Backstage – Monday Night Raw (1995)
The crowd was still buzzing after Jaxon Cross's dominating debut. Fans were divided—some loved the violence, others hated his attitude—but no one ignored him. That was the first step.
Backstage, the mood was different.
The locker room had an unwritten code. No matter how big you were, no matter how tough—respect was earned. And Jaxon Cross? He had walked in, disrespected the business, and acted like he was above the veterans who built this place.
That didn't sit well with the boys.
Jaxon stepped through the hallway like a man who knew half the room wanted to kill him. He didn't care. He had been in worse situations, in places where respect was earned through blood, not handshakes.
He passed by Bradshaw and Faarooq, the Acolytes, both men staring him down. Ken Shamrock leaned against a bench, fists taped, watching him like a predator studying prey. Even The Rock stood nearby, arms crossed, talking to Triple H—both of them glancing at Jaxon like he was an unwanted problem.
The message was clear: You don't belong here.
Jaxon smirked. He loved it.
Then—a hand grabbed his shoulder.
---
The Deadman Cometh
The locker room went silent.
Jaxon turned slowly, already knowing who it was.
The Undertaker.
The Phenom stood in front of him, eyes shadowed under his bandana. He didn't say a word at first—he just stared, his presence alone enough to make grown men uneasy.
Jaxon? He didn't flinch.
"I saw your match," Undertaker finally said, voice low, gravelly. "You fight hard. You fight stiff."
Jaxon met his gaze. "I fight to win."
Taker nodded. He respected toughness—but he also respected the business. And that's where the problem was.
"Let me give you some advice, kid," he said. "You walk in here, no respect, no paying your dues, and act like you run the place? That don't fly."
Jaxon exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "Respect? I didn't come here to shake hands and make friends, Deadman. I came here to take over."
A murmur rippled through the locker room. A few guys, Triple H, Shamrock, The Rock— stepped in closer. Tension thickened.
Undertaker took a step forward, getting nose-to-nose with Jaxon.
"Be careful who you piss off, kid. This business has a way of humbling people like you."
For a moment, it felt like a fight was about to break out.
Then—Vince McMahon's voice cut through the tension.
"Ah, gentlemen!"
---
Vince's First Test
Vince McMahon, dressed in a fine suit, stepped into the hallway with a smug grin. He loved drama—especially when it revolved around him.
"Jaxon, my boy!" Vince clapped a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the tension in the air. "Hell of a debut out there. The people are talking. But let's see if you can keep that momentum going, huh?"
Jaxon knew that tone. He had heard it from every promoter who ever tried to set him up to fail.
"I've got a match for you next week on Raw," Vince continued, smirking. "Against a seasoned veteran. A real competitor. I want to see what you're truly made of."
Jaxon folded his arms. "Who's the victim?"
Vince's smile widened.
"Ken Shamrock."
The locker room reacted immediately. Some guys whistled, others muttered under their breath. Shamrock wasn't just any wrestler—he was a legitimate fighter, a former UFC champion who could break bones with ease.
Jaxon turned his head toward Shamrock, who just cracked his knuckles and smirked.
"See you next week, tough guy."
Jaxon just grinned. He never backed down from a fight.
---
Monday Night Raw – Jaxon Cross vs. Ken Shamrock
The energy in the arena was different.
This wasn't a normal match. This was a test. Vince McMahon wanted to see if Jaxon was the real deal—or if he'd get exposed.
Shamrock walked to the ring with pure intensity. He was barefoot, fists taped, eyes locked in. He was smaller than Jaxon—6'1" compared to Jaxon's 6'5"—but the guy was built like a tank and twice as dangerous.
Then, Jaxon's music hit.
Dark, slow, and heavy. No theatrics. No catchphrases. Just pure, cold aggression.
He stepped into the ring, locking eyes with Shamrock. The referee barely had time to ring the bell before—
BAM!
Shamrock exploded forward with a double-leg takedown, driving Jaxon into the mat!
The crowd popped.
Shamrock immediately started raining down stiff forearms, but Jaxon covered up, absorbing the blows. He managed to power out, shoving Shamrock off.
The two stood up. Circling.
Jaxon smirked. This was gonna be fun.
They locked up again—Shamrock went for another takedown, but Jaxon caught him with a brutal knee to the gut! Shamrock staggered—Jaxon followed up with a stiff clothesline!
Shamrock hit the mat, hard.
Jaxon didn't waste time—he grabbed Shamrock by the hair, lifted him up, and drove him into the corner, delivering brutal shoulder thrusts to the ribs. Each hit echoed through the arena.
But Shamrock was tough as hell. He countered—slipping behind Jaxon and locking in a rear waist lock. Before Jaxon could react—
GERMAN SUPLEX!
Jaxon crashed to the mat, his head bouncing off the canvas. The crowd gasped.
Shamrock rolled to his feet, slapping his own face, fired up.
"C'MON!!" he shouted.
Jaxon sat up, rubbing his neck. Then he laughed.
He pushed himself up, shaking out the pain, then wiped the blood from his lip and beckoned Shamrock forward.
The crowd popped.
Shamrock rushed him again—Jaxon dodged, catching him with a brutal back elbow!
Shamrock staggered—Jaxon grabbed him, lifting him up—
FINAL BELL.
The powerbomb connected perfectly.
Jaxon didn't hesitate. He dropped down for the cover.
1… 2… 3.
He had won.
The crowd erupted.
Jaxon stood over Shamrock, breathing heavy. The referee raised his hand, but Jaxon pulled away, rolling out of the ring. He locked eyes with Vince McMahon at the commentary desk.
McMahon? He didn't look happy.
Jaxon smirked.
Test passed.
Fade to black.