(The EMF logo flashes on the screen.)
(We open up to the darken arena. Pyrotechnics blasts on the stage. The lights turn on, and fans yell and wave their signs. The camera’s get a few shots of the crowd. Then they zoom out to display the location information. We get one more shot of the crowd as the commentators speak over the shot.)
JR-Welcome to another edition of Saturday Shockwave. I’m good ol’ JR Jim Ross, I’m joined by Jerry “the King” Lawler, and Kris “KG” Gaffney.
King-Tonight the Dungeon Master takes on Little Mac in the main event.
Kris Gaffney-Little Mac has been in big matches, but The Dungeon Master is gaining momentum here in the EMF, we’ll see where it’ll take him.
JR-Let’s get started with the first match.
(“The duck song” blasts on the PA system. Walter Melon and Apple Juice Styles walks through an apple juice water fall, and they walk down to the ring.)
Kris Gaffney-That apple juice waterfall most cost us a lot.
King-But SO necessary.
JR-Either way, this team has proven effective.
The arena is bathed in darkness.
A deep, guttural whispering slithers through the sound system—indecipherable, eerie, and inhuman, as if a thousand damned souls are muttering their final prayers. The air in the arena feels heavy, suffocating, like the presence of something unholy has seeped into reality itself.
Then, the first haunting notes of "Lucifer" by Behemoth rumble through the speakers, low and ominous, like a funeral hymn for the apocalypse. A single, blood-red spotlight flickers onto the stage, revealing a towering, cloaked figure standing in the center—motionless, head lowered, as if awaiting a divine command.
Smoke pours from the ground, swallowing the entrance ramp in thick, swirling shadows. Suddenly—
FOUR PILLARS OF FLAME ERUPT from the stage, casting monstrous shadows across the walls. A deep, droning bell tolls through the arena, and the cloaked figure finally moves.
Samael Dredd slowly lifts his head, revealing his face beneath the hood—painted in cracked, corpse-like war paint, his abyssal eyes devoid of humanity. The red glow from the flames illuminates him like a demon conjured from hell itself.
Ring Announcer:
"Making his way to the ring… from the Void Between Realms… weighing in at 305 pounds… he is The Harbinger of Despair… The Reaper Prophet… The Plagueborn… SAMAEL DREDD!"
The sound of distant, ritualistic chanting grows louder, creeping under the music like a blasphemous sermon. Samael slowly begins his march down the ramp, his long black trench coat flowing behind him like death’s shroud.
As he reaches the ring, flames ignite along the sides of the ramp, flickering and twisting as if alive. The crowd murmurs, some taking a step back as if an unseen force is pressing against them.
Samael stops at the base of the ring, his head tilting slightly as he gazes into the audience, his expression unreadable—empty, void of empathy, only inevitability. He slowly places a hand on the apron, and as he does—
A FINAL SURGE OF FIRE BLASTS FROM THE RING POSTS.
He climbs the steps methodically, wiping his feet on the apron as if cleansing himself before stepping into his unholy altar. Once inside, he kneels in the center of the ring, head bowed, hands outstretched as if praying to an unseen force.
Then—without warning—he snaps his head back and lets out a guttural, echoing breath, his body shaking as if possessed. The lights flicker violently, and then—
DARKNESS.
For a few seconds, there is nothing. Silence. Stillness.
Then, the lights return, and Samael Dredd is standing in the corner, unmoving, his eyes locked on his opponent.
He does not speak. He does not react. He simply waits.
For the suffering to begin.
(As the lights in the arena plunge into darkness, an eerie silence descends over the crowd. The faint sound of wind howling fills the air, sending shivers down spines. Suddenly, the opening notes of "Wolf Totem" by The HU (featuring Jacoby Shaddix) thunder through the speakers, primal and haunting. A blood-red light floods the entrance ramp, illuminating a swirling mist of smoke that creeps along the ground like tendrils of something alive.
The screen above the stage flickers to life, showing the silhouette of a massive wolf prowling through a dark forest. As the beat drops, bursts of flame erupt from the stage, casting wild shadows across the arena. Through the flames and smoke emerges Fenrir Kaine, "The Demonic Werewolf." His imposing frame is silhouetted against the fiery backdrop, his head lowered, and his crimson eyes glinting beneath his hooded brow.
Ring Announcer: Now making his way to the ring! Fighting out of the Shadows of the Abyss! Weighing in at two hundred and ninety-five pounds and standing six feet and four inches tall! He is "The Demonic Werewolf" FENRIR KAINE!
Fenrir’s presence is palpable, an aura of raw, predatory menace that freezes the audience in place. As he begins his slow, deliberate march down the ramp, the flames on stage ignite once more, illuminating his every step. The red lights follow him like a spotlight, casting a sinister glow over his powerful frame. The mist clings to his boots as if the darkness itself refuses to let him go.
He reaches the ring steps and pauses, turning his gaze to the crowd. Their boos and jeers are drowned by the pulsating rhythm of his theme song, yet Fenrir remains unfazed. A low, guttural growl escapes his lips as he climbs the steps and enters the ring.
Once inside, Fenrir moves to the center of the ring, his massive frame towering over the referee. He throws back his head and lets out a bone-chilling howl, synchronized with a final burst of flame erupting from the ring posts. The lights flicker back to full brightness, but the chilling aura lingers as Fenrir Kaine removes his hood and glares out at the crowd with predatory intent.
He moves to his corner, leaning against the turnbuckle like a wolf surveying its prey, waiting for the match to begin. The arena buzzes with tension, every eye fixed on the terrifying force that is Fenrir Kaine.)
JR-Fenrir Kaine and Samael Dredd have a lot of power between them.
King-But not a power of GOD now do they JR?
Kris Gaffney-Guess so…who does though?
[Apple Juice Styles and Fenrir Kaine pace around the ring, Apple Juice Styles runs towards the ropes. He bounces off of the ropes. Apple Juice Styles goes for a cross body block, but it’s caught by Fenrir Kaine, and he connects with a rib breaker. Apple Juice Styles is slow to get up to his feet, and once he gets up to his feet. Once he gets up to his feet Fenrir Kaine picks up Apple Juice Styles and he connects with a standing swinging uranage. Apple Juice Stlyes hits the mat, and he falls into the corner, and Fenrir Kaine connects with a hip attack, and he makes the tag to Samael Dredd. Fenrir Kaine waits as Samael Dredd gets up, and he goes into position, Fenrir Kaine throws Apple Juice Styles to Dredd who lifts him up, and he connects with a standing spine buster. Samael Dredd goes into the cover on Apple Juice Styles, the ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1…………2……..KICK OUT by Apple Juice Styles!!]
JR-Samael drove Apple Juice Styles through the mat.
King-Still…not worse than going to Badd Blends.
Kris Gaffney-Ouch.
[Samael Dredd waits for Apple Juice Styles to get up to his feet, and once he gets up to his feet, he lifts him up, but Apple Juice Styles is able to struggle, and he connects with a few elbows to the side of the head that makes Samael Dredd stumble, and Apple Juice Styles swings, and he connects with a DDT into the mat. Apple Juice Styles makes the tag to Walter Melon. Walter Melon runs into the irng, and he connects with a running clothesline on Samael Dredd, Samael Dredd gets up to his feet, and Walter Melon connects with a few fists to the face that knocks back Samael Dredd, and he whips him to the ropes, Samael Dredd bounces of fof the ropes. Samael Dredd gets driven down on the mat with a spinning spine buster!! Walter Melon goes into the corner, and he waits for Dredd to get up to his feet, once he gets up to his feet. Walter Melon connects with a Spitting Seeds!! Samael Dredd goes down, Walter Melon goes into the cover on Samael Dredd, the ref counts 1…………2………KICK OUT by Samael Dredd. Walter Melon makes the tag but realizes it’s Ashley Irvine who yells WATER MELON!! She jumps down, Apple Juice Styles appears and Walter tags him in.]
JR-Apple Juice Styles back into the match.
King-Clearly this is how the Melon Gods meant it all along!
[Fenrir Kaine attacks Walter, Apple Juice Styles spring boards up to the top rope, and he goes for something off of the top rope, but Dredd catches him, and he drops Apple Juice with a Judgment’s End!! Fenrir Kaine goes into the cover on Apple Juice Styles. The ref goes into position the make the count, the ref counts 1………..2………..3!!]
JR-Fenrir Kaine and Walter brawl left the door open and Samael Dredd took advantage.
[John "Brandsaw" Layfield stomps through the curtain in a rich-man swagger, hat tilted and jaw working, one hand chopping at the air as he yells about blue chips and bottom lines. He brandishes a wallet chain like a trophy, points to himself with two thumbs, and sneers at the crowd with the confidence of a man who thinks money multiplies muscles. He struts down the ramp, barking that the ring is a boardroom and he always gets the final vote, then climbs the steps and wipes his boots with exaggerated care. He steps through the ropes, tosses the hat to a terrified attendant, puffs his chest, and shadow boxes at center with stiff, showy jabs while promising into the hard camera that he will cut The Wretched Nobody down to size. He plants himself in a corner, rolling his shoulders, a salesman grin stretched thin over nerves he will not admit he feels.]
Jim Ross: John "Brandsaw" Layfield looks awfully proud of himself, but pride does not prepare you for a wrecking ball.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Speak for yourself, JR. That is the face of a self made genius. He closes deals and opens skulls.
Kris Gafney: I will take the refund policy on this one, thanks.
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The arena lights dimmed as the crowd hushed. Smoke soon crawls across the canvas surrounding everyone in the ring, at ringside and the front rows of the audience who begin anticipating the arrival of The Wretched Nobody when the monitors all go static. A single spotlight shone on the center of the stage as a low, as the ominous tune filled the air. Suddenly, the sound of thunder roared through the speakers as the arena shook with each strike as thick red curtains parted, revealing a large black casket positioned in the center of the stage. "Marche Funèbre MMXXIII" begins to play, the casket starts to rise slowly from the stage, flickering in and out of sight with each flash of strobe lights. As the casket ascended, smoke began to pour out of its cracks and crevices, creating an eerie atmosphere. Suddenly, the lid of the casket burst open, revealing a thick mist from which a massive hand shot out from the depths of the casket, grabbing onto the edge and pulling The Wretched Nobody out of his resting place. The crowd erupted in cheers as The Wretched Nobody emerged from the casket, which fell away in pieces as he stood up towering over seven feet tall and covered in various tattoos and scars. The Wretched Nobody paced back and forth, staring down at the ring with an unflinching glare. The Wretched Nobody broke step as the lights flicker again, as he strides down the ramp, ignoring the fans' outstretched hands and taunts.
Ring Announcer: Making his way down the aisle THE DARK STAR OF EMF! hails from The Danvers State Lunatic Asylum, Salem Massachusetts and at Six Foot Eleven inches tall – at Four Hundred and Twenty Pounds he is… he is Your former Six Time EMF Heavyweight Champion of the Woooooorld! DEATH HIMSELF! THE WRETCHED NOBODY!
As he approached the ring, bolts of electricity shot out from the turnbuckles, illuminating the darkness around him. The Wretched Nobody climbed up onto the apron, peering down his opponent with a look of pure disdain. Wretch easily stepped over the top rope and made his way to the center of the ring, where he raised his arms and let out a guttural roar. The crowd responded with deafening cheers, their excitement building to a fever pitch. The Wretched Nobody rocks side to side, staring down his opponent ready to charge forward, to unleash his wrath upon anyone who dares to stand in his way.
Jim Ross: That is a disturbing presence. The Wretched Nobody is not here to entertain. He is here to hurt.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: I have seen scarier accountants. Relax. Brandsaw has this handled.
Kris Gafney: If handled means handled like a lawnmower handles a garden gnome, I agree.
[The bell rings and Brandsaw throws a quick jab on instinct. The Wretched Nobody does not blink. He palms Brandsaw’s chest and shoves him five feet across the canvas. Brandsaw scrambles up, complains to the referee about hair pulling that did not happen, and tries a collar and elbow. Wretch does not even lock fingers. He cocks one heavy hand and clubs across Brandsaw’s shoulders with a shot that echoes like split lumber. Brandsaw staggers into the corner and gets blanketed by a body avalanche that knocks a gasp from the crowd. Wretch stays close and hammers three short headbutts to the brow, then buries a forearm into the jaw and kneads it there until the ref hits four on the count. Wretch backs off one step, tilts his head, then scoops Layfield and deposits him with a falling powerslam that bounces the ring. He does not cover. He plants a boot on Brandsaw’s chest and drives it down until the official threatens a disqualification. Only then does he step back with slow, obedient contempt.]
Jim Ross: Methodical and mean. This man wrestles like a demolition crew.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Good. It means we can start rebuilding with a winner.
Kris Gafney: Someone call zoning. A whole office park just got condemned.
[Brandsaw rolls to the apron, clutching his ribs, and tries to bait Wretch into a chase. Wretch obliges by reaching over the top rope, pawing at Brandsaw’s skull with a bear paw grip. Brandsaw snaps a cheap shot throat thrust and tumbles inside, hot to capitalize. He hurls forearms in a flurry that looks busy and hits soft. Wretch absorbs them, turns his head, and shoves Brandsaw into the ropes with a thud. On the rebound Wretch scoops him like he weighs nothing and swings him into a pendulum backbreaker across the thigh. Brandsaw bounces off, arches in pain, and immediately gets yanked into a second backbreaker on the other thigh for symmetry with cruelty. Wretch holds him there, one hand on chin and one on knee, bending Layfield’s spine into a nasty bow before he lets him slide to the canvas like flotsam.]
Jim Ross: Look at the torque on that back. He is trying to pry Brandsaw apart.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He is just adjusting his posture. Very thoughtful if you think about it.
Kris Gafney: Free chiropractic. Five stars unless your bones object.
[Wretch drags Brandsaw up by the jaw, walks him to the corner like a misbehaving child, and smears him face first into the top buckle. A second buckle follows. A third. Wretch pulls him back and clubs the base of the neck with a downward hammer that drops Brandsaw to a seat. The monster plants a boot on Brandsaw’s face and pushes until the ref counts again. Four comes, and Wretch pivots into a running hip attack in the corner that caves the air out of the entrepreneur. A ragdoll toss across the ring follows, as casual as taking out the trash. Brandsaw skids on his shoulder and ends up near the ropes where he tries a desperate grab for escape. Wretch answers by stepping on the bottom rope so it pins Brandsaw’s arm, then stomping the exposed bicep twice, cold and precise. He drags the arm into a standing arm wringer, torques the wrist, and yanks it down into a short arm lariat that drops Brandsaw like a felled tree.]
Jim Ross: There is nothing fancy about this and that is the point. Grind the arm, smash the spine, suffocate the hope.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He is saving on fireworks. Environmentally friendly violence.
Kris Gafney: Carbon neutral. Spirit negative.
[Brandsaw scrambles to his knees and throws a wild haymaker. Wretch catches it, squeezes, and squeezes more until Brandsaw’s knuckles blanch, then lifts him by the captured fist and flings him into a corner with a beal that nearly sticks him upright in the turnbuckles. Wretch stalks in, hooks both arms under the bottom rope, and strings Layfield into a tree of woe. He steps back two paces, cocks a boot, and drives a basement dropkick into the ribs with a thud that makes the front row lean back. He does it again. And again. The referee’s count is the only leash he obeys. At four, he peels Brandsaw down and lets him flop to the mat, then drags him center by the ankle and drops a knee across the inside of the thigh. He twists the ankle and plants another knee, turning the leg purple by the minute.]
Jim Ross: He is dissecting the man. First the back, then the arm, now the leg. Pick a limb and wreck it.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: This is called diversification. Brandsaw should understand.
Kris Gafney: His portfolio is bleeding.
[Wretch stands and yanks Brandsaw vertical by the ear. A headbutt folds the financier. Wretch hits the ropes and crushes him with a running crossbody that looks unfair, a slab avalanche that draws a collective groan. He stays draped for a count of two, then rolls off by choice. He wants more. He peels Brandsaw up, scoops him to the shoulder, points at a corner, and charges. Snake eyes plant Brandsaw on the top buckle. A back elbow to the same spot spins him around. Wretch climbs to the second rope from inside, palms the back of Brandsaw’s head, and dribbles his face into the top buckle five short, ugly times before dropping down to the mat. With one hand, he flings Brandsaw to his belly and places a knee between shoulder blades, wrenching a rear chinlock while pressing down on the spine.]
Jim Ross: Listen to those joints complain. He is folding Brandsaw like luggage.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Hard case or soft case
Kris Gafney: Lost at baggage claim either way.
[Brandsaw claws for the ropes and gets fingertips on the bottom strand. The official calls the break. Wretch gives it right at four, then drags Brandsaw out by the ankle to deny sanctuary. A short stomp to the hand punishes the rope grab. Wretch hooks under both arms and ragdolls him into a release overhead suplex that flings Brandsaw to the opposite corner. Wretch walks, not runs, across the ring, the patience of a predator with a tired deer. He palms Layfield by the throat, lifts until boots leave canvas, and deposits him with a choke throw that sends Layfield cartwheeling and clutching at invisible handholds.]
Jim Ross: Complete control. This is turning into a rout.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: I call it an education.
Kris Gafney: Tuition paid up front. Receipts non refundable.
[Brandsaw manages a gasp of offense. As Wretch hauls him up again, Brandsaw shoots a thumb to the eye with the ref on the wrong side. It buys a blink. Brandsaw follows with a desperate lariat off the ropes that lands flush on the chest. Wretch rocks back half a step and tilts his head like he is considering the weather. Brandsaw winds up and tries a second lariat, louder, everything he has left. Wretch eats it, then answers with a single headbutt that buckles Layfield to a knee. Wretch clubs the back once, twice, three times, then underhooks and yanks Brandsaw up into a short powerbomb that he bounces, keeps the wrists, and drags back up for a second short powerbomb to stack Layfield in an ugly heap.]
Jim Ross: Good Lord. Two in a row and he is not done.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Make it three for the brand recognition.
Kris Gafney: That logo is smudged beyond repair.
[Wretch does not go for a third. He steps around behind the wrecked Brandsaw, threads an arm under the chin, and lifts him into a half nelson before dropping all his weight backward into a half nelson backbreaker that arches Layfield over the knee with a grim bend. He lets him spill, then drags him toward the apron by the wrist. The monster rolls out under the bottom rope, grabs Brandsaw by the head, and bounces his face off the apron lip with a meaty thump. He repeats it, then runs the side of Brandsaw’s head along the edge like he is scraping rust from a pipe, releasing only when the referee hits four. Wretch slides in at five, breaks the count, rolls back out, and folds Brandsaw under the bottom rope so his arms hang limp inside the ring and his body is outside. Wretch lifts Brandsaw’s legs and slingshots him throat first into the rope, then reaches over and palming the skull, clubs the chest with a sledge that vibrates the cables.]
Jim Ross: This is getting uncomfortable. The official is giving latitude, but The Wretched Nobody is toeing that line.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He is reading the fine print and highlighting it. Good student.
Kris Gafney: Teacher’s pet of pain.
[Back inside, Wretch herds Brandsaw to a corner with a simple march of palms to head. He sits Layfield on the top turnbuckle and climbs to the second rope for mass and momentum. With one arm hooked under a leg and the other cranked around the neck, Wretch heaves a second rope muscle buster variation that detonates the ring on landing. Brandsaw starfishes. The cover would end it, but Wretch sits up, shakes his head slowly, and hauls Layfield back up like the decision was cruelly postponed. He whips Brandsaw to the ropes, bends, and launches him nearly to the lights with a pop up. On the way down Wretch meets him with a rising headbutt that collapses Brandsaw in midair, a horrific collision that sprinkles the audience with winces.]
Jim Ross: Somebody stop this. It is a message wrapped in a beating.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Messages tend to arrive faster when they are delivered by freight train.
Kris Gafney: Signature required. Someone else sign.
[At last the monster signals the end. He goes inot the corner, and Brandsaw gets up to his feet. The Wretched Nobody connects with the trephination!! The Wretched Nobody goes into the cover on Brandsaw. Wretch stares into the camera’s eye while the referee counts the inevitable one, two, three.]
Jim Ross: The Wretched Nobody just dismantled John "Brandsaw" Layfield. That was decisive and more than a little frightening.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Investment opportunity denied. Do not worry, Brandsaw can write off the pain.
Kris Gafney: Line item 1, bruises. Line item 2, regrets.
(The arena lights suddenly cut out, plunging everything into darkness. For a brief moment, the only sound is the murmur of the crowd, uncertain of what’s about to happen. Then, with a crackle of static, “My Way” by Frank Sinatra begins to play. But it’s not the smooth, classic version everyone knows—this one is slightly distorted, as if being played on an old, warbled record.
A lone spotlight flickers on, illuminating the entrance ramp where Jack "The Anarchist" Lynch stands, his silhouette stark against the chaos flashing on the titantron behind him—glitchy visuals of riots, fires, and carnage intercut with scenes from black-and-white films, all overlayed with the words "The Anarchist" in jagged, graffiti-style text.)
Announcer: Making his way to the ring. Fight from Wellington, New Zealand
. He stands 6'1" and weighs 230 pounds. He is The Anarchist, Jack Lynch!
(Jack takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his barbed-wire baseball bat resting casually on his shoulder. He wears a long, tattered trench coat covered in patches and scribbled phrases that look like they were done in a fit of madness. With each step, the crowd’s anticipation builds, his presence commanding yet erratic, like a ticking time bomb.
As he strides down the ramp, Jack’s grin is wide and manic, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of what’s to come. He stops suddenly, halfway down, as if a thought has just occurred to him. With a playful shrug, he pulls a flask from inside his coat, takes a swig, and sprays the liquid into the air. The mist catches the spotlight, creating a shimmering, chaotic halo around him as he continues toward the ring.
Reaching ringside, Jack doesn’t just walk up the steps like everyone else—no, that’s too predictable. Instead, he makes a sudden, wild dash toward the barricade, leaping onto it with the grace of a cat, balancing precariously on the edge. He taunts the crowd, swinging his bat playfully, then balances along the top of the barricade as if it were a tightrope, laughing all the while.
Finally, he jumps down and slides into the ring under the bottom rope, rolling to his feet in one fluid, exaggerated motion. He twirls his bat in his hand like a gunslinger ready for a duel, his eyes scanning the crowd as if daring anyone to challenge him.
Once inside, Jack heads straight for the nearest turnbuckle, leaping up onto it with a wild, unhinged energy. Perched there, he looks out over the crowd with a mix of madness and glee, as if soaking in the chaos he’s about to unleash. With a sudden, dramatic swing of his bat toward the titantron, the screen behind him glitches violently, flashing between images of destruction and his own maniacal grin.
Jack then hops down from the turnbuckle, casually tossing his bat to a ring crew member with a wink and a smirk, as if he’s just handed them a live grenade. He leans back against the ropes, whistling the last notes of "My Way" as if it’s all just a part of his twisted, chaotic day.)
Jim Ross: Jack Lynch is outgunned on paper, but he never comes out here to be a passenger. He wants the wheel.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He can want it all day, JR. Roman Reigns does not share steering wheels.
Kris Gafney: Three drivers, one car, zero turn signals. This will be fun.
[The lights harden and a pulse of bass thunders as Joe Lamont strides onto the stage, broad shouldered and businesslike. He taps his jaw once with a taped fist, then points straight down the ramp at Lynch as if drawing a chalk line. At ringside he drags a hand across the apron to feel the canvas, nods, and steps up the steel. He wipes his boots and steps through the ropes, never taking his eyes off Jack. He throws two short shadow jabs to test his range and then flexes his fingers, ready to swing.]
Jim Ross: Joe Lamont is power and pressure. He does not ask for space, he takes it.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Which means Jack is about to be living in a studio apartment.
Kris Gafney: With noisy neighbors named elbows.
[The noise turns from a simmer to a boil when Roman Reigns parts the curtain with a slow, imperial stride. He stands at the center of the stage, chin raised, and lifts one hand as if commanding silence. It does not arrive. Roman allows a thin smile, then begins his measured walk, each footfall like a judge’s gavel. At ringside he circles the steps, climbs in deliberate cadence, and steps along the apron with a lingering stare into the crowd that reads acknowledge me. He threads the ropes and paces the perimeter, fingertips brushing the top rope, then plants himself in the near corner with a calm that looks like inevitability.]
Jim Ross: Roman Reigns has done his homework and then some. He carries himself like the result is pre written.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Spoiler alert, it is. Or at least it will be when he finishes writing it.
Kris Gafney: Someone check the footnotes. I bet they say spear, pin, thank you.
[The referee gives a rapid fire set of instructions. No countouts, no disqualifications, first fall wins, and anything can happen. Roman barely looks at the official. Joe nods once and sets his stance. Jack rolls his neck with a grin that hides a racing heartbeat. The bell rings.]
[Roman does not move first. He lets Jack and Joe glance at each other, lets the unspoken truce form, then steps forward like a tide. Jack stings Roman’s thigh with a calf kick and Joe hammers the ribs with a short right. Roman absorbs, lashes a forearm into Lamont’s jaw to halt the pressure, then swings at Lynch. Jack ducks and fires a forearm to the cheek. Joe grabs Roman’s wrist and whips him. Roman reverses, flings Joe to the ropes, and on the rebound snaps a leaping clothesline that puts Lamont on his back. Jack leaps onto the second rope and springs for a crossbody, but Roman catches him on his hip and swings him down with a powerslam that rattles the boards. Roman stands between them, breathing easy, eyes cold.]
Jim Ross: Roman front and center, imposing his pace. He wants one on the floor and one in the ring, then he can manage the traffic.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He is the meter maid of mayhem. Tickets for everybody.
Kris Gafney: Park illegally in the ring, get towed by a clothesline.
[Joe cuts Roman’s plan short with a tackle to the midsection that drives Roman into the corner. He pistons shoulders into the ribs, three, four, then straightens and unloads short uppercuts that echo. Jack joins the charge, hitting a step up knee that snaps Roman’s head to the side. They do not shake hands about it, but for ten seconds Jack and Joe are co workers. Joe whips Roman out of the corner and Jack meets him with a running forearm that staggers him. Joe follows with a spinebuster that pops the ring. Cover by Joe and Jack dives across the pile to break it up fast. Joe shoves Jack with a glare that says thank you is not in his vocabulary. Jack shoves back and swings. Joe blocks and hammers Jack to the ropes with two heavy rights.]
Jim Ross: That is the triple threat tax. All alliances are temporary and all covers are subject to review.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Translation, nobody is splitting the check.
Kris Gafney: Tip your ref. He is about to do cardio.
[Roman rolls to the apron to buy a breath. Joe tries to dump Jack with a belly to belly and Jack rakes the eyes to escape. Jack sprints and springboards to the top rope, turns, and hits a missile dropkick that takes Lamont off his feet. Jack kips to a knee, grimacing, and shoots to the far ropes. Roman snatches the top rope and snaps it, sending Jack tumbling backward to the canvas. Roman slingshots himself back in with a flying lariat that wipes out Jack, then wheels and blasts Lamont with a Superman Punch that lands with a crack. Roman drops to a knee, one palm on the mat, and stares through his hair like a storm front.]
Jim Ross: Superman Punch and the ring just tilted toward Roman.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Gravity works for champions. It says so in the rule book I just made up.
Kris Gafney: Chapter one, acknowledge inertia.
[Roman stalks Jack, hauls him up, and threads his throat over the middle rope. He looks straight into the nearest camera and purrs a few words only Jack can hear, then hits the far ropes and scythes Jack’s head with the drive by. Jack flops to the apron and slides to the floor. Roman turns and eats a Lamont haymaker that sends sweat beads floating. Joe scoops Roman, pivots, and plants him with a running powerslam for a two count. Roman rolls a shoulder with authority. Joe drags him upright and throws another stiff right, then a short headbutt. Roman steadies, answers with a headbutt of his own, then a body shot that finds the liver. Joe’s knees soften. Roman cinches a front facelock, muscles Lamont vertical, and holds him suspended for a long, mean count before dropping him with a stalling suplex that shakes the lights.]
Jim Ross: Roman mixes power with patience and that is a hard combination to beat.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: It is a wonderful combination to watch, though. Poetry, just angrier.
Kris Gafney: Haiku time. Big fist, big slam, ow. Someone cross stitch that.
[Jack returns with a springboard forearm that clips Roman behind the ear and buys a window. He pops to the apron again, slingshots into a senton across Roman’s chest, then scrambles to cover. One, two, Joe yanks Jack off the pile by the ankle and flings him into the corner. Lamont charges and Jack slips out, Joe’s shoulder eating the post with a thud that draws a groan. Jack spins behind, schoolboys Joe into the buckles, then stacks him for a pin. One, two, Roman barrels in to break it and immediately clobbers Jack with clubbing forearms to the back. He whips Jack to the ropes, pops him high, and on the way down Jack twists into a DDT that spikes Roman and wakes the building.]
Jim Ross: Lynch with the counter of the night. He needs to capitalize right now.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He needs to install a speed bump in front of Joe too.
Kris Gafney: And maybe a billboard that says please wait your turn.
[Jack feels the swell and rides it. He staggers to the nearest buckle, climbs, and measures Roman for a high risk. Joe reaches up and swats Jack’s ankle, perching him awkwardly. Joe climbs to the second rope, hooks Jack for a superplex, and Roman slides underneath. In a blink the stack forms, Roman underhooks Lamont’s waist as Joe underhooks Jack, and the tower crashes in a devastating tower of doom that leaves bodies everywhere. The crowd roars for destruction. Roman sits up first, face set in that iron calm.]
Jim Ross: Tower of doom and Roman lands on top of the chaos.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He always lands on top. It is his thing.
Kris Gafney: Tower of doomed, actually.
[Roman pushes to his feet and makes an inventory with his eyes. Joe is on all fours, Jack is starfished. Roman chooses the threat and stalks Lamont. He lines up for a second Superman Punch. As he cocks the shot, Jack from prone snags Roman’s ankle and yanks, face planting him into the bottom buckle. Jack crawls on top in a cradle. One, two, Roman throws him off with force. Jack surges upright, hits the ropes, and sprints back into a running knee to Roman’s cheek. He stumbles into a cover and Joe yanks him away again, unhappy to be left out. They trade a blistering exchange in the center, Jack quick with jabs and a calf kick, Joe heavy with hooks. Jack ducks a hook and spikes Lamont with a tornado DDT. He crawls over, drapes an arm. Two only.]
Jim Ross: The pin attempts are coming faster. That is a sign both men feel the window opening.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: It is also a sign Roman is about to slam it shut.
Kris Gafney: Watch your fingers.
[Roman has rolled to the apron and collected himself. Jack sees him and runs for a dive. Roman steps aside and Jack crashes body first into the barricade, bouncing back in a fold of pain. Roman grabs him by the hair, bounces his face on the apron, then slings Jack into the steel steps with a clang that twists the top half off its perch. JR does not like it, but the rules allow it tonight. Roman slides back in just in time to eat a Joe Lamont spear to the ribs that folds him ugly. Joe scrambles to cover. One, two, Roman kicks out at the last sliver.]
Jim Ross: Joe Lamont almost stunned the world. That was close.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Not close enough. Winners act like winners, and Roman is still moving.
Kris Gafney: I am still winded and I am seated.
[Joe senses the moment and hauls Roman into a powerbomb setup. Roman drops his base, back body drops free, and staggers. Joe charges and Roman pivots him into the corner posted shoulder first. Roman explodes out of the opposite corner and crushes Lamont with a clothesline that looks like a car crash. He drops to one knee and taps the mat, calling his shot. The crowd sees it coming and so does Jack, who has climbed to the top rope out of frame. Roman roars forward for a Spear and Jack launches into his path with a diving crossbody that collides with both men, the impact cracking the air. Jack lands on Roman and hooks a leg. One, two, Roman blasts him off with raw power.]
Jim Ross: Lynch refuses to let the story end without his sentence in it.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He is going to write himself into a hospital bed if he is not careful.
Kris Gafney: Cliffhanger ending pending.
[All three men are slow to rise. Jack is up first and he chooses movement. He sprints into a dropkick that sends Joe through the ropes to the floor. He spins on Roman, hits the ropes, and snatches the wrist for a ripcord knee that lands flush. Roman staggers and Jack strings a sling blade that cuts him down. The building hits a molten hum. Jack runs to the corner, pops to the top in one quick step, and turns for a corkscrew senton. Roman rolls aside and Jack splashes the canvas, all wind punched out of him. Roman crawls to the far buckle and pulls himself vertical, chest heaving.]
Jim Ross: High risk, high crash. Jack paid retail.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: No coupons allowed.
Kris Gafney: The receipt is a bruise with your name on it.
[Joe slides back in with a steel step dent in his shoulder from the earlier collision and stalks Roman with bad intentions. He swings a lariat meant to decapitate. Roman ducks, takes Joe’s back, and snaps a release German that flips Lamont. Roman pops up, jams a thumb to clear sweat from his eye line, and plants in the corner once more. He raises the arm, fingers spread, the stadium shot that announces the Superman Punch. Joe rises on instinct and eats the punch full on the cheek, tumbling to a knee. Roman loads again and this time he takes aim at Jack as the underdog struggles up. The punch blasts Jack on the jaw and sends him rolling to the apron limp with the lights dimmed.]
Jim Ross: Roman clearing the board with headshots. That is the ruthlessness he brings to big matches.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: It is also called being better than everyone else.
Kris Gafney: Two knuckles and a destiny.
[Roman stands alone for three long seconds and the crowd knows the rhythm. He backs to the corner, grips the top rope with both hands, and coils. Joe Lamont pushes to his feet in the opposite corner, glassy eyed but game. Roman explodes, carving the ring in half, body a straight line. The Spear lands on Lamont with savage precision, folding him in two and drilling him to the canvas. Roman bounces to his knees on impact, snarls, and crawls into a deep cover, hooking both legs hard.]
Jim Ross: Spear, center of the ring. This could be it.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: It is it. It is so it.
Kris Gafney: Stamp it, frame it, hang it.
[Roman hears the referee’s hand hit once and twice, then the air shifts behind him. Jack Lynch has crawled back in and dives to break the cover. Roman releases one leg with a flash of awareness, whips an arm back like a tail, and latches Jack’s wrist mid dive. He wrenches Jack forward into a short clothesline that pancakes him across Joe’s chest. Roman shoves Jack aside, re hooks Lamont’s far leg, and the referee’s hand drops a third time to end it.]
Jim Ross: Roman Reigns survives the chaos and wins the triple threat. He beat the timing and he beat both bodies.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: That is called ring IQ. And probably ring SAT scores.
Kris Gafney: He just aced Spear 101.
[div align="center"][video][/bbvideo][/align]
The arena lights dim, and the opening beats of NSYNC's "Bye Bye Bye" blast through the speakers. As soon as the first note hits, bright spotlights flash in sync with the music, and a thick cloud of smoke rises from the stage. The crowd immediately erupts in a mix of cheers and laughter, knowing they’re in for something special. As the beat drops, multicolored fireworks explode around the stage, and through the smoke, Patrick Payne bursts out, dancing his way onto the stage like he’s straight out of a 90s boy band video. Patrick starts hitting the iconic "Bye Bye Bye" choreography, exaggerated and dripping with his own flavor. He smirks at the camera, pointing at random fans in the crowd, and moving with the beat like he’s starring in his own music video. He stops midway down the ramp, faking a pause, and then launches back into the dance, arms waving and hips moving as the crowd sings along to the chorus.
EMF Ring Announcer: From wherever he damn well pleases, standing 6 feet 1 inch tall, weighing in at 210 pounds he is the unpredictable, the unstoppable, Patrick ˜The PP Express Payne!!!
As the music continues, the lights flash in rhythm, and Patrick slides into the spotlight, twirling and dipping to the beat. Nearing the ring, he stops for a second, tilts his head toward the camera, and breaks into a final burst of the dance, fully embracing the ridiculousness of it all. Without breaking his flow, he leaps over the top rope with a fluid, acrobatic jump, landing in a perfect roll before bouncing right back into the Bye Bye Bye dance inside the ring. Patrick moves effortlessly, finishing his routine by running up the turnbuckle, arms wide, and executing a picture-perfect backflip off the top rope. As his feet hit the mat, he drops into a flawless superhero landing, kneeling down, one fist on the ground, with a cocky grin stretched across his face. He rises slowly, arms outstretched, soaking in the crowd’s reaction, while the music fades and the lights settle back to normal. The camera zooms in as Patrick winks at the audience, mouthing, "You’re welcome!" before leaning casually against the ropes, waiting for his match to begin.
Jim Ross: Patrick Payne is looking to take on A Few Badd Men's Aari Maxwell.
King-Crikey! That's a challenge mate!
[The lights brighten and the noise flips like a switch as Aari Maxwell sprints onto the stage with kinetic energy, tapping his heart twice before pointing to the ring. He slaps hands down both sides of the aisle, vaults to the apron in one fluid hop, and springboards high over the top rope into a clean landing that pops the building. He jogs a tight circle, checks the ropes with sharp tugs, then climbs the second turnbuckle to salute the crowd with one arm raised. Dropping to the mat, he rolls his shoulders, eyes never leaving Payne, and nods like a man who knows exactly what the night will demand.]
Jim Ross: Aari Maxwell brings speed, precision, and a lot of heart. He will need all of it against an opponent as mean as Patrick Payne.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Mean wins. Heart gets you a greeting card.
Kris Gafney: Fold the card into a paper airplane and hope it flies.
[The bell rings and Payne immediately backs to the ropes with one hand up, demanding space. When the referee obliges and Aari steps in clean, Payne slaps him across the cheek and grins. Aari returns fire with lightning jabs that sting the jaw, then snaps a low calf kick to the thigh. Payne rushes with a collar-and-elbow and bullies Aari to the corner. The break is clean for one heartbeat, then Payne drives a forearm into the throat and grinds until four on the ref’s count before throwing his hands in the air like a saint.]
Jim Ross: Patrick using the extend of the rules.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: It is called using the five count. The rules are a tool kit.
Kris Gafney: He brought a crowbar to a toolbox party.
[Aari fires out with speed, ducking a clothesline and hitting the ropes for a flying forearm that staggers Payne. A second spring sends Aari into a deep armdrag that whips Payne to the canvas. Aari front flips to his feet and catches Payne rising with a snap dropkick to the chest that sends him to a knee. The crowd roars as Aari strings a headscissors take down that whirls Payne across the ring and under the bottom rope to the floor.]
Jim Ross: Aari has Payne guessing and that keeps him honest.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Honest people still fall when they get tripped.
Kris Gafney: And there are a lot of loose shoelaces out there.
[Aari lines up a tope. Payne sidesteps and yanks Aari’s legs out from under him from the floor, snapping his neck across the bottom rope. Aari ricochets back and Payne slides in to plant a sharp elbow between the shoulder blades. Payne hauls Aari up by the head, spikes a knee to the gut, and strings together a swinging neckbreaker that thumps Aari flat. Cover and a confident forearm across the face nets a quick two before Aari kicks free.]
Jim Ross: Payne zeroes in on the neck. That is no accident.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Target selection is an art. He is Picasso with pain.
Kris Gafney: Abstract bruises, vivid complaints.
[Payne drapes Aari’s throat over the middle rope and leans every pound onto the back of the neck until the referee’s four forces him off. He jogs to the far side and hits the ropes to return with a guillotine-style knee to the back that whiplashes Aari. Payne hooks and plants a snap suplex, floats into a grounded cravate, and wrenches the head at a nasty angle. Aari fights the hands, pushes to a knee, and throws body shots to create space. Payne clamps tighter, shifts to a front facelock, and tries to roll into a guillotine. Aari posts, deadlifts with a grunt, and deposits Payne with a stalling suplex that buys daylight for both men.]
Jim Ross: Gutsy counter. Aari needs air and a reset.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He needs a neck brace and a refund.
Kris Gafney: Refunds require receipts. Payne is not itemizing.
[Aari beats Payne to his feet, stinging the jaw with a knife-edge chop, then another that echoes in the rafters. He whips Payne to the corner and follows with a running back elbow that rocks him. Aari hops to the second rope, floats over a charge from Payne, and rips him down with a springboard bulldog. Cover for two and Payne thrusts a shoulder up. Aari stays on the gas, hitting the ropes for a low running dropkick that tags the ear and rolls Payne to the apron.]
Jim Ross: Momentum turning toward Maxwell.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Momentum is slippery. Wear good shoes.
Kris Gafney: Or wrestle barefoot and blame the mat.
[Payne grips Aari’s gear and snaps his neck across the top rope from the apron, then slingshots in with a shoulder to the midsection that folds Aari. Payne snatches a waistlock and ragdolls him with a high angle back suplex. He rolls into a cover, hooks the far leg, and gets two and a half. Payne scowls, drags Aari up by the wrist, and yanks him into a short-arm lariat that nearly turns him inside out. Payne hoists Aari onto his shoulders for a fireman’s carry, spins him, and looks for a gutbuster. Aari elbows the temple, wriggles free behind, and shoves Payne into the ropes. On the recoil Aari leapfrogs, hits the far side, and slings a sling blade that wipes Payne out. Patrick Payne gets up to his feet, Aari Maxwell connects with a spring board cutter on Patrick Payne. The crowd comes alive as Aari kips up, clutches his neck, and breathes through the pain.]
Jim Ross: Heart on display. He is still throwing combinations.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Combinations work better on safes than on Payne.
Kris Gafney: Someone call a locksmith anyway.
[Aari hunts a bigger shot. He yanks Payne up, tucks the head, and spikes a crisp tornado DDT out of the corner. Cover and two and nine-tenths. Aari exclaims in disbelief, then nods, accepting the count and rolling to his feet. He pulls Payne up, whips him, but Payne reverses and shoots Aari toward the corner. Aari runs up the buckles and backflips over the oncoming Payne, lands behind, and attempts an O’Connor roll. Payne blocks, grabs the ropes for leverage on the backward tumble, and the referee catches it mid-count, kicking the hands free and wagging a finger.]
Jim Ross: Thank you, referee. That is the exact kind of short-cut I cannot stand.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He was just steadying himself. Very slippery ropes tonight.
Kris Gafney: OSHA would like a word.
[Payne spins with a wild swing. Aari ducks, hits the ropes, and rebounds into a running back elbow. Payne catches him midair and spikes him with a release German that folds Aari on landing. Payne senses the tide and stalks behind Aari with hands hovering for a full nelson. Aari drops to a knee instantly and hooks the top rope to force the break before Payne can lock it. Payne takes four and a half counts to let go, then buries a knee to the kidney the second the ref steps away.]
Jim Ross: That is as close to the line as you can get without stepping over it.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: It is not a line. It is a suggestion.
Kris Gafney: Like speed limits on an empty freeway.
[Payne plants Aari on the top rope and climbs to the second for a superplex. Aari fights with body shots and a sharp headbutt, sending Payne wobbling. Aari stands tall, moonsaults over a charging Payne, lands on his feet behind him, and when Payne turns, Aari plants a thrust kick to the chin. Payne staggers. Aari sprints to a corner, springs to the top rope, and launches with a missile dropkick that blasts Payne to the mat. Cover and a long two. The crowd sings for Aari.]
Jim Ross: Maxwell is rolling. He has found his window.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Close the window. There is a draft in here.
Kris Gafney: And Payne’s neck is the wind chime.
[Aari circles behind a rising Payne and hooks from the back for a ripcord. Payne headbutts the bridge of the nose to break the grip, then scoops Aari for a powerslam. Aari uses the momentum to slide out the back, shoves Payne into the ropes, and rolls him with a crucifix pin for two. Both scramble up. Payne swings a lariat that would take a head off. Aari ducks and blasts a step-up enzuigiri to the temple. Payne drops to a knee, glassy eyed.]
Jim Ross: This could be the cue. Aari needs the exclamation point.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Or a period. Preferably on Aari’s night.
Kris Gafney: Grammar’s important. So is gravity.
[Aari points to the ropes and the building surges. He hits them and rebounds into a flying knee that staggers Aari Maxwell connects with a DDT and goes to the top rope, he jumps off and he connects with My Kingdom.
Jim Ross: My Kingdom! He got all of it!
Jerry "The King" Lawler: No flight path filed for that one.
Kris Gafney: Turbulence solved.
[Aari folds into the cover, hooks the near leg deep, presses forearm across the jaw, and the referee slides into perfect position. One. Two. Three. The bell rings and the pop is immediate, a clean, happy roar that washes over the ring as Aari rolls to his knees in relief and adrenaline.]
(Archaos theme” blasts on the PA system. Archaos Angels walks out on the stage, and he walks down to the ring, and he steps inside of the ring.)
JR-Archaos Angels has started out strong in the EMF.
King-The Dark Queen only needs to worry about the Battletoads.
Kris Gaffney-Well…that’s one worry off her mind.
Suddenly, the powerful tones of “Twilight of the Thunder God” by Amon Arnath engulfed the arena. Lights went pitch black for a moment, and when they return, they danced in a patriotic sequence of Red, White, and Blue while sparks rained down from the ceiling. The camera panned around quickly, searching for the source of the entrance, finally setting halfway up the stands in the crowd. There stood Jackson Gunner followed by Wade Wilson, surrounded by a sea of ecstatic fans. The crowd’s roars intensified as he tore off his tank top, throwing it to a lucky audience member. In a gesture of sheer energy, he beat his chest and threw his hands into the air, forming an X, signaling his readiness for battle as his Championship drapes over his shoulder.)
Announcer: Ladies and Gentleman! Making his way through the crowd, hailing from Honolulu, Hawaii, standing at 6’4” and weighing in at 250 pounds… he is the reigning EMF TV Champion, “THE SMILING WARRIOR” JACKSON “KOA KOA” GUNNER!
JR-He’s going to have quite the challenge in Jackson Gunner.
King-He is probably looking forward to this new challenge.
[Archaos Angels and Jackson Gunner stand in the middle of the ring. They stare down each other. Jackson Gunner throws a fist, Archoas connects with a knife edge chop to the chest that echo through out the arena, but Jackson Gunner answer with a head butt. Archaos Angels stumbles backwards, and he throws a wild fist to the face but it’s countered with duck under, and Jackson Gunner lifts up Archaos Angels, and he connects with a belly to back suplex that puts down Archaos Angels, and he connects with a few stomps on the downed Archaos. Jackson Gunner waits for Archaos Angels connects with a few fists to the face that knocks him backwards. Jackson Gunner tries to whip Archaos Angels to the ropes, but it’s reversed by Archaos Angels. Jackson Gunner bounces off of the ropes. Archaos Angels lowers his head, and he connects with a DDT into the mat. Jackson Gunner goes into the cover on Archaos Angels. The ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1………….2………KICK OUT by Archaos Angels!!]
JR-Angels is able to get the shoulder up.
King – Think the Dark Queen is impressed?
Kris Gaffney-Maybe?
[Archaos Angels picked up by Jackson Gunner, and he sets him up into a power bomb. Jackson Gunner lifts him up, and he connects with a power bomb, but it’s countered into a swinging DDT into the mat. Archaos Angels takes a few moments to rest up, he watches as Archaos Angels to get up to his feet, and once he gets up to his feet. Jacskon Gunner runs at Archaos Angels. Archaos Angels counters with a release northern lights suplex that Jackson Gunner goes flying across the ring. Jackson Gunner gets up to his feet, and once he gets up to his feet. Jackson Gunner is slow to get up to his feet, and he stumbles around. Archaos Angels connects with a flying knee to the face that knocks him backwards. Jackson Gunner gets whipped to the ropes, and he bounces off of the ropes. Angels connects with a spinning heel kick to the face on Jackson Gunner that drops him down on the mat. Archaos Angels calls for the end of the match.]
JR-After a few big counter, and moves, it seems that Archaos is looking to end this match.
King-Think Jackson Gunner smiling now?
Kris Gaffney-What the heck he’ll smile anyways!
[Archaos Angels hooks Jackson Gunner and he goes for his finisher, but Jackson Gunner lands on his feet, Gunner ducks under an attack, Gunner lifts up Archaos and he drops him with the burning Samaon!! Jackson Gunner goes into the cover on Archaos Angels. The ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1…………..2…………3!!]
JR-Archaos Angels tried to end it, but Jackson Gunner had a plan it would seem.
King-So do I JR…to punch you in the face!
(“Radio” blasts on the PA system as Zack Ryder walks out on the stage with his web camera, he walks down to the ring, he steps inside of the ring.)
JR-Zack Ryder is very familiar with Austin Jameson Mercer with his battle with the Golden Empire, and that has transitioned with the Maledictum.
King-Zack knows how talented Austin is.
Kris Gaffney-We’ll see how this next chapter continues.
[video size="small" src=""][/video]
[As the unmistakable opening notes of "Money" by Pink Floyd begin to ecFho through the arena, a grandiose display of gold and green laser lights crisscrosses the space, creating an atmosphere of opulence and exclusivity. The entire arena is bathed in a luxurious glow, mimicking the sheen of gold.
The titantron springs to life, showcasing a dazzling montage of Hollywood's most glamorous moments: red carpets, flashing camera lights, and premiere nights, all leading up to the marquee name, "Austin Jameson Mercer," emblazoned across the screen in bold, shimmering letters.
Simultaneously, the entrance ramp transforms into a visual spectacle, resembling a premiere night red carpet. A line of spotlight-equipped drones flies overhead, casting down beams of light that spotlight the path, while confetti cannons strategically positioned at the sides of the ramp blast gold and silver confetti, fluttering down like a cascade of wealth.
Then, with a flair that only he can muster, "Hollywood" Austin Jameson Mercer steps out, clad in a custom-tailored robe that sparkles under the lights, his confident stride in sync with the rhythm of the song. He pauses at the top of the ramp, soaking in the adulation, a smirk playing across his lips as he surveys his domain.]
Beautiful female announcer: "Making his grand entrance from Beverly Hills, California, standing at six feet two inches and weighing in at two hundred thirty-five pounds... He is the blockbuster sensation of the wrestling world, the “Pretty Boy”, 'Hollywood' Austin Jameson Mercer!"
[Austin then makes his way down the ramp, each step calculated to maximize the dramatic effect of his presence. Personal security guards, dressed in sleek suits, flank him, adding to the aura of untouchable celebrity status. He occasionally stops to pose for the "cameras," his every move oozing the charisma and confidence of a true movie star.
Upon reaching ringside, Austin takes a moment to gaze out at the crowd, offering a cocky wave before he discards his robe, revealing his wrestling gear beneath, adorned with gold trim that catches the light perfectly. He ascends the stairs and steps through the ropes with an air of entitlement, as if the ring were his personal stage.
The music fades, the lights gradually return to normal, and the confetti settles, leaving Austin Jameson Mercer standing center-ring. He stretches out his arms, welcoming the audience to his show, a smug smile on his face, ready to prove once again why he is the premier attraction, as the arena buzzes with anticipation for the spectacle to come.]
JR-Austin Jameson Mercer got a new direction with the Maledictum.
King-It’s brought him to another direction without a doubt.
[Zack Ryder and Austin Jameson Mercer pace around they lock up, and Zack Ryder puts him into an arm drag that sends Zack Ryder flying away. Austin Jameson Mercer gets up to his feet. Zack Ryder runs at him, and he connects with a hot shot that sends him flying into the top rope, and Austin Jameson Mercer connects with a few fists to the face, and he whips Zack Ryder off of the ropes, and he lowers his head, and he connects with a back body drop that sends him flying across the ring, and he crashes down on the mat. Zack Ryder is slow to get up to his feet, and once he gets up to his feet. Austin Jameson Mercer connects with the Red Carpet that knocks back Zack Ryder. Austin Jameson Mercer hits a kick to the gut, and he sets him up, he connects with a world premiere with a bridge on Zack Ryder. The ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1……….2……KICK OUT by Zack Ryder!!]
JR-Zack Ryder escaped the world premiere.
King-Hopefully the movie has legs to make it’s money back.
Kris Gaffney-HA! Movie box office references!
[Austin Jameson Mercer waits for Zack Ryder to get up to his feet, and once he gets up to his feet, Zack Ryder gets picked up but Zack Ryder slides behind Austin Jameson Mercer, and he pushes him towards the ropes, and he bounces off of the ropes. Zack Ryder connects with a standing drop kick that drops Austin Jameson Mercer down on the mat. Zack Ryder takes a few moments to rest up, and once he gets up to his feet. Austin Jameson Mercer gets met with a few fists to the face, and Zack Ryder tries to whip him to the ropes, but it’s reversed by AJM. Zack Ryder bounces off of the ropes. AJM lowers his head, but Zack Ryder counters with a swinging neck breaker that puts down Austin Jameson Mercer. Zack Ryder calls for the Rough Ryder as he believes he has Austin Jameson Mercer on the ropes as he waits for Austin Jameson Mercer to get up to his feet.]
JR-Zack Ryder has turned this match around.
King-Not quite the turn out Austin was hoping for.
Kris Gaffney-It continues!
[Austin Jameson Mercer gets up to his feet, and once he gets up to his feet. Zack Ryder goes for the Rough Ryder, but it’s countered with a power bomb!! AJM goes to the outside of the ring, and he climbs up to the top rope. AJM jumps off of the top rope, and he connects with the Final Cut!! AJM goes into the cover on Zack Ryder. The ref goes into position to make the count, the ref counts 1…………2……….3!!]
JR-Austin Jameson Mercer gets the victory at the last second.
The arena dims—clean and sharp. No theatrics. Just focus. Then—
“Return of the Mac” hits with that unmistakable groove.
The bass kicks in. The crowd pops.
They know what time it is.
Little Mac steps through the curtain.
He’s wearing a sleeveless hoodie—unzipped, hood down—his hands wrapped tight in black tape, knuckles calloused and exposed.
He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing lightly, eyes sharp, focused. He’s not playing to the crowd—he’s staying loose, staying ready.
Behind him, cool and steady, is Doc Louis, gum in his mouth, towel over one shoulder, nodding like he’s seen this win already.
Mac moves with confidence. Controlled swagger.
Taps his fists together as he walks.
No flash. No posturing. Just presence.
The strobe lights hit light gold and white as the beat pulses, but never overwhelm—because Mac’s energy doesn’t need dressing up.
The fans reach out—he slaps a few hands, nods to others, but he never stops moving. His rhythm is the beat of the ring.
He slides into the ring clean and low, pops up in one fluid motion, and immediately circles the ropes once—keeping his hands moving.
A short jab. A sidestep.
Always working. Always tuned in.
He hits the corner turnbuckle, hops up to the second rope, and raises one wrapped fist in the air—no grin, no posing. Just a statement:
“You’re stepping into my fight now.”
Samantha Irvin fires off with intensity:
"Making his way to the ring… accompanied by Doc Louis… from the Bronx, New York… weighing in at 200 pounds… he is THE PRIZE FIGHTER… LITTLLLLLLLEEEEE MAC!"
Mac drops down, rolls his shoulders, paces back to his corner. Doc gives him a nod, mutters something low.
Mac taps his fists together, leans into the ropes, and eyes his opponent like a sniper finding range.
He doesn’t flex.
He doesn’t scream.
He fights.
And you’d better pray your chin holds up.
Jim Ross: Little Mac has hand speed you cannot coach and the will to match it. If he keeps the fight upright and crisp, he can steal this.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Or he can get folded like a dungeon map that did not come with instructions. The Dungeon Master is playing a game only he understands.
Kris Gafney: If he rolls a bad number, the only saving throw is ice.
The arena is plunged into eerie darkness. A single spotlight beams down on the entrance stage, revealing an enormous 20-sided die (D20), its numbers glowing with arcane energy. The haunting opening chords of “Binks’ Sake” start to play, gentle and mysterious, the crowd immediately clapping along.
Suddenly, on the massive LED screen, a colossal animated dragon bursts forth—its scales shimmering violet and gold. It coils and roars, unleashing a torrent of digital flame straight down the ramp. As the fire rushes forward, spotlights follow, making it seem as if the very ramp itself is set ablaze, leading to the ring.
At that moment, from beneath the stage, a ring of real flames erupts. Rising through the fire, guitar in hand and bathed in flickering orange and purple light, stands The Dungeon Master. He strikes a rockstar pose, head thrown back, hair wild, the guitar gleaming across his chest. The arena explodes with cheers.
He launches into a flamboyant air guitar solo, strutting to the music, every step in sync with the rolling animation of the D20, which now tumbles down the ramp in perfect time with his movement—projected to look as if it’s rolling just ahead of him, leading the way to destiny.
Each of his steps triggers a cascade of lighting effects—arcane runes illuminate underfoot, bursts of fireworks erupt from the ramp, and shooting flames flare on either side. He spins and dances, encouraging the crowd to join in, then leaps onto the ring apron, pausing to soak in the roaring energy of the fans.
With a grand flourish, he vaults into the ring, landing center stage in an epic rockstar stance. He rips a final, thunderous strum on his guitar—at that precise moment, golden sparks rain down from the rafters, surrounding him in a shimmering storm, as purple and gold spotlights swirl around the ring.
As the music fades, the dragon on the screen loops and lands atop a mountain of dice, bellowing one last time as flames curl around the frame.
Announcer: Making his way to the ring… hailing from the Astral Plane… but Louder! Weighing in at two hundred and twelve pounds… he is the BARD of BRUTALITY… the MASTER of MAYHEM… THE DUNGEON MASTER!
The Dungeon Master drops to one knee, raises his guitar like a legendary sword, and flashes a wild, infectious grin as the crowd erupts—his legend already unfolding before the match has even begun.
Jim Ross: Mind games and presence. The Dungeon Master bends the temperature of the room without throwing a punch.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: And once he throws one, he reminds you that hit points are not infinite.
Kris Gafney: Inventory tonight includes suplexes and smugness.
[The bell rings and The Dungeon Master immediately drifts left, testing range with open hands. Mac circles right, weight on the balls of his feet, flicking a probing jab that the Master parries with lazy contempt. Mac doubles it, then steps in and rips a body shot that lands solid on the floating ribs. The Master winces a half inch and gives ground to the buckles. Mac stays disciplined, peppering the tight guard with jabs to the forehead, then snaps a left hook to the liver and a short right to the chin. The referee calls for a clean break when the Master hooks the top rope, and Mac raises his hands like a gentleman. The Dungeon Master smiles without teeth and clamps a sneaky forearm across the throat in the last heartbeat before four, grinding it until the official yanks his arm free and warns him.]
Jim Ross: Cheap and calculated. He is building an unfair ring around a fair fight.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He is using the five count like it came in the manual. Read a book, JR.
Kris Gafney: Chapter one, rule bends into rule pretzel.
[Mac fires out of the corner, ducks a looping shot, and tattoos a three punch combo to the midsection that bumps the Master to center. Mac slides left and stings a jab. The Master tries a collar and elbow and Mac refuses, steering the head with glove pressure and clipping a check left hook that snaps the hooded head. The crowd surges as Mac chain links into a springy running forearm and a quick snapmare that tosses the Master to a seated position. Mac hits the ropes and lands a low dropkick between the shoulder blades that knocks the air from the lungs. Cover for one and a half before the Master shoves him off with long limbs and crawls to the apron with studied calm.]
Jim Ross: Little Mac dictating pace. He is making The Dungeon Master follow instead of lead.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Following is when the trap looks the most harmless.
Kris Gafney: Beware of invisible traps and very visible knees.
[Mac goes to drag him in and the Master snaps the top rope up into Mac’s throat. Mac stumbles away, grabbing at his windpipe, and the Master slithers through the ropes to full height. He hammers a European uppercut under the chin, then traps a wrist and spins Mac into a short arm lariat that drops him flat. The Master stays on the arm, cranking the wrist at a cruel angle, then steps through into a grounded hammerlock and uses his free forearm to grind across the jaw. Mac squirms, gets a knee under, and fights up with stubborn muscle. He throws blind elbows that graze, then a clean one that lands. The Master breaks on his own terms by switching to a front facelock and snapping Mac down into a tight guillotine clutch, hooks in, weight sunk.]
Jim Ross: Dungeon Master dragging it to the mat. That stifles Mac’s hands and eats clock.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: And oxygen. Mostly oxygen.
Kris Gafney: Air is a limited resource inside that hold.
[Mac turns his hips, stacks the Master’s shoulders, and forces a quick one count that buys space. He shoves to his feet, backs the Master to the ropes, and the ref calls for a break. The Master obeys at four again, but the moment the hands separate he flicks a finger across Mac’s eye line. Mac blinks hard and eats a knee lift to the gut that freezes him. The Master pivots behind, threads both arms into a straightjacket position, and yanks Mac backward into a straightjacket backstabber that bounces him ugly. The Master floats over and presses his forearm across Mac’s mouth while he hooks the near leg. Two and a half and Mac kicks out to a roar.]
Jim Ross: Little Mac is still in this through grit and timing, but those shortcuts add up.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: You call them shortcuts. I call them side quests.
Kris Gafney: Reward unlocked, referee irritation.
[The Master rises slow, measuring. He drags Mac up by the jaw and sends him sternum first into the buckles so hard the ropes quiver. Mac staggers backward into a waistlock and gets dumped with a release German suplex that flips him to his belly. The Master rolls him over with a boot and drops a deliberate elbow across the collarbone, then another. He stands on Mac’s left hand and kicks the ribs twice, toe pointed, each one a punctuation mark. He drags Mac by the glove and threads his arm through the bottom rope, trapping the limb, then steps back and drives a knee into the exposed shoulder until the referee’s four count chases him away. The Master raises both palms and steps to center with a prim bow that draws heat.]
Jim Ross: He is picking the arm and the midsection clean. That takes steam off every punch.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: It also takes steam off your breakfast tomorrow. He is planning ahead.
Kris Gafney: Meal prep with malice.
[Mac finds a rope and hauls himself vertical with a grimace. The Master closes, hands high, fakes a tie up, and buries a knee. Mac braces, slips to the side, and blasts a shovel hook under the ribs that melts the Master to one knee. Mac swarms. Left to the body, right upstairs, left again to the liver. The Master turtles and eats the flurry. Mac takes a step back and calls for noise, then shoots forward into a jumping uppercut that cracks the jaw and pops the hood. The Master spills to a hip and Mac covers deep. One, two, the Master snakes a long leg to the bottom rope and saves himself. He slides to the floor for sanctuary.]
Jim Ross: The rope is the only friend The Dungeon Master has right now.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: He has a lot of friends. Physics, leverage, the calendar. All the good ones.
Kris Gafney: The calendar says today hurts.
[Mac gives chase to the floor and The Master circles a post to buy an angle. Mac cuts him off and the Master shoves him spine first against the apron, the hardest part of the ring. He then grabs Mac’s wrist and snaps it across the edge like a mousetrap. Mac stumbles away clutching his hand. The Master rolls in to break the count and rolls back out with a smirk. He grabs Mac by the head and bounces his face on the apron lip, then slings him under the bottom rope such that Mac is half in, half out. The Master steps to the apron, grips the top rope, and vaults into a slingshot guillotine leg drop across the throat. Mac shudders, eyes wide, air stolen again.]
Jim Ross: The official is giving latitude and The Dungeon Master is using every inch of it.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: I love a craftsman with good taste in inches.
Kris Gafney: This ruler measures pain.
[Back inside, The Master herds Mac to a corner and seats him on the top buckle. He climbs to the second rope and hooks for a superplex. Mac fights with body shots, then an ear clap. The Master answers with a headbutt that blurs Mac’s vision and resets the grip. The crowd hums with worry. Mac digs deep, wedges a glove under the chin, and shoves with everything he has left, knocking The Master backward to the canvas. Mac steadies himself and launches into a high crossbody from the top that lands flush. He scrambles into a lateral press. One, two, the Master buckles him off with violent force.]
Jim Ross: Collision for two and a heartbeat. Little Mac is alive in there.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Alive is a low bar when you share the ring with a Dungeon Master.
Kris Gafney: It is also a high five for the EMTs.
[Mac beats the canvas once to fire himself up and stalks behind the rising Master, head moving, stance coiled. When the Master turns, Mac unloads a blistering seven punch combination that has the people counting loud. On the eighth, The Master sways and teeters. Mac sprints to the ropes for momentum and swings a corkscrew right, the knockout he wants. The Master collapses his frame at the last blink, slips under, and scythes both legs with a dragon screw that torques Mac’s knee awful. He keeps the leg, turns, steps through, and twists into a kneebar with an inside heel hook flavor, wrenching the joint while pulling the ankle off line.]
Jim Ross: That is nasty torque. He is trying to take the spring out of Little Mac’s step.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: No spring, no fling, no win.
Kris Gafney: Springs belong in mattresses, not knees.
[Mac claws, flips, and tries to kick free. The Master resets and cranks. Mac plants both gloves, pushes up on tortured legs, and crawls the inch he needs to drape fingertips on the bottom rope. The referee demands release. The Master squeezes to four as usual and then lets it go. He stands and soaks in the noise as Mac cradles the knee and pounds the mat in frustration. The Master paces a slow circle like a chess player who already knows the next three moves.]
Jim Ross: If Little Mac wants this, he has to cash in now. He cannot let the knee become the story.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: The knee is already the headline. Extra, extra, read all about it.
Kris Gafney: I will take a copy and an ice pack.
[The Master hauls Mac up by the head and threads him into a half nelson. He yanks Mac through and spikes him with a half nelson suplex that folds him like pocket lint. He does not cover. He stands behind the staggered fighter, opens his hands like a stage magician, and mimes throwing invisible dice onto the mat. The crowd boos the flourish. The Master steps in, hooks a double underhook, and looks to torque him into his finisher. Mac senses it, drops weight, and back body drops free, landing on the bad knee with a gasp. The Master rises quick and Mac greets him with a desperation inside cradle. One, two, almost. The Master kicks loose with alarm etched even on that cold face.]
Jim Ross: Small package nearly stole it. Little Mac is fighting for inches and they nearly paid off.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: The Dungeon Master just added a lock to his treasure chest.
Kris Gafney: Combination set to no.
[Mac pops up, knee screaming, and bites down on the pain. He feints high, digs a shovel hook to the liver again, then explodes up the center with a leaping uppercut that staggers The Master to the ropes. The arena feels the turn and swells. Mac sprints, springs to the middle rope, and wheels into a springboard back elbow. The Master gets both forearms up, absorbs, and in the same motion loops arms around Mac’s waist in midair, turns, and spikes him with a release snap powerbomb that detonates the ring.]
Jim Ross: What a counter. That is the trap door right there.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: The floor just vanished and so did Little Mac’s momentum.
Kris Gafney: Insert coin to continue.
[The Dungeon Master crawls into a cover with a forearm grinding across the jaw. One, two, Mac jerks a shoulder free and the building roars in gratitude. The Master sits back on his heels, breath steady, patience unbroken. He stands, shadows over Mac, and drags him up for the exclamation point. Double underhook secured. He hoists, pivots, and spikes him with the Critical Hit leaves Little Mac motionless on impact. The crowd exhales in one long note.]
Jim Ross: Critical Hit. He got every bit of it.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Damage quantified. Health bar empty.
Kris Gafney: Roll credits.
[The Dungeon Master crawls into the pin without theatrics now. He hooks the far leg deep, presses his forearm across Mac’s face, and stares through the cover at the hard camera while the referee counts. One. Two. Three.]
Jim Ross: The Dungeon Master defeats Little Mac by pinfall. That was cold, methodical wrestling mixed with just enough rule bending to tilt the board.
Jerry "The King" Lawler: Winners know the rules and how to bend them. Consider this lesson complete.
Kris Gafney: Homework due tomorrow. Assignments include ice and Advil.
(The Dungeon Master stares down at the fallen Little Mac as Shockwave goes off the air.)
