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Everyone shot to their feet, and Sandro and Big E immediately turned toward the entrance ramp, their faces stiffening with awareness. Through the smoke and blue lights, Sting emerged first, trench coat swaying, black baseball bat in hand. Right behind him came Kurt Angle, all intensity, decked in jeans and his signature T shirt. Both had microphones in hand. The music cut off, but the cheers did not.
Sting waited a moment, soaking it in, then pointed toward the ring with his bat.
"Oh, please shut up, Sandro," Sting said, his voice cutting through the noise like a dagger. "Every single time you open that mouth, you spew nothing but garbage."
The fans erupted with cheers and laughter. Sandro frowned, but before he could even respond, Kurt raised his mic.
"Whoa, whoa, Sting," Kurt said with a chuckle. "Trash is recyclable. What's Sandro spewing? That ain't trash." He paused for comedic timing. "It's just shit."
The crowd lost it. Laughter rippled through the arena, followed by a massive chant, "HE SPEAKS SHIT! HE SPEAKS SHIT!"
Sandro's jaw tightened as he looked around. Big E's face also turned close. Sandro then sneered.
"Real classy, Tampa. Real classy," he said, eyes cold. "Sting. Kurt. Welcome… to my backyard."
He raised the TNA World Heavyweight title off his shoulder and held it high.
"See, I thought I sent both of you crawling back to the nursing home last time. Guess I didn't hit hard enough. Big E, did we go too soft?"
Big E nodded solemnly.
"But now," Sandro continued, pacing again, "I get it. You're just too stubborn to stay down. Maybe it's pride. Maybe it's desperation. Or maybe… just maybe... It's pure stupidity."
Kurt stepped forward on the ramp, raising his mic again.
"Oh, I'm plenty smart, Sandro. Smart enough to know your ego is writing checks your body can't cash."
"That's rich coming from you," Sandro shot back, "especially when I cashed you out in front of millions and left you lying when I claimed this title from you back at Forbidden Door."
Sting raised his bat. "Keep talking, Sandro. Because every word you say is another reason I'm gonna plant this bat across your skull."
The tension spiked as the fans held their breath, looking at this fierce exchange.
"You think this is still your yard?" Sting said. "Newsflash, kid. You may be the TNA World Heavyweight Champ, but right now? You're just a loudmouth punk with a spotlight. And we're here to snuff it out."
Sandro grinned, unbothered. "You want a piece of me? You want to go again? Let's make this real, Sting. You and me, one more time. Hell, throw Kurt in the mix and make it a handicap match. I'll break his ankle for fun this time."
Kurt's face was solemn. "Careful what you wish for. We're not here to talk, we're here to fight."
Sandro laughed when he heard Kurt's declaration. It wasn't just a chuckle, it was a full throated, sarcastic belly laugh that echoed through the building, dripping with mockery.
"Look at this," Sandro turned to Big E, clapping a hand on his bodyguard's shoulder. "The old dogs still got bites in them! I'm so scared by their threats!"
Big E let out a low chuckle, amused but not nearly as dramatic as Sandro. His arms crossed, brow raised, silently sizing up the two legends on the ramp.
Sandro, still smiling, let the moment simmer, then his expression hardened like stone. His tone dropped to something cold and biting as he stepped forward again, eyes locked with Sting and Kurt.
"You think we're afraid of the two of you? You think we'll just back down 'cause you got a few more years in the business and a couple Hall of Fame rings?" He shook his head slowly, deliberately. "Why don't you two come down to this ring, and we'll teach you a lesson."
"One thing you should've learned the last time," Sandro continued, voice steady, dripping with venom, "when we left you both in a mess and walked out the real victors. You should've stayed down. But since you didn't, why don't we finish the job tonight?"
The crowd erupted at the challenge. The decibel level shot through the roof, fans leaping from their seats, signs waving high. Chants fired from every section, blending into a wild frenzy as the spotlight stayed locked on the four men.
Sting and Kurt exchanged a quick glance, a wordless agreement passing between them. Then, without hesitation, they started walking down the ramp with purpose in every step. Sting gripped his bat tightly while Kurt rolled his shoulders, his stare never leaving Sandro.
The crowd roared louder with each step the veterans took. On the apron, Sandro and Big E backed up slightly, not out of fear, but in readiness. A buzz filled the air, electric and uncontainable.
As Sting and Kurt reached ringside, fans started a new chant, aiming their rage squarely at Sandro and Big E, "YOU FUCKED UP! YOU FUCKED UP! YOU FUCKED UP!"
Sandro sneered at the chant, unfazed. Big E simply nodded, rolling his neck, the muscles in his frame twitching with anticipation. And then, like the final spark before an explosion, the moment cracked open.
As soon as Kurt and Sting slid under the ropes, all hell broke loose.
The four men charged at each other in the center of the ring, fists flying. No hesitation. No circling. Just raw chaos.
Kurt and Big E locked up first, two bulls in a china shop. Kurt went low, trying to wrestle Big E to the mat, but E countered with his power, lifting Kurt off his feet and slamming him against the corner.
Meanwhile, Sting and Sandro exchanged stiff strikes, forearms, and chops echoing like gunshots across the arena. Sting got the better of the exchange, backing Sandro into the ropes before whipping him across the ring. But Sandro rebounded and ducked a clothesline, slipping behind Sting and landing a cheap low shot to the ribs.
Sandro then saw his opportunity. Sting's bat had dropped in the melee. Without hesitation, he dove and snatched it from the canvas.
He spun around and cracked it across Sting's back.
WHACK!
The sound was sickening. Sting dropped to a knee.
WHACK!
Another shot, this time across the shoulder blades. Sandro didn't stop. He turned the bat and jabbed the butt of it into Kurt's gut as Big E held him. The Olympic gold medalist staggered back, winded.
Referees and officials flooded the ring within seconds, shouts blowing, arms flailing, trying to separate the brawl before it turned into a massacre. Trainers scrambled in as well. But even that wasn't enough to calm the storm.
And then, Dusty Rhodes stormed down the ramp, microphone already in hand. The crowd rose to their feet, some cheering, others stunned silent by the sheer weight of Dusty's presence.
Dusty didn't walk. He marched, his face a blend of fury and disappointment, his signature black shirt soaked with sweat from the urgency.
"Enough! Stop it! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"
His voice boomed through the speakers and cut through the crowd's noise like a knife. The referees finally managed to create some separation between the four men, each one standing in their own corner of the ring.
Sandro wiped sweat from his brow, breathing hard, but still grinning. Big E's chest heaved, a sneer plastered across his face. Kurt and Sting stood across from them, bruised but unbroken.
Dusty looked from one side of the ring to the other, shaking his head slowly. His eyes swept across the ring, lingering on each man. "I know what this is," he repeated, his voice low now, heavy with emotion.
"This is personal. This ain't just business anymore. This is pride. This is ego. This is legacy. And I understand that, hell, I respect it. Kurt, Sting… I know why y'all are mad. You feel disrespected. You feel like these two boys here" —he motioned toward Sandro and Big E— "are walkin' around like they own the world. Like everything you built don't mean a damn thing."
The crowd clapped, a few cheers echoing Dusty's words. Kurt nodded. Sting stayed quiet, his bat still in his grip, eyes locked on Sandro like a hawk.
"And Sandro," Dusty said, turning to him now, his voice sharpening, "you know how I feel 'bout you. I gave you chances. I stood behind you when folks wanted you gone. I let you hold this spotlight 'cause I saw potential. But you keep takin' it too far."
Sandro scoffed and shrugged, mouthing the word, *Whatever." Big E leaned in and whispered something to him. Sandro chuckled.
Dusty's gaze hardened.
"You think this is a joke? You think crackin' a bat over Sting's back is gonna make you a legend? You think bein' the TNA World Heavyweight Champion gives you the right to piss on the legacy of those who came before you?" Dusty took a step closer, jabbing a finger in the air. "Boy, lemme tell you something. That title doesn't make you. What makes you is how you carry yourself when the lights ain't on. And right now? You look like a coward."
The crowd exploded, cheers, chants, raw emotion flooding the arena. Sandro's cocky smile faltered. For a moment, his jaw clenched.
"But I'm not here to play favorites," Dusty continued, voice rising with authority. "So here's what we're gonna do. You boys want to fight? Fine. Then you're gonna do it right. No sneak attacks. No bats. No low blows. You four are gonna settle this tonight, in this ring, in our main event."
He raised a hand high. "Kurt Angle and Sting… versus Sandro and Big E in a tag team match!"
The arena exploded. Fans were on their feet, roaring with excitement. "YES! YES! YES!" chants filled the air as the camera panned across the stunned expressions of each competitor.
Sandro and Big E paced on their side, nodding, hyping each other up. Sandro raised the TNA World Heavyweight title again, defiantly. Across the ring, Sting pointed the bat toward him once more, like a silent promise. Kurt cracked his neck, never breaking eye contact with Sandro.
After several long seconds, Sting and Kurt slowly backed away and exited the ring, making their way up the ramp to prepare for the match.
Dusty also turned, walking back up the ramp to a thunderous ovation as referees and producers moved in to maintain order. The show cut to commercial but the moment was seared in everyone's minds.
Later that night, the atmosphere inside the arena was electric. The lights dimmed for the main event, and anticipation crackled like static.
The commentators, who had been going wild the entire segment, chimed in again as the camera focused on the intense scene.
"What an explosive start to tonight's show, folks!" the first commentator shouted. "We've got a tag team main event made by Dusty Rhodes himself and it's gonna be historic!"
"No kidding," the second voice added. "Sandro and Big E have been running their mouths for weeks, but now they're in for it. Sting and Kurt Angle, two of the greatest ever, are out for blood, and I don't think Sandro and Big E know what they've really unleashed."
Cut to the other side of the arena, Sandro and Big E standing in the ring, soaking in the boos and scattered cheers. Sandro raised his TNA World Heavyweight title again and smirked.
The lights flared blue and white as Sting's music hit again. He came out first, the bat still in hand, but now dressed in full ring gear black and red face paint, trench coat flowing behind him. The crowd sang along to his music, fists raised, the arena shaking with noise.
Kurt Angle came next, met with a roaring ovation. "You Suck" chants rang through the beat of his entrance music but here, it was all in love. The Olympic Hero looked more focused than ever, cracking his knuckles as he joined Sting on the ramp.
Together, they walked side by side to the ring. Legends. Warriors. Icons.
Then the lights cut to gold and deep red.
Sandro's music Cult of Personality by living colour hit. He strutted out with swagger, sunglasses on despite the night, TNA World Heavyweight title slung across his shoulder. Big E followed close behind, clapping his hands and hyping up their side of the crowd. They posed together at the top of the ramp, Sandro with his arms outstretched, soaking in the boos like they were praise.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 20 (2010)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: None
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion