The scene opens up to the newly crowned despicable duo of Katrina and Luca sitting in the grassy area of a local park. These two must know of the location of more parks in this area than Dean McGovern, because they're never at the same one twice. Their eyes appear to be bloodshot, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduct the cause. Katrina takes Luca's hand in her's and lays her head on his shoulder.

"Tonight's such a beautiful night, do you have to verbally destroy Nightmare now?"

Luca looks up at the sky and begins to laugh uncontrollably. The odds of a beautiful night in Los Angeles are as likely as Nightmare saying anything clever at all about Luca.

"Yes, I have to do it tonight."

She punches his chest in a mock show of anger. Immediately after however, she begins to laugh as she continues to rest her head against his shoulder.

"May I begin? Fuck you, I'm doing it anyway. Nightmare's hilarious, is he not? I mean, going on and on about how he infests dreams and shit. He's a grade A comedian, I'll give him that much."

"He's serious."

Katrina's face lights up and she begins to laugh uncontrollably. Burying her face into his chest, she motions her hands to tell him to continue on as she tries to regain her composure.

"Hey Nightmare, are you trying to be scary? Is that your whole thing right now? Trying to play mind games with your opponents? You know who you're dealing with, right?

You're dealing with the fucking king of mind games, motherfucker.

Here, allow me to predict how every fucking thing Nightmare puts out this week will go. Okay, stay with me here, it's about to get bumpy. And by bumpy, I mean really fucking boring, because this is Nightmare we're dealing with. Y'know, boring's kinda to be expected with him.

He's going to either tell the story of some douchebag low life who makes me look like a fucking saint by comparison. Or he's going to let his fucking apprentice rattle on and on about his pathetic life story. Then he's going to ramble on about how he's big and strong and scary as fuck or whatever it is he rants about.

You know what I'm going to do?

I'm going to sit here and smoke more weed than Cheech and fucking Chong partying with Harold and Kumar. Then I'm going to come in to the match, stoned as fuck, and I'm still going to beat you.

In fact, I want to propose a challenge to Nightmare if I can.

While you slowly lumber down to the fucking ring, your dead eyes hidden behind the mask, I'm going to snort a Ziploc bag of cocaine. While your lard ass struggles to get between those ropes, I'll spin around in circles three dozen times. Before that bell rings, I'll down a six pack. Because even while I'm fucked up, I could easily beat you.

You wanna be a monster?

Are you done hiding like a bitch behind the meek, weak willed opponents you've been facing so far?

Then fucking beat me. I dare you, I double dare you motherfucker, rub those two brain cells in your head together long enough to find a way to do something that only Mr. Satellite can do.

Beat me like the bitch everyone thinks I am.

Beat me like the bitch everyone wants to prove that I am.

Come on.

Do it.

.

Oh wait, I forgot one simple fact!

You can't beat me, because you, and everyone else on this roster who is not Mr. Satellite just don't have it in you? What a fucking joke. Come on Heyman, send that Shady Robertson cocksucker after me, at least he looks like he could go maybe one full round with me. Oh wait, who am I kidding, it's because I've been watching too much of this Nightmare moron that anyone looks like serious business compared to him.

Fuck it, while I'm on the topic and since Nightmare's a fucking nitwit anyway, seriously Nightmare, who's life story is it gonna be this week? I hope it's mine, so everyone knows just how much more interesting I am than you.

Anyway, Shady Robertson. Be glad cunt, this is the closest you'll ever get to a main event. You wanna claim that I don't show up when shit gets real? You know, just to prove you wrong and to give you a history lesson, something all of you shithead rooks should be receiving as part of the initiation process.

Gauntlet City. Heard of it? Of course you haven't, you rooks only look as far as when you showed up on the fucking doorstep of this glorified orphanage.

Open match for the X-Treme title. I joined in, and I won.

Boom. Your only fucking point blown out of the water. Why are you so angry about being in a battle royal? I mean, there's so many people there that no one's bound to notice your individual mistakes. Which in and of itself is a miracle, because you sure as fuck are going to make a lot of them.

You see me?

I don't fuck up like you do. I challenge people who are on me level, which is everyone here. Even our triple champion, Mr. Satellite.

You?

You stand by the table for scraps like a fucking dog. Because that's all you are, and that's all you know how to do. The only time you'd want me is if I was broken, battered, and beat down. Then you can coast in and get an 'easy' victory on me.

Only problem?

You'd still lose.

No, this isn't me having a big head and thinking I'm the best thing ever Shady. This is Luca Arzegotti the realist stating just how much you suck, how unimpressive you are.

Chris Legend made bigger waves than you will.

Steve Davids is out of your league, and he couldn't keep me down long enough.

Scott Charlotte, the guy I've beaten and carried to victory would have a field day with you, and you want to challenge me?

Give me a fucking break.

Next."

The scene fades out a sped up video of grass growing, something way more interesting than either shmuck Luca mentioned.