Aired - July 27, 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.]
🌫️ 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]
🎅 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]
🔥 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 KC Rogers voicing over the details …]
CROWD AND WELCOMING
The cameras cut to a roaring crowd inside the packed NPCW Arena. Signs are held high, waving with the frenzy only the Chill Factor crowd can muster:
“RUN WILD, BIG BAD WOLF!”
“RUDOLPH = RED-NOSED REDEEMER!”
“STEAL THIS MATCH, ROBIN HOOD!”
“SLEEP TIGHT, RUDOLPH – SANDMAN’S HERE.”
“SINBAD THE SAVAGE!”
“WE WANT FLIPPERS!”
“SAVE FLIPPERS!”
“FREE FLIPPERS NOW!”
“WHY SANTA WHY?!”
The camera glides over the sea of NPCW faithful before zooming in on the center of the ring, where a suited-up JOHNNY “THE MIC” MICHAELS stands under the spotlight, microphone in hand and serious look on his face.
JOHNNY “THE MIC” MICHAELS
(with gravity and classic ‘80s bravado)
“Good evening, NPCW Universe. Tonight, I stand before you not just as your play-by-play commentator… but as Johnny Michaels—Head of On-Air Talent.”
(The crowd buzzes with curiosity.)
“Last episode, as many of you saw, Chill Factor was put in jeopardy by the sudden and unprofessional actions of our color commentator Dave Kent. In what can only be described as a full-blown snit, Mr. Kent walked off the job mid-broadcast. He left his post. He left Hammer Washington. He left you, the fans, high and dry. His behavior was selfish, irresponsible… and not becoming of the standards we hold at NPCW.”
(Boos erupt from the audience.)
“As such, we have officially suspended Dave Kent from appearing on any NPCW televised event—indefinitely. He will continue his column in No Words Barred and cover house shows, but he is no longer part of the Chill Factor broadcast team.”
(The crowd murmurs, a few cheers of approval mixed in.)
“But worry not, fans—we’re not going to leave you without a voice at the booth. In fact… we’re giving you something better. A voice with grit. A voice with fire. A voice soaked in sweat, blood, and barbed wire from wrestling’s outlaw days. Ladies and gentlemen, joining Hammer Washington on commentary… give it up for the legend, the brawler, the bad man from the badlands—BRICK BRODY!”
(The crowd erupts in a mix of shocked cheers and “BRO-DY! BRO-DY!” chants. The camera cuts to the announce booth.)
ANNOUNCE DESK – HAMMER WASHINGTON & BRICK BRODY
(Hammer Washington, dapper as ever in a crisp slate-gray suit with matching tie, flashes his signature million-dollar grin.)
HAMMER WASHINGTON “NPCW Nation, welcome to Chill Factor! I’m Hammer Washington, and I gotta tell you—it is an honor to introduce my new broadcast partner. He’s a legend of the ring, a titan of the territories, and a man who once headbutted a steel post into early retirement—give it up for Brick Brody!”
(Seated beside him is a grizzled mountain of a man: BRICK BRODY. He’s wearing a stained tank top beneath a cracked leather vest, biker gloves, and a heavy chain slung around his neck like a badge of honor. His blond mullet is streaked with gray, his nose permanently bent from too many brawls. He leans forward with a crooked grin and a gravely growl in his voice.)
BRICK BRODY “Happy? Happy to be here? Hammer, I ain’t been this happy since I hit a man with a turkey fryer in Mobile and got paid in gasoline and beef jerky!”
(Hammer lets out a stunned laugh. The crowd pops.)
BRICK BRODY “Let me tell ya somethin’, folks—I ain't no couch potato in a mask hiding in his mama’s basement with soft hands and thinner skin. You want color commentary? You want TRUTH on the mic? You came to the right damn place.”
(He slams his palm on the desk with a loud WHUMP.)
BRICK BRODY “I’m Brick Brody—I've bled on five continents, spit teeth on six, and I once wrestled a bear in Saskatchewan for a bucket of fish. These kids today? Flippy cowards with TikTok abs. But me? I call it like I see it.”
(He jabs a thumb toward the ring.)
BRICK BRODY “So bring on the action, Hammer—let’s see who’s actually got guts and who’s gonna get mopped up off the mat!”
HAMMER WASHINGTON (grinning, soaking in the madness) “You heard it here, NPCW! Brick Brody’s in the house—and Chill Factor just got a whole lot louder, rougher, and realer. Let’s get to it! But first over to our General Manager, Fenwick Grimbough for GRIM TIDINGS!”
GRIM TIDINGS
(A Message From Director of Rules and Regulations, Fenwick Grimbough)
The broadcast fades into an ominous, frostbitten backdrop—the NPCW logo frozen over behind iron bars, a cold blue hue blanketing the scene. Somber string music plays faintly underneath. Slowly, the camera pulls in on a solitary figure standing at a darkened podium. The lighting is stark and sterile, casting long shadows across the floor.
Standing stone-faced is Fenwick Grimbough, NPCW’s General Manager and Director of Rules and Regulations. Once a cheery, high-ranking elf from Santa’s inner circle, Fenwick now wears the burden of authority like an executioner’s hood. Bald, pale, and dressed in a tailored black coat lined with icy trim, he speaks with the precision of a man who weighs every word like it’s a verdict.
FENWICK GRIMBOUGH
(coldly, voice even and slow)
“Good evening… NPCW Universe.”
(He stares down the camera, his eyes like frozen marbles. A long, uncomfortable silence lingers before he continues.)
“I am Fenwick Grimbough. General Manager. Director of Rules and Regulations. Enforcer of Order… in this chaotic circus of egos and excess.”
(He straightens the scroll of parchment on the podium, purely for show. His voice never rises above a measured drone.)
“Tonight, Chill Factor enters its fourth chapter. And with it… comes consequence.”
(He folds his hands in front of him, still unblinking.)
“Your main event will be contested under the ancient, honorable conditions of a Best Two-Out-of-Three Falls Match. No shortcuts. No excuses. No chaos allowed beyond what the rules permit.”
(He lifts a small silver envelope and holds it delicately between gloved fingers.)
“And to the victor… a reward most curious.”
(He allows the pause to hang like an icicle above a doorframe.)
“This is the Winter's Choice Ticket. A one-time-use decree… that will grant the bearer a special prize of their choosing. A future title opportunity… a match with unique stipulations… or something else entirely.”
(A faint, disapproving curl of the lip—his version of a smirk.)
“Do not mistake this for anarchy. Everything… everything… will remain firmly within the rules.”
(He lowers the envelope into an iron lockbox, which seals with a soft click.)
“So I encourage you… watch closely. Because on Chill Factor, anything can happen…”
(His eyes narrow.)
“…within the rules.”
(The music swells slightly. The screen fades to black with an icy sound cue before transitioning back to the announce desk, where Brick Brody can already be heard scoffing off-camera.)
SANTA’S BETRAYAL
The show returns from Fenwick Grimbough’s chilling announcement, cutting back to the announce desk. The crowd behind them is still buzzing, a mixture of anticipation and unease rippling through the NPCW Arena. At the commentary table, Hammer Washington sits upright in his chair, face solemn, hands folded in front of him. To his right, Brick Brody leans back casually, arms folded across his barrel chest, one boot up on the desk like he owns the place. His chain clinks as he shifts with a smirk.
HAMMER WASHINGTON (somber tone) “Ladies and gentlemen… if you're just tuning in, welcome to Chill Factor. We’ve got a loaded night ahead, including a best two-out-of-three falls main event, with the winner receiving the mysterious Winter’s Choice Ticket. But before we get to that… we need to address what happened just two nights ago at Christmas in July.”
(He pauses, collecting his thoughts.)
“I’ve been calling matches here in the North Pole for a long time, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen something that shook this crowd—this company—to its core like what we witnessed that night. After a grueling match between North Pole Champion Rudolph and Jack Frost… Santa Claus stormed the ring… and attacked his own tag partner. He didn’t just attack him—he made a statement.”
(Footage plays in a snowy-tinted frame: Rudolph, exhausted and bloodied, laying in the corner after being attacked by the Demonic Legion. Santa kneels and extends his gloved hand. Rudolph groggily reaches out... and SANTA PULLS HIM UP with purpose. They stand eye to eye, the crowd hushed with anticipation. Rudolph’s eyes narrow. There's tension in his body. Something is… off.
Suddenly—BOOM!—SANTA WHIPS RUDOLPH DOWN with a vicious short-arm lariat! The crowd gasps—shock echoing through the arena like a blizzard wind.
Santa doesn’t hesitate. He yanks Rudolph to his knees, drags him toward the North Pole Championship title belt lying on the mat… lifts him high… and SPIKES HIM DOWN with a brutal piledriver onto the gold!
Blood pools beneath Rudolph’s head. He isn’t moving.
But there’s no rescue. No music. Just Santa, looming like a wrathful mountain. He lifts Rudolph’s limp body again… and this time CHOKE SLAMS him straight into the mat like a thunderclap. The audience is silent. Not a cheer. Not a boo. Just stunned silence.
Santa picks up the North Pole Championship. He raises it high above his head… and plants one heavy boot on the motionless Rudolph.)
HAMMER WASHINGTON (voice rising) “The man we all believed stood for hope, for justice, for the spirit of the North Pole—Santa Claus—turned on his brother-in-arms. On Rudolph! The very reindeer who’s fought tooth and antler to defend this company in Santa’s absence!”
BRICK BRODY (snorting, scoffing) “Oh, give me a break, Hammer. Wipe the tinsel outta your eyes. You’re sittin’ here actin’ like Santa committed a crime against humanity when all he did… was take back a piece of his legacy.”
(He leans into the desk, eyes sharp, tone dripping with disdain.)
“Let’s not rewrite history just ‘cause the lights were red and green. I was there in March at Madness, and I saw it clear as day. Santa had Frankenstein’s Monster dead to rights. All Rudolph had to do was tag the man in. One tag. One moment of respect. But instead? Rudolph takes the glory for himself. Hits the finish. Takes the pin. Walks out with Santa’s belt slung over his shoulder like it was his birthright.”
HAMMER WASHINGTON (shaking his head) “Come on now, Brick. That match was chaotic—everyone in that ring was beaten to a pulp. Rudolph saw his shot and took it. And after that? He defended that title night after night! He’s earned that belt! Plus Santa was hurt and was going to be sidelined for months!”
BRICK BRODY (pointing a finger, getting fired up) “Yeah, defended it—while Santa was laid up in a hospital bed with cracked ribs! And what’s Rudolph do? Goes on interviews callin’ himself the ‘Champion of the People’? Saying he’s a fighting champion, as if ol’ Santa never fought a war in the snow just to build this place?!”
(Brody slams his fist on the desk, eyes burning now.)
“Santa carried NPCW on his back for years. YEARS! Before Rudolph ever got his antlers waxed, Santa was out there brawlin’ monsters and demons, climbing icy ladders, fightin’ for this place with every breath in his lungs. And this is how he gets repaid? With disrespect. With erasure. Nah, Hammer—I say Santa showed restraint. One piledriver? That’s called mercy.”
HAMMER WASHINGTON (angrily) “Mercy?! Mercy is not spiking your own ally onto the championship belt in front of thousands of fans! That was betrayal, pure and simple! The fans are devastated, Brick—look at the reaction! Look at the signs! Where is Santa Claus? Why, Santa, why? That’s what they’re asking!”
BRICK BRODY (mocking tone) “Boo hoo. Maybe they should be asking where their loyalty is. Because mark my words, Hammer—Rudolph’s just keeping that belt warm. The King of the North is back, and he ain’t makin’ a list… he’s takin’ names.”
HAMMER WASHINGTON (cooling himself, breathing deeply) “...Well, I can’t condone what Santa did. But I can’t deny the storm that’s coming either. We don’t know when Santa will strike again. We don’t know if Rudolph is even cleared to compete tonight. But one thing is certain—this holiday season just got a whole lot colder.”
(The camera pans out as graphics come up for the first match of the night, while Brick mutters something about “soft reindeer” and “hot cocoa crybabies.”)
Cue the energetic crowd noise as the bell rings and the two trios square off in the ring. Over at the announce desk, Hammer Washington is buttoned-up and focused, while Brick Brody already looks annoyed at the existence of tights, honor, and whatever protein shakes are trending this week.
HAMMER WASHINGTON “Alright, folks, the action is underway here on Chill Factor—and what a way to kick things off! Six-man tag team action with The Mighty Gods taking on The Merry Band! And Brick… what a collision this is shaping up to be!”
BRICK BRODY (gruff, sarcastic) “Collision? Hammer, this is more like story time at the daycare. You’ve got three cosplaying archers playing Dungeons & Dropkicks against three actual demigods. You think a guy with a bow and a chubby friar are gonna take down Heracles? That man once bench-pressed Mount Olympus—probably with a pulled hamstring!”
Ares barrels into Friar Tuck like a war machine and lifts him into a Gorilla Slam that rattles the canvas.
HAMMER WASHINGTON “Oh my stars! Ares just planted Friar Tuck with a thunderous slam!”
BRICK BRODY (mocking) “Yeah, Tuck got lifted like communion bread and sacrificed to the mat! That’s what happens when you bring a hymnal to a fistfight.”
Tuck wisely tags in Robin Hood.
Robin Hood flies in with a Senton, landing cleanly, but Ares snaps back with a brutal Over Shoulder Back Breaker before tagging out to Mars.
HAMMER WASHINGTON “Robin Hood with a slick maneuver there—but Ares immediately turned the tables! That’s the kind of intensity that’s made the Mighty Gods such a dangerous unit.”
BRICK BRODY “Yeah yeah, pretty boy Hood got his TikTok moment. But Ares don’t care about flips—he cares about spines snapping in rhythm.”
Mars tags in and destroys Little John with a Power Bomb, before Heracles storms in and hits Robin Hood with a Colossal Throw, then an Elysium Driver. The power on display is frightening.
HAMMER WASHINGTON “Heracles is a one-man avalanche! That powerslam nearly cracked the foundation of the ring!”
BRICK BRODY (laughing) “This ain’t wrestling, this is Greek demolition! Back in my day we fought guys like Heracles in smoke-filled bars, not high schools named after fruit.”
Ares and Robin go blow for blow, Robin hits a Swanton Bomb, Heracles returns with a Turnbuckle Smash, and the Merry Band respond with a beautiful sequence of triple-team attacks!
HAMMER WASHINGTON “Would you look at this teamwork?! Robin with the Arrow’d End, Tuck rolls through with the Scissors, and Little John smashes in with the forearm!”
BRICK BRODY (grunting) “Pfft. Three-on-one? That ain’t teamwork, that’s mob justice. But hey, fair’s fair—Heracles took it and kept going. You know what we used to call that where I come from? Tuesday.”
Heracles spikes Robin with a Mount Olympus Crash, nearly scores a pin, but Friar Tuck makes the save. The Mighty Gods retaliate with their own triple assault: Exile of the Gods, Gorilla Slam, Knee Lift!
HAMMER WASHINGTON “This is chaos, pure and simple! Neither side backing down!”
BRICK BRODY “NOW we’re talkin’! Fists flyin’, bodies flyin’, the ref’s confused, Zeus is probably cursing someone out in ancient Greek—it’s like Christmas morning if Christmas came with concussions!”
The Merry Band return fire with a picture-perfect triple team, ending with Robin Hood’s DDT flattening Heracles! He somehow kicks out and tags in Mars. Zeus interferes, delivering a Divine Blessing behind the ref’s back!
HAMMER WASHINGTON “Oh come on! That’s blatant interference by Zeus! Honest Abe didn’t see a thing!”
BRICK BRODY (grinning ear to ear) “That’s experience, Hammer! That’s how we did it in Amarillo in ’86. You want fair fights? Watch figure skating.”
Little John is in, brawling with Mars. They trade shots like drunk bouncers in a snowstorm. Robin Hood tags back in and reverses a Samoan Drop into a German Suplex, folding Mars in half!
HAMMER WASHINGTON “WHAT A REVERSAL! Robin Hood with a perfect German Suplex—HE’S GOING FOR THE COVER!”
Referee Honest Abe: “One… Two… THREE!”
HAMMER WASHINGTON “HE GOT HIM! ROBIN HOOD HAS PINNED MARS! THE MERRY BAND STEAL ONE FROM THE GODS!”
BRICK BRODY (growling) “Steal’s the right word, Hammer! They stole it! That was grand theft match right there! Robin Hood livin’ up to his name, snatchin’ wins like he’s takin’ gold from kings! And Zeus is furious!”
Camera cuts to Zeus on the outside, fuming with godly rage while Robin, Tuck, and Little John raise each other’s arms in the center of the ring, their victory met with deafening cheers.
HAMMER WASHINGTON “The Merry Band pull off the upset against the Mighty Gods in a battle for the ages! We’ve got more action coming up tonight on Chill Factor, but this right here… this was one for the highlight reels!”
BRICK BRODY (muttering) “Bah… back in my day, you pinned a man, you earned it with your knuckles, not teamwork drills and flips. But fine—let ‘em have their moment. Just wait till the gods come back with lightning.”
Fade to break as replays of the final suplex play over pounding music and the crowd’s roar.
SANDMAN’S MESSAGE
We fade in from commercial—not to noise, but to silence. An eerie, haunting hush blankets the screen. Wisps of silver mist curl and dance like smoke on the edge of dreams. The camera moves slowly through a surreal black-and-blue landscape that doesn’t resemble any known corner of the NPCW Arena. It’s somewhere… else. Somewhere forgotten.
A single lantern glows dimly in the distance, illuminating a lone figure seated on an obsidian throne sculpted from broken hourglasses and shattered dreamcatchers. His form is tall and cloaked in a flowing, tattered robe, the shadows clinging to him like living things. His skin pale as moonlight. His voice, when it comes, is as soft as sleep... yet somehow more felt than heard.
THE SANDMAN
(whispered, echoing, timeless)
"They wander the ring… chasing belts, banners, gold… all meaningless. Fleeting. Dust on the wind. I… I bring something eternal."
(He raises one hand, and grains of sand drift from his palm like stars being born in reverse.)
"I have haunted the upper echelons of this realm for months. Always present. Always watching. And yet… no title match. No crown. No recognition. Why?"
(A pause. The sand begins to swirl around him like a slow cyclone.)
"Do they fear the Sandman?"
(The shadows around him tighten—subtly, but palpably. Like something ancient drawing breath.)
"Do they fear the soft sigh of the closing eye… the cold whisper of the curtain call… the embrace of eternal sleep?"
(He leans forward, eyes gleaming with a light not of this world.)
"Rudolph… you said I needed to prove myself. So I descended into the dreamless dark and pulled victory from the soul of your best companion. I beat Van Helsing—the hunter of monsters… the breaker of curses. And he? He slumbers now."
(He stands, robe falling like twilight around him.)
"And tonight… another awakens into my domain. Sinbad. Proud. Defiant. Loud. The sea calls him hero. But all seas… eventually fall still. The waves tire. The stars fade. And Sinbad…"
(He gently tilts his head, as though listening to something no one else can hear.)
“…you shall be rocked to sleep by the seas of tranquility… and drowned in silence.”
(He lifts an ornate hourglass, the sand within falling impossibly slowly—against gravity, against reason.)
"When the last grain falls… the Hour of Sand begins. And then, Rudolph…"
(He smiles. It’s not a warm smile.)
“…then you will see. The red-nosed light shall be extinguished. And the night… will never end."
(He exhales. The mist thickens. The screen slowly fades to black as his final words echo like lullabies in a haunted nursery.)
“Nighty night…”
End segment. Soft chimes tinkle. Cut back to the commentary desk where Brick Brody is visibly uncomfortable and Hammer has goosebumps.
HAMMER WASHINGTON: “Alright, folks, we are back live on Chill Factor and we’ve got a real clash of styles here—one of Santa’s sleigh-pullin’ heroes, Prancer, taking on the wild menace of the woods, Big Bad Wolf—with the whole mangy Wolf Pack lurking at ringside!”
BRICK BRODY: “Bah! Prancer? You kiddin’ me, Hammer? I remember when reindeer stayed in the forest and left fightin’ to the real beasts. Now they’re dancin’ around with glitter on their boots. Wolf’s gonna chew the chrome off that sleigh bell and leave him lyin’.”
HAMMER: “Whoa! PRANCER STARTS HOT with that Reindeer Kick—right between the ribs! Wolf didn’t see it comin’!”
BRODY: “Yeah, it’s easy to kick a man when he’s not ready. That’s the kinda cowardice they teach in the North Pole—what’s next, snowball fight rules? He better aim harder next time—Wolf’s been kicked harder falling outta a saloon window.”
HAMMER: “And now they’re trading! Wolf with that Lycan Lock—dragon sleeper applied deep!”
BRODY: “Good! Twist that caroler like a candy cane! But credit where it’s due, Prancer hit that bulldog like he meant it. That one had some hair on it. I felt that in my busted hip.”
HAMMER: “Oh now come on! The Wolf Pack just slipped something to Wolf! Honest Abe missed it completely!”
BRODY: “Hey, teamwork makes the dream work, Hammer. The Pack ain't breakin’ rules—they're bending reality. That’s strategy. Learn it.”
HAMMER: “Prancer fights through it with that Pull the Reins Clothesline! Still standing strong!”
BRODY: “Yeah? He’s standing like a deer in headlights. Tick… tock…”
HAMMER: “PRANCER WITH THE ENZIGUIRI! That’s Prancer’s Prance—he’s dancin’ on air tonight!”
BRODY: “Feh. You call that dancing? You shoulda seen Terry 'No Teeth' Johnson throw a spinning heel back in Tulsa in ‘84. That man kicked so hard he knocked out the decade. This? That’s a TikTok twirl.”
HAMMER: “Wolf answers with an abdominal stretch—twisting Prancer up like a candy cane!”
HAMMER: “Prancer’s not done! He hits that Reindeer Strut—lookin’ like a true tag team technician out here!”
BRODY: “Showboatin’ reindeer… and there he goes! Tosses Wolf outside! But don’t get cocky, kid—he’s got backup and no leash!”
HAMMER: “Wolf barely beats the ten count back in!”
HAMMER: “Prancer tries the Prance again—but this time Wolf’s ready! Shuts it down, and hits that powerslam with BAD INTENTIONS!”
BRODY: “Atta boy! Slammed him like a sack of coal on Christmas Eve! That’s how you deal with tinsel-covered twinkletoes!”
HAMMER: “And now they’re howlin’! The whole Pack distracting Honest Abe! This is disgusting!”
BRODY: “This is glorious, Hammer. You want justice? Go watch courtroom dramas. This is wrestling—real wrestling. When the wolves howl, the weak get eaten.”
HAMMER: “And Wolf sinks in the Lycan Lock AGAIN! That sleeper is draining the life out of Prancer!”
HAMMER: “Prancer hangs on! He escapes! Still got fight left!”
BRODY: “Yeah, but not much. He looks like I did after three days lost in the Mojave. You can’t teach grit—and Wolf’s got the teeth to prove it.”
HAMMER: “Prancer with ANOTHER Reindeer Kick! He is fighting through every distraction!”
BRODY: “Stubborn little reindeer’s got a pair after all. I’ll give him that. Still not gonna save him from what’s coming.”
HAMMER: “Wolf Pack howls again! This is criminal!”
BRODY: “No such thing as fair when the moon’s full, Hammer. You want mercy? Call your momma.”
HAMMER: “Oh no! CHOKE ON THE ROPES! SAVAGE SPEAR! He cuts Prancer in HALF with that one!”
BRODY: “YEAH!! That’s how a real animal finishes dinner! Spear like a battering ram! You see that whiplash?! We might need a new Prancer for the sleigh!”
HAMMER: “And the count—1…2…3! Big Bad Wolf steals it with help from the pack and a vicious spear!”
HAMMER: “That’s a heartbreaker for the Reindeer Coalition. Prancer gave it everything he had—he fought with fire, he danced, he struck—but the Pack and the Wolf were just too much tonight.”
BRODY: “Welcome to the jungle, Hammer. There’s no fairy tale ending here. You either eat… or you get fed to something that howls. That’s a lesson for every sugarplum and caroler in this company.”
[Opening shot: The camera pans the North Pole Arena, festive chaos buzzing in the air, fans on their feet with reindeer horns and snowflake signs. “Comet is Coming!” chants echo. Cut to commentary.]
Hammer Washington: Folks, welcome back to NPCW Chill Factor! And what a battle we have ahead—one-third of the Reindeer Coalition, Comet, taking on the surly Scourge of the Naughty List, Belsnickel!
Brick Brody: And I tell ya, Hammer, I like Belsnickel's odds. That grumpy lump-of-coal throwin’ brute don’t care if you’ve been naughty, nice, or glitterin' like one of Comet’s fancy tights. He just wants to hurt someone—and that’s my kinda Christmas spirit.
Hammer: You’re impossible, Brick. Let’s get to the ring!
Hammer: Right outta the gate, both men sizing each other up—Belsnickel with a quick hip toss, and Comet counters beautifully into an abdominal stretch! He’s lookin’ to wear him down early!
Brick: Oh please, an abdominal stretch? What is this, 1978? If Belsnickel don’t rip his antlers off and beat him with 'em, I’m gonna lose faith in holiday brutality.
Hammer: Belsnickel comes flying off the top rope with that elbow! Big impact there!
Brick: That’s what I’m talkin’ about! You don’t see Belsnickel flippin’ or dancin’—just good ol’-fashioned blunt force trauma!
Hammer: But Comet’s not just flash—he hits that Shooting Star Press like a meteor falling from the sky!
Brick: Pfft. Too pretty. Reminds me of those pageant kids on sugar cookies. Give me a punch to the throat any day.
Hammer: Sunset Flip! Comet keeps the pressure, but Belsnickel answers with another crushing hip toss! And now—oh! The Knecht Kick! Right to the jaw!
Brick: Now THAT’S what I call a Christmas miracle. Kid’s got a boot like a reindeer hoof full of bricks.
Hammer: Comet’s flying again—Comet’s Crash! He’s like a sleigh with rockets strapped to it!
Brick: Don’t get too excited, Hammer. He’s gotta do more than dazzle the sky if he wants to beat a man who once knocked out Krampus in a tree lot.
Hammer: Another Reindeer Clomp! Comet is cooking!
Brick: Cooking? Nah, Belsnickel’s just marinating. Watch him—BOOM! Another Knecht Kick! That’s a deep-fried drumstick to the temple!
Hammer: And now Comet kicks through the ropes, sending Belsnickel tumbling out to the floor! He barely makes the count back in!
Brick: He needed that walk. Guy gets winded from all the violence he dishes out. Like me in my prime.
Hammer: Shooting Star again! Comet is relentless! But Belsnickel just slapped on The Claw! Old-school and dirty!
Brick: That’s a hold from a forgotten time, Hammer. The kind of thing that separates the kids from the killers.
Hammer: Reindeer One-Two! Double punch combo! He’s got Belsnickel rocked!
Brick: And a mule kick to boot? That ain’t festive—it’s filthy! Where’s the ref? I thought Honest Abe knew how to call a match, not host a holiday dance party!
Hammer: Belsnickel hits a Coal Crusher! And he’s going for the pin!
Ref: ONE—
Hammer: No! Comet kicks out at one and a half!
Brick: He’s lucky. Another second and he’d be sipping gingerbread broth through a straw.
Hammer: Reindeer Clomp! Comet is digging deep into the bag of tricks!
Hammer: Comet’s lining it up! Reindeer One-Two! Belsnickel’s down! Comet goes for the cover!
Ref: ONE… TWO… THREE!!
[Bell Rings]
Hammer: HE DID IT! Comet pulls out the win over the nasty Belsnickel with that furious finishing flurry!
Brick: Bah, he got lucky. Belsnickel was just gettin’ warmed up. But I’ll admit it—Comet ain’t just glitter and glitz. Kid’s got some fight under the fur.
Hammer: A huge win for the Reindeer Coalition tonight, folks, as Comet continues to shine! But you gotta wonder what’s next… and if Santa himself is watching.
Brick: Oh, he's watching alright. And when the Big Red comes back down that chimney, there’s gonna be hell to pay—even for the reindeer.
[Camera cuts to Comet celebrating on the second rope, pointing to the crowd. The fans cheer as a smug, bruised Belsnickel glares from the outside. Cut to backstage.]
SINBAD
[Location: NPCW Backstage Interview Zone – Decked out with neon icicle lights, a light fog machine hissing in the corner, and the faint buzz of electric guitars playing a jingle bell riff in the background. Enter: Slick Ricky Vega, microphone in one hand, oversized shades on indoors, and a tie that’s as wide as his ego.]
Slick Ricky Vega: (Strutting into frame) OHHH YEAH, baby! It’s your backstage bad boy of broadcast, the velvet voice of vengeance—Slick Ricky Vega—comin’ at you LIVE and LOUD from NPCW’s coolest corner of chaos! And right now, I got with me the Sultan of Storms, the Nautical Nightmare, the man who sails fists first—Sin-BAD to the Bone!
[Sinbad enters with swagger—half-cape flicked over one shoulder, gold and navy trunks shimmering, a quiet confidence radiating from his eyes. His hair slicked back, beard on point, and eyes locked on the camera like it owes him money.]
Slick Ricky Vega: (leans in) Sinbad, my man, tonight you’re stepping into the dreamscape with the sleep-dealing shadow himself—The Sandman. He’s been whisperin’ dark nothings about eternal naps and cosmic nightmares. You hear that bedtime bell tollin’, or are you about to bring the storm?
Sinbad: (calm and cocky, his voice smooth with a hint of disdain) Sandman... you walk like fog and speak like riddles. But I don’t need to understand dreams to break ‘em. You say you’re what comes when the lights go out? Well, tonight... I flip the switch.
(steps closer to the mic, more intensity)
You said I’ll be rocked to sleep? No, amigo. The only one going down tonight... is you. And you won't be dreaming. You'll be lying there wondering what hit you.
(grins smugly)
I’m not some bedtime story. I’m not a whisper. I’m the storm after silence. And Rudolph? You said Sandman’s in the top rankings? After tonight, the only ranking he’ll have... is counting stars from the mat.
(taps his chest)
You want fire? You want fury? You want the future of the North Pole? I am that future. I am that fight. And I am wide awake.
(mocking smirk)
So, Sandman… sleep tight.
Slick Ricky Vega: (pointing with flair) OHHHHH! Did you hear that, Universe? The Siren of Slumber just got served a wake-up call courtesy of Captain Craterfist over here! That bell’s gonna ring and it ain’t for recess, baby—it’s for wreckage!
(looks to camera)
Stay tuned, cool cats and cosmic combatants—because tonight, Sinbad’s takin’ Sandman to the Rock Block and blastin' bedtime off the charts! This is Slick Ricky Vega sayin’... don’t touch that dial unless you want frostbite, bay-BEE!
[Camera zooms on Sinbad smirking confidently as fog begins to curl around the edges of the set—an eerie prelude to the match ahead.]
[Fade out.]
[Camera fades in to ringside]
Hammer Washington (play-by-play, cheerful and classic): Folks, you are watchin' a high-stakes tag team showdown here on Chill Factor! The eerie and dangerous Howlers, with their Wolf Pack lurkin’ ringside, square off against the icy juggernaut Frosty and his unlikely partner tonight—Paul Bunyan! Normally we see Paul team with the Jolly Green Giant, but tonight the lumberjack is ridin' the cold front!
Brick Brody (gruff and cocky, snarling a bit): You got it wrong, Hammer. This ain’t high-stakes—it’s high fantasy, and not the good kind. Frosty’s a cartoon snow cone with mittens, and Bunyan’s a sideshow strongman who belongs swingin’ axes in a barfight, not taggin’ with Mister Freeze out here. The Howlers? Now those are real tag team wrestlers. Rough. Dirty. Wild. The way it used to be.
Hammer: Right off the bell, the Howlers pounce like a pack of wild dogs! We got a double team on Frosty—Back Claws from Howler #1, and—OOF—a Piledriver from Howler #2!
Brick: That’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby! Crush the ol' snow pile! This is tag team synergy—none of that flippy tag garbage. You isolate and dismantle. Just like we did in Amarillo back in '82—except with less beer bottles.
Hammer: Frosty fights back with a Snow Globe Spin! That crowd is twirlin’ along with him! Tags in Bunyan!
Brick: That ain’t a spin, Hammer, that’s a dizzy snowman with no sense of direction. And now Bunyan’s in and already eatin’ a Knee Drop! This guy’s about as fast as a cement truck in a snowstorm.
Hammer: Wait a second—Paul Bunyan just reversed the pin attempt! Roll-up! 1…2—NO! Howler kicks out!
Brick: Sloppy roll-up, Hammer. Even I could’ve kicked outta that and I’ve got one hip!
Hammer: Bunyan takes control with a Back Breaker! And now a Bearhug! The crowd’s alive, Brick!
Brick: Bearhugs? What is this, 1954? Get a grip, Hammer. If Bunyan wants to impress me, he’ll pull out a chain and go to work! Instead he’s squeezin’ like he’s tryin’ to juice an orange.
Hammer: Howler #2 is back in with a Jumping Elbow Drop! He goes for the pin—1...2—kick out again! These teams are brawlin’ back and forth!
Brick: They're feelin’ the frostbite, Hammer, but this ain’t over. The Howlers are smart—they know how to pick a man apart piece by piece. This ain’t ballet, it’s butcherin’.
Hammer: Paul Bunyan with a Spinning Airplane Slam! He’s firin’ up now!
Brick: That’s the most movement I’ve seen outta Bunyan since the blizzard of ’99!
Hammer: Another near fall! And now Frosty’s in with a Snowdrift Splash! He goes for the cover—just a one-count!
Brick: Snowdrift Splash!? I’ve had more impact slippin' on ice in the parking lot. Frosty needs to focus on makin’ slushies, not slams.
Hammer: We got double teaming! Frosty with a Frozen Fist, Bunyan with the Bearhug—teamwork at its best!
Brick: Bah! That’s not teamwork, that’s desperation! And it didn’t even finish the job! Howler #1 still up, still dangerous—and BAM, another Samoan Drop! This wolf’s still got claws, baby!
Hammer: Frosty’s Flurry Kick! That’s got the fans on their feet!
Brick: One good dropkick doesn’t make you Shawn Michaels, Hammer. Let’s not get carried away. The Howlers are grindin’ this one down. Look at ‘em—tags, elbows, drops—that’s a pack mentality.
Hammer: Paul Bunyan with back-to-back Dropkicks! This big man’s showin’ agility!
Brick: I’ll admit, that was... unexpected. Still don’t trust a guy who wears flannel in the ring.
Hammer: Here we go—Frosty tags back in, and OH NO! The Wolf Pack’s gettin’ involved! Holdin’ Frosty’s legs down!
Brick (cackling): HA! Now that’s vintage strategy, Hammer! You call it cheating—I call it effective. Welcome to the food chain, Frosty!
Hammer: Frostbite Suplex attempt from Frosty—but the Howlers turn it around! Hold the Legs! PIN! 1...2...3! IT’S OVER!
Brick: Stick a popsicle stick in him—Frosty’s DONE! The Howlers just howled a W into the record books, baby!
Hammer: What a match! Dirty tactics from the Wolf Pack, but the Howlers steal a win from Frosty and Paul Bunyan!
Brick: Steal? Hammer, that wasn’t a heist, that was a hunt. And Frosty was the slowest elk in the woods. Now he’s wolf food, and Bunyan’s back to chopping trees and eatin' humble pie.
Hammer: Folks, we’ve still got more action coming up on Chill Factor! But one thing’s for sure: the tag team division just got a whole lot frostier… and furrier.
Brick: Ha! Fur and fists, Hammer—that’s what wrestling’s supposed to be.
[Camera fades to commercial with a howl from the Wolf Pack echoing through the arena.]
Hammer Washington: Ladies and gentlemen, strap in for what promises to be a frozen frenzy here at the Glacierplex! It's non-title action, but don’t be fooled—this one’s personal. The Misfits of Mayhem—Madman Mason and Negropolis—enter without their beloved mascot, Flippers, still missing after that mysterious kidnapping weeks ago.
Brick Brody: Boo hoo, Hammer. Maybe the penguin finally waddled off to join a real team. This is wrestling, not a petting zoo. Cryin’ about your emotional support bird when there’s a seven-foot ogre starin’ you down? That’s why I say today’s champs are all fluff and no knuckles.
Hammer: We start off with Mason and Kong! Mason with a textbook vertical suplex to shake the ring like a snowglobe!
Brick: Bah! I’ve seen tougher throws at a karaoke night brawl in Reno! But I'll give Mason this—he ain’t afraid to go nose-to-snout with Kong, and that’s a bad, bad beast. Like if a rhino had a grudge.
Hammer: Here comes Negropolis, tagging in with that cold stare—he sends Kong tumbling outside with a Throw Out of the Ring! This one's breaking down already!
Brick: Oh now it’s a car crash, baby! Madman hits an Overhead Belly to Belly, Kong's swinging punches like it’s feeding time, Ogre drops a Snap Mare, and Negropolis just bitch-slapped reality itself! THAT'S a tag match! No flips. Just fists!
Hammer: Negropolis tries to get momentum, but Kong stuns him with a stiff Punch to the Face! Tags back to Mason!
Brick: Mason walks back into a Jungle Swing—that’s a swinging side slam with intent, Hammer! That ain't ballet. That’s body-breaking!
Hammer: Ogre tags in for a quick Kneedrop! But Mason fires back with a Powerbomb! Both teams are unloading like it's a tundra turf war!
Hammer: Monster Bash now doubling up—Kong and Ogre taking turns mauling Mason! Backslam and Jungle Swing! Mason's absorbing punishment like a madman possessed!
Brick: This is why I love Monster Bash. No rules, no mercy, no mascara. Kong just punches him in the teeth and Ogre? Ogre's like a walking avalanche. And Madman Mason? He’s cracked—but not cracked enough to handle this storm.
Hammer: Ace MacDougal trying to get involved, but Kong reverses it and hits another Jungle Swing! Mason is down, but here comes everyone! It's a frenzy again!
Brick: Now this is wrestling! Negropolis with The Bitch Slap, Mason goes Psychotic Break, Kong with a Snap Mare, and Ogre with the ol’ Big Butt Drop! If this ain’t tag team wrestling, I’ll eat my boot.
Hammer: Back and forth, Mason and Negropolis getting the upper hand! Vertical Suplex—Dragon Suplex—Spinebuster Slam! But Kong just won't stay down!
Brick: That’s the thing about these monsters, Hammer. You can't just knock ‘em down—you gotta bury 'em. And these Misfits? They’re lookin’ more like missteps.
Hammer: Kong goes for a pin after a Diving Headbutt—NO! Mason kicks out at two! Then Negropolis tags in and gets a near fall of his own on Ogre with a Thrust Kick!
Hammer: This crowd is frozen with tension! Madman and Negropolis double-teaming Kong, but he fires back with a Sledgehammer to the Chest! Brutal!
Brick: That’s how you do it. None of this flippy-dippy roll-through pin stuff—just drive your fist through the soul. Kong just reminded ‘em what old-school tag violence feels like.
Hammer: Mason and Negropolis keep up the pressure, but Kong keeps kicking out! Then Ogre tags in and HITS THE OGRE’S WRATH! That’s his dreaded F-5 variant!
Brick: And Hammer, he spiked Mason like a tent pole at a biker rally. But somehow, the madman kicks out again! These fools might be outmatched, but they ain’t out yet!
Hammer (suddenly hushed): Wait a minute… what is that sound?
[DISTORTED LULLABY MUSIC begins to play. The lights flicker. A grainy video appears on the Jumbotron—FLIPPERS THE PENGUIN, trapped in a cage, flapping and squeaking.]
Brick (leaning in, grinning): Oh-ho! It’s psychological warfare, baby! Look at Mason—he’s lost in the snowstorm! Holding his head like the ghosts of Christmas past just slapped him!
Hammer: Mason is distracted—he doesn’t see it—OGRE’S WRATH AGAIN! ONE! TWO! THREE! IT’S OVER! MONSTER BASH WINS IT!
Hammer: What a chaotic and chilling battle, folks! Madman Mason looked strong, but the emotional trauma of Flippers’ disappearance—maybe even mind games—cost the Misfits here tonight!
Brick: Mind games? Nah, this was warfare, Hammer. You show up to a monster fight with emotions? That’s your funeral. Monster Bash didn’t win by luck—they broke ‘em, mentally and physically. And that music? That ain’t over. That’s just the beginning.
Hammer: Where is Flippers? Who’s behind the video? And what’s next for the Misfits of Mayhem?
Brick (chuckling darkly): I told you—this place ain’t a snow globe, it’s a powder keg. And tonight, it exploded.
[Camera fades to black with a final glimpse of Flippers peering out from the flickering screen… crying softly.]
VOICES
Deep in the corridor behind the arena, where the icy walls sweat secrets and shadows cling to every echo. The air is cold, but the tension is fever-hot.
[CAMERA FADES IN]
Madman Jack Mason paces erratically, muttering under his breath. His long coat flaps behind him like the wings of a restless crow. Sweat glistens on his brow despite the chill. He claws at his head with both hands. His muzzle mask half torn off his face.
Madman Mason (frantic, hushed): “The music… the music brings the voices. It has to stop. It has to stop… Please. Please just—stop. It's inside now. It's inside my bones. Where’s Flippers? WHERE’S FLIPPERS!?”
He slams a hand against the steel wall—BANG! The reverberation seems to rattle more than just the air. Somewhere off-screen, a rookie production assistant squeaks and retreats.
Standing nearby, his partner Negropolis, still as stone in his long black coat and iconic skull mask, watches silently. He finally steps forward, arms folded, his voice gravelly and even.
Negropolis (firmly): “Mason. Breathe. We will find Flippers. Lady Molly is zeroing in on what happened two weeks ago.”
At that moment, Ace MacDougall, their manager, flinches. He’s bundled in his plaid overcoat and fuzzy earmuffs, clutching a clipboard that’s crumpled from nervous fingers. His usual boisterous demeanor is nowhere to be found. He lowers his eyes—guilty, sheepish, like a man who knows more than he’s saying.
Mason pauses. The muttering slows. He stares at the wall, then turns slightly to Negropolis, voice now barely a whisper—a secret filtered through broken glass.
Madman Mason (whispering):
“Neggie… it’s the music. It’s calling… to the voices. They want me to listen. They want me to open the way. And Polly…” (pause)
That name hits the air like a lead weight. Negropolis tilts his head just a hair — subtle, but telling. He says nothing, but in the black hollows of his skull mask, something flickers. Only he sees it — the shift in Mason’s face. A momentary distortion. A dark flicker of something not Mason.
Madman Jack’s eyes narrow. His expression twists—not fully, but for an instant—into something cruel, calculating… not mad, but cold. It’s gone as quickly as it appears. He clutches his own head, as if forcing something back down.
Edie, kind-hearted and soft-spoken, rushes into frame. She wears a winter coat with pastel mittens, and a look of pure concern.
Edie (soothing): “Jack… love… it’s okay. You’re safe now. You’re with friends. You’re not alone.”
She kneels beside him and gently takes his trembling hands. She pulls out a thermos from her bag and pours a warm drink into a snowman mug.
Edie (softly smiling): “Here… warm milk and Ovaltine. Just how you like it.”
Mason’s breathing begins to even out. He clutches the mug like it’s the last warm thing in the world. He sips. He exhales.
Mason (quietly): “…Flippers would’ve liked this.”
He lets out a strangled chuckle and rests his head on Edie’s shoulder. She rubs his back in slow circles.
Ace (clearing throat, awkwardly): “Okay, okay... c’mon, buddy, let’s get you back to the hotel. You did great tonight, real rock star vibes… I mean, minus the head stuff.”
Ace and Edie help guide Mason down the hall. As they disappear around the corner, Negropolis doesn’t follow. He just stares after them. Motionless. Watching. Thinking.
Negropolis (to himself, low and grave): “…Music… voices… Polly.”
He clenches one gloved fist.
Negropolis (resolute): “I need to find his sister.”
[CAMERA HOLDS on his skull mask for a moment. No music. Just a soft electric hum. Then—FADE TO BLACK.]
[Bell Rings]
Hammer Washington: “Alright folks, here we go! Our main event of the evening is set to roll, and this one’s gonna be a doozy! The enigmatic and unnerving Sandman takes on the rising fan favorite, Sinbad, in a best two-out-of-three falls encounter! The stakes are sky-high and the tension is thicker than a mug of hot cocoa at Santa’s Sunday dinner!”
Brick Brody: “Yeah, yeah, Hammer, you and the crowd can keep poppin’ party crackers for Sinbad, but I’m tellin’ ya—this ain’t storytime with the babyface brigade. Sandman is a living nightmare, and tonight, the only bedtime story Sinbad's gonna get ends with a nap and a stretcher.”
Hammer: “They lock up in the center, both men jockeying for position… and whoa! Sandman with that sudden snap—a standing clothesline that rocks Sinbad’s jaw!”
Brick: “Ha! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! No flips, no flops—just a good ol’ decapitator to the neck meat!”
Hammer: “Wait a minute! Sinbad fires right back with a short-arm lariat of his own! Both men just dropped each other like last year’s fruitcake!”
Hammer: “Sandman charges again, but Sinbad counters—inverted tornado DDT! A thunderous spike into the canvas!”
Brick: “Okay okay, I’ll give him that one, Hammer. The kid’s got guts, but it takes more than a fancy twisty-drop move to keep the Lord of Sleep down!”
Hammer: “Sandman is slithering behind Sinbad—look out! SLEEPER HOLD! He’s got that arm cinched in deep!”
Brick: “Oh now it’s bedtime, baby! This is what Sandman does—he don’t need a headlock, he drags your soul into the abyss! Nighty-night, Mr. Sinbad!”
Hammer: “But Sinbad’s still swinging! Running head kick connects while trapped in the sleeper! He’s fighting for every breath!”
Hammer: “Sinbad tries for a discus elbow—NO! Sandman catches him mid-spin—clothesline AGAIN! Just drops him like a sack of pine logs!”
Brick: “Beautiful! That’s how we used to handle business in Amarillo. You didn’t win with flips—you beat a man into submission and made him question his life choices!”
Hammer: “Sandman now with a burst of offense—spin heel kick lands flush to the side of the head! Sinbad staggers into the corner!”
Brick: “Look at that shot! That’ll ring your jingle bells clean into January! Sandman’s playing with him now.”
Hammer: “Both men reeling but trading shots! Another inverted tornado DDT from Sinbad! But Sandman retaliates with a clothesline again! These two are just punishing each other!”
Brick: “It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, Hammer. Beautiful violence. And Sandman ain't even sweatin’ yet!”
Hammer: “Sinbad trying to build momentum but Sandman snatches the head again—SLEEPER HOLD LOCKED IN! He's got it cinched in tight this time!”
Brick: “That’s it! Pack it up! Cancel Christmas! Sandman’s draining his will to fight like an ex-wife with a joint checking account!”
Hammer: “Sinbad flails, reaching—cross armbreaker attempt out of desperation—but Sandman doesn’t let go!”
Hammer: “Another sleeper from Sandman, relentless! Sinbad tries for that short-arm lariat, but he’s fading fast…”
Brick: “Like I said, Hammer… bedtime.”
Hammer: “Sinbad’s down to one knee! ‘Honest’ Abe checking the arm—AND HE CALLS IT! SINBAD SUBMITS! SANDMAN TAKES THE FIRST FALL!”
FALL #1 Winner: Sandman via Submission
Hammer: “Fall two underway, and Sinbad’s gotta dig deep now. He lands an inverted facelock backbreaker—desperation offense, but it’s effective!”
Brick: “He’s swingin’, I’ll give him that, but Sandman don’t stay down long. He ain’t wired like other men—he’s more nightmare than flesh!”
Hammer: “Sinbad goes for another backbreaker—Sandman neutralizes it! He’s like a shadow you can’t shake!”
Brick: “He’s survived on just cruelty and cryptic poetry, Hammer. You think a couple of knee drops are gonna rattle him?”
Hammer: “Sandman with a clothesline, but Sinbad springs back—double knees to the chest! Incredible fire from the Sultan of the Sea!”
Brick: “Bah! Where was this five minutes ago when he was nappin’ like a baby seal?”
Hammer: “Hammerlock DDT by Sinbad! That one shook the arena! Sandman is stunned!”
Brick: “Okay, okay, kid’s still got some boom left in the cannon. But he better not slow down, or he’s going right back to dreamland.”
Hammer: “Sandman swings wildly—Sinbad counters again with another hammerlock DDT! That’s back-to-back shots to the cranium!”
Brick: “He’s fightin’ like his life depends on it, Hammer. And maybe it does. Sandman doesn’t just beat you—he changes you.”
Hammer: “Sandman with a backbreaker, but Sinbad shrugs it off—ANOTHER HAMMERLOCK DDT! That’s three in a row! Is this it?!”
Brick: “If this were the old days, I’d be throwin’ a chair in the ring just to see what happens next!”
Hammer: “Sandman trying to reset the pace—clothesline again! Sinbad’s down, and the gas tank is near empty!”
Brick: “You can smell it on him, Hammer. Desperation sweat. He’s one mistake away from being a bedtime story.”
Hammer: “Sandman stomps away, then hooks him—BACKBREAKER AGAIN! He’s targeting the spine, trying to bend Sinbad like a candy cane!”
Brick: “I love it! Focused, vicious, methodical. You don’t see this kind of wrestling anymore. It’s all about hashtags and cosplay nowadays!”
Hammer: “Sandman with a spinning fist strike—wait! SINBAD REVERSES! INVERTED TORNADO DDT CONNECTS!”
Brick: “Ooooh! Where’d he pull that from? He’s runnin’ on fumes and fury!”
Hammer: “Sandman stumbles—GO TO SLEEP! Right to the jaw! SINBAD IS OUT!”
Brick: “OH BABY! Nighty-Night! Count the sheep, son!”
Hammer: “Cover by Sandman! 1… 2… 3! That’s it! That’s all she wrote!”
FALL #2 Winner: Sandman via Pinfall
🏆 Match Winner: SANDMAN (2-0 sweep)
Hammer (somber): “Sinbad gave it everything he had, but tonight belonged to the dream-devouring specter of NPCW. Sandman wins two straight falls in dominant, haunting fashion!”
Brick (grinning): “Y’know, Hammer, people boo Sandman ‘cause they fear him. And they should. That man ain’t human—he’s a sleep paralysis demon in boots and tights. And if I were Rudolph? I’d be learnin’ to sleep with one eye open.”
Hammer: “Folks, if Sandman has his sights on the North Pole Championship, the whole roster might be walking into a nightmare they’ll never wake up from. Goodnight from the North Pole Arena!”
THE DRAWING OF THE TICKET
The lights dim once more in the North Pole Arena. An eerie hush falls over the crowd as the haunting chimes of the Sandman's theme continue to linger, like whispers echoing from a far-off dreamscape. The ring is still coated in shadows as Sandman, victorious and expressionless, stands in the center of the squared circle.
[Camera pans to ringside]
Hammer Washington (excitedly): “Folks, what a war we just witnessed! Sinbad is still trying to figure out what plane of reality he’s on, and Sandman… well, Sandman’s just standing there like he belongs in your nightmares!”
Brick Brody (leaning back smugly): “Come on, Hammer, this guy's earned it. Top of the rankings, no title shots, and now? He just broke Sinbad’s sails. Let’s see what he pulls from Fenwick’s bag o’ goodies.”
Suddenly, the arena is flooded with sterile white light as the grim figure of General Manager Fenwick Grimbough makes his way down the ramp. He's holding a black velvet board with 20 shimmering golden tickets attached to it. Each one glows faintly, as if alive with unpredictable power… or consequences.
Fenwick Grimbough (stoically, into the mic): “Sandman… as promised… your reward.”
He holds up the board like it’s the Holy Grail of chaos.
Fenwick: “Before you are twenty golden tickets. Behind one lies fate, fortune… or farce. Choose… wisely.”
Sandman does not speak. He slowly approaches the board, eyes scanning. The crowd leans in with bated breath. After a moment, he lifts one pale, gloved hand and points to Ticket #13.
Ticket – Booking Power for a Night
“The wrestler gets to book one match on an upcoming show. They control stipulation, participants, and placement on the card (can't be their own match).”
Hammer Washington: “Whoa! Are you kidding me?! Sandman’s got the pencil for a night?!”
Brick Brody (chuckling): “Hammer, this is terrifying. He doesn’t just get to punish his enemies—he gets to design their nightmares!”
Hammer: “This could change everything heading into August!”
Back in the ring, Sandman holds the golden ticket in his hand, gazing at it with a knowing smile—or is it a prophecy? Without a word, he raises it to the sky, then lets it fall like a grain of sand from an hourglass. The message is clear:
“The dreams of others… will be his to write.”
THE BUNKER
Just as Sandman holds up his chosen prize ticket — “Booking Power for a Night” — the image begins to distort. The screen pixelates, then hard cuts to static. A high-pitched whine bleeds into the feed… and then—
INT. THE BUNKER – NIGHT
A dim, cracked cinderblock room with a cheap metal desk. One flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. Wires hang from the ceiling. Old NPCW posters, torn and vandalized, line the wall. Sitting in the center under harsh shadows is Dave “The Brute” Kent — slouched in a rumpled black suit, red tie loose, signature wrestling mask on. He leans into a rusted desk mic, the lens warping slightly from heat distortion.
Dave “The Brute” Kent (staring dead into the camera):
NPCW thinks they can keep the truth hidden.
They shuffle their champions around like action figures and think we won’t notice the strings.
Why are they afraid of my brutal honesty, huh?!
(He slams the desk. The screen shakes. A file labeled "NPCW FILES – REDACTED" flutters to the ground.)
Johnny, you and your corporate mic buddies keep brushing me off. But the fans — they deserve better.
They deserve the truth, no matter how brutal, and that’s what they’re gonna get right here… in THE BUNKER.
(He points at the camera, sweat glistening under the flicker of the bulb.)
You can’t stop me.
Not you, not Fenwick, not your technical wizards or your goon squad in catering.
I’ll break into your airwaves every time, because truth finds a way.
And tonight... the truth is this:
(He leans in closer, smirking like he just cracked a secret code.)
Sandman just pulled the golden trigger — “Booking Power for a Night.”
He gets to play puppeteer with your precious little roster.
One night, one card… and he’s writing the whole damn story.
You think Sandman’s weird now?
Wait 'til he starts scripting reality.
(He pulls out a crumpled list from under a paperweight shaped like a tombstone. Looks at it. Chuckles.)
I’ve seen the matches he’s thinking about.
Let’s just say… they ain’t in your rulebook, Fenwick.
(Kent sits back, letting the tension hang like a guillotine.)
So here's your warning —
When Sandman books the show… it's not just gonna be twisted...
It’s gonna be true.
And here in THE BUNKER,
we don't censor the truth.
We broadcast it.
(Suddenly, the lights flicker wildly. The feed distorts. Kent leans in as if daring someone to cut him off.)
You can scramble the feed…
You can pull the plug…
But this signal?
Is coming from inside your snow globe.
[CUT—Static begins to rise. The screen glitches hard. Kent yells as the mic crackles—]
Dave “The Brute” Kent:
THE BUNKER LIVES—YOU CAN’T SI—–
[FEED ABRUPTLY CUT]
[TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES SCREEN – BEEPING STATIC – NPCW LOGO DISTORTED]
[END SHOW]
Can’t keep a good Brute down.
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