It's a graveyard.
A night-black, storm-lashed graveyard.
It's not pleasant.

It's not meant to be.

A man stands in the rain, huge, imposing, immobile.
A man stands at the edge of an open grave, staring away from it, staring at us.

Or rather, it looks like a man.

On reflection, it's actually just a mannequin.

A huge, lifeless mannequin.

We recognise it, of course.

War-paint is smeared across it's face, and it is dressed in wrestling tights.

Shaman.

The Extreme Machine.
The Native American Bad-Ass.
The Franchise.

Former World Champion.
Former US Champion.

Without warning, a spade swings out of nowhere and strikes the mannequin high in the collarbone. Shards of plastic fly everywhere, and the force of the shovel-blow severs the mannequin's head as efficiently as if it were that of an axe.

The mannequin topples backwards into the grave, headless, and breaks apart.
The camera spins, and we see Jackson Kraven.
Bare-chested against the rain, we see the Tomorrow Man smiling dementedly, shovel clutched in his hands so tight his knuckles have gone white.

"Shaman..."

His voice hisses through his teeth, hideous and sibilant as poison gas.

"You couldn't stop me taking the US title in a match of your own making, at the height of your powers."

"How do you expect to stop me now, less than a man, broken in body and mind?"

Thunder rumbles, and Kraven tosses the shovel down onto the mannequin.

"Meltdown, Shaman."

"Meltdown is where I end the legend."

"Meltdown is where you find you have No More Tomorrows."

"Meltdown is where the world watches Jackson Kraven tear apart the Native American Bad-Ass... again."

"Meltdown, Shaman."

Lightning spears down behind Kraven and strikes a tree, bursting it into flame. The Tomorrow Man doesn't even flinch.

The flames illuminate him, turn him into a devil sent from Hell itself.

"I'm going to enjoy this..."

We fade to black.