is borderline insane, given who I'd be working for, and where I'd be working.

Harry gave him a nod. Sandy had talked a lot in meetings about his career. No point hiding it, half the people there had already known who he was, and in many ways, how Sandy had approached the wrestling business was a major part of his problem.

Harry: I'm guessing, off the top of my head, that this is about the Experts thing in Siberia that's starting to pop up in the dirt sheets?

Sandy nods to himself slowly. Harry wasn't a fan of wrestling these days, but was in his youth. He kept up with things without watching, usually to bemoan the current status of the business.

Sandy: Yeah.

Harry: I can see the problem. That place has a hold on you, I know that.

Sandy: It's not just that, Harry, it's...

Sandy paused, inhaling the sea air deeply, and taking a drink of his coffee as he gathered his thoughts.

Sandy: I think, if it was just about Siberia, the Experts... if it was just about that alone, I'd be okay. A little raw, because make no mistake, that place fucking marked me for good, and there are some ghosts I'd like a chance to lay to rest out there. I could live without that if it was just about me. This, though... I owe a friend. It wouldn't just be me going there alone, I'd be teaming with someone, someone I never got a chance to team with...

Sandy turned his head, looking Harry in the eyes. His own were covered by shades, which he was thankful for. Sandy wasn't sure he could bear to be as vulnerable, even with his sponsor, as he was sure his eyes would betray him to be.

Sandy: I owe her, Harry. There was a time, I ditched her, left her hanging so I could deal with my own crap. She got hurt bad and I was supposed to be there... and I wasn't. She wants this, and I don't want to ditch her again, but I know that as soon as I step back in the ring, I'm going to want to do it again, and again. I'll sign a contract somewhere and... I don't know if I can go back to that life.

Harry's hand fell upon Sandy's shoulder, and the older man nodded sombrely. Sandy's voice was tinged with desperation, and Harry could feel him shivering with it, despite the heat in the air.

Harry: Sandy, let me tell you something I've told everyone I ever sponsored. No matter how much money you blow, or how stupid you are, the biggest risk you ever took in your life was coming to a meeting. You fuck this up, you lose everything that makes you matter. You can fight your addiction, or become it. If you say no, will this friend of yours understand?

Sandy smiled, a true smile, as he mulled the question over.

Sandy: Yeah. She will. That's probably the worst part of it.

The hand lifted and fell with a hearty pat. Harry gave Sandy a smile.

Harry: I know trust is tough for you. Way I figure it, if she can put up with your shit all these years and still be okay with it when you let her down, you can probably trust her to cover your ass and keep you straight, am I right?

Harry noticed the tremors in Sandy's shoulders were gone as he laughed a little,

Sandy: Yeah, I guess. Can't tell her that, though. She'll lord it over me forever.

Harry: Then go and do what you gotta do. If you're this worried about it, you won't fuck it up.

Sandy gave Harry a nod, and chugged down the rest of his coffee, screwing up his face as he did so. He hated decaf.

Sandy: Probably not. Thanks Harry.

Harry: That's what I'm here for. You know the number.

Sandy leaned across, offering Harry a handshake, which was accepted. Standing up, Sandy dropped his empty cup in the trash can, and started walking, losing himself in the crowd. Sandy decided to keep walking, enjoying the weather, the noise, and the anonymity.

It wasn't going to last much longer.

-=-=-

It's good that you boys... a word I use loosely... are getting the band back together, it really is. Desert Sex should be celebrated and applauded. You are, after all, the only band in the history of music to land a chart topping single despite being made up of only bass players.

Honestly? I'm not going to say you aren't a threat. Georgie and I have never teamed together inside a ring before, and you two know each other inside out. I know that first hand, I was there when Desert Sex mattered, back in the day. Plus, you've got Priscilla, Queen of the Desert out there playing backup for you, and Creme was actually quite good at the craft if you want to go all the way back to when dinosaurs roamed the Earth.

However, that doesn't change a very simple truth.

You are comic relief.

There's something to be said for finding your niche and making the most of it, and no doubt you both did. Hell, you've both managed to have pretty damn good careers, so kudos.

But this... this isn't your world, and Georgie and I, we aren't the people you want to deal with out here.

Now, you two, you became pretty big fish, and while I'm not going to denigrate TFWF, a place without whom I would be nothing, by calling it a small pond... it's still a pond. It's not the ocean, and Georgie and I have swam in the ocean and became the sharks. We have world titles in multiple companies, three True Expert reigns, and two Extreme Tournament wins between us to testify to that. I, myself, have survived ninety-six other wrestlers inside this goddamn prison to testify to that. Including, but not limited to, the people headlining this card ahead of me to fight for a title that, if we're being technical about it, I never lost.

I am uniquely capable of saying that this place? It's no place for jokes, it's not your fucking comedy club.

I am also the only person in this match who has wrestled in the past two years. If ring rust is a thing, I'm the most well-oiled machine in this match, and I, inside my head, questioned whether I was ready to deal with this place and everything that comes with it all over again.

I have poured blood and sweat for this organisation, inside this prison. So has Georgie. We have, both of us, left a piece of ourselves in Siberia, a piece of our souls that we will never be able to get back. If you think for one second that we are going to let you two swan in here and make a mockery of that just so you can have your little reunion tour that people care about even less than seeing The Doors do their shit without Jim Morrison, you are dead fucking wrong.

See, here's the thing, and you two should know this full well, because you know both of us as well as we know you. There is nothing Georgie and I won't do once that bell rings. We are both intensely smart, we are both supremely talented, and neither one of us gives a solitary flying fuck about the consequences to ourselves. We will do all the things you're scared to do, and while we might not have ever officially been a team, we know each other more than well enough to be in sync and on the same page once the green light hits and we start our engines.

We also know every trick in the book. Hell, I probably wrote a chapter. There is no dirty trick, no cheap shot, no managerial sleight-of-hand that can catch us by surprise.

And while Georgie may play on the side of the angels? You boys know for damn sure that I'm not one, and I'm not going to think twice about throwing every single one of those tricks right back at you. Just like everything else, I do it better than both of you ever have, or ever will. I'm The Dice, bitches. Neither one of you can roll with me.

At least the name "Desert Sex" was well chosen.

Because once that bell rings in Siberia, you're both going to realize that you're more royally fucked than Meghan Markle.

And the first time you squeal, you'll know that I don't have a problem with going in dry.

-=-=-

"We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

5.14.18

Georgie Nickles looked around, shrugging off glances at her shock of blue hair from the early morning pensioner group in town to play their penny slots and get a free lunch. No matter how the world changed, judgmental old farts staring always stayed the same. She strolled through the casino floor, having filled herself at the breakfast buffet. However, her time was up, and she had to check out and leave for her flight back to Chi-town.

She'd heard nothing from Sandy all weekend. She'd left one message on his cell, unreturned.

She didn't know how to feel about that. The fact that her friend had figured himself out and chosen to clean up his life was enough to make Georgie smile, even feel proud of him. However, if Sandy felt that he had to cut himself off from the ring for good... that cut. It felt like something to grieve over. Not even for the lost opportunity for the two of them to team together, but for... the thought of Sandy Makel never lacing up his boots again, to Georgie, would make the wrestling world a less interesting place.

She made it to the reception desk, where she handed over her room key, then turned and leaned her elbows against the desk. The summer weekend had descended into storm clouds outside over the weekend, ruining most peoples' plans. The fall of the rain hammered the sidewalk, coastal winds driving the droplets almost sideways. A whisper in her ear told her her car had arrived, prompting Georgie to take one last look around at the marble and mahogany. It wasn't really her type of place, but privacy was a lot easier to obtain the more you paid to get it, so needs must.

She pulled up her hoodie to shield herself from the rain, and stepped through the doors.

Sandy: Lovely day for it.

Georgie came to a stop, rolling her eyes skyward hard enough that she was sure one of them was going to time-travel. She turned around, seeing Sandy leaning against the wall beside the door with a smirk on his face and a large bag at his feet.

Georgie: Of course you waited until the last minute. What the hell else would you do?

Sandy: Well, I can't go in there. I had myself banned from all the casinos in town, black-booked. Helps me keep temptation at bay.

Georgie gave him a nod, mainly out of exasperation.

Georgie: Let me guess, phone stopped working too?

Sandy shrugged and took a second to let his eyes trail the skyline.

Sandy: Didn't hear it. You saw my apartment, I really needed to do laundry.

Georgie looked down at the bag at Sandy's feet, then back into his eyes. Sandy followed her gaze, giving her a soft chuckle and a nod.

Sandy: Yeah. I'm coming to Chicago with you. We've got two weeks. I figure if anyone can get me back into shape in that amount of time, it'll be the Nickles clan over at WCP.

Georgie stared at Sandy for a second, then smiled.

Georgie: I knew it. I knew you couldn't say no.

Sandy narrowed his eyes at her, the same expression she'd seen on his face multiple times, usually before he cleaned up at a poker table.

Sandy: You didn't know shit, General.

Georgie gave him that same sweet smile she'd given him a few days earlier, the one that had left him with chills. She reached into her hip pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to him. Sandy opened it, seeing inside a booking for a plane ticket to Chicago in his name.

Georgie: I knew.

Sandy glanced at the ticket, then at her, and back at the ticket again. He shook his head and let out a small laugh.

Sandy: The family business must be doing okay if you can drop hundreds of dollars on a plane ticket on a stone cold guess.

Georgie: Guess, my ass, Diceman. I can read you like a book.

Sandy raised an eyebrow at her triumphant smile.

Sandy: Last time you said that to me, you ended up having to buy me dinner for a week.

Georgie gave him a hand wave at that.

Georgie: Please. Number one, you hit a three out draw on the river. Number two, don't think I didn't notice your ass ordering the most expensive thing on the menu every fucking time. You don't even like lobster.

Sandy gave her another one of his smirks.

Sandy: I do when you're paying. Anyway, speaking of food, we better haul ass. We've only got two weeks, and it looks like we've got a few too many trips to the buffet to work off of you. Unless, of course, you think your Shining Anarchy is more effective if you break their hips instead of kicking them in the head.

Georgie's eyes widened, and she stared at Sandy as he grabbed his bag and started making his way towards the car. Spinning around behind him, she caught up with his pace and fell in step.

Georgie: You understand that when we spar, I might well choose to break YOUR hip for that comment. You're the right age for it.

Sandy glanced over his shoulder, and smirked again, enjoying the fire in his old friend's eyes. She was going to need that where they were going.

Sandy: You'll give it your best shot. That's pretty much all I can ask.

Georgie shook her head at him.

Georgie: Fuck you, Diceman.

Sandy gave her a smile back.

Sandy: Fuck you too, Custer.

Their eyes met for a moment, two old soldiers getting ready for another night of shrapnel, then they both chuckled and shared a fistbump before getting into the car.

[Rebel Child]

"Miss Nickles, I was hoping to be able to reach you – this is in regards to the certified letter we sent you last week.  I was hoping we might be able to come to an amicable agreement that would be beneficial towards all.  Please, give me a call within twenty four hours."

Twenty four hours had come and gone, and then some.  The calls continued to go unanswered, each one sounding a little bit more insistent than the next. 

"Miss Nickles, I do implore that you get in touch within the next twenty four hours.  Time is not on your side in this matter and soon, you will find that this chance will be taken off the table.  Please, call me as soon as possible."

Is this the way that I wanted it all to go down?  Sitting back in Chicago with nothing more than broken memories and dreams of yesteryear to keep me warm at night?  Broken in ways that no doctor could ever fix?  Did I want to sit down, surrounded by ghosts of the past that kept me company when there was no one else there?  Staring at my past sins, as they stare back in silence accusation?  Ignoring the phone every time it rang?  The pile of mail collecting dust on the coffee table, each one with the same return address marked urgent? 

Heh, what the hell do you think?

The answer would be no for those who are playing the at home version of 'This is Your Life Now Georgie Nickles.' 

Rubbing the back of my neck, my fingers slowly moving against the side of my throat – and then... Then, unbidden, it rubbed against the jagged skin – the scar tissue that rested right ontop of where my trachea was.   The one last parting gift for yours truly, the one last big fuck you before I stepped away from the industry that I lived and breathed for, that I lived and bled for, that I almost died for.   For years the ring had been the only constant, the only thing that I could count on when other things in my life went to hell.  When all others fell away slowly, turning into ghosts and apparitions – because that's what happens in life, it was all that remained. 

Until the fateful night that was even taken away from me.

And now all I'm left with is... This... Broken and faded memories and a phone that won't stop ringing.

You may be wondering, what exactly could it be that has Georgie Nickles, a former True Expert, a former Hardcore Champion a former... heh.. a former wrestler – avoiding her phone and the mail.  Unpaid bills?  Could have fucking called it.  A solicitor looking to talk about the newest charge pending?  Sure, why the fuck not?   Someone looking to repossess the house?  Sure.  I mean, honestly – they all are really bad fucking things.  Terribly fucking bad.  In fact... Terribad even.  And there will be those of you sitting there, gloating – thinking that the world of Georgie Nickles has crumbled down into a pile of fucking shit, just like they knew that it would.  Gleefully rubbing your hands like a bunch of badly drawn cartoonish fucking vultures, crowing about the fact that Georgie Nickles is right where she belongs.

There goes the phone again...

Same number as the last five.

.....

You can't run from life forever, can you?

....

Deep breath Georgie....

They can't keep this up forever....  They even said it themselves....

They can't....

....

FUCKING SHIT BALLS.

".... Yea?"

"Georgie?"

"....Yea?"

"Georgie Nickles?"

".... No... Georgie fucking Porgie.  Yes, this is Georgie Nickles."

"Oh...Oh!  I wasn't.. I mean, you haven't been answering."

"....No shit."

"So, have you received the letters we have sent you?"

"...Yea?"

"Have you read them?"

"No, why would I?"

"Grea....wait.. no?"

"No, I haven't read them.  I'm not interested in whatever it is you're selling or offering."

"Not even a chance to possibly ste...."

"No, not really."

"I see.. that is rather unfortunate.  I really... I'm... I...."

"Spit it out already, you're stumbling all over your words like the latest newscasters."

"I... yes.  You see, Timothy Kahrs has tasked me with reaching out to some of the best talent that The Experts has ever seen... And seeing as you are a former True Expert yourself... Well..."

"What?  Gonna get us all in the same room for some sort of awards show?  Pass.  Seriously."

"No no no no no Miss Nickles.  We're... inviting back wrestlers... To grace the squared circle under the Experts banner once more.  Maybe for the very last time ever.  And your name was on the top of the list."

"And how long is this list?"

"We've got some people saying yes, have some saying no.  But it is rather an impressive and extensive list.  Including even Desert Sex, which in and of itself..."

"Are you... are.... what?  Really?  Desert Sex?  Did I hear you right?"

"Well...yes..."

And there you have it boys and girls.  Did you honestly think for a solitary second that I was so god damned down on my fucking luck after having a fucking ballpoint pen shoved through my trachea that I've been living in a dingy little hole in the wall hoping and praying that the creditors wouldn't come for me?  That I was so washed up I was doing a dime in jail?   Heh.. Sorry to disappoint you.. Truly.  But see there's something that some people, some people tend to forget about me. 

I might be down, but I am never out.

"... Fine... I'm in."

"I'll make sure to pass along to the General Manager your decl...Wait, did you say you were in?"

"...Yea?  But... On one condition.  It'll take me a few days, but put my name down, and I'll give you a call and tell you the other name you're going to put down right beside it.  Got me?"

"Yes!  Of course Miss Nickles!"

Throwing my phone down beside me, I glance around the living room and rub my head, letting out a soft sigh.  "....But I fucking hate New Jersey... "  I groan softly before pushing off of the couch and decide to call in on an old friend.

~~

There are places that I never thought I would step into again, there are places that I would never dream about going back to.   And right ontop of that fucking list is Siberia, the god damned prison.  But this is the house we built... and if you think that you're going to come in and make yourself cozy?  Think again assholes.   Welcome to Siberia, welcome to your nightmare.

May 14, 2018
Windy City Promotions
Chicago, Illinois

The '68 Pontiac GTO pulled up in front of the brick building, on the outside at least, looked like it had seen better days.   To be quite honest, it had never been a pretty place on the outside, and when the Nickles brothers bought the place – they decided to keep hold of that charm.  After all, all the magic happened on the inside of the place known as Windy City Promotions.   However, the building even looked more foreboding as the sun had set, and it didn't appear as if any lights were on in the place.  Glancing over towards Sandy, Georgie gave him a small little smirk as she noticed that he looked surprised, "what?  Oh.  I get it, you thought we were going to go back to one of the brother's houses and you were going to get a home cooked meal for the first time in years huh?"  Shaking her head a little bit, "mmm nope.  Because as you so kindly put it Sandy, we only have two weeks to get your old ass in shape."

Sandy stared out the window for a long moment, slowly taking in a breath and then releasing it rather quickly, "I think, if I recall correctly, Georgie, that it was your ass that we needed to get into shape."  He gave her a devilish smile, in complete and total Sandy Makel fashion.

Which was infuriating, to say the least,  to the Rebel Child as her eyes narrowed, "I think your memory is faltering Sandy, I don't recall anything of the sort."

Sandy barked out a laugh and shook his head, "so we start tonight, huh?"

"No time like the present," she killed the engine, opening the door before stepping out, slamming the door behind her.  Walking around the front, she waited for several moments as it seemed Sandy was in conflict about actually getting out of the car, before she then gently tapped on the window, motioning with her hand.  Georgie understood that this... This was hard for him.  Hell, in the back of her mind there was a little bit of guilt, if she were to be honest.  Not only did she stand by the passenger door of her car waiting for the man who had been her one time nemesis turned close friend, she was also standing by the proverbial door – the gateway if you will.  Getting on the plane was the easy part, this... This was the hard part.  It made things real.  It offered up the opportunity to make things messy, and Sandy Makel never did like things when they got messy.  And this... This was beyond messy.  A year's worth of sobriety, a year's worth of building himself back up to someone he could face in the mirror.  And there she was, showing up at his door, asking him to tear it all down for the sake of one last shot. 

So did Georgie Nickles feel guilty?

The simple answer would be...

Yes, yes she fucking did.

As Sandy slowly emerged from the car, she could almost see the armor he was donning – emotional and mental, to prepare himself for what would happen next, tonight, tomorrow, two weeks from now.  "Sandy... Maybe..."  Georgie trailed off and furrowed her eyebrows as she considered exactly what it was she wanted to say.  "...Listen, maybe we should just start tomorrow.  I mean... I know that this isn't exactly..."  A soft sigh escaping her, "listen,  I...." Repeating herself, she glanced upwards towards the man who looked at her with an almost confused expression.

"...Georgie Nickles at a loss for words?  Where was this when I was begging you to shut up and listen?"  He gave the patented Diceman smile, before shaking his head.  "I'm here aren't I?  That means that I'm okay with this.  Like you said, this is something we've talked about before, but never had a chance to do.  So... If I'm going to do this, well... I might as well do it with you," Georgie looks like she's about to say something, however Sandy continued, "after all, compared to you, I'm going to look like I'm in the best shape of my life."

Her mouth dropped open, staring at Sandy, "you asshole!  You just had to keep talking and ruin it!!"

He laughed, nudging Georgie with his shoulder before heading towards the door, "come on General.  Hey, you never said.  Who is it we're going to be facing?"

Following behind him, she shook her head gently, "oh, you're going to love this...."

~~

Sandy Makel has his arms locked around Georgie as she stands in the center of the ring, his belly to her back and he tries to lift her up.  She deadweights right before he goes to lift her – unable to do so, he grasps her by her arm and shuttles her into the ropes, she bounces off of them, ducks under his arm and bounces off of the opposite ropes.  He turns to face her and as he's about to make a grab, she slides between his legs and kips up behind him, leaping up and driving both legs into his back, sending him forward into the ropes.  Georgie follows quickly behind, attempting to deliver a modified fame asser, but he moves out of the way in the nick of time and she gets her leg caught up in the ropes – tangled.  He drives his forearm into her back and then another, before he pulls her free, and as she is in a daze – raises her onto the ropes for the famed Seven Out.  She manages to drive a fist into him a few times before he lets her go.  Taking a few steps back, he raises his hands as if in surrender and takes in a deep breath.  They were both covered in sweat, Georgie slips down off of the ropes and sits on the canvas as she herself took in a few deep breaths. 

"That... wow," she breathed out the words and let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

"Not holding back huh, General?"  Sandy sits down on the canvas as well, looking towards her. 

"Hell no," she was still laughing, resting her head against the ropes as she took one more deep breath and finally could feel her heart calming down.  "Noticed you weren't either."

"Have I ever?"  He gives her a smile like a cat that got the crème. 

Raising up her finger and pointing it at him, "touché good sir, touché."  Running a hand over her face, wiping the sweat from her brow, she dropped onto her back and rolled out of the ring.  Reaching into a cooler, she procured two bottles of water and tossed one to her tag partner, her friend.  Jumping back up onto the apron, she ducked under the ropes and moved to the center of the ring and sat back down.   This time a little bit closer.  Save for the sound of their breathing that was finally regulating, the gym itself was silent.  Then again it was late as hell, later than she had planned on being there – but as the saying goes... Time flies when you're sparring.  Plus, it was easier to ignore things left unsaid when there were other things to focus on, otherwise – the only other thing a person can do is...

Listen to the silence.

Georgie hated listening to the silence, it was never her style.  It made her nervous.  It made her fidget, which was why her nails dug against the dampened label on the bottle that she held in her hands.  It was a horrible habit, one that had been noted several times by several people, including the man that was in the ring with her at the moment.   Sapphire blue eyes slowly looked out into the dimly lit gym – not that they couldn't afford the lighting, she just never saw the point in turning on more lights if they weren't going to be using the whole building.  Not only that, but she didn't need the cops or security rolling around wondering why there was someone in the building at half past midnight.  She was never one to have to explain why she was somewhere.  Even if she was part owner now, had been for a while – but now she took on more of an active role since she moved back from Maryland and worked every day in the ring with young hopefuls who had stars in their eyes.  What else was she going to do?  Wrestling was as ingrained in her blood as oxygen, she was never far away from the ring, even after a ballpoint pen was forcefully jammed into her trachea by Conor Blackburn so long ago.  So long ago in fact, it felt like another life, where the memories of all that happened were a little bit hazy still.

"Stop that," Sandy's voice interrupted her thoughts, causing her to blink a few times and look at him questioningly.  He motions with his head, glancing towards her throat.  She looks down and blinks a few times as she pulled her hand away, unknowingly she had been rubbing at the scar tissue that rested there as if she had been some sort of ventilator patient who could finally breathe on her own once more.  However, it wasn't the fact that she was doing it – it was a bad habit, almost like picking at the skin that comes up around one's nails, but the tone of Sandy's voice, it wasn't admonishment, it was the hint of worry and something else peppered in that caught her attention.

Setting her hand down in her lap, Georgie gave the Dice Man a small little smile, "sorry."

Shaking his head, "why?  Why are you doing this?"

It almost sounded like an intervention, the same question that she had been asked time and time again when her body was only mending from serious injury.  Only this time, her body was healed, she hadn't been in a ring for a promotion for several years, she had been in the ring working every day.  Just like Sandy, she had gotten out as clean as someone like her could.  Slowly, she shook her head a little bit as she tried to figure it out herself.  If it only had been the fact that Scorpio and Aaron Roberts had decided to try to come into the Experts like they knew a thing about it, then she could have ignored it and still told the pipsqueak talking head to shove it.    She was good at that.  In fact, she had gotten even better at that in the past few years.  "Because...."  Her eyebrows furrowed, chewing over the words that were running a million miles a minute in her head.  "Because...."  Georgie exhaled softly and glanced up at him, "there are so few times I regret things, because if I did, my life would only be regret.  And I'd regret not doing this."

Sandy shook his head, "now, that's not the full reason General.  So what is it?"

She was like an open book, at times – when it came to Sandy.  It was infuriating, but also comforting because the simple truth was, it was nice that someone got her.  And while Chris Lemke aka Exile got her, there was a level in which Sandy did, that he didn't.  That was the way of people, wasn't it?  She shook her head back at him, "and because... there are too many things in this life that you regret, Sandy.  And... you need to stop."  Shrugging her shoulder at him in such the simple infuriating way that was indeed Georgie Nickles, it was apparently something they were good at, exasperating one another.   "Stop being so fucking guilty about this," she pointed to her throat, "this... you didn't do this.  You didn't force me into that ring.  You didn't force Conor to jam that god damned pen in my throat.  You are a great mastermind, cerebral as hell, a surgeon... Okay, bad choice of word there... But you couldn't have pictured that happening.  You're not a fucking psychic."  Georgie's words might have seemed harsh, but to be honest, she spoke in earnest honesty, the only way she knew how.  "This," she motioned around her at the ring, the gym, "this is good.  This is good for me.  And this," she motioned between the two of them, "is good for us.  As wrestlers... as former True Experts... and as friends.  We're finally doing the one thing on our bucket list that we never thought possible.  But it's not going to work if we're both feeling guilty.  Me for pulling you back into this, and you for me falling out of it."

Sandy was quiet for several long moments, his face unreadable.  It was maddening when he did that.  "You feel guilty for pulling me back into this?"  She gave him a small nod of her head, blue tresses falling until she pushed it aside, as if it annoyed her – which it did.  "it was my choice.  Just like you getting into that ring was yours.  Do I feel guilty?  Yea, because let's be honest, I'm fucking terrible in tag matches, we both know this"  Her blue eyes bored into him and his small somewhat sarcastic smirk as her chin jutted out in stubborn fashion once more.  It was a look that Sandy had seen one too many times to know that Georgie Nickles was not going to be deterred.

The silence grew between them, both unmovable objects – being forced to move.   "And it has nothing to do with what happened before?"  She motioned to her throat, "it was the first thing you noticed, first thing you looked for." 

This was uncharted waters for both of them.  They did confessions well, but not with one another.  Sandy let out a sigh that almost sounded like a hiss, "fine, yes.  I'm guilty.   I feel guilty.  Okay?  That is not something I admit often."

"I know," she murmured, not wanting to interrupt him, but also letting him know that she understood it was difficult for him. 

"It's not a feeling I like.   When you didn't bounce back this time like you have before, I felt like I was partially to blame.  And when you showed up at my door... It wasn't just being clean that made me hesitate."  Georgie nodded a little bit, as Sandy looked towards her, "and just so you know, I meant what I said.  If I'm going to do this, if I'm going to take this shot, I'm glad it's with you."

Raising an eyebrow at him, Georgie tilted her head, "hey, you said might as well be with me earlier."

"... And you just had to go and ruin it, huh?"  He smirked at her, shaking his head as the two shared a laugh.

~~

May 20th, 2018
Windy City Promotions Arena
Chicago, Illinois

"Are you sure about this?"  Christopher glanced towards his sister with a worried look in his eye, it wasn't the first time he had given her such a gaze in the past week since she arrived with a surprising houseguest, a welcomed one, but a surprising guest none the less.   And when she explained exactly why he was in Chicago, the surprise grew into concern.  Christopher Nickles had kept an eye on Sandy Makel's career after his sister's injury, had heard the rumors, the gossip but never had actually believed them.  Not until Sandy admitted that yes, the rumors had been true.  He was concerned for Sandy and his sobriety, but he would never admit that to the man.  Instead, he was forced to focus on the concern for his sister, the woman who had ran the gamut of bodily injury as well as emotional trauma since she had started the journey so long ago.  She had thrived as a teacher, giving wakeup calls to those who grew too cocky, giving a shoulder to those who were buckling under the pressure, and always a word of encouragement for those who wanted to take their passion to the next step.  Georgie had thrived after she returned to Chicago after leaving Maryland, even if for once – the relationship she had been in had ended far better than any others she had had previously.  And for a long time, Christopher thought that may... Just maybe it had been enough to keep his little sister grounded, to keep her content. 

He should have known better.

It would never be enough for the likes of Georgette Marie Nickles. 

Rolling her shoulders, Georgie glanced up towards her brother and gave a small nod of her head, "of course I am."  He expected no less of an answer coming from her, she was always sure.  It was always all or nothing. 

"But Siberia..."

"Is just a place."

"A place you've been in several times now.  And every time you come back...."

"I know.  Listen, Christopher, you don't need to worry.  I know."

"Just like you knew you'd be okay in Phoenix?  That you'd be taken care of?  How far did that get you?"  But before his sister could answer, he shook his head, "it got you as far as a hospital room while they repaired the damage.  It got you as far as having to retire and not go out the way you wanted to.  It got you almost killed.  And now you're not going back there, but you're going to the Experts?  That place is a fucking death trap waiting to happen.  Have you forgotten how you got that title?  Have you forgotten how you wound up losing it?  And then slowly losing everything else, including yourself?"

Georgie rubbed her hand over her forehead, raising an eyebrow at him.  It was a look that she had picked up from their father, and in these moments he could see how his stubborn streak ran ten miles wide on his little girl.  Biting her bottom lip for a moment, she gave a small nod of her head, as if she were thinking over his words, and possibly even seeing his point.  "But if I don't get into that ring, if I don't go to Siberia and get into that ring, haven't I lost myself completely all over again?"  Turning her blue eyes towards her brother, who should have known she wouldn't be so easily swayed.  "Because I turned tail and ran, because I thought I wasn't good enough, or I wasn't whole enough to step in between the ropes?  Because if I don't do this, if I don't even try, then... who am I?"

"You'd still be you."  But Christopher knew, at this moment, that the discussion was not going to be finalized the way he had hoped.

"No.  I wouldn't.  I wouldn't be able to come in here every single damn day and encourage them, I wouldn't be able to step into that ring and show them what it's like, to train them up, to tell them to be brave, because shit gets awful, but you still have to get back up and stand on your feet again.  No matter how many assholes try to push you down.  How can I tell them that with a straight face, when I can't even do it myself?"  Georgie reached her hand out and grasped hold of her brother's arm, gently squeezing it, "I know you worry.  It's fair.  But you have to understand, I'm doing this because I need to."

Christopher gave a soft sigh, glancing over his little sister.  And she would always be his little sister, the little shit that always got into trouble but somehow managed to get out of it, usually.  The girl who thrived in the face of adversity, always.  Nodding his head, "all right... All right.  But you have to do me a favor, okay?"

Georgie tilted her head, expecting to hear her brother ask her to be safe, to be careful.  To not do anything too stupid.

"...Make sure that Desert Sex can never ever release another music track again, will you?  They're more terrible than that Logan Paul guy the kids are going crazy over."

Georgie laughed and gave her brother a nod of her head, "I think we can handle that."

"All right then,"  turning his head towards the gorilla position, "then... You... go do you... Go and rattle some cages."

~~

'Sound of Madness' by Shinedown begins to play over the PA system of the Windy City Pro arena, where the faithful followers and fans of the wrestling school filled the seats every week.  However, the arena was full to bursting as the dirt rags had been talking, rumors on the internet that the Rebel Child was going to be making an actual appearance, and not just as one of the teachers.  But it was now known, it was known and advertised that she was going to be teaming up with TFWF alum and former True Expert Sandy 'The Dice' Makel in what would be an epic tag team match facing off against none other than TFWF alum Desert Sex.  Not only were fans there, but there were several wrestling mags there as well, taking video and photos as they await the Rebel Child.

And then there she was!  Making her way down the ramp, donning a black modified general's jacket, a pair of black BDU strap pants, boots, and a black baseball bat slung over her shoulder as she made her way down the ramp, the fans already giving a massive pop as she takes the time to slap hands on both sides.  Making her way down to the bottom of the ramp, she raises a fist in the air, before taking off at a run and jumping up onto the apron and sliding into the ring.  Pushing herself up onto her feet, she takes the proffered microphone that was handed to her and listens as the arena drowns out the music, chanting her name.  It was by no means the size of the other arenas she had been in, but to her – it was the biggest venue in the world.  Raising the microphone to her lips, she winks as the music fades

"CHICAGO, ILLINOIS MAKE SOME NOISE!!!!"  Her hand raises with the microphone pointed towards the crowd that was up on their feet.

"GEORGIE!  GEORGIE!  GEORGIE!"

"God DAMN that feels so good!"  She exclaims loudly and takes in a deep breath.  "Now, we all know why I'm here, I'm here to make a declaration.  To make a statement that will be heard all the way to the Desert and back again... Hell, it might even reach Siberia by the time we're done here!  I'm here to declare that the war has begun once again, and set in the sights of not only myself but also Sandy Makel... Is the one and only failed boy band... Heh... Group... Desert Sex!"

"DESERT SUCKS!  DESERT SUCKS!" 

Georgie gives an amused little grin as she twirls the bat in her hand for a moment, rotating her wrist as she took a step back and seems to be overcome with emotion.  "Heh... That is never going to get old.  Now, you might be wondering exactly why... Why... Why after all these years away, yours truly has decided to step into the ring again.  And the truth of the matter is, why the hell not?  Why shouldn't I step into the ring and face off against two veterans of TFWF, one of the greatest global promotions that this sport has ever seen?  Why shouldn't I team up with the one and only Sandy Makel, one of the finest wrestlers that the entire world has ever seen?  I might be a lot of things, but I'm not stupid.  This... This match right here, is going to be one of the matches that will go down in history.  After all we have the highly decorated Scorpio who has literally dripped gold from around his waist... We have Aaron Roberts, the Cobra who has been known to be as ruthless as ever in the ring.  Two seasoned wrestlers, a tag team that is still spoken about when they talk about the greats.  Two wrestlers who are looking to prove that they themselves still have what it takes, that they still continue to be one of the greatest tag teams of all times.  I would have to have my head checked," her hand came up as if to pause herself, "again," a devilish smile gracing her full lips, "to say naaah," shaking her head, "not gonna do it, sorry."  Shrugging a shoulder.  "I would have to turn in my Rabble Rouser card, my baseball bat, and have my name changed if I were going to walk away from such an opportunity."

Taking in a few deep breaths, she moved around the ring, it was a slow build.  But it was almost as if she had never stepped away from the squared circle as a competitor, "but if Desert Sucks... Ahem... Excuse me, Desert SEX thinks for a single moment that this is going to be a cake walk in the beautiful confines of the Siberian Prison, they have another thing coming.  This isn't going to be some day spa retreat to get a mani-pedi and work on their core for a little while!"  Georgie shook her head a few times, "because while they might be known as one of the greatest tag teams that ever graced TFWF history, they ain't got nothing on me... and they sure as hell don't have ANYTHING on Sandy Makel!"  The fans inside the arena damn near shake off the rafters at the mention of Sandy Makel.  "We've roamed the globe and back again, leaving bodies in our wake, promotions clamoring to see who could land the likes of the Rebel Child and The Dice.  Separately, we have gone to the four corners of the earth and back again, making a name for ourselves... And now... in Siberia?  We add one more to the list, together.  And just as much as you might think that this is a dream for you?  Heh... What is a dream for all of you in these seats, and those tuning in to watch at home, or on your phone, your tablet... This is a dream for me." Walking over to the ropes, she addresses the crowd as if each and every single one of them was a personal friend of hers, "but that dream," she shook her head gently, "that dream that Scorpio and Cobra are having right now?  That little squishy wet dream of grasping hold of their glory days with two weak little hands, is going to be an absolute nightmare for them!  They not only have to deal with the cold harsh reality of what the Siberian Prison is, a place that they have very little knowledge about, but they have to deal with two people who don't have to worry about trying to make a hustle, to make a buck, to make a name for themselves, because our names are etched on EVERY SINGLE GOD DAMNED HALL IN THAT PLACE!"  The crowd gives another loud pop for Georgie and Sandy, "our names have been written in blood, in sweat, and in tears!  It might be the house that Jack fucking built, but Georgie Nickles and Sandy Makel laid the foundations for time and time again!"

Moving away from the ropes, she walks to the other side, and looks out over the crowd, "now there will be some who have to wonder... Georgie... can you do it?  You haven't competed in years.  Not since Conor Blackburn took you out for good, put you in a hospital.  Hell, there was a time when you didn't even know if you'd be able to talk again."  A small nod was given, "and that is a very fair question.  But you see, here's the thing.  I might not have been breaking my body in front of cameras week after week for some promotion, I have been in the ring.  And while it's not been against the likes of Danny Tenegra, the Phenom, or even Dom Harter, I have been put through the paces time and time again.  Because wrestling, it wasn't just a job for me, it wasn't just a passion, it is the air I breathe, the blood in my veins, and the water that I drink.  So while Aaron and Scorpio have been trying endlessly to get on RuPaul's drag race, and making sure that everyone knows that they were a big deal once upon a time, I have been doing what I always have done!  And that is bleed and sweat for the thing that I love the most!"  Pushing away from the ropes as the crowd cheers again, she moves to the center of the ring.  "And out of all of us, the one who has competed most recently just so happens to be my partner, Sandy Makel.  The Dice.  The man who has turned the playbooks on mental fuckery written by the likes of Fallen Angel and Draeden Darksky upside down and re-written the rules.  While... What exactly has Aaron and Scorpio been doing?"  Tilting her head, "besides being the chuckle fucks and cock jockeys that they always have been, and always will be, that is?"  Eyebrows shoot up, "anyone?  Anyone?  Does ANYONE know?"  Shaking her head slowly, "no... That's what I thought, and that's what I would expect from none other than the audible abortion that is Desert Sex."  Shrugging a shoulder gently, in a not so innocent fashion, Georgie glances out over the crowd.

Twirling her bat once more, she let out a sweet smile that usually made people feel a little uncomfortable, "but don't worry... That's all going to change after Siberia.  After Siberia, the two of you can go play hide and go fuck yourself again, after licking your wounds.  After crying into Crème's padded bosom and asking HOW did it all go so terribly terribly wrong.  After recovering from the biggest beat down both of you have ever faced in your entire lives.  Because, you see... you forget, you forget that you're stepping into the ring with not one, but two former True Expert champs... You're forgetting that you're stepping into the ring with two people who understand the dynamics of the other.  We were bitter rivals at one point, Sandy and I, after all, and in some ways that makes us even more dangerous as a team than the two of you.  You've forgotten that you're going up against two people who make NO compunction about putting their bodies on the line as long as it gets the result that they want.  And you know what result I want boys?" There's that beatific grin that the Rebel Child was always known for, "to see you bleed.  I might have been the innocent before; I might have always decided to play by the rules, but those days?  Those days are gone, buried in the rust and steel that was the Siberian prison.  You forget that not only was I a True Expert, a tag champion, a world champion, a Light Heavyweight Champion... And the list can go on.. and on..and on.. I was also a Hardcore Champion, multiple times over.  I bled every single night I got into the ring to get the True Expert title, and to retain it.  Because I have the grit, I have the guts, and I have the strength to push through ANYTHING you can put on me, or put me into.  And I promise.. I promise... that the folks here in this arena, and all those who tune in all around the United States will hear you scream, and beg for mercy all the way from Siberia when Sandy and I... Make you both... Casualties for the Cause!"  Georgie drops the mic and raises both hands up into the air, throwing the devil horns as the fans get onto their feet, cheering loudly, so loudly in fact – later on the Nickles family would be notified of noise disturbances reported at the arena.

"GEORGIE!  GEORGIE!  GEORGIE!"

"SANDY!  SANDY!  SANDY!"

Georgie takes to the turnbuckles, raising both of her fists once more – as the scene begins to.....

|F|A|D|E|

[Russ]

Instagram: BitchItsScorpio

Our scene opens to the rusted bars of a Siberian cell, snow settling on the rust. The camera pans around the doorway, the walls barely visible in the diminishing Russian sunlight. We move through the doorway and into one of the cells, long since abandoned since the blasts inside the Facility, a few bricks fallen from the walls of the room, moss growing along what was once the cell's bed. We pan around to a fold-out chair and its occupant; a splenderous leather coat with black feathers adoring the lapels, stunning silver eyeshadow framing piercing emerald eyes, a beautiful white lace shirt clinging to a ripped and model-worthy body. Laid in a pile at the figure's feet are replica championship belts - the TFWF Light-Heavyweight Championship, the TFWF Hardcore Championship, the TFWF European Championship, the TFWF Tag Team Championship, the TFWF Intercontinental Championship, and the TFWF Undisputed World Heavyweight Championship - the career record of the one-and-only Most Decorated Bitch in TFWF History.

Scorpio stares at himself in a jagged piece of reflective glass serving as a mirror, three candles forming the only light in the murky dark of the cell. He reaches into the top of his Italian leather black heeled boots, and pulls out a small dagger, its hilt made of golden roses, the blade fashioned from what appears to be frosted glass. He fans out the fingers of his left hand before he begins to run the dagger over the deep crimson nails. With each strike of the nail file a layer of dust settles on his skin, some landing on one of the many beautiful rings on his hand, the candle light glinting off of the ruby of one. After a few swipes he turns to the camera, pointing the dagger at its lens...

"One-hit wonders. Desert Sucks. Never had the heart?!"

He pauses briefly, his deep red lips twisting into an anger-fuelled pout, his Hollywood-white teeth gritted with rage. How dare they call him one-and-done. How dare they suggest he never had the heart. How dare they think the two-time Papua New Guinean Lifetime Achievement In Music Winning Desert Sex were anything short of Hall of Fame-worthy.

"Georgie... Sandy... SUCK A FUCKING DICK THE PAIR OF YOU!"

Scorpio blows the nail dust off of his fingers and it clouds across the camera lens, immediately cutting to black...

Fin.

[Russ]

June 10th 2018

Our scene opens to the ring in the middle of the Siberian Facility. Since the building's devastation there is natural light flooding the main atrium, a large hole in the brickwork ensuring the cold winter sun shines upon the centre of the Experts action. All around the ring are empty metal chairs for those who have travelled to watch the spectacular. Sat on on turnbuckle is a dejected-looking Aaron 'The Cobra' Roberts; Créme de la Créme is leans against the ropes, smoothing a crease out of his sequinned gown; and the one and only S-Factor, Scorpio, is pacing up and down the ring. His high-heeled boots click against the mat as he's scrolling through his phone..

Scorpio: "I can't get any fucking signal in this place - it was definitely May 27th right? We haven't missed it have we?"

Créme de la Créme: "That's what they said..."

Scorpio: "Then we need to find an attorney. This was gig one of the Desert Sex Reunion Tour and Stud Experience - WE ARE MISSING DATES STUCK IN THIS FROZEN FUCKING HELLHOLE. And good Lord there's not even a dry cleaners what am I supposed to do for clothes maintenance?!"

He sighs loudly before letting out a scream, throwing his phone to the floor in frustration. Aaron shakes his head and drops down from the turnbuckle, turning to face Créme.

The Cobra: "Créme fella - uh, I mean, babes? - you need to let the Cobra's millions and MILLIONS of fans know he's not going to be making these appearances. Tell them he's fighting the bitter icy winds of Siberia but they needn't worry; the nine-inch Meatball Marinara of Marvellousness is being kept perfectly warm and ready."

Créme' barely looking at the pair as he shakes his head.

Créme de la Créme: "You can probably both calm it down. The only booking beyond this one is the West Hull Women's Institute in mid-July. We can hold out here..."

Scorpio and Aaron both stop their tantrums and turn to Créme, who looks up from his nails and shrugs.

Créme de la Créme: "Plus if I'm being totally honest it's in the middle of their Pies and Puddings Month. I'm 90% sure they've misread as Dessert Sex..."

Anither temper tantrum scream erupts from Scorpio's lips as he runs forward to kick his phone, but unfortunately he was never all that good at football, and instead misses wildly. This frustrates him further and he drops down, rolling under the bottom rope, and storming off towards the hole in the wall leading to the Facility's yard.

"I need a fucking Margarita RIGHT NOW."

[Russ]

June 17th 2018

Our scene opens to a police command centre in Siberia, Russia. A number of people are sat at computer screens, fielding calls and ensuring the people of Siberia are kept... well probably not safe, but at least in check. We come in as one younger man raises his hand, catching the attention of a supervising senior officer. The man holds a hand to one of his headphones, replying in Russian, as the senior officer approaches. 

"What is it?"

"Sir, Heli-Unit 73 was flying past the the old prison in beta sector, spotted some unusual activity..."

"It was bought by eccentric American wrestling promoter, everything that happens there is fucking unusual."

The radio operator again holds his hand to the headphone and nods along, giving the occasional 'mmhmm' before he turns to the senior officer.

"They say they've spotted a message in the snow, written in rocks and branches."

"Well what the hell does it say?"

"It's in English, they're attempting to translate... hold on.."

A few more people have gathered around, interested in what's happening at the Experts facility as the operator strains to listen.

"It says 'Help'... 'they have us'... 'trapped'"

"Trapped? In a fucking prison? What do these idiot Americans expect?!"

"There's more sir... 'Help they have us trapped... there is no'... they're struggling to translate the next word... 'no...'"

The small crowd lean forward, waiting for what these unknown hostages have none off.

"No...?"

"No... no..."

"No what?!"

"No... no... 'no... Prada?... for hundreds of miles. Send aid.'"

The operator turns to his senior and the crowd of other officers, who are all looking to one another trying to decipher what exactly has been written in the snow.

"'Help they have us trapped. There is no Prada for hundreds of miles. Send aid.' What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Hang on sir, they think they've spotted some people, they're going to fly past lower for a better look... yes, there's three of them, a man and two women."

The crowd of officers once again lean forward further with anticipation.

"They are waving at the helicopter, it seems they want rescue. There's space on-board sir, should Heli-Unit 73 pick them up?"

"Of course! I have no idea what the hell their message means, they must be confused or even psychotic, could have been in that wilderness for days, hypothermia setting in..."

The operator hits a switch and smiles widely.

"Conduct a rescue mission Heli-Unit 73!"

Suddenly the operator's face drops.

"Sir, they're reporting that one of the women has removed her long blonde hair and is violently waving it at the helicopter. They've also noticed she only has one breast..."

The senior officer's eyes narrow. The operator leans in closer, almost not sure about what he's hearing.

"Sir... it would seem the other woman... on closer inspection has the beginnings of a beard..."

"And let me guess, the man is actually a woman?"

"No, but apparently he is vigorously pointing at his crotch. He shouted 'Do you need this for your second rotor blade?' on the last fly past..."

"Is his crotch incredibly impressive or something?"

"... 'it appears smooth, like a Ken Doll' was their exact phrasing."

The senior officer shakes his head and presses both of his eyes as he drops his head into his palm, sighing loudly.

"It seems the Americans are importing homosexuals into this country. We will not have this kind of debauchery in our mother land."

"... the rescue mission sir?"

"Abort."

- - -

We smash cut to the trio of Desert Sex in the Siberian wilderness next to their hard-crafted plea for help in the snow. The helicopter, presumably Heli-Unit 73, screeches past them and flies off into the middle distance as they stare on in disbelief. The Cobra is open-mouthed, his chin over-growing with a straggly beard; Scorpio's hair is beginning to develop split ends, the starting of stubble is cracking through his days-old make-up; and Créme de la Créme has his wig in his hand, his drag make-up streaked and smudged over his face, and one of his breast pads lost to the wilderness.

After a good minute of stunned silence Scorpio lets out a piercing scream and falls to his knees, before face-planting into the snow and sobbing heavily. Créme turns to look behind them at the Siberian Facility in the middle distance, before he sighs and hangs his head.

"Well, looks like we'll have to head bsck..."

He crouches beside the People's Camp and slowly helps him up on his golden heels, brushing some of the snow out of Scorpio's fur coat.

"Come on darling, it can't be too much longer, we can survive."

"THE FOOD IS FULL OF GLUTEN. I CAN'T DRY CLEAN ANY OF MY CLOTHES. I RAN OUT OF HAIR SERUM YESTERDAY. AND I SWEAR TO FUCKING CHER HERSELF, IF I DON'T GET A SHIPMENT OF MOISTURISER I WILL FUCKING KILL MYSELF. I CAN'T TAKE IF ANYMORE."

A red-faced Scorpio finishes his rant as his Desert Sex compatriots look on. Tears stream down his face, before he finally composes himself, waving his hand in front of his eyes.

"Except I won't... I can't... because you just know that fucking BITCH Georgie Nickles would just pin me anyway and I am not going out trapped under that cellulite-riddled carcass..."

The camera pans back as our intrepid heroes begin the long walk back to the Siberian Facility, leaving their plea to the Russian authorities to be lost to freshly falling snow.