Notorious Ned Kaye sits atop a turnbuckle with a mic in his hand as he waits for his opponents to enter the ring.

"I wish I could say debuting at March Madness is an unabashed honor, but the reality is that I have been done a disservice. I've been placed against so-called "adversaries" nowhere near my caliber. It's simple to examine how they crumble, but I'll elaborate so that my opponents understand just how little they're prepared for me."

"Kuda, as long I have your abysmally short attention, here's an explanation of the defeat you shall suffer. You'll stumble into this ring and every stammering swing and sordid strike will fail you. Then, as I lift your body, the last thing you'll gaze are my eyes and you shall freeze from terror. After researching your millennia of matches, you are as predictable as the setting sun. I will humiliate you with such precision that your descendants will fear my name alone."

"From one antique to the next, John Rogan seems to believe his skill has persisted. John, you and I walked similar paths, but you lack self-awareness. You shout superiority, but the breaths you take walking off tell a contradictory tale. One of a heart no longer fit for competition as its owner pieces together a poor excuse for relevance. It's over. Be satisfied with your career and cease this incessant struggling, devaluing every achievement while your blood and sweat collects into a decrepit lake, drowning your legacy underneath. You've abandoned everything but ring awareness, so I'll make this clear: You'll know where the ring is when I toss your ass out of it."

"As long as we're discussing pitiful cries for recognition, mentioning Kid Kool is a necessity. Mastermind was able to summarize you so clearly, it almost wasn't worth researching. But each step further down your tormented mind only fascinated me. Because if you were half as skilled as you are desperate, you'd be able to hold onto one of those titles you lust over. Your reigns will forever be momentary because it's never about passion or improvement for you. You are fueled by a fragile egotism. Not a champion, just a dog barking at his reflection until someone smashes the mirror. And when it shatters tonight, so will your delusions of grandeur."

"However, delusion is encapsulated by the drug-addled embarrassment called ErRaTiK. Incapable of distinguishing reality and equally useless in a match, all he'll ever earn on television is a restraining order. So, flee to your starship, because no simulation will make a difference tonight or any night."

"Lastly, Justin Sayn, a talentless anarchist who substitutes skill with being beaten mercilessly. I'd spend more time addressing you if there was anything in your rattling skull. Out of everyone here, you're easily the most pathetic. I solved you at a passing glance. Your destruction at my hands is preordained and inevitable."

"This match is merely a test, a chance to prove my notes encompass your mindsets utterly. You can run from me, but you can't run from yourselves. I'm. In. Your. Heads. And you're all in over them."

Ned throws the mic to the side and prepares a stance to counter the five men rushing into the ring.

"You can't run from yourself."