The camera snaps on outside the Gas South Arena. A steel door bangs shut behind Eric Dane Jr. as he's forcefully ejected from the building. He stumbles forward, clutching taped ribs, hoodie half-off, face hot with adrenaline. He smacks the door, winces, then stares into the lens.

Eric Dane Jr.: “So that’s how it is, huh? Scoot freakin’ Stoovers decides he’s gonna play mall cop tonight and toss me out on the sidewalk like I’m some drunk trying to hop the rail. That’s your big power move? Congrats, man. You’re the GM of WrestleUTA, babysitter‑in‑chief, nothing but a high‑octane loser stuck herding cats while the whole company’s on fire.”

He paces, tugging at his ribs, then jabs a thumb at the door with a grin that doesn’t match the anger.

Eric Dane Jr.: “And the whole time I’m in that ring calling out Chris Ross—the ‘Boss of Brutality,’ the big bad boogeyman—dude’s hiding in the back. In the building. Right here. Didn’t even have the guts to show face. That’s not a boss, that’s a yellow‑bellied chicken in a leather jacket. You jumped me. You jumped my dad. But when I’m standing there begging you to walk through that curtain? Nothing. Crickets. That’s who you are, Ross. Big talk when my back’s turned; radio silence when I’m calling you out!”

He steps closer, breath quick, words starting to trip over each other.

Eric Dane Jr.: “And Stoovers thinks kicking me out fixes the problem? Nah. All it does is make it worse. You throw me out the front, I’m coming back in through the side. Lock the side, I’m on the roof. Lock the roof, I’m crawling up through the damn sewer if I gotta. You can’t gatekeep me out of this fight. You can’t shut me up.”

He points into the lens, smirk breaking into a snarl.

Eric Dane Jr.: “Ross, keep pretending. Keep playing tough guy in the dark. But sooner or later, you gotta come out. And when you do? I’m not leaving anything unfinished. I told you once, and I'mma keep telling you until you stand up and do something, you get it? It's on sight, an' I'mma Mollywop that ass you big dumb boomer prick.

He rips off the hoodie, spikes it on the asphalt, and storms into the lot. The camera lingers on the steel door as the arena’s muffled roar bleeds through.