A point of view camera was cascading shots through the backstage area of Coliseo de Puerto Rico José Miguel Agrelot where WWFG was running Backlash. It stops at a room named the "Irish McNeil Boys' Club". The camera opens up the door to reveal a dimly lit room full of cigar smoke and Memo Luxor Oud full of Marauders dressed to the nines. King of the Canvas starts in San Juan and that meant a fiesta was on the menu. The Marauders were always popular with the Boricuas in New York, known for providing employment opportunities and keeping the streets safe around the headquarters. In the corner you can see Vaseline Man and Paul coming up with a game plan heading into the match tonight, inaudible due the surrounding discourse. All anyone could hear through the camera were Paul's muffled grunts and parts of what sounded like a story about stretching rookies back in Rhamm's wrestling camps. In the middle of the room is the boss, the leader, the president and CEO of Midnight Marauders International, Brantley Summers wearing a classy, never gouache ensemble of navy velvet and gold leaves. Around his waist is the original PAW Crimson King Championship with a magnet over the logos on the main and side plates to cover any intellectual property infringement. Gold Force Wrestling It was obvious what the next play was for the conglomerate. He has a champagne flute in one hand and a spoon in the other. Tapping the spoon to the glass, silence fell over the room.

"Friends, brothers, Marauders." Summers pauses momentarily to let the let out their exclamations and cheers as he addressed the room. "I stand before you already the king, finally back to the castle he was so unceremoniously exiled from in foreign lands." Summers had this weird manner of speech when beginning a long winded tangent. He would suddenly carry on in the manner of gimmicks past, as if he was traveling through time post Canada n' Clock Connection, maybe it was the grandiose feeling it gave him. "But we're not done, no no." Summers reached into his pocket and takes off his coat to show the velour turtleneck adorned with his new logo for all the merch freak marks that have popped up since his exit. Reaching into his soft pockets, the stylish Marauder pulled out a one piece headset and microphone. A spotlight shines down on him and Summers continues his speech, pacing back and forth. "You see, in this business, you only get one opportunity. One chance to reach for greatness. One measly journey to the top and if you squander it, there's no guarantee for another shot. All those miles and where was the money? Where's Hiro on the card?" The Marauders roar, believing they vanquished the fan favorite at Wrestlemania, Summers raises his gloved hand with the champagne flute full of Tiger Thiccc Whiskey. "Tonight begins the King of the Canvas tournament. A chance for us to assert our dominance starting with some punk nepo-baby. We worked our way to the top. No hand outs, no politicking for our spot. Marauders don't get on their knees and beg, they take." The room was getting rowdy, anticipation was swelling for their new charismatic boss's undoubtedly long King of the Canvas run. They all knew it was s**t, but they'd been running with it this long. Paul was even in the backstage with Tim, Landry, and Brantley planning out the infamous 2012 Wrestlemania main event. They needed a veteran mind for the business like Paul's to figure out the angle. He's always been a respected figure backstage. "So tonight, sit back and relax in this room I rented for the evening because it's going to be an easy night for the company." Russo worked something out a long time ago in the contracts that the Marauders always had a room at the arena. The biggest. Summers just changed the lounging area's name. The spotlight grows more intense allowing for the shadows from Summers's brow and nose to cast down and give him a darker appearance.

"Until my coronation, watch the throne."

The room erupts at the classic Summers line. Mark Laundre's Nigerian Prince father adorns Summers with regal garbs of his homeland. Vaseline Man shed a tear that just kept beading up as it rolled down his face. Paul taps Summers on the shoulder and points to the lone camera that had been in there for the entirety of his call to arms.

"Hey who the ******** is that guy?!" Summers shouts as the camera frantically looks around and tries backing away. The door loudly shuts and the camera turns to back.

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