It's humid and sticky inside XWF's media library basement, where they keep the Anarchy tapes. The walls sweat in the July heat. Thunder Knuckles sits on a steel chair, his eyes locked on the television sitting on a pieced-together table that was once used in a tables match.

On the screen, a segment from the last Anarchy plays. TK, alongside Bama Jr., is staring straight into the camera like a man ready to give York what he's been asking for.

Anarchy June 19th, 2015 2025 “But I ain’t doing it for fun. I ain’t doing it because you’re cute when you cry on Twitter. I’m only doing it for one reason. That little trinket you wear around your waist. The Revolution Championship. You know, that belt you’ve been holding so tightly like it’s your support dog.”

The screen freezes. TK’s finger jabs mid-sentence. His eyes don’t blink. They don’t flinch.

There it is.

Behind TK, Bobby Bourbon walks into frame carrying two dripping Bomb Pops. He tosses one to TK, who doesn’t catch it. It hits the floor. It melts damn near immediately. A small fan is the only thing trying to keep both men cool; however, it's doing nothing more than circulating the hot air.

Damn. This room is hotter than the ovens in Auschwitz during the Holocaust.

TK doesn’t laugh, doesn’t look up. He’s still staring at the screen. Bobby sits beside him and frowns. TK just ignored a Holocaust joke. That's some serious anger.

Two weeks ago. That’s when I said it. That right there… You know what I expected? I expected a 'champion' to walk out and say, “Let’s go.” I expected valor. I expected York to show some fucking spine. What did I get? Silence. Well, not silence. I got a contract for a non-title match with a bunch of fine print and "protection clauses." You know what I didn’t get? The Revolution Championship on the line.

TK finally looks away from the screen.

James Shark beat him. We all saw it. That belt should’ve changed hands that night. The Bastardly Father knows Justin York didn’t walk out the better man; he walked out protected. That’s what this has become. Not about who’s best, not about who’s earned it throughout their careers here.

And who sucks up to management so they can talent swap. Can't forget that.

Bobby wipes his brow, TK continues.

Now... this match. This isn’t for his title. This isn’t even for pride. It’s a damn trade deal. If I win, I get the shot at the Revolution Championship, the title I should be fighting for right now.

Don't get it twisted, if you think I’m mad because I’m not getting the shot? Nah. I’m mad because you made that belt mean nothing.

Oh, and if he wins? He gets a tag title shot. He gets us. Tell me how that makes sense.

A bitter chuckle escapes TK's throat.

That's no consolation prize. That's a Rainbow Laser Death Sequence waiting to happen.

When I walk into the ring on the third of July, the night before this country celebrates, where people still believe in things like justice, retribution, and fireworks that you can see three counties over. The Revolution Champion won’t even put his goddamned belt on the line? That ain’t just cowardice, Bobby. That’s the people ICE should be deporting.

Should’ve stayed in Canada, if you ask me.

Justin York doesn’t get it. He never did. It’s not about the spotlight. It’s not about being the guy with the pretty gear. It’s about what that belt represents. Revolution. Not safety. Not image control. Not hiding behind Jimmy Stars, secret valets, and technicalities. Why would he when management caters to pussies?

TK, sweat dripping from his nose, shrugs and throws up his arms.

Revolution is about risk. It’s about putting it all on the line, not just when it’s convenient, but when it’s fucking not. That’s what this should be. You won’t get that from York. You’ll get the posturing. You’ll get the smug smile. You’ll get the overly fucking rehearsed confidence and the walk that says he’s untouchable. When he steps into that ring, he’ll be thoroughly exposed.

You won't be because I’ll be watching your blind spot.

TK stands up slowly. Wipes the sweat from his forehead onto his jean shorts. He walks up to the screen and points to the frozen image of himself.

You hold that belt like it keeps you standing, like without it you crumble. Who knows? Maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you won’t defend it. Maybe that’s why you’ve gone so long without proving yourself. You haven't even defended that abomination that you plastered your shitty little company on since MayDay.

You picked a Valor star to stand in your corner? Good. Make me work for it. I want to. When I beat you, and I will, I don’t want there to be any excuses left. No management to protect you. No backup to save you. Just the reality that's been painted on the wall since Micheal Graves and James Shark laid you out.

You want Revolution? TK's bringing it. He also brought fireworks, too.

You wanna know why my name means something here, York? It ain’t because I play politics. It ain’t because I smile in meetings. It damn sure ain’t because I suck up to the Jimmy's of the world. Nah.

I got famous… I got respected… I got feared… For flaming bitches like you. I'll be goddamned if your punk-ass walks out of the Mall of America victorious.

TK smashes the TV with a bat, glass shatters, and smoke starts barreling out. Then silence for a moment before TK speaks again.

Happy Fourth of July, Champ. While people are lighting fireworks I'll be lighting your career on fucking fire. I sure hope your mystery guest brought a goddamn body bag.

The visual on your screen fades to black, the exact thing Justin York will see after he receives the Thunder Strike.