The post Anarchy media scrum is underway, because apparently the Fabrik in Madrid asked for it. Anarchy is not a PPV, but hey, they paid for it, so meh. 

We see Clutch Cassidy storm in with a gigantic plate of Spanish delicacy that doesn't look stomach-friendly. She already has her mouth half full and is stuffing more in. 

CLUTCH: LET'S FUCKIN' GOOOOOO! 

The event coordinator, just out of frame, frantically signals Clutch to leave and points to her clipboard to communicate that Clutch is not scheduled to be on just yet. 

Clutch sets the plate on the table and piles her sexy, phat ass into the chair. It's only now that we see the cuts and bruises and swelling from her wild brawl with Scoops McGee. Somehow, somewhere, someway, Clutch pulls out two cans of White Claw, clangs them together Stone Cold style, and chugs them like a champ. 

Despite the coordinator's protests, the media in the room are happy to see her. They cheer and unload, taking pictures and asking questions about her huge upset win over Scoops McGee. 

CLUTCH: Aight now y'all listen the fuck up, mi amigos. Yeah, I beat Scoops, but it may not have been his night, since he has all that bullshit going on. We'll run it back when he gets done stomping the shit out of them people. 

She hurls her empty White Claw cans at the annoying coordinator lady. 

CLUTCH: NOW, enough bout Scoops. Y'all heard my bro 36 and the Director out there. They're fightin' champions, doing an open challenge for War Games with those titles on the line. Well, shit fire and save a match, just so happens I ain't on War Games, so I'm issuing an open partnership thing. If ya wanna be my tag partner and enter that there open challenge, hit ya girl up. Y'all know where to find me. We gotta click though, ain't none of this first come, first serve bullshit. 

She stands to leave. 

CLUTCH: Oh, and if someone gets injured before the War Games team thing, holler at ya girl and I'll fight in that too. 

Her eyes suddenly bulge to the size of saucers, and she clutches her tummy. Her stomach makes a noise that stomachs shouldn't make, and she breaks wind so audibly that it causes static feedback in nearby mics. Without a word more, she flees to the nearest bathroom.

The shot open on the door of a toilet stall, where within Clutch is presently very audibly punishing a toilet. The gentle muzak playing in the bathroom suddenly cuts out, replaced with a familiar voice. 

AH-HA-HEM! Clutch Cassidy! Don't get up, I know you're busy. But it is I, SAMAEL DYSON, manager extrordinaiirre of the much feared and reviled Kristoffer Arroyo, and I am here to make you an offer!

I just bore witness to one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen! That epic beefer you just cut on live television was Le Chef's Kiss! *muah*! Ya see, hot chicks farting is kinda my thing. Even better if it leaves a little extra in the pants.

Clutch....did....did it leave a little extra....? Just wanted to know for, ya know, personal reasons. 

Anyhoo, I know you're looking for a tag partner and I'd like to offer my services! Maybe it's hard to believe but I can be one hell of a scrapper when I need to be. And I know if you pick me we'll fuckin' roll those two cardboard cutouts and win that gold. 

And then, maybe afterwards, you can, ya know, let me crawl around behind you as you unleash some more toxic vapors from that finely toned ass of yours. No pressure though! JUST AN IDEA!

Let me know! CIAO, FIRECRACKER!