Ace309

Do you have a kit already or are you looking for an extract recipe? I think VX is pretty much right as far as an IPA being a pretty easy brew to get right. The rule of thumb is that darker beers or beers with bigger flavors are easier to do because there's more there to hide any off-flavors that might develop. A porter or a nut brown ale would also be a good choice.

It's A Different Octopus.

I'm thrilled that after all of his pissing and moaning Spike really came through with the match he fought so hard for.

I have once again applied my complex algorithm and assigned markers. If you sent something to Johnny, please send it away from Johnny.

Akira be on vacamation.

I have applied markers using a complex algorithm.

I know Spike was affected by the power outage in New York City that made the news this morning, but Kibs said he showed.

Raynor gave me the okay to give you till midnight Mountain Time, which is 2 AM Eastern

He no-sold death, but he's selling a bee sting? Christ.

If you are unbooked and consider yourself active, you are strongly encouraged, though not required, to promo.

Your wish is my suggestion

Jakey vs. Fulmie is up, and I have it on good authority that at least one more Tourney match is inbound. So before I go to work, a partial card will go up, the rest to be added please dear god I hope when I come home and have tons of responses in my inbox. EDIT: And by his inbox, Tom clearly means my inbox. Crazy coot.

Send it my way please

"Minor League" and "Junior League," incidentally.

This is too mean-spirited to stay open. Guys, we're better than this stupid sniping. Those of you who are unable to hold your tongues should be ashamed of yourselves.

"Someone with some clout" is an expression meaning "someone with the power to change things." "Clout" is a noun synonymous with "stroke," "power" or "pull."

Raynor/Hawke is up.

Psst. When someone graduates, we'll vacate the title and have another tournament.

The New Blood Title is essentially going to be a more fluid version of the old JL. It's a division we can put people into in order to let them hone their skills, and move them into and out of at will rather than bumping and relegating. The division will find its own level, because its purpose is to allow people who haven't been writing matches for as long as the rest of us to figure themselves out and work with people, in different stipulations, who are at their level. The International Championship is being unified into the World Championship. We're somewhat unique in that we don't have a midcard per se, and we wanted the New Blood Title to be explicitly for newer writers so that the higher-ups who aren't close to the World Title can't go down and beat up on the rookies. When you have six guys who could be World Champion, and two are feuding over the World, two over the International, and two over the Cruiserweight, it makes it hard for newer writers to break in. We just want to recognize talent and improvement in a place where newer writers won't get beaten every week.

"The following contest is scheduled for one fall, and is this evening's MAIN EVENT~! Introducing first..." The sounds of the commentator scuffle are lost to Isle of Q's "Rubberneck", and though the song's been in use for less than a week, people know by now that it's time to- Boooooooooooooooooooo! "King, where are you- get back here!" "No! On three seperate occasions I've had to deal with manatees in a professional wrestling league, and this man is responsible for one and a half of them! I'm out of here!" Look at you lookin' at meee, you seem so full of intriiigue... "Hailing from Baton Rouge, Louisianaaaaa.... weighing in at two hundred and fifty pounds... returning SWF Superstar, Chris Raaaaaynooooor!" A few moments later the man himself steps through the curtain, sporting one of the few unsold Genesis III commemorative t-shirts... he takes a moment to scan the arena, then promptly tears the shirt off and apart, chucking it aside and heading down to the ring. "In any event," Mak leads in as we cut to the table, the Suicide King fuming next to him, "welcome back to Storm everyone - we're capping off tonight's show with the freshly returned Chris Raynor taking on the Dean of Professional Wrestling!" "If there's any comfort to be had here, it's that last week's travesty did nothing to clear up Raynor's ring rust. Hell, he didn't even get the pin!" Raynor rolls into the ring and hops up and down a few times, shaking out the butterflies and limbering up, looking fairly confident- "And his opponent..." -until he heard that. Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly" prompts another round of boos, though less severe than the last, as the Dean himself steps out onto the stage. "... from the Hall of Fame City of Cleveland, Ohio, weighing in at two hundred and fifteen pounds... he is "The Dean of Professional Wrestling"... Jaaaaaay Haaaaaawke!" Unlike the Rayn-man, Jay Hawke's expression practically defines confidence. He swaggers down the ramp, taking his time, enjoying what he sees before him - a veteran trying desperately not to let his doubts shine through. "Looks like Raynor agrees with you, King - he was all business with the Norsemen, but now he doesn't look so sure of himself." "Which is all I need to know, Mak - if 90% of the battle is mental, then Raynor's already lost!" Hawke climbs up onto the apron and disrobes - he takes a quick glance at his opponent, then smirks, clearly unimpressed, before handing his robe to the ring attendant and scaling the nearest turnbuckle- BOOOOOOOOOOO! (iloveyoujayhawkemakebabieswithme!) -for the predictable reaction- BOOOYEAAAHBOOOOYAYMAYBE~!?(imsoconfusedrightnowsomeoneholdme!) -followed by the mixed response to Chris Raynor's lunging across the ring, grabbing Jay Hawke by the arm and yanking him off the turnbuckle! *DING DING DING* Hawke lands in a roll and halts his momentum, then turns back around and eats a stiff clothesline! He scrambles to his feet but Raynor's already on him, lowering a shoulder and driving him straight back into the corner! A second shoulder to the gut, a third, a fourth, then Raynor finally pulls him back out only to whip him back in chest-first! Hawke stumbles out backwards, and is driven right back down with a big forearm to the back of the head! Raynor starts laying down the boots, but the Dean grabs the bottom rope and pulls himself out of the ring. "I dunno, King - that look like the kind of guy who's already lost?" "Come on Mak, isn't it obvious? Jay's just letting Raynor wear himself out early on. Then once he's all out of juice, he'll slap on the Wingspan and that'll be all she wrote." The ref does an admirable job of keeping Raynor inside the ring, while Hawke collects his wits on the outside. His poker face is not as easy to break - even after taking a powder, his determined expression hasn't changed. He takes a moment to size up his foe, before hopping back up onto the apron, then climbing back through the ropes - Raynor immediately charges, and Hawke responds by dropping down and rolling out again! "What'd I tell ya, Mak?" "Oh yeah, I'm sure that dash just took so much out of him. If that's Hawke's plan, I expect him to be billed for all the overtime we run tonight." Hawke returns to the apron, and the referee does his best to get between them long enough to allow the Dean back into the ring. Raynor holds up his hands, apparently giving up, and he retreats to the opposite end... Hawke cautiously steps through the ropes- -and again Raynor charges! Hawke immediately bails, but this time Raynor drops down in a baseball slide and lands right next to him! By the time it registers for the Dean he's already getting his face drilled into the apron, and soon after the Rayn-man rolls him back into the ring! Raynor rolls in after, but Hawke is quick to his feet and drops the point of his elbow onto Raynor's neck, then cinches on a headlock and wrenches away! Jay is in absolutely no hurry to get back to his feet, but unfortunately his opponent is - despite his best efforts, Raynor manages to slowly get to his knees, then one foot planted - he gets his arm on Hawke's back and launches him across the ring! Hawke leaps on his way and springboards off the second rope, taking the Caveman down with a lariat, then immediately rolls him over and cinches on the headlock once again! "I don't think Hawke was expecting this kind of explosive start, especially not from a rusty veteran!" "It's all to waste, Mak - what Raynor's doing is the equivalent of sprinting your ass off in the opening leg of a marathon. He'll be in the lead for all of five minutes before he runs out of steam." "Five minutes might be all he needs if Hawke can't control him!" And that appears to be the case, as once again Raynor is powering to his feet! A series of elbows loosen the Dean's grip - a few more stun him long enough to allow the Rayn-man to pull his head free! He quickly laces his leg around Hawke's, grabs the back of his head, and slams him down in a forward legsweep! He rolls Hawke over and hooks the leg! ONE!- The ref's hand doesn't even start for two before the Dean kicks out, but Raynor continues undaunted - he yanks Hakwe back to his feet, and after a quick volley of forearms he shoves Hawke into the ropes! This time he immediately follows up, as Hawke turns and hits the ropes he takes a knee to the gut for his troubles! Raynor grabs him by the hair and quickly drags him to the center of the ring, then in a blur hooks the head, hooks the leg, swings around- "-and nails the Raynfall - and here's the cover!" ONE! T- Hawke easily breaks it before two and rolls away - whether or not he was aiming for the outside again we'll never know, as Raynor quickly grabs his hair and yanks him back to his feet, and follows up with a series of forearms to the face! The Rayn-man starts to whip him to the ropes again, but immediately brings him back into another knee, which goes straight into a DDT! Another cover! ONE! TW- Again, Hawke kicks out quickly, and he scrambles to his feet but gets backed into the corner with a hailstorm of forearms! Raynor continues pounding away, until the ref gets in between them and forces the Caveman back - as soon as he does, Hawke leaps onto the second turnbuckle and jumps off, narrowly avoiding the ref as he lands a dropkick straight right between his opponents' eyes! Raynor barely hits the mat before Hawke rolls him over and mounts him in a Camel Clutch! "I swear to God Mak, if I hear one "BORING" chant-" "You'll do what?" "I... uh..." King stumbles for a moment... "I actually wasn't planning on finishing that thought." "Ah." Hawke wrenches harder and harder, trying to both work on Raynor's neck and keep enough weight on his back to keep him grounded - the former is working. The latter, not so much, as Raynor manages to get to one knee! He starts pushing for the second, but Hawke quickly jumps up and slams all his weight back down on Raynor's spine, forcing him down to the canvas! Raynor tries to muscle out again, but Hawke doesn't even let him get to one knee this time as he jumps and drives him back down again! This time Raynor doesn't bother trying to power out of it- "Like I said Mak, he's already winding down-" -opting instead to rock back and forth, trying to roll over! Hawke pulls and pulls, not daring to jump again as it would be all the opening Raynor needs - he wrenches harder and harder, but with a great cry of "ERMPH", Raynor manages to lift up his right arm and tip the Dean over and off of him! He gets to his knees- -and is promptly taken right back down with a shot to the back! Hawke drives another elbow down for good measure, then quickly scales the inside of the turnbuckle to the second rope and leaps off, coming down hard across Raynor's neck with a legdrop! He locks the headlock back on and slowly guides the Caveman back to his feet- -Raynor pushes him off and lunges, attempting a clothesline, but the attempt is sloppy and Hawke easily ducks underneath! Raynor whirls around just in time to see a black purple-laced boot swing right into his face- "-in a vicious roundhouse kick! Raynor goes down, and Hawke now applies the front facelock!" "Looks like he's taking your advice, Mak. Thanks for helping out the heels for a change!" "... in any event, it looks like Hawke has finally gotten the Rayn-man under control, at least for the moment." With the facelock held in tight, Hawke brings Raynor back up to his feet- a sudden fist swings out and knocks into Hawke's gut! A second, a third, then Raynor shoves Hawke into the ropes! As the Dean hits them, Raynor bends back down, prepping for a back body drop that Hawke sees coming a mile away - he puts on the breaks and launches a stiff kick straight into Raynor's stomach, then hooks the facelock again and drills him into the mat with a DDT! "And here's Hawke's first cover of the match!" ONE! TWO! T- Raynor's arm bursts off the mat just after two! Hawke springs back to his feet and moves off to the side, out of his opponents' line of site - Raynor rolls to his knees and slowly gets up on one foot - just as he does, the Dean sprints in from the side, grabs his head and swings, delivering a picture perfect swinging neckbreaker! And this time it's Raynor who rolls to the nearest ropes and pulls himself out, with considerably less grace than Hawke did before him. "Go on, Mak, try and defend it. You know you want to." "He-" "HA! Wrong as usual! This far into the match you can't play the 'sizing his opponent up' card - he's a coward, plain and simple!" "... I didn-" "Stop it, Mak. Really, you're just embarassing yourself." Red faced and short of breath, Raynor grabs the ring apron and clumsily gets to his feet. In what could almost be described as a poetic moment, his exact location and the danger it entails dawns on him about a half a second before two black boots come baseball sliding straight into his back, leaving him sprawled on the ground at the base of the ramp. The Dean dusts himself off, that air of confidence quickly returning, and he pays no heed to the ref who begins the count. ONE! Hawke walks over to Raynor and grabs him by the hair and the seat of his pants- TWO! -and brings him up to his feet. THREE! "Hawke's playing it smart here - when you're facing an opponent that's bigger and stronger, the last place you want to be is in front of him." FOUR! True to form, Hawke holds Raynor from the side and stands as far away as possible while still holding on to him- FIVE! -just long enough to whirl around and heave him into the guard rail! The front row patrons are forced to pick up their feet as the metal rail moves a good six inches into the crowd! SIX! Hawke calmly walks back towards the ring- SEVEN! -rolls in to break the count, then rolls back out again. "See what a difference pacing yourself makes, Mak?" King chides his partner. "Raynor blew his wad in the opening, and now who's left to pick up the pieces? The guy who takes his time." "The guy who takes his time is leaving himself wide open here." "Wide open for what? Look at Raynor, he's barely breathing out there - you think that heaping mess is capable of a second wind?" "Stranger things have happened." "Such as?" "We-" "And nothing involving a manatee counts," King quickly adds. "... well... um..." "Yeah, that's what I thought." On the outside, the count's back up to four and Hawke has the Rayn-man back up to his feet. Again keeping as much distance between them as possible, the Dean takes Raynor by the arm and swings him into the ring- THUD~! -or would have, if Raynor had the presence of mind to roll in under the ropes. As it stands, he just got swung straight into the apron. Hawke doesn't seem to mind - he picks up what's left of his opponent and rolls him in himself, then climbs up onto the apron after him. He grabs the top rope and springs over, and just as Raynor gets to his knees another well placed legdrop drives his face back into the mat! Hawke rolls him over and hooks the leg! ONE! TWO! THR- Raynor manages to roll out of it, but there's not much oomph behind it. Hawke rolls to his feet and grabs Raynor's right arm, twists it around in a ringer then yanks it down - a series of these follows, and the Dean ends it by wrapping the arm around Raynor's neck, then pulling him down backwards into his knee! He then rolls Raynor onto his stomach and again targets the right arm, wrenching it back in a Fujiwara armbar! "Hell, Hawke may not even need the Wingspan at this point." "I think you're selling Raynor a bit short here-" "Don't let that discourage you though, Hawke - feel free to slap it on away!" Raynor's legs flail desperately behind him, but they're a good foot away (pun intended), and instead he decides to fall back on the always reliable standby - he crooks his left arm out, feeling around for a few seconds, before finally grabbing a handful of hair and- "DISQUALIFICATION! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!" "If hair pulls warranted DQ's, King, your win loss record would be abysmal." The ref screams at Raynor to let go, then begins his five count, but Raynor doesn't need five seconds - one good wrench is enough to get the momentum he needs to roll over, pinning Hawke to the mat! ONE- But Raynor doesn't stop for the pin - he's happy enough just to get the hell out of there, and he rolls away into the lower ropes of the corner. Hawke takes a moment to massage his poor aching scalp, before stomping over to his opponent, his face now radiating something a little less confident and a little more pissed. Raynor tries to get his hands up but it does no good - Hawke picks him up and wails on him with a series of knife-edge chops! Raynor hangs limp in the corner, so Hawke pulls him out, back towards the center of the ring, then wrings his right arm again and yanks Raynor down to the mat! Still holding the arm, he allows the Rayn-man to get back to his feet before slamming him down again! For a third time Raynor gets up, and a third time straight he's driven right back down! Hawke finally releases the arm, and waits instead for Raynor to clumsily get back to his feet. As soon as he does, Hawke starts to charge in- -and Raynor collapses back to his knees! Hawke halts his advance and takes a step back, waiting again for the ideal moment- "Who called it Mak? Eh? Who called it? He can barely stand at this point! Stick a fork in 'em, he's done!" Raynor takes a few moments to breathe it out before planting one foot on the mat... then slowly planting the other - he begins to rise, and Hawke now steps towards him and swings his leg- -which Raynor catches in midair! He immediately yanks the Dean's leg up, knocking him on his back, then grabs his other leg and rolls back... "Oh no fucking way-" the King can't bear to finish his thought- Whether Raynor intended to use that much force or whether his dead weight falling back was enough doesn't matter - all that matters is that the slingshot sends Jay Hawke flying OVER THE TOP ROPE! "Oh no fucking way-" Mak is too incredulous to finish his, as Hawke's outstretched hands snare the top rope, and what was sure to be a sickening fall to the floor gets significantly downgraded into an unpleasant swing into the apron! The desperation move and desperation counter are both met with a round of applause, the first heard in this main event so far! "I don't know if Raynor meant to throw Jay Hawke clear out of the ring or if that was just happy coincidence, but it doesn't matter either way! Jay Hawke's lightning quick reflexes just saved him from a world of hurt!" Hawke dangles outside, still holding the top rope - his eyes are wide, and his face shows pure shock... followed a few seconds later by a devious grin. It quickly dawns on him, what he just accomplished, and now more confident than ever he pulls himself up, skinning the cat to get back into the- *WHAM* -as Jay Hawke is halfway through the maneuver, hanging upside down, legs in the air, the massive boot of Chris Raynor travels through the ropes, landing straight into Jay Hawke's chest - the Dean's grip fails him, and the force sends him flying away from the ring, where he's dumped right onto the back of his head! "WOW! The slingshot may not have done the damage, but it bought him the time, and now Raynor's got a chance to get back in control!" "Don't even think about making a more-than-one-way-to-skin-a-cat joke, Francis. Don't you dare." Raynor stays behind in the ring for a moment, hanging on the ropes, catching his breath. His face is flush, he's drenched in sweat, and by any sane person's standards he looks like a train wreck, but once Hawke's outside count reaches six, Raynor summons the will to start moving again. He climbs out of the ring and grabs Hawke - first with his right arm, then he winces, and switches to his left - a handful of hair is all he needs to roll the Dean back in under the ropes. He rolls in after and against instinctively reaches down with his right hand to grab him - and again, winces, and is forced to go with his left instead. "Doesn't matter, Mak," King says, trying desperately to look like he actually believes that. "A slight setback, but just look at the damage done to Raynor's arm - most of his offense is suplexes and slams, which he can't do now!" Raynor manages to get the Dean up to his feet, and he pushes him back into a corner. Hawke is still seeing stars, so Raynor's left-armed elbows find their mark relatively easily, but it looks painfully awkward for a right-handed wrestler - Raynor attempts a few forearms and they come out just the same, and now King's doubts begin to form in the Rayn-man as well. He switches again, this time to driving his left shoulder into Hawke's now-tender chest, and here he finds a great deal more success. After a half dozen or so he pulls Hawke out of the corner and takes a moment, considering his next move... He drags Hawke to the middle, and hooks him for a vertical suplex... "Oh boy, looks like he's going to try and tough through it-" Raynor grits his teeth.... says a silent prayer... and pulls- "Going up for the Acid Ra- oh, no, no he's not." Raynor only gets him up about halfway before his shoulder gives out - Hawke comes back down, landing on his feet, while Raynor collapses once again, cradling his shoulder. Hawke falls back into the ropes, still dazed, but slightly more aware of the big red bullseye sitting on Raynor's back. Hawke takes a deep breath, then bounces off the ropes and takes a diving leap over his foe, grabbing his head on the way down and snapping it forward! Both men end up on the mat, both utterly exhaused, both now being counted down. ONE! TWO! THREE! Hawke rolls over onto his stomach and snares the middle rope, hoisting himself up to his knees- FOUR! FIVE! SIX! He's now up to his feet - all Raynor has managed is a half-slump onto his left shoulder, not daring to put any pressure on his right. SEVEN! Hawke, never one to let things be, stumbles across the ring and kicks the toe of his boot straight into Raynor's right shoulder! Raynor rolls away howling, but Hawke's head is together enough to give chase, and he slams his foot down on the shoulder again, this time keeping it there to prevent his prey from rolling any further. A series of boots are driven into his arm, then Hawke leans down, grabs the arm with both hands, and heaves him up of the mat, then drives him right back down with an armbreaker! Raynor cowers away, turtling his shoulder, but at this point there's not much he can do as Hawke grabs that arm again and wrenches him right back up to his feet. The Caveman sloppily throws a left elbow, missing entirely, and Hawke takes the opportunity to get behind his opponent and hook his right arm- "Someone order a Wingspan? One Wingspan, coming up!" -then snares his left around Raynor's face! Raynor's arms, both well-off and injured alike, begin flailing like crazy! Hawke struggles to keep what he's got locked in, but Raynor kicks off with his feet and the two fall back into the ropes, and the ref calls for Hawke to break the hold! He does so, then shoves Raynor out to the center of the ring and immediately goes for it again! This time a well placed kick to the back of Raynor's knee puts him down on it, and he sinches in the first part of the Wingspan, but Raynor kicks off with the foot still planted and again gets enough momentum to land in the ropes! Hawke breaks the hold, practically foaming at the mouth as he again shoves Raynor out towards the center. Raynor instinctively tucks his arm down and in, and Hawke, now sick of this game, runs back to the ropes and charges forward- -only to eat a European uppercut for his troubles! It's a glancing blow, but enough to stun the Dean long enough to land a second, and a third - still cradling his bad arm, Raynor uses his left to throw Hawke to the ropes - Hawke comes charging back, and he once again sees Raynor telegraph the Back Body Drop - this time Jay dives over and attempts the Sunset Flip! Oh, if only it happened that way. Hawke sails through the air for all of half a second, before the left arm of Chris Raynor wraps around him. He comes to an abrupt stop, following by the strange sensation of flying backwards, as Raynor uses what's left of his strength to snap Jay Hawke back and down, driving the back of the Dean's head and neck onto the point of his left knee. "WOW!" "I hate life." "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to call that, but it looked like a modified Acid Rayn - entirely different execution but the effect is the same, as the Jay Hawke's neck was just spiked off of Raynor's knee, and I've got think that will be all!" Jay Hawke slumps over, and Raynor collapses on top of him. ONE! TWO! THREE! *DING DING DING* "Rubberneck" could accurately describe both of these men right now, but as it stands, it's just announcing the obvious. "Here is your winner.... CHRIS.... RAAAAAAAAAAAYNOOOOOR!" On one end of the ring, Hawke now has one arm hanging on the bottom rope, his body barely hanging off the mat while the other holds his neck, and he waits for his vision to return. On the other, Raynor's up to one knee, still keeping his right arm tucked down. The referee grabs suddenly grabs his left arm and raises it, nearly causing the Caveman to fall backwards and collapse - it takes all his effort to push Raynor back into the ropes. "I can't believe we're calling that... that a winner, Mak - he can't even stand up!" "Neither can I, King." "MY POINT EXACTLY." "Screw you." A moderate amount of applause blankets the arena - some out of respect, and some because they just don't like Jay Hawke. In any event, it doesn't matter - the only things Raynor can hear right now are the ringing in his hears, and the echo of the announcment... and it's the sweetest sound in the world. Here is your winner.... CHRIS.... RAAAAAAAAAAAYNOOOOOR! Fade out. ©2007 Smartmarks Wrestling Federation 'Raising Workrate By Hitting People Harder'

EARLIER TODAY... “New blood,” says Tom Flesher from his desk. “What is it? It's Michael Alexander. It's Saintly C. Killa. Olaf Andersen, anyone new to the fed. Different styles. People who haven't competed with us before. It's not a Cruiserweight Championship, where we're locked into a set of rules to maximize action, or a Hardcore Championship, which showcases the brutality we're capable of. Nor is it a World Championship, which is primarily defended under the standard rules of wrestling.” “The New Blood Championship. A variety of styles, a variety of backgrounds, and a variety of stipulations under which the belt will be defended.” “Brackets will be announced next week.”

The camera is trained on Tom Flesher. He scribbles a figure onto a piece of paper, then hands it across his desk to the unseen person on the other side. “So,” Flesher says, “this is what we have to offer you. You've worked with us in the past in this capacity, and while I know you've run the fitness workouts and done some Smark Enough, we don't really want to tie you down. You can leave when you're not on the show, and we don't want you to get on a plane if you don't have to. Think Roger Clemens.” Flesher pulls a pack of Camels out of his pocket. He lifts one to his lips, then looks up inquisitively. He lights his cigarette, then hands it to his business partner before lighting one up for himself. “Camels,” he says, with a polite chuckle. “I know we're supposed to be using Frost's old stuff, but, well... you and I both know that Frost didn't ever make either of us very happy.” “Anyway,” he continues, taking a drag from his cigarette, “you need to understand why you're here. Danny Wiliams didn't get it, and you see how long he lasted. He wanted to wrestle. He's got that quixotic, tilting-at-windmills thing going on. He thinks wrestling is a science, where you tweak and tweak and tweak until you have your method perfect. I, on the other hand, think of wrestling as an art, where you're given an opportunity to make it more entertaining every time while not letting your effectiveness drop. Method, entertainment, effectiveness... I know they don't matter to you.” Flesher takes another long drag off his cigarette. “They don't matter to me now, either. You're a tool. Not a Blazenwing, but an object we're using for our own purposes. Frankly, I don't care why you're here or what brings you back to the SWF. You're a former World Champion, and you're going to pop our ratings. That means money, and that means maybe another month of continued operations. Now, we're going to pay you, and you're going to spike our buyrates. Do we have a deal?” The camera pulls back slightly. Taking another long, long drag off his cigarette, Flesher sees a silent nod. “It's a pleasure to have you back on board, Mr. Kibagami.”

Wembley Stadium is alive and rocking as Storm returns from commercial break. The cameras pan past the droves of fans gathered here tonight before finally showing the ring, which is covered in bright red carpet, and furnished with a luxurious couch and matching love seat. On the side of the ring facing the entranceway, there are two tall columns joined by an arch; stretching between the columns is a thick velvet rope. In the center of the set is a microphone stand. It doesn’t take much for the viewers to recognize, “-this is the House of Marvelous!” ‘The Franchise’ Mak Francis exclaims. “Like we hadn’t already figured that one out,” the Suicide King says, taking every chance he has to ridicule his broadcast partner. Mak Francis just takes it in stride. “Well,” Francis says, “you never know when a new viewer might be tuning in. At any rate, this is the United Kingdoms first opportunity to host the House of Marvelous. Though I generally disapprove of the host, these segments appear to gain more popularity with each new edition.” “I wasn’t aware of the fact that Anderson was actively seeking your approval. Hell, for that matter, I don’t think there is a soul in this building who needs your mutha fu-” Suddenly, as if on cue, Notorious BIG’s “I Love the Dough” begins to play as Michael Anderson limps his way onto the stage, pimping a white Armani and wearing a matching fedora. Behind him is the mammoth bodyguard Tracey Bruner, his charcoal colored suit a stark contrast to that of his employer. “Ladies and gentlemen,” booms Funyon, “please welcome to the ring at this time; SIR MAAAAARVELOOOOOUS!” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” Though the fans heave their general disdain for him, Marvelous greets everyone with a smile as he makes his way to the ring. He walks slowly up the steel steps, and then waits on Bruner to get up to the apron and hold open the ropes for him before he enters the ring. Once inside, he then waits for Bruner to unhook the velvet rope before he passes through the arch and picks the microphone up from the stand as his music fades out, and a lone spotlight shines down on him from above. “Welcome all, to the HOOOOOOUSE OF MARVELOOUUUUUS!” Marvelous exclaims, seemingly oblivious to the jeers coming from the crowd. “Tonight, as you know, is a very special edition of the House as its Europe’s first shot at containing my show.” He pauses, hoping everyone realizes that they are blessed with this chance he’s giving them. “Tonight I have a guest lined up that is no stranger to this set,” Anderson continues. “He’s a man that some would say is a little lacking of the required star power anymore to appear on this show, but I’m sticking my neck out anyway. So without further ado, the man who fell the hardest at 13th Hour… ” The lights dim around ringside as the Smarktron lights up. A video begins displaying an image; little white balls moving across a black background as the James Bond theme begins playing. From the point of view of looking out of an animated gun barrel; it follows Johnny Dangerous as he walks across the screen then quickly turns to face the gun barrel and fires a single shot of his chrome plated Colt 45 Magnum, all with that popular groove that everyone knows playing… and just before the music swings into full gear to launch the crowd into a frenzy- “JOHNNY DANGEROUS~!” -a deep, sultry voice breathes the name of the SWF’s secret agent over the speakers then- *BOOOOOOM!* -and only THEN does the music hit as an explosion of pyro literally rocks the entrance stage! Finally, through all the vibrant lights and the cloud of smoke comes the Barracuda, silhouetted by the strobes with occasional flashes reflecting off his high-tech shades as he turns his head from side-to-side, looking out at this crowd. “JOHN-NY!” “JOHN-NY!” Finally, after a hard fight back towards the top, the crowd has gotten firmly behind the Barracuda again, even after a hard loss at 13th Hour. As he slaps the gold-plated Tag Team Championship on his shoulder he can only imagine that it had something to do with it, but the reasons why aren’t important to him – it’s the fact that they are backing him and not some megalomaniac. It’s about damned time. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the House of Marvelous, JOHNNY DANGEROUS!” Sir Marvelous bellows. Dangerous takes his time getting to the ring, stopping as he comes across two voluptuous women crying out to him. He reaches into his coat pocket and produces not one, but two red roses and then hands them off to the ladies. “What an ass kiss,” the Gambling Man mutters, but for the Barracuda it’s all part of the game. He heads into the ring, and like all smart stars that come to the House of Marvelous, he stops in front of the archway, waiting for Bruner to frisk him before unhooking the velvet rope and letting Dangerous pass. “Johnny Dangerous,” greets Marvelous with a wide-toothed smile. “How wonderful to see you on the set of the House of Marvelous, once again. I know you’re busy so I’ll skip the small chant and get straight down to business.” “I’d appreciate that,” Dangerous replies, and then motions for Marvelous to continue. “At 13th Hour you we’re... how shall we say… a little less than successful? Against Landon Maddix and Alan Clark you were eliminated first. Honestly, I expected you to put up a little bit more of a fight but that’s just me. However, the word around the SWF is that Johnny Dangerous hasn’t got it anymore. Some of even called you a washed up, shell of a man that you used to be.” He pauses, seeing that Johnny doesn’t seem to be too pleased with the line of accusations coming his way. A moment later and he finishes: “What do you say to those people.” “What do I say to those people?” Dangerous questions Marvelous. “Do you mean, what do I say to the one person who actually said all of that? What do I say to Tom Flesher?” “Tom Flesher,” Johnny begins, and already the crowd is listening intently. “I heard you last week when you came out here and ran your mouth about me, telling everyone how I was bad for business and what not. All I can say is we’ve been here before and it didn’t work for you the first time. Surely you have yet to forget two years ago when you tried your best to keep me down. As I recall, at St. Peter’s Square, I dropped to feet into your chest… right in front of the Pope!” “YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!” “That was a complete fluke!” Suicide King shouts. “Tom Flesher came out of retirement for that match – he wasn’t ready!” “Then perhaps he shouldn’t have agreed to compete in it,” Francis smugly adds his two cents in. “You can say whatever you want to Flesher,” Dangerous continues. “You can even try to make me take the long route towards another World Title shot – it won’t stop me.” “Oh, but it might,” Marvelous chimes in, causing the Barracuda to raise his brow. “You see, Johnny Dangerous,” Marvelous says, smiling through his gold capped teeth. “Before you get yourself all worked up here talking about how hard Alan Clark is going to fall and how easy you think it’ll be to defeat Jay Hawke, let me remind you of something. First of all, you have to somehow get past Mr. Bruner.” Marvelous points towards the bodyguard, and the crowd lets off a soft murmur. “Next week you will face Bruner for the right to face Jay Hawke,” says Anderson. “Whoever wins that will become the final SWF International Champion as well as receive a shot at the World Champion in a title unification match at Ground Zero!” “Mr. Bruner here has been practicing for your match. It’s not very often that he gets a chance to break somebody down in the ring, so when those opportunities arise he wants to make sure he’s at the top of his game. Isn’t that right, Tracy?” Marvelous questions his bodyguard and Bruner, with his arms crossed, simply nods in agreement.” “In fact, with me backing Bruner, we’re planning on going all the way,” Marvelous continues as Bruner slowly moves around the arches, coming up behind Johnny Dangerous. “Tracy here is going to Ground Zero, and when he gets there Alan Clark had better be ready, cause there will be nothing to stop us from beating you and crowing Tracy Bruner as the next SWF World Heavyweight Champion! And just to show Jay Hawke and Alan Clark both what they have to look forward to,” Marvelous says, motioning behind Johnny Dangerous. With a look of caution, Johnny turns around, only to get a boot to the gut from Bruner! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” “What the hell! This was a set up!” Francis shouts lividly as Suicide King watches gleefully. Bruner quickly pulls Johnny into a standing head scissors and then reaches under the Barracuda’s abdomen to gut-wrench him up and over- *BAM!* -and down into the canvas with a ferocious powerbomb, knocking the unsuspecting Barracuda out cold! The crowd boos mercilessly as Bruner flexes over Dangerous and “Call the Ambulance” starts pounding from the speakers. “This is an atrocity! Johnny Dangerous came to the House of Marvelous to get a few things off his chest but it was a setup all along!” “And what a setup it was,” the Gambling Man adds in. “Marvelous has just declared that Bruner will be no stepping stone and in fact it’s Johnny Dangerous who will be stepped over. Bruner is planning on taking this all the way to Ground Zero for a World Heavyweight Title shot!” The crowds are still crying foul but Bruner pays them no mind. Instead the hulking bodyguard, towers over his victim, smiling menacingly… As We: FADE OUT.

SWF Storm from its previous commercial break. The scene opens up with the English fans in Wembley Stadium Sitting ringside is the always charismatic, The Suicide King and the always crippled, “The Franchise” Mak Francis! “Welcome back fans to Storm!” an exuberant welcome for the fans. “We are live in London, England inside the world famous Wembley Stadium!” “Why are you so excited all of a sudden, Mak?” questions The Suicide King. “Well, for starters, look at this place! You do know this is a new stadium, right?” The Suicide King nonchalantly looks around. “Meh. Looks the same to me.” “This stadium is only a couple of months old.” “All because it’s a newborn doesn’t mean it’s a pretty baby!” Francis lets out a sigh, “Jeez…” “What? I’ve seen some damn ugly babies in my time!” “That’s a horrible thing to say.” “First thing that comes to mind is Hollyanna Rose Craven.” “Well…” Francis pauses to think about it a second. “I think that’s a given…But besides that! Tonight has been an exciting night in the SWF, hasn’t it, King?” “Meh.” “Do you know how hard it is to work with you?” “You’re no bag of sunshine either, Francis. Always sitting down and being wheeled around and,” in a mocking manner, “I’m thirsty but I can’t feel my legs. Someone get me a drink.” “WHAT? I wheel myself around and when have I ever told someone to get me a drink?” “I don’t have time to sit here and argue about your selfishness, Mak. Your best friend is about to have his very first match in a long, long time.” Francis takes a moment to collect himself as he shuffles through some papers, visibly annoyed at The Suicide King. With that, the faint electronic beginning of “Glorious” by Andrea Johnson starts to sound through the arena; when the guitars and strings hit Rikard Fleihr steps out onto the entrance ramp with Helle on his arm and starts to walk cockily down to the ring. He remains aloof from the fans and will generally ignore the referee. Behind him walk the other three members of the Four Norsemen. “The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a twenty minute time limit,” booms Funyon from the center of the ring. “First, making his way to the ring. Accompanied by Helle and The Four Norsemen, he hails from Oslo, Norway! Weighing in at Two Hundred and Forty-five pounds…he is Rikard Fleihr!” Fleihr makes his way up the steel steps, onto the ring apron and into the ring. Helle and the rest of the Norsemen circle around the ring in support of their leader. In the ring, Fleihr dances around and gives a loud “WOOOOO” to the displeasure of the audience. “Rikard Fleihr, the leader of the Four Norsemen, is a very talented and smart athlete…but I think he might be biting off a little bit more than he can chew right now with Spike Jenkins!” “You would say that, Mak,” The Suicide King voices his opinion. “You and Spike are good friends and all of that jazz. Didn’t you take him under your wing, again , after he was fired? Even after he broke your neck?” “Yes, King. I did. Spike was in a bad place at the time and I felt I had to help him. I took him under my wing, he came down to Philadelphia for a couple of weeks and trained at my school…and well, I haven’t really heard much from him since.” “You mean you lost touch with Spike after he was fired?” “For a couple of months, yeah. Every now and then he got in touch and told me not to worry and that he was off doing his own training…” “HA!” laughs the Suicide King. “What a weirdo!” The lights begin to flicker around the arena as the violent guitar riffs and the blaring trumpets of Emmure’s “When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong” blast through the PA system. RAHAHAHAHAHAHA! The horrifying shriek of a laugh from lead singer Frank Palmieri sends a shiver down the spines of everyone in attendance. Rikard Fleihr and the rest of the Norsemen look on, slightly taken back by the angry growls of the theme song. I hope this is a passing phase. There is no future where I stand, Here with you! The lights on the stage begin to flicker on and off. The audience begins to stomp their feet and clap their hands as they await The New Straight Edge Sensation. A small, but audible “Spike…Spike…Spike” chant breaks out inside Wembly Stadium. This Is… …The End! With that, the crowd goes into frenzy as “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins steps out from behind the curtain. Now sporting short hair and a Five O’clock shadow and wearing a white “Heartless” tee shirt, Jenkins stomps down the ramp towards the ring. “Coming to the ring, hailing from Long Island, New York! Weighing in at One Hundred and Ninety-five pounds…he is ‘Hollywood’ SPPPPPPPPPPIKE JEEEEEEEEENKINNNNNNNNSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!” “One hundred and ninety-five pounds?” asks a curious Suicide King. “Is that correct? He lost twenty-five pounds since his last stint here?” Climbing up the steel steps, he rips off his tee shirt, showing his now more lean, muscular body. “Jesus, is this guy in steroids?” “He’s not big enough to be on steroids, King. He leaned out and muscled up a bit from all of the mixed martial arts training.” Jenkins steps into the ring and stands in the corner opposite of Fleihr. A worried looks comes over the face of Rikard now that he looks across the ring at his “phoenix” like opponent. Spike heads towards the center of the ring, ready to begin the match… But unfortunately, it is his turn to be interrupted. "Please Stand Clear of the...." Red, white, and gold spotlights flicker and flash around the arena slowly as "To Die For" from The Lion King thumps to life. The SmarkTron flashes shots of Alan Clark's steady career climb - flashing all of his various championship wins before finally showing a live shot of the stage as a spotlight hits the ramp to show Alan Clark emerging from the darkness, championship around his waist and Walter Reynolds in tow. “What the hell is he doing out here, King?” “What do you think, Mak? To scout his future opponent! All good world champions do it!” “But does he actually have to come out here and interrupt the match?” “Spike interrupted his victory speech last week. It’s only fair.” Spike looks over towards the World Heavyweight Champion, who stands at the top of the ramp openly mocking the New Straight Edge Sensation. Jenkins, however, simply turns back to his opponent…a newly formed grin on his face. Referee Hardcastle signals for the bell and this match is underway! *Ding Ding Ding* “Spike Jenkins makes his return to the SWF on Storm live in London, England! Will it be successful?” “Don’t forget to mention the World Heavyweight Champion is standing at the top of the stage watching this, Francis.” “I didn’t forget, King…” “You just misplaced the thought of mentioning it?” chuckles the King. Jenkins and Fleihr meet up in the center of the ring and both immediately shoot in for a collar-and-elbow tie up. Spike is obviously the stronger one, but Rikard is able to shift his way into a wristlock! Twisting as Jenkins’ arm, he quickly releases the hold as he pulls back and slaps Spike across the chest with a knife-edged chop! “WOOOOOOO!” cries the leader of the Norsemen as he quickly backs away. He charges into the ropes, bounces off them and begins doing…The Truffle Shuffle. On the outside of the ring, the rest of the Four Norsemen start shuffling, as well as holding up four fingers. “Fleihr is acting like HE just won the World Title, King.” “He just likes to showboat, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that.” Fleihr continues doing the Truffle Shuffle around the ring, as his opponent (and audience) stare blankly at him. Giving out one final “WOOOOO”, Fleihr turns back towards the center of the ring… *CRACK* …And gets hit with a chop so hard, it makes Alan Clark flinch. Rikard hits the mat, clenching his chest as he yelps in pain. “Jesus Christ, did you hear that, Mak?” “Yeah, I heard that. I’m sitting right here.” “Oh, I wasn’t sure if you were hearing impaired either.” “Where the hell do you get that from?” “Well, you’re crippled and you’re dumb.” Spike wastes no time, as he reaches down and pulls the leader of the Norsemen up to his feet. Forcefully pushing him back into the corner, Spike begins to take his liberties with Fleihr and continuously chops away at his chest, the impact causing a loud smacking sound throughout the arena with each shot. With no precaution, Jenkins shoots out a left fist, jabbing Rikard in the jaw. Ready to swing a connecting right hook, Referee Hardcastle jumps in the way. Pulling Spike away from the corner, he threatens the New Straight Edge Sensation with a disqualification if he throws another closed fist. “Over the past several months, Jenkins has been training in Muay Thai Kickboxing and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Now that he is back in the squared circle, he has to get use to not throwing closed fists as it is illegal in the SWF.” With Spike preoccupied, Fleihr takes the momentary distraction and uses it to his advantage as he jumps out of the corner and claws at the eyes of Hollywood! With the referee only a couple of inches away, Fleihr rips at the eyes, sending Jenkins stumbling backwards. Stumbling out of the corner that Spike trapped in, Rikard clutches his now bruised chest. Heading towards the corner where his teammates are standing, Rikard gives them an oblivious thumb up, followed by a “WOOOOOO”! On the outside of the ring, The Norsemen all raises four fingers up and “WOOOOOO” in return. “You know, King…there is something really wrong with those guys.” “It’s one of those Swedish cult’s, Francis,” nods the Suicide King. “Stop being such a bigot!” “…I’m black…” Flair raises his nose high in the air and gives the English crowd one more big “WOOOOO” before turning his attention back to his opponent… …Who lets out a loud cry as he charges across the ring, leaps into the air, and drives both of his feet directly square into the chest of Fleihr, FLINGING him into the corner turnbuckles! “OH MY GOD!” shrieks The Franchise. “DID YOU SEE THAT?” “Oh…something tells me Fleihr is in trouble…serious, serious trouble.” “Spike Jenkins just became a missile of destruction as he charged across the ring and hit a front dropkick to Fleihr that sent him flying through the air and into the corner!” At the top of the stage stand Alan Clark and Walter Reynolds; both with a stunned look on their faces. Outside the ring, the rest of the Norsemen stand with mouths wide open as they watch their leader get completely and utterly manhandled. Fleihr sits in a heap in the corner with his eyes glazed over. Jenkins gets to his feet and lets out a loud, primal yell to the audience, sending a jolt of life through the building. “Spike Jenkins told Tom Flesher earlier this evening to make sure to watch this match to show we he deserves a World Title shot. Now with the World Heavyweight Champion, Alan Clark, at the top of the ramp watching, you have to wonder what is going through his mind!” Jenkins stomps over towards Fleihr, grabs him by his hair and pulls him up to his feet. Leaning him up against the corner, he slams his elbow into the side of Rikards’ head, leaving the already stunned Norsemen leader woozy. Turning around, he heads over to the opposite corner of the ring. Turning back, once more, he lets out another “war cry” as he charges towards Fleihr. This time around, Spike lifts his boot into the air and slams it directly into the side of Rikards’ face! “Running Yakuza Kick into the corner! Spike Jenkins is brutally dismantling Rikard Fleihr as the rest of the Norsemen stand outside the ring helpless!” Rikard drops face first to the mat in a heap. Jenkins pulls his leg back from over the top rope, steps up to the middle ropes and points over towards Alan Clark. Clark ferociously taps the championship belt around his waist, trying to prove to the world that he is not afraid of “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins. “If Spike Jenkins continues to impress here in this match, he may very well get his title match against Alan Clark…which is something The Disney Sponsored World Champion might not want.” “Alan Clark is a Champion of Champions. He held the International title for how long and also won the World Heavyweight Title! He will defend that championship against anyone and everyone and come out victorious!” “Have you been watching Spike Jenkins kick Rikard Fleihr around the ring?” “Let’s face it, Mak,” The Suicide King passionately begins. “Rikard Fleihr is not on the level that Alan Clark is at. Nowhere near that level. If Spike Jenkins wants to beat up a poor Norwegian, then so be it. But a couple of kicks will not take out the World Heavyweight Champion!” Rikard slowly begins to wake up. He pulls himself up to his knees, shakes the cobwebs loose, realizes where he is and instantly tries to make an escape. Seeing the rest of his Norsemen group on the outside of the ring, Rikard makes a break for it. He crawls over towards the ropes, sliding under the bottom rope out towards the floor… …But Spike isn’t going to let him escape that easy. Spike steps through the middle and top rope out onto the apron, right above the crawling Rikar Fleihr; placing one foot firmly on his back, forcing the leader of the Norsemen to stay exactly where he is, his upper torso hanging off the ring apron. The rest of the Norsemen look up at Jenkins, all of them slowly backing away as Spike coldly stares at them. Turning his attention towards the top of the stage at the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, Spike point’s one finger towards his future opponent. “Spike Jenkins wants Alan Clark and he will do whatever it takes to get a title shot…” “Or maybe he is just jealous and wants to his Disney sponsorship?” “I somehow don’t think it is that.” Alan Clark unstraps the SWF World Heavyweight Title belt from around his waist and holds it high in the air for the entire arena to see. Wanting to prove to the world that he is the best World Champion in SWF history and that he will take on all challengers, Alan Clark stands firm, staring straight at “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins. That confidence quickly turns to fear as Alan Clark watches Spike Jenkins leap into the air… …AND SLAM BOTH OF HIS BOOTS INTO THE BACK OF THE HEAD OF RIKARD FLEIHR AS HE HANGS OFF THE RING APRON!!!! “OH MY GOD!!!!” cries Mak Francis. “DOUBLE STOMP TO THE BACK OF THE HEAD! HE JUST DECAPITATED RIKARD FLEIHR!” “Oh…that is NOT the same Spike Jenkins that we use to know…” “HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!” The crowd erupts as Spike lands on the floor, his knees buckling underneath him, but he is able to quickly regain his balance. The rest of the Norsemen stare in disbelieve as their leaders body folds forward onto the floor. Jenkins grabs Fleihr by the hair, pulls him up and rolls him back into the ring. Falling right behind him, Spike slides under the bottom rope and up to his feet. Grabbing his opponent by the hair again, Jenkins pulls him up to his feet. Wrapping an arm around Rikard’s neck in a front face lock, Spike underhooks the arm and lifts the leader of the Norsemen straight up into the air for a suplex…and quickly drives him back down face first into the mat! “Face first suplex by Jenkins,” notes Francis. “This match is over. Rikard is in ‘La-La-Land’ right now!” “I think he’s just trying to send a point to Alan Clark, King.” “Send a point? I think Alan Clark got the damn point! I think he got the whole damn message! Spike is out for you and your title! There! Message received!” Rikard somehow shoots up onto his knees, holding his chest from the impact. Not wasting anytime, Spike is back up to his feet. Clenching his hands into fists, Jenkins angrily slams them against the mat as he moves in for the kill. With Rikard standing on his knees, Spike snaps his right leg out and… *CRACK* …Brutally kicks Fleihr across the chest! “I don’t think I can watch anymore of this massacre, King.” “Stop your bitching. It’s almost over…I hope.” Spike backs up a few steps, but quickly moves back in… *CRACK* …And a second kick to the chest. Spike backs away once more, psyching himself up as Rikard Fleihr looks on, eyes glazed over in the back of his head. Spike moves in once more… *CRACK* …And snaps one more kick off the back of Rikard’s skull! He falls face forward onto the mat, unconscious. Referee Hardcastle quickly jumps over him, checking on his condition. Knowing full well that he cannot continue, Hardcastle tells Spike to back off and calls for the bell. *Ding Ding Ding* Spike backs away from his opponent. He walks towards the corner, climbs up to the middle rope and points over towards a speechless Alan Clark. As the announcement is made in the background, Spike motions for the World Heavyweight Title around his waist. “Here is your winner…via knock out… ‘HOLLYWOOD’ SPPPPPPPPPPPIKEEEEE JEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNKINNNNNNNSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!” Emmure’s “When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong” stares up again over the PA system. The crowd buzzes with excitement as Jenkins continues to call out Clark. With the SWF World Heavyweight Title still in hand, Alan Clark holds it high above his head one last time before turning around and stomping to the back with Walter Reynolds in tow. “Fans…we just witnessed a beating. Plain and simple,” says the Franchise. “I knew Spike was training hard, but he came back full force tonight and his eyes are set on the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, Alan Clark!” “Well, I never said I wanted to be Alan Clark…and I still don’t! But I will give him this. He is a much ‘smarter’ wrestler than Spike Jenkins. If Spike thinks he can charge right back in here and demand a title match, I honestly believe Alan Clark is the man that will shut him down!” “Only time will tell to when we will see those two square off. But up next, another returnee goes one-on-one with…ANOTHER returnee. Chris Raynor takes on “The Dead of Professional Wrestling” Jay Hawke! All this and more NEXT on Storm!” [FADE]

Moments before his return match in the SWF, “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins makes his way down the corridors of Wembley Stadium. Eyes focused straight ahead, its clear that The New Straight Edge Sensation is psychologically preparing himself for his first time back in the ring in over seven months. Walking past several crewmembers, he takes a turn around a corner and past several curtains; heading straight for the stage…except something catches his eye. Or really…someone. Jenkins turns his attention over towards the SWF commissioner, Thomas Flesher. Clipboard in hand, Flesher watches as the newly returned superstar walks over towards his direction. “Spike.” “Tom.” “You look paler.” “You look fatter.” “What can I say? The stress of work.” Flesher smirks. “It’s good to have you back…” “Is that so?” “No, of course not. But it’s not like I have much choice in the matter.” Jenkins grins as he “catches up” with an old enemy. “Going to scout my match, I see,” he says, pointing over towards the monitor. “I’m not even going to waste my time,” Flesher says dryly. “Going to use a cravate, huh?” Spike shakes his head. “Yeah, I heard you’ve learnt a couple of new things. But really, how much can Spike Jenkins learn? You’ve never been the brightest of the bunch. Especially if you think you’re going to get a World Title shot with me in charge. You saw what happened to your old pal Zyon…what makes you think I’m going to give you a title shot? Calling out Alan Clark isn’t going to do anything.” “I’m not asking for you to give me a title shot…I’m simply going to take it.” Intrigued, Flesher raises an eyebrow. “Really? And how do you plan on doing that?” Spike’s face turns cold, as he stares blankly at The Superior One. Taken back by his sudden seriousness, Flesher wonders what Jenkins is up to. “Why are you staring at me like that, fag?” “I’m just trying to remember the look on your face…” “…Why?” “So I can compare it to your face after my match…” Jenkins says as he turns and walks away, half a grin on his face. The Superior One is left standing alone, clipboard still in hand. His eyes focus over towards the monitor, as the next match is about to begin. “What does that mean…?” ponders Flesher.