3/26-PCW Extreme Political TV
Last Saturday on PCW Extreme Political TV -PCW’s Whiskey Tango Foxtrot crashes the Oscars and chokeslams Conan O’Brien after he takes a cheap shot at PCW. -‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave introduces the guest commentator for tonight’s show- CNN’s Abby Phillip. -Federal Judge James Boasberg comes to the ring and issues an injunction overturning PCW Co-owner Victoria McGill’s edict that if PCW’s Security doesn’t get paid, the politicians don’t get paid either. -That brings McGill, Chris Escondido, and Justin Sufferable (PCW Co-owners) out. They overturn Boasberg’s ruling- much to the anger of Chuck Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries. -COMMERCIAL BREAK: George Soros Protest-a-Porium -Woodward Bernstein interviews Kathryn Randall Collins before her match against Liberty Belle. KRC says Liberty Belle represents everything wrong with the American Patriots faction—manufactured patriotism designed for consumption by the politically unsophisticated. -Liberty Belle stands in the ring and says Kathryn Randall Collins embodies everything wrong with progressive politics—the smug certainty that they know better than everyday Americans. -MATCH #1-WOMEN’S #1 CONTENDERS MATCH: Liberty Belle (American Patriots) defeated ‘The Ultimate Political Operative’ Kathryn Randall Collins (Progressive Alliance) -COMMERCIAL BREAK: Governor Hochul ‘Return to New York’ -Woodward Bernstein interviews PCW Women’s Champion Catherine Cline. Cline gives Liberty Belle respect but the interview gets derailed when Karen bursts in and demands to make a formal complaint about the ‘excessive force’ by security. -COMMERCIAL BREAK: Band of Karens -‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels’ segment gets hijacked by his opponent later on- Farmer John Deer who presides over the Heartland Awards. -MAIN EVENT-#1 CONTENDERS MATCH: Farmer John Deer (Main Street USA) defeated ‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels (Progressive Alliance) -COMMERCIAL BREAK: Homeland Security PSA -EPILOGUE: PCW security person cuts a promo, saying The Progressive Alliance talks about caring about people, but where’s their concern for the workers who can’t pay rent because they’re using us as bargaining chips?”
Political Championship Wrestling Extreme Political TV 2300 Arena Philadelphia, PA Taped Sunday March 22nd, 2026 Thursday March 26th, 2026
Announcer: ‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave
Johnny Suave’s voice crackles to life in the 2300 Arena. The camera cuts to him at the commentary desk. The crowd behind him churns with a rowdy energy that is one part ECW nostalgia, one part town hall meeting gone to seed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking live at the legendary 2300 Arena in Philadelphia, PA!” Suave declares, his voice modulated for maximum grandeur and minimum subtlety. “It’s PCW Extreme Political TV. Last week, Liberty Belle defeated the ‘Ultimate Political Operative’ Kathryn Randall Collins and Farmer John Deer took care of ‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels. James Boasberg tried to overrule PCW Co-owner Victoria McGill from withholding the pay of the Progressive Alliance and the American Patriots and was, himself, overruled by PCW’s Supreme Authority. Folks, if you thought last week was a cluster-bomb of controversy, you have not seen anything yet!”
The opening fanfare fades under the blare of the PCW logo, which slams onto the jumbotron with such force it practically leaves a dent. The house lights sizzle and sweep across the arena’s interior, skipping from clusters of partisan-cosplay fans waving red, white, and blue foam fingers to blue-haired college students hoisting placards stenciled with “REAL CHANGE NOW!” and “DEFUND THE REFEREES.”
Suave adjusts his earpiece and leans in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Tonight, we begin the broadcast with a little travel drama. Seems the Progressive Alliance delegation found themselves unceremoniously denied Delta Sky Priority when they reached the airport to fly to Philly. They were forced to board with—” he makes air quotes, “—the regular people. And let me tell you, the turbulence didn’t stop at the airport.”
‘Tom Homan to the Rescue’ featuring Tom Homan and PCW’s Co-owners Victoria McGill, Chris Escondido, and Justin Sufferable The commentary is interrupted by the sound of boots striking the metal grating atop the ramp. The crowd’s reaction surges from rowdy to outright riotous as Tom Homan emerges from the shadowed entryway. He’s dressed for asymmetric urban warfare: full tactical vest, mirrored Oakleys, and the gait of a man who has never lost a bureaucratic street fight. Flanking him are four agents in crisp navy windbreakers, hands never far from the radio mics at their shoulders, faces deadpan and ready for war.
The 2300 Arena’s floor shakes as Homan’s crew advances, and for a moment, the PA system dips so low it’s possible to hear the crunch of his boots on the steel. The entrance lights strobe blue, white, and red as the ICE squad assembles at the ring apron.
At the apex of the ramp, a cluster of PCW’s upper management blocks their path.
Victoria McGill in a black power suit cut to weaponize every inch of her six-foot-two stature.
‘No Frill’s Chris Escondido, all minimalist muscle and visible distaste for pageantry.
‘Not Just Unbearable…Not Just Intolerable…He is’ Justin Sufferable
in his signature corduroy blazer, eyes already rolling at the prospect of confrontation.
Standing half a pace ahead of them, jaw jutting at an angle only practiced in presidential debates, is Donald Trump, clapping in a manner that manages to suggest both celebration and sarcastic mockery.
Homan mounts the ring steps in a single, unbroken stride and rips the house mic from the timekeeper’s trembling hands. His sunglasses remain glued to his face, even under the melting stage lights. He doesn’t shout—the room simply gets quieter, like a thousand people deciding at once to see how far he’ll go.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as of this moment, there is a new policy in effect at all PCW events,” Homan announces, his voice landing somewhere between boot camp sergeant and TSA instructional video. “My team and I are here to enforce proper venue protocol. And I mean proper.” He eyes the hard cam, then swings his attention to the upper deck. “No one—and I mean no one—gets to skip the rules.”
A burst of crowd noise washes over the ring, half of it cheers from the American Patriots section, half of it catcalls from the Progressives and their college-age auxiliaries.
The broadcast jumps to a split-screen feed of the arena’s north entrance, where a cluster of blue-jacketed officials stand behind a folding table bristling with iPads, RFID scanners, and glossy brochures explaining the new “Equal Access” security protocol. The camera pans down a snaking line of several hundred people—at the front, squirming with barely contained outrage, are Chuck Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries, all in matching navy suits and the expressions of men who believe this inconvenience is a personal attack.
Behind them, a collection of lower-tier Progressive Alliance members and their media entourage fumble at their phones, each trying to capture the moment for maximum outrage virality. They are herded by two stony-faced ICE agents and a local event security guard who looks like he once lost an audition for “Mall Cop: The Series.”
Schumer, his glasses fogged with adrenaline and proximity to actual working-class people, jabs a finger at the security guard’s clipboard. “This is a mistake,” he protests, voice quivering in the decibel register used for NPR call-ins. “I have VIP credentials. I am a sitting senator, for heaven’s sake!”
The guard flips the clipboard, eyes the pass, and shakes his head. “Policy says general admission only, sir. VIP access is on hold until this is resolved with the main office. You’ll have to wait your turn.”
A groan surges through the line as the camera lingers on Schumer’s face, which oscillates between disbelief, panic, and the mounting realization that he’s not going to win this round.
Two paces behind, Hakeem Jeffries looks moments away from dissolving into existential rage. “Do you even know who we are?” he shouts at the guard, thrusting his custom-embossed business card at chest height. “My name is on the card! I am not—repeat, not—standing in line with… with ticket buyers.”
The security guard shrugs, deadpan. “That’s not my department, sir.”
Jeffries, phone in one hand and a sheaf of legal printouts in the other, attempts to descalate the situation. “Listen, there must be a misunderstanding. We have confirmation from—”
The guard interrupts with a motion so smooth it could only have come from years of handling angry toddlers. He snatches their VIP passes and deposits them in a clear evidence bag. “You’ll get these back after the event. Thank you for your cooperation.”
The crowd behind them is loving every second, the American Heartland Coalition out-cheering the local Eagles fans. There are “Let Them Wait!” chants and more than a few personal taunts lobbed at Schumer, whose face now glows the color of a late-stage sunburn.
Back in the ring, Tom Homan soaks in the spectacle, then motions to a handheld camera that has joined him ringside. He points directly at the lens: “Let this be a lesson. Doesn’t matter who you are, doesn’t matter what party you represent, or how many initials you have after your name. Everyone follows the same rules now.” He points up the ramp at McGill and the PCW leadership, who exchange nervous glances. Trump, meanwhile, seems one spontaneous tweet away from combusting in pure glee.
The crowd erupts—actual, spontaneous, beer-and-hot-dog-eating Americans baying for the blood of overprivileged politicos. Homan tosses the mic to the mat and folds his arms, daring anyone to challenge his authority.
At the commentary desk, Johnny Suave grins like he’s just watched a linebacker break through the O-line on fourth and inches. “Well, folks, you saw it here first: The Progressive Alliance, forced to experience what the rest of America does every day—waiting in line, following the rules, and, for once, getting no special treatment. Some are calling it the end of an era; I call it the start of a new one.”
Suave cues up a highlight reel of Schumer and Robinson-Richards protesting their fate, the split-screen showing Homan’s tactical crew prowling the ring. He leans into the camera, voice at a conspiratorial whisper. “If you thought the Progressive Alliance was going to take this sitting down, just wait. Because in PCW, even the ticket line is a main event.”
The jumbotron cycles through a meme-ready freeze frame of Schumer’s red face, and the crowd responds with a standing ovation. For the briefest of moments, the 2300 Arena is united in the one thing Americans still agree on: the hilarious misery of public inconvenience.
With Homan’s crew taking up positions around the ring and the leadership cadre still sorting themselves out atop the ramp, Suave pivots the broadcast to the next story beat, his voice rich with the promise of more spectacle to come.
“Don’t go anywhere, folks—tonight, the women’s champion Catherine Cline has words for Liberty Belle. That, plus a full recap of our main event- the PCW tag team title match, and maybe, just maybe, a word from the top brass about tonight’s security situation. Stay tuned, because this is one show you do not want to miss!”
‘Catherine Cline Walks the Walk’ featuring PCW Women’s Champion Catherine Cline The lights in the 2300 Arena dip to a pulsebeat yellow, and the unmistakable opening bars of “Edge of Glory” kick in. The sound is so thick it seems to compress the air, momentarily squashing even the crowd’s residual excitement from the previous chaos. The fans know the cue; a tidal surge toward the barricades as the reigning women’s champion makes her entrance.
Catherine “The Iowa Wunderkind” Cline bursts from the tunnel with Shosheena Willingham just a stride behind, both women moving with the unstudied confidence of basketball legends invading a high school gym. Cline’s ring gear glows under the spotlights—matte black and harvest-gold, an aesthetic that is equal parts collegiate pride and bruiser sensibility. The championship belt at her waist catches every stray photon, telegraphing its own existence to the furthest bleachers.
Willingham moves through the scrum of outstretched hands with a guard-dog alertness; she acknowledges the fans but her eyes flick constantly from section to section, always calculating, always ready for an ambush. Cline, by contrast, is a force of kinetic positivity—she slaps hands, signs a toddler’s foam finger, and even pauses to pose for a selfie with a trio of teenage girls in matching knockoff Cline jerseys.
Johnny Suave, never one to miss a detail, hypes the moment for the TV audience: “There she is, folks—the pride of Iowa City! The one, the only, the defending women’s champion and Midwest role model to millions! Catherine Cline doesn’t just talk the talk, she walks it, runs it, and throws it down with authority!”
Cline slides into the ring and mounts the far turnbuckle, raising her arms high. The fans go nuclear. Willingham paces the ring’s edge, her focus unbreakable, her long blond ponytail a pendulum of pent-up energy. When Cline drops to the mat, the PA system cuts and the house mic descends, hanging in the center of the ring like the Sword of Damocles.
Cline unclips the championship and hoists it over her shoulder. For a long moment, she simply basks in the cheers, letting the arena’s attention wash over her. She finally picks up the mic and her first words hit with the directness of a stiff forearm shiver.
“You know, I’ve been hearing a lot of talk lately,” she says, voice as steady as the Mississippi. “People saying that Liberty Belle’s on a mission, that she’s the true heart of American wrestling, that the only reason I’m still champion is because I’ve had Shosheena backing me up.”
There’s a pause as the crowd ripples with both agreement and boos—the line drawn exactly down the center of the arena’s political aisle.
Cline shrugs, taking in the mixed reaction with a faint, almost disarming smile. “Well, I’m not here to play the victim. I know the story they’re trying to write. ‘Cline’s a paper champion. Cline can’t do it alone.’ But here’s the thing: I didn’t get this far by being soft, and I sure as hell didn’t get here by letting other people tell my story.”
She paces the ring, shoulders squared, voice climbing in volume. “I represent the heartland values that built this country. I represent every kid who ever heard they weren’t good enough, every athlete who ever got written off as ‘too vanilla’ or ‘too nice’ to be a champion. I took that noise, turned it into fuel, and made it all the way to the top.”
She plants her feet, locking eyes with a camera as if the entire country is on the other side. “Liberty Belle, you want a shot at this belt? Next week, you’re going to get it. And you’re going to find out why I’m still the champion, and why I always will be!”
The crowd detonates, especially the lower bowl, which is thick with Iowans and their “Midwest is Best” merch. Willingham stands in the corner with arms folded, her glare a dare to anyone considering a run-in. Cline soaks up another round of cheers, then flips the mic toward the timekeeper’s table with the ease of a quarterback spiking the ball after a touchdown.
On commentary, Suave is already recapping: “That’s the spirit of the Midwest. No nonsense, no spin—just hard work and heart. Cline is laying down the gauntlet, and you’d better believe Liberty Belle is listening.”
‘God Bless the USA’ featuring Liberty Belle The jumbotron flickers, and for a moment the house lights cut to blue as a new theme hits—“God Bless the U.S.A.,” performed at such a pitch it could punch holes in the ozone. Liberty Belle appears on the entrance ramp, clad in her star-spangled two-piece with the matching red, white, and blue boots. She’s carrying an American flag and waving it with the practiced finesse of a beauty queen, though her jaw is set like she’s seconds from a street brawl.
She soaks in her own hero’s welcome, letting the “U-S-A!” chant build to fever pitch before she raises the mic. Her delivery is pure populist, all muscle and rah-rah conviction. “You hear that, Cline?” she bellows. “That’s the sound of a real champion. You may have the belt, but you don’t have the people. You don’t have the grit it takes to hold onto that title when it’s challenged by someone who bleeds for this country!”
She points the flag at the ring, her eyes narrowed to predatory slits. “That championship belongs to every single person who ever fought for the Stars and Stripes. Not to an elitist athlete who thinks a couple of trophies means she knows what’s best for America!”
There’s a burst of pro-Liberty Belle shouts from the gallery, and the “U-S-A!” chant bounces back and forth, volleyed between sections like a political football.
Belle starts down the ramp, each step deliberate, jaw set in defiance. Cline stands her ground in the ring, hands on hips, unflinching.
Suddenly, a figure breaks from the crowd at ringside—Karen, her platinum bob and designer sunglasses unmistakable even under the house lights.
Her phone is already out, screen trained on the ring, her mouth an O of aggrieved outrage. She attempts to vault the barricade, shrieking, “This is discrimination! You can’t keep me out!” but she barely gets a shin over before a trio of black-clad security guards swoop in. They form a human wedge around her, expertly locking down her arms as she writhes, still holding her phone aloft and narrating the whole experience in real-time.
The arena is instantly split; half are screaming “SEND HER HOME!” while the other half record the scene on their own phones, savoring the secondhand embarrassment. Karen’s protests crescendo as she’s gently but firmly marched back to her seat. She threatens lawsuits, negative Yelp reviews, and even claims to have “connections at the highest levels,” but the guards remain impassive.
Suave can’t resist: “That’s the efficiency of Philly security, folks. Not even the self-proclaimed queen of complaint can crack their perimeter. And let’s be honest, if Karen wants a shot at the women’s championship, she’s gonna have to do better than that!”
As the dust settles, Liberty Belle is now at the edge of the ring, flag at her side, eyes locked on Cline. The champion leans over the ropes, says something inaudible, and Belle fires right back. The segment has devolved into an off-mic shouting match, with Willingham circling like a hungry wolf, daring the challenger to make the first move.
But the scene never boils over; instead, it simmers, every fan in the house knowing that next week’s clash is now a matter of national urgency.
Suave brings the broadcast home: “You want drama? You want stakes? You want to see what happens when two world-class athletes go toe-to-toe with everything on the line? Tune in next week, because Cline versus Liberty Belle is going to be one for the ages. And after what we just saw, I wouldn’t bet against either one of them.”
He pauses, letting the image of the two women nose-to-nose in the ring fill the screen before he speaks: “PCW Tag Team title match coming up later tonight. Don’t go anywhere, folks! We’ll be right back.”
The screen fades to the next sponsor, the chants and cheers of the 2300 Arena echoing into the commercial with all the noisy promise of an American feud at its absolute peak.
COMMERCIAL BREAK: Kathy Hochul ‘Please Return to New York… Please’ The commercial break detonates onto the screen with the sonic force of a helicopter flyover, its opening shot a desolate panorama of Manhattan’s once-proud skyline. The buildings still stand, but the windows blink dark and the streets below seethe with an unfamiliar quiet, as though the city has collectively exhaled and forgotten how to inhale again.
The screen’s blue-chrome filter lends the footage the chill of a documentary about arctic shipwrecks, or perhaps a training video for urban collapse. Subtitles crawl along the bottom in official state-sanctioned font: “A Message from the New York State Department of Economic Recovery & Wealth Re-Attraction.”
The voiceover belongs to a man whose vocal cords have been cryogenically preserved since the golden age of national commercials. He intones with the mixture of civic pride and existential dread reserved for telethons about rare degenerative diseases.
Narrator: “New York… The city that never sleeps. The city that never stops. The city that, for generations, has been the beating heart of our nation’s economy.”
Clips roll: bustling Wall Street trading floor, high-gloss fashion week catwalks, a violinist in Central Park performing for a crowd that now exists only in the memory banks of former Uber drivers. The images are all from the Before Times, evident by the absence of masks and the presence of genuine, unfiltered human joy.
Narrator: “But something’s changed, New York. Over the past five years, hundreds of thousands of our beloved city’s most cherished citizens have vanished. Gone are the financiers who turned our skyscrapers into fortresses of prosperity. Gone are the hedge fund visionaries, the tech unicorns, the philanthropist art dealers whose passion and property taxes once lit up the night like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.”
Cut to a sweeping shot of the Governor’s Mansion, its windows darkened save for a single bulb burning in the governor’s study. Here, behind a fortress of paperwork and three empty COVID test kits, sits New York Governor Kathy Hochal, her face illuminated only by the pale glow of an open laptop and the red strobe of a blinking “LIVE” indicator.
She looks straight into the camera with the conviction of a mother hen and the desperation of a mid-level manager on her third write-up. A large, hand-lettered sign taped behind her head reads: “PLEASE, WE’RE BEGGING.”
Kathy Hochal: “My fellow New Yorkers, and especially my treasured former New Yorkers… This is Governor Kathy Hochal. If you’re hearing this, it means we miss you and we miss your tax dollar… so, so much.”
Her lips tremble, whether from the cold or the emotional weight is unclear. She presses on.
Kathy Hochal: “I know it got a little… complicated. Maybe you left because of the high taxes, or maybe it was the exodus of the police, or the situation in the public schools, or the time we outlawed 32-ounce sodas. Maybe you didn’t like my COVID policies, or maybe you just found Miami’s nightlife more to your liking. But listen, can’t we just start over?”
The camera zooms out to reveal Hochal’s office decked with objects designed for maximum guilt: a sepia-toned photo of the old World’s Fair, a model of the Empire State Building made entirely from unpaid property tax notices, a stack of brochures titled “Come Home to New York: It’s Not That Bad, Really.”
She shuffles the brochures and continues.
Kathy Hochal: “We are, at this moment, suffering a crisis unlike any other. Wall Street’s gone to Nashville, the Upper East Side is now an AirBnB timeshare, and three separate Goldman Sachs teams have set up headquarters inside a single Hard Rock Café in Tampa. They don’t even play jazz in Tampa.”
The voiceover returns, as the screen dissolves to a B-roll of despondent bartenders, rats gnawing at luxury bagel remnants, and a lone subway busker performing “New York, New York” on a traffic cone.
Narrator: “If you are a millionaire, billionaire, or even a relatively high-earning dual-income household, New York needs you… we need your tax dollars now more than ever.”
The screen cuts back to Hochal, who is now joined by a cast of “average New Yorkers,” all of whom look like actors, and at least three of whom will be recognized by savvy viewers as regulars from 2010s insurance commercials. They are arranged as if for a group intervention, each clutching an item symbolic of their former patrons: a personal chef with an empty truffle oil bottle; a personal trainer with dumbbells and no one to spot; a struggling novelist holding a self-published book, eyes full of hope.
Together, they speak:
Group (in the monotone of economic hostages): “We miss you, Upper East Siders. We miss your reliable 30% gratuities. We miss the cash-only handshake deals in the back of Katz’s Deli. We miss the small armies of au pairs you employed to keep the city’s playgrounds solvent.”
The personal chef wipes away a tear with a monogrammed napkin. The novelist clutches his book with the desperation of a manuscript that will never be optioned.
Narrator: “At its core, New York has always been about reinvention. About second chances. And, if we’re being honest, third and fourth chances. So, please. Won’t you come home?”
The camera returns to Hochal, who has now shed the blazer and appears in a NY Yankees hoodie and sweatpants, her hair in a messy bun, clutching a mug labeled “World’s Best Tax Base.” She is no longer even pretending to address the collective; her voice cracks as she leans into the camera.
Kathy Hochal: “I don’t care about the past, or the tweets, or the Super PAC attack ads. We can fix this, but only if you come back. Maybe we’ll knock a few points off the income tax, we’ll decriminalize happy hours, hell, we’ll even let your kids get into Stuyvesant with a C average. Please. I’m not too proud to grovel. New York needs you.”
A montage of “luxury” apartments, their penthouses empty except for the forlorn cleaning ladies who polish countertops for no one; deserted luxury gyms with their treadmills slowly gathering dust; a Saks Fifth Avenue personal shopper lost in existential despair, her hands absently rearranging a single size-0 mannequin’s scarf, over and over.
Kathy Hoctul: “And most importantly, we need your money.”
Suddenly, the mood shifts. Hochal now appears in a sequence of increasingly humiliating vignettes:
– Ringing the doorbell of a Hamptons mansion, presenting a pie and a “We Want You Back” gift basket;
– Standing atop a Long Island Expressway overpass, waving a “COME HOME, WE FORGIVE YOU” banner as a convoy of black Escalades zooms past, their drivers not even slowing for the speed cameras;
– Hosting a Zoom town hall for Florida expats, only to discover they’ve all changed their backgrounds to “Don’t Tread on Me” flags or “Live, Laugh, Lauderdale” memes.
Voiceover: “Our city, your city, can be great again. But only if you come back. Only if you bring your investment portfolios, your Instagram-worthy home renovations, your legendary holiday parties with real snow brought in by the truckload, and your tax dollars.”
A digital counter appears on the bottom of the screen. “Estimated Weeks Until Bankruptcy: 11.”
Hochal, now flanked by a sad Statue of Liberty and an NYPD officer with a “Will Work for Bagels” sign, faces the camera one last time.
Kathy Hochal: “It’s not the same here without you. Please. Don’t make us ask again.”
The screen cuts to black. A final message scrolls in extra-bold, red-white-and-blue font:
“NEW YORK: YOU ARE THE OXYGEN THAT KEEPS US BREATHING. (SERIOUSLY, PLEASE COME BACK)”
A brief flicker reveals the actual disclaimer in six-point legalese: “This message was paid for by the Committee to Rebuild the State Budget and Not At All Influenced by Wall Street Donors, We Swear.”
The commercial’s audio track ends with a sniffle and the faint sound of Sinatra, not so much singing as sighing.
‘Colleen Crowder is Actually Here, Tonight’ featuring ‘Low-Level New York Times Reporter Colleen Crowder and Victoria McGill The post-commercial air is cold and sharp, like someone left the doors open to the Philadelphia November. The show returns not to the ring, but to a backstage corridor that looks every bit as ancient and hard-used as the city itself. The walls are pockmarked cinderblock, the lighting pure institutional neon, and every square inch is plastered with PCW promotional posters—some recent, some faded, most with corners curling off the paint.
Colleen Crowder is already waiting in ambush, her black pants suit a stark silhouette against the garish collage of event flyers and Summer Slam shout-outs.
Her hair is meticulously curled and her face locked in the “breaking news” expression that signals she’s about to ask a question designed to wound. The cameraman is so close the microphone appears to be an extension of Crowder’s forearm, jabbing forward with the force of a fencer’s lunge.
Victoria McGill is the target—six-foot-two, radiating CEO authority, and so composed she might as well be standing behind bulletproof glass. She’s traded the power suit for a fitted navy turtleneck and skirt, her championship-length blonde hair in a deliberate state of battle-worn disarray. She isn’t walking; she’s gliding, scanning the corridor for threats and already calculating her next five moves.
Crowder intercepts, blocking Victoria’s path with all the subtlety of a Jersey barrier. “Victoria, care to comment on the new security policy at PCW events?” she asks, voice as sharp as the click of her heels on linoleum. “Some are saying the measures are designed specifically to target Progressive Alliance members. Are you running a wrestling league, or a private club for the American Patriots?”
Victoria’s lips part for the briefest flicker of a smile—so quick, it’s gone before the camera can catch it. She folds her arms, the motion slow and deliberate, making her seem even taller than before.
But before she can even draw breath to respond, a flock of Progressive Alliance representatives rounds the corner in a storm of blue and beige. There are at least six of them, two deep in policy debate, one still wrestling with his press credentials, and all of them led by Chuck Schumer in a suit so crumpled he might’ve just slept in it. His glasses are askew, his tie is working its way free of the knot, and his face is a shade of red typically reserved for shellfish on a broiler.
“Victoria!” he bellows, voice ping-ponging off the tile. “This is an outrage! We’re being forced to purchase tickets at the box office like common people!” His hands chop the air in time with the indignation; a ripple of agreement follows from the other reps, who begin to build a chorus of complaints.
Crowder, sensing the escalation, pivots her body to get both parties in the frame. “Is it true?” she presses. “Are Progressive Alliance members being singled out by these so-called ‘equal access’ policies?”
Victoria doesn’t so much as flinch. She uncrosses her arms and rests one hand on her hip, her voice dropping to a level just above a purr. “The policy applies to everyone, Charles,” she says, using his first name with an intimacy that is almost mocking. “American Patriots members are following the same rules. If you’d like to appeal the decision, there are procedures for that.”
Schumer’s retort is a sputter of rage and half-digested legalese. “This is not how democracy works!” he shouts. “We have rights! Our people have always—”
Victoria cuts him off with the efficiency of a guillotine. “Your people can wait in line like everyone else. If you can’t, you’re welcome to watch from home.” She says it without raising her voice, but the temperature in the corridor drops five degrees.
The other Progressive Alliance reps—now fully circled around the scene—amplify the outcry. “It’s a chilling effect!” “This is textbook discrimination!” “She’s weaponizing access to suppress the vote!” The accusations fly in a staccato rhythm, each rep outdoing the last in volume and outrage.
Victoria endures it all with the patience of someone observing a kindergarten tantrum from the other side of soundproof glass. She stares Schumer down, then turns to Crowder. “If there’s nothing else, I have a show to run.” With that, she steps sideways, sliding past the cluster of officials and vanishing down the corridor without a backward glance.
Schumer’s crew is left behind, all red faces and ruffled suits, looking less like an insurgent vanguard and more like the losing side at a PTA meeting. Crowder, ever the professional, immediately spins toward the camera. “There you have it,” she intones, “the new face of American wrestling—a level playing field, or just a different kind of power play? We’ll let the audience decide.”
The show snap-cuts back to Johnny Suave at the commentary desk, where he’s grinning like a man with inside information. “If you’re just joining us, you missed a first-rate meltdown from the Progressive Alliance—and Victoria McGill shutting it down with pure executive energy. Like her or not, she’s running this place with an iron fist and a double shot of ice water in her veins. That’s the PCW way- talk a big game, but when it comes down to it, you’d better be ready to back it up.”
Suave winks at the camera.
“Speaking of backing it up,” he continues, “it’s time to get back to the action. Next up, we’re going to hear from the reigning tag team champs, The MAGA-Powers, set to defend against the environmental extremists of the Green World Order, and we will hear from The GWO as well.”
As the feed shifts to a pre-match hype package, the last lingering image is of Schumer’s crew, still huddled in the corridor, debating whether to call their lawyers or just take a sick day. The camera cuts before they decide, their voices already drowned out by the roar from the arena floor.
The arena lights lurch to blood-red, then white, then the deepest navy blue, and “Born in the USA” slams from the loudspeakers like a sledgehammer to the eardrums. There is no subtlety here—only the raw, weaponized nostalgia of a thousand Fourth of July parades gone feral.
At the center of the ring, already soaking up the ovation, stand The MAGA-Powers: “Starz N. Stripes” Kevin Scott, built like a faded high school linebacker who still bench-presses his insecurities every morning, and “The One Man Anti-Hollywood A-List” Stone Chism, all square jaw and hair product and a tan that looks hand-painted for the cameras. Their ring gear is a fever dream of red, white, and blue, with enough sequins to blind an air traffic controller.
Scott hoists the mic like he’s about to auction off a cattle ranch. “We’re not just champions,” he bellows, “we’re the DEFENDERS of American values! We’re the thin red, white, and blue line standing between you and the chaos of the modern world!” He points to the crowd, igniting a “U-S-A!” chant that rolls down from the cheap seats in a perfect echo chamber.
Chism snatches the mic with a practiced spin. “And we are going to MAKE TAG TEAM WRESTLING GREAT AGAIN—starting with tonight, when we put these environmental extremists back in the compost bin where they belong!”
They pose in perfect synchronization, belts raised high, and the light crew obliges with a patriotic laser show so over-the-top it could cause seizures in small animals.
Then, with a record-scratch abruptness, the music dies. In its place comes a swelling tide of bird calls, wind chimes, and the unmistakable drone of a hybrid car in idle. A cloud of green fog seeps from the entry ramp as the Green World Order makes their entrance—“Extreme Vegan” Brock Cole Lee (hair spiked sky-high and dyed the shade of supermarket broccoli), GreenPete (his mohawk a verdant sawblade), and their spiritual mascot, Peta from PETA, whose voice can kill small talk at two hundred yards.
The GWO’s walk to the ring is pure guerrilla theater. Lee’s tank top reads “Kale Yeah!” in block letters; GreenPete carries a recycling bin filled with glittery green confetti, tossing handfuls into the front row like eco-friendly rice at a carbon-neutral wedding. Peta trails behind, holding aloft a sign reading “MEAT IS MURDER” in Comic Sans, the crowd booing so hard she is forced to shield her face with the placard.
Brock Cole Lee hits the apron and catapults into the ring with the ungainly grace of someone whose protein comes exclusively from legumes. He yanks the mic and shouts, “Tonight, we are going to recycle your reign of terror, MAGA-Powers! We’re here to end your polluting influence and give the tag team division a Green New Deal!”
GreenPete steps up, slaps the ropes, and adds, “And we’re going to compost your broken dreams into the fertile soil of a sustainable future!”
The crowd loves every second—the MAGA diehards trying to out-bellow the GWO’s true believers, the rest of the arena just basking in the pure, uncut absurdity.
At this precise moment, Peta from PETA snatches the mic, her voice instantly pitching to a shrill vibrato. “Did you know the average American consumes 2.4 burgers per week? Think of the suffering! The—”
She doesn’t get another word out; the audience buries her in a hail of jeers. Even Lee and GreenPete seem taken aback, exchanging a glance that says, “This is why we don’t let her do the talking.” She tries to continue, but the MAGA-Powers are already strutting to center ring, forcing the issue with their combined mass.
The two teams are now face-to-face, nose-to-nose, every muscle flexed, every jaw clenched. The ring is a minefield of clashing egos, and only the sudden intervention of the referee and two event officials keeps the segment from devolving into a twelve-person brawl.
Johnny Suave picks up the narrative from ringside. “Folks, you can feel the tension in the air! The PCW tag division has never seen a rivalry this raw, this primal—American tradition versus the planet’s last hope! And with these teams, it’s not just about belts or bragging rights. It’s about the future of professional wrestling itself!”
The camera does a slow 360 around the standoff—Chism’s pecs heaving, GreenPete’s jaw jutting, Peta from PETA’s sign already crumpled from the melee. For a moment, time stretches taut: The MAGA-Powers glaring down their rivals, the GWO refusing to blink, the crowd in a frenzy of partisanship and anticipation.
Then, just as quickly, the officials muscle both teams back to their corners. The standoff ends—not with a handshake, but with the promise of imminent violence.
Suave wraps it up, voice tight with anticipation. “When these teams finally collide later on tonight folks, there won’t be enough green energy in the world to power the aftermath!”
The scene fades to black, the last image a freeze-frame of the MAGA-Powers and Green World Order squaring off, each convinced they are fighting for the soul of the sport.
‘Gypsies in the Palace’ The camera soars from ringside, gliding along the upper tiers of the 2300 Arena, past the banners, the bunting, the swirling aroma of cheese fries and $8 stadium beer. The real destination: the luxury suites. Except tonight, they aren’t peopled by K Street fixers, power donors, or the usual crop of PCW’s backroom shot-callers. Instead, every glass-fronted box is jammed with contest winners—real fans, in all their glory, most of whom have never worn a tie except to a cousin’s funeral.
The first suite is a riot of face paint and custom knockoff T-shirts. One man in a jester hat is stacking jalapeño poppers in the shape of the Liberty Bell, his friends immortalizing the attempt with a barrage of smartphone photos. In the next box, a bachelorette party has “#PCWBACHELOR” painted across their bare arms and are alternating selfies with sips of something suspiciously non-arena-issued.
The camera lingers, savoring the tableau. The on-screen graphic reads, in bombastic block letters: SUITE EXPERIENCE CONTEST WINNERS.
Three boxes over, a group of union guys—blue polo shirts, weathered hands, more salt than pepper in their hair—raise solo cups to the hard cam and shout, “Main Street! Main Street!” until they lose the plot and switch to “E-A-G-L-E-S!” out of sheer local reflex.
It’s not lost on the viewing audience that there’s a strange absence up here: none of the Progressive Alliance’s usual power players. The box typically reserved for Progressive Alliance has been quietly reassigned for the night, and several members find themselves down among the plebs, wedged into a standard arena seat in Section 215.
Here, Schumer—crisp suit, hands clasped in his lap, every inch the would-be technocrat—is sandwiched between two men who look like they just finished a shift at a John Deere dealership. Both are wearing AMERICAN HEARTLAND COALITION shirts and gesturing wildly at the ring, half the time whacking him in the ribs. Every time a chant erupts, the guy to Schumer’s left belts it directly into his ear, and every time he tries to stand and adjust his seat, the guy on the right pulls him back down, yelling, “You don’t want to miss this, pal!”
The camera drinks in the image: former kingpin, now a civilian, subjected to the unfiltered will of the crowd. Schumer’s face is pinched, his patience eroding in visible microseconds.
‘No Cutting in Line’ featuring Karen Cut to the arena concourse and the neon-lit beacon of Carlito Junior’s Hamburger Stand. The line here snakes for forty feet, clogged with fans debating whether the “Triple Threat” burger is worth the heartburn. At the front, a cadre of Progressive Alliance members—identifiable by their custom lapel pins and the way they avoid direct eye contact—tries to jump the queue.
One, an earnest young staffer with a clipboard, leans toward the server. “I need a veggie option, and I’m in a hurry. Can we expedite this?”
The server shrugs. “Everyone’s in a hurry, bro. It’s Philly.” He points to the back of the line.
Another PA rep, a severe woman in a Hillary-blue pantsuit, bristles. “Excuse me, but do you have any idea who you’re talking to?” she says, voice climbing toward the nasal. “We’re here on official business.”
A security guard, probably not paid enough to care but relishing the moment anyway, steps in. “Ma’am, if you want a burger, you gotta wait like everyone else.”
The standoff draws rubberneckers; phones come out, and a few fans in “Make Wrestling Great Again” caps start a slow chant: “WAIT YOUR TURN! WAIT YOUR TURN!”
It’s then that Karen makes her move, materializing from the ether as only a true Karen can.
She’s in yoga pants, her platinum bob pushed behind both ears, sunglasses perched atop her head like a tiny tiara. In one hand, she clutches a venti Starbucks; in the other, her phone, already recording.
She storms the counter, voice instantly at fever pitch. “I want to speak to your manager RIGHT NOW!” she shrieks. “This is the worst customer service I have ever seen! I will have all of you fired!” She wheels to address the phone. “I am being ABUSED in front of witnesses—”
The crowd, already primed for blood, erupts. “SEND HER HOME! SEND HER HOME!” rolls down the concourse with a velocity that would make a mob proud.
The confrontation is cut short by the appearance of Whiskey Tango Foxtrot—six-eleven, three-twenty-five, built like a combine harvester with the soul of a pro wrestler.
He materializes behind Karen with the predatory silence of a jungle cat, only with biker boots and a mustache that could sand a plank.
He doesn’t say a word. He simply bends, clamps his massive hands around Karen’s biceps, and lifts her from the floor as easily as a dad hauling a recalcitrant toddler from a playground. The phone, still recording, swings in a wild arc as he pivots and marches her away from the stand.
The fans on the concourse lose it, launching a new chant: “W! T! F! W! T! F!” Karen’s shouts of “Put me down! This is kidnapping!” are entirely drowned out by the euphoria. Even the PA reps, briefly united in horror, retreat into the crowd, visibly shaken.
At the commentary desk, Johnny Suave is nearly beside himself. “That’s the enforcement, Lenny! That’s the kind of crowd control you only get at PCW!” He shakes his head in delighted disbelief. “When Whiskey Tango Foxtrot decides it’s time for you to leave, you don’t argue. You just hope he sets you down gently on the other side of the parking lot. But then again, you don’t see that kind of customer service at Madison Square Garden!”
The camera lingers on the sight of Karen being carted away down the main corridor, her protestations fading into the general din. Then it cuts back to Section 215, where Robinson-Richards sits, frozen in horror, as the fans on either side high-five over his slumped shoulders.
Suave’s voice brings it home: “If you ever wanted a taste of true fan democracy, tonight’s your night. We’ve got more action coming your way after the break, including a heavyweight championship face-off you won’t want to miss!”
He leans into the camera for the kicker: “Stick around, folks. PCW’s just getting warmed up!”
The screen dips to the next commercial, but the echoes of “W! T! F!” are still going strong in the background, as if nothing—not even a thousand ad spots—could ever silence them.
COMMERCIAL BREAK: Easy Book It Yourself A soothing, synth-heavy melody with a motivational tempo bubbles out of the speakers. The screen fades up on a perfect family of four, photogenic in the unsettling way of genetically engineered yogurt spokespeople. The parents stand arm-in-arm before a massive laptop, their matching sweaters the color of processed cheese. The children, mid-pose, freeze in forced delight as a CGI cursor clicks the “BOOK IT NOW” button.
Smash cut to a sun-soaked exterior shot, the family beaming at what appears to be a stuccoed Mediterranean villa until the camera pans back to reveal a Las Vegas strip mall dressed up as the “Villa del Pharaoh Luxury Resort.” The narrator, her voice dripping with false authenticity and filtered through three different regional accents, launches into her spiel.
Narrator: “With millions of listings and unbeatable prices, why gamble on travel? At EasyBookItYourself.com, we make your dreams not just come true, but come true-er than you ever dared imagine.”
A rapid-fire montage of “users” unfolds: a couple in matching pajamas, a corporate team-building group, a yoga class, all clicking the Easy Book It Yourself app and being instantly teleported to… unexpected places.
The first couple lands in the middle of a field outside Vladivostok, blinking in confusion as a pack of Russian babushkas swarms them with loaves of black bread and unsolicited political commentary. The couple attempts a polite smile as the wind whips their American flag windbreakers into the frosted ground, while the narrator soldiers on.
Narrator: “Every day, millions of happy travelers discover something new about the world—and themselves—with EasyBookItYourself.com!”
Next, the business group, suited and blue-toothed, click to “conference hotel, Washington, D.C.” and materialize inside a House Oversight Committee hearing room. Their PowerPoint projector is immediately seized as evidence, and they are compelled to recite the entirety of the Sherman Antitrust Act before being released. The manager, sweat beading on her brow, gives a trembling thumbs-up to the camera.
Narrator: “With our proprietary ‘What Could Possibly Go Wrong?’ algorithm, you’re never far from adventure!”
The yoga group, attempting a serene downward dog, is deposited on the tarmac of a decommissioned aircraft carrier moored in New Jersey. Their instructor, face frozen in existential dread, gamely leads the class as deckhands perform a refueling drill inches away.
EasyBookItYourself.com’s visuals escalate as the montage intensifies. A family seeking “cozy Alpine retreat” is dropped onto an unheated bench at the World Economic Forum, surrounded by billionaires in arctic parkas and scowling Swedish climate activists. Two college students looking for a “tropical party getaway” find themselves at Burning Man, their faces instantly dusted with ash and wonder as a shirtless elder named “Photon Wombat” offers to trade them a glow stick for their pants.
Cut to a grizzled solo traveler who selects “authentic cultural immersion” and is delivered via pneumatic tube into a North Korean re-education dormitory. He shrugs, adjusts to the group chant, and gives the camera a deadpan wink.
Narrator: “Our selection is as limitless as your imagination,”
The narrator channels the brittle cheer of a cult escapee. The screen flashes through a rapid-fire burst of possibilities: -A MAGA family in matching hats at Mar-a-Lago, but forced to work as pool boys -a woke gender studies group convening in a Chick-fil-A playpen -a QAnon podcaster locked in a sensory deprivation chamber at the Center for Disease Control. -A bachelorette party stumbles into a LARP tournament at a Renaissance Faire, their sashes reading “Bride Tribe” hastily rebranded as “Duke’s Harem” by the event organizers. The women adapt within seconds, wielding plastic swords and guzzling mead from ornate goblets.
A meta-commentary voiceover slices in, as if another narrator is attempting to wrest control from the original.
Meta-Commentary Voiceover: “EasyBookItYourself.com—now with advanced A.I. curation, powered by whichever tech company is least likely to implode this fiscal quarter.”
The original narrator, undeterred, retakes control.
Narrator: “Why trust your precious vacation to just anyone, when you can outsource your happiness to us? It’s travel, but, you know… improved!”
The final vignette: a wrestling superfan, already in the process of clicking “Best Wrestling Vacation,” blinks as he finds himself not at Wrestlemania, but inside the ring at a PCW house show, immediately taking a suplex from Charlie Blackwell. The fan, dazed but beaming, raises a sign reading “BEST. DAY. EVER.” as paramedics load him onto a stretcher festooned with the EasyBookItYourself.com logo.
The camera pans back, revealing the narrator herself—an unnaturally cheerful, perma-grinning woman in a generic blue polo—sitting inside a broom closet office, surrounded by a teetering tower of hotel mini-shampoos and printouts of five-star reviews. She addresses the camera directly.
Narrator: “You never know where you’ll end up. Isn’t that the fun of it?
The app logo materializes, simulated confetti raining down as the slogan materializes in Comic Sans: “EasyBookItYourself.com—Book. Stay. Hope for the best.
Below, a scrolling banner displays in increasingly tiny font: “We are not responsible for abduction, injury, or sudden changes in political orientation. Void where prohibited. The world is not a safe place, but it is a bookable place.”
As the music crescendos, the screen fades to black, and the viewer is left with a lingering sense of unease, and the certain knowledge that their next vacation may begin with a click but end in a Kafkaesque spiral of misadventure.
Narrator: Tonight’s edition of PCW Extreme Political TV is also brought to you by…
Narrator: John Fetterman’s Wearhouse. You’re going to like the way your look, or at the least, you’ll be too comfortable to care!
Return to PCW Extreme Political TV, where reality remains only slightly less strange.
‘Meeting of the Minds’ featuring PCW Champion Charlie Blackwell and Farmer John Deer A slow drumroll from the speakers signals the return to the ring. The lights cut to a single, crisp spotlight illuminating Johnny Suave, who stands at center stage with a gravity that hushes even the rowdiest beer vendors.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he intones, “next week, these two men will battle it out for the PCW Title!” The crowd surges in anticipation, a murmur building to a rolling wave as two men appear at the top of opposite entrance ramps.
First, on the right, is Charlie Blackwell.
The reigning champ is all hard angles and Texas work ethic, his red and black gear looking less like showbiz and more like combat fatigues for a forgotten war. There’s no pyro, no circus; just a deliberate march down the ramp, eyes locked dead ahead, the PCW title belt balanced across his right shoulder. He pauses only to nod at a kid holding a hand-drawn “BLACKWELL = REAL AMERICAN” sign, and then slides into the ring with an efficiency bordering on the inhuman.
From the left comes Farmer John Deer, the challenger.
He’s six-three and built like the barn he was born in; denim overalls over a simple T-shirt, the sleeves rolled to show forearms like railroad ties. He carries no props, just a half-smile and the slow confidence of a man who’s dug more fence posts than most have hot dinners. As he walks the aisle, a scatter of fans raise plastic pitchforks in salute, and he acknowledges them with a quick two-fingered wave.
The two men enter the ring at precisely the same time, drawing an immediate split crowd reaction—half the arena chanting “Charlie! Charlie!” with the martial discipline of a college football student section, the other half going full-throated “FARM-ER JOHN!” as if the fate of the Midwest depended on it.
Suave introduces them, his voice shaking the cheap seats. “In this corner, the reigning and defending champion, the pride of New Braunfels, Texas—CHARLIE BLACKWELL!” Blackwell raises the belt but nothing else, his stare unwavering, his chin set. “And the challenger, representing the backbone of America, straight from the fields and main streets—FARMER! JOHN! DEER!”
The crowd ratchets up a notch, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling in thunderclap waves.
Suave gives them the floor.
Blackwell takes the mic first, his Texas accent sanded down by years of stoic self-discipline. “I’ve defended this title against every contender they could throw at me,” he says, holding the PCW Championship high. “Not with cheap shots or shortcuts, but with technical wrestling—pure and simple. I stand for the American Heartland, for every kid who’s ever put in the work and never complained about the odds. And next week, Farmer John, I’ll do what I’ve always done: I’ll walk in the champion, and I’ll walk out the same way.”
He hands the mic off with a nod—not a challenge, but a respect. The crowd “CHARLIE!” chant redoubles, but Farmer John Deer waits for the noise to ebb before he speaks.
When he does, it’s in a voice slow and deep as a diesel tractor in low gear. “Charlie, I’ve watched you defend that belt with honor. I respect it. But here’s the truth: You wear that gold, but you forgot who built the roads you drive on, who grows the food you eat, who keeps this country moving even when the suits in Washington go on vacation.” He steps in closer, now only inches from Blackwell. “You may have the fancy moves, Charlie, but I represent the people who made America what it is—with bare hands and busted knuckles. And next week, their champion is coming home.”
A ripple goes through the crowd—not a chant, just that rare, brief silence that means they’re actually listening.
Farmer John extends a calloused, massive hand. Blackwell looks at it for a beat, then takes it; the handshake is a contest of wills, neither man giving an inch, both eyes locked in the world’s quietest arm-wrestle. When they break, both men raise their fists at the same moment, the gesture equal parts salute and promise of war to come.
The crowd explodes—dueling chants rising, ricocheting off the ring and back up into the blackness above the lights. It’s not a fight yet, but it’s already a legend.
Suave closes it out, voice choked with genuine excitement. “That’s what it’s all about, folks! Two men, one belt, and no shortcuts. When these titans meet next week, it’s not just a title on the line—it’s the heart and soul of PCW itself! Who will survive, and what will be left of them? Tune in, because we guarantee: it’s gonna be a barnburner!”
He cues the camera to the ring, where Kimber Marshall stands ready to announce the next match, but for now the audience can’t look away from the image of Blackwell and Farmer John, both holding their arms high, locked in mutual respect and mutual challenge, the living, breathing avatars of an America still fighting over what it wants to be.
MAIN EVENT-PCW TAG TEAM TITLE MATCH: The MAGA-Powers © (American Patriots) vs. The Green World Order (Progressive Alliance) Kimber Marshall has the ring, and she owns every inch of it.
The lights slice to white-hot, picking up the flecks of silver in her sequined dress and throwing them back at the crowd like shrapnel. She lets the noise build, pacing the canvas with the poised anticipation of a born showwoman, then brings the mic to her lips.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for your PCW Tag Team Championship main event!” The crowd answers with a sustained scream, eager for anything that involves less talking and more violence.
“Introducing first, the challengers—accompanied by PeaceNick and Peta from PETA—here are ‘Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee and GreenPete: THE GREEN WORLD ORDER!”
The house lights flick green, the stage awash in a color so lurid it could make a cartoon frog squint. The GWO entrance is a calculated assault on the senses. PeaceNick leads, shirtless as always, hair a matted thicket and beard flecked with what might be granola. Brock Cole Lee follows, his broccoli-mop hair bobbing, making aggressive, plant-based poses for the hard cam. GreenPete lumbers behind, his mohawk glowing under the lights, face painted in splotches of eco-warrior camo.
Peta from PETA brings up the rear, howling into a bullhorn. “Go vegan or go home!” she shrieks, earning instant nuclear heat from the crowd. When she reaches ringside, she starts hurling little bags of organic kale chips into the stands, only to watch them boomerang back onto the apron in a shower of snacky derision.
In the ring, Brock Cole Lee seizes the mic from Kimber mid-stride, wagging a vegan sausage at the champs’ corner. “Tonight, MAGA-Powers, you’re not just losing your titles—you’re losing your cholesterol privileges! GWO is the future, and tonight we compost your legacy!”
GreenPete takes his own swipe, voice rasping with rustbelt authenticity. “We’re about to greenwash you so hard they’ll plant warning labels at your children’s playgrounds!”
Kimber, unfazed, reclaims the ring. “And their opponents, accompanied by Liberty Belle—your reigning, defending PCW Tag Team Champions—‘Starz N. Stripes’ Kevin Scott and the ‘One Man Anti-Hollywood A-List,’ Stone Chism: THE MAGA-POWERS!”
The crowd detonates. “U-S-A!” chants shake the camera, and the MAGA-Powers make their entrance through a gauntlet of flag-waving superfans. Chism leads, glistening with the glow of a thousand infomercials, his jaw set to All-American Gladiator. Scott trails, playing to the crowd, flexing for every lens he can catch.
Liberty Belle is right behind, flag in both hands, her entrance a master class in babyface performance. She spins, points to the upper deck, and beams so hard you can almost see the lens flare. Together, the trio slides into the ring, immediately posturing for the hard cam, championship belts flashing at the fans and their adversaries alike.
Referee Corrina Romanov, black bob unruffled, checks each team for foreign objects—a formality, as the real weapons tonight will be words, elbows, and gravity.
Kimber signals the start. The bell clangs.
Stone Chism and GreenPete square off first, and it’s a study in opposites. Chism is pure showman, slapping his biceps before every blow, running the ropes with the grace of a game show host on uppers. GreenPete absorbs it, bounces off the ropes, and responds with moves that look less like wrestling holds and more like things you’d use to break up concrete.
On the outside, Kevin Scott and Brock Cole Lee are already jawing, Lee throwing air kicks and Scott mocking him with double biceps and a string of flex-off poses. The crowd laps it up, split between wanting to see Scott pulverize Lee and hoping Lee will manage to catch Scott in something humiliating and weirdly intimate.
Inside the ring, Chism hits a textbook hip toss on GreenPete, but Pete pops right back up, rebounds, and delivers a “Green Machine” lariat that damn near knocks the air out of the building. Chism stumbles, then tags in Scott, who wastes zero time in unleashing a flurry of dropkicks and one-liners.
From the commentary desk, Johnny Suave is on full tilt. “And it’s a superkick party at the expense of GreenPete! If he had teeth, he’d be eating them for breakfast tomorrow!” Lenny Russo chimes in, “He’ll just wash ‘em down with a raw celery smoothie. These guys are maniacs!”
The next five minutes are chaos: Brock Cole Lee tags in, launches into Scott with a springboard “Juicer” (a kind of flying knee-to-the-face), but Scott reverses with a “Tax Cut” slam that leaves Lee gasping. Every tag is followed by a round of outside interference, with PeaceNick and Peta shouting instructions, while Liberty Belle alternates between cheerleader and enforcer, occasionally tripping a GWO member with her flag or tossing Scott a bottle of Gatorade mid-match.
The pace builds. GWO starts working Scott’s knee, “Climate Strike” leg drops and “Carbon Tax” submissions, trying to wear the big man down. Chism plays the hot tag, slapping the buckle and bellowing at the crowd to get him in. When Scott finally crawls for the tag, it’s pure drama—he launches himself, fingertips brushing Chism’s, the crowd’s scream lifting the roof.
Chism barrels in with atomic energy, cleaning house, throwing GreenPete clear over the top rope, then spiking Brock Cole Lee into the canvas with a “Drain the Swamp” DDT that leaves Lee writhing.
Then the match devolves.
Peta from PETA leaps onto the apron, waving her “Meat is Murder” sign, screeching for attention. Corrina Romanov is distracted trying to eject her, which gives PeaceNick just enough time to slide a suspiciously lumpy hemp bag into the ring for Brock Cole Lee.
But before Lee can grab it, Liberty Belle is there, snatching the sign and whacking Peta with it in full view of the front row. The crowd loses its mind. In the commotion, Chism latches onto GreenPete, hauls him to the top rope, and with a roar that’s half Saturday morning cartoon, half actual rage, hits the “Hollywood Blockbuster” (a top-rope flipping neckbreaker) with all the force of a commercial break cliffhanger.
Chism covers. The ref, finally seeing reason, dives to count.
ONE! TWO! THREE!
The bell rings and the crowd surges to its feet, the air now half “U-S-A!” chant, half incoherent screaming.
But it isn’t over. From the wings, a wave of Progressive Alliance operatives flood the ramp, led by a furious Hakeem Jeffries and Chuck Schumer, both still in their suits and both red-faced from exertion or indignation. They storm the ring, intent on hijacking the post-match and making a statement.
But Tom Homan and his ICE squad are already there, forming a human barricade around the squared circle. Homan grabs the house mic, voice amplified above the fray. “No more shenanigans! Tonight, the rules are the rules!” The security team escorts the would-be disruptors back up the ramp, arms locked in perfect military precision.
In the ring, the MAGA-Powers hoist their belts, Liberty Belle climbs the turnbuckle, flag raised high. Stone Chism soaks in the adulation, Kevin Scott limp but grinning like he just won the lottery.
Johnny Suave, trying to out-shout the arena, brings it home: “What a finish! The champions retain, the Green World Order is left reeling, and tonight—tonight—PCW proves again that in the end, it’s not about politics or ideology. It’s about the fight, and the people who never stop swinging!”
The closing shot is pure Americana—three athletes in the ring, backs to the crowd, fists and flags aloft. In the periphery, the Progressives are corralled and marched offstage; in the cheap seats, the contest winners take selfies with Liberty Belle’s banner in the background.
But Wait! There’s More… The closing credits of PCW Extreme Political TV have barely faded when the screen blooms with a gentle swell of strings—an orchestral prelude to “Pink Houses”—and a golden Indiana sunrise unfurls like a velvet curtain across the screen. The camera drifts over rows of dew-kissed hay bales, a lineup of polished pickup trucks glinting in the morning light, and the weathered clapboard of a small-town VFW hall, each detail framed with the loving precision of a stage designer’s finest tableau. It glides low across a dew-soaked field to a simple wooden platform, where John Cougar Mellencamp’s unmistakable silhouette stands center stage—his hair streaked with silver, his stance calm but unyielding, as if daring the spotlight itself to interrupt his reverie.
A resonant, measured voice begins:
Announcer: Tired of concerts where you can’t hear a single lyric over the mosh pit mayhem? Want an evening of live music that feels as much like a Broadway production as it does a rock show—complete with lighting cues, scene changes, and an audience that actually listens?
The image cuts to a split-second montage of modern “mega-shows”—armies of fans standing elbow to elbow, neon lasers slicing through smoke, phones raised like lighters at a rave. Then a quick flash of tattooed twenty-somethings huddled in coffee shops, scrolling through social feeds for the next spectacle.
The crowd scene shifts. Now the house lights are soft, the seats filled with patrons in smart casual attire, eyes fixed on the stage. The only movement is polite applause between numbers. A woman in a cashmere wrap clutches her Playbill. A millennial in a vintage band tee sits on the edge of her seat, utterly rapt.
Announcer: Then you, dear friend, are ready for the John Cougar Mellencamp “JUST SIT DOWN, SHUT UP, AND LET ME SING” Tour!
The camera pushes in on Mellencamp’s face—each line a chapter in a classic American saga, his eyes twinkling with the quiet mischief of a storyteller who’s seen every act of his own play.
Voiceover Guy (in warm, late-night Broadway announcer mode): He’s the voice of the Heartland, reborn for the proscenium arch. The last man on earth who still believes a good song deserves a hush, not a mosh pit. He’s John Cougar Mellencamp—and he’s rewriting the rules of live performance.
Cut to a grainy, high-contrast poster: Mellencamp in crisp black and white, a single spotlight framing his profile against a backdrop of deep red velvet—and an American flag motif woven into the curtain folds.
Announcer: You may remember him from the era when music actually mattered—the man who penned “Jack & Diane,” a ballad so legendary even middle managers with gluten-free diets know every word. But John’s not here to trade in nostalgia. He’s here for theatrical justice. And by justice, we mean the sacred right to present a seamless, interruption-free musical experience—no mascot costumes, no twerking interludes, no encore gimmicks.
Backstage, an intern hovers by a rack of inflatable mascot heads—an eagle, a corn cob, even a sequined Statue of Liberty suit.
Mellencamp (calm, authoritative): Listen, kid—I don’t do mascots. I don’t do stunts. I don’t even do encores. You put me on that stage, I sing the songs, then we take our bows. That’s the show.
The intern blinks. Mellencamp raises a single, nicotine-stained finger:
Mellencamp: Don’t even.
Cut to concert footage: a mixed audience of graybeards and their grandkids, seated in respectful silence as “Small Town” unfolds beneath a wash of warm footlights. Red, white, and blue confetti drifts like rose petals. A local sheriff nods in the aisle. A teen in a “Fight the Power” tank top wipes away a tear.
Announcer: Forget festival chaos—this is theatre culture. The only thing echoing in the hall tonight is the sound of you listening. No safe spaces, no EDM drops—just the raw poetry of heartland rock, delivered with the precision of a Broadway premiere.
Testimonials cascade in rapid-fire succession: – A mustachioed gentleman in a tweed blazer, holding a crystal of fine bourbon: “I haven’t felt this moved since I saw Oklahoma! in ’41.” – A woman wearing a “Moms for Mellencamp” scarf, mascara streaked from “Rain on the Scarecrow”: “He just sees the quiet places in us.” – Two teens in matching vintage tour jackets, filming discreetly on their flip-phones: “We have no idea who he is, but our parents can’t stop talking about it.”
Announcer: Critics have called this tour “anachronistic,” “overly refined,” “potentially fatal to anyone craving a DJ drop.” The New York Times headlined it “Mellencamp’s Rock Show Recasts Americana as Stage Narrative,” calling it “a fossilized act of rebellion under the footlights. But what do critics know? They’re the reason most concerts sound the same.
Smash to live footage in Indianapolis: Mellencamp stands center stage, acoustic guitar in hand like a prop, spotlight haloed above him.
Mellencamp: This next number’s about a little thing called doing your own damn laundry.
The audience leans in. A single, appreciative hush. Then a wave of polite applause.
Announcer: The “JUST SIT DOWN, SHUT UP, AND LET ME SING” Tour—coming to every theatre that still believes in an usher’s flashlight and a well-fitted Playbill. Tickets on sale now, for those brave enough to embrace Act I.
Dates flash in bold type: Orpheum Theatre—Boston. Fox Theatre—Detroit. Majestic Theatre—Chicago. Each venue stamped like a vintage steel press.
Announcer: Book now and receive the limited-edition “No BS” Playbill, signed by the man himself. The only souvenir audacious enough to break the fourth wall.
The spot fades to Mellencamp in a shadowed backstage alcove, nursing a glass of rye. He stares into the lens with deadpan sincerity.
Mellencamp (lighting a cigarette): If you want to scream your feelings, join karaoke night. If you want to scream and yell and get drunk, don’t come to my show.
Announcer: John Cougar Mellencamp’s “JUST SIT DOWN, SHUT UP, AND LET ME SING” Tour. The American Dream has never been this theatrical. Visit CougarIsBack.com for tickets and exclusive merch.
Final shot: Mellencamp tips his hat in a courteous bow. The curtain graphic unfurls in elegant, beer-stained lettering:
JUST SHUT UP, SIT DOWN, AND LET ME SING.
A lone piano chord resonates. Fade out.