~ WWE: The Blueprint ~

[WrestleWizard]

~ WRESTLEMANIA XX PART I ~

~ COMING THURSDAY JULY 31st Noon Est ~​

 

[Ry Guy]

Can’t wait for part 1.

 

[WrestleWizard]

~ WRESTLEMANIA XX PART 1 ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​

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

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

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

​

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

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

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

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

A moment of silence. A breath held.

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

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

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

*BOOM!!!* ​

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

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

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

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

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

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

The night has truly begun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DING DING DING!

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

And then there's Rikishi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Momentum shifts again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then-it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four men remain in contention:

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

All four converge on the central ladder. All climb.

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

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

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

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

But he climbs.

Rung by rung. One hand. Then the other.

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

~ WINNERS

Spoiler

PAUL LONDON & BRIAN KENDRICK NEW WWE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS

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

~ WWE SHOP AD BREAK ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, eyes narrowing with quiet intensity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ARENA – MADISON SQUARE GARDEN]

The arena goes dark.

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

“Time to Rock & Roll” by Lil’ Kim

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

The curtain parts - and there she is.

Trish Stratus.

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

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

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

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

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

A smirk breaks across her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRISH STRATUS VS. ALUNDRA BLAYZE​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winner: Trish Stratus (8:01)

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ WRESTLEMANIA 21 AD BREAK ~​

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

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

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

WRESTLEMANIA 21

APRIL 3rd, 2005

LIVE FROM THE LA MEMORIAL COLISEUM ​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The screen fades to black and the video package begins.

BATISTA/ORTON VIDEO PACKAGE​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then — the bell rings.

Randy Orton vs. Batista​

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

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

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

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

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

Winner:

Spoiler

Randy Orton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ WWE ON DEMAND AD BREAK ~

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

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

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

Transition to Graphic

​

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

JBL/FAROOQ VIDEO PACKAGE​

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

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

But family... can fracture.

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

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

“YOU HELD ME BACK!”

The screen burns to white.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The music builds-faster, louder, more chaotic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Music drops out.

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

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

[LIVE IN ARENA]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door opens-and out steps JBL.

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

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

Suddenly-

Farooq starts walking toward him.

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

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

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

THE FIGHT BEGINS ON THE RAMP.

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

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

As the referee finally calls for the bell-

FALLS COUNT ANYWHERE, NO DQ
JBL vs. FAROOQ ​

DING DING DING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1... 2... NO.

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

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

1... 2... KICKOUT!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Farooq collapses. JBL drops across him.

1… 2… 3.

DING DING DING.

Winner:

Spoiler

JBL

The image is haunting.

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

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

But no one walks away whole.

~ CONCLUSION OF PART I ~

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

WWE Championship: Brock Lesnar (c) vs. Edge

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

Eddie Guerrero vs. Goldberg

Inferno Casket Match: Undertaker vs. Kane

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

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

World Tag Team Championship Tag Team Turmoil Match

Women’s Championship: Molly Holly vs. Lita

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

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

 

[Stojy]

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[WrestleWizard]

~ PART II ~​

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cut to the hallway across the arena.

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

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

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

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

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

And then-

CUT TO BLACK.

WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP VIDEO PACKAGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The arena goes dark.

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

The Garden is ready.

The crowd is white-hot.

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

WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP
LITA vs. MOLLY HOLLY​

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

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

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

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

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

WINNER AND

Spoiler

NEW WOMEN’S CHAMPION: LITA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rey nods firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He throws a tantrum like some spoiled niño.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There will be no outsmarting. Only destruction.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“WHO’S NEXT?”​

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

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

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

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

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

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

“VIVA LA RAZA!”​

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

Latino Heat is in the building.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goldberg hasn’t moved.

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

Eddie Guerrero vs. Goldberg​

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

DING! DING! DING!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winner:

Spoiler

Eddie Guerrero

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

WWE SHOP AD BREAK

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chavo Jr. smirks, brushing past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TWO!

TH—NO!!

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

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

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

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

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

WINNER AND

Spoiler

NEW U.S CHAMPION JOHN CENA

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

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

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

AD BREAK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cut to black. Fire consumes the screen. Then:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“WrestleMania... will be your funeral.”

Fade to black.

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

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

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

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

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

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

INFERNO CASKET MATCH
THE UNDERTAKER vs. KANE​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winner:

Spoiler

The Undertaker

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Commercial Break)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cole leans forward with energy as the camera zooms in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRADITION.

BETRAYAL.

IDENTITY.

LEGACY.

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

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

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

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

Fade out. Total silence… then the crowd roars.

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

Suddenly, the arena goes black.

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

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

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

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

Then the music dies.
A beat of silence.

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

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

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

Rey starts his walk.

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

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

The music fades.

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

Rey doesn’t flinch.

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

The crowd roars.

It’s time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One…
Two…
Three!

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

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

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

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

SICKENING CRACK!

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

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

~ COMPLETION OF PART II ~

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

~ STILL TO COME ~
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HBK vs. The Rock

WWE Championship: Brock Lesnar (c) vs. Edge

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

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

World Tag Team Championship Tag Team Turmoil Match​