The smoke clears to reveal Ironjaw standing in the center of the ring, his face painted with the fossilized pattern of a predator. The crowd is a mix of terror and awe. He doesn't use words at first; he simply lets out a guttural, bone-shaking roar into the mic that sends feedback screeching through the building. He points a finger—thick and scarred—directly at some new guy standing in the ring.

"They call this the 'modern world,' but in this ring, the rules are prehistoric. You’re in the larder now. I don't care about your technical skill or your flashy moves. I only care about the crunch of bone. Welcome to the Jurassic Age, rookie. Ready to go extinct?"