In the bowels of the Classic Wrestling Arena, we can see Holo Make sitting in a chair. A yellow incandescent light swings back and forth above him as he stares down at the floor.
He wipes the hair out of his face when he looks up, the light above catching brief glimpses at his face as it stares at the camera.
Holo Make: The time…MY time…is coming soon. My time of winning a prize worthy of being a gift to the Gods who have led me here. A tribute…in the form of the Premiere American Championship.
Holo begins to breathe a bit heavier.
Holo Make: I do not fight for myself. I do not wage battles in the name of glory or success. All of my fights, all of my victories and losses, have been in Their name. And even now, on the precipice of my most sacred gift, I enter that battlefield in front of the raging and screaming and roaring audience knowing…KNOWING…that my time has come.
Holo stands up, the camera following him as the light behind casts a deep silhouette against his body.
Holo Make: Frank, YOUR time has come to ride down to Kanaloa. I will be your chauffeur, Frank. Do not worry…I am told that conquered and humble monsters do well in his domain. But for you…you should be afraid. But not of Kanaloa…
Holo steps back, standing right under the continuously swinging light as it catches his fast one last time.
Holo Make:…but of The Pale Rider. Of Holo…Make…
With that, the feed fades to black.