janusd

Somewhere in the vast temple of the Angkor Wat sits a makeshift office for the SWF’s one and only Commissioner Joseph Peters. Despite being in what is considered amongst the locals to be somewhat of a holy place, Peters is in an overwhelmingly foul mood tonight. Much to his dismay, there’s a rap at his door. “Go away!” Peters yells. “It’s Ced Ordonez… could I speak with you please?” “What is it?” “It’s just… I… could I just come in?” Ced pursues the idea of entering the office. “It’d be a lot easier to talk to you if there wasn’t a door in between us, and this is kind of important.” “Fine, come in. Make it quick, though,” Peters warns. The door to the office shuts tight behind the Bemani Cross Wizard, who enters wearing casual clothing, but an expression across his face that seems to show a bit of stress. “Mr. Peters, sir.” Ordonez coughs. “I’ve been on this world tour with the SWF since the beginning and you’re yet to schedule me for a match. Why is that?” “Well… how can I put this without hurting your feelings.” Peters smirks. “You’re not very important. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to say that you’re a bad person or anything. It’s just that you don’t exactly put the butts in the seats, you know? Let me explain something to you Ced… in this day and age, the SWF is all about capital.” “Capital?” “Yeah, capital… profits, you know? We’ve got to make money, and quite frankly you’re not exactly a big seller. This world tour, it costs money. The wrestlers in the locker rooms, cost money. You see what I’m getting at here?” “Yes, but…” Ced trails off. “But what?” “Well… you’re paying me to be here for something. Wouldn’t it be just as well to let me actually wrestle?” “You’re a referee now,” Peters reminds the young Sacramento native. “You’ve got no business going out there and wrestling.” “I know… I’ve just got the bug tonight.” “All right, fine. I’m not going to let you risk yourself, though. I’ll send out Matt Myers and let you bounce him around the ring for a little while. Will that make you happy?” “That’s great!” Ced says with glee, “thank you, sir! Thank you!” “You’re welcome…” Peters looks back up at Ced. “Well…” “Well what?” “Get out!” Peters yells, driving the young referee back and out of the office. He simply shakes his head before returning back to his work as we fade to commercial.

DING DING!!! The fans cheer as the house lights go down, heralding the beginning of tonight's show! "Ladies and gentlemen," says Funyon, "tonight's opening contest is scheduled for one fall, and will be contested under CRUISERWEIGHT RULES!" “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains begins to play. As the song kicks up, black and red fireworks light up Cambodia, and Andrew Rickmen steps out of the entrance. He milks the cheers for a few seconds before throwing his arms into the air energetically. Then, he sprints to the ring, slapping the fans hands, and slides under the bottom rope. He goes around each corner, saluting the fans, as Funyon announces, "Hailing from Easton, Pennsylvania, and weighing in at 221 pounds... his name is Andrew Rickmen, but you know him as the INSAAAAAAAAAAAANE LUCHADOR!" "Here we are in beautiful Cambodia," says the Suicide King, sounding utterly bored with the whole affair. "Beautiful? Damn it, King, I've never tried so hard to find a wheelchair ramp." The fans continue cheering as Rickmen looks to the entrance, pumping his fists and shouting for his opponent to come to the ring. The lights go down, and once again, the site is silent. "LADIES and gentlemen," comes the loud and abrasive voice, as the fans turn to the entrance only to see James Matheson standing in front of the curtain. "Well, we should have expected this," says Mak Francis. "He's hooked up with Charlie Matthews, so of course we're going to be seeing this bastard hanging around." "You all know who Insane Luchador's opponent is tonight," Matheson says. "He's a man who needs no introduction... but he deserves one anyway. Twice the Heavyweight Champion of the World, former holder of the Intercontinental-Television Title, Cruiserweight Championship, Light-Heavyweight Championship, and Tag Team Championship... he is superior... he is award-winning... and ladies and gentlemen, he is MAGNIFICENT! I give you your friend and mine, TOM FLESHER!!!!!!!!!" With that, Matheson stands aside as the familiar blue explosion lights up the Cambodian countryside, accompanying the percussive opening of Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir." With his trademark smirk, Flesher walks through the curtain and strides confidently to the ring, Matheson following behind him. Flesher climbs the steps into the ring, wiping his feet off on the apron before entering, and picks up the microphone that Funyon left on the side of the ring. "Andrew, Andrew, Andrew," he says, as the music fades out. "Come on, do you really want to do this? You and me, we're friends, Andrew. We drink together. You don't want to test out your new style with me, do you? Someone you've never beaten? Someone you've faced God knows how many times since 2002? You need to work your way up. Go beat up on someone clueless, like Maddix or Grendel or Akira. But hell, if this is what you want, Andrew, let's get it underway." "Tough talk from the Superior One," says Suicide King. "But, of course, it's not as tough beating a perennial loser like Rickmen." "Give IL some credit," Francis says. "He's been around longer than you or I have, and he's trying to work his way up. If part of that is reinventing himself, then you gotta do what you gotta do." With that, Flesher backs away and strips off his warm-up suit, then steps back to the center of the ring. DING DING DING!!!! Flesher and Rickmen circle around each other for a few seconds before Flesher drops down to one knee and lunges forward, grabbing his opponent by the ankle and taking him to the mat with a low single-leg takedown. Flesher keeps the leg, transitioning smoothly into an ankle lock! "Flesher's just a well-oiled machine," King says, as the Superior One holds the leg up and continues torquing the ankle. "The Insane Luchador isn't going to be able to withstand this kind of assault." "He's been working it in the training room," Mak replies. "He's so quick and so flexible that a methodical guy like Flesh might not see it coming. Besides, Tommy's slowed down a lot since his last time in the ring. Wildchild saw that and worked it." Rickmen grimaces, caught off-guard by the early attack, but quickly begins crawling to the ropes. Flesher tries to pull him back, but the Pennsylvania native quickly lunges for the ropes and grabs the bottom cable. Immediately, Red Herrington begins counting. ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! Shaking his head, Flesher releases the heel hook and takes a step back. "Rickmen escapes the first of what will surely be many submissions," says Suicide King. "Tom Flesher is all about attrition, and there's no way he can take ten, twenty minutes of this abuse." IL grabs the middle rope and begins pulling himself to his feet. Flesher stays close, however, and quickly grabs onto his arm. Before Rickmen can react, Tom pivots and sends him to the ropes with an Irish whip! Rickmen rebounds, only to run right into a picture-perfect Railgun suplex! Flesher arches back, tossing Andrew through the air and slamming him to the mat! Flesher rolls over, making the cover. ONE!! Rickmen kicks out and rolls to his stomach. Flesher crouches down behind him, grabbing him around the waist for a German suplex! As he lifts Rickmen, however, the Ill One drops his hips and spins around, hitting a standing switch and ending up behind his foe! He tightens his grip and starts to arch backwards, only to have Flesher grasp him by both wrists and sag his hips the same way. Instead of hitting a switch, though, Flesher tucks his head and rolls forward! "Beautiful Granby roll!" marvels King, as Flesher rolls through, grabbing Rickmen's ankle once again! He stands up into another heel hook! This time, Rickmen lunges forward quickly, escaping Flesher's submission before he can fully apply it. "Told ya he was quick," says Francis with a smirk. Flesher, however, quickly changes up the game plan and dives forward, hammering an elbow into Rickmen's back! The Luchador grimaces, arching his back, but Flesher maintains his position and crouches down. He grabs Rickmen around the waist and lifts him off the mat in a gutwrench position. As he flips his adversary, Flesher drops quickly to one knee, nearly snapping the lanky skater with a gutwrench backbreaker! Still calm, Flesher walks away from Rickmen and begins chatting with Matheson. "And look at that," says King. "Even a man as accomplished as Flesher is still willing to take direction from his manager." As Flesher talks to Matheson, Rickmen starts to get to his feet. Flesher sighs, shaking his head, and walks back over to Rickmen before walloping him in the jaw with a shotei! "Well," says King, "the Looch couldn't beat Flesher in the suplex department. Now, it looks like he's going to give him a chance to stand up and strike with him." "That's a mistake," snickers Francis. Flesher whips the momentarily-stunned Luchador to the corner and follows him in, leaving his feet and nailing him with an avalanche that knocks his wind out. He backs away, stepping into the center of the ring and waving at the Insane One to come at him. "Look at the egotism," the Franchise spits. "Flesher's just trying to embarass Rickmen tonight." "... your point?" asks King. Francis sighs, exasperated. "I mean, hell," King says, "it's the INSANE LUCHADOR. Isn't embarrassing him the POINT?" Rickmen stands back up, and Flesher cockily advances toward him. As he does, the Insane Luchador jumps up and dropkicks him in the chest! Flesher stumbles backwards, but IL sprints to the ropes before he can regain his senses. He leaps off the canvas and grabs Flesher's head, taking him to the mat with a tornado DDT! The crowd cheers the Luchador's attack, even as Flesher avoids the cover by rolling to the nearest corner. "The Insane Luchador comes out of nowhere and puts Flesher on the ropes!" says Francis, as Tom stands up in the corner. Rickmen sprints at him and dives to the mat, rolling and looking for a koppo kick! Flesher evades the kick by ducking out between the ropes. Rickmen whips into the corner, stunning himself as Flesher calmly leans back in. He looks at Rickmen, then shrugs and lifts him back to his feet before slamming him into the corner. He keeps his opponent momentarily out of it by whacking him with another palm strike before taking a step back to measure him up. "Always calm, cool and collected," says King, "Tom Flesher is capable of keeping a match in his favor no matter what's going on." Flesher grabs IL by the wrist and lifts it over his head, depositing the arm where it's least likely to do anything useful before stepping in and hammering his opponent in the ribs with a devastating shin kick! IL curls up, grimacing in pain, but Flesher once again nails him with a shin kick to the ribcage. This time, the kick draws a shout from Rickmen before he finds a way to control himself and begins gritting his teeth to avoid showing the pain. He steps forward, trying to avoid another kick to the ribs. This time, though, Flesher merely attacks from another angle, nailing him with a shin kick to the small of his back! IL arches his back, and Flesher takes a step back to admire his handiwork. "One of the things Flesher has been working on in training is his kicking ability," says Suicide King. "He's learning to rely more on different types of strikes... hence the kickpads on his shins. He's also switched out from using the familiar Doc Martens and he's wearing standard Asics wrestling shoes again." Flesher grabs the Luchador with a three-quarter facelock, as if to execute a Diamond Cutter, but instead drops to one knee and pulls his opponent over and onto the mat with a snapmare! He takes a few steps back, then sprints forward to throw a stiff kick straight into his spine! Rickmen's back curls up and he lets loose with a blood-curdling scream, cut short only by a second place-kick straight to the back! The Insane Luchador's face is contorted into a mask of agony as Flesher backs up. He sprints at his foe once more and kicks as hard as he can, absolutely slamming his foot into the spine! This time, Rickmen collapses to the mat, grabbing his back. He looks up at Flesher, who shrugs, feigning sympathy. "Andrew Rickmen is showing astonishing resilience," says Francis. "I mean, the kid's just taking more and more from Flesher, but he's still all the way in it." No one apparently told this to Flesher, however. He drops a vicious knee into Rickmen's back, causing the Insane Luchador to curl up in pain. Flesher stands up, then drops another knee onto Rickmen, curving his spine. Rickmen arches up, in obvious pain. Flesher, however, takes a step back. Rickmen stands up, then turns to Flesher. "He's just not going to give up," says King. "Someone should tell him that he can't take all this abuse." "Come on," says Francis. "We've seen him come back from worse." Flesher, though, isn't willing to take any chances. He grabs Rickmen by the wrist and nails him with a short-arm palm strike that puts him back on the mat! Undeterred, Rickmen tries to stand back up, and is helped along by Flesher, who pulls him into another short-arm shotei! Showing only the faintest signs of being stunned, Rickmen stands up once again. This time, Flesher keeps the arm and pivots, dropping to his knees and throwing Rickmen down in front of him with a judo-style ippon seionage! Rickmen stays on his behind, seated in front of Flesher, who snakes his hand under the extended arm and into a half-nelson. Immediately, the crowd lets loose with an "oooooh!" "This isn't good for the Looch," says Francis. "I've used that cobra clutch since I turned pro, and the thing's nearly impossible to break. He better get out of this before Flesher cinches it up." "Not bloody likely," says King. Flesher presses a knee into Rickmen's back, pulls the extended arm across his neck and locks on a cobra clutch! Sensing what's coming, Rickmen begins flailing and squirming, trying to escape from the hold before the Superior One can sink in his bodyscissors! Before he can escape, though, Flesher shoots a leg around the Insane One's waist and falls to the mat before throwing his other leg over Rickmen's hip and locking on his scissors grip! "THERE IT IS!" shouts King! "The King Cobra! This one's over!" The Insane Luchador, however, has other ideas. His eyes are clear as he rolls from side to side, reaching for the ropes any way he can find them. He extends each leg, trying to hook the bottom rope that's easily three feet away. He reaches out, trying to grab the ropes with his free hand. As his movements become more labored, he grabs at Flesher's foot, trying to break the bodyscissors that are restricting his motion, but to no avail. He reaches up to try to break the lock holding his arm across his own throat, but the technical master keeps the wristlock on as tight as he can. As Rickmen rolls, trying desperately to get to the sidelines, Flesher arches his back, moving the scissors grip down to Rickmen's hips. Now, rather than just immobilized, Rickmen finds himself being bent in half while Flesher chokes him out! "Oh, come on," says King. "Why doesn't the little bugger just tap, for god's sake?" "It's not his style," says Francis. "He's not about to tap out just now, not over this." Rickmen reaches up, desperately trying to break the lock on his wrist. As he does, it becomes apparent that he doesn't have enough left in him. Finally, Flesher cranks back once more, and Rickmen's eyes close. "That King Cobra is DEADLY," says Francis, as Red Herrington drops to one knee and lifts the limp arm in a mere formality. He lifts it once... and it falls. He lifts it twice... and it falls. He lifts it a third time, holding it in the air for an extra second. And once again, it falls. Herrington calls for the bell. DING DING DING!!!! Immediately on hearing the bell ring, Flesher releases the pressure of the hold and disentangles himself. James Matheson enters the ring, and as Herrington raises Flesher's arm, Matheson hands his protege a handkerchief. With a smirk, Flesher wipes the sweat off his brow before looking expectantly to Funyon. "The winner of this contest, by submission... TOM FLESHER!!!!!!!!!!" Flesher keeps his arms in the air as Mak Francis says, "Tom Flesher picks up the win with the King Cobra, but Andrew Rickmen didn't tap out. He came out here trying to show Flesher up on his feet, and then on the mat, but..." "... but he better hit the weights and get himself a decent coach before he tries that again," snickers King. "He's trying to change up his style, but he hit the immovable object tonight." "We'll see how the Looch recovers from this one," Francis replies, "but tonight, Tom Flesher takes the duke." As Matheson and Flesher step out of the ring, Rickmen starts to regain consciousness. Flesher looks over his shoulder once more, and with a smirk, continues walking back to his locker room as the show fades to commercial.

SWF STORM! Live, Friday, May 26, from Angkor Wat in Angkor, Cambodia! (6pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) The "spiritual enlightenment" leg of the SWF World Tour continues as SWF Storm comes to you LIVE from Angkor Wat in Cambodia! -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Non-Title But Still Totally Awesome Main Event Landon "La Cucaracha" Maddix © vs. Zyon © -> The newly crowned Cruiserweight Champion vs. The (somewhat) newly crowned World Heavyweight Champion! Two of the SWF's top stars duke it out - gold may not be on the line (yet), but pride and a buttload of ranking points are! Rules: Standard singles match. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- JJ Johnson © vs. Sean Davis -> Oh boy. Oooooh boy. Aecas snakes the win out from under JJ Johnson, and I imagine Sir Johnsonosity is NOT pleased with this. Nor is he pleased with the fact that Aecas don't work on no Storms, delaying his mandatory rematch! Sean Davis steps in, hoping to take advantage of JJ's hotheaded state to pick up a huge win, and establish himself in the International Championship scene! Rules: Standard singles match. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Grendel vs. "The Dean of Professional Wrestling" Jay Hawke -> Two big names collide - Grendel, the rookie who got off to a hot hot start, and Jay Hawke, the veteran looking to put him in his place on his way back up the ladder! Take your pick - barn burner, slobberknocker, show stopper, Match of the Night - any and/or all could be applicable! Rules: Standard singles match. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF HARDCORE CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH House Rules - The Search For En-Fight-Enment! Amy Stephens © vs. "Hollywood" Spike Jenkins © vs. Manson -> Let me just shorten the description by saying this - Spike Jenkins is fucked. Amy's got beef with him, Manson's got beef with him, and tonight they'll be going after him inside the Therevada Buddhist temple. No holds barred and the Hardcore Title is on the line - just as Buddha would have wanted. Rules: Theravada Rules. The inside of the temple will be adorned with dozens, nay, HUNDREDS, of Buddha statues, of varying sizes, shapes, and materials. The first man to break a Buddha idol over each of his opponents heads is the winner! -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Bruce Blank and Bloodshed vs. David Cross and Stryke -> This can't be right. A tag team match? Absurd! Are we actually attempting to stimulate the division? Perish the thought! tongue.gif Bruce Blank is back, but considering his condition in recent weeks, we thought it might be better to start him off with some help, and there's no better help for the king of Ultraviolence than a man like Bloodshed! They take on two crowd favorites in what should turn out to be a BIG TAG TEAM BATTEL~@ Rules: Standard tag team match. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- OPENING BOUT - Cruiserweight Rules Tom Flesher vs. Insane Luchador -> Coming off a hard loss to Wildchild, and a... something... at the five-man tag, Tom's comeback isn't everything he'd hoped it to be just yet. Tonight, he battles once again under Cruiserweight rules, this time against the perpetually down but never really out Insane Luchador! Rules: Standard, with Cruiserweight Addenda.

SWF Storm is live in FIVE… FOUR… THREE… TWO… ONE… *BANG! BANG! BANG! BAM-BAM-BAM-BOOOOOOOOOOM!!* The lights go up, the pyros go off and we are live in Angkor Wat! All around the ancient monument fans are cheering and chanting, and the cameras pan around showing the odd scene. “We’re here on SWF Storm, coming to you from Angkor Wat in Cambodia, and who the hell thought this was a good idea?” Mak Francis says from the commentary position. “What are you talking about?” Suicide King asks, “we’re here in one of the wonders of the world!” “Yeah, in a rainforest with freaking midges,” Mak mutters, “and here’s me with limited mobility.” “Hold still partner,” King soothes him, “I brought some Raid!” *FWWWSSSSSSTTTTTT!* “BASTARD!” Mak coughs. However, the charming on-air camaderie is not to be heard much longer, as a loud chant suddenly rolls out through the Cambodian night sky… “COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!” “COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!” This is immediately followed by the crashing opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire and the huge portable Smarktron that’s been accompanying the SWF on their World Tour briefly whites out, then starts to fade down to black. As it does so jagged white letters flash up a familiar phrase, one word at a time: ‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG…’ “Oh God,” Suicide King sighs, “not this idiot again…” However, the Suicide King seems pretty much alone in his distaste, as the assembled Cambodians are going mental now Storm is kicking off with one of the SWF’s biggest names! The tune starts to build, the bass drum kicking louder and louder, and the Smarktron is showing clips of matches that finally culminates in Mike Van Siclen being taken off a balcony and through a table with the move known then as the Toxxic Shock Syndrome, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the blast of red pyro- *BOOOM!!* -that announces the arrival of the SWF’s most decorated Englishman! The Smarktron is still showing his triumphs, but for all the achievements it is if anything a harsh reminder for the man now making his way out into the view of the crowd. “TOXXXXXXX-IC…” For all the fact that he’s grown his hair, stopped wearing the makeup and started using his own name again, Michael Stephens is still known for what he was before. “TOXXXXXXX-IC…” All the great accomplishments flickering up in two-second clips were done by a man universally hated, a man who looks quite different. “TOXXXXXXX-IC…” But the same man, nonetheless. “On Lockdown we saw Michael Stephens return to the ring when he beat Sean Davis one-on-one,” Mak Francis reminds viewers, “but on Smarkdown things took a turn for the bizarre when during the three-on-two handicap match between Stephens, his sister Amy and Sean Davis versus Tom Flesher and Charlie Matthews, Mike Van Siclen ran in out of nowhere and took both Stephens siblings out with a steel chair!” “And excellent work it was too,” King says approvingly. Michael Stephens has now reached the bottom of the entrance ramp set up in the Cambodian jungle and rolls under the bottom rope into the ring. He doesn’t bother doing his normal pose and igniting the turnbuckles; instead he calls for a microphone, and within a couple of seconds Funyon has obliged him. The man formerly known as Toxxic takes it, raises it to his mouth… and pauses. An odd expression crosses his face for a moment. Then he resumes the motion, and begins to speak: “Y’know, it sometimes seems like things never change,” the man from Nottingham begins. “I mean, I’ve been back in the SWF for two weeks now and already I’m out here at the top of the show, taking up time and shooting my mouth off. I’d really hoped I could avoid doing this sort of thing this time around, but a couple of things have happened that demand my attention, and I want to grab everyone when I’m certain that they’re watching.” He looks up and around at the crowd, as if to make certain that they are watching, then starts speaking again. “Since I’ve returned to the SWF I’ve been the victim of an unprovoked assault by Landon Maddix, I’ve had Mike Van Siclen attempt to perform cranial surgery on me with a blunt instrument, and I’ve seen Tom Flesher and Charlie Matthews give my sister a spike piledriver when the match we were involved in had already been called as a no-contest,” he states bluntly. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Exactly!” the straight-edger agrees, nodding as the crowd voice their displeasure, “I’ll be blunt about it; that fucking sucks! I don’t remember feeling this victimised when I was the World Champion and half the planet wanted my head! But anyway,” he continues, “I’m going to line up all these events and give the people concerned my opinions. Then hopefully,” Stephens says, although he doesn’t sound too hopeful, “we can work this out and I won’t need to bore you all anymore. “Firstly, Mike Van Siclen.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Mike,” Stephens says, talking over the crowd, “I know you don’t like me. Bloody hell, the feeling’s mutual. And I can understand that you’ve got incredibly bored dazzling the natives with your teeth in Shitsville, Idaho or wherever it was you crawled off to after I retired you. However, I want you to remember one thing; you asked for it, sunshine! It was you who put your career on the line to get a shot at my World Title. Your idea, not mine! So now you feel you can waltz back in to the SWF and take a swing at me, and not just at me, but at my sister, as some sort of payback?” The Briton’s face shows a mixture of anger and genuine puzzlement as he looks around, maybe half-expecting MVS to erupt from the crowd again. “I mean, what were you hoping to achieve? Revenge? Did you want to anger me into having another match with you? Believe me sunshine, I’ve dealt with that a lot lately. All I can say is that you’ll probably end up with my sister smashing those shiny white teeth down your throat, because Amy does not like getting hit in the head by strangers.” “But she’s OK with it from family friends?” Francis asks, puzzled by the possible logical extensions of Stephens’ statement. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” King remarks, “although what would surprise me is if that family had any friends in the first place.” “Next, Tom Flesher,” Stephens says, ignorant of the commentators. “FLESH-ER SUCKS!” “FLESH-ER SUCKS!” “Tom,” Stephens says, talking over the crowd chants again, “and yes, I’m talking to you rather than Grappler because I know you better. Tom, why did you go and take out Amy on Monday? Why? The match, such as it was, was over. I haven’t heard any evidence that you want to go after her Hardcore Gamer’s Title, so it’s not even like you’re trying to soften up the champion. The only thing I can think of is that you’re just indulging your misogynistic, arsehole-ish ways on the basis that, at that point in time, you could. “Well nuh-uh. Ain’t happening no more, sunshine.” “TOXXXXXXX-IC…” “TOXXXXXXX-IC…” Michael Stephens’ face has changed. There is a certain stony determination visible there now, that of a man who has made a hard decision but one that he thinks is right. It’s far from the almost gleeful excitement that was present in the Toxxic of old where he seemed to feed off any adversity, whether from the crowd or from an opponent, but something has changed since his soft words of a couple of weeks ago. “Y’see Tom, I’m not prepared to let this one go,” the former World Champion informs all those listening, “because I know this isn’t limited to me or even Amy. You’ve already done the same thing to Akira. Now on a personal level, I’ll be honest, I don’t know Akira Kaibatsu and I’ve got no real reason to be bothered if you should seriously injure him, but it’s more the principle that’s at stake. Because as far as I can see you’re going around doing what you’re doing because you believe that you’re better, that you’re Superior to the rest of the Federation, and you can do whatever you bloody well please. “Odd thing, Tom. I remember us going one-on-one back in 2004, the only time we ever have. And I remember me beating you.” “YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “You know what else I remember?” Stephens asks, raising his voice to be heard, “I remember a couple of weeks after that where it was you, me and Janus wrestling for the World Heavyweight Title. And guess what, I remember me getting the winning pinfall over you!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “So if I’m right and you really do just think that you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, to whoever you want simply because you think you’re better, then I appear to have found a flaw in your logic, sunshine!” Mike bites off. “I’m not going to sit by and watch you get your kicks at other people’s expense, and you should know from the past, when I’ve wrestled you and when I’ve wrestled for you while you were booking Smarkdown, that I can and will back it up in any ring, at any time, in any match you care to name!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “…but I’d rather not.” The atmosphere changes, from jubilant enthusiasm to confusion. Everyone heard Michael Stephens’ fighting talk, heard him declare his opposition to Tom Flesher’s callous treatment of the SWF roster, heard him proclaim his willingness to face Tom Flesher in the ring over it. Now, they’re not quite sure what they heard. “You see Tom, I don’t want to do it like that,” Stephens says, his voice pitched back to a normal level. “You’re a hell of a wrestler - a complete arsehole, but a hell of a wrestler - and I can still remember that one match we had together, one-on-one. It was one of the toughest of my career, and it wasn’t even for the World Title. It was just for bragging rights between us. If we get into the ring and go head-to-head again, I don’t want it to be because we’re at odds. I don’t want it to be because you’re throwing your weight around and risking injury to talented wrestlers for the hell of it, and I’m stepping in to stop you. I want it to be a wrestling match, pure and simple; someone on the booking committee deciding that they want to put us in the ring to see who’s best at that moment in time.” “I have to say, I’d like to see that,” Mak Francis admits. “He’s lying,” Suicide King responds. “I’m not!” “Not you,” the Gambling Man says, rolling his eyes, “him! Toxxic, or Michael Stephens, or whatever! He’s just trying to fool Tom, that’s all…” “TOXXXXXXX-IC…” “TOXXXXXXX-IC…” With the prospect of a Flesher/Stephens match having been mentioned the crowd seem to feel that they should show who they’d support in the event of such a match. Stephens looks around as the chants grow again, then shakes his head slightly. Possibly sadly. “Finally… Landon Maddix.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Landon,” Stephens begins, “well, I’ve already said my piece on Landon. I’ve explained why I don’t want to face him again, why I’ve no intention of facing him again no matter what he says or does. I said that ten days ago on Lockdown, and as yet I’ve heard nothing from Landon on the matter. Nothing. Zip. I haven’t seen him, I haven’t read an interview with him. However,” the straight-edger continues, “all the rumours, all the whispers, all the gossip… that all points at one thing. That Landon still wants to get me in the ring, and he’s still figuring out how to do it.” Slowly, probably without thinking about it, one black-nailed hand comes up to rest on the back of Michael Stephens’ neck. He has a tendency to crack it from side to side in moments of stress or excitement, and it’s possible that there’s a slight ache there. On the other hand, it may be more likely that he’s thinking about what Landon Maddix wants to do to him; indeed, what he so very nearly did to Landon Maddix over a year ago. “Landon, something occurred to me the other day,” Stephens says, “just something I remembered. It was an interview you gave to Ben Hardy, I can’t be sure exactly when it was but I think it was just before Slay Ride, no more than a couple of weeks before you challenged for the World Title that I held at the time. In that interview you were playing with Ben; you talked about having a ‘dark side’ that no-one knew about, and you actually got him believing you before you let him know what a tool he was and that you’d just been messing with him. I’ll admit,” the Englishman continues, “I laughed at that interview; it made me chuckle. More because I couldn’t see how someone as goofy as you could be a threat to me, which admittedly was a mistake on my part,” he shrugs, “but also because the idea of Landon Maddix, Landon Maddix as some evil psychopath was just ludicrous. “Fast forward a year or so, and what do we see? Well, I’d say the situation has changed a little,” Stephens declares. “Landon, I don’t think you hold a grudge for over a year without a ‘dark side’. I don’t think you screw someone’s sister in an attempt to mess with their head without a ‘dark side’. I don’t think you beat someone’s sister so badly that you get her blood on the World Title you happen to own, and then carry that title belt around with the blood still on it, without a ‘dark side’.” The man formerly known as the Straight-Edge Sensation looks up, and his steel-grey eyes bore directly into the camera for a second before he looks away and continues his statement. “Landon, I know for a bloody fact that you don’t deliberately try and break someone’s neck without there being a dark side to you. I remember, back then, I had a little phrase I used to taunt you with. I used to call you ‘just a cheap imitation of me’. These days… these days I guess you’re not doing so bad. “So tell me. How does it feel to get up in the morning, go to the bathroom, look in the mirror and find me staring back at you?” It has gone quiet inside Angkor Wat. The crowd aren’t making much noise anymore, caught up in the honesty of Michael Stephens’ words. The man himself is looking down at the canvas, perhaps too caught up in his own thoughts to pay much attention to the TV cameras anymore. “Landon, you never used to be like this. Goofy; yes. Annoying; yes. When it came down to it, a pretty good wrestler; yes. But you never had the sort of callous disregard for the safety of others that you’ve been displaying recently. I mean c’mon,” the Englishman says, the ghost of a smile returning briefly, “you’re Landon Maddix! You hit people with baguettes in hardcore matches! Is that really such a bad legacy to have? “Maybe it is, from your point of view. Maybe you really aren’t going to rest until you’ve somehow got me where you want me,” the straight-edger nods mournfully, “and believe it or not, I can relate to that. It’s exactly how I felt two years ago. So I’ll give you one warning now, and please don’t take this the wrong way; it’s not meant to be patronising, it’s not meant to be antagonistic, it’s simply because at the moment, I’ve been there and you haven’t. “The simple fact is that to get rid of me, to truly eliminate me from your life, you’ll have to become just as bad, just as hard, just as cruel as I ever was. Maybe you think you can live with that. I have a feeling that you’ll be proved wrong… and not by me.” Michael Stephens looks up, looks around at the subdued crowd, and a grimace twists his face. “OK, I’m done. Go to commercials or something. I’m outta here.” And with that he drops the microphone, rolls under the bottom rope and heads for the backstage area. As he walks up the ramp between the fans he looks to neither right nor left, and disappears from view without looking back. FADE OUT

In the interest of preventing further expositions of dirty laundry and drama, I'm pre-emptively locking the thread, just in case. No offense to anyone intended.

So which of them starts going "Ohhh, Toxxic..." first?

All you need to do is develop Laberinto as a split personality and you too can mimic Janus! Come on, you know you want to. Also: Great harm will befall the next person I see misspelling "disdain" like you just did.

Pfahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa.

SWF Lockdown Card @ The Taj Mahal - Agra, India Date: 17th May 2006. Viewing Times: 6:00pm PST, 10:00pm EST; check local listings. I'd be witty, but I'm tired and all 'rargh why are there no matches'. Raynor will put in the typical shiny pictures later, because no matter what he has you believe, that's his job. So. Card! Main Event - Three-Way Dance For The Cruiserweight Title Grendel© vs Zyon vs "The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu Description: Team Tecnicos win match. WC wants a match for the International title later, so he opted out. Three men do battle! Rules: Three Way, and because I like it that way, elimination style. Word Limit: 6500 Marker: realitycheck Sub-Main Event - International Title Match JJ Johnson© vs "Hollywood" Spike Jenkins Description: International battle for the gold, and I have no idea if Spike holds the other tag strap or not. Rules: Straight singles match Word Limit: 7000 Marker: janusd Singles Match "The Superior One" Tom Flesher vs Wildchild Description: Tom wants cruiserweight preferences, Tom gets the best cruiser we have. Rules: Cruiserweight rules Word Limit: 5000 Marker: chirs3 Hardcore Match Insane Luchadore vs Jay Hawke Description: And then, there was violence. Rules: VIOLENCE! Word Limit: 5000 Marker: The Superstar Singles Match Michael Stephens vs Sean Davis Description: Random battle of doom starring everyone's favourite former Straight-Edge Sensation Toxxic. Rules: Singles match Word Limit: 4000 Marker: Evolution Send all marked matches, promos etc to: realitycheck Yes. Minimal effort on my part. I may just be a little annoyed with the poor effort of last show's lack of matches. This also accounts for my inability to think of a good House Rules match despite numerous intriguing suggestions. And then, there were otters.

Too much stuff still needs to be edited in. Will put card up later.

"ALLISON!" Tom Flesher swings open a door with the nameplates "GHOST MACHINE" and "DEEP THROAT," as well as a sharpie scribble that appears to read "Chris Velour." In the trailer, Allison Onita sits in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, watching the proceedings on a monitor. "Hey." She stands up, smirking, and Flesher leans in and kisses her quickly. "Allie, listen, I'm kind of in a hurry here. Have we been getting cell service out here?" Allison checks her phone and frowns. "No bars." "Crap." Flesher sighs. "Well, I guess that's part of being away from civilization. Do we at least have a beer fridge in the trailer?" Allison shakes her head. "Listen, I need to go out," he sighs. "I'm gonna have to talk to Peters, though, so if you see him, tell him I need a meeting. And if you have one of those contract blanks left over from when we re-signed, have it handy. I think we're going to need to fax it out tonight." "Who...?" "Relax," Tom says. "I just want to get in contact with someone. Oh, and if you see Bill around?" "Yeah?" "Tell him I need a favor." With that, Flesher grabs his messenger bag. He pecks Allison again on the cheek and rushes out the door.

JJ and Arch have a match so good, the scale has to be modified to accomodate exponents. JJ takes the win after an ultra-smooth and stiff strike battle, with the Canadian countering a third straight rolling forearm into a Fujiwara takedown and subsequently the Frostbite III for the tapout. Crowd chants 'This was awesome', 'Thank you', 'S-W-F', and every other cliche ROH crowd chant, but nobody has heard of ROH, because it's SWF land! "Fuck!" swears Gus, as he notices he left the camera off. FADE OUT

"What the hell was that!?" The question is being shouted at the back of a head. The person doing the shouting is Joseph Peters, head booker of the SWF. The owner of the head being shouted at is Michael Stephens, fresh from his in-ring facedown with Landon Maddix. He doesn't stop walking. "What the hell was what?" "That!" Peters yells, "damn it, you told me you were coming back to face Landon! That's why I agreed to resigning you, so we can actually get some goddamn ratings! You promised me Toxxic, I-" Abruptly Stephens whirls around, black hair whipping through the air, and suddenly Joe Peters finds himself staring into two steel-grey orbs that seem to bore through the back of his skull. Peters is cut off in mid-bawl; it looks like a new haircut hasn't made the Straight-Edge Sensation's moods any less quick to change. "I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that anymore, Joe," Stephens says quietly. "Now, as for the other thing; I'd suggest you listen to a recording of our conversation, if you took one. I never promised you anything, certainly not that I'd face Landon. All I said was that I had some unfinished business to take care of. I needed to check on my sister, and I needed to tell Landon once and for all that I am not getting back into the ring with him, under any circumstances. I've done one of those two things, and I'm on my way to see Amy now. After that you can book me in any match you want, but not with Landon." "And if I book you against him anyway?" Peters says challengingly. Stephens tilts his head to one side and regards his boss with a certain detached curiosity for a second before replying. "Yeah, you go ahead and do that," he says. "Let everyone on the roster, and everyone watching across the world see you put a former main-event star, a three-time World Champion, into the ring with a man who has on several occasions not just threatened but promised to cripple me. Watch any respect the roster may have left for you drain away. Hell, I'm valuable Peters. If you're prepared to sacrifice me for one payoff, what are you prepared to do with the rest of them?" He gives a humourless snort. "Besides, I'd just walk away." "Breach of contract?" Peters asks, "I'd sue you." "And I'd claim unsafe working environment," Stephens counters, "I don't care if we're a professional wrestling organisation Joe, after what he did to Cross and Ordonez Landon's threats would sway any court." "And I suppose you want a World Title shot too, huh?" "With Landon as World Champion? Please Peters, you're going to have to do better than that." He looks at his watch. "I've gotta go. Like I said Joe, I'm back on the roster. You can throw me into any sort of match you want as long as it doesn't involve Landon. Oh, and let Funyon and people know; I'm not Toxxic, I'm not the Straight-Edge Sensation, I'm Michael Stephens. I'm no-one but Michael Stephens. Don't forget it." "But the name value-" "Sod the name value," Stephens snaps, "trust me, I'll make sure people remember this one." With that, the former three-time World Champion turns on his heel and stalks off, away from the SWF's head booker. Peters glares after him for a moment, then spins around and sets off in the opposite direction with a scowl on his face. "This deal keeps getting worse all the time..."

Storm returns to the Great Sphinx and the Pyramids of Giza, as the generator-powered spotlights flare up and Mastodon’s “Crusher Destroyer” blasts from the speakers, to the accompaniment of strobes pulsing and flashing in time with the music. Manson walks through the makeshift curtain moments later to the jeers of the crowd and heads down the ramp. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the following is a singles match… for one-half of the SWF Tag Team Championship!” booms Funyon. “Introducing first, from Denver, Colorado, weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds, he is one-half of the SWF Tag Team Champions… MMMAAANNNNSOONNN!” He rolls in upon hitting the ring, throwing up the horns to more heat from the fans, then heads for his corner, ready to fight. “If you’re just joining us, tonight’s Tag Team Title Match is a strange one,” begins Mak, “as it’s really a fight for one-half of the titles, held by Manson.” “I’m sure it’s been done before.” “Not in the SWF to my recollection. Regardless, this stems from Spike attacking Manson after the Trios Match on Smarkdown, blaming him for the loss despite taking the pinfall himself. He then had some venomous words for Manson, which the Bull was none too happy about, as if attacking him wasn’t enough.” “He declined to do an official interview, but the words ‘What fucking right does that goddamn punk have to say that, has he forgotten how many times I’ve beaten him.’ ‘At least I haven’t made a career riding on the backs of others.’ ‘Couldn’t even come through and beat Zyon in a Street Fight even after attempted murder.’ ‘Was such a fucking joke that he was obliterated by me and everyone else during the build to the biggest match of his career versus Magnifico.’ and ‘Cruiserweight Title? It was a goddamn nacho dish. There’s a reason I got out of that dead end division a long time ago. His biggest opponent during his reign was Ryan Dustin, how lame is that.’ All verbatim, of course.” “This is a family show, for fuck’s sake.” Manson stretches in his corner when the lights ramp up to full power. For a moment the only sound is that of a needle scratching over vinyl... And then *BAM* The heavy drumming of Norma Jean’s “Creating Something Out of Nothing, Only to Destroy It” blasts through the arena as the lyrics pierce the ears of everyone listening. “Like bringing a knife to a gun fight… Like Bringing A Knife To A Gun Fight… LIKE BRINGING A KNIFE TO A GUN FIGHT!” Bright white lights begin flashing at the entryway. As the growls hit the crowd, Spike walks out wearing a black hoodie on, the hood covering most of his face. Spike drops down to one knee, leaving one arm to hang to the ground, while the other is firmly placed on his knee. After a few moments, Spike raises both arms into an “X”, symbolizing his Straight Edge life style. Spike rises to his feet and begins to make his way down the isle towards the ring. ”And the challenger, from Hollywood, California, weighing in tonight at two hundred and twenty pounds… ‘HOLLYWOOD’ SPIKE JEEENNNNKINS!” Spike makes his way completely around the ring and rolls underneath the bottom rope. He continues rolling until he hits dead center in the middle of the ring. Spike rises to one knee and resumes the position he was in at the top of the entranceway. One arm hanging to the ground, the other placed on his knee. Finally, Spike rises to his feet. He quickly peels off the hood, releasing his blonde, dyed hair free. He puts his arms together, forming an “X” across his chest, again promoting his Straight Edge life style. He throws off his ring jacket, as Kivell holds up Manson’s half of the tag belts and after taking it over to the apron, calls for the bell. *DING DING!* Manson and Spike each emerge from their corners, each looking for an opening as they dance around the ring, until Manson shoots in and manages to grab Spike by the right leg. Spike pounds down on Manson’s back with forearms, but he drives Spike into a corner before any real damage is done. Manson releases Spike, who sticks his head through the ropes in an attempt to force a break, but Manson grabs hold of his throat and begins throttling him for a time before Kivell manages to forcefully pull him away. Sticking a finger in his face, Kivell warns Manson while Spike recovers. Stepping aside, Kivell finally lets Manson pass, only for him to get caught with a right hand by Spike. His opponent unfazed, Spike hits one after another, stepping into each one and finally managing to rock Manson. He grabs Manson by the hair, bringing his free arm up and catching him with a European uppercut, causing him to stumble back. Spike lunges forward with a forearm, sending Manson further back, now into the ropes with a shoulder toward Spike. As Jenkins closes in, Manson launches a back elbow, smashing Spike in the face. Manson swings with a wild left, catching Spike again, then hits another back elbow with the same arm. With Spike staggered, he revs up a lariat with the right and knocks Spike down to the mat! Jenkins scrambled back up to his feet as Manson charges, catching him up high with a jumping knee to the face! Spike is slower to stand this time, barely getting up on all fours as Manson tees off with a kick to the ribs! The force launches Spike into air, as he takes a roll and grabs his ribs. Coming up on to his knees and still holding his ribs, he’s prone as Manson hits a number of short, downward kesagiri chops to the neck, then steps behind Spike and laces into him with another kick, this one directly to the spine! Spike grabs at his lower back as Manson pulls him up by his dirty blonde hair, then grabs a wrist and sends him across the ring with a whip, but Spike puts a halt to his momentum by grabbing the ropes and escaping outside to Manson’s dismay. Spike angrily kicks the steps on the outside while Manson throws up the horns, getting a surprisingly positive reaction out of the crowd. “88 miles per hour!” King shouts all of a sudden. “What?” Suddenly time jumps ahead and we come back just in time to catch Spike clotheslining Manson over the top, as he and Spike go tumbling over the ropes and outside the ring! “What the hell just happened?” “I just told you. Back to the future, baby!” “Heavy.” Spike is able to stand just before Manson. He starts laying in right hands, but Manson recovers soon enough with knee to the stomach. With Spike bent over from the knee, Manson grabs him by the back of the head and drags him over to the steps. He attempts to ram Spike headfirst into the stairs, but Spike blocks with a foot. He stomps on Manson’s foot and hits a back elbow to the face, then grabs hold and manages to stuff Manson’s face in the steps instead! Manson reels from the attack, managing to get away for the time being, but Spike is on him again as he charges and knocks Manson down from behind. Positioning himself in front of the adjacent ringpost, Spike pulls Manson up and prepares to send him into it, but Manson hits a series of forearms to the face, breaking the hold. He’s not done yet, as this time he grabs Spike and tries to whip him into the post, but Spike holds his ground, and Manson collides with the post face first with a thud! Manson goes down in a heap but he has no time to rest. Spike immediately pulls him up, knowing he can’t take away Manson’s coveted tag belt without defeating him in the ring. With Kivell up to a seven count, he rolls Manson in and heads inside himself, going for a cover. ONE! TWO! TH- KICKOUT! “Spike only manages a two and a half!” shouts Mak. “OMG! It’s happening again!” Time flies ahead once more and as we come back to Manson and Spike in the ring, Manson is now covered in red, as we see him on his knees in front of Spike, with Jenkens landing precise fist after fist to the wound on Manson’s forehead. As the Bull sits dazed, Spike backs up a step, comes forward and lands a boot to the face, knocking Manson down. “Why the hell does this keep happening?” “A rip in space-time?” offers King. “Can it just be people TiVoing and shit?” “Yeah, we’ll go with that.” “Anyway, Spike has been dominating this match since Manson took the metal ringpost to the face earlier and began bleeding since Spike started focusing on that area. He just hasn’t been the same after that.” “You’re right. He just hasn’t been the same after that.” “Insightful as always. Despite that, he’s held his own, managing to get in some big moves of his own from time to time and frustrating Spike to no end. He’s not giving in without a fight.” Spike pulls Manson up, landing another right to the face and driving Manson back into the ropes. However, Manson gets in a desperation eye rake, doing anything he can to keep this match going. Spike swats away blindly as he turns from Manson, allowing Manson to run him over with an enzui lariat! Spike goes down and feeling momentum shifting, he picks Spike up and places him in a headscissors. “Could he be going for the Liger Bomb once more? He tried it earlier only to have it countered, putting a stop to a hot run of offense and turning this match back toward Spike.” Manson lifts Spike up by the waist and struggling to keep him up on his shoulders, he runs forward and drives Spike into the mat, pinning him in the process! “He hit it! This could be it!” ONE! TWOOOO! THREE- NO! KICKOUT! Manson can’t believe the call, as he lays back on the mat, gripping his hair in exasperation. Slamming a fist on the mat, he’s back to his feet while Spike tries in vain to stand. Calling for the end, Manson revs up his arm across the ring. He heads for the ropes and bounces off as Spike stands… “HERE COMES THE RAGING LARIAT!” Manson swings, but MISSES AS SPIKE DUCKS! In a prone position with his back to Spike, he capitalizes, as he grabs Manson by the jaw from behind and yanks him into a Lung Blower! Manson bounces off Spike’s knees and cringes as he rolls over onto his stomach, while Spike stands. Spike calls for the end now with an X high into the air as Manson stands. Spike kicks Manson in the gut, setting up for Endwell as Manson goes down to a knee… “And now could we see the Endwell by Spike, the same move which put Manson down after the disasterous Trios Match?” …but Manson still has something left as he stands and clocks Spike with a wild haymaker, nearly knocking Spike to the mat on its own. Manson ducks under either arm of Spike, placing his arm across the upper chest and preparing an overhead Uranage, but Spike gathers himself quickly and rams elbows into the side of Manson’s skull, breaking the hold. Manson and Spike stand inches from each other after the broken Uranage attempt, but Spike is the first on the offensive, as he takes his right hand and digs his fingernails not into Manson’s eyes, but into the still open, seeping wound in the middle of his forehead. Manson screams in agony and goes down to a knee once more as Spike lets go, his cut dripping anew, but Hollywood doesn’t let it last for much longer as he manages a headscissors and hooks the arms, driving Manson into the mat and hitting the Endwell! “Dirty trick by Spike, but there’s…” “The ENDWELL!” shouts King. ONE! TWOOOO!!! THREEEEE!!!! *DING DING!* “BOOOOOOOOOO!” “Your winner and NNEEEEWWWWW SWF Tag Team Champion… ‘HOLLYWOOD’ SPIKE JENNNKINS!” With “Creating Something Out of Nothing, Only to Destroy It” blaring, Kivell fetches the belt for Spike, who rips it out of his hands and exits the ring, holding it up for the crowd to see. However, as soon as he sets foot outside the ring, he looks back at Manson, who begins coming to after the Endwell. Jenkins grumbles and sets the belt on the apron, then fetches a nearby chair. He slides back in and staring down at Manson, he prepares to swing… “HERE COMES SEAN DAVIS!” But Spike catches a glimpse of Davis out the corner of his eye and escapes under the ropes with chair in hand. He snatches the belt off the apron as Davis lunges for him over the ropes, but he’s just out of reach, as Spike backs up the ramp… right into JJ Johnson! “As well as Manson’s tag team partner J3! JJ Johnson! But is he here to lend a hand after what we saw on Smarkdown?!” Jenkins slowly turns, coming face to face with Johnson. He begs off from JJ, pointing to the fact that they’re a team now, then meekly hands the chair off to Johnson and continues his way up the ramp to J3’s confusion. He stares at Jenkins for a moment, before spotting Davis in the ring kneeling beside Manson and helping him up to his feet. Johnson rushes down to the ring with the chair in hand and both of his titles –the International Championship and his half of the Tag Team Titles- in the other. “He doesn’t know what Davis is up to but it looks like he’s helping Manson out!” “Or so it seems,” mutters King. Johnson drops his titles as he slides into the ring, holding the chair at the ready position, as Davis stands Manson up. Sean begs off, not looking for any trouble from his former Revolution Zero teammate and he exits the ring, leaving Manson to settle matters with Johnson on his own. “Davis didn’t want any of it, but it looks like J3 still has that chair in hand!” Manson understandably looks ready to fight, but Johnson quells his temper as best he can, silently sliding the chair toward Manson in a show of faith. The Raging Bull glances down at the chair, then looks J3 square in the eyes, who throws up his hands in surrender and gestures that the successful team they have comes first. Manson nods in agreement and Johnson extends a hand of reconciliation. Manson accepts and echoes the words of Johnson, and the two hold each other’s arm in the air. They break hands and separate, leaving Johnson to grab his titles from off the mat. “This is good to see. They shouldn’t let Spike get between them. It’s for the good of the success they’ve had as a team.” “I’m watering up here, Mak… Jeez. Give me a freaking break.” Then, as Johnson slings each belt over a shoulder and turns back around toward Manson… *CRACK!* Manson scoops up the chair and smashes it over his skull! “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” screams Mak, as Johnson drops like a sack of potatoes. Manson stands over Johnson, who curls up in the fetal position with an arm over his eyes after being rattled by the chair. Emotionless, he then picks up each of Johnson’s titles and holds them in his outstretched arms… “Is this why he did this? Just for those belts?” “You have to remember that Manson doesn’t exactly operate rationally. He holds grudges and lives and dies on what he does in that ring. I’m sure wanting the International Title or wanting to be Tag Champion again has something to do with it, but if that wasn’t enough, perhaps he resents Johnson for having what he wants or was feeling slighted after what went down on Smarkdown.” “Both Spike and Manson can burn for all I care. And Johnson has a match next! What’s he gonna do after being taken out here?” “That’s JJ’s problem now. Manson is freeing himself of that problem.” “Not if JJ has anything to say about it,” quips Mak, as Manson lays the belts down on Johnson, gestures for him to shove it to a number of boos from the crowd and exits the ring.”

"Tell me exactly, what am I supposed to do Now that I have allowed you, to beat me! Do you think that we could play another game Maybe I could win this ti-ime." "I kinda like the misery you put me through Darling you can trust me, completely! If you even try to look the other way I think that I could kill this ti-ime!"[/i] "The Game" by Disturbed pounds from the Egyptian air and heralds the arrival of the SWF's World Heavyweight Champion, Landon Maddix, flying solo tonight for some reason as he strolls through the entrance way. Smiling away to himself, the smartly dressed Landon removes his orange tinted sunglasses and looks out into the crowd with a sneer, the World Title draped over his right shoulder and a clipboard clutches in his left hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation WORLD Heavyweight Champion... LANDON "LA CUCARACHA"... MMMMAAAAAADDIIIIXXXXXXXXX!!!" "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Entering the ring, Landon wastes no time in calling for the mic from Funyon, then shooing the SWF's premiere (and only) ring announcer out of the spotlight. "Oke-dokie, you all know the drill so let's get on with this. I have a contract, somebody needs to sign it. Now, I didn't check the flight schedules or the travel arrangements or anything like that, so for all I know Amy Stephens could be on the other side of the world. She could be back in Nottingham, looking through the 'dog and bone' book for some old flames to lick her...wounds. Hell, she could be back in America and be about to show up on HeldDOWN~! with the rest of the no-talent, former SWF losers who can't cut it here, so have to go wrestle on the 'B' show with the 'B' company." "Worked shoots for all!" cheers King gleefully. "But, let's assume Amy had the guts to show up tonight and answer my little challenge. After all, a World Title shot at 13th Hour doesn't come around every day, I think it's worth just a little bit of effort. So let's assume that effort's been made. Amy, the floor is yours." ... Nothing. Landon looks around and some boos have already started, but Landon is willing to give another chance to his former girlfriend. "Okay, okay...have we got the sound rigged up backstage? Somebody give a shout out into the back, couldya?" ... "C'mon Amy, we haven't got all night." ... "I don't think she's coming out King." "No shit." sighs King. ... "No? No sign? Well, that's really a shame Amy, because this isn't a long-term offer. Limited time only, while stocks last. So, how about we give her one last chance. I'm a nice guy, I'm willing to cut a bit of slack your wa..." However, Landon is suddenly cut off in mid-sentence by a brutal, stuttering guitar riff; one that echoes out across the Egyptian desert and draws all eyes to the entrance ramp. Unfortunately, it doesn’t get a great reaction because exactly the same guitar riff was heard in Baghdad, and we all know how that turned out. “Ugh, Myers again,” Suicide King predicts gloomily, “how did Maddix persuade him to come out and get his ass kicked again?” “Short-term memory loss? A large amount of cash? Offering him the chance to lick Megan Skye’s feet?” Mak guesses wildly, “to be honest I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just hope this is quick.” ‘We Still Kill The Old Way’ by Lostprophets continues to pound out of the speakers as, sure enough, Matt Myers dressed as Toxxic emerges into view. However, down in the ring Landon isn’t smirking like he was last week. Instead, the World Champion appears to be rather annoyed. “Myers, what the hell are you doing?” Maddix barks. The production crew take a hint and drop the music out as Myers continues to make his way down to the ring, then rolls under the ropes and springs to his feet before throwing his arms wide, palms flat, in Toxxic’s signature pose. The lack of music or any real reaction from a crowd not stupid enough to be caught by the same bait-and-switch twice completely failing to bother him, Myers beckons for a microphone. A long-suffering technician produces one and the former SJL World Champion (for shame Judge, for shame) raises it to his lips, glaring out at Landon from between eyeliner lids. “Landon, you got the drop on me in Baghdad,” Myers declares, still attempting his awful British accent, “but you ain’t gonna do it again, right?” “Myers, go away,” Landon growls, “I paid you for last week, now clear off!” “Oh no sunshine, you ain’t getting away that easily,” Myers declares, “you might have beaten up my sister but I’m gonna get my own back on yer!” “Piss off!,” Maddix snarls, clearly preparing to remove the annoying jobber from the ring by violent means, “I’ve got no problem giving you another beating!” “Oh, really?” Myers asks, “well in that case…” and he pulls a wad of paper out of the pocket of his baggy skate pants. “…what the hell is that?” Landon asks, momentarily taken aback. Myers grins lopsidedly and waves it under his nose triumphantly. “This, sunshine, is a contract for you to face Toxxic at 13th Hour!” he declares, jabbing himself in the chest with a thumb. There is a momentary pause, while Landon eyes the deluded man in front of him. Then a sinister smile starts to spread over his face. “I don’t like the look of this,” Mak mutters. Meanwhile, Landon has swiped the contract from Myers’ hand and is skimming it, making sure that it is a normal SWF contract with no hidden extras. Then he pulls the pen from his pocket that he presumably had in case Amy had taken him up on his offer of a rematch and scribbles his signature in the correct place. "You don't like the look of this!?!" snaps King, weeping softly. "We're going to main-event 13th Hour with Myers vs. Maddix...we're all gonna be out of jobs once the buyrate comes in for that one!" “Well, there you go ‘Toxxic’,” Landon sneers, shoving the contract back at Myers, “since I haven’t got anything better to do and your ‘sister’ doesn’t want to get in the ring with me again, sure; you and me can have a match at 13th Hour. That’s assuming the bookers will even let you on Pay-Per-View,” he adds, then seems to notice something and points. “But look, ‘Toxxic’, you haven’t signed it,” the World Champion declares. “I know you’re a little bit out of practice at this whole wrestling thing, but we do still have to sign contracts to make the matches legal and binding, you know. Here, borrow my pen,” Maddix offers, shoving the pen at Myers. For his part Myers suddenly seems uncertain. “You know that if he signs it, even if Peters lets him wrestle at the PPV, Landon’s going to murder him,” Mak says. “Maddix hates being upstaged by anyone,” King agrees, “I’m surprised his ego even fits in the Nile Valley!” “Looks who’s talking.” Matt Myers looks around at the crowd. Some (a few) of them are cheering for him to sign the contract. Most are quiet, because they instinctively know that he has no chance, absolutely no chance at all, of winning. Myers swallows, fumbles with the pen uncertainly and looks around again, perhaps hoping for some sort of distraction… …and Landon boots him in the gut, grabs the contract off him and then throws him out through the ropes! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “I’ll keep this,” Maddix shouts after Myers, “just to prove that when it came down to it, Toxxic just didn’t have the guts to face-” “COME AN’ HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!” “COME AN’ HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!” The chant rolls out across the desert, sounding like a couple of thousand voices all shouting that one same phrase before a crashing chord takes over. For a moment there is only confusion, but then as the Smarktron whites out a distinctive bassline can be heard rumbling through the noise, gaining strength and clarity as the original chord starts to fade. And as the Smarktron quickly fades back down to black, the crowd -and Landon- finally recognise it. “No, it can’t be!” King shouts in sudden disbelief, “he’s here!? He can’t be!” The jagged white letters flash up one word at a time on the Smarktron, providing an almost ironic counterpoint to the Gambling Man’s last statement: ‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG…’ This music hasn’t been heard in the SWF for nearly a year. This is ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire. Only one man in the history of the SWF ever had entrance music specifically designed to remind his opponents of the almost unprecedented success of his rookie year with the company. “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” They’re chanting his name. “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” This time, Landon knows that he didn’t have any part in this. “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” The Smarktron has changed to show a collection of clips of notable matches, ending as ever with the footage of Mike Van Siclen being taken off a balcony and through a table with the move known as the Toxxic Shock Syndrome, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the- *BOOOM!!* -explosion of red pyro that seems to shake the very pyramids themselves. And following it, through the smoke and haze… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …wearing a red England soccer shirt with his signature spiky black hair now grown out into chin-length curtains through which the steel-grey eyes peer, no longer adorned by eyeliner… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …the light catching the network of thin scars on his face, courtesy of Nathaniel Kibagami and a plate glass door… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …comes the man once known as Toxxic. “He came back,” Mak Francis breathes. “Jesus Christ, he actually came back.” There is a rumbling building; fans are clapping, stamping, banging on stairs and on the guard rail that surrounds the ring area. There is the faint hint of a 'WEL-COME BACK!' chant from somewhere, but by and large the assembled SWF faithful are just content to be making noise. It doesn't matter that this man was once the most hated in the company; it doesn't matter that they once lusted after his blood and screamed for the hero of the hour to take him down, and it certainly doesn't matter that the hero would almost inevitably fail. What matters is the fact that day after day, week and after week and month after month, in cities and towns across the US, North America and indeed the entire world, Landon Maddix has been out here running his mouth. And they are sick of it. ‘Rookie’ is building to a climax. The new arrival stops at the top of the entrance ramp, cracks his neck from side to side and waits for the two snare beats- *bap-bap* *BOOOM!!* -then throws his arms wide, palms flat to the floor, seemingly igniting a blast of red pyro from the top of each turnbuckle! Even Landon Maddix jumps in surprise and alarm. ‘I never thought this could be me I guess you never do until it’s happening to you Like all the fun turned into shame And all the “could-have-beens” rearrange…’ As the flames finally die out, so does the music. After a few seconds all that is left is the noise of the crowd, and Landon and Toxxic staring at each other from ring to ramp, and back again. La Cucaracha's face is hard to read; he's been asking, begging, cajoling and threatening for this moment to take place for months now. You would think that, after all that, he would be ready to face down his greatest rival and bitterest enemy. However, his face is not calm; flickers of what could be eagerness or what could be apprehension cross it as he unconsciously licks his lips. Even as he looks on, Toxxic restarts his steady pace down to the ring, then unhurriedly rolls under the bottom rope and beckons for a microphone. A SWF flunkey literally sprints to lean through the ropes and place one in the hand of the three-time former World Champion, and thus armed Toxxic turns to face Landon Maddix. He raises the microphone to his lips, and the noise in the arena suddenly dies down. ... ... "Go ahead sunshine," Toxxic grins, "I believe you were saying something funny?" "RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" It's hardly Shakespeare, but the crowd response is amazing. It's as if they were all holding their breath, hoping against hope that what they were witnessing was not some mass hallucination, that finally Landon might actually have got what he's been wishing for and that the day they can see him get his ass kicked by it is near at hand. Those few words delivered in Toxxic's distinctive Nottingham accent have confirmed it; he's back. Of course, there's always someone prepared to bitch. "That's... that's it!?" Landon splutters into his own mic, "you disappear for nearly a year, you ruin my career, you just run away from the whole SWF; now you come back out after months of me calling you out, with your music and enough pyro to burn down Manhattan and you just make a JOKE!?" The Next Generation stares at his nemesis for a couple of seconds, apparently speechless. Of course, that doesn't last for long. "Toxxic, I-" It's at that moment that Toxxic lashes out, sending the microphone spiralling from Landon's grasp to land with an audible *thunk* on the mat. Maddix tenses up, fists clenched and ready to fight, but Toxxic steps back again and raises one hand placatingly. The grin, however, has dropped from his face. "Landon, like you said, you've had a few months of speaking," the straight-edger says quietly. "I think it might be time for you to shut up for a few minutes." "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" "Amen," Pete and King say together, then turn and glare at each other. "First of all," the Englishman begins, "let's get one thing clear. Toxxic hasn't come back to the SWF. Toxxic walked out of the Wembley Arena at Ground Zero last year, and he drove north to Nottingham. Toxxic stayed there." He looks around at the crowd for a few seconds, seemingly memorising faces. "Toxxic was an arsehole. Toxxic was an arrogant, egotistical cunt. Toxxic was the 'Straight-Edge Sensation', who rubbed his lifestyle in people's faces and thought he was better than everyone else. My name is Michael Stephens, and I'm far from perfect. But I'm not Toxxic." A murmur runs around the crowd at those words. It seems odd to hear the youth from Nottingham describe himself in such damning terms, but no-one present can argue with the statements he's made. Not even Landon Maddix seems inclined to try; in fact the Next Generation is simply standing in the ring watching his old enemy, apparently waiting for something. "Now, you're probably wondering why I haven't responded to your challenge before, Landon," Michael Stephens says seriously. "I'll be honest with you, the main reason is that I didn't know about it. I've been travelling, you see. I think I was in Papua New Guinea or Indonesia, somewhere around there, when you first called me out. I hadn't seen the SWF in months, and it wasn't until I got to Australia that I found out what was going on. Besides, the SWF's on tape delay down there and so there I was, sitting in a bar on the Sydney waterfront, when I look up and see you and my sister in the ring in a broadcast from February." He grins again, apparently at ease. "Gave me something of a shock, I can tell you." "Enough of the talking," King mutters impatiently, "start pounding on him already!" However Stephens doesn't seem inclined to take the Gambling Man's advice, and raises his microphone to his mouth again. "So here we are. I figured out my travel schedule and everything, got back to the USA only to find out that you were heading on a World Tour, contacted the SWF and got their permission to appear on their programming. In the meantime I heard that you've been a busy little bunny, dropping people on their heads and all sorts. It didn't mean anything, Landon; I was on my way. But it's not like I could just jump on a plane and two hours later roll off into Shitsville, Idaho and answer your latest challenge, you know?" he smiles. "So anyway-" Now it is Landon's turn to lash out. However, instead of knocking the microphone away Landon just snatches it out of Stephens' hand, causing the straight-edger to look at him with a vaguely hurt expression. "I don't give a damn about this shit," Maddix snarls, "since you've decided to show up after all I just want one of two words from you: YES or NO!" Stephens raises his eyebrows, then walks over to where the other microphone landed earlier and picks it up before turning back to face his enemy. "Patience, Padawan." The crowd give an 'Oooohhhh!' at Michael's response, and the Smarktron shows Landon grinding his teeth until it's surprising that the ring mics can't pick the sound up. However, La Cucaracha restrains himself... for the moment, at least. "As I was saying," Stephens resumes, "I think that before I give you my answer, I should tell you how I came to my decision. "Now then. Amy." The former Straight-Edge Sensation stops smiling and looks Landon directly in the eye. "I'm not particularly pleased with how you've behaved towards her, sunshine." "TOXXXXXXXXXXX-IC..." "TOXXXXXXXXXXX-IC..." The chants have started up in the crowd again; not loud, but growing in strength. Michael Stephens looks towards the fans briefly as if in acknowledgement of his old ring name, then returns his attention to the former Triple Crown Champion in front of him. "Y'see, as I'm sure she's told you, Amy and I haven't always got along that great. But that don't mean that I like to see her used and abused like some sort of cheap whore." "And what are you going to do about it?" Landon asks, almost eagerly. Stephens stares him in the eye for several long seconds... then sighs. "...nothing." "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" "What!?" King yelps, "has he gone chicken or something?" Landon's face is a picture of uncertainty. He looks absolutely gobsmacked at his enemy's decision, but before he can do much more than gape, Michael Stephens begins speaking again. "You see Landon, if I was going to take issue with the fact that you've been sleeping with my sister, I'd have had to put about half of Nottingham into hospital by now," the elder Stephens explains, "because it ain't exactly a new development, if you get my drift? I mean, sod the seven-year itch mate, I hope you kids were careful or you could be getting an entirely different sort of itch, know what I mean?" He winks cheekily at Landon, who first looks startled and then murderous. "Now," Michael continues, "I'm sure Amy won't be too happy to hear me talking about her previous adventures on national television, but hey; she was the one who chose to shack up with a guy who's been bleating on for months about crippling me so sis, if you're listening, turnabout is fair play. And anyway, this was her decision. Amy always gets herself into these messes; she chose to take up with you, she was the one who got jealous of Megan, and she was the one who wanted a piece of you in the ring, Landon. I'm not going to come back and play the vengeful brother if my sister wants to start fights she can't win." "Enough stalling," Landon growls, "yes or no?" "But Landon, then there's the fact that you've been injuring people," Stephens continues, apparently ignoring his enemy. "Michael Cross, Ced Ordonez, goodness knows who else. And you've been ripping off my moves too, which let's be fair," he shrugs, "isn't really anything new. But those poor buggers; what did they do to you? And you hurt them, try to cripple them, and you want to put the blame on my shoulders?" He shakes his head. "I don't think so. Everything you've done gets chalked up to your obsession, sunshine. I'm not having you try and guilt-trip me into feeling responsible when I wasn't even watching TV at the time." "YES... OR... NO?" "Lastly," Michael says, pausing to look Landon in the eye again, "there's the rather personal comments you've been making about me. Some people might take offence at those comments, Landon." "TOXXXXXXXXX-IC..." "TOXXXXXXXXX-IC..." "I, however, am not one of those people," Stephens grins, "because as far as I can see, the only reason you'd be concerned about my sexuality is because you're looking for a date. And I hate to disappoint you sunshine," the former Straight-Edge Sensation grins amidst rising crowd noise as Landon glares daggers at him, "but you're really not my type. You seem a bit... angsty." "YES OR NO, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" Landon roars, his self-control finally snapping. La Cucaracha seems to be half a heartbeat away from launching himself bodily at the man he's been focused on for so long, and someone backstage seems to have finally realised the gravity of the situation because referees and security guards have started to make their way out towards the ring. They begin to surround the squared circle, but as yet make no move to intersperse themselves between the two. Michael Stephens takes a long, hard look at Landon Maddix, at the man who has been cursing him, threatening him and injuring people in his name. "I thought it was only right to come here and tell you this in person, Landon," Stephens say quietly, "because the answer is... no." "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" "WHAT!?" King and Pete yell at the same time, almost leaping to their feet in shock. All around them the crowd are in uproar. No-one is quite able to believe what they've heard, no-one can comprehend that Michael Stephens, that Toxxic, is backing down from a fight... and a fight offered by Landon Maddix, at that. However, their disbelief is as nothing compared to Landon's. La Cucaracha stands there in total shock, eyes wide. Then his eyes narrow. And he attacks. "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" All the technical training is forgotten in his mad rush; Landon drops the mic and lashes out with a right hand that catches Stephens on the jaw, then a left that strikes the opposite temple. Maddix tries for another right, but Stephens blocks this one with his left arm and twists sharply in the space between them to drive his right elbow into Landon's face, then hammers his head forwards to drive his forehead into Landon's nose with a headbutt! *CRACK!* "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Landon staggers back clutching his face and Stephens steps in after him to lash out with a European Uppercut- *WHAM!* -that drops Landon to the mat! La Cucaracha shakes his head groggily for a moment, then bounds back to his feet and tackles Stephens low to take him down... and now the security and officials come in, each man being grabbed by at least five pairs of hands and hauled away from each other! "FUCK HIM UP TOXX-IC, FUCK HIM UP!" "FUCK HIM UP TOXX-IC, FUCK HIM UP!" The crowd chant for all they're worth and for a moment the Englishman looks to be trying to oblige them; however, after a second or so Stephens ceases his struggles against the restraining hands while Landon is still fighting tooth and nail to get to him. With Maddix cursing him and trying to fight through a veritable army of security guards and referees Stephens shakes his head, then steps out through the ropes and starts back up the entrance ramp. "Has Toxxic become a Buddhist or something?" King asks in disbelief. "I mean seriously Mak, Landon has done everything he can to provoke Toxxic into coming back and fighting him, but he's just walking away!" "I think Michael Stephens is walking away," Mak corrects him. "Normally I'd distrust anything and everything Toxxic says, but I think the fact that he's dropped his old ring name might indicate that perhaps he doesn't want to be associated with his old antics anymore." "No, wait!" King interjects, "I bet he's just trying to lull Landon into a false sense of security! That must be it!" "King, Landon wants to fight Toxxic," Mak says in an exasperated tone, "if Michael Stephens wanted a match all he had to do was say 'yes'!" Michael Stephens has reached the top of the ramp. Landon is still being restrained in the ring; the World Champion isn't struggling quite as desperately as before, but it's still clear that if he wasn't being held back he'd be up the ramp and after his enemy in double-quick time. Stephens turns around and looks back one more time... then turns and disappears. "Fans, we've got to take a break," Mak Francis says, "but we'll have some great action when we come back!"

"The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu vs. "The Dean of Professional Wrestling" Jay Hawke To Be Edited In

There is always a hustle and bustle about SWF shows, whether they're taking place in an arena or in the middle of the Egyptian desert. With the show in such an open setting it just makes the work of SWF Security even harder than usual, which is why the 'backstage' area has been cordoned off with easy-to-set-up plastic walls, vaguely reminiscent of portacabins. There are only a few entrances and exits, and security checks every person who comes through closely to make sure they have the correct documentation and aren't some over-eager autograph hunter or a similar form of psycho. However, no matter how demented the intruder they would surely think twice about trying to get in this entrance, because this particular entrance is being overseen by the towering figure of the Hell Machine himself, Terrence 'Janus' Bailey. No stranger to hot weather, the massive Australian only has a faint sheen of sweat on his brow as he inspects the people walking past. No matter his -or rather, their- personal agendas, both Terrence and Janus take their responsibilties seriously. Which is why when someone they don't recognise walks up they take a long step to block his path and hold up one gargantuan hand. "We'll need to see your pass," they rumble. Any normal person would instantly and instinctively take a step backwards when a 7'2 giant with Janus' repuation made a move towards them, but the newcomer doesn't. Instead he merely hands the pass over for inspection, then looks up at the Australian with his eyes hidden behind the lenses of his sunglasses, dark hair cascading down to his chin in heavy curtains. "We?" he says curiously, looking around for another member of security, then realisation seems to dawn. "Both of you. Interesting. Very interesting." Janus and Terrence jerk their head up and fix the newcomer with a stare. That voice has pressed buttons in their memory. They recognise it. "I didn't realise you guys were getting on so well," the man in the sunglasses adds, and as Janus and Terrence glance back down at the pass they realise why they recognise that voice. They also recognise the pass as being legitimate. Slowly, one massive hand gives it back. "It seems we're not the only thing that has changed," they say. "We assume that you are aware of our role?" "Yes indeed," the other man replies, "I've heard all about your new job." "Then you will of course be aware how eminently suited we are for it," the Hell Machine declares, "after all, who better to keep order among SWF superstars? Please be aware," they continue with only a faint hint of malice, "that any... excesses on your part will be dealt with by us, in person. With extreme prejudice," they add. "We will be watching." "Don't worry, gentlemen," the newcomer assures them with a slight ironic smile at the words, "things have indeed changed. You have nothing to worry about from me." He clips the pass onto his shirt and walks past them, giving them a nod as he does so. The massive head of the Hell Machine turns to follow his path. "It's not us who needs to be concerned," they rumble, then appear to lapse into thought. Should we tell Hojo about this development? It could interfere with things. Hojo will find out soon enough. I'd wager the whole world will find out that he's back tonight. That one never could keep his mouth shut. And this doesn't concern you? You believe that he has no intention of seriously injuring anyone? We do have a job to do, after all. A sinister smile creeps across the giant's face, more Janus' doing than Terrence's. A little chaos never hurt anyone. Well, it never hurt us, anyway. And if he chooses to go against our warnings... Both hands slowly curl into monstrous fists. You have a point. I always do.

Bloodshed vs The Doomstroyer To Be Edited In.

Funyon stands up in the center of the ring, and for a moment, the crowd goes quiet. He pauses dramatically, and then... "Ladies and gentlemen, A Few Minutes With Tom Flesher!" The crowd, simply put, explodes. An explosion of blue pyro lights up the paws of the Great Sphinx as the percussive opening to Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" rings out over the loudspeaker. The crowd, on its feet, continues cheering as a cloud of smoke settles over the entranceway. As it begins to dissipate, Tom Flesher stands in the entrance, his trademark smirk on his face. He begins his strut to the ring, with the crowd cheering and chanting at him the whole way. As he slides into the ring, he looks remarkably put together for a man who, five minutes prior, was wearing a Ghost Machine mask. "Kashmir" fades away as Flesher picks up the microphone. He looks around, then brings the mic to his face. "So ... did you know it was me?" Flesher grins as the crowd explodes once again. The camera pans the seating, looking at the fans as they chant, "FLESH-ER! FLESH-ER!" Tom just soaks it in, leaning against the ropes until they quiet down. "You know, I think it was really for the best," he says. "I was getting tired of wearing that mask, and I'm sure the fabulous Mister Belcourt was getting sick of helping me to the ring. And, you know, I didn't mind Allison as Deep Throat... but... well, I'll let you figure out the rest." The heavily Muslim and Coptic Christian crowd laughs nervously. "But I digress. When I was under the mask," he says, "I lost a few matches, two of them title shots - the Ultraviolent Championship to Bruce Blank, and the Cruiserweight Championship to Akira Kaibatsu. I even lost to the current Cruiserweight Champion, Grendel. I'm not proud of that, as I'm sure a lot of you could tell. The fact of the matter is that I was so concerned with covering my own identity that I got in over my head - yes, even I can get in over my head - by challenging for the Ultraviolent Championship. No, I should have stayed where the getting was good. I should have stayed with the cruiserweights." Flesher looks out over the crowd, pausing to collect himself. "And so, I have two losses I need to get past to clean my record up. Do you know what the problem is? Do you know why I came back under that silly mask? Really, it's the same thing that cost me those matches: I got lazy." Flesher sighs. "I got lazy. I started relying on the fact that I can suplex anyone out of his boots. I knew that I could dump anyone on his head, and so I started ignoring those little points of technique and emphasis that I had to focus on when I was a rookie in the SJL. So since I went on my little hiatus as Ghost Machine, I've been back on the mats, and I've decided that to get back to form, I need to refocus myself." "So, after tonight, you're going to see a cleaner, crisper Tom Flesher. I'll still be willing to dump some poor sap on his head, but I'm going to save it for the big matches. Otherwise, you're going to see good, clean matches where whoever I end up in the ring with taps out to whatever comes to mind. And, just in case Joe Peters is listening... it's a business decision. Saving the Boilermaker for pay-per-view is going to pop buyrates. Now," he continues, "if you'll excuse me, there's someone here I need to go say hi to." With that, "Kashmir" starts up once again, and Flesher rolls out of the ring. He walks over, eyes gleaming, to the announcers' table. He grabs a folding chair, sets it up, and has a seat. Right next to Mak Francis. As Francis beams at his former tag team partner, King mutters, "oh, christ," and Storm fades out to commercial.

The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents... SWF STORM! Live, Friday, May 12th, from the Pyramids of Giza! (6pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) The SWF's 2006 World Tour keeps on truckin' - next stop, The Pyramids of Giza! The SWF's ring will be constructed on the front paws of the Great Sphinx: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- MAIN EVENT - INTERNATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH JJ Johnson vs. Arch Griffon -> Arch Griffon may not have many claims to fame, but he does have one - Jay Hawke won the International Championship, but before he could go on his ridiculously long reign, Mr. Griffon stopped him dead in his tracks! No one's been able to do that since except Wildchild, and this is definitely worth some consideration. Now the International Title headlines the International Tour, Arch Griffon cashes in a shot he had a long time ago and we forgot to give him against the reigning International Champion, JJ Johnson! Rules: Standard singles match. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- TAG TEAM TITLE MATCH - SORT OF, ANYWAY Manson vs. "Hollywood" Spike Jenkins -> So this is a bit screwy. Hollywood Spike Jenkins had some unflattering remarks regarding Manson's Tag Team Gold - specifically, he shouldn't have it. Joseph Peters decided to give Spike a chance to back up his words in this match, with an interesting twist. Manson will be defending his half of the titles. If he loses, Spike Jenkins will be a new tag team champion, and become JJ Johnson's new partner! Rules: Standard singles match. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- "The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu vs. "The Dean of Professional Wrestling" Jay Hawke -> Maybe there's no official reason for this match, but come on - this is awesome. Rules: Standard singles match. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- HOUSE RULES - "Walk Like An Egyptian... And, Y'know, Get Buried Like One When They Die" Match Bloodshed vs. The Doomstroyer -> Round one... FIGHT! Rules: The match begins at the entrance steps to King Tut's Tomb: To win, you must find a way inside, bring your opponent with you, and stuff him inside the Sarcophagus that's ready and waiting the burial chamber! Obviously, the SWF could not secure the artifacts recovered from the tomb, but we bought some really good replicas, so the tomb will be filled with all the (fake) goodies Mr. Tut was buried with! Use them at your leisure. First man to stuff his opponent inside the Sarcophagus and seal it shut wins! Bonus rankings points if you mummify your foe as well.

SWF Storm opens up on a tight shot of a man. He leans against a wall, his pink tights covering him from his neck down to his feet, and his mask conceals his identity. This is a man who has carefully covered his tracks, knowing that the slightest hint of his true identity could compromise his safety, or possibly cause the IRS to start garnishing his wages again. He knows that if anyone were to find out his... "Hey, Flesher." SWF chief medical officer Andrea Montgomery waves at the masked man as she walks by. "DOES NOT COMPUTE," he responds. He knows that if anyone were to find out his identity, he would be drawn back into not only a world of... "Yo, Flesher," says Sean Davis. He stops, pausing to fix his tie in the mirror next to Ghost Machine. "I've been meaning to ask, how'd you get Jojo to let you out of the dress code?" "DOES NOT COMPUTE." Davis shrugs and keeps walking, chuckling, "That boy just ain't right." He knows that if anyone were to find out his identity, he would be drawn back into not only a world of intrigue and suspicion, but a world in which he would be unable to maintain any semblance of privacy. He could remember the last time: mobbed at the airports, mobbed at the fine restaurants where he took his meals, mobbed at the pubs where he drank microbrewed beers incognito and watched his beloved Sabres and Devil Rays. "Oi, Tom!" Amy Stephens walks by. "Does not compute, god damn it! Quit bothering me!" yells Ghost Machine, his vocal generator set to a particularly irritated tone. "And jesus, either put on a bra or roll those things up when you're talking to me." "What's your fuckin' problem, innit!" Yes, Ghost Machine is a man with a secret... a secret he must keep to himself, lest the world find out and demand once again that he take his place atop the podium. With the heavy burden of a secret on his shoulders, Ghost Machine turns and walks to the aisle to prepare for the opening promo on tonight's edition of Storm. As he does, he looks out the aisle, conveniently missing a poorly-placed bucket of water left by the janitorial staff. He trips, falling to the floor... and his mask tumbles off. "Ahhhh, dammit." Tom Flesher stands up, looking around. He makes sure that no one, not even his confidante, Chris Belcourt, saw the fall. Smirking, he picks up the mask and starts to put it back on. Instead, however, he looks at the mask one more time. "Nahhhhhh." He throws it over his shoulder, and then calls out for the head of wardrobe to come to his assistance. "Yo, Trudel! Get me a blazer and a pair of jeans, stat! I'm coming home!" With that, Storm's main theme and title sequence fade in.

I feel compelled to point out the main event was a no-show victory for team Tecnicos. It made Janus sad.

I can't believe we missed the perfectly obvious opportunity of having us referee the main event. I mean, we're heel AND face referees at once! It's genius!