Aired - June 22, 2025
SHOW OPENING MONTAGE
Music: A moody synthwave track rises beneath the chilling chime of a cracked ice bell.
NARRATOR (Fenwick Grimbough) (deep, ominous tone):
“In the frozen heart of the North... where the weak freeze and only the ruthless rise…”
(Blizzard static slams to black. Logo flashes: CHILL FACTOR)
NARRATOR (Fenwick Grimbough):
“This... is CHILL FACTOR. NPCW’s most brutal proving ground.”
🎵 [Montage Begins – Driving guitars kick in with a pulsing beat. Each clip hits like a punch.]
Santa Claus vs. Monster’s Bash
The ring quakes as Monster’s Bash — Frankenstein’s Monster, Kong Ogre, and Dragon King — corner Santa Claus, step by ominous step. Santa stands firm in the center of the ring, fists clenched. A final cut shows the monsters lunging — the screen freezes just before impact.
[SFX: Beastly roars, stomping thunder, chain rattle]
The Demonic Legion (Krampus, Jack Frost, Abaddon)
A desolate, darkened backstage hallway flickers under failing fluorescent lights. Krampus scratches at the walls with iron claws. Jack Frost glides through with a trail of rime and frostbite, whispering ancient curses. Abaddon appears from shadow, his face obscured, holding a charred doll.
The three converge around a flaming sigil on the floor. The lights shatter.
[SFX: Whispers, flames igniting, a demonic growl that fades into static]
The Wolf Pack’s Big Bad Wolf
The crowd is roaring under dark violet lights. Big Bad Wolf, sweat-soaked and snarling, climbs the ropes and raises the Northern Lights Championship overhead. Behind him, the rest of the Wolf Pack howl in victory. The belt gleams like an icy crown.
[SFX: Echoed wolf howl blending into guitar feedback]
Sandman vs. Jolly Green
Inside the ring under cold blue lights, Sandman clutches Jolly Green from behind — his arms like chains — locking in the Icy Slumber Sleeper Hold. The towering Jolly stumbles, eyes fluttering shut, dropping to his knees before collapsing.
[SFX: Deep breath, fading heartbeat, hush from crowd]
Final shot:
A line of NPCW Men's Division talent appears in silhouette across a snowy, cracked arena floor. Ice shatters under their feet as they take a step forward.
NARRATOR (Fenwick Grimbough):“At the North Pole... the cold doesn't kill.
It crowns a king.”
Bold, frosted steel text slams on-screen:
CHILL FACTOR
THE FIRE BURNS COLDER HERE
LIVE FROM THE NORTH POLE ARENA
THIS WEEK’S RUNDOWN
[After the opening montage ends graphics detailing the matches airing tonight begin to display with Slick Ricky Vega voicing over the details …]
CROWD AND WELCOMING
The camera glides over a raucous, bundled-up crowd under icy blue lighting. Fans of all ages wave signs, wear plush penguin hats, and chant “NPC-DUB! NPC-DUB!”
Signs in the crowd (Mix of funny & serious):
“RUDOLPH 3:16 – SHINIEST NOSE IN THE GAME!”
“TEAM FROSTY: SNOW MERCY”
“MERRY BAND > THE HOWLERS”
“ABADDON STOLE MY SOUL... AND I’M OKAY WITH IT”
“HUNTER’S ENCLAVE: BITE BACK”
“FLIPPERS FOR PRESIDENT (OF MY HEART)”
“I SURVIVED OGRE’S FROST BOMB”
“KISS ME, I’M A DREAD KNIGHT”
“KRAMPUS FEARS CAROLS”
“FRANKENSTEIN LIKES HIS OPPONENTS WELL-DONE”
“FREE SANTA!”
“DAVE KENT IS RIGHT... USUALLY”
“HAMMER TIME NEVER ENDS”
“HOLIDAY SPIRIT? I PREFER HOLIDAY VIOLENCE!”
The camera finally settles on a serious-looking male fan in a black T-shirt emblazoned with the Van Helsing chilling phrase:
“I don’t hunt titles... I slay legends.”
He tips his head just as the pyro hits…
[CUT TO ANNOUNCE DESK – HAMMER WASHINGTON & DAVE “THE BRUTE” KENT]
The desk sits under a frozen arch, with icicle lighting and frosted NPCW logos behind them. Hammer is dressed in a smart wool blazer with snowflake cufflinks, while Dave Kent is in black wrestling attire and mask.
HAMMER WASHINGTON:
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and creatures of all kinds, to another icy hot edition of NPCW Chill Factor! I’m Hammer Washington, and we are coming to you live from the frigid and fired-up North Pole Arena, where the snow may fall outside—but inside? The action is MELTING THE ICE!”
DAVE “THE BRUTE” KENT:
“Yeah, yeah, spare me the seasonal metaphors, Hammer. I care about one thing tonight—watching Krampus and Abaddon rip through the Merry Band like they’re on Santa’s Naughty List… permanently.”
HAMMER:
“That’s right, Dave. The Demonic Legion has been on a tear, but tonight they’re up against the crowd-favorite underdogs—the Merry Band. Friar Tuck and Little John may be jokers, but when that bell rings? They bring the fight.”
DAVE:
“Sure, if your idea of a fight is swinging candy canes and rhyming insults. Meanwhile, Krampus has hooves the size of frying pans and Abaddon spits fire hotter than a dragon’s temper. I’m calling it now—Merry Band gets stomped like fruitcake.”
HAMMER:
“And let’s not forget our Main Event—a clash of mythical might! Monster’s Bash’s Ogre, one of the most destructive forces in NPCW, goes one-on-one with the relentless Van Helsing of the Hunter’s Enclave.”
DAVE:
“This ain’t just a match, Hammer—it’s a monster hunt! Van Helsing isn’t here to win over fans or collect belts—he’s here to eradicate. But Ogre? That beast doesn’t go down. He doesn’t even blink. This one’s gonna be brutal, and I can’t wait.”
HAMMER:
“Plus, we’ll hear from the twisted minds behind the Monster’s Bash—Dr. Frankenstein himself has promised an exclusive interview, and word is he’s bringing the whole monstrous gang.”
DAVE:
“And if that wasn't enough to freeze your blood, we’ve got Krampus backstage with a warning for anyone who dares challenge the Demonic Legion. This episode’s stacked like holiday cookies, Hammer—and some of those cookies bite back.”
[CAMERA PANS BACK TO CROWD – CHANTS BUILD]
“HUNTER’S EN-CLAVE! HUNTER’S EN-CLAVE!”
“LET’S GO MERRY! LET’S GO MERRY!”
“OGRE SMASH! OGRE SMASH!”
HAMMER:
“Buckle in, folks! Chill Factor is just getting started—don’t go anywhere!”
DAVE:
“Unless you’re Krampus. In which case, go straight to the ring and end some careers.”
[The show fades to the next segment …]
GRIM TIDINGS
(A Message From Director of Rules and Regulations, Fenwick Grimbough)
Camera opens on Fenwick Grimbough seated at his ornate desk, flanked by grim holiday décor—barbed wreaths, icicle chandeliers, and a burning yule log giving off an eerie blue flame.
FENWICK GRIMBOUGH (low, with theatrical disgust): "Greetings, denizens of the NPCW Universe. I am Fenwick Grimbough—General Manager, Director of Rules and Regulations, and the sole keeper of order in this blizzard-blasted madhouse you call a wrestling promotion."
He adjusts his blood-red tie with surgical precision.
"And tonight… I air my grievances. Not for your amusement, but for your edification. Because discipline, like fruitcake, must be served bitter, dense, and with no expiration date."
He glares directly into the camera.
"First on the docket: Rudolph. NPCW North Pole Champion. Red-nosed glory hog. You parade about with your glowing facial deformity as if it were a crown—yet your title defenses reek of impropriety. Last week, you ducked a mandatory pre-match regulation review to quote “meditate in the snow.” Cute. But not exempt from protocol."
He slams a thick rulebook shut.
"I hereby fine you 50 Yuletide Units and place you on Probationary Festive Surveillance. That means no more sleigh entrances without inspection. And wipe that smug illumination off your face. You’re not special—you’re seasonal."
He turns a page. His scowl deepens.
"Van Helsing. You vampire-vanquishing, stake-wielding trench coat enthusiast. This is not a Hammer Horror production—this is a place of regulated conflict. Your use of garlic-scented ring gear violates Section 12B of the ‘Odor Offense Act.’"
He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Also, your unsolicited Latin chanting during contract signings? Intolerable. This isn’t an exorcism, it’s entertainment."
Back to icy fury.
"Effective immediately, Van Helsing is banned from bringing wooden objects within 200 feet of the ring. That includes pencils. You may sign with coal."
He stands now, bracing both hands on the desk. Eyes like frozen daggers.
"And lastly… The Jolly Elves. Merry and Jingle."
A pause. He breathes deeply, as though trying not to explode.
"You miniature miscreants wrapped my office in tinsel. You replaced my ink with eggnog. You filled my boots with peppermint bark. These acts are not pranks. They are infractions."
He holds up a candy cane—snapped in half.
"You have desecrated sacred administrative space. Your punishment? The ‘Elfin Shame Gauntlet.’ You will wrestle blindfolded, tethered together, in an opening match of a future Chill Factor. Good luck finding the ring, let alone surviving it."
He slowly lowers back into his chair.
"So let it be known: I am not here to spread joy. I am not here for your laughs, your lights, or your little peppermint dreams."
He raises a coal-black gavel and brings it down with a chilling THUD.*
"I am Fenwick Grimbough. And these… were my Grievances."
Screen fades to black, replaced by a crimson sigil of Grimbough’s face framed in frost and law scrolls, with the words: “Grimbough’s Grievances: Joy Is Temporary. Rules Are Forever.”
[CAMERA CUTS TO RING – BELL RINGS]
HAMMER WASHINGTON: “Alright folks, welcome to match one here on Chill Factor! We’ve got a real battle of brawn versus bravery—The Gods of War, Ares and Mars, cold-blooded as ever—taking on the courageous duo of Lion and Scarecrow from the Wizard’s Warriors!”
DAVE "THE BRUTE" KENT: “Let’s be honest, Hammer—the only courage on Lion’s part is showing up to get manhandled by two Olympian maniacs. Ares eats people like Scarecrow for breakfast... fiber and all.”
HAMMER: “And we’re off! Ares wastes no time—SHORT ARM CLOTHESLINE! Lion takes it, but doesn’t budge—what heart!”
KENT: “What skull, Hammer. You could knock on that thing and hear an echo. Let’s not confuse ‘taking damage’ with ‘defending.’”
HAMMER: “Now both men fire off—Ares with a KNEE LIFT—but Lion counters with a BRAINBUSTER! And there’s the tag to Scarecrow!”
KENT: “Finally, someone who’s got less muscle mass than a scarecrow. Oh wait, it is a Scarecrow.”
HAMMER: “Double trouble here! Ares hoists Scarecrow with that OVER SHOULDER BACK BREAKER—tags in Mars—RUNNING POWER SLAM! Scarecrow’s being folded like a seasonal greeting card!”
KENT: “This is strategy. This is brutality. This is Gods of War doing what they do best: end hope.”
HAMMER: “Still more double teaming—Mars with an OVERHEAD SLAM! Honest Abe warning them, but the damage may be done!”
HAMMER: “Ares cinches in a BEARHUG—he’s trying to squeeze the hay out of Scarecrow!”
KENT: “There’s nothing but lint and regret in that torso, Hammer.”
HAMMER: “But wait! Scarecrow counters the FOREARM SMASH and—FRONT CRADLE! Could be it!”
KENT: “No way that holds Ares... but clever from Scarecrow. And here comes Mars!”
HAMMER: “Lion tags in and they’re double-teaming now! Lion’s Leap from the top! SIDE CHINLOCK by Scarecrow!”
KENT: “What’s this, an actual offensive push from the Wizard’s Warriors? We might be in an alternate timeline.”
HAMMER: “They’re not done—FRONT CRADLE! COURAGEOUS CLAW! They’re trying to cut Mars down to size!”
HAMMER: “Lion is rolling—another CLAW to the face! Now LION’S ROAR! Mars is reeling!”
KENT: “I’ll give him credit—he’s got the crowd and the claws going. But don’t blink, Hammer. You blink, and the Gods strike back.”
HAMMER: “Ares back in—OVER SHOULDER BACK BREAKER! Lion in serious trouble now!”
KENT: “Tag teams live and die by timing. The Warriors had theirs... now it’s gone like winter sunlight.”
HAMMER: “Lion and Scarecrow go for a double team—FULL NELSON into BACK BODY DROP—but Ares shuts it down! Incredible ring awareness!”
HAMMER: “Ares lifts Lion—GORILLA SLAM!! Hooks the leg!”
REFEREE HONEST ABE: “1... 2... 3!”
HAMMER: “And it’s over! The Gods of War victorious in a punishing opener!”
DAVE “THE BRUTE” KENT’S TAKE: “Let’s get real. This was two grown, immortal men beating up a stuffed toy and a lion in a vest. Ares and Mars did what they were engineered to do—break bodies and dominate. Lion had flashes of fire, and Scarecrow got one lucky cradle, but they were outclassed from bell to bell. The only thing more predictable than this outcome was Hammer trying to sell it like a nail-biter. It wasn’t. It was a glorified mythology lesson: mortals don’t beat gods.”
HAMMER: “Hard-hitting words, but that’s why you’re here, Dave. Folks, more action on the way—don’t go anywhere. Chill Factor’s just heating up!”
[CAMERA FADES TO BACKSTAGE]
INTERVIEW NUTCRACKER CAPTAIN
“The Parade Grounds” – a cold, stark corridor near the NPCW loading dock. Marching drums can be faintly heard in the background. Tinsel-wrapped halberds line the wall. The smell of nutmeg and gun oil fills the air.*
Enter: NPCW’s most glammed-out, overconfident, slightly-melted candy cane of a mic man —
SLICK RICKY VEGA.
Hair teased to the clouds, mic covered in glitter, blazer louder than a firework finale.
Slick Ricky Vega: "SALUTATIONS AND CELEBRATIONS, you sugarplum psychos! It's me—Slick Ricky Vega, the platinum prince of pageantry—bringing you a backstage bulletin so sharp it'll slice your stockings in half!"
(He turns with exaggerated flair to the stern, disciplined unit before him.)
"Now standing with me in terrifying toy soldier formation... the Nutcracker Legion! The head honcho of hardwood havoc—the marching menace with a thousand-yard stare—give it up for The Nutcracker Captain!"
(He leans dramatically between the Captain and the towering figure behind him)
"And behind him... the brains, the brawn, the brimstone of the brigade—the man who eats candy canes like cigars—The Nutcracker General! Plus, as always, the stoic, spooky sentinels: Nutcracker One and Two. These guys never blink. I’ve been checking."
The Captain salutes curtly. He’s in full military posture, chest puffed, jaw clenched. The General stands behind him, arms folded, decked in glittering regalia with medals that gleam like razorblades. Nutcracker 1 and 2 flank the unit, unmoving, like decorative assassins.
Slick Ricky Vega: "Captain Caramel Crunch! It’s no secret the last few missions haven’t exactly gone according to the North Pole Battle Plan. Since that heartbreak in the Northern Lights Title Final against Big Bad Wolf, you’ve had more losses than my old glam band had unpaid bar tabs."
(He begins counting on his fingers)
"Twice bested by Frosty, chopped down by Robin Hood, and a cold stalemate with the Lion himself... You're marching in place, baby. What gives?!"
Nutcracker Captain: (Rigid. Formal. Trying to remain composed.) "Discipline. Orders. Duty. I was trained to march through adversity. I don't retreat. I don't complain. But... the battlefield has been foggy. Strategies unclear. And—"
Nutcracker General: (Interrupting, arms raised in mock outrage) "AHEM! I must interject here, Vega. These so-called “losses” were tactical experiments! Controlled adversity! A soldier isn’t forged in victory—he’s hardened in the fires of failure!"
(He circles to the front, barking)
"The Captain is learning! The defeat against Frosty? Humility drill! Robin Hood? Arrogance test! And the draw with Lion was a success—we confirmed he blinks every 47 seconds!"
Slick Ricky Vega: "Test this, test that, baby—it’s starting to sound like the good Captain’s being marched off a cliff in the name of data!"
(Turns to the Captain) "Real talk, Captain Crunch—you've had a few golden chances... but every time the tide turns, the General starts waving flags, calling orders, or even putting his hands where they don’t belong! Any second thoughts on that leadership chain of command?"
The Captain hesitates. His eyes dart slightly. His jaw tightens.
Nutcracker Captain: (Low, conflicted tone) "Orders are orders. The General... has a vision. My duty is to carry it out."
Nutcracker General: (Triumphant, clapping loudly) "That’s RIGHT, soldier! The mission isn’t about YOU. It’s about THE LEGION! It's about order, structure, control!"
Slick Ricky Vega: "Yeah, but let’s be honest, Tin Man—your mission keeps leaving this guy on his back!"
(Leaning close to the Captain) "Tonight you face Sinbad—a world-traveling warrior with more wild cards than my ex-wife's divorce lawyer. Is this the night the Captain breaks the curse? Or does this parade keep marching into misery?"
Nutcracker Captain: (Finally, something in his voice sharpens. Still respectful, still soldierly—but the tension is rising.) "Sinbad is chaos incarnate. I am order made flesh. I will restore my record. I will find clarity in combat. And if that means disobeying even my own doubts—so be it."
(He shoots a brief glance at the General, who eyes him suspiciously.)
Slick Ricky Vega: "OHHHHH—YOU HEARD IT, NUTHEADS! The Captain’s cracking—not under pressure, but through it! Will tonight be the redemption march—or another fumbled mission wrapped in tinsel and regret? Either way..."
(flashes a too-white smile)
"You better believe Slick Ricky Vega will be front row, shirtless, and screaming like it’s ‘87 at the Tokyo Dome! Stay frosty, sugarplums—because the war drums are getting LOUD!"
As the Nutcracker Captain snaps into a salute and the General bellows out a barked order, the soldiers march off in unison. The Captain lingers for half a second... then follows, his boots echoing with purpose—and uncertainty.
HAMMER WASHINGTON: Alright folks, we're set for Match Two here on Polar Power, and this one’s got holiday havoc written all over it! The Nutcracker Captain, flanked as always by that cane-swingin’ menace Nutcracker General, taking on the swashbuckling sailor of legend himself—Sinbad!
DAVE KENT: Let’s call it like it is, Hammer. This isn’t a match, it’s a military occupation. The Nutcracker Legion cheats more than a carnival ring toss. And Sinbad? He’s got more guts than brains showing up without backup.
HAMMER: Right off the hop, Nutcracker Captain plants Sinbad with a running powerslam! That’ll shake your timbers, sailor or not!
KENT: Yeah, and here comes the spear—he calls it the Nutcracker Cannon—but Sinbad somehow snuffs it out. Credit where it’s due, that was all instinct.
HAMMER: The action’s heating up fast—and WAIT A MINUTE! Nutcracker General just slid a steel chair in the ring!
KENT: Because why not? It’s not Christmas without unwrapped presents—and unprotected headshots.
HAMMER: More interference from the General—he’s swinging that scepter like he’s auditioning for a medieval joust! Honest Abe’s trying to keep order, but he might need backup from the cavalry.
KENT: Abe’s refereeing like he’s judging a pie-eating contest. He’s watching, but he ain’t doing anything.
HAMMER: Sinbad fights back with a beautiful short arm lariat! But again—General interferes! Now he’s CHOKING Sinbad with that ridiculous riding crop!
KENT: How is that even regulation gear? Who let this Victorian fever dream become a manager?
HAMMER: Nutcracker hits another Nutcracker Cannon! That one folded Sinbad! He goes for the cover—1, 2—NO! The sailor kicks out!
KENT: Look, Sinbad’s taking a beating, but he's not going down. You can't kill a sea legend with Christmas cosplay.
HAMMER: And now Sinbad with the Treasure Chest! He hooks the leg—wait! Nutcracker reverses the pin! HE tries it—1, 2—NO! Sinbad kicks out again! Unbelievable!
HAMMER: The fans are on their feet! Sinbad rallies back with Inverted DDTs, backbreakers, and head kicks! He’s finally stringin’ together some offense!
KENT: This is what I’ve been waiting for. Sinbad’s finally wrestling instead of surviving. And yet... here comes Nutcracker General again—SHOVES the referee!
HAMMER: Honest Abe is furious—but still not calling for the bell!
KENT: Maybe Abe thinks he’s refereeing for the Ghost of Christmas Past. He’s letting ghosts interfere at will.
HAMMER: And now Nutcracker Captain climbs the ropes—Death From Above connects! He’s looking to seal the deal—wait a minute, again with the SHOVE on Honest Abe!
KENT: That’s it! Finally! Abe’s had enough—he’s calling for the bell!
HAMMER: Disqualification! Sinbad wins by DQ after Nutcracker General crosses the line one too many times!
KENT: About ten too many times. General turned this into a puppet show and finally pulled the wrong string.
DAVE KENT’S TAKE: Let me make this simple—this wasn’t a match. This was a mugging disguised as a performance. Nutcracker Captain showed off power, sure, and the guy’s got tools, but it’s completely overshadowed by the clown show coming from his manager. Nutcracker General is a walking DQ. He cost his guy the win, and if the Legion keeps letting this guy call the shots, they’ll never sniff real success.
As for Sinbad—tough, gritty, resilient. But I need to see more actual strategy from him and less soaking up punishment. He took way too long to get momentum. If this had gone clean? Honestly, Sinbad probably still loses.
Match rating? Sloppy, frustrating, but entertaining thanks to Sinbad’s grit. The Nutcracker Legion is a menace—but at least now, they're exposed.
HAMMER: Strong words from Kent—as always—and folks, we’ve got more wild NPCW action comin’ up right after this. Stay with us!
HAMMER WASHINGTON: Welcome back, wrestling fans! Up next, we’ve got the beloved brawlers from Sherwood Forest—the Merry Band—taking on the unholy horrors of the Demonic Legion! Krampus and Abaddon, escorted by the venomous vixen herself, Demoness Lilith!
DAVE KENT: Yeah, Hammer, if this match was a nativity scene, we’ve got shepherds on one side and a pair of Satanic Christmas lawn ornaments on the other. And as much as I love the nostalgia of Friar Tuck and Little John, they’re about to get absolutely sacrificed.
HAMMER: We’re underway and Abaddon immediately drives Friar Tuck into the mat with a thunderous bodyslam! The Friar’s robes nearly flew off from the impact!
KENT: Abaddon treating Tuck like a sack of flour—he just baked him into the canvas. And now Krampus tags in—oh boy...
HAMMER: Both men collide! Tuck lands a quick slingshot off the ropes, but Krampus comes right back with the KRAMPUS KRUSH! That’ll knock the eggnog outta ya!
HAMMER: Friar Tuck fights back—Snap Suplex! He’s showing he can still bring the fight!
KENT: Sure, but then he walks right into the HELLFIRE PLEX! That thing looked like it came straight from the seventh circle. I think Tuck saw the afterlife for a second.
HAMMER: Here we go—Tuck tags in Little John, and the Merry Band is cookin’! Sleeperhold from Tuck, shoulder claw from John!
KENT: That’s the kind of lumberjack muscle you need to cut through demons. But Abaddon still powers out with another bodyslam. This guy must deadlift coffins for breakfast.
HAMMER: Tuck’s in trouble—HELLBREAKER from Abaddon! That backbreaker nearly folded Tuck like a church pew. He crawls—tags in Little John! Abaddon tags in Krampus! And the monsters are circling!
KENT: Big collision! Little John slams Krampus hard—but the goat-faced freak wraps him up in the EVIL EMBRACE! Cross arm choke locked in!
HAMMER: John’s fading… he’s got nowhere to go… and that’s it! He taps out! Krampus and Abaddon win it!
KENT: Say it with me, Hammer—evil wins again.
DAVE KENT’S TAKE: This was a ritual sacrifice dressed up as a wrestling match. The Merry Band? They’re fan favorites, sure. But nostalgia doesn’t beat monsters. Friar Tuck got tossed around like it was WrestleMania at the monastery, and Little John? I’ve seen taller trees fall with less grace.
Krampus and Abaddon are legit terrifying. Abaddon might be the most underrated power wrestler in the division—he hits like a runaway sleigh. And Krampus? Once he gets that choke on, it’s bedtime. Lights out. Merry Christmas.
Lilith, meanwhile, didn’t even have to interfere. That’s how in control they were.
If you’re a wrestler in NPCW right now and you’re not afraid of the Demonic Legion? You’re either lying, or you’re next.
Match quality: Violent, vicious, and one-sided. Merry Band might want to retreat back to the forest and rethink things.
HAMMER: Brutal honesty from Dave Kent, and a brutal win for the Demonic Legion. Folks, don’t go anywhere—more action coming your way after the break on Chill Factor!
THE DEMONIC LEGION
Location: The Demonic Legion’s Dressing Room – A place better described as a lair. The air is thick with incense and shadows, dimly lit by red-glowing sigils carved into ancient blackened stone. A low, unearthly hum pulses in the background, as if the room itself is breathing. Candles flicker violently, untouched by breeze.
[CAMERA slowly pans across the room, catching unholy details one by one:]
Hooks and chains dangle from the rafters.
A rusted cage in the corner rattles slightly… with no one inside.
A book sits on a pedestal — its jet-black leather cover etched with crimson metallic letters: “La Bruja de la Muerte.”
As the lens turns, we see them — The Demonic Legion.
Krampus, the Alpha Demon, stands in the center, shirtless, horns glistening with frost and ash, his twisted face sneering at the camera like it’s prey. His clawed hand rests on a thick, rune-carved staff. His breath fogs the lens.
Abaddon stands beside him, motionless and massive — wrapped in chains, with burning embers for eyes. He doesn't blink.
Lilith, the Seductress of Sin, lounges behind them, veiled in black lace and smoke, her blood-red lips curved in a smile that promises ruin.
And in the shadows, almost unnoticeable, Jack Frost perches silently on a hanging pipe — blue-skinned, grinning with teeth too sharp, his breath visibly freezing the metal beneath him.
KRAMPUS (Stepping into the light, snarling with dark delight):
“Did you see it...?
Did your pathetic mortal eyes witness the agony we unleashed upon the so-called Merry Band tonight?”
(He chuckles—a horrible, rattling sound like sleigh bells dragged through brimstone.)
“Friar Tuck, broken and humbled.
Little John, reduced to less than nothing.
That was just me... and my demon of destruction, Abaddon.”
(Abaddon growls lowly, like tectonic plates grinding in hell.)
“That was two of us.
At Polar Meltdown, it will be all four.”
(Lilith slowly rises behind him, caressing the edge of the ancient book.)
“Grinch Heyman... Snake Pit... you paraded into the North Pole laughing, conniving, slithering—
But you forget: the deeper you dig in the snow… the closer you get to Hell.
And we... we are what’s waiting at the bottom.”
(He gestures around him. Jack Frost licks the edge of a jagged icicle like a dagger, then whispers something in a language older than snow.)
LILITH (softly, with venom):
“Heyman... I see you.
Your soul… it flickers.
Soon, it will burn.”
(She laughs—like wind chimes in a graveyard.)
JACK FROST (suddenly in frame, whispering):
“The cold is not your enemy...
We are.”
(Krampus steps forward again, leering directly into the camera.)
KRAMPUS:
“You want to tame monsters?
You want to play mind games?
You’ve summoned demons instead.
At Polar Meltdown... we don’t just break your bodies...
We claim your souls.”
(He raises his staff, slamming it against the icy floor with a thunderous BOOM. The lights flicker—candles extinguish themselves. The sigils flare violently.)
KRAMPUS (growling one final warning):
“And when the ash settles...
When your laughter is drowned in screams...
Grinch Heyman... you will belong to us.”
(Smoke erupts from beneath them. The camera distorts as if being pulled into the sigils themselves. The last thing visible is Lilith blowing a kiss — it freezes midair before shattering like glass.)
HAMMER WASHINGTON: Fans, we’ve got a real doozy lined up next on Chill Factor—the cold-hearted enforcer of the Wizard’s Warriors, Tin Man, taking on the surly, snarling veteran enforcer himself… Belsnickel! And wouldn’t you know it, Fast Count Frank is on zebra duty again. This should be a slugfest!
DAVE KENT: Hammer, this isn’t going to be pretty. Tin Man’s about as flashy as a tool shed, but he’s built to grind opponents into dust. And Belsnickel? He’s what happens when your childhood elf-on-a-shelf starts juicing and develops a hate complex. Neither of these guys are going to a ballet recital anytime soon.
HAMMER: We’re off! Tin Man wastes zero time—knee strikes right to the gut of Belsnickel! You’d think he was hammering rivets in a factory the way he drives those knees!
KENT: No finesse—just brute steel.
HAMMER: Belsnickel fires back with a suplex, but Tin Man sweeps the legs out from under him! It's classic brawler vs. bruiser here, folks!
KENT: And neither man has blinked yet. This is more of a contest of stubbornness than strategy.
HAMMER: RINGING THE BELL! Belsnickel nearly decapitates Tin Man with that flying lariat!
KENT: That’s what happens when a guy who hates Christmas takes flight. Tin Man’s rivets are rattled!
HAMMER: But Tin Man fires back with another belly-to-belly and a few more headbutts right to the midsection—he’s like a battering ram with legs!
KENT: I’ll give Tin Man credit—he doesn’t have a heart, but he sure as heck has a motor.
HAMMER: Belsnickel tries for the Ringing the Bell again—but Tin Man neutralizes it! He answers with an arm bar but Belsnickel manages to escape!
KENT: That was the first real opening of the match. But Belsnickel keeps dumping him with powerslams. You can see the dents forming in Tin Man’s torso.
HAMMER: He goes for the cover—1… 2… NO! Tin Man kicks out! The crowd comes alive!
KENT: And so does Tin Man—belly-to-belly suplex! That ring just shook like the North Pole during elf overtime!
HAMMER: Sunset flip from Belsnickel—but Tin Man headbutts his way out! That’s at least the third time he’s led with his tin forehead!
KENT: He’s either got a steel skull or nothing in there at all, Hammer.
HAMMER: Back and forth—piledriver-style powerslams from Belsnickel, legsweeps from Tin Man—it’s just a seesaw of pain!
KENT: This has turned into a match of attrition. Both guys are gasping, but neither’s giving up an inch.
HAMMER: Wait! Tin Man hooks the STF! STF locked in deep in the center of the ring!
KENT: No rope in sight! Belsnickel’s flailing like he just got put on the naughty list for life!
HAMMER: He’s got nowhere to go—HE TAPS! HE TAPS! Tin Man wins it with the STF!!
DAVE KENT’S TAKE: Let me break this down straight: this was not a classic, but it was a war. Both guys threw a ton of meat around the ring. It was clunky, it was ugly, and it absolutely fit the story.
Tin Man? He’s not exciting. He’s not marketable. He doesn’t say much. But when that bell rings, he delivers like a steel-plated UPS truck. That STF at the end? Picture perfect. Cranked the neck like he was opening a rusty oil drum.
As for Belsnickel, he's mean, he's nasty, and he's got power—but he’s got no gas tank. He blew through his best shots by minute 13, and everything after that was running on fumes and Christmas rage. If he ever figures out conditioning, he could be a serious contender. Until then, he’s just a scary opening act.
This match was a grind, but a satisfying one. No flash, all fight.
HAMMER: That’s your Kent’s Take, folks, and what a scrap that was! Tin Man stands tall for the Wizard’s Warriors here on Chill Factor! Don’t go anywhere—more hard-hitting action still to come!
[Opening Bell Rings]
Hammer Washington: Welcome back, folks! We’re deep into Chill Factor and it’s time for a North Pole grudge match — the cold-hearted Yukon Trappers, Josh and Lou, are taking on the sugar-fueled storm known as the Jolly Elves, Jingle and Merry! I’m Hammer Washington, and beside me as always is Dave Kent. Dave, this one’s been brewing since the Elves spoiled the Trappers’ Winter Hunt back in ‘10!
Dave Kent: The Trappers have been chewing icicles over that for weeks, Hammer. You’ve got two hardened survivalists who believe the only good elf is a mounted elf, and tonight they’re not looking for gifts — they’re looking for revenge.
Hammer: And right out of the gate—double team from the Trappers! Josh whips Jingle into the corner and follows with a thunderous Slam into the Turnbuckle! Lou comes in right behind with a brutal Overhead Smash! That’s classic Yukon efficiency.
Dave Kent: They work like two guys splitting a log. One sets, the other swings. No wasted motion. And poor Jingle just got used as a practice dummy.
Hammer: They’re not done yet! The Trappers double up again — Josh hits a Yukon Elbow Drop, Lou wraps him in a Headlock and peppers in some punches! But wait! Jingle springs to life — TINSEL TIME! A flying clothesline from the top rope stuns both Trappers!
Dave Kent: And just like that, this thing flips! That’s the candy-cane chaos of the Elves. You think you’ve broken them in half, and they come bouncing off the ropes like Christmas cheer incarnate.
Hammer: Here come Jingle and Merry with some rapid-fire tag teamwork! A Small Package, a Flying Elfin Press! Then Tinsel Time again followed by Elfin Fury! These two are operating like a well-oiled toy assembly line!
Dave Kent: You know what, Hammer? It’s annoying how good they are. It’s like watching two acrobatic sugar gremlins who’ve been drinking espresso out of a sleigh bell. But credit where it’s due — they’re smacking Josh around like he’s a gingerbread piñata.
Hammer: Both men firing off! Josh plants Jingle with another Turnbuckle Slam, but Jingle dropkicks him into Christmas Past! Jingle dives to Merry—tag made!
Hammer: Merry explodes in with an Elf Attack! But Josh tosses him out of the ring like yesterday’s fruitcake! Abe begins the count—
1... 2... 3... 4... 5...
—And Merry rolls back in! Incredible resilience!
Dave Kent: He probably just used the candy-cane rail as a vault. Say what you will, that elf can fly and fight.
Hammer: The Elves are back on the attack! Double team madness — Elfin Dazzle, Elven Monkey Flip, and Elven Twist! Josh lands a desperate Jumping Kick but he’s outnumbered and overwhelmed!
Dave Kent: He’s hanging in by beard grease alone. Jingle and Merry have turned this ring into Santa’s Playground and Josh is the playground bully getting schooled.
Hammer: Momentum shift! Josh slams Merry into the buckles again and rains down Yukon Elbow Drops and Throat Chops! He’s clawing the Trappers back into this!
Dave Kent: And there’s the tag! Lou’s finally in! But wait—he’s limping! He’s hurt! Jingle smells it and hits Elven Twist! He’s going for a pin!
1...
Kickout! Just barely!
Hammer: Jingle is pouring it on with Elfin Fury! Lou can’t even defend — he’s absorbing punishment like a sack of coal!
Dave Kent: You shouldn’t tag in a guy who’s already in traction! That’s like throwing a snowshoe at a yeti and hoping it turns into a sled dog.
Hammer: Lou fights back with a Standing Arm Bar, but Jingle kicks him in the pants! They both stall out for a couple rounds… maybe exhaustion is setting in.
Dave Kent: You think? We’re 16 minutes in and Lou looks like he needs a snowmobile and a medic.
Hammer: Tag Team barrage! Lou and Josh hammer Jingle with a Stomp into the Corner and another Yukon Elbow Drop! Jingle fires back with a Spinning Kick, but they toss him outside!
Ref count: 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9—
And Jingle slides back in just in time!!
Dave Kent: That’s gutsy. Or stupid. Maybe both. But he’s still moving, and that’s a bad sign for the Trappers.
Hammer: Jingle blasts Lou with an Elfin Cutter! Then it’s chaos again — double teams from both sides. Hammerlocks, Monkey Flips, Knee Drives! These teams are throwing everything short of peppermint napalm!
Dave Kent: There’s zero technique right now. It’s devolved into festive brutality. Just how I like it.
Hammer: But look at this — Jingle is holding his own! He neutralizes a double team, escapes the ring, and comes back with a Small Package!
Tag to Merry! Tag to Josh! We’re reset again!
Hammer: And that takes us to the 24-minute mark! This match is far from over, and neither team is giving an inch. We’ll bring you Part 2 of this incredible tag war next time on Polar Power! But first—
Hammer Washington: We’re deep into the trenches now, folks—twenty-five minutes of holiday-themed mayhem, and neither team is giving an inch! Yukon Trapper Josh starts it off with a shoulder breaker that nearly snapped Merry like a candy cane!
Dave Kent: You’ve got a powerhouse in Josh and a target like Merry who weighs as much as a decorative nutcracker. But to his credit, Merry follows up with that Elfin Dazzle. Doesn’t do much damage, but it sure looks pretty. Just like a tinsel-wrapped paperweight.
Hammer Washington: Merry tags in Jingle now—here comes the energy! AND JINGLE LANDS THE ELFIN CUTTER! Right on the money!
Dave Kent: That was crisp! And for once, it wasn’t followed by a goofy jig or a candy cane dance. Just clean offense. Bravo, Tiny Tinsel.
Hammer Washington: Uh-oh, Josh signals to Lou—we’re seeing more of that double-team strategy from the Trappers. YUKON ELBOW DROP from Josh… and LOU LOCKS IN THE LUMBERJACK CRAB!
Dave Kent: This is what the Trappers do. They isolate, smother, and grind you down like a bear trap in slow motion. But wait—Jingle’s got some fight! A beautiful Jingle All The Way double dropkick! He caught both of them!
Hammer Washington: That shook the cabin walls, Dave!
Hammer Washington: Double team continues! Josh delivers another shoulder breaker to Jingle—he’s targeting that upper body like a surgeon with an axe!
Dave Kent: Lou’s just standing there like he’s on break at the lumber mill. Not much help, but Josh is doing all the heavy lifting. The Elves need a miracle—or a Christmas ghost or two.
Hammer Washington: Both men trading offense now—Jingle with the ELVEN TWIST, but Josh hits another SHOULDER BREAKER! That’s his third one in minutes!
Dave Kent: If this was Japan, we’d be calling Josh “Shoulder Killer-san.” He’s found his target and he’s relentless. AND HERE’S A PIN—
Hammer Washington: ONE… NO! Jingle kicks out! He’s still got some sleigh bells ringing!
Dave Kent: Barely. But the Trappers tag out, and here comes Lou. Jingle tags Merry. It’s anyone’s match!
Hammer Washington: This is it—last minute of the match! The Trappers working together again—Lou RAMS Merry’s head into the turnbuckle, and Josh FOLLOWS IT WITH ANOTHER YUKON ELBOW DROP!
Dave Kent: Like clockwork. And Merry’s face just bounced off that turnbuckle like a gumdrop on tile. He’s in serious trouble!
Hammer Washington: But time has expired! Honest Abe calls it—a 30-minute draw!
[Bell Rings]
Hammer Washington:
What a grueling contest! The Jolly Elves hung tough, but the Yukon Trappers’ relentless physicality wore them down. Nobody leaves with a win, but everyone leaves hurting.
Dave Kent’s Take:
“This was a match that overstayed its welcome like in-laws after Christmas dinner. The Yukon Trappers were effective—if repetitive—and Josh carried the team. Lou felt like a third sled on a two-reindeer team.
The Jolly Elves? Tons of heart. No weight behind it. Jingle can work when he's not doing party tricks. Merry looked more like a festive punching bag by the end.
It’s a draw on paper, but in reality, the Trappers dominated. This should've ended five minutes earlier with a proper finish. The crowd was into it, but it needed trimming like an overstuffed wreath.”
Hammer Washington: Harsh words, but perhaps fair. Folks, we’ve still got more action coming your way on NPCW Chill Factor—don’t jingle off just yet!
DR. FRANKENSTEIN
We cut to a strange, pulsing green haze and the constant buzz of electrical coils. Steam shoots from pipes. Broken lab equipment lies in corners. It’s not a locker room—it’s a madman’s domain.
There, standing in the swirling fog, in a leopard-print blazer soaked with sweat, holding a gold-plated microphone and oozing false confidence, is NPCW’s glitziest and most unhinged interviewer: SLICK RICKY VEGA.
Slick Ricky Vega: "LADIES AND HEADBANGERS! I'm Slick Ricky Vega—part-time legend, full-time icon, and your backstage Sherpa into the mountaintop of MANIA!"
(spins theatrically, finger guns the camera)
"And tonight, baby, I'm standing in the belly of the beast. I mean that literally. There’s actual intestines in a jar behind me!"
He gestures wildly as the camera pans to the horror show before him: towering behind him are the monstrous men of destruction—Monster’s Bash.
The Alpha Monster – motionless, glowing eyes beneath stitched brow.
Kong – snorting like a freight train, eyes wild.
Ogre – twitching, snarling, already sweating with rage.
Dragon King – arms crossed, scales gleaming, smoke drifting from his nostrils.
And in front of them, cackling like a Bond villain at karaoke, is their master and mouthpiece—Dr. Frankenstein.
Slick Ricky Vega: "Doctor Devastation! Professor Pain! The Sultan of Surgical Slam!"
(he throws his arm around Dr. Frankenstein, who immediately recoils)
"Tell the rock-and-wrassle faithful: tonight, your big bad Ogre’s steppin’ into the squared circle with Van Helsing! Hansel’s out cold, injured thanks to your boys last week—so it’s one-on-one, no partner, no mercy! What’s the master plan, Doc?"
Dr. Frankenstein: (wild eyes flickering, voice shaking with glee)
"Hansel? HAH! A failed prototype! A disposable part! His bones cracked so beautifully under Kong's palm—like candy canes in a vice!"
(He waves his clipboard dramatically)
"And now... Van Helsing walks into our lair alone? With no backup? Ohhhh, tonight’s not a match, Mister Vega—it’s a live dissection! I’ve given Ogre new parameters, upgraded aggression algorithms, increased bloodlust quotients! We’re going to test just how long the human body can scream!"
Ogre lets out a low, monstrous growl that shakes the mic. Kong snorts and pounds his chest once. Dragon King simply hisses.
Slick Ricky Vega: "You heard it from the brain behind the brutality! But wait—wait a microsecond, Doc! Because next week at Polar Meltdown, Ogre and Kong are stepping in the ring for a tag team tango with Van Helsing and... somebody. We don’t know who. Could be Peter Cottontail, could be the Ghost of Wrestlemas Past! You nervous?"
Dr. Frankenstein: (laughs maniacally, wiping sweat from his forehead with a rag stained in who-knows-what)
"Nervous? NERVOUS?! Mister Vega, I INVENTED nerves! Then I ripped them out with pliers and set them on fire!"
(He stomps forward, pointing to the camera)
"I don’t CARE who Van Helsing drags from the crypt! Bring Blitzen! Bring Sinbad! Bring a clone of himself made entirely of vengeance! At Polar Meltdown, there will be no Christmas miracles—only monstrous execution!"
Slick Ricky Vega: "OHHHH I AM POSITIVELY JUICED WITH DREAD! And speaking of deathmatches and destiny, Doc... Let’s get freaky with the MAIN EVENT! Because also at Polar Meltdown—in a steel cage, no less—your #1 creation, your prized pet project, your Alpha Monster is going toe-to-toe with the red-nosed wrecking ball himself... the reigning NPCW champ: RUDOLPH!"
Dr. Frankenstein: (voice softens, reverent, almost... romantic)
"Rudolph... the genetic anomaly. The festive freak. His reign has been miraculous... and misguided. But inside a steel cage—there will be no sleighs, no songs, no saving grace. Just steel... and suffering."
(He turns and gestures grandly to The Alpha Monster)
"The cage match is the final experiment. And when the blood dries on those silver bars... The Alpha Monster will be crowned not just king... but GOD of the North Pole."
The Alpha Monster steps forward. The others fall behind. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. He glares into the lens—jaw twitching, brow furrowed. Then, with a slow, mechanical gesture... he slams his fists together. A THUNDEROUS echo rings through the backstage chamber.
Slick Ricky Vega: "HIDE THE MISTLETOE, BURN THE CALENDARS, AND FORGET ABOUT SLEIGH BELLS—BECAUSE MONSTER’S BASH IS COMING TO MELT YOUR POLAR SOUL! I’ve been Slick Ricky Vega, and I’m gonna go lie down in a tub of glitter and fear! ROCK. AND. RUUUUUUMBLE, BABY!!"
He rips open his blazer like a rockstar encore, throws the mic into the fog, and the camera smash-cuts to static as the Alpha Monster roars over the electric hum of Dr. Frankenstein’s lab.
Hammer Washington: Welcome back to Chill Factor, folks—it’s Main Event time! We’ve got the monstrous brute Ogre from Monster’s Bash in the ring with that devilish Dr. Frankenstein in his corner. Across from him, the lone wolf of the Hunters Enclave, Van Helsing, seeking revenge for the brutal attack on his partner Hansel last week!
Dave Kent: This isn’t about winning a match, Hammer. This is about Van Helsing sending a message to Kong and Ogre ahead of Polar Meltdown. His tag partner is still a mystery, but right now, he’s looking to dismantle one half of the Monster’s Bash freakshow. If he can stay alive long enough.
Hammer Washington: We’re underway and it’s a slugfest out of the gate! Ogre drops a knee—but VAN HELSING SNATCHES HIM IN THE HOLY CROSSFACE! He’s going for the early submission!
Dave Kent: That’s twice now in the opening minutes! Van Helsing is wrenching that hold like he's trying to exorcise a demon out of Ogre’s shoulder. You don’t usually see Ogre get grounded this early—this is personal.
Hammer Washington: Ogre tries to slow things down—BIG BUTT DROP—blocked! And Van Helsing fires back with a roundhouse, then another crushing powerslam!
Dave Kent: Ogre looks like he’s running on rotten adrenaline and bad decisions. Van Helsing’s not just holding his own—he’s dominating with precision. You can see the fury in every move.
Hammer Washington: WAIT A MINUTE—VAN HELSING WITH BACK TO THE GRAVE!! That’s the Tombstone! He just planted Ogre into the frozen canvas!
Dave Kent: That’s a statement move right there! He’s not trying to survive—he’s trying to end this war before it starts.
Hammer Washington: Ogre tries the Big Butt Drop again—NO! Reversed! CHOKESLAM BY VAN HELSING! INTO THE PIN—1… 2… NO! Ogre kicks out!
Dave Kent: You gotta hit Ogre with a shovel to keep him down—and even then he might get back up. But Van Helsing is rolling. Powerslam! Another pin! 1… 2… NO! Still can’t put the big man away.
Hammer Washington: WAIT! OGRE HITS OGRE’S WRATH! That’s the F-5 style slam! He covers!
Dave Kent: This could be it—1… 2… NO! VAN HELSING KICKS OUT! Incredible resilience!
Hammer Washington: We are witnessing a battle of attrition, folks!
Hammer Washington: Ogre lands another Big Butt Drop—but VAN HELSING COUNTERS AGAIN—BACK TO THE GRAVE! That’s the second one!
Dave Kent: Ogre’s not responding—he looks like he got staked through the chest!
Hammer Washington: Van Helsing lifts him… VERTICAL SUPLEX!! Into the pin!
Crowd: ONE… TWO… THREE!!
[Bell Rings]
Hammer Washington: He did it! VAN HELSING PICKS UP A MASSIVE WIN heading into Polar Meltdown! Ogre is down, and Dr. Frankenstein looks like he’s seen a ghost!
Dave Kent’s Take:
"That was Van Helsing’s best performance in NPCW to date. The man was possessed—every move had fire, focus, and finality. He made Ogre look like a big slow barn door, and that’s saying something.
Ogre, frankly, got exposed. He’s big, sure. He’s dangerous when you let him breathe. But tonight? He was a Frankenstein’s flop.
Van Helsing doesn’t need a partner—he needs a trophy. Whoever teams with him at Polar Meltdown? They better be able to keep up, because Helsing is hunting monsters—and he’s not missing.”
Hammer Washington: The Hunters Enclave just sent a chilling warning to Monster’s Bash—and with Polar Meltdown right around the corner, the stakes couldn’t be higher! Who will Van Helsing choose as his partner? We’ll find out next week!
Dave Kent: If it’s who I think it might be… Monster’s Bash better start digging their own graves.
Hammer Washington: Good night from Chill Factor—stay frosty, NPCW fans!
VAN HELSING’S PARTNER
We cut from the roaring crowd to the smoky confines of Van Helsing’s dressing room. The space is dimly lit by flickering candle sconces and filled with hunting trophies, old-world weaponry, and heavy oak furniture. Van Helsing, still dripping sweat and wrapped in stoic intensity, sits on a wooden bench as a medic checks the welt on his shoulder. Next to him sits Hansel, his right arm in a thick cast, ribs taped up, and pride in his eyes.
The door bursts open with a blast of 1987. Enter Slick Ricky Vega — hair teased to Valhalla, jacket sparkling, shirt unbuttoned one too many, and a mic gripped like it’s opening night at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go. His oversized tie is stained from old makeup and ambition. He’s slightly out of breath... and definitely loving it.
Slick Ricky Vega: "YEAH BABY! This is your backstage pass to rock 'n' rumble, and I'm your tour guide on the Highway to Havoc—Slick Ricky Vega, baby! Coming at you live from Van Helsing's lair of pain, power, and probable punishment!"
(fans himself with the mic card, already sweating)
"Big V just took the Ogre to church and buried him under the altar! But the question on every fan's lips and some wrestler's lips too... is who's gonna walk into Polar Meltdown beside the Vampire Slayer himself?"
Van Helsing doesn’t move at first. Just lifts his cold blue eyes to Ricky, the same eyes that stared down the undead in the main event minutes ago. Slowly, he rises to his feet, cracking his neck with a subtle twist.
Van Helsing: "Ogre fell tonight. And next week… Kong follows. What they did to Hansel won’t go unanswered. The gates of hell are open now... and I’m the one walking in."
Slick Ricky recoils in delighted fear.
Slick Ricky Vega: "Wooo-hoooah! Somebody pour water on me, ‘cause that take just melted my boots! But here's the kicker, Slaymaster V—you don’t ride into the fire alone. The fans are dying to know: Who’s gonna be your backstage pass to vengeance?"
As if on cue, the door creaks open and the cavalry strolls in, one after the other:
Blitzen and Donner, stoic and powerful, nod toward Helsing with arms crossed like battle-ready bouncers.
Prancer and Comet, giving casual fist bumps and flexing with confident grins.
Peter Cottontail, hopping in with that manic spring-loaded energy, carrot in hand.
Rapido Rojo, his cape whipping behind him like a luchador phantom.
And finally, the unexpected wildcard—Sinbad, dressed in flowing silks and sea-worn leathers, stroking his beard and eyeing Helsing like he’s ready to conquer a sea monster or two.
Blitzen: "If you want someone who hits like a blizzard, I’m your storm."
Peter Cottontail: "I'll hop right into the fire, Helsing! Ain’t scared of no freakin’ Monsters!"
Sinbad: "Monsters? I’ve seen worse off the coast of Madagascar. You call, I fight."
Slick Ricky nearly combusts from the star power, sweat beading under his glittered brow.
Slick Ricky Vega: "It’s a glam-slam gathering, baby! We've got the Blitzkrieg Beast, the Prancing Panther, the Cotton Cannonball, Rapido el Rojo del Rudo, and the Sea Sorcerer himself, Sinbad! But Helsing... the fans need the headline!"
Van Helsing looks around at the gallery of warriors, his jaw set, expression unreadable. He walks past them, clapping Peter on the back, nodding to Rojo, shaking Sinbad’s hand. Then he turns to the camera with piercing intensity.
Van Helsing: "All of them… capable. All of them... worthy. But I’ve already chosen. The name? You’ll find out when the bell rings. Until then… let the monsters lose sleep."
He walks back to Hansel, gripping his injured partner’s good shoulder with a rare, heartfelt nod.
Van Helsing: "Tonight… was the warning shot. Next week? I bury the rest."
Slick Ricky Vega: "OHHHHHHH SWEET SHREDDING SKULLS! The man with the wooden stakes and iron will is playing it close to the vest! Tune in next week to see which warrior joins him in monster-mashing mayhem! I'm Slick Ricky Vega saying: never stop rocking, never stop wrestling, and never trust a guy named Kong!"
He slaps the mic to his chest, gives a thumbs up with fingerless gloves, and walks off into the fog as the camera fades.
[Fade to black. End Show.]
Can’t wait for the PPV.
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