Night of Champions Post-Show Media Scrum


Highlights from the media scrum after Night of Champions tonight…

The press room buzzed with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of sweat and victory. Amidst the clatter of camera shutters and the shuffling of reporters jockeying for position, Jill Berg emerged into the spotlight. The CEO of Jill Berg Enterprises beamed, her power suit immaculate, as the ‘corporate predator’ surveyed the room.

“Tonight,” she began, her voice a melody of confidence and calculated precision, “was a culmination of strategic excellence and raw talent.” She nodded approvingly, thinking back to the match where Victoria McGill—her prodigal warrior—had triumphed. “Mr. McMann’s insight was invaluable. Bringing back Tori was more than just a good move—it was a game-changer.”

The press hung on every syllable of her corporate lingo, scribbling down her words like gospel. Jill glanced at the Women’s Tag title belts, now in the possession of Sheline Carrigan and Madison Miller. “These two exemplify the spirit of JBE,” she said, gesturing towards the champions who stood behind her, their muscles still glistening from the earlier exertion. “And let’s not forget Madison’s seamless integration into our ranks. Her technical prowess gave us the edge we needed.”

As she spoke, Jill’s thoughts turned to Felicia LaBarbara, the young upstart who’d risen through the ranks with lethal speed. Working with her in secret had been a gamble, but tonight, it paid off handsomely. “Felicia is the future,” Jill mused internally, her exterior unflappable as always. “Jill Berg Enterprises Means Business,” she declared aloud, “and tonight we took care of business.”

The room erupted in applause, the press eating out of her hand. But the moment shifted as ‘Redneck’ Bill Dickinson sauntered in, the weight of the MVW Champion belt apparent on his broad shoulders. His presence was a stark contrast to the polished CEO; his flannel shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing powerful forearms.

“Y’all saw what went down out there,” he drawled, his thick Alabama accent cutting through the room like a knife through butter. “Ain’t nobody gonna say Bill Dickinson don’t earn his keep.”

His gaze was already fixed on the horizon, on a challenge that stirred his fighting spirit. “I’m lookin’ square at you, Charlie Blackwell,” he said, spitting the words with a fire that could ignite the very air. “I respect ya, but come January, I’m set on breakin’ your record.”

Bill’s mind raced with strategies and countermoves, the thought of making history fueling his relentless drive. “This ain’t just about defendin’ this here title,” he reflected internally, his eyes glinting with steely resolve. “It’s about etchin’ my name in the annals of MVW. And when that bell rings, history will remember ‘Redneck’ Bill Dickinson.”  Dickinson then got up to leave but then added one last parting statement.  “Or, and to my good friend Garry ‘Ray-Ray’ Bolamba… RAISE HELL! PRAISE DALE! AMEN!”

The press scrambled, questions flying, flashbulbs blinding, but both Jill and Bill stood their ground—titans in their own right, ready to conquer whatever challenges lay before them.

The fluorescent lights of the press room hummed overhead, casting stark beams upon the media scrum that shuffled and murmured in anticipation. The air was thick with the heat of bodies and the scent of stale coffee. Clad in a well-worn leather jacket and faded jeans, MVW owner Ray McAvay shouldered his way to the podium, a stoic expression etched into his weathered face.

“Let’s cut to brass tacks,” McAvay began, his voice gravelly and direct. “John O’Reilly’s got himself a neck injury, and it’s serious, it’s nothing to write home about.” He paused, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in amongst the reporters. “Doctors will do their poking and prodding, but for now, he’s benched indefinitely.” A collective murmur rippled through the room, scribbles of notes frenetically being taken.

“Other than that hiccup,” McAvay continued, a glint of pride shining through his stern demeanor, “tonight was one for the history books.” He leaned forward, hands gripping the edges of the podium. “Ten matches, over three hours of non-stop action—our longest show in fourteen years. I’m damn pleased with what we put out there tonight.”

Joe Bergman emerged beside McAvay, the youthful contrast to his partner’s experience. “And let me tell y’all, we’re just getting started.” His eyes swept over the assembled journalists. “Emma Faith Barbosa-Stevens is on board with us now,” he announced, a touch of mentor-like warmth in his voice. “Not to mention, Ninja Kitty’s making her comeback next January.”

“Allison Chambers, Kyle and Kyla Davenport… they’ve all been grinding it out at the Barn,” Bergman added, tipping an imaginary hat to the hard work behind the scenes. “They’ve earned their shot, and we’re proud to have ’em on board.” Inwardly, he felt a surge of satisfaction, witnessing the fruits of their labor blossoming before his very eyes.

“Same goes for Felicia LaBarbara,” he said, nodding earnestly. “She’s got that fire, that hunger we look for in a Bergman’s Barn grad.”

‘Sports Entertainment Genius’ Mr. McMann, his usually immaculate suit lacking its typical crispness, rubbed his temple as if to smooth out the creases in his thoughts. The subdued atmosphere around him was palpable, a stark contrast to the electric excitement that had surged through the arena just moments ago.

“Two hours of wrestling,” McMann began, his voice lacking its usual bombast as he addressed the cluster of reporters, “and ten matches is a bit much.” He shook his head slowly, disappointment etched into his features. “That’s not the script I submitted to Ray McAvay before the show.”

His hand idly traced the logo on the mic, his gaze distant, perhaps envisioning the script that never made it to McAvay, lost in transit or discarded, an unwelcome guest at the old-school wrestling party.

“Ray probably never got my script,” he confirmed with a sigh, the admission leaving a bitter taste as he pondered the evening’s events.

Yet, a flicker of pride ignited in his eyes when the conversation turned to the Women’s title changes. “It makes sense to elevate Tori (McGill), Sheline (Carrigan) and Madison (Miller), and Felicia (LaBarbara),” he opined, a strategist considering his chess pieces. “They are marketable wrestlers who’ll bring eyes to the product.” His words carried the weight of truth, the one aspect of the evening that aligned with his vision of sports entertainment.

But the pride dissipated as quickly as it had appeared when the subject of ‘Redneck’ Bill Dickinson arose. “McAvay’s ‘script’,” McMann muttered with air quotes so heavy they could have left dents in the reality around him, “has Dickinson going all the way to the St. Louis Supershow to overtake Charlie Blackwell’s record title reign of 499 days.”

A reporter interjected, a reminder sharp as a slap: “MVW does not script their shows.”

“Of course they do,” McMann snapped back, his voice rising in defense of his beleaguered belief. “Every pro wrestling show scripts out their show.” There was no room for doubt in his world; the narrative had to be controlled, and directed. Admitting otherwise would be like conceding defeat in the war between sports entertainment and raw, unpolished wrestling.

“Blackwell is a better wrestler and bigger name than Dickinson,” he declared, conviction hardening his jaw. “It’s a shame the record has to fall to someone who wouldn’t get a second look on a proper sports entertainment show.” The statement hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown down at the feet of tradition and history.

That wrapped up the media scrum. McMann’s posture, once dominant and commanding, slumped ever so slightly as he turned away from the reporters.

“Don’t you worry, 2024 will be the year sports entertainment returns to MVW,” McMann added. “Count on it.”

The camera lingered on his retreating back, the image of a man wrestling with the changing tides of an industry he thought he commanded.

Before the echoes of applause could fade, ‘The Lakeshore Leviathan’ Bracken Krueger and ‘The Texas Technician’ Daryn Thompson strode in, the atmosphere shifting palpably as they took their place at the center stage.

“Alabama Gang put up one helluva fight,” Krueger rumbled, his voice echoing off the walls with the force of a thunderclap. His towering frame loomed over the reporters, an imposing figure cast from the mold of Chicago steel.

“Yessir,” Thompson chimed in, her Texan drawl slicing through the room like a lasso cutting the breeze. “But we came out on top, and now we’ve got our sights set on the Stevens Dynasty.” Her eyes gleamed with competitive fervor as she recalled the match. “Had to move fast to stop Hendry after Bracken laid Jenkins out.”

“Much respect to the Alabama Gang,” Krueger interjected, folding his massive arms across his chest. “But rivalries are the lifeblood of this sport, and the Stevens Dynasty is in our crosshairs.”

Thompson’s lips curled into a sly grin, her mind already devising holds and counters for their next opponents. “We’re ready to write the next chapter in this saga,” she mused, confident in their synergy.

“Come January,” Krueger concluded, his baritone voice ringing finality, “we’re cementing our legacy in MVW.”

The reporters scrambled to capture every last word, their pens racing against notepads, each trying to distill the essence of these titans of wrestling into mere words. But some things—the sweat, the roar of the crowd, the electric charge of anticipation—simply had to be experienced first-hand in the squared circle.

The camera zoomed in on Jennifer Colton as she stepped up to the podium, her figure almost retreating into the shadows of the press room. Her eyes, still rimmed with the residue of ring combat, scanned the expectant faces before her. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

“Tonight… tonight was Victoria’s,” Jennifer said, her voice soft but clear. “No excuses from me—she earned it.” A sense of grace enveloped her words, her posture upright and unflinching despite the loss.

“Next month, I’ll be heading to Japan with my family for Bang!’s tour,” she continued, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. The reporters scribbled furiously, capturing every word. “I’ll be back at the end of January, ready to challenge for the Women’s title on February 7th in Springfield.”

Jennifer stepped back, giving a small nod to signal her exit. The flashbulbs popped one last time as she retreated, leaving an echo of humility in her wake.

The atmosphere shifted as Lisa Barbosa-Stevens and Tessa Martin approached the microphone. Tess’s seasoned eyes surveyed the room, a hint of nostalgia flickering within them.

“Eighteen years,” Tess began, her voice tinged with the weight of a storied career. “It’s time for this old warrior to rest.” She chuckled lightly, the sound carrying a career’s worth of memories. “This isn’t goodbye to MVW, just a step back from the ring. Who knows what the future holds?”

Lisa placed a hand on Tess’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity between two veterans of the mat. “And while Tess takes a well-deserved break, I’ll be here guiding the next generation,” she said, pride swelling in her chest.

“Emma Faith, my daughter, has signed her first professional contract. She’s got the heart, the drive, and soon, she’ll have the training at Joe Bergman’s Barn,” Lisa shared, her eyes glinting with the prospect of her daughter’s future.

“Four times, I’ve held that Women’s championship,” Lisa mused, lost for a moment in the reflection of her own glory days. “Now, it’s Emma’s turn to chase those dreams.”

As they exited, the crowd murmured with respect for the departing legends and curiosity for the new blood entering the fray.

The air tensed as Cary Stevens stomped to the podium, his scowl casting a shadow like a storm cloud over Texas.

“Bo and George did fine tonight,” Cary grumbled, his Texan drawl unmistakable and thick with barely contained frustration. “But don’t think for one second we’re done stewin’ over The Alabama Gang gettin’ that tag title shot.”

He leaned forward, hands gripping the edges of the podium, knuckles whitening. “We had ourselves a workout with Surf Express Bro, sure, but come January 9th in St. Louis…” He paused, letting the tension mount before releasing it with the force of a bull breaking from the chute.

“By God, No Quarter’s gonna find out exactly what the Stevens Dynasty is all about! We’re takin’ those belts back, and there ain’t nothin’ or nobody gonna stand in our way!”

With that, Cary spat to the side—a gesture that seemed to encapsulate his disdain for the current situation. The room fell silent, save for the scratch of pen on paper as journalists captured the fiery proclamation.

“Mark my words,” Cary finished, straightening up and fixing the room with a steely gaze. “The Dynasty will rise again.”

And with a final huff, the ornery Texan patriarch turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him like the crack of a whip, leaving the press to ponder the inevitable showdown brewing on the horizon.

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