The camera opened on a dimly lit hallway inside TD Garden. The camera slowly zoomed in as CM Punk stepped into frame, taping up his fists. He was wearing a black hoodie with the hood down, a “No One Is Safe” shirt underneath. The crowd inside the arena could be heard roaring at the sight of him. Punk looked up, his expression calm, but there was a fire in his eyes. He addresses the camera directly, straight to the point.
CM Punk: Boston.
He let the word hang in the air, a faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
CM Punk: There’s a certain kind of energy in this city. Loud. Relentless. Proud. You people don’t back down from a fight. You don’t run from the truth. And neither do I.
He finished taping his left fist, then smacked it into his right palm.
CM Punk: Tonight, it’s the quarterfinals of the King of the Ring tournament. And across the ring from me is a man I’ve crossed paths with throughout my career… a man I sometimes get compared to… Jon Moxley.
A mixed reaction from the crowd filtered in through the live feed. Punk didn’t flinch.
CM Punk: I know what Moxley is about—chaos, violence, unpredictability. He’s not a wrestler. He’s a storm in boots. Which is why
I don’t know if I should be offended by the comparisons or not. I am a wrestler. I am the best in the world. Moxley? He wants to drag you into his world and drown you in it. And to be honest… part of me respects that.
Punk shrugs, pacing slowly in the frame.
CM Punk: But Jon… you’ve spent so long trying to prove that you’re untouchable, that you’re fearless, that nothing rattles you. You like to pretend this is all off-the-cuff, wild and free—but deep down? You know what’s coming tonight. And it scares you.
He stopped pacing, standing center in the frame, full attention on the camera.
CM Punk: Because when that bell rings, you’re not facing some rookie, or some guy looking to make a name off you. You’re facing me. The Best in the World. And I know what the hardcore guys like you say. You think I’ve gone soft, Mox? That just because I traded barbed wire for microphones, I forgot how to fight?
He leaned in, voice lowering with intensity.
CM Punk: I haven’t forgotten a damn thing. Tonight, you’re going to find out exactly what happens when you bring all of your chaos in to meet me. I’ll meet your chaos with control. You think you’re some kind of wild dog? Tonight, you’re going to find out exactly what happens when a wild dog steps into the ring with a surgeon. You throw punches. I break spirits. You want war? I’ll give you a revolution.
The crowd roared again in the background. Punk’s confidence grew.
CM Punk: King of the Ring is a reminder. A warning. A shot across the bow to everyone in that locker room who thinks that I’m not going to regain the EBWF World Championship.
He pointed at the camera.
CM Punk: Moxley, tonight… you’re a stepping stone. An angry, unpredictable, dangerous stepping stone—but a stepping stone all the same. And when I put you down—when I drop you with the GTS and leave you gasping for air—I’ll walk out of Boston one step closer to the throne.
Because this kingdom? These people? This company?
It still belongs to me.
He clenched his fist, the smirk ever present.
CM Punk: Long live the Best in the World. Long live the King.
Punk turned and walked off down the hallway as the camera slowly faded to black and the crowd continued to roar inside TD Garden.
Boston. (CM Punk)
Boston. (CM Punk)
Writers aren't exactly people. They're a whole bunch of people. Trying to be one person.
The only living, breathing, Queen of Efeds in captivity
"You can't blame a writer for what the characters say." - Truman Capote