- D E A T H  P R O O F -

The double doors of a dimly lit warehouse-turned-strip-club swing open, as our camera dives right in. The flickering neon lights cast an eerie glow across the crumbling interior. The air thick with the scent of stale beer and cheap perfume. The once-vibrant colours of the tacky velvet curtains have faded to a sickly shade of gray, and the stage—marked by a chipped pole at the center—creaks under the weight of the evening's performances. Amidst the rundown furniture and shadows, Lizzy Borden moves with a strange, hypnotic grace, her pale face eerily calm as she twirls and undulates under the harsh artificial lights. The music, "Dark Night" by The Blasters, thrums through the cracked speakers, creating an unsettling rhythm as she spins, her eyes flickering with something dark and untouchable.

♪ Hot air hangs like a dead man, from a white oak tree. People sitting on porches, thinking how things used to be. Dark night. It's a dark night. Dark night. It's a dark night. ♪

Dressed in a threadbare corset and fishnets, she exudes an almost otherworldly presence, her movements fluid but deliberate, like a ghost performing a twisted ritual.

♪ The neighborhood was changing. Strangers moving in. A new boy fell for a local girl, when she made eyes at him. She was young and pretty. No stranger to other men. But windows were being locked at night. Old lines were drawn again. ♪

The audience, a collection of grim-faced men nursing cheap drinks, watches her with a mix of fascination and unease, unable to look away as if caught in a spell. Every movement Lizzy makes seems purposeful, like a silent confession of something long buried beneath her fractured persona.

♪ I thought these things, didn't matter anymore. I thought all that blood had been shed long ago. Dark night. It's a dark night. ♪

The cracked mirrors lining the walls reflect distorted versions of her, multiplying her image until she seems to exist in multiple places at once, a symbol of fractured identities and past crimes never fully reckoned with.

♪ He took her to the outskirts and pledged his love to her. They thought it was their secret, but someone knew where they were. He held her so close. He asked about her dreams. When a bullet from a passing car made the young girl scream. I thought these things didn't happen anymore. I thought all that blood had been shed long ago. ♪ 

The energy in the room is thick with tension, but Lizzy remains untouchable, her cold, steely composure refusing to betray any emotion. In the grim darkness of Detroit’s forgotten underbelly, she dances, not for pleasure, but for something far more unsettling—a cathartic ritual, a performance of violence and survival that hangs heavy in the stale air.

♪ Dark night. It's a dark night. Dark night. It's a dark night... ♪

The camera cuts outside to a bitterly cold December day in Detroit, Michigan. A 1971 black Chevy Nova sits idling in the shadow of the warehouse. Its sleek curves reflecting the fading evening light. The air was thick with the hum of the city, the only sound cutting through the stillness was the crackling radio, where “Dark Night” by The Blasters continues to bleed out into the street. It's gritty rockabilly rhythm adding a touch of life to the desolation. The Nova's chrome rims glinted under the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp, its paint chipped and weathered, as if the car itself had seen better days, much like the city surrounding it. The warehouse loomed large and lifeless, a shell of industrial might now reduced to a monument of decay, while the song’s raw energy seemed to echo off the cracked concrete, lending a brief, fleeting sense of defiance to the stillness of the night.

The camera man walks closer, as the driver's side window begins to open. The music's guiar solo fading out to deathly silence as The Messiah sits waiting in the driver's seat. Both his hands with a white knuckled grip around the steering wheel. Dressed in a black t-shirt, jeans and bomber jacket with a striking orange lining that caught the dim glow of the streetlamp. His hair, slicked back with careful precision, contrasted sharply with the ruggedness of his goatee and the glinting eyebrow piercing that caught the light as he shifted slightly in his seat. His presence seemed both part of the city’s forgotten history and a quiet rebellion against it. His defiant stillness making him an almost spectral figure. The Messiah turns to address the camera. His cold breath evaporating into the air as he begins to speak. 

The Messiah: "Some said it would be a cold day in Hell, when an XPW original stepped foot in ECW again. Heatwave 2000. XPW invaded The Grand Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles, California. XPW came to make a statement that night, with myself included. We came to send a message to the ECW locker room by any means possible. Los Angeles was our home turf. ECW was in our backyard that night and we sure as hell weren't going to stand by without letting our presence be felt. But boy, did we get it wrong. The Messiah strokes his goatee, grinning and shaking his head in disbeleif. Outnumbered and outmanned, we quickly found ourselves in an all out brawl in the parking lot. We didnt stand a chance. And for what? To prove to ourselves that we were more Extreme than everyone else? To prove that we were loyal to Rob Black and the fictitious, self-righteous "War" he'd conjured up in his head against Paul Heyman? #### Rob Black! And while I'm at it, Paul Heyman, #### you too!"

You see it's not fate, nor coinsidence that I find myself here talking to you right now. This was never my destiny, nor was it God's will. Me being here, isn't even about some vendetta XPW once had. XPW is dead. It's funny how people like me, seem to graviate to places like this. Nick Gage, Nick Mondo - they'll understand. You see the 3 of us, we're both cut from the same cloth. Whereas some people like to enjoy a little too much 420. Whereas some people like to drink themselves into excess. Whereas some people fill the void in their otherwise mundane lives with spirituality. These are nothing more than distractions from what's really going on around them. I don't smoke. I don't drink. And despite what I might call myself, I'm not a religious man. The only time I've ever felt most alive, was when the taste of my own blood trickled down my lips, when my skin stung and welted from the shatted glass it fell upon, when my bones embraced the cold, hard steel and for the longest time - I haven't felt the way I used to. Maybe it's the barbed wire scars that still taunt me. Or the light tube lacerations that still hold so many found memories. The fading stitches, the scar tissue, the burnt flesh - Oh, how I've missed it. So what choice did I have? Whereelse could I go? You left me no choice Paul Heyman. You forced my hand the day you resuccitated ECW back in to existence and I'm glad to see that nothing has changed - 23 years later and you're still holding a ####ing grudge!

I know why you've invited me into ECW; so that you can kill XPW once and for all. I'm here only for you to make an example of. To prove a point to yourself and to those ECW originals who still eat up your bullshit, that this is still the company that put Extreme on the map. I dont disagree. But it's like that old saying goes Paul, holding a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. I was out numbered tha night at Heatwave and from the looks of it I'll be out numbered again at Anarchy. But be careful who you let in Paul, because if you're the Rabbi of this cathedral of violence; then I'm the Anti-Christ, who will burn it to the ground!

The passenger side door of the chevi suddenly opens, as Lizzy Borden jumps inside. Her handbag stuffed with dollar bills. The two embrace in a passionate kiss, before Lizzy fixes her hair in the rearview mirror. Noticing the camera, she leans over toward it. The Messiah leaning back in his seat, as if expecting of a little action. Lizzy looks back at The Messiah and smirks, playfully pushing his face away. This isn't that type of film.

Lizzy Borden: Listen up, ladies. I don't need to remind you who I am—you already know. But for those of you still living in the shadows of your past glories, let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am the true Queen of Extreme. Lita, you’ve had your time as the "Original Diva", but you were always playing it safe, dancing on the edge without ever fully embracing it. Dawn Marie, you’ve been in this business a long time, but you’ve never quite captured the chaos, the intensity, the raw power that defines real extremity. Mandy Rose, you're pretty, sure, but you don’t know what it takes to survive in the true madness of this business—what it takes to break through the glass ceiling, not just look pretty while doing it. And Francine, you might've managed to carve a niche for yourself, but you were never the leader of that revolution—you were just a piece of the puzzle. I’ve been that leader. I’ve brought the violence, the blood, the raw aggression—everything that makes this business real. So let’s get one thing straight: I don’t just play extreme. I own it. I am Lizzy Borden, and there’s no one who can touch what I’ve done, and no one who can take my crown. You may think you're queens, but this throne? It's mine."

Lizzy glares into the camera, her voice a mixture of icy confidence and fiery passion, daring anyone to challenge her claim. Lizzy moves back to her seat, re-doing her hair, before pulling out the dollar bills from her handbag to begin counting her takings for the night, as The Messiah continues...

The Messiah: "Van Dam, let me make myself clear - I don't have a problem with you, or anyone else in this 4 way dance for that matter. But please excuse the fact if I don't do the whole "thumb gimmick" right now, because, well...The camera zooms in to show The Messiah's hands where his right thumb is missing. The Messiah chuckles at his own twisted humour. But what I do have, are a few questions for you to contemplate, "Mr.420". You see, I noticed something that struck me as being rather odd. Paul Heyman announced The Broadcast Blitz at Barely Legal - and your name was nowhere to be seen?! The ECW Television Title was one that your name has always been synonymous with. That title damn near belonged to you, and your run as Television champ is one that could only be called Legendary. So why aren't you up there Rob? Has Paul Heyman suffered a spate of amnesia all of a sudden? Or has "The Whole F'N Show" finally been cancelled? I don't get it. Whats more, it's seems "Mr.PPV" hasn't even got what it takes to be included in The Extreme Classic either?! A title that always seemed to evade your grasp all those years ago. Undeservedly so. Though I'm not surprised...

But Rob, when the whole reason they put you on the cover of High Times magazine, becomes the ultimate downfall at the peak of your wrestling career, costing you your first and only short lived run as ECW Champ - Can you blame anyone but yourself? You simply couldn't be trusted with the weight that being a champion brings. You ####ed it Rob! I guess Paul Heyman really does hold a grudge. Because the way I see it, you're no longer the poster boy of ECW. You're no longer Heyman's right hand man. You can't be called upon to carry this company anymore. And sure, weed is far more acceptable into today's society than it ever was. More power to you! Blaze one up, go right ahead. But the fact remains, that now this company, ECW, will be built off the backs of those boys (and girls) in the locker room who are hungry to make a name of themselves, who will do whatever it takes to build this company from the ground up once more, and not simply have it handed to them on a silver platter, because they shared a few joints with the boss during creative sessions.

You see Rob, I didn’t need to be throwing flashy kicks, pointing my thumbs or "coincidnetly" sharing my last name with the coolest Action Hero of the time to get myself over. No. I got here by walking through fire, by surviving the kinds of wars that would break most men. ECW might’ve birthed the hardcore revolution, but XPW was the evolution and Rob, in all these years, you haven't evolved one iota. In a time when being "One of a Kind" is a dime a dozen, I suggest you change the name of your finish to "The Flab Star Belly Flop" if you want to stand out. But you know, Cool, Whatever, right?! Just like everyone in this match, you're only here because you have to prove yourself all over again. How does it feel to know that you'll have to claw your way back to the top?For a guy with an ego as huge as yours, I bet that must really sting huh? Damn, I really feel for you Rob, but not as much as I do for you...Sandman."

With that, The Messiah opens the car door, stepping out as the camera man jolts backward to steady the shot. The Messiah pulls the collar of his bomber jacket up around his neck, as the cold air brings a chill. He rubs his hands together, warming them against the freezing temperature. Beckoning for the camera to come just that little bit closer.

The Messiah: "Sandman, I thought you'd have died by now. In fact, honestly, I'm glad you haven't. I thought somehow you'd have drank yourself into a coma, or become riddled by cancer. But you never learn, do you Sandman? I still see it in your face. That old, weathered face. The grief you hold inside. The dissapointment in your career. All of your potential. Wasted. Pissed up the wall. Sniffed up your nose. Squandered away for the booze, the drugs, the women. Doesnt that eat you up inside? When you sit there at night, across the dinner table from your old lady and son. "How was your day at work honey?", always thinking about what could've been. You could've given them the world Sandman. Instead you're out there breaking rocks at Philidelphia's Sand & Gravel. You're damn near close to punching out and sliding down the back of a Brontosaurus, you old ####ing dinosaur. Always telling yourself that Tomorrow you'll be a better role model to your son. Tomorrow you'll be a better husband. It's always tomorrow. But when tomorrow finally comes, I'll be standing in your way, to finally dismantle what's left of your legacy piece by piece.

You used to be the man. The person people paid their hard earned money to see. Arguably, ECW's biggest ever attraction without the match itself. Metallicla should've been paying you royalties! But I can't remember the last time I saw you swing a kendo stick with a ferocity that could break a man's spirit. What have you become? A relic of a past era, that's what. You've been on the decline for years, trying to hold on to your glory days, and in doing so, you've become predictable.

Oh what a downard spiral it's become for you. Another case of beer. Another pack of smokes. Another bag of nose candy. Soon that buzz we all fondly remember...faded away. People didnt pay to see The Sandman knock 9 shades of shit out his opponent anymore. "Where's Hak?", "Passed out in the back!", "His head's in the toilet", "Slumped over a chair!". Times changed. The spotlight shifted. You were more harm than good, and so a little less Sandman was a good thing. So when you got that call from Paul Heyman, what exactly did he say? "Hak, I need you to reignite ECW like never before! I want to put you in the main event at Barely Legal!". No. "Sandman, you've still got what it takes. ECW wont be the same without that tenacious energy you have.". No. Or was it something more along the lines of "Sandman, I know you're pretty beat up these days. But I love flogging a dead horse. Come back to ECW. I know 3 guys who can carry you through a match. Give them the rub. I know times are hard, but I'm good for the money.". Was I close? You're a shadow of the man you used to be Hak, clutching onto a toy for someone who's lost their edge. You were once Heyman's biggest attraction, but now you couldn't even draw a dime. I guess Paul Heyman really does hold a grudge.

Lizzy Borden: "Hey Billy, I'm hungry. Are you nearly finished out there?"

The Messiah: "Almost, Honey Bunny."

The Messiah takes a walk around the car. Sitting on the trunk. Running his fingers through his pointy goatee, before slicking back his hair with both hands. Cracking his knuckles, he brushes over his right hand. That old stub for a thumb staring back at him. What could you possibly do to a man, once hailed as The King of the Death Match in XPW, who's literally had a limb cut from off his body? With garden sheers, no less. In a fight, where all weapons are legal, you had better pray, the landscapers don't leave anything behind.

The Messiah: "Matt Sydal. Evan Bourne. Whatever you go by these days. What the #### are you even doing in this match? The Messiah laughs and shakes his head. But seriously, you know what kid? I actually kinda like you. You remind me of my younger self in a way. Some say you're a high-flying prodigy. They used to tell me the same. You've got talent, no doubt. You're quick, innovative, and now even more so, you'll have a hunger to prove yourself in a ring full of veterans. So take my advice. You think you can just throw around moonsaults and shooting star presses without consequence? You’re not in a trampoline park, kid. There’s no place for your pretty little tricks here. You can do all the fancy flips you want, but when your body meets the cold steel of a chair, or when you find yourself trapped in a pile of shattered glass, you'll realize that my way of wrestling isn’t about style points—it’s about survival.

Matt, you've never been in a ring where every breath you take feels like it might be your last. The kind that brings with it a pure brutality that breaks men down—physically, mentally, and spiritually. No amount of herbal tea or surrounding yourself with incense will prepare you for that. But I'm sure Van Dam's got what you need. The Messiah winks at the camera while mimicking smoking a joint. Matt, I don't care who you pray to. Be it Buddha, Vishnu, Shiva, Ganesha or good old Jesus Christ himself. You want to reach Nirvana? You want to make history? You want to carve your name into the annals of ECW? Too bad—it’s already been done. I didn’t come to be a part of your story or anyone elses. I came here to rewrite it - and it will be written in you blood, my little sacrificial lamb. I’m going to make you wish you'd stayed in the air. Maybe try clinging to the rafters, because I’ll make you feel a pain you never thought possible. And when I’ve shattered you spirit, you'll realize that high-flying stunts are meaningless...when you can’t get back up. Because in a 4 way dance, there's no time for soul searching. There is only chaos. And while I hate to be the one who brings you this enlightenment Matt, the Messiah doesn’t just survive the chaos. The Messiah is the chaos. So I guess maybe Paul Heyman must have it in for you too huh?!"

The Messiah shrugs, before turning to walk back to the drivers side door. He enters the Chevi, shutting the door behind him before turning on it's ignition. The engine growls, as he cranks the throttle. The headlights piercing through the darkness. Pushing the gear stick into first, The Messiah grips the wheel, looking back at the camera one last time. His face back lit by the cars interior. Lizzy can be seen behind him, twirling a line of pink bubble gum, between her index finger and teeth.

The Messiah: "Paul Heyman. Rob Van Dam. The Sandman. Matt Sydal. I'll see you all December 15th. Anarchy at the ECW Arena. It will be my pleasure to be the one who orchestrates your Fall from Grace. It's clear that you all have a death wish hanging over your heads. Some will be less painful than others. But just remember, when I tell you that I am The Messiah. And I am - Death Proof!"

Finding the biting point, The Messiah releases the clutch, sending the chevi nova speeding off into the dead of night, like a wailing banshee. The glowing tail lights quickly dissappearing, as only Lizzy's laughter can be heard echoing through the night. The scene comes to an end, before the below graphic shows up on screen.

- T H E  M E S S I A H  R E T U R N S  T O  E C W -