Ace309

If you're talking the chickenshit Memphis heel, which (again) is a valid way of being a heel but not the only way, then it really is important to win pretty regularly. The difference is that "winning" as a heel under the North American model can be entirely unrelated to having your hand raised. Take the Honky Tonk Man. For him, "winning" was keeping his title while expending a minimum of energy, so he got himself counted out and disqualified. On the other hand, take the Tom Flesher character. For him, "winning" is demonstrating his superiority over an opponent, preferably by making him submit, but in a pinch, ridiculing him before dropping him on his head will do. The Suicide King is pretty similar to the Flesher model - for him, "winning" usually was getting his hand raised by any means necessary, and that's why it was effective for him to cheat so regularly. I guess what I'm saying is that for a heel, "winning" has to involve taking something away from someone. I think the place where X-Net's point is most valid is in the blowoff of a feud. There, it usually makes the most sense for the face to win, since the heel winning the blowoff just makes it feel like someone else is going to have to knock him off at a meta-blowoff. Regards, Tom Flesher, D.Wr. Professor of Heelery, University of Phoenix

Eh, it's not that that's not one way to be an effective heel, assuming charitably that by "gain heat for yourself by losing" they mean either the Honky Tonk Maneuver (recently implemented ably by Jay Hawke) or getting yourself disqualified. They're right that cheating or being underhanded is one of the most effective ways. The problem, like many other things with X-Net, is tunnel vision. They see two kinds of heels: Monster and chickenshit. They ignore among others the guy who cheats just for the sake of cheating, the bully (though that's arguably a subset of monster heel), and the guy who - OMGZ! - gets the fact that he's a heel over on the mic. If every heel was the Honky Tonk Man, I'd get pretty bored.

Well, if no one else will, I'd like to go ahead and nominate myself for Booker of the Year, and cite my run as the kayfabe commissioner and actual booker of Smarkdown.

Take this with a grain of salt, since I don't want to give any details that would give away identities, but a close friend of mine did some contract work on a UFC competitor fairly recently. The contract contains, among other things, a list of banned substances. It doesn't include steroids. That is, they'll test for certain drugs, but steroids aren't tested for, according the standard contract.

Just for posterity. It's hard to argue with a loss to Stephens, and I strongly advise everyone to read his match. I just hope I made it difficult. === DING DING!!!! “Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall.” Already, the crowd is beginning to roar. “It is TITLE FOR TITLE... it is for the SWF Cruiserweight Championship... it is for the SWF World Championship... and it is YOUR MAIN EVENT!” The Toronto crowd cheers, the sounds reverberating throughout the arena. The noise is deafening. “And now, to introduce the first competitor, James Matheson!” “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” shouts the abrasive manager as he walks through the velvet curtain at right field, “tonight, you’re going to witness history. Not only are you about to see the first time that one man is going to top both weight divisions in the SWF simultaneously, but you’re going to see the current World Champion suffer a defeat more humiliating than ever before! Right in the center of the ring, you’re going to see him on his back... and making the pin, you’re going to see this man, the NEXT SWF Heavyweight Champion of the World... TOM FLESHER!!!!” With that, the area around the right field entrance light up. There, the string section of Toronto Philharmonia sit. Quietly, they begin to play... one long chord. After a moment, they ease into another, and then another. The tension builds, until finally... BOOM! An explosion of blue smoke and pyro light up the Rogers Centre at Sky Dome, and Toronto Philharmonia hits the percussive opening riff of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir!” They play louder with every passing moment, augmenting the already deafening entrance music that heralds the arrival of the SWF’s top cruiserweight competitor! As the smoke clears, Tom Flesher stands in a gold warm-up suit, a white towel over his head. Behind him, James Matheson holds the Cruiserweight Championship belt in his arms. Even tonight, Flesher doesn’t care about the belt. He walks to the ring slowly, his face hidden by the towel. The fans boo... most of them, anyway. Many others are just thrilled to be witnessing the beginning of the main event of Genesis, not only the culmination of a feud for the World Championship, but the culmination of an entire year of professional wrestling. The walk to the ring is long, but Tom Flesher paces it quickly. James Matheson follows three steps behind, with Flesher’s body obscuring the Cruiserweight Championship belt on all but the most set-up of the camera angles. Finally, as he enters the ring, Matheson holds the ropes open for him. Flesher steps into the corner, removing the towel from his head and revealing his icy blue stare to the world. As he drapes the towel over the cornerpost, Matheson hands the Cruiserweight belt to senior official Eddy Long. “This is the start of something big,” says the Suicide King, as Flesher slowly strips off his warmup jacket, and then the track pants. Matheson stands next to him, folding the suit neatly, doing everything he can to allow Flesher to focus on the match. “Tom’s brought out the big guns tonight. He’s wearing the gold warmup suit, he’s got the gold panels on his singlet, and it looks like he’s even wearing mixed martial arts gloves!” “What kind of benefit is that going to give him?” Mak asks rhetorically. “Against a guy like Toxxic, adding equipment or leaving some at home isn’t going to make the difference in a match.” “They’re going to help Flesher keep his palm strikes solid,” says King, “and the padding on the knuckles isn’t going to hurt his fighting, since, as we all know, he’d never deign to throw a punch. That’d be against the rules, Mak.” Francis rolls his eyes. Eddy Long comes over, carrying the Cruiserweight belt with him. He drops to one knee. As Flesher stares off into space, focusing only on the match, Long runs his hands over the kickpads that he wears on his shins, making sure he’s not hiding anything in them. After checking each kickpad, Long stands up and takes Flesher’s hands, checking each glove for illegal objects. He finds nothing. Finally, as Flesher stays in the corner, his music fades. The lights come back on, and for a moment, the fans are so overtaken by their energy that they can’t help but cheer. They almost drown out Funyon’s announcement... “And his opponent....” Every single light in the arena hits full, and the Smarktron whites out. For a few long moments there is silence once more, until a a crowd chant suddenly blasts over the speakers: "COME AND ‘AVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!" "COME AND ‘AVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!" This fades into the crashing opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire, and as the giant oval Smarktron starts to fade to black, jagged white letters flash up one after another to form a familiar phrase: ‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG…’ As the spiky guitar riff starts Stephens’ face appears smiling his distinctive lopsided grin before the Smarktron cuts into clips from his matches - the Super Intoxxication on Tom Flesher, his opponent, to win his first World Title, the Glass Jawbreaker on Aecas, the All-Show Brawl with the Insane Luchador - along with clips of him grinning or smirking on the mic. Finally it cuts to a clip of him taking Mike Van Siclen off a balcony and through a table with the Toxxic Shock Syndrome, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the- *BOOOM!* -explosion of red pyro all along the soundstage! As the drums kick in Stephens strides through the smoke and remaining sparks, head down with his hair hiding his eyes and with his black trenchcoat tied shut. After waiting a few moments, he tears it open, showing the World Championship and Tag Team Championship belts strapped one over the other around his waist! The fans go crazy, flashbulbs pop, and the crowd falls into its familiar chant... “TOXXXX-IC.... TOXXXX-IC...” “TOXXXX-IC.... TOXXXX-IC...” Stephens strides to the ring, his eyes on Flesher. Tom Flesher, for his part, stares through him, focused entirely on visualizing the match. Finally, as he reaches the bottom of the ramp, Michael crosses his arms briefly in the straight-edge ‘X’, then throws them wide, palms flat to the floor. *bap-bap* *BOOOM!* More red pyro erupts, this time from the ring posts, and Stephens rolls into the ring under the bottom rope. He shakes his trench coat off, then removes his soccer jersey and throws it to the crowd. Two lively Canadian girls, both wearing heavy eyeliner, fight over it, almost tearing it in half. ‘I never thought this could be me, I guess you never do until it’s happening to you Like all the fun turns into shame And all the “could-have-beens” rearrange…’ As he stands in the ring, he pauses. “Rookie” fades out, and for a moment, there’s a quiet spot. Then... HEY! HO! LET’S GO! The crowd bursts into cheers once more as the Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop” blares over the speakers! “Oh, this is great,” says King, as Amy Stephens comes sprinting out of the left field locker room. Toxxic grins his familiar lopsided grin as his sister runs to ringside, her familiar can of Stella Artois replaced with local favorite Alexander Keith’s India Pale Ale! The fans cheer her on, knowing that she’ll be able to keep James Matheson at bay. “You’re damn right it’s great,” Mak beams, “because Amy Stephens isn’t afraid of James Matheson. She’s not going to let him get away with anything. This one’s gonna be won and lost in the ring where it belongs, not by the little weasel on the outside!” “Blitzkrieg Bop” fades out, and Michael unstraps his belts. He hands the Tag Team belt to Amy, and then, slowly, the World Championship to Eddy Long. Long shows him the Cruiserweight Championship belt, and Stephens nods soberly. Long then walks both belts over to Flesher, showing him the World Championship belt. Flesher nods, almost as an afterthought. Both men are focused on each other, and they want to be in the center of the ring. Eddy Long holds both belts in the air, then hands them to a ring attendant. Finally, in a moment the world has been waiting for, he calls for the bell. DING DING DING!!!! “And this one’s underway,” says the Suicide King, as Tom Flesher and Michael Stephens meet in the center of the ring. The Toronto crowd, having cheered wildly up to this point, goes silent. One set of blue eyes meets another as two champions square off, ready to destroy each other and themselves in pursuit of yet another championship. The tension builds as seconds pass by, feeling like hours. James Matheson stands at ringside, his briefcase laying on the apron, any encouragement useless until the match is a bit older. Even Amy Stephens seems to grasp that now is not a time to shout obscenities at her brother or his opponent. Flesher’s fists clench and unclench as he slowly drops into a defensive amateur-style stance, certain that early aggression isn’t going to win him the match. Stephens stays mostly straight, angling his body slightly to discourage Flesher’s blast double leg takedown. “These two are masters of their trade,” says the Suicide King. “You look at the things they have in their arsenal, the Ego Buster, the Caffeine Bomb, the Boilermaker, Sunny In England, and you know that anything these guys throw at each other can end the match at any time. They’re two of the most dangerous athletes in professional combat sports today, and they know it.” “I gotta disagree on one thing, King,” says Francis. “You’ve got a guy who’s built a career out of fighting without higher brain function, and a guy who moves faster than a greased Michael Vick on meth. This one isn’t gonna be about who hits the big move, it’s gonna be about who keeps himself from taking it.” “I don’t know, Mak. Tom’s got to have an extra 10 pounds on him, thanks to that early official weigh-in. He’s going to be hitting even harder than usual, and when he gets Toxxic in a submission – not if, Mak, but when – it’s going to be that much harder to break free.” Flesher feints forward, barely reaching his right arm out toward Stephens’ left leg. The World Champion’s reflexes are sharp as ever, and he quickly shuffles back to avoid the attack. As he does, Flesher twists his body and pivots on his right leg, grabbing the head of the off-balanced Stephens and applying a side headlock. He leans on Stephens’ neck, trying to tighten his vise-like grip and at the same time make Stephens carry all 240 pounds. Stephens, for his part, tries to step around Flesher’s body to relieve some of the pressure. As he does, Flesher rolls his shoulders, tightening the headlock even further. “Advantage, Flesher,” says King, as the two continue to grapple in the center of the ring. “He hit a leg fake, and Toxxic bit on it.” “I gotta say,” Mak says, “smart move by Flesher. He’s trying not to run out of gas for at least another three, four minutes.” Flesher maintains the headlock even as Stephens tries to shoot him off to the ropes. Feeling the pressure, Tom takes a step forward, only to plant his heels and skid a few inches but keep the headlock on. Stephens drops down to one knee, trying to grab Flesher by the leg and lift him off his feet, but the experienced mat wrestler throws his leg toward Michael’s chest, reminding him not to try to fight his way out of a Tom Flesher wear-down hold. Stephens, stymied, gets back to his feet and looks for other routes of escape. Flesher, meanwhile, smirks as he turns his body, leading his opponent by the head until he faces James Matheson in the corner. On the outside, Amy Stephens shouts “COME ON!”, but Flesher maintains his stance. Matheson golf-claps, reminding Flesher to do exactly what he’s doing. Flesher nods, as Suicide King notes, “Tom Flesher is a master of attention to detail. The smallest thing can make the difference in a big match, even if it’s just keeping Toxxic away from his sister’s moral support, or Tom staying where he can hear Matheson’s instructions.” As Matheson cheers him on, Flesher cocks his hips and takes Stephens to the mat with a side headlock takeover. Eddy Long counts ONE! but no more, as Stephens gets his shoulder up and rolls back toward Flesher. Tom lifts Stephens’ head off the mat, once again pinning his shoulders down. ONE! Again, Stephens rolls through, getting a shoulder up to break the count. He struggles, reaching around Flesher’s body to try the classical roll-through reversal to put Flesher’s back on the mat, but Tom keeps his behind planted firmly on the canvas. Frustrated, Stephens rolls toward Tom, putting his stomach on the mat to reformulate his plan of attack. “I’ll tell you,” says Mak, “making weight a week ago is really hurting Michael Stephens. Tom Flesher’s easily 240 pounds today, and believe me when I tell you that extra 10 pounds can make a huge difference, especially when you’re like Flesher and you have that low center of gravity.” “Are you calling him fat?” “I dunno, King. Did he stop for poutine on the way over?” Satisfied that he’s thrown a wrench into Stephens’ plans, Flesher starts back to his feet. He gets caught, though, when Stephens throws a leg up and hooks him with a quick headscissors grip! Stephens pulls Flesher down, easing his way out of the headlock and pushing Flesher’s shoulders to the mat. Tom quickly rolls through to his stomach, hooking Stephens by the leg and rolling through across his back into a half Boston crab! Before he can secure the hold, Michael Stephens lunges forward, freeing his leg from the hold... only to have Flesher drop an elbow down onto his back, then adjust and reapply his side headlock. “This kind of tenacity,” says the Suicide King, “is what won Tom Flesher his first and second World Heavyweight Championships. He’s not going to give up easily, and no matter what he’s doing, he has the next three or four moves thought out. He’s resting here, and Michael Stephens is doing all the work just to get back to an even position.” Flesher picks himself up off the mat slowly, bringing Stephens with him by pulling his head up and forcing his body to follow. As the World Champion grimaces, Tom adjusts his posture, reassuming his standing position and looking at Eddy Long as if to say, “What do you want me to do about it?” Stephens reaches down, grabbing Flesher by the wrist and trying to peel his hands apart. He’s able to separate the Cruiserweight Champion’s hands and starts to spin himself free. Before he can get to his feet and wriggle out, though, Flesher pivots and hammers him in the jaw with a palm strike! Stunned, Stephens is easy pickings for a quickly-reapplied side headlock. Even the most stalwart fans are groaning now, but Flesher simply turns toward his corner and cranks the headlock again. “This is getting ridiculous,” says Francis. “How does he expect to win the match when he’s just putting the same damn headlock on over and over?” “Would you have said that to Ed ‘the Strangler’ Lewis, Mak? What are you, some kind of philistine?” As Flesher again clamps down, Stephens peels his hands apart once more. This time, though, instead of trying to spin out, he simply crouches down and shoots Flesher forward to the ropes. Unable to grab Stephens’ head in time, Flesher sprints forward and bounces off the ropes. As he does, Stephens drops to the mat and takes Tom down with a soccer tackle! The fans cheer for the World Champion as he rolls away and comes up standing, with Flesher struggling to make it to his knees before Stephens unleashes a dropkick to the head that puts him right back on the mat! As Stephens backs away, formulating his next step, Flesher looks up at him to try to plan his. Stephens quickly reacts, throwing himself forward and dropping onto Flesher’s back with a somersault senton! Tom goes flat as Stephens rolls through, coming back to his feet while his opponent reconsiders his plan of attack. Given the beating he’s taken, Flesher makes a snap decision: Bail. “And Tom Flesher goes to the floor!” says Francis proudly. “He may be able to kick out of just about anything, King, but he can’t keep up with the blistering pace that Michael Stephens wants to set for this match. He couldn’t on a GOOD day, much less carrying an extra ten pounds of flab.” Flesher regains his footing outside, and James Matheson quickly comes up to him and pats his shoulders with a towel. As Tom looks up, Matheson wipes the sweat from his brow... but the fans begin to cheer as Michael Stephens sprints to the opposite side of the ring and bounces off the ropes! Flesher stares, not quite sure what to do as the World Champion comes barrelling at him, and finally decides to cut his losses and drop to the floor, hoping Stephens will overshoot! Tom stays down for a moment, then backs away. He looks over his shoulder... no Toxxic. Shaking his head with frustration, Flesher slaps his forehead, and looks up to the ring, knowing what he’s going to see. Mike perches on one knee, and checks his left wrist for an imaginary watch. The fans cheer. Resignedly, Flesher looks on as Stephens stands up, points across the cheering Toronto crowd with one hand and strokes his chin with the other. Finally, as Tom rolls his eyes, Stephens plants both hands on his hips and grins cheesily to the fans. Flesher shakes his head with disgust. The crowd, simply put, explodes! “Oh, now he’s just showboating,” snaps King. Stephens backs away from the ropes, allowing Flesher back into the ring without incident. As soon as Flesher makes it back to the inside, however, Stephens is waiting for him with a quick dropkick to the head. Flesher flattens out, once again caught with the speedy Stephens’ striking ability. Mike rolls through, then grabs Flesher by the head and pulls him into a European uppercut that throws him back into the ropes. Tom tries to shake off the force of the blow, but before he can, Stephens meets him with a running kneelift that nearly incapacitates the Cruiserweight Champion! Flesher staggers forward, and Stephens snags his arm and throws him to the mat with a hiptoss before covering him. Eddy Long counts ONE!! Flesher kicks out, though, before he can go any further. “Mike Stephens gets his first near-fall,” says Mak Francis, “and he’s taken over control of the match. Sure, Taamo might have grabbed a few covers early on, but there’s a big difference between tilting someone’s shoulders from a headlock and actually getting a legit cover.” “Oh, come on,” protests King. “You of all people, Mak! You won how many amateur medals, and you’re calling tilts illegitimate? How many college matches end with someone being knocked out, and how many end with someone showing enough technical brilliance to pretzel his opponent into a pin? Anyone can be brutish and try to knock someone out, but only a man of Tom Flesher’s intellect can win time in and time out without resorting to barbarism.” After Tom kicks out, Stephens keeps hold of his left arm as he sits up. Flesher instinctively starts to roll to his stomach, leaving Michael able to stand him up. Mike keeps the left arm and turns all the way around, executing a textbook arm drag and twist reminiscent of Tito Santana. “Hey, he’s been practicing,” says Mak. “Maybe all that bitching Taamo did got to him after all.” As Flesher winces in pain, Stephens jerks the arm, pulling Flesher toward him and into a head-and-arm hold before dropping to his knees! Flesher pops back to his feet, bell rung by the sit-out jawbreaker, and staggers backwards to the ropes again! “Shades of El Luchador Magnifico,” Mak says, “one of the few men to give Tom Flesher as much trouble as Michael Stephens has over the past few years. Tom’s gotta be in there wondering who he’s going to face next, whether it’s Wildchild, Johnny Dangerous or even, if you will, the Franchise.” “Get over yourself,” King snorts. “Just because Toxxic put an old match in the VCR instead of watching the Best Of Manchester United again doesn’t mean he’s got Tom’s number. It just means he’s been watching more matches where Flesher walks out the winner, so he might know what’s coming as it hits him instead of having to wait for it to sink in after the bell rings.” As Flesher leans against the ropes, Stephens grabs him by the singlet strap and pulls him into another European uppercut. Tom tries to shake off the cobwebs, but Stephens stays on him, hammering him with another forearm before thrusting his head foreward in a classic football-hooligan headbutt! The Toronto fans burst into cheers, and Mak shouts “GLASGOW KISS~!” as Flesher collapses into a heap. Stephens quickly hops on him, and Eddy Long counts ONE!!! TWO!!! NO! Flesher kicks out, grimacing in pain and shaking his head to try to get his bearing back. Michael Stephens, meanwhile, backs away, looking like he’s seeing stars himself. “Perhaps not the most sound strategy,” King says, “considering Tom Flesher’s almost inhuman ability to withstand punishment, and Toxxic’s... well... glass jaw.” “You take that back,” says Mak Francis. “No one with a glass jaw could be as dominant a champion as Mike Stephens.” Stunned or not, Stephens is more quick to his feet than Flesher, and makes him pay for his sloth by throwing a stiff boot straight to Flesher’s head! Tom recoils, trying to avoid any further abuse, but Mike Stephens isn’t about to let him escape. He grabs Flesher by the head and pulls him into a front facelock. Then, making sure to move quickly, he twists his body around to pull the Cruiserweight Champion into a hangman’s neckbreaker position. “Mike’s using his speed to his advantage,” says Mak. “He knows it’s a bad idea to let Tom play in a front facelock for any length of time, so he moved through it as quick as he could and got to the meat of the move. He’s building up the pressure...” Without wasting any more time than necessary, Michael twists around, sitting out to the side as he slams Flesher face-first into the mat! “And watching it drop!” Mak shouts, as Flesher sprawls out on the canvas. His chest is visibly heaving as Michael Stephens hooks his arm and flips him onto his back, making sure to hook the leg as he makes the cover. Eddy Long counts ONE!!! TWO!!!! NO!!!!! “Tom Flesher kicks out of the Pressure Drop,” says the Suicide King as the fans groan in disappointment. “I don’t know why Stephens even bothers anymore. He’s not going to get the win with things like soccer tackles, Pressure Drops and stupid poses. He’s just delaying the inevitable.” “Oh, come on!” Mak says, sounding like his partner had suggested something as ridiculous as the SWF introducing a wrestler who competes as an anthropomorphic ferret. “You’re one of Tom’s biggest fans, next to Bobby Riley. How can you look at this and not see that he’s taking Tom apart, brick by brick, until he collapses? That’s Flesher’s MO!” “That’s right,” King replies smugly. “It’s FLESHER’S modus operandi. Toxxic might try to execute it, but it’s not going to be the same as Flesher’s careful disassembly of an opponent. Besides, Toxxic’s so fragile that it’s only going to take one big move to put him down. He’d have to hit Flesher three, four times to even get close.” Stephens slides out to the side, waiting for Flesher’s next move. As his chest heaves, Tom starts to sit up slowly. Stephens slides in behind him, quickly hooking a leg under Flesher’s arm. As the fans begin to cheer, Stephens grabs Flesher’s free arm, trying to lock up his leg nelson! As he tries to hook his other leg under Flesher’s arm and secure the hold, James Matheson hops up onto the apron and begins shouting, “HIS FOOT’S ON! HIS FOOT’S ON!” Eddy Long immediately turns toward the ropes, only to see that Flesher’s foot is nowhere near the bottom cable. Stephens checks as well, trying to adjust his position so that he can get the hold back on in a legal position if necessary. He sees that Tom isn’t on the ropes, but has only half a second or so to react before Flesher spins around, ducking out of the leg half-nelson and snagging Stephens’ left leg. He dumps Stephens onto his ass as he lifts him off the mat, stepping into a sickeningly high-angle half-Boston crab! As Eddy Long admonishes James Matheson for his interference, Amy Stephens jumps onto the apron and begins shouting at him herself! “YOU WANKER!” she shouts. “I OUGHTA COME OVER THERE AND...” Well, you get the idea. As Eddy Long struggles to restore some semblance of order to the ring apron, Tom Flesher blithely presses an Asics wrestling shoe into the back of Mike Stephens’ head. Stephens grimaces on the mat, and after Eddy Long finally manages to convince Amy to hop back to the floor (“Awright, but he best not fuck around, innit!”), and James Matheson to follow (“Fine, but I didn’t do anything wrong in the first place, which is what I was trying to tell you to begin with!”), he turns to see Stephens being bent nearly in half. “The angle on that half-crab is incredible!” marvels the Suicide King. “It’s like Flesher soaked Toxxic in warm water for three hours before the match to increase his flexibility!” “I’ll tell you who looks like he’s been soaking in warm water,” Mak says, “and it ain’t Toxxic. Flesher’s sweating like a pig!” Sure enough, the Superior One is absolutely dripping with sweat. His conditioning is clearly suffering from the extra weight he’s carrying this evening. Of course, Mike Stephens, and particulary his neck, is also suffering. Given the choice, most of the crowd would probably go with the bad cardio. In any case, Flesher keeps the half-crab on only for a minute or so before realizing he’s not going to force Stephens to submit to it. After catching his breath, he drops Stephens’ leg onto the mat and turns around, sprawling down onto Mike with a headbutt to the back. Stephens lays on the mat as Flesher reaches down, hooking his chin and pulling him up into a camel clutch! As he plants his more-ample-than-usual rear in the middle of Stephens’ back, Flesher tries to pull both arms over his knees to tighten up the hold. However, Michael shakes his head free and scoots forward, trying to free himself from the hold. Flesher stays on him, doing his best to retard the World Champion’s progress. Still, Mike reaches out, grabbing the bottom rope and avoiding giving Flesher an opportunity to stretch him out. “Tell me you’re not impressed with that,” Francis says. “He’s flexible, he’s quick, and he’s able to avoid pretty much anything Taamo throws at him.” For his part, Flesher quickly stands up once Stephens grabs the ropes, although he’s perhaps less restrained than the rules require, as he immediately starts putting the boots to Mike’s ribs. Eddy Long steps in even as Flesher keeps trying to do as much damage while using up as little energy as possible. Long warns the king of the cruiserweights, and after doing so, begins his count. ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! Finally, Flesher backs off, holding his hands up as if to profess innocence. He turns to James Matheson, who claps politely and says, “Keep the pressure on, Tommy, keep the pressure on!” Stephens, meanwhile, finds it difficult even to pull himself to his feet using the ropes. He turns his head toward Flesher and sees that the Superior One is busily taking direction from his manager. Seizing the opportunity, Mike lunges at Flesher, taking him to the mat with a soccer tackle! Surprised, it takes Tom an extra second to get back to his feet, and he’s met with a knee to the face that stands him up with authority! Tom backs into the ropes as Stephens lands a right-handed punch! Flesher reels, only to eat a quick left to the face! Stephens throws another right, and then connects with a second left! Mike, unable to resist, throws up the British V-sign, prompting a huge cheer from the Sky Dome crowd! The fans quickly go from cheering to groaning, however, because as Stephens starts the spin for his discus clothesline, James Matheson grabs Flesher by the ankle and pulls him out of the ring! “Oh, COME ON!” shouts Mak Francis. “Matheson’s stealing the match from Stephens with this kind of crap!” “He’s not doing anything even REMOTELY illegal,” King shouts back. (The fans in the front row would later swear his nose grew two inches.) Eddy Long, of course, disagrees, as does Amy Stephens. (“WHAT FUCKIN’ BOLLOCKS! YOU GONNA LET THAT FLY, LONGY-DONGY?! COME ON, THAT’S SOME A-LEVEL SHIT THERE!”) In fact, as Flesher leans on the apron outside, Long disagrees so strongly that he points at Matheson and then at the locker rooms! The fans begin to cheer as members of the security force trot down to ringside and grab the protesting Matheson by his elbows. “I’m going to sue!” he shouts. “There’s going to be a lawsuit on your desk in the morning, you son of a bitch!” Nevertheless, the security force does its job, with one particularly puny member grabbing Matheson’s blue Halliburton briefcase and carrying it back to the locker room. As Flesher looks on, slack-jawed with shock, Amy Stephens leaps up and down on the apron. “YOU GOT RID OF THAT BLOODY BASTARD! GOOD ON YOU, LONGY! YOU SHOWED SOME BALLS!” Long, in especially bad humor thanks to Matheson’s antics, scowls at Amy. Then, much to the chagrin of everyone at Sky Dome, he points her toward the locker room, too! The Dome echoes with the booing of thousands upon thousands of fans as Amy shouts protests, with Long merely saying, “You roll those things back into your shirt and get to the locker room!” The security force makes another appearance, although Amy goes a bit more willingly than Matheson. There is, however, far more swearing. “WHAT THE FUCK?! WHERE DO YOU GET OFF SENDING ME BACK TO THE LOCKERS WHEN YOU PUT UP WITH ALL KINDS-A SHIT FROM JIMMY MATH?! YOU WANKER!” Still, within a few seconds, Amy is behind the velvet curtain. Michael turns away from the ramp, looking out to the ring apron, where Flesher was just a few moments ago. He doesn’t see the Superior One. After a beat, it dawns on him that he should... too late. “YAAAAAAAAAAAKUZA KICK~!” shrieks the Suicide King, as Flesher connects with Stephens just as he looks over his shoulder. Michael crumbles to the mat, and Flesher overruns him to slow down. Eddy Long begins admonishing Flesher, who brushes him off and focuses on the World Heavyweight Champion. “Do you believe the sack on Flesher?” Mak asks, rhetorically. “Eddy Long just got done ejecting both men’s ring escorts, and now Taamo’s just ignoring him. He’s getting pretty close to getting tossed himself!” Regardless, Flesher drops a diving elbow onto Mike’s neck, flattening him out on the mat. He reaches down, grabbing matching handfuls of Stephens’ chin-length hair and pulling him to his feet. Long, short-tempered, shouts at Flesher to release the illegal hair-pull. Flesher shrugs, saying, “You’re the boss.” He releases Stephens, and then hammers him with a stepping palm strike the sends him reeling back into the corner. Flesher smirks as he adjusts the mixed martial arts gloves he brought to the ring with him, maple leaf patches and all. “He deserved that,” chuckles King. Flesher follows the palm strike up with another, then crouches down and lunges forward to spear Stephens in the gut with a blast double leg! The takedown, of course, is ineffective, since Stephens is propped up in the corner, but Flesher shrugs off the impact as Stephens’ face curls up in pain. Tom reaches down, picking Stephens’ ankle effortlessly and sending him collapsing to the mat. Instead of pulling Mike into another half-crab, however, Flesher drops the leg to the mat, opting instead to hammer him with a sickening shin-kick to the face! Stephens’ head snaps back with the impact, giving Flesher the opportunity to plant a boot flush in his face. Eddy Long interjects himself, noticing that Stephens is semi-consciously holding on to both bottom ropes. Flesher backs away, hands in the air, as if he had anything in mind but continuing his assault. “This is where the extra poundage Taamo’s carrying tonight comes in handy,” King says. “He’s got extra force behind every one of his strikes, every palm, every Yakuza kick, every smack with the shin... even if they ARE padded.” “Speaking of, I’m not totally sure those MMA gloves are totally safe,” Francis says. “I now Eddy checked them, but how do we know Matheson didn’t pass him something from the outside?” “Look how tight they are,” King snorts. “If he could fit anything in those gloves, well, I wouldn’t want to let him near my teenage daughter.” Flesher shakes his hands out, looking at the conspicuously taped left thumb. As Stephens pulls himself to his feet, Flesher takes a step forward, thrusting his left hand at the eye... but Stephens avoids the strike by slipping his head to the side! He throws a quick right hand, but misses his target of Flesher’s face and lands it squarely in the meat of Tom’s chest instead. The Superior One raises an eyebrow, then thrusts his palm forward and silences the Heavyweight Champion once again. “I told you it was to protect an injury,” Flesher snaps. With that, Flesher grabs Stephens by the wrist and whips him to the ropes. He plants his feet in the center of the ring, and as Stephens careens at him, Flesher extends his arm and steps into yet another palm strike! Once again, Stephens falls to the mat, but this time, Flesher drops onto him for the cover. Long counts ONE!!! TWO!!!! NO! Michael Stephens gets a shoulder up as Flesher scowls at Eddy Long. Regardless, he grabs Stephens and lifts him into a spinebuster position, then carries him over to the nearest corner and rams him back-first into the buckles. The fans boo as Flesher backs away after propping Stephens in the corner. Then, Tom gets a running start, then leaps off his feet to slam into the World Champion with a running avalanche! As he bounces back, Stephens falls backward, only to be grabbed around the chest as soon as his adversary moves back toward him. Flesher tightens his lock, then lifts Stephens into the air, throwing him overhead with a picture-perfect Railgun suplex! He releases Michael at the apex of the throw, letting him fall to the mat in a manner that suggests a plummeting stock. “Ouch,” winces the Suicide King. “Can you believe that? That’s got to be one of the sickest suplexes I’ve ever seen Flesher throw! I would NOT want to be Michael Stephens come winter.” Flesher makes the cover, and Long drops down to count. (“His chiropractor, on the other hand...”) ONE!!! TWO!!!! TH- NO!!!!!! The Toronto fans cheer as Stephens throws a shoulder off the mat, shaken but not willing to give up his claim to the Heavyweight Championship of the World. Flesher shoves him back down, covering him again. ONE!!! TWO!!!! THR- NO!!!!!! Once again, Stephens kicks out, getting a shoulder off the mat in time to keep from losing the match. Frustrated, Flesher grabs Stephens by the hair once again. He hoists Mike to his feet, then applies a front facelock. He ducks his head under Michael’s left arm, then reaches down to hook his leg for the fisherman’s suplex that helped him shock JJ Johnson just a few weeks before. Flesher clasps his hands together, and then finds himself struggling to keep his shoulders off the mat as Stephens rolls him over with a small package! Long counts ONE!!!!! TWO!!!!!! THRE- KICKOUT!!!!!! The fans groan at the missed opportunity, but Flesher fumes as he rolls to his knees. Stephens crouches down, trying to turtle himself as Flesher regains his bearings. Tom drops into an offensive stance, ready to blast Mike with all 240 pounds. He waits for Michael to get to his feet and then launches himself... just in time for Stephens to hammer him with a Stephens Kick! Flesher staggers backward, stumbling in a small circle before finding a straight line to walk. He takes one step... then another.... and then falls impotently onto his face. As always, the crowd goes crazy, and as always, the Suicide King remarks, “I just don’t know why they like that flop so damn much.” Mike Stephens looks down at the barely-moving Tom Flesher. He leans against the ropes, debating what to do. He takes a step toward Flesher, considering going for the pin, but he hesitates. Even though the cruiserweight superstar isn’t moving, something inside Mike Stephens’ gut tells him he’s not going to get the pin. At least, not right now. “Toxxic’s giving up a sure chance at a pin!” says the Suicide King. “Tom Flesher has him so rattled that he doesn’t even know what to do!” Stephens reaches down, grabbing Flesher’s arms and lifting him off the mat with a gokuraku grip. With Flesher showing roughly the constitution of a damp noodle, Stephens struggles to pull him to his feet. He turns around, pulling him up and back-to-back, leaning against the ropes for balance... then drops to the mat to finish the gokuraku neckbreaker! The crowd cheers as Stephens maintains the hold and rolls over onto his stomach, then begins to bridge off the mat! He holds Flesher upside down in his inversion of Scott Pretzler’s Snowflake Clutch, stretching Flesher’s spine out as he raises his front bridge higher and higher! Flesher grimaces, feeling his airway and neck constricting! Stephens, meanwhile, strains to keep Flesher’s body elevated and his spine stretched out. As Stephens struggles, Flesher continues fighting through the pain. He moves his arms, trying to relieve the pressure on his neck. He reaches down with his legs, trying to brace on Stephens’ hips and kick himself free. He tries everything he can think of, finding solace only in Stephens’ bridge beginning to buckle. Michael Stephens feels the buckling bridge. He strains, trying to hold Tom Flesher in the air. He knows that he’s found a way to win the match. He doesn’t need to smash Flesher’s face in. He doesn’t need to knock out a man who operates without higher brain function. He doesn’t need to find a way to trap the man who knows more submissions than possibly any SWF competitor and make him tap the mat in humility. He just has to hold on. “TOXXXX-IC... TOXXXX-IC...” As the Toronto fans try to cheer their favorite on to winning the match and carrying every major championship in the SWF, Mike Stephens tries to hold out. Tom Flesher tries to hold out. “TOXXXX-IC... TOXXXX-IC...” Eddy Long watches closely, knowing that Flesher’s hands are captured, so he can’t tap out. His airway is constricted, so he can’t verbally submit. Even though the ropes are tantalizingly close, Flesher’s legs just aren’t long enough to reach them, so he can’t take the easy way out. Mike Stephens only has to wait for him to pass out and the match, and the Cruiserweight Championship, will be his. “TOXXXX-IC... TOXXXX-IC...” ‘Only.’ Seconds pass, seeming like hours, until finally... Michael Stephens can’t stay up any longer. The fans groan as his hips buckle and he collapses to the mat, Flesher on top of him. He releases the gokuraku grip, and Flesher rolls harmlessly to the mat next to him. “Oh my god, King!” Mak gasps. “I can’t believe that Mike Stephens couldn’t finish that off, but look at him! He just wasn’t strong enough to hold up!” “Like he could have kept Tom in there long enough to get him,” says King, who then surreptitiously wipes the sweat from his brow and makes a sound that comes across as something like “whew.” Michael looks at Flesher and sees an opportunity. He throws an arm under Tom and rolls him to his back. Then, slowly, he crawls over him and drapes an arm over his chest. Already in position, Long counts ONE!!!! TWO!!!!! THREE!!!!!! NO!!!! The crowd groans with disappointment as Long points to Flesher’s foot, draped harmlessly over the bottom rope! Michael Stephens looks up, crestfallen. He can’t believe he missed his chance. “Saved by the ropes!” beams the Suicide King, once again wiping sweat from his brow. “Tom Flesher shows his strongest ability, knowing where he is and what his options are! He saved himself from the pin!” “He robbed Mike Stephens!” says Mak. “Unbelievable!!!” Stephens grabs the ropes, disgusted, and pulls himself to his feet before kicking Flesher’s foot off them. He grabs Flesher by the leg and drags him to the center of the ring, fuming! There, he drops down onto his adversary, hooking his leg and making the cover once again! ONE!!!!!! TWO!!!!!! THRE- KICKOUT!!!!! This time, Flesher kicks out with more than enough time to stay safely in the match. He stays on his back, though, and Stephens can read that he doesn’t have the energy to fight much of anything. Stephens grabs him by the wrist and tries to pull him to his feet. Flesher sandbags, doing all he can to make his opponent expend as much energy as possible to improve his position. Still, Stephens is livid, and he pulls Flesher to his feet without much fuss. He pulls Tom in and throws one arm around his chest, locking him up with a uranage. He lifts Tom off the mat with every ounce of strength he has, then kicks his legs out! He slams Flesher to the mat with a sambo slam, driving his elbow into the Superior One’s sternum as he lands! “SIDE EFFECT!” screams Francis. “Stephens is capitalizing on his earlier attack, just trying to knock the crap out of Flesher, and it looks like it’s working! Look at the way Tom’s chest is moving – he’s even struggling to breathe!” “So is Toxxic!” growls King. “He’s not any better off than Tom is right now!” Oh, but he is. Stephens gets to his feet fairly quickly and grabs Flesher by the legs, pulling him back to the center of the ring once again. This time, he knows he can’t make the same mistake. Instead of going straight for the cover, though, he makes his way over to the nearest corner post and begins climbing. “Oh, this is rich,” says the Suicide King. “He thinks he’s going to be able to finish Flesher off just by going to the top rope? How naïve can you get?!” “He knows all he has to do is put the icing on this one,” says Francis. “He could try for the Repeat to Fade or the RTF II, but if Tom’s got anything left in him, he’s going to find a way to counter it before it gets sunk in. He can’t lift him safely for the Triple S, and he can’t risk grappling with him for the Sunny in England. Going aerial’s not just an option, it’s the best one.” Stephens seems to know all of that. He perches himself on the top turnbuckle. The fans cheer for him, even as he leaps off the top rope. He tucks his head in, somersaulting through the air and loading up his legs. As he lands, he pumps them out, hammering them with all the force he can muster! Into the empty canvas, as Flesher rolls out of the way. The crowd erupts in boos as Tom grabs the ropes, pulling himself up to his feet as Stephens collapses on the mat. Flesher breathes hard. He’s paying the price for being out of shape tonight. His legs are shaking, but he fights his way back to his opponent. Stephens, for his part, refuses to quit. He forces his way back up to his feet, even as Flesher throws a palm strike that isn’t as strong as the ones he threw earlier. Still, the shotei shakes Stephens. He grits his teeth, trying to fight through the pain, even as he takes another palm blow to the jaw. The second reels him, and Flesher takes a deep breath. As he sees Stephens drop to one knee, he feels the adrenalin rushing through his body, and he uses that extra force to throw a hard shin-kick to Mike’s head! Stephens drops to the mat, shaken. His eyes are open, and he looks up at Flesher, but he doesn’t seem to have the energy left to fight the way his brain tells him he should. It’s only going to take one move to put him down, and both wrestlers know it. Flesher reaches down, shaking with excitement and fatigue. He pulls Stephens to his feet and stands next to him, sliding his right arm under Michael’s with a half-nelson. The fans begin to boo even more loudly as Suicide King shouts, “I KNOW THAT MOVE!” “Oh, god,” Mak groans. “The last thing we need is Flesher getting another big win with the Jokers Wild.” “Don’t knock it! It’s won more matches than you!” As Flesher tries to set up the half-nelson forward Russian leg sweep, Stephens reaches up and grabs his hand. Tom tries to keep the half-nelson sunk, but Stephens peels it off! Flesher bends down, trying to keep him snagged, but Michael wriggles free, spinning around and facing Flesher from his knees! The evil grin on Flesher’s face would make even the most jaded shudder. He reaches down, grabbing Stephens around the waist in a gutwrench! The fans gasp as he crouches down, lifting Mike off the mat! “He’s going for the Ego Buster!” says King. “That’ll end the match, and god willing Toxxic’s career!” Stephens has no designs on getting dumped on his head, however. As Flesher lifts him up, Stephens curls his body around the closest leg and reaches over, trapping Tom’s far ankle. The fans cheer as Flesher looks down, frustrated, and releases his grip, knowing he can’t execute the Ego Buster so encumbered. Instead, he settles for a kneedrop to the head. Stephens, seeming to know it was coming, rolls away, and Flesher hits the mat with all his force! Michael pulls himself to his feet, and as Tom looks up, he hammers the Cruiserweight Champion with a dropkick to the face! Flesher collapses to the mat, and Stephens dives onto him for a cover! ONE!!!!! TWO!!!!!! THRE- KICKOUT!!!!!! Frustrated, Flesher kicks out! He looks up, his eyes blurry, at the emaciated Mike Stephens. Stephens, though, doesn’t stop to look down at him. Instead, he grabs Flesher by the wrist and pulls him to his feet, whipping him to the ropes! Flesher plants his feet, and within the blink of an eye, Stephens finds himself careening into the far corner! Flesher follows him in, and just as Stephens recovers from the initial impact, he finds Tom launching his body at him and hammering him with another running avalanche! The wind flies out of Michael’s sails, and back into Flesher’s. “A simple reversal, but a crucial one,” says the Suicide King, as Flesher crouches down and grabs Stephens by the hips. “That one moment of awareness could be the move that wins Flesher the World Championship.” Flesher sets Stephens on the top turnbuckle. Slowly, be begins to climb. He gets on the bottom rope... “And we’re about to see...” the middle rope... “... the icing on the cake.” and finally the top. He grabs Stephens by the head, slapping on a tight front facelock. Stephens tries to resist, but the Superior One ducks his head under the left arm to set up his suplex... or, in this case, the avalanche brainbuster known as the Boilermaker. The fans continue booing, showering Flesher with abuse, as he starts to lift Stephens off the buckle. Stephens struggles, trying to hold himself down. Flesher rocks him with a quick palm strike, hoping to shut him up long enough to execute the move. The desperation begins to show in Tom’s eyes as he finally begins to lift Stephens off the buckle, to hold him vertically in the air. Then, in the blink of an eye, desperation turns to panic, as Stephens floats over Flesher’s body. He shifts his weight and swings around, flying behind Flesher and grabbing his chin as he falls to the mat. With the impact imminent, Stephens curls his body and cocks his knees! THUD!!!! “OH MY GOD!” screams Francis, as the Sky Dome crowd pops like a cherry on prom night! Flesher hits the mat on top of Stephens, the victim of an avalanche Lungblower! “LANDON MADDIX WOULD BE PROUD!” Flesher cries out in pain as he lands on Stephens, who looks none too comfortable himself. Flesher bounces up, then collapses to the mat in a heap. Stephens, body aching from the beating he’s taken and given himself all night, rolls over, trying to cover Flesher. “The partnership with that other skinny white guy paid off!” Francis shouts, as Stephens drapes an arm over Flesher. “Mike Stephens used Landon Maddix’s Lungblower to counter the Boilermaker! This could be it!” Eddy Long makes the count. ONE!!!!!! TWO!!!!!!!! THREE NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The crowd gasps in disbelief. Mike Stephens looks up, not quite sure what just happened. Flesher, meanwhile, lays on his back, still grimacing in obvious pain. Still, the fact is irrefutable: he got a shoulder up. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to be. “Look, just LOOK, at the resilience being shown by Tom Flesher!” marvels King. “It’s unbelievable! It’s incredible! The ability to absorb punishment that’s been shown tonight, and through his entire career, is just...” King trails off, not quite sure how to finish that thought. Still, Stephens is the one on his feet. Flesher looks up. Once again, his blue eyes meet Stephens’. This time, desperation is in both men’s gaze. Flesher, arching his back in pain, stays on one knee. Stephens grabs him by the head, pulling him into a front facelock. He reaches down, trying to trap Flesher’s leg and arm together, but the frantic amateur specialist kicks his leg back to keep it from being captured. Stephens pulls him in closer, trying to tighten up the front facelock and secure the Caffeine Bomb that’s put both men away in the past. Tom Flesher fights with every ounce of strength he has, freeing himself every time Stephens tries to secure the leg cradle to lift him off the mat. Finally, with a primal scream, Flesher stands up, lifting Stephens off the mat and throwing him overhead with a back body drop! Stephens hits the mat hard, but he rolls through. Flesher turns around, staggering from the pain inflicted on him all night. He sees Michael Stephens roll to his knees, and he looks at his shaking hands. Almost on instinct, Flesher peels off his right glove. He watches Stephens, who is starting to get to his feet, and steps forward, pivoting on his front foot. He extends his right arm, and for the first time in years, he clenches his right hand into a fist. As Stephens gets to his feet, he’s thrown straight back to the mat by Tom Flesher’s spinning back fist! “Oh my god!” says the Suicide King. “The palm strikes were getting less effective, so Tom Flesher decided it was time to punt! And he threw a punch! He landed a punch! A spinning back fist!!” Stephens is in a pile on the mat, but Flesher knows better than to go for the pin. His uraken knocked Stephens for a loop, but it wasn’t enough that the World Champion couldn’t escape. Instead, Flesher pulls Stephens to his feet. He ducks down, grabbing the Heavyweight Champion of the World by the neck and the thigh, and lifting him off the mat. Into a torture rack. Mak Francis goes silent. Stephens’ body twitches, but Flesher tightens his grip on his head and leg to keep him from moving. Then, with expert precision and deadly destructiveness, he drops to the side, slamming Stephens’ head to the mat. “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUURNING HAMMER~!” shouts King, although it’s almost impossible to hear him over the crowd’s booing, shouting and disgusted screaming. “Tom Flesher hits the Burning Hammer on Toxxic! There’s no way... he’s...” King looks over at his broadcast partner, whose face is stone. Even the Suicide King doesn’t want to finish the sentence. Flesher slumps over Stephens’ limp body, hooking his leg and head in an inside cradle just to make sure Stephens doesn’t kick out. Long counts ONE!!!!!!!! TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No foot on the ropes. No shoulder up. No motion. DING DING DING!!!! Flesher rolls off Stephens’ body, his chest showing how heavily he’s breathing. Thankfully, Stephens’ chest rises, though significantly more shallowly. Eddy Long helps Flesher to his feet, even as the new World Champion’s legs shake, and his arms don’t adequately prop him up on the ropes. Wait... New World Champion. Wait.... NEW WORLD CHAMPION?! “The winner of the match... still the SWF Cruiserweight Champion, and ONCE AGAIN SWF HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION of the WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORLD.... ‘the Superior One’... TOM.... FLESHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Flesher celebrates in the ring as James Matheson sprints out from the back, his briefcase in hand. Charlie Matthews, bandaged from his earlier fight, stands in the entranceway, his rugged veteran’s smile spreading from ear to ear. Even Scion of Light comes out, pumping her fists and cheering as the crowd showers derision on Tom Flesher. Eddy Long hands Flesher the Cruiserweight Championship, which he slings over one shoulder. Being Cruiserweight Champion isn’t that bad, it seems, if it doesn’t mean you’re the second in line. Matheson slides into the ring, leaping in the air with joy! He grabs the World Championship belt from Long and holds it out, practically dancing as Flesher leans forward and kisses the center plate. Then, as Tom nearly collapses from fatigue, Matheson wraps the belt around the waist of the new Champion. Tom Flesher can barely stand, but on a night when champions lay claim to their titles, he has solidified his claim to three: SWF Cruiserweight Champion. SWF World Heavyweight Champion. Legend. -=-=-=-=- SWF Genesis VII – September 18, 2006. © Acid Rayn Productions. All rights reserved. The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation: “Raising workrate by typing faster.”

My match, she's in. Not as long as Toxxic's, but mine never are.

I think you're an hour off, Divey. It's an hour after your post, but it's only 9 PM Eastern.

I'll see to it that your bifocals are replaced posthaste.

If you want anything included, send me the thrust of it via PM ASAP. I'm writing up a N&N segment building to Genesis.

Last call!

Last chance!

I'm taking the initiative on creating this year's Genesis Press Conference. (Tom Flesher invented the press conference!) The plan is that I'd like to organize a board promo, to be posted shortly after the Genesis card goes up, in which the wrestlers briefly address the press corps and field questions. It will also include the official weigh-in for the main event, since the main event will involve the Cruiserweight Championship. If you'd like to participate, please write up a short piece (keep in mind that we may well have everyone participating in this) in which your character addresses the press corps and answers any questions that you'd like to include. Scriptstyle is preferably, and don't worry about formatting - I'll do the final edit to make sure everything flows smoothly. Send your piece to me in a PM with "Press conference" in the subject line. If you and your opponent want to do something, feel free, but please keep in mind that Hogan and Slaughter could do the WMVII press conference without coming to blows and we should be able to as well.

That explains the opening unicorn sequence and the transition pony.

Chris, no dice on me marking Raina/SOL/Manson/Rageheart. I've been chatting with Raina quite a bit, giving him advice on the match. I'd appreciate a bump and shuffle there.

SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT/CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH Michael Stephens © vs. Tom Flesher © - The fans. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF INTERNATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH - OLD SCHOOL RULES Bruce Blank © vs. "The Dean of Professional Wrestling" Jay Hawke - Hawke -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- GRUDGE MATCH Wildchild vs. Mike Van Siclen - WC -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- CAGE MATCH Landon "La Cucaracha" Maddix © vs. "The Beast" Gabriel Drake - Cucaracha Domestica -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- FIRST BLOOD MATCH Johnny Dangerous vs. Charlie "Grappler" Matthews - TAG TEAM PRIDE! Grapplah~! -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF HARDCORE CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH Jimmy the Doom © vs. The Crimson Skull - SKULL IS EBIL. SKULL IS RULE. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP #1 CONTENDERS MATCH "Hollywood" Spike Jenkins vs. "The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu - Spoon -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- MYSTERY MATCH "Deathwish" Danny Williams vs. ??? - QMM is always a safe bet, but this is Danny. So, Danny. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- FATAL FOURWAY ELIMINATION MATCH The Scion of Light vs. Scotty "The Crush" Raina vs. MANSON vs. Scott Rageheart - I never predict matches where I haven't seen everyone write. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- TWO OUT OF THREE FALLS MATCH "The Unique Youth" Zyon vs. JJ Johnson - ZYON~! -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF FROST PRE-PPV SHOW SINGLES MATCH Ian vs. Larkin Special Guest Referee: THE BOSTON STRANGLER~! - Larkin. She's just so damn cute.

"I knew it!"

Mak the character is a commentator and is paralyzed from the waist down after Spike Jenkins burning-hammered him. Mak the writer is Gabriel Drake right now.

You wouldn't want to get up, Divey. You wouldn't want to.

Everything that anyone sent me was passed on to Chris, so don't worry about your promo getting lost in the shuffle.

Hey, Divey. Always good to see old-timers popping in to say hi. Believe it or not, we do still remember you existed.

I don't recall ever beating Wildchild, either in kayfabe or in writing. His character is a perfectly reasonable wrestling archetype, so it's impossible to use that as an excuse, and the technician's logical disassembly of the high-flyer with limb attacks is an archetypal wrestling storyline, so the styles clash isn't to blame either. I can only conclude that Wildchild is a better writer than I am, or at least my toughest opponent. I've also surrendered legit losses to a wide variety of freaks, and I plan to include Stephens as number 1a on the list if he beats me again at Genesis. Which he won't. Because he likes men.

WC is suspended until Genesis, ergo not active. In kayfabe.

In no particular order... I think Wildchild has to be on there, but he's not active at the moment. Toxxic's a given. Landon's efforts are always excellent. Drake's a great writer, and has been since he was writing the Mak character. And, of course, Cutthroat.

I'll do it in character as Tom Flesher.

You write an exceptionally accurate Joe Peters, for some reason.