The High Flyer Variety Hour

Actual Runtime 22 Minutes


The Tampa residence of Tyler Rayne on a deep wide shot. We see the front door wide open as High Flyer walks away, waving goodbye. It’s gently closed behind him.

We cut to a medium shot as another camera crew catches up to Flyer. He’s still whistling, but pauses, stopping in his tracks.

High Flyer: Super weird.

Flyer doesn’t notice, taking a moment to turn and look over the Rayne household.

High Flyer: Lindsay and Tyler?

Flyer shivers. He looks to his side and sees the camera crew filming him. He looks back to the Rayne residence and sees the other camera crew inside. He turns back to his crew.

High Flyer: Uh, how are you in two places at once? Whatever. Let’s Aaron Sorkin this. Walk with me.

The crew do their best to keep up with a nonchalant Harmen, who continues walking down the street. He passes his limo, which he completely ignores, before continuing on.

High Flyer walks.

And he walks.

And he walks.

High Flyer frowns as he walks.

High Flyer: Oh yeah. I should probably talk to walk and talk. ANYWAY. You have an edit button right? Just, keep that in. ANYWAY. Hey, don’t cut away from this!

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC as we cut away. Nyah! Cut to a still image of an empty street. That’s when a bike starts to roll through, with High Flyer revealed to be sitting on the chair, his feet off the pedals.

High Flyer: Cecilworth Farthington is pedestrian.

Flyer rolls off the left side of the frame.

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC. Back to Flyer as he walks further down the block.

High Flyer: Why did you cut back to me? I’m just going to the store.

Flyer shouts wildly around to everyone, three fingers raised on his left hand, five on his right.

High Flyer: Hard fifteen everybody!

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC interlaced with the HOW logo. We cut to the Riverwalk in Tampa Bay at night, light up and beautiful. The entire bridge is surrounded by these oblong-esq almost bullet train like steel poles. There’s what looks to be a very narrow roof that looks like it could be closed but is currently wide open showing the moonlight sky. In the far background, a few riverfront homes. High Flyer steps into frame, obscuring it entirely by showing only his eyes. He takes a step back and flicks the camera lens with his finger.

High Flyer: We on? Good.

High Flyer takes a couple steps back. He’s dressed in his finest three piece suit attire.

High Flyer: WELCOME! My name is High Flyer, and I am on the You Tub.

Female Voice: It’s YouTube.

High Flyer: Really? I swore Nova said it was You Tub. Edit this out. ANYWAY!

High Flyer loudly claps on screen, and then resets himself. With a deep inhale, he continues.

High Flyer: HOW Wrestling is sponsoring my trip to the Riverwalk in Florida, just thirty six hours before the big HOW War Games match. And guess what I’m going to be doing?

Flyer tosses both arms out to his side and stands tall, as if he were the host of a carnival. Behind him on either side, two large spinning pyrotechnic boards are pushed by two beautiful and scantily clad models. From the ceiling, a large banner unfurls, perfectly framed so Jack is just underneath it from the waist up.

High Flyer: “HOW… Would You Like to Do This!”

Another set of stage hands begin to push in large plates for a set. On one side, a large video screen. The other, three podiums with guests names written on them.

We see now High Flyer has taken his place behind a single podium separate from the others, and starts to mess around with index cards. Flyer raises his hand, shouting.

High Flyer: Five. Four.

Flyer starts to just count out loud without actually saying the words, his fingers visually counting down to his rhythm. He pauses, giving a second glance to the names written down of his guests. A generic cheesy intro music starts to play over the pa system.


High Flyer rubs the brow of his forehead as the silence builds. After about ten seconds, we hear…

”You’re listening to a demo for stock music dot net!”

Flyer tosses the index cards in the air and slams his hand on the podium

High Flyer: You know what? I can’t do it. No. Shut it down. Shut it ALL DOWN. Gary! Kill the lights.

A balding man in a suit one size too large saunters up. It’s as if he lost a bunch of weight but couldn’t afford to get the suit altered.

High Flyer: Return the Flamingos, and see if you can get the deposits back for all this crap.

Gary: My name is Jasper.

High Flyer: Gary, just do it!

Gary raises his hands and the lights cut. The set begins to be dismantled as the crew strikes the set.

High Flyer: Gary, what the hell are the writers thinking? Those names? You’ve got to be kidding. I said funny, not what an 8 year old calls his step-dad!

Gary: But… but, they’re Max Kael’s lawyers.

Harmen reaches out and points a finger directly into Gary’s face.

High Flyer: You’re a liar Gary, and you’ll never work in Orlando again.

Gary: We’re in Tampa.

Gary turns and begins to walk away.

High Flyer: I SWEAR TO GOD GARY. Don’t test me!

Gary flinches and scampers off. Two stage hands walk up and remove the podium from in front of High Flyer. As he steps forward, he never was wearing pants and just wears those boxer shorts with the hearts on them. He stands there with no loss of dignity.

High Flyer: I need a chai half mocha latte cappuccino with four espressos or a death wish coffee. NOW!

Flyer looks down.

High Flyer: And probably some pants too.

Flyer frowns. A production assistant rushes up, holding out a cup of coffee. Flyer takes a smell.

High Flyer: Is this how I like it?

PA: Fourteen and a half sugars sir.

Flyer narrows his eyes at the PA, who stands there nervously. Flyer just takes the smallest of sips, and then licks his lips. His eyes dart to the Production Assistant.

High Flyer: Acceptable.

The production assistant sighs in relief. He wipes his brow revealing a healing burn wound on his wrist down to his elbow. He quickly rushes off as Flyer takes another sip. The steaming aroma, the palate cleanser, the pure condensed ball of energy. This, this is the closest feeling to bludgeoning some asshole with a chair. A small smile creeps on his face. His expression immediately turns sour as he lowers the cup, sighing.

High Flyer: Why the Hell do I still look like I’m auditioning for Ghouls ‘n Goblins!

Flyer looks from side to side, the once busy hustle quickly quieted. No one is currently acknowledging him.

High Flyer: Is this some sort of Chris Hansen prank show?

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC High Flyer stands underneath a single small flash bulb, swaying on a chain. Flyer reaches out and grabs it, we’re so close and the sound so good you can hear it just ever so gently shing his skin. He brings the bulb closer to his face to shine light directly on one side of his face, leaving the other dark and obscured.

High Flyer: HOW…

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC. High Flyer is in a small log boat as the song “It’s a Small World” plays through animatronics. He’s covering his ears and rocking back and forth.

PSYCH! There’s no talking directly to the camera in this story today! It’s just psychological trauma.

Flyer lets out a blood curdling sob, scaring a small child who’s huddled up with her family.

High Flyer (through sobs): It is… It’s SOOO SMALL!

Yeah, he’s not talking right now.

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC. This transitions to High Flyer standing in the middle of a wrestling ring. The surrounding arena or gymnasium is blacked out, and the only thing that can be seen is the ring shown with bright powerful overhead lighting. Flyer once again tosses his hands out as if he were that carnival host, welcoming us to the show. He wears his wrestling attire and his official HOW t-shirt. The one with the word “FLYER” written in large block letters like the HBO show Barry.


You thought he was gonna talk to the camera and then he wasn’t and now he is. Oh, right, I’ll be quiet. I’m lonely. I’m going to go on and find someone who appreciates me.

High Flyer: Shut up, voice in my head.


High Flyer: Ladies and gentlemen of HOW, filth and swines of HOW the same, it is I, the incomparable Jack Harmen, the impossibly incorrigible, master of flying and ceremonies, the very definition of a WILD CARD, High, FLYEEEEEERRR!

Flyer let’s a devilish grin creep onto his face. His hands lower. He deeply sighs, his energy drained. His shoulders slump. His eyelids close briefly as Flyer sways while standing. His eyes close again, this time for good as Harmen seems to have fallen asleep on his feet.

High Flyer: HOW.

Flyer takes, still not opening his eyes.

High Flyer: I expected more. I came here expecting your finest warriors. The bravest of challengers, the deadliest of foes the world could ever collect.

High Flyer raises his head and opens his eyes. His eyes wide and bulging.

High Flyer: What I got is a champion who disappeared for a bunch of days, two squabbling man children, the former champ who looks like he hasn’t bathed in so long his mask has literally fused itself to his own skull, and a Cecilworth playing Sherlock Holmes without a eureka moment. I mean, maybe that’s just how it is around here. I remember twenty years ago I spent an entire week blaming Domino’s for stealing my car. Complete waste of time. Turns out? I forgot where I parked it.

Flyer smacks his arm.

High Flyer: God damn mosquitoes. REALLY hate Florida here.

Flyer scratches his chin, almost doing a “Thinker” pose.

High Flyer: Then again, I also do incredibly crazy random and stupid stuff to people with inflated egos. It manipulates them into bringing their guard down, or going stupid angry, or going stupid stupid. Very sound battle strategy. Bold move from the HOW side. Page outta my own playbook to be honest. Too bad for you though. I’ve learned the practice of meditation and zen tranquility.

A small piece of confetti falls onto Flyer’s shoe. His eyes grow wide. He rushes out of the spotlight into the darkness, shouting at the wind.


MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC. Back to Flyer reset to his regular position in the midst of the spotlight. He takes in a deep inhale. His eyes remain closed.

High Flyer: Happy place. I’m in my happy place. A place with cages wrapped in barbed wire, a sea of propped up tables, two rows of ladders stretching as far as the eye can see, and I have a remote that controls gravity. Also Bruce Campbell is there, acting as an usher and refusing to let a clone of himself in and they just keep saying “but I’m Bruce Campbell” in different inflections as if they’re Groot… Oh, look, this is rare. It’s raining thumbtacks. They pitter-patter on the rooftops of the steel mesh cage, trickling in like dew upon a waterfall. They say that’s good luck.

Flyer reopens his eyes.

High Flyer: I’m good for now. I’ll save my anger for War Games. I’ll probably need it against the very best HOW has to offer. Like THE, Hall of Famer, the illustrious WOODS OF SCOTTY. I had heard of Scottywood a few years back, when a young fan came up to me and told me you were his favorite wrestler. He asked me if we knew each other and if we’d ever fought. He said he imagined the conflict would have been epic, like two waring Gods destroying a city epic. I had to say no, dashing the child’s hopes at the time. I should have sought you then. Cause I’ll fight anybody, anywhere. I just enjoy a good war, and if the Hardcore Aficionado can give me the battle of a lifetime, a war meant to be recorded in the annals of pro wrestling history, I would very much like to kill each other.

Flyer smiled.

High Flyer: For you see I shant be entering this match with the intention of leaving it in one piece. NARRY A SOUL can claim such a dubious feat, only the COWARDLY and DISHONORABLE could. I think back on it… twenty six years in this business…

High Flyer laughed.

High Flyer: I’ve never been in a War Games match.

Flyer shrugged, eyes looking up to think.

High Flyer: I mean, I’ve interfered in my fair share, but being an official combatant? I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. And per Scoot-Wood, he’s the bestest and the baddest most hardcore root tootingest extremeist in all of Florida. I want to see you prove that. Put your money where you VIOLENCE is ARTIST, because I want to feel alive. So while you may be the very first man in War Games this year, you better save some fuel in the tank for when I enter the match. Because we’re going to probably light that ring on fire. Metaphorically and physically. You say you can dish out more pain than anyone, any time? I spent my whole career being beaten down and coming back for more. There isn’t anything I love more than meeting a man with the proclivity of professional violence to such a degree, others may call him sociopathic.

You saw my cavalcade of weaponry Scotty. I’m bringing all that and more with me to the ring. I’m gonna shove as much of it as I can inside, and then I’m going to enter, wrapped in barbed wire and set ABLAZE IF I MUST, slamming SLEDGEHAMMER shot after CHAIR SHOT after LOCOMOTIVE into your soon to be misplaced BRAINS. I can only hope Scottywood gives me half the fight he implies he wants to give Eli Flair in 2019.

Because otherwise, I’ll just be flat out disappointed…

Eli Flair is sitting on a couch. He’s reading a magazine. The camera quickly wanders up to him, as he looks up.

Eli Flair Jack, what’s with the camera?

High Flyer: Would you ever fight Scottywood?

Eli Flair The fuck is a Scottywood?

High Flyer: Exactly.


High Flyer: I mean, I don’t get why we don’t all just refuse to fight and demand ten percent each of this company. Why are we being pawns between two squabbling…

LOUD BUZZER NOISE. A graphic that says “Technical Difficulties, Please Stay Tuned” appears. There’s a cartoon drawing of Lee Best shrugging with a smile. In the background, the War Games themed wrestling ring burns asunder.

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC. A deflated High Flyer stands in the spotlight, sneering off camera.

High Flyer: You care about HOW. Yeah, you do. Those people at home, they care about this place. Even MJ Flair cares about this place. Not me though. I don’t get attached. That’s not to say I don’t want what’s best. I always want to the make the place I work in a little better than when I started. Or at least a bit more fun. I just want to have some fun and keep having fun, but in the end, I don’t care if this place burns or thrives. I’ll find work. I’ll find work wherever I go. It’s always been the same. Join, have a few years, win some shinies, whatever, place dies. Go on to the next one. See some friends. Lose others. Fight, brawl, divide, conquer, then… on to the next one.

Flyer lets out a deep sigh.

High Flyer: It’s almost like a pattern I can’t break. Maybe I just have professional ADD. Maybe I’m addicted to wrestling. Maybe I just don’t really know what I want, or I get what I want and it’s not what I actually want, so I just decide, eh, I’ll go over here now and try to get something else that I want. I say I don’t want the HOW title, but I do. Of course I do. It’s shiny. So shiny. There’s a reason that wrestling titles are made out of precious metals that shimmer in the summer sun. It makes me want them. I want the ICON championship too. I want to put them around my waist and never take ‘em off. Not even in the shower.

And I don’t know if Lee Best is best for HOW. I don’t know if Mike Best is best for HOW. I don’t care. Lee Best is payin’ me. Plus, I get to fight with people I not only know, but deeply respect. I believe in MJ Flair. I’ll follow her and Cally wherever. As to the rest… whether we’ve always got along is a resounding no, but now? We’re on the same page. We’re talented. It’s a safe bet.

It’s the BEST bet.

High Flyer sits in front of a roaring campfire. He’s roasting marshmallows. He looks behind his back, off camera, and proceeds to pull out a briefcase. There’s an engraving on the handle, CJF. Flyer shrugs and tosses it onto the bonfire. He then roasts his marshmallow on top of the burning case.

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC. Fade to QUAINT and CALMING music, like a youtube video reading a reddit post calming. Put you to sleep when you aren’t even tired calming music. We see graphics flying in, almost like title cards.

And Now?
A Collection of Lunatic Ramblings!

What I Did for my Summer Vacation
September 8th, 1981.

Summer sucked. I spent most of it threw baseball cards at a wall. You put the card in the base and then threw another at it, making it fall. You take the card if you do that. I have a lot of cards.

But my daddy died so I didn’t have any new cards because I didn’t have my daddy.

Middle School Book Report on “To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Approximately 1988

It’s good. I liked when he killed the mockingbird. Because birds are aliens and they want to take over the world. Don’t kid yourself Jackie, if a bird ever got the chance, he’d eat you and everyone you cared about. Would recommend this book to anyone who likes books.

High School Diary, December 24th, 1991.

It’s Christmas tomorrow.

Grandma won’t let me get my license. Jake won’t return my calls in Mexico. Tammy won’t leave my side. She’s scared. So am I.

But I have to get her and me out of here.

Recovered Cassette Tape Recording
NOVEMBER 17th, 1992

I lied. I’m not 18 yet. But we’re in Mexico. What could go wrong? Wrestling~!

Recovered Cassette Tape Recording
(Same tape, later)
Approximately November 18th, 1992

I totally broke my arm. I’m an idiot.

From a usenet group
Date: April 1st, 1996.10:32 PM CST.
Subject: I don’t care that you don’t like me because I don’t speak Spanish.

Body: So what if I don’t know Spanish. You’re Mexico. I should be learning to speak Mexican. And hell, I don’t demand your immigrants to America speak English or American when they get here. Wait… I feel like I might have just started something irreparable.

Reply to post 10:37 PM CST: Please delete this from all existence.
Reply to post 10:45 PM CST: Why isn’t there a delete button? I hate the internet!
Reply to post 10:47 PM CST: … I should have learned Spanish.

AOL Public Profile
February 18th, 1998 found no such record

Livejournal entry
September 16th, 2000.

I’m sad, because this is livejournal. A place for sad people and weird fan fiction. I wrote one, of me with Lucy Lui just playing chess together. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna be popular forever…

Recovered Ancient Friendster Message
September 1st, 2004
Nobody ever used Friendster. No records found.

MySpace Post
August 31st, 2005.
Yo yo, check out the new layout. Blinged out with gold because I’m World Champ AGAIN SON. Please don’t click over to Lindsay Troy’s page. I’ll stop bad slanging. Hey! HEY! I see the mouse hovering. That’s it, she’s no longer in my top 8. I will remember that.

Myspace rulez!

September 23rd, 2009


This is the only post.

Jack Harmen’s first tweet
April 27th, 2012

After being hit in the head with a sledgehammer, the EMTs said I should see a Doctor. But that’s how I got this concussion

October 10th, 2014
I found out today that I can’t mail a ham through the US Postal system with food stamps. Who knew?

May 28th, 2015
#ideasofalunatic A shoe that walks for you.

February 12th, 2016
#GoAwayStevens let get this trending! (Wait? Who is Stevens and why should he, oh well whatever nevermind.)

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC. They are interlaced with a full screen matte of the color 97Red, because reasons. The Red is then layered on top of a shot of High Flyer in the middle of the ring, the same scene we’ve been cutting back to. Harmen covers his face with his hands before letting them slide down his cheeks to his nose, pulling the skin. He looks wide eyed to the camera.

High Flyer: Y’know. I like Halitosis. Kind of a weird sentence out of context. After everything, he’s the one guy I truly like in this. So, in the arena of respect, at War Games, where we can share in each other’s pain and bloodshed and truly become brothers, I will meet you with violence and vitriol. Y’know, he reminds me of myself, twenty years ago. I mean, he won’t be half the star MJ Flair’ll be, but Hali seems a good egg. We could have been a tag team in another life. Or we could have had a blood feud. Could really do either here too. I dunno how the future is laid out. Either way, I just wanna say, I hold no ill will to you my hygienically deprived luchador, but I will kick your head straight off your shoulders to prove a point. If it proves a point. Even if it doesn’t. That just sounds like a fun time. Did I mention I actually like you?

Flyer rubs the back of his head.

High Flyer: As for the man known as John Sektor… I get paid more than you do.

Flyer raises the mic and drops it onto the ring canvas.

It’s a busy day in Tampa, just one day before War Games. There are large billboards outside of the arena hyping the upcoming event. As the camera cranes down to street level, we reveal High Flyer standing there with a microphone.

High Flyer: You Tub! I’m back with another exclusive contractually obligated hype piece for the upcoming War Games event! I’m going to be walking up to random people on the street and asking them questions. You ready? I’M NOT!

Two younger women, mid 20s, one of Arabic descent, the other a Caucasian red head, each wearing Tampa U tank tops. High Flyer walks up to them with a microphone.

High Flyer: Have you ever watched professional wrestling LIVE?!

Redhead: No?

High Flyer: HERE’S A TICKET!

He throws a ticket at her as if it were a playing card. It bounces off her chest.

Two younger gentlemen, early 20s, wearing metal band t-shirt and sporting lumberjack facial hair. High Flyer walks up to them.

High Flyer: Hi. Hi. You must know who I am. What do you think of Mike Best’s team at War Games?

High Flyer points up to the hanging advertisement over the arena. The two men nod in acknowledgement.

Guy #1: He’s… good?

High Flyer: NO! BAD! Here’s a ticket!

High Flyer throws a show ticket at them.

A woman is talking to a police officer with her baby in a stroller. She doesn’t notice High Flyer approach.

High Flyer: Here’s a ticket! Come to professional wrestling. Two drink minimum.

He quickly wanders off as the woman returns her attention to her child. She notices her playing with a small piece of paper and quickly removes it.

A younger couple wearing Disney paraphernalia alongside their sweet adorable blonde seven year old. High Flyer walks into frame, excitedly.

High Flyer: Do you like professional wrestling little girl?

Little girl: No.

High Flyer: HERE’S A TICKET!

High Flyer extends her a ticket. She doesn’t take it, so Flyer starts to jab it toward the little girl. She begins to cry, turns away and hugs the leg of her father.

There’s an older man in his forty’s, clearly homeless, holding a paper-bag with a bottle inside. High Flyer walks up.

High Flyer: HI! Please don’t stab me.

Flyer notices the hobo pulling out a knife. He begins to back away.

High Flyer: Here’s a ticket. It’s worth at least a hundred Scottywood IPAs.

MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC: High Flyer stands on top of a small elevated stone structure. He has a bullhorn. He begins to shout through it at the crowd of people.


A good forty percent of the crowd looks toward Flyer as he shouts this through the bullhorn. High Flyer then tosses up at least fifty tickets into the air, letting the wind take them where they will. There’s quite a rush to grab the flying tickets, as even some of those who were initially disinterested now attempt to grab some. During the chaos, High Flyer fled into the sea of people. Never to be seen again.

Well, until War Games. Unless he gets arrested. Or lost. Or bored.

Which is why he set a reminder in his phone to ring every hour with the following:


Roleplay Countdown


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