A flickering chandelier swings overhead, creaking and squealing with every movement. Seated at the edge of it's light, partially obscured by the darkness, is The Nickleman himself. He's resting atop a small wooden stool, passing a blade back and forth between his hands. After a few moments of silence, he lifts his gaze and stares into the off-center camera.

"So, John...

You think you're untouchable?"

The Nickleman smirked as he looked back down at the cold steel in his hands.

"I thought that, too, John...

Until Jordan Penn reminded me just how vulnerable I was."

Without warning, Charlie digs the sharp edge of the blade into the palm of his hand. He grimaces slightly, but not for long, as he always hides the pain afflicting him. With the blade caught in the flesh of his palm, Charlie makes a fist around the dagger- drawing even more blood. A steady stream of red trickles down from his closed fist.

"And now, I'm going to remind you exactly how vulnerable YOU are.

You think a Blade Championship Blade makes you dangerous?

That cheap prop ain't cuttin' me, Johnny boy...and your words ain't neither."

The Nickleman releases the blade from his fist, and instead brings it up to his forehead. He begins tapping the steel against his face as the swinging chandelier keeps Charlie oscillating between the light and the dark.

"Everyone wants a piece of The Nickleman: just look at Bad Medicine. Dyson, Korvayne, Storm- the real one, not your special needs friend- they all came nipping at my heels, trying to take a bite out of my hide, trying to skin my alive...

And yet here I am, still standing.

Cause can't no-one cut me down.

Not even God himself."

Charlie drags the blade across his forehead, letting a crimson mask wash over his grizzled face. The blood runs down his eyes and his nose, before getting stuck in his scraggly beard.

"Sticks and stones can't even broke my bones: so your words, John? Will do nothing but expose how weak-minded you are.

Don't you get it, John?

You can't cut me.

You can't make me bleed.

Because a thousand better men have already done it. They've already toughened my skin into leather.

So these days, I cut myself just often enough to keep up my hard shell.

Because no matter how much damage you think you can do to me: I can always do more. I already have done more."

Charlie lowers the blade and stares at it for an uncomfortable amount of time, almost as if he were analyzing the blood and skin particles upon it through a microscope.

"So this Thursday night, Johnny: I'm going to make an example out of you.

I'm going to butcher you alive, boy: I'm going to cut and cut and then cut again. I'm going to cut you so deep, that you feel it in your soul.

Because I know Jordan Penn is going to be watching:

And I can't wait to give him something to fear...

The fear of being bladed like John."

Charlie drops the knife, letting it clang on the floor.

"The truth of the matter is that you're not built for this, John. You never have been, and you never will be. You're not a real professional wrestler: at best, you're the modern day equivalent of a circus sideshow: without the clowns.

Because even the clowns are more threatening than you and your ilk.

Is it any wonder why management had to create an entire division named after you?

They created a Special Ed section of the fed, and they made it bear your name.

If I were you?

I'd have committed seppuku with that Blade Championship Blade as soon it touched my hand."

The Nickleman slowly stands up, placing his hands upon his knees as he rises. When he removes his hands, one of his pant legs is stained with scarlet.

"But this match isn't about you or your pathetic excuse of a division.

This match isn't even about ME...

This match is about one thing and one thing only:

Striking fear into the heart of that bastard Penn.

And you, John?

Are nothing more than a meager sacrifice.

An unwilling virgin, about to be cast into the flames....

Tossed into the volcano....

And cut beyond all recognition.

So you better have a nice day, John...

Because it might just be your last!"

The Nickleman screams his final words into the camera and then...nothing. He just stands there, bleeding, and breathing heavy. But the chandelier above him slowly loses momentum, and after a few moments, it quietly comes to a stop.

Then the scene cuts.