The One They All Forgot...

[Russ]

Our scene opens to the snow-drenched landscape of Siberia, Russia. A lone man is trudging through the wilderness, a bag strapped to his back, thermals and furs covering every inch of his body. He looks ahead and we can now see where he's headed - a dilapidated concrete complex in the middle of the icy tundra, a large hole blown out of one wall. The man nods to himself and continues pushing forwards to the uninhabited and overgrown building. It looks familiar - almost a carbon copy of the now infamous Siberian complex - but it clearly isn't the dreaded and dangerous corner of the world the Experts had come to call home.

The man finally reaches the blasted out wall and begins to clamber over the bricks, ice, and creeping vines. He struggles his way through the debris and eventually finds himself in a hall within the middle of the structure. He reaches round to the bag on his back and pulls out a flashlight, illuminating it. He searches around this prison's inner sanctum but finds no signs of what he's looking for, before he begins to try the various hallways. He pulls down the hood of his jacket and lifts his ski goggles, however he is not somebody we've met before on our travels...

"Sir? SIR? It's Nikolai... I have come for you..."

Nikolai allows his voice to echo around the broken building's walls, with no answer, before he continues his search. He finds himself in a corridor of old cells, wrenching each door open and searching the cells inside with his flashlight. He looks dejected at each empty room, slamming the doors loudly as he continues his search. Nikolai reaches some stairs and climbs to the next floor of the blown-up building, smacking the butt of his torch against the metal doors to create as much noise as possible. He smacks the torch hard and as the sound of metal on metal echoes around again he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts out again...

"SIR?! SIR! ARE YOU HERE?!"

He waits a few seconds, and upon getting no response he continues his now-frantic search. He pulls open another door and waves the light across it once again, before shaking his head and working his way up to the top floor of the facility. He reaches the administration floor of this prison and smacks the butt of the torch against a metal locker. Nikolai looks tense as he listens out among the echoes... and his eyebrows. Somewhere in there is a knock that sounds off... as if somebody is trying to reply...

"SIR? IT'S NIKOLAI... SIR?"

Another knock somewhere in the distance, and this time he can pinpoint it more easily, heading down a corridor. The knock comes again, and again, and again as Nikolai makes his way and stares towards a door marked 'Warden' in Russian. He reaches it and the knock sounds out again...

"Sir... step back from the door... I think I have found you..."

He shrugs the back off of his shoulder and takes a few steps back. Nikolai takes a deep breath and runs at the door, throwing a shoulder at it -- but it doesn't budge. He steps back further, holding his shoulder in pain, before he runs again and throws his whole wait into it. Again there is no movement on the door, and Nikolai steps back away from it. He takes another deep breath and sprints at it, this time crashing into the door harder than before - and the lock buckles! Nikolai comes stumbling through into a pitch-black room and he scrambles to his feet, reaching for the flashlight laid on the ground.

As he switches it on he swings it around the room, revealing it to be almost identical to the Warden's office as seen in the Experts' facility. His flashlight finally settles on the corner of the room where a figure is shielding their face. The man is clearly disheveled, with long hair and a mid-sized beard, and his skin looks covered in dirt. Nikolai slowly approaches the figure as he puts his hands down from his face, slowly adjusting to the light...

"Sir... it's you... I can't believe it..."

Michael Thunder looks up at his old assistant from his time as General Manager of the Experts, a look of pleading mixed with a look of defiance and rage on his face. Nikolai offers a small smile before he scrambles for his backpack and pulls out a bottle of water, handing it to the elder statesman of professional wrestling. Thunder drinks down much of the water in gulps, roughly wiping his lips before he sinks back against a cupboard.

Michael Thunder: "How'd ya find me kid?"

His voice is rough and hoarse, that of a man who hasn't had much conversation for a while.

Nikolai: "I believed all the stories, I'm sorry sir. You'd disappeared, ashamed of what the Experts had become. But Benevolence and White, at the Invitational, they told Legion the prison was not blown up... it was a stunt... there's loads of these buildings out in the wilderness... I had my suspicions..."

Thunder sips at more of the water, staring down at the floor with a sigh.

Michael Thunder: "Thank you for trying Nik... 'preciate it. Truth is it's half right... I ran and hid when this place crumbled... but once the Azulas got their fuckin' hands on the place they tracked me down and got rid of their biggest challenge. Paved the fuckin' way for Beneveolence's takeover..."

Nikolai: "Thankfully that never happened. It's still under the control of the Azulas, Legion, the board... some group that isn't Jack Benevolence."

A wry smirk develops over Thunder's lips.

Michael Thunder: "That's somethin' at least..."

Thunder reaches to a desk by his side, and using every last bit of strength he has left he manages to pull himself to his feet. He appears unsteady and Nikolai reaches forward, holding him by the arm. The Living Legend steadies himself and gestures that he's ok, the Siberian aide slowly letting him go. Thunder takes one last gulp of water and nods to himself.

"Azula, Legion, Benevolence, White... they all forgot who still holds the keys to that fuckin' place... wanna help me remind 'em Nik?"

Fin.

[Russ]

Operation Desert Storm

Somewhere in West Hull, Sometime in Mid-July...

Our scene opens a swelteringly-hot summer's evening in the North of England. We're drawn to a white marquee tent with "West Hull Women's Institute" adorning the entrance. The Women's Institute - the epitome of Britishness; making jam, singing 'Jerusalem', crochet, cake bakes, lawn tennis - all the class and pomp and circumstance of upper middle-class England. So what can we expect of this beautiful scene; something quaint, something marvellous, something --

"BARNACLES ON MY BUTT I GOT 'EM, BARNACLES ON MY BUTT - ON MY BOTTOM, BARNACLES ON MY BUTT I'LL HAVE 'EM ALL MY LIFE YEEEEAAAAH"

Well not something like that. Yes, it's Desert Sex, our plucky LGBTQ+ cross-dressing, gender-bending, mind-numbing threesome with as much a talent for pop music as they are subtle and calm. As we join them Aaron Roberts is wailing out the lyrics, Scorpio is doing something ungodly with a tambourine, and Crème de la Crème is in full drag swaying from side to side in something half-resembling a seizure. The audience - remember these are largely middle-aged-to-elderly women - are looking somewhat horrified. The WI are famed for their cakes and desserts, and it would seem in our modern age they were hoping to find how they could bring these into the bedroom (the older woman still has 'relations' in 2018!). That being said perhaps they should check their spellings; alas this is not Dessert Sex.

Loudly the noise of one of the women knocking a teaspoon against her wine glass breaks across the 'music', and the two-time Papua New Guinean Lifetime Achievement In Music Award Winners come to a stop...

WI Woman: "Dear... I do apologise for my interruption... I fear there may have been some form of mix-up... we were expecting a tutorial on the role of crème patisserie in foreplay?"

Scorpio: "His name's Crème de la Crème, and he's not into all that time-wasting foreplay malarky. Now, can we carry on or must you insist on telling us your life story?"

WI Woman: "No you see there's been a mistake--"

Scorpio: "Well yes, obviously. A fuschia blouse, white trousers, silver sandals, and blue eye shadow; you look fucking hideous! But I was trying to be polite and not draw any attention to it. Do you not have mirrors in your house?"

-- We smash forward a few minutes as Desert Sex come stumbling out of the marquee's entrance clutching their instruments and looking angry. Scorpio spins around and flips his middle finger at the marquee, muttering something about all looking like Crème after a heavy night and a national shortage of boutique mascara. The three heroes of the TFWF and Experts make their way across a gravel-laden car park, two of them struggling slightly in their dangerously-high heels, aiming for a bright pink 'Desert Sex'-branded VW Camper Van (yes, 'camp'-er van. It's a pun.).

As they approach there is an older-looking man leant against the bonnet, his head down as he scrolls through his mobile phone. Aaron Roberts walks straight past him and drags open the door, sliding his guitar inside. Crème briefly looks at the older man, pushing some of the long blonde hair (read: wig) behind his ear.

Crème de la Crème: "If you're waiting for one of the hags in the marquee I suggest you run while you still have the chance. All of them had necks like Russell White's scrotum."

He turns back to the camper van and begins to load the bags he was carrying inside while Scorpio settles into the driving seat and starts the engine. The man leant against the van slides his phone into his pocket and eyes each member of Desert Sex, before sighing...

"Is that really a way to welcome an old friend?"

It's Scorpio who looks up first, and is briefly taken aback. Next Aaron Roberts turns, and raises a single eyebrow. Finally Crème turns and claps eyes on the man's face, gasping with shock, and making such a dramatic gesture that his wig falls clean off. As he attempts to re-position it the S-Factor climbs back out of the van.

Scorpio: "I thought you were dead or something..."

The Cobra: "Yeah fuckin' hell where've you been mate? We wouldn't have been stuck in Siberia for like two months if you were doing what you were supposed to be."

Well if you've not guessed it by now then - surprise! - it's Michael Thunder. The former boss of the Experts, the Living Legend, former TFWF World Champion and longest-reigning SCW Global Champion in history.  A wry smile develops over his face as he folds his arms and looks to each member of Desert Sex with a nod.

Michael Thunder: "Well if I'm honest that's why I'm here... it is what I'm supposed to be doin' and it's what I want to do again... but right now we've got the three musketeers holdin' the power and Jack FUCKIN' Benevolence holding the title again. The Experts is fucked if it carries on this way. So I'm here lookin' for a bit of help folks..."

Crème de la Crème: "... let me guess... you're hoping to infiltrate Legacy Plaza under the guise of 'Michelle Lightning', your new female persona? Because boy you've come to the right band!"

Desert Sex all look to one another with nods and smiles and as Scorpio and Aaron turn back to Thunder, Crème begins trying to find some wigs and fake breasts for the Living Legend to try. Michael himself frowns in confusion before shaking his head and turning his eyes to the People's Camp.

Michael Thunder: "Not quite. I'm more lookin' to get an army together... a team of folks who remember what the Experts used to be before Kahrs, Azula, and fuckin' Legion started playing around with it. What they're doin' is illegal but I'm screwed if I wanna fight this in court. There's only one place we fight our fights--"

Scorpio: "The catwalk?"

The Cobra: "The bedroom?"

Michael Thunder: "... the ring."

Both Scorpio and Aaron nod, acting as if that was their next answer, as briefly Thunder drops his head into his hands. He looks back up again and smiles.

Michael Thunder: "I saw you boys--"

He looks briefly at Crème.

Michael Thunder: "Uh... 'folks'... takin' on Nickles and Makel. Two damn impressive former True Experts, heroes of the TFWF, legends of this sport. It turns out ya still got it, even if 'it' involves blow-up dolls and dildos. I know we ain't exactly the first partnership the fans are gonna expect, but you're a good place to start... you said you wanna make your comeback and take on the Experts... so... you in for this army?"

For a few seconds the most incredible band in wrestling remain silent, staring right back at the Living Legend. Scorpio, Aaron Roberts, Crème de la Crème, and Scorpio? Who'd have ever expected that grouping? A man as stoic, dreary, and fun-free as a Milton recital at an Azula family gathering teaming up with a drag queen, the sassiest bitch in TFWF history, and a man who somehow insists that five and half is exactly the same as nine. Scorpio is the first to react, eyeing both Crème and Aaron and cocking his head to suggest they talk in private around the side of the van. The three whisper to one another briefly, Aaron turning for a second or two to look at Thunder, before they all seem to reach an agreement. Scorpio is the first to smile.

Scorpio: "We have one condition..."

Michael Thunder: "Y'all can wear what you like, but I'm not coverin' my face in make-up or stickin' pads down my top--"

Scorpio: "The name. Desert Sex, Michael Thunder, going to war... we think Desert Storm works pretty well. If you're down, we're down."

Thunder frowns briefly, looking slightly taken aback.

Michael Thunder: "Your only concern is that we name ourselves Desert Storm?"

The Cobra: "If The Cobra is entirely honest today was the only booking on the DeSeRT SEx. We were stuck in Siberia for two months waiting for that bloody show to go ahead and Crème's West-End drag act has gone under. Aside from touting the totem pole of tantric temptation to the ladies on West Hull we've got very little to do... so Desert Storm... and we're with you."

Again Thunder looks very taken aback before he sighs and begins to nod his head.

Michael Thunder: "Well... sure I guess."

Scorpio: "Fabulous... right... I think we need a celebration..."

He climbs back into the front seat of the van as Crème and Aaron take their places in the passenger seats. The engine starts and Thunder remains standing there, uncertain of what on Earth has been going on, with a slight smile on his face at the idea of Desert Storm coming together. Michael Thunder. Scorpio. Aaron Roberts. Crème de la Crème. The crack team you weren't expecting, but will be so glad you had... probably.

The S-Factor winds down his window and lowers his glasses, peering at Thunder over the top with a pout on his face.

"Get in loser, we're going shopping."

Fin.