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Castaways, we are castaways
Ahoy there, ahoy, we are castaways
We're stuck where we are
With no house, no car
Castaways, ahoy, we are castaways

The familiar lyrics of the Backyardigans Castaway plays accompanied by synth pads and drum kicks, undoubtedly it was the opening to Kyle Richh's Notti Bop. However, per the morality clause of DJ Killa Kyle's restructured WWFG contract following his stint, there would be no swearing or overt mention of gang activity in any of his entrance music or merchandising for the duration of his time on television going forward. As such, he would be relegated to using instrumental versions of most of the songs he came out for the foreseeable future. The disdain at this was clear on the face of the Tik Toker as he emerged from the curtain in a plain, black generic doo-rag, ski-mask goggles and Amiri jeans. In his left hand is clenched a gallon jug of light pink liquid that one had to assume was some sort of electrolyte beverage. It was unlabeled, but for a man of DJ Killa Kyle's status and gravity, one would have to assume only Pedialyte would suit his tastes.

Down the ramp the sanitized, manicured, bitchless and proverbially neutered son of a wealthy New York music executive crip walks as the commentators fumble to explain that this was actually a reconstituted version of the Fargo strut. Going up the ring steps, the MMI Youngboy climbs up onto the ropes from the apron and unscrews the top of his water jug upending it into his mouth and down his throat letting it flow along his chest before spraying the beverage into the air in a mist. Tossing the jug off to the side and throwing up an unaffiliated symbol with both hands, the teen sensation springs off the top rope, turning around and bouncing into a backflip landing perfectly in the center of the ring.

Spitting the last bit of extremely hydrating, viscous fluid out at the camera he eases back into his corner of the ring propping up his ski goggles on top of his head, his eyes glazed over and deadened as he leans back against the turnbuckles barely hiding his boo boo face.

While Drew was busy taunting Kyle, the music faded and it looked like the ref was going to begin the pre-match ritual of patting down the competitors.

Before anyone in the ring could react, a loud murmur and some shouts erupted from the crowd as a strange figure in sweatpants and a hoodie slid into the ring. Prowling menacingly right behind Drew, the figure wrapped his arms around Drew's waist and launched him head-over-heels in a sickening release German suplex.

The helpless robber bounced once before falling out of the ring between the middle and bottom ropes. What was going on? Who was this mysterious person?

The hoodied figure wasted little time in getting back to his feet. Now that he was no longer crouched, he stood to his full height, prowling back and forth in front of the startled referee. The man grabbed two handfuls of his hoodie, yanked it off his body before tossing it into the crowd. With a growl, the man spun to face the camera.

With a shaved head and a mustache that would make Dan Severn cry, none other than Coach Howard was revealed as the mystery attacker.

"Get that Red Dead bullshit out of my ring." The grizzled wrestling coach barked. The coach tore off the sweatpants like they were made of paper and tossed them outside just as easily as he had Drew.

"Ready up pony-boy, I'm your opponent now!"

While Kyle was bouncing around like a roman candle with an unlimited fuse, Howard took his mouthguard out of his vale tudo shorts and slipped it into his gumline.

If this, this DJ, was supposed to be the next generation of combat talent, then the coach was going to put him to task to really test his mettle. The first test would come sooner rather than later as Kyle came flying at him with a maneuver straight out of the Great Muta's playbook. All Howard did was take a step back leaving Kyle to land in a dramatic fashion, but no paydirt would be found.

Instead, the coach rushed the opponent and attempted to hook his arms for a speedy snap-Dragon suplex. It would seem as though the 'Don't blink' warning Drew had left for him was still in play.

While Kyle was busy reeling on the outside, Howard took this opportunity to walk over to the nearest camera and jaw-jack into the feed for a hot second.

"I can't believe it--I mean it's ridiculous--I can't believe it." He paused to shake his head. "We have a word for techniques like that: LA, because it's garbage."

At about this time, Kyle entering the ring caught the peripheral of the coach's eye. Stepping away from the camera, he approached Kyle with his guard up, but upon seeing the youngster stuck in the ropes, he lowered it slightly. Something about a dead scorpion still having a painful sting or what not, but Howard was visibly not threatened by the DJ's chicanery.

Testing the waters a bit, he spun on his right foot and aimed a sharp shin-kick right to the midsection of his opponent. OUSS!

"Bite me."

The coach did not suffer the referee's stern attitude, but he would abide by the rules. Rather than take another metaphorical bat to DJ's midsection, he retreated to the middle of the ring and beckoned Kyle to meet him. Things had gotten off to a rocky start for the rookie, so Howard, out of the kindness of his heart, was going to extend an olive branch in the form of a Greco-Roman knuckle lock, if the other would indulge him.

"What the f--"

It was a good thing that the camera cut to get a better view of Kyle's athleticism, otherwise the people at home would have gotten an earful of Howard's colorful language courtesy of the apron cameraman.

With his fingers intertwined with the opponent, the lucha style was in full display as the DJ backflipped off of the ropes and landed...Right beside Howard again. This left the disappointed visage of the old timer just inches away from the rookie's.

"What now?"

If Kyle's goal was to confuse Howard, it worked. If his goal was to infuriate Howard, even better. If his goal was to piss off Howard, well, the rewards of that endeavor would pay off in due time. For now, the coach reeled in pain and withdrew his hands, clutching at his eyes as if he had a grain of sand or something stuck in them.

Where was the ref? Where was his five minute break? Someone had better be deducting a point!