Ariadne and Georgetown stumble around the human announcer’s booth, locked at lips but for the intermittent intervals when the MOLE-ANNOUNCER’s scratched and almost nonfunctional CD burn of “Just The Two Of Us” slips into something harder to describe as music. Their conversation can’t be heard by anyone besides the two of them, but it goes like:

“Griselda, I was [i]saying[/i]-“

And then they kiss. And then they break up.

“This isn’t over, Attila.”

And then they kiss. And then they break up, share a brief venomous look, and kiss.
The power music holds over certain people is just devastating. That’s why Argon and Geaufort weren’t playing any before. They can’t help themselves. Maybe if the MOLE-ANNOUNCER had chosen to play Rolling In The Deep by Lady Gaga or something, they’d have an easier time quarreling. Not that anyone else is complaining. Besides them.

“This is worse than Denmark,” says Ganymede. “When does it end?”

Down beside the ring, MOLE-MAN flexes his hideous clawed mole-fingers around the three-fifths-empty bottle of Ibuprofen. He snuffles. His weird mole-nose quivers. His horrible beady black mole-eyes quiver also. He looks through Danger, Danger Fontaine and his abnormally sportsmanlike expression with an idiotic mole-expression.
MOLE-MAN is coming to realize that he is not in a wrestling ring after all. He has accessed Valhalla.
With his stupid little mole-legs, MOLE-MAN waddles up to Danger, Danger Fontaine with his fuzzy mole-arms outstretched as if for a mole-hug, then lifts him up, upends him, and appears to try to drink from Danger, Danger Fontaine as if he were a cask of flowing liquor in a cartoon. For reference, Patrick Star might have done that once. Not with a person, though.

“Aadddd MOLE-MAN mzzhhefugghhrrr’s drppn baaaaffff!” announces the MOLE-ANNOUNCER.

“That MOLE-MAN motherfucker’s trippin’ bad,” translates the MOLE-TRANSLATOR. “After all the trouble I went through to memorize the actual symptoms of Ibuprofen overdose, too.”

“MOLE-MAN byyyonngggee sss unmfrctmmlll!”

“MOLE-MAN biology is unpredictable.”

“Yff dn sseeyyyyy!” shouts a frustrated MOLE-PHARMACEUTICAL TECHNICIAN in the audience.

“You don’t say,” says the MOLE-TRANSLATOR. “MOLE-ANNOUNCER, what do you think we call this move?”

“Ihhddd unimmerr boufiss unce. Beenin Danger, Danger Fontaine’sh psshn, bff innanimerr e wss drnknn mblrd. Lisstng imummeerr wss imseinn ‘mumerniss.’ M’mme wuh clledhh da?”

MOLE-TRANSLATOR is quiet for a moment.

“I had a nightmare about this once. Being in Danger, Danger Fontaine’s position, but in the nightmare he was drinking my blood. Last thing I remember was him saying ‘Remember This.’ Maybe we call it that?”

MOLE-TRANSLATOR looks at MOLE-ANNOUNCER. MOLE-ANNOUNCER nods. MOLE-TRANSLATOR nods.

“Powerful. But it would be best to ask MOLE-MANAGER before we make anything official. Provisionally, would you say this is a skillful execution of the I had a nightmare about this once. Being in Danger, Danger Fontaine’s position, but in the nightmare he was drinking my blood. Last thing I remember was him saying ‘Remember This.’?”

“Immd suyy ss df’stssng! B’I mnht wdcuuull ehjss ‘mumerniss.’”

"I'd say it's devastating. But I meant we'd call it just 'Remember This.'" MOLE-TRANSLATOR looks thoughtful. "I prefer the full name. How can you look at this, whole... move MOLE-MAN is doing, and only call it 'Remember This.'?"

"Uhfnnm sbivuh mffll."

"The full name is a bit of a mouthful. Well-"

In an act of either violence or sexuality, Aristotle pins Ginny against a wall.
MOLE-MAN roars and gargles as he drinks from an imagined font of endless wine, beer, mead, or potentially any other form of liquor up to and including a variety of esoteric cocktails.

"-well, we'd best focus on the matches, eh?"