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pcwpolwrestling · 10 months ago

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1/20-PCW Returns with Extreme Political TV from Iowa

When we last met…

January 20th, 2021-Joe Biden’s Inauguration as CEO of PCW Seated in her plush, overstuffed armchair at home, PCW Owner Dawn McGill luxuriated in comfort as she watched the newly returned PCW Blue Brand aka… Political Shakedown show- live from Washington, D.C. She sipped on a glass of whiskey, the smooth liquid washing away any tension or stress from the day. The soft light from the nearby lamp casts a warm glow over her living room, highlighting her freshly painted red toenails that peeked out from beneath her favorite sweatshirt and blue jeans.

As she munched on a bowl of buttery popcorn, Dawn’s gaze flicked from the screen to her surroundings, her sanctuary, her safe haven from the chaos and drama of the outside world. But even here, she can’t escape the political turmoil that has consumed PCW over the past few months.

With Joe Biden officially being installed as the new CEO of PCW, Dawn reflected on everything that has transpired: the return of PCW and Extreme Election Night 2020 where the Progressive Alliance swept everything and took full control of the PCW Executive Committee; her own abduction at the hands of wealthy financiers George Moros and the Coke Brothers, with assistance from The Alan Lincoln’s Project, during Extreme Election Night; and her subsequent detention for almost two months before being rescued by The Deplorables.

But perhaps what weighed heaviest on Dawn’s mind is the recent riot at Hack’s Rusty Nail Saloon, which resulted in the destruction of PCW’s spiritual home of over 15 years. It was this event that ultimately led to the return of ‘Sports Entertainment Genius’ Mr. McMann and spelled the end for PCW as she knew it.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Dawn shook her head in disbelief at how quickly everything had unraveled.

As the TV flickered to life, a grand and lavish production filled the screen. The atmosphere was electric, with waves of excitement emanating from the audience. Security was tight, with members of the newly established Space Force clad in pristine white and black uniforms standing guard.

Finally, the moment arrived as Joe Biden, the newly inaugurated CEO of PCW, stepped up to the podium. His wrinkled seventy-six year old face was covered in a dark shroud and black cloak. But it was his eyes that captured the attention of the viewers. Like two storm clouds swirling with power and intensity, they seemed to shoot out bolts of lightning with each gesticulation.

“People… supporters of…” Biden was stopped in mid-sentence when his aides realized Joe was facing the wrong direction. They guided Biden and turned around to address the crowd. An annoyed look from the new CEO of PCW presaged a quick bolt of lightning from his eyes that incinerated an unlucky cameraman in front of him leaving the poor man in a heap of ash on the ground.

Now, looking in the correct direction, Biden’s voice boomed through the crowded arena, his words punctuated by cheers from the passionate crowd. “People, supporters of Political Championship Wrestling, today we mark a transition. For years, PCW stood as the conduit for people who were fed up with the status quo, fed up with politics as usual. But there were those within our fan base who would set us against one another for we never suspected that the greatest threat came from within. These “supporters” conspired to create a shadow of doubt on my appointment aided and abetted by the previous PCW CEO.”

Dawn McGill watched while she munched on a large bucket of buttered popcorn she’d just microwaved.

Biden continued: “The riot two and a half weeks ago left PCW scarred and deformed. But I can assure you my resolve has never been stronger. The war is over. Donald Trump has been defeated and we stand on the threshold of a new beginning. With that in mind, in order to ensure the security and continuing stability and for a safe and secure society, Political Championship Wrestling will be reorganized into the Political Wrestling Universe and PCW will cease to exist.”

Dawn reached over to grab her flask of whiskey hidden under her seat, taking a quick swig before leaning back to listen to Biden’s plans for a stronger, more stable political wrestling universe.

Biden continued, “By bringing the political universal under our enlightened guidance, the corruption that plagued PCW in the past few years under the ownership of Dawn McGill will never take root ever again.”

As Biden spoke about the transition and the previous controversy within PCW, Dawn couldn’t help but roll her eyes and throw a piece of popcorn at the TV screen showing the speech.

Biden went on while a crowd of powerful elites before him nodded in agreement, their faces set with determination and conviction. “Under our New Order, our most cherished beliefs will be safeguarded. We will defend our ideals by force of arms.

Behind Biden stood a lineup of influential figures, including George Moros, a big money, political bank roller known for his controversial political views; the infamous Coke Brothers, shrewd businessmen who controlled large portions of the world’s resources; Jack Buckenberg, the enigmatic CEO of Facetwitogram, a popular social media platform; and Alan Lincolns, founder of the Alan Lincolns Project, a highly influential group in shaping public opinion.

The camera then panned to Professor McCarthy, a renowned scholar from Berkeley, California known for his devotion to the ‘good book that spells out what’s correct and incorrect to think, say, and believe,’ and his loyal followers -The Green World Order. GreenPete, a vocal environmentalist; ‘Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee, known for his extreme methods of promoting plant-based diets; PeaceNick, an advocate for non-violent resolutions; and Peta from PETA, dedicated to animal rights.

But it didn’t stop there. The Hollywood Left and sports celebrities from all walks of life joined in, signaling their support with cheers and clapping.

Finally, Biden concluded his speech with a fierce declaration: “We will give no ground to our enemies and we will stand together against attacks from with or without. Let our enemies take heed. Those who challenge our resolve will be crushed.”

The Guild of Low-Level Media People Trying to Make a Name for Themselves: Colleen Crowder of That Big New York Newspaper that pushes ‘Narrative as News’, Sharon Johns from the National News Cable Company, Hallie Reed of MS Left Wing News, and Dan Miller from the Big Washington Newspaper that used to be really good until they decided to be the New York Times-lite- all enthusiastically joined in the ovation.

FIN? January 31st, 2021 The location of Hack’s Rusty Nail Saloon, a once thriving hub of entertainment and community, now lay desolate in the midst of a snowy landscape. The icy wind whipped against Dawn McGill’s face as she parked her car on the side of the road, next to Johnny Suave’s vehicle. Together, they stared at the empty field that was once adorned with the bustling saloon.

Dawn reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a flask of whiskey. She poured two shots and handed one to Suave, who accepted it with a grateful nod. The liquid burned their throats as they downed it, trying to warm themselves from the bitter cold.

As they stood there, reminiscing about the days when PCW was at its peak, running monthly at Hack’s Rusty Nail Saloon. They couldn’t help but feel a sense of melancholy wash over them. They had spent countless nights here, making memories that would last a lifetime.

But now it was all gone. The saloon had been torn down, leaving only an empty space behind. Yet, despite its absence, Dawn and Suave still felt its presence lingering in the air.

“What should we drink to?” Dawn asked, breaking the silence between them.

Suave turned to look at her, his eyes filled with nostalgia. “How about good times and good memories?”

Dawn smiled wistfully and clinked her shot glass against his. “Good times and good memories,” she echoed before they both took another sip.

As they stood there in silent reflection, they knew that even though Hack’s Rusty Nail Saloon may no longer exist physically and PCW may no longer exist period, the spirit would always live on through their shared experiences and cherished recollections. And for that, they were forever grateful.

Fin?

(…)

Nope…

==============================

Political Championship Wrestling Drama in Des Moines Des Moines, Iowa Taped Monday January 14th, 2024 Saturday January 20th, 2021

Announcers: ‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave AGE: 50 / HT: 5’ 11” WT: 195 HOME: Philadelphia, PA HAIR: Brown / STYLE: Like Ronnie Dunn / FACE: Goatee DRESS: Brown suit without tie

Colleen Crowder ‘Low Level New York Times Reporter Trying to Make a Name for Herself’ AGE: 28 / HT: 5’ 5” WT: 142 HOME: New York City, NY HAIR: Black / STYLE: Curly / FACE: Narrow face with rounded jaw, turned-up nose, faint freckles, and thin lips. Bulging blue eyes, thin eyebrows. DRESS: Black pants suit

PCW Investigative Reporter -Woodward Bernstein

Opening The air in the bar was thick with anticipation, a heady cocktail of sweat and spilled beer. Underneath the clamor, there was an electric hum – the sound of fervent hearts chanting in unison, “PCW… PCW… PCW!” Spotlights crisscrossed over their heads, converging on the squared circle that was the evening’s altar of entertainment.

In the eye of this human hurricane stood Johnny Suave, microphone in hand, his slick suit barely containing his excitement. Beside him, That Big New York Newspaper that pushes ‘Narrative as News’ reporter Colleen Crowder’s sharp features were set in a look of disdain.

“Welcome, one and all, to the grand return of PCW’s Extreme Political TV, right here in Des Moines, Iowa!” Suave announced, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes twinkling with showmanship, before dropping his catchphrase…

“HOLY CRAP!”

As if on cue, the crowd exploded into cheers, the room vibrating with their approval. Colleen, however, remained unimpressed, her lips curling as though she had tasted something sour.

“This… spectacle has no place on the air,” Colleen declared, her voice dripping with condescension.

“Tonight, we’re kicking off the road to Extreme Election Night 2024 with a four-way American Patriots Iowa Caucus match!” Suave continued, the announcement injecting even more life into the already excited audience. “But first…” Suave turned, gesturing toward the entrance with a flourish. “Let me bring out the owner of PCW, the woman who fought tooth and nail to bring us back – Dawn McGill!”

Colleen’s face sank and the crowd roared as Dawn stepped into view, security parting the sea of bodies like a modern-day Moses. She wore black boots laced up to her knees, tight denim shorts, and a PCW tank top that hugged her athletic frame. Her medium-length hair was poofed out, and her eyes sparkled with determination, gratitude, and a lot of makeup.

McGill was escorted to the ring by a team of burly security guards, their muscles bulging under tight black shirts. The bar erupted as she passed through. The big screen televisions lining the wall displayed provocative, but tasteful, images from her recent Henhouse Magazine shoot and ignited a frenzy within the crowd. Fans jostled for a chance to touch her, reaching out with outstretched arms and pleading eyes. McGill strode forward confidently past the fans who jostled and reached out with outstretched arms towards her. She basked in the attention like a queen amongst her loyal subjects.

“Nice pictures,” Colleen snarked under her breath as Dawn rolled into the ring, her tone acidic enough to curdle milk.

“I know,” Dawn replied without missing a beat, with the confidence of someone who’d faced greater challenges than a verbal spar.

She embraced Suave, her ally in this world of chaos and theatrics. They stood united, a bulwark against the smug dismissal in Colleen’s eyes. It was more than a hug; it was an affirmation that they were ready to take on whatever the political arena would throw at them.

In the midst of the cheers and the palpable energy of revival, Dawn couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. She had taken the hits, bore the scrutiny, and emerged victorious. This ring was her domain, and she was back – not just for herself, but for every person who believed that PCW was more than a show. It was a movement, a voice, and tonight, it was going to be louder than ever.

The PCW chants swelled like a storm, crashing against the makeshift arena within the walls of Des Moines’ most unlikely venue.

“WE’RE BACK!” she bellowed, fists clenched with the tenacity of a prizefighter.

The bar thundered in response, a chorus of “PCW… PCW… PCW…” that shook pint glasses and rattled the turnbuckles.

“Lord knows it’s been a long road,” Dawn projected over the din, her gaze sweeping across the sea of faces. “But we’ve driven every bumpy mile thanks to you—the fans!” She punched a finger upward, punctuating her gratitude. The spotlight caught the glimmer of determination in her eyes.

“Let’s give a round of applause to Henhouse Magazine,” she declared, a sly smirk on her lips. “Who would have thought that just flipping through some glossy pages could rekindle a revolution?” Dawn paused as more pictures cycled through on the big screen televisions inside the bar. “And thanks to the money I made posing for their magazine, we had the financing to restart PCW.” The crowd erupted into cheers, grateful for the insider information from their beloved leader.

“Of course, none of this would be possible without Waylon Husk!” Dawn’s tone shifted, a note of respect threading through her words. “His social media platform gave us a megaphone when others wanted to keep us silent.”

She spun on her heel, suddenly facing the hard camera, her expression fierce. “And as for you, Jack Buckenberg, deplatform this! ” she snarled, raising her middle finger with a flourish. “*BLEEP* you!” The censors barely caught the f-bomb in time but clearly caught the cheer that erupted, echoing her sentiment: “PCW… PCW… PCW!”

Colleen Crowder’s lip curled at the edges, disdain dripping from her posture. “This is exactly the type of uncouth behavior that should be deplatformed,” she muttered into her mic, loud enough for the cameras but drowned out by the fervor of chanting supporters.

“TONIGHT, is just the beginning,” Dawn declared, reclaiming the moment as her own. “Come November, on Extreme Election Night 2024, we crown a new CEO of PCW.” Her hands swept wide, framing the future in the air before her.

“Joe Biden will win because that’s our narrative,” Colleen Crowder interjected sharply, the words slicing through the anticipation like a knife. “That Big New York Newspaper that pushes ‘Narrative as News,’ we’ve already decided it.”

“Decided?” Suave’s brow arched, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You do realize that narrative-driven news is the same as scripted pro wrestling, right?” His words were velvet wrapped around a sledgehammer, soft but devastating.

“Comparing journalism to your scripted circus?” Colleen’s face flushed, a vein throbbing in her temple. “Apples and oranges, Suave. Apples and oranges.”

“Both are entertaining, but only one pretends to be reality,” Suave shot back, the barbs hidden under his breathy chuckle.

Dawn seized the pause, rising above the fray. She ascended the turnbuckle, arms spread wide—a phoenix risen from the ashes of controversy. Her smile was a beacon, a signal that no matter how heated the debate, the show must—and would—go on.

And just like that, we were off and running.

Preview The raucous energy inside the bar crackled like a live wire as ‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave stood center ring, his voice cutting through the cacophony with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his tone rising above the buzz, “tonight, four titans will clash in the American Patriots’ Iowa Caucus match!”

The crowd, a seething mass of anticipation, responded with varying degrees of enthusiasm as Suave introduced the contenders one by one. “First up, Vivek Ramaswamy!” A smattering of hands met together in polite, yet unenthusiastic applause—a golf clap for the political pugilist.

“Next, the trailblazing Nikki Haley!” The applause grew slightly warmer but still lacked true fervor, like a tepid bath that couldn’t quite steam the mirror.

“Then we have Ron DeSantis!” Approval crested higher now, okay applause rolling in like a reliable tide, respectful and expected.

“And finally, the former CEO of PCW… Donald Trump!” The arena erupted, a volcanic release of adoration and excitement that sent a shockwave through the air—roaring applause that shook the foundations of the building.

Beside Suave, Colleen Crowder’s face contorted with incredulity, her voice piercing the din. “This is preposterous! Trump has no business being in this match!” Her protest was a tempest in a teapot, drowned out by the thunderous approval of the masses.

“Well, not even the misuse of the American Judicial system can keep Trump from being here,” Suave quipped.

Colleen let out a gasp and sputtered a few incomprehensible things.

With the announcement squared away, Suave pivoted to the imminent action. “It’s time for our first match!”

MATCH #1: Big Oil vs. ‘New Age Sensitive Guy’ Brandon Thomas-Taylor Under the soft glow of eco-friendly LED lights, the “New Age Sensitive Guy” Brandon Thomas-Taylor, perched upon an electric cart, his passage through the bar towards the ring Mikeed by a glacial pace that could only be described as ironic. The cart, much like the political promises of renewable energy, ran out of juice…

“Son of a bitch!” Brandon exclaimed

…and forced Brandon to disembark and walk the remainder of the way, his footfalls a quiet testament to thwarted innovation.

“Where’s the charging station?” he groused.

“It’s very cold here in Des Moines, tonight,” Suave said. “And cold apparently reduces the amount of charge electric batteries hold.”

Accompanying him to the ring, Soccer Mom waved her banner high, her rallying cry piercing the atmosphere “It’s for the children!” An emblem of suburban activism, she personified the intersection of helicopter parenting and hashtag advocacy.

But as the behemoth known as Big Oil made his entrance, the mood shifted just a little. The lighting cast elongated shadows behind the 7-foot goliath, his every step a seismic event. Texas Tex, the epitome of fossil fuel excess, followed, pushing a wheelbarrow overflowing with cash—symbolic of profits over planet.

“Big Oil versus ‘New Age Sensitive Guy’ Brandon Thomas-Taylor!” announced Suave, his voice riding the wave of the crowd’s shifting focus.

A chant, both derisive and catchy, began to sweep through the stands. “Let’s Go Brandon!” The crowd latched onto the meme with fervor, their unified voices a sardonic serenade that tickled the ears of all but one.

Colleen Crowder bristled, her commentary betraying her agitation. “This mockery is unacceptable!” Her voice trembled with the force of her conviction, a lone reporter against the tide of public opinion.

“His name is Brandon,” Suave pointed out.

“Unacceptable!” Colleen repeated.

The bell’s clang reverberated through the bar. Brandon Thomas-Taylor, his eco-conscious heart pounding beneath his hemp-fiber singlet, steadied himself as the colossus known as Big Oil loomed over him. The behemoth’s boots pounded the mat like drumbeats of doom, each stomp a metaphor for environmental degradation.

“Here comes the deforestation in human form!” Johnny Suave’s voice crackled with excitement, the crowd hanging on his every word.

“That’s not funny,” Colleen said.

Big Oil’s massive hand clapped onto Brandon’s chest, the sound echoing like a tree falling in an untouched forest. He chopped the New Age Sensitive Guy down, Brandon’s body hitting the mat with the weight of a carbon footprint. The crowd was a tempest of jeers and cheers, a storm of public opinion in the political arena of the ring.

“Look at that power! It’s like watching an oil spill cover pristine coastline,” Colleen cried out, her voice laced with sarcasm and dread.

Whip after whip, corner to corner, Big Oil sent Brandon careening like a misguided energy policy, until finally, with a roar that shook the foundations, he powerbombed the sensitive soul to the canvas. Brandon tried to clear his head.

“Renewable energy can’t be snuffed out this easily,” he thought, trying to rally his spirit. Then Big Oil lifted him for a second devastating powerbomb and drove him down with enough force to cause him to bounce three feet up in the air before crashing down again.

Big Oil, the embodiment of fossil fuel might, hoisted Brandon once more.

“Can’t you see he’s had enough?” Colleen’s plea to the referee was a desperate cry against unchecked corporate power, but it went unheeded as Big Oil delivered a third cataclysmic powerbomb.

As if the ring were fracked earth, Brandon lay fractured on the mat, his resolve leaking away.

“BIG OIL HAS JUST HIT THREE CONSECUTIVE POWERBOMBS ON BRANDON!” Suave shouted. “AND NOW HE’S SET BRANDON UP FOR THE OKLAHOMA DRILLER!”

Big Oil placed Brandon’s head between his legs and readied him for this finisher by holding him upside down.

“STOP THE MATCH!” Colleen screamed, her journalistic objectivity lost in a sea of concern for the underdog.

But then, the opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop” filled the bar, a refrain of hope amidst despair. Big Oil’s attention snapped away from his defeated opponent.

“HOLY CRAP! IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS?” Suave’s voice rose in pitch, disbelief coloring his words.

A spotlight cut through the dimly lit bar, searching, seeking the savior. And there he was, amidst the throng of spectators—a plaid-shirted enigma wielding a steel chair, a grayish beard, and a weaponized mocha.

“HE’S HERE!” Suave bellowed, barely able to contain his glee.

The bar erupted, a geyser of adulation for the Environmental Extreme Hardcore Icon, Al Gore, brandishing his biodegradable cup high, a toast to Mother Earth herself as he headed down the ramp. With a long swig that emptied the cup, he channeled the fury of a thousand climate accords and spewed the caffeinated contents over the roaring masses.

“IT’S THE TREE HUGGIN’, MOCHA CHUGGIN’, TOBACCO COMPANY BUGGIN’, INSANE CHAIR-SWINGING, ENVIRONMENTAL EXTREME HARDCORE ICON- AL GORE!”

Big Oil let Brandon fall to the mat and glared at Gore.

“Take that, emissions!” Colleen found herself shouting, swept up in the moment.

As the crowd serenaded him with Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop,” Gore crushed the paper cup against his cranium, signaling his readiness to recycle Big Oil’s attitude with extreme prejudice.

“AL GORE IS BACK IN PCW AND HE’S COME TO BRANDON’S AID!” Suave exclaimed.

Once again, Gore pulled out another mocha and drank it down. He then smashed the cop against his forhead and another container met its fate, the crowd wild with anticipation, as Gore continued his eco-friendly onslaught, dousing them with both liquid and fervor.

With Soccer Mom’s maternal instincts kicking in, she slid into the ring, pulling Brandon to safety. His battered body was a testament to the clash between green ideals and black gold.

Gore rolled into the ring and a staredown ensued.

“Al Gore makes the save for ‘New Age Sensitive Guy’ Brandon Thomas-Taylor,” Suave said. “I suspect this battle is not over yet.”

“You know, it’s like Al Gore said in his book,” Colleen chimed in with a sly grin, causing a smirk to grace her lips. “Some people just can’t handle The Inconvenient Truth!”

Suave rolled his eyes…

How Dare You? …and on the towering big-screen televisions, static snow danced for an agonizing few seconds before crystallizing into the figure of a young woman. “And now, folks,” Colleen Crowder’s voice oozed through the speakers with the syrupy sweetness of false praise, “let us bear witness to the power of youth activism, as exemplified by the incomparable Greta Thunberg!”

Except it wasn’t Greta Thunberg at all.

“Wait just a minute!” Johnny Suave’s voice cut in, sharp and clear. His eyes widened behind his signature shades as he leaned forward, disbelief etched on his face. “That’s not Greta.”

Colleen’s eyes widened. “What?”

“That’s Gracie McAvay!” Suave said. “Dawn McGill’s nine-year-old daughter!”

Gracie, her tiny frame dwarfed by the screen, stood defiantly before the camera, her chin lifted in a mimicry that was both uncanny and scathing. “How dare you?” Her small voice echoed with a conviction that belied her years, each word a pint-sized punch thrown at the bloated belly of Washington D.C.’s political elite. “Spending trillions more than what we take in taxes!” Gracie continued, her hands balled into fists. “You’re spending my money, my children’s money, my grandchildren’s money, because who do you think is going to have to pay this all back?” She stomped a small foot, a miniature gladiator in the coliseum of public opinion. “Running up a national debt over thirty trillion dollars—how dare you?”

Colleen Crowder spluttered into her mic, the image of disarray. “Well, she’s too young to understand complex fiscal policies and the intricacies of government spending.”

And then, as if Gracie sensed the rising tide of support from the audience, her small arms shot up, fingers splayed in an unmistakable ‘up yours’ gesture that sent the crowd into a frenzy.

“Gracie!” The reprimand came off-camera, Dawn’s voice piercing through the din.

“Sorry, Mom.” Gracie’s sheepish reply was almost drowned out by the deafening roar of approval from the fans. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and resolve—a reflection of her mother’s spirit.

As the video feed cut out, leaving the screens blank once again, the arena buzzed with energy.

An Offer She Can’t Refuse Inside her office, Dawn McGill lounged in her chair. Her gaze narrowed on the monitor, but not because the commercial held any particular interest; it was just there, like the unavoidable hum of a distant lawnmower on a lazy Sunday.

*KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK*

“Come in,” she called out, voice dripping with anticipation like honey from a spoon, a tone concocted for unsolicited guests with delusions of grandeur.

The door swung open, and in strode two actors playing caricatures of political virtue, Mike Johnson and Mitch McConnell, decked out in their finest American Patriot Leader cosplay – red ties tight as nooses around their necks. “Mike… Mitch. What a surprise,” Dawn drawled, the sarcasm obvious enough to leave a taste.

“Good evening, Dawn,” Mike began, his Southern drawl thick as molasses in December. “We’re here to offer you a golden opportunity.”

“Golden opportunity, you say?” She raised an impeccably arched brow, leaning back in her chair, the very picture of feigned curiosity.

“Indeed,” Mitch chimed in, face earnest, mustache. “PCW should come home…to the Red Brand.”

“Come home to the Red Brand,” Dawn echoed, tasting the words like a connoisseur sips a suspect vintage.

Mike adopted a preacher’s fervor. “That’s right. The American Patriots are the faction of Abraham Lincoln. The Red Brand is the perfect place for you to be.”

Dawn’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I see. And where would our wrestlers start?”

“Entry level,” Mitch said, as though he were offering up a spot in heaven’s waiting room.

“Entry level?” Dawn repeated, letting the phrase hang in the air, sour as curdled milk.

“The pay isn’t great, but it’s better than it used to be,” Mitch offered, hoping the bone he threw had some meat on it.

“Ah.” She nodded, the gesture as empty as most campaign promises.

“And we also have some wrestlers who are bankrolled by some of our big corporate supporters. They would have to be pushed ahead of all the newcomers,” Mike interjected, his tone slightly apologetic.

“Corporate branding of the characters would need to be done,” Mitch added, as if laying out the perks of a timeshare in hell.

“Well, as much as that sounds intriguing…” Dawn began, voice soaked in facetiousness, “…and it does…I think I’m going to pass.”

Mike’s face fell; he looked like a dog that had been kicked one too many times. “I see, you want us to sweeten the deal,” he said, hand slicing through the air as though it could cut a side of beef.

Their act was as convincing as a toupee in a hurricane, as authentic as a three-dollar bill. Dawn knew this dance well, the awkward pas de deux of power plays and false promises. But she wasn’t buying what they were selling – not today, not ever. Dawn McGill played to win, and in PCW, winning meant keeping your soul intact, not auctioning it off to the highest bidder.

Mike Johnson laid out their ‘generous’ offer, Dawn reclined in her chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, like a seasoned poker player hiding a royal flush up her sleeve.

“Okay, we can throw in advocating lower taxes without demanding reduced spending,” Mike declared, his voice carrying the oily charm of a used car salesman peddling a lemon. “Laissez-faire regulations that favor corporations, health care and wages that again favor big business at the expense of ordinary workers.”

Mitch chimed in, his drawl thick as molasses, “Let’s not forget big business trickle-down economic policies that also favor large employers and leave middle America behind.”

“Ahh…gotcha.” Dawn’s voice dripped with sarcasm, her eyes glinting with amusement as if she’d just witnessed a chicken trying to play chess. “Guys, that’s a really bad deal,” she said, her tone flat, like a teacher explaining gravity to a room full of kindergarteners moonwalking in defiance of it.

“Ooooh…we’ve got a negotiator here,” Mike said, his grin stretching like he’d just struck oil in his backyard.

“Um no. I’m not negotiating,” Dawn retorted, crossing her arms, her posture unyielding as a barricade at a protest rally.

But yet, the negotiating began.

“Okay—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—Miss McGill,” Mitch began, leaning forward, his face earnest as a boy scout pledging an oath he intended to break, “we’ll even throw in a half-assed promise to root out deep state bureaucrats and keep out activist judges who undermine legislate from the bench and thwart the will of the people…”

“…while maintaining the status quo for the Washington D.C. beltway elites to continue to prosper while middle America withers on the vine like they have for the past 25 years,” Mike concluded, nodding gravely as though he’d just offered her the keys to Fort Knox instead of a ticking time bomb.

“Really?” Dawn’s eyebrows arched toward the heavens, her incredulity wrapped in a thin veneer of politeness.

“That’s our final offer,” Mike said, his tone suggesting he’d laid down a royal flush when all he had was a pair of twos.

At that moment, Dawn’s cell phone cut through the stale air, its ringtone a brash country riff that made both men jump. “Um, no. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, plucking the phone from her desk with the urgency of a surgeon answering a Code Blue.

“Hello?” Her voice shifted from sardonic detachment to sharp concern. “WHAT? (pause) I’ll be right there.” She ended the call, her face now a mask of alarm, any trace of mockery washed away by genuine distress.

“Sorry guys…duty calls.” Dawn bolted from her chair, legs striding across the room in a sprint, each step echoing off the walls like the pounding of a judge’s gavel. She slammed the door behind her, leaving a silence that hung heavy and uncomfortable.

“Ah, the old pretend an emergency has come up and shut the door in our face trick!” Mike scoffed, bitterness seeping into his voice like whiskey through a cracked glass. He muttered, more to himself than to McConnell, a desperate hope clinging to his words like rust to iron, “She’ll come back. They always do. Right, Mitch?…… Mitch?”

But Mitch’s attention was fixated on the glossy photo from Dawn’s recent Henhouse layout spread – the one where she posed provocatively behind the ring post, her perfect body contorted in alluring angles, her arms strategically placed to cover up any hint of modesty. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her sultry gaze and exposed skin.

“Mitch?” Mike’s voice broke through his reverie.

But Mitch remained silent and motionless, frozen in place and staring at the photo.

“MITCH!” Mike whapped him hard on the shoulder and snapped him out of it.

“What?”

“Let’s just go,” Mike said with defeat laced in his tone, sensing the futility of their situation.

Dawn briskly walked out of the bustling office, her heels clicking against the polished marble floors. As she turned the corner, she ran into… Hakeem Jeffries from New York and Chuck Schumer, with his thick New York accent, leaders of the Progressive Alliance.

“There she is!” Hakeem exclaimed in a falsely upbeat tone. “We’ve been searching for you.”

Dawn forced a polite smile. “Hakeem, Chuck. What can I do for you?”

“We knew that the American Patriots might be stopping by tonight to try and sway you towards joining the Red Brand,” Hakeem stated confidently.

Dawn couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Really?”

Chuck chimed in, “We wanted to present you with an opportunity… make you a better offer.”

Sighing, Dawn already knew what they were going to offer her. “Let me guess, an offer I can’t refuse?”

“Exactly,” Hakeem confirmed with a smug grin. “It’s time for PCW Heartland to come home…to the Blue Brand.”

Dawn couldn’t help but roll her eyes at their blatant attempts to recruit her. “Come home to the Blue Brand?” she repeated sarcastically.

“Yes,” Chuck continued eagerly. “The Progressive Alliance represents the underdogs, and our brand is perfect for them.”

“Okay,” Dawn replied half-heartedly.

But then Chuck revealed the catch. “Of course, your wrestlers would have to start from scratch at the bottom.”

“At the bottom?” Dawn repeated incredulously.

Hakeem nodded, holding up his hand as if to show how much lower their wrestlers would have to start compared to current Blue Brand members. “Well, we do have some wrestlers who are financially backed by our big-money supporters, so they would naturally take precedence over any newcomers.”

Chuck added, “And we must also consider seniority. Our current members have been with us longer and deserve to be at the top.”

Dawn pretended to contemplate their offer, but she knew it was a no-brainer. “As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass.”

Hakeem’s smarmy smile faltered slightly. “I see. You want us to sweeten the deal,” he said, making a hand gesture that was supposed to represent adding something extra.

Dawn couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at his obvious attempt to bribe her.

Hakeem’s voice boomed through the boardroom, his words hitting like a sledgehammer. “We can throw in higher taxes, excessive regulations, artificial solutions to health care and wage stagnation-”

Dawn shifted uncomfortably on her feet, her eyebrows raised in skepticism.

“Artificial solutions?” she questioned, her tone sharp.

Chuck leaned forward eagerly, eager to add his two cents. “Big government trickle-down economic mandates versus doing the hard work to formulate concrete long-term solutions and promoting policies that create organic growth.”

Dawn let out an exasperated sigh. “Guys, that’s a bad deal.”

But Hakeem just grinned, clearly enjoying the verbal sparring. “Ooooh…we’ve got a haggler here,” he taunted.

“Yes we do,” agreed Chuck with a chuckle.

Dawn shook her head. “Um no. I’m not haggling.”

But despite her protests, the haggling commenced.

“Okay…and I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Chuck began. “…Miss McGill, we’ll even throw in political correctness…”

“…deep state bureaucrats and activist judges undermining the will of the people and making law from the bench…” interjected Hakeem.

“…and maintaining the status quo for the Washington D.C. beltway elites to continue to prosper while middle America withers on the vine as they have for the last 25 years,” finished Chuck triumphantly.

“Really?” Dawn replied with faux excitement.

“And last but not least…” Hakeem declared, pausing for dramatic effect before continuing. Suddenly, former PCW CEO Barack Obama appeared, a smug grin on his face.

“And I’ll be the first one to welcome all of the bitter clingers to the Blue Brand!” Obama announced, clearly relishing in the chaos.

Dawn’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the unexpected guest. She had to give them credit – this was quite the show they were putting on.

“That’s our best offer,” Chuck declared with a satisfied smirk.

Dawn pretended to mull it over for a nanosecond before turning away abruptly. “Um, no. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, she quickly made her escape, sprinting down the hallway toward the gorilla position backstage.

“Oh…it’s the run away down the hall trick,” Hakeem mocked from behind her.

But Dawn didn’t look back. She had better things to do than entertain their ridiculous offers.

Right before she turned the corner and disappeared from sight, Chuck called out to her, “Oh, and by the way,” he called out. “Loved your photos in Henhouse!”

MAIN EVENT-The Iowa Caucus Match: Vivek Ramaswamy vs. Nikki Haley vs. Ron DeSantis vs. Donald Trump The arena reverberated with the roar of anticipation, its air electric with expectation as Johnny Suave’s voice boomed through the speakers. “It’s time for our Main Event,” he declared, his tone a blend of gravitas and glee, tailor-made for the spectacle that was about to unfold.

Ring announcer Kimber Marshall stepped into the limelight, her voice cutting clear and sharp across the din. “First up, Vivek Ramaswamy!” The newcomer strode down the ramp, his gaze locked on the squared circle that was both battleground and political proving ground. He slid beneath the bottom rope with a fluidity that belied his outsider status.

“Next, the pride of South Carolina, Nikki Haley!” Kimber continued. Haley emerged, her smile as polished as her campaign buttons, waving regally to an audience that responded with a mixture of cheers and jeers. Each step seemed measured, calculated—like her policies—designed to leave just the right impression as she approached ringside.

“Florida’s own, Governor Ron DeSantis!” With that announcement, DeSantis appeared, his presence commanding even before he struck a pose that was more campaign poster than wrestler. Swaggering toward the ring with the confidence of a man accustomed to weathering storms, both literal and political, he climbed onto the apron, nodding at the crowd as if already declaring victory.

“Finally,” Kimber’s voice rose above the crowd’s crescendo, “former CEO of PCW… Donald Trump!” A single spotlight stabbed through the darkness, aiming at an empty stage. Backstage, away from prying eyes, Trump loomed large in the shadows, telling an American Patriot official with that unmistakable bluster, “I’ll go out when I’m good and ready.”

“Typical,” Colleen Crowder sniped from her seat beside Suave, her words dripping with disdain. “He’s afraid to engage with the others.”

“Or,” Suave countered, his eyes alight with the drama unfolding before them, “Trump may not need to engage with the others to win.”

The bell rang, signaling the start of the match, and the fans erupted like a volcano of pent-up passion. DeSantis and Haley wasted no time, their brawl spilling out at ringside in a tangle of limbs and political platitudes made physical.

“Watch your back, Nikki!” Suave shouted as DeSantis ducked and dodged, only to catch a low kick from Haley. It was politics in motion—attack and counter-attack, each move a headline in the making.

But then, with the stealth of a silent amendment to a bill, Ramaswamy seized a steel chair and swung with legislative force, crashing it down on Haley, who collapsed like a poll number after a scandal. DeSantis seized the moment, lifting Ramaswamy in a Herculean effort and hurling him towards the ropes.

“Ramaswamy’s hanging on by a thread!” Colleen cried out, her voice carrying a mix of excitement and partisan concern.

DeSantis charged like a filibuster against the clock, but Ramaswamy clung to the ropes with a desperation born of someone who knew the stakes were higher than mere championship gold. Haley, recovering, hit Ramaswamy with a political haymaker, a SHOTGUN blast of raw power that set him teetering precariously.

“Can he survive this?” Suave questioned, leaning forward as if he could will the outcome with sheer vocal energy.

“Like a third-party candidate in a two-party system,” Colleen shot back, skeptical.

With the force of a controversial executive order, DeSantis delivered a dropkick that sent Ramaswamy flying over the top rope and crashing to the floor below, his campaign within the PCW effectively suspended.

“Ramaswamy’s out!” Suave bellowed, the finality in his voice akin to the closing of polls. “Now it’s down to DeSantis and Haley!”

ELIMINATED: Vivek Ramaswamy

As the action unfolded, the thoughts of each contender were laid bare, their strategies and ambitions as visible as the sweat on their brows. Would they adapt their tactics or stick to their platforms? The ring was their soapbox now, and the next move might just sway the undecided voters watching at home.

The ring became a gladiatorial arena of political prowess as the two remaining contenders circled each other. DeSantis, eyes alight with fierce determination, lunged for a chair, its steel glinting under the harsh lights like the sharp edge of a campaign promise.

“DeSantis is rewriting the rulebook!” Suave exclaimed, his voice rising above the roar of the crowd.

With a swing that echoed through the rafters, DeSantis connected with a WHAP that resounded like a damning headline against Haley’s skull. She staggered, her equilibrium shaken as if by a sudden shift in poll numbers. But Nikki Haley was no stranger to adversity; she gathered herself, grimacing, and launched a counterattack—a low kick that struck Ron like a scandalous leak, halting his momentum.

“Oooh, what a strategic move by Haley!” Colleen sneered, her words dripping with sarcasm. “Aiming below the belt—quite literally.”

As Haley fought back, unleashing a flurry of blows that reflected the tenacity of her political career, the crowd sensed a shift in the tides. But DeSantis parried, his resilience on full display as he swung the chair once more, striking true, another chairshot reverberating off the ropes. This time, Haley couldn’t recover. With an effort that seemed to channel the will of his constituents, DeSantis hurled her over the top rope, eliminating her from contention.

“An emphatic statement from DeSantis!” shouted Suave, as the audience gasped and cheered in equal measure.

“Ugh, it’s just like him to resort to such brute force,” Colleen muttered, rolling her eyes.

Then, as if on cue, the atmosphere shifted. The lights dimmed, and the unmistakable silhouette of Donald Trump emerged, commanding attention in the way only he could. His presence was larger than life, his stride filled with the swagger of a man who had tasted power and hungered for its return.

“Look who decided to show up,” Colleen quipped, her voice laced with disdain. “The former CEO graces us with his grand entrance.”

“Can Ron DeSantis pull off the big upset?” Suave pondered aloud, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

“Absolutely not,” Colleen shot back before the action unfolded.

Trump rolled into the ring with the ease of someone accustomed to stepping onto the world stage. He surveyed his opponent with the critical eye of a man assessing his competition. Without warning, he executed a DDT so devastating it could’ve been a metaphor for a sudden policy shift. DeSantis crumpled, and Trump stomped away at him, each blow landing like a contentious tweet sparking outrage.

“Colleen, your thoughts?” Suave nudged, knowing full well the storm brewing beside him.

“Disgusting! He swoops in at the last minute and thinks he can just dominate the narrative!” Colleen fumed, her voice reaching a fever pitch.

Undeterred, Trump prepared the final spectacle, setting up a table in the center of the ring with a showman’s flair. He hoisted DeSantis up, and with a BOOM that shook the foundations of the PCW itself, slammed him through the table. The crowd erupted, their chants of “PCW” pulsating through the arena like the heartbeat of a nation enthralled.

“Colleen is aghast… irate!” Suave narrated, capturing the moment.

“PCW doesn’t need this kind of leadership!” Colleen protested, but the deed was done. Trump pinned DeSantis: one… two… THREE!

“And Trump wins the Iowa Caucus match, seizing victory with the ruthlessness of a seasoned political combatant!” Suave declared, as confetti began to fall like promises from a campaign trail.

Colleen sank back, her face a mask of disbelief. In the ring, Trump stood triumphant, arms raised, basking in the adulation and controversy that followed him like his own shadow.

The confetti still drifted through the air like a snowstorm of red, white, and blue as Johnny Suave stood at the ringside, microphone in hand, his voice carrying over the din of the tumultuous crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, what a seismic night we’ve witnessed here at PCW’s Iowa Caucus match!” His eyes sparkled with the reflection of the spectacle, a ring seasoned with the grit of political ambitions.

“Seismic? More like a sham,” Colleen Crowder retorted sharply, her words cutting through the festive atmosphere with the precision of a well-aimed policy critique. “This wasn’t a victory for democracy; it was a victory for grandstanding.”

“Say what you will, Colleen,” Suave countered, “but tonight, the former CEO of PCW, Donald Trump, showed why he’s a force to be reckoned with. Huge win for him tonight!”

Colleen sighed audibly, pressing a hand to her temple as if trying to massage away the headache of partisan politics. “Johnny, the real winner tonight is Joe Biden. While these candidates were busy brawling in the ring, Biden’s been strategizing, preparing. Trump can’t beat Joe Biden and this… spectacle—it’s just noise.”

Suave nodded, acknowledging her point but not conceding an inch. “Noise or not, next week PCW rolls into New Hampshire, and the stakes are even higher! We’ll see Joe Biden in action, along with Trump, DeSantis, and Haley. The political arena is heating up, folks!”

“New Hampshire won’t be so easily swayed by theatrics,” Colleen mused, her gaze lingering on the empty ring now being cleared of debris. She imagined the upcoming battles, the strategies unwinding, the alliances forming and dissolving. “Real leadership will stand out there… I hope.”

“And speaking of hope, that’s all we have time for tonight, folks!” Suave said.

“Unbelievable,” Colleen muttered under her breath, her skepticism a stark contrast to Suave’s infectious enthusiasm.

“Goodnight, and we will see you in New Hampshire.” With a final flourish, Suave dropped his hand, the spotlight dimming on his figure as the screen faded to black. “See you next week!” he concluded.

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