Chuck Woolery

More of the Prince Killings love, with possibly a match if I'm feeling ballsy. Also, Calvin Szechstein attempts to take out his frustrations on the 70's Dude, with a 65% chance of success.

"I'm the Bomb" by the Electric Six. Best song ever.

Part of that is probably because his name is "Bun B". Not knowing who he was and seeing that name on a CD made me say, "Damn, what a lame motherfucker." That said, I'm in the same boat as IDRM pretty much. Three Six Mafia is downright worthless, I dig Pastor Troy a bit (he was on a sick "Yeah!" remix), and I also liked what little bit of Juicy J I heard. Nothing to really set it apart from the crowd, but good if it's what you're looking for.

This is so fucking childish every single way you look at it.

KJ Brackish was underrated. *ducks*

My first thought was that having one owner could so easily turn into the WWE on ice. My second thought was that, sadly, that would draw better than hockey.

If it's going to be changed, it should be a two-man team. This three-person shit is a bitch.

You know, that would be nice.

I'll let you, but it's up to you and Pretzler if you want to joint or not. Either way is fine with me.

“We’re back for the main event-” “-and it doesn’t matter about anything else, because we’re still in THE KINGDOME~!” Suicide King shouts, interrupting Longdogger Pete. “This is MY HOUSE!” “…since when did you become Elix Skipper?” *BAM!* The commentator’s bickering is cut short by the opening blast of pyro as Lamb of God’s ‘Black Label’ kicks up and the Smarktron does the flypast of the world-famous Hollywood sign. The drumming picks up as the intro begins to gather pace, then… ‘AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!’ -the opening scream of Randy Blythe rings out as white lights at the entranceway begin to strobe! For a few moments more nothing can be seen, but then a hooded shape makes its way out onto the soundstage… “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Spike Jenkins drops to one knee and waits as the crowd starts cheering en masse. After a few seconds the former Revolutionary stands back up and raises his arms in the familiar ‘X’ pose, symbolising his straight-edge lifestyle, then starts to make his way down the entrance ramp. “Ladies and gentlemen, the following non-title match is scheduled for one fall,” Funyon begins. “Introducing first, from Hollywood, California and weighing in at 225lbs… ‘HOLLYWOOD’… SPIIIIIIIIIIIKE… JEEEENNNN-KIIIIIIINNNNSSSS!!” “LET’S GO SPI-IKE!” “LET’S GO SPI-IKE!” Spike reaches the bottom of the ramp and proceeds to make his usual circuit of the ring, hood still covering most of his face. The former Cruiserweight Champion slaps hands with the fans as he goes, but his mind tonight seems to be on something else. The man he is about to face; the man who arguably gave him the driving force to become the wrestler that he now is, but also the man who betrayed him and turned on him. “Tonight is Spike Jenkins’ chance to get revenge,” LDP asserts as Spike rolls under the bottom rope into the centre of the ring, where he once more assumes a position on one knee for a few seconds before standing up and crossing his arms again. “Tonight, less than a week before Toxxic defends the World Title against Landon Maddix, Spike gets his opportunity to make the Straight-Edge Sensation pay for what he has done.” “Please, do you think Toxxic is going to let Spike beat him?” King scoffs incredulously. “This is the man who has lost less than ten matches in a year in the company - I don’t think Hollywood here is going to present any more of a threat than he did last summer!” “I think you might find that Spike Jenkins is more motivated and talented now than he was then,” Longdogger Pete argues, “and almost certainly more focused.” Abruptly ‘Black Label’ fades down and the Smarktron whites out as the opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire crashes out over the Kingdome. The screen quickly darkens to black and as it does so, jagged white letters flash up a familiar slogan… ‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG’ The screen changes again to show a spiky-haired head that raises and stares out at the crowd with steel-grey eyes, one side of the face creasing up in the trademark lopsided grin. The picture shifts to clips from the Straight-Edge Sensation’s most notable matches and once Aecas has had his jaw lacerated, the Insane Luchador has been beaten all over the Wachovia Center and Nathaniel Kibagami has been dropped on his head the shot changes once more - to Mike Van Siclen being taken off a balcony and through a table as red blasts of pyro climb the entrance ramp, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the final, stagewide eruption of red pyro- *BAM-BAM-BAM-bap-BOOOM!!* -that signals the arrival of the SWF’s premier straight-edger as the main riff starts! For a few moments all that can be seen is the after-image of the pyro blast, then through the smoke and the haze strides the familiar figure of the reigning SWF World Heavyweight Champion, wearing his ‘2004 World Champion Tour’ shirt. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “And his opponent!” Funyon bellows, trying to make himself heard over the riot of noise inside the Kingdome, “from Nottingham, England; he weighs in tonight at 218lbs and is the reigning SWF World Heavyweight Champion… the ‘Straight-Edge Sensation’, TOXXXXX-” -but Funyon is cut off as Spike Jenkins slides out of the ring and charges up the ramp towards his opponent! Toxxic sees him coming of course and quickly unstraps his title belt to give himself freedom of movement, but although he manages to get his arm up he isn’t totally able to block Spike’s initial wild swing and the two men crash to the ground as referee Rob Styles hurries towards them, yelling for Spike to allow his opponent to get to the ring. “SPIKE-SPIKE-SPIKE-SPIKE-SPIKE!” “Absolutely disgraceful behaviour!” King shouts as Jenkins mounts his struggling former leader and begins raining down right hands. “Is this what leaving Revolution Zero does for you!?” “Two things, King;” Pete tells his commentary partner as Styles drags Spike off Toxxic, only for the former Cruiserweight Champion to shake him off, haul Toxxic to his feet as well and then send the World Champion careering into one of the steel guardrails that lines the entranceway. *CRASH!* “YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Firstly, it was Toxxic who kicked Spike out of Revolution Zero, not Spike’s decision to leave;” Grabbing the staggered Brit, Spike sends him into the other set of railings as well! *CRASH!* “YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!” “and secondly,” Pete continues, “how much warning did Toxxic give Spike before flooring him with that brass knuckles shot?” “Hey, if I saw Toxxic with brass knuckles on looking at me in a funny way, I’d have the brains to get the hell out of there,” King retorts loftily. Spike is in no mood to get the hell out of there at the moment - in fact the Californian is clearly in control of events, and he grabs Toxxic by the spiky hair and hauls his former leader off in the direction of the ring with an ineffectual Rob Styles in tow. The referee is evidently hoping that Spike will roll Toxxic into the ring but his wishes are not granted as Jenkins tows his groggy former leader to the corner of the ring, where he proceeds to- *CLANG!* -ram his head into the steel ringpost! Toxxic slumps to the padded mats outside the ring, but Spike isn’t done yet. Barking a terse ‘move!’ at Funyon the California man grabs the steel chair that the ring announcer had parked his buttocks on and heads back towards Toxxic. Rob Style interposes himself, sees the look in Spike’s eyes and thinks better of it, and Jenkins winds up for a swing that should disconnect Toxxic’s head from his shoulders… *whoosh!* -but Toxxic ducks, and as the momentum of Spike’s swing carries him around Toxxic wraps his hands around his fellow straight-edger’s forehead and sits out to drive the back of Spike’s skull into the arena floor with the Underkill! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “And finally someone stops Spike Jenkins’ reign of terror,” King sighs in relief. “No thanks to that useless idiot Rob Styles, either.” “Technically the match hasn’t started until both men are in the ring and the bell has sounded,” Pete reminds the former SWF Commissioner, “so Styles’ power is very limited at the minute.” “Typical bureaucracy, hiding behind red tape,” sniffs King, the man who forced Mark Stevens back into action due to a deliberately-hidden contract clause. Toxxic takes advantage of his brief moment of respite to clamber into the ring, where he squats and shakes his head to try and clear it from Spike’s early offensive. Meanwhile Jenkins has managed to get to his feet on the outside and looks around to see his opponent inside the square circle. Despite his earlier care to make sure Toxxic did not enter the ring and therefore be able to legally assault him, Hollywood has no hesitation in entering under the bottom rope- *DING-DING-DING!* -thereby officially starting the match- *Smack!* -and getting a basement dropkick to the head for his troubles as Toxxic jumps up and attacks! The shot knocks Spike sideways, and the Brit hastily steps out to the apron and waits for his opponent to get up. Jenkins does so, holding his head, and Toxxic slingshots himself back into the ring, hooking Spike around the shoulders as he does so to take him down with the Radford Roll… ONE! TWO!! …but Spike kicks out! Without hesitation Toxxic is up again and heads for the far ropes, rebounding off and hurtling back at his former lackey- *WHAM!* -but Spike surges to his feet and nails him with a Lariat! “LARIATOOOOOOOOO~!” Longdogger Pete shouts as Toxxic flips through the air and comes down on his front. “Spike could have ended it already!” But Spike doesn’t seem interested in winning; instead the man from Hollywood slips under the ropes and out to the floor where he grabs the steel chair that he had hold of earlier and that Funyon hasn’t thought to reclaim. Jenkins slides back into the ring and straightens up with his weapon in his hand - Rob Styles gets in the way and stays in the way this time, but as he tries to take the chair from Spike the straight-edger just shoves him roughly aside and lines up on Toxxic’s head as the British punk starts to rise… *CRACK!* “YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!” *DING-DING-DING!* Spike doesn’t even seem to hear the bell, or Funyon’s shaken announcement of his loss via disqualification. Instead he pulls the chair apart slightly, then places the dazed Toxxic’s left leg between the seat and the back. “He’s going to try and cripple him!” Pete gasps. “Payback is one thing, but this might be going a bit too far!” “Damn right, and Spike’s about to get what’s coming to him!” King shouts as the backstage area disgorges the familiar figures of Sean Davis (carrying a baseball bat, as if he needed to be any more intimidating) and Scott Pretzler, with Jet and Marcus Washington bringing up the rear. Spike looks around as the crowd begins to boo and sees the rest of Revolution Zero bearing down on him with bad intent. For a moment Hollywood seems torn; then his face shows frustration at the realisation that he won’t have the time to complete his task and he settles for spitting on Toxxic and bailing out as Davis and Pretzler hit the ring. “LET’S GO SPI-IKE!” “LET’S GO SPI-IKE!” Davis and Pretzler shout threats at the unrepentant former Cruiserweight Champion who has now hurdled the guard rail and stands amidst the fans who are unreservedly cheering him on. Meanwhile Jet and Marcus check on Toxxic, who although has been knocked silly by the chair shot still has his leg in one piece. “Toxxic has been saved by Revolution Zero from the man he kicked out of the stable,” Pete says, “but you have to believe that this issue is not over! And as if that wasn’t enough, Toxxic is defending the World Title against Landon Maddix in a Total Elimination match on Sunday at From The Fire! The direction of the SWF could drastically change in six day’s time, so join us then to see how things go down!” The last image of Smarkdown shows Spike Jenkins in the crowd, holding up his thumb and forefinger merely an inch apart, mouthing the words ‘this close’ at Toxxic. FADE OUT

Before the firey pyro and crazy screaming can kick off Smarkdown, we are back in the parking lot where a long, black limousine is pulling up into the arena. Running into view, Benjamin Hardy seems pretty anxious to get an interview with whoever is in the limo, cameraman following close behind. "Welcome to Smarkdown folks...Benjamin Hardy here...about to...get an interview...with a man who many people...want to hear from...Lan..." Finally the limo pulls up and the door pops open... "...Tom!?!" "What sort of a greeting is that Ben?" sneers Tom Flesher(~!) as he exits his limo, casually shutting his door behind him. "And what have I told you about calling me Tom?" "Mi...mist...Mister Flesher. Welcome to The Kingdo.." *HONK-HOOOOOOONNKK!!* Suddenly, Flesher and Hardy dive theatrically out of the way...as a bus ploughs past the limo at a reckless speed! Flesher, having dove onto the limo's boot in his most theatrical move for a good two years, looks up in shock. Hardy meanwhile pulls himself off the floor and brushes his second-hand suit off. Both turn, looking at the bus in anger, as the *pfft* of the door opening makes way to cheers in the arena, at the sight of Landon Maddix jogging down the bus steps. Flesher starts to fume even more, as Maddix poses for no reason. "Uhm...excuse me To..Mr Flesher, sorry. LANDON!" Hardy jogs over to Maddix, as from the buss emerge Megan, Cortez and Clark one by one. "Landon, welcome to the Kingdome!" "Kingdome huh?" smiles Maddix. "Well, they named it after the right guy it seems, because just being in an arena named after King makes me want to commit Suicide. See what I did there?" "Yeah, great. Now..." Suddenly, Hardy takes another theatrical dive...this time at the hands of Tom Flesher, who shoves him to the side and glares at the smug Maddix. "I hope you boys don't have big plans for your paychecks this month, because I'm afraid they're going to be diminished kids. Consider all of yourselves fined for being late tonight...and I'm no lawyer, so I'll have to consult one before deciding how much of a fine I should hand out for attempted vehicular assault!" "Tom, we were only late because YOU held us up." points out Cortez. "What?" "I've been stuck behind you for the past half and hour." confirms Clark, to a sneer from Flesher. "Listen, incase you hadn't noticed, I have a show to run tonight, so we can talk about this some other time. But, seeing as you're here..." spits Flesher, directing his attentions firmly at Landon. "...we need to talk. So, your little friends can run along. Especially you Clark, because your match is up first. And I doubt Manson is too pleased you and your buddies have been 'road tripping' through time you could have been talking strategy." Clark grumbles something under his breath, but notices Cortez storming off in the direction of the arena and quickly follows after him. Megan jogs off too, leaving Flesher and Maddix standing in the parking lot alone. "How's retirement treating you Tom?" "Don't get smart with me kid, I don't have the time." Flesher snaps. "I need to talk to you about From The Fire. What with you..somehow..winning the Clusterfuck and getting the #1 Contendership, it seems I'm required to give you the same rights Charlie Matthews got last year. Which means...you get to pick the stipulation for your match with Toxxic." Smiling wryly, Maddix pats Flesher on the shoulder, which the head of Smarkdown doesn't seem to appreciate. "Man, you're mellowing in your old age, huh? You...letting ME, pick the stip for From The Fire. I must say, I'm honoured." "You were always entitled and you know it. The ONLY reason I'm here is because you conveniently haven't told anybody what stipulation you're choosing! Toxxic isn't too happy about that. Neither am I. So, you have a choice Maddix. You make your announcement within the next...ooh, half an hour. Or, you forfeit your right to choose a stipulation, due to insufficient preparation time." "Well Tom, you needn't get those panties in a twist..." Flesher fumes some more. "I've got a stip for you right now. I like to call it the Total Elimination Match." ... "You know, that means nothing to me kid." "Well 'pops', it basically means that to win, me or Toxxic need a pinfall, a submission and a knockout. In any order. First to get all of them and 'totally eliminate' their opponent wins. Got that?" "Yeah, I've got that." With a nod, Maddix begins to walk off, but stops as Flesher clears his throat. "One more thing Landon. See, as I've given you the same priviledges as Charlie Matthews was given, it stands to reason that you should have the same responsibilities. And seeing as you're holding two of our singles titles and defending them...shall we say, sporadically...that means that you won't just have to contend with Toxxic at From The Fire." Maddix's eyes raise a little as Flesher, realising he's hit a little bit of a nerve with the cocky youngster, grins away at him. "Oh no. You see, you're the USJL Champion. And you're not defending it like you should. Being champion isn't all about shiny gold and polish you know, you have to actually defend them." "That's rich coming from you. Found a new dip holder yet?" "Yeah...whatever. Listen, the fact is, you've been issued a challenge for that USJL Title and I can't overlook that. So, congratulations, because you're doing double duty at From The Fire." "Only double?" Maddix mocks. "You're not going to make me defend the ICTV Title too?" "Don't push your luck. At From The Fire, you're going one on one to open the show, defending your USJL Title...against Austin Sly. Now, I suggest you go and get ready for your match tonight. And, if you can, try and learn to wrestle on the way kid. I haven't been impressed with your pure wrestling displays so far and if you want to go anywhere on MY show, you'd better buck your ideas up." With a sarcastic smile, Maddix mutters something under his breath as he strides off towards the entrance. "Oh, and by the way..." Flesher calls after Maddix. "...good luck teaming with Cortez tonight. Let's hope he's a forgiving person." "*cough*GenesisV*cough*" Maddix enters the arena itself, as Flesher smirks into the distance presuming he got the upper hand on the situation. Until he turns around, finding a dent in his limo. "Damn Maddix!"

“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” The question comes in the deep, rumbling voice of Sean Davis, and it is directed at the figure of the World Heavyweight Champion, Toxxic. The Straight-Edge Sensation turns to the muscle of Revolution Zero and flashes him a quick, tight grin. “Sure I’m sure. Why wouldn’t it be?” “Toxx, this is Spike we’re talking about here,” Jet says from the corner of the dressing room. “You know, the guy you kicked out and beat down a couple of weeks back?” The dreadlocked beauty doesn’t seem in the best of moods, for once; her loyalty to her boyfriend and her stable is unquestioned, but that doesn’t mean she feels good about the beating laid on the man she’d managed for months. “OK, so you can probably take him in a match, but is he going to want a match right now?” “Maybe, maybe not,” Toxxic concedes. “Look, I’m not going into this blind, OK? If Spike wants to beat me, wants to make a match of it, I’ll take him on and beat him. It’ll be a good warm-up for Landon on Sunday, especially if he tries the Silver Lining. If he wants to take me out, well then,” the Straight-Edge Sensation shrugs, “that’s where you guys come in. You can leave the match to me, but the moment it looks like Spike’s trying to injure me I’d appreciate some backup. I’m going to be playing by the rules, but I’m aware Spike might not. That cool with everyone?” Toxxic looks around the room. Scott Pretzler, Sean Davis, Jet and Marcus Washington all nod in response. “OK then,” Toxxic says, strapping the World Title around his waist and heading for the door, “let’s get this show on the road…”

“Johnny,” Wildchild calls out to his tag team partner and best friend as he enters the locker room. He looks around for a moment and sees nothing but a few wet towels thrown recklessly about, and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke still in the air. Cigarette smoke, he thinks to himself, remembering that he found a pack of smokes that Johnny left behind on Lockdown and decides to follow the smell to its source. Straight down the first row of lockers, a quick left, and as he rounds the bend he comes across the Barracuda himself seemingly enjoying a drag off his cigarette. Johnny opens his eyes to get a sudden visual of the Bahaman standing several feet in front of him with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. He knew what Wildchild thought about him smoking before – Nic, as Johnny referred to him, was on him about it everyday until he was finally able to kick the habit. Knowing this, Johnny quickly tosses the cigarette to the floor and grinds the BUTT into the floor with his toe while waving the smoky air away. “Nic,” he says, in mock surprise. “I was just… you know… reminding myself-” “Come on, Johnny,” replies Wildchild, unfolding his arms. “You can’t expect me ta’ believe it.” “Alright, fine. It’s just… I’ve been so frustrated lately that it seems to be the only way to calm my nerves,” says Johnny, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve noticed. You left this behind when you stormed out on Lockdown,” says Wildchild, holding up a pack of Marlboro brand cigarettes. Johnny just lowers his head and then turns around towards the lockers. “I’ve also noticed dat lately with everything dat’s been going on wit’ you,” continues Wildchild, “with what we talked about at Lockdown… day there is jus’ something deep down inside eating away at you, Johnny.” The Barracuda continues listening, placing his knuckles on his hips as Wildchild goes on. “I t’ink dat you at least owe it to me t’ tell me what’s really going on – what de hell is really going on?” he questions, but Johnny stubbornly shakes his head. “I’m right, aren’t I?” “You’re damn right something’s eating me up!” Johnny suddenly snarls, “And it’s really starting to piss me off!” Wildchild’s eyes widen, his tag partner’s response was a little more angst-ridden than he would have expected, but yet seemingly appropriate with his attitude recently. “You tell me how you’d feel, Nic. Every time I am this close,” he continues, motioning with his fingers, “I always seem to fall flat on my face. If you remember, back before we even won the Tag team Championships people used to point and say ‘Wildchild was carrying Johnny Dangerous on his back, do you remember that, Nic?” “Come on, Johnny, we both knew dat’ wasn’ true back den’, and it certainly isn’ true now.” “That’s not the point, Nic,” replies Johnny. “After you left from that injury and I won the Cruiserweight Championship, I proved all of them wrong! I defended that belt night after night, from No Gravity matches all the way to a cage match, and you know what… I won each and every time.” “An’ I appreciate you putting so much effort into dat belt, Johnny, and dedicating your run t’ me,” Wildchild says, trying desperately to keep Johnny on a rational level. “You know how much dat belt means t’ me.” Yeah, well,” Johnny begins again, brushing past Wildchild, “after that, I took the ICTV Title from Landon Maddix. I may not have held it very long, but I was definitely on the right track for when I defeated Toxxic for the World Heavyweight Championship.” “Look, Johnny, I know what you’ve done. I know what titles you’ve held. What in de hell does all dis have t’ do with you being so damn moody?” “Because, Nic,” continues Johnny, his voice rapidly escalating, “for as long and hard of a road as I took to get to the top, I fell faster than anyone! When I came back with you, I thought all that would change. That was before I lost to Toxxic once again for a shot at the World Title and then again to Landon Maddix at the Clusterfuck for the shot that should be mine at From the Fire! THAT’S what the hell is pissing me off!” WHAM! The Barracuda lets out a deep breath then pulls his fist away from the locker door, leaving a bit of a dent in it. Slowly, he turns back around towards his partner, who is watching him with a raised brow. “Of all people,” he continues. “That sniveling, lying, and cheating coward has to one-up me once again! If that wasn’t bad enough, he came out to the ring to brag about beating me the very next night when in fact… he didn’t actually beat me.” “He did win de match though, Johnny,” Wildchild reminds the Barracuda, for lack of - or possibly for - better judgment. Johnny just furrows his brow at the statement. “If you want my honest opinion… you jus’ have to suck it up an’ go on, dat’s all you really can do. Because right now, all dis is bringing out de worst of Johnny Dangerous – a side I’ve seen before and one I never want t’ see again!” “What the hell are you trying to accuse me of here, Nic?” questions Johnny, stepping forward towards Wildchild. “You saying I’m trying to plot against you? You don’t trust me?” “No, dat’s not what I’m say-” “Well then what, Nic? Because you know what happened back then and why!” snaps Johnny, ranting less than an inch away from his tag partner’s face. Wildchild just lowers his head, almost beside himself from how far the Barracuda has fallen as Johnny just continues ranting. “I already get enough grief from some of the other boys backstage, saying they’ll never trust me and now you have the nerve to think you can’t trust me when I’ve gone out of my way to keep you-” SLAM! Wildchild suddenly grabs Johnny by his collar and slams him back into the lockers. It doesn’t take much to realize that the Bahama Bomber is more than fed up with all of this. “LOOK!” Wildchild growls, “Dis’ chip you been carrying on your shoulder – everyt’ing you’ve been doing lately, like making sure t’ jump in so you can be de one t’ win de match. Acting like dere is no way in hell Johnny Dangerous could actually lose. All of dis attitude you’ve been having is not de same as de man who came and saved my life… and IT is really starting t’ piss ME off!” He lets go of Johnny’s collar and steps back. For a moment there is nothing but complete silence with Johnny staring at Wildchild in utter disbelief as he readjusts his collar. “I didn’ leave home for dis,” says Wildchild, straining to keep his voice level. “You ASKED me t’ come back to de SWF wit’ you t’ win back de Tag Titles… are dese belts not important t’ you anymore?” Johnny continues to glare at his partner, anger seemingly simmering just below the surface. “I don’ know what happened to de guy dat saved my life in Andros, but if you see him, tell him dat I’d like very much for him t’ come back an’ help me defend dese titles… Y’ know, if you want t’ be de damn Heavyweight Champion then do something about it. But, for the love of God, please quit all dis damned bitchin’!” “You want me to do something about it?” asks Johnny, with his eyebrow cocked. “Yeah,” Wildchild nods. “Do something about it.” “Fine,” replies Johnny. He turns around and opens the locker door and grabs his share of the Tag Team Title belts, and then turns back around and lays it over Wildchild’s shoulder. “Have fun, Wildchild,” he says, waving his hand a single swoop in front of the Bahaman, “I’ll let you know if I see that guy from Andros.” The Barracuda leaves the locker room, exiting outside door to outside of the arena and the door slams shut with a thud. For a moment, Wildchild just stares at the door – his mouth gaping open, before finally chasing after Johnny following through the same door. When he steps outside he sees the door to a white limousine slam shut. “Wait!” Wildchild calls out but the car quickly speeds off with a squeal of its tires. All Wildchild can do is just watch until the car disappears in the distance, leaving him alone with a tag title in each hand… As We: FADE OUT

Maddix and Cortez in the ring with Sly and Davis... ... ...and everyone freezes. Maddix: "Stupid -beep-ing computer!" *KICK!* 3000 words dissappear~! King: "OMG!" Pete: "How will Maddix recover!?!" Maddix: "...-beep- this, they probably no showed anyway." Maddix throws his floppy disc like a frisbee, chopping off Sly and Davis' heads off. Cortez bodypops. Pete: "OUCH." Maddix takes the beheaded Sly and hits a SPINEBUSTAAAAAAAA~! Pete: "BETTER THAN HOFF'S!!" King: "!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?" 1... 2... 3!! Maddix and Cortez win! Cortez struts. Pete: "It was close to a ** match, but I just can't stand too many blown spots. *3/4" King: "Maddix should buy himself a Disgo." Pete: "And a Pepsi Max." King: "OMGBLATANTPRODUCTSHILL2005~~!!!!"

(Smarkdown returns, live from the Kingdome in Fargo, North Dakota. Thomas Flesher is revealed sitting in his plush, black leather swivel chair, hunched over his relatively cluttered desk. Behind him hangs a framed oil-on-canvas rendering of the one and only Suicide King and the rest of the office has memorabilia dedicated to the former King of Hearts. In his left hand is a burning cigar and in the right is a document he reads while leaning back on his chair. A knock is heard on his door and he looks up to see a cute, young woman poke her head in.) “Mister Flesher?” She asks. “What is it, Marie?” Flesher asks with a dazzling smile as he takes a long puff on the cigar. “Mary,” she corrects. “Don't apologize, it's alright.” “There’s a call on line one for you…” She begins and pauses. Flesher shoots her a confused look. “Okay…” “Well it’s just, well, an interesting call,” she says. “Oh is it about that Mexican food? I understand it’s awfully hard to find this place…” Flesher remarks. “Uh,” she begins. “Just tell the man I tip healthy and there’s a spare humidor in it for him,” Flesher laughs as he looks back towards his desk. “Mister Flesher, it isn’t that at all.” “Please, call me Tom. So enlighten me, Maria, what’s so interesting about this call?” Flesher asks as he blows the smoke into the air. He then sighs and shrugs it off. “I’ll just take the call, just be a good little intern and shut the door behind you.” He requests. “Okay Tom,” she says. “That’s Mister Flesher to you,” Tom shoots as she shuts the door. "Who's she?" shouts Allison Onita from in the next room. "No one," Flesher singsongs. He shakes his head as he picks up the phone and glances at the caller ID. With a quizzical look he picks up the phone. “Hello?” Silence. “This is Flesher.” He tries again. … “Yes, yes I understand that this arena is unlisted in the phone book,” he says. … “Yeah that would make it awfully hard to get a hold of me. Now excuse me but who is this?” … “Uh-huh… no, look, I’ll tell them to list the number now who is this?” … “No I can’t tell because it’s obvious you’re talking with something covering your mouth.” … “Well it’s pretty obvious because your voice is muffled…” … “Okay, fine, I’m a smart man. Now who the hell is this?” Flesher asks with impatience. … “I’m too busy of a man to be dealing with sniveling juvenile prank calls,” Flesher begins but gets cut off. … “No, I am not recording this phone conversation,” Flesher answers. … This time Flesher is silent. “Really?” … “No, I believe you. It’s just been a while. So what’s up? Did you want to grab some beers later on or something?” Flesher asks. … “Well I’m glad you got discharged but I meant what do you need?” … “I can’t do that,” Flesher flatly answers. … “Because,” Flesher responds like a parent. … “I don’t care about that; I just don’t have that type of power.” … “Well, I do have that power, but no. I’m not going to,” Flesher says firmly. … “Yes, I am positive! Now listen…” Flesher begins to get aggravated. … “Who the hell do you think you are to be threatening me?” Flesher says edgily. … “I don’t care what you have done or what you are threatening to do, there’s not any way that’s going to happen!” Flesher’s temper rises. … “Yes I know exactly who I am talking to. Do you realize who you are talking to?” Flesher shoots back. … “Don’t be making threats you can’t deliver. If you gave me one millisecond I’d have your back snapped with another straightjacket suplex.” Flesher regains his composure. … “No, I have not looked at the manila folder on the side of my desk,” Flesher blankly says. … “Oh, you think I’ll find it interesting?” Flesher sourly says. … Tom glances over his desk and he finds a manila folder. He glances around as if somebody’s watching and grabs it. He stubs out his cigar and opens the folder, staring down at it. “You’re kidding me…” … “Listen! You’re not going to...” Flesher begins but he pauses as a maniacal laugh echoes from the earpiece. Click. “God damn it!” Flesher growls as he tosses the folder across the room, sending the papers flying. “How did he manage this one…” he asks himself then just shakes his head. Near the floor of the room lays four documents. A notice of discharge, an open letter to the SWF’s committee, a doctor’s diagnose, and then a renewed contract. All concerning one man- An Andrew Rickmen… the Insane Luchador.

Pete: “Getting ready for our opening match here. Cruiserweight rules apply as Cruiserweight Champion Scott Pretzler teams up with Jay Hawke against Alan Clark and Manson.” King: “You know Pretzler is going to face some stiff competition from these men for that championship in short order. My question is whether Hawke and Pretzler can work together as a team. They have similar in-ring styles, but can they mesh in this type of environment when they haven’t teamed up previously?” Pete: “The only way to find out is to get to the ring.” Funyon: “Ladies and gentlemen, the opening contest on SWF Smarkdown is a tag team match scheduled for one fall with a 15-minute time limit, and it will be contested under cruiserweight rules!” "Learning to Fly" by Pink Floyd comes on the PA as the lights dim. Funyon: “Introducing...from the Hall of Fame City of Cleveland, Ohio, and weighing in at 215 pounds...he is "The Dean of Professional Wrestling"...Jay Hawke!” A spotlight shines on Jay Hawke as he makes his way to the ring. As Hawke makes his way onto the ring apron, he takes off his robe, folds it, and hands it to the ring attendant. Then he stands up on the turnbuckle with both arms in the air as the crowd boos. Funyon: “His tag team partner…he hails from Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and weighs in at 226 pounds…the SWF Cruiserweight Champion…“The Critic” Scott Pretzler!” The stirring notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony hit the speaker system as “The Critic” Scott Pretzler emerges from the entryway to a chorus of boos and rude chants. He stops and places his hands on his hips as he stares down smugly at the fans he despises. Taking his time, he walks down the ramp, climbs the steps, and enters the ring with pride. The opening notes of "Pardon Me" from Incubus begin to replace Beethoven’s Ninth, and Alan Clark's face appears on the SmarkTron, his expression focused, and his smirk always present. As the first lines hit, Alan mouths along... Pardon me while I burst... BOOM! Pyro explodes from around the entranceway and Alan steps through the smoke, pausing for a moment at the top of the ramp to take in the crowd. Funyon: “Their opponents…first, from Long Beach, California and weighing in at 230 pounds…Alan Clark!” Alan Clark quickly makes his way to the ring ready to fight, having to be restrained before he gets outnumbered before his partner can even make it to the ring. The house lights dim, multi-coloured strobes pulse and flash as Mastodon's "Crusher Destroyer" furiously blasts from the speakers. Funyon: “And his tag team partner, from Denver, Colorado…weighing 235 pounds…Manson! Manson emerges moments later and walks straight down the ramp. He rolls in and pops up to his feet, immediately going over to his corner. Pete: “And this has the potential to be one of the most incredible tag team matches we’ve seen in recent weeks.” Manson steps out onto the ring apron for his team, while Hawke and Pretzler play rock paper scissors to determine who will start for their team. Hawke has paper, which covers Pretzler’s rock, so the Cruiserweight Champion steps out onto the ring apron. Hawke turns around…right into an Alan Clark dropkick to a nice pop from the crowd. * DING DING DING! * Hawke sits up with an exasperated look on his face, but slowly smiles and nods at his opponent. He starts to get to his feet, but he quickly gets taken down with another dropkick. Hawke reaches up and tags Scott Pretzler in, then rolls to the floor as Pretzler looks down in confusion. Pete: “Well, Alan Clark has always said he’ll do anything to get an advantage, and he caught Hawke completely unaware with those two dropkicks.” King: “I guess even the Dean of Professional Wrestling can be caught unprepared if he’s not careful.” Scott Pretzler charges Alan Clark with a clothesline, but Clark ducks underneath it and jumps up, hitting him in the back of the head with an enzuigiri. Pretzler falls to the mat face first, and Clark immediately covers: One. Two. Kickout. Clark makes the quick tag to Manson. Manson pulls the Cruiserweight Champion to his feet, then nods at Alan Clark. Clark and Manson jump in the air at the same time and connect with enzuigiris, Clark’s to the back of the head and Manson’s to the face. OHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Manson quickly covers the fallen Cruiserweight Champion. One. Two. Jay Hawke comes in to make the save. Pete: “And so far it’s Alan Clark and Manson who are working together as a team.” King: “I thought they were going to cave Pretzler’s head in with that one. What a shot!” Manson peppers Pretzler with a series of punches before pulling him to his feet. He levels him with a hard back elbow, followed by an even harder knife-edge chop. WHOO! Manson runs into the ropes on the far side and goes for a lariat, but Scott Pretzler ducks and levels Manson with one of his own. A groggy Pretzler tags in Jay Hawke. Hawke immediately runs in and locks Manson into a chokehold. Hawke breaks at the referee’s four count, but quickly locks in another one for another four count. Hawke begins to argue with the referee, and as he does so, he chokes Manson with his knee. The referee doesn’t immediately notice, but soon does and issues another four count. Hawke stands up to argue this time, but he chokes Manson with his boot for several seconds before the referee finally notices and issues yet another four count. King: “What an incredible move there by Jay Hawke! He found a way to continue shielding the referee from seeing the chokeholds, allowing him to weaken Manson for a few extra seconds! Brilliantly done by Dean of Wrestling!” Pete: “Totally illegal, but totally effective.” Jay Hawke tags out to Scott Pretzler. Hawke locks Manson into a waistlock. Pretzler hits a lariat, and Hawke instantaneously takes Manson down with a German suplex. Hawke releases the move to leave the ring, and Pretzler goes for the cover: One. Two. Kickout. Pete: “And now it’s the team of Hawke and Pretzler who are beginning to work like a well-oiled machine out there.” King: “Meanwhile, Manson looking like a rusted out Winnebago that’s been put up on blocks in the junkyard.” Scott Pretzler locks Manson into a front headlock. The referee takes a close look to see if Manson submits, but he refuses to. Manson begins to pull himself to his feet as Pretzler’s grip on the hold loosens. Manson gets a couple of weak punches in, causing Pretzler to tighten the grip. Manson lifts Scott Pretzler off of his feet and rams his back into the corner. He makes the quick tag to Alan Clark. Pete: “Manson making a much-needed tag to his partner here.” King: “What a shame. I was beginning to enjoy watching him get beat up.” Alan Clark smacks Pretzler’s chest with a series of knife-edge chops. WHOO! WHOO! WHOO! WHOO! With the blood rushing to Pretzler’s chest, Clark gets in a kick to the midsection, then takes the Cruiserweight Champion with a stinging snap suplex. Alan Clark goes for the cover: One. Two. Kickout. Pretzler struggles to get to his feet, but Clark is waiting behind him. Just as Pretzler reaches his feet, Clark takes Pretzler down with a Chris Jericho-style bulldog. Clark acts quickly, hitting an Asai moonsault to the back of the champion. He rolls him over into the cover: One. Two. Thr… kickout. Pete: “Wow, that was close. Alan Clark was within an eyelash of pinning the SWF Cruiserweight Champion right there!” King: “But he didn’t pin the Cruiserweight Champion.” Pete: “But he almost did.” King: “Did he get the win?” Pete: “No.” King: “Would he have gotten the title had he gotten the pin?” Pete: “No.” King: “Then what difference does it make? Call the match, because Manson has just been tagged back in.” Yes he has, and he has already picked up Scott Pretzler and driven him down to the mat with a beautiful backdrop suplex. The cover: One. Two. Kickout. Manson is up quickly though, and he drops a knee across the chest of Scott Pretzler and covers again. One. Two. Kickout. Manson is again up quickly, and he drags Pretzler over to his corner. He makes the tag to Alan Clark, but before leaving he takes advantage of the positioning to hit Pretzler with a knife-edge chop. WHOO! Alan Clark then picks up where left off with a chop of his own. WHOO! Clark levels Pretzler with several hard forearm smashes. Sensing his partner is in trouble, Jay Hawke tries to come in to make the save. The referee tries to remove Hawke from the ring, which enables Pretzler to get in a cheap low blow! OHHHHHHHHHHHH! The referee is distracted. Clark is down. Pretzler is directly in front of the ropes. All he has to do is lift Clark up and chuck him over the top. Should he do it? Time is running out. The ref tries to turn back to Clark and Pretzler, but Hawke again draws his attention by grabbing his shoulder. Manson shouts, trying to alert the official to what is about to happen. Pretzler bites his thumbnail… …Then he smiles broadly, a big boyish grin, and tosses Clark over the top rope to the floor! Pete: “Over the top rope goes Alan Clark, and under SWF cruiserweight rules that should be an automatic disqualification!” King: “But it’s only a disqualification if the referee catches you, Pete, and the referee was distracted by the Dean of Professional Wrestling. Truly a brilliant move by Jay Hawke and from Scott Pretzler.” Pete: “He seemed very hesitant to cheat, though – which is odd, considering how only seconds earlier he was ramming his forearm into Clark’s balls!” King: “Stop being crude, Pete. What do we look like, the Oscars?” Before Pretzler can follow his opponent to the outside, the referee turns around! He sees Pretzler in the ring, Clark on the floor, and makes an immediate connection. “Did you throw him? Did you cheat?” “He jumped!” Pretzler pleads. The referee is clearly not buying it, but he has no real proof and cannot disqualify the young champion. Hawke, unsettled by this close call, shoots a warning glance to Pretzler, who shrugs his shoulders as though he has done nothing wrong. As Pretzler turns to go after the recovering Clark, a furious Manson barges past the referee and nails the Canadian with a vicious elbow to the back of the head. Pretzler tumbles through the ropes and lands beside Clark. Pete: “That’s what happens when you don’t make up your mind!” King: “Of course Pretzler made up his mind. How was he supposed to know that idiot Manson was going to break the rules and attack him? If Pretzler has one flaw, it’s that he assumes everyone else is as morally upstanding as himself. He’s naïve, that’s all.” Clark and Pretzler are both on the floor, halfway to their feet. Not willing to wait, Clark fires off a hard knife-edged chop to the kneeling Pretzler… WHOO! …Who responds in kind with a chop of his own! WHOOO! Alan comes back with the stiffest chop yet. WHOOOO! And Pretzler takes him down with a rising lariat! THUD! At the same time, the indignant Manson has begun brawling with Jay Hawke. The referee, desperately trying to break up the fracas, is unable to deliver the twenty-count to the legal men on the floor. With Clark down, Pretzler darts over him and puts him in a side headlock. Alan slips out of it before it can be tightened and slides behind Pretzler, tripping him by sweeping his ankle and sending him sprawling onto his face on the padded mat. He then turns so he is perpendicular to Pretzler and feigns a half-nelson – once Pretzler shifts his weight to counter this, Alan continues his rotation and clamps on a front headlock! Pete: “I don’t believe it. Alan Clark is once again outwrestling Pretzler!” King: “This is ridiculous. What does Alan expect to gain by spinning around on the floor? It’s not as if he can pin Pretzler or anything.” Pete: “But he is outwrestling him.” King: “But it doesn’t matter.” But Pretzler is unwilling to allow his pride to be damaged any further. He gains a firm foothold and violently pushes forward against Alan, so violently that Alan falls back and Pretzler flips over onto his own back, almost as though he has been DDT’d by Alan. Meanwhile, the brawl between Hawke and Manson has spilled out onto the floor. The referee finally begins the twenty-count that will disqualify both teams. ONE! TWO! Manson, the more adept brawler, sends Hawke reeling with an elbow smash and follows it up with a mean right hook. Hawke stumbles and Manson is on him in a second, grabbing him by the tights and shoulder and slamming him headfirst into the side of the ring. He kicks the downed Hawke and stomps him several times, then picks him up and positions him in a standing headscissors. OOOOOOOHH! Audience members rise to their feet as they realize that Manson is about to powerbomb Hawke right onto the cold and unforgiving floor. To make matters worse, Alan Clark has left Pretzler clutching his head by the table and now strips away a layer of the protective padding that covers the Kingdome’s concrete base. FIVE! The referee, a quarter of the way through his count, tries to discourage the Hate Machine from executing the horrific move. It’s more than evident, however, that his mind is made up. Pete: “If Manson connects with this move, Hawke’s second match in the SWF could very well be his last!” King: “He’ll survive. Not everybody here is a brittle-boned jobber like you used to be.” Pete: “It’s not like you ever…” WHAM! Alan Clark lurches backward and slams into the exposed floor as Scott Pretzler appears out of nowhere and takes him down with a chop-block! Manson is in the process of releasing the headscissors when Pretzler explodes at him as well, clubbing him with a running lariat and knocking him off his feet. EIGHT! Pretzler, not wanting to stay in the danger zone any longer than necessary, rolls into the ring. He sits up and catches his breath. Clark helps Manson to his feet. NINE! Instead of going after Pretzler, both men set their sights on the downed Hawk. Together, they begin to pummel him. TEN! Pete: “How despicable. Pretzler has left his partner to the wolves!” Hawke throws Pretzler a desperate look as forearms and stomps rain down on him from the members of the opposing team. Finally, Manson pushes him under the bottom rope and returns to his corner, with Clark sliding into the ring to face Pretzler. Hawke collects himself and steps onto the apron. As soon as this happens, Pretzler makes the tag. OOOOOH! Pete: “What a selfish act! Does Pretzler have any concept of how to be a team player?” King: “Obviously he does, or he would have lost this match already. Can you blame the guy for being tired?” Pete: “In any event, Jay Hawke is now the legal man for his team,” Hawke grudgingly enters the ring and knocks Alan over with a particularly penetrating backhand chop. WHOOO! He then lifts Alan up, holds him in a backbreaker position, and nods to Pretzler. But instead of going for the double-team, the Critic steps carefully onto the apron and awaits Hawke’s next solo move. Hawke appears outraged. He drives an elbow into Alan’s neck. Then he stands up and makes the tag to Pretzler! OOOOOOOH! The favor has been returned! Pretzler is apparently shocked at Hawke’s show of disrespect, but he dutifully enters the ring in hopes of proving his moral fiber. Hawke now returns to the apron. Pretzler attacks Clark, showering him with elbows to the face before he can stand. He is still upset at being ‘shown up’ in the earlier mat wrestling sequence, and he wastes no time in moving behind Clark’s head and locking in a rear leg-hook cradle. He leans back and tugs, trying to drag the shoulders of Clark into a pinning position above him. Clark twists furiously. Finally freeing himself, he slides behind Pretzler and tries to lock him in a full nelson, but the Canadian is able to reach back and loop an arm over his neck. He flips Clark over his hip and clamps his hands together, securing the grounded headlock. Again, but with more leverage, he tries to force Clark’s shoulders to the mat in a pin. LET’S GO AL-AN! LET’S GO AL-AN! King: “You see, Pete? Those last two ‘victories’ were a fluke. Pretzler is clearly the superior wrestler.” Pete: “Two out of three ain’t bad.” Alan grits his teeth and cranes his head over to look at Manson. They are about six feet apart. If he can free himself from the hold, he can make the tag. The fans begin to clap rhythmically and stamp their feet. Alan writhes, and Pretzler increases the pressure. He digs his far leg into the mat and leans against Alan. Alan’s shoulders finally touch the mat. One! Two! No! Alan’s jerks his body up at the last moment. Furious, Pretzler tries to increase the pressure and cover him again – but Alan uses his momentum to carry him over into a pin of his own! One! Two! Kickout! Pretzler and Alan roll to their feet at the same moment and Pretzler aggressively initiates a collar-and-elbow tie-up. He shoves Alan into the turnbuckle and whips him toward the opposite corner, but Alan pushes down on the ropes as he meets them and slingshots into the air, flying back and over Pretzler and landing on his feet. He snaps off a superkick, causing Pretzler to crumple against the corner post. Running over to Manson, he makes the tag! YEEEEAAAHHH! The crowd erupts as Manson storms into the ring. He runs at Pretzler and flattens him with a lariat, then, as the Cruiserweight Champion staggers out of the corner, Manson drives a brutal yakuza kick into the back of his neck! Pretzler falls flat on his face and does not move. Pete: “Is Pretzler knocked out?” King: “No… of course not. He’s just a little dizzy.” This does not appear to be the case as Manson flips Pretzler’s limp form over and makes the cover. Audience members count along with the ref as his hand slaps the mat. ONE! TWO! THR- NO! Making the belated save, Jay Hawke ends the pinfall attempt with a leg drop to the back of Manson’s head. The Raging Bull rolls over in pain, and Hawke does not hesitate in hammering him with a flurry of punches, payback for the beating he received minutes earlier. POW! POW! POW! Though weakened by Pretzler’s attacks, Alan Clark is not willing to stand by while his partner is beaten down. He runs into the ring against the referee’s orders and hurls himself onto Hawke, kicking him and chopping wildly at his throat. King: “The official Clusterfuck may be over, but I’ll be damned if that’s not the only good way to describe what’s happening right now.” Manson joins in the assault. In succession, each man delivers a knife-edged chop to the chest of Jay Hawke. Smack! WHOOO! Smack! WHOOO! Smack! WHOOO! Hawke retreats into the corner, but Manson and Clark are not ready to let him go. They pick him up and, as one, whip him into the ropes. As he bounds back, they nod at one another, step forward, and snap him down to the canvas in a double STO! WHAM! Pete: “That was beautiful teamwork! For two guys who have never teamed up before, you’ve got to give credit to Clark and Manson.” King: “No, actually I don’t.” Pete: “They certainly seem to be clicking better than their opponents.” King: “Why? No they don’t.” Pete: “Can’t argue with that kind of logic.” King: “No, you can’t.” Unfortunately, Jay Hawke is not the legal man on the opposing team. That would be Scott Pretzler, who at the moment is on his feet behind his two opponents. As they spin around to face him, he runs off the ropes and comes charging at them with both arms curled up for a double elbow smash! But Pretzler is no Danny Williams. His attack, while aesthetically pleasing to the viewers, does little to faze the duo of Manson and Clark, who remain standing and absorb the punishment like the hosses they are not. OOOOOH! Pretzler then chooses to concentrate specifically on Alan. He grabs him in another collar-and-elbow and drives in as many elbows as he can before Manson pulls them apart and whacks Pretzler with a hard lariat. The now-dominating faces pick Pretzler up and drop him in a double suplex – on top of the body of Jay Hawk! He rolls off Hawk and Manson pins him. ONE! TWO! KICKOUT! Pretzler is still twitching, much to the audience’s dismay. The referee, fed up with this flagrant disregard for the rules of tag-team competition, orders Clark to return to his corner. He checks on Hawke to make sure he isn’t injured and then makes him do the same. The gasping Dean of Wrestling crawls onto the apron and awaits the tag he hopes won’t come any time soon. One back body drop later, and Pretzler is again pinned by Manson. One! Two! Kickout! Still not enough. Manson is confident that the next big move will earn the pin. He heaves Pretzler into a standing position and sets him up for what appears to be a vertical suplex. Then he hooks the leg. YEAHHHHH! Pete: “Is it time for the Chaosphere?” Pretzler doesn’t think so. He slaps Manson hard with his free hand and jerks his leg out of the enemy’s grasp. Shoving against his chest, Pretzler breaks up the front facelock, then elbows him in the face and turns to Hawke. Pretzler makes the tag! Hawke is in – his energy is restored, although the damage to his body is done. He delivers his own elbow to Manson before making a sharp left turn and knocking Clark off the apron with a flying leg lariat! The Martial Law member falls to the floor and rolls over onto his stomach. Hawke turns back to face Manson, and the synergy between him and Pretzler seems to have returned. He runs up to Manson and takes him down with a crisp swinging neckbreaker! Pretzler looks at Hawke, shakes his head. “Let me show you how it’s done!” He lifts Manson up and wraps an arm around his next, then twists his body so they are back-to-back and drops down in a harsh over-the-shoulder neckbreaker. He looks at Hawke and gestures to Manson as if to say, What did I tell you? But Hawke is not satisfied. As Manson sits on the mat clutching his neck in exquisite agony, the Clevelander springs off the ropes and somersaults over him, grasping his head as he goes and introducing him to the canvas with a blockbuster! The back of Manson’s head bounces off the mat at impact. The referee, busy counting Alan out, is as always oblivious to the rule-bending going on in the ring. Pete: “And Jay Hawke executes a painful move not unlike John Cena’s Throwback.” King: “Who in the blue hell is John Cena?” Hawke is clearly proud of his work, and he bends over to make the cover on the downed Manson. But Pretzler taps him on the shoulder, wiggles a finger, and motions for him to stand up. He does. Pretzler now lifts up Manson and muscles the fan favorite onto his shoulders in a torture rack set-up. However, instead of holding it, he lets go of Manson’s leg and spins his battered form outward, then falls to the mat and delivers a final crushing neckbreaker! He stands up and proudly folds both arms across his chest while Hawke makes the cover. ONE! TWO!! THR- WHAM! Seemingly out of nowhere, Alan Clark’s Tumbleweed Shooting Star Press comes to rest on the back of Jay Hawke, causing him to spasm and roll off Manson’s body as the cover is broken. Pretzler is equally stunned, and he attempts to drop an elbow on Alan while he’s down – but the charismatic Clark is too fast! He rolls out of the way and fires off a dropkick at Pretzler, knocking him through the ropes and out of the ring! Pete: “Did you see how high Alan jumped on that shooting star press? He didn’t even have anything to leap from!” King: “But can he wrestle?” Pete: “He out-wrestled Pretzler twice, didn’t he?” Despite taking four successive neckbreakers, the incredibly resilient Manson is once again on his feet. He smashes Hawke with a double axehandle. Picks him up again. Another axehandle. He pulls Hawke to his knees and sets him in a standing headscissors. This time, escape seems unlikely. YEEEAAAHHH! Manson points at the top rope. Alan steps onto the apron and begins to climb. With a surge of strength, Manson heaves Hawke into the air until the self-proclaimed Dean rests on his shoulders. He then turns so that Hawke’s front is facing the turnbuckle on which Alan is standing. King: “Oh, god. Oh, god, no.” Pete: “Whatever they’re planning to do, there’s no question that it’s going to hurt!” The double-team is fully set up. Manson tenses his body, waits for the impact of Alan’s. … It doesn’t come. Because Scott Pretzler is holding Alan by the foot! Pretzler tugs with all of his strength, and in a sudden blur of motion Alan Clark comes tumbling to the floor on top of him. They lie unmoving in a heap. At the same time, Hawke flips backwards and reverses the startle Manson’s powerbomb into a hurracanrana! He tightly hooks both of Manson’s legs as he lands, and all of the Raging Bull’s stamina can’t match the suddenness of the flash pin. ONE! TWO!! THREE!!! * DING DING DING! * “Here are your winners… JAAAAY HAAAWKE and ‘THE CRITIC’ SCOTT PRREEETTTZZLEER!” Pete: “What the hell? That came out of nowhere?” King: “So? They still won.” The audience, too, seems shocked at the suddenness of Hawke and Pretzler’s victory, though no one can deny that it was well-earned. In the ring, the furious and frustrated Manson stands up to face Hawke and the reality of his defeat. He considers striking Hawke, then turns away and rolls under the bottom rope to the floor. He walks up the ramp in a rage, taking no notice of his fallen partner. Pretzler, meanwhile, has untangled himself from Clark and enters the ring to stand triumphant beside Hawke. The timekeeper takes the Cruiserweight title belt and hands it to the referee, who hands it in the direction of Pretzler… …Only to have Hawke snatch it from his grip! Hawke stares down at the belt. Smooth. Shiny. Majestic. Then, before anyone can comment, he hands it back to the champion. “Take good care of that belt for me.” He pats Pretzler on the shoulder and exits the ring. Pretzler just watches him. His expression is unreadable. Pete: “Folks, if this is any indication of what the rest of this show is going to be like, then we’re in for a hell of a night!”

Backstage, Ben Hardy stands ready to conduct and interview with the man at his side, Johnny Dangerous as Smarkdown returns from commercial break. “Johnny,” begins Hardy, “lately there seems to be a rift between you and your tag team partner Wildchild. Many people have been speculating that you two are about to go your separate ways; do you care to clear the air once and for all for us?” “Clear what air?” asks Johnny, looking over his high-tech shades towards Ben. “Sure… Wildchild and myself don’t necessarily agree on everything that goes on, but that doesn’t mean there’s a problem.” “What about you forcing yourself into the deciding pinfalls of recent tag team matches when Wildchild clearly had the match won?” “What the hell are you going on about, Hardy?” questions the Barracuda, starting to grow irate with the accusations. “If I’ve ever had to make the final pin to a match it was because there was no other way it was going to be won – you can’t fault me for getting the job done.” “Well, what about-” “No!” snaps Johnny. “There is nothing going on; can’t you understand that? Your trying to start something here that isn’t true, Hardy, and quite frankly… it’s starting to piss me off! So for your safety… this interview is done!” Johnny suddenly spins around and storms off camera, shaking his head angrily as he does. “Well,” says Ben, looking into the camera with a smile. “I guess we’ll be right back.” FADE OUT.

I liked Tommy Gunn, the fact that I didn't get it for nearly two years be damned.

I got the name "Mike Van Siclen" out of a Matt Christopher book when I was twelve. I think that sums up my character quite nicely.

Question, Al. How has the Twins' W-L record been over the past few seasons compared to their pythagorean W-L? Also, their roster is usually down around seven or eight on the list, so I'm wondering if the Twins' manager is very good or if the managers of other AL Central franchises are just very bad. Finally, do you really think that the Twins will finish behind both the Indians and the Tigers this year?

My stuff'll be in GCF around eight.

Sexual assault my ass, there's no way the bitch didn't want it.

Promo from the hottest thing in the OAOAST. Also, fallout from Dude/Calvin.

Spontaneous family trips rule. Toxx, Spike, Mak, take note: Your marker is now The Superstar.

All of the guys mentioned have been in the league at least seven years, so the Titans are cutting guys right as they're starting their decline, and giving their young guys some playing time. I'm still holding out hope for this year, as the cornerbacks replacing Rolle have shown a lot of promise and the receiving corps, with Mason gone, reminds me a lot of the Patriots' receiving corps, but even if this year sucks there's so much young talent on the team right now that they're going to have a Florida Marlins-esque resurgence in a couple of years. ... I hope.