Mickey is dead asleep when the dream shifts, quiet room, pale morning light just starting to creep in, and then the window slides open without a sound. In steps the Mountain like some twisted Santa, huge frame filling the room, bare feet hitting the floor as he mutters, “Ho ho ho, you’ve been real brave this year.” Mickey barely has time to sit up before a thick arm snakes around his neck, not crushing, just enough pressure to make the message clear. “Easy,” the Mountain whispers, flexing his free arm so Mickey can feel the size difference, “don’t fight it yet.” Mickey snaps awake fully, heart racing, trash talking even as he struggles.  

The Mountain laughs, slips behind him, and eases in a sleeper—controlled, confident—just enough to make the point. Mickey’s face presses briefly into the Mountain’s flexed chest as the hold tightens, the Mountain murmuring, “Easy. You asked for this.”

“This is your present.” They’re suddenly outside, daylight blazing, pool shimmering, mats already laid out like the dream planned it all.  

Poolside, the mats are waiting. The Mountain sets him down, flexes again, thumps his chest, and invites the lockup. They crash together, hands fighting for position, chests colliding, the Mountain shoving Mickey’s face back into his pecs while flexing hard. “Feel that power,” he taunts. Mickey answers with sharp gut punches, cracking shots that echo off tile. “I’m not done yet.” The Mountain grins, absorbs one, then explodes—lifting Mickey straight into a power overhead press, arms locked, holding him high in the sun. “Look,” he says calmly, flexing mid-hold, “this is strength.” He drops Mickey hard onto the mats and immediately pulls him up into a brutal backbreaker, knee digging in as he talks through it. “Dreams don’t go easy.”

Mickey scrambles, lands more body shots, breath ragged but defiant. The Mountain answers with another gut punch, then another backbreaker near the pool edge, water rippling from the impact. He hauls Mickey upright by the chest, flexes once more, and smashes him chest-to-chest before tossing him back down. “You wanted the Mountain,” he says, steady and smiling. “Merry Christmas.” Mickey laughs through it, knowing the truth—this dream match hurts, and that’s exactly why it’s perfect.

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