Mad Scientist

I'll start the show with my meager offering. I tried to write a technical wizardry versus power and tenacity...unfortunately for me, Va'aiga did it a lot better. Here's my meager offering: MICHAEL ALEXANDER VS. VA'AIGA - SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP “Here we are, folks! The biggest show of the year and the biggest match of the show! SWF Genesis and the main event!” Mak Francis exults. “Damn right, Francis!” The Suicide King agrees without his usual begrudging whine. “Right here in Greenville, South Carolina, the hometown of the greatest technical wrestler in the ring today, Michael Alexander!” King's glee is a little unsettling. “And tonight, Michael is going to finally take back the SWF Title and the howling idiot Va'aiga is finally going to get what's coming to him! I've been waiting all night for this!” “I don't know about that, King,” Mak replies. “But I will say that fate seems to be leaning in Alexander's direction tonight...his return match for the title happening in his hometown at the biggest SWF show of the year, Genesis?” The crowd at the Bi-Lo Center has begun a low sussurus; they know what's coming as well. Referee Brock Samson steps into the ring and puts out his cigarette, grinding it out on the turnbuckle. He is followed by the SWF's announcer extraordinaire, Funyon. The big man raises the microphone as he relishes his biggest spotlight of the year. “Ladies and Gentlemen...the next match is the main event of SWF Genesis 2008!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “This match will be one fall for the SWF World Heavyweight Championship!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “First, the challenger...he weighs in at 221 pounds...he hails from...GREENVILLE, SOUTH CAROLINA...!” The lights dim to flickering blue and white as Metallica echoes through the Bi-Lo Center. “Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow....” A resounding bell heralds the beginning of “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica, and a video montage of Alexander’s previous in-ring exploits interwoven with a new branching double-helix fractal graphic. The montage has been updated to include bits that feature Toxxic, MANSON, and Insane Luchador. Blue and white strobes flicker in the arena, for this special occasion coalescing on the ramp as a projection of the South Carolina state flag, and as the guitar kicks in... Alexander steps out onto the stage, and the flicker lighting stops dead. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “He is the Mad Scientist of the Mat...MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICHAEL AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALEXAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDER!” Michael takes some time to bask in the unusual adulation. He raises his hands and the crowd roars again in response. He begins his walk to the ring as the crowd starts their chant. “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “I never thought I'd see the day when Michael Alexander would get a face pop!” Mak mutters, amazed. “Well, you'd have to figure the people from his hometown would know quality, talent, and greatness when they see it.” King adds smugly. The Mad Scientist climbs into the ring and raises his hands to his hometown crowd in a rare show of salutation. Alexander's hand is raised to each side of the arena, followed as if on cue with a chorus of cheers. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “This is almost surreal, King.” Mak shrugs uncomfortably. “Well, at least his fellow South Carolinians know genius, talent, and greatness when they see it, Francis,” King instructs. “It's a shame the rest of the world lacks the perception of Alexander's home state.” Michael Alexander looks like he's calling for the microphone, but before he can... The arena lights dim sharply, the entranceway fills with smoke, and the spotlights home in on the entrance gate. The loud shouts of Pacifika Hip Hop star Savage ring out across the arena... “PITO SUTE AKILAGI! (IT'S THE REEEEMIIIIIX!) It ain't good, it ain't good 'cos you'll get jumped in my hood! PITO SUTE AKILAGI! (SAVAGE!) It ain't good, it ain't good 'cos you'll get jumped in my hood!” “Typical Maori,” grumbles King. “Interrupting his betters.” “I hope he interrupts Alexander a little more about the head and shoulders myself,” Mak replies. Va'aiga steps out into the entrance gate and walks through the smoke. He throws the BOO-YAH! Punch combination then throws back the hood of his entrance robe. Va'aiga begins his walk down the ramp, throwing a few phantom jabs. Alexander's face tightens and he waves away the microphone, devoting all his attention to the approaching champion. Funyon catches up quickly. “And the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, from New Zealand...weighing in at 350 pounds...he is the Maori Badass...VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVAAAAAAAI-INNNNNNNNNNG-GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Savage's thumping tones reverberate through the Bi-Lo Center. He points to Michael and makes a peremptory cutting motion across his throat. “How many dudes you know roll like this? How many dudes you know flow like this? Not many, if any. Not many, if any. How many dudes you know got the skills to go and rock a show like this? Uh uh, uh uh, I don't know anybody.” Va'aiga steps into the ring and throws his robe to a ring attendant before climbing up onto the turnbuckles and throwing the Shaka Signs, but he only gets more jeers as a result. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “This has got to be a new experience for Va'aiga,” Mak remarks. “Usually the Maori is the crowd favorite.” “Well, maybe this crowd actually wants a champion who can wrestle?” King inquires sarcastically. Va'aiga and Michael Alexander stare at each other, the Maori fuming and Alexander sporting his characteristic smirk. Referee Samson growls at both men, asking if they're ready. Va'aiga tosses his robe to the ring attendant and grunts. Alexander nods, dropping into a “sugarfoot” catch stance. Samson calls for the bell. DING! DING! The Maori bulls forward with a snarl, trying to close the distance and start pounding. Michael shoots low, dodging behind. He goes for a quick single leg pick-up, tripping the big man and sending him to the mat. Va'aiga catches himself, though, only falling to his knees. The Mad Scientist takes advantage of the situation with a quick stomp to the back of the Maori's leg, eliciting a growl from the big man and slowing Va'aiga's efforts to rise. Alexander kicks Va'aiga's right arm out from under him, causing the surprised Maori to drop to the mat. The Evil Genius uses the opening to snag his opponent's right arm in a Fujiwara arm bar. The crowd approves. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “Ha! Already the big lug is being outclassed, Francis! Only a minute into the match and he's already on the mat!” “Like you said, King, it's only a minute into the match. I don't see the Maori Badass being in that position very long.” Va'aiga is not amused. With a bellow, the Maori Badass pushes himself up to his knees. Alexander tries to use the arm bar to force the big man back down, but Va'aiga will not be stopped. Rising to his feet, Va'aiga glares at Alexander, who still has his right arm barred. The Maori bulls his opponent into the ropes, and whips him off. Alexander rebounds, leaping up to strike the charging Maori with a flying forearm smash...which causes Va'aiga to stagger a little before he shrugs it off. “Well, it looks like Michael Alexander may have really gotten himself into trouble now, King! It's always a bad idea to go after the Maori's head...” “Well, Alexander should know to go after a VITAL area, Francis, and we all know Va'aiga's head is the least vital part of his body.” He reaches for Alexander, grinning viciously. Michael, realizing this could pose a problem, ducks behind the lumbering Maori, grabbing Va'aiga's wrist and using it to twist his opponent's arm into a hammerlock. Va'aiga starts to consider firing an elbow, but realizes that Alexander's positioning is such that he can't reach him without dislocating one or both of his shoulders. Before the big man can reevaluate, however, the Mad Scientist begins snapping off a series of vicious kicks into the back of the Maori's right leg. Va'aiga stumbles slightly, favoring his now-stinging right leg...then suddenly plows backwards, smashing a surprised Michael Alexander into a nearby turnbuckle! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “And the Maori schools Michael Alexander again. Getting into close proximity of Va'aiga is generally a recipe for serious injuries, King.” “Whatever, Francis. Va'aiga luckily tripped himself and fell onto Michael; we both know that's the only way he can deal with actual wrestling.” The impact understandably loosens the Evil Genius' grip, allowing the exceedingly grumpy Maori to get free and let loose with a series of crushing back elbows to Alexander's jaw. Va'aiga still seems to be favoring that right arm a little, but the only way you'd notice is that he seems to be using his left elbow for the aforementioned pounding. Va'aiga grabs the arm of his stunned opponent and Irish whips him into the opposite turnbuckle, with sufficient impact to cause the smaller man to bounce out of the corner like a billiard ball, flopping to the mat. The big man gets back into his groove by throwing up his trademark shaka sign and bellowing, “BOO-YAH!” The Greenville crowd doesn't react as the Maori would normally expect. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “HAHAHAHA! Francis, did I tell you I love Greenville? Finally, a crowd that sees this lumbering idiot for the waste of space that he is! AND they appreciate the greatness of Michael Alexander!” “King, Alexander lives here! Of course the crowd's going to cheer for him!” The Maori looks as though he is taken aback by the reaction, but it only last for a moment. However, that is enough for Michael to drag himself up to his hands and knees. Seeing this, the Badass responds with his characteristic vigor, booting the Mad Scientist squarely in the gut with a field goal worthy kick...or at least it would be in American football. Alexander grunts in pain and rolls away. The big Islander follows him, dragging the South Carolinian up by his head and executing a stunning headbutt! Alexander's legs buckle, but the Maori hoists him up into a high bodyslam, walking him around the ring for a few seconds before tossing him across the ring with a snarl! “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “Va'aiga is dominating Alexander now, King! If he doesn't figure out some way to neutralize the power and striking expertise of the Maori, this match isn't going to last long.” “This is only temporary, Francis. It's inevitable that the Maori was going to get in some offense; even a broken clock is right twice a day. Enjoy it while it lasts, because Michael will turn things around again in short order.” The Mad Scientist tries to get back up as Va'aiga stomps after him. He manages to get back to his feet in time for Va'aiga to fire off a nasty cacophony of body blows, driving him back into the corner. The Maori then whips his opponent into the corner. Alexander slumps into the corner after the impact and the Maori celebrates in his usual way – casting his hand aloft for the shaka sign and howling “BOO-YAH!” “This is not good for Michael Alexander, King. Once Va'aiga gets into a groove like this, you might as well try to ride out a tidal wave.” “Michael can handle this, Francis! He's got the force of destiny behind him; we're here in his hometown for the biggest show of the year for the biggest prize in the SWF!” With a frightening grin made even more horrific by his facial tattoos, Va'aiga charges in after Alexander with a brutal Yakuza kick! Michael Alexander, being the uncooperative buzzkiller that he is, drops under the kick, causing the Maori's right foot to go over the top rope as the Islander crashes into the corner! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Not one to let such an exquisite opportunity slip by, the Mad Scientist slides deftly out under the bottom rope and manages to grab the Maori's right foot before the stunned Badass can pull himself out of his predicament. With an obvious glee, Alexander tucks Va'aiga's foot under his right and settles back, using the top rope and turnbuckle as a brutal fulcrum to strain the beleaguered right leg of the Maori! To make matters worse, the Evil Genius slips his legs through the bottom and middle ropes to scissor the poor Maori's other leg and locks it in, putting terrific pressure on not only the legs and knees, but also the hip and groin of his monstrous opponent! For the first time in quite a while, the SWF fans are treated to a howl of pain from the Pacifican powerhouse! The Greenville crowd eats it up like funnel cakes! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “YES! This is perfect, Francis! Va'aiga's finding out why they call Michael Alexander the Mad Scientist of the Mat; there's not even a name for that hold!” “This is the worst position for Va'aiga to be in for sure, King. Alexander only needs one chance for a hold like this to take most people out. Even though this hold is blatantly illegal, it lets Alexander do some severe damage before the ref forces him to break it.” It will remain a perpetual testimony to the sheer fortitude of Va'aiga that he was able to remain upright mostly under his own power. Brock Samson snarls out a count after ordering Alexander to break the illegal hold. Alexander holds on for dear life as the count starts. ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR... Alexander breaks just before the five-count is finished, and the Maori staggers away from the corner, his right leg wobbling beneath him. The Evil Genius rolls back into the ring and quickly gets back to his feet. “And, as usual, Michael Alexander just avoids disqualification in an effort to hurt his opponent. That kind of thing is just uncalled for, King.” “Please, Francis, this is a World Title match. Nothing is uncalled for. You don't hold back when the big gold is on the line, especially when you're in front of your hometown!” Va'aiga comes after him with his normal reckless abandon, heedless of any damage done. However, the tender attentions of the Mad Scientist have slowed the Maori down enough to give Michael Alexander a bit of an advantage. Moving with the smooth grace of natural talent and continuous practice, the Evil Genius snags the right arm of his oncoming opponent, twisting it into a standing arm bar. The Maori groans and tries to power his way out of it, but Michael Alexander methodically wrenches the arm to force him into compliance. “Alexander going back to his basics on the big man. I'm not sure getting this close to Va'aiga is a good idea, King. The big man is still in this match, and he's got a big size and power advantage.” “Look, Francis, Va'aiga is on his knees and Alexander is in control. I think that makes this a good idea!” Unfortunately for Alexander, compliance is not exactly one of the Islander's strong suits. The big man reaches for Alexander's grip on his wrist with his left hand, struggling stubbornly through the pain of the classic hold. More than a little disheartened by this, the Mad Scientist takes a different tack, snapping off a couple of crisp kicks to the Maori's right leg, the subject of his recent attention. The leg buckles despite the angry snarl of the Pacifican, dropping him to one knee and giving Alexander some extra leverage on the arm bar. Surprisingly, at least to Michael, this does not stop the monstrous Maori's struggles. As a matter of fact, it seems to have lit a fire under the big man, who tries to surge back up and toss Alexander away like a sack of rotten fruit! Another wrench of the arm slows the Maori just enough for Alexander to initiate a surge of his own, leaping up to deliver his patented heel-kick enzuigiri to the annoyed Maori! Alexander rolls smoothly back to his feet, smiling...only to gaze into the countenance of a furious Va'aiga, who has not been so much staggered by the assault on his cranium as energized by it! “Uh-oh! Michael Alexander seems to have gotten the Maori's dander up! It's about to get ugly, King!” “Va'aiga starts out ugly, Francis. I know it's tough for Michael to adjust to Va'aiga; he's used to dealing with people whose heads are more than hatracks or blunt instruments.” The maddened Maori drives a startingly fast left jab into the Evil Genius' jaw, stagger him! Unfortunately for Michael Alexander, that's merely the tip of the iceberg he just walked into, as the Maori fires off a second left jab, rocking the Mad Scientist like a headline heavy metal concert! A third left jab leaves little doubt as to what's coming, and Va'aiga puts an exclamation point on the scene with a “BOO-YAH!” and a thunderous right hook that flattens Alexander like a cheap pancake. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Va'aiga is pummeling Alexander now. The Champion is at his best here; that BOO-YAH was not a good sign for the so-called Evil Genius, King.” “No need to mock your betters, Francis. Sure, the Maori has gotten to turn this into another brawl, but Michael Alexander won't let it last long.” Va'aiga stumbles a little after the hook, and takes a moment to regain his balance as Alexander tries to regain his senses. The big Islander stalks around behind his opponent, and as Michael reaches his feet he finds himself snagged in a rear waistlock. It's very likely that, even in his befuddled, post- “BOO-YAH” combination state, Michael Alexander's lightning-quick analytical mind recognized the situation he was in, and formulated any number of devastating and effective countermeasures. Unfortunately, his body was not in any shape to perform any of them at that moment, leaving him to suffer the indignity of being German suplexed by the Maori Badass. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Rolling Suplexes! Va'aiga is definitely on a roll now, King!” “Punning doesn't make you any less ridiculous, Francis. So the Maori is getting in a few shots. Michael Alexander is still walking out with that belt, and the SWF will still be saved!” That indignity is compounded further as the Pacifican rolls him over with the rear waistlock and muscles him into a full nelson grip, relishing the situation for a moment before whipping the Evil Genius back to the mat with a dragon suplex! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” The calumny starts into geometric progression as Va'aiga hauls Alexander back up using the full nelson, then shifts his grip to a half-nelson cross-arm choke, and flips the smaller man onto his head with the Swiss suplex! Alexander flops limply to the mat. The Maori nods to himself as he rolls Alexander over and goes for the pin! ONE! TWO...! NO! “YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “One count away, King! Va'aiga is seriously dominating this match now. There's only so many headdrops that Alexander can take.” “Th-that's just stupid, Francis. Va'aiga is just delaying the inevitable.” The Maori and the referee both looks surprised as Michael Alexander manages to slip his shoulder off the mat by the merest of margins. Va'aiga grabs Alexander's head and begins pounding his cranium into the mat, only stopping when Alexander flops into the ropes and Brock Samson orders the break. The Maori clambers back to his feet, still favoring his right leg more than a little. Alexander is slow to even roll himself over. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Is Alexander even in this match now, King? He is barely able to get back up.” “He's in it, Francis! Va'aiga can't fight history and destiny! Come on, Michael!” The big Islander begins stalking Alexander as the Mad Scientist pulls himself back to his feet. Just as Alexander gets up and turns toward the Maori, Va'aiga charges him, sending the smaller man up and over with his spear tackle! Alexander lands on his head and shoulders behind the Badass, but to his credit still stubbornly remains conscious. Va'aiga shakes his right arm and flexes his shoulder, still feeling a little of the earlier work Alexander did on his arm, and obviously noting that using that shoulder in his spear tackle did not help matters. This of course does not hamper his ability to once again throw up the shaka sign and shout, “BOO-YAH!” The crowd responds at least partly in kind. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “See, Francis? Va'aiga is still suffering from Alexander's attacks. The blood is in the water.” “Then why is that desperate edge in your voice, King?” Michael Alexander is still lying on the mat when Va'aiga approaches him. The monstrous Maori pulls him up and forces the still staggered South Carolinian into a standing headscissors and smiles to the crowd, pointing toward the outside of the ring. The Pacifican powerhouse then hoists Alexander up onto his shoulders and into position for a powerbomb! The big man then heads for the ropes, intending to toss his hapless opponent over the top rope. Alexander desperately fires a series of punches at Va'aiga's head, but that works about as well as you might expect. Va'aiga falters a little, but keeps heading for the ropes with Alexander poised for the powerbomb. Alexander then resorts to a different tactic. He grabs one of the fingers on Va'aiga's left hand, twisting it. The Maori loses his grip on Alexander for the merest of moments as he gets to the ropes...and that is just enough. Alexander rolls to his left, flinging his right leg quickly over Va'aiga's head and using his legs to scissor Va'aiga's right arm, pulling it quickly into a version of the flying armbar! This maneuver coupled with the two wrestler's position leaves Alexander hanging outside the ring clutching Va'aiga's right arm in the jujigatame, with all of Alexander's weight pulling Va'aiga's armpit down across the top rope, putting even more pressure on the shoulder! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “Good God! Again Michael Alexander pulls an incredible save! And he's pulling Va'aiga's arm out of its socket with that flying armbar!” “That's right, Francis! That's why you never count a guy like Michael Alexander out. No matter what, he's always able to pull out something that nobody could even conceive of, let alone do!” The Maori roars in pain and anger. Alexander holds on and wrenches the armbar as much as he can. This also has the not-to-be-discounted benefit of keeping him from plummeting to the floor as Va'aiga had obviously intended. Fortunately for the Pacifican powerhouse, the hold in ridiculously illegal and Brock Samson snarls at Alexander to break the hold as he starts the count. ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR... Alexander reluctantly breaks the hold rather than risk a disqualification. Luckily he manages to avoid plummeting to the floor by grabbing the ropes as he releases the Va'aiga's arm. Still more than a little rattled by the Maori's assault, the Evil Genius hangs on the the apron, catching his breath and trying to recover his bearings. As Alexander is technically outside the ring, Brock Samson starts his count. ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! Va'aiga, for his part, staggers away from the ropes, cradling his right arm with a grimace of pain and fury. Turning back to his opponent, the big Islander stomps back over to try and drag him back into the ring. Alexander slumps against the ropes wearily, and the angry Maori reaches for him...but it seems that Alexander was playing possum, as he grabs Va'aiga's right wrist and drops form the apron, snapping the Maori's shoulder across the top rope! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “Ha! Again, the Maori puts himself right where Michael Alexander wants him, Francis! If this were a chess game, we'd be saying 'checkmate' right now!” “Not so fast, King. We both know how quick the momentum can shift in the ring. I have to admit that Va'aiga let his enthusiasm get the better of him there.” Michael Alexander grins wickedly as he rolls back into the ring, but it is clear that he's not moving as quickly or as smoothly as he normally could. Va'aiga staggers back from the ropes, again forced to cradle his right arm as he howls in pain. Michael charges after Va'aiga, this time shifting gears to deliver a nasty chopblock right to the injured Maori's right knee! The big man goes down hard, taking most of the impact on his right shoulder due to the angle of Alexander's perfectly angled chopblock on his knee. Va'aiga has only a moment to gasp at the pain before Alexander begins stomping methodically on the Maori's right arm, working his way from the shoulder down to the hand, ending with a truly vicious stomp onto Va'aiga's fingers for that little extra. The Greenville fans count along: “ONE!” “TWO!” “THREE!” “FOUR!” “FIVE!” “YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” “That arm is going to be a liability now, King, and he's already worked over that leg. Alexander is trying to put a damper on that lariat, I think.” “Of course he is! That's how a tactical wrestler works. You take away your opponent's strengths. This would a lot more satisfying if Va'aiga could understand what was happening.” Va'aiga snarls as he snatches his hand away from the vicious attention of Michael Alexander. The big Maori rolls away and struggles back to his feet. Va'aiga has just made it to his feet when Michael Alexander delivers a spinning back kick to the big man's ample midsection, doubling the injured Islander over. Alexander bounces off the nearby ropes and charges, cracking Va'aiga's conveniently placed jaw with a running knee lift! The Maori staggers away, a little stunned but still standing. “And Alexander hits with a knee lift, but the Maori is still up, King!” “Va'aiga never really knows when to give it up, Francis. No surprise there.” Michael Alexander, looking a little flummoxed at Va'aiga's continual, stubborn uprightness, grabs Va'aiga's right arm, twisting it into a standing arm wringer. The big man growls and starts to power out of the the basic hold. Alexander snaps a quick knee into the Maori's gut, doubling the big man over once again. The Mad Scientist throws his right leg over Va'aiga's right shoulder, then leaps up, putting his body's entire weight on the Maori's shoulder, driving the Pacifican and his injured shoulder into the mat while keeping the arm bar scissored. Before the maddened Maori can surge up to avenge this iniquity, the Evil Genius then traps his opponent's right arm in an inverted shortarm scissors! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “The Mad Scientist of the Mat strikes again, Francis! I don't know what to call that, but I know I like it!” “Michael is really throwing everything he's got at the Maori, King. I don't know how Va'aiga is going to be able to deal with this kind of thing. The Maori is a bit out of his element.” The monstrous Maori roars like a crippled lion as the Mad Scientist begins to rock back and forth, exerting terrible pressure on Va'aiga's shoulder and arm. Alexander screams to the ref to ask the Maori. Brock Samson growls the question, and the Maori spits out a decisive negative, followed by an expletive of equal decisiveness. Alexander excoriates the big man as he wrenches the hold. The Badass pushes himself up to his hands and knees. Michael Alexander tries to force the big man back down, but Va'aiga forces the Evil Genius over onto his back, putting Alexander's shoulders on the mat! Brock Samson, who had been watching for the big man's tapout, now begins to count the Evil Genius down! ONE! TWO! THREE... NO! “The Maori with a surprisingly technical counter to the hold. He was this close to holding Alexander down for a three count!” “It was surprising, Francis, I'll give you that. I find it surprising when that big lug doesn't trip over his knuckles. I don't think you can call rolling over a 'technical counter,' though.” Alexander wrenches the hold violently and rolls his shoulder up, forcing the big man back down onto his belly and left elbow from the sheer angular force on his right shoulder. The Pacifican powerhouse howls in frustration and pain, but miraculously he begins to drive himself back up...first to his knees, then to his feet, remaining hunched over. Even the audience gasps as Va'aiga uses his pinioned arm and shoulder to lift his surprised opponent up off the mat, perching Alexander perilously on his shoulder. The Evil Genius has a completely flabbergasted look on his normally arrogant mug as the Maori fights through the agony of the modified shortarm scissor to smash Alexander to the mat with a diving powerbomb! The audience mostly boos and chants for the hometown boy, but a strong undercurent of support for the hyperdetermined Maori, whose mettle has impressed even the biased Greenvillians. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “VAH-ING-AH! VAH-ING-AH!” “HOLY CRAP! Va'aiga just powerbombed his way out of that hold! What a counter! I can only imagine the pain he had to deal with to do this!” “That Maori just doesn't know when to quit! He could have pulled his arm out of its socket doing that! And now where does that leave him? He's still hurt!” Both men are lie on the mat, gasping for breath either from sheer agony like Va'aiga or from having all the breath After a moment, Brock Samson starts to count both men down. ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! “VAH-ING-AH! VAH-ING-AH!” “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” The two grapplers each struggle to their feet. Va'aiga's right arm seems to be only barely servicable. Michael Alexander shakes his head, stumbling a little from the powerbomb's aggravation of the earlier punches and headdrops by the Maori Badass. Alexander tries to fire off a punch at his opponent's head, but even an injured Va'aiga is still a natural brawler, blocking the blow with ease, then driving a headbutt into Alexander's inflated cranium. The Evil Genius, being struck with the problems of trading punches with even an injured Badass, shifts his attention to Va'aiga's right leg, peppering it with a series of nasty kicks! The Maori stumbles, momentarily dropping to one knee. Alexander then hits the ropes and rebounds, going for a flying forearm to take down the Maori...but Va'aiga surges back to his feet in a flood of angry adrenaline to catch Alexander in a lateral press! The big Islander stumbles with his opponent's weight and his right arm shows signs of weakness. However, he only has to hoist Alexander up and drop him down with a brutal Maori Drop near the corner! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “VAH-ING-AH! VAH-ING-AH!” “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “Wow! I thought Michael was going to take over again, but the Maori Badass reasserted himself with some authority! He squashed Alexander with that Maori Drop, King!” “Come on, Michael! You can't let this buffoon continue to drag the SWF down the toilet!” Michael Alexander sprawls lifelessly on the mat. Va'aiga clambers back to his feet and looks at the corner, then throws the shaka sign, only grimacing slightly as he bellows, “BOO-YAH!” Some of the audience follow suit, and the Maori slowly ascends the turnbuckles. Alexander still lies on the mat, exactly where Va'aiga planted him. Howling, Va'aiga leaps down with the P.O.P., pumping his legs to fling himself down onto his hapless opponent! But Alexander rolls with amazing alacrity toward the turnbuckle and out of Va'aiga's path! The big man can do nothing but crash to the canvas, grunting with the impact. The Maori curls up, cradling his right arm, his shoulder rattled by his unceremonious encounter with the mat. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “VAH-ING-UH! VAH-ING-UH!” “YES! Alexander's still in this, Francis! And the Maori just got a face full of canvas!” “Alexander narrowly avoided that P.O.P., King, but he's still taken a severe beating. I don't know if he can come back at this point!” In an unspeakable display of raw vitality, the big man gets back to his feet before Alexander. He staggers against the ropes, using them to support his weight. Michael Alexander also uses the ropes, slowly clambering back to his feet. Seeing Va'aiga teetering, Alexander begins to stagger toward the Maori. As Alexander approaches, the Maori Badass springs off the ropes with an burst of speed that he manifests for only one purpose...the head-taking, victory-making, earth-shaking... LLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAATOOOOOOO... But Alexander rolls backward and down as the Pacifican powerhouse charges, dropping beneath the rampaging Maori, scissoring Va'aiga's right leg and catching his ankle...! The Islander has no choice but to fall right into the Gordian Knot! Alexander wrenches at the hold like a man possessed, knowing that this is quite possibly his last chance. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “MICH-AEL! MICH-AEL!” “VAH-ING-UH! VAH-ING-UH!” “TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!” “I love it! The Maori bungled his way into the Gordian Knot by going for that lariat! Alexander had him scouted and now Va'aiga is learning why he lost this match before it started!” “It does look bad for Va'aiga now, King, but he's been able to fight his way out before! Don't count him out just yet.” “I don't want to count him out yet, Francis; I want him to suffer a bit more first!” The Maori howls as his leg is stretched at a sickening angle. He tries to reach for the ropes, but they're too far. His own charge has left him sprawled in the middle of the ring. He struggles to haul himself closer to the ropes, but even as he raises himself up, Michael Alexander puts even more pressure on his right leg, and even the Maori's raw-boned vigor is not enough to allow him to force his beleaguered form to injure itself further. He drops back to the mat. Once again, he struggles toward the ropes, and Michael Alexander desperately responds...with nary an inch gained toward salvation. A ball of rage builds in the Maori Badass, as the realization dawns that he can't escape. Slowly, the ball of rage is drowned in a flood of gall as he comes to the only decision he can reach. However, the inevitability makes it no easier for Va'aiga to do what must be done... TAP! TAP! TAP! “Va'aiga tapped out! I can't believe it! King, we've got a new champion!” “We had a new champion as soon as this match was made, Francis, but it is satisfying to finally see things back the way they should be.” Referee Brock Samson calls for the bell... DING! DING! DING! Alexander slumps back, releasing the Gordian Knot, and Va'aiga rolls away. Both men struggle to their feet again and stare at each other. Brock Samson brings up the belt and hands it to Michael Alexander, who stares at it. Va'aiga glares at them both as Samson somewhat reluctantly raises Michael Alexander's hand to his hometown crowd. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “The big Maori gave everything he had and then some, but Michael Alexander pushed himself to his limits here. I think it could have gone either way, but Alexander's tactical approach managed to weaken the big man just enough to get the win.” “Francis, stop sounding so surprised. Michael Alexander was the better wrestler, and he won the match by wrestling. When it came down to it, Va'aiga just wasn't able to turn this into the brawl he needed to win.” Alexander raises the title over his head turning to every side of the Bi-Lo Center as the crowd roars. Va'aiga favors his leg still, and he leaves the ring as Michael Alexander basks in the adulation of his hometown crowd as we... FADE OUT!

I'm down for a promo for AftershoxXx, but I'm out for All Hallows. I've got court and a 2-year-old's birthday party to work on.

Congrats, Va'aiga! That was one heckuva match, sir.

Later than him (I did ask for an extension though) and a little underbudget (but still the longest match I've written since Va'aiga vs Danny). May the best man win. I had to ask for an extension too. I managed to get it in just past midnight last night. So we're probably even on the time front. Good luck, sir.

In spite of my best efforts, I actually did finish my match and turn it in. And it was only a little late. Now I just have to wait to see how Va'aiga wins.

Okay the new mode has been shown on IGN in this article. It sounds like a very bare-bones championship-pursuit, without any frills. The way I'm reading the article, you have to unlock all the fighting abilities, but they don't tell you exactly how each ability is unlocked. I hope that's not quite the way things work, as that would be very annoying. I don't like my CAW to start off blander than Cody Rhodes, dammit. I'm also a little disappointed that they couldn't put in at least a text-box story into this Career Mode. How hard could it be to cut and paste the nigh-infinite model from SD:HCTP? On the upside, you do get to choose the championships you get into and the match types, and it seems like your attributes improve based on how your CAW operates in the ring. If you do a lot of high-flying, your speed will go up faster. If you're using submissions, your submission rating will rise; reversals and grapples raise your technical rating, and it sounds like using your UC grapples will probably kick up your strength. I wasn't able to tell if this mode could be two-player co-op, but they way IGN describes it, I don't see how it could be. Co-op play will probably be limited to Exhibition, Online, and the RTW mode with Rey/Batista, unless they're bringing back the old PPV mode or something similar.

Hey now, that's been updated for almost three weeks...! How dare you not review the minutiae of Michael Alexander's ring entrance!

Apparently the "Mystery Mode" mentioned in a lot of the Q&A articles is for the CAWs and other roster members. They have yet to announce exactly what this new mode is or how it will work. They also have not discussed CAWs or their advancement at all.

Hey, we're in Greenville! It may actually be possible for Michael Alexander to get serious "face" heat...I'm almost unsure how to write that...

The announcing will always suck. It can't help but be repetitive and annoying. The only time it could possibly be good is during a fully scripted season mode, and those aren't that popular either.

I've seen videos with the Gore, Olympic Slam, and the Axe Kick, but I have yet to see the Canadian Destroyer or Styles Clash...or any of the submission moves beyond the simplest ones.

As far as I can tell from my information (dug up from IGN and GamingRing), the "Fighting Styles" as such are scrapped. Now each wrestler will be able to choosed 6 "Abilities" (which are all the extras that were locked in the old styles). Thus, Randy Orton will be be able to cheat AND use the con-chair-to AND mock opponents. Much more individualization is possible.

According to IGN's PS2 info page, it does include Create a Finisher mode. http://ps2.ign.com/objects/142/14242651.html IGN's usually pretty accurate with regard to such things.

Legs Flamingo. Wow. You know, I almost think I should go after an armlock submission, just to throw everybody off. Going after the legs would just be too obvious.

Wow. Congrats to Taiga and Va'aiga!

There's so much palpable history here I get the impression I should be wearing gloves.

You know, heel Spike is much more fun than angsty face Spike.

I'm in. The moving and the trials and the other assorted wackiness are over for the moment. I'll be posting a stattitude update by the end of the week.

Awesome.

Crap. Those are awesome. This might just be enough to inspire me to get off my ass and jump back into writing...

I got the impression that Ms. Star was perturbed about something. I should feel horribly disturbed about the prospect of two (or possibly more) women beating each other to the point where only one of them is left standing. Yet...it feels so right...! Seriously, this is the most excited I've ever been about any hardcore-based feud. You and Annie have done an amazing thing...you've made me care about hardcore matches as something other than a train wreck spot-fest. If only real hardcore matches were booked this well...

I see where you're coming from, but for me the high spot ending and backstage shenanigans were there to show just how unusual and unpredictable this type of match was. In my mind, it had to be different from a normal SWF World Title match, because that was IL's whole point in choosing the HRADKORE stip...I just couldn't see it ending in the ring, especially with the manic build we had done. And IL winning the world title without a moonsault off something insane? I couldn't conceive of it...until I read IL's match, anyway. I wanted to do something that showed off how much the stip played into IL's hands and how desperate things got at the end...and I never could resist letting in some good old-fashioned irony into the ending of a word title match, especially one where the situation had become so personal between the contenders. IL had made it a point to take out Alexander, not just beat him...which I thought played into that sort of bait-and-switch ending. Unfortunately for me, IL wrote an awesome match, which my chaotic choreography couldn't beat when you laid them out side-by-side.

SWF WORLD TITLE Michael Alexander© vs Insane Luchador 2/3 Falls Hardcore Damn fine match. Fit the build perfectly, and Alexander ate flourescent bulbs for the win. But my match had pretzel flour. That's why it was so close. Seriously, though, it was an awesome match and it more than deserved to win the big one. Grudge Match Tracey Bruner vs Va'aiga Sold Bruner as a dangerous monster. Sold Va'aiga as a dangerous, tough bastard. Indecisive yet brutal ending. Enjoyed the heck out of it. Increasing Grudge Match Annie Eclectic vs Taiga Star Another good match to continue the feud. Now it seems it's 1-1. Brutal, good face-heel interplay, and another great finish. Why can't the women's wrestling that is shown on the channels I can get anywhere near this good? S.I.N. vs 'Hollywood' Spike Jenkins Spike's prematch promo was good. The match put it all together well. Spike comes out with the win, showing off his savvy opportunist side. SIN comes off as a rookie badass who just barely lost to the wily veteran. Classic booking that puts over both men. I liked it. And that Destiny Hammer should be the new finisher. I love that move! Dance Dance Dragon vs TORU Takahara Ah, another great heel beatdown match. Great build to the finish, with Dragon getting the win and a serious BUTT-stomping. Tod James Stewart & Daniel Smith vs Rikard Fleihr & Arne Andersen Kicking the Norsemen's ass prematch was great. I was waiting for the big nasty comeuppance for the foursome, and the Todster delivered. I have no idea about the move names, but I gather they derive from hockey. If so, sticks should be carried around. And used liberally. Canadian faces with hockey sticks has never been done, and that kind of angle deserves a chance, I say.

Hey, I'm not complaining. I think IL's match was ultimately better. But, darn it, this thing was seventeen pages long. I had to do something with it. Plus, I do love that flour power spot.

“Fans, we’re back for our main event!” Mak Francis exclaims as the cameras focus once again on the ringside area. “This one is shaping up to be a serious battle, King!” “You’re damn right it’s serious, Francis!” the Suicide King gripes. “The SWF World Heavyweight Championship is going to be on the line against an escapee from a bargain-basement asylum! Michael Alexander, a legitimate wrestler and a paragon of championship caliber, is being dragged into a garbage match gutter by that wackjob Luchador! And to add insult to injury, they had to book the show in CANADA.” As King finishes his diatribe off with a snort of derision, the cameras pan around ringside, as some artistically adept and some artistically challenged fans hold aloft signboard proclaiming, “Insane Luchador for President! Can’t get any worse…!” and “Michael Alexander’s School of Tap: No legs required!” “Well, King, you can’t argue that the Luchador didn’t earn this shot…in the last few months he’s clawed his way past Va’aiga and MANSON to earn his place as the number one contender. And because of that, he got to pick his own stipulation – a 2 out of 3 falls hardcore match.” “Yes, Francis, Rickmen has admittedly fought his crazy head off to get here and to drag the SWF World Heavyweight Title down to the level of a midcard garbage match. Well, he knows he’s outmatched, so he’s tried to stack the deck in his favor. That much I understand, but it’s disgusting that the best damn wrestler in the SWF today has been reduced to a dumpster-diving brawl with the SWF’s resident psychotic.” King’s pouting expression is nearly audible in itself. Funyon lumbers his way into the ring, microphone in hand. Referee Matt Kivell is leaning over the top rope talking to three other junior referees, reminding them that they are next up if he is incapacitated at any point in the match. The men nod somewhat nervously, obviously worried about being put in the line of fire in a hardcore match. Funyon smiles broadly as he once more takes his last remaining opportunity for tonight’s spotlight. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the following match is tonight’s MAIN EVENT!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “This match will be 2 out of 3 falls, contested under HARDCORE RULES!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “And it will be for the SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP!” “I-L! I-L! I-L!” “First, the challenger…hailing from Easton, PA, USA, weighing in at 225 lbs…he is YOUR Psychotic Hero…THE IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANE LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” "Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains begins and a surge of red and black, yes black, pyrotechnics goes off. IL emerges from the lingering smoke and energetically throws his arms up into the air to rally the crowd. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” He sprints down the aisle while slapping fans’ hands until he hits ringside where he slides into the ring, rolls up, and then cracks his knuckles in anticipation, a disturbing smile on his scarred visage. “Crazy or not, these people love IL here in Halifax!” Mak hoots. “What can you expect, Francis? These halfwits and Molson-chuggers probably identify with Rickmen’s psychosis…and lack of any real talent…” Funyon blares into his mike once again. “And the SWF World Heavyweight CHAMPION…” “Dread Rock” by Paul Oakenfold begins to play, and the a video montage of Alexander’s previous in-ring exploits interspersed with Da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man” highlighting the areas that the various moves depicted injure on his opponents. The lights in the arena flicker in time with the Smarktron. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Funyon continues as best he can over the din. “From Greenville, SC, USA…weighing in at 221 lbs….the Mad Scientist of the Mat…MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICHAEL AAAAAAAAAAAAAALEXAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDER!” Alexander steps out onto the stage, and the flicker lighting stops dead. He gazes out over the crowd, and pats the SWF World Title Belt around his waist as he smirks at the crowd and the Insane Luchador. He then makes his way to the ring, trash-talking to the crowd. He rolls into the ring, taking up a position in his corner and stretching, adjusting his boots, apparently disinterested in his opponent or the crowd, while smirking to himself. “Well, if Alexander is worried about this match, he’s certainly not showing it,” Mak observes. “He seems as arrogant as ever.” “The word is ‘confident,’ Francis. And even if you are worried about a match, you never show that to your opponent.” “Confident people recognize their limitations, King; arrogant people don’t believe they have any.” “You’d know about limitations if anyone would, Francis…OW!” A solid thump is heard over the speakers as Mak’s quick smack causes King’s head to bounce of his table-mike. “Looks like we’re about to get started,” Mak smoothly segues into commentary on the match once more as King grumbles something about his attorney. Matt Kivell glances at both men and calls for the bell… DING! DING! IL charges in his characteristic fashion, flinging up a forearm to take the champion down to the mat with deadly speed. Alexander tumbles to the mat, more from momentum and balance issues than anything. The Ill One attempts to drive a quick knee into the fallen champ’s head, but Michael is already rolling out of the way. “IL starts things off in his own special way, charging dead ahead!” Mak pipes in. “If IL dictates the pace of this, it’s going to be fast and bloody.” “And damned awful too, Francis. Don’t forget that part. Rickmen will drag us all down with him…” King moans. The Mad Scientist rolls back to his feet quickly, but the Luchador is already in motion once again. He dashes forward, but this time Alexander catches him with a drop toehold, sending IL crashing to the mat. The Evil Genius floats over flawlessly into a front facelock, grinding it and forcing IL to support Michael’s weight as well as his own if he tries to rise. “Ha!” King guffaws. “Now that nutty fake Mexican is going to get what’s coming to him! He’s in a wrestling hold, and we all know that Rickmen couldn’t wrestle his way out of a wet paper bag!” “Fake Mexican?! What are you talking about?” Mak asks hesitantly. “Well, if he’s a Luchador, doesn’t he have to be Mexican, Francis? Or is that where the Insane part comes in?” “We’ve got a match to call…” The Luchador manages to force himself back up to his feet, but Alexander keeps grinding on the facelock. IL fires off a series of short forearms into the ribs of his opponent, loosening the facelock and allowing him to slide free. The Ill One then fires another forearm into Alexander’s head, staggering the champion back into the ropes, from which IL promptly whips him. Breaking the normal format of such things, the Luchador charges right after his opponent, connecting with a flying forearm just as Alexander hits the opposite ropes, causing the Evil Genius to topple headfirst over the top rope. “Well, it looks like the Ill One manages to get out of that predicament, even if he didn’t wrestle out of it,” Mak points out. “Direct force can work for anyone, Francis. Simple solutions for a simple mind.” “Simple works just as well as complex, King. Most of the time, it works better.” Alexander tumbles to the floor, managing to land on his feet but still looking stunned, and he leans on the guardrail outside for support. The Psychotic Hero keeps moving, though, bouncing off the opposite ropes and charging back to spring over the ropes at his opponent in a huge Spaceman plancha! He connects, crushing Michael between his hurtling body and the guardrail. Both men collapse to the floor. “HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!” “I-L! I-L!” “Good Lord! IL has officially commenced with his style of match, King! The first plancha!” “It doesn’t really start until he pulls some random piece of junk out and starts swinging it, Francis.” The Luchador gets back to his feet relatively quickly, drawing more cheers. He smiles as he points underneath the ring, and the crowd explodes! “YYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “HARD-CORE! HARD-CORE! HARD-CORE!” IL reaches under the ring, dragging out a 2x4. “And there it is!” King spits. “The official signal of the worst thing to happen to the World Title scene since Landon Maddix was champion! It would figure that this fiasco would be booked on his watch!” “Oh come on, King! You’re just being a drama queen now. You and I both know that the World Title has been contested in every type of match under the sun.” “And that justifies repeating the same horrible mistakes over again how?” The Luchador turns to swing the leftover construction material, but Alexander manages to grab his arm and drive a desperate knee into the Ill One’s gut. Another knee allows Alexander to wrench the 2x4 free. He tries a swing of his own, but as he swings, IL leaps up and dropkicks the board right into Alexander’s face! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “I-L! I-L!” “Alexander tried to beat the Ill One at his own game, and he just learned why that’s a bad idea…” Mak grins. “Oh, sure, Francis, relish this! In any sane environment, this nutball would be screaming from the inside of the pretzel Alexander had wrestled him into. Michael’s got to realize that you can’t beat this wackjob that way…he’s got to draw him out of his comfort zone.” “Well, King, the only one uncomfortable right now is Michael Alexander, and he may be even more uncomfortable leaving the arena tonight without that SWF World Title!” The Mad Scientist staggers back, dropping the weapon and falling against the ring apron. IL approaches him again, dragging Michael up to his feet…at which point Alexander pokes a thumb into the Ill One’s right eye. IL snarls in pain, and Michael takes the opportunity to grab his opponent by the hair and slam his head into the ring apron several times. Michael laughs at the crowd as he rolls the Luchador back into the ring. “Michael makes a comeback! YES!” King almost squeals in glee. “That’s right, Mike, you’ve got to keep that rat away from his garbage heap!” “Questionable tactics by Alexander, but I can’t argue with its effectiveness,” Mak admits grudgingly. “Oh come on, Francis! IL just tried to use a 2x4 on Michael Alexander, and you’re whining about a little eye-poke? No disqualifications, remember?” The Evil Genius smirks as he follows IL back into the ring, driving a series of cruel stomps into IL’s slowly rising form. He walks the stomps up IL’s right leg, beginning at the ankle proceeding to calf, knee, thigh, and the topping that off with a stomp to the back of the head. “And here we have vintage Michael Alexander,” Mak states. “He’s methodically attacking IL’s leg…” “Damn good tactics…not only is he taking the pins out from under this jumping bean, but he’s also setting Rickmen up for his trademark finisher. Now we’ll see how the Luchador stacks up without jumping around and weapons to fall back on!” Rickmen grunts in pain at each stomp, but still struggles back up to his knees…at which point Michael Alexander cradles him with an Oklahoma roll! “YES! Pin him now, Mike!” King yells. ONE! NO! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Not even close, but that doesn’t bode well that Michael Alexander was the first to put his opponent’s shoulders on the ground,” Mak pronounces. “I disagree, Francis,” King chirps. “I think it bodes very well for all of us. It bodes that Michael Alexander is walking out of here with the championship, and the SWF will be saved…” The Ill One kicks out furiously, scrambling back to his feet. He snaps off a series of kicks to Alexander’s legs and midsection, then feints a kick and uses the opening to crack Alexander’s head with an elbow. He follows that up with a kick to the gut and cinches in a front facelock, using his other arm to snap a couple of quick forearms shots to his foe’s back. Then, a wide smile on his face, he drives Michael Alexander’s head into the mat with crisp DDT. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “The Ill One came back with a flurry of offense, and he just planted the Champion with a nasty DDT!” Mak says. “Bah…he’s just thrashing around before the end, Francis…he knows that Alexander will…OH NO…” IL springs back up and leaps to the top turnbuckle, diving off with a guillotine leg drop…but Alexander manages to roll away at the last second! Rickmen grunts at the unexpected impact, but he still manages to get back to his feet before Alexander, who is shaking off the effects of that DDT. “Michael Alexander managed to avoid that guillotine, but he’s still groggy from that DDT from the Luchador! IL’s the first to get back to his feet, and that’s bad news for Alexander.” Mak’s somber tone is belied by the smile on his face. “Don’t look so smug, Francis,” King snarks. “IL’s going to get in a few shots, but we both know how this will end for him.” This time it’s King’s confident words that are robbed of their authority by the slight squeak in his voice. Grabbing Michael’s head, the Ill One drags him back to his feet and pulls the Evil Genius into a Muay Thai clinch. He then drives a knee into the ribs of his opponent…once…twice…but on the third, Alexander clutches the knee to him, leaving IL hopping on one leg, which the Mad Scientist promptly clips as well, sending the Psychotic Hero to the mat. Alexander quickly takes the opportunity to apply a nasty step-over toehold, wrenching IL’s right ankle and knee at a painful angle. IL tries a couple of kicks, but he can’t really muster enough force from his back to make them matter. Alexander then changes position, sweeping his own leg over IL’s leg and dropping down into a sort of half figure four hold, pulling back and up on the Ill One’s foot, causing his knee to bend at an unnatural and presumably painful angle. “The Ill One went for one knee too many there, and it cost him,” Mak laments. “If he can’t keep Alexander away from these kinds of positions, he can kiss his championship hopes goodbye.” “He should pucker up then, Francis,” King laughs. “We both know how Alexander is once he’s latched on like this. After tonight, IL’s looney bin will have to add some physical rehabilitation to his headshrinking regime.” “I-L! I-L! I-L!” The Psychotic Hero growls in pain and reaches up to grab Alexander’s hair…at which point the Evil Genius wrenches the leg again…but IL is nothing if not a glutton for punishment, so he holds onto Alexander’s hair, pulling the overlarge head back…and drives a vicious knee into the side of Michael’s head. One loosens the hold, and the second knee breaks it, with Alexander rolling away covering his head. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “IL with a couple of knees to Alexander’s skull! That will break any hold in a hurry!” Mak quips. “It doesn’t really matter, Francis. The damage is done, and everyone knows it. Even the Looney Luchador out there.” The Ill One struggles back to his feet, shaking his right leg gingerly to get the kinks out. Michael Alexander likewise gets back to his feet. This time it’s Michael that charges in, going for a single-leg pick-up, which IL manages to counter with a sharp elbow to the top of Alexander’s head, stunning him. The Ill One then cracks Alexander in the face with a quick knee, sending the Mad Scientist stumbling away, his back momentarily turned to IL. The Luchador seizes the moment, and Alexander’s head, plastering the Evil Genius with a bulldog! As Alexander rolls away holding his face, IL slides outside the ring. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “HARD-CORE! HARD-CORE! HARD-CORE!” “The Ill One managed to counter another takedown by Alexander, and now he’s getting back into his own comfort zone!” Mak shouts over the din. “Yes, Francis,” King jibes. “As long as he’s not in the ring, IL is comfortable. Makes me wonder why he’s a wrestler and doesn’t just work in some circus junkyard somewhere.” IL stomps over to the announce table and grabs one of the extra chairs, snapping it shut and tossing it into the ring. He then grabs the discarded 2x4 and rolls into the ring. Alexander meanwhile, has noticed Rickmen’s intention and snatches up the chair. “Take him down, Michael!” King shouts. “I don’t think this is such a good idea for Alexander, King. He’s trying to outbrawl the Luchador…” As IL comes at him with the 2x4, Alexander goes for an overhand swing with the chair, but the Ill One is just a little too quick and slams the end of the 2x4 into the Mad Scientist’s gut. Michael doubles over, the air punched from his lungs. The Luchador brandishes the board happily, then cracks it solidly across Alexander’s back, sending the Evil Genius to the mat. IL tries to bludgeon Michael once again, but Alexander rolls away just in time, escaping outside. “I-L! I-L! I-L!” “And the Luchador comes out on top of the weapon exchange again,” Mak observes. “If Alexander wants to win this, he’s got to figure out some way to counter that expertise and the simple speed of the Luchador.” “Thank MANSON that Michael managed to get out of there. He needs to take some time and break up that wackjob’s momentum. Then the Looney Luchador will get impatient and screw something up…” Michael staggers around the ringside area leading up to the ramp. IL, impatient as always, charges toward the ropes, 2x4 in hand, leaping over the ropes…and Alexander promptly dives aside from the careening Luchador! But Rickmen holds on to the top rope, pulling himself back in to land on the ring apron! Before Alexander can react, he plunges at the Mad Scientist, clubbing him with the 2x4 right in the head. Michael staggers away, crumpling to the floor. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “Rickmen faked out the Champion! And he just nailed him right in the head with that 2x4! This could be the beginning of the end, King!” “Oh, no,” King winces. IL drops the 2x4 nonchalantly and rolls Alexander over, going for the pin! ONE! TWO! NO! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Alexander kicks out, and as the camera focuses in, we see that a trickle of blood is quickly spreading across the forehead of the Evil Genius. With a look of frank amazement on his face, Rickmen glances at Kivell, who shrugs and holds up two explanatory fingers. “I can’t believe it! After that shot, Alexander still kicked out! Say what you will about his attitude and tactics, Michael Alexander can take some punishment,” Mak says. “Michael Alexander is the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, Francis,” King croaks as he slowly recovers from his horror. “Of course he can take punishment. And what’s wrong with his attitude and his tactics? He’s still the champion, right?” “Right now he is,” Mak snipes. IL leaps up and over the rising form of Michael Alexander, landing in a precarious balancing act on the rampside barricade, then springs back at Alexander! The Evil Genius has just made it back to his feet when the Luchador lands on his shoulders, scissoring his legs around Michael’s head and rolling backwards, carrying Alexander back down to the rampway in a hurricanrana! IL hooks the legs of his opponent, going for the surprise pin…! ONE! TWO! THREE! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” shrieks King. Kivell separates the two men as Funyon blares over the speaker system. “The winner of the first fall is…YOUR PSYCHOTIC HERO, THE INSANE LUUUUUUUUCHADOR!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “IL just got the first fall with that huricanrana roll-up! It’s 1-0 for the Luchador! Alexander’s on the defensive now. He’s got to win the next fall or it’s over, and Michael’s already bloodied…” “Michael will win the next fall, Francis…that was just a…a fluke!” King swallows hard. “Just watch, Francis!” IL does his best impression of a cheshire cat as Michael Alexander looks at him, seemingly stunned by the outcome, blood still trickling down his face. Matt Kivell calls for start of the next fall. IL braces himself to plunge once more into the breach…but Michael Alexander immediately makes a dash up the ramp! IL shakes off a stunned look of his own at this unexpected action, and charges after the champion. The crowd has its own interpretation. “BAWK! BAWK! BAWK!” “Did Alexander just turn and run?!” Mak chokes in disbelief. Even King seems perplexed. “No, no, he must have just felt sick, that’s all!” “Oh, please,” Mak snorts. The extremely mobile and cross-trained SWF cameramen follow the two, as does Matt Kivell. IL is easily catching up to Michael Alexander as the Evil Genius tries to evade him. Rickmen springs at Alexander, tackling him to the ground. Alexander scrambles to get back to his feet, but IL manages to grab him by the hair and slam his bloody face into the floor a couple of times to slow things down. Smiling at his dazed opponent, the Ill One walks over to a nearby crate, pulling out a large duffle bag. He unzips it and unsheathes his trademark weapon, Excalibur! Watching this on the Smarktron screens, the audience booms! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” King groans. “What kind of psychopath comes up with that kind of abomination? What kind of sick bastards cheer for it?” “You had to know that Excalibur was going to make an appearance tonight, especially after Alexander’s diatribe. Michael’s been trashing IL and his milieu, and now the Luchador’s going to deliver a little comeuppance, I think.” “Francis, did you just say ‘milieu?’” King gawks. “You do realize this is a professional wrestling show, right?” “It’s a perfectly normal use of the word.” “Webster’s Online Dictionary just got an additional fifty thousand hits. Unfortunately, none of these idiots could spell the word correctly…” Meanwhile, the Evil Genius has regained his senses and noticed this development. He immediately takes off again toward the concessions area. IL comes after him now, brandishing Excalibur wildly. As he rounds a corner we see him stagger back with a snarl as a cloud of white surrounds his head and upper body. We then see Michael Alexander smiling now, holding a ripped bag of flour from one of the pretzel vendors’ supply booths. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK!” “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” King gasps for breath. “Oh, that was awesome! IL asked for this, so it’s all legal!” “Alexander just earned his ‘Evil Genius’ moniker right there. That was a dirty play, but it was a master stroke in this match. IL can’t see, and it’s tough for even him to fight blind.” IL rubs at his eyes with one hand as he tries to swing Excalibur defensively. Michael methodically picks up a six foot bar of scaffolding material and takes careful aim…finally swinging the makeshift quarterstaff at IL’s right leg! The Luchador howls in pain and rage as his leg buckles underneath him, pitching him to the ground. IL loses his grip on Excalibur, dropping it. The Evil Genius then proceeds to crack the Ill One across the back and head with the scaffold-bar. “Michael Alexander is finally able to take advantage of the hardcore stipulation after he’s blinded the Insane Luchador. That bag of flour and a bit of steel bar just brought the outcome of this match back into question.” Mak shakes his head. “No, Francis, that flour and steel bar just reaffirmed the outcome of this match. Michael Alexander…still the Champion!” IL continues to rub at his face while he curls into a more protected position. Michael then drives a brutal kick right into the side of IL’s head, and IL slumps face-down to the floor. A wicked grin twisting his bloody face, Alexander grabs IL’s legs and folds them into position around his own, pinioning IL’s right foot behind his calf, then he falls back to tie the Gordian Knot! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “The Gordian Knot!” Mak yells. “It’s cinched in, and there are no ropes to grab back there!” “It wouldn’t matter if there were, Francis! No DQ, no rules but pinfall and submission. Even if the Looney Luchador found ropes to grab, it wouldn’t help! There’s only one thing that’s going to help him. For IL, relief is spelled T-A-P, Francis,” King hoots at his own bad joke, which would have been worse had most of the audience understood how anachronistic it really was. IL’s eyes, still bloodshot and watering from the pretzel flour, snap open in surprise and pain. The Mad Scientist rocks his weight back and forth, wrenching and twisting the hold with either a zeal or a desperation altogether new to his time in the SWF. The Ill One groans in pain. The audience chants and stomps its feet, trying to come to his aid. “PLEASE DON’T TAP!” IL glares around furiously. There are no ropes to grab. He hears the audience… “…DON’T TAP!” He knows they can’t help, no matter how much they cheer and stomp. But he listens to them, and he knows there’s only one way out of this… “…TAP!” He knows he can’t stay in this hold long if he doesn’t want to have to try to win another fall one-legged. TAP! TAP! TAP! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Take that, Rickmen! One down, one to go! Finish him off, Michael!” King claps his hands until Mak’s glare stops him. “It’s 1-1 now, folks,” Mak pronounces. “And unfortunately, with the damage inevitably done by that hold, I have to say that it’s advantage Alexander.” “Fortunately, you mean,” King corrects him. Kivell seperates the two men once again, forcing Alexander to reluctantly break the hold. Funyon once again warbles the speakers. “The winner of the second fall…THE MAD SCIENTIST OF THE MAT…MICHAEL ALEXANDER!” Kivell keeps the two men apart until the announcement is made, but the instant Funyon’s echo fades, Alexander charges at IL, peppering IL’s right leg with a series of vicious kicks. The Luchador stumbles to one knee, allowing the Mad Scientist to drive a quick knee right into the Ill One’s flour-paled visage. As IL crumples back to the floor, Alexander glances away for a moment, and his foreboding flash of a smile returns. “Michael’s right back on the attack,” King smiles. “He smells the blood in the water from IL’s leg, and it’s only a matter of time!” “I hate to agree, but IL took a serious beating there with that steel bar and then getting trapped in the Gordian Knot…I don’t know if he can fight back from that.” He stalks away from IL, who is fighting to get back to his feet. Alexander reaches down under a nearby table and draws out…EXCALIBUR! “Yes! Yes! YES! Do it, Michael, do it!” King’s eyes almost glow with anticipation. “This is bad, very bad,” Mak bemoans. “But Rickmen brought that thing out…” “You’re damned right he did, and it’s about time he got a taste of it!” King rubs his hands greedily. Michael seems unaccustomed to the oddly-weighted visual cacophony of a weapon, but he quickly grasps the basics, smashing the fluorescent-light saber across the head of the newly risen Insane Luchador! “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” IL stumbles away, back toward the stage area. Michael follows him, a look of sadistic glee etched on his face. He swings Sword That Is Not a Sword again, cracking it across IL’s back, sending the Luchador tumbling forward, but still the Ill One is on his feet, instinct driving him forward. They reach the stage area again, with IL bumping into the spent pyro launchers as he breaks through the curtain. The Luchador turns back to Alexander as the Evil Genius bursts out, holding Excalibur high. IL tries to raise his hands to either catch or block the attack, but it doesn’t seem to work as the light bulbs shatter across his skull. “Oh, how I love irony,” King gloats. “I’m not sure that’s technically irony, King.” “Well, I’m sure that steel bar was mostly iron, anyway, Francis.” “Whatever,” Mak groans. “Alexander has bludgeoned IL bloody with Excalibur, and it doesn’t look like the Luchador can even defend himself anymore.” “Good. That means that Michael can make this quick, and the Looney Luchador can get back to his dumpster or his asylum, whichever the ambulance drops him off at first.” IL drops to the side of the stage like a felled ox, falling onto the auxiliary sound stage area. Michael tosses the spent weapon away, taking satisfaction as the shards crunch under his boots. He gleans extra gratification from the reddish tint some of the shards have acquired. He flourishes at the crowd and the camera, brushing his hands together in a motion that either indicates that he’s about to finish things, or that he still has some pretzel flour on his hands. “Looks like Michael’s about ready to put an exclamation point on the night,” King chirps. “I think it’d be damn fitting to polish that loser off with the Event Horizon, myself.” “I think that’s what he’s going for, King,” Mak replies. “This could be it for IL…after such a great roll, I hate to see it end like this for him.” “As long as it ends with Michael Alexander still the champion, I don’t care, Francis.” On the auxiliary sound stage ten feet above the arena floor, Alexander lifts the battered Luchador to his feet, moving into position behind him. IL’s face now matches the crimson mask of Alexander, with perhaps a little more pallor due in part to the remnants of his impromptu experience of flour power. Michael grabs IL from behind, lifting him into position for the Event Horizon…but just as the Mad Scientist begins to spin IL around, the Ill One kicks and wrenches his body out of Alexander’s grip, dropping to the ground on somewhat shaky legs. Before Alexander can react, IL snatches the surprised Mad Scientist’s head into an inverted facelock and drives said head into the stage with a reverse DDT! The impact from the move causes the stage to wobble slightly, but neither man is in a state of mind to notice such things. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “Holy crap! IL just counter the Event Horizon with a reverse DDT on the sound stage! Alexander could be out!” Mak shouts over the howl of the masses. “No, no, no! That’s not how it’s supposed to go!” King whines. “IL need to end this now…he should pin him right now, while he can…” Mak warns. As the Mad Scientist lies senseless on the stage, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the Psychotic Hero rises on unsteady legs…and looks up above him at the lighting booth’s scaffolding, some fifteen feet above where he stands…and he smiles maniacally. “I-L! I-L! I-L!” “No, he’s not going to…” King trails off. He hobbles over to the bottom of the scaffolding and begins to climb, his pace increasing along with his adrenaline as he reaches the top. “He is, King! He swore that he was going to take Michael Alexander out, but I think this is a big mistake! The best way to beat a champion like Alexander is to take away his belt. IL’s going to take this too far…he could end both of their careers with this! Don’t do this, Rickmen!” The crowd yells its approval as he gazes down on the supine form of the champion, still unmoving on the floor. When he turns his back to the edge of the scaffold, the audience’s yells crescendo into a full-throated roar that builds even more as he backflips off the scaffolding… “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH!” “I-L! I-L! I-L!” Down… “I-L! I-L! I-L!” Down… “I-L! I-L! I-L!” …and finally he crashes onto Michael Alexander! The impact is incredible…so incredible that the supports for that sound stage can’t support it, and the small stage collapses, causing Michael Alexander and the Insane Luchador to tumble to the arena floor underneath the broken bits of the poorly constructed sound stage. Matt Kivell looks on in horror as the crowd chants alternately: “HOLY SHIT!” And… “I-L! I-L! I-L!” “Oh, my God…we’ve got to get the EMT’s over there!” Mak gasps. “I told you that man was a lunatic, Francis! I could care less if he ruins his own career, but it would be a travesty to rob the SWF of Michael Alexander!” Kivell scrambles down to the floor from the main stage area. He moves the debris as best he can, trying to find the two men beneath. As he struggles to push a particular troublesome chunk of sound stage out of the way, the camera catches a look of disbelief on his face…and then he drops to count! “What the Hell is Kivell doing?” Mak asks incredulously. ONE! “He’s COUNTING!” King shrieks. TWO! “I can’t believe this…” Mak says hoarsely. THREE! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” “MANSON, why have you forsaken us?!” King howls in lament. The junior referees finally arrive to help clear away the rest of the sound stage. Neither Alexander nor IL are moving as the camera finally focuses on them…but the camera clearly shows that Michael Alexander’s left arm is lying across IL’s chest while IL’s back is undeniably on the ground. At the sight of this, the crowd begins a low growl. “Wait a minute,” Mak says, his eyes wide. “Did I see that right?” “Wha?” King says mid-sob, then glancing at his monitor, he marvels. “Is that right?” Both men are being put on stretchers as Kivell whispers into Funyon’s ear. The big man looks surprised, but knows his role well enough. “Ladies and Gentlemen…” he begins. “Your winner…AND STILL SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION, MICHAEL ALEXANDER!” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “I-L! I-L! I-L!” “YES! There is a God, Francis!” King’s manic glee almost squelches his microphone. “I have to say that I did not expect that…” Mak says grudgingly. “It looks like Michael Alexander had a four-leaf clover, a rabbit’s foot, and a box of Lucky Charms cereal tonight, because he just managed to literally fall into that victory.” “Ha! Luck had nothing to do with it, Francis!” “Nothing to do with it?! King, he’s still out cold after that sound stage collapsed. They both are! How could it be anything but luck that they landed that way?” “I call it divine intervention, Francis! God couldn’t let that sort of travesty occur, and He made His presence felt. MANSON must have put in a good word.” “You’re incorrigible, you know that? A travesty did occur tonight, but luck or no, Michael Alexander has managed to keep his title. But mark my words, I don’t think it’s over between these two…not by a long shot. That presumes that either of these men will be in any shape to wrestle again after that ill-fated balcony sault.” “Yes, I’m sure once the looney bin clears the Luchador to jump off things again, he’ll be back to make us all miserable,” King laments. “But Michael Alexander is still the champion, and that’s the important part…I just hope he’ll be alright after that.” “You mean, they’ll be alright,” Mak corrects him. “I thought I said ‘he,’” King replies. “Let me clarify…I hope Michael Alexander, the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, will be alright after that heinous assault by an escapee from a Tijuana madhouse.” “Will you stop!” Mak groans. “Good night from Halifax, folks! Check out SWF.com for more details about this mess and what these two men’s recovery times are going to be…I just hope that no one’s been too badly injured.” “Except for the Luchador, of course,” King adds. “King, that’s just wrong. These two men gave us everything they had tonight.” “What, Francis? You and I both know that IL doesn’t consider it a match unless he gets a new scar.” Mak groans into his microphone. “We’ll keep you posted on the condition of both of these men. Good night, and God bless!” The cameras focus on IL and Alexander being wheeled into waiting ambulances as we… FADE OUT!