~ 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.