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Jim Cornette paused in his homoerotic kissing to give awkward journalist Dave Meltzer a wink. "You're just in time, Melty," Cornette quipped, the smirk never leaving his face. "We were just discussing the art of the... deal."
Meltzer's face turned a shade of red that would make a lobster jealous as he sputtered out a protest, his words lost in the cacophony of the locker room. But before he could fully compose himself, Trump's deep voice boomed out, "Fake news! Get the fuck out of here, you little weasel!" The room echoed with laughter, the kind that comes from a place of sheer, unbridled shock and disbelief.
The journalist stumbled back, his notebook slipping from his trembling hands. The scene before him was too much to process, a surreal interlude in a world that was already teetering on the edge of reality. He knew he had to report this, had to tell the world, but his mind was reeling, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer audacity of it all.
As Meltzer stumbled back to the safety of the press box, his thoughts swirled like a tornado, a chaotic mix of disgust, excitement, and a sense of jealousy that his old friend Jim never gave him any homosexual passion.
Meanwhile, in the AEW locker room, the two men continued their homosexual rendezvous, each thrust and grunt a testament to their newfound camaraderie. The walls seemed to close in around them, the air thick with the scent of sweat and something else, something indescribable. It was as if the very fabric of reality had been stretched to its breaking point and snapped back into place, leaving behind a scene that could only exist in the most feverish of dreams.
