Toxxic

Well yeah. I made a career out of beating no-shows, you made yours by blowing no-showers into smithereens. So we both do the same thing, you just do it more spectacularly.

When people don't have time/motivation/inclination to write a full match you can get some bizarre entries. Some people write haikus, MANSON tends to write MANSONOSITY squashes where the power of MANSONOSITY destroys the opponent in some interesting way (normally involving explosions or possibly eyebeams that fry them), and so on. What's really amusing is when they win because the other person submitted NOTHING. For example, when MANSON delivered a chop to Spike Jenkins and made him explode into tiny pieces at the time when Spike was the Number One Contender to the World Title. He pulled the same thing off against Landon when Landon was World Champion, I believe. All of which just shows how awesome MANSON is.

Danny Williams has always been 22 I think. Plus Insane Luchador was 23 for at least four years. Even Flesher skipped a year on ageing I believe.

I'm with J3 both on bear hunt and the Canadian Tour.

Toxx is exactly a year younger than me.

Bruce, I've saved every single match and promo I've ever written, plus some of the matches that beat me, and yet having a list of the results back that far worries even me.

I've always been told that Kivell was head ref.

If this really is the end of Janus in the SWF then I'm a sad, sad panda. And here I was hoping for Janus vs Nemesis at Genesis, too. However, if the big guy feels he has to move on, then so be it. Stick around though.

PROMO: Hangin’ On The Telephone SWF Smarkdown has just finished, but that doesn’t really matter to the young woman known in the professional wrestling business as Livvy Luscious. She hasn’t watched it regularly for a couple of years, although she does still occasionally tune in to remind herself how crap the wrestling is, how much better the independents are and how lucky she is that the SWF never came knocking at her door. It is at this point that the phone rings. She glances over, recognises the number, and fails to move from her chair. Five rings later and it hits the answerphone. “Hi, this is Livvy. I’m probably out kicking people’s asses right now, so please leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I’m done. Ciao!” “…Liv?” Livvy settles into her comfortable chair and thinks quiet thoughts. Although she knows it’s stupid, she never likes moving around when an unwanted caller (usually her bank) is leaving a message. She always thinks they’ll hear the noise and know she’s there. “Livvy? Bloody hell, pick up will you?” Liv rolls her eyes and continues to ignore the English-accented voice emerging from her answerphone. “I really need to talk to you.” Livvy’s full, vaguely pouty lips silently form the words ‘too bad’ and she looks at her watch to check how long it will be before the message gets cut off. There is a faint sigh from the speaker. “…Our Mutual Friend has come out to play.” For a moment Livvy just stares straight ahead, apparently frozen in shock. Then, much quicker than even she would have believed possible, she leaps out of her chair and lunges for the phone. She picks it up, jabs at the button to connect, and places it to her ear. “…what?”

The man lying on the hospital bed is young; probably not much more than 25 or 26. His plastered leg is up in a sling and he's reading a magazine; typical hospital affair, a glossy with lots of spurious information about 'stars' and 'celebrities' with too much money and not enough braincells. After trying and failing for five minutes to get interested in the antics of this week's C-listers, he lowers the mag with a sigh of frustration and boredom... ...and sees someone standing at the end of his bed. It takes him a moment to recognise his visitor; there have been changes in the last four years. The hair's longer now, and he doesn't remember the thin network of scars that catch the light for a second across the new arrival's face, but the painted nails would always be a giveaway. Those and the eyes. "...Toxx?" he says, sitting up in shock before his leg gives a twinge of protest and he settles back down, "ow, goddamn..." "Heya Karl," the man formerly known as Toxxic and more commonly now known as Michael Stephens says soberly. He stands there for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to do next. "C'mon, sit down!" Karl Winter says, gesturing to the chair beside the bed and with a big grin breaking out over his face. "Jeez man, I ain't seen you in years! How'd you know I was here?" "You made the news," Stephens informs him, sitting down after a moment's hesitation. Seeing Karl's confusion he smiles slightly. "Well... you made the Panda, anyway." "Figures," Karl mutters, settling down into his pillow, "I haven't seen it. What does it say?" "I brought you a copy," Stephens says, pulling a copy of the Wrestling Panda newsletter out of his black holdall, "I figured you could do with something to read-" "-ain't that the truth," Karl puts in, taking it gratefully. "-but basically, it says that you got injured in a match in Philly," Mike continues. "Figured I'd drop in seeing as I haven't seen you in... a long time." "Yeah man," Karl says, skimming the Panda briefly and then putting it aside, "but I'm telling you Toxx, that guy in the ring, the Scarlet Dragon apparently... he was a freak. A complete whacko." "How so?" "Well, first of all he didn't make no noise," Karl says, "nothing except a grunt or something if I hit him or locked something on. And of course, he was wearing that mask so I couldn't see his face, but I could almost feel his eyes, know what I mean?" "Yeah..." Stephens says, looking slightly distant for a moment. "So anyway, he's a tough bastard but I'm getting the better of him," Karl says, "but then all of a sudden, WHAM! He's got me in this leg lock and I swear to you Toxx, I could feel my leg going. Strong as hell. So o'course, I started tapping out. Didn't make a damn bit of difference. He kept going, with me screaming blue murder, until they figure that ringing the bell ain't gonna do anything and all the refs and security and everything come down and get him off me. Last I saw of him he was going to the back." "So what's the damage?" Mike asks, nodding towards the plastered leg. Karl winces. "Torn cruciate ligament. Bastard pretty much broke my ankle too." "Metatarsal?" Stephens asks. "Huh?" "Don't worry," Mike says, "you'd probably have to be English... but seriously Karl, that's crazy. You'd never seen this guy before?" "Nuh-uh," Winter replies, shaking his head, "well, I've been on a few of the same cards here and there but never been in the ring with him before. He's a regular in Philly though; on the way up here a couple of the guys who came with me were saying that they know he can be tough on people, but they'd never thought he'd snap like that." "Crazy," Stephens mutters, looking at the leg as if it holds the answers. "I'll tell you something Toxx, when I get out of here I'm gonna sue that promoter," Karl insists, "and I'm gonna make sure he doesn't let that bastard work in Philly again. I mean if it was a long-running issue we had with each other then yeah, these things happen, but a first match? Damn it man, that's not right!" "Sounds like a plan," Stephens says, "maybe you should... oh shit." Karl looks up. Standing in the doorway is a petite female in her early twenties with black hair highlighted with two purple streaks on one side, and wearing bright red lipstick. Her eyes slide from Karl to Mike, and narrow. "Oh shit." * * * "What the hell are you doing here?" Livvy Luscious hisses. Her and Michael Stephens are walking down the ward, away from Karl's bed; he's having a doctor talk to him about likely recovering times, and it has been made clear by the medical staff that visitors should be somewhere else. "Visiting Karl," Stephens snaps, "and what bloody business is it of yours anyway?" "And let me guess, how often have you visited him in the past four years since we finished training?" Livvy asks, having to hurry slightly to keep up with the taller Englishman and clearly not relishing this fact, "no, don't tell me, you were too busy off playing World Champion." "I wasn't playing at anything, Liv," Stephens growls, thrusting his palm into a swinging door harder than strictly necessary, "and to me, it seems that friends who turn up when you're injured are still valuable. Karl's been a busy man and from what I've heard, has hardly stopped between one show and the next. Now he's in one place, he's got a bit of time to catch up with people." He stops suddenly and turns around, fixing her with a stare. "What are you doing here?" "I've kept in touch with Karl," Livvy snaps, placing her hands on her hips. "So I see," Mike replies, "but I was watching you in the, oh, five minutes we were both with him? And yeah, I might not have seen him for four years and still ran out of conversation, but you can't stand him. I could tell, even if he couldn't. So why are you still in touch with him, if you can't stand him?" "I..." Livvy begins, then stops and seems to sag slightly. "I felt that I should." "Well, yeah, so did I," Stephens admits. "And I didn't. Which is why I'm here now." His grey eyes drift off past Livvy for a moment. "But hey, we all watched a man get killed in front of us. Kind of a bonding experience." "Shut up!" Livvy hisses, and suddenly the venom is back in her voice as she brushes past Mike and storms off. The Englishman rolls his eyes, then turns and hurries after her. "Let me guess, you still blame me for that?" he asks quietly, keeping pace. "Believe me Toxx, I still blame you for a LOT of things," Liv replies, emotion threatening to drown her voice. She tries to quicken her pace and leave her companion behind, but Stephens lengthens his stride easily to match her, bringing a hiss of frustration. "Well, you needn't worry about at least one of those things anymore," Stephens says pointedly, "cos I'm gay now." "Oh and let me guess, you blame me for that?" "Don't think I haven't considered it," Mike answers darkly, then abruptly seems to tire of their hurried walking and simply grabs her arm, yanking her to a halt. Livvy spins around and lashes out at him, probably more a fist than a slap, but he catches her arm. "Listen sunshine," he growls, "you can blame me all you want, but you ain't exactly Miss Squeaky Clean. And in case you forgot, it was me and Karl who pulled Our Mutual Friend off that guy, not you. We just didn't do it quick enough." Livvy meets his eyes for a moment, then shudders with what might be revulsion and pulls away. "Give me your number." "Say what now?" Stephens asks, looking genuinely confused. However, he gets his phone out and Livvy snatches it from him, then dials her own phone. It gives one ring before she cuts it off, then pushes Mike's phone back to him and holds her own up triumphantly for him to see. "Toxx," she says, eyes glinting, "I'm going to put this number into every phone I own or will ever own. And that way, when Call ID flashes up your name, I will know to never pick up." She replaces the phone in her pocket, not taking her eyes from his face. "Now go to hell." And with that, she turns on her heel and walks away. Force of habit, albeit from a few years ago, draws Mike's eyes down to her backside. Then he shakes his head and starts to walk off in the other direction. "Go to hell..." the SWF World Champion mutters under his breath, "gee, does the Fictional World Tour count? Bitch." However, he makes sure to go through his call register and save the last number dialled. ~FIN ...for now

Ground Zero 2005, or Ashes 2 Ashes 2004. Means I can go to the UK again. Otherwise... er, I'm supposed to remember where PPVs were? Anything that wasn't Ashes 2 Ashes was either on a World Tour or some random American location, and they're all the same.

For reference, the second 'Foreshadowing' promo made it clear that the person who broke Karl Winter's leg was probably NOT the Crimson Dragon, and was instead someone who knocked him out and stole his costume. In other news, BLANK GETS A MAINSTREAM TITLE OMGZ! You are now banned from any and all hardcore matches and have to smoke a pipe when doing promos Nemesis also looking good, I'm praying that it is actually a n00b and not a ringer. I mean, all new characters are good, but n00bs are somehow more satisfying than ringers because it means someone new's heard of us!

I was just testing my theory that you only turn up if I talk smack about you. Since Raynor's on the lookout for more markers I guess I'll be doing it some more

Edited for accuracy in nine cases out of ten.

That he is.

*knock-knock* “Come in.” “Yo,” Michael Stephens says stepping into the office, “what’s up?” “Mike,” Naomi Walters, more commonly known as Jet, grins back at her ex-boyfriend, “nice to see you. So, given that you have a World Title match in a week, what can I do for you? Need a sparring partner?” she adds mischievously. Stephens smiles in response, but his heart doesn’t seem to be in it. “Not exactly,” he tells her, “besides, you probably don’t kick hard enough. No,” he continues, sitting down in a vacant chair, “I wondered if I might be able to get some information out of you. See, a few days ago-” “You want to know about the Crimson Dragon, right?” Naomi says, cutting him off. Mike stares at her. “How-” “Mike, you really don’t pay attention do you,” she sighs, mock-frustrated, “you know I’m one of the SWF’s talent scouts now, which is why you came here, right?” Stephens nods. “Well, Philly is my patch and my hometown,” she reminds him, “so I keep an eye on things. And I know that Karl Winter trained at the same time as you in the same place as you, because I have all that sort of info on people. So when I heard he’d been injured in Philly in what was apparently some sort of revenge hit I found out a few things, especially since we were looking at hiring the Crimson Dragon at some point.” “…OK,” Stephens says, “that’s… foresighted of you.” “Hey, I’m not just a sex-crazed bisexual nymphette with stunning hair and a personality overdose,” Naomi grins, flicking her red-and-black dreadlocks back, “I also have fabulous dress sense. And I’m pretty smart too,” she adds, reaching behind her and grabbing a folder. “OK, first things first; you’ve spoken to your mate Karl? At least, I’m assuming that’s why you went to Philly.” “Yeah,” Mike says, “he had no idea why it had happened. I mean, he said he was getting the better of the guy, but unless he has a really bad temper-” “Let me cut you off right there,” Naomi says, shaking her head sadly, “because you’re already wrong. I hate to break it to you Mike, but after wrestling in the Philly indies for a couple of years, and my work now, I can virtually guarantee that Karl was not getting the better of the Crimson Dragon. Y’see,” she continues, “Karl Winter is well-known to local promoters as someone to book if you want to make guys look good. His execution of moves is great, his submissions look and are darned painful, and he has about as good an idea of how to plan and execute a strategy in the ring as he does of the sex life of the Three-Striped Barnacle, and don’t give me any crap about him being a natural history student because as far as I know they don’t exist except in my head.” “So he’s a glorified jobber?” Mike asks, looking a little pained. “Yup,” Naomi confirms, “he puts up more of a fight than most, or looks like he does, but nine times out of ten or better if his opponent is half-capable then Karl will lose. The other wrestlers in Philly like to be booked against him because he’s a nice guy, he never holds a grudge, and he looks a hell of a lot harder to beat than he actually is. By all accounts you can go out there and have what looks to most of the fans like an exciting, back-and-forth match and never be in much danger of losing. His body knows how to wrestle but his brain just gets in the way, and he’ll always do something stupid.” “Right,” Mike says slowly, “so the Dragon guy being embarrassed is probably out. Karl said they’d never wrestled before, and if he’s a nice a guy as you say and I remember…” he holds up his hands, confused. “Why’d this happen? What makes the Crimson Dragon or whatever the bloody hell he calls himself break someone’s leg, and Karl Mr-Nice-Guy Winter’s at that?” “Well, first of all, the Crimson Dragon didn’t do it.” Michael Stephens stares at his ex-girlfriend. There’s no trace of humour or dishonesty in her expression. “You what?” “Looks very doubtful, anyway,” Naomi concedes. “See, as soon as Karl was sorted the promoter went backstage to tear the Crimson Dragon a new hole and tell him he wasn’t working there anymore. When he got to the guy’s locker room he finds him on the floor, tied up and gagged, and with his costume missing. Unless he’d run back there as fast as he could, got undressed real quick and had an accomplice tie him up, hit him over the head - they checked for a bump, you know - and then run away real fast himself with the costume… well, let’s just say it seems unlikely.” “So someone attacked the Crimson Dragon before the match,” Stephens says dubiously, “stole his costume and then wrestled Karl, injured him and disappeared?” “That’s what looks like happened,” Naomi says, spreading her hands. “What can I say Mike? It looks like someone with a grudge was after Karl and rather than try and get on another show to do it in the ring he used the costume of the man Karl was meant to be wrestling that night, presumably because Karl would know him otherwise.” “Or he didn’t want to get caught for it,” Stephens points out. “Yeah,” Naomi admits, “but all the same… I can’t think of any of the Philly regulars who would have any reason to hold a violent grudge against Karl Winter, Mike. And I’m pretty sure the Crimson Dragon didn’t do it.” She looks at him, studying. “You can’t think of anyone who might want to hurt him, can you?” “I’ve barely spoken to him in four years,” Mike says, shaking his head. “I’ve no idea. Still, I guess this means I don’t have to take a trip down to Philly to beat someone up,” he says, “but let me know if you hear anything, yeah?” “Will do,” Naomi says, then looks at her watch. “Damn, Peters wants this report in soon… look Mike, I’ll let you know what I can but there’s a limit to what I can do, OK?” “No problem,” Stephens smiles, getting back up, “I’ll stop interrupting you. I’m just lucky that there’s someone I know and like working in the office these days.” He flips her a casual salute as he walks out of the door, “seeya later, and don’t let Peters work you too hard!” The door closes behind him. Naomi stares at it for a couple of seconds, then lets out a hiss of frustration before turning back to her desk and slamming the folder down it a little harder than strictly necessary. “Mike, you were probably one of the most intelligent guys I’ve been with,” she says to the empty air, “and you were damn sensitive and perceptive at times, which admittedly may have had something to do with the fact that you’ve now turned out to be pretty much gay,” she continues, “but goddamnit, you can be so damn dense that I want to bang your head into things.” She fixes her gaze onto a small, two-inch tall teddy bear that sits next to her PC. “For example, if I was in your situation I’d be asking me how big the Crimson Dragon is, to see how big someone stealing his suit would be. Maybe that would give you a clue if the culprit is someone you know. And hey,” she continues, jabbing the bear with a pen, “perhaps if someone says that they’ll let you know what they can but there’s a limit to what they can do, you’ll work out that they’re trying to tell you that they know more than they’re letting on, but they can’t tell you because otherwise their boss will fire them. And possibly,” she says, prodding the bear so hard that it’s knocked backwards, “you’ll remember that about a month ago I told you that Peters had something nasty in store for you, and that I had an idea what it was but couldn’t tell you or I’d get in trouble. And you might put all these things together and… ah, to hell with it,” she says, dropping the pen and replacing her bear, “no-one been able to kill him yet. He’ll find out soon enough, and he might even be OK.” She picks up her pen and finishes making notes, then switches to the keyboard and starts to write her report up. After a minute she glances down at the bear again. “What? Don’t look at me like that you fuzzy prick, it’s not my problem if he’s stupid,” she tells the bear severely, “he’s not my boyfriend anymore and there’s no reason I should risk my job for him.” The bear continues to gaze. To be fair, she’d be surprised if it did anything else. “OK, OK,” she sighs after a few more seconds, “one more go. But seriously,” she says, picking up the pen and waving it menacingly at the bear, “if this gets me fired then I’m dropping you in the shredder.” The bear fails to show any signs of fear, and with a sigh Naomi turns back to her keyboard. Subversive plans or not, she knows what will happen if Peters doesn’t get his report on time. To be concluded…

So I got my PPVs mixed up. Doesn't mean you weren't wrong, or that I can't still laugh at your exchange rates.

Well hey, that's odd, because I'm sure I remember Thugg being active to a degree when I joined, and I remember WC being active when I joined. In fact, I remember Clark taking the CW title off WC, then beating Thugg in their whatever-the-fuck-it-was match at Battleground. So na-na-boo-boo, and I laugh at your currency values as well.

Ah, I thought you meant it needed one new line.

Word. Also Bruce, I don't think there was the Ground Zero statement last time. So presumably we'll know then... unless it's just some more extravagent promo.

Wasn't Thugg over 400? I'll be intrigued to see how Nemesis pans out, anyway.

That's a shame, I thought you were off to a good start. Come back whenever you can.

THE SWF IS SERIOUS BUSINESS, DAMN IT!

My achievement of beating Flesher in singles is less impressive now that WC's done it twice in six weeks. Bastard. And I know he showed against you and not against me. No need to rub it in.

I don't know if a luxary is some flash American thing, but over here in the Olde World we call it a 'luxury'. Look, ask Akira. He'll tell you about the spelling and grammar police in the fed. I swear being here has probably helped his homework, if he ever does it.