Becoming A Wrestler

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"They had NO BUSINESS being there! NONE! That was MY moment! That was MY match! But the cowards in the back, the 'management' of FCW and TNA, they knew! They knew I was unstoppable! They knew there wasn't a damn soul left who could beat me fair and square! So they STACKED THE DECK! Just like they've always done to men like me!"

He was spiraling now, voice cracking, sweat beading his brow.

"Every man in this ring has bled for me. Every victory was ours. And what do we get in return? Screwed! HUMILIATED! Dragged out of the spotlight like trash from the back alley!"

He slammed the mic against his chest.

"They wanted to erase me. To humble me. Well, CONGRATULATIONS! YOU TOOK MY TITLE!"

The crowd cheered.

Sandro screamed into the mic. "BUT YOU DIDN'T KILL ME!"

He was red faced, veins bulging, pacing like a mad preacher.

"You think I'm broken?! You think you've seen me at my worst?! THIS—" he gestured to himself, "—this isn't the end! It's the beginning of something worse! Something crueler! You took the crown off my head, and now there's nothing holding me back now! I'll burn everything down! Every hero! Every legend! Every management clown hiding behind their headset! I'll put bodies in graves until I'm the last man standing in this godforsaken business and dictate it by myself!"

Then—

"WRECK" hit again.

The roof nearly blew off.

Out walked Mick Foley, followed by Kurt Angle, Sting, Kofi Kingston, and Taylor Rotunda, no suits, no frills, just war ready.

The five of them stood on the stage, looking down at the Undisputed System in the ring.

Foley had a mic. He didn't rush. He let the crowd breathe, let them savor the moment.

Then he spoke, calm but firm.

"You done, Sandro?"

The crowd laughed.

Foley's face hardened.

"You know what your problem is? You think this world owes you something. You think just because you managed to get your way to the top at a young age, just because you built a crew of hired guns and rolled over everyone in your path, that nobody should ever knock you off your throne."

He stepped forward.

"But let me remind you, that title you lost? That wasn't yours to keep. You may have earn it the way real champions do. But then you defended it by playing dirty and the numbers game, justify any means necessary to keep you at the top. You ambushed people. You cheated. You destroy good wrestlers like Kofi and Taylor, your best friend, under steel and blood and lies."

Foley looked at the men behind him.

"And last week at Against All Odds? That wasn't a conspiracy. That was karma. That was the reckoning you've been begging for since the day you turned on these business, your friends, and these fans. And the five of us? We didn't just show up out of the blue. You summoned us, Sandro. Your hired guns come down the ring when you were in a bad spot to help you through numbers game summoned us."

Kurt stepped up to the mic next.

"You think the four of us forgot what you did to us in couple of weeks ago ago? You think we forgot the beatdowns, the career you tried to end possibly? You wrote that check, Sandro. We just cashed it in."

Sting took the mic.

"You mocked legends. You spat on the people who built this business. You thought you were untouchable. And the second the playing field was even, just even, for five minutes, you crumbled."

Kofi grabbed the mic.

"You had was a paper king, man. The gold looked good on you, but it didn't mean a thing. Not when it was built on cowardice. Not when you betrayed your friends to defend it longer."

Taylor stepped in last.

"And now you wanna go off the deep end? Start threatening people? You're not scary, Sandro. You're pathetic. And if you really want to burn everything down… well, fire's a tricky thing. Might just burn you first."

The five men stood firm. The crowd roared behind them.

In the ring, Sandro's face was a portrait of pure hatred.

He raised the mic one more time, voice quieter now, but cold, deliberate.

"You all think this is over? You think this is justice? You're fools. All of you."

He turned slowly, pointing to each of his men.

"Drew. Big E. Ryback. Stu. Look at them. Do they look beaten to you?"

He sneered.

"You want a war? You've got one. Know this, you have sign your death warrant. There won't be warnings. Just pain. Cold. Precise. Beautiful pain that will come for the five of you."

After saying that, Sandro dropped his mic. It didn't clatter, it cracked against the canvas, like a final exclamation mark. The sound echoed through the arena. Then he did something no one expected. He reached up and began unbuttoning his suit jacket, one button at a time, slow and deliberate.

His fingers worked with a cold intensity, the same eerie calm before a storm. The fans watched in stunned silence as he undid his cufflinks next, tossing them to the mat with a flick of the wrist.

One by one, the members of the Undisputed System mirrored their leader, Drew, Big E, Ryback, and Stu. Jackets came off. Sleeves rolled up. The silence from the audience broke into a rumbling roar as they began to realize what was about to happen.

Sandro stepped out of the ring first, his movements predatory. His men followed behind him, forming a tight line as they advanced toward the ramp. On the stage, Mick Foley, Kurt Angle, Sting, Kofi Kingston, and Taylor Rotunda looked at one another, no words spoken, just a silent agreement passing through their eyes.

They started walking.

The fans lost their minds.

"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"

The chant exploded from every corner of the arena as both factions marched like two warbands bound by pride, betrayal, and blood. They met right in the middle of the ramp. And in that instant, it was on.

Sandro threw the first punch, rocking Mick Foley square in the jaw. Foley staggered but fired back with a wild left hand. That was the spark.

All hell broke loose.

Stu Bennett lunged at Sting, the Icon's coat flying back as he ducked under a lariat and fired chops into Stu's chest, each one echoing like gunshots. Big E tackled Kurt Angle, driving him backward with brute force before Angle countered with a belly to belly suplex that had the crowd roaring.

Drew McIntyre and Kofi Kingston were a blur, fists flying, bodies twisting. Drew tried for a big headbutt, but Kofi ducked and hit a leaping enzuigiri. Ryback and Taylor were trading haymakers, stiff shots that would make lesser men crumble. Ryback caught Taylor in a gutwrench and slammed him down onto the steel ramp.

Sandro and Foley? That was personal. The two tumbled down the ramp like a pair of barroom brawlers, rolling, kicking, punching. Foley bit down on Sandro's forehead, and Sandro screamed before gouging at Foley's eyes.

The camera struggled to keep up as the chaos spilled in every direction. Stu dragged Sting toward the LED stage, slamming his back against the digital screen. Sparks flew. Sting countered, grabbing a nearby steel chair and jabbing it into Stu's ribs before cracking it across his back.

At ringside, Kurt and Big E were battling like bulls. Big E whipped Angle into the barricade, but Kurt rebounded, spearing him back down. The barricade buckled under their weight. Fans in the front row leaped back as security rushed in, but it was already too late.

Kofi and Drew spilled over the announce table. Monitors flew. Drew tried to choke Kofi with a headset wire, but Kofi flipped him onto the table with a headscissors, then leapt off the barricade and hit a diving clothesline, knocking them both down.

Inside the ring, Taylor had slid in and tried to regroup, but Ryback followed, lifting him for a Shell Shock. Taylor squirmed out, landed on his feet, and nailed Ryback with a hard dropkick that sent the big man staggering into the corner.

Sandro managed to grab a kendo stick from under the ring. He stormed toward Foley, cracking it across his back. Then again. And again. The stick splintered. Foley dropped to his knees, but then, smiling through blood, he flipped Sandro the bird.

Sandro lost it, pummeling him until Kofi tackled him from the side. The dogpile grew again.

Referees poured out, one, two, then a dozen. Trainers followed. FCW producers in polos and suits ran down the ramp trying to pull bodies apart.

But it only made things worse.

One ref grabbed Big E's arm, only to get shoved so hard he tumbled over the ropes.

A producer tried to restrain Ryback, he got clotheslined into oblivion.

Even the usually calm Taylor Rotunda lost it, kicking away a trainer as he dove back onto Drew, fists flying.

Cameramen tried to keep up. The crowd was out of their minds, chanting "THIS IS AWESOME!" and "HOLY SHIT!" in interval without restraint.

The brawl raged for nearly ten minutes, unrelenting. Every time someone was pulled away, they broke free and went right back at it. The warpath moved back to the ring, then out again, now into the crowd.

Sting and Stu brawled over the barricade, trading fists between the rows of folding chairs. Fans scattered. Sting grabbed a soda from a fan and threw it in Stu's face before body-checking him into the bleachers.

Kurt locked Big E in an ankle lock in the aisle but Ryback broke it up, tackling Kurt through a fan barrier. EMTs now tried to step in.

Then the music hit.

A voice, booming, southern, pissed.

"ENOUGH!"

The chaos didn't stop, but heads turned.

Dusty Rhodes stormed out from backstage, red faced, mic in hand, dressed in a black button up with the sleeves rolled high. He stomped out to the top of the ramp, surveying the madness with utter disbelief.

He lifted the mic again.

"ENOUGH! I SAID ENOUGH! What is this ANARCHY?!"

Some of the crowd laughed nervously. Others kept chanting.

Dusty didn't smile.

He pointed toward the ring where Mick Foley and Sandro were still clawing at each other even while being held back.

"Mick. Kurt. Sting. I expect more from the three of you! You are legends in this business. External. Immortal. And I get it, sometimes anger clouds your judgment, and after what Sandro and his goons done, hell, I understand. But that don't mean you get to start a damn brawl on my show!"

He turned now, walking to the edge of the ramp, eyes locked on Sandro.

"And you... Sandro. You and your goons have been a thorn in my side for far too long. I ain't forgotten what you did to me and Steve a month ago. I ain't forgotten how you bought a match, bribed a ref, and then dared to call yourself a symbol of justice, all culminate for you to become this crazy asshole!"

The crowd cheered. Sandro was held back by two refs, sneering like a demon.

Dusty's voice rose.

"And now you dare to wreak havoc again, on my stage, my house? Yeah, that ain't happenin' again. Not on my watch!"

The crowd buzzed. Something was coming.

Dusty took a breath.

"You all wanna fight? Fine. You wanna settle this? FINE. Since all of you wanna take matters into your own hands, then I'll give you ONE place, one battlefield where this madness can finally be settled."

The arena held its breath.

Dusty's voice dropped to a thunderous growl.

"It's... WAR GAMES!"

The place exploded.

Fans leapt to their feet. Some screamed. Others cried out in disbelief.

Dusty wasn't done.

"Two rings. One cage. No escape. The Undisputed System versus Team FCW & TNA. All of you locked inside until the war ends. No more ambushes. No more cheap shots. And no one's comin' to save ya."

He lowered the mic just slightly before raising it again.

"And maybe then… just maybe, the world'll finally see who the real survivors are."

He tossed the mic to the floor and walked off, his boots thudding with purpose.

In the ring and around it, the chaos began to cool but not the hatred. Sandro and Mick were still being held back. Taylor was bleeding from the forehead, Ryback had a busted lip. Kofi's chest was raw from chops. Drew's hair was wild and sweat soaked. Big E was heaving like a bull.

And through it all, the crowd chanted again. "WAR GAMES! WAR GAMES! WAR GAMES!" Sandro meanwhile stared up at Dusty's retreating form, then back at the cage graphic now lighting up the screen. Slowly, a smile, small, cold, and cruel, curled on his lips. War Games had been declared. And the countdown to destruction had begun.

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Name: Alessandro Zhang

Age: 20 (2010)

Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA

Brand: FCW

Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles

Faction: The Undisputed System

Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion