TK steps off B.O.B’s replacement private jet, shining under the July sun. The city’s rich history and grandeur aren’t lost on him, but today, something else dominates his mind. As he descends the jet's steps, he is immediately struck by the sight of a crowd gathered near the landing area. They aren’t fans; they’re protestors.

“Look at these jackoffs,” he mutters, loud enough for people to hear.

The demonstrators try to taunt TK by holding signs with accusatory slogans such as: “No Welcome for Bourbon’s Hatchetman!” “Reject B.O.B’s Violence!” and “Peace Over Profits!” The crowd’s chants fill the air, contradicting the serene, sacred ambiance of the Vatican. TK’s heart skips a beat, but he feels a rush of excitement instead of fear or regret. The jeers fuel him, igniting the fire within him. He has always thrived on controversy, on the raw, unfiltered energy of the crowd. Today is no different. He belts out the words:

“Corey Black wants a biblical beat down, folks! He sure as fuck has the right opponent. It's just too damn bad for him, he's going to be the one fucking dragged through the streets, bleeding like a virgin on prom night. He ain’t ready for the Max Baer in me. He’s expecting the clown, not the fucking killer.”

As he walks towards the crowd, looking as cocky as ever, a security detail provided by the Swiss Guard flanks him, their presence clearly indicating the anticipated hostility. The Vatican doesn't want a Donald Trump situation happening. The crowd’s chants grow louder, and their voices are full of anger and disdain. TK’s steps are confident, each one exuding the swagger of a man who has never cared what the public thinks of him. He yells out to the crowd again.

“You know the best way to bring down an Empire? You don't start at the top, fuck that, that's a fool's errand. You take out the weakest link at the bottom, and trust me, Black is the weakest link, eroding the already shaky foundation.”

Approaching the barricade, where a line of security personnel holds back the protestors, TK glances at the faces in the crowd. Their faces are filled with genuine fear and concern, others with sheer hostility. Instead of being demoralized, he feels galvanized. Each boo, each insult is proof of his impact, a reminder that he is a force to be reckoned with.

“You know, you fucks, and Corey Black have something in common; you're both hypocrites. You scream about peace and reject violence, and his lobotomy-mouthed ass says I ain't shit but has the balls to speak my name, yet here you both are, trying to tear me down with your words and actions. Corey Black claims to be a symbol of strength for his dojo, but deep down, he’s just like you protesters, full of empty promises and contradictions. I can't believe anyone wants to learn from this hack. Anyway, you can all chant and protest, but when I hit him with the Thunder Strike again, all his hypocrisies will be laid out for everyone who buys Leap of Faith to see.” He says with conviction.

A woman in the front row of the crowd catches his eye. She is older, her face lined with years of wisdom and sorrow. Her sign reads, “BOB Has No Place Here.” Her eyes, though filled with anger, also hold a plea... a plea for understanding, for change. TK stares back, a cocky smirk curling his lips, knowing that his very presence stirs such strong emotions.

“Giving me those Corey Black ‘come fuck me’ eyes. Bitch, get out of here, you stand as much of a chance as he does.” He says, knowing there's much more that could be said.

He pauses for a moment after saying that; however, his eyes meet hers as he soaks in the hatred. He wants to explain to her that he is more than just a hatchetman for BOB and the Bastardly Father, that his career has been one of survival and resilience. Those words, however, are for another time. Today, he revels in the chaos that he brings with him.

“Look at you all, thinking you know me,” TK shouts at the crowd. “You judge me, you boo me, but you root for the fakest of fucks all the time. You see a villain. Maybe you're right, but you need me. Do you think your protests and your shitty signs mean anything to me at all? I mean, other than them being my ticker parade, that is. Get the fuck outta here, you're all as lame as Corey Black.”

With a deep breath, he lifts both hands, handing out the business end of his middle fingers before turning away from the crowd and continuing towards the awaiting vehicle. As he approaches, a grin spreads across his face. That’s where he sees it...

“Motherfucking right!” His voice is full of delight.

...the Popemobile, waiting to drive him through the streets of Vatican City. The irony is delicious.

“Does this thing have a loudspeaker?” he asks.

TK takes pleasure at this moment, stepping into the Popemobile with an exaggerated Connor Mcgregor-esque strut. The driver hands him a microphone connected to the vehicle's loudspeaker system. With a wicked grin, TK addresses the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, saints and fucking sinners, I give you the one and only Ol’ Thunder Knuckles! It feels like Christmas in goddamn July!"

The crowd's boos intensify now that more can hear him, and a chorus of disapproval reverberates through the streets. TK waves again, mimicking the Pope’s solemn gesture, but his smirk betrays his true intentions.

"Let me tell you something, ingrates. The Vatican might be the holiest place on fucking Earth, but I’m about to bring a whole lot of unholy down on another goddamn Corey!"

As the Popemobile makes its way through the narrow, cobbled streets of Vatican City, TK continues to taunt the people and his upcoming opponent. The ancient buildings and historic landmarks blur past as he focuses on his message.

"You see these people, Corey? They’re here because they know what’s coming. They can feel the shift in the air, that's XWF fans anticipating BOB’s brutality. The SEB Empire isn't the first group to walk through these doors to talk the same long-winded shit that you've been talking about for months. Heh, you probably won't be the last, either. You’re too naive to see the dog shit you walked right onto, it was right there, but you still did it, and that's why you’re just a stepping stone on our path back to fucking top of XWF."

The crowd hurls insults and jeers, their anger unrelenting. TK drinks it in, like he drinks cheap beer, thriving on their emotions. He turns his attention back to the microphone.

"Let’s get something straight, folks. I didn’t come here to play all nicey nice. I didn’t come here to make some damn friends. I came here to make a goddamn statement. To prove that no matter where you are, no matter how sacred you think your olive oil stained ground is, Ol’ Thunder Knuckles is here to take a backhoe to it and level that bitch!"

The Popemobile passes by St. Peter’s Basilica, its grandeur and historic importantance momentarily draws TK’s attention. He laughs, shaking his head.

"Corey Black, you might think you’ve got the backing of history, but history is just that, fucking history. I’m here for the goddamn future. Make no mistake about it, the future looks a lot like me towering over your unconscious bloody body, raising that Xtreme Championship high above my head, while the second piece of the Empire falls. Here’s looking at you, Spencer Adams. Ozzy looks pretty good with a championship around his waist, and so it fucking began."

He raises both middle fingers again, pointing them skyward as the Popemobile rolls on. The crowd’s outrage reaches a fever pitch, throwing rocks at the Popemobile, but TK, as always, seems unfazed. He knows this performance is just as important as any match, a psychological battle that sets the stage for what’s to come.

"Remember this day, people of Vatican City. Remember the day Ol’ Thunder Knuckles came to your damn streets and shook the very core of your belief. When the Bastardly Father sends me to step into that ring with Corey Black, I’m not just fighting for his title. Oh no, I’m fighting to show the world I'm that fucking guy in this business!"

The Popemobile turns a corner, the crowd's noise fading slightly as they move away from the heart of the protest and to the venue. TK sits back, still holding the microphone, and he plasters an annoyingly satisfied smile on his face.

"Corey Black, get ready, you bitch made, alpha cuck. You’ve faced a lot of people in your time, but you’ve never faced a piece of shit like me."

With that said, he drops the microphone, leans back, and waves again to the fading crowd. The Popemobile pulls up to the venue, coming to a smooth stop. TK steps out, greeted by a wave of security personnel who escort him through a private entrance.

“Oh, and don't think I'm just fucking wooing it up for the crowd either. I don't think you appreciate how much danger you and that Xtreme Championship you carry are in. You might think I'm an open book. The problem with guys like you is, you don't know what fucking page to turn to.”

The noise of the crowd outside is replaced by the hustle and bustle of the backstage area. Staff members and crew move out of his way, and those who don’t try not to inadvertently piss him off as he makes his way down the corridor. The venue is charged, and everyone is aware of the significance of the upcoming Xtreme Championship match.

“If you think I got to this point in my career just lounging around, sipping on sweet tea. Then you’re sadly mistaken. No. I suffered. I fucking grinded. Your boots might have some scuffs on them but so do mine. I’ve faced plenty of generic badass rasslers like you before. I know this dance, and I'm about to lead this Xtreme waltz all over the Vatican. What I plan to show you at Leap of Faith is simple, that pain is a teacher.”

As he approaches BOB’s locker room, which all venues XWF books are contractually obligated to have, TK’s mind shifts back to the task ahead. The Xtreme Title match with Corey Black is imminent, and the stakes have never been higher for the Brotherhood's future.

“You see, the XWF Universe respects the hard, the tough, the ones who can take a hit and get the Hell back up and keep moving forward. It’s easy to be soft by taking the path of least resistance. I’ve watched your promotional material against your former opponents. The Chris Chaos in you is strong, almost unnoticeable, but it’s there. I won’t be allowing you to use one of your most vital skills.” Without taking his foot off the gas, TK continues. “Nah, your jacked straight from a PS3 move set lacks creativity. Where is the glitz, the glamour, the thing that sets you apart? I just don’t see it. You fell asleep to the Thunder Strike once. What makes you fucking think you’ll wake up when you get hit with it again?”

TK enters the well-lit BOB luxury locker room, surrounded by hot tubs, Lazy Boy recliners, and a fridge stocked with beer. The familiar comforts are opposite to the intensity outside, but TK feels right at home. He heads straight to the fridge, grabs a beer, and cracks it open with a satisfying hiss. Taking a long, deliberate drink, he lets the cold liquid calm his nerves and sharpen his focus.

“When has easy ever led to something worth fucking having? I embrace the struggle, it’s molded my whole goddamn career. When I take the Xtreme Championship from you, it’ll give you some time to think in those dark, quiet hours of the night while other people sleep. You’ll be kept up, not from beating off to your own success, no, you’ll be thinking about everything you did fucking wrong at Leap of Faith. Why didn’t I take Butthead more seriously? Why did I focus so hard on building myself up, only for Bert to take my street cred?”

The large flat-screen televisions hanging on the wall highlight other details in the room, but TK’s mind is elsewhere. He can still hear the echoes of the crowd’s boos, their disapproval cutting through the comfort of his surroundings.

“I have a theory, though; my theory is you don't accomplish much outside of the ring, so that's where you 'get your flowers,' and if you struggle, it really pisses you off. It’s time I make you suffer. Not because it’s noble but because it’s necessary; it’s the secret ingredient for success in XWF. The one thing that too many people are afraid to add to their receipt because it’s bitter.”

He walks over to one of the hot tubs, dipping his hand into the warm, bubbling water. It feels good, but it can't quiet the storm inside him. TK’s reflection in the water is clear, showing a man who has sacrificed so much, endured so many hardships, and yet, still finds himself questioning if it is all worth it.

“I’m going to prove you don’t have what it fucking takes to push past the pain, and the fatigue, to silence the whispers of doubt in your head after my promotional material drops. You were a tough mother fucker laughing on Twitter, thinking I didn’t have a chance. Come Leap of Faith you’ll be added to the list of punchlines to this joke.”

A rollercoaster of highs and lows has been his story. He has come from nothing, clawing his way up from the bottom with a determination that has yet to be rivaled. Every scar and every bruise tells a story of matches fought, bitter defeats, and hard-won victories. Tonight, on the other hand, those scars feel like burdens, the weight of his past pressing down on his shoulders.

“Shit, I can push past all that. I conquer the doubters every time they open their mouths. That's the price of the ticket people pay to watch the show. The question has never been; ‘will you suffer?’ That shit is a given. The question is, when I defeat you, will you prove me right, and let it define you by taking your talent to South Beach? Choose wisely.”

The locker room, usually BOB's sanctuary before their matches, feels almost mocking in its luxury. The familiar smells of sweat and old gym socks with the clean, crisp scent of the high-end disinfectant, all too reminiscent of the sacrifices he has made. He remembers the early days when the dream of making it big in wrestling was a distant thought. The countless hours of video, the sacrifices, the friendships lost along the way, it all flashes before his eyes like a Rocky montage of pain and perseverance.

“In this harsh unforgiving sport, guys like you who don’t experience hardship very often are fucking blinded by your own superiority complex. You're quick to forget the basic rules to rassling matches. Now, I know what you're going to say: this is an Xtreme rules match, and a count out won't win the match for me. Heh, you're right, but my point still stands. You’ve become complacent, the King of the Rasslers is playing third fiddle behind me, and his Epstein Island season pass ticket holder looking-ass tag partner, slash, Universal Champion. Unfortunately for you, Sebastian isn’t going to be there to bail you out this time.”

His mind then drifts to one of his proudest achievements: his 105 day reign as Xtreme Champion. Each day of that run was a showcase of his dedication and his relentless pursuit to prove he was among the best. Because of that run, he had the opportunity to face some of the best in the business, enduring grueling matches that pushed him to the edge. However, there was a darker side to that reign, no one wanted to face him. While he was actively seeking bookings, opponents seemed to vanish, unwilling to step into the ring with him. The Xtreme Championship had become a symbol of fear, but it also isolated him, making each victory feel a little more hollow.

“I use suffering as fuel because everything I’ve ever wanted is accompanied by it. Pain and hardship have always been my best buds, bud. Pushing me beyond my limits and shaping me into the rassler I am today. At Leap of Faith, I’m not just participating in a Xtreme rules match; I’m writing your history, Corey, and I don’t plan to be kind or merciful. Do I think it’ll be easy? Hell no. It’s never easy, and that’s exactly why it’s worth it. I thrive on the challenge of people who think they're better than me, their blood, sweat, and tears are the lubrication of my late-night jerk-off sessions.”

His mind snaps back to the task at hand, Corey Black. TK didn’t seek out this match because Corey was important; he did it to prove a point. Corey, legacy and all, was just another wrestler. TK wanted to show that even the most revered names in this business are beatable and that no one is invincible. The match against Black is a statement, a stance against the idea that anyone could overshadow his worth. TK plans to do exactly that by adding fear back into the Xtreme Championship.

“I’m coming, I’m ready, the XWF fans around the world know what I’m made of. Now it’s time for Corey Black to learn it the hard fucking way. Being afraid of an over-touted cock piece isn’t in my belief system. I’m not afraid to suffer. I’m not afraid to bleed, and I'm certainly not afraid to make others bleed for my goddamn goals.”

He remembers the faces of those who doubted him, who told him he wouldn't make it. Their voices bounce around in his mind, blending with the boos from the crowd outside. Each voice is a reminder, that very chip on his shoulder, the fire in his belly that has driven him to prove them all wrong. Recently, that fire feels more like a flicker, a flame struggling to stay lit in the face of overwhelming odds because what if what Pantheon is saying is true? Then XWF doesn't need Thunder Knuckles; it doesn't need everyone who's come before them.

“For those telling Corey everything is going to be okay, you need to wake up to the fact that when you're in an Xtreme rules match, like the one he finds himself in with Ol’ Thunder Knuckles, you have to fight, and you will struggle. There’s no room for someone to sell him comfort, making him more complacent than he already is. He'll either rise to the challenge or get crushed under my fucking boot. They should be telling him he's in for the fight of his life because he is.”

TK’s thoughts drift to his teammates, the brothers who have stood by him through thick and thin. What if they don't need them anymore, either? Bobby’s face comes to mind, a team that is more solid than any words could express. Their no-look fist bump is more than a gesture... it is a symbol of unity, their bond. Bobby has been more than a teammate; he is a mentor, a brother in arms. Bobby's methods, often deemed extreme and uncompromising, have earned them both a fair share of enemies, but TK relishes the notoriety.

“I can't wait for the moment when Corey finally fucking realizes he's in the ring with the violent psychopath I've always been. I'm suffering with purpose and passion. Unfortunately for Mr. Black, he's going to be suffering with pride after suffering physically.”

He wonders about his future in XWF, about what lies ahead on this Xtreme path he has chosen. His career has been longer than he'd anticipated and has made him tired, but he knows it is far from over. There will be more matches, more challenges, more nights like this where he will question his purpose. Now deep In the depths of his introspection, he also finds his resolve. The idea of giving up is unthinkable. He can't let Pantheon win over BOB, he can't let the doubts drown out his fighting spirit.

“When my music hits, and the pain subsides, it won't be as a fucking survivor like on Warfare, Hell no. It'll be as the goddamn victor. I'll be standing tall as the new Xtreme Champion. The crowd will boo me, that's for sure, and I still won't care, but because of me, they will be treated to a bloody spectacle. Corey Black will be lying in the ring, a broken example of the challenges that I always have to overcome, and the XWF Universe will yet again see the lengths I’m willing to go to claim what's mine. Me beating Corey’s ass all over Vatican City and taking his Xtreme Championship won't just be another notable match on my resume; it’ll be a statement seen far and wide. Those who sleep on Ol' Thunder Knuckles find out that he's a true force in this industry. Whether they like him or not.”

As the noise of the crowd fades further into the background, replaced by the silence of his thoughts, TK takes a deep breath and straightens up. The road forward is still being determined; he knows he has to keep going. He has to fight, not just for himself but for every Bastard who believes in him.

“Now that, that, is worth every drop of sweat, every goddamn drop of blood, every moment of fucking agony. That is the beauty of Corey Black’s suffering. Each ounce of pain I put myself through to dish out even more, every grueling minute I use to tear his flesh from his body, every scar I place on him, all of it leads to this moment. Watching Corey Black fall, knowing his suffering is the price for my fucking triumph, it's the ultimate goddamn vindication for not finishing the job on Warfare.”

He walks over to the fridge and grabs a beer. His thoughts intertwine with the reflection of his past and his vision of the future, guiding his steps. TK is not just a wrestler like Corey Black; he is beyond that, he’s a fighter, a survivor, a man who has faced hardship and emerged even stronger. He cracks open the beer and takes a long, satisfying drink. TK closes his eyes for a moment, visualizing the match and everything he can legally do to Corey Black with no rules. Suddenly, there's a knock at the door; someone opens it.

“Thunder Knuckles, you’re up next.” A member of the production crew says.

Opening his eyes, TK looks dead into the camera before heading to the gorilla position.

"Look around. I'm surrounded by comfort but still suffering as I strive to walk a million miles in your shoes. Honestly, let's be real here, Corey, you couldn't even lace up my boots, let alone step into the ring wearing them. I’m fucking technicolor, you’re goddamned ‘retro’ black and white so that you can seem a little cooler than you actually are. So, from one cartoon character to another, get fucked pussy."