“Tennis, anyone?”

Sir Lionel emerges onto a tennis court, sporting very… VERY short shorts, sweater vest, headband, and a child-sized tennis racquet. He looks like a country club wished on a star to be an alcoholic.

“Tis I! Sir Lionel Pennyfarthing! Declaring my intention to compete in the Battle Royal Open!”

Lionel swings his racquet like a samurai…

Which, for the record, isn’t how you swing a tennis racquet.

“Tennis! A sport of kings! Of culture! Of nobility!”

Lionel reaches into his pocket for a tennis ball.

“FIFTEEN-LOVE!” He throws the ball up… And swings!

The racquet leaves his hand!

WHAM! Striking a popcorn vendor, walking the third row! The vendor collapses! Kernels spill everywhere.

The ball bounces, completely untouched, beside Lionel.

…Lionel grins sheepishly. “Perhaps, I’m… a tad rusty…”

“However!” Lionel declares confidently. “When Thaddeus Duke announced the Battle Royale Open? A no-holds barred full-contact tennis tournament featuring the XWF’s brightest stars? I knew I had to iron my formal shorts, re-string my racquet an-”

“Lionel! Lioneeeeeeeel!” Lionel’s agent, Gene Branagh, jogs onto the court.

“Eugene! Come to celebrate my imminent victory?” Lionel retrieves another racquet, swinging at the grounded ball… with a golf swing.

WHAM! He connects!

In the stands, the popcorn vendor woozily rises to his feet…

SMACK! Lionel’s shot catches his skull!

The vendor flops down the stadium stairs, collapsing to the ground below!

“DEUCE!” Lionel waves apologetically.

“...You mean ‘Fore!’?”

“Four popcorns, you offer? Well, you can’t play tennis on an empty stomach…” Lionel reaches into his pocket for a bib with a tennis racquet embroidered on it.

“Lionel, it’s NOT the Battle Royal Open! It’s not a full-contact tennis tournament! It’s just an OPEN battle royal!”

“Ohhh, Pish-posh, Eugene! There’s always some special stipulation to these events… Like a… jousting tournament! Or a brawl in a bouncy castle! Opportunities for me to show off my IMMENSE ACTING TALENT!”

“...Yes, it’s been wacky stipulations before. But, this time, it’s JUST an Open Battle Royal.”

…

“Ah! You mean a Battle Royal… in the form of a contest of who can open the most things! Well, I, Sir Lionel, offer an acting CLINIC on realistically opening jars! Doors! Lines of communication with your absentee father! An-”

“No! It’s just OPEN! As in, ‘open to anyone who wants to compete’ Battle Royal!”

…

“Ah! As in themed around the 2000 Japanese Film, Battle Royale! A tour de force! I was denied the role of the class’s murderous teacher because my impression of Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s was too accurate! An-”

“Lionel! There’s no theme! No gimmick! It’s just a REGULAR, DEFAULT RULES, NORMAL BATTLE ROYAL.”

“Just a buncha wrestlers! In a ring! Wrestling!”

…

Lionel drops the racquet, suddenly disinterested.

“Lionel! W-w-wait! Now you know the actual stipulation! You can cut a promo on the match as it actually is.”

Lionel sneers, as if the idea reviles him to his core.

“A… *normal* wrestling match?”

“Frankly, my Gene? I don’t give a damn.”