The night was heavy with an eerie silence as Chris Benoit sat in his car, gripping the wheel with calloused hands. His mind was a hurricane of rage and sorrow, his body coiled like a spring. Tonight was the night.

Then, suddenly—red and blue lights flashed behind him.

Chris frowned. Who the hell was pulling him over? Slowly, he rolled the window down. A young man in a red cap and oversized sunglasses strutted up, adjusting his belt like he had all the authority in the world.

“You know what this means?” the boy drawled, grinning. “License and registration, please.”

Chris’ eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”

The boy tipped his cap. “Name’s DJ Daniel. Trump sponsored me, so I’m on yo bumper.” He tapped the side of Chris’ car. “And I heard you been saying bad things about America, about the family unit. Can’t have that.”

Chris clenched his fists. “I don’t have time for this. I’m the Canadian Crippler! You can’t stop me!”

DJ Daniel smirked. “They got them state troopers down in Texas. But tonight, you got me.”

Chris snarled and lunged out of the car, swinging a forearm at DJ Daniel’s head. But the boy ducked, pulling a golden ticket from his pocket—shimmering with the power of a thousand Trump rallies.

A blinding light engulfed Chris. He screamed as his muscles seized, as the rage in his heart twisted and burned. Then, silence.

DJ Daniel stood over the smoldering pile of singed wrestling boots. He popped his collar, flicked his sunglasses back down, and walked away.

"Mission accomplished."

Then this starts to play:

Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky
Are like shooting stars?
I could really use a wish right now
Wish right now, wish right now
Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky
Are like shooting stars?
I could really use a wish right now
Wish right now, wish right now
Yeah
I could use a dream or a genie or a wish
To go back to a place much simpler than in this
'Cause after all the partyin', and smashin', and crashin'
And all the glitz, and the glam, and the fashion
And all the pandemonium, and all the madness
There comes a time where you fade to the blackness
And when you starin' at that phone in your lap
And you hopin', but them people never call you back
But that's just how the story unfolds
You get another hand soon after you fold
And when your plans unravel in the sand
What would you wish for if you had one chance?
So airplane, airplane, sorry I'm late
I'm on my way, so don't close that gate
If I don't make that, then I'll switch my flight
And I'll be right back at it by the end of the night
Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky
Are like shooting stars? (Shooting stars)
I could really use a wish right now
Wish right now, wish right now
Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky
Are like shooting stars? (Shooting stars)
I could really use a wish right now
Wish right now, wish right now
Yeah, yeah
Somebody take me back to the days
Before this was a job, before I got paid
Before it ever mattered what I had in my bank
Yeah, back when I was tryna get a tip at Subway
And back when I was rappin' for the hell of it
But nowadays, we rappin' to stay relevant
I'm guessin' that if we can make some wishes outta airplanes
Then maybe, oh maybe, I'll go back to the days
Before the politics that we call the rap game
And back when ain't nobody listened to my mixtape
And back before I tried to cover up my slang
But this is for Decatur, what's up, Bobby Ray?
So can I get a wish to end the politics?
And get back to the music that started this ♥♥♥♥?
So here I stand and then again I say
I'm hopin' we can make some wishes outta airplanes
Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky
Are like shooting stars? (Shooting stars)
I could really use a wish right now

DJ Daniel didn’t stop at the car. He had a job to finish. Adjusting his red cap, he strutted down the darkened street toward the Benoit household. A creeping fog rolled in, swirling around his feet as the house loomed ahead. A single light flickered in the upstairs window.

He rapped his knuckles against the door. No answer.

DJ smirked. “You know what this means?” He leaned in. “License and registration, please.”

The door creaked open on its own. Inside, the air was thick, suffocating. The smell of sweat and anguish clung to the walls. Framed wrestling photos lined the hallway, frozen images of a man who had once been a hero—now just another name in the dark pages of history.

Then, a whisper. A breath of air behind him.

DJ turned slowly. Nancy Benoit stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide with unspoken terror.

“He’s still here,” she mouthed.

DJ Daniel adjusted his sunglasses. “No, ma’am. Not anymore.”

A deep growl rumbled from upstairs. Heavy footsteps. Then a voice, rasping, filled with hate and something worse.

“You think you stopped me?”

Chris Benoit stood at the top of the stairs. His body flickered—half-solid, half-shadow. The Crippler had returned.

DJ cracked his knuckles. “They got them state troopers down in Texas.” He pulled the golden ticket from his pocket, its glow pulsing like a dying sun.

Benoit roared, the walls shaking as he lunged. DJ met him mid-air. A flash. A burst of energy. A soundless explosion that rattled the foundation of reality itself.

When the dust settled, DJ Daniel stood alone. The house was silent once more.

With a nod, he stepped outside, tipping his cap to the night.

"Another one bites the dust."