Kemal Yilmaz vs. Kimberly Williams vs. David Striker vs. Asher Hayes

[The Matt]

2 of 2
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August 4th, 2026
Boston, Massachusetts
Off Camera
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The air hung heavy over the cracked pavement of the block, thick with the smell of old asphalt, stale exhaust, and the sharp, vinegar tang radiating from the kitchen counter of Kimberly Williams’s home. Inside the living room, the bare overhead lightbulb buzzed its eternal, low-frequency hum, casting a harsh yellow glare over the peeling wallpaper and the warped hardwood floorboards. Today was special, today was a meeting of the neighborhood watch that Kimberly had joined months ago. And tonight’s meeting promised to be an eventful one, especially with new leadership ready to take the reins of power and guide the neighborhood watch into the future. The room felt crowded, but the attendance was a far cry from the bustling meetings of months past. When Shane Ball had been running the show, the room had been packed with anxious neighbors looking for safety. But ever since Kimberly had personally caught Shane red-handed in a late-night alleyway and handed him over to the local precinct for orchestrating the very rash of burglaries he was supposed to be preventing, the neighborhood watch had suffered a serious identity crisis. Most of the old guard had quietly backed out, thoroughly disillusioned by the betrayal. The handful of locals who remained were either remarkably brave, entirely out of options, or simply fascinated by the brand of chaotic justice Kimberly brought to the table. Now, Kimberly had stepped into the power vacuum, bestowing upon herself the official title of Commander in Chef.

She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the sunken tweed sofa, looking like a drill instructor who had lost a fight with a craft store. She was wearing a faded woodland camouflage utility vest over a black tank top, her face freshly painted with thick, aggressive streaks of forest green and charcoal face paint. Perched atop her head was her signature pink glittery hard hat, catching the glare of the overhead bulb and throwing tiny, flickering pink sparkles across the cracked ceiling plaster. Sitting on the middle cushion of the sofa directly behind her was Tommy Wasley. The burly, dark-bearded man leaned back against the rickety frame, his heavy work boots resting flat on the floor and a lukewarm mug of black coffee cradled in his thick, calloused hands. He was a quiet, steady presence amidst the madness, wearing his usual faded gray pocket tee and Carhartt pants, offering reassuring nods to the nervous neighbors whenever Kimberly’s speech reached a particularly theatrical crescendo. Resting precisely between Tommy and the arm of the couch was Wasley the penguin.

The oversized plushie sat impeccably straight, his dense core of lead fishing weights causing the couch cushion to indent into a deep, permanent crater. To mark his official promotion to second-in-command of the neighborhood watch, Kimberly had upgraded his headgear. The miniature yellow hard hat was gone, replaced by a dark green military-style beret that sat slightly askew over his left plastic bead eye. A tiny silver star was pinned to the felt fabric of the beret, giving the heavy, potentially lethal stuffed animal the distinct aura of a veteran tactical advisor evaluating the room’s defensive posture. In the far corner of the room, sitting atop the dented metal filing cabinet, Caligula the hamster was conducting his own high-intensity patrol. The golden rodent was throwing his entire weight into his plastic exercise wheel, driving the mechanism with a frantic, rhythmic velocity that made the cabinet vibrate against the floorboards. The loud, metallic squeak of the wheel cut through the room like a tiny siren, providing a restless, energetic beat to the meeting. Caligula would occasionally sprint to a complete halt, press his tiny pink nose against the plastic bars to glare at the gathered neighbors with pure, unadulterated malice, and then instantly launch back into his furious workout.

Kimberly reached down and tapped a heavy framing hammer against a brass candlestick on the floor, the sharp metallic chime ringing out to bring the small circle of attendees to order. She adjusted her glittery helmet, her dark eyes sweeping over the few brave souls who had showed up, her face set in an expression of absolute, unyielding tactical command.

“Listen up, maggots!” Kim exclaims sharply. “I am going to speak once and only once and if any of you maggots speak out of turn you will drop to the floor and give me fifty, do you understand me?!”

There is an awkward silence from the few remaining members of the neighborhood watch. The Woman Scorned looks over at Tommy and furrows her brow in confusion.

“Uh, I did speak clearly, didn’t I?”

“Perfectly.” He chuckles. “I think they just aren’t used to be called ‘maggots’, babe.” He winks. “Not everyone is used to your eccentricities."

“Oh, right!” She clears her throat. “Listen up, you putrescent entomological organisms!” She looks over at Tommy and grins. “Better?”

“Much.”

“Anyway,” she looks back at the crowd gathered around “we know that Baldy really let us down. He was a major dishonor and disappointment to the very name and purpose of this organization.” Kim spots a young woman in her early twenties raising her hand. “You! Janice, right?”

“Jane.” She says, correcting Kim.

“Close enough.” Kim remarks. “What’s your question, Private Janice?”

“What Shane did was awful.” Jane says. “He formed this neighborhood watch so that we could look out for one another and protect one another, something we all agreed was necessary in a rough, crime ridden part of town like this. But then when everyone learned that he created this neighborhood watch just as a cover for his crimes?” She sighs. “It’s a wonder any of us even came back at all.”

“Yeah,” a middle aged man with brown hair, Greg, says “I tried to convince some people to give this place another chance but after Shane’s betrayal?” He shakes his head. “No one trusts it anymore.”

“Don’t worry George…” Kim begins.

“Uh, it’s Greg.”

“Right! Don’t worry, George! I hear you…I hear you, the rest of the world hears you, and the person who broke into your homes will hear all of us soon!”

“Uh, Kimmy?”

“What is it, Tommy?” Kim asks.

“You ripped that off from George Bush.”

“Really?” Kim furrows her brow in confusion. Tommy nods his head. “Hit me over the head with a steel chair after this is done.” The Queen of the Death Match turns her attention back to the crowd gathered in her small house. “But yes, Shane-O Baldy was a big disappointment. I mean, when I tackled him to the ground he wouldn’t even try to fight back. He wouldn’t even try to maim me. I always prefer it when my victims at least try to put up a fight but he folded like a damn circus tent.” She shakes her head. “So disappointing.”

“So who is in charge now?” Another man, this time with black hair and in his thirties, asks. “You?”

“Me!” Kim declares proudly. “I am your new Commander in Chef!

“Commander in Chef?” Jane asks, sounding confused. Kim nods her head.

“That’s right, Janice! Commander in Chef! And if you have a problem with the new hierarchy, take it up with Caligula.” She motions to the hamster. As if reading her mind, Caligula starts squeaking furiously. Kim snickers. “He likes you, Janice!”

“Gee, wonderful…”

“Now with THAT out of the way, let us begin; has anyone noticed any crime lately?” Kim asks. Greg tries to raise his hand and speak but Kim instantly and immediately interrupts him. “Oh! Look there! Wasley has a crime he wants to report!”

“Your boyfriend?” Greg asks.

“No, silly, my penguin!” She picks up the penguin plushie and holds him out for all to see. “Do you know what crime Wasley detected the other night?”

“Do tell.” Jane asks, rolling her eyes.

“PREJUDICE AGAINST PENGUINS!”

“Seriously?!” Greg exclaims. Kim nods her head.

“Prejudice is always serious, George!” Kim hops up and drops Wasley back on the sofa. Then she grabs a bag and gleefully makes her way across the room to each attendee and passes out the contents of the bag…

…penguin plushies. Each attendee of the neighborhood watch is handed a penguin plushie. Once she’s done she tosses the empty bag across the room and flops onto the floor, smirking with mischief on her face.

“Now that the penguin prejudice has been taken care of, does anyone else have any crime they would like to report?”

“Actually, I do.” Greg answers. Kim sighs out of frustration.

“What is it George?”

“I have noticed some of the homes in our neighborhood have been vandalized.” He says as he reaches into his pocket to produce photographs. He passes them around the room, each attendee takes a photograph. Finally Kim gets one herself and she studies it carefully. “You see those strange symbols spray painted on the walls and back entrances?”

“Yes, I do.” She grins from ear to ear. “Probably some youngsters just expressing their artistic genius.”

“Artistic genius?” Greg is stunned by Kim ignoring this, discarding this. “We are the neighborhood watch. We all live in a rough part of town that could be better, that could become a nice neighborhood, and all of it starts small, by how we look. Vandalism like this doesn’t help our cause.”

“Oh it seems harmless to me, George.” Kim remarks. “I think you’re just exaggerating.”

“Uh, Kimmy?” Tommy chimes in.

“What is it Tommy?”

“In fairness, these symbols do look like they could be gang related.” He states. “What if we have a gang moving into the neighborhood?”

“Exactly!” Greg exclaims.

“Yeah, sure, it COULD be gang related.” Kimberly winks playfully. “Or it could be performance art!”

The atmosphere in the cramped living room shifted from profound confusion to a collective, exhausted acceptance. Greg stared down at the photograph of the vandalism in his right hand and the oddly dense plush penguin in his left hand, a look of absolute defeat settling over his middle aged features. Jane simply placed her assigned stuffed bird onto the warped floorboards with a heavy sigh, realizing that attempting to apply logic to a woman wearing military face paint and a pink glittery safety helmet was an entirely futile endeavor. The remaining attendees exchanged bewildered glances, silently acknowledging that their once serious security coalition had officially transformed into a surreal, unpredictable circus act.

Tommy took a slow sip of his lukewarm coffee, his dark eyes studying Kimberly intently from the sunken tweed sofa. He knew her better than anyone in the room. He saw the subtle tightening of her jaw beneath the charcoal camouflage paint and the sharp, calculating gleam that had instantly flashed in her eyes the very moment she examined the spray painted symbols. She was playing the eccentric fool for the crowd, deliberately dismissing the property damage to keep the civilian population entirely out of her way. In her mind, a potential street syndicate encroaching on her residential territory was not a matter for a civilian neighborhood committee; it was a matter for a heavily armed vigilante holding the title of Commander in Chef.

The metallic shrieking of Caligula the hamster suddenly intensified in the corner, echoing off the peeling wallpaper as if the golden rodent could perfectly sense the impending escalation of urban warfare. The frantic sound served as the unspoken conclusion to the gathering. One by one, the neighbors awkwardly gathered their belongings, awkwardly clutching their mandated plush penguins as they shuffled out the front door and out into the humid Boston night.

As the rickety door clicked shut behind the final confused resident, the playful smirk vanished completely from Kimberly’s face. She remained seated on the bare hardwood floor, her intense gaze locked onto the photograph Greg had left behind on the cushions next to Wasley. The eccentric performance was over, and the one true Queen of Chaos was already drawing up her battle plans.

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August 7th, 2026
Detroit, Michigan
On Camera
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Standing on the eastern tip of Belle Isle in Detroit, Michigan, Kimberly Williams pauses in the gentle river breeze with the grand, white marble facade of the Livingstone Memorial Lighthouse looming silently behind her. The Woman Scorned brings a vivid, chaotic energy to the crisp landscape, her brilliant red hair catching the sunlight and cascading in loose waves past her shoulders. Her back is turned to the soaring, Art Deco monolith, choosing instead to gaze out toward the expanse of the Detroit River. Her attire is effortlessly casual and comfortable; a classic crewneck t-shirt paired with well-fitted, worn-in blue jeans and a pair of clean, minimalist sneakers built for a day of walking around the island park. Tucked securely under one arm is Wasley, her well-loved penguin plushie, whose soft black-and-white fabric and charmingly rounded silhouette add a touch of whimsical personality to her relaxed, quiet moment by the water.

“Greetings, Kimmymaniacs!” The Woman Scorned waves playfully at the camera. “I should be standing here as your SCW Underground Champion this very moment. I should be sitting upon my death match throne this very moment with that championship in my clutches. I should be…” she sighs and shakes her head “...alas, the image of me without the Underground Title is becoming an all too familiar sight. Two years ago at Rise To Greatness I should have been Underground Champion but thanks to Jimbo Evans and a four way situation it didn’t come to pass. Then instead of a straight up one on one scenario I had to deal with five other people in a chamber match where Ol’ MacDonald got lucky and won MY title. The Enigmatic Enigma agreed to give me a one on one shot but did anyone in management listen? No!” She shakes her head.

“I did win back the title, twice, all for of about a few minutes each in CHBKLMNOP’s fun little gauntlet extravaganza…once again, no one on one situation, just me and anyone on the roster with a lust for championship gold and no real passion or desire for what the Underground really means.” She smirks knowingly. “Asher Hayes was the lucky little bastard who walked away with MY title in that one. But hey, I give ya credit, at least you have been willing to grant me a one on one opportunity. And let’s face it, that’s how it should be. That’s what these people want to see. You endured a gauntlet of hell, you endured everything Franky Poo and CHBK have thrown at you. But can you survive the Queen of the Death Match? Can you survive the woman who OWNS the Underground Division? Now THAT is a money making match right there. That is easy booking. A blind man could see it.” The Woman Scorned scratches her chin as if deep in thought.

“So that begs the question; why are YOU in this match, Davey Crockett Striker?” She shrugs her shoulders. “Who really knows? I mean, tell me when my facts are off; didn’t Asher already beat you? Didn’t I already beat you? Yet here you are in a four way dance against Asher and myself for the same Underground Championship. Hey, don’t get me wrong, Davey Crockett. There is absolutely zero disrespect intended. You and I have gone to hell and back before. I know how tough you are and I know you will bring the absolute worst violence imagineable in order to win that championship. At least, you will try. But just like you tried years ago when I was champion, you will ultimately fail because when it comes to the Queen of the Death Match and the Underground Division, this is just one obstacle you cannot overcome. So again I ask; why are you here?”

“That brings me to the fourth member of this four way dance; Kemal Yilmaz. Unlike Striker, I know precisely why you are here. You are here at the behest of our beloved CEO…who I love very much, by the way…Franky Poo. Franky hates the Underground and you Kemal, well, you and your European Fiery Friends hate everything. But you are really buddy buddy with Franky. You have done absolutely nothing of worth, you have lost nearly every match you have been in. Hell, you whined and bitched and moaned to get an Ultimate Submissions Match against Glory Braddock and yet you absolutely fell flat on your face. You failed. You have done NOTHING to deserve to be in this match. So again, why are you here? Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? A blind squirrel finds the nut once in awhile. A broken clock is right at least twice a day. Franky Poo is hoping that you will get really damn lucky and win the Underground Title on a fluke so he can convince your dumb ass to hand it over to him and he can retire it.” She shakes her head.

“Nope, not gonna happen. I may be Swiss when it comes to Franky Poo, neutrality and all, but I am not neutral to the Underground Championship. It rightfully belongs to me and I will defend it and this division to my dying breath. You do not belong in this match, Kemal. Neither do you, Davey Crockett.” She points a finger at the camera. “This is about you, Asher. You and that championship you currently possess. I should have received a one on one title shot but instead here I am, at another Rise To Greatness in yet another four way for the Underground Title. Someone is trying to stack the deck against The Queen of the Death Match. Someone is hoping history will repeat itself and the numbers game will work against me.” She throws her head back and laughs nastily.

“Noto this time! Not again! Not ever!” She shakes her head. “In fact, I look forward to this because it gives me the opportunity to right a wrong. Rise To Greatness two years ago should never have happened. That should have been mine. The chamber match? It should have been mine. CHBK’s gauntlet that YOU WON, Asher…it SHOULD! HAVE! BEEN! MINE!” A look of pure evil forms across her face. “And if that means I have to maim all three of you to get what I want and set everything right and reclaim my championship then so be it!”

“I didn’t build the Underground Division just to watch it become a pawn in Franky’s board games or a consolation prize for people who couldn’t cut it in the main event. I bled for that belt when this company was still figuring out what death matches even were. I left pieces of my skin on light tubes, thumbtacks, and barbed wire. So go ahead; stack the deck. Put four bodies in that ring. Add whatever weapon-filled nonsense CHBK and Franky can dream up in their twisted little producer meetings. It doesn’t change the fundamental math of this match.” Kimberly shifts Wasley slightly, securing the plushie higher under her arm while taking a step closer to the lens, her expression cold and calculating.

“You see, Asher, you think holding that gold makes you the man. But holding a belt doesn’t make you a king any more than standing on this island makes you a lighthouse. You’re just keeping my place warm. And Davey Crockett Striker? You can bring all the grit, all the survivalist rage, and all the blunt-force trauma you want. I respect the fight in you, I really do, but you’re a ghost chasing a past that already proved you can’t top me when everything is on the line. As for Kemal…” she snickers “...well, Kemal, you’re just a proxy. A temporary pawn sent by a CEO who’s too afraid to step into the dark himself.” She turns slightly, glancing over her shoulder at the looming white marble behind her, before looking back into the camera with a slow, chilling smile.

“Belle Isle has seen a lot of history. It’s watched ships sink into the river, watched empires rise and fall across the water. At Rise To Greatness, Detroit is going to watch another piece of history get written. Only this time, I’m not leaving my destiny to chance, gauntlets, or bad luck. At Rise To Greatness, I’m not just winning back my Underground Championship. I’m taking back my legacy. Asher, Striker, Kemal...bring whatever you’ve got left to give. Because when the dust settles and the blood dries, the Queen is coming back to her throne.” She winks playfully at the camera, pats Wasley on the head, and turns to walk slowly toward the edge of the Detroit River.