HVilleThugg

Sorry, but I figured it was implied that you could write a match. Da "what happened on the promo show that pissed you off" H

Maddix... That was the match I was TOLD to book by John Duran, who assured me that all parties were ok with it. That's part of the booking request PM I got from Duran. As for your promo...I'm sorry. I see it in my box now between WC's promo and Toxxic 's promo. I just accidently skipped it... If you're mad about the promo...I'm sorry. If you're mad about the booking, you'll need to take that up with John Duran. Da "curses" H

Dammit! What other contendership do you have? I don't know if Liston is active or not...we will find out with this match. Da "has to go yell at the rest of CC for a minute" H

You're alwasy depressed Muzz... If it's not your wife dying...it's...uhhhh...your wife dying. Da "my wife is still alive" H

No, he didn't....I just didn't really have anyone for you to face...and I thought you might like to get set up after some other title for when he leaves...and since his time is so scarce, I wanted to give him a chance to do the stuff he needs to do instead of writing. Da "hope a #1 contenders match is a good enough consoliation" H

You will always be with Disney in my mind Rando. Da "yup" H

:/ Go easy on me...it's my first card in a very long time. Da "worries heavily" H

Let's see... Matthews is champ. Clark is full of himself. Terrence/Janus is fucking insane. Toxxic gets a title shot...and does some other stuff too. Coy is a redneck. And some other stuff happened. READ! Card up in a bit. Da "booker extraordinare" H

BOOM BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOA” “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOA” The multiple bright pyrotechnics fade into the familiar voice that begins Sepultura’s “Bullet The Blue Sky,” and the boos for the Unnamed are instant, and only increasing in volume when the group actually makes their entrance! “We’re live on SWF Storm, Bobby Riley alongside Cyclone Comet, as we figure out who’s left standing in this aftermath from From The Fire, the big PPV extravaganza mere days ago!” “And of course, we are stuck with the Unnamed, the rulers of all things unjust, to start this show!” Va’aiga leads the pack through the curtain, looking as angry and badass as ever, followed by John Duran--in a neck brace! Matheson, Megan, and the House of Todd all follow suit as the group of them walk down to the ring, Duran looking very out of place in his neck brace and Todd himself favoring his neck. Otherwise, the group is healthy and well. “The Unnamed have experienced a rather big blow at From The Fire, Robert, but I’m sure they’ll find a way to break the rules and get back on top again!” “Don’t forget that John Duran scored a victory over that loony bin Terrence Bailey in the hardcore cage! It was the only victory for the Unnamed, but it was a huge one!” “And one that left him with almost a broken neck from the top-rope Rage Unleashed! Remember, citizens, if you want to see that event, you’ll have to pick up the replay showing all this weekend! You can trust Comet when he says that this pay-per-view is definitely worth the money!” All of the Unnamed enter the ring one-by-one, Duran making especially sure to take the long way to the ring by using the ring steps and carefully stepping through the ring ropes, as Matheson immediately goes over to Funyon and asks for a microphone, receiving it and passing it along to Duran. “Well, it’s about time that we hear from the man about his neck brace,” Comet finishes as Duran begins. “Well, well, well,” Duran says in a slow tone, “if it isn’t Sin City!” There’s a small cheer for the name of the city, but mostly Duran gets a non-reaction as he continues. “Everyone knows that I come to this ring every show and SIN TO WIN, but I wasn’t able to do that this week! And do you know why?” “Seems pretty obvious to me, Robert.” “Because of this!” Duran yells, pointing to his neck brace, and getting some cheers from the crowd at seeing the Notorious One injured. “Janus, he decided that he was going to try and break my neck in that god damned cage! And he almost did, but he couldn’t finish the job, just like he couldn’t finish the match! I FINISHED IT! I hit him with the Blunt Force Trauma, and as far as I’m concerned, I don’t care if we should never meet again!” “The fans want to see it, Comet, but they won’t get it!” “So, while I let this neck heal, I’m going to pass it over to Va’aiga, because there’s one thing I hate about this neck brace, and it means that I can’t hang my head in shame for all of you backwards chain-smoking gambling-addict WHORES!” There’s a mixture of cheers and boos as it seems there are some legal prostitutes in the arena as Duran hands the mic off to Va’aiga. “Now for a word from the former World Champion…” “Not for long, Comet! Va’aiga will get that title back in a hurry!” Va’aiga begins, “First off, look at John Duran! This man is everything that I was when I rose up and claimed that title under the Unnamed banner! Tough as nails, and just as much of a badass as I am.” The crowd doesn’t know about that comparison and there are some scattered boos as the Maori Badass moves on to his next topic. “Grappler, you are the luckiest man in the SWF. That title won’t be around your waist for long, and all I can tell you is that any one of the Unnamed will be winning it at any time. It may not be me, but no matter what, don’t get too comfortable with that title, Grappler. It won’t be long before the Unnamed have it again. Your luck has already run out with the ending of From The Fire, and now it’s time for our advantage to take effect.” Matheson takes the microphone for a second. “And Mr. Matthews, you never know when that advantage is going to find its way to you. Be very wary, Charlie. We know you’re here, and you’re a marked man.” Matheson gives the microphone back to Va’aiga, but Va’aiga couldn’t have put it better as he tosses the mic back to Funyon and Sepultura’s “Bullet The Blue Sky” strikes up again. “Short and to the point, Comet! I love it!” “But an ominous warning for the SWF World Champion, I hope nothing bad happens tonight.” “We’re in good hands with the Unnamed, I wouldn’t worry at all.” “Regardless, Robert, we’ve got a big show left to go, so don’t anyone go away, there’s more action to come when we get back! And we promise it’ll have nothing to do with the Unnamed.” “We can’t keep that promise!” Fade to commercials.

*BOOM!* MORE STORM THAN YOU CAN STUFF IN ALL OF YOUR ORIFICES, BITCH! *ahem* So, the pyro goes off some more because it’s the halfway point between Storm and bedtime. That, of course, means business. BUSINESS WE WILL SEE TO INDEED! So, as the fans sit in their seats, half excited over, well, the exciting promos that have occurred so far, and half disappointed, because they bought tickets to sit and listen to people talk. But such is life. Then “Some Kind of Monster” hits and the crowd kind of goes crazy! The timekeeper for tonight’s show, Professor Bill Schaeffer, nudges Funyon awake, and he stands up, ready to call the start of another promo! “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” Funyon begins, “PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF, I’M A MAN OF WEALTH AND TASTE!” The crowd groans. “I’M SORRY. INTRODUCING THE NEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW S – W – F HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WOOOOORLD, HE IS CHAAAAAAAARLIE ‘GRAPPLER’ MAAAAAAAAATTHEWSSSSSSSSS!!!” The big, burly figure appears on the ramp, and the crowd takes Prince’s advice, doesn’t let the elevator break them down, and GOES CRAAAAAAAAAZY! Finally, from the shadows, Mr. Matthews emerges, dressed in a dress shirt, khakis, and the SWF World Championship firmly buckled around his waist! Matthews waves to the fans as he begins walking down the ramp, a rare smile on his face. He climbs up the steps and enters the ring, raising his arms up in the air. “Welcome back to Storm, citizens!” greets Cyclone Comet, “We decided to get a word in before another promo, because we don’t have much room to talk tonight!” “And we get paid by the word, too,” mumbles Riley, “what that means is, they pay us for every word we speak. So, I try to use the most verbose vocabulary I can call upon, and I-“ “DAMN, THIS FEELS GOOD!” Charlie Matthews’ BOOMING~ voice cuts Riley off, as he’s magically received a microphone and began speaking. The crowd agrees. “GRA – PULL – ER!” “GRA – PULL – ER!” “You know, when I came back to the SWF back in November, I honestly didn’t think I’d be standing here, like I am, four months later. Sure, I knew I’d have some moderate amount of success, but never in FIFTEEN DAYS did I think I’d a) win the Intercontinental Television Championship, b) win the United States Championship, c) win, of all things, the Clusterfuck, and d) defeat Va’aiga to become the SWF World Heavyweight Champion.” More cheering from the crowd. Honestly, they should just stop. “Now, as you probably all know, I’m a very terse individual. I don’t try to make things long winded, extraneous, or, dare I say, boring.” Get it? It’s a jab at his old self. Haw, haw. “But I just wanted to say, to all of you, to Grand Slam, to the guys in the back…thank you. Yeah, coming from me, that may be a bit of a shock, but I’d like to thank you. Everyone involved in this company in some way has led to my skyrocket of a career. You fans, whether you booed or cheered me, fueled my fire, as odd as that phrase sounds. Grand Slam gave me the opportunities I took advantage of, and the guys in the back gave me plenty of asses to kick! “Now, we get to Va’aiga. Bro, you should’ve realized from the minute you did it that kicking me out of the Unnamed was a bad idea. No, scratch that, it was just the opening I needed. Bad idea for you, of course, but hey, that’s your tub of lubricant.” Sexual jokes. At least he didn’t say ‘ass cream’. “Anyway, Va’aiga, you sound plenty pissed off tonight. Not really sure why…” Matthews readjusts his title belt, grinning. “…yeah, I guess I do know why. Heh. But you know, Va’aiga, I *am* a fighting champion, and I always have been. You want your rematch? Take it any damn time you want. Keep your other Unnamed running buddies out of this, if all of their necks aren’t completely shattered, and keep it between you and me.” “GRA – PULL – ER!” That chant sorta seems out of place. “Like I said, folks, I’m terse, and I don’t get paid by the word.” Riley grumbles. “So, I’ll make this quick. Anyone in this company, from David Blazenwing aaaaaaaaallll the way up to Tom Freakin’ Flesher, if he ever comes back: take your shot. I’m not afraid, I’m more than ready, and I’m willing to kick your ass and do whatever it takes to keep this title. If I had a catchphrase, I’d use it now, but since I don’t, I’ll just say that I am Charlie Matthews, and…well, I’m the Champ. Good night, everybody!” Well said, Matthews. “Some Kind of Monster” kicks in again, as Grappler climbs the nearest turnbuckle and looks out to the crowd, holding his arms in the air and smiling. What a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man. The End.

John Duran is walking around the corridors of the MGM Grand alone, his neck still kept steady in the neck brace. He is looking somewhat calm, for a change, and not expecting what awaits him around the corner... Duran makes his turn around the corner, heading into another hallway when... BAM Terrence Bailey pops out of nowhere, surging forward with a right hand... ...and HITTING THE NECK BRACE! The Notorious One hits the concrete floor almost immediately, grabbing onto his neck and screaming in pain. "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" The expletives are beeped by the censors, but you don't need to hear Duran's words to know that he is in searing pain. As he wails at Janus, Terrence only has a few words for Duran. "Congratulations on the victory, John." Terrence says as he walks away from the scene, medics rushing down from the end of the hallway to check on Duran as Terrence leaves the scene. Fade to commercials.

Backstage, Toxxic strides along the corridor, now clutching a paper cup of Frost brand Cola. Spotting one of the MGM staff the straight-edger slows and catches the man’s arm. “Scuse me,” Toxxic begins, “you busy?” “No sir,” the man replies. “Cool. If I give you my keys could you go and get my hire car and bring it round to the entrance please?” Toxxic asks. “I’ve got a plane to catch.” “Sure thing,” the staff member answers. “Where is it?” “In park C,” Toxxic replies. “Black Ford. Hang on, my dressing room’s over there, I’ll get you the keys and the registration number...” Draining his cup and throwing it into a bin Toxxic pushes open the door, enters the room and unzips a black holdall. The Brit thrusts his hand in to retrieve his keys... and retracts it just as sharply, biting back a curse as something jabs into his finger. Opening the bag wider he reaches in more carefully, and pulls out a pot plant. A pot plant with a barbed wire halo wrapped around the top. “Hey!” Toxxic shouts, causing the staff member to poke his head around the door. “Did you see anyone come in here?” “No sir,” the man answers, “but I was over at Catering just now, I only got here just before you did-” Toxxic cuts him off by holding up a hand and the Hardcore champion reaches into his bag again, feeling around in the depths suspiciously... and pulling out a small white card, folded over. Unfolding it with one hand, Toxxic scans the surface - then yells wordlessly, and throws the plant against the wall. The card quickly follows it, and Toxxic zips up his bag and brushes past the confused man. “Do you still want me to get your car?” he calls after the receding SWF superstar, but Toxxic doesn’t answer as he rounds the corner. Back in the dressing room the camera pans down the wall to where the plant came to rest, pot smashed and dirt spilling over the floor. The card has landed face up, and on the shiny white surface black lettering is visible, forming four words: Pain Fades. Memories Don’t.

The cameras light up as SWF Storm comes back on the air, showing the back hallways of the MGM Grand Arena of Las Vegas, Nevada. By the bobbing camera we can tell Gus is on the move to somewhere important. But his usual companion, the ever lovable Ben Hardy, is nowhere in sight. Hurrying around one corner, down a hallway and then around another corner, the cameraman finally finds Ben standing outside the locker room. The interviewer looks towards Gus with a relieved sigh. "You took your time, Gus. Get lost?" The camera shakes from side to side. "Ah, you're just late then." The camera bobs up and down, and Hardy shrugs his shoulders. "Well don't let it happen again. Let's go, because someone called us here for an interview and who are we to disappoint?" Without any further preamble, the interviewer pushes open the door to the locker room and steps inside, followed by Gus. As the door swings shut behind them, it's noted that the light is off, creating a sense of shadowy darkness in the room. The light suddenly flickers on as Hardy reaches offscreen, dim and barely illuminating the stark stone walls, or the steel chair in the middle of the room. The chair's back is to the interviewer and his cameraman, but the hulking figure in it, long black-and-white hair streaming down his head, is easy to identify. "It's Citizen Bailey!" Comet murmurs to his partner. "Great, what is this, 'Interview With A Nutjob'?" Riley responds. "Very funny, Robert." is Comet's dry response. The seven foot Australian's signature trenchcoat is missing, however, and his back is clearly visible in the dim light. Hunched over in the chair, the bloody looking scars and slowly healing injuries from his cage match look sickening in the yellow, sickly light. Gus and Ben look at each other for a moment, before Hardy steps forward and speaks with a nervous quietness. "Terrence...?" That gets only the slightest response, a shifting of muscle, so Hardy tries a different tack. "Mr Bailey...?" That gets no response at all. Ben looks at the camera again and shrugs his shoulders, motioning to the door. As the cameraman and the interviewer turn away, the sound of a throat clearing makes them turn around. Still not looking at them, the seven foot member of the Unholy Trinity lifts his head up, looking at the opposite wall. "I'm sorry..." The ominous sound of his voice makes Ben Hardy shiver, but as the big man rises from his chair and slowly turns around, nearly everyone is struck dumb. For the eyes in the big Australian's face are both blood-red, and there is a cold and wolfish smile on his lips. "Terrence isn't here at the moment...could I take a message?" "J..Ja..Ja...Janus?" Hardy stammers. "Who else? Terrence is sulking right now..." the Hell Machine replies, sitting down on the chair and resting his arms on the back of it. He stares steadily at Ben Hardy and the camera, both of which are shaking slightly. Finally gathering whatever balls he has, Hardy steps forward again. "Uh...Janus...we were hoping for a word about...your match...at From the Fire..." "With John Duran." "Ye... yes... are you up... upset at all? About losing...?" Slowly, the Hell Machine shakes his head and motions the nervous interviewer forward. Still smiling, he lifts an arm from the chair and rests it on Ben Hardy's shoulder, staring a hole through his head with those red eyes. His voice is deceptively pleasant sounding. "No Ben, I'm not upset..." The smile drops into a scowl and Janus' hand slides down to grab the front of Hardy's shirt. The interviewer gibbers in fear as the Hell Machine effortlessly yanks him forward, nose to nose. The giant's voice is a furious growl as he glowers with those red eyes. "...I'M ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS!" Shoving hard, Janus watches Ben go stumbling back across the room and into the wall. Still clutching his microphone, the interviewer tries to dust himself down, trembling. As he does so, the Hell Machine rises from his seat and begins to walk towards Ben with a glower on his face. The camera jerks as Gus sneezes, and Janus' head snaps around to lock onto the cameraman. Shifting his path, the big man begins stepping towards Gus, a sickening smile spreading across the big monster's face. "John Duran! I know you can see this. I know you're watching. I have something very, very important to tell you...hahahaha..." The Hell Machine takes a deep breath, still glowering into the camera. "You may have... ahaha... won the battle... ha... but you will lose... ahahahaha... the war..." Janus pauses for a moment, still smiling, then doubles over and begins laughing. "AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! AHAHA! AHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" This is no light-hearted laugh, this is no laughter filled with tears... this laughter is deep, ominous and downright scary. His voice echoes around the small room, and the camera is shaking almost too much to get a clear image. His booming laugh begins to taper off, and with a suddeness the laughter stops entirely. Still doubled over, the Hell Machine lifts his eyes to the camera, expression almost neutral save for that smile still on his face. His voice is a spine-tingling rasp after all that laughter. "Terrence... fights the battles, Notorious One. While everyone else faces the Anti-Heel Machine..." The giant sucks in a deep breath and begins to straighten up, red eyes staring into the shaking camera. He puts one great hand on it to steady it, while the other lashes out to grab the trying-to-flee Ben Hardy by the neck. Lifting the interviewer into the air and squeezing his throat, Janus continues to stare into the camera. "YOU, John Duran, the instigator of our war, will face me. Next time we meet, Terrence will not step in. It will be simply the Notorious One... and the Hell Machine. Enjoy what time you have..." A pause. Again a smile begins to creep across the big man's face. "WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA! AHAHAHAAHAHA! AHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!" As he bursts out into laughter again, the Hell Machine drops the bulging eyed, blue-faced Ben Hardy, who holds his throat and gasps and wheezes, backing towards the door. Gus steps backwards as well, keeping the shaking camera on the Hell Machine as he brings his hands to his face, still laughing. As the laughter dies down and Janus runs his hands over his face... he lifts it up again to reveal green eyes and a small smile. "You two should go now..." Gus and Ben don't need a further word. Having witnessed the evil personality at its darkest, the interviewer and cameraman turn tail and RUN out of the little room. The view switches to a camera in a corner of the room, as the Anti-Heel Machine straightens up again. Clearly not aware of this second camera, the giant turns the chair around and sits down it, resting his head in his hands. As it begins to fade out, the big man speaks out loud, to no-one in particular. "...He's out of control..." Fade to blackness.

STATIC. FADE IN~ Many men have spoke of their desires to conquer the world. Many have tried and almost all of them failed in their endeavors. Of those that succeeded, they had everything at their fingertips. They had their country, they had their people, and they had all the riches they could ever dream of. Some have since thought it was impossible to reach that plateau in the new millennium. Well one man has come to prove everyone wrong… …and the people fall in the wake of his footsteps. Alan Clark sits in his tour bus, alone. His face is heavily bandaged and his expression seems pained, but a small smile shows through it all. Around him, his bus is in immaculate condition – more so than it has ever been before. Above his small television is a large frame, almost a trophy case, and inside is placed a blood soaked T-shirt and khaki pants are set for the world to see.The camera pulls in close, seemingly inspecting every crimson fiber, trying to dissect where every speck of blood had came from. The camera pulls back away from the trophy case and goes back to Alan, who is looking for his cue to speak. The crowd inside the MGM Grand can be heard cheering as Alan clears his throat… (Clark) Ladies and Gentlemen…I have done everything to deserve your applause. The sudden burst of ego from Clark causes the cheers to grow louder, and then quickly settle. (Clark) Yes. Even though I can not hear you at all in there right now, I have the sneaking suspicion that you know exactly what I am going to say next. Everyone, I went into From The Fire with a dream in my mind. I looked at Thugg and I did not see a monster. I did not see an unstoppable force. I did not see an insurmountable obstacle standing before me. What did I see when I looked in Thugg’s eyes? I saw a chance. I saw a chance to change my life forever. I saw a chance to step up to the plate and take the words out of the mouths of all those people that said I wasn’t good enough, or strong enough…I saw a chance to take those words and burn them to the ground! All those guys that said I would not even be physically able to take down Thugg and have him leave the SWF as a defeated man are looking at Alan Clark now and they are seeing a winner. They are looking at Alan Clark and they are seeing a man that just doesn’t talk the talk…but he walks the walk as well. Alan Clark reaches off screen, and when he pulls his hand back in, he is holding the Cruiserweight Championship (Clark) And I’m not going to stop now. Oh no! Look at this. The SWF Cruiserweight Title…in MY hands. Nobody could have predicted that I would come out of Smarkdown last week victorious…but I went out there and finished what I started two weeks earlier in Washington DC. The pain my body went through as it hit the mat, sending a shockwave through my body. I knew that as bad as I felt at that moment…Wildchild was feeling much, much worse. As bad as my body felt as I landed on top of Thugg and that car hood nearly collapsed. I knew that the fight was over. As I was placed in that ambulance…I raised my hand high for the world to see. They looked at me and they didn’t see a loser anymore! They didn’t see a choker! They didn’t see a failure! They saw Alan (BLEEP)ING Clark! THEY SAW…THEIR CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION! BLOODY, BEATEN, BROKEN…BUT A WINNER! Alan lets out a maniacal laugh to himself and then looks down at this belt, staring into it. (Clark) Look at me! Look at my face! These scars mean nothing to me…because I have this title! All the pain I went through…all the blood I lost…it means nothing to me anymore…because I am a champion! In this business…everyone’s goal is to be a champion…everyone’s goal is to hold the gold high above their head and tell the world that they are the BEST! Well look at me, World…look at me…I’M THE BEST CRUISERWEIGHT IN THE (BLEEP)ING BUSINESS!! Alan holds the belt above his head to a huge cheer from the crowd, his body shaking slightly (Clark) Nobody knows what I am feeling at this moment right now! Nobody can feel this tidal wave of emotion that rides over my body every time I realize my fate. You can look into my eyes and you may just be able to see my soul…but you have no way, no conceivable way to interpret and understand the way it feels every time I look into the gold shine on this title, when I look into that trophy case behind me…or just what went through my mind when I looked in the mirror before leaving the hospital Monday afternoon and saw these scars and saw the pain and the torture my body endured… …and I could not have been happier. Because as I walked out of that hospital, the last words I heard as the sliding doors closed behind me, was that of an SWF fan calling out toward me. I could hear the voice clearly and it still echoes in my mind as I sit here in front of this camera. That voice said “good work, champ” and I smiled…and I climbed up in my tour bus and I fell into my bed and I didn’t stop smiling. And as you look at me today…as you look into my eyes and you see this smile on my face and this gold in my hands… Know that one thing is for certain… Everyone should get used to this image…because it’s not going to be disappearing for a long, long time. …And now you all know the Answer. Alan Clark’s smile stays as his head drops down to look at his belt one more time, his fingers trace the outlines and Storm heads to commercial…. FADE OUT~ STATIC.

The live feed comes back to the MGM Grand in Las Vegas and the cameras scan the arena, picking out the faces of the SWF faithful who have turned up tonight for the chance to witness their favourite wrestlers. Among the heaving throng can be witnessed several home-made signs bearing such messages as “Royal Sucks!”, the plaintive “Where’s Tom Flesher?” and even one proclaiming “Va’aiga - Maori Tap-ahh!”. However, the cameras cut to the entranceway as the familiar crunching guitars of Lostprophets’ “We Still Kill The Old Way” kick in and the words “Prepare To Be Proved Wrong” flash up onto the blacked-out Smarktron before it cuts to a shot of Toxxic taking Mike Van Siclen off a balcony and through a table with the Toxxic Shock Syndrome, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the... GO! BOOOM!! ...explosion of red pyro that heralds the arrival of the SWF’s premier straight-edger! The crowd response is a little mixed - there are definitely cheers present, but boos are also audible following some of Toxxic’s tactics in his Pay-Per-View match against Aecas. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Funyon announces, “please welcome the NEW~ SWF Hardcore Gamer’s Champion - TOXXX-XXXIIIIC!!” As the main riff blasts out through the speakers Toxxic appears, Hardcore Title fastened round his waist and with his familiar lop-sided grin in place. Instead of his usual bare-chested ring look however, the Brit is wearing a new black t-shirt with the words “Hardcore Punk” emblazoned on the chest in a barbed wire font. Approaching the ring, Toxxic rolls under the bottom rope, wincing as the wounds on his back that are hidden by the shirt come into contact with the canvas. Once back on his feet he scales a ringpost and salutes the fans, throwing his arms wide with the palms flat downwards to an increased pop, then drops back down to the mat and extends his hand to Funyon. The ring announcer proffers his microphone and then exits the ring, leaving the new Hardcore Champion the centre of attention. “Well, here’s the newest SWF superstar,” Cyclone Comet announces as Toxxic looks around at the Nevada crowd. “This young man has come such a long way in such a short time, although I have to say that some of Citizen Toxxic’s decisions at From The Fire left a slightly bad taste in my mouth.” “How can you say that Comet?” Bobby Riley asks incredulously. “Yeah, sure, he’s a brown-nosing uptight spot-monkey with little discernable talent, but he did put Aecas out of commission in that 200 Light Tube match, hopefully for a long time - that has to be worth something!” “That is what I’m referring to, Robert,” Comet answers. “I appreciate it was a hardcore match but some of the things Toxxic did stick in my throat a little.” “Bah, if it’d been John Duran getting lacerated by glass on sunday night you’d have been lapping it up,” Riley grumbles. “Oh no, wait - he did, and you were!” “I’ve come out here tonight to address a couple of things,” Toxxic begins in the ring without preamble. “First off, in case it has escaped the notice of anyone here tonight, I am the NEW~ SWF Hardcore Gamer’s Champion!” The Las Vagas crowd responds, but again the response is not wholly favourable for the young rookie who pauses as he hears the scattered boos (mainly coming from people in Unholy Trinity shirts), before raising the microphone to his lips again and continuing. “I won this title in a hellish match at From The Fire against Aecas, and in case you’re wondering, that’s why I’m wearing a shirt since I only have about half a back left.” Mouth quirking up in a grin again, Toxxic unfastens the title belt from around his waist and slings it over his left shoulder, one black-nailed hand resting atop it. “Now, since sunday I’ve generally been asked one thing, and that is; ‘Do you think you can beat Aecas in a rematch?’. Well, the rematch is a whole other issue, but for the moment I’d just like to address Commissioner Mark Stevens.” The Las Vegas crowd cheers their collective hearts out at the mention of the Heavy Hitter’s name, and Toxxic turns to face the back, grey eyes seemingly trying to pierce the walls between the ring and the Commissioner’s office. “Mark Stevens, you took a risk by signing me to the SWF,” Toxxic begins. “You’d seen my work in the independents but you had no idea how I’d cope in the big leagues, especially since the SJL had folded. But you brought me in anyway and gave me a shot. Now I hope I’ve repaid that faith, and I think the fact that I was the best-performing SWF wrestler in the month of February verifies that. And as a reward, I get a title shot against anyone I choose, with whatever stipulation I choose. Well, Mark, I’d like to thank you for all of this. I’d just like to say...” Toxxic pauses and looks around at the crowd once more, then his eyes narrow. “...SCREW YOU!” “What?” Cyclone Comet yelps. “What did he say?” “He said ‘Screw you!’.” Bobby Riley laughs delightedly. “I don’t think he meant it for you, but I love it anyway!” “I’d like to thank you, Mark, but I can’t,” Toxxic continues as the Las Vegas crowd start to pour their derision down on the rookie good and proper. “What do I have to be thankful for? You threw me in at the deep end without any consideration of whether I could swim. My first match - my bloody debut, Mark! - I had to face Jacob Helmsley! You know, the nutter with the steel pipe? And I beat him, and everyone congratulated me, and I thought I’d be able to just consolidate my position a little. But no, next match it’s Number One Contender to the Cruiserweight Title!” Toxxic turns away from the entrance ramp and starts to pace around the ring, gesticulating as he goes as if debating the whole issue with himself. “Did I miss something, Mark? When did I say I wanted to wrestle for the Cruiserweight Title? You know what that says to me? It says ‘you can’t play with the big boys, little guy’. If I’d asked for it that’d be different, but no, because I weigh less than your stupid weight limit you throw me in there. Did you keep Tom Flesher with the cruisers? What about Sacred? They’re both former World Champions, and unless my information’s wrong they’re both technically cruiserweights! In any case, by some miracle Alan Clark the Psycho Hippy beats me, so I think I’m out of that and can just get on with wrestling. And then after a pleasant, relaxing Falls Count Anywhere triple threat match another title shot comes looming up on the horizon - the Hardcore Title!” Toxxic stops and rips the belt off his shoulder, brandishing it in the general direction of Grand Slam’s office. “This belt here! You put me in a match with Helmsley again! A hardcore one this time! I’m a wrestler, Mark, I’m not some bloody psycho stuntman! But you knew that I always give every match everything I have, so you pushed me to see what I’d got. And I showed you, and I showed everyone else when I dropped Jake Helmsley on his head through a steel chair!” The straight-edger has worked himself up into a real fury now and he ignores the boos raining down on him from the crowd as he continues his tirade. “I beat that nutter, and so I get another one. Aecas the Black bloody Angel! Seven feet and 315lbs of complete hardcore whackjob! I know he suggested the 200 Light Tube match, but it was you who signed it Mark! It was you who made it official! And now you have the audacity to preach to me about my conduct in that match? Bottom line, Grand Slam - if you don’t want your wrestlers to get hurt, don’t book them in a hardcore match against me! I told everyone, Aecas included, that I give 100% in my matches, so none of you have any excuse! And Aecas, you asked me if I’m crazy enough to prove you wrong...” Toxxic seems to relax a bit and sees one of the cameras on him at ringside. Turning, the Brit looks into the lens and smiles his lop-sided grin again, but there’s a new sinister edge to the smile that wasn’t there before. “...Tell me, Aecas. How’s your jaw? Been to the dentists recently? Got those shards of glass out yet? Is that crazy enough for you, big man? My friend, trust me when I say that you and the rest of the SWF have no idea how crazy I can get!” “You know,” Toxxic continues, turning away from the close-up and addressing the crowd once more, “I feel bad about what I had to do to win that match, I really do, but at the end of the day I was forced into it. And I overcame the odds against me, like size, weight, experience, being the challenger... and one month after entering the SWF, I am a champion! No biding my time in the SJL, this was from a cold start, people!” “TOX-XIC SUCKS!” “TOX-XIC SUCKS!” “TOX-XIC SUCKS!” “Those three syllables say better than any essay what the Las Vegas crowd here tonight thinks of this shameful outburst by a young man who I believed had a bright future in this industry,” Comet comments sadly as the SWF faithful reply to Toxxic’s verbal assault on their beloved Commissioner. “As far as I’m concerned, Comet, his future just got a lot brighter!” Riley replies. “At least it only took him a month to open his eyes and wise up to Mark Steven’s ways!” “Toxxic sucks?” Toxxic asks, raising an eyebrow at the chant. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Back when I was kicking the shit out of Aecas, I heard that. Simply because I went in and won a match that no-one gave me a chance of winning, I got booed. If I’d lost, I’d have probably got a rapturous reception. Make up your bloody minds!” Seemingly laughing to himself, Toxxic holds up one finger. “When people look back on that match in years to come, it won’t be Aecas breaking plant pots over my head that people will remember. It won’t be him giving me a Uranage suplex onto a barbed-wire board.” “It will be the image of Aecas, blood pouring down his face and from his mouth, trapped in the middle of the ring, passing out in the Repeat To Fade.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” “TRI-NI-TY!” “TRI-NI-TY!” “TRI-NI-TY!” The chants rise in the MGM Grand again, but Toxxic ignores them and starts speaking again, raising his voice to cut through the crowd. “Now, about that rematch? My answer; no way is Aecas getting a rematch off me. Not with my consent. I’ve had more than enough of that pot-plant loving lunatic for one year. Mark Stevens, you can force me into another match with Aecas if you want, but do you really want to do that given the state he ended up in last time? It’s your choice.” “One last thing,” Toxxic concludes as he leans against the ring ropes, abruptly fed up with the crowd reception and drained from finally getting things off his chest. “About that title shot? I’ll take it. Common sense tells me to stick with one title, since it half-killed me just to get it, but I’m not going to be beaten by you, Mark. You can line up other wrestlers, champions or challengers, it doesn’t matter, and I will go through them all as long as I’ve got breath. If you pull out of this deal following what I’ve just said it will just prove that you are that favourite-playing immoral wretch that Duran says you are-” “See, Comet? I told you he was working for the Unnamed!” Riley squeals. “Please, Robert, Citizen Duran has hardly kept his opinions to himself,” Comet responds, but his heart isn’t it in. “-and if you don’t? Well, you’d better tell the Insane Luchador to saddle up, because I’m coming for him and his precious ICTV belt!” Toxxic finishes, prompting a fresh chorus of boos from the Las Vegas crowd. “Citizen Rickman? Are you serious?” Comet gasps. “The Insane Luchador captured the ICTV Title at From The Fire, and now Toxxic is using his title shot to go after him?” “Quiet Comet, I want to hear what the stipulation is!” Riley demands. “The stipulation?” Toxxic asks, looking around at the seething hostile mass the surrounds him. “Quite simple. I made Jimmy Liston submit. I made Aecas pass out. So it’s going to be Submissions Only, Rickman! If you’ve got Tom Flesher’s number I suggest you give him a call, because you’re going to need all the help you can get!” Rousing himself once more, Toxic points a black-nailed finger straight up the entrance ramp. “You kept pushing me, Stevens! Seems to me you kept wanting to see if I’d reached my limits! Well I’ve got news for you, sunshine - it’s gonna take a lot more than you to reach my limits, and if you keep pushing people then sometimes they push back! You brought me here, and now you have to live with that!” Toxxic reins himself in once more and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. “What I’m saying, Mark, is that if you thought you’d got some sucker who’d be easily controlled... if you thought you could keep throwing me into things to satisfy your curiosity without me rebelling... if, above all, you thought you could tell me where to wrestle, who to wrestle and how to wrestle, then Grand Slam....” Toxxic pauses for a moment, then the right side of his mouth slides upwards into a malicious grin. “...prepare to be proved wrong!” As the Las Vegas crowd explodes with derision again Toxxic simply drops the microphone on the canvas and rolls under the bottom rope, wincing again at the pain in his back, then sets off up the entrance ramp to the back ignoring the fans as the guitars of the Lostprophets blast out over the MGM Grand, and we... FADE OUT. West smiles to the crowd with his crooked smile, “NAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

(Announcer): “And now for the SWF Rewind, brought to you by Hershey’s new S’Mores Candy bar!” << Flashback to: SWF From the Fire >> “MI Slam,” barks Comet. “By Zeus, MI Slam over the top! Maddix is back down! Royal is back down! This match is as good as over!” Kivell peers over the edge of the ring to check on Maddix as Johnny walks over to Royal and pulls him to his feet, trapping him in a front facelock as Wildchild gets back up. “There’s no telling what these two have planned here,” warns Comet, as Johnny lifts Todd into a delayed vertical suplex. “They’ve just about used the whole bag of tricks, but who knows if they’ve got something special planned for the House of Todd!” Wildchild steps out onto the ring apron and steadies himself as Johnny turns to face him, still holding Todd overhead, before leaping onto the top rope and springing into the ring wrapping his arms and legs around the suspended Messiah’s body and pushing him off of Johnny’s shoulders… WHAAAAAM! … Planting his head into the canvas with an elevated sitout piledriver! Johnny runs over to his corner and exits to the ring apron as Wildchild holds the motionless Todd Royal in place for the pin: ONE! TWO! THREE! DING! DING! DING! … Kivell hands the Championship belts to Wild and Dangerous and raises their hands in triumph, as Funyon rises from his seat and lifts the microphone to his lips to make the official announcement. “Here are your winners,” he says, “and… STIIIL SWF Tag Team Champions! WILD! AAAAAAAAND DANGEROUS!” << End Flashback >> (Announcer): “The new Hershey’s S’Mores candy bar; it’s like an orgasm, covered in chocolate!” FADE OUT FROM COMMERCIAL, AND BACK TO RINGSIDE As we return to ringside, Rage Against the Machine’s “Testify” is playing, and Judge William Hearford is standing in the center of the ring, discussing strategy with his tag team partner for the evening. “The following non-title tag team match is scheduled for one fall,” says Funyon. “Currently in the ring, at a total combined weight of four hundred fifty pounds, first, from London, England… Jack the Ripper! And his tag team partner, from Detroit, Michigan… Judge William Hearford!” “Jack the Ripper would be well served to heed whatever advice that Judge Hearford has for him,” says Bobby Riley. “I mean, we’re talking about one-half of the greatest tag team in the history of the SWF!” “This is the first appearance on Storm for Citizen Hearford in quite some time,” adds Cyclone Comet. “Perhaps he’s looking to get back on the winning track, and there’s no question that a big win against the Tag Team Champions would be a great start!” “Testify” fades out, to quickly be replaced by “Y.O.U.” The crowd goes crazy as Wildchild and Johnny Dangerous run out onto their stage, holding their Tag Team Championships high in the air, and posing for the crowd. “And their opponents,” continues Funyon, “at a total combined weight of four hundred thirty-one pounds, they are the SWF Tag Team Champions: WILD! AAAAAAAND DANGEROUS!” Funyon exits the ring stage right as Wild and Dangerous sling their title belts over their shoulders before running down the ramp, slapping hands with the fans at ringside. They reach the end of the ramp and complete a victory lap around the ring before simultaneously sliding underneath the bottom rope. Judge Mental and Jack exit the ring to allow the champions their moment as they each run to a corner of the ring and climb onto the middle turnbuckles, holding their title belts aloft once more so that the Las Vegas fans can continue to cheer them. “Las Vegas is showing a lot of love for the Tag Team Champions,” notes Comet. “They just came off an impressive victory at From the Fire against the House of Todd, and they hope to continue riding that momentum here tonight!” “Wildchild and Johnny Dangerous should both be suspended for what they did to Todd Royal on Sunday,” snaps Riley. “I mean, this is a Todd Bertuzzi situation; Wild and Dangerous should have to sit out for however long Todd Royal is out!” “Well, Robert,” replies Comet, “I think that you’re about three feet outside your mind, but I’ll at least give you credit for being topical!” Wildchild and Johnny surrender their Tag Team Titles over to referee Sexton Hardcastle as “Y.O.U.” fades out. They have a brief strategy discussion before Johnny steps onto the ring apron. Hardcastle then leans over the edge of the ring and signals the referee to start the match. DING! DING! DING! “Bell’s gone,” says Comet, “and we’re underway!” Hearford and Wildchild circle each other before meeting in the center of the ring for a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Judge takes advantage early, trapping, Wildchild in a hammerlock. The Human Hurricane reaches overhead and behind with his free hand and pulls down on Judge’s neck, allowing Mental’s reflexive resistance to send him flipping over behind his opponent’s back, where he traps the bad-tempered barrister in a waistlock, and pushes him towards the ropes. Mental grabs onto the ropes and shrugs Wildchild off with ease, who bounces off Mental’s back with a handspring backflip. Wildchild looks tauntingly at Hearford, who rushes at him angrily, but the Human Hurricane gracefully leapfrogs the lumbering legal-eagle… SMACK! … And springs back into the air the second his feet touch the canvas, blasting the rebounding judge with a backflip kick! The Bahama Bomber beats Hearford to his feet and hooks Hizzoner by the arm as he turns back towards the ring, jerking him through the air and slamming him into the mat with a textbook armdrag takeover! “Wildchild able to use his speed to his fullest advantage,” notes Comet. Wildchild, still holding onto Judge Mental’s wrist, grabs him by the arm and pulls him to his feet, leading him over to his corner where he makes the tag to his partner, Johnny Dangerous. “The tag is made,” cheers Comet, “and here comes Wildchild’s partner!” Hearford manages to pull himself away from Wildchild just as Johnny enters the ring, and attempts to make his way back to his corner, but like a stark-raving madman, Johnny tears across the ring directly at him! Mental lashes his arm with a fierce growl to deliver a deadly lariat, but the Barracuda just barely ducks in time to avoid it! Johnny makes headway for the ropes directly behind the Judge and bounces off before the beleaguered barrister can turn around, leaping into the air and grabbing onto the back of Mental’s head… WHAM! … Absolutely drilling Judge into the mat face-first! “Whoa,” exclaims Comet. “A massive bulldog there! I don’t think Judge realized he even missed with that clothesline before getting nailed with that one!” Johnny immediately pops back up to his feet then swings around towards Jack as he waits on the apron and… SMACKS~ the taste right out of his mouth! “What in the hell was that,” cries Riley. “That was totally uncalled for; he is just *begging* to have Jack the Ripper ‘RIP’ his head off and spit down his throat!” “So long as Jack isn’t pissing on anybody,” adds Comet. Enraged by the slap, Jack jumps into the ring and is quickly cut off by the Referee, ordering the Nutcase back to his corner as Johnny pulls Judge off the mat and heaves him across the top rope, suspending Hearford by his torso as the Barracuda holds him by his legs. Wildchild sees his setup and zooms across the ring directly behind his partner, then leaps into the air after springing back off the ropes, sailing high over Johnny’s head before crashing down onto Hearford’s back! WHAM! “Slam Dance,” shouts Comet, as Wildchild exits to his corner and Johnny peels the Judge off the top rope. “His Honor is going to need to stock up with a case of Doans after that one!” Johnny hooks his hands around Judge’s waist from behind, then hauls him up and over, slamming his shoulders and neck into the mat with a German Suplex, and holds the bridge for a pin! Finally having dispatched Jack to his corner, the Referee slides in and drops to make the count… ONE! TWO! CRACK! But Jack’s boot sails straight into the side of Johnny’s head, jarring him loose from his pin on the Judge! Johnny rolls onto his back, holding dearly to his face as the Referee jumps to his feet and orders Jack out of the ring before the Ripper can throw any more illegal hits in… and is completely oblivious as the Bahama Bomber leaps to the top of the post and springs off… WHAM! “Oh, a beautiful Five Star Frog Splash from the Wildchild,” cheers Comet as the Bahaman lands on Hearford with a ferocious impact much to the joy of the fans, then rolls out of the ring. “What in the hell,” cries Riley, “that was about as illegal as a truck-load of Mexicans! Did the ref not see that? Can he not feel the ring shaking when Wildchild hit that move?” “If he didn’t have to spend over half his time disciplining Citizen Ripper, he might be able to focus more time on the rest of the class,” explains Comet. “So blame Jack for taking all of the referee’s attention away from the match if you want to blame somebody.” “Harrumph!!” Johnny pulls himself up by the ropes, and extends one hand out for the Wildchild as his other hand gently massages his back. Smack! “Wildchild’s in,” cheers Comet as the crowd showers the Bahama Bomber with cheers, “and he is in excellent positioning to win this match!” The Tropical Tumbler flies into the ring, and drops his elbow straight into Hearford’s sternum with a sickening THUNK~ then hooks Judge by the leg and rolls him into a pin. “I think Wildchild is hoping to capitalize on the Five-Star from moments ago,” speculates Comet, “with a little extra poke of the meat there to make sure it’s done.” Again the referee deals away with the Ripper just in time to spin around and catch a pin in progress. He slides in and begins to count… ONE! TWO! TH-NOOOOO! “Kick out just before three,” sighs Bobby. “The Judge still has some life left in him, though he’d be wise to tag the fresh man in for a few minutes to recoup.” “I don’t know how wise that would be,” counters Comet. “Jack might forget that he’s in a tag team match and never tag Judge Mental back in.” “Oh please, Comet,” says Riley, rather mockingly. “Jack’s not that stupid… is he?” But Wildchild leaves the Judge with no chance of sneaking to his corner – pulling Hizzoner up by what’s left of his hair, Wildchild leads him to the corner and reaches out to tag his partner. Smack! Grabbing Hearford by his wrist the Bahaman directs his partner to do the same, and the pair whips the Judge across the ring. Wild and Dangerous both take off for the opposite side of the ring as Judge hits the ropes, and the three comes sailing back for a head on collision… WHAM!! … But this time it’s Mental with the upper hand! The angry adjudicator puts everything he has into diving through the air before Wild and Dangerous can connect and ramming his forearms into both of their throats! “Ha,” snorts Riley. “Judge Mental with a double clothesline on both Wild AND Dangerous! So much for their cheating!” “They were within the standard five seconds that’s allotted to both teams, Citizen Robert,” remarks Comet. “The cheating accusations you constantly make once again hold no ground.” “Yeah, well,” mumbles Bobby, desperately trying to think of some witticism. “Uh … Big time counter from the Judge … yeah, let’s see if this will finally shift the momentum in Judge and Jack’s corner!” “… Right.” Smacking the palm of his hand against the side of his head, Hearford clears the cobwebs as he slowly gets back to his feet. He reaches down and grabs a fistful of Johnny’s hair, pulling him to his feet as the Referee tends to helping Wildchild out of the ring, and marching the Barracuda straight to the vicious and snarling Jack – frothing at the mouth like a dog for a tag! Jack scoops Johnny up in his arms and slams him back down to the mat. He then begins to stomp down on Johnny’s back before bending down to pick him up. The London Lunatic grabs Johnny by the waist and lifts him up off the mat… WHAM! … Before slamming him back down onto his outstretched knee with a back breaker! “Nice, crisp backbreaker by Jack the Ripper,” admires Riley. Jack steps out onto the ring apron and grabs onto the top rope, slinging his body back into the ring… SPLASH! … And crashing into Johnny with a slingshot Senton! He rolls over to apply a half-hearted cover as Hardcastle dives into position: ONE! KICKOUT! “Nice kickout by the Barracuda,” says Comet. “He’s far from being out of this match!” Jack pulls Johnny to his feet and leads him to the ropes. He grabs the Barracuda by the wrist, preparing to whip him back across the ring, but unseen by the Ripper, Johnny reaches behind him to make the blind tag to Wildchild! Johnny spins around on his heel as Jack attempts to launch him and reverses, sending the London Lunatic into the ropes instead. Wildchild leaps onto the top turnbuckle as the Ripper rebounds back towards the center of the ring. Johnny lowers his head and propels Jack into the air with a tremendous back body drop as the Bahama Bomber explodes from off the top turnbuckle… BANG! … Blasting Jack in the face at the apex of his elevation with a flying forearm! The Ripper plummets to the canvas with Wildchild falling directly on top of him, as Johnny runs over to the corner and knocks Judge Mental off of the ring apron! “Silver Bullet,” exclaims Comet, as Hardcastle drops down to check the pinfall. “Wild and Dangerous just struck down Jack the Ripper with a Silver Bullet!” ONE! TWO! THREE! DING! DING! DING! “It’s over,” shouts Comet, as “Y.O.U.” begins to play once more. “Just like that!” “Here are your winners,” says Funyon, as he rises from his seat to return the Tag Team Titles to the referee, “The SWF Tag Team Champions… WILD! AAAAAND DANGEROUS!” “Wild and Dangerous getting a little bit of a workout here tonight,” says Comet, “pretty much having their way with the overmatched team of Judge Mental and Jack the Ripper!” “It’s all Jack fault,” spits Riley, as Wild and Dangerous celebrate atop the turnbuckles. “There’s no excuse for losing a match like this when you have a partner as good as Judge Hearford!” “We’ll be right back, folks,” says Comet, “with more excellent SWF Action!” As we: FADE OUT

Funyon walks into the middle of the ring and brings the microphone up to his lips, “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the NEWWWWW SWF United States Junior League Champion. COYYYYY WESSSSST!” Walking out through the entranceway for the first time since From the Fire, Coy West is greeted by a thunderous ovation with a brand spanking new title belt draped over his shoulders. But that is not the only new part of West’s attire as he shockingly enough come to the ring wearing an extremely tasteful pinstripe suit. In addition, his trademark long hair is now neatly pulled back behind his head into a ponytail. Suffice to say the crowd is not exactly sure what to make of the Wild Coyote as he takes a moment to rub the soles of his new expensive shoes against the apron before stepping through the ring ropes. Straitening his tie, West hangs the USJL Title over his shoulder as he politely takes the microphone away from the ring announcer. Clearing his throat West begins to speak, “Kind people it is both a pleasure and a honor to stand before you now as the USJL Champion. And it is my solemn vow to be both a champion that you can appreciate and support each and every night. For if I cannot be a man to be both admired and appreciated in a severe and unbelievably dull manner… I guess I’ll just have to be me!” Reaching into his suit coat’s pocket, West pulls out a mason jar full of something clear but obviously not water. Immediately unscrewing the lid and taking a manly chug of the liquid, West coughs loudly into the microphone as the crowd begins to rise again in glee. “HOLEEEEEEEEEEEE CRAP! That will put hair places you didn’t know you had!” Tossing the jacket off his shoulders and throwing it over the top rope West quickly unfurls the power of the mullet and allows it to flop it into the air for maximum bounce. “You know there are a whole bunch of people that don’t think I might be suitable to represent this company because I live in a trailer and drive it everywhere I go. Because I dress like crap and eat at the greasiest places I can find! Well folks, some champions might look like models or big tough guys… but Coy West looks like this!” Pulling his buttoned shirt apart, West brings another cheer out of the populace as he reveals his trademark tank top underneath. Soon only having his tie remaining, Coy grabs the neckwear and pulls it up and over his head like a bandanna. “Took me an hour to get that knot right. Jesus! But folks let me tell you this, champions look just like you. They eat just like you. Champions can be you! Because if I can come out here and grab a hold of the SWF like this you can grab everything you ever wanted out of this life right by the short hairs. There isn’t nothing you can’t do.” Taking another swallow from the jar, West coughs from the heavy proof that is now working its way down his system as the crowd continues to buzz excitedly. “But as much as I might like this shiny piece of gold, I also know that there are bigger, shinier pieces of gold out there. And bubba, don’t think I couldn’t take Grappler down… that I couldn’t take The Insane Luchador down… that I couldn’t take every body in this whole damn federation down. Because for all of things I don’t got, I don’t got one very important thing, and that’s fear. This ugly little monkey will fight anyone and everyone that Mark Stevens and the SWF bosses can chuck my way. Because the Coyote is on the hunt and I am ready to bite the crap out of anyone that comes on down. From Janus to Va’aiga, Coy West will fight and fight and sometimes win until stops me. And friends, there ain’t a soul walking that can make me quit!” Taking another chug, West looks at the crowd with a slightly unbalanced eye. “Although I think I might have to quit drinking.”

And we're back on Storm! The camera focuses in on the mask covered face of Cyclooooooooooooone Comet, who speaks. "Welcome back, citizens! If I may, I would like to introduce a new, bi-monthly segement to the SWF, the official Superstar of the Month award! The commissioner has tasked several people with the duty of monitoring the win and loss records, match stipulations and title wins of everyone on the roster, and it is today that we will officially present the first award of the year, for the month of February!" "Yeah," says Riley, decidedly unenthusiastic. "Here's a feature from earlier today, featuring the commish and... and damn, I can't *believe* who walked away with this stupid honour." And with Bobby's grumbling, the camera fades and focuses in on a shot outside the MGM Grand, sometime that afternoon. It is a close up of the smiling, bispectacled face of the SWF commissioner "Grand Slam" Mark Stevens, which slowly pans back to reveal him in his usual professional looking suit. Under one arm is a heavy looking mahogany plaque, and with the other he indicates to the camera... "Hello, fans," chimes Mark. "You're no doubt watching this on Storm, the show to happen at the... ah... fine establishment behind me later today," he says, indicating to the Grand. "But before that, it is an honour and priviledge for me to present an award that I will be handing out each month beginning today, for the best record over a span of 30 days, something I hope will become prestigious and reveered," he beams. "Anyway," Mark continues, "Without further adieu, I would like to present the award to this month's winner... TOXXIC!" The camera pans to the right of Mark, where the punk rocksta... ah, I mean, straight-edge posterboy stands, looking unusually disinterested. He holds the gleaming SWF HCG title over his shoulder, loosely gripped with one hand. Keeping up his broad smile, Mark hands the plaque over (emblazioned with "SWF SUPERSTAR OF THE MONTH, FEBRUARY, 2004"), which Toxxic grabs with his other hand. The smattering of road agents and referees gathered for the ceremony appluaud politely, as the hardcore champ looks at it... dispassionately, before letting his arm drop back to his side. Mark appears decidedly uncomfortable, but decides to soldier on, reaching out to shake hands with Toxxic, who does so unethusiastically. "Ah... yes, well. Toxxic, I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised by the fact you, a rookie, ended up having the best record of all wrestlers in the SWF this month, but it was a pleasant one." "I'm sure," mumbles Toxxic, finally speaking. Mark's smile finally drops from his face, but he goes on. "I have to say that I hope you can keep up this high standard of preformance for the rest of your career, because I see great things in your future if you've already gotten so high up the mountain this soon. Although, I really must voice a bit of complaint with the brutality that ensued during your match with Aecas at From the Fire--" "Nevermind that you signed that match into happening knowing it was gonna' be sick, right?" asks Toxxic, incredulously. "Well... indeed. I'm... sure it's a moot point, and I won't have to take any issue with it," Mark says, dryly, as Toxxic gives him a less-than-reassuring look. "Never the less! I would like to also offer you with an additonal reward, something I felt would be better than a simple plaque for someone having the best record in a month!" "Really." Mark nods, then pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger. "As futher commendation, I would like to offer you a shot at ANY SWF title, up to and including the SWF world championship. You may also pick any stipulation you wish for this match... I figured I should give anyone who gets this honour the chance to make it a good one, since they may never get a shot again..." Toxxic's eyes narrow, and then... his expression lightens a bit, "Any title, huh? That's pretty cool, Stevens... you understand that I'm going to have to think about this for a while, right?" "Oh, of coruse, of course." "Alright," murmus Toxxic. "I have to run, then. I got some stuff to get ready for later tonight." And with that, Toxxic turns from the commissioner, mutterly a barely audible 'Oh, and thanks,' as he walks away. Mark gives the hardcore champ a bit of a sour expression, but shakes his head and turns back to face the camera. "Ah, well, there you have it. SWF Superstar of the Month for February... Toxxic! Guess we'll let 'em get back to the show now, Gus." There's a 'nod' from the camera guy, and then, the picture fades to...

Not a bad effing idea Rando...not bad at all. Personally, I'd just like to see them merge the rosters again and stop putting on one C+/B- product and one D product. I think THAT will solve a lot of issues and bring fans back to watching ONE WWE. This two brand crap makes it annoying, and it allows fans to do something you DON"T want them to do...which is WATCH ONLY ONE BRAND!! The fact is...I like Raw...so I hardly every watch Smackdown because I'm not going to miss anything. The people that I have a vested interest in are on Raw, so there's no reason for me to watch Smackdown. If it were possible for anyone to show up on any show, I'd watch Smackdown. Be that as it may, I think the ranking system is a great way to get interest back in the matches and making the belts mean something. Because now, no one cares that much about the matches...what they seem to care about is whether or not Taker is going to reach up from under the ring and pull Kane down to hell...instead of whether or not they'll have a solid match. That's all.

Group ID: 14789 Password: theswf Da "I'm a big dummy" H

JOIN NOW!! http://tournament.fantasysports.yahoo.com/ Group: Forgetful Bastards Pass: theswf Da "get yo ass in gear bitches" H

I'll start it up. Da "oops, how could I forget to add this" H

ATTENTION: Since this is a promo show, I am going to extend the due time for promos to get in to me. I will be DJing until 10:30pm EST, so I will give all of you until 11pm EST to get your promos in. I will post the show promptly after I get in at 11...so, you have until then. Da "just this once" H

Scratch that...someone else can have the opening promo. It wouldn't make sense for me to have a promo on the show. Da "board promo, here I come" H

You know...I'll let Z confirm or reject this, but it seems to me that it be best to say that you have to take the title shot in the first two or three shows after the PPV...just so we don't have people demanding world title shots on the show right before the next PPV. Da "just throwing it out there" H