sVo Jackpot 2026
📺 Live on the Sanctioned Violence Network
📍 Goodfellas Casino Arena, Las Vegas, Nevada
📆 26th April 2026
intro
The neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip bleed through the high-definition glass of the Goodfellas Casino Arena, but inside, the glare comes from a thousand flashbulbs as the crowd erupts into a deafening roar. It’s April 26th, 2026, and the atmosphere in this legendary venue is thick with the scent of high-stakes gambling and the promise of violent change. The arena’s sophisticated lighting system pulses with an electric energy, illuminating the center-ring steel where the future of the sVo will be decided tonight.
Jeremiah Sloan leans into his headset, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the crowd. “Good evening, Las Vegas, and welcome to the main floor of the entertainment world! I’m Jeremiah Sloan, joined by the man who’s stared down the toughest competition this federation has ever seen, Julian Fiasco. Julian, look at this capacity crowd. They aren’t just here for the spectacle; they’re here for the carnage.”
Julian Fiasco adjusts his blazer, his eyes scanning the ringside area with the cold appreciation of a veteran. “You’re right, Jerry. You can feel the tension in the floorboards. Tonight is Jackpot 2026, and in this town, the house always wins—but tonight, these wrestlers are here to break the bank. You’ve got the Jackpot Rumble, where the competitors will be looking for a ticket to immortality, and then you’ve got our main event. Carlos Vasquez is a showman, but Danny Domino? That man is a nightmare walking. If Carlos thinks his flash is going to save him from a bully like Domino, he’s in for a long, painful night.”
“The card is loaded from top to bottom,” Sloan notes, gesturing toward the ramp. “We have the sVo Tag Team Championships on the line as The SEC prepare to defend their gold against the unrelenting violence of Southern Discomfort. We have Jason Martel looking to defend his Las Vegas Championship against the hungry Brice Brantley, and a clash of styles that has the locker room buzzing: the high-octane energy of Skylar High going head-to-head with the aristocratic, surgical precision of Vespera Vane.”
Fiasco chuckles, a dark, knowing sound. “Vespera Vane treats the ring like a laboratory, Jerry. Skylar High better be careful, or she’s going to be the first test subject of the night. But let’s be honest—the real chaos starts the second that bell rings for the Jackpot Rumble. You look at names like Masafumi Satake, Alex Sterling, Adam Garcia, and Angelo Anderson… when you put that kind of talent in one ring with over-the-top-rope eliminations? It’s not just a match, it’s a meat grinder.”
“And the meat grinder is just getting started,” Sloan declares as the arena lights dim, focusing a singular, blinding spotlight on the entrance tunnel. “The pyro hits the trusses, the music starts to swell, and the Goodfellas Casino Arena shakes to its very foundation. Jackpot 2026 is officially underway!”
Jackpot Rumble
20 Competitor Over the Top Battle Royal
The bell rings, and the Jackpot Rumble is officially underway, with Alex Sterling and Angelo Anderson starting us off in the center of the ring. They trade stiff shots, testing each other’s mettle before the two-minute countdown clock on the TitanTron hits zero. The buzzer blares, and out comes Kenneth D Williams, bringing a burst of speed to the ring that immediately forces Sterling and Anderson to change their strategy. The ring starts to fill with bodies as Bernard Wolfe, Colt Thompson, and Dylan MacLeod storm the ring in rapid succession, turning the contest into a claustrophobic brawl.
“This is madness, Julian!” Jeremiah Sloan shouts over the rising roar of the crowd. “We’ve got bodies flying everywhere, and the entry interval is relentless. You barely have time to catch your breath before another competitor hits the ramp.”
“That’s the game, Jerry,” Julian Fiasco replies, watching intently. “It’s not just about strength; it’s about endurance. Look at Jay Adder and Mark Hendry—they just eliminated Bernard Wolfe. He’s gone! Both feet hit the floor, and that’s a long walk back to the locker room. If you aren’t paying attention, you’re toast.”
The tempo only increases as Victor Holland and CJ Dreamer enter, followed by the powerhouse Cade Turner and the unpredictable Clam Idia. The ring is now a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. We see Emily Shaw narrowly avoiding elimination, clinging to the bottom rope after a stiff clothesline from Jacob Izaz, while Jake Blackwood and Marty Murdoch trade heavy blows near the turnbuckles. Noah Rogan and Ricky Johnson charge down the aisle, immediately jumping into the fray, and the carnage is absolute.
“We are deep into this now, and the ring is thinning out,” Sloan calls out, his voice cracking with excitement. “Ricky Johnson just tossed CJ Dreamer! And wait—look at the corner! Masafumi Satake has entered, and he is cleaning house. He just eliminated Noah Rogan with a lethal roundhouse kick to the jaw, and he’s not slowing down!”
“Satake is a machine,” Fiasco says. “He’s conserving his energy, picking his spots. But don’t overlook Adam Garcia. He’s been in there since the middle of the pack, and he’s weathered every storm.”
The final sequence happens in a blur. With the ring down to just the final four—Satake, Garcia, Emily Shaw, and Dylan MacLeod—the intensity reaches a fever pitch. MacLeod tries to blindside Satake, but the Japanese veteran catches him mid-air, dumping him over the top rope with a vicious back-body drop. Seconds later, Shaw attempts a high-risk maneuver off the ropes, but Garcia catches her, steadying her on the apron before driving a shoulder into her midsection, sending her crashing to the arena floor.
It’s down to just two: Adam Garcia and Masafumi Satake.
The two men stand in the center of the ring, staring each other down as the crowd rises to their feet in a deafening crescendo. They lock up, trading brutal, exhausted strikes. Satake attempts a suplex to toss Garcia over the top, but Garcia hooks his legs around the ropes, dead-weighting the move. Garcia rallies, throwing a desperate, stinging lariat that rocks Satake. Sensing the opening, Garcia grabs Satake by the waist, forcing him toward the ropes.
“Garcia is pushing him! Satake is fighting, he’s hooked the top rope—he’s holding on by a thread!” Sloan screams.
“He can’t hold it forever!” Fiasco yells, leaning over the announce table.
With one final, lunging shove, Adam Garcia finds the reserves of strength he didn’t know he had. Satake’s grip slips, his boots scrape the canvas, and he tumbles over the top, crashing to the floor below. The buzzer sounds, the pyro erupts, and Adam Garcia drops to his knees in the center of the ring, the sole survivor of twenty men.
“Unbelievable!” Sloan shouts as the referee raises Garcia’s hand. “Adam Garcia has done it! He’s won the Jackpot Rumble! He’s punched his ticket, and he is going to the top of the mountain!”
Backstage
The backstage corridor is a blur of motion, but as the camera catches Skylar ‘Sky’ High, the rest of the world seems to fade away. She is mid-lunge, her pink and gold gear sparkling under the harsh studio lights, her platinum-blonde hair tied back in a high, tight ponytail. Katie Smith stands nearby, microphone in hand, waiting for the briefest moment of stillness before jumping in.
“Skylar, you’re mere minutes away from what many are calling the most personal grudge match of your career against Vespera Vane,” Katie begins, the muffled roar of the crowd bleeding through the heavy black curtain. “Vespera has been vocal about your ‘style’ being nothing more than flash over substance. How do you respond to those claims with the stakes this high tonight?”
Skylar stops, her chest rising and falling rhythmically as she meets Katie’s gaze with a grin that radiates pure, unfiltered confidence. She brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, her eyes locking onto the camera lens. “Vespera thinks she’s a surgeon, Katie? She thinks she can just cut through my ‘flash’ and find nothing underneath? She’s wrong. Every single sequin on this gear was earned, and every drop of sweat I’ve put into this ring is a down payment on my future.” She leans in closer, her expression sharpening into a look of predatory focus. “Vespera wants to play a high-stakes game? She’s about to realize that in Las Vegas, the house always wins—and tonight, I’m the house.”
Back at the commentary table, Jeremiah Sloan gestures toward the entrance ramp as the house lights dim, signaling the transition. “There is the fire, Julian! You can see it in her eyes. She isn’t just fighting for a win tonight; she’s fighting for her reputation. She’s taking that underdog hustle and turning it into a diamond-hard resolve.”
Julian Fiasco leans back, crossing his arms with a dismissive scoff as he watches the curtain flutter. “Confidence is a dangerous thing when you’re standing in the ring with a predator like Vespera Vane, Jerry. Skylar might be the hometown darling, but you don’t bring ‘flash’ to a tactical execution. We’re about to see if that hustle holds up when the lights go out and the pain sets in.”
The arena erupts as the first bass-heavy notes of “Viva Las Victory” begin to thump, the signature “slot machine” jackpot sound effect ringing through the Goodfellas Casino Arena. Skylar ‘Sky’ High is heading to the ring, and the tension in the room is palpable.
Single Match
Skylar ‘Sky’ High vs. Vespera Vane
Vespera Vane is already in the ring, looking like a statue of ice, as Skylar High vaults over the top rope, landing with the grace of a gymnast. The bell rings, and the intensity is immediate. Vane charges, but Sky ducks, spinning away with an arm drag that draws a massive cheer from the Nevada faithful.
“Sky High is playing to the crowd, but she needs to stay locked in!” Sloan warns, his voice rising with the tempo of the action. “Vespera Vane isn’t here for applause; she’s here to dismantle the opposition, and she looks ready to do exactly that.”
Vane cuts off an attempted corner splash with a swift, calculated kick to the midsection. She grounds the high-flyer, working over the shoulder with a focused, joint-torquing submission that pulls the energy right out of the arena. Sky fights up, feeding off the crowd’s rhythmic clapping, hitting a series of rapid-fire strikes that stagger the veteran. She whips Vane off the ropes, catching her with a perfect springboard headscissors that sends Vane scrambling to the corner. Sky senses the end, ascending the turnbuckle, looking for the High Roller—a sunset flip powerbomb that has spelled the end for many.
As Sky leaps, Vane rolls toward the ropes. The referee moves to intervene to break a hold, and in that split second of distraction, Vane rakes the eyes of the high-flyer. Sky stumbles back, clutching her face, completely blinded. Vane immediately capitalizes, grabbing a massive handful of Sky’s tights for leverage as she rolls her up into a pinning predicament. The referee turns just in time to count the fall.
One… two… three!
The bell rings, and the Goodfellas Casino Arena erupts, not in cheers, but in a cascading chorus of venomous boos.
“Are you kidding me?” Sloan shouts, his voice rising in disbelief. “That was clearly a blatant eye rake! The official didn’t see it, but we all know that wasn’t a clean victory!”
Fiasco shrugs, calm as ever, leaning back in his chair. “He didn’t see it, Jerry. In Vegas, if you don’t get caught, you didn’t cheat. You played to win. Vespera Vane just showed that she’s the superior strategist tonight. She did exactly what she needed to do to leave with her hand raised.”
Vane doesn’t even wait for the winner’s announcement before slipping out of the ring, a cruel, smug smirk plastered on her face as she walks backward up the ramp. Sky High is livid, scrambling to her feet and pointing at Vane, her face a mask of raw fury and frustration. She paces the ring, shouting for Vane to come back, but the aristocrat merely blows a dismissive kiss toward the ring before disappearing behind the curtain. It’s a victory for Vane on the scorecard, but the hatred in Sky’s eyes as she stalks the perimeter of the ring proves this grudge is only just beginning to boil over.
sVo Tag Team Championship Match
The SEC (c) vs. Southern Discomfort
The mood in the Goodfellas Casino Arena has shifted from electric to hostile as The SEC make their way to the ring, the Tag Team Championships gleaming on their shoulders with an air of entitlement that the Vegas crowd clearly despises. They face their toughest test yet in Southern Discomfort—William Tecumseh Sherman V and Nathaniel Albright Forrest—a team that looks ready for a war rather than a wrestling match.
The bell rings, and the opening sequence is pure chaos. Gator Bates and Nathaniel Albright Forrest trade blistering chops that echo through the arena, the sound sharp enough to make the ringside photographers wince. Alabama Kid tags in, utilizing his speed to circle Sherman V, but the raw power of Southern Discomfort quickly turns the tide.
“They aren’t playing, Jerry!” Fiasco observes, his voice dripping with grim satisfaction. “Sherman V and Forrest aren’t here for the pageantry. They’re here to break limbs. Look at the way they’re cutting the ring in half, isolating Bates in their corner. This is textbook tag-team brutality.”
“It’s a masterclass in aggression, Julian, but The SEC are champions for a reason!” Sloan shouts as Bates manages a desperate jawbreaker on Forrest, creating enough space to leap across the ring.
Alabama Kid tags in, catching Sherman V with a flurry of strikes, but the momentum is fleeting. Southern Discomfort regains control with a devastating double-team spinebuster that leaves Alabama Kid gasping for air. The crowd is on their feet, sensing a title change as Forrest drags Kid toward the center of the ring, signaling for their signature finisher.
Just as Forrest sets up the maneuver, the arena entrance music cuts off, and the crowd’s confusion turns to a roar of disapproval. Brice Brantley slides into the ring, sliding underneath the bottom rope with a steel chair in hand. He doesn’t hesitate, swinging the chair with reckless abandon into the ribs of Nathaniel Albright Forrest, sending him sprawling to the canvas.
The referee instantly calls for the bell, his hands waving in the air to signify the disqualification.
“The bell! The bell is ringing!” Sloan bellows over the jeers of the audience. “What in the world is Brice Brantley thinking? He just cost Southern Discomfort their opportunity at the gold!”
“He’s protecting his interests, Jerry!” Fiasco counters, unbothered by the chaos. “If The SEC stays on top, it keeps the landscape exactly how Brantley needs it to be. He’s not here to be a hero; he’s here to make a statement before his championship match tonight!”
Brice Brantley stands over the fallen members of Southern Discomfort, smirking as he discards the chair. The referee snatches the Tag Team Championships from the timekeeper and reluctantly hands them to Alabama Kid and Gator Bates, who quickly scramble to the outside, clutching their prizes.
“It’s a hollow victory, if you can even call it that,” Sloan says, his voice thick with frustration. “Southern Discomfort wins the match, but the titles stay right where they are. The SEC retains, but they leave this ring with nothing but the jeers of every single person in this building. They didn’t win this match—they survived it.”
Backstage
The scene shifts backstage where Katie Smith is flanked by the exhausted but exhilarated ‘Spanish Ace’ Adam Garcia. He is still dripping with sweat, his breathing heavy, but the International Heavyweight Championship belt draped over his shoulder gleams with pristine clarity.
Katie Smith holds the microphone steady, shouting slightly to be heard over the background noise. “Adam, the dust has barely settled on that massive Jackpot Rumble victory! You just went through twenty men, and you are already walking around with the International Heavyweight Championship. You have officially secured your shot at the sVo Heavyweight Championship. How do you prepare for the war that awaits you between Carlos Vasquez or Danny Domino?”
Garcia cracks a wide, predatory grin, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead with a wristband. “Prepare? Katie, they need to prepare. Look at this belt on my shoulder. This isn’t just a prop; it’s a statement. I am ‘The Spanish Ace’ for a reason. I didn’t just win that Rumble; I proved that I am the undeniable top dog in this company. Whether it’s the champ Vasquez with his flash, or that walking wrecking ball, Domino—it makes no difference to me. I’m not looking for a fight tonight. I’m looking for an addition to my collection. I’m going to take that sVo Heavyweight Championship, and I’m going to place it right next to this title. I’m not just a champion, Katie. I’m a collector.”
Back at ringside, Jeremiah Sloan shakes his head. “The confidence of this man! He just won twenty-man chaos and he’s already looking past the main event to his next acquisition.”
Julian Fiasco leans into the mic, his eyes narrowing. “That’s not confidence, Jerry. That’s a dangerous level of focus. He’s telling the entire roster that he’s the king of the mountain, regardless of who holds that big gold belt tonight. Vasquez and Domino better be paying attention to what Garcia just said, because when you have a target on your back, you don’t look behind you—you look at the man who just came out of the Rumble.”
sVo Las Vegas Championship Match
Jason Martel (c) vs. Brice Brantley
The atmosphere in the Goodfellas Casino Arena remains electric as the ring crew quickly resets for our next title defense. The Las Vegas Championship is on the line, and ‘The High Stakes Hero’ Jason Martel makes his way to the ring, his belt shimmering under the arena lights. He looks ready, but across the ring, Brice Brantley is strutting with an arrogance that can only come from a man who spent his earlier evening dismantling the competition.
The bell rings, and Brantley immediately goes on the offensive, clearly buoyed by his earlier interference in the tag title match. He hammers Martel with heavy, clubbing blows, mocking the crowd every time he lands a shot.
“Brantley is treating this like a victory lap, Julian!” Sloan shouts as Brantley whips Martel hard into the turnbuckle. “He’s got all the momentum, and he’s using that ruthless streak to keep the champion grounded.”
“He’s playing a dangerous game, Jerry,” Fiasco replies, his voice cold. “He’s so focused on humiliating Martel that he’s forgotten he has a target painted on his back. And look at that entrance ramp—I think he’s about to realize that consequences have a funny way of catching up to you in Las Vegas.”
Before Brantley can set up for a powerbomb, the heavy, thumping entrance theme of Southern Discomfort blasts through the arena. The crowd erupts as William Tecumseh Sherman V and Nathaniel Albright Forrest sprint down the ramp, their faces twisted in absolute fury. Brantley’s eyes go wide, his cocky expression vanishing instantly as he realizes the trap he’s laid for himself.
“It’s payback time!” Sloan screams as Southern Discomfort slides into the ring, ignoring the referee’s protests.
Forrest tackles Brantley, driving him into the canvas, while Sherman V boots him in the gut. The referee is forced to try and pull them off, but the sheer size of the tag team duo makes it impossible. They deliver a brutal double-team clothesline that leaves Brantley folded in the corner, gasping for air.
Jason Martel, ever the opportunist, doesn’t hesitate. He sees the opening and snaps into action, pulling a dazed Brantley toward the center of the ring. He hooks the arms, plants him with a devastating snap-suplex, and wastes no time dragging him into the corner for his high-flying finisher. Martel launches off the top rope, crashing down with a precision elbow drop that knocks the wind right out of the challenger.
Martel hooks the leg. One! Two! Three!
The bell rings, and the crowd goes wild as the referee hands the Las Vegas Championship back to Martel.
“He’s done it! Jason Martel retains, but the story here is the absolute annihilation of Brice Brantley!” Sloan bellows. “Southern Discomfort didn’t care about the rules; they only cared about settling the score!”
“And they got exactly what they wanted, Jerry,” Fiasco says, watching as Sherman V and Forrest stand over the broken body of Brantley, nodding with grim satisfaction before exiting the ring. “The titles stayed with The SEC earlier, but Brantley paid for his sins tonight. This isn’t just a championship match recap—it’s a message sent in blood.”
Backstage
The camera finds Carlos ‘The Miami Maverick’ Vasquez in the cramped backstage hallway, draped in a white silk robe with gold embroidery, the massive sVo Heavyweight Championship plate resting heavily on his shoulder. He is pacing like a caged panther, chewing on a toothpick, his eyes darting toward the television monitor where the crowd noise from the arena fills the corridor. Katie Smith steps into frame, holding the microphone, clearly bracing herself for the volatility that usually accompanies the champion.
“Carlos, tonight you walk into the main event against Danny Domino,” Katie begins, her voice straining slightly over the ambient noise. “Domino has been an unstoppable force, a bulldozer in this ring. Do you have any concerns that your reign—and your title—could come to an end tonight?”
Vasquez stops pacing abruptly, stepping into Katie’s personal space. He points the toothpick at the camera, his eyes wide and unblinking. “Listen to me, chica, you listen good. You ask me about concerns? The only concern I have is if Domino is going to cry when I take him to school, eh? I look at this title, and I see my life. I fought for this. I bled for this. I am the king of this jungle, and you think this… this little cockroach, this Domino, he is going to take it from me? I beat everybody they put in front of me. I eat them up, I spit them out, and I keep my gold!”
He laughs, a sharp, jagged sound, and adjusts the title on his shoulder. “Domino comes here, he thinks he is the tough guy, but he don’t know the heart of a champion. Tonight, I don’t just win. I make an example. I send him back to the gutters where he belongs, and I stay at the top where I belong. The world is mine, Katie. And tonight, Danny Domino finds out the hard way.”
Back at the commentary table, Jeremiah Sloan sighs, adjusting his glasses. “The bravado of Carlos Vasquez is something else, Julian. He acts like the outcome of this match is a foregone conclusion. But we’ve seen what Danny Domino is capable of. That man doesn’t just want to win; he wants to destroy.”
Julian Fiasco leans into his microphone, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s the beauty of it, Jerry. Vasquez talks like a man who owns the world, and until someone proves him wrong, he does. But talk is cheap. In two hours, Vasquez is going to have to trade those words for actions, and Danny Domino is the absolute worst person in this company to be sharing a ring with when the chips are down. We’re about to find out if the ‘Miami Maverick’ has the stomach for the kind of war Domino is going to bring to his doorstep.”
sVo Heavyweight Championship Match
‘the Miami Maverick’ Carlos Vasquez (c) vs. ‘the Bully’ Danny Domino
The lights in the Goodfellas Casino Arena dim to a pinpoint spotlight on the entrance tunnel as the sVo Heavyweight Championship match begins. The tension is suffocating. Carlos ‘The Miami Maverick’ Vasquez enters first, his robe flowing, his chest puffed out with the arrogance of a man who believes he owns the world. Danny Domino follows, his presence like a thunderstorm rolling in—dark, silent, and capable of absolute destruction.
“The time for talk is over,” Jeremiah Sloan calls out, his voice tense. “Twenty-five minutes of main event time, and one of these men is going home with the richest prize in the sport. Julian, the atmosphere in here is thick enough to cut with a knife.”
“It’s a different kind of intensity, Jerry,” Fiasco replies. “Vasquez has the crowd behind him, but he’s fighting a man who doesn’t care about popularity. Domino is here for the gold, and he’ll snap Vasquez in half to get it.”
The bell rings, and the two men circle the ring. Vasquez darts in with a stinging jab, playing to his speed, but Domino ignores the contact, stalking forward like a wolf. Vasquez explodes into a flurry of rights, backing Domino into the ropes, but the ‘Bully’ catches Vasquez’s arm, pulling him into a thunderous clothesline that turns the champion inside out. The sound of the impact echoes to the rafters.
“Domino is setting the pace, and it’s a pace that favors heavy impact!” Sloan shouts.
For the next ten minutes, it is a war of attrition. Vasquez rallies, utilizing his high-flying agility to hit a springboard crossbody that sends both men sprawling. The crowd comes alive, chanting for the champion. Vasquez gains momentum, hitting a series of neckbreakers, then climbing the turnbuckle for his signature high-risk maneuver. He launches, but Domino rolls out of the way, leaving Vasquez to crash into the canvas.
Domino capitalizes immediately, hoisting the champion up for a gut-wrenching powerbomb. One… two… the count is broken by Vasquez’s boot catching the bottom rope. The crowd exhales in a collective gasp.
“He was inches away!” Sloan cries. “Domino can’t believe it!”
“He’s starting to lose his cool, Jerry!” Fiasco notes. “Look at the frustration on Domino’s face. He wants this over, and he’s starting to make mistakes.”
Vasquez senses the opening, dragging himself up and hitting a desperation superkick that rocks the challenger to his core. He follows up with a lightning-fast flurry of strikes, setting Domino up in the center of the ring. Vasquez signals for the finish—the Miami Vice—but as he whips Domino off the ropes, the challenger crashes into the referee, sending the official tumbling into the turnbuckle and slumping to the floor.
Vasquez rushes to check on the referee, his back turned to the action. It is the mistake of a lifetime.
Domino doesn’t hesitate. As Vasquez turns back around, Domino delivers a vicious, illegal low blow, doubling the champion over in agony. The crowd begins to jeer, the noise rising to a deafening roar of disapproval as they realize what just happened. Domino hooks Vasquez, lifts him, and slams him into the mat with his devastating finish—the Domino Effect.
The referee groggily stirs, counting the pin as Domino hooks the leg.
One… two… three!
The bell rings, and the arena fills with a chorus of bitter, venomous boos. Danny Domino stands up, his face devoid of emotion as the referee reluctantly hands him the sVo Heavyweight Championship.
“The referee didn’t see it! He didn’t see the low blow!” Sloan screams, his voice cracking with outrage. “Danny Domino is a two-time sVo Heavyweight Champion, but he did it with the dirtiest trick in the book! The crowd is absolutely livid, and they have every right to be!”
“It doesn’t matter what they think, Jerry!” Fiasco says, watching as Domino raises the gold belt high above his head while the crowd rains debris into the ring. “The record books won’t have an asterisk next to the name ‘Danny Domino.’ He came into Las Vegas, he did what he had to do, and he is walking out as the king of the mountain. Adam Garcia might have won the Rumble, but he’s got a very dangerous, very ruthless target waiting for him at the top.”
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