Wild Man Dick Clayton vs Jett Ortega

The camera fades in on Jett Ortega in the ring, decked out in hockey pads and a jersey, practicing slap shots with all the grace of a toddler on ice. It’s a full moon, and if you believe in pro wrestling, you probably believe the lunar pull hits a little different around here—because what happens next is pure madness. Enter Wild Man Dick Clayton... but not the loincloth-wearing savage fans are used to. No, this version of Dick stalks into the scene draped in a long, sleeveless cloak, painted nails, hair slicked back, guyliner sharp enough to slice, and bulging eerily in tight white briefs beneath the smoke swirling in the air. He looks more possessed than primal.

Jett, unaware or just unconcerned, has been using Dick’s skull—yes, his actual pet skull—as a goal for his pathetic puck-shooting drills. Dick isn’t amused. When he speaks, it's not the usual grunts or broken English—it’s something darker. He casually starts measuring Jett’s head… for a potential replacement. Then he strikes—knee to the gut, forearm to the skull, and a savage mount where fingers dig deep into Jett’s eyes as the cloak drops away, revealing those terrifyingly sexy briefs. But when Dick kicks Jett low, expecting him to fold, he discovers the hockey player came armored—with a cup. That’s when things flip.

Jett takes control and stretches Dick’s muscular frame out across the mat—tight close-up shots capturing every strained flex and gasp. But Dick doesn’t stay down long. He claws the upper hand back, peeling away Jett’s hockey armor piece by piece—jersey, pads, compression shorts, and finally those barely-there pink underpants. Each item becomes a weapon in Dick’s sadistic hands—he chokes Jett with his own jersey, whips him with the compression gear, jabs with the stick, and even flicks the puck at tender, exposed targets. And once that cup comes off? Dick really starts aiming.

Mounted and choked repeatedly, Jett finds himself locked in a brutal camel clutch before Dick binds his wrists behind his back, shoves the puck in his mouth, and unceremoniously strips those pink briefs down. It all ends with black-painted toes raking at Jett’s face while the WW cameras stay locked in on every cruel angle. The question isn’t whether Jett can escape—it’s how much more this proud athlete can take under the moonlit madness of a wild man unchained.