Ring Announcer Jacob Ottersbach [JO]: The following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, from Syracuse, New York. Weighing in at 250 pounds. They call him the Punisher! Joe! Farrrrrrraaarrr!

Dressed like the first five pages of Cosmopolitan magazine, Joe Farrar steps from the curtains, he doesn't smile. The fans begin to boo more enthusiastically, he doesn't care. With a bit of a hop, Farrar steps up to the ring apron and tosses his Raulph Lauren sunglasses at the ringside prop-manager. The portly man fails to catch them, despite snap fingered attempts. He picks them up off the ground before Farrar notices what happened.

Ronnie fades quickly, and silence stands, but only for a few seconds. Linchpin by Fear Factory starts up, cueing the fans to boo again.

JO: His opponent, from Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Weighing in at 215 lbs, The Black Star, Evan Hawthorn!

Hawthorn jogs quickly, the slides into the ring. He sits on his knees for a second, eyeing Farrar with his deep blue eyes. Neatly kipping up, Hawthorn begins stepping towards his opponent, and Farrar is thrilled to close the gap even more between himself and the much smaller lightheavy weight. Referee Alex Harris gets between them before they are within striking distance. He explains the rules quickly as some fans begin to chant "Let them fight!". The chant never catches, and is dead by the time Harris calls for the starting bell.

JH: And already Hawthorn has control! Farrar looked ready to trap and squeeze the high flier, but Hawthorn threw a speedy drop kick like I've never seen.

ST: That is embarrassing for a power wrestler like Punisher. The guy loves to think of himself as a man in control, top of the game. So for him to be veritably ridiculed when he obviously had some bad thoughts for Hawthorn. And these knife edge chops while he's trapped in the corner are not making him look any better.

JH: Hawthorn is actually using monster strength right now, making his small body a wrecking ball as he drills hip checks into the corner-bound Farrar.

ST: Yeah, Hawthorn's a real marketing genius. He calls himself "Black Star" so what do you expect his tights to be? Maybe black? Maybe at least one star on them? No, he has blue tights with a white dragon.

JH: Marketer or not, he's dominating this match thus far. Backs away from the corner, looks like he's sizing up Farrar, who is definitely not going anywhere. Charges and aces with a vertical steam roll!

ST: That's a move made famous defensively! Wrestlers used to use it when they were thrown into the corner, and instead of taking it in the chest, they'd more or less cartwheel up and onto the apron. Hawthorn is using it offensively, and now he is in a prime spot on the apron while Farrar is wobbly legged.

JH: Hawthorn springs up and... I've never seen that before.

ST: That was great! He missed the missile drop-kick because Farrar collapsed on the spot! Now they're both laid out like a couple of experimental school girls.

JH: Farrar is up on one knee, and seems a bit confused as to why Hawthorn is rolling in pain. He's looking around the ring.

ST: No one interfered, dummy, Hawthorn just crashed.

JH: Finally just going with it, Farrar looks like he's trying to lock on a Boston crab here.

ST: Should drop an elbow first, make sure Hawthorn is hurting', not just a bit stunned.

JH: He didn't, he wasn't, and now Hawthorn with an inverted mule kick to Farrar's muscular gut. The wiry light heavyweight rolls back and on his feet, and springs forward with a, ooch!

ST: Farrar ducked, and the ref was force fed clothesline!

JH: And now Farrar from behind with a backslide! No ref to count!

ST: Hawthorn kicked out any wa- Well now he's just dumb.

JH: The man that knocked the referee out now ties in a small package. He knows no one is not able to make the count!

ST: Doesn't matter, Farrar shifted his weight. Now he's on top!

JH: And Hawthorn kicks out. And he uses a backbridge suplex! Farrar is flat on his back, there's no referee, but Hawthorn is not releasing his hold!

ST: Its like buying lottery tickets after the Megabucks home office declare bankruptcy.

JH: Farrar kicks out, both men up. Oooh! Kick where it hurts from Farrar, and now he's setting up a powerbomb. His eyes just opened wide. Farrar finally realized the referee is down.

ST: He wasn't curious why no one was making the count, but he notices that no one is telling him off for the illegal nut shot?

JH: I don't think I like that look on Farrar's face.

ST: That's even more viscous than when he was staring Hawthorn down at the beginning of the match.

JH: Lifts for the powerbomb. Hawthorn grabs the ropes, pulls and throws! AH!

ST: AH!

[Farrar lands all over the announce table, his lower back landing square on a monitor. Hawthorn hits his head on the cement floor, then gets partially flattened by the collapsing announce table. Jimmy Howard and Schaef Tolliver fish their headsets out of the wreckage]

JH: That never gets easier.

ST: It's a little easier when they're out here. At least then we have our guard up.

JH: Agreed. But that was a sort of hurricanrana from inside the ring to out here. What used to be our announce position is now a stew of broken wood, broken monitors, broken bodies, and a lot of blood.

ST: Evan Hawthorne can add a few more scars to his collection.

JH: Well, he hit his head pretty band, and I don't like how that leg is angled under that chunk of table, but Farrar definitely got the worse of this mess.

ST: I wouldn't be surprised if he has permanent damage. At least a permanent square mark in the skin of his lower back.

The bell rings.

ST: The hell?

JH: Referee Alex Harris is back up. It looks like he had the energy to make the count.

Ring Announcer Jacob Ottersbach: Ladies and gentlemen, both men have been counted out of the ring, so the result of this match is a double count out.

The fans boo disapproval as paramedics rush to the scene.

And there we go, cutting from that debacle to some prerecorded footage.

It is all darkness about... not a single trace of anything even remotely comforting...

OSV: It takes but a single spark to light the Fires of Clensing...

And there it is. A single point of light. The flame of a solitary candle, resting in an ornate brass holder, on a wooden table.

OSV: The smallest of sparks... one can marvel at the sheer destructive potential of that single, tiny element. How it can touch off the raging infernos that claim more life and cause more destruction than anything else known to the world of man. How the force of fire, that man once claimed a near godly mastery over, now rules over their huddled masses.

Up to the picture, behind the table, steps a form. The Machine, looking as fit and trim as he always has, puts his hands on the edges of the table, one on either side of the candle.

Machine: Whereas the pathetic powers that be set their backfires, snuffed out those that sought to do them harm, to cast them off their thrones, to cast them amongst the masses they rule over... whereas they sought to destroy the rising forces before they could do them harm, all they have succeeded in doing is staving off their own demise. For where they see setbacks that they have handed to The Machine, by forcing him from the grounds he has chosen to establish his kingdom, all they have succeeded in doing is staving off the inevitable for one more day.

The darkness behind him changes... morphs, into a blazing inferno, casting an eerie red-orange glow over The Machine and the table.

Machine: For the Fires of Clensing are a force so great, no one can hope to defeat it. While you may think you have contained the great inferno, it has quietly sampled your defenses and merely waits for the right moment to break through. While you believe you have altered the course of its destructive path, its course changes only at its own whim, bearing you down through a course towards your own doom. While you assume you have accomplished what you must in order to win, you have merely prepared yourself to be a sacrifice to the Fires.

Machine: There is no escape from the Flames. No amount of divine aid will save you from their burning caress. There will be no heros, no soliders to stand up to the ever-closing waves of destruction. The Flames care not who they consume... for in the end, they will consume all.

Machine: Beware the Fires of Clensing, minions of the Tri-States. Beware and be prepared for your end. The Flames need your strength to feed apon, and it is your strength they will sap from your very bones. The Fires will close in and devour you all, twist you into burned and scorched forms, unrecognizable to all.

The fires behind him die out, leaving him illuminated only by the light of the candle.

Machine: And the only sounds that will be heard will be the footsteps of The Machine... walking through the new graveyard, marveling in the sheer beauty of the aftermath of the Fires... there will be only one survivor, and it will be him...

Machine: For nothing withstands The Machine.

He lifts a hand, and closes it over the flame, snuffing it out.

And once again, we fade to commercial.