Previously Recorded!

Shortly after the Pre-show's Main Event, the camera pans in backstage down a corridor leading towards the male's lockeroom, where Jett Draven is sitting up with his back against the cold concrete wall, as he gripes at his left knee.

A set of legs inside of high heel shoes would enter the scene, as it OCW journalist Stacy Clark would hunch over to get a word with the clearly disappointed young man.

Stacy Clark: Excuse me Jett, I know it's been a rough couple of weeks for you. It's no secret that you've been dealing with a knee injury for a couple of weeks and that tonight you competed against the trainers better judgement.

Stacy Clark: But tonight was your first ever championship opportunity, and despite a good showing and making it to the final two, you ultimately loss in the end. If you don't mind me asking, what's going through your mind at a time like this?

Stacy would extend the microphone towards Jett as he deeply look to be contemplating a response, looking seemingly annoyed, frustrated, and just wanting to be left alone, he would shake his head as he turned to look up towards her.

Jett Draven: "Just not right now...

Stacy Clark would nod in understanding while Jett annoyingly shooed her away as she stood back up to go and get ready to cover for the main show that was about to start as the camera would slowly pan out, slowly fading to black as Jett say there alone seemingly readjusting his jaw.   

The Camera pans to the announce team!

	Reflect!
	REFLECT!

As the PPV rolls on, the crowd settles down for an intermission. An announcer comes out of the back with a microphone, followed by some workers with sound equipment.

Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, your mid-show entertainment... The Roxy Rollers!

Right behind the workers come the band, decked out in true 80's-never-died fashion. From the perms to the moustaches to the shiny leather jackets, the band members look like unaware refugees from the halcyon days of synthesizers and neon sleaze. The lead singer is the only woman of the group, a blonde decked out in a black and pink ensemble with a flying V guitar... she's vaguely recognizable.

She takes her place at the lead mic stand as the workers head back to the lockerroom.

Roxy: So how are we all doing tonight here in... ah hell, I never liked cheap pops anyway.

The crowd is surprised by her candor.

Roxy: Yeah, didn't expect that, did you? You expected some dumb blonde to sing America the Beautiful while your wife makes sure you don't stare at her tits.

She shakes her finger.

Roxy: Well no way Jose, my friends--we ain't just for show, are we boys?

The male band members all shake their heads.

Roxy: We got some kinda attitude, right?

They all nod.

Roxy: We know how to rock the house, don't we?

They all nod again.

Roxy: Then let's do it! Don't you touch that dial... not that anything comes with dials anymore. Don't you flick that screen, baby!

She lets loose with a squeal of her electric guitar, and...

Roxy: A one, a two, and a one two three four!

The band launch into a tight, co-ordinated pump-up rock number that sounds like a little more punk version of a fight movie montage track. The crowd, who weren't totally on board with some glory-hounds intruding on their wrestling at the beginning, applaud enthusiastically by the end.

Roxy smiles and leans back into the mic.

Roxy: Now that wasn't the best reception I heard tonight, but it's not bad for a first-timer.

She winks.

Roxy: And a good first round means you should go for it again, huh?

Roxy: I'm not just here for a one-night mic stand... in fact... I'm OCW's newest bombshell!

She holds up her guitar before suddenly smashing it on the ground. In that moment, the crowd recognizes her as the woman who smashed the guitar over Big Ed's big head!

Roxy: Ahaaaa, now you know me! I gotta admit, I'm a fan. And after that close encounter of the violent kind, I've got the bug. I ain't the most “experienced” girl around here, but lemme tell you something... you don't grow up where I did without learning how to fight a b*tch who pulls hair. Next time you see me, it isn't gonna be up here on stage. It's gonna be down there in that ring. And this radio star is gonna kill back, baby!

She flashes the rock and roll hand sign in sync with her bandmates, and they head to the back.

 

The Camera pans to the announce team!

	NICE!
	ROCK N ROLL!!!!

 

Jackson Montomgery vs Dennis Black *C*

 

The Camera pans to the announce team!

	Thats all she wrote!
	Ouch!

 

Ding takes a big stretch as he enters the backstage area after his match. He throws his arms up in the air and lets out a big growl.

Ding: Woo daddeh!! Mah muscles are on FIRE!! I got a nice little sea salt bath with mahhh name all over it.

At that moment, B-17 walks into the scene and the pair exchange glances.

B-17 looks Bill Ding up and down...and side to side.

B-17: Well ‘papa’, quite a showing that was out there. Now that I know who I'll be facing the next time around, I hope you’re ready for a KNUCKLE SANDWICH!

B-17 begins his arm cocking motion that made Archer so very uncomfortable: YEAH! Just like this, over, and over, and over again. B-17 keeps sliding his fist through his hand.

Ding: Oh man B, that's ah…. that's a old dad joke right there. Not even a daddeh joke. You hittin’ on a Ding right now? This ship don't sail dat way, sorreh to say.

B-17: Just go with it, get in the rhythm, and relax. B-17 continues to cock his fist and starts to bob his head.

Ding: Daddeh you already won ya match, you don't gotta convince meh with ladyboi tactics to fight ya. I'll FITE YA, but when the tiiime comes.

B-17 looks down at his fist, realizing that this might be an uncomfortable moment, he stops: Sorry about that...You know, I just can’t stop, once it pops, the fun don’t stop, you know when I was living on the stre--nevermind.

Ding: WOWZA, snap crackle pop, you been dippin’ in the Smacks? Tough tiiiimes daddeh.

B-17: The point is that belt comes with a pay raise! And Bingo needs cheddar! Socks aint cheap!

Ding: Well you smellin’ tha Big Cheese now, papa. (Ding pats his title adoringly) At least you attemptin’ to wear socks. Brings you much honor.

Without warning, five tough looking bikers donning leather jackets and vests, bandanas, chains, and sunglasses roll up upon the pair during their banter.

Man #1: Well shiiiiiiit it’s Bill Ding. What's that thing you say? “Time to clock in?”

Man #2: Ha, and here's the Hollywood washout, heard you couldn’t keep it in your pants?

B-17: You have no proof of these accusations! Who’s your source! Fake news!

Ding: You fellas got a problem here, sonneh?

Man #1: Ain't no problem that a little tact can't fix. “Time to ‘clock out’”.

At that moment the men joined by their comrades begin attacking B-17 and Ding. Ding catches a chair to the back of the head by an unknown assailant and falls to his backside, barely conscious.

B-17 meanwhile goes for a Bingo punch, but misses and crashes into a table, picking himself up, he is immediately jumped by two of the bikers, and they disappear behind the table in a tangle of arms, legs, and 80’s hair.

Ding attempts to gain his bearings but his brain is still rattled. As he writhes on the ground and holds his head, he hears one of the men talking on speakerphone with another individual.

Familiar voice: Leave them. But take the belt.

The men disengage from their victims. B-17 is left motionless on the concrete floor. Bill Ding continues to struggle to his feet, but collapse with a thud. Just before fading away, he thought, I know that voice...

The Camera pans to the announce team!

	What the heck!
	WHAT!

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