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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The bell rang, and the match began with a fierce, competitive energy. Ziggler and Del Rio were both incredible in ring technicians, and they gave the Montreal crowd a highly athletic showcase. They traded crisp arm drags, deep waistlocks, and rapid fire counters. Del Rio utilized his aggressive, stiff striking to ground Ziggler, delivering a brutal step up enzuigiri in the corner. Ziggler relied on his unmatched speed and resilience, hitting a beautiful leaping facebuster and a high angle dropkick that nearly secured a three count.
As the match crossed the fifteen-minute mark, the action reached a boiling point.
Del Rio managed to catch Ziggler's arm, expertly rolling backward and locking in his signature Cross Armbreaker in the center of the ring. Ziggler screamed in pain, desperately reaching for the bottom rope. Feeding off the cheers of the crowd, Ziggler managed to roll his hips, breaking the grip and transitioning smoothly into a massive Fameasser!
Both men were down. Ziggler slowly pushed himself up, backing into the corner. He began stomping his boot against the canvas, tuning up the band, waiting for Del Rio to rise so he could deliver the finishing Superkick.
But out of nowhere, the ring apron shifted.
Sliding under the bottom rope with the terrifying, silent speed of a striking snake was Randy Orton.
Ziggler turned around, completely caught off guard. Orton leaped into the air, grabbed Ziggler by the neck, and drove him violently into the canvas with a devastating RKO!
The referee immediately signaled for the bell.
DING! DING! DING!
"Orton strikes again!" Cole yelled as the crowd erupted into a mixture of boos and sheer shock. "The Viper just cost Alberto Del Rio the match, handing Dolph Ziggler the victory by disqualification!"
Del Rio, who was just regaining his footing, looked absolutely furious. The aristocratic superstar marched over to Orton, grabbing him by the shoulder and shouting in his face, demanding to know why his match had been ruined.
Orton didn't say a word. His face was a mask of cold, emotionless stone. He stared blankly at Del Rio for a fraction of a second before suddenly spinning around, grabbing Del Rio's neck, and planting him with a second, explosive RKO!
Del Rio rolled out of the ring, completely knocked out.
Orton slowly turned his attention back to Dolph Ziggler.
The crowd buzzed with confusion. Ziggler and Orton had no personal history, no active rivalry, and no reason to cross paths. Yet, Orton stood over the Showoff, his eyes burning with a dark, unhinged intensity.
Orton reached down, grabbed Ziggler by the hair, and dragged him to his feet. With methodical, cruel precision, Orton delivered a heavy European uppercut, followed by a vicious knee to the gut. He tossed Ziggler through the ropes, sending him crashing onto the ringside floor.
"What has gotten into Randy Orton?!" Lawler asked, his voice filled with concern. "Why is he targeting Dolph Ziggler like this?!"
Orton followed Ziggler to the outside, grabbing him by the back of the neck and slamming his face repeatedly into the steel ring stairs. He tossed Ziggler over the announce desk, ignoring the pleas of the commentary team. Orton dragged the limp body of the Showoff back into the ring, pushing him roughly into the corner.
Ziggler was completely defenseless, lying on his side, his blonde hair matted with sweat.
Orton backed away, moving to the opposite corner of the ring. He dropped into a low crouch, his eyes wide and twitching. He stared at Ziggler's exposed skull.
"No... no, Randy, don't do this!" Cole begged into his microphone. "He's already out!"
Orton ignored him. The Viper sprinted across the ring, swinging his heavy wrestling boot forward, and connected with a sickening, brutal Punt Kick directly to the side of Ziggler's head.
The impact sounded like a baseball bat striking a watermelon. Ziggler's body went completely limp, his eyes rolling back into his head.
The Montreal crowd fell into a hushed, horrified silence.
Orton stood over the broken body of the Showoff. But the violence wasn't over.
Orton slowly backed up. He returned to the opposite corner, his breathing heavy, his face completely devoid of any empathy, remorse, or human emotion. He crouched down a second time.
"Someone get out there and stop him!" JBL roared, standing up at the desk. "This is absolute madness!"
Orton sprinted forward again.
CRACK!
A second, unimaginably vicious Punt Kick connected flush with Ziggler's skull.
The crowd let out a collective shriek of genuine horror.
Ziggler didn't even twitch. He lay in a crumpled heap in the corner of the ring, completely unresponsive.
"We need medics down here right now!" Cole screamed, waving frantically toward the backstage area. "Randy Orton has lost his mind! He just punted Dolph Ziggler twice in the head for absolutely no reason!"
"I have known Randy Orton for a very long time," Lawler whispered, visibly shaken by the display. "But I have never, ever seen him look this cold. There is nothing behind his eyes right now. He is completely empty."
"This is what happens when you let the violence on this show go unchecked!" JBL yelled furiously. "The Nexus tears SmackDown apart, Lesnar throws Sandro off a stage, and now Randy Orton is out here ending careers! The inmates are running the asylum!"
A swarm of WWE medical personnel and referees rushed down the entrance ramp, sliding into the ring and immediately surrounding Ziggler. They carefully stabilized his neck, calling for a stretcher with urgent, panicked voices.
In the center of the ring, Randy Orton simply stood there. He didn't look angry. He didn't look proud. He stared down at the medics working frantically to save Ziggler's career, his face an emotionless mask, his eyes dark and hollow.
Monday Night RAW goes to advertisement on that deeply unsettling image, leaving the audience with the terrifying realization that the Viper had fundamentally changed. Something dark and ruthless was driving him, and the WWE roster was now dealing with a highly dangerous and unpredictable threat in the form of Orton.
The red light on the primary broadcast camera flickered back on, returning the Monday Night RAW feed to millions of homes around the world.
In the center of the ring, Randy Orton had not moved a muscle. He stood tall over the broken, motionless body of Dolph Ziggler. The Viper's chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths. He didn't look down at the wreckage he had caused, nor did he look out at the horrified Montreal crowd. His face was a mask of cold, unfeeling stone.
Slowly, Orton turned on his heel. He ducked through the ropes, dropping gracefully to the ringside floor. He walked up the long steel entrance ramp with a slow, deliberate stride, never once looking back over his shoulder to survey the damage. He disappeared through the heavy black curtain, leaving a chilling, suffocating silence in his wake.
Inside the squared circle, a frantic scene was unfolding.
A half dozen WWE medical personnel and trainers swarmed the Showoff. The senior ringside physician dropped to his knees, immediately stabilizing Ziggler's neck while a trainer checked for pupillary response with a small penlight. Ziggler was completely unresponsive. The sickening sound of Orton's boot connecting with his skull still echoed in the memories of everyone in the building.
"Bring the board! We need the backboard right now!" the head doctor shouted, waving urgently toward the timekeeper's area.
Two EMTs rushed down the aisle, rolling a stretcher down the ramp with a hard plastic backboard secured to the top. They slid into the ring, working with practiced, urgent precision. They carefully rolled Ziggler onto his side, slid the board underneath him, and strapped him down tightly to prevent any spinal movement.
The camera lingered on the scene for several long, uncomfortable minutes. There was no music playing in the arena. The only sounds were the hushed, worried murmurs of the Canadian fans and the sharp, clipped commands of the medical team.
As they finally hoisted the stretcher up and began wheeling Ziggler toward the back, the broadcast booth struggled to find the right words.
"I... I am honestly at a loss," Cole stammered, his voice trembling slightly. He rubbed his temples, staring at the monitor on his desk. "What did we just witness? Dolph Ziggler and Randy Orton have absolutely no history. They aren't in a rivalry. They haven't even crossed paths in months. What could possibly compel Randy Orton to snap and deliver two Punt Kicks to a defenseless man?"
"It's like looking at a stranger, Michael," Lawler whispered, visibly shaken. "I have known Randy for a very long time. I've seen him do vicious things. But there is usually a reason. A twisted, dark reason, but a reason nonetheless. Today? There was nothing behind his eyes. It was just cold, empty violence."
JBL slammed his pen down on the desk, his face flushed with genuine anger. "This is exactly what I have been talking about all night! The discipline on this roster is completely gone! Ziggler did absolutely nothing to provoke that! Orton is frustrated because he isn't getting a title shot, so he decides to end the career of a man who just had a classic match to showcase himself? It is disgusting, and management needs to step in immediately!"
As Ziggler disappeared behind the curtain, the show was forced to march forward.
For the next ninety minutes, Monday Night RAW delivered a series of scheduled matches and backstage segments, but a heavy, undeniable shadow hung over the broadcast.
The New Day defended their momentum in a fast paced six man tag team match against Santino Marella, Vladimir Kozlov, and Zack Ryder, securing a victory with the Midnight Hour. In the Divas division, Natalya submitted Alicia Fox with a flawless Sharpshooter, though her post match celebration was muted by the strange atmosphere in the building.
Backstage, the camera caught passing glimpses of the locker room. Superstars stood in small, hushed circles, watching the monitors with worried expressions. The usual boisterous energy of the backstage area was replaced by a tense, nervous quiet. The roster realized they were no longer just dealing with the Nexus or Brock Lesnar, a completely unhinged Randy Orton was now roaming the halls.
Through every match and every commercial break, the commentary team kept the audience grounded in the two major questions of the evening: What was the medical status of Dolph Ziggler, and what was the medical status of the God King?
Sandro Zhang had not been seen since Brock Lesnar launched him off the elevated entrance stage the week prior. The devastating F-5 into the unforgiving steel of the production equipment had left the champion's status for the upcoming Money in the Bank pay per view completely up in the air.
Finally, the digital clocks hit the top of the final hour.
The ring crew scrambled down the aisle, moving with rapid efficiency. They pulled up the traditional ring apron, replacing it with a sleek black carpet. They positioned two heavy wooden tables end to end in the dead center of the ring, placing two plush black leather executive chairs on opposite sides.
The visual shorthand was universally understood. It was time for a championship contract signing.
The arena lights slowly dimmed, casting the squared circle in a tense, expectant glow.
SCREEEEEECH!
The apocalyptic, heavy guitar riff of Brock Lesnar's theme music ripped through the sound system.
The Montreal crowd instantly erupted. The cheers were deafening, a visceral reaction to the sheer, terrifying presence of the Beast Incarnate.
Brock Lesnar stepped out from behind the curtain. He didn't wear a suit. He wore his signature black fight shorts, his massive chest and shoulders gleaming under the arena lights. He bounced aggressively from side to side, a confident, intimidating smirk plastered across his face.
BOOM!
Lesnar threw his arms down, and a massive explosion of fireworks shot from the stage, illuminating the night.
Stepping out from the smoke, trailing closely behind the Beast, was Paul Heyman. The advocate was dressed in an impeccably tailored pinstripe suit, clutching a leather bound folio containing the championship contract in one hand and a live WWE microphone in the other.
Lesnar and Heyman walked down the long steel ramp together. Lesnar leaped onto the ring apron with frightening agility, stepping over the top rope and pacing around the black carpet. Heyman followed him inside, pulling out one of the leather chairs and gesturing for his client to take a seat. Lesnar ignored the chair, choosing to lean casually against the turnbuckles, his arms crossed over his massive chest.
Heyman stood at the head of the table. He raised the microphone to his lips, waiting patiently for the roaring crowd to quiet down, a deeply satisfied, arrogant smile stretching across his face.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." Heyman began, his voice dripping with theatrical, slimy perfection. "My name is Paul Heyman."
The crowd cheered the classic catchphrase, feeding right into the advocate's hands.
"And I stand before you tonight," Heyman continued, gesturing grandly toward the corner of the ring, "as the advocate for the man who will soon become the Undisputed WWE Champion... the Slayer of the God King... the Beast Incarnate... BROCK LESNAR!"
The fans roared again, fully buying into the aura of the unstoppable challenger.
Heyman slowly opened the leather folio, removing a thick stack of legal documents and resting them on the wooden table.
"Now, I am out here tonight in a dual capacity," Heyman explained, his tone shifting from hype man to corporate executive. "I am here as an advocate, yes. But I am also standing in this ring as the officially appointed General Manager of Monday Night RAW. And it is my distinct responsibility to oversee the contract signing for what will undoubtedly be the biggest, most physically punishing match of the year."
Heyman tapped his finger against the paperwork.
"This Sunday, at Money in the Bank, my client is scheduled to challenge for the WWE Championship," Heyman said, his voice lowering into a mocking, belittling register. "He is scheduled to face the current titleholder... Sandro Zhang."
Heyman practically spit the name out, rolling his eyes as if saying it left a bad taste in his mouth.
"But that brings us to a rather massive problem," Heyman sighed, shaking his head with exaggerated concern. "You see, after what happened last week on that very stage... after my client took Sandro Zhang on a first class, one way trip to Suplex City, and then launched him through a mountain of steel and electronics... I don't honestly know if Sandro is physically capable of competing this Sunday."
Heyman leaned over the table, staring directly into the hard camera.
"In fact," Heyman sneered, "I don't know if the boy is even capable of walking down that ramp to sign this piece of paper tonight."
The crowd buzzed, a wave of nervous energy rippling through the stands.
"So, as the General Manager of this brand, I have to make a ruling," Heyman declared, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "If Sandro Zhang does not walk down that aisle, step into this ring, and sign his name on the dotted line tonight... I will have absolutely no choice but to officially strip him of the WWE Championship."
The arena exploded into a massive chorus of angry boos.
At the broadcast desk, the commentary team was livid.
"He can't do that!" Cole shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "Sandro hold that championship! You can't strip a man of his title just because he was the victim of a blindside attack!"
"It is a blatant abuse of power!" Lawler agreed, shaking his head in disgust. "Paul Heyman is openly favoring his own client! He shouldn't even be allowed to make rulings regarding Brock Lesnar!"
"It's a conflict of interest!" JBL roared, pounding his fist on the desk. "Heyman is manipulating the entire championship structure to guarantee his client walks out with the gold!"
Inside the ring, Heyman held a hand up, trying to quiet the booing crowd.
"Now, I know what you are all thinking," Heyman chuckled darkly. "You are thinking about the little legal loophole our champion bragged about a few weeks ago. The clause that states if he is stripped of the titles due to injury, the WWE has to pay out a massive, exorbitant financial penalty."
Heyman leaned back, a wide, sinister smile spreading across his face.
"Let me be perfectly clear," Heyman stated, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "I simply do not care. If this company has to bleed millions of dollars... if they have to make budget cuts... if they have to suffer a massive financial loss just to get that belt off his waist, then so be it. Because at the end of the day, I can take that vacant WWE Championship, and I can hand it directly to Brock Lesnar."
Lesnar laughed out loud from his spot in the corner, thoroughly enjoying the sheer corruption of his advocate's plan.
"So, the clock is ticking," Heyman announced, checking a gold watch on his wrist. "If Sandro is back there, hiding in the trainer's room, wrapped in ice packs and self-pity... he has exactly two minutes to drag his broken body out here. Otherwise, the reign of the God King ends tonight, not with a bang, but with a forfeit."
Heyman crossed his arms, looking up at the entrance ramp with a smug, mocking expression. Lesnar chuckled again, shifting his weight against the turnbuckles, completely unbothered by the boos raining down from the Canadian fans.
They waited. The seconds ticked by. The arena grew eerily quiet.
And then, the silence was shattered.
KSSSHHH!
The opening burst of static cracked like a whip through the stadium speakers. The heavy, driving guitar riff of Cult of Personality hit the sound system.
The Montreal crowd absolutely erupted!
The pop was legendary, a massive, ground shaking roar of pure adrenaline and relief that blew the roof off the building.
In the ring, the smug smiles vanished from the faces of Paul Heyman and Brock Lesnar. Heyman's jaw dropped in genuine surprise, while Lesnar pushed himself off the turnbuckles, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the stage. The digital graphics on the TitanTron flared to life, burning bright crimson as the red and black skull and knife logo rotated on the screen.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 21 (2011)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: WWE - RAW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: The Undisputed System
Championships History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA X Division Champion, 1x WWE United States Champion (1st - 376 days), 1x WWE Champion, & 1x World Heavyweight Champion
Other Achievements: 1x Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner, 1x Mr. Money In The Bank, Youngest WWE Champion, PWI Top 500 (No.1) - 2010, & 1x KOTR (2010)
Wrestlemania Record: 2 - 0 Main Event: 1 - 0