This is fan fiction. Every character, house, show and event in it is made up. No real wrestler, promotion, network or person is involved, and nothing here happened.

There is one television at 412 Palmetto Drive. It is a 1998 tube set the size of a chest freezer, and it weighs about the same. Nobody has ever moved it. Nobody will.

On most Wednesdays that's fine. Dale likes the cage show on Channel 9. His brother-in-law Ronnie likes the developmental show on Channel 14. For years they aired on different nights, and the household lived in peace.

Then somebody at one of the networks scheduled both at eight o'clock on the same Wednesday. Nobody at 412 Palmetto Drive knows who. Dale says it was a corporate act of war. Ronnie says it was the will of God. Ronnie's wife, Trish, says she's going to the grocery store.

By 7:58 p.m., the battle lines were drawn. Dale held the couch. Ronnie held the recliner. The remote, a beige brick with forty-one buttons and one working AA battery, sat exactly between them on the coffee table next to two bowls of popcorn.

Trish's nephew Tyler, who is fourteen and owns a striped shirt from his shoe-store job, appointed himself referee. "I want a clean fight," he said. "No hair-pulling, no biting, and nobody touches the antenna."

At 7:59 the bell rang. Specifically, the kitchen timer rang, because Tyler had set it.

Dale went for the remote. Ronnie went for the remote. Both got a hand on it. What followed was eleven straight minutes of tug-of-war, during which the channel changed forty times, the volume hit maximum twice and the television briefly switched to Spanish.

Dale claimed a near-fall when Ronnie's back touched the recliner. Tyler counted two and stopped. "That's furniture," he ruled. "Furniture is a rope break."

At 8:14 Ronnie unveiled his finisher, which he calls the Snooze Button. He fake-yawned, leaned back like he was giving up, and waited for Dale to relax. Dale relaxed. Ronnie yanked. The remote flew out of both their hands, spun twice in the air and landed in the popcorn.

That's when Biscuit, the family's yellow Lab, entered the match unannounced. Biscuit does not care about wrestling. Biscuit cares about popcorn. He took the popcorn bowl, the remote and a throw pillow out the dog door in one smooth motion and disappeared into the backyard.

Tyler stopped the match. He checked the rulebook, which is a Post-it note on the fridge that says "BE NICE." He declared a no-contest, with Biscuit as the winner by forfeit.

The TV stayed on Channel 3 the rest of the night. Channel 3 was showing a fishing program. Both men watched the whole thing. Dale admits it was pretty good. Ronnie admits the bass was huge.

Trish came home at nine-thirty with groceries and a second remote she'd bought for six dollars. Nobody has thanked her yet.

Again: this story is fiction. Nobody named here is real, no real show, network or promotion is involved, and no real result is implied.