RoboWrestler1 presses a few hundred buttons on his forearm and a long blade extends from his his knuckle. The fist shoots off of his arm with a loud bang and flies ahead several thousand feet, then slowing down and turning around to come back toward RoboWrestler1.

RoboWrestler1: No, money. No, hookers. No, reason, to, go, on. It, is, time, for, me, to, join, my, dead, wife, and, daughter.

The bladed fist comes speeding straight toward his face and nails him right in the middle of his metallic forehead.

Sparks.

Smoke.

Explosions.

Tornadoes.

The entire state of Nebraska is destroyed by the power of RoboWrestler1's attempt to end his own program, and he was in Florida at the time.

But stands unscathed.

RoboWrestler1: Why, can, I, not, die?

The man deep within that emotionless concoction was once known as Richerd Westchesterson. His wife, and daughter long gone. He pulls a picture of them out from a vault in his midsection that also contains his final dollar and he looks at the picture and the dollar while waking along a beach on the East coast. When he least expects it, a young African American male runs up and snatches the dollar from his tweezer like claw that had replaced the hand he shot off.

RoboWrestler1: Stop, right, there!

The culprit stops and thinks about it for a second. He decides to run back up and also snatch the photograph before running off as fast as a cheetah. RoboWrestler1 takes a few steps to give chase but quickly slows back down, realizing there's no point. His shoulders slump and his head lowers.

RoboWrestler1: No, reason. No, worth. No, tag, partner, worth, a, damn. Not, even, likely, to, get, laid, or, paid, tomorrow. Only, hope, is, deactivation, in, the, ring.

The depressed robot lies on the beach and lets the waves hit him, not even caring about rust or parasites using his body to reproduce. If tomorrow comes and he has plant life stuck to his face, it can only help matters.