The camera crew seems to be having trouble navigating their way through the dark boiler room they're in, as the shoot being broadcast seems to tilt from left to right. As the shot begins to stabilize, Stan Nick Croce steps out from the shadows.
"Pain, fear, suffering. These are what I wanted the wicked to feel tonight. But what do they do? They cower in their offices or hide behind the desk of the corrupt as they suckle on the power that nurtures the insatiable lust for fortune and fame that grows and spreads like cancer through this company." Stan Nick Croce looks directly at the camera. "They send someone to face me tonight. One who is not of them. One who is pure. One who they choose to be a gauge. Red, you have been selected and thrown into harms way by the swine who wallow in the self-righteous belief that they are doing good in providing the public entertainment, when in actuality, they rob the public blind of their free will. Know this, I have nothing against you and no matter the outcome of tonight's match, you are now part of the fight I am bringing them." Stan Nick Croce's voice turns grim and his face begins to contort into a visage of pure hate. "And you, you bottom dwelling nitwits, eventually I will get my hands on you and when I do I will let you experience enough pain to purge the self-righteousness out of you and the system you built around you." Stan Nick Croce dips the middle finger of his right hand into a small glass jar he holds in his left hand. He uses the finger to stir the thick, red liquid in the container. He withdraws the digit and marks his forehead with an upside-down cross. "As it has been foretold, it shall be done."
Stan Nick Croce looks beyond the camera, at the crew behind it presumably and addresses them.
"Now you get your selves out of here."
The feed is cut of by the IUWF logo and a shot of the commentators at ringside is shown immediately.