The camera opens in a familiar deserted junkyard piled high with every make and model of automobile since the beginning of time. Atop two of the twisted steel spires stand Haul and Gnash sporting crimson hooded robes as they menace over the wreckage below with their arms crossed in front of them and their tag team championships dangling from their forearms.
Haul: We came into the civilized world parched from the desert and begging for the only three things that could quench us.
Gnash: And we’ve taken all three like conquerors on horseback. We traveled fast and we pillaged the land of it’s resources before you were even up for brekky.
Haul: What’s funny about all of this is that we weren’t quiet about it. We made our motives clear, and and my brother’s case, very loud.
Gnash: Bail on that.
Haul: He went so long thinking his voice wasn’t heard by me, by us, that now given a platform he no longer feels the need to bugger his vocal cords.
Gnash: No point now ya bleedin’ drongos.
Haul: Ironically, it’s all over but the screaming for the roster of Classic Wrestling now that our prophesied reign has hit the last page of your history books and our ash stained hands have permanently tarnished your once beautiful chrome with their dark hold. Gnash? He was the canary in the coalmine letting you all know of the danger ahead. We gave you ample forewarning, and some of you smartly bailed. The rest?
Gnash: Buncha dags standin’ ’round tryna hear Haul whisper his cryptic furphy as if he were gonna tell you anything I weren’t already squalkin’ in Queen’s English.
Haul: So as we triumphantly trot out of this crumbling Sodom and Gomorrah with our cinder speckled white ponies dancing a little dressage on your salty remains, we find ourselves blocked by the biggest sinners in this company’s wake.
Gnash: Yous treat this downward spiral through the dunny tubes like an ankle biter’s helter skelter.
Haul: Once again my brother speaks more truthfully and poetically than I. This isn’t a game to us.
Gnash: We’re not chapping our apples goin’ down this mudslide just tuh climb back up an’ start over.
Haul: But if you want to pair our alpha with your omega then so be it. We’ll strike down the last reserve of lechery, gluttony, sloth, greed, pride, and envy that you have.
Gnash: An’ after we’ve done that, we’ll beat up that sheila Larry too.
Haul: Just know that you’re gatekeeping an already fallen civilization, mates. Not to highlight your frivolous failings further, but you’re also standing on the wrong side of the gates.
Gnash: We’ve already made history from within, ya bogans. The bleedin’ exit that you stand in front of doesn’t even have any walls ’round it.
Haul: You’re like a tollbooth in the middle of the bush. There’s no road leading to or from you. We could just walk around with our chrome clenched tightly between our teeth and make no wukkas about it as we disappear back into the oblivion from whence we came…
Gnash: …But this bleedin’ nutter likes poetry…
Haul: …so we’ll stand and fight for our claim to the cinder pile that Classic Wrestling has become. We’ll fight the ghost of naive integrity that greeted us here on our first day in the states.
Gnash: An’ we’ll finally dispose of that bloated dead legacy he’s propped up on the apron an’ anchored to the tag rope.
Haul: We came into this country as outsiders from a desert wasteland, screaming at the top of our lungs that the desert had followed us here.
Gnash: We warned of kroovy.
Haul: We craved for cactus.
Gnash: An’ I blew out me bleedin’ pipes screamin’ devo at anyone who’d listen.
Haul: Now that we’ve tracked the outside in with the sand of the desert clinging to our soles, we tiptoe past this graveyard of our making without so much as a whisper on our lips.
Gnash: And BDSM? You’re little more than an insignificant grain of sand in our eye to remind us of the minor annoyance that temporarily stood in our path.
Haul: And if there’s so much as a pittance for your last futile attempts of resistance, it’s that we’ll shed a single involuntary tear in memoriam.
Gnash: G’day, Classic Wrestling.
The two hooded men uncross their arms, letting their titles drop in unison onto an insignificant pile of shiny hubcaps and engine parts below.