the.weej

*Backstage: the Blank locker room* We see Bruce sitting by a table in his dressing room, open bottle of vodka and a half filled glass in front of him, a stupid smirk on his face and a big burly guy in a furry hat and a long dark grey trenchcoat in the background keeping an eye on Bruce. “The Russian authorities insisted that Bruce was kept under constant supervision while in Russian” Mak says as he tries to explain what the big man is doing in Bruce’s locker room. “Damn Russkies, just cause he’s a good old American Capitalist they’ve got to watch him – that’s profiling!” King complains. Anyway back to the locker room where Bruce is starting to get a little festive as he takes another drink of Vodka. “You know Igor” “My name is Mikhail” the big man says sounding like he’s corrected him 10 times already. “Yeah, yeah sure” Bruce says dismissing the comment before rambling on “I’ve always liked Russians, they’re tough sons of bitches! Hell I dressed up as Boris Zhukov one year for Halloween.” The big man looks a little doubtful “I did! I was 10 years old and I had on a bald skin cap and then we shaved my mom’s beard off and glued it to my chin. It was hilarious to see their reaction when we showed up and I started to sign the Soviet national anthem” Bruce explains while grinning. “Do you mind if I turn the TV on?” the big guy asks after looking at his watch “I want to keep up with the show” “Hey it’s a free country. . . right?” *Click* The TV is turned on and Mikhail changes between the only two cable channels there are and switches to Lockdown. To Lockdown as it’s being broadcast live, right this second, from Bruce’s locker room. Mikhail looks at the TV screen, then he turns around and looks at the camera, a movement that’s mirrored on the TV screen. Then he turns back and looks at the TV and slowly raises his right arm in the air “What the?” Bruce coughs and then whispers “We tend to ignore that Igor, just go on like there cameras aren’t here” “They’re. . . they’re always there? Always watching?” Mikhail asks. “Yup” Is all the reply Bruce bothers with as he pours himself another glass of vodka. “It’s like being back with the KG. . . Erm KG-King, Russia’s number one fast food chain” Mikhail quickly says to cover up his slip up. “So we can see EVERYTHING that’s going on right now?” “Yup” “How about the Austin Sly, Spike Jenkins match?” “If you’d like yeah – although I’m not sure why you’d want to see the little engine that couldn’t and some little skinny guy that’s still rusty from all that time off.” Bruce says offhandedly “Although I hear that that Sly guy has a killer handshake, hopefully little Spikey won’t fall into that trap” “Huh?” “It’s not important” Bruce says and then adds “just like Jenkins” before emptying the glass of Vodka in one go. *Fade*

SWF Lockdown is on the air in three…. Two…. One…. “RRRRRRRAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” SWF Lockdown explodes into action in front of the crowd and the viewers at home, a fusillade of pyros and flame jets erupting all around the ring area. Cameras pan over the masses of SWF fans that jam packed themselves sardine style into the specially constructed arena on the very grounds of the Kremlin itself, the cameras take in the sea of faces and the various signs bobbing about within it. The camera view finally cuts back to the announcer’s table revealing Mak Francis and the Suicide King seated and arguing something rather heatedly until they notice the camera pointed at them. There's a brief pause as Mak composes himself before cheerfully launching into “greeting” mode. “Hello everyone and welcome to SWF LOCKDOWN! Coming to you live for one night only from the Kremlin, right in the heart of Russia! I’m Mak Francis, here as ever with my partner the Suicide King!” “Hi.” Is all that comes from the King’s mouth, his face the very picture of boredom as he waits for the first match of the show and for Mak to finish his spiel. “Oh show some spirit King!” Mak says a little huffily as he glances at his lethargic companion on the broadcasting table. “We’ve got a host of great matches for you tonight folks including a House Rules All you can drink Vodka match, refereed by none other than the Red Rage himself Viktor Tarakanov!” “Someone who still needs to be told the Cold War is over.” King adds snidely. “The International Title will also be on the line tonight.” Mak continues, trying to ignore that comment. “But tonight’s main event will be title versus title! Both the SWF World Title and the Ultraviolent Title will be on the line in a Hardcore match! Its winner take all between Landon Maddix and Amy Stevens!” “Maddix is going to whip Amy Stevens’ ass Mak. No question about it, he’s not the World Champion for nothing.” “But he’s in Amy’s world tonight King, she took the Ultraviolent Title from the death grip of Bruce Blank!” “And Maddix is no stranger to getting hardcore either Mak. He’s been in these kinds of matches before and he knows what to expect.” “Lets hope so for his sake King. First up however we’ve got Manson against an as of yet unnamed opponent.” ”I hate these matches Mak, you never know who you’re going to see come out from those curtains. It could be Cutthroat for god’s sake!” Before Mak can form a reply Mastodon’s “Crusher Destroyer” hits the speakers, the lights starting to strobe in time with the music and the wild cheers of the rabid Russian fan base turning to heated boos as the first man in the opening match makes himself known. Manson strides out from behind the curtain and the boos simply increase as the music pounds away, the Raging Bull spits mockingly at some of the more unfortunate fans that line the entrance ramp, taking no notice of the expletives hurled his way in English and Russian alike. In the ring, standing ready as always is Funyon, the genial announcer raising his microphone to his lips as Manson reaches the ring and rolls his way inside under the bottom rope. “Ladies and Gentlemen! The following contest is scheduled for one fall. Now entering the ring, weighing in at 240lbs, and hailing from Denver, Colorado! He is the Raging Bull! MAAAAAAAAAANSOOOON!” The boos filling the arena merely intensify as Manson mockingly throws up the horns before stalking across the ring to his corner and sitting down as his music fades away and he waits for his opponent. “Who’s it going to be King? Who’s it going to be?” “Maybe if you just shut up for two seconds you’ll find out.” The arena lights suddenly go dark, plunging the crowd into darkness and raising a few confused cheers as the fans wait impatiently to see who will face Manson tonight. A graveyard bell begins to toll mournfully in the blackness, the fans stirring in the gloom as old memories are re-kindled and then brought back full force as a deep voice reverberates through the speakers. "Are you scared?" The voice echoes for a moment before several voices speak as one. "He's here..........." Amon Amarth’s “Death in Fire” roars from the arena speakers, matched only in volume by the sudden eruption of the fans as red lights begin to strobe across the entire arena as gouts of thick smoke boil up from the entranceway. A single blood red spotlight pierces the roiling smoke, illuminating a massive figure in its midst, and making the fans cheer even louder as he steps through the clouds and raises both huge arms into the air, a wide grin stamped firmly on his face on Funyon raises his voice to make himself heard. “Annnnnnd his opponent! MAKING HIS RETURN TO THE SWF! Weighing in at 315lbs! From Shrewsbury, England! He is the Black Angel! AEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECAS!” The fans explode yet again as Funyon quickly makes himself scarce from the ring, Aecas stands on the stage for a long moment, soaking in the atmosphere and the welcoming cheers of the fans before he strides down the entry way. The seven footer now focus’ solely on the man in the ring, that damnable grin still on his face as he finally arrives at ringside and makes his way up the stairs and steps slowly into the ring. “Oh my god…” Is all the Suicide King can utter as Aecas moves to the centre of the ring, looking about him at the raving fans before he points to Manson and then makes a slow throat cutting gesture to the immediate approval of the crowd. “Unbelievable! We haven’t seen this man for over a year since he left for Japan!” “And that’s where he should have stayed! We were finally down to two nutcases and that was just Janus! We don’t need another one!” King blurts out, still shocked at the sight as Aecas, at referee Eddy Long’s insistence moves slowly back to a corner of his own. “Well you go in there and tell him King! What a match this should be, these two men know one another very well. They were assaulting each other almost every night back in old days of the SJL before they moved up the ranks!” “Maybe so, but he’s been out of this ring for over a year and Manson has picked up plenty of new tricks in that time.” Back in the ring Aecas continues to stare directly at Manson as referee Eddy Long moves into the centre of the ring, he quickly checks the position of both wrestlers before stepping back and signalling to the Time Keeper to start the match. DING! DING! DING!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Manson reaches up, grabbing the second rope with both hands and pulling himself up to his feet before slowly walking out towards Aecas, meeting his opponent in the centre of the ring. Aecas towers over his opponent but Manson shows no signs of intimidation, looking up at the Englishman for a long moment before reaching up high and slamming a hard punch into the face of his opponent. Aecas’ head jerks back slightly from the blow and he continues to stare down at Manson, as his opponent strikes him again…and again…to little discernable effect. Manson finally kicks Aecas hard in the gut, and at last that seems to have some effect on his gigantic opponent as he doubles over slightly. Manson takes advantage of this small opening, and seeing that punches are having little effect launches straight into the elbows, launching a salvo into the right side of Aecas’ face, forcing the big man backwards. Manson quickly runs for the ropes at the other end of the ring, rebounding and launching himself upwards to strike Aecas high in the chest with a huge Running Knee, staggering the big man once more and taking him into the ropes. “And this is exactly what I’m talking about Mak.” King says as Aecas lunges forwards off the ropes with a Decapitator attempt that Manson is quick to duck under, the Raging Bull spins about and stops the Black Angel dead with a solid thrust kick to the abdomen doubling him over once more. Manson hits the ropes once again and smashes his right foot into the side of Aecas’ head with a thunderous Yakuza Kick, finally taking the big man off of his feet and down to the mat. “Well Manson is certainly starting off on the offensive, but he’ll need to pull out a lot more than this to put Aecas down.” Mak says as Manson moves up to Aecas’ head, stamping his foot down heel first on the giants forehead and spinning around with a bootscrape, the fans erupting into boos at the action, Manson mockingly spreading his arms as Aecas presses a hand to his forehead. “Oh would you look at that! No respect from Manson!” “Haha! Do it again!” The Suicide King exclaims gleefully as Manson goes to the ropes once again and drops a solid knee into the giants face before diving on top of him for the first pinfall of the match. “Big knee drop and here we go! Manson looking to end it early!” Mak says as Long drops to his belly and makes the count. ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TW- Before Long’s hand can even smack the canvas Aecas’ arms grab a firm hold of Manson, wrapping around the head and right leg as the Black Angel simply sits up to break the count. “Uh oh! Here comes a little lesson in respect King!” “I told him to scrape the face again! But does anyone listen to me!?” Manson struggles in the powerful grip of his opponent, slamming his elbow into the back of the giant as he slowly gets back up to his feet a grin appearing on his face once more before he drops down to one knee, slamming Manson ribs first into it and following it up with a huge Fall Away Slam that sends the Raging Bull flying across the ring. “And that’s what you get for taking your opponent for granted King.” Mak quips as Aecas pushes himself to his feet and advances on the slowly rising Manson. “Maybe.” King grudgingly agrees as Aecas grabs Manson by the hair and forcibly pulls him back to his feet and into a solid forearm shot that sends the Raging Bull reeling back against the ropes. The Black Angel grabs a trailing arm and shoots Manson across the ring into the ropes, roaring out to meet him in the middle of the ring but the Raging Bull again ducks the Lariat. “Swing and a miss with the Lariat.” “Manson’s just too quick for him Mak.” Both men rebound from the ropes a second time, Aecas swings a leg out, trying for a Yakuza kick of his own but Manson slides under it, springing back to his feet and levelling the giant with a Gamengiri as he turns to face him once more. “BAM! That’s how it’s done!” The Suicide King cackles as Manson covers his opponent once more, hooking one of those big legs for extra pressure. ONE! … … … … TWO! … … … … KICKOUT! Aecas flings Manson off of him with a powerful kickout, both men quickly scrambling back up to their feet, Aecas clutching the back of his head from the kick as Manson tries to keep the ball in his court with a Rolling Elbow. This time however it’s the Raging Bull who finds nothing but air as Aecas ducks under the deadly strike, twisting about and finally nailing the Lariat, almost taking Manson’s head off in the process. “Decapitator!” Mak cries out as Aecas grabs Manson by the hair once more and roughly drags him back up to his feet before grabbing a leg and hoisting the Raging Pull up into a Sidewalk Slam position. Aecas pauses for a moment before jumping up into the air, releasing Manson in mid air and hammering an elbow into his midriff as they land. Manson’s audibly “Ooofs” as the air is driven out of him from the impact of the slam and the hard elbow that followed it, he clutches his gut trying to draw air into his lungs as Aecas towers over him once more. “Big elbow to the abdomen! Manson may be winded from that last shot King!” Slowly pulling Manson up once again, Aecas steps behind his opponent, wrapping both arms around Manson’s middle with a tight waistlock “He’s got more to worry about now than an Elbow!” The Suicide King yells before Aecas heaves his opponent off of his feet with a huge Release German Suplex. Manson sails through the air for a moment before landing HARD on his head and shoulders, the impact rolling him over until he slumps face down to the canvas. The fans let out another gleeful cheer as the Raging Bull gets dumped on the back of his skull and Aecas quickly crawls over to make his first pinfall of the match. ONE! … … … … TWO! … … … … KICKOUT! Manson manages a powerful kickout himself but Aecas doesn’t give the Raging Bull a second to compose himself, hauling him back up to his feet once again and measuring his opponent with another solid forearm. A second forearm rattles Manson’s head but this time the Raging Bull fires back with a vicious knife edge chop that cracks against the Black Angel’s chest and draws an obligatory “Wooooo!” from the fans. Not to be outdone Aecas lashes out again, a third solid forearm connecting and sending Manson staggering back towards the ropes, the Raging Bull comes off the cabling as quick as he can, launching himself into a quick Roundhouse kick only to have his foot smack solidly into the hands of the black Angel. Manson is quick to react however, his other leg leaving the mat and coming across to clout Aecas squarely in the back of the head sending the big man reeling once more, staggering back into a corner as the Raging Bull doggedly climbs back up to his feet. “Beautiful Enzugiri by Manson! Quick thinking certainly pays off.” “Against somebody this size Mak you have to make sure to be quick, and to hit hard. You know that just as well as I do.” Aecas shakes his head slightly to try and clear the cobwebs away as the Raging Bull retreats to the far side of the ring, pausing for a moment before charging at Aecas as he holds fast in the corner. Aecas sees Manson coming though, and the cameras catch his face twisting from an impassive facade into an angry snarl as he charges out of the corner to meet the Raging Bull in the middle of the ring! Smashing into his smaller opponent with another devastating Lariat, turning Manson upside down and inside out like a rag doll as he practically gets his head taken off. “Good god what a stiff clothesline!” “And look at the expression on Aecas’ face King! I don’t think its all fun and games anymore!” Aecas turns around slowly to face his fallen opponent , the cheers of the crowd loud in his ears, the expression on the giant’s face is of anger, as he stoops down and grabs Manson under the arms hauling his dazed opponent upright. The giant switches his grip, arms coming up to lock the Raging Bull’s arms in a Full Nelson before arching backwards and dropping the smaller man on the back his head with a hard Dragon Suplex, locking his body into a huge bridge for the pin. ONE!!!!! … … … … TWO!!!!!! … … … … THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NO!!!!!!! The fans explode into boos as Manson’s right shoulder shoots off of the canvas before Long’s hand can slap the mat for three, the Raging Bull not willing to give up yet, even as he flops back to the canvas after breaking the pin. Aecas gets up slowly, reaching down and lifting his dazed opponent back up to his feet once more. Aecas looks out at the fans for a moment, his left hand releasing Manson’s tights for a moment to draw a thumb across his throat before he heaves the Raging Bull up into the air. The Black Angel doesn’t waste any time, and drops Manson straight South, smashing the head of the Raging Bull into the canvas with a vicious Sheer Drop Brainbuster! The sheer force of the impact dragging the crowd to their feet ecstatic cheers mixing with shocked cries as Manson flops bonelessly down to the canvas. “And he just dropped him on his head! Did you see that Mak?! RIGHT ON HIS HEAD!” “I think that could be the end of it King! The end is nigh for Manson!” The fans seem to agree with Mak as the cheers of the fans simple grow and grown as Aecas quickly pins the Dangerous One with a Lateral Press, hooking a leg tightly to be sure. ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! … … … TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! … … … TWO AND A HALF!!!!!!!!!!!! … … … TWO AND THREE QUARTERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! … … … THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The boos of the fans shake the temporary arena as Manson manages to get the shoulder up at the last moment, breaking the count and making Aecas rise up to his knees, looking down at his opponent for a long moment before starting to pull him up once more. “And Manson refuses to die!” “He’s not just going to roll over and let Aecas through Mak!” Back in the ring Aecas moves up behind Manson once more, staggering the Raging Bull with another swift forearm to the back of the head before he bends down and shoves his head between the legs of his opponent. “Looks like Aecas is trying for that Electric Chair Driver he liked to use.” Mak observes as Aecas grabs Manson’s legs and prepares to lift him up and onto his shoulders, Manson however has other plans. As soon as he feels those arms grabbing at his legs he jumps up into the air and lands on his knees, smashing Aecas face first into the canvas! “Brilliant counter by Manson!” The Suicide King crows. “Almost an inverted Pedigree, see Mak? That’s what I mean about quick thinking!” “I see it King, but Manson had better be quick to capitalise on this.” Manson seems intent on doing just that, heaving Aecas over onto his back before pushing himself to his feet and making his way over towards the nearest corner, the Raging Bull slowly begins to ascend the turnbuckles as the cheers of the fans get louder. Manson reaches the top turnbuckle turning himself around and straightening up…. ….before he gets crotched on the top as Aecas hammers the ropes! Manson cries out in pain as he lands hard on the top buckle, and the male members of the audience let out a universal sound of sympathetic pain, as the Raging Bull perches uncomfortably on the top rope. “I think Aecas just pruned the Manson family tree!” “Oh laugh it up Mak, he should be disqualified for that! That was a blatant low blow!” “Says our resident expert on below the belt action.” Mak says smugly. “….” Aecas pushes Manson back to an upright position on the corner the look on the Raging Bull’s face tells it all as Aecas rocks him with another solid forearm before he slowly begins to climb up after his opponent. The higher the Black Angel gets the more the fans begin to respond, rousing themselves from their reverie as Aecas wraps his huge right arm around the head of the Raging Bull, slowly pulling Manson up the buckles with him. “What on earth is Aecas planning now?!” “I don’t know King but after a shot like that I don’t think there’s anything Manson can do about it!” Aecas finally reaches the top, planting his feet firmly on the ropes he reaches down and grabs a handful of Manson’s tights before he slowly heaves his opponent into a vertical position above his head. The two men create a tower for the briefest of seconds before Aecas topples back into the ring dropping MANSON straight down and CRATERING HIS HEAD INTO THE CANVAS WITH A BRAINBUSTER ALL THE WAY FROM THE TOP! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! “Avalanche Brainbuster! I think I just saw Manson’s head BOUNCE off the canvas! That’s gotta be it!” The fans explode once more at the impact of Manson’s head against the canvas as Aecas crawls on top of his downed opponent, his right arm hooking a leg once again as Eddy long rushes over to count the pinfall. ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! … … … TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! … … … TWO AND A HALF!!!!!!!!!!!! … … … TWO AND THREE QUARTERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! … … … THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! DING! DING! DING! Amon Amarth’s “Death in Fire” explodes from the arena speakers once more, warring for domination with the rising cheers of the fans as Funyon raises the microphone to his lips, having to shout to make himself heard over the wall of sound. “The winner of the match! THE BLACK ANGEL! AEEEEEEECAAAAAAAAAAAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” “And what a way to make a return that is King! With a victory over one of your oldest and most persistent foes!” “Aecas should have been disqualified Mak, you know it and I know it, a blatant low blow to Manson that set him up for the Brainbuster! Long should be investigated for that!” In the ring Aecas gets to his feet one last time, throwing his arms up into the air to the appreciation of the fans, that grin back on his face as he savours not just victory but a final return to the federation. He steps through the ropes and jumps down to the floor, the giant walking around the ringside area to start his journey up the ramp. The Black Angel grins at the fans as he walks by, feeling palms slap his back and thousands of voices chanting his name; he walks up the ramp slowly before stopping just before the entranceway and turning around. He lifts his arms one last time for the fans before he points down at Manson in the ring as the Raging Bull forces himself up to his knees, both hands clutching at the top of his head but his eyes focused solely on his old enemy before the giant finally disappears backstage. “It looks like these two have picked up right where there left off King.” “Aecas had better celebrate while he can, a year is a long time to be away Mak and there’s plenty of new talent in the SWF ready to put one over on a returnee.” “Indeed there is, and I have to wonder where his Scythe is at. We saw it make a surprise appearance at Battleground in the hands of Bruce Blank. Where is it now?” “I’ve got no idea Mak, but if Bruce is sensible he’s put as much distance between himself and that thing as he can.” “Well I’m sure the answer won’t be long in coming. In the meantime folks stay tuned because the night is young and we’ve only just got started! Still to come tonight is Amy Stephens and Landon “La Cucaracha” Maddix in our hardcore main event for both the World and the Ultraviolent titles! Not to mention an International Title match and our House Rules Vodka match!” “That’s assuming they can keep Tarakanov off the bottle Mak.” “Well that goes without saying King. Stay tuned fans because Austin Sly Vs. Spike Jenkins is up next!"

Card: The world tour rolls into Russia and straight into Moscow, and not even the Soviets can resist the power of the SWF as we take over the Kremlin for the next step on our world tour! I'd have something more witty here but save for the fact that the world tour rolls on and once more Janus - part time head of security, part time furry, all time nutjob - has the book, I have nothing else to say. Except for the fact that word limits are easily modifiable because I still have NO idea what people are comfortable with. Main Event - Title vs Title Hardcore Rules Landon 'La Cucaracha' Maddix© vs Amy Stephens© Description: Amy totally called out Landon on AftershoX. The Princess of Punk is not pleased at all with her partner's dilly-dallying ways with Megan Skye, and the Cockroach responded to her demands. WIth the power of his ego behind him, Landon asked for this match to be title-vs-title, because he wants to put Miss Stephens in her place. Can the Nottingham native prove her enemy wrong, or will the Cockroach be too hard to squash? Rules: What rules? This is going to be violent. Sub Main Event - International Title Match JJ Johnson vs Wildchild© Description: On the one side, we have JJ Johnson. Silent and deadly much like a poisonous fart, Mr Johnson has shown that he is capable of hanging with both the best (like Toxxic) and the worst (like Landon) the SWF has to offer. On the otherside we have the prestigious Wildchild, the living pinball and current International champion, ready to take on anything that's thrown his way. So Johnson threw himself. Rules: Standard singles match. Non-Title Match Grendel© vs Zyon Description: Zyon's a chip off the old block, and Grendel is a very nice up and comer following his surprise victory in the Air Raid match at the Pay-Per-View. So they're being tossed together in the ring to go at it mano-e-mano, and may a good match come out of it, so says I. Rules: Straight singles match. House Rules - Viktor's All You Can Drink Vodka Sean Davis vs Bloodshed Special Guest Referee: Viktor Tarakanov Description: When in Russia, do as the Russians stereotypically do. Featuring former SJL talent and big ugly Russian git Viktor Tarakanov as the guest referee, these two clash together for no other real reason than the fact that the World Tour needs a House Rules match, and that I tried to think up something at least remotely funny and failed so very, very hard. Rules: Standard singles match, with every near fall (2 count) or broken submission requiring both superstars to take a shot from the vodka bottle carried by the referee. It's a big bottle, folks. Get SMASHED. Cruiserweight Spotfest Wayne Blank vs "The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu Description: We've got no Bruce Blank, but we sure as hell have a Wayne Blank, and because Janus is fairly poor when it comes to booking, he just threw Wayne in with another notable crusier to showcase their stuff. After tangling with Amy last show, can Wayne shoot higher in the SWF, or will he be blown off course by a divine wind? Rules: Cruiserweight rules (no throwing over the top rope, 20 counts on the outside, etc.) Austin Sly vs "Hollywood" Spike Jenkins Description: Semi-triumphant returnee of the Sly variety apparently under Joseph Peters' thumb vs. psychotic new straight-edge sensation emokid of the Jenkins variety. FIGHT! Rules: Standard singles match. ??? vs Manson Description: Uh oh. It's the dreaded Question Mark Man, back to wreak havoc upon the SWF! And who better to meet our lovely mystery man than the Raging Bull himself, Manson? Will the power of Mansonosity prevail in this match, or will the Question Mark Man deliver swift justice upon the opposition? Rules: Straight singles match. ???, sendee your stats to Manson.

Show will be going up in a few minutes. -Z

Disable your firewall or try connecting from a proxy. -Z

Type /server irc.phazenet.com, and that should reconnect you. If that doesn't work, try /server flatlands.phazenet.com, jokerswild.phazenet.com or excelsior.phazenet.com -Z

Kanye West. -Z

The card has been edited with the addition of the official commentating team, to reflect the results of the recent poll. Enjoy! -Z

This poll is now closed, and the people have spoken. Despite an early lead, Mak Francis overcomes a surprising surge by Axis to take the win. I'll edit the results into the Battleground card shortly. -Z

I'm inclined to think we should do runoff voting anyway. -Z

To be fair, this was much more Strangler's idea than mine. It wouldn't be that hard to do another list, assuming one or two of us was motivated enough. I wouldn't count out the possibility completely. -Z

Sacred did actually talk quite frequently in older promos, which shouldn't be too hard to dig up, I would hope. I wanted to have one team with somewhat recent guys on it. -Z

The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents... SWF SMARKDOWN! Live, Monday, April 17th from the SOLD OUT Georgia Dome in Atlanta, Georgia! (6pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) Hand me my booking napkin! The SWF's Hell or High Water tour continues, nearing the end of its destination as I near the end of my sanity! What the hell happened on the last show? Lord only knows. However, it was catastrophic enough to completely alter the card I had booked the night before. Can the PPV main event be built to with no world champion? Is it possible this is the slimmest pre-PPV card in history? Will it be made up for with a torrent of promos, particularly from JJ Johnson and Landon Maddix? It better! The SWF's New Commentator search wraps up with the introduction of our first three-man team: Andrew Blackwell, The Suicide King and Johnny Dangerous! MAIN EVENT INTERNATIONAL TITLE CONTENDERSHIP Kevin Coyote vs Jimmy the Doom SPECIAL GUEST REFEREE: Wildchild ->Wildchild has been strangely lethargic since winning the Inernational Title from Jay Hawke at the last PPV. With this being the last show until the PPV, you know what that means: A random contendership match with the champion involved in a vague manner! Huzzah! Can Kevin Coyote continue his ascention? Can Jimmy the Doom keep being Jimmy the Doom? Find out on Smarkdown! Rules: Standard singles match. WC can write if he pleases. Word Limit: 5750 Send To: chirs3 SINGLES BOUT Insane Luchador vs Sean Davis ->Sean Davis mysteriously interfered in the hardcore title match between Amy Stephens and Bruce Blank in Amy's favour. Curiouser, Sean Davis was aligned with Toxxic back in the Rev-0 days. While Davis is a mystery, Andrew Rickmen, not so much. In a bit of a mashup, Davis faces Blank's PPV opponent in the Insane Luchador here on Smarkdown. Rules: Singles match. Word Limit: 5000 Send To: janusd SINGLES BOUT Manson© vs Zyon ->On Lockdown, the unique youth picked up the victory against three other men in a hardcore fourway match. Damn, does that sound filthy or what? The violence in that match is almost prep work for Zyon, whose inevitable confrontation with Spike Jenkins seems to be but a foregone conclusion at this point. On the last show before the PPV, he takes on one half of the reigning tag team champs in Manson, who, despite having a very unusual run of it with via tag teams since the Lethal Lottery, has not done anything in the way of singles competition in quite some time. Rules: Singles match. Word Limit: 5000 Send To: realitycheck OPENING MATCH SINGLES BOUT Archie Griffon vs Grendel ->Grendel is a new guy. He wears black, he's under a mask. Enigmatic. Archie Griffon is not so new, and has in fact been spinning his wheels. These two gents throw down in a pre-PPV display of fisticuffsmanship. Rules: Singles match. Word Limit: 4500 Send To: Evolution (Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3) (Zed Note: After that last show, I had no idea where to go. So this is the end result. Sorry. Try to make the most out of it with some promos.)

Well, alright. Although I tempt the fate of MANSONOSITY, I just can't say no to WC. I know better than that. -Z

Yeah, a four man booth on the main event. I thought about special guest referee instead, but I couldn't really see it. Have fun. -Z

Well. Somebody hand me my booking napkin. I'm not quite sure what to think. Bizarre show. Card will be up right quick, as soon as I make some descriptions... -Z

* FWOOOOSSSHHHHHH!*FWOOOOSSSHHHHHH!*FWOOOOSSSHHHHHH!* * BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!* *BOOM!!*BOOM!!* BOOM!!*BOOM!!*BOOM!!* "WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELCOME TO SWF LOCKDOWN!!" The Suicide King announces as the Lockdown intro fades over to a shot of the arena where Joseph Peters is already in the ring with Insane Luchador on one side of him and Bruce Blank (accompanied by his doctor Dr. Ramoray) on the other side of it. "Well Peters doesn’t believe in wasting time tonight" King states. "No he doesn’t so let’s just go to the ring" Ebony says curtly. Joseph Peters looks at Bruce with annoyance as the big man is wearing a surgical mask and Dr. Ramoray seems to be busy taking his blood pressure and totally ignoring Peters. Luchador on the other hand looks a little annoyed with the whole situation. "If you please?" Peters asks Dr. Ramoray "I’m sorry sir but the public health is important, I haven’t released Bruce from his quarantine" Dr. Ramoray explains as he points to the surgical mask that covers most Bruce’s face. *Sigh* "Alright I’ve asked for both Mr. Rickmen and Mr. Blank to come out here tonight because this needs to be settled." Peters says trying his best to look strong and authoritative (just like his books on tape told him to) "I smell a rat" King says, then he looks at Ebony turns a little pale "Metaphorically speaking of course" "Of course" Ebony casually replies as she runs her hand over the handle of her knife in full view of the Suicide King. "It’s my duty to ensure that this federation runs as smoothly as possible and frankly YOU are not helping it" Peters says as he points to Bruce "Oh no I've done made you mad, whatever shall I do" Bruce says jokingly. Peters doesn’t flinch, but he does smile - which kinda bothers Bruce a little. "Three times we’ve tried to have a 1 on 1 match between you two, and THREE times you’ve sabotaged it Bruce" Peters states as he pulls out a contract from his briefcase "But the buck stops here" YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! "You see Bruce the first contract you found a loophole and had someone else take your place in the match. But the contract that you both signed after "From the Fire" has a little clause in it... a clause that states that if you do not fulfill the contractual obligation then I can fire you" YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!! FIRE HIM!! FIRE HIM!! FIRE HIM!! FIRE HIM!! "Oh come on now Joe, you wouldn’t fire me for a few practical jokes now would ya" Bruce says as he takes off the surgical mask and pushes Dr. Ramoray away. "There’d be a lot less trouble with you gone Bruce" Peters says Luchador doesn’t seem to like that announcement, it’s obvious that he’d rather take care of Bruce on his own instead of having the big man fired before he can get his hands on him. "However..." Peters says, that comments brings a smile to both Bruce’s and Rickmen’s face "I will tell you that you’ve got ONE chance, one last chance to do this. At Battleground!!" YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!! IL nods his head in approval as a demented look crawls into his eyes, a sickening demented look that spooks Bruce a little. "1 on 1 with the Insane Luchador and if that match doesn’t happen then YOU ARE FIRED!!" Peters says in no uncertain terms. "Alright, alright I’ll do the stupid match" Bruce says trying his best to sound like it’s no big deal to him. "How about we make it a . . . " "No" Peters cuts him off "Rickmen picks the stipulation!" BRUCE IS DEAD!! BRUCE IS DEAD!! BRUCE IS DEAD!! BRUCE IS DEAD!! IL grins from ear to ear with that announcement while Bruce turns decidedly pale (maybe he does indeed have a touch of the bird flu after all) "Take your time Andrew, think about it - then tell us what you’ve come up with on Smarkdown" Peters says and then leaves the ring with the Insane Luchador while Bruce remains behind looking both shocked and worried at the recent developments. "This is awesome! Bruce Blank and the Insane Luchador at Battleground!!" King states as he turns his hype mode on. "They couldn’t have come up with a more fitting name" Ebony replies "They could have called it "Oh Holy Shit!" instead" King fires back at his temporary co-commentator as they fade out.

“Welcome back to SWF-“ “-LOCKDOWN!” Suicide King grumbles, but after seeing Ebony twirl a dagger in her fingers, he decides not to object. The crowd is literally buzzing, knowing the Main Event is close! Signs are held high and cheers ring out as the camera pans through them all, before finally settling on our two announcers, Ebony sitting in her place, while King sits 10 feet away, wearing a cup. “Welcome back Ladies and Gentleman, and you’re just in time for our Main Event of the evening,” Ebony announces as the fans at ringside look upon the giant ferret with a mix of astonishment, disgust, and in some cases, lust. “Right you are, Ebony,” replies King, trying to remain in the good graces of the femme ferretale, “and I must say, it’s been an absolute pleasure sharing this experience with a giant Ferret, and such a beautiful one at that.” “Thanks, King, your manhood shall be spared for now. My interest in destroying genitalia has been put on the backburner for once, as I eagerly look forward to this match, which pits Wes Davenport versus Wildchild in a battle of pride, and-“ “Lot of knots, lot of snags!” “Wait a minute…“ The giant ferret says, caught off guard, as is anyone tuning in and hearing a ferret on commentary, “That’s Davenport’s music!” ”Lot of holes! Lot of cracks, lot of crags!” “But surely it’s customary for the World Champion to come out last?” ”Lot of naggin’ old hags! Lot of fools, lot of fool scumbags!” “Hey, this is Wes Davenport we’re talking about, I’m not surprised he knows nothing about this business.” ”Oh it’s such a drag! What a chore! Oh your wounds are full of salt…” “King, Davenport is one of the few males I can actually tolerate and not have the urge to mutilate, so you be nice.” ”Everything’s a stress…” “But,” King suddenly stops as the dagger is raised and glimmers under the lights, “… fine.” ”And what’s more, well it’s all somebody’s fault!” The crowd goes absolutely bananas for Davenport as he walks out from behind the curtain, World Title slung over his shoulder, but his trademark beaming smile is absent, replaced instead by a sly smirk as he walks down the ramp, peering at the crowd from side to side. “Bare with us folks, I’m sure all will be revealed momentarily,” Ebony says in reassurance, of course no one can get past the fact that a giant fucking ferret is announcing. “Hey, as long as I don’t have to see a Wildchild/Davenport circle jerk, I’m all for this.” “WHERE’S THE CIRCLE JERK,” Ebony shouts in anger, pushing over the desk. The crowd’s cheers continue unabated as Davenport climbs the steps to the ring, not taking the time to pander to the crowd for once. Instead, he heads through the ropes and takes the mic off a ve ry befuddled Funyon. “I hope this is a Poochie kind of situation,” King remarks as Davenport circles the ring, looking out at the crowd as they roar. Davenport doesn’t even acknowledge them, taking everything in his stride as he raises the microphone to his lips. “Unfortunately, the aforementioned contest between Wildchild versus Wes Davenport, greatest World Champion ever, will NOT be happening this evening.” The crowd’s cheers slowly die upon hearing this news as they watch Wes pace around the ring, a smirk breaking out across his face, as if he can barely wait to announce his huge news. He manages to keep a straight face, though, staying in-character. “Wildchild, after persuasion from yours truly, let me have this time instead to address you all, my adoring public.” Despite the disappointing news, the fans cheer, knowing Wes will make up for it as he always does. “You know, it wasn’t all that long ago that I joined this federation. I first defeated Matt Myers, and from there, I went on to defeat some of the best this federation as to offer.” “Quite easily, in fact.” Some half-hearted cheers are heard, the fans still not knowing what is with Wes. Usually he’d be gushing over the crowd’s support, but this Wes, he doesn’t seem to care. “My rollercoaster ride, my noble crusade has led me to this, the SWF World Heavyweight Championship. The holy grail in this business and it’s mine.” “To get it, I won the Clusterfuck. I defeated 28 other men and 1 slant-eyed Asian woman single handedly. To get it, I defeated El Luchadore Magnifico, built up as some kind of god amongst men in this business, but I confiscated his title and deported him back to Mexico where he belongs.” Now, the crowd’s confusion only grows. They don’t catch on too quickly, hoping Wes is just having them on. “I’ll be honest, this title has brought me a lot,” Wes continues, looking down at the hold over his shoulder, and grinning from ear to ear. “It’s brought me fame, recognition, money, and most importantly… a second chance.” “What’s he talking about?” The giant Ferret wonders as everyone’s eyes look on Wes, just waiting. “This isn’t like the Davenport we’ve come to know…” “Yeah, he hasn’t screwed up in the ring yet.” A dagger is soon thrust in the Suicide King’s direction as Davenport pauses, feeling the climax approaching. “And all this time, you’ve supported me, my loyal fans. Without you, it may not have happened.” Finally, the crowd breathes a sigh of relief as they break into deafening cheers. … “… Wait, who am I kidding, this all happened because I’m just that fucking awesome.” “… And I played you all like a fiddle.” The cheers suddenly stop dead. Ebony’s eyes fix on Davenport as she clutches the dagger. King just sits there, mouth agape. “You’re all surprised?” Wes asks, unable to control his smile, the tingling sensation in his body as he begins to reveal it all. “Don’t be. You see, the SWF was just a tool. Joseph Peters… tool. Tom Flesher… tool. And finally, you, the fans… all tools.” The crowd is dumbstruck, but Davenport gives them no time to ponder. “I must say, this was truly my greatest performance to date. I left this shithole business over ten years ago now, vowing never to return. I had real talent, a talent for the stage and screen, and I wasp pretty fucking successful.” “But, then the parts dried up… studio’s stopped returning my calls. I found the parts just weren’t there for me anymore… but not now. Winning this title, it’s given me more exposure than I could ever have dreamed of, and that was my plan all along.” “I came, I saw, I conquered, and now it’s time to exit, stage left.” … BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! “WHAT THE HELL!?” The giant Ferret screams as everyone in the arena looks ready to grab flaming torches and pitchforks. “I can’t believe this!” “Oh my god…” King utters, before admitting… “I love Wes Davenport.” BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! “No need to be hostile,” Wes says, expecting this exact reaction, and loving every single second of it. “Judging from your reaction, my performance must have been perfect, as I knew it would be. The fact that I strung you all along, made you believe I was fighting for you, that I owed anything to you is just amazing. Joining the SWF…” “It’s the best thing to ever happen to my career.” ASS-HOLE! ASS-HOLE! ASS-HOLE! “That bastard!” Ebony shouts, waving her dagger madly. “Everyone put their faith in him, cheered him on, and for what!? To be double-crossed by the biggest prick ever to grace this federation.” “… This is magical.” As King swoons, Wes continues, the relentless chanting from the fans just causing his smirk to grow. “As a result of my joining, tearing through the ranks and winning this title, I’ve been offered more roles than I know what to do with. Steven fucking Spielberg wants me to star in his next movie!” ASS-HOLE! ASS-HOLE! ASS-HOLE! “Now, I know you all may be a tad bitter,” Wes says as he ducks out of the way of a bottle, “but it’s just business, that’s all. I needed a stunt to boost my career, you needed a hero to get behind, and it works out for all of us. Sure, I’ll now be leaving to pursue my Hollywood career, leaving you nerds behind, watching second-rate ‘stars’ in a wrestling ring, but… actually, I’ve forgotten my point, but let me just remind you again… Steven Fucking Spielberg.” “But, there’s also the little matter of this thing,” Wes says, patting the gold, “I actually owe a lot to this thing, and I hate to see it go, but it must be done, for the sake of my career. I would also hate to see it land in the hands of any of the talent less morons backstage, but I’m sure they’ll find two of them that aren’t entirely terrible.” BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! “So, my friends, I bid you all adieu, and be sure to check out my next movie, coming soon to a theatre near you!” And with that, Wes Davenport takes a bow. He drops the title to the mat. And he leaves the ring, leaving the audience in awe, and angered beyond belief. “This is an outrage…” Ebony grunts in a low, guttural tone. “The World Title is now vacant, relinquished by Wes Davenport…” “And I absolutely LOVE it!” “… King, come here, you have a date with my dagger.” Lockdown ends on a shot of Wes Davenport, standing on centre stage, taking another bow as rubbish and debris is thrown at him… …and then the World Title, lying in the centre of the ring, just ready for the taking… SWF Lockdown © 3-08-2006 A Frost Bankrolled Production Smartmarks Wrestling Federation, 2006

“Welcome back from the break everyone,” the silky tones of Ebony greet the SWF viewers as Lockdown returns from commercials, “coming up next we have the match that I’ve been looking forward to aaaaallllllll evening… because it features Amy Stephens.” “Good God, is there anything in a skirt you won’t hit on?” Suicide King asks in despair, “I swear, not even Annie was this bad!” “She’d better not have been,” Ebony states flatly, “or I’d have to discipline her very thoroughly. She’s not allowed to stray, and she knows it.” “Stray?” King asks. “As in, like a stray cat?” “…why?” “Well, I was going to say that no-one likes a stray pussy-” *WHAP!* “I’m so glad you decided against it,” Ebony smirks sweetly as the Gambling Man pulls himself back into his seat, jamming his headset back onto his head and muttering to himself. “Anyway, coming up next we have the Boiler Room Brawl where Amy Stephens will defend her Ultraviolent Title against the sweaty, testosterone-soaked lump of pathetic masculinity that calls itself Bruce Blank,” the ferreasel shudders delicately at the thought. “We’ve been informed that the doors *hnkh*, excuse me, the doors will be chained shu-*hnkh-hnkh*…” “What are you doing now?” Suicide King asks in exasperated tones, but Ebony waves a paw irritably. “I’ll be fine… yes, the doors will be chained shut and *hnkh-hnkh* no-one *hnkh-hnkh*… will be… *HNKH! HNKH! HUUUUUURRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!! HUUUUUUURRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!*” “Don’t look at me!” King protests to the camera pointing in their faces as Ebony doubles over in her seat next to him, retching, “I didn’t touch her! I wouldn’t want to touch her!” *HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!* *HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!* “WHAT IS IT!?” King bellows in frustration, “I don’t care if you die, you mustelidic half-breed, but at least tell me how you’re planning to expire!” *HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!* “…hairball…” *HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!* “Oh for goodness sake,” King throws his arms up in frustration, “you’re not only the product of someone’s fevered imagination, but you’re not even good at what you are!” The Heartbreaker stands up and waves to the back. “Someone come and get her out of here! And for God’s sake, get me a replacement announcer - AND NOT BEN HARDY!!” EMTs carrying breathing equipment come running down the ramp and grab hold of the choking ferreasel who, still weakly protesting that she’ll be OK, is led to the back as the crowd looks on in bemused indifference. Meanwhile King sits at the announce table, waiting for someone to be sent out to replace Ebony. And no-one comes out. “OK, fine,” he says into his headset, “I’ll work with Hardy. But just this show, right?” … “What do you mean, you can’t find him? There must be someone else!” … “Look, we’re the SWF! We’ve got God knows how many backstage interviewers kicking around! One of them must be available to call this match!” … “…for Christ’s sake. OK, OK… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… is Edwin still knocking around after last show?” … “I don’t care how many strawberry daquiris he’s had, he’s got to be better than no-one at all!” … “Seriously?” … “No, no, we’d get sued. OK, forget Edwin. And I mean that on all possible levels. But come on, I’m dying out here! Somebody help me!” “DID SOMEONE SAY THEY NEEDED HELP!?” “Oh God…” King places his head in his hands, well aware that his evening has gone from bad to worse, “not him… anyone but him…” “CYYYYYYYYYYYYYCLOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE COMET!!” “Where the hell did you spring from, you delusional spandex-clad freak?” King demands as a familiar masked figure vaults (flies~!) over the guardrail and lands in the empty announcer’s chair beside him. “Cyclone Comet is always on hand to help the helpless and lend his aid where it is needed,” Comet replies theatrically, “and if that involves calling a match or two for the SWF then Sweet Zombie Jesus, it shall be done!” “Given that I haven’t got many alternatives, you’ll have to do,” King growls, “but the minute the lesbian comes back you’re out of here, understand?” “You would scorn my help so easily?” Comet asks, looking hurt (or as hurt as he can in his mask), “surely we could all join forces for a-” “The moment the word ‘three-way’ leaves your lips I’m taking the Ace of Clubs to your head!” King snaps, pulling his black baseball bat out from underneath the announce table. “You wouldn’t, scoundrel!” “Are you a gambling man?” The two former wrestlers glare at each other for a moment, then seem to come to some sort of understanding; King replaces the Ace of Clubs, picks up a sheet of paper and passes it to Comet, no longer looking at him. Comet hastily scans it through, then looks up and smiles for the camera with extra ZING~! “Greetings, SWF fans! It is I, Cyclone Comet, back to save the day and call the match! The match in question is a Boiler Room Brawl where the plucky, nay, valiant Amy Stephens will be defending her Ultraviolent Title against the very man who renamed the belt and held it for a record-breaking 213 days, Bruce Blank!” “The doors will be chained shut, one pinfall or submission to a win, blah blah blah,” King butts in, trying to get his new partner off screen as soon as possible, “here’s Funyon with the intros, take it away, etc.” The camera shot abruptly shifts to backstage, where Funyon is standing outside a dimly-lit room into which a cameraman and referee Brian Warner can be seen disappearing. The veteran ring announcer raises his microphone as a large figure wearing a cowboy hat walks up behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, the following match is a Boiler Room Brawl for the SWF Ultraviolent Title, and is scheduled for one fall,” Funyon states. “Introducing first, the challenger; from the Dirty Tornado Trailerpark in Mobile, Alabama, he weighs in tonight at 297lbs; this is the longest-reigning Ultraviolent Champion of AAAALLLLLLLL TIIIIIIIIIIIIME… ‘The King of Pain’, BRRRRRUUUUUUUCCCCCCEEEEEEEEE… BLAAAAAAAAAAAAANK!!” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” The jeers of the fans in the arena can be heard as Bruce smirks into the camera while removing his cowboy hat. He then turns to enter the boiler room… but stops, turns back again and addresses the audience. “Now see here y’all, ah have come here tonight to take back what’s mine. That no-good bitch Amy Stephens done cheated me outta mah title, and ah’m gonna get it back, ya hear?” “You ain’t getting fuckin’ nuthin’ back, ya get me!?” The shout comes from Amy Stephens, approaching down the corridor with a can of lager in her hand, the Ultraviolent Title over her shoulder and an odd ‘crown’ apparently made of barbed wire but padded on the inside on her head. The Punk-Rock Princess takes a final swig of lager, belches, crumples the can up and hurls it at Bruce’s head causing the former champion to duck. “I won this belt fair an’ fuckin’ square, right? I dumped you over the side of yer bloody battleship in yer own bloody hometown, an’ I won it, right? So don’t you go talkin’ that shit to me, ya get me?” “Gal,” Bruce drawls, “you need to show a bit more respect to a man.” “An’ why’s ‘at? Cos yer bruvver’s sneakin’ up behind me?” Bruce’s face registers shock a moment before Amy snatches the title off her shoulder into a two-handed grip and whirls around to plant it hard into the weaselly face of Wayne Blank, who was indeed creeping up on Amy whilst in a janitor’s uniform! *THUNK!* The smaller Blank brother hits the deck and stays down, causing Bruce to lunge forward with an angry yell. However, Amy dodges the big man and darts past him into the boiler room with a shout of “catch me if yer can, lardarse!” Bruce growls in anger, but takes a moment to rest his cowboy hat on his brother’s body. Wayne stirs slightly and starts to speak, but Bruce shushes him. “Save your strength mah brother,” he says, “Ah’ll git that sneakin’ Limey bitch!” “Ah’m sorry, Bruce,” Wayne whispers, “Ah tried… Ah tried…” “Ah know ya did,” Bruce says, a tear glistening at the corner of his eye. “You jus’ lie still, Ah’m gonna go lay a beatin’ on a gal!” “Jus’ like the old days…” Wayne murmurs… but Bruce has straightened up, turned away from him and plunged through the boiler room door! The moment the former champion has gone through senior SWF official Matthew Kivell (who has far more sense than to actually referee the match, hence why he sent Brian Warner in to do it) shackles the door closed with a heavy chain and padlock. “It’s on,” Comet shills, “let’s go to inside the Boiler Room and see what mayhem unfolds when the plucky champion takes on the brutal, monstrous challenger!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The camera shot abruptly cuts to something much darker, as the SWF cameraman stands in the corner and tries to find some decent lighting for the ‘match’ that is about to take place. Instead what he finds is a dimly-lit area with various hanging pipes and assorted almost industrial-looking bits of wall and ceiling, with a selection of items lying around on the floor that look like they could be used as convenient objects to hit people with. “So, King,” Comet says, “although your friendly neighbourhood superhero is always ready to spring into action on commentary, I’m a little confused; why are these two competitors being made to fight in a boiler room when neither of them have any particular affinity with the location?” “For the precise same reason as I had a lesbian ferreasel sitting next to me a moment ago,” Suicide King explains with a grimace. “…anything can happen in the SWF?” “Exactly!” Bruce Blank steps forward cautiously into the gloom, looking around him to try and catch a sight of his opponent before she can attack him. However, Amy appears to have used her head-start to its full advantage and is evidently concealed somewhere in the room, waiting in ambush. The former Ultraviolent Champion takes one step forward… then another… and another… and sees that odd barbed wire ‘crown’ laying on the floor on the other side of the central furnace, the dim room lights glinting almost dirtily off the many points and barbs. Bruce doesn’t immediately assume that Amy will be near where the crown is, but it attracts his attention for a second. And in that one second, when he is momentarily less aware and therefore less likely to react to his other surroundings, Amy darts out from the shadows of a large section of piping and swings a wrench at the back of Bruce’s left knee. *CRACK!!* “AARRGGGHHH!” The King of Pain swings around, lashing out wildly with his fists as he crumples down to one knee, but Amy has clearly opted for a hit and run approach and has disappeared into the shadows again. Bruce is breathing hard, the sudden attack having taken him off-guard despite his precautions, and his knee is in a considerable amount of pain. All the same, he pushes himself back to a vertical base on the basis that at least up there Amy won’t be able to hit him in the head very easily, and then starts limping around to try and track his enemy down. “Come on out gal, an’ Ah’ll make this quick…” However, Amy doesn’t seem to be in the mood to accept mercy, or indeed to open her trap and talk back (for once). The Punk-Rock Princess stays notably quiet as Bruce glowers around at the shadows, daring her to appear. When the Ultraviolent Champion elects not to show herself Blank laughs… although not without it sounding a little forced. “Ah’m telling ya gal, you ain’t no champion! You ain’t comin’ out ta fight me! Yer just cowerin’ away an’ hidin’!” [“How many matches has he ducked out of with the Insane Luchador now?” Cyclone Comet asks Suicide King. “Quiet!”] Still no Amy. Bruce thinks he knows where she went, but the last thing he wants to do is leave himself open to another attack from a blindside. As a result the King of Pain edges forward in a manner that might be described as nervous if it wasn’t referring to the self-confident, egotistical and of course totally fearless Bruce Blank… …and the wrench comes flying out of the shadows and hits him straight in the fucking face. *KAR-RRACK!!* Bruce takes one step back and drops like an oak tree… “RRRAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!” …then sits back up with an animalistic snarl crossing his face! The former Ultraviolent Champion’s nose has clearly been broken and blood is streaming out of it, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing himself back to his feet, dodgy knee and all. No-one takes his title simply by toppling him over the side of a ship. No-one lays out his brother in front of him. And no-one, no-one hurts him and gets away with it, especially not on national TV. He had a brief glimpse of the direction that missile came from, and despite the agonising pain in his nose and the ringing in his skull he knows where Amy has to be. He’s going to end this quickly, messily and with a great deal of pain for the stupid bitch who thought she could step into a locked room with him and survive… “Bruce!” King shouts, well aware that his chosen protagonist can’t hear him but trying anyway, “look up! Look up!” The camera shot shows, dangling from the ceiling above Bruce’s head as he advances, a pair of pink-and-black Vans. The cameraman pans up to show Amy Stephens, face contorted with effort, as she supports herself from the pipes in the roof high above even Bruce Blank’s head. In the dim light Bruce doesn’t see the Punk-Rock Princess, who must have climbed up there and swung out hand over hand immediately after she hurled the wrench at him. Bruce, oblivious, forges on… *whump* …and Amy drops down onto his shoulders. For a moment it looks like the Ultraviolent Champion is going to try and take her opponent over with a reverse hurricanrana, but then Amy does something rather simpler and certainly more like her. She reaches down and slams a fist as hard as she can into Bruce’s nose. “ARRRGGGHHHH!” Bruce staggers sideways, searing white pain suddenly overloading even such simple elements as balance as Amy Stephens attacks his broken proboscis. Amy tries as best she can to balance atop the lurching monster but seems more concerned with inflicting damage as she fires off more punches, and when Bruce desperately tries to cover his nose she resorts to digging her fingers into his eyes instead. The big man staggers again and reaches up to grab her to throw her off but Amy somehow slips down behind him, snaking one arm around his neck on the way down and trying to lock in her rightly feared rear naked choke, the Last Orders. “What strategy from Miss Stephens!” Comet says in approval. “Strategy? All I see is GBH!” King fumes. “I was referring to that chokehold - even the mightiest villain will succumb when he is denied oxygen!” the superhero retorts. However, Bruce Blank may not be a mastermind of the criminal underworld but he knows a thing or two about fighting, and he has a rough layout of the room in his mind. As a result he tenses his throat muscles as much as he can to try and give himself a few extra seconds, then as he feels Amy wrap her legs around him in a bodyscissors - probably not that effective due to their disparate sizes, but worth a try nonetheless - he lurches backwards. His left knee is certainly not in the greatest shape, but it holds up enough to get the job done. He rams all of his 297lbs backwards, and sandwiches Amy against the room’s main furnace. “SWEET ZOMBIE JESUS!” Comet yells in horror as the Punk-Rock Princess literally screams in pain as her back (and some exposed flesh) is slammed into the roasting metal surface. Bruce tries his best to hold her there, but Amy grabs at his face again in desperation and succeeds in mashing her hand into his nose, causing him to lose all thoughts of a gameplan and lurch away, swatting her arm away as he tries to put some distance between them. Bruce recovers quickly, turns to face his opponent and drives forward while swinging a big boot up to kick her in the head, but Amy ducks and he hits the furnace instead. The massive structure doesn’t even take a dent, but Amy manages to launch a kick at Bruce’s left knee (which happens to be the one he’s standing on) and the big man’s leg gives out, dumping him onto his back again. From there Amy takes hold of the big cowboy boot and starts firing kicks into the knee. Kick after kick… …after kick… …after kick… …after kick… …after kick… …after kick! Bruce is yelling out in pain now, and despite all his attempts to get away Amy is able to hold him firm simply because he can’t put enough strain on his knee to tear it from her grasp. With that method of escape failing him Bruce reaches out, trying to grab Amy’s hands and break her hold, but the Punk-Rock Princess evades him by actually jumping forwards and landing square with a double stomp to his face! *KRRRACK!* ‘YAARRRRRGGGHHHH! BITCH!’ Bruce is almost howling now as Amy stumbles away from him, but he remains in place on the floor of the boiler room as Amy disappears into the shadows. The Ultraviolent Champion returns a few seconds later with a wooden ladder - not very tall, but tall enough for what she has in mind. That is, to set it up, scale it to a couple of rungs below the top and then come off with an elbow to Bruce’s chest! *WHUMP!* Even 170lbs is going to wind you when it’s dropping from ten feet up, but the landing on hard concrete seems to momentarily paralyse Amy as well; the Punk-Rock Princess yells out in pain and it takes her a couple of seconds to attempt to make a cover on her opponent as Bruce gasps like a fish out of water. Brian Warner, who has been hiding in the corner away from the violence, now makes himself known by dropping to make a count… ONE! TWO!! …however Bruce kicks out with some force! “This is where the difference in size could prove critical,” Comet explains, “as Blank is so much bigger than Amy, she is going to struggle to keep his shoulders pinned to the floor!” “No,” Suicide King argues, “she’s going to struggle keeping his shoulders pinned to the floor because Blank’s about to get up and kill her!” Indeed, the King of Pain is far from down and out, and Bruce is already struggling to rise off the floor as Amy looks around to try and decide what to hit him with next. Stephens is forced into a quick decision as Bruce manages to sit up and, in lieu of any more devastating options, elects to topple the wooden ladder over on top of him. *THUMP!* However, Bruce angrily swats the ladder aside and continues trying to rise, clearly struggling as he refuses to put any weight on his left knee, but still getting up. Amy steps in and tries to kick him in the head but one big Alabaman left hand comes up and catches her ankle, then Bruce rises off the floor like some monstrous leviathan of the deep and slaps the other around her throat to lift her clean off the floor! “Oh my,” Comet says weakly, “this doesn’t look good.” Bruce transfers the grip of his left hand to the back of Amy’s pants, but instead of slamming his opponent down to the floor as is customary he instead lurches forward, growling as he does so, and manages to make it across the floor to the wall where he rams Amy against it as hard as he can! *WHAM!* *WHAM!* After two skull-shattering trips Bruce plucks his opponent off the wall and brings her face close to his own… “That belt is MINE, gawddammit!” Amy, eyes only partially focused, finds herself staring into the face of a big, bad, violent man who has finally been pushed too far. Any element of humour or amusement has gone; Bruce Blank has snapped, and the eyes that bore into her own are devoid of any trace of sanity or humanity. So Amy spits in them. Needless to say, Bruce doesn’t take kindly to this. “GRRRRRRRAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!” The former Ultraviolent Champion hoists Amy up higher, higher, until he is able to transfer his grip and get both hands on her waist. From there he hauls Amy onto his shoulders, her legs dangling down his back as though he were about to perform an act of elevated oral sexual gratification on her. However, this position is about pain; nothing else. Bruce Blank turns around, wobbling as he does so, and starts to run across the floor to deliver a Sweet Home Alabama onto the concrete… “HE’S GOING TO KILL HER!” Cyclone Comet shouts in horror. “The censors are going to kill us…” King says in hushed tones at the exact same time. …but although full of anger, rage and the desire to inflict suffering, Bruce Blank cannot deny the physical battering that his body has taken. His left knee can’t take the pressure that his quick, careless steps are putting on it, and it gives. Bruce topples in mid-run and Amy slips from his grasp; the devastating running powerbomb that would have cracked her skull and shattered her spine against the concrete floor ends up being a hard, sliding landing at speed rather than the crushing, high-angle impact Blank was aiming for. Nonetheless, Amy Stephens, SWF Ultraviolent Champion, skids across the dusty, grimy floor of the boiler room… and lies still. “I’ve got to get back there!” Comet declares, standing up with purpose, “a lady could be seriously hurt!” “There’s no ladies in that room,” King snaps, “just an alcoho- wait, make that two alcoholic louts. The fact that one is female is neither here nor there.” “Where’s your sense of chivalry? Of basic common decency!?” the superhero demands, but King just shrugs. “I dunno, but I think I traded them for baseball cards when I was seven.” Bruce Blank looks up, face twisted with hatred as he glares at the crumpled form of his opponent. Even when he was about to crush her, to remove from his life this infuriating former tag partner who seems to think that she can take his title and get away with it, she still finds some way to escape. Growling, the King of Pain pushes himself up onto two arms and one leg before crawling awkwardly over to where Amy Stephens lies on the floor. Then he gingerly lowers himself to avoid knocking his left knee against the concrete and makes a cover… ONE! TWO!! THHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! “WHAT!?” King bellows in shock, “how did she kick out from the Sweet Home Alambama? Comet, am I dreaming? Please, tell me I’m dreaming!” “Your eyes do not deceive you Brian,” the superhero gravely informs his commentary partner, “Miss Stephens did indeed get her shoulder up before Referee Warner managed to make the third and final count; however, I suspect this is only because Bruce Blank didn’t manage to get the full impact on his running powerbomb!” Bruce Blank certainly doesn’t seem happy with this development, and makes this clear in no uncertain terms to Brian Warner; in fact he grabs the ref by the shirt and hauls him over to him. However Warner is no coward, and stubbornly refuses to be swayed on the matter of an alleged slow count, sticking to his original decision. Bruce swears under his breath and looks down at Amy, wondering what to do next… *CRUNCH!* …and Amy takes the decision out of his hands by reaching up, grabbing his greasy mullet in both hands and pulling him into a headbutt right to the nose! “SONOVABITCH!!” Bruce recoils in sudden, agonising pain as the aching throb of his broken nose is antagonised once more; meanwhile Amy slumps back down to the floor, that one offensive move having apparently drained her of all ability to move or fight. However, she knows that she can’t just wait here, even if she wanted to. Bruce Blank is mad; he’s absolutely furious. He’s been hurt and embarrassed, and it’s happened on international TV. He’s not going to take an easy win even if it presents itself; he’s out for blood now, her blood. For Amy, the SWF has ceased to be about competition, about money, about the Ultraviolent Title. Right now, above and beyond anything else, it’s about survival. Just like it was for her brother, so many times. “Amy Stephens has a few precious seconds to regroup,” Comet says urgently, “but she needs to make some move, either to follow up on Bruce Blank or to retreat!” “Retreat to where?” Suicide King snorts, “I don’t know if you noticed Comet, but they’re locked inside that room! There’s nowhere to run and very limited places to hide, and Amy can only delay the inevitable for so long - Bruce is going to win this match, and it’s not going to be pretty. Nor is she, afterwards,” the Gambling Man adds as an afterthought. In those few seconds, lying on the floor of a boiler room in Columbia, Ohio, Amy suddenly gains an insight into what life was life for Toxxic. Every decision he made, every action he performed seemed to make him a new enemy, and one by one they tried their best to take him down and destroy him. By defeating one, he simply paved the way for the next. Maybe, now, Amy understands why after eighteen months of that, even after leaving the SWF far behind him, Michael Stephens felt the need to disappear off the map entirely to the point that even his family didn’t know where he was. Of course, that doesn’t change her situation. But central to the nature, the personality and the very being of Amy Stephens is that deep down she doesn’t just believe but she knows that anything her brother can do, she can do. And that explains why, after being rammed into and held against the roasting metal of a furnace, slammed into a wall several times and taking most of a running powerbomb onto concrete she is able to roll over, grab her discarded crown of barbed wire and then start crawling towards Bruce Blank. “Amy’s up!” Comet shouts. “Well, she’s moving,” King sniffs, “there’s not much up to speak of.” “…so Amy Craven told me.” “Dammit, that’s Edwin’s gimmick! And it’s not even true!” the Heartbreaker denies vehemently. Bruce is sitting up again, starting to push himself back towards his feet but keeping one hand clamped onto his face in the futile hope that it’ll ease the pain. As a result he isn’t best positioned to defend himself as Amy appears to his right, screams an incoherent warcry and lashes out with her odd barbed wire crown held in both hands. Amy was only on her knees and the lunge overbalances her and sends her sprawling onto the floor, but the myriad of points and barbs on her idiosyncratic head adornment tear through the flesh of Bruce Blank’s forehead and send him rolling away in an instinctive evasive manoeuvre. Amy isn’t satisfied and gets up again, this time placing the crown on her head and managing to rise to her feet before simply falling forwards, driving a barbed wire-wrapped falling headbutt into Bruce’s head. “Come on Bruce, get up and kick her ass!” King shouts. However, it seems that the King of Pain is just at too great a disadvantage; he can’t move easily due to one busted knee, and now an uneven sheet of red is coursing down his head and getting into his eyes, partially blinding him and obscuring his opponent’s movements. With Bruce seemingly defenceless Amy, her barbed wire crown now having rolled away, clambers on top of her opponent and, from a mounted position, begins firing punches down at his head. In the grand scheme of things, a 171lb girl is never going to be able to punch that hard. Harder than you might think, probably. Hard enough to hurt, certainly. But when your face is torn open by barbed wire, your nose has been broken and you’ve probably got a couple of teeth loose from being struck head-on by a flying wrench, she can hit plenty hard enough. *WHAM!* *WHAM!* *WHAM!* *WHAM!* *WHAM!* *whap* *whap* Unfortunately, when said girl is sitting on top of you and you’re a 6’7 man, you can reach a lot further than she can. And when you’re that much bigger, over 100lbs heavier and a lot stronger, you can catch her hands easily enough, if you can see them or even make a lucky guess. And from there she is, basically, yours to do with as you please. She’s certainly not going to be to able to stop you from, say, turning onto your side and toppling her off while holding onto her wrists. She’s going to struggle to stop you from wrapping one of your massive hands around both of her reasonably delicate wrists, and even once you’ve done that she’s going to struggle to get them free again. And if you can do that, as Bruce Blank now has, there’s no way in the world for her to stop you from balling up one of your fists, one of your fists which is nearly the size of her head, and putting that fist straight through her fucking face. *WHAM!!* Amy Stephens slumps back to the concrete. She’s tough; probably tougher than someone her size with very limited wrestling training has any right to be. But after everything else she’s been hit with tonight, she’s not going to get up from that. “Oh God…” Comet whispers in horror. She’s not going to get up from that. Unless of course, Bruce Blank is to grab her T-shirt like this… and haul her into a vague, slumping sitting position like this… *WHAM!!* …and hit her again. Amy Stephens is down. Down and out. She certainly isn’t conscious; from here, it’s hard to tell if she’s alive. As the cameraman focuses on her only the slightest up-and-down motion of her impressive chest gives anyone a clue as to her status. Bruce Blank, still perched in an unnatural half-kneeling position where his left knee is held off the floor and with a minimum of weight placed on it is bleeding and battered, but ultimately triumphant. The SWF has a new Ultraviolent Champion. There can be no doubt of that. It’s when he doesn’t pin her and starts laughing that people need to worry. “That’s enough! THAT’S ENOUGH!” Comet roars above the boos and jeers of the live crowd, watching the action on the huge Smarktron. However, Bruce Blank can’t hear the superhero and it seems very unlikely that he’d pay him any attention even if he could. “Can anyone hear me!?” the masked man yells in desperation, “someone, anyone! If anyone in the back can hear me, get to the boiler room! I’m coming as fast as I can!” And with that, despite King’s startled protests, the SWF’s resident superhero takes off his headset and starts sprinting up the entrance ramp, hoping against hope that he will be able to get there in time. “Amateurs,” King sighs. Meanwhile, Bruce Blank has got into an argument with Brian Warner. The referee is insisting that the King of Pain pin his opponent and end the match, but Bruce doesn’t seem too enamoured of this plan. Instead he shoves Warner away and turns back to his opponent with a sadistic smile on his face… …and is brought up short by a rather odd noise. *CRACK!* If someone was to have taken a pair of long-handled bolt cutters to the thick padlock securing the thick chain that is currently holding the boiler room’s thick doors shut, it might sound exactly like that. Of course, even with a pair of long-handled bolt cutters, you’d have to be pretty strong to get through that lock… …and just as these thoughts are running through Bruce’s brain, the doors are pushed open. The figure that stands in the doorway is silhouetted by the bright light from the corridor behind, light far more brilliant than the dusky illumination that fills the boiler room, and as the camera struggles to adjust it looks like the figure is all shadow, all black. As he strides into the room, two things become clear. One, he was blocking out a lot of that light behind him. And two, he is all black. *WHAM!* Almost casually, Sean Davis brings the bolt cutters in his hand around in a deceptively slow arm that ends up with them impacting on the side of Bruce Blank’s head. The King of Pain drops like a stone, but Davis flings his tool away and bends down to grab Blank, then hauls the massive redneck back to his feet. Despite Bruce’s impressive resilience, high-speed impact of metal to the skull is always going to dull your response time a bit, and he just slumps in Sean’s arms as the Perfect Storm leans close to him. “Beating on women?” Davis growls. “No. I’ll take you on.” With that, the former Hardcore, USJL and Tag Team Champion braces his two massive arms and lifts Bruce Blank clean off the ground. For a moment he holds the King of Pain over his head in a military press, then releases him and drops Blank into the Death Valley Driver known as the Maelstrom. *THUD!* Top doctors suggest that being spiked onto your head on concrete is not good for your health. When he wakes up, it is likely that Bruce Blank will concur. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, DAVIS!?” Suicide King screams at the top of his lungs, “this isn’t your match, you half-wit!” Davis doesn’t care. With considerable care and delicacy he reaches Amy Stephens and, supporting her head as best he can, shuffles her over until she lies next to Bruce Blank. From there he quickly places her into the internationally-recognised Recovery Position… and as he rolls her over onto her side, it just so happens that her arm ends up across Bruce Blank’s chest. Sean Davis looks up at Brian Warner and nods significantly at the two bodies on the floor. Warner, after taking a moment to try and work out what the Perfect Storm means, drops to make one of the most academic counts he’ll ever be called on to perform. One. Two. Three. “…that’s it?” King says in astonishment, “Sean Davis just broke into the boiler room and took out Bruce Blank so that Amy Stephens could retain her title? I… I mean, I knew the guy was stupid - he followed Toxxic, after all - but I had no idea he was this dumb.” A concerned SWF official has arrived at the door of the boiler room, but he doesn’t get in; Sean Davis cuts him off and directs him in low tones to find someone with some medical knowledge. Cyclone Comet, arriving on the scene, is fielded by a massive dark brown arm and ‘encouraged’ to return to the commentary position, or to the back, or to wherever the hell else he pleases, but he’s not getting in that room. Wayne Blank, now fully upright and active again, just slinks off without even trying. “This is too much for me,” King says in tones of despair, “let’s go to commercials. It says something that I’m hoping that afterwards, I’ll once more have a psychotic lesbian ferreasel sitting to my left.” FADE OUT

We’re backstage as we spot Wayne Blank heading for his brother’s locker room, but the little fellar just doesn’t look his usual happy self. Insane Luchador has put a thought in his head and he doesn’t like it, he didn’t like it last time he had a thought 5 years ago and he doesn’t like it now, damn that Rickmen. *CRASH!* *CRACK!* *BOOM!* *THUMP!* *WHACK!* *CLANG!* “What the?” The sounds are coming from Bruce’s dressing room and it sounds like a rhino is running wild in a china shop or something and well Wayne is a bit worried because there isn’t a single piece of china in the room at all. So he rushes up to the door and throws it open and finds A blindfolded Bruce Blank!! Wait, wait a standing blindfolded Bruce Blank holding the equalizer in his hand. . . looking totally unharmed while the room around him is semi trashed “What the hell Bruce?” Wayne asks as he closes the door behind him. Bruce pulls down the blindfold to see who entered the room “Ah Wayne, great timing you can help me practice” Bruce says before pulling the blindfold up over his eyes again “Listen Bruce I wanted to ask you something” Wayne starts out rather quietly but Bruce doesn’t seem to hear him as he begins to swing the board around again hitting the side of a locker *CLANG!!* “What the hell are you doing Bruce?” “Practicing for the Boiler room brawl little brother, what does it look like” Bruce says as he grips the board and then motions for Wayne to be quiet as he listens for something “Innit! Innit! Innit! Innit! Innit!” The voice was very faint but it was Amy Stephens’ voice which confused Wayne no end, cause he didn’t see her in the room. Then Bruce suddenly turns and strikes at the source of the voice *THUNK!!* The nails are driven right into a straw dummy “What the heck is that?” Wayne asks as he stares at the weird straw dummy contraption “It’s a straw dummy with a tape recorder shoved up it’s ass Wayne, what does it look like?” Bruce replies as he pries the weapon loose from the straws once more. “A straw dummy?” “Yup” “With a tape recorder up it’s ass?” “Yes to simulate Amy in the dark, come on now keep up” Bruce says. a little annoyed that his brother isn’t keeping up with the plot “Come on now that’s got to be one of the top 25 stupidest things I’ve EVER heard” “Stupid? It’s brilliant is what it is!” Bruce says and starts to circle the room once more, trying to tap into his inner force for guidance. Bruce hears something Twirls around and *WHAM!!* Strikes the concrete an inch over Wayne’s head “So what did you want little brother?” “It’ll keep” Fade out.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!” The question goes unanswered. Staring back at the asker, Joseph Peters, is JJ Johnson. Deciding he wasn’t heard the first time, Peters repeats himself. “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?! 36 ELBOWS?!” Johnson smirks at this, but Peters isn’t that happy, as evidenced by the fact that he’s swearing, he’s spitting, and he’s raising his voice to JJ Johnson – never a good idea. “I’M NOT EVEN JOKING, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” shouts Peters, and not even the iciest glare in the history of the facial expression in question changes his tone. “YOU COULD HAVE KILLED HIM! YOU COULD HAVE KILLED MY HEAD OF SECURITY BECAUSE YOU DECIDED THE WORLD TITLE IS MORE FUCKING IMPORTANT THAN KEEPING FUCKING FANS FROM JUMPING THE FUCKING RAILING!” “Well, yeah,” shrugs JJ. This only serves to piss Peters off more, not a good idea at this juncture. “Well then, smart guy,” says the commish, calming down enough to keep from blowing a blood vessel in his neck. “I suppose the World Title is more important than defending your title.” “Don’t follow,” snaps JJ, his smarmy attitude becoming more and more aggravating to the commissioner. “Follow this,” snaps Peters back. “You’re not defending tonight. Shit, you’re lucky I’m still letting you wrestle for the World Title at Battleground. SHIT, you’re lucky I’m not having you fucking ARRESTED.” JJ is livid; he’s never one to sit on a belt. However, he realizes there’s nothing he can do, and so simply strides out of the office. “Wow, that was actually pretty easy,” notes Peters. “He didn’t get nearly as mad as I expe-“ Muffled by the door of his office, something shatters. “Shit!” FADE OUT

Funyon: "Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a submission match! The only way to win this match is to make your opponent submit!" As Funyon's voice dies down, "Learning to Fly" by Pink Floyd comes on the PA. Funyon: "Introducing first ... from the Hall of Fame City of Cleveland, Ohio ... weighing in at 215 pounds ... he is 'The Dean of Professional Wrestling' ... JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWWWKE!" A spotlight shines down at the top of the entryway as Jay Hawke emerges from the curtain. As Hawke makes his way to the ring, we hear the familiar chants from the crowd: "JAY HAWKE SUCKS! JAY HAWKE SUCKS! JAY HAWKE SUCKS!" Ebony: "Welcome back to Lockdown, and as Jay Hawke makes his way to the ring, we are awaiting his submission match with Hollywood Spike Jenkins. King, I know you've got your thoughts and ideas about how this one is going to go." King: "I do, as a matter of fact. Last week, Spike Jenkins submitted to Landon Maddix. Landon freaking Maddix, of all people. Spike doesn't stand a chance tonight." Ebony: "I'll agree that Hawke is definitely the favorite in a match with these kinds of stipulations, but don't count Spike Jenkins out of a match before it starts." The music fades out, and the lights come up from their previously dimmed state. When every light in the arena goes to full power as the Smarktron whites out. For a moment the only sound is that of a needle scratching over vinyl... And then *BAM* The crashing guitars of Lamb of God’s “Black Label” send a bolt through the crowd. The drumming sends a jolt throughout the arena, as the pace of the intro begins to pick up. Finally… “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” The high-pitched scream of Randy Blythe breaks through the speakers as the bright white lights begin flashing at the entranceway. As the scream hits the crowd, Spike walks out wearing a black hoodie on, the hood covering most of his face. Spike drops down to one knee, leaving one arm to hang to the ground, while the other is firmly placed on his knee. After a few moments, Spike raises both arms into an “X”, symbolizing his Straight Edge life style. Spike rises to his feet and begins to make his way down the isle towards the ring. Funyon: "And his opponent ... from Hollywood, California ... weighing in at 223 pounds ... 'Hollywood' ... SPIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE JENNNNNNNNNNNNNNKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!" Spike makes his way completely around the ring and rolls underneath the bottom rope. He continues rolling until he hits dead center in the middle of the ring. Spike rises to one knee and resumes the position he was in at the top of the entranceway. One arm hanging to the ground, the other placed on his knee. Finally, Spike rises to his feet. He quickly peels off the hood, releasing his blonde, dyed hair free. He puts his arms together, forming an “X” across his chest, again promoting his Straight Edge life style. King: "What good did the straight edge lifestyle ever do anybody?" Ebony: "Besides keeping people from dying? Not much." The music dies down, and referee Scott Ryder calls both men into the center of the ring. He immediately calls for the bell: DING DING DING! King: "OK, Jay, now it's legal! Rip his arm out of the socket!" Ebony: "So much for a broadcaster being impartial." King: "Oh, you just hate me because I have male genitalia." Ebony: "You do? That's not what I heard." Jay Hawke begins to taunt Spike Jenkins, with "your arm breaking in half" clearly being picked up by the ringside microphones. Spike smirks in amusement, and then... King: "Has he gone insane?" ...Spike Jenkins extends his hand for a handshake. Jay Hawke shoots a look of half smirking, half confusion. Ebony: "I'd say Spike Jenkins just wants this to be a sportsmanlike affair, but you'd think he'd be smart enough to know Hawke's not going to go for that." King: "I think you're giving Spike too much credit." Hawke, figuring he can turn this into a short clothesline or something, decides "what the hell" and reaches forward for the handshake. No sooner does he touch Spike's hand that Spike yells out "I quit!" and drops to the canvas, rolling out of the ring as a bewildered Scott Ryder calls for the bell. DING DING DING! "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Ebony: "What the...?" King: "Did he just quit on the prematch handshake?" Funyon: "Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner ... JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKE!" As a bewildered Jay Hawke stares at Spike Jenkins in total confusion, Spike walks down the aisle toward the locker room, pointing at his head and saying "I'm not risking injury this close to Battleground." Ebony: "I think Spike intentionally lost the match to avoid getting injured." King: "Maybe he is smarter than I gave him credit for after all, but he's probably not getting paid for that." Ebony: "Well, Jay Hawke gets a victory without breaking a sweat, and we'll have more action coming up in just a few minutes."

As we return to Lockdown, with a Star Wipe if you want, we have been graced by Mr Joseph Peters, who judging from his serious face is here to conduct some serious business. "Coming up in 11 days time, the SWF presents Battleground live on Pay Per View. And right now, we need to pay the bills...which means naming the man who will earn himself the honour of becoming Wes Davenport's first PPV World Title opponent. Now, I've looked long and hard, up and down the list of SWF competitors for a man, or woman, deserving of the shot. It's been a tough decision. In the end, I was aided somewhat in my choice, but regardless, a number one contender has been named." A buzz is beginning to build in the arena, as Peters pauses for dramatic purposes. "So, without further ado, let me introduce you to the official number one contender to the SWF World Hevayweight Championship. The man who will challenge for the title, regardless of title developments. And, pending results to come, the man who will face Wes Davenport in his most high profile match to date as Champion..." Oh yeah. "...himself, a former SWF World Heavyweight Champion..." Oh boy, here it comes. "...ladies and gentlemen..." Wait for it... "LANDON 'LA CUCARACHA' MMMAAAAAAADDIIIIIIIIXXXXXXXXX!!!" ... "PREPARE...FOR...LANDON!" ...WAAAAAHHHHH... *DUM DUM* "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" "WHAT!?!" howls King, as "Megalomaniac" hits and a chorus of very loud and very unsatisfied boos ring out through the arena. Emerging through the curtains, Landon Maddix grins from ear to ear with hands out-stretched, accepting the boos with a simple shrug and a defiant brandishing of his index finger. Number One. Number One Contender. Maddix strolls down the aisle with the same grin on his face and climbs the ring steps slowly and deliberately, stopping on the top step to glance into the crowd and flash them a smile. With a merry little leap Landon then jumps to the apron and glides into the ring, spinning into the centre of the ring with his arms open, triumphant as he comes to a stop in the centre. "You have got to be kidding me." is all King can mumble, as Maddix leans through the ropes and accepts a microphone from ringside. "Number One Contender? Has Peters lost his mind!?! This idiot...this unreliable, psychopathic, lunatic, untalented schmo doesn't deserve a shot at the Hardcore Gamers Title, let alone the World Heavyweight Championship!" Maddix glides back to the centre of the ring, gliding on the crest of a wave you could say, flashing a thumbs up to Joseph Peters before turning to the hard camera. "LAN - DON SUCKS!" "LAN - DON SUCKS!" "LAN - DON SUCKS!" "LAN - DON SUCKS!" "SURPRIIIIIIIIIISE!!" "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" "Jo', thank you for that fantastic introduction. Much obliged. See, it's been a long time since I've been in this position, too long infact. Now's the point where I cry, moan and bitch about my lack of opportunities and tell you all when my last World Heavyweight Title shot was...but to be honest, I barely remember when it was. Suffice to say, it was a long time past. Now, some of that lies on my shoulders and I'll admit that right now. Times have been hard and I've made some bad choices. I've neglected the World Title because of stupid feuds with the likes of Todd Cortez, the likes of Max King and more than anything else, because of the likes of Toxxic." "YYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" "Go ahead, cheer all you want!" implores Landon. "If he walks through those curtains, you won't be the only ones jumping off your feet and crying tears of joy. The crowd stop, unsure whether to actually cheer to spite Landon or to cease cheering to spite Landon. "Now, as I was saying. I've neglected the World Heavyweight Championship and championships as a whole just recently with all this Toxxic nonsense that's been swimming around in my head. I basically gave up on my ambitions. I neglected my ambitions. Damn near three years of reputation building, down the virtual toilet. Even through that though, I've been aware of what's been going on around me. And although I haven't shown it, I'm as embarrassed as anyone in the back by the fact that the SWF World Title is being held by an ACTOR. An actor. Wes Davenport, you are everything that's wrong with this sport. You're a joke and you make everyone around you look equally pathetic. You holding the most prestigious title we have is a crime. Well guess what Wes...your luck just ran out. See, you can claim to be many things. And somehow, you can claim to be a World Heavyweight Champion AND a Clusterfuck Winner. Newsflash, Wes...so can I, and I'm a REAL wrestler! And the shocking plot-twist for you is, I'm through neglecting the belts, I'm through neglecting my ambitions and I'm through neglecting ME!!" "And yet, everyone else seems willing to continue doing so." smirks King. "It's been fifteen long months since I held the SWF World Heavyweight Championship and life has hardly been a bed of roses for me since then. I've been pre-occupied enough with Toxxic that I haven't done anything about that up to this point, but times have changed. Somebody got in my ear and found the logical part of my brain and they explained things out to me. You're tarnishing my legacy and hell, I've been giving you free reign this past few weeks and months. I should have dealt with you as soon as you won the Clusterfuck. Now, you're bastardising the World Title too. Well Wes, no longer! I'm gonna take that title from you at 13th Hour. I'm gonna do it for Pimp Daddy Sarp, for "Grand Slam" Mark Stevens, for TNT and I'm gonna do it for Charlie "Grappler" Matthews! And, above all else, I'm gonna do it for ME!!" Soaking up the boos, Landon glances over at Joseph Peters. A half smirk is all Maddix can manage to hide as he raises an eyebrow to the SWF's head honcho. "Now now, I know what you're all thinking. I know what you're thinking. Why? Why in the hell would Joseph Peters name me the Number One Contender, after all I've done and said in the past few months. After I beat up a poor, defenceless referee after the Clusterfuck. After I duped him into thinking Laberinto and Landon Maddix were seperate entities. After nearly crippling Ced Ordonez. After shunning the titles of this company. The weeks and weeks of disrupting SWF programming to call out somebody who doesn't even work here anymore. Why?" "That's a damn good question!" protests King. "Well..." Landon looks briefly taken aback, but motions for Peters to continue. "See, it's fair to say that I had my hand forced a teeny little bit. You're a former World Champion so obviously, you're always going to jump places in queues, but you are right. Your conduct recently hasn't endeared yourself to me. I probably wouldn't have given you this shot, without some convincing...so, how about we bring out the person responsible for convincing me to give you the match? Ladies and gentlemen, MEGAN SKYE!" "WHAT!?!" howls King again... ...as eventually, a musicless Megan Skye emerges through the curtains and walks to the ring with her head down. Some of the crowd let Megan have it for her apparant actions so she keeps her head down, entering the ring to Landon's confusion. "Okay, I'm completely lost." admits King. "Who cares. Finally, somebody out here without a penis. It's about damn time." hisses Ebony. "..." "So, maybe you should explain Megan?" shrugs Peters, passing the microphone to Megan. After a little convincing Megan takes it and turns to Landon, who lounges in the corner across the ring. "KICK HIS ASS MEGAN!" screams one clearly drunk mullet wearing wierdo in the fourth row, breaking the rest of the arena's anticipated silence. "Okay. Well...see, the thing is...recently, I've seen what's been going on with you...the Toxxic thing. Look, you and me haven't gotten along recently. There's bad blood between us. I know all that. Stuff's happened and basically, Todd's...well...I don't think it needs saying. He's not around. I talked to Joseph about a new contract that time you barged into his office. We talked over terms and conditions and stuff. I dunno, I guess I felt guilty about what happened. I asked Joseph to give you a title shot, because you were too...stubborn to admit you wanted one. I just hoped that maybe, me asking for the match would maybe make up for...I mean, it'd...maybe...you know, maybe I could........ AH, FUCK IT, COME HERE!" Suddenly and without warning (apart from the f bomb), Megan tosses the microphone down and as Landon walks out of the ring, SHE GRABS HIM IN AN EMBRACE!! "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Landon laughs long and loud as a sinister smile begins to creep over Megan's face, to the embarrassment of the cross armed Joseph Peters, although his face seems to say he expected it all along. "Okay, WHAT!?!" screams King again, as shocked as everyone in the crowd. "SEE! SEE! WE CAN ACT TOO, WES!" Landon gleefully announces. "Guess what folks...IT WAS A SETUP ALL ALONG!" "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" "Did you really think I was so clueless that I assumed I'd been given a title shot out of the goodness of Joseph Peters' heart? Give me some credit, people! Me and Megan settled our differences three weeks ago now, we knew exactly what we were doing! I mean, come on...who else but Megan could have organised all this, huh? Who else but Megan Skye could have gotten into the sensible part of my brain and come up with this plan? She was always the plan maker! She was always the brains of the team!" "Aw, that's so sweet Landon." Megan says not all too sincerely. "And you know...he IS right. I'm the thinker of the team. Landon won't mind me saying, he gets a little over-emotional at times, he over-reacts to different things. He's never been the same since we parted company. And see Jo', while you've been worrying and fretting over what to do about Landon, the solution was sitting under your nose the whole time. I know Landon better than anyone and I knew that all he needed was a kind word in his ear..." "MEG - AN SUCKS!" "MEG - AN SUCKS!" "MEG - AN SUCKS!" "MEG - AN SUCKS!" Curiously, Landon grins and nods at this crowd assessment. "Oh, how quickly the worm turns. All I got was nice, kind words from you all when I was Todd's 'manager'. And that was a rare occurence, because let's face it, Todd didn't have me around ringside too much. Infact, Todd took me for granted! I'm the best manager this company has seen in years and Todd used me as nothing more than a baggage carrier! But I couldn't complain. I had to just smile sweetly, pose for some publicity photos, do an interview on the website maybe. Well I'm SICK of being the nice girl! I'm sick of playing sweet, innocent, boring valley girl Megan. I'm sick of being some P.R machine for this company. They say blondes have more fun but as far as I'm concerned, it's bitches who have more fun. And Megan Skye the bitch...is back!" "See, the band is back together!" continues Landon. "A few months ago, I vowed to get back everything I'd lost since From The Fire 2005. It started tonight, with Megan...and it'll include Battleground and me re-capturing the SWF World Heavyweight Championship! Because with Megan back by my side, it's a whole different prospect facing Landon Maddix. The scatty, insecure Landon you've seen for too long is gone. In the past. A footnote in the history of the SWF. Wes Davenport, when you step into that ring with me at Battleground...providing you MAKE it that far, that is...you're gonna be stepping into the ring with the time tested, mother approved, 2003 Landon Maddix..." "...and he ALWAYS has a plan!" "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Megan and Maddix embrace once again and are hit with a barrage of boos from the fans, many still shocked at the fact that these two are even acknowledging each others' presence, let alone hugging each other in the middle of the ring. Flipping the microphone to Peters, who only just manages to catch the expensive piece of equipment, Landon continues to beam a massive smile as he holds the ropes open for Megan. Megan gets halfway through before holding the ropes for Landon and it's all a big ol' sickfest as they play a game of 'after you, no after YOU' before eventually leaving the ring. "So...let me get this straight. Megan left Landon's side to manage Todd Cortez, but now Todd isn't here Megan goes back to Landon, who welcomes her back even after their less than acrimonious split. Landon Maddix is the #1 Contender because of Megan. So, Megan's managing Landon, but Landon's with Amy, who understandably hates Megan...unless Landon and Amy aren't together anymore, in which case what happens with Landon going after Toxxic?" King pauses. "Well, congratulations Landon, now my head hurts thanks to your over-complicated, melodramatic life! Can we get a commercial please?"

Guy named Cross times two Enter the ring and they fight. The Michael guy wins

SWF Lockdown returns to the SOLD RIGHT DA FUCK OUT I BET YOU’RE JEALOUS YOU’RE NOT HERE Carolina Center. The Columbia, South Carolina audience continues to show signs of maturity by refusing to start throwing drinks at the massive Funyon. Of course, it is rumored that Funyon is wanted in three states for assault with a deadly weapon (his fists) and Lockdown is only coming up on their second match of the night. How much alcohol could one person actually consume in that short amount of time? “MY gARaaaage is OwNeD by THHHHHHWWWWW combined POWERS of SUPERDORK and BATGUY, WHOOOOOOO!!!” I guess the answer would be a lot. “Welcome back. For those of you who have just started tuning in to tonight’s broadcast, you need to know only two things. I am unarguably the most professional man in this company. And two, I am this close to flat out walking out. I’ve had to put up with lesbians, constant non-sequiters, and Axis…yes Axis gets his own category. I watched Mak Francis get paralyzed by that psycho Spike Jenkins. But tonight, I have to take a stand against the SWF. Tonight I… “Would you shut up you gutless coward? I would threaten to castrate three generations of your family, but it seems like god did that for me.” “That for those of you just now tuning in is the luscious voice that belongs to a hybrid ferret and weasel. Seriously, folks I can’t make this up even if I wanted to.” The sarcastic Gambling Man scoots away from his special broadcast partner. “It seems King here is also yellow toward the fact that I am indeed a lesbian. So all of you men out there should just commit mass suicides because you really never have what I can give.” Ebony selfishly demands while teasing whatever audience finds a half weasel, half ferret attractive. “The next match is the fatal four way HARDCORE match. The rules tonight fit under the regular hardcore and four way rules except tonight it shall be done under ELIMINATION RULES!!!” Funyon hollers gaining the cheers from the crowd with the announcement of the favored elimination rules. With the Carolina Center rocking, “How I Could Just Kill A Man” blares over the PA system. Exploding with the energy derived from the mad beats of Cypress Hill is the Australian Stryke. Slapping the crowd’s hands, Stryke wonders down the entrance ramp soaking in the above mild reaction. “First…hailing from Sydney, Australia…and weighing in at 230 lbs…he is STRYKE!!!” Following up Funyon’s always-generous introductions, is the not so generous Suicide King, “Stryke, similar to Christian Fury hasn’t had the comeback that he wanted. They may still cheer his name, but the lack of victories has got to be getting to this guy.” “It’s probably the lack of balls, King. Which would be why you can so easily sympathize with Stryke.” The weasel-ferret hybrid with a NASTY shot at the Gambling Man. Rolling into the ring, Stryke searches the audience who continue to adore him. Finding that rough patch, the young veteran retreats back into the corner where the people chant his name. BANG!!! … … … EVERYBODY DANCE NOW! Following the golden explosion is a slue of scantily clad women who run out and begin to dance uncontrollably. Bumping and grinding, the girls give the men in the audience a true show…along with Ebony as well. “Hmmm…I’ll be back.” Ebony shoots out of her chair, but is quickly restricted back to her seat by security, “FINE THEN! JUST WAIT UNTIL I FIND MY MACHETE AND A PAIR OF TWEEZERS!” The lesbian threatens the whole security staff. “Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now!)” continue to thump as the arch villain and his plodding assistant saunter out from behind the curtain. “And his opponent…hailing from parts UNKNOWN…and weighing in at 285 lbs, accompanied to the ring by his assistant Heff…THE CRIMSON SKULL!!!” Funyon comes THIS close to busting a move, but opts to step to the side as the Crimson Skull wobbles over to a random turnbuckle, giving the crowd a slight flex that rips open part of his spandex on his right arm. And that was a slight flex. Soon the madness clears leaving the ultra, mega; super expensive Smarktron to tell the story. “I’M BORN!” “I’M ALIVE!” “I BREATHE!!!” The recognizable words appear on the Smarktron, announcing the arrival of the fan favorite. “Vitamin” continues to play as the Unique Youth fires through the curtain with the energy of a F4 tornado. Slapping the hands along with pumping the crowd up, Zyon runs down the ramp, showing little cuts and scraps from last week’s war with the hardcore champion. “And their opponent…hailing from Elkhart, Indiana…and weighing in at 200 lbs even, the UNIQUE YOUTH…ZYYYYYYYYYON!!!” Funyon explodes with his “Y” stretching vocals as the youth somersaults into the ring, going right into his ritual like headbang/arm raise combo. Noticing the excited crowd cheering and chanting, Zyon can’t help but smile, even after having a terrible week due to the psycho that stalks him. “If I wasn’t a lesbian, I would find that youngster quite the looker. But since I am what I am, and he is a weak male, he should burn with the rest.” The female openly discriminates against the males. Which makes up over 75% of the SWF’s audience. That vast 75% would also be huge fans of Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box” which is the last song to blare over the PA system. Indicating the appearance of the masochist of hardcore, red and black pyro bursts from the side enlisting the audience in a sparkling sideshow as the main attraction saunters down the aisle. “Insane Luchador must be the happiest man on the planet.” King proclaims. “A happy male. Pffttt…” The sociopath be bringing the hate I tell ya. King scoots even farther away from his partner, “Anyway, what I meant was that the Ill One should be thankful that Bruce hasn’t gotten the chance to rip him apart. Bruce might be a redneck with horrible luck, but darnit unless a death in the family forces him to take a break, there will most definitely be a death in the ring. Bruce would KILL Insane Luchador.” “And…” “…Then he’d die.” “And…” “Oh…he’d probably just no sell it…again.” BREAKING KAYFABE! “Finally…their opponent…hailing from Easton, Pennsylvania…weighing in tonight at 221 lbs. He (should be dead) is YOUR Psychopathic Hero. He is theeeeeee INSANE LUCHADOR!!” With fatigue choking his vocal chords, Funyon exits the ring as the Ill One sprints down the ramp, rolls into the ring, and IMMEDIATELY BEGINS BRAWLING WITH STRYKE! Oh shit…DING DING DING! Slamming his fists into the face of the veteran cruiserweight, Insane Luchador takes the time to smirk, but doesn’t use any opportunity to see the arch villain standing behind him! Halting the hardcore veteran’s momentum, the massive Crimson Skull latches a reverse waist lock on the Ill One. Energetic and with a spice of fury, IL stomps his feet, grinds his teeth… …And gets effortlessly tossed backward with a release German Suplex! Effortlessly couldn’t describe the next move, but an expert in skill could. Floating through the atmosphere, IL somersaults backward, landing on his feet. Bursting forward, the Unique Youth places both of his hands on the shoulder of the maskless Luchadore, and launches himself through the air with a leapfrog. Morphing from the ball curling position he was in, Zyon springs outward, extending his feet into a Snap dropkick that lands FLUSH in the chest cavity of the Crimson Skull. “YEAAAHAHHH!!” The audience showers the youth with the casual cheers that comes after the energetic kip up. Neither Insane Luchador nor Stryke make an attempt to decimate the arrogant youth… …Must be intimidated…by a 5’11…200 lb…oh fuck. Twisting around at a nippy rate, Zyon’s eyes would bulge out of his head, but the gigantic palm that belongs to the Crimson Skull is currently shadowing them. “Look at that Ebony. Tell me men aren’t strong when the Crimson Skull just took a KENTA style (lacks springboard, but King doesn’t know any better) dropkick to the chest, and he shook it off.” The Gambling Man comments on a rank of toughness that he couldn’t even touch in his prime. “That is no man…that is glorious. But he has balls…he must be disposed of. Just like the rest of YOU!” The furious ferret stares at her partner with disgust. Shaking under the horrifying power applied to his face, Zyon’s multiple attempts to break the pie face leaves him a broken man. Wrapping his other hand around his opponent’s head, the evvvvviiiiillllll villain snaps backward, tossing the Unique Youth CLEAR OVER THE TOP ROPE with your standard two handed toss. “CRASH!” With the slightest opening, Stryke attains the villain’s head in a reverse cravate as he struggles to hold the creepy Crimson Skull in place. Dropping down on to his ass, the veteran cruiserweight takes the villain down. Displeased with the course of action that involves his client on the mat, Heff pounds on the mat, rooting his master on. Advancing forward, the veteran cruiserweight leaps into the air, catching the Insane Luchador off guard with an Enziguri. Stopping his collision with the mat, Stryke places his palm on the mat after MISSING the enziguri that DID catch IL off guard, but that doesn’t change the fact that he ducked the strike. Continuing to catch the hardcore Luchadore off tilter, Stryke spins around slicing his leg into where IL’s shins should be before spinning back up to his feet… …Agitated. Rolling his eyes to the top of his head, IL studies the Ill One who hangs in the air from using his athleticism to dodge the sweep. Rummaging through his demented mind, the Insane Luchadore touches the mat, and immediately launches himself in the direction of Stryke with an unbalanced Yakuza Kick! Fully aware of the decapitating ability in that type of rushed kick, Stryke lowers himself before rolling under the boot. Planting his foot, IL looks to continue his onslaught on the defensive Stryke, and his body does turn to make the attack…but his eyes see something else… …ZYON ON THE APRON…WITH KENDO STICK IN HAND! “I’m guessing he must have found that under the ring while he was on the ground due to the Crimson Skull.” “He must be compensating for something.” Springing off the top rope, the Unique Youth swims through the air before dropping a Kendo stick shot right down on to the noggin of the Ill One! “CRACK!!!” “oooooOOOOOOOO!” The crowd echoes as the tough as nail luchador drops to one knee. Elevating the cane once more, the youth feels the presence of another behind him. Uncontrollably, the Kendo stick seemingly jumps on of Zyon’s grip, and into the Crimson Skull’s. Shrugging his shoulders, Zyon drops to the canvas, dodging a horizontal blow from the evil villain WHILE PLANTING BOTH FEET INTO THE FACE OF THE KNEELING IL!!! Looking up at the lights, the youth intelligently rolls out of harms way, giving himself time to regroup. Which leaves Stryke to face off against the massive Crimson Skull. “Crack…” The veteran cruiserweight strikes the villain down with a right hand that has no effect at all. Without a shadow of a doubt, Stryke is miffed about his right hand that did nothing, but jam on of his fingers. Refusing to stick around for the punishment that is to come, Stryke takes off in the opposite direction. With the crowd unmoving, Stryke bounces off the ropes, and draws his arm back… …And it stays back as he finds himself spun around in a tantalizing tilt a whirl. Wrapping his other arm around the Crimson Skull’s head, Stryke flips out of the arch villain’s grasp, and tries to take him down with a bulldog. Grunting under his devilish mask, the awkward character maintains a center of balance. Spectacularly, the Crimson Skull unleashes a surge of strength that lifts Stryke backward for a back drop suplex. The veteran speedster flips out triumphantly…before tripping backward onto his bottom. “Hahahahah!” Ebony gets a good chuckle out of the (at least in her mind) inferior performer. Turning his back to the rest of the match, the arch villain spins around with a surge of pain flowing up his back after receiving a knee to the spine. Staggering forward, the powerful villain leans into the turnbuckle chest first. Physically communicating with one of his fellow cruiserweights, Zyon is able to get through to the miffed individual. Across the ring, IL exits leaving the other two to do the dirty work… …While he starts to toss in the standard sort of weapons. Trash Can. Speed Limit signs. Cookie sheet. Chair. Rushing across the ring, Zyon leaps off of Stryke’s back, collapsing the right side of his body with the unaware Crimson Skull. Staggering back from the modified splash, the youth finds himself unable to move…at all. Noticing the moist hands locking him down, Zyon’s first instinct is to struggle. The second is to get THROWN ON TO HIS FACE WITH A RELEASE GERMAN SUPLEX, COMPLETE WITH SOMERSAULT FACE PLANT LANDING! “Yeahahahaheahaha!!” The audience cries out, forcing the excited veteran to pump his fist a few times. Grinning from ear to ear, the veteran cruiserweight transforms into a state of shock and horror as the Crimson Skull delivers a shot to his head with the metallic trash can lid. Immediately the legs of the crushed individual give out forcing Stryke to trample to a kneeling position. Heaving his leg backward, the arch villain lets out a ferocious shill, frightening many in the audience… …And that’s only the beginning. Launching his log like leg forward, the Crimson Skull has to of crush something once his powerful leg blasts Stryke in the chest cavity. Feeling the air from his lungs elevate and leave him, to never return again, the veteran cruiserweight begins to choke, gag, and crumble to a flay lying position. Looking down at his opponent, the Crimson Skull steps over him, and proceeds to flex his gigantean muscles. Injured from the release German suplex, Zyon ascends the top rope behind the Crimson Skull… “Yeaaaaahhhhh!” …The roaring of the crowd warns the arch villain of what’s to come, but it’s far too late as the youth grazes him with a spinning wheelbarrow kick! Lacking the burn in his crash to the mat, Zyon latches on to a speed limit sign as he rises back to his feet. Lunging at the off balanced villain, Zyon raises the sign above his head and blasts the Crimson Skull with it!!! “YEAHHHHH!” The crowd rallies behind the cruiserweight that looks on in awe, as the arch villain remains standing. Turning away from the wounded Heff assisted individual, Zyon runs face first into a right forearm delivered by the Ill One! Dropping the speed limit sign, the youth lunges forward with a clothesline, but the Insane Luchadore easily ducks. Playing the human chess game that is professional wrestling, Zyon leaps on to the middle rope spring boarding backward with a Half Moon attacking moonsault!!! Playing into tricking the naïve youth, the hardcore cruiserweight steps forward and catches his lighter opponent!!! Swinging the youth down on to his feet, IL applies a reverse face lock, and drops back with a reverse DDT! IL floats on to Zyon for the cover… ONE! TWO…kickout. Picking himself up, IL looks at the proceeding Crimson Skull with the look of excitement? “Why is he smiling? Does he have a death wish…oh wait, yeah he probably does.” King corrects himself. Carefully bending over, IL picks up the dreaded steel chair, and charges at the injured Crimson Skull. Lifting the chair above his head, the Ill One looks to take the beastly evildoer down with one fatal shot… “CCCCCCCRRRRRRAAAAACCCCCCK!” “OOOOOOOOOOO…GAWD!” Some in the audience turn away, but can’t keep themselves from watching the mysteriously athletic Crimson Skull bash his foot into the chair. Not a big deal. But that very same chair slams backward in the face of the Insane Luchador, busting him open like a river of blood. “These men. Does anyone find the irony in someone named the Crimson Skull, causing someone to wear the Crimson Mask? Hahahahahaha!” Ebony laughs heartily at her own joke, while everyone else fears for their lives. Bleeding profusely from the head, IL staggers back into the safety of the ropes, until he is lifted over those ropes and to the floor due to a powerful clothesline!! Reemerging from the shadows in the wounded Stryke, with trash can in hand the veteran cruiserweight sneaks up on the Crimson Skull… “LOOK OUT!” The evil assistant warns his client who turns around just in time to foil Stryke’s sinister plan. Under the mask you know that the Crimson Skull is smiling…if he knows how. If he knows what smiling is. Stryke on the other hand fears for his well being, and turns to run away. “COWARD!!” Ebony roars. The crowd looks to be on the verge on turning against the cowardly veteran, until everything becomes clear. Quickening his pace to catch the veteran cruiserweight, Skull actually develops a slow jog. Planting his foot in the mat, Stryke wills himself to thwart the evil villain with a simple toss of the trash can. Heh…yeah he’s fucked. Thrusting his arm outward, the Crimson Skull slaps the lethal weapon like it’s a fricken mosquito. However, Stryke looks as determined as ever while on the other side of the ring, the bloody Insane Luchador slides a table into the ring!!! “Oh boy, things just got interesting.” Leaping off of his previously planted foot, Stryke swings his leg toward the back of his startling opponent’s head catching him FLUSH with the leaping enziguri! “Let’s go Stryke!!” The crowd starts as the SHOT actually has enough spark behind it to drop the dominating villain to one knee. Reaching into the favorite of the cruiserweights, the junior steps up into the atmosphere with help from Skull’s elevated knee before slamming his knee into the masked face of his opponent. SHINING WIZARD…CRUISERWEIGHT PRIDE! Flailing to the mat, the Crimson Skull finds himself defenseless as Stryke quickly ascends the turnbuckle with chair in hand. “Is he going to do what I think? OH GOD HE IS.” King is freaking out… …While Ebony could care less, “Can we get the female dancers back out here? LIKE RIGHT NOW!” Perched on the top rope, Stryke looks out into the ballistic audience. Taking a deep breath, the cruiserweight springs off the rope with a chair assisted ALL TIME HIGH!!!! … … That misses. “CRASH…CLANK!!” Crushing himself against the canvas and the chair, Stryke would usually spasm after missing the move…but he has nothing left. Rolling back to his feet, the Crimson Skull look at the table, and then at Insane Luchador who pulls a ladder out of the ring!!! Realizing that one of the participants has gone unnoticed; the villain spins around with a lack of fear due to his numbness. Zyon though springs to life literally with a springboard missile dropkick attempt…that gets swatted away. Pushing himself back to his feet, Zyon feels the gigantic hands of the super villain slither through his hair as he is manually catapulted over the top rope by the Crimson Skull! “CRACK!!!” Switching his flight into auto, Zyon takes control of his body, looking to drop on to IL with a dive. Nonchalantly, the sadistic luchador tosses the STEEL LADDER into the face of the youth who crashes to the floor in a ball, clutching his face. Back in the ring, the Crimson Skull has the table centered in the squared circle. Scrapping the all but dead veteran off the canvas, the evildoer spreads the motionless cruiserweight on to the table. … … Ascending the top rope…slowly…Skull finally makes it to the top. Rising to their feet is the audience that deep down fears for Stryke… …But table spots ARE AWESOME! Accidentally, the Crimson Skull doesn’t let the audience down as he leaps off and KILLS STRYKE…KILLS STRYKE…ABSOLUTELY ANNHILATES STRYKE with the CRIMSON SPLASH THAT SHATTERS THE TABLE!!! “Holy Shit!!!” The audience shouts at the top of their lungs as the Crimson Skull lies on Stryke. ONE! …He’s not moving. TWO! …Still not moving. THREEE!!! “Good that’s one weak man down. What a loser, all that destruction isn’t suited for Stryke.” Ebony scoffs. “Well we are down to three individuals.” King is starting to get used to playing the straight man. Sliding half the ladder into the ring, IL bates the reigning dominator of the match, counting on the opinion that he isn’t very intelligent. Skull proves IL’s theory correct as he actually reaches down at the ladder. Smartly IL pushes on the other end of the ladder causing a seesaw effect… “CRACK!” The ladder props upward into the face of the Crimson Skull who opts to clutch his face. Pulling himself on to the ring apron, IL slingshots himself over the top rope, catching the staggering villain with a headlock before spinning him to the canvas with a sensational tornado DDT! “WHOOOOO!” The audience whooo’s at something that isn’t described as the hand slapping the opponent’s chest. Rolling on to Skull, the energetic hardcore icon bobs his head to the count. ONE! …He’s not moving. TWO…Kickout …He’s not Stryke! Rising back to his feet, the Ill One notices the Kendo stick on the ground, lying there innocently. Grasping the power of the cane in his hands, IL patiently waits for the evillllll Crimson Skull to rise to his feet. Lifting his body off the mat, Skull slowly lumbers toward the desperate cruiserweight. “CRACK!” Swinging for the fences, IL connects with a homerun…yet Skull remains on his feet. Lunging forward, IL prepares another deadly strike with the cane, but Skull lowers himself from the attack, and snatches IL into a RING SHAKING SPINE BUSTER!!! “What a counter!” Pain pulsing throughout his back, IL is defenseless to stop the pin attempt. ONE! TWO! TH…KICKOUT! “YEAH!!!” Attempting to blow the roof off the Carolina Center, the audience wills IL on. On the outside, Zyon once again pulls himself up on to the ring apron. Springboarding off the top rope, the Unique Youth finds the ability to perform a somersault. Bracing himself for the impact of such an attack, the Crimson Skull is brutally shocked when Zyon latches his legs around his head, taking him to the mat with a DRAGONRANA! Reaching back, Zyon grasps his opponent’s leg, trapping him with a pin. ONE!! TWO!! THREEEEEEEEEEENOOOOOOOOO! Staggering back to his feet, Zyon directions himself to the ladder. Setting it up near on it’s fifteen foot frame, the youth ascends the steel until he is ten feet off the ground. Turning to look at the now standing Crimson Skull, Zyon leaps backward with a modified Half Moon moonsault! Modified…by it’s off a damned ladder! Watching the spectacle through his bloody face, IL waits for an opening while Skull meets the suicidal moonsault head on! …And loses. Collapsing on to the beast of unknown origins, Zyon lands perfectly with a lateral press. ONE! TWO! THREEEEEENOAGAIN! Rolling away from his opponent, Zyon ascends the top rope…again. “That spot monkey is actually being quite…smart. He’s using his strengths to not only attack that monster, but he’s also staying FAR away from a guy that could easily crush him.” King calls what little psychology this type of match has. Unable to stop the extra 221 lbs of accompanying him to the top, Zyon finds himself thrown off the ropes due to a SUPER BELLY TO BELLY SUPLEX by the bleeding one! Clutching his back, Zyon pulls himself back to his feet along with the giver of the move. Lunging forward, IL extends his arm and sends the youth packing with a strong lariat COMPLETE WITH SOMERSAULT BUMP! Sneaking up…kind of…is the Crimson Skull who NAILS the unexpecting Ill One with a big boot to the face…COMPLETE WITH SOMERSAULT…ok not complete with somersault back bump. Staggering backward from the massive boot, IL uses the ropes as a place for sanctuary. Is he a robot…oh wrong comedy character. Is he…indestructible…yeah that works. Lumbering toward the fatigued Insane Luchador, Crimson Skull is forced to stop dead in his tracks due to a Zyon low blow that actually saves the Insane Luchador. Not only that, but now IL has the opening to spring into action and SPIKE Skull into the mat with the EVENFLOW D…D…T!!! “CRUNCH!” In an incredibly weird moment for an all against all match, both competitors leap on to Skull for the cover. ONE! TWO! THREEEEEE! YES! “We have two left…and I hate them both.” “I hate all of them…but that fine lady in the front row.” Both cruiserweights rise back to their feet for a stare down… “CRACK!” …Followed by a forearm by Zyon. The youth sends the hardcore competitor backward, even dropping him to the mat, and out of the ring. Surprising the audience and himself, Zyon weakly shrugs at his own power…until everything becomes clear. Emerging from the ground…the chosen one is the one to wield the Excalibur! “Ooooo…that’s pretty.” Ebony…yeah. “It’s the Excalibur. IL’s chosen weapon, which as you can see is light tubes galore.” Rolling into the ring with weapon in hand, IL lives up to his first name (no not Andrew) and looks to make Zyon bleed. The horizontal swing misses Zyon back an inch due to the youth’s ability to leap backward…and come back with a kick to the gut. IL rebounds with a wild swing with the Excalibur. Once again, Zyon dodges with a retreating leap, only to come back and kick IL lower than the gut. “OOOOOO!” The crowd echoes as the Insane Luchador bends over…dropping the Excalibur. The fatigued youth latches on to the mighty sword…and swings wildly…missing wildly. IL looks to take advantage with a kick to the gut followed by a front face lock EVENFLOW D…D…ZYON SWINGS OUT! With one hand clamped on to the Excalibur, Zyon crosses his own body and catches IL in the face… …And off with his head like they used to say in roman times. The shattering of the glass will haunt those for years, but IL is in fucking sane…he’ll bounce back…Zyon goes for the cover… ONE! TWO! …Can he bounce back in one second? THREE! “That’s it.” DING DING DING! “The winner…the UNIQUE YOUTH ZYON!!” Funyon announces attempting to ignore the madness inside the ring. EMT’s come down to check on the Ill One who may have a little bit of glass in his eyes, but it’s mostly precautionary. “Vitamin” continues to play as Zyon exits the ring and wonders to the back… FADE TO SOMETHING BETTER THAN THIS!