Kaito Ishikawa ~versus~ AJ Flare ~versus~ Cameron Tyler ~versus~ Donavan Di Niro ~versus~ Silver Baron ~versus~ Amir Al-Hassan

AWS Television Championship Iron Survivor Match

Six contenders competing for the newly established AWS Television Championship.

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2x Maximum Promos, 2k Word Limit

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[PROMO — MONDAY NIGHT WARD XLVIII PREVIEW PACKAGE — BLACK & GOLD LIGHTING, LUXURY SUITED BACKDROP]

Camera pans across a velvet-lined lounge. Crystal chandeliers dangle above. A slick jazz instrumental hums low in the background. Sitting center stage, decked out in a custom pinstripe three-piece suit, fingers heavy with gold rings, is "The Diamond Don" Donavan Di Niro. Beside him, lounging in a blood-red leather chair, is his manager, Victor Gotti, draped in a midnight black trench coat, cigar in hand.

VICTOR GOTTI
(with a sly grin)
AWS Television Championship. Iron Survivor Match. Six men, one prize. Most call that long odds… but when you're with The Diamond Don, long odds become a short story.

DONAVAN DI NIRO
(adjusts his cufflinks, stares directly into the camera)
See, I don’t play the odds. I make ‘em. ‘Cause when you run with me — when you ride with The Don — you don’t bet the game, you fix the table. And the AWS Television Championship? That title don’t belong to chance… it belongs to legacy. It belongs to money. It belongs to me.

(leans forward, voice slow, deliberate)
The Don can't lose the Television Championship… because it's already mine. The rest? They just ain't got the receipt yet.

VICTOR GOTTI
(chuckles, takes a puff of his cigar)
Let’s play a little game, Don. I name the guy. You give it to ‘em straight. No sugar. Just truth.

DONAVAN DI NIRO
(smirking)
Oh, let’s play.

VICTOR GOTTI
Kaito Ishikawa.

DONAVAN DI NIRO
(nods, eyes narrow)
Ishikawa’s a buzzsaw in that ring, no doubt. But The Don don’t flinch. I throw a wrench in the buzzsaw’s way — grind him to a stop. Sparks and smoke, baby.

VICTOR GOTTI
AJ Flare.

DONAVAN DI NIRO
(scoffs)
Next time you see Flare… he’ll be flattened in the center of the ring. Name ain’t gonna matter when your back’s stuck to the mat.

VICTOR GOTTI
Cameron Tyler.

DONAVAN DI NIRO
(waves dismissively)
Rookie. That’s it. Wrong match, wrong night, wrong era.

VICTOR GOTTI
Silver Baron.

DONAVAN DI NIRO
(leans back, uninterested)
Who cares? Shiny mask, zero shine in the moment.

VICTOR GOTTI
(grins)
Last one. Amir Al-Hassan.

DONAVAN DI NIRO
(voice cold, piercing)
Anti-American hypocrite. Preaches respect, spits on the ground he walks on. I’ll show him what respect really feels like — beneath my boot.

VICTOR GOTTI
(points to the camera)
Monday Night Ward. Iron Survivor. The Diamond Don don’t survive. He dominates.

DONAVAN DI NIRO
(stands up, straightens his jacket)
And when the smoke clears, when the last second ticks off that clock… the only thing shining in that ring won’t be the lights…
It’ll be my diamond-studded legacy… wrapped around my waist.

(smirks)
The Don don’t lose. He collects.

Cue the gold-accented “Diamond Don” graphic. Fade to black.

[The camera cuts to a dimly lit backstage area. Steam rises from vents as crew members hustle in the background. Suddenly, the lens catches Amir Al-Hassan, pacing like a lion behind the curtain. Dressed in black and green ring gear adorned with Arabic script, he glares at the camera with eyes burning like oil fire. The moment he sees the red light, he storms forward, his voice laced with venom and raw conviction.]

Amir Al-Hassan:
["Backstage exclusive," huh? You want a soundbite? Here’s your headline, America: The Lion of Baghdad is done being disrespected.]

Look at who they throw at me in this Iron Survivor Match. Kaito Ishikawa, the paper samurai—flashy kicks and no spine. AJ Flare, a cheap imitation of a daddy’s legacy with enough pyro to blind the sheep in the crowd. Cameron Tyler? Please. Another soft-hearted poster boy for these weak, lazy fans to chant for like he’s some kind of savior. Donavan Di Niro thinks being a loudmouth thug makes him tough—I've seen tougher boys throwing rocks at tanks in Fallujah. And Silver Baron... pfft. A clown in gold paint. A joke. A disgrace.

None of these so-called "contenders" deserve anything. Not your cheers. Not your boos. Not your attention. And certainly not the honor of holding the AWS Television Championship. You know what they deserve? To be humbled. To be broken. To be reminded that the world doesn’t revolve around their American ego and delusions of grandeur!

[Amir slaps a metal crate beside him, causing it to rattle with a sharp clang. He leans in closer to the camera, his voice lowering, more focused now, deadlier.]

Amir Al-Hassan:
I come from a land bombed by your democracy, stained by your lies. I have trained in blood. I have wrestled with hunger. I do not care about your legacy. I am legacy. The only thing that matters in this match... is me.

This Monday Night Ward... I bring war. Not sportsmanship. Not hope. WAR. I walk into that match not for the glory—but to prove to the world, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am one of the best professional wrestlers alive. Not in America. In. The. World.

And when I break their bodies and take that title... you people will have no choice but to acknowledge the truth you’ve tried to ignore since I stepped through the curtain.

Amir Al-Hassan is inevitable. And your heroes? They're already finished.

[He glares down the camera one last time, then spits on the floor and storms off, leaving the sound of his boots echoing in the corridor like a war drum.]