Fittingly, given the premise of the feud—Who built the everlasting empire?—this was timeless WWE magic.
Two old men used every puff of smoke and every mirror to mask their age in a special attraction too loaded with charisma, and the peerless broad bluster of WWE storytelling, to ever descend into farce.
Vince McMahon could take your NXT fave, book him to go 50/50 with Baron Corbin, and then repackage him as a sex offender—and you’d still pop your t*ts off at the sight of his grinning, crimson mask lurking above the canvas.
