Rich Gold’s music hits and the arena erupts in boos.
He steps out in his jacket and sunglasses, rings catching the light. He stands at the top of the ramp and slowly surveys the arena, unhurried, waiting for the noise to die down.
It doesn’t.
A loud “YOU SUCK!” chant breaks out. Rich glances down at one of his rings, turning it with his thumb as if checking its shine.
Rich Gold: Careful. Somebody’s gonna think you actually feel that way.
He starts down the aisle at his own pace, ignoring the cups and trash that land near his feet. By the time he reaches ringside, the hostility has only grown.
He climbs into the ring and casually takes a microphone from the timekeeper.
Rich Gold: New York.
The boos swell.
Rich Gold: I heard all the stories before I got here. Toughest crowd in the country. Nothing impresses you people.
He shrugs.
Rich Gold: Except yourselves, apparently.
A few cheers sneak through.
Rich Gold: Every one of you walks around telling the rest of the country this is the greatest city on Earth.
He nods.
Rich Gold: Sure. I’ll go with it.
He smiles.
Rich Gold: Which means tonight you’re looking at the greatest thing that’s walked through that curtain in a very long time.
The boos become deafening.
Rich simply waits.
Rich Gold: I’ve been to a hundred cities. Every one of them told me they were different. Chicago. Dallas. Philadelphia. Boston. Every one of them thought they were the crowd that was finally gonna get under my skin.
He slowly shakes his head.
Rich Gold: You’re not.
Another chorus of boos.
Rich Gold: You’re an audience.
He lets that sit.
Rich Gold: Audiences make noise.
He gestures around the arena.
Rich Gold: Crowds change outcomes.
The audience roars back.
Rich Gold: Keep going. Sound is free. Anybody can make noise.
He smiles.
Rich Gold: I’m interested in things with actual value.
He points toward the front row.
Rich Gold: Look at this guy. Lost his voice before I even said a word. Paid for parking. Paid for his ticket. Paid for a shirt that’ll end up in the back of his closet by next week.
Rich chuckles to himself.
Rich Gold: And somehow… he’s mad at me.
He shakes his head.
Rich Gold: I didn’t take your money.
He pauses.
Rich Gold: I just happen to be the reason you spent it.
A few laughs cut through the boos.
Rich Gold: This city charges premium prices for absolutely everything. You people understand value better than anybody.
He slowly scans the audience.
Rich Gold: That’s why I figured New York would appreciate quality the second it saw it.
He taps his chest.
Rich Gold: Instead…
He smirks.
Rich Gold: I get boos.
He nods knowingly.
Rich Gold: That’s alright.
Rich Gold: I’ve been misunderstood by smarter people than you.
The arena explodes.
Rich simply watches them.
Rich Gold: There it is.
He nods approvingly.
Rich Gold: That’s the sound of a city that hates hearing the truth.
He leans against the ropes.
Rich Gold: Tomorrow morning you’ll be telling people you were here tonight. You’ll tell your coworkers how loud you booed Rich Gold. You’ll tell your friends I looked exactly like I do on television.
He smiles.
Rich Gold: Because that’s the closest most of you will ever come to something truly valuable.
The crowd is livid.
Rich doesn’t react.
Rich Gold: You don’t hate me because I’m successful.
He slowly points around the arena.
Rich Gold: You hate me because money has taste…
He pauses.
Rich Gold: …and it didn’t choose you.
The boos are overwhelming.
Rich adjusts one of his cuffs as if nothing happened.
Rich Gold: Boo as loud as you want.
He shrugs.
Rich Gold: Every seat in this building sold out before the opening bell.
He smiles.
Rich Gold: The market already decided what I’m worth.
He lowers the microphone.
Rich Gold: Know your worth…
A pause.
Rich Gold: …because you clearly don’t know mine.
He drops the microphone onto the canvas.
Without acknowledging the reaction, Rich calmly unclips his jacket and folds it neatly over the top rope. He removes his sunglasses and extends them behind him without looking.
The referee hesitates for a moment before reluctantly taking them.
Rich never turns around.
He simply fixes his cuffs, stares toward the entranceway, completely unmoved by the hatred pouring down from every corner of the arena.
Eryk and Jason sit at ringside, with Eryk looking to the camera as Jason double checks the format pages before him.
Eryk Masters: Zenith 19 is already off to a hot start after Rich Gold further cemented his place on the roster, and we still have more to come.
Jason Johnson: And up next, we're throwing it out back to the always lovely Samantha Coil for a further rundown of what's to come.
Eryk Masters: Samantha, take it away!
Cut to backstage, where Samantha Coil stands before an LED screen with an animated SHOOT banner playing behind her. Highlights of events from SHOOT's archives and as recent as this very show rotate through, pausing on the SHOOT helmet every few seconds.
Samantha Coil: Still to come, we have Maeve O'Byrne making her Pinnacle debut against the man now known as NEGLIGENCE, Jaime Alejandro. And, in our main event, we have the official return of the former Jester Smiles, Eric Rohkar, taking on the Last Standing Pillar, Dustin “Thunderwolf” Kelser! Up next, Josh Kaine challenges for the Empire State championship, “the Iron Saint” Ricky Tenet, and…!
Samantha's professional look cracks as a familiar voice interrupts her.
Corey Lazarus: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whooaaaaaa, babe! Aren't you forgetting someone?
Coil regains her composure as Corey Lazarus struts up beside her, already decked out in his new ring gear of customized FULLSTOP fight shorts - black, gold, and ruby red - with matching padding. He flips back the hood of his new entrance robe, also designed by FULLSTOP, and casually wraps his arm around Samantha like she were an old friend.
Corey Lazarus: I mean hey, tiger, I didn't get them to design some ruby reds on my slippers for no reason! After all, there's just no place quite like home! And if home is where the heart is, and the heart of rock n’ fucking roll is still beating, then that could only mean one thing, tiger!
Corey pulls her microphone closer to himself, clearing his throat.
Corey Lazarus: That the L-A-Z is back in N-Y-C to dish out a little 1-2-3, dig?
She takes in a deep breath, slyly brushing his arm from her shoulder, and Lazarus plays it off by “stretching” before resting his hands on his hips.
Samantha Coil: Ladies and gentlemen…Mr. Corey Lazarus.
Corey Lazarus: Thanks, Sammy C. Now, before I get a little last minute hype going for what's going to inevitably be a major career highlight for “the Katamarink-a-Dink-a-Dink” herself, that being - of course - the night she went one-on-one with the Last Damn Icon and learned a thing or three, I'd like to direct some words of wisdom toward two people that I am just, like, so…so…
He leans back, shouting away from the microphone…
Corey Lazarus: …SOOOOOO…
…but it still maxes some of the EQ, causing Samantha to wince as she holds her in-ear monitor. Corey leans back in, his Trademark Devilish Grin ever apparent.
Corey Lazarus: …sick and tired of addressing, that being Jimmy Alligastro and the sentient tumor that he calls La Capitana, Artie Peasant. One of you happens to have your work boots on tonight, so I know you're already laser-focused on not shitting your pants, and the other is too busy tied to a five-dollar milking machine he bought off Temu, but just in case either one of you feels like bathing your nostrils in something that doesn't reek of rehydrated sardine paste?
He lowers his silver-rimmed Ray Bans, waving at the camera…
Corey Lazarus: Hey Lou! Did that rash clear up yet?
…and then casually slides them back up. The thought causes Samantha to recoil in disgust, turning away from the camera to hide her wretching.
Corey Lazarus: Just try to be good little buckaroos and come looking for the Hollywood Kid. Don't go poking around whatever Eric Joe-Kar is up to, don't try to hold the Faithful hostage with another droning monologue where you have to stop and remember your lines. Just reach into your drawers, grab a handful of whatever shreds of manhood you still have left, and stop sticking your noses - or anything else - where they don't belong. Especially if it involves…
Corey halts mid-sentence, casually turning to his left as the Empire State champion himself, Ricky Tenet, walks up beside him.
Corey Lazarus: …my family.
Lazarus pats Ricky on the shoulder, nodding, but Ricky holds up his hand.
Ricky Tenet: I already told you, pops. I'm my own man.
Corey nods and backs away, holding his hands up as Tenet tips his hat toward Samantha.
Ricky Tenet: And I can fight my own battles.
Tenet walks away, headed down the hallway toward the entrance stage. Corey shrugs, admiring his son's confidence.
Corey Lazarus: They just grow up so damn fast, don't they? Oh, but speaking of sticking things where they don't belong…just a little word to the wise, to a dear old pal who goes by the name of X-Cal?
Corey pulls the microphone away from Samantha once more, stepping closer to the camera as he pulls his Ray Bans off completely.
Corey Lazarus: You see, slick, if there's any man with air in his lungs and enough mental firepower to rub a few sticks together in order to set the world a-Blaze? It's the man standing before you, the Last Damn Icon. And take a small example, tiger, a little tippity-tip from me?
As if on cue, Corey backs away from the camera, his eyes meeting those of Misty Kelser. Right behind her, with the AOWF World Heavyweight championship belt over his shoulder, is none other than Dustin “Thunderwolf” Kelser. The tension would need a diamond-toothed chainsaw to be cut as Lazarus and Wolf stare at each other in silence, neither man making a motion toward the other, never a word spoken. Misty nods politely and continues on, Dustin directly behind her, as Corey tongues the inside of his lower lip.
Corey Lazarus: Right…well, uh…rock n' fucking roll…or whatever…
Corey slides his Ray Bans back on, errantly passing the microphone back to Samantha before he makes his own exit. Coil turns back to the camera, taking a moment to regain her composure.
Samantha Coil: Eryk? Jason? Back to you at ringside!
And suddenly, without warning, the lights plunge into darkness, leaving the crowd in tense fear as silence falls.
Following a cold, dead blue aura, two distinct figures emerge through the dense fog, commanding attention as The Death Family makes their powerful entrance, igniting the crowd's anticipation.
The Unholy One, with his head down but eyes fixated on that ring, hauntingly passes the camera, creating suspense, and who is walking, seemingly in his shadow, or perhaps, there as a measure of stability, was his daughter, Charon of Death, adding to the tension and intrigue.
After a series of perspectives from the camera, and along with their entrance music indicating a theme of remorse for Darkspade's wife, and Charon's mother, the force of The Death Family united stands in front of the ring, commanding attention. The cold, dead aura again rises and rises and rises in intensity, amplifying their surreal powers of The Unholy Darkness. The Darkspade turns swiftly, walking up the ramp, then turns to face the ring, head down, and slowly raises his hands. On cue, thunder can be heard in the distance. Charon enters through the ropes, stares at the sea of fans, raises her hands, then THRUSTS THEM DOWN, igniting fire from the four ring corners!!!
Eryk Masters: The Death Family....... rises.....
Jason Johnson: They have our attention.
As The Unholy One slowly raises his right hand, synchronously he curls inward his fingers.... a mic appears in his hand, then an extreme close-up of his haunting face.
The Darkspade: ..... To everyone watching... and to those hanging on every word I speak... Listen. The Death Family has risen. The Punchline already learned that some jokes end with screams. Tonight... it is Fear and Loathing's turn. You wear those names as if they are weapons. As if fear belongs to you. As if loathing is something you command.
The Unholy One pauses, lowers his hand with the mic slightly, and accepts the cheers of the fans. Charon was in the background nodding her head and punching her right hand into the other one.... The Darkspade continued...
The Darkspade: You are mistaken. Fear has never answered to you, echoing the LIES of this world.... FEAR... TERRIFYING BONE CHILLING FEAR answers to US!!! When the lights fall from their grace... when the air grows heavy... when every instinct begs you to run but your legs refuse to move... that is not your power. That is The Unholy Darkness announcing our arrival. And loathing? You will come to understand its true meaning when you look into each other's eyes after we're finished. You won't hate us. You'll hate yourselves... for realizing your greatest fear wasn't just facing an opponent. It was surviving long enough to experience THE DEATH FAMILY.
The Darkspade pauses again.... head down, then slowly raises his head so that the whites of his evil eyes are captured by the camera....
The Darkspade: We are no ordinary family. We are the hand that drags hope into the abyss. We are the silence that follows every desperate prayer. We are the darkness that exists long after the lights return. FOR tonight, your own names will become your sentence. Fear. Loathing. Neither will save you. They will simply make your suffering COMPLETE. Let the Unpurity of Darkspa....
Suddenly, Charon flicks her right wrist and captures the mic!!! More of that "magic" it seems.
Eryk Masters: They are good at this!!
Jason Johnson: A Las Vegas act in the making, baby!
With Charon snatching the mic, what came with it were the roars from the fans in support of her, although there were some that even booed.... Charon brings the mic to her face....
Charon of Death: Right. Well, with all that, true, Dad, I have some things to say as well. First, SHOOT Project universe, I know I promised you I would rid my father of his presence. I know he has done great harm to wrestlers like Ricky Tenet and Vito Valentino in the past. Know this: no one is perfect. And well. Yes, our family is different, we are also very much the same. We have our moments of dysfunction; albeit not many families conjure fire and evil spirits to do their bidding. With that said. My dad has changed. Call it a rebirth if you must, but he changed, you just got to believe me on that!
Charon pauses and then continues.
Charon of Death: But that leaves me to this..... there is someone lurking in the shadows. Watching our every move and attempting to pull the strings. Not saying my dad is not responsible for his sinful acts, but THIS SKANKY BITCH CALLED HELL CAT.....
The Darkspade turns his head and raises his eyebrow.
Charon removes a concealed nail-gun from a holster by her right leg....
Charon of Death: ,,,,,,, IS HIDING IN THE SHADOWS!! Well if you think you're so damn tough, bitch, then slither your baby momma homeless ASS right out here now so that I can stick thi.....
The Darkspade quickly intervened and took the mic from her and stepped into her face....
Eryk Masters: Woah, is that language even allowed?!
Jason Johnson: I don't know but I am loving me a fired up Charon!!!
The Darkspade: Daughter... Charon... this is enough. Hell Cat, she fell before The Unholiness, she will again. Take a hold of your emotions, remember that is what you told me....
Charon nods and places the nailgun back.... The Darkspade turns and stares at the camera one last time.
The Darkspade: .... but yes. Be it Fear and Loathing or anyone else foolish enough to face us, be warned. The Death Family is here... Bow Down and Pray......
With that, the lights again cut out leaving the arena in a cold dead darkness.
The hallway is mostly empty. Mostly. Just production crews moving equipment. A few wrestlers passing through, giving our camera angle a wide berth.
HANNAH KELSER walks with the loose, easy stride of someone who owns the building. She spins a tonfa in her right hand—effortless, practiced, the kind of casual violence that comes from years of training. She twirls it once. Passes it behind her back. Catches it without looking.
She's humming. Then singing. Off-key on purpose, mocking the melody.
Hannah Kelser: (singing, tonfa spinning) "All my exes live in Texas, that is why I hang my hat in—"
She does a little skip-step, tonfa flashing under the fluorescent lights.
Hannah Kelser: "—New York Cit-Y! Yeah, they say you never see, no you never see, what you got 'til you make them bleed—"
She laughs at her own lyrics. Genuinely delighted with herself.
She rounds a corner and stops.
A locker room door. Nameplate on it, simple red lettering:
THUNDERWOLF
Her humming trails off. The tonfa stops spinning, held loose in her hand now.
She steps closer. Presses her ear to the door.
Voices inside. Muffled but recognizable. Her father's low rumble. Misty's softer tone underneath it. Laughing about something. The particular cadence of two people comfortable with each other. Intimate.
Hannah's expression shifts. Something cold moving behind her eyes.
Hannah Kelser: (whisper, to herself) "How touching."
She looks down the hallway. Empty. Checks the other direction. Also empty.
She notices the door handle—a pull-style bar handle, the kind bolted straight into the frame. Looks around the hallway again. Spots a rack of steel crowd-control barriers stacked against the wall twenty feet away, waiting to be set up for the parking lot area.
A slow smile spreads across her face.
Hannah Kelser: (to herself) "Well. Is this not just THEE most convenient opportunity ever?"
She walks to the rack. Selects two long steel bars—the kind used to reinforce barricades. Carries them back to the door.
Carefully, quietly, she slides the first bar through the pull handle, wedging it against the door frame. Then the second, crossed through the first, locking it in tight.
She tests it. Pulls on the door. It does not budge.
From inside, muffled:
Thunderwolf (O.S.): "You hear somethin’?"
Misty Starks (O.S.): "Probably just the caterin’ crew."
Hannah's smile widens. She looks around for more.
She finds an equipment cart nearby—full of extra ring gear, water bottles, tape. Wheels it silently in front of the door. Then a second cart, a folding table leaned against the wall, anything within reach.
She builds a small barricade, stacking with the efficiency of someone who has planned worse things than this.
Stepping back, she admires her work. A locked door reinforced by steel, buried under a wall of equipment.
She checks her nails. Unbothered.
Hannah Kelser: (quiet, satisfied) "There. Now Mother can stay right where she is and think about what she has done."
She spins the tonfa once more, catching it against her forearm.
Hannah Kelser: (walking away, resuming her tune, darker now) "All my exes live in Texas... but tonight, I think I will borrow her spot… at the Pinnacle in N-Y-C!"
She disappears around the corner, heading toward gorilla position.
Toward the ring.
Toward a match that is not hers.
The match has been chaos from the bell. X-CALIBUR—, methodical, dangerous—trading blows with someone the crowd expected to be Misty Starks.
It is not, in fact, Misty Starks. It’s someone less experienced. Someone not fully up to the task, without taking shortcuts.
HANNAH KELSER, in her usual dark, debauchery gear, has been in this match from the opening bell. The crowd noticed the swap almost immediately—seeing as to how Misty wouldn’t touch In This Moment with a ten-foot-pole, the confusion audible in the arena, commentary scrambling to explain it.
She has, at the very least, been ruthless. Fast. Playing dirty in ways that suggest she came into this expecting exactly this kind of match.
X-Calibur, however, is not an easy out. He counters a strike, drives her into the corner with a series of forearms that stagger her, but the claws manage to come out at the last second, dragging across his eyeballs. The referee takes a moment to check on X-Calibur, making sure that he can see, making sure the match can continue fairly.
His back is to the entrance ramp.
In that moment, a figure sprints down the ramp. VITO VALENTINO. Those very same neon pink nunchucks already spinning in his hands, face twisted with violent purpose.
He slides into the ring.
Hannah does not see him coming.
CRAAAAAAAAACK!
The nunchucks nail Hannah across the temple. The sound is sickening—wood against skull, a sound that silences the crowd instantly.
Her eyes roll. Her body goes slack mid-motion.
She is falling before she even registers what has happened.
Vito rolls back out of the ring just as fast as he entered, throwing the nunchucks down onto the outside mat. Yelling into the ring, the audio picks up on his booming, pissed off voice.
Vito Valentino: NOPE. You don’t get away with that. Not with the fuckin’ SMASH. SHOW. Consider your receipt served!
Turning his back to the “receipt”, Vito disappears up the ramp before the referee turns around.
X-Calibur, seeing her drop, does not hesitate. He hooks at her unconscious body, shrugs, and drives backward into a bridging pin!
The referee turns just in time to see it and drops to count.
ONE.
TWO.
THREE.
The bell rings. “25 Years” by Pantera hits. But there is no celebration in his posture—just a giant figure standing over a body that is not moving the way it should.
Replay shows Vito Valentino’s vicious, skull breaking strike from three different angles. The crowd's confusion turns to concern as Hannah remains motionless on the mat.
The referee waves frantically for help.
Medical personnel rush the ring—first the ringside doctor, then a full team with a stretcher trailing behind.
They check her pupils. Check her pulse. One of them calls for a neck brace, standard protocol, no risks taken.
X-Calibur stands in the corner, watching, his win completely overshadowed by what is unfolding in front of him.
They carefully stabilize her neck. Lift her onto a stretcher. She is breathing—the arena can see the rise and fall of her chest—but she is not conscious. Not moving.
As they wheel her up the ramp, the crowd is eerily quiet. Even the ones who hate the Covenant, who have chanted against Hannah Kelser for nearly a year, seem shaken by the sight of her limp on a stretcher, arm hanging over the side.
Commentary struggles to find words.
The broadcast cuts to commercial on the image of paramedics rushing her through the curtain.
From the rookie hitting the indies to the main eventer hoisting a championship, every wrestler needs gear that holds up under pressure.
Reinforced stitching. Fight-tested materials. Custom designs. Suit up like you mean it.
A door backstage, a hand-painted gold sigil dead center. Inside, Joshua Breedlove has the Pantheon title laid across his lap and a soft cloth working slow circles into the faceplate, unhurried, like a man with all the time in the world. The door opens without a knock. Jamie Johnson steps in, a thin folder tucked under one arm, and stops just inside the frame. He does not sit.
Jamie: I've been hearing some rumors about you and a Kelser. Let's talk.
Breedlove: Jamie Johnson. In the flesh, in my doorway, after all this time. You'll have to forgive me if I sit here a second and just look at you. It has been a long, long while since anybody walked through that door wearing your name, and the fella who wore it last, well, he stood a little different than you're standing right now. Life does that. Takes a man all the way apart and hands him back in a slightly different order. It's good to see you upright and thriving. Number one contender in a sea of contenders. Lots happening for you.
Jamie: I appreciate the sentiment. But I didn't cross the building to talk about where I've been. Where I've been is my ledger, and it's balanced. I came to talk about yours.
Breedlove: Of course you did. You never were the type to come around just to say hello, even back when things were different. Sit down, if you've got a moment. I always kept a chair warm for the people I've done business with, and you and I, Jamie, we’ve done business before. You still hang onto that envelope of yours? Black paper. Red paper. Representative of a choice. I sent a whole set of those out into the world a long time ago, one to every name I figured was worth the paper it cost me, and I'll be honest with you, I never did get all my answers back. Some folks are still deciding. Some folks I quit waiting on.
Jamie: I kept mine. Framed, if you want the truth of it. Not out of loyalty. Out of interest. A man should know exactly what he was offered and exactly what he turned down, so he can price it again later if the market ever moves. And the market moved on you this week, Josh. A wolf came sniffing around this door. I don't need the particulars. I've been doing this long enough to know that when a name like that starts standing next to a name like yours, the math on both of you changes overnight, whether either one of you asked it to or not.
Breedlove: Rumors. Gossip that got allllll dressed up in its nice coat and Sunday best. But I'll give you a little more than I've handed anybody else, because you and I… we know each other. We often understand each other. That envelope that came to my door, the one you're being so polite about not asking after, I opened it. Night it arrived, matter of fact. And I've done nothing since but sit with it. That's the part people never quite understand about me. I'm not a man who tears a thing open and reacts. I'm a collector. I hold a thing in my two hands, and I turn it over, and I let it sit right there on the shelf until it works up the nerve to tell me what it's really worth. This one's still talking.
Jamie: Collectors get robbed sitting still. Shelves get cleared by men with less patience and more nerve than you.
Breedlove: Not in this room, they don't. Nothing leaves this room that I didn't already decide was leaving.
Jamie: Then you and I understand each other, which is more than most of the people in this building could tell you. So here is my offer, and I'll only lay it down the once. The day you stop turning that envelope over on your shelf and decide what you're actually going to do about it, I'd like to be the second call you make. The first call is your business. Whatever it is, whoever it's to, I don't want it. I've never wanted the first call. But the second one, Joshua, the one where you sit down and decide what all of this is worth to you and what you're willing to spend to go and get it, that one belongs to me.
Breedlove: And what does a courtesy like that run a man, these days?
Jamie: A benchmark. Everyone in this building gets measured against something eventually, whether they volunteer for it or not. Most of them never once get to pick the ruler. I'm offering to let you pick. Enjoy your main event tonight. I hear your wolf's in it, but you know… your partner did something to the wolf’s daughter. You should go find him.
Breedlove: (to the closed door, quiet) ...Yeah. Yeah I should.
The camera finds the wreckage first. A locker room door pinned shut behind a lattice of steel crowd-control bars, an equipment cart shoved against it, a folding table wedged on top. From inside, the dull, rhythmic thud of a shoulder meeting wood. Muffled voices. The door holds.
Into frame, unhurried, steps JOSHUA BREEDLOVE, the Pantheon title over one shoulder. He stops a few feet from the barricade and just looks at it a moment, the way a man looks at a painting he is deciding whether to buy. Something almost admiring crosses his face.
Breedlove (quiet, to himself): Well now. Somebody did put in the work.
Another thud from inside. A steel bar rattles in its housing. Breedlove sets the title against the wall, careful, faceplate out, and goes to work on the barricade. Not frantic. Deliberate. He lifts the folding table aside, rolls the cart back one-handed, finds the seam where the bars cross through the handle, and slides the first one free like he has all the time in the world.
Thunderwolf (muffled, ragged): Somebody's out there. Hey! HEY!
Breedlove (mild, never raising his voice): I hear you. Hold on. No sense both of us breaking a door that only locks the one way.
He slides the second bar loose and lets it clatter down. The door swings inward under its own weight and THUNDERWOLF spills through shoulder-first, catching himself on the frame, ribs plainly screaming. MISTY STARKS is a half-step behind him in full ring gear, twenty minutes past ready. They come up hard, adrenaline still hunting the fight that put them in that room. And then Thunderwolf sees who opened the door.
The recognition lands. He goes very still. The two men look at each other across a few feet of wrecked hallway, and there is a great deal in that look that neither one says.
Misty (breathing hard, scanning): Who locked us in there? Why were we...
She stops. She has caught Breedlove's face, and there is nothing panicked in it, and somehow that is worse.
Misty: What. What is it.
Breedlove (gentle, unhurried): Your girl. Hannah. She is the one that barred the door. She wanted the two of you right where you were, and she wanted your spot out there, Misty, badly enough to take it. She went out to that ring in your place tonight.
Misty: She... she went out against...
Breedlove: Against my partner. Yes.
He lets that sit, and he does not flinch from it.
Breedlove: It got away from everybody. There was a man out there with a chair to settle and a pair of nunchucks, and he caught her flush across the temple before a soul could reach her. She went down and she did not get back up on her own. They have got her in the medical office now. They are saying concussion. They are still looking.
The hallway closes in. Thunderwolf's hand finds Misty's arm. She barely feels it.
Misty (fury and terror braided): She locked us in here. On purpose. So she could go get her skull caved in for five minutes in front of a camera. Where is she. WHERE.
Breedlove: Medical. Down the hall, second door.
She is already gone, cutting through the debris before he finishes the word. Thunderwolf goes to follow, then stops. Turns back. Gives Breedlove one more long, unreadable look, a question he does not have the time to ask.
Breedlove (easy, almost kind): Go on. Be with your family. We will talk when the dust settles. You and I have a thing or two worth getting into.
Thunderwolf holds the look a second longer. Then he is gone after Misty, one hand pressed to his ribs. Breedlove watches the empty hallway a moment, picks the Pantheon title back up off the floor, sets it across his shoulder, and turns the other way, unbothered, like a man who came to do exactly one thing and did it.
Eryk Masters: I believe we may have seen an upset tonight. Maeve took NEGLIGENCE to the limits, but he's not completely finished.
As Eryk says this, Jaime gets up and starts moving towards Maeve slowly.
Jason Johnson: Anyone else would be running from a still conscious Jaime Alejandro. But Maeve O'Byrne is not backing down.
Maeve moves closer and dares Jaime to say something to her. The larger man smirks at her as she approaches. The audience sees them meeting face to face.
NEGLIGENCE: What's your move, rookie?
Maeve O'Byrne: Don't worry, ya old bastard. I got plenty of moves for ya.
She pulls his hands close to her hips and then delivers a devastating head butt! Jaime releases her from his grip and the nose looks red.
Jason Johnson: Holy shit! Maeve may have drawn blood!
Eryk Masters: The Combustible Element strikes hard and fast.
As Jaime staggers back slightly, Maeve slides under the ring quickly to avoid the inevitable counterattack. He comes up bleeding moderately from the nose. The crowd looks genuinely stunned as they see him smiling. Maeve also sees this from the top of the ramp, after she turns around.
Eryk Masters: Is he smiling?!!
Jason Johnson: Look at it both ways. Either that's her way of flirting with that old jackal, or he's yelling at himself. Not believing he fell for that one.
He gives a slight laugh, as Maeve watches on. You can see her wagging a finger beside her head.
Maeve O'Byrne: Yer fucked in the 'ead, Alejandro...
The medical staff moves in from under the ropes, and they try to get the bleeding to stop. Jaime shoves them off of him as he keeps his intense gaze on Maeve.
Backstage, and Izzy Sia, The Kamatayan, is pacing. She's clad in her match gear, black and charcoal and chrome, short jacket for the ring walk. Looking like the middlepoint between The Matrix, Love Lies Bleeding, and PRIDE FC. She's rubbing her chin, rolling her shoulders, keeping limber.
And she has something on her mind, clearly.
Izzy: Y'know, you take a few losses, it kinda rolls off your back. You take a few big-money losses, say, losses in front of a bunch of people for a belt that you've held a couple of times, to someone who might as well count as one of your longest-standing friendly rivals, those...they sting. But you know that already, you've been losing big matches on big stages for decades more than I have.
She shrugs by way of apology, but there's little conciliatory warmth.
Izzy: And that's not an age knock, though it'd be easy to make that. I'm barely old enough to drink, you're ancient, you're a collection of injuries just waiting for the big one to shelve you, etcetera, etcetera. But that's boring, that's hack, just like determining that I'm some snot nose because you can run Tagalog through Google translate and pull my record from the SHOOT website is fucking hack, bro.
With a wag of her finger and a smirk, Sia silently admonished her opponent.
Izzy: You're definitely the last of a dying breed, though. Like a straggler dinosaur who slept through the extinction event and then got bashed with rocks for a caveman's dinner. You're adrift in a world that doesn't make sense to you anymore and looking at athletes who wouldn't have gotten a second glance in your heyday for reasons so varied and insidious that I'm not going to attach you to them. I understand we're a bit of a retirement home for you types, but it doesn't prevent me from feeling bad for the fans who have to watch you. But that seems unfair, right? I've never been where you are. Who's to say I'd act any differently than you? Maybe I wouldn't.
A pause.
Izzy: Except for one thing: I don't make it a habit to discount my opponents.
The Kamatayan crosses her yoked arms and leans against the wall. Her face is placid, but now her eyes are flashing with momentum and anger.
Izzy: You think you're a joke to me? You wish, boomer. You're praying I take you for the buffoon, for a fool, to act like someone who's about to get surprised by you. I see through it, Lazarus. I'm not as dumb as you think I am, and you're not as smart as you think you are. Bad combo. I know for a fact that, your record and age and history of injuries notwithstanding, you're fucking dangerous, man. You've worked out all your ego muscles so you look impressive, but those also come with legitimate strength and some speed that father time hasn't sapped from you yet. You've faced a hundred foes who you think are just like me, undersized with a chip on their shoulder and something to prove. Thing is, I don't have shit to prove to you. Or to SHOOT. Or to anyone. I'm a multi-time champion, I'm a professional fighter, and not to get too preachy here, but those aren't things a little brown girl who grew up as small as I did ever considered a viable option. You're not someone who I have to beat to prove I belong. Motherfucker, I'm signed. I'm self-evident. I'm here because it's where an athlete of my caliber belongs.
Lowering her arms, Izzy bounces on the balls of her feet, shaking herself loose.
Izzy: You will not be a career-defining win for me. You will not be a match that gets included on my "Best of Izzy Sia" retrospective. You're just work. You're just another blowhard who I get to break.
The movement stops, on a dime. A smile breaks across her features. Izzy Sia learned a lot from Nate Robideau, but one thing will always mark them differently: She seems to really enjoy this, whereas her mentor always saw this as war.
For her, it's fun.
Izzy: You've been failing for years and call yourself a 'veteran'. You aren't a vet, Laz. You're just old.
She starts to walk off, letting that hang, then catches herself, and steps back into frame.
Izzy: But you are the type of experienced presence that I like to learn from. So maybe you can show me what it looks like when you're past whatever prime you had left and you end up screaming for mercy from someone you decided is hardly worth your attention. After all, who doesn't love a cautionary tale?
Now she strides off. The feed cuts away.
The night was not over, at least not yet as the familiar riff of "I Don't Wanna Stop" by Ozzy Osbourne kicks in as the fans erupt in cheers as out walks Johnny Napalm in full wrestling gear, the only difference is there is a mic sticking out of his pocket. Napalm gets down to ringside and he politely asks for a chair from one of the ringside assistants who hands it over gladly. Napalm nods as he folds the chair up and tosses it into the ring.
Eryk Masters: Well, I know Napalm was not booked. He went to war with Thunderwolf two weeks ago, they shook hands, then of course NEGLIGENCE turned it into anarchy after the fact, and in all my years seeing Napalm come out here I have not seen that look on Napalm's face, he looks more pissed off than usual.
Jason Johnson: Well, we know from Napalm's past sometimes we need to keep the show on ten second delay, he speaks his mind a bit too much sometimes.
Eryk Masters: Napalm has been rather vocal his disgust with the World Champ and what he said two weeks ago I'm sure set him off, and when you remember he is an almost seven foot tall wrecking ball who won Survival at Sea, he is in that title picture, it might be absolute chaos at the top, but I'm sure no one would want it any other way.
Napalm gets the mic from his back pocket as he walks over the top rope, and the announcers were right, they have never seen the look on Napalm's face before, more than pissed off. Like someone attacked not just him, but the sport in general. He walks over to the chair, sets it up in the center of the ring, and has a seat, checks the mic is on, as he seems to have a bit to get off his chest, as he gives the motion to cut the music. He sits there for a moment just listening to the crowd cheering, he gives an approving smirk as he raises the mic.
Johnny Napalm: I'm here tonight, not to address the match two weeks ago with Thunderwolf, that speaks for itself. What I am here to address is two things, cause everyone saw two weeks ago what happened after the match.
NEGLIGENCE, I do not care what history we have had in the past. You keep trying to push me away from getting my hands on the World Champ. You seem to forget, and I don't know if it's your old age, or trying to get me in a different mindset. The last time I have been in this kind of mindset is when Dietrich tried to play mind games with me. He tried to disprove that I was the God of Violence, then I did exactly what I said I would, I made him PAY for that transgression, and you threaten me on how you took down monsters bigger than me, I do believe you Jamie, but you forget ONE THING! There was only one time you fought me in the ring.
Napalm looks at the camera.
Napalm: You remember that match Jamie, it happened after the 2013 shutdown in OrPro.
Slight pause.
Napalm: And you lost.
Problem is Jamie, you know this mindset, you know exactly what it can do. You might think I am just the afterthought after Tenet came out, you see I saw him come out, I saw past all that contained wrath in this body and I know. You don't want to make it two losses. You ducked that one good swing you promised me. Because, at that point all that calculation in your head will glitch out and make you realize one thing.
Napalm takes one of his hands and wipes his face.
Napalm: You talk about all the people you have taken out, I know them as well. But, you know that the right motivation will make you realize that you done f**ked up trying to rile me up. There is a reason why I never went back after the Empire State title, cause I know Tenet has something to prove. So go ahead, go after Tenet if you got the balls to do so and I know you will, I got all the confidence in him to stand his ground, and if you fail in that Jamie. What kind of a chance do you have to take me out?
Napalm chuckles as he leans back.
Napalm: I have my goals, but I give you this one warning. Get in my business when I decide to cash in my title shot, and all you need to know is what happened to Dietrich in the EWA when I took the gloves off might be your future, and I know The Benchmark is waiting to cash in his title shot, and honestly after the boat, I'm sure we got some unfinished business, however that's a little down the road. Now, let me address the other reason I'm out here tonight.
Napalm shifts in his chair.
Napalm: You see, and I am glad X-Calibur mentioned this, but I am going on thirty years in this business, and I have been many things in this sport honestly. Hell, I was at times a fan out there just like everyone out there in the seats here tonight, and what I heard from the World Champ two weeks ago.
Oh that got the crowd booing hard and let the fans have their moment cause yeah they were not the only ones who were keeping that going as Napalm nods and speaks again.
Napalm: Oh I hear you Pinnacle, I was just as disgusted as you were two weeks ago, everyone thinks that Arthur Pleasant is the biggest sack of shit in this company, It doesn't matter what I say, but honestly the shirt I got on says it perfectly and I don't care if I get fined for it cause I know a lot of people in the back are just as pissed off. You want to know my position, here it is.
As Napalm opens his jacket to show the t-shirt underneath as the fans go absolutely nuts as we see the shirt Napalm is wearing under his jacket in no sweet words whatsoever and with a lot of poison spit at only one man's direction "F**K The Godsend" and the crowd chants along with the same enthusiasm, He pulls the mic back in position.
Napalm: I am not one to bullshit stuff, but hearing that crowing vulture two weeks ago made me sick to my fucking stomach. He keeps screaming POOR every time about his history, let me tell you something straight, you're the boy who cried wolf so many times that you actually believe that you're the said wolf. The only thing you are is a crying little shit thinking you have everything all figured out.
Napalm paces, gets up off the chair and paces the ring.
Napalm: The one thing is, I can relate for only about two percent of that story, you see your father mentioned it a bit back on the boat. Yes I was abandoned by my birth parents, I don't hide that fact. That's part of my life, I apologize for nothing. That is where our lives diverge, unlike you I got raised by two of the best foster parents I could ever ask for, a wild-eyed Irish man, and a compassionate French woman. He saw potential in me and trained me and God rest his soul, he put those morals in me and he did not force them, he put me into his own company, and I learned both inside and outside that ring.
Napalm: For almost thirty years, I have loved this sport and have hated it in the same breath. But you want to know after all those years, every single person who has said.
"I don't belong in this sport."
"All you are is a hardcore freak."
"You could never step into the ring with the more talented people."
He pauses for a moment.
"You are not as talented as your birth brother."
That last one stung Napalm quite a bit. He pauses for a moment.
Napalm: Now, I know many of you out there and most in the back don't know what I'm talking about. Honestly, there are only three who know and one of them is X-Calibur, he remembers the man I am speaking of, but now I tell you a story that no one knows about that whole thing.
Napalm pauses.
Napalm: In late 1999 I had been in NYSWF for a few months, then I got a phone call from that birth brother, we caught up and he was looking for work. I told him straight up that I could only open the door, after that it was all on him. In many ways, I regretted that decision back then because he became the cornerstone of HATE, and back then I was hiding the fact that I knew him. And they decided to try to bring me into the fold. I lost friends, and the trust of everyone in the faction I was in. This sport can be a blessing, but also can be ruthless and painful.
Napalm sits back down.
Napalm: People know that my career has been the worst rollercoaster in my life. In EWA I helped kickstart the Hardcore division, and helped put it on the map. I went through promotion after promotion, then only two who remember that far back are X-Cal and Draven, they even remember me back then. It wasn't my talent that got me, it was the reputation that I had back then, and honestly, I am not proud of it.
After a while I took a long break, worked at my adopted brother's security company so if you're wondering how I never budged for AEGIS security two weeks ago, I know all those fucking protocols by heart. Then, one day I got a call from a man who I have had quite a shaky history with, Lunatikk Crippler.
The crowd cheers hearing another SHOOT Project legend.
Napalm: He gave me a lifeline back then, we talked for a bit about the sport, then mentioned a company that had been solid for quite some time. I don't think you need to think hard cause that's where I am right now, In this ring. It was 2013 and I joined SHOOT Project, and I don't regret that decision. I looked to prove myself to get back into that mentality again and it actually gave me something that I didn't have in a long time.
Stability.
Napalm: Back then, I did win and lose matches, but honestly I didn't care. I was loving the sport again, and no matter what you think Arthur.
Napalm gets up, the look on his face takes another turn, one of respect, one of passion for a sport and the company that got him back on track, and damn anyone who wanted to destroy that.
Napalm: I WILL BE DAMNED IF I AM GOING TO LET YOU OR ANY OF YOUR FLUNKIES KILL IT!
The crowd roars in cheers, if that was not the hottest pop of the night I don't know what is. Napalm soaks it in getting goosebumps hearing the crowd.
Napalm: I met my wife here, I won titles here, I had fun here be it being face or heel and yes I did both, my biggest accomplishment is winning the Iron Fist title, a title that even though defunct now, is a title I respected and the list of who won that belt is a who's who of Hall of Famers and no matter if they think my run was weak, at least I respected the history of that belt. And then Arthur comes in years later and calls himself the greatest Iron Fist champ of all time and yes I do remember that Arthur and let me state this in front of everyone.
Napalm: BITCH, EVEN MY TITLE REIGN WAS BETTER THAN YOURS!
Napalm: Arthur, I want you to listen carefully to me. I don't care if you get the point or even if you give a shit, two weeks ago you ran down this company with all that venom and all that vitriol that you have in those fangs of yours. Saying you would destroy this company.
Napalm looks into the camera closest to him, all that determination in his eyes.
Napalm: I want you to look in these eyes and see someone who was abandoned by his birth parents, because they chose my birth brother and thought he was the better choice. I found my stability, I found my purpose, and right now your threats don't scare me, NEGLIGENCE's threats don't make me shrink, for one time in my fucking life. I am saying that you have one threat that is now hellbent on destroying this DeMONSTRANCE you created, and everyone that tried has failed. Now, I'm going to make you watch your back, because you will not know when I will cash this title shot in, I'm going to force you to put that head on a swivel, you might be the problem with this company Godsend, but the thing is two weeks ago you declared your intentions. Now, I respond, this place is my home, I bleed the colors of SHOOT Project gladly, I will DIE on this fucking hill before I ever see you claim your fucking victory!
Napalm: I am...
A slight pause.
Napalm: No... WE are SHOOT Project, every person who fought under this banner.
Napalm steps back and hears the fans cheer as the camera pans around all the fans who paid money to watch every single Zenith.
Napalm: The only thing about the Big LIE you keep spewing about, is the man saying it that speaks it knowing it is also a LIE, and speaking over and over thinking that LIE becomes truth.
Napalm walks back to the camera.
Napalm: You're not fooling anyone Arthur, and I'm sure you didn't fool Laz either, so one more thing before I send these people home a bit happier. Just remember this you arrogant son of a bitch, you think you're in control, but you are far from it, and if you still believe the LIE, I know the TRUTH, and the thing is you don't know one thing about it.
But I do a lot more than you might think. I will leave you with this Godsend, if for some reason you get by a pissed off Corey Lazarus, I want you to remember this.
Napalm: You might retain the World Title, but you may not walk out of the arena with that belt.
Napalm: Let that soak in, bitch.
Napalm drops the mic as "I Don't Wanna Stop" kicks back in as Napalm stands there. He then goes under the ring and takes out a large what almost looks like an iron on patch as he takes his jacket off, sets it on the ring and positions it on the back below the #1 Bad Boy. On the top is the SHOOT Project Helm, the symbol of the company. Napalm checks it, happy with his work, and puts the jacket back on just below his tribute to his adopted father who passed almost a month ago, the logo of SHOOT Project now shown on his back.
All those years, going through this sport. He never felt quite ready, now.
He was ready for WAR.
We fade into the backstage, the interview hub. Abigail Chase is with ERIC ROHKAR. He wears an large black leather cowl that covers his shoulders and upper chest. His fists are wrapped in white athletic tape. His body is littered with tattoos, possibly more tattoos than anyone else in the SHOOT Project, at least top 5. Covering his wrestling trunks is a high-waisted, black leather nordic loincloth etched with runes in blue. His long hair is tied up in a bun.
Abigail Chase: Making his return tonight, a SHOOT Project Hall of Famer and former World Champion, JEST-
Eric reaches out and grabs the microphone.
Eric Rohkar: Abby, c’mon. We talked about this.
Abigail grins at Eric.
Abigail Chase: Old habits, old man, you should know. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here with Eric Rohkar. Eric….Thunderwolf called your attitude defeatist, and there are some in the SHOOT sphere that would say your…desire for pain reads as if you are accepting loss.
Eric scoffs, rolling his eyes.
Eric Rohkar: I get how you could think that, but I just think that guys like Thunderwolf, and the…
Eric gives a knowing look to Aibgail before doing finger quotes.
Eric Rohkar: …“SHOOT sphere”...don’t really get my philosophy, and that’s fine. You’re supposed to come into SHOOT Project, or any major wrestling organization, looking for money or glory or fame. I’ve…I’ve had those things. I don’t miss the weight of a title belt; I’m plenty wealthy, and I’ve made my mark in this industry, more so than many before me. Those things… they’re great, but they aren’t what I craved during my forced retirement.
Eric looks directly at the camera.
Eric Rohkar: Dustin…you focused so much on me saying I want this to hurt that you missed the part where I said I was going to hurt you. Are you going to cave my skull with your elbows and try to take my knee out? Great. When that fails you, when you’ve given me every ounce of pain and suffering that the champion you were and the champion you one day will be can, and I still beat you…well…that’s a glory in and of itself. That’s all the acclaim I need.
You want the success and the titles.
I want the fight.
Eric takes a breath and looks back at Abigail.
Eric Rohkar: And the thing about a fight, a fight worth having, is that it’s going to hurt both guys no matter what. I spent a lot of my career, Abigail, resenting how much I suffered for this industry, mentally and physically. No matter what I did, no matter what I achieved, I was always going to suffer.
Now? I embrace it. All of it. Every cheer or boo, every step to and into the ring, every punch and kick I land, every punch and kick I get hit by, very victory and every defeat…
It’s something to savor, while it can be. Dustin is right, pain isn’t a hobby…
Eric looks back at the camera.
Eric Rohkar: …it’s an inevitability…
Eric winks at the camera.
Eric Rohkar: …’sport’.
Eric turns his attention back to Abigail Chase.
Abigail Chase: You say that Thunderwolf is focused on titles and accolades…it sounds a little bit like you are saying he is looking past you. This is, after all, not a title match.
Eric grins.
Eric Rohkar: I mean, yes, he is, but that’s the nature of the business. Dustin Kelser, Thunderwolf, is a pro. He’s been a pro for decades. Legends like Thunderwolf not only CAN look past their current opponent and still be critically dangerous, they HAVE to. Abigail, I want Dustin to feel like he is fighting for his life out there. I want him to think that I might kill him, at least between the bells. If he’s fighting for his life, but he doesn’t think about the life that he is fighting for, the life after a fight with Eric Rohkar…
Well…that seems more defeatist to me, honestly. I want to see Thunderwolf be a World Champion again.
I just want to break him a little bit more.
Abigail Chase: Speaking of World Champions, you’ve had some words for Arthur Pleasant and plan to take on Sammy Rochester, DESTRUCTION, at the next pay-per-view. Do you want to address our current World Champion and the DeMONSTRANCE?
Eric shrugs.
Eric Rohkar: I’m going to say something…disrespectful, so let me preface it with this. Arthur Pleasant is a dangerous, infinitely talented man. You don’t hold the SHOOT Project World Championship without being one of the best in the world, at least at that moment. And he has found a way to attract three incredibly talented, incredibly dangerous individuals, so there must be something to his words.
So, Arthur…
Eric turns again to the camera.
Eric Rohkar: I believe everything I just said is true. I believe that, as a physical specimen, as a warrior, you are incredible…
So why are you so boring? The crusade, the godsend thing…it’s so tired. And, if I’m being honest, it feels like…a safety blanket. Not a shield, nothing so hard, but more like a crash pad. Because, when people don’t want you around, when you don’t defend the title, and when ratings crash because you are not generating interest…
You aren’t a ‘bad champion’, you are on a ‘crusade to kill wrestling’. It’s a cop out. You aren’t a mastermind; you’re a child floundering for relevance. You click your fingers maniacally and say (Eric puts on a cartoony super villain voice) ‘mmmm, yes, that was all a part of the grand plan’. There is no grand plan. You want an easy way out.
That’s why I don’t want to fight you, not yet anyway. I want your monster. Sammy…as dumb as he is…he’s interesting. Sammy doesn’t wrestle; he destroys. He’s a killer. I know his in and out of ring violence better than anyone.
That’s a fight worth having.
NEGLIGENCE…Jaime…that’ll be an interesting one too. He wants to die on his shield, much like I do. Get your shield, Jaime; I’ll be happy to oblige.
And Lou…oh Lou, as I think I’ve told you before, from one Dead Soul to another…you traded one family for another, and it looks like this one has stolen the light from you too. You’re better than this, Lou; maybe you’ll see that one day.
I’m not scared of DeMONSTRANCE. I’m excited. Slaying monsters means monsters are real, and that’s a much more interesting world. This week, I slay Fenrir. At the pay-per-view…
Eric smiles, his eyes going a little wide.
Eric Rohkar: We’ll see if we can’t blind Arthur’s Cyclops. But my name is Nobdy, Sammy…it’s Eric Rohkar.
Abigail laughs.
Abigail Chase: Kinda mixing up your mythologies a bit, aren’t you?
Eric turns back to Abigail, shrugging.
Eric Rohkar: Myths are made to be merged over time. I guess I could have said something about Ice Giants. Anyway, I gotta stretch. Good talking to you, Abigail.
Eric Rohkar salutes Abigail before heading off.
Abigail Chase: The DREAM match of Thunderwolf vs Eric Rohkar is coming up next!
Eric Rohkar and Thunderwolf stare at each other. They both breathe heavily, each having given as much as the other has taken. They both smile at one another, knowing that it will still take more to put the other down. Eric moves to the center of the ring and points down, motioning for Thunderwolf.
Jason Johnson: Uh-oh, this is what he wanted from Jonas Coleman at Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’.
Eryk Masters: And by the look on his face, Thunderwolf is happy to oblige!
Thunderwolf charges at Rohkar, and the two begin trading elbows, punches, chops, anything they can throw at each other, both men fighting with an intensity that simply does not mirror their ages. The chaos of the blows becomes reminiscent of Don Frye vs Hong Man Cho, two warriors who refuse to give anything less than any and all. The crowd reaches a fever pitch, loving every second of the passion and violence that is on display.
Which quickly turns into a fervor of boos as “Pit of Fire” by 3TEETH hits over the PA system.
Jason Johnson: Oh boy, here we go.
Arthur Pleasant emerges at the top of the ramp. He’s strangely alone. Slowly but surely, Thunderwolf and Rohkar slow their beating on each other to come to terms with what is going on. Thunderwolf is the first to turn his attention to Arthur.
Eryk Masters: Not the best time to turn your back on a man who threatened to hurt you.
Despite Masters’ advice, Eric doesn’t continue fighting. He also stares at Arthur, glaring. Thunderwolf yells things at the World Champion, but Arthur makes no moves. He just smiles down at the two men as the crowd showers him with boos.
And then…a scream from the audience.
Jason Johnson: What the-oh no…
Sammy Rochester, DESTRUCTION, emerges from the crowd, every attendee frantically trying to get away from the psychopathic, planet-sized monster child. From the other side of the ring, DEPRAVITY emerges holding a kendo stick. From behind the announcer's table, NEGLIGENCE emerges, cracking his neck and flexing his knuckles. They all look at the ring first. Rohkar and Kelser stand back to back, preparing themselves for the DeMONSTRANCE to attack. All three look to the top of the ring.
Arthur nods.
And the DeMONSTRANCE swarms. Thunderwolf is quick to jump on DEPRAVITY, while Eric attacks DESTRUCTION, trying to keep him from getting in the ring. NEGLIGENCE is on Thunderwolf first, and the numbers game gets the better of him. Once Thunderwolf is beaten by NEGLIGENCE, DEPRAVITY is able to enter the ring. Meanwhile, as valiantly as Rohkar fights, DESTRUCTION simply takes each blow and pushes himself into the ring. The already beaten Rohkar eats a massive headbutt from DESTRUCTION, dropping to his knees. He continues to swing wildly, but blow after blow comes down from the over 7-foot-tall monster. Arthur walks to the ring, beaming at his DeMONSTRANCE. The bell rings like crazy, but the ref doesn’t dare get in the way of the chaos. The crowd is going insane in rage. Boos rain down as the three members of DeMONSTRANCE ruin their dream match.
Eryk Masters: This place is becoming a powder keg! These fans are PISSED.
DEPRAVITY lays a few cracks into Thunderwolf with the kendo stick before dropping him with Diritta Via. She picks up her kendo stick and strikes Thunderwolf a few more times. Meanwhile, Rohkar’s punches have become desperate swats, unable to withstand the power of Sammy in his exhausted state. Sammy lifts Rohkar up to his feet, spins him, and drops him with the reverse chokeslam. Arthur has reached the ring and begins to climb the stairs. Sammy lifts Rohkar back up and slams him again with the reverse chokeslam. Fans begin to throw trash at the ring, the air in the Pinnacle VIBRATING with the noise.
Jason Johnson: If something doesn’t happen soon, this place is about to become a riot. Look at all that trash being thrown into the ring!
Arthur enters the ring, looking at the two men. DEPRAVITY has the kendo stick around Thunderwolf’s neck. DESTRUCTION holds Rohkar on his knees by the scruff of his neck. Arthur looks at NEGLIGENCE and motions towards Rohkar. NEGLIGENCE stands over Eric, a man he had found some camaraderie in, and there is a pause as he looks down at the already beaten warrior.
Eryk Mastes: Hesitation from NEGLIGENCE. Arthur looks a little bit concerned here.
As Arthur begins to ask what NEGLIGENCE is waiting for, Eric Rohkar comes to life for a moment. He holds up his hands and motions for NEGLIGENCE to ‘c’mon’. Locking eyes with the man, the camera picks up four words.
Eric Rohkar: Come on…do it.
NEGLIGENCE’s eyes go WIDE as he darts forward and SLAMS a brutal knee into the unprotected face of Eric Rohkar! Arthur smiles at NEGLIGENCE as Eric goes limp. Arthur turns his attention to Thunderwolf. The camera turns to security in the front row, arguing with fans that are trying to jump the barricade. The trash continues to pour into the ring, but the DeMONSTRANCE stays lost in their goal.
Jason Johnson: This has to stop. Arthur Pleasant has to be-THERE’S AEGIS!
Several men in security uniforms run to the ring. DESTRUCTION is the first to try and fight them off, and while he throws several men around, the numbers game gets to him, and the big man is eventually restrained. Pleasant, DEPRAVITY, and NEGLIGENCE take this opportunity to leave as a swarm of AEGIS security takes down DESTRUCTION. Medical staff hit the ring as well, but they have to wade their way through a flood of security, some of whom are working to restrain DESTRUCTION, while others are trying to maintain order with the crowd. The atmosphere is LOUD with boos, and fans continue to pelt DeMONSTRANCE with trash. NEGLIGENCE swats away a half-full bag of popcorn. A Bud Light bottle barely misses Arthur, who seems perfectly satisfied with his work.
Eryk Masters: A message was sent just now. Any challenge to DeMONSTRANCE and Arthur Pleasant will not be taken lightly.
Jason Johnson: Not just that, Eryk. Our World Champion just showed us that he can ruin anything. Arthur Pleasant just showed all of SHOOT that he controls the temperature in the room.
Almost every member of security and every trainer and medical personnel is in the ring or ringside now. Over a dozen men, trained in restraint and physical control, are barely able to hold Sammy Rochester down. Medical staff try to check on Thunderwolf and Eric Rohkar, try to get them out of the rig, but the chaos of the situation keeps them from being able to work effectively. Misty Stark has made it to the ring, but she can’t seem to get to her husband. Fans are trying to rush the ring; security is barely able to control the ringside.
And Arthur Pleasant stands at the top of the ramp with NEGLIGENCE and DEPRAVITY, the World Championship around his waist.
And a massive smile on his face.