Storm losing matches.

August 10, 2002

Right....anyway.

Read my match and commentificate as harshly as you possibly can, because I'm rapidly getting really fucking sick of writing 4500 words and promos to boot and hearing that "really close decision" thing. Grrrrrr.

::no-sells all close decisions::

S.

The Nassau Coliseum buzzes restlessly as the “SWF Storm” logo pulsates on the SmarksTron. “Welcome to SWF Storm, ladies and gentlemen,” bellows “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens from behind the announce table. “This is ‘Grand Slam’ Mark Stevens, and to my right is the often-imitated, never duplicated Bobby Riley!”

”Why, thank you, Mark.”

”It’s not necessarily a good thing, Bobby. Think about it.”

”Oh.”

The camera cuts to the announce table, catching a wide grin on the face of Mark Stevens as he turns to face the millions of SWF fans watching from the comfort of their homes. “Tonight is going to be one hell of a night, my friends, as Edwin MacPhisto, Chris Wilson, and Thoth meet in a triple-threat elimination match in tonight’s main event to determine the SWF World Heavyweight champion! Arguably, the three most powerful stables in the SWF’s history are represented in the main event tonight, and each of them has a powerful amount of history with the other two.”

”I think you’re forgetting the Corporation when it comes to powerful stables, Mark…or would you rather not think about the fact that your once-fearless leader Edwin MacPhisto was a part of said stable?”

”That’s all in the past now, Riley, and you know it,” grumbles Mark…in a rather unconvincing fashion. “And speaking of stables and Edwin MacPhisto, tonight’s opening match will feature one-half of the tag-team champions, Chris Raynor, in a strap match against SWF newcomer Silent, in what is sure to be one of the more brutal matches we’ve witnessed…”

”Not as brutal as Silent’s hardcore match with Z last week, Mark. I still can’t get over that Union Jack onto the chair that the Silent One delivered after bouncing Z’s head off the canvas with that Falling From Grace powerbomb! Fantastic stuff, Stevens!”

Mark Stevens chooses to take the high road and ignore Riley’s obscene grin as he discusses Silent’s manhandling of the littlest Carnie. “Edwin talked Chris Raynor out of facing Silent on Storm immediately after Ground Zero, but as our commissioner so eloquently stated, Raynor’s taken all the Silent crap he can stands, and he can’t stands no more!”

Just as Stevens finishes his sentence, the lights throughout the Coliseum suddenly fade out, and the familiar lightning-quick beats of Front Line Assembly’s “Retribution (Front 242 Remix)” hit the speakers. A cloud of white fog begins to billow out from the backstage area as a gigantic Chinese character appears on the Smarkstron…

…The character for “Retribution”…

“Ladies and gentlemen, introducing first…he hails from Phoenix, Arizona…weighing in at two hundred and forty-eight pounds, he is a representative of the Clan…SIIIIIIIIIIIILENT!”

”Retribution” blasts ever-faster across the SWF’s sound system as the Silent One glides through the curtains, sunglasses reflecting the seizure-inducing strobe lights, trenchcoat trailing behind him, leaving wisps of white smoke in its wake. The Slaughterer seems more arrogant than ever, sliding into the ring and sliding his coat off of his massive shoulders in one fluid motion. The camera gets a tight shot of the now-familiar “NO SALVATION” tattoo on his back as he hands his coat and cane to Matthew Kivell, who winces as he reaches to take the Slaughterer’s ring attire from him.

“I’m still shocked at what Silent did to the One-Letter Wonder after their Smarkdown match, Riley,” says Stevens as the house lights come back up and “Retribution” fades away. Silent reclines in the corner nearest the announce table, a bored expression on his face, as Kivell attaches the 10-foot leather strap to his left wrist. “I’m genuinely concerned for Raynor’s well being at this point. Edwin obviously had a good reason for talking his tag-team partner out of his first match with Silent…but Raynor’s got to be sore still from that hellacious WarGames match at Ground Zero. You know that the Silent One is well aware of that, Riley, and you also know he’ll do his damnedest to exploit Raynor’s injuries here on Storm.”

”First off, Mark, Edwin’s ‘good reason’ for having Raynor run away from the Clansman is pride. He doesn’t want to be shown up by his stablemate! Second, if Raynor can match Silent’s brutality with that leather strap, which he IS allowed to do, I might add, I think he has a chance. The question is whether or not he’ll be able to focus on this match and get the job done quickly…because if he loses, he’ll still be attached to the Silent One for a short time…or maybe a long time, if Chris Raynor proves unable to deal with this newest threat to his no-so-fearless leader.”

The Nassau Coliseum’s light go out for a second time as Kivell finishes securing the strap around the Silent One’s wrist. There is a brief pause…

…Before Everclear’s “Electra Made Me Blind” hits the speakers, and the New York crowd pops huge for the entrance of the Carnival’s own Chris Raynor! White spotlights blink on and off across the entrance ramp and the stage as Funyon raises the microphone to his lips.

“Introducing second…he hails from Baton Rouge, Louisiana…weighing in at two hundred and fifty pounds, he is representing the Midnight Carnival…CHRIS…RAAAAAAAAAAAAAYNNNNNNORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

Art Alexakis screams, “YEAH!” over the sound system.

The New York crowd screams, “CHRIS!…SMASH!”

Blue pyrotechnics explode up and down the entrance ramp, drowning out a random cynical comment from Bobby Riley, as Chris Raynor makes his way through the curtains. He removes his jersey with one quick motion…trying not to wince as he extends his right shoulder…and hurls it out into the crowd, a genuine smile on his face as the Nassau Coliseum cheers on and on for his entrance.

“What is Raynor thinking right now, Riley?” ‘Grand Slam’ wonders aloud as the Carnival’s most lovable crowd whore climbs through the ropes. “You know he’s injured, you know he’s angry. Silent is one hell of a psychologist when it comes to that ring….what is going through the Carnie’s mind right now?”

Silent walks towards the center of the ring, a smile on his scarred face, as Kivell begins to attach the strap to Raynor’s right wrist. The camera gets a close-up of Raynor’s face…

“He looks a little..out there tonight, Mark. I wonder what he’s thinking?…”

====================================================

“Silent,” continues Edwin, scrambling for words, “he’s not a nice fellow, all right? If you can keep him wrestling, if you can keep it clean, you can beat him-anyone could beat him if they could manage to control him. But if you let him fly off the handle, if you let him get brutal the way he can…

It is over, Alex...”

====================================================

Something flares up in the eyes of Chris Raynor…and he gives the leather strap around his wrist a mighty tug, pulling a very surprised Silent One awkwardly forward into a vicious short-arm clothesline! Matthew Kivell barely ducks out of the way of the Caveman’s quick lariat and motions for the bell!

**DING DING**

“Wow!” exclaims Riley as Raynor stomps away on the exposed ribs of Silent, the crowd cheering every sharp kick the Carnie plants on the chest of his opponent. “I don’t remember the last time we saw that kind of hot opening from the Rayn Man, Stevens! I think he’s bringing his A-game tonight, people!”

”That’s true, Riley; something’s lit a fire underneath Chris Raynor,” muses Mark Stevens. Raynor stops kicking the Clansman suddenly, looks around for a moment…then his eyes settle on the loose length of leather that connects him to his opponent. The Carnie snatches the rest of the strap, doubles it up in his left hand…

THWAP!

“Woo-hoo! Look at the Caveman go!” hollers Riley. A thin red gash is visible on Silent’s back as he rolls onto the apron, looking to escape Raynor’s onslaught. The tag-team champion flails wildly at the Silent One, the strap getting the slightest bit tangled in the ropes. Silent quickly stands on the apron as Raynor moves to retrieve his weapon, shutting out the burning sensation that emanates from his back, and wraps his hands around the back of Chris Raynor’s head! Using his bit of the leather strap for extra leverage, the Silent One hops backwards off of the apron, guillotining the Caveman on the top rope!

“Ah, erm, yes. That detached perspective of Silent’s beats hot-headed aggression every time,” stutters Riley, striving in vain to cover up his early enthusiasm for Raynor’s offensive flurry. As the Carnival’s own crowd whore struggles for breath, the Slaughterer climbs back onto the apron. He smiles briefly at the crowd on the opposite side of the ring, drawing a fresh chorus off boos from the New York fans, before he leaps onto the top rope, balances, and leaps off, driving his left leg into the throat of Chris Raynor! The Silent One covers, looking to end the match early…

ONE!

TWO!

And Chris Raynor easily kicks out, drawing a substantial pop in the process.

”How in the hell does he do that? Silent weighs almost as much as Chris Raynor…no matter how much you might detest him as a person, you’ve got to be impressed with such uncanny agility in a man his size.”

”Silent is a student of the game, Stevens, first and foremost. He can wrestle any style, if he chooses to. It’s just a matter of what’s appropriate at the time. That move, for example, is called “Angel’s Wings”.”

“How do you know that, Riley?”

”Can’t tell you, Mark. I’d have to kill you.”

A frustrated Mark Stevens sighs as Silent wraps the leather strap around Chris Raynor’s arms, cinching in a strap-assisted full nelson. The Slaughterer pulls back hard on the strap, forcing his opponent to his knees, and Silent plants a large black boot square in the middle of Raynor’s back, increasing his leverage.

“Full-nelson standing surfboard, and that has got to be hurting Raynor’s back. Riley, you saw the punishment that was inflicted on Chris Raynor in that WarGames match. He has to be sore, if not injured. I wouldn’t be surprised, or even disappointed in Chris, if Silent managed to win this match via submission.”

”I’m not so sure about that, Mark,” mutters Riley. The camera cuts back to the ring, where Raynor is slowly but surely making his way to his feet, despite Silent’s best efforts to prevent it. “I’m one of Silent’s biggest fans here in the SWF, but it looks to me like Raynor’s got it in for him tonight.”

“I certainly hope you’re right about that, Riley.”

”I am, Mark. Look at your monitor.”

But ‘Grand Slam’ doesn’t really need to; the cheers from the New York audience are indication enough of the action in the ring. Raynor has made it to his feet, and he’s beginning to turn towards Silent…who yanks back hard on the leather strap, using the full nelson to pull Raynor back to the mat. Caveman Chris lands with a crash, and Silent covers with a lateral press…

ONE!

TWO!

Raynor’s right shoulder shoots up off the mat. Frustrated, Silent pushes his opponent’s arm back down.

ONE!

TWO!

Raynor gets his right shoulder off the mat once again. “That’s Raynor’s injured arm, Riley. He’s pissed at Silent, and he wants to throw him off his game, but he really should be smarter about it…”

The Silent One seems to concur with Stevens’ assessment. He puts both his hands on Raynor’s extended right arm, leaps into the air, and drives his knee into Raynor’s extended elbow. The Carnie looses an involuntary yell as Silent covers once again…

ONE!

TWO!

Raynor rolls off of his left shoulder and out of the cover, the Slaughterer’s full nelson falling apart as he does so.

“Silent doesn’t make the same mistake twice, Stevens! Raynor would do well to remember that in the future!”

Grabbing a handful of his opponent’s hair, Silent pulls Raynor to his feet and grabs his right arm. Twisting it around once and giving it a sharp tug, Silent sends Raynor barreling across the ring with an Irish whip…but Raynor spins around and reverses it! Before the Silent One can reach the ropes, however, the taciturn half of the tag-team champions gives the leather strap a sharp yank, pulling Silent back before he can ricochet off the ropes and sending him crashing to the canvas!

”Creative use of the strap stipulation,” notes Mark as Raynor picks his opponent up and whips him into the turnbuckle. Caveman Chris climbs onto the turnbuckle to deliver his trademark right hands…

====================================================

Raynor looks up, sullen. “I don’t know, Z. If Edwin didn’t want me to fight him, there’s gotta be a reason…there better be a reason.” Raynor sighs. “Just do your best, all right? We’ll be here for you, no matter what happens.”

”No matter what happens…”

====================================================

Raynor pauses for a long moment, looking down at the expressionless face of the Slaughterer…then dismounts the turnbuckle. “What the hell is he doing?!? He has to keep on him if…OH! Okay!” squeals an overly excited Bobby Riley, as Raynor doubles up the strap one more time. The crowd picks up on Raynor’s idea, and takes to it with gusto and intensity!

”ONE!” THWAP!

”TWO!” THWAP!

”THREE!” THWAP!

”FOUR!” THWAP!

”FIVE!” THWAP!

”SIX!” THWAP!

”SEVEN!” THWAP!

”EIGHT!” THWAP!

”NINE!” THWAP!

”TEN!” THWAP!

Three red welts are clearly visible on Silent’s chest as he falls out of the corner, and a thin trickle of blood wells up from one of them as Raynor raises both arms high, a fire burning in his eyes that the Nassau Coliseum responds to like never before! The Rayn Man picks the Clansman up off the mat and wraps the leather strap around his neck, then pushes him back against the ropes. Raynor throws both of Silent’s arms over the top rope, grabs hold of the strap, and leaps over the apron onto the floor!

”Quite the innovative choke hold from Chris Raynor!” yells Mark Stevens as the Silent One struggles for breath. The crowd cheers him madly on as Raynor pulls the strap even harder over his left shoulder, almost pulling Silent out of the ring in the process!

“I’m not sure who to cheer for here, Mark! Silent is, well, Silent, but Raynor’s bringing the violence tonight like I’ve never seen him before!”

”That’s true, Riley, but he’s not FOCUSED like Silent is. He’s got no plan…I don’t think he’s really got his head in the game here, as strange as that sounds. I think he sees Edwin, I think he sees Chris Wilson, and if I know Chris Raynor at all, then I’m positive he’s still seeing Z’s head denting that steel chair when Silent Union Jacked him through it…but does he really see who he’s in the ring with right now?”

As if adding an exclamation point to Stevens’ observation, Silent backflips out of the ring, releasing the pressure on his beleaguered throat. As his feet touch the ground, he instinctively grabs a front facelock…and drives Chris Raynor’s forehead into the all-too-thin mats at ringside with a desperation DDT! Scattered chants of “HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT!” break out around the ring as Kivell begins the ten-count…

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Five…

Six…

Silent groggily gets to his feet, shaking off the effects of Raynor’s strapping, pulls the Caveman Carnie up along with him, and rolls him back into the ring. Kivell stops the count at seven as Silent rolls into the ring, pulling the length of the strap along with him. Briefly at a loss for offense, the Slaughterer opts for a simple, yet effective, armbar on Raynor’s injured right arm.

“Now the dissection of Chris Raynor begins!” cackles Riley as Chris Raynor grits his teeth through the considerable pain in his right arm and shoulder and begins to inch towards the ropes. “If Raynor’s arm wasn’t injured before, it’s going to get injured now. If Raynor can’t lift Silent for the Acid Rayn…I sincerely doubt he has anything else in his arsenal that can put the Slaughterer away, Mark.”

Raynor extends his left arm, reaching desperately for that life-saving bottom rope…but Silent sees his victim closing on that rope, and quickly pulls the Carnie back towards the center of the ring, transitioning from the armbar to a short-arm scissors, making it more difficult for the Rayn Man to inch his way to freedom.

The ring mics pick up a snippet of the in-ring dialogue between Silent, Chris Raynor, and the referee…

“Ask him…Kivell….”

”Raynor? Chris Raynor! Do you want to submit?”

”Urgh…AHHHHH!…NO!…erm….DAMN IT!”

With a tremendous yell, the cheers of the fans, and no small amount of effort, Chris Raynor literally heaves himself to the right, rolling Silent towards the ropes. The Silent One puts his feet down, stopping his opponent’s momentum…but not soon enough, for the Carnie just BARELY manages to hook the bottom rope with his feet!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

A little disgusted with himself for not countering Raynor’s desperate bid for freedom, the Silent One releases the short-arm scissors at the four-count, leaving Raynor on the mat to clutch at his right shoulder. The Slaughterer backs away from his opponent at Kivell’s insistence…and notices that the leather strap is wrapped around Raynor’s injured arm. A devilish grin spreads across the face of the Clansman as he wraps the leather tighter around his left arm.

“I think Silent just noticed something, Riley…”

Silent backs away from Kivell, both his arms raised, ignoring the blood streaming down one of the welts Raynor opened on his chest…and suddenly, he jerks the strap towards him! Raynor’s right shoulder lurches towards the opposite side of the ring and painfully away from its socket, and the Rayn Man howls in pain as the crowd boos Silent’s newest tactic.

Silent pulls hard on the strap once, twice, three times more, pulling Raynor ever closer to him with each harsh tug of the leather. “There’s nothing Kivell can do about this newest attack, Stevens, even if he wanted to. That strap is just as legal as a headlock in this match, as Raynor is fast discovering.”

Having drawn his opponent into the center of the ring, Silent drops to his stomach next to Chris Raynor and latches on a Fujiwara Armbar! Raynor screams in pain as Silent pulls back with all his might on the elbow and shoulder of the Carnie. “Silent used to use that armbar as a submission finisher in the ML, Riley. He knows exactly how much pressure to exert, and just where he can best exert it. If Raynor doesn’t break that hold, we may be watching the end of this match right here.”

The Slaughterer laughs-laughs!- as Raynor screams his denials at Kivell, who checks the Carnie religiously for a submission. Silent brings his legs up and around Raynor’s arm, keeping the pressure on the shoulder, and moves his hands up to his opponent’s face and neck, cinching in a variation on the crossface hold. “Silent’s technical acumen coming to the forefront here…Raynor needs to find a way out of that hold!”

Kivell asks Raynor once again if he’s going to give in…

=====================================================

“He didn’t want you to look better than him!” screams Wilson. “Don’t you understand?!”

Raynor starts to get angry.

=====================================================

Raynor begins to get angry.

“Do you submit? Chris Raynor, do you submit?”

====================================================

“Christ, man…” Wilson continues. It’s what I’ve been saying all along. Why do you think Edwin didn’t save you in the cage? Tyler had you in the armbar, you were in the flames, and what was Edwin doing? Edwin was trying to break Deathwish’s ankle-“

”To win the match…”

=====================================================

“Raynor? Do you submit? Raynor?”

”No…”

====================================================

“-instead of saving you! Thoth had just taken out Taylor and Frost. All Edwin had to do was save you, and it was going to be a dissection of Deathwish. But what did he do? He went for the win. The glory. He wanted every one to know how goddamn good he was.

“And it failed…”

====================================================

“Chris…is going…to smash…”

With a powerful shrug of his good shoulder, Raynor rips Silent’s arms away from his face! The New York crowd pops big as the Carnie quickly slides his right arm out of Silent’s grasp and rolls to his feet, rage burning in his eyes as he faces the Slaughterer in the ring! Silent stands, trying to take in his surroundings and assess the situation, but his calculations are interrupted by Chris Raynor, who plants a size-fifteen boot smack against the Clansman’s temple! The crowd cheers him on as Raynor, injured shoulder and all, climbs to the top of the nearest turnbuckle…

“What’s Raynor doing, Mark? His shoulder’s injured, his back is hurting, and the top rope is not exactly a good place for him to be right now!”

”He’s not thinking clearly right now, Riley! He’s thinking about bashing Silent’s arrogant face in!”

Raynor stands perched atop the turnbuckle as Silent lies flat on the canvas, trying to remember where, exactly, he is at the moment. Raynor points with both hands at his prone adversary and barks, at the top of his lungs…

“CHRIS! SMASH! PUNK-ASS! SILENT!”

The crowd roars its approval, and the cameras light up the Nassau Coliseum as Raynor flies through the air in his lumbering, caveman way, before planting his elbow dead center in Silent’s exposed chest!

…his…right elbow.

Whoops.

Raynor lies on the mat in a considerable amount of pain as Silent rolls out of the ring to recuperate. “Raynor landed that big elbow drop perfectly, but he used the wrong arm to do it! I’m not sure who got the better end of that exchange…”

”I’m sure, Mark, and I’m sure it was Silent! If his match with Z was any indication, Silent can withstand an enormous amount of punishment! Remember that suicide dive he missed? Did it faze him in the slightest? No! And if Raynor can’t follow up on that big move he just landed, all he really did was help his opponent further injure that right shoulder!”

Raynor stands slowly, spurred on by the fans more than anything else, and he approaches the ropes, looking for the Silent One…a flash of black appears on the camera, and Raynor falls backwards in the ring, clutching his forehead in pain! A winded Silent rolls back in, a devious smile on his face, as he begins lashing Raynor’s chest and back with the leather strap.

THWAP!

“Can we get a replay of…Raynor’s mishap, please?” asks Stevens as Silent pulls Raynor to his feet. On the Smarkstron, a replay of a few moments ago…shows Silent clocking Chris Raynor with the business end of that steel-tipped cane, out of referee Matthew Kivell’s view! “That cheating bastard!” hollers Mark Stevens as Silent cinches Raynor up from behind, looking for a Dragon Suplex…

…And the Slaughterer doubles over in pain himself, as Raynor yanks the leather strap up off the ground, delivering a particularly chafing low blow!

”Talk about your cheating bastards!” sniffles Riley, having finally decided on a favorite in the match.

“I’m sorry, Riley. Which of us pointed out earlier that that strap is ‘as legal as a headlock in this match’? Was that me?”

”Shut up, Mark. Just shut up, please.”

Stevens sits back, momentarily satisfied, as Raynor turns to the momentarily incapacitated Silent One. He raises one arm high, drawing a pop from the New York crowd-who senses that the end of the match is near- and cinches Silent up for a vertical suplex…

“This could be the Acid Rayn! I’ve yet to see a man kick out of this devastating move, Riley, and I don’t think Silent will be the first!”

Chris Raynor lifts Silent high above his head…and his right arm gives out, allowing the Silent One to roll out of the move in mid-air and land on his feet, cat-like, on his opponent’s right. Raynor clutches his shoulder, obviously nursing some sort of injury, and turns just in time…

…

…To duck a Burning Lariat from his opponent! Before Silent can recover, Raynor grabs ahold of him from behind, looking for a German suplex! Silent counters with an elbow strike, then another, then another, he turns, looks for an STO…

…But Raynor blocks it! The Rayn Man tries for Acid Rayn once again, but Silent blocks the lift…and responds with a leather strap low blow of his own! “No, no! HE CAN’T LOSE THIS MATCH!” screams Mark Stevens, and the crowd collectively groans as Silent thrusts Raynor’s head between his legs, lifts him up…and drives him down…

THUD.

“Raynor just took the Fall From Grace!” yells Riley as Silent makes the cover. “That has got to be all!”

ONE!

TWO!

…Three.

**DING DING**

”Your winner via pinfall…….SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILENT!”

“Retribution (Front 242 Remix)” hits the speakers, and a massive wave of boos hits the ring as Silent stands, eyes afire with his second SWF victory. Kivell detaches the leather strap from the Slaughterer…who promptly snatches Funyon’s microphone.

“What the hell does he want now?”

”I think you and I both know the answer to that, Mark.”

”Cut my music…” whispers the Silent One, and the crowd freezes.

Everybody knows what happens now.

“We…aren’t…finished…”

August 10, 2002

All righty, here we go.

Criticisms: one possible thing that could have worked against you was the long intro. I'm one to talk about long introduction sequences, but Raynor's match got to the wrestling more quickly. I thought the hype, storyline refresher, and so on that you set for the match in that opening was fantastic though, so I don't know what I would cut. What I always say when it comes to editing is the old motto, "kill your darlings." I sliced a really good opening match promo out of my match, a promo I loved...but it was 150 words, and it wasn't *totally* necessary. Might have to do some of that in the future. This was a bit of a constant throughout the match, with a lot of comments and explanation, but not as much focus on the actual wrestling...honestly, as a writer I *really* liked your balance, but I can understand how a marker might look for more wrestling sequences.

I wouldn't have included the flashbacks to the Smarkdown promo with Edwin and Z, because although it really summed up Raynor's strategy and emotions, they somewhat broke the flow of the match. Another really tough call...it could go either way, really.

Sidenote: the flashbacks DID have the amusing effect of creating this sentence in my mind: "To win the match...Chris is going to smash."

Raynor had a better focus on the injury throughout his match--it was a constant thing, whereas yours was more interjected when appropriate. Still done really well, but his was done just about flawlessly. Smart that both of you made that a big focal point, though. Raynor also may have used the stipulation a little better--he made it so that the strap was what was keeping him alive, and what eventually got him the win. In your match, it was less...crucial, I guess? Raynor hyped the strap better, and his chokes/takedowns/reversals using it came off a little better because of it.

Your match had a wonderful sense of background, history, and subtle tensions, but it's tricky: when you're writing the cold calculating heel, the subtle wear-down throughout the whole match has to lead to the climax. Raynor had the face's advantage of being able to play underdog and have his surprise choke-out of Silent at the end have a lot of kick to it, whereas, unfortunately, the steady grueling assault that finally leads to victory just isn't as exciting on paper.

I've only highlighted the potential flaws cause that's all you really asked, but this match was also frickin' great. The stip might have worked against you--I think you do best in pretty straight-up singles wrestling, OR really, really big stips, like Hell-in-the-Cell, stuff like that. I don't know which match I personally like better, and I'd go back and try to figure it out...

...but xXx is showing at 12:05, and I'll be damned if I'm not gonna go laugh my ass off. Bwa.

August 10, 2002

I had no chance. I want more words next time!

---

*** Deep inside the Big Apple, The Nassau Coliseum is rocking with one match already under its belt. ***

Stevens: Coming up next, it's a battle of XF9 against the Magnificent Seven!

Riley: That's right, Slam Dunk. These two men; Tod deKindes and the Icelandic Monster known as Frost, they've had a brutal feud during their days in the Junior Leagues. It first stemmed from mere contempt for one another, but then it evolved into competing for the attention of one Sydney Sky.

Stevens: Now, hold on a minute. If I recall, it was actually Frost who developped feelings for Miss Sky, whereas Tod was trying to warn her about what kind of character Frost can be!

Riley: Come on, he's a gentleman!

Stevens: … You know that's not true, Bobby. Nonetheless, these two men have not seen eye to eye for a long time, and ever since last week they've been itching to go at it!

Riley: That's a big mistake, Slammer! Like all the rest of XF9, Tod thinks with his fists rather than his head, and it's caused him to make a rash decision, such as challenging Frost to a one on one contest here tonight. Now you got an angry Icelandic monster and he sees nothing but German in his sights.

Stevens: The match is coming up right now, so let's take you to the ring.

…

*** As Mark Hebner tests the ropes for tightness, Funyon raises up the microphone and speaks. ***

Funyon: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is set for ONE fall! Introducing first, the participants…

*** As Blue Oyster Cult's "Cities On Flame With Rock & Roll" fires up, the crowd respons to the retro tune with a shower of boos. ***

Funyon: First, from Reykjavik, Iceland, weighing in at 296 lbs, he is a member of the Magnificent Seven … The Iceman from Iceland … Frrrrrrroooooooosssssssstt!!

*** As the lighting shows no considerable changes in effect, the big man walks out onto the ramp and strides down with a purpose, throwing random looks of disdain at the crowd. He steps onto the ring apron and Diesels over the top rope, contenting himself with a single raised fist pose, as the crowd lets him know how much they don't like him. As he stretches in the ropes, his music dies down, allowing Funyon to finish up. ***

Funyon: And his opponent…

*** As the XF9 logo flashes on the Smarktron, the lights make way for a blinding series of strobelights and smoke, allowing Slipknot's "I Am Hated" to fire up on the speakers. Before Funyon can begin the intro, Tod already powerwalks out onto the stage, obeying his theme song's violent rhythm. He stops short, however, looking out at the crowd. He turns his head sideways, eyeing the entrance way. Out walks a long pair of legs… ***

Riley: What is she doing here??!

Stevens: It's their manager, Bobby!!

Funyon: Accompanied by Sarah Leavenworth, they are members of the X Force Nine! From Muenchen, Germany, weighing in at 227 lbs … Tod … deeeeeee Kin deeeeeeeessss!!

*** With Sarah close behind, Tod resumes his way down the ramp, as Frost conveys Bobby Riley's displeasure of seeing Sarah to the referee. Tod slides under the ropes, parts them for Sarah to enter, and then hops up onto the second turnbuckle to let out a mighty roar to the fans. As Sarah claps in approval, Tod gets face to face with his larger opponent. ***

Stevens: Lots of bad blood between these two, but now that Tod has brought out Sarah Leavenworth with him; the newest member of XF9, might I add; who knows how that will play out in this contest!

Riley: I smell a rat, Slamball…A filthy disgusting rat.

***As Sarah collects Tod's trenchcoat and silver shades, she also takes her place at ringside while Hebner orders each men to a corner and rings the bell. ***

…

*** They come out strong with a lock up. Frost quickly pushes his smaller opponent back on his ass, causing him to do an involuntary backward roll. Tod is quickly up, as Sarah shouts some encouragements. Tod ducks under a second lock up attempt and comes back with a series of right hands! Frost is dutifully staggered, allowing Tod to send the big man into the ropes with an Irish whip … but it's reversed by Frost. Tod ducks under a huge clothesline and then under a back elbow. Tod bounces off the ropes for a third time and connects with a HUGE flying forearm that flew almost halfway over the ring. Frost is knocked down from the blow by he's quick to his feet. He lunges at Tod with a huge right hand, but Tod blocks it and turns it into an arm wrench. Frost counters with his own arm wrench, but Tod is quick to re-counter with a move dubbed the Owen Hart Flippy Floppy Reversal by this writer. Tod grabs a headlock out of the whole ordeal. ***

Stevens: Tod is on his game tonight, he's all over the big man!

*** Tod spins around, turning the headlock into a rear hammerlock. Not one to be pushed around like that with a simple armbar, Frost backs up with force into a corner, squishing the german one into a pancake. ***

Riley: Incoming!!

*** Frost shakes off the effects that the move could've caused to his previously barred arm, but he recovers and sends Tod to the opposite corner with an Irish whip. Frost charges blindly with his head down, but Tod moves out of the way with a RVD'esque forward roll and then launches himself into the ropes. He comes off with a solid Kitchen Sink in Frost's midsection, doubling him over. Tod throws himself into the ropes, connecting with a huge swinging neckbreaker. He bounces off the ropes one more time and lands a nasty looking kneedrop on the side of the head. Cover. ***

*One!*

*Two!*

*** Frost powers out by lifting Tod two feet off the mat. Tod maintains control with a series of quick elbow drops on the downed big man. Frost is quick to his feet, however but Tod stays on him with a gutshot and a big vertical suplex (in lieu of his usual snap suplex). Tod holds onto the move, strains back to his feet and drops the big man for a second time with a front suplex. Still holding onto the move, Tod lifts up the Icelander for a third time … and drops him stomach first across the top rope. He goes to the apron, no doubt in hopes of connecting with his springboard legdrop. He hops up to the ropes, leaps off … but he's caught by the throat!! ***

Riley: He's got him!!

Stevens: Oh no!!!

*** With what is sure to be a chokeslam over the ropes to the outside, Tod quickly tries to fight out of the hold with quick right hands to Frost's head. He finally snaps the big man's head off the top rope to finally break free from his goozle. Big shoulderblock from Tod doubles Frost over. Tod launches himself in the ropes and comes back sailing over the big man with a BIG sunset flip powerbomb attempt to the outside. Seeing as Frost won't move from the apron, Tod simply yanks his legs out from under him, causing Frost to hit his face on the apron. As Mark Hebner fires up the 10 count, Tod smashes Frost's head on the steel guardrail. Loud (1) knife edge chops cause the fans to woo in unison, as Frost staggers (2) out holding his chest. Tod comes (3) back at him with a solid forearm behind the back. He grabs (4) Frost by the head and smashes his face right against the announce table, startling our (5) commentators. ***

Riley: Watch it!!!

Stevens: They're right by (6) us and it can only get uglier!

Riley: Sure, with (7) you around…

*** As Hebner barely hits 8, Tod throws his much larger opponent back in the ring, and follows him in there himself. Irish whip attempt by Tod is blocked, as Frost grabs a firm hold of the rope, and he ain't going nowhere. Tod looks at him as if saying: "Man, he's strong!" whereas Frost looks at him as if saying: "That's enough out of YOU, little man!". While Mark Hebner looks at both as if saying: "Man, that guy's strong", the guy at ringside thinks about buying a beer. That aside, Frost takes over as he reverses the Irish whip into the ropes. He catches Tod off the ropes with an amazing military press slam, holding him up for about 30 seconds. ***

Stevens: Look at that power!

Riley: He's doing reps with him!!

*** Instead of plainly dropping him to the mat or slamming him on his back, he drops him face first on the top turnbuckle. ***

Stevens: And there's a modified Snake Eyes, if you will…

*** Frost quickly charges and connects with a BIG splash in the corner, driving all the air out of the german one. He raises up his right hand…and comes crashing down on Tod's chest with a LOUD open handed chop that nearly gives Tod a heart attack. ***

Riley: WOO!! Do it again!!

*** Frost complies, chopping Tod's chest to meat with another mighty swipe. ***

Riley: WOO!!

Stevens: Quit it.

*** Frost raises up his boot and jams it against Tod's throat, choking him in the corner, also drawing Hebner's five count. He releases his chokehold, opting to Irish whip Tod all the way to the opposite corner. Tod staggers forward from the impact and falls to his knees. ***

Stevens: Look at that, Frost is looking to absolutely DISMANTLE Tod deKindes in the early going! When you're the size of a man like Frost, that's pretty much all the strategy you need.

Riley: As opposed to his opponent…

*** Frost tries to yank up Tod to his feet by the hair, but Tod grabs his opponent's leg tight. ***

Riley: There!! See? He's trying to go for that leg again! That's Tod's big strategy! When all else fails, he tries to take out the leg like a COWARD instead of fighting his opponent like a MAN!

*** Frost swats away Tod with a big forearm to the upper back. ***

Stevens: I'd like to see YOU go in there and try against that mountain of a man!!

Riley: Shyeah, RIGHT!

*** Irish whip to the ropes by Frost. Tod ducks a clothesline and a back elbow, but he then falls victim to a vicious spinning back fist. Tod hits the mat, as Frost lies on top of him for the cover. ***

*One!*

*Two!*

*** Kick out by Tod. Frost quickly yanks him up to his feet and slams him back down with a gutwrench suplex. Tod tries to shake the cobwebs loose as he gingerly attempts to get up to his feet. Frost keeps treating Tod like his bitch, as he hammers him mercilessly with vicious knees to the midsection. Irish whip attempt to the opposite corner by Frost, but it's reversed! Frost hits the turnbuckle hard. Still a little groggy, Tod charges with a half assed attempt at a spear, but Frost backdrops him clear over the turnbuckles and all the way outside! ***

Stevens: Out he goes!!

Riley: Look at the height on THAT!! He went higher than Funyon during his free time!!

*** As the crowd oohs and aahs with semi terror at Tod's aerial trip, Frost yells at Tod to get up, rather than to go outside and grab him for himself. While Miss Sarah goes over to check on Tod, Mark Hebner's outside count reaches four and growing. Sara helps up Tod to his feet, as Frost has an argument with the official. Tod uses that split second to his advantage as he gently shoves Sarah aside, grabs both of Frost's massive legs and yanks him against the ring post!! ***

Riley: Hey COME ON!! Frost is a man with needs!!! You leave his …goods…alone!! Get in there, referee!!

*** Tod grabs Frost's left knee, yells out a rallying roar to the crowd…and SMASHES his knee right against the ring post. Frost screams in pain… ***

Stevens: And there's the offense on that knee!! When you got a bad wheel, that power advantage is cut in HALF, Bobby!

Riley: Desperate men do desperate things, Slam Jam…

*** Hebner interrupts his count to warn Tod about doing nasty things like that, but Tod doesn't even hear him as he absolutely BASHES Frost's knee against the ring post once again. As Tod rolls back inside the ring under advisement of Sarah, Frost tries to crawl up to his feet. While Hebner scolds Tod for the questionnable tactics with the ring post, Sarah rolls up her sleeve and SLAPS Frost right across the mouth! ***

Stevens: Did you hear that!!

Riley: HEY!! She's got NO business getting involved in this thing!!

*** That has done nothing but to wake up a sleeping giant, as the now fuming Frost reaches outside the ring and grabs Sarah by the hair. ***

Stevens: Wuh-oh.

Riley: That'll show her!! Get her, Frosty!!

*** Noticing his manager being womanhandled, Tod shoves Hebner aside and rams a solid forearm on Frost's back, releasing his grip on Sarah. He locks his arms around Frost in a rear waistlock and lifts him up, connecting with a HUGE german suplex. Tod tries to bridge into a pinning hold, but there's too much weight as Frost falls awkwardly to his left. Tod simply grabs his legs and rolls forward into a jackknife hold for the pin attempt. ***

*One!*

*Two!*

*** Kick out by Frost. Tod grabs Frost's left leg this time and drives a series of elbows right on the knee. He applies a legbar and tries to get a submission out of the big man, but he's not about to give up just yet. Tod releases the hold, as both men are now up. Thumb to the eye by Frost, who follows it up with an Irish whip attempt. It's reversed by Tod, however, but Frost has trouble running the ropes; as a limp manifests itself in his steps. Tod capitalizes on that by scooping up the big man and slamming him down to the mat. He points up to the skies and heads over to a corner, starting a steady climb of the turnbuckles. ***

Stevens: Tod deKindes, going up top…

Riley: Yeah, thanks for stating the obvious!

*** As Tod has 'swanton bomb' in his mind, Frost starts gingerly getting up to his feet. Seeing the change in developpment, Tod thinks "I'll just do a crossbody, then.", which is exactly what he does. He leaps off … but he's caught! Frost moves Tod to the desired position, turning the imminent powerslam counter into a HUGE chokeslam!! ***

Stevens: Look at that power!! He caught him in mid air and turned it into a VICIOUS nasty chokeslam!!

*** Frost tries to shake off the pain in his left knee, and then leans on top of Tod with a lateral press for the cover. ***

*One!*

*Two!*

*Th-- …

*** Kick out by Tod, who staggers up to his feet and ends up backed into a corner. Frost hammers him on the side of the head with vicious elbows. Hard Irish whip to the opposite corner by Frost, as Tod collides chest first into the turnbuckles. He staggers all the way to center ring, back into Frost's grasp, as he scores with a vicious reverse DDT. Cover. ***

*One!*

*Two!*

*Th-- …

*** Kick out by Tod once again. Frost briefly tries to argue that count with Mark Hebner, but he's quick to return to the offense, despite the bum knee. Taking his sweet time, Frost picks up Tod by the hair and yanks him up to his feet. Irish whip to the ropes by Frost, as he catches Tod with a neat looking spinning sidewalk slam. He's a little slow to cover, which allows Tod to kick out as soon as the two is slapped on the mat. Frost is quick to contest THAT count, but the referee stands his ground. Both men back up. Irish whip reversal sequence leads to a gutshot by Frost on Tod. He hooks on the front facelock and tries to lift up Tod by the pants… ***

Stevens: Will we see the Ice Pick from the Iceland Monster?

Riley: If he hits this, it is OVER!!

*** Tod is a little reluctant to take the move, as he cleverly twists out of the front facelock… ***

Stevens: It's reversed!

*** …and comes back with a knee to the gut. Irish whip to the corner by Tod, as Frost collides hard back first into the padding. Tod charges and nails a HUGE corner spear, almost depriving the big man of his breath. He underhooks his opponent's large arms in hopes of his usual followup overhead belly to belly suplex, but it's blocked by Frost. He breaks free of Tod's hold, grabs him by the hair and pants, and then casually tosses him over the top rope… ***

Stevens: Back in my day, we'd get disqualified for doing that, Bobby!

Riley: ……SO??!

*** But Tod hangs on! He tries to skin the cat back in, but Frost limps over to catch him. Tod makes good use of his speed and wraps his legs around Frost's big neck, headscissoring him over the top rope and onto the floor! ***

Stevens: And both men go flying outside!

Riley: But Frost seems to have landed badly on that knee!

*** Tod is quickly on top of Frost, hammering away at him with a series of hard right hands. Meanwhile, Mark Hebner fires up the old ten count once again. Both men back up (1), still trading right hands. Tod gains the upper hand with a loud knife edge chop on the big (2) man. He goes for an Irish whip but it's reversed by Frost, who sends Tod crashing into the corner of the ring, dislodging (3) the steel steps in the process. Frost tries to walk off his injury (4), casting an evil glare towards Sarah Leavenworth in the process. He sees Tod slinking back up to his feet however, sprawled right against the ring post. He sees a good chance for a running (5) charge, even despite his injury. He applies a choke hold on Tod for good measure (6) and then backs up a few steps. He gazes at his opponent, releases a loud war cry as he (7) charges with all his might …

…

… but Tod moves and Frost hits nothing but post!! For some reason, Tod positions himself near the ring steps and dropkicks them with full force into the ring post, causing Frost to scream out as if his leg (8) was bitten off by jaws of steel. ***

Riley: NOOOO…!!

Stevens: As he ran into that ringpost, Frost's leg got stuck between the ring post and those steel steps, and this allowed Tod to take advantage!! Frost is in a WORLD of hurt now!!

Riley: And the referee's up to NINE!! COME ON, FROST!! GET BACK IN THE RING, COME ON!!!

*** Sarah seems to be screaming the same advice to Tod, who beats the count back inside the ring by a hair. ***

Stevens: He's got it, he's back in!!

*** Bell rings, as the crowd erupts. Funyon awaits for Slipknot's "I Am Hated" to start up before making it official … ***

Funyon: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this contest by count out … Tod - deeeeeee - Kiinnnn - deeeeeeeessssss !!!!!!!

Stevens: A big upset for the German Warrior and a HUGE win for XF9!!

*** While Sarah applauds her charge, Tod takes a bow in a corner with his mighty roar to the fans. The two XF9'ers retreat to the back, while referees and trainers attend to the injured Frost at ringside. ***

Riley: Sure, Tod deKindes got away with this one tonight, but you gotta wonder what condition is Frost in.

*** As we look on at ringside, Frost can be heard grumbling at the staff to get the hell away from him. Once the steel ring steps are safely removed, Frost is free to grab Mark Hebner by the shirt and yell at him for allowing a weakling to defeat him with a mere countout. ***

Stevens: Come on now, It's not Mark Hebner's fault!

Riley: He's tossing him into the ring!

*** Both men in the ring. Gutshot by Frost on Hebner. He hooks both arms and DRIVES him down with his double-underhook powerbomb. ***

Riley: EARLY WINTER ON MARK HEBNER!! That'll do him good…

*** Frost limps up the ramp, looking dejected… ***

Stevens: More action after this!

…

August 10, 2002

Silent. I don't know how you want the Silent character portrayed... but to me, that ending with Raynor, seemed like something you would do.

I mean you gave up the match to get to Edwin. Harming Raynor in the process.

I mean I liked the flow of his better, he kept his arm accurate, while you beat it down, it seemed to have nothing with the finish. You know?

August 11, 2002

Finally really got a chance to sit down today, and I'd love some feedback on this. I haven't read Edwin's yet, but I'm sure its his usual high quality, but I went really strong pychology wise in this match and thought it turned out well. Less drama, more wrestling. It was slightly rushed because of a weird turn of events writing, but any feedback is most certainly welcome. Now time to read the show indepth and predict. WHOOOOOSH!

“Welcome back to SWF STOOOOOORM!” booms “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens as we come back from commercial, a packed Nassau Coliseum waiting very impatiently for their main event. “What a packed card we’ve had tonight. Two title matches. A strap match. Hot tag action. And now we have our SWF World title up for grabs in the main event!”

“This is a huge main event!” marks Riley, the non-cynic inside of him coming out. “SWF Title. Three-way elimination. Three of the top stars in the league. Actually, they’re one through three in the rankings. This could be one of the biggest main events we’ve ever had on the show.”

“It would rank right up there, at least on paper,” agrees Stevens. “We’ve had 6-man tag matches between the Corporation and Phoenix Uprising, world title battle royals, Hell in a Cells. This one could take the cake, though, if these three men go to their ability.”

“No doubt they will,” assures Riley. “There’s not much more we can say, so let’s just send it up to Funyon.”

As the noble announcer stands in the ring with the ref, “Quarantined” by At-The Drive In kicks up as the normal arena lighting is replaced by a very dark blue ambience. The beat kicks in and the lights turn to a disturbing red, Thoth appearing on the entranceway in full Clan gear, his rope flowing from head to toe. He slowly starts to walk down the ramp, the crowd giving him a warm reception

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for your main event!” Mad pop. “The following contest is a three-way elimination match and is for the SWF World Championship! First, the challengers. Making his way to the ring weighing in at 236 pounds, he represents the Clan…THOOOOOOOOOTH!”

Thoth strides up the steps into the ring and climbs up onto the top turnbuckle. As the crowd continues to cheer for him, he takes off the robe and drops it to the floor, stagehands hurrying to get it out of the way as soon as it hits the floor. As he drops off of the turnbuckle, the crimson lights drop out, and a light fog starts to billow over the arena…

“Ah…..ah…ah……Ah……..ah…ah…..”

The crowd’s positive reaction to Thoth goes sour as they start to boo as loudly as they possibly can, a trench coated figure walking out onto the stage…

“I am the king of this city, top down, windows up…”

Chris Wilson stands on the stage for a moment, black from head to toe with the exception of his sparkling Oakleys, before slowly walking down the ramp. He looks up at Thoth, then out into the crowd, seemingly enjoying all of the animosity being directed towards him.

“And the second challenger…hailing from Miami, Florida and weighing in at 273 pounds, he is the leader of the Magnificent Seven….CHRIS WILSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!”

The crowd boos even louder with the announcement as Wilson calmly walks up the steel steps and slides between the top and middle ropes. He gives a sardonic smile to Thoth as he starts to disrobe, stuffing the accessories into his pockets as “Summer in the City” slowly dies down, being replaced by the eerie beginning of “Battleflag” beginning to drift through the arena. Again, the crowd’s emotions are on a switch as they rise up to their feet, cheering wildly as a heavy British accent comes across over the music.

”So this is what it has come too. Three men, three different backgrounds, three very different stables and more than three possibilities for outcomes here. But I’m going to make a promise to both of you men in the ring, and the SWF fans everywhere: You better watch out, because hallelujah, the devil’s in town, and he’s going to be bringing everything he can to keep his title.”

The music swells to a thick, bumping human beatbox as a pair of blue spotlights begin to swing back and forth across the entrance way, moving like pendulums in sync with the beat. The music makes its final swell and the spotlights break off their pendulous paths and spiral out into the arena, completely symmetrical in their ripping arc until they come back to the entrance stage and meet, a stuttering drumbeat echoing as they collide and send forth a wall of sudden purple strobe lights.

“I said hallelujah, to my…”

As the lyrics kick in, streaks of red and gold pyro erupt from the entrance ramp, prompting red and gold disco lights to whirl around the arena as the Crown Prince of Flash and Panache himself steps out into the spectacle, SWF Title around his waist and tag strap over his shoulder. Edwin slowly waltzes down the ramp, the audience showering him in adoration.

”And finally, your champion…” Louder cheering. “Weighing in at 239 pounds and hailing from Amsterdam, England, he represents the Midnight Carnival and is one half of the SWF Tag Team champions, YOUR SWF WORLD CHAMPION…..EDWIN MACPHIIIIIIIIIIISTO!”

Edwin sprints the last few feet of the ramp and tosses his red vinyl trench coat over the top rope. He slides in and grabs it, alternating glances between Wilson and Thoth and he takes off his belts and hands both them and the coat to the referee. He backs into a third corner as Wilson and Thoth lean calmly in theirs.

“It looks like all three men are ready,” observes Stevens as the ref signals for the bell…

DING DING DING!

“So let’s get it on!”

The three men pull themselves out of their respective corners and slowly begin to circle each other, a triangle of intensity with the referee right outside of it, awaiting his duties in this huge match up. Each man feigns an attack, and then backs off nearly as soon as they start. Edwin finally decides to make the first move, locking up with Wilson. He spins him into a side headlock, but it’s only in place momentarily before there is a flurry of stiff kicks scattered across both men by the Balancer. Edwin releases Wilson and takes a thrust uppercut to the jaw before Thoth spins and lashes a boot into Wilson’s gut that sends him reeling back.

“There are no allies in this match,” reminds Riley. “Thoth and Edwin hate Wilson significantly more than they hate each other, but any partnership they may have had is off when the SWF Title is on the line.”

“War makes strange bedfellows,” comments Stevens, “and heavyweight championship matches tend to unmake them rather quickly.”

Edwin recovers from the uppercut and throws a shotei out that catches Thoth right in his shoulder, followed by a second to the chest. Wilson takes a step forward, but Thoth and Edwin link hands and mow him down with a linked clothesline. Not releasing the champion, Thoth whips Edwin off of the ropes. As he rebounds, the Carnie is caught in an arm drag. Edwin isn’t done for but a moment before he kip ups and spins Thoth into a hammerlock. The Clansman elbows his way out and attempts to whip Edwin off of the ropes. It’s reversed and Thoth finds himself bouncing back at a leapfrogging Edwin. But as Thoth passes underneath, Wilson steps in and grabs Edwin out of mid-air, slamming him down to the mat with a sit-out powerbomb, the ref diving in to start his count.

ONE and barely that as Thoth comes off of the ropes and drives his knee into the back of Wilson’s head, breaking up the count rather promptly. He wraps his arm around Wilson’s throat and drags him up to his feet in a reverse facelock before dropping him down across an outstretched knee, Christian-style, for a modified backbreaker. As he rises to his feet, he looks up just in time to see the Doc Martens of the World Champ flying into his face, Thoth on the receiving end of a running dropkick.

“Red hot action to start this match,” exclaims Stevens. “These three men are just throwing down the gloves and taking it to each other. Thoth has already targeted Wilson’s back, learning from his experience on Monday, and it’s going to be interesting to see if Wilson goes for Thoth’s neck.”

“Of course he will!” assures Riley. “And if this pace keeps up, these three men will blow their wad in about three minutes. They’re not cruiserweights, Mark! They can’t keep this kind of pace up.”

“I was just saying that if they managed too, it would be one helluva match.”

“It will be anyway. You always ask for too much! Why can’t you just love me like I am?!”

Confusion reigns supreme at the announcers’ table. “What are you talking about?”

Riley sniffs. “Nothing…”

Edwin pulls Thoth up to his feet and whips him into the ropes, grabbing the rebounding Clannie and spinning him over with a powerslam. The pressure is never lowered on Thoth as he’s stood up and shoved away as Edwin sizes him up for a roundhouse kick. He flares out said kick, but the only problem is Thoth manages to easily catch it and Edwin’s at his mercy. Edwin’s mind makes an emergency towards the “Enziguri Exit” but before he reaches it, Thoth grabs him around his thigh and twirls him harshly down to the mat with a dragon screw leg whip. As the champion hits the mat, Thoth doesn’t release the hold on his leg, standing up and beginning to stomp away at the inside of this right leg. A quartet of kicks later, Thoth raises his elbow high into the air and drops it right into the same spot: Edwin’s right knee.

Thoth pulls himself up after the elbow and prepares to continue his offensive, but he finds himself being grabbed from behind and driven into the corner, a loud battle cry being let out by his attacker. Thoth manages to twist around to face Wilson, but there’s little time to react as an enraged Wilson grabs onto the second ropes and begins to drive his spear his shoulder repeatedly into Thoth’s gut. The referee quickly counts to five, trying to stop the viscous assault, and Wilson releases him. But as soon as Thoth steps out of the corner, it’s a kick to the gut and a single arm DDT, Wilson slapping Thoth on the way down to spiking his head off the canvas. His body shoots straight up and continues to fall over, Wilson covering. ONE

TWO and Thoth kicks out, but immediately clutches his neck in pain.

“You were actually right,” concedes Stevens as Wilson starts to rise. “He’s going right at Thoth’s neck, trying to re-injure it, this right after Thoth apparently showed his designs of breaking down Edwin’s leg. Speaking of Edwin, he’s coming at the two men who are trying to steal his title away. Wilson turns around and is latched onto, then taken over, with a stiff snap suplex from the champ.”

The move does more damage to Wilson’s back and Edwin knows it, standing Wilson up and pounding on the square of his back with some more stiff shots. Wilson stumbles towards the ropes, and as the referee checks on Thoth and pays no attention to the other two combatants, Wilson sends back a mule kick that catches Edwin square in the crotch and drops him to a heap on the canvas.

Wilson has Edwin’s leg and as he tries to trap him in a spinning toe hold, to set up the figure four, but as Wilson bends down he catches the sole of the champion’s foot to his face. He spins away, and right into a Northern lights suplex by Thoth! The suplex brides and Wilson finds his shoulders flat to the mat once again. ONE!

TWO!

T and he twists out, the ref halting the count. Edwin rises up to his feet as Thoth stands up, Wilson not able to do much in the way of anything. Edwin and Thoth, Carnie and Clannie, begin to trade hard, open-palmed blows to each other’s body. A scintillating shotei by Edwin catches Thoth in the face and nearly drops him, but he catches himself and in one fluid motion slides a kick out that catches Edwin in the right leg that drops him down to one knee, and another immediately following that flares up into his jaw and drops him back to the mat.

“Thoth showing off his educated feet,” praises Stevens as Thoth right himself, “and right now he’s going to continue his assault on the champion and his quasi-ally. Edwin starts to get up to his feet, and Thoth helps him the rest of the way, throwing him into the corner and working away at him with hard stomps. Thoth takes a step back, confident with this work, and motions for Edwin to come at him.”

“Thoth’s proud of the number he’s doing on Edwin, the number one guy in the fed, and he wants the champ to come to him now,” explains Riley. “Edwin obliges, taking a step out and immediately getting hammered with a hard clothesline. He bounces back up, slightly off balance, and Thoth comes raging at him with a second attack. But Edwin ducks it, grabs Thoth in a rear facelock and twists him down to the mat with Sound Check! He drapes an arm over the Clannie and the ref starts count. ONE!

TWO!

T and Thoth kicks out, his neck taking another attack.”

Edwin stands Thoth up and latches on a front facelock. With the crowd cheering his every move, he gathers his strength and lifts Thoth into the air, slowly spinning in a circle before dropping him right back down with a corkscrew brainbuster! Thoth’s head bounces off the mat, but Edwin isn’t done yet, keeping his hold tightly on. He stands up, dragging an unwilling Thoth with him, and lifts him into the air again. As he starts to twirl him around, Wilson comes charging at him with a wicked spear that catches Edwin square on. The results include Thoth getting dropped awkwardly down to the mat and Wilson pounding away with some hard right hands into the face of the champion.

The referee’s count is the only thing that stops Wilson attack and he stands back, a weary Edwin trying to work his way up. Wilson doesn’t give him the chance, slapping on a front facelock of his own and lifting Edwin the rest of the way up. As he reaches the highest altitude, Wilson starts to lose control and Edwin drops back down to the ramp. Edwin’s not quite as bad off as he’s letting on, and he uses the shift in momentum to pick Wilson up and plop him down on the top rope, holding on and crawling up on the second rope for some turnbuckle fun.

“A superplex would probably be the straw to break Wilson’s back,” suggest Stevens, “not to mention moves from the top of higher degrees of damage. Thoth’s recovered from the Sound Check and he baseball slides under the bottom rope and heads to the corner where Edwin has Wilson corralled. He grabs the Mac Daddy’s legs and yanks them out from under him, sending him plummeting back to the mat.”

“Thoth’s being extremely tenacious with his offense,” state Riley as Thoth takes the right leg of Edwin, pulls it back and-

CLANG!

-bounces it off of the ringpost! “Thoth is relentless as he repeatedly bangs that leg of Edwin off of the post. Eventually, he lies it across the second rope and hops up onto the apron. In one fluid motion, he hops over the top rope, makes a quarter turn and comes crashing down on Edwin’s outstretched knee with a leg drop!”

Thoth stands up and looks up at Wilson who’s getting quite unhappy with his perch. Thoth decides to help out, reaching up and grabbing Wilson under the arm and throwing him from the top to the mat with a powerful hip toss that shakes the entire ring and sends more pain reverberating through Wilson’s back. Edwin’s holds his knee close to him, having to deal with a throbbing pain of his own, and Thoth doesn’t hesitate to drag him away from the ropes, flip over and sit back with a very simple, yet dreadfully effective submission maneuver.

“Thoth’s got the half Boston crab locked in!” screams Stevens as the crowd cheers for Edwin to escape, “and he’s applying an insane amount of pressure to that leg of Edwin. Wilson looks up, obviously hurting but still trying to reach his feet, watching quietly and hoping that Thoth can eliminate the first person from the match.”

“Smart strategy by Wilson,” applauds Riley, “as always. Who cares about pride or who eliminates who at this point. Get one guy down, turn it into a singles match and win yourself a title.”

Edwin crawls, closer and closer to the ropes, straining out towards them. Thoth tries to drag him away, but Edwin’s not going to give in. Wilson sees that he’s only a few inches away, so as soon as Edwin manages to dive forward and grab the bottom rope, the ref calls for a break-

POP!

-and Wilson springs forward with a superkick that catches Thoth square in the jaw, snapping his neck back! Thoth’s eyes roll up in his head he falls forward. Wilson flips him over as Edwin gets himself out from under the Balancer, just as Wilson rolls him over and the ref drops down to count. ONE!

TWO!

TH…and Thoth kicks out, but he’s hurting. Wilson stands him up right into a double underhook, hefting the Clansman up into the air and driving him right back down on his head with a double arm DDT! The crowd cheers for a kick out, but Thoth looks out. ONE!

TWO!

THR…and Thoth kicks out again, and Wilson’s pissed.

“Even with the cheap shot as soon as Edwin reached the ropes,” scolds Stevens, “Wilson wasn’t able to eliminate Thoth. He starts to pull him up to his feet again, but Edwin comes from behind him, and latches onto Wilson with a dragon sleeper! The crowd pops loudly and Thoth takes the break to roll out of the ring and gather himself, just as Edwin takes Wilson’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing into the mat with a dragon sleeper Russian legsweep! Wilson’s turn to face elimination as Edwin covers him. ONE!

TWO!

T..and he kicks out, but Edwin’s a house on fire.”

“Edwin’s looking for the kill now,” assures Riley as Wilson tries to follow Thoth and get the hell out of the ring. “Edwin doesn’t allow it, grabbing him by the ankle and dragging him back away from freedom. He hooks onto Wilson with a dragon sleeper, legs wrapping…..CROWN PRINCE CLUTCH! Edwin has Wilson locked in his mounted dragon sleeper submission move, and the evil genius is hurting bad. Let him go, you dirty bastard!”

Wilson jerks right out of his dazed state, as pain becomes his only link to the real world for the time being. The pressure from the hold on Wilson’s back increases the problem, as well as his growing lack of oxygen. Edwin is holding on tight, the crowd rooting him on to get Wilson to the back, and sensing that the M7 leader will indeed be tapping or passing out here. Wilson tries to military crawl to the ropes, making a little bit of progress but each inch further taking its toll.

“Wilson’s covered a lot of ground, but it cost him,” declares Stevens as Wilson nears the ropes. “Edwin’s doing more and more damage to his back and breaking off his ability to breathe. Wilson’s only a few inches away, and he reaches out…and grabs the rope! The crowd’s obviously disappointed, but Wilson simply stands up and walks around a bit, stretching out his right leg, which must be really starting to bother him.”

“It should be, considering the way Wilson and Thoth have been going at it,” hopes Riley as Edwin stands Wilson up, Thoth starting to pull himself up onto the apron. “Edwin doesn’t see Thoth going up top and facing the crowd as he spins back to back with Wilson. Chris looks up and sees the Balancer up top, and his eyes get as big as saucers.”

“Edwin’s looking for the Union Jack or the Encore Cross,” assumes Riley as Thoth leaps off the top, somersaulting in the air as flashbulbs explode around him, Edwin finally looking over his shoulder to see what all the commotion is about, “but he’s not going to have time to hit either of them BECAUSE THOTH JUST CLEARED WILSON AND GRABBED EDWIN ON THE WAY DOWN, SLAMMING HIM INTO THE MAT WITH THE SCUM GALE! Holy elevation, Batman!”

“HOLY SHIT!”

“THOTH THOTH THOTH THOTH THOTH!”

“HOLY SHIT!”

“Wilson was just saved from imminent doom by Thoth,” thanks Riley as Thoth gets up to his hands and knees, Edwin bouncing up onto his back with the force of his impact, “and he’s going to repay him by jamming Thoth into a standing headscissors. If he’s looking for that jumping piledriver, it nearly put Thoth away on Monday night and may do the trick here.”

“Thoth isn’t going to go down without a fight,” promises Stevens as Wilson struggles to lift him up for any sort of move. “The two men jostle for position, Thoth nearly stepping on Edwin as Wilson starts to lift him. He can’t quite get him up, and Thoth pushes up and reverses it…SENDING WILSON CASCADING OVER ONTO EDWIN WITH A BACK BODY DROP! Thoth crawls away as Wilson starts to sit up, but falls right back down on top of a prone Edwin. The referee drops down and starts to count, this a clear pinfall attempt! ONE!

TWO!

THRE…and Edwin kicks out at the very last possible second!”

“Wilson almost eliminated his archrival without even realizing it!” points out Riley as Thoth grabs a half-conscious Wilson and chucks him through the ropes to the outside. “We’ve seen some offense and pins come out of nowhere in this match. Wow.”

Thoth follows through the ropes, dropping to the floor and picking Wilson up as if preparing for an inverted atomic drop, but instead cracking him right down onto the apex of the barricade. Wilson yelps in pain as Thoth releases him, but only for a moment before he lifts him up and drops him nonchalantly over the top of the cement. Security holds back the rabid fans from attacking Wilson as Thoth pulls himself up onto the apron, then to the top rope.

“Thoth’s up top,” states Stevens as Edwin slowly manages to reach his feet, “and he’s preparing to land the deathblow on Wilson. He doesn’t see Edwin, however, and the SWF Champion shakes the top rope and Thoth finds himself crotched up top, still looking down at a immobile Wilson.”

“I bet Thoth is wishing he wasn’t quite so mean with Wilson earlier,” wagers Riley as Edwin climbs up onto the second rope and spins around so he’s back-to-back with Thoth, “considering he’s got no one to get him out of this very bad predicament. Edwin laces his right arm around Thoth’s left as the sold out crowd reaches his feet. Mark, you don’t think he’s going to try what I’m thinking he is, do you?”

“This could be that mean streak, that win at all costs attitude we’ve seen in Edwin over the past weeks,” suggest Stevens as Thoth starts to fight back, but Edwin snapping a headbutt into his neck slows his protests. “Edwin laces his left arm around and holds Thoth tight to him before throwing himself off the top, Thoth coming along for a merry ride-“

CRUUUUUUNCH!

“-BEFORE HE’S DRIVEN HEAD-FIRST TO THE MAT WITH A TOP ROPE ENCORE CROSS!”

MAC-PHIS-TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

S-W-F!

MAC-PHIS-TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

S-W-F!

The crowd absolutely explodes as Thoth’s bad neck leads the way as his entire body folds up like a cheap accordion. He flops lifelessly over as soon as Edwin releases him, and the Mac Daddy wastes no time rolling him over and hooking the leg, the crowd cheering along.

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

“And Thoth is gone!” shouts Stevens over the roar of the crowd. “And we’re down to Wilson and Edwin, and I’m sure Thoth is going to be very disappointed once he wakes up.”

DING DING DING!

Funyon stands at his ringside seat. “Ladies and gentlemen, Thoth has been eliminated from this match and will be returning to the locker room. The next fall will decide the SWF Championship.”

Edwin rises to his knees and looks down at the lifeless Clannie, a look of shame almost coming across his face. He shakes it off and rolls Thoth out of the ring, the Balancer dropping to the cement and still not showing much in the way of movement. Edwin looks down at Wilson, who has finally pulled himself down to the floor and is working on establishing a vertical base of some type.

“Wilson’s gathering himself on the outside so he can come in and polish off Edwin,” explains Riley. “He’s not really hurt or anything, just stalling so Edwin can enjoy these last lingering moments of being a champion.”

“Sure it has nothing to do with the fact his back’s nearly broken?”

“Positive. It’s an obvious tactic. You really need to just pay attention more, Mark.”

Wilson does finally make it to his feet and stumble to the apron, trying to pull himself into the ring. Edwin stomps over to that side of the ring and grabs Wilson by the back of his tank top and drags him the rest of the way in. The Mac Daddy doesn’t waste the chance to stomp away at Wilson’s back, barely supporting himself on his bad leg while the other one drives repeatedly into his adversary’s spine. Wilson cringes in pain as the referee finally separates champion from challenger. Edwin takes a step back, and Wilson sees his opening out of the corner of his eye as he casually reaches out, wraps his forearm around Edwin’s ankles and yanks them out from underneath him. With the Crown Prince down, the evil genius springs up to his feet and proceeds to drive his knees down repeatedly into the side of Edwin’s tender leg, trying to break it down further. This time the referee must extract the challenger from champion, threatening a DQ that would end the match and Wilson’s hope at a title win.

Wilson lets Edwin reach his feet, using the ropes as much as he can to take pressure of his leg. Wilson takes a step back and motions for Edwin to just bring it. All he gets in respond is a weary smile, and two men step forward, staring at each other as the real fun starts to begin.

Wilson and Edwin stand in the center of the ring, each rather unsteady. Wilson cocks back and lets loose a stiff knife-edge chop, his hand scorching across the center of Edwin’s chest.

WOOOO!

Edwin looks like he just got shot, reeling back in pain. He doesn’t hesitate, however, to rip away with a chop of his own, the crowd responding even louder for their hero. Wilson winces and reels back, acting if Edwin’s hand was made of steel. Edwin follows that up with a flurry of shoteis, the hard palm strikes bouncing off all over Wilson’s body, each becoming more painful than the one before. Wilson spins towards the corner and Edwin goes after him, firing a particularly nasty shot, but Wilson grabs his arm and pulls Edwin past him.

“Wilson just reversed that shotei, and Edwin starts to turn,” states Stevens. “As he spins, Wilson ducks down and grabs both of his ankles and yanks back, pulling Edwin down to the mat with a double leg takedown. Before the Mac Daddy can react, he steps over with a spinning toe hold and flops back, locking him in the figure four!”

The crowd starts to cheer wildly for the champion as Edwin’s whole body lurches with the sudden infusion of pain. “This move almost beat Erek Taylor last week,” reminds Riley as the referee drops down to see if Edwin wants to give in, “and Edwin’s in a lot worse shape than he was, and Wilson is right beside the ropes, giving Edwin one helluva quest if he wants a break.”

In the midst of the action, Thoth slowly stands on the outside. He contemplates a run-in, but instead pounds his hand down on the apron and curses before slowly backing up towards the ring, shaking his head as he glares at the two remaining men in the match.

The man in a quite a bit of trouble at the moment, Edwin, cringes as he lies back, trying to take pressure off of his back. He’s careful not to lay his shoulders down, but the pain is screaming like a banshee in his right leg. As the referee checks on him, Wilson reaches up and uses the ropes to apply more pressure…

BOOOOOOOO!

…the effects immediately evident on the face of Edwin as Wilson torques and torques. The referee starts to spin, and Wilson releases, looking innocent as ever. Edwin continues to try and pull himself towards the ropes, flopping like a beached whale, but making headway nevertheless. He pauses the pain simply becoming too great, and almost looks like he is ready to tap, but he shakes the thought off as the crowd cheers him on.

MAC-PHIS-TOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Wilson reaches up again, hands barely able to reach the ropes, and pulls himself up again, the pain in Edwin’s leg obviously increasing. The referee looks up, and as Wilson concentrates on pulling Edwin back towards the rope, the official stands and knocks Wilson’s arm off of the ropes, dropping him awkwardly.

“Wilson’s blatant cheating could of got him disqualified,” wishes Stevens as Wilson hits the mat hard, “but instead it’s given Edwin an opening as Wilson lands awkwardly on his side, turning Edwin up with him. Eddy Mac doesn’t blink at the chance to flop on his belly…AND TURN THE TABLES ON WILSON WITH AN INVERTED INDIAN DEATHLOCK! OHHH MY!”

It’s Wilson’s turn to scream out in pain, quickly grasping for the ropes, but he finds that Edwin is military crawling away and dragging Wilson with him. “That deathlock is further tearing away at Wilson’s back!” moans Riley as Wilson fights against Edwin’s pull, desperately trying to get to the ropes. He strains out, his back ready to give in at any moment, and lunges for the ropes. He falls mere inches short and immediately recoils, preparing to try again. The ref is right in his face, asking if he wants to give up. Don’t do it, Chris! We love you!”

“Speak for yourself,” snorts Stevens as Wilson’s face maintains its grimace of pain and helplessness. He’s very close to tapping. “Wilson explodes at the ropes one more time and just as it looks like he’s going to fall short again, his grubby little fingers barely find a way to wrap around the bottom rope. The official instructs Edwin to release the hold, but both men do what they can to get their legs untangled as quickly as possible.”

Wilson uses the ropes to pull himself up to his feet, softly massaging the small of his back as Edwin pulls himself up to his hands and knees. Wilson takes this opportunity to charge forward and kick him solidly in the ribs. Edwin moans and flops over onto his back before Wilson grabs him by his red-dyed locks and drags him up to his feet. He’s forced into the corner and Wilson begins to pound on him with hard right hands. He reaches down and tries to grab his leg, but Edwin raises his arms high into the air and drops them across Wilson’s back with a powerful double-axe handle that floors the challenger. Wilson tries to claw his way back up Edwin’s leg, but its not needed as the Mac Daddy helps him the rest of the way up and in one fluid motion tries to Irish whip him against the ropes.

The fluid motion becomes quite jerky as Edwin plants his bad leg and it starts to give out. As he recoils to try and save his balance, Wilson dances around him with both men’s arms still together, and reverses the Irish whip to send Edwin hurtling towards the corner. Wilson sprints in and follows, leaping into the air and crushing Edwin into the corner with a Stinger splash. He drops back down to his feet as a woozy Edwin comes stumbling out of the corner and right into another Irish whip. Wilson again follows, but he goes to the well once too often as he leaps into the air and finds nothing but turnbuckle as Edwin slips out of the way. He bounces off the top pad and spins around right back towards the World Champion.

“Wilson goes crashing into that corner hard,” states Stevens, “and as he comes bouncing out, Edwin grabs him and drives him down to the mat with a spinebuster. The crowd grows louder as they realize what Edwin is doing, holding on to Wilson and lifting him up into the air…AND SLAMMING HIM BACK DOWN WITH A POWERBOMB TO COMPLETE THE LOVER ROLLERCOASTER!”

“Those are two stiff moves right on Wilson’s back,” points out Riley as Edwin drops down, “and that’s probably going to be it for our challenger as Edwin hooks the leg waaaaaaaaay back, the crowd chanting along. ONE!

TWO!

THRE…and Wilson kicks out! Woo hoo!”

“Did you notice Edwin’s lack of height on the powerbomb?” asks Stevens. “With a little more elevation and force, he would of put Wilson away.”

“He couldn’t,” replies Riley. “You have to remember that Edwin is essentially a one-legged man, and if he would have to support Wilson up that high, it would be very difficult. Even if he could pull it off, he could cause some very serious damage in the future.”

Edwin rolls off of Wilson, breathing heavily as Wilson stares up at the arena ceiling, eyes half-glazed over. The champion reaches back and uses the ropes to assist him in rising up to his feet, taking the moment to rest his bad leg as he clutches onto the rope for support and stomps at Wilson a few times. He decides to not waste any more time and he reaches down and stands up his challenger, the crowd buzzing loudly, expecting some form of nastiness by Edwin.

“Edwin’s bringing Wilson to the center of the ring,” declare Stevens, “and he’s going to look to put away the evil genius. He stands back-to-back and locks their arms together and he tries to pick Wilson up, pushing his hands into his armpits, but as Edwin raises his opponent up into the air, his right leg gives out! All of the damage done has finally cost him, and he drops Wilson. Chris grabs a pained Edwin and spins him towards him, latching on a headlock, slipping his leg inside Edwin’s and falling back…LAST RESORT! LAST RESORT! That downward spiral on Edwin is the end of this thing!”

As soon as Wilson hits the mat and Edwin goes bouncing away, he lets out a howl of pain, arching his back and grimacing as he tries to flop over and look for his kill. “Wilson’s back came crashing down to the mat on that move,” observes Riley as Edwin lies motionless, “and it caused just as much damage to him as it did to Edwin, who received Wilson’s deadly finisher! He crawls over to Edwin, obviously in a ton of pain, and hooks his leg, rolling over and putting as much pressure as possibly as the ref starts to count. It’s over!

MAC-

ONE!

PHIS-

TWO!

TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

THRE…..and EDWIN MACPHISTO JUST KICKED OUT OF THE LAST RESORT! The match continues! Dammit!”

MAC-PHIS-TOOOOOOOOOOO!

“I can’t believe what I just saw!” admits Stevens as Wilson looks up at the referee, a sense of delirium slipping into his eyes. “Those few seconds where Wilson writhed in agony may of just cost him his world title. The fans are trying to reenergize Edwin, who is lying stoically after having his knee give out and then taking the Last Resort. Wilson pulls up to a kneeling position then slowly stands, still not believing what just happened.”

Wilson heads over to Edwin and rolls him over onto his stomach. He wraps his arms around the Carnie’s stomach and drags him towards the center of the ring. From there, he tries to lift Edwin up, attempting a gutwrench powerbomb. As he pulls him up into the air, he nearly immediately has to set him back down, obviously discomfort coming across Wilson’s face. He reasserts himself and tries one more time, but as soon as he has to support all 239 pounds of Brit, he just falters again and Edwin gets dropped back down to the mat.

“Wilson’s back is about as useful as a wet noodle right now,” plainly states Riley. “He’s not going to be able to really work any more that requires lifting or controlling Edwin above his head. Edwin, stunned and disoriented, is not out of this thing yet as he reaches down out of the gutwrench and grabs Wilson’s ankles, jerking back and flopping his challenger on to his back. He slides down between his leg, then simply falls backwards, hot-shotting Wilson high up into the air and directly into the corner!”

Wilson finds himself crashing into the corner again as Edwin stands up, the crowd still on its feet. “Wilson comes stumbling back towards the champion,” calls Stevens as Eddy Mac grabs Wilson around his neck, “and Edwin promptly reaches back and holds Wilson’s head down on his shoulder from behind. The crowd roars in anticipation as Edwin sprints, actually quickly limps, towards the corner. He’s looking for the Spinal Tap, which would be the end of Wilson for sure! He starts to scale the corner-“

Stevens and the rest of the crowd loses their train of thought and lets out a gasp as Edwin’s right leg betrays him once again, both men silhouetted by a thousand flashbulbs, and it gives out going up the turnbuckle. He tries to steady himself, but it leaves Wilson a very wide opening. He reaches up and catches an off-balance Edwin in a full nelson and steps up, one foot on the bottom rope, one on the middle, and spins off, pushing himself and Edwin away from the ropes and letting gravity do the dirty work as both men fall…

…the flashes from the cameras like a strobe lights as it seems like an eternity they hang in the air…

…until they finally come crashing down onto the mat.

“PLATINUM NIGHTMARE!!!” screams Riley as the crowd is still in a state of shocked disbelief. “Wilson just reversed the Spinal Tap in to the Platinum Nightmare, and he remains on his knees after driving Edwin’s head into the mat. He rolls over the Mac Daddy and hooks his leg waaaaay back, nearly lying on his side as the referee drops down to count, the crowd finally recovering enough to begin to boo…ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! HE DID IT! NEW CHAMP! NEW CHAMP!”

DING DING DING!

Wilson releases Edwin and rolls off of him to his hands and knees, panting heavily as “Summer in the City” kicks up, barely audible over the crowd.

“Your winner of this bout…” Funyon is nearly drowned out by boos, but he redoubles his efforts and booms even louder. “YOUR WINNER OF THIS BOUT, AND NEEEEEEW S-W-F WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION….CHRIS WILSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!”

Random forms of trash begin to get hurled at the ring as Wilson rises up to his feet and accepts his title belt from the official and shoves him away, clasping it around his back and climbing up onto the turnbuckle very gingerly, and staring out at the fuming crowd.

“I’m really at a loss for words,” admits Stevens. “Chris Wilson is our new World Champion, and it all happened so fast, I’m not really sure what to say.”

“I’ll help you out, buddy!” offers Riley eagerly. “Up until the point of Thoth’s elimination, these men just battered each other. By the time it got down to Wilson and Edwin, neither of them could operate even close to their original levels, and Wilson just easily won a war of attrition, and now he’s a two-time SWF Champion! It’s great!”

“I don’t think easily is the correct word, Riley,” replies Stevens as Wilson drops down from the turnbuckle and slowly bends over to step through the ropes, back still screaming in pain. “What we saw tonight was a classic, and the Thoth damage did before he was eliminated carried over to the entire ending sequence. Wow.”

Wilson slowly walks up the ramp, championship around his waist and the center of attention of thousands of people boiling with hatred. In the ring, Edwin pulls himself up and looks on at the man who just took his title. And the only thing on Wilson’ face is a pained smirk, as he reaches the top of the ramp, copyright slowly appearing in the corner.

“What a night we had tonight,” reminisces Stevens. “Great matches top to bottom and a new SWF Champion. I’m being told we’re out of time, so we’ll see you on Smarkdown, this Monday. For Bobby Riley, I’m ‘Grand Slam’ Mark Stevens. Good night!”

And with that, we starwipe to black with the final image coming from near the announcer’s table, Edwin still looking on as Wilson stands on the stage in celebration in the background…

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