The Steel Mill Gym ain’t quiet often.  

Not at four in the morning.  

Not at midnight.  

Not ever.

But tonight?  

Tonight it’s dead silent—the kind of silence that only happens when a storm is loading in the sky, waiting for the right moment to crack open.

And in the middle of that silence stands Victor Steele, fists taped, sweat dripping, jaw clenched like he’s chewing on a live wire.

He stares into the camera like it owes him money.

He cracks his neck.

He cracks his knuckles.

Then he speaks.

“Clowns. I hate clowns.”

He spits the word like it tastes bad.

“Everywhere I look on Sunday Night SLAM, it’s clowns.  

Clowns in the rafters.  

Clowns in the ring.  

Clowns in the hallways.  

Clowns gigglin’, clowns flippin’, clowns crawlin’ outta vents like they’re auditionin’ for a horror movie nobody asked for.”

He wipes sweat from his brow with a grit‑stained towel.

“And lemme tell ya somethin’, Miami might think it’s funny.  

The commentary team might think it’s cute.  

The Agents of Chaos might think they’re runnin’ the show.”

He steps forward, eyes burning.

“But me?  

I don’t do funny.  

I don’t do cute.  

And I sure as hell don’t do chaos.”

He points at the camera.

“Clowns belong in circuses.  

Not in my ring.  

Not in my division.  

Not in my federation.”

“So it’s time to call an exterminator.”

He smirks.

“It’s time to call Brooklyn’s Finest.”

He paces, slow and deliberate, like a lion in a cage.

“You see, while everybody else on SLAM is busy arguin’ about who’s real, who’s fake, who’s missin’, who’s masked, who’s impersonatin’ who…  

I’m over here doin’ what I always do.”

He slams a fist into a heavy bag so hard the chain rattles.

“Workin’.  

Sweatin’.  

Bleedin’.  

Earnin’.”

He leans in.

“And now?  

Now I’m takin’ out the trash.”

Enter Benny & Buster Bravado 

Two tiny shadows peek from behind a stack of weight plates.

Then two even tinier heads pop out.

Benny Bravado and Buster Bravado, the two Brooklyn Minis, wearing matching tracksuits three sizes too big and gold chains heavier than they are.

Benny:  

“Yo V! You talkin’ about clowns again?”

Buster:  

“Yeah, V, you know we don’t like clowns neither. They freak us out. Too many colors. Too much smilin’. Too much… chaos.”

Victor sighs.

“Boys… what did I tell you about sneakin’ into my promos?”

Benny shrugs.  

“We’re supportin’ the brand.”

Buster nods.  

“Yeah, we’re like… ambiance.”

Victor rubs his temples.

“Fine. You wanna be here? Be here. But stay outta the way. I’m makin’ a statement.”

The Minis salute like soldiers.

“YES, CAPTAIN STEELE.”

Victor shakes his head.

“The Agents of Chaos think they’re untouchable.”

He turns back to the camera.

“They think because they got five bodies, face paint, neon lights, and a laugh track, they run SLAM.”

He cracks his knuckles again.

“But they ain’t never dealt with Brooklyn.”

Benny whispers to Buster:  

“Brooklyn rules.”

Buster whispers back:  

“Brooklyn always rules.”

Victor continues.

“They ain’t never dealt with a man who wakes up before the sun just to punch somethin’.  

They ain’t never dealt with a man who don’t need a faction, a mask, a gimmick, or a circus tent.”

He steps closer.

“They ain’t never dealt with me.”

“Jinx Jester. Trickster Sister. Shadow Trickster. Jake. Jack.”

He counts them off on his fingers.

“Five clowns.  

Five problems.  

Five reasons I’m losin’ patience.”

He points at the camera again.

“You wanna giggle?  

Giggle.  

You wanna flip?  

Flip.  

You wanna crawl outta the rafters like a raccoon lookin’ for leftovers?  

Be my guest.”

He smirks.

“But sooner or later…  

You’re gonna have to step in the ring with me.”

He taps his chest.

“And when you do?  

Ain’t gonna be no confetti.  

Ain’t gonna be no glitter.  

Ain’t gonna be no carnival music.”

He leans in, voice low.

“It’s just gonna be you…  

Me…  

And the sound of your jaw hittin’ the mat.”

Benny & Buster Add Fuel to the Fire

Benny jumps in front of the camera.

“Yeah! And then we’re gonna sweep up the pieces!”

Buster nods aggressively.

“Yeah! We’re like… clown janitors!”

Victor grabs them both by the collars and drags them back.

“Boys. Please. I’m tryin’ to be intimidating.”

Benny:  

“You’re doin’ great.”

Buster:  

“Ten outta ten. Very scary.”

Victor sighs again.

“This ain’t about titles. Not yet.”

He wipes sweat from his face.

“This ain’t about the Rising Star Championship.  

This ain’t about the Women’s Championship.  

This ain’t even about the SLAM World Championship—wherever the hell Liger Llama is.”

He pauses.

“This is about respect.”

He slams his fist into his palm.

“And I ain’t lettin’ a bunch of painted‑up chaos gremlins turn my show into a joke.”

“So here’s the deal.”

He steps right up to the lens.

“You want chaos?  

I’ll give you chaos.”

He cracks his neck.

“You want violence?  

I’ll give you violence.”

He cracks his knuckles.

“You want a fight?  

I’ll give you a fight.”

He growls.

“But you step to me?  

You step to Brooklyn.”

He points at the camera one last time.

“And Brooklyn don’t play.”

Benny & Buster Close It Out

Benny:  

“BROOKLYN DON’T PLAY!”

Buster:  

“BROOKLYN BREAKS KNEECAPS!”

Victor:  

“HEY! We don’t say that part on camera!”

Benny:  

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Buster:  

“Our bad.”

Victor shakes his head, smirking despite himself.

Final Words

“So Agents of Chaos…  

Laugh while you can.  

Dance while you can.  

Flip while you can.”

He steps back into the shadows of the Steel Mill Gym.

“Because Brooklyn’s Finest is comin’.  

And when I get there?”

He cracks his fists one last time.

“The circus closes.”

Benny unnecessarily shouts, "THE CIRCUS CLOSES!"

Buster looks confused.

"Wait. There's a circus in town? Can we ride the elephants?" 🐘 🐘 

Victor tries not to laugh as he turns the camera off.