Music erupts from all sides. A champion's music: horns, electric guitars and a heavy hip-hop beat.

The crowd roars as the Champ emerges from a cloud of stage smoke, his arms held high and entourage following close behind.

He ducks the ropes and enters the ring. He holds one gloved hand to his ear, beckoning the audience for more. And the gladly oblige, exploding into chants and cheers. 

He drinks it in. Hopping in place, he dazzles them with his footwork and a few showy jabs, his glorious red and gold satin robe, emblazoned with the words "THE CHAMP," billows and sways with his every graceful motion.

Then, there is a change in the music; ominous and swelling.

The contender emerges from the smoke, his eyes fixed like diamonds on the ring.

He is short, balding, doughy and pale. He wears a powder blue Ultimate Blanket with Sleeves.

The audience falls silent. The Champ's mouth slackens and the scales fall from his eyes. Before his mysterious adversary has even reached the ring, he knows he has lost.

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