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I AM IRON MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN

The opening chord to the song most famously associated with one of the most controversial geniuses in wrestling history, Vince Russo, blares throughout the arena as a chorus of Hoboken boo's floods the rinky dink convention center. A pair of cannons fire simultaneously, raining confetti down onto all of the fans. Out of the curtains comes the Staffmember, wearing a Derek Jeter Yankee's jersey with a clothespin on his nose. Following him, as always, is David Otunga with his ever present coffee thermos. Both men appear to be in a better mood than usual as the casually stroll down the ramp to the generic version of Iron Man, unwilling or simply unable to fork over the cash for the Black Sabbath version.

HAS HE
LOST HIS CLAUSE?
STAFF-MEM-BER IS THE BOSS.

CREEEE-AAAAAAAA-TIVE
CON-TROL
RUSSO ALWAYS RUNS THE SHOW

Meeting in the middle of the ring, Russo and Otunga exchange hugs, jumping up and down in a circle before breaking their embrace. David fetches a mic off screen from one of the unpaid interns at ringside, handing it off to his boss he grabs it after finishing his self-applause. The light dim and a spotlight shines down on the most intelligent man in the history of the universe. Leaning in, he waits for the booing to die down to speak before reaching to grab the clothespin off his nose and flipping it over his shoulder.

"Hoboken, New Jersaayyy... Did ya MISS me?!!!" A piercing crackle comes through the faulty audio system, a basic production issue that while rare in prior iterations of WWFG, was fairly commonplace in the most recent of the federations unnecessary resurrections. "Can you believe it, Otunga? After weeks... Months.... Bro... It... Felt.... Like.... YEARS... Of mismanagement, political favoritism, backstabbing and.... Unfair... Preferential treatment, towards guys who couldn't lace my clients BOOTS, much less share the same WATER FOUNTAIN as him--"

Otunga gulps. The crowd erupts in boo's, thinking that Russo had just made an overt racial epithet when he in fact was referring to dirt sheet reports from earlier in the news cycle that Brantley Summers had been sidelined for weeks due his complaints over poor hydration quality in the catering area. He gives a knowing smirk, just another insider reference gone completely over the head of the utter rubes in the audience--

"We've been beaten upon, trampled down on, SPIT ON. We've been forced to watch, while the golden children of that LOWLIFE S.O.B... Mick Foley--" The crowd explodes into applause as a vein throbs in Russo's head, his knuckles getting white as he clenches the microphone. Otunga gets behind him, patting him on the back encouraging him to keep going. "...Crossed LINE after LINE after LINE after LINE with NO REPERCUSSIONS! That's right. While MY CLIENT sat on the BENCH, your political favorites sat in their PRIVATE LOCKER ROOMS drinking it up. And while the likes of DJ Killa Kyle and the Voros Twins begged for TV time, guess what happened? Your political favorites and this is a shoot, got SIX PRETAPES on ONE SHOW! Are you serious bro?! You need SIX PROMOS on ONE three hour show?!" The crowd explodes again into chants of we want Salem. Vince tries to laugh it off, tries to put on a big bright New York smile but deep down he is seething, those perfectly white teeth gnashing together. The people of the great state of New Jersey didn't care if it was six pretapes, they didn't care if it was 600, they loved to see their hero on the boob tube. It was a bright spot in their otherwise grim lives as they dealt with the consequences of yet another hike in the federal interest rate by an increasingly hawkish reserve. Otunga could tell Vince was losing his cool so he steps in, asking for permission to speak before grabbing the mic.

"Vince... Vince... I know that your hot right now, I know that things are running a little wild, but just remember. Last week? When that lowlife scumbag, Mick Foley, got his nose involved in the business of The Cult, everything changed. There's not going to be anymore private locker rooms for second rate talent, no more run ins. No more BS. And we have one man to thank for that, one very handsome, British man to thank for that... But before we get into that, we have an item of business, don't we Vince?"

Vince visibly calms down again, there was something about David Otunga's voice that made him realize that everything was going to be ok. It was either his voice, or something about the look in his eyes that made him such an effective orator. You could see how it was that he so easily dazzled the audience members of the court so as to be undefeated in the squared circle that we call the federal legal system. Reaching into his pocket after the gentle reminder, he produces a crumpled up piece of paper with a seal on it.

"Ah yes, thank you for the reminder, Otunga. Like I just mentioned, we've had a LOT of time to WATCH certain people from the sidelines... And just today, we saw something, and felt it necessary to reiterate a matter of fact, bro. So what I'd like to do, before we start with the action, I'd like to read a statement prepared by the estate of our dearly deceased, fearless leader and founding member of Midnight Marauders International, Freakshow-- EHEM..." Russo clears his voice and the fans in the arena groan collectively, many of them fishing into their pockets to pull out their phones, some of the deciding to go to the convenience stands. The last thing they had patience for was another long, rambling Russo promo of unnecessary callbacks, legal diatribe and invocation of stars long gone. Many of the newly acquired FG fans of the past few months under the Foley regime took this as a signal that it would indeed be business as usual going forward: "As many of you know, while the bumps and bruises that we take each and every night in this ring are very real, many of the events that are depicted on screen in this fine sport of ours are scripted, or pre-determined. In other words, it's a work, bro. From 2010 to early 2011, Freakshow, legally known as Shah Ali Muhammad Shaquille, participated in an on-screen relationship with Elisia Williams, who many of your know under the name of Emiko Sone."

The fans pop at the mere mention of her name in anticipation of the nights main event. Russo smirks to himself, knowing there wasn't a chance in hell a broad could win the WWFG title.

"Yes, you all like Emiko. And so do we here at MMI. In fact, contrary to what you'll read in the dirtsheets, Freakshow and Elisia during that period enjoyed a very healthy professional relationship... But, bro, there's been a lot of rumors and uh.. I'm just here to say, that's ALL it was... A PROFESSIONAL... relationship. Yes, on-screen, certain things were depicted to, if I may use insider terms, pop a rating... But at ALL times during their tenure together, my client and that... woman... Were merely co-workers. Uh huh, yeah bro, I know that may disappoint some of you SICKOS.. But what I am trying to say is, our boss, may god rest his soul, has not, and did not, EVER, in his ENTIRE LIFE, have SEXUAL RELATIONS with Elisia Williams...And FURTHERMORE---" Vince pauses again, lowering the microphone as the booing gets even louder. Simply nodding along at this point, his makes a little small talk with Otunga, perhaps getting a few stock tips in the process: "And FURTHERMORE... Any relation in likeness between our dear leader, founder and dearly departed friend, Mr. Shah Ali Muhammad Shaquille, and ANY purported offspring of Ms. Williams is PURELY a matter of coincidence bro. Now that we've got that out of the way.... NEW JERSEY... Are you ready for some action tonight?!

The fans let out an exhausted scream for the promo to end. Little did they know that the new regime in WWFG was just getting started. That classy, New York smile returns to the lips of the Staffmember as he bellows into the microphone.

"Well you're going to have to WAIT.... Because before we get to our title match, and before we introduce you the NEWEST member of Midnight Marauders International... I'd like to bring out, one of my best friends in the WHOLE world and the man who made this ALL POSSIBLE... Ladies and gentlemen, the OWNER of WWFG... Lets give it up... Bro, can you feel the ENERGY?!... Lets give it up for.... FOR............... CARTWRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!!!!"

There were a few seconds of dead air, and not the type to let the moment breathe as Russo waited for Cartwright to give the owner approval and start introductions. Out in the production truck Kevin Dunn catches on that the owner had missed his cue and someone else needed to take over quickly. Licking his Bugs Bunny teeth, Dunn would squeak out into referee d**k Branigan's earpiece, "Cart mithed his cue! Tell Ruththo to get a move on, d**k!" Branigan moved in to give Russo the iggy and try to push things along. Russo would immediately and violently pull his hand back and turn to Branigan.

"Did you just try to hold my hand bro? What the hell is wrong with you? Don't touch me. I'm a proud Italian man." Branigan sheepishly backs up shaking his hands trying to explain himself but Vince would not listen. "The iggy? Like azaleiers? Don't use that insider bullshit with me bro. What? What? What bro? d**k quickly and quietly relays Dunn's message to Russo who sees another chance to take some spotlight in the B-Show circuit town.

Now allow me to introduce the man who will not only save the glory of the once prestigious WWFG Tag Team Championships, but save WWFG from the ratings crater they've had in his abscence bro. The man who took upon himself the mantle our great founder Freakshow built. A man who has been continuously persecuted by backstage politicians since his return. The leader of men, the Main Event Marauder, he's SIZZLIN' HOT bro!..

BRANTLEY SUMMMMMEERS!"

No music, true shooter style, Summers comes out wearing an Amiri gi, two gold chains, shooter shoes, a plastic wristband that read 'Summers Strong Style', and an Hermès Constance Black Belt. Karate Billy Graham with the mac type of look if you will. Summers already had a mic he took from gorilla in hand as he briskly made his way down to the ring to the chorus of boos from the crowd who knew shenanigans were bound to occur when the Marauders were in involved. The coaching staff consisting of Vaseline Man, Jack James, and Paul were behind him discussing the playbook and the best routes to pick apart the Savage Sons weak middle front. Emile Rizzoto was front seat with a sign he's yet to show, but his signs were always important in shifting the narrative on audience reception. Summers rolls into the ring and stands next to the group of men who had previously come out, giving each a firm handshake and pat on the shoulder before he would start talking.

"First, allow me to thank Cartwright for righting the ship after the horrible display of professionalism, leadership, and integrity displayed by one former SWA Commissioner and now former WWFG employee Mick Foley." Summers gives a brief pause to allow the citizens of Hoboken to display their displeasure with the removal of the man who was playing favorites, their favorites. "Secondly, let me thank Vince Russo and David Otunga for tirelessly working around the clock in business meetings and as creative liaisons to management. Without them, I'd probably still be under the thumb of backstage political powerhouses like Hiro or Salem. They allowed me to get to this position where I can finally turn the true world championship of WWFG back into the prestigious, sought after belts they once were. As the greatest tag team wrestler in WWFG history, I must reclaim them and push them back to their former prominence. And as man of honor, I will do just that."

JR: The crowd could smell the BS from the cheap seats and we're not talking Summers here folks.

King: Ha! Ha! JR we're looking at four prominent players in WWFG right now and you just can't help but be jealous of these winners. Because you're a loser JR. A sore loser like Mick Foley.

JR: Yeah whatever you say King. I'd rather be what you call a loser than anything these four men or their goons are.

"That being said, there's two men that stand in the Marauders way of achieving their goals right now. Salem Croft and Erynys Reich. Now Croft has his daughter on his mind surely. I mean what kind of father lets her match happen. He has to be beating himself up more than anything I could do. Might as well be a handicap match for the World Handicap Champion." Paul Summers from outside the ring holds up the world-travelled bowling trophy that was held together after all these years with little glue and some duct tape. "So that just leaves Erynys. The man with two Y's in his name. Can't respect a man like that. Too many whys that can be asked about it. That's why I, on my travels and training through the mysterious far east, found a man to bring in against Reich. So everyone put your hands together for my new partner."

The crowd wanted to boo more but were quiet so they could hear who the partner was and see if they needed to pop.

"And here come the champions, King! They've heard enough nonsense, it's time for 'The Show' to go on!"

"Who gave Salem a microphone, J.R.?! No one wants to hear what he has to say!"

"I beg to differ, King! Cartwright, Summers, Russo - these guys have been insulting him, his friends, his family - how could a man NOT respond to all that?! These fans sure want to hear what's on his mind!"

"Since when did THEY matter, J.R.?!"

Russo cries out as he scurries over to the side of the ring where David Otunga slumped over with little birds flying around his head. Leaning over he tries to lift up the fallen, undefeated lawyer but his body his completely limp, his perfect argyle sweater stained with the contents of his thermos. Cursing as he lets the man drop to the ground while security rushes around to help move the former Mr. Hudson from the ringside area, Russo storms and curses over towards the side of the ring where Vaseline Man, James, and Paul were coordinating the bosses offense.

Meanwhile, The Master had found his way onto the apron and stood with the tag rope clenched between his teeth. Hunched over, he watches the action in the middle of the ring chewing on piece of string, vaguely pantomiming the movements with his hands, a dumbfounded look on his face.

Salem watched as Summers adjusted an earpiece and fit it in, noticing the team near the announce desk with headsets and notes, seemingly communicating with him through it. Meanwhile, the self-proclaimed "Master" seemed to be a cat of a different color entirely, chewing on the ropes and staring at the pair with a bewildered look in his eyes. Definitely not the odd couple he'd been expecting tonight, but on contemplation Salem wasn't one to talk, given the strange bedfellows he and Erynys were. As Summers came forward for a tie up, Salem accepted, returning the grapple but then struggling to hear what Summers was whispering.

Chain work, huh? So this was how Summers was strategizing now? Indulging the man out of his own curiosity, Salem took the side headlock takeover, but as Summers went to release and stand up, "Showtime" would lash his legs around his opponent's ankles and twist his hips, looking to force Brantley forward to the canvas with a toe hold! If successful, Salem would keep one leg hooked through Summers' knee while stretching his chest over the man's back, reaching to apply a crossface while a panicked Russo amused the crowd with his worry for Otunga's health!

"Salem showing a little more technical maneuvering, here, King!"

"He's usually just throwing fists and feet at people like a heathen, J.R.! Maybe he's learned some new tricks!"

"Wanna get in there with him and find out?"

"NO WAY, J.R.! You keep that crazy man away from me! I've seen what he does to people!"

Summers was feisty, looking to force his way out of the standing straitjacket submission with separation and strength! Oblivious to what was happening around the ring, Salem strained to keep the lock applied as long as he could, but felt his grip slipping from Brantley's efforts! Releasing the maneuver, Salem found himself caught in a waistlock as Summers slipped behind and looked to establish control! His amateur wrestling instincts kicking in, Croft cocked his hips out and dug his thumbs down into Brantley's clenched hands, trying to break the grip his own way! If he managed to, Salem would seize one of his wrists again and swivel behind Summers, trying to twist the limb behind his back with a chicken wing that would make Bob Backlund blush!