¤ The feeling before a big match is one of much anxiety. You are afraid, your palms sweat, and everything that happens up until that match feels surreal. Nothing is certain, and nothing is concrete. Such is the life of a champion. ¤

You feel yourself floating like a forgotten nebulous in the vast expanse of space. You are nothing in a neverending curve of nothing. Below you floats the bluest mass you have ever seen. It is earth, and you suddenly feel as if you are falling toward it. The water and land rushes up at you, and you flail, helplessly trying to save yourself, only to realize that your arms and legs don't work anymore. Quickly you fall, as the green of the North American continent grows brighter and brighter. You seem to hover over New Jersey. The scene shifts and you are in the ring of the Continental Airlines Arena. Ichabod stands over you, Kendo stick in hand. You have been beaten nearly to death by the stick, and the roar of the crowd is only like a distant sea, turning in its basin. Your eyes close slowly, and you welcome peace. Your name is Mastermind, and this is your nightmare.

His voice comes through the darkness of the nightmare, and Ichabod steps out into the void. His face is confident and he has the hardcore championship belt flung across one shoulder proudly. He speaks clearly, as there are no other sounds.

Mastermind. Wake up, boy. I've interrupted your rest to show you your fate. Tuesday we meet for the second time. The venue is extremity once again, and once again I will emerge victorious. I haven't heard from you, so I expect you are training your heart out for this match, just as I am. I am the hardcore champion, and there is great reason for this. My heart is filled with a love of pain, and my mind is set on sharing that pain with everyone else. On Tournation you will taste some of the pain that grows inside me. The ring is a torture chamber of sorts. Anything can happen there. The arsenal of weapons that can be used makes your head spin in fear. The battery of moves that my body can deliver in a matter of seconds leaves you shivering in terror. And two words, the two words every man dreads to hear, describe your final moments in the squared circle: Bitch Thump.

I know 873 ways to cause physical pain and mental distress, Mastermind. You will feel all of those, and the bell will not ring until I am standing ankle deep in your blood, sweat, and tears. You are on a crash course with destiny, and you will be left broken at the hands of your champion, Ichabod. Nothing can stop me, and no one will stand in my way. Not your Legion, not Selena, not Justin Payne. Only a few feet of canvas and the empty air that will soon be filled with the gasps of the fans begging for my mercy, beggins me to just kill you and get it over with. Be warned, Mastermind, the weak at heart would not be able to watch what I will do to you, and it is sad that one of these weak will be standing in that ring with me. You Mastermind, are the victim of the Sickness. Prepare for the end, ya f'ckin' choad.

Ichabod's face is the only image left as his entire body fades, and then brilliant white light fills the mind to the threshold of visibility.

You awake in a cold sweat. You look around the room to make sure the evil redneck isn't there. A cold wind from the open window blows across your face, and stings under your eyes. You've been crying, and you collapse on your pillow to sob quietly, knowing there is only one more day until you are destroyed.