Post by God King Dune on Jan 22, 2016 15:52:18 GMT -5
...is WAR
Monday - January 18, 2016 - Columbus, OH
A high, wide shot of a large crowd packed into an arena greets us from the outset. Spotlights scan over the masses, and an electronic display runs across the thin border that separates the lower and upper levels. It's not the familiar black and green one the WCF Faithful have come to expect though. Instead, it's red, white, and black. Nor is the wrestling ring that comes into view as we pan over a familiar sight. The white ropes that line the squared circle are a bright white, and as the all-too-clean, high-definition stage setup comes into view, we realize we’re in alien territory.
Michael Cole: Good evening, and welcome to Monday Night RAW.
The second-rate wrestling company’s once rabid fan base sits in preparation for another night of disappointment as a woman’s voice rings out over the PA.
Lillian Garcia: Ladies and Gentlemen...one of the principle owners of the WWE...Stephanie McMahon!
The crowd erupts in boos to see the show start off in such a predictable manner. The aging wrestling-baron’s daughter appears from behind the bright lights of the WWE stage, smiling at the heat she receives from the fed up people that surround her. She makes her way toward the ring, climbing in and standing in the center before she holds a mic to her lips and speaks over the boos.
Stephanie McMahon: Thank you...thank you...yes…
Crowd: BOOOOOOOO!
Stephanie McMahon: Yes...I hear you. All of us here at the WWE hear you. Week in and week out, year after year, we’ve worked hard to deliver the finest sports entertainment product in the world, and still you...
Crowd: BOOOOOOOO!
The lights in the arena dim as a descending, two-chord riff blasts over the PA - the entrance music of the WWE Champion. One might expect a roar of cheers to erupt from the crowd, but instead an audible groan greets our ears in its stead.
The camera cuts to a shot of the crowd, where Roman Reigns appears at the top of a flight of stairs. He makes his way down, a look of false-confidence on his face that does little to hide his nerves as he goes over his scripted lines in his head.
Michael Cole: Here comes the Champ! Roman hardly let Stephanie get more than a few sentences in before he interrupted her this time!
JBL: What a show of disrespect, Maggle! Roman Reigns can -
Michael Cole: Wait a minute...what do we have here?
The WWE Champ stops in his tracks as a bald, hulking man stands in his way on the stairs. He faces away from us and toward Reigns, who looks at him with amused befuddlement before he decides to continue his descent, assuming the “fan” will move.
He doesn’t.
Roman, in an attempt to think quickly on his feet, draws his mouth up in his trademark, cringe-worthy grin before coming to within a stair of the man. His mic is on, and he holds it up to his mouth.
Roman Reigns: Sufferin’ succotash, son. Do I know you, scar-boy? You got somethin’ to say to -
But the man is apparently beyond words as he shoves the Champ backward. Reigns falls down awkwardly, and the people in the arena pop to see it.
Michael Cole: What’s going on here? I assure you, folks, this is not part of the program.
JBL: Somebody get this guy out of here.
Byron Saxton: Wow.
Reigns finds his feet, and he slings the WWE Title belt back over his shoulder as he looks around at the frenzied, mob-like crowd around him. A look of fear and confusion don on his face as their cheers and jeers start to get to him, and he looks down at the ring toward Stephanie only to see her hold her arms up in similar confusion. She speaks into her mic.
Stephanie McMahon: Security! Where’s security?!
Reigns, not wishing to appear weak in the face of adversity, once more tries to sneak past the monstrous “fan”...but it doesn’t end well for him.
The man punches Reigns in the gut, buckling him over before he locks him up in a standing headscissors. He hooks both arms behind his back before he lifts Reigns into the crucifix position high above his head, at which point he turns to face the ring.
The ruined face of Dune appears on WWE television for the first time, unmasked to reveal the deep, jagged scars he wears in place of a beard. The crowd erupts in deafening cheers to see the awe-inspiring sight.
Dune looks toward the ring at the horrified face of Stephanie before he elevates the flailing Reigns in his arms and lobs him viciously down the stairs. The WWE Champ lands on the back of his neck some ten feet down and away, flipping over on his stomach and lying facedown and motionless as the crowd gasps in elated horror.
Michael Cole: My God! My God! The WWE Champ is down!
JBL: This is a terrorist attack, Maggle! The show’s over! Clear the arena!
Byron Saxton: Wow.
Stephanie McMahon exits the ring in haste as Dune strides down the stairs in Roman’s stead, stomping on the downed Champ before stepping over him. She screams in terror as she scrambles up the ramp.
Stephanie McMahon: Security! SECURITY!!
The WWE crowd is going apeshit, as they haven’t in a decade or more; as they do every week at WCF shows, whose shadow the once-great WWE has been in for 15 years.
Dune violently shoves a fan aside as he tries to take a selfie with the former WCF World Champion, after which the crowd parts to give him a wide berth en route to the ring. He climbs over the barricade and slides under the bottom rope, calling for a mic as the crowd continues to blow the roof off the arena. A ring-hand tosses him one, and Dune holds it up to his butchered lips as he speaks.
Dune: That’s your Champion?
Crowd: BOOOOOOOOO!
Dune: He makes Wade Moor seem like a credible threat.
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAA!
Dune: Moor’s time will come - just like it has for the rest - but I’m not here to talk about the current WCF Champion. As I’m sure most of you saw, I took care of business last night on Slam against the People’s Champion, Teo Del Sol.
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAA!
Dune: You can cheer him all you like, but even with the WCF Faithful at his back - even with a freshly ruptured and subsequently eviscerated internal organ still plaguing my mind and body - I outmanned and outlasted the lowly luchadore. He put up a fight, but as the rest, his wasn’t good enough. But I’m not here to harp on the past, either...even if Joey Flash doesn’t know that’s where his rightful place resides.
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAA!
Dune: You people will cheer anything. Perhaps that’s why you’re here tonight at this minor league “sports entertainment” show. Where I come from, we call it wrestling...even when a piece of shit like Flash uses a steel pipe to put me down - an act his supposed-enemies, Howard Black and Occulo, no doubt had a hand in.
What’s the matter, Joey - still bitter about One? I thought we’d buried the hatchet. I thought the war was over. But then again, I was sure you thought the same after you toppled me at WAR this past October. Now, it seems only time will tell how it truly ends for the two of us.
And as for you, Howard Black...Occulo...well it’s clear as day why you’d resort to sending Joey Flash out to sneak up from the shadows and lay me out. It’s what he excels at...and besides, the two of you are too high and mighty to employ such tactics on your own. Even if you were black-hearted enough to try, the entire world knows the fallen Sentinels can’t stand against the only true one left standing...that, of course, being yours truly.
Just then, every security guard in the building rushes the ring from all angles. The crowd cheers in anticipation as they charge the ring...though it doesn’t take long before their numbers fail them.
Dune knocks one out cold...then another...and another. He kicks, slams, punches, and plants each one into the mat before he shoots to his feet amongst the mangled mass of humanity in the ring. His breath reveals a hint of being labored as he picks the mic up and continues.
Dune: Case in point. Two, three...not even a dozen or more can put me down. But it only takes one of me, Howard; it only takes a single Sentinel, Occulo, to put the two of you down. You’re the fallen; I’m the risen. And no matter what you try and throw at me at Fifteen - be it Joey Flash or some other cheap trick you good samaritans have up your sleeve - nothing’s going to stick.
But believe it or not...I’m not here to talk about the faux Sentinels either. I’ve got something else on my plate this week, and as anyone who knows anything can attest, I never look past an opponent. I’ve invaded this shit program tonight because I couldn’t wait to speak to my next foe directly on the tallest soap box of all, save that of WCF Slam. The interweb wouldn’t do, nor would a telephone call, and outside of walking right up and knocking on his front door, this is my best bet of reaching him. I’m here for one thing; for one man...Vengeance.
This time the crowd doesn’t cheer, as they had for the rest of the names Dune dropped, be they universally hated or loved by the WCF Faithful.
Dune: No reaction...just as I thought. The man I’m up against this week’s been around for three times as long as I have, and yet you could hear a pin drop at the mention of his name wherever you go. To the world, mine has become a household name, no longer associated with mounds of sand but with a man of relentless aggression and infinite fighting ability. Meanwhile, the word “vengeance” remains shut out in the cold by homeowners and the homeless alike. It’s not a name that conjures images of a fatass in white and black facepaint; it’s merely a word that means retribution - plain and simple. In all his years in the WCF, Vengeance has failed to establish himself as a credible threat to anyone aside from talentless newcomers...though even they find it in them to put him down for three on occasion.
This Sunday at Slam, I’m going to -
Dune’s lips continue to move, though his voice becomes inaudible as his microphone ceases to function. He taps on it, then chucks it away in anger.
Michael Cole: We’d like to apologize to the listening audience. The WWE has been invaded by an outsider, but rest assured the situation will be under control soon.
JBL: I’m getting word that the locker room is up in arms, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see -
He stops as Dune’s icy blue eyes dart his way. Without warning, Dune strides toward the commentators table, sliding out of the ring as the three men rise to their feet.
JBL: Run, Maggle! I’ll save you!
Dune leaps over the table, delivering a devastating flying-clothesline to the face and throat of Bradshaw. Dune pins both of his arms down with his knees and lays into him once, twice...but by the third, JBL is already lights-out.
Byron Saxton: Wow.
Dune shoots to his feet and snags the oblivious commentator by the neck, chokeslamming him so that his head and neck bounce awkwardly against the barrier. Saxton is dazed, and Dune slams a heavy boot into his face to finish the job. He then turns on the wide-eyed, weasley Michael Cole, who backs himself into the small bell-table in the corner.
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Dune lunges at him, grabbing hold of Cole’s collar before locking his head beneath his armpit. He drags him over to the commentator’s table and climbs on top.
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
With the greatest of ease, he lifts Cole high in the air so that his feet point toward the ceiling. He holds him there for a long moment as Cole pleads for his life...but his words are lost on his captor. Dune sits out, dropping Cole between his legs. The table shatters beneath their combined weight, and the monitors fly as Cole lands on the top of his head in perhaps the most vicious Hourglass of all-time.
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
Dune demands a working microphone from one of the ring-hands, who wisely flees upon handing one over to him. The crowd can’t get enough of what they’re seeing, and they begin to chant out the name of the decade-and-a-half-long industry leader.
Crowd: W-C-F!! W-C-F!! W-C-F!!
Dune slides back into the ring and finds his feet. The chants of the crowd fade as he continues.
Dune: Freddy Whoa and Zach Davis would have gone down just as easily...though something tells me Gravedigger might have at least put up a fight. But back to the matter at hand: Vengeance.
Perhaps I was being unfair when I said you’ve been around for three-plus years, Vengeance. In truth, you were more or less inactive for 2 of those. Granted, the world may not know it, seeing how even when you ARE active, you never seem to make much of an impact in the WCF. Sure, you’re a former Hardcore Champion - a former Internet Champion, too - but what do the accomplishments of a bygone era mean in this day in age? Very little, if anything at all. Better yet, what do they mean with regard to our match this Sunday? Absolutely nothing.
The Vengeful one, you call yourself. Tell me, Vengeance - what is it you avenge? Certainly not your in-ring losses, of which there are too many to count. And do you really think you’re set to start this Sunday at Slam when you square off against the most dominant fighter in the world today? You may be lacking in talent, but I don’t consider you to have gone full-retard. Then again, I’ve never so much as considered you before I saw your name across from mine on this week’s Slam card, so I could be wrong. Maybe I’m stepping in the ring with the dumbest motherfucker in the WCF, which would be saying something. You certainly have the size and look of a man whose mind is underdeveloped at best. 6’8”, 325 lbs...you’re a big old boy, aren’t you, Vengeance? Well I’ve decimated fighters larger than you, and even if in fact you are an in-bred half-wit, your retard strength won’t serve you this week...much as it hasn’t served you in the past.
Your blubberous, too-tall frame is the only thing you’ll have going for you inside the ring against me at Slam. But don’t get too excited. Your size means as much as your ancient, long-forgotten achievements. In fact, I wish you were even taller - even fatter - so that when I inevitably till your great-redwood frame, you’ll fall even harder. No big man can stand against me. No -
“Weeeeeeeeeeeeell…well it’s the BIG show!”
The crowd goes mild as the largest man under the WWE’s employ appears from behind the stage. Big Show walks goofily toward the ring, a mean look plastered on his big ugly face. As he closes on Dune, the former WCF World Champion begins kicking and tossing the mass of downed security guards out of the ring. Big Show picks up his pace, his knobby knees threatening to give out on him at any moment, and he flinches hard as Dune tosses the largest security guard over the top rope and onto him.
Dune: Yeah, come in and get some you big fuck. Let’s give Vengeance a taste of what’s to come in six days.
Big Show sets the guard down after having caught him. He never takes his drooping eyes off Dune as he climbs onto the apron and steps over the top rope. Dune charges him immediately, and before the giant can think to defend himself, Dune leaps, spins, and lands a tornado kick to his temple. The force of the Dust Devil sends Big Show stumbling backward against the ropes, and Dune winds up before landing a massive haymaker that knocks Big Show both out of the ring and out cold on the mat below.
Most of the crowd cheers to see the carnage, though many remain silent now as Dune continues to wreck the night. He picks the mic back up and continues.
Dune: That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got? Despite what that old man running the show back there may think, bigger doesn’t equal best. I’ve made that perfectly clear. Thomas Bates was by far the biggest man in the WCF - in terms of pure physical size, mind you - far bigger than you, Vengeance. Did you see what I did to him at Ultimate Showdown; at Revenge just a few short weeks later? Granted, it’s highly doubtful you stuck around until the main event, seeing how you went on while the crowd was still filing in. In case you missed it, all his size got him was a bad-landing upon his fall from grace when I humbled his ass not once but twice in dominant fashion.
But while you’ll be hitting the mat with similar force this Sunday, we both know you’re not so naively bold and brash as the former Dark Rider. You know deep down that you can’t defeat me. Posture all you want in the coming days, Vengeance. Make-believe you’ve got a chance, if you must. They all try. Each man I’ve put down before you has tried to convince themselves and the masses that they could actually do it - that they could actually pin Dune for the 1-2-3. Few have truly bought into their rhetoric...and far fewer have actually succeeded in doing so.
Ever since I stepped foot in the WCF - ever since I claimed my rightful place on the throne at the mountaintop - it’s taken an elite effort to overcome me. And though I don’t have to remind you, Vengeance, I will all the same:: you’re not elite. You’ve never been elite - not in 2012 when you peaked; not in 2015 when the meager light you cast was drowned in my shadow; and certainly not in 2016, as I continue my streak of dominance with the the birth of a new year.
“The reign of Vengeance,” you’re quoted as saying. What is it you reign over - the ability to lose a match more swiftly and skill-lessly than all others before or after you? You certainly don’t reign over anyone in the WCF, let alone the Federation as a whole. That’s my job, and mine alone. You’ve spoken of your desire to make 2016 a fresh start for you - a new day - but it’s going to be nothing of the sort. 2016 is bound to deliver less triumph and even more heartbreak than any of your previous campaigns. You may have toppled Mr. Holden on the first Slam of the year and Mikey eXtreme in a non-title match last Sunday, but your fresh start goes sour this week. Your self-assured new day is one filled with misery and -
Big E: Ooohhhhwa Columbus, Ohioooo! Don’t you daare be sour! Ccclap for your saviors from this imposter, and feeel the powerrr!”
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
The New Day’s theme hits as Big E’s voice fades over the PA. The crowd pops as three of the WWE’s hottest commodities appear from behind the stage. Dune stares at Big E, Kofi Kingston, and Xavier Woods with a blank expression, unamused by the fingers they hold up in place of actual unicorn horns. Big E holds the mic to his mouth with his free hand.
Big E: What’s this - what do we have here? I’ll tell you: a dead man, that’s what!
Kofi snatches the mic out of his hand.
Kofi Kingston: But who’s gonna stand in the big bad Du-....in the imposter’s way?!
Xavier Woods blows a whole note into his trombone, followed shortly by two half-notes. He repeats the series as the crowd begins to join in.
Crowd: New...Day socks! New...Day socks!
He takes the mic from Kofi.
Xavier Woods: Don’t ask silly questions, Kofi! You know who it is - we ALL know who it is!
Both Kofi and Xavier look toward Big E, and the massive man dons a look of fierce determination as he strides toward the ring. His resolve wavers, however, as Dune climbs out and hops down from the apron before charging him. Dune reaches a full on sprint, and the singlet-wearing, barrel-chested behemoth can’t manage to keep his feet as Dune spears him out of his boots.
Kofi and Xavier look on in horror as Dune unleashes a flurry of devastating punches that land as fast as lightning. Blood begins to pour from Big E’s unconscious face before his teammates finally rush to his aid...though their efforts are in vain.
Kofi lands a superkick to Dune that merely enrages him further. He shoots to his feet and slams a fist into Kofi’s gut before lifting him high overhead. Xavier beats Dune across the midsection with his trombone, though the flimsy brass tubing bends and finally snaps just before Dune slams Kofi’s spine against his rising knee. After his patented Death Knell, Dune chucks Kingston’s limp body at Xavier before nearly taking his head off with a stiff clothesline from the deepest depths of hell.
The crowd, sensing that perhaps this really isn’t a work due to the sheer violence they’ve just witnessed, begin to boo en masse as Dune makes his way back to the ring.
Crowd: BOOOOOOOOO!!!
He slides and shoots to his feet before grabbing the mic.
Dune: Is this all a bit too real for you? Is my form of entertainment not scripted enough? Or are you disappointed to realize that I’m not here to take part in this company’s shenanigans? If any of you are still holding out that you’ll ever see me in the WWE again, allow me to break it to you once and for all: you won’t. The WCF is my home, and I’ll never get sent down here to the minors. This is amateur hour - three hours of it every monday night - and it’s no place for a man like me.
A man like Vengeance, though, may do well to consider the move. I imagine even HE might find success here. He hasn’t found it in the WCF - not for some time - and there’ll be none to be had for him when we meet in six days on Slam.
I know you’re watching, Vengeance. I know you keep an eye on the lower tier wrestling promotions, if only to build yourself up in your mind. “I can do that...I can beat him…” you tell yourself as you watch these hacks go at it. So what’s stopping you from joining their ranks - gimmick infringement? Fear of dropping down and still being as worthless as you are at the top level of our sport? Or is it something else - something I haven’t guessed at. If so, forgive me. It’s difficult to put myself in your shoes - to put myself in your mindset - because frankly, you and I are worlds apart. It’s the difference between failure and success...and in our case, the two aren’t separated by a narrow margin.
A disturbance in the crowd from where Dune first emerged draws his attention. He turns to see Roman Reigns rise slowly to his feet. Dune chuckles at the sight.
Dune: How has this man not received medical attention yet? How have ANY of these men not received medical attention yet?
Reigns finds his vertical base after a struggle. He shakes his head in a visible attempt to remove the cobwebs from his mind. When he finally does, his eyes find the ring and the man who stands at its center.
Dune’s icy blue eyes lock onto Roman’s smokey contact lenses, and a look of fear comes over the WWE Champion’s face. He tries to smile confidently, but reaches for his neck as a jolt of pain shoots through it. Dune takes one step toward the ropes, and it’s all Reigns needs to see before he backs up the stairs before turning and fleeing up them 3 at a time.
The crowd boos to see cowardice from their Champion, wishing now for someone to prove themselves worthy of taking on the invading Dune.
The former WCF World Champion turns his back to where Reigns once laid and continues.
Dune: See that, Vengeance? I hope you’re taking notes. Turning tail and fleeing as fast as a big fat fuck like you can would be an infinitely wise move. Cowardly, sure...but wise nonetheless. You may as well not even take it that far. My advice, if I held any regard for your health and safety, would be to not even show up. But then again, I don’t give one single fuck about your well-being. I’ll be aiming to end your career this week - just as I do to each of my opponents week in and week out - and in all honesty, bailing on this match before that fateful bell tolls to get it underway would surely be the wisest thing you’ve ever done.
But that’s not saying much, is it, Vengeance? You’re not a wise man - you know it; I know it; the entire world knows it. You’ll come out and say you’ve got a chance, paper thin as it may be. I don’t doubt you’ll acknowledge the fact that I’m a superior wrestler - a superior man in general - but you’ll give yourself a shot....if only because you’re a fool, and no matter what you do - no matter how hard you try - you’ll be one ‘til the end.
You know you’re not the best. You’ve said it yourself. With that in mind, whether or not you know or are willing to acknowledge that I’m the best is inconsequential. Because if you’re not the best, you can’t beat the best. And in your case, you’re not going to come anywhere close. You claim you’re not the worst wrestler in the WCF. Congratulations on the achievement...it’s too bad that you are, in fact, the worst wrestler I’ve had the pleasure of staring across from in the ring since...well goddamn, for the life of me I can’t remember facing off against one with a lesser skill-set. I don’t often get the chance to unleash my wrath upon foes so lowly as you, Vengeance, and I plan to take full advantage of my opportunity this week.
Here you are, another week of getting fucked over by the boss. Here you are, in another match that makes absolutely no sense when comparing our fighting ability. You would have done well to retire last week when you had the chance. You went so far as to write up the draft of your notice, but when it came down to the killing hour, you got cold feet. You convinced yourself that you still had some fight left in you, albeit a withering and less-than-substantial stockpile.
You could have been happy for a change, Vengeance. You could have lived out your days back in Iowa with only a sporadic ache and pain here or there on that big, oversized vessel of yours. But now, even if my complete and utter dominance of you finally persuades you that having Seth send you your walking papers is the best thing for you, you’re going to live out the rest of your life in agony. As the years slowly pass, the damage you incur this Sunday will only worsen. If you’re still walking in ten years, five years...even a year from now, consider yourself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Because if you think you’ve been getting fucked in the ring these past few weeks and months, consider this Sunday the royal treatment.
Crowd: BOOOOOOOOOO!
Dune: Aw....you hear that, Vengeance? You’re getting cheap sympathy. The self-proclaimed Hardcore Messiah; the Master of Mind Games; the King of Violence himself drawing pity from the masses. I don’t blame you people for siding with the underdog. It’s human nature to want the hero to overcome the odds and take out the evil-doer...and make no mistake, that man is me. But know this: there’s not a single man back there in that locker room who can stand up to me; not one…
Not a man who was once a dead man’s monstrous brother but has since aged into an insipid corporate shill.
Not a man who can’t seem to feed himself and begs others to do it for him.
Not a group of aimless foreigners whose bonds will no doubt break come the first thaw of spring.
Not a man who’s said to be a lunatic fringe though in truth is nothing more than a goofy fuckwad overselling an overused gimmick.
Not a bearded fatass who couldn’t win an actual fight to save his life.
Not a family of swamp-dwelling cunts led by a Wade Moor wannabe who are no more than a lesser Beach Krew in literal sheep’s clothing.
No...it’d take more than that. You’d have to be the legitimate beast incarnate to even think you could hold a flame to -
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A smile comes over Dune’s butchered lips as he turns his head toward the stage. After a moment, a squat, fat-cheeked man in a suit and tie emerges, followed by none other than Brock Lesnar.
Dune: Buddy Roman?
Paul Heyman: Far from it.
Dune: Indeed. You may have misheard me, but I said you’d have to be the legitimate beast incarnate to have a chance against me...as in the Devil himself. And from the looks of it, all I see standing next to you is a man with a death wish.
Paul Heyman: Hah...right...well, normally, Dune - if I may be so bold - I’d say a few words to promote my client...but you’ve done enough talking tonight for the both of us, and your words have damned you enough already. So I’ve only got two more to add: Brock...KILL!
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
Lesnar leaps back and forth, light on his feet as he glares toward Dune in the ring. Suddenly he takes off, and in no time he reaches the ring and slides in beneath the bottom rope.
Dune immediately kicks the shit out of his face, but somehow Lesnar shoots to his feet all the same. He withstands another shot to the skull before wrapping Dune up and German Suplexing him.
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
Dune allows his momentum to roll him over before shooting to his feet. Lesnar charges, and Dune lays him out with a vicious clothesline that draws an audible gasp from the masses. Lesnar too, though, is quick to his feet, and he once more is able to wrap Dune up before German Suplexing him for a second time. Blood spills from Lesnar’s mouth as he turns toward the crowd and screams.
Brock Lesnar: Suplex City, bitch!!
Crowd: YAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
But when he turns, he’s met with a tornado kick to the temple that dazes him. Dune wastes no time in capitalizing off the Dust Devil, slamming his heavy fists into Brock’s skull as the air is sucked out of the arena. Brock, bleeding heavily and nearly out on his feet, swings at Dune but misses entirely. The former WCF World Champion locks the monster’s head beneath his armpit and makes for the corner.
He climbs the turnbuckles with Lesnar in tow. When he reaches the top, Dune hooks Lesnar’s arms behind his back, and with a look of unfathomable rage upon his grotesque face, he leaps backward, planting the so-called Beast Incarnate’s head into the mat with a Badlander of epic proportions. Lesnar goes stiff as a board, unconscious and perhaps injured beyond repair.
The crowd is stunned, and for once, silence prevails...
...that is, until the lights go out in the arena, and the PA blasts back the voice of a man...or so the untrained ear would be lead to believe.
Jackal: Having fun, Dune?
A buzz comes over the crowd as their continued confusion heightens to new levels.
Jackal: You’ll be glad to hear I’m enjoying myself as well. Thoroughly, even. And do you know why? Ah...of course you do.
A spotlight shines toward the back of the arena. From the darkness at the center of the ring, Dune’s icy blue eyes turn toward it to see his mortal enemy standing with a sinister grin plastered to a face that rests atop his human form. And in the Jackal’s arms, not lifeless but as comatose as ever, rests Pinky, Dune’s one true love.
Jackal: Free at last, Dune...free at last....thank God almighty, I’m free at last!
Screams issue from the audience as they begin to filter out of the arena in droves. The Jackal smiles to hear them.
Jackal: Aren’t you going to come save her, Dune? Aren’t you going to -
But before he can finish, Dune slices through the shadows en route to where the Jackal stands. The Jackal smiles wide to see it clearly through the darkness that separates them.
Just then, the lights in the arena turn back on, and more screams issue as two dozen S.W.A.T. team members close on the ring from all sides, half on the ground and the other half repelling through the air down thick black cords that stretch from the rafters.
The Jackal turns, and in no time both he and Dune have disappeared amongst the panicked, fleeing masses.
Suddenly, RAW goes off the air. The program’s three-hours are far from up, and we’re left with a multi-colored “please stand by” screen before we cut to black.
