"We interrupt your scheduled programming for an important message from our sponsor."

The camera opens on Dewey Donovan sitting comfortably behind a desk, wearing a sharp suit with a hint of casual flair. He leans forward with a grin that’s equal parts mischievous and professional, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk as he makes eye contact with the camera.

DD: "Have you been involved in an accident recently? An unfortunate incident at the hands of a man you thought was just another wrestler? Well, if you’ve found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or if you've been left looking like shredded mozzarella after a brutal encounter with a cheese grater then guess what? You may be entitled to compensation. I’m Dewey Donovan, and I represent the one and only Nick Gage — the Undisputed King of the Deathmatch, the master of mayhem, and the last person you want to be in the ring with. Let me guess — maybe you’ve been on the wrong end of a repurposed light tube, or worse — a nice little barbed-wire hug? Don’t worry, you're not alone. It happens. And I’m here to help..."

Cut to Dewey now standing, his expression taking on a more serious tone, but still with that unmistakable sense of control as he speaks directly to the viewer.

DD: "You might be asking yourself: "What now?" Well, don’t you worry. I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to go it alone. We’ve got the best in the business on our side, and we know the ins and outs of every single injury you’ve suffered, from the lightest of cuts to the deepest of wounds, even in ways that would make your grandma faint. And don’t think just because you’ve been sliced up like a Pepperoni Passion at the hands of a pizza cutter that your pain isn’t real — because, trust me, it is. You’ve got rights. And I’m here to make sure they’re respected."

He pauses for a moment, looking directly into the camera with a knowing smile, his voice lowering as he leans forward.

DD: "So, if you’ve been a victim of Nick Gage’s, well, unique brand of wrestling — the kind that involves more blood and barbed wire than you'd ever sign up for — pick up that phone. Call me, Dewey Donovan. Let’s talk about how we can get you the compensation you deserve for the pain and suffering you've endured. I’m not saying Gage isn’t a legend — he is. But you know what? He’s also dangerous. And if you’ve been caught in his path, you deserve more than just an apology. You deserve justice. So, what are you waiting for? Reach out now, and let’s make sure you're taken care of after Nick Gage’s...accidents. Better Dial Dewey!"

"Somebody call 911!"

In a dimly lit room, the flickering glow of an old television set casts long, eerie shadows across the walls. Nick Gage sits hunched over, bathed in the pale glow of a flickering television screen. The room is a shrine to his brutal legacy, walls plastered with posters of his past battles and shelves weighed down with merchandise emblazoned with his name. With his eyes fixed intently on the grainy footage on the VHS tape playing before him, his finger hovers over the rewind button, pressing it again and again, the whirring sound of the tape echoing in the silence.

Gage watches with an almost obsessive intensity, his eyes locked on the moments where Mondo goes to war with his own body, as if every move could be the key to surpassing him, to cementing his own legacy as the true king of ultra-violence.  The silence in the room is only broken by the occasional crackle of the VHS tape, each frame burned into Gage's mind like a blueprint for future carnage. Gage, ever the student of violence, leans forward in his chair, his fingers twitching with an unsettling energy as he watches Nick Mondo, a man known for his unrelenting drive to push the boundaries of hardcore wrestling, make his final stand in a match that no one will ever forget. 

As the footage continues to roll, Gage's face betrays a mix of admiration and something darker — perhaps a quiet rivalry, a desire to outdo the man who became a legend by pushing the boundaries of human suffering. Gage’s fingers twitch involuntarily, the footage showing Mondo’s infamous fall from the roof of the arena at CZW's Tournament of Death 2, crashing through a mountain of light tubes and tables; his body contorted in an ungodly way as the explosion of glass and wood consumes him. The violence is visceral, the destruction deliberate. The sound of impact rings in Gage’s ears as he rewinds it again — and again — unable to tear his eyes away from the chaos.

Gage’s eyes narrow as he rewinds the footage yet again, his mind absorbing every detail. Mondo’s body, the way it collapses under the weight of the fall, the shattering glass, the splintering wood — Gage’s fingers curl into fists as he visualizes himself in the same position, in the same moment. But where Mondo sought to defy death, Gage wants to surpass it. The room is quiet except for the sound of the tape rewinding, a mechanical ritual, as Gage methodically studies the footageas he envisions his own future in the same hellish light Mondo once thrived in.

NG: "BAM!!! Now that’s what I’m talking about Mother####er! That’s the crazy shit I live for right there! Death-Match-####ing-Wrestling! You seeing this shit? Get a closer look camera man. Zoom right in on that bitch! You remember that night Mondo?! Well, of course you do. How could you forget a damn moment like that? We tore ol’Delaware up back in ’03 but you, you damn near killed yourself in the process. When Zandig pressed you over his head and dropped you 20ft through tables and light tubes to the concrete floor below, we all thought you were dead Nicky! Hell, I was sure of it. Sometimes...I kinda wish you had. Yeah, I remember that moment as if it was yesterday. The day you won Tournament of Death..."

The camera zooms in to the television screen, capturing the moment that Nick Mondo's blood soaked body is hoisted up on to the shoulders of John Zandig and The Wifebeater, the CZW TOD Trophy held high above his head. We pan back to Gage, snarling with gritted teeth, grinding them slowly. A look of jealous rage forms across his face. The image on screen, clearly hitting a nerve as Gage presses the palm of his hand against the glowing screen; as if wanting to turn back time and re-insert himself in to a moment lost.

NG: "I remember all the fans being real happy for you that night Nick. All the boys in the back came out to celebrate your win. Even Justice Pain and Nate Hatred, rest in peace, where standing out there to congratulate you. But not me!

Nah, I was sat in the back, getting stitched up while I smoked a cigarette. Listening to your music play out while the crowd chanted your name as you gave your victory speech. Jealous? Nah man, I aint the jealous type. I aint saying you didn't deserve it Nick. You're were one tough son of a bitch. But the truth of the matter is, I didn't feel like shaking your hand that night, because I was sick and tired of everything you ever did being shoved down my throat! Things back then seemed to always go from "What can I do to give the fans what they want ?" to "What can I do to top Mondo?". If I got myself wrapped up in barbed wire. You'd just go and take a weed whacker to your bare flesh. If I went through a flaming table or a pane of glass. You'd just throw yourself off of a ####ing building. The bigger the spots, the bigger the risks became. But the pay off, for Nick Gage, always stayed the same as long as you were around. So I found myself in this constant battle to prove myself, clawing away just to have the spotlight, if only for a damn second. Nothing made my blood boil more than some jamoke coming up to ask me "Did you see what Mondo just did out there!?". It was never about what NICK GAGE was out there doing, no matter the conquences of my actions."

Gage leans foward in his seat, running both hands over his head. Feeling the scar tissue that has formed on his skull over the years. Was it all worth it? The stitches. The staples. Constantly being torn apart and put back together, just to live in another man's shadow. The torement. The struggle. The sleepless nights laying awake on blood soaked sheets, questioning whether he still had enough left inside to make it where his peers never could. Gage's hands turn to fists once more as he begins to wrap his knuckles against his temple, firing himself up.

NG: "Snap out of it Gage! This aint nothin! Pfft, as if I'm gonna let some little punk who paints his nails black and wears eyeshadow, tell me what being hardcore is all about!"

A faint hum lingers in the air, as the rhythmic sound of a metro train enters, rumbling by outside. Its metallic groan and the whoosh of its passing sending gentle vibrations through the glass of the window. The room feels still, as though the sound of the train is a distant heartbeat, threading through the silence like an unspoken memory. The only movement is the occasional flicker of light from a nearby lamp, swaying ever so slightly as the train fades, leaving the air heavy with quiet anticipation.

NG: "Look, I've never shied away from a little competition. You know that. I've spilled countless buckets of blood in that ring over the years, to call myself The Man - While you faded away in to obscurity. Anyone who steps inside of that ring with me now, leaves with their head held high, knowing they just survived a round with the KING of this shit! But the same can't be said about you, can it Mondo? What exactly did you go and do with all that blood you spilled? Defend the trophy the following year? Take that shit overseas and show 'em all that this country has some of the best Death Match Wrestlers in the world? Of course you didn't. You retired after the biggest night of your life! You think you're the King? More like King for day - you ####ing pussy. You want me to sit here and say you have my respect after all these years? Mondo, maybe I'd still hold an ounce of respect for you - If you didnt just throw everything you so recklessly chose to achieve down the ####ing pan!"

Gage slams his fist down onto the cracking leather arm of the chair - personally offended by Nick Mondo's decision to turn his back on the wrestling buisness after everything he had accomplished. Achievements that Nick Mondo so flippantly disgaurded the moment he denounced his involvement in Death Match wrestling. Accolades that others were so more deserving of recieving. While Gage had since surpassed Mondo in every way, he couldn't help but still feel bitter about it in some way. It wasn't that Gage felt disdain himself, it was that he saw this as disrepect toward Death Match wrestling itself - Something he'd lived and breathed for decades.

NG: "Listen Mondo, I aint mad that you won TOD back in the day. I can let bygones be bygones, I got my flowers in the end. Twice, no less. Shit, I even had to be air lifted out of that ####ing ring for emergency surgey back in '09. The Doctor's told me that I was legally pronounced dead for 7 minutes on that operating table. But what did I do? I came back Mother####er! I took one hard look at The Grim Reaper as he loomed over me, gave him the finger and told that mother####er that it's MDK, all ####in' day! And you know what? He understood, to take me out of the game like that, would've been a disservice to this shit you and I call Ultra-Violence. While you've been living off your reputation for years, but I’ve out there building mine. Even The Grim Reaper was smart enough to know exactly why these days they name Death Match Tournaments after ME and why people like you, Nick Mondo, are only remembered for being a part time, hyped up, one-hit wonder!

So now you wanna come back and re-live the glory days of your youth? You wanna step in the ring with your ol'pal Gage and get a rub off of my ####ing name, yet again? You wanna try and out do me, at MY game, so you can try to snatch my shot at the ECW World Heavyweight Title out of my grasp, for ol'time's sake? #### all that! See, I know your story. I know you’ve been through your wars, I know you’ve bled a river and left pieces of yourself in the ring, but here’s the reality—you’re not the same guy anymore. Just because this is ECW, doesnt mean you get a second chance! Don’t think I don’t remember what happened to you last time you were in a big match. You remember, right? When you went up against Lucien Kross and you got your ass handed to you? Kross exposed you for what you are—a shadow of your former self. Kross broke you down, made you look like a rookie, and sent you packing. Now you’re just a shell of the guy you used to be. So much for the "immortal" Nick Mondo huh? Nick Mondo has been a long time dead and at Anarchy, it will be your funeral next...Matt Burns! 

The world of Ultra Violence you once thrived in, has moved on, and so have I. Now, you’re just another stepping stone for me to crush. You’ve never had to deal with someone who lives this life the way I do. I’m not here for a show, Matt. I’m not here for a spectacle. I’m here to hurt you, to break you, and to remind everyone that Nick Gage is the face of hardcore wrestling.

I’ll take you to a place you’ve never been before, and when you’re on your knees, begging for mercy, don’t expect any. I’m not just looking to win—I’m looking to end you. I’ve got nothing left to prove to anyone, but I’m gonna prove one thing to you: there’s no room for you in this business anymore. After this match, no one’s gonna question who the real king of hardcore is. And it sure as hell ain’t Nick Mondo. After this match, people won’t remember the Nick Mondo from CZW. They’ll remember the Nick Mondo who got destroyed by the King of Hardcore. I’m taking over ECW, and you, Matt, are just another casualty in my path to becoming ECW Heavyweight ####ing Champion!"

Gage sinks back into the comfort of his arm chair. Picking up the remote, he presses play one last time, as that old familiar sound of John House yelling "Somebody call 911!" echoes through the room. Gage grins a toothless grin. His eyes widening as the same scene of destruction plays out for the final time. A sudden realisation comes over him. The video tape was a symbolic reminder that for Nick Mondo, his best days were long behind him. But for Nick Gage, they were just around the corner! The camera watches from side profile, as Gage rocks steadily in the chair with anticipation, back lit from the glow of the television set facing him.

NG: "It's like "The Nature Boy" Ric Flair once said;"To be the man, you gotta beat the man." And from where I'm sitting, we both know, I'm the man to beat! See you at Anarchy...Matt!"

Gage picks up the remote control and presses the off button, the reel of video tape clinking to a stand still. The image on the television screen shrinks to black as we fade out.