Have No Fear, P Squared is Here

Across the Nation blared through the arena. The crowd was quiet for the most part; the music was unfamiliar. Walking down the ramp was a man with a zebra print singlet. Accompanying it was black elbow pads, knee pads, and boots. He was carrying a microphone. He pulled himself up to the apron, paused for a moment, then pushed down the rope and stepped over it.

PHILLIP PHILLIPS
Hello, there, SWE fans. You probably don't know me yet... which is a real shame. Well, allow me to introduce myself. I am the man of the hour, too sweet to be sour, P to the second power, Phillip Phillips!

He paused. The crowd now was much louder. There was a mixture of cheers and boos; most were indecisive having seen very little of his personality so far.

PHILLIP PHILLIPS
Anyways, I'm pretty damn sure I'm gonna win whatever match I get put in, and you'll be too once you see me in that ring. Because, SWE fans... it turns out, I have skill. And a helluva lot more of it than the other guys here. I have more talent than... Anton Hinston... than Mercy Montana... than all of the losers on this roster, combined in my pinkie finger alone.

He turned towards the ramp, directing his speech at the people backstage.

PHILLIP PHILLIPS
So, remember this... do not make the mistake of getting in my way, or you will seriously regret it... I will kick your ass straight through the damn roof. Okay? Okay. End of story. Goodbye.

He tossed the microphone off into no place in particular, then jumped over the top rope, off the apron, and continued up the ramp.