You can just barely see the Classic Wrestling banner behind the behemoth rightly known as Lord Colossus, and his manager, Walter Whezl.
“All Business” Alex Bruder, previously standing behind and to Lord Colossus’s right, steps forward, dressed in his usual casual wear of dark jeans, black boots, and a too tight crimson red t-shirt. Mind you, there’s not much casual about the Real World’s Championship strapped around his waist. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, before addressing the camera. When he does, it’s just above a whisper.
“Now you need to listen to the Real World’s Champion. I find myself days away from squaring off against two men I’ve already defeated. I could beat you both again. I know it, and so do you. But I can’t beat you together alone. It’s my good fortune, and your very poor luck, that I won’t have to.”
Lord Colossus once again steps to the front of the scene, all studded leather and bad intent. He spreads out his chest even more and roars, before smashing his left hand into his right, bellowing again and dropping back behind Bruder.
“But your luck isn’t all bad. Now, while it’s true that Lord Colossus is all too happy to break your bones just to hear your wails, you both know me to be a merciful man. After all, what is the Cobra Clutch, if not an act of mercy? I’m not hurling you to the mat from seven feet in the air like Lord Colossus, or dropping the point of my elbow off the top rope like Rush. I’m not twisting your legs around until you can’t take the pain, like good old Metro.”
Alex pauses, slowly stroking his mutton chops.
“I lock in the Cobra Clutch and just like that…”
Bruder snaps his fingers.
“…your whole world vanishes, like God flipped a switch in your brain. By the time you’ve regained your senses, I’m already halfway to the locker room.”
At this, Alex starts pacing, just a few steps in each direction before he turns.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m locking it on to win the Real World’s Championship, like I did when we last saw Rush in a Classic Wrestling ring, or if it’s just to briefly cease the constant braying of the biggest motormouth in all of professional sports, “Metro” Vito Valentino. In the main event, you’d better pray to receive my mercy.”
Alex stops, standing ramrod still.
Walter Whezl steps forward, cackling and spinning his umbrella, until Lord Colossus palms the top of his head and pulls him back.
“Because Lord Colossus doesn’t have any to give. One way or the other, at the end of the night, it will be our hands held high in victory, and your bodies motionless on the mat.”
Bruder steps back into line with Lord Colossus, standing shoulder to sternum with the larger man, his own quiet menace in stark contrast to the bombastic violence of his partner for this week’s headline match. Whezl starts shouting honeyed words of praise towards his Lord as the scene fades to black.