Robbie is seated on the slab in the medic room backstage, again. The medics give him a thumbs up. Chair shots are nasty, nobody is immune to pain, we all heal.

Welp, Chris, you have promise here in the XWF, I reckon, good luck.

Also, Peter, did you hear what the Micro Machines Kid had to say about you? Well, I heard all those fat jokes, I figured it meant you.

The champ sure is dark, mysterious, and conservative, but meh, none of that shit matters under the lights in that arena. No hiding, no tricks. Sheer, unadulterated brutality, however, that ability to last, to not lose gas, you might have a plan, but plans require resources.

Some of us are atomic powered dynamos of holy-shit-did-he-just-do-that.

Eventually a part of the plan comes off the rails.

I keep chugging along.

People all look at each other and say 'holy shit, did he just do that?'

They cringe at what happened to the plan. Scheme all you want.

You can not build without clearing.

I come to wreck.

Robbie makes a crazy ass face at the camera, going for intense but going way past it, looking just silly. He grunts and hops off the slab.