“WELCOME!... No. No. That’s not right...”

“Hmmm.”

“WELCOME TO LEGION EVERYBODY! No. No. Too McMahony. Gotta make it sound like I’m on less amphetamines...”

Standing uncomfortably was the mohawked snowman voice of Legion, High Flyer. He held a large headset to his right ear by his hand, covering up the blushing cheeks of anger that boiled his blood to the surface.

In a huff and a clatter, Flyer tossed the headset down onto the table. It bounced off, landing at the feet of the one, very, Russel David. David, until this moment, had been busy looking over the various notes of dialogue that Flyer had jotted down inside of a three ring binder on the announce table.

“Dude. I keep saying dude. I sound like I’m fucking Michael Cole getting kicked in her twunt.” Flyer began to pace from behind his announcer’s table. He paused, taking a deep breath in, but continued to pace quickly after that. Turning to David, his voice shook from nerves. “You gotta get someone else.”

“Jack, it’s just opening night jitters.” Russel ran his hand through his curly hair. “You’re gonna do great. I saw Heatstroke years ago, back when I was reviewing Organization shows on my blog in college. You were brilliant back then. You’ll be brilliant now.”

“That’s a lot of smoke being blown up my ass. And college? Gah, way to make me feel old...” The Lunatic whined, lighting up a Parliament inside of the arena, strangely enough.

“You’re not gonna smoke during our broadcasts, right?”

“Only during commercials.” Flyer smiled, exhaling.

“There aren't commercials, Jack. This'll be for a DVD. Look don't worry, you’re not going to be the unifying force. You’re not out there alone.” David took a lone eerie look at Flyer’s embering cigarette. “I'm not sure if it's legal to smoke in a church in Brooklyn, actually.... but right, yes, you’re there to provide light hearted observations, to give some insight into the sport we call professional wrestling, to give you take on the world we live in. You really think Jerry Lawler is concerned about whether he miscalls a drop toe hold?”

“Jerry Lawler is a time traveler.”

“What?” David’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

“It means he’s living in 1998.”

David thought for a moment, and couldn’t help agree.

“If I say the word Puppies and I’m not referring to a box of them being crushed by the angry foot of Brian Spaes, you can take me out back and shoot me in my head. Put me out of my misery.” Flyer looked away for a moment, before quickly turning back. “OH! And if you hear me shout the word BLOOD in some sacrificial cult satanic manner, just yell really loud in my headset and I’ll try to stop.” Flyer tossed his cigarette to the floor and stomped it dry.

“You’re concerned about the strangest things, you know that?”

Flyer smiled. “Yup. Oh, and one last thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If I actually get a chance to commentate a match involving Hornet, prepare to have a piss bucket standing by, because I’d be very likely to wet myself without it.”

Russel looked quizzically at the Lunatic. With that, he took two steps backward, turned around, and headed off.

Jack shrugged, lifting up his headset. “Oh boy, we’ve got one HECK of a show for you...” Flyer sighed, taking a seat and scratching in his notepad. “No No. Who uses the word heck anymore. Fuckers who’d never drop the F-Bomb, that’s for sure. C’mon Jack. Get on your game mang!” Flyer slumped his shoulders, deflated and defeated. “Why don’t you just time travel back to the fifties and try to commentate. Groovy bebop time travel circus. Maybe you’d be serviceable there...”