chirs3

Ok then, if Spike's AWOL... Clark, Akira, and Cross, send to me.

Wireless internet crapped out last night. Yargh. Assembling and marking what I've got now.

Markers are up. Apologies for the delay, and pre-emptive apologies for tomorrow if it's late. You bastards keep on mailing Christmas cards like there's no tomorrow, and I must suffer for it. Damn you all!

Yes, ramps and such. If we're looking for a spot for the ring, I say we do it right next to the Ferris Wheel. At night, it'll be all lit up, saving us a ton on lighting. Hell, we can attach a camera to one of the seats and every 60 seconds have a birds-eye-view of the ring. GENIUS. Or not.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF CRIMSON YULETIDE~! Live, Friday, December 22nd, from Santa's Village in Jefferson, New Hampshire! (7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) (Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE MAIN EVENT - SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP Michael Stephens ©© vs. "The Beast" Gabriel Drake -> A match with so much emotion behind it, the description was too scared to come out... UNTIL NOW. (seriously, sorry about that) After months of dancing around each other, after months of mind-games, and after months of false starts, Michael Stephens and Gabriel Drake will finally be going at it! The SWF closes out 2006 with one hell of a bang as one of the most dominant Champions in this Federation's history takes one a demon from the past... will Stephens be able to hold his head high heading into the new year? Or will 2007 be the the year... of The Beast? Rules: Standard singles. Send to: chirs3 -=-=-=-=- COLD FRONT CLASSIC FINALS - 2/3 FALLS MATCH "Mr. Cold Front Classic" JJ Johnson vs. Landon "La Cucaracha" Maddix © -> "Mr. Cold Front Classic" finally puts that moniker to the test, in the final match of the 2006 Cold Front Classic! If JJ wins, he'll be the first to man to take the CFC twice (in a row, even)... if Landon wins, HE'll be the first to take the CFC twice, and he might be earning a shot against the same guy he fought two years ago! Coincidence, or fate? Hell if I know, but it doesn't matter - one of these men will be headlining the Clusterfuck. The other... well, they'll just be fucked. Rules: Best of three falls. Send to: Ace309 -=-=-=-=- SWF INTERNATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH "The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu © vs. Michael Cross vs. Alan Clark © -> Just when you think it's safe to go back to the Theme Park, Bloodshed sticks his... uh... bloody nose where it doesn't belong! Although I guess you could make a case that it does belong, since it's Clar- well, it's Bloodshed's, but it- damn it! You know what I mean! In any event, this bizarre scenario has entanged the International Champion, Akira Kaibatsu, and International Contender Michael Cross! And since Mr. Disney isn't exactly the most popular guy in town, Joseph Peters is having a little fun at his expense, as Clark is the only one who can be disqualified! Rules: Your standard triple threat, EXCEPT~! Clark can be disqualified, whereas his opponents cannot. Damn contract law. Send to: HollywoodSpikeJenkins -=-=-=-=- SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP CONTENDERS MATCH Zyon vs. Wildchild -> That has to suck - one show away from the Year End Pay Per View, Alan Clark swoops in and snatches the Cruiserweight Title from around Zyon's waist! Now on the last show before we transition to the big 0-7, Zyon gets a chance to redeem himself, and earn another shot at the gold! But Wildchild, as impressive as ever, is getting his Christmas Bonus here as well (it's cheaper than just paying him)! Rules: Standard cruiser, unless you guys would like to request something else. Feel free. Send to: Ace309 -=-=-=-=- SWF Hardcore Championship Match - Christmas Gift Match Jimmy © the Doom vs. Jay Hawke vs. Devin Benson vs. Insane Luchador -> Careful what you wish for, Jay Hawke - during the holiday season, Joseph Peters is more than happy to grant it! After forfeiting their non-title bout last show, we've learned our lesson and we're putting the title on the line, but we just couldn't let it be that easy! Jimmy's also going to be contending with the hardcore legend Insane Luchador and Devin Benson! And with one of the boxes containing the keys to a new Porsche, you don't even need to win the title to have a Merry Christmas here. We should make the guest referee "Carless" Mark Jindrak, just to rub it in. Rules: There are four gifts hanging above the ring (from poles, blank-on-a-pole-match style). During the course of the match, each wrestler is allowed to climb one pole and grab one giftwrapped box, then open it up. Whatever a wrestler opens is his Christmas present, and it's legal for him to use during the match! (One lucky wrestler will receive a brand-new Porsche 9-11. The rest of the gifts are for you to decide.) Send to: chirs3 -=-=-=-=- SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS MATCH "The Ace" Pierre Donette vs. Nighthawk -> What's Christmas without a little liquor? Worthless, that's what! I suppose gifts and family and all that garbage are important, but really, it's liquor. And since this is a Pay Per View, we can blindly encourage the practice to families and children without worry! But seriously forks, the newly returned Ace and on-something-less-than-a-hot-streak Nighthawk have one final chance to end the year on a high note. The winner not only gets booze and presents (though to be fair, so does the loser), he gets to ride the momentum into the new year! Rules: Before the match, Pierre Donette and Nighthawk will each drink a glass of eggnog (rum optional) and then give his opponent a wrapped gift. Once unwrapped, the gifts are legal for use in the match by either competitor. Otherwise, standard rules apply. Send to: Mr. S£im Citrus -=-=-=-=- OPENING BOUT - CANADIAN DEATHMATCH "The Superior One" Tom Flesher vs. Mr. Swiss Victor Herzog -> Why not a Swiss Deathmatch? Tom Flesher is a coward! Rules: The winner is the first to record a combined ten-count pinfall, consisting only of pins of three counts or more. If a wrestler makes a cover, the referee begins counting as normal, but once he gets to three, he continues counting until the wrestler being pinned kicks out. The first wrestler to add up ten counts wins. (The ten could be 5 and 5, or 4 + 3 + 3, or 5 + 3 + 3, for example.) Really, it's simpler than it sounds. Send to: JJ Johnson -=-=-=-=- My sincerest apologies for the lack of descriptions and proper rules, but it is now 6:48 in the AM, and I am pbth'd. Soon as I wake up, I'll get crackin' on turning this into the card it should be.

Lockdown fades in with Johnny Dangerous and Akira Kaibtasu already in the ring. Refreee Ced Ordonez checks both men for foreign objects, checking carefully in Akira’s kickpads. When that’s cleared he turns around to the time keeper and motions for the bell. DING DING DING! “Well, we’re off,” Mak says. “Akira’s first defense, in hopefully a short line of them,” Akira doesn’t waste anytime, putting a strategy into action right away, sprinting at The Barracuda. He baseball slides beneath the Secret Agents legs and jumps up swiftly, putting Dangerous in a rear waistlock quickly. Kaibatsu then rolls backwards and pins Dangerous with the rolling clutch! ONE! TWO! THRE-NO!! “Oh thank god,” Mak sighs. “We’re going to get a real match out of Akira this time.” “Well, I wouldn’t say that. It should go on longer than 30 seconds though,” “Akira’s got the right idea though. No one’s been able to escape his flash pins of late…he’s picked up several victories with them. Going straight to those is a pretty good idea on his part.” Akira is quick off the mat, getting to the balls of his feet. He stalks Johnny Dangerous, waiting for the Secret Agent to get up. When that happens, The Divine Wind leaps onto The Barracudas back sideways, and launches him backwards, putting Dangerous in yet another pinning predicament, this time a crucifix! ONEEE! TWOOO! THREENOOOOO! “Akira’s scaring the crap out of the sponsors,” Mak jokes. Kaibatus gets up quickly, and Dangerous does the same. Akira though, runs at the ropes when he gets up, where Dangerous tries to balance himself. Kaibatsu bounces off the ropes and runs at The Secret Agent, flipping over him, bringing him down and rolling him up with a sunset flip! “Another flash pin!” ONEE! TWOO! THREENO! “Alright, I think Akira’s going to have to try and get some real offense going now. It was a good idea, I guess, kinda, but it’s not workin out for him at all.” Akira realizes this, likely before King even mentioned it, and slows down, waiting for Johnny to get up. He does so, but is immediately met with a big Eurpean Uppercut, knocking him back a few steps. Kaibatsu runs at him and knocks him into the ropes with a forearm, before sending him packing into the opposite ropes. Dangerous comes bouncing back, still a little shaken up from the European uppercut he took seconds ago. Akira catches him between his legs and flips him sideways for a powerslam! Quick cover! ONEEE! TWOOO! THRENOO! “Just like that! Good offense, crazy flash pins,” King says. “Look at you King…complimenting someone. Are we looking at a new Suicide King?” “No. Shut up.” Kaibatsu picks up The Barracuda by the hair and begins to wail away at Dangerous with left hands. He tosses his forearm at Dangerous’ throat for one more European Uppercut before he takes the arm of Dangerous and wraps it around his back. He then takes The Secret Agents other arm and places it between the hole created by the arms, locking in Shadows Over Hell! Akira drops to the ground to make it harder for Dangerous to escape. YEEEAAAAAAAHHHH! “Akira’s got Shadows Over Hell in on Dangerous!” “Oh, even when he uses real offense it’s short! Jesus, win a real match sometime soon!” Dangerous sits on the ground screaming in pain, his arms seconds away from breaking. Ced Ordonez drops to the ground, and whole we cannot hear him, we know the question. Johnny shakes his head no emphatically. As he shakes his head he screams though, as Akira squeezes tighter around the arms. … TAP TAP TAP TAP. DING DING DING “Oh Jesus CHRIST.” King says. “Well, at the Christmas pay per view we’ll get to see Alan Clark, Michael Cross and Akira go at it triple threat FOR the title, I guess, but…oh well.” “Here is your winner and STILL International Champion…THE DIVINE WIND…AKIRRAAAAA KAIIIBATTSUUUUU!” Funyon puts the microphone down as Lockdown fades out.

The camera fades back into the arena to the grinding tones of Nevermore’s “Poison Godmachine”, red strobes going off at the entranceway and highlighting the silhouette of JJ Johnson in the ring, pacing as he awaits the man the progressive metal blaring from the sound system heralds. A brief instant later, Johnson’s wish comes true, as Devin Benson bursts through the curtain, throwing his hands up to a chorus of cheers! “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Lockdown!” grins Mak as Benson begins making his way down the ramp, staring down the man in the ring. “This upcoming match is one we tried to present to you a week after Johnson made his return in the Cold Front Classic; it was a hell of a contest, but unfortunately, we suffered technical difficulties, and we were unable to bring it to you folks at home.” “So, naturally, we simply try filming it again,” scoffs King, Devin sliding into the ring. “JJ Johnson vs. Devin Benson, Pure Rules, round 2.” DING DING DING! With no further ado, Benson rushes Mr. Cold Front Classic, hurling his arm out for a clothesline! JJ Johnson is not so easily caught off-guard, and nonchalantly drives his elbow into the pesky junior heavyweight’s jaw – well, as nonchalantly as one can do that. *CRACK!* Benson reels, but shakes the cobwebs out of his head and rushes back in; Johnson reacts accordingly, pasting him with another elbow smash! *CRACK!* Benson drops to one knee, clutching his jaw and swearing at his failure thus far; where there is a will, there is a way, however, and he explodes upward, charging the by now annoyed Mr. Cold Front Classic, who ducks under the lariat, secures a rear waistlock, and launches Benson backwards… *CRUNCH!* … DROPPING HIM ON HIS HEAD WITH THE DANGEROUS GERMAN! “DANGEROUSGERMAAAAAAAAN!!” screeches King as Benson bounces off of his neck onto his knees, where he takes a moment to shake the cobwebs out of his head – more than a moment, actually – before deciding that locating his opponent would be prudent. Devin glances around, and his eyes find Johnson in the corner, arms crossed, tapping his foot against the canvas, mouthing something that looks a good deal like “That shit isn’t going to fly.” “Ladies and gentlemen, JJ Johnson has sent a message,” says The Franchise with half-serious look, half bemused grin on his face. “They are going to be wrestling this match Johnson’s way, and, at least for now, there is nothing Benson can do about it.” “Or, more accurately, ‘Listen, monkey, I’m in no mood for your gung-ho nonsense’,” suggests King. “Well, I wasn’t going to put it that way…” sighs The Franchise, but he leaves it at that as Mr. Cold Front Classic sticks his hand out, flexing his fingers in what is the universal signal for a knuckle lock. Knowing that this is the realm of cruiserweights, Benson smirks, and wastes no time in locking fingers with the Canadian. The boot that rushes up very quickly to meet his head makes him regret his decision ever so slightly. *THWOCK!* Benson staggers from the force of the roundhouse, and his grip on the knuckle lock understandably loosens; it is a moot point regardless, as Johnson immediately abandons his grip before his head under that arm, seizing Benson around the waist, and lifting the feisty cruiserweight before driving him into the mat with a backdrop! Devin bounces and clutches at the back of his head as Johnson rolls away from the point of impact, quickly ascending to his feet and stalking the masked junior. Benson rises quickly, and the Ultimate Fighter quickly moves in, wrapping his arms around Devin’s head as he applies a sleeper hold. Devin writhes in the hold, cursing his mask as he struggles for purchase to get blood to his head. Johnson overhears him, and abandons the grip that is trapping his arm before reaching and grabbing the back of Benson’s mask before pulling it back in a makeshift choke! “BOOOOOOOOO!” “Oh, come on!” snaps Mak as Johnson gets a cocky smirk on his face. Benson is not quite so confident, flailing his arms about most desperately, trying to nail even a glancing blow on the Canadian. Fortunately for the cruiserweight, referee Chris Bacon catches on quite quickly, and he orders Johnson to break the choke. Mr. Cold Front Classic complies immediately, releasing his grip on the mask… and trapping that arm in a half-nelson as the crowd goes silent. “Sleeper suplex coming up, and this match is going to end very soon,” smirks King. Benson realizes exactly what’s coming, however, and he plants his feet and muscles backwards, backing himself and the Canadian into the ropes! “Break it, Johnson! Benson, that’s one!” snaps Bacon, and Johnson releases immediately, throwing his arms wide in almost an “I didn’t do it” pose. Devin collapses to his knees, gasping for breath, but Johnson knocks whatever he manages to get in back out again with a Cowboy Kick! *SMAACK!* Devin flops forward, but Johnson lunges forward with his right hand and snags the back of his mask before stepping around and launching his shins into Benson’s face with Kawada kicks! *SMACK!* *SMACK!* *SMACK!* With Benson suitably stunned, it is the work of a moment for Johnson to draw him upright, pop him with an elbow… *CRACK!*[/b} …and then Irish Whip him into the nearest corner, Benson going sternum-first into the pads, knocking even more breath out of him. He staggers backwards, clutching his chest and wheezing, but his progress – or regress, depending on one’s mood – is halted by Johnson, who tucks his head under the arm of Benson and lifts him up! “Backdroppuh!” shouts King, but prematurely, as Johnson instead sits Benson on the top rope, hanging onto Devin’s waist just long enough to prompt Chris Bacon calling for a second rope break to be taxed against the high-flying cruiser before letting go, putting one foot on the second rope, stepping up, and driving his other foot into the side of Benson’s head! *SMACK!* Johnson steps back down and helps guide Devin into a Tree of Woe as the masked man’s head lolls back, then strides along the ropes to the next corner before turning, facing Benson, and clapping his hands in the air. “It looks like Johnson is going for one of his Ole Kicks here,” notes Mak. “He normally does this outside the ring, into the guardrail, but JJ is in control here, and I don’t think he wants to risk relinquishing that.” “Well, Mak, also consider that two weeks ago, Johnson beat Jimmy The Doom with a backdrop off of a ladder. He might be looking to nail an avalanche backdrop after this facewash and seal the deal,” the Gambling Man postulates. “Alternatively, JJ just wants to kick him in the face.” The chant is not starting up as Mr. Cold Front Classic stands in the corner, still clapping. Finally, Johnson sticks his lower lip out in a mock pout before rushing across the ring and driving his foot into, across, and through Benson’s face with a good ol’ fashioned bootscrape! Benson’s head snaps violently, and one leg comes off of its grip around the turnbuckles; Mr. Cold Front Classic is sure to tuck that leg back in place before he sits Devin back upright. “See? Backdrop,” says King with a smug look, but just like the last time he cried backdrop, he is wrong. Instead, Johnson turns and backs into the corner before pulling Benson into a Canadian Backbreaker Rack, wrapping one arm around the waist of the smaller man before stepping out of the corner. The crowd goes very hushed indeed. “This… this is what Johnson did to Jay Hawke last week!” cries Mak as Johnson cracks his neck from side to side, taking a moment to bask in the overall aura of fear pulsing throughout the arena. “JJ calls this the Diamond Head,” nods King, not frightened in the slightest. “It’s, with no pun intended, a real pain in the neck to set up, but hit on a man as spindly as Benson, it might very well break him in half.” And Johnson finishes his dawdling, and tugs Benson down… … only for the masked man to roll off of the Canadian’s shoulder, seizing an arm as he continues spinning and taking Johnson over with a rolling armdrag! “YEEAAAAHH!!” Benson leaps to his feet and throws his fist up to more cheers as Johnson rolls through and approaches, only for Devin to throw a superkick! The Ultimate Fighter sees it and ducks under it, but Benson is unswayed, turning to face hiss opponent… who has done some turning himself, as the Canadian finishes his spin and sends both men – one from momentum, one from blunt force trauma – crashing to the mat with a rolling elbow smash! *CA-RAAACK!!* “ROLLING ELBOOOOOOW!” whoops King as Johnson slides over and hooks a leg on the spread-eagled Benson. “And here’s the cover!” Chris Bacon drops down and counts ONE! TWO! And then Benson muscles his shoulder up to applause from the crowd. Johnson simply pops his neck again and rises to his feet, pulling Devin by the mask up with him and seizing a uranage with his left arm. Benson is, as he slowly recovers, mostly dead weight, and it is with great ease that Johnson, with his free arm, tucks Devin’s arm through his legs and seizing a wrist clutch, then lifting, throwing… *BANG!* … and dropping the masked man on his head with a spine-compressing Exploder ’98! Johnson immediately floats over and draws Benson’s far arm into a top wristlock, not bothering to hook a leg as he covers. ONE! TWO! Benson shoots his near shoulder off of the mat, putting his back to the Canadian! Johnson grunts, and attempts to force him back down, but Benson slides away, floating under Johnson’s arm and trapping him in a hammerlock before forcing him onto his face. Without thinking, the Canadian reaches out and snags the bottom rope. “Break it! That’s one, JJ!” commands Chris Bacon, and if the camera were zoomed in on the Ultimate Fighter’s face, it would see his eyes bulged wide open with rage as Devin releases his arm and dances away as well as one can having just been dropped on their neck. Snarling, Mr. Cold Front Classic hauls himself to his feet, turns, and rushes Benson… only for the cruiser to pop him with an elbow! *CRACK!* Johnson’s head snaps to the side, and the arena goes deathly silent. Then, as the Canadian’s head sllllooooowwwlllyyy swivels back into place, a chant begins to rise, the censors fortunate enough to catch it in time. “YOU F***ED UP!” “YOU F***ED UP!” “YOU F***ED UP!” “I know I’m supposed to remain impartial, ladies and gentlemen,” begins The Franchise, “but I’m afraid I have to concur with the audience here.” “YOU F***ED UP!” roars King, with a look on his face similar to a kid at Christmas getting a Nintendo 64. “YOU F***ED UP!” And then the chants are cut short, as Johnson pops Benson with an elbow! *CRACK!* Benson reels as the Canadian looks on, waiting for Devin’s response. His response is an elbow, ignoring the warnings of the crowd! *CRACK!* Johnson rolls with the blow, but immediately whips back into place to plant his elbow in Benson’s jaw once more! *CRACK!* The force of the strike takes Devin down to one knee, but he explodes upwards and nails Johnson! *CRACK!* Much to the shock of everyone, Johnson’s head snaps back, and he staggers! Elated, Benson charges to the ropes… and the Canadian immediately stands at attention before following a few feet behind. Devin rebounds off of the ropes, charging back towards the center of the ring with his arm ready to nail a roaring elbow! … except Johnson isn’t there. Benson screeches to a halt, and turns… EATING A ROARING ELBOW FROM THE MASTER, MR. COLD FRONT CLASSIC EXPLODING INTO DEVIN WITH A GRUNT! *CA-RAACK!* Johnson jogs through the cloud of sweat created by the impact as Benson collapses onto his shoulders, his legs over his head! He begins to roll through, but Mr. Cold Front Classic plants a hand on each leg, trapping him in a modified prawn hold! ONE! TWO! THR-NO! Benson rolls just in time out of the half-hearted pin, clutching his skull and continuing his roll until he falls out of the ring, putting distance between he and the Ultimate Fighter. “I know it’s been said before, but JJ Johnson is absolutely manhandling Devin Benson in this matchup, King,” says Mak, shaking his head as Benson rises to his hands and knees on the floor in front of the announce table, also shaking his head. “The pure rules haven’t mattered much up until now, where Benson has 20 counts to get back into the ring if Johnson doesn’t come after him.” “I don’t see that happening, Mak,” the Heartbreaker shrugs. “Johnson’s not the type to let a man get his legs under him. Oops, sorry.” And indeed, as Benson rises to his feet, doubled over, Mr. Cold Front Classic begins his run to the other side of the ring, bouncing off of the ropes before thundering back in Benson’s direction, threading himself through the strands, elbow extended, just as Devin rises to his full height… *CRASH!!* “ELBOWSUICID- AAAAHHH!!” shouts one Brian Applewhite as Johnson sails clean over Benson, ramming elbow-first into the announce table! “YEEAAAAAAH!!” “ONE!” shouts Chris Bacon as the Canadian recovers remarkably quickly, rolling up to a seated position and grabbing at the arm that hit the table, hissing. “King!” gasps the Franchise with a look of sudden realization. “That’s the arm Jay Hawke hurt last week; Johnson must have aggravated the injury with that suicida!” “Well,” says the Gambling Man, “I’d like to think that diving into an announce table would cause new injuries if it didn’t aggravate old ones, except that the person in question is JJ Johnson. However will he take his unprecedented second straight Cold Front Classic with a wounded arm?” Whatever the answer is, Devin Benson doesn’t really care, as he strides over to the Canadian and tugs him to his feet by his beard, prompting Johnson to pop him with an elbow! *CRACK!* “AH!” Benson’s head snaps back, but Johnson’s arm snaps back into his body and he clutches it once more, swearing under his breath as he slides into the ring and rolls to the far side. “Dammit!” snaps King, bitterly. “What the hell is Johnson supposed to do without his trusty elbow smash?” “I don’t know, King,” shrugs the Franchise. “It’ll certainly be easy to see how he adjusts his offense to maintain his advantage over Benson, if he can.” Benson slides into the ring and hops to his feet, shaking the last of the butterflies out of his head as the Ultimate Fighter rises, glaring a hole through the cruiserweight. Unfortunately, that hole is merely figurative, and Benson pays it no mind as he sprints across the ring, smirking as he realizes the Canadian is short an arm. *CRAACK!* Only for Devin to realize that he’s short a few teeth, Johnson stepping in with a snarl before destroying whatever semblance of structure Benson’s jaw had with a superkick! Devin falls flat onto his back, almost comically, as Johnson backs up and hoists himself up to the second rope, giving a classic Yuji Nagata salute before taking flight, tucking both knees to his chest before thrusting, driving both feet into Devin Benson’s ribs! …’s former location, the cruiser quick to roll out of the way before his tummy gets terminated! Johnson simply keeps striding, wincing as he shakes the slight ache out of his knees. Realizing his opponent is, you know, behind him, Johnson whirls… and watches as Benson leaps high, wraps his legs around his skull, and sends the Canadian sailing with a hurricanrana! Both men scramble to their feet, Benson rushes in, AND JOHNSON MASSACRES HIM WITH A LEFT-ARMED ROLLING ELBOW! *CA-RAACK!* Benson goes down hard, but pops right back up, not nearly as affected by this elbow as the last few. If there are any doubts as to how groggy he may be, Devin is quick to disprove them, leaping very high and nailing Johnson under the jaw with a dropkick! The Canadian goes down, and normally, he’d pop right back up as well. However, he landed on his arm. The Ultimate Fighter snarls with pain and rolls onto his knees, tucking his arms close to keep Benson from getting at them. Behind him, Benson, on the second rope, gives the ol’ Yuji Nagata salute before leaping. And Johnson feels two feet force themselves very stiffly into his lower back! Johnson reaches back with his right arm to grab at the place, and Benson is quick to react, wrapping it around his leg as if for a Majistral cradle; instead of diving, however, he simply maintains the hold, almost as if it’s a leveraged hammerlock. Mr. Cold Front Classic grunts in a mix of pain and frustration, and he reaches for the ropes with his left arm, only to find that they’re far out of his reach. The Ultimate Fighter snarls, and begins to roll left… and then Benson tips over, and the Canadian realizes that’s not a viable option. “Oh, now I see it,” says Mak, snapping his fingers. “If Johnson tries to roll, Benson will roll over him and pin him, and that’s not a risk Johnson wants to take.” The Canadian growls again, and then scuttles slightly to the left on his knees. Devin arches his eyebrow, and then realizes what Johnson is doing… but it’s too late, as the Ultimate Fighter simply rolls forward, his body sailing past his right hand as he tumbles onto his back, dropping Benson with a single-leg, scrambling over and gripping his arm for a juji-gatame! It is all a shell-shocked Devin Benson’s reflexes can do to get a hand up to grip his own just in time to keep the bone-shattering hold from being applied! “Incredible!” lauds King, as well as applauds, clapping politely for the Ultimate Fighter’s ingeniuity. “Johnson shifts just slightly out of the hammerlock, and he rolls through into a single-leg and then his signature hold, the juji-gatame! Benson has to tap here!” “Not if Johnson doesn’t get it applied here, King,” sighs Mak, and indeed, both men are struggling viciously. Muscles bulge, veins pop out, teeth grit as the two men struggle for alternate causes, one trying to prevent his arm being torn out of its socket by a man who wants to tear the other’s arm out of its socket. Johnson jerks the arm forcefully, but Benson hangs tight, and a twinge of pain in his right arm reminds him that while he might have the leverage advantage, he does not have as much strength as he’d like, and it’s going to take more than brute force to apply the hold. However, while Johnson thinks this, Benson uses that time to reach his leg up hiiiiiigh and drive a kick right into the Canadian’s wounded right elbow, causing a scream and a freeing of Devin’s limb! Benson rolls to his feet quite quickly, Johnson doing the same as best he can with his arm. His best is not good enough, unfortunately, and Benson hammers him with a forearm! *CRACK!* Johnson drops back down to one knee, and Benson nails him with another forearm! *CRACK!* And another! *CRACK!* And an-And Johnson explodes upwards, ducking around Benson’s elbow before popping the cruiserweight with his left arm! *CRACK!* Benson staggers backwards, but he’s in a hurry to regain momentum, and he rushes back in AS JOHNSON LEAPS SKY-HIGH, BLASTING HIM IN THE FACE WITH A GAMENGIRI! *CA-RAAACK!* The Ultimate Fighter just barely lands on his feet as Devin tumbles backwards, rolling up to his knees with a very dazed look. Realizing he hasn’t much time, Johnson sprints past the cruiser to the ropes before bouncing off, once again passing him on the way to the opposite ropes as he begins to rise. Devin Benson hauls himself up to one knee, panting heavily and staring at the canvas. He hears footsteps, and realizes that when in the ring with a man like Johnson, paying attention to your surroundings is imperative. And so he looks up. This is when Johnson leaps, knees-first, with three ring-runs of momentum behind him, towards Devin. *CAAAA-RAAAACKKKK!!!* “BUUSAAAAIIIKUUU KNEE KICK!!” screeches King, leaping out of his seat as Benson tumbles to his side, and subsequently onto his back, his eyes almost rolling up into his head! Johnson scrambles on top for the cover, and hooks a leg! ONE! TWO! THREE! DING DING DING! ”Slaves shall serve as the crowns are falling! As the apocalypse is nearing! Slaves shall serve as the inferior life force and as undead rivals!” “Slaves Shall Serve” begins roaring out of the sound system as Johnson rolls off of his defeated rival, quickly making his way to the outside of the ring. “Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner…” booms Funyon, “J! J! JOHNSON!” FADE OUT

As the show returns, Jimmy the Doom is already in the ring, and Jay Hawke is making his way to the ring to the tune of Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly". However, as the crowd does its usual chant: "JAY HAWKE SUCKS! JAY HAWKE SUCKS! JAY HAWKE SUCKS!" Mak Francis points out something obvious: "Jay Hawke's wearing a suit? He's not dressed to compete here!" King: "Maybe this was turned into a business suit match and they forgot to tell Jimmy." Francis: "At any rate, we're back and getting ready for this hardcore match..." Jay Hawke enters the ring and asks for Funyon's microphone, and since Funyon doesn't do well with pain, he's all too happy to oblige. Francis: "And the Dean of Professional Wrestling has something to say." Hawke: "Time and time again, whenever this company needs to go to somebody to pop a rating or a buyrate, they turn to me." "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Hawke: "When they wanted somebody to elevate Zyon above midcard status, they turned to me, and we stole the show at Genesis VI! When they wanted somebody to fill out the Genesis VII undercard, they turned to me, and Bruce Blank left me bloodied, beaten, and once again, I was in the show stealing match! And when they wanted somebody to keep Michael Stephens busy, they came to me, and I came *that close* to winning the World Heavyweight Championship." Francis: "Where is he going with this?" King: "I have no idea." Hawke: "So when they told me they wanted me to wrestle Jimmy the Doom in a hardcore match, no problem. Obviosuly they need somebody to help fans the hardcore championship seriously. But when I found out when I got here that this was a non-title match? Well, that ain't gonna fly with me. So Jimmy the Doom, consider this to be your lucky day. I will not fight you without that title on the line, so you're going to get a win by forfeit." "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Jay Hawke tosses the microphone at Funyon and leaves the ring, as the crowd chants "Jay Hawke sucks". Francis: "Well then." King: "Well, I can't blame him. Why put your body on the line with no reward?" Francis: "More action after this."

FADE IN… Lockdown returns with the House of Marvelous set ready to go in the middle of the ring. The luxurious suede couch and matching love seat are once again brand new, this time due to the importance of this re-debut and not some crazy in-ring confrontation, thankfully, for Sir Marvelous anyway. The one constant remains the arch, and the ever-present velvet rope. “As you can see from the set-up in the ring, it’s time for the next installment of the SWF’s re-debuting hit,” Mak Francis pauses for effect, “the House of Marvelous!” “Don’t forget the return of Sir Marvelous himself, Michael Anderson!” “That’s the only negative.” Francis mumbles. “The positives are that with the House of Marvelous back, we have a platform for our talent to speak their peace in a—err, somewhat controlled environment…” “The constantly destroyed suede coach and love seat say hi.” The camera shifts from the booth and the commentary duo towards the middle of the ring where Funyon sits at the sets mic stand, ready to introduce the segment. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Funyon booms, “please welcome: Sir… Marvelous!” With that, Notorious BIG’s “I Love the Dough” heralds the arrival of Michael Anderson, who limps out onto the stage, leaning heavily on his cane, and dressed in a black button down under a slick pinstripe suit, the look completed by a solid silver tie. As always, Anderson is accompanied by the massive Tracey Bruner; the bodyguard is wearing a blood-red Armani suit over a white shirt and a matching fedora, his eyes obscured by fashionable sunglasses. “‘Tis the season and all that, but that’s one BIG Santa…” King quips. “And isn’t it in your contract that you’re the only black guy who gets to wear sunglasses indoors, Francis?” “Just like being an ass is in your contract,” Mak responds, “but I have to agree, Brian. That’s one guy I wouldn’t want coming down my chimney!” “Obvious black jokes aside,” King begins, earning a warning look from his partner, “I have to agree with you there!” The Gambling man adds hastily. Marvelous’ ridiculously insincere smile threatens to crack his face in half, as he makes his way to the ring. He limps up the steel steps, and then waits on Bruner to get up to the apron and hold open the ropes for him before he enters the ring. Once inside, he shoos the lanky Funyon out of the ring with disdain and then waits for Bruner to unhook the velvet rope before he passes through the arch. Picking the microphone up from the stand, Anderson gives a mock cough as his music fades out. “Welcome,” drawls Anderson, “to the House of MAAAAARVELOUS! Once again after a slight hiatus, I am your host, Sir Marvelous, and I just want to thank each and every one of you people for tuning in because the House of Marvelous wouldn’t have become the highest-rated segment of SWF programming ever seen… without you!!” While it has been awhile since the last House of Marvelous interview segment, the fans definitely remember Anderson’s condescending tone and shit-eating grin, so they react accordingly: “ASSSSSSS-HOLE!” “ASSSSSSS-HOLE!” “ASSSSSSS-HOLE!” “They clearly remember him and that last statement of his might be stretching it a bit,” Mak adds, trying and failing to mimic Anderson’s drawl, “but the House of Marvelous was getting huge ratings in the lead up to Genesis. After that though, not so much…” “People just don’t know good television when they see it, Francis.” King retorts. “Sir Marvelous is back and better than ever and his guest tonight is sure to bring in the big numbers, since he was hand picked by our favorite host for this re-debut! This isn’t some ham-and-egger Peters pushed to get on the show dragging down its marvellocity!” King pauses for effect. “It’s Gabriel-freakin’-Drake!” “Marvellocity?” The Franchise repeats with a quizzical expression. “That’s not even a word!” Anderson soaks in the reaction and waits for the crowd to settle down. “But you’ll still tune in to watch me because I get you earth shattering announcements and landmark guests and this man is no different! After having been screwed out of both the Elimination Chamber and the Cold Front Classic tournament and then being left to his own devices by the powers that be, he decided to get involved in his own special way…” The crowd voices its displeasure… “BOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “He also,” Anderson continues, “after all his hard work, is the man who will challenge for the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Championship of WOOOORLD!” That doesn’t go over too well either… “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Ladies and gentlemen,” Anderson finishes, “give it up for Mister Gabriel Drake!” What kind of response do you think that got? “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Yup you guessed it… more boos. The Smarktron flares to life, flashes from The Beasts debut vignettes splashing across the screen, as the deliberate strum of ‘The Devil’s Rejects’ begins to build to a crescendo. Suddenly, Drake’s two cold hazel eyes stare out from the Smarktron, framed by his black hair with white highlights. An amused sneer crosses his face for a second before one hand reaches out and grips presumably the camera. The picture shakes violently, then blurs and cuts to black as the camera is apparently thrown into a wall. Meanwhile, the slow melody continues and the atmosphere is even amplified by the eerie menacing blue light and the flickering of several bright white strobes until finally… “JAAAAAIIIIIL-BIIIIIRD!” “JAAAAAIIIIIL-BIIIIIRD!” “JAAAAAIIIIIL-BIIIIIRD!” …Gabriel Drake himself appears through the curtain! “I am the bad one… Distant and cruel one… I am the dream that, keeps you running down!” Drake pauses only for a second, to give the crowd a double middle finger and then saunters down towards ringside. “With distraction… Violent reactions… Scars of my actions, watch me running out!” The Smarktron behind him continues to flash scenes from famous wars and bits of destruction while showing him hitting a Musclebuster on Michael Cross, twisting Akira’s broken body in the Spite and Malice and deforming Landon Maddix’s feature by tossing him into a Steel Cage interspersed… “HELL DOESN’T WANT THEM! HELL DOESN’T NEED THEM! HELL DOESN’T LOVE THEM!” …Until a final picture of an unsuspecting Michael Stephens getting Speared out of his boots! “The Devil's Rejects… The Devil’s Rejects…” Now at ringside, Drake climbs the ring steps and moves onto the apron, wiping his feet before swinging his legs through the ropes. Inside the ring, Drake looks the huge bodyguard Mr. Bruner up and down, who after consulting his VIP list unlatches the velvet rope. “Welcome, welcome, Mr. Drake!” Anderson exults. “First, I just want to let you know how much of a coup this is for the House of Marvelous!” Drake steps through and nods his head in response. Realizing he won’t be getting anything else, Anderson continues about business. “We all know the Main Event will be Michael Stephens versus Gabriel Drake at the Christmas Pay-per-view…” Anderson pauses, winking at the camera. “Speaking of the Christmas Pay-per-view and earth shattering announcements, I, Sir Marvelous am proud to unveil the name of our December telecast! The name of our Winter Extravaganza! If that’s the question on everyone’s minds then the answer is that the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation is proud to present SWF CRIMSON YULETIDE!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “That is a huge announcement, Francis!” King crows. “I didn’t even know that one!” “Sir Marvelous actually delivered this time…” Mak acquiesce, after hearing the crowds’ acknowledgement. “Though how this guy found out the name of our December Pay-per-view, I’ll never know.” “To put it in words you might understand, he’s got the mad hook up, yo.” “And you heard it here first on the House of Marvelous!” Anderson notes with a smarmy smile, “but back to discussing our Main Event—with a match of this magnitude the real question that should be on everyone’s minds is… what will the stipulation be: A Street Fight? Hell in a Cell? Or a match that has, shall we say, a rather infamous history here in the SWF? A Last Man Standing Match perhaps?” With the mention of each match the crowd pops louder and louder, until a silent hush falls over them at the mention of Last Man Standing. While Hell in a Cell may be in more dangerous confines, there have been few Last Man Standing matches in the SWF that have ended without someone seriously injured, retired or both. Marvelous tilts the mic towards Drake, smiling larger than before if that’s possible while he awaits an answer. “No, Peters felt that the more rules we had the less likely this match would get out of hand.” Gabriel Drake begins a wry smile on his face. “So no, it won’t be a Street Fight, Hell in a Cell, or even Last Man Standing. Just Standard Singles, but there’s a lot you can do in a singles match and I promise to do everything I can to hurt him within those rules.” Drake finishes, his voice low and menacing. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Well, there it is!” Anderson spouts, after the crowd subsides pulling the mic back towards him. “At SWF Crimson Yuletide, it will be Michael Stephens versus Gabriel Drake in a standard singles match for the SWF World Title and once again, you heard it all here first on the House of Marvelous!” He couldn’t care less that the match was confirmed two shows ago, he got them the stip and the name of the Pay-per-view so that gives him exclusivity. “I’ll be candid Mr. Drake. With the way you were screwed: first out of the Elimination Chamber and then the Cold Front Classic tournament, did you think you’d ever get this shot at the belt?” Sir Marvelous angles the mic back towards his guest. “I must admit that I was surprised, even though I shouldn’t be. I never thought I’d get a one on one shot at the World Title as long as Toxxic was holding the strap, but he always did try to prove everyone wrong. And I intend to make him pay for it!” “To be honest, Gabe—can I call you Gabe,” not waiting for acknowledgement one way or the other, Anderson continues. “I feel as though I should just open to the floor to you now. Give you a chance to finally tell your story and let these people know what you think of Michael Stephens.” With a slight bow Anderson hands over the mic and the crowd continues to be vocal about its dislike of the challenger to their World Champ, Michael Stephens. “YOU SUCK DICK!” “YOU SUCK DICK!” “YOU SUCK DICK!” “These people letting Gabe Drake know what they think of him.” The Franchise notes. “Nope, they got it wrong, that’s Toxxic.” King’s joke aside, the crowd finally quiets. “Thank you, Sir Marvelous.” Even Anderson seems surprised by that and graciously gives Drake the stage. “I think I should explain to you people why I’m out here today. I love to wrestle. I’m the son of a wrestler. I have wrestling in my blood and I am good at what I do.” “NO YOU’RE NOT!” “NO YOU’RE NOT!” “Heh,” Mak chortles, “this is a very vocal crowd tonight, King.” “NO YOU’RE NOT!” “NO YOU’RE NOT!” “Actually, I fuckin’ am!” Drake snarls out, but then quickly calms down. “But I digress. When anyone starts out in this business they all have the same dream. And that dream is to one day make it to the big time. So that brings me to Atlanta, Georgia and four wrestlers! We were four people; a group of kids that had big dreams and even bigger egos-” “RRRRGGGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” A monstrous cheer erupts from the fans forcing Gabe to turn towards the stage and spot Michael Stephens coming through the curtain san music!! Standing at the top of the ramp, Stephens, clad in his personalized England jersey and Tripp NYC pants stares down at the ring. “This is my time—my time goddamnit!” Drake shouts over the mic. “What the hell are you doing here?!” The World Champ, belt around his waist, tag strap on his shoulder turns in a half circle pointing to everyone in the arena and then flips Drake the British V-sign with the nails pointing towards him. ‘That means fuck you from everyone, Gabe.’ Stephens shouts without a mic, still getting a huge pop from the crowd who in turn, start flipping him the V-sign as well!! “Well, ‘tis the season for giving!” Mak says getting a good one-liner. “Do you know why he plays to you people?” Drake asks, as Stephens makes his way to the ring. “I’ll explain it for you. If we were to define Toxxic as a state he’d be… Arkansas. And to him all you fans out there would be Mississippi!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” The audience predictably cheers at the mention of their home state. “You fans are the Mississippi to Toxxic’s Arkansas because if you weren’t around everyone would agree he’s the worst person humanly possible instead of you goobers. Just like Mississippi being the worst state in the union saves Arkansas from that distinguished honor!” What you’re hearing now. That’d be what they call nuclear heat. “Set ‘em up and knock ‘em down.” King says with a fist pump. “These fans are more gullible than the intern who thinks we hired her because of her wonderful resume.” By this time Michael has made it down to the ring and after climbing the steps, then entering the ring Stephens is stopped by Mr. Bruner, who after consulting his clipboard, tells the World and Tag team champ he's and I quote 'not on the list'. Michael Stephens looks to Sir Marvelous with a warning glare and Anderson quickly motions for Bruner to remove the velvet rope, then scurries to get a mic for the champ. This couldn’t have turned out better if he’d planned it! Handing the microphone to his new guest, Anderson looks back and forth between the two in what can only be called giddy excitement… Slowly bringing the mic to his lips, Stephens gives Drake a look like ‘is that the best you’ve got’. “What would that make you then, mate?” Mike retorts with his crooked smile shinning through. “The prison colony, Georgia?” “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Drake mutters out a ‘very funny’ as the crowd gets all over him. “You’re right, Gabe, this is your time. But I just thought ya’ might want the chance to run me down to my face, sunshine.” “Good, I’ve wanted to say this to you for a long time.” Gabe responds. “Where was I—oh yeah, I was talking about big egos and we did have them… some of us still do.” Drake adds. “We ate together. We trained together. We paid our dues together and I wanted to take us all to the big show, but you couldn’t have that. How would you ever become a SWF Grand Slam Champion or a four time World Heavyweight Champion with us around? With me around… to do it first? Jay Hawke was definitely right about that.” “Are you bloody-” Stephens starts incredulously… “-Don’t interrupt me, you son-of-a-bitch! You sit there and you listen for once!” Drake screams and after a moment recomposes himself. “I could have gotten us there, together. I was going to make our dreams come true. It’s why I tried so hard to keep us a unit even after you betrayed me—another in a long line of broken promises!” Gabe pauses to let what he said sink in. “So now, here we are. Only it’s just you and me. Karl and Livvy had their dreams squashed, but I wouldn’t let you take my dream away, so now these people boo me for it.” Mike’s brows furrow at the accusation, but he stays quiet seemingly intent to hear his former friend out. “We were supposed to be your friends, right? If we were your friends why didn’t we even know your real name, Michael Stephens? You destroyed three lives, using us as stepping stones and then you stabbed us in the back. It’s who you are. It’s what you do you piece of shit!” Gabe spits at Stephens feet in disgust, who is clenching his mic much more forcefully now. “Spike Jenkins and Zyon are just the latest casualties on a long list of people you’ve screwed over. How can you cheer this man who tried to take my dream from me? Who purposefully and willfully ended wrestler’s careers? I admit I’m no saint, but you Michael Stephens; you’ve done terrible things too. Why? Just to keep your spot on top.” Even most of the crowd murmurs at that one. “Did you know that I never really liked you?” Gabe adds with an odd smile. Not quite sad. Almost rueful. “You were an average wrestler that I took pity on because Livvy and Karl, irony of ironies thought you were a nice guy.” He laughs. “Heh, you were my project, but you got so much better so fast it was amazing. It took just a little work after class; an hour here, an hour there and then you were better than most of the boys. But you still weren’t better than me. It was strange how suddenly it became all about you. How you became the golden boy because of the hard work and effort I put into you. Dave knew I was the best in the academy, but I guess having wrestling in my blood wasn’t enough to work with William Regal.” “Drake of course, talking about Dave Taylor’s Blueblood Academy in Georgia…” The Franchise adds for posterity. “It’s funny… when Regal came to the academy they saw something in you that I never quite understood until now. It was the reason he decided to work with you instead of me. Do you people want to know what it was?” Drake asks the audience. “I overhead him tell Dave that you would get to the top because you had too. And I realize now he said that because nothing was as important to you as proving to everyone that you were right and they were wrong.” “WHY DON’T YOU CRY ABOUT IT!” shouts a rowdy fan causing half the audience to crack up laughing. “I haven’t cried a day in my life and I won’t start now!” Drake says shouting down the heckler. “I know that somewhere deep down underneath all the preening, posing, spinning, rationalizing and bullshit wisecracks you know you did me wrong. Everything Michael Stephens said to that jury may have been right, but you were wrong for saying it and you know it!” Gabe turns away from the crowd and looks Stephens straight in the eyes. “So, the real question is during all that time did you ever think to apologize? Did you ever think to say you were sorry? Sorry, for when you slept with my girlfriend. Sorry, for when you tore three—not four, but three real friends apart? Sorry, for when you sent me to jail? Sorry perhaps, for when they tried and failed to rape me there? Or sorry maybe, for the time I spent locked up while my father died and was buried without his son…” The crowd cares now. Sir Marvelous practically foams at the mouth. This will be a ratings HIT! Even Bruner is looking now, his attention fully on the scene in the ring… “Jesus Christ, are you hearing this Francis?” Mak just nods his head in reply. Everyone knows those things all weren’t Stephens fault, but it’s a lot to digest. Even the World Champ himself seems to be a little shocked by Drake’s story, and he might be sorry, but does that excuse him for everything else he’s done? Mike doesn’t think so and parts of the crowd agree with him. But what about the others? “No, you’re not sorry, Stephens. You never even thought to apologize because you don’t know the meaning of the word.” The Double champ angles his head to the other side as if seeing Drake for the first time. “But you will.” Gabriel Drake fixes his face with a sadistic smile. “I’m going to break you; body, mind and soul. Your body bloody and broken, your mind shattered and tortured and your soul… when I’m finished your soul will be weeping. Tears streaming down your crimson-stained face in the middle of this goddamn ring as you realize that for once, for once, it isn’t all about you any more.” He pauses to step closer to the champ, almost nose to nose, as he continues on his rant. “I’m going to take the thing most precious to you. Not the World Heavyweight Title,” Drake pokes the belt on his waist, “or even the often underappreciated gift of being able to fuckin’ walk,” Gabe points at Stephens head and then shift his finger down right over Mike’s heart, “but your belief that you are the absolute best this business has to offer.” “After this match, I’ll be the man. I’ll be the man on top because I have too. And then Michael Stephens… Michael-Fucking-Stephens, I’ll bask in your—no, my spotlight and it will finally, finally, be all about Gabriel Drake for once.” Finished speaking, Drake pounds the mic into Marvelous’ chest so hard that he falls to his BUTT! Brushing by Stephens as he exits the ring, Gabe stalks up the ramp and looks up at the Smarktron, seeing the scene in the squared circle. Michael Stephens has turned towards the ramp and his face is shown as the camera gets a close-up. Stephens face is different now. Not quite sad, but almost rueful. Turning his head to glance back over his shoulder one last time, Gabriel Drake walks back through the curtain. As We: FADE OUT…

“Fans, it was less than a month ago that Zyon did the unthinkable,” the voice of Mak Francis chimes in as Lockdown returns from its scheduled commercial break. “he went the distance against Michael Stephens in a ladder match and procured the Cruiserweight Championship for the third time in his career!” Highlights of the contest flash across the screen, but the Suicide King jumps in as the figure of Gabriel Drake appears with his sights set on the champ. “Don’t be so grandiose, Francis. Gabriel Drake won Zyon that championship! You saw it!” and sure enough, with one long pendulum swing, Michael Stephens was dropped into position for the Unique Youth’s Final Flash and moments later, the pain of defeat – something Stephens had not felt for almost a year and half. As the video fades to the live shot of the ring, it seems pixie dust has begun to fall from the ceiling. “ROOOOOOOAAAAAAAR!!” “What the hell?” Oh, I just can’t wait to be kiiiiiing! “Oh no…” Everybody look left! “Look left, King!” Everybody look right! “What a disgrace…” Everywhere you look I’m… …standing in the spotlight!! “Not yet.” Oh I just can’t wait to be Kiiiiiiing!! BOOOOOOM!!! A lone spotlight hits the entranceway as pyrotechnics surge; revealing none other than Alan Clark, smile on his face and his right hand in the air, dressed as though he just came off safari in a khaki shirt and shorts with Walter Reynolds behind him, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Ladies and Gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL and is for the SWF Cruiserweight Championship!! Coming to the ring at this time is the CHALLENGER…representing Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida… weighing at two hundred and twenty five pounds…the self-proclaimed Happiest Guy On Earth… ALAAAAAAAAAAAN CLAAAAARK!” Booooooooooo!! “It seems the crowd is not happy with the actions of Alan Clark as of late, but when you look at the smile on his face it doesn’t exactly look like it” calls Francis as another video begins, the words “Storm – Last Week” at the bottom as Alan Clark shoves his tag team partner Michael Cross from the top rope and onto Akira Kaibatsu before interjecting himself into the match, pulling the tights for a victory against the double champion team of Wasted Youth before being attacked by Michael Cross. “Reports are that Clark is still feeling the effects of that Iron Bomb, and even though he might have lost in that tag match, you have to know Zyon will be ready to take any kind of advantage he can.” “Well of course he would, the same way he took advantage of Gabriel Drake to win that championship in the first place!” laments the Suicide King as Alan Clark slides into the ring and to his feet, removing his drawstring hat and handing it off to Walter Reynolds as the cheerful soundtrack dies down, only to be replaced by…. I’m born… …I’m alive… …I breathe… YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!! The sold-out crowd’s attention goes back to the entranceway, as “Vitamin” blares through the loudspeakers and from behind the curtain steps the champion, a small smile appearing on his face as the fans around the arena cheer and chant… ZYYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYYY-ON! “And his opponent…he hails from Elkhart, Indiana and weighs in at two hundred pounds….representing the team of Wasted Youth…he is your SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD…”The Unique Youth”… ZYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY-OOOOOOON!!” ZYYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYYY-ON! Alan can be seen watching intently in the ring as Zyon makes his way down the ramp, pulling his championship from his waist and holding it up for the entire arena to see. After a pause at the bottom of the ramp to take a second look at Walter Reynolds, Zyon climbs the stairs and through the ropes, handing his championship off to referee Nick Soapdish, who keeps himself between the two competitors as he holds the title in the air once again as the bell sounds… Ding Ding Ding! ZYYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYYY-ON! “This Biloxi crowd is ready for action, King! Both men are sizing each other up now as they pace around the ring.” As the two men circle each other, Alan can not seem to turn a deaf ear to the crowd as they chant for the champion across from him. His head darts back and forth as Zyon stays focused, the smile growing across his lips as the sold-out crowd grows louder and louder… ZYYYYYYYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYYYYYYYY-ON! “Let’s Go Zyon!” one loud fan in the front row can be heard screaming above the rest, diverting the Unique Youth’s attention long enough to bring Alan Clark in like a shark attacking a hapless victim. SMACK!! The forearm shot from Clark sounds off as it connects with Zyon’s left temple, sending him into the ropes. Booooooooo!! Alan Clark shakes off the jeers and stays on his task, bringing his left knee toward Zyon’s stomach as the champion tries to get back to the center of the ring. A second knee sends the Unique Youth into the corner, and a third catches him right between the eyes, the whiplash effect putting him in a daze against the turnbuckles!! “And after an accidental distraction from a no doubt now guilt-ridden fan, the challenger has taken the early advantage in this contest!” With the crowd continuing to cheer in support of the champion, Alan backs away from the corner and moves across the ring swiftly before pulling a quick turn and cartwheeling his way back to toward the champion.“Wreck Of The Miss—NO!” Francis calls as Zyon ducks out of the way before Alan can even leave his feet, leaving the back of his head exposed for another hard forearm. Zyon stumbles as Alan hits the ropes, using his momentum on the rebound to pull the Unique Youth toward the mat by his hair, slamming his face down with authority! WHAM!! “If this keeps up, Alan might give that fan tickets for a cruise or something.” “You think a Zyon fan would accept something like that?” “It’s free!” replies King as Alan heads to the ropes once again, bounding off the second rope and flipping backwards through the air in a perfect arc, sending his body crashing atop the back of the champion. “Alan calls it his Walk In The Park, and that’s what this match is starting to look like, and there’s a cover!” One! Tw—No! “Quick kickout from Zyon there, but it doesn’t seem like Clark is too distraught over it.” “Annoying as he is, he’s a veteran, Francis. He isn’t going to be expecting a win in the first two minutes of the match! Get your head in the game!” squawks the King as Clark pulls Zyon up and whips him into the ropes… Bounce!! Zyon comes flying back toward the Happiest Guy On Earth, who looks for an armdrag… Whiiiff! “Beautiful front flip out of danger!” the Francis calls and the crowd cheers as Zyon leaps out of the way of Alan’s outstretched arm, landing on his feet and pivoting his body back around to catch his challenger right between the eyes with the top of his boot! ZYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYY-ON! Clark’s body recoils from the shotgun-like toe kick, putting him down on his back with his hands holding his face and a low groan emanating from his lips. With Alan on his back, Zyon wastes no time in dropping to the canvas as well, his right leg and the rest of the two hundred pounds of the champion landing square across Clark’s throat. “Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh…” The groan dissipates as Alan’s throat contracts beneath the legdrop before Zyon rolls his body around and into a pin attempt… One! Kickout! “Alan wasted no time in getting his shoulder up, but Zyon is also wasting no time in keeping the pressure on the challenger!” The Unique Youth stays true to his moniker as he intertwines his right arm with Alan’s and lifts him up to his feet before first dragging and then tossing Clark into the corner. Two quick kicks to the midsection follow, and as Alan doubles over Zyon reaches out, locking in a front facelock and quickly rolling his body backwards, snapping Clark straight into the mat with a picture perfect suplex. “If he can keep the pressure on, Alan might have to spend his Christmas holiday showing off his bruises rather a championship.” “I’m sure that idiot would be happy either way…” mutters the Suicide King as Alan rolls to his stomach, arching his back in pain as Zyon climbs up to the second rope in the corner and leaps off…. “Grrruuuuuuummpphhhhaaaaaa...” “What the hell was that?” “That’s the sound a human body makes when a knee lands square on its spine, and the smile on the Unique Youth’s face on my screen does not exactly look to bode well for the so-called Happiest Guy On Earth!” The camera zooms back away from the Zyon to show his hands up as he stalks over Alan Clark, who is doing whatever he can to get back up to his feet after crawling to the corner. On the outside, Walter wishes he could warn Alan of the champion just behind him, but a stern look from Nick Soapdish keeps his mouth closed, but the expression in his eyes is all the viewing audience needs to see. “Alan Clark is going to shake off the pain. He can’t be acting like such a baby now!” “King, I don’t think almost having your skull caved in is “acting like a baby” at all.” “It might be if you are, like, being babysat by Thugg. He’ll wreck yo sh(bleep), you know?” Francis can be heard sighing as, in the ring, Alan finally is able to get to his feet and the glaze in his eyes and the ringing in his ears begins to clear to the sights and sounds of the sold-out crowd chanting louder than ever… ZYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYY-ON! “Zyon making his move!” calls the Franchise as Zyon rushes in, leaping onto the back of Alan Clark, the splash sandwiching the body of the Disney Sponsored Superstar between the champion and the turnbuckle. The referee calls for a separation and Zyon backs off, only to watch as Alan’s body simply collapses out of the corner and into a heap on the canvas. “Alan Clark might have gotten knocked out there! He looks out! Is he knocked out? I think he’s out cold, Francis!” The crowd watches on as Soapdish looks down on the challenger, only for Zyon to quickly slide into position for a pin! One! Two! “OOOMPH!” Alan Clark’s body contracts and explodes with as much power as it can, pushing Zyon all the way off of him and to his knees before Alan rolls backwards to his shoulders and kicks his body up, landing on his feet and turning around to face the champion, a smile on his face and his right hand outstretched, fingers curling in as if to say… “Come on…Zip A Dee Doo Dah, bi—“ SMACK! “I think Alan was playing possum there, but he let his mouth get a little ahead of the game and paid for it with a vicious slap! What a shot that was!” Alan’s spit flies as his head snaps to the side, only for his gaze to return with a smile brooding, the two men staring each other down. “…bi(bleep)?” Zyon asks, pointing at himself, to which Alan simply nods his head – SMACK! – before taking a second hard slap from the Unique Youth! “What attitude! Can he say those things?” “Well, technically he didn’t say the—and now the two men are trading punches in the middle of the ring!” Mak is cut off as both men begin to fire off closed fists, neither man gaining much ground on the other with the hard shots, “Nick Soapdish is trying to get in there and break it up, but that might be like trying to break up a wolverine and a Christmas ham. It’s not going to happen!” “I know which one is the ham…” The Suicide King can be heard in the background as the referee finally pushes the two men apart, only for Alan to simply throw himself back-first against the ropes and spring forth with a burst of speed, his sights set squarely on those of the champion! “Watch out!” Francis exclaims as Soapdish backs out of the way of the speeding cruiserweight just in time for Alan to go airborne. “Clothesline!” Whiff! “No! Zyon ducks just in the nick of time,” as Zyon stands, Alan hits the brakes behind him and hops up to the second rope and bounds backwards with a flip, “Asai moonsault from Clark AND ZYON DUCKS AGAIN!” ZYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYY-ON! The crowd can be heard chanting once again as Alan flips through to his feet as Zyon himself goes to the same ropes Clark just propelled from, the champ looking for a clothesline of his own! “OOOOOMPH!” THUUUUD! “ILLUMINATOR!” cries out the Franchise as Alan Clark catches Zyon around the waist before lifting him in the air and turning around toward the center of the ring, the body of the Unique Youth hanging almost upside down over the back of the Happiest Guy On Earth before being snapped back down with as much power as Alan can muster, the back of Zyon striking the canvas and leaving both men laying on the mat. “Now both men are down! Whoever gets up first right here might very well have the advantage!” All the attention is on the ring now as both men begin moving at nearly the same moment, Nick Soapdish standing over champion and challenger, raising his arms high into the air with each count… …One… “Alan Clark needs to get up! Zyon needs to get up!” …Two… “Well duh, Francis! This isn’t last man standing!” …Three… Zyon rolls to his stomach and starts to push himself up to his knees, his right arm reaching around to rub at his back and neck as, no less than five feet away, Alan Clark is almost on his knees as well, his arms reaching out for the ropes that are too far away to be of any help. …Four… “I think Zyon is going to be up first! His back must be throbbing after that spinebuster slam, but we’ve seen him take more punishment than that!” “Oh, and that idiot Clark hasn’t had just as much punishment laid down on him over the years – if not more? Just because he runs around singing show tunes doesn’t mean he suddenly lost his spine.” …Six… “Well I never said that, King. We all know what Alan Clark is capable ooo--Zyon’s up! Zyon is on his feet!!” “…and so is Clark!!” RAAAAAAAAAAAAH! The crowd erupts as both men get to their feet at nearly the same moment, Soapdish breaking the count as Alan tries to keep the pressure on the champion with a quick blitz toward Zyon, only for Zyon to simply jump up and plant his feet into Clark’s stomach and wrap his hands around his neck as he completes a backward roll and release--- THUD! “Clark trying to jump the gun, and for his troubles he got monkey flipped straight into the turnbuckles!” “…and now he’s trapped! Look!” the Suicide King points at his screen as Alan’s left leg latches around the top rope, holding Clark’s body in the corner upside down, the blood no doubt rushing to his head as the champion gets back to his feet and turns to see his luck… “The tree of woe is never a place you want to be, King, Alan needs to get out of there as soon a—“ SMACK! “—possible! And a sliding dropkick almost took the head of Alan Clark clean off! I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone’s head snap backwards like that!” ZYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYY-ON! “And this crowd is loving every second of it! If Alan Clark could think straight, I don’t think he’d be too appreciative over this Biloxi crowd cheering for the champion over him…” “That’s the least of Alan’s worries, I think” replies the Franchise as Zyon stands back up and looks down at Clark, still hanging precariously from the corner, his arms hanging down past his head. “He might very well be out on his head, King. And it looks like Zyon is going to do it again!” ZYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYY-ON! The chants intensify as Zyon backs up to the other side of the ring once again, his eyes locking with the vacant expression of Alan Clark… …as Walter Reynolds jumps up to the apron?! “What is he doing! What are you doing you big lug!” King asks as Soapdish tries to remove Alan’s bodyguard from the apron. “And now here comes Zyon!” “He’s just protecting Alan Clark right now. I mean, look at the face of the challenger!” The camera zooms in on Alan’s upside-down image before going back to Reynolds, who works his way down the apron and removes Alan’s leg from it’s entrapment as Soapdish tries to keep Zyon from attacking the big man. “He might have got Alan out of the tree of woe, but Clark is definitely not out of the woods yet!” “Yeah, Alan has yet to move since that dropkick and with the way his body is strewn about underneath the turnbuckles the only movement he might be doing any time soon is to the loser’s column.” As the Suicide King speaks, Zyon moves to wear Alan lies and pulls him out from the corner before rolling him over and covering him…. One! Two!! Three!!! NOOOOOO!! “Can you believe it! Alan Clark was able to kick out!!” calls Francis as the replay shows Alan’s shoulder moving off the canvas mere milliseconds before the referee’s hand can come down for the three count, “and the right call by the referee there. Say what you want about Alan Clark, but he could feel the end was near and got his shoulder up just before the three count!” “He’s just delaying the inevitable, Francis. That’s all it is.” “You might be right, King, you might be right. Look at the smile on Zyon’s face!” ZYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYY-ON! The crowd’s chants grow louder once more as Zyon stands to his feet and looks out in the crowd, raising his hands high above his head and pumping his fists before leaning back down to pull the slowly recovering Alan Clark up. With Clark still in a daze, Zyon is easily able to lift him off his feet and onto his shoulders, his body positioned with his spine resting against the back of the Unique Youth’s head. “I want to call that an inverted torture rack submission, but no matter what name you give it, it looks to be nothing more than pain for Alan Clark!” exclaims Mak as the camera zooms in on Alan’s contorted face, not even a sound coming out of his half-opened mouth as his body is wrapped backwards around Zyon’s head, the arms of the champion pushing in towards each other. “Alan Clark might tap out here!” “I don’t think he even knows where he is right now, but after taking that Iron Bomb from Michael Cross as well as the thrashing he has taken here tonight, he might not be long in this championship bout!” Francis tries to play up the drama, but with no screams of mercy from Alan to be heard, Zyon simply lifts him up over his head and drops him down… CRACK! …driving the back of Alan Clark straight into his knee!! “Did you hear that, King?!” “I wish I wouldn’t have. I haven’t heard a sound like that since Chris Raynor got his neck broken!” ZYYYY-ON! ZYYYY-ON! “Zyon looks to be going for a cooooOOH what the hell!” Francis’ call is cut off as Walter Reynolds jumps up to the apron in a panic after seeing Alan Clark’s body unnaturally folded across the champion’s knee, causing Nick Soapdish to do his duty to try and back the big man up. “Talk about protecting your job. He isn’t about to let anything happen to his paycheck, and after that, you have to wonder what kind of condition Clark is even in! He’s not even moving in that ring right now!” “But look at Zyon! The champ has had enough!” Zyon pushes his way past Soapdish and gets into the face of Reynolds! “I don’t think he wants any of the Unique Youth right now!” The two men appear to have words with Soapdish and the ropes between them, the arms of Reynolds slowly going up in innocence and concern… SMACK!! “And a hard right hand by Zyon puts Reynolds on the floor!” RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! The crowd erupts as Walter falls back down to the floor, landing on his feet and then dropping into the barricade, his eyes flickering from the shock of the punch. Zyon turns to the ref and wipes his hands, only to snap back into the reality of the match, his head whipping around as he throws himself atop of Clark and yells out loud for the count… One!! Twoooo!! Threeeeeeeee!! NO! “He got his shoulder up! The distraction from Walter Reynolds gave Alan Clark just enough time to somehow, some way summon up the strength to kick out and keep his own championship dreams alive!” “Well that’s about all he was able to do. He got his shoulder up all right, but his arm hasn’t moved since it flopped back down to the canvas.” Soapdish checks over Clark, and seems to give the referee the right answers to keep the match going. “He’s just prolonging the pain.” “Well, pain isn’t exactly something Alan Clark is a stranger to. He’s made a living off of it and no amount of happy music and legal contracts are going to change the fact that he can take a licking and keep on ticking long after anyone expects him to.” Francis continues as Zyon tries to pull the body of Clark up, only for the challenger to deadweight and drop back down. After a few attempts, the Unique Youth is finally able to get Alan to his feet, only to keep lifting… twisting… …and slamming Alan back down to the canvas!! “He calls that the Aero Driver…” “I call that just another infliction of agony on the back of Alan Clark!” Suicide King tries to jump in, only to have Mak just barge on through with his call… “I call that a cover!” One! Two!! Threeeeee!!! NOOOO!! “Alan Clark has to be running on fumes now. You can see the tank is all but empty but he just isn’t going to go out of 2006 a loser!” “Unless he can get back up and show us some offense, he might damn well be a loser come New Years Eve, same as EVERY year…” “Well, actually King, Alan Clark is 2-0 in the WF and the Junior Leagues at the Christmas Pay-Per-Views….” “That’s not for another week! This is Lockdown, SWF television, FREE television, the only thing that is being paid any time soon is going to be that cheery fool’s doctor bills. You understand?” “Oh I do, and it looks like Zyon is setting Alan up to get this one done…” Francis points to his monitor as the Unique Youth drags Clark into the middle of the ring, lining up his body chest-down exactly where he wants him. With the crowd chanting once again, Zyon moves to the corner and begins his ascension… ZYYYYYY-ON! Bottom rope. ZYYYYYY-ON! Middle rope. ZYYYYYY-ON! Top rope. “Get out your cameras, ladies and gentlemen…here comes the FINAL FLASH!” exclaims the Franchise as Zyon spreads his arms out and dives from the top, his body flowing through the air as flashbulbs pop in the background… WHAAAM! “HE HIT IT! FINAL FLASH!!” RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!! “He might have hit it, but the force sent both men rolling in opposite directions! Alan Clark almost fell out of the ring!” The Suicide King calls as Zyon simply rolls to his knees and half-crawls/half-dives for the downed Clark, throwing himself over top of him as Walter Reynolds rushes around to get a closer look, keeping his hands in the air and in the sight of the ref as he makes the count… ONE! TWOOOOOO!! THREEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! YES! YES! YES! NOOOOOO! “Look, King! Look at Alan Clark’s left foot! He got it on the ropes! Zyon’s over-anxious pin so close to the ropes just saved the challenger from defeat!” The replay shows Alan’s foot making the rope, unassisted, just before the three. “Zyon is NOT happy!! He looks ready to snap in that ring right now!” the face of the champion is indeed brooding as he gets back to his feet and sends his foot into Alan’s ribcage in a fit of anger before turning his aggression to the outside of the ring, pointing an accusing finger at Walter Reynolds. “It seems Zyon is placing the blame on Walter Reynolds, when we all saw that Alan was able to get his foot to the rope completely unassisted! For once, instead of being underhanded Alan Clark was…well…over-footed.” The Franchise’s joke seems to fall flat as Soapdish tries to regain control, turning the champion’s attention back to the challenger, who has only just begun to move near the turnbuckle. “Don’t quit your day job, Francis. This isn’t the Chuckle Hut” replies the King as Zyon finally does go back to Clark, dragging him up to his feet and shoving him into the corner. After taking a second look over his shoulder at Reynolds, Zyon lifts Alan up to the top turnbuckle, sitting him there before climbing up the ropes himself, pulling Alan all the way up until both men are standing perched on the top turnbuckle, Zyon trying to hold the balance of both men as he stares his challenger in the eyes… “What is he going to do up there!!? This kind of thing takes serious balance. One wrong move and one or both men could fall all the way to the floor! That’s a good eight to ten foot drop there! Folks, now would definitely be a good time to tell you that if you ever set up a ring in your backyard like Ash Ketchum, do NOT try this!” “What a tool…” “Yeah, but, King, what IS he going to do?” Mak repeats his question as Zyon adjusts his body and wraps his arm around Alan’s neck before looking down into the center of the ring below. More cameras flash around the arena as every fan watches on… ZYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYY-ON! “The Big Shot!! He’s going to deliver a….” WHAAAAAM! HOLY (Bleep)! HOLY (Bleep)! HOLY (Bleep)! “MY GOD!” Both announcers yell out as Zyon flies off the top rope and crashes into the canvas below, leaving Alan Clark standing alone on the top, his left arm still outstretched as he tries to keep balanced. “Clark blocked the Big Shot, and Zyon paid the price!!” The split screen shows the slow-motion fall of the champion as Alan is able to get his hands up to Zyon’s waist and push out, barely keeping his balance. “That Clark must have nine lives to go with his billion nicknames! What’s he doing now?” questions the King as Alan shakes off the pain is body has endured over the course of the match and looks out into the shocked crowd, rolling his hands over his head as if to tell them all what he is about to do… ZYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYY-ON! ZYYYYYYY-ON! The crowd’s chants take Alan by surprise, as he seems to be taken aback by the bias the arena is showing toward the cruiserweight champion. With Zyon starting to stir, Alan takes a second to balance himself once again, crouching his body down to prepare for the leap… “Look at that!” "oooOOOMPH!" RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!! “IT’S AKIRA KAIBATSU! He just cracked Alan Clark in the head with his championship belt!” Reynolds sees Akira first long before the referee, but his panicked rush around the ring drew the attention of Soapdish just long enough for Akira to get the shot in and get back over the barricade before Alan can even hit the canvas. “And now there’s a count!!” ONE! “What the hell?” TWO!!! “Alan Clark is on top of Zyon!! What is going on?! THREEEEE!!! Akira Kaibatsu turns around in the crowd as the arena chants along with the count, only for his smile to change to a look of shock as he sees Alan’s body atop Zyon’s as the bell rings and Funyon’s voice booms… Ding Ding Ding!! “Ladies and Gentlemen…the winner of this contest by PINFALL and YOOOUR NEEEEEW S-W-F CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD….. ALAAAAAAAAAAAN CLAAAAAAAAARK~!” “Seriously, what just happened?” More than just Akira seem to be in shock as the replay shows Alan Clark’s fall from the top rope after the attack from Akira, the slow-motion kicking to show the corner of Alan’s elbow striking Zyon square in the temple, the shot more than enough to knock even the toughest of champions out cold. “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King” blares out through the PA for the second time as Walter Reynolds pulls Alan Clark out of the ring, the bodyguard with a champion in one arm and the championship in the other as Zyon awakens, the glazed over look in his eyes unaware of his loss as he tries to piece back the last few seconds of the match, finally striking the canvas with his fist as he looks past the referee to see Alan Clark disappearing through the curtain holding his championship belt. “It was interference that gave Zyon that championship, and tonight it was interference by his own partner that lost it. Could this be a sign of Akira’s own future as he takes on Johnny Dangerous later on tonight in our main event? STAY TUNED!” FADE OUT.

DING DING!!!! “Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall! The first competitor...” Tom Petty’s “Learning to Fly” kicks up on the speakers, and the Mississippi fans begin half-cheering and half-booing. Flames erupt on the stage, and as they die down, the figure of Nighthawk begins to show through them. “Hailing from Hawk Mountain, Pennsylvania, accompanied by Falcon and weighing in at 285 pounds... this is NIGHTHAWK!” The pair walks stoically to the ring, with Nighthawk entering first and Falcon remaining on the outside. As his music fades out, Nighthawk loosens up in his corner. “And his opponent...” “... is just about to show the world,” says James Matheson, “once again that size doesn’t matter. He’s been kicking ass on cruiserweights since he strutted onto the scene, and he’s embarrassed more than his fair share of heavyweights along the way. Tonight’s just another in the long line for the man who defined the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation, TOM FLESHER!” As Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” begins with a percussive blast, many of the fans begin booing, but a significant amount cheer the former World Champion as he struts through the curtain in his warm-up suit. With a no-nonsense look on his face, he makes it to the ring before stripping off his entrance suit and settling into his corner. Referee Eddy Long, remembering last week’s assault of Victor Herzog, immediately demands to check him. “Smart move by the SWF’s senior official, Eddy Long,” says “the Franchise” Mak Francis, as Long drops down to Flesher’s knees to begin checking his kickpads. As Flesher rolls his eyes, Long makes his way up to the singlet, then checks the tape on Flesher’s wrist carefully. Finding nothing, Long eyes Flesher suspiciously before turning to call for the bell. DING DING DING!!!! With Long’s back turned, Flesher reaches back over the top rope, and James Matheson hands him a small object which Flesher promptly stuffs into the leg of his singlet. “Oh, come on, what IS this crap?” asks Mak. “What crap?” “Matheson just passed him a chain, or brass knucks, or something!” “I don’t know where you get these ideas, Makenzie,” says the Suicide King, “but I certainly didn’t see anything untoward happen. Eddy Long just checked him, for pete’s sake!” As Flesher angles toward the center, Nighthawk decides to cut to the chase and hammers him with a stiff right hand! Flesher staggers backwards, caught by surprise, but Nighthawk hits him with another right, a left, and another right! Tom backs into a corner, only to have Nighthawk grab him by the neck. Nighthawk lifts the 231-pound Flesher off his feet, and with a deft turn, drives him to the mat with a standing chokeslam! Flesher arches his back as he hits the mat, but rolls to his knees. “Nighthawk opens this one up with a bang,” says Francis. “He’s a big guy, but he knows what he’s doing. He watches films. He knows what Tom Flesher did against Frost and the Boston Strangler, so he knows how Flesher wrestles heavyweights. Tom can’t slip anything past either of the Predators.” As Flesher starts to get to his feet, Nighthawk grabs him by the head and pulls him into a front facelock. He starts to lift Flesher off the mat, but the technical master blocks the suplex by hooking his leg around Nighthawk’s. Nighthawk starts the lift again, but once more, Flesher blocks it. This time, Tom reverses the motion and tries to lift his enormous adversary off the mat for a vertical suplex of his own, but Nighthawk merely stands his ground. Flesher backs away, grimacing and clutching his lower back. He turns around, trying to shake out the strained muscles, but Nighthawk takes the opening to slam a boot into Flesher’s back! Tom staggers forward onto the ropes. As he rebounds off them, Nighthawk grabs him by the stomach and nails him with a sidewalk slam! The THUD echoes through the Mississippi Coast Coliseum as Flesher nearly bounces off the mat from the impact! “This can’t be good,” murmurs King. “Why not? It looks like Nighthawk’s been studying and he’s about to get an A!” Tom rolls to his stomach, trying to avoid giving up a quick pin. As soon as he does, Nighthawk grabs him bu the hips and lifts him into the air almost effortlessly. He drops to one knee, slamming Tom’s lower back across it and dropping the Superior One like a sack of potatoes onto the mat. With Flesher in visible pain, Nighthawk makes the cover. ONE!!! but only one, as Flesher gets a shoulder up easily. He rolls over, but before he can move, Nighthawk grabs him by the singlet and pulls him into the center of the ring. Falcon hops up onto the apron, and Eddy Long immediately turns his attention to trying to shoo her away. Nighthawk, meanwhile, casually reaches into Flesher’s left singlet leg and pulls out a bunched-up old-school Memphis chain! “Oh, come on, that’s not right!” says the Suicide King, as Nighthawk wraps his found foreign object around his fist. “What’s wrong with it? Flesh introduced the object, now Nighthawk’s just using it against him. Turnabout’s fair play!” With the referee thoroughly focused on Falcon, Nighthawk unloads with a right cross the puts Flesher on his back in the center. With Tom stunned, Nighthawk stands up, then drives down onto Tom’s head with a fistdrop! Flesher convulses on the mat as Nighthawk unwraps the chain and slings it into the corner, where a scowling James Matheson snaps it up. “Goddam Pennsyltuckian hick,” Matheson fumes. “I don’t know where he gets off.” With Flesher stunned, still clutching his back, Falcon finally jumps down off the apron. Nighthawk smells blood, and he pulls Flesher up into a standing headscissors. The Nighthawk contingent in the crowd begins to cheer as his jack-knife power bomb seems imminent! “You know this is what he was hoping for,” says Francis. “He might not have expected it to work out this quickly, but Nighthawk went for Tom’s back as soon as they got in the ring together. He’s a methodical guy, he just tries to pick you apart like the Andersons, and he’s been working Tom over since the bell rang.” “Hmm,” King muses. “Do you suppose in all that film he ever saw someone power bomb Flesher successfully?” No, I reckon he didn’t. As soon as Nighthawk gets Tom into the standing headscissors, Flesher drops to one knee and hooks Nighthawk by the ankle. Nighthawk tries to shake him free, but Flesher quickly stands up, pulling the tree trunk out from under his giant adversary! As Nighthawk struggles to balance, Flesher takes care of him by clipping his base leg out at the heel, sending the Predator to the mat! Rather than go for a spinning toehold, however, Flesher backs away. “What a jerk,” says Francis. “The first offensive move Tom gets in the match, and he won’t even follow up on it.” “Maybe you’ve forgotten what legs are like, Mak, but Nighthawk’s are enormous. If you’ve got a sore back, you don’t want to fight the biggest muscles on the body of a guy who outweighs you by fifty pounds.” Pick your poison? Flesher appears to have opted for a stand-up game, as Nighthawk starts to his feet. Flesher grabs him by the wrist, trying to pull him back for an Irish whip. Nighthawk merely keeps his feet planted, then reverses into a short-arm clothesline. Flesher ducks the lariat, though, and comes out cleanly on the other side. With a smirk on his face, he waits for Nighthawk to turn around, then reaches out and drives his taped thumb straight into Nighthawk’s eye! As Nighthawk backs away, Flesher drives a knee into his stomach, doubling him over. He pauses, grabbing his sore lower back, but digs down and leaps into the air, hammering Nighthawk with a flying knee strike to the face! The one-man wrecking crew backs away, trying in vain to find his bearings, and turns around to lean on the ropes. Falcon points frantically, trying to get him to redirect his attention back to the ring. Seizing his opportunity, Flesher grabs Nighthawk by the tights and rolls backward, coming up on top of the 285-pound giant! Flesher holds onto the trunks for dear life as Eddy Long counts ONE!!! TWO!!!! THREE!!!!! DING DING DING!!!! As soon as the bell rings, Flesher dives forward, sliding out through the ropes and landing outside on the floor! The enraged giant leaps to his feat, unwilling to accept that result, but regardless of what Nighthawk wants to think, Flesher throws his arms into the air in victory! “The winner of the match,” says Funyon, “TOM FLESHER!” Flesher smirks, pointing to the ring as he backs up the aisle. “A brilliant tactical maneuver by Tom Flesher wins him the match!” says the Suicide King. “Tom Flesher had some rough times coming into the match, but he ends it with a victory!” “Sure, he stole it like he steals every match,” spits Francis. “I’m real impressed.” “You heard it here first,” says King, “Mak Francis still appreciates his old tag team partner’s skill! We’ll be back!” Fade.

“You needed to see me?” The figure of Alan Clark appears in the doorway of Joseph Peters, who seems to be in his usual foul mood. “Yes, Clark. Get in here.” “Are you having a magical—“ “Cut the crap.” Peters cuts off the cheerful ice-breaker as Alan and Walter Reynolds walk in, with the bodyguard staying by the door as Clark sits. “You know, Christmas is coming up, our last show of the year. From what I’ve seen, it seems you are itching to get your hands on the International Championship.” “Well look who has it,” Clark’s look screams ‘unimpressed’, “That Ka-whatsits doesn’t look like he’s worthy of a championship that I’ve held seventy-five percent of over the course of my career.” “Well he defeated Johnny Dangerous for it, and if my memory serves me correctly you have never beaten him. Not once.” Having this factoid thrown into his face, the viewing audience can see the anger brewing behind the Disney-sponsored eyes of Alan Clark. “That was two years ago! Almost three! I’m not exactly the same person now that I was back then…” “Well, while that might be true, your actions as of late have put me in quite the conundrum. What do you think I should do?” “I want a shot at that belt, that’s what you should do!” Peters simply shakes his head, much to Clark’s dismay. “What about Michael Cross?” “Who cares about Michael Cross?” “Akira does, and you should. I saw what happened on Storm and I don’t exactly think he’ll sit idly by and let you take a title shot that he has been fighting for. So I can’t just hand you an International Title shot.” Peters pauses, giving Alan a moment to let out some steam, “But what I can do, because I don’t want you just running in to the match and breaking it up again.” “That’s wasn’t me---“ “I told you to cut the crap! Now here’s the deal, you want the title shot and Cross wants Akira. So that’s what we are going to do….” Peters pauses once again. “…if Akira can survive facing Johnny Dangerous tonight with the International Title on the line” Alan looks to be in shock. “WHAT?” “Sorry you had to hear it from me, Clark, but I always have a backup. Next week, it’ll be Alan Clark…taking on Akira Kaibatsu…AND Michael Cross, in a Triple Threat match.” “Aren’t those matches usually no disqualifications? You know I can’t do those. It’s in my contract.” “Oh, I know. You can be disqualified. They can’t.” “That’s not fair! That’s not fair and you know it.” Alan is ready to explode, but Peters simply leans back in his chair. “If you…or Bloodshed…or whatever…wants to ruin my matches and acts quite un-Disney-like when he’s in my ring—“… “I’M FOLLOWING MY CONTRACT!!”… “—you will have to abide by my rules.” “What if Akira loses the title tonight? Then do I get to face Johnny at the Pay-Per-View instead?” The wheels in Alan’s head, and possibly Bloodshed’s, begin to turn, but once again Peters shakes his head. “No, if Johnny wins tonight, then the match at the Pay-Per-View will be a contendership match and will face Johnny sometime after our New Years break. Take it or leave it, Clark. Take it or leave it. And don’t be getting any ideas. The only time I want to see you or anyone that looks like you is in your match tonight.” “Fine, I’ll take it. If that’s what it takes to get my hands on that title, then so be it.” Alan stands to leave, and is almost out the door when Peters’ voice chimes… “Think of it as an early Christmas present, okay?” “Sure, whatever.” Clark grabs the door handle and pulls it shut “And really, have a MAGICAL day…”

"The next match is a HARDCORE MATCH O' DOOOOOOOOM and is scheduled for one fall!" Funyon bellows into the microphone to indicate the upcoming match's stipulations. CHANGE MY PITCH UP! SMACK MY BITCH UP! *BOOM!* The crowd works itself into a frenzy as the familiar words echo across the loudspeaker. Confetti and smoke drift to the floor to reveal Victor Herzog at the top of the ramp. After standing for a minute to soak in the crowd's positive reaction, he slowly saunters down the ramp. "Now making his way to the ring. From Geneva, Switzerland. Weighing 255 pounds, he is The Swiss Army Knife, VICTOOOOOR HERZOG!" Francis: As you know King, Vic was challenged to a match by Tom Flesher and made a fool of on national television. King: Don’t even give me that “he’s innocent” routine. He disrespected a SWF LEGEND, a man who has held all kinds of accomplishments. Who does he think he is? He hasn’t been here for a month and he thinks he’s better than everyone else! Must be a Swiss thing. Victor grabs the bottom rope to hoist himself to the outside of the ring. He slips in between the ropes to enter the ring and walks over to Funyon to request the microphone. As Vic takes the microphone from his hand and presses it near his face he lets out a big "SALUTATIONS, MISSISSIPPI!!!!" Even through his broken English the crowd lets out a big cheer for the big European. He waits for the reaction to die down a bit before continuing to speak, in a much more serious manner. "Now. As many of you may know, Last week, "The Superior One" Tom Flesher, asked my opinion on a subject he felt very serious about. The Swiss, we have a very dedicated tradition of keeping Neutrality, but Herr Flesher obviously cares not. He challenged me to a bout that he obviously had no intention of wrestling in. He knocked me in the head with COMMON CENTS! The only reason I agreed to have this match tonight, is to let that coward know, that I am not intimidated by his cheap weapons and I WILL WIN IN ANY TYPE OF CONTEST!” Victor, now agitated at the thought of the past week, slams the mic to the mat in a fit of anger. The mic feeds back the THUD caused by the impact of the mic meeting the mat as Herzog wanders to his corner to focus on his next opponent. Francis: Victor seems very frustrated with the recent events that have happened. King: I would too if I had just made as big of a mistake as he has. The loudspeakers blare with the music of “Man In The Box” as Black and Red pyro goes off in every which direction, obscuring the entrance area. As the smoke dies off into the air, it unveils Insane Luchador standing still, hand raised above head, with a lightube clutched firmly in it. He slowly makes his way down the ramp with an unnerving smile plastered on his scarred face. ‘FROM EASTON PENNSYLVANIA, WEIGHING 223 POUNDS, YOUR PSYCHOTIC HERO, INSAAANE LUCHADOR!!’ yells Funyon to a strong crowd reaction. King: Victor should stop focusing on Flesher and start focusing on this guy. I wouldn’t be surprised if that ox got his pretty face smashed in here by IL. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have a weapon with you in a HARDCORE match. How stupid is this Victor guy, Mak? IL makes his way to his corner, light tube still grasped in his right hand, eyeing his adversary with a watchful eye. Despite the fact that he is naked in the environment of a hardcore match, Victor has a look of calm confidence on his face. DING DING DING Francis: And with that bell, this Hardcore Match of Doom has begun and you can’t help but think that, with Victor’s limited experience in anything goes style matches, and IL being a hardcore wizard, that things don’t look good for the boy from Geneva. King: Oh no, he’ll be just FINE. Apparently he’s thinks he’s made out of titanium. That’s gotta be it. IL wastes no time trying to dispose of Victor as he rushes to the opposite corner with his light tube in the air waving, like a baseball player swinging for the fences. Vic, still with a look of complete calm on his face, ducks the swinging madman’s attempts to rearrange his face, barely missing getting smacked in the head. IL, missing his target, smashes the light tube over the turnbuckle, spraying glass everywhere. Victor, acting quickly, sneaks behind the glass scratched IL and rolls IL’s legs over his head. ONE! TWO! THREE! DING DING DING. King: WHAT? Did I just see that? Herzog came into this hardcore match without a wweapon again Insane Luchador and won in less than a minute? Francis: I think I speak for everyone here when I say, I’m quite shocked. Fade out

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF LOCKDOWN Live, Friday, December 15th, from the Mississippi Coast Coliseum in Biloxi, Mississippi! (7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) (Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE MAIN EVENT - SWF INTERNATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP REMATCH "The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu © vs. "The Barracuda" Johnny Dangerous -> The former International Champion collects his rematch, and Akira Kaibatsu seeks to defend his championship against a man who's held just about every belt he's ever come in contact with! Watch as two of the SWF's most exciting competitors fight for the prize! Rules: Standard PURE RULES MATCH "Mr. Cold Front Classic" JJ Johnson vs. Devin Benson -> This match never happened! Actually, it did, but unfortunately, we're not sure what happened to the tape. As a result, Devin Benson has sort of faded from the SWF fans' minds. Hopefully, the stage he's being offered tonight will remind them just why they cheered for him! Rules: Pure. HARDCORE NONTITLE MATCH OF DOOM "The Dean of Professional Wrestling" Jay Hawke vs. Jimmy the Doom © -> Can you say "out of your element?" I knew you could! Jay Hawke isn't interested in the Hardcore Championship, and apparently, neither is anybody else. Hawke's being forced to work outside his comfort zone for two reasons: One, we think it'll be interesting to watch, and two, he can't get himself disqualified! Have fun, Dean Hawke! Rules: Anything goes IN THE HOUSE OF MARVELOUS, GABRIEL DRAKE CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH Zyon © vs. Alan Clark -> Clark's been impressive of late. That's all the justification we need for this one! Rules: Cruiserweight rules. STYLES CLASH AUDIBLY Tom Flesher vs. Nighthawk -> Tom's not happy about this one, but Nighthawk sure is. After all, as far as he's concerned, he's just been given the opportunity to smack a cruiserweight around for ten minutes. Let's see what this one brings, and whether Tom comes out of it with a win, or merely a black eye. Rules: Standard. HARDCORE MATCH OF DOOM, THE OVERTURE "Mister Swiss" Victor Herzog vs. Insane Luchador -> Mister Swiss is neutral, but after the economic sanctions imposed against him by Tom Flesher last week, you have to believe he's interested in learning as much about Realpolitik as he can to show Tom that might makes right! Are we out of jurisprudence puns yet? Rules: Anything goes!

If Rube says it's "Der", it's "Der". Show's pushed back a day to compensate for my lateness. PPV will be the Friday after. And thanks, Tom.

Anyone and everyone with something in the works, shoot me some PM's - match, stip, all the juicy details. Anyone without plans... well, you guys are just screwed.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF LOCKDOWN Live, Friday, December 15th, from the Mississippi Coast Coliseum in Biloxi, Mississippi! (7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) (Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE MAIN EVENT - SWF INTERNATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP REMATCH "The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu © vs. "The Barracuda" Johnny Dangerous -> The former International Champion collects his rematch, and Akira Kaibatsu seeks to defend his championship against a man who's held just about every belt he's ever come in contact with! Watch as two of the SWF's most exciting competitors fight for the prize! Rules: Standard Word Limit: 4750 Send to: chirs3 PURE RULES MATCH "Mr. Cold Front Classic" JJ Johnson vs. Devin Benson -> This match never happened! Actually, it did, but unfortunately, we're not sure what happened to the tape. As a result, Devin Benson has sort of faded from the SWF fans' minds. Hopefully, the stage he's being offered tonight will remind them just why they cheered for him! Rules: Pure. Word Limit: 5250 Send to: Ace309 HARDCORE NONTITLE MATCH OF DOOM "The Dean of Professional Wrestling" Jay Hawke vs. Jimmy the Doom © -> Can you say "out of your element?" I knew you could! Jay Hawke isn't interested in the Hardcore Championship, and apparently, neither is anybody else. Hawke's being forced to work outside his comfort zone for two reasons: One, we think it'll be interesting to watch, and two, he can't get himself disqualified! Have fun, Dean Hawke! Rules: Anything goes Word Limit: 4500 Send to: JJ Johnson IN THE HOUSE OF MARVELOUS, GABRIEL DRAKE CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH Zyon © vs. Alan Clark -> Clark's been impressive of late. That's all the justification we need for this one! Rules: Cruiserweight rules. Word Limit: 5000 Send to: Mr. S£im Citrus STYLES CLASH AUDIBLY Tom Flesher vs. Nighthawk -> Tom's not happy about this one, but Nighthawk sure is. After all, as far as he's concerned, he's just been given the opportunity to smack a cruiserweight around for ten minutes. Let's see what this one brings, and whether Tom comes out of it with a win, or merely a black eye. Rules: Standard. Word Limit: 4000 Send to: chirs3 HARDCORE MATCH OF DOOM, THE OVERTURE "Mister Swiss" Victor Herzog vs. Insane Luchador -> Mister Swiss is neutral, but after the economic sanctions imposed against him by Tom Flesher last week, you have to believe he's interested in learning as much about Realpolitik as he can to show Tom that might makes right! Are we out of jurisprudence puns yet? Rules: Anything goes! Word Limit: 3500 Send to: HollywoodSpikeJenkins WHO'S STILL UNDER CONTRACT? Trent Hawk vs. Scotty 'the Crush' Raina -> We just discovered that these two guys are still technically under contract. Though technically they're both in material breach at this point, we're offering them amnesty if they show up here. If not, we'll have to give the segment to Allison Onita, and guys... she's going to sing. So please show. Rules: Standard. Word Limit: 2000 Send to: chirs3 OPENING PROMO: JJ JOHNSON!

“Fans, welcome back to the P-Mac Arena here in Baton Rouge, Louisiana,” Mak Francis says as Storm comes back from commercials, “we’re all ready for our main event which will see the SWF Tag Titles being defended in what promises to be a scintillating match-up!” “You’re talking about Wimp & Dangermouse vs. Toxxic and Landon Freakin’ Maddix,” King complains, “how does that translate into ‘scintillating’? It’s going to be a goddamn train wreck!” “Maybe in your opinion,” the Franchise replies, “but I for one will be very interested to see how this turns out; we have the most dominant tag team in SWF history looking for a record-breaking fifth Tag Title run each, going up against a team that despite their own personal issues have made these belts their own over the last couple of months. We’ve got eight World Title reigns between the four men in this match, and more other championships than I can easily count.” “That doesn’t say much, only people who can’t handle math go into wrestling in high school.” It’s at this point that ‘Party To Damascus’ by Wyclef Jean starts up over the PA system, and the crowd rises in response! The Smarktron begins to flash up clips of the most decorated tag team in SWF history, and a few moments later two familiar figures clad in nearly identical Olympic-style wrestling tights make their way out onto the soundstage. “Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a tag team match scheduled for one fall and is for the SWF Tag Team Titles!” Funyon declaims. “Introducing first, the challengers; at a combined weight of 431lbs, they are the only SWF tag team to have held the titles four times… WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILD… AAAANNNNNNNND… DAAAAAAANNNNNNNN-GEROUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “LET’S GO JOHN-NY!” “LET’S GO DUB-CEE!” “That says it all,” Mak Francis comments as the challengers make their way down the ramp, with Wildchild running ahead and doing a full lap of the ring, slapping hands with the fans, while Johnny moves at a more casual pace and pays particular attention to a few ladies in the front row, “if you need an introduction to this team you must have been living under a rock for the last few years. They haven’t been without their clashes but Wild & Dangerous are back in the saddle, and that must surely make all the other tag teams worried.” “Yeah, any prospect of being involved in an entertaining match goes out the window when these two clowns are around,” is King’s contribution. Meanwhile Wildchild somersaults into the ring between the bottom and middle ropes, while Johnny climbs the ring steps and nimbly vaults over the top rope. They each climb a tucnbuckle and raise their arms for the fans… but then the mood suddenly changes as heavy, distorted guitars and a pounding drumbeat erupt from the PA system. “What the hell is this!?” Suicide King yells, holding his ears. “I think JJ Johnson must have taken control of Joe Peters’ iPod!” Mak shouts back. Sure enough, ‘Relentless’ by Strapping Young Lad appears to be the randomly-selected entrance music for the tag team champion tonight, and as the guitar swings down into the main tune (if you can call it that) two trenchcoated figures appear at the top of the entrance ramp. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “AND THEIR OPPONENTS!” Funyon booms, “accompanied to the ring by Megan Skye and Amy Stephens, at a combined weight of 438lbs, they are the reigning and defending SWF Tag Team Champions; Landon ‘La Cucaracha’ Maddix and SWF World Heavyweight Champion Michael Stephens… THAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA… GA-LAC-TI-COOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!” “LET’S GO LAN-DON!” “LET’S GO STE-PHENS!” The chants ring out as the duo make their way down the ramp, followed by girlfriend and sister respectively. Landon looks horrified as the sonic assault of Devin Townsend reaches his ears; Mike seems quite cheerful about it all, even singing along as they approach the ring. ‘BOMBS AWAY! BOMBS AWAY! ALL IS IN ITS PLACE! IT’S TIME TO LAY TIME TO LAY EVERYTHING TO WASTE!’ Upon reaching the squared circle Landon hops up to the apron, whereupon Megan Skye holds the ropes open for him and he pirouettes into the ring. Meanwhile Stephens simply rolls in underneath the bottom rope before rising to his feet and handing both title belts over to referee Brian Warner. Megan drops down to the arena floor and proudly applauds her man; Amy grabs a chair and sits down, then cracks open a can of lager and starts swigging. “Michael Stephens has pretty much written his name in the record book with the likes of El Luchadore Magnifico, Edwin MacPhisto and Tom Flesher as one of the most dominant World Champions we’ve seen in the entire history of the SWF,” Mak Francis says, “people may not always have agreed with his attitude, even if his in-ring conduct has always been hard to fault, but right now he’s got the fans behind him and seems stronger than ever.” “Watch Gabriel Drake demolish him at the next Pay-Per-View,” King promises. “Meanwhile Landon Maddix is one of the most decorated wrestlers in the history of our sport,” Mak says, trying to ignore King, “and a four-time tag partner in his own right, albeit with four different partners.” “Four different partners?” King queries, “You’re saying he gets around?” “Shut up.” *DING-DING-DING!* The bell goes and Johnny Dangerous steps smartly to the outside, leaving Wildchild to start the match off as usual for the most dominant tag team in SWF history. Meanwhile Landon Maddix and Michael Stephens are taking the more novel approach known as Rock, Paper, Scissors. “How are these two Tag Team Champions?” King moans. “You’d prefer Wild & Dangerous?” “I never said that.” Maddix and Stephens raise and lower their clenched fists once, twice, thrice… and Mike’s scissors are blunted by Landon’s rock, leaving the World Champion to start the match! Landon shrugs and smirks; Stephens transitions into another, more familiar hand gesture that also utilises v-shaped index and middle fingers, then turns to face the Bahaman Bomber. Wildchild jumps up and down a couple of times to loosen himself up further, Stephens snaps his neck from side-to-side and starts to advance. “LET’S GO STE-PHENS!” “LET’S GO DUB-CEE!” Michael Stephens appears to be readying himself for a lock-up, but Wildchild blows that idea out of the water by charging straight at the World Champion, hitting the deck at the last moment to perform a baseball slide through Stephens legs that leaves the Englishman clutching at thin air. The Caribbean Cruiserweight pops up on the other side of his opponent, then as Stephens whirls around and launches a clothesline at him he ducks under that and runs back the way he came, heading for the far ropes. However Stephens is no slouch in the ring and as Wildchild rebounds he leaps up into the air to hurdle the onrushing Bahaman, then drops flat to the mat as Wildchild comes off the ropes once more, perhaps hoping to trip his opponent. Nothing doing, as Wildchild easily jumps the straight-edger, but instead of continuing his kills his momentum as he lands before performing a backflip and coming down onto Stephens with a standing moonsault! “LET’S GO DUB-CEE!” The pro-Wild & Dangerous fans in the crowd cheer as Wildchild performs an unexpected chiropractic operation on his opponent, then rolls Stephens over onto his back to apply a cover… ONE! …but Stephens (unsurprisingly) kicks out after only one! Not that this worries Wildchild too greatly, as the Human Hurricane pulls Stephens back up to his feet and starts delivering right hands, snapping the Englishman’s head back. However, Wildchild knows better than to try exchanging punches with Stephens as the bellicose Englishman is likely to have his number, so he grabs Stephens’ wrist and Irish whips the World Champion into the ropes; when Stephens rebounds Wildchild leaps into the air and places his feet into Stephens stomach, wraps his hands around his opponent’s head and flips backwards to send Mike flying with the Freefall! “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Everyone in the arena cheers, although at slightly different times. The reason being that while Wildchild certainly got the Freefall off, Michael Stephens was able to flip through and land on his feet! The Bahaman Bomber gets up, anticipating his opponent to be on his back on the mat, but in fact turns around into a RIGHT! LEFT! RIGHT! LEFT! Windup… DISCUS CLOTHESLINE! …that Wildchild ducks! Stephens stumbles, off-balance, and as he turns back towards Wildchild the Caribbean Cruiserweight kicks him in the stomach to double him over and then leaps up to drive his opponent’s face into the mat with the Caribbean Cutter… …but Stephens moves out of the way, and as Wildchild comes down to land back on his feet the World Champion latches both arms around his opponent’s chest, looking for the Side Effect… …but Wildchild fires elbows into Stephens’ temple and manages to break free of the impending Sambo slam! He takes a step away from the momentarily-dazed Stephens, then lashes out with a super kick- *whap* -but Stephens catches his opponent’s foot, then swings it away to the left. Wildchild spins around, unable to control his momentum, and Stephens continues his own spin to turn a full circle and- *WHAM!* -finish by delivering a discus clothesline to Wildchild as the two men come back to face each other! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “LET’S GO STE-PHENS!” “LET’S GO STE-PHENS!” “What a display of counters!” Mak Francis says approvingly, “both men thinking fast and thinking on their feet there!” Michael Stephens gets back to his feet and raises two black-nailed hands in the air to incite a further cheer from the crowd, then takes a couple of steps towards his corner and tags in Landon Maddix. The Next Generation doesn’t enter the ring immediately but instead starts climbing the turnbuckles to the top rope, and as Brian Warner begins his five-count Stephens brings Wildchild up off the mat, takes a firm hold of the Bahaman’s braided head and swings around into a neckbreaker that dumps his opponent onto the mat, then rolls out of the way- *WHAM!* -and Landon Maddix comes off the top with a Frog Splash! Brian Warner dives to make the count as Landon hooks the leg… ONE! TWO!! …but Wildchild kicks out! “LET’S GO DUB-CEE!” “LET’S GO LAN-DON!” “It’s going to be very interesting to see how this plays out,” Mak Francis notes, “Wild & Dangerous are by far the more experienced team and are well-known for their plethora of double-team moves-” “All of which are, by definition, illegal,” King cuts in. “-but The Galacticos have turned from two skilled singles competitors into a definite team as well,” Francis continues with a sideways glare at his commentary partner. “Will greater experience have the edge, or will the individual excellence that’s allowed Maddix and Stephens to pick up six World Titles between them win out?” “You used the words ‘Maddix’ and ‘excellence’ in the same sentence,” King says, looking slightly sick, “I’m sure there’s a law against that.” However excellent he may or may not be, Landon knows better than to give Wildchild a chance to recover. Accordingly La Cucaracha starts to haul his opponent back to a vertical base, then delivers a couple of forearm smashes to the jaw. The blows do more to stun Dub-Cee than actually do much damage, but Maddix seeks to change that by backing up a step and then spinning around, homing in on his opponent for a roaring elbow… …which has no more success than Stephens’ initial discus clothesline, as Wildchild sees it coming and ducks at the last moment! Maddix staggers past him and Wildchild quickly checks behind, then as Landon turns he leaps into the air and lashes backwards with one foot in a move often associated with that Brazilian soccer great, Pele. *whump* Sadly for Wildchild Landon has forgotten more about soccer than he’ll ever know, and maybe as a result of this La Cucaracha raises both forearms and catches the kick on them, leaving him with a slight stinging sensation but causing Wildchild to drop to the canvas in an uncomfortable manner. Maddix simply laughs at the fact that his opponent’s flashy offence has failed so embarrassingly… and keeps laughing right up until the point where Wildchild explodes up off the mat and wraps his legs around Landon’s head, then snaps backwards to take the Tag Champion over with a kip-up rana! “YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “LET’S GO DUB-CEE!” “LET’S GO DUB-CEE!” Maddix staggers up to his feet, rather disorientated, and ends up with his back to the corner pads so he can at least see what’s coming. Unfortunately by the time he’s worked out which way is up he can see what’s coming only too well, as Wildchild is already running towards him and launching himself into the air for the- *BANG!* “Blue Crush!” Mak shouts as the spinning Bahaman crashes into Landon, driving the breath from La Cucaracha, “and just like that the tide of the match has turned!” “That wasn’t a pun on ‘Blue Crush’ and ‘tide’ was it?” King asks suspiciously. “…no.” “You’re lying to me, Francis.” Wildchild steps back and Landon staggers forwards, clutching his ribs; Wildchild isn’t one to let such an opportunity pass and he hops nimbly up to the second rope, then leaps off to grab Landon by the head on the way past and takes the Dakotan down with a bulldog! The crowd cheer again, support seeming to swing more towards the man who’s been a perennial favourite for years, and now Wildchild seems to decide that it’s time to show these guys what a real tag team is about. So he tags in Johnny Dangerous. “JOHN-NY!” “JOHN-NY!” Wildchild brings Landon up and hoists him up as if for a suplex, then drapes the Next Generation’s legs over Johnny’s shoulders before turning and hanging Maddix’s chest over the top rope. Johnny holds Landon in place as Wildchild turns and runs, bouncing off the far ropes and leaping into the air to hurdle his tag team partner and come crashing down on Landon Maddix’s back! “Slam Dance!” Mak calls as Wildchild rolls out of the ring and Dangerous pulls Maddix away from the ropes. The Barracuda rolls Landon over onto his back and makes the cover… ONE! TWO!! …but Landon kicks out! Johnny doesn’t hesitate or bother to argue with the referee; instead he grabs Landon by the head and brings the wincing Tag Champion up to his feet. Once there the former secret agent measures his opponent lashes out with a kick to the ribs- *CRACK!* -then another. *CRACK!* Landon staggers and Johnny ducks his head, then takes Maddix up onto his shoulders in a Fireman’s Carry. The Barracuda takes a few steps across the ring towards Michael Stephens, then turns and runs back towards his own corner before jumping and rolling forwards to drive Maddix into the canvas with the Spinal Explosion! Dangerous comes back up to his feet and reaches out to tag Wildchild in the same motion, who leaps to the top rope and then comes corkscrewing off to land flush on top of Landon with the Andros Dive! *BANG!* Brian Warner is in position once again to make the count… ONE! TWO!! …but Landon is able to kick out again! “LET’S GO LAN-DON!” “LET’S GO DUB-CEE!” Wildchild brings the winded La Cucaracha up and tags Dangerous back in; he then releases Landon and shoves him away before he and Johnny line up and, in perfect unison, unleash a double superkick that catches Maddix on the jaw and flattens him! “Super Chicklet Buster!” Mak Francis calls, “Wild & Dangerous are bringing out some of their signature double-teams here in their attempt to win a historic fifth Tag Team Title each!” Wildchild leaves the ring again as Johnny makes the cover on Maddix, prompting Brian Warner to dive to make a count again. ONE! TWO!! TH- -broken up by Michael Stephens! “God, Brian Warner has been up and down more than Megan Skye’s panties,” King observes. “More importantly,” Mak Francis says, glaring at King again, “Michael Stephens was forced to enter the ring there to ensure that his team didn’t lose the Tag Titles! Wild & Dangerous have turned this match around and are now well and truly on the offensive.” “Wild & Dangerous are offensive, I’ll give you that.” Johnny Dangerous shoots Stephens a glare as the World Champion retreats back to his corner after protests from Brian Warner, but much as the Englishman invites him to come and do something about it Johnny has greater self-control and elects to remain focused on the legal man. Accordingly he brings the dazed Landon Maddix up to a vertical base again, then raises three fingers in the air before hooking Maddix up for a vertical suplex. The Barracuda lifts, seeking to hoists his opponent in the air for the start of his signature rolling vertical suplexes… but Maddix hooks his leg behind Johnny’s to block his opponent. Dangerous heaves again but to no avail, and now Landon fires a right hand into the Barracuda’s ribs. Johnny grunts in pain and his grip lessens slightly, prompting Maddix to do it again… and again… and once more, finally causing Dangerous to release and regroup! Or at least, he would regroup if Maddix hadn’t taken this chance to poke him in the eye! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Some fans cheer; possibly because they don’t like Johnny all that much, possibly because they enjoy seeing Landon cheat these days. However, the majority of the crowd boos such dirty tactics. Not that Landon cares; he just wraps his arms around Johnny’s neck and falls backwards, driving his opponent face first into the mat! *BANG!* “Complete Shot!” Mak says, “Landon’s bought himself some time now!” “After cheating,” King points out. “He poked Johnny Dangerous in the eye,” Mak retorts, “even if it is Landon, you expect me to believe you have a problem with someone poking Johnny in the eye?” “…point.” Landon’s time, while not exactly hard-bought, is certainly going to be well-spent. Rather than trying to gut through the beating he’s just taken and turn the match around himself Landon elects for the more sensible option of staggering to his feet and lurching over to tag in Michael Stephens. However, as he goes to step through the ropes Stephens grabs him by the arm and directs Landon back towards Dangerous before starting to climb to the top rope himself. Maddix obliges and grabs Johnny, hauls the Barracuda up and places him in a rear headlock. Johnny starts to struggle, but before he can figure a way out of his predicament Maddix whips his right arm around and down to send Johnny crashing into the canvas with the Landon Eye. La Cucaracha then rolls aside… *BANG!* …half a second before Michael Stephens comes off the top to deliver the Hangover to the prone Dangerous! Stephens doesn’t go for the cover though, instead hauling Johnny up and signalling to Landon. The two men Irish whip Dangerous towards the ropes nearest the entranceway, then duck their heads for a double backdrop, but Johnny grabs onto the top rope and brings himself to a standstill. Wildchild sees his chance and races to the middle of the apron on his side of the ring; just as Stephens and Maddix start to look up to see where Johnny is the Bahaman Bomber springboards to the top rope, then flies over them and flips forward to pull both men down facefirst into the mat! *WHAM!* “YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “DUB-CEE!” “DUB-CEE!” “Springboard double Whiplash!” Mak Francis yells above the crowd noise, “what a way to change the momentum of this match back in the favour of Wild & Dangerous!” Landon rolls out of the ring clutching his face; Michael Stephens doesn’t get the chance to, because Johnny Dangerous covers him as Wildchild leaves the squared circle. ONE! TWO!! …but Stephens kicks out! Dangerous looks up questioningly at Brian Warner but is informed that it was definitely a two, no more. Accordingly the Barracuda grabs Stephens and hauls him up to his feet, then slips behind the Englishman and applies a double chickenwing to lift Mike clean off his feet, then drops him down forwards into the Dangerous Driver! *WHAM!* Johnny rolls Stephens over again, hoping to capture the Tag Titles with this pin… ONE! TWO!! …but Stephens kicks out again! “LET’S GO STE-PHENS!” “LET’S GO JOHN-NY!” Johnny slams his hand down onto the canvas in frustration, then takes hold of Stephens again and brings the World Champion up. Without warning the Barracuda slips his head under Stephens’ arm and grabs his opponent’s leg, then heaves upwards looking for the MI Slam… …but the Sensation isn’t yet battered enough to fall prey to it, and he slips out and counters into an arm drag variation that sends Johnny tumbling across the ring! “LET’S GO STE-PHENS!” “LET’S GO STE-PHENS!” Johnny is back up to his feet quicker than Stephens and he heads back towards the World Champion, well aware that he can’t give the Englishman time to recover- *whump-CRACK!* -too late, as Stephens pops up to deliver the kip-up enzuigiri! “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Stephens shakes his head to clear it, then gets back up to his feet and latches onto Dangerous as the Barracuda starts to rise, clutching the back of his own head. Stephens Irish whips Johnny into the ropes and sidesteps Dangerous as the Barracuda rebounds, reaching up to hook Johnny as if for a Hangman’s neckbreaker. However, rather than dropping straight down Stephens instead twists around and drops to one knee, bringing Johnny with him to drive Dangerous’s face into the other knee. The World Champion then grabs a front facelock with his left arm and extends his right arm out to the side, signalling for the Unfinished Business… but as he swings his right arm around and down Johnny slips out of the facelock. Stephens whirls around in search of his opponent, but all he finds is a Uraken to the jaw as Dangerous spins to deliver a backfist to the face! “LET’S GO JOHN-NY!” Stephens staggers and Johnny turns to make a quick signal to Wildchild. The Bahaman Bomber moves along the apron again to take up position midway along as Johnny whips Stephens into the ropes… “They’re setting up for the Silver Bullet!” Mak calls. Stephens rebounds and Johnny ducks his head for a backdrop as Wildchild prepares to jump to the top rope. Unfortunately at this point two things go wrong for the challengers. Firstly, it’s never a good idea to duck your head in front of Stephens; Johnny finds this out as Mike kills his momentum and then drives Dangerous’s face into his knee with another facebuster. Secondly, Landon Maddix never went back to his corner after rolling out of the ring following the double Whiplash, and has now suddenly popped up behind Wildchild; as the Bahaman Bomber starts to jump for the top rope La Cucaracha simply grabs his feet and hauls downwards, sending the Caribbean Cruiserweight dropping facefirst into the apron! *WHAM!* Stephens once more transitions his facebuster into a front facelock, and this time Johnny is unable to avoid the Unfinished Business as the elbow-drive bulldog slams him down into the mat. Stephens rolls the Barracuda over onto his back… ONE! TWO!! …but Johnny kicks out! Stephens looks over to see that Landon has now finally scurried back to the Galacticos corner, and the World Champion gets back up to tag his partner into the match once more before pulling Johnny to his feet. Landon has a grin on his face as he lashes out with a right hand at the former secret agent… ‘PEPSI!’ …Johnny staggers away, lurching around towards Stephens who matches his partner’s punch… ‘COKE!’ …not to be outdone, Landon fires off another… ‘PEPSI!’ …and Stephens comes to the defence of his favourite brand of cola one more… ‘COKE!’ Johnny stands still in the middle of the ring, wobbling precariously and clearly on dream street. Maddix and Stephens look at each other for a moment, nod, then each man turns and runs for opposite ropes. Johnny Dangerous has just enough time to realise that the barrage of right hands has stopped when he gets hit with a Cucaracha Kick from the front and a soccer tackle from behind! *BANG!* “Professional Foul!” Mak shouts as Johnny hits the deck hard, “that could do it!” Landon Maddix certainly hopes so, and La Cucaracha covers Dangerous to try and find out… ONE! TWO!! TH- -but Johnny kicks out! Stephens has barely left the ring when Landon calls for him to come back in, and as Brian Warner starts his five-count again the World Champion steps through the ropes and helps Maddix brings Dangerous back up to his feet. Each man grabs a ¾ headlock and they turn towards one of the neutral corners… “Laberinto’s Sunny Revenge In England coming up!” Mak shouts as the crowd rises in anticipation. Stephens and Maddix start to run, towing Johnny behind them… …but Wildchild suddenly bursts into the ring and places himself in the corner they’re aiming for! Neither Galactico can stop in time as the Bahaman Bomber braces himself on the turnbuckles and raises both feet, kicking each one in the face! Stephens and Maddix stagger; Wildchild brings his legs up again and wraps them around Stephens’ head, then throws his weight sideways to hurricanrana the World Champion clean over the top rope; meanwhile Johnny Dangerous extricates him from Landon’s grasp and grabs a rear waistlock on his opponent, then bridges backwards into a German suplex pin! ONE! TWO!! TH- -but Landon kicks out! “This match has been so fast-paced it’s unbelievable!” Mak Francis exclaims, “each team is bringing everything they can to the table, as fast as they can!” “It’s just depressing,” Suicide King complains, “no matter who wins, I’ll still be disappointed.” “Personally I’m amazed to see you’re still interested enough to be watching your monitor,” Mak comments. “What are you talking about? I’m playing Madden!” Wildchild now scrambles back into the ring, and together with Dangerous he hauls Landon Maddix back to his feet from where La Cucaracha rolled onto his front after kicking out of the German suplex. Wild & Dangerous grab a wrist each and Irish whip Maddix into the far corner, then turn to each other. Dangerous now takes hold of Wildchild, perhaps to Irish whip his tag team partner into the slumping Landon, but at that moment an English-accented voice attracts their attention. ‘Oi! Wankers!’ Amusingly, both men turn around. They see that Michael Stephens is not still on the outside; on the contrary, the World Champion is now perched on the top buckle. Not for long though, as the Englishman leaps off and flips through the air, grabbing both Wildchild and Johnny around the head and bringing them down to the mat with a double Blockbuster! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “What a move!” Mak yells, “and there’s an answer to the double Whiplash that Wildchild brought out earlier!” Landon staggers out of the corner and together he and Stephens kick Wildchild out of the ring; Stephens then exits as well in accordance with the wishes of Brian Warner, while Landon starts to haul Johnny up to his feet. Once up Maddix wraps his right arm across Dangerous’s chest, then before the Barracuda can react he leans forward before whipping backwards to slam Johnny into the canvas with the Crash Landon ‘05! *BANG!* Landon rolls into the cover, hooking Johnny’s leg as he does so… ONE! TWO!! TH- -but Johnny kicks out! “LET’S GO JOHN-NY!” “LET’S GO LAN-DON!” Maddix looks up questioningly at Brian Warner, but the referee is adamant that his count was correct. Landon doesn’t seem pleased, but instead of arguing he grabs Johnny and hauls him up again. Dangerous comes up slowly, apparently only half-conscious, and Landon wraps his arm across his opponent’s chest again in preparation for another go at the move… but Dangerous elbows out, then reverses the position of their arms and hoists Maddix up before driving him down with a Urinage! *WHAM!* “YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Johnny Dangerous avoids a second Crash Landon, but how much has he got left?” Mak shouts. However, it doesn’t look like Johnny intends to need anything left; instead he heaves a couple of breaths of air back into his lungs, then rolls towards his corner and reaches out a hand. Wildchild has managed to get back into the corner after partially recovering from the Blockbuster, and the Bahaman Bomber stretches out a hand to take the tag from his partner. Once tagged the Caribbean Cruiserweight wastes no time, vaulting up and clean over the top rope to land on the second buckle, then arcing back with a second-rope moonsault down onto Landon! The cover is inherent to the move… ONE! TWO!! THR- -but Landon kicks out! “LET’S GO LAN-DON!” “LET’S GO DUB-CEE!” Wildchild glances over at the Galacticos corner to check on Michael Stephens; the World Champion has one leg in the ring, apparently about to try and break up the cover but perhaps deciding he wasn’t needed. Wildchild decides to deal with Stephens when the time comes, but for the time being he needs concentrate on Maddix. As a result he drags the winded La Cucaracha up to his feet and hooks his arms into Landon, then twists around and takes Maddix up onto his back… “Wild Ride!” Mak shouts. …but Landon has other ideas. The Tag Champion kicks his legs and manages to unbalance himself, toppling down to land on his feet behind Wildchild. Wildchild turns around, eager to re-establish control over his opponent but Landon jabs his fingers towards the Bahaman’s eyes… …and with amazing speed Wildchild ducks out of the way and grabs Landon’s hand, then Irish whips the startled Dakotan into the far turnbuckles! Maddix hits hard and Wildchild winds up, then charges straight at him and launches himself into the air, spinning through for another Blue Crush… …but Landon ducks to one side at the last moment! The amazingly agile Wildchild manages to land on the second buckle rather than crash chest-first into the corner, but this doesn’t avail him much in the long run as Landon simply lashes out and slams a forearm into Wildchild’s back. The Bahaman Bomber winces and Maddix repositions himself to take the challenger onto his shoulders in a powerbomb position, then starts to walk away from the corner. “Wildchild’s in trouble!” Mak shouts. “Good!” King shouts back. Johnny Dangerous is still dazed on the apron after the Blockbuster and the Crash Landon 05; Michael Stephens meanwhile is still able to move, and the Sensation runs down the apron to the neutral corner which Landon has just plucked Wildchild from, then climbs to the top rope. Wildchild starts firing punches downwards at Landon’s head to try and gain his freedom from the persistent La Cucaracha… …looks up… …and sees 218lbs of English straight-edger flying at him. *BANG!!* “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Powerbomb and neckbreaker drop!” Mak yells as the arena erupts, “that could be it!” Landon, head ringing from Wildchild’s punches but still able to register what he has to do, leans forward into a cover with Wildchild’s legs cradled one over each shoulder. Michael Stephens gets up to his feet even as Brian Warner dives to count… ONE! …Johnny Dangerous scrambles into the ring to try and break up the count… TWO!! …Stephens launches himself into a soccer tackle, scything the Barracuda’s legs out from under him… THREE!!! *DING-DING-DING!* “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Ladies and gentlemen, here are your winners and STILL~ SWF Tag Team Champions,” Funyon booms, “Landon ‘La Cucaracha’ Maddix and Michael Stephens… THAAAAAAAAA… GA-LAC-TI-COOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSS!” “That’s it!” Mak Francis calls, “Wild & Dangerous’s quest to become five-time Tag Team Champions has come to a crashing halt, at least for the moment! The most dominant tag team in SWF history gave it their all, but for tonight at least it wasn’t quite enough!” “A bunch of flipping-flopping spotmonkeys,” King snorts, “is that what you call a main event? Is that what you call Tag Champions?” Michael Stephens and Landon Maddix receive the tag titles back from Brian Warner, then exchange their customary high-five and leave the ring to be congratulated by Megan Skye and Amy Stephens. Well, Megan congratulates Landon; Amy just burps and crushes her empty lager can, then sets off up the entrance ramp. Meanwhile in the ring Johnny checks on Wildchild, who is stirring but not quite with it enough to yet comprehend what has happened. FADE OUT

The air is heavy with electricity as the cameras swoop back into Louisiana State’s P-MAC, picking up signs such as ‘J-LIEN VS. (ONE HALF OF THE) PREDATOR(S)’, ‘HAM HAWKE,’ and ‘I SNUCK IN FOR THIS?!’. As security quickly moves into the general vicinity of that sign, the camera continues its pan, eventually stopping at the announce table occupied by none other than The Franchise, Mak Francis, and the Suicide King! “Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen!” beams The Franchise. “What a night it has been thus far, and what a night it looks to be, as we have a match with big history and huge ramifications coming up next.” “That’s right, Mak,” says King with a grin. “Our next match? ‘Mr. Cold Front Classic’ JJ Johnson takes on ‘The Dean Of Professional Wrestling’ Jay Hawke. Jay Hawke wants, Jay Hawke craves, Jay Hawke NEEDS another shot at the World Heavyweight Championship, and beating the number one seed in the Cold Front Classic is a surefire way to do that, and a man who has yet to be toppled since his return – five straight wins – is a HUGE way to do that. I don’t see anything Johnson has to gain except respect.” “But respect is just as important as the World Heavyweight Title to some people,” Mak counters. “Especially to JJ Johnson.” King’s attempt to continue further is interrupted, as the lights dim and the calm tones of Pink Floyd’s “Learning To Fly” begin flowing out of the sound system, accompanied by more than a few jeers. “Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall!” booms Funyon. “Introducing first, from Cleveland, Ohio, weighing in at 215 pounds… he is the ‘Dean of Professional Wrestling’, JAY! HAAAAWWKEE!!” Jay strides out from behind the curtain to more boos as a spotlight fixates on him, highlighting his slow, confident stride to the ring. The Dean merely ignores their derision as he reaches the steps, trotting up them before stepping through the ropes and shedding his robes. It is at this point that he begins his preliminary stretches, reclining against the ropes and warming up his deltoids. And the lights drop out. The chanting rises from the very bowels of the P-MAC, a throaty grunt reading from Aleister Crowley’s “The Book Of The Law”… *BOOM!* And then chaos breaks loose. An eruption of red-and-white pyro blasts from the stage, the sliding and abrasive riffage of Behemoth’s “Slaves Shall Serve” begins, and through the smoke comes JJ Johnson. Equally indifferent to the crowd – but with the crowd’s reaction exponentially more supportive – the Ultimate Fighter instead keeps his eyes locked on the man in the ring, who, to his credit, merely keeps stretching. Johnson jogs up the stairs, removing his sunglasses and track jacket as he does so, and steps through the ropes into the ring. Jay quits stretching and instead trots over to a corner as Johnson rises to the second rope of the opposite corner, throwing his arms out in his crucifix pose as the camera pans around him. That done, Johnson hops down. Matt Kivell wastes no time in calling for the bell. DING DING DING! “And here we go!” shouts Mak as the two men immediately burst into activity, Johnson and Hawke’s eyes locked as they stalk around the ring. Soon, they arrive at each other, and both decide that the best subsequent course of action is a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Hawke grapples for leverage, using his height disadvantage to his advantage, but the Canadian is simply stronger, and he muscles an arm away from his head before bending it behind the back of the Dean, locking him in an airtight hammerlock! Jay writhes and slaps his shoulder, attempting to numb it to the pain, then fakes left, turns right, and spins under the arm to lock JOHNSON in a hammerlock! Johnson grunts with frustration, but he’s been in a great many hammerlocks in his day, and he counters as is his normal counter: he reaches behind his head with his free arm, seizes Hawke’s hair, and leaps into the air before tugging Jay over his shoulder with a snapmare! The Dean is more than aware of what comes after this, and before Johnson can latch on his crushing Buffalo Sleeper, Hawke scrambles out of reach before rising to his feet. Johnson finds getting to his feet not nearly as imperative, and he takes his time in doing so… before Hawke rushes in, seizes an arm, and twirls it into an armwringer! The Canadian snarls as he’s doubled over against his will by the movement of his arm, but then realizes he can use this to his advantage and rolls forward up to his feet, then does a one-handed cartwheel back the other direction! Now Hawke has him in position for an Irish Whip, but Johnson can say the same thing, and he uses his grip on the arm of the Dean of Professional Wrestling to tug him forward into an elbow smash! *CRACK!* Jay’s head snaps back, and Johnson abandons his grip on his arm before ducking behind him and seizing a firm grip on a rear waistlock! Hawke is dizzy, but he knows that a Dangerous German can only make the situation worse, and so he plants a leg between Johnson’s legs, bracing himself against a lift. Mr. Cold Front Classic snarls, and then uses a leg to sweep Hawke’s remaining plant leg and hoist him high before dropping him on his stomach with an amateur wrestling takedown, then spinning around and latching on a front facelock as the crowd applauds politely. “Scientific wrestling opens this match, and JJ Johnson takes the advantage,” says Mak. “I think Johnson is using resourcefulness more than skill at this point, keeping Hawke off-balance. Even I can admit that few can match Hawke on the mat.” “Few can,” nods King, “but I think Johnson is one of the few. He’s faster and stronger.” Resourcefulness is an interesting thing for Mak to bring up as in Johnson’s favor, as Hawke scoots up to his knees, then pops his hips and rolls to the side before bridging up, trapping Johnson’s shoulders to the mat! Kivell slides in to count… ONE! But Johnson gets the hint and abandons the facelock, rolling away as Hawke abandons his bridge and gets to his feet at the same time as the Ultimate Fighter. Hawke shoots in… and eats an elbow smash! *CRACK!* Hawke staggers, and weary of the mat, Johnson simply follows him and pops him again! *CRACK!* Hawke continues stumbling and rebounds off of the ropes back towards Johnson. Mr. Cold Front Classic grins and uses this opportunity to finish his combo, whirling like a ballerina that hates your guts and DESTROYING Hawke with a rolling elbow! *CA-RAAACK!!* *POP!* And with that pop, the crowd pops! Hawke slumps lifelessly through the ropes, dropping to the floor, and the crowd waits eagerly for him to get up, as they know what that pop equals. It takes him a moment, but the Dean shakes the butterflies out of his head, slapping the confusion away. The crowd grows quiet. Jay Hawke is slapping at the spot where the elbow connected and merely grumbling as he rises to his feet. Either Hawke is insanely receptive of pain, or his orbital bone is perfectly fine and something is terribly wrong. JJ Johnson on his knees in the ring, clutching his right arm and gritting his teeth as a scream attempts to free itself from behind his teeth indicates that the latter is the case. “Oh, this is bad,” whispers Mak. “I don’t know how it happened – Johnson has thrown dozens of rolling elbows – but JJ Johnson is hurt.” “Well, duh, he’s hurt,” sighs King. “You don’t get down on your knees unless you’re wounded or eating a chick out, and there are no women in front of him.” “I’ve never understood that term,” says The Franchise, shaking his head. “You don’t literally consume the flesh.” The sound guys ready themselves in case the conversation continues further, but Mak has obviously been playing his Vagina Jeopardy, and he quiets down as Jay Hawke trudges back up the steps with a grin on his face. “Can you continue?” Kivell asks Johnson, who inhales sharply and responds “Yeah.” Kivell has his doubts, but a refusal to forfeit is enough for Hawke, who shoves Kivell aside and nails Johnson with a kick to the arm! Johnson screeches in agony, and Hawke moves in to continue his assault… only for Kivell to run up and shove him back into the corner! “Now listen here, Hawke! Johnson is obviously injured, and I’m not going to let you flog him until he quits fighting back!” shouts Kivell, spit flying from his mouth. Hawke makes a disgusted face and wipes the saliva off of his chest. Behind Kivell, Johnson gets to his feet, shakes his right arm with a perfectly calm look on his face, and strides to the corner opposite where the ref and the Dean are arguing, where he waits a moment before he begins to run. “Look, the man said he wants to continue, so let me at him!” snaps Hawke… and then his face goes very pale. Matt Kivell feels something brush his hair as something very heavy sails overhead. *CA-RACK!* And Johnson completes his dive clean over Kivell by slamming his elbow directly into Jay Hawke’s jaw before his momentum carries him over the ropes to the apron! Johnson almost falls, but shoots his left arm out and seizes a firm grip on the strands, keeping himself from falling to the floor as Jay Hawke staggers out of the corner with a very glazed look on his eyes. Acting quickly, Johnson scales the top rope, waits for Hawke to turn around and takes flight, blasting him with a lariat! That was the plan, anyway. In actuality, Hawke ducks, and Johnson rolls through his landing before turning to face the Dean… who leaps high, wraps his legs around the head of the Ultimate Fighter, and whips back with a hurricanrana! *CLANG!* … sending Mr. Cold Front Classic stumbling shoulder-first into the ringpost! “Good God!” winces Mak. “Hawke was playing dummy just like Johnson was, and now he has a beautiful opportunity to take advantage! We’ll be right back after this break! *COMMERCIAL BREAK* … and Hawke shifts his grip from a Fujiwara to a single chickenwing before switching his legs across, trying to hook Johnson’s other arm! The Canadian is well aware that this precedes the Wing Span, however, and he flops and flails his body away from the legs of the Dean, eventually hooking his feet around the ropes! “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back!” says Mak. “Over the break, Jay Hawke has taken a decided advantage, working on Johnson’s arm almost constantly. Johnson, however, has been showing off his durability and resourcefulness in avoiding dangerous submissions, forcing Hawke to resort to simple holds to wear him down.” “And Hawke came very close to locking on his finisher there,” notes King. “I think Johnson’s time is near.” Johnson doesn’t like the thought of that, pulling himself up to his feet on the ropes as Hawke waits for his quarry to rise. Seeing that Johnson is up to his feet, albeit wobbly, the Dean rushes in and eats a kick to the jaw! *CRACK!* Hawke staggers back, but dismisses it as an aberration and charges back in to eat another kick! *CRACK!* Again, the Dean is sent stumbling, and this time Johnson doesn’t wait for him to return, rushing off of the ropes and sending Hawke straight to the mat with a Yakuza Kick! *CA-RAAAACK!!* “YYEAAAHH!!” Johnson grits his teeth, then turns and snags a dazed Hawke by the hair before pulling him up to his feet, doubling over… and letting loose with some Kawada kicks, driving his boot into Jay’s face with both frequency and velocity alarming! *CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!* That done, the Canadian tugs him into a standing headscissors, the crowd roaring in response as Johnson doubles over, wraps his arms around Jay’s waist, and LIFTS… …only he doesn’t lift. A very sharp pain runs through his right arm, and he winces and rises to his full height. “Johnson is regaining momentum here, but he can’t honestly think he can lift Jay Hawke for a powerbomb!” scoffs Mak. “Not with his arm the way it is!” Johnson snarls, bends back down, and wraps his left arm a great deal of the way around the Dean’s waist, leaving his other arm free. A roar of effort, a leap, slamming his feet into the ground, and Jay Hawke is airborne, bent over Johnson’s left shoulder, as though the victim of a Canadian backbreaker. Johnson was not expecting this, however. Now that he has Hawke up here, he has no idea what to do. And so he simply sits out and throws Jay onto the back of his head. *BANG!* Hawke slumps to the side, and Johnson covers. ONE! TWO! THREE! DING DING DING! “What the hell was that?!” asks Mak, stunned at what he just saw. “I believe it was a one-armed sheer-drop Thunder Fire Powerbomb,” guesses King. “A purely accidental one, but one nonetheless.” “Whatever it was, it’s nasty,” says the Franchise, shaking his head. “Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner… J! J! JOHNSON!” booms Funyon as Johnson, as usual, rolls out of the ring, making his way up the ramp holding his arm. “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” says Mak. “What a hell of a match that was. And I hope we never have to see that move again. Wild and Dangerous, Two Skinny White Guys, World Tag Team Championships next.” FADE OUT

"Hey chaaaaaamp!" An audible groan comes from the throat of the World Heavyweight Champion, Michael Stephens. Continuing to leaf through his gear trying to find his England shirt (and cursing the fact giving them away before his matches has become an inconvenient and rather expensive ritual) it's clear that Stephens isn't in the mood for Landon's overly upbeat attitude just about now with an important title defence on the horizon. You'd think he'd be used to them by now. Landon Maddix, with Megan in tow, strolls into the locker room already in his ring gear and his title belt proudly over his shoulder. Glancing over his shoulder, Michael's eyes narrow a little. "We ready to go, champ?" "Not quite." growls Stephens. "Can't find my bloody shirt. Don't know why I bother really, it's not like the overpaid wankers ever win anymore anyway. Listen, Landon, we ain't up for a while yet anyway, you needn't have bothered changing just yet mate." "What? Oh, I've been walking around like this all day!" "And I'm the gay one." mumbles Stephens under his breath, the aside just quiet enough for Landon to wonder what was said. Megan tells him not to worry though. "Speaking of which, I take it you sorted out the theme music." Landon taps his nose in a 'never you mind gesture'. "Let's just say there's some doozies that haven't popped up on Peters' iPod yet!" "Oh, can't wait. Vengaboys, Gwen Stefani, Gloria Estefan... you know, now that I think about it, maybe I shoulda brought my Austrian nun's outfit and practised my yodelling." Landon taps his nose in a 'never you mind gesture'. "Bloody hell." Finally finding his shirt of choice, Stephens pulls it on. Behind him, Megan can be seen nudging Landon and motioning for him to 'go on', which presumably means Landon has something else to say, surprise of surprises. "Listen, Mike, can we have a word?" "And here I was thinking we already were." "A serious word." insists Landon, as Stephens zips up his kit bag and lounges onto the leather couch. World Champions get couches, see. "See, it's about the Cold Front..." "Oh yeah, you're in the 'final' now. I wondered why you were so bloody chirpy with a match against Wild and Dangerous to worry about. Good job one of us has a decent record against them. So, you were saying?" "Don't worry, he's trying to motivate me." Landon whispers to Megan with a thumbs up, before turning back to Stephens. "So, anyway, Cold Front. Now as you know, if I win at the Christmas PPV then I'm going to be the number one contender... again. All I have to do is beat JJ now and we both now I'm more than capable. So, assuming you retain against Gabriel which... well, I'm not sure if you're capable or not because you've never really met one on one, but I have faith in you. Which means all roads lead to Landon Maddix versus Michael Stephens, one on one, World Championship, Clusterfuck 2007! Should be a hoot. But, I kinda wanted to talk things over. See, we've done this whole 'fighting over the World Title' gig plenty of times before and I think we both remember what happened those times. Now we're World Tag Team Champions. We came through the hatred and the attempts at paralisation. Infact, I'd like to think we've become pretty close." Stephens' eyebrows peak a little. "As friends." "Oh. 'Ad me worried there for a minute." "Yeah. Look, the point I'm trying to make is, we might still be World Tag Team Champions by then and we might not. But either way, I'd like to think we'll remain close. As friends. And I know how protective you are of your World Championship. Normally, I'd never try to come between you and the belts. But... I'm not going to forfeit any titles shots that come my way. Not anymore." "I wouldn't expect you to." concedes Stephens. "Which means, if I win the Cold Front, we're going to be going one on one again. For the first time since you won the belt from me. And I just wanted to make sure this time will be different." Looking a little more interested now, Stephens pushes himself up into a more responsive looking position on the couch. "Every time we've met in the past, we've both been feuled by hatred. Two Christmases ago, it was the beginnings of Martial Law versus Revolution Zero. Then you nearly crippled me at From The Fire and we all know I was a Grade A 'wanker' as you'd put it to get you into the match at 13th Hour this year. But, we're past all that. Right?" Stephens doesn't answer, but nods. "So, if it comes about that it's you and me at Clusterfuck, I want to make sure you know there'll be no hatred. I don't want another hate filled war with you. No headdropping, no bashing each other's brains in with weapons, no beating each other within and inch or our lives for sheer enjoyment. Just, you and me in a match. A wrestling match. Friendly competition." "What are you looking for exactly?" queries Stephens, sitting up. "Assurances from me? Listen, you might be the most annoying wanker on the face of the bloody planet, at the best of times. But I don't want to kill you any more than you wanna kill me. That was the whole point of us taggin' together, right? To stop us putting each other in the hospital every damn month. Especially with this bloody country not giving us free healthcare. Besides, it'll make a damn good change to have a friendly match over the belt in this place. Now all you've got to do is beat JJ." "Already well in hand, don't you worry." The confidence is nothing new and Stephens takes it in his stride, giving Maddix the hearty thumbs up he's probably hoping for. And with that Landon and Megan turn on the heels and leave. Well, almost. "Hey, Mike, one more thing." "Name it." "You have an Austrian nun's outfit?" "...I'll see ya out there." None the wiser and probably a little weirded out, Landon quickly scuttles off as Stephens runs a hand through his well gelled hair, shaking his head. "Bloody hell."

“It’s been a wild ride so far tonight, ladies and gentlemen, and up next things are looking to get even crazier. First, let’s take you back to last week, we were just getting ready for an International Title defense…” The screen changes to the Smarktron, where just as Akira Kaibatsu and Michael Cross were about to let months of torment explode in violent fury, a seemingly accidental musical miscue occurred… “We thought it was Alan Clark, and indeed it…sort of was, but we found out later on that Bloodshed seemed to be asserting himself into the International Title division for reasons we are still unsure of…” “And let’s not forgot how Alan Clark cheated his way to victory early that night! It’s the only time I was ever proud of anything that Disney idiot ever did!” The Suicide King interrupts Mak Francis’ narration, and just as Bloodshed dropkicks Michael Cross from the ring to the floor, the video shifts to earlier that night, as Alan Clark grabbed the ropes en route to a win against newcomer Pierre Donette. “Yes, we really can’t forget that, but thanks to that little run in by Bloodshed, Alan Clark is being forced to tag tonight against a man he attacked a few days ago, Michael Cross, and the two of them are going to be standing across the ring in just a few minutes from the team of Wasted Youth, the most recent team of double champions here in the SWF.” “Let’s just get on with it. My head is killing me and I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle that cheerful dolt for too long tonight.” “And as Funyon steps into the ring for our introductions we remind you that SWF Storm is sponsored by Crowe’s Medicinal Marijuana and Herbal Supplements. For any ailment, get blunt force trauma today!” The Franchise finishes with a flourish as Funyon raises his microphone to his lips… “Ladies and Gentlemen…the following tag team contest is scheduled for ONE FALL…introducing first…from Detriot, Michigan…” he begins as “Colony” by In Flames begins to pound and thump and thud its way through the loudspeakers, a dark red hue ascends over the sold-out crowd… “…weighing in at two hundred thirty seven pounds…he is “IRON” MIKE CROSSSSS!!” As his name echoes from the rafters, the shadow of Michael Cross appears from out behind the curtains, the whites of his eyes not even visible in the darkness. “That’s a man that has been looking for weeks to take out his frustrations on only one man, and it was the actions of his partner for tonight that caused him to have to wait until----“ ”It’s a world of laughter… A world of tears…” “What the hell?” The Suicide King’s head swivels as the dark red and ominous music is replaced by the sounds of karaoke from beyond the entranceway. As the lights come up, Michael Cross turns toward the stage and his mouth drops. ”There’s so much that we share… …that’s it time we …are…aware…” Alan Clark, in full custodial regalia and a microphone to his lips, is belting out a song that is loathed by just as many as those that love it….all the love and hate boiling down to one simple phrase… ”…it’s a small world after aaaaaaaalllllll…” Alan drops the microphone to the stage and breaks into a sprint, passing by Cross with a wave as Funyon tries to keep up. “And…uhm…his partner…representing Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida. He weighs in at two hundred and twenty five pounds…the self-proclaimed Happiest Guy On Earth…ALAAAAAAAAAAAN CLAAAAAAAARK!” Alan spins himself like a dervish as Walter Reynolds walks down the ramp, passing the still stunned Cross. Reynolds pauses, saying something to him before continuing his way down to the ring. After a brief few seconds of deep thought, Michael Cross simply shrugs his shoulder and walks the extra few feet to the ring before simply spinning around and facing the entranceway, his eyes focused on the curtain…waiting. “Well, that’s about all I could take, someone get me some of that (bleep) Crowe’s selling.” Both of the King’s hands rest against his forehead and he can be heard muttering to himself as the sounds of the Wu-Tang Clan’s “Protect Ya Neck” brings out the duo known as “Wasted Youth” comes barreling from the backstage area, “The Divine Wind” and International Champion Akira Kaibatsu leading the charge as he and Michael Cross set their sights on each other. “Here we go, no time for your silly little index cards, fat man!” The King shouts out loud as Kaibatsu and Cross meet head-to-head at the base of the ramp way, the two men throwing punches toward each other in rapid-fire succession as referee Nick Soapdish makes his way from his position in the ring to the outside, only to be cast in the shadow of Alan Clark as the cheery superstar bounds from the top rope and sails over the brawl below, connecting with a hard clothesline on the Cruiserweight Champion Zyon as he tries to slow down to keep from crashing into his own partner. The shock of the sound of bodies hitting steel behind him catches the attention of Akira, who loses his focus long enough for Michael Cross to wrap his hand around his foe’s left wrist and fall backwards with as much force as he can, sending the body of the Divine Wind flailing into the apron back-first. “Well, that’s one way to get an early advantage.” Francis remarks as Soapdish checks on Clark and Zyon, both of whom are a little dazed from their crash landing, before turning his attention into the ring where Michael Cross has gotten Akira up to his feet and pinned in the corner, the bell sounding with each closed fist that connects to the International Champ’s jaw. DING! SMACK! DING! SMACK! DING! SMACK! “Watch it! Watch it!” Soapdish warns Cross, who wisely abandons his fisticuffs before locking both of his hands around Akira’s throat, shaking his head the way a dog shakes a dying rabbit in its mouth. “…1…2…3…4…” Cross breaks the choke before the five count and steps back away from his opponent, his chest heaving as he unwillingly allows the referee to check over Akira, who holds his neck and gasps for breathe, his eyes looking toward his corner where Zyon has just now arrived, his right hand outstretched for a tag that is almost twenty feet away. Across the ring, Alan Clark stands with the tag rope in his hands and a smile on his face. “Alan barely looks like he is even in this match!” The King points to his monitor as Akira’s body is slammed to the middle of the ring with a suplex with Alan in the background, his eyes pointed to a few fans at ringside, who is casually poses for and chats with from his place on the apron. “He’s just trying to connect with the crowd. I mean, Michael Cross is looking to get a tag right now…” says Francis as Cross plants his boot into Akira’s face and turns toward Alan, but just as he gets to the corner to make the tag, Alan’s body drops from the apron… “CLARK!” Michael screams, but before Alan can even turn around, a freshly tagged in Zyon catches the back of Cross’s head with a dropkick, sending his face barreling into the turnbuckle. “I don’t think that’s what Michael Cross was expecting! He wanted the tag and well he got tagged. What is Clark thinking?” “I’m not sure anyone in this arena except for Alan Clark knows that, and speaking of…” before his partner can even let the turnbuckle shot sink into his frontal lobe, Alan Clark slides under the bottom rope and illegally into the ring, passing by Soapdish as he stands and catching Zyon with another Clark Clothesline. “He can’t do that!” hollers the King as Alan continues his run, knocking Akira off his spot of the apron with a hard forearm! With the referee behind him, Alan hops up to the second rope and raises his hands in celebration before heading back across the ring to his spot with Soapdish in tow, trying to regain order as Zyon gets to his feet and Akira slides in the ring, the Wasted Youth team both falling toward Cross, two elbows slamming into his chest, knocking the wind out of Michael. “That’s what he gets! That’s what Alan Clark and Michael Cross get for trying to illegally gain an advantage!” “I don’t think Michael Cross knows what is going on at all, he’s being pinned by Zyon now! Ref!” Soapdish turns as Zyon hooks the leg… One! Kickout!! “A quick kickout from Michael Cross, and you have to wonder what is going through his mind as he tries to regain his bearings in the ring right now.” “Zyon’s foot is going through his mind right now, Franchise. Alan should be in the ring helping his partner now. Where is he?” Michael probably is asking himself that same question, but Alan has his smile back and his hand outstretched, waiting for a tag that he seems to know if growing farther and farther away by the second. On the outside, Walter Reynolds slaps at the apron in support for the team he has found himself a part of. “He is standing on the apron and smiling, King. He’s watching his partner’s beating at the hands of Wasted Youth.” Akira slaps at the top turnbuckle to get his partner’s attention for a much-wanted tag, only for Zyon to simply pull Cross up, keeping him doubled over in the middle of the ring before throwing his body into the air with a backward flipping motion, his right foot slapping… SLAP!! ..against the forehead of Cross, sending him falling back to the canvas that he has been making his home for the last few moments of the match. “A beautifully perfected Flash Kick has Michael Cross seeing stars and has Wasted Youth with all of the momentum after the crazy start to this match.” “Well when you have your one big chance to destroy someone ruined by Alan Clark, you’d be a little crazy too.” The King replies as Zyon gets to his feet and moves to his corner, finally tagging in his partner and giving him a chance at Michael Cross. “Cross is slow to his feet, but he’s going to have one wild-eyed International Champion at the ready when he finally gets back to vertical...” Akira Kaibatsu waits, eyeing up his opponent who sits on one knee, holding his head from the whiplash of the Flash Kick. Alan Clark against stretches out his hand for a tag, only to find the Divine Wind rushing toward him after dropping Cross back down with a stiff forearm. “WOOOAH! Clark yells and tries to duck, but Akira senses the dodging motion with enough time to change direction, his body leaning foreward and launching off the mat, his shoulder driving through the ropes and into the midsection of Clark, the shot sending him flying off the apron and face-first into the steel barricade! Oooooooooooo!!! The crowd closest to Clark reacts expectedly as the sound reverberates through the area. In the ring, Akira stands back to his feet and turns around to face Cross… SMACK! “Boot from Cross!!” THUUUD!!! “Michael Cross just drove Akira’s face into the canvas by way of pushing his knee into the back of his neck in some sort of modified facebuster. A good roll-through puts Cross on his feet and Akira on the mat, and now the tides have seemingly turned right into the favor of “Iron” Mike!” Akira is still one of the freshest of his team, and the freshest in the match outside of Alan Clark, who has yet to do much of anything while standing on the apron. “Akira’s fighting Cross off, both men are separated from their partners now, but right now I’d say that regardless of the punishment he has taken that Michael Cross is closer mentally to getting the tag than Akira is to Zyon…” “…who almost just fell into the ring with the way he is stretching his body out over the top rope trying to get a tag from his partner. He does not want to lose this match either, and that’s one of the problems with tag team matches – if your partner loses – so have you. You want a partner that will fight tooth and nail to get to your hand. Do you think Akira has that kind of fight in him?” “It sure seems like he does…” Francis replies as the Divine Wind reverses a Cross irish whip, sending Michael into the ropes, the biggest man in the fight bouncing off and flying back at the opponent in his crosshairs. “and here comes a crash…” “…DUCKED!!” Akira ducks out of the way of a clothesline, but before Cross can hit the opposite ropes, he is stopped by the sound of a body slamming down behind him, only to turn and find Alan Clark being pulled back to the corner by the referee with Akira Kaibatsu down in the center of the ring. “I think the only one in this building that didn’t see that dropkick was Michael Cross!” Francis calls as the replay pops up on the side of the screen, showing Akira turning to face Cross and failing to notice Alan Clark diving off the top rope and stretching his body out, both of his feet drilling into the back of Akira’s head and sending him face-first into the mat. Alan rolls to his feet and heads back to the corner as Michael turns around, the shock showing on his face. “Well wherever you can gain the advantage…like I said…” “Are you condoning something Alan Clark has done?” “I condone victory…” “There hasn’t been a pinfall or submission yet, King, and I can guess that no matter what happens, if Alan Clark pins either of the two champions in this match, regardless of what you think of them, you are going to be just as upset as any other time Alan Clark sings or dances or---“ “If his team wins, I hope they play Michael Cross’ music. Anything is better than music from Pinocchio. We don’t need that around here. Even Fugue jazzed up his classical music a bit for the people!” Francis stares blankly for a moment before turning back to the action in the ring, where peace has been restored but the damage has been done, as Michael Cross has Akira off his feet, holding him over his shoulder and rolling his body backward… SLAAAAM!! “Northern Lights! Michael Cross has been looking to get his hands on Akira, and whether he likes it or not Alan Clark has helped him get just that and Cross is SMILING. Do you see that?!” The camera zooms in on the face of Michael Cross, where a demented smile is forming where there is normally nothing but a stoic expression. “Ah! They’re both crazy! I’ve seen that look on Clark’s face before and when he gets that way….” The Suicide King is cut off as Akira’s body is once again rolled and slammed with a second huge suplex! With Zyon watching on helplessly, he can only watch as his partner’s body is pulled back up and flipped once more, the Unique Youth wincing slightly as Michael Cross releases his bridge and stands, his eyes concentrated on the fallen International Champion at his feet. “Normally this would be Cross’ time to make a pinfall, but he looks to have other ideas!” With Akira down, Michael moves himself to his corner, making it a point to double stomp the canvas as his thumb moves across his throat. “No! He wants to stomp the head of Akira Kaibatsu into oblivion…FROM THE TOP ROPE!!” Francis’ voice cries out above the screaming fans as Cross jumps to the top rope and turns himself to face his opponent, who has barely moved in the wake of the triple Northern Lights…. SLAP!! “What the hell?” Both the Suicide King’s comment and Michael Cross’ face share the same expression as Alan Clark reaches up and slaps his partner across the back… …and then pushes him off!! THUUUUUD!!! “MY GOD, KING! Alan Clark just threw his own partner off the top rope and straight onto the chest of Akira!!” Cross’ body crashes down, bringing Zyon through the ropes as Clark himself climbs to the top and dives off…flying over the two downed superstars… SMACK!!! …his boots catching Zyon square in the forehead!! “Zyon tried to duck out of the way of Clark at the last second, but still took that missile dropkick right between the eyes!!” “This is uncalled for! Is this legal??” “Alan Clark is apparently the legal man after that tag to the back of Michael Cross,” Alan lands on his feet and looks down, noticing Akira starting to stir just behind him. “, and a moonsault…Clark to Akira! He’s got the cover!!” One!! “HE’S GOT THE TIGHTS!!” The King yells as Clark wrenches Akira’s body off the mat… Two!! …and hides his tight-pulling hands away from Soapdish’s face… Three!!!! NOOOOOOOO!! Both Zyon and Michael Cross dive onto Alan Clark’s back, one to save a partner and the other to seemingly maim! DING! DING! DING! “There’s the bell! This one has fallen apart!!” As Michael Cross pulls Alan to his feet and delivers a hard knee to the man that was his partner, Funyon’s voice booms from the loudspeakers… “Ladies and Gentlemen…the winners of this match by PINFALL…” “WHAT?” “…the team of Alan Clark and “Iron” Mike Cross!!!!” Booooooooooo!!! “The crowd does not like that one bit, and neither does Michael Cross!” A replay shows Nick Soapdish’s hand hitting the canvas for the three count just before Zyon and Cross crash onto Clark’s back, while the live shot is focused on Alan Clark’s body as it is lifted into the air and slammed down with authority onto the knee of Michael Cross! “IRON BOMB!!” Raaaaaaaaaaaaah!! The crowd actually cheers as Alan Clark’s body is dumped to the mat, and as Michael finally regains his composure he looks to the side of the ring to see Wasted Youth staring him down! “He’s going to wish he didn’t just take out the only person that might have had his back in that ring right now…” but before the stare can degenerate further, Michael Cross simply shakes his head and walks backwards, flipping his body over the top rope and to the outside as “Colony” blares over the PA. A second camera watches as Walter Reynolds pulls Alan Clark out of the ring to the floor with Akira Kaibatsu in the background, Soapdish handing him his International Title as he looks out upon both Clark and Cross. One stands tall at the top of the stage while the other leans against his bodyguard – both victorious over the double champions. As Storm heads to commercial break, the scene fades out over Akira’s face turning from pure anger to one of upsetting defeat.

Jimmy vs. Benson to be edited inzzz.

DING DING!!!! “Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “the following special challenge match is scheduled for one fall! The first contestant....” The P-MAC lights up with a single red pyro, and the crowd goes wild as confetti scatters through the arena! CHANGE MY PITCH UP! SMACK MY BITCH UP! Victor Herzog steps through the curtain and, in recognition of the warm reception he receives from the Baton Rouge crowd, waves and shouts, “SALUTATIONS!” The crowd continues cheering him as he walks to the ring, and he makes his way into the squared circle. “This is an interesting match we have coming up,” says the Suicide King. “On the one hand, you have a technical wizard and two-time heavyweight champion in ‘the Superior One’ Tom Flesher. On the other, you have a goofy Swiss guy.” “Come on, King,” says Mak Francis. “Are you really telling me you don’t like Victor Herzog after what he did to Ced Ordonez last week?” King shrugs. “I have no strong feelings on him. I do know, though, that when a veteran like Tom Flesher comes up and asks for your support on an issue like the Cold Front Classic, you don’t say no to him.” “But Vic didn’t say no,” Francis prods. “He just didn’t say yes. He’s got a policy of neutrality.” “I can take him or leave him.” “Currently in the ring,” says Funyon, “hailing from Geneva, Switzerland, and weighing in at 255 pounds... he is ‘Mister Swiss,’ VICTOR HERZOG!” Herzog waves and acknowledges the crowd, which politely continues cheering him as “Smack My Bitch Up” fades out. Funyon says, “And his opponent...” “Oh, come on,” says James Matheson, stepping through the curtain to break up Funyon’s introduction. “You’re announcing this? They hired a referee for it and everything? That’s incredible. You’re really going to cheer for that big lug while he struts to the ring and then act disappointed when he gets systematically destroyed by a guy as accomplished as my client, the one, the only, TOM FLESHER?!” With that, Flesher pushes the curtain aside, forgoing his usual entrance music and walking purposefully to the ring. James Matheson follows behind him. Flesher, not having bothered to change after issuing his challenge, has his blue collared shirt untucked and is still wearing his dark jeans and wingtip shoes. Matheson, as always, wears a dark suit and carries his Halliburton briefcase. Tom rolls into the ring and starts toward the center, pointing and shouting at Herzog. Referee Blaine Kalem stops him, pushing him back to the corner, while Herzog relaxes in his corner. Kalem says, “I need to check you.” “Come on,” Flesher says. “I’m in street clothes. What could I be packing?” With that, Kalem drops to one knee and starts checking Flesher’s pantlegs. Flesher reaches into his right pocket and pulls out a roll of coins, which he holds in his cupped right hand as Kalem makes it up to his pockets. Kalem slides a hand into the left pocket and withdraws a Bic pen. “Yeah, you got me,” says Flesher disgustedly. “A Bic’s a great foreign object, and something I’d NEVER carry with me in street clothes, you stupid piece of crap.” Satisfied that Flesher doesn’t have any foreign objects, Kalem turns and calls for the bell as Flesher slides his roll of coins back into his pocket. With that, he circles toward Herzog, who waits for him in the center. DING DING DING!!!! As Herzog turns toward Flesher, the Superior One reaches up and lets fly with a bitchslap, catching the Swiss ambassador across the face! The crowd immediately begins booing Flesher, who drops down and snags Herzog by the ankle and trips him to the mat. Flesher drops down onto his opponent and hammers him with a palm strike before reaching down and grabbing his wrist. As Herzog tries to pull back, he rolls onto his stomach, and Tom extends the arm before slapping it back down with a hammerlock. “Flesher’s showing some dominance here,” says the Suicide King, as Tom reaches down and throws a half-nelson under Herzog’s free arm. Flesher pulls him up and slaps on a bodyscissors grip, then rolls Herzog over and puts his shoulders to the mat with the freestyle tilt. Kalem counts ONE! Herzog, though, throws a shoulder off the mat, and Flesher pulls him back to his face-down mount. He reaches down, pinning the hammerlock against Herzog’s back with his chest, and throws a stiff forearm across Victor’s face to pull him into an improvised katahajime! Before Flesher can sink it in, though, Herzog throws out a long arm and grabs the bottom rope, prompting Blaine Kalem to break up the hold. An angry Flesher backs away, and Herzog quickly rolls to his knees, and then gets back to his feet. “Tom Flesher was just trying to have some fun,” says King. “There’s no reason to break up that hold.” “Hazing the newbie isn’t fun,” Francis says. “It’s the kind of crap that ends with people breaking their contracts. We’ve lost so many promising rookies, and Candice Okimurra, to that kind of junk.” As Herzog gets back up, though, Flesher drops down and hammers his knee with a basement dropkick! Herzog collapses back to the mat as Flesher rolls out from under him, and then grabs him in a front headlock. Immediately, Herzog starts trying to back away, but Flesher pulls him to his feet. The lanky Swiss superstar tries to slide out, but Flesher holds the headlock tightly. As Herzog pulls back once more, Flesher releases him. Herzog backs away, off balance, having expected more resistance, and Flesher takes advantage of his confusion by hammering him with a knee to the jaw! The Schweizer collapses, and Flesher arrogantly drops down onto him for the cover. ONE!!! TWO!!!! NO! Herzog kicks out, but Flesher stays on him in side control. He grabs Herzog’s left arm and once again pulls it into a hammerlock, but this time, he doesn’t bother doing anything with it for a few moments. “What’s he stalling for?” asks Francis. “This crap’s unnecessary. He’s just trying to embarrass Vic Herzog.” “Kind of answered your own question there, didn’t you, Mak?” Flesher reaches up, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it to the side of the ring before standing up and baiting Herzog to get to his feet. As Herzog starts up, Flesher charges at him, hoping to nail him with a Yakuza kick... but Herzog ducks it! Flesher staggers forward, and Herzog stands up, spinning around into a lariat! Flesher collapses to the mat, stunned at the rookie’s offensive flurry, but Herzog grabs him before he falls. He whips Tom to the ropes, and as Flesher rebounds, Herzog jumps up and hammers him with a dropkick! Tom falls to the mat and rolls to the outside, pausing to collect himself by dabbing his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. Herzog, for his part, merely looks to the outside. “Offensive flurry by the big man from Switzerland,” says the Suicide King, “and Flesher’s caught by surprise. Although even the chimp hits a bullseye once in a while.” Flesher rolls back in, and immediately, Herzog starts stomping on him. Tom grabs the bottom rope, but the monstrous Swiss grabs him by the head and pulls him into a front facelock, then quickly tosses him over with a snap suplex! Flesher’s back arches up, and he is in obvious pain as he tries to roll away. For his part, Herzog grabs Flesher around the waist and lifts him up. He turns the Superior One in the air and slams him down across his bended knee with a gutwrench backbreaker that sends Flesher to the mat clutching his spine. Herzog backs off, waiting for Flesher to get up to his feet. “What’s Tom going to do now?” asks Francis. “He’s gonna have to find some way to keep Herzog from hitting him as hard as he’s been, or else Mister Swiss is about to go neutral on his ass!” Flesher slowly gets back to his feet, and Herzog comes in to grab him with a collar-and-elbow tie. Flesher thrusts his right hand into his pocket and, continuing to grapple, brings his hand around to hammer Herzog with a stiff palm strike to the jaw! As he makes impact, a handful of coins scatter across the ring! As Herzog collapses to the mat, Blaine Kalem looks up and sees the split roll of quarters in Flesher’s hand. He calls for the bell! DING DING DING!!!! Kalem drops down to check on Herzog, who wasn’t expecting the foreign object any more than Kalem was. Flesher, for his part, merely shouts, “That’s what you get, you piece of crap!” “Tom Flesher hits the neutral Victor Herzog with economic sanctions!” shouts the Suicide King, as a bevy of referees run down to the ring and hold the Superior One back. “This is NOT going to be good for Herzog’s ability to keep time.” “So is that what this was all about?” snaps Mak Francis. “Tom just wanted to get Herzog out here to embarrass him by hitting him with a foreign object?” “I believe those are US quarters, Mak.” “Tom’s going to pay for that one. Not only is it going to go as a loss on his record, but I have a feeling Joe Peters is going to impose some economic sanctions of his own. He’ll hit Tom where it hurts – in the wallet!” “Oh, bitch, bitch, bitch,” says King. “Clean up that Swiss melt while we’re on commercial and let’s see what else we have on the docket.” As the referees tend to Herzog, we fade.

All is quiet in Baton Rouge as SWF Storm rolls on, moving toward Two Skinny White Guys’ Tag Team Championship defense against Wild and Dangerous. In fact, things are so quiet that for once, the backstage area is completely calm. “OH, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!” Well, that didn’t last very long. “You’re telling me,” shouts Tom Flesher, “that because my PLANE was delayed, and I couldn’t make it in last week, I’m forfeiting any chance I had to win the Cold Front Classic? Joe, that’s bull!” Joe Peters, magnanimous as always, shrugs. “Tom, you and Spike didn’t show. What do you want me to do, delay the match even further?” Flesher rolls his eyes. “YES! Delay it until me and that little prick can settle things in the ring like men, instead of letting Johnson and Maddix dick around over it for two weeks! For god’s sake, Joe, I SELL TICKETS!” “And you’ll sell tickets in undercard matches, too,” says Peters curtly. “Come on, Tom, quit your whining and go find someone else to bother.” Flesher glares. “Joe, this isn’t going to go well for you. I could ask anyone – Andrea Montgomery, Bill Hearford, anyone – and they’d tell you it’s not fair for me to be out of the Cold Front Classic over this.” “Are you done?” “Here,” Tom protests. “I’ll ask the first person I see, and if he agrees with you, then I’ll quit complaining.” Peters turns to his iPod, clearly not paying attention to Flesher’s ranting. (After all, the Tag Team Champions are defending tonight and they need theme music.) Flesher, for his part, stalks up to the catering table and taps the shoulder of the tall, blond wrestler currently fiddling with the bagels. “Listen, fella,” Tom says, “I need you to come tell Peters he’s full of – ” “SALUTATIONS!” Victor Herzog turns around to greet Flesher, who merely continues glowering at him. “Hi to you to,” he spits. “Now come with me and tell Peters he needs to pull his head out of his – ” “Easy, easy,” says Mister Swiss. “I don’t think you quite understand my philosophy, Herr Flesher.” “Jesus,” Flesher growls, “first Craven whining about his BA in psychology and now you with your philosophy. I don’t give a damn what your undergrad major was, Vic. Just get over here and tell Peters his position is – ” Herzog looks on as Flesher stops, waiting to be cut off. After an uncomfortable silence, he says, “... wrong.” “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, I’m... neutral.” Flesher’s eyes narrow to slits. “Neutral? Don’t they teach you schmucks to respect their elders in whatever two-bit school you came out of? I’m Tom Goddam Flesher! I was the World Heavyweight Champion twice! I was the Cruiserweight Champion twice! I’ve held more titles than you’ve ever seen! Where the hell do you get off?” Herzog smiles. “I have no strong feelings on the topic.” “How about this? Do you have any damn strong feelings about settling this in the ring like men?” Herzog shrugs. “All I know is that my gut says maybe.” “I’ll take that as a yes.” Flesher storms off, leaving a noncommittal Victor Herzog standing by the table sipping coffee. “Ah, veterans,” he murmurs. “So fiery.” ~fin~

IL vs. Nighthawk to be edited in.