Sunshine stories always start the same.

Bright openings. Wide smiles.

A promise that everything’s going to be alright.

For a while, people believe it. They soak it in.

They want to believe that warmth lasts forever.

But it doesn’t – because all sunshine fades.

That’s the truth behind every smiling face and painted sky. It’s borrowed light.

It runs out.

The glow dims, the temperature drops, and when it’s over, it doesn’t go out in flames – it simply slips beneath the horizon, leaving people colder than they were before.

Every sunshine story ends the same, and yours, Mr. Sunshine, is right on schedule.

You built your whole identity on that glow, didn’t you? From children’s show host to Old School Wrestling’s own self-appointed motivator.

When Felix Foley’s Funhouse fell apart, you rushed in like daylight – not because you had something to say, but because the stage was empty.

The Sunshine Club didn’t last, and neither did the attention. But you couldn’t let go… So you twisted your smile into something louder – something needier – and now you’re out here spouting slogans as if that gives you control.

As if saying it first makes you safe from it.

But your forecast has been wrong for years. You don’t bring the weather – you are the weather.

All cloud cover and no clarity.

All smiles, no sun.

And the people of Arcadia? They’ve already stopped looking up.

You sit there with your head in the clouds and you talk like a prophet.

Like you’re warning Arcadia of some kind of impending deluge.

At Hounds of Hades, I stood by and listened to your warning of rainy days to come like some harbinger of doom as though it were some kind of threat.

But then I realised – it’s not everyone else you’re warning, is it?

You’re warning yourself.

You’re beginning to feel it, aren’t you? The pressure in the air. The static building behind your eyes.

The silence that stretches a second too long after one of your mottos lands flat.

You know what’s coming. Not a shower. Not a grey afternoon. But something heavier.

Something final.

Your skies have been dark for years, Sunshine. Every time you beam that hollow grin, or wrap your arms around someone who just needs a hug, you’re trying to convince yourself it’s still daylight.

But it’s not.

The sun set on you a long time ago, and you’ve been walking in the dark ever since – pretending it’s golden hour.

Only now? Now the real storm hits.

Not a metaphor. Not a mood.

Not a phase.

But me.

I’m the downpour that pounds your promises into the mud.

I’m the wind that rips the posters from the walls.

I’m the lightning that makes everyone stop smiling and start listening.

The flood that drowns out your voice. Your brand. Your legacy.

No umbrella. No sunshine.

No way back.

You wanted to spread a little sunshine, motherfucker, but I’m here to tell you you’re already too late.

Because I am the storm…

And you’re the man who finally goes down in it.