Quoted By:
Dave Meltzer, the awkward yet muscular pro wrestling journalist, stood before a group of nerdy fans dressed as a pirate. His eyes darted around the room, a manic gleam in them as he began to speak. "Yeah, so I said that," he began, his voice quivering with passion, "You see, in the world of pro wrestling, the people you work with, they're not just coworkers. They're family." The fans exchanged confused glances, uncertain whether to nod their heads in agreement or to quietly excuse themselves.
Dave Meltzer continued, oblivious to their discomfort. "And when someone disrespects that family, when they spit in the face of all that we stand for, well, then they've crossed a line. They've fucked with the wrong person." He paused dramatically, staring out into the crowd with a look of intense determination in his eyes. "They've fucked with me."
As if on cue, the ghosts of Brian Pillman and the deranged Ultimate Warrior materialized on stage, their ethereal forms flickering in and out of existence.
Just then, the lights in the room dimmed, and a figure dressed in a cheap, tattered costume stumbled onto the stage. It was none other than the infamous promoter, Tony Kahn. "Excuse me," he slurred, "but I think I heard someone fart. Did anyone fart?" With a sound like a cannon firing, a putrid gust of wind engulfed the room. The fans covered their faces and began to scurry for the exits, their cries of disgust mingling with the stench of flatulence.
Everyone, that is, except for Dave Meltzer. He stood there, his eyes watering from the noxious odor, but a smile spreading across his face. "Oh, Tony," he said, chuckling. "You really know how to make an entrance."
The ghosts of Pillman and the Ultimate Warrior exchanged a knowing glance, their translucent forms swaying gently in the haze of fumes. Perhaps, they thought, there was more to this eccentric journalist than met the eye. Perhaps, deep down, he truly was one of them.
