"Ladies and gentlemen… live from the basement of a condemned arena next to a shuttered Quiznos…
This is the moment you've barely been waiting for.
In the blue corner: fused to his chair, oozing arrogance and several unknown fluids… J-TARD.

And in the red corner: long-necked, knife-loving, barely coherent… it's BEADY!"

>The bell rings. J-Tard comes spinning forward, his chair squealing like a trapped animal. He's making racecar noises. The crowd winces.

>Beady twitches in the right direction.
He's muttering to his dead mouse again. Something about “the prophecy.”

>J-Tard's reaching for his “lucky” butt plug. The ref recoils. The audience screams. Two people faint in the front row.

“Folks, I’ve been watchin’ fights since the Great Depression, and I ain’t never seen someone leak mid-jab. That chair’s oozin’ oil — or old mayonnaise. I can’t tell.”

>Beady pulls out his trademark weapon: the Face Peeler™.
>But wait — he’s just... talking to it.

>J-Tard throws a punch, misses, and immediately gaslights himself into believing it landed.

“I WON! I DOMINATED! BEADY IS TRIGGERED! I AM BASED! TOODLES SNOODLES!"

>He spins himself in circles and crashes against the ropes.

>Beady, without breaking eye contact with the ceiling, calmly walks over…
>And slaps J-Tard once — open-handed.
>A silence falls as Beady whispers something to J-Tard...

"Oh yeah you're right I remember now.
That's where I penetrated that geriatric mother of yours with my fist."

>J-Tard topples, chair and all, withered legs flailing helplessly.
>His wig flies off like a bird escaping captivity.
>The crowd erupts — partly in celebration, mostly in relief.

“By technical collapse, in the first round… your winner:
BEEEEEEEADYYYYYY!!”

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