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Both men took a step forward, breaking formation, their intentions as clear as day. They were ready to storm the ring. But before they could take another stride, Kurt Angle lifted a hand, halting them like a strict father reigning in his sons. The Godfather of the Main Event Mafia stepped to the front and raised the mic to his mouth once more.
"You got a sharp tongue, kid. I'll give you that. You got fire. You got guts. And yeah… you've got talent. But the way you speak to us just now, the way you just spoke to us, there's a line you just crossed."
He stepped to the edge of the ramp, his voice lowering like a warning rumble before a storm.
"Now I can hold my family off. I can keep them from tearing you and your little bodyguard apart. But you're going to apologize. Right now. Apologize for the words you just said. Or we're going to take it as a declaration of war. And unlike you, we don't wait for permission because we do what we want to do."
The crowd gasped, and the tension skyrocketed. Even the commentary team had gone silent.
Sandro looked at Big E, who gave a slight shrug and smirked, as if saying to him, your call.
Sandro stepped forward, leaned on the ropes, mic gripped tight.
"You want an apology, Kurt? Fine. Here's my apology."
He straightened up, looked each member of the Mafia dead in the eyes.
"I'm sorry you're all past your prime. I'm sorry you thought you could intimidate a new generation. I'm sorry you didn't realize that we're the ones running the show now. That I'm the one running it. And I'm really sorry, Joe, that you had to run back to TNA and join a group of old timers because you couldn't handle losing to me notnjst once but twice."
The crowd exploded. Massive cheers. Some jeers. A full scale frenzy. Joe shouted something and tried to push past Steiner. Kurt physically stepped in front of them.
"ENOUGH!" Kurt barked, glaring back at his men. Then, turning to Sandro, his face as serious as death,
"You've made your bed, Sandro. Hope you're ready to lie in it. Because tonight, we're going to hurt you so bad, that you wouldn't go to Forbidden Door."
Then Kurt stan his mic down and gave the signal, leading the Main Event Mafia down the ramp, his steps deliberate, his face set in stone.
The rest of the Mafia followed close behind, Joe walking like a storm barely restrained, Scott Steiner cracking his knuckles, Kevin Nash towering like an ominous shadow, Booker T radiating righteous anger, and Sting with his cold, painted stare locked on Sandro.
The arena buzzed with anticipation. Commentary was hushed, the fans holding their breath. This wasn't just a promo segment anymore. It was a powder keg seconds from ignition.
Sandro and Big E stood their ground. E squared his stance, muscles tense, jaw set, but his eyes flicked around. He was calculating, searching.
Sandro, meanwhile, gripped his microphone like a sword while he drop his title, posture defiant, jaw jutting forward like he'd spit in the face of a hurricane if it dared blow in his direction.
The Mafia reached ringside, surrounding the apron on three sides like a pack of wolves. Kurt stepped onto the stairs, one foot on the bottom rope, when suddenly cheers erupted from the crowd.
Because they saw two figures vaulted the barricade, James Storm and Bobby Roode, Beer Money Inc., the reigning FCW Tag Team Champions, had come out of nowhere, cutting through the chaos like twin lightning bolts.
Storm twirled his beer bottle before tossing it aside, Roode pulling off his sleeveless jacket with sharp aggression. They slid into the ring and popped up like they owned the place.
Sandro's eyes widened for a split second before narrowing again. He tilted his head toward Beer Money Inc., giving them a respectful nod. Roode nodded back, and Storm smirked, tipping his imaginary hat. Big E clapped his fists together, his grin wide and wild.
Now it was four against six. The odds weren't even, but they were better.
Scott Steiner's face twisted in fury. Booker T stepped forward, yelling toward the ring, veins bulging in his neck. "You two got a death wish huh?!" he roared. "You want our titles huh traitors?!"
Bobby Roode didn't flinch. "Damn right we do!" he shouted back. "And if you two dinosaurs think we're afraid of you, maybe it's time someone put you out to pasture!"
Storm added, "It ain't about TNA or FCW. It's about what's right. And right now, the new blood's standing tall!"
The crowd exploded into chants of "BEER MONEY!" followed by "FCW! FCW!" as the tension soared.
Kurt watched everything unfold with that eerie calm he sometimes had before a match. Then he chuckled low, bringing the mic back to his mouth.
"You boys really think that changes anything?" he said with an icy smile. "You're still outnumbered. Six to four. We've got legends. We've got gold. We've got power. And what do you have? Guts? Loyalty? That's not going to help when we rip you apart."
The crowd was reaching fever pitch, voices raising, people jumping from their seats, ready to witness a war.
But just as bodies began to shift, fists twitching, Kurt's eyes narrowed and then everything changed.
"THE AMERICAN DREAM" Dusty Rhodes' music hit.
A thunderous pop echoed throughout the arena. The camera cut to the stage as Dusty stepped out, dressed in one of his signature cowboy shirts, the FCW General Manager's badge pinned to his chest. At his side was Steve Keirn, face flushed, microphone in hand.
Dusty didn't wait for his music to fade. He raised a hand, and like a preacher in front of a church crowd, his voice boomed with authority.
"Alright, that's enough now!" he yelled. "I done seen enough posturing tonight to fill a whole damn pay pre view. But let me make this crystal clear, if any of y'all throw so much as a punch tonight… your name will be scratched off the Forbidden Door."
Gasps echoed from the ring to the ramp. Dusty kept going.
"I don't care if you're a legend, a rookie, or some badass walking in from another company. That pay-per view is about history. It's about legacy. And if y'all want your names etched into the history books, if you wanna matter, then you better act like professionals. Because if you don't, you won't be invited."
The camera caught every reaction. Kurt's face went pale, not with fear, but with realization. This mattered to him. Deeply. He turned slowly to look at the rest of the Main Event Mafia.
Booker's mouth was slightly open, his rage muted. Scott clenched his jaw, eyes bouncing between Dusty and Sandro. Nash crossed his arms but didn't step forward. Sting stood completely still, his painted face unreadable. Only Joe looked like he didn't care, but even he had to stop himself.
Kurt exhaled through his nose, then raised a hand. "Stand down," he commanded.
The Mafia hesitated, but ultimately obeyed.
Kurt pointed at Sandro. "This ain't over. Not by a long shot."
Sandro lifted his mic one more time, his voice cutting through the tension.
"No, it's just getting started."
The crowd roared.
The Main Event Mafia slowly backed away, each member turning in sync, heading back up the ramp as Dusty and Steve remained on stage, making sure they left peacefully. Kurt never took his eyes off Sandro before he leave through the curtain.
Then the show ended at this note, and fans were going ballistic at what they had just seen. The air was thick with electricity, like a summer storm rolling in just after sunset.
No one expected such a monumental collision, the Main Event Mafia, in full force, storming into FCW under the iron leadership of Kurt Angle.
No, this was the full squadron. Kurt. Joe. Sting. Steiner. Booker. Nash. That alone was enough to make jaws drop, but the way they almost came to blows with Sandro, Big E, and Beer Money Inc. turned it from a simple confrontation into something historic.
People in the stands were clutching their heads, pointing, screaming, filming, live tweeting. It was the kind of chaos that only happened once in a blue moon. The young lion, Sandro, standing tall and proud with his brothers in arms, not backing down an inch from six of the most man forces in TNA history.
The crowd didn't get the brawl they were begging for, no fists thrown, no bodies flying, but in some ways, that made it more intense. Like a rubber band pulled back to its limit, vibrating with potential energy, just waiting to snap.
Dusty Rhodes and Steve Keirn coming out was like watching two old sheriffs roll into town and lay down the law. When Dusty dropped that line—"If any of y'all throw so much as a punch tonight… your name will be scratched off the Forbidden Door", it echoed across the arena like a thunderclap.
Everyone knew what was at stake now. Forbidden Door wasn't just a cross promotional gimmick. It was sacred ground. And you couldn't bleed on the altar before the ceremony even began.
As the fans filtered out, their voices buzzing with conversation, anticipation, and disbelief, they didn't have to wait long for the next fire to be lit.
Right as people hit the parking lot, phones buzzed in pockets, screens lit up like wildfire. Both the FCW and TNA Twitter accounts had posted the official match card for Forbidden Door. And just like that, the wrestling world was flipped on its head.
The main event?
Sandro vs. Kurt Angle.
Title for Title.
The FCW Florida Heavyweight Championship versus the TNA World Heavyweight Championship.
It was everything people hoped for and more. A passing of the torch moment? Maybe. Or perhaps a declaration from the past that it wasn't ready to be buried just yet. Either way, it was colossal.
But that wasn't even the start.
The opening match?
The Main Event Mafia's Booker T & Scott Steiner defending the TNA World Tag Team Titles against FCW Tag Team Champions Beer Money Inc., James Storm & Bobby Roode.
A tag team war between icons and rising legends. Power vs. chemistry. Fire vs. fire.
Those two matches alone had people calling it the most stacked show of the year. But the card didn't stop there. Rumors swirled that Samoa Joe would face Big E in a hard hitting powerhouse match.
A women's showcase was brewing between Awesome Kong and FCW's new ace Rebecca. Even the likes of Alex Shelley, Chris Sabin, Nick Nemeth, and Austin Creed were teased for involvement.
Podcasts recorded emergency episodes. Wrestlers from both brands started tweeting cryptic post. Legends from outside both promotions started reacting. It wasn't just a match card, it was a declaration of war and unity at the same time. The business was changing, and everyone felt it.
Meanwhile, backstage at the FCW arena, the atmosphere was no less electric, though it had shifted. Gone were the dramatic glares, the cold intensity of kayfabe tension. In its place was the exhausted buzz of adrenaline wearing off, of wrestlers slipping out of character and back into themselves.
Sandro, now out of his leather jacket and ring gear, still had the sweat of performance clinging to his skin. He was surrounded by Big E, Roode, Storm, and a handful of crew.
But instead of the cocky smirk he wore in the ring, he looked a bit sheepish now, like someone who knew he'd poked a lion and was coming back to apologize to the zookeeper.
He made his way through the hallway, adjusting the FCW title on his shoulder, until he found them, Kurt, Booker, Steiner, Nash, Joe, and Sting, sitting around one of the larger locker rooms they'd been given for the night.
The tension from earlier was completely gone. They were laughing, joking, drinking bottles of water, and watching replays on a monitor in the corner.
Sandro stepped in and cleared his throat. "Hey… uh. Sorry to interrupt."
Kurt was the first to look up. "You're not interrupting, kid. Come on."
Sandro rubbed the back of his neck and offered a sheepish smile. "I just wanted to say… about that promo earlier. I didn't mean any disrespect with some of the stuff I said. I know some of it got kinda sharp."
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 19 (2009)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Style
Faction: Dragon Boom (Tag Team)
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions & 1 FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion