Welcome to Gaia! ::

The piano's notes continued to lull the arena forward into anticipation, until they were abruptly overshadowed by the striking chords of electric guitars accompanied by a thunderous tom-tom hits. A lone section of the arena lit up like a lightning bolt just came through it, then shut off as quickly as it came. On queue, it happened once more with the next sudden crescendo, except on the opposite side of the arena. The arena remained in darkness even as the bass began to run, developing an eerie feeling across the wave of fans.

Then it happened. It was too sudden to be sure what it was, but everyone knew what it meant. A large ball of bright light shot into the arena through the open ceiling like a falling star, just as the music prepared to crescendo once more. It struck the stage as the speakers blared "Storytime" by Nightwish at full volume, causing one of the strangest sights in WWE:E history: the center of the stage caved in on impact into a crater, while the rest of it shot up in a wall of flames, complemented by stray panels of steel flying through the air and landing (thankfully) around the stage. The flames died down mere seconds later, allowing everyone to see the massive crater left in the stage's center. Parts of the rafters and the sides of the tiantron sparked, proving that the arena was having some serious technical difficulties on this one.

It was the night before, when all through the world,
no words, no dreams, the one day...
A writer by a fire, imagined all of Gaia,
took a journey into a child-man's heart!

The first half of the verse ended and a spotlight finally came to life, shining down on the crater of steel plates left in the middle of the stage. A gloved hand suddenly appeared at the edge of the crater, causing an outburst of excitement from fans nearest the ramp. The hand griped the steel and began to pull itself upward, revealing there to be a figure rising from all the wreckage.

A painter on the shore, imagined all the world,
within a snowflake on his palm.
Unframed by poetry, a canvas of awe,
Planet Earth falling back into the stars...

The figure fully pulled himself up from the wreckage as the verse concluded, and the reaction of the fans was stronger than ever. Standing at the edge of the crater was a man clad in a long, black leather trenchcoat that hid the black muscle shirt and jeans underneath. In his right, gloved hand was the legendary weapon that had been cracked over so many skulls, the 'Punk-ville Slugger'. And the face that was attached the body was what the fans were really excited to see; it was Matt Shanahan in the flesh for the first time since Showdown. His hair was slicked back, and was a noticeable goatee hanging from his chin this time; it had to be the first time he was seen with facial hair.

His eyes scanned the arena of screaming fans; he almost seemed confused as to why they were even here. When his eyes locked in on Major in the ring though, it all became too clear, and the remnants of a smirk crossed his lips. Slowly, his boots carried him down the ramp, towards the squared circle once more.

I am the voice of Never Never Land,
The innocence, the dreams of every man.
I am the empty crib of Peter Pan,
A silent kite against the blue, blue sky.
Every chimney, every moonlit sight,
I am the story that will read you real.
Every memory that you hold dear.

When the chorus came to an end, so did Matt's stride to the ring. He stopped in the center of the ramp and soaked in the lone spotlight for some time, while a tuba played a solo note. He suddenly lifted his baseball bat high into the air, signalling the explosive intro to play once more. The lights in the arena spot back to life, bathing it in a mixture of dark blue and blood red hues. The God of Punks returned his pace towards the ring as the second verse began to play.

I am the journey, I am the destination.
I am the home, the tale that reads you.
A way to taste the night, the elusive high.
Follow the madness, Alice, you know once did.

"And the challenger, weighing at 326 pounds and standing at a full six-foot-eight... from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania... He is The God of Punks! Matt... SHAN-A-HAN!"

Imaginaerum, a dream emporium.
Caress the tales, and they will dream you real.
A storyteller's game, lips that intoxicate.
The core of all life is a limitless chest of tales.

Matt Shanahan jogged up the steel steps as the second verse came to an end, now wasting no time to drag out the match. He stepped through the ropes and into the ring once again. Rising to his full height immediately, his black pupils locked on to the man that took him out of commission mere months ago, and took his championship in the process. He dropped the baseball bat over the ropes and began to take his trenchcoat off once the music began to fade away. The fans were electric, to say the least. Major and Shanahan were about to face off once more, in a match that would truly decide who was superior. The Last Man Standing match.

The God of Punks moved to stand in the center of the ring, waiting on Major to do the same. His eyes said everything that needed to be said. He was at 100% tonight, he was determined to get his title back, and he was pissed off.