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As the WWF comes back from a quick commercial, it isn't a promo for the next match that airs. It's a new entrance music... One that isn't officially registered to anyone. Not long after it starts, the audience is treated to something they hadn't been expecting to see... Sure, there have been rumors circulating the internet that after his long absence, Jimmy Monera would be crashing the Pay Per View. But with new music? And a new haircut?

Without any pyroes behind him, and all alone, without Natalie in tow, Jimmy casually walks down to the ring, an intense look of focus in his eyes. He has something planned. That much, as the commentators are mentioning right now, is certain.

He slides in under the bottom rope, a microphone already in hand. He holds it up to his lips, but pauses. He's met with a hushed reaction, as if the audience doesn't know what to expect from him tonight. And with this kind of unexpected change, who can blame them?

"A few weeks ago, Rebz and I had a long, difficult match for the WWF Bruiser Title. She pushed me to my limit in that match, and I did the same for her. It was one of the greatest matches of either of our careers, and if I may say so, the ratings from that night would agree with me. We weren't too fond of each other going in, and we're still not, but I have to say, I've developed a little respect for her as a result. I should hope the feeling is mutual."

He pauses again, amongst chatter from the commentators about the match in question.

"Now, What you'd normally expect from any reputable wrestling promotion, is that after a performer gives you that good of a match, you give them more matches... More screen time, if you will... To prove their value even further. Did I get match the following week? No. Did I get a match the week after that? No. And am I scheduled to wrestle tonight, you ask?" His voice is becoming more and more angry with every word. "No. I don't. I get nothing.

"So let me repeat this. During my second career revival, I pull off a better quality match than ninety percent of tonight's participants have pulled off in their entire lives, and I get jack s**t in return. Oh yes, that's right... For those of you don't know, this is the third time I've had a run in any wrestling promotion. And my second time in THIS promotion. My last time here was... I don't remember the year, to be honest, but for the sake of reference, it was the same year that they ******** up the Royal Rumble and over half of the participants didn't get to join in. Myself included.

"My first EVER promotion, for those of you who are curious, was called the UWF. Well, that's the Underground Wrestling Federation, for those of you who'd like to look it up on Youtube, and see what wrestling looks like when there's talent involved. But considering how that particular website likes to piss it's pants every time it hears the word copyright, you're better off searching for it on Bing."

He pauses again, as a handful of people in the audience cheer at the defunct promotion's name being mentioned. Nobody else seems to know what he's talking about, but people are already on their phones, looking it up. "In any case, UWF was a lot of hard work, for everybody involved. Suffice to say, all of the bodybuilders and supermodels, and hardcore emo pussies of this promotion would never have survived there. And they would NEVER have expected you to pay to see some bland, boring pay per view like this one. They would NEVER have allowed their champion to start off the show by spewing some long-winded, tedious battle-rap that he probably had to read off of a teleprompter. They would have given you a show worthy of your hard earned money."

He ducks under the top rope, standing on the ring apron. He drops down, goes over to the announce table, and steals a steel chair that doesn't appear to be in use. He returns to the ring with it, and clutches it in his hand. "I'd love to give you the show you paid to see. But I can't do it by myself. Especially considering the fact that my in ring performance doesn't appear to be welcome here anymore. So I'm going to do, for you people tonight, the only thing I really CAN do."

He unfolds the chair, and sits down in it... Right in the middle of the ring. "I'm not leaving this ring until I get a match. I don't care what kind, I don't care who, I don't care whether or not it's for a title... If you want this pay per view to continue, someone's going to have to come down to this ring, and give me the match I deserve to have, and that you people deserve to see. I don't care if it's a volunteer, or if the boss himself comes down. Until it happens, I'M NOT MOVING."

Having delivered this message, Jimmy sits there, and waits.

Finally seeing his chance to break through that barrier that Jimmy had mentioned earlier, Lester Cryden pushes aside his doubts, as well as any lingering nervousness he may have and bolts out of his seat, causing the people around him to stare at him in confusion. From the very top row, he jogs down the steps, all the way down to the expensive section. He shoves his way through, and stops at the barrier, hesitating.

I haven't run into any security guards yet, he reasons, as he throws one leg over the barrier, and climbs over it. The first person to approach him isn't a security guard, but a camera man, to film him as he walks around the ring, grabbing Jimmy by the shoulder and looking him in the eye. "I'll have that match with you," he offers, not even aware of how hard he's grabbing Jimmy.

Lester just stands there for a second, taking in what he's actually doing. Gathering up his courage, he takes the microphone. "My name's Lester Cryden. He pauses, listening to the audience for a second, trying to figure out if they like him or not. They sound excited, but that could only be because one of them was out there. A bunch of people probably think he's a plant. "I spent ten years wrestling... About as unprofessionally as you can wrestle," he explains, not wanting to come right out and say he spent most of his career in prison. "I then tried my hand at an Indy company, but they closed down before I could get my second match. If it was still around, I'd already have been their champion at least once by now." He hands the microphone back to Jimmy.

((Short post is short.))

Smiling, in disbelief at his fortune, Lester takes Jimmy's hand, and shakes it enthusiastically as the camera fades to black, so that the WWF can interrupt the show with another one of it's shameless self-plug commercials.