The scene fades in to show the once disheveled gym looking in far better shape, although the equipment still appears well worn and nearly falling apart. There's no dust to be seen, at least. A collection of boxes varying in size and shape are stacked in a pile in the background, select few of them open, even fewer empty.

In the foreground sits Gator in a fancy lawnchair, laid all the way back. The chair is located on a small square of astroturf. In his hand is a bottle of beer and to his side rests an opened ice chest and a pink flamingo lawn ornament.

"Now, this is the kinda work I'm cut out for! All that surgery really paying off, wouldn't you say, Clark Kunt?"

The camera pans to show Ned hunched over in a chair in front of several old TVs, all playing different clips of past John Rogan matches.

"Hey, you don't pay me so that you can ignore my insults! It's getting too fucking boring if you're just taking notes!"

Ned stays silent.

"We spend days on getting you a finisher worth a shit and now you're too big for Daddy Gator! Well, you know what-!"

"I'm not certain I'll be able to use the finisher."

"....Fuckin' excuse me?"

"Unfortunately, he's not one for a lot of rope based attacks and I'm not physically strong enough to lift him up there unless he's completely out of it. The move gets a lot of its punch from the top rope. Worst case, though, I could attempt it on the mat..."

"Look, Neddy, I'm glad you've learnt how to spout some stupid shit from me, but if you try doing that and you're not on the top rope, you might as well drop Rogan's shorts and bend over. You're fucked if you try that."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Gator rolls his eyes and looks at his wrist.

"Will you look at the time? It's fucking Tuesday! You gotta leave pronto and you still got jackshit of a plan! I mean, I'm getting paid either way, so you can gladly just stick around here and help me win that bet, but my coaching rates will plummet if you dick around in there! So, for both of us? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Kindly remove your head from your ass and start moving?"

"I have a plan."

Gator looks befuddled before just chuckling to himself heading for the door. Ned follows behind him.

"You are one strange goblin man, but I kinda want you to win. I expect free advertising, cake sent directly to my house, and at least two strippers. And I know a guy like you usually gets a certain kind, so make sure mine are female!"

"Goodbye, Gator."

"And there better be a tattoo of my name on your face by next Warfare!"

"Goodbye."

Ned shuts the door behind Gator locking it before sitting in front of the array of televisions he had set up to watch past matches.

"So, John."

Ned twists his head somewhat.

"It seems tomorrow, we meet a culmination of sorts. A test of the kinds of men we truly are. I've spent this time preparing for our match and bettering myself. And you? You squabble on about crushing my ego whilst the only ego here fragile enough to snap is yours. The man who avoids accountability for his defeat. Who talks about himself in such high regard with little more than a set a push-ups under his belt. Whether I am defeated or not, I press onward. You suffered a loss and convinced yourself you deserved praise. You're afraid, John. Not of me, but of yourself. You see me kick you out of the ring and you chalk it up to circumstance and delude your allies with empty reassurance. I faced the man who knocked me out that night and asked him for assistance. I allow you to laugh at my misfortune. I embrace vulnerability, you fear acknowledging it."

"You claimed my path looks like something out of Rocky III. But you compared me to Rocky...? Something tells me even subconsciously you understand the ending of Wednesday's match doesn't bode well for you, Lang. But the odds do seem to favor you. Like you mentioned, battle royals are not kind to your ilk."

"But I'm counting on this to be your best element, John. I require it to be so. Because when the dust settles, I want you to know that at your best hour in your most advantageous environment, I still come out on top. You're weak, Rogan. Not physically, but mentally."

"What I love most though, is your idea that you can transform my reality into despair. And this is precisely why I surpass you. You can't break my spirit. You decided to try and strike hard because you were hoping you had, but the fact is you only pressured me to improve faster. For every bold statement you announce of how broken I will be, you only strengthen the embarrassment you'll face when proven wrong. Men like yourself are as common as dirt. You sustain yourself on sucking dry the passion, hopes, and dreams of both those you face and their supporters alike. It's what you thirst for, Rogan. And win or lose Wednesday night, you will walk out of that ring parched, with an emptiness in your stomach. My goal is to extend that void feeling to your rotting heart. My will isn't a flickering flame you can extinguish, it is an inferno that will engulf everything you embody."

"To put this simply, if you set a million hurdles, I'll simply leap a million times. My spirit is unbreakable. And come tomorrow night, you'll realize that your body's size is minuscule when placed against my will. At March Madness, the world learned why I am Ned Kaye. At Warfare, John Rogan will learn why I'm Notorious."

The screen cuts to black.

"You can't run from yourself."