Segment VIII: The Revolution's First Defense
The arena was still buzzing from the chaotic fallout of WrestleMania XX when the soft, classical instrumental of Molly Holly’s theme began to play, drawing a wave of boos. The former champion emerged, not with the regal confidence of a queen, but with the cold, focused fury of a deposed monarch. Dressed in her immaculate ring gear, her expression was a mask of indignation as she marched to the ring, her eyes burning a hole through the woman who had taken everything from her. The crowd’s jeers were answered by an explosion of raw, grungy guitar as Lita’s theme hit, and the new Women’s Champion burst onto the stage to a deafening roar. The title was slung over her shoulder, not like an accessory, but like a hard-won battle standard. She charged down the ramp, a whirlwind of red hair and rebellious energy, the physical embodiment of the revolution that had triumphed less than twenty-four hours earlier.
The bell had barely sounded when Molly Holly came tearing across the ring like a storm let loose. There was no hesitation, no lock-up, no circling—it was raw fury. She speared Lita into the corner, driving her shoulder deep into the champion’s midsection once, twice, a third time, each impact drawing a groan from the crowd. Molly had studied those ribs since WrestleMania, and she made them her target, pounding away with merciless precision. She grabbed Lita by the wrist and hurled her down hard to the canvas, then stomped down with the heel of her boot, each blow landing like a hammer. With Lita writhing in pain, Molly bent low, cinched her arm around the waist, and wrenched her into a grueling abdominal stretch. The look on Molly’s face was chilling—teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, every inch of her body bent on causing punishment rather than winning quickly. The referee hovered nearby, asking Lita if she wanted to submit, but the champion’s head shook wildly, hair whipping around as she refused to give Molly the satisfaction.
For the next few minutes Molly toyed with her prey, shifting from holds to high-impact attacks that only deepened the rib damage. She dropped a knee across Lita’s midsection, then another, then dragged her up only to slam her back down with a snapmare, following with a stiff running kick to the spine. Lita tried to roll away, but Molly gave her no space, dragging her up again and throwing her shoulder-first into the corner before charging with a knee lift that nearly folded the champion in half. From there she hooked the arms and delivered a picture-perfect double underhook suplex, bridging for a pin, but Lita somehow kicked out at two. Molly slapped the mat in frustration, then rolled her foe over and clamped down with a waistlock on the mat, digging her forearm into the ribs and twisting cruelly. The champion gasped for air, her face etched with anguish, but Molly only tightened the pressure, leaning her full weight into the hold. The arena began to clap and stomp, a rhythmic chant of “Let’s go, Lita!” swelling louder with each second.
That chant seemed to awaken something deep within the champion. With a guttural scream, she fired her elbow back into Molly’s ribs, then again, then a third time, loosening the grip. Summoning every ounce of strength she had, Lita rolled her hips and hurled Molly over with a desperate hip toss. The crowd erupted as Molly hit the mat hard. Staggering to her feet, Lita ducked a wild clothesline and came roaring back with one of her own, knocking Molly down. She repeated it again, and again, three clotheslines in quick succession, and suddenly the match had turned on its head. She grabbed Molly by the hair and drove her face-first into the canvas with a snap DDT, the impact jolting the crowd to its feet. Lita flung herself across Molly for the cover—one, two, but Molly kicked free at the last heartbeat. Still, the eruption from the crowd told the story: the champion was alive.
Feeding off that energy, Lita rose and pointed to the top rope, a signal that sent the arena into a frenzy. She climbed gingerly, clutching her ribs, but Molly had life left in her yet. Just as Lita launched herself into the moonsault, Molly rolled toward the corner and thrust both knees up. The collision was sickening—Lita’s ribs slammed down onto Molly’s knees, and she collapsed in agony. Molly pounced instantly, hauling Lita up and snapping her over with a perfect German suplex, bridging beautifully. The referee dove in—one, two, th—Lita jerked her shoulder up at the last possible instant. A gasp spread through the crowd, followed by thunderous applause at her resilience. Molly sat up wide-eyed, then slammed her fist against the mat in disbelief. She dragged Lita to the corner, climbing the ropes with her back to the ring. The audience knew what was coming: the Molly-Go-Round. Molly steadied herself, leapt, and spun—but at the last moment Lita shoved her mid-rotation, sending Molly crashing chest-first to the mat below in a brutal spill.
Both women lay motionless for a moment, the crowd roaring encouragement. Slowly, painfully, Lita pulled herself up by the ropes. Molly staggered to her feet, clutching her chest, only to walk straight into the champion’s trap. With a burst of energy, Lita hooked her head and planted her with a devastating Twist of Fate. The noise was deafening, the entire arena shaking as fans leapt to their feet. But Lita was not done yet. She rolled onto her stomach, clutching her ribs in agony, before dragging herself inch by inch toward the corner. Every rung of the turnbuckles felt like a mountain climb. The fans willed her upward, stomping, screaming, begging her on. Finally she stood at the top, arms spread wide in defiance. Molly lay prone on the canvas, still gasping for breath. Lita took one final breath and soared through the air with her trademark Litasault, twisting gracefully before crashing down with pinpoint accuracy onto Molly’s chest.
The landing drew an explosion of sound, the kind that rattles the walls. Lita hooked the leg, pulling Molly tight against her. The referee’s hand hit—one! two! three!—and the bell clanged in victory. Lita rolled to her side, clutching her ribs with one arm while raising the Women’s Championship with the other. Molly slid under the ropes, furious and dazed, retreating up the aisle with venom in her eyes. But inside the ring, the image was unmistakable: a battered, bruised, yet unbroken champion standing tall, proving once again that her fire could not be extinguished.
As the referee handed Lita her championship, she collapsed to her knees, clutching the title to her chest, the physical and emotional toll of the last twenty-four hours washing over her. She pushed herself to her feet, her body aching, and took a microphone, her voice cracking with emotion. "Last night," she began, her voice trembling, "last night was for every single one of you who ever felt like you didn't fit in. For everyone who was ever told you were too different, too reckless. Last night, we proved them all wrong!" The crowd roared in approval. "Molly Holly said this title was about dignity and tradition. Well, I'm here to say that this title is about heart! It's about passion! And as long as I am your Women's Champion, I will defend it with everything I have, for all of you!"
Her expression then hardened, the celebratory fire in her eyes turning into a defiant blaze. "But it seems like there's always someone new waiting in the back, ready to tell you what you are. Earlier tonight, I heard what Gail Kim had to say. I heard her say that I'm not a champion... that I'm a 'symbol' that's meant to be broken." Lita took a step forward, her voice now low and steady, filled with a dangerous intensity. "Well, Gail, you're right about one thing. I am a symbol. I'm a symbol for every person who fights for what they believe in. And let me tell you something about this symbol... it doesn't break." She raised the championship high, her knuckles white. "This symbol fights! So, Gail, if you want a piece of this, if you want to try and break me... you know exactly where to find me. I'm right here!" Lita's music exploded through the arena as she stood tall in the center of the ring, the fighting champion of a new era, already staring down her next war.
SEGMENT IX: Randy Orton vs. Ric Flair
The camera cut backstage to the interview area, where Todd Grisham stood with a microphone, his expression a mixture of anticipation and professional concern. "My guest at this time," he began, "scheduled for action next against his former mentor, 'The Nature Boy' Ric Flair... Randy Orton." The camera panned to reveal Orton, who leaned against a production crate with a cool, dismissive arrogance. He was completely fresh, showing no signs of wear from the previous night, only the supreme confidence of a man who believed he had conquered the world.
"Randy," Grisham said, "last night at WrestleMania, you didn't just defeat Batista; you stood tall over the ruins of Evolution. Tonight, you face the patriarch of that group, Ric Flair. What are your thoughts heading into this match?"
Orton let out a cold, humorless chuckle, pushing himself off the crate. "Thoughts? Todd, you're giving this far too much credit. Ric Flair is a fossil. He's a walking, talking history lesson that nobody wants to hear anymore. Last night was the end of an era. Tonight isn't a match; it's a public execution. I'm going to do to Ric Flair exactly what I did to him at WrestleMania: put him out of his misery and prove that the age of Evolution is extinct. As for Batista..."
Before he could finish the sentence, a blur of motion exploded into the frame. Batista, a freight train of pure muscle and rage, blindsided Orton, driving him off the crate and into a stack of metal scaffolding with a sickening crash. Grisham scrambled for safety as Batista unleashed a torrent of raw, untamed violence. He hauled Orton up by his vest and threw him like a ragdoll into the cinder block wall, Orton's head cracking against the concrete with a dull thud. "You stabbed us in the back!" Batista roared, his voice a guttural snarl. He dragged Orton through the backstage corridor, the camera crew scrambling to keep up with the chaotic brawl. As they neared the gorilla position, Ric Flair, already in his magnificent ring robe, stepped out and joined the assault, cackling as he delivered a series of vicious stomps to Orton's already injured ribs. The two-on-one mugging was merciless. They dragged Orton's limp body through the curtain and shoved him violently onto the stage. The crowd roared in a mixture of shock and fury as Orton's music hit, and the battered superstar, his body screaming in protest, began the long, painful crawl down the ramp as his opponents waited in the ring, ready for the bell to ring on a match that had already become a slaughter.
The clang of the bell served only as the official start to the slaughter that had already begun backstage. Randy Orton, still reeling from the brutal two-on-one assault, struggled to his hands and knees as Ric Flair circled him, a predator savoring the moment. With Batista standing guard at ringside like a monolith of pure rage, Flair immediately went on the offensive, unleashing a torrent of vicious stomps on Orton's already battered ribs. A cacophony of knife-edge chops followed, each punctuated by a triumphant "WOOO!", turning Orton's chest into a raw, crimson canvas. The first few minutes were not a wrestling match, but a public flogging, as Flair used every bit of his veteran experience to exploit the damage his enforcer had inflicted just moments before.
Running on pure survival instinct, Orton finally created an opening. As Flair indulged in a classic strut, Orton sprang forward, driving a thumb deep into the legend’s eye. The illegal tactic, unseen by the official, gave Orton the space he needed to breathe. He exploded with a desperate burst of offense, catching Flair with a sharp dropkick and following up with a methodical attack on Flair's back. For a brief moment, the "Legend Killer" seemed to reemerge from the battered shell, dissecting his former mentor with a cold precision that silenced the crowd. As Flair staggered to his feet, Orton began to pound the mat, signaling for the RKO. The entire complexion of the match was poised to change on that one, serpentine strike.
It was a change that would never come. As Orton coiled, ready to strike, Batista leaped onto the ring apron, roaring at his former stablemate. The referee's attention was immediately diverted, ordering Batista back to the floor. Orton, his focus broken, turned and barked at Batista, "Get down from there!" This momentary distraction was his undoing. Behind the referee's back, Ric Flair, the dirtiest player in the game, rose to his feet and delivered a brutal, blatant low blow that crumpled Orton in an instant. As Orton collapsed to the mat, gasping in agony, the referee turned back, completely oblivious to the foul. Flair, smirking, simply rolled the incapacitated Orton onto his back, hooked his legs, and defiantly placed both of his own feet on the middle rope for illegal leverage. The referee dropped to the mat, his count echoing Orton's fate: one, two, three. The bell rang. But the night was far from over for Randy Orton. As soon as the match ended, Batista stormed the ring. The two men, the vengeful remnants of Evolution, began a savage two-on-one beatdown. Flair held Orton's arms while Batista delivered a series of brutal, clubbing blows to his back and ribs. The crowd's boos were deafening, but they were ignored. The assault culminated with a thunderous Batista Bomb that left the Legend Killer motionless in the center of the ring.
Just as it seemed the carnage was over, the iconic, snarling riff of Motörhead's "The Game" detonated from the speakers. Triple H, dressed for his main event match against Shawn Michaels, emerged onto the stage, but he wasn't empty-handed. In his grip was his signature sledgehammer. He walked down the ramp with a cold, deliberate purpose, the steel weapon resting on his shoulder. He slid into the ring, and the three original members of Evolution stood over the broken body of their former protégé. Triple H surveyed the damage, a cruel smirk on his face. He then raised the sledgehammer high and brought it crashing down into Orton's already bruised ribs with sickening force. Orton's body convulsed in agony. But Triple H wasn't done. He threw the sledgehammer aside, grabbed Orton by the hair, and dragged his limp body to the center of the ring. With a final, definitive roar of dominance, he hooked Orton's arms and drove him into the mat with a devastating Pedigree. The faction's music hit, and the three men stood tall over Orton's broken body, a reunited, vengeful force of nature. The Main event is next.
The arena was still buzzing from the chaotic fallout of WrestleMania XX when the soft, classical instrumental of Molly Holly’s theme began to play, drawing a wave of boos. The former champion emerged, not with the regal confidence of a queen, but with the cold, focused fury of a deposed monarch. Dressed in her immaculate ring gear, her expression was a mask of indignation as she marched to the ring, her eyes burning a hole through the woman who had taken everything from her. The crowd’s jeers were answered by an explosion of raw, grungy guitar as Lita’s theme hit, and the new Women’s Champion burst onto the stage to a deafening roar. The title was slung over her shoulder, not like an accessory, but like a hard-won battle standard. She charged down the ramp, a whirlwind of red hair and rebellious energy, the physical embodiment of the revolution that had triumphed less than twenty-four hours earlier.
The bell had barely sounded when Molly Holly came tearing across the ring like a storm let loose. There was no hesitation, no lock-up, no circling—it was raw fury. She speared Lita into the corner, driving her shoulder deep into the champion’s midsection once, twice, a third time, each impact drawing a groan from the crowd. Molly had studied those ribs since WrestleMania, and she made them her target, pounding away with merciless precision. She grabbed Lita by the wrist and hurled her down hard to the canvas, then stomped down with the heel of her boot, each blow landing like a hammer. With Lita writhing in pain, Molly bent low, cinched her arm around the waist, and wrenched her into a grueling abdominal stretch. The look on Molly’s face was chilling—teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, every inch of her body bent on causing punishment rather than winning quickly. The referee hovered nearby, asking Lita if she wanted to submit, but the champion’s head shook wildly, hair whipping around as she refused to give Molly the satisfaction.
For the next few minutes Molly toyed with her prey, shifting from holds to high-impact attacks that only deepened the rib damage. She dropped a knee across Lita’s midsection, then another, then dragged her up only to slam her back down with a snapmare, following with a stiff running kick to the spine. Lita tried to roll away, but Molly gave her no space, dragging her up again and throwing her shoulder-first into the corner before charging with a knee lift that nearly folded the champion in half. From there she hooked the arms and delivered a picture-perfect double underhook suplex, bridging for a pin, but Lita somehow kicked out at two. Molly slapped the mat in frustration, then rolled her foe over and clamped down with a waistlock on the mat, digging her forearm into the ribs and twisting cruelly. The champion gasped for air, her face etched with anguish, but Molly only tightened the pressure, leaning her full weight into the hold. The arena began to clap and stomp, a rhythmic chant of “Let’s go, Lita!” swelling louder with each second.
That chant seemed to awaken something deep within the champion. With a guttural scream, she fired her elbow back into Molly’s ribs, then again, then a third time, loosening the grip. Summoning every ounce of strength she had, Lita rolled her hips and hurled Molly over with a desperate hip toss. The crowd erupted as Molly hit the mat hard. Staggering to her feet, Lita ducked a wild clothesline and came roaring back with one of her own, knocking Molly down. She repeated it again, and again, three clotheslines in quick succession, and suddenly the match had turned on its head. She grabbed Molly by the hair and drove her face-first into the canvas with a snap DDT, the impact jolting the crowd to its feet. Lita flung herself across Molly for the cover—one, two, but Molly kicked free at the last heartbeat. Still, the eruption from the crowd told the story: the champion was alive.
Feeding off that energy, Lita rose and pointed to the top rope, a signal that sent the arena into a frenzy. She climbed gingerly, clutching her ribs, but Molly had life left in her yet. Just as Lita launched herself into the moonsault, Molly rolled toward the corner and thrust both knees up. The collision was sickening—Lita’s ribs slammed down onto Molly’s knees, and she collapsed in agony. Molly pounced instantly, hauling Lita up and snapping her over with a perfect German suplex, bridging beautifully. The referee dove in—one, two, th—Lita jerked her shoulder up at the last possible instant. A gasp spread through the crowd, followed by thunderous applause at her resilience. Molly sat up wide-eyed, then slammed her fist against the mat in disbelief. She dragged Lita to the corner, climbing the ropes with her back to the ring. The audience knew what was coming: the Molly-Go-Round. Molly steadied herself, leapt, and spun—but at the last moment Lita shoved her mid-rotation, sending Molly crashing chest-first to the mat below in a brutal spill.
Both women lay motionless for a moment, the crowd roaring encouragement. Slowly, painfully, Lita pulled herself up by the ropes. Molly staggered to her feet, clutching her chest, only to walk straight into the champion’s trap. With a burst of energy, Lita hooked her head and planted her with a devastating Twist of Fate. The noise was deafening, the entire arena shaking as fans leapt to their feet. But Lita was not done yet. She rolled onto her stomach, clutching her ribs in agony, before dragging herself inch by inch toward the corner. Every rung of the turnbuckles felt like a mountain climb. The fans willed her upward, stomping, screaming, begging her on. Finally she stood at the top, arms spread wide in defiance. Molly lay prone on the canvas, still gasping for breath. Lita took one final breath and soared through the air with her trademark Litasault, twisting gracefully before crashing down with pinpoint accuracy onto Molly’s chest.
The landing drew an explosion of sound, the kind that rattles the walls. Lita hooked the leg, pulling Molly tight against her. The referee’s hand hit—one! two! three!—and the bell clanged in victory. Lita rolled to her side, clutching her ribs with one arm while raising the Women’s Championship with the other. Molly slid under the ropes, furious and dazed, retreating up the aisle with venom in her eyes. But inside the ring, the image was unmistakable: a battered, bruised, yet unbroken champion standing tall, proving once again that her fire could not be extinguished.
As the referee handed Lita her championship, she collapsed to her knees, clutching the title to her chest, the physical and emotional toll of the last twenty-four hours washing over her. She pushed herself to her feet, her body aching, and took a microphone, her voice cracking with emotion. "Last night," she began, her voice trembling, "last night was for every single one of you who ever felt like you didn't fit in. For everyone who was ever told you were too different, too reckless. Last night, we proved them all wrong!" The crowd roared in approval. "Molly Holly said this title was about dignity and tradition. Well, I'm here to say that this title is about heart! It's about passion! And as long as I am your Women's Champion, I will defend it with everything I have, for all of you!"
Her expression then hardened, the celebratory fire in her eyes turning into a defiant blaze. "But it seems like there's always someone new waiting in the back, ready to tell you what you are. Earlier tonight, I heard what Gail Kim had to say. I heard her say that I'm not a champion... that I'm a 'symbol' that's meant to be broken." Lita took a step forward, her voice now low and steady, filled with a dangerous intensity. "Well, Gail, you're right about one thing. I am a symbol. I'm a symbol for every person who fights for what they believe in. And let me tell you something about this symbol... it doesn't break." She raised the championship high, her knuckles white. "This symbol fights! So, Gail, if you want a piece of this, if you want to try and break me... you know exactly where to find me. I'm right here!" Lita's music exploded through the arena as she stood tall in the center of the ring, the fighting champion of a new era, already staring down her next war.
SEGMENT IX: Randy Orton vs. Ric Flair
The camera cut backstage to the interview area, where Todd Grisham stood with a microphone, his expression a mixture of anticipation and professional concern. "My guest at this time," he began, "scheduled for action next against his former mentor, 'The Nature Boy' Ric Flair... Randy Orton." The camera panned to reveal Orton, who leaned against a production crate with a cool, dismissive arrogance. He was completely fresh, showing no signs of wear from the previous night, only the supreme confidence of a man who believed he had conquered the world.
"Randy," Grisham said, "last night at WrestleMania, you didn't just defeat Batista; you stood tall over the ruins of Evolution. Tonight, you face the patriarch of that group, Ric Flair. What are your thoughts heading into this match?"
Orton let out a cold, humorless chuckle, pushing himself off the crate. "Thoughts? Todd, you're giving this far too much credit. Ric Flair is a fossil. He's a walking, talking history lesson that nobody wants to hear anymore. Last night was the end of an era. Tonight isn't a match; it's a public execution. I'm going to do to Ric Flair exactly what I did to him at WrestleMania: put him out of his misery and prove that the age of Evolution is extinct. As for Batista..."
Before he could finish the sentence, a blur of motion exploded into the frame. Batista, a freight train of pure muscle and rage, blindsided Orton, driving him off the crate and into a stack of metal scaffolding with a sickening crash. Grisham scrambled for safety as Batista unleashed a torrent of raw, untamed violence. He hauled Orton up by his vest and threw him like a ragdoll into the cinder block wall, Orton's head cracking against the concrete with a dull thud. "You stabbed us in the back!" Batista roared, his voice a guttural snarl. He dragged Orton through the backstage corridor, the camera crew scrambling to keep up with the chaotic brawl. As they neared the gorilla position, Ric Flair, already in his magnificent ring robe, stepped out and joined the assault, cackling as he delivered a series of vicious stomps to Orton's already injured ribs. The two-on-one mugging was merciless. They dragged Orton's limp body through the curtain and shoved him violently onto the stage. The crowd roared in a mixture of shock and fury as Orton's music hit, and the battered superstar, his body screaming in protest, began the long, painful crawl down the ramp as his opponents waited in the ring, ready for the bell to ring on a match that had already become a slaughter.
The clang of the bell served only as the official start to the slaughter that had already begun backstage. Randy Orton, still reeling from the brutal two-on-one assault, struggled to his hands and knees as Ric Flair circled him, a predator savoring the moment. With Batista standing guard at ringside like a monolith of pure rage, Flair immediately went on the offensive, unleashing a torrent of vicious stomps on Orton's already battered ribs. A cacophony of knife-edge chops followed, each punctuated by a triumphant "WOOO!", turning Orton's chest into a raw, crimson canvas. The first few minutes were not a wrestling match, but a public flogging, as Flair used every bit of his veteran experience to exploit the damage his enforcer had inflicted just moments before.
Running on pure survival instinct, Orton finally created an opening. As Flair indulged in a classic strut, Orton sprang forward, driving a thumb deep into the legend’s eye. The illegal tactic, unseen by the official, gave Orton the space he needed to breathe. He exploded with a desperate burst of offense, catching Flair with a sharp dropkick and following up with a methodical attack on Flair's back. For a brief moment, the "Legend Killer" seemed to reemerge from the battered shell, dissecting his former mentor with a cold precision that silenced the crowd. As Flair staggered to his feet, Orton began to pound the mat, signaling for the RKO. The entire complexion of the match was poised to change on that one, serpentine strike.
It was a change that would never come. As Orton coiled, ready to strike, Batista leaped onto the ring apron, roaring at his former stablemate. The referee's attention was immediately diverted, ordering Batista back to the floor. Orton, his focus broken, turned and barked at Batista, "Get down from there!" This momentary distraction was his undoing. Behind the referee's back, Ric Flair, the dirtiest player in the game, rose to his feet and delivered a brutal, blatant low blow that crumpled Orton in an instant. As Orton collapsed to the mat, gasping in agony, the referee turned back, completely oblivious to the foul. Flair, smirking, simply rolled the incapacitated Orton onto his back, hooked his legs, and defiantly placed both of his own feet on the middle rope for illegal leverage. The referee dropped to the mat, his count echoing Orton's fate: one, two, three. The bell rang. But the night was far from over for Randy Orton. As soon as the match ended, Batista stormed the ring. The two men, the vengeful remnants of Evolution, began a savage two-on-one beatdown. Flair held Orton's arms while Batista delivered a series of brutal, clubbing blows to his back and ribs. The crowd's boos were deafening, but they were ignored. The assault culminated with a thunderous Batista Bomb that left the Legend Killer motionless in the center of the ring.
Just as it seemed the carnage was over, the iconic, snarling riff of Motörhead's "The Game" detonated from the speakers. Triple H, dressed for his main event match against Shawn Michaels, emerged onto the stage, but he wasn't empty-handed. In his grip was his signature sledgehammer. He walked down the ramp with a cold, deliberate purpose, the steel weapon resting on his shoulder. He slid into the ring, and the three original members of Evolution stood over the broken body of their former protégé. Triple H surveyed the damage, a cruel smirk on his face. He then raised the sledgehammer high and brought it crashing down into Orton's already bruised ribs with sickening force. Orton's body convulsed in agony. But Triple H wasn't done. He threw the sledgehammer aside, grabbed Orton by the hair, and dragged his limp body to the center of the ring. With a final, definitive roar of dominance, he hooked Orton's arms and drove him into the mat with a devastating Pedigree. The faction's music hit, and the three men stood tall over Orton's broken body, a reunited, vengeful force of nature. The Main event is next.
