"Asshhhdonshhing!" slurs THE astonished MOLE-MAN, reeling from Danger, Danger Fontaine's defiant assault. It's his poor little skull acting up again: he simply cannot take this kind of concussive attack constantly coming for his cranium. Awkwardly and with some notable struggle brought about by his own misshapen physique, he gets up off of Danger, Danger Fontaine, MOLE-MAN tears brimming in his MOLE-MAN eyes.

"Ffffuuuuuuuuccchhhhhch!" he moans, clutching at his MOLE-MAN face, backing himself against the ill-used wrestling ring.
"Gofffdammmm!" he groans, sitting down.
"Sshhunuffah bssshh!" he complains, as THE MOLE-MANAGER of MOLE-MAN comes hesitantly to his side, offering a towel and an entire bottle of Ibuprofen.

THE MOLE-MANAGER tries to establish eye contact with the announcers, but finds them busy staring intensely at one another. He looks pleadingly at Danger, Danger Fontaine and makes a time-out gesture, the one where you take your hands and make a T shape.

The audience doesn't know where to look: above them, incredible sexual tension, and below them, incredible regular tension. Those who think of it this way, of course, choose to watch the announcers, hot-mic'ing their hushed debate about tonight's dinner.

"What do you mean you don't know, Geronimo? You said you looked at the fucking map."
"I didn't know I was supposed to look for restaurants, Albany. You never said I was supposed to look for fucking restaurants around here."
"Well, what in fuck's name did you [i]think[/i] I was telling you to look at the map for?"
"I don't know, fuck me, maybe at 8 in the morning I wasn't thinking of dinner plans?"
"Fuck you is right. Fuck you is goddamn right, give me your phone and I'll find us a place to eat, huh?"

The debate is becoming less hushed by the minute, drawing a dangerous quantity of eyes and cameras away from the fighters.