>J-Tard enters the arena—still in his cursed Herman Miller chair, leaking as always. He’s holding a steering wheel duct-taped to a microphone. His wig is sliding off. His chair squeaks.

“IT’S RACE DAY, SNOOD! YOU THINK YOU’RE CUTE?! YOU READY FOR SOME FORMULA 1 FUNGAL FUN?! I’M THE FUTURE OF ATHLETICISM! I’M THE PHANTOM OF THE PIT STOP!”

>He spins. Oozes. The mat is immediately a hazard.

>Emma Myers walks out—reluctant but ready. The crowd is firmly behind her. She stares in disbelief at the wreck waiting in the ring, somehow more chinless than she is.

JR: Emma Myers shouldn’t even be here! This isn’t a match—this is a damn containment breach!

>J-Tard begins to circle her in his chair, making racecar noises and tossing shitty butt plugs from a fanny pack.

“You smell like cunny, Emma. Why don't you smell like shota boipussy?! That would be BASED!"

>Emma looks ready to vomit.

>Suddenly—

“BRING THE SWAG LIKE NOBODY CAN!”

>The Street Profits’ theme hits like salvation from the heavens. The crowd LOSES it.

JR: IT’S THE STREET PROFITS! PRAISE BE TO FORD AND DAWKINS!”

>They charge the ring. Ford LEAPS in with a dropkick that knocks J-Tard out of his chair and into a puddle of his own sadness.

“Yo, you dripping with shame or you just sweatin’ failure? ‘Cause it’s starting to REEK out here.”

>Emma gives them a thumbs-up from the corner as they circle the fallen creature.

“You mess with our little fucktoy Snood, you get evicted! This ain’t your lane, chump—this is first class humanity, and you still ridin’ tricycles!”

>They hit the Cash Out finisher together, slamming J-Tard so hard his wig flies into the crowd and a section of the mat turns grey.

JR: HE’S BEEN FLATTENED! J-TARD’S BEEN LIQUIFIED! THE STREET PROFITS JUST PUT THE HAZMAT STAMP ON THIS MAN!”

>Medical staff arrive with a mop and a priest.

JR: “Emma Myers is safe, which is more than I can say for her womb.