SpeakEasy Pro Wrestling -Invite Only - May Week 1 - Part 2

The cameras cut backstage to yet another office door, this one labeled:

STACY KEIBLER – HEAD OF TALENT RELATIONS

*The crowd erupts in cheers, excited at the prospect of seeing the legendary Stacy Keibler. The anticipation builds… but then the door swings open.

And the cheers instantly turn to boos.

Because stepping out of the office, looking smug as hell, is none other than Dominik Mysterio.

Dressed in his usual designer shirt, ridiculous chains, and oversized sunglasses, Dom adjusts his collar like a man who just struck a major deal. His smirk is insufferable, his body language screaming pure arrogance. He takes a step forward, but the moment the crowd realizes exactly who they’re seeing, the boos become deafening.

And then… it starts.

“TINY DICK! TINY DICK! TINY DICK!”

The entire arena erupts in the merciless chant, a brutal callback to Liv Morgan’s earlier humiliation of Dom. The second he hears it, his smug grin vanishes.

Dom freezes in place, his jaw tightening. He tries to ignore it, shaking his head like it doesn’t bother him, but the chant only grows louder. His hands twitch at his sides as he mumbles something under his breath—something clearly not meant for broadcast.

Grinding his teeth, Dom yanks his sunglasses off and glares at the camera, eyes full of barely-contained rage. He mutters something about the fans being idiots before quickly adjusting his jacket and storming off down the hallway, doing his best to pretend he doesn’t hear them.

But the chant follows him.

The cameras linger for a moment on the closed door of Stacy Keibler’s office, leaving the mystery of why exactly Dom was meeting with her hanging in the air.

With the crowd still mercilessly reminding Dom of his earlier humiliation, the show cuts to commercial.

Back from commercial, the cameras cut to the office of Stacy Keibler – Head of Talent Relations. The nameplate on the door gleams under the light, but when the shot moves inside, it’s clear that Stacy doesn’t exactly look thrilled to be on camera right now.

*Seated behind her desk, Stacy has her famously long, toned legs crossed on top of it, her heels dangling slightly as she leans back in her chair. Her expression is one of mild annoyance, like she was in the middle of something more enjoyable before this interruption.

Standing in the doorway is Gia Miller, microphone in hand, her face a mixture of professionalism and curiosity.*

Gia Miller:"Stacy, we were told you requested this time. What can we do for you?"

Stacy sighs, shifting slightly before reluctantly pulling her legs off the desk and sitting up straight.

Stacy Keibler:"Gia, let me be clear—this is not how I wanted to reintroduce myself to the SPW audience. But unfortunately, my job here isn’t just about looking good in an office."

She winks at the camera, flashing a smirk before regaining her serious tone.

"No, my job is to make sure that every single superstar on this roster is… satisfied."

*Her voice drips with playful suggestion, her smirk teasing before she moves on, suddenly all business again.

"And unfortunately, not everyone is."

Gia raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

Gia Miller:"Who exactly is... unsatisfied?"

Stacy exhales dramatically, like she doesn’t want to say it out loud but knows she has to. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk as she delivers the unfortunate truth.

Stacy Keibler:"I just had a meeting with Dominik Mysterio, and let me tell you… he is not happy about what Liv Morgan had to say about him earlier tonight."

The crowd immediately stirs, remembering the absolute destruction of Dom’s ego at Liv’s hands. Stacy shakes her head, stifling a laugh before continuing.

"In fact, Dom was adamant that Liv was… let’s just say selling him short. And he is demanding an apology."

Gia stares at her, blinking in disbelief.

Gia Miller:"An apology? Because Liv said he has a tiny—"

Stacy cuts her off immediately, raising a hand. But her attempt at control immediately backfires.

Stacy Keibler:"Yes, Dom has a tiny dick. Wait—I mean—THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID! Not me! I don’t know, of course, I—I—""

Both women immediately burst into laughter, Stacy burying her face in her hands for a moment before looking back up, shaking her head at her own slip-up.

"Oh god. I walked right into that one."

Gia can barely hold herself together, trying to keep the interview professional but failing miserably. The crowd, meanwhile, is roaring with laughter at Stacy’s accidental confirmation.

After finally composing herself, Stacy clears her throat and regains her serious tone. Well, as serious as this situation can be. She leans back slightly, resting her hands on her desk.

Stacy Keibler:"So, next week… DomaDick—oops, I mean, Dominik will be in the ring, and he will be expecting a formal, public apology from Liv Morgan."

Gia bites her lip, trying not to laugh again as Stacy continues.

Stacy Keibler:"And if Liv chooses not to attend… she will be fined and suspended."

*The crowd boos loudly at the idea of Liv being punished over this, but the laughter is still lingering. Stacy leans back, giving Gia a playful shrug as if to say "I don’t make the rules—except I totally do."

The camera lingers for a moment as Gia shakes her head, muttering something about how ridiculous this is, before we cut back to the arena.

CM Punk vs. Jon Moxley – VIP Access Qualifier

Back in the arena, the anticipation is at an all-time high as the crowd erupts in excitement, knowing what’s coming. The lights dim just slightly, and then…

"LOOK IN MY EYES… WHAT DO YOU SEE?"

*The opening chords of “Cult of Personality” hit the speakers, and the arena explodes. The energy is electric as CM Punk steps onto the stage, arms spread wide, soaking in the reaction.

But he’s not alone.

Right beside him, his wife AJ Lee prances around playfully, her natural mischievousness on full display. Dressed in shorter-than-usual denim shorts and a cut-off shirt that perfectly accentuates her abs, AJ is a ball of chaotic energy, skipping circles around Punk while playfully nudging and teasing him.

Punk, ever the showman, stops at the top of the ramp and throws his taped hands to the side before loudly declaring:*

"IT'S CLOBBERIN' TIME!"

*The crowd roars in approval as he starts making his way down the ramp, AJ still toying with him—giggling, lightly shoving his arm, skipping ahead and then waiting for him to catch up. Every so often, she reaches out and playfully touches his chest, her fingers tracing the tattooed canvas that is her husband, fully aware of the eyes watching her.

Punk finally reaches the ring, taking a moment on the apron to look out at the crowd before stepping inside. AJ follows, her eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters, before she finally slips out to ringside, still grinning as she leans against the apron, watching her husband prepare for battle.

The music fades.

The tone shifts.

"WIIIIIIIIIIILD THING… YOU MAKE MY HEART SING!"

*The entire mood of the arena flips on its head. Gone is the playful energy of Punk and AJ. In its place? Pure, unfiltered chaos.

*From somewhere in the crowd, Jon Moxley appears. No grand entrance, no theatrics—just a man on a mission. Wearing his usual black leather jacket and jeans, Mox moves through the sea of fans with a focused intensity, slapping hands but never once breaking stride. This is not a man here to put on a show. This is a man here for a fight.

*The camera follows Mox as he storms through the crowd, never hesitating. He reaches the barricade, hops over it without missing a step, and slides into the ring, immediately rising to his feet and coming nose-to-nose with Punk.

No hesitation. No fear. No words.

Just two men standing inches apart, breathing the same air, eyes locked in mutual disdain.

The crowd is on fire. The history between these two men is long, bloody, and deeply personal.

AJ, still at ringside, tilts her head slightly, chewing her lip as she watches her husband stand face-to-face with the kind of chaos that most men wouldn’t dare look in the eyes.

This isn’t about championships.

This is about survival.

The referee steps between them, signaling for the bell.

The time for words is over.

It’s time to fight.

CM Punk vs. Jon Moxley – VIP Access Qualifier

*The tension inside the arena is palpable. No circling. No hesitation. The second the bell rings, CM Punk and Jon Moxley collide in a flurry of wild, reckless punches. Neither man bothers with strategy—this is about hurting the other person as quickly and brutally as possible.

Punk’s striking advantage becomes immediately apparent. His crisp elbows and sharp kicks keep Mox at bay, driving him toward the corner. He lands a vicious Muay Thai knee to the ribs, then steps back—launching forward for his signature corner knee! The crowd pops as he grabs Mox’s head mid-air and snaps him into a running bulldog!

Punk quickly scrambles to his feet, looking to keep control, but as he turns, Mox ducks a roundhouse kick, shoving Punk back-first into the ropes! The moment Punk rebounds, Mox throws his entire body into a massive clothesline—sending both men flying over the top rope!

THUD!

Both men crash to the floor, bouncing off the apron on the way down! The impact is sickening, and the commentary team reacts accordingly.

Tazz: "OH SH—Did you hear that?! Punk and Mox just bounced off the apron like dead bodies!"

Renee Paquette: "There is zero caution in this match, and I think Moxley prefers it that way!"

Wade Barrett: "Mox lives in chaos—and now, Punk does too!"

Moxley, ever the opportunist outside the ring, grabs Punk by the hair and rams his skull into the steel ring post! Punk staggers, dazed, but Moxley doesn’t let up—grabbing him again and bouncing his head off the steel steps with a sickening CLANG!

Punk stumbles toward the barricade, hands outstretched to keep himself from collapsing. But Moxley, like a predator sensing weakness, isn’t finished. He grabs Punk by the neck and hurls him headfirst into the announce table! Punk lands awkwardly, clutching his forehead in pain.

Tazz: "Punk’s gotta find some breathing room, or else Mox is just gonna tear him apart!"

Punk desperately staggers away, blood beginning to trickle from his forehead, but Moxley isn’t done. He grabs the timekeeper’s bell and swings it like a baseball bat—BLASTING Punk across the skull! The force of the shot sends both men spilling over the barricade into the crowd!

The camera cuts to Punk, now completely busted open, blood streaming down his face as Moxley stalks him through the fans. They trade punches in the sea of bodies, but the fight eventually finds its way back over the barricade—Punk desperately trying to create distance.

Punk, seeing Mox closing in fast, slides under the ring. Moxley, not about to give him a second to recover, follows right after him—only for a sudden BURST of white powder to explode into his face!

Moxley staggers back, swinging blindly—completely blinded by the mystery powder!

Punk, crawling out from under the ring, holds the empty fire extinguisher in his hands, eyes wild with desperation. With no hesitation, he swings it with every ounce of strength he has—smashing the metal canister into Moxley’s skull!

Moxley drops like a bag of bricks. The extinguisher rolls away, dented from the impact. Punk, still dripping blood, grabs a nearby kendo stick and begins swinging it down with reckless fury!

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

Moxley writhes on the floor as Punk lands shot after shot, the kendo stick leaving angry red welts across his back. By the time the stick splinters in Punk’s hands, Mox’s back is a roadmap of pain.

But Moxley refuses to stay down.

With a snarl, he lunges forward and drives Punk full force into the steel ring steps! The impact is brutal, sending Punk flipping over the top of them!

Moxley, breathing heavily and bleeding from the forehead himself, wipes his face and looks under the ring.

And then…

He grins.

Moxley drags a table from under the ring, setting it up parallel to the entrance ramp. But he isn’t done. Reaching under again, he pulls out a small black bag. The crowd immediately knows what’s coming.

With a sick smile, Moxley climbs onto the apron and dumps the contents of the bag across the table—THUMB TACKS. The ring crew at ringside winces, knowing exactly what kind of pain this setup is about to bring.

Punk, seeing this, stumbles toward the ring, shaking his head, but Moxley has one last surprise.

From under the ring, he pulls out a barbed-wire wrapped 2x4.

The audience erupts.

Moxley slides into the ring, gripping the weapon like a reaper claiming his next victim.

THWACK!

The barbed wire crashes into Punk’s midsection! Punk doubles over in agony, blood now seeping through his shirt. Moxley tosses the 2x4 aside and immediately hooks Punk—Paradigm Shift!

1… 2… PUNK KICKS OUT!

*Moxley stares in disbelief, then licks the blood from his own lips, grinning. Punk, now bleeding from both his forehead and his ribs, forces himself to his feet, running purely on instinct.

Moxley moves in for another Paradigm Shift—but Punk counters, leaping up and driving a knee into Moxley’s chin! Mox stumbles, dazed!

GTS!!!

The arena explodes, but before Punk can go for the pin, Moxley instinctively rolls to the apron… right where the thumbtack-covered table waits below.

Punk desperately reaches for him, trying to pull him back inside, but Moxley clings to the ropes, buying himself precious seconds.

Then Moxley glances down at the table below.

Then up at the nearby turnbuckle.

And he makes a dangerous decision.

*Moxley climbs the turnbuckle, dragging Punk up with him—planning a superplex from inside the ring to the outside! The crowd collectively gasps, realizing the sheer insanity of the idea.

But before he can lift Punk—

AJ LEE GRABS MOX’S LEG!

*At ringside, AJ grips both of Moxley’s boots, shaking her head like a pesky little gnat, preventing him from fully executing the move. Mox kicks at her, annoyed but distracted—

And that distraction is all Punk needs.

Punk counters!

He throws his full body weight into Moxley—sending both men flipping off the top rope…

AND CRASHING THROUGH THE THUMBTACK TABLE BELOW!!!

SPLINTERS AND TACKS GO EVERYWHERE!

The arena erupts in sheer disbelief as both men lay in the wreckage, bloodied and broken!

But somehow, Punk lands on top of Moxley.

The referee drops down.

1… 2… 3!!!

The medical team immediately rushes to ringside, AJ Lee helping Punk to his feet, the commentary team in stunned silence.

SPW goes off the air with one final shot of the wreckage.

This? Was just the beginning.

FADE TO BLACK.

*Just when the dust has finally settled, when the blood has dried and the thumbtacks have been cleared from the ring, the screen fades to black—only to come back up on the familiar sight of Lewis Black, seated in front of his now well-worn black backdrop. The audience immediately pops, knowing they’re about to get the most brutally honest summary of the night.

Lewis, however, looks like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His hair is disheveled, his eyes twitching slightly, and his hands are clasped together like he’s trying to hold his own sanity in place. He takes a slow, measured breath, and then finally speaks.*

Lewis Black:"Alright. I don’t even know where to start. But unfortunately, I have to. Because that? That was two hours of the most absurd bullshit I have ever seen in my life."

He leans forward, staring directly into the camera, eyes wild.

*"We opened this show with Paul Heyman laying out the structure of SPW, telling us how this brand is built on competition, on championships, on the best in pro wrestling. Great! Sounds professional, right? Sounds like a real sports operation.

And then… CM Punk showed up."*

*He throws his hands up in exasperation.

"He immediately derailed the entire thing, demanded a match, and before Heyman could even blink, Moxley was in his face like a rabid dog. No words, no hesitation, just pure murder in his eyes. That’s how we started. And somehow, it only got worse from there."

He rubs his temples, like he’s fighting off a migraine.

"Then we had Big Dick Energy, who, if you haven’t guessed from the name, are two human erections disguised as wrestlers. They hit on both GMs before being thrown into a match with Britt Baker, where they proceeded to win… and were rewarded by being mooned by three Gunns and Xia Brookside."

He pauses, shaking his head.

"We are one show in. ONE SHOW. And we’ve already had a multi-person mooning."

*He rubs his face, trying to push forward.

"Then, because apparently, this night wasn’t dumb enough yet, out walks Logan Paul. Who, if I understand correctly, has officially declared himself a contender for the SPW World Title. I’d say I was surprised, but honestly, at this point, I’d be more surprised if this company DIDN’T put a championship on a man whose biggest accomplishment is selling caffeinated toilet water."

*He shakes his head, then suddenly points a finger at the camera, face twisting in rage.

*"AND THEN! As if to personally punish me for even attempting to take this seriously, out comes MJF. Who does what MJF does best—verbally destroyed Logan Paul, announced himself for the world title division, and then proceeded to tell Logan to get the hell out of his ring and take his goat piss with him. And you know what? That was the first thing that actually made sense tonight! I was with him—for three whole minutes, I thought maybe, just MAYBE, this company had a direction.

And then… Dominik Mysterio happened."*

The crowd erupts into laughter, knowing exactly where this is going. Lewis looks dead inside.

"Because apparently, this is the timeline where Dominik Mysterio has demands."

He closes his eyes for a long moment before finally continuing.

*"That little bastard got humiliated by Liv Morgan, who absolutely destroyed his life, his reputation, and his entire sex appeal in the span of thirty seconds. And in response? He went straight to Stacy Keibler’s office—which I assume is the first time he’s ever entered a room where a woman actually wanted to see him. And why? Because he wants an apology.

An apology! Because, and I quote, she sold him short.

…Listen, I don’t know what he expected. The entire crowd saw what she was saying was objectively true. The arena saw it. The world saw it. I saw it. My grandchildren will see it. It’s on the internet forever. But sure, Liv Morgan should apologize.

Which brings me to the moment where I realized this company was actually trying to kill me."*

He leans in, voice hushed like he’s about to tell a dark, terrible secret.

"Scott Steiner. Is in management."

He leans back, closes his eyes, and exhales like his soul is leaving his body.

"The man who once cut a promo about numbers that didn’t add up. The man who was once banned from Canada for life. The man who once called someone fat for three minutes straight is now an executive in this company. And the first thing he did? Book The Hardys against two men who actually murdered them on live television."

He holds up a hand, barely holding back a scream.

"The match ended with both Hardys being stretchered out. And somehow, we just… kept going."

He throws his hands in the air, exasperated.

*"Tatum Paxley. My saving grace.

Paul Heyman, a man who could have picked any assistant in the world, hired this woman. A woman who writes notes on her hand, forgets she’s pretending to work, and believes that the first thing people want to see in an office is her ass. And you know what? She’s right.

I may not know what the hell this company is doing. I may not know why I’m still here. But I do know this. Every time Tatum Paxley is on my screen, for just a few seconds, everything feels okay."*

*He pauses, collecting himself.

*"Which lasted until Eva Marie lost a match because her own wardrobe tried to escape her body.

And then we came full circle back to Punk and Moxley. Who didn’t have a match. They had a crime scene.

There was blood. There were tacks. There was a barbed-wire 2x4. And somehow, this ended with AJ Lee cheating, both men crashing through a table, and a referee counting the pin while desperately trying to figure out if he needed to call a doctor or a priest."*

Lewis stares into the void.

*"And that… is what you can expect every single week from SPW.

A show so insane that a woman literally exposing herself was only the third most ridiculous thing to happen tonight."*

He exhales deeply, shaking his head one final time before looking straight into the camera, his expression a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.

"I’ll see you at VIP Access. Where someone is going to have to explain this nonsense to me. Because I can’t. I just… I can’t."

*He sits back, blinking slowly as the screen fades to black.

SPW is officially off the air.