SWF Smarkdown 7-10-2006

[chirs3 0]

EARLIER TODAY...

 

Tom Flesher cuts the engine of his blue BMW and looks around. Cautiously, he steps out of the car, looking over his shoulder as he goes. James Matheson gets out of the passenger side, holding, as always, his Halliburton briefcase.

 

“Tom, I don’t understand why you’re so concerned about people finding out it’s your birt-”

 

“Shut up,” Flesher hisses. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching wrestling, it’s that wrestlers LOVE to haze each other on... their... uh, anniversaries.” Flesher coughs, lighting up a cigarette. He takes a long drag, his eyes wide, and looks around. “I’ve gone twenty-four years of my life without being suplexed through a sheet cake, and god damn it, James, I want to go another year without it.”

 

Matheson coughs.

 

Flesher stares at him. He takes another long drag off the Camel and says, “You ordered a cake, didn’t you?”

 

Matheson looks at his shoes.

 

“God DAMN it.”

 

Flesher opens the door the arena, glaring at his manager. As soon as the door swings open, Flesher’s eyes grow wide. The road agents are all there – Chris Belcourt, Andrea Montgomery, William Hearford, John Trudel, all of them – and they’re standing around a sheet cake with twenty-four candles.

 

And in the background, Kerry Staunton is smirking.

 

Flesher lets out a yelp, turns tail, and runs away from the arena as fast as he can.

[chirs3 0]

ALSO EARLIER TODAY...

 

Tom Flesher snaps his golden Motorazr V3i Dolce & Gabbana cell phone shut while briskly pacing the length of his locker room, having just had an unpleasant conversation regarding cakes and the suplexing through thereof. About the fourth such conversation today. He pauses, pulling out a Camel Turkish Royal and then, in one fluid motion, sparks a flame on his Zippo lighter…as the lights suddenly go out!

 

“What the hell?”

 

*CRACK!*

 

The flaming Zippo is all that can be seen, and it is sent spinning across the room! When the lights flash back on Flesher finds himself pinned against a locker with Grendel’s boot in his throat!

 

“YOU!” Flesher growls, as both hands go to the Assassin’s ankle to try and pry Grendel’s foot away from his neck. Still, even after getting himself into such a predicament, a small grin comes over the Superior One’s face after seeing that Grendel’s mask is now straight black. “You just can’t get enough, can you!?” he sputters out.

 

“Where is the mask!?” Grendel’s grisly, enraged voice shouts out. He takes his foot out of Flesher’s neck himself before giving Tom enough time to remove it himself. Hunter may have caught Flesher off guard but he knows better than to leave a vital body part dangling in front of him like candy for the taking. Tom droops over, rubbing his neck, before responding.

 

“You think I would hold onto that damn thing like some kind of prize?” Flesher ask, almost appalled that Grendel would think himself worthwhile enough for Tom to keep it. “I tossed it to Mattheson…he’s probably got it listed on EBAY for all I know…or care for that matter.”

 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” says Tom, pushing past Grendel, “I really don’t have the time for this. I have a party to go to.”

 

Though fuming, Grendel lets him pass. This isn’t the place for a battle with the Superior One, and he knows it. He’s dealt with this man enough times to know that. Tom heads towards the doorway, but before leaving he turns back to the man he humiliated last week. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the damn thing won’t go for more than ten bucks, anyway.”

 

Tom leaves the room, closing the door behind him. He stops, reaches into his pocket, pulls out the very mask he took last week, and smiles. Then heads off down the hall whistling while twirling the cloth mask on his pointer finger.

[chirs3 0]

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents...

SWF Smarkdown!
Live, Monday, July 10th, from the Jedi Temple on Coruscant!
(6pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings)
(Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3)



I should have some sort of description here, but I'm tired and it's late. Or early. Whichever. I'll edit it in.

The Crowd: The 12 Jedi Council Members will be the only ones in the room itself. Floating bleachers will be positioned outside the windows, holding about 1000 SWF fans.

-=-=-=-=-

THE MAIN EVENT - CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH
Michael Cross vs. Zyon
-> FINALLY, the Mandatory Rematch Clause is invoked! After getting cheated (or beaten legitimately, depending on your world view) out of the Cruiserweight Title at 13th Hour, Zyon has been waiting for his second chance. And now Michael Cross, freshly returned from scouting new talent, is stepping up to defend what is (or isn't) rightfully his - the SWF Cruiserweight Championship.
Rules: Cruiser rules - outside count to 20, no throwing over the top rope.

-=-=-=-=-

SUPER AMAZING MATCH OF GREATNESS AND ORDER OF CONTENDERSHIP
Tom Flesher vs. Landon Maddix
-> Huge names. Huge ambitions. Huge egos. This is sure to be awesome.
Rules: Cruiser rules - outside count to 20, no throwing over the top rope.

-=-=-=-=-

BECAUSE PEOPLE ALWAYS ASK FOR STORM OFF MATCH
Wildchild vs. Scott Rageheart
-> See the description. Certain people like Storm off, which means we need to get as much of them as we can! Get while the gettin's good, as they say. And stuff. Plus, Wildchild just bowled right over Kerry Staunton - perhaps his partner wants REVENGE.
Rules: Standard singles match.

-=-=-=-=-

HARDCORE MATCH
Austin Sly vs. MANSONOSITYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!
-> Sly, what are you thinking?! Challenging the awesome power that is MANSONOSITY... it's suicide, man!
Rules: HARDCORE!

-=-=-=-=-

PUNISHMENT MATCH
Mike Van Siclen vs. Cardboard Comet
-> On Sly's "whatver the name is" radio show like two weeks ago, they demanded the return of the punishment match. Rejoice, for she has arrived.
Rules: Sock full of quarters on a pole match.

-=-=-=-=-

TAG TEAM MAAAAADNESS!
Trent Hawk and Ciro Vitale vs. The Bemani Cross Wizards (Ced Ordonez and Thoth)
-> The two nooblets get their first taste of tag team action against everyone's favorite DDR freaks, the Bemani Cross Wizards!
Rules: Standard tag team match.

-=-=-=-=-

[chirs3 0]

...and we are on in five...

 

...four...

 

...three...

 

...two...

 

*click*

 

...

 

 

*BOOM! BAM! EXTENSIVE PYRO SOUND EFFECTS! KABLOOEY, PERHAPS!*

 

 

No. Not kablooey.

 

 

BUT YES, SMARKDOOOOOOOOOOWWNN!!

 

And with that, the camera cuts to inside the Jedi Temple, the crowd in the floating bleachers outside as the sun begins to set over Coruscant still audible through the thick Plexiglass that makes up the Temple's windows, shielding the Council from the excessive noise of the bustling city planet. The windows are too glare-y to see any signs, so instead, the camera decides that Funyon's stance at the middle of the ring deserves some attention.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, and esteemed members of the Jedi Council," booms the mammoth Oregonian, "it is my honor and privilege to bring to you a very special guest. Please give a warm welcome..."

 

...

 

 

 

 

I do that rather well...don't you think?

 

*BAM**badadap**chug*

 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

 

"TO J!"

 

And with Cryptopsy's "Crown of Horns" blaring, the crowd outside the temple erupts.

 

"J!"

 

A rush of smoke blasts out of the entranceway, fogging up the council room quite swiftly and almost, almost making the Masters within wish they were outside.

 

"JOOOOOHNNSOOOON!!"

 

And with no further ado, the man himself bursts through the curtain, a slight grin on his face as he strides down to the ring.

 

"Well, would you look at that," smirks Francis. "He's returned."

 

"Took him long enough," whines King. "I mean, come on, it was just a Burning Hammer, how long could that hurt?"

 

Francis gives King a very, very cold look.

 

"What?" asks the Gambling Man, looking honestly confused as Johnson grabs a mic, rolls into the ring, and clears his throat before beginning.

 

"Alright, listen up," growls the Canadian, "because I got something to say."

 

"In, it is," nods Yoda.

 

Johnson arches an eyebrow, but continues undeterred: "As you can see, I'm back. I had - well, have - a bit of a neck injury, but I sat that out, spent some time with my nieces and nephews in Windsor, sat through that god-forsaken Madagascar movie twelve times - far more painful than the Stinger - and now I have returned, most likely to pick up where I left off."

 

"I bet he says 'kicking ass'," grins King, giggling like a schoolgirl. "That'd be so cool!"

 

"Kicking ass."

 

"Yes!"

 

"YYYEEEEAAAAAAAHH!!"

 

"Shut up! I'm trying to talk, goddammit," snarls Johnson, and the crowd, like the mindless ninnies that didn't ask questions about the set of floating bleachers they're sitting on they are, quiets down. "Now, there is a very specific reason that I have dragged myself out of my very comfortable chair in my very comfortable house..."

 

"In one of the biggest shitholes in all of Canada," says King through the corner of his mouth.

 

"Shush," says the Franchise.

 

"...and that's the World Title," finishes Johnson.

 

"YYEEEAAAHH!!"

 

"And, more specifically," continues Johnson, "the wrestling equivalent of a cardboard cutout holding it."

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Er… surely Cardboard Comet is the wrestling equivalent of a cardboard cutout?” Mak Francis asks, while King grumbles “make up your minds,” at the fans… but then the Gambling Man’s boredom with the crowd is suddenly forgotten as a raucous, rolling chant blast out from the PA system…

 

“COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!”

“COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!”

 

…and is followed immediately by the crashing opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire. The large vidscreen dominating one wall is starting to fade swiftly to black, and as it does so jagged white letters flash up a familiar phrase, one word at a time; a phrase that might be considered a warning for a certain Canadian currently standing in the ring.

 

‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG…’

 

However, the man that this entrance heralds isn’t waiting around for the usual business of pyros and so forth. Instead he emerges a few seconds later, the World Title that is in question slung casually over one shoulder and a microphone in his hand, presumably recently snatched off a backstage tech.

 

“‘Cardboard’ is a bit rich coming from someone with all the personality of a particularly apathetic brick,” Michael Stephens says, grey eyes fixing on his former stablemate as he makes his way down to the ring, “because don’t get me wrong JJ, you throw a mean elbow… and knee… and kick… but when it comes to being the life of the party, you’ve probably just choked it out. However,” he continues, rolling into the ring and getting to his feet to face the marginally taller Johnson, “thankfully for us all this World Title was never awarded for personality, or Danny Williams would never have got his hands on it four times.”

 

He pauses.

 

“Actually now I come to think of it, personality would be a damn good way of awarding this.”

 

Johnson just looks at him as if to say ‘have you finished?’, only without actually bothering to say it.

 

“You see JJ, I’m assuming you’re implying that there is some flaw in my wrestling ability, am I correct?” the World Champion asks, “that perhaps I’m a little fragile? That you reckon you could take me?” He looks expectantly at Johnson, who nods. Then raises the microphone.

 

“Toxx,” he starts, then stops again and raises an eyebrow as if expecting an admonition. Quite what his reaction would be to such an admonition is anyone’s guess, but to most of the viewing audience’s surprise Michael Stephens extends a hand and motions for him to continue.

 

“JJ, you wrestled alongside me,” Stephens says levelly, “whatever you think of me now, you’ve earned to right to call me what you please.”

 

“Toxx, I did wrestle alongside you,” Johnson says, “and I’ve come to realise that the reason I did was to take the heat off you and Pretzler in tag matches. You wanted someone you knew could take a kicking from the opposition while you figured out a way to come in and get the win… for the team.”

 

Michael Stephens’ eyebrows raise at that.

 

“I was the muscle for Revolution Zero, just like I was the muscle for Cucaracha Internacional,” the Canadian rasps, “and no-one expects the muscle to think for themselves. Well, that time’s gone. I think I got screwed out of the World Title - twice - by El Luchadore Magnifico because he was scared shitless of me.”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“I think I got robbed of my next chance by Landon Maddix… no dammit,” he snarls, “I know I was robbed!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“So while you waltzed back in like you’d never been away and took the belt of Landon, I was fighting Maoris in the name of knocking out the teeth of anyone who got in my way,” Johnson finishes. “Well, now I’m back. I want my due. I want the World Title.”

 

Michael Stephens looks at him, then at the belt on his shoulder, then out at the fans. Then back at JJ Johnson.

 

“Y’see, normally I’d be happy to grant you that request,” he says slowly, “for a title match, anyway, although I‘m exactly gonna be handing you the belt on a plate. I mean, I gave Zyon a shot just because I thought he deserved one, and I was happy to take Bruce on… normally I’d have no trouble with giving you a shot either. But-”

 

However, what Stephens is about to say is cut short as ‘Ghetto Goggles’ by the Filthy Four starts oozing out of the PA system with all the class of bad crunk made by high schoolers.

 

“That’s-” Mak Francis begins.

 

“Joseph Peters’ music,” Suicide King sighs. “As long as it’s not a Lethal Lottery, I don’t mind.”

 

The head of the SWF has come out to the top of the rigged-up entrance ramp and he too has a microphone. Which unfortunately means that he’s going to speak.

 

“Mike, I really can’t see why you’d refuse an old friend this request,” Peters says, ignoring the look that passes between champion and challenger of well, I don’t know I’d go THAT far…, “and I’m afraid the decision is going to be taken out of your hands. The fact is that JJ Johnson is a bankable star in this federation, and one who is surely worthy of another shot at the World Title.” He grins and winks at Johnson, who stares back at him with the manner of one wishing painful death upon a clown doing something unfunny with balloon animals. “As a result,” Peters continues, apparently oblivious to his reception from both men, “I take great pleasure in announcing that Michael Stephens will defend the World Title at Ground Zero against JAY! JAY! JOHNS-”

 

“Hold on a bloody minute, sunshine!” Stephens interrupts, turning his back on Johnson to march up to the set of ropes nearest Peters and glower over the top, “I hadn’t finished what I was going to say! Which was,” he continues, turning around to address Johnson again, “that I would be happy to give you a shot at the title. But I think someone else deserves one first.”

 

“And that would be?” Johnson asks, arching a brow.

 

“JJ, I was your second at 13th Hour, the night I won this belt,” Stephens says, holding the World Title up a bit, “I was your second because I know that I can trust you to keep to your word… although granted, I might not like that word,” he admits. “I was your second because I respect you as a wrestler, no matter what else occurs between us in our careers. But I stood at ringside and watched that match, which is what makes me say…” he looks up at Peters, then back at Johnson “…that Va’aiga would deserve the first shot.”

 

*KER-RRACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

JJ Johnson, it seems, does not agree with the World Champion’s take on the situation.

 

“Johnson just floored Stephens with an elbow!” Mak Francis declares in amazement, “he just suckerpunched him!”

 

“Technically, it was a suckerelbow,” Suicide King argues, “and what would you do if you’d just come back from a career-threatening injury-”

 

“Kill Spike Jenkins.”

 

“-and someone wanted to give a World Title shot to the man that injured you?” Suicide King finishes, trailing off slightly as he looks sideways at Francis.

 

“I’d still kill Spike Jenkins,” the Franchise admits, “only I‘d make sure the title shot was on the line first.”

 

Peters has a stunned look on his face at first, but this swiftly degenerates into a malicious grin as he realizes what just happened. Johnson, on the other hand, simply exits the ring, the jeers from the crowd outside fully audible through the thick glass.

 

"Regardless, this is monumental," says Francis as Toxxic sits up in the ring and gives his neck a crack before glancing Johnson's way, a murderous glint in his eyes. "JJ Johnson vs. Toxxic, Ground Zero, World Heavyweight Title? We'll be back after this, folks."

 

 

FADE OUT

[chirs3 0]

Location: Jedi Temple Hangars on Coruscant

 

It seems that neither Bruce nor Wayne made it on board the regular SWF transport from the Satellite of Love to Courscant as the two are spotted getting out of a space ship that looks more like a modified Winnebago than an actual space ship.

 

(Note the unprofessionalism of not being in the building when the show starts *tisk*tisk*)

 

“Thanks for the ride Lone Starr” Wayne says and waves to the spaceship as it takes off.

 

Bruce looks like he’s been drowning his sorrows a little too much after the stinging World title loss, which also explains why they two Blank brothers have been lagging behind the rest of the crew. Wayne looks a bit worried, he’s never seen his brother this depressed before.

 

“Come on Bruce, it was just one match”

 

Bruce just grumbles something about pipsqueaks and luck as he heads off towards the main part of the building with Wayne running right behind him, yapping away like a lap dog trying to get his master’s attention.

 

“Oh you totally had him Bruce until he began to cheat”

 

Bruce stops, then turns towards Wayne and then flicks his brother right on the bridge of the nose “You forget who you’re talking about” Then he turns around and resumes his walking.

 

“Erm. . . yeah alright, alright” Wayne reluctantly admits, Stephens hadn’t really cheated. . . which it itself is a form of cheating, at least to guys like Bruce and Wayne he thought, see there is a reason why Wayne isn’t considered the “brains” of the outfit.

 

“Just leave me alone, I just want to find a bar or a cantina or whatever the hell they’ve got in this damn place” Bruce says and enters the building.

 

Once he’s inside he heads for the first person he spots, hoping to get directions to the nearest bar. Bruce walks up to a Jedi Knight decked out in the traditional robes of the Jedi Order but with the sleeves cut off, the Knight also appears to be chewing tobacco and is wearing a camouflage cap with the words “Bass Pro Shop: Bait & Lightsabre supplies”

 

“Scuse me do you know where I can find a bar?” Bruce asks

 

“You mean to tell me you don’t know where you’re at fellas?” the Jedi asks and then scratches his ample midsection. “Say you look familiar – you from my home system of Texarcana?”

 

“Earth” Bruce just mumbles then adding “Alabama”

 

The Jedi grins and holds his hand out to shake Bruce’s “Well shit partner then you’re alright in my book”

 

Bruce shakes the Redneck Jedi’s hand with a confused look in his eyes.

 

“I’m Lar Ká-Bel, but everyone calls me Larry I’m one of them there Jedi Guys you know?” Larry says with a grin, then he looks at his hand, the one that just shook Bruce’s hand “Holy crap scooter your Mighty-Klorian count must be off the charts!!”

 

“My wha?” Bruce asks as he looks at his hand “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to wash my hand after the flight” and then he rubs his hand on the back of his jeans before presenting the hand once more.

 

Larry grabs the hand and looks at it for a moment before uttering “I guess I wuz wrong, for a moment I thought you may have been our chosen one. Tabacci?” He asks holding out a can of dipping tobacco with the name “Dagobah Dip” on the lid.

 

Bruce quickly accepts, dips and then puts it in his mouth, from the looks of it it’s probably the best dip he’s ever tasted

 

“That’s some good stuff right there, I make my own mix with a bit of Alderberan whiskey and then I stir it with my lightsabre to get the consistency just right” Larry reveals as he puts the lid back on the can before Wayne has a chance to get any – Jedi dip is not for tag alongs.

 

“So what do you do Larry?”

 

“Do? I done told you, I make my own Dagobah Dip, I fix space ships here and there and well I fiddle with my lightsabre” Larry replies, pulling out something that looks more like a toiletpaper roll with duct tape wrapped around it than the handle of a light sabre. Bruce is surprised to see it work but Larry does produce a nice green-purple lightsabre from the handle.

 

“Yeah excuse the colors, it broke so I fixed it up with parts from another lightsabre, I haven’t quite got it set to just one color – I’m working on it” Larry says with a sheepish grin. “Now you fellas wanted a bar? Closest thing we got here is our commissary”

 

“The Jedi have a commissary?”

 

“Hell yes, you expected us to not eat at all? So what brings you two to this place?”

 

“A space shuttle” Wayne replies

 

“No I mean WHY are you here little buddy” Larry says while suppressing the desire to roll his eyes at Wayne’s stupidity.

 

“OH! Gotcha!” Wayne replies

 

“I just want to get drunk” Bruce utters as he looks around.

 

“Then right this way” Larry says and points down the hallway.

 

“You guys go ahead, I got to talk to Peters about. . . erm merchandising” Wayne says, obviously lying.

 

Neither Bruce nor Larry seem to pay much attention to Wayne so he gets away with the lie as the two men head off in the search of the strongest alcohol in the universe. Wayne waits until both men are out of sight and then he looks around trying to spot the SWF backstage area.

 

“Don’t worry Bruce, I’ll get you another title shot” Wayne says to himself before confidently striding down a hallway, only to turn around and come running the other way as a giant 3 legged, 6 eyed alien comes towards him.

 

*Fade*

[chirs3 0]

Trent/Ciro vs. Bemani Cross Wizards to be edited in.

[chirs3 0]

“So let me get this straight – being a Jedi is all about being enlightened and not about fighting, yet you’re taught to fight?” Bruce asks as the two men enter the commissary, obviously Lar Ká-Bel had been educating him on the ways of a Jedi.

 

“Yup, got it in one, now if there is no other option than fighting, then we fight – and not to brag but we’re the best at what we do bub” Larry says

 

“I always thought that was Wolverine’s line” Bruce says

 

“What’s that?” Larry apparently didn’t quite catch what Bruce said.

 

Bruce quickly forgets all about that comments at he sees the piles of food readily available for the Jedi’s to just take and eat. Larry gets in line and Bruce quickly follows him, realizing that he’s starving.

 

“Erm Larry, where are the trays?” Bruce asks as he can’t seem to find a single tray anywhere.

 

“Trays?? Trays?? We don’t need to steenkin’ trays!” Larry replies and demonstrates why by levitating a plate with the Force.

 

“Erm. . . that’s nice, but what about those of us that can’t do that?”

 

“Oh the force is strong within you Bruce, I can sense it – it’s just bursting to get out, let it out Bruce and you’ll see” Larry says.

 

Bruce shrugs, it can’t hurt to try. The big man closes his eyes and tries his best to focus, squeezing eyes shut while pushing as much as he can.

 

“You can do it Bruce, I can sense that you’re on the verge”

 

Bruce farts, loud and hard

 

“Ah. . . I guess I was wrong about the force within you” Larry says and then starts to fan his face as he smells Bruce’s fart “Dagum son what the hell did you eat? You’re more rotten than a space possum after it’s been too close to the twin suns of Naboo!”

 

“I told you I don’t have this Jedi crap in me” Bruce says, then he spots another guy who’s not levitating his plate either “What about that guy?”

 

“Erm no we don’t talk much to him Bruce. That’s Anakin Skywalker. . . damn pup didn’t even want me to fix his hand, I had the duct tape all ready and such and he goes and insists on a new artificial hand. I mean a new “from the box” deal too, why waste money on that when I could have fixed him up a perfectly good one with a couple of coat hangers and all.”

 

Bruce nods in agreement, why waste money indeed

 

“Besides he’s a little too. . . emotional if you know what I mean?” Larry says with a sideward nod towards Anakin Skywalker over by the condiment section.

 

Bruce watches as the young Skywalker is trying to open up a bottle of crusty ketchup but to no avail. The young man gets angrier and angrier at the bottle until he pulls out his lightsabre and strikes the bottle with it.

 

Unfortunately ketchup bottles react badly to lightsabres and it explodes splattering ketchup everywhere, including all over Anakin’s hands and black shirt. The Emo Jedi just stares at his hands, then he slowly sinks to his knees while letting out a long, loud

 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

 

“Oh lord there he goes again, you better get out of here before he gets too out of hand” Larry says, quickly guiding Bruce out the door before Anakin throws a Jedi level fit and crushes everything within a 20 foot radius.

 

“Damn it I didn’t even get anything to eat” Bruce mutters as he stands outside the Jedi Temple, now he needs a drink AND he’s hungry and his mood is hardly improved when Wayne shows up with a big smile on his face.

 

“Hey Bruce, I’ve got good news”

 

“What?”

 

“I managed to get you a title shot” Wayne says hoping to see a smile on his face

 

“Hardcore?” Bruce asks out of habit.

 

“Better!”

 

“Like there is anything better” Bruce says without conviction, then adds “But go on then, what?”

 

“The International title! It’s yours easy enough bro! You know about the guys signing up for it, well I got you in it as well. So just got to beat a couple of guys and it’s all yours” Wayne explains, intentionally being a bit vague on the exact participants of the match since he’s only sure of 6 names besides Bruce’s.

 

“International huh? Now I really need a drink” Bruce says and then heads off into the two next to the Temple. Wayne knows his brother well enough to know that he wants to be alone and for once he respects his brother’s wishes

 

Although he is confused as to why a shot at the International title would cause Bruce to react like that.

 

*Fade*

[chirs3 0]

In his private locker room, Tom Flesher sits in his warm-up suit.

 

“Open up the briefcase,” Tom says. Matheson does, obligingly, and Flesher pulls out Grendel’s mask. “Thank god you remembered it,” he says. “And the-”

 

“One styrofoam head,” Matheson says cheerfully. “And a broomstick.”

 

Flesher chuckles. He reaches over, placing the mask on the styrofoam head and then impaling the head on the broomhandle. The camera pulls in close, as Flesher leans his head in next to the mask. “So, Grendel, how are you feeling today?”

 

Obviously moving his lips, Flesher raises his voice and replies, while nodding the Grendel mask, “Oh, a little detached. How about you?”

 

“Oh, today’s wonderful,” Flesher replies to himself. “Why, it’s even my...”

 

KNOCK KNOCK.

 

“Who’s there?” asks Matheson.

 

“Special delivery,” comes the gruff-sounding voice on the other side.

 

Flesher glares, but Matheson opens the door. Outside stands a large man holding a Carvel-brand ice-cream cake. Immediately, Flesher stands up, kicking the cake into the delivery man’s face! “STAUNTON SENT YOU, DIDN’T HE?!” shouts Flesher. “THAT BASTARD’S NOT GOING TO THROW ME THROUGH A CAKE, GOD DAMN IT! I SWEAR TO GOD!”

 

“No sir,” says the delivery man. “Card says Allison Onita, and she can’t wait to blow out your candles for you. Now, about the tip...”

 

Matheson sighs. As he hands the delivery man a fifty-dollar bill, he shoots a look of sympathy to Flesher. “Tom,” he asks, “has anyone ever told you you were paranoid?”

[chirs3 0]

"You've got to be kidding me, right?"

 

Mike Van Siclen is casually sitting in the office of one President Joseph Peters, feet up on the desk and all, with the Prez fuming in his direction.

 

"A match with a cardboard cutout? Are you high? Am I high, thus making me delusional? Because I know you are not serious about this."

 

Peters looks back, his frown being replaced by a slight smile. "Oh, but I am. You expect to go out and get murdered by Jimmy the Doom and to continue to get priority booking? Are you high?"

 

"I own you!"

 

"And I own you simultaneously, and you will go out and wrestle that cardboard cutout if you know what's good for you." Peters smirks. "And maybe, just maybe, you'll actually win this one."

 

Van Siclen stands up, the tables having just been turned. "And maybe I will."

 

FADE OUT.

[chirs3 0]

We open up with a shot of Van Siclen, standing in the ring with Cardboard Comet.

 

"Well, this looks like a match of the year candidate!"

 

Van Siclen approaches Comet, looking to killerize the cardboardian... BUT YODA USES THE FORCE TO ALLOW COMET TO ROUNDHOUSE KICK VAN SICLEN IN THE FACE COVER OMGZ!

 

"ONE!"

 

 

 

 

"TWO!"

 

 

 

 

"THREE -- KICKOUT BY VAN SICLEN!

 

And somehow, though he was just brutally killerized, Van Siclen pulls off the Riot Act and get the three count, cementing his reputation as the Cardboard KILLA!

 

FADE TO BLACK MOTHERFUCKER

[chirs3 0]

Location: Somewhere in a back alley behind the Jedi Temple

 

We see Bruce in the shadows, leaned back smoking a cigarette while talking to someone not quite identifiable yet.

 

“You ever had to fight the odds?” Bruce asks while taking another puff on his cigarette

 

*ROAR!*

 

Bruce looks at the giant Wookie next to him and then shakes his head

 

“I forgot, Wookies are always the odds on favorites.” Bruce says and then holds up his pack of cigarettes.

 

Chewbacca shakes his head and points to his fur reminding Bruce that fur is quite flammable

 

“Ah yeah right. I don’t get it buddy, I shouldn’t have a problem with these little scrawny boys. . . but well” Bruce says without finishing the sentence.

 

*ROAR!*

 

“You think so?”

 

*ROAR!*

 

“You know you could be right”

 

*ROAR!*

 

“Wookies are always right?”

 

*ROAR!*

 

“Alright, alright I believe you. So what you’re saying is that –“ But that’s all Bruce has time to say before he’s interrupted by Wayne yelling from down the alley.

 

“Bruce? Bruce you down here?” Wayne yells as he heads in Bruce’s direction. When he gets to the two men he stops by the big hairy guy and starts to talk to him “Bruce man I’ve been looking all over for you”

 

“Wayne?” Bruce says “Over here”

 

Wayne looks up and is a bit surprised and embarrassed that he mistook a giant hairy guy for his brother.

 

“I got a list of names for you” Wayne says and hands Bruce a crumpled up piece of paper

 

“These are the names for the title match?”

 

“Yeah most of them, I’m not sure the list is finalized” Wayne says nervously, either the Wookie is making nervous or the fact that his brother seems to be pissed off at him that he signed him up for this match.

 

“Hm” is all Bruce says when he reads the note

 

“Come on you’ve beaten everyone on that list Bruce, Akira is the only one that’s given you trouble so far” Wayne says trying to brighten his brother’s mood.

 

*ROAR!*

 

“Yeah”

 

“What? What did he say??” Wayne confusedly asks.

 

“That I need a drink”

 

*ROAR!*

 

“And that you need to go away you’re bothering his allergies” Bruce adds

 

“Allergies?”

 

*ROAR!*

 

“Yeah he breaks out in violent fits when he sees you” Bruce says with a grin as he watches Wayne grow even paler

 

“Erm. . . how bout I see you later bro?”

 

“Yeah how bout that” Bruce says not really paying attention to his brother as the guy skulks out of sight. “So you were telling me about this bar?”

 

*ROAR!*

 

“What do you mean bad people hang out there? In what way are they “bad” people?”

 

*ROAR!*

 

“Really? That suits me just fine right now” Bruce says and heads off in the direction that the Wookie indicated.

 

*Fade*

[chirs3 0]

“Back on SmarkDown, we’re live from… Coruscant.”

 

“Will it ever stop?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Turn off the lights and I’ll glow.

 

“To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal.”

 

“Light up the stage and wax a chump like a candle. Second verse, GO!”

 

“It’s time to liven things up with some weaponry, as Austin Sly fights MANSON in a hardcore showdown.”

 

“That’s not the way it goes, but do you really need to ask who I’m betting on in this one?”

 

“I already know what you’re gonna say, so no.”

 

“I’m going to anyway, for the benefit of the audience. Of course, it’s MANSON. He can take any one of those Jedis over there and kill them without a second thought. Emo Anakin, Darth, whoever, he ain’t got nothing on him, if he can do it, MANSON can.”

 

“I believe we’ve been warped to a point where they haven’t been killed yet.”

 

“Whoops. Well, all of you are gonna die soon, just so you know,” says King, pointing towards the perturbed Council.

 

“King.”

 

“Yeah, even you Younglings in the stands over there. You’re gonna die gruesome, horrible deaths also.”

 

“That’s not right.”

 

The lights in the arena go… dark! In the pitch black, a hush falls over the Council and those in the bleachers, as a single spotlight shines down onto the stage at the head of the entrance ramp. When…

 

*BOOM!*

 

Pyro explodes from each side of the stage, launching a mix of red and gold stars towards the ceiling and cueing Zach de la Rocha, as Rage Against the Machine’s “Street Fighting Man” cover begins. The arena lights pulse along to the beat, while the fans in the stands and even the Jedi Council stand and cheer the arrival of Austin Sly as he steps through the curtain..

 

"Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet boooooy..."

 

"'Cause summer’s here and the time is right for fighting in the streeeet boooooy..."

 

”Ladies, Gentlemen, Alien Races, the following is a HAAAARDCORE MATCH scheduled for one fall! Introducing, from St. Louis, Missouri, USA, and weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds… AAAAAUUUUUSTIIIIINNNN SLLLLLYYYY!”

 

With a smile on his face, Austin slowly makes his way down the entrance ramp, the Younglings looking to high five him on either side. He slaps a few hands on his approach before casually rolling underneath the bottom rope and into the ring, the tail of his trenchcoat trailing his every moment with flair. He paces the ring before making his way to the lower-right corner and removing his coat, hanging it on the ringpost. He stretches in anxious anticipation, awaiting his adversary (alliteration!), as Kivell goes over the match.

 

“Sly, of course, was due to face Aecas for the International Champoionship. However, Aecas took a leave…”

 

“Another?”

 

“Yeah. Sly was about to have the title handed to him, but said he didn’t want to win it that way and opted to win the now vacant title in a match.”

 

“Ethics don’t get you anywhere. Just take the free title, dummy.”

 

“Without morals, we more get assholes like Spike Jenkins, and no one needs that.”

 

“You’re just sour because he broke your neck. That’s nothing to get worked up over.”

 

The arena is dark and silent as a pair of echoes sweep over the crowd, bringing the lights up slightly with each one, as the fans come to their feet and thick anticipation builds...

 

Then suddenly, a guttural howl kicks "Scientific Remote Viewing" by Cephalic Carnage into full gear, as the lights flare up and seizure-inducing strobes rapidly flash and pulse in an attempt to keep with the music. To the jeers of the livid crowd, MANSON throws aside the curtain and enters. He pauses at the head of the ramp and looks around the arena, the hood of his robe obscuring his sneer, before descending down the aisle.

 

“Wasn’t MANSON using some Imperial March thing in his match versus Bruce Blank?”

 

“Maybe he didn’t want a backlash here on Coruscant.”

 

“The hell does he care? He’s MANSON, dammit!”

 

“AAAAND his opponent, from Denver, Colorado, USA, and weighing in tonight at two hundred and thirty pounds… MMMMAAAANNNNSOONNN!”

 

“In any case, that’s some fancy schmancy brand new robe, all black and shiny with that MANSON crap written on it. Does he think he’s too good for everyone with that thing or what?”

 

“It’s the truth. He’s MANSON, dammit!”

 

“C’mon. Stop.”

 

“But thanks for covering the description for everyone so the writer didn’t have to.”

 

“Writer? Shh.”

 

“Surely, if we can visit places based on works of fiction, then we can break the fourth wall.”

 

“Don’t call me Shirley.”

 

“Terrible.”

 

Turning toward the steps at the bottom of the ramp, MANSON undoes his belt and heads up. He enters through the ropes and flicks off his hood, then goes to the far neutral corner and throws up the horns to the continuing boos of the fans. He backs toward his corner after stepping down, removing his robe and laying it over the post, while Referee Matthew Kivell calls for the bell.

 

*DING DING!*

 

Both emerge from their corners, looking for an opening as they dance around the ring. They lock up in a collar-elbow and struggle for position, fighting around the ring in an even battle and culminating in a stand-off! But as the two close in on each other again, MANSON nails a kick to the gut! Sly hunches over and MANSON follows up, locking in a side headlock! Sly swings at the Bull’s kidneys in an attempt to break it up, but the relentless MANSON refuses, at least until Austin nails a few more and loosens his grip enough to push him off toward the ropes on the far side of the hard camera.

 

“Some… uh, surprising offense by MANSON, going immediately for a side headlock.”

 

“He can brawl and fight, sure, but MANSON has evolved, which is just what MANSONosity is… progress towards a better tomorrow.”

 

“Ridiculous.”

 

He springs off the ropes and comes back with a big shoulderblock! Sly goes down and as he tries to stand, MANSON once again wraps his arms around his head with the exciting side headlock! Again, Austin tries to fight him off, but MANSON releases the hold and wraps around Sly, going down and tripping him up from behind!

 

“Yet another attempt at the side headlock, right into a leg takedown! Further, this match is nothing like we’ve expected.”

 

“He realizes what works for him, and that’s a well-rounded attack that keeps his opponents off their game. He doesn’t always have to resort to chairs and what not these days.”

 

Sly tries to stand, getting to his knees, but MANSON quickly grabs him by the ankles and flips him over. He tries to rein in Austin’s flailing legs as he attempts to step in between, but Sly gets a foot free and boots MANSON with an upkick to the face, fighting him off.

 

“What do you think he was going for there?”

 

“I know everything about him, but I don’t know what he was attempting, possibly a sharpshooter or deathlock, but it’s too early for something along those lines and I can’t recall ever seeing him use either anyway.”

 

Austin stands and MANSON immediately goes on the attack, hitting a lariat as soon as he turns back around towards him! He pulls Sly off the mat, hitting him with an array of chops, forearms and European uppercuts and forcing him toward the right side ropes. He grabs the arm and attempts a whip toward the opposite side, but Sly holds his ground and reverses! MANSON bounces off the ropes and comes back with a wild flying knee attempt, avoided by Sly who sidesteps and drops MANSON with a spinning heel kick!

 

“He tries for a huge flying knee, potentially ending this one before it even begins, but thankfully Austin is able to counter!”

 

He stands, stumbling back a number of steps, clearly dazed, as Sly closes in. But MANSON gets up a knee lift to the stomach, doubling Austin over! He approaches Austin, who fires off a right to the stomach, but MANSON hops back and hammers down on him with a forearm to the back! Sly gets up to his feet, but MANSON locks in another side headlock!

 

“Are you kidding me?! Has he been training under Charlie Matthews?”

 

“Have you learned nothing? He’s trying to take Sly out of his game here.”

 

“It just looks like he’s angering him.”

 

Attempting to fight, Austin gets to his feet, but even after punches to the lower back and wild forearms to the upper region, MANSON refuses to release. Desperate, Austin gets a hand underneath the Bull’s near leg and lifts him up. Nearly getting him over and dropping him, but not quite, MANSON drops his weight, nearly landing back on his feet were it not for Austin sticking a knee out and hitting an atomic drop!

 

“Geez. Right in the soft spot. Why’s he gotta be a player hater?”

 

“You want him to let this match get away from him? It was the only thing he could do at that moment.”

 

“That would be preferable, yes.”

 

MANSON bounces off the knee in pain and goes to the ground, as Sly approaches him. However, as MANSON gets to his knees, he grabs hold of Austin’s tights and throws him through the ropes! Sly lands on the outside of the ring, coming up to his feet as MANSON rolls out. But as he prepares to strike, MANSON feels a surge through his arm, but as he tries to control it, a BOLT OF LIGHTNING FIRES OUT AND FRIES AUSTIN!

 

“THE FORCE!”

 

Sly collapses, clinging to life, as MANSON grips him around the neck with a FORCE CHOKE AND FLINGS HIM BACK INTO THE RING! He grabs a chair, throws it inside and heads back in, placing it flat on the mat underneath Sly. He next goes back to a limp Austin, stepping in between his legs, turning him around and grabbing him by the hands. Pulling him up, MANSON places a foot on the back of his neck and steps down…

 

“CURBSTOMP INTO THE CHAIR!” screams Mak, as Austin’s skull smashes into the steel... AND HIS HEAD POPS LIKE A GRAPE UNDER THE WEIGHT OF MANSONOSITY!

 

“BEHOLD THE POWER!” King exclaims, while Kivell counts the hold after MANSON rolls him over, “Didn’t I tell you he would win?! Didn’t I tell you?!!”

 

“ONE!”

 

 

 

“TWOOOOO!”

 

 

 

 

“THREEEEEE!”

 

“YOUR WINNER BY MANSONALITY! MMAAAANNNNNSOOONNNNN!” announces Funyon, while he stands over Sly, his evil cackling sending chills down the spines of those in attendance, electricity still surrounding him as we go to break.

[chirs3 0]

Location: A secret location outside the Temple, a dark, ominous, sinister location – Well a bar really, a bar where Han would shoot first and all that stuff.

 

“International title . . . feh” Bruce says to himself as he takes another drink from a glass with a weird green liquid in it, he didn’t know what it was but it was going to get him drunk! “rules. . . fuck rules”

 

“A wise man knows how to make the rules work for him, or how to hide it when he breaks them” a dark figure says as he approaches the table where Bruce is sitting.

 

“I’m not in the mood for company” Bruce says in a tone that leaves no doubt about it’s veracity.

 

“What if I could help you?” the man in the dark robe says as he sits down across from Bruce putting his white hands on the table.

 

“What if my ass was pointy and I crapped Hershey’ Kisses?” Bruce replies, not really in the mood to talk.

 

“Bruce I sense something special in you”

 

“Oh lord not another one, what is it with you Jedi and your “something special in me” line?”

 

“I’m not a Jedi, I’m here to change your life”

 

“Even worse, Jehovah’s Witness” Bruce mutters and takes another drink

 

“What if I told you that I can help you? That I can guide you to the top, help you tap into unimaginable powers if you’ll let me.”

 

“Hold up, hold up before you go on – does this require me to give up beer?” Bruce asks, weary from past experiences with people preaching their message to him.

 

“No as a matter of fact I encourage you to drink even more beer, it strengthens the dark side in you.”

 

“Really? So beers are okay? How about cigars?”

 

“Of course”

 

“Women?” Bruce asks

 

“Have as many as you want”

 

“Acts of random violence?”

 

“My dear Bruce” the figure in the dark cloak says as he leans forward revealing the lower part of his face “That’s the entire foundation of my teachings. In fact before I can teach you, you’ll have to kill my current student”

 

“Alright”

 

“Alright? That’s it? Just like that?”

 

“Sure why not” Bruce says after the mystery man peaked his curiosity.

 

The figure in black nods and then pulls out a clipboard with a form, checking off a few boxes before asking Bruce another series of questions

 

“Do you have any problems with having body parts replaced by mechanics?”

 

“Nah”

 

“Have you ever formed an opinion on politics?”

 

“Nope”

 

“Do you have any offspring? And if so is this offspring twins?”

 

“Not that I know off” Bruce replies. “Now before we go on I got to ask YOU something instead”

 

“Unorthodox but I’ll allow it”

 

“Can you help me win the International title? “ Bruce asks

 

The dark lord mulls the question over for a bit before replying “Sure – it’s not that hard”

 

“Alright well then tell me how I can win the International title and I’ll be more than happy to join you.”

 

“Alright Bruce” the dark figure says with a smile, he’s got Bruce hooked – he doesn’t need the Emo Skywalker anymore “It’s quite simple – in order for you to win the International title you must. . .”

 

“Yes?” Bruce says paying close attention.

 

“beat all the other challengers for the title”

 

. . .

 

*Tumbleweed*

 

. . .

 

“That’s it?” Bruce asks.

 

“Yes of course”

 

Bruce finishes his drink, then he gets up and grabs the brim of his hat.

 

“Yeah maybe I’m not interested after all” Bruce says and walks off

 

“Damn it! That’s the 3rd guy today that’s turned me down after asking me how to win the International title, what’s up with these people?”

 

When the dark figure gets up he realizes that Bruce neglected to leave any money for the drinks, so not only did Bruce turn him down, he also left him with the bill.

 

“Ah crap”

 

*Fade Out*

[chirs3 0]

“Welcome back to Coruscant SWF fans, it’s still Smarkdown and we’re still right here in the seat of power, the Jedi Temple!” Mak Francis yells out as the cameras return from their commercial break.

 

“Yep, the impossible planet. Even though my co-commentator doesn’t understand some basic maths…well to be fair, it’s not like he can even walk. But still and we have people HOVERING outside the windows…I really hope no one falls in the rush for the beer droid!” King points out.

 

“King, considering some of the places we’ve had shows recently, you worry about a few simple violations of the laws of physics? Have you seen the people we employ?” Mak fires back.

 

“But don’t worry people, we still might have stuff on that show that will be interesting. Including Cross versus Zyon and Flesher versus Maddix. Hey, I might not fall asleep in those two!” Comments King.

 

“But right now, it’s time for a bit of old fashion avenge my brother goodness. Wildchild took out Kerry Staunton last time and now he’s looking to take down Scott Rageheart as well!”

 

Funyon climbs into the ring which takes up most of the floor in the in the council chamber, looking around at the twelve Jedi faces around the room and listening to the roar of the one thousand or so fans that carries very well from outside the windows.

 

“Ladies, gentleman and Jedi, the following match is a one on one contest and is scheduled for one fall…”

 

YYYYAAAAAAHHHHH

 

“Introducing firstly, from Lethbridge, Alberta, Earth. Weighing in at two hundred and forty five pounds, he is…..SCOTT RAGEHEART!”

 

Exciter kicks in over some fancy Star Wars technology and a flash of laser light as the athletihoss makes his towards to the ring, rolling under the ropes and stands, looking at the crowd that floats outside the room.

 

BBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

“You know, just once I’d like a show with some peace and quiet from the raving mob that wants to come along to these shows.” King sighs.

 

“And his opponent, from the Bahamas, Earth. Weighin in tonight at two hundred and fourteen pounds, he is the Caribbean Cruiser…..WILDCHILD!”

 

Bouncin’ Back kicks up as the Bahama Bomber spints down to the ring. Leaping up onto ringside and then over in the ropes in one easy motion, Wildchild throws his arms out to the crowd.

 

DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE!

 

DING, DING, DING!

 

“Alright, here we go. It’s speed versus power yet again. Has Rageheart learned anything from the tapes of the last match or will he just try to cheat his way to a win?” Francis questions.

 

“Cheat…cheat? It’s call tactics Mak, tactics!”

 

Rageheart drops to his hunches, bracing himself straight away, looking ready for any first rush Wildchild might make. The Tropical Tumbler looks on and shrugs and throws his arm up to the crowd once more, before launching himself off from the ropes. The Canadian bigman drops to the mat, looking to duck under any running charge, but Wildchild simply flies overhead. Springing off the ropes and twisting through the air, Wildchild drops himself back first across the prone Scott Rageheart before the big man even has a chance to get to his feet.

 

WHAM! RRRRRRRAAAAHHHHH!

 

“Springboard Twisting Senton form Wildchild! Rageheart looks like he wants to avoid those high speed styling but it’s just not gonna work like that.”

 

“I hope Scott breaks that spot monkey’s spine, you know that Mak?”

 

The Bahama Bomber his back on his feet in a flash and leaves them against just as quickly. Planting both feet into the side of the Albertan’s skull, Wildchild sends his sprawling into the ropes with a Dropkick. Hitting the ropes once more, Dub-Cee crashes straight into the rising Scott Rageheart, at full speed with a Flying Forearm. The big man tumbles over the top rope and heads straight for the floor as Wildchild takes in the yells off the fans floating outside.

 

SMACK! YYYYAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

 

Still not wasting any time, the Tropical Tumbling leaps to the nearest turnbuckle, a second leap and he’s balanced on the top rope, a third and final leap sends him flying through the air on a collision course for Rageheart, wiping him out on the floor. The fans break into their usual thunderous cheering for the Bahamas native and his high flying action, as Wildchild struggles to haul the Canadian’s body back into the ring to make a cover.

 

DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE!

 

Shoving Scott Rageheart’s body through the ropes, Wildchild slides in after him and drops straight in for a cover as Referee Hardcastle falls in to make the count.

 

ONE!

 

 

TW-Kickout!

 

BBBBBOOOOOOO!

 

“Ohh, flashy opening display but it won’t keep the big man down. Wildchild should no better, he’s going to have to be lucky again, just like he was against Kerry Staunton.” The Suicide King comments.

 

“Never can see anything straight can you King? But if Wildchild can keep up the pace, Rageheart is going to be lucky to even get a hit in as it is.” The Franchise points out.

 

Reaching down, the Bahama Bomber goes to pick up his opponent but reels back in surprise and shock as he catches a thumb to the eye. Rageheart shoots at look at Hardcastle, daring him to call it, before opening up with a volley of stiff right hands into Wildchild’s face. Using his size and power advantage, the Canada shoves Dub-Cee into the corner and lays on some more right hands, snapping the Tropical Tumbler’s head back with even blow. Spinning Wildchild around, Rageheart grabs the middle rope and lowers his shoulder, shoot forwards with all his weight, directly into Wildchild’s spine.

 

Backing up, Rageheart drives his shoulder home again and again, crushing Wildchild against the turnbuckles. Looking just to crush the high flying right out of him. Jerking the smaller man out of the corner, the Albertan native hooks an arm, then a leg and snaps Wildchild to the mat with a bone jarring Side Russian Legsweep. Keeping his grip, Rageheart rolls back to his feet and snaps Wildchild backwards again with another Russian Legsweep, rolling over into a cover.

 

BAM!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

Kickout!

 

YAAHHHHHH!

 

“See, tactics Mak, that’s what I mean. Take the advantage and go for something to keep the slippery bastard down. Keep it up and never let him off the mat.” King notes.

 

“Well, Scott Rageheart better not push it too hard or he’ll just get the DQ. And even Wildchild isn’t going to stay down that easy. Rageheart better watch out everytime he sends him into the ropes.” Says Francis.

 

Smoothly grabbing the Bahama Bomber by his braided hair, Scott draws back and drives a booted foot right into his spine. Going for that same spot, the Canadian hoss fires off a series of kicks to the spine, even as the ref yells at him to let go of Wildchild’s hair.

 

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! RAGE-HEART SUCKS! RAGE-HEART SUCKS!

 

Smashing Dub-Cee’s face into the mat, Rageheart finally lets of his opponent’s hair, just long enough to sit across his back and clamp on a Camel Clutch in the centre of the ring. Using his extra bulk, the Canadian easy pins the smaller high flyer to the mat, stopping him from wriggling away. Hardcastle makes the standard series of checks, looking for chokes and gouges, making sure Wildchild isn’t close to giving up as the match slows to a stand still.

 

“Looks like Scott Rageheart is happy to play the waiting and see if he can slap on a Camel Clutch for fifteen minutes to make Wildchild tap out. It’s efficient but it’s hardly Tom Flesher level dickery.” The Franchise points out.

 

The Tropical Tumbler tries to twist to the left, then the right, trying to tuck his body up or roll in any direction to get some leverage that might allow him to spring free, but Rageheart has the hold lock on. Keeping his weight low and pressed down to the mat, like a trap around a bug.

 

LET’S GO DUB-CEE! LET’S GO DUB-CEEE! LET’S GO DUB-CEE!

 

As the Jedi Council looks on and the fans on the hovering bleacher outside whip themselves into a usual SWF level frenzy for the high flying favourite, the Canadian hoss takes one slow look around, before drawing back one arm and slamming the point of his elbow into Wildchild’s head. As the head snaps forwards, Rageheart simple clamps the Camel Clutch back on. Hauling back once more with a small grin, Rageheart yells at Hardcastle to check on the helpless Wildchild.

 

Slapping his fist on the mat, the Tropical Tumble tries to build a fire in himself, crawling at the ring mat to try and drag himself closer to the safety of the ring ropes. Watching as the Bahama Bomber pounds his fists, Rageheart draws back one foot and stomps it down. Right onto a Wildchild’s hand, drawing a cry of pain and another wicked grin.

 

RAGE-HEART SUCKS! RAGE-HEART SUCKS! RAGE-HEART SUCKS!

 

“Now that move I will give to Scott Rageheart, stomping on the hand of Wildchild as he tries to rally himself for an escape. Taking away that focus and that drive, stopping the train of thought dead and keeping Wildchild trapped still in the Camel Clutch!” Shouts Mac Francis.

 

“That is sneaky, very sneaky. I do like it, it’s not as brutal as I’d like to see but that certainly is working. Now, back to breaking the guys back you damn hoss!” The Suicide King yells.

 

Not ready to stop yet, Rageheart goes back to the ‘Acme Big Bag of Heel Tricks ™’ and hooks his fingers into Wildchild’s nose, granting him even more leverage to yank back on the head and neck of the Human Hurricane. Referee Hardcastle jumps straight in and starts the five count at the illegal hold.

 

BBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

Letting go at four and a half, the 90’s throwback pops a fist into top of Dub-Cee’s head before squeezing on the hold again. The frantic leg kicking to again some sort of momentum gradually grows less and less as the fire fades from the eyes of the Bahama Bomber, unable to get himself free of the hold. Counting off slowly to himself, Rageheart shoves his feet off the mat, still keeping his hands locked under Wildchild’s jaw. Angling his knee inwards, the Albertan native feels the body of the smaller man rushing upwards, looking for escape. But all Wildchild finds is two hundred and forty five pounds of weight, coming down knee first into his spine.

 

WHAM! RRRRRRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

As every last bit of air rushes out of the lungs of his opponent, Scott Rageheart seizes the chance. Springing back to his feet and dragging Wildchild back up with him, Rageheart transfers to a Front Facelock and hauls the now stunned Wildchild into the air, hold him, holding him…..holding him.

 

OOOOOOOHHHHHH!

 

“What a fake out, using Wildchild’s own speed against him. Looks like Rageheart was trying to wear the Bahama Bomber down enough to be able to use those big lifting moves,” comments Francis.

 

“You’ve got it right this one Mak. Wearing out that flip flopping Wildchild so he can’t just slip away from something like a good old fashioned Suplex. Speaking of which, when does this trip return to Earth?” Wonders the Heartbreaker.

 

Still hanging upside down in the air, too stunned to wriggle his way free, Wildchild can do nothing but feel the blood rushing to his head. His muscles bulging, Scott Rageheart measures his breathing, keeping two hundred and fourteen pounds held in the air, for moment after moment. Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven….

 

BOOM!

 

A massive Stalling Suplex see the Tropical Tumbler bouncing off the, scrambling his brains again as the Canadian hoss rolls cross and drops his body down for a cover…

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

T-Kickout!

 

RRRRRRRRAAAAHHHHHHH!

DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE!

 

Before the Bahama Bomber can get his bearings, he finds himself launched across the ring and crashes chest first into the turnbuckles before the muscle bound Canadian slams into his spine. Leaving Wildchild in a near collapsed state against the turnbuckles, Rageheart backs up a few steps and leaps into the air. Kicking off the top rope, Scott Rageheart twists his body around and drills both feet into the back of Wildchild’s head. Dropping to the mat, the 90’s throwback watches Wildchild topple slowly backwards, rolling him up with a small package.

 

“Springboard corner Dropkick and Rageheart goes for another pin. Keeping Wildchild off balance and working over his spine and neck. It’s hard to fly when you can’t even stand.” Mak Francis shouts as the pin takes place.

 

“Even better than that, he’s got the feet on the ropes like a real ring general!”

 

BBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOO!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

THR-Kickout!

 

YYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

 

“But Wildchild still kicks out! Even those illegal tactics can’t steal the win here.”

 

Using the momentum of his kickout, Wildchild rolls backwards and springs to his feet, breathing hard, even as the Canadian big man lunches himself for another charge. Arching himself on one foot, the Tropical Tumbler sends his other foot flashes through the air and connects square on Rageheart’s jaw. Sending him stumbling backwards, straight into the corner. Following it up, Wildchild makes his own charge and pastes Scott Rageheart with a Flying Forearm, getting as much speed behind it as he can. Trying to keep the big man down long enough to recover. Clutching his back for a moment, Wildchild keeps on sucking in air, even as he makes another run.

 

“Scott Rageheart let go of Wildchild and now he’s paying for it! Wildchild is able to get up some speed and now he can keep the hoss off balance to mount an offence.” Cries Francis.

 

“Oh please, flipping about like that is not an offence. He’ll slip up again and then Rageheart will show him what pain is all about again.” King quips back.

 

DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE!

 

A cartwheel, a back handspring and the Bahama Bomber sails through the air, driving all his momentum in the face of Scott Rageheart with a Back Elbow. Watching as the big man stumbles out of the corner, Wildchild makes one last clutch at his bruised spine before ducking through the ropes. Spinning one arm in the air, he leaps to the top rope and then dives into ring, catching his arms around the head of Rageheart, twisting around for a DDT.

 

“Presumed Guilty! It’s over right now! It put Kerry Staunton away and it’s about to put Scott Rageheart down!”

 

SMACK! BBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOO!

 

But the Albertan has enough sense left to power Wildchild out of the air, stopping his dive to the mat. Holding Wildchild in the air, Rageheart charges into the corner and plants the Tropical Tumbler without any ceremony on the top turnbuckle.

 

“Don’t think so fast Mak. Scott had that one scouted. Looks like he’s been doing his homework and it’s paid off. Now Wildchild is really going to pay for this one.” Says the Suicide King with a small smile.

 

Firing off a series of quick right hands, rocking Wildchild back and forth, Rageheart climbs the ropes, wrapping an arm around into a Front Facelock. Fighting now to stay in the match, the Bahama Bomber fights back, launching an assault of fists into the mid section of the Alberta hoss. Tucking his legs under himself on the top turnbuckle, Wildchild wriggles himself free of the Front Facelock and springs upwards, tumbling over Rageheart’s head and back to the safety of the mat.

 

WWWWOOOOOOOOO!

 

Spinning around before his opponent can regain his bearings, Wildchild jumps again, and with one smooth Dropkick, unbalances the big man and sends him tumbling out onto the ring apron. Grunting at the impact on his bruised spine, Wildchild slaps the mat to gain some momentum before flying back to his feet. On the apron, Rageheart shakes out his head, climbing back to his feet after the disorientating tumble from the top rope.

 

“Things are looking bad for Scott Rageheart now, the Bahama Bomber is one fire once again and he’s got plans to win this match.”

 

A spring to the second rope, then launching himself into the air, Wildchild flies over the top rope, wrapping his arms around Scott Rageheart’s head and twisting around, spending them both diving to the floor of the council chamber floor.

 

SMMMACCKKK! RRRRRRRAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

 

Looking over the top rope at the mangle of bodies on the floor, Referee Hardcastle starts the slow ten count…

 

ONE…..

 

 

TWO….

 

“Massive Tornado DDT from the apron to the floor. Wildchild just wiped out Scott Rageheart, but did he take himself out, taking that fall to the floor on his back like that?” Questions the Franchise.

 

THREE….. DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE!

 

 

 

FOUR….. DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE! DUB-CEE!

 

 

 

FIVE…… The first stirrings from Wildchild, rolling over and slowly twitching his arms, slowly rising himself up from the floor.

 

 

 

 

SIX….. Stumbling around, clutching at his spine and grabbing the ring apron and using it to drag himself back into the ring, Wildchild gets back to safety.

 

 

“Wildchild isn’t wasting the effort trying to drag Rageheart back into the ring, he’s just saving himself from the count out.”

 

 

SEVEN….. And now the Canadian hoss pulls himself together, groggily grabbing at the apron and using to half drag himself back into the ring….

 

 

 

EIGHT……Climbing and climbing, Rageheart grabs hold of the bottom rope for extra leverage…

 

 

NINE…..And finally hauls himself back into the ring at the last moment.

 

OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

“That was lucky. We nearly had another bad ending there. Come on Rageheart, you can do this, just go after the spine again, go for it,” King calls on.

 

Looking at the lights as he sucks up some air, Wildchild climbs slowly to his feet, giving himself some room in the middle of the ring. Stamping his foot, the Tropical Tumbler waits, watching as Rageheart as the big man forces himself back up to his feet.

 

STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!

 

Tensing like a coiled spring, Wildchild pauses, breaths deep and then pounces. Flying forwards, a boot to the midsection, hooking a leg over Rageheart’s neck, leaping into the air and crashing down! Driving him face first into the mat with a Caribbean Cutter.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THRE-Kickout!

 

 

OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

“Caribbean Cutter, Scott Rageheart just got planted again but just managed to kick out at the last moment!” Shouts Mak Francis.

 

Rolling clear, Wildchild bounds to the corner once again, leaping up to the top rope and sending himself flying backwards through the air, crashing into the rising Canadian hoss with a Moonsault Block, knocking him straight back to the mat. Scrambling back up as the crowd roars, the Bahama Bomber launches himself to the top rope and springs backwards, flipping forwards as he does, with a Reverse 450 Splash, right onto the empty mat.

 

SMACK! BBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

“Falling Star Press misses and Wildchild just dumped himself on his back yet again, I really do hope this is over now.” Comments King.

 

Rushing to his feet, Rageheart hauls Wildchild up off the mat and puts a boot square between his legs, shoving Hardcastle away even as the referee objects. Bending the Tropical Tumbler over into a Headscissors and a Double Underhook, Rageheart hoists him into the air. Flipping him over and driving Wildchild down into the mat with a Tiger Driver, hold on for an easy cover.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

Exciter kicks up over the fancy Jedi sound system as Scott Rageheart rolls out under the ropes and makes his exit from the council chamber.

 

BBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOO!

RAGE-HEART SUCKS! RAGE-HEART SUCKS! RAGE-HEART SUCKS!

 

“See Mak, taking advantage, having a tactic and making the most of it. Scott Rageheart found his opening and it got him the win, that’s what it all about here.” King says with a smile.

[chirs3 0]

Tom Flesher waits backstage, holding Grendel’s mask on his pole. He taps the broomstick on the floor nervously as he sips a cup of coffee.

 

“For god’s sake, Tom,” James Matheson says, “get over it. I know it’s your birthd-”

 

“Shut UP,” Flesher hisses.

 

Matheson rolls his eyes. “No one cares. I know you grew up watching everyone get suplexed through a cake on their birthday, but Tom, that’s old-school. That’s not even Memphis, Tom, that’s dirty mid-south nonsense right there. They wouldn’t even stoop that low in Texas, for heaven’s sake.”

 

Flesher takes another sip of his coffee. “I know, I know,” he says, still tapping the floor nervously. “But come on, Math, I’m not exactly popular around here.”

 

“Get over yourself. You’re almost on.”

 

“Whelp,” Flesher says, “I guess you’re right. Let’s see... who’s the gorilla tonight?”

 

“Belcourt.”

 

“Ha!” Flesher chuckles. “I wonder if we can convince him to buy me some drinks later tonight.”

 

“Nah,” says Matheson, as he follows Flesher offscreen to the gorilla position to prepare for his entrance. “Probably just some free deli meat or something.”

 

For a few moments, the backstage area is empty. Then, suddenly...

 

“Shit, where are they?” shouts Kerry Staunton. “Did they leave already?!”

 

Road agent Brian Wood shrugs.

 

“GOD DAMN IT,” rages Staunton.

 

He turns to the man behind him, rolling a sheet cake into the corridor.

 

“Call it off,” he sighs. “We must have just missed him.”

 

Staunton sadly kicks a stone that happens to be in the corridor.

 

“I’ll never get to supe his skinny ass,” he says, dejected.

 

The show fades out.

 

“I even paid for the cake.”

Edited July 11, 2006 by chirs3

[chirs3 0]

DING DING!

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall and will be conducted under cruiserweight rules!” The Jedi Temple crowd pops, knowing that the next match up is going to be one of the best on the card. “The winner of the match will be declared the NUMBER-ONE CONTENDER to the Cruiserweight Champion; the loser, as number-two contender, will receive a shot at the winner of the match between the number-one contender and the Cruiserweight Champion, whoever he may be.”

 

“We’re back,” says the Suicide King, “and Mak, tell me, what do you see coming of this matchup of former World Heavyweight Champions who’ve dropped down to focus on the cruiserweight division?”

 

“It’s hard to say,” says Mak. “Really, the parallels have been incredible. Recently, each man has spent time under a mask in an attempt to learn to work a different style or just take some of the pressure off.”

 

“Well, I know Landon was Laberinto,” says King, “but I think it’s really disappointing that you’re letting yourself be taken in by that vicious rumor about Flesher being Ghost Machine 2.0.”

 

Mak rolls his eyes. “Geez, King, I...” He sighs. “We also saw Landon trying to bring the technique a few months ago under the tutelage of Jay Hawke and JJ Johnson, and so we’ve seen the Cockroach get a lot more comfortable with the sort of thing you’d expect to see from Flesher. He’s not at Flesher’s level...”

 

“I’ll say.”

 

“But, at the same time, he’s a lot faster than Taamo, so it’s going to be interesting to see how this one shapes up,” Mak continues. “Frankly, I’ve got my money on Landon.”

 

“And that, my friends, is why a fool and his money are soon parted,” King says. “I think you all know exactly where I’m placing my bets. Now, let’s go to the ring.”

 

As the each Jedi Knight simultaneously extinguishes his lightsabre to darken the temple, Funyon announces, “The first competitor...”

 

Tell me exactly, what am I supposed to do

Now that I have allowed you, to beat me!

Do you think that we could play another game

Maybe I could win this ti-ime.

 

I kinda like the misery you put me through

Darling you can trust me, completely!

If you even try to look the other way

I think that I could kill this ti-ime!

 

As “The Game” by Disturbed hits, Megan Skye steps out from behind the curtain. The fans boo her, knowing exactly who she precedes. Without further delay, Landon steps out from behind the curtain. He stops at the top of the ramp and thrusts his hands out to his side, prompting a louder reaction from the fans. Even as the crowd shouts their disgust at him, he taunts them, zigging and zagging down the ramp to bait individual fans.

 

“Accompanied to the ring by Megan Skye and weighing in tonight at 220 pounds, and hailing from Huron, South Dakota... ladies and gentlemen, give it up for LANDON MAAAAAAAAAAAADDIX!!!!!!”

 

Landon leaps to the apron, looking out at the crowd as Megan climbs the steps. Megan holds open the ropes and Landon bounds into the ring, spinning himself into the middle of the ring and dropping into a pose with his beautiful valet.

 

“Maddix is obviously confident,” Francis says. “You’ve gotta know he’s been working out, watching film, making sure he knows exactly what Flesher’s been up to since the return. He knows every trick that Matheson’s going to try and use, and you better believe he’s told Megan what to watch out for. The kid’s on fire, King.”

 

As “The Game” fades out, Landon relaxes in his corner and shakes his jacket off. Megan takes it from him and folds it over one arm as the lights stay down.

 

“And his opponent...”

 

“I’ll take it from here,” comes the brash, abrasive voice of James Matheson. “Come on, would you expect any less? Ever since he walked back into the SWF, this man has had his eye set on destroying the cruiserweight division like a cat playing with a bunch of laboratory mice. Now, he finally gets his chance to step into the ring with the big cheese.”

 

Mak and King both groan.

 

“So what’s he going to do? He’s on a five-match winning streak, and he cared enough about this one to cut all the way down to two hundred twenty-nine and nine-tenths pounds! Oh yeah, he’s serious. And furthermore, he’s bearing on a pole the HEAD of a former Cruiserweight Champion! So, Jedi, Sith, Yoda, and anyone else who happens to be at the show, please give a warm welcome to one-half of the SWF Tag Team Champions of the WOOOOOOOORLD... he is ‘the Superior One’ TOM FLESHER!”

 

With that, an explosion of blue pyro and the percussive intro to Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” herald the arrival of Tom Flesher. He parts the curtain and walks down the ramp, his Tag Team Championship belt wrapped around the waist of his warm-up suit and a pole in his hand. Atop the pole sits a styrofoam head, and on the head is Grendel’s mask. Matheson follows behind him, his Halliburton briefcase with him as always. After Flesher wipes his feet, he enters the ring and climbs the turnbuckles, holding his belt and Grendel’s head-on-a-pike in the air to prompt a round of boos from the crowd. As he climbs down, he hands his belt off to Matheson, then strips off the warm-up. Matheson sets the belt respectfully on the apron as Flesher cracks his neck and turns toward the center of the ring. Meanwhile, Grendel’s mask on a pole is leaned up against the ringpost.

 

“That’s... unsettling,” says Mak.

 

“Oh, get over it, it’s just a mask,” King snaps.

 

Referee Red Herrington finishes his check of Landon, then proceeds to run through Flesher’s kickpads and check his wrist tape before—to the shock of the crowd—declaring both wrestlers free of foreign objects. He calls for the bell.

 

 

DING DING DING!!!!

 

 

“And here we go,” says King, as Flesher and Landon step into the center. Flesher feints and dodges, and Landon, thinking back to his training with Johnson and Hawke, imitates his movements. Flesher lowers his level, then scoots around, allowing Landon to circle to the side and avoid his high single-leg takedown. As Landon circles, however, he steps right into the change of direction that Tom executes and gets snagged with a low single-leg takedown! Landon collapses to the mat as Flesher scoops his leg out from under him and slides up his body, trying to tie the Cockroach down for a quick pin. Landon bellies down quickly, but Flesher snags his left arm and slaps on a hammerlock. He scoots up, kneeling on Landon’s back and pinning the arm down before raising his arms in the air and shouting, “I HAVE THE FORCE!”

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

“This is worse than insulting sports teams,” Mak sighs.

 

Landon wriggles under Flesher but can’t find a way to escape. Flesher, for his part, quickly drops down and switches the hammerlock off to a double chickenwing. He plants a knee in the middle of Landon’s back and rolls to the side, pinning Landon to the mat with an amateur-style stack! Herrington counts

 

ONE!

 

but Landon kicks himself free and rolls back to his stomach. Flesher releases his right arm and spins out to the front, threading his arm through the hammerlocked left elbow and then reaching down to cock Landon’s right arm across his back. As King notes, “Flesher’s doing it by the numbers,” Taamo spins Landon to his back and covers him for

 

ONE!

 

Once again, though, Landon bridges up and kicks himself free, then rolls back to his stomach. Sensing that he has Landon rattled, Flesher eases up and gives him an out. Maddix spins out to the front and gets to his knees, cautiously avoiding Flesher as he starts back to his feet. Tom backs up and assumes another classical stance. As Landon tries to circle around him to cut off the angle, Tom crouches down and lets fly with a blast double leg that sends him crashing into the turnbuckles! The crowd bursts into cheers as Landon crumples down, holding onto the ropes to stay on his feet! Flesher, for his part, backs away and crouches down again. He jumps at Landon for another double leg, only to have La Cucaracha move out of the corner. Flesher hits the cornerpost shoulder-first, and the Jedi burst into cheers once again!

 

“That was odd,” says King. “They cheered the double leg, and then they cheered Flesher missing it.”

 

“Well, it seems like they’re just happy to see either guy get hurt,” Mak replies. “I mean, it’s not like either one of them is a crowd favorite.”

 

Flesher stumbles as Maddix regains his senses. As Flesher turns around, Maddix leaps up, planting both feet on his stomach and grabbing him by the back of the head and then falling backwards. He kicks his legs up, sending Flesher to the mat with a monkey flip that draws cheers from the crowd!

 

“Maddix is paying attention here,” says Mak. “He saw Flesher about to make a mistake, took advantage of it, and now he’s capitalizing.”

 

Flesher rolls to his knees, only to eat a stiff kick to the face that the Jedi crowd cheers heartily. Landon grabs him by the head and lifts him to his feet, then hammers him with a forearm shiver that sends him back onto the ropes. Tom throws a palm strike, but the speedier Landon slips to the side to evade it and follows up with a spinning forearm blow to the jaw. Tom staggers, only to take a Cucaracha Kick to the face! Flesher falls to the mat, then quickly rolls out of the ring to collect himself.

 

“Landon’s really using his speed to his advantage,” Mak says. “Tom’s still better on the mat, as we just saw, but that won’t matter much if Landon knocks him out before he gets there.”

 

James Mathson trots over to Flesher, toweling some of the sweat off his brow as he tries to collect himself. After a few seconds of coaching, Matheson backs off and Flesher rolls back into the ring, where Landon immediately puts the boots to him. Nevertheless, Tom gets up to his feet and grabs Landon in a collar-and-elbow tieup. The two athletes struggle for a few seconds...and then Landon pulls back, shouting “DAMN IT!” and covering his right eye with both hands. Flesher displays a shit-eating grin and then kisses his left thumb.

 

“Oh, come on!” Mak protests.

 

“What?” asks King innocently.

 

With Landon distracted by the thumb to the eye, Flesher whacks him with a hard palm to the face that draws another pop from the crowd. He then smoothly meathooks Landon’s head down into a front headlock and pulls him down to his knees. From that position, Tom is able to start throwing stiff knee strikes to Landon’s head, stunning him.

 

“I’m not sure that’s the smartest position to be working from,” says Mak. “Of all the things Tom does, he’s doing the one that Landon’s stolen from him?”

 

“Like it matters. He has it all over the Cockroach.”

 

As Flesher stands back up, possibly to set up a Cement throw, Landon quickly circles around Flesher’s leg and shucks his left arm past. It’s not exactly a flight of technical brilliance, but it’s enough to get Landon free. As he pulls away, Flesher lets loose a stiff shin-kick to Landon’s head, then grabs him by the wrist and whips him to the ropes. Flesher runs to the opposite ropes and cocks his foot, looking for a Yakuza kick. Landon quickly drops to the mat, baseball-sliding below the kick. Flesher keeps running, trying to regain his balance. He bounces off the ropes, only to be caught by Landon mid-ring and tossed to the mat with a Samoan drop! He rolls over, covering Tom for

 

ONE!

 

but no more, as Flesher gets a shoulder up. Maddix rolls off him, allowing Tom to sit up just in time for the Cockroach to nail him with a rolling neck snap! Flesher’s head snaps forward, then backward as he rebounds from the move. Once again, Tom rolls out of the ring to collect himself, and Matheson walks over to offer more advice. This time, Maddix sprints to the ropes. As he rebounds, Matheson looks into the ring with horror in his eyes and ducks out of the way. Surprised, Flesher looks up, only to see Landon leap over the top rope and come crashing down on him with a Spaceman Plancha! The crowd bursts into cheers as both Landon and Tom collapse to the thin matting outside the ring, although the cheers die down noticeably after Landon gets back to his feet.

 

“Landon’s showing that he’s the risk-taker in this match,” says Francis, as La Cucaracha slides back into the ring and James Matheson sprints over to assist his charge. “That’s no surprise, but what IS shocking is that Flesher’s so unprepared for it. Tom was obviously hoping he could control the pace of this match, and he’s finding out that he can’t.”

 

“Pfft,” King scoffs. “For all we know, Flesher’s just playing the rope-a-dope.”

 

 

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

 

 

In any event, Flesher is able to get back to his feet with some assistance from Matheson and get up on the apron in time to break the count. He holds on to the ropes, mostly shaking off the impact of the Spaceman Plancha, before stepping into the ring and walking straight into a running lariat from Maddix! Tom ducks down and immediately pulls the top rope down with him, sending Landon over the top again! As the Jedi crowd cheers uncontrollably, Red Herrington storms over to admonish Flesher.

 

“Remember,” says King, “under cruiserweight rules, throwing an opponent over the top rope merits disqualification. Of course, Herrington’s a tad confused, since Flesher didn’t throw Landon over the top, he just pulled the rope down.”

 

Sure enough, Flesher holds up both hands and shakes his head, professing innocence. Matheson, however, is a bit more subtle in proclaiming Flesher’s ineligibility for disqualification.

 

“HE DIDN’T THROW HIM OVER, NUMBNUTS!” shouts the cool, collected tactical genius. “GOD DAMN, ARE YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME AN ANEURYSM?! COME ON, RED, JUST LETTEM WRESTLE!”

 

Sure enough, Herrington is persuaded by Matheson’s logic and lets Flesher off with a warning as Megan Sky assists Landon to his feet. Flesher lies in wait, and as soon as Landon gets back on the apron, he eats a running palm strike. Before he falls back off the apron, Flesher grabs him in a front facelock and snap-suplexes him straight back into the ring. From there, he teases a cover. Landon instinctively bellies down to avoid being pinned, only to be grabbed around the waist in a gutwrench! Flesher lifts him up and slings him over one shoulder in a Canadian backbreaker. He waits there for a moment...before dropping to one knee, nearly snapping the svelte Spaniard in half with a Derailleur! He deposits Maddix on the mat, and once again covers him. Maddix rolls over, and with a smirk on his face, Flesher takes a seat on his back.

 

“Brilliant move by Flesher!” says King. “He nailed Landon’s back, and he was either going to get the pin or a submission out of it. Maddix bellied down, and so here comes the Camel Clutch!”

 

As promised, Flesher reaches down, grabbs Maddix by the chin and leans back. Maddix manages to keep one hand free, but even as he pulls himself toward the sidelines, Flesher’s low-risk offense drains his stamina. As Tom torques Landon’s back, the Next Generation Superstar manages to reach out and grab the bottom rope. The fans groan, disappointed that one of the heels is being released from a hold, even as Flesher cranks the camel clutch.

 

Red Herrington counts

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

FOUR!

 

Finally, Flesher stands up, sighing that he couldn’t get the submission. As he backs away, Landon gets to his knees. Herrington admonishes Flesher for keeping the hold as long as he did. Meanwhile, Maddix takes advantage of Herrington’s diverted attention to...

 

Oh.

 

Yeeeeeeeeeeouch.

 

“He just mule-kicked Flesher right in the testicles!” bellows King, struggling to be heard over the screaming Jedi crowd. “How can Herrington allow such unethical behavior to continue?”

 

“He didn’t see it, I’d imagine,” Mak says. He keeps a straight face for a few seconds, then chuckles aloud.

 

Flesher doubles over in pain as Maddix stands up, trying to loosen the wrenched muscles in his back. Even so, he realizes that he only has a few moments to take advantage of Flesher’s sore, battered testicles, and so he grabs Flesher in a three-quarter facelock. He sprints over to the corner, ushering Herrington out of the way as he sprints up the turnbuckles. As he hits the top one, he moonsaults, flipping over Flesher and coming crashing to the mat with a sitout Sliced Bread #2!

 

“LABERINTO’S REVENGE!” screams Mak, as Flesher collapses to the mat to the screaming approval of the Jedi crowd.

 

“Oh, come on!” shouts King. “You can’t let him win like this! It’s fruit of the poisonous tree! POISONOUS!”

 

Nonetheless, when Landon covers Flesher and hooks a leg, Herrington counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!

 

 

 

NO! Flesher gets a shoulder up. Frustrated, Landon gets to his feet. He tries to crack his back, but shows significant discomfort. He grabs the ropes, trying to shake the wrenched musculature free. As he does, Flesher starts to get to his feet. He backs away to the center of the ring, shaking off the cobwebs from Laberinto’s Revenge. Landon turns around to face Flesher, then grabs him by a wrist to send him to the ropes. Tom plants his feet and pivots, reversing the whip and sending Landon to the ropes instead. He charges at his rebounding opponent, ducking down and grabbing an arm as he switches around him. As Tom grabs Landon’s free hand, he uses the momentum to arch backwards with a straitjacket suplex! Holding the bridge with all his strength, Flesher looks to Red Herrington, who counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!

 

 

“NO! NO! HE’S IN THE ROPES!” shrieks Megan Skye. “HIS FEET ARE IN THE ROPES!”

 

Sure enough, before he calls for the bell, Herrington looks over and waves off the fall. Immediately, Flesher releases his pin and stands up to argue with Herrington. Matheson jumps onto the apron as well, and for a moment, the referee is distracted trying to explain to both men that Landon’s feet were in the ropes.

 

“Flesher took a little bit of a risk on that one,” Francis notes. “He’s seeing what’s happening when he tries to go to the mat with Landon, and he’s seeing that he’s not going to win it by staying straight on the mat. Maddix took a fall on that suplex, pin or not, and Flesher’s cranking it up to try to get Landon to make a mistake.”

 

Maddix, meanwhile, gets back to his feet and cracks his back once again. With the irate Flesher shouting at Herrington, Landon sidles in behind him, out of Matheson’s peripheral vision. In one smooth movement, Landon grabs Flesher’s head and falls back, cocking his knees and hammering Flesher with a Lungblower! Flesher bounces off Maddix’s knees and collapses to the mat on his stomach. Landon, meanwhile, looks to the top rope... and then decides against it, grabbing Flesher and rolling him to his back.

 

“Maddix, on the other hand, he’s working a little bit safer,” Mak says.

 

“Passive!” shouts King.

 

“He’s not taking any chances. He’s forcing Flesher to work outside his usual parameters and at the same time he’s trying to keep his cards close to his vest, so that when he forces Taamo to make a mistake, he can capitalize. After all, he’s got the big victory that retired Flesher the first time—he knows he can do it.”

 

As Landon makes the cover, Herrington counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

THR- NO!!!!!

 

“Not safe enough!” cackles the Suicide King. “Flesher’s not going to go down QUITE that easily.”

 

Frustrated, Maddix looks back up to the top rope. He leaps to his feet and sprints over, knowing he only has a few seconds to capitalize on Flesher’s position. As he scales the turnbuckles, he signals for a frog splash!

 

“Maddix is feeling froggy,” says Mak, “and it seems that he’s deviating from his plan a little. He’s a consummate professional...”

 

“HA!”

 

“...and he knows what it’s going to take to win the match.”

 

As Maddix stands atop his perch, his eyes grow wide. Flesher, running only on fumes, gets to his feet and runs to the corner, springing up the turnbuckles. To Maddix’s consternation, Flesher hooks him around the waist as he scales the buckles, and by the time he gets to the top rope, he arches backward, throwing Maddix overhead with an avalanche-style Railgun suplex! Maddix hits the mat hard, the wind knocked out of him. Flesher, however, is unable to take advantage—he lays on the mat, his chest heaving, as Landon tries to regain his senses.

 

“Top-rope Railgun from Flesher,” says King, “and that ought to take the wind out of Maddix’s sails! He can’t play it safe and then win from the top, and he can’t beat Tom on the mat! Come on, Landon, give it up!”

 

“Come on,” says Mak. “Taamo took just as much out of himself on that one. I mean, come on, a big fall like an avalanche suplex coming right off a Lungblower? Landon’s got Taamo’s number! The match is a wash so far, and Landon’s had a LOT more singles experience lately. Flesh doesn’t have Grappler to tag out to now.”

 

Before Red Herrington can start counting the men down, however, Flesher gets up to his knees. Though obviously hurting, Tom pulls himself up and walks slowly to Landon. As Landon starts to get to his feet, Flesher shoots a half-nelson under his arm. Immediately, the Jedi begin to shout their approval, knowing that once Flesher sinks in the King Cobra submission, someone’s going to be in a LOT of pain.

 

“Here we go,” says King, over the sound of the screaming crowd. “There’s just no way Landon gets out of a King Cobra!”

 

Clearly, however, Landon doesn’t hear them...or, rather, he prefers to avoid, rather than escape, the deadly hold. He twists out to the side, wringing Flesher’s arm before pulling him straight into a forearm smash! Flesher reels, just long enough for Landon to...

 

...oh, Jesus Christ.

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

“Landon’s got Tom in the cravate,” says Mak, “and apparently the Jedi don’t think that this is a particularly painful hold.”

 

“Come on,” snorts King, “look at it. It’d be lame enough on your average athlete, but Flesher’s neck is almost 20 inches around! He can’t get that kind of pressure on it!”

 

Flesher struggles, trying to free himself of the mildly annoying attack. He shoves Landon forward, but La Cucaracha keeps him in the cravate and tries even harder to get the submission.

 

“Tom’s, uh, not looking too happy?” says Mak, trying to offer some sort of insightful commentary.

 

Even so, Flesher quickly peels the hands from around his neck, forcing Landon to release the mosquito-like hold. He shoves Landon forward, sending him to the ropes... and eats a lightning-fast knee to the stomach for his trouble!

 

“That’s right,” says Mak, “Landon got more and more conservative through the match, and now it’s going to pay off! He leans in with a cravate, and what does Taamo do? He gets sloppy, and now Landon’s gonna finish him off!”

 

With Flesher doubled over, Landon grabs him by the shoulder and slaps on a front headlock! The fans cheer, knowing that Landon’s going to try to finish Flesher off with the most conservative of all conservative moves: Wet Cement! Landon kicks one leg up, bracing it on Flesher’s hip and looking for the bodyscissors from a standing position. Flesher pushes the leg down, and with his free arm, tries to push Landon’s head away. Landon leans forward, trying to wrap himself around Flesher and finish the match. He braces his head against Tom’s shoulder... giving the Superior One an opening to hook his head, snag the braced leg on his hip, and fall to the side with a small package! Red Herrington counts

 

 

ONE!!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!!!!

 

 

DING DING DING!!!!

 

 

As soon as the bell rings, Flesher releases the small package and rolls out of the ring, his eyes alight with excitement that he pulled off the small package when it counted! The Jedi fans begin booing, showing their displeasure more with every passing second.

 

I mean, crap. The match ended with a non-damaging rollup. Wouldn’t you be pissed, too?

 

“SMALL PACKAGE GETS THE WIN!” screams the Suicide King. “He saw Landon going for a move that he brought to the SWF, and he countered it with a technically brilliant maneuver that won him the match! God bless you, Tom Flesher!”

 

In the ring, Landon fumes with anger, as Megan Skye enters the ring to try to console her charge. Meanwhile, Flesher raises his arms into the air, holding the piked head of Grendel in one hand and his SWF Tag Team Championship belt in the other!

 

“The winner of this match,” announces Funyon, “and the number-one contender to the Cruiserweight Championship... ‘the Superior One’ TOM FLESHER!”

 

Flesher pumps his fists, waving the piked head and the belt in the air as he does. At the announcers’ table, Mak Francis shakes his head. “There’s no way he could have planned it out,” says Mak, “but what Tom did was bait Landon Maddix into wrestling his style of match, even into using his hold, and capitalize on that. Through the whole match, each man was waiting for the other one to make a mistake...”

 

“...and Landon’s was stepping into the ring with Flesher!” laughs King, apparently completely oblivious to the almost dead-even match that he just watched. “Come on, Mak, you’re pulling my chain—Tom wasn’t in danger, not even for a minute.”

 

Francis rolls his eyes. “Tom Flesher won the battle tonight, but only by a nose. He tried to wrestle risky, with his avalanche Railgun suplex, and it backfired on him, but Landon Maddix let himself get too comfortable trying to go hold-for-hold with the master. Landon’s not going to fall for that again.”

 

Still, he doesn’t need to.

 

Tom Flesher walks up the ramp backwards, holding his trophies in his hands, with his manager by his side. Landon Maddix stays in the ring, his anger visible, and the show fades to commercial.

Edited July 12, 2006 by chirs3

[chirs3 0]

Location: The front steps of the Jedi Temple

 

After wandering aimlessly through the town Bruce has decided that he’s just going to sit on the steps to the Jedi Temple and drink from a blue bottle as he waited for the show to be over so that the whole SWF circus could move on.

 

“Something’ll go wrong” he says and then takes another swig

 

A small green man comes down the stairs and stops next to Bruce putting a 3 fingered hand on his shoulder. Bruce looks at the odd little man, then at the blue bottle in his hand before tossing the bottle over his right shoulder, his one rule about drinking has always been to stop when he sees little green aliens.

 

“Depressed you look” the Alien says as he sits down next to Bruce.

 

“Look if you don’t mind I just want to be alone” Bruce says

 

“Impossible that is” Yoda replies as he looks at the big man with squinted eyes.

 

“What? Oh lord you’re not going to tell me that you sense something great in me?” Bruce scoffs

 

“No”

 

“No? Well good, I’m tired of people on this messed up planet telling me this”

 

“Strong in you, the Force is not. Absent yes”

 

“Well that’s nice” Bruce replies not really caring much about all this talk of the “Force” and what not

 

“Anger I sense. Held as a child you were not.”

 

“HEY! I don’t care if you are 200 years old I’ll snap your crusty ass if you say anything bad about my momma!”

 

“Fighting Spirit you posses. Far it will take you in life and in combat.” Yoda says.

 

“Far in combat? Yeah that’s going to happen” Bruce replies

 

“100% mental, 50% of the game is” Yoda wisely says.

 

. . .

 

“What?”

 

“You have lost already, if you think you have Bruce”

 

“So you think I can win this thing if I try?” Bruce asks.

 

“Try do not, either do or do not, there is no other option.”

 

“Great more mumbo jumbo, how can I succeed this time when I’ve failed everything I’ve tried to go beyond the Hardcore division? Maybe that IS my place in this business”

 

“Yes” Yoda just says and looks at him.

 

“Yes? What do you mean yes? You’re telling me that I’m destined to forever be in the Hardcore division? King of the mid-card ant hill and never make it beyond that?” Bruce replies with a bit of anger.

 

“You belong there if you think you do”

 

“Well I don’t little green man! I had a setback against Stephens – ONE, I’m not ready to just sit back and accept that I’ll never be on top” Bruce says and gets up, the funk that he’s been in all night seems to have gone replaced with annoyance and anger directed at Yoda

 

“Think the title you can win?”

 

“Think? I don’t think, I WILL win the damn International title and there ain’t no one going to stand in my way!” Bruce says with conviction.

 

“Excellent.” Yoda says and gets up from the steps “Excuse me you must. See a man about a hoverchair I have to” and then walks off.

 

“What an odd little man” Bruce says to himself as he heads up the stairs with determination, he’s got an International title to win after all.

 

*Fade*

[chirs3 0]

The cameras fade to the back, cutting in on the face of backstage analyst Ben Hardy appearing anxious as the camera zooms back. Now in the picture stands current SWF Cruiserweight Champion, ‘Iron’ Michael Cross. Despite previous weeks appearing dressed up, ‘Iron’ Mike’s hair appears matted down on his face, his belt strapped to his waste as opposed to dangling from his shoulder. Instead of a fancy Armani Suit, Mike is draped in the confines of a tight, zip-up hooded sweatshirt – for a moment it appears the old, redeeming, and modest ‘Iron’ Mike has returned, at least from an appearance stand point. Standing rigid, ‘Iron’ Mike’s grimace is all but fitting to his nickname, the crowd booing as he neglects to respond to their goading attempts to draw emotion out of the champion.

 

“I’m standing by…” ‘Iron’ Mike’s finger stops scratching his five o’clock shadow and purses the lips of Hardy, who stammers backwards. ‘Iron’ Mike breaks his silence, this shocking visual and verbal change catching the crowd off-guard.

 

“Time and time again I continue to hear these rumors,” Mike stops, breathing and breaking the stone posture he upheld for several intense moments before he continues his sentence, “Akira Kaibatsu.” A pause warrants a significant crowd reaction, the sound of their fallen hero raising their spirits. “Walking backstage isn’t the same, the respect I felt I’d finally earned was gone, the faces, the looks – they’re cold now. The fear, the anger, the hatred that I’d demanded from my co-workers and the fans is gone. And it’s damn near impossible to concentrate.” ‘Iron’ Mike turns and looks to his left, his attention fading from the giddy-looking Ben Hardy.

 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate,” his catchy British accent prevails over several chants for the Devine Wind, “I know I haven’t heard of these rumors, or this unspeakable cold you’re describing.”

 

“This presence…” Mike pauses, his face hardening as his eyes once again meet the camera tearing a riff momentarily in time, “Is one I have not felt in some time. It’s one that I know very well, Ben, and you can’t tell me you don’t sense this. The dead has risen, the soul cast out has returned. It’s frigid, Ben, oh it’s frigid.”

 

“Frigid, rumors, cast-out souls…” Ben’s face wrinkles in question, “Pardon me, but what in the bloody hell are you talking about? You’ve mentioned Akira Kaibatsu, your problems with him over the past weeks escalated to violence of unspeakable proportions…” Once again, the weathered index finger, stable yet run-down from labor, purses the lips of Ben Hardy.

 

“Akira Kaibatsu,” ‘Iron’ Mike’s eyes squint, his head tilts, and the shadows cover his emotions, “For what you did to me in March, the month of my Birth, I will never forget. I had embraced you like a brother, I had loved you like the family I never had. And you threw it away, little brother, you threw it away. You broke the bond that I saw in you – Divine they called you, and yet you stood before my very eyes at your lowest of lows and snapped. For that I cannot embrace you, for that I cannot love you. The very brother I had gained was gone in an instant, and you let it happen, you broke the bond we shared. ‘Iron’, they call me, ‘Divine’ I called you. And you broke. I broke you, I broke divinity.”

 

“I still don’t understand,” Ben interrupts, “I don’t get it, please, elaborate…”

 

“The elaboration is this,” Cross scratches his beard and then unsnaps his title belt, “The reality is this.” He holds his belt in front of the camera, its gold glimmering before the eyes of the masses, “The reality is simple, and it’s something you can see, something you can read about. You want elaboration, Ben Hardy, I give you the Cruiserweight Championship, it’s something I fought for and won. This belt is my soul, it tells me I’m the best damn man at my weight, it tells me I’m the best damn warrior this sport has ever seen, and it makes me ‘Iron’. I am unbreakable, and that’s not the only reality that separates me from the ‘Divine’. I broke you, Akira Kaibatsu, and in your final hours I stood ready to begin. And now I all I hear about is the rumor that you, the man I destroyed just weeks ago, has returned to reclaim the throne that I threw you from, a throne of Divinity. You wanted elaboration, Ben Hardy, but what you’ll get is reality, and the reality is this; I will hunt you down, Akira Kaibatsu. You can come back more Divine than you once were, you can return and win belts, but I’ll always be there reminding you that I’m not breakable and that you are. I will be there, Akira, I will be behind you reminding you that you are not Divine, you are not ‘Iron’.”

 

“One up you? Vacant Prize? Does this mean what I think…?”

 

“The elaboration is this.”

 

‘Iron’ Mike spray paints with his fingers the letters I-N-T before escaping into his hood and leaving.

 

“I’m not sure what this means! Either way, ‘Iron’ Mike Cross is set to defend his belt against the number one contender, Zyon, NEXT!”

[chirs3 0]

“As always,” Mak Francis’ voice concludes the fade in, “Michael Cross, our current Cruiserweight Champion, with cryptic words. Interesting, certainly, as the name Akira Kaibatsu was dropped several times – what it could mean I do not know.”

 

“I’ll tell you what it means,” The Suicide King fires back instantaneously, “It means ‘Iron’ Mike will have to break that no good son of a bitch again!”

 

“Well,” Mak cuts him off, “Before he can do that, King, he’s got a man to deal with tonight, a man who he beat the same day he destroyed the Divine Wind, at Thirteenth Hour. He not only jumped Akira to a title shot he hadn’t earned, but he jumped him in the worst possible way. And now Zyon and Akira Kaibatsu have self-admitted bone’s to pick with the SWF’s Cruiserweight Champion, ‘Iron’ Mike Cross. Two of the divisions finest are gunning for him on a personal level, and if he can manage to get through them, he’s got two of the WORLD’S finest to deal with – Tom Flesher and Landon Maddix!”

 

“I’m BORN…”

 

“I’m ALIVE…”

 

“I BREATH…”

 

“It’s time King,” The Franchise explodes as Zyon steps out onto the stage to a very warm crowd reaction, “It’s time for the rematch that many watchful eyes have been anticipating since the contest at Thirteenth Hour just weeks ago. And what an explosive first match that these two had, we can only hope that the rematch delivers past the bar they’ve already set!”

 

“It’s bound to be explosive if it involves ‘Iron’ Mike Cross,” King confesses.

 

“Well, that’s one way to put it, but there’s some major distaste between these two men,” Mak follows up as Zyon departs the stage, slapping hands with the fans as he looks loose and ready, “We’ve heard Zyon as quoted saying that he feels ‘Iron’ Mike and The Axis has dragged the name of the division through the mud, and while that comes expected, ‘Iron’ Mike does hold two previous clean victories over ‘The Unique Youth’, the first in that thrilling TLC at From the Fire and the second, also a thrilling bout, at Thirteenth Hour for the belt these two are competing over tonight.”

 

“Two clean wins,” King’s voice repeats as Zyon climbs the apron and ascends into the ring, “Two clean wins and now Zyon wants to show the world he’s got what it takes to smack the taste of the mouth of the Champion – the question is, can he do it?” Zyon begins stretching as the crowd simmers.

 

“Oh, there’s no doubt it’s on his mind that he’s got to win,” Mak replies as the lights begin to dim, “Mike Cross has been nothing been nothing short of a prick as of late, and Zyon wants to see to it that he shuts his mouth! I have no doubt in my mind that tonight he’ll do it!”

 

“Regulators…you regulate any stealing of his, we’re damn good too. But you can’t be any geek off the street; you gotta be handy with the steal if you know what I mean, earn your keep,” the lyrical genius of Warren G’s Regulators soothes the arena into a grumble that rises into an electric amount of boos.

 

“REEEEEEEEEEEGULATOOOOOOOOOORS! MOUNT UP!”

 

“Here they come,” Mak Francis’ voice raises as The Axis and Mr. Kobe steps out onto the stage, “And it’s not one, not two, not three, but FOUR men! The challenger, Zyon, has his hands full tonight as ‘Iron’ Mike Cross is being accompanied to the ring by his entourage, The Axis!”

 

“YES,” King shouts aloud as Axis makes an unpopular departure down the ramp, “What an electric bunch of kids lead by the master himself, Mr. Kobe!”

 

In the ring, Zyon looks down at his odds as the four appear all business, the three accompanying the champion suited in style, while Mike looks suitably lesser dressed, and wearing the same rags he had on in the interview prior to the match. ‘Iron’ Mike unsnaps his belt and then tosses it into the ring before sliding over the apron and under the ropes to face his rival face to face as the crowd surrounding the ring explodes in a fury of lights. Regulators by Warren G. finally cuts and the lights return to normal as Cross’ entourage and the crowd look anxious for the battle. The two exchange words before Funyon enters the ring, cutting the confrontation in two and sending the combatants back to their respective corners. Cross unzips his hooded sweatshirt before the referee grabs the Cruiserweight title belt, returning to the center of the ring next to Funyon who stands proudly.

 

“Ladies and gentleman, it’s now time for your Smarkdown MAIN EVENT for the evening. The following bout is scheduled for one fall, and will be held under the Cruiserweight Rules. It is for the S-W-F CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD. At this time, it is my privilege to introduce tonight’s combatants. First, to my left, he is a former TWO TIME SWF Cruiserweight Champion, a former SWF HARDCORE CHAMPION, and tonight’s challenger…HE IS THE UNIQUE YOUTH, ZYOOOOON!” The crowd erupts in cheers as Zyon exits his corner excepting the reaction, “And finally, to my right, he is a former ONE TIME SWF Tag Team Champion, and current, reigning, and now defending SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD…THIS IS ‘IRON’ MIKE CROSS!” The crowd erupts now in boos as the referee holds up the Cruiserweight title, signaling for the bell.

 

“And they’re off,” shouts Mak as the crowd around the ring erupts in cheers for the meeting of the two competitors in the center of the ring, “These two men want the win in the worst of ways, so much so that ‘Iron’ Mike Cross has brought an insurance policy to the ring with him!”

 

In the ring Zyon ties up with ‘Iron’ Mike who is immediately powered back into the corner, Kobe shouting something in Japanese which immediately prompts ‘Iron’ Mike to step to the left, turning and driving Zyon’s back into the corner. Stepping back, Zyon’s chest is chopped to the crowd’s pleasure, prompting “WOOOO” sounds. ‘Iron’ Mike leans back, but before he can chop, Zyon ducks and alleviates his position into the corner, rearing back and driving an open palmed strike into Mike’s face much to the crowd’s pleasure again. The shot sends Cross hurling into the corner, super-selling the shot, and revealing his back to his opponent. Zyon leaps up and thrusts two feet into the back of his opposition, hurtling him chest first into the turnbuckle, and stumbling backwards into the center of the ring. Zyon slings back to his feet and charges at an off-center ‘Iron’ Mike only to be snatched by the arm as he tumbles back, driving the Unique Youth into a sloppy arm drag. Both men hobble back to their feet and meet back in the center of the ring until ‘Iron’ Mike drives Zyon back into the corner, returning the favor.

 

“Folks,” Mak interrupts the fast paced action, “We’re seeing a stalemate, a fast paced, equally matched stalemate.” Emphasizing the point, Zyon repeats the move ‘Iron’ Mike used, side stepping and then following it up with a chop sending the crowd into a frenzy of “WOOOO”. ‘Iron’ Mike attempts to duck the second chop, but Zyon scouts it well, delivering the chop much quicker and slapping ‘Iron’ Mike directly in the face sending his head thudding into the mat. The crowd erupts as Zyon kneels down on his knee and begins to stretch the neck of ‘Iron’ Mike, who springs back to his feet and reverses the front head lock and takes Zyon’s back, driving him into the center of the ring. He lifts up his hands locking them over the arms and around the neck into a deep full nelson that sends Zyon flailing towards the ropes.

 

Zyon squanders an attempt at breaking the vicious full nelson due to the combinations of Cross’s weight baring down on him and his own clumsiness. Relentless in his quest to kills the youth’s current goal, Cross with the full nelson applied, sits down on the youth, torturing him with the IRON CROSS submission hold.

 

“See that Mak,” King begins, “That spot monkey had no chance. And now he’s going to be forced to scream like a little girl.”

 

“Ugh…King, Zyon’s clearly in the ropes.”

 

The referee orders Cross to break the hold, but the raging Cruiserweight Champ refuses as he feels the Unique Youth go limp.

 

ONE

 

TWO

 

THREE

 

FOUR

 

FIVE!!!

 

Cross continues to deny Zyon freedom, but the nervous referee is too frightened to call a DQ in tonight’s main event. Cringing from the pain coursing through his body, the youth looks to be on the verge of passing out…until from the darkness comes a foreign ray of light…in the embodiment of one AKIRA KAIBATSU!

 

*CRACK!*

 

Who runs in and kicks Cross’s head into the stands. Not to be outdone, Trent Hawk and Ciro Vitale hurry into the ring, collapsing on to the energetic Divine Wind as Cross spills to the outside with belt in hand. Awaking from his prone sleep, Zyon quickly gets up and helps his Cruiserweight alumni as both men send the Axis members out with duel dropkicks!!!

 

“What is going on???”

 

The two challengers turn their attention toward each other as Michael Cross looks on, hugging his Cruiserweight Title…

 

As we Fade out.

 

Copyright procrastinatingCross and TootiredtowriteasimplebrawlZyon productions.

[chirs3 0]

Knowing the show is almost over, Tom Flesher takes a deep breath. He's changed into a vintage Magnificent Seven t-shirt and jeans, comfortable in the knowledge that he'll make it through one more year without being suplexed through his birthday cake. He starts to walk out through the back door.

 

"Hey, Taamo!"

 

He bristles, then turns his head, only to see SWF road agent William Hearford III standing behind him, holding a cupcake with a candle in it.

 

"Bill!"

 

Hearford smiles. "The agents all knew how antsy you were about the cake thing, so..."

 

"Bill, you shouldn't have."

 

"Make a wish."

 

Flesher closes his eyes and blows out the candle. As a wisp of smoke rises from it, Hearford plucks the candle from the cupcake and, without missing a beat, shoves it into Flesher's face, smearing the frosting in his beard.

 

Flesher opens his eyes, looking disappointed in himself for getting caught. He says, with deadpan delivery, "It didn't come true."

 

With that, the camera pans down the hallway ....

 

*knock-knock*

 

“Come in!”

 

SWF World Heavyweight Champion Michael Stephens opens the door of Joe Peters’ makeshift office and grimaces. The SWF’s head honcho is swivelling back and forth in his leather chair with his fingers steepled together, and that’s usually a sign that he thinks he’s had a great idea. Which, when you’re a member of SWF talent, is never a good thing.

 

“This’d better be good,” Stephens grunts, landing heavily in one of the chairs in front of the Generalissimo’s desk.

 

“Oh, it’s not just good,” Peters enthuses, “it’s great! It’s a ploy of marketing genius,, and…” he pauses, then sobers up slightly. “But I’m going to wait for the other person I’ve invited before I explain fully.” Stephens rolls his eyes and settles down to wait. Twenty seconds later…

 

*knock-knock*

 

“Come in!”

 

The door opens… and Landon Maddix walks through, with Megan Skye close behind. Michael Stephens’ reaction is rather understandable.

 

“Bloody hell!” the World Champion spits, coming to his feet, “Peters, are you deaf or just stupid?”

 

“Hey, what’s he doing here?” Landon demands of Peters, pointing at Stephens, “you said this was going to be a meeting to help me plan my future with the company!”

 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please,” Joe Peters says, evidently relishing the chance to play the cool-headed boss, “sit down and I’ll explain it all.”

 

Glaring mistrustfully at each other, Maddix and Stephens sit.

 

“Now,” Peters begins, “I’ve been looking through some of the federation’s history, and I’ve uncovered some very interesting facts. One of the more recent ones is that the pair of you did very nicely at 13th Hour - we got very good buyrates there, so the SWF audience evidently like seeing you in the ring together. It’s just unfortunate,” he continues eyeing first one and then the other, “that neither of you wants to do it again…?”

 

Maddix and Stephens glance at each other again, then shake their heads without a word.

 

“Well, that’s just too bad,” Peters says, “but all is not lost! No, more of my research has turned up some very interesting figures. As a result, this Friday on Storm you, Landon Maddix and you, Michael Stephens, will be getting back into the ring with each other-”

 

Stephens and Maddix start up from their chairs, uttering complaints and threats in the same breath.

 

“-AS TAG TEAM PARTNERS!” Peters finishes triumphantly.

 

There is a moment of stunned silence. Then Michael Stephens finds his voice and, with the delicacy and tact for which his nation as a whole and his family in particular is known, he inquires if the sentence he just heard was the one that Joseph Peters actually intended to utter.

 

“You fuckin’ what?”

 

“Yeah… what he said!” Landon seconds, jabbing a finger in the direction of his recent arch-nemesis.

 

“Guys, it’s all here!” Peters says, referring them to a Nash-style™ flipchart behind him. “Don’t you see? If the crowd will pay to see you against each other, of course they’ll pay to see you teaming! It’s been borne out time and time again,” he continues, warming to his subject, “most notably when Thoth was handling some of the booking - Crazy Tag Team Partners Who Hate Each Other = Ratings!”

 

“Joe, Thoth was mental,” Landon says flatly.

 

“And so are you,” Stephens adds, folding his arms.

 

“Guys, if you won’t wrestle against each other then you’re going to have to wrestle with each other,” Peters says in a tone that’s probably meant to be apologetic but fails miserably, “you’re two of my biggest draws and I can’t keep you apart, so I’m trying to put you together in a way that’s in concordance with the wishes you’ve already expressed. Besides which,” he adds, looking down and shuffling paperwork, “I’m the boss, and what I say goes.”

 

“Yeah? Or what?” Stephens asks belligerently.

 

“Well, I could make sure that you never get a shot at the Cruiserweight Title,” Peters says, nodding at Landon, “and strip you of the World Title, or book you into a handicap defence against Tom Flesher and Charlie Matthews, or… well, you get the idea. It’s a brilliant plan,” he continues, straight-faced, “and I won’t let your egos get in the way of something that’s undoubtedly going to be good for business.”

 

“Wait a minute,” Landon chokes, “our egos!? What about-”

 

“-yeah, an’ what about when he drives me bloody mad and we end up fighting anyway?” Stephens cuts in.

 

“Well, in that case you can have another match against each other,” Peters explains, smiling beatifically, “and everybody wins! Well, apart from whichever one of you loses that match of course,” he adds.

 

Maddix and Stephens look at each other again. Their gazes transmit clear dislike, but also an understanding of sorts. Peters is a moron. If we humour him now he’ll probably forget about this in a couple of weeks…

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You know,” Landon says reflectively as he, Michael Stephens and Megan Skye leave Joe Peters’ office, “this might not be that bad.”

 

“You what?” Stephens growls, rounding on him, “say that again? How the bloody hell is this not ‘bad’?”

 

“Well, us tagging,” Maddix says, “I mean, we’re both great wrestlers, right?”

 

“…right.”

 

“We’ve both held the Tag Titles, yeah? Me twice more than you admittedly, but hey,” La Cucaracha grins, “some of us are just born good.”

 

“I’ve held them, yeah,” Stephens says, everything in his face indicating a desire to hear Maddix get to the bloody point.

 

“So… who in the SWF is going to be able to beat us?” Landon asks, waving his arms expansively. “The New Doomtopians? The Axis? Zyon and Akira Ka-whatsit? Come on,” he continues, “I reckon we’d have a fair chance at beating Flesher and Matthews!”

 

Michael Stephens opens his mouth to fire off a withering retort… then stops. On this one point, at least, Landon Maddix may actually have a point. However, Maddix has carried on.

 

“It’s going to be great,” he says extravagantly, “I mean, I’ll become the only other person apart from Chris Raynor to win four Tag Titles with four different partners! And I’ll still get my Cruiserweight Title shot, so I can really become Grand Slam Landon! Oh…” He suddenly stops and looks thoughtful, then glances at Stephens.

 

“What now?” the World Champion demands.

 

“Err… how are you with your tag team partners being a little, um… creative with the rules?”

 

“You mean cheating?” Stephens snorts, then turns his back and walks off. “You do what you’ve gotta do,” he fires back over his shoulder, “just don’t expect me to join in.”

 

“…Cool!” Maddix says, his earlier enthusiasm returning, “you just wait Mike! We’ll be tag champs before you know it!” However, by this point Michael Stephens has rounded the corner, and Landon is left alone with Megan.

 

“Landon. Seriously,” the former Toddess says, “you can’t actually think this is a good idea, can you?”

 

“Sure I can!” Maddix replies, “come on, what’s bad about getting more gold? I’m sure he’ll get used to the idea in time,” he adds, putting an arm around Megan’s shoulder and starting to walk off.

 

Meanwhile, now a couple of corridors away, Michael Stephens has a face like thunder but wheels are turning behind the steel-grey eyes. He never really trusted Landon’s declaration that he was prepared to let things go now, and phrases like ‘keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer’ are running through the Englishman’s head. And if Landon does turn out to be genuine and not have any sinister designs on him, well…

 

“Look at it this way,” Mike mutters to himself, “he’s got to be better than Sean Davis…”

[chirs3 0]

Johnson strides through the halls of the Jedi Temple, muttering to himself, trying to keep away from Joseph Peters if he possibly can. Looking behind him and satisfied that the sniveling commissioner is nowhere to be found, he slows his pace, satisfied with his alone ti-

 

"Johnson! Wait, you must!"

 

Johnson arches an eyebrow. Surely, surely, he didn't just hear what he just heard.

 

"Wait, you must!"

 

And then the padding of little feet, as well as the click of a cane is heard, and Johnson rolls his eyes and turns to face Yoda.

 

"Anger I saw in you, young JJ," croaks the elderly Jedi. "Skipped fear you did, but anger leads to hate, and hate leads to su-ACK!"

 

Whilst Yoda was talking, JJ quickly pulled a hankerchief out of the pocket of his track jacket and stuck it in the little green man's mouth, probably in an attempt to not hear more drivel. Johnson walks off, but Yoda spits out the hankerchief and his little eyes narrow.

 

"Pay now you must," he snarls, before drawing his lightsaber and leaping into action, flipping towards the Canadian, spinning through the air with the speed of a man 900 years younger.

 

*CRACK!*

 

And Johnson does some spinning of his own, twirling like a ballerina of destruction before waylaying the Jedi with a rolling elbow! The aged warrior drops like a stone, his lightsaber clattering to the floor and flicking itself off, as Johnson turns on his heels and strides off into the bowels of the temple.

 

Before fading into unconsciousness, the last thing Yoda hears is "Fuckin' spot monkeys."

 

FADE OUT