UNIVERSITY BLVD; Birmingham, AL

A lone ambulance screams down the tight strip of pavement leading to one of the medical facilities at the University of Alabama-Birmingham hospital complex. Red lights flash and a siren wails as (most) everyone else on the road scrambles to get their vehicles out of the screeching path of this particular mobile triage unit.

In the back of the med-wagon, Eric Dane Jr sits uncomfortably on a bench seat, his left shoulder taped up and a fresh bruise darkening his jawline. Across from him, a brand new paramedic—young, nervous, constantly adjusting his latex gloves—does his best to discern exactly what is wrong with Scott Steel, who lies unconscious on the gurney between them.

PARAMEDIC
So, what exactly is wrong with this guy?

ERIC DANE, JR
He got Superkicked a bunch of times by a couple of children.

The paramedic stops mid-examination, staring at Eric with wide eyes.

PARAMEDIC
I... uh... children? Like, actual kids?

ERIC DANE, JR
It's fine. We're pro-wrestlers. This kind of thing happens more often than you'd think. I think one of them caught him right in the temple and scrambled his brains.

PARAMEDIC
Wait, so... children... kicked him? In the head?

ERIC DANE, JR (sighing wearily)
Welcome to professional wrestling, kid.

The ambulance hits a pothole, jostling everyone inside. Suddenly, Scott Steel's eyes snap open—wild, unfocused, and absolutely furious.

SCOTT STEEL
RAAAAAAHHHHH! WHERE ARE... THE BLUE MONKEYS... STOLE MY... CHAMPIONSHIP GRAVY!

The paramedic nearly jumps out of his skin as Scott Steel sits bolt upright on the gurney, his massive frame filling the cramped space.

PARAMEDIC
Jesus Christ! He's awake! Should I sedate him?

Scott Steel's eyes dart around the ambulance like a caged animal. He grabs the nearest medical equipment tray and hurls it against the wall.

SCOTT STEEL
THIS CAGE IS TOO SMALL! I'LL... I'LL POWERBOMB THIS ROLLING METAL DEATH BOX!

Scott starts trying to stand up, his head hitting the low ceiling with a metallic CLANG. The ambulance swerves as Scott begins grabbing at anything he can reach—IV bags, monitoring equipment, the paramedic's sleeve.

PARAMEDIC (frantically radioing)
Dispatch, we need backup! Patient is... uh... trying to wrestle the ambulance!

ERIC DANE, JR
Step back, my dude. Let me handle this.

Eric slowly stands up, wincing from his shoulder injury, and positions himself directly in Scott's line of sight.

ERIC DANE, JR (calm, authoritative)
UNCLE SCOTTY! Chill the fuck out before we get arrested!

Scott's wild thrashing slows slightly, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on Eric's face.

SCOTT STEEL (confused, still agitated)
THE PURPLE ELEPHANT... STOLE MY SANDWICH... AND THE TURNBUCKLES ARE SINGING OPERA!

ERIC DANE, JR
Because you got your bell rung, big man. We're in an ambulance. You need to chill TF out before you hurt yourself worse.

Scott looks around the cramped space, his eyes darting to invisible objects.

SCOTT STEEL
BUTTERFLY SAMMICHES! THE REFEREE IS A TOASTER! DID THE CEILING WIN THE BELT?

ERIC DANE, JR (nodding as if this makes perfect sense)
Yeah, we got our asses kicked by a couple of teenagers, Steel. But we're alive.

The ambulance pulls into the hospital emergency bay with a final wail of its siren. The paramedic stares in bewilderment.

PARAMEDIC (into radio)
Two wrestlers incoming. One with severe concussion and complete... uh... verbal incoherence, one with shoulder separation. Both are... honestly, I have no idea what's happening anymore.

SCOTT STEEL (as they wheel him out)
THE GRAVY TRAIN HAS NO BRAKES! BANANA HAMMERS! TUESDAY IS A LIE!

ERIC DANE, JR (patting Scott's shoulder gently)
That's right, Unk. We're both gonna be watching next week's Iron City Fight Club from hospital beds.

SCOTT STEEL
JELLO CHAMPIONSHIP! THE WALLS TASTE LIKE VICTORY!

ERIC DANE, JR (to the confused medical staff)
He says the food can't be worse than catering.

As they're wheeled into the emergency room, Eric pulls out his phone with his good arm and starts typing: "Dane Jr. and Steel out indefinitely. Don't ask."