Becoming A Wrestler

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The crowd gave him a standing ovation while Joe, still lying flat on his back, slowly turned his head toward Sandro. His lips moved, but no words came out. He had lost, and Sandro, staring down at his fallen opponent, gave him a single nod. A silent acknowledgment. He had earned this win and the world knew it.

As the commentators continued to lose their minds over what they had just witnessed, Sandro stood tall at the top of the ramp, clutching the FCW Florida Heavyweight Championship against his chest.

His body was wrecked, every muscle felt sore, but it was all drowned out by the sheer adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had done it. He had survived one of the most brutal matches of his career, had fought through every ounce of punishment, and had emerged victorious.

The fans were still chanting his name, clapping and cheering for him as get out of the ring with his title on his shoulder, did some high fives as he walked across the ramp, and turned back one last time to look at the ring.

His eyes locked onto Joe, who was still down in the center of the squared circle, his body limp, his chest rising and falling with deep, exhausted breaths. Sandro knew that this war was over for now. With one final nod of respect, he turned and disappeared through the entrance area, vanishing backstage.

But inside the ring, the mood was far from celebratory. Joe began to stir, slowly rolling onto his side before pushing himself up to his knees. His head hung low, his fingers digging into the mat. His breathing was heavy, and labored, and the expression on his face was unreadable.

Then, as if it all hit him at once, Joe slammed his fist into the canvas. The boos from the crowd started rolling in. Joe lifted his head and looked around, his face contorted with frustration, anger, and disbelief. He had come so close.

So damn close. He had thrown everything at Sandro with his brutal offense, his signature Muscle Buster, and even the Coquina Clutch that had put away countless opponents before. And yet, Sandro still found a way to escape, still found a way to win.

Joe's nostrils flared as he shook his head, his jaw clenched. The jeers from the crowd only seemed to amplify his fury. He staggered to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow, his eyes darting around the arena as if searching for someone to blame.

Then, his gaze fell upon the referee. The poor official, still recovering from the chaos of the match, was pulling himself up by the ropes, rubbing his neck feeling a bit sore, and trying to steady himself. He had been the one to make the final count, the one to slap the mat three times and declare Sandro the victor.

And in Joe's mind, that made him the enemy. Without warning, Joe lunged forward. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd as Joe delivered a swift kick to the referee's gut, doubling him over in pain. The official collapsed back to his knees, clutching his stomach, coughing for air.

The boos grew louder. The commentators were in absolute shock. "What the hell is Joe doing?! The match is over! What is he thinking?!"

But Joe wasn't thinking, he was reacting. Acting purely on instinct, on unfiltered rage. He reached down and grabbed the referee by the collar of his shirt, dragging him up forcefully and shoving him into the corner.

The audience was pleading for him to stop, but Joe didn't care. He put the referee onto the top turnbuckle, and then hoisted the referee onto his shoulders.

"No, no, no! Somebody stop him!" one of the commentators shouted in horror.

Joe positioned the referee for what was coming next.

Muscle Buster.

And then—

CRASH!!!

The referee's body slammed against the mat with brutal impact, his limbs going completely limp as he lay motionless. The entire arena fell into stunned silence before an avalanche of furious boos rained down on Joe.

The commentators were beside themselves. "Oh my God! Oh my God! That referee could be seriously hurt! Joe has completely lost it!"

Security guards, FCW officials, and medics rushed down the ramp, sprinting toward the ring. The moment they slid inside, they immediately surrounded the fallen referee, checking on his condition. Some of the security team moved toward Joe, but he simply stood there, looking down at the referee's lifeless body with a sinister smirk.

Then came Dusty Rhodes. The FCW General Manager stormed down the ramp, a microphone in his hand, fury evident in every step he took. His cowboy hat was gone, his face was red with anger, and his grip on the mic was so tight his knuckles had turned white.

Joe turned to face him, that same smug smirk still plastered on his face, as if he knew exactly what was coming.

Dusty slid into the ring, barely even glancing at the fallen referee as the medical team continued to check on him. His focus was solely on Joe.

The crowd fell into a hush, waiting for what Dusty would say. Joe folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head. "What, you got something to say, old man?"

Dusty's jaw tightened, and then BOOM! Dusty slipped Joe across the face, and says "JOE, YOU'VE LOST YOUR DAMN MIND, SON!"

The crowd erupted. Dusty didn't give Joe a chance to respond. He stepped forward, right in Joe's face, his voice laced with anger and disgust.

"You think you can just do whatever the hell you want, huh?! You think because you lost, you get to take it out on an innocent man?! A man who was just doin' his job?! You make me sick, Joe."

Joe simply chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, come on, Dusty. You and I both know that ref screwed me over. He counted too fast. He robbed me. And you know it."

Dusty wasn't having it. He jabbed a finger into Joe's chest. "Don't you dare stand here and make excuses. You lost fair and square, and instead of takin' it like a man, you pull this cowardly crap?! Nah, Joe. That ain't how we do business here in FCW."

Joe's smirk started to fade. His jaw clenched as he stared down at Dusty. Dusty inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose before speaking again.

"I'll tell you what's gonna happen, Joe." He pointed toward the entrance. "You're gonna walk your ass outta my ring. And you ain't gonna come back."

The crowd gasped while Joe's smirk fully disappeared now, replaced by a scowl. Dusty continued, his voice unwavering. "You're suspended. Indefinitely. Until further notice. And on top of that? You're fined, Joe. A HEFTY fine. This ain't gonna be just a slap on the wrist."

Joe scoffed. "Are you serious?"

Dusty stepped even closer, his eyes burning with authority. "You're damn right I'm serious. And if you lay one more hand on anybody in this company before you're reinstated? You'll be fired on the spot."

The crowd exploded in cheers. Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath. The security team surrounded him, ready to escort him out.

But Joe… he didn't fight it. Instead, he smirked. A slow, knowing smirk.

Then, he let out a low chuckle. "Suspended, huh? Fined?" He looked around at the fans booing him relentlessly. Then, he turned back to Dusty. "You think that bothers me?"

Dusty didn't flinch. Joe let out another chuckle before stepping back, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Alright. Have it your way."

The security team grabbed him by the arms, leading him toward the ropes. As he was being escorted out, he suddenly turned back and locked eyes with Dusty once more.

"You're making a mistake, old man."

Dusty didn't respond. He simply glared at Joe as he was led up the ramp. Joe walked backward, his smirk still present as he absorbed the deafening boos from the audience.

And just before disappearing through the curtain, he mouthed three words.

"This isn't over."

Then, he was gone.

Dusty exhaled, turning back toward the medical team, who were now carefully rolling the injured referee onto a stretcher. Concern was etched across Dusty's face as he crouched beside them, asking if the official was responsive.

The cameras cut to the crowd, fans still buzzing from what they had just witnessed. The night had ended in chaos, Sandro was still the champion, but Joe's rage had just begun and no one knew what he would do next.

As Joe walked through the curtain with security guards escorting him, his demeanor instantly changed. The rage and intensity from moments ago in the ring faded, replaced by a knowing smirk as he turned to the guards and patted one of them on the back.

"Good work out there, boys," Joe said casually, as if he hadn't just brutalized a referee and gotten himself suspended.

Sandro, who had been waiting nearby, stepped forward with an amused smile. "So, now that you're 'suspended,' how are you planning to spend all that free time?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Joe let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. "Man, I guess I'll go down to Impact Wrestling, and fulfill my contractual obligations there while I fade into the abyss here in FCW." His tone was exaggeratedly dramatic, making Sandro laugh.

"Waiting for Dusty to call you back, huh?" Sandro mused.

"Pretty much," Joe confirmed. "But hey, when I do come back, we gotta run it back, brother. You survived me once… let's see if you can do it again."

Sandro smirked, nodding. "I'll be ready."

Joe returned the nod before giving Sandro a playful pat on the shoulder. "In the meantime, you keep doing your thing, champ. Defend that title every week, give opportunities to everyone, you know—be the hero." His voice carried a sarcastic but good-natured tone.

Sandro rolled his eyes. "You're just mad you weren't good enough to take this from me." He tapped the FCW Florida Heavyweight Championship draped over his shoulder.

Joe laughed. "Alright, alright, enjoy your moment while it lasts." With that, he turned and walked off, disappearing into the locker room area, leaving Sandro standing there, still buzzing with adrenaline.

As Sandro turned to head toward his own locker room, his eyes landed on a familiar figure standing near a wrestling coach. His heart skipped a beat.

Ettore Ewen.

Or, as the wrestling world would one day know him—Big E.

Sandro had seen him before, in another life, on his television screen as a powerhouse member of The New Day. But right now, here in FCW, Ettore was still just a newcomer, standing beside Steve Keirn and another coach, seemingly in deep conversation.

Sandro knew that around this time, Ettore had just recovered from a football injury that had ended his dream of playing in the NFL. If he had received a tryout and was here now, that meant he was taking the first steps toward his wrestling career.

A thought flickered in Sandro's mind. If he played this right, he could help accelerate the rise of The New Day, one of the greatest factions in modern wrestling.

Curious, Sandro approached them as he heard Steve was speaking. "…You've got the build, kid. That's undeniable. But this business is about more than just being strong. You gotta have presence, charisma, the ability to connect with people."

Ettore nodded respectfully. "I understand, sir. I'm ready to learn."

Keirn glanced over and noticed Sandro approaching. "Well, speak of the devil. Sandro, this here is Ettore Ewen. We just brought him in for a tryout."

Ettore turned to Sandro, his eyes lighting up with recognition. "Man, I know who you are. You just had that war out there tonight. That was insane."

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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