SWF Lockdown!!

[Guest Grand Slam]

BOOM BOOM BOOM

 

BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM

 

CLANG!!

 

The crowd in the Savvis center goes nuts as the last of the opening pyro for SWF Lockdown goes off and the camera spins around, showing them in all their sign-toting glory!! Finally it settles on the erstwhile announce team.

 

“Welcome to the July 30th edition of SWF Lockdown!!” an unusual voice says. “This is Bobby Riley here with my partner “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens!!”

 

“Hello.”

 

“Come on now Slammer? Don’t you have anything more to say to the fans? Maybe something about how your blood sugar dropped rapidly last week and that is why you were so cranky during the Beezel / Kibagami match? Maybe even go so far as to apologize to your boss and mine, the Suicide King for those nasty things you said?”

 

“I am not apologizing, and I think the fans understand why I was ticked. I stand by what I said. But you are right about one thing Bobby!”

 

“I am?”

 

“Yes you are! This is Lockdown, and it is time to get this party started!! What a stacked card we have tonight!!”

 

“That’s more like it!! Yes it is Mark! I am personally looking forward to seeing Flesher tear Sacred into itsy bitsy pieces later tonight!”

 

“I had a feeling you might say that, but don’t overlook the Main Event. In what promises to be one hell of a match, Kibagami faces “The Franchise” Mak Francis for the ICTV Title!!”

 

“And it all gets started…”

 

“Right now!!”

[Guest Grand Slam]

The first thing we see is that dorky face of one Benjamin Hardy. He stands there for several second, a huge grin plastered on his face until a goofy voice whispers to him from behind the camera.

 

“Uhhh... you’re on, Ben.”

 

Ben stops smiling, trying to keep his cheeks from turning red as he stumbles to start the segment.

 

“Oh... um... Ace SWF Interviewer Ben Hardy is here backstage, awaiting the arrival of the mysterious man we know as Quiz-”

 

Suddenly, someone big blows right by Ben Hardy. Gus whips the camera around as Ben turns to look, revealing that man to be Michael Craven! The crowd boos, but suddenly, Ben Hardy runs from off-camera, chasing after Craven as he makes a right turn.

 

“Mr. Craven! Mr. Craven! Can I ask you a few questions-”

 

“SLAM!” Ben Hardy only sees the door to Craven’s locker room fly into his face. Hardy jerks his head back to miss having his nose broken, then stands there breathig heavily for a few seconds before he turns around to his overweight sidekick, asking Gus a question on the mind of every fan watching...

 

“Geez, what’s his problem?”

[Guest Grand Slam]

The scene fades in on the grimacing face of Tom Flesher as he stalks through the halls of the Savvis Center in St. Louis.

 

“And there were no packages in the dressing room when you left.” Flesher bites at Judge Hearford and Ejiro Fasaki as they trail behind him.

 

“Nope, and we left Atlas to guard.” Ejiro answers.

 

Tom pauses in his tracks and thinks for a second. “Wait…Atlas is in the first match. He probably had to leave to get set backstage.”

 

“He most likely just left,” Judge replies. “What can happen in a minute?”

 

“The U.S. can nuke the world in under a minute!” Tom yells and proceeds at a trot.

 

Justice and Rule exchange a look that says they are not too sure about their stable leader at this time. Flesher comes up to a door marked “Magnificent 7” with a gold plaque. He puts his hand on the knob and pushes, but nothing happens.

 

“Is it locked?” Ejiro asks.

 

Flesher jiggles the knob and pushes harder. “It’s not locked, it’s stuck!” Flesher throws his shoulder into the door with a thump and it creaks back a hair. He pulls back and slams his foot into it and it opens halfway. Tom bolts inside and slams into a……sawhorse?

 

Fasaki and Hearford peer inside to see two sawhorses stacked against the door. Tom picks up one and throws it against the back wall. It splinters in half and crashes to the floor. Flesher knocks over the other one and kicks it into the mirrored table along one wall of the room.

 

“WHERE’S FROST?” Flesher bellows.

 

“He has the night off. He’s watching the show from the SWF luxury box.” Hearford informs him.

 

“He has the night off again?” Flesher questions. “He works fewer shows than Carson did.”

 

Tom storms past the duo and heads up the hall.

 

“Tom!” Judge shouts. “You have to get ready for your match with Sacred!”

 

Flesher throws his hand up to signify that he can’t worry about that now and proceeds to truck down the hall.

 

Fasaki and Hearford stare after him. Ejiro shakes his head. “Sawhorses? A bag of glass? A bottle of steak sauce? If Frost is playing mind games, I’d say he’s lost his.”

[Guest Grand Slam]

“Welcome back, fans, to SWF Lockdown. We’re all set to get going with our opening matchup, an exciting showdown between Masked superstars CIA and Sean Atlas, Something of a warm-up match for Sean Atlas, as he’s set to face Beezel, mask vs. mask, live on PPV. Of course, this is an interesting choice of match-ups, as not only has Beezel joined us here on commentary…”

 

Beezel’s synthesized voice cuts in, the masked enigma giving a slight nod. “Thank you, Friend Stevens, it is a pleasure to be here.”

 

Stevens smiles, and continues. “…as well as the fact that CIA has been on a hot straek lately. A short time ago, he lost his hardcore title to one member of the Unholy Trinity, but, on his way to a tag team title matchup with that very same group, CIA and his partner, Mak Francis, have defeated four men, who are also the last four SWF champions.”

 

Riley rolls his eyes, and looks towards Beezel, questioningly. “Yes, Mark, but this match takes CIA out of his element a bit, as Atlas is an opponent much harder for the Canadian to scout, and he’s got no tag team partner to save him from defeat, this time.”

 

Beezel lets out a hollow sounding, synchronized chuckle. “Yes, friend Riley, but both these men are great athletes, and it should be a tremendous matchup no matter what.”

 

“Indeed, Beezel, the exciting styles of both these men should make for a hot opening match, to start off our evening. We’ve just had a promo open our show, which I found very interesting. Any comments, Riley?”

 

“It was indeed a tale of epic proportions, as someone came out, and they said something.”

 

“Attention span of a gnat, Riley.”

 

“Friends Riley and Stevens. Perhaps we might get this contest underway?”

 

Riley and Stevens nod, and the camera cuts to mid-ring, where Funyon waits, armed with his microphone, and a dazzling outfit that would make Michael Jackson say ‘Man, that’s weird taste in clothes.’

 

The arena suddenly goes dark, just as the notes to "Heaven's a Lie" by Lacuna Coil play through the arena. Blinging white light shines through the grating on the ramp, illuminating the set. As the soft notes play on, the Smarktron shows Sean Atlas' Crucifix Entrance (Atlas on a crucifix rising through the stage. The camera rotates around the image, escalating with the instensity of the music). As the soft notes come to an end, just before the drums kick in, a gradually louder electic guitar brings the start of the song to a climax, and...

 

 

!*BOOM*!

 

 

A colossal explosion goes off onstage leaving behind a misty haze of smoke. As it dissipates, the silhouette of a man appears, and is soon revealed to be Sean Atlas. (The Smarktron showed him breaking off the Crucifix during the explosion and now plays old match clips to the music). Sean walks down the ramp, staring out into the crowd with confidence while the fans show their apathy toward him. Introducing the masked man to them for the first time is Funyon:

 

“Currently making his way to the ring, from Chicago, Illinois, weighing in at 240 pounds... SEEEEAAAANNNN ATLAS!”

 

Atlas makes his way down towards the ring, looking from side to side as the fans boo him mercilessly. Halfway down the ramp, he turns to the audience, and grabs a ‘John 3:16’ sign away from a fan, tearing it in half. The fan begins to verbally berate him, but Atlas merely turns back towards the ring, continuing his slow march to the ring, eyes locked on Beezel from the moment he pulls himself up onto the apron.

 

“Introducing his opponent, from Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, weighing in at Two Hundred and Forty Five pounds, he is one half of International Incident, as well as the SWF’s favorite import from the Frozen North, this is the Canadian Intelligence Agent, C! I! AAAAY!”

 

The lights in the arena fade to almost nothing, and the intro to the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Can't stop" begin to issue forth from the speakers. As the beat climbs, small strobes of light begin flashing at various point along the stage in time with the drum backbeat. These strobes slowly get brighter, until they suddenly are replaced by very small bursts of pyro along the stage, also in time with the backbeat. These pyro get bigger, as the beat approaches a crescendo, finally culminating in two large explosions of pyro that occur right around center stage, just as the guitar riff shifts in to replace the drums. CIA rises up from below the stage at this point, coming up into the center of a small cloud of smoke that has been formed between the two explosions of pyro, raising both arms and pointing out towards the fans as he begins to make his way down the aisle, Smarktron displaying CIA's face in front of a waving Canadian flag, as well as various shots of CIA smirking in the direction of the camera, and one or two clips of CIA's greatest in ring moments.

 

Amazingly, CIA stops in the center of the steel rampway, looking in towards Atlas. Turnign towards the fans, CIA pulls the open front of his team Canada hoodie away from himself, reaching in to find an inner pocket like he was a gangster searching for a gun, somewhere inside. He rummages for a second, and finally, his hand slides out of the hoodie, swiftly raising to the sky, revealing his weapon of choice. A microphone. The fans let out a rush of cheers, and CIA smiles.

 

“My, my, Bobby, we haven’t seen this for some time. It looks like CIA is going to give us all a little of the verbal stylings that made him such a fan favorite here in the SWF!”

 

“The only verbal stylings I want to see from CIA is when Atlas bashes him in the mouth so hard that it gets moved to a new part of his face.”

 

“Now, now, friend Riley, perhaps this shall be entertaining. We should give him a chance to speak, should we not?”

 

“And WHY, exactly?”

 

“Because it is in his contract, Friend Riley.”

 

“Damn.”

 

CIA smiles, and signals a ringside attendant over to his side. The attendant makes his way to the masked marvel, and CIA shrugs off his team Canada Jersey, handing it to the attendant, and revealing the brand new ‘International Incident’ T-shirt he is wearing. He smiles out at the crowd, and raises the microphone to his lips. “Does everybody like my new shirt?”

 

The crowd pops, and CIA chuckles, making his way towards the ring a few steps, looking up at Atlas, who’s attention still seems to be engaged with Beezel. “Well, it’s great to be here, tonight, in beautiful St Louis, eh? Now, people have been talking to me all week, you fans, saying ‘Good luck, CIA, with the Unholy Trinity! Good luck winning those tag titles!’ Even pointing out how last time I faced a Trinity member, I LOST the belt around my waist. And that’s all well and good, as I know the Trinity are tough bastards, every last one of them, and I’ve got all the respect in the world for all three. Even if me and Mak the Machine are gonna take their titles away!”

 

The crowd pops large at this, and CIA smiles, taking a few more steps towards the ring, and continuing on. “Speaking of Mak, I want to wish good luck to my partner, as tonight he IS your main event, taking on Nathan Kibagami with his beautiful, shiny, ICTV title on the line. So with all this talk, am I worried about the Unholy Trinity? Nah! I’m worried about THAT MAN!” Pointing towards the ring, directly at Sean atlas, CIA manages to gain a large chorus of boos from the crowd, and finally snatching Atlas’s attention away from Beezel.

 

“That’s right. Everyone’s been focusing on the tag titles. And while that may be my number one priority, no matter what anyone says, that man in the ring is a REAL threat, and he’s in there right now waiting to kick my ass, eh? So I think you people should be asking me what I’m gonna do about Sean Atlas. I know all about hiding behind masks. I know why someone does it. And that means I don’t trust this man one bit. What the hell am I gonna do when I get in the ring with a man I really know nothing about?”

 

Rushing forward, CIA slides into the ring under the bottom rope, and pops up to his feet, facing Atlas, and raising the Microphone to hislips one last time. “CIA’ll tell you what he’s gonna do, eh? He’s gonna make Atlas pray for mercy.”

 

Atlas gets very irate at this, and the ref has to hold him back, but CIA merely smirks. “So sit back, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to the show. I’m the superhero of sound, and it’s TIME! TO! GO!”

 

CIA drops the microphone with a burst of static, and he rushes forward towards Atlas. The ref moves out of the way just in time, and CIA’s hand rockets out, crashing across Atlas’s masked face in an openhanded slap. The sound echoes through the arena, even as the opening bell of the match sounds, and the fans let out a loud ‘Ooooh’ of surprise at the audacity of CIA. Atlas turns his face back towards the other masked superstar, and CIA laughs, pantomiming pulling the mask off of his own face, then pointing towards Atlas, then towards Beezel, on commentary, his words unclear, but his intent quite blatant.

 

Atlas rears back and slaps CIA across the masked face, the Canadian’s head whipping to the side as another loud crack emerges. CIA’s face turns back, his body shaking as he laughs aloud, and Atlas steps forward, eye to eye with ‘The Dream’, angrily yelling at the Canadian. After a few seconds of CIA’s laughter, Atlas’ fist flies out, but CIA steps in even closer, wrapping his arms around the neck and under the armpit of Atlas, and flipping his upper body back, launching Atlas overhead, and crashing to the mat, with a well executed head and arms suplex.

 

“CIA opening this match up with some inflammatory commentary, and he seems to have enraged Atlas, drawing his ire, and then drawing him into that crisply executed suplex, a territory which is usually reserved more for Atlas himself.”

 

“The things CIA just said shouldn’t even be allowed. He’s clearly speaking out against Atlas’ religious beliefs, and I know there’s laws against that.”

 

“Friend Riley, though CIA’s attempts to psyche out Mr. Atlas have been effective, and quite blatantly offensive to Atlas himself, he merely said he would make Atlas pray, not implying any religious affiliation directly. To what beliefs do you speak?”

 

Riley shakes his head and looks towards Beezel. “When CIA said Atlas was going to lose to YOU, clearly. That IS offensive.”

 

CIA stands in mid ring, and marches over towards Atlas, reaching down and grabbing hold of ‘the unbeliever’, and lifting him up to his feet. Backing atlas against the ropes, CIA cracks him across the chest with a hard knife edged chop, drawing a loud ‘woo!’ from the crowd, and then grabs hold of his wrist, whipping him across the ring. Atlas bounds across the mat, headed for the opposite ring ropes, CIA rushing after him, staying close behind in his pursuit. Spinning to catch the opposite ropes, Atlas’ body turns just in time to meet the charge of CIA as the Canadian does a quarter turn, raising his knee and driving it deep into Atlas’ gut, causing him to flip over and to his back from the momentum.

 

Even as Atlas flips over to his back, CIA steps through the top and middle ropes to the apron, and, merely seconds later, he launches himself over the top rope, body flipping head over heels as he crashes down atop Atlas’ body with a slingshot senton splash. CIA remains on top for the cover, reaching over and hooking a single leg, but Atlas kicks out before the ref can even slide into place for a count, rolling over to his hands and knees with a rage burning in his eyes, even as CIA rolls away to mid ring and comes to his feet, motioning for Atlas to come and get him. Pounding his hands on the mat, Atlas rises up to his feet, and lunges at CIA, who meets his approach, both men locking up in a collar and elbow, and jockeying for position.

 

“It seems that friend CIA’s strategy has proved sound, as he has taken his opponent off his game.”

 

Riley seems almost as enraged as Atlas as he speaks. “There is NO WAY Atlas is going to take this lying down. He’s going to get revenge for that humiliation, and head on to PPV with the ever important momentum.”

 

“That is true, as BOTH men would like a win here, so that they can have a bit of a streak behind them as they head to PPV, with dangerous opponents scheduled to be across the ring.” Under his breath, Stevens mutters something.

 

“What was that, Friend Stevens?”

 

Riley rolls his eyes. “He said ‘Card may be subject to change.’ We have to say it, it’s in OUR contracts.”

 

“I see.”

 

In mid ring, CIA and Atlas fight for position, and Atlas seems to have the upper hand, forcing CIA back, till CIA slips around behind him, snatching a waistlock. Atlas snarls with rage, and fires back, driving his elbow into the side of CIA’s masked face. CIA staggers, but holds his grip, and Atlas fires back again, and again, hard elbows finally causing CIA to release his grip. Spinning around, Atlas drives his foot forward into the gut of CIA, but the Canadian is still fresh, and his hands grab hold of the incoming foot, saving himself from the impact. Chuckling, CIA shakes his hands, and a few fans laugh aloud, too. Atlas shakes with rage, and throws his body backwards, hands alighting on the mat, free foot being driven right up into the jaw of CIA, sending him up into the air, and crashing back into the mat, as Atlas flips over backwards, landing fully on his feet.

 

The fans boo, or wince in sympathetic pain, as CIA clutches his jaw, and points in his direction, reaching up and making a mask pulling motion. The fans boo, and Atlas steps forward, Grabbing CIA’s long hair and pulling him to a sitting position, settling in behind him by hooking a rear chinlock, not locking it in as tightly as he could, instead looking across the ring at Beezel, seated at the commentary table, and reaching his other hand down and grabbing hold of the front of CIA’s mask, jerking upwards, attempting to tear the mask from the Canadian’s face, eyes never leaving Beezel. CIA reaches up with both hands to hold onto his mask as Atlas jerks at it, trying to pull it off over his head, legs kicking as he tries to free himself. The fans are booing wildly, and Beezel rises from the announcers table, making his way towards the ring apron.

 

“And things are breaking loose here! This match has just barely started, but it looks like Atlas has been truly enraged by CIA’s attempts to psyche him out, and now he’s trying to rip CIA’s mask off of his face. But this is NOT a mask vs. Mask match, and he has no right to do this!”

 

“Hey, it’s just clothes to the Canadian, right? And besides, psyching out your opponent is important, and now Beezel is learning just what’s going to happen to him.”

 

Indeed, Beezel seems quite intent on the action in the ring, having pulled himself up onto the apron, and pointing in Atlas’s direction. Atlas continue sot tug at CIA’s mask, but, as Beezel steps through the ropes into the ring, Atlas releases the ‘Canadian Dream’, CIA falling back to the mat and beginning to pull his mask back into place, arms shielding his face from the camera. The ref focuses on CIA for a second, to be sure he’s alright, while Beezel and Atlas step towards mid ring, angrily gesturing and yelling at one another, and in the direction of CIA. After just a few moments of this, Atlas steps forward, and slams his hands into the chest of Beezel, shoving him backwards a few steps. The fans boo this, but Beezel steps in towards Atlas and responds in kind, Atlas stumbling backwards.

 

Both men step forward, getting face to face, and Atlas finally rears back, slamming his fist into the face of Beezel. The fans cheer as Beezel steps in to stand face to face with Atlas once more, but this is cut short as CIA, one hand still adjusting his mask back into place, puts one hand on Atlas’ shoulder, and spins him around. Atlas angrily slams his hands into CIA’s chest, shoving him back into the ref, who is knocked through the ropes and to the floor. Beezel grabs hold of Atlas’ mask from behind, jerking it harshly, so that it pulls out of position, covering Atlas’ eyes. Barely able to see, CIA rushes forward, and drives his arm into the face of atlas, sending him down to the mat with a hard clothesline.

 

“They’re going crazy out there, Riley! All three men in the ring, and the ref’s out on the outside!”

 

“See, these guest commentators are nothing but trouble. If they do a bad job, you end up with some sort of fight like this. If they do a good job, you have to worry about your job.”

 

“You worry about your job when a guest commentator is here, Riley?”

 

“No, you idiot, I said YOU have to worry about your job. I mean, an illiterate monkey with a brain disease could do a better job than you, and you don’t worry?”

 

In the ring, CIA finally adjusts his mask all the way back into place, and steps in to stomp at Atlas, only to stop as a hand comes down on his shoulder. Spinning around, CIA stops, fist poised to strike, and sees Beezel’s masked face. ‘El Scorcho’ shakes his head, and CIA lowers his fist, as Beezel leans in close and whispers something in the Canadian’s ear. After a few moments of arguing, CIA makes his way to the apron with Beezel, both men leaving the ring. Walking up the ramp, CIA signals a ringside attendant, pantomiming a microphone, and pointing towards Beezel. As both men reach the top of the ramp the attendant runs up to Beezel and CIA, handing Beezel a microphone.

 

“Friend Atlas! You wish to assault the identity of friend CIA unfairly. Your conflict is with me, and our fight is not now, but this Sunday. However, I’ve an invitation for you. If you truly wish to fight me, friend Atlas, I say but this. Come and get me.”

 

Dropping the microphone, Beezel heads to the backstage, and CIA waits a moment, before shrugging and following. Atlas stands in mid-ring, his mask back in place, and looks shocked. After a moment of waiting, he rushes out of the ring, and down the rampway after the departing Beezel and CIA, a cameraman rushing down the aisleway after him. The audience is silent, as if waiting for something, and, on the outside, the referee rises up, looking into the ring. Confused, he turns towards the announce table, only to receive shrugs of confusion from Riley and Stevens. Funyon makes his way over and convrses with the ref for a moment, and, after a quick shrug, the ref signals for the bell, and Funyon raises the microphone to his lips.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this match has been ruled a no-contest!”

 

There is a loud chorus of boos after this, and the Funyon looks out at the fans as if asking what he is supposed to do to fix things.

 

“Well, Riley, that is a… unique ending to this match, to say the least. I assure you fans, we will keep our cameras on Atlas, and, if we can find them, on CIA and Beezel, and let you know what develops from all of this.”

 

“We’d goddamn better!”

 

“Riley!”

 

“Oh, come on, Stevens. I hate these flesh sacks we call fans, but there had better be a lot more than that. If this doesn’t lead to at least one, maybe two backstage confrontations, and maybe a brawl of some kind, I will be VERY upset.”

 

“Well Riley, don’t worry, I have a feeling that’s just what is going to happen. Fans, we’re going to go to commercial break, and be right back, after this, with the third match in the currently 1-1 best of five series between Janus and Crowe, a pick your partner tag match! And CIA’s International Incident compatriot will be in action later this evening, in our main event, defending his ICTV title!”

 

“It better be a longer match than this, that’s all I can tell you.”

 

With that, the shot fades to commercial, leaving the announcers, the fans, and the referee all VERY confused.

[Guest Grand Slam]

The scene fades in on a door being flung wide open. On the other side is Tom Flesher, anger seething right below the surface. The shot swings around to find Frost sitting at a table laid out with food. He does not lift his eyes from carving a slab of roast beef on his plate. “Quite a spread here. I need to start taking more shows off.”

 

Flesher is not amused at Frost’s cute chitchat. He picks up a knife and embeds it into the table, inches from the Icelander’s left hand. Frost looks at the knife without betraying any emotion, then allows his eyes to wander up to Flesher.

 

“Just settle down and have something to eat. The Memphis Eel makes an incredible gumbo you just have to try.” Frost states matter of factly.

 

Tom chuckles half-heartedly. “You think you’re so clever with your little games. Trying to get into my head. You send me the bag of glass left over from Vanguard smashing through the window of the Mall Brawl that you tried to force feed him. A bottle of steak sauce to symbolize T-Bone. A pair of sawhorses from the first…win…” Flesher’s voice trails off as he hears a faint buzzing of sound in the background. He looks over Frost’s shoulder to see a television monitor. On it is an image of Frost setting up two sawhorses on the outside of a ring while T-Bone lays bleeding and battered on the floor.

 

“Oh…” Frost points blandly at the screen. “Merchandising wants to release a Best of Frost DVD and wanted me to review some matches for it. I’m strongly considering the first Window Pain match to highlight the JL section. What do you think?”

 

Flesher flips over the table, crashing the food and utensils to the ground with a clang. Tom hovers over the still seated Frost and shoves a finger in his face. “SAY IT! JUST BLOODY ASK FOR IT!”

 

Frost peers up at Tom with hangdog eyes. “Ask for what? You really should calm down; you have to wrestle Sacred after the next match. I mean, I beat him recently but he should be a challenge for you.”

 

Flesher steels himself and speaks through gritted teeth. “I know exactly what you’re doing. Trying to play mind games and goad me into a Window Pain match for Ground Zero. You’re trying to swing things into your favor, with the match you pioneered.” The Superior One smirks and jabs a thumb to his chest. “You think you can manufacture an advantage over me. I’m Tom Flesher! I AM THE ADVANTAGE!” Flesher barks.

 

Frost stands and rises to his full height to tower over the shorter man. “Then it seems settled. If you can defeat me any way any time, then a Window Pain match should be fine by you. If you refuse, then maybe the boys in the locker room think that you’re not as superior as you claim to be…well they start thinking that a little more than they do now.”

 

Tom kicks at the upturned table and spins on his back heel to exit. He pauses at the door and points a finger at Frost. “Know that you are a petty annoyance chasing at shadows. You should be gunning after the World Title and The Boston Strangler, not me. It’s not your want for revenge against me working here; it’s your fear of losing another title match. Know that I know that.”

 

Flesher disappears, leaving a solemn Frost standing in the debris of the upturned dinner table. The camera zooms in past Frost and focuses in on the television screen. Frost and T-Bone are perched precariously on top of a ladder in the ring. Frost deftly swings T-Bone upside down, with his feet around his neck and his head between the Icelander’s legs. As the ladder falls out from under the two grapplers, Frost jumps forward, pushing the ladder down and back. The two men sail through the air as camera flashbulbs pop in the audience. They barely clear the ring ropes as Frost drives T-Bone head first into the pain of glass still on the sawhorses and it obliterates into microscopic pieces.

 

“A TOMBSTONE OFF THE LADDER AND THROUGH THE GLASS. FROST WINS, BUT AT WHAT COST!” echoes the voice of Axis on commentary as the screen fades to black.

[Guest Grand Slam]

Fresh off of the Atlas/CIA match, the camera heads backstage, where none other than Charlie “Grappler” Matthews is shown roaming the halls of the Savvis Center. The crowd pops at the sight of the old school warrior, but begins booing as a relatively small fellow with greased-back black hair and suit steps out of a corridor in front of Matthews, blocking his path.

 

“The answer is, this man needs to talk to Charlie ‘Grappler’ Matthews!”

 

“……Quiz.”

 

“Ooooh, Mr. Matthews, I’m sorry, but you didn’t answer in the form of a question!”

 

Quiz flashes a blinding smile as Grappler begins to show signs of annoyance.

 

“Cut the crap, Quiz, what the hell do you want?”

 

“Don’t press your luck, Show, I’m just here to offer you a preposition. Here, come into this room so we can talk this out.”

 

With that, Quiz shoves Charlie into an open door with the light out, and scurries in behind him, slamming and locking the door behind him, not even allowing the camera man inside. With that, SWF Lockdown heads to a commercial break.

[Guest Grand Slam]

The camera fades in to the sumptiously appointed office of the Suicide King! A pair of black boots are propped high on the mahogany desk... following the line back toward its source, we quickly make our way to the Heartbreaker himself, slouched deep in a comfy leather chair with a stogie smoking in his hand. King looks at the ceiling thoughtfully, before exhaling a long cloud of deep tobacco goodness.

 

"Frost Brand Cigars. For that mellow tobacco flavor that will destroy your lungs faster than breathing chlorine gas."

 

King takes another puff as he looks skyward once more. Another voice breaks his reverie...

 

"Dammit, Brian, you know I hate that Icelandic Idiot's products."

 

King exhales grumpily, as he turns his head to regard his companion. "Tom, look at it this way. A pack of those stogies costs an absurd amount. The SWF gets 50% of the profits (which goes towards your paychecks), and the other 50% goes to Frost's speech coach. By my calculations, that means you, my main event mainstay, get roughly 1.5 cents every time someone buys a pack of these death sticks."

 

The newly revealed Tom Flesher considers this for a moment, before breaking out into a large, superior grin. "Remind me to thank him once I'm done kneecapping him."

 

"Done and done."

 

A comfortable silence descends between the two heels as Tom takes his seat in the plush chair across the desk. King gestures towards a stack of papers with his foot, and Flesher obligingly reaches for them. He scans them for a few moments, his eyes panning back and forth.

 

"Brian, you should have told me I would need my lawyer."

 

King snorts. "You'll need no such thing. I just wanted to share the good news with someone, and you are it, my dear boy."

 

Tom nods expectantly. "Well, of course I am. So, what does this stack of legalese translate to? I don't recognize any company names except Nobunaga Industries of course."

 

King's face splits into his trademarked grin. "Well, Tom, it's like this. The matter itself was completed a few months ago, but I've kept it on the hush-hush. Nobunaga Industries sold controlling interest in the Smarks Wrestling Federation."

 

Flesher arches a single eyebrow. "Really? Who to?"

 

"A company that does NOT want to get involved in storylines, or anything even remotely associated with them." King chuckles. "Basically, they just want to make sure that we continue to make a profit so that it contributes to their bottom line, and that we provide a ready avenue of advertising for their products. And that is where I, undisputed Commish of the SWF come in."

 

Flesher clears his throat. "Brian, that's all well and good but isn't it only a matter of time before some bigwig on the Board of Directors sees what you're doing? Thinks you're being unfair? Thinks he/she/it could do a better job, despite never having even attended a wrestling show before?"

 

King's eyes gleam. "Tom, I can't slip anything by you, can I? Go make yourself a martini; you've earned it."

 

"No, no. Have a match tonight Thanks though."

 

"Well... let's just say that I may have been instrumental in finding our new parent company, and I was rewarded when the sale went through. Namely, a rather cozy finder's fee of 5% ownership of the SWF. Now, it's no threat to anyone else on the board... until you factor in my salary." King is nearly glowing by this point, so enraptured is he with his own genius.

 

"I've often wondered exactly how much you make," Tom says. "I would think it should be nearly as much as I do."

 

King nods. "For some reason I fail to understand, I actually do not make as much as most of the main eventers. But that's beside the point. I've been living off of my merchandise sales, and the entirety of my Commissioner's salary has been paid in stock options." The King of Hearts grins broadly, the top of his head threatening to fall off. "And to date, I now possess a grand total of 25% ownership in the SWF."

 

"Not bad, not bad. Good way to protect your position." Tom notes.

 

"Yep. I am the second biggest dog on the Board of Directors now, behind our parent corporation. There's some guy who has thirteen percent and assorted others with a handful of shares, but all things considered I would say that once again, I have hit the jackpot." King raises his martini skyward. "To looking out for number one, and to finally being un-fucking-touchable."

 

Flesher raises a phantom glass for the toast. "So, what is your first act as Generalissimo of the SWF? Going to make some faces wrestle in pig pens? Give some heels horribly unfair advantages? Have Janus give Stevens the wedgie of all time?"

 

King smiles again. "No, Flesher my lad, the very first thing I am doing is giving you a 10% raise. Funny you should mention Stevens though..."

 

"Well, since he seems to have deveoped an unfortunate case of a backbone finally, I figured you were planning something truly horrible for him."

 

King sneers in distaste. "True. No, he hasn't crossed the line YET. But I am keeping my eye on him. And now no one can pull a Magnifico and go over my head to my "boss." The "boss" only believes what I tell them, and if they go to anyone else on the board I have more stroke." King wipes a fake tear away from his eye. "It's a thing of beauty, Tom. I tell you, it's a thing of beauty."

 

King kicks his legs off of his desk befoe turning and standing, regarding a large painting of a King of Hearts that hangs over his desk.

 

"But... when someone tries something, or thinks they can get one past me... or maybe if I just get a little bored, I will destroy someone's life utterly. Because I can."

 

Kings turns in place, with a smile that stop just short of ihs eyes. "How did Thugg used to say it? I will 'straight up wreck your shit.' Heck, if it's Stevens I may even destroy his wife and kid's lives. Nothing would make me happier than the thought of younger Stevens flipping burgers for his entire adult life."

 

"I own them all. The SWF is my personal playground, and no one can stop me this time."

 

King shakes his head, as if coming back from a pleasant dream. "Sure you don't want that martini Tom?"

 

And fade out.

[Guest Grand Slam]

Angrily, Sean Atlas stalks the backstage area. The Cameraman follows him, stopping periodically as Atlas yells out, or kicks over some assorted backstage clutter. You know, boxes, tables, tall clangy pipes for no reason. “BEEZEL! CIA! Both of you goddamn cowards get out here right now!”

 

Having no luck, Atlas turns a corner, coming eye to eye with Mak Francis. The ICTV champion smiles, belt slung over his shoulder, a plate of food from the nearby craft service table in his hands. He looks Atlas up and down for a moment, then looks at the cameraman behind him, and chuckles. “Well, it looks like you’re busy. You mind moving, so I can get back to my locker room?”

 

Angrily, Atlas steps in close, slapping the plate out of Francis’ hands. Francis looks down at the mess on the floor, and shakes his head. Atlas looks him right in the eyes, and snarls, menacingly. “Your Canadian partner, and that other masked freak. You’ve seen them, and you can tell me where they are. Don’t give me any crap about you haven’t seen them, or try to send me off in the wrong direction. Just tell me where they are, and tell me right now.”

 

Francis once again stops and looks Atlas up and down, and hefts the ICTV title belt slung over his shoulder. With a chuckle, he steps out of Atlas’ way and points down the hall. “I keep telling him he’s gonna somebody off real bad, and he never listens to me. He and Beezel are down that way. Actually, I have no doubt they’ll be lying in wait for you whenever you do find them. And there may be a lot of stupid things my partner does. But..”

 

Stepping in front of Atlas once more, Mak glares right into his eyes. “Not being ready for a fight is NEVER one of them. You have fun. And say hi to the trainers for me when you’re busy afterwards getting all bandaged up, Atlas.”

 

Atlas looks at Francis for a moment, as if to debate possibly striking him, but he merely gives a dismissive shrug, and marches past Francis, shoulder bumping into the champ on his way past. Francis chuckles, and the camera watches Atlas head down the hallway till he’s out of sight. Francis turns back towards where the craft services table is off screen, and the camera backs up a little bit, to show CIA and Beezel, the Canadian munching on some carrot sticks, next to a sandwich on the plate in front of him. Francis shakes his head, and reaches his hand out, into which CIA passes the plate of food.

 

“Thanks, partner. Sorry for any trouble, eh?”

 

“You got a plan for all this?”

 

CIA chuckles and shakes his head. “Nope. I do all my best thinking on the fly, Mak-a-roon. You know that.”

 

Francis shakes his head and smiles. “Happy hunting.” With that, the Franchise turns down the hallway and heads off, apparently trusting his partner’s judgment. CIA smiles, and turns down the hall, to head after Sean Atlas, only to be halted as Beezel’s hand falls on his shoulder.

 

“Friend CIA?”

 

Turning around, CIA addresses his fellow masked man. “No, I don’t have a plan, but yes, I know what I’m doing, eh. Geez, this was your idea, and now you’re going to get all overcautious on me.”

 

Beezel shakes his head. “That is not it, Friend CIA. Am I to understand you and Friend Francis seek… allies, as it were?”

 

CIA takes hi turn now, to look Beezel up and down, examining the enigma that could be anybody, wrapped in all that gear. “Don’t take this the wrong way, El Scorcho, but I don’t really trust anybody who wears a mask. You never know what they may be hiding.”

 

Beezel laughs, the sound coming out rather hollow from his voice synthesizer. “Perhaps I can convince you.” Leaning in close, Beezel whispers something in CIA’s ear. The Canadian’s eyes open wide in shock, and he steps back, looking at Beezel for a few seconds.

 

“Prove it.”

 

Beezel stares right at CIA, and shrugs. “Alright. Do you remember the time in Atlantic city, when you…”

 

“OKAY! Geez, you could embarrass a guy on national TV if you’re not careful. Fine, that’s good enough for me. I’ll talk to Mak. But if he says okay, you’re in. International Incident. We cause ‘em, we love ‘em, and we always, ALWAYS, shill the merchandise.” Extending his hand, CIA smiles, and Beezel reaches out, shaking with the Canadian.

 

“Now come on, Beez. We’ve got ourselves a man to hunt.”

 

Both Beezel and CIA turn away from the screen, marching off down the hallway, as the shot fades out.

[Guest Grand Slam]

We fade in from commercial break, greeted, as always, by “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens and Bobby Riley. “Hello fans! Welcome back to SWF Lockdown! If you have just joined us... we are about to plunge into the third match of the Best of Five series between the Hell Machine, Janus and the Antichrist Superstar, Crow. It’s tied at one match a piece so far, and tonight it’s a special stipulation, each person gets to choose a partner of their choice for a tag team match.” Stevens says, and as he completes his words, he turns towards Bobby.

 

Bobby Riley stares blankly, “…what?”

 

“Say something Bobby.”

 

“Uh…” stammers Riley, “Janus is going to kill Crow.”

 

“How insightful, but in any case, there has been a lot of speculation over who is going to be chosen tonight. And in Janus’ case, it’s probably ok to assume that’s he going to pick fellow Clansmen, Thoth. With Crow however, it’s a bit harder… any guesses, Bobby?”

 

“Crow is going to pick Jessica… oh, oh wait, she’s at home lying in bed with a concussion! Serves her right… annoying little girl.”

 

Grand Slam shakes his head, “You appall me sometimes. Anyway, let’s go over to the introductions and get this match rolling.”

 

The arena quietens, as the Smarktron shows nothing but a pure white backdrop, with blood dripping down into what looks like a mirror. The lights on the stage, in the rafters, everywhere, begin to increase in intensity, obscuring all but the Smarktron. A voice begins to sing in soft Japanese.

 

"Senketsu ni somaro mirai no toki

Hageshiku modaeru honnou..."

 

The blood almost completely fills the mirror on the Smarktron, and the beat of the song begins to pick up. Through the haze of blinding light, two silhouettes can be seen walking towards the ring - one small man dwarfed by a giant. Nothing but their black silhouettes can be seen, until the mirror on the Smarktron abruptly shatters.

 

"BEAST...OF BLOOD!”

 

“I knew it…” Stevens mumbles.

 

And the lights return to normal except the ones around the ramp and ring, surrounding the forms of Janus and Thoth in a white haze as they stalked down the ramp side by side to the sound of Malice Mizer's "Beast of Blood".

 

Bobby Riley starts clapping, “Yes! It’s Thoth! What a surprise, I didn’t see that coming at all! And after all that business with furry art, it’s good to see him doing so well.”

 

“Indeed,” replied Mark. “And none of us really have any right to be surprised by Janus’ choice.”

 

The Smarktron displays their most devastating moves and matches, as Funyon lifts his microphone.

 

”Coming down the aisle, at a combined weight of five hundred and ninety five pounds… THOTH and JJJJJJJJAAAANNNNNNNNNUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSS!”

 

Climbing up into the ring, still surrounded by the white haze, Janus and Thoth turn their heads to look around at the crowd, until finally the light dies down to something manageable and "Beast of Blood" fades out...

 

…and darkness becomes the arena. The haunting opening sample of Dimmu Borgir’s ‘Burn in Hell’ begins to softly omit from the speakers. A change soon comes…

 

*BOOM!*

 

Rows of bright flames explode up and across the staging as the song explodes into a much heavier guitar riff! The crowd roars in approval of who is coming out to greet them, as a spotlight turns on and focuses directly on the stage...

 

...revealing Crow, the Antichrist Superstar, standing on the ramp amidst the flames, with his arms spread in the crucifix pose. Standing next to him in the shadows is ‘Sick Boy’ Dante Crane. The tempo slows and the croaky vocals take over...

 

“Welcome to the abandoned land...

Come on in child, take my hand...

There is no work of play...

Only one bill to pay...”

 

Riley blinks. “Where’s Crow’s partner?”

 

“I… don’t know, Riley.”

 

As the music pumps through the arena, Crow lights a cigarette and with Dante Crane beside him, begins to walk down the ramp.

 

"There's just five words to say...

As you go down... *BONG*

Down... *BONG*

Down... *BONG*"

 

Funyon rises to his feet as the song reaches its peak…

 

"YOU'RE GONNA BURN IN HELL!

OH, BURN IN HEEEEEEEELL!"

 

"Coming down the aisle, at a combined weight of FOUR HUNDRED and FORTY ONE pounds… this is ‘Sick Boy’ DANTE CRANE and the Antichrist Superstar, CCRRROOOOOOWWWWWWWW!” Funyon booms into the microphone.

 

“…”

 

“Dante Crane is wrestling with Crow! He’s his partner! Now that’s a surprise, Bobbie!” Grand Slam shouts.

 

“Ha! That’s not a surprise, I knew it was going to be him! INSIDER, MARK, INSIDER!” Riley screams, “This is good though, now Janus can legally get revenge on Dante! He cost him the match against Crow, you know!?”

 

Crow strides up the steel steps, casually smoking his cigarette as he climbs through the ropes and into the ring. ‘Sick Boy’ Dante Crane follows him sliding into the ring. He stands up and disrobes the large black trenchcoat that always cloaks him, revealing interesting attire. A white see-through button down shirt, complimented by a black, leather bell-bottom with a twin row of silver studs on each leg.

 

“Now now, it was completely legal in that match and you know that.”

 

“That may be, but it’s blatantly obvious that Crow would have lost without Dante’s assistance.”

 

The referee for tonight’s match is Eddy Long and he does his best to keep himself in-between the four men in the ring. He quickly goes over the rules, and once finished, Dante and Thoth take their positions on the apron… Janus and Crow to start.

 

*DING!DING!DING!*

 

The Hell Machine is wearing a knee brace and checks to see if it’s solidly applied, and Crow on the other side of the ring is not in any condition to wrestle… his back is severely weakened. They circle the ring before Crow quickly lunges forward, looking for a single leg take down. Janus however, manages to side step the attack and bring down a heavy forearm to the back of Crow’s head. The Antichrist Superstar is hoisted up to a standing base and backed into the ropes, then whipped across the ring. Off the opposing ropes he comes and running into a clothesline! A flip in the air and splat on the mat goes Crow, but no rest for the wicked as he’s picked up straight away and bullied into a corner by Janus’ huge fists. A left hand rocks him back a step, and a huge closed fisted right sends Crow flying back into the turnbuckles. The Big Man cracks his knuckles and lifts his knee into his opponent’s stomach, and then thrusting his arms forward and clasping Crow’s throat... he sits him on the top rope. Janus unloads a right hook which sends Crow spraying off to the side, and expecting him to fall, the Hell Machine his attention towards Dante. He motions a slow cut-throat, but Sick Boy just sits there... smiles... and points to behind the big man. The Gothic Warrior managed to hold onto the turnbuckle and is now perched on the top rope, waiting for Janus to turn back around...

 

...Janus turns...

 

...AND CROW GLIDES THROUGH THE AIR AND DROPKICKS THE HELL MACHINE! The Monster falls to the canvas stunned, and he immediately gets back up and makes a blind charge with arm thrown out. Crow was ready though and managed to easily duck under and swing around to apply a waistlock. Quickly dropping down to a knee, the Antichrist Superstar pulls Janus legs out with a read double leg takedown and the proceeds to jump on his opponent’s back and spin around.

 

Grand Slam provides some insight, “An interesting move from Crow here, he’s dipping into some amateur wrestling. Basically this move is a showing of power, Crow is saying ‘I can take you down when I want, I can ride you for as long as I want and I will let you up when I want!’.”

 

“...” Bobby begins, “I like the sound of that move, Mark!”

 

Crow hops off and smirks, for the crowd is laughing and Janus has somewhat been humiliated. The Hell Machine is of course, angered by this and scowls as he powers to a standing base. A stare down ensues, but it is quickly broken as Crow lunges forward, rears his arm back and connects with a vessel-bursting knife edge chop!

 

*SMACK!*

 

“Wooooooooo!“

 

Janus doesn’t flinch. Thus, Crow rears back again and...

 

*SMACK!*

 

Once again, Janus doesn’t flinch... but the vein in his head grows bigger. Crow rears his arm back again, but it’s stopped as he throws it forward! The Machine from Hell has had enough, but the Antichristian Phenomenon has other ideas and breaks loose from the grip, and throwing his leg back with the speed of lightning, he thrusts it forward – unleashing Das Wunder Kick to Janus’ knee brace!

 

“Oh! Deadly Das Wunder Kick and I don’t think that cheap knee brace is going protect it from a kick with that force!” Grand Slam conveys.

 

Janus’ falls to one knee and grimaces, too bad for him though, as Crow isn’t done. The Avian rears his other leg back and thrusts it forward nailing another roundhouse kick, but this time directed to the side! Janus is on both his knees now and following up, Crow jumps in the air and throws his leg forward delivering a heinously stiff Wunder kick to the head!

 

The Big Man falls face first to the canvas and Crow takes advantage, rolling him onto his back and applying the lateral press.

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

T......W......NOOOOOOOO! KICK OUT!

 

Janus gets the shoulder off the canvas but he’s still knocked a bit silly. Crow knows this and moves to the lower half of his opponent’s body, the leg he’s worked ever since the start of this series. Lifting the leg up, the Avian drags Janus over to the ropes and places it on the first rope... using the ropes to gain some momentum, he jumps into the air and spreads his wings, dropping the elbow across the elevated knee! The Hell Machine awakens from his dizzy spell and FEELS the pain in his leg resurface, a cry is omitted but that does nothing but make Crow elevate the knee again. Jumping up into the air a second time, Crow this time drops a leg across the knee. Feeling it’s time, the Antichrist Superstar drags Janus into the center of the ring and lifts a leg. He spins around it, in the beginnings of the figure four leg lock, but Janus isn’t going to allow this and kicks Crow SQUARE in the buttocks! The kick sends him flying forwards into the corner...

 

...and it’s the wrong corner. The Balancer, Thoth, is eagerly waiting to make an impact on the match, and what a better way to do it than illegally? Janus does the right thing by his partner and consumes the referee’s attention whilst Thoth grabs Crow’s hair with both hands and rams the poor bastard’s head into the turnbuckle! Dante Crane isn’t going to allow any of this and climbs through the ropes, raring to go and stop this heinous attack! But referee Eddy Long stops him and demands that he gets back to his corner!

 

“Oh come ref! There’s a mugging happening on the other side of the ring, get on your game, son!” Shouts Grand Slam.

 

As Mark cries, Janus gets up to a standing base and walks over to his corner, his limp has returned... and it’s payback time. The Hell Machine directs Thoth to hold Crow’s arms back and then proceeds to unleash a flurry of body shots, a brutal collection of closed fist rights and lefts! Dante Crane argues with the referee and screams at his to turn around but it’s no use, so he retreats.

 

Bobby cheers, “That’s right Eddy, make that goffick wannabe obey the rules! Why must these wrestlers break the rules, I mean look at Janus and Thoth, perfect gentlemen and abiding by the rules.”

 

Of course, Eddy Long turns around and sees nothing but a slap of the hands between partners, indicating a change in legal man. Thoth steps into the ring and drags Crow into the center, quickly opening up on him with a big right hand punch. The bird is rocked back into the ropes, which causes Thoth to approach and latch onto arm, switching around to a hammerlock that he wretches on. But one should never restrict a bird’s wing... as this prompts the Gothic Warrior to scowl and throw a harsh elbow backward. Using the opening, Crow performs a standing switch and locks on a waistlock of his own... and with a grunt...

 

CROW NAILS A GERMAN SUPLEX ON THE BALANCER! HE HOLDS FOR THE BRIDGE!

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T...........W.........O............NOOOOO! KICK OUT!

 

 

Wasting no time, Crow crawls over to his corner and slaps the outstretched hand of his team mate!

 

“And Crow makes the tag to Dante Crane after nailing the german suplex to get him back in the match!” Stevens shouts.

 

Thoth gets up to a standing base but is instantly knocked back down by a flying leg, one which belongs to Dante Crane... he’s energised, after waiting for so long to get back into the ring. He jumps up and down, and then rips Thoth up and Irish whips him into the open corner. The Balancer hits face first at full velocity and stumbles back out, letting Crane dance around on his light feet... spin and CRACK him in the face with a spinning roundhouse kick! Thoth is sent back a few steps and fights to maintain his balance, but eventually does... however, blood is now trickling from his nose. Angered at the taste of his own fluid, Thoth spits in disgust and rushes forward, throwing his forearm forward...

 

...but Sick Boy is far too quick, because he slides out of the way and ends up almost magically behind the Balancer. Dante hastily applies a full nelson and locks it on tight, and summoning his strength, lifts Thoth into the air. Upon reaching the apex, Crane releases half of the hold with his right arm and with the other still on his opponent’s neck, turns them into a front face lock – driving Thoth’s skull into the canvas with the Damnation DDT!

 

“What the hell was that, Mark!? It looked illegal, that move has to be illegal!” Cries Bobby Riley.

 

Stevens shakes his head, “I assure you, Bobbie, that that move is very legal and the technical name is a Full Nelson DDT. Dante Crane pulled it off with amazing crispness.”

 

Lateral press.

 

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

 

 

 

 

T.........W................O.......NOOOOO! KICK OUT!

 

Dante Crane wastes no time in continuing his speed attack as he jumps up and drops down, nailing a standing head BUTT drop. He jumps back up and glides through the ropes and out onto the apron. Tentatively clutching his hands on the rope, he pulls back and slingshots his body over the ropes and performs a flip in the air, landing back first on Thoth’s chest!

 

“SLINGSHOT SENTON SPLASH! What the.... and he’s rolling through!” Grand Slam marks out.

 

Indeed he is, Crane rolls to his feet and immediately jumps up onto the second rope, bunches his legs and springboards off! He executes a back flip in the air and lands stomach first on Thoth! Another cover!

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T..................W................O.............NOOOOOOOOOOOO! KICK OUT!

 

Thoth manages to thrust his arm into the arm before the three count, and Dante Crane does not argue, he simply picks his opponent up.

 

“The Balancer needs to slow things down at this point otherwise Dante will dominate him with his tremendous speedy attacks...” Grand Slam with the insight, yo.

 

Riley rubs his forehead, “And there is no doubt in my mind that he will... I hope.”

 

Dante applies a front face lock, rather loosely, for he’s not the strongest man alive and looks to nail a standard vertical suplex. He heaves Thoth into the air, but the Clansmen shakes his legs violently in the air, furiously attempting to shift the weight his way...

 

...and he does it! Thoth manages to escape for a moment, and plants himself on the ground. Crane tries to lift him up again, and almost does if it weren’t for the problem of Thoth placing his foot between the legs. This gives the Balancer all the time he needs to escape, so he throws some punches to Sick Boy’s stomach, and continues to do so until the front face lock grip is so weak that he can simply pull out of it. Rearing his arm back, Thoth nails a hard elbow which stuns Dante just enough to allow him to flip him forward with a snapmare. With Dante Crane sitting on the canvas, Thoth quickly runs into the ropes and bounces off, running forward and driving his knee into the back of his opponent’s head. A small “oooh” rises from the audience.

 

“Well, it’s not pretty or technical, but that brutal knee to the back of the head and its whiplash effect has slowed the… ‘Sick Boy’ down. For now, anyway,” Mark notes.

 

“Heh. Whiplash? More like whipped! Wha-pesh!” Bobby giggles disturbingly after his exclamation.

 

After connecting, Thoth immediately rolls to his feet, as Dante rolls on the mat, clutching at the back of his head in pain. Thoth looks down on him, seemingly savouring the agony he’s put on Crane, before lashing out at him with a stomp. …and Dante has enough sense about him to roll out of the way. Thoth tries again, but Dante evades! Slightly frustrated, the Balancer tries a third time, but is avoided again, this time Dante’s foot shoots forward, catching Thoth by the leg and tripping him up!

 

“Whipped, eh, Bobby?”

 

“Oh, quiet. It’s a false sense of security, Mark. Thoth is a crafty one.”

 

There is a pause, and… “Bobby,” begins GSMS. “Virtually this entire MATCH has been Thoth and Janus luring Crow and Dante into a false sense of security. This is one hell of a charade they’re putting up, I must say.”

 

“Well, of course. These guys are professionals, Stevens!” Riley says, “In the ring, in public, in the bedroom… anywhere!”

 

“…right.”

 

Veering back to the match and away from Riley’s delusions, Dante rises to his feet, and Thoth is quick to follow. Thoth attempts to circle, and re-evaluate Dante, but “Sick Boy” has none of it, firing a shot into Thoth’s ribs! Off guard, the Balancer wobbles, receiving a second kick! A third! Trying to shake the strikes off, the ex-world champ takes a step back, taking a swing with a wide punch… that Dante ducks! Thoth immediately follows with a kick squared at the gut! …but Dante is fast, rolling back and avoiding! And in a flash, the ‘Sick Boy’ rolls forward from his bent over position for…

 

“Attempted Koppo Kick from Dante,” Mark calls. “But Thoth is savvy enough to pivot away.”

 

A quizzical Dante Crane rolls to his feet, blinking as he realizes he didn’t hit anything. Before he can even turn around, Thoth seizes the opportunity and BLASTS Dante with kick that lays the ‘Sick Boy’ out! The crowd boos, as Thoth regards their ire with only a smirk. In his corner, Crow stands on the bottom rope, yelling at Dante to get up! And it works, kind of, as Crane begins to stir… Thoth has no intentions of letting him get his bearings, naturally, and rudely rips him to his feet, taking his wrist and flinging the lighter man towards the ropes…

 

…but Dante reverses the Irish Whip! A tiny section of the crowd gives a small cheer!

 

…and they immediately regret it, as Thoth reverses the reversal, do-see-do-ing ‘Sick Boy,’ and DRIVING his hand underneath his chin!

 

“Thrust Uppercut!” Mark shouts, as the crowd give another small ‘oooh.’ “Absolutely brutal move, just crushing the esophageus of Dante Crane!”

 

“And I love it!” Chatters Bobby, unsurprisingly.

 

Dante writes on the mat, clutching at his throat, as the crowd intesifies its booing of Thoth. He ignores them—of course—chosing wisely to exploit his first real advantage. Picking up Dante by his stringy, disorganized blond locks, the Balancer keeps a firm grip on them as he drills Dante in the forehead with a few hard, close-fisted shots! Dante grimaces, stumbling into the ropes, unable to think with the dull pain in his throat, and the stinging on his head. And Thoth gives him no time, either, grasping his arm flinging him toward the opposite cords with another Irish Whip. Thoth bends over, telegraphing a back drop… and is alerted by the swell of the fans that something is amiss. In the blink of an eye, he looks up, and sees Crane attempting a Spinning Wheel Kick!

 

…that Thoth just barely twists away from, putting his hands out and gasping Dante’s outstretched leg, throwing him back to the ground! The crowds anger boils over at what the former champion does next: briefly touching the drizzle of blood trickling from his nose, Thoth glares at “Sick Boy”… and fires a Snot Rocket at the downed goth, with much contempt!

 

Mark grumbles. “Some excellent savvy and awareness from Thoth to avoid the Spinning Wheel Kick from Dante, but THAT was just uncalled for. Talk not being sporting…”

 

Dante, dizzy and rather disorientated, gets to his feet. And Thoth has him lined up all the way, crouched in a ready stance… which is jumps out of, lauching a boot right into the gut of Crane! A half-second after getting up, Dante is doubled-over, and his arms are quickly underhooked, as Thoth DRIVES him into the mat with…

 

“Double-Arm DDT!” Mark cries! “Thoth just planted “Sick Boy” with a huge, huge move!”

 

“And a cover!” Riley nearly bounds out of his seat, pointing eagerly into the ring.

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T.........H...............R.............EEEEEEEEEEEEEE.......NOO!! The crowd roars in approval as Dante shoots a shoulder off the mat!

 

Mark grins, “I think you spoke too soon, Riley.”

 

“Yeah well… don’t be so sure! Thoth’s going to try again!”

 

With a huff, Thoth drops down on Dante again, this time hooking a leg.

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

T..............H..................R.............EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEE........................NOOOO!! Dante finds the strength to break Thoth’s pinfall attempt, as the crowd’s reaction doubles from the last kickout! Crow can be heard with his shout of “YEAH!” from his corner, and takes the opportunity to get the audience into a clap for Dante. Riley is silent.

 

“Kicking out of a pin is exhausting, and going for two in a row is always a solid tactic,” notes Mark. “But I think Thoth underestimated the fight in Dante, and should’ve gone for another impact move instead. Not the kind of thing a guy with all that “veteran awareness” should be doing, huh, Bobby?”

 

“…meh.”

 

Now visibly agitated, and only egged on by the clapping/cheering from the fans, Thoth gets to his knees, snarls, and grabs Dante by the collar of his shirt. With a shout for Eddy Long to “get the hell out of the way,” the Balancer grips ‘Sick Boy’s arm, and just FIRES him at the turnbuckle. Dante connects with an audible “THUNK,” and slumps down, his arms draped over the ropes. Huffing, Thoth stalks to the opposite turnbuckle, lines Dante up, and charges. ¾’s of the way there, Thoth takes a hop, points his knee out, and waits for the impact…

 

…which never happens! Grunting, Dante grunts, and pushes himself up with his arms on the ropes, avoiding contact with Thoth! The Balancer doesn’t live up to his nickname, as he stumbles after connecting with nothing, reaches out for the ropes himself, and stops below Dante’s levitated form. The buzzes, and “Sick Boy” wastes no time, quickly scissoring his legs around Thoth’s neck!

 

“And now Dante, with a sudden burst of energy, is trying to bring Thoth to the ground with a hurricanrana of some sort!” Calls Mark, sounding impressed at the Crane’s gustiness.

 

“I hate when this happens…” Riley grumbles, but continues. “Never the less, he’ll never score with it, Grand Slam! Thoth’s got his hands GLUED to the top rope.”

 

Riley’s observation holds true, as Dante can’t force Thoth to go anywhere. And using the leverage from the ropes, plus his own size/strength advantage, Thoth begins pushing Dante’s legs with his body, trying to fold him up and dump him outside! Seeing himself in danger again, Dante reacts instinctively—raising a leg off of Thoth’s left shoulder, and driving his heel into Thoth’s head. The Balancer groans. Dante follows it up with another kick. A third, and Thoth’s grip starts to slack! Finally, raising his leg a good foot into the air, Crane thumps Thoth in the head, forcing him to let go, and try to soothe the pain away.

 

Knowing that it’s now or never, Dante slides to his feet, and pushes himself up the turnbuckle, all the way to the top. The crowd begins to murmur in anticipation, as Dante sits perched… waiting… waiting… still rubbing his head, the former world champion turns around. Dante allows himself a grin. Thoth chokes.

 

Dante flies off with a graceful leap.

 

…

 

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!” Say the fans.

 

“FLYING HEADSCISSORS!!” Bellows Grand Slam, as Dante succeeds with the move, sending Thoth thudding towards Janus, and leaving himself lying less than a dozen feet from his own partner!

 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Riley deadpans.

 

“Seeing is believing, Riley! Dante managed to get himself out of a mess, and took a huge chance after! It’s paid off BIG TIME, though! He’s only a few feet away from making the tag to Crow!”

 

Riley peers into the ring. “Thoth looks closer, though. If Janus can get in and get to Dante before Dante can get to Crow…”

 

And on that note, the race is on! At Crow’s provocation, the crowd starts another clap for Dante, who stirs slowly on the canvas, inching his way towards his corner. Thoth, being slightly less exhausted than Dante, even after taking a flying head scissors off the top, starts crawling toward his corner at a faster pace. The different distance between the two men and their corners is evident, as Thoth is now only a few feet away!

 

Dante gets closer… closer…

 

Thoth gets closer… closer…

 

*SMACK!*

 

…and parts of it begin to boo, as Thoth tags out first. “Yes!” Says Riley. “I knew it! Janus, Dante is still close enough to catch!”

 

Heeding Bobby’s advice, Janus quickly steps over the ropes, and starts to lumber his way toward Crane. Dante turns his head back, and sees Janus making a b-line… and with a last burst of energy, pushes himself off the mat, just barely escaping Janus grab at his leg, and clearing the final few feet to Crow’s outstretched hand! The crowd explodes into cheers! The Antichrist Superstar wastes nary a second, hopping over the rope and charging at Janus—who resets himself from his failed grab at Dante, and takes a mighty swing at Crow!

 

…which sails through thin air, as Crow ducks underneath—and connects with a low running dropkick to Janus’ knee! The giant gives an uncharacteristic argh in pain (cough), as he takes a tumble into the corner.

 

“Janus just didn’t have the speed to catch up with Dante, Bobby! And whether that’s in his control or not, he’s payed for it, because Crow’s going right back to that vulnerable knee!” Announces Grand Slam.

 

Bobby grumps. “Janus has had five days to heal from that… disgusting beating Crow forced on him. Plus, he won’t let Crow get to him like that. You just watch.”

 

Like a man possessed, Crow rushes to keep up his assault, grabbing the ropes for leverage and stomping a mudhole in the Hell Machine! The crowd reaches a fever pitch, as Crow continues to pump his feet into Janus’ body like a piston. With the big man almost laid out flat in the corner, Crow slows, and then finally stops his stomping rush. He flicks his hair back, and turns, taking a moment to play to the crowd—which he regrets upon returning to Janus, as the Hell Machine shoots a arm up from where he lays, and clasps Crow by the throat!

 

“Good lord,” exclaims Stevens. “Janus just… well… he just no-sold a good 15 seconds of stomping by Crow!”

 

Riley chuckles. “Heh. See what I told you, Mark? Crow’s never going to get the chance to exploit that knee.”

 

Crow fidgets and struggles within Janus’ grip, and with a feral grin, the behemoth single-handedly tosses the Antichristian Phenomenon into the turnbuckle! With a flurry of rights and lefts equal to Crow’s stomping, Janus beats the bird down in the corner. The crowd boos feverishly, but Janus pays them no mind—there’s a match at hand, and a score to be settled. With Crow sufficiently softened up, Janus grabs him by his oily strands, and cinches in a front-facelock. Tossing Crow’s arm over his shoulder, Janus attempts a standard vertical suplex—but never even gets it underway, as Crow dazedly lines a kick into his knee! Janus groans, and drops the facelock, as Crow shakes the cobwebs out.

 

“Never going to get the chance to exploit it, huh?”

 

“Quiet, Stevens. It’s just one shot.”

 

One shot quickly becomes two, as Crow drills another kick into the knee cap, and then three! Crow smirks, and notes Janus bent over position, and immediately lines up the Das Wunder Kick!

 

…which quickly turns into Das Wunder Fräulein, as Janus ducks (limps, rather) with an unusually speedy evasion! Caught completely out of the blue, Crow can do little as the Hell Machine takes both of his arms, and...

 

“FULL NELSON DROP!“ Mark screams, as Crow is reduced to little more than a stain on the mat! The St. Louis audience jeers ferociously, as Janus takes his time dropping to his knees, and then onto Crow, with a lateral press. Riley can be heard laughing, as Eddy Long begins the count...

 

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

 

 

"Ahahaha, it's all over, Mark!"

 

 

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

 

 

"They put up a good fight, but THIS series is no longer the all-Crow-show--thank god."

 

 

T..........H..........R.......EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE......

 

 

 

 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

"...GODDAMNIT!" Riley yells!

 

"Dante! Dante just slingshotted into the ring, breaking the count!" Says Mark, a hint of relief in his voice.

 

The not-nearly recovered Crane wobbles to his feet, briefly admiring his handiwork. His staring, however, is interrupted--not even by the ref--as Thoth, hopping down from his own apron recovery spot, reaches though the bottom rope, tripping Dante up and pulling him out of the ring! Thoth begins peppering Dante with stomps, trying to make sure that the latest interferance is his last.

 

"Thoth pulls Dante up, and just Irish Whipped him into the steel barricade," Stevens narrarates. "This really isn't looking good for Crow and Crane..."

 

Meanwhile, in the ring, Janus has recovered from the shock of being kicked out of, while Crow is beginning to stir from the move itself. Obviously not wanting to let Crow catch his breath, Janus ambles to the Antichristian Phenomenon, raising him slowly to his feet... and cracking him across the jaw with a sterling right hand! Crow teeters, but doesn't fall, despite being introduced to a second right hand from Janus! Weakly, Crow attemtps to retaliate with a weak punch, which is easily caught by the giant. With more than a bit of prejeduce, Janus snakebites Crow's wrist, and whips him to the nearest corner!

 

Which happens to be the one Eddy Long is standing in. Caught between watching the Thoth/Dante scuffle on the outside, and Janus/Crow in the ring, Eddy just barely sees Crow barreling at him--but doesn't have the reflexes to react, as the bird sandwiches him in the corner!

 

"And the ref goes down..." Mark's words have a forboding air.

 

"Yeah, well, Long deserved it. Janus and Thoth should've had this won by now!"

 

Crow stumbles out of the corner, as Long collapses behind him. Janus doesn't appear to really notice (or care, rather) whether or not the ref is down, as he fires off a stiff kick with his good leg into the gut of the Gothic Warrior, and applies a standing headscissors.

 

*SMACK!*

 

But for a few brief seconds, the attention of everyone turns back to the outside, where Thoth is lying on a patch of exposed concrete in crowd, having been backdropped by Dante Crane!

 

"What the hell happened!?" Riley snarls.

 

"I just caught the end of it, Bobby, but Thoth took a run at Dante, and got up close and personal with the front row!"

 

Heart pounding, lungs heaving, Dante turns his attention back to the ring. And Bobby can already see what's coming. "No... no!"

 

In aformentioned ring, Janus slowly slashes both of his hands across his throat, drawing a wave of hate from the crowd. The Hell Machine smirks, as he grips Crow by the waist, preparing to splatter him across the canvas with the Dark Bomb! Janus begins to lift Crow up, but is puzzled by the sudden cheers the fans are producing. He doesn't stay confused for long, as Dante Crane makes his presence felt one last time, diving in the ring from the outside, and chop blocking the back of Janus' knee! Janus YELLS, and falls backward, Crow dropping into a heap close to him!

 

"Dammit! Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!" Riley can only curse. "DAMMIT, I knew this would happen. Janus, get it TOGETHER! You can still pin him!"

 

"Janus knee has him in SERIOUS pain, Riley! If Crow could just get the Sharpshooter on now..."

 

Grand Slam's words are prophetic, as Crow finally shakes enough of the cobwebs lose to realize that this is his first, last, and only chance to put Janus away. Snaking into position in front of the writing Janus' legs, Crow grasps one, places his right leg over it, and takes Janus' other, crossing it over.

 

"This isn't happening," Riley panicks. "Crow's NEVER GOING TO TURN HIM!!"

 

Fate appears to be against Riley, though, as Crow finds the footing of the set up leg, and tries hard to force Janus onto his stomach! The giant's attempts at resistance only serve to strain his leg more, inadvertantly helping the Gotic Avian. Slowly, Janus turns... turns... turrrrrrns...

 

*thud*

 

There's a dull thump as a 350 pound man flips over. And a HUGE scream of approval from the crowd!

 

"HE DID IT! CROW FLIPPED HIM!" And Mark, too.

 

Riley doesn't respond, seeming to merely be on the verge of tears.

 

Crow easily gains the proper crouching stance for the Sharpshooter, being able to pull all his energy into the hold! Janus feels the burn, screaming up and down his injured leg! Janus yells in pain, the feeling helped little by the sight of Eddy Long coming-to in the corner.

 

Not now.

 

 

Now two matches in a row! This can't happen!

 

The crowd continues to scream at Janus to tap, as the pressure slowly becomes unbearable. Crow eggs him on, too, using the rush of adreneline to cinch the Sharpshooter in even tighter! Janus turns red, trying to ignore the pain...

 

Maybe... it's better... to live and fight another day.

 

But it's to much. Janus thumps his fist against the mat, which is enough to get the recovered Eddy Long's attention!

 

*DING!DING!DING!*

 

"The winners of this match," Barks Funyon, "DANTE CRANE AND CROOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!"

 

At the very notion of the match being over, Crow breaks the Sharpshooter and gets the hell out of Dodge, being met by a weary Dante Crane as they both begin to make their way up the ramp, hailed by cheers. Riley weeps. “This SUCKS, Stevens! Do you have ANY idea how much this sucks!?”

 

“Ah, stow it, Riley. They did it! Crow made Janus tap-out two matches in a row! That’s incredible!”

 

“Yeah, no thanks to Dante…”

 

“Anyway, up next we’ve got Andrew Blackwell versus Tom Flesher,” shills GSMS. “This is one you won’t want to miss! Stay tuned!”

 

The camera fades on a shot in the ring, where Janus lays his head to the canvas. This is not over.

[Guest Grand Slam]

As the next chapter in the Janus vs. Crow Best of Five series comes to an end, the camera cuts to the backstage area once again. This time, the camera is positioned outside of the same locker room door that Quiz and Charlie Matthews entered before. A TV can be heard from the outside, playing at ear-splitting volume. Bob Eubanks’ voice can be heard from outside the door.

 

“And now it’s time for The Big Bet! Let’s start with the first card!”

 

Some static can be heard, and then another voice rings out.

 

“I’ll take Potpourri for 450, Alex.”

 

“The answer is…”

 

Static again.

 

“I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat.”

 

Static.

 

“Survey saysssssssss……”

 

*DING*

 

Static.

 

“Whammy!”

 

“Don’t press your luck!”

 

Static.

 

“This is Bob Barker, reminding you to help control the pet population, have your pets spayed or neutered!”

 

Static, and then nothing.

 

SWF Lockdown heads to another commercial break.

[Guest Grand Slam]

As Lockdown returns from break, we see Ejiro Fasaki backstage, US Title around his waist, talking with a pair of beautiful and attractive twins. What he’s saying isn’t audible, but the twins giggle. Unfortunately, they stop giggling as a familiar voice cries out:

 

“Ejiro Fasaki!!!”

 

Ejiro turns around to find the source of the noise, bumping right into Michael Craven. Craven puts his hand on Ejiro’s shoulder, looking him straight in the eyes before he speaks while the twins back off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Thank you.”

 

Ejiro seems taken back in shock that Craven would actually thank him rather than kick his ass right now, but Craven continues.

 

“Thank you for freeing me of the shackles that once oppressed me and allowing me to once more follow the path of destiny.”

 

Ejiro raises an eyebrow, confused by Craven’s quote, so the King of Nightmares points to the US Title, nodding before he continues on.

 

“Because it is my destiny to become the World Champion. Without that ball and chain holding me down, I am now free to fulfill my destiny and reach the top of the ladder, to brng forth the reign of The King of Nightmares and the Era of Darkness.”

 

Ejiro backs off a little, scared of Craven’s dark speech, but those feelings of fear from Craven’s words is quickly calmed by Mike himself.

 

“But you should not be afraid, because change is a good thing, right? The US Title changed hands, and look at you... you’re finally a singles champion. You see how change can be beneficial to one’s self?”

 

Ejiro nods and opens his mouth, but Craven cuts him off before he can speak.

 

“And tonight, the changes will start, because I’m making a major announcement concerning my future in the SWF, Ejiro. So, why don’t you be a good man and go spread the word? Because the winds of change are blowing, and you won’t want to miss what they carry with them.”

 

Craven then pats Ejiro on the shoulder, smiling as he walks off. Ejiro, however, just stands there for seconds with a horribly confused look on his face, not knowing how to respond to what just happened to him, other than to slowly back away a foot or two and try to regain his thoughts before Craven interrupted him and the twins as we fade to commercial...

[Guest Grand Slam]

The Savvis Center lights up after returning from a commercial break, and the fans are on their feet! The crowd is peppered with signs saying “Kibagami > Thor,” “Superior > Sacred,” and “TBS > Spike.” The camera pans through the crowd, finally settling on the SmarkTron, where photos of Tom Flesher and Andrew Blackwell are shown side-by side, and the words “SUPERIOR ONE vs SACRED ONE” scroll across the bottom of the screen. The camera moves once more, this time to the announcers’ table, where “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens and Bobby Riley sit together.

 

“Welcome back to St. Louis,” says Stevens, “and welcome back to SWF Lockdown! We’re here in the Savvis Center, ready to continue our march toward SWF Ground Zero, which is only ten short days away! It seems that Tom Flesher and Frost have been having some problems lately, and they’ve only been exacerbated by the little ‘gifts’ Frost has been sending Tom lately.”

 

“But boy, that steak sauce sure was a dandy, wasn’t it?” chimes in Bobby Riley.

 

“Bobby, that was terrible.”

 

“I know.”

 

Stevens sighs. “In any event, Tom requested this match as a way to try to one-up Frost. After all, Frost picked up the win over the Sacred One last week, and what better way for the Superior One to try to prove that he’s that much better than Frost than to destroy a competitor who gave Frost so much trouble?”

 

“Well, you’re mostly right,” says Riley. “The best way for Tom to show his superiority over Frost will be to throw him through a pane of glass in the Window Pain match at Ground Zero. This match is just a tune-up, Stevens.”

 

“Don’t you think that’s taking Andrew Blackwell a little too lightly? He is a former World Champion, after all.”

 

“And so is Flesher.”

 

“This is the first time these two have met on the SWF mats, so let’s go to Funyon and get this one underway!”

 

Funyon stands in the ring and announces, “The following contest is scheduled for one fall.” The television pictures begins to flutter, becoming fuzzy, and this continues while Andrew Blackwell’s voice is heard…

 

“There is nothing wrong with your television set… Do not attempt to adjust the picture…”

 

“I will control the horizontal. I will control the vertical.”

 

“I am controlling transmission…”

 

The picture returns to normal shortly after. Before Andrew Blackwell walks out, the lights recede, not into complete darkness, but very near to it. At the same time, Lycia’s “Tainted” begins to play softly over the speakers. Spotlights situated to the side of the ramp way, all along the side turn on Blackwell and follow him as he walks slowly before getting to ringside.

 

“Currently making his way to the ring, from Adelaide, Australia, and weighing in at 228 pounds, he is ‘the Sacred One,’ Andrew Blackwell!!!!!!!”

 

Blackwell climbs into the ring slowly, steps through the ropes and silently acknowledges the crowd as he cracks his neck from side to side. “Tainted” fades off the speakers. The lights dim as Funyon announces, “and his opponent…”

 

The SmarkTron goes white with the blue words "SUPERIORITY COMPLEX" and "MAGNIFICENT SEVEN" on it. Then, with an explosion of blue pyro, Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” bursts out over the loudspeaker. Tom Flesher emerges after a moment from the cloud of smoke, striding confidently to the ring as videos of his signature moves alternate in half-second clips with the words “SUPERIOR ONE,” “AWARD-WINNING,” “MAIN ATTRACTION” and “MAGNIFICENT SEVEN.” After climbing the stairs and wiping his Doc Marten boots on the apron, Flesher enters the ring and poses in the center. He waits, head bobbing in time with the music, until the symphonic hook at 50 seconds in, which cues a machinegun-like burst of blue and white pyro from each corner. With that, the music fades, and Funyon pulls out the Index Card of Superiority.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer reads, “The man standing before you tonight is about to put another feather in his cap. He’s beaten people from North America, Europe, and Asia. Now, he plans to add Oceania to that list by taking out the poor schlub across the ring. To this man, 213 pounds of pure strength and technique, Andrew Blackwell is little more than another on the long list of wins, so show some respect to the Superior One, TOM FLESHER!!!!!!!!!”

 

The fans boo as Flesher smirks and then strips off his warm-up suit. Andrew Blackwell stands calmly across the ring until referee Matthew Kivell calls for the bell.

 

 

DING DING DING!!!!

 

 

Flesher and Blackwell slowly move to the center of the ring. Each man is tentative, knowing that this is the first time he’s stepped into the ring against the other and that his opponent is one of the best the SWF has ever had to offer. Tentatively, Flesher reaches out with his left hand, falling back into a Greco-Roman-style defensive stance. Blackwell is just as careful as he extends his right hand, setting up a knuckle lock. The two reach out and lock their opposite hands as well, finally starting to move back and forth. They jockey for position, each man trying to gain a mental edge without taking too much risk. They wrestle back and forth, with Flesher releasing Blackwell’s hand and reaching for his left arm to pull it across his torso and open up a single-leg takedown. Blackwell, however, stiffens his arm and blocks Flesher’s arm-drag. He counters by changing his grip and swinging Flesher’s arm overhead, locking on an overhead wristlock! The fans sit on their hands, not wanting to applaud a nebulous advantage early in the match and also knowing that they need to concentrate on this match. Flesher tries to break the wristlock by bringing both hands up to force them against Blackwell’s, but the Sacred One quickly releases the hold and slams a forearm into Flesher’s ribs! Flesher quickly clutches at his ribs, and this time the fans do applaud.

 

“The Sacred One catches Flesher off-guard with a forearm blow to the ribs,” says Mark Stevens. “He baited Flesher into a technical battle and took advantage of his tunnel vision. Very interesting strategy to open the match.”

 

“Okay, so Tom’s a little off his game today,” replies Riley. “That doesn’t mean Sacred’s going to win tonight.”

 

Andrew Blackwell keeps Flesher’s left arm and extends it, slamming a boot into the Superior One’s ribs just for emphasis. He holds Flesher’s arm and whips him to the ropes, but Flesher plants his feet and stops the motion. He quickly reaches back, grabbing Blackwell’s head and slapping on a side headlock! The fans immediately begin to boo, knowing Flesher’s fondness for using the hold to stall.

 

“You know,” says Riley, “I say this week in and week out. These fans don’t understand Tom Flesher. He’s the most misunderstood man in wrestling today. The fans all think he’s trying to stall for time, but you and I both know he’s using the side headlock to pressure Blackwell’s neck.”

 

“You can’t expect the fans to cheer for him just because he has a coherent ring strategy, Bobby. Flesher’s an abrasive person… he just rubs everyone the wrong way.”

 

“What, and Blackwell doesn’t? Come on, Mark, that’s hypocrisy and you know it.”

 

Flesher takes a deep breath with Andrew Blackwell cinched safely in the headlock. He tightens his grip slightly, then hips into Blackwell and executes a side-headlock takeover. He pulls Blackwell’s head off the mat and Kivell counts

 

ONE!

 

 

but no more, as Blackwell rolls through and onto his stomach. Flesher keeps the headlock, standing up slowly. He tightens the lock as he gets to his feet, but Andrew Blackwell quickly starts fighting for position. He leans forward, throwing Flesher to the ropes. Tom bounces off, stepping forward with a stiff running shotei! Blackwell ducks, though, and snags Flesher by the waist while the Superior One is off-balance. The Sacred One takes him to the mat and quickly snakes his legs around Flesher’s chest, locking on a body scissors grip! Flesher tries to escape, but Blackwell keeps the grip and pulls him to the center of the ring.

 

“The Sacred One dodges a shotei,” calls Stevens, “and immediately takes over with body scissors! That grip is really going to put more pressure on Flesher’s ribs… I think we can see Sacred’s game plan forming here.”

 

“Perhaps,” says Bobby Riley, “but maybe Blackwell, like so many others, is just grasping at straws for whatever little advantage he can find. Maybe he knows how badly Tom Flesher’s going to school him and he’s just trying to delay the inevitable.”

 

Flesher writhes in pain on the mat, trying to break the grip. Sacred fights to keep Flesher in the lock, but the Superior One slides a few feet toward the ropes. Knowing he won’t get a submission this early in the match, Sacred capitulates and only half-heartedly resists as Flesher crawls to the ropes. He sandbags, increasing the weight Flesher has to drag and also increasing the pressure on his ribs. Finally, the Superior One grabs the bottom rope, and Andrew Blackwell releases the scissors grip. He backs up to the center of the ring, assuming a more defensive stance this time and inviting Flesher to resume wrestling from an even position. Flesher tentatively moves back to the center and grabs a quick collar-and-elbow tie. Blackwell and Flesher fight back and forth, slightly worse off after the opening flurry but still in good shape.

 

“These two have each taken charge for a short time already,” says Stevens, “but Sacred’s definitely been in control longer. That might change, but the Australian is certainly no one to be taken lightly.”

 

“I’ll take him as lightly as I want to,” says Riley indignantly.

 

“You can take him as light as your loafers, Bobby. It still doesn’t change the fact that he’s one of the best ever to work his way to the top of the SWF.”

 

Flesher tightens his grip on Blackwell’s neck and snaps his head down slightly. Sacred’s head pops back up in reaction, and Flesher takes advantage of the space created by ducking under and locking on a waistlock! Before he can lift for a takedown or suplex, though, Blackwell starts a standing switch! Flesher quickly steps back to counter, but Blackwell anticipates his reaction and traps Flesher’s arm, then rolls to the side and pulls Flesher down with a Peterson roll! The fans pop at Sacred’s amateur-style counter, and he cradles Flesher for

 

 

ONE!!

 

 

 

but the Superior One kicks out. Sacred releases the cradle, and Flesher quickly reaches up and locks on a headscissors! The Sacred One winces as his opponent tightens the scissors, but Flesher shows no mercy. He rolls toward the center of the ring, keeping Blackwell as far from the ropes as possible. As Flesher continues wrenching Blackwell’s neck, Bobby Riley says, “See? Flesher took that bad situation and turned it to his advantage. The SWF’s elite have gone down to Petersons, and here Flesher’s out at one.”

 

Flesher wrenches the hold, but Andrew Blackwell shimmies a few inches closer to the ropes and hooks a boot over the bottom cable. Flesher sees the rope break and, unusually, breaks the hold immediately. Blackwell starts to stand up, but Flesher gets to his feet and then drops a quick elbow into his adversary’s chest. He pulls Blackwell to his feet and drags him to the center of the ring, then pulls him over his shoulder with a snapmare. As Blackwell lands hard on the mat, Flesher unloads a stiff kick to the back of his neck! He drops to one knee and locks on a reverse chinlock, getting some time to think while he continues pressuring the Australian’s neck.

 

Or so he thinks, anyway. Sacred takes Flesher’s hands and breaks his grip, then spins out to face Flesher. The Superior One, shooting from the hip, lunges forward and slams into Sacred with a clothesline that takes him to the mat! He backs away, knowing he won’t get the pin with a simple lariat, and when Sacred gets to his feet, Flesher meets him with a knife-edge chop to the side of the neck! The fans boo as Flesher chops Blackwell once more, guiding him into the corner, and winds up for yet another strike. He swings his right hand across his body and down toward the right side of Blackwell’s neck, but the Australian blocks the chop with his right forearm! With Flesher’s body open for a blow, Sacred quickly throws an upward forearm smash with his left arm, nailing the Superior One stiffly in the ribs! Flesher staggers backwards, and Blackwell comes out of the corner in control. He grabs Flesher by the head and turns him around with his own back to the center of the ring, then hits a snap suplex! He floats over, and Matthew Kivell counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

Flesher rolls through, though, and ends up on his stomach.

 

“What you have there, folks, is cockiness.” Mark Stevens is candid about Flesher’s tragic flaw, as always. “Tom Flesher opened himself up in bad position. You might be able to get away with that against some of the wrestlers in the SWF, but not against someone of Andrew Blackwell’s caliber. The Sacred One is all about finesse, and Flesher can’t use a meatgrinder strategy against someone like that.”

 

“See what the level of competition in the SWF is doing to Tom Flesher?” gripes Riley. “He’s up against these brainless schmucks week in and week out. His technique is suffering, even though it’s still lightyears beyond anything anyone else will crank out in this lifetime. He’s just not being allowed to shine, Mark!”

 

“If he’s got such great technique, why is Andrew Blackwell kicking his ass?”

 

Sacred stays on Flesher’s back, pinching his knees around the floating ribs and throwing a pair of elbows with surgical precision into the lower right portion of his ribcage. Tom squirms forward, loosening the grip on his ribs. Blackwell releases him, stepping back. When Flesher turns around, the Sacred One grabs him in bodyslam position and lifts him up, then drops to one knee forcefully and cracks into Flesher’s torso with a rib-breaker! Flesher curls up, trying in vain to ease the pain in his chest. Sacred drops onto him, however, and forcibly straightens him out with a lateral press.

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!

 

 

 

Flesher kicks out, though! He sits up, trying to get out of the pinning predicament. Sacred stays next to him and drives a knee into his ribs, hammering the tender bone structure. Flesher cringes and grabs at his chest again, and once again, Sacred throws him to the mat and covers him! Matthew Kivell counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

but Flesher kicks out once more. He rolls to his stomach this time, trying to scoot across the mat to get away from his opponent. Andrew Blackwell stays on him, though. He covers Flesher and puts pressure on him, keeping him in place. As Flesher tries to escape, Blackwell reaches around under his waist to lock his hands for a gutwrench suplex. Flesher, knowing the counter, curls his body around Blackwell’s near leg. Andrew continues trying to lift him, but Flesher keeps his body in the sandbagged position. When the Sacred One releases some of the pressure, Flesher arches his back upward and snakes out of the hold, getting safely to his feet. He slides to the side, then quickly attacks with a single-leg takedown! Blackwell feels Flesher’s position, however, and sees the move coming. He swings his leg out of the way and sprawls backwards, extending Flesher’s body. He locks on a front facelock, then gets to his feet and pauses to tighten the lock as the fans cheer!

 

“This early in the match, Andrew Blackwell is going for the Cruel Fate! This could be the greatest quick victory in the SWF’s history!” says Mark Stevens.

 

“You’re forgetting about the time that CIA pinned Stryke and Mercury in thirty seconds on pay-per-view, Mark.”

 

“There was nothing great about that.”

 

“Sure there was!” says Bobby enthusiastically. He pauses a second, then mutters, “God damn Mercury! I hope that earless bastard rots in hell!”

 

Andrew Blackwell pauses just a moment too long, however, and Tom Flesher takes the opportunity to twist to the side and control the left arm that Sacred uses to control his shoulder. With the arm in the crook of his shoulder, Flesher adeptly shrugs it forward and falls to the mat in a crippler crossface! The fans boo loudly, but at least one person in the arena appreciates it.

 

“That was incredible!” says Bobby Riley. “He must have been researching that counter for weeks! He took the most dangerous move in Andrew Blackwell’s arsenal and turned it into a crossface! Just amazing, I tell ya!”

 

“It was indeed a very technical counter,” agrees Mark Stevens, “but a better wrestler simply wouldn’t have let Blackwell hook him into the front facelock.”

 

“Why do you always have to rain on my parade, Mark? Why?”

 

Flesher continues cranking the crossface, pressuring the Sacred One’s neck and shoulder. Sacred tries to fight his way out, but Flesher continues using his upper body strength and leverage to keep the Australian on the mat. Sacred continues fighting, trying to withdraw his left arm from Flesher’s scissors grip. Flesher tries to tighten his lock on the arm, giving Andrew Blackwell the opening he needs to free his head. He spins around, easing the pressure on his shoulder. Flesher, cutting his losses, releases the scissors and stands up in a pure Greco stance. Blackwell takes a moment to instinctively check on his sore joints, and then stands up. As soon as he gets to his feet, Flesher grabs him by the neck and locks up a pumphandle by pulling his opponent’s still-sore arm through his thighs. Then, with a lightning-fast back arch, the Superior One dumps Blackwell stiffly on his head with a pumphandle T-Bone suplex!

 

“LOGICAL DISCONNECT!” shouts Riley. “Now THAT’S how a real wrestler plays his cards!”

 

“Tom Flesher goes straight from a crossface into the Logical Disconnect, and it was certainly a synergistic combination,” agrees Stevens.

 

Blackwell collapses in a heap and Flesher floats over onto him, covering for

 

 

 

ONE!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH- KICKOUT!!!!! Blackwell gets a shoulder up, and Flesher scowls at the official.

 

“That was a slow count!” shouts Bobby Riley. “SLOW COUNT! GET THAT KIVELL SCHMUCK OUT OF HERE!”

 

“Bobby, one move isn’t going to put a man like Sacred down for the count. And really, Flesher hasn’t gotten that much offense in. It’s practically his first big move.”

 

“Oh, you’re just biased.”

 

“Says the pot to the kettle.”

 

“What does Stubby have to do with this?”

 

Flesher, knowing that he has to keep the pressure on in order to stay in control against one of the top workers in the SWF, lifts Andrew Blackwell to his feet and whips him to the ropes. Blackwell bounces off, and Flesher charges at him. A second later, Blackwell crashes to the mat as Flesher nails him with an absolutely sickening Yakuza kick! Flesher drops down onto him, and Kivell counts

 

 

 

ONE!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THR- NO!!!!!! Blackwell gets a shoulder up! Flesher glares as the crowd cheers for Blackwell’s endurance. Flesher continues pressuring his opponent, lifting him up and then sending him straight back to the mat with a short-arm palm strike! He goes for another cover, but changes his mind and instead lifts Blackwell straight into an Irish whip to the corner. He follows Blackwell into the corner and a second after he hits, Flesher leaps into the air and slams into Blackwell with a running avalanche!

 

“This is exactly what Tom needs to be doing right now,” says Riley. “He’s got a high-potency, high-impact offense. Andrew Blackwell’s getting lucky on him and catching him when he’s working straight technique, but Flesher’s keeping him on the ropes and tiring him out.”

 

“So, he’s using the meatgrinder offense that you just said he needs to stay away from.”

 

“Tom works in mysterious ways, Mark.”

 

“Still, it does look like a sound strategy,” says Stevens. “Blackwell can’t fight back if Flesher is continually battering him.”

 

“Of course not. And Flesher’s certainly got the stamina to keep going.”

 

Flesher pulls the Sacred One out of the corner and whips him to the ropes. He takes a charging step forward and aims a Yakuza kick for the killing blow, but Blackwell ducks under his foot. He hits the opposite side of the ropes for momentum, and as Flesher turns around, Blackwell lunges at him and nails him in the ribs with a spear! Flesher falls backwards about three feet, and the still-stunned Sacred climbs onto him for a cover! Kivell counts

 

 

 

 

ONE!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THR- NO!!!!!!!!!! Flesher gets a shoulder up and tries to stand up, but instead grabs at his ribs and takes a shallow breath. Blackwell takes the extra second to shake off the cobwebs, watching Flesher and measuring him up for his next move. Flesher rolls painfully to his stomach, clutching at his ribs. Blackwell stands up, grabbing him in a waistlock. Flesher tries to wriggle his way out of the hold, but can’t defend himself as the Australian technician levers him to his feet. A split second later, Blackwell has Flesher in the air. He arches his back with a snap, and with Flesher still in the air, unlocks his hands! The relatively tiny Flesher flies a few feet through the air before his 213 pounds crash to the mat with a THUD! With the wind knocked out of him, Tom Flesher is unable to defend himself as Andrew Blackwell drops onto him for a cover! Instead, all he can do is roll to the side of the ring and rest on the concrete.

 

“Smart move,” says Bobby Riley as the fans in the Savvis Center absolutely shower Flesher with boos. “Tom Flesher knows that right now he won’t be fighting to his full potential. The only intelligent thing to do is to bail and grab a breather.”

 

“It’s also a damn cowardly thing to do,” replies Stevens flatly. “If you can’t continue in the match, you need to do the honorable thing and let the other man pin your shoulders to the mat. There’s no pride in running away from a fight every time you start to lose.”

 

“Maybe not, but the SWF doesn’t run on pride. It runs on Ws and Ls, Marky Mark, and Tom Flesher’s got more Ws than just about anyone else. He’s a smart wrestler, and you can’t beat that.”

 

“Thoth could.”

 

“Oh, you’re just splitting hairs.”

 

After resting for a moment with Andrew Blackwell watching from the ring, Flesher slides back in under the bottom rope. Blackwell immediately descends on him, booting him stiffly in the ribs. Flesher crawls away, trying to get back to his feet without taking any further abuse. Blackwell follows him over, though, and drops onto his back in a seated position. Once again, he pinches his legs around Flesher’s ribs. This time, though, he starts pushing Flesher’s head down. As Tom rolls over, Blackwell locks on a scissors grip and executes a modified Gedo Clutch! Kivell counts

 

 

ONE!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

NO! Flesher gets his shoulder up while Kivell’s hand is just an eyelash from hitting the mat! Blackwell keeps the scissors grip and rolls to the side, putting even more pressure on Flesher’s ribs while disorienting him further. As he continues rolling, Flesher reaches up and grabs the middle rope to stop the motion. Blackwell tries to keep rolling, but Flesher holds on. Despite the torque on his ribs, Flesher holds on and forces Blackwell to break the hold. Blackwell gets to one knee as the dizzy and sore Flesher stands up. When Flesher turns around, the Sacred One hooks his leg, grabs him in a fireman’s carry and executes a picture-perfect Kido Clutch! Before Flesher even knows what hit him, Blackwell has him cradled on his back! Matthew Kivell counts

 

 

ONE!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

He starts to call for the bell, but stops himself as he sees Flesher grasping desperately at the bottom rope! Tom holds on for dear life, and the crowd boos disappointedly as the downcast Blackwell releases the hold. He gets to his feet, intent on finishing the match now.

 

“Tom Flesher got lucky there,” says Mark Stevens. “If Blackwell had just taken a few steps toward the center before going for the Kido Clutch, Flesher would have been done for. Tom’s been taking a beating this match, and I don’t expect it to continue much longer.”

 

“If Blackwell had taken a few steps toward the center, Flesher wouldn’t have gotten near him. He’s smarter than that, Mark. Admit it.”

 

Flesher stays leaning on the ropes as he turns around to face the center. Like a bolt of lightning, Andrew Blackwell runs at him, floating toward him and grabbing at his neck for an RKO! Flesher does the only thing he can do – he reaches backwards over the top rope and holds on to the middle strand! As the Sacred One crashes to the mat, he slips off Flesher’s neck and lands hard! Flesher, meanwhile, stays standing comfortably! The fans boo loudly at the passive counter, and even louder as Flesher drops onto Blackwell for

 

 

ONE!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

NO!!!!!!!!!! Blackwell kicks out! He still seems stunned, though, and Flesher takes a second to quickly stretch his arms over his head to loosen the muscles in his ribcage. Then, he reaches down and grabs Sacred in a front facelock! Tom starts to lift Sacred up for a brainbuster… but quickly releases him and grabs his own ribs painfully! The crowd applauds as Sacred stands up, lifting Flesher into the air and twisting him around in a tilt-a-whirl! He finishes the throw by dropping to one knee and spiking Flesher’s ribcage hard against his thighbone! The crowd lets out a loud “OOOOOOOOOH!” as Flesher falls to the mat, convulsing and holding his ribs! As Stevens shouts, “This could be it!” Andrew Blackwell covers him for

 

 

 

ONE!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

NO!!!!!!!! As the crowd boos, Flesher gets a shoulder barely an inch off the mat at the last second! As a small smile crosses Andrew Blackwell’s face, he stands up, and then grabs Flesher by the head. The crowd realizes what he’s doing, and as they applaud and rise to their feet, he locks Flesher in a front chancery.

 

“YES!” shouts Mark Stevens. “He couldn’t capitalize on it earlier tonight, but Andrew Blackwell is going to finish this one with the Cruel Fate regardless!”

 

“Jesus, you’re optimistic,” says Riley.

 

“Well, what do YOU expect Flesher to do about it?”

 

As the Sacred One starts his kicking motion, Flesher pulls violently back! It tightens the hold on his neck and shoulder, but stops Blackwell in his tracks! Blackwell pauses to readjust the chancery, and Flesher quickly dives through Blackwell’s arm and shoulder, ending up behind him! He controls the shoulder, locking on a half nelson and prompting a chorus of boos from the crowd! Blackwell tries to escape the set-up, but Flesher cranks the half nelson as hard as he can and then very, very quickly sweeps the Sacred One’s legs out from under him! Blackwell crashes face-first into the mat and nearly bounces back from the impact!

 

“JOKERS WILD!” screams Bobby Riley. “JOKERS WILD!!!!!!!!! FLESHER HITS THE JOKERS WILD!!!!!” He seems ready to have an aneurysm as Tom Flesher covers Andrew Blackwell.

 

 

 

 

ONE!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

DING DING DING!!!!!!!!

 

 

Tom Flesher, exhausted, rolls off of Blackwell’s body. Blackwell, too out of it to react, just lays on the mat as Matthew Kivell raises Flesher’s arm.

 

“Your winner,” announces Funyon, “The Superior One, TOM FLESHER!!!!!!!!”

 

“I tell ya, that kid impresses me more every week!” says Bobby. “Whenever it seems like he’s down, he always comes back and wins it.”

 

“More importantly, he may have gotten a mental advantage over Frost by beating Andrew Blackwell.”

 

“Jesus, can you imagine what would happen if Flesher hit the Jokers Wild through the pane of glass? Frost would be cut to ribbons!”

 

“Well, we might just find out what would happen in ten short days at Ground Zero!” shills Stevens as Flesher makes his way to the back. “And we’ll be back after this!”

[Guest Grand Slam]

After the spectacular Blackwell/Flesher confrontation, the camera is backstage, once AGAIN in front of the very same locker room. Finally, out steps Quiz, flashing his million dollar smile. He peeks back into the locker room, whispers something, and then faces the camera.

 

“Out of one hundred people surveyed, all one hundred agreed that this team would be the ones to beat the Unholy Trinity tonight on SWF Lockdown!”

 

Then, out of the door barges Charlie Matthews…or is it?! Decked out in black dress pants, a purple dress shirt, and a “Show” nametag, he yells out, “DOUBLE JEOPARDY!”

 

“You are correct, Show!”

 

And with that, the newly christened Double Jeopardy walk out of camera view, towards the ring for their match.

[Guest Grand Slam]

A hidden voice pleasantly blares into the arena as the crowd sits around recovering from the last exciting match, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Please rise for the singing of OUR National Anthem…”

 

Mark Stevens is the first to speak up as the crowd sort of rises with confused looks on their faces. “Fans, this is really unusual. We don’t normally have the National Anthem play during the show… and we don’t normally play it twice either.”

 

“Oh, but can you really have too much patriotism?” adds Bobby Riley. “According to recent polls of current United States Presidents who need the increase in their popularity, no.”

 

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the peirlious fight,

O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallently streaming?

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.

O say, does that star spangled banner yet wave,

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

 

“Good lord NO!” groans Mark Stevens the moment he realizes just why the Star Spangled Banner was just playing.

 

Stepping out through the curtains and making his way down the aisle is none other than the reigning Smarks Wrestling Federation United States Heavyweight Champion Ejiro Fasaki. Wearing the belt proudly around his waist, Ejiro smiles to all the people that are standing around the entire arena. Immediately taking their seats once again and placing back on their baseball caps, the Missouri faithful mutter to each other as Fasaki slides underneath the bottom rope with a microphone in hand.

 

“God BLESS America,” smiles Rule as the crowd starts to rapidly turn from almost embarrassment to a tinge of mild rage at these patriotic shenanigans.

 

“This is the most phony thing I have ever seen,” interjects Stevens.

 

“Oh come on,” answers Riley, “He’s as American as apple pie and dare I say baseball?”

 

“… Bastard.”

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” continues Ejiro Fasaki, “allow me to welcome you all tonight to the great state of … wait. Wait. What state are we in again?”

 

“FUCK YOU FASAKI! FUCK YOU FASAKI! FUCK YOU FASAKI!”

 

“Well, it doesn’t matter really what state we’re in, because I’m the champion of ALL the contiguous United States. And I am pleased to announce that as of tonight I am also taking up the flag of mighty GUAM as well. So all you Guam… whatever you call a person from Guam, I want you all to sleep tight right now and remember that your United States champion, Ejiro Fasaki is right here looking out for you!”

 

Taking a breath, Fasaki walks about the ring looking out to the people and smiling broadly as a champion should as the people just continue to lay into Rule with all the venom they can spare. Quickly the smile on Fasaki’s face fades away as he stamps from one side of the ring to the other, trying to stare down the entire patronage of the SWF tonight.

 

“How can you people boo me? How? I’m like a war hero!”

 

Mark speaks up again, “Fans, let me tell you… Ejiro Fasaki is not a war hero.”

 

“He didn’t say he was one,” interrupts Riley. “He said he was like one. Keep the story strait, Grand Slam.”

 

Fasaki continues, “I represent all of you and the people of Guam with all my heart and all my soul! Didn’t I just defeat some Australian just last week? Did you really want the Croc Hunter being your champion? Crikey! I didn’t think so.”

 

Ejiro just keeps on talking, “But regardless… I didn’t come out here tonight to talk about the good old US of A. I didn’t come out here to talk about Sacred. And I didn’t come out here to talk about cheese and you’ll notice that this entire conversation has been ENTIRELY dairy-free. I came out here tonight to talk to you all about your NUUUUU SWF Hardcore Gamers Champion… my protégé, my pupil, the Connor McCloud to my Sean Connery, Wildchild.”

 

“Oh again with this?” interjects Stevens; “there’s never been any proof that Wildchild and Ejiro actually have anything to do with each other. Then only thing I know is certain is that those two hate each other with a passion.”

 

“You see fans, in just two weeks of my instruction,” continues Fasaki, “I have taken the incredibly skilled Bahamas Bomber and made him into a devastating force of nature. A human hurricane if I could coin a marketable moniker that would be entirely profitable in T-shirt form. He has taken it to the next level, Hardcore style.”

 

Riley happily adds, “You can’t deny that, Stevens.”

 

“I will not deny that Wildchild has been impressive in recent weeks, but we don’t know that it is due to anything Ejiro Fasaki has done.”

 

Fasaki continues, “But you see Wildchild, I’m simply not satisfied with you being Hardcore Gamers Champion. And it is not because I am not proud of you. I am very, very proud of you. But because I think you can be oh so much more, I feel it is my job to drive you forward to bigger and better heights. And the only way to do that is add just a little bit to your already incredible attributes. You have the talent. You have the ferocity. Now all you need is a little bit of focus. The focus to take a person apart piece by piece. And there is no better person, no better place than me to show you just that at Ground Zero. Beyond titles, beyond wins and losses, this is about making you the machine you can be. The machine to take wrestling and makes it his world. All you need to do, Wildchild is listen to me, watch me, and FIGHT me, because you’re going to need every little piece of the puzzle to BEAT me. And then… if you can… you can BE me.”

 

“FUCK YOU FASAKI! FUCK YOU FASAKI! FUCK YOU FASAKI!”

 

"So at SWF Ground Zero, you are going to have to go through a little test. If you pass... my job is done. If you fail, you're going to have to go right back to class but this time, with me standing right there beside you as I personally train you in the ways of magnificent success. And less you think that somehow, you're going to start bringing your new best metal friend to the ring, let me assure you that it will not happen. Because it will be you and me... inside the SWF's steel cage! Because, god damn it, I want you to be better than me... and I want you to PROVE IT!"

 

"What a challenge laid out for Ground Zero!" says Grand Slam as Fasaki walks out of the ring. "Add that to an already outstanding line up and you've got a must buy for every wrestling fan in the world. Get ready fans, more SWF action is on its way!"

[Guest Grand Slam]

Fade In

***

 

We see the camera focusing on the image of Ben Hardy standing outside a dressing room door, as he knocks nervously on it.

 

Ben: Dace, are you in there? I'd like to get a word about your upcoming tag match tonight!

 

There's no answer, so Hardy smiles nervously at the camera and tries again.

 

Ben: Can I get a word please? What do you think about this new guy Show that you'll be facing?

 

As he knocks, the locker room door swings open slowly. Poking his head around the door, Hardy finds it isn't immediately knocked off his shoulders so he ventures around the corner into the main area of Dace's locker room.

 

Ben: Hello, is anyone here?

 

As the camera rounds the corner, we see Ben Hardy starting slack jawed at the scene before him, the purple hair Kayin is on the soafer in the middle of the locker room, with another stunning brown haired girl, engaging in some friendly mouth to mouth.

 

Ben: Errmmm, eeerrrr, uummm ... I'll come back later then... sorry!

 

He tries to leave skid marks racing for the door, but Kayin unfolds herself from the embrace and wraps an arm around him with a sly smile.

 

Kayin: Well hello there Ben, Dacey is just in the shower, he'll be out in a minute, why don't you come sit down and wait for him?

 

Hardy just opens and shuts his mouth slowly like a goldfish, trying to think of something to say as Kayin leads him over the soafer and sits him down.

 

Kayin: This is Daizie, she's the better half of The Extreme Solution from down in the JL, she's come up to see me for a bit.

 

Daizie: Well hello there Ben, I've heard soooo much about you....

 

Ben: Errmmm, uummmmm....

 

The girls teasing run fingers around his colour as Hardy sits perfectly still and unmoving, looking worried that touching either of them might mean the loss of his head or worse things.

 

Across the room there's the sound of a door swinging shut, as Dace walks out in black shorts with a towel across his shoulders.

 

Dace: Ahh, Ben you got them warmed up for me, good man!

 

Ben Hardy just nods slowly as Dace opens a small fridge and chugs down a bottle of water. Turning to the camera, he flashes a smile from under his scars as Daizie and Kayin lean across and start kissing again infront of the dumb struck Ben Hardy. They make thinks worse by swinging their legs around hiss.

 

Dace: Girls, put him down you'll break him.

 

Daizie: Aww, you spoil sort Dace.

 

Dace: Now now Daizie, Clarkey wouldn't be to happy if you went and gave poor Ben a heart attack now.

 

Reaching down, Dace extracts Hardy from the tangle of female limbs.

 

Dace: Relax Hardy, if I was gonna hurt you for that, you'd be bleeding already.

 

Ben: Thank you... I think. Now, Dace, I wanted to ask you about this tag match you've got tonight.

 

Dace: Yes, yes. Well Quiz and Show look like a right pair of clowns. I really hope their skills aren't on the same level. Their up against the Tag Team Champions, that means they'll be lucky to come out alive.

 

Ben: Do you have any real words for them?

 

Dace: Fear the Decapitator!

 

Ben: Anything beyond shameless plugging?

 

Eyeing him long and hard Dace grins before replying

 

Dace: I'd really love to talk more about it, but I've got the girls to entertain, and I have to make sure me and Clarkey don't end up single when our girls run off together, ok.

 

Ushering Hardy and the camera to the door, Dace turns back to the girls, as the fading words are heard through the door.

 

Daizie: I don't know what you where on about with entertain, you'd got a match to get ready for. But I'm sure me and Kayin can look after ourselves while you're busy, can't we baby ....

 

***

Fade Out

[Guest Grand Slam]

Stevens: Welcome back to this SWF Lockdown boardcast, we're ready for yet another interesting tag team match.

 

Riley: As much as I'm loving Quiz's style and gimmick, I've really gotta think, who is he going to bring down to the ring with him as his tag team partner? Who best to beat up on Dace and Va'aiga, and show that their not worthy of being Tag Team Champs.

 

Stevens: We'll find but, Va'aiga and Dace are the Tag Team Champions for a reason, but this match could be a make or break, as every match could be.

 

Riley: I see they don't have the balls to put the titles on the line.

 

Stevens: I understand it was a bookers view that an unknown and unproven tag team didn't have the right to challenge for the Tag Titles.

 

Riley: Bleh.

 

Funyon steps into the ring, wearing shiner than usual style gear, with more sparkly bits than ever.

 

Funyon: The following None Title Contest will be a Tag Team Match for One Fall!

 

RRRAAHHHH!

 

Funyon: Introducing firstly, with a combined weight of five hundred and thirty seven pounds ... Representing the UNHOLY TRINITY ... THE SWF TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS ... VA'AIGA AND DACE NIGHT!

 

Smoke curls up from the entrance way in a cloud, as mesh of red laser light forms, as the strains of distortion are heard in the background as the music kicks in.

 

"LET FREEDOM RING WITH A SHOTGUN BLAST!"

 

As the ramp is light up by a blast of pyro, the red strobe lights start as Va'aiga and Dace Night step out of the entrance way. Striding through the laser mesh, the make their way down the ramp, tagging hands with their fans on the way down.

 

Sliding into the ring, they throw their fists and titles in the, to the roaring fans, before circling around the ring, surveying the crowd, before handing over their Tag Title Belts. Both men wear "Fear The Decapitator" t shirts.

 

TRIN-ITY! TRIN-ITY! TRIN-ITY! TRIN-ITY!

 

Funyon: And their opponents ....

 

But Funyon is cut off as a voice blares over the loudspeaker system.

 

Rod Roddy: Quiz! Show! Come on down!

 

On the Smarktron screen, the barely covered figure of Vicky Black rolls back the Wheel of Fortune letters to reveal the words "Double Jeopardy" as Come on Down by Crystal Waters kicks in. A pair of sliding doors in the entrance way.

 

BBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

Quiz raises the mic in his hand.

 

Quiz: Welcome to the show, and tonight, we have to quests on the show today, they are Dace Night and Va'aiga. Now Show, the answer is, this is what the people here tonight are gonna see.

 

Dace: The answer is, you two getting counted out! Eddy, count these pussies out unless they get in the ring. I'm not taking this shit!

 

YYYYYYYYAAAAAAHHHHH!

 

Stevens: Horrorcore taking exception to the antics of this team of Double Jeopardy.

 

Riley: Bah, the fool has no taste. He can see the true style that this pair has. The Trinity are going to regret not letting this great entrance going all the way through.

 

The pissed off pair of Quiz and Show stride down the ramp, removing flashy shirts a like. Stepping onto the apron, they climb into the ring, staring down Va'aiga and Night as the move across the ring. Eddy Long signals for the bell to start the match.

 

DING, DING, DING!

 

Stevens: Finally, we're off!

 

Show and Dace start off the match, circling each other in the middle of the ring. Dace eyes up the life sized Chevy Chase before diving forwards at him into a collar and elbow tie up. The sparkle covered Show presses his weight down onto the smaller Dace Night.

 

Throwing his weight upwards, Dace breaks the tie up, and grabbing onto Show's arm, whipping him off towards the ropes. Show bounce off the ropes, and barrels back towards Night, as the Tag Champ spreads his arms, but Show throws his Elbow Forwards into Night's face.

 

Riley: Password Plus! What a Running Elbow!

 

Stevens: How do you know what his moves are called Bobby? Anyway, it looks like that Elbow didn't move Dace an inch.

 

Unmoved by the blow, Dace swings his arm around and nails his Elbow into the side of Show's face.

 

CRACK!

 

Stevens: Now there's an Elbow!

 

Following the Elbow Smash up with a knee to the gut, Dace doubles Show over before slapping on a Front Facelock and taking him over to the mat with a quick Snap Suplex. Rolling over, still keeping the Front Facelock clamped on, Dace drops back, spiking Show with a DDT.

 

Grabbing the leg, Dace presses down for the cover as Eddy Long slides in along side to make the count.

 

......ONE!

 

Kickout!

 

OOOOOHHHHH!

 

As Show rises back to his feet, Dace grabs him by the back of his head and slams him head first into the turnbuckle in his own corner, before reaching out and tagging in the Maori Badass. Va'aiga clambers through the drops, and the Tag Champs rain down Right Hands onto Show as they back him out of the corner.

 

Shooting the sparkle covered gamer across the ring, Va'aiga catches him on the way back, throwing him up over head and slamming him down to the mat with a Flapjack. Pulling the Chevy Chase look alike to his feet, Va'aiga twists his arm and bars it under his own arm.

 

Swinging around, he locks his leg over Show's hips and sits back into an Abdominal Stretch.

 

YYYYAAAAAAHHHHH!

 

Fighting back, Show throws his free arm backwards wildly, he sends it into the Maori's ribs. Feeling the hold loosen as his blow connects, he follows it up with another and another, finally breaking the hold. Twisting around, he snaps his arms shut around Va'aiga waist and lunches his body backwards, slamming the Maori Badass into the mat with a Backdrop Suplex.

 

BBBBBOOOOOOOOO!

 

Riley: Bbaaccckkkddrrrooopppaahhhh! As you would say Mark. There's Show taking control right now, and Double Jeopardy are going to show what they're made of.

 

Rolling back onto his feet, Show dashes across the ring into his corner, tagging in his partner Quiz. As Quiz springboards to the top rope, Show turns around, right into a huge Lariat from Va'aiga, which flattens him to the mat.

 

Just then Quiz dives from the top rope and ploughs into the Tag Team Champ with a Crossbody, taking him down to the mat as well.

 

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

Stevens: Show makes the tag, only to get Lariated out of his boots, then Quiz comes into play with that Springboard Crossbody from the top rope.

 

Riley: I told you, I told you!

 

Quiz starts to pull the big Maori to his feet, and as he does, slaps him right across the face.

 

SLAP! BBBBBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

Wrapping his arms around Va'aiga's head, Quiz clinches on a Front Facelock, looking for a DDT, but the Maori breaks into true Rugby spirit, digging his heels into the canvas and launching his whole body forwards in wild drives towards his corner.

 

YYYYAAAAAAHHHHH!

 

Crushing Quiz between his two hundred eighty five pound body and the turnbuckles, Va'aiga quickly reaches over and tags Dace Night back in. Horrorcore steps into the ring, as the Unholy Trinity members haul Quiz out of the corner and drive a pair of boots into his gut.

 

Va'aiga loops an arm around the Game Show Player's neck and hooks his leg and Dace snaps on a Facelock. Dace falls back as Va'aiga dives forwards, planting Quiz into the mat with a Reverse Maori Leg Sweep and DDT combo.

 

RRRRRAAAAAHHHHH!

 

Stevens: There's the Unholy Trinity right back in control. These guys aren't the Tag Team Champs for nothing.

 

Riley: Yer, they're the Tag Champs because they cheated.

 

Flipping Quiz over on the mat, Night drops across him, hooking the leg for the cover as Referee long slides into place to count the fall.

 

......ONE!

 

 

......TWO!

 

 

 

......1/4!

 

NO!

 

OOOOOOHHHHHHHHH!

 

Breaking out of his cover, Show dives across the ring and dives his fists into Night's back to break up the cover. Rather than returning to his corner, Show gets in the refs face and starts a shouting contest with him, as Dace drags Quiz to his feet.

 

Looking at the yelling between the ref and his partner, Quiz lashes his foot out and plants it firmly into Dace's groin.

 

BBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

Stevens: Low Blow! Show has the ref distracted and Quiz takes full advantage.

 

Riley: Nothing wrong with that, shows he's got good sense. These guys have the makings of a truly great tag team.

 

Stevens: A great heel tag team you mean. But Va'aiga and Dace can over come this.

 

With Horrorcore doubled over in pain. Quiz grabs his head and bouncing up from the mat, does a Front Somersault, pulling Dace over backs and lands on the mat, as his neck meets Quiz's shoulder in a Neckbreaker. As he does Show finally trudges back into his corner after threats from Long.

 

Stevens: Flipping Neckbreaker, great athletic skill from Quiz. Do you have a fancy name for that one Bobby?

 

Riley: Yep, it's the Lightning Round. And it's also gonna be a lightning end to this tag match.

 

Stevens: Are you just making these names up on spot?

 

Keeping his grip on Dace's neck, Quiz quickly rushes back to his feet, and with a sharp turn, pulls Dace back into a Facelock and spikes him down to the mat with a DDT. Bouncing back to his feet again, Quiz launches his body through the air and crashes down across Night's chest with a Standing Somersault Senton.

 

Kipping straight back onto his feet, the Game Show Man flips backwards with a Standing Moonsault, dropping across Dace for the pin.

 

RRRRAAAAAHHHHH!

 

......ONE!

 

 

......TWO!

 

 

 

......1/4!

 

 

 

......1/2!

 

Kickout!

 

YYYYYYYAAAAAAHHHHHH!

 

Stevens: I have to hand it to Quiz, he's got a lot of speed and skill, but can he use that to get the win?

 

Riley: Of course he can. You think I'd back the losing team?

 

Forcing himself back to his feet, Dace looks around for Quiz, but Quiz darts around from behind him and snaps on another Front Facelock, but Dace fights back, wrapping his arms firmly around the Game Show Player's waist, looking for a Northern Lights Suplex.

 

Swinging his knee up, Quiz slams it into Night's mid section, then brings his elbow over head and down into his back. With Dace's grip broken, Quiz changes gears, leaping onto his shoulders and rolls backwards, taking him over with a Hurricanrana.

 

BBBBBOOOOOOOOO!

 

Rather than holding on for the cover, Quiz releases his legs from around Dace's head and continues the backwards roll straight into his corner, and makes a tag out to Show. Stepping through the ropes into the ring, Show carries on where Quiz left on.

 

Brining his huge arms over head, he drives them time and time again into Horrorcore's back with huge clubbing blows as Va'aiga can only watch on from across the ring and cheer his partner on.

 

LET'S GO DACE! LET'S GO DACE! LET'S GO DACE!

 

Stevens: Va'aiga leading the crowd on to rally behind his partner, but the big man Quiz is just man handling him into a big Vertical Suplex right now.

 

Riley: I'm loving this team, I really am. They're better than a Friday at McGaydons.

 

Leaving Dace suspended upside down in the air for many long seconds before falling backwards, Show drives him into mat.

 

OOOOOHHHHHHHH!

 

Dace clutches it his head as all the blood rushes back out of it from the impact. Not giving him any time to recover, Show hauls his straight back to his feet, wraps one arm across his throat and sweeps his leg, driving Dace back to the mat with an STO, very close to the Double Jeopardy corner.

 

Stevens: Double Jeopardy are really working on isolating Dace Night and wearing him down.

 

Riley: And Show just gave Dace a Lovely Parting Gift. Poor Tag Champs, things aren't looking to good for them.

 

Once more Show tags out to Quiz, with Dace laid out on the mat, as Quiz climbs the top rope. Diving off the top with a somersault, Quiz looks to land a Swanton Bomb, but Dace just sits on, and Quiz crashes back first into mat, as Dace drops back down across him.

 

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

 

Riley: American Idol Bomb! No, you're not allowed to do that Dace!

 

Stevens: Horrorcore just sat up like zombie and Quiz eats the hard ring canvas!

 

Long dives into place to count the rapid cover.

 

......ONE!

 

NO!

 

BBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOO!

 

But it's so close to the corner, and Show barely has to step through the ropes to boot Night square in the head and break up the cover.

 

Riley: There's Show like a good partner, making the save. You don't see Va'aiga doing that for Dace.

 

Pulling himself back up, Quiz shakes out his back, before helping Night back to his feet by slapping him in the face.

 

SLAP! BBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

SLAP! BBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

SLAP! BBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

Whipping the Tag Champ out across the ring into the ropes, Quiz waits for him and sends his foot surging forwards, smashing into Dace's jaw as he comes flying back, dropping him to the mat with the Superkick.

 

Stevens: Quiz really not endearing himself to these fans as he drops Dace with that Superkick. Does that have a name as well Riley?

 

Riley: Not that I can see here, but I will check about it later.

 

Running towards the ropes, Quiz leaps to the top rope and springs over backwards with a Moonsault, sending his whole body weight across Night's chest.

 

Stevens: Springboard Moonsault from Quiz. He's keeping Dace down, and keeping on the move, using that clear speed advantage that he has.

 

Riley: That's the Wink Martindale Moonsault Mark.

 

Stevens: Why am I not surprised.

 

Riley: Because dissipate being slow and pig headed, you can learn a thing or two from me.

 

Hooking the leg, the Game Show Man makes the cover.

 

......ONE!

 

 

......TWO!

 

 

NO!

 

Now it's Va'aiga turn to dive from his corner and slam into Quiz to break up the cover on his partner.

 

Stevens: There's Va'aiga making the save for his partner!

 

Riley: Did he just flip Quiz off? Long, do your job and DQ him for that! You can't go around treating hot new talent like that!

 

With a new burst of energy from his partner making the save, Dace comes it swinging, trying to Lariat Quiz's head off his shoulders, but Quiz ducks, and reaching backwards, hooks his arms and pulls Horrorcore forwards with a Backslide, but Dace rolls through back to his feet and makes another charge and Quiz but with time Quiz drops to the mat and takes him down with a Drop Toe Hold.

 

AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

 

Breaking away from Dace, Quiz tags in his larger partner Show to work over the Tag Champ. Show makes his way towards the downed Dace Night. Dragging him to his feet, Show wraps his arms around his ribs, locking them tight in a Bearhug.

 

Digging into the mat, Show doubles up his grip, even as Dace starts to struggle to fight out. The crowd looks at the sudden change in pass of the action and sparks into life.

 

BBBOORRIIIINNNGG! BBBOOOORRRNIIINNNG!

 

Across the ring, the Maori Badass starts to beat his hand on the turnbuckles, breaking the boring chants and starting up a beat from the crowd.

 

STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!

 

Stevens: Looks like the crowd really don't like that Bearhug Riley. Too bad for Show, as Va'aiga tries to build up and crowd, willing Dace on to escape the hold.

 

Riley: The crowd may not like it, but that doesn't improve Dace's chances of getting out of the hold before he has to tap.

 

Dace flails around trying desperately to break the hold as the crowd wills him on, but Show locks the bearhug in TIGHT, preventing the Horrorcore One from fighting his way loose. On the Apron the Maori Badass is bouncing, trying desperately to will Dace out of the hold until finally, sick to the back teeth of the bearhug, Va'aiga VAULTS over the top rope and blasts a huge running tackle, taking out the legs of Show. Both Show and Dace Night crumple to the mat in a heap, and while Eddy Long ushers Va'aiga out of the ring Quiz leaps over the top rope and slaps his own hand, giving the sound of a legitimate tag. Quiz rolls Show over to his own corner and takes over with some stomps on Dace.

 

Riley: More solid double teaming from Double Jeopardy. This team is SUCH a tight unit, Stevens.

 

Stevens: That was some VERY blatant cheating there. I'm not surprised you approve Riley.

 

Riley: It's not cheating if the referee doesn't see it.

 

Quiz waits for Dace to get to his feet before whipping the big Brummie into the ropes, and as Mr. Horrorcore rebounds back towards the middle of the ring, Quiz snaps off a quick huracanrana, grabbing Dace's legs to hold for a pin...

 

 

......ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

......TWO!

 

 

 

 

......1/4!

 

 

 

 

 

 

......1/2!

 

 

 

 

 

 

......3/4!

 

 

 

.....TH and Dace kicks out. Quiz looks over at Show who's recovered in the corner again and Show gives a MASSIVE thumbs up for the rana. Vicky Black tries in vain to lead the crowd in a round of applause.

 

YYYYYYYAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

 

Stevens: It seems that Quiz's teammates approve highly of that high flying offense.

 

Riley: It's just something that neither of their opposition can do. Can you IMAGINE Va'aiga hitting a huracanrana?

 

Stevens: Well not really, no.

 

Quiz looks down at Dace and take five seconds thinking time before coming up with a final answer to the Dace Night question. Lifting Dace up off the canvas into a headlock, Quiz quickly flattens the massive Brummie with a quick DDT. With catlike agility Quiz hops to the top rope and turns to face his fallen opponent in the middle of the ring before springing off the top rope with a MASSIVE Senton Atomico! Quiz hooks a leg...

 

 

BBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

......ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

......TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

......1/4!

 

 

 

 

 

 

......1/2!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

......3/4!

 

 

.....TH.. and Dace powers his shoulder off the mat.

 

Riley: AMERICAN IDOL BOMB! AMERICAN IDOL BOMB!

 

Stevens: Quiz with that somersault senton.. The.. ehem.. American Idol bomb. It's a devastating move, but given Quiz's slight frame it wasn't QUITE enough to get the pin. It's all adding to the punishment on Dace Night, however, and that punishment might well tell.

 

Quiz stands and drags up the fallen Dace, giving him a quick slap for good measure...

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

...before whipping Dace back into the Double Jeopardy corner. Dace slumps in the corner as Quiz tags in Show, and the pair fire off some quick slaps and chops in the corner, before Quiz leaves the ring, allowing Show to do some more damage. Show goes to whip Dace into the ring ropes, but Dace do-see-dos and Show comes careering back into the Horrorcore one! Dace grabs Show by the waist and hoists him into the air, spinning through 180 degrees and PLANTING Show spine first to the canvas!

 

Stevens: I know what THAT move is, Dace Night with the MASSIVE Spinebuster!

 

Dace clambers to his feet and picks up Show, locking in a side headlock, but Show blocks Dace's suplex attempt by putting his leg across Dace's. Dace Night tries again, but Show powers out of the headlock and FLATTENS the tired Dace back down to the canvas with an Oh-Soto-Gari!

 

Stevens: SPACE TORNADO OGAWA! And Dace is down!

 

Riley: That's not Space Tornado Ogawa, that's another Lovely Parting Gift.

 

Stevens: Good grief!

 

Show picks Dace up and tosses the Brummie casually into the Double Jeopardy corner AGAIN, this time rushing in with a lariat. Dace flies up a little, rocking back on the ropes with the impact of the move, and show gets in underneath the elevated Brummie, and with a little assistance from Quiz, the pair dump Dace over the top rope to the outside! Show follows Dace down, and Gorilla Presses Dace Night up in the air.

 

Show: NO WHAMMY!

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

Quiz rushes along the apron and dives off the apron with a Rocker Dropper, across the Military Pressed Dace's neck! Dace crashes down to the math and Double Jeopardy stand and hjigh five each other, to a MASSIVE round of applause... from Vicky.

 

Riley: Don't press your luck! Don't press your luck on Dace Night to the outside!

 

Stevens: Don't Press Your Luck Suicida maybe?

 

The Crowd suddenly comes alive in a round of cheers, and Quiz and Show smile to each other, safe in the knowledge that their adoring public are loving them as ever, but neither of them are paying much attention to the REAL reason the crowd are getting excited as Va'aiga breathes in deeply as he lines himself up. Show turns to face the ring and his expression turns slowly to one of horror, and he taps Quiz on the shoulder to point out what's about to happen. Quiz turns to face the ring as well, just in time to see the out of control Maori Missile as VA'AIGA WIPES DOUBLE JEOPARDY OUT WITH HIS SIGNATURE UGLY SLINGSHOT PLANCHA! Va'aiga slings himself over the top rope and gravity does the rest of the work for him, and Show and Quiz are squashed to the concrete outside!

 

Stevens: Va'aiga with a plancha! Va'aiga with a plancha!

 

Riley: Normally I'd pick you up on repeating yourself, but that is something that bears saying twice.

 

Va'aiga picks up Quiz and whips him into the announce table, sending Quiz skidding along the top of the table's surface, narrowly avoiding wiping out Bobby Riley! Turning his attention to Show, Va'aiga slings the massive Chevy Chase look-a-like back into the ring.

 

Va'aiga: DROOOOOOOOOOOOP!

 

VA-ING-UH! VA-ING-UH! VA-ING-UH!

 

Va'aiga walks over the top rope of the ring and moves to the fallen Show, picking him off the canvas and kicking him squarely in the solar plexus. Va'aiga hoists the doubled up Show across his chest and backs off into the ropes, before RUSHING back to the middle of the ring, jumping and PLANTING Show into the canvas with unbelievable impact!

 

Stevens: RUNNING MAORI DROP! IT'S ALL OVER!

 

Va'aiga hooks a leg of Show and Eddy Long... picks Va'aiga up and ushers him back to his corner!

 

BBBBBBOOOOOOOOO!

 

Va'aiga scowls at the referee, but Eddy Long is insistent, and as Show lies in the middle of the ring, dazed, Va'aiga returns to his corner.

 

Riley: Va'aiga wasn't the legal man. It's about time someone kept the rules around here!

 

As Mark Stevens sighs to himself, outside the ring both Dace and Quiz have recovered, and with the Horrorcore one comsumed with fatigue, Quiz gains quick control with a series of stiff kicks and another massive slap across Dace's chest.

 

BBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

Quiz slides Dace back under the bottom rope and composes himself briefly before picking up Dace and flattening him with a deadly superkick! Eddy Long is still arguing with Va'aiga in the Unholy Trinity corner, and the illegal man Quiz takes time to roll Show over so his arm is draped over Dace before sneaking out of the ring. Eddy Long drops down to count...

 

......ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

......TWO!

 

 

 

 

......1/4!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.......1/2!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

......3/4!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.....THRE.... And Dace lifts a shoulder. Quiz holds his head in his hands in despair as Dace kicks out again, and leaps over the top rope in frustration to stomp away at Dace and finally Eddy Long restores some order by escorting Quiz back to his own corner.

 

Stevens: That was an incredibly close count there. Dace Night has taken all that Double Jeopardy have to offer and more, and even a man with the fortitude of Horrorcore he must be nearly finished.

 

Dace and Show both stand slowly and Dace makes a lunge for his own corner, but Show cuts him off by grabbing a leg, and pulling Dace back in towards him. Show grabs down for the other leg and turns Dace over. Show beings to swing Dace Night round slowly by the legs, picking up a little speed as he turns, and as Dace leaves the canvas the crowd count along with the reveloutions!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

Stevens: Show with the old Giant Swing!

 

THREE!

 

 

 

FOUR!

 

Riley: That's not the giant swing.. that's the.. umm... umm...

 

FIVE!

 

Stevens: Yes?

 

SIX!

 

 

 

SEVEN!

 

Riley: I don't know.. I lost my notes when Quiz came flying across the table earlier.

 

EIGHT!

 

 

 

NINE!

 

 

 

TEN! And Show lets go and staggers back to his own corner, dazed. Dace starts inching his way from his resting place against the ropes back towards his own corner. Dace extends his arm out towards Va'aiga, but Show tags in Quiz and Quiz DARTS across the ring to cut Dace off. Quiz drags Dace off towards a neutral corner and ascends the ropes, stopping to look down at Dace before looking out towards the crowd and taking a deep breath in. Quiz looks back down at Dace and leaps off, spinning in the air and landing with a 450 Splash... BOUNCING OFF THE CANVAS AS DACE JUUUUUUUUUST ROLLS OUT OF THE WAY!

 

RRRRAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

Stevens: 450 Splash misses! And it's a race back to their own corners to see who can tag in first.

 

Riley: That's not a normal 450.. that's a.. an.. erm.. it's not a normal 450!

 

Stevens: Well whichever way you call it, it missed.

 

TRIN-ITY! TRIN-ITY!

 

Va'aiga slaps the turnbuckle again rhythmically, urging Dace on as the Brummie crawls along the mat back towards the safe haven of the Unholy Trinity corner, as Quiz beings a slow crawl of his own, clutching his ribs as he inches his way towards the eager Show. Show and Va'aiga both stretch their arms out as far as they can go. Quiz reaches his own corner first and tags in Show and Show rushes across the ring to cut off Dace, but lacking the speed of his Crusierweight tag team partner, Dace manages to just avoid Show's grasp and tag in Va'aiga, who hops over the ropes to face off with show.

 

Stevens: I hate to use a cliché but business is about to pick up!

 

Show backs off a half pace and tries to wave off the Maori Badass, but Va'aiga MURDERS the debuting star with a massive Rugby Tackle! Show staggers back to his feet again but Va'aiga flattens him with a SECOND tackle. Va'aiga hops to his feet and beckons Show off the floor with charming simplicity...

 

Va'aiga: GET THE FUCK UP!

 

Va'aiga lifts the Show shaped smear off the canvas and locks in a tight side headlock motioning for something big to the crowd who respond appreciatively...

 

VA-ING-UH! VA-ING-UH!

 

Va'aiga hoists show up over his shoulder, positioned for a massive body slam, but instead of simply slamming Show down, Va'aiga sits out, dropping Show to his side and spiking Show's head on the canvas! Va'aiga hooks a leg and Eddy Long drops to count...

 

......ONE!

 

 

 

 

......TWO!

 

 

 

 

......1/4!

 

 

 

 

......1/2!

 

 

 

 

 

......3/4!

 

 

 

 

 

......9/10!

 

 

 

....TH.. and Quiz breaks up the pin count.

 

 

BBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

Stevens: Show got hit with a Southern Lights Bomb there, but Quiz looks like a tidy tag team wrestler, Riley, and was quick enough to break up the pin cover.

 

Riley: The key to good tag team wrestling. Work to your own strengths and your enemies weaknesses, and ALWAYS be wise to your partner's predicament.

 

Va'aiga stands slowly and faces off with the lightning fast Quiz, and Quiz looks up at the Maori Badass and fires off a STINGING slap across Va'aiga's face.

 

BOOOOOOOO!

 

And Va'aiga just stands there, his face slowly filling with anger. Quiz looks at the Maori Badass, unflinching from the blow but his anger certainly rising. Quiz's facial expression changes too, as the confidence visibly drains out of it piece by piece. Quiz backs off a half step, anticipating slightly what's coming, but he can't make an escape quickly enough as Va'aiga PRACTICALLY RIPS QUIZ'S HEAD OFF HIS SHOULDERS WITH A NASTY, NASTY, NAAAAAAAASTY LARIAT! Quiz flips through 360 degrees and bounces back into the air off of his landing.

 

HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT!

 

Va'aiga turns back to Show and effortlessly lifts the bigger member of Double Jeopardy off the mat, whipping Show into the ropes and splatting him on the mat with a big spiked flapjack. Va'aiga thinks about covering, but stands again as Quiz rushes towards him, and the Massive Maori BACKDROPS QUIZ OUT OF THE RING FROM A THIRD OF THE RING DISTANCE FROM THE ROPES!

 

HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT!

 

Va'aiga turns back down to the fallen Show and lifts him off the canvas again. Va'aiga looks out at the audience and then over to the corner at Dace. Dace takes a deep breath and nods, and Va'aiga smiles for the first time since Quiz DARED to slap him and slowly draws his hand across his throat.

 

Stevens: Va'aiga has called for it... one of the most devastating tag team maneuvers in professional wrestling today...

 

Va'aiga walks with Show slowly over towards the Unholy Trinity corner and tags in Dace, who steps slowly through the ropes as Va'aiga takes show down with a reverse double leg, leaving the near 300lber face down on the mat with both his legs in Va'aiga's grasp. Va'aiga lifts up Show and smashes him down to the mat, pushing down into the small of Show's back with an arm as he hits the Inverted Powerbomb as simultaneously Dace brings a STIFF axe kick down over the back of Show's neck. Dace drops to the canvas and hooks a leg while Va'aiga rushes over to the ropes and stamps on Quiz's head as he attempts to re-enter the ring and break the pin cover. Eddy Long drops and counts...

 

 

......ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

......TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.....THREE!

 

Stevens: The Decapitator! And Dace Night and Va'aiga are the winners!

 

 

YYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

 

Funyon: Here are your winners ... DACE NIGHT AND VA'AAIIIGGGGAAA!

 

 

TRIN-ITY! TRIN-ITY! TRIN-ITY!

 

The Unholy Trinity Member leap up and roar along with their fans. Sliding out of the ring, they pick up their Tag Title Belts and hold them high for the cheering fans as they circle the ring, tagging hands with their fans at ring side.

 

Riley: And once more the Unholy Trinity cheats it why into a win.

 

Stevens: I though it was Double Jeopardy doing the cheating in this match.

 

Riley: Well, you're just blind then Mark. A great new team was robbed of it's chance to show it's stuff in there very first match today. That saddens me, it really does.

 

Stevens: Sure, sure. Well, Va'aiga and Dace chalk up a win that will leave them looking strong heading into their Tag Team Title defence when it comes again.

 

With both members of Double Jeopardy laid out, Va'aiga and Dace march up the ramp, Tag Titles in their arms under the calls of the crowd as they celebrate their win.

[Guest Grand Slam]

Once again, a shot of the backstage of the Savvis center appears, Sean Atlas shoving past people as he makes his way around the backstage area, stopping and peering in every door and hallway he passes. “I’m gonna kill that Francis.” Stopping at row of folding chairs, Atlas pulls one out, and kicks the rest of the stack over, unfolding the steel seating device, and sitting down on it, looking very angry. He looks up at the camera, very close to him, and snarls. “Get out of my face for a minute, damnit.”

 

The cameraman backs off, showing that Atlas is seated in front of a rather large stack of folding tables jammed into a small access hallway, all folded flat, stacked on a cart, one on top of the other, up, up, until at the very top, they must be ten feet high. This wouldn’t be so interesting, except for the figure that is pulling itself up on the other side of the stack, very quietly lifting itself up on top of the large stack. The camera zooms in, and catches the smiling face of CIA, his movements painfully slow, so as not to make a single sound, a hockey stick clutched in his hand. Rising to the top of the stack, and coming up on his feet, CIA raises the hockey stick overhead, and prepares to jump off, and assault the masked man below him.

 

Lunging low, CIA raises the stick back behind his head, and swings forward, hard…

 

 

“ATLAS!”

 

… and freezes in mid motion, as a voice comes from down the hall, the Canadian now balanced rather comically on one foot, not daring to move. The Camera shot swings down the hall, to see two men the SWF US champ, Ejiro Fasaki, and, in front of him, the leader of the Magnificent Seven, and former World Champion, Tom Flesher. Luckily for CIA, he is obscured from these two men’s vision by the curve of the hallway. But, if they get any closer….

 

“Yeah?”

 

Flesher smiles as he steps forward. “I know you’re after those masked simpletons, but we’ve got magnificent seven business to take care of. And we can always handle them later. Four on two, they’ll have no chance.”

 

“Yeah, speaking of which, where’s Judge?”

 

“Getting ready for his match. But he’ll join us. Judge has always enjoyed helping to take out the trash. Now, are you coming?”

 

Atlas closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “I just know I’m getting close to those freaks, but fine. That moron Francis says they’ll find me. Well, let them. How did you ever stand working with that guy, anyway?”

 

Tom Flesher doesn’t respond, but instead, turns around in the hallway, marching back the way he came. Ejiro follows him, and, a moment later, Atlas follows behind them both. In what is getting to be a very tiring bit for the evening, they disappear down the hallway, and there is no sound, until CIA drops down into the shot from below, his hockey stick in hand. Moments later, Beezel drops down as well, most likely having remained in hiding behind the stack of tables.

 

Silently, they turn to look at each other, and CIA motions with his head after the Magnificent Seven, a questioning gaze in his eyes. Beezel nods, and CIA hefts his hockey stick over his shoulders. He walks off down the hallway, and turns around when he’s nearly out of sight. “You coming?”

 

Beezel leans out of the shot for a moment, and rises, one of the fallen steel chairs in hand. “Yes, Friend CIA. But one must always be prepared.”

 

CIA smiles and nods, and the two disappear down the hallway together, hot on the heels of the departing trio.

[Guest Grand Slam]

"Union Jack," said the mysterious voice.

 

Nathaniel Kibagami, his head deep in thought over his match tonight, spins around wildly around. The hallway is empty, save for a few lowly grunts walking around. He looks back the way he started... and still sees no one there.

 

"Union Jack..." says the voice again, monotone and metallic.

 

"Beezel," hisses Kibagami under his breath. He slowly searches the hallway, still uncertain of the direction the voice eminates from.

 

"UNION JACK?" yells the hidden masked man, "Of all the things to finish me with, Friend Silent. I did NOT appreciate that!"

 

A rush of air from behind the former Clannite causes him to turn 180 and come nose to mask with El Scorcho.

 

"It could have been handled... with more tact, Friend Silent."

 

"It's Kibagami," says Nathaniel with some anger in his voice, "For you gaijin, that would be Keh-I-Baa-Gaa-Mee. I haven't gone by Silent in a while."

 

Neither man moves. The sound of heavy breath eminates through El Scorcho's voice modulator. Even the workers wandering the halls stop and stare at the incident as the tension in the hall thickens.

 

"Gaijin? An interesting term to be certain... Friend Silent. I simply wanted you to know that your haphhazard attack on me was not appreciated," speaks Beezel, "And if the challenger to my identity were not handling the proceedings, there might have been a different outcome."

 

"I'm sure. Look Zorro, I have a match to prepare for. If you could get out of my face, I can resist my urge to re-arrange yours," hisses Kibagami.

 

"Certainly, Friend Silent," says Beezel, stepping aside, "No problem at all. To be honest, I cannot put too much anger into my reaction to that loss. I'll respect your decision, given the circumstances."

 

"Well, what can you do when thrust in between someone else's fight?" asks Nathaniel rhetorically and begins to walk past the masked man... until a covered hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks.

 

"That is not what I meant," says Beezel, "Since I hate to be misunderstood, let me clarify. I simply meant that it's normal for you to try and break my neck with a Union Jack. After all, a long long time ago, I remember distinctly trying to break yours."

 

Shocked, the man formerly known as Silent whips around, and faces a hallway full of nothing. Instinctively, Kibagami brings his hand to the back of his neck and rubs it.

 

"Something isn't right with that one," says Nathaniel, going back to his original path back to his dressing room.

[Guest Grand Slam]

As we return to St. Louis, Lockdown in full force, we come back to Ben Hardy, backstage with a microphone in hand, as is the norm around here. The crowd boos as he begins to speak, not at him, but the man next to him:

 

“Ben Hardy here, backstage with ‘The King of Nightmares’, Michael Craven” the ace reporter begins before turning to Mike. “Michael: rumor has it you’re making a big announcement tonight-”

 

Craven briskly cuts him off, keeping him from finishing his questioning.

 

“Yes, you moron. Had you been paying attention earlier, you would know that is not just a rumor, but is true.”

 

“What announcement could be so important to you, Craven?” Hardy inquires, shoving the microphone into Craven’s face. “ What do you have to say tonight?”

 

Craven looks a little unsettled by Ben shoving the mic into his face, slapping it back down as he tensely stares at Hardy. As he stares Ben down, though, the tension in his face decreases, and he actually begins to smile, trying to hold back the laughter rising out of his gut.

 

“You really expect me to tell you, Ben?” Craven chuckles to himself. “You’re a hell of a lot dumber than I thought. You’re not special, so you’ll just have to wait and see like everyone else, but I will tell you this... my SWF future is the reason I am making this announcement. And though you think it might not matter to you... it does, regardless if you’re on top of the world or down at the bottom.”

 

Craven pulls his head up to the camera, closing his eyes as he rollis his neck from side to side while cracking it like knuckles, the nitrogen gas built up between his vertebrae making a “POP!” sound that almost makes it sound like Craven’s popping his neck out of place, but in reality, he’s not even close to it. Craven then opens his eyes, addressing those who are watching.

 

“So pay attention, kids, because the King of Nightmares has a decree to make tonight, and you won’t want to miss it... if you know what’s good for you...”

 

Craven slowly walks off, leaving Hardy a bit confused, a bit scared, and a bit unhappy that he didn’t get to ask him the rest of his list of questions. And as Hardy pouts about the short interview, we head right back to the action...

[Guest Grand Slam]

Mark Stevens' voice rings out over the nation's televisions...

 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am sorry to say that the next scheduled match, the World Champion Boston Strangler taking on Judge William Hearford in a non-title affair, has been cancelled. Moving on..."

 

"Moving on?" Bobby exclaims. "No no no Grand Scam, our viewers deserve a better explaination than that!"

 

"Fine. Bobby, you have a singular talent to make any situation worse."

 

"I know, its' a gift."

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, the match is not taking place because the Boston Strangler was three minutes late arriving at the venue today. King suspended him without pay until after the show and sent him packing. Judge Mental..."

 

"Judge Hearford, Mark."

 

"I know what I said. The Judge was given the night off with pay and it goes down in the record books as a "Countout win" for the Judge."

 

"Why Mark, you sound a little annoyed."

 

"Pissed is more appropriate Bobby. I know for a fact that not a single member of the Magnificent Seven was here more than an hour before we went on the air! And Judge gets the win? What a crock!"

 

"Easy big fella... easy..."

 

"Fans, I don;t know where this is headed, but if what King said earlier tonight is true, then this could be just the beginning."

 

Cut to commercial...

[Guest Grand Slam]

In yet another of those annoying backstage promos, the cameras follow one man as he makes his way through the halls, one of the most hardcore individuals the fed has ever seen. Jay Dawg, the hardcore legend, marches through the halls, many stepping out of the way as he passes, while others merely avert their gaze, continuing what they were doing and trying to ignore him as best they can. JD turns a corner, and stops dead, glaring at something. The Camera spins around, to catch four very dangerous men standing in silhouette. The Magnificent seven. The most dangerous men in the SWF. Renowned as the very best wrestlers the world has to offer. Jay Dawg doesn’t make any move to run, he stands tall, but as the four men walk forward, even the bravest individual might cower in fear.

 

“Hello, JD. I guess you know what this is. You’ve been involved in enough of these little backstage lessons to know what to expect.” Tom Flesher smirks, that (no pun intended) superior look on his face. Ejiro pats the US title belt strapped around his waist, Judge Mental smiles and cracks his knuckles, and Sean Atlas tugs on his mask, glaring at Jay Dawg.

 

“So is this some kind of social tea, we gonna sit around like nancies and talk about it, or are you gonna get down to business, Thomas?” Jay Dawg emphasizes this last word, and Flesher merely smiles.

 

“Well now, you heard him boys. It’s time for the Magnificent Seven to show Jay Dawg what happens when you cause trouble with the best the world has to offer.”

 

With that, all four men advance, slowly, and Jay Dawg waits, seemingly rather patient. The Magnificent seven gets closer, and closer, waiting for just the right moment to strike, when suddenly, all five men freeze, turning their heads as they hear the clang of a steel chair slamming against the floor. “HEY, LADIES!” All five turn their heads, and the camera swings around as well, to catch three more individuals, CIA, the Beezel, and Mak Francis, all standing ready, CIA with a hockey stick clutched in his hand, Beezel holding the aforementioned steel chair, and Mak Francis looking smug, his ICTV title slung casually over his shoulder.

 

“Now, I know you said you wanted to come find us, eh, Atlas?” CIA smiles, and Mak Francis steps forward, surveying the scene.

 

“International Incident is here, Flesher. And we got one question for you. Is this a private party…”

 

Beezel steps forward, Brandishing the steel chair menacingly. “Or can anyone join, Friend Flesher?”

 

Flesher looks rather perturbed at this turn of events, but he turns his head to look at Jay Dawg for a moment. “Get rid of them.” With these four words, all eight men rush at each other, pairing off. Beezel swings his steel chair down with a loud crash, cracking it across the back of Sean Atlas, and stalking his masked foe. Francis and Fasaki meet in the center of it all, trading punches in haphazard fashion. CIA rushes at the Judge, swinging down with his weapon, but Hearford steps out of the way, moving in swiftly behind the Canadian and applying a tightly locked in sleeper hold.

 

Finally, just off from the rest, Flesher takes Jay Dawg off his feet with something of a tackle, both men flailing and punching at each other, rolling over the floor as they trade blows.

 

A loud cry goes up as all eight men continue to battle, and it’s not long before a cadre of referees and backstage officials arrive, stepping in to try to separate the two groups. This proves more difficult than could be imagined, as Flesher and JD will not allow themselves to be pulled apart, the SWF champion having the hardcore legend in a brutal hammerlock, face down on the floor, and JD fires big elbows back into his face. Fasaki and Francis continue to brawl, grabbing hold of one another and crashing into a stack of chairs and pipes against one fall, falling into the steel mess with a loud crashing sound. Beezel and Atlas have their hands locked on each other’s masks, both attempting to rip their foe’s off, and keep their own on. Finally, CIA is still locked up by mental, until he flips forward, tossing the Mag 7’s resident grumpy old man over his head and to the concrete, quickly diving forward to continue the attack.

 

All eight men continue to brawl for a few moments till they are pulled apart, some worse for wear than others, each man needing at least two officials to hold them apart, screaming epithets at one another.

 

“This was Magnificent Seven business! You should have stayed out of it!”

 

“You wanna make trouble, eh, Flesher? This is OUR locker room as much as yours, and it’s ALWAYS our business!”

 

The eight men struggle to get at each other, but the officials continue to pull them back from one another, till Flesher breaks free of the referees, and casually shrugs his shoulders, turning away from the faces. “Come on, boys. We’ve got better things to do. We’ll deal with them later.”

 

The referees reluctantly release the Magnificent seven, and the heel stable marches off. Slowly, the officials dissipate, and International Incident is left, being glared at by Jay Dawg.

 

“I didn’t need your fuckin’ help!”

 

CIA shakes his head, and motions Mak off. “Go get ready, you’ve got a match, eh. Good luck, Mak.” Francis nods, and reaches his hand out, pounding his fist with CIA, then turning to Beezel, and doing the same. “Welcome to the incident. Fuck, I shoul;d get a mask, I’d fit in better. Check you in the locker room, Drew. Beez.” Francis turns and walks off, leaving Beezel, CIA and Jay Dawg.

 

JD steps forward, and repeats himself even louder. “I SAID I didn’t need no fuckin’ HELP!”

 

Once again, CIA shakes his head, and nods towards Beezel. “Go to the trainer, make sure you didn’t get hurt during the fight. I’ll be there myself in a few, we can watch Mak Francis put on a five star clinic, eh?”

 

Beezel takes a moment looking at CIA and marches off, leaving just two men. Jay Dawg grabs CIA’s shoulder and spins the Canadian to face him. “I DON’T NEED NOBODY’S FUCKIN’ HELP! Not you, not your little lackies, NOBODY.”

 

CIA stops and turns towards Jay Dawg, glaring. “They’re my friends. My PARTNERS. Not that you’d know anything about that. You don’t have any friends. And this wasn’t about you. Like I said, if Flesher and HIS lackies want to start anything, that IS our business. And we didn’t do this to keep you from getting your face ground into the floor, which WOULD have happened. You don’t need help, then you don’t have to worry, you won’t get any. The moment you’re ready to admit you NEED some, maybe we might. But not everything is about you, Dawg. You know, Stevens told me you were doing good things. You don’t have to thank us, you don’t have to help us. But don’t get in my face about it. I can’t tell you what to do, eh? Then you BETTER not presume to tell us.”

 

Jay Dawg glares at CIA, and frowns. “I didn’t need no help.”

 

CIA smiles and shakes his head. “Keep on living like that, JD, with nobody to be there for you. Let me know how it works. I’m gonna go chill with my FRIENDS, eh?”

 

Turning away, CIA walks off, leaving the camera stuck on JD’s face. After a moment, he turns towards the camera, and shoves the lens. “What the hell you lookin’ at?”

 

The Cameraman stumbles backwards, and JD walks off, leaving an empty hallway , and a lot of questions, as the shot fades out one last time.

[Guest Grand Slam]

SWF Lockdown returns from a commercial break (Annie Eclectic’s Rug Cleaning Service!), but by the time we cut to the inside of the jam-packed Savvis Center of St. Louis, Missouri, In Flames’ “Jester’s Dance” is already audibly flowing from the arena’s PA system like fine wine, and Danny Williams has already taken center stage, making his way down to the ring! The crowd gives a thunderous ovation for last show’s Main Event’s victorious grappler, but over all of the cheering, Mark Stevens’ booming voice can be heard.

 

“Welcome back ladies, gents, and everything in between to SWF Lockdown! We’ve still got our Main Event of the night – Mak Francis versus Nathan Kibagami – lined up, but before that… well, we seem to have Danny Williams down here for some reason! Word on the street says that he’s got some sort of announcement to make… but we have no clue what that announcement will be.”

 

“Maybe he’s decided to retire for good??” Riley chimes in with a tinge of hopeful-osity in his voice. “After all, that concussion obviously knocked a screw loose a while back, and those shots to the head sure can take their toll.”

 

“…I highly doubt that Bobby… it was just a few weeks ago that Danny announced his intentions of gaining for the SWF World Title, a belt that has changed hands twice since then. But nonetheless, a man so dead-set on reaching the top tier of credibility in this federation wouldn’t just call it quits now, especially one as determined as Danny.”

 

“Credibility? The man tagged with Xero for Christ’s sake!”

 

“Forgive and forget, they say.”

 

“DAN-E! DAN-E! DAN-E!”

 

The Missouri crowd is on its feet as Danno reaches the ring, entering with the help of the ring steps. He pumps his fists into the air to rile up the heat-aplenty crowd just a little bit more, and then smiles just a little to show his appreciation for the roaring ovation.

 

“Will they shut up!?” Bobby complains, screaming over the audience. “I can’t hear myself think!”

 

“…You think?”

 

Williams’ music cuts and the crowd quickly hushes down as he retrieves a microphone from a ringside attendant (Funyon has a damn good arm, it should be noted), and puts it up to his mouth.

 

“Now first of all, I want to cut to the chase here… but a thanks is in order for all you people out there, and the support you’ve given me.”

 

Boom! There goes the firecracker of cheers once again! Bobby is about to complain again, but Danny shuts them up after a few seconds by continuing with his oh-so intriguing announcement.

 

“Some of you saw how a few weeks ago, I came out here and requested a World Title shot… (a few cheers for the mention of Danny and the words “World Title” in the same sentence…) and some of you saw how a few weeks ago, my former student, Taylor Thompson, interrupted my request by claiming that HE deserved a shot even more.”

 

Danny paces back and forth as he speaks, pacing himself in his little speech here… but the crowd is completely silent, intrigued with what the Unholy Trinity leader has to say.

 

“AND… some of you saw how on the last SWF show… I faced TNT in a tag team match main event, and kicked his ass!”

 

The crowd’s reaction is an ear-splitting one. A small portion of the crowd boos at Taylor’s loss, but most of them are in the mental state of “Hey, Danny’s kicking ass… woo!”

 

The crowd cheers and cheers and… well, cheers, but then, Danny drops the big one – cutting right to the chase: “And so, I’m out here once again, right in time for the Pay-Per-View, to request a shot at the Boston Strangler’s World Title!”

 

“I can hardly believe it!” Mark says happily. “For the first time in his career… well, there’s pretty much not one thing to stop Danny from reaching the top! I really do think that tonight’s his night, and come Ground Zero time… he’ll be facing the Boston Strangler for the SWF Heavyweight Title!”

 

“Aww fooie. Another boring hoss-fest.”

 

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HURRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

The crowd makes plenty of different noises, but it’s quite evident that they’re happy to hear about Danny’s intentions to go for the big one, and they’re quite certain that he has a shot at accomplishing his goal, to—

 

>insert “Crazy Train” here<

 

…

…

…

 

>insert “BOOS” here<

 

“WHAT’S THIS!?” Bobby has a sarcastically surprised look cemented on his face, and his tone of voice is that of a little girl saying “oh my!” “Is that…? Is that…? Oh, yes, I think it is… heeeeere he coooomes to save the daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!”

 

“…oh no…”

 

Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train” rages on, and the crowd boos… and waits… and boos… and waits…

 

 

 

 

“Hehehehe…” What an evil chuckle.

 

Danny Williams – still inside the ring, raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this.

 

“A title shot, eh?” What an evil voice.

 

Danny DEFINITELY doesn’t have a good feeling about this now, and nor does anyone else.

 

And then… Brian Applewhight… the Suicide King… emerges from the backstage area, microphone in hand.

 

…What an evil fucking grin.

 

“Little Daniel wants to break through the glass ceiling…? Aww, how cute,” King says with a smirk. The crowd is still booing… but he continues, uninterrupted by Danny, who just stands in the ring, wanting the man to cut to the fucking chase here. “Well I got news for you buster (King’s eyes light up and he flashes his patented evil grin of “bad news for you!” once again)…

 

“…”

 

“…”

 

“…”

 

”…I honestly can see you getting a World Title shot somewhere down the line.”

 

The crowd doesn’t cheer, surprisingly enough… they’re used to this, and they know there’s a catch, but we can still hear mutterings of “what? He’s giving him the title shot?” Danny meanwhile, doesn’t change his expression much, but he looks satisfied enough, until…

 

“But NOT at Ground Zero.”

 

“WHAT!?” Grand Slam totally saw it coming, but… still… “I can’t see one good reason why this man hasn’t paid his dues enough to get a shot at the gold… I can’t…”

 

“Instead… well, I’ve already lined up a nice little match for you!” There’s that smile again. Danny looks at King like he wants to make that a toothless grin. “Indeed! We’ve got just a SUPER little test run set up for you, big guy! And hey… who better to have a test run against than the man that you stood in this very ring with last week?? The man that has pretty much the same easily-crush-able hopes and dreams as you?? The man that you’re most familiar with?? Who better than T-N-T!?”

 

Danny is quick to retort, sputtering out “But I already beat him last week fair and—“

 

“In singles competition?”

 

…silence.

 

“…Haha, I thought so. That’s right bud… you’ve really got no choice but to go out there and do your best…”

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

“…and hope that you impress me.”

 

With one last smile, King turns after his brief crushing-of-everything-Danny-had-hoped-for, and disappears again through the backstage curtains to the tune of “Crazy Train.” …What a bastard. Really.

 

“Ahh, my hero…” Bobby says dreamily.

 

“…Well… on one hand…” Grand Slam observes. “Danny’s mission to the top has been delayed… but on the other hand… Taylor Thompson versus Danny Williams, student versus mentor, one-on-one, for the very first time… is SET for Ground Zero! Should be one hell of a match… and I really do hope that these two give it their all, because a win could shoot them right up to the top of the card! Danny wants to finally prove that he’s been worthy of the title ‘the best of the best’ all along, while Taylor wants to reclaim the glory that he once had, not too long ago! Two men with goals… and in just a week or so, they clash, in a match for respect!”

 

“Wow, THAT was scripted,” Bobby nonchalantly comments on Mark’s cheesy little PPV-match hype there.

 

“Crazy Train” funks from the speakers, and the crowd is still quite quiet, as Danny Williams still remains utterly motionless in the ring, staring with firey eyes up at where King just disappeared… an expression of “I’ll show you how much I can impress…” on his mug…

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’ll show you…”

 

…but that’s probably exactly what Taylor Nicholas Thompson is thinking right about now, too…

[Guest Grand Slam]

Frost is shown in an overstuffed swivel chair with is feet up on an end table. He enjoys a Frost brand cigar while two janitors are finishing cleaning up the mess that Flesher made earlier. An SWF production intern enters. The freckled face lad glances at the janitors before sheepishly coming up to Frost.

 

Silence hangs in the air until Frost breaks it. “What you need Rudy?”

 

“Uh…” the teen stammers “I was told to deliver this to you.”

 

He hands over a slim, small package wrapped in blue paper with a curious black bow on it. Frost takes it and turns it over and over in his hands examining it.

 

“And this.” Rudy says and hands over a small gift card.

 

Frost takes it and motions for him to go. The kid takes off and the janitors follow right behind him. Frost calls thanks to both parties and then opens the card.

 

He mutters what is says under his breath as he reads. “I thought you might want to use the main event of this show for your DVD. Let the fans see what Frost is really all about.”

 

Frost rips the paper in a jagged patch across the front to reveal a DVD. It reads “SWF BATTLEGROUND!” in blood red letters. The logo hangs over an artist’s conception of Tom Flesher, ragged yet with a primitive bellow on his lips. Below him laying on a field of broken swords and spent rifles is a battered and unconscious Frost, blood trickling from his forehead.

 

Frost doesn’t lose his cool as he stares at the commercial release copy of the recent pay-per-view. He simply slides open the luxury box window, letting in the roar of the crowd, and chucks the damn thing into the night.

[Guest Grand Slam]

Lockdown comes back form commercial break, but as it does, The SmarkTron suddenly fires up, showing a shot of a familiar office with a familiar chair facing away from a familiar desk.

 

“We’re back live on Lockdown,” Stevens says, “and it looks like the Commish is gonna speak!”

 

“Can’t wait to hear what he’s got to say,” Bobby Riley replies as the chair slowly spins around, “but I bet...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...WHAT THE HELL?!?!”

 

Riley’s cry of shock echoes through the minds of the many fans in the arena as the man behind the chair is NOT The Suicide King, but Michael Craven! The King of Nightmares puts his feet up on King’s desk, his hands behind his head as he relaxes back into the leather swivel seat.

 

“Love this chair... it’s so damn comfortable~!”

 

Craven smiles as the Craven Section goes nuts, waiting a few seconds for the fans to quiet down before he continues speaking.

 

“Now, you certainly were’nt expecting me, were you? Expecting King, perhaps? Well, he’s out taking care of something else right now, but don’t fear... he’ll be back in a few minutes.” The crowd boos loudly, but Craven continues onward. “In the meanwhile, I’ve got something very important I’d like to say...”

 

“OH BOY!!! THIS IS IT!!!” Riley screams as Craven puts his feet down, and clears his throat, looking right into the camera mounted in front of him.

 

“I, ‘The King of Nightmares’, Michael Craven, hereby challenge the winner of tonight’s ICTV Title match for a shot at the ICTV Championship. I know I’m kinda making myself #1 Contender here...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...but that’s too fuckin’ bad. I should have gotten a shot a long time ago.”

 

Craven pauses briefly, taking a moment to pause and consider where to go next.

 

“I’ve sat here and watched unworthy fighters hold that title while I’ve been stuck below them. Where was my chance to prove myself? Did it ever come?”

 

“SHUT UP, CRAVEN!” “Clap-clap-clapclapclap!”

 

The non-Craven Section crowd breaks out into a chant, hoping to silence Mike, but it doesn’t work.

 

“No. And now, I have to take matters into my own hands to make sure that the path that is my destiny is not delayed any longer.”

 

“His destiny? What does he mean?” Mark Stevens wonders while The King of Nightmares speaks.

 

“Look at who is fighting tonight: Mak Francis and Nathan Kibagami. A cripple and a has-been.”

 

Craven smirks at his own little comment as the crowd roars in boos while the Craven Section roars in approval of the comment.

 

“Whoa! Them’s fightin’ words!” Riley exclaims as the crowd still boos, but Craven presses onward.

 

“Kibagami: Thoth was right. You have lost your touch. You’re no longer the cane-wielding badass you were so long ago. You’ve lost your anger, your passion... you’ve lost your frown, so to speak. You’ve sacrificed yourself too much for too many causes, and only now have you seen the error of your ways.” Craven smiles. “But it is too late for you, for you will never be able to be anything but a worn-down cane-swinging failure. Your SWF glory days are long gone, so why don’t you join them and get the hell out of my way before I cripple you?”

 

“And speakng of cripples...” Craven continues without pausing in between to let the crowd react to what he has to say, “how’s the knee, Mak? Still barely hanging together? I’m surprised you haven’t gone and pulled a Kevin Nash on us. And even more so, after I beat you yet again, you got the ICTV Title.”

 

Craven pauses for a second as the crowd pops loudly, a chant roaring through the arena.

 

“BACK THE MAK~!”

“BACK THE MAK~!”

“BACK THE MAK~!”

“BACK THE MAK~!”

 

“The crowd clearly supports Mak Francis, who will be defending his title next against Kibagami!” Stevens states while Craven waits until the chants die down to continue his speech.

 

“But not without some sacrifices, because I can see your knee is still bugging you, reminding you of the truth. Because everytime you hit the mat and you can’t get back up because your legs are in too much pain... it’s because of me. Everytime you need ice and cortizone injections just so you can walk... it’s because of me. And in the future, when your ass is stuck in a wheelchair and you can’t even go out and play ball with your kids, if you even have any, because ‘Daddy can’t move around too well‘, it will be because of ME. I control your fate, Mak, because I can take you out anytime I want to.”

 

“Craven’s a sick, sick man...” Stevens murmurs.

 

“He’s not sick. He’s a genius!” Riley replies as Craven finishes up his announcement.

 

“If the winner of tonight’s match has any balls, then they’ll accept my challenge.” The King of Nightmares bows his head. “May God have mercy on their souls...”

 

 

 

 

Slowly, he pulls it back up, staring straight into the camera for his last words...

 

 

 

 

“...because I will not.”

 

 

The screen then begins to fade, the crowd booing loudly as we fade off into commercial with Craven’s face still staring a hole into whomever may be watching...

[Guest Grand Slam]

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s SWF Lockdown MAIN EVENT!” Funyon stands center ring, microphone in hand, gaining everyone’s attention. “The following contest is the scheduled for ONE FALL and is for the SMARKS WRESTLING FEDERATION INTERCONTINENTAL TELEVISION CHAMPIONSHIP!”

 

Suddenly, the arena goes completely dark, save for the SmarksTron, where the visage of a red ankh, encircled by flames, flares. There is only silence and the brief “whoo!” from the hot crowd, as the entrance lights, turn a dark red, bathing the arena, while “Forty-Six and Two” begins:

 

I’ve been crawling on my belly,

Clearing out what could’ve been,

 

The rest off the lyrics continue and then, the crowd buzzes, as the entrance lights come up and focused on the stage…

 

I want to feel the changes coming down,

I want to know what I’ve been hiding…

 

 

*BOOM!*

 

 

As the pyrotechnics fade, Nathaniel Kibagami comes striding the through the smoke left in their wake. Funyon begins his introduction, as the ex-clannite stands on the stage. “The CHALLENGER,” bellows Funyon, as Nathan takes a step forward.

 

“Here comes a man that isn’t messing around, Mark! He’s squashed Xero like a bug, dropped TNT on his noggin like a bad habit, destroyed the competition in a number one contenders’ match, and spiked Beezel on his head without a second thought, just to get to this point! He must really want the ICTV title!”

 

“Making his way to ringside, from Aechiba, Japan, weighing in at TWO hundred and SIXT-EIGHT pounds, he is NATHANIEL KIB—A—GA—MIIIII!”

 

Nathan makes his way to ringside, nodding to a fan here and there as he passes by, and slides into the ring. He rolls to his feet and agilely springs onto the nearby second turnbuckle, where he assumes the familiar crucifix pose, illuminated eerily in red for a brief moment before the lights come up and “Forty-Six and Two” fades away. He hops off the turnbuckle, as the flashing light dissipate, awaiting his opponent, the ICTV champion.

 

“And with good reason.” Comments ‘Grand Slam’, as Kibagami cracks his neck, in an almost Bruce Lee like manner. “One surprising thing of note is that, Nathaniel Kibagami, has never won a title in the Smarks Wrestling Federation. For a man with such talents in the ring, you really have to wonder how much that has been bugging him and if this is his time.”

 

The crowd finally calms down from Nathan’s entrance and suddenly—

 

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

 

—The crowd has a reason to rise up and cheer again!

 

“And his OPPONENT!” shouts Funyon, as the wispy sounds of a digital xylophone echo throughout the arena; a deep background beat, cleverly created by violins, and slightly overshadowing the original background rhythm. As the opening lyrics from Mak Francis’ Rock Superstar remix continue to blare over the PA system, the crowd bursts out of their seats, in recognition of the all too familiar music!

 

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

 

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, interspersed with signature spots and clips of Francis’ trademark smirking pose.

 

Funyon takes a breath, “From Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” the crowd continues to cheer, “weighing in at TWO hundred and THIRTY-SIX POUNDS… the REIGNING, S-W-F, ICTV CHAMPION…‘The Franchise’… MAAAAAAAAAK FRANCISsssssss!”

 

After taking a few steps out and down the ramp, Mak tilts his shades down on the bridge of his nose, before smirking… looking left and then right, soaking up the crowds’ reaction…

 

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

 

 

 

*PWI-SHEW! PWI-SHEW! PWI-SHEW! PWI-SHEEEEEEW!!*

 

 

 

He readjusts his shades with a smirk, before slowly strolling down to ringside and after walking up the ring steps, he cockily wipes his feet on the apron, giving a salute to the crowd, before entering through the middle ropes. Mak climbs the nearest turnbuckle and poses, as a wave of flashing lights go off. He steps down, and un straps the title belt, handing it over to Mark Hebner, who raises it into the air, to a loud pop, before giving it to a ringside attendant. Hebner checks the new champion for illegal objects and finding none allows him to back away to his corner.

 

“Francis needs to approach this match with caution, because, quite frankly, nobody knows just how far this seemingly unstoppable man, Nathaniel Kibagami is willing to go. I mean after that—that Union Jack to Beezel, which we saw those to wrestlers get into a confrontation about, earlier tonight, who knows what he’s capable of!”

 

“It reminded me of when Edwin flipped his lid in that Canadian Deathmatch and used it for the first time. Every time I see that move it sends giggly goosebumps up my spine. Whether or not that’s a good thing though, is up in the air. Even I, have my limits.”

 

The Franchise and Kibagami tentatively step out of their respective corners – no turning the circle in this straight ahead contest – attempting to feel each other out, as referee Mark Hebner signals for the bell!

 

*DING! DING! DING*

 

“The opening bell has sounded,” notes Stevens, looking just a tad perturbed, “but I can honestly say that with the way Nathaniel Kibagami’s been acting, Mak could have his bell rung, by the end of this night.” Mak continues to inch forward, as Kibagami stands poised in the middle of the ring, cracking his neck, while Francis looks on with trepidation. “Hahaha Mark,” responds Riley, “that’s the smartest thing you’ve said in a while. The final bell just tolled, for Mak Francis!”

 

Francis approaches cautiously, sliding into a classic amateur stance, as Kibagami glides forward into an offensive position, clearly asserting himself, as the more domineering of the two competitors. “Smart move by Francis,” says Stevens, as the referee beckons for him to pick up the pace, “he’s doing the right thing here, by taking his time and not letting his guard down. TNT did that and received a broken nose for his trouble.” Nathan seems to accept Mak’s signals for a collar and elbow tie-up and the two men clash, center ring. Kibagami is clearly the stronger of the two men, and easily overpowers Mak, but Mak, in turn, uses that to his advantage and breaks the tie-up, flowing into a side headlock. ‘The Franchise’ grinds in the side headlock, while Nathan pushes against his arms to break the hold. “Side headlock by the ICTV champ, who moves into a back waistlock—Bobby, this is what Mak needs to do. Keep Nathan on his toes, and make sure he’s never a set target. Kibagami is a big striker,” Riley chortles at that comment, “Among other things Stevens. He’s also a bad mutha—”

 

Mark quickly re-interrupts, stopping that train of thought where it was. “—soooo, a key to this match is avoiding those strikes, so that—”

 

“He doesn’t get dumped on his head—”

 

“…Err… well put Bobby.”

 

Kibagami looks to fire off a back elbow, but Mak, wits about him, ducks closer to his opponents’ body and warily continues his attempts at a leg sweep takedown—finally succeeding, putting Nathan flat on his face! “Mak is definitely at his most comfortable on the mat.” says Stevens, as ‘the Franchise’ uses an amateur float over and spins 180 degrees, into a front facelock. Francis lands two successive clubbing forearms to Nathan’s neck, hopefully effectively stunning him, as he stands and drops an elbow—nope, apparently not, because Kibagami rolls out of the way. The self proclaimed Franchise, rubs his elbow, while getting to one knee, while Nathaniel, on the other hand, is already standing and staring at Mak. “Francis came up short with that elbow drop, but even this early, you can tell he’s keying in on the perennial weakness of Nathan Kibagami. Which is of course, his neck.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Mak stands and shakes out his arm briefly, looking quite a bit more confident in himself, after taking Nathan to the mat. The former clansman, barely acknowledges the change in his opponent, but he does… with menacingly cold eyes and if you were Mak Francis for that split second, that you moved forward for another tie-up, you’d have realized it.

 

“The former, or not so former, ‘Silent One’, depending on who you talk to, has been particularly brutal over his past few matches Stevens. Francis, going in for a collar and elbow, better watch himself or he’ll—damn! End up like he is now…” What Bobby is referring to, was the sharp sound of bone meeting jaw, as Kibagami lashes out with an elbow, before any tie-up could take place! Parts of the crowd cringe at the blow, as Mak falls back into the corner – a thin red line of blood, seeping from the corner of his mouth!

 

“Geez, what a vicious elbow from Kibagami—Mak’s bleeding slightly from the mouth now, which, if we look at Nathan’s recent track record, seems to be pretty commonplace. Francis is definitely in for a war tonight!” says Mark, while ‘The Franchise’ blinks and holds his jaw, as Kibagami looms over him, pressing his advantage. Mak rubs away the blood with the back of his hand and attempts to stand, still quite dazed and confused, but Nathaniel kicks away at his rib cage – each boot getting progressively more intense – as he stomps the preverbal mudhole and walks it dry! A slouching Mak is lifted up, and then Kibagami rears back—

 

*Smack!* WHOOOOOOOO!

 

—Blasting Francis with a knife-edge chop! The sound echoes of the arena ceiling, as Nathan lifts Mak’s chin, once again—

 

*Smack!* WHOOOOOOOO!

 

—Plastering the self proclaimed Franchise with another knife-edge chop! Mak attempts to cover up, but Kibagami continues about business – the business of whooping Mak’s ass – peeling his arms away, rearing back—

 

*Smack!* WHOOOOOOOO!

 

—And hitting a scintillating knife-edge chop!! This one strikes hard enough to, force a small bellow of pain from ‘the Franchise’, as he tries to curl into a ball… but the ex-clannite, will have none of that and he tosses Francis across the ring in a cross corner whip! Mak arches his back briefly and then slumps, as Mark Stevens calls the action. “Kibagami sprints across the ring—rolling koppou kick, connects! That somersault wheel kick struck Francis head on!” Nathaniel gets back up to his feet and grabs ‘the Franchise’, pulling him out of the corner, snapping him up and overhead quickly, in a suplex! Kibagami floats over into a lateral press, as Hebner falls to the mat to count…

 

ONE…!

 

 

 

TWO…!

 

 

T—

 

No! Francis kicks out of the lateral press. “Mak’s looked completely out of it since that elbow before the tie-up from Kibagami. He got cocky, got pasted and now he doesn’t know where the hell he is!” Kibagami pauses for a moment and gets up to his feet, pulling Mak with him, but the Franchise jerks up before—

 

*Smack!* WHOOOOOOOO!

 

Nailing Nathan with a knife-edge chop! The crowd begins to rally behind the Franchise a little, as he once again—

 

*Smack!* WHOOOOOOOO!

 

—Plasters the former clansman with another hard knife-edge chop! Mak quickly pulls his arm back again—

 

*Smack!* WHOOOOOOOO!

 

—Hitting a third scintillating knife-edge chop!! Francis backs Kibagami into the ropes and sends him off in an Irish whip. “Back elbow—ducked, Kibagami puts on the breaks and scores a low dropkick!” says Riley.

 

“And Kibagami comes back with a low dropkick, directly to ‘the Franchise’s’ left knee. Smart move by Nathan, who should be able to go back to that injured knee, any time he needs to swing the momentum.” comments Mark, while Mak holds his injury and readjusts the brace surrounding it, before pushing himself up to a knee. Kibagami meanwhile, has readied himself and fires off a stiff roundhouse kick to the ICTV champs face! “What a martial arts kick from Kibagami, who is acting more and more like Silent, Mark. Even you have to admit it. There’s been some change—I’m not just talking physically either. Although, he’s looking awful ruggedly handsome…” Bobby trails off, perhaps to ponder more about his statement, so ‘Grand Slam’ picks up the commentary. “I’d agree with you on that one Bobby… uh, not the second part, but the first, as that kick sent Francis head over heels—now he’s bleeding again from the mouth. And is it just me, or do you get the distinct feeling that by the end of this match, Mak Francis, is going to be bleeding a hell of a lot more…”

 

The once thin line of red substance earlier, has now morphed into a consistently flowing fountain, but Francis once again pushes himself up to a knee, while attempting to wipe the substance off on his hand, struggling to regain his bearings, while the crowd looks on, slightly cringing. “Kibagami using a calculating and methodical pace to dismant—dear god, what a Yakuza kick! The champion is DOWN and hurting!”

 

Mak absorbs the kick and twists, falling backwards, but landing face first to the canvas from his knees in a mangled heap!! “Silen—err… Kibagami just busted Francis open AGAIN! This time his nose is leaking a little, but I’m sure that more damage will be done soon. Mark, why don’t we just call him Silent from now on—I mean look at him—lookit!” The self proclaimed Franchise, bleeding from two different points now, crawls—no drags, himself the rest of the way to the corner, falling onto the second buckle, arms spread out on a rope from each side. The blood continues to flow from Mak’s newly opened nose and lip, as Riley continues his tirade. “I mean really, Mark, take a good look!” but Mark just sighs. “I won’t Bobby, because I know I won’t like what I see… will I—Francis now, the way he's propped up in that corner, he looks—he looks like he’s praying...” Kibagami, not letting up on his attack, snaps of a sharp kick to the downed Franchise, striking him across the ribs, and receives a haggard yelp and subsequent groan of pain, in return, as Mak spits out some blood.

 

 

And he smiles…

 

 

You could barely see it, but if you look very close, the reaction is unmistakable. Kibagami has found another weakness. The ex-clannite, poised to strike again, lambastes Francis with another swift kick, and another… and another!! The crowds’ reaction is decidedly quiet, in response to this attack, but Kibagami pays no attention, because this is for himself. Nathan picks the champion up to his feet and turns him around in the corner, before landing another high roundhouse, directly to the side of his face! Nathan backs away slightly, thinking about his next attack, but Francis, sensing an opportunity, grabs him by the head and shoulder, tossing Kibagami into the corner he once inhabited!! Kibagami looks slightly surprised and the crowd pops in shock of the sudden burst of energy, as the Franchise rears and—

 

*Smack!* WHOOOOOOOO!

 

—Hits an absolutely blood vessel bursting knife-edge chop, that resonates through the rafters!! With blood continuing to slide down his face, the Franchise reaches back and—

 

*Smack!* WHOOOOOOOO!

 

—Hits a second devastating knife-edge chop!! Mak preps Kibagami for a third knife edge chop—but nope, he doesn’t get the chance to hit one though, as the former clansman pushes Francis away! Mak rolls through and pops up to his feet, a takes a marching step forward…

 

WHAM!

 

…Only to nearly get his head knocked clean off, and sent into a 270 degree spin that lands him on the mat face first!! Some people cheer the brutality, but most sit in quiet awe. They sit stunned, unbelieving of the amount of power generated by such an attack. Mak bangs his leg against the mat, as Kibagami shakes out his right arm! “Now that’s a lariat Stevens! He just killed Francis that time! Absolutely killed him! Let’s show them a replay!” Mark has a grim expression on his face, as the blood from Mak’s nose runs onto the canvas, in a small puddle.

 

========

SWF Replay

========

 

Kibagami tosses Mak of off him in the corner, like a rag doll and then explodes forward, basically doing a one man decapitator and taking Francis down to the canvas, after, of course he spins like a top, finally crashing and burning!!

 

========

End Replay

========

 

“Kibagami surprisingly not going for a cover, as he stands Mak up…” Stevens looks on, as Nathan struggles to pull up the nearly dead weight of Mak Francis and then, after measuring him, leaps into the air and pops ‘the Franchise’ with a straight kick to the face, sending him crumbling back down to the canvas!! “Nathan with a gamengiri,” mutters ‘Grand Slam’, “watching this is leaving a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe somebody should stop this…”

 

“This is Nathan Kibagami when he’s not holding back. A callous man, who knows what he wants and how to get it!” Nathan takes his time, giving Mak some time to recover, and then falls onto top of Francis after the straight kick to the jaw, hooking the far leg, as Hebner drops to the mat for his count…

 

“That should do it, Mark. Francis looks out cold!”

 

 

ONE…!

 

 

 

TWO…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

T

H

R

E—

 

No! Nathan gets two and a half! Just a long two count for Kibagami, as Francis shoots a shoulder up off the mat and rolls onto his belly! The ex clansman doesn’t hesitate, looping around in front of the self proclaimed Franchise and snitching in a front facelock! Francis stays on that mat, not really able to do much, as Nathaniel cranks away on his neck! “Kibagami is always thinking in that ring folks. That facelock softens up the Franchise’s neck and gives him some time to rest and think of his next attack.”

 

“Yup Stevens,” says Riley, “I hate to say it again, but ever since he bloodied Francis, the kids been shellshocked! Every comeback the Franchise has tried to mount has been squashed, and even I’m surprised how Kibagami took those vicious chops to the chest and then just took over.”

 

Parts of the crowd begin to cheer, as Francis waves his hand about a little… and more of the crowd gets behind him, stomping their feet and clapping their hands, as he rises to one knee! “Mak with an elbow to Kibagami’s gut… and another one—”

 

*Wham!*

 

Francis, after gaining enough space, blasts the ex clansman with a right hand to the jaw! Mark Hebner yells at him to open up his fist, but Francis doesn’t even acknolegde him, clenching his fist even tighter!! “He’s using a closed fist ref!” shouts Riley, while Mak rears back again and hits another straight right… and another… and another, backing Kibagami into the corner! “Francis mounting an offensive Riley! Here we go!” ‘The Franchise’ sends Nathan across in a cross corner whip and Kibagami hits the buckles, stumbling out, as Mak darts of the far ropes and takes him to the mat, from behind with a bulldog!! Most of the crowd knows what’s coming up next and prepare to be amused, as Francis slowly but surely pushes himself up to his feet. Mak wipes some blood from his nose away and then, to the surprise of the crowd, lunges towards the near ropes, bouncing off them with authority, before jumping and punching Kibagami square in the nose with a fist drop!! “No showmanship there from ‘the Franchise’, but never the less the truth hurts and some things just need to be said! Cover him Mak!”

 

 

ONE…!

 

 

 

TWO…!

 

 

 

T

H—

 

No! Mak just gets a two count, as Kibagami kicks out! “A switch has flipped, Riley! Mak Francis is on a roll and bringing it right to Nathaniel Kibagami! I never thought I’d see the day… Francis gets up to his feet… he waiting as Kibagami begins to stand and he looks like he’s setting up for the—”

 

*CRACK!*

 

—The Yakuza kick… but Kibagami still stands, only moving a step or two back, slightly wobbled!! Mak dismisses it though and the self proclaimed Franchise races forward again, raising his leg for the high kick—

 

*CRACK!*

 

—And it hits again… and Kibagami is still standing!!! But Stevens isn’t really worried about that, as something else has caught his eye. “Look at that! Look at his nose! He’s bleeding! See Mak, you made him bleed! He’s not invincible kid, so keep on him!! Give him another kick!!” Francis might not hear Stevens, but he takes his advice, rushing forward once more, raising his leg for the high kick—

 

*CRACK!*

 

—Which connects causing a cloud of sweat mixed with blood to fly off his challengers head! Kibagami takes the shot on the chin, but doesn’t fall, stumbling around in the center of the ring, as the self proclaimed Franchise backs up, readying himself for another Yakuza kick, exploding forward and sending his challenger to the mat, when dashing boot meets head!!

 

*CRACK!*

 

Francis leans on the ropes for support, as Nathan tries to shake the cobwebs out of his head sitting on one knee, in the center of the ring! Mak looks on, tired and zapped from all the energy he’s using up, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, mingling with the sweat! But he pushes on, exploding off the ropes again, raising his leg for another high kick—

 

“KIBAGAMI CAUGHT IT—Oh man, what’s going to happ—ENZUIGIRI! ENZUIGIRI!” shouts Stevens, going from trepidation to joy in two seconds flat! “Francis caught that kick FLUSH! Cover him Mak!” Francis scoots from his knees over into a cover, as Hebner gets into position, the crowd counting along…

 

“ONNNEEE…!

 

 

 

 

 

TWOOOOOOOOOO…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHHH…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—NOOOOOOOO!”

 

Francis stands and can’t believe it!! He stumbles around and falls into the ropes, looking at the ring positioning, he slides through the top and middle cable. “It looks like Francis’ going for International Incident’s trademark senton atomico, or possibly some other kind a slingshot maneu—what the hell! Silent is getting up to his feet!” Stevens’ little miscall isn’t left alone, by Bobby Riley as Mak changes his plans. “I thought his name was Kibagami, Stevens?”

 

“It was an honest mistake Riley. I mean, look at what he just got up from, even if he is bleed, most normal people don’t do that!”

 

As Kibagami stands to his near his full height Mak slingshots himself up and over top into a… “Sunset flip by the champ—One—NO! Roll through by—” Kibagami, as he rolls to his feet and…

 

“SHINNING WIZARD! SHINNING WIZARD!” squeals Riley, as Kibagami steps on the ICTV champs leg, and propels himself into the air, striking with a round knee straight to the nose!! Blood gushes from the Franchise nose, as Nathan’s shinning wizard, catches him completely off guard!! Kibagami holds his head for a brief second and crawls into the cover! The crowd comes alive for Kibagami at this near fall, because it was just down right cool to see!!

 

 

“ONNNEEE…!

 

 

 

 

 

TWOOOOOOOOOO…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHHH…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“YES!” screams Riley. “NOOO!” shouts Stevens, “FOOT ON THE ROPES! FRANCIS LIVES ON!”

 

 

Nathan looks to the referee, who indeed is pointing to Francis’ foot, which has found it’s way across the ropes. “Look at Francis, Mark. I’d say that was great ring awareness by the kid, but I don’t even think HE knew he did it!” And true to that statement, Mak Francis, with glossy eyes, face now covered in splotches off blood, in different sections, blinks in surprise at himself!

 

“Kibagami looking to finish this here and now with some ‘Rough Redemption’!”

 

Nathaniel hoists the self proclaimed Franchise up from the standing head scissors into the air for a Crucifix Powerbomb, BUT, and that a huge but, Mak slides down his back! Kibagami turns to recapture his prey when, Mak kicks him in the gut and absolutely DRILLS him onto the top of his head!

 

“Wow… both men are down after that sequence, so, let’s take a look at that replay…”

 

========

SWF Replay

========

 

Kibagami is hunched over at the waist and Mak grabs him into a front facelock, jumping back and dropping Nathan DIRECTLY on his noggin! As they run a different camera angle, you can almost FEEL his neck compressing into the canvas!! The ex clannite, prependicular to the mat, actually falls down onto his belly, in either great mat awareness, as the replay finishes up!

 

========

End Replay

========

 

“Francis went back to a move that would hit that injured neck! You have to think that his next attacks will too Riley!” The Franchise grasps the former clansman about the waist and his opponent, while still trying to shake off the effects of that sickening DDT, fires off a back elbow that hits Francis directly over the his right eyebrow! Kibagami connects with a second elbow, but Mak shakes off the pain, holding his grip like a pitbull, as he pops his hips in a—

 

*Thump!*

 

“German suplex by the Franchise, but he’s not letting go! Rolling Germans!!!” Kibagami gets pulled up to his feet with Francis, but doesn’t surrender to his suplex, and agilely runs into the ropes! Kibagami struggles to hold on, as Francis fights to break his grip! Kibagami fires off back elbows again, as Makl succeeds in pull him away, opening up a cut just above the Franchise’s eye, but still allowing Mak pops his hips in—

 

*Thump!*

 

—Another German suplex!! Francis rolls up to his feet again, with the crowd cheering both competitors on during this great contest, when Kibagami goes for the cut again, with another back elbow! Mak finally gets dazed some, as Nathan shoots off about his sixth elbow… but Francis ducks, tucking his head under the former Silent ones arm pit and hoisting him overhead in a—

 

*Thump!*

 

--Northern Lights suplex!! “He won’t give up damnit! Just give it up Francis!” shouts Riley, as Stevens has a heart attack at what’s starting to transpire… because Mak doesn’t hold the bridge – instead he falls to the canvas and uses momentum to pull him and Kibagami back up for another Northern lights suplex!! “CHAINED NORTHERN LIGHTS SUPLEXES! This is—this is… UNBELIEVABLE, Bobby!! He rolls over again—and HITS THE TRIFECTA!”

 

 

ONE…!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO…!

 

 

 

 

 

T

H

R

E—

 

NOOO! Kibagami bridged out with whatever strength he has left! The crowd marvels at the action, cheering like crazy as they rotate around… and into…, position for…. A back slide!!! “OH MY GOD! IF KIBAGAMI CAN HOIST FRANCIS ONTO HIS SHOULDERS!!!” The two men stress and strain, fighting over the hold…

 

 

…

 

 

…And Kibagami wins out—

 

“HE’S GOT HIM! UNION JA—NO! NO! MAK TRIPPED HIM UP!” Mak uses a leg lace trip causing Kibagami to fall face first!! Francis pushes himself off of his opponent and stands, backing away to set up…

 

“YAAAAAKUZA KICK!” screams Stevens!

 

*CRACK!*

 

—But Kibagami is still alive, only falling to one knee!! Mak just doesn’t care any more, tired or not, the self proclaimed Franchise races forward again, raising his leg for the high kick—

 

“KIBAGAMI CAUGHT IT—Last time Mak got an enzui—WHATTA BURNING LARIAT BY THE CHALLENGER!!”

 

“Francis is D-E-D, DEAD, Stevens!” yells Riley, as Nathan tries to regain his composure, dead tired from this match. Kibagami grabs both legs of the ICTV champ and sloppily tumbles forward into a surprising, bridged double leg pickup or Jack knife hold!! “COVER! COVER!” shills Riley, while Hebner counts the pin…

 

 

ONE…!

 

TWO…!

 

 

T

H—

 

No! Francis kicks out with a shoulder up! The crowd yells in shock as both men lie on the mat, weary and semi beaten. Both Kibagami and Francis get to their feet, and Mak dashes forward, as fast as he can anyways, leaping onto the ex-clansman, who does catch him… BUT ‘the Franchise’ shifts his weight down and Kibagami falls head over heels, as Francis clasps his hands together and bridges forcing Kibagami’s SHOULDERS TO THE MAT IN AN OKLAHOMA ROLL!

 

 

ONE…!

 

TWO…!

 

 

T

H—

 

 

NOOOOO! Kibagami bridges back, reversing the pin and sending Mak to the canvas with HIS shoulders pinned!!!,

 

 

ONE…!

 

TWO…!

 

 

T

H—

 

 

NOOOOO! Mak breaks the pin and rolls away, his back now facing Kibagami who stands slightly and yanks Francis down in a school boy!!! “SCHOOL BOY ROLL UP!”

 

 

ONE…!

 

TWO…!

 

 

T

H

R—

 

NOOOOOO! Francis drives a shoulder up off the mat and rolls off his back twist and rotating from his knees… HOPPING OVER KIBAGAMI WITH HIS LEGS WRAPPED AROUND THE ARM HE ATTEMPTED A SCHOOL BOY WITH INTO A LA MAJISTRAL CRADLE!!!! The crowd goes balistic at the counter counting along, as loud as possible!!!

 

 

“ONNNEEE…!

 

 

 

 

 

TWOOOOOOOOOO…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHHH…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—NOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Somehow…

 

Someway…

 

Nathaniel Kibagami kicks out!!!! The crowd explodes at the fast paces action and near falls, as nobody is in their seat!! This is what a true main event is supposed to feels like… adrenaline running high and everyone screaming their voice horse!!

 

But that’s not all Kibagami does… with Francis so close in he NAILS him with an elbow flush to the face, causing blood to rocket everywhere!! Mak falls in a heap, holding his nose, as Kibagami crawls into a pin, hooking the near leg just to get some kind of leverage!!

 

 

“ONNNEEE…!

 

 

 

 

 

TWOOOOOOOOOO…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHHH—NOOOOOOOO! COUNTER~!!!!”

 

 

Stevens screams, as Francis kicks out—

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!

 

—But not only does the self proclaimed Franchise kick out… he grabs a hold of Nathan’s left arm and transitions beautifully into a Fujiwara armbar!! Kibagami struggles on the mat, as Mak looks at his ring positioning and sees that he has enough room, then, the self proclaimed Franchise releases the fujiwara, snitching in a half nelson, then securing the other arm for a full nelson, and flips forward into the Cattle Mutilation~!!

 

“OM MY GOD! CATTLE MUTILATION! Michael Craven and Stryke have both tapped to this devastating hold and now the question is, with a perinenially hurt neck can—COUNTER!” shouts Stevens, as Kibagami slides his arm close together and forces Mak’s bridge to lessen. He then slipps his arms out from between Francis’ in perfect position for a move like a dragon sleeper, back to belly with him!! He grabs the weary champion and hoists him up, looking for what could only be assumed a backdrop driver or some other head drop – but it doesn’t matter as Francis rolls through at the top and rolls through into Flying leg roll up!!!

 

 

 

Mak gets pushed off and runs forward using the momentum to leap onto the second rope and as Kibagami stands, and moves closer to him the Franchise LEAPS, TWISTING A MID AIR SCISSORING HIS LEGS UNDER NATHAN’S ARM AND ROLLING FORWARD INTO A CRADLE!!

 

“A springboard Forward rolling cradle!! REVERSE VICTORY ROLL!! THIS HAS TO BE IT!”

 

 

 

“ONNNEEE…!

 

 

 

 

 

TWOOOOOOOOOO…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHHH…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—YESSSSSSSS!”

 

 

*DING! DING! DING!

 

“The winner of this match, ‘THE FRANCHISE’ MAAAAAK FRANCISSSSSSS!”

 

Kibagami kicks out, as Mak release the roll up and falls onto his back, blood from his face dropping onto the mat. “This was—this was just an unbelievable war between these two men, who are both bloody and beaten, all for the SWF ICTV TITLE!” The crowd stays on their feet and claps as Hebner once again drapes the belt across theprone body of Mak Francis! “You can take nothing away from Nathan Kibagami or Silent or whatever you want to call him. I have a feeling that his first SWF title is not all too far away! This is Mark Stevens, for Bobby Riley, good night and keeping swinging for the fences!”

 

SWF Lockdown©

A White Apple© Production