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SWF Lockdown, March 16, 2005!

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Earlier today…


“Jesus,” Tom Flesher says, as he hops out of a cab. “Peters said I was just going to be on Smarkdown…”


As he walks in, we see a gratuitously-placed X-Net bumper sticker on the cab.


“God, we’ve got no shame,” Flesher mutters as he walks into the Cow Palace.


In The Ring…


“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “please rise for the national anthem.”


As a video of the American flag appears on the SmarkTron, Funyon begins to sing.


I got the blues from my baby left me by the San Francisco Bay,

The ocean liner's gone so far away.

Didn't mean to treat her so bad, she was the best girl I ever have had,

She said goodbye, I can take a cry, I want to lay down and die.


I ain't got a nickel and I ain't got a lousy dime.

She don't come back, think I'm going to lose my mind.

If she ever gets back to stay, it's going to be another brand new day,

Walking with my baby down by the San Francisco Bay.


Sitting down looking from my back door,

Wondering which way to go,

The woman I'm so crazy about, she don't love me no more.

Think I'll catch me a freight train, 'cause I'm feeling blue,

And ride all the way to the end of the line, thinking only of you.


Meanwhile, in another city,

Just about to go insane,

Thought I heard my baby, Lord, the way she used to call my name.

If I ever get her back to stay, it's going to be another brand new day,

Walking with my baby down by the San Francisco Bay,

Walking with my baby down by the San Francisco Bay,

Walking with my baby down by the San Francisco Bay.


After his rousing rendition of “San Francisco Bay Blues” in the style of Eric Clapton, Funyon nods smugly as the fans cheer, and the Lockdown opening rolls.

Edited by Ace309

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The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents...



(8:00 PM EST; 5:00 PM PST. Check local listings.)


Yes, you read that correctly. The Cow Palace. I'm not entirely convinced such a place even exists, but as long as it's on our list of arenas, it's fair game. Bonus points will be awarded to all matches that make bad cow-related jokes and puns. Make these markers suffer. :P





Non-Title Match

"Urban Legend" Todd Cortez vs. "The Critic" Scott Pretzler ©


Todd Cortez and Scott Pretzler just competed in one of the most brutal, violent, downright evil matches in the history of mankind...


So it only makes sense that we not give them any time to rest before shoving them right back in the spotlight! Tonight, the seconds-in-command of Martial Law and Revolution Zero will represent in the Main Event! (rhyme intended)


Cortez lost his Hardcore Title to one of the most bizarre technicalities the sport has ever seen - because Scott Pretzler reversed Insane Luchadore's decree to drink four bottles of Jack Daniels, he is responsible for IL's winning the Hardcore Title! Cortez will get his rematch, but tonight, it's all about exacting some sweet revenge.


Rules: Standard singles match.

Word Limit: 6000

Send to: Ace309




Non Title Tag Team Match

Wild and Dangerous © vs. Jay Hawke and Austin Sly ©


Wild and Dangerous live on! Recent history has been somewhat rocky, to say the least, but they're still together, and they're still the Tag Team Champions!


Jay Hawke, on the other hand, has not been so lucky. His first chance at SWF gold was thwarted, both by a partner who wasn't exactly on his side and by Johnny Dangerous's dramatic return. Tonight, he gets paired with newly crowned USJL Champion Austin Sly, for another crack at the dynamic duo.


Rules: Tag Team rules.




Triple Threat Match

Alan Clark vs. Sean Davis vs. Hollywood Spike Jenkins


Martial Law has lost a little steam in recent weeks, thanks to Revolution 0, and now members of both factions are ready to go at it with the wild card Spike Jenkins thrown in for good measure! Will Clark be able to help mend his stable's wounded pride? Will Sean Davis put Revolution 0 that much closer to total domination? Or will Spike Jenkins deny them both, and use them as stepping stones on his way to something bigger?


Rules: Like a singles match, plus one!





Arch Griffon vs. Mohammed Koran


Mohammed Koran won his debut match last week, which means he has won the job of "Welcoming Commitee" for our next new wrassler. Enter Arch Griffon, a mountain of a man with mad computer skillz to boot. Will Koran go 2-0, or will Archie stop his winning streak before it ever starts?


Rules: Standard singles match.

Edited by Ace309

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The lights come up, the pyros go off and the cameras pan around to show the heaving, sweating mass of humanity that has packed into the arena for tonight’s SWF show. Signs aplenty are in evidence as always, varying from ‘GO HOME MUHAMMED!’ to ‘END STEREOTYPING OF ARAB AMERICANS NOW!”, passing through “PLEASE PROVE TOXXIC WRONG!” and arriving at “DANNY DAGDA SUCKS BALLS!”


“Welcome to SWF Lockdown!” Longdogger Pete shouts over the roar of the crowd, “we are coming to you live from the Cow Palace in San Francisco, California, and it’s cow-mpletely insane in here!”


“…it’s what?” Suicide King asks, not really wanting to hear the answer.


“What a show we have for you tonight,” LDP carries on, ignoring his co-commentator for the moment. “Spike Jenkins, Alan Clark and Sean Davis will be bulling it out in a Triple Threat match-”


“Hold on a minute…” King tries to interrupt as something begins to dawn on him.


“-Muhammed Koran will be seeking to take the bull by the horns as he faces Arch Griffon-”


“-you’re not really going to-”


“-Jay Hawke is trying to steer his career back in the right direction as he teams up with Austin Sly to go head-to-head with Wild & Dangerous-”


“I can’t believe this…” King mutters.


“-and will Todd Cortez be cowed by Scott Pretzler?” the Longdogger finishes as King shakes his head in sheer desperation.


“You are, aren’t you?” the Gambling Man asks in horror. “You’re going to do this all evening!


“I’m intending to milk the gag for all it’s worth, yes,” Pete replies, causing King to bury his head in his hands.


“Oh dear God,” the former Commissioner and World Champion moans, “will someone please take the pain away?”


…and King’s prayer is answered as the opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire crashes out over the Cow Palace, causing an immediate round of boos from the fans! The Smarktron starts to fade to black, and as it does so jagged white letters flash up a familiar phrase:




The Smarktron proceeds to cycle through the highlights of Toxxic’s career, and after Aecas has received the Glass Jawbreaker, Insane Luchador has been beaten all over the Wachovia Center, Nathaniel Kibagami has been dropped on his head and Tom Flesher has taken the Super Intoxxication the image changes again to show Mike Van Siclen being taken off a balcony and through a table with the Toxxic Shock Syndrome as blasts of red pyro climb the entrance ramp, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the final, stagewide eruption-




-that announces the arrival of the SWF’s premier straight-edger as the main riff hammers out of the speakers! For a moment all that can be seen is smoke, but then Toxxic comes striding through in one of his customised England soccer shirts with the World Title around his waist… and if California had been disapproving before it is nothing compared to what they are now.








The World Champion strides down the ramp and rolls under the bottom rope into the ring where he instantly beckons for the microphone from Funyon. The veteran ring announcer quickly hands it over and Toxxic begins to pace the ring as his music dies down.






“A couple of days after From The Fire, Landon Maddix put a video up on the SWF website,” Toxxic begins, looking down at the ring as he talks. “In this video he made a couple of claims. I’m out here to address those claims.”


“Well, this should be interesting,” King murmurs.


“Landon, you said that you didn’t want this title over my shoulder, the SWF World Heavyweight Championship,” Toxxic states. “You also said that the belt you carry and have carried for the past five months, that belt being the ICTV Title, is the more prestigious of the two.” The Straight-Edge Sensation suddenly looks up directly into a nearby camera, his steel-grey stare boring out through the eyeliner.


“I say you’re talking bollocks, sunshine.”




“Landon, I know you wanted this belt at From The Fire, because I could see it in your eyes,” Toxxic says. “You wouldn’t have got up at a nine-count from the Caffeine Bomb if you didn’t want this title. To say you don’t want it now - well, that kind of reminds me of a spoilt child who after a few minutes of screams and tantrums tells his parents that he never wanted that stupid toy anyway, and he doesn’t love them anymore.”






“I can certainly see where Toxxic’s coming from,” Suicide King agrees. “Landon does remind me of a child.”


“And what do you know about children,” LDP snorts, “you bachelor boy? Have you ever changed the diaper of a screaming girl?”


“What I do in my own time is none of your business,” King mutters, mind going back to that party last weekend.


“Now, you reckon that your belt is more prestigious than mine,” Toxxic carries on. “Let’s just take a look at this, shall we? In the five long months that title has been stagnating on your shoulder, how many times have you defended it on the pinnacle of SWF programming, the Pay-Per-View? From The Fire? Oh no, sorry,” the Brit snorts, “you were challenging for my title then, your belt wasn’t on the line; I guess that makes my title more important, right?”




“Clusterfuck?” the Straight-Edge Sensation suggests. “Oh no, because while I was battling Dace Night for respect and Sacred was in the main event defending this belt against Mak Francis, our ICTV Champion was going through ‘eighteen other men and an alter ego’ to win a shot at the World Title. My title, as it is now. So I guess that makes this title more important, right?”




“Perhaps Slay Ride?” Toxxic asks rhetorically. “Oh, no, wait; at Slay Ride you were challenging for my title, the World Title, and your belt wasn’t on the line. So I guess that makes my title more important, right?”




“In fact Landon, we have to go all the way back to Ashes 2 Ashes until we find you wrestling for your precious belt on Pay-Per-View,” Toxxic concludes, “and that was actually the start of your record-breaking five-month reign! It’s been five months since you defended that belt in front of the world! All you’ve done with that thing is shine it up and use the ropes to pin your friends for it, so don’t you talk to me about prestigious, you sanctimonious piece of piss!”




“You didn’t even defend it at Genesis!” Toxxic carries on. “No, instead you were in the six-man tag with Flesher and the cast of Jurassic Park!”


“Hey!” Suicide King shouts, rather nettled by that last jibe, “you mind your language you limey asshole!” The commentator’s outburst receives a brief, withering glare from the World Champion, but nothing more.


“Landon, you stepped up briefly to the big time and got knocked back down,” Toxxic tells the leader of Martial Law. “You took that hard. You criticised me for considering my future after Slay Ride? I had my answer and I came back at full speed, and look at me now - right back where I was then, on top of the world and on top of the SWF. You’re doing just the same thing I did, but in a different way. This time you tried to step up and you got slapped back down before you could even perch on top for a few days, so now you’re taking refuge in your ICTV belt. Landon, you’re a big fish in a small pond stroking your own ego and pretending you’re God for holding onto a belt that’s beneath you.”


“Strong words from the World Champion here,” Longdogger Pete says.


“Why would you do this?” Toxxic asks, pacing around the ring. “Why would you deny that you want to be at the top of the federation? Why are you content to sit on the ICTV Title when we both know you can do a lot more? Maybe you really have just found your niche, found the place you can kick back and hit cruise control while other people rise and fall around you. Or maybe,” the straight-edger says, looking up once more, “…maybe you’re scared.”






“There’s a bit of blue plastic around your neck at the moment Landon,” Toxxic says, and the Brit’s voice has changed. There’s a rawer element to it now; Toxxic is discussing something that he’s not entirely comfortable with.


“We both know what happened at From The Fire. You certainly tried to put the guilt trip on me backstage at Storm. You called me a cheap imitation of… Nathaniel Kibagami.”


The pause is faint, but noticeable.


“Clever of you, throwing my own words back in my face,” Toxxic says, but his face doesn’t show any appreciation of the joke. “You’re right, to an extent; if I was as bad as the River Dragon, I’d have ripped that brace right off and thrown you through a glass door - that’s what he did to me, that’s the reason I lost the belt you carry right now. I didn’t do that… but you’re still scared. I think you might have finally realised what you’ve got yourself into here.”


“I don’t like where this is going,” Longdogger Pete murmurs, but Suicide King shushes him.


“You’ve set yourself up to take me down,” Toxxic states, “you and Martial Law. Well Landon, now you’ve learned something; sometimes when you’re trying to push someone off the top, they push back. You picked the stip for that match knowing we’d have to try and keep each other down for the ten-count. You went into that match having stated that it was your desire and your mission to take me down. And knowing me, knowing what I’ve done in the past and who I’ve done it to… you were surprised at what happened.”


Toxxic is visibly shaking with emotion now. The World Champion is not happy at talking about this in front of the public, but there is something he has to make very clear.


“I don’t like what I did,” he states baldly. “You’d know that if you watched the end of the match.” Toxxic squeezes his eyes tight briefly, inwardly cursing himself for showing the weakness that he did - but it’s done now, and he must make the best of it. Opening his eyes again, he continues.


“…but now you know what it’s like in the main event for real,” he finishes. “People have done terrible things for this title - I wasn’t the first, and I certainly won’t be the last. You’ve always been happy, bouncy Landon, or smirking, cocky Landon… or recently, bouncy, smirking Landon. You’ve never seemed to have a care in the world. Newsflash, sunshine; we hurt each other for a living. Sooner or later you’re going to need to grow up. I might have started the process.”






“But this is all irrelevant,” Toxxic says, waving one black-nailed hand in the air. “You’ve decided to stop where you are; you’ve decided to settle for being second-best. Now don’t get me wrong, second-best is a good thing to be in the SWF. Second-best still puts you above a lot of talented wrestlers; second-best still means that you are a very gifted competitor.” Toxxic pauses and looks into a camera again, and now for the first time the familiar, lopsided grin appears.


“Trouble is, when you’re at the head of a stable that’s dedicated to taking me down, and I’m recognised as the best - is ‘second-best’ good enough?”


“Toxxic is still trying to stir up dissension in Martial Law,” Pete grumbles. “Can’t he just leave them be?”


“Why?” King asks. “They’re trying to take him down! Why not split them up if he can!”


“Landon, it seems to me that you’re conceding defeat,” Toxxic grins. “You don’t want my belt and you don’t want to face me, so how exactly are you going to go about bringing me down? Have Clark play guitar at me?” The Straight-Edge Sensation pauses and grimaces, suddenly aware that he might have given his enemies an idea, but then forges on. “Landon, you’re not cut out to be a team player. The House of Todd never got anywhere, the Unnamed died after you joined them, and now you’ve driven Martial Law into a dead end. If you had any real dedication to your aim,” Toxxic continues, “you’d let someone else step up and face me. Trouble is, you’re so determined to keep your spot that you gave Todd Cortez a low-blow and used the ropes to pin him for that ICTV title you claim is so prestigious…”






“Enough of this,” the Brit suddenly decides. “Landon, I’ve said a few times that you’re a cheap imitation of me. I was wrong. You’ve never been trying to be me, I realise that now.” Toxxic pauses and readjusts the World Title over his shoulder before continuing.


“Blonde hair, smug grin, obnoxious attitude and a record-breaking title reign? Maybe you’re trying to be Mike Van Siclen!”




“The SWF fans still remember Mike Van Siclen,” Longdogger Pete grins as the crowd cheer the name of the former Hollywood Boulevard member, but Toxxic talks over them.


“Trouble is, you’re not doing such a good job of it,” he says. “Y’see, Mike was a great wrestler and fantastic tag team competitor, but he wasn’t World Title material. When he put his career on the line against me, he knew that it was unlikely he would win - not impossible, but unlikely. That didn’t stop him; he came after me anyway, and he damn near got me. Mike Van Siclen was willing to end his career for the chance to take my World Title and maybe, just maybe, destabilise Revolution Zero.”


Toxxic cracks his neck from side to side before continuing, and a slightly harrowed expression crosses his face again.


“Justin Bowers…”


The fan response this time is much, much smaller, although a faint ‘JUST-IN!’ chant does start up in one corner of the building. Toxxic looks up briefly, then returns to addressing his boots.


“…Justin Bowers was a fresh-faced green rookie straight out of the gym,” Toxxic carries on. “He came looking for me because Revolution Zero had taken out his trainer, William Heartford III.”






“Justin must have known that his chances were slim,” Toxxic says, “against a former World Champion who’d just lost his title and was very pissed off as a result? He had all of what, two pro matches under his belt? But he came for me. He… well, he didn’t do as well as Mike. I ended that match fairly quickly, as we all know.”


“We do indeed,” Pete seethes, “since you broke his neck!”


“Mike couldn’t beat me, but he tried,” Toxxic says. “If he was still under SWF contract, he’d be trying now. Justin Bowers couldn’t beat me, but he tried. If he… if he was still in any condition to wrestle, he’d be trying still.”




“Landon, you’re under SWF contract,” Toxxic states. “You’re in a condition to wrestle, or you will be very soon. You can beat me - we saw that at Slay Ride, and if our match at From The Fire had been under regular rules you’d have won there, because I tapped out to the Land of Nod for the first fall. But despite this, despite what you have said you will do and what you have said you stand for, you are choosing not to.”




The Straight-Edge Sensation pauses for a second, then takes a deep breath.


“Landon, you get up tomorrow morning and look in the mirror. Take a good, hard, long look at yourself, and then you try telling yourself that it is me who is a cheap imitation. Sunshine, it’s been you all along. But not an imitation of me…”


“…an imitation of yourself.”


Without another word Toxxic drops the microphone to the canvas and rolls under the ring ropes to start the journey back up the ramp, pursued by the boos and jeers of the fans as he does so.


“Fans, we’re going to see newcomer Archibald Griffon take on Muhammed Koran right after the break!” Longdogger shouts, “don’t go away!”





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Koran - I know i've got a match tonight against Arch Griffon, and i've got to say i think it is a disgrace, i destroyed Danny Dagda last week and i assure you i will do the same to Griffon, but i want more. I deserve a title match and i deserve it soon, i have a good idea for a match next week and i'll tell you about it in the ring, after, I've won my match. But the only thing i have to say is remember the name Muhammed Koran, your next Worlds Champion

(end promo)

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As SWF Lockdown from the Cow Palace comes back to live air, Indian music starts to pump through the PA system for the Muslin Mohammed Koran. A small chorus of boos ring out from the San Franciscans, who are obviously prejudiced against douche bags who hate blindly hate America. The fit Arab American makes his way slowly down to ringside, looking on with distain for the fans in attendance. Fed up, he hawks a loogey on the entrance ramp.


Funyon: The following contest is scheduled for one fall! First, from Washington D.C., weighing in at 246 pounds….MUUUHHAMMEDD KKORRANN!!


LDP: This angry young man was victorious on Storm last week as he quickly defeated Danny Dagda in his debut appearance. However, this week, he faces the highly touted rookie Arch Griffon, who is looking to make a bold statement.


King: I must admit, from the looks of Griffon, he is the favorite in this match. Perhaps the angry and disillusioned Koran can steal one.


The Tigris Express enters the ring, and immediately climbs the far turnbuckle. He raises his arms high into the sky in a pose of strength.


“Arc Arsenal” kicks on the PA system shortly thereafter, causing the fans to stop and look to the entrance way. As the song starts up, the lights slowly to fade to black. As the arena nearly shrouds itself in the darkness the song kicks into high gear. Blinding white pyrotechnics explode high into the ceiling. Out of the light comes the hulking Arch Griffon, power walking to the ring, every muscle rippling in his upper body. He wears white boots and white tights. The crowd doesn’t know Arch Griffon, as there are few cheers and few boos, they all have his undivided attention, though.


Funyon: And his opponent! From Des Moines, Iowa, weighing in at 302 pounds, making his Smarks Wrestling Federation debut……AARRCHH GRRRIFONNN!


LDP: This is a scary man, King. What is his background?


King: Well, he apparently was an accomplished high school wrestler, who was only a few months away from a scholarship until he injured his back. Then he floated around for a while after he went to college, to learn of all things, then he went to wrestling camp, toured around for a few years, and here he is. Lets see if Koran knows enough to go after Griffon’s back.


Upon arriving to the ring, Arch does some simple stretching exercises, as Koran looks on with a smug expression on his face. Finally, Senior Referee Mathew Kivell brings the two men to the middle of the ring. Arch looks on at Koran, a definite lack of emotion in his eyes. Koran seems to have just the slightest bit of fear in his eyes. Finally, Kivell signals for the match to start.




Koran immediately comes out firing. He starts throwing left jabs like he is trying to shake out a ball of fire from his hand. The rapidly executed jabs back Arch into the ropes near the entrance way. After a few reverse elbows from Koran, further dazing Archie, Mohammed goes for an Irish whip across the ring. Arch goes with it, and rumbles down to the other side. Koran sets up in the middle of the ring and waits for Arch to return. As Arch meets up with Koran, he is sent to the canvas after a picture perfect standing dropkick. Arch slams down to the mat on his back. Meanwhile, Koran decides to showboat. He raises his arms slowly, and then spits on Griffon’s prone body, drawing hardy boos from the crowd. Arch feels the spit land on his shoulder, and suddenly, his body tenses up in anger. Not realizing this, Koran saunters over, and throws on a weak horizontal press. Kivell quickly slides into position for the count.




The one that Kivell counts for Koran is generous enough. Griffon, angered, bench presses the 246 pound man with the force needed to bench press the Great Wall of China, and Koran goes flying. Already near the ropes next to the announce table, Koran flies through the second rope and falls to the floor, landing with a loud smack. The fans in attendance let out a large “OOAH!” at the sight and sound.


LDP: In this bidness you can’t teach anger, and Arch is full of it right now. After that perfect standing dropkick Koran looked to be in control, but now he is hurtin’ after getting thrown to the floor.


King: If there’s one thing I know about this company. You never spit on a man while he’s down. You will get yours, one way or another. I believe that Koran is about to get a beatdown of epic proportions.


Griffon quickly climbs to his feet, his hazel eyes evidently pointing to the fact that his mind is in another place and another time. On the outside, Koran is slowly climbing back to his feet, his body doing its best to absorb the fall. With great agility, Arch peels out on his feet and rushes to the far ropes. He blazes back across the ring, and before he hits the ropes once more, he skies into the air. Griffon connects with his glorious Bloodlust Plancha, sending Koran down and skidding into the announcer’s table. The back of Mohammed’s cranium connects with the table, halting his body’s progress. Koran immediately grasps the back of his head and rolls around on the floor, most likely suffering from a concussion. Griffon is slow to get to his feet as well, but not even remotely as hurt as Koran.


LDP: The 300 pound Arch Griffon just tenderized Koran into our announce table! Koran is down an’ I wouldn’t be surprised if he just lost five of da first ten Amendments from his brain!


King: Arch calls that the Bloodlust Plancha. I think the name is fitting, even though we haven’t seen blood yet.


“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT,” says the crowd. The aggressive Griffon looks down on the ground and sees Koran, on his knees, cradling the back of his head with his hands. Arch lines up, and charges Koran. Griffon swings his back right leg forward, and connects with harsh boot to Mohammed’s ribs. Koran flies again, this time across the floor near the table, all the way to the ring apron. Half of his body is now shrouded by the SWF Lockdown apron. Noticing Kivell’s count has reached seven, Griffon slides back into the ring, and then exits. Kivell starts his count once again. Koran, down and hurting, attempts to make a comeback. He drive an elbow into Arch’s ribs as he being picked up. Arch absorbs the first one, but not the second, and he back off. Mohammed climbs to his feet, watching Arch out of the corner of his eye. As Arch advances again, Koran comes forward with an eye gouge. Arch quickly turns and staggers backwards. The fans jeer loudly. Koran sees his opening, and limps over to Archie. The Tigris Express grabs Arch around the waist, and puts his head under Arch’s left arm. Right before he can attempt his back suplex, Griffon recovers, puts a vice-like grip around Koran’s head, and starts to come across with harsh right hands, tearing into Mohammed’s unprotected forehead. Koran’s legs turn to jelly as a possible ten punches tear into his face. Realizing he doesn’t have much time left due to Kivell’s counting, Griffon shifts his grip to Koran’s chin and neck. His right hand, sore from pummeling skull, reaches around and grips Koran’s tights. Arch spins he and the vulnerable Koran around, putting them in the middle of the mat.


LDP: What in da hell is Griffon planning? This isn’t gonna end well for Koran, who only a minute ago was making a comeback.


King: Do you know what a griffon is, Pete?


LDP: Half lion and half eagle, right?


King: Exactly.


With a rush of energy, Griffon picks up Koran, and holds him up momentarily, letting the blood flow to Mohammed’s head. The with a look to a certain section of the crowd, Griffon drops down to the seat of his tights, driving Koran into the mat with The Lion and The Eagle.


LDP: Good gravy! Somebody needs ta ring the bell! Koran may have just broken his neck!


King: I have not seen a move like that in a long time.


Koran lies on the floor after this tremendous pressure was put into his neck and head. The crowd lets out a hearty groan after seeing Koran’s neck bend like an accordion. After wiping the dust off of his tights, Archie picks up Koran and tosses him into the ring. Mohammed is now busted wide open, no doubt from the flurry of punches brought forth on him from Arch, and then the friction involved from them smashing into the mat outside. Koran lies limp in the ring, a small puddle of blood forming on the mat underneath his face. Griffon drags him away from the ropes, and slaps on a horizontal press. Kivell sidesteps the splatters of blood in the ring, and goes to make the count.








Griffon backs off and pulls Koran’s right shoulder off of the mat. The crowd boos Arch and his sadistic behavior.


LDP: Arch Griffon has lost his mind! He has da match won! Why is he doing this ta a fellow human bein’?!


King: Griffon was humiliated by Mohammed. He is exacting revenge by maiming this man.


Arch climbs to his feet, and slowly peels his foe off of the canvas. He ignores Kivell’s pleading for an end, smirking as he finally gets the bloody Koran to his feet, face covered in a goopy crimson red mask. Griffon takes his large baseball mitt of a hand and grasps Mohammed’s face with it. After a tight squeeze, he shoves Koran into the nearby corner. Mohammed stumbles into the corner, each step colliding with the previous. Griffon stalks towards his opponent after taking a moment to stare at his right hand, covered in blood. After he reaches Koran, he winds up, and slams a European uppercut in Koran’s jaw. Mohammed’s head snaps back violently, but he is not able to fall forward into the mat, as Griffon has stuck his tree trunk of a leg in the corner to prop up Koran. After Koran falls back into position, Arch comes forward with another, this one more vile than the last. Kivell starts his five count.


















Finally, Griffon backs off and lets Koran out of the corner. The last European uppercut sends Koran stumbling to the center of the ring. He amazingly is still on his feet, thought wobbly as if he just beer bonged some Smirnoff.


LDP: How is Koran still standing?! He just took six of those European Uppercuts!


King: He has too much pride. He needs to give up!


Griffon looks back into the center of the ring, after being admonished by Kivell. He stands dumbfounded as he notices Koran still on his feet. He mouths a “what the fuck?!”, then shrugs. He gets directly behind Koran and crouches down. Then, Arch leaps up and throws his right leg into the air. He thrusts forward, and nails Koran right in the back of the head with a devilish Superkick! Koran’s head snaps forward then back, then forward again as he falls forward. He now lays face first on the mat, the blood flowing forth in a small pond. The crowd watches in desensitized awe.


LDP: Ok, this match is over now. But you knew that, King.


King: I’m a gamblin’ man, Pete. Right now I would put my house, my car, my dog Buster, my penis and testicles, and even my soul on Griffon right now!


Kivell looks on in horror as Griffon stalks his prey once more, circling the ring in a craze. Much to Kivell’s chagrin, Arch drags the lifeless Koran back to his feet. They two now stand in the middle of the ring. Griffon leans in close to the beyond wobbly Koran. He looks him deep in the eye and starts to scream at him.


“C’mon you bastard!! Hit me!! I’ll give you a free shot!! C’mon!”


LDP: Is Griffon insane?!


King: Yep. Controlled insanity.


Griffon puts both of his blood soaked arms behind his back, offering Mohammed his jaw. Koran, through blood blinded eyes sees this, and winds up a haymaker. He comes forward, and strikes Griffon in the jaw. Arch absorbs the shot and stumbles back. Koran just stands in the same spot on wobbly legs. Griffon recovers and lunges forward. Archie jumps high into the air and lands…on Koran’s left foot. Pain immediately jolts through The Tigris Express’ body. Before he can fall over, Koran’s right arm is collected by Arch’s left, at the wrist. Arch pulls Mohammed forward, and delivers a short armed clothesline. However, instead of letting go, Arch holds onto Koran’s left arm and pulls him back to his feet. Griffon comes forward again, and delivers another savage clothesline! The crowd groans at the impact, and the blood splashing off of Koran’s head.


LDP: Koran got caught in Griffon’s grasp! This is just terrible ta’ watch!


King: This is just not right! I have come to this conclusion.


Again and again, Griffon lands these terrible clotheslines, each time dragging Koran up, slowly than the previous time. Finally, after six clotheslines, Archie lines up on last time and delivers his strongest clothesline. He lets go, and Koran just falls to the mat like a ton of bricks. The crowd groans heavily after the final clothesline. Griffon takes a moment, letting Mohammed lie incapacitated in the center, while he catches his breath.


LDP: We are witnessing da work of a man who may be a title contender in the near future. As long as he doesn’t get arrested tonight by da state of California for attempted murder, that is.


King: Do you really think he can take on the higher ranked wrestlers in this company, and do what we’re seeing now?


LDP: Probably not to this extent, but he has da killer instinct. That goes far.


Finally, Griffon is done with Koran. He crosses his arms and waves them apart, signaling the end is near. Grabbing Koran by the tights, he lifts the Tigris Express to his feet. Standing behind Mohammed, he lifts Koran into the air with a Full Nelson, and shakes his foe.


King: Arch Griffon calls that the Gridlock!


LDP: And Democracy stands still…


Kivell sees his opportunity, and quickly signals for the bell, as Koran is just lifeless in Griffon’s arms.




“Arc Arsenal” kicks up on the PA system once more. Even victorious, Griffon doesn’t relinquish the hold. Instead, Griffon leans back a bit more and slowly walks over to the near ropes. He then leans forward and lets go of Koran. The Tigris Express, defeated, tumbles over the top rope and falls to the floor with a thud! The fans in attendance cheer quietly, perhaps afraid of Griffon. Mathew Kivell shows fear, as he tentatively raises Archie’s arm in victory.


Funyon: Your winner, by submission…..AARRCHH GRRIFFONN!!


As At The Drive-In plays on in the background, Griffon looks down at himself covered in his opponent’s blood. He takes a deep breath and slowly leaves the ring. Griffon grabs a nearby water bottle that is on the floor near the ramp, and pours it down his arms an chest. The water washes the blood off of his hands, and Griffon takes a slow walk up the ramp, as the crowd watches on.


LDP: What an impressive, and ultra violent victory for the youngsta’ from Des Moines.


King: We will see more of him in the coming weeks and months. And my money is on that scary man to make a lot more people bleed.


After Griffon disappears, the last thing the viewer sees is Koran wiping the blood out of his eyes and sluggishly attempting to get up.


[Medical personnel? SWF? No way!]

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“Hey Flesher, I want a rematch.”


“…Wha?!” Tom half exclaims as he spins around, coming face to face with Mak Francis. Flesher could not have heard him correctly.


“You know,” Mak responds looking at him with all the casualness in the world. As if he didn’t just ask a retired hall of famer and quite possibly one of the only people he’s ever faced multiple times and never beaten, to come out of retirement. “A rematch, one on one… against Spike?” he finishes.


“Jenkins?” Flesher mumbles, putting things together. “Oh, I see… well Mak, I’ll see what I can do for Smarkdown. A lot of people have made requests and I’m dealing with naming the new belt and this new booker, who’s a pain in my ass—like I’m expected to be at the meetings.” Flesher adds rolling his eyes for effect, but the Franchise doesn’t seem to be in a joking mood.


“Get me the match, Flesher.” Mak says with a hint of frustration in his voice. “Jenkins beat me with a handful of tights and I damn sure think that I deserve a rematch for that. I haven’t even been booked since that debacle and I think it’s high time ‘Hollywood’s’ ego came back down to earth. If I’ve got to stretch him like a college students’ budget to get the point across, then so be it!”


Tom chuckles at the prospect. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I not give you a return match?”


“And Tom, when I get through with Spike, you inform CC that I’m ready for a title shot. Because with all the people Toxxic has beat around here, he hasn’t beaten me. And this time, I won’t have Maddix messing things up, botching strategies…” notes a smirking Mak shaking his head.


“…and tapping out.” He finishes shaking his head, all traces of the smirk long forgotten. In it’s place a look akin to disbelief. Francis turns and heads the opposite way, leaving Flesher on his own for the time being.


“…Or Sacred around to make you flip your freakin’ lid…” Tom adds to no one in particular, as Lockdown fades.

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“We return live to Lockdown in the Cow Palace…DAMN IT! NOT AGAIN!” shouts Pete.


The camera cuts to the entranceway as “The Perfect Storm” Sean Davis and “The Three Faces of Fear” Alan Clark come charging out from backstage. Both men head down the ramp, brawling with one another. Davis sends Clark reeling down towards the ring with a right hand. Clark rolls underneath the bottom rope, trying to escape the monster of Revolution Zero.


“This is supposed to be a triple threat match involving Sean Davis, Alan Clark, and Spike Jenkins! “ cries LDP.


“Well…looks like things change.”


Sean Davis enters the ring, ready to attack his now standing opponent. Clark charges at him and fires off three right hands to the face. Davis stumbles back stunned as Clark speeds into the ropes behind him. He hits the ropes and comes running full speed towards the former football player. Clark leaps into the air and connects with one foot to the chest, dropkicking Davis back. Davis tries to shake it off, but the much faster Clark is already back on the attack as he is up to his feet. He charges at Davis again, this time, leaping into the air, wrapping his legs around the giant head of his opponent and dropping back for a hurricanrana…





…Except that Davis pulls him back up and DRIVES HIM INTO THE RING WITH A POWERBOMB!


“Say good night to Alan Clark!” laughs The King of Hearts.


Davis stands over Clark, looking down at his fallen adversary. Realizing that not only is he enemies with this man, but that his group supports a threat to Rev-0, Davis decides to end Alan Clark’s career and try and put another nail into the Martial Law coffin. He exits out of the ring, walking around ringside. He stands over Funyon, pushing him to the side and lifting the steel chair up. He slides back into the ring, with the now folded chair and stands over Alan Clark…ready to strike down.


“Sean Davis is out to kill Martial Law with one shot!”


Davis lifts the chair over his head…lining up with the skull of Alan Clark…






Spike speeds down the entranceway and onto the ring apron. He grabs a hold of the top rope, springboards himself up onto the top rope, and dives into the ring…








“Spike Jenkins just saved Alan Clark from getting his brains scrambled!”


Davis drops the chair and stumbles backwards into the corner. Spike quickly gets to his feet, picking the chair up on his way back up. Davis tries to shake the cobwebs, but in his confusion, charges towards Jenkins…





…Who swings the chair overhead and CRACKS Sean Davis over the skull! Davis immediately hits the mat as the crowd gets behind the former Cruiserweight Champion.


“Spike is getting his revenge on Revolution Zero!” cries LDP.


Spike pulls the chair apart slightly, and then places the dazed Davis’ left leg between the seat and the back.


“Wait…HE CAN’T BE GOING FOR THIS AGAIN!” shouts King, “This is uncalled for.”


“I think he might be trying to take Sean Davis out of Revolution Zero…just like Davis, Pretzler, and Toxxic did to him!”


Spike heads into the corner and pulls himself up to the middle rope. The crowd around him cheers, as he looks straight down at his former partner…



A man that he won the SWF Tag Team Titles with at Genesis V…



A man he used to call a friend…












A man whose ankle he just broke…








Davis lungs fill with air as he gives a devastating shriek as he heard his ankle snap in half. Spike simply steps out of the ring and begins to make his way up the ramp. Looking towards the ring, he holds up one finger…



“One down…”



…And then holds up two fingers…



“Two to go…”





SWF Lockdown goes to a commercial break as “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins gives off a signature lopsided grin…




The signature lopsided grin of the leader of Revolution Zero…




The signature lopsided grin of the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, Toxxic…

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Backstage, a rather annoyed Intercontinental Television Champion is storming the halls of the Cow Palace, teeth gritted from the pains in his neck as his over-animated walk jolts away at it. Landon Maddix, you see, is pissed off. And with good reason. And he's in search of something. Suddenly, turning on his heels, it seems he's found it...and with a snarl, Maddix opens a door, with venom, to find himself in some sort of office.


"The fu..."


Maddix holds back his expletive, looking at the woman behind the desk smiling at him. With a smile that could melt an ICTV Champion's heart. If he wasn't such an angry young man.


"Uhm, what the hell?"


"I'm sorry sir?" the woman asks enquisitively. "Do you have a meeting scheduled?"


"Meeting? Forget that noise lady, where's Flesher's office."


"Right through there sir." smiles the woman, pointing to a door off to the side. Maddix storms off towards it, at which point the woman coughs. "I'm sorry sir, but if you don't have a meeting, you can't go in."


"You..are kidding me, right?"


"No sir."


"...since when did Flesher get himself a secretary?"


"Fleshe...Mr Flesher appointed me after certain employees took it upon themselves and interrupt his...*ahem*...personal dealings, sir. If you'd like, I can book you an appointment."


"Great." sneers Maddix. "I'm free any time between now and...oh, I don't know...now?"


"I'm sorry sir. Mr Flesher is very busy at the moment."


Usually, Maddix would be a gentlemen and leave the meeting. But he'd just spent the past few days pysching himself up for a confrontation with Flesher. Hell, all the witty insults he'd came up would go to waste, usually. Tonight isn't usual though. Swatting a hand towards the secretary (who's a good 15 feet away, bear in mind), Maddix scoffs as he whips open the door...to find Flesher sat on his plush leather couch with Allison Onita in his lap, scoffing a large bag of Cheetos.


"What the hell?" mumbles Flesher as he sits up sharply, dumping Onita on the floor and covering her in half chewed Cheetos at the same time. "How did you get past my secretary?"


"Well, it was a struggle, but by the grace of God I made it."


Maddix sighs, looking at Flesher, as he wipes away some bright orange crumbs from his cream suit.


"I should have known when she said you were busy, you'd be eating. No wonder your Cruiserweight Title run sucked the meat missile."


"Look, what the hell do you want Maddix?"


The snap by Flesher brings Maddix back into his line of thought and immediatly, Maddix becomes pissed off again. Brandishing his ICTV Title, he flashes it in Flesher's direction.


"What the hell is this tournament I hear everyone talking about?"


Flesher sighs, smirking only slightly at Maddix's fury.


"One hundred and twenty nine days I've held this ICTV Title, Flesher! Do you realise how long that actually is? Do you realise how many other people have had four month title reigns? Not that many. You'd think that I'd get a little more respect now. A little more...acknowledgement. And yet, lo and behold, here's Tom Flesher organising some tournament, with my belt on the line. Oh, and better yet, I have to hear about it through second hand information."


"That's not strictly my fault."


"I'm the ICTV Champion Tom. I deserve to know what's going on."


"Well...now you do. So, if you'd like to leave..."


"I'm not going anywhere!" Maddix snaps, glaring at the head of Smarkdown. "Tell me, what the hell is the deal with this tournament?"


"It's to unify the ICTV and USJL Titles, into one belt."


Maddix smiles in his frustration, calming himself down quickly as Flesher looks distantly behind Maddix.


"Newsflash Flesher...I did that a month ago!! There was no talk of unification when I was ICTV AND USJL Champion. No talk at all. And yet, as soon as I drop the USJL belt...sure enough, NOW you want to unify them. That's exactly the kind of ass backwards logic I'd expect from you and yet still, I'm shocked at the stupidity of it."


"You realise I'm not the braintrust who thought up this tournament, right?" sighs Flesher. "All I was told was to get things going on Smarkdown, so I..."




Looking incredulous, Maddix places his tongue firmly in the roof of his mouth, trying to stop himself from cursing uncontrollably. Which is what he wants to do right now.






"Look, get to the point or get out."


"Get to the point?"


Taking a step closer to Flesher, Maddix snarls as he painfully points to the neckbrace strapped around his...well, neck, obviously.


"Do you know what that Dangerlust feels like, Flesher? Huh?"




"Don't answer, I really don't give a crap. What I give a crap about is the fact I'm not physically 100% and yet, I'm getting put in some tournament, having to defend my title against lord knows who. Do you realise...do you even have the SLIGHTEST idea what level of pain I'm in here? If had landed an inch to the left, I could be a paraplegic right now Flesher. Just remember, you're LUCKY to have me on the roster still."


"Funny, I don't see it that way."


"Well, put try and see it this way Tom...you're putting an injured man into a tournament style situation. And if I go down, I'm taking you and this company with me."


Flesher is slightly less cocky now, as Maddix nods gingerly.


"Yeah...you can bet that I will sue you, King, Toxxic and this company for every single dime that I can if I end up with an ended career. 21 years old and out of a career? Former World Champion, crippled due to neglect. Damn, I can see the dollar signs Flesher. And don't think I wouldn't come within reach of them."


"So, what exactly do you expect me to do?"


"Cancel the tournament."


"Not possible."


"Give me a bye, to the final, to give me more time to heal."


"Not possible."


"I am the ICTV Cha..."




"Then I suggest you get your lawyers on the phone pudgy, because you might just be needing them."


Shaking his head, Flesher doesn't seem to agree. But Maddix points a finger in his face.


"One clothesline...one DDT...ONE errant right hand and my neck could snap like twig. I don't need to be in the ring with a sadistic son of a bitch like Toxxic for it to happen either. It's not going to take a Dangerlust. It'll happen..."




"...just like that. And that'd be that."


"I still don't see what you expect me to do..."


"You know, you're a lucky man Tom. When I ended your career, I didn't have to break any bones to do it."


Flesher snarls. Remembering back to Genesis IV, the most emotional night of his career...the last night of his career...the night he was pinned by Landon Maddix. The night he hung up the boots. Flesher snarls again.


"Of course, I broke your spirit. But you can still walk Tom. Me? If my career ends by the time Smarkdown is finished, it won't be from throwing in the towel. It'll be from paralysis. Do you really want another Edwin MacPhisto on your hands? Another Justin Bowers? Do you want another serious injury putting a smudge on this company's record? Do you really...REALLY, in all honesty, want to lose me? I'm no egomaniac here..."




"But you need me Tom. And you need me with my spinal cord in working order."


"Then you'd better throw all that flippy floppy crap of yours out of the window and learn how to WRESTLE by the time Smarkdown rolls around, kid."


Rolling his eyes, Maddix places the ICTV Title back over his shoulder, realising he's not getting through to the stubborn Superior One.


"Did you want anything else?"


"Yeah...is that secretary of your's married?"



"...get out."


Sneering, Maddix reaches past Flesher and nabs one of his Cheetos before storming out of the room. Flesher meanwhile sighs as he sits back down and picks up a piece of paper, with bracketing visable through the back of the paper. And with a smile, Flesher starts to make some alterations.

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“Welcome back to Lockdown,” says Longdogger Pete, “And King, we all know that Wild and Dangerous have been experiencing some problems as of late, but they appear to have patched things up last week on Storm, and are now set to take on newcomer Jay Hawke and the new USJL Champion, Austin Sly, in tag team competition here tonight!”


“I wouldn’t be so sure about Wild and Dangerous if I were you, Drain-Clogger,” says Suicide King, pointing a finger at his nose. “Like I told you when we were off the air, I smell a rat!”


“Smell a rat?”


“That’s right,” replies King. “Did you see the look on Johnny Dangerous’ face after they shook hands last week? That guy’s got something up his sleeve. And I heard that they didn’t travel together from Phoenix to get here; that they arrived separately, and haven’t even trained together since before From the Fire.”


“Oh, for goodness sakes, King,” snaps Pete, “quit trying to fan the flames of conspiracy when there clearly isn’t anything going on! After all, I think that Wild and Dangerous proved to the world back at From the Fire that they don’t necessarily need to practice their moves every single day; hell, after teaming together for over two years, they don’t even have to make eye contact to execute their offense; each of them just instinctively knows what the other is supposed to do for any given sequence of moves!”


“Oh they do not!” retorts King. “That’s not ‘instinct,’ as you so hyperbolically put it; that’s what happens when you team up with the same guy for three years. The one thing that works in Wild and Dangerous’ favor is that they’ve been working together for so long that they’ve each learned where their partners like to position themselves for given situations, and have practiced their moves so often that they don’t have to worry about their partner getting their timing wrong… But, for God’s sake, don’t make it out to be more than it actually is!”


“No need to get that worked up over semantics, King,” Pete says grinning. “Okay, maybe not quite instinct, but you have to admit, it’s practically second-nature with those two by now!”


“Perhaps,” concedes King, “but I don’t think that it’s going to make much of a difference tonight, anyway; Jay Hawke is desperate to put himself in line for a title shot, and after getting shafted by his teammate at From the Fire, he’s looking to get a little payback at Wild and Dangerous with a different partner!”


“I heard Hawke’s complaints last week as well,” replies LDP, “and I find myself questioning the validity of those claims he made on Storm. Be that as it may, at least in Austin Sly, he has a partner who has a wealth of experience in the SWF, and who has faced off against at least one member of Wild and Dangerous in the Cruiserweight Division!”


“Austin Sly definitely knows what it takes to be a champion in the SWF,” agrees King. “He’s a former World Cruiserweight Champion, as well as the reigning USJL Champion; Jay Hawke would be wise to draw on his experience!”


“They can really help each other, when you think about it,” adds Pete. “Austin Sly’s trying to return to the level that he was at back when he ruled the roost in the Cruiserweight Division, and scoring a big win over the World Tag Team Champions could go a long way towards impressing the SWF’s Championship Committee!”


“Definitely!” quips King. “Wild and Dangerous, in spite of all their personal problems, are still undefeated as a tag team since returning to the SWF, so you have to think that whatever team is able to beat them would likely be in line for an immediate title shot!”


With that, the cameraman shifts focus to the center of the ring, where Funyon is standing by for his cue. Realizing that the camera is directed on him, he raises the microphone to his lips and goes into his spiel:


“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “the following tag team match is scheduled for one fall!”


Before he can continue, the lights dim as Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” begins to play. Jay Hawke steps out from behind the curtain, covered once again in an ornate full-length purple and black robe. He does a slow spin at the head of the ramp, displaying his robe for the unappreciative fans, before sauntering down towards the ring.




“Introducing first,” continues Funyon, “from Cleveland, Ohio, weighing two hundred fifteen pounds, he is the ‘Dean of Professional Wrestling,’ JAAAAAY HAWKE!”


A fan standing alongside the barricade takes a swipe at Hawke as he passes by, prompting Jay to spin around quickly to confront him, only to have him and the fan separated by security. “I want him out of here!” Jay screams furiously.


“Wow, that loss at From the Fire must have bothered Jay Hawke more than he wanted to let on,” notes Pete. “He’s not the type of guy that usually lets the fans get under his skin, but he’s clearly on edge here tonight!”


“Well, try to look at it from his point of view,” replies King, as the lights come back on. “I mean, he’s trying to make a name for himself here in the SWF, and he sees Scott Pretzler win a title in only a few weeks, so he wants some of that action, too, only to essentially be stabbed in the back by his own partner in the biggest match of his career to date! He really needs a big win to keep from sliding too far back, especially with two new rookies breathing down his neck; hell, I’d be on edge, too!” Hawke removes his robe and hands it over the top rope to the attendant at ringside, then submits himself to an inspection of his ring attire by referee Ronald “Red” Herrington as his music fades out. The arena remains dark and, indeed, gets even darker. An angry murmur spreads through the crowd as a single spotlight shines down onto the stage at the beginning of the entrance ramp. A quick excerpt from Rage Against The Machine's cover of “Beautiful World” plays out.


“It's a wonderful place, oh what a wonderful place...


“For you...


“... For you...


“For you... not me...”






A burst of pyro illuminates each side of the stage, launching a mix of red and gold stars towards the ceiling and cueing a change in music, this time doing Rage’s rendition of “Street Fighting Man.” The arena lights pulse along to the beat. Fans at ringside don't seems to appreciate the obvious work that went into producing such a spectacle, instead booing the arrival of Austin Sly as he steps out of the curtain.


“His tag team partner,” says Funyon, “from Saint Louis, Missouri, weighing two hundred thirty-seven pounds, he is the reigning USJL Champion… AUSTIN SLY!” Austin slowly makes his way down the entrance ramp, the fans lashing out against him on either side. Sly ignores them however, approaching the ring at a nice deliberate pace before rolling underneath the bottom rope and into the ring. He quickly paces the ring before making his way to a corner of the ring and removing his coat before hanging it on the ringpost.


“Both Jay and Austin need to score a big win here tonight,” says LDP, as Sly’s music fades out. “But will they have the continuity tonight to defeat Wild and Dangerous?” Before King can respond, the fans erupt into cheers as Prodigy’s “Fuel My Fire” begins to flood the Cow Palace!




In a flash, the World Tag Team Champions burst out onto the stage, holding their titles in the air as the fans cheer on!


“Their opponents,” booms Funyon, “at a total combined weight of four hundred thirty-one pounds, they are the SWF World Tag Team Champions… WILD! AAAAAND DAAAAANGEROUS!” Funyon then departs the ring, allowing the wrestlers their spotlight.


“Listen to this tremendous ovation for the Tag Team Champions!” shouts Pete, as Wild and Dangerous dash down towards the ring, slapping hands with the fans surrounding the barricade and they streak down the ramp. The Champions circle the ring in a victory lap, high-fiving fans at ringside before sliding into the ring and running to the corners, where they leap onto the turnbuckles and proudly display their championship belts to the crowd!




“Wild and Dangerous look ready!” exclaims LDP, as Wildchild and Johnny exchange a high-five in the center of the ring before surrendering their title belts to the referee. “There doesn’t appear to be any tension between those two!”


“Keep telling yourself that, Sweat-Hogger,” replies King. “When they split up, I don’t want to hear a peep out of you, understand?” Johnny exits to the ring apron as “Fuel My Fire” fades into the ethereal, and Wildchild looks across the ring impassively at Jay Hawke as Red Herrington walks over to the edge of the ring and hands the belts to Funyon. He then signals the timekeeper to ring the bell, signifying the start of the match:




“Four of the finest cruiserweight wrestlers in the world are involved in this match,” notes Pete. “Time to get down to bid’ness!”


Wildchild and Hawke circle each other before meeting in the center of the ring for a collar-and-elbow tie-up, and Wildchild quickly takes advantage, shifting into a high and tight side-headlock. Hawke leads Wildchild towards the edge of the ring and tries to use the ropes to push him across the ring, but the Bahama Bomber re-asserts positive control over the headlock and drops to a knee halfway across the ring, and forcing Hawke to drop to both knees behind him!


“Nice veteran maneuver by Wildchild to hang onto that headlock,” notes Pete. Hawke negotiates his way back to his feet, wrapping one arm around Wildchild’s waist and hooking the other underneath his outside leg, as he lifts him up off the canvas, trying to throw him loose. But the Tropical Tumbler continues to hang on to the headlock, and takes Hawke over with a flying side-headlock takeover!





“Hawke trying to power his way out of the headlock, but Wildchild takes him right back down to the mat!” marvels LDP. “And he’s still holding on to the headlock! I also like the way he sprawled out and spread his weight around, to make it harder for Hawke to lift him off… I tell you what, King, I’m so impressed with how far this guy’s come since I first took notice of him in the JL; there used to be a time when I didn’t think he knew a headlock from a Ziploc, and here he is now, going hold-for-hold with some of the finest technical wrestlers in the world!”


“Bah!” King snorts in disgust. “Every time Wildchild applies any kind of wrestling hold, he should have to pay royalties to Ejiro!” Hawke eventually rolls over onto his stomach and makes his way back to his feet once more. He punches Wildchild repeatedly in the ribs, loosening his hold on the headlock and then quickly backs him up against the edge of the ring, pushing him off the ropes to finally break free! Hawke bellies out against the mat as Wildchild bounces off the ropes, and then immediately springs back to his feet, bouncing off the canvas to leapfrog Wildchild as he rebounds a second time. Instead of running back to the ropes, however, the Caribbean Cruiser pulls to a stop behind Hawke and wraps his arms around his waist the second he touches back down on the mat, pushing him towards the ropes, but the Dean executes a startling counter, spinning gracefully out of Wildchild’s grasp and reverses the waistlock, pushing Wildchild towards the edge of the ring instead, only for the Tropical Tumbler to hang on to the ropes when Jay tries to pull him backwards into a rollup!


“Whoa!” shouts Pete. “Jay Hawke almost caught Wildchild napping, but he was able to block that rollup just in time!” Wildchild charges towards Hawke, who evades him with another leapfrog and hooks his arm underneath that of his opponent as he bounces off the ropes…




… Taking him over with a stunning hiptoss! The Dean immediately drops to one knee and bends Wildchild’s arm back into an armbar.


“Tremendous wrestling by Jay Hawke,” says King. “Excellent job of using Wildchild’s speed against him!” But, just as King is praising Hawke, Wildchild lifts his legs off the canvas and locks them around the Dean’s neck, pulling him forward and slamming him on his back with a headscissors!


“Spoke too soon!” shouts Pete. “Nice counter into a headscissors!” Unable to free himself from the headscissors, Hawke rolls himself onto his stomach and shifts his body around until he’s on his knees at Wildchild’s feet. Before the Bahama Bomber can guess what Hawke is trying to do, the Dean rolls forward on his shoulders, hooking Wildchild’s legs as his body presses against his opponent, holding Wildchild against the canvas with a modified jackknife pin! Red Herrington dives into position to count the pinfall:












But the Human Hurricane wraps both his arms around Hawke’s waist as he flattens both feet against the canvas and bridges, lifting both men off the mat!


“Beautiful bridge by the Wildchild!” shouts LDP, as the Bahama Bomber turns over, holding Hawke in a bent-over position with a double underhook. He then surprises everybody by spinning his own body around to leave his back to Hawke, and reaches back to hook both arms!






“Wild Ride!” shrieks LDP. “He’s going for the Wild Ride!” But the Dean shoves Wildchild frantically to get away, and sprawls out onto his stomach, quickly pushing himself across the ring on his hands and knees! The Bahama Bomber breaks into his trademark grin as he looks at Hawke, holding his thumb and index finger a narrow width apart, as if to say, “Just like that it could have been over... just like that…”




“Wildchild tried to catch Jay Hawke sleeping and end the match early with the Wild Ride, but Hawke felt him about to slap it on, and got out of there in a hurry!”


“And you’ve got to give Jay Hawke tremendous credit for scouting that move,” adds King. “He knew it was coming, and had the presence of mind to get out of it!” Wildchild and Hawke meet back in the center of the ring for a collar-and-elbow tie-up, and Hawke muscles Wildchild back to his corner. Herrington forces a clean break, but Sly takes advantage of Herrington’s distraction and shoves Wildchild from behind! Wildchild turns around to confront Sly, enabling Hawke to nail him from behind with a clubbing forearm to the back of the neck!


“Outstanding ring generalship by Austin Sly,” says King. “That’s where his experience is going to pay dividends in this match!” Hawke makes the tag to Sly and then grabs Wildchild by the wrist, whipping him across the ring as Austin enters the ring. But the Human Hurricane spins sharply on his heel and reverses the whip, using leverage and momentum rather than strength to send Hawke into the ropes, and quickly springs off the canvas, leapfrogging the Dean as he bounces off the ropes…






… Causing Hawke to run headfirst into his partner! Sly and Hawke’s skulls crack together, and both men fall to the canvas!






“And that’s where the lack of working together becomes problematic,” says Pete. “Austin and Jay have never teamed together before, and it showed right there!” Wildchild crouches at the ready, poised for Sly to get to his feet, only to take him back down to the canvas with a deep arm drag! Wildchild gets to his knees and applies an armbar, shifting it to an arm wringer as he stands up, and pulls Sly towards his own corner where he makes the tag to Johnny!





“Here comes the Barracuda,” says LDP. “And now you can expect to see some of that vintage Wild and Dangerous double-teaming!” Johnny climbs to the top rope as Wildchild holds onto the arm-wringer and leaps off…





… Drilling Sly between the eyes with a flying fistdrop!


“Big fistdrop between the eyes,” shouts Pete. “A little rougher than we normally see out of Wild and Dangerous, but effective nonetheless!”


As Wildchild exits to the apron, Johnny takes full control of his opponent; quickly nailing the USJL Champion with a spinning back-fist to send him falling into the ropes and momentarily stunning him. A condition that the Barracuda intends to exploit to it’s fullest. He pulls Austin off the ropes by his arm then sends him across the ring with an Irish whip…




…And nails Sly with a spinning heel kick on the return, dropping the USJL Champion to the mat like a bad habit!


“Man!” cries King. “What the hell has gotten into the Barracuda? Those are some of the stiffest shots I’ve seen thus far tonight!”


“He’s making a big impact and making sure his opponents will remember it in the morning,” replies Pete. Johnny drops to his knees and quickly applies a cover as Herrington drops to make the count…















Austin kicks out just before the referee can begin the motions for the three-count, “-and I think Hawke just let out a sigh of relief on that one,” says Pete. “He was in no condition to make a save for his partner, but it obviously wasn’t needed here.”


“That’s right,” concurs King, “there was never any danger of losing this match to begin with. A few tough blows from Inspector Gadget there isn’t about to put our USJL Champion out!” Johnny beats Sly to his feet, only to snatch him up off the canvas and drop him back down with a Scoop Slam! Johnny then kicks his own legs out from underneath him and falls towards the canvas…




… Driving the point of his elbow into Austin’s sternum. He quickly rolls back to his feet…




… And delivers another one!




“Look at the Barracuda go to work out there,” says Pete, as Johnny delivers yet another elbowdrop. “He’s like a machine; I can’t remember ever seeing him this aggressive before!” Johnny gets back to his feet and goes through the motions as though he were about to drop a fourth elbow, only to raise his leg above Sly’s face…




… And scrape his boot across Austin’s eyes!


“What the hell?” barks King. “He did that in full view of the referee; disqualify him!” Fortunately for the Tag Team Champions, Red Herrington doesn’t disqualify Johnny, but he makes it clear that he will brook no further chicanery.


“If I didn’t know better, King,” says LDP, “I’d say that Johnny has been showing something of a mean streak here tonight!” Austin starts to get to his feet, but he’s pulled up with an assist from Johnny… and a handful of hair before Dangerous pops him in the mouth with a right hook! He goes stumbling to the side, still stunned, and gets pulled into a side headlock then lifted into the air for a vertical suplex…




“Johnny’s working on keeping Austin Sly totally off his game – using various tactics to wear him down,” notes Pete. Johnny kicks his legs out and rolls to the side, hauling Austin back up to his feet with him, “and now the Barracuda is going for the Dangerous Three!”


The crowd starts to buzz as Johnny gets back to his feet with Sly, still holding him in place for a second vertical suplex, but Austin will have none of it! Before Johnny can lift him back up, Austin grapevines his leg around the Secret Agent’s to keep himself grounded, and then jabs his fist into the side of Johnny’s ribs. It stuns Johnny, but he keeps his arm locked around his opponent’s head until Sly launches a series of jabs into Dangerous’ ribs, forcing him to finally let go of his hold. Johnny grabs onto his side and backpedals away from Austin as he groans from the stinging punches. He only takes his eye off Austin for one second, but that’s the only second Austin needs to try and turn the tide, and he darts after Johnny from behind…




… Drilling the Barracuda headfirst into the mat with a bulldog!


“And he never saw it coming!” sings King. “That’ll teach Johnny to try and showboat when Austin Sly is in the ring!”


Johnny quickly pushes off the mat; desperate to get back on his feet, even with the dizzying effects of the bulldog he just received. However, he only places himself directly into Austin’s hands as the USJL Champion grabs him by the arm and sends him barreling across the ring with an Irish whip! Johnny hits the ropes and rebounds towards Austin. He sees Sly making the motions for a clothesline and ducks down just as Austin makes his attempt – his jet-black mane lightly grazing Austin’s arm as he passes under it and heads for the opposite ropes. Once it finally registers that he missed with the clothesline, Sly quickly spins around and his eyes widen to roughly the size of saucers when Johnny comes back off the ropes and dives at him…




…And absolutely LEVELS the USJL Champion with a diving clothesline, flooring him on impact!


“I think Austin saw that one coming,” says Pete, “but all he could do was stare in horror as the Barracuda came flying back at him with a tremendous hit!”


“You’d stare in horror too if you had to look at Johnny Dangerous from that distance,” King replies.


Johnny scrambles to his feet and heads for his corner as Wildchild waits with his hand stretched out, but then Johnny casually glances over his shoulder, back towards his opponent’s corner. Hawke reaches out for his partner as he begins crawling across the canvas, when Johnny suddenly turns back and storms across the mat…




…And nails Jay Hawke in the temple with a spinning elbow, knocking him off the apron!


“Whoa!” exclaims Pete, “Johnny just caught Hawke napping with that one!”


“What the hell are you babbling about!” snaps King, “that was totally uncalled for and the referee should disqualify Johnny for that! Why is Johnny allowed to get away with breaking every rule in the book? Where’s the justice in the world of professional wrestling today?”


Seeing that the Barracuda just made his attempt to reach his partner useless, Austin starts to push up off the mat, knowing he can’t stay in this position now. Unfortunately, he barely gets up to his hands and knees before Johnny stomps his boot into the small of Sly’s back, flattening him back against the canvas, and then unloads with a series of stomps!








“Dear God almighty!” cries King, as Herrington finally orders Johnny to cease with his relentless assault, “Johnny’s totally off his rocker tonight! Herrington would be in the right mind to make him sit out the rest of this match!”


“Tell that to the fans,” replies Pete, as Hawke pulls himself back onto the apron. “They don’t seem to mind one bit that Austin Sly and Jay Hawke are getting their just desserts against Johnny here tonight.”


“What the hell would they know? They named this arena the freakin’ Cow Palace, after all!” Johnny grabs Austin by his neck and pulls him up, and into a side headlock. He clenches down on Sly’s skull then walks him to the Wild and Dangerous corner, finally tagging in Wildchild to a roar of cheers. He climbs into the ring and kicks Austin in the ribs, keeping him subdued, then grabs one arm as Johnny grabs the other to send the USJL Champion across the ring via a double Irish whip. Sly bounces back towards Wild and Dangerous and…




…Eats a double Chicklet Buster from the Tag Team Champions! Austin is floored from the kick and the Bahama Bomber quickly applies a lateral press for the cover as Johnny graciously exits the ring.














“Austin manages to kick out again,” notes LDP, “though with a little less authority than before.” Wildchild pulls Sly back up with an arm wringer then steps forward, sending Austin for another trip across the ring before taking off for the opposite side of the ring himself. Both men hit the ropes simultaneously…





… But the second Wildchild hits, Hawke suddenly reaches up and pulls down the top rope, sending the Caribbean Cruiser tumbling out of the ring!





“Talk about throwing somebody off their game,” snickers King, as Wildchild crashes on the thinly-padded concrete floor. Hawke angrily rushes in and starts stomping his boot into the Bahaman’s back, “… And what goes around comes around… only Wildchild is the one reaping what Johnny sowed just minutes ago!”


Finally seeing enough, Johnny drops down from the apron and runs around the ring towards his partner. Unfortunately, Herrington intervenes and orders him back to his corner, leaving Hawke free to continue to lay into the Bahama Bomber. He pulls Wildchild up by his arm and whips him across the arena floor…






…And directly into the steel steps, which Wildchild goes tumbling over after ramming into them at full force!




“This crowd isn’t too pleased to see this one bit at all,” huffs Pete. “Add on the referee’s inexplicably horrible timing to order Johnny to his corner and we have ourselves a very bad situation for the Tag Team Champions.”


“I say it’s about damned time they got the short end of the stick,” replies King. “These two have been cheating teams out of matches for well over two years now.”


Not wanting to push his luck too far with the referee, Jay pulls the Bahaman up and rolls him into the ring, just as Herrington takes his focus off of the Barracuda and returns to the ring to concentrate on the match. Austin, who used the short reprieve of not having an opponent to gather his bearings, walks over towards Wildchild, pulls him up…




…And cuts loose with a humiliating bitch slap across the Caribbean Cruiser’s face, garnering some more boos from the fans, while getting some applause from Jay Hawke. Sly makes the tag to Hawke, and then holds Wildchild still as the Dean enters the ring and delivers a brutal punch to Wildchild’s kidneys! As the Bahama Bomber staggers away, Hawke plants both hands in the small of his back and pushes him across the ring, waiting patiently as he bounces backwards off the ropes…




… And slamming a clubbing forearm into his exposed kidneys! Now doubled over in pain, Wildchild is defenseless as the Dean wraps one arm around his waist while hooking the other arm underneath his leg, before snatching him off the canvas…




… And driving him into the mat with a wicked belly-to-back suplex!


“Boy, Sly and Hawke have really done a number on Wildchild these last few minutes,” says Pete, as Hawke pulls Wildchild to his feet and leads him over to his corner.


“They probably wish it was Johnny in there, after what he did to them earlier,” replies King, “but they’ll take what they can get!” Hawke tags Austin back in and then grabs Wildchild by his arm, pushes him back against the ropes and then whips him across the ring. Hawke exits to the ring apron and Sly hunkers down as Wildchild hits the ropes and rebounds then sends the Bahaman high overhead with a back bodydrop!




“It’s almost like he were trying to defy Wild and Dangerous with that move there,” says Pete. “That was half of a Silver Bullet!”


“Oh, for crying out loud,” groans King, waving his hand at his announcing partner. “It’s not like Wild and Dangerous own the rights to a back bodydrop! Hell, I was back body-dropping other kids in day care.”


“When was that – yesterday?”


“Go to hell, Toilet-Clogger!”


However, seemingly as if he heard Pete’s very words, Austin stands back up and grins at Johnny Dangerous defiantly. The Barracuda’s eyes narrow and he clenches down on his fist, but remains on the apron, knowing better than get suckered into the ring like that. Austin shrugs his shoulders and then turns back around towards his opponent, dropping down to apply the cover as Herrington dives into position:









“Well he wanted Johnny in there,” says Pete, after Johnny stomps his foot into Austin to break up the count, then quickly darts towards Hawke, blasting him with a right hook, “but I don’t think he wanted that!”


Jay teeters on the apron but doesn’t fall, so the Barracuda grabs him by the side of his head and slams it into the top of the turnbuckle, jarring him loose from the apron once again!


“Wonderful! More unsportsmanlike conduct from the so called Secret Agent,” fumes King. Before Johnny can get another hand in, however, Herrington cuts him off and orders him out of the ring. Dangerous heads towards his corner, but now he’s got Hawke steaming mad and he slides into the ring, intent on beating Johnny within a inch of his life. However, like the Barracuda before him, Hawke is cut off by the referee’s rapidly-failing attempts to keep the match fair.


“Don’t turn your back on these two clowns, ref!’ barks King, but the distraction is precisely what Johnny had hoped for, and as Austin gets up from the stomp, he gets leveled by a clothesline! Johnny quickly pulls the USJL Champion up and draws his head into a side headlock for a DDT, joined by Wildchild after getting a few seconds to recoup, and together they plant the top of Sly’s crown into the canvas with a double DDT!




Austin hits the mat then bounces up to his knees, completely stunned out of his mind! He staggers to his feet and Johnny ducks in from behind on Austin, before lifting him up in an Electric Chair Drop position, as Wildchild instinctively heads for the turnbuckle, and the crowd rises to their feet with cheers in anticipation for the Tag Champions finishing maneuver. Johnny grabs Austin by his ankles and tosses him off his shoulders, precisely when the Bahama Bomber launches himself off the turnbuckle and snags the USJL Champion by the back of the head as Johnny executes the Electric Chair Drop…




…And drills Austin face-first into the mat!


“Dangerous Drop!” Pete excitedly calls, as Johnny bails out of the ring. “They’ve got Austin now!”


Pete’s words are the exact thoughts of Wildchild, and he drops to his knees and covers Austin Sly, with Harrington following closely behind to make the count!









“Austin’s got his foot on the rope!” shouts King. The United States Champion doesn’t have the strength to kick out of the move, but a well-placed foot will save him. Seeing the foot on the rope stops Hawke in mid-path of breaking the pin. However, just before Herrington looks up to make a final check for just that, Johnny grabs Sly’s foot and pushes it off the rope…












“Bull(bleep)!” cries King, “that was complete and total bull(bleep)! Austin Sly had his foot on the rope, but Johnny moved it – the referee should have stopped the count!”


“Indeed,” agrees Longdogger, “that was some rather odd activity on the part of Johnny Dangerous there.”


The crowd doesn’t seem to be shedding too many tears over the incident; they partake in the celebrations as ‘Fuel my Fire’ starts pounding across the arena, and Funyon jumps up from his seat to make the announcement.


“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellows. “The winners of this match by pinfall… WILD! AAAAAAAAND DAAAANGEEROUUS!!!”


Wild and Dangerous receive their belts back from the referee and the immediately head for the turnbuckles to pose for the fans.


“Well,” says Pete, “regardless of how they won, Wild and Dangerous are still undefeated after nearly four months into their SWF return. I’d like to know what got the Barracuda so fired up tonight, though - he was dealing some strong blows to Austin Sly and Jay Hawke. Maybe his struggles in recent times have brought out a more aggressive side to Dangerous?”


“Like I said earlier, he’s a rat I tell you,” replies King. “This time he only cheated Jay Hawke out of a title shot but it’ll only get worse as time goes on, I guarantee it!”


For now, however, both Johnny and Wildchild raise their titles out to their fans, as flash bulbs explode from all corners of the arena and…









As We:


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“And now,” Suicide King proclaims, “returning after a long commercial break undoubtedly filled with advertisements for candy, scrubbing devices, and soft-core Japanese robot porn, we bring you our spectacular main event. It will be a battle between the two greatest stables in the SWF today, Martial…”


“Pardon me, but did you just say ‘robot porn?’” Pete asks dubiously.


“Hey, welcome to the future. And you must be smoking a lot of pot, because you said that last sentence dubiously.”


“What the hell are you talking about?!” Pete ejaculates.


“Ha! You just ejaculated!” Pete says nothing, afraid of how King will interpret his next words. “In any event – continuing where I left off before I was so rudely and moronically interrupted – our final match of the evening will pit Cruiserweight Champion Scott Pretzler against former Hardcore Gamer’s Champion Todd Cortez. Cortez, of course, will represent Martial Law, while The Critic carries the banner of Revolution Zero.”




“The following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL!”


Dun Dun… Dun Dun… CHHH! DUH DUH DUN!

Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh…

DUH Duh DUH Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh!

DUH Duh DUH Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh!


The hardcore cellos of Gerard Schwarz’s Seattle Symphony roar over the speaker system as their rendition of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony begins to play. The Cruiserweight Champion strides onto the ramp with his belt on his shoulder and determination in his eyes. Those not booing bang their heads to the ripping ferocity of the music. However, everyone is booing.


“Introducing first… from Toronto, Ontario, weighing two hundred twenty-six pounds… he is the SWF Cruiserweight Champion… SCOTT PRRREEETTZZLER!”


Pretzler’s gaze radiates confidence as always, but this time the stress behind that visage is more evident than usual. He knows that this is a match he must win. He mounts the steps and stands in the ring with pride before handing his belt to the referee, who in turn gives it to the timekeeper.


“And you know, King,” says Pete, “the other members of Revolution Zero have been a bit disappointed with Pretzler’s work as of late. His last two matches have ended in defeat…”


“He retained his title at From the Fire. And Calvinball doesn’t count.”


“…His last two matches have ended in defeat, and he has been a bit of a non-presence in the Revolution Zero locker room. Not really a team player, you might say.”


“The man is busy!” King sputters. “He’s the Cruiserweight Champion, for wanking out loud! Someone as lazy as yourself might not understand that, but believe me, Pretzler is as hard and as dedicated a worker as any in this great sport.”


“Whatever you say. In any case, this could very well be Pretzler’s chance to prove his worth.”


The lights dim, and green spotlights shine and begins to strobe over the arena. Fabolous’ “Breathe” begins to play – when the beat drops and the first verse begins, pyro explodes from the floor of the stage.










“And his opponent…” Funyon booms once again, “from Hollywood Boulevard… weighing two hundred twenty-six pounds… ‘THE URBAN LEGEND’ TODD CORTEEEEZZZZ!”


Todd Cortez storms out of the entryway as the pyrotechnics surround him and powerwalks to the ring. He plays to the crowd as makes his way down the ramp, and they respond with enthusiasm. A pair of sunglasses covers his eyes, while a bulletproof vest serves as a reminder of his street upbringing. He rolls under the bottom rope and into the ring. When he stands, he removes his gold chain and cross, kisses it, and hands it gently to the referee. His features are frozen into a game face as he stares at Pretzler.


“You spoke at great length about Pretzler’s failings,” King sneers, “but it should be noted that Todd Cortez is hardly on top of the world himself. Just days after defeating the Insane Luchador to retain his Hardcore Gamer’s Championship, he lost that same belt to the Luchador in one of the most crushing defeats of his career.”


“I hope you’re not being serious.”


“About what?”


The most crushing defeat of his career? If you’re talking about the Calvinball match, it was the most technical of technicalities. It was also primarily the fault of Mr. Pretzler, and you’ve got to think that revenge is on his mind tonight.”




Todd wastes absolutely no time. As soon as the bell rings, he charges at Pretzler and fires off a nasty palm strike from his left hand. Pretzler is thrown off his feet, and as soon as he recovers he is met by another palm blow, this one from the other hand. It doesn’t knock him down, but he trembles after the impact. He throws up his forearms and crosses them to block the next one – but Todd changes his strategy and kicks Pretzler hard in the midsection.




Pretzler doubles over and Todd wrenches his left arm. Once he has a firm hold and has extended the arm backward, he digs an elbow into the shoulder to increase the pressure. Pretzler is too close to the edge of the ring and grabs the bottom rope. The referee calls for a break.


“And Cortez using those speedy strikes to overpower the champion from the get-go!”


“Hold your horses, buddy. We’re only six seconds into the match.”


“But just look at how quick the Urban Legend is with his hands and feet, and how hard he hits. Pretzler has no answer to that.”


“Of course he does. He’s a better, smarter wrestler.”


“Scott Pretzler likes to boast about his Ivy League education, but in this bid’ness that gets you nowhere. Todd enrolled in the School of Hard Knocks!”


Todd reluctantly releases his hold on Pretzler’s arm before backing up and throwing another kick. Pretzler is ready, however, and dodges the kick while seizing Todd’s ankle at the same moment. He spins the Urban Legend around by his leg and delivers an elbow smash to the face when the rotation is complete. Todd reels, and Pretzler rushes in to apply a side headlock. A knee thumps into Todd’s gut as Pretzler’s arm tighten’s around the neck.


“Already, Pete, we see Todd making the kind of mistake that only a jobber-for-life will make.”


“Which is?”


“Right when he has Pretzler down after a strike combination, he relaxes his game and goes technical.”


“How is that a mistake? He’s just a versatile performer.”


“NOBODY outwrestles Scott Pretzler. At least nobody active.” The last sentence is accompanied by a knowing wink.


Todd reaches across Pretzler’s back with one hand and furiously punches him in the stomach with the other, hoping to break the hold. Pretzler tries to shift his weight downward and flip Todd over the knee, but the Urban Legend’s streetfighting experience has given even the simplest strikes a lethal edge. Pretzler is forced to release the hold. When he does this, he gives Todd a shove and shoots him into the ropes – only to have him bounce back with a spinning leg lariat. Too slow to counter it, the Cruiserweight Champion has only one option – to get kicked in the face and fall down!




The crowd pops for the quick turnaround. Todd considers going to the mat and further working the arm, but decides against it. Instead, he hits the downed Pretzler with a sliding dropkick that sends him under the first rope and out of the ring.




Pretzler lands hard on the padded floor, his left shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. He groans as Todd slides out to greet him. Todd takes the offensive immediately, kicking Pretzler in the injured shoulder and re-applying the armbar. Pretzler thrashes. Todd bends the arm back and steps over it to gain leverage, then forces his knee into the shoulder joint. The referee begins to count.








“Look at the fury on the face of Todd Cortez,” says Pete. “He clearly blames Pretzler for the loss of his title, and would like nothing more than to punish him for it.”


“Such a crybaby. Why should he blame Pretzler? Scott was just doing his job. And it’s not like he won the belt or anything. Cortez is just looking for the easiest person upon whom to take out his frustrations.”


“’Upon whom?’”


“Yes, Pete. Upon whom. As a great man once said, ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.”


As King and Pete banter inanely, Cortez continues his assault. Pretzler, by now, has managed to wriggle out of the armbar, but Cortez is not willing to let the opportunity slip away completely. He clubs Pretzler with a forearm before the Canadian can reorient himself and shoves him into the barricade. Taking hold of Pretzler’s left wrist, he leaps over the barricade and brings the arm down as he lands, nearly snapping it half over the barricade’s surface with a modified shoulder breaker. Pretzler howls and collapses. Clutches his arm woefully.






Cortez climbs onto the barricade. He stands up!




He leaps!


As Cortez flies toward the writhing form of Pretzler in position for a legdrop, the crafty champion suddenly rolls to the side in desperation. Having miscalculated his opponent’s weakness, Cortez can only cringe as his tailbone is compressed against the deceptively thin padding that covers the arena floor.


“Ass, meet ground!” King exclaims joyfully.




Todd howls and slumps over, grabbing his gluteus with great anguish. He kicks his feet against the ground as the shock courses through his bones.


“Pain, meet Todd.”




Pretzler practically crawls toward the edge of the ring. A double count-out would be unacceptable – this match requires a clear and decisive victory. He scrambles onto the apron and drags himself into the ring as the referee reaches…




Time is almost up! The referee assists Todd in standing and coaxes him in the direction of the ring.




Just as the count finishes, Todd Cortez steps onto the apron. Pretzler is now standing in the ring and is waiting for him. At first, neither man makes a move; Pretzler is wary of a Cortez springboard dive, and Todd knows that his position limits his movement and makes him vulnerable. But it also protects him. As Pretzler runs toward the apron and attempts to plant Cortez with a lariat, the Urban Legend ducks and stops him with a shoulder block between the second and third ropes. Pretzler clutches his stomach and staggers toward the center of the ring. Cortez leans back and pulls on the third rope until it is taut, then springs into the air and lands nimbly on top of it! He pushes off and flies at Pretzler with a springboard lariat…


…But the champion whips his arm forward and catches him in mid-air with an elbow smash!




Cortez ‘s head jerks and he crashes to the mat on his upper back. Pretzler covers.
























“Folks, we would like to remind you that this is a non-title match.”


“Not that it matters, since Pretzler is going to win.”


Unsatisfied, Pretzler elbows Cortez in the face again and puts him in a wristlock, twisting his right arm to add to the pressure. He then folds the arm inward and forces his shoulder into Todd’s chest in an attempt to muscle him into another pin. However, Todd swings his free arm over and clubs Pretzler in the face, then kips up as the Cruiserweight Champion backs off. Still in the wristlock, he cartwheels out of Pretzler’s reach and spins under his arm, reversing the direction of the pressure. Now it is Pretzler who is trapped! This doesn’t last long, though, as he quickly performs the same reversal and slams his elbow into Todd’s shoulder, causing the Urban Legend to drop reflexively to his knees. Pretzler steps over the arm and leans back.


“That’s the same move that Cortez just used a few minutes ago! Pretzler is adding insult to injury,” Pete says as Pretzler falls back on the mat with Todd’s arm still in his grip. Todd flails and beats the mat as he looks for an escape route. Pretzler grits his teeth and nearly bridges off the mat as he tears away at Cortez’s arm, the elbow joint becoming close to inverted.


“Having been on the defensive for much of this match, it seems that Pretzler has finally decided to take action,” Pete notes.


“You say that so derisively. Pretzler’s defensive approach is brilliant, especially against someone with the speed and intensity of Cortez. Todd comes and throws these big, flashy moves at him, and Scott just swats him down like an annoying insect. It’s certainly more effective than what most of the roster is employing.”


“He does seem awfully bitter about having been put in that armbar by Todd.”


“Revenge, baby. Sweet revenge.”


Todd finally manages to prop himself up on his left elbow, reducing the level of hyperextension in the one opposite. Pretzler then rolls onto his shoulder, trying to twist the arm to the side, but Todd now has enough leverage to get back on one knee. He leans in toward Pretzler and clubs at his face with forearms until the champion reluctantly releases his grip. Cortez hastily pulls Pretzler to his feet and whips him into the ropes. He leapfrogs, but Pretzler hooks his arms over the ropes and keeps himself from bouncing back toward the enemy. Though dismayed, Todd compromises by charging Pretzler, who catches him with a back-elbow to the stomach. The Critic takes the opportunity to apply the ever-popular side headlock.




He smiles to himself, amused by the crowd’s ignorance. As Cortez tries to sever his grip with a back-elbow of his own, Pretzler rotates one-hundred-eighty degrees across his front and clamps on a front headlock. His arms move down several centimeters until they are secured around Todd’s neck. Leaning back while planting his feet on the mat, he stretches his opponent’s vertebrae.


“And Todd’s neck extends like Feinstein’s member on a visit to Disney World!” King says with his usual impeccable taste.


Hoping to grapevine Cortez’s body and make the hold inescapable, Pretzler aims a tight and moderately stiff kick at the Urban Legend’s shin. But Cortez is within reach of the ropes, and he is able to grab hold of them with his right arm. He clings for dear life. Pretzler belligerently maintains his vise-grip on his neck. The referee begins the five-count that will disqualify Pretzler. At the very last second, Pretzler gradually releases the hold. His desire for victory supercedes his appreciation of the rules.






The instant Pretzler lets go of Cortez, he snaps off a vicious knife-edged chop that causes him to stagger back several feet. He follows it up with another.






Now that Cortez has been driven to the center of the ring, Pretzler moves in and reapplies the front headlock. Cortez is ready, though. He takes advantage of Pretzler’s momentum and heaves him off the ground as soon as the headlock settles in, right before sitting down and splattering Pretzler on the canvas with a sit-out spinebuster. The head of Pretzler makes a cringe-inducing sound as it lands. He is pinned.




























Pretzler’s tender shoulder rises off the mat just before the count of three. Todd pushes his legs away in frustration, causing him to roll over onto his stomach. He stands, and Todd is waiting for him…


…With an enzuiguri!




Foot and head are joined in an unholy matrimony. Pretzler clutches his head and falls onto his hip, then backs away as Todd advances on him. The Urban Legend runs, apparently looking for another sliding dropkick… but the clever Pretzler catches him in a drop toe-hold. His face collides with the corner post.


“Folks, that turnbuckle is not made of ice cream,” King observes. “There’s no way it feels or tastes good to slam into it.”


Everyone is expecting Pretzler to take advantage of the situation. But he doesn’t. Instead, he suddenly grabs his wounded shoulder and screams loudly. He collapses on the mat, wailing in pain. The referee drops down next to him and tries to help, but Pretzler is unable to communicate in any way except through his agonized howls.


The ref is therefore oblivious to the chair speeding toward Cortez’s face from outside the ring.




He also misses the second shot, even harder than the first.




And the third!




Todd crumples. Pretzler turns around and, forgetting his injury, makes the cover.


The dumbfounded ref counts.



























“Here is your winner… SCOTT PRRREEETTTZZZLER!”


Pretzler raises his arm in victory and slides out of the ring. The chair-wielding Sean Davis assists him in walking up the ramp.



“Well,” says Pete, “that was the first tenth of a great match! In other words, what the hell?”


“I don’t know. But it was brilliant.”



Pretzler and Sean reach the top of the ramp, where they are met by a familiar figure. The figure of Toxxic. He’s smiling.



That smile.



SWF Lockdown, March 16, 2005.

© Riot Act Promotions. All rights reserved.

The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation: “Raising workrate by typing faster.”


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