Lockdown Losing Matches

[Guest Mr. Slim Citrus]

The lights in the Continental Airlines Arena suddenly cut out, and the crowd begins to boo as they hear the eerily imposing open to Lacuna Coil’s “Heaven’s a Lie.” The camera focuses on the SmarkTron, and the viewers at home are treated to a crystal-clear view of Sean Atlas’ entrance video, with the camera rotating around Atlas in a crucifix pose.

 

BOOM!

 

As the music begins to escalate in intensity, the stage explodes in an awesome pyrotechnical display, leaving the ring bathed in a misty layer of smoke. The camera shifts its focus away from the SmarkTron to the stage entrance, through which steps the enigmatic Sean Atlas.

 

Funyon stands in the ring, impeccably dressed as always. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “the following contest is a NO DQ match, scheduled for one fall! Making his way to the ring at this time, from Chicago, Illinois, weighing two hundred forty pounds, SEAN AAAAATLAS!” The Mysterious One approaches the ring deliberately, walking up the steel stairs and stepping into the ring. He walks over to a neutral corner as the lights in the arena come back on, and waits there patiently for his opponent to arrive.

 

“Heaven’s a Lie” fades out, and is quickly replaced by Smashing Pumpkins’ “The Everlasting Gaze.” The fans in the arena come to their feet and cheer the arrival of the Bahama Bomber!

 

“His opponent,” says Funyon, “from the Bahamas, weighing two hundred seventeen pounds, the Wiiiiildchiiiiild!” Wildchild races down the ramp, slapping hands with the fans as he approaches the ring, and somersaults between the bottom and middle ropes, rolling to his feet and looking directly across the ring at his masked foe.

 

“This match should be a humdinger,” says Mark Stevens. “Sean Atlas has quickly made a name for himself here in the SWF, having defeated the legendary LDP in singles competition.”

 

“He’s also single-handedly defeated all of Beezel’s little Catch-22 group,” chimes in Bobby Riley.

 

“All of them, except Wildchild,” agrees Stevens, “which of course led to this match being signed. “Wildchild has unintentionally become Catch-22’s last line of defense. It’s time for him to show what he’s made of!”

 

Funyon departs the ring and the referee directs the timekeeper to ring the bell, signifying the start of the match. Wildchild and Atlas approach each other in the center of the ring. They lean towards each other to engage in a collar-and-elbow tie-up, but Wildchild ducks behind Atlas and the last second and quickly hops in the air, planting both feet into Atlas’ posterior, and kicking him forward. The off-balance Atlas stumbles into the ropes, where his head comes to a rest facing out on the bottom rope. With an excited expression on his face, Wildchild races to the opposite ropes to build up steam and back towards Atlas. He dives for the ropes, grabbing onto the bottom and middle ropes and swinging around to blast Atlas with the Chicklet Buster!

 

 

 

… SWISH!

 

 

… But only catches air as Atlas pushes himself away from the ropes to avoid the strike.

 

“Wildchild trying to put an early exclamation point on this match,” remarks Stevens, “but Atlas had that move scouted.”

 

“Wildchild is going to have to try and employ some kind of strategy if he thinks he has a chance in this match,” notes Riley as both men get back to their feet. “Atlas has, in the short amount of time he’s been in the SWF, already proven himself to be one of the most intelligent wrestlers in the business.”

 

“Well,” concedes Stevens, “he’s clearly studied Wildchild’s moves…”

 

The two men again approach the middle of the ring tentatively, and Atlas takes advantage by surprising Wildchild with a knee to the midsection, and quickly applying a side headlock. Wildchild briefly struggles, in a futile attempt to muscle his way out of the side headlock, and then opts to back Atlas against the ropes, using the momentum from pushing him off to free himself as Atlas streaks to the other side of the ring.

 

WHAM!

 

Wildchild falls heavily to the canvas as Atlas bounces off the ropes and hits him with a shoulderblock that takes him off his feet. Atlas turns and runs to the other set of ropes, and Wildchild rolls over onto his stomach as Atlas runs over the top of him. He springs back to his feet as Atlas bounces back off the ropes, and leapfrogs over him, springing back into the air as soon as his feet touch the mat and extending his feet as he flips backwards, knocking the returning Atlas to the mat with a stunning backflip kick!

 

“Atlas might have Wildchild well scouted,” says Stevens, “but if the match continues at this pace, he’s not going to be able to keep up!”

 

Wildchild rolls forward into a crouch as he waits for Atlas to return to his feet, and then charges toward him with alarming speed, leaping into the air and blasting Atlas with a leg lariat that sends him falling to the ropes and onto the ring apron. The Bahama Bomber once again looks excitedly at the crowd as he gets to his feet, swinging his arm above his head in a circular motion, signaling his Tornado DDT!

 

“We know what’s coming next,” cries Stevens.

 

Wildchild races to the corner, leaping onto the second turnbuckle. But, before he can spring out onto the ring apron to hit his patented Tornado DDT, Atlas drops off the ring apron to the arena floor, and runs away from Wildchild.

 

“Yeah,” crows Riley. “We knew what was coming, and so did Sean Atlas! I told you, Wildchild is going to have to try to out-think Atlas to win this match, and frankly, I don’t think he stands a chance!”

 

Wildchild watches from the turnbuckle with dismay as Atlas walks quickly away from him. The crowd boos the Enigmatic One as he points to his head, indicating his intelligence. A fan at ringside runs to the barricade and screams, “Wildchild’s gonna kick your ass!” Atlas approaches the barricade to confront the fan, failing to notice Wildchild as he races silently across the top rope towards him. Now perched on the top turnbuckle directly behind Atlas, Wildchild watches silently as he taunts the fan, until he is confident that Atlas’ attention is definitely turned away from him.

 

CRASH!

 

As he leaps off the top turnbuckle, Wildchild bring the fingers of his right hand to his mouth, and produces a sharp whistle. The whistle gets Atlas’ attention, and he turns around, but isn’t able to react quickly enough to avoid the flying body press by Wildchild! The fans at ringside scatter as both men go falling over the barricade!

 

“Atlas better pay less attention to the fans,” says Stevens, “and more attention to his opponent!”

 

“He’s focusing as much energy on Wildchild as he needs in order to win,” replies Riley nonchalantly. “This is just a temporary setback.”

 

Wildchild pulls himself free from Atlas and hops back over the barricade, burrowing underneath the ring and retrieving a steel chair.

 

“And look at that,” mutters Riley. “Wildchild is the first one to take this out of the ring and make it into a garbage match! Typical…”

 

“Well,” replies Stevens, “this IS a No-DQ match, Bobby. It’s not like he’s out of bounds for introducing the chair…” Wildchild grabs the chair in both hands as he waits for Atlas to get back to his feet, and takes a mighty swing at the Masked One…

 

 

CLANG!

 

But Atlas sees the swing coming and ducks, causing Wildchild to whiff harmlessly over his head, and then quickly pops back up, pushing Wildchild into the ringpost, where steel post-meets steel chair-meets face, and Wildchild falls to his BUTT on the arena floor in a daze!

 

“How do you like that intelligence,” crows Riley. “Serves the little freak right, for bringing out the chair in the first place!”

 

WHACK!

 

Atlas clambers over the barricade and pulls Wildchild up off the floor, leading him over to the ring apron and smashing his head against it! He then tosses Wildchild and the chair into the ring and rolls in behind him, applying a quick lateral press at the referee counts the pinfall…

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

KICKOUT!

 

 

With a good deal of fight appearing to still be within him, Wildchild kicks out fairly easily at two. Untroubled, Atlas picks up the Tropical Tumbler and leads him to a neutral corner, where he bashes his face against the top turnbuckle. As Wildchild stagers backwards out of the turnbuckle, Atlas approaches from behind, applying a half-nelson with his right hand while using his left arm to bend Wildchild’s left back into a chickenwing…

 

WHAAAM!!

 

“Tequila Sunrise,” cries Riley. “He might have him right here!” Atlas rolls Wildchild onto his stomach and casually hooks his leg for a pinfall…

 

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!

 

 

 

THR— KICKOUT!

 

Atlas looks up with dismay, half-expecting the Tequila Sunrise to be enough to win the match. He looks at the referee and holds up three fingers, but the ref shakes his head, and holds two back in his face. With a shrug that betrayed the look of irritation that lay just underneath his mask, Atlas rolls outside the ring and reaches underneath the ring apron, pulling out a long wooden table.

 

“Wildchild wanted to make this into a hardcore match,” says Riley gleefully, “and now he’s going to have to taste some of his own medicine!” Atlas pulls the table up off the floor, struggling briefly as he tries to get a good grip on it…

 

 

 

WHACK!

 

 

… And as he leans it up against the apron, Wildchild suddenly rolls onto his feet and dives feet-first at the ropes, kicking the table into Atlas’s face and knocking him backwards into the barricade!

 

“Atlas pays the price for taking his eyes off the Wildchild,” cries Stevens, and he gets knocked back headfirst into the barricade!”

 

Wildchild continues to recover inside the ring, as Atlas gets to his feet and slowly returns to the ring. Atlas climbs onto the ring apron, and the Bahama Bomber rises to greet him. He swings at Atlas with a right hand, but the Mysterious One blocks the punch and stuns him with a knee to the midsection. He traps Wildchild in a front facelock and grabs the Bahaman’s leg with his free arm, lifting him up over the top rope and falling backwards off the apron…

 

 

 

WHAAAAMMM!!!!

 

 

… But Wildchild shifts his weight in midair and uses Atlas’ momentum against him, crushing him with a modified body press to the outside of the ring! The crowd cheers wildly as Atlas falls to the padded concrete floor, banging his head against the foot of the steel ramp.

 

“What a tremendous counter by the Wildchild,” exclaims Stevens. “Sean Atlas may have studied Wildchild’s moves, but I don’t think that he’s fully aware of the extent of Wildchild agility!”

 

“A mere oversight,” says Riley dismissively. “Atlas will be able to adjust his game to compensate for Wildchild’s skills.”

 

The Bahama Bomber looks out at the crowd eagerly and points at the table lying on the ground. Sensing that Wildchild has something breathtaking planned, the crowd suddenly starts roaring its approval. Wildchild sets the table up outside the ring, and places Sean Atlas on top of it. He then slides back into the ring underneath the bottom rope and springs to his feet, raising his arms in the air and rotating his hands in a circular motion above his head.

 

“Watch out,” shrieks Stevens. “Wildchild’s gonna fly!” But the referee, who stands in front of Wildchild and asks him not to go through with it, interrupts the flight plan. With a grimace, Wildchild gently pushes the referee to the side, saying, “monsieur, is dis a No-DQ match, or not?”

 

Realizing that he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on, the referee shrugs and stands off to the side. Wildchild lets loose a howl and races to the ropes to pick up speed, and streaks towards his motionless foe as he rebounds, leaping over the top rope with a sensational tope con hilo!

 

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

… But Atlas rolls off of the table to safety, as Wildchild hurtles through the air, landing on his back harshly as he crashes through the wooden table!

 

 

HOLY SHIT!

 

HOLY SHIT!

 

HOLY SHIT!

 

HOLY SHIT!

 

“Dear God,” moans Stevens, “Wildchild tried to put an exclamation point on this match; he took a big risk with that plancha, and paid for it!”

 

“Serves him right,” adds Riley. “That’s another example of why Wildchild won’t ever amount to anything here in the SWF: he may have, POSSIBLY, had the match won after he countered that suplex. He at least would have had a good chance if he had rolled Atlas back into the ring and tried to hit his finisher. But, NOOOO! He has to try to please the crowd! He has to try to get them to chant his name! And look where it got him! Lying in a pile of splinters!”

 

Atlas uses the bottom rope to pull himself to his feet, and walks over to Wildchild, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him over to the ring. He tosses him into the ring and climbs onto the ring apron walking over to the corner and climbing to the top turnbuckle.

 

“What the hell is HE doing up there,” asks a perplexed Stevens.

 

“Poetic justice,” says Riley excitedly. “He’s going to beat the high-flier with a top rope move!”

 

“I don’t know it that’s such a good idea,” replies Stevens. “But here it comes! Six Point Star Splash!”

 

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

 

 

THAT MISSES!

 

Wildchild had just enough to roll out of the way of Atlas’ frog splash attempt, and the Enigmatic One crashes into the canvas!

 

“Okay, smart guy,” says Stevens, “how do you explain that one?”

 

“I… I… I…”

 

Stevens continues before Riley can get his thoughts together. “It looks like Sean Atlas has a little bit of an ego,” he says. “I’m sure he believes that he can beat Wildchild wrestling, but he wanted to send a message; he wanted to make a statement to Wildchild, and the rest of Catch-22, by beating Wildchild with a move that he might have used himself, but it backfired on him!”

 

LET’S GO, WILDCHILD! LET’S GO! *CLAP-CLAP*

 

LET’S GO, WILDCHILD! LET’S GO! *CLAP-CLAP*

 

LET’S GO, WILDCHILD! LET’S GO! *CLAP-CLAP*

 

 

The crowd in the Continental Airlines center is firmly behind Wildchild as he recovers in the ring. Both he and Atlas get to their feet slowly, and Wildchild manages to force Atlas back against the ropes with a series of quick right jabs. He grabs Atlas’ arm and whips him towards the ropes, but the Mysterious One manages to reverse it, sending him in instead, and snaring him around the neck as he rebounds, trapping him and a sleeper hold.

 

“Sleeper,” crows Riley. “This match is over! You were saying, Mark?”

 

Stevens shrugs. “He didn’t get the Kata-hajime locked in, but that sleeper might be enough, anyway. I stand by what I said, though, Bobby. I do think that he was trying to make a statement with that frog splash, and after his pride took a fall, so to speak, it looks like he’s decided to go back to his bread and butter.”

 

“You can’t fault him for that,” Riley throws in. “At least Atlas proved that he can adjust his strategy. He tried a high-risk move, and it didn’t work, so now he goes back to wrestling. Wildchild would just keep trying high-risk moves until he hit one!”

 

Wildchild’s face-paint starts to run with the sweat from his brow as he struggles to maintain his consciousness against Atlas’ punishing sleeper hold. Atlas forces Wildchild to his knees and leans on top of him, making it that much more difficult to breathe.

 

Riley notices the same thing. “Superb execution of the sleeper hold,” he relays to the television audience. “Look at how he puts all of his weight on Wildchild, making it impossible for him to get oxygen, and making the sleeper that much more effective.”

 

The referee asks Wildchild if he wants to give up, but the Bahama Bomber shakes his head violently. “The kid’s got a lot of potential,” agrees Stevens. “He knows his moves, and he does a good job of studying his opponents in preparation for his matches. Those two attributes will take you a long way.”

 

Wildchild’s eyes start to get heavy, and he finds it increasingly difficult to fight his way out of the sleeper. The referee lifts his arm into the air and releases it, watching as it drops heavily to his side.

 

“That’s one,” says Riley triumphantly. “How about showing Sean Atlas some respect, Stevens? He’s single-handedly destroyed Catch-22!”

 

Stevens shakes his head sadly. “It certainly appears that way.”

 

The referee lifts Wildchild’s arm and holds it for a split second, before releasing it, as he watches it fall to his side a second time.

 

“That’s two,” crows Riley. “It’s over!”

 

“Come on, kid,” pleads Stevens. “I know you’ve got something left in you!”

 

The referee raises Wildchild’s arm a third time, holding it briefly before releasing it, then standing back as it starts to drop…

 

 

 

“It’s over,” shouts Riley.

 

Wildchild’s arm continues to fall…

 

 

 

“No,” shouts Stevens.

 

 

 

… And stops in mid fall!

 

 

 

“He’s still in the match,” Stevens sighs with relief.

 

Wildchild begins to shake his head vigorously and pump his arms to get blood flowing back through his body, and the crowd stomps their feet on the ground to get him pumped up, and he fights to get back to his feet. Atlas struggles to maintain control over his opponent, but cannot continue to hold down the adrenaline-charged Bahama Bomber. Wildchild gets back to his feet and lifts Atlas off the mat with a hard right fist to the stomach!

 

“Wildchild’s battling back,” shouts Stevens, “but Atlas is still fighting to hang on to that sleeper!”

 

The crowd hoots along with Wildchild as he punches Atlas until he has the larger man backed up against the ropes and FINALLY manages to pull his head free! He grabs Atlas by the arm and whips him to the ropes, but Atlas reverses.

 

 

WHAM!

 

Atlas moves towards Wildchild as he nears the far ropes, leaping into the air to catch him with a Thesz Press as he rebounds, but Wildchild leaps onto the top rope and curls into a ball as he springs off, BLASTING THE AIRBORNE ATLAS IN THE FACE WITH A DEVASTATING PINBALL ATTACK!!!

 

“Pinball,” shouts Stevens. “Wildchild nailed Sean Atlas with a Pinball! And now, both men are down!”

 

The referee looks at both men lying motionless in the ring, and begins his ten-count.

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

“It’s anybody’s match at this point,” says Stevens. Whoever’s the first one to hit the next big move will probably win it!”

 

“Sean Atlas will come through in the clutch,” says Riley uneasily. “When it comes down two it, he has it, and Wildchild doesn’t!”

 

SIX!

 

 

SEVEN!

 

By the seven count, both men are on their knees and crawl over to each other, each man trying to be the first to gain the critical advantage. They trade punches as they start to stand up, and Atlas’ strength allows him to gain the advantage, as he forces Wildchild against the ropes. He whips Wildchild to the far ropes, standing well out of range of another Pinball attack, and the Bahama Bomber leaps into the air as he approaches Atlas, twisting around to snare Atlas around the waist with an inverted body scissors. Atlas grabs Wildchild just underneath his waist and lifts him into the air to deliver a wheelbarrow suplex!

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… But the Caribbean Cruiser counters the suplex attempt, shifting his weight and snaring Atlas’ head as he falls forward in a beautiful bulldog headlock!

 

“Sensational counter by the Wildchild,” cries Stevens. “It looks like Sean Atlas isn’t the only one who did a little homework on his opponent!”

 

Wildchild grabs Atlas by the arm and drags him over the ring apron, resting his head against the bottom rope. He then walks across the ring and retrieves the long-forgotten steel chair, taking it back over to where Atlas is laying and setting it on its side on the ring apron in front of Atlas’ face, leaning it against the middle rope for support.

 

“He couldn’t be thinking what I think he’s thinking,” says Stevens, as Wildchild points down at Atlas. “Could he?”

 

“If he is,” replies Riley, “then he’s brain damaged! Doesn’t he realize that he’s not wearing shoes?”

 

 

CLAAAAANG!

 

Wildchild races from one end of the ring to the other, diving feet-first and grabbing the bottom and middle ropes, using them to swing his body around and bring his feet into the steel chair, kicking it into Atlas’ face!

 

 

“My God,” shouts Stevens. “He did it! CHICKLET BUSTER! Chicklet Buster through a steel chair!”

 

 

HOLY SHIT!

 

HOLY SHIT!

 

HOLY SHIT!

 

HOLY SHIT!

 

“And look at him,” roars Riley, referring to Wildchild, who sits on the ring apron rubbing his sore toes. “What kind of idiot kicks a steel chair when they’re barefoot! He’s got Atlas dead-to-rights inside the ring, and he can’t even pin him!

 

Wildchild continues to rub his feet until he works the soreness out, and then clambers back to his feet on the apron. Seeing Atlas still motionless on his back in the ring, the Tropical Tumbler races towards the corner, leaping over the top rope to land feet-first on the opposite set of ropes, and springing off backwards with a springboard Asai moonsault!

 

 

CRASH!

 

… But Atlas rolls out of the way at the last possible second, and Wildchild crashes into the mat!

 

“Wildchild took a second too long to go for that Lionsault,” notes Stevens, “and paid for it. That could give Atlas the opening he needs to win this match!”

 

“I still can’t believe that he would do something as unbelievably stupid as to try to kick a steel chair with his bare feet,” mumbles Riley.

 

Atlas gets to his feet, a brief flash of rage undetectable beneath his leather mask. Retrieving the steel chair from the ring apron, Atlas drags both it and Wildchild to the center of the ring. Dropping the chair to his side, Atlas lifts Wildchild into the air and places him on his shoulders.

 

“Since Wildchild likes chairs so much,” adds Riley, “it’s only fitting that he eats this Saint’s Demise THROUGH the steel chair!”

 

Atlas steadies Wildchild on his shoulders, and then leaps into the air, shifting his weight to his side as he drives Wildchild’s head into the steel chair with the SAINT’S DEMISE!

 

 

 

WHAAAAAMMMM!!!!!

 

 

… But the Bahama Bomber slips off Atlas’s shoulders as he falls, swinging his body in front of the Enigmatic One and snaring his head as he drives him into the steel chair with a swinging DDT!

 

 

“Dear God,” shouts Stevens. “He countered the Saint’s Demise! Wildchild countered the Saint’s Demise into that DDT!”

 

“Dammit,” hollers Riley. “Come on, Atlas! Get up!”

 

Wildchild rolls onto his knees and scrambles to his feet. Sensing that he might not get another opportunity as good as this to put Atlas away, he races to the ropes and leaps onto the top rope, flipping forward as he falls backwards to hit Atlas with his…

 

 

“FALLING STAR PRESS! He hit the Falling Star Press,” cries Stevens. Wildchild hooks Atlas’ leg as the referee dives over to count the pinfall…

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

“No,” roars Riley. “Get up, Atlas!”

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

 

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

Wildchild rolls out of the ring as “The Everlasting Gaze” starts to pump through the speakers. The referee rolls out of the ring and raises Wildchild’s hand in victory as Funyon makes the official announcement. “Here is your winner, the Wiiiiildchiiiiild!!!”

 

“A tremendous match, that saw Wildchild come away with the victory,” says Stevens. “Stay with us, folks! We’ll be right back with more exciting SWF Action!”

 

As we:

FADE OUT

[Secret Agent 0]

GAH! So... much... teal...

 

I would comment but it's not like I can offer much advice with as many losses as I take. What I see wrong just may be what was right with it.

 

Anyway, WC, I'll be posting one of these next show, so don't feel to bad.