Oz lays on a very thin mattress, his legs and arms bound by thick chains into a hogtied fashion. Upon his head, is thick black cloth, covering his head and his eyes. He is shown as nude, cut up, bruised, some wounds seemingly fresh as little rivers of blood trickle from some of the wounds, some even look infected. It showed that his captors from the end of his Sermon, hold no love for their Savior, but held nothing except hatred for their Butcher.

His breath was labored, some of his muscle has slowly shrunk away from the lack of his once intense exercise. He might as well be considered a coma patient from how little he is allowed to move. They made the man live like a caged animal while they hold him captive. The sound of heavy metal scraping lightly against cement would cause him to roll to 'look' away from the sound. Grunting, growling, his voice more rough than normal and his lips chapped to hell.

"I never played with my food. Not like you children do."

The camera showed his jailor was dressed in a costume, not like he could see, but his interdimensional camera could. They were dressed up like Freddy Krueger. A Spirit Halloween kind.

They spoke in a muffled voice due to the thick rubber of the mask

"Oh, but Oz... You love doing it. All those people who get scammed by your bullshit contracts. What do you call that? Boy, you're the KING of playing with your food."

Oz chuckled, as his laps smacked, as he tried to get some saliva to work. He looked dehydrated, underfed, and even in his broken looking state, he still kept the air of superiority.

"At least they get to live out their lives first. Now, let's do what you've been since my sermon. Take me to your leader, torture me, try to make me feel something other than pity for your wretched souls when I come to reap them from the very husks you call your bodies!"

He smirked slightly as he turned to 'face' his jailor, and made a pitiful attempt to spit towards their direction, only to feel something foot shaped and heavy slam hard into his head, knocking him out before being fireman carried out of his cell.

---

Oz's face appears on the screen in front of the viewers, with the same kind of quality of a found footage film from the 90s, early aughts.

"Seems like my captors want to make sure that until my release, I act as if everything is normal. It's fucking not, but I digress. I'm to face off against Mr. Amazing. If this were an April Fool's joke, I'd laugh at the stipulation. Mostly because win or lose, I don't care. I'm comfortable in my sexuality, in my masculinity, to allow myself to be called a Miss or in my case since I'm married, Missus. Though, it'd not really make sense for my appointment to be called Mrs. Then again, who the fuck even are they? Is this another case of a jobber appearing and going to attempt to do me in?

It won't happen. Because when I am released, and trust me, these pissants will end up releasing me before our match; I am going to arrive at Anarchy, and you will fear my rebirth. You will feel my rage."

The screen goes staticky before getting cut off.

---

Oz is seen once more by his camera, no longer carried. Instead, he's thrown onto a blood stained concrete floor. Soon a bucket of water dumped on him, filled with ice. Oz stirs as a feminine voice calls to him

"Better wake up, boy, because you're wasting your water." 

Some of the crusted flecks of blood washing away. Oz smirked, and while he had water all over his face and body, he never once tried to hydrate himself with the bit of water he could, not even touching the water that got soaked into his blindfold fabric, just for him to draw moisture in from, speaking with the same hoarseness in his voice and his face and what mannerisms he could portray with his hogtied position, a laissez-faire type of attitude.

"Nah. I'll drink plenty of water, the day that you're dead and gone. That way I can piss like a fucking backed up elephant all over your goddamned grave."

He laughed, the sound more like crackling instead of his normal one, but whether that's from dehydration or his massive amounts of physical abuse, no one but a skilled physician would know.

"That's cute, Ozzy. Very cute. Unfortunately, I hold a hand that's damn near royalty after the flop and fourth street turn, while you're still rocking a single pair. Though, we're about to see the fifth street and it still looks like you won't be able to do shit." 

The person steps out from the shadowy area of the massive room, revealing... no one in particular, actually. The person was dressed up, looking like Art the Clown. If the person was actually a woman, he couldn't tell as the fabric kept his sight from recognizing anyone. That's when he heard a few rings from the boss's phone within a backpack. When the phone is turned on, it's a beautiful picture of his family as the phone's wallpaper. The boss answering the phone as the camera shows a low battery signal. It had been following him for years, and now it needed to be recharged. It phases out, as does the recording.

---

The recording comes back, as Oz is laughing while being beaten, even as he coughs up blood from one particularly nasty strike to his body. He smirked, spitting a blob of saliva and blood onto the ground.

"To my opponent, to my torturers... Ask whatever deity you pray to for mercy. Because Death will provide none when I find you."

The screen fades to black with one last punch, knocking Oz out.