3 PART WRESTLEMANIA XX POSTED ~ WWE: The Blueprint ~

[WrestleWizard]

~ WRESTLEMANIA XX PART I ~

~ COMING THURSDAY JULY 31st Noon Est ~​

 

[Ry Guy]

Can’t wait for part 1.

 

[WrestleWizard]

~ WRESTLEMANIA XX PART 1 ~

WRESTLEMANIA XX
Madison Square Garden
New York, NY
MARCH 28th, 2004​

The lights of New York ignite beneath a golden twilight, the skyline glistening like a crown as the camera soars high above the city. The roar of the crowd floods the veins of Manhattan—“WRES-TLE-MA-NIA! WRES-TLE-MA-NIA!”—a chant rolling through the concrete jungle and echoing into history. Madison Square Garden stands tall at the city’s heart, its marquee blazing electric: LIVE FROM MADISON SQUARE GARDEN – WRESTLEMANIA XX. Beneath its glow, legends prepare to carve destiny.

From the shadows of the Garden’s tunnel, an SUV door swings open with authority. Triple H steps out in silence-no entourage, no wasted motion-just presence. Dressed in black and gold, the World Heavyweight Championship draped like a crown across his shoulder. His eyes are steel behind dark lenses, his voice a murmur: “Legacy. Pain. Gold. That’s what I walk with.” He passes the faded mural of WrestleMania. I like a monarch observing his ancestry-unflinching, undisputed.

The mood flips with a hiss of hydraulics. A red lowrider crawls onto the screen, gleaming under tunnel lights. Latino Heat himself-Eddie Guerrero-bursts from the driver’s side, Intercontinental Title in one hand, charisma pouring from his every movement. “This is my house now, homes,” he laughs, slapping the hood. “Madison Square Latino Heat.” He walks with rhythm, the crowd’s chant echoing behind him like a heartbeat.

A black pickup screeches to a halt. The door creaks open as Shawn Michaels descends into frame with a cowboy hat casting a shadow, boots crunching gravel. He pauses, staring up at the neon skyline of the Garden. “This stage made me. And tonight… it reminds them.” With a worn duffel slung over his shoulder and memories flickering in his wake, HBK steps through the threshold of legacy.

Inside the corridor, under dim fluorescent flicker, Christian struts into view-clad in silver, eyes sharp with intent. He halts before a mirror, adjusts the Intercontinental Title and hisses to himself, “Damn you look good.” He smirks and laughs as he walks towards the entrance to the garden. No wasted steps. Just vengeance walking toward the spotlight.

The arena doors creak again. Kurt Angle appears, Olympic gold glinting against his Team Angle gear. He fastens it like battle armor, whispering through gritted teeth, “No Flair. No excuses. Just pain.” The tunnel becomes his training ground, muscles twitching, focus unbreakable.

Then, a yellow taxi slams shut. Out steps Edge, the comeback forged in steel. Coat trailing behind him like a hero’s cloak, his voice silent, but his footage loud-spear after spear, flashbacks bleeding into the frame. “Brock won’t end this. He’ll witness it.”

And then: the rumble. A matte-black SUV idles like a beast. Brock Lesnar emerges, a figure carved from destruction. The WWE Championship is slung over his shoulder, an afterthought to the impending carnage. He storms forward in cold silence, the tunnel lights dimming in his wake, his presence a promise of pure dominance.

Finally, the crescendo. A black limousine glides up the curb. The Rock steps out in slow motion-suit tailored, shirt open, chain swinging. He removes his glasses, eyes locked forward. The crowd roars like thunder, chanting his name into the night. “The lights. The moment. The people’s time… is now.”

As the music swells, the screen fades to black. One final echo-gong. Then text-crisp, white, undeniable: WRESTLEMANIA XX WHERE IT ALL BEGINS… AGAIN.

​

The lights of Madison Square Garden dim to near-black as the crowd quiets, the roar of twenty thousand voices retreating into breathless anticipation. A single, focused spotlight carves through the shadows, illuminating the squared circle like a stage bathed in reverence. In the very center, framed by that gentle glow, stands Faith Hill-graceful, poised, radiant. She wears a floor-length gown that seems woven from starlight, its fabric shimmering with every subtle movement, catching the golds and blues of the lighting rig above. Her presence alone stills the energy of the Garden, commanding not only the eyes of the crowd but their collective heartbeat. As the spotlight tightens, narrowing the focus, she lifts the microphone with both hands-delicate, deliberate. A hush falls like a blanket over the building. No chants, no shouts-just the silence that comes when thousands hold their breath at once. And then, she sings. The first notes of “America the Beautiful” ring out-not with fanfare, but with heartfelt intimacy. Her voice is rich, full of emotion, painting every word with warmth and quiet strength. It reverberates through the arena, not as an echo, but as a living pulse. Each syllable glides effortlessly through the rafters, meeting every ear like a promise. She doesn’t just sing the song; she inhabits it.

Behind her, a military honor guard stands tall, dressed in ceremonial uniforms that gleam beneath the light. Each soldier remains motionless, statuesque in posture, yet they add gravity to the moment-the silent strength behind every note being sung. Then, as she reaches the powerful swell, the crescendo of the anthem’s emotional arc, a lone trumpeter steps forward from the shadows behind the entrance ramp. His horn rises in unison with her voice, and together, voice and brass intertwine in harmony, weaving together warmth and dignity. The golden tones of the trumpet swirl around her vocals, creating a sonic tapestry that wraps the Garden in chills. Goosebumps ripple through the sea of spectators, and some wipe away tears, touched by the purity of the moment. Above them, the giant LED screens fade from black and begin to cycle through iconic American imagery. A sunrise over a Midwestern wheat field. The deep reds of Monument Valley. Glaciers carving through the Pacific Northwest. Rolling hills and waving flags. Purple mountains rise behind clouds as the line “from sea to shining sea” takes visual form. The audience, now bathed in soft hues of red, white, and blue, stands in unified silence. For these few minutes, the spectacle gives way to solemn grace. As the final note leaves Faith’s lips-held with perfect control, then allowed to fade gently into the rafters-a pause fills the space. A heartbeat where time seems to hold its breath.

Then the Garden explodes-not in pyro, not in music, but in raw, heartfelt applause. A thunderous ovation. The crowd rises to their feet, some saluting, others cheering, many clapping with hands over hearts. Faith Hill closes her eyes, offers a gentle, thankful nod to the audience, then steps back as the honor guard turns with mechanical precision. Their synchronized steps echo off the floor, their exit as elegant and disciplined as their presence. As the last of them disappears into the shadows of the tunnel, the crowd continues to applaud, not just for the performance, but for the spirit it invoked.

​

The screen opens to black. Then, like memory rising from decades past, the grainy hue of old VHS footage begins to breathe to life. Madison Square Garden, 1985-flickering like a ghost on the screen. Over this vintage aesthetic, the voice of a gravel-toned narrator cuts through the quiet like a prophecy: “It began as a dream… in the heart of New York City.” A brief montage follows-Hulk Hogan lifting Roddy Piper and slamming him with fiery intensity, Vince McMahon at center ring, eyes blazing with belief as he declares WrestleMania I to the world, and wide crowd shots where flashbulbs burst like fireworks in an era before smartphones. The voiceover continues, solemn yet reverent: “One ring. One night. One chance to be immortal.” This is where the mythos began.

The pace quickens. The music grows more alive. From the shadows of legacy, we surge into the chaos and glory that built this temple of sports-entertainment. Austin’s face bloodied and screaming in the Sharpshooter. Michaels sailing through air in agony and grace at WrestleMania X. The unblinking stare between The Rock and Austin-two titans locked in a silent promise of war. Then, a god's-eye view of WrestleMania X-Seven: 70,000 fans, every seat a pulse, every light a memory. The narration crescendos: “Twenty years of triumph… twenty years of betrayal, redemption, glory, heartbreak, and rebirth.” Then, cutting deeper: “WrestleMania didn’t just create moments… it made legends.”

Now, a heartbeat. Slow, heavy. The orchestral score swells as the camera lingers in the now. In stark, moody slow motion: Triple H lifts the World Heavyweight Championship beneath a white-hot spotlight while shadows of Evolution haunt the edges of frame. Kurt Angle trains alone-grit in his eyes, sweat flying from each snap of motion. The Rock-stoic under a lamplight outside the Garden-basks in golden nostalgia. Shawn Michaels kneels in an empty ring, hands pressed like a confession before war. Edge stands in total isolation, the WrestleMania XX banner looming behind him like unfinished business. Brock Lesnar delivers a thunderous blow to a heavy bag that ruptures under his force. Kane burns behind walls of fire; Undertaker rises from clouds of fog and silence. Eddie Guerrero lifts his arms to a rain of confetti, eyes shut, soul exposed. The narrator returns: “Now… the Garden calls them back. To finish stories… to rewrite their fates… to become the moment they’ve chased their entire lives.”

And now, the collisions are upon us. The orchestral storm darkens, thunders. Highlights flash like memories bleeding into the present-Triple H and Kurt Angle trading agony through Pedigrees and Ankle Locks, their war steeped in history and pride. Edge’s body crashing through steel steps via Brock’s F-5, blood streaking his face like war paint. Shawn Michaels’ boot cracking The Rock’s jaw-Sweet Chin Music, followed by a Rock Bottom, while a stadium trembles with chants. Eddie Guerrero endures Goldberg’s spear, only to rise through smoke and chair shots, defiant in his fire. Christian and Jericho, once brothers, now torn by betrayal, locked in a ruthless dance for Intercontinental gold. Then, flames lick the casket’s edge-Kane and Undertaker, both monsters staring into the pit of hell, waiting for the other to blink. The narrator’s voice now rides the storm: “Tonight… vengeance breathes fire. Tonight… legends fall or rise. Tonight… the ghosts of twenty years are waiting.”

A moment of silence. A breath held.

And then, with thunder beneath the strings, the music erupts into its final movement. One by one, the superstars stand alone, centered, silhouetted in harsh light, staring straight into the soul of the viewer. Shawn Michaels, calm and fierce: “I steal the show… or I don’t leave.” The Rock, voice full of purpose: “One night. One icon. One victory.” Triple H, etched in resolve: “This isn’t a match. It’s survival.” Edge, icy: “No fear. Not tonight.” Kurt Angle, eyes blazing: “I broke my neck to get here. Now I break him.” Undertaker’s eyes roll back into darkness. Eddie Guerrero smirks, defiant: “You can’t kill Latino Heat.” Brock Lesnar, the beast unshaken: “They’ll all remember why I’m the alpha.”

At last, the screen fades again-this time from chaos into grace. A slow, dramatic pullback from inside Madison Square Garden reveals the WrestleMania XX ring below as the crowd roars like a living wave. The image lingers, then seamlessly transitions into the golden burn of the WrestleMania XX logo. The narrator delivers the closing words with both reverence and thunder: “Welcome to Madison Square Garden… Welcome to WrestleMania… XX.”

The screen lingers in black, hanging in the silence left behind by the cold open. For a moment, everything is still-just the echo of anticipation pulsing in the dark like a collective heartbeat. Then, suddenly, a booming, triumphant voice pierces the void, like a call to arms for the WWE faithful: “NOW… WWE PRESENTS…” A drumroll beneath it swells. “…WRESTLEMANIA XX…” Then a thunderous declaration: “…WHERE IT ALL BEGINS… AGAIN!!!” With that, the screen cuts sharply to life-

*BOOM!!!* ​

An earth-shattering explosion of pyro ignites across Madison Square Garden. The hard camera captures it all live, as the upper balcony erupts in a cascading wall of fireworks, sparking down like golden lightning across the iconic rafters. Each corner of the ring bursts to life in symmetrical columns of flame and smoke. The WrestleMania XX stage-a monumental structure of design and meaning-reverberates with energy. A giant golden arch, shaped from overlapping Roman numeral X’s, rises proudly at the entranceway. It glows under stadium lighting, flanked by towering columns that reach from the stage floor to the vaulted ceiling of the Garden. Suspended above it all, a massive rotating “XX” logo spins slowly, shimmering with blue and gold hues, casting metallic reflections across a sea of humanity. The ramp lights up beneath, pulsing rhythmically like a living heartbeat. Every square glows with kinetic color as the custom WrestleMania instrumental thunders through the arena. Searchlights sweep the crowd in spiraling beams, reflecting off signs, sequins, face paint, and tears. The camera swings into motion, swooping across the sold-out bowl of Madison Square Garden, soaring over oceans of humanity. Every seat is full, every person on their feet. Homemade signs wave like flags in a battlefield of belief. Costumed fans bounce with joy, some overcome with emotion-tears streaking war paint, hands clasped in disbelief. Fireworks still echo above. Above the squared circle, a massive banner unfurls: *WELCOME TO WRESTLEMANIA XX.* Lights from all directions converge on it like a crown jewel.

The broadcast cuts to ringside, where the RAW announce team awaits behind a sleek black-and-gold commentary desk. Jim Ross, suited in a crisp tuxedo and radiating southern fire, is already leaning into his microphone with passion. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN-WELCOME… TO WRESTLEMANIA TWENTY!!!” he cries, nearly overwhelmed by the moment. “We are LIVE from a sold-out, thunderous Madison Square Garden-where it all began, and tonight, where it all begins again!” Beside him, Jerry “The King” Lawler claps and grins, electricity in his eyes. “JR, I’ve got goosebumps the size of baseballs! This building has seen it all-but tonight, it’s going to witness history like never before!”

The camera then transitions smoothly to the SmackDown commentary desk, where Michael Cole and Tazz are seated in matching black suits, both brimming with anticipation. Cole’s voice rings loud and clear: “We welcome you to the most anticipated night in WWE history! For 20 years, this event has defined our industry-and tonight, WrestleMania comes home to MSG in a way we’ve never seen!” Tazz slams his fist on the desk, fired up. “The lights are bright, the Garden is packed, and the intensity is off the charts! Every match tonight could main-event the show. You feel that, Cole?! That’s WrestleMania electricity, baby!”

Then the camera cuts to the ring. The mat is pristine white, trimmed in golden-black detailing. Custom WrestleMania XX turnbuckle pads gleam under the spotlight, each one a badge of celebration. The bell rings-*DING... DING.*

And stepping into frame, bathed in nostalgia and reverence, is the voice of generations: Howard Finkel. Wearing a classic black tuxedo, microphone in hand, he gazes across the sea of fans. The crowd erupts in a wall of sound that makes the rafters shudder. With the poise only *The Fink* could bring, he lifts the mic and proclaims:

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… WELCOME TO… WRESTLEMANIA TWENTY!!!”

The night has truly begun.

The thunderous pulse of Madison Square Garden swells with anticipation as the ring announcer, the iconic Howard Finkel, steps into the spotlight with his signature gravitas. Dressed in a black tuxedo, voice booming through the airwaves like a trumpet before battle, he delivers the opening decree: “The following contest is a Fatal Four-Way Tables, Ladders, and Chairs Match… and it is for the WWE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIPS!” He pauses as the crowd erupts, then delivers the final line like a hammer striking steel: “The first team to climb a ladder and retrieve the championships hanging above the ring will be declared the winners and the WWE Tag Team Champions!”

The camera cuts wide, sweeping across the MSG faithful. Spotlights wheel in circles, briefly illuminating the glittering WWE Tag Team Championships hanging high above the ring like treasures suspended in time. Each gold plate reflects the glow of the iconic square lighting rig overhead, as if the past and future of tag team wrestling are waiting in that very shimmer. Around the ring, a battlefield has been set-dozens of ladders, tables, and chairs line the barricades and crawl up the entrance ramp like artillery waiting to be claimed. Each weapon shines with silver and black highlights, echoing the polished, brutal aesthetic of WrestleMania XX.

Suddenly, a burst of blue and white strobe lights floods the stage. A wall of smoke erupts, and through it comes Brian Kendrick-fired from a cannon, spinning with frenetic energy, slapping every outstretched hand. Behind him, Paul London launches into view, leaping into a full backflip off the platform like a man born to defy gravity. The duo is clad in matching white and navy gear, “HIGH RISK” emblazoned across their kickpads like a prophecy. Kendrick drops to one knee, arms stretched out like a rockstar receiving his crowd, while London dashes along the edge of the ramp, acknowledging every roar from the crowd with wide eyes and genuine joy. As they circle the ring, they pause to look skyward at the suspended titles. London gives a spin to one of the ringside chairs, grinning with mischief, while Kendrick nods, already strategizing.

Then the mood shifts. The arena lights snap to warm yellows and oranges, pulsing to a beat the Garden knows by heart. “Turn It Up” hits, and nostalgia pours into the arena like a tidal wave. Scotty 2 Hotty dances his way onto the stage, head tilted with swagger, arms bouncing with rhythm. The crowd joins instantly, clapping along, reliving every Too Cool memory with a smile. Behind him, Rikishi emerges-shades on, strut sharp, removing his sunglasses mid-walk and tossing them to the crowd. He’s in his classic yellow trunks with “Phat” etched in black, commanding attention with every step. At ringside, Rikishi casually lifts a ladder and leans it against the apron, then turns to join Scotty for a perfectly timed “Rikishi shuffle” to an explosion of cheers. Scotty then pantomimes The Worm, pointing to the titles above as if to say: this dance ends at the top.

The air changes again. The lights darken to gold and black, precise and ominous. From the entryway, The World’s Greatest Tag Team emerges in perfect synchronicity. Charlie Haas and Shelton Benjamin march toward the ring, no smiles, no wasted motion-just cold, Olympic-grade intensity. Their red, black, and silver gear gleams under the lighting, “W.G.T.T.” stitched across their backs like a seal of skill. Shelton bounces on his toes, eyes locked on the ladder nearest him. Haas methodically adjusts his elbow pads, never breaking his stare toward the ring. Mid-ramp, they point up toward the tag titles and smirk-not in arrogance, but in understanding. They know what needs to be done, and more importantly, how to do it. They circle the ring with the gaze of apex predators, each grabbing a steel chair and tapping it against the mat like a warning bell.

Suddenly, the arena plunges into blood-red darkness. The slow clanking of chains fills the air as the champions make their entrance. Doug and Danny Basham appear like war ghosts, moving slowly with their trench coats billowing behind them. Between them marches Shaniqua-commanding, draped in black leather, her riding crop tapping methodically against her palm. The crowd delivers a chorus of boos, but the champions are unfazed. Doug slams his boot with a chair to signal readiness, while Danny smacks his own face, psyching himself into madness. Shaniqua paces behind them like a general inspecting her soldiers, smirking with satisfaction. In the ring, Danny climbs the ropes, eyes never leaving the glinting championships overhead. Doug finds Paul London with a glare full of menace. Shaniqua enters last, cracking the crop once-sharp, chilling-as the final punctuation to their arrival.

With all four teams now in the ring, the atmosphere is electric-no, combustible. Each corner of the squared circle bristles with energy as the competitors size each other up. The ladders leaning along the apron glint under the spotlight now fixed on the championship belts above. The bell hasn’t rung, but the war drums are pounding in every heartbeat within Madison Square Garden. Tazz captures the moment perfectly on commentary, voice tight with excitement: “This ain’t gonna be pretty. This ain’t gonna be scientific. This is WrestleMania XX-and somebody’s leavin’ the Garden with gold!”

WWE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIPS: TLC FATAL FOUR WAY MATCH
The Basham Brothers © vs. WGTT vs. London & Kendrick vs. Rikishi & Scotty 2 Hotty​

DING DING DING!

Doug Basham charges Paul London like a bull, fists flying with wild abandon. London ducks the first swing but catches a brutal forearm to the jaw that sends him reeling into the ropes. Across the ring, Danny Basham rams Kendrick into the corner with a shoulder thrust that knocks the wind from his lungs and rains down furious forearm strikes that echo throughout the arena. Kendrick's head snaps back with each impact. Shelton Benjamin and Charlie Haas-the World's Greatest Tag Team-immediately go after Scotty 2 Hotty, seamlessly taking him down with crisp double-leg takedowns that showcase their amateur background. Haas locks in a front facelock while Shelton works the ribs with short, vicious knee strikes. They transition into a beautiful amateur suplex that sends Scotty crashing to the mat. Pure technicians at war.

And then there's Rikishi.

The 400-pound Samoan juggernaut stomps forward like a living freight train. Doug Basham, seeing the behemoth approach, abandons London and charges foolishly. Rikishi catches him with a brutal headbutt that connects with a sickening thud, flattening him instantly. Danny releases Kendrick and charges to his brother's aid, but Rikishi hoists the 255-pounder into the air with surprising ease before crashing him down with a thunderous belly-to-belly suplex that sends a shudder through the canvas. The crowd explodes as Danny bounces off the mat like a rag doll. London shakes off the cobwebs and sees his opening. With Shelton focused on Scotty outside of the ring, London races across the ring, bounces off the ropes, and launches himself through the air in a perfect tope suicida that sends both himself and Shelton crashing into the barricade. The crowd gasps then erupts in appreciation.

Inside the ring, Kendrick has regained his composure. He climbs the turnbuckle with catlike agility, perches for a split second, and dives onto Haas with a missile dropkick that connects flush to the chest. Haas tumbles backward, and Kendrick kips up to a roar from the MSG faithful. Rikishi, meanwhile, has Doug Basham cornered. The big man delivers thunderous open-hand chops that echo through the arena, each one leaving a bright red handprint on Doug's chest. Doug stumbles forward, dazed, and Rikishi catches him with a vicious Samoan drop that shakes the ring. Danny Basham rolls to the outside, desperate to change the momentum. He grabs a steel chair from ringside and slides back in. As Rikishi turns, having just disposed of Doug, Danny swings for the fences-but Rikishi ducks! The chair flies from Danny's hands as his swing meets nothing but air. Rikishi responds with a devastating superkick that flattens Danny. Shelton, however, has recovered outside. He slides beneath the bottom rope with a steel chair of his own, his face calm but dangerous. With venomous intent, he cracks it across Rikishi's spine while the big man is distracted-the sound echoes like a rifle blast through the hallowed halls of the Garden. Rikishi stumbles forward, pain coursing through his back, but stays on his feet, turning slowly toward his attacker. Haas rushes in to aid his partner-a perfectly executed double dropkick to the chest from both WGTT members sends Rikishi tumbling backward through the ropes and crashing to the floor in a heap. The crowd boos the tactics but respects the execution. With Rikishi temporarily neutralized, WGTT now stalks Scotty 2 Hotty, who tries to fire back with desperate right hands. He manages to stagger Shelton with a well-placed European uppercut and then attempts to create separation with an Irish whip. Shelton rebounds off the ropes-but Scotty drops down, pops back up, and signals for The Worm! The crowd goes wild, counting along with his hand motions-W-O-R-M-but as Scotty bounces for the final chop, Shelton delivers a chair-assisted superkick that lays Scotty out like roadkill. The collective groan from the crowd is deafening.

Outside the ring, London and Kendrick regroup. They slide a table from beneath the ring and begin setting it up near the announce table. Doug Basham, recovered from Rikishi's assault, blindsides London with a clubbing blow to the back. He grabs London by the hair and smashes his face against the ring apron. London crumples to the floor. Kendrick sees his partner in trouble and abandons the table setup. He races to the ropes and flips over with a breathtaking Tope Con Hilo, flattening Doug Basham outside the ring. The crowd erupts in approval. Inside, Danny Basham has cornered Scotty. He whips him hard into the corner turnbuckle. Scotty hits chest-first and bounces back into a devastating clothesline that turns him inside out. Danny signals to his brother, who's struggling to his feet outside, and points to a ladder leaning against the barricade.

Meanwhile, Shelton and Haas are methodically dismantling Rikishi near the timekeeper's area. Double-team stomps, chair shots to the back, and relentless offense keep the big man grounded. Haas grabs a water bottle from the announcer's table and pours it over Rikishi's face, adding insult to injury. London, having recovered from the earlier assault, climbs the turnbuckle unnoticed. He perches on the top, taking a heartbeat to steady himself, before twisting into a picture-perfect Shooting Star Plancha that wipes out Danny Basham, Haas, and even takes out a ladder propped against the barricade. Bodies scatter like bowling pins as London crashes down onto his opponents.

The audience erupts into a sea of standing, screaming bodies. "HOLY SHIT!" chants fill the Garden.

Shelton rolls back into the ring, dragging the first ladder behind him like a knight retrieving his blade. He positions it dead center, the WWE Tag Team Titles dangling above like sacred treasure. With one hand on the rungs, he begins to climb, each step deliberate and confident. But Kendrick, ever the opportunist, springboards in from the apron and dropkicks the ladder-it wobbles wildly, threatening to topple. Shelton's body jerks sideways, and he falls-ribs-first-across the top rope with a sickening thud. He bounces off and lands in a heap on the canvas, clutching his midsection in agony. Kendrick scrambles up, eyes on the prize. He steadies the ladder and begins his ascent, the crowd roaring with each rung he conquers. His fingertips graze the championships-so close! But Doug Basham charges in, grabs him from behind by the waistband, and yanks him off the ladder. Kendrick crashes down awkwardly on his shoulder but rolls through. Doug pursues, but Kendrick catches him with an enzuigiri that echoes throughout the arena. Doug staggers but doesn't fall. Kendrick whips him into the corner, follows in with a running forearm smash, then hoists himself to the second rope for a tornado DDT-but Doug counters! He catches Kendrick mid-move, hoists him up, and powerbombs him through a steel chair in the corner with devastating force. The chair twists on impact, flattened, mangled, and destroyed. Kendrick lies motionless as Doug admires his handiwork.

Outside the ring, Rikishi has finally begun to fight back against WGTT's assault. He absorbs a chair shot from Haas, no-sells it with a fearsome roar, and delivers a thunderous headbutt that drops Haas where he stands. Shelton attempts to intervene but receives a devastating Samoan spike for his troubles. Rikishi rolls back into the ring, only to find Doug Basham waiting with a ladder in hand. Doug charges, but Rikishi sidesteps and sends Doug crashing into the corner. Rikishi follows up with a running hip attack that squashes Doug against the turnbuckles. Danny Basham slides in with a chair raised high, but Scotty 2 Hotty cuts him off with a perfectly timed dropkick to the knee. Danny stumbles, and Scotty capitalizes with a bulldog onto the chair. The metal crunches beneath Danny's face as he goes down hard. With Rikishi still catching his breath, WGTT regroup outside. They grab a fresh ladder and slide back in. As Rikishi turns, they take the ladder and ram it into his gut like a battering ram-once, twice-the big man groans but refuses to fall. Then, they prop him against the turnbuckles and sandwich him with the ladder, pressing it against his chest and crushing him against the corner post. Scotty rushes in to help his partner, but WGTT are ready. They sandwich Scotty with the ladder, slamming it into his body with bone-jarring force. Scotty drops to his knees, gasping for air.

London attempts to intervene-he springboards off the second rope for a moonsault! But WGTT are ready. They catch him mid-air and deliver a double-team belly-to-back facebuster onto the steel ladder that's lying flat on the mat. The impact is sickening, and London arches his back in agony before rolling to the apron in a desperate attempt to escape further punishment.

Momentum shifts again.

The Basham Brothers recover and see their opportunity. They set up a ladder beneath the titles while WGTT kept Rikishi and Scotty occupied outside. Danny Basham begins ascending the rungs, one careful step at a time, his eyes fixed on the championships. But Rikishi, bloodied but far from broken, bulldozes through Haas with a running shoulder block and slides back into the ring. He grabs the ladder and shakes it violently. Danny clings for dear life as the structure wobbles beneath him. Rikishi steadies the ladder, then begins climbing the opposite side. The structure creaks ominously under the combined weight. They meet at the summit and trade thunderous blows-until Rikishi's monstrous headbutt knocks Danny senseless. Danny clings to the ladder, dazed, as Rikishi reaches for the titles. But before his fingers can touch gold, Haas leaps from the apron with a missile dropkick to Rikishi's back. The impact causes Rikishi to lose his balance, and he crotches himself painfully on the top rung. The big man howls in agony as the Garden winces collectively.

Outside the ring, Kendrick has recovered enough to continue. He sets up a table on the outside near the announce position, blood streaming from a nasty cut on his elbow. He signals to London, who has pulled himself up onto the apron and is now climbing the turnbuckle despite obvious pain. Danny Basham, having recovered from Rikishi's headbutt, wanders near the edge of the ring, still dazed and unaware of the danger lurking behind him.

London reaches the top turnbuckle and steadies himself. The crowd rises in anticipation. Danny turns-too late!

London flies-a picture-perfect diving hurricanrana-and both men sail through the air before exploding through the table with catastrophic force. Wooden shards fly into the front row as both bodies crumple amidst the wreckage. The crowd erupts in a "Holy S***!" chant that rocks the Garden to its foundations. Medical personnel hover near the wreckage, concern etched on their faces.

Inside the ring, Scotty 2 Hotty is alone-a sitting duck. Haas and Shelton circle him like wolves. Scotty swings wildly, desperation evident in every move, but the numbers game is too much. Shelton catches a kick attempt and spins Scotty around into Haas, who delivers a brutal German suplex that plants Scotty on his head. Shelton grabs a steel chair and places it flat on the mat. Haas positions Scotty precisely, and together they execute their signature Leapfrog Guillotine, slamming his throat across the steel chair in a move that looks like it could end careers. Scotty clutches his throat, gasping for air as he rolls out of the ring in agony. With all opponents temporarily neutralized, Haas begins climbing a ladder positioned beneath the titles, while Shelton stands guard. Haas ascends methodically, the titles swaying tantalizingly above. But Kendrick, dazed and clutching his ribs, manages to crawl back into the ring unnoticed. He summons his remaining strength and tips the ladder just enough to topple it. Haas flies out of the ring-crashing down onto Rikishi, who is laid across a table at ringside! The table explodes on impact, sending splinters and bodies flying in all directions. The crowd is delirious with excitement.

Shelton, enraged by his partner's fall, charges Kendrick and catches him with a devastating T-Bone suplex that folds Kendrick in half. He follows up with stomps to Kendrick's midsection, driving what little air remains from his lungs. Outside, London stirs amidst the wreckage of the earlier table spot. He crawls toward the ring, determination written across his battered face. Doug Basham intercepts him, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him toward the announce table. He clears it with a sweep of his arm, sending monitors and paperwork flying. Doug hoists London up for a powerbomb onto the announce table, but London fights back with desperate elbows to the side of the head. He slips behind Doug and, in a burst of adrenaline, executes a perfect dragon suplex that sends both men crashing through the Spanish announce table! The structure gives way with a thunderous crash as Jim Ross screams, "Good God almighty! Good God almighty! That killed him!"

Inside the ring, Shelton has set up a new ladder and begins to climb. Scotty, having recovered enough to stand, grabs his ankle. Shelton responds with a savage kick that sends Scotty reeling, then continues his ascent. But Rikishi has finally freed himself from the wreckage outside. He slides into the ring, grabs the ladder, and tips it violently. Shelton crashes down hard onto the top rope, bounces off, and lands awkwardly on the canvas. Rikishi, sensing a chance to end things, drags Shelton to the corner. He signals to the crowd, who roar in anticipation. The massive Samoan ascends to the second rope-an unusual sight-and launches his 400-pound frame in a devastating Banzai Drop that flattens Shelton completely. The ring shakes under the impact, and for a moment, it seems like the canvas might give way. Danny Basham has recovered enough to return to the ring. He and Rikishi trade blows center-ring-Danny's strikes bouncing ineffectively off Rikishi's massive frame while each of Rikishi's blows rocks Danny to his core. Meanwhile, Kendrick has set up a ladder in one corner. London, having extricated himself from the announce table wreckage, sets up another in the opposite corner. Haas and Doug Basham, sensing danger, slide into the ring to intervene.

The match reaches its boiling point as all eight competitors converge in the ring.

Kendrick climbs one ladder. Doug ascends the opposite. Haas and Shelton wedge a third ladder between them-creating a makeshift bridge between the two uprights. London climbs beside Kendrick. Danny follows Doug. Scotty and Rikishi grab the legs of their respective opponents. Eight men now converge in a precarious structure of humanity and steel. The Garden holds its collective breath. Chaos is imminent.

Then-it happens.

Kendrick hits a sunset flip powerbomb off the ladder, slamming Doug down with the force of a meteor. The impact leaves Doug motionless on the canvas. London leaps off the bridged ladder with a flying neckbreaker, pulling Shelton down into oblivion. Both men crash in a tangled heap of limbs. Haas superplexes Scotty from the very top of the ladder, both bodies crashing into the steel like human wrecking balls. The ladder topples from the impact, creating a domino effect that brings down the entire structure. Fans are on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse. Flashbulbs ignite the arena like fireworks on the Fourth of July. The referee checks on the competitors, genuine concern on his face as several men lie motionless.

Rikishi is the first to rise, like a monster from the ashes of destruction. Blood trickles down his forehead, but his eyes burn with determination. He grabs a steel chair and goes on the warpath.

Chair shots for Haas-the steel connecting with sickening force across his back.

Chair shots for Danny-a thunderous blow to the midsection followed by one across the spine that echoes throughout the arena.

Rikishi drops the chair and begins clearing the announce table area. He sets up two tables side-by-side near the corner, positioning them with methodical precision that suggests premeditation. The Bashams, displaying the resilience that has made them champions, crawl to their feet-only to be caught by Rikishi. He hoists both men up simultaneously-one in each massive arm-and delivers a devastating double Samoan drop that sends both brothers crashing through the double-stacked tables with seismic force. The wood splinters violently, the ring shakes, and The Garden howls in approval of the destruction. Scotty, fueled by sheer adrenaline and the electric energy of Madison Square Garden, sets up a ladder beneath the titles. He begins to climb, each movement clearly painful but driven by championship aspirations. Rikishi defends his partner's ascent, swinging a steel chair wildly at anyone who approaches. Haas tries to intervene but receives a chair shot to the skull that drops him instantly. Shelton Benjamin, showing the grit of a true champion, crawls toward the ladder. Rikishi intercepts him with a massive leg drop that shakes the canvas. But Kendrick returns-having recovered just enough to make one final push. With uncanny agility that defies his obvious injuries, he springboards from the second rope and dropkicks the ladder mid-climb. Scotty flies backward-crashing into Rikishi and sending both men tumbling to the canvas. WGTT strikes with veteran precision. Shelton superkicks Scotty, sending him flying over the top rope. London sets Scotty on the table. Then Shelton climbs halfway up the ladder and, in a move of breathtaking audacity, executes a picture-perfect frog splash onto Scotty who's laid out on a table outside.The crowd goes silent as Scotty lays motionless. EMTs rush in, genuine concern on their faces as they attend to the fallen competitor.

Inside the ring, a moment or two later London and Shelton climb opposite ends of the tallest ladder, slugging it out like two gladiators at the summit. Each blow could send either man crashing to the canvas below. Shelton connects with a thumb to the eye-a veteran's dirty trick-and London falters.

Kendrick, with madness in his eyes, sets up a smaller ladder parallel to the main one. He sprints-uses it as a ramp-runs up the bridged ladder like a tightrope walker defying gravity-leaps in mid-air for the belts-and gets caught with a devastating punch from Shelton in mid-flight, falling backward through a table that Doug Basham has positioned on the outside. The thud is hideous as Kendrick crashes through the wood, his body contorting on impact. The crowd gasps, then falls silent, concerned about replacing bloodlust. Doug, seeing London alone on the ladder, climbs up to join Shelton in a two-on-one assault. They sandwich London between them, delivering alternating punches that have London reeling. But Rikishi returns! He grabs Doug's leg and yanks him off the ladder. Doug flies through the air, crashing to the canvas with a sickening thud. Haas rushes in to help Shelton-a flying crossbody off the top of a smaller ladder! But Rikishi, showing the catlike reflexes that belie his massive size, catches him in mid-air. With primal fury etched across his blood-streaked face, Rikishi pivots and Samoan drives him through a stack of twisted chairs in the corner. The impact is catastrophic, metal twisting and bending under the combined weight. Shelton Benjamin immediately comes in with a ladder and throws it into Rikishi's face, followed by a huge PAYDIRT right into a fallen ladder.

Sixteen minutes of warfare have taken their toll. The ring is a disaster zone of broken tables, bent chairs, and twisted ladders. Bodies lie strewn around ringside like casualties of war.

Four men remain in contention:

Doug Basham-bleeding but defiant. Shelton Benjamin-limping but determined. Paul London-exhausted but unwavering. Brian Kendrick-somehow conscious and clawing his way back into the ring.

All four converge on the central ladder. All climb.

Doug grabs London by the hair, trying to yank him off. Kendrick climbs opposite Shelton. Fists fly in a four-way battle above the unforgiving canvas. Shelton rakes Kendrick's eyes, temporarily blinding him, but Kendrick responds with a knee to the chin that rocks Shelton's head back. Then-the decisive moment-London executes a sunset flip powerbomb from the top of the ladder, yanking Doug from his perch in a whiplash descent. Both men crash to the canvas, London sacrificing his body to eliminate the threat.

Shelton's fingertips graze the titles, mere inches from victory.

But Kendrick, groggy and bleeding profusely from a gash above his eye, grabs Shelton's foot and yanks him off balance-then shoves the ladder with every ounce of remaining strength. Shelton crashes through a table outside that no one even realized was still intact. The wood explodes on impact, and Shelton disappears beneath the wreckage. Gone.

Kendrick steadies the wobbling ladder, his body swaying dangerously from exhaustion. Every muscle screams in protest. Every breath is agony. Blood drips from his face onto the canvas below in a steady crimson rain.

But he climbs.

Rung by rung. One hand. Then the other.

London stirs amid the wreckage, battered and gasping for air. He sees Kendrick climbing, rung by rung, the ladder trembling under his partner’s weight and sheer desperation. With what strength he has left, London drags himself across the canvas, bleeding from his elbow, clutching the rung at the base. He braces the ladder with his whole body, teeth gritted, willing Kendrick to reach the top. But Danny Basham isn’t done yet. He claws back into the ring like a wounded animal, grabs London by the hair, and viciously hurls him through the ropes into the barricade with a sickening thud. The crowd roars as Danny scrambles up the opposite side of the ladder-rage in his eyes, fists cocked to knock Kendrick back down to earth. At the top, Kendrick and Danny meet like warriors at the edge of a cliff, trading savage right hands that echo through the Garden. Each shot rattles the ladder, each headbutt sprays sweat and blood into the air. Kendrick’s face twists with pain, but he fires back, headbutts Danny right between the eyes-once, twice-until Danny reels, arms slack. With a final surge of defiance, Kendrick claws to the very top rung. He steadies himself with one hand, reaches up with the other-fingertips brushing gold. Danny lunges with one last desperate swing, but Kendrick buries a knee into his ribs, shoves him back down the ladder, and tears the championships free from the cable overhead. At sixteen minutes, thirty seconds, the roof blows off Madison Square Garden. The arena erupts in a thunderous roar as Kendrick clutches the titles to his chest, tears welling in his eyes. London crawls back in, collapses beside the ladder in exhausted triumph, grinning through the pain. The referee raises Kendrick’s arm high-gold in his grip, confetti raining down, history made.

~ WINNERS

Spoiler

PAUL LONDON & BRIAN KENDRICK NEW WWE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS

~
As the final bell fades, Paul London and Brian Kendrick sit side by side on the mat, surrounded by splintered ladders, shattered tables, and the groans of beaten rivals. Kendrick clutches one title tight to his chest, his chest heaving, sweat and blood streaked down his face. London drapes an arm around his partner’s shoulders, the other hand clutching the second championship like it’s life itself. The Madison Square Garden crowd is deafening-a wall of cheers, camera flashes strobing the ring like fireworks. Confetti cannons fire bursts of silver and gold into the air, drifting down over the carnage like a celebration for kings who’ve survived a war. London pulls himself to his feet first, wobbling, then reaches down to help Kendrick stand. The two young champions hold the titles high above their heads, facing every side of the arena, feeding off the roar of thousands chanting, “YOU DESERVE IT! YOU DESERVE IT!” Kendrick climbs the corner turnbuckle, raising his title toward the lights. London joins him on the opposite corner-two silhouettes standing tall over a ring littered with ruin, proof that heart and risk can conquer anything. They slap hands mid-ring, pull each other into an exhausted hug, then climb the ropes one last time, gold glittering in the spotlights, immortal under the WrestleMania banner.

~ WWE SHOP AD BREAK ~

The camera cuts backstage at Madison Square Garden. Trish Stratus stands in front of a mirror inside the women's locker room, lacing up her boots, adjusting her gear, stretching her neck - laser-focused before heading out for her Open Challenge match.

Suddenly, the door creaks open. In steps Christian, wearing his signature black and silver “CLB” shirt, the Intercontinental Championship slung over his shoulder. The tension is immediate.

Christian (smirking):
"Trish. You look… intense. Big match tonight, huh? An open challenge on the biggest stage of them all. Impressive."

Trish doesn’t turn around. She rolls her eyes and keeps adjusting her gloves.

Trish (icy):
"What do you want, Christian?"

Christian (feigning innocence):
"Relax. I’m not here to start anything. Actually... I wanted to say I’m sorry."

That finally gets Trish to turn and look at him - arms folded, expression skeptical.

Christian (stepping closer):
"For everything. The games. The match. The bet. I screwed up, okay? But tonight… tonight I end this. Three Stages of Hell. Me and Jericho. It all ends here."

He pauses, eyes narrowing with quiet intensity.

Christian:
"You should watch. Because I'm going to tear him apart. You were right to walk away from him. He was never good enough for you."

Trish shakes her head in disgust, starting to walk away. Christian gently steps in front of her, blocking her path.

Christian (voice lower):
"Maybe... What you need is a real man. A champion."

He taps the Intercontinental Title on his shoulder with a smug grin. Trish stares at him with a flash of contempt-then without warning, rears back and SLAPS him across the face. The crack echoes through the hallway. Christian recoils, grabbing his cheek.

Trish (sharply):
"Get out of my way."

She storms off toward the curtain, leaving Christian frozen in place. After a moment, he lowers his hand from his face… and grins.

The camera lingers on his smug, slightly bruised smile as the WrestleMania crowd roars in the background.

[ARENA – MADISON SQUARE GARDEN]

The arena goes dark.

A golden spotlight sweeps across the roaring crowd. Suddenly, a hard bass beat hits -

“Time to Rock & Roll” by Lil’ Kim

Bright white and pink strobes flash to the rhythm. On the massive titantron, Trish Stratus’s name explodes onto the screen in glittering gold as her entrance video blazes to life - a rapid montage of Stratusfaction, head-turning poses, and championship gold.

The curtain parts - and there she is.

Trish Stratus.

She strides onto the stage with sharp confidence, jaw tight, eyes locked straight ahead. The slap from earlier is still fresh in her energy, her expression is unflinching - focused, proud, dangerous.

She stands tall at the top of the ramp, pausing as the spotlight locks on her. She raises both arms above her head and throws her hips to the side in her signature pose, silhouetted by a blast of pyro shooting from either side of the entranceway.

The Madison Square Garden crowd erupts - a wall of cheers rolling through the arena as camera flashes flicker like stars.

She begins walking down the ramp, her long, blonde hair flowing with each step. Her leather ring jacket catches the light - black with shimmering pink accents, the collar popped high. Her boots snap crisply with each confident stride.

Trish reaches ringside, stopping just before the steps. She glances around at the packed house - 20,000 fans on their feet - then looks up toward the WrestleMania XX logo hanging high above the ring.

A smirk breaks across her face.

She ascends the steel steps, ducking through the ropes with a swift swing of her hips. Once inside, she walks to the center of the ring, turns slowly to take it all in - the lights, the fans, the moment - then charges to the far corner and hops up onto the second rope.

She throws her arms wide, flicks her hair back, and yells something inaudible to the sea of fans, her voice swallowed by the roar of the Garden.

As the music begins to fade, Trish hops down, pacing the ring with her eyes already turned toward the entrance.

The lights inside Madison Square Garden shimmered with an electric intensity as fans packed every seat, eagerly anticipating another landmark moment at WrestleMania XX. Suddenly, the iconic voice of Trish Stratus rang out, cutting through the ambient noise like a knife. “New York City!” she declared, her words tinged with the unmistakable rhythm of a Canadian accent-one that had become warmly familiar to the WWE Universe. The crowd responded instantly, erupting into a thunderous ovation that seemed to pulse through the very foundation of the arena, their excitement feeding off the energy that only WrestleMania could summon.

Trish paced the ring with commanding purpose, her white boots gleaming beneath the spotlights as she soaked in the adulation. With the microphone firmly in hand, her voice rose with conviction: “WrestleMania has always been about making history. From Hulk Hogan slamming Andre the Giant, to Stone Cold and The Rock, to what we’ve already witnessed tonight... WrestleMania XX is living up to its promise-‘Where It All Begins Again.’” As she paused to let the significance of her words settle, the crowd quieted, sensing a shift in tone. Her expression darkened with focus, and her voice adopted a sharper edge.

“I may not be holding the Women’s Championship right now,” she admitted, her gaze sweeping the audience with steely determination, “but make no mistake-every woman in that locker room knows: when it comes to the women's division, all roads go through Trish Stratus.” That statement drew a mix of loyal cheers and playful jeers from the notoriously vocal New York fans-proof of her ability to provoke emotion from all sides of the spectrum.

Trish pressed on, setting the stage for the evening’s high-stakes drama. “Later tonight, Molly Holly defends the Women’s Championship against Lita,” she reminded the crowd, acknowledging the match every fan had circled. “But let me make something perfectly clear: no matter who walks out with the gold tonight, I’m coming for that title! I've beaten Lita, Jazz, Molly... I’ve taken down everyone they’ve dared to throw at me, one by one.” With confidence radiating from her voice, she turned toward the entrance ramp, raising her arm in declaration. “So tonight, on the grandest stage of them all, I’m issuing an open challenge-to anyone backstage who believes they have what it takes to prove themselves against the greatest female competitor in this business today!”

As Trish handed off the microphone and began loosening up, anticipation spread like wildfire. The fans buzzed, their collective curiosity hanging thick in the air-who would step up? A rising star like Gail Kim? A surprise return? Speculation swirled like smoke above the crowd as Madison Square Garden held its breath.

Then it happened.

Out of the tense silence came a jarring burst of unfamiliar music-a gritty rock theme laced with synthesizer elements that hadn’t graced WWE airwaves in years. A wave of confused murmuring filled the air before the titantron illuminated with a shocking name: ALUNDRA BLAYZE. The building erupted. A stunned cheer thundered through the crowd as the legendary figure stepped onto the ramp. Alundra Blayze-trailblazer of the early '90s women's division-was back, and the reaction was seismic.

Draped in a sleek, black-and-gold outfit that cleverly nodded to her classic gear while adding a modern flair, Alundra looked nothing like a retiree. She was composed, confident, and in fighting shape despite having entered her 40s-a living testament to longevity and passion. “Oh my God! It’s Alundra Blayze!” cried Jim Ross on commentary, unable to hide his astonishment. “We haven’t seen her in a WWE ring since December of 1995!” Jerry “The King” Lawler quickly chimed in, noting, “That’s Madusa from WCW!”-a reminder of her reinvention during the Monday Night Wars.

As Alundra marched toward the ring, fans remembered her infamous WWE exit-the night she tossed the Women’s Championship into a trash can live on WCW Nitro. “This is the woman who literally threw the title in the garbage on national TV!” J.R. exclaimed, his voice rising with historical weight. The crowd roared with reverence and disbelief, chanting "Holy shit! Holy shit!" as Alundra locked eyes with a visibly stunned Trish Stratus. Trish’s shock was authentic-this was no scripted reaction. This was real. Alundra slid into the ring with veteran poise, not a trace of hesitation in her movements. She walked straight up to Trish, stopping just inches away, their mirrored statures casting an unmistakable image-past and present colliding. The crowd stood in unified awe as camera flashes lit up the ring like a thousand tiny fireworks.

From ringside, Lilian Garcia took center stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall,” she announced. “Introducing first, from Toronto, Ontario, Canada... Trish Stratus!” Cheers filled the arena once again as Trish raised her arms high. “And her opponent, from Tampa, Florida...... Alundra Blayze!”

The noise was deafening. Fans from the New Generation era and those who’d only heard the stories were united in amazement-this was a moment few thought would ever happen.

With the bell ringing, the two circled one another, never breaking eye contact. The tension crackled like electricity. “This is surreal!” Jim Ross said, voicing the sentiment felt by millions. “The pioneer of women’s wrestling in WWE standing across from the woman who carried that torch into the 21st century!”

TRISH STRATUS VS. ALUNDRA BLAYZE​

The bell rings to a roar of anticipation as the crowd buzzes for this generational showdown. Trish Stratus and Alundra Blayze circle each other with purpose, the gravity of the moment clear in their eyes. A respectful nod from both women preludes the initial lock-up. Alundra quickly asserts control, ducking behind into a waist lock and tripping Trish to the mat, smoothly floating into a front facelock. Trish tries to wrestle out, but Alundra transitions effortlessly into a hammerlock, grinding her forearm into Trish’s shoulder blade. Trish shows grit early, rolling out and reversing the hold into one of her own, wrenching back hard, forcing Alundra to rise with her and push to the ropes for a break.

The crowd applauds the opening exchange, sensing the technical precision. Alundra raises the tempo, snapping into a deep armdrag that sends Trish across the mat. Trish pops up - and eats a dropkick square in the chest. Alundra hooks the leg for a quick one-count, but Trish kicks out hard. Staying on her, Alundra hits a crisp snapmare and follows with a stiff soccer kick to the spine. “That’s the old joshi influence right there,” Lawler notes as Alundra stalks her prey. Trish grimaces but fires back with forearms to the gut, pushing to her feet. Alundra cuts her off with a knee lift and whips her to the ropes, but Trish ducks a lariat and rebounds with a flying clothesline that knocks Alundra down for the first time. The crowd pops big as Trish mounts a comeback, following with a basement dropkick to the side of the head.

Trish keeps the pressure on with a scoop slam, then quickly ascends to the second rope. She waits as Alundra rises - and connects with a Thesz press from the ropes, raining down punches to a big ovation. She goes for the cover - one, two - kickout. Trish pulls Alundra up, but the veteran yanks her into a Fujiwara armbar! Trish cries out in pain, scrambling toward the ropes. Alundra torques the shoulder, but Trish barely manages to grab the bottom rope with her boot. The ref calls for the break, and Alundra gives a clean release, but there’s a focused intensity in her eyes now.

Blayze immediately targets the left arm, whipping Trish shoulder-first into the corner. She follows with a running back elbow, then grabs Trish for a double underhook suplex - it lands hard, and the legend floats into the cover. One, two - no! Trish kicks out, but she’s clutching that arm. Alundra slows the pace now, wrenching in a grounded short-arm scissors, applying precise, painful pressure. The crowd rallies behind Trish, clapping rhythmically. Trish rolls to her side, plants her knees - and deadlifts Alundra into a partial powerbomb to break the hold! A huge gasp and pop erupt as both women lie spent for a moment.

They rise simultaneously - and it becomes a strike exchange. Alundra throws a palm strike. Trish fires back with a forearm. Palm strike. Forearm. Palm strike - Trish ducks and hits a spinning heel kick! The crowd comes alive as she pulls herself up and springboards off the second rope - stratusphere hurricanrana! The crowd counts - one, two - Blayze kicks out! Trish is fired up now, shaking out her arm, signaling for the Chick Kick. She lines up - swings - Alundra ducks, grabs the waist - bridging German suplex! One, two - TRISH BARELY ESCAPES! The Madison Square Garden crowd is on their feet!

Alundra is now laser-focused. She pulls Trish up and hoists her for a Tiger Suplex - but Trish flips out mid-air and lands behind her! Alundra turns around - kick to the gut, Stratusfaction attempt - but Alundra shoves her off and BLASTS her with a stiff lariat! The snap and impact draws a gasp. She drags Trish to the corner, climbs to the top rope - and in a rare high-risk move, dives with a missile dropkick! But Trish dodges at the last second, and Alundra crashes to the mat hard!

Both women are down again, the match at a fever pitch. “This is a classic!” shouts JR as the crowd claps them back to their feet. Trish rallies first, using the ropes to stand. Alundra charges - but Trish counters with a drop toe hold into the turnbuckle! Alundra reels back dazed - Trish hits the ropes and connects with the Chick Kick to the jaw! She collapses into the cover - ONE! TWO! THR-NO!!! The near-fall draws a thunderous response.

Exhausted but determined, Trish signals again for the Stratusfaction. She pulls Alundra up, hooks the head, runs up the ropes - but Alundra blocks it! She counters into a backdrop lift - but Trish lands on her feet - kick to the midsection - STRATUSFACTION HITS CLEAN THIS TIME! The arena explodes! Trish hooks both legs - ONE! TWO! THREE!

Winner: Trish Stratus (8:01)

As Trish Stratus’s theme music filled Madison Square Garden, Trish didn't immediately jump to her feet. She remained on the canvas for a moment, clutching her battered left arm and breathing heavily as the referee raised her hand, confirming the hard-fought victory. The adrenaline of the match began to subside, replaced by the overwhelming roar of the crowd and the deep ache of the battle.

Across the ring, Alundra Blayze slowly pushed herself to a seated position, a look of immense disappointment mixed with pride on her face. As she got to her knees, a chant began to ripple through the arena: "Thank you, Alun-dra! clap-clap-clapclapclap." The legend acknowledged the ovation with a solemn nod, the respect from the fans clearly moving her.

Trish, now on her feet, saw the legend stirring. Her own celebration paused. With a nod of understanding, she walked toward the center of the ring, her expression softening from triumph to respect. Alundra met her gaze and rose fully to her feet. For a moment, they just stood there, the past and present of women's wrestling sharing the same hallowed ground.

Then, in a gesture that drew a massive ovation, Blayze extended her hand. Trish took it firmly. Blayze pulled her in close, whispered a few inaudible words in her ear, and then, in the ultimate sign of respect, she took Trish’s arm-the very one she had worked over for the entire match-and raised it high for the entire world to see.

With the torch officially passed, Alundra Blayze released her grip and left the ring, allowing the spotlight to shine solely on the victor. She walked back up the ramp to a standing ovation, turning one last time to look at the ring before disappearing behind the curtain.

The focus returned to Trish Stratus, alone in the ring. She climbed the second turnbuckle, raising her arms to soak in the thunderous ovation. The pain was evident on her face, but so was the triumph. This wasn't just a win; it was an ascension, earned in the heart of the Garden against one of the very best to ever do it.

~ WRESTLEMANIA 21 AD BREAK ~​

The jubilant roar for Trish Stratus in Madison Square Garden fades, the screen cutting to black for a split second of silence. A deep, cinematic bass note hums to life, pulsing like a heartbeat. Glimpses of quintessential Hollywood flash across the screen in a rapid-fire montage: the iconic white letters on the hill against a piercing blue sky, the golden glow of a Walk of Fame star on the pavement, the silhouettes of towering palm trees against a fiery sunset. These images are intercut with hyper-stylized, slow-motion shots of WWE's elite-the defiant glare of Eddie Guerrero, the raw power in Batista's roar, the stoic silhouette of The Undertaker.

A gravelly, authoritative voice, the kind reserved for blockbuster movie trailers, cuts through the building music. "Some places are built on dreams," the narrator intones over a sweeping shot of the glittering city at night. "Some legacies are forged in the spotlight." The music swells with dramatic strings as the montage accelerates. "Next year, the two will collide." The quick cuts cease, giving way to a majestic, sweeping aerial shot that rises over a hill to reveal the breathtaking expanse of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum at dusk, its iconic peristyle arches lit like an ancient temple awaiting the arrival of modern gods.

"In a coliseum built for titans," the voice booms as the camera pushes in on the legendary venue, "the grandest stage of them all… goes Hollywood." The screen cuts to a final, striking graphic. A sleek, golden "WrestleMania 21" logo materializes, shining as if under a studio light. Below it, the text appears in bold lettering: LOS ANGELES MEMORIAL COLISEUM. APRIL 2005. The final chord of the epic score rings out and fades, leaving the promise of next year's spectacle hanging in the air before returning to the live action.

WRESTLEMANIA 21

APRIL 3rd, 2005

LIVE FROM THE LA MEMORIAL COLISEUM ​

The epic promise of Hollywood fades, and the screen dissolves back to a live, sweeping view of a pulsating Madison Square Garden, the 18,000+ fans on their feet. The commentators' voices return, with Jim Ross leading the way.

"Fans, welcome back live to WrestleMania!" JR's iconic voice booms. "We may be heading to Los Angeles next year, but tonight, the center of the universe is right here in New York City."

"And JR, it looks like the stars came out to see the stars!" Jerry Lawler chimes in with excitement. "Look who's here!"

The camera cuts to a ringside seat, finding beloved actor and comedian Adam Sandler, who throws up a shaka sign, clearly enjoying the show. The shot then finds legendary film director and quintessential New York sports fan, Spike Lee, taking in the action from his seat. The camera pans to another section, drawing a huge reaction as it settles on music royalty, Jay-Z, sitting alongside Beyoncé.

"And the Captain is in the house!" Lawler nearly shouts, as the final shot lands on New York Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter, who smiles and waves, drawing a massive cheer from the hometown crowd.

"Some of the biggest names in sports and entertainment are here, King," JR says, his tone shifting back to business. "But our focus now returns to a story of former teammates turned rivals. We are about to witness a collision born from ambition, as two of Evolution's prized pupils are set to explode right here in this ring."

As he speaks, the screen transitions to the official match graphic. On the right side, a photo of a lean, cocky Randy Orton, "The Legend Killer." On the left, the hulking, stoic frame of "The Animal" Batista. Their images clash over the WrestleMania XX logo.

The graphic holds for a moment before it fades from the screen.

The screen fades to black and the video package begins.

BATISTA/ORTON VIDEO PACKAGE​

A triumphant, powerful rock anthem kicks in as the screen fills with slick, slow-motion shots of Evolution in their prime. All four members, clad in expensive suits, step out of a limousine. There's Ric Flair, the legend, adjusting his cufflinks. There's Triple H, the World Heavyweight Champion, hoisting his title with authority. And then the focus shifts to the "crown jewels"-a powerful Batista and a confident, smirking Randy Orton, who proudly holds his Intercontinental Championship.

A deep-voiced narrator begins: "The Past. The Present. The Future. For over a year, one name meant dominance. One name meant power. That name... was Evolution."

The music comes to a screeching, distorted halt. The screen cuts to chaotic, shaky-cam footage from the February 23rd episode of RAW. The audio is raw, filled with the crowd's shocked gasps. We see Orton, his face a mask of fury, suddenly drop Batista with a lightning-fast RKO. The camera rapidly cuts between the brutal RKOs that follow on Flair and Triple H. The segment ends with a haunting, wide shot of Orton standing tall over the three men who had been his mentors, his brothers.

"But the future... had its own agenda," the narrator says grimly.

The arena noise fades, leaving only an ominous hum as the camera zooms in on Orton's face. His voice, dripping with venom, cuts through the silence: "Evolution was never about the future. It was about holding me back while Triple H hoarded all the glory. You never saw me as an equal-only as a pawn. And now you all pay the price."

The hum explodes into an aggressive, driving hard rock theme. The pace quickens. We see a furious Triple H backstage, his eyes burning with rage. "We created Randy Orton," his voice roars over the music. "Evolution made him, and now Evolution will destroy him."

The visuals become a violent montage of retribution. We see Orton on the verge of victory against Christian, only for Batista’s music to hit, the distraction costing him his Intercontinental Title. This is followed by rapid cuts of the brutal post-match beatdown-Batista, Flair, and Triple H relentlessly stomping a helpless Orton, who is eventually carried out on a stretcher.

The narrator returns: "A line had been crossed. A war had been declared. And an animal... had been unleashed."

The music intensifies further. The arena lights go out. They flash back on to reveal Orton, steel chair in hand, laying waste to Evolution with a crazed intensity. The footage then cuts to Batista, channeling his rage into a dominant, destructive victory over Chris Jericho. The screen splits, showing Orton’s mind games on one side-his music distracting Batista in a crucial match against Kurt Angle-and the consequences on the other: a furious Triple H berating Batista backstage.

"One sought to destroy an empire from within," the narrator states. "The other was tasked with defending it."

The montage climaxes with Triple H staring directly into the camera, his voice cold and chilling. "Randy thinks he's destroyed Evolution, but what he's really done is awaken a beast that won't rest until he's been torn limb from limb. At Madison Square Garden, Batista is going to show the world exactly what happens when you betray your brothers."

The music cuts out. We see one final, dramatic, slow-motion shot of Orton smirking on the entrance ramp, followed by a tight close-up of Batista letting out a primal roar. Their images flash on screen, set to collide.

"Now, on the grandest stage of them all..." the narrator concludes, "Betrayal meets its reckoning."

The camera opens inside the lavish Evolution locker room. Batista sits on a bench, already in full gear, methodically wrapping his wrists. His jaw is tight, his eyes locked forward, his body language radiating pure intensity. The door swings open and in strides Triple H, the World Heavyweight Championship slung confidently over his shoulder. Ric Flair follows close behind, already hyped, clapping and letting out a trademark “Wooo!”

Triple H: (stepping right up to Batista, staring him down) Dave… tonight’s the night. You’ve got Randy Orton. And I don’t need to tell you—this isn’t just any match. This is about Evolution. This is about dominance.

Batista slowly looks up, their eyes locking, the air thick with tension.

Triple H: (low and sharp) So you take care of business out there… or else.

The silence hangs heavy. Batista narrows his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he rises to his feet, standing chest-to-chest with The Game. Flair quickly steps between them, putting a hand on each man’s chest, trying to cool the fire.

Ric Flair: (animated, fast-talking) Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy! Easy! Wooo! Listen! Orton’s not making it out of WrestleMania, you hear me? Not with The Animal waiting for him.

Triple H smirks coldly, adjusting the championship on his shoulder.

Triple H: (calm, confident) Good. Because I’ll handle Kurt Angle tonight. And when the dust settles… I walk out World Heavyweight Champion.

Batista glares a hole through him, his chest heaving, fists clenched tight. Flair pats Batista on the chest, hyping him up.

Ric Flair: (pointing) You’ve got this, big man! Woooo! Make Orton regret the day he ever crossed Evolution!

The camera lingers on Batista’s intense stare at Triple H, his rage bubbling just under the surface. Triple H smirks and turns toward the door, Flair still between them.

The lights in the arena slowly dim, replaced by a cold blue hue that washes over the sea of 20,000 fans packed shoulder to shoulder inside this cathedral of wrestling history. A low rumble of anticipation grows to a buzz, then a roar, as the giant screens above the stage flicker to life with the bold, iconic WrestleMania XX logo. The camera pans the front row — fans decked in Evolution shirts, homemade “RKO” signs, kids perched on their parents’ shoulders, all straining for a glimpse of what’s to come.

A moment of silence — the tension so thick you can feel your chest tighten with it — and then, the sinister opening riff of “Burn in My Light” hits the speakers like a spark to gasoline. The titantron explodes to life: Randy Orton — highlight reels of RKOs, legends falling, Orton standing over Mick Foley, HBK, countless icons — the Legend Killer in his prime. A heartbeat passes — and through a single brilliant white spotlight that cuts through the darkness, Randy Orton steps out. Young, cocky, unmistakably dangerous. He’s all smooth lines and cold poise in his black and silver tribal trunks, wrist tape tight, hair perfectly slicked back. He walks through the curtain with that slow, arrogant swagger that made him a lightning rod for hate and envy. He stops dead center at the top of the ramp, bathed in pure white light. The camera snaps tight on his face — that half-smirk, those cold eyes scanning the sea of people who both adore him and desperately want to see him fail. Orton lifts his chin, rolls his neck, then throws his arms wide in his signature pose — back arched just enough, palms open to the heavens — BOOM! Golden pyro explodes behind him in a massive wall, casting his silhouette in molten fire for one iconic frozen moment: Randy Orton at WrestleMania. He drops his arms slowly, letting the roar of the Garden wash over him like a wave of raw electricity. Then, with a measured step, he starts down the ramp. He doesn’t look at a single fan, doesn’t slap a hand, doesn’t crack his stare from the ring — every ounce of him locked on the battle ahead. The camera pans alongside Orton as he walks. His boots tap the steel ramp in a steady rhythm. Ringside fans lean over the barricade, screaming his name — some reaching out, some flipping him off. He doesn’t blink. Near the apron, he pauses, eyes sweeping the ring. Then he slides under the bottom rope in one smooth motion, pushing up to his feet like a viper slipping into the den of something bigger. He stalks to the nearest corner, steps onto the second rope, and throws his arms wide again, staring out over the sea of fans. The house lights catch the sweat already forming at his brow — his chest rises and falls, steady. Inside, he’s cold steel. He drops down, circles halfway across the ring, waiting — waiting for the monsters to come to him.

The lights cut to black again — then, CRACK! The opening guitar crunch of “Line in the Sand” by Motörhead tears through the Garden like a blade. Instantly, the giant screens behind the stage erupt with black-and-gold footage of Evolution’s reign of terror: Triple H raising the World Title, Ric Flair strutting in his suits, Batista bulldozing bodies with spinebusters and Batista Bombs. Flames erupt on the stage in perfect sync with the downbeat — a wall of white-hot pyro that forces the front rows to shield their faces from the heat. Through the haze of smoke and fire, Ric Flair steps onto the stage. Draped in a midnight-blue designer suit that gleams under the strobes, he’s all strut and swagger, Rolex sparkling on his wrist, that signature grin plastered across his face. He spreads his arms wide, soaks in the sea of boos, and shouts a thunderous “WOOOOO!” that bounces off the Garden’s tight walls like a battle cry from the old days. Flair spins around — and the curtain parts behind him. Out steps the Animal. 2004 Batista. Massive. Raw. A slab of muscle and rage carved in black trunks and boots, wrists taped tight, veins bulging in his arms and neck. His face is half-shadowed by the spotlights, but his eyes blaze through the darkness — deadlocked on Orton standing cold and still inside the ring. Flair points both hands at Batista like he’s presenting a monster for sacrifice, shouting, “There he is! The Animal!” The fans unleash a roar of hate — a storm of boos and jeers that seem to fuel Batista’s snarl. He throws his arms out wide, teeth bared, then flexes both arms in that iconic pose — back arched, veins popping — before starting his slow, menacing march down the ramp. Every step Batista takes echoes through the steel stage. Flair struts ahead, arms flailing at the crowd, yelling insults at the front row: “Sit down! You wish you were him!” Batista, eyes never leaving Orton, shakes out his wrists, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack. At ringside, Flair climbs the steel steps first, perching on the apron, barking at the timekeeper to “Back up, open the ropes!” Batista pauses at the bottom of the steps just long enough to glance at Orton through the ropes. He climbs the steps in three deliberate stomps, grabs the top rope, and swings his massive frame over in one smooth motion. He stomps straight to the center of the ring — the camera circling him wide — and hammers his chest with both fists before throwing his arms wide again. BOOM! White pyro erupts from all four corners in perfect sync, lighting up Batista’s silhouette like a mythical beast born of fire and steel. Flair stands behind him, clapping, screaming, “This is WrestleMania, baby! It’s Evolution’s night!” Batista backs into his corner, grips the top rope with both hands, leaning forward like a predator ready to tear the cage apart. Orton stands motionless, arms at his sides, eyes locked on Batista, nostrils flaring. Flair barks one final order. The ref steps between them, checking boots, pads, trying to keep the powder keg from blowing early. The roar of the Garden is deafening now — “RKO! RKO! RKO!” — the concrete beneath your feet feels like it’s shaking.

And then — the bell rings.

Randy Orton vs. Batista​

Orton stands statuesque in his corner, chest rising and falling slowly, like a predator about to strike. He rolls his wrists, eyes narrowed into cold slits, the veins in his forearms pulsing. Across the ring, Batista stalks side to side like a tiger pacing its cage. The Animal’s thick shoulders glisten under the bright garden lights, his jaw clenching and unclenching, eyes locked on Orton with primal hunger. Ric Flair gets on the apron and into the ring. Clad in a perfectly tailored navy suit, gold Rolex flashing with every flamboyant gesture. Flair struts up to Batista’s chest, slapping it three times, yelling, “You’re the Animal! Tonight we finish him! We finish him!” Flair turns on his heel and stares across the ring, his grin widening into a sneer as he locks eyes with Orton. Slowly, he raises a finger and points it straight at the Viper, stepping closer, jawing loud enough for the ringside cameras to catch every word: “You think you’re bigger than Evolution? You think you can embarrass me?!” Orton smirks - just slightly - that trademark arrogant curl of the lip that used to infuriate everyone backstage. He doesn’t flinch as Flair steps closer, nose to nose, spitting fury. Flair jabs his finger into Orton’s chest - once, twice, three times - and on the third, Orton’s eyes flash. The crowd leans forward - they sense it. In a heartbeat, Orton coils, plants his boot, and bang - RKO OUTTA NOWHERE! Flair’s white hair whips back, the Garden explodes in a deafening roar as The Nature Boy’s head spikes to the canvas in a snap. JR bellows over the chaos, “Good God! Orton just dropped Ric Flair where he stood! Evolution’s mastermind is out cold!”

But Orton doesn’t have a second to savor it. Batista’s roar cuts through the crowd noise like a primal warning. The Animal lunges forward with terrifying speed - grabbing Orton around the waist and driving him spine-first into the turnbuckle so violently the entire ring quakes. Orton’s back arches in pain, eyes wide as the air shoots out of his lungs. Batista hammers him with shoulder thrust after shoulder thrust - one, two, three, four - each one deeper than the last, forcing Orton’s ribs against unforgiving steel. Batista drags him out by the wrist, flinging him like a ragdoll across the ring. Orton smashes sternum-first into the opposite turnbuckle and stumbles backward, but before he can even pivot, Batista steamrolls him with a massive clothesline that nearly flips him over backward. The Animal stands over Orton’s downed body, chest heaving, nostrils flaring as he glares at the crowd, feeding on their boos like fuel. Batista grabs Orton by the hair, yanking him up rough. He hooks an arm around Orton’s waist, powers him up, and plants him with a thunderous side slam that rattles the canvas. He drops straight into a lateral press, forearm grinding across Orton’s jaw - 1… 2 - Orton kicks out, grimacing, hand pressed to his ribs. Batista doesn’t even look frustrated - he just grins, animal teeth bared, and slaps the back of Orton’s head mockingly before rising to his feet. Outside, Flair is on the floor now, slapping the apron with one hand while clutching his jaw with the other. He’s woozy but yelling - hoarse threats mixed with desperate instructions. The Garden roars a “RANDY! RANDY!” chant that rattles through the arena like an aftershock. Orton tries to pull himself to the ropes but Batista stalks him, boots him square in the ribs, and drags him back by the ankle. He drops a vicious elbow right into Orton’s sternum, then another for good measure.

Batista stands, circles, and roars to the hard cam - arms wide like he owns the Garden. He reaches down, lifts Orton again - vertical suplex setup - but he doesn’t slam him immediately. He holds Orton high in the air, showing off that monstrous strength, letting the blood rush to Orton’s head as Flair cackles at ringside. Orton squirms - but Batista drops him, bam! Orton bounces off the mat, arms wrapped around his back, face twisted in pain. Batista goes for the cover again - 1… 2 - Orton throws a shoulder up. The crowd pops huge - defiance for every second they thought Orton might be done. Batista snarls, slapping the mat. He drags Orton to the corner, plants a boot against his throat, and leans in, pressing all that weight down while the ref counts to four. Batista breaks at the last second, only to do it again - the Animal punishing him, ignoring the referee’s protests. Orton claws the ropes to pull himself up, gasping. Batista clubs him across the shoulders with sledgehammer forearms, then hooks his arms behind him for a back suplex - but Orton desperately fires back with elbows to the temple. One elbow stuns Batista just enough - Orton twists free, lands on his feet behind him - and snaps a stiff European uppercut into the back of Batista’s head! Batista staggers forward, Orton seizes the moment, runs the ropes - big clothesline! Batista wobbles but doesn’t drop - so Orton hits the ropes again - perfect dropkick! Right on the chest - Batista drops to one knee! The crowd roars as Orton feels the momentum swing. He stomps Batista’s shoulder, then the elbow, then the back of the hand - methodical, vicious, the old-school Orton dissection. He yanks Batista’s arm, twists it into a hammerlock, and drives his knee into the big man’s elbow joint again and again, forcing a grimace of pain from the Animal. Flair is screaming at ringside, slamming the apron, his voice cracking: “Get up! Get up, Dave!”

Orton drags Batista to the ropes - drapes his throat on the middle strand - then slingshots over and drives his knee into Batista’s back, choking him on the rope. The ref counts, Orton breaks at four, then slides back in, smirking as the crowd chants “RKO! RKO!” Orton paces behind Batista, measures him - then snaps forward - spike DDT! He hooks the far leg tight - 1… 2… Batista powers out, launching Orton off like he weighs nothing. Both men crawl to opposite corners. Orton wipes sweat off his brow, face tightening in that cold, clinical stare. Batista claws up the ropes, chest heaving, snorting like a bull. They charge each other at the same instant - Batista swings wild with a lariat - Orton ducks, hits the ropes, rebounds - but Batista catches him mid-air in a massive bear hug! The Animal crushes him, squeezing the air from Orton’s lungs. Orton rakes at Batista’s eyes, but the ref can’t see. Batista roars, swings Orton around - big spinebuster! The ring shakes as Orton arches in pain, clutching his lower back. Batista hooks the leg deep - 1… 2… Orton barely kicks out! Flair is pounding the apron so hard you’d think he’d break his hand, barking at Batista to finish it. Batista nods, mouth curled in a cruel grin, veins popping in his neck as he snarls at Orton like prey about to be gored. He drags Orton up by the hair - snarls “I’m gonna break you!” - and hoists him up high. The whole crowd stands - BATISTA BOMB! Orton’s body bounces off the canvas like he’s been shot from a cannon. Batista hooks both legs tight - 1! 2! - Orton kicks out! JR’s voice cracks: “He kicked out! Good God, Randy Orton kicked out of the Batista Bomb at WrestleMania!” Batista pounds the mat, eyes wild. Flair is on the apron, arms flailing, screaming “DO IT AGAIN!” The Animal drags Orton’s limp arms between his knees, lifts him for another Batista Bomb - but Orton suddenly comes alive - elbows, elbows, elbows to the skull! Batista’s grip loosens - Orton drops behind, shoves him chest-first into the turnbuckle! Batista staggers back - RKO! Orton plants him with surgical precision!

But Orton doesn’t cover - he slides to the corner, drags himself up the ropes, eyes locked on Batista’s twitching body. He crouches low, pounds the mat in that coiled snake rhythm - the entire Garden is on its feet, roaring “RANDY! RANDY!” Flair climbs onto the apron, screaming, reaching over the ropes to grab Orton - but Orton swings and knocks Flair off with a savage right that drops The Nature Boy like dead weight. Batista pulls himself upright on spaghetti legs, eyes glazed - Orton lunges - PUNT KICK! That sickening crack echoes through the Garden like a gunshot. Orton dives onto Batista’s chest, hooks both legs so tight the ref barely slides in - 1! 2! 3! The bell rings, and Madison Square Garden erupts in thunderous victory.

Winner:

Spoiler

Randy Orton

The bell echoes through Madison Square Garden as Orton’s music hits - a triumphant, searing anthem under a wall of 20,000 screaming fans. The ref grabs Orton’s wrist and hoists it high, but Orton barely acknowledges it. He’s on his knees, sweat dripping from his temples onto the canvas, chest heaving as he glares down at Batista’s motionless frame. The Animal’s massive arms twitch once, but he’s dead weight, eyes glassy, staring up at the lights that just witnessed his ruin.

Orton pulls himself up with the ropes, one hand clenching the top strand so tight his knuckles blanch. He stands over Batista’s chest, boots inches from the man’s broad shoulders. The camera zooms tight - Orton’s eyes are glassy but burning with that cold, arrogant gleam: the look of a young man who knows the future now belongs to him.

Outside the ring, Ric Flair is sprawled at the foot of the apron, the lower half of his suit stained with sweat and canvas scuffs from where Orton dropped him earlier. Flair’s head lifts weakly at first - he’s dazed, hand pressed to his forehead, hair wild and stuck to his sweaty brow. He hears Orton’s music. He hears the roar of the crowd chanting “RANDY! RANDY!” and his mind catches up to the horror of what’s just happened: Evolution’s monster is broken, and its golden prodigy stands tall - without him.

Flair’s eyes snap wide. The Nature Boy pushes up onto his knees with a shaky grunt, gripping the apron skirt like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality. He drags himself under the bottom rope - inch by desperate inch - until he’s inside the ring again, his legs refusing to cooperate as he tries to stand. Orton doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch - he just stands there, arms down, sweat dripping from his chin onto his chest, watching Flair crawl. Flair’s eyes flick from Batista’s limp body to Orton’s boots - then up Orton’s tall frame until he finds those cold, reptilian eyes glaring back at him. For a second, the crowd goes quiet - it’s just the pop of flashbulbs and Flair’s ragged breathing as he pushes himself upright, face to face with the man he once called “the future.”

Flair’s voice cuts through the hush - raw, half-choked, the broken bark of a desperate general with no army left.
“You… ungrateful… punk…” he spits, jabbing a trembling finger into Orton’s chest like he did before the bell.
“I made you! I made you!” Flair roars hoarsely, flecks of spit hitting Orton’s cheek as he stumbles forward, nose to nose now. “You’d be nothing - NOTHING - without me and Hunter! You hear me? You hear me, Randy?!”

Orton just stands there. He doesn’t shove him. Doesn’t blink. His jaw tightens, the corner of his mouth flicking with that cold, arrogant smirk. The crowd senses it coming - they start to rise again, a murmur building like a fuse about to reach its end.

Flair rears back and slaps Orton across the face - hard enough that the sound echoes over the stunned crowd. Orton’s head snaps sideways - his jaw clenches - but his eyes never leave Flair’s. Flair pulls back again, finger wagging wild in Orton’s face.
“You’re NOTHING without Evolution! NOTHING! I MADE YOU, RANDY!” Flair shouts so hard a vein throbs at his temple. “YOU OWE ME! YOU OWE ME, DAMN IT!”

Orton’s nostrils flare. He wipes the corner of his mouth where the slap landed, staring down at his palm as if testing whether he even felt it. Slowly, he lifts his eyes back to Flair. He leans in so close their foreheads nearly touch, lips barely moving as he murmurs something only Flair can hear. The cameras won’t catch it. The crowd won’t hear it. But whatever it is makes Flair’s face twist into disbelief - the last frayed thread between them snapping all at once.

In a flash, Orton strikes. He dips low, hooks Flair’s head in that familiar, sudden coil - the fans lose their minds before they even see the rest - RKO! Flair’s face spikes off the mat with a sickening thud, his arms flopping limply to his sides as his body bounces once before going still.

The Garden erupts in a molten roar that swallows everything - commentary, music, even Orton’s ragged breathing as he pushes up to his knees over Flair’s fallen body. He plants one hand on Flair’s shoulder and leans in close, that same cold, merciless stare locked on the man who once called him “the crown jewel of Evolution.”

Orton rises slowly, towering over Flair’s wreckage and Batista’s broken bulk. He steps between them - arms wide, head back, the lights catching the sweat that drips down his jawline like he’s shedding the last drops of Evolution’s poison from his veins.

JR’s voice, strained and reverent, carries over the roar:
“The Legend Killer just destroyed what created him… Orton didn’t just survive - he buried Evolution here tonight.”

Orton turns, takes one last look at Flair, then at Batista - then steps through the ropes without a backward glance. He strides up the ramp to the thunder of “Burn In My Light” - the final image: Randy Orton standing on the stage, arms outstretched to the heavens, while two of wrestling’s greatest lay broken behind him.

~ WWE ON DEMAND AD BREAK ~

Fade out. We return with a sweeping helicopter shot of the iconic New York City skyline, skyscrapers glowing in the cold night air. The camera pans down to the electric exterior of Madison Square Garden — its marquee flashing WRESTLEMANIA XX to the world.

Michael Cole (voice-over): “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Madison Square Garden — WrestleMania XX, the grandest stage of them all, and what a night it’s been so far!”

Tazz: “Cole, it’s only gonna get uglier from here, my friend — because up next, it’s gonna be downright nasty.”

Transition to Graphic

​

Michael Cole: “These two were once family — the heart and soul of the APA. But tonight, that brotherhood is dead and buried. Let’s take a look at how this all came crashing down…”

JBL/FAROOQ VIDEO PACKAGE​

We open in black and white-grainy footage of the APA.
Two men, bruised, beer-soaked, and battle-worn, stand shoulder to shoulder in a smoky barroom. John "Bradshaw" Layfield and Farooq. The Acolyte Protection Agency. Hired muscle. Brothers in arms. For years, they were the wrecking crew of the tag team division-no-nonsense enforcers who drank hard, fought harder, and feared no one. Over slow-motion clips of brutal clotheslines and crushing spinebusters, a voiceover plays:

“They weren’t just partners. They were family.”

But family... can fracture.

The footage slams to a halt. Color explodes back into the screen.

February 5 – SmackDown.
The unthinkable. APA loses to Rikishi & Scotty 2 Hotty. Farooq, dazed, extends a hand. But Bradshaw doesn’t take it. He snaps. The crowd gasps as the steel steps are hoisted, then crash down-again, and again-into Farooq’s skull. Bradshaw, eyes wild, screams the words now etched in infamy:

“YOU HELD ME BACK!”

The screen burns to white.

Cut to stock footage: Wall Street chaos, ticker symbols, luxury cars.
We see the metamorphosis. Bradshaw was reborn as JBL-a ruthless, Rolex-wearing financial elitist. Gone is the APA’s heart. What remains is cold steel and unchecked arrogance.

“John ‘Bradshaw’ Layfield is dead,” he proclaims in a boardroom, flanked by suited sycophants.
“I’m a wrestling GOD. Farooq? He’s nothing. He’s obsolete.”

The music darkens. The screen flickers. It’s not over.

February 26 – SmackDown.
Farooq returns. No words. Just fire. We watch security footage as he crashes through Paul Heyman’s office, tackling JBL through a glass coffee table. Fists fly like thunder. Guards swarm. Chaos reigns. The screen cuts in and out like a damaged tape-each frame filled with raw violence and bitter betrayal.

March 4 – The Parking Garage.
JBL delivers a pompous “financial address,” detailing his portfolio. But his smug grin vanishes as the arena screen flickers to the garage. There stands Farooq-lead pipe in hand. CRASH. One limo window. Then another. Shattered glass rains like hail. Farooq turns to the camera, eyes blazing:

“No place to hide, Bradshaw. Not at WrestleMania. Not anywhere.”

The music builds-faster, louder, more chaotic.

March 11 – The Sports Bar Assault.
Security footage. Three of JBL’s “investment associates” attempt an ambush. It backfires. Farooq erupts like a storm-slamming heads into pool tables, launching chairs like missiles. Blood, beer, and broken bodies cover the floor. He raises a toast to the carnage.

“This is who you used to be, John. At WrestleMania, I’m dragging him back out of you… even if I have to beat it out.”

March 18 – JBL’s Grand Entrance.
Pyro. Pageantry. Money rains from the rafters. JBL struts with delusional pride-until hell opens beneath him. Farooq explodes from under the ring. It’s a warzone. They brawl through the crowd, through the corridors, into catering. A Dominator through the table leaves JBL broken, humiliated, buried under food and fury. His thousand-dollar suit-torn, bloodied, worthless.

March 25 – The Final Blow.
JBL stands mid-ring for his “Final Financial Forecast.” But the TitanTron hijacks him. Farooq. A tow truck. JBL’s prized limousine dangles in the air like bait. Farooq delivers the ultimatum:

“You lose at WrestleMania… you go back to being Bradshaw for 30 days. APA vest. Beer. Blackjack. All of it.”
JBL snarls. The façade cracks. He agrees.

But Farooq isn’t done. One last swing of the bat-CRACK-a window shatters. The camera lingers on Farooq’s satisfied smirk as he walks away.

Music drops out.

VO (gravelly):
“From trusted brother... to hated enemy. This Sunday, the barroom brawler meets the Wall Street wolf. In a Falls Count Anywhere match, there are no rules, no allies, and nowhere left to hide. The past will catch up. And at WrestleMania XX… one man will fall.”

Final shot: JBL and Farooq, face to face, breathing heavily, fists clenched. Cut to black.

[LIVE IN ARENA]

The lights dim. A low, guttural hum echoes through Madison Square Garden. The camera pans across 20,000 fans on their feet, buzzing with electricity, anticipation burning in the air. The WrestleMania XX logo glows above the titantron, pulsing to the rhythm of war drums that begin to beat slowly in the background-thud… thud… thud.

"DAMN!"
The thunderous exclamation detonates through the arena PA, and the crowd explodes with a raw, primal pop. The APA’s classic, hard-hitting guitar riff kicks in-“Protection” roars through the Garden-and smoke bellows from the entrance curtain like a locomotive.

From the darkness steps Farooq, dressed for war.
Gone is the black APA T-shirt-tonight, he’s draped in a customized version of his old Acolytes gear: black leather vest, open to reveal his chest, combat pants with heavy boots, taped fists, and a steel chain wrapped over one shoulder like a weapon of vengeance. His eyes burn with fury. His stride is slow, deliberate. With every step he takes through the smoke, the camera zooms in closer: sweat glistening, jaw clenched, a warrior walking into battle with purpose and rage.

He stops halfway down the ramp, staring directly at the ring-but he’s not alone. A spotlight shifts stage right.

Two massive wooden doors, reminiscent of the APA’s old office, are rolled out on stage. The crowd roars with nostalgia. Hanging above them is a custom “APA Bar & Grill” sign flickering with neon light. From behind the doors, a team of extras dressed as rowdy bar patrons stumble out, raising beers, yelling “Farooq! Farooq!” One of them hands Farooq a cold one. He takes it, raises it high-and slams it against his own forehead, beer spraying in the air like shrapnel before he tosses the can aside.

The camera catches the beads of sweat and beer dripping from his head. Farooq rolls his neck, cracks his knuckles, and lets out a breath that’s been building since February.

Then-he marches down the ramp, quicker now, fists shaking at his sides. He doesn’t climb the steps. He doesn’t pose. Farooq pounds his chest once, stares up the aisle... and waits.

The lights snap to gold.
A blast of pyro erupts from the stage-brilliant white and gold flames rise in synchronized columns.

Then, a voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen... please rise for the arrival of your Wrestling GAWD.”

A full-blown orchestral remix of JBL’s theme begins-strings replacing guitars, giving it a sinister, imperial quality. From the back rolls a gleaming white stretch limousine, detailed with gold trim, the hood ornament stylized into JBL’s initials. The crowd boos ferociously as the vehicle slowly pulls to a stop near the entrance stage. Spotlights shine on the limo like royalty is inside.

The door opens-and out steps JBL.

He is radiant with arrogance. Decked in a white cowboy hat, a tailored white three-piece suit with a gold tie, and freshly shined cowboy boots. In one hand, he holds a custom briefcase engraved with dollar signs and stock tickers. In the other, he clutches a folded American flag, which he holds aloft as if it's his own personal brand. His expression is smug, self-satisfied, superior. Walking behind him is a personal “entourage” of hired bodyguards dressed in tailored suits and sunglasses, flanking him like secret service agents. One even holds a velvet cloth to buff JBL’s boots as he walks. Another wipes his brow with a handkerchief. JBL moves slowly, savoring every step.

Midway down the ramp, JBL gestures to the camera.
“This is MY city now. MY WrestleMania. That man down there?” -he points to Farooq-
“That’s a relic. I’m a dynasty.”

Suddenly-

Farooq starts walking toward him.

The crowd explodes as the camera cuts to JBL’s face: the smug grin fading into unease.

Farooq stomps up the ramp with deadly purpose, fists clenched. JBL’s security team tries to intercept-but Farooq plows through them, shoulder-checking one off the ramp and headbutting another into the barricade. JBL’s entourage scatters like ants as Farooq closes the distance.

JBL raises the briefcase like a weapon, but Farooq swats it aside with a wild haymaker. The orchestra STOPS.

THE FIGHT BEGINS ON THE RAMP.

The bell hasn’t rung-but the war is on.

Farooq tackles JBL mid-ramp, fists flying in rapid fire as the crowd erupts into a deafening roar. JBL’s white suit is ripped within seconds as Farooq unleashes months of pent-up fury. They tumble down the ramp toward the ring, JBL trying to crawl away like a cornered animal, Farooq dragging him by the collar like prey. Referees sprint down the aisle, trying to restore order-but this match was never about rules.

As the referee finally calls for the bell-

FALLS COUNT ANYWHERE, NO DQ
JBL vs. FAROOQ ​

DING DING DING.

The crowd is still buzzing from the chaotic pre-match ramp brawl, but the moment the bell rings officially, Farooq explodes forward with a roaring shoulder tackle that launches JBL onto his back just outside the ring apron. The fight is on. Farooq immediately mounts JBL and begins raining down closed fists to the forehead. Blood is already flowing from JBL’s brow, mixing with sweat as the referee gives up any hope of control. JBL scrambles backward on his elbows, trying to get his boots under him, but Farooq grabs him by the wrist and whips him like a missile into the steel ring steps. CRASH. JBL’s right shoulder hits flush, and he rolls over the steps in a heap, clutching his rotator cuff.

Farooq doesn't hesitate. He yanks JBL up by the hair and slams him face-first into the announce table. JBL rebounds-Farooq hooks him from behind-belly-to-back suplex on the exposed ringside floor. JBL arches his back in pain as Farooq rolls over, hooks the leg. Early pin-1... JBL kicks out with authority.

Farooq rises and peels back the ringside padding, revealing cold, gray concrete. The audience oohs with morbid excitement. He lifts JBL and goes for a Dominator on the concrete, but JBL flails, dropping behind Farooq and quickly shoving him spine-first into the ring post. Farooq grimaces. JBL clutches his ribs, stumbles sideways, and grabs the ring bell. He rears back and slams the bell into Farooq’s left shoulder, knocking him off balance. Then again-this time across the ribs. JBL grabs Farooq's arm and hip tosses him hard onto the exposed concrete with a loud, wet slap of flesh meeting cement.

JBL wipes blood from his eyes and grabs a steel chair from ringside. He stalks Farooq, lifts the chair overhead-and brings it crashing down across Farooq’s back. THWACK. The crowd flinches. Farooq winces but starts to push himself up-another chair shot to the spine. JBL sneers and roars at the crowd, then steps back and swings for the head-but Farooq ducks, the chair hits the post with a clang, and Farooq counters with a massive spinebuster on the floor! JBL bounces from the impact and flops to his side. Farooq drops an elbow across JBL’s heart, hooks the far leg-

1... 2... NO. JBL kicks out.

Farooq lifts JBL and tosses him over the barricade into the front row, following after him. They’re in the crowd now, security struggling to clear fans as the fight continues among chairs, signs, and beer cups. JBL jabs a thumb to Farooq’s eye and snapmares him over a steel chair, Farooq’s spine thudding against the metal. JBL then kicks the chair closed across Farooq’s ribs, like slamming a suitcase. He grabs a nearby folding sign pole-a crowd barrier marker-and drives it into Farooq’s sternum repeatedly, bending the aluminum on impact.

They fight their way into the camera tunnel. JBL tosses Farooq into a rolling camera rig. Farooq catches himself, turns, and clotheslines JBL out of his boots! JBL flips sideways in mid-air and hits the ground hard. Farooq drags him by the ankle, through the curtain, and into the backstage hallway.

They stagger into the production area. JBL elbows Farooq in the ribs, grabs a microphone cable, and wraps it around Farooq’s throat, choking him viciously. Farooq thrashes, grabbing the wall. JBL walks him backward toward a stack of flight cases, and Russian leg sweeps him into the cases, knocking over an entire tower of equipment with a crash. JBL covers-

1... 2... Farooq rolls a shoulder.

JBL gets up, visibly pissed. He grabs a fire extinguisher off the wall and sprays Farooq point-blank in the face, clouding the hallway. As Farooq stumbles forward blindly, JBL kicks him in the gut and DDTs him onto the concrete floor. His blood mixes with the mist. Another cover-

1... 2... NO.

JBL rises and slams a trash can across Farooq’s back, then smashes it flat with a stomp. He pulls Farooq to his knees, lines him up, and delivers a short-arm Clothesline from Hell. But Farooq doesn’t go down-he staggers back, then fires back with a right hand! Another! Another! Farooq’s fighting spirit explodes as he lifts JBL and slams him back-first through the catering table! Food trays go flying, coffee carafes shatter, and JBL lies dazed among half-eaten sandwiches.

Farooq finds a metal serving tray, holds it up like a discus, and cracks it over JBL’s head. Once, twice, three times. JBL’s head jerks to the side violently on each impact. Farooq then hits the ropes (set up as rigging in catering), rebounds, and delivers a big running boot to JBL’s temple! Cover-

1... 2... KICKOUT!!

Both men are drenched in blood and sweat as they fight their way toward the parking garage. JBL gets the upper hand by biting Farooq’s forehead-yes, biting-then gouging his eyes. He grabs Farooq’s vest and throws him into a pile of equipment crates, then tosses one on top of him. Farooq shoves it off, gasping. JBL backs up, then sprints and hits a running knee strike into Farooq’s face, sandwiching his skull between crate and knee.

JBL climbs onto the hood of a black production van and yells, “This is what a GOD looks like!” But Farooq climbs up from behind, grabs him by the waist-and delivers a German suplex OFF THE VAN HOOD onto the concrete! JBL’s body bounces like a crash dummy. The crowd inside MSG, watching the screen, loses its mind.

Farooq limps to JBL, picks him up-Dominator position. But JBL slips behind, rakes the eyes again, and grabs a crowbar off the floor-SLAMS it into Farooq’s spine. Farooq howls in pain, arching backward. JBL drops the crowbar, hooks the head-and Piledrives Farooq onto the asphalt. A sickening thud. JBL crawls into the cover-

1... 2... FAROOQ KICKS OUT.

JBL looks stunned. He rolls off, gasping for air, wiping blood from his chin. He grabs Farooq again and begins dragging him toward the loading dock exit doors, yelling “It ends outside!”

They push through-and now they’re in the New York City streets. Surprisingly a spring chill in the air as car horns blare. A crowd has gathered outside behind barriers, watching history unfold. JBL grabs a steel parking sign, detaches it, and swings it like a bat into Farooq’s ribs. He lifts Farooq and tries to throw him into a yellow cab, but Farooq reverses-spinebusters JBL onto the hood! The windshield cracks violently.

Farooq climbs onto the roof, pulling JBL up. He calls for the end.

He lifts JBL again-Dominator setup-but JBL fights it, hammering elbows to the jaw. Farooq stumbles. JBL hooks the arm, backs up, and-

CLOTHESLINE FROM HELL. ON. THE. ROOF. OF. THE. CAB.

Farooq collapses. JBL drops across him.

1… 2… 3.

DING DING DING.

Winner:

Spoiler

JBL

The image is haunting.

JBL rolls off the cab roof, falling to the pavement in slow motion, barely able to stand. His body is a canvas of bruises, his face bloodied beyond recognition, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. Farooq lies sprawled across the dented hood of the taxi, unmoving. His vest is torn, his arms limp. The final image: JBL, hoisting himself up using the taxi mirror, one arm raised, face broken—but victorious.

In the cold streets of New York, the war is over.

But no one walks away whole.

~ CONCLUSION OF PART I ~

~ STILL TO COME ~
...
..
.
HBK vs. The Rock

WWE Championship: Brock Lesnar (c) vs. Edge

World Heavyweight Championship Triple H (c) vs. Kurt Angle (Evolution is banned from ringside)

Eddie Guerrero vs. Goldberg

Inferno Casket Match: Undertaker vs. Kane

United States Championship: Big Show (c) vs. John Cena

Intercontinental Championship: 3 Stages of Hell
1st fall: Singles, 2nd fall: Street Fight, 3rd fall (if necessary): Steel Cage
Christian vs. Chris Jericho

World Tag Team Championship Tag Team Turmoil Match

Women’s Championship: Molly Holly vs. Lita

Cruiserweight Championship - Title vs. Mask Match: Chavo Guerrero (c) vs. Rey Mysterio​

Going to be 4 parts to this Wrestlemania. A long long show but worth breaking it up I believe for the maximum enjoyment for you guys!! Will be away on vacation for the next few weeks so expect the next part sometime in the middle to late August.

 

[Stojy]

Part one of Mania XX was fairly awesome. The TLC Fatal Four Way to open was a spot fest that would have got the fans pumped up. Some real creative spots in there as well. And the result of London/Kendrick winning works for me. London/Kendrick vs. WGTT feud for the next year please.

Christian/Trish segment was interesting. Kind of feels like she's going to join him like she did in real life, so let's see.

Alundra Blayze considering her history in WWE is a really cool choice as Trish's opponent. An inspired choice really, and whilst you allowed her to get her licks in, Trish HAD to win this. The passing the torch moment is maybe a bit of a stretch considering how long it has been since Blayze was relevant, but I still enjoyed this for what it was.

Orton/Batista was pretty much as expected. Orton had to get the win in his first big match since breaking out from the group. Doing it against Batista but also dealing with Flair puts him over more also. I'm not entirely sure The Punt, which didn't really come into play until much later as a finish, would have the impact you wanted for the finish. Might have felt a bit anticlimactic to introduce that for the first time in a big time Mania match.

And another one where the result just couldn't be in doubt. JBL had to beat Faarooq here to end the chapter completely on his old character. Logical progression really. This was a fun brawl, really giving us one last glimpse of what The APA was. Again, slight issue with the ending, as you've got all these weapons to play with, you have Faarooq kicking out of a Piledriver on concrete, Clothesline From Hell on the top of a cab seemed a pretty tame finish considering. Was hoping for the ultimate finish to really put this one over.

Very fun stuff so far, looking forward to the next update.

 

[WrestleWizard]

~ PART II ~​

As the electric energy of WrestleMania XX pulses through the veins of Madison Square Garden, the camera cuts away from the brutal echoes of JBL and Farooq’s war. The crowd’s roars gently fade into a more focused hum as the scene transitions to the backstage area.

The camera glides down a narrow corridor bathed in a cold blue hue. A sign on the wall reads “WOMEN’S LOCKER ROOM – MATCH PREP”. Inside, the atmosphere is tense but focused.

LITA is seated on a steel bench, her flame-red hair cascading over her shoulders, sweat from her pre-match warm-up glistening on her skin. Her wrists are already taped. She’s in full gear-baggy black cargo pants, crimson top, and those iconic black combat boots laced tightly. She's hunched forward, breathing steadily, her fingers clasped together. The camera zooms in as she closes her eyes and mutters something under her breath. A beat. Then she stands.

She moves over to a heavy punching bag hanging from a reinforced steel rack. With no hesitation, she slams a forearm into it. Then another. A left hook. A spinning backfist. Her intensity grows-this isn’t just warm-up; it’s an emotional purge. She punctuates the flurry with a deep exhale, gripping the bag, pressing her forehead against the leather.

A knock at the door. One of the crew members peeks in and says softly, “Five minutes, Lita.”

Lita nods. No words. She grabs her leather jacket with the jagged red “L” stitched on the back, slings it over her shoulder, and turns toward the mirror. She glares into her reflection-not fixing makeup, not smiling, not adjusting anything. Just staring. Locked in. Focused.

Cut to the hallway across the arena.

MOLLY HOLLY is already standing tall, arms crossed, watching a monitor outside her private dressing room. She's dressed in her immaculate royal blue and white gear, her blonde hair neatly pulled into a tight bun, every strand in place. Over her shoulder rests the Women’s Championship, polished to a mirror shine. Her expression is unreadable-cool, composed, but her jaw ticks with subtle tension.

Behind her, her locker room is pristine. Folded towels. Bottled water arranged perfectly. Her ring cape hangs from a hook beside the door-a regal garment, white with blue trim, shimmering slightly under the overhead light.

An interviewer approaches and timidly asks, “Molly, any last thoughts before-”

Molly raises a single gloved hand to cut him off. “No interviews. Tonight, I speak with results.”

She adjusts the title on her shoulder, turns her back to the camera, and steps into the corridor that leads to the gorilla position. Her boots click softly against the linoleum with every deliberate step.

And then-

CUT TO BLACK.

WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP VIDEO PACKAGE

The video package opens with a dramatic aerial shot of Madison Square Garden illuminated at night, majestic and imposing against the New York skyline. The camera slowly zooms in as Jim Ross's distinctive voice declares, "The most hallowed arena in sports entertainment will witness a clash between two women who couldn't be more different."

The screen splits dramatically – on the left, Molly Holly stands regally, Women's Championship belt gleaming over her shoulder, her expression one of dignified superiority. On the right, Lita's fiery red hair whips around as she executes a hurricanrana, her eyes burning with determination. The images dissolve into each other as operatic music builds to its first crescendo.

"For 196 days," a deep-voiced narrator intones as footage plays of Molly Holly's championship victories, technical wrestling sequences, and carefully executed submissions, "Molly Holly has embodied what she calls the 'tradition and dignity' of the Women's Championship." The footage shifts to show Molly turning away autograph-seeking fans, looking down her nose at her opponents, and carefully polishing her championship belt.

"I have carried this championship with the class it deserves," Molly's voice cuts through, her face filling the screen in an interview segment, eyes narrowed with contempt. "While others pander to the lowest common denominator, I stand for excellence."

The music suddenly shifts to a driving rock beat as the screen explodes with highlight clips of Lita performing moonsaults, diving hurricanranas, and connecting with devastating DDTs. The crowd's roar surges with each impact.

"But at No Way Out," the narrator continues as footage plays of Lita defeating Victoria, "a challenger emerged who threatens everything the champion stands for." The camera cuts to Lita celebrating with fans, slapping hands and soaking in their adoration.

"This isn't just another match," Lita's voice declares over footage of her intense training – lifting weights, running stadium steps, and practicing high-flying maneuvers. "I'm not just fighting for the championship - I'm fighting for everyone who's ever been told they don't measure up."

The music darkens as the video shows a montage of confrontations between the two rivals – heated words in the ring, Molly ambushing Lita from behind, Lita retaliating with explosive offense. Their faces are shown in split-screen, both women speaking directly to the camera.

"She has done nothing but pander with reckless, crowd-pleasing stunts," Molly says dismissively, her championship displayed prominently before her. "There's no substance behind anything she does."

"Molly can hide behind her holier-than-thou attitude," Lita fires back, her trademark necklace gleaming against her skin, "but she's scared. She knows I'm coming to expose her for the fraud she is."

The screen fills with slow-motion footage of their contract signing for WrestleMania, showing Molly's attempted sneak attack and Lita countering with a devastating DDT that sends papers flying. The champion retreats up the ramp, clutching her title belt protectively while Lita stands tall in the ring.

"Two philosophies," the narrator's voice deepens as the music builds toward its final crescendo, "two legacies, one championship." Rapid-fire clips alternate between both competitors' signature moves – Molly's Molly-Go-Round and technical submissions juxtaposed against Lita's high-risk dives and thunderous Twist of Fate.

The package cuts to wrestling legends offering their thoughts. "When Lita connects with that crowd," Trish Stratus says, "she draws strength from them. In the Garden? That's a force Molly hasn't fully accounted for."

The music reaches its peak as the WrestleMania XX logo engulfs the screen, followed by dramatic slow-motion shots of both women – Molly raising her championship overhead with regal composure while Lita stands atop a turnbuckle, arm raised to a thunderous ovation.

"The champion who stands for tradition," the narrator intones over a final image of a confident Molly Holly, "versus the challenger who represents revolution." The image shifts to Lita's determined face, her eyes locked on the camera.

The screen fades to black as the narrator delivers the final line: "Women's Championship. Molly Holly versus Lita. The past collides with the future... at WrestleMania."

The WrestleMania XX logo appears one final time as the date "March 28, 2004" and "Live from Madison Square Garden" fade in beneath it.

The lights in Madison Square Garden dim slowly as the commentary fades out, and a glowing spotlight pans over the capacity crowd. There's an anticipatory hum in the air. The titantron comes to life with a shimmer of pearls and gold trim – elegant, refined, almost regal. The soft strains of a classical instrumental swell over the speakers before abruptly transitioning into Molly Holly’s custom theme: a sharp orchestral march, confident and composed. A deep royal blue spotlight hits the entrance stage as Molly Holly steps through the curtain, her Women's Championship proudly strapped around her waist. She’s dressed in a pristine white and blue robe with gold accents, reminiscent of a queen arriving at court. Her chin is high. Her posture is impeccable. There’s not a hair out of place in her tight updo. The fans rain down a wave of boos, but she barely acknowledges them. She glides, rather than walks, down the ramp, eyes forward, a composed sneer etched on her face as if she’s wading through peasants who don’t deserve her presence. She stops halfway down the ramp, adjusts her robe like royalty straightening their train, and unclasps her title from her waist with great care. Lifting it high with both hands, she presents it to the crowd as if daring them to question her worth. Then, turning deliberately, she ascends the steel steps, wipes her feet with almost ceremonial precision, and enters the ring between the ropes, not through them. Inside, she moves to the center, holding the title above her head once more before handing it to the referee with an air of reluctant trust. The hard camera catches her saying to him: “Handle it like it means something.” She then retreats to her corner, slips off her robe with a theatrical flourish, and stands poised and ready, adjusting her gloves, not taking her eyes off the ramp.

The arena goes dark.

A sudden eruption of red and orange strobe lights syncs perfectly with a blast of Lita’s iconic entrance theme – fast, grungy, and raw, fueled by the angst of alternative rock guitars. The crowd explodes as the titantron flashes images of her high-risk moves: moonsaults, dives, the Twist of Fate. A wall of flame-like visuals lights up the screen before Lita emerges through the curtain with energy and fire. She bursts onto the stage with a primal scream, throwing both fists in the air, feeding off the deafening roar of MSG. Lita is dressed in red and black – a torn tank top showing off her tattooed arms, cargo pants slung low over her hips, and her signature thong riding above the waistband. Her fiery red hair fans behind her as she paces left to right on the stage, taking in the crowd. Then she locks eyes with the ring and bolts down the ramp, slapping hands on both sides as fans stretch toward her. Her feet slap the metal grating with reckless pace - a woman on a mission. At ringside, she slides into the ring under the bottom rope and immediately leaps to the second turnbuckle. She throws a fist in the air again, her body arched toward the crowd as they chant her name. Flashbulbs pop like fireworks. Lita steps down and eyes Molly across the ring with a mixture of heat and smirk. She rolls her shoulders, paces slightly in her corner, then does a quick hop-step to stay loose. The referee checks with both women as the title is held high.

The Garden is ready.

The crowd is white-hot.

Lita and Molly are locked in a cold, deadly stare from across the canvas.

WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP
LITA vs. MOLLY HOLLY​

The bell rings, and the sound is almost lost in the roar of the crowd. Lita explodes from her corner like a shot, not waiting for a traditional lockup. She dives at Molly, a whirlwind of red and black, tackling her into the corner with a flurry of strikes. The champion is completely overwhelmed, covering up as Lita stomps a mudhole in the corner, the crowd counting along with every kick. Lita pulls her out by the hair, whips her across the ring, and follows with a running clothesline that turns Molly inside out. She doesn't stop, pulling Molly back to her feet and hitting a snap suplex before popping right back up, feeding off the energy. She climbs to the second rope, but Molly, ever the strategist, desperately rolls out of the ring to the floor, grabbing her title and clutching it like a shield. The referee begins his count as Lita fumes, yelling at Molly to get back in. Molly uses the time to catch her breath, adjusting her gear and sneering at the fans, her composure slowly returning as Lita’s frustration grows. This is Molly’s game: control the pace, kill the momentum.

Molly finally slides back into the ring just as the count reaches eight, and as Lita charges, Molly drops down and pulls the top rope, sending Lita tumbling over and crashing hard onto the ringside mats below. The momentum has been brutally halted. Molly smirks, the picture of vindictive satisfaction, and follows her to the outside. She is no longer the frantic victim but a methodical predator. She grabs Lita by the hair and slams her spine-first into the unforgiving steel ring post. A collective gasp sucks the air out of the Garden. Molly rolls Lita back into the ring and begins to dissect her, focusing her attack on the lower back. She executes a textbook backbreaker, holding Lita arched over her knee for an extra moment to inflict maximum pain before dropping her. She locks in a deep, painful Boston Crab, sitting far back and wrenching Lita’s spine. The camera zooms in on Lita’s face, contorted in agony as she screams, refusing to submit. The crowd chants "LI-TA! LI-TA!" trying to will her back into the fight. Molly, ever the heel, breaks the hold herself just to stomp on Lita's back before reapplying it with even more pressure, mocking the crowd's cheers.

Just as it looks like Lita might fade, she channels a surge of adrenaline. With a guttural yell, she powers forward, crawling inch by painful inch, dragging Molly’s dead weight with her. The Garden is on its feet as her fingers graze the bottom rope, forcing the break. Molly is incensed, arguing with the referee and giving Lita the precious seconds she needs to recover. As Molly turns back, Lita kips up, firing back with a series of stiff kicks to Molly’s legs and midsection, creating space. She ducks a wild swing from Molly and plants her with a spinning headscissors takedown that sends the champion flying across the ring. The crowd erupts. Lita follows up with a Russian leg sweep and quickly floats over into a cover. One… Two… Molly powers a shoulder up. Lita doesn't waste a second. She pulls Molly to her feet, sets her up, and hooks the arms for the Twist of Fate. But Molly's ring IQ is second to none. She shoves Lita forward, sending her chest-first into the turnbuckles. As Lita stumbles back, dazed, Molly scoops her up with stunning quickness and hits a picture-perfect Molly-Go-Round, her body rotating in a flawless arc before crashing down. She hooks the leg! The referee slides in. One… Two… Thr— Lita kicks out with a force that sends Molly flying off of her. Madison Square Garden explodes in a unified roar of relief and disbelief. Molly stares at the referee, her face a mask of pure shock, while Lita lies on the canvas, gasping for air but very much still in the fight.
Molly’s composure finally shatters, replaced by a cold, seething fury. She yanks Lita up from the mat by her hair, screaming in her face, "Stay down!" before planting her with a vicious, deliberate Northern Lights Suplex, this time holding the bridge with all her might. One… Two… Lita kicks out again. Frustrated beyond belief, Molly abandons her mat-based game. She climbs to the top turnbuckle, a place she rarely ventures, looking to beat Lita with her own high-risk style. The Garden holds its breath as she poises herself, but it’s a fatal error. Lita, playing possum, springs to life and leaps up to meet her on the top rope. The two exchange frantic, desperate punches hundreds of feet in the air, the crowd roaring with every connection. Lita gets the upper hand, hooking Molly’s head and executing a breathtaking hurricanrana from the top rope that sends them both crashing to the center of the canvas. Both women are down, a heap of exhaustion and pain as the referee begins a ten-count.

They stir at the count of six, using each other to pull themselves to their knees in the center of the ring. A primal exchange of forearms begins, the crowd roaring "YAY!" for every shot Lita lands and "BOO!" for Molly's retorts. Lita, fueled by pure grit, wins the exchange, forcing Molly back onto her heels before unleashing a series of clotheslines, each one punctuated by the lingering pain in her lower back. She whips Molly into the ropes and this time, she connects with a thunderous Twist of Fate. The building shakes. Lita is too spent to make the immediate cover; instead, she crawls painstakingly toward the corner, her body screaming in protest. She pulls herself up the turnbuckle, the monumental effort visible on her face. She’s going for the Litasault. The crowd is on its feet, sensing history. But Molly, the veteran champion, has just enough awareness to roll desperately toward the ropes, forcing Lita to halt her ascent.

Lita sees her window closing. She adjusts on the top rope and leaps, not for the moonsault, but with a crossbody aimed at Molly on the ring apron. Molly ducks, and Lita crashes onto the apron, the impact echoing sickeningly. Molly sees her chance to end it. She grabs Lita, attempting a suplex from the apron to the floor that would surely take Lita out of action for months. Lita blocks it, planting her feet. She reverses the pressure, hooks Molly’s head in a last-gasp effort, and hits a brutal DDT right onto the unforgiving edge of the ring apron. Both women crumple to the floor in a heap. The referee’s count quickens… five… six… seven… Lita begins to move, using the announce table to pull herself up. She grabs the dead weight of the champion and, with a final surge of adrenaline, rolls her back into the ring at the count of nine before collapsing through the ropes herself. She looks across the ring and sees Molly beginning to stir. She knows it’s now or never. Lita lets out a defiant scream that cuts through the noise of the arena, a sound of pure heart and rebellion. She scales the turnbuckles one last time, not with the quickness she had at the start of the match, but with the deliberate, agonizing climb of a warrior on her last legs. She balances on the top, looks down at her rival, and then out at the sea of cheering fans. She leaps. The Litasault is perfect—a flawless, poetic arc through the New York City air, crashing down with beautiful devastation across Molly’s chest. Lita drapes an arm over her, every ounce of her energy spent. The referee’s hand hits the mat. One. The crowd screams. Two. They rise as one. Three. The bell rings, and Madison Square Garden absolutely explodes. Lita has done it. She has overcome the technician, the strategist, and the pain, capturing the Women's Championship in a match for the ages.

WINNER AND

Spoiler

NEW WOMEN’S CHAMPION: LITA

Outside the ring, Molly Holly sits slumped against the steel steps, one arm around her neck, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Her face is twisted in shock, fury, and pain. She watches as the title - her title - is raised above the head of the woman who just conquered her on the grandest stage of them all. Lita slowly rises to her feet, her body bruised and battered, one hand pressed to her ribs as she winces from the pain. She lifts the title high overhead - a single defiant thrust of victory - and the Garden roars. The entire arena is on their feet. Cell phones and flashbulbs go off in every direction.

Suddenly, red and gold confetti begins to pour from the rafters, swirling like a blizzard of glory. Lita looks up, arms stretched wide, spinning slowly with her eyes to the sky as the confetti dances around her. The camera captures a perfect overhead shot: Lita standing in the dead center of the ring, Women's Championship high above her head, bathed in light, confetti falling like rain. She climbs the turnbuckle, gingerly but determined. On the second rope, she raises the title with both hands and lets out a primal scream of triumph - part celebration, part catharsis. Her fans, packed shoulder to shoulder around the ringside barrier, scream back at her. “YOU DESERVE IT! YOU DESERVE IT!” the crowd chants. She hops down and crosses to the opposite corner. This time, she holds the title with one hand, the other pounding her chest as if to say, "This is who I am. This is what I fight for."

The camera catches a cutaway to ringside: young girls holding homemade signs that say “Lita Changed My Life” and “Future Women’s Champ!” crying tears of joy. One little girl wears a red hair extension and a fishnet sleeve. She jumps up and down as Lita notices her and points directly at her from the ring with a small nod. Lita kneels in the center of the ring again, places the title on the mat, and bows her head to it. She touches her forehead to the gold plate. Then, slowly, she turns the title to face the hard cam and drapes it over her shoulder. The confetti is still falling. The Garden is still rocking.

The echoes of WrestleMania still shake the foundation of WWE—but every action has a reaction, and every triumph brings consequences. At Backlash 2004, the aftershocks are felt. Champions who survived the grandest stage now face the hungry challengers left in their wake. Rivalries born under the bright lights of Madison Square Garden now explode in a storm of vengeance, pride, and unfinished business. The celebration of WrestleMania is over. The backlash begins.

BACKLASH 2004 LIVE APRIL 25th, 2004 LIVE FROM TORONTO, CANADA​

The camera fades into a quiet locker room. Rey Mysterio sits alone on a bench, his cobalt-and-silver mask partially loose around his neck. He’s in full gear, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His breathing is steady, his eyes locked on the mirror in front of him. He slowly pulls the mask up over his head, tightening the laces in the back, tugging at the edges to make sure it sits perfectly. He adjusts the eyeholes, then stares at his own reflection with laser focus.

Rey leans forward, resting both hands on the table in front of the mirror. He doesn’t blink, almost as if he’s visualizing every move, every counter. The crowd in the arena can be faintly heard through the walls. His fingers trace the outline of the mask—this isn’t just fabric, it’s his heritage, his identity.

The door creaks open and in steps Eddie Guerrero, freshly taped fists, wearing his “Latino Heat” shirt with his gear underneath. He’s holding his WWE Championship over one shoulder. Eddie smiles, but there’s a fire behind his eyes.

Eddie: “Orale, hermano… tonight’s the night, ese. WrestleMania, Madison Square Garden… and you’re gonna go out there and show that chavito exactly what lucha libre is all about.”

Rey turns toward Eddie, smiling faintly but still locked in. They shake hands, then pull each other in for a brief hug.

Rey: “Gracias, carnal. Means a lot, especially coming from you. And hey… you got your own war tonight. Goldberg’s a beast, but I know you, Eddie—you’ve beaten bigger and badder.”

Eddie: smirks “Oh, I ain’t worried about Goldberg. I’ve got tricks that musclehead’s never even seen before. But you? Rey… this is different. This isn’t just about gold, homes. Chavo’s got no corazón, no respect for lucha libre, no respect for you, no respect for me, for any of us. He’s trying to spit on our heritage, man. And tonight, you’re the one who’s gotta protect it… at all costs.”

Eddie steps closer, gripping Rey’s shoulders and looking him dead in the eyes.

Eddie: “You hear me? This mask… it’s more than cloth. It’s our pride. You take that from him, ese. You take his title, you take his dignity. You fight with everything you got.”

Rey nods firmly.

Rey: “I will, Eddie. For lucha, for my familia… and for me.”

They lock eyes for a moment, then Eddie gives him a final pat on the back before heading out. Rey turns back to the mirror, tightening the straps one last time, the reflection of his determined eyes filling the screen.
The camera slowly fades out from Rey’s reflection and cuts back into the arena, where the crowd is buzzing with anticipation. The lights sweep across Madison Square Garden as the commentary team takes over.

Michael Cole (excitedly): “Ladies and gentlemen, it is almost time for one of the most highly anticipated matches of the night! Eddie Guerrero, fresh off his emotional moment with Rey Mysterio, now has the fight of his life ahead of him against the powerhouse, Goldberg!”

Tazz (grinning): “Yeah Cole, Eddie might be all about that heart, that Latino Heat, but let’s be real here — he’s steppin’ in there with a wrecking machine! Goldberg doesn’t just beat people, he destroys them. Eddie’s gotta find a way to outsmart the big man if he’s gonna survive tonight.”

Cole: “Survive — and maybe even pull off the biggest upset of his career! This is a true clash of styles, Guerrero’s speed and cunning versus Goldberg’s sheer brute force. The question is — which one will prevail here at WrestleMania XX?”

[WrestleMania XX Video Package: Eddie Guerrero vs. Goldberg]

The video opens with a somber instrumental underscore as a black-and-white montage plays of Eddie Guerrero celebrating in the ring, contrasted with Goldberg’s stoic, steam-breathing intensity. A narrator’s voice cuts in, deep and serious:

"What began as professional competition... has spiraled into all-out war."

Suddenly, the somber tone explodes into chaos - rapid cuts of the Royal Rumble. The crowd roars. Goldberg charges through bodies like a man possessed... but then - snap - Eddie Guerrero, with a burst of sly brilliance, low-bridges the monster and sends him crashing over the top rope. The fans erupt. But the celebration is short-lived.

"And in that moment… the beast was unleashed."

Grainy footage of Goldberg re-entering the ring illegally and hurling Guerrero out with frightening force crashes across the screen. The crowd boos, and Eddie clutches his back in pain on the outside. A quote from his post-Rumble WWE.com interview flashes on screen:

“He throws a tantrum like some spoiled niño.”

The music darkens. Footage of the Elimination Chamber at No Way Out plays. Guerrero rolls Goldberg up with a shock victory, stunning the arena into silence - only to be brutally Speared seconds later, Eddie’s body folding like a car crash. Goldberg tears through the chamber door as security scrambles.

“Twice... he took everything from me.”
- Eddie Guerrero, SmackDown, Feb. 19

Video of Eddie, furious and wielding a steel chair, calling out Goldberg to a match at WrestleMania rolls. The fans chant “EDDIE! EDDIE!” as Guerrero lays down the challenge. Cut to Goldberg stepping onto the SmackDown stage, eyes locked with fire. Tension so thick, you can feel it through the screen.

Then - BOOM - footage cuts to Eddie’s ambush. Security cam-style grainy clips show Guerrero attacking Goldberg backstage, smashing him with a trash can, a steel chair, and a lead pipe, leaving the powerhouse on the concrete floor, groaning in rage. Eddie walks off with a sneer, blood on his brow and fire in his eyes.

“At the Garden, I'm going to show him that heart... beats power.”

The screen pulses with highlights of their escalating war: Goldberg demolishing midcarders to send a message. Eddie wrestling with taped ribs but never backing down. Goldberg issuing cold threats with a quiet fury. Guerrero cutting passionate, fiery promos, always gesturing to his heart.

Then, footage fades in of the March 4 SmackDown. Guerrero is shown being tended to backstage, his body battered after a presumed off-camera attack. The screen flickers with grainy security footage of Goldberg disappearing into the shadows. The music swells with defiance.

“What he doesn't understand... is that this - this right here - is something he can never break.”

On the final SmackDown before WrestleMania, Guerrero scores a win over Rhyno and is immediately met with Goldberg's mocking applause atop the ramp. The contrast is clear - the street-smart underdog versus the unstoppable juggernaut. As Goldberg coldly growls:

“There will be no outsmarting. Only destruction.”

But Eddie, defiant to the very end, responds in front of a sea of MSG-bound fans:

“The people believe in Latino Heat. And for them... I will put everything on the line.”

The music peaks with epic drums as clips of both men’s greatest moments play in rapid-fire - Eddie’s Frog Splash, Goldberg’s Spear, Eddie’s lowrider entrances, Goldberg’s pyro walk. Flames. Passion. Violence. Redemption.

The screen fades to black with the final tagline in bold white:

WrestleMania XX
Guerrero vs. Goldberg
“Heart vs. Power. Passion vs. Fury. Only one walks out of Madison Square Garden.”

The camera fades in from black to the roaring crowd inside Madison Square Garden. The lights dance and shimmer across a sea of fans, signs waving, cameras flashing. The WrestleMania XX stage glows with monumental grandeur - LED towers stretching to the heavens, golden arches gleaming, and a massive screen pulsing with anticipation. The atmosphere is thick with electricity. And then… the arena darkens.

“WHO’S NEXT?”​

A deep, distorted growl of “GOLDBERG” echoes from the Garden’s speakers, followed by an explosion of pyro as white-hot sparks erupt from the entrance tunnel like a volcanic eruption. Smoke billows outward in slow motion as the camera transitions to the backstage corridor, where Goldberg stands in the shadows. Shoulders squared. Chin tucked. Steam rising from his nose like a war machine ready to fire.

He throws a few vicious shadow punches into the air - every movement stiff, exact, calculated. His fists are taped tight. His body glistens with sweat. Security escorts flank him, but none dare get too close. Goldberg begins the march.

Each thunderous stomp of his boot echoes through the hallway. The camera trails behind as Goldberg storms toward destiny, walking with terrifying calm - like a predator stalking prey. The crowd begins to boo, their hatred swelling like a tidal wave, but Goldberg doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink.

He emerges through the curtain - BOOM!! - twin pillars of flame erupt on either side of the stage, the light swallowing him whole. Goldberg steps into the firestorm, unfazed, his silhouette cutting through the smoke like a titan. Every muscle tensed, jaw clenched, eyes locked straight ahead.

The camera slowly circles him as he lets out a primal roar, soaking in the moment. Sparks rain from above as Goldberg stomps to the ring, not acknowledging the thousands of fans hurling insults his way. He reaches the steel steps and bounds up them with explosive agility. He turns, faces the hard camera, and slams his fists against his chest.

He steps between the ropes, paces like a caged beast, and finally settles in the corner - his glare burning a hole through the entranceway. A low snarl rests on his lips. He’s not here for ceremony. He’s here for destruction.

“VIVA LA RAZA!”​

*Suddenly, the arena erupts in cheers as the unmistakable scratch of Eddie Guerrero’s theme blares through the speakers. A golden lowrider emerges slowly from the side of the WrestleMania stage, bouncing with hydraulic swagger. The Garden comes unglued.

Latino Heat is in the building.

Eddie Guerrero is behind the wheel, decked out in a sleeveless black “Lie, Cheat, Steal” tee, shimmering red tights with gold flames licking up the sides. He honks the horn, revs the engine, and points to the roaring fans, a mischievous smirk on his face. His ribs are still taped from weeks of attacks, but his eyes glimmer with fire. Unbroken. Unafraid.

The lowrider bounces and rolls down the ramp, hydraulics lifting and dipping as Guerrero leans out the side, slapping hands with fans, winking, laughing - the embodiment of defiance and charisma. Behind him, golden spotlights swirl as flames shoot from the stage, creating a wall of light and fury.

Eddie hops out midway down the ramp, climbs onto the hood of the car, and throws his arms wide - basking in the ovation from the sold-out Garden. He mouths “For you!” to the fans, then points directly at Goldberg, who glares back like a volcano ready to erupt.

Guerrero slides into the ring, popping up with energy. He climbs the turnbuckle, pounding his chest and pointing to his heart before looking out over the Garden.

He yells: “This is for all of us, baby!”

Pyro explodes in all four corners. The fans chant “EDDIE! EDDIE!” as he steps down, peeling off his tee and tossing it into the crowd.

Goldberg hasn’t moved.

Eddie paces in a circle around him, never blinking, never backing down. The monster and the rebel. Power and heart. One more time, Guerrero slaps his chest and points to the fans.

Eddie Guerrero vs. Goldberg​

The referee, Mike Chioda, stands between them, a man caught between a hurricane and a volcano. His instructions are a mere formality, drowned out by the thunderous roar of Madison Square Garden. Goldberg’s eyes are black holes of intensity, fixed on Eddie, his breathing a low, rhythmic growl. Eddie, by contrast, is perpetual motion. He bounces on the balls of his feet, rolling his neck, a defiant smirk playing on his lips as he meets the monster’s gaze without a flicker of fear. The tension is a physical entity in the ring, thick and suffocating. Chioda gestures for the bell.

DING! DING! DING!

Goldberg remains perfectly still in his corner, a statue carved from granite and fury, his eyes burning holes into Eddie. Guerrero, by contrast, is pure kinetic energy. He bounces on the balls of his feet, circling the monster, his head on a constant swivel. He’s a matador sizing up a bull, his eyes darting from Goldberg’s powerful legs to his explosive torso, calculating, processing, searching for a flaw in the fortress. Eddie fakes a lunge, a quick feint to the left, but Goldberg doesn’t even twitch. The crowd roars its approval for Eddie’s moxie, but the champion knows this is a psychological war before it's a physical one.

Finally, Eddie surges forward, not for a takedown, but to lock up. It’s a test of strength he knows he cannot win, but it’s a necessary statement. Their hands clasp, and the sheer disparity in power is instantly, terrifyingly apparent. Goldberg’s hands engulf Eddie’s, his fingers like steel clamps. With a single, contemptuous flex of his traps and shoulders, Goldberg drives Eddie backward, shoving him with such force that Guerrero flies across the ring, his back slamming hard into the turnbuckles with a sickening thud. The crowd lets out a collective gasp. Goldberg hasn’t even taken a full step. He simply snarls, a predator who has just swatted away an annoyance. Eddie slumps down, clutching his taped ribs, the impact clearly aggravating the pre-existing injury. But as he looks up, a defiant smirk creeps onto his face. He nods slowly, as if to say, “Okay. Now I know.” He’s gathering data.

Eddie rises, rolling his neck, and beckons Goldberg on. Goldberg obliges, storming forward like a freight train. Eddie waits until the last possible second and expertly drop-toe-holds, sending the charging behemoth face-first into the middle turnbuckle. The Garden erupts! It’s the first chink in the armor. Before Goldberg can even register what happened, Eddie is on him, a blur of motion. He scrambles to the second rope and begins hammering down with piston-like right hands to the back of Goldberg’s head, the crowd counting along with each blow: “ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE!” But on the sixth, Goldberg’s raw power takes over. He reaches back without looking, grabs Eddie by the throat, and effortlessly yanks him off the ropes, holding him dangling in mid-air with one arm. For a terrifying second, Eddie’s legs kick uselessly. With a guttural roar, Goldberg flings him over his head in a monstrous release fallaway slam. Eddie’s body cartwheels through the air and crashes onto the canvas with the impact of a car wreck. The mat shakes. The air is knocked from his lungs in a visible burst.

Goldberg doesn’t go for a pin. It’s too soon. This is about punishment. He stalks around the downed Guerrero, dragging him up by the hair with a snarl. He whips Eddie towards the ropes. But this is where Latino Heat’s genius ignites. Instead of rebounding off, Eddie slides under the bottom rope, landing on his feet on the apron. As Goldberg charges towards him, Eddie drops down, pulling the top rope with him, a classic bit of Guerrero trickery. Goldberg, running at full steam, smashes his own throat across the taut rope and stumbles backward, gasping for air, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Seizing the momentary opening, Eddie leaps to the top turnbuckle. The crowd rises as one, sensing a momentum shift. Eddie launches himself through the air with a beautiful missile dropkick that connects squarely with Goldberg’s jaw. The monster staggers, but he doesn’t fall. He just shakes his head, the impact barely registering, a look of pure, murderous rage now replacing the confident scowl.

Undeterred, Eddie hits the ropes again, building speed for another assault. But Goldberg has recovered. As Eddie comes flying back, Goldberg meets him not with a clothesline, but with a Spear. A Spear of such devastating velocity and impact that it looks like it split Eddie in two. The sound echoes through the arena – a sharp, percussive CRACK as two bodies collide with maximum force. Eddie’s body goes limp before he even hits the mat, his eyes rolling back in his head. The entire arena falls into a stunned silence, the festive atmosphere instantly sucked out of the building. Goldberg lets out a primal scream that is pure dominance, standing over Eddie's motionless form. He doesn't go for the pin. He turns and glares at the hard camera, steam pouring from his nostrils. He’s just getting started. This isn't a match; it's an execution.

The silence hangs in the air for a moment, thick and heavy, before it is shattered by a torrent of boos directed at the triumphant Goldberg. He paces around Eddie’s broken body, a predator circling his kill, soaking in the hatred of Madison Square Garden. He places a single, heavy boot on Guerrero’s chest, pressing down, grinding his weight into Eddie's already injured ribs. The referee, Mike Chioda, slides in to admonish him, but Goldberg simply glares and lifts his boot, only to stomp it down hard next to Eddie's head, an act of pure intimidation. He then hauls Eddie's limp frame up, hooks him, and executes a flawless, gut-wrenching vertical suplex, holding Guerrero in the air for an impossibly long time to showcase his power before letting him crash back down to the canvas. The crowd groans in sympathetic pain. Goldberg isn't finished. He drops a knee, then another, directly onto Eddie's taped torso, each impact punctuated by a pained grunt from Guerrero.

Chioda is now frantically checking on Eddie, trying to see if he can even continue. Goldberg shoves the referee aside, snarling, "Get out of my way! He's done!" This act of defiance fuels the crowd's fury. Chants of “GOLDBERG SUCKS! GOLDBERG SUCKS!” rain down from every corner of the arena. Goldberg simply smirks and drags Eddie to the center of the ring. He doesn't go for a traditional pin. In a display of ultimate arrogance, he places one foot on Eddie's chest, leans on the rope, and poses for the cameras. Chioda, with no choice, drops down to make the count. “ONE!” The crowd holds its breath. “TWO!” It’s over. But then, a tremor. Eddie’s shoulder, caked in sweat and grit, twitches and lifts itself a fraction of an inch off the mat just before Chioda’s hand hits for three. The Garden explodes in a soundwave of pure shock and elation! It wasn't a powerful kickout; it was a spasm of pure, uncut heart. A refusal to die.

Goldberg stares down at Eddie, then at the referee, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. The smirk is gone, replaced by a deep, guttural snarl. He yanks Eddie up by his hair, screaming directly into his face, "You just won't stay down!" He positions Eddie, hoisting him onto his shoulder. This is it. The Jackhammer. The end of the line. The entire arena is on its feet, screaming, pleading. As Goldberg lifts him vertically into the air, holding him suspended at the apex of the move, Eddie’s survival instincts kick into overdrive. He begins to rain down desperate, albeit weak, hammer fists onto the side of Goldberg's skull. They have little effect, but they're a distraction. In a brilliant, fluid motion born of desperation, Eddie hooks his leg around Goldberg's neck, using his own downward momentum to twist his body and flip Goldberg over him in a shocking crucifix pin! Chioda dives to the mat! “ONE! TWO!”—but Goldberg explodes out of the pin with such raw force that Eddie is launched halfway across the ring. The near-fall was a lightning strike, a moment of impossible hope that has now fully enraged the beast.

Furious, Goldberg rises to his feet, his eyes burning with a new level of intensity. He stalks towards Eddie, but Guerrero, thinking fast, rolls under the bottom rope and collapses onto the floor. The fight has spilled outside. Goldberg follows, his patience completely gone. He tears the top off the Spanish announce table with a single swipe of his arm, sending monitors and papers flying. The message is clear. He grabs Eddie by the head and slams his face repeatedly into the hard ringside barricade. He then peels back the protective padding from the floor, exposing the cold, unforgiving concrete beneath. He lifts Eddie, preparing for a military press, intending to drop him directly onto the exposed floor and end his career. But as he hoists him up, Eddie begins kicking his legs wildly, shifting his weight and making himself an awkward, uncooperative burden.

This momentary struggle gives Eddie the space he needs. As Goldberg adjusts his grip, Eddie slides down his back, landing on his feet. He shoves Goldberg with every ounce of strength he has left, sending the bigger man stumbling forward. Goldberg collides shoulder-first with the unyielding steel ring post with a sickening crunch. It’s the same shoulder Eddie targeted earlier. Goldberg cries out in agony, clutching the joint, turning away from Eddie in a moment of pure pain. The referee's attention is drawn to the injured titan, urging him back into the ring. This is the moment. The opening. Eddie’s eyes, glazed with pain, sharpen with cunning. He stumbles over to the timekeeper’s area, and his hand finds a steel chair. The crowd sees it, and a new roar builds, not of anger, but of anticipation. They are begging for it. Lie. Cheat. Steal. Goldberg, shaking the pain from his arm, finally turns around and freezes. He sees Eddie Guerrero, back against the barricade, chair held tight in his hands, his eyes blazing with a desperate, fiery resolve. The Garden is a powder keg, and Latino Heat is holding the match.

The seconds hang heavy in the air, thick with possibility. Goldberg, clutching his injured shoulder, stalks Eddie around the ringside area, his face a mask of pure rage. He grabs Guerrero and whips him with tremendous force towards the steel steps. But Eddie, at the last possible second, reverses the momentum, sending Goldberg hurtling towards the steps instead. Goldberg manages to slam on the brakes, his boots skidding on the floor, but he's off-balance. Eddie sees the opening and launches a perfect dropkick to Goldberg’s back, sending the big man stumbling forward, out of control. He crashes directly into referee Mike Chioda, who was positioned on the apron trying to restore order. The impact sends Chioda flying backward, his head cracking against the apron before he crumples to the floor in a heap. He is out cold. The Garden roars. With the law gone, this is now a war.

A wicked, desperate grin flashes across Eddie’s face. This is his chance. Ignoring the fire in his ribs, he crawls to the timekeeper’s area. He shoves aside the timekeeper and his hand closes around the heavy, solid steel ring bell. The crowd senses what’s coming and their roar intensifies. Eddie slides back into the ring, the makeshift weapon held tight. Goldberg, shaking off the collision, turns and slides in after him, his eyes locking on the bell. He charges forward, a wounded bull seeing red. Eddie lifts the heavy bell, not to swing at Goldberg's head, but at the mat. He smashes it down with all his might, creating a deafening CLANG that echoes through the arena. In the split second Goldberg flinches at the sound, Eddie shoves the ring bell into his hands. Goldberg, acting on pure instinct, catches it. Instantly, Eddie throws himself violently backward onto the canvas, convulsing as if his skull had just been crushed.

At that exact moment, Mike Chioda begins to stir at ringside. He shakes his head, pushing himself to his knees, his vision swimming. He pulls himself up by the ring apron and slides back under the bottom rope, his movements groggy and slow. The first thing his blurry eyes focus on is the scene of perfect deception: Eddie Guerrero is laid out, seemingly unconscious, while Bill Goldberg stands over him, the ring bell clutched in his hand, a look of utter confusion on his face. Chioda’s senses return in a rush of fury. He snatches the bell from Goldberg, throwing it out of the ring, and gets right in the monster’s face, screaming and waving his finger. Goldberg is incensed, yelling back, trying to explain the impossible situation, but Chioda isn't listening. He shoves the referee. While this heated argument rages, Eddie Guerrero miraculously comes back to life. With a surge of adrenaline, he kips up to his feet. Goldberg turns from the now-irrelevant argument and is met with a hook to the body. "UNO!" The first suplex hits. "DOS!" The second. With a final, agonizing effort, Eddie completes the trifecta. "TRES!" The Three Amigos send Goldberg crashing down.

This is the moment. Adrenaline masking the pain, Eddie staggers to the corner. He looks out at the 20,000 strong, a sea of faces roaring him on. He pounds his heart, points to the heavens, and begins the slow, arduous climb to the top rope. Every movement is a testament to the punishment he’s endured. He steadies himself on the perch, gives that signature, confident shimmy, and launches himself into the New York night. He soars through the air—a perfect, beautiful arc—before crashing down with the full force of the Frog Splash. The impact reverberates through the ring. But the move takes as much out of him as it does his opponent. Eddie collapses onto Goldberg, his own body wracked with pain from the impact on his ribs. After a few precious seconds, he finally summons the strength to drape a single, trembling arm over Goldberg's chest. Chioda slides in. “ONE… TWO… THREE!!!” The building is ready to explode, but at the very last microsecond, Goldberg’s arm shoots up off the mat. He kicked out. A surge of disbelief and horror washes over the crowd. Eddie stares at his hand, then at the referee, his eyes wide with a look that says, “What more can I do?”

Frustration gives way to desperation. Eddie pounds the mat, the dream slipping through his fingers. Across the ring, the beast begins to stir. Fueled by nothing but rage and instinct, Goldberg starts to push himself up, a titan rising from the rubble. He gets to his hands and knees, shaking his head, ready to unleash hell. Eddie knows it's now or never. He scrambles to his feet and sprints towards the ropes to build momentum for one last, final attack. As he rebounds, Goldberg, still on his knees, lunges forward in a desperate attempt at a Spear. But Eddie’s mind is one step ahead. With an incredible burst of agility, he leaps completely over the charging Goldberg, who crashes face-first into the canvas. Before Goldberg can recover, Eddie is on him. He grabs Goldberg's ankles, grapevines the legs, and twists his body, locking in the Lasso from El Paso.

He wrenches back, screaming, pouring every last drop of his soul into the hold. Goldberg is trapped in the center of the ring, his power-base neutralized, his injured shoulder preventing him from pushing up. The crowd is a single, roaring entity, stomping their feet in unison, the sound like a freight train rumbling through the Garden. Goldberg’s face is a contorted mask of agony and fury. He refuses to quit. He claws at the mat, his fingers digging into the canvas, trying to pull his massive frame towards the ropes that are a mile away. His arm reaches out, trembling… and then it falls. He slaps the mat. Once. Twice. A third, frantic, final tap. The bell rings, and Madison Square Garden ceases to exist, replaced by a supernova of pure, cathartic sound. It's over. Eddie Guerrero collapses backward, the hold still locked in for a moment before he realizes what’s happened. He has done the impossible. Heart has conquered power.

Winner:

Spoiler

Eddie Guerrero

The bell’s final echo fades beneath a tidal wave of noise, Madison Square Garden roaring like it’s trying to shake the very foundations. Eddie rolls off Goldberg, lying on his back for a few seconds, chest heaving, sweat running down his face in thick streams. His eyes are wide, almost in disbelief, before a grin spreads across his face—equal parts exhaustion, pride, and mischief. Goldberg is still on the mat, clutching his leg, his aura of invincibility fractured before the eyes of the world. The referee kneels beside Eddie, lifting his arm high into the air, and the crowd responds with an even louder explosion of “EDDIE! EDDIE! EDDIE!” chants that reverberate off the Garden’s walls. Eddie sits up, shaking his head as if he’s still processing it himself. He rises slowly, his body aching from the war, and climbs the nearest turnbuckle. There’s no gold to raise, no championship to flaunt—just his arms thrown wide to the people who have always believed in him. The camera flashes create a strobe across his sweat-soaked frame as he points to the heavens, mouthing a quiet “Gracias” under his breath. Goldberg pushes himself to one knee, his face twisted in a mixture of fury and disbelief. He locks eyes with Eddie for a tense moment—there’s no handshake, no show of respect—just the silent acknowledgment that he has been beaten. Limping, Goldberg exits the ring without a word, disappearing up the ramp while boos rain down from sections of the crowd still riding the adrenaline of Eddie’s win. Back in the ring, Eddie drops to his knees and pounds the mat with both fists, feeding off the crowd’s energy. He slides out to the floor and makes his way to the barricade, where a group of young fans reach for him. He pulls a few of them into quick hugs, laughing and shouting “¡Viva la Raza!” before rolling back into the ring for one last ovation. As his music blares, Eddie ascends another turnbuckle, arms spread wide, soaking in every ounce of the moment. Confetti doesn’t fall—just the sound of 20,000 fans giving him the kind of reaction money can’t buy. Tonight, he didn’t win a title. He didn’t need to. He won something rarer—he beat the unbeatable, and he did it his way.

WWE SHOP AD BREAK

Eddie Guerrero, battered but victorious, stumbles through gorilla with his ribs wrapped and sweat dripping, grinning through the pain. The boys in the back clap him on the shoulders — “¡Órale, Eddie!” echoing as he limps down the hallway.

But then the applause cuts short. In step Chavo Guerrero Jr. and Chavo Classic, smug, slow-clapping.

Chavo Jr. (mocking):
“Bravo, Eddie. You survived Goldberg. You pulled another miracle. But you better rest up, primo. Later tonight, you’re gonna watch history — when I take Rey Mysterio’s mask, his pride, and his career. When I prove I’m the true Guerrero.”

Chavo Classic (grinning):
“That’s right. The Guerrero name belongs to us now. That mask? That’s coming home to my son. Rey’s finished tonight.”

Eddie’s smile dies. His face hardens as he steps up to Chavo, chest-to-chest despite the pain.

Eddie Guerrero (intense, voice low):
“Órale, Chavito. You don’t get it, ese. That mask? That’s not just cloth. That’s lucha. That’s honor. That’s everything, homes. Rey Mysterio? He’s my brother. You try to rip that away, you spit on everything our family stands for. You ain’t just fighting Rey tonight — you’re fighting me, too.”

Chavo Jr. smirks, brushing past.

Chavo Jr.:
“Careful, primo. You just wasted all your fight on Goldberg. You stick your nose in my business, and I’ll finish you and Rey in the same night.”

Chavo Classic pats his son proudly as they walk off. The camera lingers on Eddie, clutching his ribs but glaring with fire in his eyes.

The lights in Madison Square Garden dim to a deep, ominous blue, and a low, rumbling bass line begins to throb through the arena speakers. On the massive Titantron, the words BIG SHOW appear in stark, block letters, shattering like concrete on impact. Then, from behind the curtain, a shadow emerges that blots out the stage lights.

The United States Champion, The Big Show, appears. At over seven feet tall and nearly five hundred pounds, he looks less like a man and more like a monument carved from granite. The U.S. Title is slung over his massive shoulder, the leather strap looking like a watch band and the gold plate like a dinner plate against his colossal frame. His expression is one of pure, arrogant disdain as a chorus of boos rains down from every level of the Garden. He doesn’t play to the crowd. He doesn’t acknowledge them. With a slow, deliberate, earth-shaking gait, he stalks down the long ramp, his eyes locked on the ring. The camera pans up from his boots, struggling to capture the sheer scale of the man. He is a walking eclipse, a force of nature here to defend his territory. He reaches the ring and, with an athletic ease that defies his size, steps over the top rope in a single motion. Inside the squared circle, he unhooks the United States Championship, raises it high above his head with one hand, and lets the gold catch the light, a final, silent warning to his challenger. He hands the belt to the referee, turns his back to the entrance, and waits, a mountain of a man ready for a war.

The arena goes black. A moment of silence hangs in the air before a scratchy, looping beat drops and the speakers explode with the opening bars of “Basic Thuganomics.” The crowd, which was just a chorus of boos, erupts into a thunderous, unified cheer. The Titantron flashes to life with vibrant, graffiti-style graphics as the challenger’s name appears: JOHN CENA.

Bursting through the curtain with an explosive swagger comes the challenger. He’s the physical opposite of the champion—not a giant, but a ball of kinetic energy and pure charisma. Clad in a custom New York Yankees jersey, baggy jean shorts, and a backwards cap, he pumps his fists, jogging in place to the beat of his own theme. The padlock and chain around his neck bounce as he makes the "Word Life" sign with his hands, a gesture the thousands in attendance gleefully return.

He doesn’t just walk to the ring; he commands the stage. He sprints down the ramp, sliding to a halt to get face-to-face with fans in the front row, his energy infectious. He leaps onto the steel steps, raising a hand to his ear to soak in the deafening cheers of his hometown crowd. He slides under the bottom rope and bounces to his feet, a blur of motion. Without a shred of hesitation, he marches directly across the ring and gets right in The Big Show’s face, jawing at the giant, pointing a finger in his chest, completely unintimidated. He makes the "You Can't See Me" gesture directly in the champion's line of sight before jogging backwards to his corner, a smirk on his face. The bell is about to ring, and The Doctor of Thuganomics is ready to make the biggest house call of his career.

United States Championship
The Big Show (c) vs. John Cena​

The bell rings, and its echo is immediately swallowed by the roar of Madison Square Garden. Cena, a ball of kinetic energy in his Yankees jersey and jorts, never stops moving, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Across the ring, The Big Show stands perfectly still, a monolithic champion whose sheer presence seems to warp the gravity in the ring. With a primal yell that is part challenge and part self-motivation, Cena charges forward. He doesn’t try to lock up; he explodes with a stick-and-move strategy, peppering the giant’s massive midsection with a volley of rights and lefts. The punches land with loud, percussive smacks, but Show barely flinches, absorbing the blows as a brick wall might absorb spitballs. Annoyance flickers across the champion's face. He doesn’t counter with a punch; he simply shoves. One open palm connects with Cena’s chest, and the challenger is launched backward as if shot from a cannon. He flies across the ring, his momentum forcing him into a backward roll that ends at the opposite turnbuckles.

Scrambling back to his feet, defiance burning in his eyes, Cena charges again. He runs the ropes, building a head of steam, ducking under a lazy, telegraphed chop from Show that sounds like a sheet of plywood cracking as it whistles over his head. Cena rebounds off the opposite ropes, aiming for a crossbody, but it’s like a car hitting a telephone pole. Show doesn’t move; he simply lowers his shoulder and Cena collides with a wall of muscle. The impact is catastrophic. Cena is flattened, his body folding in half before sprawling onto the canvas, the air exploding from his lungs in a single, desperate gasp. The entire ring structure groans under the force of the collision. Big Show lets out a guttural roar, pounding his chest with fists the size of cinder blocks, the undisputed king of his domain. He towers over Cena, casting a shadow that covers his entire body, a predator enjoying the first moments of a long, painful hunt.

With dismissive arrogance, Show grabs a fistful of Cena’s hair and hoists him effortlessly from the mat. He lifts the challenger into a military press, holding him high above his head with one arm, showcasing his terrifying, raw power to the thousands in attendance. For a few agonizing seconds, Cena is suspended parallel to the arena lights, completely helpless, before Show unceremoniously dumps him in the center of the ring. The resulting slam shakes the canvas and reverberates through the floor. With a cruel smirk, Show doesn't even bother with a traditional pin. He plants one of his size-22 boots directly onto Cena’s chest. The referee drops to the mat: "One... Two..."—but Cena shoves the leg off, a burst of adrenaline-fueled defiance. Show just laughs. This isn't about winning quickly; it's about punishment. He drags Cena to the corner, trapping him, and unleashes a series of open-handed chops. Each impact sounds like a gunshot in the cavernous arena, leaving an angry, crimson welt on Cena’s chest. "You wanted this!" Show bellows, his voice booming over the crowd's horrified gasps.

Show grabs Cena by the arm, spinning him out of the corner and whipping him toward the opposite turnbuckles with incredible force. Cena hits the corner with so much velocity that his body can’t be contained by the ropes; he flips heels-over-head, crashing in a heap on the thin protective mats covering the concrete floor. The referee immediately begins his ten-count as Cena lies motionless. But Show isn't interested in a count-out victory. He steps over the top rope with casual ease and drops to the floor, stalking his prey. He grabs Cena by the neck, lifting him as if he were a child, and drives him spine-first into the unyielding steel of the ring post. Cena collapses, a pained cry escaping his lips. A fan in the front row screams, and Show turns, making eye contact with a wicked grin before turning his attention back to the challenger. With a grunt of exertion, he hoists Cena up and launches him over the main broadcast table. Monitors, headsets, and papers go flying as the commentary team scrambles for safety.

The referee’s count reaches seven. Show, confident the damage is done, slides back into the ring and raises his arms, soaking in the boos. "Eight!" The crowd is on its feet, screaming for Cena to move. "Nine!" From the wreckage of the announce table, a hand appears, then an arm. Cena, his eyes glazed over, drags his battered body from the debris. He crawls on his hands and knees, every movement an agony. He pulls himself up by the ring apron, his body screaming in protest, and with a final, desperate surge, he slides under the bottom rope, collapsing onto the canvas just as the referee’s hand was about to fall for ten. The Garden erupts. Cena has survived the onslaught, but as he looks up from the mat, he sees The Big Show staring down at him, his expression having shifted from arrogance to pure, unadulterated fury. The punishment was just beginning. Big Show’s fury is a palpable force. He closes the distance, cutting off the ring as Cena uses the ropes to pull himself into a seated position. He grabs Cena by the head and the waistband of his jorts, hauling him upright and immediately driving him back into the nearest corner with the force of a car crash. The turnbuckle pad compresses with a wheeze. Show leans his full five-hundred-pound frame against Cena, using his forearm as a battering ram against Cena’s jaw, smothering him, trying to press the very life out of him. The referee tries to intervene, but Show shoves him away. He drags Cena out of the corner and locks him in a monstrous bear hug. The champion squeezes, his arms like steel bands wrapped around Cena’s ribs and spine. Every ounce of air Cena just fought to regain is brutally expelled. Cena’s face turns crimson, his arms flailing, slapping weakly against the giant’s back. The crowd tries to rally him, but their cheers are distant thunder to a man being crushed.

Desperation fuels a sudden burst from the challenger. Cena throws his head back, connecting with the bridge of Show’s nose. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make the giant grunt in pain and momentarily loosen his grip. Cena follows up with a series of sledgehammer-like fists to the side of Show’s head. Annoyed, Show releases the hold only to grab Cena by the throat, lifting him off his feet. He carries him across the ring, preparing to slam him down, but his rage has made him reckless. He charges toward the corner, intending to use it as a weapon, but Cena, in a flash of instinct, slips free. Show, unable to stop his own massive momentum, crashes shoulder-first into the exposed steel of the ring post between the turnbuckles. The sound is a sickening, metallic clang that echoes through the arena. The giant stumbles back, clutching his shoulder, a wave of pain finally breaking through his armor of fury. For the first time in the match, the monster is vulnerable.

Cena sees the opening—a crack in the foundation of the mountain. He doesn't waste a second. As Show stumbles out of the corner, dazed and clutching his arm, Cena lunges forward, throwing his entire body into a low dropkick aimed directly at the champion's left knee. The connection is perfect. Show’s leg buckles at an unnatural angle, and he lets out a roar that is no longer one of dominance, but of pure agony. The giant drops to one knee, his face contorted. The crowd senses the strategy, the only possible path to victory, and their roar intensifies. Cena doesn’t let up. He hits the ropes for momentum and comes back with a vicious chop block to the back of the same knee. This time, the giant collapses entirely, crashing face-first to the mat in a heap of pained frustration. The giant has been felled.

Now it’s Cena’s turn to press the attack. He circles the fallen champion, adrenaline surging through him. He grabs Show’s massive head, straining with every fiber of his being to pull the dead weight up. As Show groggily gets to his hands and knees, Cena leaps into the air, wrapping his arm around the giant's neck and dropping down with all his might, executing a leaping DDT. Show’s head bounces off the canvas with a thunderous boom, shaking the very foundations of the ring. It’s the most significant offensive move of the match for the challenger. Cena scrambles for the cover, hooking a massive leg. "ONE! TWO!"—but the champion's power is absolute. Big Show throws Cena off his body with such explosive force that Cena is sent rolling halfway across the ring. Cena sits up, his face a mask of stunned disbelief, but the crowd is alive, chanting his name, believing for the first time that the impossible might just happen.

The momentum has shifted. Cena is up first, feeding off the energy of Madison Square Garden. He sees Show, dazed and wounded, slowly stirring and beginning to push himself up. Cena sprints to the corner and begins to climb the turnbuckles, his movements urgent. He steadies himself on the top rope, looking down at the sprawling landscape of the Big Show’s back. He waits for the perfect moment. As Show pushes himself to his feet, still favoring his injured leg, Cena launches himself into the air. He comes down hard, driving his leg into the back of Big Show’s neck and head—a top-rope leg drop bulldog! The giant pitches forward onto the mat. Cena again dives into the cover, hooking the leg with everything he has left. The referee’s hand hits the mat once, twice… but again, just before the three, Big Show’s shoulder powers off the canvas. Cena collapses backward onto the mat, chest heaving, while the champion lies gasping for air. The playing field, impossibly, has been leveled.

A tense quiet falls over the Garden, the calm in the eye of the storm, as both warriors lie on the canvas, the physical toll of the battle etched on their faces. The referee checks on both men, his count reaching four before either begins to stir. Cena, using the ropes as a lifeline, pulls himself to his knees, his head hanging low, sweat and determination dripping onto the mat. Across the ring, Big Show does the same, his massive chest heaving, the pain in his knee now a constant, throbbing agony. They lock eyes from across the ring, a silent acknowledgment passing between them: this is no longer about a championship; it is about survival.

Cena is the first to his feet. He slaps his own face, trying to spark his exhausted body back to life, and hits the ropes. He throws himself at the champion with a flying shoulder block, but the impact is negligible. Cena bounces off Show’s chest and stumbles backward, while the giant barely moves, a grim, humorless smirk crossing his lips. Cena lets out a frustrated yell and hits the ropes again, this time pouring every last ounce of his remaining energy into the attack. The second shoulder block connects with more force. This time, Show’s injured knee gives way, and the behemoth staggers back a few steps, his smirk vanishing, replaced by a flash of alarm. Seeing his chance, Cena rebounds one more time, charging in for the final blow—but Show was waiting. The giant opens his arms and catches Cena in mid-air like a child, his incredible power overriding Cena's momentum. With a roar of defiance, Show hoists him high and drives him into the mat with a devastating scoop powerslam that makes the whole ring jump.

Gasping for air, Show crawls over and drapes a heavy arm across Cena’s chest for the cover. "One! Two!"—Cena kicks out! The defiance is answered in kind. Now it’s Show who sits up in disbelief. His frustration boils over as he slams his massive fist onto the mat again and again, the booms echoing his own labored breathing. Sweat pours from his brow, his body screaming from the damage to his leg and the sheer exhaustion of the fight. He knows he's in danger. He knows he needs to end this now. He grabs Cena by the singlet, hauling the dead weight of the challenger to his feet, their faces inches apart. "I'm ending this!" he snarls, his voice a gravelly promise. He wraps his colossal hand around Cena's throat, the fingers completely encircling his neck. He lifts—CHOKESLAM!

But as Cena is lifted high into the air, his body parallel to the canvas, he wriggles with a desperate, violent energy. In an incredible display of core strength and ring awareness, he twists his body mid-air, slipping out of the giant’s grip and landing on his feet directly behind him. Before Show can even register what has happened, Cena drives a hard kick into the back of his compromised left knee. The leg buckles instantly, and the giant cries out, pitching forward. Cena seizes the moment, hooking his arm around Show’s neck, planting his feet, and torqueing his entire body to execute a spinning side suplex—the Protoplex! The Big Show crashes to the mat, flat on his back, his massive frame shaking the ring.

The Garden is unglued. Show is down, perfectly positioned. Cena stands over him, his chest heaving, and looks out at the roaring sea of humanity. He knows what he has to do. He raises a hand, waving it back and forth in front of his face in his signature taunt: "You Can't See Me!" The crowd screams the words along with him. He hits the ropes, rebounds, and drops a massive, theatric fist—the Five Knuckle Shuffle—square across The Big Show’s forehead. Cena springs to his feet, gesturing to the crowd that this is the end. He positions himself to lift the giant for the finish. But as Show staggers to his feet, delirious, he throws a wild, desperate right hand, a haymaker meant to end the match in one blow. Cena ducks under it, spins behind the giant, and squats, trying to get the champion onto his shoulders for the F-U. He strains, every muscle in his body screaming, his knees trembling under the impossible weight—but he can't get him up! Show is too big. The giant uses his weight, dropping back down and crushing Cena with a massive headbutt that sends the challenger reeling. Show grabs him, whips him to the ropes, and as Cena rebounds back, he catches him again. This time, there is no escape. CHOKESLAM CONNECTS! The impact is cataclysmic. Show collapses on top of him for the cover.
ONE!

TWO!

TH—NO!!

Cena’s kick-out at two and nine-tenths sends shockwaves through Madison Square Garden, the roar of disbelief deafening. Big Show sits up, stunned, staring at his hand, then the referee, barking, “That was three!” His meltdown buys Cena precious seconds. On the mat, Cena’s eyes flicker open—running on fumes, but the “CE-NA! CE-NA!” chants jolt him back to life. He claws for the ropes, pulling himself up.

Show spots the movement, rage eclipsing strategy. Slamming his palm to the mat—BOOM—he slowly clenches his fist, signaling the Knockout Punch. The crowd knows the end is near. Stalking forward on a trembling leg, he winds up and swings, but Cena ducks at the last instant. The missed punch spins Show around, exposing his back. Cena lashes out with a sharp kick to the gut, folding the giant over and creating the opening.

Cena dives behind, locking his arms around Show’s waist. He strains to lift, legs shaking under the 500-pound load. The crowd’s roar fuels him—a primal scream rips from his throat as, inch by inch, the champion rises onto Cena’s shoulders. For a heartbeat, Cena stands like Atlas holding the world, then twists and drives Show to the mat with the F-U. The ring shakes on impact.

Exhausted, Cena collapses across Show’s chest.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!

The bell rings, drowned by an eruption of cheers as Cena’s music hits—he has done the impossible.

WINNER AND

Spoiler

NEW U.S CHAMPION JOHN CENA

As the referee’s hand hits the mat for the third time, the bell rings in a frantic, joyous peal, and “Basic Thuganomics” explodes through the arena speakers, unleashing a tidal wave of sound from the Madison Square Garden crowd. Cena rolls off Big Show’s unconscious form, his body a dead weight, every muscle screaming in protest. He lies on his back for a moment, chest heaving, staring up at the bright lights with wide, disbelieving eyes. The referee grabs the gleaming United States Championship and slides it onto the canvas next to him. Cena reaches out, his hand trembling slightly, and touches the cool metal of the center plate. He pulls the title in, clutching it to his chest like a holy relic, a raw, uncontainable mixture of exhaustion, relief, and pure joy washing over his face.

Using the belt for leverage, he pushes himself to a seated position as the legendary ring announcer Howard Finkel makes the official declaration: "The winner of this bout, and NEWWW United States Champion... JOHN CENA!" The roar of the crowd physically lifts him. He gets to one knee, then to his feet, the referee raising his arm high in the air. With a surge of adrenaline, Cena hoists the U.S. Title over his head with both hands, the gold shimmering under the arena lights. He stumbles to the nearest corner and begins to climb, each step an effort. Reaching the top, he raises the championship to the fans, pounding the fist over his heart with his other hand, screaming, “WE DID IT!” He repeats the ritual in all four corners, a new king greeting his kingdom, ensuring every single person in the historic arena shares the moment with him.

He hops down from the final turnbuckle and a ringside official hands him a microphone. He leans against the ropes, still breathing heavily. "Yo," he pants, the sound echoing through the Garden. He turns to look at the fallen giant, who is just beginning to stir. "Yo, Big Show... you are one big, bad dude... but you got knocked the HELL out!" The crowd erupts. Cena then turns his gaze directly to the main camera, a look of fiery determination in his eyes as he drapes the championship over his shoulder. "To everybody watching, and to everybody in MSG... for anybody who's ever been told they couldn't do it... The CHAMP... IS... HERE!" He drops the mic with a defiant thud. His music swells as he slides out of the ring, walking backwards up the ramp, slapping high-fives with the fans in the front row. He stops at the top of the stage, turns one last time to face the roaring sea of people, and raises the United States Championship high above his head, a new era officially born on the grandest stage of them all.

AD BREAK

Backstage, just beyond the black curtain, John Cena walks through the tunnel with the United States Championship still draped proudly over his shoulder. He’s drenched in sweat, shirt stained, knuckles bruised from going to war with The Big Show. Road agents and crew give him nods of respect as he passes, but Cena’s focus is locked straight ahead-eyes burning, jaw clenched, still riding the high of the biggest win of his career. The U.S. Title’s gold plates glint beneath the industrial lights above, and Cena’s fingers subconsciously tighten around it with each step, like he's afraid it might vanish.

Josh Mathews rushes up, almost colliding into him. “John! Incredible victory out there-your first championship in WWE. What does this moment mean to you?”

Cena wipes sweat from his brow, exhales, then pulls the mic toward him. “Josh… this moment?” He looks down at the belt, shakes his head in disbelief. “This moment’s everything. Tonight wasn’t just about beating Big Show. It was about showing the whole world-showing everyone in that locker room-that John Cena belongs on this stage. This United States Championship? It ain’t just hardware, bro. It’s a symbol. Of the grind. Of the hustle. Of the rise.”

Suddenly, there’s a presence. A subtle hush falls over the hallway as Randy Orton steps into frame, still in his ring gear, hair damp, eyes sharp and intense after his earlier hard-fought win over Batista. Cena turns, sees him, and the tension shifts instantly. Not hostile. Not aggressive. But charged. Two hungry wolves, both fresh off defining wins, both holding the scent of momentum in their lungs.

Orton glances at the U.S. Title, then meets Cena’s eyes. A long beat passes before Orton speaks-measured, calm, but filled with meaning.
“You showed up tonight, Cena,” Orton says, voice low but clear. “That was a big win. You earned that.”

Cena nods, almost surprised by the sincerity. “You too,” he replies. “Beating Batista? That ain’t no small thing.”

Orton smirks ever so slightly. “Lot of people watching us now. Lot of eyes on the next move.”

He steps in closer, not threatening-just enough to make a statement.
“Let’s see who keeps making ‘em.”

With that, Orton slowly backs away, never breaking eye contact, then turns and disappears down the hall, leaving Cena standing there-chest still rising and falling, heart pounding harder now for a different reason. Cena watches him go, silent, thoughtful.

Josh leans back in with the mic, but Cena doesn’t speak. He just looks at the U.S. Title… then down the hallway where Orton vanished.

The camera lingers-two careers about to collide, the first sparks quietly lit in the shadows of Madison Square Garden.

The broadcast returns, not to the arena, but to a slickly produced video package. Upbeat, high-energy rock music kicks in. The screen flashes with the words: "EARLIER THIS WEEK... WWE TAKES OVER NEW YORK CITY."

Jim Ross (V.O.): Welcome back to WrestleMania XX! While tonight is all about the wars waged inside that squared circle, the entire week has been a celebration, as WWE Superstars took the Big Apple by storm.

Quick, energetic cuts show various superstars around NYC. EDDIE GUERRERO and REY MYSTERIO, laughing and posing with fans in the middle of a bustling Times Square. TRISH STRATUS is shown trying on a hat in a SoHo boutique. We see BOOKER T doing a Spinaroonie on a sidewalk for a cheering crowd near Radio City Music Hall. The Dudley Boyz, Bubba Ray and D-Von, stand with their arms crossed, looking menacingly over the Brooklyn Bridge, looking right at home. The montage is fun, light, and captures the festive atmosphere of WrestleMania week.

Jerry "The King" Lawler (V.O.): What a week it's been, J.R.! The city that never sleeps has been buzzing about WrestleMania! Look at all these superstars having a great time!

(The upbeat music cuts off abruptly. The screen goes black for a split second before cutting back live to the announce table. The festive mood is gone. Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler are looking down at their notes with grim, somber expressions.)

Jim Ross: And King, it is a stark and brutal contrast to go from those images of celebration... to what we have to discuss next. Because what is coming up is not about fun. It is not about sightseeing. It is about damnation.

Jerry "The King" Lawler: I... I don't even know what to say, J.R. I've been doing this a long time, and I've never been more unsettled. We've seen Casket Matches. We've seen Inferno Matches. But we have never seen anything like this.

(The camera pushes in on J.R., his face etched with concern.)

Jim Ross: Folks, for the first time ever, we will witness an Inferno Casket Match. The history between The Undertaker and his brother, Kane, is a story written in fire and betrayal. Tonight, that story finds its final chapter. The ring will be surrounded by a wall of flames. At ringside, a specially reinforced, double-wide casket awaits. But to win this match, a superstar cannot simply put his opponent in the casket. No... to secure victory... you must incapacitate your opponent, place him inside the casket, close the lid... and set it ablaze.

Jerry "The King" Lawler: My God, J.R.! You're talking about incinerating your own brother! This isn't a wrestling match; it's a funeral pyre! This is the most demonic, twisted thing I have ever heard of.

Jim Ross: It is the only way to guarantee that the other will never, ever, return. It is the ultimate end. The Brothers of Destruction will collide, and one will drag the other's soul into a literal abyss. Here is how we got here.

WrestleMania XX Video Package: Kane vs. The Undertaker – Inferno Casket Match

Voiceover begins over black screen with the distant sound of crackling fire. A single toll of the funeral bell echoes as the screen fades into slow-motion images of a casket being lowered into a grave...

Narrator (deep, ominous tone):
“When the final embers cool and the lid of the casket slams shut, one brother will be left in ruin... and the other will have claimed his vengeance through fire and flame.”

The screen explodes into a violent montage: Kane’s cackling face drenched in dirt at Survivor Series 2003, standing atop the burial mound where The Undertaker had been interred. We hear Vince McMahon’s voice echo-"Do it, Kane!"-as Kane drives the final shovel of dirt and spreads his arms, basking in twisted glory. The scene cuts to Kane backstage weeks later, screaming into the camera, "I buried him with these hands!"

Clips follow of Kane’s reign of terror-decimating superstars, setting fire to set pieces, dragging steel chairs across the throats of helpless victims-as he proclaims, “My brother is dead and gone... forever.”

But then... the flicker of arena lights. The eerie, ambient chime of a funeral bell. Kane’s eyes widen in panic as the TitanTron flashes with cryptic images-a shadowy silhouette, a casket lid closing, the flash of an urn. Quick cuts show Kane storming backstage, tearing apart locker rooms, grabbing crew by their collars in paranoid fury.

“He’s gone... he’s dead... HE’S DEAD!” Kane shouts, trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

At the Royal Rumble, the arena descends into darkness as the crowd roars in anticipation. When the lights return, a solitary urn sits on the stage. Kane freezes. “This isn’t happening,” he whispers in disbelief. The moment costs him-Big Show dumps him over the top rope-but the real defeat is written on Kane’s face.

Cut to black. Another toll of the bell. The voiceover returns, low and ominous.
“But the dead do not rest when their work is unfinished...”

January 26th Raw. The casket appears in the center of the stage, cloaked in shadows. Kane opens it-BOOM!-it erupts in a pillar of flame. Kane recoils, screaming in shock. Backstage footage shows him pacing, unhinged, screaming into mirrors, “You’re not real! You’re not real!”

Fast cuts to No Way Out-February 15th. Druids in black robes line the ramp, carrying a blue-flame-engulfed casket. The arena is breathless. From inside the smoke rises... The Undertaker. The crowd explodes. Paul Bearer’s unmistakable voice calls out from the shadows-“Ooooooh yes!” Thunder cracks. Kane is frozen in place. Then chaos erupts.

The brothers collide. Chairs fly. Barricades shatter. Kane eats a Chokeslam that echoes through the arena. As he lies lifeless, The Undertaker leans down, delivering the death sentence in a gravelly voice: “At Madison Square Garden... Inferno Casket Match.”

Cut to black. Fire consumes the screen. Then:

Narrator:
“Not just a casket match. Not just fire. This... is retribution from the underworld itself.”

The feud escalates into madness. On Raw, Kane brutalizes Steven Richards, dragging his bloody body across shattered glass. On SmackDown, Kane abducts Paul Bearer. The screen flickers as Bearer appears bound and gagged, eyes wide with terror.

“Looking for something, Deadman?” Kane hisses, gripping Bearer by the hair. A lighter clicks. Gasoline pours. Bearer sobs. “Tell him what happens when you play with fire...”

The Undertaker searches boiler rooms and back hallways in silence. Druidic chants echo behind him. The TitanTron flashes again. “Time is running out, Brother,” Kane warns. “Tick. Tock.”

On the March 11th SmackDown, Kane tries to stuff Bearer into a casket live in the ring. The gong sounds. Undertaker appears. Fire bursts. Kane flees.

Finally-March 18th. The Undertaker stands in the ring beside Paul Bearer. He speaks slowly, calmly, with the authority of death itself. “You betrayed blood, Kane. Now you will burn.” Flames shoot from the posts. Kane appears on the screen, laughing. The air is thick with smoke and dread.

On the final SmackDown before WrestleMania, the Inferno Casket is delivered by druids. Its steel is blackened. Its hinges screech. Fire ignites around it. Kane appears, manipulating the flames with outstretched hands, raising them sky-high.

The Undertaker answers with a slow turn of his head... and the infamous throat-slash.

“WrestleMania... will be your funeral.”

Fade to black.

Text appears on screen:
WRESTLEMANIA XX
THE UNDERTAKER vs. KANE
INFERNO CASKET MATCH
“The flames will rise... and only one will walk away.”

A final image: the flickering casket surrounded by fire, and two brothers staring at each other across a burning line... ready to end the war that began in blood.

The video package fades to black, the final, ominous words "ready to end the war that began in blood" hanging in the electric air of Madison Square Garden. For a moment, there is only the roar of the capacity crowd, a wave of human sound crashing against the darkened arena. Then, it is shattered by the grinding, industrial guitar riff of Finger Eleven's "Slow Chemical." A concussive blast of pyro erupts from the stage, sending violent columns of crimson flame twenty feet into the air, the heat washing over the first several rows. From the hellish light and billowing black smoke, Kane emerges, his unmasked face a terrifying mask of pure psychosis. He wears no shirt, only his signature black and red stitched pants, his torso and arms thick with muscle and scarred from a lifetime of fire and battle. He stalks down the ramp, not with the confident swagger of a champion, but with the frantic, predatory energy of a cornered animal. His eyes, wild and paranoid, dart from side to side, scanning the crowd as if expecting his phantom brother to materialize from the shadows. He stops halfway down the ramp and throws his arms down, triggering another explosive eruption of fire from the ring posts, bathing the blackened steel of the Inferno Casket at ringside in a hellish glow. Kane grins, a grotesque, joyless expression, trying to project mastery over the very element that haunts his nightmares. He circles the ring, pounding his fists on the apron before climbing inside, a false king taking his throne of fire, waiting for the ghost he created to come and claim him.

The abrasive chords of Kane's theme are cut short, plunging the arena into an instantaneous, suffocating darkness and a split-second of stunned silence. Then it comes. GONG. The sound is not merely heard; it is felt—a deep, resonant toll that vibrates through the concrete floor and up the spine of every person in the building. A colossal roar erupts from the crowd as a slow, mournful organ dirge begins to seep from the speakers. At the top of the ramp, a single spotlight cuts through the dark, illuminating a familiar, ghoulish figure: Paul Bearer. He is bathed in a sickly blue light, his face a powdered white, his eyes wide with manic glee. In his hands, he clutches the golden urn, held aloft like a sacred relic. He turns his head slowly, a wicked smile spreading across his face as he lets out his iconic, piercing wail into a microphone, a sound that echoes through the Garden like a banshee's cry: "Ooooooh yeeeeeees!"

Behind him, the stage fills with an impossibly thick, rolling fog, a supernatural mist that spills over the edge and cascades down the ramp. From the very heart of this ethereal cloud, a line of black-robed druids emerges, their faces hidden in the deep cowls of their hoods. They carry flickering torches, the orange flames casting long, dancing shadows as they take their positions, forming a solemn honor guard down the length of the entranceway. And then, he appears. A towering silhouette materializing from the fog, a figure of pure dread and legend. The Undertaker is back. He moves with a chilling, deliberate slowness, a glacier of pure vengeance carving its path toward the ring. He is cloaked in his classic long black duster, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring his face, his gloved hands clenched into fists at his side. The crowd's roar is deafening, a sustained ovation for the return of their Phenom, yet it seems to not even register with the Deadman. He is a wraith gliding through the mists of the River Styx, his singular focus on the brother who stands frozen in the ring, his mask of rage now melted away to reveal the terrified child underneath.

The Undertaker reaches the bottom of the ramp and pauses, the world holding its breath. He ascends the steel steps, one… by one… each footfall a hammer blow of impending doom. He steps through the ropes, never breaking his gaze from his brother. Slowly, mechanically, he raises his arms to the heavens, and with a crash of thunder and a flash of lightning on the TitanTron, the arena lights surge back to life, revealing him in his full, terrifying glory. Kane takes an involuntary step back, his heavy breathing visible in the air. The Undertaker slowly lowers his arms and with a deliberate, theatrical motion, removes his hat, revealing the cold, dead eyes that have haunted Kane's soul for months. Then, his head snaps back, and his eyes roll back into his head, a final, chilling signal to the world. The Deadman has come home, and retribution from the underworld itself has arrived at WrestleMania. The bell has yet to ring, but for Kane, the funeral has already begun.

INFERNO CASKET MATCH
THE UNDERTAKER vs. KANE​

The bell rings, but it’s a mere formality, lost in the deafening roar of Madison Square Garden. There is no technical wrestling to start, no feeling-out process; there is only the collision of two forces of nature. Kane, fueled by a cocktail of adrenaline and raw terror, lunges forward, screaming a guttural, incoherent roar. He unloads a desperate flurry of haymakers, connecting with The Undertaker's head and body with sickening thuds. The Phenom staggers back, not from pain, but from the sheer ferocity of the assault, weathering the storm like a cliff against a hurricane. Kane drives him into the corner, continuing the onslaught with wild, clubbing blows and driving his shoulder repeatedly into Undertaker’s midsection. He is trying to beat the myth, to prove to himself that the resurrected specter before him is merely flesh and blood. For a moment, it seems to be working. Kane pulls his brother out of the corner and whips him across the ring, but The Undertaker reverses with a force that sends Kane careening into the turnbuckles with a heavy crash. This is the opening the Deadman needs.

The Undertaker stalks forward, his face an implacable mask of cold fury. He grabs Kane by the throat, the crowd exploding in anticipation of an early Chokeslam, but Kane responds with a panicked, low blow, driving his fist into The Undertaker’s groin. The referee chooses to ignore it, understanding this is more of a war than a match. As Undertaker doubles over, Kane grabs him by the hair, dragging him toward the ropes and throwing him unceremoniously to the floor outside. The fight, too raw and hateful for the confines of the ring, spills to the ringside area. Kane, seizing the advantage, smashes Undertaker’s head repeatedly into the unforgiving Spanish announce table, the plexiglass cover cracking under the strain. He tears the monitors from the desk, intent on using one as a weapon, but as he turns, The Undertaker is already on his feet. He catches Kane’s arm and with a surge of vengeful strength, drives him back-first into the steel ring post. The sound echoes through the arena, a dull, metallic clang followed by Kane’s agonized cry.

Now, The Undertaker is in control. He methodically dismantles his brother, his movements deliberate and punishing. He drags Kane toward the stage-side of the ring, where the gas pipes for the inferno stand ominously. Paul Bearer cackles with delight, raising the urn. The Undertaker positions Kane, whose head is now bleeding from the ring post, perilously close to one of the nozzles. He looks out at the crowd, then back at his brother, and raises his hand. A signal. WHOOSH! A ten-foot wall of fire erupts from the pipe, missing Kane's face by mere inches. The searing heat and the deafening roar of the flame send Kane scrambling backward on his hands and knees, clutching his face, his eyes wide with a primal terror that transcends the spectacle of sports entertainment. He has seen hell, and his brother is its gatekeeper. The smell of propane and sulfur fills the air. The Undertaker calmly walks through the dissipating heat, grabbing Kane by his hair and hoisting him to his feet.

He rolls his dazed brother back into the ring, following close behind. The end seems near. He signals for the Tombstone Piledriver, the throat-slash motion sending the crowd into a frenzy. He lifts Kane, but the Big Red Machine, fighting on pure instinct, begins to rain down hammer fists on The Undertaker’s back, forcing him to break the hold. Kane shoves his brother away, creating separation, and as The Undertaker charges back in, Kane catches him with a desperate, thunderous big boot that sends the Deadman staggering. Seizing the momentary reprieve, Kane runs the ropes, building momentum to finish what he started, but The Undertaker, barely fazed, remains standing. As Kane comes off the ropes for a clothesline, The Undertaker ducks under it, catches him on the rebound, and hoists him up onto his shoulder. He runs toward the ropes, aiming to dump his brother to the outside, but alters his trajectory at the last second. With a final, explosive push, he throws Kane over the top rope, directly onto the Inferno Casket. The lid, which was ajar, flies open as Kane’s body collides with the blackened steel with a sickening crunch of man against metal. For the first time, one of the brothers lies inside the sarcophagus, the flames around the ring leaping higher in response, as if tasting their potential victim. The Undertaker stands in the center of the ring, a dark monument of retribution, staring down as his brother struggles to escape the tomb designed for him.

The flames lick the air around the ring as Kane scrambles frantically within the blackened steel sarcophagus. He claws at the sides, his boots finding no purchase on the smooth interior, a panicked animal caught in a trap. On the outside, The Undertaker moves with predatory calm. He walks to the casket, grabs the edge of the heavy steel lid, and with a guttural roar from the crowd urging him on, begins to force it shut. The screech of the hinges is a death knell. Kane’s eyes go wide with pure, undiluted horror as the slice of arena light above him shrinks to a sliver. This is it—the burial, the fire, the end he has dreaded for months. In a final, explosive act of defiance, he plants both boots on the underside of the descending lid and kicks upward with all his might. The heavy steel door explodes open, catching The Undertaker square in the face. The Phenom stumbles back, clutching his head, momentarily stunned by the impact, giving Kane the precious seconds he needs to spill out of the casket and onto the floor.

Freedom and rage surge through Kane in equal measure. The terror of the last few seconds has been replaced by a furious, homicidal instinct. He is no longer the haunted brother; he is the monster who buried him once before. While Undertaker recovers, Kane slides under the ring apron and emerges with a steel chair, its cold metal glinting under the arena lights. The Undertaker turns just in time to take a deafening shot directly to his midsection, the chair bending around his torso. He doubles over, and Kane delivers another vicious, two-handed crack across his spine, forcing the Deadman to his knees. The crowd boos lustily, but Kane is deaf to them. He unleashes a savage, relentless assault, bringing the chair down again and again on Undertaker's back and legs, each impact echoing like a gunshot. He focuses his attack on Undertaker's left leg, a calculated attempt to chop the legendary figure down to size, to ground the phenom and make him mortal. He wedges the chair against the limb and stomps on it, eliciting a rare, audible grunt of pain from his brother.

Feeling a surge of sadistic dominance, Kane discards the now-dented chair and drags The Undertaker toward the steel steps. He rips the top section of the steps away, tossing the 200-pound block of steel aside with contemptuous ease. He lays Undertaker’s already-injured leg across the base of the steps, intending to permanently cripple him. But as he raises his boot to deliver a devastating stomp, The Undertaker’s hand darts out, grabbing Kane by the throat from the ground. Kane’s eyes widen in shock. With a surge of raw power, Undertaker pushes himself up, forcing Kane backward before releasing the hold to deliver a series of stiff, methodical punches to Kane's jaw, driving him back toward the ring. He rolls his brother under the bottom rope and follows, limping heavily but his face set with grim determination. He attempts his signature leaping clothesline, but his injured leg buckles beneath him on the takeoff.

Kane sees his opening. As The Undertaker stumbles, Kane charges from the corner and flies through the air, connecting with his own signature top-rope lariat, a move that sends the Deadman crashing violently to the mat. The momentum has swung entirely. Kane stalks around the ring, pounding his chest, feeding off the crowd's hatred. He looks down at his fallen brother and makes a decision. He raises his hand, the signal for his own Chokeslam, a blatant act of mockery. He grabs the groggy Undertaker by the throat, hoists him high into the air with a demonic roar, and slams him down in the center of the ring with a mat-shaking impact. The arena is stunned. Kane has hit a finisher. He stands over his brother, chest heaving, a triumphant, maniacal grin spreading across his face. He turns to the crowd and throws his arms down, calling for the flames, basking in what he believes is his final victory. But when he turns back to gloat over the body… it’s gone. In its place, The Undertaker is sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide and lifeless. The triumphant grin on Kane’s face vanishes, instantly replaced by a look of abject horror. The Chokeslam, the beatdown, the chair shots—it was all for nothing. He stumbles backward into the far corner, desperate to put distance between himself and the unkillable nightmare that is now slowly, menacingly, getting back to its feet.

The Undertaker rises to his feet, a dark tower of impending doom, his limp barely perceptible beneath a shroud of pure adrenaline and supernatural fury. The look of abject horror on Kane's face is a sight to behold; his monster persona has completely dissolved, leaving only the terrified younger brother facing the consequence of his gravest sin. Kane, trapped in the corner, tries to fight his way out, throwing a desperate series of punches and forearms. But it's no use. The blows have no more effect than rain on a tombstone. The Undertaker walks directly through them, his head not even snapping back, his dead eyes locked on Kane's. A tidal wave of dread washes over Kane as he realizes he is no longer fighting a man. With a final, futile swing, his arm is caught. The Undertaker squeezes, his grip like a vice, before unleashing his own symphony of destruction. A thunderous right hand sends Kane's head snapping back, followed by another, and another. He whips his brother to the opposite corner, follows in with a crushing clothesline, and pulls him out into a devastating Snake Eyes on the top turnbuckle. As Kane stumbles back, dazed, The Undertaker rebounds off the ropes and connects with a massive big boot that sends the seven-footer crashing to the canvas.

Without a moment's hesitation, The Undertaker grabs his brother by the throat. This is not a move born of mockery, but of pure, unadulterated vengeance. He lifts Kane high into the air, holding him there for a split second to savor the moment, before slamming him down with a Chokeslam that reverberates through the ring. The crowd roars, expecting the end, but The Undertaker doesn't even glance at the casket. This is about punishment. He stalks over to Kane's prone body, grabbing him by the vest and dragging him like a carcass toward the ropes. He muscles Kane up and over the top, dropping him onto the apron right beside the open, waiting casket. The Undertaker leans through the ropes, trying to shove his brother into the abyss, but Kane clings to the top rope for dear life. They trade desperate, clubbing blows on the narrow apron, a perilous exchange high above the concrete floor. Kane, seeing an opening, delivers a savage headbutt that momentarily stuns the Deadman, giving him just enough space to slide back into the ring, escaping his fate once more.

Now back in the ring, Kane scrambles away, trying to create distance. The Undertaker follows, his limp more pronounced now as the adrenaline begins to wear off. He corners Kane, but his brother, thinking fast, stomps violently on the bottom turnbuckle. It's a trick. A massive, controlled burst of fire erupts from the ring post right beside The Undertaker’s head. The Phenom is forced to recoil from the intense blast of heat, shielding his face and giving Kane the opening he so desperately needed. With The Undertaker disoriented, Kane charges forward and scoops him up for a colossal sidewalk slam in the middle of the ring. He is back in control, the fear on his face replaced by a vicious, calculating glare. He has remembered that fire is his ally, too. He stomps away at The Undertaker's injured leg, grounding the Phenom once again before whipping him hard into the corner.

The Undertaker hits the turnbuckles with force, but as Kane charges in for a follow-up, The Undertaker explodes out with a clothesline, turning his brother inside out. The fire has awoken the beast. With the crowd on its feet, The Undertaker grabs Kane’s arm. It's time. He begins the iconic, tightrope walk up the turnbuckles for "Old School." He ascends, but the damage to his leg is evident; his movements are slower, more labored than usual. He reaches the top, but the slight delay is all the opening Kane needs. With a powerful yank, Kane pulls The Undertaker off balance, crotching him painfully on the top turnbuckle. Both men are now in a precarious position. Kane, seeing his chance to inflict maximum damage, climbs up to the second rope to meet him. High above the ring, with the flames of the inferno casting long, dancing shadows below them, the two brothers trade heavy, exhausted punches, each trying to knock the other from their perilous perch to the canvas, or worse, to the floor outside.

The two behemoths teeter on the top rope, trading concussive, draining blows. The crowd is on its feet, a sea of flashing cameras capturing the perilous standoff. Kane, a desperate wildness in his eyes, lands a solid right hand that stuns the Deadman. He hooks his arm around his brother’s head, and with a final, desperate roar, pushes off, sending both seven-footers crashing to the center of the ring in a cataclysmic superplex. The ring trembles from the impact, and both men lie motionless amidst the wreckage of their own war, the leaping flames around the ring the only things still moving in the arena. Kane begins to stir first, his body battered but his will unbroken. He crawls over his brother's still form, a grimace of pain and triumph on his face. He knows a simple move won't be enough. He needs to end the legend itself.

With a new, horrifying purpose, Kane rolls out of the ring. He ignores the casket, ignores the steel steps. He reaches deep under the apron and pulls out a large, red gasoline can. The crowd lets out a collective gasp. Paul Bearer, seeing the can, begins to shriek, "No, Kane! No! That's your own flesh and blood!" He positions himself between Kane and the ring, but Kane, his face a mask of pure hate, shoves the corpulent manager violently to the ground. He slides back into the ring, the gas can held like a trophy, and stands over his fallen brother. He slowly unscrews the cap, the squeal of the plastic echoing in the now-hushed arena. "I sent you to hell once, brother," Kane snarls, his voice raspy. "This time, I'm bringing hell to you!" He tilts the can, ready to douse The Undertaker and commit an unforgivable act.

Just as the first drops of fuel begin to spill, a gloved hand shoots up and latches onto Kane's throat. The Undertaker's eyes are open, burning with a cold, white-hot fury. Kane stumbles back in shock, dropping the gas can, which rolls harmlessly away. With an explosive surge of energy, The Undertaker sits up and rises to his feet. Kane swings wildly, a haymaker of pure panic, but The Undertaker ducks under it, spins him around, and drives a thumb into his throat. He lifts his brother, positioning him with chilling precision. The end is here. He hoists Kane upside down, holding him poised for a moment as the world recognizes the iconic signal of finality. TOMBSTONE PILEDRIVER. The impact is devastating. Kane’s head crashes into the canvas, and his entire body goes limp, a puppet with its strings cut. He is out cold.

The Undertaker collapses to one knee, utterly spent, the toll of the fifteen-minute war finally showing. But his work is not finished. He pushes himself back to his feet, his leg dragging behind him, and begins the grim task. He hooks his arms under Kane’s, dragging the 300-pound dead weight across the canvas. He pulls his brother’s limp body under the bottom rope and lets it slump to the floor. Paul Bearer, now recovered, scrambles to the casket and throws the lid open, revealing the black satin interior. Together, the Phenom and his herald struggle, unceremoniously hauling and shoving Kane’s massive, unconscious frame into the steel box. With a final, grim effort, The Undertaker pushes Kane’s dangling arm inside and slams the heavy lid shut. The sound echoes with absolute finality.

Kane is in the casket. But the match is not over. The Undertaker stands over the steel sarcophagus, his chest heaving. He extends a hand, and Paul Bearer reverently places the golden urn into it. The Undertaker holds it with both hands, slowly raising it to the sky. He turns his head and looks toward the heavens, his eyes rolling back into his head one last time. As he thrusts the urn skyward, it is the signal. A network of pipes around the base of the casket ignites with a deafening FWOOSH! A raging inferno erupts, engulfing the entire casket in a furious pyre of orange and red flames. The bell rings frantically, over and over, as the announcer screams, "The Undertaker has done it! He has set the casket on fire! The Undertaker has won!"

Winner:

Spoiler

The Undertaker

The roar of the flames is matched only by the roar of the 20,000 souls in Madison Square Garden, who have just borne witness to an unholy cremation. The Undertaker remains by the ringside, a stoic sentinel watching the inferno he created. The heat is immense, creating shimmering waves in the air and washing over the first dozen rows. Paul Bearer, his face a grotesque mask of ecstatic glee, circles the burning pyre, holding the golden urn aloft and cackling, his high-pitched laugh just barely audible over the crackling fire and the din of the crowd. The Undertaker, his duty done, slowly drops to one knee. He extends his arm, his fingers curling into a fist before his thumb extends, pointing directly at the fiery tomb of his brother. It is not a gesture of victory, but of grim finality. The war that began in blood has ended in flame.

After a long, chilling moment, The Undertaker rises. His slow, methodical walk up the ramp begins. He does not look back. As he passes the halfway point, a swarm of WWE officials and a fire crew armed with heavy-duty CO2 extinguishers rush down to the ring. They surround the burning casket, unleashing thick, white clouds of chemical fog that hiss and steam as they hit the blistering steel. The roaring inferno is slowly subdued, choked into a smoldering, blackened ruin. The air becomes thick with the acrid smell of smoke and chemicals, a funereal incense for the defeated monster. The crowd watches, captivated by the chaotic but necessary aftermath, the reality of the spectacle sinking in.

By the time The Undertaker reaches the top of the stage, the fire is out, leaving behind a smoldering, scorched casket and a ring area shrouded in a ghostly white haze. He turns, his silhouette framed by the massive WrestleMania XX set, and looks back one last time at the scene of his retribution. Paul Bearer joins him, raising the urn in triumph. The Undertaker simply raises a single, clenched fist. On his command, a deafening crack of thunder echoes through the arena, and a bolt of lightning flashes across the TitanTron. He holds the pose for a final, iconic moment before turning and disappearing into the darkness from which he came. The camera lingers on the ringside scene: the blackened, smoldering sarcophagus, a monument to a sibling rivalry so profound it could only end in the depths of hell itself.

Jim Ross (voiceover): “Folks… in all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like that. Bah gawd, a family war has just played out in the most hellacious way imaginable. The Undertaker has reclaimed his yard… by turning it into a graveyard. We need to take a moment to collect ourselves. We’ll be right back from Madison Square Garden.”

The WrestleMania XX logo flashes across the screen as the event’s theme music swells. A clean, corporate voice steps in.

Announcer: “WrestleMania XX is brought to you by Snickers. Hungry? Why wait? And by WWE Raw vs. SmackDown 2024—the most authentic WWE video game experience ever. Available now, wherever games are sold.”

(Commercial Break)

When the broadcast returns, the darkness is replaced with an explosion of energy. Bright lights, fast cuts, and a hard-driving rock anthem accompany a high-octane montage.

Narrator (energetic, upbeat): “For one unforgettable week, the city that never sleeps became the capital of the WWE Universe! WrestleMania Week in New York City—and at the heart of it all, the WrestleMania Axxess fan festival! For three incredible days, fans from around the globe came face-to-face with their heroes. From shaking hands with the legendary ‘Nature Boy’ Ric Flair, to scoring an autograph from Divas Champion Trish Stratus, to stepping into the ring with rising star John Cena—it was truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience!”

Clips race by: fans storming down a replica entrance ramp, kids holding championship belts with wide-eyed wonder, a packed convention center erupting with cheers. The music swells, shifting into something grand and orchestral.

Narrator (reverent): “But WrestleMania Week isn’t just about the present—it’s about honoring the legends who paved the way. Last night, in front of a sold-out Hilton Hotel crowd, WWE proudly revived a time-honored tradition, inducting a new class of icons into the WWE Hall of Fame.”

Footage rolls from the Hall of Fame ceremony: the Junkyard Dog’s family accepting his ring to a heartfelt ovation; Harley Race commanding respect at the podium; Sgt. Slaughter leading the audience in one final ‘Aten-hut!’; Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura captivating with his trademark charisma. The montage ends with all the inductees on stage together, their rings held high to thunderous applause.

The video fades, and the broadcast cuts live back to Madison Square Garden. The house lights rise. The ring sits empty, but on the entrance ramp stands the legendary Howard Finkel, microphone in hand.

Howard Finkel: “Ladies and gentlemen! At this time, it is my distinct honor to ask you to please rise and welcome the icons, the legends, the immortals… the WWE Hall of Fame Class of 2004!”

Orchestral music soars as the legends/or their family member on the legends behalf appear one by one to a massive standing ovation. The crowd roars with every name.

Howard Finkel: “The Eighth Wonder of the World, the late, great Big John Studd! The legendary Don Muraco! The master of the Figure-Four, Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine! The epitome of toughness, Harley Race! The beloved Junkyard Dog! The former Governor of Minnesota, Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura! Sgt. Slaughter! ‘Superstar’ Billy Graham! And the mentor of Latino Heat himself—Tito Santana!”

The inductees and their families gather together on the grand WrestleMania stage, waving proudly to the sold-out Madison Square Garden crowd. The camera pans across their faces, capturing smiles, pride, and emotion. It is a living timeline of wrestling history—an uplifting, powerful celebration before the action resumes on the Grandest Stage of Them All.

The inductees stand proudly on the stage, basking in the thunderous ovation of Madison Square Garden. The camera pans across their smiling faces one last time before slowly fading back to ringside.

Michael Cole’s voice cuts in, filled with respect and excitement.

Michael Cole: “What an incredible moment, Tazz. The Hall of Fame Class of 2004—a true celebration of this business and everyone who’s paved the way for WrestleMania to even exist.”

Tazz: “Yeah, Cole, it gives ya goosebumps, no doubt about it. Legends, icons, the guys who built this whole thing from the ground up—and now we’re sittin’ here in the world’s most famous arena for WrestleMania XX. Doesn’t get bigger than that, my man.”

Cole leans forward with energy as the camera zooms in.

Michael Cole: “But Tazz, as special as that was, we’ve got a match tonight that’s as personal and as high stakes as it gets. A rivalry that’s been boiling for weeks, and tonight—it explodes. It’s mask versus title. Rey Mysterio puts everything on the line against Chavo Guerrero for the Cruiserweight Championship.”

Footage plays of Rey flying through the air, dazzling crowds with his speed and innovation, spliced with clips of Chavo’s brutal assaults, his sneering face holding up the title.

Tazz: “Yeah, look, Cole—this ain’t just about a championship, though that Cruiserweight Title means the world. This is about pride. This is about heritage. Rey Mysterio’s mask—it’s his identity, it’s his honor. If he loses tonight, it ain’t just his face that gets exposed—it’s his whole legacy.”

Michael Cole: “And across the ring will be Chavo Guerrero—a man who has promised, night after night, that he’ll take everything from Rey Mysterio. Chavo says he’s fighting for his family’s name, that Rey is a fraud who doesn’t deserve the spotlight. Tonight, one of them walks out a champion… and the other? Well, the other may lose everything.”

The camera shifts from Cole and Tazz back into the electric crowd, the anticipation building, as the stage is set for the high-stakes showdown.

WrestleMania XX Video Package: Rey Mysterio vs. Chavo Guerrero Jr. – Mask vs. Title

The screen fades from black into sweeping aerial shots of Madison Square Garden, draped in WrestleMania banners, as a solemn narrator’s voice begins: “In the heart of New York City, where legends are born and legacies are sealed… one man fights for honor, the other for legacy. This… is more than a match.”

Quick flashes of Rey Mysterio soaring through the air, followed by clips of Chavo Guerrero Jr. and his father grinning with arrogance, set the tone-this isn’t just a battle between two athletes, it’s a war over heritage, pride, and identity. Dramatic music swells beneath the narration, as the camera cuts to WWE.com interview clips, interspersed with historical black-and-white Lucha Libre imagery. “My mask connects me to every luchador who came before me,” Rey’s voice echoes over a clip of him lacing his boots backstage, his fingers trembling slightly as they touch his mask. “When I put it on, I’m not just Rey Mysterio-I’m carrying my culture.”

The tone darkens. Footage from No Way Out shows Chavo Classic smashing Rey with a shoe, followed by Chavo Jr. stealing the win with a handful of tights. The image slows to a freeze frame of Chavo Jr.’s cruel smile as Rey lies stunned on the canvas. “The Guerrero legacy is about gold, not honor,” Chavo’s voice says in a smug promo snippet. “Rey? Rey’s just a mask with nothing underneath.”

The video then accelerates into a flurry of hostility-Chavo Sr. and Jr. ambushing Rey after his #1 Contender victory… Rey clutching at his mask as the Guerreros try to tear it from his head… Rey screams into the camera, “You want to rip it off? Fine. Title vs. Mask. WrestleMania.”

The screen cuts to black as Paul Heyman’s voice breaks through: “We’re not just witnessing a grudge match. We’re witnessing the clash of cultural heritage and personal vendetta.” The image returns to the intense contract signing from February 26. Chavo Jr. mocks Rey, waving a fake mask around as the fans boo relentlessly. “Your mask means nothing to me!” he sneers, before the contract signing descends into chaos once more, the Guerreros trying and failing again to unmask Mysterio.

We see footage of Rey slowly adjusting his mask in the mirror before the contract signing-his voice quiet but resolute: “This might be the last time I ever wear this to the ring. But if that’s what it takes to teach Chavo respect… then so be it.”

Cut to March 4th-Mysterio defeating Chavo Classic, then getting blindsided by Chavo Jr. again. The crowd explodes as Rey fights them both off, delivering a 619 to Chavo and standing tall. Commentary from Eddie Guerrero is overlaid: “Rey is fighting for something bigger than himself. My nephew… I’m not sure he understands what he’s really doing.”

Next, the screen plays footage of March 11th-Chavo defeating Billy Kidman, then parading mockingly with a crude paper mask, tearing it up to laughter and jeers. Chavo’s voice booms: “After WrestleMania, the world will see the fraud behind the mask!” The screen cuts to Rey backstage with Michelle McCool: “I’ve broken bones, I’ve bled in that ring. But I’ve never faced anyone so willing to spit on an entire tradition. On Sunday… he learns.”

March 18: Rey pins Chavo clean in tag team action, then rises to his feet, one hand on Chavo’s title, the other on his own sacred mask-this still image lingers on screen with a heartbeat-like echo in the background. Rey’s voice returns: “I’m not afraid to lose… but I’ll die before I let you take my identity.”

And finally-March 25th. The “Lucha Libre disrespect ceremony.” Footage of Chavo Jr. and Chavo Classic humiliating the young masked wrestler, ripping off his mask in the center of the ring. Cole’s voice breaks in: “What I witnessed was disgusting… I’ve never seen such disrespect for another culture’s traditions.” The moment crescendos as Rey Mysterio storms the ring, a blur of motion and fury, clearing house. Then, the camera lingers on Rey kneeling beside the masked wrestler, gently handing him one of his own masks. Silence. Then Billy Kidman’s voice: “That moment told you everything you need to know about Rey Mysterio.”

The video reaches its climax with alternating flashes of Rey hitting 619s in arenas all over the world, intercut with Chavo cheating, taunting, ripping masks. Words appear one at a time on a black screen, like steel strikes echoing in a dark arena:

TRADITION.

BETRAYAL.

IDENTITY.

LEGACY.

“WrestleMania XX. Madison Square Garden. Title vs. Mask.”

The screen cuts to black. One final quote plays, Rey’s voice soft, but burning with defiance:

“You want to see my face, Chavo? You’re going to have to earn it… and bleed for it.”

Then: the WrestleMania XX logo slams onto the screen, followed by a final flash of the match graphic:
Cruiserweight Championship: Chavo Guerrero Jr. (c) vs. Rey Mysterio – Title vs. Mask

Fade out. Total silence… then the crowd roars.

The lights inside Madison Square Garden dim slightly as the WrestleMania XX logo shines on the massive overhead screen. The camera pans across the sold-out arena, where anticipation hangs thick in the air. Spanish flags wave beside Lucha Libre signs, and fans in replica Rey Mysterio masks lean forward on the edge of their seats, knowing that what’s about to happen is more than a title match-it’s a cultural reckoning.

Suddenly, the arena goes black.

“Chavito Ardiente” hits the PA system, the distinct strum of Mexican guitar chords cutting through Madison Square Garden with smug precision. The house lights dim, then snap into a sweeping pattern of gold and crimson spotlights that converge at the top of the ramp. Chavo Guerrero Jr. steps through the curtain, the Cruiserweight Championship slung over his shoulder like it’s the crown jewel of the entire wrestling world. His posture is pure swagger—chin high, chest out, every step measured to project control.

He pauses at the stage’s edge, holding the title up high with one hand as the crowd instantly drowns the arena in venomous boos. A slow, mocking smile creeps onto his face, and he leans into the nearest camera lens. “This is MY legacy, Rey,” he snarls. “Your time’s up!” With deliberate disrespect, Chavo pulls a paper replica of Rey’s mask from inside his jacket—ripped, taped, and wrinkled—then wipes his boots on it before tossing it carelessly to the floor.

The jeers intensify as he starts his walk to the ring. Every few steps, Chavo turns his head to shout insults in Spanish toward heckling fans at ringside, occasionally tapping the championship plate with his fingertips as if reminding them who owns the division. At the base of the ramp, he circles the ring slowly, his eyes locked on the hard cam while he raises the title again, daring the audience to keep booing him.

Climbing the steel steps, Chavo wipes his feet with exaggerated care before stepping through the ropes. He holds the belt aloft one final time in the center of the ring, soaking in the hatred as if it fuels him. With a slow, almost ceremonial movement, he kisses the title plate, taps it twice against his forehead, and finally hands it to the referee—never breaking eye contact with the hard cam.

Then the music dies.
A beat of silence.

"Booyaka 619" blasts from the speakers.
The arena explodes.

Multicolored strobes flash wildly, and pyro erupts at the entrance in a thunderous pop of gold and blue as Rey Mysterio bursts through the curtain, springing from the floor with his signature energy. But tonight, his demeanor is different-there’s no pandering, no theatrics. He stops at the top of the ramp, his chest visibly rising and falling beneath a custom royal blue and silver mask and full-body attire, stylized with Aztec flourishes. Around his neck is a flowing lucha cape that reads “RESPETO” down the spine in shining gold embroidery.

He kneels briefly, head bowed, and touches his mask with reverence before pointing to the heavens. Then, he locks eyes with Chavo Guerrero Jr., who smirks back from inside the ring.

Rey starts his walk.

There’s no bouncing side to side tonight-every step is firm, deliberate, filled with the gravity of what he’s fighting for. As he makes his way down the ramp, he slaps a few hands, especially those of young fans in masks, before pausing at ringside and removing his cape. He climbs the apron slowly, then turns toward the crowd. The camera zooms in as Rey puts both hands to his mask-holding it for just a beat longer than usual-before leaping into the ring with a springboard somersault and landing on one knee.

He looks across the ring at Chavo Jr.-the man who stole his title, who tried to strip away his identity.

The music fades.

Both men slowly approach the center of the ring, where the referee stands between them, holding up the Cruiserweight Championship belt for all to see. Chavo Jr. glares at Rey, pointing to his waist and mouthing: “This is mine. That mask? It’s coming off.”

Rey doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he reaches up… and tightens his mask straps.

The crowd roars.

It’s time.

CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP
MASK vs. TITLE
REY MYSTERIO vs. CHAVO GUERRERO ©​

DING DING! The bell rang and the two began to circle, the crowd splitting into dueling chants, half roaring “REY! REY! REY!” and the rest jeering with a drawn-out “CHA-VOOO.” Chavo smirked and extended one hand for a lock-up, but his eyes betrayed his intent. Rey cautiously reached for it, and Chavo sprang into a side headlock, grinding his forearm across the side of Rey’s mask and taunting, “I’m gonna rip it right off!” Rey planted his feet and shoved Chavo toward the ropes. Chavo rebounded and knocked Rey down with a shoulder block, then cockily jogged toward the opposite ropes. On the return, Rey sprang up with a leapfrog, forcing Chavo to duck under. Another rebound—this time Rey dropped flat, letting Chavo hop over, before springing up into a lightning-fast arm drag that whipped Chavo across the mat. The crowd popped as Chavo rolled to a knee, glaring at the smaller man, while Rey bounced on his toes and beckoned him forward.

Chavo lunged again, only for Rey to sidestep and hook another arm drag—this time keeping hold and wrenching Chavo down into a tight armbar. Rey drove a knee into Chavo’s bicep, twisting the wrist to keep the champion grounded. Fans started an early “619!” chant, but Rey stayed patient, applying steady pressure until Chavo found the ropes with his boot. The referee called for a break and Rey released cleanly, stepping back with his hands raised. Chavo rolled out onto the apron, barking at fans in the front row before sliding back inside. This time he shot low for Rey’s legs, but Rey countered with a quick drop toehold, floating into a front facelock. Chavo twisted and pushed Rey back into the corner, where the referee stepped in—giving Chavo the chance to sneak in a forearm to the ribs.

With Rey momentarily winded, Chavo lit up his chest with a vicious knife-edge chop that echoed through the arena, then another. Rey fired back with a forearm, but Chavo’s knee to the midsection doubled him over. A hard whip into the opposite corner sent Rey crashing chest-first into the turnbuckles, and as he stumbled back, Chavo snatched him into a sharp back suplex for the first cover—one count only. Undeterred, Chavo grabbed a fistful of Rey’s mask and yanked his head sideways to drive another forearm into his jaw. Slowing the pace, he clamped on a grinding side headlock. Rey fought out with body shots, shoved Chavo to the ropes, and on the rebound caught him in a tilt-a-whirl headscissors that sent the champion tumbling out through the ropes to the floor. The Garden erupted, sensing Rey might take flight.

Rey hit the far ropes and came sprinting back for a baseball slide, but Chavo sidestepped at the last moment, grabbing Rey’s legs mid-slide and yanking him to the floor. Chavo immediately rammed Rey’s spine into the barricade, then rolled him back inside to break the count. As Chavo climbed onto the apron, Rey lashed out with a dropkick to the knee, sending Chavo crashing to one knee. Rey sprang to the ropes and launched into a springboard seated senton that toppled Chavo backward for a quick cover—one, and Chavo rolled through into a pin of his own. Rey bridged out, spun free, and both men popped to their feet in a burst of speed that had the crowd roaring.

They locked eyes again. Chavo swung wildly for a clothesline, but Rey ducked and hit the ropes. On the return, Chavo caught him midair for a powerslam, but Rey wriggled out and shoved him chest-first into the ropes before rolling him up from behind—one, two, Chavo escaped. Frustrated, Chavo charged, only for Rey to cut him off with a low kick to the thigh, another, and then a spinning back kick to the gut. Rey hit the ropes, looking for a sunset flip, but Chavo dropped to his knees and grabbed the middle rope for leverage. The referee spotted it instantly, shouting at Chavo, who let go before disqualification. Dragging Rey up by the mask again, Chavo was caught off guard when Rey twisted free into another drop toehold—this one snapping the champion's throat-first across the middle rope. The Garden exploded, knowing exactly what was coming. Rey dashed to the far ropes, rebounded, and the chant rose in unison: “SIX! ONE! NINE!” But as Rey swung through, Chavo yanked himself clear at the last second, tumbling under the bottom rope to safety. Rey landed on his feet inside, staring out as Chavo clutched his jaw and backed up the aisle to regroup, the referee’s count beginning as five minutes ticked away in a match that had already whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

Chavo lingered on the floor, walking in a slow circle, jawing with ringside fans and using the count to his advantage. Rey stayed in the ring, pacing but not giving chase, his eyes never leaving the champion. At the count of seven, Chavo slid under the bottom rope, but as Rey moved toward him, Chavo instantly bailed back out, smirking and wagging a finger. The crowd booed loudly, hurling chants of “You’re a coward!” Chavo feigned offense, slapping the mat and pointing at Rey. This time, Rey had enough—he sprinted across the ring, springboarded onto the top rope, and launched into a plancha over the ropes. Chavo saw it coming and stepped aside, but Rey adjusted midair, twisting into a breathtaking corkscrew landing on his feet. Chavo swung wildly, Rey ducked, and nailed a sharp forearm to the jaw before rolling him back into the ring. As Rey climbed to the apron, Chavo popped up and yanked him into the top rope, snapping Rey’s throat across the cable and sending him crashing to the mat outside. Chavo pounced, grabbing Rey by the mask and ramming his head into the ring post before rolling him inside. The champion hooked both legs—one, two—Rey kicked out to a massive roar. Frustrated, Chavo dragged him to the corner and stomped away, each shot to the midsection punctuated by jeers from the crowd. He then hooked Rey in a front facelock, lifted him vertically for a suplex, and hung him there for a few extra seconds before dropping him hard onto the mat. Chavo floated over for another cover—one, two—Rey barely escaped.

Chavo kept his grip, hauling Rey into a seated position and locking in a tight rear chinlock, forearm grinding into the side of the mask. Rey’s legs kicked furiously as the crowd clapped rhythmically, trying to rally him. Inch by inch, Rey fought to his feet, landing elbows to the ribs. He broke free, hit the ropes—but Chavo cut him off with a stiff knee to the midsection that flipped Rey forward into a somersault. Without hesitation, Chavo hooked the legs and dropped into a jackknife pin—one, two—Rey kicked out and rolled clear.

The champion pressed the advantage, whipping Rey hard into the corner and following with a running European uppercut that snapped Rey’s head back. Chavo climbed to the second rope and rained down punches—one, two, three, four—but Rey slipped out under him on the fifth, darted to the ropes, and dropkicked Chavo’s legs out from under him. Chavo crotched himself on the second rope, grimacing in pain. Rey darted to the adjacent corner, vaulted to the top rope in one smooth motion, and soared across with a springboard hurricanrana that whipped Chavo to the mat in a blur. Rey hooked the legs—one, two—Chavo powered out.

Both men scrambled to their feet, the crowd surging with every movement. Rey hit a lightning-quick low dropkick to Chavo’s knee, then zipped behind him into a victory roll—one, two—Chavo kicked out, but Rey transitioned instantly into another arm drag, sending Chavo sliding across the ring. The champion rolled to the floor again, clutching his shoulder. Rey wasted no time this time—he hit the far ropes, built momentum, and launched himself through the ropes with a suicide dive that crashed into Chavo and sent both men sprawling into the barricade. The Garden erupted into chants of “REY! REY! REY!” as the referee began the count.

At six, Rey rolled Chavo back inside and climbed onto the apron. The moment he stepped through the ropes, Chavo lunged with a shot to the gut, doubled Rey over, and hooked both arms. In one swift motion, Chavo lifted Rey for a double underhook backbreaker, dropping him spine-first across the knee with pinpoint precision. Rey arched in agony, clutching his lower back, and Chavo took a moment to point at the mask and shout, “It’s coming off tonight!” before covering again—one, two—Rey kicked out just before the hand came down. The crowd roared, sensing that the underdog still had plenty of fight left as the match entered its tenth minute.

Chavo Guerrero kept the pressure on as the minutes wore on, targeting Rey Mysterio’s lower back with relentless precision. He whipped Rey into the corner so hard that Rey collapsed on impact, his legs folding under him. Chavo grinned at the sight, methodically stomping away before dragging Rey up for a snap suplex, floating over into another. He didn’t even attempt the cover—he stood, twirling his finger in the air, signaling for the Three Amigos. The crowd booed furiously as he hooked Rey for the second suplex, then the third, but as Chavo lifted, Rey slipped out mid-air and landed on his feet behind him. In a flash, Rey dropkicked Chavo into the ropes, setting up for the 619—but Chavo collapsed to the mat and rolled to safety before Rey could connect.

Rey gave chase this time, sliding out to the floor, but Chavo suddenly scooped him up and drove his spine-first into the steel ring post. The referee leaned out and shouted for both men to get back inside, his count climbing. Chavo rolled Rey in at seven, followed with a slingshot senton, and covered—one, two—Rey kicked out. Chavo’s smirk began to fade into irritation. He dragged Rey up, whipped him to the ropes, and ducked his head, looking for a backdrop—only for Rey to counter with a kick to the face. Rey hit the ropes again, springboarded, and nailed a moonsault DDT that spiked Chavo’s head into the mat. The crowd roared, Rey crawled into a cover—one, two—Chavo barely got his shoulder up.

Both men staggered to their feet. Rey struck first, hitting a running headscissors that spun Chavo into the ropes—this time Rey connected with the 619, the impact snapping Chavo’s head back. The Garden erupted as Rey vaulted to the top rope for the West Coast Pop. He sprang into the air—but Chavo caught him mid-flight and countered into a powerbomb, folding Rey in half. Chavo hooked the legs—one, two—Rey kicked out to a deafening cheer. Chavo slammed the mat, shouting at the referee.

Frustrated, Chavo whipped Rey off the ropes but when Rey came back off he leaped for a crossbody but Chavo ducked and Rey nailed the referee. The official crumpled to the mat, clutching his shoulder, the crowd immediately sensing danger. Chavo spotted the opening and stomped Rey into the corner, then rolled to the outside, ripping the championship belt off the timekeeper’s table. He slid back in, waiting for Rey to rise, but before he could swing—Chavo Classic appeared from the aisle to a shower of boos. The elder Guerrero waddled to ringside, barking instructions in Spanish, and climbed onto the apron. Rey, seeing both Guerreros closing in, lashed out—dropkicking Chavo Jr. into the ropes, then swinging at Chavo Classic to knock him off the apron.

The crowd suddenly erupted again as Eddie Guerrero charged down the ramp, steel chair in hand. Eddie slid into the ring, leveling Chavo Classic at ringside with a vicious chair shot that sent the old man sprawling. Rey turned and looked at Eddie with a grateful nod—relieved to have his friend at ringside to even the odds. Chavo Jr. staggered in the corner, Eddie’s eyes locked on him, and the crowd roared in anticipation. Eddie raised the chair high, taking a step toward Chavo… then froze. His expression shifted—anger melting into something colder, more calculating. Without warning, Eddie spun on his heel and SMASHED Rey Mysterio across the face with the chair.

The Garden gasped in shock, the sound of steel on skull echoing over the stunned silence. Rey crumpled instantly, his mask slightly askew, the force of the blow leaving him motionless. Eddie looked down at Rey, no trace of remorse on his face, then tossed the chair to the mat and backed away. Chavo, stunned for only a second, realized the opportunity. He dropped to his knees, hooked Rey’s leg deep, and began shouting for the referee to wake up. The groggy official crawled into position and began the count—

One…
Two…
Three!

Chavo Guerrero Jr. clutched the Cruiserweight Championship in one hand, standing over the motionless Rey Mysterio as the referee raised his arm in victory. Chavo Classic slid into the ring, beaming with pride, and the two celebrated with arrogant laughter. The crowd’s fury was deafening, but their anger turned to uneasy murmurs as Chavo Jr. tossed the belt to the side and knelt down next to Rey, tugging at the laces on the back of his mask.

The arena came unglued with boos, sensing what was about to happen. Chavo yanked on the mask strings, grinning at the front row as he slowly peeled the fabric upward. Rey’s hands weakly tried to stop him, but his body was too battered to resist. The mask began to slip past Rey’s chin when suddenly, Eddie Guerrero stepped in. The crowd erupted—not with cheers, but with confusion—because Eddie’s chair shot had given Chavo the win, yet he now stood between his nephew and Rey.

Eddie placed a hand on Chavo’s wrist, stopping the unmasking. For a moment, it looked like he might be protecting Rey’s identity… until Eddie crouched down, grabbed the mask himself, and with one violent jerk tore it completely off Rey’s head. The Garden gasped audibly, flashes from cameras exploding around the arena as Rey instinctively covered his face with both hands. Eddie grinned down at him, twirling the mask in his hand like a trophy. Without warning, Eddie mounted Rey and began raining down hard right hands to his unprotected face. The first few blows were stiff enough to daze him—then Eddie shifted, grabbing the chair from earlier and driving its edge into Rey’s forehead. The sickening thunk echoed through the building, and blood began to pour from Rey’s brow almost immediately, streaking down his face and dripping onto the mat. Eddie stood over him, breathing heavily, staring at his blood-covered hands as if admiring his own work. Eddie proceeded to grab the steel chair and lays it flat in the middle of the ring.

He hooked Rey up, the crowd screaming "NO!" over and over, but Eddie ignored them, hoisting Rey high into the air.

SICKENING CRACK!

The steel bent under the force as Eddie delivered a vicious brainbuster directly onto the chair. The thud echoed across Madison Square Garden like a gunshot, and Rey’s body went limp, his head split open on impact. More blood immediately began pouring from Rey’s forehead, running down his face, staining the canvas beneath him in thick, crimson splatters. The referee begged Eddie to stop, but Eddie was far from done.

Chavo Jr., wide-eyed but smiling, stepped forward to take the mask. Eddie held it out toward him with a mock ceremony, his expression cold and smug. The bloodied Rey lay sprawled on the canvas, bare-faced and humiliated, while Eddie deliberately placed the mask into Chavo’s hands. Chavo held it aloft like a trophy, the crowd’s boos raining down as Chavo Classic clapped gleefully in the background. Eddie backed toward the ropes, still glaring at the broken man in the ring, and the three Guerreros stood united—Eddie in the middle, Chavo Jr. holding the mask high, and Chavo Classic raising the Cruiserweight Title. Michael Cole belting "IT was a damn ruse. All the animosity the Guerreros had it was a damn ruse, they played everyone here tonight. In the ring, Rey lay in a crimson pool, his legacy tarnished, his trust shattered, and his identity stolen in front of a sold-out Madison Square Garden.

~ COMPLETION OF PART II ~

Instead of 4 parts will condense down to 3 parts. Hope you all have been enjoying and hoping to have last part out by months end!!

~ STILL TO COME ~
...
..
.
HBK vs. The Rock

WWE Championship: Brock Lesnar (c) vs. Edge

World Heavyweight Championship Triple H (c) vs. Kurt Angle (Evolution is banned from ringside)

Intercontinental Championship: 3 Stages of Hell
1st fall: Singles, 2nd fall: Street Fight, 3rd fall (if necessary): Steel Cage
Christian vs. Chris Jericho

World Tag Team Championship Tag Team Turmoil Match​

 

[WrestleWizard]

~ PART III ~​

~ ENTRANCE: LA RÉSISTANCE ~​

The arena lights dim slightly as a French flag filter washes across the TitanTron. The opening chords of "La Marseillaise" blast through the speakers, transitioning into La Résistance’s entrance theme. The crowd instantly boos, raining down heat as René Duprée steps onto the stage, dressed in a red, white, and blue robe with the French flag stitched across the back. He twirls dramatically into a pose, lifting his arms with smug precision, chin tilted arrogantly toward the ceiling. Beside him, Rob Conway marches out in a tight-fitting sleeveless jacket and aviator sunglasses, his jaw square, eyes laser-focused on the ring, chewing gum with contempt.

Duprée performs his signature French Tickler dance at the top of the ramp, drawing loud jeers and chants of “USA! USA!” The duo proceeds down the ramp in perfect stride, soaking in the hostile energy of the crowd like it fuels them. Duprée smugly yells at a ringside fan in French, while Conway taunts a child wearing a Hurricane mask by pretending to throw it to the ground. They reach the apron, and Conway slides in first, motioning with his hands as if brushing dust off his shoulders. Duprée climbs the steps slowly, flings his robe off dramatically, and steps through the ropes with elegant disdain.

In the ring, Duprée and Conway climb opposite turnbuckles, both raising their fists in arrogant defiance of the crowd, French flags draped over their shoulders. As their music fades, Duprée does one last twirl and bow to a chorus of boos, grinning ear to ear, while Conway shadowboxes in their corner, ready for action.

~ ENTRANCE: ROSEY & THE HURRICANE ~​

Suddenly, the lights dim again, this time tinted a pulsing green hue as a thunderclap echoes through the arena. A comic book-style “WHOOOOSH” sound effect bursts from the PA, followed by the pulsing superhero-themed theme song of The Hurricane. The Tron lights up with comic panels of crime-fighting and high-flying, and out from behind the curtain leaps The Hurricane, decked out in full green-and-black superhero garb, cape flowing, mask snug over his determined face. He strikes a triumphant superhero pose at the top of the ramp, one fist high in the air. Behind him lumbers the massive Rosey, wearing his black-and-silver “S.H.I.T.” (Super Hero In Training) attire-complete with a large utility belt, goggles, and an over-exaggerated chest emblem.

The crowd roars with delight as Hurricane points toward the ring like a crusading vigilante. He theatrically whispers something into a pretend communicator on his wrist, then takes off in a sprint down the ramp, cape flying. Rosey follows at a slower, bouncing pace, playing into his "S.H.I.T." persona by tripping slightly, then catching himself. Hurricane slides into the ring with style, hopping up and twirling with finger-guns drawn, “zapping” each member of La Résistance as if to warn them. Rosey climbs the steps and steps over the top rope, pounding his chest like a mighty sidekick with a mission.

As their theme continues, Hurricane scales the turnbuckle and strikes a dramatic heroic pose again, cape fluttering, while Rosey stands behind him flexing, ready to smash whatever evil lies ahead. The crowd is fully behind them. The contrast between the arrogant La Résistance and the beloved, comic-book crusaders is clear. The energy builds. The referee signals for the bell.

World Tag Team Championships
Tag Team Turmoil​

DING DING DING!

The bell rings and the first match of the Tag Team Turmoil is officially underway. The Hurricane and René Duprée start things off. Duprée, oozing arrogance, offers a handshake. Hurricane eyes him suspiciously before shaking it, but Duprée pulls him in close for a cheap slap across the face. The crowd boos as Duprée launches into his French Tickler dance, gloating. Hurricane kips up, seething, and when Duprée turns around, he’s met with a flurry of lightning-fast strikes, culminating in a jumping clothesline that sends him stumbling back to his corner.

Conway tags himself in, barking at his partner. He charges at Hurricane, who deftly drops down and sends Conway tumbling over the top rope with a low bridge. As Conway lands on the apron, Hurricane hits a springboard dropkick, sending Conway crashing to the floor. Hurricane strikes a superhero pose to a massive pop from the crowd. He then tags in Rosey, the Super Hero In Training.

Rosey lumbers in as Conway slides back under the ropes. Conway tries to chop the big man down with forearms, but Rosey absorbs them, unfazed. He grabs Conway by the throat, lifts him up, and holds him suspended in the air before casually tossing him across the ring. Duprée runs in to help but is immediately caught by Rosey and flattened with a massive sidewalk slam. Rosey roars, pounding his chest as he splashes both members of La Résistance in opposite corners. The heroes are in complete control.

Rosey whips Conway into the ropes, but Duprée, from the apron, yanks the top rope down. Rosey’s momentum carries him forward, and he spills awkwardly to the outside. The referee immediately begins his count, distracted by trying to keep Hurricane in his corner. On the outside, Duprée and Conway perform a brutal double-team, ramming Rosey back-first into the unforgiving steel ring post. They roll the big man back into the ring, and now the tide has turned.

La Résistance begins to dissect the S.H.I.T. They cut the ring in half, making quick, vicious tags. Conway chokes Rosey on the middle rope while Duprée distracts the referee. Duprée comes in and stomps away at Rosey’s knee, grounding the big man. They isolate him, a sea of arrogant French pride against a lone, battered hero. For several minutes, Rosey is trapped, absorbing punishment and desperately trying to crawl toward Hurricane, who is frantically stomping on the apron, trying to rally the crowd.

Duprée attempts a cocky elbow drop from the second rope, but Rosey rolls out of the way at the last second. Duprée crashes and burns on the canvas. This is the opening! Rosey, clutching his ribs, lunges and makes the desperate, hot tag to The Hurricane!

The crowd explodes as Hurricane flies into the ring. He ducks a clothesline from a freshly tagged-in Conway and hits a flying crossbody. He knocks Duprée off the apron with a superkick, then turns his attention back to Conway, dropping him with a devastating swinging neckbreaker he calls the Eye of the Hurricane. He goes for the cover! 1… 2… Duprée dives in just in time to break up the pin!

Rosey re-enters the ring and tackles Duprée. The two big men brawl, tumbling through the ropes and continuing their fight on the arena floor. The referee's attention is drawn to the chaos outside. In the ring, Hurricane signals for his finishing move, the Hurri-Slam. He grabs a dazed Conway, hoisting him up in a chokeslam position. But from the outside, the still-legal Duprée grabs the French flag from their corner post. While the referee is admonishing Rosey, Duprée slides into the ring and brutally jabs the hard end of the flagpole into Hurricane's kidneys.

Hurricane screams in pain and drops Conway. Conway, recovering, quickly hooks Hurricane’s legs, Duprée shoves his partner's feet onto the bottom rope for illegal leverage, and the referee, turning back to the action, slides in for the count.

1… 2… 3!

La Résistance has stolen the victory! Their music blasts as they grab their flags, raising them high while the crowd drowns them in a chorus of boos. Rosey checks on his fallen partner as the French duo gloats, their chests puffed out.

La Résistance eliminates Rosey & The Hurricane.

The defeated heroes get a warm ovation as they exit up the ramp. Duprée and Conway, breathing heavily, remain in the ring, demanding a microphone to boast, but before they can, the arena is plunged into darkness. A deafening sound of a record scratch followed by a heavy guitar riff fills the air.

~ ENTRANCE: THE DUDLEY BOYZ ~

The crowd loses its collective mind as the TitanTron flashes with a tie-dye pattern. Bubba Ray and D-Von Dudley emerge from the back, clad in their signature camouflage gear, with expressions of pure disdain. They don't pose. They don't play to the crowd. They march down the ramp with grim purpose, their eyes burning a hole through the suddenly terrified members of La Résistance. D-Von slides into the ring under the bottom rope while Bubba steps onto the apron, his face a mask of violent intent. The arrogant smiles have vanished from Duprée and Conway’s faces. They’ve cheated their way through one battle, only to find themselves face-to-face with a war.

DING DING DING!

There is no time for recovery for La Résistance. The Dudley Boyz storm the ring before the Frenchmen can even catch their breath. Bubba Ray immediately tackles Rob Conway into the corner, raining down heavy right hands. D-Von intercepts René Duprée and floors him with a powerful spinning back elbow. The match begins as a one-sided beatdown. The Dudleyz whip their opponents into each other, and as Duprée stumbles back, they flatten him with a double flapjack.

Bubba tosses Conway out of the ring like a bag of garbage and then holds Duprée’s legs open. The crowd roars in anticipation. “Wassup!” Bubba yells. D-Von ascends to the top rope and comes crashing down with the diving headbutt to Duprée’s groin. La Résistance is being systematically dismantled. Bubba turns to the crowd, a wild look in his eyes.

“D-VON… GET THE TABLES!”

The arena erupts, the chant echoing as D-Von slides out of the ring and reaches under the apron. But Conway, having recovered, runs over and ambushes him, slamming D-Von face-first into the ring steps. Inside the ring, with the referee distracted by the commotion, Duprée hits a blatant low blow on Bubba Ray. The cheap shot finally gives La Résistance a moment to breathe.

Duprée and Conway drag Bubba to their corner, trying to return the favor by isolating the bigger Dudley. They attempt a double suplex, but Bubba’s power is too much. He blocks it, then reverses, suplexing both Frenchmen at the same time. Bubba crawls to his corner, and D-Von, having shaken off the attack, pulls himself onto the apron and makes the tag.

D-Von is a house on fire. He hits the ring and drops both Duprée and Conway with a series of shoulder blocks and clotheslines, culminating in a jumping shoulder tackle that sends Conway spinning. Duprée charges, but D-Von lifts him high into the air for a massive powerslam. The end is near.

Bubba Ray re-enters the ring, a signal to his partner. They grab the now-legal Rob Conway. In perfect, violent synchronicity, they hoist him into the air and bring him crashing down to the mat with the 3D – the Dudley Death Drop. D-Von makes the cover as Bubba cuts off Duprée from making the save.

1… 2… 3!

The Dudley Boyz have decisively ended the night for the Frenchmen. Their music hits as the referee raises their hands.

The Dudley Boyz eliminate La Résistance.

Bubba and D-Von stand in the center of the ring, feeding off the energy of the crowd. They look ready for more, but their celebration is cut short by a new theme song.

~ ENTRANCE: BOOKER T & ROB VAN DAM ~

The opening electronic notes of "One of a Kind" blast through the arena, and the crowd pops huge for the World Tag Team Champions. Rob Van Dam bounces onto the stage, all relaxed confidence, pointing his thumbs to himself with a grin. Right beside him is the five-time, five-time, five-time, five-time, five-time WCW Champion, Booker T, looking regal with his championship belt slung over his shoulder.

RVD high-fives fans on his way down the ramp while Booker T walks with a cool, measured swagger. Halfway down the ramp, Booker T can't help himself—he breaks out into a flawless Spinaroonie, hopping back up to a massive ovation.

They slide into the ring, the gold of their titles gleaming under the arena lights. RVD hops onto the turnbuckle for his signature taunt, while Booker T stands center ring. A tense but respectful staredown ensues. The hardcore brawling style of The Dudley Boyz versus the unique, high-flying, athletic charisma of the champions, RVD and Booker T. The Dudleyz look determined, but the champs look completely unfazed. The referee raises the titles, signaling that this next fall is for the World Tag Team Championship. The stakes have just been raised.

DING DING DING!

The bell rings for the championship match. Booker T and D-Von Dudley start the contest, circling each other with mutual respect. They lock up, and D-Von’s raw power initially shoves Booker into the corner. But Booker’s agility allows him to spin out, reversing the position and giving D-Von a clean break with a confident pat on the chest. The pace is deliberate, a stark contrast to the brawl that preceded it. They trade shoulder blocks and lockups, with neither man gaining a clear advantage.

Booker tags in Rob Van Dam, and D-Von tags in Bubba Ray. The crowd buzzes for this matchup. RVD uses his unorthodox style, peppering Bubba with a series of kicks to the legs and body. Bubba absorbs them and dares him to bring more. RVD obliges with a spinning crescent kick that stuns the bigger man. He follows up with a springboard crossbody, but Bubba catches him in mid-air. Bubba shows off his strength, holding RVD before dropping him with a thunderous fallaway slam.

The Dudleyz now take control, using their legendary tag team chemistry. They corner RVD, making quick tags and using double-team maneuvers. Bubba holds RVD in place for a D-Von diving clothesline. They are slowing the pace, grounding the high-flyer and wearing him down. They hit a double-team neckbreaker, and D-Von gets a near-fall that has the crowd holding its breath. The champions are in trouble. D-Von whips RVD into the ropes, but RVD ducks the clothesline and hits a jaw-dropping heel kick, creating just enough separation.

RVD makes the desperate tag to Booker T! Booker comes in hot, dropping D-Von with a flying forearm and hitting Bubba with a superkick that sends him off the apron. Booker T is on fire, hitting D-Von with a sidewalk slam and signaling for the end. He does a quick Spinaroonie to get back to his feet, the crowd roaring "SUCKA!" along with him. He sets D-Von up and connects with a picture-perfect Scissor Kick! He covers! 1… 2… Bubba Ray dives back in and breaks up the pin at the very last second!

All four men are now in the ring as the action breaks down. Bubba scoops Booker T up for a Bubba Bomb, but RVD saves his partner with a thrust kick to Bubba’s face. D-Von throws RVD out of the ring, but the momentum carries him through the ropes as well. In the ring, Booker and Bubba are the legal men, struggling to their feet. They see their partners are down on the outside. D-Von slides back in. He and Bubba look at each other—it's time. They grab Booker T, setting him up for the 3D!

The crowd is on its feet, sensing a title change. But just as they lift Booker, RVD launches himself from the top rope with a missile dropkick, knocking Bubba off balance and causing the move to collapse. D-Von, stunned, turns right into a superkick from Booker T. Bubba charges at Booker, who ducks and sends him stumbling towards the corner. Booker follows up with another devastating Scissor Kick that sends Bubba collapsing to the mat.

Seeing his opening, RVD immediately scales the turnbuckle. He soars through the air, tucking his body into a perfect rotation, and comes crashing down on Bubba Ray with the Five-Star Frog Splash. RVD makes the cover as Booker T blocks D-Von from interfering.

1… 2… 3!

The champions retain! The crowd erupts as RVD and Booker T’s music hits. They are handed their titles, exhausted but victorious.

RVD & Booker T eliminate The Dudley Boyz.

The Dudleyz recover and face the champions in the center of the ring. There’s a tense moment before Bubba Ray extends his hand to Booker T. They shake, a sign of respect after a hard-fought battle. The Dudleyz exit, leaving the champions to celebrate. As Booker T and RVD catch their breath, leaning on the ropes, a new, generic rock anthem hits the speakers.

~ ENTRANCE: JINDRAK & CADE ~

Out from the back walk Mark Jindrak and Garrison Cade. Dressed in matching trunks, they carry themselves with an unearned swagger. Jindrak shadowboxes on the ramp while Cade flexes, a smug grin on his face. They are the "Reflection of Perfection," and they look down at the weary champions in the ring like sharks smelling blood in the water.

They take their time walking to the ring, soaking in the boos from the crowd. They know RVD and Booker T have been through a war, and their fresh legs give them a massive advantage. They slide into the ring and get right in the champions' faces, talking trash. There are no handshakes offered this time. The referee has to separate them as he once again raises the titles. The champions look tired, but their expressions are determined. The turmoil continues.

DING DING DING!

The bell sounds, and the fresh challengers waste no time capitalizing on their advantage. Garrison Cade storms across the ring and drives a shoulder hard into Booker T’s midsection, sending him crashing into the corner. Before Rob Van Dam can even react, Mark Jindrak slides in and attacks him from behind, clubbing him across the back. The champions are immediately on the defensive, overwhelmed by a torrent of raw, opportunistic aggression. Jindrak and Cade isolate RVD, dragging him to their side of the ring and beginning a systematic, brutal assault. Cade uses his raw power, hoisting a weary RVD into the air for a gut-wrenching spinebuster that echoes through the arena. He doesn’t go for a pin, instead dragging RVD up and tagging in Jindrak, who immediately comes in with a volley of stomps to RVD’s chest and shoulders, each one a thudding punctuation mark on their dominance.

The crowd rains down boos as the cocky young team cuts the ring in half, making frequent tags to stay fresh while RVD absorbs a horrifying amount of punishment. Jindrak locks in a tight chinlock, leaning his full body weight onto the champion’s neck and back, screaming insults into his ear. RVD’s face contorts in pain, his energy visibly draining. He fights to his feet, throwing a desperate elbow to Jindrak’s gut, but Cade gets a blind tag. As RVD turns, Cade nearly decapitates him with a high-impact clothesline. He then lifts RVD into a gorilla press slam position, showing off his strength before callously dropping him flat on his face. The arrogance is palpable; they aren't just trying to win, they're trying to humiliate the champions.

After several agonizing minutes, RVD creates an opening out of sheer desperation. As Cade whips him towards the ropes, RVD uses his last ounce of energy to execute his signature cartwheel backflip, landing behind the surprised challenger and connecting with a sharp spinning heel kick to the side of Cade’s head. Both men collapse to the mat. The crowd comes unglued, stomping their feet and clapping, urging RVD to make the tag. He crawls on his hands and knees, his body screaming in protest, every inch a monumental effort. Jindrak runs around the ring to knock Booker T off the apron, but Booker sees him coming and meets him with a stiff right hand. This gives RVD the precious seconds he needs. He lunges forward, his fingers outstretched, and makes the tag to Booker T.

Booker explodes into the ring like a man possessed. He drops Cade with a flying forearm, then meets a charging Jindrak with a sidewalk slam. He’s running on pure adrenaline, a whirlwind of offense. He hits Cade with a picture-perfect spinkick, sending him stumbling, then catches Jindrak with a standing sidekick that sends him over the top rope to the floor. Booker T is alone with Cade. He hits the ropes, ducks a wild swing from Cade, and plants him in the center of the ring with a massive Book End! The arena is sure this is the end. He covers! 1… 2… Jindrak pulls the referee out of the ring just before the three-count!

The crowd howls in frustration as the referee admonishes Jindrak on the outside. Inside the ring, Cade recovers and clips Booker’s knee from behind, a cheap and cowardly shot that brings the champion crashing down in pain. Jindrak slides back in and now they have their target. They begin to viciously attack Booker’s leg, stomping on his knee and ankle. Cade applies a painful single-leg Boston Crab, wrenching back as Booker screams, refusing to submit. They are trying to tear the champion apart, piece by piece. Booker fights the hold, using his free leg to kick Cade in the head and break it, but the damage is done. He can barely put weight on his leg.

Jindrak tags back in, a predatory look in his eyes. He lifts Booker up for their tag team finisher, a combination where Cade delivers a running boot as Jindrak hits a powerslam. But RVD, having recovered, springboards off the top rope and connects with a diving thrust kick to Cade, knocking him completely off the apron! Jindrak, his partner gone, drops Booker in surprise. Booker T, seeing his chance, uses his good leg to propel himself up into a final, desperate Scissor Kick that catches Jindrak square on the jaw! Jindrak is out on his feet, staggering. RVD, now the legal man from a tag Booker made in the chaos, slowly and painfully climbs to the top turnbuckle. He’s exhausted, but he can end it right here. He steadies himself for the Five-Star Frog Splash.

Suddenly, Garrison Cade reappears, sliding into the ring. He doesn’t attack RVD. Instead, he grabs the referee and violently shoves him into the ropes, right below where RVD is perched. The ropes shake violently, throwing RVD off balance. He loses his footing and crotches himself agonizingly on the top turnbuckle, collapsing in a heap of pain. The referee is down, clutching his head from the collision. With the official incapacitated, Jindrak and Cade seize their moment. Cade pulls the helpless RVD off the ropes and holds him in a full nelson. Jindrak rebounds off the opposite ropes and charges forward, delivering a devastating, full-force running clothesline to RVD’s chest—a move they call The Mark of Excellence.

RVD crumples to the canvas, completely unconscious. Jindrak makes the cover as Cade frantically shakes the referee back to consciousness, dragging him over and forcing his hand onto the mat for the count. The groggy official, barely aware of his surroundings, slowly slaps the mat. Cade stops Booker from sliding in the ring……

1…

…2…

…3.

It’s over. The arena is filled with a mixture of shocked silence and furious boos. Jindrak and Cade’s music hits, a grating sound in the stunned atmosphere.

Jindrak & Cade eliminate RVD & Booker T to become the NEW World Tag Team Champions.

The boos from the crowd are deafening, but Mark Jindrak and Garrison Cade are completely oblivious, lost in their own world of ego and stolen glory. Cade snatches a championship belt from the referee and slides on his knees across the mat, holding the title to the sky like a trophy he earned through grit and valor. Jindrak stands on the second turnbuckle, flexing for the hard-camera and screaming, "WE'RE THE BEST IN THE WORLD!" He pats the gold plating of his own title, a smug, self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face as trainers attend to the fallen RVD and Booker T.

Their grating music is abruptly cut short.

In its place, a familiar, powerful guitar riff thunders through the PA system. "NO CHANCE IN HELL!"

The entire arena, in a mix of shock and intrigue, turns its attention to the entrance ramp. And there he is. Vincent Kennedy McMahon, Chairman of the Board, emerges from behind the curtain. He doesn't walk, he struts, his chest puffed out, a microphone in his hand and a look of devilish glee in his eyes. He power-walks down the ramp, completely ignoring the new champions in the ring who are now looking on in utter confusion.

Vince circles the ring, climbs the steel steps with purpose, and steps through the ropes. He comes face-to-face with Jindrak and Cade, who lower their newly won titles, their expressions shifting from triumph to nervous apprehension.

"Congratulations," Vince begins, his voice dripping with condescending authority. "Congratulations, Mr. Jindrak, Mr. Cade. You are... the new World Tag Team Champions." He lets the statement hang in the air, the sarcasm so thick you could cut it with a knife. The crowd boos the new champs lustily.

"Now... I hate, and I mean I HATE, to interrupt a celebration," Vince continues, pacing in a small circle. "But I was just in my office in the back when I received some rather pertinent information. It seems there was a... let's call it a 'clerical oversight'... regarding the official list of entrants for tonight's Tag Team Turmoil affair."

Jindrak and Cade exchange panicked glances. Cade steps forward, puffing his chest out. "What are you talking about, McMahon? We won! The match is over! We are the champions!"

Vince stops pacing and looks Cade dead in the eye, his own smile vanishing. "The match is over," he says, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone, "when I say it's over." The crowd roars its approval.

"You see," Vince continues, his smirk returning, "it appears a contract was signed just this afternoon. A contract that officially entered one final team into this contest. Which means, gentlemen... your night isn't over. You have one more title defense to make. Right here, right now."

Before the new champions can protest, Vince raises the microphone to his lips, his eyes glinting with pure chaotic energy. He lets the suspense build, the entire building hanging on his next words.

"And that final team is... THE HARDY BOYZ!"

The arena doesn't just cheer; it detonates. A wall of sound washes over the building as the iconic opening chords of the Hardy Boyz' theme song blast through the speakers. On the stage, bathed in strobing lights, Jeff and Matt Hardy appear, and the roof nearly blows off the place.

Jeff, in his classic fishnet shirt and vibrant armbands, throws his "gunz" up. Matt, looking focused and intense, flashes the "V1" taunt. They are back. They don't wait. They charge down the ramp, slapping hands with ecstatic fans, their eyes locked on the two men in the ring who now look like they've seen a ghost.

Jindrak and Cade are in a state of disbelief, their jaws slack. Their cheap victory has turned into a nightmare. They are fresh, but they are facing a legendary team, running on a wave of adrenaline and the adoration of thousands. The Hardys slide into the ring, and the four men stand face-to-face. The referee, under direct orders from the Chairman who is now watching from ringside, calls for the bell. The final, shocking chapter of the Tag Team Turmoil is about to be written.

DING DING DING!

The bell rings and the new champions, still reeling from the shock, are immediately engulfed by a storm of pure, unadulterated Hardy Boyz offense. Matt and Jeff move with a fluid chemistry that Jindrak and Cade simply cannot comprehend. Matt starts off, tackling Mark Jindrak into the corner and raining down a torrent of punches. Jeff sprints from the opposite side of the ring, leaps onto the back of his brother, and crashes down onto Jindrak with a soaring corner clothesline—the iconic Poetry in Motion. Jindrak stumbles out of the corner, dazed, and Matt immediately grabs him, plants him with a thunderous neckbreaker, and kips up to his feet as the crowd roars.

Cade charges in to help his partner, but he’s met with a double back-elbow from the Hardys, followed by a tandem spinning leg drop/fist drop combination that leaves him gasping for air on the canvas. The champions are completely overwhelmed, their brief title reign already turning into a public humiliation. Jeff, now the legal man, whips Cade into the ropes, drops down, and Matt launches him into the air for a devastating dropkick. Jeff then drags Cade to the corner and ascends the turnbuckle, but as he prepares to fly, Jindrak, from the outside, yanks Matt Hardy off the apron, sending him crashing hard into the ringside barricade. The referee's attention is momentarily diverted, which is all the time Mark Jindrak needs. He leaps onto the apron and shoves Jeff with all his might, sending him tumbling from his perch all the way down to the unforgiving floor below.

The momentum finally shifts, and a wave of boos washes over the arena. Jindrak and Cade have their first opening, and they seize it with desperate ferocity. They drag Jeff back into the ring and begin to stomp away at him, using their significant size and power advantage to ground the high-flyer. Cade lifts Jeff into a grueling, extended vertical suplex, holding him in the air for an impossibly long time before finally dropping him with a sickening thud. He tags in Jindrak, who comes in with a powerful flying clothesline for a two-count. They isolate Jeff, cutting the ring in half and mocking Matt, who is still recovering on the outside. They are trying to slow the match down, to suffocate the lightning-in-a-bottle energy the Hardys brought with them.

But you cannot cage Jeff Hardy for long. As Jindrak whips him into the corner, Jeff leaps onto the second rope, backflips over the charging Jindrak, and lands on his feet. As both Jindrak and a re-entering Cade turn to grab him, Jeff springs backwards off the middle rope, spinning through the air and crashing down on both men with a breathtaking Whisper in the Wind. All three men are down. The entire arena is on its feet, stomping and clapping as Jeff crawls, inch by painful inch, toward his corner. Matt Hardy pulls himself onto the apron, his eyes blazing. The tag is made!

Matt comes in like a man possessed. He drops Cade with a clothesline, then another. He hits a back-body drop on Jindrak, who tries to intervene. He grabs Cade and slams him to the mat with a violent Side Effect. He is a whirlwind of righteous fury. He stalks Cade, waiting for him to get to his feet, the crowd chanting along with his every move. As Cade stumbles up, Matt hooks his head, spins him around, and connects with the Twist of Fate! He covers! 1… 2… Jindrak dives in at the absolute last millisecond to break up the pin!

Jeff Hardy immediately re-enters the fray, intercepting Jindrak with a spinning mule kick that sends the champion tumbling out of the ring. The focus is back on Garrison Cade. Matt pulls the dazed man back to his feet, a look of finality on his face. He hooks him again and delivers a second, more vicious Twist of Fate, planting him in the dead center of the ring. Matt doesn't go for the pin. He looks up, and the crowd knows what’s coming. He points to the sky.

Jeff Hardy has already scaled the top turnbuckle. He gives the crowd his signature taunt, the energy of thousands flowing through him. He takes a deep breath, leaps into the air, and arches his body perfectly, crashing down onto Garrison Cade in a beautiful, high-impact Swanton Bomb. The impact reverberates through the ring. Matt makes the cover as Jeff rolls away. The referee slides in.

1…

2…

3!

Spoiler

The Hardy Boyz eliminate Jindrak & Cade to become the NEW World Tag Team Champions!

The referee’s hand hits the mat for the three-count, and the arena explodes in a symphony of pure, unadulterated joy. The Hardy Boyz' music seems to shake the very foundations of the building as Matt and Jeff leap to their feet, their arms wrapped around each other in a hug of exhausted triumph. The referee hands them the gleaming World Tag Team Championship belts, and the heavy, cold weight of the gold in their hands seems to solidify the surreal moment. It’s real. They are back, and they are champions. Jeff, his face paint already starting to run with sweat, climbs the nearest turnbuckle with an agility that defies time, holding his title high as a sea of fans roars in approval. Camera flashes strobe across the arena like a thousand tiny lightning storms, all focused on this impossible, triumphant return. Matt, ever the more grounded of the two, stands in the center of the ring, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face as he looks out at the crowd, soaking in a reception he could have only dreamed of. He moves to the opposite corner, raising his own belt in a salute to the fans who never stopped believing. They meet back in the middle of the ring, the music swelling around them. For a brief second, the roar of the crowd seems to fade into the background as they stand forehead-to-forehead, the championship belts pressed between them—a silent acknowledgment of their shared journey, their battles, and this incredible, shared summit. The moment passes, and the adrenaline kicks back in. Jeff runs and leaps onto the ropes, feeding off the energy, while Matt throws up the "V1" taunt one last time before they exit the ring, walking backwards up the ramp, their eyes still fixed on the thousands of cheering fans, the championship titles held high until they disappear behind the curtain, leaving an electrified arena in their wake.

~ AD BREAK ~

[WrestleMania XX Video Package – Chris Jericho vs. Christian | 3 Stages of Hell]

"Some rivalries begin with titles. Others begin with betrayal. This one began with a bet-and will end in hell."

Ominous strings pulse under black-and-white footage of friendship once pure. A montage plays: Chris Jericho and Christian riding together in rental cars, high-fiving after matches, hoisting championship gold as Un-Americans, then as tag partners. Laughter in hotel rooms. Trust in each other’s eyes. A narrator’s voice cuts through the haze:
"They called each other brothers. But in this industry… even blood turns cold."

The visuals distort, VHS lines running across the screen as a sudden clang echoes-a steel chair connects with a sickening thud. Time slows. Christian stands over Jericho’s fallen body, steel chair in hand, seething with rage. His eyes no longer reflect friendship-but resentment.

We’re taken back to the bet that started it all. Jericho and Christian snickering backstage. A single Canadian dollar exchanged with smug grins. Footage cuts to Trish Stratus smiling, slowly replaced by confusion, hurt, then betrayal as she overhears the truth. Christian’s words stab through:
“Bros before... well, you know the rest.”

Suddenly, the chair shot to Trish. Jericho abandoning Christian mid-match. A friendship imploding in real time. Christian’s rage explodes on RAW-dragging Jericho backstage and obliterating him with a Con-Chair-To across cold concrete. Slow motion shows Jericho’s body twitch on impact. Christian snarls on the Highlight Reel:
“Seven years meant nothing the moment he picked her over me.”

From that night, RAW becomes a warzone. The two wage chaos through the arena-blood on concrete, fists flying in locker rooms, bodies crashing through catering tables. The Jeritron 3000 is shattered by Christian’s ambush. Footage flickers: Christian spitting venom on the mic, Jericho chasing him through the crowd, both men brawling with the savagery of wild animals.

The music builds-ominous, unstable-overlaying Trish’s voice from a WWE.com interview:
“I’m not a prize. I’m not part of their twisted game. That slap wasn’t for Christian. It was to knock some sense into Chris.”
Cut to her palm colliding with Jericho’s face at ringside, allowing Christian to escape the Walls of Jericho. Jericho stands broken, his face frozen in shock, heart pierced once again-not by Christian’s fist this time, but Trish’s hand.

The screen goes black. Slowly, words appear:
“3 Stages of Hell.”

The music shifts-slower, colder. Stage 1 flashes in red: Singles Match. The foundation they both built their careers on.
Stage 2 slashes across the screen in white: Street Fight. No rules. No boundaries.
Stage 3 descends like a guillotine in steel grey: Steel Cage. Nowhere to run. No one left to trust.

We see Christian gripping the Intercontinental Championship, smirking:
“I’ve got the gold. I’ve got the edge. He’s only got heartbreak.”

Jericho responds in dim lighting, sweat and blood on his brow:
“Christian’s not just a traitor… he’s a ghost of everything I left behind. I’m going to bury him in Madison Square Garden.”

The final shots cascade in a furious montage: fists colliding, tables breaking, Trish walking away, the cage lowering, Christian grinning through blood, Jericho roaring in agony. The WrestleMania XX logo erupts into flames, and a final message echoes through the arena with weight and venom:

“Two men enter. One survives. Brotherhood died long ago. At WrestleMania XX, only one will rise from the ashes of hell.”

Fade to black.

Madison Square Garden roars with anticipation-an electric, almost rabid energy coursing through the arena. The lights dim slightly, casting a crimson hue across the sold-out crowd as the atmosphere transforms into something heavier, more sinister. The time for vengeance has arrived.

The final, venomous words of the video package fade from the massive Titantron, leaving only the flaming WrestleMania XX logo crackling in silence. For a breathtaking second, Madison Square Garden holds its collective breath, the roar of anticipation simmering into a low, menacing hum. Then, the silence is violently torn apart.

An arrogant, grinding guitar riff screams through the arena speakers. Waterproof Blonde’s “Just Close Your Eyes” begins to play, not as an anthem, but as a taunt. The Titantron flashes with images of Christian’s ultimate betrayals: the single Canadian dollar exchanged with a sly wink, the steel chair swinging down, and finally, a victorious, sneering close-up of him holding the Intercontinental Championship high.

Out from the tunnel emerges Christian. There's no flash, no pyrotechnics. Just him. He walks with a deliberate, predatory swagger, the Intercontinental title slung over his shoulder like a spoil of war. His face is a mask of pure, unadulterated contempt. He ignores the thousands of jeering fans and the forest of middle fingers pointed in his direction; to him, they are nothing. His eyes, cold and focused, are locked on the ring.

"Look at the arrogance of Christian," Jim Ross's voice crackles with disdain over the broadcast. "A man who threw away seven years of brotherhood for a cheap bet and a piece of gold."

Christian pauses at the top of the ramp, a venomous smirk playing on his lips. He unhooks the championship from his shoulder, holding it out flat in his hands as if presenting an offering to the gods of betrayal he now worships. He then slowly makes his way down the ramp, his long, black trench coat trailing behind him. He doesn't slap any hands; he doesn't acknowledge anyone. He is an island of pure ego in a sea of hatred, and he is soaking it all in.

He climbs the steel steps, steps through the ropes, and stalks to the center of the ring. He raises the Intercontinental Championship high above his head, the polished gold catching the crimson lights. It’s not a pose for the fans; it’s a message directly for the man in the back. I have this. You have nothing. He turns his back to the entrance, a final act of disrespect, leaning against the turnbuckle and waiting. The message is clear: he isn't just the champion; he's in control.

The arena is plunged into absolute darkness. The boos for Christian are swallowed by an oppressive silence, a void of anticipation. A deep, guttural electronic tone hums, building... building...

BEEP.

A single digital countdown number—10—appears on the darkened Titantron. The crowd explodes.

BEEP.

9... A roar from another section.

BEEP.

8... The countdown is no longer a party starter. It's a doomsday clock.

With each descending number, the hum grows louder, more intense. On the screen, flashes of Christian’s heinous acts flicker between the numbers: the Con-Chair-To on the concrete, Trish’s slap, Jericho’s face twisted in agony. This isn't a highlight reel; it's a fuel source.

3... 2... 1...

BREAK THE WALLS DOWN!

The arena erupts in a cataclysm of light, pyro, and sound. Flames shoot from the stage as Jericho’s iconic theme thunders through the Garden. But the man who emerges is not the flamboyant, cocky Y2J of old.

Chris Jericho explodes from the entrance tunnel, his signature light-up jacket flickering erratically like a damaged circuit. His face is a raw canvas of fury and heartbreak. There is no smile, no list, no pandering to his "Jerichoholics." His eyes are fixed, burning holes directly into Christian, who has slowly turned around in the ring, his smirk unwavering.

"This is not a rockstar, King. This is an avenger," JR declares. "Chris Jericho is walking into the depths of hell tonight to reclaim his soul."

Jericho doesn't pose on the ramp. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He stalks forward, each step a hammer blow of intent. He’s a man possessed, driven by the ghosts of friendship and the sting of betrayal. He marches down the ramp, tears off his jacket, and throws it to the ground like shedding a skin he no longer needs.

He doesn't use the steps. He slides under the bottom rope, pops to his feet, and gets directly in Christian's face. The referee immediately has to throw himself between them. They are nose-to-nose, screaming promises of damnation at each other, their words lost in the deafening roar of 20,000 people. Christian shoves the Intercontinental title between them, pressing it against Jericho’s chest. Jericho shoves it back with a guttural roar.

The air crackles with seven years of history and hate, condensed into one single, explosive moment before the bell has even rung. The war is here. Hell is waiting.

3 STAGES OF HELL
CHRISTIAN vs. CHRIS JERICHO​

1st Fall: Singles Match

The bell finally rings, and Madison Square Garden rumbles as Jericho and Christian stalk one another, eyes locked like predators circling prey. Jericho explodes first, charging across the ring with a burst of pent-up fury, hammering Christian with right hands that echo through the arena. Christian stumbles back into the ropes, Jericho’s fists a relentless flurry, and the referee has to pry him off momentarily. The crowd roars its approval, sensing Jericho’s raw emotion pouring out with every strike. Jericho doesn’t give Christian room to breathe—he yanks him out of the corner, whips him hard across the ring, and blasts him with a flying forearm that nearly decapitates him. Jericho kips up instantly, letting out a roar as the Garden erupts in unison.

Jericho drags Christian up by the hair and slams him chest-first into the turnbuckle with violent force, then unloads with knife-edge chops that send sharp cracks reverberating through the building. “WOO!” chants rain down as Jericho’s hand reddens Christian’s chest. Christian staggers forward, clutching his sternum, and Jericho seizes the moment—springboarding off the middle rope for a picture-perfect dropkick that knocks Christian to the floor. The Garden explodes again as Jericho wastes no time—he vaults over the top rope in one fluid motion, crashing down onto Christian with a plancha that sends both men sprawling on the arena floor.

Jericho pops up, pumping his fists, feeding off the rabid New York crowd. He yanks Christian up, slamming his face onto the announce table, barking “This is for me!” before chopping him again, the echo rattling through the Garden. He shoves Christian back into the ring and climbs to the top turnbuckle. Christian groggily gets to his feet—only to be flattened by a high crossbody from Jericho, who hooks the leg for the first near-fall of the match. ONE… TWO… Christian kicks out, the crowd groaning in unison.

Frustration only fuels Jericho. He stays on the attack, dragging Christian up and planting him with a snap suplex, then floating over for another pin attempt—only a two-count. Without hesitation, Jericho transitions, locking Christian in a grounded side headlock, grinding his forearm across his former best friend’s jaw. Christian writhes, pounding the mat in frustration, the boos swelling as he claws desperately toward the ropes. Finally, with grit, Christian forces himself to his feet, elbowing Jericho in the gut to break the hold. He tries to whip Jericho into the ropes, but Jericho reverses—Christian ducks a clothesline, rebounds—and nails Jericho with a spinning heel kick out of nowhere, dropping him flat on the canvas. The crowd gasps as momentum shifts for the first time.

Christian crawls toward Jericho, clutching his chest where the chops blistered him, and slams forearm after forearm into Jericho’s face. He rakes his boot across Jericho’s eyes, earning a chorus of boos, then arrogantly flips his hair back and sneers at the hostile Garden crowd. He drags Jericho up, whips him hard into the corner, and follows in with a vicious clothesline that nearly whiplashes Jericho’s head against the turnbuckle. Christian hooks Jericho’s arms and drives him face-first into the mat with an inverted DDT, rolling him over for a pin—ONE… TWO… Jericho kicks out, the building erupting with relief. Christian snarls in frustration, immediately transitioning to choke Jericho across the middle rope, pressing his knee into the back of Jericho’s neck as the referee counts to four before forcing the break.

Christian raises his hands innocently to the referee, smirking, before turning back and slapping Jericho across the head like he’s toying with him. That arrogance draws a guttural cheer from the Garden as Jericho suddenly surges back, tackling Christian to the mat, unleashing piston-like right hands. The crowd is molten hot as Jericho batters his former brother-turned-rival, both men fighting with raw hatred, the referee struggling to maintain order.

Jericho wrestles Christian down with pure rage, but Christian wriggles free, gouging Jericho in the eyes to regain control. The crowd rains heat on him as he pulls Jericho up and drives him back down with a snap backbreaker, keeping Jericho draped across his knee before shoving him to the mat for another cover. ONE… TWO… Jericho kicks out, defiantly pounding the mat with his fists. Christian snarls and stomps viciously at Jericho’s ribs, each strike designed to cut the air out of him.

Christian then takes Jericho by the hair and drags him into the corner, perching him on the top rope with malicious intent. He climbs up, hooks Jericho’s head, and tries for a superplex—but Jericho blocks it, hammering Christian with body shots. The Garden rises with each strike until Jericho shoves Christian off the turnbuckle, sending him crashing hard to the mat. Jericho steadies himself on the top rope, the crowd exploding, and launches with a missile dropkick that levels Christian! He scrambles over, hooks the leg—ONE… TWO… NO! Christian barely gets the shoulder up.

The momentum is swinging. Jericho roars, slapping the mat and motioning for Christian to get up. He charges for a bulldog, but Christian counters, shoving him sternum-first into the turnbuckle. Jericho staggers back—Christian leaps up and hits a reverse DDT, spiking Jericho’s head into the canvas! Cover—ONE… TWO… THR—NO! The Garden erupts as Jericho survives by a whisper. Christian pounds the mat in frustration, screaming at the referee.

Seething, Christian pulls Jericho up and signals for the Unprettier. He hooks the arms, but Jericho fights desperately, spinning out and shoving Christian chest-first into the ropes. On the rebound, Jericho snares him—Walls of Jericho! The crowd explodes into a frenzy as Jericho squats deep, screaming, wrenching Christian’s back at a torturous angle. Christian thrashes wildly, clawing for the ropes, sweat flying off his face. He almost reaches the bottom rope, fingertips grazing it—Jericho drags him back to the center, the Garden erupting with deafening cheers!

Christian is fading, shaking his head furiously as if refusing to quit—but Jericho sinks lower, his teeth bared in primal rage. Finally, with nowhere left to go, Christian has no choice—he slaps the mat furiously in submission. The bell rings and MSG explodes like a bomb went off.

Winner of the First Fall:

Spoiler

Chris Jericho | 1–0

Jericho collapses backward, releasing the hold, sweat pouring down his crimson face as the referee raises his arm. He doesn’t celebrate—his chest heaves, eyes still burning holes through Christian, who writhes on the mat clutching his back. The crowd roars louder, chanting “Y2J! Y2J!” as Jericho points down at his former best friend, screaming: “This is just the beginning!”

The referee signals, and the timekeeper rings the bell again—Stage 2 begins immediately.

Fall Two: Street Fight Begins

The cage of rules shatters instantly as Jericho rolls to the outside, ripping the steel chair out from under the timekeeper. The crowd gasps as he slides back in, lifting the weapon high above his head, eyes wild. Christian is crawling to his knees, helpless, his hand up pleading for mercy—but Jericho raises the chair and brings it crashing down with a thunderous CRACK.

The sound of that chair shot rings in every corner of Madison Square Garden. Christian collapses flat, clutching his skull, but Jericho doesn’t even attempt a pin. He tosses the chair aside, his expression unhinged. The fans roar as Jericho rolls back to the floor, already searching under the apron. He drags out a trash can stuffed with weapons: a kendo stick, a crutch, and the inevitable Singapore cane. He hurls the can itself into the ring, the clang echoing like a gunshot. Christian stirs to all fours, blood beginning to seep from his hairline. Jericho slides back in and grabs the kendo stick. He twirls it like a samurai sword—then lashes it across Christian’s back with a sickening THWACK. The crowd erupts with every strike as Jericho unloads three more, leaving welts instantly rising on Christian’s pale skin.

Christian flails, scrambling into the corner, desperate to shield himself. Jericho smashes him again, the stick splintering on impact. He drops the broken weapon, grabs the trash can, and hurls it full-force into Christian’s ribs, folding him in half. Jericho follows with stomps, then positions the dented can against Christian’s chest, climbing to the second rope. He leaps—and crashes down with a double stomp onto the trash can, flattening Christian beneath him. The Garden counts along: ONE… TWO… NO! Christian shoots his shoulder up, coughing violently, his face twisted in agony.

Frustrated but undeterred, Jericho drags Christian up and whips him to the ropes. On the rebound, Jericho ducks down for a back body drop—but Christian counters, grabbing the discarded chair mid-stride, and drills Jericho square across the spine! Jericho drops to his knees, his scream piercing the arena. Christian, desperate, swings again, smashing Jericho across the shoulders. Boos cascade from the rafters as Christian drops the chair and hooks Jericho—reverse DDT onto the steel chair! Jericho’s skull bounces violently, and Christian sprawls across him for the cover: ONE… TWO… THR—NO! The crowd erupts as Jericho barely survives.

Christian sits up, pulling at his hair, disbelief etched across his bloody face. His desperation morphs to cruelty. He crawls out of the ring, yanking the steel steps apart with effort, dragging the top half into the ring. With sadistic precision, he props them up in the corner. The crowd gasps, sensing danger. Christian pulls Jericho by the hair, looking for a whip into the steel—but Jericho plants his foot, reverses, and hurls Christian full-speed—Christian collides shoulder-first into the steel steps propped in the corner! The sound of flesh and bone meeting steel reverberates violently. Christian bounces back, staggering blindly—straight into a running bulldog from Jericho, driving his face into the dented trash can!

The Garden is on its feet as Jericho signals again—he’s going for the Walls. He grabs Christian’s legs and turns him over amidst a deafening roar. Jericho squats deep, wrenching his rival’s back across the wreckage of the trash can. Christian screams in anguish, clawing desperately at the mat. The fans are convinced this is it—but with wild panic, Christian reaches behind, grabs a shard of the broken kendo stick, and swings it wildly back. He smashes Jericho across the arm, forcing the break. Jericho collapses clutching his forearm, Christian rolling to the ropes like a man barely escaping execution.

Both men lie writhing, the weapons of war scattered around them. The referee checks them, but the match continues. The Garden buzzes with electricity, the atmosphere reaching a fever pitch. Jericho drags himself up first, sweat and blood dripping, his chest heaving. Christian is crawling on his knees, glassy-eyed but still defiant. Their eyes meet across the carnage—pure hatred burning between them—as they stagger to their feet, ready to take the next plunge deeper into hell.

The crowd is on fire as Jericho and Christian stagger up, their bodies battered, weapons strewn everywhere. Christian swings wildly with a trash can lid, but Jericho ducks, kicks him in the gut, and rattles him with a northern lights suplex onto the mat, bridging into a cover—ONE… TWO… NO! Christian writhes free, clutching his back. Jericho, sweat-soaked and furious, grabs the steel steps that had been left in the corner and drags them center-ring. He pulls Christian up, hooks him, and goes for a suplex onto the steps—Christian blocks, knees Jericho in the ribs, and with a desperate counter, reverse suplexes Jericho stomach-first onto the steps! The Garden groans in unison as Jericho rolls off, gasping for air, his ribs crushed against steel.

Christian crawls over and covers: ONE… TWO… THR—NO! Jericho somehow kicks out, sending the arena into pandemonium. Christian slams the mat, teeth gritted in rage. He stumbles outside the ring and digs under the apron, this time dragging out a wooden table. The crowd erupts instantly, chanting “TABLES! TABLES!” as Christian smirks, setting it up near the corner. He drags Jericho toward it, clubbing him across the back before climbing the ropes. Christian hooks Jericho’s head—looking for a superplex through the table! The crowd rises in disbelief. But Jericho blocks, hammering desperate fists into Christian’s ribs. Jericho shoves Christian backward—Christian falls from the second rope, bouncing spine-first onto the mat with a thud.

The Garden explodes as Jericho steadies himself, climbing all the way to the top. He raises his arms wide, channels his fury, and launches—diving elbow drop! He soars across the ring and lands flush on Christian’s heart. The crowd counts along—ONE… TWO… THRE—CHRISTIAN KICKS OUT! The building shakes with disbelief as Jericho buries his hands in his hair, wide-eyed, stunned that Christian survived.

Jericho’s expression twists to fury. He pulls Christian up, fists clenched, and screams in his face before whipping him to the ropes. He swings for a clothesline—Christian ducks—on the rebound Jericho leaps for the Walls of Jericho setup. He tries to spin him over, but Christian kicks wildly, shoving Jericho backward. Jericho staggers into the ropes—and Christian charges, blasting Jericho with a spear that folds him inside out! Both men collapse, the crowd gasping as Christian crawls into a cover: ONE… TWO… THR—JERICHO KICKS OUT!

Exhausted, Christian looks deranged. He rolls outside once more and grabs a steel chair. Sliding back in, he waits as Jericho rises to one knee. Christian swings full-force—Jericho ducks! The chair smashes the top rope and ricochets back into Christian’s face, stunning him! The crowd erupts as Jericho seizes the chair, tosses it down, and plants Christian with a bulldog onto the steel! Christian’s body bounces off the weapon like a ragdoll. Jericho signals to the crowd, a guttural roar shaking the rafters—he’s going for the Lionsault!

Jericho springboards off the middle rope—but Christian hurls the chair up in desperation! The edge of the steel collides with Jericho’s midsection mid-rotation, knocking the wind from him and crumpling him in agony. The entire Garden gasps as Jericho collapses clutching his ribs. Christian, bloodied and staggering, realizes the opening. He drags Jericho up with trembling arms, hooks him—Unprettier onto the steel chair! Jericho’s face smashes into the weapon with sickening impact. Christian desperately rolls him over, hooks the leg, every ounce of his bodyweight pressing down: ONE… TWO… THREE!

Winner of the Second Fall:

Spoiler

Christian | Match tied 1–1

The bell rings and Madison Square Garden roars in shock. Christian collapses flat on his back, chest heaving, blood streaking down his forehead, a deranged grin spreading across his lips. Jericho lies motionless beside the chair, his face buried in the mat, ribs heaving with shallow breaths. The referee signals that the match is even—next is the final fall.

The crowd explodes as the ominous sound of the cage lowering fills the arena. Slowly, with grinding metallic weight, the Steel Cage descends over the ring. The lights flicker with crimson hue as the Garden buzzes at a fever pitch. Christian pulls himself to the ropes, staring up at the descending steel, eyes gleaming with both exhaustion and venom. Jericho stirs on the mat, battered but alive, crawling toward the ropes, his eyes narrowing with pure hatred.

Final Fall begins – Steel Cage

The cage slams into place with a metallic CLANG, shaking the entire ring as the crowd roars with anticipation. The referee locks the door, and suddenly the atmosphere shifts—no escape, no reprieve, no weapons hidden under the apron. Just steel, flesh, and hatred. Jericho hauls himself up by the ropes, his ribs visibly bruised, sweat and blood dripping down his face. Christian, leaning against the opposite ropes, grins through his crimson mask, licking blood from his lips as if savoring the pain. The referee calls for the bell, and the final fall begins.

Jericho explodes forward, fists flying, tackling Christian into the steel immediately. The crowd erupts as he smashes his rival’s head repeatedly into the unforgiving cage wall—once, twice, three times—before dragging his face across the mesh like a saw. Christian screams, arms flailing, blood painting the steel. Jericho doesn’t let up; he backs up, sprints, and launches Christian face-first into the opposite wall. The impact rattles the cage, Christian bouncing off and collapsing in a heap. Jericho pounds his chest and roars, the MSG faithful chanting “Y2J! Y2J!” at a fever pitch.

Jericho yanks Christian up again, hooks him by the arm, and whips him into the corner so violently the turnbuckle shakes. Christian staggers forward blindly—and Jericho catches him with a belly-to-back suplex, folding him up on the mat. Jericho immediately tries to climb, scaling the cage wall with urgency. The fans rise with him, sensing the possible end already—but Christian, with desperation in his eyes, claws after him and drags him down by the tights. Jericho turns around and eats a desperate jawbreaker, snapping his head back. Christian follows with a running forearm that smashes Jericho into the steel wall, finally giving him some space to breathe.

Both men are battered, already leaving crimson stains across the canvas. Christian grabs Jericho’s hair, slams him face-first into the cage, then grinds his forehead against the mesh with a sadistic grin. The boos rain down, but Christian soaks them in. “This is MY night!” he screams, shoving Jericho back-first into the corner. He mounts the ropes and rains down punches—ONE! TWO! THREE!—the crowd counting along, only for Jericho to shove him off at six, sending Christian crashing hard to the mat.

Jericho shakes off the cobwebs and charges, hitting a running enzuigiri that drops Christian like a shot. The fans explode again as Jericho springs to life, grabbing the cage wall and starting to climb once more. He gets halfway up before Christian recovers, scrambles to his feet, and throws himself into the cage wall, shaking it violently. Jericho loses his grip, straddles the top rope, and Christian seizes the moment—dropkicking Jericho’s midsection while he’s perched, sending him crumpling into the corner in agony.

Christian, bloodied but smirking, takes a moment to taunt the crowd, wiping his own blood across his chest like war paint. He points at Jericho and mouths, “He’s finished!” before beginning his own climb up the cage. The fans boo furiously, screaming for Jericho to get up. Slowly, with the Garden stomping and clapping in unison, Jericho rises, stumbling toward the cage wall. Christian is almost three-quarters up when Jericho grabs his leg. The crowd explodes as Jericho yanks him down, climbs up with him, and both men begin trading brutal fists while perched on the ropes against the steel, every punch threatening to send one of them crashing to the mat.

Balanced precariously on the ropes, Jericho and Christian hammer away with heavy fists, each shot rocking the other dangerously close to falling. Christian rakes Jericho’s eyes to gain the advantage, but when he tries to slam Jericho’s head into the steel, Jericho blocks and returns the favor—Christian’s face smashes against the cage wall with a metallic clang. Christian dangles, his arms flailing, until Jericho grabs him and suplexes him off the ropes back into the ring! The impact shakes the canvas as both men crash hard, rolling in agony. The Garden erupts into chants of “HOLY SHT! HOLY SHT!”

Jericho, grimacing through the pain, crawls toward Christian and drapes an arm across him—ONE… TWO… THR—NO! Christian kicks out, and the crowd groans, the near-finish sucking the breath out of the arena. Jericho, furious, pulls himself up using the ropes. He steadies himself in the corner, waiting. Christian slowly stumbles to his feet, woozy and bloodied—and Jericho charges, hitting a running bulldog. In one fluid motion, Jericho springs to the ropes and nails the Lionsault! The Garden explodes as he hooks the leg—ONE… TWO… THR—CHRISTIAN JUST BARELY KICKS OUT!

Jericho sits up, eyes wild, clutching his hair in disbelief. The fans chant “Y2J! Y2J!” urging him to finish it. He snarls, grabs Christian’s legs, and goes for the Walls of Jericho. The crowd explodes in anticipation, but Christian twists wildly, rolling Jericho into a small package! ONE… TWO… NO! Jericho powers free, both men scrambling up. Christian swings with a desperate clothesline—Jericho ducks—Codebreaker! The crowd detonates as Jericho plants him, bouncing back onto the mat from exhaustion. Slowly, he drapes an arm over Christian—ONE… TWO… THRE—CHRISTIAN KICKS OUT AGAIN! The Garden is thunderous, fans clutching their heads in disbelief.

Frustrated and drained, Jericho decides to end it. He staggers toward the cage wall and begins climbing again, this time moving with urgency. The crowd rises, roaring him on. Jericho gets nearly to the top—but Christian, crawling with desperation, uses the ropes to climb after him. He grabs Jericho’s ankle, clinging for dear life. Jericho kicks down furiously, finally knocking Christian loose, sending him crashing to the mat. Jericho swings his leg over the top—but Christian springs up, launches himself onto the ropes, and leaps up with a last-ditch low blow from behind! Jericho freezes, straddling the top of the cage, agony etched across his face. The crowd boos furiously as Christian climbs up alongside him.

Both men perch dangerously atop the cage, fists flying once again, blood dripping onto the canvas below. Jericho slams Christian’s head into the steel beam, Christian nearly falling—but he claws back, smashing Jericho’s face into the beam in return. They’re both swaying precariously, the entire Garden holding its breath. Finally, Jericho shoves Christian, sending him tumbling—but Christian clings desperately to the cage wall, saving himself at the last second and dangling halfway down. The crowd gasps as Jericho climbs higher, teetering at the top, before Christian surges back, dragging Jericho down just enough to smash his head against the steel repeatedly until Jericho falls back inside the ring with a brutal thud.

The crowd is split between awe and horror as Christian pauses, blood dripping into his eyes, hanging halfway up the cage. He looks out at the jeering Garden crowd, smirks through the crimson, then slowly begins climbing back toward the top. Jericho stirs on the mat, clutching his ribs, the fans screaming for him to rise. The atmosphere is molten as Christian nears escape while Jericho crawls toward the wall, dragging himself upward, battered but unbroken.

Christian claws his way toward the cage’s peak, fingertips brushing the top. The crowd erupts in anxious boos, sensing the end, but Jericho wills himself upward like a man possessed. Blood pouring from a cut above his eye, Jericho lunges, seizing Christian’s ankle just as he’s about to swing over. Christian kicks down, smashing Jericho’s head into the cage frame, but Jericho won’t let go. With a primal roar, he yanks Christian back over the top and the two crash down together inside the ring, bouncing violently off the mat as the Garden explodes into deafening applause.

Both men lay sprawled, motionless for a long count, until Jericho stirs first, clutching the ropes to drag himself upright. Christian rises too, swinging wild, but Jericho blocks and answers with a flurry of rights and chops, echoing through MSG. Jericho whips Christian off the ropes—spinning heel kick! The Garden comes alive, sensing the shift. Jericho points skyward, climbs the ropes, and leaps—missile dropkick! ONE… TWO… NO! Christian kicks out, barely.

Jericho doesn’t hesitate. He rips Christian up, blasts him with a bulldog, then kips up to the roar of the crowd. He springboards—Lionsault connects! ONE… TWO… THRE—CHRISTIAN KICKS OUT AGAIN! The crowd is in disbelief, Jericho burying his face in his hands.

Fueled by the fans, Jericho tears down the straps of his gear and signals for the Walls of Jericho. He flips Christian over and sits deep, wrenching back with all his weight. The Garden shakes as fans scream for Christian to tap. Christian claws desperately toward the ropes, fingertips brushing, but Jericho drags him back to the center and pulls harder, screaming “TAP! TAP!” Blood streams down Christian’s face as he fights the hold.

Suddenly, the crowd erupts in a roar—Trish Stratus runs down the ramp. The Garden explodes, half cheering, half gasping. Jericho glances toward the door, shocked, seeing her pleading with the referee to open it. He wrenches back tighter, screaming at Christian to quit, but Trish climbs onto the apron, yelling encouragement. “Come on, Chris! Finish him!” The fans buzz—maybe Trish is siding with Jericho after all.

Christian, fading fast, looks moments from tapping when Jericho finally releases the hold and limps toward the cage door. The official unlocks it, swinging it open, as Trish screams, “Come on, Chris! Crawl out!” Jericho staggers toward freedom—but just as he’s about to step through, Trish suddenly slams the door shut in his face! The steel smashes Jericho’s skull, dropping him cold onto the mat. The Garden erupts in nuclear heat, fans booing louder than all night.

Trish smirks wickedly, sliding into the cage as the referee protests. She kneels beside Jericho, gently stroking his hair, pretending for a moment like she’s checking on him—then slaps him across the face with venom. The arena gasps in shock. Jericho barely stirs, bloodied and broken, as Trish stands, smiling through jeers.

Christian crawls over, using the ropes to rise, grinning when he sees Trish. She helps drag him to his feet. Together, they lift Jericho—Christian hooks him—Unprettier in the middle of the ring! Christian collapses on top, Trish screaming at the ref to count—ONE… TWO… THREE!

Winner:

Spoiler

Christian – 2 Falls to 1 – Still Intercontinental Champion

The Garden shakes with outrage, trash flying toward the cage as the bell rings. Christian and Trish embrace in the ring, Trish planting a smug kiss on Christian as Jericho lays unconscious, blood dripping onto the mat. The camera zooms in on Jericho’s lifeless body, then cuts to Christian raising the IC Title high above his head while Trish holds his arm, the two smirking amidst thunderous boos.

The final image: Jericho lying broken in the cage, betrayed, while Christian and Trish stand tall in a shocking alliance, cementing one of the greatest and most heartbreaking WrestleMania finishes in history.

~ AD BREAK ~

JR and the King welcome everyone back to Wrestlemania XX and gear the TV audience up for the next contest the start of OUR TRIPLE MAIN EVENTS for WRESTLEMANIA XX

Graphic for HHH vs. Kurt Angle appears. ​

[WrestleMania XX Video Package – Kurt Angle vs. Triple H for the World Heavyweight Championship]

Fade in: a wide, sweeping shot of Madison Square Garden – empty seats glowing beneath the rafters, awaiting history. Jim Johnston’s orchestral themes gently blend beneath the narration.

Narrator (gravelly, intense tone):
“This Sunday… under the bright lights of Madison Square Garden… two of the most decorated warriors in WWE history go to war - not for glory, not for pride - but for the richest prize in sports entertainment.”

Quick cuts: The glint of the World Heavyweight Championship… the golden shimmer of an Olympic medal… a stare-down between Triple H and Kurt Angle…

Narrator:
“One is The Game - a king, a champion, a tyrant whose reign has been forged in dominance… and deceit.”

Cue footage: Triple H delivering the Pedigree, holding the title high, Evolution backing him up week after week - Ric Flair barking orders, Batista obliterating opponents, Orton RKO’ing legends.

Narrator:
“The other… is a Wrestling Machine. A Gold Medalist who returned from the brink, neck rebuilt by steel, spirit rebuilt by vengeance. And now… he’s chosen his target.”

Clips roll: Kurt Angle’s dramatic return… the moment he throws out the final Rumble competitor… and stands tall on the top rope pointing at the WrestleMania sign.

Cut to RAW: Angle standing between Brock Lesnar and Triple H, breathing hard, eyes sharp. “I choose you, Triple H.”

Narrator:
“Three words… that changed everything.”

Cue the explosion of weeks of footage: wild brawls… back suplexes through announce tables… Angle catching Triple H in the Ankle Lock to a thunderous pop… Flair pulling Triple H out by the boots…

Kurt Angle (archival interview):
"He's hidden behind Evolution long enough. At WrestleMania, there’s nowhere to run.”

Narrator:
“But for Triple H, the kingdom is crumbling.”

Quick cut montage: Randy Orton turning on Evolution - RKO to Batista, Flair, and finally Triple H. The audience gasps. The faction is dead.

Triple H roars in frustration in the ring, tossing the title belt against the ropes. Alone. Cornered.

Cut to RAW: Kurt Angle pinning Batista, guaranteeing Evolution is banned from ringside.

Narrator:
“For the first time in his reign, The Game will walk the aisle… alone.”

Shot of Triple H pacing in a dark locker room, taping his wrists, a steely fire behind his eyes.

Triple H (archival promo):
"WrestleMania ain’t the Olympics. This is my yard. You want this title? You’ll have to take it from my cold, broken hands.”

But the mind games escalate: slow-motion footage of Triple H slamming Angle with a Pedigree on RAW… then locking in Angle’s own Ankle Lock… cranking back on it with merciless intensity.

Crowd screaming. Referees flooding the ring. Triple H refusing to let go.

Kurt Angle writhes in pain, teeth clenched. But in a cut to backstage days later, the fire is still burning in his eyes.

Kurt Angle (voiceover):
"He wants to talk about my neck? I almost made him tap… and it’s eating him alive. At WrestleMania, I won’t stop until he begs for mercy.”

Cue the training montages: Kurt Angle in the gym, hitting suplex after suplex… Triple H slamming medicine balls, lifting weights, grinding through pain.

Back and forth cuts:

Kurt applying the Ankle Lock on past opponents - Big Show, Benoit, Jericho, tapping frantically.

Triple H surviving Hell in a Cell, outlasting Shawn Michaels, raising the title high over bloodied competition.

Narrator:
“Two legends. One championship. One defining night.”

The screen fades to black as the words burn in white on the screen, one at a time:

LEGACY.
PRIDE.
PAIN.
REDEMPTION.
WRESTLEMANIA XX.

Final shot: A slow, cinematic zoom of the World Heavyweight Championship belt being raised high over Madison Square Garden…

Narrator (final line, echoing):
“When The Game and The Olympic Hero collide… only one will leave with gold. And the other… may never walk the same again.”

Fade to black.

The lights dim inside Madison Square Garden, the crowd rumbling with anticipation. A single spotlight pierces the darkness, illuminating the aisle. The titantron flickers to life, playing highlights of Kurt Angle’s Olympic triumphs, his grueling return from injury, and his relentless march to WrestleMania. Suddenly—“Medal” erupts through the speakers, and the crowd explodes in unison with the thunderous “You suck!” chants that echo with every note. Angle steps through the curtain, intensity written across his face, head cocked with that trademark smirk that says he knows exactly how good he is. Clad in his red, white, and blue gear, the Olympic Hero marches to the ring with a purpose, slapping his chest and pointing toward the heavens before gazing up at the WrestleMania XX banner. At the foot of the ring, he pauses, eyes narrowing, before stepping through the ropes. He climbs the turnbuckle, raises his arms high, and the camera captures him silhouetted against the glow of the Garden lights—an athlete, a warrior, a machine ready to rewrite destiny.

The arena plunges into darkness once more. A low rumble builds, the Garden bathed in a deep, royal purple. The titantron bursts alive with images of dominance: Pedigrees, broken bodies, Evolution’s reign of terror. Then the first chord of “The Game” by Motörhead tears through the speakers, and the crowd erupts with a mix of boos and awe. Triple H emerges, clad in his trademark leather and dripping confidence, the World Heavyweight Championship gleaming around his waist. He pauses at the top of the ramp, water bottle in hand, gazing around Madison Square Garden as though he owns every seat, every light, every heartbeat in the building. Slowly, methodically, he makes his way down the aisle, the boos cascading like thunder, but his eyes never leaving the ring—never leaving Kurt Angle. At ringside, he mounts the apron, spits the mist of water into the air in a perfect spray, basking in the spotlight as if the moment itself bends to his will. Stepping through the ropes, he unstraps the championship and raises it high, snarling as if daring anyone—especially Kurt Angle—to take it from him. The king has arrived, but tonight, in Madison Square Garden, his kingdom is on the verge of war.

World Heavyweight Championship
Kurt Angle vs. Triple H (c)​

The opening bell echoes through Madison Square Garden, and instantly the crowd surges to their feet. Triple H and Kurt Angle step forward, shoulders squared, eyes locked, the air thick with tension. The two circle slowly, each measuring the other, both knowing a single mistake could be fatal in a match of this magnitude. They lunge into a collar-and-elbow tie-up, the sound of their bodies colliding echoing through the arena. Triple H leans in with raw power, forcing Angle backward, but Kurt’s technical mastery kicks in—he shifts his weight, slips behind, and in a blink he’s cinched The Game in a waist lock. Before Triple H can react, Angle hoists him and slams him down with a crisp amateur-style takedown. The crowd roars as Kurt rides the position, pressing his forearm across Hunter’s jaw, grinding him into the mat, reminding everyone why he’s the Wrestling Machine.

Triple H squirms and forces his way to the ropes, dragging himself out of Kurt’s grip. The referee calls for the break, and Hunter quickly rolls to a knee, smirking bitterly, brushing the mat off his arm as if unimpressed. Angle pops up to his feet, bouncing lightly on his toes, eyes burning, daring Triple H to try again. They lock up once more, this time Hunter switches tactics—he yanks Kurt into a side headlock, grinding down with sheer force, knuckles digging into Angle’s temple. Kurt grits his teeth, slaps Hunter’s back twice, then shoots him off into the ropes. Triple H barrels forward with momentum and drops Angle with a thunderous shoulder block. Angle rolls to the canvas, pops right back up, and charges—only for Hunter to plant his feet and deliver another shoulder block that sends Kurt down harder this time.

The Game spreads his arms wide, smirking to the jeering crowd, feeding off their disdain. But Kurt isn’t shaken—he’s studying. Angle charges again, ducking beneath a third shoulder tackle attempt, pivots, and explodes into a lightning-fast belly-to-belly suplex that rattles the ring and sends Triple H sprawling! The crowd erupts with a pop as Angle jumps up and screams toward the fans, adrenaline pumping. Hunter sits up, clutching his lower back, the shock written across his face—Angle just showed he can change the match’s momentum in an instant.

Triple H takes a moment to gather himself, rolling to the outside, pacing the floor while glaring back at Angle. The referee begins the count, the Garden buzzing with anticipation. Angle doesn’t wait—he storms across the ring, grabs Hunter by the hair, and yanks him back onto the apron. But The Game, always calculating, drives a sharp elbow into Angle’s ribs. He follows with a heavy forearm across the face that staggers Kurt backward. Triple H climbs back into the ring, stalking forward like a predator, then hooks Angle and snaps him down with a stinging vertical suplex. Hunter floats into a quick cover— 1… kick out! Angle powers free with authority.

Frustrated but unfazed, Hunter drags Angle up and whips him hard into the corner. The impact reverberates as Angle collides chest-first against the turnbuckles. Triple H charges in and delivers a stinging clothesline, nearly folding Kurt in half. He hooks Angle by the head and neck, snapping him down with a crisp neckbreaker, then arrogantly covers with one arm draped across the chest. 1… 2— Angle shoots a shoulder up to a thunderous ovation. Triple H snarls, glaring at the referee, then quickly mounts Angle with vicious right hands, the kind of grinding punishment meant to wear down a man’s will.

But Angle refuses to stay down. As Hunter tries to haul him up for another suplex, Kurt plants his feet, shifts his hips, and counters with a sudden German suplex that ignites the crowd! Both men lie momentarily, breathing hard, five minutes in and already the intensity feels like the closing stretch of a war. Angle is the first to rise, rolling his neck, fists clenched, while Triple H scrambles back to a knee, face twisted with anger. Madison Square Garden is alive, sensing the magnitude: this is not just a wrestling match—it’s a world championship fight.

The two warriors rise, circling again, but now the pace has shifted — sweat glistens, breaths come sharper, and the crowd senses that the match is tightening into something grittier. Angle explodes forward with that amateur intensity, ducking under Triple H’s swing and grabbing a single-leg takedown. In one fluid motion, he wrenches Hunter off balance and drags him to the mat, quickly transitioning into a front headlock. He cranks the hold, driving his weight down, forcing Hunter to carry every ounce of pressure.

Triple H grits his teeth, fighting up to a knee, and shoves Angle back into the corner with sheer strength. He buries a shoulder into Angle’s ribs once, twice, three times, each blow reverberating. The referee calls for a break, but Hunter doesn’t care — he pulls back and smashes Angle with a brutal European uppercut that rattles Kurt’s jaw. He follows it with a sharp knee lift to the gut, then hooks Angle and whips him across the ring. Kurt rebounds — ducking a wild clothesline — and launches himself back with a thunderous running forearm that knocks Hunter off his feet!

The Garden erupts as Angle seizes momentum, dragging Hunter up and unleashing a barrage of crisp German suplexes. One… two… three… and on the third, Angle bridges for a pin: 1… 2… Hunter barely kicks out! The crowd is rocking, Angle slapping the mat in frustration before shaking his head, knowing it’ll take more to keep The Game down. He pulls Hunter upright, but Hunter suddenly rakes the eyes, halting the momentum with desperation.

Triple H capitalizes, hooking Angle for a swinging neckbreaker — and nails it. He covers instantly: 1… 2… Angle kicks out to a massive pop. Hunter scowls, jaw tightening, then rolls out to the floor. He grabs Angle’s ankle and yanks him down to the outside, the thud of Angle’s body against the mats echoing in the Garden. The referee leans out yelling, but Hunter slams Angle’s back into the steel barricade, then whips him with violent force into the steel steps. The crowd groans at the impact as Angle clutches his rebuilt neck, writhing in pain.

Back inside, Hunter drags Kurt by the head and drops a pair of vicious elbows across the back of the neck. He follows up by locking on a rear chinlock, digging his knee into Angle’s spine. The Game cranks the hold, sweat dripping from his brow, barking at the referee to “Ask him!” The crowd rallies with a thunderous “Let’s go, Angle!” chant, stomping in unison, and slowly Kurt begins to rise. He pushes up to his feet, delivers a sharp elbow to the ribs, another, and another, finally breaking free.

Angle hits the ropes, charges — but Hunter is ready and drops him with a high spinebuster that shakes the canvas! Triple H covers, hooking the leg deep: 1… 2… Angle shoots a shoulder up at the last heartbeat, and the Garden explodes again. Hunter sits back on his knees, hands on his hips, shaking his head with that trademark scowl — frustration creeping in.

Dragging Angle to his feet, Triple H slaps him hard across the face, mocking him. That slap ignites Kurt’s fire — he snaps, erupting with a barrage of stiff right hands, each one rocking The Game back. The Garden comes alive as Angle whips Hunter into the ropes and charges — but Hunter cuts him down with a facebuster across the knee, then spins and connects with a massive clothesline that nearly decapitates him!

Hunter covers again — 1… 2… Angle barely survives. Both men now lie on the mat, breathing heavily, their bodies already bearing the toll of championship combat. Madison Square Garden is buzzing, the crowd sensing they’re watching two legends push themselves into deeper, more dangerous waters.

The Garden hums with anticipation as both men push themselves off the mat. Triple H moves first, dragging Angle upright by the straps of his singlet. He hooks the arms and teases the Pedigree, but Angle instinctively drops to his knees and drives forward, breaking Hunter’s grip. Angle surges, scooping Hunter’s leg and snapping him down into a double-leg takedown, then quickly transitions into a mounted position. With lightning speed, he rains down sharp forearm shots across The Game’s head. The fans roar, loving the raw intensity of the Olympic Hero unleashing his fury.

Hunter scrambles out, rolling toward the ropes, but Kurt is relentless. He stalks and grabs Hunter’s ankle, twisting it violently — an early tease of the Ankle Lock! The crowd erupts, sensing danger, but Hunter thrashes desperately and lunges to the ropes before Kurt can cinch it fully. The referee forces a break, Angle ripping his hands away with a frustrated shout, then slapping the mat to refocus himself.

Angle drags Hunter back to the center and hits a thunderous German suplex, bridging for a pin: 1… 2… Hunter kicks out. Without missing a beat, Angle pulls him up again, delivering a second German… and a third, the ring shaking on each impact. Angle floats into another cover: 1… 2… Hunter survives once more. Kurt slams the mat, veins bulging in his neck, the fire burning hotter.

But The Game is nothing if not calculating. As Angle hauls him up for more punishment, Hunter counters with a surprise jawbreaker that snaps Kurt’s head back. Both men stagger, but Hunter recovers just enough to hook Angle and drill him with a brutal DDT. He crawls over, throwing an arm across Kurt’s chest: 1… 2… Angle gets the shoulder up, MSG exploding in approval.

Now it’s Hunter who grows ruthless. He grabs Angle’s head and repeatedly smashes forearms into the vulnerable neck. Each blow draws groans from the crowd, the commentary screaming about Hunter’s strategy — targeting the very area rebuilt by steel. Hunter drives a knee into Kurt’s spine and pulls back on a rear chinlock, wrenching him down, eyes wild with intensity as he demands the referee check for a submission.

Angle, face red and teeth clenched, claws at Hunter’s hands. The crowd begins a slow, thunderous “ANGLE! ANGLE!” chant. Summoning every ounce of grit, Kurt surges to his feet, throws a pair of elbows, breaks free, and hits the ropes. He charges — but Hunter is waiting. With perfect timing, The Game plants him with a high knee to the jaw that knocks Kurt flat on his back. Hunter collapses into another cover: 1… 2… Angle kicks out again, the audience roaring with relief.

Frustration twisting his face, Hunter stalks Kurt, dragging him upright. He whips him to the ropes and lowers his head for a back body drop — but Angle counters, grabbing him and flipping over into a sunset roll-up! 1… 2… Hunter barely escapes. Both men scramble up and Angle explodes with another belly-to-belly overhead suplex, sending The Game crashing to the mat! Kurt is back on his feet, adrenaline surging, screaming to the crowd as MSG comes unglued.

Angle senses blood. He stalks Hunter, pounding the mat, motioning for the Ankle Lock. Triple H struggles up, staggering into the trap, and Kurt pounces — but again The Game counters, rolling forward and sending Angle shoulder-first into the turnbuckle. Kurt slams into the post, collapsing to the mat clutching his shoulder. Hunter drags him out, hooks the legs, and catapults him throat-first into the ropes. Angle stumbles back into Hunter’s clutches — spinebuster! The crowd gasps at the impact as Hunter hooks the leg: 1… 2… Angle kicks out at the last second!

Both men drag themselves upright, every movement labored, the MSG crowd still rumbling in anticipation. Triple H wipes the sweat from his brow and snarls, motioning for Angle to get up. As Kurt rises, Hunter charges — but Angle ducks low and catches him with a sudden release German suplex! The Game flips and crashes hard onto his neck and shoulders. The crowd erupts as Kurt pounds the mat, adrenaline flooding through his veins.

Angle stalks, pulling Hunter up again and nailing another German. He doesn’t let go this time. He rolls his hips, drags him up, and drills a second consecutive German suplex. The crowd counts along as Angle roars, straining with every ounce of strength. One more heave — third German suplex! He bridges for the pin: 1… 2… Hunter kicks out, barely, sending the Garden into shockwaves of cheers and gasps.

Kurt slaps the mat, frustration mounting, then pulls Hunter up and hooks him — Angle Slam! The ring shakes as The Game is planted. Angle sprawls across him: 1… 2… NO! Triple H thrusts a shoulder off the canvas to a thunderous gasp from the crowd. Angle sits back on his knees, wide-eyed, clutching his head, disbelief etched on his face. The MSG audience is molten, chanting “ANGLE! ANGLE!” in a thunderous rhythm.

But The Game proves why he’s called just that. As Angle tries to stand, Hunter grabs him by the tights, yanks him forward, and smashes him face-first into the turnbuckle pad. Kurt stumbles backward into Hunter’s clutches — DDT! The Game rolls over for the cover: 1… 2… Angle kicks out yet again, Madison Square Garden exploding with relief. Hunter slams the mat with both fists, sweat spraying as he shouts in frustration.

Hunter hauls Kurt up, sets the arms — Pedigree attempt! The crowd erupts with panic, but Angle drops to his knees, blocking, his hands fighting desperately against the lock. Triple H hammers down clubbing forearms to the back, redoubling his grip. Angle suddenly counters, grabbing Hunter’s legs, yanking him down, and twisting into the Ankle Lock! The Garden detonates as Angle cinches it in the center of the ring, screaming, wrenching the ankle with merciless intensity.

Hunter thrashes, clawing desperately, his face contorting in agony as the crowd goes ballistic. He lunges for the ropes, fingertips grazing them — but Angle drags him back to the middle, shaking his head, tightening the hold even more. The crowd senses the end could be near. Madison Square Garden in a frenzy. Hunter’s hand hovers, threatening to tap… but with a final surge of strength, he twists, kicks Angle off, and sends him crashing shoulder-first into the steel post! Angle crumpled to the mat clutching his shoulder, Hunter gasping on the canvas, his ankle throbbing but his title hopes still alive. The referee checks on both men as the crowd rises to their feet, applauding the grit and ferocity.

The Madison Square Garden crowd is thunderous as both men lie broken on the mat, bodies writhing in pain. Angle clutches his shoulder, wincing from the collision with the post, while Triple H rolls onto his side, grimacing as he gingerly holds his throbbing ankle. The referee hovers, checking on them, but both men crawl in opposite directions — dragged not by strength, but by pure willpower.

Hunter pulls himself up first, leaning against the ropes, hair plastered to his sweat-soaked face. He stalks Angle with a predator’s intensity, waiting for him to stand. As Kurt rises, Hunter strikes — he hooks the arms, roars to the heavens — PEDIGREE! He spikes Angle into the canvas with brutal finality. The crowd gasps, some rising to their feet, others silenced in dread. Hunter rolls Kurt over, hooks the leg deep: 1… 2… — NO! Angle kicks out at the last instant and the Garden erupts like an earthquake. The camera cuts to Hunter’s face, eyes wide in disbelief, mouth agape as he argues with the referee, screaming that it was three. The audience answers back with a deafening “ANGLE! ANGLE!” chant.

Furious, Hunter drags Angle up again, shoving him into the corner and unleashing a barrage of fists. Each shot lands flush, the crowd booing as The Game unloads raw frustration. He sets Angle on the top rope, climbing up after him, hooking for a superplex. The arena buzzes — but Angle blocks it! He slams a headbutt into Hunter’s face, then another, knocking The Game loopy. With the crowd roaring, Angle hoists Hunter up — top-rope belly-to-belly suplex! The ring shakes violently as both men crash down in a heap. The referee drops into position: 1… 2… Hunter barely kicks out, MSG losing its mind in disbelief.

Angle is a machine now, rolling through the pain, clutching his shoulder but refusing to stop. He stalks Hunter, circling, signaling it’s time to finish. He grabs him — ANGLE SLAM! The crowd erupts as Kurt covers: 1… 2… NO! Triple H powers out again, the Garden gasping in shock. Kurt slams his fists against the mat, sweat flying, the disbelief etched across his face. He yanks down the straps of his singlet, the signal that he’s ready to end it, and the MSG crowd explodes in anticipation.

Angle seizes Hunter’s ankle once more — Ankle Lock! He wrenches it violently, the Game clawing at the canvas in agony. The crowd is molten, screaming for Hunter to tap, the sound shaking the rafters of Madison Square Garden. Hunter, teeth gritted, shakes his head furiously, dragging himself inch by inch toward the ropes. He reaches out — fingertips away — but Angle yanks him back to the center! The arena explodes again, the chants deafening. Hunter, screaming in pain, somehow rolls through, sending Kurt crashing into the referee! The official crumples to the mat.

The crowd groans as Hunter seizes his opening. He slides out of the ring, limping, clutching the championship belt. He staggers back inside, raises the title high — and BLASTS Angle across the skull! Kurt crumples, blood trickling from his forehead, the crowd raining down boos. Hunter collapses on top, yelling at the fallen referee to count. After agonizing seconds, the official crawls into position: 1… 2… ANGLE KICKS OUT! The Garden detonates, the roar deafening, Hunter’s face contorting with sheer disbelief. He pounds the mat with both fists, veins bulging, screaming “STAY DOWN!” at his opponent.

Desperation fuels The Game. He drags Angle up, hooks the arms — Pedigree again! But Angle collapses to his knees, dead weight. Hunter tries to lift him once more — but Angle explodes, countering with a sudden ankle pick! He twists into the Ankle Lock again! The Garden is shaking as Angle screams, veins popping, his face a mask of fury. Hunter thrashes, clawing wildly, dragging himself toward the ropes. He stretches — but Angle grapevines the leg! The crowd erupts in a volcanic roar as Hunter is trapped, nowhere to go, the agony overwhelming.

Triple H claws at the canvas, fists pounding the mat, his hand hovering… hovering… before finally — TAP TAP TAP! Madison Square Garden explodes as the bell rings, the referee waving his arms.

Winner and

Spoiler

NEW World Heavyweight Champion: Kurt Angle!

The music hits as Angle releases the hold and collapses flat on the mat, bloodied, exhausted, yet victorious. The referee drapes the World Heavyweight Championship across his chest, and Angle clutches it tightly, tears streaming down his battered face. The crowd is on its feet, thunderous, the sound of history echoing through the Garden. Fireworks explode above the ring as Angle, barely able to stand, is hoisted up by the referee. He raises the championship high, blood and sweat pouring down, embodying triumph, redemption, and glory on the grandest stage.

Meanwhile, Triple H lies on the canvas, clutching his ankle, face twisted in rage and disbelief. The Game has been dethroned. His reign, his kingdom — ended at WrestleMania XX.

The camera captures the final image: Kurt Angle, standing atop the turnbuckle, gold medal dangling, World Heavyweight Championship raised high, as Madison Square Garden thunders in approval.

This was not just victory. This was a legacy.

~ AD BREAK ~​

[Cut to an aerial shot of the New York City skyline at night.]

The lights of Times Square blaze, the Empire State Building glowing in the distance, the city alive with energy as Michael Cole and Tazz welcome everyone back to Wrestlemania XX.

Lesnar vs. Edge Graphic

[WRESTLEMANIA XX VIDEO PACKAGE – EDGE vs. BROCK LESNAR – WWE CHAMPIONSHIP]

Fade in from black. Ominous orchestral strings swell beneath a gravel-toned voiceover.

Narrator (V.O.):
"It’s not just about the championship… it’s about everything they’ve bled for, everything they’ve survived, and everything they’re willing to destroy to walk out with the gold."

Cut to flickering black-and-white clips: a bloodied Edge collapsing to his knees in the Elimination Chamber. Brock Lesnar snarling, title clenched in his grasp. Madison Square Garden looming in slow motion. Then… silence.

Cue soft piano chords. A faded image of Edge on a hospital table, neck brace secured, is shown. A doctor’s voice echoes faintly: “You may never wrestle again.”

Narrator (V.O.):
"One year ago… Edge was told his career was over."

Footage rolls of Edge struggling in rehab, grainy shots of him lifting weights with a brace, clips of his slow in-ring drills in an empty gym.

Edge (archival audio):
"I don’t care what anyone says. I will come back."

Smash cut: a thunderous roar erupts as Edge wins the Elimination Chamber at No Way Out. Flashbulbs pop. Blood trickles down his face. Edge clutches his ribs as the referee raises his hand.

Narrator (V.O.):
"February 15, 2004. Against five elite superstars… Edge fought for 39 minutes inside hell and earned his way to WrestleMania."

Cue slow-motion shot: Edge pinning Kurt Angle, fans in the Garden on their feet. The camera zooms in on his emotion-part agony, part triumph.

Cut to Brock Lesnar watching from a skybox, scowling. The music shifts-darkens. Enter Paul Heyman’s voice.

Paul Heyman (clip):
"Edge? He’s a broken man walking into Brock Lesnar’s world. And I control the world."

Montage of Heyman orchestrating hellish scenarios: Edge locked in a 3-on-1 handicap match. Matt Morgan slamming him into a wall. Lesnar ambushing Edge in a parking lot. The infamous spear through a catering table-replayed in slow motion with impact echoing.

Narrator (V.O.):
"What began as redemption... became a war of survival."

Edge clutching his shoulder in pain backstage. Lesnar hoisting the WWE Title, sneering. Heyman standing smugly behind them. But the music shifts again-this time into defiant, heart-pounding drums.

SmackDown, March 18: chaos. Cena rushing the ring. Brawls breaking out. Officials swarming. Heyman screaming. The announcement blares-“Paul Heyman has been terminated as SmackDown General Manager!””

Footage of stunned reactions. Lesnar punching walls. Heyman being escorted out by security.

Narrator (V.O.):
"With Heyman gone, Brock Lesnar’s empire fell apart. And Edge stood… unbreakable."

The final SmackDown before WrestleMania: Edge vs. Matt Morgan. Clips interspersed-Lesnar trying to interfere. Big Show’s chaos. Cena’s arrival. The crowd exploding as Edge Spears Morgan and stands atop the turnbuckle, chest heaving, arm raised to the heavens. He points to the WrestleMania banner as pyro explodes behind him.

Cut to black. Slow fade in: Madison Square Garden in all its grandeur. WrestleMania XX.

Narrator (V.O.):
"Now, no more games. No more walls. No more Heyman. Just two men… one championship… and a war born of obsession and redemption."

Lesnar training in a dark gym-lifting weights, pummeling punching bags, screaming with intensity. Edge running stairs, sprinting in the cold, gritting his teeth in pain.

Narrator (V.O.):
"For Lesnar… this is domination. For Edge… this is destiny."

Final flashes: Lesnar with the WWE Title held high. Edge with eyes closed in the empty Garden. The crowd counting down at No Way Out. Spear. F-5. Blood. Roars. Silence.

Then, in flashing words across the screen:

“WRESTLEMANIA XX: EDGE vs. BROCK LESNAR – WWE CHAMPIONSHIP”
“LEGACY. REDEMPTION. OBSESSION.”

Cue heartbeat. One final flash: Edge and Lesnar nose-to-nose in the ring. The bell tolls.

Fade to black.
Cue WrestleMania XX logo.
“Live March 28 – Madison Square Garden”

“YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME…”

The haunting opening riff of Edge’s theme erupts through the speakers like a thunderclap. A split-second of silence is shattered by Rob Zombie’s “Never Gonna Stop,” blaring with raw energy as white strobes pulse violently in rhythm. The crowd roars to their feet, a tidal wave of cheers breaking across the sea of humanity in the Garden. Smoke hisses from the stage floor, thick and ghostly, as the familiar silhouette emerges through the curtain.

Edge bursts onto the stage like a man possessed, every ounce of pain, grit, and redemption coursing through his veins. Drenched in the spotlight, his leather trench coat flares with his movement, a modern gladiator returning to the arena. His eyes are locked forward-intense, narrowed, and gleaming with purpose. He’s not here to soak in the moment-he is the moment.

The camera zooms in for a tight shot-Edge gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, hair wild and damp from adrenaline, the MSG lights dancing off his gear. The pyrotechnics erupt behind him in a white-hot explosion-BOOM!-as fire rains upward from both sides of the stage. The camera shakes with the impact as Edge marches down the ramp with cold, violent purpose.

He slaps a few hands, but his gaze never breaks. This isn’t about the crowd-it’s about everything he fought for. His neck. His career. His identity. Each step down the ramp is a declaration: I’m still here. The fans chant his name-“LET’S GO EDGE! LET’S GO EDGE!”-as he reaches the ringside area.

He circles the ring slowly, eyes briefly locking with the WWE Championship on its pedestal. He stops. Kneels. Breathes. For one moment-just one-he closes his eyes. You can see the emotion behind them. Then, without hesitation, he rolls in under the bottom rope and pops to his feet, throwing both arms into the air atop the nearest turnbuckle, soaking in the Garden’s roar.

Flashbulbs erupt. He peels off his trench coat, pacing like a caged animal as his music fades. The arena is lit now by energy alone-until suddenly, it all goes black.

“BOOM!”

A massive burst of pyro detonates from the stage like a mortar shell. Red light floods the arena. The haunting opening riff of Brock Lesnar’s war march grinds out of the PA system, slow and methodical-predator music. The titantron flashes with primal imagery-snarling wolves, colliding meteors, nuclear explosions-before cutting to black.

And then… he emerges.

Brock Lesnar steps through the curtain with slow, deliberate menace, WWE Championship strapped tight around his waist. He’s shirtless, glistening under the red lights, every inch of him carved from steel and rage. His shoulders twitch as he marches forward, like a caged monster finally unleashed into open war. The crowd reaction is nuclear-half thunderous boos, half awe-struck cheers. MSG is split between fear and reverence.

Paul Heyman is gone. The empire has fallen. But Lesnar walks like nothing's changed-still cocky, still dangerous, still the apex predator. He stops at the top of the ramp and throws his arms high above his head. The camera zooms in just as he jerks them violently downward-BOOM! A massive wall of red pyro detonates behind him in a straight line across the stage. His war cry echoes through the building.

He stomps down the ramp with the weight of the world under his boots. He glares at fans jeering him, jaw clenched, eyes soulless. The WWE Title glints in the flashing red light. With every step, the energy builds. With every step, the Garden tenses. Brock glances toward the ring and sees Edge-calm, unblinking, unmoved. The storm is coming.

Lesnar circles the ring like a shark smelling blood. He stops in front of the title on its pedestal. He unhooks the belt and stares into its gold plating, eyes scanning his reflection. Then, in one defiant motion, he raises it high above his head as the camera circles him in slow motion. “BROCK LESNAR” chants begin to echo, overlapping with “EDGE! EDGE!” dueling chants. The arena is alive.

He slides under the ropes with a hop and immediately explodes to his feet. He gets nose-to-nose with Edge. The referee rushes in to separate them, but neither man flinches. They just stare. Breathing hard. Muscles tense. History vibrating between them.

Edge-eyes like fire.
Lesnar-eyes like ice.
Redemption vs. Obsession.
Heart vs. Annihilation.

The WWE Championship is held high in the center of the ring as Howard Finkel booms the formal introductions. The camera circles slowly, panning across 20,000 rabid fans, their flashbulbs and voices colliding in a symphony of chaos. The bell hasn’t rung… but the war has already begun.

WWE CHAMPIONSHIP
Edge vs. Brock Lesnar (c)​

The bell rings and Madison Square Garden rumbles with electricity. Edge storms out of his corner, fists raised, but Brock Lesnar wastes no time, charging forward like a bull and bulldozing Edge into the turnbuckle with raw power. The impact rattles the ring as Lesnar unloads with stiff shoulder thrusts to the ribs, each one driving the air out of Edge’s lungs. Edge fights back, raking Lesnar’s face and firing off rapid forearms, staggering the champion for just a second. Seizing the opening, Edge springs to the ropes—flying crossbody! But Brock catches him midair like a child’s toy and drills him into the mat with a thunderous powerslam, the sound echoing through the Garden. The crowd gasps as Lesnar snarls, dragging Edge up by the hair and hurling him overhead with a release belly-to-belly suplex, Edge bouncing awkwardly on his shoulder. Yet the challenger refuses to die—he rolls to the ropes, clutching his ribs, pulling himself up. Lesnar charges for a clothesline, but Edge ducks, rebounds, and connects with a flying forearm that rocks the beast back a step. The Garden explodes as Edge strings together offense—dropkick to the knee, spinning heel kick to the jaw, and a lightning-quick Edgecution DDT that plants Lesnar head-first! The cover—1, 2—Lesnar powers out with such force that Edge is launched halfway across the ring. Both men scramble up, adrenaline surging. Brock swings wild, Edge ducks, and out of nowhere—SPEAR! But Brock rolls out of the ring at the last instant, collapsing against the barricade, clutching his ribs. Edge pounds the mat, eyes wild, the Garden on its feet as the first five minutes set the tone: relentless, desperate, and explosive. This is no ordinary championship match—this is a war destined for history.

Edge wastes no time, sensing momentum, and dives through the ropes with a suicide dive that sends both men crashing into the barricade. The Garden erupts as Edge pops up first, adrenaline masking the punishment his body is taking. He grabs Brock by the head and slams him face-first into the steel steps once, twice—the second shot denting the metal. Edge rolls him back in quickly, desperate to keep the pressure on. Climbing to the top rope, Edge launches himself with a missile dropkick that lands flush across Lesnar’s chest, sending the champion sprawling. Edge hooks the leg—1…2… Lesnar kicks out, almost tossing Edge into the referee with the sheer force of his escape.

The challenger stays relentless, hammering forearms and stomps, but Lesnar seizes his chance—catching Edge’s leg mid-kick and flipping him backward into a vicious spinebuster that shakes the ring. Brock doesn’t cover—he smirks, stalking his prey. He hoists Edge up like dead weight, driving him into the corner with a running knee to the gut, then launches him with a brutal overhead belly-to-belly suplex that sends Edge skidding across the canvas. Lesnar snarls, sweat flying off his body, as he pounces, mounting Edge and raining down stiff fists, the crowd booing with every shot. The referee warns, but Lesnar just roars back, “HE’S FINISHED!”

Dragging Edge up again, Lesnar deadlifts him with terrifying ease, drilling him with a German suplex that folds the challenger in half. The beast doesn’t stop—he keeps hold, rolling through into a second German, then a third, the trifecta leaving Edge lifeless on the mat. Brock covers, arrogant, pressing one hand on Edge’s chest—1…2… Edge jerks the shoulder up! The crowd explodes, chanting his name, as Lesnar glares at the referee in disbelief. Snarling, Brock stalks to the ropes and yells at the jeering crowd, but that moment of arrogance gives Edge the sliver of time he needs. Staggering to his knees, eyes glazed, Edge somehow springs up and catches Lesnar off guard with a desperation SPEAR out of nowhere! Both men crash to the mat, exhausted, as the Garden counts along, the war intensifying with every heartbeat.

Both men are down, chests heaving, Madison Square Garden at a fever pitch. Slowly, Edge drags himself to his feet first, clutching at his ribs, eyes locked on Lesnar like a wounded animal refusing to quit. He backs into the corner, pounding the turnbuckle pad with both hands, calling for another Spear. The crowd rises. Lesnar staggers up—Edge charges—Brock snatches him mid-run and launches him into the air with a bone-rattling overhead belly-to-belly suplex! Edge lands awkwardly on his shoulder, screaming in pain, as the champion rolls over with a sick grin, smelling blood.

Lesnar stalks Edge methodically, cutting off his attempts to rise with heavy clubbing blows to the back. He hoists Edge onto his shoulders, teasing the F-5 early, but Edge elbows wildly, slips free, and plants Brock with an Edge-O-Matic for a shocking near-fall! The Garden erupts, the referee’s hand this close to three. Edge immediately scrambles to the apron, pulling himself up the ropes, defying the agony. He springboards—flying clothesline! It connects! The cover—1…2… NO! Brock kicks out with fury, rolling to the ropes, eyes wide with frustration.

Edge knows he has to dig deeper. He climbs to the top rope again, but Lesnar recovers fast, charging up after him. Both men teeter dangerously—Edge with desperate punches, Lesnar firing back with stiff shots. Then Brock hooks him—superplex attempt—but Edge fights, biting down hard, headbutting Brock until the beast wobbles. Edge shoves him down and soars—diving elbow smash to the heart of the champion! The Garden explodes, Edge crawling for the cover—1…2… Lesnar just gets the shoulder up!

Frustration mounting, Edge pounds the mat, rallying the crowd. He pulls Brock up and whips him hard into the corner, following with a Spear into the turnbuckles that sends shockwaves through the ring. Edge mounts him and rains down punches, the crowd counting each strike, but Brock powers out with raw strength, carrying Edge across the ring in a modified spinebuster that flattens him. Lesnar drops to his knees, snarling, before hooking Edge for another suplex—this time a vicious fisherman variation that spikes the challenger head-first. Cover—1…2… Edge barely escapes, the crowd roaring in disbelief.

Brock slams the mat in fury, dragging Edge up like a ragdoll. He hoists him into a powerbomb position, lifts—and plants Edge with authority! The Garden gasps. Lesnar holds on, lifts him up again, and delivers a second powerbomb, Edge bouncing grotesquely on the canvas. Lesnar doesn’t release—he snarls to the crowd and hits a third, folding Edge like an accordion! The champion roars, veins bulging, dragging Edge’s limp body to the center of the ring. The cover—1…2… NO! Edge kicks out again! The arena erupts, the sound deafening, as Lesnar’s face twists into shock and pure rage.

Shaking his head, Lesnar storms to the outside, ripping the announce table apart, tossing monitors aside. He climbs back in, grabbing Edge by the hair, dragging him toward the ropes, clearly ready to end it on the floor. But as he leans out—Edge explodes with a sudden SPEAR through the ropes, sending both men crashing to the floor and into the announce table wreckage! The crowd is losing its mind, a “HOLY S***” chant breaking out as both warriors lie in the debris, battered and broken, seven minutes of chaos leaving Madison Square Garden on fire.

The Garden is a madhouse as both men lay in the ruins of the announce table, the referee’s count echoing through the chaos. At six, Edge claws his way up the barricade, staggering back toward the ring. At eight, Lesnar stirs, fury in his eyes, dragging himself inside just before ten. Edge, battered and bloodied, senses the moment—he slides in after him, the crowd rallying with a thunderous “Let’s go Edge!” chant.

Edge stalks Brock, pulling himself into the corner one more time. His body trembles, his chest heaves, but his eyes are laser-focused. Lesnar rises, dazed—SPEAR! The impact shakes the ring! Edge crawls into the cover—1…2… THR—NO! Lesnar’s foot finds the bottom rope at the last possible second. The entire arena groans in disbelief as Edge collapses beside him, clutching his hair in agony.

Refusing to quit, Edge drags himself back up. He signals again, this time with pure desperation. He charges for another Spear—Brock snatches him mid-run and hoists him into the air for an F-5. Edge slips free mid-rotation, shoving Brock into the turnbuckle chest-first. As Brock stumbles back, Edge capitalizes—Edgecution! The Garden erupts as Edge hooks the leg—1…2… THR—Lesnar just gets the shoulder up! The crowd is white-hot, the announcers screaming that Edge was a heartbeat away from immortality.

Edge, blood dripping down his face, refuses to stop. He climbs the ropes again, slowly, painstakingly, as the fans roar in unison. He leaps for a flying crossbody—caught! Brock muscles him up, spinning violently, and plants him with a crushing F-5! The Garden falls silent. Brock collapses onto the cover—1…2… NO! Edge kicks out! The noise inside Madison Square Garden is deafening, thousands on their feet as Lesnar sits up, disbelief etched across his face. He pounds the mat, veins bulging in rage.

Enraged, Brock rips off his gloves, dragging Edge up for another F-5. Edge claws at his face, elbows frantically, and somehow counters into a second Spear! Both men are down, the referee counting, the crowd at a fever pitch. Edge drapes an arm across Lesnar—1…2… NO! Lesnar’s shoulder shoots up at the very last fraction of a second! Edge rolls off, eyes wide, mouth open in shock, the Garden absolutely losing its mind.

With nothing left, Edge staggers back to his feet, calling for one final Spear. He charges, everything left in his body behind it—Lesnar counters, catching him mid-run and launching him into the air—second F-5! Brock drops into the cover—1…2…3!

Winner and

Spoiler

STILL WWE Champion, Brock Lesnar

The bell rings, and Madison Square Garden is a thunderstorm of noise—boos raining down as Lesnar, battered and bloodied but unbroken, clutches the WWE Championship to his chest. Edge lies motionless, staring at the lights, having come within a whisper of destiny.

Lesnar stumbles to his feet, roaring, hoisting the title high above his head as pyro explodes across the Garden. Edge rolls to the ropes, devastated but unbroken, the crowd giving him a standing ovation for the war he just survived.

The final image: Brock Lesnar on the turnbuckle, championship raised in triumph, as Edge, barely standing, looks on with fire in his eyes. Tonight, Lesnar survives. But Edge proved he is undeniable.

~ AD BREAK ~​

The lights dim. A familiar strut hits the stage—“NO CHANCE… THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE GOT!” explodes through the speakers. Madison Square Garden rains down a thunderstorm of boos as Mr. McMahon steps through the curtain, tailored suit gleaming, smirk plastered across his face. He struts down the ramp, soaking in the jeers like a man bathing in his empire.

In the ring, Vince grabs a microphone, his voice booming with arrogance:
“Ladies and gentlemen… tonight, in the world’s most famous arena… with a SOLD OUT crowd of 20,376 strong… welcome… to the GREATEST WrestleMania of all time—WRESTLEMANIA XX!”

The crowd pops for the number, cameras panning the electric sea of humanity. Vince smirks proudly, puffing out his chest. He goes to continue—

“GLASS SHATTERS!”

The Garden EXPLODES. It’s volcanic. The rattlesnake is in the house. Stone Cold Steve Austin storms out in classic jeans, black vest, beer in hand, stomping to the ring with all the swagger in the world. Vince’s smirk melts into nervousness as Austin slides inside, climbs the ropes, and poses to deafening cheers.

Austin grabs the mic, cutting Vince off:
“Hold it right there, Vince. You come out here, you flap your gums about twenty years of WrestleMania… but let ol’ Stone Cold make one thing perfectly clear. You can’t have twenty years of WrestleMania… without Stone Cold Steve Austin!”

The crowd ERUPTS, chanting “AUSTIN! AUSTIN!” Vince sneers, rolling his eyes. Austin paces, soaking it in.

Suddenly—“REAL AMERICAN” BLARES.

The Garden ERUPTS again, just as loud, maybe louder. Hulk Hogan steps through the curtain, red and yellow blazing under the lights, feather boa around his neck. He cups his hand to his ear, milking the reaction. The place shakes as Hogan points to Austin in the ring, then to Vince. Hogan climbs in, poses to all four sides, MSG rocking with every “WHATCHA GONNA DO, BROTHER?!”

Hogan grabs a mic:
“Ya know something, brother? Twenty years of WrestleMania—there’s been body slams, there’s been battles, there’s been legends… but you can’t have twenty years of WrestleMania… without HULK HOGAN!”

The Garden explodes again, dueling chants filling the air. Austin smirks, pacing. Hogan points at him: “I built this place, brother.”

Austin gets in his face: “You built it? You might’ve laid the bricks, Hogan… but Stone Cold raised the damn roof!”

The tension is thick—two megastars nose-to-nose. The crowd is losing its mind, buzzing, chanting “FIGHT! FIGHT!” Vince steps in, smirking, rubbing his hands together:
“Yes! That’s what I want! Hogan vs. Austin—tonight! WrestleMania XX! Right here, right now!”

The Garden erupts at the idea. Hogan rips his shirt off, roaring, pointing at Austin. Austin clenches his fists, eyes blazing. They circle, teasing… the building is at a fever pitch…

But then, Hogan suddenly points at Vince instead, smirking. Austin pauses, then looks at Vince too. The crowd realizes what’s happening. Vince backs up, eyes wide, hands raised, pleading.

Austin and Hogan both circle Vince, the Garden deafening with anticipation. Vince begs off, falling to his knees, pleading for mercy. Hogan points to Vince, rips off his shirt with a roar, and the crowd goes wild. Austin smirks, nodding, and steps back.

STUNNER! Austin drops Vince like a sack of bricks, MSG going nuclear. Hogan laughs, doing his big “YOU!” finger point at Vince’s twitching body. Austin smirks, grabs a pair of beers tossed from ringside, cracks them open meanwhile, Hogan bounces off the ropes, crosses the ring, and BOOM! drops Vince with the Leg Drop heard ‘round Madison Square Garden! The arena explodes, cameras flashing as Vince writhes in pain.

Hogan pops to his feet, cupping his hand to his ear, soaking in the cheers. He points down at Vince’s motionless body, then does his trademark pose, flexing. The crowd is in a frenzy—20 years of WrestleMania, capped off by the Immortal Hulk Hogan dropping the leg on Mr. McMahon himself shades of last years epic street fight at Wrestlemania XIX.

But just as Hogan turns around—BAM! STUNNER! Austin levels Hogan, and MSG goes INSANE. The crowd pops even bigger than before as Hogan stumbles, does his signature cartoonish wobble, and crashes flat to the mat beside Vince.

Beer flies as Austin roars to the rafters, pounding his chest. He calls for two cold ones, cracks them open, and stands over both Hogan and Vince—two icons laid out—as he smashes the beers together and chugs, foam pouring down his beard.

JR on commentary, his voice breaking from excitement:
“Stone Cold Steve Austin has stunned Vince McMahon! He stunned Hulk Hogan! My God, this is WrestleMania XX, and history is being made before our very eyes!”

Austin flips off the ring, climbs the ropes for one last salute, then storms up the ramp, leaving carnage in the ring. The cameras sweep the crowd, everyone on their feet, still buzzing.

Now the HBK/ROCK graphic airs signifying that it is MAIN EVENT TIME!!!
WRESTLEMANIA XX VIDEO PACKAGE - SHAWN MICHAELS VS. THE ROCK

“It all begins… again.”

A slow fade-in opens on the cavernous interior of Madison Square Garden. The ghostly echo of past cheers reverberates through the empty arena, before archival flashes bombard the screen-WrestleMania I... Savage vs. Steamboat... Austin bleeds in the Sharpshooter... Mick Foley falls from the cell. The voiceover, laced with reverence, sets the stage: “The World’s Most Famous Arena... where history is not just remembered-it’s reborn.”

Quick cuts begin-synchronized with a pulsing beat-as the faces of two icons emerge from the fog of time. On one side: “The Heartbreak Kid” Shawn Michaels, eyes narrowed, his body aged but sharp with intent. On the other: The Rock, his smirk unmistakable, the glint of Hollywood lights shining behind his signature sunglasses. The screen splits in half. Two legends. One arena. One night.

“For over a decade… they danced around destiny.”

Black-and-white clips flash: HBK hoisting the WWE Championship at WrestleMania XII. The Rock defeating Hogan at WrestleMania X8. Michaels nailing Sweet Chin Music. The Rock delivering the People’s Elbow. Parallel legacies, but never intertwined-until now.

February 16th. No Way Out fallout footage. A slow zoom on Shawn Michaels sitting despondently in the corner, clutching his ribs after a loss to Kurt Angle. The voiceover turns cold. “When his path to the title was stolen… something inside HBK snapped.” We see the infamous low blow to Angle. The stunned crowd. The shift in Shawn’s eyes from showman to shark.

Cut to RAW. Michaels pacing in the ring, venom in every syllable. “I AM WrestleMania!” he screams-and the arena erupts as “IF YA SMELLLLLLLLLLLL-” hits. The screen shakes. The Rock appears at the top of the ramp, his aura magnetic, a living legend returned to the battlefield. The crowd noise crescendos into a deafening roar as the two icons come face-to-face for the first time. Tension. Silence. Then-Michaels teases the kick. Rock catches it. Time freezes.

“The dream match became a prophecy.”

The beat quickens. We jump-cut to Jim Ross interviewing a visibly bitter Michaels. “He left. I stayed. He acted like a wrestler. I was one.” A flash to The Rock via satellite, rolling his eyes, smirking: “Mid-life crisis cosplay.”

Barbed words become savage haymakers.

Rock Concert. The People’s Champ serenades the crowd with lyrics that cut to the bone. “Mr. WrestleMania? What a joke!” But the melody crashes as Michaels ambushes him from behind-BAM! Sweet Chin Music detonates, and the Garden roars. Michaels stands over The Rock’s unconscious body, pointing to the WrestleMania sign, eyes ablaze.

March 15th. Carnage on RAW. Both men brawl with reckless abandon. Officials pour in like ants trying to separate titans. The Rock rips free, lunges at Michaels. Michaels swings back. Chaos. Rage. Pride.

“This is no longer about legacy... this is about survival.”

Final RAW. HBK stands alone under a spotlight, pain and fire in his voice. “Twenty years… blood, sweat, tears… broken my damn back. While he was off filming movies, I was giving everything to this ring.” A montage flashes-a younger Shawn, the ladder match, the return in 2002, the crimson mask from his wars with Triple H. Then back to the present-his finger pointing at the WrestleMania XX sign.

Suddenly-BOOM. The Rock's music. MSG lights up. He stands on the ramp. No guitar, no sunglasses. Just the man. “Passion doesn't pay the bills – Hollywood does.” His voice grows sharper. “But when the cameras roll, nobody delivers like The Rock.”

The final stare-down. Michaels in the ring. The Rock on the ramp. The crowd in a frenzy. The moment frozen in time.

“Two icons. Two eras. One ring.”

As the screen turns to black, the WrestleMania XX logo slams onto the screen in golden brilliance. The voiceover whispers with finality:

“This Sunday, at WrestleMania XX… the Showstopper meets the Showstealer. The Icon meets the Electrifiying One. The Heartbreak Kid. The People’s Champion. For the first time ever… and the last time you’ll forget it.”

SHAWN MICHAELS VS. THE ROCK
WRESTLEMANIA XX - MADISON SQUARE GARDEN
MAIN EVENT. DREAM MATCH. DESTINY.

“It all begins… again.”

The camera slowly pans the sea of humanity packed into Madison Square Garden. Fourteen thousand strong shake the rafters with deafening energy as the lights dim and a deep pulse echoes through the arena-BOOM… BOOM… BOOM…-heartbeat-like in rhythm. The air is charged with anticipation. This is not just a match-it’s a moment suspended in time. The main event of WrestleMania XX is about to begin.

Suddenly, a blinding white light explodes from the stage. A slow choral hum swells through the speakers-angelic, haunting, cinematic. On the titantron, black-and-white images of Shawn Michaels' storied career flicker like a dream: the boyhood dream fulfilled at WrestleMania XII, the ladder match against Razor, his bloody war with Triple H, his 2002 comeback. Over it, his voice echoes from earlier: “I AM WrestleMania.”

Then-
“I think I’m cute… I know I’m sexy…”

The arena erupts as HBK’s iconic theme hits with full force, the pyrotechnics on the stage igniting in a crisscross of red, white, and gold. Smoke blasts into the air as the curtain is pushed aside, and "The Heartbreak Kid" Shawn Michaels steps out slowly, bathed in light, clad in dazzling white-and-silver ring gear dripping in rhinestones. His entrance jacket glimmers like crystal under the lights, reflecting every camera flash like a living disco ball. A new addition to the gear: a dramatic sequined trench coat with bold blood-red letters stitched across the back-“ICON.”

Michaels doesn’t dance this time. He doesn’t strut. He walks with purpose-slow, deliberate, intense. His eyes are steely, jaw clenched. This is a warrior walking into battle, not the showman of old. He reaches the top of the ramp and kneels down into his classic pose, arms stretched, head bowed. As he raises his hands, a thunderous BOOM! rocks MSG as silver fireworks explode in a waterfall around him, showering down like a curtain of light. The crowd roars as HBK rises to his feet and begins his march to the ring, staring dead ahead at the squared circle like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

He walks the ring apron slowly, wiping his boots on the edge, then spins in dramatically under the top rope. Once inside, he stands dead center, looks out to the Garden-and this time, he smiles. A slight smirk. The glint of the old Showstopper flickers through. Then, suddenly-BAM! He launches into a pose, stretching out his arms in a crucifix, fireworks blasting from each ring post behind him. Madison Square Garden responds with an explosion of sound. Love him or hate him tonight, Shawn Michaels owns this moment.

But then-

“IF YA SMELLLLLLLLLLL-WHAT THE ROCK-IS COOKIN’!”

The Garden detonates. It’s a different kind of roar-raw, primal, volcanic. The sound of a phenomenon returning to his coliseum. Lights flash in synchronization as the pulsating horns of The Rock’s theme thunder through the building. The titantron comes alive in gold and black, flashing images of Hollywood red carpets, main event victories, title celebrations, and electrifying promos. On screen, the words flash like fire: THE PEOPLE’S CHAMPION. THE MOST ELECTRIFYING MAN IN SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT. THE ROCK.

Then, with spine-tingling timing, he steps through the curtain.

The Rock, in all his aura and magnificence, stands atop the stage in black-and-gold ring gear. A custom, sleeveless entrance robe clings to his torso, embroidered with a Brahma Bull outlined in molten gold. He tilts his head back slightly, soaking in the roar of his people. His sunglasses reflect the overhead spotlights, and as the crowd reaches a fever pitch, he lifts one eyebrow high-trademarked greatness.

With swagger that can’t be mimicked, The Rock marches down the ramp. His head never swivels. His gaze is locked squarely on the ring, on Shawn Michaels, on destiny. With each step, the arena seems to shake under the weight of expectation. He stops halfway down the ramp and slowly pulls off his sunglasses with two fingers, then turns and looks around MSG with a slow nod of acknowledgement. “This is my house,” his expression seems to say.

As he reaches ringside, The Rock climbs the steel steps, wipes his boots with grace, and enters through the middle rope with the fluidity of a man born for this. He circles the ring like a lion sizing up its prey, then climbs the turnbuckle. His right fist shoots into the air as he raises his head toward the rafters-and BOOM! Gold pyro erupts from each corner, bathing the ring in smoke and flame. The camera zooms tight on The Rock’s face. Calm. Focused. Dangerous.

Back in the center of the ring, Shawn Michaels hasn’t moved. His eyes haven’t left The Rock since the theme hit. Now, as The Rock lowers from the corner and turns to face him, the two icons are standing face to face. The air is suffocating with electricity. The crowd is roaring. The referee stands between them, his hand raised, microphone shaking from the tremor in his grip.

The referee steps back, giving Howard Finkel the spotlight. The arena holds its breath, crowd roaring, lights pulsing. Two legends stare down, the tension ready to snap. Then, with his unmistakable voice ringing across Madison Square Garden:

“Ladies and gentlemen… this contest is scheduled for ONE FALL… and it is your MAAAAIN EVENT… of WRESTLEMANIA TWENTY!”

A brief pause as the crowd builds to a fever pitch.

“Introducing first… standing in the corner to my left… from San Antonio, Texas… weighing 225 pounds… he is ‘The Heartbreak Kid’... SHAWN… MICHAELS!”

The crowd responds with burst-cheers and jeers intertwined. Michaels stands stoically, arms stretched in crucifix pose as silver sparks burst from each ring post.

“And his opponent… standing in the corner to my right… from Miami, Florida… weighing 260 pounds… he is… THE ROCK!”

Madison Square Garden ERUPTS. The Rock lifts one eyebrow, still perched on the second turnbuckle as gold pyro rains behind him. He steps down slowly, eyes locked with HBK. No smirk. Just focus.

The camera slowly circles the ring. Two icons. One ring. A collision of egos, legacies, and eras. The crowd is molten. The bell hasn’t even rung-and already, this is unforgettable.

"SHOWSTOPPER" vs. "THE PEOPLES CHAMPION"
HBK vs. The Rock​

The bell rings, and Madison Square Garden becomes a cauldron of sound. The Rock and Shawn Michaels circle each other slowly, eyes locked, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Michaels smirks arrogantly, brushing his hair back with a dismissive flick, while The Rock paces with his chest puffed out, the intensity radiating from him. The crowd begins a deafening “ROCKY! ROCKY!” chant, but Shawn leans into the ropes, mocking them, cupping his ear in feigned appreciation before shaking his head and mouthing, “I am WrestleMania.”

They finally lock up, collar-and-elbow tie-up dead center. The Rock muscles Shawn backward, driving him into the corner with raw power. The referee counts, and Rock gives a clean break, hands raised—until Shawn slaps him across the face with a crack that echoes through the Garden. Gasps explode from the crowd. Rock freezes, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Shawn grins devilishly, daring him to react. The Rock explodes forward, unleashing right hands that send Michaels reeling into the corner. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The building shakes with each punch as the fans roar in approval. Rock whips Michaels across the ring with authority, followed with a thunderous clothesline that nearly flips him inside out.

Michaels rolls to the outside instantly, clutching his jaw, pacing, trying to slow things down. The crowd rains down boos as he points back at Rock, shouting, “Too easy! Too easy!” Rock steps onto the ropes, daring him back inside. Shawn cautiously climbs the apron, then slingshots in, feigning a lock-up, but instead lands a sharp kick to Rock’s gut and snaps him with a crisp side headlock. The Rock pushes him off, Shawn rebounds—Rock drops flat—Shawn leaps over, rebounds again, and Rock catches him with a big hip toss! HBK pops up only to eat an arm drag! Another arm drag! Rock locks in an armbar and smirks now, turning Shawn’s arrogance back on him. The Garden eats it up.

Michaels squirms, slapping the mat in frustration, then rakes Rock’s eyes out of the referee’s sight, breaking free to loud boos. HBK springs up and delivers a stinging chop across Rock’s chest—“WOOOO!”—the sound echoing. Rock winces, only to fire back with a chop of his own! Shawn staggers, clutching his chest. Chop! Chop! Each one louder than the last. Shawn stumbles into the ropes, and Rock whips him across—Michaels ducks under, rebounds, and nails Rock with a flying forearm! The crowd gasps as Shawn kips up instantly, smirking with arrogance as he spreads his arms wide, soaking in the heat.

Shawn stalks Rock, stomping his head, taunting him. He drags Rock to the corner and lays in knife-edge chops—each one sharper, crueler, as the crowd chants along. Rock slumps momentarily, and Shawn mounts the ropes, raining down punches—ONE! TWO! THREE!—but Rock suddenly bursts forward, carrying Shawn out of the corner on his shoulders! The arena erupts! Michaels flails in panic, hammering Rock with punches, and at the last moment he slips free behind, shoving Rock chest-first into the turnbuckle. As Rock stumbles back, Shawn connects with a precision chop block to the back of the knee. The crowd groans as Rock collapses, clutching his leg.

Like a shark smelling blood, Michaels zeroes in. He stomps the knee relentlessly, twisting it, yanking it across the bottom rope. He drags Rock center-ring, drops an elbow across the leg, and twists it into a figure-four attempt—but Rock kicks him off with authority, sending Shawn tumbling backward into the ropes. The Rock struggles to stand, testing his knee, limping slightly, and Shawn immediately rushes back in with a basement dropkick right to the injured joint.

For the next minute, Michaels controls the pace, dissecting The Rock with calculated malice. He wraps Rock’s leg around the steel ring post, slamming it against the metal to loud boos. Inside the ring, he applies a figure-four leglock at last, wrenching back with all his might. The Rock writhes in agony, his shoulders nearly hitting the mat, the crowd rallying with a thunderous “ROCKY! ROCKY!” chant. Rock pounds the mat, trying to will himself over, but Shawn screams at him, “TAP OUT! TAP OUT!” with venom dripping from every word.

With the arena on fire, The Rock grits his teeth, shakes his head violently, and finally powers himself over, reversing the pressure. The Garden explodes as Shawn cries out in pain, clawing at the ropes until he finally breaks the hold.

The camera cuts across the sea of fans, faces alive with emotion. JR’s voice booms, raw with passion: “By God, folks—we are witnessing history!”

The crowd is electric as both men rise slowly, nursing the damage. The Rock shakes his leg out, testing its strength, while Shawn Michaels stalks in with that devilish gleam in his eye. He slaps Rock hard across the face again, goading him—mocking him. The People’s Champ erupts with a blistering flurry of right hands that sends Michaels spinning. Whip to the ropes—Rock lowers for a back body drop, but Shawn counters mid-run with a perfect swinging neckbreaker! The crowd gasps as Rock hits the mat hard, clutching his neck.

Michaels doesn’t waste a second. He pops to his feet and struts arrogantly around Rock, soaking in the venom of the crowd before dropping a picture-perfect knee across the throat. Cover—1! Rock powers out. HBK immediately mounts him, raining down fists, then pulls him up by the head, snarling, “This is MY stage!” before slamming Rock’s head into the top turnbuckle.

The pace quickens—Shawn whips Rock to the ropes and catches him with a flying back elbow, rolling smoothly back to his feet in one motion. The crowd boos as Shawn spreads his arms wide in mockery, the self-proclaimed “Showstopper” basking in the spotlight. He drags Rock to the corner and ascends to the second rope—mocking the People’s Elbow with an exaggerated wave of his arms before dropping a double axe handle across Rock’s head. Another cover—1…2… Rock kicks out strong, sending Michaels sprawling backward.

Frustrated, HBK immediately goes back to the knee, stomping and twisting, grounding The Rock to smother his explosiveness. He cinches in a single-leg crab, digging his knee into Rock’s back, pulling with venom. The People’s Champion roars in pain, pounding the mat, trying to claw to the ropes. The Garden rallies, thunderous chants shaking the building: “ROCKY! ROCKY!” Inch by inch, Rock drags himself forward, sweat pouring down his face, until he finally stretches out and grabs the rope.

Shawn refuses to release, holding the crab in tight for a full four-count, smirking at the official before breaking. The crowd rains down jeers as Michaels holds his arms out innocently. He circles Rock like a vulture, waiting. Rock struggles to rise—and HBK charges, connecting with a low running chop block to the leg again!

Now Michaels climbs the ropes, ascending all the way to the top. He steadies himself, measures Rock, and leaps—flying elbow drop! But Rock rolls away at the last second, and Shawn crashes hard to the mat, clutching his ribs. MSG comes unglued! Both men lie battered, the crowd on their feet, roaring.

The Rock staggers up first, limping but fueled by the Garden’s energy. Michaels charges wildly—Rock counters with a Samoan drop! Both men are down again. Rock rolls over, draping an arm—1…2… Michaels just kicks out! The Rock slaps the mat, surging to his feet. Shawn staggers up, groggy—Rock connects with a spinebuster that shakes the ring! The crowd ERUPTS, instantly sensing what’s coming.

The Rock peels off his elbow pad, tossing it into the screaming sea of fans. He hits one rope—limping, gritting his teeth—hits the other rope—BOOM!—but Michaels kips up in desperation and meets him in mid-stride with Sweet Chin Music OUT OF NOWHERE! The crowd gasps in unison, a shockwave rolling through MSG. Both men collapse to the mat, Rock laid out, Shawn too exhausted to cover immediately.

Michaels slowly crawls, inching his way across the canvas, draping an arm across Rock’s chest—1…2… THR—ROCK KICKS OUT! The Garden detonates in disbelief, the cameras cutting to the wide-eyed faces of fans screaming in shock.

Shawn pounds the mat furiously, face twisted in frustration. He shoves the referee, barking at him to count faster, before pulling himself up by the ropes. He looks down at Rock, seething, and then backs into the corner. He begins stomping—THUD… THUD… THUD—the sound echoing, the crowd roaring with every stomp. HBK tunes up the band, eyes locked, sweat flying, waiting to end it.

The Rock rises slowly, dazed, staggering. Shawn swings—SWEET CHIN MUSIC—but Rock catches his foot! The Garden EXPLODES! Rock spins Michaels around—ROCK BOTTOM! Rock collapses on top of him! The referee dives—1…2… Michaels kicks out at the last possible second!

Fourteen thousand fans nearly blow the roof off the Garden. Both men are down again, drained, the first eight minutes having transformed into a war of wills, momentum swinging wildly between two icons. JR bellows with all the gravitas of history: “This is WrestleMania, by God! This is what it’s all about!”

The crowd is absolutely molten, stomping their feet and chanting as both men lay sprawled on the canvas, sweat glistening under the Garden’s lights. The referee checks on each, beginning his count—ONE… TWO… THREE… both men stir, dragging themselves up on opposite sides of the ring. At SEVEN, they meet in the center once more. Shawn throws a wild right—Rock blocks! BOOM! Right hand! The crowd erupts! Another right! Another! Michaels swings desperately, but Rock ducks, hooks him, and launches him over with a belly-to-belly suplex! The ring shakes, and the Garden comes unglued.

Rock staggers up, clutching his leg, grimacing but feeding off the noise. He lifts Shawn, whips him to the corner with fury—Shawn collides chest-first into the turnbuckle and stumbles backward into a vicious DDT! Rock covers—1…2…NO! Shawn jerks his shoulder up, his face twisted in defiance.

Rock pushes to his feet, pacing, shaking the pain from his leg. He measures Shawn, waiting. HBK crawls to the ropes, pulling himself up slowly. Rock charges—clothesline over the top! Both men spill to the outside, crashing hard to the floor!

The referee begins his count as the Garden buzzes with anticipation. Shawn, ever the opportunist, drags himself up using the announce table, clutching his ribs. Rock rises on the opposite side, limping but determined. They meet by the Spanish announce table, trading blistering punches—Rock’s fists sending Shawn staggering back, but HBK counters by driving Rock’s weakened knee into the edge of the table! The Rock cries out in agony, clutching his leg. Shawn smirks wickedly and slams Rock’s head into the steel steps for good measure.

Shawn breaks the count, then climbs the apron, measuring Rock. He leaps—a flying crossbody off the apron—but Rock catches him in mid-air! The Garden erupts! Rock stumbles, the weight stressing his bad leg, but with pure adrenaline he hoists Michaels high—and SLAMS him spine-first onto the barricade! Shawn arches in pain, screaming, as the fans explode in a frenzy.

Rock rolls him back inside and follows, dragging himself upright by the ropes. He waits, stalking, adrenaline coursing. Michaels staggers to his feet—Rock lunges, going for the Rock Bottom again—but Shawn counters with vicious elbows to the head! He breaks free, spins, and nails a swinging inverted atomic drop that buckles Rock’s knees. HBK hits the ropes—FLYING FOREARM! Both men collapse to the mat again, but Shawn kips up to massive boos, a sadistic grin stretching across his face.

He climbs the ropes, top turnbuckle now, steadying himself—FLYING ELBOW DROP connects flush across Rock’s chest! The crowd gasps as Michaels bounces off him, rolling, clutching his own ribs from the impact. He crawls back, hooks the leg—1…2… NO! Rock kicks out to a thunderous ovation!

Michaels pounds the mat in frustration, sweat flying, veins bulging in his neck. He pulls himself to the corner again, stomping, tuning up the band. The entire Garden is on its feet, half chanting “ROCKY!” half screaming in panic. Shawn stomps harder, his eyes wild, his teeth gritted, sweat dripping down his face. The Rock stirs, pushing himself up—Michaels charges—SWEET CHIN MUSIC—but Rock ducks! HBK spins around—SAMOAN DROP! The crowd ERUPTS again! Rock covers—1…2… Michaels kicks out just in time!

Both men roll away, exhausted, pulling themselves to opposite corners. They lock eyes again, chests heaving, faces twisted in war. They stagger up, limping toward each other like two prizefighters in the championship rounds. A slugfest ensues—Rock with a right! Shawn with a chop! Rock with a right! Shawn with another chop! Back and forth, the crowd screaming with every blow, half and half, the sound of the war echoing through Madison Square Garden.

Suddenly, Rock blocks a chop, spins Michaels around—spinebuster! The Garden detonates! The Rock peels off his other elbow pad, tossing it to the sea of fans. He limps toward the ropes—bounces once—bounces twice—PEOPLE’S ELBOW—NO! Shawn rolls out of harm's way as Rock crashes and burns again can’t hit the Peoples Elbow after 2 attempts. The crowd gasps, a mix of shock and horror, as both men are down on the canvas below.

Both men lie motionless, Madison Square Garden shaking with dueling chants of “LET’S GO ROCKY!” and “HBK SUCKS!” Michaels crawls to the ropes first, pulling himself up, face twisted with desperation. The Rock rises behind him, staggering, sweat pouring, fury in his eyes.

Shawn swings wildly with a chop—Rock fires back with a right hand! The crowd explodes! Another right! Another! Shawn staggers back, but suddenly rakes Rock’s eyes to a cascade of boos. With the advantage, HBK springboards off the ropes—flying forearm—NO! Rock snatches him in mid-air and PLANTS him with a Rock Bottom! The arena erupts into chaos as Rock crawls, draping an arm over Michaels—

1… 2… NOOOOO! Shawn kicks out at 2.9! The roof nearly blows off MSG. The Rock buries his face in the mat in disbelief, pounding the canvas.

Rock slowly stands, limping, looking out into the sea of fans for strength. He pulls Shawn to his feet, hooks him again—goes for another Rock Bottom—but Michaels wriggles free, spinning behind him, rolling Rock into a sudden schoolboy with a handful of tights—

1… 2… NO! Rock powers out.

Both men scramble up—Shawn swings Sweet Chin Music—Rock ducks—spinebuster AGAIN! The Garden ERUPTS! Rock rips off the tape from his wrists, glaring, and this time he hits the ropes once—twice—and CONNECTS with the People’s Elbow! The roof comes off! He hooks the leg—

1… 2… THR—MICHAELS KICKS OUT!

The camera catches fans in the front row with their hands on their heads, mouths open in shock. JR screams over the chaos: “By God, I’ve called WrestleMania for twenty years—I’ve never seen anything like this!”

The Rock kneels beside Shawn, eyes wide, sweat dripping, shaking his head. He slowly pulls himself up, signaling for one last Rock Bottom. The Garden roars. He hooks Shawn—

But Shawn EXPLODES with desperation elbows, driving them into Rock’s temple. One! Two! Three! He breaks free. Suddenly—BAM!—Sweet Chin Music OUT OF NOWHERE! The Rock collapses like a tree, Michaels collapsing with him. Both men are down!

The referee counts… ONE… TWO… THREE… both men stir. At SIX, Shawn crawls, inching toward the cover—he throws an arm over Rock—

1… 2… THRE—ROCK KICKS OUT AGAIN!

Michaels’ face turns to pure madness. He yanks at his hair, screaming, pounding the mat. He drags himself to the corner, clutching the ropes, rising slowly as the crowd rises with him. He begins to stomp again, tuning up the band, the sound echoing like war drums through MSG.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The Rock struggles to one knee. Shawn’s eyes burn. He swings—Sweet Chin Music—NO! Rock catches his leg, spins him, hooks him—ROCK BOTTOM—NO! Shawn twists mid-air, lands on his feet, and BLASTS Rock with a SECOND Sweet Chin Music! Rock crumples!

But Shawn doesn’t cover. He looks out into the Garden, sweat pouring, chest heaving, and shakes his head. Slowly, he pulls himself to his feet, dragging Rock’s near-lifeless body up with him. He holds Rock’s head close and snarls: “I am WrestleMania!”

Then he shoves Rock back, stomps once more, and for the third time—SWEET CHIN MUSIC! The kick lands flush, Rock’s head snapping back violently before he collapses flat in the center of the ring.

Shawn collapses on top—

1… 2… 3!!!

The bell rings, and Madison Square Garden becomes an earthquake. Boos cascade from the ceiling, but an undercurrent of awe hums beneath them—because everyone knows they just witnessed history.

Shawn Michaels rolls off, too exhausted to celebrate, his chest rising and falling like a man who’s just climbed Everest. The referee raises his hand, and Shawn stumbles to his feet, arms spread wide in his crucifix pose. Fireworks explode above the ring, silver and gold raining down. HBK’s face twists into a smug, almost deranged grin—he’s bloodied, broken, hated, but victorious.

The Rock stirs on the mat, eyes closed, body wracked with pain. The camera lingers on him, on his aura of defeat—but also respect. The People’s Champion gave everything, but on this night, it was Shawn Michaels who stood tallest.

Howard Finkel’s voice booms through the chaos:

“Here is your winner… the Heartbreak Kid… SHAWN MICHAELS!”

The music hits—“I think I’m cute…”—and Shawn slowly ascends the turnbuckle, arms stretched, chest heaving, glittering under the falling confetti. He mouths into the camera, lips curling into a wicked grin: “I am WrestleMania.”

The final shot is iconic: Shawn Michaels standing tall, his hand raised high, while behind him, The Rock slowly pushes himself up on one knee, staring at Shawn with defiance. Two eras, two legacies, colliding in Madison Square Garden, WrestleMania XX—the night where destiny chose HBK.

~ CONCLUSION OF WRESTLEMANIA XX ~

​

Going forward I will be doing Raw and Smackdown weekly recaps in one post. Trying that style going forward with focus on my PPVs. Hope you all enjoyed Wrestlemania XX. Already going through booking plans for Wrestlemania 21 being held in the LA Coliseum. Lets just say you won't wanna miss it!!! ​

 

[WrestleWizard]

"Some lines should never be crossed."

A RAW and SMACKDOWN Production......

WWE BACKLASH

Live from Toronto

Sunday May 2nd​

 

[Stojy]

'Mania was really overbooked but also really enjoyable. Writing was tremendous throughout also, so kudos for you getting that posted. Nice job.

Funnily enough, the one thing I potentially didn't agree with was the Eddie heel turn which I figured I'd call out after seeing the poster. After that huge feud with Goldberg, he's so hot as a face right now so to turn him and arguably put him in a feud down a rung (Mysterio lower on the totem pole than Goldberg), it really feels like a bit of a momentum killer to me. It also kind of feels weird that he was coexisting with Chavo after they just had a blood feud that culminated at the Rumble just two months earlier. With that being said, I do like the mask-based angle, and the poster for Backlash is really cool. Going to be really interested to see how you pull this off.

 

[WrestleWizard]

Appreciate the kind words Stojy. Yes i'll admit I overbooked the hell out of Mania but man so much fun to write and make my imagination go wild. Will try to reel it in to make it a tad more realistic going forward into next years mania. Trying something new with my shows going forward (TV only) Each post/update will be a segment on the TV show (RAW and Smackdown). For example below will be Segment I of the Raw after Wrestlemania. Next post I make will be Segment II and so on. Each 2 hour show is about 10 segments or so, so expect 10 posts approximately per tv episode. Should be able to get out about a post a day which should make it more fluid reading and for me easier to post and edit, also will allow more detail and less editing on my end with each segment/post rather than posting a diary/recap format. Let's see how this goes.

RAW AFTER WRESTLEMANIA XX 3.29.04

SEGMENT I: The Tectonic Shift

​

EAST RUTHERFORD, NJ. — The WWE signature opening had barely faded from the screen when the WWE audience was taken directly to WWE Headquarters, where Mr. McMahon was seated in his office. Looking furious and clearly in significant pain while wearing a large medical neck brace, the Chairman wasted no time addressing the situation.

"Despite the cowardly actions of 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin and that washed-up Hulk Hogan last night," Mr. McMahon seethed, his voice dripping with contempt, "their actions have only solidified what I already knew."

Referencing the historic WrestleMania XX, the Chairman declared that its theme was more than just a marketing slogan—it was a mission statement that will now be put into action.

"The theme of WrestleMania 20 was 'where it all begins again.' That wasn't just a theme, it's a promise, and things need to be changed around here. It's time to shake things up," he stated, leaning forward with a wince.

"The fans deserve new superstars, new matches, and new rivalries. It's time for a new WWE," he continued. "And that new era begins the night after Backlash."

Mr. McMahon then dropped the bombshell announcement that will undoubtedly change the landscape of sports-entertainment for the foreseeable future.

"On Monday, May 3rd, there will be a monumental, three-hour WWE Draft supershow, featuring superstars from both Raw and SmackDown!"

The Chairman proceeded to lay out the groundbreaking rules for this landscape-altering event:

• Universal Eligibility: Every single Superstar on both the Raw and SmackDown rosters will be eligible to be drafted. Mr. McMahon stressed there are "no exceptions," meaning even the WWE Champion, World Heavyweight Champion, and all other titleholders could be forced to switch brands.​
• The General Managers: Raw General Manager Eric Bischoff and SmackDown General Manager Paul Heyman will be making the selections for their respective brands.​
• The First Pick: A coin toss at the beginning of the Draft will determine which brand receives the coveted first overall pick.​
• The Draft Process: After the first pick is decided, the General Managers will alternate their selections one by one.​
• Trades: Following the Draft, Bischoff and Heyman will be permitted to make trades with one another until the following Sunday night at midnight. However, all trades are subject to the final approval of Mr. McMahon himself.​

The implications of the Chairman’s decree are staggering. Legendary tag teams could be split apart forever. Bitter rivalries could be extinguished in an instant, only to be replaced by new, unforeseen conflicts. Champions could find themselves defending their titles on an entirely new night of the week against a roster of unfamiliar challengers.

With a pained, menacing smirk, Mr. McMahon concluded his address to the fans before kicking off the night's action.

"And with that... welcome everyone... to MONDAY NIGHT RAW!!!"

The balance of power in WWE is about to be thrown into chaos. Who will be the first Superstar selected? Which brand will emerge with the stronger roster? The road to the new WWE begins now, and it all culminates on the monumental WWE Draft Supershow, May 3 on Raw!

​

 

[WrestleWizard]

RAW AFTER WRESTLEMANIA XX 3.29.04

SEGMENT II: Three Kings, One Throne: Backlash Main Event Set in Raw's Explosive Opening​

The screen faded to black from Vince McMahon’s blockbuster announcement, to the sound of twenty thousand people from the night before still echoed in the ether, a ghost of a roar that was instantly replaced by a fresh, live, and even more ferocious one. The Raw after WrestleMania was not merely a new episode; it was the first page of a new scripture, and the show opened with a cinematic gospel chronicling the war that had just ended. The video package was a masterpiece of controlled chaos—grainy, super slow-motion shots of sweat exploding from skin upon impact, hyper-saturated colors making the crimson masks and vibrant ring attire pop against the darkness of Madison Square Garden. It built with a pulsating orchestral score, capturing the agony and ecstasy of the night. The climax was a stunning, split-second montage: Shawn Michaels, his face a mask of defiant grit, coiled like a serpent before his boot met The Rock's jaw with a sickening crack for the third and final time. The image dissolved into a shot of pure, unadulterated mat wrestling brilliance—Kurt Angle, his face contorted in a primal scream of effort, grapevining the leg of a desperate Triple H. The camera zoomed in tight, capturing the bulging veins in Triple H’s forehead and the sheen of sweat on Angle's brow as he wrenched back on the Ankle Lock. There was no escape. The frantic, percussive slaps of a champion's hand on the canvas signaled the end of an era, and the footage froze on Kurt Angle, on his knees, clutching the World Heavyweight Championship to his chest as if it were a child he had just rescued from a fire.

Then, the broadcast exploded into the present. A concussive blast of pyrotechnics sent tongues of crimson and gold flame roaring up the entrance ramp, momentarily bathing the seething, sold-out arena in a brilliant, hellish light. The heat washed over the first few rows as the acrid smell of smoke filled the air, a baptism for the new age. Before the roar from the pyro could even subside, it was sliced through by a triumphant, heroic fanfare of brassy horns. The iconic first notes of Kurt Angle's theme music hit the P.A. system, and the arena erupted into a chaotic symphony of adulation and derision. From behind the curtain he emerged, not in the familiar red, white, and blue singlet of a warrior, but in the immaculate tailored suit of a king. The fabric of his sharp, navy blue jacket strained slightly against the immense weight of the “Big Gold Belt,” its ten pounds of polished gold and gleaming ruby inlays resting regally on his shoulder. Around his neck, catching the arena lights with every confident step, hung the familiar glint of his 1996 Olympic gold medal, a constant, shining reminder of the pedigree that brought him to this moment. He walked not with a bounce, but with a deliberate, regal strut down the ramp, a wide, vindicated smile plastered across his face. It was a smile that drank in the chorus of boos and the defiant, rhythmic chants of "You Suck!" just as deeply as it absorbed the thousands of cheers. He treated both as fuel, the discordant noise of his coronation. Reaching the ring, he ascended the steel steps, passed through the ropes, and strode to the center of the canvas, raising a microphone to his lips as the heavy gold plate on his shoulder cast a brilliant, championship glare across a sea of faces, ready to address his new kingdom.

"For over a year," Angle began, his voice crisp and confident, cutting through the thick arena air. He paused, letting the statement hang, turning his head slowly so every corner of the building could see the prize he now possessed. "For three hundred and ninety-eight days, to be exact, this World Heavyweight Championship was held hostage." A murmur rippled through the crowd. "It was held hostage by a man who called himself 'The Game.' A man who built an entire 'Evolution' of cronies, not to be the best, but to protect his spot as the best." He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a more conspiratorial, intense tone. "Ric Flair, Batista… they weren't his friends; they were his bodyguards. His human shields. Because deep down, Hunter knew that on a level playing field, he couldn't hang with an Olympic Gold Medalist." The cheers grew louder, more unified. "Well, last night, at WrestleMania, the shields were gone! His cronies were banned from ringside! There was nowhere to run, and there was nowhere to hide!" The crowd absolutely roared its approval, a tidal wave of sound that seemed to physically shake the ring.

Angle raised the Big Gold Belt from his shoulder, holding it out in front of him with both hands like a holy relic. "Last night, in the center of that ring, I didn't just beat 'The Game'... I dismantled him! I took him to the mat, I out-wrestled him, I out-fought him, and when he had nothing left to give, I made him quit." He let the word hang with venomous satisfaction. "I made him tap out!" He slapped his own hand against the mat—tap, tap, tap—the sound echoing grotesquely through the microphone, a direct and humiliating imitation of Triple H’s surrender. "This championship is finally free! And this," he declared, his voice rising to a crescendo as he hoisted the belt high above his head, "is the beginning of an era of integrity, intensity, and intelligence! This is the era of Kurt An—"

SKRRRTCH!

The sound of a needle being dragged across vinyl screeched through the arena, cutting his triumphant declaration dead. A deep, guttural bass line filled the void, and then the iconic, snarling riff of Motörhead's "The Game" detonated from the speakers. The cheers instantly curdled into a chorus of the most thunderous, venomous boos imaginable. Out from the back stormed a figure barely recognizable as the composed, corporate champion of the last year. A visibly unhinged Triple H, his face pale and gaunt, marched toward the ring with a predatory stalk. Gone was the thousand-dollar suit and the cool, calculating demeanor. He was clad in faded jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his usually perfect hair a damp, tangled mess plastered to his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, sunken, and burning with a furious, sleepless rage. Stripped of his title, his cronies, and his empire, he was a cornered, wounded animal, and he looked infinitely more dangerous for it. He didn't bother with the steel steps, instead sliding under the bottom rope with a raw aggression that belied his main-event status. He shot up to his feet and got nose-to-nose with Angle, invading his personal space, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. The smell of stale sweat and pure fury radiated from him as he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.

"You got lucky," he spat, a fine spray of saliva hitting Angle's cheek. "That's all it was. A fluke. You caught me. You didn't beat me. I want my rematch." He jabbed a finger hard into Angle's chest. "And I want it tonight!"

Angle, reveling in this complete and utter breakdown of his rival, didn't flinch. He slowly wiped the spittle from his cheek with the back of his hand before letting out a cold, barking laugh that held no humor. It was a laugh of pure contempt. "A rematch?" he mocked, his voice dripping with condescension. "You come out here, looking like you just crawled out of a gutter, and you demand a rematch? After you tapped out like a coward in front of the entire world?" Angle shook his head, his smile turning into a predatory grin. "That's not how it works anymore, Hunter. There's a new champion, and there's a new set of rules. You go to the back of the line with everyone else, and you earn it. Oh, it's true… it's damn true!"

Before Triple H could explode, another sound, another complete shift in the arena's atmosphere, shattered the tension. The unmistakable synth-pop intro and the sultry whisper of "I think I'm cute..." blared through the arena. The boos for Triple H were instantly consumed by a completely different kind of sound—a deafening, high-pitched wave of pure, unadulterated adoration. "Sexy Boy" erupted, and Shawn Michaels, fresh off his legendary victory over The Rock, emerged onto the stage. He moved with the practiced, cocky swagger of a man who owned not just the building, but the entire industry. His self-satisfied grin was electric as he gyrated, slapping hands with fans on his way to the ring. He slid in, popped to his feet with youthful energy, and deftly stepped between the two heated rivals, a microphone already in his hand.

"Hunter, Hunter, Hunter," Michaels began, slowly shaking his head with an air of condescending pity, like a father lecturing a disappointing son. "Last night was a big night, wasn't it? Lots of things happened. But you don't get to come out here and demand anything. See, last night, you lost. You tapped out. You gave up." He paused, letting the insult land before turning his attention to his own accomplishments. "Me?" He hooked a thumb into his own chest, his grin widening to reveal a pearly white smile. "I went face-to-face with 'The Great One.' I went toe-to-toe with 'The People's Champion.' And in the main event of the biggest WrestleMania of all time, I beat The Rock." The crowd exploded again. "So, Kurt," he said, turning to the champion with a newfound respect that was still laced with arrogance, "while he was crying in the locker room, I was making history. So if anyone around here has earned the first shot at that beautiful gold... it's Mr. WrestleMania."

The ring had become a powder keg of ego and ambition. The new, proud champion; the fallen, furious king; and the self-proclaimed, undeniable icon stood inches apart, the air crackling with unspoken violence. Just as it seemed the ring would detonate, a smarmy, familiar theme song hit. Eric Bischoff, Raw's General Manager, appeared on the stage, a shark-like grin plastered on his face as he surveyed the chaos he was about to orchestrate.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Bischoff shouted, walking down the ramp. "Look at this! The new champion, the former champion, and Mr. WrestleMania, all ready to tear each other apart. Hunter, you are contractually entitled to a rematch. Shawn, after your victory last night, you have just as legitimate a claim. I'm not going to make you two fight for it... because I'm going to give it to you BOTH!"

The crowd roared in confusion and excitement.

"That's right! At Backlash," Bischoff declared, pointing toward the rafters, "it will be Kurt Angle... defending his World Heavyweight Championship against Triple H... AND against Shawn Michaels... in a Triple Threat Match!"

The crowd lost its collective mind. In the ring, Triple H seethed, Michaels smirked, and Angle looked on with a mixture of fury and confidence.

"But as for tonight," Bischoff continued, his greedy smile widening, "the Raw after WrestleMania deserves a main event of its own. You two," he said, pointing at Triple H and Shawn Michaels, "clearly have some unresolved issues. So tonight, you're going to go one-on-one and give this sold-out crowd a match they will never forget!"
"And to make sure that this match has the... proper officiating," Bischoff added, letting the suspense build, "there will be a special guest referee. And that special guest referee... will be the third man in the Backlash main event... THE WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION.... KURT ANGLE!"

The crowd erupted again at the promise of the bonus main event. But Kurt Angle’s smile was the most telling. He raised his microphone one last time, his voice cutting through the din with chilling clarity.

"That's great, Eric. That's fantastic," Angle said, slowly and sarcastically applauding. He locked eyes with Michaels. "And Shawn... don't think for one second I forgot about what you did last month at No Way Out after our match which I won by the way.” Michaels’s smirk faltered. Angle then swept his gaze over both men, his expression turning deadly serious. "So you two can beat the hell out of each other tonight. Rip each other apart for my amusement. And I'll be right there in the middle of it, calling it right down the line." He smirked. "And it makes no difference to me who wins." He took a step forward, now inches from both of their faces. "Because whether it's you, Hunter, or it's you, Shawn... the result at Backlash is going to be exactly the same. I am going to grape-vine your leg, I am going to break your ankle, and I am going to make you tap out! Oh, it's damn tr—"

That was the breaking point. Triple H, consumed by a tidal wave of rage and humiliation, exploded. He lunged forward and shoved Angle hard in the chest. "You won't get the chance!" he roared. Angle, an Olympic gold medalist, stumbled back a step before his instincts took over. He fired back with a powerful shove of his own, sending Triple H staggering back towards the ropes.Seeing his two rivals locked on each other, Michaels saw his opening. He launched himself forward, his boot rising in the familiar motion of Sweet Chin Music aimed directly at Angle’s head. But Angle’s reflexes were otherworldly. He ducked under the kick, which whistled inches past his ear. As Michaels spun around from the momentum of his missed attack, he was met by a charging Triple H, who nearly took his head off with a brutal clothesline. Michaels crashed to the mat, and Triple H immediately began stomping away at him. But he forgot about the champion. Angle shot in from behind, wrapped his arms around Triple H’s waist, and with a guttural roar, arched his back and sent him flying with a massive release German Suplex. Triple H landed hard, the wind driven from his lungs. As Angle rose to his feet, Michaels scrambled up and met him in the center of the ring, unleashing a flurry of right hands. Angle absorbed them and fired back with stiff shots of his own. The champion and Mr. WrestleMania were trading blows when a recovering Triple H charged in, tackling both men. The scene devolved into a vortex of violence—a chaotic three-way brawl with no alliances. Fists flew in every direction as all three men tried to fight each other at once. Officials and referees swarmed the ring, desperately trying to contain the anarchy. They managed to pry them apart, but it was a failing effort. Triple H broke free and speared Michaels into the corner. Angle yanked Triple H off and tried to lock in the Ankle Lock. Michaels came flying in with a forearm to break it up. The segment ended with the chaotic image of a dozen officials struggling to keep three of the biggest stars in WWE history separated, each man's eyes burning with hate for the other two, a perfect preview of the war that would define the new era of Raw.

OFFICIAL FOR WWE BACKLASH
May 2nd, 2004
Toronto, Canada

WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP
Kurt Angle (c) vs. Triple H vs. Shawn Michaels

LATER TONIGHT ON RAW.....

SPECIAL GUEST REFEREE: KURT ANGLE
TRIPLE H vs. SHAWN MICHAELS

CHRISTIAN AND TRISH STRATUS LIVE

WOMEN'S CHAMPIONSHIP
WRESTLEMANIA XX REMATCH
LITA (c) vs. MOLLY HOLLY​