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The pyro exploded in cascades of rainbow sparks as Kevin Nash’s entrance music hit. All seven feet of Big Sexy strode down the ramp in custom leather pants with rhinestone accents that caught every spotlight. His shirt read “PROTECT TRANS KIDS” in bold letters.
“JACKKNIFE THIS!” he bellowed into the mic, striking a pose that would’ve made the nWo proud—if the nWo had been significantly more fabulous.
Swerve Strickland emerged next, his entrance a masterclass in controlled swagger. His gear shimmered with iridescent panels, and his custom chain spelled out “WHOSE HOUSE?” in rainbow diamonds.
“OUR HOUSE!” the crowd roared back.
The two met center-ring, and Nash extended his hand. Swerve took it, pulled him in close—maybe a beat longer than necessary—and they executed an elaborate handshake that ended with synchronized finger guns at the hard camera.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone who makes life extremely interesting,” Nash began, his voice carrying that veteran rasp, “welcome to the most inclusive night in wrestling history!”
“That’s right, Big Sexy,” Swerve added with a grin. “And I gotta say, Kevin—that nickname isn’t false advertising.”
Nash did a slow turn, modeling. “Twenty-five years and still got it. Like a fine wine, brother.”
“More like a fine scotch,” Swerve countered. “Aged, smooth, and goes down real easy.”
