XWF drone cameras are always on. You don’t get to be a Mega Star in this company and not have eyeballs tracking your every goddamn move. Doesn’t matter if you’re in the ring, the locker room, or balls-deep in a hot tub full of ring rats and Fireball. There’s always a red light blinking somewhere.

Thunder Knuckles knows this. Hell, he counts on it. 

So tonight, during Sturgis Bike Week, TK made himself nice and visible.

The Knuckle Saloon is a congregation of cleavage, blood, cheap sex, the sight of Warfare but most importantly Anarchy. Basically, a baptism of the Bastardly Father. TK sits alone in the middle of it all, boots kicked up on the bar, Revolution Championship slung across his lap like a golden AK-47 smuggled out of a middle eastern war zone. He looks around and then directly into the camera.

“Look at this shit. Now this, this is a fucking party, and yeah, you guessed right, Brother Knuckles found a new home.”

A bartender slides him a drink. TK doesn’t ask what it is and slugs it down.

“I been in town for days. Breakin’ hands, kickin’ babies, buyin’ shots for guys who look like they lost a fight with a combine. Supportin’ Bobby on his Xtreme Quest, just like he did for me. That's what Bastards do.”

He eyes the camera, a slow grin creeping across his face.

“While I’m out here showin’ love, doin’ the Bastardly Father's work, makin’ this Championship mean somethin’, what’s Matthias Syn doin’? Huh?”

He raises his arms mockingly, mimicking Matthias’ creepy sleaze boy poses.

“Brooding in a basement somewhere high on bath salts?”

The saloon laughs. A biker howls and slaps the bar. TK clinks glasses with a biker chick whose tattoos outnumber her teeth.

“Gotta be if he thinks he has a chance.”

TK’s head snaps back to the camera.

“You hide behind smoke, bones, and eyeliner like that makes you threatening. Newsflash, Syn, props don’t make a killer. Fists do and mine hit harder than your entire aesthetic.”

Suddenly, a dude in a Misfits shirt brushes past TK a little too hard. This may turn out to be a big mistake. TK turns his whole body toward the guy like a Shark sniffin’ blood.

“You touch me on purpose, hombre?”

“I was just walking past, man.”

TK slowly stands up.

“Oh, you're just walking past. Lemme guess, big fan of Matthias Syn? You two ever trade beauty tips? Bet y’all braid each other’s pubes while listenin’ to Nine Inch Nails remixes, huh?”

The bar lights up in laughter. The guy squares up.

“You think you’re funny?”

“No, I know I’m funny but more importantly, I’m drunk, bored, and a No Good Bastard.”

TK headbutts the guy in the bridge of the nose. Dude goes down like a sack of soy harvested in Ohio. The bar erupts, bottles break, pool sticks become weapons. The jukebox kicks to life 2:35 into Kid Rock’s “American Badass” as the soundtrack for the epic bar fight.






TK starts cracking skulls with back elbows, every shot a preview of what Syn’s face will look like when those chains wrap around the ring at Anarchy. A biker tries to Spear him, TK sidesteps and Scoop Slams the biker through a table.

Through the carnage, TK yells over the madness:

“HEY SYN! Can you even brag about bein’ the longest reigning Revolution Champion? Five defenses in eight months? That’s weaker than York’s breath mint game!”

Another biker swings a bottle. TK grabs it mid-air, smashes it over his head, blood streaming, hatred dripping from every word as he snarls at the lens.

“I DON’T TALK ABOUT WAR. I AM THE FUCKIN’ WAR, BITCH!”

Blood runs down his face, making him look metal as hell. Somewhere, Scoops McGee and XXXVI are grinning in approval.

“You walked around like you were some badass, sittin’ in the back for months collectin’ days like Pokémon cards. Don’t you know Ol’ Thunder Knuckles is the only Pokémon master this company’s got? Oh wait, you don’t do any goddamn research.”

TK looks at the camera, panting, leaning over the bar.

“This is the Thunder Knuckle Saloon now, baby, and come Anarchy, when they swap the ropes for steel chains and wrap those turnbuckles in studded leather… matches like this ain’t new to me, they’re where I was born. Ass beatin's ain’t a setting I switch on; it’s my fucking default, Syn. This is my element, and it’s where you die.”

A biker flies across the bar behind him hitting bottles of booze and breaking a mirror. TK doesn’t flinch.

“You got no clue what you signed up for. You walk with a God complex, but every time the lights get bright, you fold faster than a dollar store tent. You’re a fuck boy with zero receipts to back up your mouth.”

TK, still looking straight to the lens, voice dead serious now.

“You step into my saloon, Matthias… you better bring more than bone scaffolds, or whatever spooky shit you do.”

He picks up his Revolution Title, now smeared in blood, beer, and honor.

“You beat John Black to become Revolution Champion. Lemme say it again in case your eyeliner leaked into your ears.”

TK’s arrogant smile is unmistakable.

“JB. Then, when you finally tried to be a champion, you lost to a man I folded like laundry… twice. Back-to-fuckin’-back. No smoke machines. No mystery. Just pure, uncut Ol’ Thunder Knuckles ass-beatin’s.”

The brawl still rages, but TK walks through it like Moses parting a sea of biker carnage. TK in a low voice, mocking Matthias Syn one last time.

“You want the Revolution Championship? You’re gettin’ a whole fuckin’ riot and you ain't goddamned ready for it. Bring a priest, Syn, because you’re gonna need last rites.”

He flips the camera the bird as he walks through smoke and violence, Revolution Championship shining under the saloon lights. Then STATIC. Because even Ol’ Thunder Knuckles can be an edge lord too.