Chuck Woolery 0 Report post Posted March 22, 2005 FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE! Boom! Boom! Bang! Bang! BOOM! YEEEAAAAAAAAAHHH! Streams of pyro explode from beneath the steel entryway, revealing a frightening sight: a gigantic arena filled with thousands upon thousands of screaming wrestling fans! “Folks, we are here live at the sold-out Rose Garden in Portland Oregon for another exciting edition of S…W…F…SMARKDOWN!” The booming voice of Longdogger Pete strains to be heard above the roar of the crowd and the crash of the pyrotechnics. The camera pans across the audience, revealing fat people, thin people, young people, old people, people of all races and nationalities… and even a few women. All are cheering, delighted to be here, and many are holding signs, from the profane (“TOXX SUCKS COXX”) to the jingoistic (“KORAN 7:11”) to the scathingly clever and homophobic (“SCOTT PRETZLER TILDE-BANGS MEN!”) “Yes, Pete, and what a show we’ve got for you fans tonight!” Suicide King puts his sarcasm aside for the moment as he jumps into full shill mode. “In our spectacular main event, ‘Hollywood’ Spike Jenkins and ‘The Franchise’ Mak Francis will collide in a match to determine the number-one-contender for Toxxic’s World Heavyweight Championship. “Which is a nice way of saying ‘the next person to beaten by Toxxic,’” he adds under his breath. “And that’s just the tip of the iceberg!” Pete exclaims. “We’ll also be seeing the Insane Luchador in action against the sensational Wildchild – and you’ve got to think that whoever wins this one will be setting his sights on the Cruiserweight Championship.” “Speaking of championships, the first round of the SWF Belt tournament will be held tonight, with such illustrious names as Jay Hawke, Todd Cortez, Manson, and ‘The Barracuda’ Johnny Dangerous.” King tries to stifle his derision as he speaks the last three names. Plus, Arch Griffon will be in action against Austin Sly and Mohammed Koran continues his crusade against the Great Satan when he tackles the imposing figure of Martin ‘Big Country’ Hunt!” “It’s going to be a wild night indeed. Who knows what…” DUN DUN… DUN DUN… DUH DUH DUN! BOOOOOOO! The stirring first notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony thunder over the speaker system as the Cruiserweight Champion strides into view. Scott Pretzler is resplendent in a freshly-ironed navy blue blazer. He pauses to survey the crowd, raising his head Rock-style as if to inhale the crowd’s heat. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the SWF Cruiserweight Champion… ‘THE CRITIC’ SCOTT PRETZLER!” They continue to boo, and he smiles, then proceeds down the ramp. The belt sits proudly on his right shoulder – the left is protected by a bandage. He mounts the steps and enters the ring with care. He beckons imperiously to Funyon, who promptly hands over his microphone. “You should all be disappointed after what happened last Wednesday night. “All of you. Hell, you should be shoot furious! “If not, how can you call yourselves wrestling fans? If you were not dismayed to see a superb technical contest cut short by a screwjob finish, if that did not cause you to turn off your television set in disgust… then why are you even here? After all, Smarkdown IS a wrestling show.” The crowd is unsure how to respond. So they continue to boo, albeit less harshly. “What was it you said, Mr. King, when the show went off the air? It was a brilliantly smarkish comment… ah, that’s right. ‘Somebody should get a vacuum cleaner, because it’s getting awfully Dusty in here.’” He looks downward, shakes his head, and begins to chuckle. “Did you hear that, Pete? He quoted me!” Suicide King is quite proud of the mention. “Yes, that’s what you said. In any other match – even one involving Landon Maddix or some other Sportz-Entertaining~! hack – a finish like this would be cringe-inducing, to say the least. But I can only imagine how the more educated among you must have felt to see me, the self-proclaimed savior of professional wrestling, forswear my values and participate in such an atrocity. You must have wondered, why? Why would Scott Pretzler promote the sort of Crash TV garbage he rails against on a daily basis here and in his internet newsletter? Was it done out of laziness? For shock value? Simply to better my win-loss record? “Fear not, for I can explain.” PRETZ-LER SUCKS! PRETZ-LER SUCKS! He nods. ”Twenty or so minutes into the broadcast, I was in my dressing room preparing for my match later that night. I had it all planned out in my mind, as well as written down on paper – what moves I would use against Cortez, what strategy, what counters – and I was feeling fairly confident. Very confident, actually. But as I completed my one-hundred-and-first pushup, I received a knock on the door. “It was my fellow Revolution Zero teammates, Toxxic and Sean Davis. BOOOOOO! FUCK REV-ZERO! FUCK REV-ZERO! “It was Toxxic and Sean Davis. And they, at least Toxxic, wanted to have a word with me. What they said was painful, it was unfair. It cut right to the bone. And it was true. “You see, I joined Revolution Zero thirty-five days ago as a means of furthering my SWF career; and, in turn, helping to fulfill my vocation. Because – at the risk of sounding like an obese black man who can’t wrestle his way out of a wet paper bag – I’m a man on a mission. My job, my duty, is to restore this industry to its pure wrestling roots.” PRETZ-LER SUCKS! “In essence, I joined the group because I was enticed by the prestige that my membership would bestow upon me.” “English, motherfucker, can you speak it?” shouts one particularly vocal Oregonian. “I really wasn’t concerned with the team aspect of being part of the stable. And it showed. I wasn’t present at most of the team meetings. I rarely accompanied fellow team members down to the ring. I was a loner, self-serving and independent, and it was all in accordance with the philosophy of Objectivism that I follow. When Toxxic and Sean showed up in my dressing room last Wednesday, I asked what they were doing there. ”’I just came to wish you good luck tonight,’ Toxxic said. ‘Which is more than you could afford to do for me in my last World Title match.’” FUCK REV-ZERO! FUCK REV-ZERO! “Shut up. Toxxic told me that he didn’t feel as though I’d been acting like a team player lately, what with my teaming with Jay Hawke and all, and at first I just dismissed it as bitter arrogance. I assured him that I wished him nothing but the best as World Champion, and that I valued my membership in Revolution Zero above all else. I said, ‘Toxxic, there have been many great Deans in wrestling. Malenko. Douglas. Rasmussen. But Jay Hawke – he’s not one of them. Our partnership was a two-time-deal.’ After all, I had just betrayed him and cost myself the tag team championship.” PRETZ-LER SUCKS! “What he said next, I could not ignore. It was outrageous. He told me that because of my recent losing streak and my performance in Calvinball, he didn’t feel quite comfortable sending me out there alone tonight. He didn’t… he didn’t trust me. And so, he said, the following was to happen: during the match, I would all of a sudden begin to clutch my shoulder as though it were in great pain. I would collapse on the mat and writhe in agony. And while the referee was inquiring as to my condition, Sean Davis would run down to the ring and demolish Cortez’ cranium with a steel folding chair. BOOOOO! “Go ahead and boo. Be angry. I know I was! Here was my team leader, a man I trusted and respected, asking a favor of me that he himself would never perform. The Straight-Edge sensation, the man who never cheats, asking me to take part in a sports-entertainment finish? And I, the Critic, the smartest of the Smart Marks, was supposed to agree? It seemed outrageous. I told him flat-out ‘no.’ “Right after I did so, I began to think. What was I doing? Where was I going. Was I a member of this team, or was I Scott Pretzler the lone gunman? And then a great wave of guilt washed over me. I had burdened these men, these hard-working dedicated men, with the responsibility of looking after someone who cared only for himself. Toxxic wasn’t asking this favor of me because he didn’t respect me – he was asking this favor of me because he cared about my well-being, and about that of the team. He was willing to sacrifice his own values to help a friend. “Shouldn’t I be expected to do the same? FUCK REV-ZERO! “’I will,’ I said to Toxxic. ‘I will do it.’ So, when the time came, I grabbed my shoulder. I screamed. I trembled on the mat. And I listened as, mere inches above me, the sound of metal against bone reverberated throughout the Cow Palace. That, my friends, is dedication.” BOOOOO! “Dedication. How else to explain what I did? How else to explain the fact that, in my attempts to make the shoulder injury appear convincing, I actually did dislocate the joint and will be unable to compete here tonight in Portland?” On the Smarktron, a slow-motion video shows Pretzler rolling under the bottom rope and landing hard on the floor, all of his weight landing on his left arm. He nods gravely as he watches the replay. “And how else can one explain the fact that Sean Davis, after having his ankle savagely snapped in half by the frustrated Spike Jenkins, defied the doctors and the laws of physics so he could hobble down to ringside and deliver not one, not two, but THREE punishing chairshots to the skull of the Urban Legend? Most of you can scarcely imagine the level of pain Mr. Davis was in after taking that Pillmanizer. Yet he walked, if only for a few minutes, so he could assist his comrade in need.” He reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, which he uses to wipe his misty eyes. It’s unclear whether his tears are of the crocodile variety. “That’s the difference between Revolution Zero and nearly every other alliance that come before us. We are a cohesive unit, a true team, and each member respects and looks out for the others. Our affection is genuine – if you were to be overly sentimental, you might even call it love. That’s what separates us from, say… Martial Law.” YEEEAAAAAHHH! MARTIAL LAW! MARTIAL LAW! “Do your knees hurt from all that jerking? Why I don’t I say it again and see what happens: Martial Law.” YEEEAAAAAHHH! “Martial Law. Martial Law. Martial Law!” YEEEAAAAAHHH! MARTIAL LAW! MARTIAL LAW! “Reminds me of that scene from the Lion King. You know; Mufasa, Mufasa, Mufasa! You’re nothing but a bunch of Pavlovian dogs, only with a less acute sense of hearing. But seriously, can you even name the members of Martial Law? Let's see... there’s Landon Maddix, Alfred Clark, and Spike Jenkins – but he’s really just our sloppy leftovers. And that other guy I beat, what’s his name. Oh, right. Todd Cortez.” YEEEAAAAAHHH! He laughs contemptuously. “Why are you cheering? I kicked his ass!” BOOOOO! “My point remains: Martial Law is not a team. They call themselves a team, but in the truest sense of the word they are not one. Rather, they are a group of distinct individuals, each of whom claims membership only so he may sell more T-shirts. Hey, don’t be ashamed – most teams today are like that. Such as, to pick a completely random example… the Oregon Trail Blazers!” BOOOOOOOOO! “It's the Portland Trail Blazers, buddy!” Pete shouts. “I think he knows that, you tool,” King shoots back with a smirk. PRETZ-LER SUCKS! PRETZ-LER SUCKS! “In any event, I have learned my lesson. And I hope that you all learn yours: that being part of a group is not about wearing a uniform, or spouting snappy phrases, or doing and saying the exact same thing, over and over, day in and day out…” He looks around, the implication obvious. “It’s about dedication. It’s about love and respect, founded on the virtues of hard work and honesty. That’s why, when all is said and done, Revolution Zero will still be standing proud. While Landon, Clark, Cortez and the others will be begging… “Pleading… “To wash our dirty socks. Enjoy the show.” The Ninth kicks up once more as Pretzler exits the ring, gingerly making sure that he does not do further damage to his allegedly wounded shoulder. Inevitably, the popular chant starts up once more… FUCK REV-ZERO! FUCK REV-ZERO! “Well,” says Pete, finally daring to speak, “some profound words of wisdom from the Cruiserweight Champion to start off Smarkdown…” “…and some less-than-profound words of non-wisdom of from this yokel crowd. But that’s to be expected, since we are in Oregon. Regardless, it’s going to be an explosive show – and in any case, tonight is not about words. It’s about good-‘ol-fashioned ass whuppin’!” As we FADE OUT. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Chuck Woolery 0 Report post Posted March 22, 2005 “And we’re back,” says the Suicide King as the Rose Garden is shown in a broad pan shot. “It’s time for our first match to get underway, with Martin ‘Big Country’ Hunt taking on…” “PORTLAND, Oregon…” shouts Muhammed Koran from the stage, cutting King off mid-sentence. “You think you’re somehow better than the rest of America… more enlightened… because you didn’t vote for the braying donkey in the Oval Office. Instead, you voted for the horse. You didn’t even know which end of him to kiss! I have news for you, Portland… YOU ARE NOT IMMUNE! All of America is responsible for the things it does to the people of the rest of the world! You all have blood on your hands!” With that, his sitar theme begins to play as he hocks a loogey onto the aisle. He walks to the ring with the crowd shouting insults at him. He smirks, brushing the fans off and shouting vile invective at a few. He enters the ring, looking up the aisle, waiting for his opponent. He doesn’t have long to wait as Hank Williams Jr.’s "A Country Boy Can Survive" hits the speakers, the boos of the crowd changing to cheers in the space of a heartbeat as the Tigris Express’s opponent makes his entrance. Martin “Big Country” Hunt strides out from the entranceway, not bothering to pause on the stage as he simply begins to walk straight down the ramp smirking at some fans while he exchanges high-fices with others. “And the opponent! From Boone, North Carolina, in the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! Weighing in at 220lbs! He is MARTIN “BIG COUNTRY” HUNT!” The boos of the fans merely increase as Martin is announced, but Big Country takes no notice of their disapproval, merely sneering at the fans that throng the aisle before he runs the last few steps to the ring and slides under the bottom rope and rolling back up to his feet. Koran turns to face his opponent as Funyon steps out of the ring and referee Ced Ordonez steps into the center checking the position of both men. Ordonez motions to the corner, where Hunt grudgingly sets down his bottle of Southern Comfort. DING DING DING!!!! “And here we go,” says Longdogger Pete, as Martin Hunt and Muhammed Koran square off in the center of the ring. “There’s clearly no love lost between these two.” “Really,” adds the Suicide King, “there’s no reason to expect any more. On the one hand, you have Muhammed Koran, who’s been in a lifelong jihad against the McWorld. On the other, you have Martin Hunt, who’s killed too many brain cells to love anything.” Hunt drives Koran into the corner. Referee Ced Ordonez steps in, breaking them up. Loran throws his hands into the air, feigning innocence. As Hunt steps back, though, he reaches out and slaps the frat boy across the face! The crowd boos as Hunt charges into the corner, only to be restrained by Ordonez! Koran steps out, mocking Hunt as he moves back to the center. Hunt backs away from Ordonez, anxious to get back to the center with his Islamic opponent. “It looks like Koran may have gotten the better of Hunt’s composure,” says LDP. “He’s firing up the Country Boy like we’ve never seen him before.” “You’ve gotta hand it to Koran. You don’t have to agree with what he says, but he says it well.” Back in the center, Hunt and Koran lock up again. This time, Koran gets the advantage off the bat, driving Hunt back into the corner. Instead of throwing his hands up as Koran did, Hunt throws a fist into the Tigris Express’s face, fighting his way back out. Koran backs up, but meets him with an elbow strike. They fight back and forth, with Hunt finally throwing an exceptionally hard punch that catches Koran’s nose. He staggers backwards, and a moment later a trickle of blood starts to flow onto his lip. Koran scowls, looking to avenge the break… but Hunt grabs him first, slapping on a side headlock. To the delight of the crowd, he throws a series of hard punches into Koran’s head, aggravating the bloody nose until Muhammed finally shoots him off to the ropes! Taking a moment to breathe, Koran steps back… not seeing Hunt charging toward him! Koran eats a huge lariat, flipping over the top rope! A cheer goes up through the crowd, and Hunt turns around, playing to them. Koran, though, grabs him by the ankle and pulls him back out to the floor. “Oh, come on,” LDP protests. “That’s not fair!” “All’s fair in love and war, Pete,” the King of Hearts says. “But really, the move’s sort of cliché. Old hat, really.” Hunt is met on the outside with a series of strikes, even as Ced Ordonez orders the wrestlers to re-enter the ring. Without a response, he begins to count. ONE! Koran whips Hunt to the guardrail, slumping him over it. TWO! He throws a couple of European uppercuts into Hunt’s chest, and Hunt shivers backwards. THREE! Koran grabs Hunt’s wrist and throws him into the nearest corner, cracking his face against the steel post! Hunt crumbles down into a heap. FOUR! He grabs the country boy by the hair and lifts him up, positioning his face against the apron. FIVE! In a rope-burn-like maneuver, Koran runs a few feet along the apron, dragging Hunt’s face across the corner! Hunt staggers backwards, grabbing his face in pain! Koran, meanwhile, taunts a few first-row fans. SIX! As Koran is distracted, Hunt crawls away, trying to buy himself a few precious seconds. SEVEN! Koran notices that Hunt is gone. He looks over and sees Big Country huddled in his own corner and senses something is afoot. EIGHT! He charges over, trying to stop Hunt before he can recover by hammering him with a running avalanche. Hunt ducks, though, leaving Koran to paste himself against the cornerpost! “That’s GOTTA hurt,” LDP notes. NINE! Hunt stands up, and to the cheers of the fans, holds up his bottle of Southern Comfort! As Koran turns around, he swings it… But Koran ducks! The bottle shatters on the cornerpost, spilling liquor everywhere! TEN! And Ced Ordonez calls for the bell! DING DING DING!!!! “Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “the referee has counted BOTH wrestlers out of the ring… the official result, a NO-CONTEST!” Koran doesn’t seem to care, though. As Hunt moves backwards, trying to regain his footing, Koran reaches into his tights… and steps forward, slamming his brass-knuckled fist into Hunt’s jaw! The frat boy crumbles into a heap, and Koran throws his arms into the air victoriously. The crowd boos loudly as he mocks his fallen foe, then hocks another loogey onto him. “This Muhammed Koran is despicable!” shouts Longdogger Pete. “Here, Martin Hunt’s just trying to take care of bid’ness, and he’s gotta throw in those brass knucks!” “Hey, if he cheated, he would have gotten disqualified,” says King. “Quit sullying that man’s good name.” As SWF security rushes out to check on Martin Hunt, Koran taunts his way up the aisle. “Tom Flesher is NOT going to be happy with this,” Pete says. “Why not?” shrugs King. “I have the odd feeling he knew this was going to happen.” “That was odd.” “Perhaps.” ~fin~ Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Chuck Woolery 0 Report post Posted March 22, 2005 As SWF Smarkdown from the Rose Garden in Portland comes back on air, entrances immediately start for the next match, but not before Funyon lays down the ground rules. Funyon: The rules for a Pure Wrestling Match are as follows. Each wrestler is given three rope breaks. No punches are allowed in the match. If a competitor lands a punch, they will lose a rope break. After the rope breaks are exhausted, they only way to escape a submission move is through reversal or mercy. If a wrestler lands a punch after their rope breaks are exhausted, they will be disqualified. “Arc Arsenal” by At The Drive-In kicks up on the PA system, drawing a mixed reaction from the fans in attendance. The Rose Garden slowly fades to blackness to as the song intro plays. The light slowly dim down, as the beat of the drum remains intense. The lights fade to near darkness, but then stop as the song finishes its intro. The crowd is suddenly blinded by pristine white pyrotechnics, as the song kicks into full gear. Soon thereafter, the hulking Arch Griffon comes out from the white. He quickly power walks to the ring as the crowd greets him. Funyon: The following is a Pure Wrestling Match and is scheduled for one fall! First, from Des Moines, Iowa, weighing in at 304 pounds….AARRRCHH GRRIFFONN! Pete: This farm boy from Iowa last week made a frightening’ and impressive debut. Griffon brutalized Muhammad Koran to pick up his first SWF victory. King: Griffon was very impressive on Lockdown. He won an absolutely one sided match against Koran, impressive many. But tonight he takes on Austin Sly, and angry man with a something to prove. Griffon quickly enters the ring, takes a few steps around the squared circle, and then does some stretches, focusing on his back and legs. He then awaits Sly’s arrival. The lights in the arena go dark. Pitch black. A hush falls over the fans at ringside, 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..." ... *BOOM!* Pyrotechnics explode from each side of the stage, launching a mix of red and gold stars towards the ceiling and cueing a change in music as Zach de la Rocha's voice once again floods the building, this time doing a cover 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. "Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet boooooy..." "'Cause summers here and the time is right for fighting in the streeeet boooooy..." Funyon: And his opponent, from Saint Louis, Missouri, weighing 237 pounds, the Smarks Wrestling Federation United States Junior League Champion….AUUSSTINN SLLLYY! Pete: Austin Sly has been in the middle of controversy as of late. He has gained a bye in the tournament to unify the ICTV and USJL titles. Add in a questionable finish to his tag match against Wild & Dangerous, and he has a lot to deal with of late. King: Questionable?! Sly had his foot on the bottom rope, and Dangerous pulled it off, getting the pin. Sly was screwed, and if I were him, I would challenge the match. Pete: The best that could happen would be a rematch against Wild & Dangerous, King. Would anyone want to face that team twice? King: But if he wins the second time, he defeated that team. Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous! Sly quickly enters the ring, where Griffon is already standing; he takes a quick glare at Griffon, and then goes about some stretching exercises. The referee for this match is Dom Johnson, who must have forgotten he was working today, as he has a manly five o’clock shadow. He checks both men for weapons, then signals for the bell to start the match. *DINGDINGDING!* Pete: The battle of the Heartland takes place now! Austin Sly and Arch Griffon slowly advance to the middle of the ring. The two lock up. There is a struggle at first, Sly throwing all he has at Griffon. However, Arch is the stronger man, and starts to walk Sly across the ring. Sly however, fights back, and he starts to progress on Griffon. Showing a good presence of mind, Griffon uses Sly’s momentum against him, and spins around to Sly’s back, and puts his mitts around Sly’s waist. He quickly hoists Sly up in the air, and twists. He throws the smaller man to the mat with a rear amateur takedown. Griffon backs off his as Sly climbs back to his feet. Pete: A quick sequence there sees Griffon use his power to set the early tempo of this match. King: Sly needs to be careful. Although he didn’t show it in his last match, I feel that Griffon can take it to the mat rather well. Once again the two men lock up. This time, Griffon starts to shove Sly across the ring. But Sly, ever the fast learner, uses Griffon momentum to his advantage and spins around to Griffon’s back and puts on a rear waistlock. A grin appears on Sly’s face as he squeezes Archie tight. Griffon grimaces for a momentum, then uses two hands to pry Austin’s left from his waist. He then twists the arm, causing Sly to relent. Griffon then slips behind Sly with a hammerlock. Sly grimaces in pain and looks for a way out. Arch walks Sly towards the center of the ring. Austin tries to use Griffon’s lack of proper balance to his advantage, and uses his right arm to through a back elbow. Griffon ducks and lets go of Austin’s arm. Sly does a 180 degree turn and winds up above Griffon. The big man quickly grabs Sly by the waist. He lifts and throws him over his head with an overhead belly to belly suplex! Sly lands hard on his back. Fans let out a roar after the move. Griffon quickly puts on a cover. Johnson gets into position. ONE! TWO! TH-NO!! Pete: A quick snapping’ suplex from Archie get a quick two, and he is in control here during the early going. King: Sly needs to regroup and go after a body part. Griffon, after the quick pinfall attempt, climbs back to his feet. He wipes his brow of sweat, and then picks up Sly. Sly, dazed, tries to make a comeback. He drives a few elbows into Archie’s ribs, loosening Griffon’s grasp. Dom Johnson does not see punches. As he gets to his feet, Sly stomps down on Griffon’s foot. Arch grimaces and start to hobble. Sly quickly goes in for a lock up, and achieves this. With Griffon’s temporary lack of a left foot, Sly is easily able to push him into the corner. He quickly break the lock up, takes his right hand, brings it across his own body, then comes forward with a knife edge chop… *SLAP WHOO!* The first one nails Griffon, the sound sent to New Salem. Sly comes with another. *SLAP WHOO!* The second is nearly as powerful as the first. Griffon is rocked by the two chops, his usually pale chest turning s healthy pink. Before can get off another, Griffon, throws him into the corner, and takes aim with his own pair of chops. *SLAP WHOO!* *SLAP WHOO!* Sly’s chest now turning red, he retaliates, coming with one out of the corner. *SLAP WHOO!* Pete: There is nothing like a good old-fashioned chop battle, King. Griffons backpedals into the middle of the ring, and waits for Sly to join him. *SLAP WHOO!* King: I agree completely. Another chap rattles Sly, who groans quite audibly. Angered, Sly comes across with one of his own. *WHOO!* Sly misses his chop, as Griffon ducks and gets behind him. Austin turns around, right around into a chop. *SLAP WHOO!* The chop is enough that it knocks Sly to the canvas. His chest now read and full of handprints, Austin scurries back to his feet. Archie comes around with another chop. *WHOO!*…*OOAHH!* Austin uses his superior speed to duck on Griffon’s next attempt. Archie turns back around to meet a sudden kick to the ribs. The shock and force of the blow sends Griffon doubling over. Sly, ever the opportunist, sees his opening and quickly locks Arch’s large arms, and then drops him to the mat with a double arm ddt! The crowd groans at the harsh impact Griffon’s head takes on the mat. Sly immediately goes for the cover in the center of the ring. ONE! TWO!! THR-NO!! Pete: That harsh double arm ddt from Sly almost ended this match, King! King: He caught the rookie reaching into the cookie jar, and paid him pay tenfold! Arch instinctually shoves away Sly, who immediately gets up and complains to the referee. The referee claims there was no punch, just a shove. An irate Austin, bitter as he believes he is getting the shaft one more, slowly drags Griffon back to his feet. Archie, using the time to recover, catches Sly with a side headlock takedown. Griffon holds on tight, trying to recover his bearings. Eventually, Sly gets back to his feet. He immediately attempts to shove Arch to the opposite ropes, but Arch holds on. Sly tries again, but Arch holds him right in the middle of the ring. Finally, Sly wises up, and instead just hits Griffon with a back suplex that contains a pinning bridge! Johnson quickly moves into position. ONE! TWO! THR-NO! Pete: Wow! Scary moment there for Griffon, as Sly makes a great move with that back suplex! King: Scary moment? Griffon deserves more than that, after throwing the punch only moments ago! Pete: That was debatable at the best, King. King: Sly is once again getting screwed over and there is no denying it. Pete: I believe you and Sly may be delusional people. The crowd buzzes, as Griffon tries to rise to his feet. On the way up, he is met by a flurry of knees from Sly. After Sly gets his opponent to his feet, he whips him across the ring. Griffon goes uncontested. As Griffon comes back to the middle of the ring, Sly has already risen up into the air with a dropkick. Griffon, showing good reaction time, moves out of its path. Sly lands hit on the mat. He clutches his stomach, and quickly rise to his feet. *BAM!* Just as Sly turns back around towards Griffon, he nailed right in the face with a superkick! Pete: What a superkick from Griffon! It knocked Sly right into the ropes! King: I find it odd how this match doesn’t allow punches, but does allow moves like that. The crowd buzzes with excitement after the kick puts Sly on the ropes next to the entrance ramp. Griffon quickly rushes over to the defenseless Sly. He grabs Austin’s legs, and quickly dumps him over the top rope and to the floor. King: And what the hell was that? Pete: You can dump someone to the outside in this match. Slowly, Sly starts to climb to his feet. In the ring, on the far end, stands Griffon, leaning up against the ropes. Finally, Sly gets up to his feet. Seeing this, Griffon burns out and sprints to the other side of the ring. The crowd chirps in anticipation. He leaps over the top rope and comes down on Sly with the Bloodlust Plancha! Pete: Griffon with the uber impressive Bloodlust Plancha! He just flattened Austin into the floor with that one! King: Arch is indeed a fantastic specimen! A small crowd chant of “holy shit” echoes throughout the Rose Garden. The chant is even said by Portland Trail Blazer point guard Damon Stoudamire, who coughs the chant after taking a bong hit in the first row with former SWF announcer Bobby Riley. Finally, action is seen again, as Griffon rises to his feet. He shakes out the cob webs, then picks up Sly and throws him back into the ring. Quickly, Griffon throws on a horizontal press. Johnson makes the count. ONE! TWO!! THRE-NO! Sly gets his foot on the bottom rope! King: Oh yeah! This week the bottom rope works for him! Pete: Last week was a big mistake made by a good SWF official, King! King: That official has been anti-Austin since the day he was born! Bigoted, I say! The crowd exhales quickly as the count is broken by Sly. Griffon gets up and immediately argues with Johnson for some odd reason, maybe to deliberately take his mind off of the match. Finally, Griffon goes back towards Sly and drags him over to the center of the ring. The crowd is aroused after Archie waves his hands apart, giving the signal that the match is over. Sly, after having time to compose himself, pushes himself away from Griffon, before Arch can finish him off. Frustrated, Griffon grabs Sly and brings him to his feet. After he rises, Sly takes the very low road, and thrusts forward his right leg. It connects with Griffon’s groin. Archie falls into the fetal position and the fans start to boo Sly. Austin then look up at Dom Johnson, and gives the angry referee a wink. Dom doesn’t like his attitude, and immediately deducts a break from his tally! The fans go wild, as Sly gets into Johnson’s face! The referee stands tall, not backing down. King: The referee was overstepping his boundaries! Pete: Have you ever read the SWF Constitution? King: What the hell are you talking about? Pete: It tells us that the referees have the power of the elastic clause, it lets them stretch the rules when they see fit! King: That’s the U.S. Constitution! Pete: Yeah, but the same principle still applies, and Sly is pissed. Sly continues to argue with the referee, and even kicks imaginary dirt at him. Johnson just lets Sly let it all out. Meanwhile, on the other side of the ring near the ropes is Griffon, still clutching his groin. Finally, Sly just tells Johnson to get away from him, and Johnson does. Austin looks at Griffon laying down and hurt on the other side of the ring. Sly has a light bulb go off inside of his head. He runs to the middle of the ring, only a few feet from Griffon, then turns sharply and heads back to the ropes with great speed. Sly leaps up into the ropes and with all the energy he has left, he flies back across the ring. *OOH!* The fans watch in awe as Sly does a back flip across the ring. Austin’s knee slams right into Griffon’s ribcage, as somehow Sly lands the Sky Surfer! King: What amazing athleticism from Sly. He just hit the sky surfer across the ring! That’s what rightful anger will do for you! Pete: It’s not rightful anger! But Sly just did something amazing! He’s got this match won! The impact knocks Griffon unconscious, and sends his limps flying, especially his legs. As Sly puts on a horizontal press, he forgets to hook the leg at first, and this is a big deal, as Griffon’s left leg has found its way on to the bottom rope! Johnson gets down and into position for the count. Sly doesn’t notice the leg. ONE!! TWO!!! Sly notices the leg and quickly moves it off the bottom rope! NO!!!! King: Oh my God! That’s a load of bullshit! Pete: Watch your mouth! The fans cheer audibly as Johnson catches the leg before Austin can, and rules the pinfall null and void! Sly immediately hops to his feet, and with a far out look in his eyes, shoves Johnson across the ring. King: There you go, Austin! Pete: That’s not going to help him win the match! King: Austin was screwed last week, royally! Now, he flies all the way across the ring to hit his Sky Surfer, but then he gets screwed again! Only this time he is on the other side of the fence! After shoving Dom Johnson, Austin looks down at Archie, and with a roar, he pounces on top of his foe and starts to throw wild punches, some connecting, some not, as Griffon has somehow got his arms up to protect himself! Finally, Dom Johnson climbs back to his feet. He sees the vile attack before him and calls for the bell. *DINGDINGDING!* Pete: And an enraged Austin Sly has been disqualified from this match! This is not the path he needs to take before going into the title tournament that involves his belt! Sly continues to take swings at the larger man. Bruises begin to appear on Griffon’s forearms, as well as blood from Sly’s knuckles. Finally, a group of SWF officials enter the ring, and for the fans in attendance, there is a Pimp Daddy Sarp sighting, as he and other officials attempt to pry Sly off of Griffon. Finally, lead by PDS, the officials are able to drag the psychotic Austin out of the ring and up the ramp. A few officials stay with Griffon, and help him to feet. Funyon can finally announce the winner of the match. Funyon: And the winner by disqualification..ARRRCH GRRRIFFFONN!! Austin roars, and is once again restrained by officials. “Arc Arsenal” plays on the PA system now, and Griffon continues and finally gets back to his feet. He leans up against the ropes for a minute as he looks down towards the ramp. He sees Sly get lead back to the locker room. Finally, all is semi-tranquil again, as Sly has disappeared behind the curtain. King: Austin was completed justified in what he did tonight! Pete: What? Sure, the last two shows he has been a victim of circumstance, but him creating a public disturbance is not the way to go about this! This is not the show that Tom Flesher is trying to run! King: I’m sure Austin really cares what Tom Flesher cares! Pete: Eh. Anyways, folks, stay tuned for more Smarkdown! Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Chuck Woolery 0 Report post Posted March 22, 2005 *knock-knock* “Hi, can I help you?” the attractive secretary asks, looking up to see who has just come into the office. The person in question turns out to be a rather good-looking young man with spiky black hair, black nails and eyeliner… even someone unversed in the details of professional wrestling quickly recognises the current SWF World Champion, Toxxic. “Flesher in?” the Straight-Edge Sensation asks, smiling at her - a genuine, friendly smile rather than the lopsided rictus he’s known for. “Umm, Mr. Flesher is in a meeting at the moment,” she replies. “If you’d like to take a seat I’m sure he can be with you before too long.” “Really?” Toxxic asks, raising his eyebrows. For a moment the smile diminishes, but then he seems to try being reasonable. “Look, I know Tom’s a busy man, but is what he’s doing at the minute really more important than meeting with his World Champion?” “I really wouldn’t know,” the secretary laughs apologetically, “but I’m afraid you can’t see him at the moment-” “I can,” Toxxic cuts her off, still smiling. “and I will.” The Brit turns away and starts towards the door that leads to Flesher’s inner sanctum, but is brought up short by a hand on his arm. “Really, I can’t let you in there,” the secretary says, smiling with all her might. She positions herself in front of the startled straight-edger and tries one more time to reason with this nice, if impatient young man. “Really, I’m sure Mr. Flesher will be with you soo-” she breaks off as Toxxic’s smile abruptly disappears completely and he leans down so that his recently re-set nose is only millimetres from hers. “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” Toxxic bites out, steel-grey eyes boring out of his face. The secretary hesitates only for a moment before stepping aside, leaving the World Champion facing the door. Given the nature of his conduct in the office so far, Toxxic decides that it’d be fairly pointless to knock. *click* “I thought I told you-” Tom Flesher begins, looking up from his game of shot-glass chess with Allison Onita, then breaks off when he realises who it is. “Honestly,” the Superior One snorts in disgust, “you can’t get the staff these days.” “You want to keep 200-pound wrestlers out of your office, then hire a couple of bouncers, not some fitness model with implants,” Toxxic advises Smarkdown’s head booker, shutting the door behind him. Flesher raises an eyebrow in response. “I’m sorry? Who said I was talking about my secretary?” Irritably, he waves Toxxic towards an unoccupied chair as Allison takes her cue to leave. “You’re here now, so you might as well get it out of your system. What’s so important it couldn’t wait?” “Spike,” Toxxic says simply. Tom waits for a moment to see if anything else is forthcoming, then decides it isn’t and sighs. “What about him?” he asks. “I’ve booked him in a match for Contendership to your title, is that what’s got your panties in a twist?” The question is met by a derisive snort from Toxxic as he leans back in the chair. “Not at all,” the Straight-Edge Sensation informs his former rival. “What’s getting to me is the fact that he might not win.” “…right,” Flesher says, trying not to show his momentary uncertainty. “So, you’re anxious to get into the ring with him? Or you’re just worried about facing Mak?” “Mak? Please,” Toxxic laughs, “that egotistical cock-sucker?” Seeing the disapproving look on Flesher’s face the straight-edger’s grin broadens. “Oh, what? You think Mak’s worth something. Well, I won’t deny he’s a good wrestler, but I can’t help but wonder if you keep him around simply to remind yourself of the days when a rookie in the business couldn’t beat you one-on-one…” “If you want something, you’re going about it the wrong way,” Tom tells his visitor shortly. “Come to think of it, quite apart from annoying me - which, by the way, you do by simply existing - you haven’t even told me what you want. What do you want, so I can refuse it and get you the hell out of here?” “Spike,” Toxxic says simply, leaning forward again. “That bastard broke Sean’s ankle on Lockdown - broke it, Tom! - and I’m not bloody having it. He’s gonna be coming after me and Scott next, and whether or not Spike wins the Contendership match tonight I want that little prick on Storm.” “Ah, revenge,” Flesher says as realisation dawns. “Well, I completely understand where you’re coming from, of course…” “…but?” Toxxic says, eyes narrowing. “That sentence definitely had a ‘but’ on the end of it, Tom.” “You’re the expert on butts,” Flesher smirks. “But no, seriously; if you’re convinced that Spike is determined to injure you - which I’m certain he is - and you want revenge on him, please tell me why I should put the two of you together in the ring when it’s not even on Pay-Per-View?” The Superior One sits back in his chair - leather upholstered, and capable of swivelling; Flesher wants to leave his visitors in no doubt as to who’s in charge - and fixes Toxxic with an inquiring gaze which the World Champion returns levelly. “Look Flesher,” the Brit begins, “I dunno if you’ve noticed, but apart from in certain specific circumstances patience ain’t exactly one of my strong points.” Ignoring the look of sarcastic disbelief that overtakes the face of Smarkdown’s head booker, Toxxic continues in a somewhat ironic tone. “Don’t let this civil demeanour fool you, sunshine, I am bloody furious. And I am hereby letting you know that if this time next week rolls around and I haven’t had a match in an SWF ring with Spike, I am gonna go looking for him.” Toxxic flashes one of his trademark lopsided grins as Flesher’s face takes on a yet more irritated cast, and the straight-edger holds up a nail-varnished hand to forestall the Superior One’s ire. “Now, you can either have this match take place in a ring where you can assign it rules, referees and, if you’re particularly worried, security… or I can go and find Spike in a car park and give the little shit a real pasting,” Toxxic says, “assuming of course that he doesn’t find me first. Now you know as well as I do that back there, all bets are off and neither of us know what would happen… but I also don’t care. So there’s your choice,” the Brit finishes, “you can either have us on TV where you have some measure of control and we can get you some ratings, or you can have a brawl off-camera.” “So I get the Board of Directors to add a stipulation to both of your contracts that you’re instantly fired if you lay hands on each other outside of a match,” Flesher shrugs. “It’s no big deal. And please don’t think that I’ll be overly bothered if you do,” he adds, catching the look in Toxxic’s eye, “the SWF without you would be infinitely more pleasant.” However, the Superior One is rather taken aback as the World Champion begins chuckling. “Tom, you really are living in the past aren’t you?” the straight-edger says before abruptly sobering up and absent-mindedly cracking his knuckles. “Sorry to remind you, but we don’t have you and Dace to put on clinics anymore. We don’t have Danny to elbow the crap out of people when he’s got his roid rage going, and bring the Puro goodness. We don’t have Janus for the hoss-lovers to mark out for. We don’t have the Clan, we don’t have the Carnival, we don’t have the Magnificent Seven and we don’t have Magnifico.” Toxxic taps himself in the chest and grins again. “I’m all you’ve got left, sunshine. So you don’t want to lose me.” “-and people think I’m egotistical!” Flesher splutters, nearly knocking his chess set over in his apoplectic exasperation. “Listen to me, you jumped-up Limey spot-monkey,” the two-time World Champion roars, pointing a quivering finger at the smug British punk sitting in front of him, “you are not bigger than this company! No-one is bigger than this company!” “Oh really?” Toxxic inquires, the smile disappearing from his face. He gets to his feet rather slower than Flesher and places both black-nailed hands on the table, leaning forward to make his two-inch height advantage more noticeable - not that it’s going to intimidate Flesher, but it looks good. “I’m the only bloody man in this company to make the World Title mean shit since… well, since you held it,” Toxxic tells Flesher. “And sure, Pretzler and Mak are charming the internet workrate freaks, and Cortez’s Hardcore run had the bloodnuts happy, and Wild & Dangerous are still tag champs, and God knows everyone loves Landon Maddix…” Toxxic’s grimace excludes both himself and Flesher from that last statement, “…but when it comes down to it, I’m the man. So you really don’t want to go doing something stupid like putting that sort of stipulation on my contract.” “Stupid?” Tom asks, raising an eyebrow. “Stupid,” Toxxic affirms, setting his jaw. Flesher seems to consider for a moment, then sits back down in his seat. For a moment Toxxic seems to think that he’s won, but Flesher didn’t get the nickname of ‘The Superior One’ without trying more than one avenue of attack. Actually he didn’t get it for that either, he made it up for himself before he joined the company, but that’s not the point. “So you’re telling me that your hatred of Spike Jenkins is so deep and violent that you can’t wait more than five days to get your hands on him,” Flesher begins, and receives a violent nod from his visitor. “Well in that case, I feel that perhaps the authorities might need alerting,” Tom grins smugly, “as this is clearly a case of threatening behaviour. Maybe they’ll have to take Spike into protective custody. In fact,” Flesher continues, warming to his subject, “maybe we’ll have to reconsider this whole contendership match as well. We probably can’t have you in the same ring as Spike… especially given what you nearly did to Landon Maddix at From The Fire.” “That won’t happen again,” Toxxic tells him flatly, but the Superior One just snorts. “Please, I’ve heard that one before. You nearly broke Landon’s neck, and now you expect me to guarantee you a match against a man you loathe? I’d never hear the end of it.” Flesher waves one hand, dismissing the matter. “You can have Spike Jenkins at a date that the booking committee chooses, and not befo-” “No.” Flesher looks up to see Toxxic looming over him. The 218lb straight-edger doesn’t really have the bulk to block out the light effectively, but he’s doing his damnedest. “Spike vs. me… for Storm,” Toxxic says, speaking slowly and clearly. “I promise you Tom, I will not intentionally break Spike’s neck, his arm, his leg or any other part of his body. I will not deliberately inflict any lasting or permanent injury. All I am going to do is beat the little bastard senseless so he realises his place. No more, no less.” Toxxic straightens up again, and tries one more line of reason. “He just took out Sean Davis, Tom. Three-time Tag Champion, Three-time Hardcore Gamer’s Champion, former USJL Champion. That’s not a bad CV. Next, Spike’ll be gunning for Scott Pretzler, the reigning Cruiserweight Champion and the man you are counting on to bring the ‘wrestling’ back to the Smarks Wrestling Federation. And then, if no-one has stopped him, he will try and take me out. Me, the World Champion and the one real household name you still have.” Toxxic grins lopsidedly again, but there’s not much humour in it. “People tune into these shows in the hope that they might see me beaten, Flesher. You know it, I know it. If Spike injures me then sure, he’ll be adored by millions… but your one dyed-in-the-wool main-eventer will be gone.” Tom Flesher looks at the man standing in front of him, and considers. Toxxic is wrong, of course - Landon Maddix is probably just as well known - but then again, Landon has declared that he doesn’t want the World Title. Johnny Dangerous, Todd Cortez, Mak Francis, even Spike Jenkins. All of these men could step up - back up, in Johnny’s case - to the top of the business… but Tom realises that he’s not absolutely one hundred percent sure that they could do it right now. “Spike hates you too, you know,” Toxxic says, interrupting the Superior One’s train of thought. “When you took the Cruiserweight Title from him, then never gave him a rematch? I had to listen to him whining about that for months, even after he got the belt back. If he can take out the World Champion without anyone batting an eyelid, I wonder where he’d set his sights next?” Toxxic’s glare takes in the leather chair and the desk. “I mean sure, a snapped ankle wouldn’t exactly mean you couldn’t sit on your arse and leer at pretty girls, but if you want to know what it feels like I can give you Sean’s number-” “Enough,” Flesher snaps, holding up his hand. “I’m fairly sure I can still handle myself, thank you.” The Superior One takes one more long look at the man in front of him, weighing him up. At the end of the day, in spite of his dislike for the Straight-Edge Sensation and leaving aside all of Toxxic’s veiled threats and dire prophecies, Tom Flesher is forced to confront one bald fact. Toxxic has promised that he will not deliberately injure Spike Jenkins, and for all his myriad of other faults Toxxic never breaks a promise. “I’ll think about it.” Toxxic’s eyes narrow again, but Flesher has had enough. “I said, I’ll think about it,” he tells the World Champion shortly, then picks up a bottle of spirits and sloshes it threateningly. “Now get out of my office unless you want to smell like scotch for a week.” With bad grace, Toxxic steps back and leaves the room. Flesher stares after him for a minute, then starts shuffling paperwork that had been pushed aside by his chess game. “Arrogant little prick…” Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Chuck Woolery 0 Report post Posted March 22, 2005 'PREPARE...FOR...LANDON!' ...WAAAAAHHHHH... *DUM DUM* “Welcome back to SWF Smarkdown,” bellows the voice of Longdogger Pete as 'Megalomaniac' by Incubus hits, heralding the entrance of Landon Maddix and the Portland fans roar with cheers! “We’re just moments away from the first match of the SWF Championship Title tournament, pitting Manson against Johnny Dangerous with Landon Maddix as our special guest commentator!” “Special guest commentator!?” King roars in disbelief as the cameras finally turns to the two commentators. “Who the hell came up with that brilliant plan!?” “Why that would be Smarkdown’s very own chief of staff, Tom Flesher,” Pete cheerfully replies. He looks up with a smile as Landon approaches the table, while King grunts at the sight of ‘La Cucaracha’. “Hello, Landon, thanks for taking the time to come down here and talk to us tonight!” “You’re quite welcome, Pete,” replies Maddix, as he settles into his seat. “I know I didn’t want to miss this match – it should be a real treat to see these two Cruiserweights in non-stop action for a chance to face me!” “Speaking of title defenses,” says Pete. “Knowing that you’ll have to face the winner of this match for the ICTV Title, Landon, do you have a preference as to which one of these two you face?” “Honestly, It really doesn’t matter who I face,” Landon replies with a shrug. “I’m the longest running Intercontinental-Television Champion ever, and when Storm is over with I’ll be the last Intercontinental-Television Champion ever. I’ll beat Johnny if I have to, and I’ll beat Manson if I have to.” “Whoa-ho-ho!” laughs King uneasily, “big talk there, runt. I’d like to ask though; how do you plan to win that match Landon? Feet on the ropes… a low blow perhaps?” Landon furrows his brow at the Suicide King, but before he can respond the house lights dim, and red strobes pulse and flash as Mastodon's "Crusher Destroyer" blasts from the speakers! Manson emerges moments later to a round of cheers and heads straight down the ramp, ready to take on this challenge. “From Denver, Colorado,” bellows Funyon, “and weighing in at two hundred-thirty five pounds, he is… MAAAAAAAAAANSOOOOON!!!!” The Raging Bull climbs into the ring and heads towards the far side of the ring, eyeballing the Cockroach at the announce table. He points his finger at Landon then pantomimes a title belt around his waist while jabbing a thumb into his chest, and the crowd roars at the notion! “Looks like somebody’s ready to put your bold claims to the test, Landon,” King excitedly says, but Maddix waves him off with his hand. “He can certainly try,” replies Landon, while shaking his head at Manson, “but tons of people already have tried and lost – he’ll be no different!” Turning away from the commentators, Manson settles into a nearby corner. His focus is now totally on the task at hand, and as the lights dim and the fans rise to their feet, he settles his sights on the fluttering curtains. “JOHNNY DANGEROUS~!” “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!” The Rose Garden shakes from the roar of the fans when a deep, sultry female voice whispers the Barracuda’s name, followed by the pounding sounds of “After the Flesh”! “And his opponent,” continues Funyon, as Johnny steps out from the curtains to a second loud pop. “From Las Vegas, Nevada, and weight in at two hundred-seventeen pounds, he is one half of the reigning S-W-F WOOOOORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIOOOOOOOONS… JOHNNY ‘THE BAAAARRAAAACUDAAAA’ DAAAANGEROUUS!!!” Standing at the top of the ramp, Johnny quickly surveys the Portland fans through his high-tech shades then adjusts the Tag Title on his shoulder before heading to the ring. Noticeably missing is his usual flair of slapping hands on his way to the ring - the Barracuda simply walks briskly past them and slides into the ring. “On Lockdown Johnny seemed quite a bit more aggressive towards his opponents then usual,” notes Pete. “One could only wonder if that was a one time deal, or if we’ll see more of that same vibe tonight against Manson.” “I don’t think I’d suggest it,” says Landon. “Manson may not be the biggest guy in the SWF, but one thing’s for sure; if you want to play aggressive he can certainly reply in kind.” DING DING DING!!! “Bells gone and this match is underway,” Pete says, as the two men in the ring converge with a collar-and-elbow tie up. “And it looks like this one’s going to start off with a clean lock up!” For a moment both superstars seem to be evenly matched – the two men jockeying for position until the slightly stronger Manson starts to get the edge on the Barracuda, and quickly shifts into a side head lock! Manson clamps down on the side of Johnny’s head, squeezing as tight as he can, but Dangerous struggles fiercely and manages to pull the Raging Bull back into the ropes then uses the momentum coming off them to shove him away! Manson takes off across the ring, hits the ropes, and springs back towards Dangerous looking to flatten him with a clothesline, “-but the Barracuda gets the drop on the Raging Bull and takes him to the mat with a text book arm drag,” Pete says as Manson slams into the canvas with a thunderous thud. “He’s going to have to be quicker than that to match Dangerous’ reflexes, which are second to none!” Manson jumps back to his feet and rushes right back in at the Barracuda, but once more he’s taken over by an arm drag and sent crashing into the mat. “It doesn’t look like Manson learned from the first try,” says King. “Of course, out of all the wrestlers in the SWF, I’d least expect Manson to get a clue.” “I don’t know about that,” replies Landon. “Manson is a truly underestimated wrestler. He can be a savage beast when he wants to be, and I don’t know if the Barracuda is cut out to handle that kind of an opponent.” “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re just afraid to face the Barracuda with all these disparaging remarks you’ve been making about him,” King says with a daunting eye on Landon. In the ring, Manson pops up to his feet once more. This time he isn’t so quick to charge his nimble opponent and simply begins to circle the Barracuda looking for an opening. He only makes one revolution before racing in and leaping towards Johnny who gladly accepts the offer – locking up like true gladiators, fighting for purchase! Manson pushes forward, looking for that same bit of strength advantage as he got the first go around, and not surprisingly, momentarily overpowering his opponent until Johnny shifts gears, moving into an over-and-under lock up before quickly arching back and swinging the Raging Bull to the mat with a lateral toss! Johnny stays in position as Harrington drops for: ONE! And nothing more - the second Manson realizes he’s down he easily powers out, rolls back to his feet, and then stops. “Whoa!” shouts Pete. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Johnny using THAT before – he might give us more of a ‘pure wrestling’ match for Smarkdown than what I even imagined!” “I wouldn’t count on it, Pete,” replies Landon. “Not to bad-mouth the Barracuda or anything,” he pauses as he glares over at the Suicide King, “but he’s not really know for his technical prowess - Johnny’s strengths are in his high-octane martial arts offense.” “You could be right on that count, Landon, but I think Johnny Dangerous might surprise us all!” Not letting the pace of this match slow down for a beat, Manson quickly rushes back in for Dangerous, reaching for another tie up! Johnny moves to accept the offer, but it’s nothing more than a ploy by the Raging Bull and he quickly ducks under and goes behind Johnny, wrapping his arms around Dangerous’ waist, “-and it looks like Manson can be just as resourceful as the Barracuda!” shouts Landon as the Stampede tightens his grip around the Secret Agent’s waist. “He isn’t the only one who came prepared!” However, Johnny smells the suplex coming a mile away so he sandbags before Manson has the chance to lift him while grabbing at the Raging Bull’s hands, desperately trying to pry them off his waistline. He pulls Manson’s arm away then spins out of his opponent’s grasp, reversing the situation as he winds up behind Manson, locking his hands around the Raging Bull’s waist and… CRACK! … Manson fires off an elbow into the side of his opponent’s head, grabbing an “OOOOOH!” from the crowd! Dangerous stumbles back, stunned, with a hand to his head, and Manson gives chase, pulling Johnny’s hand away from his face and then rocks him with a solid punch that sends Dangerous tumbling to the mat! “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!” Herrington admonishes Manson for the blatantly closed fist, reminding him of the pure wrestling nature of Smarkdown programming. The Raging Bull draws his arm back in response, growling at Harrington as he pushes past him and… WHAM! …Johnny springs off the mat and dives for Manson with a clothesline, flooring the Raging Bull on contact! He quickly floats over for the cover and the referee drops for: ONE! NO!! Manson kicks out just after the count of one, shoving Dangerous off of him as he does then climbs back to his feet. He charges after Johnny, ducking down in time to narrowly avoid a second lariat from the Barracuda, while reaching up to hook Dangerous’ arm and then the other as he places his back to Johnny’s before dropping to his knees and hauling the Secret Agent over him with a backslide! ONE! TW-NOO!! Johnny thrusts his shoulder off the mat and rolls out of Manson’s backslide, popping back up to his feet. Manson storms forward, looking to boot the Barracuda in the gut as he spins around to face him, but Johnny quickly grabs the foot and in the blink of an eye slaps on an ankle lock! “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!” Landon rises up from his seat at the commentators table, looking horrified as Manson wails in shock! He scrambles for the nearby ropes, a tougher feat than normal with his leg caught between Johnny’s leg-scissor while cranking away on his ankle, but he’s close enough that he can grab them with one solid lunge and he does, getting the break called from the referee. “Not much hope for a submission yet,” says Pete. “If Johnny had got him closer to the center of the ring it could have been curtains for the Raging Bull though!” “It was much too early for that submission attempt,” agrees Landon. “He might have caught Manson off guard, startled him perhaps, but now he’s just blow his element of surprise. Now Manson knows the Barracuda is willing to try and get a submission and will be on his toes to avoid it.” “I think you’re giving Manson way too much credit here,” says King. “He’s not known for being the sharpest knife in the drawer as evident by those opening arm drags he fell for.” Manson pulls himself back up to his feet, noticeably angered by Johnny’s ankle lock, but before he can respond he finds himself on the receiving end of an Irish whip! Manson hits the ropes and bounces back towards the Barracuda as Johnny steps forward looking for a lariat… WHOOSH! …and Manson ducks down, his hair lightly grazing Johnny’s arm as he passes under him and makes his way towards the opposite ropes. The Raging Bull hits those ropes and springs back, leaping into the air with both feet as Dangerous spins around to face him… WHAM! Nailing the Secret Agent with a drop kick! Johnny scrambles to get back up to his feet, but the Stampede stands ready to greet him. Just as Dangerous stands back up… CRACK! Manson buries his knuckles deep into the Barracuda’s jawbone, rocking Johnny on his heels! Once more the referee admonishes Manson for the closed fist, but right now he isn’t listening one bit! He quickly moves in to close the gap between Dangerous and gets a boot to the gut! “Come on, ref,” grumbles Landon. “His distraction just gave Johnny his opening!” “Sounds like someone else I know,” adds King, rather accusingly. Johnny slams his knee into Manson’s gut and then another, each hit backing the Stampede up until he has his back against the ropes. Johnny grabs him by the arm and whips him across the ring then stoops down and readies himself. Manson rebounds towards him… CRAAAAACK! …And runs right into a spinning heel kick that sends the Raging Bull on a downward spiral to the mat! “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!” the crowd gasps at the tremendous hit, but Johnny doesn’t stop there. With Manson’s face buried into the canvas Johnny zooms towards the nearby ropes, leaps to the middle rope and back flips off to come crashing down hard on Manson’s back with a springboard moonsault! RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!! “The Barracuda looks like he wants the end this one early,” says Longdogger as Johnny quickly pops up to his feet then grabs the Raging Bull by his leg and locks in his over-the-shoulder half crab, and the Portland fans ignite with cheers! “The Barracuda!” calls Pete as Johnny cranks away on Manson’s leg, grabbing some painful cries of pain from the Stampede’s lips! “The Barracuda displaying some of his prowess as an expert with the martial arts and submissions,” notes King. “That’s got to have you worried, Landon; if he gets a hold of, I don’t know… say your neck you could be looking at an early retirement!” “Oh, I’m sure you’re just chomping at the bit to see that happen, King,” snorts Landon. “However, Johnny isn’t going to get that opportunity – I see Manson pulling out and winning this match. And even if he doesn’t, Johnny would find himself staring up at the lights just like he has the last three times we’ve met, while I go on to become the first SWF Champion!” “Technically,” King smugly replies as Johnny pulls back on Manson’s leg, and the Raging Bull wails in pain. “Johnny wasn’t even involved in the decision the last time you met him, which was Clusterf(Beep)k. Some might say you should have just stepped back and let him win that too, seeing as how your performance against Toxxic at From the Fire was rather lackluster to say the least.” “Alright, you two!” snaps Pete, getting annoyed by the bantering. “Let’s focus on the match! Manson could be on the verge of submitting to the Barracuda’s… well Barracuda submission.” That notion seems to be the last thought on Manson’s mind, however. The Raging Bull had come this far against Dangerous – he’s faced far greater pain before and survived even, and he wasn’t about to throw in the towel! With the crowd cheering on this underdog, he reaches out and digs his nails deep into the canvas and starts to drag himself nearer to the ropes, pulling his opponent right along with him! “LET’s GO MAN-SOOON, LET’S GO!” CLAP! CLAP! CLAP-CLAP-CLAP! “LET’s GO MAN-SOOON, LET’S GO!” CLAP! CLAP! CLAP-CLAP-CLAP! “Come on, Manson!” cheers Maddix as the Raging Bull draws closer to the ropes. They’re so close now he could almost reach out with his tongue and taste it! Manson reaches down deep, while Johnny desperate to get the submission tugs even harder on the Stampede’s leg grabbing a blood-curdled cry of pain from Manson’s lips before he lunges forward with everything he’s got… “HE’S GOT IT!” Landon and Pete shout in unison as Manson snares the bottom rope with his hand to a rousing cheer, and Herrington orders the break! Johnny reluctantly obliges, slinging Manson’s leg to the canvas and hopping off of him. It’s obvious that Manson’s stubbornness is starting to get under the Barracuda’s skin, and he shows it with his teeth – grimacing angrily as the Raging Bull smiles in relief while stroking his sore back. “There’s that anger you saw on Lockdown starting to swell up, Pete,” notes King. “The unpredictable, aggressive nature of the Barracuda is surfacing once again!” “It sure looks that way,” replies Pete, “with Manson’s ability to take all that abuse and keep on trucking the Barracuda is pulling his hair out on what to do next to finally put this one away!” As Manson starts to push his way up to his feet, still clenching dearly to his back, Johnny clubs him in the back with a double axe handle, knocking him back into the mat! The Barracuda then unloads with a vicious stomping to the raging bulls back, which only seems to get the crowd more fired up from seeing this senseless act of violence. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! Finally, Herrington steps in and pushes Johnny off of Manson, ordering him to cease with the relentless assault. It buys the Stampede a few seconds of relief and a chance to try and recoup. He reaches for the ropes to help pull him up and manages to get back to a vertical base, though pain-stricken from the beating he took to his back – unable to offer up much resistance if any as Dangerous grabs him by the arm and slings him diagonally across the ring to the corner post! Manson crunches into the unforgiving steel chest-first with a sickening thud, before Dangerous rushes in from behind and… CRACK! …plants a Yakuza kick squarely into the Raging Bulls back, grabbing an “OOOOOOOH!” from the Portland fans! “Man,” says Landon, wincing at the impact. “I can’t believe that referee is just going to allow Johnny Dangerous to be so violent – especially when tonight is Smarkdown, the pure wrestling show!” “Oh, for the love of God,” mutters King. “This coming from you, Landon Maddix, the man who I have seen yet to follow the rules of a match?” “Regardless,” says Pete, “you can’t ignore the fact that the Barracuda is allowing his frustrations to dictate his actions. In this case he’s just getting more and more brutal with his opponents to try and seal the victory.” Manson staggers out of the corner while grimacing in shear agony, and the second he turns around he’s met with a boot to the gut! He doubles over instantaneously and Johnny reaches in and wraps his arms around the Stampede’s waistline to haul him off his feet, and sending him crashing back-first into the mat with a Northern light’s Suplex! Johnny bridges for the pin as Herrington slides into count for: ONE! TWO!! TH – NOOO!!! Manson rolls off his shoulders, forcing the break of the bridged pin as well as the count. The crowd roars for the determination of the Raging Bull – his willingness to fight and not give up is starting to get them firmly on his side. MAAAAAAAAAAAN-SON!! MAAAAAAAAAAAN-SON!! The fans start to chant for the upstart Superstar, which almost catches the Barracuda in a state of disbelief. Nonetheless, he doesn’t break his concentration on his opponent. Knowing there have been far too many times in the past when such a distraction led to him losing the match, and he wasn’t about to let that happen tonight! Johnny pulls Manson up to his feet then wraps his arm around the raging Bulls head for a side headlock then drapes his opponent’s far arm over his shoulder… “Looks like Johnny’s setting Manson up to go for the Dangerous Three,” notes Pete as the Barracuda grabs the side of Manson’s tights, fully intending on hauling him off his feet with a vertical suplex. However, Manson does the only thing he can which is to quickly try and grapevine a leg around Dangerous’ to keep him cemented to the canvas. It works; the second Johnny tries to pull Manson up he’s stopped short and the Raging Bull jabs at Johnny’s ribs! “Manson’s starting to fight back now,” says Landon. “I know from all my previous matches against the Barracuda that this will be the most opportune time if any for Manson to get the ball rolling back in his corner and secure the victory. Once Johnny gets going he gets very cocky, and sloppy with his work – leaving himself wide open for the kill.” “Sounds a lot like your work,” grunts King, eyeballing Landon, but before either announcer can fire up another bickering war, Manson jams his knuckles deep into the Secret Agent’s rib cage three consecutive times, finally forcing Johnny to release his hold on the Stampede! The crowd starts to go wild once more as Manson staggers away from Johnny’s side headlock and as Dangerous stumbles towards the ropes, holding the side of his ribcage. It’s the perfect time for the Raging Bull to make his mark and put the Barracuda flat on his back and he knows it – with a tremendous growl he launches himself towards Johnny and… WHAM! …Manson runs right into a stiff clothesline at the hands of Dangerous and once again the Raging Bull finds himself staring at the mat. “He gave Dangerous a little too much time there,” says Pete. “Manson needs to seriously work on wearing Johnny down before giving him even a moments rest if he wants to win this match!” “Doesn’t matter now, anyway,” adds King. “We’ve got a cover!” ONE! TWO!! TH – NOO!!! “But it’s going to take more than that to keep Manson down!” exclaims Pete, as the Raging Bull thrusts his shoulder off the mat and rolls onto his stomach. He pushes up to his feet and Dangerous grabs him by the arm and spins Manson around to face him- SMACK! “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” Manson cuts loose with a lighting quick knife-edged chop, catching the Barracuda totally off-guard and sending Johnny staggering a step back! The fans rise with cheers and Manson cocks his arm back and… SMACK! “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” SMACK! “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” SMACK! “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” SMACK! “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” SMACK! “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” “Oh, man,” Pete winces at the Raging Bull seemingly going mad on the Secret Agent, unloading with a series of eye-watering knife-edged chops into Johnny Dangerous’ chest! “It looks like Manson can get just as aggressive as Johnny – those are some of the hardest chops I’ve seen in a while!” “I told you guys,” adds Maddix. “Manson is not the kind of guy Johnny should try and get too aggressive with because he can take all that pain you dish out and turn it right around on you just like the Barracuda is finding out right now!” Manson grabs Johnny by his arm and sends him barreling across the ring with an Irish whip, then takes off after him and nails Agent Dangerous with a drop kick as he rebounds off the ropes! WHAM! Johnny doesn’t stay down at all. He knows he can’t risk leaving himself open; even if the sudden flurry of attacks by Manson has got him dazed. He pushes up to his hands and knees… WHAM! …and Manson hits the opposite side of the ring and rockets back off the ropes towards his opponent, nailing Johnny with a basement drop kick to his forehead, sending him tumbling end-over-end across the ring! “What a hit!” shouts Longdogger, “Manson is completely on fire in that ring, mounting a hellacious comeback against Johnny Dangerous!” Manson scurries over towards the Barracuda and drops in with a lateral press for the cover. As expected, Herrington slides in to count for: ONE! TWO!! TH – NOOO!!! Johnny kicks out, but Manson, determined to keep his pressure going strong, grabs Dangerous by his jet-black mane and pulls him back to his feet and pops him in the jaw with a right hook! The Barracuda staggers back into the ropes from the blow, seemingly dazed, and once again Manson reaches for his arm to whip him across the ring. However, Johnny digs his feet deep into the canvas and reverses, sending the Raging Bull for the ride instead, only he whips Manson towards the corner post then takes off behind him, looking for an avalanche. He won’t get it though – Manson reaches out as he nears the corner and jumps up then shoves off, sailing right over Johnny’s head as he rushes into the corner. CRACK! But Johnny quickly spins around and sends his foot slicing through the air and right into the Raging Bull’s jaw with a super kick! “Johnny Kick!” calls Pete, “Manson tried to avoid the Barracuda but got hit anyway!” Manson dazedly stumbles back and forth – the kick didn’t hit him fully, but grazed the side of his head. If Johnny had landed the super kick squarely into Manson’s face he surely wouldn’t be standing. He’s grown tired of his opponent; that much is obvious by his seething growl. Johnny rushes in and shoots the raging Bulls leg then hauls him off his feet for his patented fallaway slam as the crowds rise up with a collective cheer and Longdogger Pete roars: “EEEEM-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-” SLAAAAM!! Johnny drills the Raging Bull into the canvas with his devastating move as the Portland crowd goes wild then quickly hovers over and grabs Manson’s leg, rearing back on it to firmly pin his shoulders to the mat! “MI Slam!” exclaims Pete, “I don’t think Manson will be getting up this time.” As expected, Herrington drops in to count for: ONE!! TWO!!! THRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!! DING DING DING!!! “Wow!” exclaims Pete, “what a match that was, and with Johnny winning it looks like we’re going to get that Maddix-Dangerous rematch from so long ago after all!” “After the Flesh” kicks up again in celebration as the fans let out a resounding cheer for the match. Herrington heads off to the side of the ring to retrieve Johnny’s tag team title and Funyon hops out of his seat to make the announcement. “The winner of the ROUND ONE SWF CHAMPIONSHIP TOURNAMENT MATCH!” bellows Funyon, “JOOOHNNY ‘THE BAAAARRAAAAACUDAAAA’ DAAANGEROUUS!!!” Johnny snatches his Tag Title from the hands of Herrington, and then spins around on his heel towards the announcers table, looking Maddix in the eye dead center. He points his finger at the ICTV Champion while smiling wickedly and shouts, “YOU”RE NEXT!” RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!! The fans pop wonderfully at the notion of another Maddix-Dangerous showdown, but the expression on Landon’s face – his furrowed brow – is enough to make one wonder if the ICTV Champion is truly ready… As We: FADE OUT. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Chuck Woolery 0 Report post Posted March 22, 2005 (edited) Pete: “Welcome back to Smarkdown, and we’re just about ready for more first round action in our title unification tournament, as Jay Hawke meets Todd Cortez.” King: “And on paper, you have to think Cortez is the favorite. He’s the SWF veteran, he’s been in these key situations before. But Jay Hawke has been in these situations elsewhere, and he’s hungry for title gold.” Pete: “Earlier today before we went on the air, Ben Hardy caught up with Jay Hawke in the locker room to discuss this match, so let’s go to that footage.” Cut to the backstage interview area, where Ben Hardy stands next to Jay Hawke as a graphic saying “Earlier today” sits in the lower left corner. Hawke: “Listen, Hardy, the last thing I need is for you to stand there holding a microphone and assume you’re qualified to ask me what my strategy is for this match. Do you think I’m really stupid enough to give away my strategy beforehand? All you need to know is I plan to win, because I want that unified USJL/ICTV Title. And besides, if I win tonight, I get a shot at Austin Sly. The man who cost me a shot at the Tag Team Titles.” Hardy: “Cost you a shot at--” Hawke: “Shut up! It‘s simple. Despite knowing my entire goal is to win every title available in the SWF, the matchmakers keep teaming me up with singles champions. OK, fine, I‘ll settle for tag team gold for the time being. But Austin Sly was too busy shooting up roids to look all muscular for some bimbo to go for the victory.” Hardy: “He got the foot on the ropes.” Hawke: “And yes, the referee screwed that one up, but if Sly was coherent enough to put his foot on the ropes, then he should have been coherent enough to kick out of the pin attempt and take the referee out of the equation. So tonight, when I beat Todd Cortez within an inch of his life and get a victory over one of the top stars in the SWF, then I move on to the semifinals to teach Austin Sly a wrestling lesson he’ll never forget, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it!” We cut back live to the broadcast booth. Pete: “Is that man obsessed with championship gold or what?” King: “He has to be. If you’re not in this business for championship gold, then you’re in it for all the wrong reasons. And if Hawke can get on a three match winning streak, then he will be the man who unifies the USJL and ICTV titles.” Pete: “Don’t you think he’s getting delusional by placing the blame on others?” King: “Well, he’s not going to blame himself! That would be stupid!” Pete: “Let’s see if that attitude can translate into a victory. Let’s go up to the ring for our opening introductions!” Funyon: “The following is a tournament quarterfinal match, scheduled for one fall with a 15-minute time limit!” The familiar opening of Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” comes over the PA as the lights dim. Some smoke comes up along the entryway, and it dissipates as a spotlight shines on Jay Hawke as he steps through it. Funyon: “Introducing first…from the Hall of Fame City of Cleveland, Ohio…weighing in tonight at 215 pounds… ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’ Jay Hawke!” Hawke makes his way to the ring, sneering at the fans as they begin their familiar chant: “HAWKE SUCKS! HAWKE SUCKS! HAWKE SUCKS! HAWKE SUCKS!” Hawke finally enters the ring, and he takes off his glittering purple and black robe and hands it to the ring attendant as the music fades out. The lights go low again, and Fabolous' "Breathe" starts to pulse over the speakers. Funyon: “And his opponent…from Hollywood Boulevard…weighing in at 226 pounds… “Urban Legend” Todd Cortez!” Green spotlights shines and strobes along the length of the arena. Once the beat drops and the first verse begins, pyro explodes from the floor of the stage. Cortez then storms out of the back and works the crowd before powerwalking to the ring. Pete: “As Cortez makes his way to the ring, remember that the winner of this contest will meet USJL champion Austin Sly in the semifinals.” King: “And you heard the comments from Jay Hawke earlier tonight. He blames Austin Sly for the loss to Wild and Dangerous last week, so you know he wants a chance at revenge.” *DING DING DING* Pete: “The bell has gone, and we are underway!” The two competitors lock up collar and elbow. Both men have equal strength, so neither man budges, and they release the lockup. They lockup again, and Hawke immediately spins Cortez’s left arm into a hammerlock. Cortez reverses, and Hawke breaks with a single-leg takedown. Hawke tries to spin into a figure-four leglock, but Cortez immediately counters into a small package: ONE! TWO! Hawke reverses it: ONE! TWO! Kickout. Both men quickly get to their feet. Hawke nails Cortez right in the face with a couple of hard forearm smashes. He whips Cortez into the ropes, but Cortez ducks underneath a clothesline and takes Jay Hawke down with a crucifix: ONE TWO Kickout. Cortez immediately grabs Hawke by both legs and takes him down, floating into a cradle: ONE! TWO! Hawke counters it, maneuvering Cortez into a sunset flip position: ONE! TWO! THR…kickout. Todd Cortez ducks another clothesline, then quickly grabs Hawke by the wrist and whips him into the far side of the ropes. He ducks his head too soon for a backdrop, and Hawke goes for a piledriver. Todd Cortez blocks it, then backdrops Hawke, landing on top of him: ONE! TWO! Jay Hawke bridges out of it to a mild pop, then counters into a backslide: ONE! TWO! Kickout. Both men get to their feet quickly and stare each other down, and the crowd applauds in appreciation. Pete: “What an incredible opening sequence that was, King!” King: “Well, these are two men that are pretty evenly matched in just about every category imaginable, and that opening two or three minutes right there just proved it. Absolutely unreal, Pete!” Jay Hawke and Todd Cortez lock up again. Jay Hawke locks his opponent into a side headlock. Cortez backs up until they reach the ropes, then sends Hawke into the opposite side of ropes. Hawke comes off and knocks Cortez down with a shoulder block. Hawke points to his temple as if to say “I’m the smartest man alive,” leading to a chorus of boos emerging from the Rose Garden crowd. Cortez nods as he gets to his feet. They go into another collar-and-elbow tieup. This time it’s the Urban Legend locking his opponent into a side headlock. Hawke backs into the ropes and tries to shoot Cortez into the ropes on the far side, but Cortez drops to one knee, keeping the pressure on the headlock as the crowd pops. Pete: “Cortez blocking the attempted whip into the ropes, and he outsmarted the Dean there!” King: “I think he might have caught the Dean by surprise there, Pete, but I’d hardly say Cortez outsmarted Jay Hawke. Hell, I’d hardly say Cortez was capable of outsmarting anybody.” Jay Hawke works his way to his feet, then lifts up Todd Cortez…and down goes the Urban Legend thanks to a back suplex that shakes the ring. Hawke shakes his head for a second to try to get some blood flowing to the brain. Hawke picks up Cortez, but Cortez quickly pops up to his feet and levels the Dean of Professional Wrestling with three hard palm strikes to the forehead, the last one sending Hawke crashing to the mat. Cortez quickly goes for the cover: ONE! TWO! Kickout. A frustrated Jay Hawke charges Cortez but runs into a spinning heel kick. Cortez covers, hooking the left leg for leverage: ONE! TWO! Kickout. Pete: “Todd Cortez picks up a near fall, and now he locks in a reverse chinlock. Jay Hawke just can’t seem to get on track tonight.” King: “Hawke needs to learn to control his temper. He gets way too frustrated way too early into the match, and that leads to him falling behind. He can’t win too many matches by playing catch-up.” Jay Hawke begins to bring himself to his feet to alleviate the pressure on the chinlock, but Cortez quickly hits Hawke with a series of clubbing forearm smashes. Cortez lifts Jay Hawke up as if to body slam him, but brings him over the knee with a backbreaker instead. Cortez stands next to his fallen opponent and goes for the senton, but Hawke lifts his knees into the back of his opponent. “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Pete: “And that could be the turning point right there!” King: “And that move is key to Hawke’s success right there! His finisher is that Wing Span, which focuses on the arm and back! And a move like that could do tremendous damage to the back and make it that much easier for Hawke to take control!” Jay Hawke drops a couple of knees into the small of Cortez’s back, then drops an elbow to the back that arches Cortez’s body backwards. The pain on Cortez’s face tells the story, especially when Jay Hawke digs his knee into his opponent’s back while pulling back on a chinlock. Pete: “Look at the position Hawke has put Cortez into here!” King: “The last time I saw anything bend in that direction, it snapped in half! And I know the human back isn’t meant to twist that way!” Todd Cortez refuses to submit, despite the fact that most mortals would have gone crying to mommy a long time ago. Cortez begins crawling for the ropes, but Hawke releases the hold and kicks Cortez hard into the back. “OHHHHHHHHHH!” And again. “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” He quickly locks Todd Cortez into a rear headlock, apparently for a dragon sleeper, but instead he drops the back of Cortez’s head onto Hawke’s knee. Fans noticeably cringe at the sickening sound of back meeting knee as Hawke goes for the pin: ONE! TWO! Kickout. But this time Hawke isn’t the least bit frustrated. In fact, he has a sick sneer on his handsome face as he drops a couple more knees onto the back of his prone opponent. King: “I think Hawke’s having fun out there, Pete! I think he’s in this as much to hurt Todd Cortez as he is to beat him!” Pete: “That’s a mistake! There’s a unified championship on the line here!” King: “Well, he has a fifteen minute time limit to work with, so as long as he gets the win no later than 14:59, why not hurt the man?” Pete: “Why would ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’ decide hurting somebody is more important than winning a match?” King: “I don’t think that’s what he’s thinking. I think he figures ‘Why not do both’, and I can’t say I disagree.” Jay Hawke drops a few more knees to the back of the Urban Legend, and then he sits down on him, leaning back on the small of the back as he applies a camel clutch. Cortez screams in pain and holds out his hand as if he’s about to tap out, but he quickly clenches his fist to prevent himself from doing it. “PLEASE DON’T TAP! PLEASE DON’T TAP! PLEASE DON’T TAP!” Pete: “Listen to this crowd getting behind Todd Cortez! They’re literally begging Todd Cortez to hang in there!” King: “He’s hanging in there, but this might be at the expense of his career!” Funyon: “Five minutes have gone by. Ten minutes remain in the time limit.” Pete: “How much of this abuse can his body take? I’m surprised he didn’t already break his back when he landed on Hawke’s knees going for that senton!” Todd Cortez has finally gotten his arms off of Hawke’s knees and begins to crawl to the ropes. He’s less than three feet away. … Two feet away. … … Six inches away. … But Jay Hawke leaps up and sits down on Todd Cortez’s back. The Urban Legend screams in pain as the fans look on in concern. Jay Hawke drags his hurt opponent back toward the center of the ring and reapplies the camel clutch, putting just a little extra pressure on it this time to try to draw the submission. Pete: “And right back to the hold.” King: “And you question this guy’s qualifications as ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’!” Pete: “I’ve never questioned what the man can do inside the squared circle, King. But he’s not inside there with some Johnny-Come-Lately either. He’s one of the cornerstones of Martial Law for a reason.” King: “Of course. There’s nobody else willing to be the Fall Guy for the group.” Cortez is again crawling to the ropes to try to force the break. He’s three feet away. … Two feet away. … … … Six inches away. … … Again, Jay Hawke jumps up, trying to sit down on the back to do more damage, but this time Cortez has the presence of mind to spin onto his back and lift a knee, which catches Jay Hawke in the crotch. “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!” Pete: “Tremendous ring awareness by the ‘Urban Legend’ there, and that might be the break he needed to stay alive in this tournament!” King: “I dispute that, Pete! That was a blatant low blow! That should be an automatic disqualification!” Pete: “It wasn’t intentional, King. He was just trying to prevent getting hit in the back again.” King: “You expect me to believe that?” While Longdogger Pete and Suicide King continue to argue, Todd Cortez is still struggling to make it to his feet, clutching at his back in the process. Jay Hawke gets to his feet and comes toward Cortez, but the Urban Legend fights him off with a right hand. Hawke comes in again, and again he gets met with a right hand. The right hands come in a little bit faster now, and Cortez has Jay Hawke staggering. Cortez stops to clutch at his back momentarily, and that gives Hawke an opening. The Dean runs off the ropes and comes in looking for a clothesline, but Cortez grabs the extended arm as he comes in and takes The Dean down with a single-arm DDT. Pete: “Another tremendous move by Todd Cortez there, and he might be doing all of this out of sheer instinct!” King: “But look at how slow the man is to get up. He’s had so much damage done to that back that every move he does hurts him!” Cortez struggles to get to his feet, but as he does, he immediately drops the leg onto Hawke’s head and neck. He slowly pulls himself back up to his feet, and again he drops the leg. He winces in pain as he pulls himself to his feet, and then he heads to the corner, attempting to climb to the top turnbuckle. Pete: “Todd Cortez taking a big chance here!” King: “He’s taking a stupid chance here! I don’t see how he can get to the top rope fast enough to do anything except hurt himself.” Todd Cortez reaches the top turnbuckle just as Jay Hawke reaches his feet. Thinking quickly, Cortez ignores the pain coursing through his back and leaps, catching his opponent underneath the chin with a flying lariat! Jay Hawke lands on his shoulders and flips over on impact. “YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!” Under normal circumstances, this one is all over, but a man has just fallen five feet with an already injured back just to do damage to his opponent. He tries to cover, but slowly crawls over to his opponent before rolling Jay Hawke onto his back and draping one arm over his chest: ONE! TWO! THR…the referee’s hand is less than a foot away from the mat when Hawke just barely lifts the right shoulder off the canvas. Cortez gets to his feet clutching his back, but he grabs a hold of Jay Hawke’s left arm and locks in a stepover armbar, driving a knee to the shoulder for more leverage. Pete: “Now this is a smart move from the Urban Legend here!” King: “I have to agree with you there! Probably the only way Cortez is going to be able to punish Jay Hawke without completely destroying his back is to use moves like this!” Jay Hawke’s arm is clearly hurting him, but Todd Cortez can’t completely block out the pain from the injured back, so he has to remove the knee from the shoulder to keep from twisting his back. That’s all Jay Hawke really needs, as he lifts Cortez into a fireman’s carry and drops backwards into a Samoan drop. Hawke immediately rolls over into a cover: ONE! TWO! Kickout. Jay Hawke quickly pulls Todd Cortez up to his feet. He whips Cortez into the ropes and catches him coming in, taking him down with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker. Hawke is immediately down for the cover: ONE! TWO! THR…kickout. Jay Hawke, undaunted, immediately grabs the arm and hooks Cortez into a Fujiwara armbar. Pete: “Locking in that Fujiwara armbar, and it might be just a matter of time before he locks that Wing Span in!” King: “That’s definitely what he’s shooting for here, and it will probably be an easy submission if he can lock it on!” Cortez makes another attempt to reach the ropes as the crowd yet again tries to rally him: “PLEASE DON’T TAP! PLEASE DON’T TAP! PLEASE DON’T TAP!” And the crowd support is all Cortez needs to reach the ropes to force the break, but the Dean of Professional Wrestling is smart enough to hold onto the arm until the referee reaches the count of four. Hawke quickly picks up Cortez and pulls him to the center of the ring. He slams Cortez down to the mat, then locks in a short arm scissors. Cortez, already in pain from all the damage that’s been done to his back, allows his shoulders to fall to the mat: ONE! TWO! Shoulder up. “COR-TEZ! COR-TEZ! COR-TEZ!” The chants from the crowd help Cortez begin to stir. Cortez kicks his leg around, rolls over, and maneuvers Jay Hawke’s shoulders onto the mat: ONE! TWO! Hawke kicks out, maintaining the pressure on the short arm scissors. Cortez again appears to be trouble, but the crowd is back into it. “COR-TEZ! COR-TEZ! COR-TEZ!” Cortez again maneuvers his body so Hawke’s shoulders are on the mat: ONE! TWO! …but this time he’s also spun his body as he’s done it, so when Hawke kicks out, Cortez’s feet land on the bottom rope, which forces the break. Pete: “Into the ropes they go, but Hawke once again holds on until the referee reaches four!” Funyon: “Ten minutes have gone by, five minutes remain!” King: “And we’re hitting crunch time, as if this match goes another five minutes, both men will be eliminated from the tournament!” Hearing the announcement of the time has forced Jay Hawke to pick up the pace here, as he climbs up to the middle turnbuckle. Cortez slowly gets to his feet, and as soon as he does, Hawke leaps off and takes his opponent down with a blockbuster neckbreaker. Quickly into the cover: ONE! TWO! Kickout. Undaunted, Jay Hawke quickly picks up his opponent and brings him down hard with a shoulder breaker. Another cover: ONE! TWO! And another kickout. King: “Todd Cortez is like a cockroach! He refuses to die!” But Hawke refuses to let Cortez catch his breath. The second Cortez pulls himself to his feet, he locks Cortez into a tight waist. He tries to lift him up for a German suplex, but Cortez counters it into a Victory roll: ONE! TWO! THRE…kickout. “YA--BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Pete: “My, was that close!” “BULL-SHIT! BULL-SHIT! BULL-SHIT!” King: “This crowd thought he got him, and even I have to admit that was closer than I would have liked it to be!” Both men get to their feet, and Cortez levels Hawke with a discus clothesline, luckily falling on top of Hawke as they both fall on impact: Funyon: “Four minutes remain.” ONE! Funyon: “Four minutes.” TWO! Kickout. Pete: “Less than four minutes to go in the time limit, and I don’t see how either man can survive this one!” King: “Well, either one of them survives, or Austin Sly’s getting a free pass into the finals!” Todd Cortez slowly gets to his feet, pulling Jay Hawke up with him. He peppers Jay Hawke with a series of forearm smashes. An Irish whip is reversed by Jay Hawke, and he takes Cortez down with a shoulder block. Hawke runs off the ropes again, runs over top of Cortez, then bounces off the other side, but Cortez reaches his feet…. SMACK! …and levels Jay Hawke with a super kick. Hawke’s eyes nearly roll back into his head as Cortez, still clutching at his back, slowly makes the cover: ONE! TWO! THR…NO! Somehow Jay Hawke is able to get the left shoulder up, but he’s still lying on the mat. Cortez pulls himself up to his feet. Seeing Hawke is down, he takes the biggest chance of the match, successfully landing on top of his prone opponent with a quebrada: ONE! TWO! THR…and again Jay Hawke gets the shoulder up. Cortez argues about the three count, but quickly remembers where they’re at in the time limit. He pulls Jay Hawke to his feet. Pete: “Cortez in control, maybe one move away from putting his opponent away.” Funyon: “Three minutes remain in the time limit. Three minutes!” Pete: “There’s the Irish whip into the corner. Cortez charges, going for the handspring elbow…” CRUNCH! “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” King: “But Hawke got the knee up, Pete! Jay Hawke just rammed a knee into Todd Cortez’s back! That’s what started the problems for Cortez in the first place!” Cortez immediately cries out in pain as he drops to his knees. Cortez tries to stand up, but Jay Hawke rolls him up from behind: ONE! TWO! Jay Hawke puts his feet on the ropes for added leverage. THREE! *DING DING DING!* “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Funyon: “Ladies and gentlemen, in 12 minutes, 30 seconds, your winner of this contest … ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’ … JAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWKE!” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Jay Hawke immediately rolls out of the ring, walking to the locker room with that evil sneer on his face. King: “He did it, Pete! Jay Hawke has advance to the semifinals to face Austin Sly!” Pete: “He didn’t do it by the book, King!” King: “Who cares? A win’s a win, and Jay Hawke is now two wins away from winning his first title in he SWF!” Pete: “Plenty more action still to come in this one! Don’t go away!” Edited March 22, 2005 by Justice Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Chuck Woolery 0 Report post Posted March 22, 2005 FADE IN “Get ready to see some high-flying cruiserweight action,” says Longdogger Pete excitedly, “as Wildchild takes on the Insane Luchador! King, these two tangled a couple of times back in the JL, with Wildchild getting the upper hand, but Luchador’s been on a hot streak lately!” “Well,” adds Suicide King, “ever since his improbable Hardcore Title win in the Calvinball match on Lockdown, Insane Luchador’s confidence has to be at an all-time high. And he’s definitely eager to try to move up in the SWF rankings, and get a measure of revenge against an old rival in the process!” “Insane Luchador will certainly have his hands full tonight,” notes Pete. “He was a staple in the JL, where his hardcore style was able to lead him all the way to the SJL Heavyweight Title, but he’s had some difficulty adjusting to the more technical style of the SWF.” “I’ll have to agree with you there,” concedes King. “IL has found that the competition here in the SWF is much more seasoned and better capable of dealing with his brawling, and that led to him to get off to a very slow start since being bumped, but now he appears to have finally found his niche in the fed.” “IL is definitely riding high,” reiterates LDP, “but he’s going to have all he can handle tonight, when he takes on the Wildchild, the number-one contender to the World Cruiserweight Championship, who will be looking to make a statement here tonight!” LDP’s train of thought is suddenly interrupted by the opening strains of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The Portland fans begin to boo as the Critic steps out onto the stage, dressed in black slacks and a polo shirt, the Cruiserweight Title draped over his shoulder. “Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “please welcome the SWF World Cruiserweight Champion, Scott Pretzler!” Pretzler ignores the fans as he makes his way to the announce table, and takes a seat next to King. “This is our lucky day, Drain-Clogger,” says King, “it looks like we’re about to be joined on commentary by the Cruiserweight Champion! Welcome to Smarkdown, Scott!” “Thank you King,” replies Pretzler, as he places the headset on his head, “it’s a pleasure to be here. This is my first real break from wrestling since I got to the SWF, and it’ll be nice to get a close-up view of two of my potential challengers!” “Scott,” asks LDP, as Pretzler’s music fades out, “as you know, Wildchild is the number-one contender to your Cruiserweight Title. Since you’ve come to the SWF, you’ve only suffered two losses, both of which in matches where Wildchild was able to get the win. Does that weigh on your mind at all as you prepare for your inevitable confrontation?” “Absolutely not,” replies Pretzler. “First of all, both of those losses were tag team matches and, in case you weren’t paying attention, I wasn’t actually pinned in either one. I’m still undefeated in singles competition, and if you think that Wildchild is going to be the guy that ends that streak, then you’ve got another think coming!” “Scott,” asks LDP, “Wildchild is a tough matchup for just about everyone, and has a very impressive career record against some of the top talent in the SWF. He’s arguably the greatest Cruiserweight in SWF history; what makes you so confident that you can retain the World Cruiserweight Championship against him?” “In the month since I’ve become Cruiserweight Champion, I’ve learned a lot, both from my associates in Revolution Zero and on my own,” Pretzler answers coolly. “I feel confident that I’ve figured out what Wildchild does well, and how to avoid it, as well as how to best exploit his weaknesses.” Before Pretzler can continue, “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains begins to play, heralding the arrival of the Insane Luchador. BOOM! RAAAAAAAAAAH! Bursts of red and black pyro light up the stage as the Hardcore Champion steps out from behind the curtain, holding the Hardcore Title high above his head. “The following contest is a ‘Cruiserweight Rules’ match, scheduled for one fall,” continues Funyon; “currently making his way to the ring, from Easton, Pennsylvania, weighing two hundred one pounds, he is the SWF Hardcore Champion, the INSANE LUUUUUUCHADOR!” “So, as the match is about to begin,” asks LDP, “who do you expect to see come away victorious, Scott?” “To be perfectly honest,” replies Pretzler, “I see Wildchild winning this match going away. I’ve recently had a chance to see some footage of Luchador from the JL, and I don’t expect him to be able to take advantage of what he does well in this match. He has a significant height and reach advantage, and if this were a boxing match, he’d be the heavy favorite, but in a wrestling match, that length makes him a liability. He’s a tall, skinny target, and he’s going to get tagged all night. Let’s not forget,” he says with a grin, “Wildchild is, after all, the second-best cruiserweight in the SWF.” IL hands the Hardcore title over to referee Ronald “Red” Herrington, who delivers it to the timekeeper outside the ring. Luchadore stretches in the corner as his music fades out, only for it to be replaced by his opponent’s: RAAAAAAAAAAH! ATTENTION! ALL YOU NIGGAZ! ALL YOU BITCHES! TIME TO PUT DOWN THE CRISTAL, TIME TO TAKE OFF THE ICE FOR A MINUTE… TIME TO THROW A LITTLE MUD IN THIS MOTHERFUCKA… A single spotlight centers itself on the stage, flashing off and on in rhythm as Redman’s “Let’s Get Dirty” throbs melodiously throughout the arena. The Bahama Bomber bursts onto the stage, the Tag Team Title belt strapped to his waist. “AAAAND his opponent,” shouts Funyon, “from the Bahamas, weighing two hundred fourteen pounds, he is one-half of the SWF World Tag Team Champions: the WIIIILDCHIIIIILD!” Wildchild runs down the ramp, slapping hands with the fans surrounding the barricade, and completes a victory lap around the ring before somersaulting over the bottom rope and into the ring. The Bahama Bomber gracefully springs to his feet and races to the corner, leaping onto the middle turnbuckle and removes the Tag Team title belt from his waist, raising it above his head proudly as the fans cheer on! “There he is!” shouts Pete. “The number-one contender to the Cruiserweight Title! He’s been on an unbelievable run since making his return to the SWF, defeating every opponent that’s been put in front of him! And you can bet that he wants to keep that streak alive against the Luchador!” “Well, you heard it from no lesser authority than the Cruiserweight Champion that he’s going to win,” quips King, “so maybe we can do everybody a favor and just skip ahead to the next match!” Wildchild surrenders his title belt to the referee as the lights come back on in the Rose Garden, and quickly stretches his legs as his theme music fades out. Herrington heads over to the edge of the ring, handing the tag title belt to Funyon as he exits the ring, and then orders the timekeeper to ring the bell, signifying the start of the match: DING! DING! DING! “Bell’s gone,” shouts LDP, “and we’re underway!” Wildchild and Rickman circle each other around the ring before locking up in a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Wildchild quickly takes advantage with a go-behind waistlock and trips him up with a waistlock takedown. Before Luchador can get back to his feet… WHAM! … Wildchild springs off the canvas and slams all his weight into IL’s upper back with a leaping senton splash! The Bahama Bomber scrambles to his feet and races towards the edge of the ring, diving towards Rickman as he starts to get back up… CRACK! … And drilling him in the face with a basement dropkick! Luchador rolls away from Wildchild and pulls himself to his feet, but that only allows the Caribbean Cruiser enough time to run back towards the edge of the ring, building up momentum as he bounces off the ropes and charging back towards IL, leaping into the air as he nears Rickman… WHAM! … And sending IL flying towards the ropes with a tremendous running dropkick! Luchador rolls underneath the bottom rope and out to the ring, trying to catch his breath. Wildchild nips up to his feet and raises his arms in celebration as the fans chant his name: DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! “As you can see,” says Pretzler, “Wildchild was able to utilize his speed to take an early advantage in the match. If he has enough presence of mind to get Luchador back in the ring, he can soften him up a little more!” “Well, it’s going to take a lot of softening to put IL down,” replies Pete. “One thing that speaks well on the Insane Luchador’s behalf is his ability to sustain ungodly amounts of punishment!” Rickman sits outside the ring for most of the twenty count, trying to regain his bearings, and Wildchild elects not to pursue him, allowing him an unimpeded return to the ring. “Well, Wildchild showing a little sportsmanship there,” says Pete, “but tat may be something that he comes to regret down the line.” Wildchild and Luchador move to lock up a second time… OOF! … Only for IL to sucker him with a hard right to the midsection! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! With Wildchild struggling to take in oxygen, Rickman presses his advantage, hammering the Tropical Tumbler with heavy punches, before leaping into the air and locking his feet around Wildchild’s neck, taking him over with a flying headscissors! The fans cheer Rickman as he charges towards Wildchild, looking to pay him back with a running dropkick of his own, but the Bahama Bomber sidesteps him, swatting his legs aside! Wildchild drops into a defensive stance as Rickman immediately pops back to his feet, and the two are at a standoff! “Furious action by both men to start the match,” notes Pete, as the crowd applauds both men. “Luchadore showing that he just may have what it takes to take control of this match,” says King. “If he can just keep Wildchild from setting the pace, he stands a chance at pulling off the upset!” IL calls for a test of strength in the center of the ring, and Wildchild appears eager to oblige him, only to grab Rickman’s left wrist with both hands, twisting it rapidly into an arm wringer, and shifting into a top wristlock as he leads IL to the corner. Wildchild leaps effortlessly onto the top turnbuckle and then begins to run across the top rope before springing back into the ring, sailing over Insane Luchador’s head, and sending him flipping into the center of the ring with a scintillating armdrag takeover! He beats IL to his feet and races back towards the edge of the ring, leaping onto the top rope and curling into a ball as he springs off… WHAM! … Blasting Rickman in the chest with his patented Pinball attack! Wildchild races back towards the ropes as IL stumbles to his feet, gaining momentum as he rebounds, and leaping into the air as he approaches Rickman… WHACK! … Whipping his leg sharply around to send IL flying with a leg lariat! Luchador rolls back outside the ring to get a breather as Wildchild rolls to his feet. DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! “Wildchild appears to be taking control of this match with some of his vintage offense,” says Pete. “It’s just as I said earlier,” adds Pretzler, “Luchador is to big a target for him to avoid Wildchild’s attacks; now that Wildchild appears to be controlling the tempo, he’s going to pick IL apart!” ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! This time, Wildchild elects not to give any respite, as he runs to the nearby corner and leaps to the top rope. Insane Luchador turns his attention back to the ring in order to figure out where Wildchild was at, just in time to see him flying off the top rope with a breathtaking twisting cross-body block that sends both men crashing to the arena floor! The crowd at ringside erupts with boisterous approval! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! “They love Wildchild here in Portland!” shouts LDP. Herrington restarts his count, due to Wildchild’s joining IL on the arena floor. ONE! TWO! THREE! Wildchild pulls Rickman to his feet and leads him over to the barricade, leaning him up chest-first against the hard rubber. He then slides back into the ring, right past Harrington, and immediately scrambles back to his feet. Herrington continues counting as races across the ring, building momentum as he bounces off the ropes… SIX! SEVEN! … When suddenly, the Human Hurricane leaps over the top of the unsuspecting referee’s back! EIGHT! NINE! CRASH! … Flipping over the top rope out of the ring, and crashing into IL’s back with a flying somersault senton that crushes Rickman’s chest against the hard rubber barricade! The fans explode as Wildchild rolls around the arena floor, while IL leans heavily against the barricade, spitting up a small amount of blood! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! DUB CEE! “It’s that sort of offense that makes Wildchild incredibly dangerous,” says LDP. “How do you intend to avoid moves like that?” “I’m not going to get hit by moves like that, because he isn’t going to be flying around the ring when we face each other,” replies Pretzler confidently. “Believe me, I’m not going to have any difficulty controlling the pace of the match when we finally meet in the ring; I’m going to keep that kid on the mat, and make him try to beat me with wrestling; he’s not going to get the chance to do something like that to me!” “I wouldn’t be too overconfident, Scott,” warns Pete. “There have been many top technical wrestlers to cross paths with Wildchild in the JL and WF, who thought that they could keep this kid from flying, only to have him soaring above their heads when they least expected it!” “Well, let me put it this way, then,” counters Pretzler, “if he does any flying in our match, I’ll make sure that when he lands, it’ll be where I want him to land!” Meanwhile, Funyon continues his count on both men outside the ring: FOURTEEN! FIFTEEN! SIXTEEN! Wildchild gets to his feet and drags Insane Luchador over to the apron, pulling him to his feet and rolling him back into the ring to beat the twenty count. He then rolls back into the ring and stands IL up, pushing him into a corner, and climbing onto the second turnbuckle, as he signals for the crowd to count along with him for a 10-count punch! ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! Before he can go any further, however, Insane Luchador grabs Wildchild at the knees and carries him out of the corner, and shifts his weight to one side… CRACK! … Slamming Wildchild face-first into the top turnbuckle! Insane Luchador runs to the far ropes as Wildchild staggers out of the corner… SMACK! … And catches him as he turns around with a brutal lariat! Wildchild flips 270 degrees through the air, and lands face-first on the mat! IL waves his arms in the air trying to pump the crowd, and steps out onto the ring apron as Wildchild starts to get to his knees, clutching his collarbone with his right hand. Rickman takes advantage of Wildchild’s position to leap to the top rope, and immediately spring into the ring… WHAM! … Delivering a guillotine legdrop that drives Wildchild’s head back into the mat with force. Insane Luchador crawls atop Wildchild and applies a lateral press, as the referee counts Wildchild’s shoulders: ONE! TWO! NO! Wildchild shoots his left shoulder off the mat shortly after the two count! “That could turn out to be a costly mistake by the Insane Luchador,” remarks LDP. “That’s why they teach you to hook the leg,” adds King. “Obviously, we see that Wildchild still has some fight left in him, but after a move like that, sometimes you can sneak in a cheap pinfall if you hook the leg. Now we’ll have to see whether or not the Luchador has what it takes to finish him off.” IL stands Wildchild up, only to deliver a swift right jab to his face. He follows up the jab with a short left hook to the ribs, followed by a right hook to the ribs, a left hook to the stomach, and a right cross to the head that sends Wildchild sailing through the air and onto the mat! IL drops down on top of Wildchild, this time hooking the leg as Herrington dives into position to count: ONE! TWO! THR—No! Wildchild shoots the shoulder up again! Insane Luchador stands Wildchild up, pushing him back into the ropes, and again whipping him towards the far side. He swings a vicious haymaker at Wildchild’s head as he rebounds, but Wildchild ducks easily, and stops on a dime, thrusting his leg back and up towards IL’s chin as he spins around… CRACK! Knocking Luchador off his feet with a tremendous superkick! Wildchild collapses onto his waist, breathing heavily as IL rolls to his side, wiping blood from his mouth. “Superkick!” shouts Pete. “Big-time move by the Wildchild!” Red Herrington begins a ten-count on both men: ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! “Insane Luchador showing a surprising degree of resilience,” says LDP. “He’s been able to take a good measure of Wildchild’s offense, and was even able to control a portion of the match, but now, after a Wildchild superkick, it looks like either man could win it!” “You know,” says Pretzler, “regardless of whether Wildchild wins this match, or loses it, it seems clear to me that he’s not as good as he used to be; he just doesn’t have it anymore, and I don’t think that I have anything to worry about when it comes time for me to face him… Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me,” he says as he stands up, “I have some other business to attend to!” “Well… uh… there you have it,” says a confused LDP as Pretzler removes the headset and walks away. “The World Cruiserweight Champion, Scott Pretzler, spending a little time with us on commentary!” Pretzler walks over by the ring as Herrington reaches an eight-count, and hops onto the ring apron, capturing the referee’s attention. “Wait a minute,” shouts Pete. “I thought he said that he had some sort of business to attend to!” “He didn’t lie,” quips King. “For the moment, Wildchild is his business!” Herrington runs over to where Pretzler is standing, and starts screaming, “get off the ring!” As Red Herrington is shooing Pretzler away from the ring, Wildchild and IL are struggling to their knees behind him, and are exchanging punches. As they slowly get to their feet, they continue to punch each other, but Rickman, with his greater brawling experience, gets the better of the contest. IL pushes Wildchild into the ropes and whips him towards the far side, but Wildchild manages to reverse, and whips Luchador into the ropes instead, who runs into the referee just as he was turning around to turn his attention back to the action in the ring. SMACK! The loud, resonating echo of Insane Luchador’s head striking Red Herrington’s head can be heard by the fans directly at ringside, as Red falls out of the ring, and IL staggers backwards into a school-boy pin by the Wildchild! “Rollup by the Wildchild!” screams LDP. “But, there’s no ref,” laughs Suicide King. Wildchild discovers, to his astonishment, that there’s no one present to count a pin fall, and releases his hold on Rickman. He stands up and turns to look for the ref, when he finally notices Pretzler standing outside the ring. Wildchild turns his attention away from Insane Luchador and stalks over to the ropes, pointing menacingly at the Critic, and swearing in French as Pretzler holds the World Cruiserweight Championship belt close to his head, taunting Wildchild from outside the ring. As Wildchild starts to lean over the top rope, IL smacks him hard in the back with a forearm… WHAM! … And drops him backwards into the ring with a belly-to-back suplex! IL rolls to his feet and runs to the corner, climbing to the top turnbuckle, and looking down on Wildchild. He then looks out into the crowd and motions for the frog splash, eliciting a sizeable pop from the crowd. “It looks like he’s going for the frog splash!” relays LDP to the fans at home. “We could have a huge upset in the making here!” Rickman leaps off the top turnbuckle and pumps his arms and legs together in the air, falling down towards Wildchild with a great deal of velocity… CRASH! … But Wildchild rolls out of the way at the last second, and Insane Luchador crashes hard on the mat! “Nobody home!” exclaims Pete. “This is once again anybody’s match!” “Not if Pretzler has anything to say about it,” replies Suicide King, motioning towards the Cruiserweight Champion as he climbs up to the apron, preparing to step inside the ring. Before he can step between the ropes, however, Wildchild stands up and rushes to the ropes, grabbing the Critic by his shoulders and throttling him. Pretzler, still holding onto the Cruiserweight Championship, starts winding his arm backwards, and preparing to swing the belt at Wildchild’s head, as IL runs towards the ropes and dives at Wildchild. Wildchild, noticing Rickman out of the side of his eye, ducks out of his way, just as Pretzler is swinging the belt into the ring… WHAM! … Causing him to blast IL in the face instead! Pretzler glares into the ring snarling, frustrated by the fact that he missed his intended target. So frustrated, in fact, that he doesn’t notice Wildchild spring back to his feet and swing a stunning right hand at his head! The Human Hurricane runs to the near corner as Pretzler stands stunned outside the ring, and springs off the second turnbuckle over the top rope, snaring the Critic’s head as he passes over, and driving him into the arena floor with a devastating Tornado DDT! “OH MY GAWD!” screams LDP. Tornado DDT to the outside!” “Now, what the hell was the purpose of that!” snarls Suicide King. “Pretzler wasn’t involved in that match!” “You can’t be serious,” scolds Pete. “Pretzler was a half-second away from taking Wildchild out of the match; his speed was the only thing that saved him!” The Bahama Bomber picks the Critic up, bending him forward, and interlocking his arms with Pretzler’s, before twisting underneath him and lifting him into the air… WHAM! … And driving Pretzler headfirst down into the steel ramp! “OH MY GAWD~! Wild Ride on the ramp,” exclaims LDP. “Pretzler’s out cold!” Turning his attention back to the referee, who was just starting to get back to his feet, Wildchild helps the ref back into the ring, and climbs onto the apron himself… OOF! … Only to be headbutted in the midsection by a charging Insane Luchador. IL then cinches Wildchild in a facelock and grabs him by the leg as he suplexes him inside the ring! He floats over and covers Wildchild as the referee crawls over to make a count: ONE! TWO! THR—No! Two count only, as Wildchild gets his left shoulder up! Rickman picks Wildchild up and drags him over to the corner, standing up on the second turnbuckle behind him, and applying a Full Nelson to Wildchild. “The Brink of Insanity,” cries Pete. “This has got to be it!” IL climbs up to the top turnbuckle while still holding onto the Full Nelson, but Wildchild struggles frantically, and eventually breaks free of the hold, falling back to the mat. Rickman repositions himself on the top turnbuckle to jump off with a missile dropkick, but before he can react, The Bahama Bomber leaps onto the top rope beside him, springs into the air, and lands on his shoulders! Wildchild arches back and takes IL off the top turnbuckle with an amazing hurricanrana! “What a maneuver!” exclaims LDP. A hurricanrana off the top rope! What a maneuver!” The crowd erupts as Wildchild reaches back to grab onto IL’s legs, and leans back forward as the referee counts the shoulders: ONE! TWO! THREE!!!! The crowd erupts anew with applause as the referee motions for the timekeeper to ring the bell. Wildchild pulls himself with the help of the ropes, as the referee raises his hand in victory, as “Let’s Get Dirty” begins to flood the Rose Garden. Funyon rises from his ringside seat, and speaks into the microphone. “Here is your winner, the WIIIIILDCHIIIIILD!” Wildchild walks over to the corner and climbs onto the second turnbuckle, raising his arms to the crowd. As the audience applauds the victor, Wildchild turns his head suddenly towards the outside of the ring, and glares down at Pretzler. He then climbs off of the turnbuckle and out of the ring. Wildchild walks over to the concussed Pretzler and picks up the World Cruiserweight Championship belt. He then stands over the top of him, pointing down at him and snarling. He holds it against his own waist, as if to try it on, which earns a huge pop from the crowd. Leaning over so that only Pretzler can hear him, the Caribbean Cruiser snarls into his ear: “You’re on borrowed time, mon ami! I’m bringin’ dis belt back home!” He then slams the belt down on the Critic’s chest and begins walking back up the ramp, raising his arms to elicit one last pop from the crowd. “Well, another impressive victory for the Bahama Bomber,” says Pete, “and he sends a message to Scott Pretzler in the process! I tell you, folks, I can’t wait until those two meet in the ring. Stay with us: we’ll be right back with more exciting SWF Action!” As we: FADE OUT Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Chuck Woolery 0 Report post Posted March 22, 2005 “We are back from our commercial break and we are ready for the main event!” Longdogger Pete announces as Smarkdown comes back onto the air. “The following match is for the number one contendership to the SWF World Heavyweight Championship! If Spike Jenkins can defeat his former mentor next, he will receive his shot at Toxxic!” “But if Mak Francis makes his former student tap like a little girl, then he will go on to receive a world title shot. Something he has been itching for since The Clusterfuck!” The camera cuts to the middle of the ring, where Funyon stands. He holds the microphone and prepares to start his announcement. “Ladies and Gentleman, the following contest is scheduled for one fall and has a thirty minute time limit! First, making his way to the ring…” The house lights shut off as the wispy sounds of a digital xylophone echo throughout the arena. You can feel the pulsation of the light dings, as a hard beat done by violins, suddenly strikes up slightly overshadowing the original background rhythm. “So do you wanna’ be a Franchise… And live large… A big house… five cars…” The SmarkTron flares up with a blue and white photonegative image of Mak Francis, which is followed by ‘The Franchise’ in large green lettering, flashing on the screen in time with the beat. “The rent charge… Comin’ up in the world, don’t trust nobody… Gotta’ look over your shoulder constantly!” As the opening lyrics from Rock Superstar by Cypress Hill, slightly altered of course, blare over the PA system, it takes a little while but eventually the self-proclaimed franchise makes his way through the curtain. The lights come back up and Francis comes out onto the stage, tilting his shades down on the bridge of his nose, before looking left and then right… “I remember the days, when I was a young kid grownin’ up… Lookin’ in the mirror dreamin’ about blowin’ up!” “Weighing in at a total of Two Hundred and Forty pounds! He hails from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania…he is “THE FRANCHISE” MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK FRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!” That cues multiple short bursts of green pyrotechnics erupting from either side of him. He readjusts his shades with a smirk, before slowly strolling down to ringside and after walking up the ring steps, he cockily wipes his feet on the apron, giving a salute to the crowd, before entering through the middle ropes. Francis climbs the nearest turnbuckle and poses with both fists raised in the air. “AND HIS OPPONENT!” booms Funyon. Every light in the arena goes to full power as the Smarktron whites out. For a moment the only sound is that of a needle scratching over vinyl... And then *BAM* The crashing guitars of Lamb of God’s “Black Label” send a bolt through the crowd. The drumming sends a jolt throughout the arena, as the pace of the intro begins to pick up. Finally… “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” The high-pitched scream of Randy Blythe breaks through the speakers as the bright white lights begin flashing at the entranceway. Spike stumbles out dryly from behind the entrance curtain, the black hood from his Armor for Sleep - “ARMOR” zip-up hoodie covering his face, with only a few strands of hair being visible. Spike drops down to one knee, leaving one arm to hang to the ground, while the other is firmly placed on his knee. After a few moments, Spike raises both arms into an “X”, symbolizing his Straight Edge life style. Spike rises to his feet and begins to make his way down the isle towards the ring. ”Weighing in at a total of Two Hundred and Twenty Five pounds! He hails from Hollywood, California…he is “HOLLYYYYWOOOOOOD” SPIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE JEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNKINNNNNSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!” Spike rolls underneath the bottom rope, until he hits dead center in the middle of the ring. Spike rises to one knee and resumes the position he was in at the top of the entranceway. One arm hanging to the ground, the other placed on his knee. Finally, Spike rises to his feet. He quickly peels off the hood, releasing his blonde, dyed hair free. He puts his arms together, forming an “X” across his chest, again promoting his Straight Edge life style. “Both men look focused and ready for this match. This will be a hard fought battle to determine the number one contender,” Spike climbs to his feet, unzipping the hoodie off of his body and tossing it to ringside. “So much history between these two superstars, dating all the way back to the SJL!” notes Pete. When Soapdish deems it fit, he signals for the bell and the RBC Center lights up with excitement and the two men burst out of their opposing corners. They both enter the center of the ring and begin to circle around, eyeing the other one up. They both crouch down, both playing a mix of offense and defense; waiting for the other to move in. Spike engages the collar-elbow tie up and both men struggle, but Mak gets the go behind and reverse waist lock, bringing Spike down to a sitting position on the mat. Spike flails his arms around, trying to think of a way out, but just simply starts sliding over towards the ropes, locking his legs around the bottom rope; forcing the break up. “Mak went straight for the takedown and forcing Spike to the mat, but Spike immediately goes for the ropes.” Spike calls for the referee to break the hold. When Mak holds on, Soapdish starts to count him out, but only makes it to three before Francis breaks the hold and begins to climb to his feet…before slapping Spike in the back of the head! “Mak is showing no respect to his former acolyte. In the SJL, Francis lead the stable known as the sWo, which Spike joined soon after his arrival with the company and made a name for himself.” Mak backs away into a corner as Spike climbs to his feet. Both men stare each other down and circle around before going back into the center of the ring for a collar-elbow tie up. Mak easily takes control as gets another go behind; but instead of the takedown, he spins Spike around and snaps him over with a snap mare. The moment Spike hits the mat; Mak pulls back at his neck with a rear chin lock. “Francis with another takedown that sends Spike to the mat,” says Pete. Spike tries to struggle free, but Mak simply wrenches the neck. With one arm, he tears back on the arm of Jenkins into a key lock and wraps the arm around the elbow. “Mak barring the elbow and keeping Spike immobilized on the mat,” King adds. With his other arm, Mak does the same with Jenkins’ other arm. Spike’s chest is being pulled at as his arms are jerked back behind him. Francis climbs to his feet, lifting Spike up with him. Spike tries to break free, but Francis refuses to release him…and with his pure strength, lifts Spike into the air by his arms and drops him backwards to the mat! Spike clutches both arms and quickly rolls underneath the bottom rope to stay away from the technician known as Mak Francis! “Mak tried to pull Spike’s shoulders out of their sockets!” cries King. “But he wasn’t able to. He was able to; however, to tear away at the ligaments and muscles inside Spike’s arms, setting him up for the Bittersweet-whatever,” says Long Dogger. “Spike went straight towards the ropes again; the second time in only about two minutes into the match.” Mak moves forward for the attack, but it pushed back by Soapdish as Spike lies underneath the bottom rope. Jenkins rolls out and up to his feet, shaking off the pain from his arms. Both competitors begin to circle the ring and meet in the center again. Mak is obviously moving forward with the offense; as Jenkins holds back, trying to play it cool and keep Mak at a distance. Mak grabs at Spike’s wrist, with Spike trying to fight him off, but gets pulled into a front face lock. Spike drops to one knee and wraps his arms around the left leg of Mak, forcing him to pivot around on his right. Mak drops down to the mat, forcing Spike onto his stomach, and shucks over him. Mak chicken-wings both of Spike’s arms and leans his body forward, looking to flip over and lock in the Bittersweet! “Francis attempting the Bittersweet early on in the match!” shouts Pete. The crowd roars in approval as Francis tries to bridge over to lock in his submission maneuver…but Jenkins knows Mak all too well and traps his right leg over Francis’ right leg, stopping him from rolling forward! “I saw Spike countering that a mile away,” King brags, “Do you honestly believe that he will let Mak get that move on him so early in the match?” Being the mat technician that he is, Mak resorts to Plan B and decides not to go with the Bittersweet. Instead, he stands on his trapped knee, wraps his fingers around the face of the Hollywood Superstar and pulls back into a modified version of the camel clutch! Spike cries in pain as he tries to push Francis’ hands off of his face. “Mak wasn’t able to lock in the Bittersweet, but went straight into a Camel Clutch-type maneuver. As long as Spike is stuck on the ground, he has nowhere to go but to Submission City,” articulates the King of Hearts. After about ten seconds of being stuck in the hold, Spike is finally able to squeeze Francis’ hands away and drops to his stomach on the mat. Mak stays on top of him, but Spike is still able to crawl underneath him and hook his left leg. Mak tries to get up, but Spike is able to pull him down with a single leg takedown from behind and traps the leg by placing all his body weight on the back of the knee. Mak just climbs to a one knee standing position again. He reaches around to the face of Jenkins’, placing two fingers into his nostrils and tears back at the nose! “Every time these two have locked up so far in this match, Mak has been able to ride Spike to the mat and keep him in any position he wants,” says Pete, “Spike hasn’t been able to escape…except to make it to the ropes.” The pressure on the face lights a fire underneath Spike’s ass and sends him scurrying to the ropes. With Francis on his back, it takes him a few seconds to make it, but he finally is able to grab the bottom rope and break the hold. “I think everybody on this planet knew that Mak would crush Spike on the mat…except maybe Spike,” King jokes. “Whatever the case may be, Spike has been grabbing onto the ropes for dear life tonight.” Soapdish calls for Mak to break the hold, but Mak refuses and holds on. Soapdish begins to count him out… ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIV—and Mak releases the hold. “Francis refusing to break the hold until the five count. When he was coming up the SWF ranks, he was being called ‘The Next Suicide King!’ That makes me so proud.” Mak climbs to his feet. Instead of giving Spike time to get back up, he grabs him by his hair and pulls him up. He drags Spike into the center of the ring and gets a go behind. He locks his arms underneath Spike’s in a full nelson. “Dragon Suplex by the Franchise!” barks Pete. Mak pivots his hips, trying to lift the former Cruiserweight Champion up into the air…but Spike puts all his body weight down onto the mat, refusing to get thrown backwards. Mak continues to try and lift Jenkins’, but Spike turns to his side, breaking the full nelson by Mak and dropping to the mat, bringing the Franchise down with a drop toehold. Mak hits the mat and Spike instantly shucks over him and locks on a front face lock. “For the first time in this match, Spike takes control of the mat.” Keeping his cool as always, the Franchise simply crawls towards the ropes and captures the bottom rope. Soapdish jumps into play and calls for Spike to break the hold. “Interestingly enough, the moment Spike takes control; Mak takes a page out of his opponents book and goes right for the ropes,” begins the King of Hearts, “Stopping any momentum Spike could have been building.” Spike climbs to his feet, releasing the hold…but not before getting a little revenge from earlier in the match and slapping Mak in the back of the head! “Spike is showing his former mentor and trainer that he will not be intimidated,” says Pete. “Or that he is a real big idiot,” responds King. Spike cockily walks back into a corner, allowing Francis time to get to his feet. Mak shoots a cold stare at him, seemingly realizing that he can’t be cocky with Spike. They begin to circle around the ring again and meet in the center. Filled with confidence, Spike puts his hands out for a test of strength. Mak, taken back by Spike going for the first move replies by placing his palms against the youngster’s palms. When locked together, both struggle for control. Mak wins the battle, as he pushes Spike back into the corner. Right before Spike goes back first into the turnbuckles, he turns the tide and spins Mak into the corner. Spike releases the hold as Mak puts his hands on the top rope. Soapdish comes in to break the hold…that Spike begins to do very slowly. He slowly starts to back away from the prone Mak in the corner…or so everyone thinks until he drives a knee into the abdomen! Mak grabs his stomach, allowing Spike the chance to wield back and drive a forearm to the face! Mak slips back, and again Spike drives a forearm to the face! The impact of the blows sends Francis down to a sitting position against the turnbuckles. Jenkins drives some well-placed boots to the chest of the Franchise, prior to placing his boot against his throat and choking him! Soapdish jumps in and begins to count him out. ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIV—Spike breaks the hold. “Neither man are playing fair, eh?” interrogates the Suicide King. Spike grabs Mak and pulls him up to a standing position. He grabs the Franchise by the wrist and Irish whips him out of the corner…only for it to be reversed and himself sent face first into the opposing corner! Spike leans on the turnbuckles as Francis charges in from behind…and drives an elbow right into the back of the neck! Mak wields back and knife-edge chops Spike right in-between the shoulder blades! Spike yelps in pain, but doesn’t have time as Mak grabs him by his hair, pulls him back slightly, and drives a European Uppercut into the upper back of the Hollywood Superstar! “Yeah…Spike never really should of slapped Mak…” King laughs sarcastically. Spike tries to fall to the mat, anything to get away from his tormentor, but Mak grabs him by the hair and pulls him towards the center of the ring. Pulling him into a front face lock, Mak double under-hooks both arms. “Can he going for the Toxxic Shock Syndrome?” questions Pete. Mak pivots his hips and lifts Spike straight into the air…and drops backwards, driving Spike into the mat with a butterfly suplex! Mak floats over into the cover, holding Spike’s shoulders to the mat. ONE! TWO! TH---Spike kicks out! “Float-over Butterfly Suplex for a two count by the Franchise!” Mak immediately continues his assault, as he turns Spike over onto his stomach. He crosses Spike’s ankles together and holds them with one hand and uses his other to wrap around Spike’s face. Mak positions his knees on the back of Spike and falls backwards onto his back…lifting Spike into the air with a Bow-and-Arrow! “Bow-and-Arrow submission by the Franchise!” exclaims LDP. “Francis knows that to win this match, he has to stretch Spike for all he is worth…which isn’t very much,” laughs King. Francis pulls back on the neck and legs of Jenkins, stretching him across his knees. Spike screams in pain as he wails his arms all around. Soapdish gets in his face, asking him if he submits; but Spike says no. The fans in the arena cheer on Mak, while a small subset of them cheer on Spike. “Could this be the end of the match?” asks Pete. Spike waves his arms all around, just hitting the ropes. Despite being a master at technical wrestling, Mak made the mistake of putting Spike in the submission too close to the ropes. Jenkins’ moves all his body weight around as he inches towards the ropes with his arm…and GRABS THE MIDDLE ROPE! “Spike with ANOTHER rope break!” Soapdish calls for Mak to break the hold as Spike claws onto the middle rope with both hands now. Mak reluctantly releases the hold, letting Spike roll off of him and into the ropes. “Jenkins is barely holding on here against the Franchise,” says Pete. Mak climbs to his feet, frustration starting to take over his mindset. He grabs Spike by the hair and drags him off the mat into a stance in the corner. Mak grabs Spike by the wrist and Irish whips him out of the corner into the opposite direction…only for it to be reversed by the much faster Jenkins and Mak finds himself shot into the corner. He hits the turnbuckles hard, partly dazed, as Spike charges in at him. With a single leap into the air, Spike connects with both his feet to the jaw as he dropkicks the Pittsburgh native! Spike quickly jets to his feet, pulls Mak out of the corner, locks him in a chancery around the neck, and flips him over onto his back with a snap mare! Mak sits up and is met with a sharp knife-edged chop to the back… *SMACK* …And a stiff kick to the chest… *CRACK* With Mak on the mat, Spike speeds into the ropes, bounces off, and comes charging back towards his downed opponent. Spike leaps into the air and DRIVES both his boots into the abdomen of the Franchise! “Double stomp by the former Cruiserweight Champion!” Spike quickly drops down for the cover, hoping that the double stomp knocked the wind out of his opponent long enough for a three count. ONE! TWO! TH—NO! Mak gets a shoulder up! Spike rolls off of Mak and makes his way to his feet. He aligns himself above Mak’s ribcage and grabs the Franchise by his closest arm and leg, and drags him into the corner. Spike turns towards the corner. He steps through the middle and top rope out onto the apron. The crowd pops as they figure out that Spike is going to the top rope. “Jenkins finally has Francis down and is going to go to the top rope for some high aerial offense to finish the match,” says Pete. Spike slowly makes his way up to the middle rope and then up onto the top rope. As Spike makes it to the top rope, Mak jumps to his feet. He grabs Jenkins’ by the hair and unloads with several right hands that stun the Hollywood Superstar. With Spike stalling on the top rope, Mak climbs his way up to the middle rope and turns Spike around. He grabs Spike around the waist, placing his head underneath the arm of Jenkins. With both men on the top rope, the fans come alive as Mak pops his hips back and lifts Jenkins into the air… …TO DROP HIM BACKWARDS OFF THE TOP ROPE WITH A BELLY-TO-BACK SUPLEX!!!!! “THE FRANCHISE WITH A SUPLEX OFF THE TOP ROPE!!!!!” cries LDP. The impact of the fall knocks the wind out of both guys and nearly sends Jenkins out of the ring! “WHAT AN AMAZING MANUEVER!” Mak turns over onto his stomach and crawls his way over towards the younger opponent. He reaches the kid…and lies his body on top of Jenkins’ chest! ONE!!! TWO!!!!! THREE!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOO! SPIKE GOT HIS FOOT ON THE BOTTOM ROPE!!!! “I DON’T BELIVE IT!!! ANOTHER KICK OUT!!!” “What will it take for Mak to keep Spike down?” questions King. Mak slowly gets to his feet, obviously winded from his own assault. He stumbles into the corner and leans against the turnbuckles for support. Spike slowly turns towards his side and up to his feet as Mak leaves the ring and out onto the apron. Mak looks to climb to the top rope, but Spike gets to his feet and runs an forearm into the side of the Franchise’s head! “Mak looking to go to the top rope, possibly for his Brotherly Love frog splash…but Jenkins stops him!” Spike winds back and drives another forearm into the face. He winds up again for another shot…but Mak quickly dives through the middle rope and drives his shoulder into Spike’s ribs! “Shoulder block by the Franchise!” Spike stumbles back, knelt over and holding his ribs. Mak shakes his head to get the cobwebs out and realizes the advantage in front of him. He grabs the top rope, leans back, and slingshots himself over the top rope onto Spike. He grabs a hold of Spike’s waist and flips over him! “SUNSET FLIP!” Mak pulls back on Spike, trying to take him over…but Spike instead drops to his knees on top of his former mentor. “No! Spike counters!” Mak, being the ring general he is, knows how to counter this easily. He pivots his hips up and shoots his legs around Spike’s arms. With this, he tries to pull Spike over with the sunset flip… …but with Spike heaving back, he does the last thing he can think of… …and grabs the middle rope to pull himself forward while holding onto Mak’s legs! O N E!!!! T W O!!!!!! T H R E E!!!!!!!!! *DING DING DING* “Spike pulls off the upset again!” Spike lets go of the hold and quickly jumps out of the ring to the floor. Mak shoots up to his feet, looking around shocked. He charges at the referee, but it is too late. Spike is already half way up the ramp as the announcement is made. “Here is your winner…and the NEEEEEEEEEW NUMBER ONE CONTENDER TO THE SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP…… “HOLLYWOOD” SPIKE JENKINS!!!!!!!” booms Funyon. The crowd approves as they cheer on the former Revolution Zero member who is destined to face his former leader. Mak stands in the ring, staring a hole into his former trainee. He feels ashamed. He feels beaten. He feels cheated. And at the top of the ramp stands one man. He will finally get his shot at the man he has been after for months now. He stands victorious and with a smile. That smile. === SWF Smarkdown, March 21, 2005. © Riot Act Promotions. All rights reserved. The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation: “Raising workrate by typing faster.” Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
