RAW is Lincoln

by Flagg1991

Oneshot charting the rise and fal of professional wrestler Lincoln Loud AKA Frankie Furious.[commission[

Lincoln Loud sat in the driver seat of his battered 2009 Honda Accord and stared up at the stylish, ultra-modern building at 1241 East Main Street. Two flags fluttered side by side, Old Glory to the left and a black flag featuring a scratchy W logo on the right. The early afternoon sun glimmered on the smooth glass facade and the warm, summery breeze rustled the trees clustered before it. People came and went through the main doors like worker ants on alien and unknowable quests and Lincoln scanned their faces for anyone recognizable.

It was 1:52pm by the clock in the dash and the smell of takeout hamburgers and greasy French fries hung heavy in the air despite the windows being open. Classic rock filtered from the speakers - Steve Miller, The Eagles, bands Lincoln had heard so much of on staticky stations as he traveled from one town to another- and a fountain Coke melted in the cup holder, beads of condensation dribbling down its sides. Lincoln had been on the road since six the previous evening, racing headlong through the night to make the meeting on time. He got into Stamford at eleven and checked into a budget motel three blocks from Titan Towers, a dumpy little place between a fast food joint and a gas station where bums sat on the curb and begged dollars off of anyone who passed by. He showered, changed into a pair of khakis and a polo shirt, and left again. Now, an hour later, he tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt and adjusted his crotch for the fifth time since leaving. He was used to long drives from town to town, he was used to being in a panicked rush because HOLY FUCK I'M GONNA BE LATE, he was used to eating junk as he drove, he was even used to working matches for tiny payoffs, but he was not used to dressing up.

If this wasn't the biggest opportunity of his life, he wouldn't have bothered.

Every industry has its Mecca, its Mountaintop, the one place all the working stiffs aspire to one day venture but rarely ever do. For country singers, it was the Ryman Auditorium, for filmmakers it was Cannes, and for professional wrestlers, it was the WWE. The WWE was, and had always been, the big time. Being scouted by them was like being scouted by the Yankees. It was a dream come true, especially for a mark from Michigan who watched Monday Night Raw with religious devotion and who shoveled sidewalks and mowed lawns just so he could buy all the pay-per-views.

Growing up, Lincoln idolized pro wrestlers. Some kids look up to football players, rappers, and superheros, he looked up to Hulk Hogan, Ric Flair, Stone Cold Steve Austin, and CM Punk. He subscribed to all the magazines, read all the dirt sheets, collected every tape he could get his hands on. He watched wrestling from the AWA, Mid-South, Jim Crockett Promotions, WCCW, WCW, UWF, CWA, WWWF, and ECW. He learned every stat about every wrestler and could tell you all of their career highlights, titles runs, biggest feuds, and personal information. Every year, he went to conventions in Chicago and Detroit, and there he met some of his biggest heroes. Tony Atlas, Magnum T.A., Jerry Lawler, and a thousand others. He had a binder full of signed pictures and autographs that he would occasionally page through and relish.

He was twelve when he decided he wanted to be a wrestler himself one day. He ate protein and worked out obsessively, getting a little bigger every year until he put Scott Stiener to shame. His classmates respected his size and the girls went crazy for him. He dated Stella in ninth grade, Jordan and Cristina in tenth, Cookie in eleventh, and Polly Pain, Tabby, and Haiku in twelfth - not at the same time, of course. Lincoln's relationships never lasted long. He was dedicated to his craft and was always busy training and working out. It was hard to build a solid relationship when your heart and soul weren't in it. Lincoln realized this and understood that each relationship didn't work because of him, but he didn't care. He wanted love, affection, and, yes, sex just as much as any other man, but he wanted to be a wrestler even more. Looking back now as a grown man, he regretted only that he wasted those girls' time and disappointed their aspirations of love and romance. He was young then and figured he could love wrestling and a woman. Today, he realized that he couldn't. For better or worse, he was married to the business and no matter what that Keith Urban looking creep on that Sister Wives show said, you can't have two wives. One will always be unhappy, one will always take precedence over the other, you will always love one more than the other.

This revelation did not depress or wound Lincoln. He was happy where he was and a wife or girlfriend would only complicate things. He didn't imagine himself being in the business forever - most wrestlers don't hang around for decades the way Hogan and The Rock did - so there would be time for a wife and kids later on. For now, the boys in the locker room were his family, and what they couldn't do for him, ring rats could. He didn't make a habit of bedding every woman who came up to him after a show, but when you're as over as he was and women wait for you outside the locker room, hoping to feel the wrath of your big finisher, staying celibite isn't easy. Things happened and women were laid. He would leave it at that.

That level of poplairy was relatively new for him. After high school, he joined an independent wrestling promotion based in Detroit, where he fumbled his way through opening matches in front of fifty people and left with maybe twenty bucks in his pocket. He started under his own name, but after a couple months, the promoter started billing him as "Frankie Furious" because it had "pizazz."

He was greener than a two dollar bill and his matches stank, but the promotion needed warm bodies who wouldn't complain about tiny payoffs and being asked to take dangerous bumps. In one of his first matches, Lincoln fell through a stack of folding tables and florescent tube lights, and in another, he fell from the top of a steel cage and landed on the padded ring skirt below. A veteran probably wouldn't have taken that bump unless his name was Mick Foley, but Lincoln was young and hungry, and when the promoter brought that spot up, Lincoln jumped at the chance. He was scared shitless, but he would do anything to prove himself.

After two years in Detroit, Lincoln signed with Mid-America Wrestling Association, a promotion based in Kansas City. It ran shows all over the south and midwest. AEW, NWA Power, and the revitalized WWE had led to a revival in wrestling as a cultural force and the MAWA did brisk business running three shows a night: An A-show, a B-show, and a C-show. Lincoln started on the C circuit, playing spot shows in high school gyms and bingo halls in little towns where the draw was maybe fifty people and the gate never reached more than a couple hundred bucks. In the beginning, Lincoln was a solid technical wrestler but couldn't cut a promo to save his life. He was a good worker but comparatively bland, a Chris Benoit when he really wanted to be an Ultimate Warrior.

Then, one day, he had the idea to turn heel. He didn't particularly want to be a bad guy, but he needed to do something to get himself over.

He went to the promoter on a Monday afternoon before a television taping in Alexandria, Louisiana. The promoter's office was a cramped rent-a-space behind the locker room crammed with racks of balls, folding chairs, dented metal filing cabinets, and other junk the building owners couldn't find another place for. The promoter, a pudgy man with ruddy cheeks, glasses, and a bad combover, sat behind a metal desk with his gut spilling over the edge. Bill Jarrett, who wrestled in the old territory days as a fan favorite, was nothing special in any department, but Lincoln respected him whole-heartedly, and looked up to him the way a kid might look up to a star pitcher even who had been there, done that, and knew everyone. He was old, he was slow, and his booking was the shits sometimes, but he was an elder statesman and to Lincoln Loud, that meant a lot.

"What'd you wanna see me about?" Jarrett asked.

"I have an idea for my character," Lincoln said, "and maybe an angle."

Jarrett sat back in his chair and laced his hands over his swollen stomach. "Alright. Let's hear it."

Lincoln took a deep breath. He didn't know how Jarrett would like it, so he had to really bring his A game and pitch this thing just right.

He told Jarrett what he had in mind, and Jarrett hummed to himself. "I guess that might work. I say do it. Whatever you can do to get heat on yourself. Heat equals money."

On Friday, June 21, at a televised spot show in the Anderson, Alabama community center, Lincoln was in a tag team match with "Dangerous" Danny Preston, the C circuit's resident babyface against The Cutting Crew. Lincoln took on both members of The Cutting Crew by himself and refused to tag Dangerous Danny. When Danny ran in to save Lincoln from a pin, Lincoln went crazy and started suplexing everyone: The Cutting Crew, Dangerous Danny, even the ref. Broken and twitching bodies littered the ring, and the audience booed.

Lincoln grabbed a microphone and hoped to God the promoter meant it when he said Get heat anyway you can, Linc. "I am sick and tired of going to these little nothing towns and wrestling nothing wrestlers in front of nothing crowds."

Booo.

"I come in here and work my ass off for ten rednecks and their sister-wives, then I leave here with twenty dollars and bad knees. Then every time I get a chance to show what I can do, someone screws me. I was supposed to have a singles match tonight, but at the last minute, they threw me in with this faggot." He hit Danny with a worked kick and Danny sold it like a champ, jumping and moaning. "Then when I can show everyone what I'm made of, you're all too busy doing your sisters to notice."

More booing, getting louder and louder. Lincoln flipped the crowd off. "You don't deserve my best and neither does this clown show they're running."

Security guards cautiously made their way down the ramp, just as they were supposed to. "You want some too?" Lincoln shouted. "I'll kill all of you! I'm done with this bullshit!"

The edge of Lincoln's vision strained and his head throbbed. He wasn't mad when the match started, he was excited, but now he seethed with rage. He realized only then that he was telling the truth. Maybe his idea for his character to say all of this was a subconscious manifestation of his own frustration. Maybe on some level he meant to tap into his real-life anger. Whatever the case, he wasn't acting per se, he was telling the truth. "I'm sick of driving four hundred miles a night just to wrestle in front of these cocksuckers! I'm sick of not making any money and begging my parents to Western Union me five dollars so I can eat off the dollar menu. I'm sick of beating myself up every single night and getting shit in return. I should be in Houston tonight where the real wrestlers are. Instead I'm stuck here with you fuckers!"

He was panting, sweating, his ripped chest heaving. He slammed the microphone to the mat and kicked it under the bottom rope. It slammed into one of the crowd control barricades holding the audience back and broke into a million pieces. He went over to the ref, put him in a chinlock, and made sure he didn't forget himself and squeeze too hard. That was the sign for security to swarm the ring: Ten men pulled Lincoln off, and he fought like an animal, throwing one over the top rope and clothes lining another. The crowd, though small, screamed, booed, and cheered, the din of their voices deafening in the small space. He flung one of the security guards into the ropes and when he came back, Lincoln hit him with a big boot to the face. He jumped out of the ring, unplanned, and went after one of the photographers. Not knowing if he was really in danger, the photographer dropped his camera and scrambled over the barricade to get away. Lincoln grabbed a steel chair, and, as planned, a bunch of local cops came out of the crowd, guns drawn. Lincoln went after one, and he shot him with a taser.

Lincoln's collapsing and convulsing was real. He wanted this to look as real as possible so the taser wasn't gimmicked.

The cops cuffed him and dragged him up the ramp. Lincoln was dazed and shaking, verging on the edge of unconsciousness. The crowd showered him with empty beer cans, popcorn containers, and even a shoe. Jarrett came out and jabbed his finger toward the back. He looked pissed. "Get him out of here!"

In the back, the cops gave him first aid. When they were finished, Lincoln limped into the locker room and started to undress. Jarrett came in and crossed his arms. Lincoln braced himself. You went too far, Linc. "I don't like the language," he said, "but that was the best heel turn I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of them."

Lincoln smiled. "Good enough to get me better bookings?"

"We'll see."

Lincoln's heel turn was seen across nineteen states, as far west as Nebraska and as far east as Virginia. Jarrett moved Lincoln up to the B circuit and gave him a push on TV. He randomly interfered in matches, squashing anyone who got in his way, and mocked the crowd while demanding to be given a spot. "I'm better than all these bastards! I should have their spot! Me!" After he cut a promo on the crowd, he'd worry that it wasn't good enough, that he sounded like a cheap imitation of a cheap imitation trying to get cheap heat with cliched taunts. Maybe they weren't good enough, but something about it clicked with the fans, and he got nuclear heat. During his first actual match on the B circuit (against patriotic 'face Lt. Smash), several fans jumped the barricades and hit the ring. That didn't happen often, but when it did, Jarrett's policy was "Beat the shit out of them."

After a month, Lincoln was playing to sell out crowds. People threw things at him, kids flipped him off, and little old ladies cussed him up one side and down the other. At a TV taping in Nashville, Jarrett planted a retired female wrestler in the crowd to pose as just such an old lady. On his way to the ring, she threw a cup of soda at Lincoln. He walked over and slapped the taste out of her mouth.

That was the first time Lincoln caused a riot.

By the end of the year, he had eaten through the entire B squad and moved up to the A-towns without suffering a single loss. "Fans hate you more when they can respect you," Jarrett told him. "They hate you harder for having talent, see?"

Lincoln did. No matter where he went, the people hated his guts.

As his profile increased, so, too, did his payoffs. Inside of a year, he was making three hundred a night and working five or six shows a week. The money and fame were great, but the travel schedule was insane. He'd wrestle, jump in his car, and race a hundred or two hundred miles to the next town, stay in a motel, do local promos for all the markets in the morning (which sometimes took a good six or eight hours), go to a TV taping, then do a spot show. After that, he had to get something to eat and drive hundreds of miles back home (if he was close enough), getting in sometimes as late as three or four in the morning, only to get up at seven or eight to do it all again. It was hectic, but he was making good money and over wherever he went so it was okay.

He often asked himself why he was over, but one day in the locker room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he realized why.

Conviction.

His character wasn't really a character at all, just him, only turned up to ten. He really did think he was good, he really did think he belonged on the A circuit, he really did resent plying his trade for years in front of a dozen indiferent fans. When you got right down to it, Lincoln Loud and Frankie Furious were one in the same.

Lincoln's first loss came at a sold out house show at the Superdome in New Orleans. He was up against the MAWA's super babyface Brad Strongman in a steel cage, with the MAWA World Heavyweight Championship on the line. Lincoln wasn't happy about losing to Strongman, but Jarrett refused to beat his top guy. He said that Lincoln wasn't "ready" for the strap, but Lincoln was. He would make the best heel champion Jarrett had ever seen.

Still, Jarrett wouldn't do it.

And to add insult to injury, Strongman refused to sell half of Lincoln's moves. Even after Lincoln hit him with his finisher, he popped back up like nothing. The point of wrestling is to make your opponent look good so that by beating him, you look better. Not selling for your opponent was like spitting in his face.

That made Lincoln mad.

Toward the end of the match, Brad and Lincoln started going home. Brad was supposed to make a big comeback after taking a beating and laying Lincoln flat. Instead, Lincoln clocked him for real, knocking him out cold. He covered for the pin, and the ref had no choice but to count.

The heat from the crowd was blistering.

Lincoln climbed out of the cage, grabbed the belt, and went backstage.

Jarrett was waiting. "What the hell was that?"

"I won," Lincoln said.

"You sumbitch, you were supposed to put him over."

Lincoln shrugged. "Oops."

"Now look here, you big, white-haired bastard…"

Lincoln snatched Jarrett up, and the color drained from the promoter's face. "This is my belt now."

He left the building and realizd what he'd done.

Back in the arena, they stripped him of the title over some made up technicality, but it didn't matter, Lincoln finally had what he had always wanted.

A couple weeks later, he signed with Mountain State Wrestling, which ran shows in Kentucky, Ohio, West Virginia, Eastern Tennessee, Western Maryland, Pennelsviania, and Western Virginia. He came in at their big annual WrestleClash show in Charleston, West Virginia. It was broadcast nationwide on POW TV and streamed online. He came in from the crowd during the main event, jumping a barricade and attacking the announcers before ripping a hole in the cage around the ring and climbing in. The two wrestlers, once enemies, teamed up to take him down, but he beat them both up. They both got juice and bled all over the mat.

Lincoln cut a promo saying he "left that clown show in Nebraska" and that "I'm your favorite wrestler now."

The fans loved it. You could tell from all the boos and garbage being hurled into the ring.

For six months, Lincoln ran an endless circuit of house shows, TV tapings, live TV events, internet pay-per-views,and spot shows in little towns scattered across coal and steel country. He cheated in every match and formed a loose alliance with a bunch of other heels that attacked babyfaces and harassed fans. In September, he did an online interview with Joey Styles that basically served as a promo against every top wrestler Lincoln could think of. He did it to increase his heat and visibility, knowing full well that it might make him unpopular with his idols. At this point, he didn't care. He needed that heat, needed the anger and hatred. It lifted him up.

"I don't like being compared to Scott Stiener," he said, cutting off the interviewer, "look at my body. Scott Steiner had to get on the gas to get where I am. He had to suck Eric Bischoff's dick and take it up his ass from Ric Flair and Hulk Hogan. Fuck him. He's a little bitch. One minute he has a mullet like Billy Ray Cyrus, the next he's a fucking monster? You know he's roided up. Fuck you, Scotty. You're a drug addict and a pussy."

"Hulk Hogan wouldn't be shit without his toy deals. That's what he is, a fucking toy. The only match he's won in twenty years is the match where Double J laid down for him, and he still lost because Vince Russo made him look like a punk in front of everyone. I actually pity that dude. I don't wanna speak ill of the dead, okay? And that's what Hulk Hogan is, dead. He died the first time he played air guitar on his title belt. Fuck him."

"Jim Cornette's a fraud. He talks shit online but he doesn't say shit to anyone in real life. Would you if you looked like him? Everyone acts like he knows what he's talking about, but all he knows how to do is get fired from more promotions than anyone else. He's still stuck in 1979 because that's the last time he saw his dick, it got lost in his fat the next day, fuck him."

Cornette tweeted about him and cut a promo on him on his podcast and Steiner said he was "a nobody. He's nothing in wrestling."

Fans and wrestlers alike reacted, and soon it was all over Twitter, Facebook, and the dirt sheets. Frankie Furious isn't much of a technical wrestler, Dave Meltzer of The Wrestling Observer wrote, and his promos lack substance. He's all flash.

If that was true, the flash was working. He was making money hand over fist and selling out arenas from Pittsburgh to Cincinnati. The crowd was red hot wherever he went. At least once a night, one of them would come at him and have to be dragged off by the police. In Harrisonburg, Virginia, a riot broke out after he won over a local favorite by DQ, then continued working his kayfabe injured leg with a steel chair. In Knoxville, he was told ahead of time that Glenn Jacobs, AKA Kane, would be in the crowd. Of course, Lincoln came to the ring and cut a promo on him. "All you ever did was chokeslam someone because that's all you could do. You have no talent and I liked you better when you were the dentist. At least filling cavities and copping feels on passed out trailer park trash, you have a little worth to society." He leaned over the top rope and beckoned to Kane. "Come out here and beat my ass if you think I'm working. You suck. I'd put Russo in the hall of fame before I'd put your big ass in it."

The promoter promised to put the Appalachian Championship belt on him, but then hemmed and hawwed. "I don't think you're ready."

Again with this shit.

This time, Lincoln took it.

He technically won the belt twice, but the decision was reversed each time on a technicality. The Dusty Finish, if you will.

Lincoln was getting sick of it and thinking of leaving when one day, he got a phone call.

From Vince McMahon.

"I was hoping we could do business together," Vince said.

That night, Lincoln went out to the ring for a match. When his opponent rushed him, he held up his hand and grabbed a mic. "You know," he said and started walking around the ring, "for a long time now, I've been carrying this company around on my shoulders like the dead weight it is. I sold out shows, I drew people in the door, I gave you assholes a reason to look forward to Friday nights and something to do other than drinking moonshine and screwing your sisters."

Booo.

"But I can't win the title. I guess I'm not strong enough. I guess I'm not ready." He looked around the arena. "But I know where I do have a chance. Where the competition isn't so stiff and the other guys so much stronger than I am." His voice dripped sarcasm. "I got a call from up north today and to make a long story short, 'cause it'll go over your bumpkin heads, I'm leaving. Take your wrestling show and shove it up your ass."

He dropped the mic, climbed out of the ring, and left.

Just like Vince asked him to.

Presently, the clock struck 1:56. Lincoln killed the engine, got out, and went inside. A secretary directed him to a bank of elevators and he took one to the top floor. He let Mr. McMahon's personal assistant know that he was there and sat in the waiting room. He'd heard all the stories about Mr. McMahon's power plays and head games, and expected to wait a while.

He was there an hour and a half before a scruffy little fat man in glasses and a suit walked in. "Lincoln? I'm Bruce Prichard." He stuck out one tiny, womanish hand and Lincoln shook it.

"It's nice to meet you," Lincoln said honestly. Bruce Prichard had worked at WWE since the late eighties, with a brief stint in TNA during the 2010s, and was responsible for a fair amount of creative. These days, he served as both the Executive Director of Raw and Smackdown and WWE Senior Vice President. Lincoln used to listen to his podcast with Conrad Thompson, Something to Wrestle, and admired him almost as much as he did Vince McMahon.

Bruce led Lincoln into an office, and there, behind a big desk, his presence even more dominating that it was on TV, was Vince McMahon, older and grayer than he was during his storied feud with Stone Cold during the nineties but no less imposing. "Hello, Linc," he said in his trademark gravelly voice. He stood and he and Lincoln shook over the desk. "Bruce, get him something to drink."

"Yes, sir, Mr. McMahon, sir," Bruce said. He blacked out of the room, worshipping his master.

"It's good to have you here, Linc," Mr. McMahon said.

"It's an honor, sir."

Mr. McMahon waved his hand. "Call me Vince. Everyone does."

"It's a great privilege to be here, Vince."

"I've seen your work and I think you can do great things in the WWE."

Bruce came back with a can of Coca-Cola and handed it to Lincoln. He started to sit but Vince waved him off. "Go make sure the bathrooms are clean."

"Yes, sir, Mr. McMahon, sir."

When Bruce was gone, Vince said, "He's a company man through and through. I stopped telling him to relax thirty years ago."

He and Lincoln discussed the particulars of his character and his contract. Vince told him that he loved his promos but forbade him from cussing "too much". Lincoln told him how he was screwed out of the title in MAWA and MSW and laid out a five week angle that Vince surprisingly loved. "That's the best creative I've heard in years. I oughta give you Bruce's job."

Lincoln debuted on Friday Night Smackdown two weeks later. The dirt sheets and smart fans knew he was coming but they didn't know how or when. Signs dotted the crowd and occasional chants of "We want Freddy!" broke out during matches. Before the show, Lincoln hid under the ring beneath a trap door. At the very end of the night, HHH was chastising Braun Strowman, the WWE champ, in the ring. Once Lincoln had his cue, he moved the trapdoor, burst through the mat like Jason popping out of the water at the end of Friday the 13th, grabbed HHH's leg, and dragged him down to the abyss. The crowd went insane and the announcers screamed their commentary.

After a moment, Lincoln crawled out of the ring, dressed in black pants, boots, and nothing else, his chest massive and glistening. Strowman cringed in fear, then charged at Lincoln. Lincoln hit him with a big boot to the face. He chokeslammed him, then kicked him. A ref came over, and Lincoln press slammed him over the top rope. The crowd roared and the atmosphere crackled with electricity. Lincoln covered Strowman and the fans counted. "1...2...3."

Lincoln got up, grabbed a mic and the belt, and stood over Strowman to gloat. "I'm the WWE champ now, punk!"

Everyone went wild. No one booed. Lincoln couldn't believe it. He was so used to heat that he never expected to get a pop...in the middle of a WWE ring no less.

The next week, he came down to the ring with the belt draped over his shoulder and climbed into the ring. The fans cheered. "Shut the hell up," Lincoln yelled, and the crowd fell silent. "Last week, I came out here and I kicked two of your boys' asses. I won the belt. I showed you and everyone back in that locker room who I am and what I'm made of."

HHH's music hit and everyone cheered. HHH came out from the back in a suit, a Band-Aid over his right eye because Lincoln was supposed to have beat him up. A team of refs and security guards surrounded him. "I hate to break it to you, new boy," HHH said, "but you're not the WWE champion."

"I am the champ," Lincoln replied and held up the belt. "See this?"

"I see an illegitimate win. You're not the champ and you never will be. I'll take my belt back now."

Lincoln threw it over his shoulder and beckoned. "Come take it."

Ripping his suit jacket off, HHH stormed down the ramp. The moment he hit the ring, Lincoln attacked him with a flurry of kicks. HHH grabbed his foot and threw him back, then mounted him and rained punches down on his face. He got up and Lincoln got to his feet. They locked up, then HHH whipped him into the ropes. Lincoln ducked a clothes line and hit HHH with a splash.

The security guards ran at the ring, and Lincoln slipped through the ropes with the belt and left through the crowd. Fans slapped him on the back and told him he was great. "You want a title shot?" HHH yelled into the mic. "You got it."

Next Friday, Lincoln and HHH sat at a table in the middle of the ring for a contract signing. Lincoln read it over. "This is for the intercontinental championship."

In actuality, it wasn't. It was a random piece of paper HHH took from the recycling bin in the office.

"Is that a problem?" HHH asked.

"You promised me the world title."

HHH leaned over the table. "No one comes in the door and has the world title handed to them. This isn't Hillbilly Wrestling. This is the WWE. Be grateful we're giving you this much."

Lincoln made a show of thinking, then signed the contract.

The IC champion was Roman Reigns. Lincoln met with him and they went over their coming match at SummerSlam in great detail. Lincoln was never a fan of Reigns but he found him to be a nice guy who knew a lot about the business. They had a lot of things in common and got along really well.

In fact, he got along well with all the guys in the locker room. The women too. His first day there, Sasha Banks came up to him and welcomed him to the WWE with a gleam in her eye. Over the next couple weeks, she took every chance to pull him aside and talk to him. She was interested, but could you blame her? With his muscles and chiseled good looks, he was the best looking guy in the whole WWE.

He was also the most talented. Some guys were better workers than he was and one or two had better promos, but none were the total package the way he was. He had come so far in such a short amount of time, from working crap matches in front of no fans to working a match with HHH in the WWE. It was amazing, and when he stopped to take it all in, Lincoln was impressed by his own accomplishments. His ego, shaped and molded by two successful runs in the indies, swelled, and one day he realized that the swagger in his Frankie Furious walk wasn't a work - it was a shoot. He was really becoming an arrogant bastard, but it was okay, because he could back it up.

On the last Friday Night Smackdown before SummerSlam - the go home show - Lincoln faced HHH in a no disqualifications match. Lincoln started strong, but HHH got the upperhand at the halfway point. He gave Lincoln three Pedigrees in a row, and while he was down, Lincoln produced a razor blade and slashed his own forehead. Blood spilled from the wound and coated his face like a crimson mask. Back on his feet, HHH went to hit him with a sledgehammer, but Lincoln ducked, elbowed him in the stomach, and hit him with a low blow.

In the end, HHH hit him in the back with the sledgehammer once, twice, three times. Though it hurt his pride to lose his first official match in the WWE, he laid down and let HHH pin him.

Sunday night, in Long Island's Nassau Coliseum, Lincoln wrestled Roman Reigns on the undercard. The IC championship was in the balance and Lincoln was scripted to win it, so he had to bring his A game and justify to all of the people watching here and around the world that he deserved it.

Seven minutes in, disaster struck. Pro wrestling is a delicate dance and your timing has to be perfect; if it's not, you might get hurt. Lincoln gave Roman a piledriver but a missed cue led to Roman landing on his head. He lay there and tried to get up but couldn't. The ref went over, then to Lincoln. "He says he's hurt. Buy him some time."

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Lincoln walked around the ring taunting the crowd, kissing his muscles, and flipping everyone off, stealing worried glances over his shoulder to make sure Roman was okay. Finally, Roman got to his feet and they made up a finish on the fly. Lincoln hit him with a Superman Punch - Roman's own finisher - instead of suplexing him and rolling him up for a narrow pin. Lincoln covered him, and Roman kicked a split second too late, giving Lincoln the win. Both of them came out of the match looking good but not feeling good.

Roman cracked several vertebrae and had to have surgery. He took full responsibility for the accident, saying he didn't tuck his head quickly enough, but Lincoln feared that it was his fault and that he would be reprimanded for it. Or even fired.

That didn't happen, thank God. Lincoln went on to a fruitful title run. He held the IC belt and one half of the world tag team championship (Bray Wyatt had the other one). He feuded with HHH and Braun Storwman. His goal was to get a title shot at WrestleMania, the show of shows, but even though Vince promised him the belt, he didn't get it. Weeks passed, months, and it dangled ever before him like a carrot on a stick. He put HHH and Strowman over more times than he didn't, he sold their moves and made them look better than they ever had, but when it came time to pull the trigger and put the strap on him, Vince balked. "I want it to mean something, damn it," he'd say. Lincoln wasn't sure what that meant, but he took it. This wasn't the MAWA or MSW. He was making six figures a year now and regularly appearing before millions of people. He had action figures, T-shirts, and royalties. He bought a home in Royal Woods, six blocks from his parents, and then one in Florida. He rarely went there but knowing that he owned it outright was comforting.

You gotta realize something, kid, The Undertaker had told him, this isn't gonna last.

Taker, real name Mark Callaway, was the unofficial elder statesman of the locker room. He arbitrated disputes between the boys and kept them focused and on track. He was in the middle of one last run as a manager when Lincoln signed to WWE and Lincoln marked out the first time he met him.

It lasted for you, Lincoln pointed out.

Look around this locker room. Tell me how many guys you see from '95 or 2000 or 2005. You might be around for a long time but you might not be. You oughta think ahead now and plan for the future.

For a while, Lincoln ignored his advice. This wasn't just a flash in the pan. He was the biggest wrestler of his generation and he was going to be around just as long as Taker, if not longer.

Then, during a ten man battle royal, a guy broke his neck and wound up a quadroplegic. That was enough to wake Lincoln up a little. At any time, something terrible could happen and even the most over and talented wrestler could lose his career.

Together, Lincoln and Bruce Prichard laid out an angle that would get him to a world title run and beyond, Lincoln doing most of the work because Prichard wasn't the creative genius that Lincoln misook him for and came up with a lot of shitty ideas. At Backlash, Lincoln and Braun were the main event. The previous Smackdown, Lincoln wrestled HHH to a draw for the chance to decide what kind of match it would be. "Hardcore," Lincoln spat into a mic, "I'm gonna teach you WWE punks what hardcore's all about!"

The crowd in the Silverdome was hot and deep, close to 65,000 strong and chanting for blood. Lincoln and Braun went over their match backstage then went out to the ring. Almost 70,000 people cheered for Lincoln, some leaning over the barricades as he made his way down the ramp, some to flip him off and others hoping to touch greatness, if only fleetingly. In the ring, he and Braun came nose to nose, then Lincoln punched him. He punched Lincoln back, and Lincoln punched him. He whipped Braun into the ropes and Braun came back with a splash.

Lincoln hit him with a bodyslam, then jumped out of the ring and grabbed a metal trash can from under the ring. He tossed it over the top rope, then took out a steel chair. He climbed back into the ring just in time for Braun to hit him with a flying kick. The chair hit Lincoln in the face and he fell off the ring apron. His nose ached and for a second he thought it was going to start bleeding.

The match went back and forth for close to twenty minutes. Lincoln slammed the trash can over Braun's head; Braun hit Lincoln across the back with a kendo stick; Lincoln wrapped a chain around Braun's neck and shoved his knee into Braun's back; a mixture of sweat and blood ran down both men's faces and in the end, they were both blown up and lying face down on the mat.

Just then, Seth Rollins came out of the crowd and rolled Lincoln on top of Braun. The ref counted, and on three, the arena popped so loud that Lincoln's ears hurt. Bleeding and sore, he got to his feet, held up the WWE world title, and basked in the glory of winning it all, the highest prize in the wrestling business. His knees buckled, from weariness or emotion he didn't know, and he dropped down to them. Cameras flashed, the crowd cheered, and all of his dreams came true. Was there any doubt now? He was the biggest super star in the world. He was the future of professional wrestling and he was going to be loved and admired by millions of people just as he loved and admired Rock, Stone Cold, and Hulk Hogan

Kneeling there in the ring, bloody and oozing sweat from every pore, was the most surreal moment of Lincoln's life and something he would hold near to his heart even if he lived to be a hundred and won the belt fifty more times.

Backstage, after everyone else had gone, Lincoln sat alone in the locker room, his bag at his feet and the belt draped across his lap. He stared dazedly down at its golden faceplate, studying and worshipping every intricate detail. Someone sat next to him and he looked up.

Undertaker.

"You've been sitting here looking at that belt for twenty minutes."

Lincoln took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, I just...can't believe it."

"It never stops feeling like that," Taker said, "because it means you're on top. It means that for as long as you hold it, you're the best in the business. Vince wouldn't put it on you if he didn't think that was true."

Lincoln believed that, but would it always feel this way? Now that he finally had the world title, Lincoln felt hollow, like a kid after opening all of his presents on Christmas morning. He had wanted this - to be at the absolute pinnacle for the business - for so long that he didn't know what else he could possibly do. When you're at the top, there isn't any place more to go.

Rollins helping Lincoln win set up an angle where Rollins and Strowman feuded, both wanting to eventually face Lincoln for the title. Roman came back in January and accosted Lincoln in the ring, accusing him of botching the move on purpose. It was all part of an angle, but Lincoln still felt a rush of shame as Roman cut his promo. Lincoln called Roman everyday while he was out, just to check in on him, and when he finally came back, Lincoln carried his bags for him because it was the right thing to do.

Roman challenged Lincoln for the title and Lincoln, invoking "champion's privilege", forced him to fight Storwman and Rollns in a triple threat match to determine which would face him at WrestleMania. Roman won and, as he expected, HHH came to Lincoln and asked him to drop the title to Roman. Lincoln didn't want to, but he played ball because he still felt bad about injuring him.

Plus, win or lose, he got to headline a WrestleMania as the reigning world champion and make a huge payoff in addition to his guaranteed contract.

At WrestleMania 44, Lincoln - still fighting as Frankie Furious - battled Roman Reigns in the main event. Halfway through, the former members of Roman's faction The Shield - Seth Rollins and Dean Ambrose (who had recently resigned with WWE after a stint in AEW) - came down to help him. Lincoln beat both of them with a metal pipe and threw Ambrose out of the ring. The fighting moved to the ringside area, and Roman managed to suplex Lincoln into the announce table.

In the end, Roman hit Lincoln with the Superman Punch and Lincoln went down for the count. The crowd was on Roman's side - babyface comeback victory - and though Lincoln felt like he had repaid Roman, he was dejected. He had been to the mountaintop and now he was back down in the valley. He could climb to the summit again, but it wasn't the same this time.

He needed a change.

In June, Lincoln's contract was set to expire. Instead of signing a new one, Lincoln went to Japan where he wrestled for New Japan Pro Wrestling. He was presented as a monster heel who couldn't be beat who obliterated multiple opponents at once. He was more over there than he had been in America. He did commercials, product endorsements, and even appeared in a movie. It was different and he enjoyed it, but sometimes he missed the US and the WWE. At the end of the year, he was at a crossroads. He loved wrestling and could never leave it entirely, but what would his future in the business look like? His knees were starting to go, his back hurt all the time, and he threw his shoulder out during a match with Hiro Konizki and had to have surgery. He wasn't long for the ring, just like Taker said.

Maybe he could become a manager or a color commentator.

For two months, Lincoln was torn and didn't know what to do or where to go.

Two weeks later, Lincoln was sitting in a luxury suite of a hotel and staring out at the majestic view of Tokyo when the phone rang. Lincoln picked up the handset and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Frankie Furious?" a voice asked.

"Yes?" Lincoln said guardedly. The only person he could imagine calling him at random and using his gimmick name was a huge mark who knew absolutely nothing about the business.

"It's Tony Kahn," the man on the other end said. "I'm a huge fan…"

On March 15, Lincoln Loud AKA Frankie Furious debuted in All-Elite Wrestling on its Wednesday night program Dynamite on TNT. Dressed in black trunks, black boots, and wearing sunglasses, he emerged from the go position and the crowd lost it. He strutted down the ramp, stopping to flex and kiss his muscles. Fans reached out the barricade to touch him, and he reached for one...then yanked his hand back and flipped them off instead. "Fuck you, fat boy!" Lincoln yelled, his voice drowned out by the crowd. The guy he cussed at, a pudgy neckbeard in an MJF shirt, laughed and clapped his hands like Lincoln was some kind of dancing clown. That offended Lincoln. He took the business very seriously, and this fat bastard was acting like he just got to see his favorite actor do his beloved catchphrase up close and personal.

It occured to Lincoln to smack the guy so hard one of his chins flew off, but he went to the ring instead, using his anger to fuel his promo. He grabbed a mic and looked around, a sneer of disgust crossing his face. "I know you neckbeards and you cucks out with your little soy pizzas tagging along with your wife and her boyfriend don't know who I am. You got your heads shoved so far up Orange Cassidy's ass you can taste Jericho on his lips."

The crowed cheered.

"But I'm a real wrestler, I come from a real promotion, and I faced real opponents. HHH was scared I was gonna take his job and his wife, so they fired me, and I took a huge step down to come here. You people don't deserve me. You're a bunch of marks and cosplay nobodies. This show should be on Disney Channel. AEW? More like HOM. House of Mouse."

Some of the fans booed but there was no real heat behind it. It was like they were watching a movie. They were into it, but they didn't believe. How far he'd come, he thought, from people jumping the barricades in hopes of tearing him apart to people booing almost to humor him.

"But I need a job so here I am. I see a chick with blue hair who probably thinks she's a guy and a butthole in a fedora who's never had a match with a woman in his whole life. I bet his Fleshlight is extra small."

The crowd roared with laughter.

Lincoln couldn't help feeling like they were mocking him.

"Shut up," Lincoln snapped. "Nobody in here got room to laugh."

He switched the mic to his other hand and caught a glimpse of Jim Ross and Tony Schivone at the announce table. Two of the greatest wrestling announcers to ever live. This wasn't WrestleMania, but that made up for it. "I had a long long flight to get here and I'm in a bad mood. I wanna fight someone. Where's Jericho? Send me Jericho. I'll beat the dust off his old ass. Hey, Jericho, how does it feel to be the new Hulk Hogan? You're an old politicking bastard just like him. You're on top while younger, better guys are under you. Come down here and let me open a spot when I send you to the hospital like I did Roman Reigns."

When Jericho's music hit, everyone went wild. Jericho and his faction, The Inner Circle, came out. "You've been here five minutes," Jericho said into a mic, "and I'm already tired of your crap."

Lincoln beckoned him to the ring.

"Oh, no," Jericho said, "you won't be fighting me tonight. You'll be fighting them."

The inner circle ran down to the ring and Lincoln braced himself. MJF was the first one in the ring. Lincoln kicked him in the face, then threw Wardlow over the top rope. Ortiz hit him, but Lincoln didn't sell it: He grabbed him by the neck and slammed him to the mat. Santana hit him across the back with a bamboo stick, and Lincoln went to his knees. Sammy Guevara, Jake Hager, and MJF surrounded him and started stomping him. Lincoln waited for his cue, and when it came, he fought his way to his feet. Coming off the ropes, he hit Hager with a flying clothesline and speared Guevara into the turnbuckle. Santana went to hit him with the bamboo stick again, but Lincoln caught it in mid air, wrenched it out of his hand, and whacked him in the knees, sending him to the mat. Ortiz came at him, and Lincoln kicked him in the stomach. He hit a Stone Cold Stunner on Ortiz and the crowd popped.

"Aw muh gawd, he cleared the ring!" JR yelled. "He cleared the ring!"

"This is the most explosive night in the history of our sport!" Tony Schivone screamed.

Lincoln jumped out of the ring and ran after Jericho, who turned tail and ran. Backstage, Jericho stuck out his hand and Lincoln shook it. "You did good," Jericho said. "I won't lie, though." He looked around, made sure no one was listening, and leaned in. "I liked your WWE debut better. That was epic."

"It was actually my idea," Lincoln said.

"No shit. Bruce and Vince wouldn't have come up with it. And Hunter's too busy waiting to take over after Vince croaks to do anything else."

Lincoln laughed. He got that impression too.

After the show, he and Jericho went out for drinks at a lounge near the arena. Tony Kahn tagged along and giggled at all of Jericho's jokes.

Next Monday, Lincoln challenged Orange Cassidy for the AEW TNT Title. Cassidy stood in the ring and took all of Lincoln's abuse with a placid expression. Lincoln didn't get Cassidy's character and, frankly, it kind of pissed him off. When he slapped Cassidy, he was stiffer than he had to be.

Though he was relatively young, Cassidy worked like a pro. It was basically like having the night off. He hit every move perfectly and his timing was unimpeachable. He sold all of Lincoln's stuff, and Lincoln, as a sign of appreciation, sold his in return, even though, realistically, Orange Cassidy wouldn't last five seconds in a fight with him.

In the end, Lincoln rolled Cassidy up for the pin. Lincoln celebrated by smashing Cassidy in the face with the belt and putting him in a Steiner Recliner.

Later, in the locker room, Lincoln slung the belt over his shoulder. The TNT Championship wasn't much, but it was a start. A wrestler of his caliber deserved better, though.

He went to Tony and told him so. "I want it all," Lincoln said.

"I have to talk to Mr. Jericho."

An hour later, Lincoln met with Jericho and laid out an angle. Jericho listened and stroked his chin. "That would actually be pretty cool."

Two weeks later, at the Revolution pay-per-view, Lincoln won the FTW title from Brian Cage in a strap match. Lincoln beat him with a strap and then strangled him with it. "I'm gonna win all these toy-ass belts," Lincoln shouted to the crowd. "Then I'm gonna leave with them. Check your local pawn shop. They might give you a good deal."

The storyline of Lincoln being obsessed with winning every title in AEW and holding them all at once played out over six months. On Dynamite in May, Jericho came down to the ring after Lincoln won a singles match over Luchasaurus and they faced each other. "You know, Frankie," Jericho said, using Lincoln's ring-name, "there's something about you. Something I like. You remind me of a younger version of a very talented and very handsome ring god. You remind me of me."

To the crowd's surprise, Jericho invited Lincoln to join The Inner Circle.

Lincoln accepted.

Two weeks later, he teamed with MJF in a tag match against The Young Bucks, winning the tag team title. Now when he came to the ring, he had a belt over one shoulder and another around his waist. There was a problem, though.

He needed both tag belts to complete his collection.

Two weeks later, he attacked MJF in the parking lot and took the other belt. This led to a tense several weeks of television that ended when Jericho ordered MJF to give Lincoln the belt. He refused and The Inner Circle kicked his ass then threw him out.

In August, Lincoln came to the ring loaded down with belts and wearing a pink wig. He climbed into the ring and grabbed a mic. Holding up a piece of paper, he said, "I'm a tranny now. I identify as a woman and that gives me the right to challenge Nyla Rose for the Women's Championship. If you don't ler her fight me, it's discrimination and I'll sue this place."

Appearing on the Titan Tron (whoops, they don't call it that here), Nyla Rose refused to fight him, saying, "I don't care how politically incorrect it sounds, you're not a woman. You're faking, which is really offensive to real transexuals."

The following week, Lincoln found her backstage during Dynamite. She was standing at catering waiting for food. "Hey," Lincoln said. "Why aren't you gonna fight me? You afraid to get in the ring with a real woman? You some kind of homophobe? You got something against people like me?" Spittle flew from his lips.

Even though Lincoln was a heel, the crowd was with him. "Nyla,fight her," they chanted.

Nyla held up her hand. "Uh, no. Just go."

Instead, Lincoln grabbed her around the throat and slammed her through the table, leaving her in a broken, twitching heap.

Finally, at Fall Brawl, she agreed to fight him. Their match was the first one on the card. Lincoln kicked her in the stomach and chokeslammed her again. He covered her.

One, two, three.

Jumping to his feet, Lincoln flexed his bulging muscles. "GIRL POWER!" he screamed.

That was all. He had every belt.

Except for the world championship.

On Dynamite, he turned on The Inner Circle, beat Ortiz to a pulp, and challenged Jericho for the belt.

They met at Starrcade in December. The stipulation was that if Jericho won, he got all of Lincoln's belts. Their match was an intense nail-biter; Jericho led much of it, beating Lincoln no matter what he did or where he came from. Lincoln hit him with a low blow and covered, but he kicked out. Lincoln dragged him to his feet and rocked his face with punches. Jericho came alive, kicked him in the stomach, and hit him with a reverse DDT.

Then he put him in the Walls of Jericho.

Lincoln grasped, grimaced, and started to tap out, but stopped himself. The crowd was screaming, pumped by weeks of build up, and half called for Lincoln to win. Jericho's hold slipped and Lincoln bucked him off. Lincoln got up, grabbed Jericho by his throat, and choked him out right there. He then put him in a Steiner Recliner. Jericho tried to fight back, but it was impossible, he finally tapped.

Was this the largest audience Lincoln had ever wrestled in front of? He didn't know but it was the loudest pop he had ever heard. So loud that the roof nearly blew off.

For two months, Lincoln held every title in AEW simultaneously. It took them a year and a half to slowly whittle away until the only belt he had left was the woman's championship. The night he lost it, he hurt himself after mistiming a spine buster. He could walk, but pain radiated through him and once he sat down backstage, he couldn't get up again. He went to the hospital the next day.

Compressed fracture.

"I advise against continuing your career," the doctor said.

Lincoln's heart sank. "But wrestling is all I know."

"You could paralyze yourself and never walk again," the doctor said.

Alone in his hotel room, Lincoln sat on the edge of his bed with his face in his hands and a bottle of prescription painkillers between his legs.

What could he do? He didn't want to hurt himself more but he also didn't want to give up everything he had worked so hard over the past ten years for.

Should he keep going and risk praising himself...or should he retire and settle down?

Both prospects filled him with dread.

Putting it to fate, he took a quarter out of his pocket. Ironically, or maybe not, it was minted the year Lincoln wrestled his first match. Heads he would continue to wrestle, and tails, he would quit, maybe move back to Royal Woods, find a wife, and get a boring nine to five job working for next to nothing just to support an empty and unfulfilling life.

Lincoln flipped the coin. It spun end over end and landed on the carpet. Lincoln leaned over to see which side won.

So…

It was that one.

Frankie Furious made up his mind that night.

And he would live to regret it.