Taking Hold of the Flame 2026

[The Matt]

2 of 2
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June 7th, 2026
Boston, Massachusetts
Off Camera
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The back wall of the house was a monument to decades of shifting soil and structural indifference. Looking at it from the tiny, weed choked patch of dirt that passed for a backyard, the exterior siding didn't run straight up and down so much as it billowed outward like a sail catching a very slow, very heavy breeze. A massive crack in the old fieldstone foundation had allowed the main sill plate, the massive piece of timber that the entire back wall rested upon, to rot away into something resembling wet coffee grounds. The lower three feet of the wall had essentially dropped two inches, pulling the framing studs out of alignment and causing the kitchen window above to stick permanently shut. Tommy stood in the mud, his boots sinking an inch into the soft earth as he positioned a heavy, twenty ton hydraulic bottle jack on top of a thick stack of oak blocking. His broad shoulders rolled under his faded gray tee as he worked a long steel handle, pumping the jack slowly to bring a makeshift temporary support beam, a rough hewn six by six post, into contact with the solid wood higher up the wall. Every time the jack clicked, the old house let out a terrifying, deep wood groan that sounded like a ship grounding itself on a coral reef. Dust and dried horsehair plaster rained down from the gaps in the siding, dusting Tommy’s dark beard in a fine, gray powder.

Kimberly was positioned a few feet to his left, her pink glittery hard hat catching the dull afternoon sun and sending erratic flashes of magenta light across the rotting cedar shingles. She was holding a heavy framing hammer in one hand and a handful of thick, galvanized structural screws in the other. Her denim overalls were already smeared with black grease from the jack, and her face carried a look of intense, tactical focus that would have been more appropriate for clearing an enemy bunker than reinforcing a kitchen wall. Right beside her, nestled safely inside a sturdy wooden milk crate so he wouldn't roll over into the mud, was Wasley the penguin. The miniature yellow hard hat was still strapped securely to his plush head, though it had slipped a little further over his plastic bead eyes from the vibration of the house groaning. Because of the dense lead fishing weights packed tightly into his core, Wasley sat perfectly upright, his stubby black wings extended forward over the edge of the plastic crate like an inspector evaluating the quality of the masonry. Kimberly reached into the crate, adjusting Wasley’s crooked yellow beak so it pointed directly at the main fracture line in the foundation.

“What was that, Wasley?” She spoke to the stuffed animal with complete, unblinking seriousness. “Oh…good point!”

“What’d he say, Kimmy?” Tommy asks.

“He says that our primary objective of this top secret military operation is to monitor the structural load distribution and ensure that this foundation does not suffer any catastrophic explosion!” She smirks. “And trust me, it could happen, explosives…”

“Explosives?” Tommy arches his brow.

“Yeah…I may have hidden a land mine or two in the yard…” she shrugs hers houlders.

“I hope you’re joking.”

“I never know if I’m joking. That’s why I’m so fun!” She laughs maniacally.

“I am not sure this is going to work out well, babe.” Tommy says. “Especially if the penguin is our supervisor.”

“Wasley has plenty of experience supervising people.” Kim insists. Then she leaned down, pretending to listen intently to a muffled response from the plush bird, before nodding sharply and looking back at Tommy, sharply.

“What’d he say?”

“He says if you are rude to him again, you’re fired.”

“Great.” He chuckles. “I’ll get fired by a plushie.”

“He also says that the timber is holding steady but you should be cautious on the next few pumps of that jack handle.”

Tommy didn't argue. He just wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his dirty forearm, glanced at the lead filled penguin sitting in the milk crate, and gave a slow, respectful nod. He had learned a long time ago that it was much easier to treat Wasley as a highly competent, albeit quiet, member of the construction crew than to try and bring logic into Kimberly’s operational parameters. With another grunt of exertion, Tommy threw his weight into the jack handle again. The hydraulic cylinder hissed, and the back wall of the house rose a fraction of an inch. Above them, the glass in the kitchen window gave a sharp, terrifying creak, but the wall visibly straightened, the sagging alignment of the studs snapping back into a semblance of a straight line.

Kimberly moved in instantly, her combat boots sloshing through the wet dirt as she wedged a solid piece of pressure treated lumber into the gap to create a permanent shim. She drove a massive structural screw through the new wood using a heavy duty impact driver, the loud, rhythmic chattering of the tool echoing off the neighbor’s chain link fence.

“Yay! We did it! We Took Hold of the Flame!” She cheered loudly, clapping her work gloves together and pausing to give Wasley a firm high five on his left wing, praising the heavy plushie for his flawless calculation of the building’s center of gravity.

“That’s later, babe.” Tommy says. “Which is another problem you have outside of this…”

From inside the open window directly above their heads, the frantic, metallic squeaking of Caligula’s exercise wheel suddenly amplified. The sudden shift in the house’s foundation had apparently aggravated the golden hamster, who was now running with such furious velocity that the entire plastic cage on top of the filing cabinet was likely vibrating across the living room. The tiny rodent’s rage seemed to merge with the sound of the power tools and the groaning timber, creating a bizarre, loud symphony of domestic survival in the heart of the Boston slums.

“Taking Hold of the Flame is NOT a problem, Tommy.” Kim insists, folding her arms over her chest. “Or do you not think I can win it?”

“I know you can win it. I mean, seriously, look at your resume. In SCW alone you have achieved just about every brass ring they have including a Trios and you are one World Title victory away from becoming Supreme Champion.”

“Right.” The Woman Scorned nods her head. “And WHEN I win Taking Hold of the Flame, I will not only add THAT to my resume, but then I will get to win the SCW World Title at Rise To Kimmy and become Supreme Champion.”

“Like I said, I know you can do it.” Tommy nods his head. “You’ve had spectacular flame performances in the past. But why do you care? I thought the Underground is where you wanted to be?”

“Oh it is, that hasn’t changed.” Kimberly insists with a nod of her head. “But…” she sighs.

“What is it?”

“I won two world titles outside SCW. Valiant World Champion and GCW World Champion. Before I could go on with my life without a care in the world for what it meant to be a world champion. And, honestly, I can still ignore it to a degree. But now that I have had the taste for what it means to be a World Champion, I can kinda see why those two dweebs like Selena Frost and Syren obsess over it. I can even see why someone like Amelia Nevado would sell her soul for it. I get it.”

“So now you’re addicted?” Tommy snickers.

“Maybe.” Kim winks playfully. “And maybe it’s time SCW had a chaotic World Champion?”

“Fine. You go do that. I believe in you, Kimmy. But if you want my advice, and trust me you do want my advice, you should focus the rest of your attention on Taking Hold of the Flame.” He looks at the run down slummy house. “Not this.”

“Well what are we gonna do about it?” Kim asks. “If we don’t get those repairs fixed in thirty days the city will condemn it.”

“Hire out contractors.” Tommy smirks. “It’s quite easy, y’know? Just pay people money and they’ll do the work.”

“But that’s no fun.” Kim pouts.

“It may not be fun but it’s far more efficient.”

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Las Vegas, Nevada
On Camera
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The sensory overload of the Las Vegas Strip at midnight is deafening, but Kimberly Williams stands right in the thick of it, completely unmoved by the chaos. Behind her, the iconic neon glare of the casinos bleeds into the desert sky, a blinding wall of flashing electric blues, hot pinks, and gold that casts an almost surreal glow over the crowded sidewalk. The rhythmic, thunderous crash of the Bellagio fountains echoes in the background, drawing gasps from swarms of tourists, but Kim’s back is turned to the spectacle. She has carved out a small pocket of space near a concrete balustrade, treating one of the most famous tourist destinations in the world like it's nothing more than her personal backstage hallway.

The Woman Scorned looks effortlessly stylish in street clothes tailored for a desert night. She is wearing a sleek, cropped black leather motorcycle jacket over a lightweight, emerald-green silk camisole that provides a sharp, striking contrast to her vivid red hair. Her hair is styled in loose waves that catch the artificial light every time she shifts her weight. She pairs the jacket with dark-wash, high-waisted designer jeans and a pair of pointed-toe ankle boots with a modest block heel. Clutched tightly in her right hand by his stubby wing is Wasley. The little penguin plushie looks hilariously out of place against the backdrop of high-stakes luxury and flashing billboard advertisements, yet The Queen of the Death Match handles him with total nonchalance.

“Viva Las Vegas!” Kimmy spins around on her heel with Wasley the penguin in tow, taking in the lights and sights surrounding her. “Look at it all! Look at the bright shiny lights! It is a beautiful glittering monument to human greed and, most importantly to yours truly, CHAOS!” She takes in a big whiff of the air. “Smells like home! And kinda like burnt popcorn…”

“We are nearing the single greatest, most beautifully chaotic night of the SCW calendar year. Taking Hold of the Flame. Forty victims. One ring. You never know who will come out next once that buzzer sounds! You never know if we get a surprise entrant? Like, will Ace Marshall return again? Will Cid Turner return again? I don’t know and that’s what’s so great about it! It is quite literally a human demolition derby and they are hosting it right here in the gambling capital of the world! And only one lucky soul will earn that golden ticket to send them to the main event of Rise To Greatness where they can challenge for the SCW World Championship. The ultimate jackpot.” The Woman Scorned begins to pace slightly, her heels clicking against the sidewalk.

“Now, if you open up the SCW history books, which I don’t recommend, by the way, the grammar in the early chapters is absolutely atrocious, you’ll find my name written all over this match. I have been the iron woman more than once. I step into that squared circle blender, and I just stay. I endure. Twenty minutes, forty minutes, an hour? Time loses all meaning when you’re busy dodging flying sweat and avoiding gravity. Why do I do so well? It’s like I have said before, time and time again, chaos is my comfort zone. I live, breathe, and THRIVE in chaos. Taking hold of the Flame isn’t just a standard wrestling match, boys and girls. It is an arithmetic problem written by a lunatic. It is pure, unfiltered, beautiful, glorious chaos. And if there is one thing Kimberly Williams knows how to do, it is swimming in the deep end of the crazy pool without drowning. When the ring fills up with tons of people who all hate each other, who want to destroy one another, when there are no rules, no order, and absolutely no logic,” she pats herself on the chest “that is MY comfort zone. That is MY house! My god damn throne because I am the one true Queen of Chaos!” Kimmy stops pacing. She taps Wasley’s beak thoroughly against her chin.

“But here’s the rub, Kimmymaniacs. Being the 'Iron Woman’ is a bit like getting a gold star on your homework from a teacher who secretly forgets your name. It’s a lovely little participation trophy. 'Oh, look at Kimmy, she lasted fifty minutes! Isn't she a tough cookie? Let's give her a round of applause before we completely ignore her for the rest of the season.'” She shakes her head. “Yeah…no. No, no, no. I am utterly, deeply, profoundly sick of being the bridesmaid of the battlefield. I don't want to just survive the chaos this year. I want to conquer it. I want to win the damn thing.” She leans in closer so that the camera can get a good look at the intensity in her eyes.

“I have a confession to make. You see, I’ve ventured outside the cozy, boring borders of SCW. I’ve traveled. I’ve seen the world! And while I was out there playing in other sandboxes, I tasted it. I held the big one. The World Championship. And let me tell you something…” she laughs nastily, “it is a drug. It is a highly addictive, sweet, intoxicating poison. I am an addict, people! And the only cure for my disease is the SCW World Title wrapped around my waist. I need it. I crave it. It keeps me awake at night, scratching at my skin, wondering why I’m letting stuck up bitches like Selena Frost and Syren, nostalgia acts like Shaun Cruze and Gavin Taylor, and desperate dweebs like Amelia Nevado willing to sell her soul for the damn thing, why do they get to hold the very thing that I need?” Kim bursts into a maniacal laughter.

“Look at my resume, boys and girls; I have done it all in SCW. I have dominated the Underground Division. I have won the Trios Tournament. I have held every single brass ring this promotion has to offer and I am legitimately one championship short of the greatest brass ring of them all; Supreme Champion. Think about that word. It sounds like a really expensive pizza, but it actually means I win the entire game. It means immortality. It means nobody can ever look at my beautifully fractured psyche again and call me a sideshow. I will be the blueprint. I will be the benchmark. And frankly, the thought of me having that kind of unchecked validation makes me want to squeal with delight! It’s going to happen. It has to happen. And damn it, I will make it happen!” She turns toward the Strip, gesturing widely with both arms, using Wasley to point at the towering casino signs.

“All these people coming out here, rolling the dice, bettering their rent money on a slot machine, black jack, poker, or whatever the game may be. All of them hoping for a miracle. They think Vegas is about luck. Thing is, the house always wins because the house doesn’t play fair and when it comes to Taking Hold of the Flame right here in Las Vegas, I am the damn house! To everyone else entered in the Flame: you can bring your lucky charms. You can wear your favorite trunks. You can say your prayers and hope you draw number forty so you can slide your lazy asses in at the very end. But it won't matter. You’re playing a game of Russian roulette with a lunatic who brought her own bullets. If you get in that ring with me, I am going to gamble with your health. One by damn one I am going to throw each and every single person who gets in my way over the top. One by one I will run each and every one of you over.” Kimberly pats Wasley on the head and gives the camera a playful wink.

“So to quote my favorite half-Polish sister…well, only half-Polish sister…come and place your bets, kiddies! Put everything you have on red because when the bell sounds and the chaos begins, The Queen of the Death Match will be painting the mat, and hell, the entire arena red with your blood. I will clear the board, I will take the jackpot and march my way all the way to Rise To Greatness where I will win my first ever SCW World Championship.” She breaks into a wicked, cackling laugh, spins around on her heel, and struts away down the neon-lit sidewalk, swinging Wasley casually by his wing as the camera fades to black.