SWF LOCKDOWN!

July 3, 2003

The Freedom Hall looks like a picturesque core of light tonight, and a large neon sign next to it reads:

“TONIGHT! SWF LOCKDOWN! SOLD OUT!”

followed by a quick shill for tomorrow night’s event:

“Tomorrow – Full Metal Jacket on Ice! TICKETS ON SALE!”

…We cut to the interior of the arena, where the crowd is forming a hushed buzz, their slowly building anticipation broiling up to it’s full capacity, until “Jester’s Dance” suddenly sounds, causing every single fan in the stadium to blow the roof off of Freedom Hall! Moving their heads in unison, the Kentuckians turn their attention towards the locker room entrance awaiting the arrival of their hometown hero, Danny Williams. After several suspenseful moments, Deathwish himself emerges, and though one could’ve sworn that it couldn’t get any damn louder… it does!!

”IT’S DANNY WILLIAMS!” Mark Stevens shrieks in surprise!

”What’s he doing here? He’s not scheduled for a match!” Bobby Riley complains… also in surprise.

Taking the time to slap some hands and make chit chat with his fans and old friends, Williams triumphantly makes his way down the aisle. Williams energetically steps into the ring where he is greeted with a thunderous ovation that only a hometown can give. The fans’ random screams and shouts gradually morphs into an all out “DAN-E! DAN-E! DAN-E!” chant though, and pretty soon not a single member of the roaring throng remains quiet! Not letting the nuclear crowd heat go to waste, Danny hops up on the second turnbuckle, and pumps his fist into the air!

”What a reception for the former ICTV Champion!” Grand Slam observes, truly overwhelmed by the volume created by Danny’s hometown fans.

Riley simply scoffs, however. ”What a waste, a hero’s welcoming for a loser.”

The crowd finally starts to cool off, and Williams takes the opportunity to request a mic. After receiving the microphone, Williams attempts to start what the fans assume is a speech of some sort, when the crowd starts up again...

“DAN-E! DAN-E! DAN-E!”

Williams acknowledges the chant with a slight smile, patiently waiting for it to come to an inevitable end before finally speaking....

”First off, I would like to say how great it is to be home....” Danny says sincerely, and surprisingly warmly as well.

Once more the crowd erupts with a mega pop, but they quiet down in no time, allowing Danno to continue.

”I’m not gonna make any excuses, last week I let my fans down plain and simple. It’s no secret that I’ve been half-assing it for the past month now, doing just enough to get by… But I’m here to promise you that things are gonna change, because I think my fans deserve a little more than that!

The fans give a medium sized pop, but hush up when they realize Danny has more to say.

”Sadly, I would like to announce that I won’t make an attempt to win back the ICTV title…” Williams says, obviously building up to some sort of point, here.

The fans shake their heads in confusion, not sure if they understand what Danny’s trying to say… but he soon throws them the lowdown, so that they can, you know, catch it.

“What!?” Mark is confused as well. “Danny had one hell of an ICTV Title run going up until last week… and now he’s not even going to take advantage of the default rematch??”

”Now wait a minute,” he continues. “I’m not finished. I will not make an attempt to win back the ICTV title…

Wait for it…

I said wait, you impatient bastards.

“…Because I will be busy winning the World Title!!” Danny concludes, causing his pleasantly surprised fans to break into an all-out pop! “That’s right, I’m announcing my intentions to move up to the World Title scene!!”

”Unbelievable,” the pleasantly surprised commentator that is Mark Stevens commentates. “Danny Williams is gonna make a bid for the World Title! With so many workers deserving of a shot in the World Title mix right now… he’s going to take a shot at it anyway!”

”Who’s he kidding? That Super Hurricanrana must of rattled something lose if Danny thinks he’s worthy of stepping in the same ring with the hottest thing out there right now; Tom Flesher,” Riley points out to the fans at home, who are probably all snickering and exchanging homoerotic Riley jokes by now.

”Well you know… it could be Thoth, depending on how things go tonight.”

”Ha ha, that was a good one, Stevens… SHUT UP.”

“I’ve had a decent run the US Title scene, as well as the ICTV scene… I’ve competed for the Tag Titles several times and hardcore wrestling just isn’t my thing, so I guess I’ve run out of places to go… aside from, you guessed it… up!” Danny says confidently. “And don’t be mistaken, fans. I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I sincerely think that I’m good enough to pull this off. I am here right now to promise you that I will put all of my effort into winning the World Title as of tonight, and that by—“

And then, he’s cut off.

“You know I’m TNT!

“I’m dynamite!

“TNT!

“I’ll win the fight!

“TNT!

“I’m a powerlooooad…

”TNT!

“Watch me exploooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooode!!”

*** BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM ***

AC/DC’s “TNT” starts up, garnering a pretty big pop from the fans… and hey! Look! There’s TNT! Who saw that coming? Taylor walks through the smoky residue of the orange pyrotechnics that flare up from the ramp and stomps down the entrance ramp, his eyes set on Danny Williams… who glares right back, a bit confused, if anything.

“What the hell is HE doing here??” Riley asks, utterly dumbfounded. “What is this, the M7 members gone bad reunion?”

“I have no clue what’s on Taylor Thompson’s mind right now… but we’re about to find out.”

Moving quickly, Taylor slides into the ring and immediately requests a microphone. Sorry folks, no staredown here, and he hardly even lets the fans’ cheers reside before speaking.

“Now wait just one darn minute Danno!” Taylor says forcefully, and Danny looks a little taken aback, but not one bit intimidated. “Last show, I was given a shot at the World Title in a ten-man Battle Royal… the very same title that I’ve held before, and the very same title that you’re thinking of pursuing. I was hurting Danno… I knew I was still hurt from my match against Tod deKindes, and I knew that I had a slim chance of winning, even with my experience from the Clusterfuck…”

The crowd heat is sweltering now and Danny doesn’t see the point yet, but TNT, speaking quickly and sputtering a bit to get to the point here, quickly makes it clear to Deathwish.

“But if for one second, you think you deserve a shot at the title more than ME… well, that’s bullshit Danny! I ALSO have been half-assing it for a while now, and I ALSO have lost some respect from the fans… but I’ve already proven myself. I’ve already won the damn title, and when I lost it… did I ever GET a one-on-one rematch?? Hell no. So if you think for one second that I’m going to let anyone get in line in front of me for a World Title shot without even fighting for it… well, then you’re DEAD WRONG.”

“What’s with all of these Tommy wannabes, anyway?” Riley asks, a tad concerned even.

“This is a little surprising… I mean, Danny Williams, with no match planned tonight, comes out and claims that he wants to go for the World Title… and then we learn that he’s not the only one, as ANOTHER unannounced guest in TNT shows up, and declares that he has the same intentions!”

“Well they best keep their noses out of Tom’s friggen’ business, eh?”

“I don’t know… I mean, I’d say they both deserve a shot at the gold, as they’re both excellent athletes… but when two great men want the same thing, trouble starts, and I think that’s what we have here…”

Danny stares. Danny stares in disbelief. Danny stares and stares and stares, puts his hand on his hip, puts his other hand, which he uses to hold his mic, up to his mouth, and finally…

…speaks.

“Listen here one damn minute Taylor. …YOU deserve a title shot more than me?? Who do you think brought you INTO this fed?? Who was your damn mentor in the Junior Leagues until you stabbed me in the back?? You’d still be wrestling in your little New Jersey league if it weren’t for me, and yet you come out here… and… and…” Danny pauses, sighs, and looks down at the mat, shaking his head. He lets that thought rest, and tries to approach this in a different manner. “…Alright TNT… I have respect for you. I have respect for you as a person, and an athlete… but I come out here, in front of my hometown (minor pop), and announce that I want to make something better of myself… and you come out and say that you’re going to stop me?? Well, you little punk, I’m afraid that you’re sadly mistaken if you think you can stop me from improving… from making my way higher up the card. If I have to fight my way up to the top, and shed my blood, sweat, and tears in order to get my prize… then so be it… but be warned TNT… if you get in my way… you’ll be sorry.”

The crowd is torn between the two makeshift opponents, but seeing as this is Danny’s hometown, a “DAN-E!” chant starts up again, and all Taylor can do is look back at his rival intently.

Being as brief and as “tune in next episode to see what happens!” as possible, Taylor simply states “We’ll see about THAT,” before dropping his mic, exiting the ring, and trudging back up the entrance ramp, leaving Danny a little confused, a little concerned, but completely intent on reaching his goal regardless of the proverbial explosive obstacle that lies in his path.

“Two men both bidding for the World Title… I’m interested in seeing how this little newly created rivalry evolves,” Mark says, intrigued. “But we’ve still got one hell of a show ahead of us, including a main event for that very title between Tom Flesher and Thoth! Who will win…? Well, stay tuned to see!”

“…Why don’t we just replace Thoth with a straw dummy and fire his ass? I mean, he’ll put up just as good of a fight as the real Thoth, and at hardly the same cost,” Riley sarcastically remarks, as we fade out to commercial, Danny still standing like a statue in the ring, not sure what he’s going to do about his newfound adversary…

July 3, 2003

SWF Lockdown

July 2, 2003

Live from the SOLD-OUT Freedom Hall in Louisville, Kentucky!!

U.S. Title #1 Contender No-DQ Triple Threat Elimination Match

Xero v. Crow v. Va'aiga

The time has come to breathe some fresh air into the U.S. Title division. The winner of this match will not only get a shot at the U.S. Champ next week on live TV, but they will also get to choose the stipulation the title will be defended under.

Rules: The only way to be eliminated is by pinfall or submission in the ring.

Tag Team / Handicap Match

Wild & Dangerous v. Justice and Rule

Johnny Dangerous has disappeared unexpectedly, leaving his tag partner WildChild to receive the brunt of J&R's anger. For this match, WildChild either has to rely on Dangerous to show up (which may be impossible) or find a new partner. One way or the other, this situation will be settled tonight.

Rules: Standard Tag Rules, with one exception. WildChild can choose anyone to replace Johnny in the match at any time. (IRL, WC should decide what the plan is and let J&R and his marker know about it ASAP.) If there is no partner, then J&R get the pleasure of a handicapped beat-down on poor WC.

Singles Match

Frost v. Sean Atlas

Frost stormed into the booker's meeting demanding this matchup! Who are we to argue with the Icelandic Giant. There is some brewing history here, and Frost has been on a roll lately. Will the always-impressive Sean Atlas be able to stop him?

Rules: Standard singles match

Hardcore Title Match

CIA © v. Dace Night

Dace is taking this opportunity to use his automatic rematch, hoping to avenge his loss at 13th Hour to a returning and re-energized CIA.

Rules: Hardcore rules.

ICTV #1 Contender Match

Beezel v. Janus

After Stryke's upset win on Storm, there is a shake-up in the ICTV division. Danny will get his rematch next week on Smarkdown, but in the meantime, we need a #1 Contender. Both of these warriors have proven they have what it takes to wear SWF Gold, now all they need to do is seize the opportunity!

Rules: Standard Singles Match

U.S. Title Match

Mak Francis © v. Michael Craven

Another rematch from 13th Hour, this time Craven will try to win back the U.S. Title from the Mak. King agreed to this match so soon on one condition... if Craven cannot regain the title, he is barred from the U.S. Title division for two months (until September).

Rules: Standard singles match

Main Event

SWF World Heavyweight Championship

"The Superior One" Tom Flesher © v. Thoth

A returning Thoth beat all comers in a spectacular Battle Royal to earn this shot at the greatest prize the SWF offers, the World Heavyweight Title. But right now, that belt rests around the waist of Tom Flesher, one of the most dominant champs in recent memory. Will Flesher add to his resume by defeating the SWF veteran Thoth or will the Balanacer pull of the upset and finally become World Champion? You can't miss this one!

Standrd singles match

July 3, 2003

The cameras return to SWF Lockdown, promptly panning around the crowd after the card and opening promo has gone through. The camera catches some witty signs before landing itself in front of the announce table of Riley and Stevens.

Stevens: "Welcome back to SWF Lockdown! It is time for our opening battle!"

Riley: "Hopefully one of these three will take that US title off that punk Mak Francis!"

Stevens: "Well we have Xero, Va'aiga, and Crowe... three promising youngsters!"

Riley: "Awe... I don't like any of them!"

Stevens: "Vaiaga came off a huge win at the PPV, to Jamie Drazon, however fell short on Storm to Michael Craven."

Riley: "Heh... I bet you that pissed Drazon off."

Stevens: "I shudder what to think. Crowe also put on a very awesome performance against Frost, however came up short. That wasn't the only hoss he pissed off though, as he looks to be starting some beef with Janus."

Riley: "And Xero returned but got thrown out of the battle royal. So here he is today."

The arena lights are off, as "Trust" by Megadeth starts to play. The drum beat gets louder every second. The audience takes the time to boo as red and white strobe lights flash in the arena. After about 30 seconds of drums the guitars come in, and fire emerges from the stage. Soon Xero comes out and flexes his muscles with the fire still blazing high.

Funyon: "The following contest is No DQ and is for a shot at the United States Championship! Introducing first...hailing from Port Colburn, Ontario. He stands at Six feet One inch and weighs in at 210 pounds! Recently returned to the SWF... XERO!!!"

Xero comes walking down wearing wearing his white pants, along with a matching vest, and a see through shirt underneath. At ringside he slides in the ring, and goes to the turnbuckles raising both his arms up in the air. The audience once again boos, however that quickly changes as the lights drop to darkness, and Va'aiga's shadow appears in the entranceway, dressed in his hooded training top with the hood down.

Stevens: "Here's the Maori Badass!"

The bassline of "Bring The Pain" by Method Man starts up and red strobe lights pierce the darkness of the entrance ramp as Va'aiga begins his slow walk to the ring, throwing a few phantom jabs on the way. The Smarktron shows images of Va'aiga shadow boxing and posing, cut with some of his biggest in ring hits - mostly from his JL days.

Funyon: "And his opponent... he hails from Rotorua, Aotearoa... he stands at Six feet Eight inches and weighs in at 285 pounds! A member of the Unholy Trinity.. he is the Maori Badass... VA'AIGA!!!"

Inside the ring Va'aiga rolls down his hood and raises his fists to the crowd, then takes off his top and throws it to a ring assistant before firing off the Maori handsign. The crowd pops loudly for the monstrous Maorian, while Xero stands on the outside, not wanting to get in his way.

Stevens: "Although falling short to Michael Craven, you can bet that Va'aiga is going to make an impact with the SWF!"

We fall into darkness, and nothing illuminates the arena as 'Burn in Hell' by Dimmu Borgir begins to play, its windy sample shaking the audience.

*BOOM!*

A row of fire explodes across the stage as the song breaks into the heavy thrash riff! The crowd roars in approval as a spotlight turns on and directly focuses on the stage... revealing nothing...Not many clue in, continue cheering as they hope that Crowe comes out.

Stevens: "What's going on?"

Suddenly, the lights in the arena return. The SmarkTron comes to life, to see a beaten down and bloody body. The body of Crow.

Stevens: "Oh my god! Crow has been taken out! Who could have done that!?"

Riley: "I have a few people in mind... heh heh."

Stevens: "This is not funny. Medical attention is assisting Crow right now."

Suddenly, another figure walks along the SmarkTron to a large amount of boos. Wearing a pair of black pants and a wife beater, his hair down, it's SWF superstar Jamie Drazon.

Jamie: "Hey what happened to the fucking bird?"

EMT: "He's been ambushed."

Jamie: "Awe no shit!? I was going to smoke some <BEEP> with him later. Son of a bitch. I guess I gotta find a new kron. It Sure is hard now that Stubby ain't around."

Drazon starts to walk off.

EMT: "He has a match right now... can you notify that he can't make it."

Drazon pauses, turning around with a grin that gets a closeup on the SmarkTron.

Jamie: "A match eh? Who's the opponent?"

EMT: "Umm... Xero and Va'aiga."

Jamie: "Really?" Drazon grins even wider. "Yeah, I'll tell them."

Drazon walks off. Inside the ring, Va'aiga stands with his hands on his hips. Not quite sure what Drazon is up to. It is not long though, before we hear...

"THIS

IS

MAH

HOUSE!!"

Drazon's lungs bust a few decibels on the sound barrier as the crowd erupts with a mixed reaction of boos and cheers. He stands at the top of the ramp in his ring pants and a beater on top. He takes a moment to crack his neck, and let many of his bones pop into place before he pulls out his microphone.

Jamie: "Va'aiga! Crow seems to have been taken out. What a shame. I assure you all I had nothing to do with it." Some boo, some cheer as they clearly have a trial on whether Drazon is guilty or not. "That's not my reason. You see I was told to notify you that Crow can't make it... I decided not to do that. No, Va'aiga, Xero... I am not here to tell you Crow isn't going to make it. I'm here to tell you that I am Crow's replacement!"

Stevens: "Whoa! Jamie Drazon is going to take another shot at Va'aiga!"

Jamie: "Now Va'aiga! At 13th Hour... you did something great! You defeated me in a hardcore match! You beat me fair and square... but now... now I know, that YOU VA'IAGA got lucky! You lost to Michael Craven... To quote Foghorn Leghorn, I say I say What the fuck!? You'z as sharp as wet leather! Tonight, you have to prove to these fans, to yourself, and most importantly, to me, that you can beat me. I won't gain a US title shot... but son, I'm gonna get my attitude back!"

Drazon slams the mic down and books it down to the ring. He dives under the bottom rope, and the ref seems to have no problem with Drazon being the replacement.

DING DING DING

Drazon pops to his feet as Va'aiga charges for him. Only to immediately hammer him back with a right fist. Va'aiga takes two steps back and Drazon jumps straight for him, nailing him with a second right fist. Jamie ducks right arm down a bit, then throws up a stiff elbow uppercut into the jaw of Va'aiga. Xero takes this opportunity to roll into the ring as Drazon pushes the loopy Va'aiga into the ropes and Irish whips him off. While the Maori Badass travels the ring, Xero sneaks up on Drazon, grabbing his shoulder. But the instinctful Drazon turns around, and drops the King of the DDT with a right hand. However the second he turns back to face Va'aiga, the 285-pounder steamrolls the Hardcore Maniac with a spear! Drazon hits the mat hard, backrolls to his chest and slides out of the ring grabbing his gut in pain.

Stevens: "What a spear!"

Riley: "Drazon looks like he just broke a few ribs!"

Va'aiga shouts some curses and cheers of arrogance down at his adversary. They are shortlived, as the recuperating Xero clocks him in the back of the head. Va'aiga stumbles forward a second, but turns to face Xero. Mr. Simon is the quicker, grabbing the wrist of Va'aiga and starts to hurl him to the ropes, Va'aiga shifts his weight and tosses Xero to the cables. A quick bounce back and Va'aiga launches Xero to the other end of the ring with a belly to belly overhead suplex. Not concerning himself with Xero for the moment, Va'aiga looks outside to see Drazon lying still.

Stevens: "Drazon still hasn't gotten up!"

Riley: "He hasn't had a need too!"

Finally Drazon sits up, to a loud, mixed reaction. Va'aiga looks down in a little bit of shock. Drazon stands to his feet, and smiles at the Maori Badass. On the outside, he takes a moment to crack his neck and upper body into place then grabs his wifebeater and pulls it off, throwing it out to the crowd. Drazon hops onto the ring apron and steps through the ropes as Va'aiga backs off only to give him a respectful amount of space. Drazon clenches his fists as Va'aiga also stands on guard.

Stevens: "Two very powerful and tough opponents!"

Riley: "Drazon needs to show Va'aiga a lesson of toughness in the SWF!"

Drazon steps forward, "RARRGHH!!" letting out an animalistic growl before stepiing back. The growl doesn't intimidate Va'aiga, only encourages him to step forward. Drazon steps forward as well, prompting a lockup. Drazon slips around though, applying a rear waistlock. In the corner, Xero starts to stand. Drazon keeps the waistlock, however looking back to the corner, he barely spots the recovered Xero. Drazon pivots around, keeping his head stuck to Va'aiga's back to stop any elbows. Va'aiga starts to pry Drazon's hands apart, but not before Drazon can send him towards the corner of Xero.

Stevens: "He's going to try and take out too birds with one stone!"

Xero grabs the middle ropes, letting his body slope back as over 500 pounds charges for him.

CRASH

Drazon drives Va'aiga forcibly into the turnbuckles, but not before Xero can slide through the legs. He slips free of the two men and hooks onto Drazon's legs while he is at it, trying to pull him down with a sit out pin. A standing Va'aiga fires a reverse elbow back, catching Drazon in the chops and allowing Xero to roll him up!

One...

However Va'aiga clamps his hand over the throat of Xero and lifts him in the air. However Xero suddenly swings his legs around the neck of Va'aiga, spins, pivots his body inward as he lands on Va'aiga's opposite side, and flips him to the mat with a headscissors takedown. Drazon returns to his feet, as Xero begins to celebrate, he puts him in a rear waistlock and promptly throws him over his head with a German suplex...however Xero backflips to his feet! Drazon tries to get to his feet quick enough, but Xero is a hair quicker, and nails Drazon in the back of the head with a dropkick.

Stevens: "Xero is finally getting a chance to shine!"

Va'aiga rolls to his feet and bounces off the ropes, as Xero stands up in the center of the ring, he turns around to see the Maori Badass propel out his massive arm and take his head off with a lariat! Xero flies like he was the late, great Curt Hennig before landing harshly on the mat. Drazon bounces off the ropes, and propels himself at the standing Va'aiga with a cross body block, but Va'aiga catches him in mid air! Before Va'aiga can do anything, Drazon pops him with a fist to the face. The fist merely angers the Maori badass as he drops Drazon over his knee with a ribbreaker. Va'aiga stands up with Drazon in his arms, and drops his weight over top of the hardcore maniac, powerslamming him into the mat with a Maori drop. Va'aiga stays on top for the cover.

One...

Two...

T...Drazon gets a shoulder up.

Stevens: "A close call! It was a modification of that move that put Drazon down for three at the 13th Hour!"

Riley: "Not tonight though!"

Xero returns to his feet, heading towards Va'aiga as the New Zealand native pulls Drazon to his feet. Xero charges straight for Va'aiga, getting a negative reaction in the process as he dives at Va'aiga with a flying forearm. However Va'aiga ducks low, catching Xero in the ribs and lifts him high up in the air, before dropping him face first with a flapjack! Xero grabs at his face and chest in pain, rolling around feeling the spasms in his internal area. Va'aiga pops to his feet quickly and flashes the crowd the Maori handsign to a huge pop.

Stevens: "Xero tried a sneak attack, only to backfire!"

Riley: "Now that Maori Dumbass is rubbing it in! What poor sportsmanship!"

Va'aiga stands in the center of the ring, gloating, not noticing Drazon slip behind him, drop to his knees... raise his fist straight north...

DING

Va'aiga's eyes roll into the back of his head, as he doubles over to grab his groin. Drazon shakes his head as the crowd gives him a loud, negative reaction. He shrugs off the boos as he turns his attention to the corner, grabbing Va'aiga by the back of the pants and neck, charges forward, and throws him headfirst at the top turnbuckle... but Va'aiga's head soars over the top turnbuckle...

CLANG

The blow with the top of the ringpost knocks the life out of Va'aiga! Drazon puts the Maori badass in a side headlock, pulls back, then forces Va'aiga to hang his neck over the top rope, pushes on the guillotine as he grapevines the leg and snaps back with a Russian leg sweep! Drazon hits the mat and promptly floats on top of Va'aiga and hooks the leg.

ONE...

Xero reaches under the ring, pulling out a Kendo stick, and dives back inside...

TWO...

Xero makes the dive...

TH...

CRACK

Xero breaks the count up with a kendo stick shot!

Riley: "Xero taking advantage of the No DQ rule like a true ringsmen!"

Stevens: "That Kendo stick is as legal as everything else in this match!"

CRACK CRACK CRACK

Three more kendo stick shots to Drazon's back before he rolls to the ropes. Va'aiga crawls on his hands and knees by the second rope, allowing Xero to clock him in the back of the head with another kendo stick shot! Va'aiga rolls out of the ring, knowing it's time to rest before another scrap. Drazon isn't quite so lucky. He returns to his feet, the assistance of the ropes proving useful. Xero takes a wind up, swinging the kendo stick like a ball bat...

CRACK

Right into the chest of Drazon. Absorbing the blow like he took a viciously mean chop, Drazon stays standing but at Xero's mercy. The recent returnee grabs Drazon by the arm and throws him into the ropes. Drazon ricochets off the cables and returns while thrusting his arm out for a clothesline, but Xero ducks, Drazon stops in mid tracks. Xero turns around faster then Drazon knows what happened, grabs ahold of his cranium, and pulls him back as he sits out with a reverse X-Factor. Xero stretches forward, grabbing Drazon's legs...

ONE...

TWO...

T... Drazon kicks his legs to freedom. He kip ups to his feet, but Xero does the same a second quicker. He picks up his kendo stick and just as Drazon turns around, Xero cracks him in the ribs with it. Drazon doubles over as Xero fires off a one finger salute to the crowd. He turns back to Drazon as the boos flush in, locks his kendo stick around his throat and starts to choke the hardcore maniac. It's not long before he falls back, spiking Drazon's head into the mat with a cane assisted DDT. He flips Drazon onto his back and makes another cover much to the annoyance of the Kentucky crowd.

ONE...

TWO...

THRE...NO!! Drazon gets another shoulder up. On the outside, Va'aiga regains his sense and heads toward the announce table.

Stevens: "Xero getting some heavy impact offense in, but can't quite keep the hardcore maniac down!"

Riley: "Two close calls indeed, plus all those kendo stick shots!"

Va'aiga pulls a chair away, folding it up on the outside. In the ring, Xero assists Drazon to his feet, letting his former tag partner stand in an unconscious state. He holds the Kendo stick in the center, measuring Drazon for the perfect shot. Suddenly, Drazon snaps his head up, letting his hair evacuate from his face to see his eyes wide open, piercing into the suddenly horrified Xero. Drazon grabs the wrist that is holding the kendo stick, and pulls Xero forward, throwing his knee right into his chest. Xero drops the cane right into the hand of JD and he winds up, before chopping it down like an axe over the back of Xero's head, dropping him to his knees. Va'aiga rolls inside the ring.

Stevens: "Drazon just gained control of the kendo stick, but Va'aiga has that freaking chair and Drazon doesn't see him!"

Riley: "Ha! This will be a massacre! I love it!"

Drazon encourages Xero to get up a little quicker, however Va'aiga raises his chair. Finally cluing into the fan's shouting and screaming, Drazon turns around...

CRACK

Drazon's eyes roll into the back of his head, he drops the kendo stick, which is caught by Xero. Drazon touches his forehead, looks at his fingers. Yep, blood. Ok, good. Drazon timbers backward and onto his back. Va'aiga looks down at Drazon, not able to catch Xero in time as he jabs his kendo stick into his ribs. Va'aiga doubles over, keeping the chair in his right hand. Xero winds up and swings the kendo stick hard, right into the ribcage of Va'aiga. The Maori badass drops his chair.

Stevens: "Drazon has been opened up and laid out! Va'aiga and Xero are now battling, with Xero getting the upperhand!"

Riley: "Well thank you reader for the blind."

Xero takes a few steps back, then charges forward, but Va'aiga catches him in mid air once more and lifts him high and vertical. However Xero applies a front facelock, and snaps backward, right over the chair... and impales the chair with the skull of Va'aiga! Va'aiga sits straight up from the DDT, spots all the pretty colors and birdies, then collapses back onto the mat. Xero dives on top for the cover...

ONE...

Drazon sits up, the blood pouring down his face. His eyes still rolled into the back of his head, he snaps his head to his left and spots the pinfall.

TWO...

Drazon slides over, swinging his leg out to kick Xero in the head.

THR... No, the slippery Xero slides off of the cover, allowing Va'aiga to raise his head to shake off the cobwebs...

CRACK

Or get kicked in the head by Jay Dawg.

Stevens: "Xero using his speed to his advantage tonight!"

Xero pops to his feet as Drazon rolls away from Va'aiga. Xero flies toward Drazon, throwing a right fist, but Drazon blocks the flying fist, waits for Xero to return to ground, and flattens him with a right hand. Xero pops back up only to get flattened by another right hand. Xero fies back with a right of his own, but Drazon ducks, pulls Xero into him and cradles his neck and leg, before throwing him over his head with a T-Bone suplex. Xero bounces hard off the mat while Drazon rises to his feet.

Stevens: "Look at those welts forming over Drazon. Those kendo stick shot were doing there damage!"

Drazon touches his ribs, looking at the dent of the weapon in him. He shakes his head as he picks the singapore cane up. Va'aiga is at his hands and knees, and Xero had made it to one leg. Drazon taps the cane on the bottom of his feet, twirls it around on the one hand and thrusts forward.

CRACK

One to Xero's head, Drazon lets it bounce off and swing back...

CRACK

One to the head of Va'aiga. Drazon looks back to Xero, winds up, and hammers the kendo stick down over his back...

CRAAACCCK!!

The cane splinters itself down the middle as Xero hollers out in pain. A lined red streak forming diagonally over his back. Drazon looks at the less deadly weapon, shrugs his shoulders, then turns back to Va'aiga. He takes another swing at Va'aiga, who's made it to one leg. But Va'aiga raises his arm to block.

CRAACK

The cane snaps over the arm of Va'aiga, and he quickly stands and hammers Drazon with a huge right hand with all of New Zealand behind it! Drazon staggers back many meters, absorbing the blow only enough to stand. Va'aiga stands up fully and charges straight for Drazon, extending his big right leg, and connecting hard with a Yakuza kick! Drazon starts to timber back but Va'aiga shakes his head, grabs Drazon by the hair, and pulls him into a inverted facelock. He looks to the crowd, and back down to Drazon, bent over backwards and in his mercy.

"Drazon! This is my house now!"

Va'aiga spikes Drazon into the mat with a reverse DDT to a huge pop from the Kentucky fans! He turns Drazon away and wraps his legs around his waist, and turns the inverted facelock into a Dragon sleeper with a body scissors! "ARRRRGH!!" Drazon growls in pain as his body is being both stretched and squeezed into lifelessness.

Stevens: "Oh my god! Va'aiga wants to see if he can get Drazon to tap out or pass out!"

Riley: "What an impact that would make! Hell making Drazon tap out period would do that!"

Xero pushes up to his hands and knees, grabbing his back. He notices the predicament and charges straight for Va'aiga, receiving a negative reaction from the second he makes it to his feet. Xero dives straight for Va'aiga, feet first, drop kicking Va'aiga in the head and granting Drazon his freedom. Xero dives away quickly and picks up the chair. He rolls to his feet, taking the chair with him. Drazon starts to stand, feeling the effects of the painful dragon sleeper, Drazon can't quite straighten out, gasping for some air. Xero touches his back, pulling his finger back, seeing a small trickle of the thick red fluid. Remembering who just caused it, he raises his chair and slams it down over the back of Drazon! "ARRRGHH" Drazon wants to curse, but just can't as he lies out on the mat.

Stevens: "Xero may have saved Drazon, but only to hurt him himself!"

Riley: "Poor Drazon. However Xero better be careful, Va'aiga doesn't look too happy."

Xero holds the chair up, and spots the Maori Badass. Xero charges forward, the chair in front of him... but Va'aiga charges as well. Xero realizes his sudden predicament, but it's too late...

SMASH!!

Va'aiga goes straight into the chair, only to gore Xero in the process! Xero crashes into the mat painfully as Va'aiga pops to his feet. He shakes his shoulder off and smiles as he looks down at the now in considerable pain, Xero. He pulls him up and into a standing headscissors. The dented chair lays flat out on the mat, with the two men approxiamately two feet behind it. Va'aiga holds his arm up, letting the crowd see the Maori handsign to a big pop.

Stevens: "Mah gawd! Va'aiga is going to disassemble Xero's internal organs by throwing him onto that chair!"

Riley: "Or dropping him on his head. Yay!"

Va'aiga reaches down, letting his hands attach themselves around the waist of Xero. He lifts Steve Simon up high onto his shoulders, lets him rest for a half second before throwing him down with massive impact...

CRACK

With a powerbomb right onto the chair! Va'aiga smiles confidently as Drazon rolls to his back. Va'aiga walks over top of Xero and places his foot over his chest.

ONE...

Drazon rolls over to his hands and knees...

TWO...

He crawls forward, Va'aiga keeps the foot in place. Drazon dives...

THREEEE...NO!!! Drazon barely breaks the count by shoving Va'aiga by his ankle and knocking him off the pin. Va'aiga shakes his leg a second, before swinging down a massive hammer lariat into the back of Jamie Drazon.

Stevens: "Drazon barely makes the save but now he is paying for it!"

Va'aiga effortlessly grabs Xero and rolls him out of the ring, and turns back to Drazon. He places him into a standing headscissors much to the delight of the crowd. Va'aiga muscles Drazon up onto his shoulders, and gets a punch straight to the head. In an odd choice of attack, Drazon suddenly wraps his legs around the neck of Va'aiga, and snaps his body backward... taking Va'aiga over with a hurricanrana!

Stevens: "A hurricanrana! I haven't seen Drazon do one of those in a heck of a long time!"

Riley: "I didn't think he could still do one!"

Drazon kip ups to his feet and gets a loud pop by the Kentucky fans, as more of them take his side. His eyes stay wide open as he looks at the surprised Va'aiga and shakes his head. Va'aiga charges forward, swinging a left followed by a right. Drazon blocks both shots and thrusts forward with a headbutt, catching Va'aiga right in the chin! The ref and the crowd wince, remembering it's no DQ and feeling the pity for Va'aiga. Drazon grins widely as he jumps into the air, placing his left leg on Va'aiga's right leg and springs into the air off it... extending his right leg.....

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!

And knocks Va'aiga silly with a Thai roundhouse kick from the air!

Stevens: "Did you see that! It was like a Shining Thai Roundhouse!"

Va'aiga spins from the impact, ready to collapse on his chest, when all of a sudden, Drazon grabs him from the back of his pants and into a full nelson. The eyes wide as he looks to the crowd, holding the Maori Badass trapped in his submission. Drazon arches backward, hurling the 285 pounds over his head and jackhammers him into the mat with a Dragon suplex! Va'aiga's body folds up like an accordion, and Drazon sits straight up. He looks down at the chair Va'aiga was going to powerbomb him into and shakes his head. He glances back out to the crowd, scanning their reactions, absorbing their emotions as he looks down at Va'aiga.

Stevens: "Drazon, he's out! You can just pin him!"

Riley: "This isn't good!"

Drazon closes his fists tight, clenching them hard his body starts to shake. Finally he pulls Va'aiga up, a man who's shotgunned a 40 pounder has better balance then him. He scoops him up onto his shoulders and looks out to the crowd. His eyes seem to gleam as he looks out to all of them. "ARRRGHHHYEEEE!!!" Drazon struggles to hold Va'aiga up.

"THIS WILL ALWAYS BE MAH HOUSE!!!"

The audience explodes in approval as Drazon sits out...

CRAAACCCKK!!!

ONTO THE CHAIR WITH A SIT OUT PILEDRIVER!!!

Va'aiga's body crumbles to the mat as Drazon rolls over, hooking the leg as he does so.

Stevens: "Holy crap! Drazon just annihilated Va'aiga with that belly to belly piledriver!"

ONE...

TWO...

THREEEEEEEE!!!

Funyon: "The winner of this match via pinfall... JAMIE 'JAY DAWG' DRAZON!!!"

Drazon holds his arm in the air as he rolls backward and gets to his feet, but collapses by the ropes, letting them keep his balance.

Stevens: "After some hard hitting, and painful falls, Drazon comes up on top tonight against Xero and Va'aiga!"

Riley: "I really thought Xero had them there... but then he kind of got killed..."

Drazon rolls outside the ring, holding his hand up, a small crimson mask over his face. He smiles sickly before turning back to the ramp.

Stevens: "Drazon getting what seems to be a measure of revenge from the pay per view! I wonder what's in store next for these two! However folks, don't go away! We have got one hell of a show coming up, cause believe it or not, this was just the beginning!"

Riley: "Yeah... we still got Flesher coming!"

Stevens: "Stay tuned, folks!"

July 3, 2003

Just as the last of the competitors from the vicious three-way battle for a U.S. Title shot leaves the stage area, the Smarktron lights up, showing one of the back hallways of Freedom Hall.

“Looks like Gus got lost again,” remarks a bored Riley, resting his face on his hands.

The camera starts to move forwards towards one of the nearby corners, where the displeased voices of three men can be overheard.

“Those sound familiar…” notes Grand Slam as the voices become more distinct and recognizable.

“I thought you were going to give us a break from the tag scene for a bit,” says the first voice in a stately baritone, “And now you are giving these… amateurs a shot at us?”

“Christ, this isn’t a shot,” says the second one in a far more sleazy, slick-as-oil fashion, “This is a shot AT a shot. Calm it.”

“Hell, they don’t even deserve that,” replies a third, higher and much cockier voice, “If you aren’t sure that your tag partner is even going to show up, what the hell are you doing going for a shot at the tag titles?”

The camera turns the corner fully, and we are treated to a shot of Justice and Rule standing about 5 yards away, obviously not happy with the Suicide King’s booking.

“I agree. Hell, if-“ Hearford starts, but King puts his hand up to stop him from speaking anymore.

“Guys, guys…” he starts with a calm, patient look on his face, “You are talking to the guy who create Justice and Rule (And I did. Don’t you forget that). Do you think I would honestly want to destroy one of my own creations?”

”Of course not!” says Riley, but Grand Slam shakes his head.

“I’m sure, King…” starts Hearford, but Ejiro starts hacking out a lung.

“*coughhackcoughcoughMidnightCarnivalcoughhack*… Sorry there. Got a bit of a cold.” At that, King small, satisfied smirk.

”He’s exactly right. King will do anything for a price, even if means selling out his best friend…” says Grand Slam, knowing too much already about that subject.

“Bill, Ejiro, you guys haven’t ticked me off like they did… yet…” Both Justice and Rule put their hands up a little in their defense, but King gives a chuckle at that, “But I’m sure you’ll do fine. Hell, I actually had to go talk to Johnny myself to even get him to consider this match. He wasn’t very happy about losing the tag title shot at 13th Hour, but I got him to ‘come around’.”

”Pfft. He just should have let the baby mope…” says Bobbie, but Grand Slam looks closer at the grinning visage of the Suicide King.

“Yes…that’s just what he would have done, Bobbie. The King I know would have never given someone like Dangerous a pep talk.”

“See? You obviously don’t know how much he really does for these whiny little morons. Christ, I’m surprised he didn’t fire him like he fired X.”

With that, King walks behind the two and pats them on the back.

“Don’t worry, boys, I have a great feeling about you two and this match. Now move it, you two, you’re on in 5.”

With that, the two nod at each other and walk off as King stands alone, his arms crossed and knowing grin on his face.

”I don’t like this, Bobbie. I don’t like this at all.”

July 3, 2003

We cut to the back, showing the door to the Magnificent Seven locker room. Just like last week, the door opens and The Judge, William Hearford and Ejiro Fasaki step out, heading down en route to the entrance for their match. Meanwhile, the camera steps through the open door, showing Sean Atlas and Tom Flesher, both men dressed in their ring gear. The two prepare individually for their respective matches, Atlas specifically is reading through a copy of the Frost Brand™ Magazine, studying up on the Velvet Hammer.

"Reading that damn thing won't help you." Flesher says. "I've been in the ring with him too many times to believe the hype in that magazine."

"I'm not reading it to see how he wrestles." replies Atlas. "I'm trying to get into his head - figure out how the guy thinks."

"That's still not the way to go about it. You've got your hands full, buddy."

"And you don't?" Atlas asks, sarcastically.

"Hey! If you won that Battle Royal last week, I wouldn't. But instead, I'm fighting the guy that eliminated you from the damn match!"

"Alright, calm down." Sean says as he puts the magazine down. "You've got nothing to worry about with Thoth. With the amount of people that you've beaten, Thoth shouldn't be a challenge."

"You don't get it, Sean." Tom says. "You don't even know Thoth, he's way before your time. The guy is rested and he's back... you of all people shouldn't underestimate him. He got Janus to join up with him, didn't he? That should say something about the kind of guy he..."

*KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK*

"What the..." Sean asks.

"Come in!" yells the World Champion.

Corky, a FedEx employee walks into the room. "Package for Tom Flesher..." he says.

"Yeah, over here." Flesher calls. He signs the digital pad handed to him by Corky and gives it back. The package, a thin full-size envelope is handed to him as Corky walks out, saying "Have a nice day, champ."

"Who the hell delivers here?" asks Sean.

"No idea." Tom replies as he opens the package. Reaching inside, he pulls out a piece of paper.

"What's it say?"

"It's a poem" Tom reads:

“ ‘With nothing, I created;

A blank wall the palette,

My eyes and mind the tools.

I started,

Until the shifting images

Took their own breath.

They are an extrapolation;

Movement on the pavement,

From bugs in the soul.

I blinked and,

My concentration broken,

My old new life departed.

Yet now I stand,

My vigor new, conviction strong

My throne taken by apparitions

Arrive I shall,

And so will the phantoms

Fall from my pedestal.’ “

“Um, what the fuck is that?” asks Sean.

“I have absolutely no idea. At all.”

The two Magnificent Seven members stare at each other blankly, one man looking at the face of a champion, the other glaring at a leather mask, covering the face of another. The champion turns his head back to face the letter while the camera zooms in on the printed words, To silence and inquiring confusion by the crowd, the scene fades out.

July 3, 2003

“Welcome back to Lockdown,” shouts “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens. “We’ve already gotten off to a kick-ass start and, coming up next, Wild and Dangerous will get a shot at the World Tag Team Champions. Bobby, Justice and Rule have been ducking this team ever since Battleground, but you have to believe that if Wild and Dangerous can pull out the upset win, they’ll be in line for an immediate title shot!”

“I think you’ve take too many fastballs to the head,” replies Bobby Riley. “Wild and Dangerous aren’t on the same level as Justice and Rule, by any reasonable standard. It’s only dumb luck that Wildchild just happened to have his hands on the belt when Ejiro fell off the ladder at Battleground, and just ask yourself: how many matches have they won as a team since then?”

“Be that as it may,” says Stevens, “Wild and Dangerous have a chance to prove tonight that they belong in the title hunt.”

“The only thing that Wild and Dangerous are going to prove tonight,” replies Riley, “is that they’re no match for Justice and Rule, just like Frost and ‘insert name here,’ just like Déjà Vu, just like the Unholy Trinity, just like those other two clowns they hang out with in Catch-22.”

Mark frowns. “I don’t think there was any call for that.”

Bobby shrugs in response. “The truth hurt, don’t it? Well, don’t blame me, blame the truth!”

“I know I’m going to regret asking,” says Stevens, “but what is the truth?”

“Right now, the truth in Tag Team wrestling is Justice and Rule,” Riley replies with a grin. “And Wild and Dangerous? THEY CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!”

Mark rolls his eyes. “You were working on that one all afternoon, weren’t you?”

“…”

Before Riley can respond, Stevens continues, “While Bobby thinks that over, let’s go into the ring, for our man Funyon!”

Funyon stands in the center of the ring, dressed in an all-white Armani suit. Lifting the microphone to his lips, he says, “ladies and gentlemen, the following tag team contest is scheduled for one fall!”

Over sixteen thousand fans in the Freedom Hall come to their feet as 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” begins to pulse though the speakers. Wildchild bounces out form behind the curtain, his usual energetic self, with Johnny Dangerous following behind him at a much more deliberate pace.

“Making their way to the ring at this time,” continues Funyon, “at a total combined weight of four hundred twenty-seven pounds, Wild! AAAAAND Daaaaangerous!” Wildchild streaks towards the ring, slapping hands with the fans at ringside, and somersaults between the bottom and middle ropes, posing for the fans as he rolls to his feet. Johnny, on the other hand, continues his slow march to the ring, not even acknowledging the fans. He slides unceremoniously underneath the bottom rope and stares out into space, and uncomfortable expression on his face.

Wildchild looks at his partner with a worried expression on his face. “Johnny,” he asks, tapping him on the shoulder, “you okay?” Johnny turns to look at his partner, his face filled with pain and sadness. “What’s wrong, Johnny,” repeats Wildchild. “You look like somebody died!”

Johnny begins to open his mouth to say something, but quickly closes it, and hangs his head. “Let’s get this over with.”

Wildchild continues to look at Johnny in confusion. Unable to figure out what’s troubling his partner, he instead chooses to ignore it. “Hey bro, le’s jus’ focus on winnin’ dis match, eh? We can beat dese two posers!” Johnny doesn’t reply, instead turning towards the entrance ramp.

“I wonder what’s on Johnny’s mind,” says Stevens.

“Aside from his hair,” replies Riley, “I’m guessing not a whole lot. Hell, I’m surprised he even showed up tonight, considering how he left his partner hanging at Storm. I half-expected Wildchild to come down to the ring by himself tonight, or with some other partner.”

“Look,” says Stevens, “I’m sure we’ll all find out soon enough what’s bothering Johnny, but Wild and Dangerous have been waiting for this opportunity for months, and they’ve gone through a lot together as a team. Despite whatever might be going on with Johnny, I never had a doubt that he would be here for his partner tonight!”

The cameraman shifts his focus away from the ring and towards the entrance ramp, as “In Da Club” fades out. The crowd’s cheers turn to boos as the opening strains of Rage Against the Machine’s “Sleep Now In The Fire” begins to drift through the arena. The SmarkTron heralds the coming of the Tag Team Champions with bold letters:

JUSTICE!

RULE!

POPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOP!!!

The stage explodes with red and yellow machine gun-like pyro as Judge William Hearford and Ejiro Fasaki step out onto the stage, clad in their matching Magnificent Seven football jerseys. They remove their championship belts from their waists and hold them aloft, basking in the jeers of the Kentucky fans. Displaying their belts proudly, Hearford and Fasaki take their time at the top of the stage, ensuring that the crowd has built up a suitable hatred of them, before proceeding down the ramp.

“And making their way to the ring at this time,” says Funyon, “are their opponents! Representing the Magnificent Seven, at a total combined weight of four hundred thirty pounds, they are the SWF World Tag Team Champions! The longest-reigning Tag Team Champions in SWF history! Judge William Hearford! Ejiro Fasaki! They are Justice! AAAAAND RUUUUUUUUULE!”

“You hear that, Stevens,” parrots Riley. “Longest-reigning Tag Team Champions in the HISTORY of the SWF! They’ve beaten every team stupid enough to stand in front of them. Wild and Dangerous are about to become another notch on their belts, so to speak!”

“Never let it be said that I didn’t give credit where credit is due,” replies Stevens. “The Tag Team Championship reign of Justice and Rule has been nothing short of awe-inspiring! They’ve run roughshod over the entire tag team division! They’ve beaten almost everybody! But, they’ve yet to face Wild and Dangerous in a straight-up tag team match, and I think that these two high-fliers can give the champs a fight that they may not be prepared for!”

Judge and Ejiro walk around the ring, alternating between taunting Wildchild and taunting the fans at ringside until they reach their corner. They hand their Championship belts to the ring attendant, and walk up the steel stairs to the ring apron. Both men stand on the apron discussing strategy as their music fades. Referee Sexton Hardcastle directs the Champions to decide which of them is going to start of the match, so that he can get the action started. Wildchild runs over to the corner, grabbing at Ejiro, but Judge Hearford steps through the ropes. “Not yet, kid,” he says. “You’re going to fight me, first.”

“Bring it on, ol’ man,” replies Wildchild. Sexton Hardcastle orders the timekeeper to ring the bell, as Wildchild and the Judge circle each other in the ring.

“There’s the bell,” says Stevens. “This one’s underway!”

Wildchild grabs Hearford’s arm as the two draw near each other, and pulls the barrister towards him as he drops his weight towards the canvas, surprising him with an armdrag takeover. Wildchild and Hearford reach their feet simultaneously, and the Judge charges towards Wildchild, but the Bahama Bomber hooks his arm underneath Judge Mental’s, and pops his hips as he arches backwards, pulling Mental overhead with an impressive combination of strength and leverage.

“Armdrag takeover by the Wildchild,” reports Stevens, “followed by a Japanese-style armdrag! Wildchild getting this match off to a good start for his team, using his speed and quickness to his advantage!”

“Well, that’s all good for Wildchild,” replies Riley, “but pardon me if I’m not impressed. Teams like Wild and Dangerous always get off to a fast start, particularly against mat tacticians like Judge and Ejiro, but over the long haul, they just don’t have what it takes to put away a Championship-caliber team!”

Wildchild nips up to his feet, and turns to face Judge Hearford as he uses the ropes to pull himself up, staring into his opponent’s eyes with his ever-present smile. The two approach each other in the center of the ring, and engage in a collar-and-elbow tie-up, which Wildchild gains advantage of, grabbing the Judge’s arm and going behind him, cinching it into a hammerlock. Hearford, swings his elbow back fiercely, but is unable to make contact with the much shorter Wildchild.

“Wildchild’s got that hammerlock on pretty good,” states Stevens. “He’s doing a good job of keeping his head down, so that Judge can’t get a good shot in on him.”

Frustrated with his inability to draw a bead on Wildchild’s head, Judge looks down towards the mat, where he notices that Wildchild, in his zeal get the better of Hearford with the hammerlock, has extended his right leg a little to far between his own. Experienced mat veteran that he is, Hearford reaches down and grabs Wildchild by the ankle, pulling up and slamming the Tropical Tumbler to the mat with an ankle trip.

“Outstanding counter-wrestling by Judge Hearford,” gushes Riley. “It just goes to show that you can’t ever let your guard down against a wrestler of Judge Mental’s pedigree; he has the ability to capitalize on even the tiniest mistake!”

Mental keeps a hold of Wildchild’s ankle, bending his knee to a ninety-degree angle as he turns around. With Wildchild’s leg wrapped around his own, the self-assured solicitor bends down to grab the other leg.

“Figure four coming up,” shouts Riley.

Hearford bends down to pick up the other leg and apply the Figure Four leglock, but the Bahama Bomber reaches up and grabs the barrister by the back of the head, pulling him towards the mat and pinning his shoulders to the mat with an inside cradle!

“Small package,” exclaims Stevens as the referee dives into position. “He might get him here!”

ONE!

TWO!

TH— KICKOUT!

“That was close,” says Stevens as both men scramble to their feet. “Wildchild almost stole one there!”

“Hah,” scoffs Riley. “Not a chance!”

Wildchild runs towards Judge Hearford and pushes him towards the ropes, grabbing him by his arm and whipping him towards the opposite end, but Mental easily reverses. Before the barrister can react, however, the Bahama Bomber leaps onto the top rope, curling into a ball as he springs off, and blasts him in the face with his patented Pinball attack!

Wildchild rolls to his feet and waits for Hearford, who charges at him with his arm extended to deliver a wicked lariat, but the Bahama Bomber ducks easily. Judge Mental manages to stop himself before he runs into the face corner, and instinctively puts his hands up to protect himself, but quickly puts them back down when he realizes that Johnny is staring listlessly back at him. Recalling his conversation with Suicide King earlier in the day, Hearford breaks into a wide grin and begins to approach the corner…

WHAM!

… Leaving his back turned to Wildchild, who leaps into the air and plants both feet into the back of Hearford’s head, propelling him face-first into the top turnbuckle with a dropkick!

“Beautiful dropkick,” repeats Stevens. “Boy, you can’t take your eyes off Wildchild for a second!”

Wildchild reaches over to his corner and makes the tag to his partner. Johnny releases the tag rope and steps in between the middle and top ropes to enter the ring, but he appears to hesitate for a split second, allowing the Judge to escape from the corner. As Johnny draws closer to him, Hizzoner’s grin returns, and he crosses his arms in front of him. Once Johnny is standing right in front of him, Judge says in a low voice, “you know what to do.”

Mark Stevens and Bobby Riley look on in abject confusion. “What the hell’s going on here,” Stevens wonders aloud. As if in response, Judge Hearford uncrosses his arms and slowly extends his right hand towards Johnny, his index finger pointing squarely at Johnny’s chest. The Barracuda stands motionless in the ring, his head held down, as the cocky conciliator’s finger continues it’s deliberate approach.

Time seems to stand still, as the crowd in the Freedom Hall looks on in shocked silence.

“What the hell is going on,” screams Stevens.

Johnny Dangerous, his head hanging down and his eyes shut, continues to stand there gritting his teeth, as he waits for Hearford to push him over with his finger. His fists are balled up tightly and his entire body is shuddering with impotent rage, as though he losing an internal battle with his own conscience. Wildchild looks on from his corner in utter bewilderment, while Ejiro Fasaki stands on the apron across the ring, a playful expression adorning his face.

“My God,” cries Stevens. “This can’t be happening!”

BANG!

As Judge Hearford’s finger makes slight contact with Johnny’s chest, he begins to fall backwards… but, in the split second before the Barracuda leaves his feet, his eyes suddenly snap open, and he grabs Mental’s right wrist with his left hand pulling Hizzoner towards him as he draws his right arm back and plunges it forward into Hearford’s jaw! The crowd erupts into thunderous cheers as a stunned William Hearford falls to the canvas!

“My God,” shouts Stevens. “What a right hand! Johnny may have knocked Hizzoner’s dentures loose with that shot!”

The Barracuda stands over Judge Mental, shouting obscenities at him. “Fuck you, Hearford,” he screams. “Fuck both of you, and fuck King!” He pulls Hearford off the mat and grabs his him by the wrist, whipping him towards the corner, but the beleaguered barrister holds on to Johnny’s arm and turns sharply on his heel, pulling the Barracuda close to him and leveling him with a stiff short-arm clothesline!

“Fine,” spits Hearford venomously. “We’ll do this the hard way!” He pulls Johnny up by the hair and wraps his chiseled arm around his head, wrenching it into an unforgiving side headlock. He backs Johnny against the ropes, but the Barracuda reaches behind him, making the blind tag to his partner, and pushes Mental off him towards the opposite side of the ring. Wildchild leaps onto the top rope as Hearford bounces off the opposite set of ropes, and springs into the ring, crashing into the besieged beagle with a flying cross-body block!

“Blind tag brings in the Wildchild,” shouts Stevens. “And a quick cover!”

ONE!

TWO!

THR— KICKOUT!

Judge Mental pumps his arms up off the canvas furiously, launching Wildchild into the air. The Bahama Bomber lands on his feet and sprints over towards Hizzoner as he starts to get up…

WHAM!

… But Mental snatches Wildchild up in both arms and jerks him abruptly off the canvas, tossing him overhead and slamming him back down with an awesome Railgun suplex!

“Tremendous Belly-to-Belly by Judge Hearford,” exclaims Stevens.

Hearford scrambles to his feet and makes his way over to Wildchild, grabbing him by the shoulder straps of his wrestling tights and dragging him over to his corner, where he makes the tag to Ejiro Fasaki. Rule steps between the ropes and immediately makes his presence felt, repeatedly kicking Wildchild in the face. Ejiro drapes Wildchild’s throat across the bottom rope, and Judge Mental stands between the referee and his corner as Fasaki stands on Wildchild’s shoulders, choking him out against the bottom rope.

“Come on, ref,” barks Stevens. “Get Hearford out of there! And do something about that illegal choke!”

“What are you talking about,” replies Riley. “That’s solid tag team wrestling, by the best tag team in the business!”

Sexton Hardcastle orders Judge Mental out of the ring, and then notices Ejiro choking Wildchild out against the bottom rope. As he orders Fasaki away from the ropes, Hearford exits to the ring apron and drops down to the arena floor. Rule steps between Hardcastle and the corner as Justice picks up where his partner left off, snaring Wildchild in a side headlock and choking him out against the bottom rope!

“That’s not tag team wrestling,” roars Stevens. “That’s blatant cheating! Do something, ref!”

“Cheating, eh,” replies Riley. “If Wild and Dangerous were doing it, I’ll bet you wouldn’t say anything!”

“Wild and Dangerous wouldn’t choke an opponent out on the ropes!”

Riley shrugs. “Semantics. There’s no substantive difference between what Justice and Rule are doing, and Wild and Dangerous’ double-teams.”

Mark’s face begins to turn pink. “Like hell! The wrestlers have a five count to get in and out of the ring. In those five seconds, the ref usually allows a double-team to take place. But, a choke is illegal, no matter HOW you look at it!”

Hardcastle peers over Ejiro’s shoulders to see what’s going on, but Hearford moves away from Wildchild’s head, holding his hands in the air and looking back into the ring with a “who, me” expression on his face.

Fasaki bends down to grab Wildchild by the waist, and pulls him away from the ropes. Dragging him to his feet, Ejiro attempts to suplex Wildchild, but the Bahama Bomber hooks his leg behind Ejiro’s calf, preventing the attempted German. Suitably irritated, Ejiro hammers the back of Wildchild’s neck with clubbing forearm blows until he surrenders the leg, and then locks his arms back around Wildchild’s waist and lifts him off the canvas, maintaining a bridge as he drops backwards into a German suplex!

“That’ll probably do it,” Riley states confidently, as the referee dives into position to count the shoulders…

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEE— THUMP!

Johnny Dangerous races in from his corner before the referee’s hand can strike three, and stomps Ejiro in the stomach, breaking up the pin.

“Ejiro may have gotten a pinfall there,” says Stevens, “but Johnny makes the save!”

“Why aren’t you bemoaning THAT illegal double team,” barks Riley.

Ejiro stares up indignantly at Johnny as the referee escorts him back to his corner. He gets to his feet and starts to follow Johnny into his corner, but Wildchild pops off mat with a sudden burst of energy and wraps his arm inside Fasaki’s leg, pulling him backwards into a rollup!

“Turn around, ref,” shouts Stevens. “Wildchild’s got Ejiro down!”

Unfortunately, the referee cannot hear Mark Stevens from inside the ring, and he is so preoccupied with removing Johnny Dangerous from the ring, that he completely fails to notice the pinfall attempt.

WHAM!

He also fails to notice Judge Hearford sneak into the ring and blast Wildchild in the face with a running boot to break up the cover! Hearford dives out of the ring just as the referee begins to turn around.

“Dammit ref,” growls Stevens, “wake up in there!”

“What are you so upset for,” Riley asks with mock innocence. “All I saw was some of that wholesome tag team wrestling you keep talking about.”

Ejiro drags Wildchild over to his corner as Hearford returns to the ring apron, and suddenly dashes across the ring, attempting to hit Johnny with a running forearm. The Barracuda ducks the cheap-shot attempt and steps into the ring to confront Ejiro, but the referee blocks his path, and orders him back to his corner. As Rule continues to taunt Johnny from behind the referee, Justice wraps the tag rope around Wildchild’s neck, and uses it to choke him out!

“Who taught this guy how to referee,” roars Stevens. “If he can’t retake control of this match, we need to get somebody in there who can!”

Ejiro jogs back over to his corner and joins in on the fun, stomping Wildchild in the midsection as Judge continues to choke him. After what seems like an eternity, Hardcastle turns back around, but too late to catch Judge Mental in the act, who unwraps the tag rope from Wildchild’s neck and holds it in the air, as though he had never been anything wrong.

“This is sickening,” spits Stevens. “How can anyone be proud to have these two representing the tag team division?”

“Stop drinking the Haterade,” replies Bobby. “If you have a problem with Justice and Rule, or their tactics, well, that’s just too bad, because the fact of the matter is that they’ve run over every other tag team that’s been put in front of them! So there’s really only two things you can do about Justice and Rule’s reign over the tag team division: nothing, and like it!”

Ejiro takes Wildchild over with a snap mare out of the corner and follows up with a reverse chinlock. As the referee bends down to look at Wildchild’s face, Fasaki lifts his legs up to the middle rope, using the rope to support him as he leans forward, putting as much of his weight on Wildchild’s neck as he possibly can.

“For God’s sake, ref,” screams Stevens, “his feet are in the ropes!”

In a fit of frustration, Johnny runs in from across the ring and pulls Ejiro off of his partner. As the referee orders him out of the ring, Judge Hearford drops down from the ring apron and grabs one of the Tag Team Title belts from the timekeeper at ringside.

“Oh no,” moans Stevens. “They’re going to clean Wildchild’s clock! Somebody HAS to put a stop to this!”

Ejiro pulls Wildchild to his feet and hooks his arms from behind, as Hearford climbs back onto the ring apron with the tag belt in hand. Clutching the belt in one hand, Justice rears his arm back as Rule pushes Wildchild into the corner!

BANG!

… But the Bahama Bomber leans forward, pulling Ejiro into Judge Mental’s line of fire as he rifles the Tag Title belt into his partner’s face! As Hearford draws back in shock, Wildchild leaps into the air and plants both feet in Hizzoner’s face, blasting him with a dropkick that sends him falling to the arena floor!

“Justice and Rule go for an illegal belt shot,” says Stevens, “but it backfired! Now, if Wildchild can make his way back to his corner, they could still win this match!”

Fasaki, still relatively fresh, beats Wildchild to his feet and locks his arms around him in a waistlock. He pulls Wildchild to his feet and lifts him off the ground, but the Bahama Bomber uses his momentum to float through the suplex attempt and land on his feet behind Ejiro. Wildchild runs to the ropes before Fasaki realizes what’s happened, and leaps into the air as he turns around, blasting him in the face with a stunning leg lariat!

“Leg lariat,” repeats Stevens. “That ought to even up the odds!”

Having burned up his last energy reserve with that leg lariat, a thoroughly fatigued Wildchild begins the arduous task of towards his corner, as Ejiro does likewise. Johnny stands in the corner tense with anticipation, clutching the tag rope fiercely.

“Whoever makes it to their corner first will have gain a decisive advantage in this match,” notes Stevens. “Wildchild is only a few feet from his corner and turning the tide in this… wait a minute!”

Mark Stevens loses his train of thought as he notices Michelle, the Suicide King’s administrative assistant, making her way down to ringside with a note in her hand.

“That’s the Suicide King’s personal assistant,” croaks Stevens. “What the devil is she doing down here?”

Riley shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine,”

Michelle walks directly over to Johnny Dangerous, who has yet to notice her, and tugs on his pant leg. The Barracuda looks down in confusion, and then his eyes narrow. “What do you want?”

“Excuse me, sir,” says Michelle, as she hands him the note. “I have an urgent message from Mister Applewhite.”

Johnny bends down and accepts the paper, already having a good idea what it says. His briefly scan the note, and then shuts his eyes tightly. Holding back tears, the Barracuda hands the note back to Michelle, who walks back up the ramp as surreptitiously as she came.

“What the hell was that,” Stevens wonders aloud. “What did Michelle just hand to Johnny Dangerous?”

“Whatever it was,” replies Riley, “it must not have been good news for Johnny. Look at his face!”

“My God,” exclaims Stevens, realization suddenly washing over his face. “You don’t think it had anything to do with that conversation King claimed to have with Johnny earlier, do you?”

Johnny looks down into the ring with an absolute tortured expression on his face, as Wildchild crawls the final few inches towards his corner. Across the ring, Ejiro makes the tag to Judge Hearford, who steps calmly between the ropes. Rather than pursue Wildchild and prevent the tag, Mental stands calmly in the center of the ring, watching as the unsuspecting Bahama Bomber reaches desperately towards his corner.

Johnny weakly accepts the tag and steps into the ring, walking towards Judge Mental. Hearford’s sinister face breaks into a sneer, as he says, “I believe you have a JOB to do!” Johnny briefly looks into Mental’s eyes with a flash of his earlier intensity, but it quickly fades. Drawing his arm back, the Barracuda takes a swing at Hearford, as if in slow motion, and Hizzoner nonchalantly snatches his fist out of the air, twisting it downward into a fairly painful looking knucklelock. As Hearford stares at Johnny, his sneer growing ever broader, the Barracuda turns towards the referee and whispers, “I give up.”

Sexton Hardcastle, not sure that he heard what he thought he heard, leans in front of Johnny. “What?”

Johnny looks at him with lifeless eyes, his face showing no indication of pain whatsoever. “I said, I give up. Ring the fucking bell!”

Hardcastle raises his eyebrows in disbelief, but shrugs and walks over to the timekeeper. “It’s over,” he says. “Ring the bell!”

DING! DING! DING!

Mark Stevens bolts out of his seat in disbelief. “WHAT?”

A hushed murmur falls over the crowd, as Funyon rises from his seat and lifts the microphone to his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has informed me that the winners of this match, as a result of a submission, the SWF World Tag Team Champions, Justice! AAAAAND RUUUUULE!”

The fans in the Freedom Hall start to become unruly, and begin hurling debris into the ring. Hearford leans over to whisper into Johnny’s ear, “thanks for playing,” and walks smugly out of the ring.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” begins Stevens, “I am in shock! Absolute shock! I have no idea what just went on in that ring, but you can bet that it has the Suicide King’s dirty fingerprints all over it!”

Wildchild, who only just begins to realize what has happened, looks up at his partner in utter confusion. Johnny stands in the center of the ring with his held head down, unable to look his partner in the eye, as the fans continue to rain garbage on him. He turns to look at Wildchild, but quickly turns away, his eyes filled with tears. Unable to stand Wildchild’s look any longer, Johnny exits the ring.

“I’m sorry, Dominic,” he says as he climbs through the ropes. “Please forgive me.” Johnny walks up the ramp under a never-ending barrage of debris as Wildchild stares after him with a bewildered look on his face.

“Folks, Wildchild looks as confused by all this as I am,” says Stevens. “Hopefully we’ll be able to get to the bottom of this, and find out what the hell’s going on. We’re going to take a quick break while we clear out the ring, and then we’ll be right back with more SWF Action!”

As we:

FADE OUT

July 3, 2003

The familiar opening notes to “Heaven’s a Lie” by Lacuna Coil ring out trough the arena. The crowd’s negative reaction matches the music as they both grow, building up to the peak of the intro with electric guitars, all to an image of a man on a cross... Until...

!*BOOM*!

A colossal explosion goes off on the stage, leaving behind it nothing but a cloud of thick smoke. Illuminating the haze from below is a solid white light, supported by pulsating beams from the sides. Then, through the smoke and light emerges the silhouette of a man, a man quickly revealed to be Sean Atlas. He strolls down the ramp, leather mask and all, heading towards the ring.

“The following match is set for one fall! Introducing first, weighing in at 245 pounds, supposedly from Chicago, Illinois... SSSEEEAAAANNNN ATLAS!”

Sliding into the ring, Atlas props himself up and paces around, rejuvenated from last week’s Battle Royal.

Silverish pyro explodes from the rafters as “Snowblind” by Black Sabbath starts on the sound system. A pale blue spotlight bathes the entrance ramp and what appears to be snow flutters down from above onto the stage. The fans react positively as Frost walks out from behind the curtain to the start of the lyrics. He holds up one arm to the crowd, fist clenched, to recognize the cheering and starts a slow, purposeful stride to the ring. He has a Frost Brand Cigar clenched in his teeth which he takes occasional pulls of, breathing out white smoke soon after...

“And his opponent, making his way to the ring from Reykjavik, Iceland, he weighs in at 296 pounds... The Velvet Hammer... FFFRRRRRROOOOOOSSSSTTT!

Upon reaching the ring he drops the cigar to the floor and grinds it out with the heel of his boot. Walking up the stairs, he maneuvers his enormous frame through the ropes and into the ring where Sean Atlas stands, ready as ever to take on the behemoth.

Stevens: Remember, Frost is most effective against guys like Sean Atlas: technical, mat-based, all-around wrestlers that don’t match up to him.

Riley: But don’t forget, Frost can’t beat Tom Flesher who’s smaller, slower and not as strong as Atlas. Don’t get me wrong, he’s far and away more skilled that Seano, but it just goes to show that against Frost, size determines very little.

Stevens: Good point... I guess. In any case, let’s watch as the two superstars collide... The Masked Menace takes on The Velvet Hammer!

DING-DING-DING!

The two competitors circle one another inside the ring, reading to see who sill make the first move. Slowly, they come closer and almost instinctively lock up in a collar-and-elbow tie-up. A power struggle ensues with each man pressing on, mightily trying to overpower his opponent... but as expected, the larger Frost soon gains the upper hand, powering Sean Atlas towards the corner... but Sean turns it around, using Frost’s momentum to send him back-first into the turnbuckle!

*SMACK*

The Louisville crowd jeers as Sean’s hand strikes the scarred chest of the Icelandic beast...

*SMACK*

Frost flinches from the knife-edge chops but hardly grimaces as Atlas continues his attack...

*SMACK*

On the third chop, Frost’s body stiffens as he furiously glares at Sean...

*SMA-

And on the fourth, he grabs Atlas’ hand just as it reaches his chest! He tosses the surprised man’s arm to the side, then lets loose with a monster jab to the face! Atlas backs up, reeling from the impact... but a left hook turns him around, nearly knocking the masked man off his feet! The excitement in the Freedom Hall grows as Frost approaches him, rears the arm back... and sends a thrusting uppercut into the jaw of Sean Atlas!

Not allowing any time for recovery, Frost takes Atlas’ hand in his own walks him out of the corner he stumbled intoo. With more than enough room, the Icelander scoops Sean off his feet, lifts him up in the air and turns... then comes slams Sean down onto his knee with a Backbreaker!

Stevens: Frost takes over on the offensive here in the early stages of this match.

Riley: Remember though, Sean Atlas has proven to have more vitality than Frost, so if the big man gets winded early, look for Atlas to gain the advantage.

From his knees, Frost rises to stand, then forces Sean to get up as well. Taking Sean’s hand once again, the mighty Frost backs up a step as he Irish Whips Atlas into the side ropes. Sean hits them with record velocity, care of the Velvet Hammer, and quickly returns to him opponent. Before he knows it, Sean is scooped off the mat once again, twisted, turned and brought back down to the canvas a tilt-a-whirl slam!

Amidst the crowd noise, frost stands back up and reacts to the fans as Atlas tries to shake off the impact and get himself standing. Just as he does though, Frost appears in front of him, then takes him off his feet once more and lifts Sean onto his shoulders. Lying across the Icelander’s back, Atlas gets a full view of the arena crowd, all cheering for the velvet Hammer as he rotates about, dizzying Sean and himself with an Airplane Spin...

Stevens: You know what’s coming next!

Riley: Do I really...?

*SLAM*

Stevens: The Airplane Slam!

Frost drops Atlas’ lightheaded carcass onto the mat! Sean lands back-first, taking yet another blow to his backside. Arching his body, Atlas lies in the middle of the ring as Frost collects himself, and once no longer woozy, stands over the masked man with his entire six-foot-seven frame... then leaps... and DROPS a leg across the chest of Sean Atlas, crushing his entire ribcage underneath! Supported by the Louisville faithful, Frost flips around and covers...!

...O...N...E...

...T...W...O........NO!

Riley: Atlas gets a shoulder up, refusing to be dominated early in the match.

Stevens: But the fact is, that’s exactly what’s happening. Outside of those opening chops, Atlas has gotten absolutely no offense in.

A somewhat disappointed crowd settles down as Frost gets up. He stands to the side while Atlas staggers to his feet, looking for a way to turn the momentum towards him. Frost quickly prevents that though as he approaches Sean, jabbing him in the head before lifting the masked man off his feet and into the air with a Gorilla Press! He forces the 245-pounder ten feet up, preparing to drop him back down...

But Sean slides off, awkwardly landing on his feet behind the Velvet Hammer! Realizing that now is his chance, Sean throws his hands around the big man’s waist, going for a German Suplex.... But he can’t... quite... lift... and Frost escapes it! He swings around behind Atlas, wrapping his own arms around the masked man and with no more than a pop of his hips, Frost hits the German Suplex on Sean Atlas! The impact rolls Atlas over onto his belly while he tends to his aching back and neck, progressively aching more.

Stevens: Frost’s size seems to be too much for Sean Atlas and the Velvet Hammer shows the ring technician how to properly execute the German Suplex!

Riley: His size isn’t too much at all, Strikeout Stevens. It’s just tough to pull that off when you’ve been landing on your back the entire match.

Stevens: Nevertheless, Atlas is at a disadvantage here, and even his moderate speed doesn’t seem to help.

Completely unfazed by Sean’s Suplex attempt, Frost bends down and wraps his arms around Atlas’ waist, then lifts his aching body up, higher, and all the way to the top. He flips Sean over onto his shoulder, back-first, putting him in the Icelandic Backbreaker! Atlas releases an excruciating groan as Frost rattles up and down, using the force of gravity to attack Sean’s back with his shoulder.

The Velvet Hammer then prepares to Powerbomb Atlas down to the mat when the masked man begins shifting his weight towards Frost’s back... Thinking on the spot, Frost changes direction and instead of sending Sean down with a Powerbomb, he budges forward, drops Atlas behind him and turns around, hitting...

Stevens: Rock ‘n’ Roll the Dice from the Icelandic Backbreaker by Frost!!! What an amazing combination by the Iceman from Iceland! Could this be it for Atlas?

Riley: Of course not, Atlas...

Stevens: Wait, he’s covering!

...O...N...E...

...T...W...O........

...T...H...NO!

Once again, the level of excitement in the Freedom Hall drops off in reaction to Sean Atlas kicking out of the pin cover. Astonished by Atlas’ level of resilience, Frost goes to one knee as he lifts himself off the fallen opponent. Atlas rolls onto his chest, exposing his back to Frost but at least getting some weight off it. The Icelander wastes little time as he brings Sean to his feet once more, hoping to get all his power moves in to beat this adamant challenger.

Using an Irish Whip, Frost launches Atlas into the turnbuckles, but Atlas doesn’t turn around, choosing instead to take the impact with his chest. Expecting that to happen, Frost quickly runs up behind the masked man and catches him under the neck as he staggers out. The fans know what’s coming as Frost leans in and falls forward... crushing Sean Atlas under his body weight with an Inverted DDT!

Stevens: Frost just doesn’t let up! He continues to attack the back of Sean Atlas, even changing his execution of that Inverted DDT to move the force of impact from the nape of the neck to the entire back.

Riley: Which is smart, but notice how Atlas was aware of his surroundings: choosing to hit the corner with his chest rather than his back; rolling onto his side or front when he’s down. He’s even escaped a move or two. I guarantee that if Frost slips up just one time, Atlas will find a way to take advantage.

Picking Sean up from the canvas, Frost finds that he once again rolled onto his chest. Choosing to use Sean’s tactics against him, Frost wraps his arms around the masked man’s torso and hoists him up, holding him in a gutwrench as he doubles over. Frost then plants his feet, pops his hips and lifts, carrying Sean over his head and back towards the canvas with a Gutwrench Suplex...

But Atlas lands on his feet! He flipped around farther than Frost had anticipated and instead of hitting the mat with his back, Atlas catapulted forward, his momentum halted by the ropes. Quickly getting back up, Frost approaches Sean as he hangs on the top rope, but just as the Icelander comes near...

*THWACK*

Riley: Superkick! Out of nowhere, Sean Atlas sends a stiff Superkick to the chin of Frost!

Stevens: Impressive. He even used the ropes to balance himself.

Riley: The point is, he took the big man down, cutting into his advantage here.

Completely shocked by the sudden burst of offense from Atlas, Frost sits up in the ring, working his way back to his feet. Sean meanwhile, walks around behind the big man, trying to use the moment to shift the momentum to his side. Once Frost stands, Atlas jumps up behind him, causing the big man to notice his presence and turn around. Immediately, Atlas grabs the huge hand of Frost and whips him towards the ropes...

But he holds on, snapping the Icelander back toward him. Frost, expecting a Belly-to-Belly Suplex, swings his free arm away to prevent it. But Atlas has no intentions of trying it and instead, rotates around Frost while holding his arm, wrapping it around his neck and in one motion, leaves his feet to bring the big man down with the Immaculate Neckbreaker!!

Riley: More offensive brilliance from Sean Atlas!

Stevens: Brilliance? It’s a Neckbreaker, dimwit.

Riley: right, but Atlas never uses it after a shortarm snap. Frost expected the usual, a belly-to-belly, and it cost him.

Frost rolls onto his chest and continues to get back to his feet, hoping to prevent Atlas from getting any more offense in. Unfortunately, Sean’s boot quickly makes its way into Frost’s gut and the big man doubles over from the impact. Atlas takes the arm of Frost and steps over it, his back facing the Velvet Hammer. Thinking it’s the setup for a Stepover Legdrop, Frost is confident that Sean will never be able to flip him over...

But instead, Atlas simply uses the setup to kick Frost square in the face with one foot, then switch and kick him in the gut with the other! As the Louisville fans jeer him for the malevolent actions, Atlas falls back rather than flipping forward, rolling Frost over onto his back and drops down, landing with his legs across the chest of Frost!

Riley: A modified version of the Stepover Legdrop!

Stevens: How creative, and also Smart of Atlas to land in a sitting position rather than on his back.

Riley: Hey, compliments from Grand Sla.... look,Frost’s shoulders are down! Atlas covers!

...O...N...E...

...T...W...O....

NO! Frost kicks out with authority, throwing Atlas’ legs off his chest as he sits up, angered by the cheap shots to the face and midsection. Sean gets to his feet as quickly as possible, ignoring the throbbing pain that runs down his back. He makes it up just as Frost gets one foot planted.

Thinking on his feet, Atlas runs up to the giants and jumps slightly, landing with one foot on Frost’s knee. He then springs off and with the other foot, strikes Frost under the chin! He flips back in the air while Frost falls down from the impact. Landing very gracelessly on his feet, Atlas is shocked that the maneuver actually worked as well as it did...

Riley: Did you see that? Sean just hit a Cruise Kick off Frost’s knee!

Stevens: But what good does that do him? Sure, it’s flashy, but does it accomplish anything as far as wearing Frost down?

Riley: No, but Frost took out half of Atlas’ arsenal when he went after his back. What do you expect the guy to do?

Stevens: Well pissing off your opponent for no apparent reason won’t do the trick, but Sean seems to be doing a great job of that!

Indeed, Atlas has angered Frost with the repeated cheap shots and the Velvet Hammer wastes no time standing up. With renewed confidence, however, Atlas charges at the behemoth, running right for him. But the infuriated Frost doesn’t want to deal with him and uncharacteristically lifts his leg high in the air, causing Atlas to run directly into his...

BIG BOOT!

The fans instantly pop for Frost using the move, but start to settle down when they realize Frost is slightly limping. Apparently, the impact of Sean Atlas’ head into his leg has brought back the pain of last week’s match against Crow, and Frost’s right knee seems to be hurting again. Atlas, who covers his face and mask with his hands is too distracted to notice.

Frost doesn’t let the minor distraction get in the way though, and he lifts Sean up to his feet. He cracks a smile as he sees traces of his footprint on Atlas’ white mask. Ignoring it, Frost puts on a front face lock and lifts Sean off his feet, high into the air. Walking closer to the ropes, Frost leans forward and drops Sean across the top rope, chest-first!

But he’s not done as he lifts Atlas up again, does a complete 180-turn and falls back, dropping Atlas’ body on the rope once more, this time with his back taking the impact!! Atlas recoils off and Frost lifts him high again, does another complete turn on his left leg and finally falls back towards the mat, bringing Sean down with a Double Slingshot Suplex!

Stevens: Atlas isn’t the only one with originality here as Frost adapts to the match’s situation, altering his moves to wear Atlas down even more.

Riley: But did you see him limping? Frost seems to have hurt his right leg again. He even rotated on his left one when Suplexing Atlas.

Stevens: Would you stop no-selling my comments? Frost practically has this thing wrapped up! The man is angry, focused, and in control of this match. It would take a lot form Sean Atlas to overpower this monster.

Frost comes to his feet, somewhat favoring his leg. He comes over to the fallen Atlas, then takes him by the hand dragging his body up. Throwing the arm behind him, Frost puts on a frost face lock again, holding Atlas in the position as he twists and swings the masked man over... then drops him to the mat with a Swinging Neckbreaker!

Very calculating and methodical, Frost stands up and takes his time as he lifts Sean off the mat again. The crowd cheers him on as he continues to push Atlas closer to the edge, closer to the end of the match and closer to a lasting pain in his back. He takes Atlas by the arm and whips him towards the ropes. Carefully, Sean hits the ropes with his side, making sure not to make contact with his back. But as he returns to Frost, he can’t help but fall victim to...

Stevens: SPINEBUSTER!!! No more appropriate name for a wrestling move exists than this one as Frost hits the Spinebuster on Sean Atlas’ already throbbing back! And he covers for the win!!

...O...N...E...

...T...W...O....

...T...H...R...E...E....E....N...O...O...O...O...O!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Stevens: NO??

Riley: YES! Atlas kicks out once again!

Stevens: What will it take to finish this man off? If a Spinebuster didn’t do enough punishment then what will?

Riley: And you support this barbarianism?

Stevens: Hey, I used the move myself! Frost typically uses a standing version, but in this case, he changed it to use Atlas’ running momentum against him.

Enraged by the futility of what he does, Frost stands and wraps his hands around Sean’s torso as he stands over him. Once locked in, Frost lifts the 245-pounder off the mat, setting up for what seems to be the Snow Blind...! But as he jerks Sean back, the amount of force clearly shows that Frost is going for a Wheelbarrow Suplex, a move Atlas has used many a time before...

And manages to avoid! Just as many have done to him, Atlas floats over Frost’s head, landing on his feet rather than his back behind the Icelander! Acting fast, Sean grabs on to Frost’s feet and pulls back, sweeping the legs out from underneath him with a Rear Leg Takedown! The adulation for Frost turn into boos toward Atlas as he takes the right leg, bends it at the knee and SLAMS it into the canvas!

Riley: Sean’s going after the leg! He noticed the limp!

Stevens: But when?

Riley: Who cares when he noticed it, Frost has been favoring it ever since the Big Boot. The important thing is, Atlas is regaining the advantage and we’ve got one hell of a match on our hands now!

Atlas once again take the leg and lifts it... then SLAMS it back down a second time. Realizing he can’t let this go on, Frost starts to come to his feet, but Sean is holding his right foot, preventing it. Still, on his one good leg, Frost manages to turn himself around and stand, his other leg in Sean’s clutches...

That is, until Atlas drops down, twisting the leg with a Dragon Screw Legwhip!!! Frost lets out a slight groan as his body hits the mat, the groan caused by his knee being twisted the way it was. Quickly, Atlas throws the leg down and drops it, then runs to the ropes. Bouncing off, he returns to Frost and grabs the right leg, then flips over, his feet landing dangerously close to either side of Frost’s head.

Riley: Jackknife Hold!!!

Using his other arm to compensate for his back and balance himself, Atlas gets the unique cover on as the referee drops down to make the count...!!!!

...O...N...E...

...T...W...O....

...T...H...NO!!!!!!!!!!!

Stevens: Frost kicks out of it! Atlas’ balancing act wasn’t enough as Frost gets the shoulder up!

Riley: An important time for both men as this match seems to be climaxing!

Stevens: Don’t you climax over there, Riley. We don’t need any of that now...

Sitting up on his knees next to Frost, Atlas must quickly come up with something before the Velvet Hammer takes over again. He stands up, clutching his lower back due to all the pain that’s been inflicted on it. Meanwhile, Frost comes to his feet, standing with his back to the ropes while Sean positions himself in mid-ring.

Quickly, Frost starts walking towards the masked man, whose back is to him. Seeing his chance to attack, Frost charges, heading right for Atlas’s spine... but Sean expected Frost to take the bait and turns around, lowers his shoulder, then drives it into the right knee of the Iceman from Iceland!!!

Frost flips over onto his back, holding his knee as he hits the canvas. But he can’t allow Atlas to build momentum, so he forces himself to stand, favoring the good leg over the bad one. Unfortunately, Sean is still behind him and in addition to springing off the ropes, Atlas is charging for him, aimed right for the back of Frost’s leg... and HITS it with his shoulder, attacking the right knee from the other side!!!

Riley: Now he’s getting the hang of it! The more he works that leg, the slower Frost will get, allowing him to keep the control!

Stevens: But can his back hold up and, more importantly, can he even get Frost up for the Saint’s Demise to finish him off?

Riley: We shall see, Marky Mark. We shall see...

On his back again, Frost makes sure to keep his eye on Atlas as he holds his leg. Sean, on his way up, gets hi his feet far earlier than Frost does and walks over to the fallen giant, grabbing both of his boots.... And Frost kicks him away with his left one, leaving only the right one in his grips. Quickly, Atlas takes advantage by twisting it, accomplishing the mammoth feat of turning Frost over onto his chest.

Standing over the Velvet Hammer, Atlas takes his other leg and pulls it up, bending it over the first one and placing it under his arm. He pulls back, holding Frost’s legs in a contrived shape that most refer to as...

Riley: THE TEXAS CLOVERLEAF!! Atlas has the Cloverleaf locked in again!

Stevens: Shades of his aged Fury match at 13th Hour here as Atlas pulls out the move once more.

Frost bellows at the pain inflicted on his legs, the knee being tortured in so many ways... referee Eddy Long drops down to Frost’s face, asking the big man if he wishes to give up... Frost refuses though, as expected, and moves the man in the striped shirt out of the way as he claws towards the ropes... Atlas tries as best he can to keep the hold locked in, but his back ban only hold the pressure for so long...

Frost covers some ground on his crawl to the safe haven that the ropes represent... Eddy Long continues to pester him about giving up, but the big man refuses, only groaning and moaning as he presses on. Atlas is forced to take steps back, his body unable to withstand the pressure of a near-300-pound man acting against it... The Icelander edges closer, now within reach of the bottom rope that he needs to break this hold...

Reaching...

Extending...

Touching...

AND GETS IT!!!

Eddy long immediately jumps and tells Atlas to break the hold.

Stevens: Not a smart move by Sean, who decided that working Frost’s leg instead of protecting his back was the way to go.

Riley: We’ll see whether it proves to be the better decision or not.

With the fans behind him but a throbbing pain in his leg aching him, Frost uses the ropes and his one good to get himself standing. He pulls himself up and looks for his opponent... but Sean is behind him and once again charges for the knee... and Spears it with his shoulder! Frost roars at the pain but manages to stay up, leaning on the ropes and his left leg to support him.

Realizing the right leg is vulnerable, Atlas takes the left one in his hands and forces Frost to stand on the aching leg. Quickly, before the Icelander punched him away, Atlas throws the left leg over the top rope, forcing Frost to hang on the very ropes that saved him just moments ago. Then, taking the right leg under one arm and hooking Frost’s neck with the other, Atlas uses the ropes for momentum as he bounces his opponent, once.. twice... thrice... and lifts!!

...

HITTING A LEG CAPTURE SUPLEX!!!!

Riley: What a move!!!! Despite the pain in his back, regardless of the size difference, Sean Atlas managed to hit the Leg Capture Suplex on FROST!

Stevens: But again, he took the impact of that move on his back! He’s making dumb decisions in the most important time of the match!

As the fans jeer Atlas’ efforts, Frost pushes his way towards the corner. Needing the ropes to get up faster, the Velvet Hammer uses them to drag himself to the turnbuckle. He leans on them as he gets to the corner, practically hobbling on one foot as he stands upright, facing the ring. Sean, who leans over in the middle of the squared circle waits as Frost catches sight of him, then springs forward in his direction, running towards the corner...

But Frost cannot allow another exchange to go in Sean’s favor and he ducks down, evening out the height difference and catches Sean around the midsection, then lifts him up as if for a flapjack and falls back, dropping Atlas mask-first onto the top turnbuckle!

Stevens: Snake Eyes by Frost!

Riley: He’s got to be desperate now, that move does nothing to Atlas’ back.

Stevens: But it does turn the tide Frost’s way, and it’s not so much desperation as preparedness for the end...

Frost quickly stands up while Atlas stumbles around blindly, his face once against attacked by Frost. Though he’d normally hit the Hell Freezes over in a moment like this, Frost simply can’t work up the needed momentum and instead, waits for Atlas to blindly stumble closer... closer still... until he stands directly in front of him and completely exposed for...

*BOOM*

Stevens: THE TOUCH OF FROST! He warned Atlas to be weary of the Touch of Frost, or else he’ll be facing the consequences of the Early Winter!!!

Riley: In July!!

Stevens: That’s why it’s called the Early Winter!

Feeling as though his chest has caved in, Atlas is hardly aware as Frost doubles him over, then hooks both arms from underneath. The fans quickly stand, cameras in hand as they prepare to witness the Early Winter. Frost lifts, flipping Atlas onto his shoulder, sitting him nearly seven feet above the canvas... It’s at this moment that Atlas realizes what move he’s truly been dreading...

Almost instinctively, he attacks the nearest appendage of Frost – his head. Punching, clawing, jabbing away at the silvery hair-covered cranium of the Icelander, Atlas feels himself being thrown down, his back heading straight for the mat in what will certainly be the end of not only this match, but possibly his ability to wrestle effectively...

No. Not tonight, he thinks as he spreads his legs, glides around the massive shoulders of the velvet Hammer and more clumsily than at any time earlier, lands on his feet in front of the much-stunned Frost. And just as quickly as his feet hit the canvas, so one of them thrusts itself into the midsection of the Iceman, doubling him over.

Riley: SEAN ESCAPES!

Stevens: But can he hit the Saint’s Demise??

The play-by-play man is one step behind Atlas though, who knows he can’t. Instead, he inserts Frost’s head between his legs, hooks the left arm, then the right one. Fans who snapped pictures prematurely winds up their film again as they anticipate Atlas hitting Frost’s very own, Early Winter...

But Frost won’t allow that to happen. He can’t. How would he look if he was beaten by the very move that brought him so much success? Can Atlas even pull it off? No matter, he must escape it. And so he does, groaning as he arches straight up, lifting Atlas off his feet and behind him with a Backdrop...

Yet somehow, Atlas’s grip shifted to the waist, and though he hit the canvas with his back, his grip on Frost’s midsection does not let up. He pushes forward with every bit of strength that remains, forcing Frost to stumble back, and with left leg getting caught on Atlas’ shoulder, his right one gives way...

Frost falls down, back first onto the mat, just as Sean pulls his legs away and clears the room for Frost’s shoulders to stay on the canvas. He sits up and leans in, pushing with one shoulder against Frost’s thick legs while using the other arm to pull the tights up, out of the referee’s view....

...O...N...E...

Riley: What the...

...T...W...O....

Stevens: He’s got the tights!!!!

...T...H...R...E...E!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And just like that, Atlas steals one.

DING-DING-DING!!!

Stevens: WHAT???

Riley: Ding-ding-ding!

“Your winner... SSSSEEEEEEAAAANNNNNN ATLAS!!!”

Stevens: ATLAS STOLE ONE!

Riley: He EARNED one!

Stevens: He had the tights!

Riley: he had him beat!

As the commentators argue, Atlas rolls out of the ring and heads up the ramp, knowing fully well that Frost cannot give chase now. He runs through the curtain without looking back, leaving a fuming Frost in the ring. The Icelander stares at the ref, at the announcer, even at the fans, looking for an answer. He gets none though, as the view fades out to the sound of two bickering commentators.

July 3, 2003

The commercials fade away, back to the images of Mark Stevens and Bobby Riley.

Stevens: "And we're back, and ready for this re-match for the SWF HCG Title."

Riley: "A Re-match of a PPV match, cashing in to get viewers, that's good. But a shitty match between two shitty guys. It'd be hard better to have Flesher out here talking."

Stevens: "Riley, how can you say that about anyone in this fed? Especially with the opening of a special new website ... www.wepwndthewwe.com!"

Funyon: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the following match is a Hardcore Match for the SWF Hardcore Gamers' Championship!"

YYYAAAAAAHHHHH!

Funyon: "Introducing firstly, from Tampa Bay, Florida, at two hundred and fifty four pounds ... DACE NIGHT!"

RRRAAAAAHHHH

The clouds of smoke billow up from the entrance ramp as Justifiable Homicide roars into life. Strobing purple and red flickers across the smoke as it rolls down the ramp to revel the figure of Dace Night.

Looking at least a little recovered from the Pay Per View, Dace walks slowly around ring side, high fiving his fans. Walking past the announce table, he takes a long hard stare at Bobby Riley, before ducking under the ring apron.

Stevens: "What's Dace up to here?"

Riley: "Probably planning a sneak attack. Maybe that loss at The Thirteenth Hour has taught him something about tactics."

Slipping out from under the ring, dragging a stack a several tables with him.

Stevens: "Dace is going straight for the wood, wasting no time, setting up whatever it is he's planning."

Funyon: "And his opponent from Ontario, Canada, at two hundred and forty five pounds ... The SWF HARDCORE GAMERS' CHAMPION ... CANADIAN INTELLIGENCE AGENT!"

Can't Stop picks up the beat around the Freedom Hall, as the fans burst into cheers and strobe lights pick out the entrance way.

YYYYAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Two large burst of pyro dazzle the fans sitting by the top of the ramp as the Canadian Dream rises up from the ramp. Meanwhile, Dace starts to unfold the tables, setting them up. He dumps two between the English and Spanish announce tables, as Stevens and Riley look on.

The Masked Canadian makes his way down to the ring, the HGC Title wrapped around his waist. Tagging hands with all the fans on his way down to the ring, he slides under the ropes. Climbing the nearest turnbuckle, be posses to the fans with his Title Belt.

With even more tables, Dace places them between the ring and the other announce tables leaving a gap between the two. CIA looks at him briefly, before turning back to the fans, handing his belt over to the Time Keeper.

Stevens: "Second time around for these two. Are we going to have a repeat of last time? Or will Dace recapture his lost title?"

Riley: "Or will something interesting happen? But Nights stack o' tables looks like it could bring some fun to this place."

Horrorcore steps up onto the platform of tables, flexing his legs slowly, testing the table's strength under his weight. Walking back and forth, he stares down CIA.

Stevens: "You've got to think about the condition of these two guys. Dace wasn't wrestling last week, be it through injuries or personal commitments, while CIA was. So how will that affect this match, and what level these two guys are running at."

START THE MATCH! START THE MATCH! START THE MATCH!

Soapdish rings the bell as Dace steps through the ropes into the ring, going head to head with the masked CIA.

DING, DING, DING!

RRRAAAAHHH

Riley: "And nap time is on!"

The Canadian Dream and Night rush into a collar and elbow tie up. Dace pops his body back and swings CIA outwards by his arm, throwing him towards the ropes. CIA bounds into the ropes and bounces back towards the waiting arms of Dace Night.

Leaning to the side, CIA reaches out and grabs one of Dace's arm and twists on his heels, sending Dace flying across the ring in the opposite direction. CIA charges after him, and as Night rebounds, CIA lunges out with his arm and swings behind Dace into a Full Nelson.

Stevens: "VIA RAIL!"

AAAHHHH!

But with the momentum of his run, Dace dives into a forward roll, carrying the Masked Canadian through with him and down to the mat.

Stevens: "Dace rolls through the counter it!"

Slamming into the with CIA rolling over his shoulder, Dace clamps on a Side Headlock, but CIA quickly throws his legs up around Dace's head, but Horrorcore reaches back with one arm, hooking the legs and rolls through once more.

OOOHHHH!

Standing up, the Brummie Goth balances the Canadian Intelligence Agent over his shoulders in a Fireman's Carry. Kicking his legs, CIA tries to break free, even as Dace twists. Pushing off, CIA lands on his feet behind Night and brings his arms straight up into another Full Nelson.

Stevens: "He's going for it again!"

Diving forwards desperately, Dace grabs hold of the top rope to stop himself being planted face first into the mat. Bouncing back with the ropes, he shoves CIA off. The Canadian Dream staggers back a step then lunges forwards with a Lariat at the turning Goth...

Which flies over head as he ducks. Swinging back round, CIA finds an arm driven across his down chest, which sends him tumbling backwards over the ropes and down to the floor. Even before he lands, Dace is already backing up across the ring.

YYYYAAAAAHHH!

Stevens: "Lariat all the way out the floor. What's Dace doing?"

Riley: "Zzzzzzzz! Oh sorry, I thought you said snore."

Hitting the ropes at full speed, Dace runs across the ring as CIA pulls himself up with the aid of the security barrier, looking up only to see Horrorcore diving between the second and third ropes, elbow extended.

CRACK! CLANK! THUD!

YYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Stevens: "ELBOW SUCIDIA! FROM DACE NIGHT!"

Riley: "What the hell? Dace doesn't fly!"

Stevens: "Well, you said you wanted something to spice up this match, and this could just well be the start of it."

CIA clutches at his head while Dace rolls over and grunts in pain, slowly sitting up from the floor.

Stevens: "I can see what that did to the Canadian Dream, but I don't know about Dace Night. He's not used to flying and landing out on the floor like that, so it can't be doing him the best of good. And was it a good risk to take so early into this match?"

Back into his feet, Dace pulls CIA up to a standing position and helps him lean forwards by burring a knee into his mid section. Locking his legs around CIA's masked head, Dace reaches over and wraps his arms around his waist for a Powerbomb. Digging his heels into the mat, he pulls upwards.

But CIA doesn't want to have any part in getting Powerbomb on the floor, and throwing his whole body up and backwards as hard as he can, he launches Dace over head with a Back Body Drop.

THUD!

Stevens: "Powerbomb ... No .. Backdrop on the floor. CIA countered and it may well have saved his title."

Riley: "Title of loser? No that's Dace, at least CIA can be entertaining in some of the stuff he does."

Scrabbling onto the security barrier, CIA perches on the corner as Dace hauls himself back to his feet ...

Stevens: "Now CIA is gonna fly!"

Springing forwards with a somersault, the Canadian Dream dives over Horrorcore's head, down his and back locking his arms, pulling him off his feet and down to his back with a Sunset Flip, making the first cover of the match as Soapdish dives in and the fans burst into a hail of cheering and shouts.

......ONE!

......TWO!

Kickout!

RRRAAAAHHHH!

Rolling back to his feet, Dace tries to dive forwards to get on the attack, but CIA is quicker off the mark and sends his foot lunging out, nailing Dace in the chin with a huge Superkick.

Even as Dace's body hits the floor, the Masked Canadian Dream ducks and pulls him back to his feet, slapping his arms around Night's neck, he throws his legs out and dives backwards with a DDT onto the floor,

SMACK!

OOOHHHHH!

Stevens: "DDT on the floor. CIA is taking control of his one, like a champion needs to."

Riley: "Get it over with, do it fast and I might even cheer for you."

Rather than going for the cover, CIA quickly slides back into the ring, and grabbing the ropes, leans back and slingshots his whole body over the ropes and flips down on the floor below, dropping all his weight back first across Dace Night's chest.

YYYAAAHH!

Stevens: "Slingshot Senton Atomico to the outside! That can't be good for the battered bodies of either man"

Riley: "But damn it it's good for ratings Mark, and we need ratings. We also needs all our guys to be in tiny swim tights."

Holding his ribs with one hand, CIA hooks a leg with the over and makes a pin fall attempt as Soapdish makes the count.

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

Kickout!

YYAAAAAHHH!

Dace shoots a shoulder off the mat without a hint of worry. CIA grabs his head and lays a few swift forearm shots to the face as he drags Dace up. The Canadian Dream twist round with a smooth Standing Half Switch, snapping his arms shut around his opponent's waist.

CRACK!

Only to take nose full of Horrorcore skull. His grip slacks and Dace slips behind him, locking his arms like a vice. Snapping his body backwards, he sends CIA soaring overhead and flipping head over heels, chest first into the ring apron!

CRUNCH!

WE FELT THAT ONE! WE FELT THAT ONE!

Stevens: "Release German Suplex Chest First Into The Apron! My god that has to hurt."

Riley: "Ouch! Broken ribs equal ratings, I'm telling you."

Gasping for breath, the Masked Canadian is left clutching at his ribs as Dace hauls him high up over head with a Suplex. Throwing CIA forwards, Dace Sits Out on the floor, but twists the Canadian Dream to the side, slamming him rib first across both his knee and the hard floor.

OOOHHHHH!

Stevens: "A Sitout Reverse Suplex and Stomach Crusher combo from Dace Night, putting even more hunt on those ribs."

Riley: "Come on, puncher a lung."

Rolling CIA onto his back, Dace pulls his legs back for a cover.

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

......1/2!

Kickout!

RRRAAAAAHHHH!

Stevens: "Huge kick out at two and a half from the Canadian Intelligence Agent."

Riley: "The Canuck's too stupid to know when to stay down."

Wrapping his arms around CIA's legs, Dace dead lifts up from the up to chest height. Shifting an arm, he places it across CIA's chest and shoves him down, slamming him into the floor with a Spinebuster Slam.

OOHHHHH!

Once again CIA is left struggling to breath as Dace plants him on the floor. Then Horrorcore rolls the Hardcore Champ back into the ring, before picking a chair up from under the ring and sliding back in the ring himself.

Setting the chair up in the middle of the ring, Dace points to the chair and to CIA. Taking CIA up in a Front Facelock, Dace lifts the Champ up into the air, as the fans drop into a hush. He lets the blood pool in CIA's head and chest for a moment...

AAAAHHH!

But it's a second to long as the Champ kicks his legs, freeing himself and landing back on the mat. Diving forwards onto the back of the Goth, the Canadian Dream sends him face first into the set up chair with a Bulldog.

SMACK!

YYYYAAAAAHHHH!

Stevens: "Dace looked like he was going to break CIA's ribs, but the Champ countered and nailed a Bulldog onto the chair instead."

Riley: "The Canadians like to nail bulldogs do they Mark? I guess you'd know."

Taking the moments to rest and get air back into his lunges, CIA staggers back to his feet, looking for the best way to capitalise, see Dace with his head resting between the collapsed chair, he steps forwards and drops his body down, driving his elbow into the chair and Dace's head.

AAAHHHH!

Clutching his head and thrashing around in pain, Dace tries to get back to his feet. CIA helpfully boots him in the head before pulling a groggy Dace to his feet.

CRACK! CRACK!

WWWOOOSSHHH!

Stevens: "CIA went for the Roaring Elbow, but Dace ducked!"

Riley: "It's Rolling, you should know that Stevens, all the times your called it for Danny Williams."

WWWOOOOSSSHH!

RRRRAAAAHHH!

CIA returns the favour by ducking a huge Elbow Smash from Dace. Quickly grabbing his waist, the Masked Canadian snaps the Brummier back over his shoulder and onto the remains of the steel chair with a Release Belly to Back Suplex.

Stevens: "CIA needed to capitalise, and he just jammed on the caps lock and let rip."

Riley: "Mark, if you every make another geeky computer based pun like that, I'll sodomise you over this desk there and then."

CIA drops into another cover across the battered Dace Night.

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

......1/2!

...Kickout!

YYYAAAAAAHHHH!

Stevens: "Dace is still in this one!"

Rolling Dace off the chair, CIA picks up the chair and waves it over his head, calling on Dace to get up and talk to the chair. Stomping his foot, CIA builds the crowd behind him and Dace pushes himself back to his feel.

STOMP!

STOMP! STOMP!

STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!

CCCRRAAAACCCKKKK!

CIA levels the chair right into Night's skull.

OOOOOHHHH!

And Dace doesn't move an inch.

CCCRRRAAACCCKKK!

He does it again.

OOHHHH!

And again Dace stays standing. The Canadian Dream pulls back for another shot.

CRRRRAAACCCCKKKK!

AAHHHHHH!

But Dace beats him to the punch, well elbow, with a brain scrambling Elbow Smash to the side of the head, dropping CIA to the mat like a bag of bricks.

WE WANT ELBOWS! WE WANT ELBOWS!

Stevens: "Two chair shots have no effect at all on Dace Night, but an Elbow Smash drops CIA to the mat, and now the fans are chanting for the Elbows."

Riley: "Danny Williams must be paying the interenet smarks."

Moving the chair to the middle of the ring, Dace drags CIA with him. Clamping on a Standing Headscissors, Dace reaches under and hooks CIA's arms. Pulling him up into the air, Horrorcore flips the Hardcore Champ over and drives him down onto the chair with a ring shaking Tiger Driver.

Stevens: "Dace goes old school, breaking on the Tiger Driver, right onto that steel chair!"

Riley: "Do forget, all your classic SWF memories can be found at the SWF site www.wepwnedoldschool.com"

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

......1/2!

......3/4!

...Kickout!

YYYAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Stevens: "CIA kicks out! Dace was THAT close from regaining his title."

Riley: "This is wrestling, being THAT close doesn't get you anything apart from a beating body. I wonder if these two can hold out, or will they just collapse and we can show some Tom Flesher re runs?"

Dace pushes himself up to his feet, raising his fist in the air, his hand in the Maori sign, Dace calls out to the crowd.

Stevens: "I think Dace just came over all Maori!"

Riley: "He's not going to steel more moves from his partners is he?"

Scooping the Canadian Dream up across his chest, so he's horizontal, the Horrorcore Goth moves towards the battered chair, rib and spine crushing pain in mind. He tries for a Running Maori Drop to finish CIA off, but CIA shoots an arm up, wrapping it around Night's head and desperately rolls him over into Small Package.

YYYAAAAHHHH!

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

......Kickout!

Grabbing the Masked Canadian by the head, even as they both force themselves up off the mat, Dace drives a knee right into those targeted ribs, cutting off CIA's recovery.

Stevens: "CIA took a beating all over his body on the Pay Per View, but Dace has been focusing on those ribs as a week shot and as a way of taking control."

Slinging the Canadians arm over his shoulder, Dace Suplexes him straight up into the air, but once again, the kicking of the legs gives CIA that all needed reversal as he slips down Night's back, catching his head on the way down, trapping him in an Inverted Facelock.

Not wasting any time, CIA reaches forwards, hooking Dace's leg and lifting him up. Pausing for just a second, CIA Sits Out, dropping Horrorcore on his shoulders and neck.

Stevens: "MD Two Beta, CIA reversing Dace's Brainbuster attempt into a big impact move of his own. of his own."

Riley: "I still don't know who I want to see get hurt more in this one. I really don't."

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

......1/2!

......3/4!

......Kickout!

RRRAAAHHHHH!

Stevens: "The Champ was THAT close to retain, but like you said Riley, that close isn't gonna cut it in this match up."

Riley: "You listened to what I said? Wow .. maybe I should shut up with some of the things I sa ... Nah."

Dace rolls to his feet, clearly stunned and shaken by the last move, seeing this, CIA shakes his body with a little dance and tips his head back, drinking the beer he wishes was there and winds up his arm, before hammering it home into Night's forehead.

CRACK!

YYYYAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Stevens: "Dace was knocked silly, and CIA took the chance to bust out his old Bionic Elbow."

Riley: "That's not the smartest thing ever to do, especially with a no selling bastard like Dace in the ring. And if he thinks he's drinking in the ring, he needs help Mark, I can tell you that."

Dropping the steel chair that's still in the ring infront of Dace, CIA helps the Brummie to his feet. The champ steps behind him, and brings his arms up in a Full Nelson...

Stevens: "He's going for the Via Rail once more, third times the charm!"

Riley: "Three strikes your out as well."

Frantically trying to stop his face from becoming even more messed up, Dace pitches forwards with a roll, just like earlier in the match, but this time CIA is ready for it and rolls through with Dace, adding that extra turn to the roll, and ends up sitting across Horrorcore's back with the Full Nelson.

OOOOOHHHH!

Pushing himself to his feet, CIA pulls Dace up along with him. He wraps his leg around Dace's to drive him forwards, but Dace brings his elbow down sharply into the Canadian's, breaking his grip. Swinging around with a Standing Switch, Dace slips his arms up, locking in a Full Nelson Hold of is own.

AAHHHH!

Arching his body back, Dace pulls CIA's feet from the mat as he starts to lean backwards, but CIA shoots his legs forwards, and uses his feet off the turnbuckles, throws himself backwards, causing Dace to drop to the mat, with CIA on top of him, even while he still has the Full Nelson locked in.

YYYYAAHHHHHHHHH!

Stevens: "CIA showing he's a true Canadian with that classic Bret Hart counter."

Riley: "Rip off."

Soapdish dives in to count the cover.

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

.......1/2!

......3/4!

Kickout!

RRRRAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Stevens: "But even the spirit of Bret Hart can't put Dace down for the three."

Riley: "I don't think the spirit of God could put Dace down. But saying that, he's an Atheist like Sean Atlas, those two would piss on god is they didn't try to kill each other first."

With the motion of the kick out, Dace rolls over, trapping CIA face down on the mat, as he sits on him with the Full Nelson still clinched in. Rather than just getting right back up, Dace pushes himself up with his knees and then drives them right into those damaged ribs.

OHHHHH! OOOHHHHH! OOOOOHHHHHHHH!

Rocking backwards, pulling CIA to his knees, Dace locks his legs in a Body Scissors, hanging off CIA's battered body by his ribs and arms.

Stevens: "Dace rolls it into a Kneeling Full Nelson with Body Scissors, then adds a twist by leaning backwards, almost hanging this whole body weight off of CIA."

Riley: "I must tell Flesher about that one."

Soapdish steps in, and asks the Canadian Dream if he wants to give up, but he gets an strong No through gritted teeth.

GO CANADA! GO CANADA! GO CANADA!

Stevens: "Now the fans are chanting on for CIA, willing him to break free of that hold."

Riley: "Are the fans chanting what I think they are? What the hell is wrong with these people if they are. This isn't bloody Canada!"

Unwrapping his legs, Dace sits on his knees, before standing back up, and hauling CIA up with him. Horrorcore re doubles his grip around the Masked Canadian's arms, just to make sure, but then with a last ditch effort to break free, CIA sends himself backwards again, sending Dace's body crashing into the turnbuckles.

UUGGGHHH!

He steps forwards and does it again.

UUGGGHHH!

And again.

YYYAAAAAAAHHHHH!

But still Dace doesn't lose his hold. Even as CIA staggers forwards again, Dace swings round forces his head down, slamming it into the top turnbuckle.

CRACK!

Then Dace snaps his body backwards like his German Suplexes, only with time with a Full Nelson in place, dumping CIA on his neck and into a bridge.

RRRRRRAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Stevens: "DDRRAAGGGOONNN SSUUPPLLEEXXXAAAHH! Dace made the ring shake with that one."

Keeping his arms locked and his body bent backwards, Dace holds on for the bridge.

The crowd yells along with Soapdish's count.

ONE!

TWO!

TTHHHHRRRE----NNNNNOOOOOOOO!

Stevens: "CIA KICKED OUT! HE KICKED OUT!"

Riley: "How the hell! I thought that Cancuck was as good as dead after that one!"

CIA! CIA! CIA! CIA! CIA!

Roaring in frustration, Dace points to the tables outside the ring, as he slowly cuts his through with his thumb.

Stevens: "Dace has had enough, he's going to put CIA away once and for all."

Dace pulls the half head Canadian to his feet and whips his across the ring, sending CIA flying . As the Hardcore Champ charges back across the ring, Dace extends his arms and catches him, lifting two hundred and forty five pounds easily over head and pressing the Masked Canadian, he turns to the platform of tables set up on the outside.

Stevens: "Dace is gonna slam CIA out of the ring through all those tables. This is it now, this is the end, it's over."

Riley: "It's not over til the crocked ref makes the fast count damn it."

And true to Riley's words, it not over yet, as the frantic kicking of CIA's legs save him from certain defeat as he drops down from the Gorilla Press and to the mat behind Dace Night. Dropping straight to his knees, he pulls Dace backwards with a Schoolboy roll up.

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

......1/2!

......3/4!

......9/10!

....Kickout!

RRRAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Stevens: "Dace kicks out again!"

Riley: "Aww crap, someone pay the guy to stay down already."

Dace bursts to his feet, charging at CIA as the Champ climbs back to his feet, boot extended for a face breaking Yakuza Kick...

WWOOOSSHHH!

SMACK!

OOOHHHH!

Stevens: "YAKUZA KICK! NNNNOOOOO! CIA ducks and Superkicks Dace in the back of the head!"

Riley: "What did I say about someone staying down!"

Dace topples forwards like a landslide onto the ropes, bouncing off his chest, and as he does, CIA steps in and drops him with another big jump and a DDT.

YYYYYAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Stevens: "CIA's got Dace down, one last big move and this will be over."

Using the ropes to crawl back onto his feet, the Canadian Dream shakes his head, still fuzzy from the Dragon Suplex. Slowly dragging Dace up as well, CIA grabs his legs, and with an exhausted grunt, lifts him up over the ropes, and places Dace's feet on the second rope on the outside.

Stevens: "What's CIA setting up there? He's looks like he's going to send Dace through those tables out infront of us, but how?"

Riley: "By bitch slapping him?"

Unsteadily, CIA backs up across the ring, before breaking into a full steam charge at the balanced Dace Night. With a leap, he sends his body flying over the ropes and over Dace, landing on the floor, his arms locked around Dace's mid section trying to pull him over with a Sunset Flip Powerbomb.

OOHHHHHHHHH!

Stevens: "He can't get Dace over! Dace has got hold of the top rope, he's not gonna budge!"

Riley: "Hey look, it's a bird, it's a plane, no! It's the savour of this borefest, Judge Mental!"

Stevens: "WHAT!"

BBBBOOOOOOO!

Judge has slipped in throw the crowd and slides into the ring, just as CIA is charging across it. Sprinting across the ring, Judge lashes his foot forwards, cracking Dace under the chin with another Superkick, dislodging his grind and sending him plummeting to the tables below.

SSSMMMMMAAASSSHHHH!

BBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

YYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Stevens: "SUNSET FLIP POWERBOMB THROUGH THE TABLES! Thanks to the interference of Judge Metal!"

Riley: "Glad to see you thanking Judge for his hard work for once, you know."

The crowd is mixed between booing Judge even as he heads to the top of the ramp, and between cheering on CIA.

Unaware of what has happened, CIA drops forwards into a cover on the broken body of Dace.

......ONE!

......TWO!

......1/4!

......1/2!

......3/4!

......9/10!

......THHHRRREEEEE!

DING! DING! DING!

Funyon: "Ladies and Gentlemen here is your winner ... and STILL SWF HCG CHAMPION ... CIA!"

RRRAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Stevens: "Dace got screwed! Judge Mental just screwed Dace right out of the title!"

Riley: "Well, Dace wasn't really pleasant to Judge in the last tag match against him, pay back is all fair."

Stevens: "Pay back? This is the Mag Seven running roughshod over anyone they don't like!"

Both CIA and Dace Night lay in heaps of the mat. Dace from his assault by Judge, and CIA from his assault by Dace. Slowly, they being to stir. Clutching at their injured bodies, they roll over and sit up, looking around the arena.

Judge stands at the top of the ramp, laughing at Dace, mocking him.

BBBBOOOOOO!

But before Dace has a hope of recovering, Judge turns around and heads through the curtain to the back of the arena and safety.

Soapdish raises an almost limp arm of the Canadian Dream in the air and passes him the Hardcore Title Belt. CIA takes hold of it and collapsing against the ring apron, trying to recover as Dace pulls himself back to his feet.

Stevens: "Dace has to be fuming that Judge has done this to him. "

Calling for a mic, Dace looks like he has something to say. Taking up the house mic handed to him by the Time Keeper, Dace slumps to the barrier as he starts to speak.

Riley: "Oh joy, this is like listening to Steven Fucking Hawkins talk."

Stevens: "Riley, let the man speak."

Riley: "When he gets some charisma and switches sides, I'll consider it."

Dace: "Judge Mental you fucking coward! To scared to face me on even terms since that Tag Match eh? I'd make sure you and the rest of your buddies watch your backs even closer now on. You piss me off old man, it's time someone put you in a home."

RRRRAAAAAAHHHHH!

Riley: "Big talk from a little man. I bet he's compensating for what he lacks in talent and 'ability' if you get my drift."

Stevens: "Can't say that I do Bobby."

Dace: "But, at least you saved me from having to face my own partner for the Hardcore Title. I'm sure you'd have loved to wreck that one. Well, no chance of that now. Uggh, just one this left to say before I stop boring you all."

Riley: "There is a god after all."

Stevens: "I thought you had a dildo called 'God'?"

Dace heads towards CIA. Taking his arm, he raises it up it the air, HGC title in CIA's hand as the crowd cheers.

CIA! CIA! CIA! CIA!

Dace: "Congratulations on winning the title man, as I didn't say it last time. I'd like to say I'm gonna come back next week and beat your ass for it, but I've got some Mag 7 infestation problems I need to take care off. Enjoy it will you can, I'm sure Va'aiga would love to come after you an that title. And when I'm done, I'll come back and kick your ass for whatever title you've got."

YYYYYAAAAHHHHH!

The pair smile at each other as Dace drops the mic and slowly heads up off the ramp, as Can't Stop kicks up again. CIA staggers around the ring, holding his belt up in celebration.

Stevens: "Dace isn't letting go of the change to get that title back, but it looks he's got bigger fish to fry with the Magnificent Seven. "

Riley: "He'll regret it Mark, just mark my words, this is going to be a dark time for the Unholy Trinity if they start a war with the M7."

The camera fades out on the image of the Canadian Dream holding the belt high for his fans.

July 3, 2003

The jam-packed Freedom Hall in Louisville, Kentucky rocks out as Lockdown comes back LIVE! Signs from the crowd litter the screen with such sayings as "I believe in the Antichrist Phenomenon!" and "FROST IS PARTY!". Cut to the announce table where Bobby Riley sits with his play by play man, "Grand Slam" Mark Stevens.

"Welcome back to S! W! F! LOCKDOWN!" yells Stevens, garnering more cheers from the audience, "We just had an insane Hardcore Gamer's title match,"

"Yeah, I'm surprised they were able the clean up the blood that quick," notes Riley.

"And we're going to follow that up with a match with something special on the line as well," begins Stevens, "It wasn't long ago that Beezel and Janus fought two epic matches over the HCG title, but now they come back again. This time however, it's for the right to face the winner of next week's match between Stryke and Danny Williams over the Intercontinental Television Title."

"I'm sure most of the people remember the last two matches, the first one Beezel won, blah blah blah," starts Riley, "But then in a cage match, Janus gave the Scarlet Pimpernickel a Dark Bomb from the TOP OF A CAGE! Greatest. Ending. Ever. I love seeing skinny little bastards tossed around from twenty feet in the air. Gives you a feeling of all being right in the world."

"I'll bring home the turkey if you bring home the bacon!"

*BOOM*

Red pyro fires up from the base of the entrance ramp and disappears just as fast as Rivers Cuomo's voice sings through the arena, with the crowd following on.

"I'm a lot like you! So please, hello? I'm here, I'm waaaaaiiiting!"

The smoke hovering at the top of the ramp dissipates, leaving the masked marvel himself, Beezel at the top of the ramp, singing along as well.

"I think I'd be good for you, and YOU would be good for me!"

"This match," announces Funyon, "Is scheduled for one fall, and is for the right to face the InterContinental Television Champion! Introducing first, from Phoenix, Arizona and weighing in at two hundred five pounds.... BEEEEEEEZEEEEEEEL!"

El Scorcho makes his way to the ring, dancing a step or two from Fred Astaire before climbing up the ring steps and entering the ring. Beezel walks over towards Funyon and asks for the microphone. The ring announcer complies as Beezel begins to talk in his robotic-masked voice.

"Before we begin this shindig, I would like to say something... about Friend Janus," begins the masked man.

"Oh great," whines Riley, "Another pious rant from the one hit wonder."

"One hit wonder?" asks Stevens, confused.

"Yeah. He had that one hardcore reign. Just the one big win, sort of like a band that only has one hit single... shut up Mark."

"Grand Slam" shrugs as both men turn towards the ring.

"Friend Janus, I really must say that you worry me," starts Beezel, "You worry me, not in a 'I'm afraid for my life sense'..."

"He should be," says Riley.

"But more of a 'You can do better' sense. Honestly, first you pair yourself with one of the worst men in the league in Tom Flesher, and then follow up by pairing yourself with someone arguably more dispicable?" asks the high flyer, "I beg of you Friend Janus, pick up your pencil and take notes tonight. If you chose to work with men with no respect for anyone, then it falls upon me, your opponent, to INSTILL respect into you. Even, heh, if I have to beat it into you. Your test has begun Janus, let's go."

Having spoken, El Scorcho gives the microphone back to Funyon and takes his corner.

"Heavy words from the masked man, and somehow I don't think Janus will like being talked down to. Perhaps Beezel wants to anger the giant and force mistakes out of him?" asks Stevens.

Suddenly, the arena is plunged into darkness, and the crowd boos into the darkness as the Smarktron shows an image of a young man, with his hair recently dyed white. As the strains of Fear Factory's "Resurrection" echo through the arena, cracks slowly begin to weave through the image, and blue pyros start fountaining up on either side of the ramp. Before Funyon can speak, the voice of Burton C. Bell carries through the arena.

As the heavy riffs roar out of the speakers, the crack-riddled image explodes into fragments, revealing the face of Janus as he is now, with a scowl on his face. His name flashes up in green text, and it proceeds to play clips of some of his more brutal spots - interspersed with flashes of his name - as the giant steps out onto the rampway, lit only by a spotlight as Funyon lifts up his microphone.

"And introducing second," starts Funyon, "From Sydney, Australia, weighing in at three hundred fifty pounds... JAAAANUUUUS!!!"

Janus stalks down to the ring, each set of blue pyros going out as he walks past them. Flexing his muscles, he climbs up onto the ropes and looks around the darkened arena before climbing into the ring and immediatly walks over to his opponent. The two men stare at each other harshly, seconds passing as neither man flinches. Until...

DING DING DING

Beezel and Janus lockup in the center of the ring, with Janus easily powering out and throwing the lighter man halfway across the ring. Mr. B kips up and shakes off the fall, walking straight back towards the aussie giant. The high flier motions for another lockup, and Janus complies but grabs ahold of air as Beezel rolls out of the way. Rolling onto his feet, Number One runs to the ropes, jumping onto the second rope and springboarding back towards his opponent with a dropkick! The giant staggers backwards a couple steps but shrugs off the attack and continues towards the high flier.

"Come on Beez, even YOU can't be so stupid as to try and out power Janus," scoffs Riley.

Beezel jumps to his feet and heads back to the ropes, coming off the rebound with shoulder block, which ends with El Scorcho landing awkwardly on his back as the giant drops the lighter man upon impact. Janus points an elbow and drops to the mat but hits only canvas as Beezel rolls out of the way! Janus rolls onto his back, rubbing his elbow for a second before getting up to one knee...

*CRACK*

...and has said knee kicked out from under him! Janus crashes to the mat but goes right back to works on getting himself up to a vertical base. As he rolls up onto a knee, Beezel steps back and delivers another kick, knocking the big man back to the mat. Janus pounds on the canvas in frustration as he lifts himself back up to a seated position. El Scorcho hops back and forth on his toes, waiting for an opening to strike again. Janus stares at the high flier as he thinks of a way to get back to his feet safely.

"El Scorcho starting off aggresively against Janus, something rarely seen against the big man," notes Stevens.

"It won't last, there's a reason why people don't go straight after the man," says Riley.

The giant rolls up to one knee and waits, expecting another kick from the martial artist. Beezel comes through, lifting a leg up and sending it Janus' way. The big man crosses his hands in front of him, expecting to catch the kick but El Scorcho's leg goes over Janus' head! Before the giant can react, Beezel follows through with the spin, bringing his other heel up and whipping it RIGHT INTO JANUS' TEMPLE! The Australian rocks side to side slowly like a falling tree before crashing hard onto the canvas. Beezel scrambles to his opponent and covers him as Soapdish drops for the count....

ONE!

TWO!

TWO 1/2... and Janus throws Beezel over the official!

"LOOK at that strength!" exclaims Riley, "Those rippling biceps, huge pecs... mmmmm. *cough* It won't be long before Janus confirms that losing to this twit was a fluke."

Janus rolls over and climbs onto one knee as Beezel kips up to his feet. The giant sees his opponent rise, and pulls on the top rope, gaining momentum to stand up as fast as possible. El Scorcho rushes towards Janus but doesn't make it in time to stop the now erect Janus to land a open hand chop and drop the high flier to the mat. The giant puts his foot onto his fallen opponent's chest and forces all his weight onto Beezel's chest. El Scorcho screams out as Janus steps up and places his other foot on the lighter man's stomach. Janus steps back down before his balance breaks, leaving El Scorcho to wallow in the pain inflicted on him.

"The crowd felt that one," notes Stevens, "I certainly wouldn't want seven foot, three hundred and fifty pounds of Aussie on me."

"I don't think everyone would agree with you there," says Riley, wiping off a speck of drool.

Janus draws his thumb across his throat, riling up the angry crowd. The giant turns back towards his opponent only to see El Scorcho lying on his side as if lounging on the beach. Janus' face twists in anger as he steps towards Beezel, who brings his leg back and thrusts it forward into Janus' knee! The aussie staggers off to the side, allowing Mr. B to get back up to his feet. Number One runs to the ropes as Janus holds his nagging knee. Realizing his opponent is no longer in easy reach, the giant limps as he slowly turns to his left. El Scorcho returns from the ropes facing a sideways Janus and dives low, driving his shoulder into the side of the giant's knee! Janus uncharacteristically bellows out in pain as he collapses back to the mat!

"Beezel's taking the smartest route possible and keeping the big man on the mat," notes Mark, "Any time you're outmatched in strength and size, take the man down and keep him there."

"I'll give him the first part," says Riley, "But how will he keep him down? That's a question I don't think he'll answer."

Beezel grabs the weaker leg of the aussie and kicks him...

*CRACK*

...right in the back of the knee. He doesn't stop there however...

*CRACK*

...as five more kicks follow the first. Beezel holds his opponent's ankle high as he raises the other arm and mugs to the audience. The frustrated giant lifts his free leg up kicks it straight into El Scorcho's chest! The masked man flies across the ring from the force of the kick, landing roughly on his back. Janus gets up to a seated position as Beezel kips up to his feet. Mr. B rushes at Janus, who manages to get up to a knee. Beezel aims for the raised knee again but Janus throws a HARD punch right between the high flier's legs! Soapdish yells out a warning to the giant as Beezel stares at his opponent in disbelief. As if impervious to pain, Mr. B simply stands still after the attack for seconds on end. Janus stares dumbfounded at the stamina of his opponent, until the frozen Beezel falls backwards like a statue to the mat.

"And just what do you think Mr. Smarty Redshorts will counter THAT with?" asks Riley.

"Counter what? The LOW BLOW? The illegal strike? I don't know, Bobby, considering it shouldn't have been thrown in the first place!" exclaims Mark.

"Let's not quibble on technicalities now," tuts Riley.

Janus staggers up to his feet and leans backwards against the ropes. The ropes look ready to break against the giant's weight before throwing Janus back towards Beezel. Janus limps quickly off his bad leg onto his good one before jumping into the air and extending both legs straight out in the air. The giant lands with one leg CRASHING onto El Scorcho's throat! Beezel's head stays immobile, pinned to the mat, while the rest of his body flies upwards off the mat from the recoil. Janus rolls over onto Beezel and hooks a leg as Soapdish drops for the count...

ONE!

TWO!

TWO 1/2!

KICKOUT!

Janus pounds on the mat in frustration and then stares hard at the official who replies with two fingers right in the giant's face. Janus takes out his frustration by balling up his hand into a fist and DRIVING it into his opponent's chest! As soon as he takes his hand away, his other comes in with another Knuckle Bomb. Beezel feels the wind being knocked from his lungs as Soapdish gives Janus a second warning for the blatant punches.

"First the low blow, now closed fists. Janus isn't garnering any trust from the official tonight," says Stevens.

"Who cares about the ref? He's just there to count a pin and look pretty. Good think for Nick he's needed to count the pins," says Riley.

The aussie clumsily gets back up to his feet and bends over while using the nearby ropes for balance. With his free hand he drags the masked man up to his feet by the hair, garnering another warning from the official. Janus ignores Soapdish as he whips Beezel towards the opposite corner but halts his opponent's momentum and whips him straight back into the near corner. El Scorcho hits the turnbuckles crumples silently against them. Janus bends over and pulls on the second ropes, driving his shoulder right into Beezel's midsection! The giant doesn't stop at one though, driving his huge shoulder into El Scorcho's ribs a second time. Then a third, fourth, and fifth shoulder block lands, leaving Beezel a twitching pile of hurt in the corner. Janus straightens up to his feet and smiles a sadistic grin as he looks at his opponent. The giant takes five huge steps backwards towards the opposite corner then rushes at the high flyer while favoring his hurt leg. Right before impact, Beezel appears to wake up suddenly and jumps up to the top rope as Janus dives forward with a spear... and stops himself by grabbing the second ropes!

"Beezel remembered the spear from their last matches and hopped out of the way, but Janus remembered spearing the ring post from their first match and stopped his momentum!" exclaims Stevens, "Just goes to show that these two will need to pull out new tricks to beat the other."

"More reason Janus will win, you can't teach and old dog new tricks!" quips Riley.

Janus grabs El Scorcho's legs and pulls him off the top rope. Suddenly standing on air, Beezel can do nothing else but fall forwards, right into the giant's awaiting arms! Janus catches Beezel around the waist, arms and all. Clasping his hands around his opponent's midsection, the giant squeezes his arms together with all his strength while walking away from the ropes. El Scorcho's tinny voice rings out through the entire arena as Janus crushes his ribcage with his huge arms. Beezel refuses Soapdish's first offer for submission as Janus laughs at the masked man's misery. El Scorcho wiggles and writhes in his opponent's grasp, hoping for an opening but finding nothing available. Janus pours on the pressure, his face turning as red as his opponent's suit in determination. Beezel shakes his head 'no' at a second offer for submission as he writhes and flails again, visibly trying to pull his arms out from the hold but finding no release from the giant's hold.

"Although watching skinny bastards drop twenty feet to their certain doom is fun, watching them get crushed to death is almost as fun!" exclaims Riley.

His lungs refuse to allow air inside them as the pressure starts to wear on the mystery man. Beezel moves about with all his remaining stamina but can find no way out of the predicament. In a fit of pure desperation, El Scorcho whips his head into his captor's face. The blow shocks the big man who lowers his victim a couple inches lower but refuses to allow the pain to break the hold. El Scorcho flails his legs in a last ditch effort to escape, and finds flesh and bone meeting his foot. Janus yelps in pain as his weak knee feels another blow land. Realizing where Beezel's feet now reside, the giant panics and tries to raise the bearhug back up but the masked man already feels energy coursing through his veins. Spurred on from the hope of escape, Beezel lashes out with his feet, landing quick kick after quick kick to the weak knee of the giant. The crowd tries to count along with the strikes but the land so fast and furiously that they can't keep up with the martial artist. Feeling his leg begin to buckle, Janus can do nothing but release the hold before his leg gives up on the combined weight of both men. El Scorcho staggers backwards and takes a deep breath before sending a HARD side kick into Janus' knee. Beezel doesn't allow his opponent to regain control, throwing a second kick to his opponent's leg which buckles and drops the giant to one knee. Mr. B holds his ribs and takes a second to recover before taking a good look at his opponent's position. Beezel looks at the crowd, then back to Janus, then back to the crowd and slaps his leg hard as the audience's cheers double in size.

"We've seen this before... I smell a Shining WIZARD!"

"Shining Black," says Riley.

"...I call 'em like I see 'em," rebuts Mark.

Beezel runs back and bounces off the ropes. Returning to the center of the ring, El Scorcho steps on the giant's bent knee and leaps into the air. The high flier lashes out with his other leg...

*CRACK*

...hitting the giant right in the back of the head as Janus crashes face first to the canvas! Beezel frantically steps over the giant's back and grabs his weak leg. Wrapping his arm around the massive ankle, Beezel sits back in a single leg crab. Any cobwebs in Janus' head get immediatly replaced with pain as El Scorcho cinches in the hold. Beezel throws his weight backwards as much as possible, but Janus' strength is too much. The giant powers through and straightens his hurt leg, sending Beezel hurtling back across the ring and running face first into the ropes! The masked man rebounds backwards, flailing his arms to keep his balance until tripping over the rising giant! Beezel falls backwards and rolls with the fall, ending up on his shoulders and neck. Janus takes advantage of the situation and pushes El Scorcho's knees up to his head and pulls on the masked man's tights with a pin. Soapdish catches the rollup and drops for a count...

ONE!

TWO!

TWO 1/2... BEEZEL GRABS THE ROPES!

Nick Soapdish gets up and taps Janus to break the pin, and sees the giant holding his opponent's tights. Soapdish slaps the big man on the back and gives yet another warning to the aussie, exacerbating Janus even further.

"Close call for the Beez, and yet ANOTHER cheap maneuver to gain momentum," tuts Stevens, "El Scorcho might be right, Janus doesn't respect anything. The leaugue, authority... nothing."

"Who needs respect when you have washboard abs?" asks Riley.

The giant pulls on the high flyer's hair to pull him up, but the official grabs his hand and forces him to let go. Soapdish pulls Janus aside for a second warning for hair pulling, during which the masked man makes it up to his feet. Beezel throws a hard chop to the giant's chest, releasing a loud CRACK which the crowd immediatly responds to with a loud "WOOOOOO!". El Scorcho rears back a second time and unleashes another hard chop across the giant's chest...

"WOOOOOO!" yells the crowd.

*CRACK*

"WOOOOOO!"

*CRACK*

"WOOOOOO!"

Beezel gets ready to hit another chop, but Janus catches his hand out of the air and simply looks harshly at the smaller man.

"Uh oh!" laughs Riley, "Luuucy, you got some 'splainin to do!"

Janus balls his free hand into a fist and circles his arm in the air before landing a hard Knuckle Bomb into the masked man's ribs, immediatly doubling Beezel over! Soapdish warns against closed fists but the giant acts as if the referee isn't even there. Walking behind his opponent, Janus grabs Beezel by the back of the neck and straightens him up. Snaking his hands up and through El Scorcho's arms, Janus locks in a full nelson hold. Grunting, the giant throws Beezel up while falling back and dropping him HARD onto the back of his neck! Janus feels a slight twinge in his knee upon impact, but keeps the hold on as he slowly rolls over onto his knees and back up to his feet with Beezel in tow. The high flyer struggles groggily agianst the hold but to no avail as the giant hefts the masked man up and over again, landing a second dragon suplex! The giant's knee screams in pain from the wear but Janus tries to ignore it as he drags his victim up with him for a third and final blow. Reaching his feet, Janus feels El Scorcho weakly struggle against the hold. The giant smiles disturbingly as he lifts his victim up... and collapses as his weak knee buckles against the pressure! Out of habit Janus still throws Beezel up over his head as he falls awkwardly, throwing the lighter man across the ring. The momentum from the collapse keeps Beezel rolling in midair and causes him to land on his feet!

"HUGE break for Beezel!" exclaims Stevens, "Now can he capitalize on Janus' injury?"

El Scorcho staggers backwards, surprised to land safely out of the Chains of Pain. The masked man rolls his head around, trying to alliviate the damage inflicted from the two successful dragon suplexes. The giant remains on the canvas on the other side of the ring, clutching at the knee that gave out on him during the attack. Seeing his opponent again on the ground, Beezel wastes no time in rushing back to Janus and landing a low dropkick to the injured joint. Janus bellows in pain as he rolls over to keep the hurt limb from his opponent. El Scorcho keeps with the giant and grabs his ankle as Janus rolls onto his stomach. Using all his strength, Beezel lifts the massive leg up in the air and throws it down knee first to the canvas! Janus remains silent during the impact, but his eyes open wide and stare straight ahead.

"Janus isn't showing the slightest bit of pain from that, I wonder if he chose the wrong leg?" asks Stevens.

"Or, more likely, he just got Janus REALLY mad. And you won't like Janus when he's mad!" exclaims Riley.

"Psst, Bobby, we lost the advertising cash for promoting the Hulk movie," says Stevens.

"Oops."

His eyes set with determination, the giant begins to rise to his feet, even with El Scorcho holding onto one of them. Janus kicks his weak leg back and forward, sending the high flyer violently into the corner! Beezel hits the turnbuckles with his head whipping back and forth on impact, giving the giant time to get back onto his feet. Nick Soapdish checks on the status of El Scorcho as the aussie turns in the middle of the ring. Janus steps back three steps and then charges forward towards the turnbuckles...and spears both Soapdish and Beezel! The ref staggers backwards and lands flat on his back while Beezel simply slumps back against the corner. Janus surveys the destruction he caused in the ring and releases a deep hate filled laugh.

"What the hell is wrong with this guy?" says Stevens, "He might be more psychotic than the Balancer himself! He doesn't even care if he killed the ref!"

Janus walks deliberatly towards the ropes and steps over them, carefully dropping himself to the floor without injuring his leg any further. The giant ignores the jeers of the crowd as he makes his way to the announce table. Riley takes this as his cue to stand up, as he folds his chair up and politely offers it to the giant. Janus takes the weapon with a smile and rolls back inside the ring.

"What did you do that for?" asks Stevens.

"Well, a PO'd aussie came up to me and wanted my chair. You think I'm going to DENY him?" asks Riley, "Besides, after he wins I'll bring him to a pub for some ale."

"...with rufies," mumbles Stevens.

Rising to his feet, Janus holds the chair horizontally and SMASHES it into the Beezel's ribs. Without remorse, the giant lands a second chairshot to Beezel's midsection, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth before lifting the chair up high and smashing it over his head for good measure. El Scorcho grabs his head with one hand and his stomach with the other as he collapses to the mat. Beezel grabs at his mask and raises it slightly, doing everything in his power to ease the flow of air back into his aching ribs. The giant throws the chair back to the outside and grabs Mr. B by the back of the neck. Feeling his body being pulled back up, the masked man readjusts his mask to hide his mouth again and concentrates on escape. Janus throws the smaller man into the corner and lands Knuckle Bomb after Knuckle Bomb into Beezel's ribs. He follows with a hard knee to the midsection and then grabs El Scorcho and sits him on the top rope. Janus carefully steps on the bottom rope with his good leg, and then follows with the bad. Easing himself up, the giant makes it onto the bottom rope and begins to climb to the second in the same fashion. Once stable on the second ropes, the aussie straightens up...

*CRACK*

...and recieves a hard chop to the chest. But Janus shrugs the blow off as if it was nothing, and bitchslaps the masked man across the face! The crowd collectively "oooooooh"s as the blatant disrespectful attack seems to wake Beezel up. El Scorcho stares his opponent in the face as Janus brings a hand back and slaps him across the face again! Beezel slowly brings his gaze back to the giant, who stares back pure contempt. Suddenly, Mr. B brings two fingers up to his own throat as a black cloud spews forth from his mask and catches Janus full in the face! Confused and clawing at his eyes, the giant falls crashes back to the canvas as the crowd explodes into cheers!

"BLACK MIST!" exclaims Stevens, "WHERE the HELL did that come from??? The giant is down! JANUS IS DOWN!"

Beezel climbs up to the top rope and stands straight up. He watches the giant claw at his face and writhe in pain, his face slowly becoming more flesh than black. Without hesitation, Beezel leaps off the top rope and rotates forward a full circle and a half, landing with a splash on the giant's back! The impact from the splash whips Janus' head into the canvas, stunning the big man as he lies on the mat.

"FOUR-FIFTY SPLASH!" yells Mark, "This all seems reminiscent of another masked man, black mist, the Descent..."

"What are you insinuating, Mark?" asks Riley.

"Oh, nothing..."

El Scorcho crawls over to Nick Soapdish and attempts to rouse him to partial success as the official slowly begins to rouse. Beezel floats over to his stunned opponent and attempts to roll him over onto his back, but can't move the giant an inch. The masked man looks at the giant's hurt leg, and a plan begins to form in his mind. Standing up, El Scorcho lifts the hurt leg of the giant and puts his own leg next to it. Twisting the joint in an awkward angle, Beezel plants the ankle behind Janus' other knee. Lifting on the good leg, El Scorcho struggles but manages to pull both legs up and trap the good leg in between his own legs. Some of the crowd begin to stand as the vaguely familiar hold begins to take shape. Hesitating for a second to ensure the hold is on correctly, the masked man bridges back suddenly and barely crosses both his hands around the giant's chin. Locking hands, El Scorcho allows his body to contract, pulling Janus in both directions. With pain suddenly coursing through his body, Janus wakes up from his forced nap and yells out through clenched teeth as The Web is finally completed.

"And THE WEB! Whether Beezel is playing mind games or possibly reverting to old form, I don't know, but this is CLASSIC Nekura fighting!" rants Stevens, "You HAVE to wonder what sort of message this says, you know who else is watching this!"

Beezel yanks hard on Janus' chin, trying to keep himself from being pulled apart by the giant. Janus flails his arms backward, trying to find a way to release the devastating submission hold. Beezel twists his legs slightly, forcing Janus' knee to bend sideways even further and increasing pressure on the joint. The giant tries to claw his way across the ring, but with his head being pulled back in an extreme angle he can't decide which way is the closes to the ropes. The official slowly opens his eyes, slowly remembering where he is.

"No way, his ribs are in too much pain," worries Riley, "He... he doesn't have the strength to hold it! He'll bust a rib or a spleen or something! He CAN'T win, Mark!"

"He CAN, Bobby!" exclaims Stevens, "He just possibly can!"

Janus tries to pull his head back down and opens his eyes to find ropes to break the hold. Beezel feels his struggling body lose strength as his body gets pulled away from each other. El Scorcho holds onto the giant's chin for dear life as Janus finally catches the sight of ropes, which quickly goes away as the sweat on Janus' brow rolls into his eyes, bringing some of the black goo with it! Pain surges into the giant's mind again as he feels himself blinded a second time. The masked man feels the pressure against his body lessen as Janus' head and neck go limp. Worried about his own stamina, Beezel frantically pulls his opponent's legs and head together as hard as possible. A sudden hard pull against his weak knee causes a loud pop from the joint, and suddenly Janus' pain quadruples in intensity. With only the simple thought of escaping the pain left, Janus slaps his huge hand against the mat as hard and as fast as possible. Tremors ripple through the ring as the giant screams out and pounds his hand flat on the mat. Nick Soapdish raises his head as his eyes clear and focus on the picture of Janus tapping to The Web. Realization hits the official's mind as he calls for the bell as fast as possible.

DING DING DING

"Your winner," announces Funyon, "By submission, and NEW! NUMBER ONE CONTENDER TO THE ICTV TITLE..... BEEEEEEEEEZEEEEEEEEEL!"

The high flyer releases the hold and clutches his midsection in obvious pain. Groggily, Nick Soapdish crawls over to El Scorcho and raises his arm high in victory as 'El Scorcho' by Weezer kicks up again.

"What other surprises can this masked man show us?" asks Stevens rhetorically, "Of all things, Black Mist... a four-fifty splash? And the WEB? A submission we haven't seen in over a year!"

"Yes, Mark. BLACK MIST! An illegal weapon! The man you're holding up so highly CHEATED to win!" exclaims Riley.

"After all the rule breaking Janus committed through the match, I dare say it was justified! Bobby, I'd love to talk about this more, but the production guys say we need to pay the bills. So stay tuned for MORE.... S! W! F! LOCKDOWN!"

July 3, 2003

"So it's decided then?"

The camera fades in on the close up image of an outstretched hand. After a brief hesitation, a second hand enters the camera angle, shaking the first. The camera pulls back to reveal that the two men shaking hands are none other than tag team partners Longdogger Pete and Frost. A text box appears in the corner of the screen, displaying the caption: "EARLIER TODAY."

"It's decided," Pete answers Frost's question. "Starting today we go our separate ways. Best of luck to you as you continue your singles career... We had of a hell of a run, didn't we."

"I had a hell of a teacher," Frost replies. "Thanks for helping me through the last few weeks."

Pete nods. "If you ever need my assistance again, don't hesitate to ask."

"So what's next for you, Pete?" Frost asks. "Will you be continuing a singles career as well? Or perhaps staying on as a road agent?"

"Well, I talked to King about my options," admits Pete, "and I finally came to a decision. It's a difficult decision, but I think I've finally made up my mind."

With that, the camera cuts away, back to a current image of the arena, with commentators Bobby Riley and "Grand Slam" Mark Stevens looking on.

OH, MY GOD! INCREDIBLE SUPERSTAR!

"Baseline" by Quarashi hits the speakers, and the audience pops for one of the SWF's veteran fan favorites. Longdogger Pete emerges from the back, dressed casually, wearing black jeans, dark sunglasses, and a dark blue SWF T-shirt with the words "Job Train" and a picture of the front end of a locomotive on the front, and the words "All Aboard" on the back. Pete waves to his fans as he walks down the entrance ramp.

Baseline, baseline

we’ve got fools on the case and their giving me baseline

Baseline, baseline

we’ve got fools on the case and their giving me baseline

Baseline, baseline

"Ladies and gentlemen," announces Funyon, "please welcome the Miami Menace... LOOOOOONGDOGGERRRRR PEEEEEETE!"

Now we’re back in the game

The Quarashi pain it’s plain

I see the suckers fall out and the fuckers call out

Pick me up. But they don’t know what it’s about

I do my shit on the mic and I’m pleasing the crowd

Jump back, get back or else your getting a smack

on your face just like your daddy used to smack you way back in the days

This ain't no silly ass game I’m playing

hear what I’m saying, now start praying

"Well, here comes Longdogger Pete to greet the audience," says Stevens. "Let's hope he's out here to answer some questions. With Frost going solo and splitting up their tag team, Pete's future with the company is in question."

"My guess is, he's here to announce his retirement," Riley replies. "He obviously can't get it done in the ring any more. Look at him. He's over the hill. He dropped the ball at 13th Hour, and he'll continue to drop the ball every time he steps into that ring."

As Pete climbs into the ring, he accepts a microphone from Funyon and then waits for his music -- and the applause from the audience -- to die down.

"Hello everyone," he begins. "I know a lot of people are wondering... since Frost and I lost our shot at the tag titles at 13th Hour... where do we go from here. I thought I would come out here and clear that up."

"Get to the point already," mumbles Riley.

"Frost had decided to return to his singles roots," Pete reveals. "I'm honored to have worked with him, and I wish him the best of luck. Now, as for me... well, after my last surgery I was convinced I could come back here and have one more solid run in the SWF. Now, despite a couple of key wins, my return has been mostly... well, less than successful."

"Just admit it," Riley presses. "You sucked! Period."

"Shh," hisses Stevens.

"I'm not going to try to make excuses for my performance," says Pete. "All I can do right now is make a decision. So that's what I'm going to do, right here and now.

"I have an announcement to make. As of today... Longdogger Pete... is officially..."

Suddenly Pete's announcement is interrupted by "Mama Said Knock You Out" by LL Cool J. Immediately Stryke emerges from the stage and runs down the ramp at a full clip, carrying a steel chair!

"STRYKE!" shouts Riley.

"What's he doing out here?" wonders Stevens.

Stryke gets to the ring so quickly that Pete doesn't even notice until it's too late. Pete, hearing the sudden change in the audience's tone, turns around to see what the matter is -- only to be slugged across the head with the steel chair!

"NO!" hollers Stevens. "CHAIRSHOT!"

Pete reels, staggering back two steps, and Stryke swings again. SMACK! This time Pete is launched literally off his feet, dropping to the mat, flat on his back as the audience begins jeering this turn of events. Stryke places one foot on Pete's stomach and raises the chair in the air to display his handiwork.

"Stryke, the new ICTV champion, has just leveled Longdogger Pete, and interrupted his announcement! What the hell could be Stryke's motivation?" Stevens asks.

"Maybe he just doesn't like quitters," Riley replies.

The camera fades out on Stryke's grinning visage as we go to break...

July 3, 2003

As we return live to the SOLD-OUT Freedom Hall in Louisville, Kentucky, we can see the special Fourth of July decorations adorning the arena, as the fans are on their feet, cheering loudly. Several American flags are present, as is one smartass with his Canadian flag. He hasn’t been beaten up... yet. We then turn our attention to the annoucing team of “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens and Bobby Riley.

Stevens: Welcome back to SWF Lockdown, where we are in full patriotic mode, even though it isn’t the Fourth of July yet! We’ve still got our main event ahead! The World Title is on the line between the surprising returnee Thoth, and our World Champion-

Riley: TOM FLESHER! I’m so excited, I could-

Stevens: Now hold on, Bobby, we’ve still got one more match, and it’s going to be a home run!!!

Riley: What? Did they find a way to clone The Superior One or something?

Stevens: No, it’s Mak Francis versus Michael Craven for the US Title.

Riley: ...There’s another match before Tom? Shoot.

Stevens: In another rematch from 13th Hour, Craven will try to win back the U.S. Title from the Mak. King agreed to this match so soon on one condition... if Craven cannot regain the title, he’s barred from the U.S. Title division for two months! It’s safe to say that all the stops will be pulled out! A high-stakes match for the US Title between two bitter rivals... right here... right now!!!!

The lights cut out, the crowd begins to boo like crazy while a cursor pops up on the SmarkTron, which seems to be in DOS mode. Keystrokes can be heard in the background as someone types:

C:\>dir/SWF

This is followed by the distinctive sound of the Enter key being hit. Popping up is the following short list.

Directory of C:\SWF\Superstars

TheSuperiorOne.exe

WatchMeExplode.exe

VelvetHammer.exe

OneManWreckingCrew.exe

Franchisable.exe

KingOfNightmares.exe

HighPriestOfHorrorcore.exe

The typing continues on as whoever is typing types in:

C:\>Run "KingOfNightmares.exe"

The typer hits Enter again, but the screen stays, the little cursor beginning to flash brightly and rapidly for several seconds before...

“BOOM!”

A huge blast of blue and white pyro kicks up, the smoke lingering on stage for quite some time. Strobe lights pulse to the beat of the guitar and drums in the background as Saliva’s “King of My World” kicks in while the crowd really begins to boo. As the first words kick in, the strobes cut out, a single, blinding light shines from the entryway, piercing through the smoke. The light illuminates the figure of Michael Craven, his body shadowing most of his front side. He stops to look at the fans before he spins around twice, finishing by pointing to himself as the crowd begins to boo louder. Holding his pose for a second, he releases as the chorus ends for the first time, walking down to the ring. The lights are now a deep blue, Craven focused only on the match at this point.

Funyon: The following match is scheduled for one-fall, and it's for the SWF US CHAMPIONSHIP! Introducing first, from Tampa, Florida, weighing in at 280 pounds... ladies and gentlemen, The King Of Nightmares... MICHAEL CRAVENNNNN!!!

He enters the ring by hopping over the top rope, landing on his feet. He climbs the turnbuckle closest to the crowd, opening his arms wide and soaking in the crowd’s response, a chorus of heavy boos except for The Craven Section, as a white spotlight shines down upon him, casting shadows across his face. Mike then hops off the turnbuckle and repeats it before he hops down, turning to stare at the entryway.

Stevens: I don’t think I’ve ever seen Craven this intense since his classic feud with Frost over the Hardcore Title as... You-Know-Who. I still don’t know why he doesn’t like to be called that name...

Riley: Somethings are best left unknown, I guess...

The house lights shut off as the wispy sounds of a digital xylophone echo throughout the arena. You can feel the pulsation of the light dings, as a hard beat done by violins, suddenly strikes up slightly overshadowing the original background rhythm.

“So do you wanna’ be a Franchise… And live large… A big house… five cars…”

The SmarkTron flares up with a blue and white photonegative image of Mak Francis, which is followed by ‘The Franchise’ in large green lettering, flashing on the screen in time with the beat.

“The rent charge… Comin’ up in the world, don’t trust nobody… Gotta’ look over your shoulder constantly!”

As the opening lyrics from “Rock Superstar” by Cypress Hill, slightly altered of course, blare over the PA system. Eventually, the self proclaimed franchise makes his way through the curtain. The lights come back up and Francis comes out onto the stage, tilting his shades down on the bridge of his nose, stopping to look left and then right…

“I remember the days, when I was a young kid grownin’ up… Lookin’ in the mirror dreamin’ about blowin’ up!”

That cues two short bursts of green pyrotechnics erupting from either side of him. He readjusts his shades with a smirk, before slowly strolling down to ringside, staring at Craven as the fans nearly drown Funyon out with their “BACK THE MAK!” chants.

Funyon: And from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, weighing in at 236 pounds... he is the SWF UNITED STATES CHAMPION... “THE FRANCHISE” MAK FRANCISSSSS!!!

Francis makes his way down to the apron, but Craven suddenly charges, leaping through the middle and top ropes as he smashes into Francis, tackling him outside the ring! The crowd gasps in shock, certainly not expecting this to happen.

Stevens: The King Of Nightmares with a diving tackle onto Francis! He’s taken the fight to the champion!

Both men collapse to the outside, neither moving for a second after the bump, but Craven is first to his feet, grabbing Mak Francis by the head and pulling him to his feet. Craven then rams Francis chest-first into the steel guard rail surrounding the ring. Francis cries out as Craven pulls back, doing this again. The assaults cause the US Title to be knocked loose from Mak’s waist, falling to the ground as Craven pulls him back. Now, with Mak still bent over, he jams a hard knee into Mak’s chest, grabbing him around the head before he lifts him into the air and falls down, slamming Francis chest-first to the ground with a reverse suplex! The Franchise cries out as The King of Nightmares grabs hold of Mak’s US Title, slinging it over his shoulder as he grabs Mak and drags him up and towards the ring.

Stevens: Craven’s assaulting Mak Francis! He can’t do this!

Riley: But the match hasn’t started yet!

Craven rams Francis’ ribs into the apron before he rolls Francis into the ring, throwing the title aside for the time being. The ref grabs the title off the mat, handing it off to the timekeeper and signaling for the bell..

DING DING DING!!!

Craven hops up onto the apron as Francis rolls onto his back, leaping over it. He brings his legs under his body and slingshot legdrops Mak across the chest, remaining on top as he tries to cover Francis quickly for the first pin-fall of the match...

One!

Francis kicks out! Craven doesn’t look too surprised, getting to his feet before he stomps away at Mak’s chest. The Franchise grunts, grabbing his chest as Craven pulls him up, yelling at him to shut up as he pulls him to his feet.

Stevens: I haven’t seen this level of intensity from Craven in a long time! I mean, he’s been tough... but right now, he’s dominating!

Riley: And just think... he’s not even trying...

As Mak gets to his feet, Craven draws his arm back, hitting Francis across the face with a hard left hook! Another hard blow into Francis’s face dazes the US Champion, allowing Craven to grab him by the arm and whip him to the ropes! Mak hits them, bouncing right back off. As he flies back at the King of Nightmares, Craven collects him across his chest, then spins and drops to the mat, slamming Francis down with an Irish whip powerslam! Mak cries out as Craven holds on, covering him for another pin-fall attempt!

One!!!

Tw-Kickout by Francis! The crowd pops loudly for Mak’s kickout, but an angry, determined Craven quickly gets to his feet and peels Mak of the mat, grabbing him by the wrist and whipping him into the corner.

Stevens: Craven is on a rampage! He has not slowed down since he attacked Mak Francis outside the ring before this match started!

Mak slams hard into the corner, Craven charging in after him, leaping at him. Hoping to crush Mak, Craven is mistaken as The Franchise ducks out of the way, forcing Craven to slam into the corner! Craven staggers back out of the corner, stunned by the turn of events, unable to locate Mak. He feels the quick waistlock from behind and his feet leave the mat before Mak drops back, slamming Craven on his neck with a German suplex!

Stevens: The first mistake by The King of Nightmares is a big one! Francis with a German suplex on Craven!

Francis keeps the hold tight, though, bridging over into a pinning attempt!

One!

Kickout by Craven! One move isn’t enough to drain the energy of either competitor. Both slowly rise to their feet, ready to continue the battle.

Riley: Is that the best he can do? I thought he’s supposed to represent the United States as it’s champion.

Stevens: Bobby, we’re barely into this match. Craven has hit two moves in the ring himself.

As Craven gets to his feet, Mak Francis cracks him across the side of his face with a forearm strike! Craven’s head whips one way, but is sent back the other by a hard slap from the back side of Mak’s right hand! Craven is stunned just long enough for Mak to draw his arm back, smacking across the chest of Michael Craven!

Crowd: WOOOOOO!

Craven staggers back as Mak draws his arm back, nailing Craven with yet another chop across the chest that leaves a temporary stinging sensation!

Crowd: WOOOOOO!

Craven grabs his chest, staggering back, but Mak Francis clutches Craven’s wrist before he can turn away, and with a tug, whips him to the ropes!

Stevens: Mak Francis fighting back hard against The King of Nightmares! The US Title lays in the balance!

As Mike flies back from the ropes, Francis bends over, allowing himself to flip Craven up into the air with a back body drop. Craven lands hard on his back, slowly sitting up he seems somewhat dazed, but as he gets to his feet, he gets grabbed and lifted off the mat, right onto Mak’s shoulder before The Franchise drops back, delivering a backdrop that sends cheers through the crowd... and chills down Bobby Riley’s spine.

Riley: Dammit! He cannot get away with this! He’s hap-hazardly threatening Craven’s career!!!

Stevens: With a backdrop? You’re kidding me... right?

Craven grabs his upper back, having fallen over onto his face, but Francis rolls him over, quickly covering him for another pinfall attempt!

One!!!

Tw-kickout from Craven! Francis pulls Craven to his feet, firing off two sharp right jabs before he grabs him by the arm and whips him again. Craven heads for the ropes, but he do-si-dos the whip and sends Mak to the ropes instead.

Stevens: Sharp counter from Michael Craven, hoping to get back into this match in any way possible!!!

The Franchise hits the ropes and comes off them. The King of Nightmares, though, decides to show off a little something he picked up from Mak. As Francis comes back off the ropes, he brings his right leg up, curling it back as he steps forward. With a thrust, he lashes out at Mak with a yakuza kick...

But Mak knows how to duck the kick, and in doing so, leaves Craven confused.

Stevens: Well, looks like Craven tries something out of Mak’s book... and it backfired on him!

Riley: You just watch... Craven’s going to win this match... I don’t doubt it for as minute...

As Craven turns around, staggering forward for a second, Francis waistlocks Mike, lifting him up into the air before relasing him in mid-air, Mike flipping over and slamming onto his back via a overhead release belly-to-belly suplex!

Stevens: WHOA!! Big belly-to-belly suplex from Mak Francis!!!

Mike hits the mat hard on his back and shoulderblades, clutching his spine before Francis drops down on top of him, trying desperately to cover him, the ref counting as the fans hold their breath in wait...

One!!!

Two-Kickout by Craven!

The crowd lets out a sigh of despair, but Francis quickly pulls Craven up, and sliding behind him, instantly locks in a reverse chinlock, going to work on wearking Craven’s head and neck down. Craven’s teeth clench as he tries to fight through the hold. With a free arm, he plants it on the mat and pushes upwards, forcing himself up against Francis’s wishes. Francis attempts to force him back down, but his force is not enough to keep him down. As soon as he gets to his feet, Craven begins to jab his free elbow both hard and rapidly into the ribs of Mak Francis.

Stevens: Craven in a predicament here, trying to break free from Mak’s grasp!

Riley: Oh really... and what made you think that?

The first blow manages to do nothing, but a second sets him free, Mak dropping to his knees and allowing Craven to run to the ropes. Craven flies back, hitting the ropes and bouncing forward off them as Mak begins to get to his feet. Pushing himself up onto his knees, he awaits Craven’s return, and upon it, drops to the mat, grabbing Craven around the ankles with his own ankles as the crowd pops for a Mak Francis drop toe hold!!! Craven’s face slaps off the mat, The King of Nightmares grabbing it as he lies on his stomach. However, as he lies there, he is suddenly grabbed underneath the arms by Mak Francis, who now has him in a full nelson. The crowd knows what’s next, and Craven enters Panic Mode.

Stevens: He’s not gonna-

Riley: For the love of Suicide King!!! He’s not going to use-

Stevens: The Cattle Mutilation!!! This is the move he used to win back the US Title! And he’s gonna use it again to end this one!

Francis gets ready to flip himself forward, but before he can, Craven brings his knees up under him, and throwing them out, he flips himself over onto his side, pinning Mak Francis down to the mat!

Stevens: He countered the set-up!!! Francis is pinned to the mat, meaning he’s got to release or it’s over!

One!!!

Two!!!

Francis releases the full nelson and kicks out! The Craven Section breathes a collective sigh of relief, both men down in the ring for a few second, prompting the start of a count from referee Matthew Kivell, but when both men rise slowly, the count abruptly stops.

Riley: Craven is a smart, smart man. He’s got brains, he’s got brawn... he’s the total package, Mark!

Stevens: I admit, he managed to keep himself from going down to another Cattle Mutilation, but where does he go from here?

Riley: The hell if I know.

As the two men rise to their feet, Craven fires off a hard right into Mak’s chest, followed up by a hard left and a subsequent knee thrust before an Irish whip. Francis flies to the ropes, bouncing off them and flying back at Craven. The Franchise leaps into the air, launching himself into a Lou thesz press, but Craven catches him, spinning and slamming him ruthlessly into the mat with a spinebuster, making sure to plant his shoulder into Mak’s ribs!

Stevens: Huge spinebuster from Craven! I think he just shattered The Franchise’s momentum!!!

Riley: Duh. I mean, look at the power of it! Mak’s gonna be feeling that one for days!

Francis lies out on the mat, clutching his ribs in pain, Craven begins to stomp away at Mak’s upper body for several seconds. Francis tries to block, rolling onto his chest, but Craven flips him over with his foot and stomps away again. Francis once more rolls onto his chest, but Craven’s had enough of these games. Grabbing Francis, he pulls him to his feet swiftly, slamming a knee into Mak’s gut in the process. Francis cries out in pain as Craven whips Francis into the corner, and as Mak hits turnbuckle, Craven charges in after him...

Riley: IT’S TIME!!! IT’S TIME!!! IT’S CRAVEN TIME!!!

...connecting with a huge body avalanche! Craven bounces back, but his work is not done. Grabbing the middle ropes on either side of Mak, he begins to thrust his shoulder into Mak’s chest. Francis cries out with each thrust, Craven unrelenting in his assault as he jams his shoulder into Mak’s ribs. Craven eventually stops backs off from Francis after about ten secounds of shoulder thrusts, The Franchise staggering out of the corner and into Craven’s arms. The King of Nightmares scoops him up and turns around, smiling as the crowd boos loudly. Craven responds, dropping to a knee and slamming Mak’s ribs down with a rib breaker! The crowd jeers Craven, who lifts Mak up and slams him into another rib breaker!

Stevens: What savage brutality! Craven has no soul! Damn him to hell-

Riley: Umm, Mark... You’re starting to sound like Jim Ross again...

Stevens: Oh... sorry about that... I guess we all get carried away.

Riley: Uh, no I don’t.

Stevens: Yeah you do. When I ever I suggest you’re gay-

Riley: DAMMIT, ENOUGH WITH THAT CRAP!!! It’s old already!! Can’t you think of some better lie?

Stevens: It’s a lie? Riiight...

Craven smiles, knowing that he is instigating the crowd, but he doesn’t care. Pulling Mak up one final time, he drops down to a knee again, slamming Mak down with a third rib breaker! Craven, though, holds on, getting back up with Mak, only to scoop slam him into the mat. Craven grins, quickly dropping an elbow into the vulnerable chest of Mak Francis. However, he remains there, holding Mak down for a pin attempt:

One!!!

Two!!!

Kickout by Mak Francis! For the first time in the match, Craven looks honestly stunned. After the barrage on Mak’s chest, he expected more than that. He shows his anger as he slams his fist into the mat, screaming at the ref while the crowd pops for the sign by Mak that he’s still in this.

Stevens: Craven only gets a two-count, and I don’t think he believes it!

Riley: I thought that was enough! How the hell did he kick out?

Craven pulls Mak Francis to his feet, The King of Nightmares working over Mak’s ribs with a few hard body blows and knees. Francis grabs his ribs, which are in pain as Craven moves behind him. Craven reaches around Mak's body with one leg so it's around Mak’s side and between his legs, hooking the leg on the same side as his leg. Mike then has a few options on what he can do, but he decides to use both arms to push Mak's head and neck down so he’s stretched across Craven's knee, bending him sideways.

Riley: Excellent choice by Craven. This abdomnal stretch is going to KILL Mak Francis!

The crowd starts a chant of “Let’s go, Franchise! ‘Clap-clap-clapclapclap’”, the Craven Section countering with “Let’s go, Craven! ‘Clap-clap-clapclapclap’” as Craven continues to apply the pressure. Mak cries out in pain, but Craven is not satisfied. Continuing to push down with one arm, he grabs onto the ropes as leverage with the other, doing so out of view of Matthew Kivell. Craven continues the hold as the crowd howls in disbelief, but Kivell finally spots his little trick, calling for a rope break!

Stevens: That’s what happens when you try to cheat, Craven! you get caught and called on it!

Riley: There’s nothing wrong with that! You’re making a big deal about nothing! In fact, the next time he punches Mak, you’re gonna accuse him of being racist!

Craven refuses to release the hold, prompting a five-count from Kivell:

One!

Two!

Three!

Four!

Craven releases the hold and backs off from Francis, moving towards the turnbuckle as the Craven Section erupts into a “CRAVEN! CRAVEN!” chant, the rest of the crowd remaining silent as Mike grabs hold of the top ropes, Mak Francis only starting to recover from the hold.

Stevens: What’s he gonna do now?

He goes to the top, waiting for Mak to fully get to his feet so he can knock him back to the mat, but as Francis gets to his feet, he staggers to the ropes, landing on top of them. This sends a vibration down the rope, causing it to wiggle, which in turn causes Craven to lose his balance and slip, falling straight down, resulting in the simultaneous cringing of 19,169 fans and two announcers.

Stevens: ...Wow... he fell right down on... how would you describe it, Bobby?

Riley: Ya know, I’m not even gonna comment on that one. Ouch...

As Craven sits on the top of the turnbuckle, stunned, Mak Francis moves in. Staggering towards Craven, he jumps onto the second rope, waistlicking Craven. Craven is helpless as Francis pulls him off the turnbuckle and falls back, spinning around to drop Craven into a belly-to-belly slam! Craven lands hard on the mat again, but Francis drops down on top of him, his legs bouncing off the ropes and coming to a rest near them. Francis’ left leg is under the ropes, preventing him from directly pinning Craven. Mak slides Craven around, coming dangerously close to the ropes remaining on Craven to pin him to the mat as Kivell counts, The King of Nightmares’ legs slowly moving...

One!!!

Two!!!

THR-wait! Kivell observes that the toes on Mike’s right foot are barely under the ropes! He double-checks, then stops the count! Francis turns around, seeing that Craven’s belt girls are on the other side of the ring. If they didn’t drag his leg over to the ropes... then how did it happen?

Stevens: How did Craven get to the ropes in time?!?!

Riley: Simple, Mark. When Mak moved Craven, he moved his right leg closer to the ropes on accident. Mak simply forgot to hook Craven’s right leg when he pinned him. He just saw that he could pin Craven quickly from the waistlock position.

Pulling Craven up off the mat, he hits him hard with a forearm strike, finishing a second strike before he grabs Craven and sends him towards the ropes. The King of Nightmares tries to reverse the whip, but Francis pulsl Craven back towards him, hooking his arm before he flips him over and arm drags him to the mat! Craven slams into the mat, but Mak, still holind that arm, pulls him up, and grabbing him around the head and arm, chains right into a dragon sleeper!

Stevens: Craven tried to reverse that whip, but he got arm dragged, and now’ he in a dragon sleeper! His chances are not looking to well!!!

Riley: This isn’t even about the title anymore. It’s about pride, or some stupid crap like that.

Craven tries to fight out of the move, but his position isn’t the best for him to try and escape the hold. Francis clamps down, keeping Craven down on the mat. Craven looks for the ropes to help him, but he’s too far away from them. They can’t help him this time.

Stevens: Craven was looking for the ropes, but he can’t reach out and get them this time! He could be in real trouble!

The pain starts to fill Craven’s body. His eyelids shut, his teeth clenching as he tries to fight through the hold. With a free arm, he plants it on the mat and pushes upwards, forcing himself up against Francis’ wishes. Mak attempts to send him back down with a hard twist of his neck, and though Craven drops to a knee for a sec, it's not enough to keep him down. As soon as he gets to his feet, Craven flips himself forward, throwing Mak into a modified hip toss! Francis slams to the mat, just as 280 pounds of flesh, muscle, and bone come crashing down on his chest. Francis lets out a cry, releasing the hold, both men on the mat for a few seconds before Craven sits up, grabbing his neck.

Stevens: What a slam from Craven! But he didn’t get away unscathed!

Riley: What do you mean? If you were in a dragon sleeper, you’d be grabbng your neck, too.

Stevens points at Craven, who looks like he’s in pain from the slams he’s taken on his neck.

Stevens: But not like you’re in THAT much pain.

The Franchise slowly rises to his feet, promptly getting booted in the chest as he does. He doubles over in pain, allowing the King of Nightmares to grab him around the head, dropping back into a snap DDT! The move plants Francis’ head into the mat, but all is not over. Following the DDT, Craven grabs Mak around the arm, still holding onto his head, and scissoring Mak’s torso with his legs, pulls The Franchise back into a guillotine choke!

Riley: CRAVEN CLUTCH!!! This has got to be it!!! There’s no way Francis can get out of this hold!

Francis gasps for air as the hold is applied, but he’s familiar with this move and knows how to break it. Forcing his legs up under his body as far as he can, he digs in, elevating himself and pushing Craven back onto his shoulders! Kivell drops to make the count as Francis pins Craven down:

One!!!

Two!!!

TH-Craven releases the hold and pulls his shoulder up! Francis falls over as Craven releases the hold, The King of Nightmares slowly rising to his feet. As he does, though, the crowd starts a “CRAVEN SUCKS!” chant, to which Craven replies:

Craven: I don’t suck! You people do!

The non-Craven Section fans boo at The King of Nightmares, who grabs hold of The Franchise, slowly pulling him to his feet as the crowd starts another chant:

Crowd: Mak Owns Craven! “Clap-clap-clapclapclap” Mak Owns Craven! “Clap-clap-clapclapclap”

Stevens: Perhaps the crowd is getting to Michael Craven?

Riley: Of course not! If it were, he’d be making mistakes!

Craven knees Francis hard in the chest before he grabs him by the arm and whips him to the ropes. He readies to grab Francis as he comes back, but Francis changes his plan, leaping into the air and taking Craven down with a flying forearm smash! Both men hit the mat hard, the crowd popping for the countering move by The Franchise.

Riley: Ummm... never mind...

Both men slowly rise up, the crowd now coming alive as Craven takes a swing at Mak... and misses! The Franchise ducks under The Gulf Coast Hurricane, grabbing him around the head before he drops down and neckbreakers Craven!

Stevens: Now, what were you saying?

Riley: Just shut up, Mark...

Craven drops to the mat, and Francis quickly covers, Kivell dropping down to count:

One!!!

Two!!!

THR-kickout by Craven! The Franchise doesn’t look like he’s really stunned. I mean, who beats someone with a neckbreaker?

Stevens: Mak Francis was so close with that neckbreaker! I’m surprised he got such a close count out of the move!

Riley: Me, too. I mean, c’mon... a neckbreaker? What’s up with that?

Craven tries to get to his feet, but Francis is on a roll, and grabbing Craven from behind, he lifts him up, slamming him down on his neck with a German suplex! Craven’s fun ride isn’t over, though, as Francis rolls over, slowly lifting Mike up before he drops him back again with another German! Craven is helpless as Francis pulls him back up, lifting him up again before he hits one final German suplex, bridging into a pin as Craven’s shoulders land on the mat!

One!!!

Two!!!

THRE-kickout by Craven! Francis is in shock that he didn’t get Craven, asking the ref about any possible slow counts, but the ref holds up two fingers.

Stevens: Mak Francis with multiple Germans, but he only gets a two count, and he looks a bit concerned that he got screwed!

Craven is pulled to his feet by Mak, who hits him in the face with a ahrd forearm blow, then a hard right hand before he grabs him and whips him into the corner. Craven hits the turnbuckle, but Mak is right behind him, lashing out with one, two, three snapping left hand jabs followed by a snapping right to the face of Craven! The combo causes Craven to stagger out of the corner following the last blow, but Mak grabs Craven around the head, charges forward, and drops to the mat, landing a bulldog!! Craven hits the mat hard, Francis rolling him over to cover him for...

One!!!

Two!!!

THRE-kickout by Craven!

Stevens: Mak Francis was sooo close there!

Riley: But close doesn’t count it, Mark. He doesn’t get anything for being close. Only for winning.

As Craven rises to his feet, Mak Francis swings at Craven with a right hook, but Craven ducks! He slides behind Mak, hooking him under the arms, and with a mighty lift, hosits Mak into the air before he slams him down on his face, executing a full nelson front slam!

Stevens: RED FUSION!!! I have to believe that this match could be over!

Craven collapses to his knees as Mak hits the mat. The King of Nightmares slowly rolls Mak over, takes a breather, and covers him, Kivell dropping to his knees to count:

One...

Two...

THREE-NO!!! FRANCIS KICKS OUT JUSt IN THE NICK OF TIME!!! The crowd explodes into cheers while Craven unleashes an audible cuss word as Mak kicks out of the pin!

Stevens: THE KING OF NIGHTMARES WAS INCHES AWAY FROM A WIN!!!

Riley: I don’t believe it! Mak somehow kicked out of that move!! How is he even still alive?

Craven is slow to his feet, but he gets there, pulling Mak along with him. After two hard right hands, Craven runs to the ropes, The King of Nightmares hitting them as Francis awaits his return, Craven ducked down to strike as he moves in closer...

Closer...

“WHAM!!!”

“THUD!!!”

But Francis suddenly unleashes a massive superkick that catches Craven right under the jaw before he can gore the US Champion, sending both men down to the mat!

Riley: YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!

Stevens: HOLY COW!!! WHAT A REVERSAL OF FORTUNE!!! Craven was setting Francis up for the kill, but Francis snaps back to life and barely hits a superkick on him!!!! Both men are down

As both men lie on the mat, the referee begin the count, the different sections crowd cheering for whomever they support...

One!!!

Two!!!

Three!!!

Four!!!

Five!!!

Francis reaches his feet at this time as the referee keeps counting on...

Six!!!!

Seven-Craven finally reaches his feet, stopping the count.

Stevens: Here they come to their feet! What’s gonna happen now?

Craven almost looks like he’s in shock as he gets to his feet, stumbling around... right into the open arms of Mak Francis, who knees him in the gut, grabs him around the waist from behind and lifts up before he drops Craven with a gutwrench suplex!

Stevens: GUTWRENCH SUPLEX!!! CRAVEN IS DOWN!!!

Mak sees Craven lying there, nearly in the middle of the ring, down on the mat, looking up at the lights… and he feels something. The US Champion looks out at the crowd, feeling their cheers, feeling that old electricity that he felt 13th Hour… and he makes his move, heading right for the nearest turnbuckle!

Stevens: If this is what I think it is... then this match is over!!!!!

Francis scales the turnbuckle as the crowd rises to its feet in anticipation, chanting the US Champion’s name. As he reaches the top rope, he pauses, looking out at the frenzied crowd. He then signaling to the crowd what the Craven Section feared...

Stevens: Francis is gonna give Louisville some of that Brotherly Love!!!

The crowd roars back in response to the signal from Mak as the Franchsie stands up, takes a deep breath...

And leaps off the top rope, flying high through the air at Craven, and then...

“WHAM!”

Riley: HE MISSED!!! CRAVEN BARELY ROLLED OUT OF THE WAY!!!!

Stevens: OH MY GOD!!!! MAK FRANCIS JUST KILLED HIMSELF THERE!!! RIGHT ONTO THOSE RIBS CRAVEN WAS WORKING ON!!! I still don’t know how Craven managed to get the energy to roll out of the way!!! That was simply amazing!!!!

The energy drains from the crowd as Francis bounces off the mat, grabbing his ribs and hollering in pain. The King of Nightmares is still down as well, but just in a different position. Slowly, he begins to sit up, almost like a zombie, in a half-daze as he tries desperately to get to his feet.

Stevens: Michael Craven looks like he’s been to hell and back... and he’s STILL getting up!!! I don’t even know what he’s going to do next!!

Riley: Whatever it is... this is it for Craven. I don’t think he’s got the strength to miss this move! He’s gotta hit it!

With Francis laid out on the mat, Craven wastes no time, staggering slowly forward to the nearest turnbuckle and slowly climbing up it. Once up there, he turns around, and after steadying himself, leaps off. There is no delay today as he flips the full 360-odd degrees, legs whipping around, ankles tucked under his thighs like he was praying as he smashes into Francis with tremendous force, nailing a Shooting Star Knee Drop into Francis’s ribs! The resulting blow lets out a thunderous thud!

Stevens: NO!!! GOD NO!!!

Riley: YES!!! THAT’S IT!!!

Upon impact, Craven bounces off Mak, flipping over him and landing on the mat, but he slowly flips himself over and crawls on top of Francis, hooking the champ’s leg with quite possibly the last of his energy. The ref, watching the match closely, begins the count as the crowd starts to boo, the Craven Section counting along...

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

DING DING DING!!!!

Funyon: The winner of this contest by pinfall, AND YOUR NEW SWF US CHAMPION... MICHAEL CRAVEN!!!

Craven rolls out of the ring slowly, grabbing the back of his neck as he staggers around towards the ramp. The crowd boos as a ring attendant rushes behind Craven to hand him his title but he slaps it out of the attendant’s hands!

Riley: Just take the title, Craven! You earned it!

It falls to the ground, where the attendant picks it up before one of Craven’s belt girls rips it out of his hands, rushing after Craven as he staggers up the ramp. Francis gets to his feet with assistance in the ring, clutching his ribs as he looks up, seeing Craven stopping at the top of the ramp. He turns around, looking back into the ring for sevral seconds as the belt girls catch up to him.

Stevens: What the-

Stevens is cut off by a roaring cry from Craven.

Craven: I WANT A CHALLENGE!!! I WANT STRYKE AND HIS TITLE!!!

Riley: Whoa, did he just say he wants a shot at the ICTV title?

Stevens: I believe so, Bobby, but there’s already a #1 contender-

Riley: Screw that! He’s made the challenge! Let’s see if Stryke accepts!

Craven stands on the stage, still yelling as his belt girls try to bring him backstage as we fade off to commercial:

Craven: GIMME STRYKE!!! BRING HIM ON!!! I WANT HIS ICTV TITLE... NOW!!!

July 3, 2003

The sea of humanity. A camera shot that never gets cliche. People come from all over to these arenas, pay for tickets, and come find seats. This camera shot represents the diverse group of people, far and wide, who respect SWF action.

“If you’ve come looking for pornography, you’ve come to the wrong place!” says Bobby Riley. “But if you’re looking for hot wrestling action, well, this is it! Lockdown, baby!” He pauses. “You know, there’s not a whole lot of difference between the first and second things, you know?”

“The marketing team rues the day you became a spokesperson for the Smarks Wrestling Federation. Luckily, at least there’s two of us. Fans, Tom Flesher is one of the most dominant champions we have seen in recent memory, having tied legendary Edwin MacPhisto’s record for title defenses. No doubt, Tom Flesher will become a legend when history looks upon him. Tonight, he looks to break that record, against a very unlikely foe. From seemingly out of nowhere, Thoth returned to active competition four days ago at Storm and won a ten-man battle royal to earn this shot tonight. If Thoth was able to come back from five months of ring rust and win that level of a match, he just might be the man to end the streak of Tom Flesher.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “The following contest, scheduled for one fall, is for the S-W-F World Heavyweight Championship!”

“Go To Hell” by KMFDM starts to play, a strangely peppy, yet gothic beat. Red strobe lights flash around the arena like bloody sirens. And lyrics that have just a tinge of regret start to sound:

I'VE BEEN TO CONGO

I LIVED IN ROME

SPENT MY LIFETIME

TO WASTE MY BRAIN

NOW IT'S THE SAME TIME RUNNING

OUT FOR YOU AND ME

THAT PUSHES PULLS AND DRAGS ME, BABY

BACK TO THEE

WITH ALL MY GUTS AND BOLLOCKS

I DON'T REGRET

FEARING AND BURNING

SOMETIMES I WONDER

I CAN'T GET ENOUGH

YOU'RE CUTE AND STUPID

I WANT IT FAST

I WANT TO GO TO HELL

“Introducing first,” announces Funyon, “from Aechiba, Japan, he weighs in at 245 pounds, the challenger... THOOOTH!

And the Balancer enters from behind the curtain. He has a confident air, a swagger. His chin is raised, he has a smirk. His head bobs back and forth. It’s definitely a different kind of evil.

“Thoth is a dirty, dirty man, and I like it,” says Riley. “He’s got that confidence around him, and man, is that intriguing.” Riley nods, mouth slowly open, watching Thoth pass.

“So you like the gothic boys, eh Riley?”

“Well, I...”

“ZING!” Mark Stevens manages to score on Bobby Riley... again. It was one of those relationships where Riley needed that sort of feedback to thrive. He was a very odd person.

Thoth walks through the ropes, into the ring. He is noticeably not accompanied to the ring by Janus. He has chosen to fight this battle alone. He doesn’t care if he would have some kind of advantage otherwise, because in all honesty, he’s not concerned with winning or losing. Just fighting.

Hopefully for his sake, the World Champion feels the same way.

“SUPERIORITY COMPLEX”

“MAGNIFICENT SEVEN”

“WORLD CHAMPION”

These images flicker on the Smarktron, and there is blue pyro. This pyro is loud. It may be louder and bluer than other people’s blue pyro, because this is the champion’s pyro. “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin plays, as Tom Flesher emerges from the back.

“And, his opponent, representing the Magnificent Seven, from Buffalo, New York, weighing in at 213 pounds... he is the S-W-F World Heavyweight Champion, The Superior One, Tom Flesher!”

“And these two men are no strangers to each other, having feuded in the ICTV division for a brief time. But Tom Flesher has been on the hottest streak I’ve ever seen, and Thoth is just in his second match back.”

Flesher steps into the ring, and poses as yet even more pyro goes off, also proving that the champion has a greater quantity of pyro as well. The pyro done, Flesher takes off his warm-up jacket, tossing it into the corner after folding it, and then hands Funyon an index card. He knows the drill, and a paycheck is a paycheck.

“I’m happy to be here,” he says, reading from the card, “And tonight, I will break Edwin MacPhisto’s record, and be on my way to breaking THE record. Be sure to pick up a Tom Flesher T-shirt at the souvenir stand before you go home tonight!”

“Oh, come on!” remarks Stevens. “Flesher isn’t even taking this seriously. This is a title defense, and if he’s looking past Thoth, he might regret it.”

“That said, broadcast partner, Flesher has won time after time after time. He’s the kind of person that doesn’t need to look at every challenger, because he has an innate gift of wrestling! He has the gift... of wrestling.”

“Well, I’m happy for you epiphany, but the match is about to start.”

Thoth emerges fro the shadows of Flesher’s entrance and walks toward his opponent. Flesher sees him, and grins, turning up his chin, and strutting towards his challenger. Thoth is taller, and outweighs him, but Flesher’s aura of nonchalance and egotism dwarfs his. The Superior One asks him if he’s ready to lose again. Thoth is quiet, still grinning. Flesher turns, walking back to a corner to psyche himself up for the last time. Thoth says, while his back is turned,

“I’m going to hurt you.”

Thoth lunges toward Flesher, who reacts to the sound of his voice and the sound of his boot slamming onto the mat. He turns in time to dodge a kick, and lock up with the Balancer. Thoth has the strength advantage and the element of surprise, but Flesher has better positioning, and gets a hammerlock. He yanks down on it, trying to wrench a yelp out of Thoth, and then wrings it around. Thoth restrains any yelps of pain, and starts looking for a way out of the hold. He tries to go to the sides, but Flesher has him scouted, blocking access with his body weight. He even tries to go under and around the center of gravity of the hold to get behind Flesher, but to no avail. No one is going to out-amateur Flesher, especially Thoth. Flesher’s grin widens as he raises his boot and delivers a shot to Thoth’s calf. The move takes the Balancer down to one knee.

“Flesher is a genius at combining professional and amateur wrestling, using them to enhance each other. That kick might have been a small move by itself, but in conjunction with the hammerlock, Flesher is able to create an infinite number of offensive possibilities,” remarks Mark Stevens. With the advantage of gravity, Flesher really starts to crank on the hammerlock, and the frustration is dripping in beads down Thoth’s scowling face. He rolls forward and manages to throw Flesher off. He frees his arm, and shakes it off. Thoth gets up and spins around on his toe, walking forward to lock up with Flesher. The Superior One starts to move forward for the lockup, but Thoth hops away, and spins around, generating violent momentum for a roundhouse kick! Tom... ducks it, getting the hint after Thoth avoided the lockup. From his crouching position, as the kick is whizzing overhead, Flesher dashes forward, knocking Thoth onto his back, his outstretched kicking leg draped over his shoulder. He pins him into the ground, and leers his face close to his. The ref counts:

ONE!

TW- Kickout! The Balancer doesn’t appreciate Flesher’s face in his, and rolls back onto his feet, dashing forward with a lariat from his right arm. And Flesher, again, shows patience and restraint, sidestepping to Thoth’s left, go behind... and a German! Flesher pops up and gives himself a golf clap. He smiles softly at the crowd, his eyes narrow, while they boo that sort of chicanery, while Thoth finds his legs and shakes off the hurt. Thoth inhales, inhales, air going in, and air going out. Relax, relax, good.

Flesher cocks his head, watching Thoth breathe. How amusing, he thinks. Like an ant just before it’s crushed. How they struggle, and pretend. But in the end, you can’t win!

Charging in, closing the distance fast for intimidation’s sake. Grabs ahold of his wrist before he’s ready, and a whip to the corner. Thoth slams against the turnbuckle hard, and Flesher charges in now, lifting his leg for a Yakuza Kick. He wants to smash Thoth’s head against the barrier, crack him open. Thoth stares at the boot coming closer and closer, but his instincts save him, as he yanks on the rope to pull himself out of the corner. Tom is left with his foot on the corner. Thoth kicks it off, spinning the Superior One around, and then grabs his shoulders, and heaves him into the corner. In his first offensive of the night, Thoth strikes with closed right hands, smacking the face of the world champion loudly with each one. Each strike resounds with the crowd, and with Thoth, as each strike burns more fiercely. The last one causes Thoth to pitch forward, falling into Flesher. It’s just as well, as it lets him grab hold of his shoulder and arm and whips him to the other corner. Thoth follows close behind and delivers a clothesline tot he chest. His motions start to blend in together, as his arm stays in place while he pivots his body, locking his arm around his chin, and snapping him over onto his ass! Thoth backs up into the corner, and pushes off, extending his knee and driving it into the back of Tom Flesher’s head, striking where skull and spinal cord feet. He sinks back into the canvas, and Thoth makes the cover!

ONE!

T- And a very quick kickout from Tom Flesher demoralizes the Balancer. He looks down at his opponent, who is still smiling, still defiant. Still the Superior One. Thoth pulls him up at the hair, yanking him up, while trying to figure out what to do with him.

“Tom Flesher is such a character that he can create psychological offense even while he’s under attack! It surprises even me to say this, but I’d say Flesher has the advantage!” remarks Stevens, his eyes wide with excitement.

Thoth hooks Flesher for a basic suplex, and tries to get him over... but Flesher sticks his leg through, preventing him from lifting! Flesher’s efforts at sandbagging frustrate Thoth, who just tries to lift harder. Flesher’s foot is there, though, and as long as it is, he’s not going anywhere. Thoth’s arms and shoulders are tired from lifting, and Flesher takes control, using not just his shoulders and arms, but his center of mass as well, leveraging Thoth right into the mat, sharply and acutely. Flesher gets to his feet, and starts stomping away at the Balancer’s chest. After every smash of his boot, he looks down, judging to see whether he is satisfied. No... *smash* ... not yet... *smash* ...one more... *smash* ...yeah, that oughta do it. He peels Thoth off the mat, twists him into an armbar for a second, and then whips him to the ropes, throwing a stiff palm that floors the Balancer. Flesher hooks the leg...

ONE!

TWO!

And a kickout from the Balancer right after two. Flesher looks unchanged, still smiling. He’s in full control. He bites his lower lip, over-focusing for the hell of it on a few more palm strikes. He has Thoth in the ropes, and another Irish whip... no, Thoth reverses it, and Flesher goes for the ride. Thoth throws a clothesline for Flesher to run into, and yet like many other clotheslines before it, it is ducked. Thoth runs forward, planning his next move. Flesher bounces off the ropes, as does Thoth, and then they are running toward each other. Thoth leaps up, sticking out a leg, and Flesher is moving too fast, not to mention Thoth’s upper leg is moving very fast towards him. Flesher smacks it and goes down. Reflexively, he pops back up, to avoid being in a prone position, and in fact, he’s up earlier than Thoth himself. He goes to get the upper hand in a grapple on the Balancer, but he’s too eager, and Thoth drops to his knees, slamming the crown of his head against Flesher’s jaw. The world champ reels, touching his hand to his jaw and mouth and if he were bleeding. Thoth’s vision tunnels. The crowd around him becomes a blurry haze as he sees his first big opening of the match. He quickly approaches Flesher and delivers an uppercut to the jaw, stunning him further, and causing him to hunch over. Thoth hooks both arms, and lifts, this time getting the champ over, and Thoth gets him over, shaking the ring, finishing his double underhook suplex. He pushes himself up to his feet, and he’s going into the ropes, bounding off, increasing speed... he drops a pair of knees right onto Tom Flesher’s chest, and then makes the lateral press!

ONE!

TWO!

T- Kickout by Flesher.

“Looks like Thoth has found a point of attack,” says Stevens, “Watch for him to focus more of his offense on that jaw.” Indeed, as Thoth brings the world champion up to a standing position, he drives the point of his elbow right into the side of Flesher’s jaw. The Superior One is knocked back into the corner, the saliva being knocked right out of his mouth. Thoth climbs the turnbuckle in front of him, and starts wailing away on that jaw, treating it like a punching bag. The crowd counts along as each fist makes contact. The count rises to four... then five, and then six, and then seven, but it goes no further. Like a cornered animal, Flesher snaps, grabbing Thoth around his unprotected legs and spinning him around in midair once before bombing him into the mat. The audience winces in pain as the ring gives not towards the aching back of the Balancer. Flesher to his feet now, dusting his hands off mockingly. There are smattered boos in the arena; the crowd really isn’t sure who’s playing face and heel here. But the match is beyond that now. There are two people in the ring, but the glorious thing about it is that only one can win. Which means that both of them are going to try and beat each other until one will lose. It is the manner and dignity in which each does this that determines whether the crowd will cheer or boo.

Flesher mugs for the crowd as he snatches a handful of thin, red hair. Thoth is disoriented from the powerbomb, the pain in his back and neck stunting his sense of direction. Flesher gets behind him, and with a flourish, hooks a waistlock, lifts... and lifts high, before finally bending back and releasing Thoth.

“What a Backdrop Driver! It takes a lot of strength to lift a man directly up from a position like that, especially when that man outweighs you!” says Stevens.

“Yeah, it’s all about the positioning,” adds Riley. “You can have all the leverage and length you want, but if you don’t have the position, it’s pointless.”

“Leverage and length?”

“I said strength. You’re hearing things, Mark.”

Thoth folds over like an according before straightening himself out somewhat and lying on his stomach. Flesher rubs his jaw before approaching the prone opponent of his. He stands on top of him, and turns, facing his legs. Bending one across the other, he grabs them, and pulls, sitting down to create a pivot point around which Thoth’s back must unnaturally bend. Already sore from the powerbomb and the Backdrop Driver, his back screams. His attempts at stoicism fail, and he cries out in pain.

“And now it looks like Tom Flesher has a point of attack as well; Thoth’s back!” says Riley. Flesher delights in hearing his opponent scream, and it goads him more, pulling back harder. The pressure on Thoth’s back increases exponentially. He starts inching forward toward the ropes, trying to drag both his weight and Flesher’s toward it. Distance is measured in the tiniest of fragments, as elbow by elbow, he tries to get to the ropes. Reaching... his fingers not brushing it but almost barely, another inch and... no, Flesher isn’t having it, as he stands up and drags Thoth away from the ropes, settling him in the center of the ring. The crowd can almost feel the tap coming on as Thoth winces and struggles to no avail. “Whaddya say, Thoth? Whaddya say?” says the ref over and over again in his ear. Flesher on his back, the ref in his ear, the atmosphere of the too-bright lights around him, Thoth is overwhelmed.

“Superior Stretch! Will he tap? Won’t he?” says Riley. “He’s not staying in that forever. Something has to give, and at this rate, it’ll probably be Thoth’s spine!”

Again he tries to fight, inch by inch, with the entire world smashing his ears in. Flesher fakes a yawn, bemused by this “valiant” fight. He lets himself be dragged near the ropes, as he plans to pull him back again. With one hand, Thoth reaches out to the ropes… Flesher looks down. He sighs, and starts to stand up to pull Thoth back.

But he can’t! Thoth has a death grip on his tights! It prevents Flesher from moving! Thoth reaches the ropes! The crowd pops with the knowledge that this match is going to continue! Flesher continues to keep the Superior Stretch in for another count of three; a count of five would get him disqualified. Thoth has his arm draped over the bottom rope, lying there and breathing hard, the pain something of an afterthought compared to his mental exhaustion. Flesher lays in the boots to the back, angry, frustrated that the extended stay in the hold didn’t finish him off, then picks him up, whipping him to the ropes. Thoth for the ride, with Flesher waiting on crouched legs for the rebound. He catches the Balancer and heaves him overhead, in fact, all the way to the outside with a Railgun Suplex!

“Whatta maneuver!” shouts Riley as Thoth crashes down, avoiding the steel guardrails as he does. He tries to find his feet as Flesher stalks him, stepping out onto the apron. He takes flight, catching Thoth on the bottom of his neck with a double axhandle. Thoth is pushed forward from the move, almost falling down, but managing to stay up as he runs into the guardrail, which stops his motion. In anger, he kicks back, and actually grazes Flesher’s face! The world champion is stunned in his tracks long enough for Thoth to deliver a Downward Spiral to him! Flesher eats the thin blue protective mat, then is rolled back into the ring for a pinfall attempt.

ONE!

TWO!

And another kickout at two. Thoth brings Flesher up, and whips Flesher to the ropes. He holds his ground, then pulls the Superior One in towards him as he charges, smashing his jaw onto Thoth’s knee, quickly softening up that area again. Flesher reels, backpedaling. This time, Thoth is the one who is grinning. Ironically, because of the jaw pain, it hurts Flesher to smile. Tom throws a palm strike, and it’s well known that a Tom Flesher palm strike has all the speed and power of another wrestler’s punch. Even so, Thoth blocks it, and thrusts his right hand, fingers extended, right past the jaw bone and into the soft spot near the throat and under the tongue where there are several nerve endings. Flesher panics for a moment, a nervous reaction to the vicious touch. He grabs his throat with crossed arms, trying to create a solid shield between it and Thoth. This leaves his lower body unprotected, and Thoth floors the world champion with a drop toe hold. He floats over into a front chancery, and locks him in. Every few seconds, he drives a knee into the back of Flesher’s head, slamming his jaw into the canvas.

“One has to wonder how attacking the jaw can be as debilitating as focusing on an arm or a leg. Well, the jaw is very close to the brain, and it has a lot of nerve endings. Enough trauma can put a victim, in theory, in a state of shock. It’s very unorthodox, and its applications are limited in the confines of a wrestling ring, but perhaps Thoth is setting up for something else... or he sincerely hopes that this kind of offense can win him the match...” And so, Mark Stevens’ anatomy lesson is complete.

The referee, watching this assault, tells Thoth that he needs to break it up. Regardless of the legality, the ref’s decision is final, and besides, Flesher’s already not moving too much. Thoth goes to the apron, and climbs the turnbuckle. He steadies himself, trying to get just the right positioning for this attack. He turns his body towards Flesher’s head, and flexes his knees. Off he leaps into the air, bending his knees, aiming for the back of Flesher’s head.

“If he hits this, Flesher could be knocked out!”

He reaches the apex of his jump, and starts coming down, down, down towards the back of his head... and Flesher sits up. Thoth’s knees rattle against the canvas, which has little give for these sorts of things. The Balancer bounces back up with a slight limp, and walks into an upright Tom Flesher, who scoops him up and heaves up, and back, dropping him in a heap on his head before collapsing himself.

“Flesher dug down deep to hit that Logical Disconnect, but the punishment Thoth gave him before has got him down!”

Both men are down, the referee surveys the situation quickly, and starts a ten count! ONE! He starts. Then two. Three. Four. And at five, Flesher is the first man to stir, getting his arms moving. Six, Seven, and Flesher is pushing himself up. He’s standing at eight and a half, and the referee stops. He wobbles for a bit... then swaggers, smiling. Thoth isn’t moving; the Logical Disconnect is a dangerous move, that can end a career if delivered in a certain way. Flesher reaches down, twirling his hands to show off and show he is in full control, pulls up a head of hair... and suddenly gets rolled up! The ref slides into place as quickly as he can and starts counting the fall!

ONE!

TWO!

TH- No! The element of surprise wasn’t enough to put the world champion away for the three count, as he kicks out, and rolls onto his stomach. He pops up, and Thoth rolls away as well. Though a bit glassy-eyed, he’s not out of this match yet. He leans forward and actually tries to initiate a lockup this late in this match. Flesher responds in kind, and quickly uses his technical know-how to push Thoth down. But this time, Thoth expected it, and rams his shoulder into Tom’s jaw. Flesher loses his edge, and Thoth gets behind him, puts his arm through his own legs, and lifts, dropping him onto his head in his own version of the Exploder, which he just calls the Pumphandle Suplex. Flesher is down, and Thoth rolls him over and into a pin…

ONE!

TWO!

TH- And another kickout. Thoth bites his lip, thinking naively that he could have had it that time. He brings Flesher up, and a whip to the ropes. Flesher, breathing hard, runs back into Thoth’s arm, and gets flipped up and over in a high-angle arm drag with such force that Thoth himself is put down on the canvas. He pushes himself up, and watches as Flesher slides the last few inches before the friction between the canvas and his flesh brings him to a stop. He goes for another cover now…

ONE!

TWO!

TH- And again a kickout at about the same time.

“Thoth is going down the line, one by one, trying every single piece of effective offense he knows against Tom Flesher, and so far, he’s not getting anywhere. Soon, he may try to use Riot of the Blood, but if it gets reversed somehow, he’d have run out of options. If you’re Thoth, what do you do?”

“First, I look in the mirror every morning.” Riley chuckles, having told a joke that’s funny to only him. “But, if you’re talking about the match, well, this is the biggest match you can have: the World Championship is on the line. If you need to take a risk, I say take it.”

Thoth pulls his foe up again, and hits him nervously with fists and forearms. The blows lack conviction because in the back of his mind, he is trying to think of a way to get Flesher down for good. The focus on the jaw didn’t cause broad enough damage to result in a three-count, but maybe... Thoth hooks Flesher for a quick DDT and brings him down to the canvas face down. He drags him toward the center of the ring, and slaps his sides. Flesher reaches down to cover up, but Thoth grabs the arms, extends them all the way back, and leans into a Mexican Surfboard! Pop from the crowd as Flesher shakes his head no, reflexively. Thoth inhales, knowing that this next part is going to take precise timing. He relaxes the hold a little bit, allowing himself to sit up. Then in an instant, he releases the arms, trying to keep the legs hooked, and reaches forward, trying to lock on a Dragon Sleeper! Such a move would put amazing pressure on the back, not to mention leave the opponent with no way to get to the ropes. Unfortunately, Tom has been in many a hold though, and through the pressure on various parts of his body, he can formulate a counter to anything. He falls forward and rolls over onto his back, pinning Thoth’s legs painfully under his!

“What a submission reversal by Tom Flesher! I don’t think I’ve ever seen that hold reversed! Well, rather, you don’t see that hold by itself very often as it is. But still, that is equally as impressive.”

Thoth roars in pain, as his legs are bent at an awkward angle. After some struggle, he backs into Flesher, creating some slack, and frees his legs. But Tom, seizing the opportunity, starts dropping elbows on the legs. The front of the human leg doesn’t have a lot of fat between the skin and the bone. So the bone and the muscle take the full impact of Flesher’s elbow slamming into it over and over again.

“If Thoth can’t stand, Thoth can’t use any of his offense, as he’s not much of a ground-based wrestler, whereas our World Champion made his name on that capability!”

Tom pulls Thoth up to his feet, which in this case could be considered an offensive move given the pain Thoth’s legs are in. A medium-strength kick to the thigh actually sends him in a heap down to the mat. Flesher shrugs, smiling, drawing boos from the crowd as a result before he goes in for the pin.

ONE!

TWO!

THRE- And just barely, Thoth still finds the strength to kick out. The Balancer blinks repeatedly; are those lights brighter for some reason? He inhales sharply through his teeth, everything kinda hurts. It’s not one specific area, though his legs are more noticeable because he uses them to stand. Everything just kinda hurts equally. It’s a state of mind that leaves Thoth open to more punishment from Tom Flesher. A palm strike delivered off-center to Thoth’s face snaps it back hard. Another to the torso pushes him back. Flesher walks close, whispers something in Thoth’s ear, and then smacks him across the face with an open hand.

“What disrespect Tom Flesher is showing towards his opponent!” says Stevens, upset. “I don’t care who you are or what personality or gimmick you have. When you’re in a world title match, you give your heart out to it, and you treat it with respect, and that includes the challenger to that belt.”

“Stevens, I don’t think you see!” says RIley. “Flesher is the kind of man who’s so good, so talented, that he’s above that. I think that he’s going to go down as the greatest champion we’ve ever had, greater than El Luchadore Magnifico, greater than the HVille Thugg.”

A bold statement by Bobby Riley, but indeed, Flesher is nothing short of impressive. The bitchslap delivered earlier has Thoth facing chest-first into the corner. Bending down, he hoists Thoth up onto the top buckle, and then follows, hooking his legs around the top rope.

“And Tom Flesher continues the offensive onslaught, because Thoth is about to Bow Down to Glory!”

And Flesher cinches in a Dragon Sleeper and leans back! All the blood rushes to Thoth’s head, and the sleeper cinched in prevents it from going anywhere else. Thoth starts “falling asleep” almost immediately. Lucky for him, the hold is technically illegal since it involves the ropes, and so the referee starts the five count. Tom Flesher always breaks after four and a half to get the most out of the hold. Tom lets go and extricates himself from the ropes, rolling back and raising his arms in mock triumph, letting out a “Woo!” The crowd of course, boos him again.

“I don’t think the crowd would have such a problem with Tom Flesher if he weren’t such a jackass. I mean, he drips with skill, and he has one hell of an amateur background. It’s just those little things that rub people the wrong way,” observes Mark Stevens.

Flesher picks a limp, dragging Balancer up. His body is dead weight in his hands. Just to test it, he hooks Thoth for a suplex and gets him over with incredible ease. He shakes his head, sighing noticeably. He runs and stomps on the Balancer. He pulls Thoth up again. Again, dead weight.

The Balancer comes to life in his hands and grabs Flesher’s neck, dropping down and slamming that jaw into the Balancer’s own shoulder!

“Ace Crusher! That came out of nowhere! Was Thoth playing possum, or was the just digging deep there?”

Thoth tries to stand, and finds it a very difficult of task. Bow Down to Glory is a very effective hold, and Thoth’s circulation is having a tough time getting itself sorted out. He tries to move, and his steps are slower. Flesher is already up, moving quicker than the challenger would like. Willing his body forward, he gets a grip on Flesher’s shoulder, and whips him to the corner. The Superior One manages to turn his body around and take the impact on his latissimus muscle. Thoth runs in, his body heaving as he does, and leaps forward, slamming a knee into Flesher’s face. Thoth bounces off, having done his job... and the world champ is none too pleased, taking Thoth to the canvas with a clothesline. Flesher looks down with anger at his stalwart opponent, smashing him with boots.

“It looks like Thoth’s gamble, trying to focus on that jaw, failed. You might have been right, Bobby Riley, you do have to take risks. It’s just easy to forget that a gamble fails more often than it succeeds.”

“No wonder it’s called a gamble,” says Riley sarcastically.

Flesher has Thoth on his feet now.

“Did you think you could win?” he shouts. *slap*

The crowd boos.

“Did you think you were worthy of being champion?” *slap*

Again, the crowd voices its disapproval.

“Did you think you were... SUPERIOR?” *slap*

The crowd jeers him, but Flesher doesn’t care. The match has made him really angry. He was hoping it would have been an in-and-out job, but this has proved troublesome enough. That last slap put Thoth down on the mat, and Flesher covers, nodding along with the referee’s count.

ONE!

...

TWO!

...

THREE- NO! NO! Thoth gets the shoulder up at the last possible moment!

“After all that, Thoth still has the strength to fight!” shouts Stevens.

“Or at least the strength to get the shit kicked out of him some more. He hasn’t been putting up much of an offense lately.”

Flesher gets to his feet, and pumps his fist in the air, thumb pointing up. He pulls Thoth up to his feet, feeling the strange texture of his crimson-dyed hair. And then, Tom Flesher hoists Thoth up and puts him on the top rope in a sitting position. The crowd stops buzzing and booing, and starts shouting, sensing that The Superior One is about to serve up a Boilermaker.

“The Boilermaker, Stevens! Thoth won’t even be awake to kick out it; he’ll be knocked stupid!”

“This is going to end it for sure if he hits it...” says Stevens, trailing off. Flesher looks out at the crowd, his eyes wide, his grin huge. He grins through the dull pain in his jaw, because this move is just too good to not mug for. He hooks him, front facelock. He inhales, and lifts...

...

“Wait, Stevens! Look! Look at Thoth!”

“I don’t, I don’t see... ah! I get it!”

The camera zooms in at the turnbuckle, and more closely at the steel post. Thoth has wrapped his cloth strap, the one connecting the legs of his pants around the post. If Flesher tries to lift, he won’t get the expected result. And lift he does, falling back to drive Thoth into the mat... and Thoth isn’t following. He’s falling... but the cloth strap stopped most of his momentum. The strap has come off from the pole, and Thoth is falling, but instead of being carried by Flesher...

He’s falling into Flesher. He grabs him around the waist, and as they fall, he drives him hard into the mat! The crowd goes nuclear!

“What a counter to the Boilermaker! Thoth is tired, but Flesher is subdued!”

Thoth may never get another moment like this. His arms shake, not with fear, but with anticipation. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He pulls Flesher up, and scoops him up. Before Flesher can get out of it somehow, he cradles the leg, and drops Flesher on his head! The crowd goes nuclear... again!

“And Thoth connects with Riot of the Blood! Out of nowhere! By god, he’s got to pin him, because it’s the only chance he’s ever going to get!” shouts Stevens. Thoth, seeing that indeed, Flesher is down, falls on top of Flesher and the referee counts while the arena shouts along:

ONE!

...

TWO!

...

THREE!

*DING DING DING*

Thoth rolls off as “Go To Hell” starts to play. The crowd is screaming and yelling and carrying on and all sorts of mindless bullshit as Funyon makes the call.

“Here is your winner... and the NEW! S-W-F World Heavyweight Champion... THOTH!”

“Do you BELIEVE this?” says a bewildered Mark Stevens. “Tom Flesher, one of the most dominant world champions in recent history, has gone down to Thoth, a man who has half a year of ring rust!”

“I... I don’t! How could he... how... GAH!”

Thoth drags himself over to the ropes in order to try and get himself up to his feet. His adrenaline is shutting down, and the aches he feels are going to wrack his body for weeks. He makes it as far as one knee, but he’s not getting any farther for a little while. The official in charge goes to the table and brings back the world championship belt. Raising the Balancer’s arm, he hands the title to him. Thoth holds it, and stares.

“One’s gotta wonder what’s going through Thoth’s head right now. He said before that we wasn’t concerned about winning or losing, but now that he’s the champion, everyone is going to come after him! Is he going to be able to stay ambivalent?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, Heavy Hitter, but Thoth has earned himself a hot shower, jacuzzi, and massage tonight, and I must say I’m very good at all three, if he’s interested.”

Thoth rolls out of the ring and plops down. The camera zooms in on him as he lies in a heap, at the feet of the front row crowd trying to lean over and touch him. It zooms in to his face.

He’s laughing. The laughter grows, until it drowns out everything else the camera’s microphone is picking up. And it’s not joyful laughter; it’s sadistic.

July 3, 2003

RESULTS:

Not even going to try this one. SUPERB SHOW. READ EVERYTHING. CARD UP NOW.

SWF LOCKDOWN!

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