The camera cuts backstage, revealing the door marked “Lightning” in bold, authoritative letters. The atmosphere in the corridor is thick with tension as the camera lingers on the door. Slowly, it creaks open, and out steps Lightning Man, his normally vibrant energy replaced with a weight of responsibility that hangs on his shoulders. Lightning Man pauses, closing the door behind him. His face, usually hidden beneath a mask of confidence, betrays a moment of somber reflection. As he turns, the camera catches a glimpse of the burden he carries—the pressure of what’s to come. Standing ready, microphone in hand, is Hiroshi Nakamura.
Hiroshi Nakamura: Ladies and gentlemen, joining me now is one of the newest faces of Ultimate Wrestling, but a man already thrust into one of the most important battles in this company’s history—Lightning Man. Lightning Man, thank you for your time. There’s a lot to talk about with the Ronin Rumble coming up. Lightning Man steps forward cautiously, his eyes darting behind him as if expecting an unseen enemy to emerge from the shadows. His sharp movements betray a sense of paranoia, or perhaps it’s the knowledge that the stakes have never been higher.
Lightning Man: Apologies, Hiroshi. Just... gotta stay sharp. There’s always someone watching, someone waiting.
Hiroshi nods, concerned but understanding the weight of the pressure on Lightning Man’s shoulders.
Hiroshi Nakamura: It sounds like you’re already feeling the intensity of this event. You’ve only been here for a short time, and yet, you’re heading into the main event of night 1 of the Ronin Rumble. Not just as any competitor, but as a key member of Valora and Sato’s team, fighting against the North Koreans who blame them for the death of their Emperor and the demise of the Nation of North Korea . What does it mean for you, someone relatively new to this company, to be in such a pivotal position?
Lightning Man’s face softens slightly as he thinks about the significance of the moment. He takes a deep breath before answering, his voice steady but laced with gravity.
Lightning Man: It’s humbling, Hiroshi. To be standing beside legends—Valora, Sato—and even someone as formidable as Abbigail Dresden, it’s an honor I can’t put into words. I may be new to Ultimate Wrestling, but out there in the streets, I’ve been fighting for people all my life. Whether it’s in the ring or out there, my mission remains the same—to protect those who can’t protect themselves. So, this match? This isn’t just another fight. It’s a battle for something bigger.
Hiroshi’s eyes narrow slightly as he senses there’s more to uncover.
Hiroshi Nakamura: It’s clear that you’re passionate about this, but you’re going up against the Emperor’s Avengers—a team that has been together for years. They know each other inside and out, they’ve fought alongside each other, and they’ve proven they can be a dominant force. How do you feel about your own team’s chemistry? Is there enough trust to stand united against such a powerful force?
Lightning Man exhales, his gaze dropping for a moment as if searching for the right words.
Lightning Man: Hiroshi, the truth is... trust isn’t something we have in abundance. Respect? Absolutely. There’s a lot of respect between us. Honor? Without question. But trust? No, not really. We’re all coming from different paths, different experiences, and for someone like me—who hides behind a mask to protect the people I care about—trust isn’t easily given. It’s hard to fully unite when everyone’s holding something back.
Lightning Man pauses, his voice growing a little heavier as the weight of the situation settles in.
Lightning Man: But despite that, I know this—when it comes time to fight, we’ll fight. We’ll give everything we’ve got. Because we understand what’s at stake. We’re not a long-term alliance, and we might not leave this match as best friends. But we’re the best Ultimate Wrestling has to offer, and when it comes to stopping the North Koreans, that’s enough. It has to be. We will stand together for the honor of this company, and we will be victorious.
Hiroshi steps forward, sensing the gravity of Lightning Man’s words. He offers a nod, his own tone more serious as the importance of the Ronin Rumble looms.
Hiroshi Nakamura: Powerful words, Lightning Man. This match will undoubtedly test not just your physical abilities but the bond between you and your teammates. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, and best of luck. We’ll all be watching closely.
Lightning Man offers a small nod in return before casting a final glance over his shoulder, checking the shadows one last time. With a quiet intensity still lingering in his expression, he walks off, the weight of the Ronin Rumble heavy on his shoulders. The camera lingers on him as he disappears down the corridor, leaving behind an air of tension and anticipation.
The atmosphere inside the Tokyo Dome was thick with anticipation as the audience buzzed with excitement, knowing they were about to witness a clash of unique personalities and wrestling styles. The stakes were high, and the energy in the air was palpable as the lights began to dim, signaling the start of the next bout. Miyu Kojima, standing tall at the center of the ring, raised the microphone to her lips, her voice slicing through the excited murmurs of the crowd.
Miyu Kojima: The following contest is a triple threat match, scheduled for one fall!
The Tokyo Dome's massive video screens lit up, showcasing a vivid display of chaotic energy, as the unmistakable opening riff of "Eat the Rich" by Motorhead reverberated through the arena.
Miyu Kojima: Introducing first, from Brixton, London, England, weighing in at 260 pounds, he is the man for the people… BAZ ‘MR. PEOPLE’ BERRYCLOTH!
A towering figure emerged from the entrance ramp, his silhouette cutting an imposing shape as the lights flickered around him. Baz Berrycloth, clad in worn, working-class gear, embodied the spirit of the underdog. With every step he took, his head held high, there was an aura of gritty determination surrounding him, a man forged in the fires of Brixton's streets. He raised his fist to the crowd, his face breaking into a confident grin. Despite being new to Ultimate Wrestling, the crowd responded with roars of approval, the energy feeding into Baz’s swagger as he confidently made his way down the ramp.
Scott Slade, watching from the commentary desk, chimed in as Baz approached the ring.
Scott Slade: Baz Berrycloth, also known as ‘Mr. People,’ has a lot of heart, and you can just feel the crowd rallying behind him tonight! He’s a tough, brawling Brit, and you can bet he’s going to make sure everyone in the Dome knows he’s here to fight.
Holly Hudson: Baz is all about standing up for what’s right, and you have to admire that, Scott. But tonight, he's up against some real wild cards. This could be his ultimate test!
Chris Rodgers: Oh, come on, Holly! Heart and grit only get you so far. You think this guy is ready for the likes of Static or Kid Chaos? He’s in over his head!
Baz entered the ring, giving a brief nod to the crowd before throwing his arms wide, hyping them up as he leaned against the ropes. He turned to the entrance ramp, his expression serious now as he awaited his opponents.The lights dimmed again, and a sudden shock of static echoed through the speakers before the haunting melody of "My Confession" by Kamelot filled the arena. The crowd’s reaction shifted immediately, tension rising as the villainous presence of Alastor "Static" Altuist slowly came into view.
Miyu Kojima: And his opponent, from Albony, New Mexico, weighing in at 191 pounds, he is the master of manipulation… ALASTOR ‘STATIC’ ALTUUST!
Static appeared on the stage, his every movement calculated, exuding an air of arrogance and menace. Dressed in his signature black and silver gear, with a smirk that hinted at the chaos to come, Static slowly made his way down the ramp, his eyes never leaving Baz Berrycloth.
Scott Slade: Now here’s a man who thrives on mind games. Alastor Altuist, or ‘Static’ as we know him, is as unpredictable as they come. He might not have the size advantage, but his intelligence and cunning make him an incredibly dangerous competitor.
Holly Hudson: That’s right, Scott. He doesn’t fight fair, and he doesn’t need to. Static uses every trick in the book to outmaneuver his opponents.
Chris Rodgers: And I love it! This guy is playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers. That’s the difference between a guy like Baz and a genius like Static. It’s not just about brute strength—it’s about outthinking your opponent.
Static climbed the ring apron slowly, taking his time, almost relishing the moment as he glanced at Baz, his sinister grin widening. He slipped into the ring like a serpent, moving with a quiet confidence, his eyes now focused solely on his next victim.
The mood in the arena darkened again as the heavy riffs of "Addicted to Chaos" by Megadeth blasted through the speakers. The crowd erupted into a chorus of boos as the final competitor made his way onto the stage. K.D. Feigel, better known as Kid Chaos, appeared, his brightly colored punk-inspired hair and wild expression striking an immediate contrast to the others.
Miyu Kojima: And their opponent, from Syracuse, New York, weighing in at 200 pounds, he is the Klown Prince of wrestling… KID CHAOS!
Kid Chaos bounded down the ramp, feeding off the negative energy from the crowd. His movements were erratic and unpredictable, darting left and right as he made his way to the ring. Every step he took seemed to carry a burst of manic energy, as if he was constantly teetering on the edge of control. His face, partially painted in chaotic colors, only enhanced the sense of madness that surrounded him.
Scott Slade: Kid Chaos might just be the most unpredictable factor in this match. He’s a second-generation superstar with a taste for anarchy. You never know what this guy’s going to pull out of his hat.
Holly Hudson: He thrives in chaos, Scott. His unpredictability makes him incredibly dangerous, especially in a match like this where anything can happen.
Chris Rodgers: Kid Chaos is the wildcard! You can’t plan for him, you can’t predict him, and you sure as hell can’t ignore him. He’s here to cause mayhem, and I’m all for it!
Kid Chaos slid into the ring, immediately jumping onto the second turnbuckle and flashing a wide, maniacal grin to the crowd. He gestured to the other two competitors, already taunting them before the bell even rang. As he hopped down, the tension between all three men was palpable, each sizing the other up, the atmosphere electric.
The referee stepped forward, laying out the rules, though it was clear from the looks on the competitors’ faces that this match was going to be anything but straightforward. The crowd leaned forward, their excitement mounting as the three men stood in separate corners of the ring.
Scott Slade: Three wildly different competitors. This is going to be a battle of wills, strength, and strategy, with everything on the line. And it’s about to start... right now!
The referee raised his hand and signaled for the bell.
DING DING DING
The moment the bell rang, Baz Berrycloth wasted no time, exploding out of his corner like a freight train. He charged directly at Kid Chaos, his eyes locked on the smaller opponent who had been taunting him before the match even started. Baz’s sheer size and power were on full display as he closed the distance in an instant, catching Kid Chaos completely off guard.
Scott Slade: Baz Berrycloth is not wasting a second here! He’s going right for Kid Chaos!
Chris Rodgers: And why wouldn’t he? The kid’s been running his mouth, and Baz is about to shut it!
Kid Chaos, surprised by Baz’s sudden burst of speed, tried to duck under a wild swing from the Brixton brawler, but Baz was one step ahead. He caught Chaos in a tight headlock, wrenching down with raw force, causing the Klown Prince to flail in pain. With a sadistic grin, Baz followed up with a whallop punch right to the side of Chaos’s head, sending him staggering backward.
Holly Hudson: Baz is in complete control already! Kid Chaos didn’t see that coming at all!
Scott Slade: The sheer strength of Baz Berrycloth is on full display. He’s here to make a statement.
Kid Chaos barely had a moment to recover before Baz was back on him, scooping him up effortlessly and slamming him down with a thunderous slingshot suplex. The ring shook from the impact, and Chaos rolled to the ropes, dazed and clearly out of sorts from the early onslaught. Alastor “Static” Altuist, watching this unfold from his corner, smirked and took a more measured approach. Rather than rushing in, he watched, waiting for his moment to strike. But Baz wasn’t going to give him that luxury. Turning his attention to Static, Baz motioned for him to bring it, slapping his chest and taunting the villain.
Baz Berrycloth: Come on then, you smug little git! Let’s have it!
Static’s grin faltered as he realized that Baz wasn’t just a brute—he was fast, too. Before Static could react, Baz closed the gap, catching him with a quick series of European uppercuts. Each blow snapped Static’s head back, leaving the villain stumbling on his feet, dazed.
Chris Rodgers: Baz is absolutely dismantling both of these guys! Static didn’t even see that one coming!
Holly Hudson: Baz Berrycloth’s striking ability is no joke. He’s a brawler through and through, and it’s paying off!
Baz, not content with just battering Static with strikes, wound up for a final, exaggerated European uppercut, sending Static crashing into the corner. The crowd roared in approval, rallying behind Mr. People as he took control of the match from the outset. He stepped back for a moment, surveying the damage he had done to both his opponents, a smug grin on his face.
Scott Slade: Baz is showing everyone in the Tokyo Dome that he’s here to dominate. He’s taken control of this match from the get-go!
As Static slumped in the corner, Baz turned his attention back to Kid Chaos, who was still struggling to get back to his feet after the earlier suplex. Baz grabbed Chaos by the wrist, yanking him up with ease before planting him back down with a brutal rolling knee drop across the chest. Kid Chaos gasped for air, writhing in pain as Baz loomed over him like an executioner. But Baz wasn’t done. With both of his opponents down, he raised his arms to the crowd, feeding off their energy as they chanted his name. He then picked up Kid Chaos again, hoisting him onto his shoulder and setting him up for his signature Bulldog Slam. Baz drove Chaos face-first into the mat with authority, leaving him motionless in the center of the ring.
Chris Rodgers: Baz is running through these guys like a battering ram! Kid Chaos is in big trouble!
Scott Slade: The power, the aggression—Baz Berrycloth is a force of nature right now!
Just as Baz stood tall, relishing the chaos he was creating, Static began to stir in the corner. The cunning villain, ever the opportunist, saw an opening to take advantage of Baz’s confidence. Static darted out of the corner, aiming to catch Baz off guard with a quick superkick to the back of his head, but Baz, showing surprising awareness, turned at the last second and caught Static’s leg mid-kick. A look of pure shock spread across Static’s face as Baz yanked him forward, pulling him into a devastating clothesline that nearly turned Static inside out.
Holly Hudson: What a counter from Baz! Static thought he had him, but Baz is always one step ahead!
Baz picked up Static, positioning him for what looked like a devastating power move. He lifted Static onto his shoulder as if he weighed nothing, preparing to deliver another crushing blow. But before Baz could slam him down, Kid Chaos, still groggy but desperate, launched himself from behind with a dropkick to Baz’s spine, causing the big man to stagger.
Baz dropped Static, momentarily stunned by the dropkick, but quickly spun around to face Chaos, his eyes filled with fury.
Baz Berrycloth: You cheeky sod!
Scott Slade: Kid Chaos finally got something in, but Baz is still standing tall!
The match was turning into a one-sided affair, with Baz Berrycloth dominating both of his opponents. But with the cunning of Static and the unpredictability of Kid Chaos, there was still plenty of chaos yet to unfold. The Tokyo Dome was buzzing as Baz stood tall, ready to dish out more punishment. As Baz Berrycloth stood tall, surveying the carnage he had inflicted so far, Kid Chaos, determined to seize an opening, dragged himself to his feet using the ropes. Pain etched across his painted face, but his wild, defiant grin refused to fade as he locked eyes on Baz, seething with rage.
Scott Slade: Kid Chaos is not done yet! Look at the determination in his eyes. He’s going for it all!
Holly Hudson: You can never count out the Klown Prince of Ultimate Wrestling! He thrives in chaos, but does he have what it takes to outlast Baz?
The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Kid Chaos made his move. Darting toward the ropes, he picked up speed, his body hurtling with reckless abandon. With each step, his pace quickened, and the energy in the Tokyo Dome rose like a wave ready to crash. Kid Chaos was on a mission to take Baz down, no matter the cost.
Chris Rodgers: He’s charging full steam ahead! Whatever he's planning, it’s going to be big!
But Baz, seasoned in street brawls and ring warfare, had his instincts honed. The moment Chaos came sprinting at him, Baz dipped low and with a burst of raw power, launched Kid Chaos into the air with a monstrous back-body drop. The move sent the smaller man sailing high into the air, over the top rope in a sickening arc.
Scott Slade: Look at the elevation! Baz just launched him into orbit!
Holly Hudson: Wait—oh no… Kid Chaos is heading right for the floor!
Time seemed to slow down as Kid Chaos spun helplessly mid-air, his body twisting awkwardly before coming down hard onto the unforgiving arena floor. There was a horrific crack, followed by blood curdling screams from both Kid Chaos and the nearby audience.
Chris Rodgers: Oh my God! His arm! His arm! That’s a clean break!
The camera zoomed in on the ghastly sight. Kid Chaos’s arm had snapped so severely that the bone jutted out through the skin, blood pooling rapidly beneath him. Fans recoiled in horror, with some shielding their eyes and others fainting outright at the grotesque sight.
Holly Hudson: I can’t even look—Kid Chaos’s arm is completely shattered! This is… this is one of the worst injuries we’ve ever seen!
Scott Slade: I’ve called a lot of matches in my career, but nothing like this! Medical staff needs to get out here NOW!
The once-deafening crowd was plunged into a state of panic, screams replacing cheers as medical personnel rushed down the ramp at breakneck speed. Kid Chaos, writhing in agony, clutched at his broken arm as blood continued to gush from the wound. The situation was so extreme that some fans in the front row fainted, while others cried out in shock.
Chris Rodgers: I’ve seen a lot of carnage in this business, but this… this is on another level! The bone is sticking out! Someone stop the damn match!
The camera panned over the stunned crowd as medics reached Kid Chaos, urgently applying pressure to the wound and working to stabilize his arm. They moved with precision and speed, but the damage was undeniable. Even with their best efforts, Kid Chaos was in sheer agony, his eyes wide with pain as they secured him onto a stretcher.
Meanwhile, in the ring, Baz Berrycloth paused, looking out at the scene. The brutal reality of what had happened hung in the air, but Baz’s instincts kicked in. This was still a match, and his focus was now shifting back to the only remaining competitor.
Scott Slade: Baz just turned the tables, but this match is far from over! There’s still one more man standing—Static!
Holly Hudson: Baz might’ve just ended Kid Chaos’s career, but he better not take his eyes off Static. We know how dangerous and calculating Static can be in moments like these!
Static, who had been lurking in the shadows of the chaos, smirked as he saw the medics wheeling Kid Chaos out of the arena. The bloodshed and panic around him seemed to only fuel his sinister grin. He knew that Baz’s attention had been momentarily divided, and this was his moment.
Baz, however, was no stranger to adversity. Wiping his face with a grim determination, he squared up, staring down Static. The two locked eyes, the tension between them palpable, even as the echoes of the crowd’s horror lingered in the air.
Chris Rodgers: This is about to get ugly. Static is cunning—he’s going to try to pick apart Baz, but Baz looks like he’s ready to finish what he started!
Baz cracked his knuckles, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins after the terrifying incident outside the ring. Static’s mind raced, plotting his next move, while Baz prepared himself for what was to come. The medics were gone, Kid Chaos was no longer a factor, but the war in the ring was just beginning.
Scott Slade: Chaos is out, and now it’s just Baz Berrycloth and Static! This is anyone’s match now!
With a final glance toward the bloodstained floor where Kid Chaos had been taken, the crowd slowly regained their composure, ready for the next chapter of this unpredictable brawl. Inside the ring, Baz and Static squared off, both men knowing that the stakes had just become even higher.
Holly Hudson: Whatever happens next, this is going to be a brutal showdown. These two aren’t done yet, not by a long shot.
The match had taken a dark turn, but for Baz Berrycloth and Static, the fight was far from over.
Baz Berrycloth, standing tall in the aftermath of Kid Chaos's gruesome injury, looked across the ring at Alastor "Static" Altuist, the remaining opponent. His eyes, once full of determination, now glowed with even more intensity. He had already taken out one man, and now only Static stood in his way.
Scott Slade: Baz Berrycloth is on an absolute tear tonight, and with Kid Chaos out of the picture, it’s down to these two. But you can never count out someone like Static—he’s always got a trick up his sleeve!
Holly Hudson: True, Scott, but look at Baz. He’s unstoppable right now, and you can feel the crowd feeding off his energy!
Static, ever the cerebral tactician, circled Baz cautiously, his sinister grin returning as he sized up the towering Brit. He knew he couldn’t match Baz’s brute strength head-on, so he’d have to rely on his speed and wits. Darting in and out, Static feigned a series of strikes, hoping to create an opening, but Baz remained unmoved, his massive frame a wall of muscle and defiance.
Suddenly, Static made his move, leaping into the air with a high-speed Static Shock—a swift superkick aimed directly at Baz’s jaw. The crowd gasped as Static’s boot connected cleanly, snapping Baz’s head to the side. But rather than crumpling to the mat, Baz barely flinched. He slowly turned his head back toward Static, a sly grin creeping across his face as if to say, "Is that all you've got?"
Chris Rodgers: Oh boy! Did you see that?! Baz just ate that superkick for breakfast! Static’s in big trouble now!
Holly Hudson: You can feel the tide turning for Baz here—he’s absorbing everything Static can throw at him!
Static's eyes widened in shock, his usual confidence shaken. He backpedaled, trying to create some distance, but Baz was already on the move. In one fluid motion, Baz lunged forward, grabbing Static by the throat with his massive hand. With a roar, he hoisted Static high into the air and slammed him down with a devastating Bull Dog Slam. The entire ring shook on impact, and the crowd erupted.
Scott Slade: Good Lord! Baz just planted Static like a lawn dart! That might’ve broken him in half!
Holly Hudson: Baz is on fire! Static’s got no answer for this overwhelming power!
Baz, not one to waste time, dragged Static to his feet like a ragdoll. The audience, fully behind Baz now, chanted his name as he delivered a series of brutal European uppercuts, each strike echoing through the arena like thunderclaps. Static’s body jolted with each hit, his resistance fading fast under the relentless assault.
Chris Rodgers: Baz is treating Static like he owes him money! Look at those uppercuts—he’s just pummeling the poor guy!
With Static barely able to stand, Baz whipped him into the ropes with such force that Static bounced off them and staggered right back into Baz’s clutches. With lightning-fast precision for a man of his size, Baz lifted Static up and delivered his signature Slingshot Suplex, launching Static into the air before driving him hard into the mat.
Scott Slade: Slingshot Suplex! Baz is throwing Static around like a sack of potatoes!
Holly Hudson: Static’s in deep trouble here! Baz is not letting up!
The end was in sight, and the crowd could sense it. Baz, feeding off their energy, pointed to the sky before bouncing off the ropes and coming down with a vicious Rolling Knee Drop, the full weight of his body crashing into Static’s midsection. Static gasped for air, his chest heaving as the wind was knocked out of him.
Chris Rodgers: Baz just crushed Static’s ribs with that knee drop! There’s no way he’s getting up from that!
But Baz wasn’t finished. He wanted to make a statement. With the crowd chanting his name louder than ever, he picked Static up one last time, hoisting him onto his shoulders. The fans were on their feet as Baz positioned Static for his finishing move—the Peacemaker.
With a roar of determination, Baz executed the Peacemaker, spinning Static around and driving him face-first into the mat with brutal precision. The impact was so forceful that Static’s body went limp immediately, lying motionless in the center of the ring.
Scott Slade: The Peacemaker! It’s over! Static is done!
Holly Hudson: Baz has put on a clinic tonight! There’s no way Static’s getting up after that!
Baz, confident that the match was in the bag, dropped down and hooked Static’s leg for the pin. The referee slid into position as the crowd counted along with him.
1… 2… 3!
The bell rang, signaling the end of the match, and the Tokyo Dome erupted into cheers.
Miyu Kojima: Here is your winner—BAZ ‘MR. PEOPLE’ BERRYCLOTH!
Baz stood tall, raising his arms in victory as the referee held his hand aloft. Sweat poured down his face, but he looked as fresh as he had at the start of the match, his endurance and power on full display. The fans were still chanting his name as he climbed the turnbuckle, basking in the glory of his dominant performance.
Scott Slade: Baz Berrycloth has arrived in Ultimate Wrestling, folks! What a performance! He was unstoppable tonight!
Holly Hudson: There’s no doubt about it, Scott. Baz made a huge statement tonight, taking down both Kid Chaos and Static with ease. He’s one to watch for sure!
Chris Rodgers: I’ll admit it—I wasn’t sold on Baz before, but after tonight, this man’s the real deal!
As Baz celebrated in the ring, the medical personnel continued to tend to Kid Chaos outside, adding a somber note to the victory. But for Baz, tonight was about sending a message to the entire Ultimate Wrestling roster: he was here, and he was ready to take on anyone who stood in his way.
The camera opens with a wide shot of a dimly lit, rustic scene. Wooden beams overhead cast long shadows across a weathered, old saloon-like backdrop. A soft, golden light filters in, evoking the ambiance of an old Marlboro ad, where men were men, and life was simple and hard. There's the faint hum of a country tune playing in the background, faint but unmistakable. The scent of tobacco seems to permeate the very air as we slowly zoom in.
Sitting on a worn-out leather couch, one leg casually draped over the other, is Phillip Morris Jr., the Marlboro Man himself. A cigarette dangles lazily between his lips, and the smoke curls up around his rugged, stoic face. He takes a long, slow drag, savoring the moment, like he's been doing this all his life. His cowboy hat casts a shadow over his eyes, adding to the mystery that surrounds him.
Across from him stands Hiroshi Nakamura, microphone in hand, clearly unsettled by the thick haze of smoke. Hiroshi hesitates for a second, but then steps forward, ready to begin.
Hiroshi Nakamura: Phillip Morris Jr.—The Marlboro Man—thank you for your time. Tonight, you're set to make your debut against General Oluwa. It's your first match in Ultimate Wrestling, and everyone’s talking about it. What’s going through your mind right now?
Phillip doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke upward slowly. The moment feels heavy, deliberate. He finally tilts his head, revealing a confident smirk beneath the brim of his hat.
Phillip Morris Jr.: You know, Hiroshi, I’ve been thinkin’. These days, people don’t understand what it means to stand for somethin'. Not anymore. Used to be, you’d light up a smoke after a hard day’s work, and that was a reward. It was a man’s way of sayin’, ‘I did my part, I earned this.’ But now? People are scared of a little heat. Scared of a little burn. Just like they’re scared of me.
Hiroshi shifts uncomfortably, the cigarette smoke swirling around him. Phillip’s voice is smooth, almost hypnotic, carrying that old-school swagger. He’s in no hurry, like he’s got all the time in the world. His hand absently taps ash from the cigarette onto the floor.
Hiroshi Nakamura: General Oluwa is no slouch. He’s built a reputation for fighting dirty, using any means necessary to win. Do you think you’re prepared for someone like that?
Phillip leans forward slightly, the cigarette between his fingers now, as he chuckles under his breath. His eyes, steely and sharp, lock onto Hiroshi's.
Phillip Morris Jr.: Dirty? Hiroshi, lemme tell ya somethin’. I didn’t grow up on no silver spoon, despite what people might think. I spent my summers on the farm, in the tobacco fields, gettin’ my hands dirty long before I ever stepped foot in a ring. General Oluwa can fight dirty all he wants. That’s nothin’ new to me. I’ve seen real dirt—the kind that sticks to your soul.
He pauses, flicking his cigarette butt onto the ground and grinding it under his boot, just like he plans to grind down General Oluwa later that night.
Phillip Morris Jr.: The difference is, I ain’t just here to win a match. I’m here to bring somethin’ back. Somethin’ that’s been missin’ in this world for a long time. Men like my father built an empire. They made somethin’ real. And I’m gonna make sure the Marlboro Man becomes that icon again. Not just for Ultimate Wrestling—but for the world.
Hiroshi takes a moment, clearly feeling the weight of Phillip’s words. He struggles to find the right words, but eventually speaks up.
Hiroshi Nakamura: It sounds like this is more than just a match for you. But your father, Phillip Morris Sr., is known for being very business-minded. Has he approved of your decision to pursue wrestling? Does he support this?
Phillip’s face hardens at the mention of his father, but he quickly composes himself. His lips curl into a knowing smile as he reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out another cigarette. He lights it with a flick of his lighter, the flame casting shadows across his face.
Phillip Morris Jr.: You see, my old man, he doesn’t quite get it. He thinks this is a fool’s errand, somethin’ beneath the family name. But he’s wrong. And by the end of this? He’ll understand why I’m doin’ this. I ain’t just fightin’ for the Morris name—I’m fightin’ for what it represents. This company’s been dyin’, and it’s my job to bring it back to life.
Phillip inhales deeply, then blows the smoke directly into the camera, his eyes gleaming with defiance.
Phillip Morris Jr.: And if it takes beatin’ a so-called ‘General’ to prove that, then so be it. He’s gonna learn that there’s no outrunnin’ the Marlboro Man.
The tension in the air thickens as Phillip leans back in his chair, as casual as ever, despite the storm brewing within him. Hiroshi, sensing that there’s something more to be asked, takes a step forward, lowering his voice.
Hiroshi Nakamura: One last question, Phillip. If you win tonight, what’s next? What does the Marlboro Man do after he conquers General Oluwa?
Phillip grins, almost as if he’s been waiting for this question. He taps the cigarette once more, letting the ash fall to the floor as he rises from his seat. He walks up to Hiroshi, standing just a bit too close, exuding an air of dominance.
Phillip Morris Jr.: After I win? This whole company will know my name. They’ll see that the Marlboro Man isn’t just a memory. He’s the future. Ultimate Wrestling’s full of wannabes, dreamers, and cowards—men too afraid to face reality. Me? I’m the harsh truth. And when the dust settles, you’ll see me standin' tall at the top, smokin’ a victory cigarette.
With that, Phillip reaches into his jacket pocket one more time, pulling out a fresh pack of Marlboros. He tosses it to Hiroshi, who catches it clumsily, visibly taken aback.
Phillip Morris Jr.: Keep that, Hiroshi. Consider it a gift from the Marlboro Man. Real men know when to light up after a job well done.
The camera lingers on Hiroshi, staring down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand, his expression uncertain. Meanwhile, Phillip Morris Jr. turns and walks off, leaving behind nothing but the smoke swirling in the air and the unmistakable scent of tobacco.
The scene fades to black, the last image burned into the screen being the pack of Marlboros resting in Hiroshi’s hands.
The energy in the air was palpable as the fans waited for the next match, a battle between two warriors from very different worlds.The heavy drumbeats of “General’s Command” began to echo throughout the arena, and the unmistakable sound of a military march filled the air. The entrance ramp illuminated as General Oluwa stepped into view, his imposing 6'5" frame cutting a powerful figure against the backdrop. His stern gaze surveyed the sea of fans as he marched down to the ring with purpose.
Miyu Kojima: The following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, from Abuja, Nigeria, standing at 6 feet 5 inches tall, weighing 260 pounds, General Oluwa!
The crowd responded with a mix of boos and awe as General Oluwa walked with the pride and arrogance befitting a man of his status. His military garb, complete with medals and a long green coat, added to the imposing aura that surrounded him. As he climbed the steps and entered the ring, he removed his coat and stood tall, basking in the spotlight as he waited for his opponent.
Scott Slade: General Oluwa, a man of power and brute force. He may be new to Ultimate Wrestling, but he has the strength and the mindset of a true warrior. The fans may not like him, but they can’t deny his presence.
Holly Hudson: He fights dirty, Scott. You know this man’s reputation—he’ll use every underhanded tactic he can think of. It’s not just about winning for him; it’s about domination.
Chris Rodgers: That’s what makes him dangerous, Holly. He’s not here to play nice. He’s here to win, and if that means bending the rules or breaking a few bones, he’ll do it.
The arena lights shifted, casting a crimson glow over the crowd. A brief silence followed as the opening beats of “Ghetto Cowboy” by Bone Thugs began to play. Smoke filled the entrance ramp as Phillip Morris Jr., the Marlboro Man, emerged, a cigarette hanging casually from his lips, the trail of smoke curling in the air around him. Each step exuded a laid-back swagger, a man unfazed by the chaos that awaited him.
The Marlboro Man strode down the ramp, taking a slow drag from the cigarette, his eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke for a moment before blowing it out into the air with a calm, collected grin, as if this was just another day at the office. The cigarette continued to burn as Phillip made his way closer to the ring.
Miyu Kojima: And his opponent, from Richmond, Virginia, standing at 6 feet 3 inches tall, weighing 235 pounds, The Marlboro Man—Phillip Morris Jr.!
The crowd, still uncertain how to feel about this mysterious newcomer, murmured in intrigue as Phillip slowly flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the steel ramp. His snakeskin boots clicked against the ground as he walked, nonchalant and indifferent to the scene around him. He blew another plume of smoke, the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, and approached the ring steps.
Scott Slade: Here comes Phillip Morris Jr., the Marlboro Man. He’s got the money, the power, and apparently, no concern for the rules of a wrestling ring—or basic health warnings.
Holly Hudson: He’s certainly making a statement. I mean, who smokes on their way to a match? This is wrestling, not a Western flick!
Scott Slade: Other than Svetlana… no one. Can’t imagine it helps the stamina much.
Chris Rodgers: Stamina? Bah! Who needs it when you’ve got nerves of steel! Just look! This guy is all swagger, and I’ve got to say, it’s kind of refreshing. He’s got that old-school cowboy vibe, and I’m curious to see if he can back up all this bravado in the ring.
Phillip took one final drag from his cigarette as he reached the apron, his eyes locked on General Oluwa, who stood inside the ring, arms crossed and glaring. With a flick of his wrist, Phillip tossed the cigarette butt onto the floor outside the ring and crushed it under the heel of his boot, as though it were an afterthought. Calmly, Phillip removed his cowboy hat and tossed it to the side, cracking his neck as he climbed into the ring. He gave General Oluwa a sly grin, a look that seemed to say, "I’m not afraid of you, and I’m ready for whatever you’ve got.
The referee stepped in between the two competitors, explaining the rules, though it was clear that neither man was particularly concerned with fair play. The tension in the ring was palpable as Phillip Morris Jr. stood face to face with General Oluwa. The two contrasting figures—one a rugged cowboy with a devil-may-care attitude, the other a powerful military force from Nigeria—made for an intense showdown.
Scott Slade: There’s no love lost here, and we haven’t even started yet. This is going to be brutal.
Holly Hudson:Oluwa’s strength versus Phillip’s brawling style. This could get ugly fast.
Chris Rodgers: And with Phillip’s attitude? You just know he’s got something nasty up his sleeve.
The referee signaled for the bell.
DING! DING! DING!
The match was officially underway as the crowd roared, ready for what promised to be a hard-hitting, no-holds-barred battle between two men with something to prove. As soon as the bell rang, both Phillip Morris Jr. and General Oluwa locked eyes, each man sizing up his opponent. They circled one another in the center of the ring, their hands raised, waiting for the right moment to strike. The tension in the air was thick as the crowd leaned forward, anticipating the first move
.
Scott Slade: Something tells me we’re in for a dirty fight tonight.
Holly Hudson: Both Phillip and Oluwa have a reputation for playing outside the rulebook, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this match turned into a brawl in no time.
They finally lunged at each other, locking up in a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Both men fought for control, with Oluwa’s size and power giving him an initial advantage as he began to push Phillip toward the ropes. But the Marlboro Man, ever the opportunist, quickly broke the hold with a knee to Oluwa’s midsection, causing the General to double over slightly. Phillip followed up by grabbing Oluwa’s arm and twisting it into a hammerlock, wrenching the General’s arm behind his back with a wicked grin on his face. But just as Phillip applied pressure, Oluwa countered with a quick, dirty rake across Phillip’s eyes with his free hand, causing him to stumble back, blinking furiously.
Chris Rodgers: There it is! That’s the kind of underhanded tactics you expect from these two. Oluwa not wasting any time.
Scott Slade: Neither of them is interested in a clean wrestling match, and that eye rake proves it. The referee better keep an eye on both of them!
With Phillip momentarily blinded, Oluwa wasted no time, charging forward and delivering a stiff chop to Phillip’s throat—the Cash Settlement move Phillip himself was known for. The crowd gasped at the brutal move, and Phillip staggered back, coughing as he clutched at his neck, gasping for air. But the Marlboro Man wasn’t one to be outdone. As Oluwa moved in to capitalize, Phillip quickly turned the tables, dropping down and delivering a well-placed low blow with his elbow, out of the referee’s sight. Oluwa immediately crumpled to one knee, eyes wide in shock as the crowd reacted with a mix of boos and cheers.
Holly Hudson: Oh! That was blatant, and the referee didn’t see it!
Chris Rodgers: What did I say? Phillip Morris Jr. is no saint either! These two are going to tear each other apart, and they don’t care how they do it.
Phillip smirked, catching his breath and taking a moment to straighten himself up before moving in on the General. He grabbed Oluwa by the head, dragging him toward the corner, where he slammed Oluwa’s face into the top turnbuckle repeatedly, each impact causing Oluwa’s head to snap back violently. The crowd winced with every hit. But Oluwa wasn’t down for long. With a sudden burst of strength, the Nigerian General reversed the hold, slamming Phillip into the turnbuckle instead. He followed up with a series of heavy chops to Phillip’s chest, each one echoing through the arena as the Marlboro Man grimaced in pain.
Scott Slade: These two are taking every cheap shot in the book! This match is becoming a slugfest, and I don’t think we’ve even scratched the surface yet.
Holly Hudson: This is getting ugly, fast.
With Phillip still trapped in the corner, Oluwa stepped back and, with a sadistic grin, delivered a punishing throat chop to Phillip, causing him to choke and stagger forward, clutching at his throat once again.
Chris Rodgers: There’s that Thunderchop from General Oluwa! That’s one way to cut off the air supply, and you can see Phillip’s struggling to breathe after that shot.
Both men had already resorted to their most vicious tactics, and the match had barely begun. With Phillip gasping for air and Oluwa still recovering from the earlier low blow, it was clear this wasn’t going to be a clean wrestling match but a brutal contest of who could cheat and strike harder. As the crowd watched in growing anticipation, the two men circled each other again, both slightly worse for wear but far from finished. Phillip wiped the sweat from his brow, while Oluwa clenched his fists, ready to continue the fight.
Scott Slade: Neither man has gained a clear advantage so far, but they’re both already showing signs of wear. It’s only a matter of time before one of them makes a move that could end this match in their favor.
Holly Hudson: I think you’re right Scott. Their legs look tired.
With both men already pushing the limits, the real fight was only just beginning. As the two men circled each other, Phillip Morris Jr. suddenly lunged forward, delivering a sharp kick to General Oluwa’s midsection. The Nigerian powerhouse doubled over, and the Marlboro Man quickly capitalized on the opening. Phillip wrapped his arms around Oluwa's head, pulling him into a front facelock, and then hoisted him into the air with a snap suplex that sent the General crashing to the mat.
Scott Slade: Phillip Morris Jr. with a snap suplex! He’s starting to take control here!
Holly Hudson: Morris is showing that he’s not just about dirty tactics—he’s got some strength behind him as well!
Phillip got to his feet, adjusting his leather jacket and wiping a bit of sweat off his brow. He reached into his back pocket and, with an almost nonchalant swagger, pulled out a cigarette, lighting it up in the middle of the match. The fans jeered as he took a long drag, exhaling smoke toward the downed Oluwa.
Chris Rodgers: This guy’s got guts, lighting up right in the middle of the match. I gotta admit, that’s some cold confidence from Phillip Morris.
Holly Hudson: Confidence or arrogance? Either way, Oluwa’s down, and Morris is taking full advantage.
With the cigarette still hanging from his lips, Phillip grabbed Oluwa by the arm and yanked him up to his feet. Without hesitation, he sent the General crashing back to the mat with a brutal body slam, the sound of Oluwa’s back hitting the canvas echoing through the arena. Phillip then followed up with a swift stomp to the chest—the Tar Pit—mocking the suffocating effect of smoke.
Scott Slade: Phillip’s focusing on the midsection now, and those stomps aren’t just for show. He’s breaking down Oluwa piece by piece.
Phillip flicked some ash from his cigarette and took another drag before leaning down to grab Oluwa by the head, dragging him toward the ropes. With a wicked grin, he looped Oluwa’s arms over the middle rope, trapping him in place. Phillip took his time, delivering a series of vicious forearm shots to the General’s exposed chest, each blow making Oluwa’s body shudder.
Holly Hudson: Phillip Morris is relentless! He’s not giving Oluwa any room to breathe, quite literally!
Chris Rodgers: That’s how you get the job done! The Marlboro Man is systematically breaking Oluwa down.
Phillip finally let the General fall from the ropes, watching with satisfaction as Oluwa crumpled to the mat, gasping for air. Not letting up for a second, Phillip grabbed Oluwa by the legs and dragged him toward the center of the ring. With a theatrical flick of his cigarette ash, Phillip then dropped down, delivering a heavy elbow drop to Oluwa’s chest—the Ash Drop—making sure to theatrically "flick" his ashes onto him before the impact.
Scott Slade: The Ash Drop! Phillip Morris Jr. is in complete control of this match right now!
Holly Hudson: Oluwa’s in trouble. He hasn’t been able to mount any real offense since Morris took control.
Phillip leaned back, confidently pinning Oluwa’s shoulders to the mat. The referee slid into position and began the count.
1... 2…
But the General managed to kick out at the last second, though clearly weakened.
Chris Rodgers: A kick-out from General Oluwa, but you can see the damage is done! Phillip’s wearing him down, bit by bit.
Scott Slade: Oluwa needs to find a way to turn this around, but Morris is keeping the pressure on.
Phillip got back to his feet, clearly unfazed by the kick-out. He took a long drag of his cigarette before tossing it aside with a smirk. He yanked Oluwa up by his head again and pulled him toward the corner, signaling for his next move.
Holly Hudson: It looks like Phillip’s setting up for something big here!
The Marlboro Man lifted Oluwa onto the top turnbuckle, positioning him for the Burn Out, his devastating super suplex off the top rope. Phillip climbed up after him, locking in the hold and preparing to send the General crashing down to the mat.
Scott Slade: This could be it! If Phillip hits the Burn Out, this match is over!
Chris Rodgers: Oluwa better pray he finds a way out of this, because Morris is about to put him out for good!
Phillip steadied himself, ready to deliver the final blow, as the crowd braced for the impact.
With both men perched precariously on the top turnbuckle, the tension in the arena was palpable. Phillip Morris Jr. had General Oluwa locked in for the Burn Out, and the crowd knew that if Morris pulled this off, it would be the end of the match. With a roar of determination, Morris lifted Oluwa high above his head and, in one fluid motion, launched them both off the turnbuckle. The impact was devastating as Oluwa slammed into the canvas with a thunderous crash, the ring shaking under the force of the super suplex.
Scott Slade: The Burn Out! My God, the force behind that move! Phillip Morris Jr. just obliterated General Oluwa!
Holly Hudson: That’s got to be it! Nobody gets up after a super suplex like that!
Phillip rolled over, taking a moment to admire his handiwork, a self-satisfied grin crossing his face as he wiped the sweat from his brow. General Oluwa lay motionless in the center of the ring, the wind clearly knocked out of him. Sensing victory, Phillip crawled over and draped an arm across Oluwa’s chest for the pin.
1... 2…
At the last second, Oluwa threw a shoulder up, just barely breaking the pin. The crowd gasped in shock, and Phillip’s expression shifted from smug confidence to frustration.
Chris Rodgers: I don’t believe it! Oluwa kicked out! How in the hell did he manage that?
Scott Slade: It’s pure resilience, Chris! The General refuses to stay down!
Phillip slammed his fists into the mat in frustration before getting to his feet. He took a deep breath, clearly deciding that it was time to finish this once and for all. Morris yanked Oluwa to his feet, but the General, using the last bit of energy he had, delivered a desperate eye rake, temporarily blinding Phillip.
Holly Hudson: Desperation move from General Oluwa! He’s trying to buy himself some time!
Phillip staggered backward, rubbing his eyes, but Oluwa wasn’t done. The General used this opportunity to drive a powerful knee into Phillip’s gut, doubling him over. Seizing the moment, Oluwa went for his General’s Judgment sit-out powerbomb, hoisting Phillip up into position.
Scott Slade: Oluwa’s going for the General’s Judgment! He might pull this off!
But Phillip wasn’t going down without a fight. Just as Oluwa lifted him into the air, Phillip shifted his weight, wriggling free and landing on his feet behind the General. Before Oluwa could react, Phillip delivered a swift kick to the back of the knee, causing Oluwa to collapse to one knee. Without wasting a second, Phillip followed up with a vicious chop to the throat—the Cash Settlement—that left the General gasping for air.
Chris Rodgers: That’s it! The Cash Settlement! Oluwa can’t breathe!
Holly Hudson: Phillip Morris Jr. is relentless! He’s systematically dismantling General Oluwa!
With the General clutching his throat, struggling to get a breath, Phillip grabbed him by the head and set him up for his finishing move. With a cocky smirk, Phillip hooked both of Oluwa’s arms and lifted him off the mat, spinning him around in the air like a rodeo cowboy twirling his lasso. The crowd watched in stunned silence as Phillip drove the General headfirst into the mat with the Rodeo Roundup—a brutal double-arm DDT.
Scott Slade: Rodeo Roundup! That’s got to be it! There’s no way Oluwa is getting up from that!
Phillip rolled the limp body of General Oluwa onto his back and casually placed a boot on his chest for the pin. The referee slid into position, and the crowd counted along with the ref.
1... 2... 3!
The bell rang, signaling Phillip Morris Jr.'s victory, and the crowd erupted in a mixture of boos and stunned silence. Phillip, with a self-satisfied grin, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it as he stood over his fallen opponent.
Miyu Kojima: Here is your winner, the Marlboro Man, Phillip Morris Jr.!
Chris Rodgers: That was pure dominance from Phillip Morris Jr. once he took control! Oluwa never stood a chance after that!
Holly Hudson: He’s dangerous, no doubt about it. That Rodeo Roundup could end any match, and tonight, it was enough to put General Oluwa down for good.
Scott Slade: This was Phillip’s first victory here in Ultimate Wrestling, and I have a feeling it won’t be his last.
As Phillip took another long drag from his cigarette, he gazed out over the jeering crowd, his message clear: the Marlboro Man was here to stay, and he was only just getting started. With a final glance at the fallen Oluwa, Phillip flicked his cigarette onto the mat, walking out of the ring with a swagger that oozed confidence and cruelty.
The camera focused on the General, still lying on the mat, as medics rushed in to check on him. The scene faded to black, leaving the fans with the image of Phillip’s brutal victory and the unmistakable smell of tobacco lingering in the air.
Backstage at the Tokyo Dome, Olga Pavlova, the Siberian Behemoth, paced in frustration. Her enormous stomach let out a monstrous growl, a sound so loud it nearly drowned out the distant cheers from the arena. The weeks of starvation—Mordokrov’s cruel punishment for her humiliating loss to Lionel Montbar—had left her feeling like a bear who’d been woken from hibernation with nothing to eat.
Suddenly, a loud knock interrupted her thoughts. Two backstage attendants, each struggling to carry a massive, oversized gift basket, stumbled into the room. The basket was the size of a small car, overflowing with an assortment of meats, cheeses, breads, and sweets that looked fit for a Viking feast.
Olga’s eyes widened as she spotted a glazed ham the size of a boulder, resting at the top of the pile like a crown jewel. Her stomach let out another roar, this one so powerful it actually startled one of the attendants, who dropped his end of the basket. Olga’s nostrils flared, and her eyes gleamed with the kind of hunger that would terrify even the most fearless of men.
Attendant 1 (nervously): M-Miss Pavlova... this is for you. It just arrived.
The second attendant, trembling, handed her a small card. Olga ripped it open with her massive fingers and squinted at the writing:
"A victory well deserved, treat yourself!"
—Mother Russia
Olga's brow furrowed as she stared at the card, her stomach growling again. Suspicion flickered in her mind for about half a second—but the smell of smoked meats and freshly baked bread hit her nose, and that was the end of her cautious thinking.
Olga (grinning): Mother Russia knows best.
Without another moment of hesitation, she lunged at the basket, grabbing the glazed ham with both hands like a predator securing its kill. The attendants wisely backed away, knowing what was coming.
Olga’s feeding frenzy was nothing short of legendary. She tore into the ham, ripping it apart with her bare hands, barely pausing to chew. Turkey legs disappeared in seconds, sausages were devoured whole, and the stack of bread vanished as she crammed fistfuls of it into her mouth. Between mouthfuls, she let out a series of satisfied, guttural grunts, like some sort of prehistoric creature feasting after a long hunt.
Attendant 2 (whispering): Is… is she gonna eat the whole thing?
Attendant 1 (wide-eyed): I think we should leave before she notices we’re still here.
As the attendants fled, Olga devoured the basket’s contents with reckless abandon. She plowed through pies, cheeses, and even an entire roasted chicken, barely taking time to breathe. The sheer speed and intensity of her eating was almost supernatural—like watching a human vacuum cleaner on overdrive.
Fifteen minutes later, the basket was a graveyard of bones, crumbs, and torn wrappers. Olga slumped against the wall, her face smeared with gravy and bits of pastry. Her massive stomach now bulged comically, pressing against the tight fabric of her wrestling gear. Her breathing was heavy, and for the first time in years, the Behemoth looked vulnerable—not from an opponent’s punch, but from her own gluttony.
Olga (groaning): Oh… so full... why I do this?
Her stomach rumbled angrily, a deep, ominous gurgle that echoed through the room. She clutched her midsection, the once-mighty Behemoth now reduced to a bloated mess, clearly regretting her decision.
Olga (grimacing): Mother Russia... why you betray me...?
She tried to stand, but the effort only caused another gurgling protest from her overloaded stomach. She doubled over, clutching her belly and letting out a groan that sounded like a dying moose. Just then, a backstage crew member peeked into the room, clearly there to inform Olga that her match was starting soon. He took one look at the scene—Olga doubled over, drenched in sweat, crumbs, and a visible food coma setting in—and promptly turned on his heel.
Crew member (whispering): Nope. Not dealing with that.
Olga tried to straighten up, her face flushed with a mix of nausea and determination. She was the Siberian Behemoth, after all, and no mere food coma was going to stop her. But as she took a few shaky steps forward, her stomach let out another massive growl, this one sounding like the roar of an angry bear.
She froze in place, her eyes wide.
Olga (whimpering): What have I done?
Her mind flashed back to the card. “Mother Russia,” it had said. But now she realized—too late—that it wasn’t a gift. It was a trap. Kami had tricked her, knowing her insatiable appetite would be her downfall. Olga glanced around the room, her bloated form struggling to stand tall. She attempted a few steps toward the door, but her stomach gurgled again, causing her to double over in agony. She let out a pained groan, wobbling toward the exit like a drunken giant. Every step felt like a Herculean task, and by the time she reached the door, she was drenched in sweat. Just as she reached for the handle, her stomach let out one final, dramatic growl, loud enough to shake the walls.
Olga (exasperated): Curse you, Kami!
The door opened, and a staff member came face-to-face with a bloated, sweaty, and incredibly uncomfortable Olga. The poor staffer’s eyes went wide as he took in the sight of the giant wrestler, who now looked more like she needed a nap and a stomach pump than a match.
Staffer (nervously): Miss Pavlova, they’re... um... ready for you?
Olga glared at him, but the ferocity of her usual gaze was diminished by the fact that she was clutching her belly and wobbling on her feet.
Olga (groaning): Tell them... I come... soon... after digestion.
To Be Continued In Part - 5