El Primo spun, his mask gleaming. He tapped his heels, his movements mimicking the famous pallbearers. He wasn't just BM-ing (bad-mannering); he was inviting Colt to the final party.
Colt stared at the results screen, the tune still stuck in his head. He didn't even care about the lost trophies. He just needed to find that footage. El Primo spun, his mask gleaming
Colt checked his ammo. One shot left. He stepped out, ready to go down in a blaze of glory. Colt stared at the results screen, the tune
He didn't attack. He started to shuffle. With a grace that defied his massive frame, he began the iconic dance. He crossed his arms, stepping side-to-side in perfect synchronization with the beat. He was no longer a threat; he was a performer. Colt checked his ammo
Colt lowered his guns, mesmerized. He looked at the poisonous green gas creeping toward them. Usually, this was the moment of panic, the "Game Over" screen. But with El Primo leading the funeral march for their own match, it felt... right.
As the smoke finally touched them, El Primo triggered his Super one last time—not to crush Colt, but to launch himself into the air, silhouetted against the sun in a mid-air dance pose. The screen faded to black.
Colt took cover behind a cactus, his fingers twitching over his revolvers. Across the clearing, he saw him: . The massive wrestler was at full health, his purple cape fluttering in the wind, his fists glowing with the energy of a ready Super.
