Smarkdown Losing Matches

[Guest 5_moves_of_doom]

Z, I want to read your haiku-manifested match, so post it you pansey.

 

Anyhoo, to sum up MY match, I'll just quote myself in the comments thread...

 

Anyway, my match lost, but this, in my opinion, was the worst match I have ever written.

 

*Until Sunday I thought Smarkdown was on Tuesday, so I didn't start until then.

 

*I was practically asleep during my entire writing session.

 

*I suck by nature.

 

*I didn't edit.

 

*I really couldn't think of anything to do with Flesher's character in general.

 

*Flesher rules.

 

Well, here it is, comment if you can wade through it...Stubby HAD to, so I'd appreciate if he commented on the stuff that I didn't KNOW was bad [not edited, overuse of certain words, monotonously directionless action.]

 

An opening shot of the Baltimore Arena in, you guessed it, Baltimore, Maryland is displayed to millions of viewers across the World as the camera pans upward to a Titanatron-like sign…

 

---

 

*** BOOM ***

 

“Welcome!”

 

A simple zoom-in reveals the literal contents of the sign, which reads: “SWF SMARKDOWN! SOLD OUT!”

 

---

 

*** BOOM ***

 

“Ladies, gents, and everything in between!”

 

---

 

The flashing billboard switches over to yet another advertisement: “TICKETS ON SALE! Fight Club: A Tale Told With Sock Puppets!”

 

---

 

*** BOO…PUT PUT PUT PUT ***

 

“To SWF Smark…what the fuck is wrong with the pyro?”

“Just ignore it, it hardly ever works.”

“Ahem. Righto. TO SWF SMARKDOWN!!!”

 

The camera cuts to the interior of the arena, as thousands of fans relentlessly scream with glee, several signs such as…

 

“TOM FELTCHER SUCKS!”

“FANTASTIC FOUR OWNZ THE MAGNIFICANT SEVEN!”

“What the hell is a blinky?”

 

and the patented suck-up sign of the night:

 

“Stubby Rules You All!”

 

…dot the enthusiastic audience. The camera continues to pan the crowd, coming to an abrupt halt as it stops at the commentating booth, where “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens and “Ambiguously Gay” Bob Riley reside. Stevens takes a moment to squint at the cue cards, and then continues…

 

Stevens: “We’ve already witnessed several fantastic matches so far tonight, but up next is what could very well be the match of the night as Dur…um…Tom Flesher defends his Smarks Wrestling Federation United States title against ‘TNT’ Taylor Nicholas Thompson! This match was first initiated about a week ago at SWF Snake Eyes when TNT plowed his way through three other JL bumpees in order to gain the #1 contendership of the title, the same title I might add that Tom Flesher won later that night in a triple threat match!”

Riley: “I’ll tell ya Marky Mark, this is sure to be one hell of a match, as two of my favorite competitors in the federation square off for one of the most prestigious titles of all time!”

Stevens: “Jay Dawg has held the title three times, how much credibility can it have?”

Riley: “…Shut up and watch the damn match.”

 

The screen cuts to the vicinity of the squared circle, where Funyon stands in a three piece tuxedo, accompanied by a light-up tie. Funyon, unable to acquire a microphone, settles for a megaphone, which he presses against his lips, making the introductions…

 

Funyon: “Ladies and gentlemen and Bob Riley, this contest is scheduled for one fall and is for the SWF United States title! Disqualification and count-out rules are in effect! Introducing…”

 

“Oy! Oy! Oy!”

 

The opening rhythms of AC/DC’s “TNT” blare from the PA system as a monsoon of red and orange strobe lights invades the entrance ramp, resembling an explosion of luminosity.

 

Funyon: “…hailing from Anaheim, California…”

 

The curtains ruffle to the sides as a shadowed figurine emerges from the backstage area, his thick, dreadlock-styled hair streaming down his face, barely reaching past his goatee.

 

Funyon: “…weighing in at an explosive 267 pounds…”

 

The silhouette deliberately paces out into the sea of light, as the fans immediately berate the figure with legions of boos, as the unknown stature is revealed to be…

 

Funyon: “…wrestling for his current stable, the Magnificent Seven [heavy boos, ]the longest reigning SJL television champion of all time, ‘TNT’ TAYLOR NICHOLAS THOMPSOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!”

 

“Watch me EXPLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” rings in the ears of the Baltimore-ites from the front row to the nose bleeds as TNT immediately begins marching down the ramp in a more fast-paced manner, striding from one foot to the other, seemingly walking to the beat. Thompson reaches the ring, where he slides under the bottom rope, immediately strolling over to each ring post, climbing to the second rope and letting out a thunderous “KABOOM!” to the nugatory crowd.

 

Riley: “And here he is, my hero! You know, this guy trained in the great state of New Jersey for several years in order to get where he is now.”

Stevens: “Not to mention that he had to get past the likes of Z, Danny Williams, and Tod deKindes, all great athletes in their own right, in order to receive this title shot.”

Riley: “Pfft. Mere pins in the alley of the TNT bowling ball Stevens.”

Stevens: “What the hell does that mean?”

Riley: “How should I know?”

Stevens: “You said it.”

Riley: “Oh yeah…well, it means…um…hey look, Funyon’s making the next announcement!”

 

Taylor’s theme music comes to a stopping point as he positions himself on the edge of the ring near the entrance ramp, glaring down the aisle way, awaiting his opponent…

 

Funyon: “The second competitor in this bout…”

 

“Tell All the People” by the Doors starts up, as two streams of fiery pyro shoot up into the air, crossing paths and forming an X in the process.

 

Funyon: “…wrestling out of Buffalo, New York…”

 

Just as Jim Morrison’s vocals reach the pinnacle of their performance, a confidentially postured Tom Flesher steps out into the aisle way, raising both arms above his head with a sadistic smile sprawled from cheek to cheek. Echoing boos thunder onto the cocky looking Tom, who grasps at his golden title belt, dangling from his right shoulder, drowning out a few mild cheers that remain sprinkled throughout the arena.

 

Funyon: “…weighing in at a modest 213 pounds…”

 

The Superior one leaps up to the ring apron, assertively strutting down the side of the ring, until he leans over, stepping through the second and third ropes.

 

Funyon: “…wrestling for the Clan [mixed reactions,] he is the current SWF US champion, ‘The Superior One’ TOM FLESSSHHHHEEEERRRRR!!!!!!”

 

Glistening barricades of pyro rocket from each corner of the quadrilateral ring, as Tommy contracts both of his arms, flexing his rather impressive muscles for the audience.

 

Stevens: “The Artist Formerly Known as Durandal looks more pumped than ever tonight, as he is facing a difficult challenge tonight no doubt, in the form of dynamite.”

Riley: “Oh come on Stevens, this guy is a dead man. He should have stuck with his old car battery name, rather than selling out and returning to his uber-lame ‘Superior Buns’ gimmick, or whatever the hell it is.”

Stevens: “Well, nonetheless, this gimmick re-initiation seems to be working out so far, as Flesher won the United States title DIRECTLY after switching back.”

Riley: “Pfft. Like beating Caveman Chris and Jay Dawg was an actual challenge. I beat the Exploding Chicken, now THAT’s skill.”

Stevens: “Ugh. Veering away from our oh-so interesting debate for a tick or two, the bell is a-ringin’ and this match is underway!”

 

*** DING DING DING ***

 

Riley: “Those three chimes from the ring bell might as well have been Tom’s death wish, as TNT is absolutely going to DESTROY him in this match.”

Stevens: “Think what you want, this match is going to be a close one, no doubt about it.”

 

Both men methodically circle one another, as they size eachother up, eagerly awaiting their opponent’s first move. Taylor abruptly destroys the generally peaceful karma of the two competitors as he savagely lunges at Tom, immediately searching for an arm bar, as Flesher drops to a squatting position and immediately recoils back into his own corner, TNT barely missing the sly Superior One’s arm. Taylor kips up to a full standing posture, diving at the vulnerable Tom, but is cratered into the mat as Flesher delivers a terribly stiff and devastating palm into his forehead! TNT quickly collects himself, again hopping towards Tom in a relatively blind charge. Rather than dodging however, Flesher leans forward with his arms outstretched, as he maliciously clasps his arms around TNT’s legs, steering him flat onto his back with a double leg takedown! He continues to clench Thompson’s legs in his armpits, as he steps over the explosive one, easing him into a boston crab!

 

Riley: “Break the hold ref!”

Stevens: “Why? TNT is nowhere near the ropes.”

Riley: “Maybe, but look at him, he’s in pain!”

Stevens: “…That’s the POINT Bobby.”

 

Thompson screams in visibly expressed anguish, his eyes painfully squinting as his mouth gapes open, letting out a yelp of throbbing hurt. Referee Mathew Kivell kneels beside the aching Thompson, screaming at TNT directly into his ear, as Tom persistently eggs him on.

 

Kivell: “Do you quit?”

Tom: “Ask him!”

Kivell: “DO YOU QUIT!?!?!?”

TNT: “NO!”

Kivell: “He doesn’t quit!”

Tom: “Dammit! Ask him again!”

Kivell: “TNT?”

TNT: “I WON’T!”

 

With a single stiffening of his arms, TNT pushes away from the mat, as he fully outstretches his rigid arms, straightening them out entirely! Taylor bends his neck inwards, as he actually manages to roll under himself, completing an entire somersault! Tom falls backwards in a state of confusion, automatically releasing Thompson from the hold. Taylor manages to lift himself to his feet using the ring ropes for assistance, grabbing at his calf area as he grimaces in pain. Tom spins to his feet, as he darts towards the dynamite warrior, but is caught in mid-charge as Thompson steps to the side, gingerly snapping Flesher to the mat with a swift arm bar. Tom screams in incoherent cries for mercy, causing Thompson to merely shrug them off and cinch up on the arm wrenching hold. Thompson positions himself laying down next to the physically harmed Tom Flesher, as he regains his composure and once again reels back, angling Tom’s right arm in such a manner that Flesher barks out yet another cry for mercy, beads of sweat dribbling down his face.

 

Stevens: “Notice how both men seem to be attacking with every last bit of technical ability in them in the opening of this match, desperately trying to find a limb, and work it.”

Riley: “He’s tapping more than a tappy tap dancing tap water drinking tapster!”

Stevens: “No, actually, he’s made his way to the ropes, causing TNT to break the hold by force!”

Riley: “Damn! He had him for sure!”

Stevens: “…It was an armbar Bob, an armbar.”

 

The esteemed grapplers again withdraw to separate sides of the ring, again pacing around eachother, attempting to find an opening for attack. Tom moans in aching pain as he shakes the pain from his arm, as once again Thompson lurches forward, wraps his arm around Tom’s head and right arm, and with a single sheer drop falls backward to the mat, plunging Flesher’s arm and skull into the mat!

 

Stevens: “And Taylor drives the Superior One into the mat with a devastating single arm DDT, further injuring his arm!”

Riley: “This is the sadistic methods of TNT at their prime. You may not be able to tell at this point, but Thompson is gradually moving in for a submission, savagely tearing apart the right arm of Tom!”

Stevens: “And it shows as Taylor keeps Tom down on the mat, cinching up on what looks like a move older than blonde jokes, the wristlock!”

Riley: “Hey Stevens, what did the blonde say when she saw the box of Cheerios?”

Stevens [unenthusiastically]: “I don’t know, what.”

Riley: “Oh! Donut seeds! Hahahahahahhahahahahahahaha! Oh, the irony!”

Stevens [still nonchalant in an unimpressed slur]: “Wow. That’s a knee slapper for sure Bob.”

Riley: “How do you confuse a blonde?”

Stevens: “There’s a match going on you know.”

Riley: “Put her in a circular room and tell her to pee in the corner! Hahahahahahahahaha!”

Stevens: “All right, I’m turning off your headphones now.”

Riley: “Hey, how do you get a blonde to give you a blow…”

 

*** CLICK ***

 

Bob continues to ramble on, as Stevens disconnects his speaker, and directs his attention back towards the match.

 

Stevens: “And Tom seems to have eased his way out of the painful submission hold, toppling the towering Taylor Nicholas Thompson to the mat with a drop toehold! Tom follows through with the tactic, grasping Thompson’s foot, and wrenching it to the side with an ankle lock! The ref is asking if he quits!”

Kivell: “Do you quit!”

TNT: “Bah! No!”

 

Taylor rolls over to his back, thrusting his loose boot into the side of Tom’s face, as his picture perfect sideburns are scuffles out of place, along with his entire head, which snaps back with sickening proportions! Flesher falls half way backwards, but grasps onto Taylor’s foot, refusing to let go. Taylor delivers a few more stiff boots to Tom’s jaw region, causing a bit of mild blood to flow. Then, with one swift motion, drives the toe of his boot into the side of Flesher’s arm! Tom lets out a torturous “Gah!” and falls limply to the mat, holding his right arm with his left. Both men wander aimlessly a bit, managing to make their way up to their knees, and then up to their feet. Thompson approaches the hopelessly dazed and confused New Yorker, but Tom takes notice of the oncoming freight train that is Taylor Nicholas Thompson, stares like an oblivious cow for an instant, and then ducks down, propelling his foot into the knee of TNT! Rather than crumbling to the mat, Thompson staggers back into the ropes, holding his knee in agony. Taylor reverberates from the bands that surround the ring a bit, sauntering towards Tom once more.

 

Riley [stevens just turning his headset back on]: “Okay, okay, no more blonde jokes. But did you hear the one where this lady goes up to this police officer…”

Stevens: “Taylor is without much direction as he drunkenly sways from side to side, Tom honing in on the vulnerable pyromaniac!”

Riley: “And the lady says ‘Sir, that man back there said my hair smelled nice. I want to sue him for sexual harassment.”

Stevens: “Tom reels back, bouncing from the ropes to gain some slight momentum…”

Riley: “And the police officer says “He said your hair smelled nice? Well, how is that sexual harassment?”

Stevens: “Tom going in for the kill…NO! Thompson snaps out of his oblivious composition, quickly lifting the Clannie from the mat, and planting him back down with a viscous sideslam!”

Riley: “And she says ‘Why is that sexual harassment? Well, the guy was a midget.”

Stevens: “Thompson, still grasping his pained leg, drapes himself over the slightly bloodied carcass of Tom Flesher! Matt makes the count!”

Riley: “HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Kivell: “One!”

Riley: “Get it?”

Kivell: “Two!”

Riley: “He was a midget and said her hair smelled nice!”

Kivell: “T…”

Stevens: “He kicked out! Not quite a ‘W’ gaining move from TNT there, as he can’t expect to make the pin that early in this match, as so far it’s been nothing but submission holds!”

 

Tom elevates his arm a mere inch from the mat, as Thompson hops away from his victim, a bit disappointed in the stamina of his stubborn opponent. Taylor meanders over to his foe, grasping a handful of his brown hair, and jerking him up to his feet! The explosive one knees Tom in the gut a few times, before grasping a tight fist around his tights and hoisting him above his head with a lateral suplex! Taylor stalls in the vertical position for a moment, as he grips the slightly cumbersome Flesher above his head. Taylor roars out to the crowd, as he quickly and powerfully jerks backwards, slamming both Tom and [to a certain extent] himself to the mat! Thompson takes a quick breather, but soon rolls onto his belly, army crawling onto the fallen Flesher!

 

Kivell: “One! Two!”

Stevens: “Not quite!”

Riley: “Dammit Flesher, just die!”

 

Thompson again backs away from the nearly unconscious Flesher for an instant, seemingly contemplating his next devastatingly devastating act of total devastation. Thompson grasps onto the nape of Tom’s black tank top, which reads: “Tom Flesher: Making Boils Since 2002” in jagged white lettering. An Irish-whip exchange takes place with TNT once again on the winning end, as Thompson pulls out a surprisingly agile dropkick out of nowhere…

 

*** WIFF ***

 

“Owe, my spleen,” Taylor pitifully yelps as he lands on his back, having hit nothing but air. Tom, who strategically seized the ring ropes in order to stop himself on his course of impending doom, lightly jogs over to Thompson, dropping a rock hard elbow into the side of TNT’s calf! Tom jolts up to his feet, only to drive his elbow once again into the Taylor’s injured leg! Tom stands once more, this time stepping over the leg in which he possesses, pretzling TNT’s lower body into a Figure 4 Lock!

 

Stevens: “And it’s the Figure Four! Will TNT submit?”

Riley: “Pfft. Yeah right. Look at him, he’s as calm as a goose.”

TNT: “OH MY GOD!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!! THE PAIN!!!!! AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!”

Riley: “…Calm as a goose alright.”

 

Tom shouts at the referee, barking orders at him as Kivell drops to his knees, persistently questioning the dynamite warrior.

 

Tom: “Ask him!”

Kivell: “TNT, do you quit?”

TNT [gasping for air, slightly attempting to roll over onto his belly in order to reverse the momentum]: “NO! I won’t!”

 

Taylor lets out a resounding cry as with one last desperate attempt at redemption, he completely rolls over onto his stomach, putting the pressure on Tom’s legs! Tom screams out a bit, but quickly begins attempting to release the hold in which he himself was inflicting. TNT tightens his thighs around Tom’s legs however, grasping onto the bottom ring rope for extra leverage! The fans boo with enthusiasm as Thompson desperately cinches up on the move, but the referee finally notices his unpreferable tactics of winning, issuing a five count!

 

Kivell: “One! Two! Three! Four!”

 

Thompson takes advantage of the count to its maximum utility, finally liberating the pained Tom at four. Tom crawls away from the previously inflicted carnage, now seizing his legs, but most favorably his still pained arm. Thompson meanwhile, uses the ring ropes as a proverbial ladder to ease his way to his feet, as he clutches his leg.

 

Stevens: “Both men have had one body part or another completely torn apart in this match, and now, coming upon the climax of the match, it will be interesting how these weak limbs come into play at the conclusion of the bout.”

Riley: “Like Tom even has a chance. I mean, he’s a good guy, and very handy with an ice pick, but in the end he’s just a Fatal Instinct ripoff.”

Stevens: “You know now that I think about it he DOES kind of resemble Sharon Sto…I mean, ahem, this match is too close to call!”

 

Tom comes reeling out of his corner, a single arm extended, as he apparently seems to be looking for a palm thrust! Thompson also begins charging his opponent, lifting his right leg high from the mat, and driving it into Tom’s face! What seems like gallons of blood simultaneously flows from Flesher’s forehead and nose, all while his collar area shatters in a backwards jerking motion, causing him to lifelessly collapse to the mat. Thompson however, continues through with the entire move, slightly torquing his hurting leg as he wobbles a bit, attempting to regain his balance. Thompson takes a tick or two to collect a sensible state of mind, as he glances towards the floored Tom Flesher. Taylor smirks slightly, and visually pans the crowd, extending a single pointer finger upwards, signaling for…

 

Riley: “He’s going for Shell Shocked! This demoralizing elbow drop, while it could very well finish a match by itself, is almost always used to set up TNT’s patented Tiger Driver ’92, DYNAMITE!”

Stevens: “TNT gazes upwards, and is ascending the turnbuckle!”

 

Taylor scales the ring post, reaching the summit of the top rope, and lets out a mighty “KABOOM!” to the heavily spiteful audience! The crowd hails the ring with boos, both verbally and physically in the alcohol related sense, as entire beer cans rain onto the ring apron, some narrowly missing Taylor Thompson himself! Taylor gains some flying momentum by squatting onto the turnbuckle, and then lunges off, soaring through the air with a single elbow extended!

 

*** SMASH ***

 

Thompson crashes down onto Tom’s chest, driving his pointed elbow into the heart of the Superior One! The remainder of Taylor’s body flops onto Tom’s arm as Flesher winces because of the extreme soreness. Taylor immediately kips up to his feet, slumping over to Tom, as he lifts the superior one into a standing head scissors!

 

Stevens: “Could it be?”

 

Taylor hooks his opponent’s arms, despite Tom’s futile attempts at wriggling out of the maneuver.

 

Stevens: “It is! Dynamite!”

 

Thompson urgently heaves Tom to his shoulders, edging him into a powerbomb position…

 

Stevens: “Oh! The humanity!”

 

Suddenly, without warning, Thompson’s entire leg collapses as he falls to a single knee, slamming Tom awkwardly onto the mat as he lands directly on his right side, his arm crunching under the weight of his body. Taylor grasps at his leg, but lays an arm across Flesher’s chest anyway, pinning his shoulders to the mat.

 

Kivell: “ONE!”

 

…

 

Stevens: “He didn’t quite get all of it, but it could have actually been MORE devastating as Tom landed on his severely pained arm!”

 

…

 

Kivell: “TWO!”

 

…

 

Flesher slightly awakens, though his body remains a limp pile of metaphorical Jello, quivering in pain.

 

…

 

Kivell: “THREEEEEEEEEEE…………”

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Tom jerks a single arm from the mat, hardly kicking out from the pinfall attempt as Thompson screams with disgruntled anger devouring his state of mind.

 

Stevens: “HE KICKED OUT!”

Riley: “NO! WHY GOD WHY? Why can’t I date Brad Pitt!?!?!?!?”

Stevens: “Tom just barely managed to…wait, what?”

Riley: “Um, scratch that last one.”

Stevens [glaring at Riley with a look of concern on his face]: “…”

Riley: “Just forget it.”

Stevens [still glaring]: “…”

Riley: “Forget it!”

 

Thompson grabs the top rope as he distraughtly shakes it up and down, screaming out in disappointment. Thompson catches sight of the referee, as he lashes out at the poor JL screening match jobber, verbally and physically berating him by viscously cornering him against a turnbuckle, a very intimidating sense in his movements as he inexorably screams at Kivell, fiery anger in his eyes. Suddenly, the referee ducks to the ground as he rolls from the ring, barely dodging the impact of TNT against the ring post, as a revived Flesher avalanches him against the unforgiving post from behind! Thompson shakes with a hint of both shock and pain flowing throughout his body, recoiling back from the corner directly after collision. He slightly turns around as he falls away from the corner, letting Tom gain an immediate set up for Ego Buster, as he wraps both of his arms around Thompson’s broad waist, and, lifts him upside down in a vertical position. Tom slits his own throat with an imaginary knife in his hand, signaling TNT’s sure demise with this cutthroat-like gesture!

 

*** CRACK ***

 

Thompson’s body stiffens on impact, as he is driven head first into the mat.

 

Stevens: “Ouch! TNT is mercilessly pounded into the mat with the gut-wrench sit-down side piledriver that Tom Flesher likes to call the Ego Buster! And we all know what’s coming next, as Tom is already lifting Thompson from the mat and positioning him onto the turnbuckle in a sitting posture!”

Riley: “Oh fuck.”

Stevens: “TNT is being set up for a move that could in all probability end this match, the Boilmaker!”

Riley: “TNT has been perched atop the turnbuckle, and Tom is following in an orderly fashion, steadily raising the explosive warrior step by step, until both men are standing on the top rope!”

 

Tom slowly alleviates TNT, until, as Riley implied, both men are struggling to balance themselves on the peak of the ring post, Tom frantically attempting to hook Taylor in a front face lock! Flesher completes step one, and then begins to throw Thompson’s arm over his shoulder, scrunching a good amount of his camouflaged cargo pants in his right hand!

 

Stevens: “And here it comes! Tom begins lifting TNT above his head for the top rope brainbuster that is the Boilmaker, and…NO! TOM’S ARM GAVE OUT! TOM’S ARM GAVE OUT!”

Riley: “Party at my house!”

 

Tom shrieks in with an agonizing sting shooting through his arm, as he gets Thompson halfway up into the brainbuster, and falls backwards as his arm give out! Taylor uses the already existent downward momentum to position his elbow right onto Tom’s neck, as he hits elbow first into the mat, his arm joint plunging directly into Flesher’s esophagus! Tom’s body flinches as it squirms around in an unpleasant manner, finally falling completely limp, TNT’s elbow still lodges on top of his collarbone, making the cover by default!

 

Kivell: “ONE!”

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Stevens: “TNT did it! He somehow managed to reverse a Boilmaker into Shell Shocked!”

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Kivell: “TWO!”

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Riley: “GO TNT! GO TNT! It’s your birthday! It’s your birthday!”

Stevens: “Will two of Taylor’s secondary finishers along with Tom’s immense arm pain be enough to keep the Superior One down?”

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Kivell: “THREE!”

 

*** DING DING DING ***

 

Riley: “He did it! We have a new champion!”

Stevens: “Funyon with the official word…”

Funyon: “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match, as a result of pinfall, and your NEW [disappointed boos for TNT gaining the belt, some uplifting cheers for Tom losing it] SWF US CHAMPION, ‘TNT’ TAYLOR NICHOLAS THOMPSON!!!!”

 

AC/DC’s “TNT” kicks up, as a collection of medical assistants rush the ring, helping the celebrating Thompson to the back, as he merrily grins, grasping his newly gained gold in his right hand. Tom lays motionless in the center of the mat, as a few meds ease his arm into a temporary cast.

 

Stevens: “And we have a new champion tonight, a decision which many would call bad news.”

Riley: “BAD NEWS!?!? TNT finally gets to show what he’s made of! I’m ecstatic!”

Stevens: “One new belt for the Magnificent Seven, as their path of destruction continues. Will it remain apparent in the main event? Stay tuned to find out!”

 

> insert Brittany Spears stripping for some odd reason, in order to advertise Pepsi here <