If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
______________________________
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
The crowd didn't panic. They didn't gasp. They unleashed a unified, deafening, visceral roar of pure, adrenaline fueled excitement. They knew exactly who was coming. A slow, grinding, heavy metal guitar riff began to play, shattering the darkness. The ominous, suffocating chords of Fozzy's "Judas" echoed through the arena sound system.
It was a song that represented absolute vengeance, and the Jacksonville crowd had completely embraced it. As the heavy beat dropped, thousands of fans in the arena began to spontaneously sing along to the dark lyrics, creating a haunting, mesmerizing choir that completely overtook the broadcast audio.
Through the fog stepped the Painmaker.
Chris Jericho walked out, and the visual was deeply, profoundly terrifying. He was dressed in his full, unhinged regalia. He wore the heavy, thick black leather jacket covered entirely in dangerous metal spikes. A wide brimmed black fedora was pulled low, casting a dark shadow over the top half of his face.
But it was the bottom half of his face that told the true story. The chaotic, smeared black and white greasepaint was freshly applied, twisting his features into a maniacal, sociopathic grin. Clutched tightly in his right hand, resting casually against his shoulder, was the solid black baseball bat he had used to terrorize the Undisputed System.
"Look at the eyes of this man," Cole whispered over the commentary headset, the argument entirely forgotten as he watched Jericho step onto the stage. "He is not the same Chris Jericho we have known for over a decade. He has been completely consumed by the Painmaker persona. He is a man obsessed."
"He's a lunatic, Michael," JBL muttered, genuinely unnerved by the entrance. "He shouldn't be allowed in a wrestling ring. He belongs in a maximum security psychiatric ward."
Jericho did not rush. He stood at the top of the ramp for a long, quiet moment, simply looking around the massive arena. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes, letting the haunting sound of the fans singing his entrance music wash over him. He was absorbing the dark energy, fueling the fires of his impending vengeance.
Slowly, Jericho lowered his head and began a methodical, predatory walk down the long steel ramp. He didn't slap hands with the fans. He didn't acknowledge the signs. His chaotic, painted eyes were locked entirely on the squared circle awaiting him.
As Jericho reached the bottom of the ramp, dropping his black baseball bat onto the floor with a dull, metallic clatter, the legendary voice of veteran ring announcer Justin Roberts echoed through the arena, cutting clearly over the heavy metal music.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." Roberts boomed, his voice carrying the immense historical weight of the moment. "Please welcome... the winner of the 2011 Royal Rumble Match... THE PAINMAKER... CHRIS JERICHOOOO!"
The Jacksonville crowd erupted once again, a massive pop that shook the barricades as Jericho slowly walked up the steel steps and stepped through the ropes.
Jericho slowly walked to the absolute dead center of the ring. He didn't pace. He didn't strike a pose for the cameras. He simply stood there, a terrifying, silent monolith draped in spikes and black leather.
The chaotic, smeared greasepaint on his face cracked slightly as his sociopathic smile widened, absorbing the sheer, unadulterated adoration of the Jacksonville crowd. They were chanting his name, a deafening, rhythmic chorus that shook the television cameras.
"Y2J! Y2J! Y2J!"
Jericho slowly turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto a terrified ringside crew member standing near the steel steps. Jericho lazily extended a black gloved hand over the top rope, snapping his fingers once.
The crew member practically sprinted forward, shoved a live microphone into Jericho's hand, and immediately scrambled backward, wanting absolutely no part of the Painmaker's radius.
Jericho brought the microphone to his painted lips. The arena slowly quieted down, hanging on his every word. When he spoke, it wasn't the flashy, arrogant, rockstar cadence of the Chris Jericho from years past. It was a raw, gravelly, deeply unsettling growl that echoed ominously through the building.
"Twelve years," Jericho began, his voice dripping with venomous reflection. "I have bled, I have sweated, and I have broken my body in this company for twelve long, agonizing years. I have entered Royal Rumble after Royal Rumble. I have been the iron man. I have been the surprise entrant. I have come so incredibly close, only to have the prize ripped from my fingers at the very last second."
He slowly paced a tight circle in the center of the canvas, his boots thudding against the mat.
"But last night in Boston..." Jericho continued, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "Last night, I finally did it. I outlasted twenty nine other men. I threw the great, infallible Dwayne Johnson right over that top rope, and I finally won the Royal Rumble match."
The crowd erupted into a massive cheer, celebrating the veteran's long overdue milestone.
"But let me make something perfectly clear to every single person in this building, and especially to the little boy sitting in his luxury suite right now," Jericho warned, his voice dropping into a chilling whisper that forced the entire arena to fall dead silent. "I didn't win the Royal Rumble because it was my childhood dream. I didn't win it because I want a shiny new championship to put on my mantle. I don't give a damn about your world titles, Sandro."
Jericho pointed a taped finger directly into the hard camera.
"My accolades in this business are already legendary," Jericho sneered. "I have won more world titles than you can even comprehend. I am the first ever Undisputed Champion. I don't need another belt to validate my existence. No... I won the Royal Rumble for one reason, and one reason only. Because I possess a thirst for vengeance that is so deep, so absolute, and so completely suffocating, that I was willing to tear my own body apart just to get my hands on you!"
The crowd let out a collective, visceral roar.
"Listen to the absolute conviction in his voice!" Cole shouted over the commentary headset. "Chris Jericho does not care about the gold! He just wants Sandro Zhang's blood!"
"He's a madman!" JBL screamed in response, slamming his fist on the desk. "He is openly admitting to entering a championship match just to commit aggravated assault! The God King should have him arrested before WrestleMania even happens!"
"He earned the right, John!" Lawler countered fiercely. "Sandro tried to end his career! Now Sandro has to pay the piper!"
Inside the ring, Jericho wasn't finished.
"You tried to erase me, Sandro," Jericho growled, his eyes burning with absolute hatred. "You tried to break my neck. You threw me out of your little golden family like a piece of trash. So at the main event of WrestleMania, I am not going to out wrestle you. I am going to make you feel the exact same agonizing, paralyzing pain that you inflicted on me. I am going to break your bones, I am going to shatter your crown, and I am going to end your career."
Jericho leaned against the ropes, a psychotic gleam in his eye.
"And because I won the Rumble, I get to dictate the terms of your execution," Jericho declared. "I am pushing for a match where your little golden lapdogs can't save you. I want a match where there are no disqualifications, no count outs, and no mercy. I am pushing for an 'I Quit' match... or a No Holds Barred match."
The fans cheered wildly at the prospect of the brutal stipulations.
"Now, normally, a superstar would have to go to the General Manager of Monday Night RAW to get a stipulation like that approved," Jericho mocked, shaking his head in absolute disgust. "But we all know that the General Manager of this show is nothing but a greasy, stinky, sycophantic pig named Paul Heyman. He isn't an authority figure. He's just a pathetic little bitch of a speaker who serves Sandro Zhang."
The Jacksonville crowd let out a massive "OOOOOH!" at the blatant, unfiltered insult.
"So I'm not taking my demands to Paul Heyman," Jericho announced, his voice booming. "I am going straight over the God King's head. I am taking my demands directly to the Chairman of the Board, Vince McMahon! And knowing how much Vince despises the fact that you are holding his company hostage, Sandro... he is definitely going to agree to my terms. But I'm going to keep you guessing. It's going to be a surprise. You won't know exactly which stipulation you're walking into until the contract is signed."
Jericho lowered the microphone, a deeply satisfying, chaotic smile stretching across his painted face as the fans chanted his name.
Suddenly, the electric atmosphere in the arena violently shifted.
"IF YA SMELLLLLLLLLLL..."
The roof of the Veterans Memorial Arena practically blew off into the Florida night sky. The pop was absolutely earth shattering.
"...WHAT THE ROCK... IS... COOKING!"
The fast paced, iconic drumbeat blasted through the PA system, completely interrupting the Painmaker's dark sermon.
Chris Jericho's head snapped toward the entrance stage. His grip tightened on the microphone, his body immediately tensing up, fully expecting a violent confrontation.
The Great One stepped out from the curtain. He wasn't wearing his expensive silk shirts or sunglasses tonight. He was dressed in a tight black Under Armour t shirt and track pants, looking incredibly serious and strictly business. He looked around the roaring arena, absorbing the energy, before walking purposefully down the steel ramp.
The Rock didn't strike his usual poses. He didn't play to the crowd on the turnbuckles. He marched directly up the steel steps, slid under the bottom rope, and stood right in the center of the ring, just a few feet away from the man who had eliminated him less than twenty-four hours ago.
A ringside crew member quickly handed The Rock a microphone. The music faded out, leaving the two legends staring a hole through each other in the center of the squared circle. The tension was suffocating. The crowd was buzzing, completely split between chanting for "Y2J" and "ROCKY".
The Rock didn't break eye contact. He slowly raised the microphone to his lips.
"The Rock is going to be completely honest with you, Chris," The Rock began, his voice calm, measured, and devoid of his usual flashy catchphrases. "Last night, when you threw The Rock over that top rope... The Rock was furious. He was disappointed. He came back to this company after seven long years to go to the main event of WrestleMania, to take that World Title from Sandro Zhang, and you took that opportunity away from him."
The Rock took a slow step forward, closing the distance. Jericho didn't flinch.
"But," The Rock continued, his tone shifting slightly. "The Rock is a man who respects the game. He respects the hustle. You wanted Sandro Zhang more than anything else in this world, and you fought like a man possessed to get him. You won the Royal Rumble. You earned it. So, man to man... The Rock stands here right now to say congratulations."
The Boston crowd let out a loud, appreciative cheer for the incredible display of sportsmanship.
"However," The Rock pivoted, his eyes suddenly burning with an intense, electrifying fire. "Just because The Rock isn't going to WrestleMania as the Royal Rumble winner, does not mean The Rock's road to the God King is over. Because The Rock just had a very interesting conversation with Vince McMahon in the back."
The crowd buzzed with anticipation.
"You see, in just a few short weeks, we have the Elimination Chamber pay per view," The Rock announced, his voice rising in volume and intensity. "And The Great One is officially entering that Chamber! The Rock is going to step inside that demonic steel structure, he is going to lay the smackdown on five other monkey asses including Sandro, and he is going to walk out with one of Sandro'$ world titles!"
The pop for the Elimination Chamber announcement was absolutely seismic.
"So here is the situation, Chris," The Rock said, pointing his microphone directly at the Painmaker. "The Rock is going to take one of Sandro's titles at the Chamber. Which means at WrestleMania, you can use your Royal Rumble contract to challenge him for the other one. Sandro Zhang is holding this entire company hostage with his little golden army. He thinks he is untouchable. But if you want to make sure that you get your hands on him... if you want to make sure that the Undisputed System doesn't interfere and ruin your vengeance..."
The Rock lowered his microphone, extending his massive, tattooed right hand into the space between them.
"The Rock is offering you a partnership," The Rock declared smoothly. "You and me. The Great One and the Painmaker. We watch each other's backs. We take out Big E, Ryback, Wade, Drew, and the rest of his generic lapdogs. We handle the Undisputed System together, and we leave Sandro Zhang completely isolated with absolutely nowhere to run."
The Jacksonville crowd absolutely loved the proposition. The idea of a mega alliance between two of the greatest of all time to take down the God King was pure fantasy booking brought to life.
Jericho looked down at The Rock's extended hand. He slowly looked up, his smeared, chaotic eyes searching The Rock's face for any sign of deception. He saw nothing but pure, unadulterated determination.
After a long, tense moment of contemplation, the Painmaker slowly reached out. He gripped The Rock's hand firmly. The two legends shook hands right in the center of the ring, cementing a truly terrifying pact that threatened the very foundations of the Triple Crown Era.
"This is monumental!" Cole screamed in absolute delight. "The Rock and Chris Jericho have formed an alliance! The Undisputed System is in serious, serious trouble!"
"It's a beautiful thing to see, Michael!" Lawler cheered. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend! Sandro Zhang has finally united the locker room against him!"
"This is collusion! This is a conspiracy!" JBL yelled, practically tearing his hair out. "They are ganging up on the God King because neither of them is man enough to face him alone! This should be illegal!"
But before the fans could fully celebrate the newfound alliance, the arena lights violently flashed gold.
BZZZZZT!
The heavy, distorted, aggressive bass drop of "SHOCK THE SYSTEM" completely hijacked the arena PA system. The cheers were instantly swallowed by a massive, hostile, and deafening wave of boos.
Out from the curtain stepped the Triple Crown Champion.
Sandro Zhang looked absolutely immaculate. There was no sign of the grueling war he had fought against CM Punk, nor the chaotic beatdown he had suffered at the hands of Randy Savage twenty four hours prior.
He was dressed in a sharp, tailored burgundy suit. The King of the Ring crown rested perfectly on his head, and his three championships, the World Heavyweight, the WWE, and the United States titles, gleamed under the arena lights.
He was not accompanied by his massive army of enforcers tonight. He walked out onto the stage accompanied only by his Speaker, Paul Heyman.
Heyman, however, did not look immaculate. The Special Advisor looked incredibly stressed. He was sweating profusely, his tie was loosened, and he nervously clutched his manila folder to his chest. The catastrophic loss of the Intercontinental Championship the night before was clearly weighing heavily on his conscience.
Sandro didn't march to the ring. He stopped at the very top of the entrance stage, looking down at the two legends in the ring with a cold, sociopathic, deeply condescending sneer. Heyman quickly handed a live microphone to his master.
"Look at this," Sandro spoke, his voice smooth, arrogant, and echoing effortlessly over the deafening boos of the Florida crowd. "Just look at this absolute, pathetic display in my ring."
Sandro slowly shook his head, adjusting his custom suit jacket.
"The Great One and the Painmaker," Sandro mocked, his voice dripping with pure disdain. "Two aging, desperate relics of a bygone era, clinging to each other because they are completely terrified of the reality staring them in the face. You shake hands, you make your little pacts, and you play to these mindless sheep in the audience because it makes you feel relevant."
Sandro took a slow step forward on the stage.
"You can celebrate all you want, Chris," Sandro warned, his eyes narrowing into cold, dead slits. "You can brag about winning the Royal Rumble. You can demand your 'I Quit' matches and your No Holds Barred stipulations. You can threaten me with all the physical violence your broken, battered body can muster. But let me make you a promise, right here, right now."
_______________________________
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, 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: 1 - 0