"What the hell are you doing in my seat?" Nash boomed, his voice a thunderclap in the quieting space. Hart looked up, his expression a mix of surprise and irritation. The two men stared at each other, the tension as palpable as the heat rising from Nash's nachos.
"Some idiot told me I could sit here," Hart said, "an idiot named Bill Goldberg."
Nash's eyes narrowed as he took in Goldberg, who was trying his best to blend into the background. "Did he now?" Nash said, his voice a low rumble. "Well, I guess you've got two choices, pal. You can either get your ass out of my chair, or we can settle this like we used to in the squared circle."
The fans' murmurs grew louder, the air electric with anticipation. The convention had just gone from quirky to combustible in the span of a minute.
Enter stage left, awkward wrestling journalist Dave Meltzer. His glasses slid down his nose as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said, waving his arms frantically. "There's no need for this. It's all just a misunderstanding. Why don't we all just calm down, have some nachos, and maybe, I don't know..." His voice trailed off as he searched for a resolution to the tension. Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he said, "Or, you know, if you really want to settle this, you could just make out. That'd be pretty entertaining."
