EP.: 224
DATE: 04.21.2025
ARENA: THE EPICENTER
Backstage
EVERYTHING I DESPISE
Backstage, and we find Mike de los Huesos in…what appears to be a worried state. He rocks his belt around his waist, his gold is immaculate, his face paint on point–this is the most put together he’ll be all night, the flyest he’ll look.
But it’s clear something is bugging him.
Mikey: I want you to know that everything I’m about to do…it aint a street thing, beloved.
He begins to pace, careening from the edge of the frame to back in short steps.
Mikey: See I’m in an unenviable position, just like you. Trust a skeleton, I wanted to be in this position, no matter the cost. But sometimes, sometimes you gotta lay someone the fuck out who hasn’t earned it. That can take a spiritual toll on a man, and I’ve been…more looking at that shit, I guess. Asking the bigger questions.
He stops in the middle, looking directly at the camera. No blinking.
Mikey: Figuring out what it means to follow a path of righteousness. And at first this game seems at odds with it, right? Because all we do is beat on people that don’t deserve it. Bet that some of the people you’re gonna face have pissed on your kicks and need to be taught a lesson, but over a whole-ass career? Rare, papi. Too rare. Cause that’s the easy day, when I’m walking out there and I know I gotta teach someone something.
De los Huevos crosses his arms, chuckling to himself. To a memory of someone who needed the lesson.
Mikey: But you?
He shakes his head.
Mikey: I don’t think about you at all. Trust I’m not saying you’re a nobody, cause that’d just be dumb, but like…you’ve never insulted me. Never gave me any reason to have a single thought about you other than “Oh, it’s that dude, cool.”
His eyes turn hard–his gaze one of fire. Not rage, but a passion that only the fighter cultivates.
Mikey: Now I gotta convince myself that you deserve it. I gotta go out there and manufacture this hate.
Mike’s mouth sets into a sneer, his lips split by the glittering gold of his fronts. Now there is no good natured man, no Boneslams, no jokes, no esoteric left-field NBA references. The Mike that’s looking all of us dead in the eye is serious as a heart attack.
Mikey: It’s corrosive. But it’s also the life I chose, the life you chose, the life we all chose. I can’t go out there and just get excited about beating you, man. Wish I could. But I know me, and I know I have to win. I have to defeat an enemy. So when that bell rings? You’re the dude who keyed my car. Stepped on my sneakers. Set fire to my childhood home, kicked my dog, and shot my cousin Josue. You’re everything I despise.
Within a snap moment, his disposition shifts–and he’s back to the friendly bone man we know. He smiles a brilliant grin.
Mikey: Then the bell rings. I raise my belt. I pat you on the back. Because we’re good–we just ain’t for a short time. Nothing personal.
Mike de los Huesos chucks a deuce. Pats his belt.
And walks off to face his challenge.
SINGLES MATCH
SIN CITY CHAMPIONSHIP
STARBORNE
VS.
MIKE DE LOS HUESOS (c)
Backstage
LET ME TELL YOU THIS
Her appearance on the screen came with a hearty roar of approval from the crowd. She may only be in the back, but the crowd still appreciated seeing and getting to hear from their World Heavyweight Champion.
Laura Seton has the World Championship over her left shoulder, her casted right arm visible. The blonde grins as she hears the cheering. A grin that lasts a few seconds before she speaks.
Laura Seton: The last couple months haven’t been very ideal for me. If it wasn’t for the support of my closest friends, who knows where I’d be right now? Maybe I’d already have lost the World Heavyweight Championship. Maybe I would have been conned by Joshua Breedlove and his gang… er… “Empire” as he thinks into somehow turning the title over to him.
Maybe I would have tried taking him on by my stubborn, lone wolf self and been taken out–not just a bad-looking loss, but he knocked out for a long period of time–possibly be beaten into retirement.
She has a quick expression of “you never know” and a shrug before continuing.
Laura Seton: I’m not going to try to wax poetic on how awesome Josh Kaine has been with me and how great it is having The Wild Ones willing to back me up. You look at this on paper and you see Joshua Breedlove and The Empire, the prospects and accomplished veterans within–especially with X-Calibur joining them after being paid briefcases of cash, on one side. On the other side, yeah, I’m World Heavyweight Champion and, this isn’t meant to be a shot at my friends… We all know Josh is being viewed as someone who could be the next big star. We know The Wild Ones are no joke as far as a tag team… but, to the casual fan? The one that just looks at resumes?
This looks like the New York Yankees against the Milwaukee Brewers.
One side with money and star power to throw around at will. Heck, as I came to The Epicenter today, I heard rumors you all threw another wad of cash at someone else you’re about to sign. I’m sure we’ll learn who that money-grubber is soon enough. On the other side, it’s the blue-collar, hard working types. The ones that get credit for effort but don’t really generate that ‘Wow’ factor. They’re good, but necessarily “great.”
Though, again, you know…
She motions with her head towards the Championship over her shoulder.
Laura Seton: I’m not trying to undermine my own career. I’m just taking a more realistic look at myself. Honestly, have I generated that same “It” factor as an X-Calibur? Or even, for argument sake here, a Joshua Breedlove? Because we all know how big a deal I can be in that ring out there. We all know I can still put on a “Match of the Night” on any given night. But… why did it take so long before I had a World Heavyweight Championship run like right now? I’ve earned my praise and accolades and I appreciate all that everyone says about me, but if I’m so astonishingly awesome?
Why did it take almost 25 years before someone attacked me like Breedlove and X did? Why did people’s jealousy of me just hit that point?
Her eyes narrow as her tone continues along a more serious road.
Laura Seton: I’m sure you already rolled your eyes numerous times, Breedlove. Maybe you even turned this off already and there’s an intern taking notes for you so you can continue sounding like a know-it-all the next time you run your mouth. Well, let me tell you this, Joshua. The fact I haven’t been near a Revolution ring? Since my arm snapped? Not my fault. I’ve discussed multiple times with Real Deal and SHOOT’s front office about letting me fight—stay the fighting champion I want to be. The right kind of World Heavyweight Champion, instead of one that sits on the side just waiting for a Pay-Per-View to have a match and collect a paycheck.
Sitting on the sideline fucking sucks.
You know that as well as I do. You prefer being out there because you can talk, then get the chance to back up your words. Then talk some more. Trust me, I look at the calendar and I see how long I’ve been Champion. I have specific dates I still want to be Champion by because it’d be an honor.
But I definitely don’t want to get to those points via being held out. I appreciate getting to keep the World Heavyweight Championship, but yeah–I’m dying to defend it and prove I’m more than some protected investment. We’re going to meet again, Breedlove. I’m sure I’ll still have my cast on. I hope for your sake? You don’t think this will be a cakewalk.
SINGLES MATCH
N/A
NEON BLITZ
VS.
SOBRE NEGRO
Backstage
AVERT YOUR EYES
Backstage, and the rapidly-approaching-swole form of Izzy Sia is doing kick drills. Her companion on this hulks over her, his shaggy black hair showing streaks of silver–Nate Robideau, in a sweatsuit, clearly not trying to be known. He doesnt even acknowledge the camera, head down as he holds the pads and makes Izzy switch up her strike combos, level changing with the staccato crack of flesh/muscle/bone into vinyl. Without pausing her drills, Izzy begins top speak, her voice a little haggard due to the activity.
Izzy: Kamatayan. A reaper. Collector of souls.
Finally, she waves her arms and steps backwards, to which her coach nods. He removes the hand pad and tosses her a towel and bottle of water that’s clearly had some flavored electrolyte powder mixed in. She shakes it idly and towels her face off before continuing.
Izzy: It kinda feels silly, I’m not gonna lie. When I adopted that nickname it was just some intense stuff to lay on someone–I looked to this man, my Kru, my coach. He had a nickname. And I figured…you need to let someone know about you. You need something that tells them exactly what they’re in for. And even if they think you’re just so full of shit, they at least know what kind of person you think you are. They get how you view the fight.
Chuckling, she tucks back a strand of her hair that has escaped the tight confines of her fight braids. Sia takes a massive guzzle of the drink, downing half in one go.
Izzy: Now it’s something I feel pride in. Not because of what that name means in general, but because of what that name means to me. What it means to you. Because you see that, you know what it represents. Suffocation. Stasis. Getting cold shut the fuck down every time you try and get cute. See the name doesn’t mean that I’m out here collecting souls. It doesn’t mean that I’m gonna like, come to the ring with a scythe.
Setting the bottle down, she drapes the towel around her neck and grasps both ends of it, her forearm muscles popping.
Izzy: It does mean that I’m inevitable. Inescapable. That once you’ve crossed my path, you can’t shake me. All your fancy tricks and pretty maneuvers are meaningless because I speak in a language of harsh truth, and that harsh truth is pain, and the mat…that mat is where pain calls home. And I’ve been reared in that pain. I’ve learned every lesson that pain gives me.
Sia–the Kamatayan–releases the ends of the towel and begins to roll her shoulders, working out a few pops from her vertebrae.
Izzy: So Daihm, or literally anyone–if you think my nickname is just some pushover shit? Merch branding? Be so fuckin’ for real.
She sneers.
Izzy: That name’s a threat. Full stop. And every one of you fucks are starting to take notice–so avert your eyes when you see me in that hall.
Tossing the towel to the mat, she looks to her coach and nods–and Nate gloves back up.
Izzy: Again.
We leave them there, preparing and toughening, as the show continues…
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
LOGAN HART
GARRETT REID
VS.
GIGATON
FISSION
Backstage
X MARKS THE SPOT
We cut backstage to see noted veteran X-Calibur making his way through the halls of the SHOOT Project Epicenter, a duffel bag containing his ring gear on one shoulder. The way he carries himself tonight speaks of a long-term, barely concealed exhaustion but we know better than most that such a demeanor will not affect his duties in supporting The Empire and Joshua Breedlove’s plans. He rounds a corner, heading to his locker room before a pint-sized dose of deathmatch trouble stops him in his tracks.
Lou sits on a stool in the middle of the hall, one leg crossed over the other with a charming smile on her face.
Lou: Oh, look, if it isn’t Breedlove’s newest lapdog. I will say, X, lackey always did seem to fit you best.
X-Calibur: Whatever you want to think, Lou. Not making it a mission of mine to change your opinion of me. I sleep just fine.
Lou: Whatever you gotta tell yourself, I guess. And here I thought Arthur was the delulu one in your family.
Before X-Calibur can respond… SMAAACK! Blindsided from behind, X goes flying forward into some stacks of equipment boxes. In the chaos of the moment, it takes a moment for the audiences to recognize his attackers.
Eryk Masters(voiced from ringside): It’s Josh Kaine and Lou’s fellow Wild Ones tag partners, Cormac Nelson and Jane Doe!
Jason Johnson(voiced from ringside): That was a chairshot and a half!
Pleased with the strength at which she managed to hit X-Calibur, Lou looks at the trio with a smile.
Lou: Do me a favor and leave a little bit for me, huh? Not much, though, wanna make sure this is thorough.
Kaine smiles at Lou and then looks at X, who is already starting to get to his feet.
Josh Kaine: Oh I don’t think so, motherfucker.
X-Calibur: (breathing raggedly, in pain) You seriously think this changes anyt—
Before he can get any more words out, Cormac blasts him back into the equipment boxes with a spear! In seconds, the full force of Jane, Cormac, and Kaine are on top of him, laying hammerfists, punches, and knees on him from all directions! Every time X seems like he’s found a way out, one of them shifts to block him off!
Meanwhile, Lou just giggles at the violent assault, holding the chair at the ready! X manages to push himself to his feet, with Jane hanging on his back! Cormac and Josh attempt to bring him back down, but he slams the woman into the wall! She releases the hold, but Josh and Cormac respond, driving forearms into his head! X stumbles back, but before they can capitalize he drives his head into Cormac’s face! Cormac staggers a bit, giving X enough time to pull Josh down into the Tap or Snap! The Kimura is locked in, but Cormac is back, laying vicious knees to X’s midsection! X refuses to let go, but Jane now starts to go to work, driving fists to his face! Just before it seems like Josh is going to have his arm snapped, Jane moves, and Lou comes off an equipment box with the Charm School Dropout Arabian facebuster!
As security swarms the scene to separate the group, X is busted open, and Josh holds his arm in pain! Cormac is trying to dive through four security staff, but to no avail!
Josh Kaine: This is just the beginning, X! You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!
Lou: You go back and tell your new best friend that we’re not backing down! There’s only one thing that all Empires have in common, motherfucker, they fall!
One of the officials holds a rag to X’s head, but in the chaos of it all, ends up getting placed in the ‘Tap or Snap’ Kimura Lock himself! More officials flood the hallway, pushing Josh and the Wild Ones out of the way to free their compatriot from X-Calibur’s blind assault as we cut back to ringside.
Eryk Masters(voiced from ringside): A blow to the Empire! X-Calibur has been knocked for a loop!
SINGLES MATCH
FIRESTARTER – NIGHT 4
(3) WASP
VS.
(4) ULTIMO MUERTE
IN THE RING
THAT'S HOCKEY, BABY.
The lights dim, the arena murmurs in anticipation. Then…
BWWWWWAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!
A deafening goal horn shakes the walls of the Epicenter.
“The Hockey Song” hits the PA like a puck to the jaw, and the boos erupt before the curtain even parts.
Out comes the Punch Line in full obnoxious glory.
Roy Vezina struts at the front, sunglasses on indoors, swinging a hockey stick like a scepter. Rick Hull marches behind him, grim and stone-faced. Harv Norris brings up the rear, chugging a Molson and yelling “WOOOOOOO!” like a moose in mating season.
They hit the ring with all the swagger of a team already up 4-0 in the third. Roy snatches a mic with the same enthusiasm he’d grab a double cheeseburger after a scrimmage.
Roy Vezina: Ahhh, Las Vegas. Sin City. The only place where fashion, hygiene, and dignity all go to die together in a buffet line!
BOOOOOOO!!!
Roy Vezina: Oh, come on! Don’t act surprised. You people look like you lost a bet just walking out of the house tonight. The only chips you’ve got are on your shoulders, and maybe your laps. And we’re not talkin’ poker!
Harv Norris: Tell ya right now, I’ve seen cleaner livin’ quarters in a Newfoundland lobster trap! Smells about the same too, b’y!
Roy Vezina: But enough about your tragic attempts at self-care, let’s talk about us. Last Revolution, my boys, Harv and Rick, went toe-to-toe with your great Irish hopes, the Collins Brothers. Michael and Rowland. More like Mick and Ramen the way they got slurped and flushed outta the building!”
Crowd is raining boos now.
Roy Vezina: Those two came in here with all the fire of a wet sparkler. All that Irish grit, all that fighting spirit, and it got them exactly what everyone else gets when they step up to the Punch Line…
Rick Hull: [finally speaks, deadpan] Dropped on their heads.
Harv roars laughing, nearly choking on his drink.
Harv Norris: They looked like a pair o’ toddlers tryin’ to brawl in a puddle! Rowland was seein’ stars, and Michael? He was seein’ St. Patrick!
Roy Vezina: Tag Team of the Year. Undeniable. And now, now that we’re back in the SHOOT Project ring, we’re not just winning matches, we’re setting the damn standard. You want to step to Harv and Rick? You better come with more than pub crawls and lucky charms, sweetheart.
Roy Vezina (pointing at the crowd): You people boo us like we owe you something, we don’t. If anything, you owe us. We bring the class, the skill, the flair, and the actual work ethic. You bring… fanny packs and sunburns.
Harv Norris: And body odor that could clear a Moose Lodge, b’y!
Roy Vezina: We beat the Collinses clean. We beat ‘em hard. And we’re just warmin’ up. You think that was it? You think we’re done? No, no, no, that was just the pre-skate. Next time we’re on the card? It’s gonna be a full-blown power play. And we don’t miss.
Rick Hull: No survivors.
Roy Vezina: Honestly, do you know how hard this is?
The crowd roars with boos. Roy just grins through it.
Roy Vezina: No, no, seriously, do you know how hard it is to come out here week after week and point out the very obvious, very public, and very tragic flaws of you people… and this entire damn company?
Harv Norris: I’m breakin’ my back carryin’ the weight of bein’ right all the time, b’y!
Roy Vezina: It’s not easy. Trust me, I’d love to come out here, shake some hands, kiss some babies, maybe pretend you’ve got a future that doesn’t involve a bail bondsman or a bottle of dollar gin, but that would make me a liar.
More boos. Rick just folds his arms and nods stoically. He knows they’re not wrong.
Roy Vezina: But someone’s gotta do it. Someone’s gotta call out the mediocrity. Someone’s gotta remind these curtain-jerkers in the back and all you bargain-bin tourists in the stands what excellence actually looks like.
He steps forward and throws his free hand up like he’s about to deliver a sermon.
Roy Vezina: That someone… is The Punch Line.
Harv Norris: The shootin’ straight, skatin’ hard, no-nonsense Northmen of this operation!
Roy Vezina: We’re not out here playin’ dress-up. We’re not out here doin’ flips for a pop or cryin’ on social media ‘cause our feelings got bruised in the locker room. No, we’re out here draggin’ this tag division, kicking and screaming, into something respectable.
Rick Hull: …’cause we’re the only ones who can.
Roy Vezina: You don’t have to like us. You don’t even have to cheer us. But what you will do is acknowledge that every time we step in this ring, we show you what Tag Team of the Year looks like. And baby, that ain’t changing.
Harv Norris: Get mad, get loud, throw your little tantrums, won’t change the fact your best ain’t good enough.
Roy Vezina: Lace up, SHOOT Project. The Punch Line isn’t here to play fair, we’re here to dominate. And if you don’t like it, well… tough. That’s hockey, baby.
“The Hockey Song” hits again. The Punch Line throws up their elbows and shout their war cry in unison:
All Three: GORDIE!!!
They exit the ring with smirks as the Las Vegas crowd rains hate upon them, and they drink it in like Canadian lager.
SINGLES MATCH
FIRESTARTER – NIGHT 4
(5) IZZY SIA
VS.
(2) DAIHM FERGUSON
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
EGGED ON
The camera pans across a local park in Las Vegas. Easter decorations fill the park with squealing kids in bunny ears, picnic blankets, and moms in sundresses drinking mimosas
as far as the eye can see.
Suddenly, we focus – and zoom in – on one Easter Bunny who looks wildly out of place. This bunny sparkles as he walks. Literally. His designer fur glimmers in the sunlight. Instead of a fluffy tail, he’s rocking a diamond-encrusted “V” belt buckle. A pair of designer sunglasses rest crooked over his bunny nose.
Like paparazzi swarming Timothee Chalamet and Chloe Kardasian at a Los Angeles Starbucks, a rush of sugar-fueled kids swarm around him, baskets in hand, searching through nearby bushes and under picnic tables for brightly colored eggs.
One child, we’ll call him Child #1, dives into a flower bed and squeals with happiness. Another, we’ll say Child # 2, lifts up a bush and finds a glittery egg, holding it up like they just won the Super Bowl.
CHILD #2: “I found a golden one! I’m gonna show the Easter Bunny!”
CHILD #2 jumps up and down, egg in hand and runs toward where the Easter bunny stands.
CHILD #2: “Mister Bunny, look! I found the golden egg.”
Easter Bunny: “Oh, how special! You really tried your best today, didn’t you?”
He kneels, takes the eggs from the child’s basket, stares at them then without warning, flings the eggs over his shoulder, sending them sailing across the field into a sandbox with a splat.
CHILD #2: “My… my eggs!!!”
The bunny bulls off the bunny head to reveal Aiden Vanity, letting out a loud cackle.
Aiden Vanity: “This costume is custom made. Ten grand and not one of you noticed I wasn’t your beloved Bunny? Please. You deserve every egg I throw.”
Another toddler sets her basket down on the ground. Aiden looks down and steps on it, slowly. The child starts to cry and the angry mom quickly runs to her aid.
ANGRY MOM: “You monster! That was her first Easter hunt!”
Aiden stands there with his hand on his hips, unbothered by his actions.
Aiden Vanity: “Oh no, her first memory is going to be me? Wow. What an honor.”
Suddenly, from out of the distance, the camera whip pans to show another Easter bunny approaching, this one has lush, pink fur and a bright smile featuring two buck teeth. The child stops crying as the other bunny approaches and kneels down and holds something out in its hands.
A rainbow-colored egg.
CHILD #2: “Woooooow!”
The child grabs the egg, placing it in their basket, before going in for a big hug – that is until Aiden steps in and shoves the pink bunny backwards and onto the ground.
Aiden Vanity: “I don’t know who this pastel puffball thinks he is. I don’t allow hugs; nor do I appreciate this moron trying to play superhero and save this day for all you crybabies.”
The pink bunny calmly stands up, brushes its fur off, and steps in between Aiden and the child, locking eyes – felt to flesh – as a crowd of moms and kids have gathered, drawn in by the commotion.
Aiden Vanity: “What are you looking at!? You want to see something entertaining? Go home! Watch cartoons! Turn on something with singing animals. This is the real world, and in the real world, you don’t get rewarded for crying. And another thing-”
Aiden has turned his attention to the crowd, distracted as the pink bunny reaches up and begins to remove his head. As he does, the camera catches long auburn hair falling like a stream out of the mass of wire, mesh, and fabric; then the glowing porcelain skin, then … a smirk accented by perfectly glossed lips.
Remy Garden.
Remy drops his bunny head onto the grass and reaches into the pockets of his bunny suit to reveal – not a rainbow egg, but a small jar of pickled eggs! The “Savage One” turns his head as he opens the vat, watching as the perfectly peeled hard boiled eggs slosh around inside.
Just as Aiden is about to turn back around to continue berating the bunny he shoved to the ground, Remy reaches up and pours the contents of the pickle jar over Aiden’s head.
Aiden stands frozen, drenched in pickle juice. A single egg sliding off his shoulder and splatting on the floor. He gasps as his eyes start to twitch.
Aiden Vanity: “It’s you! You son of a bitch. How dare you humiliate me!”
He glares at Remy, looking like a champagne bottle about to pop. Remy reacts with a smug shrug.
Remy Garden: “After your little stunt at Revolution, and all the proverbial egg on your face afterwards, I thought I would do you the honor of manifesting that into reality.”
Remy gives a slight bow as the kids being held back by their parents begin to laugh and point at Aiden’s pickle-soaked bunny suit.
Aiden Vanity: “Of course you think this is funny. You’ve been chasing me down for weeks. It’s honestly getting pathetic. You really want me in that pose-off? Fine! But I’m warning you—I’m not just showing up. I’m going to show YOU up and remind you how far beneath me you really are.”
He pokes Remy in the chest with one finger. Remy doesn’t flinch. Instead, he slowly reaches up and gently brushes Aiden’s hand away from his chest—like a parent removing a crayon from a child’s grasp.
Remy Garden: “Bless your heart, you really do believe that, don’t you?”
Remy steps back. The breeze catches his pink fur.
Remy Garden: “Well, cher…
Remy pauses and offers a cheeky smirk.
Remy Garden: “If there is one thing I do know, it’s how to be a dominant bottom.”
Aiden recoils in disgust.
Aiden Vanity: “You’re sick, Garden! At least, I assume anything coming out of that loathsome mouth of yours is vulgar and pedestrian!”
Remy raises a hand to his chin and purses his lips before tossing his hair backwards.
Aiden Vanity: Now what are you doing!?
Remy raises a hand to his chin and purses his lips before tossing his hair backwards.
Remy Garden: “Cheese.”
Aiden Vanity: “CHEESE!? First the eggs, now this!? What is wrong with you!?”
FLASH! A click—someone in the crowd has taken a photo. Then another. And another. Aiden stares slack-jawed as a sea of phones rise from the crowd—moms laughing, kids giggling, Instagram stories being posted in real time.
Aiden Vanity: “Go ahead. Laugh. Point. Post your little TikToks. You suburban hyenas couldn’t recognize excellence if it sat in your mimosas!”
Remy Garden: “Be sure to tag @SHOOTProject, dears! Hashtag #VanityInsanity”
Remy waves to the crowd as Aiden spins back around, seething.
Aiden Vanity: And YOU! After I show you what true beauty is, that smirk of yours will be wiped away – along with your insignificant career!
Aiden shoves Remy away as he stomps away, his big floppy Easter Bunny shoes soaked in brine and wetly slapping the ground with each step.
SINGLES MATCH
FIRESTARTER – NIGHT 4
(1) GOLDEN BURKHALTER
VS.
(6) BELLECOSE
IN THE RING
LAP IT UP
“Make Way for the King” explodes over the audio, signaling the arrival of tonight’s challenger for the Premier Championship, and ushering along with it a swath of boos and jeers that are appropriate for only one man. One Emperor. One Breedlove.
Jason Johnson: You think he’s got a shot against Vito tonight?
Eryk Masters: It’s Breedlove, there’s always a shot.
He walks out onto the top of the ramp ready to compete, but with a microphone in his hand. Walking part of the way down the ramp, he ignores the fans around him, each one throwing their angry and rage-filled voices at him in a way that only he is truly used to. He smirks, his only acknowledgment of their behavior.
Eryk Masters: He’s locked in though, that’s for sure.
Jason Johnson: That’s the truth.
He rolls underneath the bottom rope and pops to his feet. The music cuts and he gets ready to speak.
Joshua Breedlove: My name stays in a lot of mouths, folks. The SmashShow wants some. Laura Seton wants some. Josh Kaine wants some. The Wild Ones want some. The camera guy wants some. The guy selling concessions wants some. The merch table… you get the picture. I’m not gonna address all of you right here and right now, we’ve got a match to get to, but I heard something funny this week that I wanted to share and respond to.
The crowd bustles, settling in and listening to SHOOT Project’s multi-time Villain of the Year and 2024’s Soldier of the Year.
Joshua Breedlove: When you run an Empire as I do, you naturally get compared to other Empires, and mine was compared to Rome recently. Not really sure why, the two situations are very, very different, but you know… this game is all about painting a picture with your words and I guess the visual of Rome’s empire falling is what the whole point was. But here’s the thing…
He smiles.
Joshua Breedlove: It doesn’t matter who it is. Doesn’t matter if it’s Kaine, Valentino, Seton, or anyone, this ain’t Rome. Y’all aren’t an army. There’s not going to be a peasant uprising, because my Empire has no peasants. Just killers. Legends. Stars. So let’s stop pretending like this is something you’ve ever seen before. Let’s stop drawing comparisons, because the only thing you non-Empire peasants need to understand is that my Empire? We’re the greatest group in professional wrestling’s history. Imagine needing four people to take out one octogenarian. Pathetic.
He pauses, the crowd boos, and he loves that. Just eats it up.
Joshua Breedlove: Lap it up. Now bring me my new championship and my next victim.
MAIN EVENT
PREMIER CHAMPIONSHIP
JOSHUA BREEDLOVE
VS.
