SWF Smarkdown, 5-9-05!

[Chuck Woolery 0]

“No, seriously. Mr. Jenkins, you can not go into his office!”

 

“Get out of my way…NOW!”

 

“Hollywood” Spike Jenkins bursts into the office of Commissioner Thomas Flesher as SWF Smarkdown returns to broadcast. Flesher’s secretary stands between the former SWF Cruiserweight Champion and the door to his old rival.

 

“Please, Mr. Jenkins! He isn’t here! If you want, I can schedule an appointment!”

 

“I know he is inside that office…now MOVE!”

 

“For the love of God, why did I have to take this job?” she cries as she moves out of the way. Spike doesn’t even bother looking at her as he continues to the door. He grabs the door knob, turns it, and pushes the door open…

 

 

 

 

 

*SMACK*

 

 

“AHHH!”

 

 

The loud clunk of a body hitting the floor echo’s throughout the office. Spike looks stunned for a moment, not sure what to do.

 

“Learn how to knock, asshole!” cries the voice of a woman inside the room. Spike opens the door and enters the office, looking down at Allison Onita. She holds her forehead as she angrily looks up at Spike.

 

“Sorry…”

 

Spikes looks around the office and then back down at Onita. “What are you doing? Where is Flesher?”

 

“She was waxing my knob!” comes the voice of the Superior One, entering the office behind Spike. Spike turns around to face off with the man who now controls SWF Smarkdown…who happens to be the same guy that ended his first Cruiserweight Title reign.

 

“She was…what?”

 

“Waxing my knob.”

 

Spike looks down at the doorknob…seeing his own reflection from the cleaning. He shakes his head in confusion, as Flesher eyes him up and down.

 

“So…what can I do for you?”

 

“You know damn well what I want, Flesher.”

 

“Why should I know what you want? All because I’m the commissioner doesn’t mean I’m a mind reader…” Flesher says before being put to a halt by a shove by Jenkins.

 

“Don’t toy with me!”

 

“If I were you, I’d watch who I’m shoving. If you want to start something, then by all means. But you will NOT march into my office and shove ME around! Do you understand?”

 

“Don’t act like a tough guy, Flesher. I’m not in the mood. You KNOW what I want!”

 

“Toxxic, correct?”

 

“You’re damn right!”

 

“Well, too bad.” Flesher turns to walk over towards his desk, but Jenkins steps in front of him.

 

“What do you mean, too bad?”

 

“I’m not booking you in a match with Toxxic.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well…” responds Flesher, “One, you two would kill each other; Two, you don’t deserve it.”

 

“I DON’T DESERVE IT?” yells an angry Jenkins.

 

“No, you don’t. Despite what you may think, you HAD your shot. But you decided to put your title shot on the line in that series against Mak Francis. Now don’t get me wrong, that was a great series. A lot of good wrestling and it made a lot of money. But you LOST.”

 

“I was robbed.”

 

“Not this again…”

 

“YOU robbed me!”

 

“What are you talking about, Spike?”

 

“Match two of our series. The Pure Rules match. You were the referee. I was out of the ring! That hold should have been broken!”

 

“You had no more rope breaks!”

 

“I was out of the ring!”

 

“You are just looking for an excuse now.”

 

“Give me Toxxic, damn it!”

 

“No.” replies Flesher, with ease.

 

“Then I will go take him out myself.”

 

“Go do whatever you want, Spike.”

 

“Oh yeah? Go do whatever I want?” Spike repeats the commissioner’s words, “How about I take out your top talent in the parking lot? Huh? Injure him and take him out of action for several months? How about that?”

 

Flesher takes in a deep breath and sighs, “I hate when you two do this to me…you know you sound exactly like Toxxic…”

 

“What did you say?” rage now filling Spike’s voice.

 

“I said you sound exactly like Toxx…” Flesher is cut off before he can finish the World Champion’s name.

 

“Don’t you EVER say that! Do you understand me?”

 

“Calm down, calm down. No need to go crazy…” Flesher stops to think, “Okay. You want Toxxic? You have to earn it.”

 

“I’ll beat whoever you put me against.”

 

“Oh…really now? Well, in that case…you have a match tonight.”

 

“Perfect. Against who?”

 

“You’ll find out later.”

 

“Is this some kind of joke?” replies Jenkins.

 

“Don’t worry. You’ll be VERY happy with my choice for your opponent.”

 

Spike eyes Flesher down, before grinning at the Superior One and nodding his head. “I’m glad we are on the same page.”

 

Spike turns and storms out of the office. Flesher just stares in the direction that he walked in as he shakes his head.

 

“I don’t think we are even reading the same book…” Flesher grins as Smarkdown goes to a commercial break.

[Chuck Woolery 0]

We cut to Longdogger Pete and The Suicide King.

 

Pete roars into his mic, “We have an interesting bout for our opener, usually we have strict rules on Smarkdown, but this one is anything goes.”

 

“Maybe one of them will die,” quips King.

 

Pete stares at his broadcast partner mouth agape, “King!”

 

The Suicide King shrugs, as if nothing were amiss, “Well, a guy can dream can’t he?”

 

"A Country Boy Can Survive" plays by Hank Williams Jr. as Martin "Big Country" Hunt struts out to the ring proudly wearing his fraternity's Phi Kappa Phi letters, blue jeans, and boots that look fresh for kicking ass. He smirks at the crowd and mocks various fans in attendance before entering the ring.

 

Funyon belts to the screaming crowd, “Announcing first from Boone, North Carolina, standing six feet two inches tall, and weighing in at two hundred twenty pounds... this is Martin “Big Country” Hunt!”

 

The Chilean fans boo, and wave their signs towards the Southern Comfort toting frat boy.

 

The Suicide King notes, “You’d think that they’d cheer a beer drinker. It’s all the rage.”

 

“Or it was,” chimes in Longdogger.

 

#The world is a vampire,

 

Pockets of fans pop, having seen Bryan Rodger’s work.

 

#Sent to drai-ai-ain

 

A modestly built man appears at the entrance way. He pulls something out of his pocket and sticks it in his mouth. It’s a Marlboro. Another pocket produces a zippo, he lights up.

 

#Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames

#And what do I get, for my pain

 

He takes a long drag, and starts heading towards the ring, slapping hands with the occasional fan as he saunters to the ring. He gestures to his Vote for Pedro T-shirt, and smiles a cocky smile at the camera.

 

#Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game

#Even though I know-I suppose I'll show

#All my cool and cold-like old job

 

He climbs up the ring steps, and wipes his Nazi-stompin’ combat boots off before stepping through the ropes.

 

#Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage

#Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved

#Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage

 

Funyon takes a big breath, “Coming from Richmond, Virginia standing six feet two inches tall weighing in at two hundred thrity-seven pounds.”

 

Funyon reaches into his pocket while taking another breath, he pulls out a card, and shouts out as he reads, “El Maniaco de Richmond, La Quebra-cabeza, Bryan ‘Tengo un pene enorme, usted realmente debo verlo, él soy gigantesco’ Rodgers.”

 

The crowd roars with laughter at both the announcement, and Funyon’s battering of their language. Bryan heads from corner to corner, smoking the rest of his cigarette, and motioning to the crowd, pulling out his infamous “Too Much Evil for One Hand” pinky to the lips taunt that went out of style four years ago.

 

#Now I'm naked, nothing but an animal

#But can you fake it, for just one more show

#And what do you want, I want to change

#And what have you got

#When you feel the same

#Even though I know-I suppose I'll show

 

He snuffs his cig out on the ring post, and checks his wrist taping. The fists are secure.

 

#All my cool and cold-like old job

#Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage

#Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved

#Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage

 

DING DING DING

 

The two start to circle one another, and Rodgers catches the frat boy with a stiff left jab, followed with two quick right-handed body shots, another left jab, and a staggering right hook. Hunt staggers against the ropes, and wheels away, Big Country puts his hands in a “T” as if to call “time-out” and reaches over for his Southern Comfort. He takes a swig, and nods that he’s ready again.

 

“I don’t know why Rodgers didn’t capitalize after that opening flurry of punches,” wonders Longdogger Pete aloud.

 

“Maybe because he is stupid,” Suicide King leans towards the ring and yells, “Napoleon Dynamite sucked!”

 

Rodgers doesn’t seem to notice King mocking his choice of ring attire, and motions for Martin Hunt “to give him his best shot” even jutting out the jaw for a solid chance. Hunt cocks back and unleashes a haymaker, which Rodgers causally sidesteps leaving Big Country horribly open to an attack, but Maniac only kicks him playfully in the BUTT staggering the North Carolinian into a neutral corner. The crowd laughs and Rodgers’ antics. Martin gets up red in the face and starts to charge Rodgers…

 

…who has his hands in the form of a “T.” Hunt stops cold, and Rodgers heads over, and sneaks a swing of Martin’s Southern Comfort. Big Country ain’t gonna stand by and let another man swipe his hooch, and charges in with his “100 proof” kneesmash. Alcohol spews forth from the mouth of Richmond’s Finest, and the frat boy continues his blind fury assault.

 

“Never steal another man’s hooch,” chimes the King.

 

“Words to live by, now where is my martini?”

 

“I wouldn’t know.” The King responds sipping on a martini.

 

Martin Hunt pulls the staggered Bryan Rodgers up into a stalled suplex, dropping him to the mat, he drives a few quick knees to the fallen Virginian’s head, and starts to climb up top, and coming crashing down with his Donkey Punch body splash. Unfortunately, Bryan Rodgers isn’t there anymore.

 

“Rodgers rolled out of the way of the Donkey Punch!” screams Pete.

 

“For those of you watching at home who are not blind.”

 

“The blind watch wrestling too. I mean they listen to the play by play.”

 

“Which you do such a good job of.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Sarcasm is lost on idiots.”

 

Bryan hoists Martin Hunt to his feet, and drops him with a quick Russian legsweep, he rolls through, holding onto Hunt’s shoulder, and pulls him back up to a standing base, then sweeps him face-first to the mat with a Stroke.

 

“He calls that the Russian Deathride.”

 

The King shakes his head, “Why not the Chilean Deathride? He seems to like cheap pops.”

 

Rodgers follows up with a pair of flashing elbow drops, and then dumps Martin Hunt over the top rope with a released Northern lights Suplex. Big Country hits the floor on his ass due to the momentum of the suplex.

 

“He might have a broken coccyx,” suggests Longdogger.

 

“You can’t say that on TV can you?”

 

The Maniac slides out after Hunt and starts to look underneath the ring for something, he sets aside a broken radio, a tool box (but only after dumping it’s contents onto the ground) and a half eaten Rueben sandwich.

 

“I wondered where my sandwich had gotten off too,” pipes in Pete.

 

“Didn’t you lose it in Brazil?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Rodgers finally smiles when he finds what he was looking for. Bono weaps at his misfortune. Maybe Martin Hunt will too. Bryan turns around showing the crowd his Death Chair.

 

“Bryan Rodgers showing that he is going to really get this crowd going by spilling blood tonight,” rasps The Suicide King.

 

“Folks this isn’t going to be pretty, that steel chair is wrapped in barbed wire, and has something written on it, can you make out what it says King?”

 

“For a Good Time Call 867-5309. Ask for Jenny.”

 

We hear beeping.

 

“Put the phone away Pete.”

 

Martin Hunt has gotten to his feet, climbed up on the apron and blasts the Death Chair back into Rodgers’ face with a dropkick off the apron. The crowd groans as the chair flies from Rodgers’ hands, but a strand of barbed wire is still stuck to his skull. He’s bleeding from several little holes left from the wire, but Hunt only smiles and drops a knee to the forehead of Rodgers, causing even more blood to flow.

 

“Parents you might not want your kids watching this,” Pete admonishes. “We knew that Rodgers was a bleeder, I don’t think we thought he was like this.”

 

“Terry Funk is smiling up in heaven at this. Wait, what am I talking about? Terry Funk is sitting right there.”

 

The camera shows a Chilean fan sitting on the third row, his resemblance to the Middle Aged and Crazy wrestler are uncanny. Hunt cuts in front of the camera, flashing a smile back to his boys at Phi Kappa Phi, and heading towards the tool box.

 

“See,” points out the King, “This is where younger guys are going all wrong. They go looking for weapons while the opponent is down. I’d have kept on “The Maniac” until his eyes bled, then I’d go get the weapon when he couldn’t see.”

 

“Such a strategist.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Sarcasm is wasted on the stupid.”

 

Hunt notices that Rodgers has started to get up, and pull the wire from his scalp, so he grabs the closest thing he can find… a ratchet. He gets a running start and sort of axe-handle smashes/karate chops Rodgers in the head with the ratchet.

 

Pete groans, “Bryan’s face is a bloody mess, his blonde hair is now a solid shade of crimson.”

 

“Hunt now blasting the ribs of Bryan Rodgers with that ratchet, he’s going to have internal hemoraging if this keeps up.”

 

“Rodger’s is curled into a feotal position, and Hunt smiles like he is going for the kill. He grapevine’s Bryan’s legs, and looks to lock on a Ganso STF or something.”

 

“That’s a Regal Stretch for you fans at home that aren’t puro heads.”

 

Hunt pulls back on Rodgers’ arms and looks to lock on the crossface, but a burst of green mist shoots out, and Martin pulls back blinded.

 

“Ronin Mist!! Ronin Mist!!” shouts Pete.

 

Martin staggers against the ring apron trying to get the green stuff out of his eyes, and Bryan Rodgers manages to get to his feet, clutching at his ribs, grabbing a handful of hair he smashes the frat boy’s skull into the ring steps. He does it again, and then rolls his opponent into the ring.

 

“Bryan Rodgers taking advantage after that Ronin Mist on the floor,” points out LDP.

 

“Yeah, mist on the floor is much more damaging to the eyes than when it’s done in the ring.”

 

Rodgers scales to the top rope and awaits his opponent to get to his feet, Hunt staggers to his feet, green mist all over his face, but he seems to have pulled it out of his eyes. He looks for Rodgers, but can’t quite find him, he stagger steps to the left, putting his ass squarely towards The Maniac on the top rope. Bryan kisses his fist and drops a fist drop right to the tailbone of Martin Hunt.

 

“HOLY SHIT!!! HOLY SHIT!!! HOLY SHIT!!!” The crowd roars with chants, it’s amazing what English is picked up by the average Chilean.

 

“Ass Punch from Bryan Rodgers!” Pete is beside himself at that move.

 

“Such a deviant maneuver, this guy is a whack-job.”

 

As Martin is grabbing at his backside, Bryan takes the opportunity to grab his wrists and force him into a pump-handle position he hoists him up, and spins out into a the Michinoku Driver II he calls the Tokyo Drifter. He cradles the leg for a cover. Wagner Gonzalez, a local ref paid to do this match slides into position.

 

1…

 

 

 

 

 

 

2…

 

 

 

Big Country manages to slide his shoulder up.

 

“…the hell?” complains Rodgers, blood still sort of dripping from his forehead, down onto his formerly white shirt, covering the red letters to where we can only read, “V or dro.” Rodgers rolls backwards, and pulls Hunt up by his hair, then spins him around and claws his face…

 

“Brainstorm from Bryan Rodgers,” LDP informs the fans.

 

“Now he’s running towards the ropes, he springs up hits the middle rope, changes direction springs from the top and flips back in his Bad Moon Rising,” continues The Suicide King.

 

“He nailed it perfectly, but…”

 

“But he had to roll off clutching at his ribs that got ratcheted earlier on in the match by Big Country,” King finishes for Pete.

 

“You have to think that it would be over if he was able to stay down for the cover, no way that Martin Hunt kicks out of that.”

 

Rodgers manages to slide over and drape an arm across his fallen opponent. Wagner Gonzalez with the count.

 

1…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2..

 

 

 

 

 

 

Martin Hunt rolls his shoulder up again, mostly out of instinct. Rodgers pounds the mat, and starts to get to his feet, pulling Hunt up by the hair. Hunt flashes out a right hand to the ribs, Rodgers stops short, Hunt launches another punch, and another, and another. Bryan Rodgers is doubled over in pain, clutching his ribs.

 

“What is Big Country looking for here?” Pete quizzes, “he bounces off the ropes and drops a beautiful scissors kick.”

 

“Not letting up, he pulls the slightly larger man to his feet, when he should have beat his brains into the mat. This frat boy needs to watch some of my Best of Tapes,” the King points out.

 

Hunt whips Rodgers into a monster powerslam from a guy Hunt’s size, he holds on for the cover.

 

1…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rodgers kicks out, but gasps at the pressure that put on his ribs.

 

“He might want to find a better way of escaping, Hunt’s done a number on The Maniacs ribs tonight,” Pete comments.

 

“Well, a ratchet to the kidney isn’t the most pleasant experience.”

 

Hunt waits until Bryan is to his feet and attempts a DDT, but Rodgers counters with a released Northern Lights Suplex.

 

“The second Northern Lights we have seen from The Maniac tonight,” says Pete.

 

Rodgers looks for a running clothesline as Hunt uses the ropes to pull himself to his feet, but Martin sees him coming and pulls the rope down and back body drops Rodgers all the way to the floor.

 

“OH MY!!!!” gasps LDP.

 

“HOLY SHIT!!! MERDA!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!! MERDA!!!!” the Chilean crowd bursts out in a two tongued chant because not only did Bryan Rodgers go head over heels over the top rope to the unforgiving ground below, he landed squarely on the Death Chair that had been brought into play earlier. Rodgers’ back is arched, barbs sticking to his shirt. Hunt notices this, but heads to a neutral corner and starts messing with the turnbuckle removing the pad. Wagner Gonzalez gets in his face, but Hunt protests, “Ain’t no rules!”

 

“This can’t be good,” Pete bemoans.

 

Rodgers manages to untangle himself from the barbed wire and has a sort of sick smile on his face, covering the pain his side is feeling. He tosses the Death Chair blindly into the ring making Wagner Gonzalez dive out of the way, and Rodgers picks up the ratchet used against him earlier and slips it into the back of his jeans. He climbs back into the ring, but Hunt is there pounding him on the back of the neck, and ribs.

 

“He’s still mad that Rodgers swiped his Southern Comfort,” tells the King.

 

Martin goes to whip Rodgers into that exposed turnbuckle, to further damage those ribs, but Rodgers quickly snaps on a vicious side headlock to halt his momentum, and pulls the ratchet out from the waist of his jeans.

“I think Martin Hunt is going to get a receipt for earlier,” Pete says.

 

“Ya think?” questions the King, sarcastically.

 

Rodgers slams that ratchet into Marty Hunt’s forehead over and over, until the man from North Carolina is bleeding from a cut over the eyes. The mixture of blood and the drying mist is an eerie one. Wagner Gonzalez is trying to get Rodgers to stop, but he slips the ratchet in his waist band putting his hands up showing that he doesn’t have anything there.

 

The crowd pops for the NES spot.

 

“Idiots,” moans the Suicide King, “it’s no DQ.”

 

Hunt was still on his feet from the Outlaw Choke, and latches onto Rodgers neck with the Blackout.

 

“Hunt’s finisher!” cries LDP. “Rodgers had his back turned and now, he’s in that strict sleeper lock of Martin Hunt.”

 

Rodgers’ eyes bulge from lack of oxygen, but he looks around, seeing that he’s facing directly at the opposite corner. He smiles slightly and does the only logical thing. He lunges with all his force backwards, driving Marty Hunt’s back into that exposed turnbuckle. He drives back again, and Marty releases the hold.

 

“Rodgers is giving the smaller man some room,” Pete narrates, “but here he comes! VIVA LA MUTA!!”

 

The crowd goes nuts for the cartwheel elbow hairpull bulldog combo, Martin Hunt looks like he’s on dream street.

 

“He could have him now if he wanted him,” the King says. “Finish him, we are starting to run long.”

 

“We are only fifteen minutes into the card.”

 

“Yeah, so?”

 

Rodgers pulls the nearly unconscious Martin Hunt to his feet, and looks around for his Death Chair, he sees it near a neutral corner and kicks it to the middle of the ring. He hooks the head as if for a suplex, but cradles the opposite leg, picks him up, so he’s head over heels, and turns around…

 

 

***CLANG***

 

“MATADOR MATADOR MATADOR MATADOR”

 

“Martin Hunt is dead, he’s gotta be,” Pete screams out. “Die Hard Driver onto that Death Chair, Big Country’s face is covered with blood the pinfall is elementary now.

 

1…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3!!!

 

“Bullet with Butterfly Wings” by the Smashing Pumpkins starts up, and Rodgers rolls Hunt off his Death Chair. He holds the chair above his head, and smiles as blood drips down his face.

[Chuck Woolery 0]

FADE IN

 

“A little less than a month ago,” says Longdogger Pete, “Wildchild and Landon Maddix met in singles competition, with Wildchild coming away with the victory. Well, tonight, Landon Maddix has another opportunity to get some payback, and perhaps even move himself into the Cruiserweight Title picture in the process!”

 

“Well, since it’s obvious that Wildchild is ducking Scott Pretzler,” replies the Suicide King, “Maddix could very well put himself in line for a title shot with a win tonight. The big question is going to be whether Maddix is willing to do whatever it takes to pull out a victory?”

 

“Wildchild has historically gotten the better of this matchup,” says Pete. “In fact, the World Cruiserweight Champion has never lost to Landon Maddix, be it in singles competition or in tag team action!”

 

“Well, Martial Law is in a serious downward spiral right as of late,” says King. “They looked to be on track after Landon beat Johnny Dangerous to capture the International Title, only to lose it rather ignominiously to Jay Hawke mere days later. You know, Drain-Clogger, Martial Law initially banded together to try and combat Revolution Zero, but that never really panned out for them the way they’d hoped, as the Revolution has gotten the better of them at pretty much every turn. In fact, not only has Martial Law basically failed against the Revolution but, for the large part, they’ve had to sit in the background and watch others do what they couldn’t.”

 

“One of those others, of course, being the Wildchild,” adds LDP. “Along with Spike Jenkins, Wild and Dangerous have largely gotten the better of Revolution Zero since their return to the SWF, while Martial Law has floundered by comparison, losing most of their high-profile matches against Toxxic and his lackeys.”

 

“Hey!” snaps King. “Watch who you’re calling lackeys, MacDougal! Every member of Revolution Zero is a world-class athlete, and together, they form one of the most successful stables in the history of the SWF! Martial Law, on the other hand, may be the most disappointing stable since Catch-22!”

 

“There’s no question that they could use a high-profile win in the worst way, if they want to keep from slipping outside the radar of the SWF Championship Committee,” notes Pete, “and there may not be a better opportunity to impress than against one of the top superstars in the SWF!”

 

“Unfortunately,” replies King, “Maddix is always going to be on the Championship Committee’s radar, simply because he’s a former World Heavyweight Champion. Which is irritating, because Maddix has pretty much proved that he was a one-hit wonder!”

 

“Well, we can argue this all night, King,” says LDP, “but the bottom line is that Landon Maddix can put himself in position to win one of the two titles that he’s never held in the SWF by beating Landon Maddix here tonight, so with that, let’s send it to Funyon, as we get right to the action!”

 

With that, the camera shifts its focus to the ring, where Funyon raises his trusty microphone to his lips and says, “The following non-title match is scheduled for one fall, with a twenty-five minute time limit!”

 

“PREPARE...FOR...LANDON!”

 

RAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

*DUM DUM*

 

The lights dim briefly as “Megalomaniac” by Incubus starts to play, prompting Landon Maddix to burst from behind the curtain, stopping at the top of the ramp and thrusting his hands out to his side as the lights return back to normal. Landon turns back to the curtains, waving his arm in a sweeping gesture as Megan walks out from the back to take her place beside him. Maddix takes her by the hand and shows her off to the crowd, Megan pirouetting like a ballerina, before they proceed down the ramp with Landon leading the way, jaw-jacking with fans as he does so.

 

“Introducing first,” says Funyon, “being accompanied by the First Lady of the SWF, Megan Skye, from Huron, South Dakota, weighing two hundred twenty pounds… LANDON ‘LA CUCARACHA’ MAAAADIX!”

 

RAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

Landon leaps to the apron, before running across the apron and leaping up to the middle turnbuckle. Looking out at the crowd, Landon grins and holds his arms out to the sides before leaping over the top and entering the ring. He rips off his trademark “Cheat 2 Win” t-shirt and tosses it into the rabid crowd, before stepping between the ropes to enter the ring, flexing his limbs as he awaits his opponent.

 

 

“He looks pretty confident for someone who’s managed to go 0-5 for his career against the guy he’s facing tonight,” chuckles King. With that, the lights dim in the Estadio Nacional, and cheers can be heard for the Bahama Bomber as Redman’s “Let’s Get Dirty” begins to play!

 

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…

 

 

“And his opponent,” shouts Funyon, “from the Bahamas, weighing two hundred fourteen pounds, one half of the SWF World Tag Team Champions, and the SWF World Cruiserweight Champion… the WIIIIILDCHIIIIILD!” Wildchild steps slowly into the spotlight, holding his hand close to his heavily-taped ribs. He walks deliberately down the ramp, slapping hands with the fans as he heads towards the ring, but grimacing slightly as a few fans pull a little too enthusiastically at his hand, straining his sore ribs.

 

“Wildchild sustained several bruised ribs over the weekend,” says Pete, “at the hands of an enraged hippopotamus. Since this is a non-title contest, he was given the opportunity to take the night off, but he insisted on coming out here, so as not to let the fans down! I tell you what, King, Wildchild may be a little worse for wear, but if Landon Maddix thinks that he’s going to be able to get the best of him with anything less than his maximum effort, he’s in for a long night!”

 

“Well, I’ll agree with that,” concedes King. “Maddix shouldn’t settle for his normal weak offense; he should try to target the ribs as much as possible… and cheating never hurt either!” Wildchild slides underneath the bottom rope to enter the ring and hands the belt over to referee Ronald “Red” Herrington. Herrington hands the belt to Funyon as the announcer is leaving the ring, and then motions to the timekeeper to ring the bell, signifying the start of the match:

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

“Bell’s gone!” shouts LDP. “We’re underway!” Wildchild and Landon meet in the center of the ring, with Maddix walking right up to Wildchild, standing nose-to-nose with him!

 

“Whoa!” gasps Pete, as the two wrestlers begin trash-talking each other. “There’s no love lost between those two, you can bet on that!” Landon raises his hand to Wildchild’s face and pushes him backwards with a pieface! An enraged Wildchild charges towards his opponent, wrapping both arms around the Cockroach’s legs and knocking him backwards before he can react with a double-leg takedown, before straddling him and assaulting him with a battery of rapid-fire right hands!

 

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

 

… Suddenly, Landon turns the tables on Wildchild, rolling him over onto his back and assuming a dominant position as he begins to hammer the Bahama Bomber with hard rights!

 

 

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

 

The two continue to jockey for position until they roll all the way to the edge of the ring, where they get tangled in the ropes! Red Herrington orders them to break and, when they continue grappling with each other, begins to deliver a five-count, until they finally untangle themselves and return to neutral positions on opposing sides of the ring!

 

“Look at the intensity on the faces of both men!” exclaims Pete. “You’d never believe that it was a non-title match!” Wildchild and Landon charge towards each other again, this time with Maddix taking control with a kneelift into Wildchild’s injured ribs. He punches Wildchild back into a corner and then grabs him by the wrist, whipping him across the ring. Wildchild slams back-first into the corner, but raises his right foot as Maddix charges in after him…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… Jamming his heel into the Cockroach’s nose! Wildchild lunges out of the corner as Landon staggers backwards, raising his arm to eye level as he spins around suddenly…

 

CRACK!

 

… And knocking Maddix to the canvas with a spinning backfist! The crowd roars their approval as Wildchild runs back to the corner, climbing to the top turnbuckle and waiting for Maddix to get to his feet before springing backwards into the ring, twisting and contorting his body as he descends towards the canvas…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… And crashing into Maddix with a corkscrew moonsault! Wildchild rolls on top of Landon and hooks the leg as Herrington drops down to his knees to count the pinfall:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

KICKOUT!

 

Wildchild beats Maddix to his feet and races towards the ropes as Landon stands up, leaping off the mat and whipping his leg sharply through the air to knock Maddix back down with a tremendous leg lariat that sends him rolling underneath the bottom rope and onto the apron!

 

“Better watch out, Landon!” shouts Pete. “Wildchild’s got you where he does his most damage right now!” Wildchild races to the corner, leaping onto the middle turnbuckle as Landon gets to his feet, and the Cockroach immediately bellies out on the apron in anticipation of the Tornado DDT, but the Human Hurricane sees the dodge at the last second, and climbs onward to the top turnbuckle, waving his hands to ignite the crowd as he waits patiently for Maddix to get back to his feet and then leaping off the turnbuckle, landing in a seated position across Landon’s shoulders and locking his legs behind Landon’s back as he swings his upper body around and arches backwards…

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

… Ripping Maddix off the ring apron with a swinging Dragonrana that slams Landon back-first into the ring barricade! Wildchild pulls himself to his knees, clutching his ribs as looks backwards at the motionless Landon Maddix. The Caribbean Cruiser grins through the pain flooding his chest, admiring his handiwork as the Santiago fans loudly express their appreciation:

 

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

 

“What a move!” shrieks LDP. “Wildchild may have exacerbated the injury to his ribs with that move, but you can bet that he hurt Landon Maddix more!”

 

 

FOUR!

 

FIVE!

 

SIX!

 

SEVEN!

 

 

“Maddix knows that Wildchild loves to hit that Tornado DDT off the apron, and thought that he had it well-scouted,” points out King, “but he failed to take Wildchild’s ability to recover in midair into account, and now he may have to figure out how to finish this match with a broken back!”

 

TWELVE!

 

THIRTEEN!

 

FOURTEEN!

 

 

At the count of fourteen, Wildchild crawls over to the apron and pulls himself to his feet, before walking back over towards Maddix, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the ring barricade, draping him chest-first over the top of it.

 

“Uh-oh,” moans Pete, as Wildchild slides back into the ring to break up the referee’s count, “we’ve seen this before, King! If Maddix can’t get out of the way, his back is going to be in a world of hurt!” Wildchild scrambles to his feet and dashes across the ring, picking up momentum as he bounces off the ropes and springing into the air as he approaches the edge of the ring, leaping over the top rope and flipping forward as he hurtles towards the arena floor…

 

 

SPLASH!

 

 

… Crashing into Landon’s chest with a death-defying somersault senton! Wildchild rolls around the arena floor, clutching his ribs in pain as Landon leans heavily against the ring barricade, coughing up blood!

 

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

 

“Good God!” shouts Pete. “What tremendous offense by the World Cruiserweight Champion! Listen to the ovation by this capacity crowd!”

 

EIGHT!

 

NINE!

 

TEN!

 

“Well, it’s flashy and it worked,” concedes King, “but he’d better thank his lucky stars that this isn’t a title match, or a move like that could have very well done more harm than good! He’d better hope that he doesn’t run into any more hippopotami before his next title defense!”

 

 

FIFTEEN!

 

SIXTEEN!

 

SEVENTEEN!

 

At seventeen, Wildchild pulls Landon to his feet and leads him to the ring apron, rolling him underneath the bottom rope, and then returning to the apron himself to stop the referee’s count. Wildchild crawls feebly into the ring and collapses atop Maddix as Herrington counts the shoulders:

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

BUT MADDIX KICKS OUT AT TWO!

 

 

“Wildchild may have hesitated a second too long before going for the pin there,” notes LDP. “I know that he was injured himself, but Landon Maddix is a tough out for anyone, even someone with the kind of high-impact offense that Wildchild has!”

 

“Well, I’ll give Wildchild this much credit,” concedes King, “like many of the Cruiserweights in the SWF, Wildchild is on the very low end of the power scale, but there’s probably not anyone in the business who’s better at using his own body to counteract his strength disadvantage!”

 

“Absolutely, King!” agrees Pete. “Wildchild knows how to use his own body at a weapon, and he’s figured out that, with the proper velocity, he can hit just as hard as many of his much stronger opponents, despite being not nearly as physically strong as most of them!” The Tropical Tumbler pulls Maddix to his feet and grabs him by the wrist, whipping him into the corner, but the Cockroach surprises him with a reversal, rocketing Wildchild chest-first into the buckles instead! Wildchild grabs his chest as he staggers backwards out of the corner, leaving him unable to defend himself as Maddix locks his hands underneath Wildchild’s chin and falls to the canvas…

 

WHAM!

 

… Driving the Bahama Bomber into the canvas with his patented So-Dak Moment! Maddix flops onto his back, breathing heavily, unable to cover his opponent!

 

“So-Dak Moment out of nowhere!” cries Pete. “Tremendous resilience on the part of Landon Maddix!”

 

“Maddix is a tough little bastard, I’ll give him that much,” admits King. “He’s taken a beating to start this match, and still had the presence of mind to deliver the So-Dak Moment as soon as Wildchild made a mistake. Now, will he only have enough presence of mind to pull off the upset?” Maddix pulls himself painfully to a sitting position and leans forward, trying to surprise Wildchild with a quick pin as Herrington drops down to cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

NO!

 

 

“Not this time,” says Pete. “He may have waited too long to go for that pin, King; if he’d grabbed the legs out of the So-Dak, he might have got him!” Maddix falls backwards and tries to regain his breath as Wildchild rolls on to his stomach. The Bahama Bomber crawls to the edge of the ring and uses the ropes to pull himself to his feet, but as he staggers towards the corner, Landon scrambles after him, leaping into the air and knocking him through the ropes and out of the ring with a running dropkick! Wildchild stumbles down to the arena floor as Landon continues to catch his breath inside the ring.

 

“It appears that Landon has managed to take firm control of this matchup,” says LDP. Landon waits until Red Herrington walks over to the edge of the ring and begins to deliver a twenty-count to Wildchild before sneaking across the ring behind him, going to a neutral corner and unfastening the turnbuckle pad from the top turnbuckle.

 

“And look at this!” crows King. “That’s using your head, Maddix! If he can ram Wildchild’s head into that turnbuckle, it’s going to be light’s out!”

 

EIGHT!

 

NINE!

 

TEN!

 

ELEVEN!

 

Landon looks back across the ring, and sees Wildchild using the apron to pull himself back to his feet. Not ready for him to return to the ring, Maddix races across the ring, and diving feet-first towards the edge of the ring…

 

WHACK!

 

… And knocking Wildchild backwards and over the ring barricade with a baseball slide!

 

“Obviously, Landon Maddix wants to keep Wildchild outside ring,” notes Pete.

 

“Well, he wants to take advantage of that twenty count to get his strength back,” replies King. “He took a pretty hellacious beating earlier in the match. Plus, as long as he can continue to do damage to Wildchild’s ribs, he’s not going to be able to get the oxygen he needs!” Landon races across the ring as Wildchild struggles to his feet out in the crowd, and leaps to the top rope, springing out of the ring to crash into Wildchild with his patented Spaceman Plancha…

 

 

WHACK!

 

… But the Bahama Bomber leaps into the air as Maddix dives over the barricade and nails him in the face with a dropkick!

 

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

 

“Tremendous counter by the Wildchild!” shouts LDP. “Maddix tried to put the finishing touches on this match, but he didn’t take Wildchild’s will to win into account!”

 

SIX!

 

SEVEN!

 

EIGHT!

 

NINE!

 

Wildchild stumbles back over to the ring barricade and falls over, back to the ringside area. He crawls over to the apron and pulls himself back to his feet…

 

WHAM!

 

… But Maddix leaps from the barricade and slams a double-axe handle into his back!

 

FIFTEEEN!

 

SIXTEEN!

 

SEVENTEEN!

 

Maddix rolls Wildchild back into the ring, and then returns to the apron to break up the count. He grabs onto the top rope and slings himself into the ring to deliver a senton splash!

 

 

CRASH!

 

… Only for Wildchild to move out of the way! Wildchild rolls back onto the apron and pulls himself to his feet, climbing up to the top turnbuckle as Landon stands up and leaping back into the ring to deliver a spinning heel kick!

 

WHACK!

 

… But the Cockroach dives out of the way, and Wildchild flies straight over him, slamming the heel of his foot into Red Herrington, and knocking him unconscious!

 

“Oh my!” shrieks Pete. “The referee’s down!” Landon scrambles to his feet, rushing towards Wildchild as he rolls to his knees, trying to figure out what happened…

 

CRACK!

 

… And blasts him in the head with a Shining Wizard!

 

“Shining Wizard!” exclaims LDP, as Landon collapses on top of Wildchild. “Wildchild’s out cold!”

 

“But there’s no ref!” shouts King. “Lookit! Landon’s counting: One… Two… Three! But there’s no referee to make the count, MacDougal!”

 

“What a bad break for Landon Maddix,” says Pete. “He finally has the Wildchild down for a three-count, and there’s no referee to count the three!” Landon pulls Wildchild into a seated position and scrambles to his feet, looking out into the crowd and clasping both hands together as he holds them to his face, gesturing sleep.

 

LAND OF NOD!

LAND OF NOD!

LAND OF NOD!

 

“The crowd’s calling for the Land of Nod!” shouts Pete. “If he gets this on him, Wildchild’s going to be down for the count!” Landon walks back over to Wildchild and traps him in the dreaded Dragon Clutch, locking his legs around the Cruiserweight Champion’s waist as he cinches it in!

 

“Land of Nod!” shouts Pete. “And Wildchild is tapping furiously!”

 

“But again,” points out King, “there’s no referee! Maddix is wasting all this energy for nothing!”

 

“Not necessarily nothing, King,” replies Pete. “If he can hold that move on until the referee wakes up, he could very well get a submission anyway!”

 

“If Wildchild is still conscious by then,” says King. Landon, realizing that he should have won the match by now, looks back to check on the referee, who remains unconscious. Growing impatient, Landon releases his hold on Wildchild and scrambles to his feet, walking over to the referee in an attempt to rouse him.

 

“Landon tries to wake up the referee, but that spinning heel kick from the top rope sent Herrington into another time zone!” shouts Pete. Landon walks over to Wildchild as he rolls to his feet and slams the sole of his boot into the Bahaman’s back. Maddix pulls Wildchild to his feet and backs him into a corner. Landon looks out into the crowd before laying into Wildchild with a litany of vicious knife-edge chops!

 

SMACK! WHOO!

SMACK! WHOO!

SMACK! WHOO!

SMACK! WHOO!

SMACK! WHOO!

 

“Brutal chops in the corner by the Next Generation,” says Pete, as Maddix grabs Wildchild by the back of the head and leads him across the ring, pushing him face-first into the exposed turnbuckle pad!

 

WHAM!

 

… But the Bahama Bomber raises his foot to block the ram attempt and grabs Landon by the head, slamming him into the turnbuckle instead!

 

“Whoa!” shouts King. “Landon had the right idea, to put Wildchild’s face into that buckle, but he got the tables turned on him!” Wildchild runs to the ropes as Landon staggers out of the corner and snares him in a side headlock as he comes flying off the ropes…

 

WHAM!

 

 

… Driving Maddix into the canvas with a bulldog!

 

 

RAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

“Beautiful bulldog by the Wildchild,” says LDP, as Wildchild rolls to his feet, cycling his hands above his head as he heads towards the corner. “And it looks like he’s going for the Falling Star Bomb!”

 

“Well, if he hits this, it’s tough luck for Maddix,” says King. Wildchild climbs to the top turnbuckle and quickly leaps off, flipping forward as he falls towards the center of the ring…

 

 

WHAM!

 

… Crashing into Landon’s chest with his patented 720º Vertical Splash!

 

“Falling Star Bomb!” shouts LDP. “And Maddix is out cold!”

 

“But we still have no referee!” replies King. Wildchild gets to his feet and pulls his hands to his chest, the signal for the Wild Ride.

 

RAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

“We could see the Wild Ride right here,” says Pete, as Wildchild pulls Landon to his feet. “If he can hit this, there won’t be any getting back up for the Next Generation!” Wildchild doubles Maddix over and locks his arms inside of Landon…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… When Scott Pretzler suddenly runs into the ring and scrambles to his feet, nailing Wildchild in the midsection with a running kneelift!

 

“It’s Scott Pretzler!” cries Pete. “What’s he doing down here?”

 

“Obviously, he and Wildchild still have some unfinished business!” replies King. Pretzler pulls Wildchild to his feet and traps him in a standing headscissors before wrapping his arms around Wildchild’s waist, jerking him off the canvas overhead…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… And planting him back down with a snap powerbomb!

 

“Wildbomb on Wildchild!” exclaims Pete, as Pretzler exits the ring, snarling as he walks back up the ramp. “Wildchild’s down! Landon’s down! The referee’s down!”

 

“Wait a minute!” shouts King, “Herrington’s starting to come to!” Red Herrington pulls himself to his knees and looks into the ring, just as Pretzler departs through the curtain. Seeing both competitors unconscious on the mat, and no apparent outside influences to have caused it, Herrington dutifully begins to deliver a ten-count:

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

“This is terrible!” moans LDP. “What a tremendous contest between two great competitors, but because of Scott Pretzler, we could end up with… what? A no contest?”

 

FOUR!

 

FIVE!

 

“Well, everybody knows that Scott Pretzler feels that he should still be the World Cruiserweight Champion,” says King. “He’s apparently decided to make himself a thorn in Wildchild’s side until he stops running from him!”

 

SEVEN!

 

EIGHT!

 

“What do you mean, running from him?” asks Pete incredulously. “Wildchild’s beaten him twice in the last month; how many more times does he have to beat this guy?”

 

NINE!

 

TEN!

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

“That’s it!” shouts King. Wildchild and Landon finally begin to stir on the canvas, but it’s too late to change the outcome of the match, as Herrington crawls over to the edge of the ring, rolling outside the ring and delivering his official decision to Funyon before staggering backstage to seek medical attention.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “due to the fact that both men failed to get back to their feet before a ten-count, the referee has ruled this match… A DRAW!”

 

“How do you like that,” growls Pete. “A draw! What a disappointing end to what was shaping up to be a tremendous match!” Landon looks out at Funyon with an expression of disbelief, while Wildchild stares back towards the ramp, his rage threatening to boil over…

 

As we:

FADE OUT

[Chuck Woolery 0]

FADE IN

 

As we return from commercial, Scott Pretzler is walking back towards the Revolution Zero’s locker room, whistling Beethoven’s Ninth, when…

 

 

“Mister Pretzler! Excuse me, Mister Pretzler!”

 

The Critic wheels around as Ben Hardy chases after him, a camera crew lagging behind him. “Mister Pretzler,” he wheezes between breaths, “a moment of your time, please?”

 

“Yes,” replies Pretzler. “What do you want, little man?”

 

“I’d like to get your comments on why you interfered in the last match?” asks Hardy.

 

“It’s very simple,” replies Pretzler. “I’m sick and tired of Wildchild running from me, and not giving me the rematch that I deserve! He can give Landon Maddix as many times as he wants, but sooner or later, he’s going to have to come see me, and that’s why I decided to remind him tonight!”

 

“But, mister Pretzler,” asks Hardy, “Wildchild just defeated you at Battleground in the Ladder Match; how many more times does he have to face you for you to be satisfied?”

 

“As many times as it takes!” snaps Pretzler, largely ignoring the message behind Hardy’s comments. “Until he realizes that he can’t continue to hide from me; he’s going to have to defend that belt against me, and when he does…”

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

Before Pretzler can continue his thoughts, Wildchild races in after him, leaping onto his back and knocking him to the ground! The Bahama Bomber straddles Pretzler and begins to hammer him with a barrage of right hands!

 

 

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

 

 

“Wildchild’s had enough of Scott Pretzler!” shouts LDP. “We might need to get security down here!” As Wildchild continues to bash away at the Critic, an army of officials and security guards rush in to separate the two superstars! Half of them escort Wildchild towards the exit of Stadium, and he continues to scream obscenities at Scott Pretzler while the other half of the group leads him back to his locker room…

 

As we:

FADE OUT

Edited May 10, 2005 by Chuck Woolery

[Chuck Woolery 0]

SWF Smarkdown returns from a commercial for Danny Williams’ Strong Style Ribs: “Try the new Roaring Potato Salad with any meal!” and a coked-up camera man pans around the Estadio Nacional, the fans screaming wildly, before coming to rest in front of Longdogger Pete and Suicide King.

 

“Welcome back to Smarkdown, live from Santiago, Chile! We’ve had some exciting action already tonight, King, and it promises to get even better!” Pete shouts.

 

“If you mean Revolution Zero and Jay Hawke taking apart Ejiro Fasaki, Arch Griffon, and Manson, then hell yes, it’s going to get better!” King yells back.

 

“Well, there is that, but don’t forget Spike Jenkins finally getting a chance to take on the mystery man. The match was scheduled for Battleground, but unforeseen circumstances postponed it until tonight. But right now, we’ve got one doozy of a match! Lil’ Buck is facing ‘The Franchise’ Mak Francis! Funyon is in the ring, so let’s get this started!” Pete exclaims.

 

The stadium lights go off, and as the arena plunges into darkness, a digital xylophone echoes, followed soon after by violins.

 

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

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following match is scheduled for one fall!” Funyon begins.

 

The scoreboard sparks to life with a photo-negative image of Mak Francis, which is quickly replaced with the words ‘The Franchise’ in green, pulsating in time to the beat.

 

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

 

The modified lyrics of “Rock Superstar” by Cypress Hill blast over the stereo system, and slowly Mak Francis makes his way out. The lights come back on and ‘The Franchise’ pauses at the mouth of the tunnel he just emerged from. He tilts his shades down, and glances first left, and then right.

 

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

 

“Introducing first, from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, he weighs in at two hundred, forty pounds, ‘The Franchise’ MMAAAK FRRAANCISSS!” Funyon bellows.

 

Small, green pyrotechnics erupt around Mak, and he simply pushes his glasses back into place before walking through the smoke down to the ring. Francis climbs the steps, wipes his feet on the apron, and salutes the crowd before entering the squared circle. ‘The Franchise’ hops up to the top turnbuckle, and raises his arms high. Mak drops back down, removes his trench coat and Oakleys, and hands them to referee Anthony Michael Hall, giving him very detailed instructions regarding their safe keeping.

 

“This should be a good change for Lil’ Buck, as he’s been facing off against cruiserweight opponents left and right. However, this will be his second opponent hailing from Pennsylvania in as many shows,” Pete notes.

 

“It looks like somebody got my message. It’s not fair that Buck gets to destroy cruisers all the time. Leave that to Revolution Zero,” King says.

 

As “Rock Superstar” fades away, a new song replaces it. The thumping beats of Crime Mob’s “Knuck if You Buck” blast over the public address system, heralding the entrance of Lil’ Buck. The Gangsta of Love makes his way out of the tunnel, drinking heartily from his pimp cup and brushing some dirt from the shoulder of his Dr. J throwback.

 

“And his opponent, from Lanett, Alabaman, he weighs two hundred, seventy pounds, Sugarhill’s Finest, LIIL’ BUCK!” Funyon shouts.

 

Buck pulls off his jersey, climbs into the ring, and hands it and his cup to Funyon. Hall checks both men over for weapons, finds nothing, and signals for the bell.

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

Buck stalks towards Mak, looking for a lock up, and is obliged. Lil’ Buck easily overpowers Francis and sends him to the ropes. The Arrogant Alabaman bends over, looking for a back body drop, but ‘The Franchise’ stops short and drills Buck in the back of the head with an elbow. As Buck shoots up in pain, Mak snares him and drops with a DDT. Francis keeps the front facelock cinched in, and tries to wrap his legs around Buck’s torso, but two jabs from Sugarhill’s Finest to Mak’s stomach puts a stop to that. However, Francis doesn’t seem to want to give up the chancery, but is persuaded to do so via a series of forearms to his face.

 

“That’s good strategy from Mak Francis. He needs to keep Lil’ Buck grounded, because he’s nowhere near as fast or strong since his injury,” Pete notes.

 

“Yes, but I think that Lil’ Buck is strong enough to be able to power out of most of Mak’s attempts to keep him on the mat,” King adds.

 

“I’m shocked! Insightful commentary from Suicide King when nobody from Revolution Zero is involved in the match? You running a fever? Did you eat something weird down here? Was it those insanity peppers?” Longdogger asks.

 

Francis scoots away from Buck, and gets to his feet, the Gangsta of Love up not long afterwards. Lil’ Buck heads for Mak, but ‘The Franchise’ nimbly sidesteps and takes Sugarhill’s Finest to the mat with a drop toe hold. Francis reaches out and applies a rear chinlock, while grinding his braced knee into Buck’s spine. Mak cranks back and Anthony Michael Hall asks if Buck will submit.

 

“Mak’s got a nice chinlock going, and it should really help him out in the long run. Both the Franchise Tag and Bittersweet target the neck and head,” Pete notes.

 

“He needs to stick with it, though. Lil’ Buck is tough and won’t go down easily,” King adds.

 

Lil’ Buck ignores Hall and begins trying to pull Mak’s hands apart. The Arrogant Alabaman manages to get Mak’s right hand away, but Francis changes tactics and applies a side headlock. Buck slowly gets to his knees, and eventually stands, though bent over with ‘The Franchise’ not willing to give up his headlock. The Gangsta of Love wraps his arms around Francis, but before he can lift Mak off the mat, Francis kicks his legs out behind him, knocking Lil’ Buck off his feet and back down to the mat.

 

“Mak Francis sticking with his game plan of keeping Lil’ Buck grounded and working on his neck. The fans usually don’t care for this slow-down style, but Francis simply can’t out-power Buck, and his speed advantage is minimal, if it exists at all,” Pete states.

 

“Yeah, and I don’t think Mak is tougher than Lil’ Buck,” King adds.

 

“I don’t know if there are many wrestlers in the SWF today who are,” Pete says.

 

Mak shifts his weight in order to get his feet out from under the Gangsta of Love, and tightens his grip on the headlock. Hall asks Buck if he’ll submit, but is waved away, and Sugarhill’s Finest places his hands on the canvas and begins pushing himself off the mat. Buck gets to his feet, puts his hands on Mak’s face and tries to push ‘The Franchise’ away. As that isn’t quite working, Buck opts to take the more conventional route and drive elbows into Francis’s torso. Mak, in a fairly wise move, quickly releases Lil’ Buck and backs out of his range.

 

“Francis is forced to give up the headlock, and I can’t blame him. Buck’s got some nasty strikes,” Pete says.

 

“Indeed he does. Why, I saw him break a Predator in half with a single punch. Now, granted, that was at a wax museum, but my point remains valid,” King notes.

 

Buck closes in and locks up once again in the traditional collar and elbow fashion. Lil’ Buck begins forcing Mak backwards, and quickly frees his left arm and slams a forearm into Francis’s ribs. Sugarhill’s Finest steps in, looking to pick ‘The Franchise’ up, but a thumb to the eye causes Buck to backpedal. Mak acts quickly, gets behind Buck, grabs hold, and pops his hips, dumping Buck on his shoulder blades.

 

“Filthy German from Mak Francis! I know it’s early on in this match, but I wonder how much of a strain that was on ‘The Franchise’, his legs in particular,” Pete says.

 

“If he’s zapped after one German suplex, Francis would deserve to lose,” King replies.

 

“Well, I’m not saying he’s worn out now, as he’s had pretty much all of the offense so far in this match, and has dominated, but I think Mak would do better to just grind things out on the mat,” Longdogger points out.

 

Mak rises to his feet and backs away from Buck, waiting for the Gangsta of Love to stand. Lil’ Buck pulls himself up, and Francis charges, leg extended.

 

THWACK!

 

“What a Yakuza kick from Mak Francis!” Longdogger shouts.

 

“I’ve seen better. From a Mr. Tom Flesher in particular,” King says.

 

“Nevertheless, it should help Mak nicely if looks to end this match with the Franchise Tag,” Pete adds.

 

Francis stops abruptly, clutches his knee for a moment, turns around, and falls down on Buck for a pin.

 

ONE!

 

 

TW--NO!

 

Buck kicks out, and Mak pulls him off the mat. Francis pulls back, and unleashes with a chop.

 

WHOO!

 

Buck takes a step backwards, but answers back with a stiff jab. The Arrogant Alabaman follows up with another jab, and nearly sends Francis to the mat with a hook. Lil’ Buck closes in, wraps Mak up, and drops ‘The Franchise’ with a belly-to-belly suplex. Buck crawls backwards, grabs Mak’s right leg, and drives his elbow into the back of his knee. Sugarhill’s Finest turns around and pulls on Francis’s leg, stretching it across his own body. Hall gets down on one knee to see if Mak will submit.

 

“Mak’s in trouble right now. He needs to get his leg free before Buck causes severe damage,” Longdogger points out.

 

“You are just a bottomless pit of knowledge, Pete. Knowledge that even the youngest child would know without your help,” King adds.

 

Mak painfully sits up, reaches forward, and applies a sleeper hold. Lil’ Buck quickly lets go of Mak’s leg and begins throwing back elbows into Francis’s ribcage. ‘The Franchise’ keeps the hold locked in, though, and Buck reaches up and pulls apart Mak’s grip. Sugarhill’s Finest twists around, slams a left hand into Francis’s jaw, and covers Mak.

 

ONE!

 

 

TW--NO!

 

“Francis kicked out, but what a punch from Lil’ Buck! If I didn’t know better, I’d say he could be a boxer,” Pete states.

 

“Yeah, only thing is that boxers can’t drop their opponents on their heads,” King replies.

 

Lil’ Buck gets to his feet, but Mak lunges, and pulls Buck to the mat. Francis keeps hold of Buck’s legs, and stands, avoiding blows from the Gangsta of Love. Philly’s Finest lets go of Buck’s left leg, straddles his right, and falls back, securing the figure four. Hall scrambles to Buck, asking if he’ll submit, and making sure that his shoulders aren’t touching the mat.

 

“Buck’s trapped in that figure four leg lock! His legs have been attacked by practically every one of his opponents, and with Mak’s weight, Buck will have a tough time escaping,” Pete says.

 

“Yeah, Mak does look a bit heftier. I think he was hittin’ the buffets a lot during his time off. However, I don’t know if it’s wise of Mak to switch to Buck’s legs. He’s been focusing on Lil’ Buck’s head, and it’ll behoove him to stick with one part of the body.”

 

Lil’ Buck pushes himself up and starts pulling himself and Mak towards the ropes while Francis tries to drag Buck to the middle of the ring. Buck’s power wins out, and Sugarhill’s Finest grabs hold of the bottom rope while Anthony Michael Hall rounds on Mak, telling him to release Buck, and Francis reluctantly complies.

 

“Buck managed to get to the ropes, but his legs are no doubt much worse for wear,” Pete says.

 

“Didn’t I just tell you that you spew idiotic things that anyone could figure out for themselves?” King asks. “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

 

Buck pulls himself up with the ropes, cocks his hand back, and delivers a bitch slap to Francis. Mak rubs his cheek for a moment, then steps forward, only to be driven back with a jab. Buck lands another punch, forcing ‘The Franchise’ even farther away, and allowing Lil’ Buck room to leap in the air and take Mak down to the canvas. Buck stands, grabs Mak’s left leg, and slams the sole of his Dada into the side of Mak’s braced knee. Sugarhill’s Finest lands another kick, and pulls Francis to the ropes and drapes his leg on the bottom rope.

 

“Whatever Lil’ Buck is planning can’t be good for Mak Francis’s knee, and I bet it won’t be legal, either,” Pete says.

 

“That sounds right up my alley!” King chuckles gleefully.

 

Before Buck can do anything, though, Hall interjects, and begins berating the Gangsta of Love. Buck gives Anthony a slight shove, steps on to the middle rope, and drops down, sitting on Mak’s knee. Buck rocks up and down, causing ‘The Franchise’ to spasm in pain before Hall threatens him with disqualification. Buck gets off Mak’s knee, grabs his leg, and drops on top of him, not so much hooking Francis’s leg, as stretching it out in entirely the wrong direction.

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO--NO!

 

“Buck almost got two out of that, but Mak fought through the pain and got a shoulder up. Like him or not, Lil’ Buck should be respected in the ring. He gets down to business and doesn’t worry about playing to or patronizing the fans,” Longdogger says.

 

“And that’s why I like him. When he’s wrestling guys like Francis or Insane Luchador, that is. Not so much when it’s Scott Pretzler or JJ Johnson,” King replies.

 

Buck pulls Mak off the mat and Irish whips him to the far ropes. Only, he doesn’t, as Mak reverses. That too, is false, as Francis drops to his knees while cradling Buck’s head. Francis pops back up, grabs Buck around the waist, lifts him up, turns around, and drops Lil’ Buck throat-first across the top rope.

 

“That’s Franchisable! That should give Buck a headache for a while,” says Longdogger.

 

“Yeah, I bet it will. These guys get their heads bashed in with chairs about once a week, Pete. I don’t think a jawbreaker is going to do too much compared to that.”

 

As Buck stumbles around, sputtering, ‘The Franchise’ sneaks behind and wraps him up with a rear waistlock. Mak pops his hips once more, and sends Buck to the mat, but Francis isn’t done yet and rolls through. Mak stands and heaves again, but doesn’t end the sequence there. Francis rolls through a second time, but before he can hit a third German, Buck’s right elbow whips back, nailing Mak in the face. Lil’ Buck continues to fight Mak off with back elbows, and after his fourth blow, manages to spin out of Francis’s grasp. As he’s turning around, the Arrogant Alabaman grabs Mak’s head and twists, taking ‘The Franchise’ to the mat.

 

“Rolling German suplexes from Mak Francis, but he only managed to hit two before Lil’ Buck escaped and landed a swinging neckbreaker,” Pete says.

 

“Nice little sequence there, but I think those few seconds Mak had Buck in the air put a lot of strain on his legs,” King notes.

 

Buck slowly gets to his feet, with Mak not far behind. Sugarhill’s Finest steps in and drills Mak with a hook, and quickly scoops him up. Buck starts to flip Mak around, but Francis grabs Buck’s head and leans backwards, pulling the Gangsta of Love to the canvas with a DDT.

 

“Buck tried for Ridin’ Spinners, but Mak countered it nicely with a DDT, and it looks like he’s going to stick with targeting Buck’s head and neck,” Longdogger points out.

 

“News flash, Pete! Both guys are targeting the head and neck!” King shouts.

 

Mak tries to keep the front headlock on again, but finds it difficult with Lil’ Buck raining down punches, and Francis swiftly pushes him away. Mak pauses a moment on the canvas as he rubs at his knee before he stands up and delivers a back fist. ‘The Franchise’ takes hold of Buck’s arm and sends him into the ropes. Mak takes a few steps forward in anticipation, and grabs hold of Buck, looking to toss him overhead with a railgun suplex. The only problem is that Buck was planning on delivering a spear, and wrapped his arms around Mak’s torso, with an end result of Francis crashing into the mat with Buck on top of him. Sugarhill’s Finest stretches his arms, loosening Mak’s grip, and begins drilling Francis with elbows.

 

“That certainly isn’t what Mak had in mind, but when Lil’ Buck wants to spear you, he gets his wish, unless of course you’re Arch Griffon,” Pete says, laughing to himself.

 

“And look at those blows! I don’t think Mak’s weather man predicted a downpour of elbows today,” King adds, laughing heartily.

 

“But could Mak Francis even have completed the railgun suplex? It looked for a moment that Mak’s leg buckled slightly, right before Lil’ Buck fell on top of him,” Pete states.

 

Panicking, Francis’s hand darts up and gouges Buck in the eyes. Wanting to be completely free, Mak lands a punch to Buck’s throat, causing Sugarhill’s Finest to roll off of him and wheeze. Francis crawls to the ropes and pulls himself up while Buck continues to try and suck wind. Lil’ Buck gets to his feet, back turned on Francis, who rushes for the Arrogant Alabaman, and drills him with another Yakuza kick.

 

THWACK!

 

“What a kick! Although, Francis did attack when Buck’s back was turned, so I can’t praise him too much,” Pete says.

 

“Oh, come on, MacDougal! These guys are trying to hurt each other! It’s not a tickling contest!” King says, briefly slipping into a harsh English accent.

 

Mak puts the brakes on and grimaces, holding his knee before he rolls Buck over and makes a lateral press while Hall drops down to count.

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

TH--NO!

 

Buck gets a shoulder up just as Anthony’s hand was starting to come down. ‘The Franchise’ pulls Buck off the mat and lands a chop.

 

WHOO!

 

And another.

 

WHOO!

 

And a third.

 

WHOO!

 

As Mak pulls back for one more chop, though, Buck’s arms shoot out and grab hold of Francis’s hand. Buck twists the limb and goes to one knee, taking Mak down with him. ‘The Franchise’ slams face-first into Buck’s knee, and the Gangsta of Love lunges out and grabs Mak’s left leg. Lil’ Buck gets up, places a foot in the back of Mak’s knee, and falls backwards, stretching out the knee. Hall quickly checks on Francis.

 

“Nice armbar takedown from Lil’ Buck, and he’s got what looks to be some kind of modified half crab applied to Mak Francis. It’s a good strategy, but I don’t think Buck is knowledgeable enough in submissions to do as much damage as say, JJ Johnson could,” Pete says.

 

“That’s true, Pete, but I think with the shape Mak’s knee is in, that doesn’t really matter too much,” King adds.

 

Mak shakes his head before Anthony can even ask him, and starts dragging himself to the ropes. ‘The Franchise’ is less than a foot away before Lil’ Buck rolls to his feet and drags Mak to the middle of the ring. Rather than reapply the submission, Buck flips Francis over and makes a cover, hooking Mak’s leg.

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

TH--NO!

 

“Near fall for Lil’ Buck, and he’s really going to work on Mak’s legs,” Pete states.

 

“You know, Pete, I’m pretty sure that even Helen Keller would have been able to figure that out, despite being dead.”

 

Buck stands up, backs away from Mak, and clasps his hands together. Francis slowly gets to his feet, and Buck charges, arms outstretched. ‘The Franchise’ ducks the double axhandle, and as Buck goes past, off balance, Mak pounces, slapping on a waistlock and heaving the Gangsta of Love up and over with a German suplex. Mak gets to his feet, waits on Buck, and boots him in the stomach the moment Sugarhill’s Finest rises. Mak Francis, wincing, steps to Buck’s side, applies another waistlock, pulls Lil’ Buck off his feet, and drops him to the mat.

 

“Gut-wrench suplex, and might we be seeing Brotherly Love soon?” Pete wonders.

 

“If we do, then Mak Francis might be trying to take your title of Biggest Idiot Ever. There is no way that Francis can hobble his way to the ropes, climb the top turnbuckle, and land on Lil’ Buck before Buck is on his feet.”

 

MAK! MAK! MAK!

 

MAK! MAK! MAK!

 

MAK! MAK! MAK!

 

Francis, energized by the screaming crowd, seems intent on proving King wrong. He does indeed hobble towards the corner, and slowly pulls himself to the top turnbuckle. Mak raises a fist aloft momentarily before jumping off.

 

THUD!

 

“He missed! I called it, and damn am I good!” King exclaims.

 

“Yes, King, you were correct. Mak took too much time climbing to the top rope, and by the time he leapt, Lil’ Buck had rolled out of the way,” Pete explains.

 

“And if Lil’ Buck doesn’t want to be in contention for Biggest Idiot Ever, he’d better jump on this opportunity and go for either the Buck-Wild Ride, or Champion’s Requiem,” King adds.

 

“I don’t know, King. Buck hasn’t been focusing as much attention to Mak’s neck as he has the legs. Do you think those moves are potent enough to take out Mak right now?” Longdogger asks.

 

“Of course they are! Has Buck ever lost a match after he hit the Buck-Wild Ride? Hell, he could keep Mak in Champion’s Requiem for a few minutes to soften him up, it’s not like Francis could escape, and then go for the Buck-Wild Ride.”

 

Buck gets to his feet while Mak rolls over and clutches his stomach. The Arrogant Alabaman stalks towards Francis and stomps on his left knee. Hall quickly steps between the two men, warning Buck about such behavior. Lil’ Buck steps away, hands held high to denote his innocence, and Anthony seems content that his message has gotten through. Buck heads back for ‘The Franchise’, and picks him up. Sugarhill’s Finest whips Francis into the ropes, and blasts him in the face with an axhandle as he limps back. Mak stumbles around, and, very unluckily, right into an elbow from Buck that lands directly in his stomach. Francis doubles over and Buck snares him in a front facelock.

 

“Mak Francis really seems to be in trouble. He’s got to find something to buy him some time to recover,” Pete states.

 

“Well, it looks like Mak needs a baseball bat right about now to turn the match in his favor,” King points out.

 

Lil’ Buck tightens his grip around Mak’s neck and drives a knee into his stomach. The Gangsta of Love follows up with a forearm to Francis’s back, and yet another knee that lifts ‘The Franchise’ off his feet slightly. Buck brings another clubbing forearm into Mak’s spine, and Philly’s Finest drops to his knees from the impact. Using both hands, Lil’ Buck pulls Francis back to his feet, and steps around Mak while keeping some semblance of a front chancery applied. Sugarhill’s Finest threads Mak’s left arm between his legs, lets go of Mak’s head, and hooks his right arm.

 

“It looks like Lil’ Buck is about to Pump it Up!” Pete shouts.

 

“You think we’ll get sued by Lorne Michaels for that?” King wonders.

 

“What are you talking about?” Pete asks.

 

“You know, Hanz and Franz, the Austrian body builders,” King replies.

 

“Oh. No, I doubt it. They said ‘pump you up’, remember?”

 

“Ha! Now you said it, and you’re going to have to pay!” King exclaims gleefully.

 

Buck lifts Mak off his feet, turns him around, and drops to the mat, planting ‘The Franchise’ with a piledriver. Buck stands and leans on Mak’s legs, forcing his shoulders to the mat.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

THREE--NO!

 

“Francis barely kicked out after that pumphandle piledriver! I thought this match was over!” Pete yells.

 

“It should be over,” King grumbles.

 

Buck tries to move away, but isn’t fast enough and gets kicked in the face, giving Mak space to climb to his feet. Lil’ Buck heads for Francis and lashes out with a forearm, and eats a punch in return. Sugarhill’s Finest fires off a punch of his own, and Mak replies with a stiff chop.

 

WHOO!

 

“This is really a bad move by Mak Francis. He doesn’t want to go trading blows with Lil’ Buck, because he’s not going to come out on top, especially not this far into the match,” Pete says.

 

“Yes, but there doesn’t seem to be too much else that he can do with his legs in the state they’re in,” King adds.

 

Mak lands a jab between Buck’s eyes, and as the Arrogant Alabaman swings, Francis catches the hand. ‘The Franchise’ slips behind the Gangsta of Love, secures the half nelson, and reaches forward with his free arm. Mak locks wrists and pops his hips, sending Lil’ Buck over his head and into the mat head-first.

 

“Million Dollar-plex from Francis! I cannot believe I just saw that! How, after all the punishment Mak Francis has taken, and not just his legs, but his entire body, could he lift Lil’ Buck, who outweighs him by a good thirty pounds, up and over for that suplex?” Pete asks, clearly astonished.

 

“Um...fighting spirit? Second wind?” King offers, just as incredulous.

 

“Well, whatever it was, Francis should win an award for having the most of it,” replies Longdogger.

 

Francis simply lays on the mat for a moment, but gets to his feet before Hall can start a ten count. Mak shambles towards Lil’ Buck and rolls Sugarhill’s Finest over with a shove from his boot. Mak drops to his knees and hooks Buck’s legs, trying to roll the Gangsta of Love onto his neck while still keeping his shoulders on the mat.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

 

NO!

 

“Quoth Peter Griffin: HOLY CRAP! How did Lil’ Buck manage to kick out after he landed so brutally onto his neck?” Pete wonders.

 

“Uh, second wind? Fighting spirit?” King offers, as befuddled as before.

 

“Well, Lil’ Buck should get an award for having a lot of it,” says Pete.

 

“Hey, didn’t we just do this?” King asks.

 

Francis gets to his feet, cursing Buck’s resilience and his bum knee at the same time, with the Gangsta of Love up soon after, and fires off a quick two punch combination. Buck stumbles back, dazed, and doesn’t see the boot coming that doubles him over. Mak tries to shake out the newest dose of pain coursing through his knee, latches on a front facelock and risks a quick glance to the crowd. ‘The Franchise’ tosses Buck’s right arm over his own neck, reaches down, and grabs Buck’s right leg.

 

“It looks like Mak Francis is going for the Franchise Tag, but can his legs hold out? We saw how badly they cost him when he went for Brotherly Love,” Longdogger points out.

 

“Well, we’re going to find out in a moment,” King replies.

 

Drenched with sweat, Mak hauls Buck no more than a foot off the ground before the Gangsta of Love starts down back to the canvas, but Francis steels himself, and lifts Sugarhill’s Finest into the air. However, it’s difficult for legs that have been assaulted all night to support over five hundred, pounds, and Lil’ Buck heads back to the mat once more as Mak’s knees buckle like a chair with Arch Griffon resting on it.

 

“Looks like they can’t,” King notes.

 

Buck frees himself with a well-placed uppercut, and as Mak is bent over, checking for blood spouting from his nose and nearly in tears from the pain in his knees, Buck turns around and snares Francis’s arms. The Arrogant Alabaman twists his body, placing ‘The Franchise’ on his back, and stands up, letting Mak dangle precariously.

 

“Scratch the Franchise Tag, it looks like Mak Francis is going on a Buck-Wild Ride!” Pete exclaims.

 

“Yeah, I already called a no-go on the Franchise Tag, moron.”

 

Lil’ Buck pauses for a moment, fully confident that Mak Francis can’t do a thing about his situation, and sits out, driving his head into the mat. Buck scrambles over and hooks Mak’s left leg to be a dick as Hall dives down to count.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

THREE!

 

Anthony Michael Hall leaps to his feet and calls for the bell.

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

“The winner of this match by pinfall, Sugarhill’s Finest, LIIL’ BUCK!” Funyon shouts.

 

“Knuck if You Buck” starts up again as Buck retrieves his jersey and cup, and makes his way back to the tunnel.

 

“And Lil’ Buck has gained even more momentum with this win here tonight! It’s only a matter of time before he’s given a title shot, at least, that’s what I think!” Pete exclaims.

 

“Are you kidding? Toxxic would wipe the floor with him in about five minutes, and that’s if Toxxic is feeling generous. However, if Buck’s partner Jarrod Banks shows up, I’m all for those two demolishing Wild and Dangerous,” King replies.

 

Francis slowly comes to and is given his coat and shades while Smarkdown fades to a commercial for the world’s hottest show, Y2Corey, with Corey Feldman and Corey Haim.

[Chuck Woolery 0]

A camera stands inside of the locker room, and standing at his locker, accompanied by his sister Melissa, is Ejiro Fasaki. He gets ready for his match. Rule is interrupted as he ties up his boots.

 

“Ejiro! We need to talk to you for a moment,” says Manson. He comes into the picture with his tag partner Arch Griffon. The two are already in full gear awaiting their match.

 

“Yes, guys?” Ejiro asks. He's a bit annoyed as he was just about done getting one boot tied up.

 

“I’m going to make this brief,” says Manson. The Raging Bull looks behind him to his tag partner for a moment. The two share a brief nod. “We’re worried about you.”

 

“What in the devil do you mean?” asks Ejiro.

 

“Do you have our backs tonight?” asks Manson. “We realize that you are trying very hard to not be a complete asshole in the ring. You want to be a good guy. But this is a problem for us tonight. If Revolution Zero and Hawke play their cards right, they can turn this into a two on three match if you can’t match their intensity with us.”

 

“I see your point. But I really doubt this match is going to be very dirty. This is Flesher’s show. He wants pure wrestling, plain and simple. I don’t think those three want to piss him off tonight,” Ejiro reasons.

 

“True. But …” Griffon chimes in then pauses. “If all goes to hell tonight … you will be there beside us?”

 

Ejiro pauses for a moment, and looks to his sister for support. Melissa gives him a look of indifference. He then turns back towards his partners.

 

“I’ll do what I can.”

 

Arch and Manson look at each other for a moment. Manson looks back at Ejiro and nods.

 

“Well see you out there,” says Manson.

 

Griffon and Manson walk off, leaving Ejiro to get back to his boots.

[Chuck Woolery 0]

The dusk sky is a beautiful bright red orange. The purplish tint of an approaching nightfall creeps towards the arena but the Chile heat refuses to drop below anything lower than 90 degrees. The Estadio Nacional is truly a sight to behold, it’s cyclopean girth housing literal oceans of screaming fans. It’s not even shoulder to shoulder, it’s neck to neck, sardines would be envious of the spacing. The SWF doesn’t make it’s way this far below the equator very often, and as a result the fans have come out in drones.

 

Pete: So King, do you have any theories pertaining to the identity of the mystery man?

 

King: Blast this heat! Is an indoor arena with air conditioning to much to ask for?

 

Pete: Oh..well there’s lot’s of speculation concerning the identify of the mystery man. Is it a returning superstar, a debuting superstar, a superstar from another federation? Or perhaps it’s a legend returning for one night only in a special match, ironically enough you’ve participated in several of those matches since your retirement.

 

King: Hey, I never hid behind a mystery man disguise. I had to inform cities weeks in advance that I was showing up, that way they could make the proper preparations for a celebrity of my status. If I showed up and the city wasn’t prepared, I would literally get gang raped by thousands of screaming women.

 

Pete: Hey, it looks like Funyon is ready with the announcements.

 

Suddenly, the crashing guitars of Lamb of God’’s ““Black Label”” blast over the PA but it’s barely a blip on the sonic radar, the arena is far to large and loud for the music to be audible. On cue, the hooded figure of Spike Jenkins steps through the entranceway, where he is shockingly greeted with the biggest ovation of his career. Dropping to one knee, Spike pauses for dramatic effect before bringing his arms up in the symbol of an “X”! Imitating their SWF hero, the masses religiously repeat the gesture in a sign of goodwill.

 

Funyon: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, weighing in at 225 pounds, hailing from Hollywood, California.....”Hoooooollywoood Spike Jenkins!

 

Keeping his head down, Spike sprints down the narrow walk way in a hurry, doiing his best to ignore the largest crowd he’s ever seen. Rolling into the middle of the ring like someone trying too hard to be weird, Spike rises to one knee and peels off his hood. Gliding his eyes around the endless sea of humanity around him, a wide eyed Spike uncharacteristically wanders into his corner without the slightest attempt at playing the pulsating crowd. He’s nervous as hell and it shows. Not only is Spike wrestling in front of the largest television crowds in wrestling history, he also has no idea who he’s facing and there’s nothing scarier than the unknown. Continuously scratching his hair in what appears to be a nervous habit, Spike breathes heavily as he looks to the locker room.

 

Funyon: And his opponent......

 

 

All eyes eagerly turn to the dressing room, where in just a few short seconds the much speculated identity of the mystery man will at last be revealed. There’s a small shift in the curtains, than another and another. The drapes peel apart, exposing the shadowy silhouette of a muscular man who is surprisingly no taller than six feet. Spike squints to the point that he looks like Clint Eastwood staring at the sun but he still can’t see anything. The thousands in attendance collectively hold their breaths as the figure takes a step forward. The light of the setting sun expose the lower half of the enigmatic character, evidently his favorite color is black since that’s the color of not only his boots but his tights and kneepads as well.

 

Funyon: weighing in at 250 pounds.....

 

The figure continues to move forward, while most of his face is still hidden in darkness his wide shirtless torso and lower chin have reached the light. Having enough pieces to solve the puzzle, a young kid can be heard yelling out,”Da....but he’s cut off by the rest of his section, who have spontaneously erupted into cheers and howls. Evidently, the young kid’s observation is no longer necessary, they can see for themselves and they like what they see. Based on the reaction the lucky few are close enough to see, this guy is certainly a fan favorite.

 

Funyon: hailing from Louisville, Kentucky.......

 

Stepping out of the shadows, the mystery man reveals himself to the screaming masses! The reaction is magnificent, unlike anything that has been heard before! Speaking as loud as he possible can, Funyon belts out the name of the mystery man!

 

Funyon: DANNY WILLIAMssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss!!!!!

 

Thrilled to be back, Williams howls on the platform like a wolf whaling at the moon. The reception makes the one the new Pope got look microscopic in comparison. Unable to accept what his eyes are telling his brain, Spike does a complete double take. Upon repeated inspection, Spike concludes that the man on the platform is indeed the former World Champion. The legend who brutalized Frost in cage match, made Francis tap in under a minute, knocked out Kibagami and others with simple elbow smashes is indeed the same man standing a few hundred feet from him.

 

Pete: It’s been way over a year since we last seen Danny Williams and he’s still as popular as ever!

 

King: Nah, television down here is just a few years behind. Back in my hotel room, I was watching Detroit win the NBA Championship.

 

Fired up by the riotous crowd, Williams takes off! Speeding down the aisle in a blur, Williams smacks hands with a few fans before diving head first into the ring. The panic stricken Spike greets the returning superstar with a wildly swung Lariat! Ducking under the mis-timed ambush, Williams darts for the ropes. Picking up some steam, Williams bullets back at his would be attacker, dropping Spike with a nifty Flying Forearm! Showing off his superior athleticism, Williams entertains the crowd with a snapping kip up. Soapdish frantically calls for the bell and were underway.

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

Stunned by the thunderous blow, Spike foolishly stumbles to his feet. Crack! Only to be leveled by a powerful running elbow! Spike makes the same mistake two more times with each Running Elbow earning a bigger and bigger pop! Since Spike can’t get to his feet in a timely manner anymore, Williams forces him up by his arm. With a roar of effort, Williams fires Spike into the buckles! Blam! Spike crashes into steel of the corner but the worse is yet to come. Performing a dazzling cartwheel, Williams springs off his hands, crushing his cornered opponent with a hard back elbow! Grabbing his chest like a heart attack victim, Spike aimlessly wanders into the center of the ring. Getting a good running start, Williams jumps onto the second rope with catlike agility. The fans “ah” in admiration as Williams springs off the ropes with a beautiful back elbow, knocking Spike flat on his ass!

 

Pete: Williams is on fire!

 

King: Until we get out of here, can you refrain from using the words: hot, fire, hell..etc.

 

Hustling to his feet, Williams catches a rising Spike with a high picture perfect dropkick! Blam! The impact of Williams’ big black boots blows Spike through the ropes and out of the ring! Wiping some rapidly forming sweat from his brow, Williams briefly sits up one knee, pondering his next move. It doesn’t take long for Williams to decide what he wants to do next as he backs to the far side of the ring, encouraging the already nuked Chili fans to get louder. Licking his lips with anticipation, Williams closely watches Spike’s every move. As soon as Spike is upright, Williams launches himself off the ropes! Speeding across the ring, Williams dives through the ropes like a human torpedo, blasting Spike’s skull with a thunderous diving elbow smash! Having never seen the unique high flying attack before in person, the rabid crowd rewards Williams with a monestrous pop that can be felt throughout the continent.

 

Pete: Elbow Suicidaaaaa!!! Despite coming off an incredibly long lay off, Williams has miraculously not missed a step.

 

King: Of course Williams looks sharp, there’s no telling how long that sneaky bastard has been training for this match.

 

Breathing slightly harder than he’d like to be, Williams pulls himself up with the guardrail. Once dry as bone, Williams’ body is now spotted with beads of sweat. After taking a second to catch his fleeing breath, Williams rolls the near limp carcass of his fallen foe back into the ring. The calm afterglow of the stunning high spot quiets the crowd but it isn’t long before their screaming and whistling again. Pushing the attack, Williams springboards onto the top rope where he patiently waits for the opportunity to strike. Rising to his full height on the top rope, Williams resembles a demi-god with his hulking frame silhouetting the star light sky . Once the shell shocked Spike is where he wants him, the returning fan favorite takes flight! Swooping down at Spike like a bird of prey, Williams drops the punch drunk heel with an awe inspiring Diving Elbow! Rolling to his feet, Williams scrambles to the top of the nearest turnbuckle! Kicking off the top rope, Williams boldly springs backwards at his grounded target! Free falling to the canvas, Williams extends his arm to his side, driving his bent elbow into the chest of Spike Jenkins!

 

Pete: What an elbow drop!

 

Shaken up from the fall and possible fatigued, Williams momentarily lays on his back with his stomach pumping up and down at an alarming rate. The lighting quick combo of high flying moves earns Williams an electric standing ovation from the Chile crowd, whom have been totally won over by the relentless high flying action.

 

King: Williams is starting to look a little lethargic, Pete.

 

Pete: Stamina is the hardest asset to develop outside of the ring. Much like a boxer, you can train religiously in a gym but there’s still nothing as grueling as stepping in the ring and engaging in combat.

 

King: Not to mention it’s the damn tropics out here.

 

Returning to life, Williams somberly sits up. Keeping his mouth hung open in a constant state of fatigue, Williams sluggishly crawls atop Spike’s carcass for the pin.

 

Pete: It looks like this one might already be over!

 

Also believing that Spike’s number is up, the fans loudly count along with Soapdish.

 

 

“Uno!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Des!”

 

 

 

 

 

No! The impressed crowd “ahs” in surprise as Spike strongly kicks out. Despite his lungs burning with every breath of dry hot air, Williams pushes himself off the mat. Doubled over and breathing hard, Williams sucks in as much oxygen as his pumping lungs can take in. Knowing that he has to put Spike away in the near future, Williams jerks the cruiserweight off the canvas by his hair. With a cry of “Pooooowerbomb!”, Danny stuffs Spike into a standing head scissors. Dipping his knees down low, a sweat soaked Danny Williams wearily wraps his arms around Spike’s stomach. What should be easy for a man Williams’ size proves to be most difficult as the former Champion struggles to execute one of his favorite power moves.

 

Pete: I think your right about Williams being lethargic, King, he really looks blown up.

 

King: Of course I’m right, I made career off observing other’s weaknesses and exploiting them.

 

Pete: And cheating.

 

King: It’s called strategy Pete, something you could have used more of during your in-ring career.

 

Pete: I used strategy.

 

King: Oafishly bumbling around the ring like a hungry ogre isn’t a strategy, Pete.

 

Realizing that he’s in for an epic struggle, Williams arches his back at a sharp angle. The cheeks of the former champion flair in and out as Danny sucks as much oxygen in his body as possible. Doing what they can to aid Williams, the Chile fans create a rallying ruckus. Feeding off the energy of the crowd, Williams gets a much needed adrenaline boost. Letting out a cry of effort, Danny Williams strenuously flips Spike onto his hulking shoulders!

 

Ka-Boom!

 

The thousands in attendance jump out of their chairs as Williams slams Spike into the canvas with a devilishly hard Powerbomb! Leaning on his tippy toes, Williams pushes Spike’s folded corpse into the mat, holding him down for the pin. Having seen Williams finish others with this move on t.v., the fans count along.

 

 

“Uno!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Des!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tr-No! Spike thrusts out his legs like a horse, kicking Williams a good couple of feet away! The fans can’t help but sigh at the outcome, Williams struggle was in vain.

 

Pete: This could be the turning point of the match. Williams is running out of ammo and he hasn’t gotten anywhere, meanwhile Spike has yet to even fire.

 

King: I don’t think Williams counted on Spike being this big of a problem, that egomaniac probably thought he was gonna get fed an easy victory because it was his return match.

 

The sun has at last ascended leaving the warming glow of the arena lights to bask down on the squared circle. Though the sun is gone, the humidity remains, making the simple of task of breathing laborious. Dripping with perspiration, a confused and spent Danny Williams ponders his next move. Not having a huge variety of options, Williams decides on a second Powerbomb. Once more the massive crowd rises to the occasion, giving Williams the support he needs to carry out his quest. Digging deep, Williams hastily positions Spike for another Powerbomb.

 

Pete: If Williams can find the strength to hit this, Spike is finished!

 

King: I don’t think Danny has another Powerbomb in him. This is the point in the match where he should be slowing things down to a methodical pace, using an Abdominal Stretch with the aid of the ropes, a chokehold with his wristtape, not another Powerbomb.

 

After taking a few seconds to charge himself backup, Danny lifts with every ounce of strength he has left! Refusing to cooperate with his own demise, Spike sandbags like his life depends on it. Williams grunts and groans, his arms tremble with his strain, and with a sudden surge of power he hoists little Spike into the air! Before Williams can follow through with the move, his exhausted legs and back crumble beneath him! Spike rides Williams to the mat, squashing him with a Lou Thesz Press!

 

Pete: Williams was too weak to hit the Powerbomb and now the match may be over!

 

King: I told you, that musclehead was making a big mistake! He’s sabotaged his own comeback!

 

The residents of the Estadio Nacional come to their feet as Soapdish starts the count.

 

 

 

“Uno!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Des!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NO! Williams uses what little strength he has left to push Spike off his chest! Spewing sweat by the gallon, Williams stumbles to his feet while clutching his chest. Before Williams can take more than a couple of steps, he crumbles back to the canvas in a pool of exhaustion. Sensing that something is terribly wrong, the cheers of the crowd turn to confused murmurs. Not wanting a wrestler to suffer a heat stroke on his watch, Soapdish carefully investigates Williams, who is somberly shaking his head “No” at every question.

 

Pete: It looks like we may get a stoppage.

 

King: This is the worst comeback since Nielsen of the Jungle threw away the ICTV belt.

 

Popping himself in the head a few times, Spike comes to his senses for the first time in a long time. Looking around the jam packed arena with sleepy eyes, Spike stiffly wobbles to his feet like a drunk with a hang over. Suddenly remembering where he’s at, Spike spots a very drowsy Danny Williams slothfully pulling himself up with the ropes. Grinning from ear to ear, the once fearful Spike becomes full of confidence. Steadying himself, Williams turns from the ropes.

 

 

Smack! Smack! Smack!

 

Only to get driven back into them by a flurry of roundhouse kicks! Grabbing Williams’ wrist, Spike shoots his fatigued opponent off the ropes with a whip. Danny hits the opposite ropes and springs back into the waiting hands of Spike, who cruelly whips him into the ropes a second time! Williams’ rubbery legs weakly carry him back to the ropes, catapulting him right back into Spike’s clutches! Once again, Spike opts to whip Williams, forcing him to stay on the go.

 

Pete: I’ve never seen this before!

 

King: Of course you haven’t it’s strategy. He’s not giving Williams a chance to rest, he’s gonna make him run as long as he possibly can.

 

Finally, Williams collapses in the middle of the ring, unable to take another step. Spike no longer cares about his opponent’s legendary past or the danger he poses, all he sees is a harmless blown up has been. Showing off his superior stamina, Spike performs a series of taunting jumping jacks. Letting everyone know why he can do this, Spike drops to his knees and crosses his arms. This doesn’t go over so well with the Chili crowd, who are starting to take offense to Spike’s repeated gloating and self promotion. As a result, a few scattered “boos” can be heard amongst the crowd noise. Having taunted the crowd enough, Spike grabs a handful of Williams’ wet tangled hair, pulling him up to his knees. Smack! Smack! Spike whelps Williams’ chest with two quick roundhouse kicks, knocking enough sweat off the fan favorite to fill up a baby pool.

 

Crack!

 

Spike completes the combo with a brutal kick to the face! The shocked crowd “ohs” in unison as Williams crumbles to the canvas, both hands tightly covering his busted mouth. Standing a conquering boot on Williams’ chest, Spike busts out another straight edge pose as Soapdish starts the count.

 

 

Uno!

 

 

 

 

 

 

No! Williams rolls on his side, stopping the count.

 

Pete: Spike got a little cocky with that pin and he may have missed a gold opportunity to put Williams away.

 

Unfazed by the kickout, Spike remains cheerful and cool. However, Spike is slightly frustrated with the fact that Williams is still down. Bored with his fatigued opponent, Spike takes the initiative in hopes of motivating him. Taking a few steps back, Spike calmly measures his agonizing opponent...

 

Smaaaack!

 

before brandishing his back with a bruising cowboy kick! Sitting up, Williams cries out in anguish. Not impressed, Spike punts Danny’s back again, demanding that he get up.

 

Smaaaaack!

 

Instead of getting up, Williams stiffens up from pain. This isn’t the answer that Spike wanted so he repeats the question but this time he asks a little harder!

 

SMACK!

 

O.k, a whole lot harder. Clinching his teeth and balling up his fist, Williams muffles what was no doubt a very loud tortured scream. Trembling with pain and anger, Williams heroically rises to a vertical base. Spike nods his head in approval, this is the Danny Williams he wanted to face. Dripping sweat and shaking, Williams motions to his chest, beckoning Spike to kick him again. This brave display of fighting spirit, rallies the fans into a frenzy. Accepting Williams’ challenge, Spike lays into the former Champion with some of the nastiest kicks he’s ever thrown! The kicks are vicious and swift! Sweat clouds fly off Danny’s chest like rain but when the smoke clears, he’s still on his feet. Reminding Spike of his short coming, Williams roars in his face like a wild beast, daring him to try again. Spike responds by dropping back into the ropes, using the cables to propel himself forward! Charging Williams at full speed, Spike swings up his leg....

 

BLAM!

 

blasting Williams with a jaw shattering Yakuza Kick! Williams stumbles into the ropes but to Spike’s surprise, he springs forward...

 

 

Crack!

 

scoring with a surprise Running Elbow! The blow rocks Spike, damn near knocking him off his feet. Hoping this is the start of a comeback, the thousands in attendance raise the proverbial roof. This sudden display of power alarms Spike, who reacts quickly. Aiming to put Danny down for good, Spike bounces back into the ropes, coming back with an even sicker Yakuza Kick!

 

Blam!

 

Teetering like a drunk, Williams lumbers back into the ropes for support, somehow finding the strength to launching another attack! Bouncing back, Danny swings out his bulky forearm for another Running Elbow but Spike wisely avoids the strike! Ducking under the meaty appendage, Spike grabs a suffocating Sleeperhold!

 

 

King: Smart move from Hollywood! Instead of trading blows like a moron, he used his brain and out smarted that musclehead.

 

Fading rapidly, the already fatigued Williams sinks to the canvas in a matter of seconds. Now that he has Williams right where he wants him, Spike happily mounts his back, fluidly adjusting his grip to the dreaded Dragon Sleeper!

 

Pete: The Silver Lining! With Williams already being fatigued, it’s doubtful he can survive long enough to escape!

 

King: Brains over brawn, Pete! You big guys can develop your arms and chest all you want, in the end it doesn’t mean anything if you don’t haven’t developed your brain above a third grade level.

 

Violently jerking his head up and down, Spike works up a gushing sweat as he struggles to squeeze every pint of blood from Williams’ brain. Williams’ limbs thrash about like he’s having a seizure, an involuntary side effect of oxygen depravation. Sensing that Danny is in serious peril, the fans come to their feet. Concerned, Soapdish asks Williams if he wants to call it a night. Unable to respond vocally, Danny frantically waves his finger in the face of the official letting him know that he’s not gonna submit on the night of his return. Moved by Williams’ repeated bravery, the Chile fans refuse to let the match end like this. Doing the only thing they can for their ailing hero, a small chant breaks out in the stands. Soon that small chant grows into a thunderous battle cry with everyone in the building stomping and cheering in near perfect unison!

 

“DAN-E! boom! boom! DAN-E! boom! boom!

 

Even though he’s drifting in out of consciousness there’s no way that Williams isn’t gonna hear countless thousands screeching his name. Not wanting to disappoint his newly won fans, Williams digs deep and fights back. Running on fumes, Williams epically crawls towards the ropes, carrying Spike on his back like a work horse. Snorting, puffing, and kicking like a mule, Williams claws his way to the ropes, he holds out his hand, his fingers glance the bottom rope.........

 

but Spike drags him back by tights! Pulling Williams back to the hellmouth that is the center of the ring, Spike hastily reapplies his submission finisher. The heartbroken fans can only watch as a smirking Spike picks up where he left off.

 

“Give it up, Danny!”, snarls Spike as he makes sure that Williams’ present stay in the hold is far worse than his previous.

 

Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, Spike frantically twists and turns Williams’ head in a variety painful directions! Deprived of proper blood circulation for far too long, Williams begins to feel an uncomfortable numbness grow from his feet and spread to the rest of this body. It isn’t long before Williams grows limp in Spike’s arms. Laughing to himself, Spike releases the hold and rolls Danny over. Brining his thumb across his throat, Spike lays across Williams in a underwear model pose. You can hear a pin drop as Soapdish starts the count, each number a proverbial nail in his comeback casket.

 

 

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

..............

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two1/2......

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NO! WILLIAMS GET’S HIS SHOULDER UP! The sonic bombardment that follows nearly shakes the building to it’s foundation!

 

Pete: Spike has been far too cocky tonight. Williams may be rusty but buried beneath all that crud is a former World Champion that can’t be taken lightly.

 

King: Spike needs to learn how to use the ring to his advantage. Did you see how close he was to the ropes? All he had to do was put a foot up there and the match would be over.

 

More annoyed than upset, Spike jumps to his feet with a grumble. Snatching a handful of sweat soaked hair, Spike strains to get Williams on his feet only to find that he’s worthless deadweight. Getting a little frustrated, Spike begins to tauntingly flick his boot in Danny’s face.

 

In a commanding voice, Spike shouts, “Get up, Get up!”

 

Having a boot repeatedly shoved in your face may not be as nice as a warm cup of coffee but it will get you on your feet. Weary eyed and somber, Williams slowly pulls himself up in a nearby corner. This doesn’t stop the abuse as Spike starts bitch smacking Williams’ head from side to side, further enraging the hostile crowd. Soapdish starts getting in Spike’s face, ordering him to quit acting like a punk and wrestle. Not looking to be disqualified, Spike grab Williams’ arm and tugs it for a whip. Refusing to cooperate, Williams hooks an arm around the top turnbuckle, refusing to move as Spike requested. Spike responds with another bitch smack but it doesn’t produced the results he hoped for. No longer effected by the taunting strikes, a wide awake Williams stares at Spike with fiery defiance. Not liking what he sees, Spike rips an open hand uppercut up Williams’ chin! With his victim stunned, Spike confidently whips him out of the corner but Williams stubbornly clings to his arm....

 

CRACK!

 

pulling the cocky superstar into a nasty short arm elbow! Knocked silly, Spike wobbles in his boots like a human punching bag allowing Williams to spin in place and....

 

CRAAAACK!

 

knock his block off with an elegant Rolling Elbow! Spike goes down like a sack of bricks while the fans return to their feet in jubilation! Still not completely together, Williams doubles over with his hands on his knees, taking a second to catch his breath. Once Williams gathers his bearings, he rises to his full height with a frightful snort, ready to extract revenge on the man who disrespected him.

 

Pete: I think those smacks knocked away the ring rust that’s been plaguing Williams.

 

King: Well, they pissed him off that’s for damn sure.

 

Totally out of it, Spike cluelessly wobbles to his feet, completely unaware of the lurking danger behind him. Wrapping his massive arms around Spike’s thin waist, Williams snaps back at a high angle, driving Spike into the canvas with a powerful German Suplex! Bridging on his tippy toes, Williams holds Spike in place for the pin.

 

 

“Uno!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Des!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

............

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“TRE-aaaaaaah!” exclaims the crowd as Spike barely kicks out of the pinning predicament! Pounding his fist into the mat, Williams angrily jerks Spike to his feet, when Hollywood suddenly swipes his hands off and launches a desperation Rolling Elbow!

 

Crack!

 

 

Williams doesn’t even flinch. Letting out an animalistic growl, Williams smoothly spins off his pivot foot and...

 

CRAAACK!

 

drops Spike with another devastating Rolling Elbow! The capacity crowd is liquid lava, loudly cheering Williams on in hist quest for revenge

 

Pete: I don’t think trading elbows with Danny Williams is the best way for Spike to get back into the match.

 

King: You don’t say.

 

Proudly standing over Spike’s remains, Williams smacks his head from side to side, ordering him to get up. Once Spike starts to come to, Williams marches to the ropes, where he let’s the crowd known he wants more noise. Soon, Williams has everyone in the building acting nuts. The freight train rumble of stomping feet can be heard for miles, shaking the entire continent like a great earthquake. Finally, Spike wobbles to his feet. With all eyes on the ring, Williams explodes off the ropes, strongly throwing out his arm to his side!

 

SMAAAAACK!

 

Williams’ forearm stiffly connects with Spike’s throat, knocking him off his feet and into the air! Back flipping to the canvas, Spike lands on the back of his skull with a sickening crunch, folding his body in half like a sheet!

 

Pete: An Axe Bomber? AN AXE BOMBER!

 

King: Whatever it what he turned him inside out with it.

 

Williams collapses atop Spike’s broken remains, loosely covering him for the pin. Ready to erupt, the electric crowd screams along with the count.

 

 

 

“UNO!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“DES!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.................

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“TRES!”

 

 

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

Jumping off Spike’s body, Williams joyously leaps into the air while the arena erupts into a riotous celebration! Of course Williams is dehydrated so he fumbles back to the canvas, where he begs for water.

 

Pete: What a remarkable return from Danny Williams, who with a new move has defeated top contender, Spike Jenkins!

 

King: I think we watched a different match, Pete. Williams looked like crap tonight and he’s lucky he was against a cocky little bastard who got too careless.

 

Pete: Those are valid points. Williams may be back but he’s not in top form and a more focused and better prepared Spike Jenkins could prove to be a much greater challenge. Fans, we have to take a short commercial break but stay tuned, there’s more to come!

[Chuck Woolery 0]

“Welcome back to SWF Smarkdown!” Longdogger Pete announces. “It is now time for our main event.” The camera pans across the audience, buzzing with excitement, and hundreds of colorful signs are visible. Among the more creative are “EJIRO FA-SUCKY,” “SPIKE FOR MILITARY DICTATOR,” and “MADDIX FEARS LEON RODEZ.”

 

“And we’ve got a hell of a match coming up,” says Suicide King. “Manson and Arch Griffon are one of the hottest new tag teams here in the SWF – you might even say they’re on fire, which sounds a little Riley-esque. Tonight, though, their winning streak may be stopped dead by the combined forces of Jay Hawke and Revolution Zero.”

 

“Let’s not forget the man who could be the deciding factor in this match: Ejiro Fasaki. Simply put, he’s one of the best singles performers in wrestling today. But as a tag team competitor, there is no one better. Whether you admire their code of ethics or not, Justice and Rule may very well be the greatest tag team in SWF history.”

 

“Indeed. Not to mention the fact that he’s a former world champion.”

 

The booming voice of Funyon signals the advent of the match. “Ladies and gentlemen… the following is a six-person tag team match scheduled for ONE FALL!”

 

'WEL-WEL-W-W-WELCOME TO THE REVOLUTION!'

 

As the crashing chords of Otep’s “Battle Ready” descend upon the arena, the entryway is lit up by red and gold pyrotechnics. Scott Pretzler and JJ Johnson, the foot soldiers of Revolution Zero, appear on the stage. Neither man cracks a smile as they proceed toward the ramp. Seconds later, Jay Hawke emerges behind them. He looks around, clearly annoyed at being denied the use of his own entrance theme.

 

“Introducing first, at a combined weight of six hundred sixty pounds… the team of JAAAAY HAWKE, JJ JOOOOHNSON AND SCOTT PRRRREEETZLEEEER!”

 

“These gentleman have been in something of a rut lately,” notes Pete. “Pretzler failed twice to keep the Cruiserweight title from Wildchild, and Johnson lost his Hardcore Championship only days after winning it.”

 

“Bullshit. The very fact that they lost the belts means they had to win them in the first place. Correct?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“And how exactly is Hawke ‘in a rut?’ He’s the International Champion, for crying out loud! I don’t think the word ‘rut’ means what you think it means.”

 

The rule-abiding scumbags follow one another in single-file up the ring steps. Pretzler calls them into a circle and begins discussing strategy.

 

“And, their opponents…”

 

POP POP POP POP POP POP POP POP!

 

HERE WE ARE, BORN TO BE KINGS!

WE’RE THE PRINCES OF THE UNIVERSE!

YEAH![/i]

 

“At a combined weight of seven hundred sixty-five pounds and being accompanied to the ring by Melissa Fasaki… the team of MAAANSON, ARCH GRRRIIIIFOOON, and EEEEJIROOOO FASAAAAAKIII!”

 

The three make their way down to the ring, slapping hands with audience members as they go. Sliding into the ring all at once, they climb the turnbuckles and salute the audience, who respond with cheers. They make the decision for Ejiro to begin the match. The opposing team selects Scott Pretzler. The other members proceed to the apron, leaving Pretzler and Ejiro alone in the ring.

 

*DING DING DING!*

 

The two circle one another. Pretzler darts forward and attempts a double-leg takedown, but Ejiro takes a step back and kicks him in the face. He recoils, and Ejiro drops to the mat, locking on a front headlock and segueing it into a grounded half-nelson. He tries to force Pretzler onto his back, but the Critic frees his head and spins behind Ejiro. Clamping on a rear waistlock, he dumps the veteran with a belly-to-back throw that puts him on his hands and knees. Pretzler releases the waistlock and reaches over Ejiro’s shoulder, hooking an arm under his left leg and clasping his hands together. Ejiro finds himself curled into a ball. Pretzler leans back, flipping him back into a cradle.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

No!

 

Ejiro powers out of it and rolls to his feet. He throws a dropkick, which Pretzler manages to sidestep, but instead of standing up he follows with a leg takedown of his own. Pretzler is caught off-guard and is thrown from his feet. As Ejiro tries to roll him up in a cover, Pretzler flips over onto his stomach and slides backward, reaching up and bracing an arm against Fasaki’s waist. Again, he is able to encircle both arms around his opponent’s waist and pull him into an overhead throw.

 

“Ejiro is skilled on the mat,” King notes, “but he’s just no match for the skills of Pretzler. Remember what happened the last time these two met in the ring?”

 

“Yes, a darn good match and a very close contest. There’s no telling what could result from this pairing tonight.”

 

Evidently it will not be much, as Pretzler makes the tag to his partner as soon as he is able to stand. Hawke looks at him in puzzlement. Already? Ejiro recovers and hits Pretzler with a forearm to the back, leaving Hawke with no choice but to help out his partner. He steps into the ring, grabs Ejiro, and whacks him with an elbow while Pretzler crawls to the apron.

 

“That’s odd,” says Pete. “Pretzler was barely in there at all. And he had the advantage.”

 

“Perhaps he wants to study Hawke’s abilities. Perhaps he’s testing him. Auditioning him…”

 

“So it’s Ejiro in there with Jay Hawke,” says Pete, “and remember, the last time these two men met one-on-one, Ejiro scored the win.”

 

King replies, “Yeah, but that’s one to the few blemishes on the International Champion’s record. And if there’s one thing Jay Hawke knows, it’s how to adjust to his opponents.”

 

Jay Hawke twists Ejiro’s left arm, then clamps down on it, bending the shoulder at the socket. Hawke maneuvers it into a top wristlock, then trips Fasaki’s heel with his foot to send him to the canvas. Ejiro fights the pain, being sure to keep his right shoulder off the canvas to prevent himself from accidentally being pinned.

 

“Jay Hawke working over the arm of his opponent here,” says Pete, “trying to wear down the former World Champion.”

 

“And set him up for the Wing Span,” adds King. “Or the Snowflake Clutch. Or any other number of submission moves.”

 

Jay Hawke releases pressure on the hold, but keeps Ejiro’s arm in that position while bending his wrist against the canvas. Jay Hawke then leaves his feet, dropping a leg across the bent arm. Ejiro screams in pain as Arch Griffon tries to step into the ring, only for referee Paul Reubens to prevent him from entering.

 

“Oh my God!” yells Pete. “That move could have broken Ejiro Fasaki’s arm!”

 

King says without remorse, “I hope so! That way we don’t have to deal with this pansy version of Ejiro anymore!”

 

With the referee distracted, Jay Hawke puts both hands around Ejiro’s throat, choking the life out of him. Griffon finally gets back onto the apron. By the time the referee turns around, Hawke has a seemingly innocent Fujiwara armbar locked in, pulling back to try to force Ejiro to submit. Ejiro tries to crawl over to the ropes, but he’s not making a whole lot of ground with the pain going up and down the left arm. Manson decides not to wait for Ejiro to make the ropes, entering the ring and stomping on Hawke’s head to make the save.

 

“Smart tag team wrestling,” Pete notes, “as Manson saw his partner was in trouble and refused to let him submit.”

 

“I just love how when someone like Manson does that, it’s smart tag team wrestling,” says King, “but when it’s someone like Jay Hawke, it’s cheating and a travesty. Stop being so biased out here.”

 

Jay Hawke shakes off the shot to the head and locks in a side headlock. He squeezes the head, but Ejiro fights it off and tries to make his way to his feet. He does so, firing off a couple of elbows to the midsection to loosen his opponent’s grip. He begins to back off like he’s going to run into the ropes, but Jay Hawke grabs as much of Ejiro’s short hair as he can and pulls him down to the canvas.

 

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

 

Jay Hawke takes a quick look at the crowd with a smirk on his face, then turns back toward Ejiro Fasaki and drops a knee across his chest. Ejiro rolls over, trying to get to the corner to make the tag, but Hawke grabs him by the legs. He hooks his feet on and around Ejiro’s knees, then grabs him by the wrists and rocks backwards, elevating him perpendicular to the mat.

 

“Surfboard by Jay Hawke,” shouts Pete, obviously impressed. “He obviously needs to make sure his own shoulders don’t fall to the mat, but what a tremendous move this is!”

 

“All the pressure to the knees, the arms, and the back,” says King. “Ejiro might need a lot of help to survive this one!”

 

His partners try to give him that help, but the referee is there to prevent Arch Griffon from getting into the ring. Scott Pretzler takes a quick glance at JJ Johnson, who nods. The Critic then decides to prove that he’s always the opportunist. He ascends the top rope and, making sure the referee’s still distracted, levels Ejiro with a picture-perfect guillotine leg drop while Ejiro’s still locked in the surfboard. The crowd pops in spite of itself as Hawke releases the hold and covers the opposing legal man while Pretzler slides out of the ring and the referee turns around:

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

TH--Manson makes the save thanks to a boot to the head.

 

“We haven’t seen too much of that teamwork from this team tonight,” notices Pete, “but what little we’ve seen has been spot on.”

 

King replies, “That’s what makes this team so dangerous. Even though Pretzler and Johnson don’t really get along with Hawke, all three men are here to win.”

 

Jay Hawke takes advantage of Ejiro Fasaki’s prone position, grabbing a hammerlock while driving a knee into the back to keep him grounded. The Dean tightens the grip on Fasaki’s left arm, dropping knees into the shoulder in an attempt to charley horse the arm.

 

“Look at Hawke tighten the grip here,” says the Suicide King. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he wants to take that arm home with him tonight.”

 

“If he’s looking for a submission here, he might have to break the arm off,” claims Pete.

 

Jay Hawke retains his hold of the left arm, but Ejiro is once again making his way back to his feet. Ejiro pushes Hawke back toward the ropes, loosens Hawke’s grips to the point that it’s now more of a standard armbar, then uses a quick arm drag takeover to take The Dean down. Hawke’s quickly to his feet, and Ejiro is quickly off the ropes to take Hawke down with a running forearm smash. Ejiro’s off the ropes again, but JJ Johnson reaches for him. Ejiro’s out of his reach, but it’s enough of a distraction to get Ejiro to turn around. Ejiro turns toward Hawke, and the Dean catches him coming in with a thumb to the eye.

 

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

 

“Ha ha ha!” laughs King. “Just when these idiots in Chile think their heroes are getting back into it, there’s the brilliance of the Dean of Professional Wrestling!”

 

Jay Hawke drags Ejiro Fasaki over to the ropes on his half of the ring and drapes his opponent’s throat over the middle rope. Hawke chokes him against it until the referee counts to four, then yells something over to the other corner. Whatever the comment was, it was obviously directed at Arch Griffon, as the angry SWF superstar tries to reenter the ring again. With the referee trying to cut him off, it gives Hawke the opportunity to use the middle rope for an illegally-aided hammerlock.

 

“Come on, referee, turn around!” cries Longdogger Pete in protest.

 

The referee does indeed turn around, but Hawke has not only released the hold, but he’s just finishing a snap mare.

 

“You know, Pete, for as much as you complain about the officiating, you’d think you were actually in the ring doing a better job of it,” says King.

 

Hawke immediately grabs the left arm and locks it into a short arm scissors, and with the pain in the arm, Ejiro temporarily loses the sense of where his shoulders are, and they drop to the canvas:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

Shoulder up. Ejiro, having been nearly caught napping, begins to crawl his way to the ropes. As he’s just about to reach them, Hawke releases the hold and drags Fasaki out to the middle of the ring. He drops a leg across Ejiro’s chest, then goes for the cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

Kickout. Ejiro quickly tries to make his way to his feet, but Hawke grabs him by the head and tosses him down to the mat face-first. He drives a knee to Ejiro’s back, then sits down on him, puts Ejiro’s arms over Hawke’s knees, and pulls back on the chin.

 

“Camel clutch firmly applied here by Jay Hawke,” says Pete, “and he’s got Ejiro Fasaki tied up.”

 

King continues, “This move could be the end of the match, but at the very least it should set Ejiro up for Pretzler’s Snowflake Clutch.”

 

Ejiro pulls his right arm free and uses it to pull himself towards the ropes.

 

 

“E-JI-RO!

E-JI-RO!

E-JI-RO!

E-JI-RO!

E-JI-RO!

E-JI-RO!”

 

The crowd’s chants help him get closer to the ropes. He’s two feet away…

 

“E-JI-RO!”

 

…a foot away…

 

“E-JI-RO!”

 

…and Jay Hawke pulls him away from the ropes by the hair.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

He waits for the referee’s count of four before letting go of the hair. Jay Hawke quickly locks Ejiro into a reverse chancery. Ejiro tries to punch his way free, but Jay Hawke kneels down, driving the back of Ejiro’s head across the knee.

 

“Inverted backbreaker,” says Pete, “and with Hawke’s ring positioning here, now might be the time to tag in one of his partners.”

 

But Hawke’s got one big move in mind before he makes that tag. He grabs a waistlock and tries to take Ejiro backwards, but Ejiro hooks his leg around Hawke’s to block it.

 

“Hawke is going for the German suplex,” says Pete, “but Ejiro is fighting it!”

 

Ejiro blocks it again. He shoots an elbow, but Hawke ducks, and Ejiro spins around. Ejiro is going for an armbar takedown, but Hawke keeps one foot planted behind him to keep Ejiro from getting enough leverage to take him down. Jay again wraps his arms around Ejiro and lifts him up for a Northern Lights suplex, but Ejiro spins around and takes Hawke down, still holding onto the arm.

 

“Tornado single-arm DDT!” says Pete in excitement. “This might be the break Ejiro Fasaki needs to make that hot tag!”

 

King predicts, “No way! No way in hell!”

 

Ejiro Fasaki crawls over to his corner, and he reaches for Manson’s outstretched hand. Scott Pretzler enters the ring, drawing attention away from the corner. Fasaki makes the tag…

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

…but Pretzler turns the referee around and, having not seen the hot tag, tries to get Manson back out of the ring.

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Pete screams, “He made the tag!”

 

“But the referee didn’t see it,” King confirms as Hawke drags Ejiro to the corner for Pretzler and JJ to both choke Fasaki in the corner. They release Ejiro’s throat as the referee turns around. Hawke, sensing an opportunity, charges into the corner with his right arm outstretched for a lariat, but Ejiro drags Hawke to the mat by the arm, locking it into a scissors before reaching for the face.

 

“Cobra crossface by Ejiro Fasaki,” shouts Pete. “This one could be over right here!”

 

Hawke thrashes violently, fully aware of what the hold can do to him. In horror, his two teammates rush into the ring and attempt to break it up… but Manson and Griffon do the same! Manson grabs Johnson by the tights and tosses him bodily over the top rope, then follows him out. Finding his path blocked by the hulking computer nerd, Pretzler tries to tackle him by the legs, only to be booted in the stomach.

 

“YEEEEAAAAHHHH!”

 

Realizing that his opponent is setting up the Arch Nemesis, Pretzler drops to the mat in alarm before the knee strike can connect. He rolls on his side, under the bottom rope and out of the ring. Griffon, his rage awakened, goes after him.

 

The Crossface is locked in tight! Ejiro leans back, wrenching the neck back as far as it will go. The crowd has begun to chant.

 

TAP!

TAP!

TAP!

 

“You remember what happened the last time Hawke was in this position?” asks Pete with excitement. King does not answer.

 

Despite having taken little damage during the match, Pretzler is still in no mood to become the victim of the Arch Nemesis. As he recovers near the announce table, he sees Griffon exiting the ring in front of him – and takes off! He runs around the steps and past the side of the ring. Before he can make it halfway to the ramp, he stumbles and Griffon grabs him by the shoulder.

 

POW!

 

He delivers a beefy European uppercut to the cruiserweight. Pretzler stumbles back before returning the favor with his own version of the move. Griffon responds by grabbing his head and bashing into the ring apron, drawing the attention of the referee.

 

“How much longer can Hawke hold on?” Pete gasps. Melissa pays no attention to the men brawling around her – instead, her focus is on Ejiro.

 

“Come on,” she shouts. “Make him tap out!”

 

On the other side of the ring, Manson and Johnson have begun to trade strikes.

 

WHUMP!

 

A stiff punch connects with Johnson’s cheek.

 

SMACK!

 

JJ lands a high roundhouse to the ribs.

 

CRUNCH!

 

A hard right hook sends the Canadian’s teeth rattling.

 

CRRRACK!

 

Johnson leaps into the air and delivers a spectacular back spin kick. Manson’s head snaps back and he slumps against the guardrail, momentarily incapacitated. JJ is now free to assist his partner in need. He turns around and is about to slide into the ring… but his path is blocked by Melissa. The young Asian woman puffs out her ample chest as a means of looking intimidating, but Johnson does not seem frightened at all. He grabs her by the hair and stares hungrily into her eyes.

 

“Oh, no,” Pete moans. “Not this!”

 

Johnson makes no sound other than heavy breathing. The crowd’s reaction causes Ejiro to look up, and he sees his sister in peril. He immediately releases the hold.

 

BOOOOOOOO!

 

To make matters worse, the brawl between Pretzler and Griffon has intensified. Holding the Ontarian in a military press, Griffon surges forward and hurls him into the front row. He steps over the guardrail with hate in his eyes. Referee Reubens leans through the ropes and shouts at them.

 

“Break it up!”

 

Ejiro stands up and marches across the ring in the direction of Johnson and Melissa. Hawke writhes on the mat behind him, clutching his neck.

 

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SISTER!” Ejiro bellows, sliding out of the ring and throwing himself at Johnson. The referee remains fixated on Griffon and Pretzler. Ejiro grabs Melissa by the waist and pulls her away from Johnson’s grasp and is about to charge toward him…

 

…when a black-clad figure suddenly emerges from the crowd.

 

WHAM!

 

The brass-knuckled fist of the World Heavyweight Champion buries itself in Fasaki’s forehead!

 

“What the hell is Toxxic doing here?!” cries Longdogger Pete. “He’s not even supposed to be in this country!”

 

Ejiro topples like a tree struck by lightning.

 

BOOOOOOO!

 

Manson has managed to stand and groggily moves in to make the save… but Johnson cuts him off with another flurry of kicks.

 

Toxxic shoves Melissa aside, picks up Ejiro, and rolls him into the ring.

 

Hawke rolls on top of him just as the referee turns around.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

*DING DING DING!*

 

“Not like this!” screams Pete.

 

“Here are your winners… JAAAAY HAWKE AND REVOLUTION ZEEEEEROOOO!”

 

Upon hearing the announcement, Griffon pauses and looks up at the ring. Realizing what has just occurred, he howls with frustration and continues his battery of Pretzler. Neither Manson or Fasaki are immediately aware of their loss.

 

“For three guys who claim they never cheat… Revolution Zero sure does cheat a lot!” Pete is indignant.

 

“Maybe their opponents could learn a lesson from that.”

 

Security has managed to pull Griffon away from his hapless victim. With a broad grin on his face, Toxxic runs into the ring and heartily congratulates his teammates.

 

“You did it,” he can be heard shouting. “You bloody did it. And you didn’t even need any help!”

 

 

“Somewhere, some day, this has got to stop,” Pete says bitterly. “But until then, I’m Longdogger Pete, and this is SWF Smarkdown!”