Smarkdown matches that were good but didn't win

[Guest Kibagami]

Right. Looking back over it, my match needed, like, wrestling in between the spots, and stuff. Oh well. Me not do hardcore so well.

 

S.

 

 

 

We return from a commercial to SWF Smarkdown! as the poppy sounds of Faith No More’s “Epic” hits the speakers. A single spotlight shines down on the entrance ramp, and as the crowd’s screams reach a deafening crescendo, the heroically, epically, monumentally clueless Z shuffles through the curtains, a beaten green duffel bag slung over his left shoulder, and a metal chair in his right hand. “Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to SWF Smarkdown!” yells “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens above the crowd, the pyrotechnics, and the scoffing of Bobby Riley as Funyon climbs into the ring…

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, introducing first…hailing from Trenton, New Jersey…weighing in at two hundred and twenty-nine pounds, he is representing the Midnight Carnival…ZEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

 

The Carnival’s newest recruit spins smartly on his heel as he reaches the ring apron, bangs off a quick salute in the direction of the crowd, and slides into the ring. He checks the contents of his duffel bag as “Epic” fades away, and we cut back to the announcer’s table.

 

“And welcome to Z’s funeral, folks!” cackles Riley, ignoring the disgusted look that Mark Stevens shoots him across the announce table. “This next match was made last week on Storm, when, after Edwin MacPhisto talked an injured Chris Raynor out of a match with the Silent One, Z, of all people, came out and challenged him-to a HARDCORE match, no less!”

 

”Riley’s comments aside, ladies and gentlemen, I’m not too optimistic about Z’s chances in this match. The youngster has to be sore from that hellish WarGames match at Ground Zero, and even at 100%, the Slaughterer seems to be a threat even the World champion is reluctant to face…”

 

Speaking of whom… as Stevens finishes his sentence, the arena’s lights go out.

 

Front Line Assembly’s “Retribution (Front 242 Remix) hits the speakers as a thick cloud of ominous white fog billows out from behind the curtains. The crowd immediately shifts from cheers to boos…they know what happens now…

 

They know who’s coming.

 

“Introducing second…he hails from Phoenix, Arizona, weighing in at two hundred and forty-eight pounds…he is representing the Clan…SIIIIIIIIIIIIILENT!”

 

The Silent One enters through the curtains at the top of the ramp, his trenchcoat trailing behind him, his only weapon the cane he always seems to carry. He descends the ramp slowly, relishing the venom and invective hurled at him from the fans as he approaches the ring apron…

 

“Can you believe how cocky Silent is? He doesn’t have a single weapon- just that cane of his! Honestly, now, Z’s at a disadvantage here, but this…this is just insulting.”

 

”Who’s to say that cane isn’t the only weapon the Slaughterer needs, Mark?…wait a minute, he’s got a microphone.”

 

The Silent One removes his coat and drops it next to the stairs, along with his cane. He leaps onto the ring apron, microphone in hand, and raises it to his lips. Z, having learned a little bit about psychology from his dealings with the Magnificent Seven, keeps his chair at the ready in the center of the ring…

 

“Z…” whispers the Silent One…and he’s almost immediately drowned out by boos and catcalls from the stands. He waits a moment for the noise to die down…

 

“Z…this is the last chance I will give you…to walk away…from me. Once I step through these ropes, Z…your time here…on Earth…is over…”

 

“Well, he’s giving him fair warning. He’s not completely merciless. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that…”

 

”Riley, shut up for just ten seconds, could you please?”

 

Z pauses, seeming to consider Silent proposal…

 

…then he changes his mind, salutes the crowd quickly, and hurls the metal chair at his opponent! A little surprised, Silent barely discards the microphone in time to catch the unwieldy projectile…

 

Which is exactly what Z WANTED him to do, of course.

 

CLANG!

 

”Blizzard of oZ, with an assist from the steel chair!” yells Mark Stevens! Riley cringes as Silent topples from the apron, and the crowd, in a word, goes berserk for their underdog! Z, smelling blood almost as soon as the crowd, approaches the ropes to follow up on his attack…

 

And the Silent One stands up.

 

Riley’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh, shit. I think Z just pissed him off. That was not smart.”

 

The Slaughterer’s grin fades as he wipes a thin trickle of blood from his lip. He glares icily at Z, who seems a little stunned by Silent’s quick recovery. The Silent One shrugs, as if to say, “You’ve made your choice…”

 

“I don’t believe what I just saw, Riley. Z finished a number of opponents in the JL with the Blizzard of oZ…Silent just had that chair superkicked right into his face, and it doesn’t seem to have fazed him in the slightest! He’s actually SMILING, Riley!”

 

“That was fantastic!” squeals Riley as Z gapes open-mouthed at his opponent as the Clansman throws the “SWF Storm” cloth up onto the apron, exposing the underside of the ring. “I mean, I knew Silent was a tough son-of-a-bitch, but that was…wow! Mark, this is going to be a great match, I can feel it!”

 

Stevens sighs resignedly as the Silent One tosses the chair back into the ring, where it lands with a loud CLANG! to Z’s left. The Carnival neophyte makes a beeline for his duffel bag as Silent begins digging around underneath the ring, looking for useful implements of mayhem and destruction.

 

Silent tosses a second chair into the ring.

 

Z grabs a handful of cookie sheets and frantically scatters them.

 

Silent tosses a third chair into the ring.

 

Z pulls out a kendo stick, drawing a huge pop from the crowd, and desperately shakes out the duffel bag, looking for perhaps some thumbtacks, a cattle prod, barbed wire he didn’t know he had, or maybe some sort of automatic weapon-you never can tell with him.

 

Silent pulls a table out from underneath the ring, flips the cloth back down, and slides the table into the corner, next to the turnbuckle.

 

Z stands in the center of the ring amidst the cookie sheets, trying hard to look menacing with his kendo stick.

 

“Mark, this isn’t even remotely fair to Z. Silent is going to annihilate him without a second thought.”

 

”I’m aware of that, Riley.”

 

“I’m loving this matchup already.”

 

”I know that, too, Riley.”

 

“Would you mind getting me a Coke, please? I don’t want to miss anything, you understand. This is going to be a…::cough::…classic. Heh.”

 

”Shut up, Riley.”

 

The Silent One slides into the ring, murder in his eyes, and stands to his full height, cutting an imposing figure across the ring…

 

**DING DING**

 

”Here we go, sports fans!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

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…

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Z runs away.

 

Fast.

 

And the crowd…cheers?

 

”Finally, Z makes an intelligent move!” laughs Riley as the SWF’s perennial loser backs towards the announcer’s table. “But…heh heh…I think this is a case of ‘too little, too late’, huh, Mark?”

 

”Wait a minute, Riley. Z is…beckoning Silent over here? I wish he wouldn’t do that.”

 

Riley does a double take, and the cheers of the fans reach a new level as Z curls one finger back and forth, kendo stick in his opposite hand, unmistakably motioning for Silent to follow him to the floor. The Silent One, somewhat exasperated with the youngster’s antics already, obliges him…

 

…and Z sprints around to the opposite side of the ring before Silent’s feet hit the ground!

 

“Grand Slam” Mark Stevens, in a rare moment of unprofessional bias, laughs out loud at the tactics of the young Carnie as Z slides into the ring, a coy grin on his face. “Z is…ha ha…trying to…heh…play mind games with the Silent One to…to…” Stevens dissolves into giggles as Z proceeds to…to…

 

HULK UP!

 

Silent shakes his head, exasperated by his opponent’s shenanigans, and the crowd goes even further into hysterics as Z flexes his biceps, tears at his shirt, and raises his hand to his ear, drawing on the energy of the fans…or…something.

 

“This is an absolute travesty of a wrestling match,” spits Bobby Riley in disgust, trying his hardest to ignore the spectacle in the ring. “Stevens, take a little pride in your work, man. Pull yourself together.”

 

”Hee hee hee…” Mark wipes a few tears from his eyes as he readjusts his headset. “Riley…you must see some humor in that…oh, Lord, I haven’t laughed like that for weeks.”

 

“Please, Mark, I’m fed up with Z’s act at this point, and it looks to me like the Silent One is, too.”

 

No sooner do those words leave Riley’s lips than Silent climbs onto the ring apron, apparently intent on ending Z’s failed Comic View audition…and in an absurdly lucky turn of events, Z turns around to flex for the rest of the audience, and chances to see Silent about to enter the ring!

 

The rookie lets out a brave cry, the cry of a true warrior, as he charges the Clansman…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ZEEEEEEEEEEEEE SMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!”

 

The littlest Carnie grips the kendo stick in both hands and swings it straight down onto the head of the Silent One, shattering the stick with one mighty blow. Silent sways on the apron and leans back, back, back…

 

…but he does not fall.

 

“Close, but no cigar!” laughs Bobby Riley, and the Slaughterer grits his teeth and steps through the ropes. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” breathes Mark Stevens as Z, thinking fast, ducks down to the canvas and grabs…

 

…

 

…A cookie sheet. Oh, dear.

 

Z, wide-eyed and frantic, raises the cookie sheet above his head before Silent can get his other leg through the ropes, and brings it crashing down against the Silent One’s skull. The Clansman pauses, cracks his neck…and stands, a sickening smile appearing on his face as Z discards the useless cookie sheet for another, fresher one. The ring mics pick up a small exclamation from the (un)luckiest man in the SWF…

 

“Eep!”

 

Z slams another cookie sheet into Silent’s forehead once, twice, three times, the crowd helpfully chanting along:

 

”SMASH!”

 

”SMASH!”

 

”SMASH!”

 

Z discards a second cookie sheet and snatches his last one from the mat. Silent stands unmoved in front him…the Slaughterer shakes his head, clearing the few cobwebs Z managed to induce, and motions for his opponent to “bring it”.

 

“Z is hardly a weakling,” notes Mark Stevens as the camouflaged Carnie raises his cookie sheet above his head, “but he doesn’t seem to be doing any damage to Silent with those cookie sheets. He really needs to change his tactics…”

 

And change them he does. As Silent tenses his neck in preparation for another blow, Z unexpectedly drops the cookie sheet. The Silent One looks at his opponent questioningly for a moment…before he doubles over in pain as Z kicks him directly in the jumblies.

 

Hard.

 

Very, very hard.

 

“Galatea Special, and it looks like Silent felt that one!” yells Grand Slam.

 

”Special? Mark, that was a kick in the nuts.”

 

”Very good, Riley! That’s exactly what a Galatea Special is, and always has been!”

 

”Doesn’t seem so special to me…”

 

Z, a huge grin on his face, bangs off a quick salute in the crowd’s general direction before grabbing hold of Silent’s left arm, throws a leg over his back and hooks it underneath his jaw, and leaps into the air, driving the Silent One’s face into the third and final cookie sheet with a modified version of the Krazy Krash!

 

”Cover by Z!”

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

Silent kicks out and sits up in an uncharacteristically fluid motion; he tastes blood from the freshly opened cut on his lip. The neophyte Carnie scrambles to his feet and quickly plants a sit-out dropkick against the back of Silent’s head, sending the larger man sprawling face first onto the canvas. Z stands up and slaps his arm, signaling to the audience for the Arm Grenade.

 

“Z has done an excellent job of keeping Silent off-balance so far, especially considering that he’s got to be sore from WarGames just one week ago.”

 

”Fine, Stevens, I’ll give you that. Z’s been unusually lucky this evening, even by his clueless and weird standards…no, NO!” yells Riley as the smaller Z absolutely PLASTERS Silent with an Arm Grenade, sending the Slaughterer stumbling back a pace or two before collapsing to the mat and rolling out of the ring. “Ugh…as I was saying, Z’s been lucky, that’s true. But at some point, that luck of his is going to run out, and I shudder to think what’s going to happen to him when it does.”

 

Silent stumbles towards the entrance ramp, leaning against the stairs briefly before continuing around the ring. “Riley, you’re actually a little concerned about Z! I’m really very impressed.” Z slides out to the floor, behind the Silent One, and revs himself up for a second Arm Grenade…

 

“I’m not, Mark. That shudder I mentioned was more of a joyous shudder than a worried one.”

 

”Oh…”

 

THUNK.

 

Z crumbles to the ground in a heap, clutching at his head, as Silent tosses his cane from hand to hand, a satisfied look on his face. “Silent must have grabbed his cane from behind the stairs, Riley!” shouts Stevens as the Silent One rolls his limp opponent back into the ring. “Do you suppose he was just playing possum with Z to get to the cane?”

 

”Well, duh, Mark. He’s a freaking Clannite. They do evil, sneaky things, you know?”

 

The crowd’s mood rapidly darkens as Silent rolls underneath the bottom rope and drops his cane. The Slaughterer stands and grabs a handful of Z’s electric-blue hair, pulling him to his feet. He twists the Carnie’s arm once, gives it a sharp tug, and sends Z barreling across the ring into the opposite turnbuckle. Z slams into the padding, dazed and confused as can be, as Silent retrieves his cane from the mat. He leisurely approaches the injured Carnie, a disturbing smile spreading across his face…

 

“We saw Silent use that cane on Chris Wilson and Magnifico at the end of Ground Zero, and he seems quite proficient with it! I’m afraid we’re about to find out just how proficient he really is, ladies and gentlemen…”

 

”Stevens, I don’t think that proficient-“

 

THUNK.

 

“Is quite the word I’d use to describe it-“

 

FWOOOOOOOOOOSH-THUNK.

 

“I was thinking more along the lines of-“

 

THUNK.

 

THUNK.

 

THUNK-THUNK.

 

“Extremely frickin’ deadly!” concludes Riley as Doctor Zed collapses out of the corner, a large, bloody gash opened on his forehead. “Hey, Mark-do you think that cane or Wilson’s piano wire hurts more?”

 

”Riley, I’m happy to say that I don’t have an answer for you, and I sure as hell don’t want one.”

 

The crowd’s antagonism of the Silent One reaches new heights as Silent disdainfully nudges Z’s head with his boot, seemingly content with the destruction he’s rent with his trusty cane. Z, only half-conscious of his surroundings, begins to crawl slowly, painfully, and deliberately towards his opponent…

 

“Jesus, look at the poor kid, Riley! He’s a mess! Z, you’ve proved your point already…just end this match!”

 

”It’s not his match to end, Stevens,” titters Bobby as Z claws feebly at Silent’s leg, trying to get a grip on his assailant. Silent, a sinister smile on his merciless face, grabs hold of Z’s head ever so slowly, letting the crowd anticipate his next bone-crunching maneuver…

 

…but he never gets around to it, because the neophyte Carnie punches him directly in the crotch.

 

Extremely. Freaking. Hard.

 

“GALATEA SPECIAL, NUMBER TWO!” yells Stevens into his headset, and the crowd goes berserk as the Clansman collapses. Z flashes a weak thumbs up at the audience as he struggles half-wittedly to his feet, blood cascading down his face and blurring his vision, as he stumbles blindly to the turnbuckle.

 

“I told you once today, Mark, it’s not all that special. He punched him in the crotch.”

 

”Very well, Riley…GRECO-ROMAN BALLSHOT!” hollers Mark, and the former Midnight Carnival member collapses in a fit of laughter.

 

”You are so unprofessional, Mark Stevens.”

 

”Hahahaha…Sorry, Riley…hee hee…oh, Lord…Z brings out the best in me.”

 

The arena cheers Z on, encouraging the youngster with a variety of encouraging-type words, as he ascends the turnbuckle. Silent, fighting through pain we don’t really care to think about too deeply, rises to his knees as Z leaps from the top rope, looking to flatten Silent with a rare cross body from the air…

 

…but Silent sees it coming, and quickly edges just out of range. The Slaughterer extends his left knee, grimacing as he does so, and Z only has time to loose a rather loud “Oh…SHIT!” before crashing stomach-first into Silent’s outstretched knee.

 

“Innovative counter from Silent!” notes Stevens as Silent attempts to walk off the effects of the devastating Galatea Special.

 

“That…that…what would you call that move, Stevens?”

 

”I’m not sure…how about an inadvertently self-administered top-rope gutbuster?”

 

“Right. That inad…inadvertent…that thing, that Silent did. It was a really good one.”

 

Z rolls around the mat dramatically, getting blood everywhere, as Silent bends over (with a rather uncomfortable look on his face) and picks up one of the forgotten chairs…

 

“Oh, no. This can’t be good.”

 

”Oh, yes! This is going to be great!”

 

Z pulls himself to his feet using the ropes, holding his stomach gingerly with his right hand. He bangs off a much weaker salute than his previous ones to the fans in the front row, who yell a variety of warnings at the bloody young Carnie. Breaking with a wrestling tradition established since the days of Lou Thesz, Z actually heeds the fans’ warning of “LOOK BEHIND YOU!” and turns around…

 

CLANG!

 

…into a monstrous chair shot from the Slaughterer!

 

“My God, what a sickening chair shot! Z might be out cold right now!”

 

”No, no he isn’t! Look, the crazy little bastard is getting back up!”

 

True to Riley’s observation, Z pops back up to his knees, almost bouncing off the canvas and leaving a disturbingly wet bloodstain behind him. Silent, not one to waste time, promptly clocks the young Carnie with the chair once more, this time on the OTHER side of his battered head.

 

CLANG!

 

“Jesus, Riley! Silent is killing him in there! The kid isn’t even TRYING to defend himself! Somebody has to stop this match!”

 

“You might very well be right, Mark,” muses Riley as Silent lines his opponent up for one more shot from the bent and misshapen chair. “I mean, he’s bleeding all over the frickin’ ring. It’s not exactly cheap to get those stains removed in time for Storm, you know.”

 

Silent measures Z…carefully…and he pulls the chair back…

 

FWOOOOSH!

 

CLANG!

 

A stream of blood flies up and onto a disturbed Eddy Long as Z’s half-conscious form drops to the mat with a sickening wet thud. “Oh, my, I think he lost a tooth on that last ‘clang’, there,” snickers Riley as the Silent One stands briefly over the fallen Carnie, reveling in the hatred and antipathy that all but oozes out of the stands.

 

Silent drags Z into the center of the ring, practically dropping him onto the mat, then goes to the corner to retrieve the table…as he pulls the legs out and stands the table upright, a barely functioning Z begins to crawl towards the ropes, looking for something, anything, to stop the onslaught of the Slaughterer.

 

“Z, my God, you’ve shown tremendous heart, but please…for your own sake…lay down!”

 

Z cannot hear Stevens’ plea, of course, but it seems doubtful he would heed it, even if he could. Slowly, ever so slowly, the youngster pulls himself up inch by painful, burning inch, using the ropes to guide him to his feet. The crowd is on their feet, chanting, stomping, screaming, willing Z to get up, to turn around, to do something that will prolong his life just a little bit more…

 

“Z! Z! Z! Z! Z! Z! Z! Z!”

 

Z stands and raises his arm, signaling one more time-one last time?- for the Arm Grenade, and the crowd virtually explodes…

 

Blood flying, arms waving, face and shirt a gory, gruesome mess, Z charges his opponent with his last ounce of strength. Z is close enough to see the whites of the Silent One’s eyes as the Clan’s loose cannon turns…

 

“ZEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THUD.

 

“Beautiful STO by Silent!” smirks Bobby Riley, and the crowd deflates almost instantly. Z lies prone on the mat, arms and legs flayed out hopelessly from the STO’s impact, as the Silent One finishes some minor positional adjustments to the table. He grabs a handful of Z’s once blue, now red hair, and pulls him to his feet…

 

“Z’s almost unconscious! Somebody stop this goddamn match, NOW!”

 

”Calm down, Mark. It’ll be over in juuuuuuuust a minute…”

 

Silent hoists the motionless Z into the air, extending both his opponent’s arms with his own. He holds him there for a moment or two, in that eerie crucifix position, prompting the more morbid members of the audience to take a picture), letting Z reflect quietly on his imminent Falling…From Grace.

 

CRASH!

 

The table splinters as Z’s back is driven through it, showering the ring with wood, sweat, and blood. The Silent One covers, though it seems like something of a waste…

 

One.

 

Two.

 

Three.

 

**DING DING**

 

”Your winner via pinfall….SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILENT!”

 

”Retribution (Front 242 Remix)” hits the speakers as Silent stands tall over the carnage in the ring, smiling down mockingly at the motionless Z as Eddy Long checks on the young Carnie.

 

“Z gave it his all tonight, ladies and gentlemen, but even a heart as big as his just doesn’t seem to be enough,” sighs Mark Stevens as the referee tries to revive Z. “Silent emerges victorious in his first SWF matchup, though I can’t imagine it’s a victory he could possibly be proud of-wait a minute, what the hell is he doing?”

 

CLANG!

 

Eddy Long crumples beside Z, and Silent discards a bent metal chair, casually tossing it out of the ring.

 

“What the hell?!? Silent just took out Eddy Long? What for? Wait, he’s got a microphone…”

 

”Cut my music…” whispers the Silent One, as “Retribution” grows a little louder…

 

“I SAID, CUT MY MOTHERFUCKING MUSIC!” screams the Slaughterer, and the production team is quick to oblige him. Even the audience quiets down substantially, momentarily stunned by the Clansman’s outburst, and all eyes turn to the Silent One, standing over Z’s bleeding body in the ring…

 

“We…are not…quite…finished…in here…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We break for a commercial…