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

The screen fades in from black, revealing a dimly lit studio. A worn-out leather chair sits in the middle of the frame, occupied by a man who looks like he's been forced to endure one too many ridiculous situations in life—Lewis Black. His arms are crossed, his expression somewhere between exhaustion and barely-contained rage. He takes a deep breath through his nose, exhales sharply, then glares directly into the camera.

Lewis Black:"Some of you already know who I am. Some of you might recognize me from another company—because these lunatics sure as hell did. And now? Now I’m stuck here, doing these damn introductions… forever. Why? Because some genius in charge thought, ‘Hey, you know who should explain the madness that is SPW? A man who barely tolerates existence as it is.’ So here I am. Welcome to my personal hell."

He throws his hands up before slamming them onto the desk.

Lewis Black:"This is Speakeasy Pro Wrestling—a wrestling promotion where logic does not exist, shame is an outdated concept, and decency was dragged into the back alley and beaten with a steel chair. If you came here expecting sportsmanship and ‘good clean fun,’ let me be the first to tell you—you are a fucking idiot.

Men’s Division"Let’s start with the Men’s Division, because at least on the surface, this one resembles normal professional wrestling. You’ve got guys like CM Punk, who decided that the best way to fix his midlife crisis was to drag his wife, AJ Lee, into this lunatic asylum with him. I guess they looked at retirement, looked at each other, and said, ‘You know what? Let’s just go get our asses kicked instead.’"

"This division is filled with people who either want gold, power, or just to punch someone in the face for looking at them wrong. And let’s be honest—it's mostly the latter."

Women’s Division"Next up, the Women’s Division—where things are just as vicious, twice as personal, and ten times more likely to end in humiliation. This isn’t about ‘women proving they belong in wrestling’—they already do, and they’re here to kick in teeth and ruin lives while doing it. You’ve got people like Alexa Bliss, a woman who could either be your best friend or burn your house down while smiling about it—and the worst part is? You’ll thank her either way."

"In SPW, the women don’t take a backseat. They drive the damn car straight through a flaming table."

Men’s Tag Team Division"Now we move to the Men’s Tag Team Division, where two-man teams form, fall apart, betray each other, and reform again in a never-ending cycle of broken friendships and shattered alliances. Case in point? The Lucha Bros. You ever seen two guys just casually ignore the laws of physics? Watch them for five minutes. You’ll start questioning your entire understanding of gravity."

"This division is where teamwork matters until it doesn’t—and trust me, it never does for long."

Women’s Tag Team Division"The Women’s Tag Division? Same rules apply, just with more backstabbing and an even higher tolerance for pain. You’ve got teams like The Hex, who, based on their name alone, I assume spend their free time summoning demons or cursing their enemies. And honestly? Good for them. If you're going to beat the hell out of people for a living, you might as well get a little supernatural assistance, right?"

"Now we’re getting into the real insanity. The Men’s Carnage Division—which is exactly what it sounds like. This isn’t ‘wrestling.’ This is legalized attempted murder. There are no rules, no restrictions, and no common sense. Weapons are encouraged, blood is expected, and concussions are practically a membership fee."

"People like Jon Moxley live here, because normal wrestling matches don’t do it for him anymore. He doesn’t want to win matches—he wants to survive them. And if he happens to kill someone in the process? Oops."

"So, if you like watching people get smashed through flaming tables covered in barbed wire while grinning like lunatics—congratulations, you found your favorite division."

"And then there’s the Women’s Wildcard Division, which is… how do I put this? Less about ‘wrestling’ and more about… let’s say, ‘entertainment.’"

"This is where the fights are just as much about humiliation as they are about victory. It’s where egos get broken, bodies get exposed, and the line between ‘wrestling’ and ‘softcore debauchery’ is so blurred it doesn’t even exist anymore."

"You’ve got people like Eva Marie, a woman who doesn’t even need to throw a punch to ruin someone’s life. Just one smirk, one pose, and suddenly, half the roster is making terrible decisions. She doesn’t ‘wrestle’—she manipulates, embarrasses, and leaves people questioning their life choices."

"So if you’re tuning in for traditional wrestling, look away. If you’re tuning in for absolute chaos and scandal, welcome home."

"Now, we’ve got the Intergender Division, because if SPW can break one more tradition, you bet your ass they will. Men and women, teaming up, fighting each other, no separation, no restrictions, just straight-up competition."

"Take The Miz & Maryse, for example. The Miz has the biggest ego in professional wrestling, and Maryse has… well… two major reasons why people pay attention. And I’m not talking about her in-ring ability. Together, they are obnoxious, arrogant, and probably the only two people who love themselves more than they love winning."

"If you thought wrestling was ‘predictable,’ this division is here to slap the taste out of your mouth and prove you wrong."

"And who’s in charge of this circus? Paul Heyman. Because when you need someone to control a roster filled with lunatics, sadists, exhibitionists, and attention-starved egomaniacs, you hire the biggest manipulator in wrestling history and hope for the best. Brilliant plan."

Lewis exhales, rubbing his temples before suddenly perking up.

*"But you know what? There is a bright side to all of this. A beacon of pure, unfiltered joy in this godforsaken company. Her name? Tatum Paxley." He clutches his chest dramatically. "She is so sweet, so enthusiastic, and so unbelievably bad at her job—but my god, I love her. Watching her work is like watching a baby deer try to walk on ice. You KNOW it’s going to end in disaster, but you can’t look away."

"So, congratulations—you’re officially in for a night of violence, scandal, and complete insanity. Welcome to Friday Night Invite Only. Buckle up. It’s gonna be a long ride."

The screen smashes to black, the SPW logo explodes onto the screen, and we transition to the arena’s pyro blasting off. The chaos has begun. The show explodes onto the air with an onslaught of fireworks blasting from the stage, sending plumes of smoke and sparks into the rafters. The camera sweeps across the packed arena, capturing a rowdy, fired-up crowd holding signs ranging from “WE WANT BLOOD” to “MARYSE, CALL ME” to “TATUM PAXLEY FAN CLUB.” The energy is electric—unfiltered chaos right from the jump.

The shot transitions to the SPW commentary team—Tazz, Wade Barrett, and Renee Paquette—sitting at ringside behind a desk littered with papers, energy drinks, and what looks like an empty bottle of whiskey. Tazz leans forward, grinning like a man who knows he’s about to get away with some serious shit on live television.

Tazz: "OH, BABY! WE ARE LIVE, AND THIS IS THE FIRST-EVER FRIDAY NIGHT INVITE ONLY! If you’re watching at home, congratulations! You have made the absolute worst decision of your life, and I respect the hell out of you for it!"

Wade Barrett: "I have a feeling we are about to witness absolute anarchy, destruction, and questionable decision-making, and honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Renee Paquette: "You two are way too excited for what I am certain is about to be a full-on crime scene disguised as a wrestling show. But hey—if you’re looking for violence, controversy, and a complete disregard for common decency—you’ve come to the right place."

The camera shifts to another sweeping shot of the ravenous crowd, then suddenly—

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… MY NAME IS… PAUL HEYMAN!"

The arena erupts in a mix of cheers, boos, and sheer anticipation as the lights dim blood red, and the unmistakable theme of Paul Heyman booms through the loudspeakers. The Mad Genius of Wrestling himself steps onto the stage, dressed in an immaculate black suit, his signature smirk firmly in place. The microphone is already in his hand—as if he was born holding one. The camera catches close-ups of fans in absolute awe, knowing that whatever Heyman is about to say will set the course for SPW’s future.

Heyman slowly walks down the ramp, taking in the chaos and unpredictability of his empire. He steps into the ring, raises the microphone, and with the calculated pause of a master manipulator, he speaks.

Paul Heyman:"Ladies and gentlemen… MY NAME… is PAUL HEYMAN!"

The crowd erupts again, but Heyman simply closes his eyes, soaking in the moment like a man who knows he owns the room.

Paul Heyman:"And I would like to personally thank Lewis Black for that… delightfully unhinged introduction to our world. You see, Mr. Black, much like everyone in this audience, you did not choose SPW. No, no, no. SPW chose you."

The crowd pops, and Heyman chuckles to himself before continuing.

Paul Heyman:"And now that we’ve set the stage—let’s get down to business. Speakeasy Pro Wrestling is built on chaos, but chaos must have structure. And that structure comes in the form of our seven divisions, each designed to crown the absolute best in their field."

Heyman starts pacing the ring, speaking with a mix of commanding authority and snake-oil salesman charisma.

Paul Heyman:"You see, here in SPW, a wrestler may only declare for ONE division. One title. One shot at greatness. But… should they decide their ambitions lie elsewhere… they are free to change divisions. Of course—they’ll start at the bottom and claw their way back up. Nothing in this company is given. Everything is taken."

Heyman smirks, letting that sink in before shifting gears.

Paul Heyman:"And that brings us to our first-ever pay-per-view event. In just four weeks’ time, we present to you… SPW: VIP ACCESS."

The graphic flashes on the screen—a sleek, gold-and-black logo with an ominous VIP wristband dripping in blood.

Paul Heyman:"At VIP Access, every single championship will be crowned in a Fatal Four-Way Match, with a stipulation befitting that division. And make no mistake—this will not be some ‘friendly competition.’ No, no, no. This will be a war zone. A battlefield. A proving ground where only the ruthless, the skilled, and the most dangerously ambitious will leave with gold around their waist."

The crowd is on fire, the energy in the building reaching nuclear levels as Heyman’s intensity grows.

Paul Heyman:"And the road to VIP Access? It starts TONIGHT. Because as of this very moment—qualifiers begin. Winners advance. Losers? Well… this is SPW. And in SPW, losing has consequences."

Heyman grins like the devil himself, letting the weight of his words settle before raising the microphone one final time.

Paul Heyman:"Welcome… to Speakeasy Pro Wrestling. Welcome… to Friday Night Invite Only. And most importantly…welcome to the beginning of the most unpredictable, most depraved, most must-see era in wrestling history."

The crowd explodes, the air buzzing with anticipation as Heyman lowers the mic, standing in the center of the ring like a man who just set the wrestling world on fire. The camera catches glimpses of the commentary team reacting, all nodding in approval—because shit just got real. The battle for SPW gold has officially begun. Paul Heyman adjusts his suit, preparing to exit the ring, but before he can take a step…

"LOOK IN MY EYYYYES, WHAT DO YOU SEEEE?!"

The unmistakable opening riff of "Cult of Personality" blasts through the arena, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife. The crowd EXPLODES, a mix of thunderous cheers and deafening boos, as CM Punk steps onto the stage, accompanied by none other than his wife, AJ Lee. The two stand at the top of the ramp, taking in the reaction, Punk with his signature smirk, AJ with a confident tilt of her head, hands on her hips. The two look completely at home in chaos.

At ringside, the commentary team reacts immediately.

Tazz: "OH, BUSINESS JUST PICKED UP! You want controversy? You want attitude? You want a guy who doesn’t give a damn who he pisses off? Well, there he is."

Wade Barrett: "Love him, hate him, it doesn’t matter—CM Punk is here, and you KNOW he has something to say. And the fact that AJ Lee is with him? Oh, this just got even more interesting."

Renee Paquette: "You could feel the energy shift in this building the second that music hit. Punk isn’t just showing up—he’s here to make a statement."

Punk takes a deep breath, soaking in the reaction before pulling a microphone from his hoodie pocket. He raises it, waiting just long enough for the chants of “CM PUNK! CM PUNK!” to reach their peak before speaking.

CM Punk:"Paul… Paul… Paul. You weren’t just gonna leave without saying hi, were you?"

Heyman, still in the ring, exhales deeply, closing his eyes like a man who just realized he left the oven on. He slowly turns back toward Punk, his smirk fading just slightly. Punk tilts his head, amused.

CM Punk:"I get it. Big first night. Big announcements. Lotta things to cover. But let’s not dance around it. I didn’t come here to listen to speeches. I came here to do what I do best—fight."

The crowd erupts, and Punk nods, pacing slightly on the stage.

CM Punk:"Now, Paul, you’re a smart guy. Some might even say the smartest guy in the business. So I know you already had a plan in place. I know you weren’t just gonna let CM Punk show up on Night One and not have a match. So let’s cut the bullshit. Name the opponent. Name the stipulation. Let’s get this over with."

Heyman slowly strokes his chin, contemplating, before lifting his mic.

Paul Heyman:"You know, Mr. Punk, you really do amuse me. You walk onto my stage, on my show, and you demand a match? You dictate the terms? No, no, no. That’s not how this works."

Heyman steps toward the ropes, pointing directly up at Punk on the stage.

Paul Heyman:"But… you’re in luck. Because I admire enthusiasm. And since you’re so eager to fight, I’ll give you exactly what you want. In fact… I’ll do you one better."

Heyman grins, adjusting his tie as the crowd buzzes in anticipation.

Paul Heyman:"Tonight’s main event… will be a Street Fight. No disqualifications. Falls count anywhere. No escape. And your opponent?"

Heyman pauses, milking the moment before stepping back toward the center of the ring.

"Well… I found just the guy."

“WIIIIIIILLLLD THIIIIIIIIINGS!!”

The crowd EXPLODES as "Wild Thing" blares through the speakers. The camera cuts to the crowd, and there, pushing his way through them with purpose, rage, and zero patience for this bullshit, is none other than Jon Moxley.

Tazz: "OH SHIT! YOU WANT A FIGHT, PUNK? YOU GOT A GODDAMN WAR!"

Wade Barrett: "This isn’t just a match—this is about to be a crime scene."

Renee Paquette: "Oh god… I know how this ends. Punk, you better be ready."

Moxley climbs over the barricade, immediately locking eyes with Punk from the floor. The crowd is FRENZIED, the anticipation buzzing like electricity in the air. Punk doesn’t flinch, standing tall on the stage, but there’s a visible shift—he knows exactly what kind of fight he just agreed to.

Moxley slowly raises a mic, his eyes locked on Punk as he speaks in a low, dangerous tone.

Jon Moxley:"Punk… you’ve got a big mouth. But tonight? I’m gonna shut it for you. And I’m not just gonna beat you—I’m gonna enjoy it. Because I don’t fight for titles, for money, for fame. I fight because it’s the only thing that keeps me sane. And tonight? I get to take all this rage, this violence, this goddamn NEED to break someone in half— and I get to pour it all out on you."

Moxley tosses the mic to the floor, never breaking eye contact. Punk, still on the stage, smirks, raising his mic one last time.

CM Punk:"Yeah? Well, bring your best shot, Mox. Just make sure you don’t miss."

The crowd is white-hot, the tension palpable, as Moxley grins, licking his lips like a predator about to feast. The camera lingers on the deadly stare-down between the two men before fading to black as we head into the first commercial break. After the commercial break, the cameras take us backstage, zooming in on a sleek metallic sign outside an office door that reads:

Assistant GM – Lita & Assistant GM – Trish Stratus

The crowd pops at the sight of the two legends’ names, and the camera slowly moves inside, revealing the office of SPW’s Co-General Managers. The space is surprisingly well-kept—at least for now—with a platinum-framed VIP Access promotional poster on the wall. Sitting on opposite sides of the desk, Lita and Trish Stratus are engaged in a heated yet friendly debate.

Trish Stratus: "I’m telling you, Lita—Punk has the experience advantage, he’s got the mind games, and he’s just as ruthless as Moxley when he needs to be. If I had to bet on this, my money’s on Punk walking out of that Street Fight with his hand raised."

Lita: "I hear you, but you’re forgetting one thing—Moxley doesn’t feel pain the same way normal people do. The guy is a walking warzone. And this is his environment. You put Mox in a match where there’s no rules, no boundaries, and nowhere to run? That’s like giving a pyro a box of matches and telling them to have fun."

Trish shakes her head with a smirk, about to respond, but before she can—

BAM!

The door bursts open, and the crowd pops as none other than Big Dick Energy (BDE)—Ace Austin & Nic Nemeth—swagger into the office like they own the place. Their energy is pure arrogance, their charisma off the charts, and their swagger is borderline illegal.

Ace Austin adjusts his jacket, flipping a playing card between his fingers as he smirks. Nic Nemeth, dressed to perfection with a smug grin, tilts his sunglasses down just enough to make eye contact with both women before speaking.

Nic Nemeth: "Ladies… ladies… ladies. Did someone order a double dose of star power?"

Ace Austin: "Because if so—we just delivered."

Trish and Lita exchange knowing looks, arms crossed as they watch SPW’s most confident tag team make themselves way too comfortable in the office.

Nic Nemeth: "Look, we know you two have very important things to discuss. Strategies, plans, who’s hotter between the two of you—"

Ace Austin: "—which, by the way, is an unsolvable mystery."

Nic leans against the desk, smirking as Lita and Trish remain unimpressed.

Nic Nemeth: "But let’s focus on what’s really important—BDE doesn’t have a match tonight. And frankly? That’s a tragedy. A crime, really. We’re talking national emergency levels of injustice."

Ace Austin: "We bring the ratings. We bring the eyes. We bring… well, big dick energy."

Nic Nemeth: "And trust me, we’d rather be showing off in the ring than in your office… unless, of course, we’re invited to stay."

Lita and Trish exchange glances, before Trish smirks and leans forward.

Trish Stratus: "You want a match? You got one."

BDE grin, their charm working as usual—until Lita speaks up with a devious glint in her eyes.

Lita: "In fact, since you two are so full of confidence, we’re going to do you one better. You’re not just getting any match. You’re getting a qualifying match."

BDE’s grins widen, but Trish quickly raises a finger.

Trish Stratus: "But—you won’t be going in alone. This is a six-person tag team match. You’ll have a mystery female partner, and so will your opponents."

BDE exchange glances, intrigued.

Nic Nemeth: "So you’re telling us that not only do we get a match, but we also get a mystery partner? Someone hot, right?"

Ace Austin: "Yeah, let’s be clear—we need someone who matches our energy. Someone with class, charisma, and the ability to turn heads."

Trish just smirks.

Trish Stratus: "That’s for you to find out… right now."

The cocky grins on BDE’s faces vanish as Lita suddenly leans forward.

Lita: "Because I’d suggest you get your asses to the ring—"

Just then, a loud guitar riff blasts through the speakers in the arena as the crowd erupts in cheers. The camera cuts to the entrance stage, where the lights begin flashing, signaling the arrival of BDE’s opponents.

Lita (grinning): "—because their music is starting right now."

BDE exchange wide-eyed glances before immediately turning and sprinting out of the office like men who just realized they might have gotten in over their heads. The camera follows them rushing through the backstage area, shoving past crew members and nearly knocking over a catering table, before bursting through the curtain and into the arena—right as the match is about to begin. The camera cuts to the ring as the lights flash, and the SPW crowd buzzes with anticipation. The arena is alive with energy as the opening chords of "Gunn Club’s" theme song hit, and out come Austin & Colten Gunn, flanked by none other than their father, Billy Gunn. The crowd gives a mixed reaction—partially because everyone loves an Ass Man, and partially because, well… they’re The Gunn Club.

Austin and Colten stride down the ramp, pointing at themselves and shouting “BEST TEAM ALIVE, BABY!” while Billy follows behind, shaking his head but clearly still proud of his boys. Austin slides into the ring first, hyping up the crowd, while Colten hops onto the ropes, arms stretched wide like he’s already won. Billy, meanwhile, casually leans against the apron, watching with a smirk as his boys wait for their partner.

Then… a sudden shift. The lights dim slightly, and an upbeat yet fierce British rock track kicks in.

Renee Paquette: "And here comes their partner! Let’s see who’s about to team with the Ass Family tonight!"

The big screen flashes XIA BROOKSIDE, and the crowd gives a strong pop as the bubbly, high-energy Brit makes her way onto the stage! She’s all smiles, full of life, and looking like a walking contradiction for SPW’s chaos. Xia’s outfit is a mix of cutesy and sporty—a cropped pink top with "BROOKSIDE" in cursive, a short pleated white-and-pink plaid skirt, and knee-high wrestling boots to match. She twirls once at the top of the ramp before confidently making her way down, pointing at the crowd and pumping her fists in excitement.

As she reaches ringside, she stops right in front of Billy Gunn, looking up at the larger man before suddenly—throwing her arms around him in a big hug! Billy’s eyes go wide, clearly caught off guard as Xia giggles and playfully pats his back. The crowd laughs as Austin and Colten exchange weirded-out glances, Colten mouthing “What the hell, dad?” Billy finally grins and pats her head, shaking his head before motioning her toward the ring.

Tazz: "OH MY GOD, SHE JUST HUGGED THE ASS MAN! I CAN’T EVEN PROCESS THIS!"

Wade Barrett: "We knew Xia Brookside was full of energy, but I don’t think anyone expected her to be this… enthusiastic about Billy Gunn!"

Renee Paquette: "Look, I know this company is full of degenerates, but that was just pure innocence. And honestly? I’m not sure it belongs here."

Xia hops onto the apron, waving excitedly to the crowd before stepping inside and giving another enthusiastic wave to her teammates. Austin and Colten give her a hesitant fist bump, still trying to figure her out, while Billy just laughs at the whole situation.

“BIG. DICK. ENERGY.”

*Suddenly, the lights drop to a deep purple hue, and an unmistakable bass-heavy track throbs through the arena. A massive neon sign-like effect flashes on the screen spelling out BDE, and the camera cuts to the entrance just as the two most self-absorbed men in wrestling today make their arrival.

Ace Austin & Nic Nemeth—Big Dick Energy—step onto the stage, and the crowd immediately loses its collective mind.

Ace is wearing an open black-and-gold sleeveless robe, but no shirt underneath, letting his sculpted abs and tattooed chest do the talking. His wrestling tights are skin-tight, metallic gold with “ACE” boldly printed across the waistband. A deck of playing cards flashes between his fingers, and he gives the camera a wink that could cause divorces.

Nic Nemeth, never to be outdone, has on a leather jacket left completely unzipped, exposing just enough to make people wonder if it’s actually legal. His wrestling trunks are short. Too short. They are hot pink, glistening under the lights, with "BDE" written in obnoxiously bold letters across the back. His platinum blond hair is perfectly styled, and his smirk is that of a man who knows every woman in the building is looking.

Renee Paquette: "Listen, I’m married, okay? But even I have to say… damn."

Tazz: "I AM LOOKING RESPECTFULLY!"

Wade Barrett: "…I finally understand their team name. And frankly, I need a cold shower."

BDE strut down the ramp like the world revolves around them. Ace flashes a playing card toward the camera, before flicking it into the audience like he’s handing out phone numbers. Nic slowly removes his sunglasses, biting the edge of one lens before tossing them into the crowd. A fight immediately breaks out over them.

As they reach ringside, Ace hops onto the apron and lounges against the ropes while Nic slides inside, doing an exaggerated hip swivel before striking a dramatic pose in the center of the ring. The Gunn Club look visibly annoyed, Xia Brookside, however, seems to be blushing.

“D! M! D!”

*The lights flicker, and the screen flashes DMD—Britt Baker. The crowd erupts as the newly single, always dominant, and now slightly more provocative Doctor makes her entrance.

Britt Baker steps onto the stage, and there’s a noticeable change in her usual demeanor. She’s wearing **less than usual—her normal leather jacket is gone, replaced by a tight, cropped top that leaves more of her midriff exposed. Her usual skin-tight leggings? Gone. In their place is a dangerously short set of black-and-red trunks that hug just right. The top still has D! M! D! written across the chest, but in a lower cut than normal.

She stops at the top of the ramp, placing a single finger to her lips before flashing a confident, wicked smirk. The crowd loves it.

Renee Paquette: "Oh, I see what’s happening here. The dirt sheets weren’t lying—Britt Baker is single, and she knows it."

Tazz: "You mean to tell me that every man in this building doesn’t have a chance with her? Because they sure as hell think they do right now."

Wade Barrett: "Dr. Britt Baker, DMD… and dangerously underdressed."

Britt makes her way down, locking eyes with Nic and Ace for a brief moment, before simply grinning and stepping into the ring. She joins BDE, leaning against the ropes with absolute confidence. Nic gives her an approving nod, while Ace flips a playing card toward her. Britt catches it without even looking, smirking as she tucks it into her gear.

The camera cuts to The Gunn Club and Xia Brookside, who now seem a lot less confident. Billy Gunn just shakes his head, muttering "These fing kids."***

With all six competitors in the ring, the referee steps forward, signaling for the match to begin.

The bell rings, and the match is officially underway!

Starting things off are Ace Austin and Austin Gunn—two men with the same first name but vastly different levels of cool. Austin Gunn wastes no time, using dirty tactics and quick jabs to take control early. He yanks Ace into a headlock, grinding him down before shoving him into the ropes and dropping him with a knee lift to the gut.

Colten quickly tags in, and the Gunn Club work seamlessly to isolate Ace, cutting the ring in half. They stomp him down, using quick tags to keep the pressure on. Billy Gunn watches approvingly from ringside, shouting instructions as his sons continue their assault.

Renee Paquette: "Smart strategy by The Gunn Club, keeping Ace trapped in their corner."

Tazz: "Yeah, but let’s be real—Ace Austin isn’t gonna stay down for long. He’s too slippery, like a weasel that also happens to be ridiculously good-looking."

Wade Barrett: "Are you okay, Tazz?"

Colten charges at Ace, looking for a running splash in the corner—but at the last second, Ace leaps up, using the ropes to vault over Colten, landing behind him! Colten turns around, stunned, and Ace responds with a spinning back kick to the gut, followed by a handspring enzuigiri! The crowd pops as both men hit the mat!

Ace crawls toward his corner… Colten tries to grab his leg… but Ace dives forward and makes the tag! In comes Nic Nemeth! The crowd erupts as Nic bursts into the ring with all the energy of a man who knows he looks damn good doing it. He ducks a wild swing from Colten, rebounds off the ropes, and flattens him with a jumping clothesline! Austin Gunn rushes in—SUPERKICK TO THE JAW! Both Gunn boys hit the mat hard as Nic strikes a dramatic pose, flipping his hair back.

And then… disaster nearly strikes.

Nic’s obnoxiously short, hot pink wrestling trunks—already dangerously close to breaking several FCC regulations—shift just a little too much. The crowd gasps as Nic frantically adjusts them, barely keeping everything under control.

Renee Paquette: "I—I think Nic Nemeth just had a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen!"

Tazz: "He’s playing with fire, Renee! I swear to god, we’re one wrong movement away from SPW turning into a very different kind of show!"

Wade Barrett: "Oh, it’s already a different kind of show!"

Nic manages to keep everything in place, but the brief distraction gives Colten just enough time to scramble toward his corner and slap the hand of… Xia Brookside! The crowd erupts as Xia hops onto the top rope and springs into action!

Nic turns, still adjusting his shorts, and suddenly finds himself face-to-face with Xia. His cocky smirk returns as he looks her up and down, then casually places his hands on his hips.

Nic Nemeth: "Well, hello there."

Xia blinks rapidly, her face turning red. She’s marking out HARD. She giggles, covering her mouth, before composing herself. The crowd laughs along as Nic flexes his abs, clearly trying to distract her.

Wade Barrett: "I can’t believe this man is literally flirting MID-MATCH."

Tazz: "I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S WORKING!"

*Xia fans herself, clearly swooning… but then, with zero warning—she SLAPS Nic right across the face! The crowd gasps, then roars as Nic staggers back, holding his cheek in shock! Xia smirks mischievously, wagging her finger at him.

Xia Brookside: "Nice try, but I’m not that easy, darling!"

The crowd erupts as Xia ducks under a stunned Nemeth’s attempt at a grab and drops him with a spinning headscissors! Nic quickly scrambles to his feet, but Xia follows up with a beautiful dropkick to the chest! The Gunn Club cheer her on from the apron, while Billy claps approvingly at ringside!

Nic rolls to his corner, rubbing his jaw, looking half-impressed and half-offended. He shakes his head and tags in Britt Baker. The crowd buzzes as the newly single Doctor steps in, cracking her neck before locking eyes with Xia.

*The second D! M! D! chants start, Britt charges forward and takes control immediately. She slams Xia down, hitting her with stiff forearms, before whipping her into the ropes and catching her with a spinning back elbow! Britt wastes no time, grabbing Xia’s arm and twisting her down for a rolling cross-arm breaker, softening her up for the inevitable Lockjaw!

The Gunn Club try to rush in, but BDE cut them off, laying them out with synchronized superkicks! Xia tries to fight back, but Britt rolls her into the center of the ring, traps her arm—AND LOCKS IN THE LOCKJAW! Xia *struggles, screaming, trying to fight it, but there’s nowhere to go! She reaches out—AND TAPS OUT!

WINNERS: BDE & BRITT BAKER (Qualify for VIP Access)

POST-MATCH SHENANIGANS

*As the bell rings, Britt lets go and rolls off of Xia, casually flipping her hair back as she smirks. Nic and Ace raise their arms in victory, grinning like they just won the Super Bowl. The three stand together in the ring, basking in the spotlight as The Gunn Club and Xia lick their wounds on the mat.

Billy Gunn steps into the ring, shaking his head in mock disappointment as he looks at his sons and Xia. He sighs dramatically before grabbing a mic.

Billy Gunn: "You know… losing’s tough. It sucks. But you know what makes everything better?"

The crowd leans in, confused. Xia and The Gunn Club look up at Billy, waiting for his answer.

Billy Gunn: "MOONING THE CROWD."

*The arena erupts into laughter and cheers as Xia’s jaw drops. Colten and Austin look shocked, but Billy just shrugs like this is the most normal suggestion in the world. He looks at Xia, raising an eyebrow.

Billy Gunn: "Well? What do you think?"

Xia looks horrified at first… but then peeks out through her fingers and slowly nods. The crowd goes nuts. The Gunn Club and Xia all turn around, drop their tights just enough—AND MOON THE WINNERS FROM INSIDE THE RING.

*BDE & Britt Baker, now standing at the top of the ramp, freeze in horror. Nic and Ace’s jaws drop as they shield their eyes, stumbling backward like they’ve been hit with a flashbang. Britt bursts into laughter, shaking her head like she can’t believe what’s happening.

Tazz: "ONLY IN SPW! ONLY IN THIS GODDAMN COMPANY!"

The camera zooms in on Billy, Xia, and The Gunn Club, still mooning with pride before fading to black, heading into the next segment.

After the absolute madness that just unfolded in the ring, the cameras quickly cut to the backstage parking lot, where a sleek, black limousine slowly rolls to a stop. The crowd buzzes in anticipation, unsure of who could possibly be arriving now.

The camera takes a cinematic approach, focusing first on the polished chrome rim of the limo’s tire, then panning upward as the door swings open. A single black boot steps out, landing firmly on the pavement.

The shot slowly rises, revealing a gold-plated Rolex wrapped around a perfectly toned wrist, fingers casually gripping a bottle of Prime Energy. The crowd reacts instantly—a mix of boos, gasps, and pure shock. The camera finally pans up to reveal the smirking, cocky face of none other than…

LOGAN. PAUL.

*The arena erupts as the social media megastar, YouTube sensation, and controversial businessman grins like he just walked into his own kingdom. Dressed in a custom-made white fur-lined jacket, designer jeans, and sunglasses worth more than most people’s cars, Logan takes a swig of his Prime, letting the moment sink in. He adjusts his shades, smirks at the camera, and then… casually winks.

The camera lingers on his arrogant expression as he starts walking toward the entrance, his confidence borderline unbearable. The SPW crowd is already loud, divided between those booing him out of the building and those who can’t help but be intrigued.

Renee Paquette: "Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me!"

Tazz: "SOMEONE CHECK MY PULSE, I THINK I JUST FLATLINED!"

Wade Barrett: "The rumors were swirling, but it’s official—Logan Paul is HERE in SPW. And judging by that strut, he’s heading straight for the ring!"

Renee Paquette: "Love him, hate him… hell, despise him—Logan Paul knows how to make an entrance. But what the hell is he doing here?"

Tazz laughs, shaking his head.

Tazz: "I dunno, Renee, but something tells me we’re about to find out—after the break!"

The camera lingers on Logan Paul, who stops in front of the Gorilla Position, takes another sip of Prime, and mocks the camera with a sarcastic thumbs-up before pushing through the curtain.

Fade to commercial.

As we return from commercial, the camera cuts to the ring, where Logan Paul stands dead center, soaking in the moment. During the break, he had generously handed out bottles of Prime Energy to the fans at ringside, as well as to the commentary team. The camera briefly cuts to Renee Paquette, Wade Barrett, and Tazz, who all have bottles of Prime sitting in front of them.

Tazz twists the cap off, takes a sip, nods, then shrugs.

Tazz: "I mean, I hate to say it, but… kinda refreshing?"

Wade Barrett: "I refuse to give this man credit for anything, but dammit, it’s not bad."

Renee Paquette: "Oh, you two are so easily bought. This man just walked in here like he owns the place, and you’re over there sipping on free handouts!"

Tazz leans back in his chair, sipping again.

Tazz: "Yeah. And?"

Back in the ring, Logan Paul picks up a microphone, flashing his signature cocky smirk. The crowd boos loudly, mixed with a smattering of cheers from the younger fans and social media diehards. Logan waits, soaking in the reaction like it’s fuel for his already massive ego.

Logan Paul:"Well, well, well… the rumors are true, ladies and gentlemen."

The boos intensify, but Logan just grins wider, adjusting his sunglasses as he leans casually against the ropes.

Logan Paul:*"I know what you’re thinking—‘Oh, great, another celebrity walking into pro wrestling to plug a movie, promote a podcast, sell some merch…’"

He pauses, looking around with a knowing smirk.

"And you know what? Yeah, I could do that. I mean, let’s be honest—I’m the biggest draw in combat sports today. I could come here, drop a quick plug for PRIME, take my paycheck, and dip. But that’s not why I’m here."

Logan pushes off the ropes, now standing tall in the center of the ring.

Logan Paul:"See, unlike every other celebrity who walks through those doors—I actually give a damn about this. I didn’t just grow up watching pro wrestling… I grew up loving it. And unlike those other guys, I’m not here to pop a rating and leave—I’m here to stay."

The crowd continues booing, but there’s an undeniable pocket of fans who respect his confidence. Logan paces slightly, his energy magnetic.

Logan Paul:"So, let’s make it official. I’m entering the World Championship Division. I’m going to be here every single week, competing, proving that I’m the real deal. And at the end of this journey, when the dust settles, when all the wannabes, has-beens, and never-weres are out of my way… The Maverick, Logan Paul, will be the SPW Champion."

With that, Logan tosses the mic over his shoulder casually, stepping between the ropes to make his exit… but before he can leave—

"BIDDINGGGGGGGG… WARRIORS!"

The crowd erupts in a massive, unexpected pop as the arena lights flicker gold and black. The camera quickly cuts to Logan, who pauses on the ring apron, his head slowly turning toward the entrance ramp. And then… out steps Maxwell Jacob Friedman.

MJF strides onto the stage, dressed to the nines in a tailored suit, his signature Burberry scarf draped around his neck. He has a mic in hand, his smirk is smug as hell, and the crowd knows exactly what’s about to happen. He pauses for a moment, adjusting his watch before slowly lifting the mic to his lips.

MJF:"Hold on, hold on, hold on… ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

The crowd pops as Logan raises an eyebrow, stepping back into the ring as MJF starts marching down the ramp.

MJF:"I mean, I knew SPW was gonna be a circus, but this? This is next-level. This is a goddamn joke. This is what happens when you let YouTube frat bros think they belong in a real sport."

Logan scoffs, motioning toward MJF dismissively, but Max just shakes his head and steps onto the apron, slowly climbing into the ring.

MJF:"Let’s get one thing straight, Prime Boy—you are not one of us. You will never be one of us. You wanna talk about growing up watching wrestling? Cute. You wanna say you love this business? Adorable. But let’s be real—you’re here because your relevance is dying. You’re here because no one gives a shit about impulsive morons anymore. And you think you’re gonna walk into MY world and take the SPW World Championship?!"

MJF laughs mockingly, stepping closer until he’s face-to-face with Logan.

MJF:"Logan, my guy, let me remind you of something. This show? It’s called Invite Only. And you? You weren’t. Nobody invited you. Nobody wants you here. And if you had even an ounce of intelligence in that Prime-fueled brain of yours, you'd take your stupid little bottle of goat piss, get back in your little rich-boy limo, and hit the bricks."

Logan smirks, clearly amused but unfazed. He slowly raises his mic.

Logan Paul:"That’s real cute, Max. You rehearse that in the mirror? Or was that off the cuff?"

MJF rolls his eyes, waving him off.

MJF:"Logan, let me make this crystal clear—if you show up on MY show again? If you so much as breathe the same air as me? I will personally see to it that you don’t make it to next week. I will end you. You’re not a Maverick—you’re a goddamn tourist. So do yourself a favor… and get the hell out."

*MJF steps right up into Logan’s face, sneering as the crowd goes wild. Logan doesn’t back down, the two locked in an intense stare-down. Logan slowly lifts his Prime bottle, taking a deliberate long sip, before mockingly offering it to MJF.

MJF slaps the bottle out of his hand.

*The crowd gasps, and Logan grins like he just won the argument. MJF glares at him, seething, before suddenly dropping the mic and adjusting his cuffs. He steps back slowly, then exits the ring, never taking his eyes off Logan.

Logan laughs, shaking his head as he picks up another Prime bottle from ringside and raises it high, taunting MJF as he backs up the ramp. The two continue talking trash from a distance as the camera zooms in on their heated exchange before fading out.

*The cameras cut to the backstage interview area, where Dominik Mysterio stands alongside Gia Miller. The second he appears on screen, the SPW crowd erupts in deafening boos, their hatred for him overwhelming. Dom, dressed in an obnoxiously expensive designer jacket and sunglasses, tries to pretend the crowd’s reaction doesn’t bother him, but the smug smirk on his face is clearly forced.

Gia, holding back an eye roll, raises the microphone, keeping it professional.

Gia Miller:"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome a man who, let’s be honest, no one was hoping to see here tonight—Dominik Mysterio."

The crowd roars with laughter and cheers at the blatant disrespect. Dom’s smirk twitches, but he shakes it off, adjusting his sunglasses like he’s above it all.

Gia Miller:"Dominik, the big question everyone is asking—what are you doing in SPW? Are you here to compete? And more importantly… are you here with Liv Morgan?"

*At the mere mention of Liv’s name, the arena buzzes with anticipation. Dom smirks, puffing out his chest like he’s about to tell the world the juiciest secret ever. He clears his throat and begins to speak—

"OH. MY. GOD. STOP!"

*Before Dom can get a single word out, Liv Morgan steps into the frame, cackling so hard she nearly falls over. The crowd explodes, half in excitement, half in anticipation of the absolute verbal murder that is about to take place. Gia steps back instinctively, while Dom’s confidence immediately shatters.

Liv wipes an imaginary tear from her eye, still laughing, as she finally locks eyes with Dom. She then leans in, looking him dead in the face, before shaking her head, biting her lip like she’s trying not to completely lose it.

Liv Morgan:"You? And me? For real? THAT’S what people think?!"

She taps Dom’s chest playfully, but her voice is dripping with pure condescension.

Liv Morgan:"Listen, I’ve done some questionable things in my life. I’ve had some wild nights. But let me make this crystal f**ing clear—you were NOT one of them."

The crowd erupts in laughter as Dom visibly clenches his jaw, his face turning red.

Liv Morgan:"Like, let’s just clear this up for everyone watching—because I know there are some real idiots out there who actually believe this fantasy of yours. Dominik Mysterio? Could never. And that’s for a lot of reasons, but let’s start with the most obvious one…"

*Liv holds up two fingers, barely an inch apart. The crowd screams. Dom’s eyes widen in horror.

Liv Morgan:"This? This is what you’re working with."

The camera zooms in on Liv’s fingers, emphasizing the tiny gap between them as the arena erupts in absolute chaos. Dom frantically shakes his head, waving his hands like he’s trying to stop a disaster before it happens.

"And just so we’re clear—YES, I’m talking about your dick, Dominik."

The crowd EXPLODES louder than before. Gia gasps, her eyes going wide, and immediately covers her mouth to stifle her laughter. Dom turns bright red, his jaw completely unhinged as he stares at Liv in pure horror.

Liv Morgan:"And look, I feel bad for you. I really do. But what the hell was I supposed to do with that? Frame it? Use it as a bookmark? Put it in my wallet for emergencies? Because it damn sure wasn’t doing anything else."

Dom looks like he’s about to die on the spot. The crowd is in absolute hysteria, with some fans literally crying from laughter. Liv, meanwhile, is just getting started.

Liv Morgan:"So for everyone out there stupid enough to believe this little fantasy he’s selling—NO. Dominik Mysterio did not have me. Dominik Mysterio could never have me. Because this?"

*She holds her fingers even closer together. The camera cuts back to Dom, who looks like his soul has left his body.

Liv Morgan:"Is just one of many, many reasons why Little Dom could never, EVER get with Liv Morgan."

*She lets the moment hang, the crowd still going absolutely insane. Then, with a final mocking chuckle, Liv flips her hair and walks off. Gia, at this point, is failing miserably to keep it together, her entire body shaking as she holds in her laughter.

*Dom just stands there, stunned. His face is bright red, his mouth hanging open like he just got hit by a semi-truck of humiliation. Finally, he mutters a weak, barely-audible denial before quickly shuffling off, head down, utterly broken.

The camera zooms in on Gia, who finally loses all professionalism and BURSTS into laughter. With Dom’s ego shattered beyond repair, the show cuts to commercial.

After the commercial break, the cameras cut to another backstage office. This time, the door bears a sign with the official title:

SPW Director of Competition – “Big Poppa Pump” Scott Steiner

*The second his name appears on screen, the crowd erupts, knowing full well that absolute chaos is about to unfold. Before the camera can even get a steady shot, the door suddenly BURSTS OPEN with a thunderous crash, and in storms Scott Steiner, moving like a man who owns the whole damn building.

Dressed in his signature chainmail vest, sunglasses, and a sleeveless SPW-branded shirt that barely contains his absurdly swollen biceps, Steiner looks ready to fight someone, even if he hasn’t decided who yet.

Sitting in a chair, looking startled but still professional, is Alicia Atout. She holds a microphone in her hand, already prepared for whatever insanity is about to unfold.

Alicia Atout:"Scott, I was asked to conduct an interview—"

Before she can finish, Steiner cuts her off, dramatically lifting his shades just enough to look her over. He grins, clearly liking what he sees, and the crowd starts buzzing because they already know exactly where this is going.

Scott Steiner:"Oh yeah? Forget the interview, baby—we got more important things to talk about. Like how damn lucky you are to be standin’ in the same room as Big Poppa Pump!"

Alicia raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. But Steiner leans in closer, flexing his massive arms like it’s a reflex. He then gives her a classic Steiner smirk.

Scott Steiner:"Listen, I know you’re used to interviewing little boys, but I ain’t no little boy. I’m a Genetic Freak! I got the largest arms in the world, and more importantly, I got the stamina to back ‘em up. So how ‘bout this, baby—you take a ride on the Big Poppa Pump Express, and I’ll show you what it’s like to be with a real man."

The crowd erupts, half-laughing, half-horrified, while Alicia scoffs, rolling her eyes. She takes a step back, shaking her head as she responds.

Alicia Atout:"Scott, I have a boyfriend."

The crowd *“OHHHH!”*s at the rejection, but Steiner is completely unbothered. He tilts his head, rubbing his goatee, pretending to think.

Scott Steiner:"A boyfriend? Pfft. Baby, come on—that don’t mean nothin’ when you got the chance to upgrade. You could be ridin’ with the Big Bad Booty Daddy, but instead, you’re out here settlin’ for some pencil-necked, protein-deficient dweeb. That’s a damn shame!"

Alicia looks completely done with this conversation. She goes to respond, but Steiner waves a hand dismissively, deciding he’s got bigger things to deal with.

Scott Steiner:"You know what? Your loss, sweetheart. But I ain’t got time to waste—I got business to handle."

Steiner turns toward the camera, pulling off his sunglasses as his expression shifts from flirtatious to authoritative. His veins bulge, and the sheer level of testosterone radiating off of him could power a small city.

Scott Steiner:"SPW just got a whole lot freakier, ‘cause let me tell ya somethin’—Big Poppa Pump is in charge of competition. That means I’m makin’ the matches, settin’ the standards, and if you don’t like it—TOO BAD, ‘CAUSE I’M THE MAN!"

The crowd pops hard, fully embracing the unfiltered madness of Scott Steiner running things. He adjusts his chainmail vest before grinning at the camera.

Scott Steiner:"And speakin’ of makin’ matches, I got a big one for ya right now! We got a newly formed team lookin’ to make a name for themselves, and what better way to test ‘em than against a team that revolutionized tag team wrestling?!"

Steiner points directly into the camera.

Scott Steiner:"That’s right—next up, we got the newcomers takin’ on the true legends, the one and only MATT AND JEFF HARDY! And if ya don’t like it… Holla if ya hear me!"

*With that, Steiner drops his sunglasses back onto his face, then abruptly turns and smacks Alicia Atout on the ass. The crowd erupts in shock and laughter, while Alicia’s jaw drops open. Her face flushes red, and she spins around in disbelief. Steiner just grins like a man who has never faced consequences in his life, before swaggering out of the office.

*Alicia stands there for a moment, completely stunned. She slowly looks to the camera, still in shock, before shaking her head with a mixture of disbelief and slight amusement.

The camera lingers on Alicia still blushing, as the show cuts back to the arena for the upcoming tag team match.

*Back in the arena, the familiar pulse-pounding beat of The Hardy Boyz’ iconic theme music blasts through the speakers. The crowd erupts in cheers, their nostalgia-fueled energy electrifying the atmosphere as Matt and Jeff Hardy make their way down the ramp.

Jeff, ever the showman, swivels his hips and throws up the guns, while Matt claps along, feeding off the energy of the fans. They slap hands with the front row before sliding into the ring, battle-tested veterans ready to fight.

But then… the energy in the building shifts.

BOOM.

*A slow, pounding bassline fills the arena, and the lights bathe the stage in deep crimson. The cheers dull into a quiet, uneasy murmur as an overwhelming presence takes control of the space.

The camera cuts to the entrance, where stepping out first is Melissa Santos.

The temperature in the arena seems to rise. Wrapped in a skin-tight black latex bodysuit with sheer panels teasing just enough to drive imaginations wild, Melissa moves with a deliberate slow, controlled stride. Her thigh-high boots click with each step, her body language exuding complete mastery of the monsters behind her.

And what monsters they are.

Behind her, like war machines built for destruction, march Brian Cage and Wardlow—Titanic Force.

The contrast between the two sides could not be more apparent. The Hardys, battle-worn warriors from another time, stand their ground as Cage and Wardlow climb onto the apron, their sheer size casting shadows over their legendary opponents.

Melissa doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She knows what’s coming.

And deep down, so do Matt and Jeff.

Match Begins – A Systematic Execution

*The bell rings, and The Hardys go straight to what they do best—speed, agility, teamwork. Jeff ducks and weaves around Cage, firing off quick kicks to the legs, chopping down the tree. Matt helps with a double dropkick, sending Cage stumbling back!

Jeff bounces off the ropes—Springboard Whisper in the Wind!

But Cage doesn’t go down.

He catches Jeff mid-air.

The crowd gasps.

Then Cage, with almost insulting ease, launches Jeff like a ragdoll across the ring.

Jeff crashes hard into the mat, bouncing on impact, his body writhing in pain.

Tazz: "Oh my GOD! Cage just threw Jeff like a damn bag of trash!"

Wade Barrett: "I’ve seen The Hardys take punishment before, but this… this is different."

Jeff scrambles up, but Cage is already on him—one massive hand clasping around his throat, lifting him high into the air… and SLAMMING him down with a violent chokeslam!

Melissa, standing at ringside, tilts her head slightly, watching with interest, fingertips resting against her lips, as if admiring fine art.

Cage doesn’t go for the pin. Instead, he grabs Jeff by the hair and yanks him to his feet—only to shove him toward his own corner.

He’s letting Matt tag in.

It’s not about winning. It’s about sending a message.

Matt hesitates, looking at Jeff, then at Cage… before tagging in.

And the second he steps through the ropes—Wardlow enters.

The arena buzzes.

Matt Hardy vs. Wardlow is not a fair fight.

Matt charges in, trying to use his veteran instinct, throwing rights and lefts into Wardlow’s chest, but Wardlow doesn’t budge. Matt bounces off the ropes—Wardlow catches him mid-run with a thunderous spinebuster that shakes the ring!

Matt gasps for air, rolling in agony.

Jeff stumbles forward to help—BUT CAGE SPRINTS ACROSS THE RING AND DECAPITATES HIM WITH A DISCUS LARIAT!

Melissa watches from outside, still silent, still composed.

Wardlow slowly peels Matt off the mat, cracking his neck.

Then comes the Powerbomb Symphony.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

FOUR.

The crowd winces after each one. Melissa shifts slightly, crossing her arms, watching intently.

Wardlow places a single dominant foot on Matt’s chest, staring into the camera as the referee counts.

1… 2… 3.

Winners: Titanic Force (Qualify for VIP Access)

Melissa calmly steps onto the apron, looking down at what remains of The Hardy Boyz. She kneels next to Matt, her expression unreadable.

Then she simply smirks.

No words. No taunts. Just undeniable satisfaction.

Cage and Wardlow step forward, standing tall, looming over the bodies at their feet. The Hardys are done.

The medical team rushes down the ramp, hauling both brothers onto stretchers. The audience watches in stunned silence.

Titanic Force leaves the ring methodically, no celebration, no showboating. Just pure dominance.

Melissa follows them, running her fingers over Wardlow’s shoulder for just a moment before turning her back on the carnage they left behind.

The camera lingers on the scene—The Hardy Boyz being carted out as the reality sets in.

Titanic Force didn’t just win.

They ended legends.

Before heading to commercial, the cameras cut backstage to a private locker room, where none other than The Miz & Maryse are preparing for their upcoming match. The scene is pure Hollywood excess—platinum-framed mirrors, perfectly placed lighting, and an air of smug confidence filling the space.

*In the center of the room, The Miz is in full-on delusional hype mode. Wearing his custom fight shorts and sleeveless entrance jacket, he bounces on his toes, shadowboxing with exaggerated intensity. His mouth is moving a mile a minute, hyping himself up like he’s about to headline WrestleMania—even though he’s just minutes away from competing in an intergender tag match.

The Miz:"Babe, did you SEE the way I hit that combo just now? My hands? Lightning fast. My reflexes? Perfect. I am dialed in! If anyone out there thinks they stand a CHANCE against the A-Lister, well, honey—tonight, they get a reality check! Because when the bell rings, I’m gonna—"

*But Miz's rant trails off because the camera slowly shifts focus to Maryse.

*Rather than listening to her husband’s verbal avalanche, Maryse is fixated on something far more pressing—making sure her absurdly undersized top is actually holding everything in place.

Wearing a low-cut, tight-fitting sports bra that seems entirely incapable of containing her assets, Maryse is meticulously adjusting, lifting, shifting, and ensuring there will be no wardrobe malfunctions. Each movement is slow, deliberate, and designed to maximize attention. The camera lingers just long enough for viewers to appreciate the effort.

Meanwhile, Miz is still going.

The Miz:"—and that’s why we are the ultimate power couple! The most must-see, the most dominant, the absolute BEST thing to ever happen to pro wrestling! And it all starts tonight!"

Maryse, barely acknowledging her husband’s rambling, finishes adjusting herself, looking at her reflection with a satisfied smirk. She gives her signature hair flip, then finally turns to Miz.

Maryse:"Mmhm. Sure, baby. Whatever you say."

Miz, still bouncing in place, nods confidently.

The Miz:"Damn right, whatever I say! Because tonight? We’re gonna show everyone what happens when you put The Miz & Maryse in the ring with those nobodies. And you know what? Maybe I’ll even take care of BOTH of them myself!"

Maryse raises an eyebrow, finally paying attention.

Maryse:"Oh? So I should just sit back and watch?"

Miz stops dead in his tracks, realizing the trap he just walked into. He hesitates, shifting his eyes nervously before quickly backpedaling.

The Miz:"Uh—what I meant was, obviously you’ll do your part, too, babe. You’re incredible, you’re dominant, and—who am I to hold back greatness?! But, y’know, I could take care of it… if you wanted me to…"

Maryse stares at him for a moment, then smirks, rolling her eyes as she pats him on the chest.

Maryse:"Mmhm. Let’s just make sure you don’t mess this up, hm?"

*Miz, nodding rapidly, immediately returns to shadowboxing, his bravado back at full force. Maryse, meanwhile, turns back to her mirror, doing one last top adjustment, tilting her head slightly to ensure everything looks just right.

The camera lingers for a few extra seconds… then fades to black as the announcers hype up the match coming next!*

Renee Paquette:"Welp. That’s a visual."

Tazz:"You can say that again."

Wade Barrett:"Miz is convinced he’s a world-beater, but let’s be honest—the real show-stealer is standing right next to him."

Renee Paquette:"Intergender action is next!"

With that, the show cuts to commercial.

The It Couple (The Miz & Maryse) vs. En Fuego (Sammy Guevara & Tay Melo)

Back from commercial, the camera pans across the arena as the lights flash, signaling the arrival of The It Couple. The crowd erupts into a mix of boos and catcalls as the unmistakable entrance theme of The Miz & Maryse hits the speakers.

"AWWWWESOMMMMEEEEEE!"

*The Miz struts onto the stage first, arms stretched wide as if he’s already won. Right behind him, Maryse makes her entrance—and the collective attention of the crowd shifts immediately.

Dressed in a tight, shimmering silver two-piece that seems custom-made to barely contain her massive chest, Maryse flips her platinum blonde hair back, exuding confidence as she poses at the top of the ramp. Miz, as always, hams it up, pointing at his wife as if to say, “LOOK AT THIS PERFECTION!” The two make their way down the ramp, Miz shadowboxing with exaggerated confidence, while Maryse deliberately adjusts her top with every step.

At ringside, the commentary team reacts accordingly.*

Tazz: "I know Miz is talented, but I gotta be honest—I have no idea how he focuses on anything else when his wife looks like THAT."

Wade Barrett: "She is an absolute head-turner, no doubt, but let’s not forget—Maryse is a former champion and no stranger to the ring. She knows how to use every advantage she has, including… well, those."

Renee Paquette: "I swear, you two are worse than Miz. Can we talk about the match for a second? They’re up against an incredible team in En Fuego, and this isn’t just about good looks—it’s about a chance to qualify for VIP Access!"

*Miz and Maryse climb into the ring, Miz continuing his over-the-top warm-ups, throwing air punches at an imaginary opponent while Maryse leans against the ropes in a pose that guarantees attention.

But then—flames erupt on the stage, and the music shifts.

🔥 EN FUEGO IS HERE. 🔥

"Take a shot, make a friend, just enjoy the moment…"

The crowd erupts in cheers as Sammy Guevara and Tay Melo step onto the stage, looking confident, energized, and ready for war. Sammy smirks, bouncing on his heels before flipping the crowd off playfully, while Tay Melo poses with her back to the camera, her flawless Brazilian ass showcased in her tight, red ring gear. She then turns, blowing a kiss to the camera before strutting down the ramp alongside Sammy.

Tazz: "Listen, I’ll be honest—Maryse’s chest is a world wonder… but Tay’s got the greatest ass I’ve ever seen in my life. This is like the battle of the gods, and I’m here for it!"

Renee Paquette: "Tazz! Jesus!"

Wade Barrett: "What he’s trying to say is that both of these women know how to use their best assets to distract and manipulate. But make no mistake—this match is going to be hard-hitting."

*With both teams in the ring, the referee signals for the bell, and we’re officially underway.

The Miz and Sammy Guevara start things off, and from the get-go, it’s clear that Miz’s pre-match confidence was completely unwarranted. Sammy’s quick reflexes and cocky athleticism allow him to outmaneuver Miz at every turn, ducking under a clothesline, bouncing off the ropes, and nailing Miz with a springboard arm drag that sends him sprawling!

Miz scrambles to his feet, flustered, but Sammy just smirks, blowing him a mocking kiss before doing a quick backflip into a relaxed pose in the corner.

Renee Paquette: "I think Miz just realized he might’ve underestimated Sammy Guevara!"

Miz, frustrated, rushes in again—only for Sammy to duck behind him, leap onto the second rope, and deliver a crisp springboard dropkick right to Miz’s chest! Miz rolls backward into his corner, coughing, and before he can react—

Maryse tags herself in!

Miz looks confused for a second, but Maryse is already stepping through the ropes with purpose.

But before she can even try to take control—Tay Melo tags herself in, too.

And now? The real battle begins.

Maryse steps forward, flashing her signature sultry smirk at Sammy, deliberately adjusting her top to emphasize her ridiculous cleavage. She runs her fingers through her hair, tilts her head just so, and purrs in French.

Sammy pauses.

Then Tay EXPLODES into the ring, launching herself at Maryse with a brutal running knee to the gut!

The crowd erupts as Maryse nearly stumbles out of her top! She quickly grabs at her chest, scrambling to keep herself contained while backing into the ropes. But Tay doesn’t let up—she snatches Maryse by the wrist and WHIPS her across the ring!

Maryse bounces off the ropes—only to be met with a brutal jumping forearm smash!

Tazz: "OH DAMN! TAY JUST KNOCKED THE PERFECTION RIGHT OUTTA HER!"

Maryse staggers, dazed, her top barely holding on as she collapses to a knee. Tay, grinning, calls her shot—she rushes forward, swinging her hips—AND BLASTS MIZ RIGHT IN THE FACE WITH A RUNNING HIP ATTACK IN THE CORNER!

Miz flops down onto the mat, absolutely wrecked, as Tay turns back to Maryse.

Wade Barrett: "Tay Melo just took out BOTH members of The It Couple in one sequence!"

Maryse, still holding her chest, tries to crawl toward Miz for a tag—but Tay yanks her back, lifting her up—AND DRILLS HER WITH THE TAY-KO!

The crowd erupts as Tay hooks the leg!

1… 2… 3!

Winners: En Fuego (Qualify for VIP Access)

*The bell rings, and the crowd goes wild as Sammy slides into the ring, grabbing Tay and lifting her onto his shoulders in celebration! Maryse rolls to the apron, clutching her battered chest, while Miz is still half-conscious in the corner, completely humiliated.

*Sammy points at the VIP Access logo on the stage, shouting “We’re going to the big show, baby!” while Tay laughs, shaking her hips one last time for the hard cam.

Renee Paquette: "En Fuego just punched their ticket to VIP Access in dominant fashion!"

Tazz: "I need a drink, I need a nap, I need—hell, I don’t know what I need, but that was something!"

Wade Barrett: "The It Couple thought they could control this match with mind games, but En Fuego brought the fire. And now? They’re on their way to VIP Access!"

The camera lingers on Miz, head in his hands, before fading to black.

As we return from the action, the camera cuts to the backstage hallway where Cathy Kelley stands poised with a microphone in hand, positioned just outside the door labeled:

SPW General Manager – Paul Heyman

Cathy offers a professional smile, looking directly into the camera as she begins her report.

Cathy Kelley:"Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been requested to speak with Paul Heyman regarding tonight’s huge main event, so I’m about to step inside and—"

She turns, reaching for the handle, and as the door swings open…

The crowd POPS.

Because instead of Heyman, the first thing the camera picks up is a perfectly sculpted ass, framed just right by a dangerously short skirt. Long, *toned legs lead up from sleek black heels, the outfit designed to show off just enough cheek to keep imaginations running wild.

The camera slowly pans up, taking in the view, and as if sensing the attention, the owner of said shapely backside finally turns around… revealing none other than Tatum Paxley.

Her expression is pure confusion, like she wasn’t expecting anyone to actually walk in. The audience erupts again, because of course they do.*

Tatum Paxley:"Uh… hey?"

Cathy blinks, thrown off for a moment before quickly composing herself.

Cathy Kelley:"Tatum? What are you doing here? I was told Paul Heyman requested to see me."

Tatum tilts her head, as if processing the question at half-speed. Then, she suddenly perks up, remembering something.

Tatum Paxley:"Oh! Yeah, uh… he’s not here right now. But don’t worry, he left instructions!"

*She beams proudly, then lifts her hand up—and the camera catches a glimpse of words scribbled on her palm in smudged ink.

Squinting, Tatum reads directly off her own hand.*

Tatum Paxley:*"Tell Cathy that I will be back after the commercial break."

She pauses, looking pleased with herself, before her eyes drop to the next line. She furrows her brow, mouthing the words silently first before continuing.

Tatum Paxley:"And for the love of god, if you’re going to pretend to work at the desk… face the right way."

*The crowd bursts into laughter, as Cathy glances over at the desk behind Tatum—the chair still turned in the wrong direction, facing the wall instead of the actual workspace.

Tatum, however, just nods confidently.*

Tatum Paxley:"I mean… I was facing the right way. That’s why the fans cheered."

She grins, completely oblivious to her own ridiculousness, before casually wiping her smudged notes off on her skirt like the job is done.

Cathy Kelley:"Right. Well… I guess I’ll check back after the break."

*Cathy turns back to the camera, holding in a sigh as the shot lingers for just a second on Tatum still standing proudly in her backward office setup.

The camera then fades to commercial.

Back from commercial, we return to Paul Heyman’s office. The scene is a little different this time—because instead of Tatum Paxley bent over the desk, she’s now sitting behind it, finally attempting to look somewhat professional.

Well… as professional as Tatum Paxley can look.

The top button of her blouse is undone, showcasing her other impressive assets, and while she’s technically in the right position now, it’s clear that nothing has changed about her ability to be a distraction.

Cathy Kelley stands in front of the desk, hands on her hips, as Paul Heyman sits beside Tatum, rubbing his temple like he already regrets everything about this interaction. He lets out a long sigh, then finally turns toward Cathy.*

Paul Heyman:"Ms. Kelley, the reason I called you here is because tonight’s main event is—simply put—too big to be treated like a regular qualifier. So I wanted to make an official announcement."

He leans forward, hands clasped together, eyes locked onto the camera. The weight of his words is obvious.

"Tonight, in our main event—CM Punk vs. Jon Moxley—regardless of the outcome, both men will be moving on to VIP Access."

The crowd can be heard cheering from the arena. Cathy nods, keeping her focus on Heyman.

Paul Heyman:"Jon Moxley will officially enter the Carnage Division, where he belongs. And CM Punk will be in the World Championship Division. Because let’s be honest—whether you love him or hate him, CM Punk is a main event attraction."

Cathy takes a moment to absorb the information, but before she can respond—Tatum suddenly leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk, giving a mischievous smirk.

Tatum Paxley:"Okay, but, like… I still don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to see my ass as the first thing when they walk into this office."

Heyman inhales sharply, closing his eyes like he’s trying to find inner peace. Cathy, meanwhile, looks at Tatum with disbelief.

Tatum Paxley:"I mean, every time it happens, people seem so happy to see my ass. The fans cheer! Every time!"

Heyman slowly rubs his temples, exhaling deeply. Cathy just shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Paul Heyman:"Tatum… remind me again why you still have a job here? Why exactly did I bring you over from the last company?"

*Tatum immediately perks up like she knew this moment would come. She suddenly pushes her chair back, stands up, and without hesitation…

She starts jumping up and down.

Three.

Four times.

*The second button of her already dangerously undone blouse suddenly pops open from the bouncing. The crowd in the arena can be heard ERUPTING.

Heyman’s entire demeanor changes. He stops rubbing his temples, blinks slowly, and then sighs, defeated.

Paul Heyman:"...Oh. Right. I suddenly remember."

*Tatum giggles, tossing her hair over her shoulder, clearly pleased with herself. Cathy shakes her head in exasperation, muttering something under her breath.

Heyman, realizing that he’s completely lost control of this segment, just throws his hands up and turns back toward the camera.*

Paul Heyman:"Back to ringside."

The camera fades out as Tatum grins proudly, buttoning herself back up—but only just enough.

"This next contest is a VIP Access Qualifier for both the Women’s Tag Team Division and the Women’s Wildcard Division! The first team to score a fall will have all three members qualify!"

*The arena dims, a dark rock riff echoing through the speakers as the entrance screen flickers between gothic imagery and moments of unrelenting dominance. The camera focuses on the entranceway as Marti Belle and Allysin Kay step onto the stage, moving with the presence of warriors who have already won.

Draped in matching black and deep crimson ring gear, they exude a mix of raw strength and seduction. Marti walks ahead, confidence in her stride, her dark hair streaked with blue as she adjusts the studded leather crop top clinging to her frame. A pair of fishnet stockings runs down her toned legs, stopping just above her knee-high lace-up boots. Allysin, ever the enforcer, peels off the sleeveless coat draped over her shoulders, revealing her blood-red sports bra with silver embroidery barely contained beneath her sculpted frame. Her knuckles are wrapped, a reminder that she doesn’t just wrestle—she fights.

The two women move with no urgency, eyes locked on the ring, as if they already know the inevitable: tonight, they are walking out with a spot at VIP Access. Sliding inside, they stand together, a silent promise of violence exchanged between them before turning their attention to the stage.

But then…

The lights cut out entirely.

A deep, raspy chuckle plays over the speakers, followed by the sultry echo of a British-accented voice.

"This is my house… and now it’s about to get a whole lot filthier."

A blast of purple strobes ignites the stage as Saraya emerges from the darkness.

There is no theme of control, no pretense of order. Her look is a contradiction—one part royalty, the other part chaos. A tattered leather jacket drapes off her shoulders, sleeves lined with spikes, the zipper half-undone to reveal the dangerously low-cut fishnet bodysuit clinging to her form. The deep purples and blacks that streak through her hair make her a walking bad decision—and she wears that fact like a badge of honor.

Saraya stalks down the ramp, her lips curling into a devilish smirk as she licks them slowly, eyes locked onto the ring. The crowd doesn’t know whether to cheer her, fear her, or pray for the women standing opposite her.

Sliding under the bottom rope, she pauses on her knees, tilting her head slightly as she soaks in the moment before standing tall beside The Hex.

They do not exchange words. They don’t need to.

The trio stands together, a lethal combination of violence, confidence, and pure unfiltered chaos.

And now… it’s time for their opponents.

"RECKLESS… RIIIIOTTTT!!!"

The crowd erupts as Cora Jade and Shotzi Blackheart explode onto the stage—and Shotzi’s signature TANK is front and center.

Shotzi grips the controls of her beloved mini-tank, revving it up like a warrior preparing for battle. The neon green highlights in her jagged hair glow under the arena lights as she lets out an unhinged howl, slamming her hands on the metal. Cora Jade stands just behind her, brandishing her signature kendo stick like a weapon, her wild grin suggesting that she’s more than ready for whatever chaos unfolds next.

As the two ride down the ramp, Shotzi keeps one hand on the controls, the other flipping the bird to the trio in the ring, while Cora stands behind her, pointing the kendo stick at their opponents like she’s already got them marked for death.

Shotzi stops just before ringside, pretending to fire a shot from the cannon, before both women leap off and roll under the bottom rope, standing defiantly across from The Hex and Saraya.

But the energy shifts dramatically when their partner arrives.

The lights pulse red, an almost hypnotic synth beat creeping into the speakers as a familiar, sultry presence steps through the curtain.

Eva Marie.

Moving at half the speed of her teammates, every single step is deliberate.

Her outfit is a fire-red one-piece, high-cut on the hips, plunging dangerously low in the front, held together by the thinnest straps possible. It hugs every inch of her frame, made of a material that looks designed to push the limits of what’s acceptable on live television. The red locks that frame her face are damp, cascading down her back, giving her the look of someone who just stepped off a runway instead of into a fight.

The crowd buzzes, a mix of awe, anticipation, and the unshakable feeling that something is going to happen.

As she makes her way down the ramp, Shotzi and Cora exchange glances, looking like they know exactly what they just got into by teaming with her.

Eva reaches the apron and takes a slow, exaggerated step inside, flipping her hair back as she lifts her gaze toward Saraya. The two women hold eye contact for a long, lingering moment—one representing chaos, the other tempting it.

Now?

It’s time to fight.

The crowd is fired up as Marti Belle and Cora Jade circle each other, energy crackling between them as they look to gain the first advantage. They lock up in the center of the ring, Marti using her slight strength advantage to force Cora back, but Cora quickly counters, twisting into a hammerlock. Marti swings an elbow, but Cora ducks, rolls through, and catches her with a quick arm drag! Marti pops back up, only to eat a second one, then a third as Cora’s speed keeps her a step ahead.

*Frustrated, Marti rolls to her feet again, but this time, she sidesteps Cora’s next attack and drills her with a stiff European uppercut that knocks her off her feet! Cora scrambles back up, but Marti grabs her by the arm, yanking her into a devastating short-arm clothesline that flattens her!

Marti wastes no time, hauling Cora up and whipping her into the corner where Allysin Kay waits, eager for action. A quick tag brings in the powerhouse of The Hex, and Allysin steps through the ropes with bad intentions.

The second Cora stumbles away from the corner, Allysin blasts her with a big boot! Cora crumples to the mat, clutching her jaw as Allysin leans down, grabbing a handful of hair to drag her back up. With a sneer, she hooks Cora around the waist and launches her overhead with a deadlift German suplex! Cora crashes hard, arching her back in pain as Allysin smirks and casually brushes a hand through her hair.*

*Shotzi Blackheart yells encouragement from the apron, slapping the turnbuckle to get Cora moving again. Cora starts crawling toward her corner, but Allysin grabs her ankle, trying to drag her back. Cora kicks her away, but Allysin lunges again—this time, Cora twists onto her back and kicks Allysin square in the face! The blow stuns her just enough for Cora to scramble forward and finally make the tag!

Shotzi leaps over the ropes like a bat out of hell, charging straight at Allysin and taking her down with a running crossbody! Allysin shoves her off, but Shotzi is already rolling back to her feet, hitting the ropes, and nailing a shotgun dropkick! The impact sends Allysin tumbling into her own corner, where Saraya tags herself in.

Saraya climbs into the ring, smirking as she stares down Shotzi. The two women circle, talking trash, before lunging into an all-out brawl! Saraya fires off a stiff forearm, but Shotzi returns the favor, the two trading shots in the center of the ring as the crowd roars in approval. Shotzi ducks a wild swing and leaps into the air, catching Saraya with an enzuigiri that sends her staggering!

With Saraya dazed, Shotzi runs to the ropes and springboards off the second rope, looking for a moonsault—BUT ALLYSIN KAY YANKS HER LEG OUT FROM UNDER HER!

Shotzi crashes onto the mat, gasping as Allysin slides into the ring and pounces with stiff clubbing blows to the back. The referee tries to restore order, but Marti Belle enters as well, looking to double-team Shotzi.

Not to be outdone, Cora storms the ring, taking down Marti with a running hurricanrana! The referee loses complete control as all four women brawl in the center of the ring, fists and bodies flying everywhere!

*The chaos escalates, and soon, all four women end up laid out in the ring after a flurry of high-impact moves. Cora takes down Marti with a diving tornado DDT, but Allysin flattens Cora with a discus lariat! Shotzi comes flying in with a running senton to Allysin, but Saraya catches her on the rebound, dumping her with a brutal Saito suplex!

With all four women down, the referee starts a count as the crowd buzzes with anticipation. Both teams crawl toward their corners, desperately reaching out—and at the same time, both sides tag in their final competitor!

Saraya storms into the ring, and for the first time tonight, Eva Marie steps between the ropes.

The moment she does, the crowd erupts.

Eva Marie charges at Saraya, and Saraya rushes toward Eva—but just as they collide, something goes horribly wrong.

Eva's straps—already under strain from the match's intensity—suddenly slip loose!

Her eyes widen in pure panic as she immediately stops fighting, throwing her arms up to hold everything in place.

Saraya, not missing a beat, seizes the moment. She sweeps Eva’s legs out from under her and rolls her into a tight schoolboy pin!

1… 2… 3!

DING DING DING!

Winners: The Hex & Saraya (Qualify for VIP Access)

Eva Marie kicks out a second too late, realizing what just happened. Still clutching her gear, she looks completely horrified before bolting out of the ring in humiliation, her hands still holding her top together as she flees up the ramp.

Saraya pops up to her knees, grinning wickedly, knowing she just stole the match in the most fitting way possible. The Hex join her in the ring, all three women celebrating their qualification for VIP Access.

Meanwhile, at ringside, Shotzi and Cora are fuming, realizing that Eva just cost them everything. Shotzi shakes her head in disgust, while Cora throws her hands up, frustrated beyond belief.

Renee Paquette: "Eva Marie had one job! ONE JOB! And she let a wardrobe issue be the reason her team lost!"

Tazz: "I mean… listen, I’m not complaining, but you gotta be prepared for situations like this! I—just—I need to sit down."

Wade Barrett: "Saraya did what she does best—took advantage of chaos. And now? She and The Hex are on their way to VIP Access!"

The camera lingers on Saraya and The Hex standing victorious, while Eva Marie disappears backstage, mortified. Shotzi and Cora remain at ringside, glaring toward the ramp, shaking their heads in sheer frustration.

Fade to black.