Stu-E Price drifted through San Francisco Chinatown, lanterns swaying above his head like slow heartbeats above him, their silk skins trembling in the ocean wind that’s been pushed inland. He moved under carved dragons whose scales seem to glitter, the shop windows catch him in fragments—his reflection fractured among porcelain bowls stacked like pale moons, among gilt paper charms whispering luck. Taking a deep breathe, the smell of star anise, of ginger and sweet roasted duck, drapes itself over him; the scent coils, snake-like, into the fabric of his dark leather jacket.

“Let’s cut right to the chase, bastards.” He says, clearing his throat.

“You can have your own opinions about what I’ve done these last few weeks, if you agree or you disagree; I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. It’s not the first time I’ve done what I want, when I want and it damn sure ain’t gonna be the last so take your little thoughts and comments, write ‘em down in your bitch arse diaries, and shove it.”

Stu-E walks as though aware that the ground beneath him hums with history: feet upon feet, generations pressing into these stones, leaving behind echoes that the wind gathers up and carries. His own footsteps become part of that chorus—soft percussion against the drum of the city.

“You’re all forgetting when HWA was getting called out for the old bullshit you sack of bastards were creating, it was me getting wheeled out for interviews trying to smooth everything over, so we didn’t get bloody cancelled. It was me showing up show after show holding it all together and being that one good light that the TV executives and sponsors could stand behind.

Sure, I have a few rough edges and a sense of humour, but you bloody well need a sense of humour when you’re surrounded by you lot of pricks. And that goes for every-####in-body!”

Overhead, a child’s kite flutters between buildings, its paper skin a fragile burst of crimson. He lifts his head to watch it, and in the pause—between the incense curling skyward, between the neon signs buzzing like captive bees—he feels both utterly present and quietly transparent, as though Chinatown is absorbing him into its weave.

“When I lost the title, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was everything else around it, I was stood there, and all the reporters gave a flying #### about, were asking loaded questions looking for a soundbite. Not one of the bastards asked me about what happened with Sean, about Dream Master, so I thought ‘#### ‘em’, they’re getting no comment.”

Rising at the edge of Stu-E’s vision, followed by the sound of shuffling shoes on worn stone, as a small group passed. Eyes quicken toward him, then away, then back again, faces tilted as if listening for something unsaid.

One woman in a jade scarf pauses her gaze on him, just long enough for the silk to whisper against her coat; a boy at her side cranes his neck, his balloon tugging skyward, uncertain whether to stay or keep moving. Behind them, an elderly man—his hands veined like old paper—lets his eyes rest longer, as though he has seen this scene before, in another century, under another set of lanterns.

Curiosity flickers among them, not spoken but moving like a ripple across a pond: Who is this man walking alone? What weight does he bear that draws the air taut around him? Yet their pace does not falter. They glide past, their presence briefly touching him like the brush of a sleeve, leaving behind only the faint aftertaste of wonder and incense, and the sense that the city itself had paused to lean in closer.

“Well, now is the time to comment. Sean, you’re a hot-headed bastard most of the time and there’s been days when I would love nothing more than to stomp your eyeballs out of your head and stick ‘em up your arse but what you’ve gone through; doesn’t sit right with me, brother. It’s not right, and I accept that if it wasn’t for Azami I would have lost that title to you that night.
We’re never going to be friends, you and me, but I’m absolutely fine with remaining perfect strangers. Maybe one day, we’ll meet in the ring again, my nemesis, but until then, good luck with everything.”

Price holds his arms out, as if to say ‘what, you expected me to say something else?’

“Which brings me to Maniac, who in such a short amount of time has devalued the title so much that Bryan Deas thinks he can come out of the woodwork and stand a chance! The only person who devalued a title quicker than you was David Arquette, sunshine. But joking aside, I appreciate the words, and all’s good back home which is the only reason I walked that aisle at Havoc.

I never left, I just took some time to take care of my family. And now, I’m free.”

He looks up to the sky, filled with clouds.

“HWA is just a bunch or arseholes, you know why? They don’t have the guts to do the right thing above everything else. You need people like me, you need people like me so you can point your ####in’ fingers and say, ‘he’s a ####, but what he says is right’. Some of you might think you’re ‘good’ but you aren’t, you just know how to lie to yourselves and how to hide.

Me? I don’t have that problem. I’m always in the right, even when I have to say some stupid shit to fire someone up. So, say hello to the real good guy! The last time you’re gonna see a #### like this in this business, again. Buckle up, bastards, The Price always has been and always will be, right.”

The rhythm of his pitch falters as something new creeps into the edges of the street. At first it is only a thread—a faint wisp slipping between the neon signs, but quickly it thickens, swelling into coils that climb and spread, blurring the red and gold edges of Chinatown into softer, darker shapes.

The crowd slows. Heads turn. A child coughs and buries his face in his mother’s sleeve. The jade-scarfed woman pulls her scarf higher, eyes narrowing against the grey haze as if trying to see what lies beyond. Somewhere in the distance a door slams, the sound sharp against the muffled air.

Stu-E stands in the middle of it, smoke curls through the alleyway, lifting and folding like a restless creature, wrapping lanterns until their glow becomes dim, tremulous. The buzz of neon is swallowed, the chatter of passersby thinned to silence, as though the city itself is holding back, waiting.

And there he is, half-shrouded, the outlines of his body dissolving into shifting veils of smoke as the Pork Chop Express theme can be softly heard in the distance as the scene gently fades.