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SWF Storm - February 4th!

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Lockdown is set to get underway, but somebody's a little late. Or so it seems, as we cut backstage to where a long, black, stretch limousine is pulling up into the arena. The limo parks up and the driver quickly exits, opening the door for...


"Alan Clark!?!" questions King. "Aren't limousines for important people anymore?"


Clark stops with a smile, taking a deep breath of fresh air before making way for Megan Skye to follow out behind him. Close behind Megan comes the SWF Hardcore Gamers Champion Todd Cortez, carrying the belt he is to defend later in the night. And bringing up the rear is, of course, the CLUSTERFUCK CHAMPION '05~!, Landon 'ICTVUSJLCF Champion' Maddix.


"Martial Law in the hiz-ouse." chuckles Maddix as he pulls out his glut of gold from the back of the limo. "And, riding in style might I add. I feel like I should be holding up four fingers or something."


"That'd make me The Enforcer, Todd Cortez, right?"


"I guess."


"And I'd be Baby Doll, of course." Megan adds.


"What does that make me then?" asks Clark expentantly.


"...Paul Roma."




"So, you guys wanna do this?"


Clark, Megan and Cortez nod in unison and with a smile, Maddix points the way on towards the entrance, letting out a little 'WHOOOOO' as they go.

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The cameras sweep around the Viking Hall Arena in Philly as the fans leap to their feet, bearing many lovingly-crafted and witty signs varying from ‘BLOODSPORT!!!’ and the ever-present ‘MUCH MORE MADDIX!’ to ‘SCOT PRETZEL CANT SPELL~!!!11’. Cutting away from the screaming audience the TV picture refocuses on the announce desk where Longdogger Pete and Suicide King sit resplendent in their… well it’s not Spandex, so let’s all be grateful.


“Welcome to STORM!” Pete bellows gleefully. “At Clusterfuck we saw three amazing matches, and we’ll be getting the fallout from them tonight! We saw Dace Night and Toxxic wrestle to a draw in their Pure Wrestling match, but the crowd manage to persuade both men to restart it and Dace finally managed to get that elusive win over the Straight-Edge Sensation!”


“No he didn’t,” King grumbles, “the official result was a draw! Dace is just a bad… drawer…”


“…then we had the Clusterfuck itself, which saw Landon Maddix come through adversity and strife to be crowned as the Clusterfuck winner of 2005, and win a title shot at From The Fire!” Pete continues.


“Worse and worse,” King mutters. “All the time I spent keeping that idiot out of the main event, and the rest of the roster just decides to lay down and let him get a guaranteed World Title shot?”


“-and lastly,” Pete soldiers on, shooting a sideways glare at his commentary partner, “we saw a violent and explosive main event as ‘The Franchise’ Mak Francis finally got his revenge on Sacred for the career-threatening injury Sacred inflicted on him so long ago!”


“Not by wrestling though!” King fires back. “No, the approach of actually playing fair is completely beyond Francis! He has to use a weapon to beat Sacred in the head, getting himself disqualified in the process! It was only the arrival of Revolution Zero that made proceedings bearable-”


Before either announcer can go any further the Suicide King is cut off by the Smarktron whiting out and the opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire crashing out over the Viking Hall. The screen quickly darkens to black, jagged white letters flashing up a familiar slogan as it does so:




As the guitar riff starts the black screen shifts and becomes the top of a spiky-haired head that raises and stares out with piercing grey eyes before a lopsided grin creases the right-hand side of Toxxic's face. The bass drum starts and clips of his matches flash up - the All-Show Brawl with the Insane Luchador, the infamous Glass Jawbreaker on Aecas, dropping Nathaniel Kibagami on his head with the Caffeine Bomb and the Super Intoxxication that won him the World Title - before moving onto footage of Toxxic taking Mike Van Siclen off a balcony and through a table, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the four blasts of red pyro that climb the entrance ramp before the final, stagewide eruption-




-that announces the arrival of the SWF’s premier straight-edger! An arrival that Philly is unsurprisingly rather hostile to as they see the man who closed out Clusterfuck by assaulting on of their favourite sons…




Toxxic evidently doesn’t care what the crowd thinks of him as he makes his way down the ramp, clearly still a little sore from his match with Dace Night but otherwise none the worse for wear.


“Ladies and gentlemen,” Funyon booms as the Brit rolls under the ropes and into the ring, “from Nottingham, England; the leader of Revolution Zero, this is the ‘Straight-Edge Sensation’… TOXXXXXXX-IIIIIIIIIIIIC!!”






“Thank you, I love you too,” the Straight-Edge Sensation says straight-faced as he takes the mic from Funyon. “How lovely to be back in Philadelphia.”




“You know, on the 6th February 2004 in the Ervin J. Nutter Center a rookie made his debut in front of a largely uncaring crowd,” Toxxic tells the fans in attendance. “That rookie beat Jacob Helmsley - remember him? - with a small package. And we all know who that rookie grew up to be, don’t we?”




“Well I never, Philadelphia does know,” King exclaims in mock surprise.




“Yup, that’s right,” Toxxic says, grinning lopsidedly. “Not quite a year on and here I am; as of Lockdown, I will officially no longer be a rookie - you might call it the end of an era. I will however still be the two-time former World Champion, and Number One Contender to that same title once again.”






“You might be wondering where my match with Dace Night fits into this-”




“-and the answer is… it doesn’t,” Toxxic continues. “I lasted the time limit given - and suggested by Dace, I might add - so the official result for Clusterfuck was a draw,” Toxxic tells the fans. “I managed to outlast Dace at his own game. Now of course afterwards everyone was shouting for ‘five more minutes’… and I gave in. I went back into that ring and yes, Dace took me down in short order. But I’m not bothered - he finally got his ‘win’ over me, even if it was unofficial, but that doesn’t affect where I’m going next.”


Toxxic turns his attention towards the back, and the grin disappears.


“The World Heavyweight Title. But just as importantly for me right now… Sacred.”


The reaction of Philadelphia to this remark is mixed. Some fans boo the name of the Sacred One, some cheer at the thought of seeing him and Toxxic beat the crap out of each other. Regardless, Toxxic pays it little mind.


“The last anyone here saw of Sacred he’d just retained his World Title after Mak Francis got himself disqualified… and he’d just been taken out by us. He’d just been taken out by Revolution Zero.”


“Why would they do that?” Pete asks Suicide King. “Why turn on their own member?”


“Sacred,” Toxxic continues, apparently addressing the World Champion, “I spoke to you before your title match against Landon. I told you - I promised you - that you could say there and then that you wanted out of the Revolution, and we would let you go. Sure, I’d be coming for the title if you won it, but that would be that; business, nothing more. Or, you could stay in the Revolution, keep all the benefits of having us watch your back… but I’d still be the leader, because you haven’t got what it takes.”






“The one thing I warned you not to do,” Toxxic emphasises, “was to say you were a part of the Revolution, then leave if you won the title. I promised you that if that happened, I would hunt you down and take you out, that I would destroy you. I don’t think you took me seriously Sacred, because from the moment you won that belt until Clusterfuck, we didn’t see hide nor hair of you. And that pretty much gave us all the answer we needed.”


The Straight-Edge Sensation’s grey eyes are boring into the Smarktron, seemingly trying to see through to the backstage area.


“By a happy chance, you’re World Champion and I’m the Number One Contender. That means no-one gets to your belt before me, and so I can start my third title reign and take you out at the same time. You have no idea how happy that makes me, Andrew. Bear this in mind; Mak wanted you so bad that he took a chair to your head. I don’t need weapons, so I will take your title as well. And if you think that I’m bluffing… if you think that I’m not just as fearsome an opponent as Francis… if, in fact, you think that you’re gonna be able to squirm your way out of this one, then sunshine…”


The lopsided grin creeps up the right hand side of Toxxic’s face once more and the Philadelphia crowd start to jeer and whistle, knowing that the catchphrase is coming next…











…but Toxxic is cut off in mid-sentence as the opening of Incubus’ ‘Megalomaniac’ blasts out of the speakers, and Philly rises to its feet as Landon Maddix strides out from the back, eyes fixed on the ring and microphone in hand!


“It’s the Clusterfuck winner!” Pete shouts as La Cucaracha salutes the crowd who are going nuts. “King, Landon Maddix is in tha house!”


“Is this clown even house-trained?” King asks in despair as Landon locks eyes with the Straight-Edge Sensation, who is clearly unhappy at being interrupted.






Even with Toxxic boring holes in him from the ring Landon is grinning as the Philadelphia fans chant his name, but La Cucaracha doesn’t delay too long in raising the microphone to his lips.


“Uhm, hello? HELLO?" yells Landon. "Clusterfuck Champion here!"




Toxxic's lip curls slightly as he glares at Maddix from the ring.


"Am I missing something here? I arrive in the arena, in a swank little limo...like a star should. I load my FOUR title belts into my locker room...like a real star would. And then, I figure, since this is the first show after the Clusterfuck, I'd come down and kick off the show with a little boasting about becoming the youngest Clusterfuck winner ever. But I get to they curtain and they tell me 'Oh, Toxxic's already out there. Toxxic's already talking. Toxxic's time. Toxxic's talk. Toxxic, Toxxic, Toxxic.' Kid, let me introduce you to something us veterans like to call a pecking order."


"Did...he just call himself a veteran?" asks the befuddled King.


"At the top...the World Heavyweight Champion. NOT you. Then, youngest Clusterfuck winner ever and Intercontinental Television Champion. Again, NOT you. Then...well, I guess after Clusterfuck, Dace Night would be high up. Johnny Dangerous. Stryke. I'm sure Dagda would like to talk about his 'Fuck exploits. Oh...and THEN, there's the fallen star. Now THAT, would be you."


"So, where does the number one contender fit into your little 'pecking order' then?" snaps Toxxic


"You know Toxxic, I’m wondering how you can call yourself the Number One Contender,” Landon continues, “when you only beat Johnny Dangerous for the honour and I went through nineteen other wrestlers - including Johnny Dangerous - to win my title shot at From The Fire!”








Landon keeps grinning, but Toxxic looks severely unimpressed from the ring as he leans on the ropes and eyes the Huron native standing on the soundstage.


“Landon… don’t blame me if the bookers don’t trust you enough to give you a Contendership match,” Toxxic tells him.




“…there is still sanity in this company…” King is heard to whisper.


“And what’s this ‘only Johnny Dangerous’ crap?” Toxxic asks Landon, who’s no longer grinning. “Don’t get me wrong; that Superspy nonce in his trench coat, shades, stupid amounts of hair gel and self-satisfied attitude can go fellate a tiger for all I care, but unless my figures are completely wrong he still held the World Title for longer than you, sunshine-”




“-and managed to defend it successfully as well,” Toxxic concludes, grinning up at Landon. “You got a response to that… Mr. Fucker?”


Landon’s jaw tightens, and slowly the man from South Dakota starts to walk down to the ring.






Whether or not Landon has violence on his mind is anyone’s guess; however, he does roll under the ropes and enter the ring not three feet away from where Toxxic is standing. Toxxic makes no move either towards or away as Landon gets to his feet and brushes his hair back from his face.


“Yeah, I’ve got a response,” Landon tells the straight-edger. “One: I’ve beat you, you’ve never beaten me.”




“Two: You can’t beat Dace Night anymore. Getting old?”




“And thirdly,” Landon continues, his own grin starting to return, “you might be getting to Sacred first and yes, you might get a third World Title run out of it, but that doesn’t matter, because come From The Fire you’ve got an another appointment with the Land of Nod!”








“So you’ve come down to this ring getting all ‘intense’ and threatening Sacred, who’s probably still bust up from the asskicking Mak Francis gave him at Clusterfuck and maybe not even here,” Landon tells the British punk. “That's fine, but just remember that no matter what happens, the World Champion will face me at From The Fire… and you don’t exactly have a good record against me, do you?”


Toxxic’s jaw tightens as he glares at Landon, who simply stares back. The two young men adjust position slightly, easing into fighting stances… but then Toxxic laughs and cracks his neck from side-to-side, stepping back from his adversary.


“Landon, I won’t deny you put in a good performance at Clusterfuck,” Toxxic tells him. “Dawdling down the aisle while Todd was getting beat on, and throwing Clark out over the top rope - these are actions I can applaud,” the straight-edger continues, grinning. “But if you’ll excuse me, I have to go now. I will beat Sacred, and I will beat you at From The Fire. Nighty-night.”


Toxxic drops to the mat and rolls out under the bottom rope, but as the Straight-Edge Sensation starts to head up he entrance ramp the voice of Landon Maddix rings out through the PA system.




The straight-edger turns and looks back, but keeps walking backwards up the ramp as he does so.


“What makes you think anything’s going to be any different at From The Fire?” Landon asks. “You still haven’t beaten me! And after Sean eliminated Spike on Sunday, do you really think you’re going to have Revolution Zero to back you up? Your time has gone Toxxic. You guys used to hold ALL the gold. Now, you've got the Cruiserweight Title, which means jack with the words 'Spike Jenkins' on it anyway. What help are Revolution Zero gonna be to you exactly?”


Toxxic declines to respond for a few moments as he continues his slow, backward progress up the ramp, but as he reaches the soundstage his trademark lopsided grin appears again.


“I was thinking you might say something like that Landon,” the Brit replies, “and I’ve wondered it myself. But you see, I’ve got a new advisor - NOT a new member of Revolution Zero, just someone I’ve brought in to give me a few pointers. He’ll be helping me prepare for Sacred whenever I meet him… and he just so happens to know you very, very well.”


Landon’s face only shows confusion, and the crowd don’t seem to be any wiser either. Grinning, Toxxic raises the mic to his mouth again.


“He might not have quite taught you everything you know… but he is going to teach me everything you know!”


“Could Toxxic have found Todd Royal?” Pete wonders. “He might not be all that happy about how his Disciple has outshone him!”


“No, I don’t think so…” King murmurs.


Landon still doesn’t seem to have caught on, so Toxxic lifts the mic one more time.


“Come on Landon - it doesn’t take a genius to work it out!”




Comprehension dawns for Landon Maddix as the soundstage is bathed in purple light and ‘Genius’ by Pitchshifter kicks up over the PA system, and as the crowd rise to their feet in universal derision a smirking man with long black hair emerges for the first time in several months.


“IT’S CHRIS CARD!” Pete yells as Technical Perfection himself clasps Toxxic’s hand warmly. “From Toxxic’s hometown of Nottingham! The two of them must have formed some sort of alliance!”


“And don’t forget Card’s history with Landon!” King interjects eagerly as Maddix’s jaw scrapes the canvas. “Chris Card was hired by a publicly-minded person-”


“-publicly minded?”


“-to limit the damage Landon could do with tanking buyrates and disgraceful exhibitions of so-called ‘wrestling’,” King continues, paying no attention to Pete’s interruption. “It’s to his credit that Chris managed to keep the simple-minded Maddix occupied with the ICTV title for so long, despite his overwhelming ego!”


“You’re a fine one to talk, King,” LDP sighs. “OK SWF fans, we need to take a break. Stay tuned for new boy Scott Pretzler facing Carnage, after this commercial break!"





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“The Critic” Scott Pretzler is standing in the ring, microphone in hand. He waits for the crowd’s negative reaction to subside and raises the mic to speak.


“I hate people who are stupider than me.”




“And yes, that does include most of you.”




“But I ask you… is that a crime? Is recognition of my own superiority a punishable offense? I never thought so. I still don’t think so. And yet it’s now become clear to me that somebody here does. That somebody here has taken an immediate and very strong dislike to me.”


He smoothes his hair, clears his throat, and continues.


“How else can one explain the fact that tonight, in my first-ever match here in the Smarks Wrestling Federation, I have been booked into a “Hardcore” competition against the three-hundred-and-seven-pound block of compacted fecal matter known as Carnage? If I didn’t know better, I might even say that someone here is out to get me.”


He lowers the microphone and looks around smugly. Audience members groan as they collectively realize that they are about to listen to another long-winded Helmsleyan interview. Pretzler’s expression turns thoughtful.


“But why?, I ask. What have I done to hurt anyone here? Yes, I have made a few disparaging remarks toward certain members of the roster. But none of these comments were meant to be innately inflammatory; on the contrary, my words and writings are nothing more than constructive criticism. I love this business, and I want it to be the very best that it can be. Is that evil? No, it is not. And as for my so-called ego – you know what? I’m a pretty damn good wrestler.” He says this last line in an unbearably unctuous tone, drawing another round of boos from the audience. He seems satisfied by the reaction. “If you ask me, it’s probably just more egalitarian chickenshit; the management is attempting to stifle my talents in order to give slugs like Carnage an equal opportunity at success.


“Enough about me, though. Because the truth is, unfair as this match may be, I really have no choice but to take part in it. And so when I was told the details of the match – once I got over my own indignation, that is – I decided to go back and watch some tapes of Carnage’s previous matches. I wanted to know what I was up against.


“I had reviewed much of his work for my internet column, of course, but I wanted to study it in detail. To become familiar with every move he did, every aspect of his style. So I dug up a tape of a recent Lockdown show. Popped it into the VCR. And would you imagine my surprise…


“…when I found the match to be so god-awful that I shut off the television after less than two minutes? I later learned that there had only been one more minute to go, as the easily-winded Carnage has spent too much time at the buffet table to wrestle even an average-length match. He may very well be the worst wrestler in the world today.”


Carnage’s fans disagree, of course, and even those who don’t like Carnage are enraged by the aura of arrogance and condescension given off by The Critic.


“If this were a normal match, with rules, I would have been quite relievedto discover that this lumbering mongoloid was my opponent. But it is not. I was therefore faced with a decision: I could surrender my dignity and engage in a violent brawl filled with blood and mindless weapon shots, or I could do what I came here to do.


“Which is to bring technical wrestling back to North America. So after a short period of thinking, I came to my decision.


“And that is why, during my match tonight, I vow that I will make absolutely no use of the foreign objects available to me. I will defeat Carnage, fair and square, in a clean and untainted wrestling match. A match that will make all of you appreciate the beauty of technical wrestling.”


The Ninth Symphony begins to play as he steps under the top rope and heads down the steps. About halfway up the ramp he pauses. Gazes out over the arena.


“I’ve got a new motto, you know, that sums up just about everything I feel about this business and perhaps life in general. Chances are it’ll be on my t-shirt when the Smarkzone gets the sense to start selling them. It goes like this:


“Shut up and wrestle.”


He assumes a mock tough guy pose.



“Catchy, huh?”

Edited by Chuck Woolery

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SWF Storm returns after a short commercial break, and is greeted by the song “After the Flesh”! The music kicks up loudly and the fans rise to their feet cheering with everything they have!


“We are back here LIVE,” pipes Longdogger Pete, “at the SOLD-OUT in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and it looks like we’re about to hear from the man who lasted over forty six minutes in the Clusterfuck Battle Royal – Johnny Dangerous!”


Johnny steps out onto the stage, greeted by a booming cheer from the Philadelphia fans as he does, stopping him at the top of the ramp. He looks out at the fans through his high-tech shades, but his expression is rather bleak – that alone is a rather odd occurrence for the Barracuda. He just looks, with one hand clutching the strap to his tag title resting over his shoulder. Finally, he makes his way down towards the ring. Not once does he raise his arms to the fans or give any high-fives to those crowded around the barricade – he simply walks past everyone and climbs in the ring.


“Johnny seems a little unpleasant tonight,” Pete notes with a raised brow. “I wonder what’s going through his mind.”


“Hell if I were him I’d do more than that,” replies the Suicide King. “Johnny went longer than anybody in the Clusterfuck match – coming in at number three and lasting all the way to the end! He didn’t even get pinned to loose the match…he just wasn’t there to break the final fall. He’s got to be kicking himself for that one,” King snorts. “What a waste of energy.”


“Jesus Christ, King, way to make somebody feel good about a hard effort,” says Pete. “He can be proud to say he lasted so long even if he didn’t win!”


“Every time I last for forty six minutes is a winning night for me,” adds King, smiling, and getting a rather disgusted look from his announcing partner.


“After the Flesh” fades away as Johnny takes a microphone from Ginger Wood; the lovely ring assistant, and even she is left without her usual winks from the Secret Agent. She slumps her shoulders, sighing as she heads back to her ferocious looking, steel plated chair – knowing that somebody was bound to take even that from her soon enough.


“Well,” begins Johnny. The fans quiet down, anxious to see what the secret agent has for them tonight, “here I am. Unfortunately, I can’t come out here with any better news for you guys than that.”


“Alright then,” says King. “Thank you, good bye. Next, please!”


“Will you be quiet,” pleads Pete


“At Clusterfuck I thought my dream was about to become fulfilled,” continues the Barracuda, “my dream to once again become the World Heavyweight Champion and prove to everyone that Johnny Dangerous is anything but a fluke. All I had to do was win the Clusterfuck, and I would have another shot at the title at from the Fire.”


“I survived eighteen other men. People like Charlie Matthews-”




“…the Boston Strangler-”




“…even my best friend, the Wildchild!”




“One by one they all got thrown over the top until it was down to the final three - Landon Maddix, Stryke, and myself. Victory was so close I could taste it!”


“I don’t know what he thought he was tasting,” says King, “but it sure wasn’t victory.”


“We know he didn’t win, now will you let the man talk?”


“I reached down and grabbed Stryke by his leg,” says Johnny, dropping down to one knee, “and had the Barracuda locked in. It was over! I knew it! I could feel Stryke about to tap when Landon Maddix kicked me in the face and knocked me out of the ring!”


He slowly stands back up to his feet – the fans watching silently as Johnny mulls over his thoughts before continuing.


“I lay there, on the outside of the ring,” continues Johnny. “I was dazed, but I knew I had to get back up and so I did. It was then after I stood up, that I looked into the ring…only to see Landon’s hand being raised high in victory.”


“Once more, victory had escaped me. Twice in a row.”


“He did loose a number one contendership match to Toxxic,” says Pete, “on the Smarkdown before Clusterfuck.”


“That he did,” adds King, “and now Toxxic is headed for a three-peat with the SWF World Heavyweight Championship.”


“Now,” says Johnny, “not only do I get to watch Toxxic make his way towards the World title once again-”




Cutting Johnny off, the fans let their feelings on the Straight-Edge Sensation be heard, and the thought of seeing a second reign of dominating title run stirs up some chants:







“That’s right,” the Barracuda adds, “Toxxic sucks, doesn’t he?”




“But he beat me,” replies Johnny, instantly silencing the crowd when they realize what the Barracuda is saying, “Toxxic beat me.”


“Ha!” snorts King. “If Toxxic sucks and he beat Johnny, then what does that say about the Barracuda?”


“It doesn’t mean anything,” replies Pete. “Toxxic got the duke on Johnny that night, that’s all.”


Johnny continues, “On top of that, now I have to stand from the sidelines while watching Landon make a second run at the World Title. No offense to Mr. Maddix meant, but I’m getting a little tired of watching everyone else beat me when it really counts. Every time there is a ‘big match’ it seems like I loose. Ground Zero, Genesis five and four, two Clusterfucks in a row…”


He stops, not wanting to ramble on too far and just looks down. The fans don’t utter a word, they just watch – totally silent as they witness the Barracuda starting to crack. Finally, he adjust the title belt on his shoulder then raises the microphone back to his lips.


“After returning to the SWF,” he says, “I thought everything from the past would change. I was a former World Champion now, and I had spent all my time training hard while I was away. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to have done much at all…and I think,” Johnny looks out at the fans, who are still watching him intently. He knows these people love to see him perform, but right now it was the last thing he wanted to do. He lowers his head and continues, “…that I’ve had just…about…enough!”


With that said he drops the microphone to the floor then exits the ring. The crowd watches him, still remaining silent, as the Barracuda heads up the ramp. No music, no raised hands, nothing…and then he swipes aside the curtains and heads backstage…









As we:


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“And now folks, after days of hype, we will see at last whether Scott Pretzler’s bite is as bad as his bark!” says Pete as Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony thunders through the arena.


“Ladies and gentleman… the following contest is a HARDCORE MATCH scheduled for ONE FALL!


“First, from Toronto Ontario, weighing two hundred twenty six pounds and making his debut in the Smarks Wrestling Federation… “THE CRITIC” SCOTT PRETZLER!”




Without pyro, pomp, or circumstance, the proud young Canadian swaggers out through the entryway. He stops and stands there, hands on his hips and head held high, and an unmistakable air of confidence surrounds him. As he walks down to the ring, the boos arrange themselves into a chant:






“Well, at least they’re creative,” sneers King.


“As you all know, earlier tonight Mr. Pretzler vowed, swore…”


“Pretzler is an atheist.”


“Well, he promised that he would make no use of the weapons available to him during this hardcore match. If he does live up to said promise, you’ve got to think that the advantage will go to Carnage.”


The Critic takes his time descending the ramp, then climbs the steps and slips under the top rope.


“And his opponent…”


As the lights darken, dim white fog begins to rise around the entryway. Suddenly, red and white pyro shoot into the air as Drowning Pool’s “Bodies” explodes over the speaker system!






“…from Parts Unknown, weighing three hundred seven pounds and being accompanied to the ring by Frisco and Candace… CARRRRRRRNAGE!”


The hulking figure of Carnage bursts out of the entryway alongside his female valets. In his massive right hand, he carries a fearsome-looking baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.




Carnage’s appearance draws a mixed response, but for the first time this response is made up predominantly of cheers.


“It seems, King,” Pete points out, “that many members of this crowd are actually on their feet for this man.”


“Well, I suppose it makes sense - the only thing hateful enough to make the audience support Carnage is… an actual wrestler. Gotta love the modern fan, Pete.”


“Regardless of what you think of him, it’s impossible to deny that Carnage has shown a softer side in recent weeks.”


“A Sensitive Psychopath?”


“Indeed. If I recall correctly, he even proposed marriage to Candace after the conclusion of his last match. Still, he’s not a guy to, how should I put this… fuck with.”


Uninterested in the fans’ reaction, Carnage marches in the direction of the ring. His expression is hard to read; but as he stares down at the weapon in his hand and then back up at his opponent, it’s more than clear that violence is on his mind.


Pretzler, meanwhile, continues to size up his foe. If he is afraid, he’s determined not to let that fear show.


Frisco and Candace take their places at ringside, the tension between them evident.


Carnage rolls under the bottom rope and climbs slowly to his feet. His eyes are on Pretzler the entire time.


“I’m really not so sure that you’re right about Carnage having the advantage,” begins King. “One thing you have to consider is that Carnage knows nothing about Pretzler. All the SWF wrestlers have heard from him is talk. Pretzler, at least, has seen and analyzed Carnage’s work for his column – we can expect that he’s formulated a strategy.”


“What makes you think Carnage hasn’t studied Pretzler’s work?”


“You think that guy watches anything other than snuff films?”




The instant the bell rings, Carnage charges wildly at Pretzler with the barbed wire bat. He swings blindly and ferociously, but Pretzler is able to duck in the nick of time.




The bat nearly flies from Carnage’s grip as it bounces off the top rope. Pretzler ducks into a shooting position…


…but is thrown from his feet as the bat crashes into his side!


He groans and rolls over, and Carnage is on him in a second, pounding away relentlessly with the weapon!






“I bet Pretzler wasn’t expecting that!” Pete exclaims joyfully.


“Of… of course he was. Trust me, he has a plan.”


The beating continues. Blood is beginning to splatter on Carnage’s white shirt.


“This is sick!” screams King, now audibly distraught.


Finally, Pretzler is able to roll under the bottom rope and onto the floor, away from Carnage’s attack. He picks himself up and warily pulls himself along the guardrail.


Carnage watches without making a motion.


“Pretzler is a true opportunist. Just look at what he’s doing right now.”


“Running away?” Pete asks sarcastically.


“No, you idiot. He’s bending the hardcore rules to his own advantage. Because there are no count-outs, he can stay out there as long as he wants. Brilliant.”


This is evidently not true, as Pretzler’s path brings him face to face with Frisco and Candace. Frisco runs forward, and, before security can restrain her, delivers a hard punch to Pretzler’s face! Pretzler falls against the apron, spits at her, then turns and rolls back into the ring.

Again, Carnage attacks with the bat, but this time Pretzler is too quick. Scooting forward in a crouch, he tackles the psycho by the legs and brings him down to the mat. The bat falls from Carnage’s hand.




“How did he do that?” shouts Pete.


“Speed and technique, my friend. Not to mention the element of surprise.”


With the enemy down, Pretzler now advances toward the upper body, floating across the still-prone Carnage’s chest and applying a front headlock. He tries to tighten it, but Carnage is able to climb to one knee, where he has the leverage to lay in a series of punches.




As each blow connects with Pretzler’s side, his grip weakens. Carnage is now on both feet. Realizing that he is about to lose control of the situation, Pretzler releases the hold while at the same time grabbing Carnage’s right arm. He holds on to the arm as he spins behind Carnage’s back.


“HAMMERLOCK!” King shouts, as if Pretzler has just won the World title.


To everyone’s surprise, Carnage ducks backward under Pretzler’s arm and wrenches it behind him, effectively reversing the hold!


“Look out, Flesher! Takada take heed! Carnage is going technical!” King’s tone drips with sarcasm. Seconds later, Pretzler performs the same reversal. Carnage is once again the recipient of a vise-like hammerlock. This time, Pretzler reaches up with his other hand and tries to clamp on a Crossface Chickenwing.


But it is not to be, because resting at Carnage’s feet is the barbed wire bat. He shoots his free arm forward and grabs the bat, the swings it haphazardly upward at what he hopes is Pretzler’s face.



He connects!


The Critic staggers back and intentionally falls through the ropes to the outside. But this time… Carnage follows him!


“And already, ladies and gentleman, blood is streaming down the back of Scott Pretzler,” Pete points out.




“It’s clear that Pretzler’s strategy is to slow the match down and wear Carnage out. If he continues to lose blood, every minute will be a strike against him.”


Pretzler is high-tailing it once again. He tries to leap over the guardrail, only to be caught by Carnage who whacks him with the bat. Slumping against the barricade, Pretzler throws up his hands and is partially successful at deflecting the next shot. The referee attempts to discourage Carnage, but it is no use – in a match like this, anything goes.





Doing all he can to take advantage of the momentary distraction, Pretzler jerks his foot forward and slams it into the shin of Carnage. Getting to his feet, he again tries to tackle Carnage by the legs. Carnage is ready this time, but as he staggers backward his path is blocked by the steel steps! His foot strikes the bottom step, and he loses his footing, falling back against the unforgiving structure as Pretzler adds more weight.




A SICKENING sound reverberates through the arena as Carnage’s head collides with the top step. Pretzler is on him in an instant.





With his opponent draped vertically across the steps, Pretzler clambers on top of his body and lays into him with a vicious series of elbow strikes. Fans everywhere cringe as each blow connects with Carnage’s head.


“As if the man’s mind wasn’t damaged enough already!” Pete pleas helplessly.


Pretzler’s hands sink into the greasy mess of black hair that sits like a dead animal on Carnage’s head. He drags Carnage off the steps and lets him flop to the floor, then drops down parallel to him and applies a crossface headlock. All of this contact with Pretzler’s body has left Carnage’s white undershirt a deep shade of pink.


“Obviously, Pretzler is tenderizing Carnage’s neck in preparation for the Snowflake Clutch,” explains King.


“You’re probably right, King, which is something I can’t say too often. He also takes a liking to that Tildebang Driver, but there’s no way he has the strength to hit a move like that on Carnage.”


Carnage is struggling wildly. The impact with the steps has left his head ringing, and the ensuing elbows only added to the damage. Now, as Pretzler cranks back on the neck hold, Carnage realizes for the first time that the odds may not be in his favor.




As the referee rushes to Carnage’s side, Frisco and Candace both grab hold of him and pull him back. They argue with him, clearly trying to buy time.


“This is unfair!” shouts Frisco. “He hit me!” She points to Pretzler, who of course did no such thing. “That guy punched me in the face!” It’s unclear whether the tactic was of any use. There’s no question, though, that Carnage has regained his senses, as he is now on his knees and is driving his elbows into the gut of Pretzler.


Carnage’s superior strength wins out, and the hold is broken. As Pretzler tries to adjust, his opponent whirls around and nearly murders him with a HUGE Mongolian Chop!


“What impact!” bellows Pete.


Pretzler topples and hits the protective mat with a hideous smack. Carnage lays on top of him for the cover.






















The first cover of the match is not quite enough to spell death for the rookie. Frustrated, Carnage hooks him in the jaw and pins him again.
















This time, Carnage is barely able to score even a two count. He gets up, frustrated, and looks over at the barbed-wire bat lying by the steps. Should he go for it? No. Instead, he stomps on Pretzler for good measure and crawls over to the edge of the ring. Ducks under the apron. Meanwhile, the referee checks on the not-quite-deep gashes left by the bat in Pretzler’s flesh. Pretzler is dazed, but he can clearly see what is going on – Carnage is searching for a weapon. And his back is exposed, giving Pretzler the perfect opening for an attack.


“Go for it!” Suicide King desperately exhorts Scott. But the Canadian is out of earshot, and anyway, he has made up his mind.


He walks back to the steps and picks up the barbed-wire baseball bat. For a moment, it seems that he has finally surrendered his integrity to the allure of the weapon.


No! With a mighty yell, he hurls the bat into the crowd!


Pretzler had good intentions – by discarding the bat, he hoped to deprive Carnage of his favorite weapon. But he also made a grave mistake. Because while he was busy, Carnage finished what he was doing, and at this very moment a steel chair hangs in the air above Pretzler’s head.




“Like a house of cards caught in a hurricane, Pretzler’s body simply gave way beneath him!” Pete is elated. “This has got to be it.”


Dragging Pretzler to his feet, Carnage rolls both him and the chair under the bottom rope, then enters the ring himself. Pretzler, now fully at the mercy of Carnage’s terrifying strength, is fighting a losing battle.


And the audience is loving it.






Once in, the Deranged One moves the chair to the center of the ring and adjusts his mask, then turns back to Pretzler. But to his shock (and sadistic amusement), Pretzler is moving! Still on his back, he uses his legs to push himself across the ring in a direction opposite Carnage. He leaves behind a hideous trail of blood.


“This is just awful,” says King. “Just horrible. Scott Pretzler came to the SWF hoping to show people the beauty of technical wrestling, and here he is, in his first match, being treated like a human pincushion. And these people are loving it!”


Pretzler reaches the ropes. Clings to them for dear life.


Carnage grabs hold of his feet and tugs. His strength has been sapped, but he still has more than enough to loosen Pretzler’s grip. Doesn’t he?


“If I didn’t know better, I would say that Carnage intends to tombstone him onto that steel chair!”


“There’s got to be a reason for all this! Somehow, Pretzler must have it all figured out. I know it.”


“You wish, King. You wish.”


Carnage continues to tug. Pretzler’s hands are becoming slick with blood and sweat, and the joints in his hands are on fire. He stares up at the ceiling as he grimaces in pain and exertion. But still he holds fast. Hoping to gain more leverage, Carnage moves forward and shifts his grip from The Critic’s ankles to his upper thighs. He grunts and begins to pull, and this time it seems that his raw power will finally win out…


…Until he realizes that Pretzler has caught him in a headscissors!


He lets go and sinks to the mat, now trying frantically to pry Scott’s legs apart. But Pretzler crosses his ankles behind Carnage’s back, and, beneath the mask, Carnage’s face begins to turn purple.


“Yes!” shouts King. “I knew it! What did I tell you, Pete?”


Pretzler tightens the hold, his hands still wrapped firmly around the second rope. The referee yells at him and orders him to let go – this is a hardcore match, but using the ropes in such a manner is still illegal.




Carnage’s fists nearly take the wind out of Pretzler as they slam into his gut!


While Pretzler has succeeded somewhat in wearing Carnage down, the impact of his punches remains formidable. Pretzler’s grip on the ropes breaks at the shock of the impact, and he falls to the mat on his back. But before Carnage can hit him again and force him to release the headscissors, Pretzler plants his hands on the mat and twists his own body to the side, causing Carnage to roll sideways.


Pretzler is now on top of Carnage, his thighs still around Carnage’s neck and his lower legs under the arms – but this time, the big man’s shoulders are pinned to the mat.



































THR- No!


At the last minute, Carnage’s shoulder jerks a centimeter off the mat. He wiggles, thrashes violently, but Pretzler is adamant in his dedication to the hold.


“Folks, I don’t believe what I’m seeing here,” says Pete. “Pretzler has effectively slowed this match to a crawl, stopping Carnage right in his tracks. The pressure on his neck… he’d better think of something fast.” And Carnage is indeed worried. The blood supply to his head is slowing to a trickle, and the pressure on his vertebrae is equally intense – if he doesn’t find some means of escape, he will lose consciousness and the match will be over.


































Again, Carnage allowed his shoulder to sink that extra inch and make contact with the mat. Outside the ring, his two escorts are screaming his name, attempted to rouse him to action.


“Come on, Carnage!” screeches Frisco. She and Candace try to start a chant and are partially successful.








Carnage reaches up with his arms and hooks them around Pretzler’s stomach, hoping to bring him back down to the mat, but Pretzler leans forward and establishes an even stronger base. Carnage’s shoulders once again touch the mat.























Shoulder up!


“Too bad for Carnage that he wears that dumb mask,” King points out. “Otherwise he could just bite Pretzler in the crotch.”


Pretzler has the headscissors locked in tight. He has no intention of moving. But as impressive as his technical skills are, as weak as his opponent has become, the truth remains that Carnage is simply a stronger wrestler. So the next time he pulls his arms forward against Pretzler’s stomach, the young Canadian is overpowered and rolls over onto his back. Carnage responds by rolling his own body up into a seated position; he has now reversed the effect and is pinning Pretzler to the canvas.


The referee drops to his knees and counts.








































Pretzler raises his shoulder just in time. He rolls to the side and crawls backward into the corner. At the same time, Carnage rises to his feet, breathing heavily but glad to have his blood circulating properly again. His rage builds as he stares at Pretzler.


Both men are standing, facing one another. The next move could win the match for either of them, and neither appears willing to take the chance, but it is the aggressive Carnage who advances first. He charges furiously into the corner with a big boot, only to have Pretzler duck just in time and dropkick him in the back of the head as he attempts to pull his now-caught foot from the top rope. Pretzler gets to his feet as quickly as he can and fires off yet another dropkick, causing Carnage to slam his head on the corner post.


Pretzler is on a roll! He charges a third time, now attempting an elbow strike… but Carnage is ready. His own elbow whips back and catches Pretzler in the face. Pretzler staggers back and collapses. He appears finished.


Carnage turns around and falls in a heap on top of him.


































What? Carnage is furious. Then again, it was only an elbow. Some of his more high-impact offense should be enough to put away Pretzler. Like… the CHOKESLAM!


“Jesus in a jumpsuit, that was a close near fall,” says Longdogger Pete. “But what is Carnage doing now?”


Carnage turns away from Pretzler. His attention is now focused elsewhere – namely, on the nearly-unused steel chair resting not three feet away from him.


He picks up Pretzler and wraps a hand around his neck. Turns so that Pretzler’s back is to the chair.






Pretzler rams a desperation elbow into the side of Carnage’s head. The one-handed choke remains locked in.




Another elbow jars Carnage even more. Carnage places his left hand against Pretzler’s back.




The third time is indeed the charm! As Carnage stumbles and lets go, Pretzler wastes no time in slapping on a side headlock. He squeezes with every ounce of his remaining strength.


Carnage drops to one knee.




Rather than becoming unnerved, Pretzler smiles a satisfied and bloody grin. He is feeding off the audience’s frustration.


He wrenches Carnage’s head to the side, causing him to howl in pain. Victory is so close! SO CLOSE! If he can get Carnage into position for the Snowflake Clutch, the match will be his.


But Carnage is not ready to give up that easily. He, too, knows that the end could be near, and he now struggles with all the might that is left in him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he rises to both feet. Grasping a firm hold around the newcomer’s belly, he lifts Pretzler into the air and falls backward and down.


“WHAT A BACKDROP!” exclaims Pete as the move’s impact shakes the ring. The referee begins to count as both men lie twitching on the mat.








While Pretzler was the recipient, both men clearly lost a lot as a result of the slam. And as the prone Pretzler turns his head to the side, he is faced with a tantalizing opportunity.




Lying right in front of his face is the steel chair.




All he has to do is grab it. Just pick it up, roll over, and whack Carnage in the face with it. There will be no disqualification.




But Scott Pretzler is not like all the rest. Scott Pretzler is a man of character. Extending his arm outward, he pushes the chair under the bottom rope and down to the floor. It is now not only out of his reach, but also out of Carnage’s.




Carnage is up first. The crowd is buzzing. He watches as Pretzler, virtually a walking corpse, pulls himself to his feet using the ropes. Carnage sizes him up and holds out his arms, ready to deliver the Tombstone Piledriver. Members of the audience are on their on their feet, driven mad with anticipation of Pretzler’s imminent demise.




“THIS IS IT!” screams Pete. “Pretzler should have used that chair when he had the chance, but now that chance is gone! AND HE’S GONNA PAY!”


“Even if he doesn’t win – and he will – you must admire Pretzler’s integrity. He has so much respect for the sport.”


As the dazed Canadian turns around, the SWF’s Resident Psychopath is ready. He scoops Pretzler up by the waist and heaves him into the air.




Suddenly, Pretzler’s momentum carries him onto Carnage’s shoulder, and with a last burst of energy he slides off onto his feet. Pretzler has escaped the hold, and is now standing behind Carnage!




A vicious elbow smash collides with the back of the psychopath’s head! He sways. Drops to his knees.


Reaching over Carnage’s massive shoulders, Scott Pretzler grabs hold of his wrists and twists his arms into a crossed position.


“We’ve seen this before!” King shouts triumphantly.


However, Carnage is not a two-hundred-pound cameraman. He thrashes like an animal caught in a trap, kicking and writhing, doing everything to steer himself away from the fate toward which he is headed.




Carnage’s head is jarred brutally by a Pretzler knee smash. And at that moment of Carnage’s supreme weakness, Scott Pretzler heaves his body around so that his stomach is against the mat. He steps over Carnage’s back and squats, completing the deadly submission hold.


“THE SNOWFLAKE CLUTCH IS LOCKED IN! I don’t care who you are… once Pretzler’s got you in this hold, it’s lights out!” Suicide King is ecstatic.


The Clutch is secure. Both men are smack in the middle of the ring. Frisco and Candace are doing all they can, but the security guards will not allow them to near the apron.


Pretzler leans back with all of his weight, putting unbearable pressure on Carnage’s back. Carnage is immobile. There is, it seems, no hope of escape.




Carnage lets out a primitive howl. Pretzler has succeeded in grounding him, and here, tied up on the mat without any room to move, he has no reserves to call upon. The referee drops down next to him and can be heard asking him, “Do you submit?”




Carnage fights.











He struggles.











“Do you submit?”














“Do you submit?”














At the sound of the bell, Pretzler releases the hold. He crumples like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Lies unmoving on the mat. Carnage, too, sags forward onto his face.


“Here is your winner,” booms Funyon…




“Can you believe it, Pete? Scott Pretzler has defied all odds, defeating one of the toughest men in the SWF in his own specialty match. And he did it all without touching a weapon!”


“You’ve got to give Carnage some credit as well, King. He hung in there till the end.”


“Yeah, whatever.”


The referee reaches down and raises Pretzler’s arm. Making no acknowledgement at first, Pretzler then slowly lifts his head, until he is able to look out upon the audience.


He grins as blood dribbles down his lip.

Edited by Chuck Woolery

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“Ladies and Gentlemen…welcome back to---“








The Longdogger’s introduction is suddenly cut off as flames explode up and down the entranceway. The crowd cheers, only for the arena to suddenly fall to nearly complete darkness, only the flames still burning…


”What the hell?”


The Suicide King can be heard murmuring before going silent, everyone in the dark as to what is going on, but the flames continue to grow, higher and higher…




“Sometimes you just need to expect the unexpected…”






A loud explosion of pyrotechnics take away the fire and replace the arena’s lights, only to find one man standing in the center of the ring. That man…is Alan Clark.





“People please.” Alan begins, and the crowd slowly goes quiet, but Alan keeps his head down, his eyes to the canvas as he continues, “First and foremost, I want to put out my own congratulations to Landon Maddix. I know I’ve said it before, and I know that days ago I was angry over what he did to me. But as I have sat the last few nights and thought about it, I see that truly I was the one at fault.” The crowd boos towards this confession, and Alan raises his right hand to silence it.


“I had heard rumor of there only being nineteen men able to compete for the match. As I sat backstage and I watched Max King step through the curtain I saw my chance to redeem myself. Landon, you were still out there, giving your all and on your way to victory….and as the lights came on and I shocked the world, I let my ego get the best of me.” Another loud boo echoes out, and again Alan has to silence them.


”Christmas of 2003, I defeated Todd Royal to become SJL Champion. Christmas of 2004, I defeated Sacred in a bloody brutal match-up. The following January each year saw me fall into a downward spiral. I lost both my SJL championships to Landon, and this year I have been floating aimlessly, my mind a wreck after the beatings I have taken. But I always come back. I always come back. Last February I found a mission, and I accomplished it. I did something no one thought I was going to do, and I defeated Thugg in front of millions of people at From The Fire.”


This time the crowd explodes in cheers, even those that had severe doubt that Alan would even be walking again after that fateful night.


“This year, I hope to go into From The Fire with the same kind of outcome. I may not be Cruiserweight Champion, and I may not retire a giant black man…but when I come out of that PPV people will once again be shocked at what I was able to accomplish. People will look at me in the back and be stunned at my actions – just as they were after I dove off the production truck and into Todd Royal, off my bus and onto Thugg, or even when I wrapped Sacred in Christmas Lights and knocked him out…”


Another loud cheer comes out, and Alan climbs the corner, looking out over the sea of humanity in front of him.


“…This is my month…this is Martial Law’s month! Landon Maddix is going for even more gold, Todd Cortez is on his way to the top of the heap, and Alan Clark…heh…well…”



He pauses, the trademark smirk appearing across his face as the camera moves in close…


“Expect the Unexpected.”






Alan laughs maniacally as a sudden shockwave of pyro and fire erupts again, the lights dropping away. The come back moments later, and Alan Clark is gone, but the laughter remains, slowly fading away as the fans sit in silence, unsure of what they just witnessed.

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Backstage in Martial Law's locker room, all is not well. While Todd Cortez limbers up ahead of Hardcore Title defence and Alan Clark, fresh off his promo before commercial, is busily providing a 'shadow' for Cortez to 'box', the two beshevelled figures of Landon Maddix and Megan Skye have other things on their mind. Namely, Chris Card. Noticing this, Cortez's kicks grow more and more distracted, before finally he gives up.


"Okay, I think that'll do." mumbles Cortez. "Listen, you couldn't get me a drink could you Alan? Water."


"As opposed to?" sighs Clark as he tosses down the cushions that were in his hands, mumbling something about Scotch or hops or something as he leaves. Meanwhile, Cortez looks over to Megan and Maddix, with a sigh. "You guys okay?"


"Never better." Maddix sneers back.


Cortez senses he should drop the subject and does just that, as Maddix eases off of the couch he had been sat on and starts to pace the room.


"So...Superbowl weekend, huh?"









Still Megan has yet to so much as acknowledge anyone, staring off into space with her finger twirling absent-mindedly through her hair. With a sigh, Maddix suddenly stands up, which gets Megan's attention finally. And without a word, Maddix calmly walks across the room...




...picking up an empty glass...






...before hurling it into the wall.





"I'm... gonna... kill him."


"Landon, not now, please...now isn't the time." Megan pleads.


"I told you this would happen. I told you he'd be back...and I told you that if and when he came back, I was gonna to find him and I was gonna to pay that son of a bitch BACK for he did! NOW...is the PERFECT time."


Maddix starts to storm off, but Megan quickly leaps off the couch and grabs the raging La Cucaracha by the arm, pulling him back.


"No, it's not."


"Well, it's a good enough time for me..."


"Uhm, I real..."


"So what? What are you going to do then, huh!?!" snaps Megan, suddenly as enraged as Maddix seemingly. "You're going to storm into Revolution Zero's locker room and jump Card? Is that your plan? Do you even HAVE a plan? Don't you see...this is EXACTLY what Toxxic wants to happen! He wants you to storm off after Card. And guess who'll be waiting for you. Card. And Toxxic. And Spike. Oh, and Sean Davis. And you'll get your ass kicked. For what!?!"


"For what?"




"I think you know damn well what for. The last time you saw that son of a bitch, he PUNCHED your lights out!"


Wincing, the memory of that incident is something Megan could have done without recollecting. Finally, she gives up holding Maddix back and sits down, head in hands, allowing Maddix to storm off...but he only gets halfway out of the door, before he finally thinks better of it, instead sitting himself down next to Megan and taking a deep intake of breath, trying to calm himself down.


"Megan IS right." Cortez assures. "Revolution Zero are just begging for you to storm through their door, looking for a fight."


"Then, maybe I should give them what they want."


"You know, you don't have to play the hero around me." Megan finally chips in. "I'm not the swooning type and, let's face it...you're no Superman."


"What's that supposed to mean?"


"Well, when was the last time Superman booted someone in the balls?"


"She's got you there."


Maddix manages the wriest of wry smiles as he lounges back into the couch, taking another deep breath.


"You'd better kick Spike's ass tonight."


"Don't worry Landon, I'm already WAY ahead of you."

Edited by Chuck Woolery

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“We’re coming off one hell of a Clusterfuck, and tonight the road to From The Fire runs through Viking Hall, Philly’s famous little arena.”


“It’s also where you can play $5 bingo on Friday nights with women with names like Ethel and Myrna. Not only that, but on Thursday nights you can get your dick sucked for $4 by former SWF Commissioner Alex Zenon!”


“While that may be true... and disgusting... tonight isn’t about lucky numbers or a $53 jackpot. In fact, tonight’s main event is about pure, unbridled hatred. A rivalry between two factions, and two men in particular who have remained thorns in each other’s sides for the last six or so months.”


“That could all end tonight, Pete. Todd Cortez is coming into this match to defend his hardcore title in the place that made hardcore famous. Spike Jenkins on the other hand, whether he wins or loses, his title will remain intact.”


“You know what that means…if Cortez is viewed as an underdog, he’s going to erase that stigma the only way he can…aggressively and violently.”


“Hey, better for the ratings, baby. Funyon, let’s do this!”


The bell is sounded to gain the attention of the crowd, who are packed to the rafters in the tiny yet beloved arena. Funyon enters the ring and gets quite the pop from the small crowd, who even bust out a Funyon chant!


“Ah, the joys of being a cult favorite.”


Funyon’s voice booms over the mic, the sound of it stretching across the length of the arena, and probably out to the corner of Swanson and Rittner.


“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is your MAIN EVENT, and is for the SWF HARDCORE CHAMPIONSHIP!”


The jarring intro to “Black Label” begins, as the arena darkens for the entrance of the SWF Cruiserweight Champion. A spotlight shines down on the entrance area, showing Spike Jenkins kneeling, his face hidden by his black hood. Spike then pops up, knocking the hood off his head and making the “X” symbol as he tilts his head back and strolls to the ring…AND GETS JUMPED FROM BEHIND BY TODD CORTEZ!


“Wait…what the…Cortez is attacking before the bell!”


The crowd roars as the lights come up in the arena, and Cortez is stomping away at Spike in the aisleway! Cortez then reaches down and pries a stunned Spike off the dirty floor of the arena and leads him to ringside, playing tour guide momentarily before showing Spike the next stop on the tour…the ringpost! Jenkins falls back to the floor, and Cortez turns to the crowd, unstrapping his SWF Hardcore Title from around his waist and raising it up high in the air, drawing a loud pop from the rowdy crowd! Cortez then slides the belt into the ring towards Funyon, motioning for the announcer to hold it for safekeeping while he brutalizes Jenkins tonight. Speaking of “Hollywood”, he’s pulled himself up from the floor, and is pacing ringside in a daze, unaware that Cortez is keeping up with him and hovering right behind him. Jenkins turns around, but before he can even spot Cortez, he sees a fist coming in his direction, as Cortez opens fire, staggering his old foe with rapid fire right hand punches! Cortez then tires of using Spike as his personal punching bag and rolls him into the ring, then hops up onto the apron. Jenkins pushes himself to his feet, and holding his head, as Cortez leaps to the top rope and springboards in…AND IS MET WITH A DROPKICK TO THE GUT! Cortez falls to the mat, as Jenkins strips off his entrance gear, as well as unstraps his Cruiserweight belt, clutching it in his hands and waving for Cortez to get up.


“Todd Cortez is about to receive the SWF Cruiserweight Championship, but not in kind fashion!”


Spike bounces in anticipation, and when Cortez turns to him, he charges, swinging the gold plated leather strap at his rival…DUCKED! Cortez runs the ropes, as Jenkins turns to him…YAKUZA KICK…DUCKED! Now Spike runs the ropes, and Cortez turns to him…YAKUZA KICK FROM SPIKE! COUNTERED WITH A SWEEP KICK~! Cortez then bounces off the ropes again, coming off with a legdrop…and Spike rolls out of the way! Cortez recovers quickly, but Spike is up as well, taking him by the arm and forcing him back to the ropes, sending him across the ring with a whip…COUNTERED…COUNTERED AGAIN! Spike puts his head down, allowing Cortez to leapfrog over him, and then use a rear waistlock takedown to force him to the mat! Spike tries to get up, but Cortez drops to his knees and pins Spike down, trying to set up for The Hook Up! Jenkins squirms enough to free himself and panics, rolling outside the ring to the floor, leaving Cortez to stand tall at center ring as the crowd applauds the early efforts of both men!


“This just goes to show you, King, that people may not agree with the tactics of either of these men, but appreciate their talent nonetheless!”


Jenkins takes a breather, scowling at every within eyeshot, but Cortez is impatient tonight, and slides out of the ring after Spike. As soon as Todd’s feet touch the concrete, Spike slides back into the ring, knowing that Cortez has an edge as far as out of the ring brawls are concerned. Cortez hops up on the apron to return to the ring, but Jenkins is right there…so Cortez fires off a shoulderblock through the ropes, doubling Spike over! Todd then slingshots in with a sunset flip, rolling up Spike for the pin! Jefferson Harding is there to make the count…




Spike gets to his feet and pulls Cortez up, locking him in a front facelock, then lifting him off the mat and turning towards the ropes, dropping Cortez stomach first across the top strand! Todd hangs onto the rope so that he doesn’t spill off the apron, but Jenkins makes it all for naught as he springs up into the air and drills Cortez with a dropkick that sends him falling down into the guardrail below!

“Back to the outside we go, and I hope Spike Jenkins knows what he’s in for tonight.”


“Cortez should worry just as much, Pete. This rivalry is a two way street, and “Thug Life” over there better make sure he doesn’t get too overconfident.”


Overconfidence isn’t in Cortez’s vocabulary at the moment, as he’s being choked out, his throat forced down onto the guardrail by the Cruiserweight champ! Jenkins then pulls Cortez up and turns him around, smashing his face into the ring apron not once, but twice, then tries to whip Cortez into the railing, but finds himself shoved away! Cortez then tries to move on, away from Spike so that he can catch his breath, but Spike comes from behind and clobbers him down with a forearm, then calls for one of the Viking Hall contingent to hand him a chair over the railing. The crowd pops like preteen girls at an NSYNC reunion as Jenkins takes the steel implement up over his head, bringing it down across the back of the Hardcore Champion!


“From a gold belt to a steel chair, and this time Spike connects with the back of Todd Cortez!”


Todd cringes, and rounds the corner, evading Jenkins by rolling back into the ring. Jenkins slides in, still wielding the chair, but as he’s coming up off the mat Cortez stands on the chair, preventing him from lifting it up! Todd then sends Jenkins to the ropes, but before anything further can take place, Spike puts on the brakes and rolls to the outside AGAIN!


“Spike Jenkins is turning this into a game of cat and mouse!”


“He’s smart, Pete! He knows Cortez wants to kill him, and by breaking his momentum every time, he can avoid getting caught in a bad…”




“You were saying?”


What Pete is referring to is the fact that Cortez has just hurled the steel chair over the ropes, down across the back of the head of Spike Jenkins! Spike holds the back of his head in pain, caught off guard by the move, as well as the one that follows, as the Urban Legend slingshots himself over the ropes, into a huracanrana on the floor! Viking Hall explodes in a sea of cheers as Cortez hammers away at Jenkins, then gets up, no longer interested in chasing the cocky cruiserweight around! Cortez gets up, his blood pumping as he pulls Spike up and lifts him off his feet, crotching him on the guardrail!


“First Dace Night, now Spike Jenkins? Jesus, Bob Barker should hire Cortez to take care of all those dogs and cats!”


“You realize that joke will fly over the head of 80% of our audience, right?”


“Hey, it’s OK. I know it’s funny.”


With Spike preoccupied with his squashed grapefruits, Cortez takes a moment to lift up the ring apron and go scavenging under the squared circle, yanking out a favorite item amongst the Viking Hall faithful…a wooden table! Cortez takes it and slides it into the ring, as well as a steel chair, before coming to retrieve Spike and pull him off the railing. Jenkins then gets his head rammed into the apron, just to make sure he doesn’t try to mount a comeback as Cortez rolls him into the ring, then follows up with a slingshot legdrop to further the weakening of the Revolution’s pride and joy. With Jenkins down, Cortez goes for the table, pulling up the legs on one side and then propping it up in the corner before once again moving in on his opponent. Cortez pulls Spike up from the mat, but Jenkins thinks fast, retaliating with a low blow that will give Spike the room he needs to recover. Spike quickly pulls his foe into a standing headscissors, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him up onto his shoulders, as he prepares to powerbomb Cortez…NO! Cortez floats backwards, landing on his feet, and dodges the charge of Spike, sending him into…NO! Spike runs UP THE TABLE, backflipping off and landing with his arm around the head of Cortez, dropping him with an inverted DDT! Now Jenkins takes the time to pound on his opponent, standing up and stomping Cortez down, kicking him until he’s by the ropes and then pulling him up to his feet and choking him on the top rope before backing away momentarily, then spinning Cortez around and dropping him with an inverted atomic drop, and following up immediately with a powerbomb, holding the legs of the Urban Legend to segue the hard drop into a pinning combination!








Cortez kicks out, but Jenkins maintains control, dragging Cortez into the middle of the ring and holding his legs in a wishbone, then drilling his boot into the nether regions of the straight edge street thug. “Hollywood” then moves away from Cortez, taking the steel chair up off the mat and setting it up in the middle of the ring, then pulling Todd up to his feet. Cortez now finds himself sent to the ropes, and Jenkins stays focused, taking him down on the rebound with a drop…NO! Cortez leaps away from the attempt, onto the seat of the chair, then up to the ropes, springing off and rotating his body to crash down onto Spike with a crossbody!






Jenkins quickly pushes Cortez off of him and scrambles to get to his feet, taking Cortez’s head and ramming it into the seat of the chair! Cortez falls back, his fall caught by the ropes, while Jenkins folds the chair up and turns around, pasting Cortez right between the eyes with a chairshot! Spike then stands over the fallen body of Cortez, holding the chair the long way and driving the edge of it down into the throat of the Urban Legend, driving the air from his body! Cortez squirms, trying to counter Spike’s attack, but cannot, and the choking doesn’t cease until a few moments later when Spike grows bored with it. Cortez rolls onto his stomach, coughing and gagging, while Spike merely glances down at him before walking towards the corner and pulling the table away from it. Jenkins then sets it up in the ring on all fours. Jenkins then pulls Cortez up from the canvas, turning him around so that they’re face to face…and then rocks him with The Minor Threat, adding onto the punishment that Cortez’s throat has taken during this contest! Cortez staggers back on impact, but Jenkins reaches out and pulls him back in, setting him up in a standing headscissors and then lifting for a powerbomb attempt which hopefully connects…NO! Cortez tries to rana out of it…AND IS NOW SET UP FOR THE RATINGS CRASH!


“If this hits, we’ll have a new…WAITAMINUTE!”


Cortez manages to fall out of position, landing on his feet and carrying Spike up onto his back. Tired and sweaty, The Urban Legend struggles to keep Spike held in place as he turns to the table…AND SLINGSHOTS SPIKE OVER AND THROUGH IT WITH A MODIFIED VAN SLAMINATOR!


“A throwback to Todd Cortez’s best friend right there, and Spike Jenkins just turned that table into a thousand splinters!”


Cortez lands on his ass after the move, while Spike is going to be picking splinters out of his. As both men stay down and lick their wounds, the fans chant heavily not for either of them, but rather for the federation that has brought them this wild brawl tonight.








As most would expect, Cortez is the first up out of the two, crawling over to Spike and dragging him through the shrapnel so that he can make a cover on him.








“Cortez must be getting tired and frustrated with Jenkins. He’s putting him through hell, but the Cruiserweight Champion is taking it.”


“I think Cortez my like the fact that Jenkins keeps getting up, King. That means he won’t be getting off easily.”


“Neither will Cortez, Pete. How do you know this isn’t a rope a dope? You know, let Cortez bust out all of his arsenal early and wear himself out, making victory that much easier?”


“Because I don’t think pulling parts of a wooden press table out of your ass is a part of ANYONE’S master plan.”


“Point taken.”


The splintered backside of the SWF Cruiserweight Champion is pulled off the canvas after the failed pin attempt, as Cortez lead him to the corner and props him up against it for support. Cortez then heads across the ring to the opposite corner, charging across the ring and driving a knee into Spike’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him before pulling him out of the corner and holding him in a front facelock, as Cortez climbs the ropes and kicks off, rotating through the air with the Tornado portion of a Tornado DDT…THAT DOESN’T CONNECT, AS SPIKE JENKINS DUMPS TODD CORTEZ OVER THE TOP ROPE AND TO THE CONCRETE FLOOR!


“See, Pete! See!”


Cortez lays motionless on the concrete after the fall, while Spike is looking up at the lights from his spot on the canvas, having dropped back to the mat after dumping his rival out of the ring. Neither of these men is feeling very good about themselves right now, but how good can you feel after being driven through a table, or dropped onto cement? Jefferson Harding paces the ring, checking on the status of Spike and Todd as he glances at them both. A few moments go by after Cortez’s drop to the floor, and Jenkins finally pushes himself up off the canvas, walking around the ring and kicking the table shrapnel out of the ring, not wanting a reminder of what he’s already gone through. Jenkins turns, and out of the corner of his eye notices a hand on the ring apron. Seeing Cortez coming to, Jenkins quickly bounces off the ropes and charges towards that side of the ring, sliding to the canvas as Cortez lifts up his head, and drives his feet into the side of Cortez’s cranium with a baseball slide! Cortez stumbles over into the guardrail, and the overzealous fans push him away and back up on both feet…just in time to get flattened with a pescado from the daredevil from Revolution Zero!


“Who’s hardcore now!”


Spike Jenkins questions the crowd, his trademark overconfidence now in full effect that he’s back on the offensive. Jenkins scans the crowd, looking around at the numerous items being waved about, trying to determine which one is best to use. Jenkins then notices Hat Guy, a veteran of Viking Hall wrestling events, wielding a large sign that says “SPIKE, USE MY SIGN!”


“Are you having déjà vu, King?”


Jenkins nods and smirks at the longtime fan before swiping the sign from him and giving him props, knowing in the back of his mind what Cortez is in for. Jenkins strolls back over to Cortez, holding the sign over his head and bringing it down across the skull of the Hardcore Champion…AND IT FOLDS!?


“The hell?”


Cortez shakes the cobwebs loose and stares at Spike, whose eyes bug out when he realizes he’s just been had! Cortez then darts forward, tucking his head and tackling Spike, driving him across ringside and ramming his back into the guardrail, as Hat Guy’s sign wasn’t what Spike expected!


“HAT GUY SWERVED YOU!” clap clap clapclapclap


“HAT GUY SWERVED YOU!” clap clap clapclapclap


“If there was ever a chant I never expected to hear, this would be it!”


The most well known fans in the wrestling industry are now on Spike’s case, but he has other problems as Cortez is hammering him with forearms up against the railing. Cortez then cocks his arm back and swings forward with an open plam, cracking Spike across the chest and leaving a red handprint!


“Stiff open hand chop by Todd Cortez, and…”




“…and well, there’s another one.”




“And another one!”






Spike is reeling from the chops, his chest now as red as a Coke can, but the bloodthirsty Philly crowd, just days away from watching their NFL team in the Super Bowl, start up with another chant.






Cortez holds Spike by the head, looking around him as the fans all pump their fists and chant, egging him on to strike Spike just once with another chop. Never one to disappoint his fans, Cortez swings his palm into the chest of Jenkins again, then takes him by the head and posts him for the second time this contest, hurling Jenkins off of his feet and directly into the ringpost! Jenkins bounces off the post like a rubber ball, failing to catch himself on the apron as he falls to the floor! Cortez quickly pulls Spike up, not giving him any rest period, and the cameras find that Spike’s forehead is now an open wound, dripping blood down his face. Noticing the crimson mask forming on his rival’s face, Cortez holds Spike’s head back, then smashes him facefirst into the apron, and follows up by rubbing his head across the apron, further opening the cut and giving Spike Jenkins one hell of a friction burn! Jenkins screams and pulls away, but Cortez quickly gets him back in the ring before he can escape, and slides in after him. Jenkins crawls away from his rival, but Cortez drags him back, picking him up and snapping him down to the canvas with a Russian Legsweep! Cortez rolls backwards as the two men land on the mat, coming up to his feet and then running the ropes to gain momentum before planting a knee into Jenkins’ temple! Spike’s body convulses as the simple yet effective move connects, and once again the Urban Legend looks to retain…








“Good man, waiting until the last possible instance to give himself a little breather!”


“I don’t think that close call was on purpose, King.”


“You’re such a pessimist.”


Once again, Spike is on his feet, being led to the corner by Cortez, as the Hardcore Hispanic rams his head into the post…but Jenkins fires back with a back elbow out of desperation! Cortez responds by smashing his face into the turnbuckle once again…and again…AND AGAIN, as Cortez is just working over Spike by repeatedly pounding his head into the buckles! Jenkins nearly collapses, but Cortez turns him around and whips him to the far side, then follows up with a charge…but Jenkins ducks out of the corner, causing Cortez to crash chest-first, and then rolls him up with a schoolboy using the tights!








Jenkins tries to regain his bearings, walking on all fours as Cortez comes up from the pin attempt ready to maim his foe. He again moves for Jenkins, looking to pull him up onto his feet…but as he does Spike fires off a shot that deters Cortez from continuing his assault, and has the Urban Legend holler in pain!


“What the…he can’t take an eye gouge?”


“That wasn’t an eye gouge! Look!”


Pete is quick to point out what Jenkins was hiding in his hand…a jagged piece of table left on the ringmat is now in his possession! Cortez has his face buried in his hands, but Jenkins now pulls back on the head of Cortez, and takes the splintery spike and rakes it across the forehead of the Urban Legend, drawing a perfectly straight line above his eyes that begins oozing blood! Cortez is then turned to face his rival, and Spike takes the, well, spike, and starts peppering the fresh wound, looking to make Cortez as much of a bloody mess as he is! Cortez is then backed against the ropes, and Jenkins fires him off to the far side and leaps towards him on the rebound, wiping him out with a splinter assisted flying forearm!


“You call Todd Cortez the impresario of hardcore, well it looks like Spike Jenkins has one-upped him tonight!”


With Cortez down and bleeding, Spike sits on his shoulders to pin him down, and again begins hammering away at the cut before tossing the spike aside and leading Cortez to his feet. Spike holds him and drives his knee up into his temple twice, then runs to the ropes and bounces off with a full head of steam, sending the sole of his boot into the temple of Cortez!


“Yakuza Kick from Spike Jenkins, and that could do it!”










The fans shout loud and proud as Cortez rolls a shoulder at the last second, not willing to give up the title he holds so dearly so easily. Jenkins could care less about his resilience, and he pulls him up and immediately sends him into the corner, following up with a running lariat that sandwiches the Urban Legend against the turnbuckles, and goes for a running bulldog out of the corner…BUT GETS TOSSED ON HIS ASS BY TODD CORTEZ! Cortez drops his head for a moment, visibly exhausted, but then comes running across the mat and into the air, extending his knee…AND GETS SPEARED OUT OF HIS SHINING WIZARD ATTEMPT!


“Where did THAT come from?”


Another loud “SWF” chant comes up, as once again, both men are down. Cortez rolls on the mat and curls up, favoring his ribs, while Jenkins lay facefirst, as if he’s ready to fall asleep. The fans look on as both men try to regain their energy, and the first movements come from Spike, as he rolls out to the floor and lets himself drop off the apron to the concrete.


“Good thinking by Jenkins, getting away from his foe before he loses his advantage.”


Much to the fan’s dismay, Spike is the first one up, using the apron as leverage to push up to his feet. Seeing his foe still down on the inside, Spike wanders ringside for a moment, his face a mixture of blood and sweat. Jenkins then throws up the apron on this side of the ring, rooting around under there and pulling out another table, drawing another loud pop from the crowd! Jenkins wastes no time in setting this table up, pulling out all four legs and standing it at ringside against the ring apron, then climbing up onto it and rolling into the ring. Jenkins stalks Cortez as he’s trying to recharge, toying with him by hitting light kicks to the side of his head before jerking him up off the canvas and dropping him across his knee with a gutbuster! Cortez flops around like a dying fish, but Jenkins stays on him, not giving himself any room for error, as he knows that Cortez is running out of steam. Jenkins drops to his knees and rolls Cortez under the bottom rope and out onto the table, leaving him prone for an attack!


“What’s Jenkins going to do here?”


Spike answers that question quickly, moving towards the corner and climbing the ropes, keeping his eye on Todd as he does. Jenkins perches himself on the top rope, and the fans are at a fever pitch, ready for some more high risk table breaking…but Jenkins hops off the ropes and onto the apron, drawing boo’s from every man, woman and child in attendance!


“He’s having second thoughts!”


Jenkins stands on the apron, and pulls Cortez up off the table, holding him by the straps of his wifebeater before pulling him into a headscissors.


“Is he doing what I think he’s doing?”


Jenkins turns to the crowd and nods, his cocky grin showing what we’re all expecting. He’s going to hit the Ratings Crash through the table on Todd Cortez!


“No! No he can’t do this!”


“All’s fair in war and hardcore!”


Jenkins tries to lift, but a combination of exhaustion and Todd’s dead weight doesn’t make it easy on him, as Cortez flops back down…AND HITS A LOW BLOW! Jenkins covers his package and howls, as Cortez stands up and executes a standing lariat that dumps Spike over the ropes and back into the ring!


“Cortez counters a sure match-ender! How much can these guys take?”


Cortez holds himself up by the ropes, and then slowly moves to the corner, climbing up the ropes one step at a time. He makes it to the third rope, but Spike is just coming to, and lunges for the ropes, shaking them so that Cortez is crotched! Todd falls on the turnbuckle with force, taking him right off his game, and now Jenkins moves towards the corner, hoping that he can end this match soon. Spike climbs up, standing first on the middle rope to hook Cortez, and then moving up to the third rope, holding the Urban Legend down as he thinks of what he can do. Cortez flails his arms, trying to free himself, as Spike holds on tightly, ready to take Cortez down to the canvas…but Cortez wraps his legs around the turnbuckle, stopping himself from going over! Spike tries a second time, but when Todd won’t go, he starts clubbing the back of Todd’s neck, working him over and trying to wear him down, but a third attempt still fails…and Cortez pushes Jenkins off…FORCING HIM TO LAND ON THE TOP ROPE!


“So this makes what, TWO SWF stars he’s nutured in as many weeks?”


Spike dangles on the ropes, and then simply falls to the side, landing on the apron with his legs still tangled in the ropes. Cortez takes a breath and climbs down onto the apron as well, pulling Cortez up and putting him in a standing headscissors. Todd wipes the blood from his brow and grabs Spike by the waist, positioning him right where he wants him as he leaps off his feet and over Jenkins’ back…












Another familiar chant echoes through the arena, as Harding slides out of the ring and looks at the wreckage before him. Spike Jenkins is on his stomach, out cold, while Cortez is sitting against one half of the table, coming to before rolling Jenkins onto his back and then simply laying across him, more out of exhaustion than overconfidence.








Harding’s hand hits the filthy floor of Viking Hall three times, and the bell sounds immediately, causing the fans to cause quite the ruckus now that their hero has retained.


“Ladies and gentlemen your winner, and STILL SWF Hardcore Champion…TODDDD CORRRTEZZZZZ!”


“I…I can’t believe what I just saw! Spike Jenkins could have a broken neck!”


“A Riot Act Plus was enough to put the formidable Dace Night away in that hellacious Rumble In The Pit. I don’t think ANYONE could get up from the variation we just saw!”


Cortez is helped up by Harding, who also hands him his Hardcore Title. As “Breathe” fills the former ECW Arena, Todd Cortez has his hand raised, stepping over shrapnel and the body of one of his most hated rivals while celebrating a huge win.


“The feud between Martial Law and Revolution Zero may never come to a head, but Maddix, Clark and Cortez can rest easy tonight knowing that they’ve once again put one over on Toxxic’s crew.”


Cortez hobbles up the aisle, bloody and bruised, while a stretcher is wheeled down the aisle for the SWF Cruiserweight Champion. EMT’s come to check on Spike, who is motionless, and in Cortez’s mind, deservedly so. The camera cuts back to the Urban Legend, still with his back to it as he comes to the entranceway, and then turns around, raising his belt one final time to a huge reception.


“Many say that this is the arena that made hardcore famous, and that man right there is doing one hell of a job of it himself! Todd Cortez retained the SWF Hardcore Title here tonight in amazing fashion, and one can only wonder how Revolution Zero will respond. Fans, for the one and only Suicide King, I’m Longdogger Pete, signing off for the SWF!”

Edited by Chuck Woolery

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(open with the sounds of young children, singing along to a nursery rhyme in the background)









Children… they all seem so perfect to everyone, just like you.








”Ring around the rosie,


A pocket full of posies…”










You all are children… acting so innocent, so careless, so lost to the world…







(sound of children’s laughter)







Consumed by dreams of fame, fortune, respect…








However, you also are willing do whatever to get what you want: cry, scream, throw a tantrum, beat up others, steal, and any other number of offenses…







“Ashes, ashes…”








But now it is time you pay for your sins, for you to repent or suffer punishment…







(sound of children’s laughter and screams intermixed into a chaotic chorus for several seconds, then utter silence…)







Go to sleep, children… sleep and dream your pleasant dreams, safe inside your minds, before you awaken and find the world to be the hell you’ve always feared…







“Ring around the rosie,


A pocket full of posies,


Ashes, ashes,


We all fall down…”
















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Well, it's a show. There's some promos and stuff. It's the first one I've posted in a very long time. It's missing a match and Mike can edit that in whenever he's around.


Card will be up when it gets up, which should be soon, I hope. I think.



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