"We interupt this broadcast to bring you an important message from Dewey Donovan - Manager of Champions."

The scene opens with Dewey Donovan standing in front of a neon-lit, glitzy backdrop with an exaggerated smile on his face. He’s wearing a flashy neon green suit, a slicked-back hairstyle, and is holding a microphone like a seasoned pro. He points directly at the camera, his voice oozing charisma.

Dewey Donovan: "Hey there, wrestling fans! It’s Dewey Donovan; the man with the plan, the manager with the magic touch and the only guy who can get you from zero to hero faster than you can say "Stepover Toehold Facelock". Now, you’re probably sitting at home thinking, "Dewey, how can I get to the top of the mountain?". Well, you’re in luck, because I’ve got the solution. Whether you’re a rookie just starting out or a seasoned vet who’s hit a wall, I’m the guy who’ll make sure you don’t just survive—you thrive. In fact, I’m practically the key to winning just about any championship, in any company from Calgery to Tijuana. Don’t believe me? Just ask anyone who’s ever stepped in the ring with a Dewey Donovan-managed fighter. They know what I bring to the table—results."

The camera zooms in slightly as Dewey gets a little more intense, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on a secret.

Dewey Donovan: "Now, I know what you’re thinking—'Isn't it risky to put my career in the hands of someone like Dewey?' Let me tell you something: you can’t afford NOT to put your trust in me. I don’t just play the game, I run the game. Negotiations? I write the book. Strategies? I’m the mastermind behind them. So, if you’re ready to stop sitting in the back row and start taking center stage, give ol’ Dewey a call. Together, we’ll make sure you’re not just in the spotlight—you’ll own it. And remember, if you’re not winning with Dewey Donovan… well, you’re just losing with someone else! Better Dial Dewey!"

He grins wide, tapping the mic as the screen flashes with flashy graphics of his name and a phone number to call. Cue upbeat jingle.

The camera cuts to find Nick Gage sitting at a corner booth in a dimly lit bar in Newark, New Jersey. A half-drunk bottle of beer sits in front of him, but his attention is fixed somewhere distant, his brow furrowed in frustration. His voice comes out gravelly as he speaks to the camera, leaning forward slightly.

Nick Gage: "So I’m sittin’ here in Newark, right? Just tryin’ to cool off, have a drink, get my head right. But ya know what? I can’t get this shit outta my head. At Barely Legal, I came out to help Maki Itoh take down Penta. I ran that son of a bitch right out town back across the boarder. The entire Hammerstein Ballroom chating "MDK!". And now? Now I’m sittin’ here like a damn fool with no match at Anarchy. No match. Do you know how that feels? I’ve been grindin’ for years in this business, puttin’ my blood, my sweat, my teeth into this damn ring, and for what? So I can sit on the sidelines while the so-called "big names" get all the love? Nah, man, that ain’t me. That ain't how this works."

He picks up the bottle of beer, staring at it for a moment before taking a long swig, shaking his head in disbelief. He leans back in his seat, his hands now wrapped around the bottle, knuckles white.

Nick Gage: "You wanna talk about loyalty? I’ve been loyal to this business since day one. I’ve fought through glass, barbed wire, and every other hell they’ve thrown at me. And what do I get in return? No damn match. It’s like they’ve forgotten what I’m about. Sure, I helped Maki Itoh out at Barely Legal—yeah, I put her over —but that ain’t the point! The point is, I didn’t do it to be a footnote in some other storyline. I did it because I know what this company needs, and what it needs is me. I'm the guy who'll be carrying this damn place on my back, and I’m not gonna let them just forget about me because some new faces come around."

Nick’s eyes narrow, his voice getting lower, more intense, as he slams the bottle down onto the table with a loud thud.

Nick Gage: "So here’s the deal: if ECW doesn’t want to give me a match at Anarchy, then I’ll just make my own damn match. I don’t need permission. I don’t need some fancy booking or a pat on the back. I don’t wait for shit to come to me—I go out and take it. ECW is my house now, and if they don’t recognize that, then I’ll remind ‘em the hard way. I’m done waitin’. I’m done being overlooked. And I’m damn sure not gonna let some idiot in the back decide my fate. So mark my words: Anarchy ain’t gonna be about what they plan. It’s gonna be about what I make it. And I promise you, you don’t wanna miss that."

Nick looks up to the TV screen above the bar, noticing Dewey Donovan's commerical that we had seen airing moments earlier. He picks up his phone from the table infront of him. His fingers dialing the number on screen with frustration. Holding the phone to his ear waiting to connect, Gage mutters his final words...

Nick Gage: "Son of a bitch!"

He glares back at the camera, a fire burning in his eyes as the screen fades to black.