Dust floats in the air, a single overhead spotlight shines down to a faded wrestling mat. A tattered XWF banner barely hangs above the ring. A folding chair sits dead-center. Thunder Knuckles is sitting there in it backward, sunglasses on because that's what bad-asses do. The whole thing feels like a bootleg confession video.

“Lemme get this straight... we open up on Robert, this emotionally constipated, night-sweating, PTSD-having, bed-pissing sack of self-pity just twitching in his sleep. This dude wakes up like he just got drafted to Vietnam."

With a sneer on his face TK continues.

“Did you see his face was a canvas of discombobulation and trepidation, oh, and how his knuckles were white from the strain? Looks like Robert just found out they discontinued his favorite oat milk creamer. Better watch out!"

TK's patinated jerking-off hand gesture reminds folks that bullshit will not be tolerated.

"Bro, you’re over here having a full-blown Relentless-induced mental breakdown while your wife’s in REM sleep farting into a throw pillow shaped like a llama."

He laughs knowing everyone else saw it too.

"That’s what haunts you? I call bullshit, but let's just say that was true.  Anyway, Main's sitting there looking like a divorced Hallmark dad in an ad for cheap beer, when in walks his son. What was his name, Atlas? Jesus Christ, he named his kid after a Greek Titan and he's out here losing sleep over Soldier with a fucking suitcase? Getting cashed in on? Son, if every wrestler got the night terrors from losing a belt, the whole damn locker room would be in therapy watching videos of themselves getting frog-splashed into retirement. Then he hits you with the little waste of cum of his saying the most bland shit possible."

TK with a mocking tone.

“Daddy, are you going back?”

His tone goes back to normal.

"Cue the violins, folks. Cue the fucking slow zoom. Cue Robert lookin’ like he’s about to drop an acoustic album about loss, redemption, and child-friendly painkillers."

TK stares into the camera now.

"Look, I get it. We all got demons. I once smoked salvia in a Taco Bell bathroom and thought I was a giant raccoon for six hours. But damn, Robert, your biggest crisis is that you're too successful to be happy? Cry me a river, build a bridge, and jump straight the fuck off."

He leans in so that Robert can take notice.

"You wanna come back to the XWF? Then do it, bitch. Just don't lie about it, you ain’t solving grief, you’re dodging cardio. You don’t need closure. You need to stretch, hit the weights, and stop acting out bedtime stories about how loud the crowd was ten years ago. You were a champ, big fucking whoop. You lost, so has everyone. If dreams got you shook like that, maybe the ring ain’t the problem. Maybe it’s the size of your goddamn nuts. Now go hug your kid, kiss your wife, and quit wasting everyone’s time. You want back in the 'game', as you've called? Get in it. Just know the water’s deep, and daddy’s already swimming."

TK leans back, all cool and collected, then smirks.

"If you do come back, Robert… You best hope I’m not the first one standing across that ring. Because I ain’t a nightmare, I’m the reality that ends yours."

The spotlight turns off, your screen turns black, and now back to your regularly scheduled XWF content.