Wha-Wha-Whaaaat?
"Hmmmm... tough shot. Hey, Pedro! Nine-iron."
We fade in to an unlikely setting: A golf course somewhere in Spain. It appears to be around noon, and the weather is certainly good despite a few dark clouds lurking on the horizon. Standing on the fairway is none other than Dean Matthews, the self-styled Show Stealer. He is clad in a rather interesting outfit - a green turtleneck sweater, grey and white checkered pants, and a bowler hat in the same checkered pattern.
"Yeah, don't start with the golf jokes," Matthews says, raising an eyebrow. "It's a hobby. I'm certain the rest of you pinheads out there in Yokel Land have hobbies too, so don't start in on ME."
Someone off-screen tosses Dean a club; he catches it deftly in his right hand. "You rule, Pedro," he calls to the thrower.
Resting the head of the club against the fairway, Matthews clasps both his hands on the handle and turns back to face the camera. "Now then," he says. "Let's get a few things out into the open. First off, I'll go on the record by suggesting that Erik Zieba is a communist. Furthermore, he's a biased little manwhore. At Revolution, I won that cruiserweight title fair and square, right there in the center of the ring. I proved, beyond a SHADOW OF A DOUBT, that I was well within the legal cruiserweight size limit. Yet that COMMUNIST TARD decided to flex his dictatorial muscle and take MY title just because he didn't like me. He even rigged a freakin' scale to register me as twenty pounds OVERWEIGHT. By God, I should sue for discrimination... but nah. I'll settle for watching my dear friend Eric Davis whip Comrade Zieba six ways from Sunday at Genesis."
"But let's get past Erik Zieba turning GXW into his own personal Soviet Union and get to what's really relevant, huh? Oh, wait... that IS what's relevant, 'cause that F*CKING COMMUNIST ZIEBA has scheduled me in the STUPIDEST PREDICAMENT IMAGINABLE."
"Case in point: Johnny Styles. Why the HELL am I teaming with a horny little circle-jerker who would rather spend his time pleasuring himself than wrestle? ESPECIALLY since that same horny dipwad took a shot at me last week? Is Johnny Styles suddenly my running-buddy? I think not. My tastes run a bit higher. But I'll tell you what, Styles. I know you're watching this, so let's clear the air. I think you're a primitive, unmannered f*g. I'm sure you don't exactly respect me either. But seeing as we ARE in there with a couple of douches who we BOTH hate, you and I can at least try to coexist for one night. After that, you're on your own."
"But how about the opposition, huh?"
Flipping his club off the fairway, Matthews rests it across his right shoulder. "Well, Rrrrrricky Gant. How about that Onslaught, eh? Let me clarify something for you right now. I had you beat. Don't give me that BS about how you hit your cute little Last Word and would've pinned me anyway. Fact of the matter is, there was still plenty of gas left in my tank. But more importantly, we learned from that match that I can not only hang with you, I can give you a run for your money - as you learned firsthand when I suplexed your sorry *ss from one end of the ring to the other. Expect an encore performance of that this week, with one exception: I have a new final act. And that act entails me pinning your shoulders to the mat and taking home the 1-2-3. No fluke DQs for you this time, Glover... too bad."
"By the way. Tommy Rage... challenge for you, big boy. How about this. Let's make this contest interesting. If I pin EITHER member of your team, YOU give ME a shot at the Television Title next week. Not Styles... ME. I'll happily take that precious strap off your hands. What can I say? This whole debacle of the Cruiserweight Title has left me with a taste for gold... so why not take yours? Choice is yours, champ. Don't chicken out."
"That's all from me..."
Turning away from the camera, Matthews swings his club and sends the golf ball soaring into the air. It arcs into the distance before plummeting to bounce off the green, landing mere inches from the hole. It bounces a few more times, then rolls sedately into the hole.
"Perfect," Matthews says to himself, smirking in satisfaction as he turns and heads towards the green. He pauses and looks over his shoulder - "Catch you clowns later. Right now, I've got some links to play."
Fade out.
