SWF Storm 7-01-05

[chirs3 0]

The strains of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony echo out through the backstage area, causing a few heads to turn in the direction of ‘The Critic’ Scott Pretzler. Sighing, the SWF Cruiserweight Champion pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and looks at the display, then slides it back into his pocket without answering. Moments later however, Pretzler is brought up short by a familiar voice behind him.

 

“Charmin’.”

 

Scott looks around to see Toxxic standing there, holding his own cellphone in his hand. With a grim expression on his face the Straight-Edge Sensation jabs at the keypad, killing the ringing on Pretzler’s device.

 

“You haven’t answered my calls since Monday night, Scott,” Toxxic begins with thinly-veiled frustration. “So I think to myself; ‘why might Scott not want to talk to me?’. And then I think about the conversation I had with Tom Flesher, and I think I know why you don’t want to talk to me.”

 

“What conversation would that have been?” Pretzler asks, forehead wrinkling in honest puzzlement. Toxxic’s face doesn’t give any indication that he believes his former stablemate’s apparent confusion.

 

“See, right after Danny had finished knocking my teeth out on Monday I ran into Flesher backstage,” the Brit states. “After doing his normal condescending shtick he tells me that you went to see him earlier in the evening. At which point Mr. Flesher informs me that you called my win over you a ‘fluke’, and demanded a rematch.” Toxxic tilts his head to one side and fixes Pretzler with a steel-grey glare. “Ringin’ any bells, sunshine?”

 

“Now hold on just a minute,” Pretzler responds forcefully, jabbing a finger at his former leader, “I hate to disillusion you, but need I remind you of the words that you spoke to me when we parted before your match on Monday? ‘Don’t trust Flesher’ you said, and here you are repeating his words back to me as if they were gospel!” The Critic adjusts his Cruiserweight Title, although whether because the weight is uncomfortable or to show off to Toxxic that yes, he has a title when Toxxic doesn’t is unclear.

 

“I did indeed go and see Tom on Monday,” Scott Pretzler continues, nodding in confirmation, “but not for that purpose. I merely wanted to privately thank him for making the right decision and awarding me the Cruiserweight Title. As for our match, I believe I may have described the ending as ‘inconclusive’, but the word ‘fluke’ never crossed my lips!”

 

“Inconclusive,” Toxxic says, face expressionless.

 

“Indeed,” Pretzler replies. “After an exciting match that featured two former team-mates competing at the highest level of athletic competition, for the contest to end with a roll-up pin seems to me to have settled little.”

 

“So you asked Flesher for a rematch rather than coming to me?” Toxxic snorts. “Bloody hell, Pretz!”

 

“I asked him for nothing!” Pretzler retorts. “Tom offered me a rematch - in fact he told me he greatly wanted to see it! I’ll admit, he mentioned nothing about the hardcore stipulation…”

 

“See, Flesher told me that you’d demanded the rematch to set the record straight,” Toxxic says, but uncertainty is starting to show in his voice.

 

“Again, I advise you to heed your own advice,” Pretzler smirks, “and don’t trust Flesher. The Smarkdown Generalissimo has never been anything but straight with me, but I understand there is bad blood between you and it could well be that he attempted to get a rise out of you.”

 

“Damn straight,” Toxxic mutters, then glances back up and Pretzler. “OK, so we’re in this match tonight,” he begins, “and it was Flesher’s idea, not yours.”

 

“Correct, although I look forward to the test.”

 

“Right…” Toxxic says, musing. “Well Pretz, I must say that while I am quite good at Hardcore matches, I don’t enjoy ‘em much.”

 

“I consider them to be garbage, and the pun is not intentional,” Pretzler nods.

 

“So how about you and I make an agreement?” Toxxic offers his friend. “We will contest the match under normal rules, right? No weapons, no low-blows, ten-count on the outside - I guess we’ll have to estimate that - we break in the ropes, that sort of thing?”

 

“Hmm,” Scott Pretzler considers, then his face brightens. “Well, I certainly can’t see a problem with that. It would bring a flash of real wrestling to this ghastly exhibition of blood and chairshots!”

 

“Then it’s a deal,” the straight-edger says, offering a black-nailed hand. Scott Pretzler immediately extends his own and clasps it, and the two men shake.

 

“Toxx… I will beat you tonight,” Pretzler says, smiling.

 

“Pretz, you’re welcome to try,” Toxxic responds, grinning lopsidedly.

[chirs3 0]

The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents...

SWF STORM, FRIDAY, JULY 1ST, LIVE FROM OLIMPIYSKIY STADION IN KIEV, UKRAINE

(8:00 pm EST, 5:00 pm PST; check local listings)

 

THE CARD

 

HARDCORE TRIPLE THREAT

SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP #1 CONTENDERSHIP

Jay Hawke (SWF International Champion) v. Zyon (SWF Hardcore Champion) v. Wildchild (SWF Tag Team Champion)

Rules: First pinfall, submission, or knockout wins. Pinfalls, submissions, and knockouts count anywhere, and disqualifications don't exist in this match. I'd better see blood, boys.

 

 

THIS IS A HARDCORE REMATCH

"The Critic" Scott Pretzler (SWF Cruiserweight Champion) v. Toxxic

Rules: None.

 

 

SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP

Ejiro Fasaki (SWF World Heavyweight Champion) v. Ghost Machine

Rules: None.

 

 

HOUSE RULES MATCH

AUDIENCE RULES MATCH

El Luchadore Magnifico v. Austin Sly

Rules: Each member of the audience will have a large piece of paper, with one side blue (El Luchadore Magnifico) and one side red (Austin Sly). Mags and Sly will wrestle for ten minutes. If there is no pinfall at the end of this ten minutes, the audience will vote (by holding up their papers), and whoever has the most votes wins. Remember, you're not just trying to defeat your opponent, you're trying to impress the crowd, too. (also, no disqualifications).

 

HARDCORE MATCH

"Urban Legend" Todd Cortez v. JJ Johnson

Rules: None

[chirs3 0]

“There is a Storm brewing in the Ukraine tonight, and while the weather might be rough, it’s not stopping the thousands here and the millions at home from becoming enthralled with SWF television yet again!”

 

“We’ve been around the world, we’ve seen the sights and partied under the city lights, but to wrestling fans Pete, there is no greater sight than the Smarks Wrestling Federation live and in person!”

 

“Leave it to us to spread joy and goodwill by showcasing bloody brutality at its finest.”

 

“There’s nothing better!”

 

“I’m glad you said that King, because we’re going to get this Storm off the ground with some of that bloodshed and brutality, because hardcore action is kicking things off right now!”

 

“End of Everything” begins to play, and the jovial Ukraine-ites turn hostile, booing and jeering loudly as an international superstar in both wrestling and mixed martial arts, plying his trade of late in SWF rings, enters the Olympiyskiy Stadion.

 

“Here comes a competitor who can mix it up with aerial techniques or the good ol’ ground and pound.”

 

“Oh Pete, not you too. Don’t run that phrase into the ground.”

 

JJ Johnson steps through the sparks that shower the entranceway and begins walking the aisleway, flipping the hood off his head to get a glimpse of the fans that have turned out for this edition of Storm.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is the opening contest on Storm, and is a HARDCORE MATCH! Approaching the ring at this time, hailing from Windsor, Ontario, Canada, and weighing in tonight and two hundred, nineteen pounds, this is J…J…JOHNNNNNSONNNNNNNN!”

 

Johnson poses on the second rope as Funyon bellows out his name, and the cocky pose is met with more jeers from the Ukrainians.

 

“For all his accomplishments, JJ Johnson is not a popular person here in Liev!”

 

The music switches from Stereomud to the sound of Mos Def and Nate Dogg’s “Oh No”, and though the theme is new, the sight of the Urban Legend on the Smarktron video brings a roar up from the crowd.

 

“It seems as though another union has bit the dust with Martial Law’s loss of the tag team titles, and that cannot sit well with this man.”

 

”I’ll be the first to admit it, Pete…when Cortez is a focused competitor, but when he has something under his skin…in this case his “friend” Landon Maddix, that focus gets upped to the nth degree!”

 

Looking at the crowd through his trademark sunglasses, Cortez walks down the ramp and into the aisleway, turning to the crowd every few seconds and peering over the rim of his shades, as fans from half a world away show their love for the streetwise kid who hit it big just over a year ago. Cortez continues his way towards the ring, as Funyon introduces him, though it doesn’t appear to be needed.

 

“His opponent, hailing from Hollywood Boulevard, weighs in tonight at two hundred, twenty six pounds. He is the Urban Legend, TODDDD CORRRRTEZZZZZZ!”

 

Cortez hops up on the apron, removing his bulletproof vest and sunglasses and dropping them into the arms of the ring girl before stepping through the ropes, immediately running towards Johnson…

 

…AND BLASTING HIM WITH A YAKUZA KICK RIGHT OFF THE BAT~!

 

“That’s one way to get a match started!”

 

“I told you Pete, to the nth degree!”

 

Johnson falls onto his back, and Cortez immediately starts stomping on him, as Viktor “No Relation To Jefferson” Harding waves frantically for the bell to ring. Cortez continues to kick Johnson while he’s down, forcing him out under the ropes and out to the floor, which is precisely where you’d expect portions of a hardcore match to take place.

 

“Johnson might be an accomplished SWF competitor, but the Hardcore Kingpin is back in his element tonight, and he’s got some stress to burn off!”

 

“Between having to put up with Landon Maddix’s ego, which put a strain on Martial Law, and now losing the tag titles to Wild & Dangerous, Todd Cortez is not a happy camper.”

 

Johnson staggers to his feet on the outside, while Cortez measures him up and launches himself over the ropes with a pescado…caught by Johnson! Cortez reacts quickly, driving his elbow into the side of Johnson’s head twice, weakening his grip and allowing him to drop Cortez to his feet. Todd follows up with a boot to the stomach, and quickly snares Johnson in a front facelock and drops him on the floor with a snap suplex! With his foe down, Cortez motions to a ringside fan, who promptly gets up and folds up their seat, passing it over the security railing for the Urban Legend to put it to use!

 

“And that’s the first time I’ve seen someone willingly give up a front row seat to an SWF event!”

 

“Well, unless Maddix is stuck fighting Johnny Dangerous for the 9 millionth time.”

 

”I’ve gotta agree with you on that one, King.”

 

Wielding the chair, Cortez braces himself, waiting for Johnson to get to his feet. The submission specialist does so with his back turned to the noted street fighter, and Cortez cocks the chair back and swings forward with great velocity, slamming the steel chair across the back of Johnson and knocking him down onto all fours! Cortez then slides the chair into the ring, and retrieves Johnson from the floor, rolling him under the bottom rope and back into the ring as well. With Johnson laid out, Cortez climbs to the top rope, reaching into his boot and pulling out a chain about two feet long, and wraps it around his right fist, the sight of which makes the crowd very happy. Cortez leaps from the top, pulling his arm back and looking to drive the chain covered fist into the temple of JJ Johnson, but at the last second Johnson moves, and Cortez’s knuckles crunch against the canvas!

“Missed opportunity for Cortez, and now maybe Johnson can swing the momentum into his favor.”

 

Johnson gets up and hits a running knee to the side of Cortez’s head as the Hispanic star is trying to push up to his feet, knocking him down to one knee. Johnson then reaches down for the reeling Cortez, but Todd sees this as an opening and suckers Johnson in, nailing him in the forehead with the chain wrapped fist!

 

“Right in the temple!”

 

”He might have broken his nose on that shot!”

 

Johnson staggers back, covering his face with his right hand, and this gives Cortez the space to get to his feet. He springs forward, launching himself towards Johnson and leaps up onto his shoulders, trying for a rana…but Johnson slams him easily with a short powerbomb, knocking the wind out of him! A quick elbowdrop follows, and both men are already feeling the effects of this contest despite being mere moments into it!

 

“Johnson manages to put Cortez down, but he can’t feel too comfortable knowing much of his offense, which specializes in submissions, won’t do him any good in this enviroment.”

 

“While that’s true, he still has experience in some of the most brutal styles of fighting we’ve ever seen. That mixed martial arts background is a formidable way of opposing an accomplished street fighter like Cortez.”

 

Johnson, bleeding from a small cut on the bridge of his nose, pulls Cortez to his feet and whips him to the corner, where Cortez crashes hard. Using his speed, Johnson then races in, crushing Cortez against the corner with a running corner lariat, then drags him out of the corner and hooks his arm, flinging him across the ring with a hiptoss! Johnson rests in the corner, waiting for the right moment to strike his target, and as Cortez comes to his feet he rushes him again, although Cortez sidesteps at the last second and quickly scissors the ankle of Johnson, bringing him down with a drop toehold that sends him face first into the steel chair!

 

“Someone’s going to need a nose job after this match!”

 

Cortez gets up and stands over Johnson, pulling back on his head with one hand and then executing vicious cross face shots with the free arm, slamming his forearm across Johnson’s face with force. Cortez then pulls Johnson up and lifts him for a back suplex, but walks him toward the corner, placing him on the top rope. Cortez then removes his wifebeater and climbs up on the second rope, then wraps the shirt around the throat of Johnson and pulls him down so that he hangs in a tree of woe, all while being choked by the Urban Legend!

 

“That’s one way to make use of your ring wear!”

Cortez lays on his stomach as he chokes Johnson, then slides out under the bottom rope, pulling on his foe’s neck and throat and driving the wind out of him. Normally this would be a DQ, or at least worthy of a five count warning, but in this match, it’s perfectly legal, and all Viktor can do is smile and nod as Todd Cortez tries to drive the air out of his opponent’s body! Rendered lifeless, as he’s gasping for air, Cortez releases the choke and tosses the beater into the crowd, then slides back into the ring, moving across the ring and setting himself in the opposite corner before charging towards Johnson and driving a knee into his exposed sternum, forcing what little air was left out of his body. Johnson continues to dangle upside down, in no way able to combat this attack, which gets taken to a new level of pain when Cortez ducks out to the apron, and enters the ring again by springboarding off the top rope…INTO A DOUBLE STOMP ON JJ JOHNSON’S NETHER REGION~!

 

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Peter, get me some ice. I felt that as much as he did!”

 

Cortez turns around and looks at his foe, who slowly slides out of the Tree of Woe position and slumps over, landing flat on his face, hands buried under him as he favors his love muscle. Cortez just laughs to himself at the site of Johnson struggling with himself on the canvas, and exits the ring, once again lurking around ringside looking for something new to incorporate in the match.

 

“Cortez has been doing pretty well for himself so far, just hitting Johnson head on with vicious intent.”

 

“Come on now Pete, give JJ some credit. He’s holding his own!”

 

”Well, he…oh wait, I get it. A pun, how original!”

 

“Like they’ve paid you to be creative in the booth.”

 

Cortez goes searching under the ring, and drags out a long piece of wood with four legs that gets a bigger pop than some SWF superstars do! Yes, Cortez has retrieved a table from under the ring!

 

“You know, the office really needs to pay its storage bills. We shouldn’t be relegated to keeping that shit under the ring.”

 

Much to the crowd’s delight, Cortez props the table up at ringside, pushing it against the ring apron. Todd then rolls himself onto the table and onto the apron, coming up back inside the ring and rushing behind Johnson, who has managed to recover and get to his feet. Todd quickly grabs him from behind, but Johnson won’t go over, keeping his feet planted and then firing back a pair of elbows to knock Cortez off balance. Johnson turns around, blocking a retaliatory right hand from Cortez and striking him with two of his own, then driving a knee into his gut and whipping him to the ropes, catching him with the rana he tried for earlier and snapping him across the canvas! Cortez scrambles to his feet, but as soon as he opens his eyes all he sees is an irate JJ Johnson running at him and knocking him over the ropes, onto the table at ringside with a clothesline!

 

“Cortez has been sent over the ropes, and oddly enough, it was the table that broke his fall.”

 

“Clever wordplay, Pete. You know those two words, table and break, are coming into play tonight.”

 

Johnson wipes the blood from his nose and leans over the ropes, pulling Cortez to his feet by the straps of his wifebeater, then stunning him with a forearm across the jaw. Johnson attempts to suplex the Urban Legend back in, but Cortez shifts his weight, dropping back to his feet. An attempt at lifting Johnson over is thwarted, as he counters the same way Todd does, but then follows up with a shoulderblock through the ropes to double his opponent over! Johnson steps out to the apron and readies Todd in a standing headscissors, but Cortez quickly strikes low with a shot to the groin, putting Johnson in pain. Cortez stands up, and places Johnson in a standing headscissors, and the gleam in his eye is recognized by the crowd, as he bounces off his feet…

 

“No way, he can’t be!”

 

RIOT ACT PL-NO! JOHNSON BACKDROPS TODD ONTO THE TABLE!

 

“Lucky move by Johnson! He just barely escaped certain death, because Cortez was ready to drive him headfirst to the floor!”

 

Todd lays prone on the table, holding his head, while Johnson clings to the ropes and brings himself up to his feet. Looking down at Cortez, Johnson walks across the apron towards the post, and starts climbing the ropes! The Canadian superstar gets up to the middle rope, and finally the top, but is suddenly cracked across his lower back by the forearm of Cortez, who has gotten back to his feet!

 

“Cortez is not known for staying down, and Johnson cannot give him the leeway to recover if he expects to take the victory tonight!”

 

Johnson stumbles on the ropes, trying to keep his balance while throwing his left arm back, trying to shove Todd down. Cortez is persistent, following up the ropes and hammering on Johnson’s back, weakening him and taking him off his game. Cortez then takes his foe and lifts, trying to pull him off the ropes and drop him backwards, but Johnson won’t go so easily! Cortez pounds on his back, working him over with forearm after forearm, and eventually Johnson has no choice but to release his iron grip that has kept him from being taken off the ropes with a back suplex…

 

…BUT HE SHIFTS HIS WEIGHT IN MID-AIR, AND CORTEZ TAKES THE FALL THROUGH THE TABLE WITH JOHNSON ON TOP OF HIM~!

“My God, that had twice the intended effect, and on the wrong man no less! Todd Cortez just splintered that table with his body, and had gravity working against him, as JJ Johnson came crashing down on top of him!”

 

The fans rejoice at the table becoming nothing more than shrapnel, and both men lay motionless on the ringside floor. Harding darts out of the ring to check on both combatants well-being, and after a few moments of dizziness, Johnson rolls to his side and starts to push himself up.

 

“You fool! He’s right next to you. Pin him!”

 

“I’m not sure JJ even knows where he is!”

 

Johnson gets up, staggering backwards, his fall caught by both Harding and the security railing. Seeing Cortez down he quickly realizes he can make the pin on the floor in a hardcore enviroment, and dives onto his foe to get a victory!

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

KICKOUT!

 

“See! Johnson, you nitwit…you should have listened to me earlier!”

 

A loud cheer is heard, as Cortez rolls a shoulder at the last second, despite being in obvious pain. Johnson starts putting the boots to his foe, then takes Cortez and whips him towards the steel ringpost…but Cortez brings his arm out and catches the post, using the momentum to swing himself around the cornerpost and up onto the apron, rolling back into the ring! Bewildered, Johnson quickly jumps up on the apron and springboards eye towards Cortez, who is just coming to his feet…but the Urban Legend sees the aerial assault coming and springs from one knee up into the air with a dropkick, smashing both feet into the ribcage of JJ Johnson and knocking him out of the air!

 

“The seesaw nature of the contest continues!”

 

Johnson rolls around the canvas and backs himself up against the corner, seated against the turnbuckles and resting as much as he can. Cortez comes up from the dropkick and moves towards him, but as he does Johnson pushes himself up with the help of the ropes and drives a foot into his chin, driving him back. Johnson then tries for a lariat out of the corner, but Todd ducks, however Johnson stops short and quickly picks the chair up off the canvas, turning around and swinging at an approaching Todd…DUCKED! Cortez quickly counters with a sweep kick, putting Johnson on his back, then follows with a standing moonsault…BUT JOHNSON PUTS THE CHAIR ON HIS CHEST…and Todd overshoots him purposely, landing on his feet and then quickly springing off his feet and dropping his body weight on the chair, on Johnson, with a senton bomb! Cortez rolls over and hooks a leg, covering Johnson, who still has the chair covering his upper body…

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

TH-NO! KICKOUT!

 

Unimpressed with his rival’s persistence, Cortez removes the chair and sends it sliding across the canvas, then pulls Johnson up, but as he does Johnson goes low and scoops Todd up onto his shoulders, throwing him over with a quick fireman’s carry out of desperation! Johnson tries to get up, but it’s not easy, as his bruised ribs hurt his ability to regain his breath, and it gives Cortez time to regroup, getting to his feet and moving towards Johnson, who hooks Todd’s leg and swings him down to the canvas with a quick dragon screw, then stomps on his midsection! Johnson looks around, and sees the chain from earlier resting on the canvas, so he goes and snatches it off the canvas and lets it hang from his hand as he moves towards Cortez. Johnson positions himself at the top of Todd’s body, standing behind him, and pulls him up, wrapping the chain around his throat and choking him out!

 

“No rope breaks, nowhere to go! Johnson can choke him into unconsciousness and win by knockout!”

 

Cortez wriggles and squirms his body, trying to break free from the choke, but Johnson pulls back on the chain and rests on one knee, driving the other knee between Cortez’s shoulder blades! Todd rolls, trying to come to his feet and power out, but Johnson moves with him. Cortez hunches over, forcing Johnson to inch closer to him, and when he does Todd fires off elbows to the bread basket, trying to deter Johnson from continuing the choke. Johnson absorbs the blows, but keeps the chain wrapped around the throat of the former Hardcore Champion, although Cortez fights for his life, driving repeated elbows into the already sore ribs, until Johnson has no choice but to pull away! Cortez falls on all fours, gasping for air. Johnson sees this as an opening and rushes at Cortez, going for a soccer kick to knock him over, but Todd quickly swings his legs out, kicking Johnson’s legs out from under him and putting him on his back!

 

“Cortez managed to break free, but it took its toll on him…”

 

Thinking quickly, Todd takes advantage of the hardcore setting and rolls out of the ring, that way Johnson will have to come and get him, which should give him at least a few extra moments to recover. Johnson sits up, visibly dazed, and starts looking around for Cortez, who drops low and walks around ringside. Johnson gets up and spies Todd creeping across the table shrapnel and runs to the ropes, sliding out under the bottom rope with a baseball slide…but Todd sidesteps it and slides back into the ring! Johnson quickly turns himself and comes back to his feet inside the ring, but as he lifts his head Todd Cortez swings his right fist forward, nailing Johnson right above the eye! Johnson immediately falls back and holds his left eye, and the cameras get a close up that shows blood pouring out from a cut just above the eye.

 

“Cortez really caught him with that shot, and…hey, look!”

 

Proudly, Cortez raises his arm and displays that it wasn’t a simple fist that caught Johnson by surprise, but a clenched piece of table shrapnel!

 

“He…he just jabbed him in the eye with that piece of wood!”

 

“Adapting to the enviroment is what he’s always professed, and exactly what he’s done here tonight!”

 

With Johnson curled up in a corner, Todd goes over and starts ramming his boot across the wound, opening the cut even further to take away Johnson’s visibility. Soon enough, Johnson’s face is a crimson mask, and Cortez leads him to his feet, pulling him towards center ring and grabbing him by the throat.

 

“You know what this is!”

 

“Urban A…NO, wait!”

 

Johnson, able to take hold of Todd’s arm, turns around and uses a judo throw to break the hold. Johnson staggers forward, trying desperately to wipe the blood from his eye, but more blood just keeps coming out. This takes up his time and allows Cortez to recover, and he sneaks up on Johnson with ease, dropkicking his leg out from under him and then immediately pulling him off the canvas, into a standing headscissors…AND PLANTS HIM HEADFIRST ON THE CANVAS WITH THE RIOT ACT PLUS~!

 

“The R.A.P. connects! Lights out JJ Johnson!”

 

Cortez quickly covers, and an unconscious Johnson has no chance of recovery, as Viktor Harding slaps the palm of his hand on the ringmat.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

“Quick and vicious, but that was one hell of a way to kick off Storm!”

 

“Oh No” comes up, and Cortez gets to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow as the Ukraine crowd gives him a thunderous round of applause for his hard fought win. Cortez backs out of the ring, staring at his woozy, bleeding opponent, who is now being tended to by Harding, and then backs up the aisle, throwing his hands up in victory.

 

“Todd Cortez has never been one to let a bad situation get to him. He’s strived to make the best of the hands he’s been dealt, and the demise of Martial Law could be the newest inspiration to better himself.”

 

“That boy has a fire lit under his ass, but he needs to watch out, because I’m sure the ego of Landon Maddix will not be able to handle any of Todd’s non-Martial Law success.”

 

“That’s something that can be dealt with when and if the time comes, but for now, that man deserves nothing but the adulation of the fans, and that’s exactly what he’s getting. Todd Cortez comes up with a big win here on Storm, and that’s just the beginning. We’ve got more for you after this, so don’t you dare miss it!”

[chirs3 0]

Backstage, Scott Pretzler is standing in front of a large SWF logo with interviewer Ben Hardy. He is wearing a blue blazer and matching pants over a white shirt… and draped across his shoulder is the shimmering gold face of the Cruiserweight Championship. His Cruiserweight Championship.

 

“Mr. Pretzler,” Hardy begins, holding the microphone out, “how does it feel to be crowned the new Cruiserweight Champion of the world?”

 

Pretzler looks at him as though he were mentally challenged.

 

“Well, gee, that’s a tough one! How do you think I feel? I suppose if I had to articulate it, I would say it feels damn good. I mean, how long has it been since someone truly deserving was in possession of this title?”

 

Hardy pulls the microphone back to speak, but Pretzler stops him.

 

“The last time I was champion,” he says, answering his own question. “That’s fairly obvious. But in all seriousness, I’m thrilled. It was so frustrating, watching as all the work I had undertaken to restore the division’s credibility was thoughtlessly undone by Wildchild’s tumbles and the Insane Luchador’s weapon shots. Though it was only a matter of time before affairs were set right… I must admit I suffered endless anxiety.”

 

“What about the controversial remarks you made about the late Andrew Rickmen? The former champion was beloved by millions of fans around the word, not to mention the other SWF superstars. Tom Flesher himself—“

 

Pretzler waves his hand dismissively and interrupts.

 

“We’re not in kindergarten, Ben. If I don’t like someone, it just isn’t realistic to expect me to have a change of heart just because he happens to choke some vomit. The Luchador – who was anything but – was a man who spat upon the craft of wrestling, who abused a position of extraordinary influence and responsibility. As Cruiserweight Champion, he had the opportunity to reach and connect with, as you said, millions of viewers across the globe. Whatever he did, in their eyes, that was cruiserweight wrestling. And what did he do? He mutilated his opponents’ flesh, battered them with steel chairs, and attempted to reveal their skeletons. Is that something to be missed? Yes, his death was a tragedy. But that doesn’t mean I’m not better off with him gone. For… obvious reasons.”

 

At this, he glances at the belt and grins sheepishly.

 

“In any event,” Hardy continues, swallowing his disgust, “people have also been saying, and I won’t name names, that the belt should not have fallen into your hands so easily. That you – pardon me for saying so – didn’t deserve it.”

 

Pretzler is aghast.

 

“Didn’t deserve it? Are you out of you mind?”

 

“Mr. Pretzler, I didn’t—“

 

“Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of blood, sweat, and tears, of pain and punishment that most of us can scarcely imagine. That’s what I endured to ‘deserve’ this title. I went through Hell, and I emerged a better man for it. Not to mention the better man. Have you ever been in an iron man match, Ben?”

 

Hardy shakes his head.

 

“I didn’t think so. Well I have, and I won, with flair and finesse. And it was the match of the God-damned year. And when this match was over, I was the number-one contender for the SWF Cruiserweight Championship. That’s kind of like being the Vice President, isn’t it? Like I pointed out in my previous address, the Vice President has a special responsibility: when the President dies, he is the one who assumes the presidential duties. There’s no controversy. There’s no dispute. And there sure as shit isn’t a tournament.”

 

Hardy, along with the audience, recoils from Pretzler’s use of profanity.

 

“What there is, is a bloodless and respectful transfer of power, because that’s what happens in a democratic society. You do love freedom, don’t you, Ben? No, don’t answer that. It isn’t relevant to our discussion. The only thing that’s relevant right now is that I am the Cruiserweight Champion, and all is right with the world. Well, the World Championship is still worthless; believe it or not, the world title match isn’t even the sub-main event on tonight’s card. It’s disgraceful. Alas, there’s nothing that can be done to fix that.”

 

He straightens his collar and cracks the knuckles on his right hand.

 

“At least, not right now.”

[chirs3 0]

At the end of a poorly-lit hallway deep within the backstage area of the Olimpiyskiy Stadion is the dressing room, converted for use by the SWF while they’re using the building. In the middle of the gray, nondescript room sits Toxxic, deep in concentration as he sits on a bench and laces up his boots. His concentration is broken when someone knocks on the dressing room’s open door sharply. Toxxic sighs, but doesn’t look up.

 

“Scott, I’m really not in the mood.” Toxxic grumbles, finishing his left boot and moving onto his right.

 

“Yeah, I imagine Pretzler would be the last person you’d want to talk to right now.” The voice, which is decidedly not Scott Pretzler’s, responds.

 

Toxxic looks up and sees the smiling visage of El Luchadore Magnifico, who leans against the doorframe and watches the Straight-Edge Sensation. Toxxic stares at the luchadore for a second before continuing his pre-match preparation.

 

“What do you want, Mags?” Toxxic asks. “I’m kinda busy at the moment.”

 

ELM pushes himself off of the doorframe and takes a step into the room.

 

“I won’t take up too much of your time, honest.” Magnifico begins, keeping his eyes on Toxxic as he does so. “You had a fantastic match with Williams on Smarkdown.”

 

“Get to the point.” Toxxic snaps, not happy to be reminded of his loss.

 

“Fine, fine.” ELM replies, understanding. “I just came here to tell you that I want in.”

 

Toxxic looks up at Magnifico and raises an eyebrow. “Want in on what?”

 

ELM sighs and thinks over his words for a moment before continuing.

 

“I was really impressed when you went to Flesher and asked for the match with Williams.” Magnifico explains. “You wanted to test yourself against another Three-Time World Champion, see which one of you is the better man. I respect that.”

 

“To be frank, I’m not sure if I’m as good as I used to be.” ELM continues, looking away from Toxxic. “I lost to Ejiro on Smarkdown and just barely beat Wildchild on my return. I want to test myself, as well.”

 

“So, what do you say?” Magnifico asks, turning his gaze to Toxxic once more. “If you want another shot at a Three-Time World Champion, I’m standing right here. If you don’t, hey, I’ll just ask Danny. I’m sure he’ll be up for it.”

 

The Straight-Edge Sensation just stares at ELM for a second, not sure what to make of what he just heard. After a moment, Toxxic laughs and shakes his head in disbelief.

 

“Fine, whatever.” Toxxic replies, turning his attention back to his boots. “You want a match, Sunshine? You’ve got it.”

 

ELM grins. “Alright, then. See you in the ring.”

 

With that, Magnifico turns and leaves the room. Once he’s gone, Toxxic looks up at the now-empty doorframe, now with one more thing weighing heavily on his mind.

[chirs3 0]

SWF Storm returns from another enlightening commercial break, greeting the viewer at home with an amazing shot of the gigantic Olimpiyskiy Stadion, packed to the brim with eighty-three thousand excited Ukrainians! The buzz created by this mass of humanity as they wait for the next match is suddenly silenced when the lights within the arena are cut, allowing the full moon to cast a beautiful ghostly light over the entire stadium.

 

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

"For you..."

"... for you..."

"For you... not me..."

 

BOOM!

 

Pyros explode from each side of the stage and shoot upwards, illuminating the darkened stadium with a combination of red and gold stars as the music quickly shifts to Rage Against The Machine’s “Street Fighting Man”. As the lights within the arena pulse to the beat, Austin Sly strides out from behind the curtain, immediately drawing a wave of boos from the colossal crowd.

 

"Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet boooooy..."

"'Cause summers here and the time is right for fighting in the streeeet boooooy..."

 

“The following contest is a HOUSE RULES MATCH!” Funyon cries, drawing a cheap pop from the fans, who are already looking forward to their possible participation. “Introducing first, from St. Louis, Missouri, weighing in at two hundred and thirty-seven pounds...AUSTIIIIIIIIIN SLLLYYYYYYYYYYYY!”

 

Sly responds to his introduction with an intimidating scowl, which remains on his face as he slowly makes his way down the entrance ramp. Fans on either side of the ramp shout and curse at Austin mercilessly, but it doesn’t faze him a bit as he approaches the ring and rolls beneath its bottom rope. Sly stands inside the ring and sheds his coat, hanging it on the nearby corner’s turnbuckle while he stares coldly at the stage, waiting anxiously for his opponent.

 

“Hello again from Kiev, ladies and gentlemen!” LDP cheerfully begins. “We have for you now an interesting match to say the least, as Austin Sly will take on El Luchadore Magnifico in a House Rules Match!”

 

“The rules are simple, yet mindlessly idiotic!” King cries, faking enthusiasm. “Sly and the Mexican will wrestle in a no DQ match, and if there isn’t a pinfall after ten minutes, the fans will vote for the winner by holding up one side of their piece of paper; the blue side for the filthy immigrant, the red for Sly.”

 

“Because of this, both men not only have to focus on their opponent, but on impressing the crowd.” Explains Pete. “The SWF spared no expense on allowing the fans to participate in this match.”

 

“Oh yeah, we really broke the bank on those large squares of construction paper.” King counters, rolling his eyes.

 

“Hey, eighty thousand pieces isn’t cheap.” LDP defends. “And do you know how hard it is to find an arts and crafts store in the Ukraine that sells in bulk?”

 

“UNO!”

 

BOOM!

 

“DOS!”

 

BOOM!

 

“TRES!”

 

BOOM!

 

“CUATRO!”

 

A Mexican voice suddenly shouts the above words over the PA system, doing so as a burst of pyro explodes upwards from each turnbuckle in time with each shouted word. As Bunch of Believers’ “Mission Trip to Mexico” hits the speakers, nearly every fan in the arena begins cheering their little heart out, drowning out the cheerful Christian Ska as they do so. A second later, El Luchadore Magnifico bursts out from behind the curtain, grinning broadly as he waves his Mexican flag with unmistakable pride. ELM stops suddenly and poses at the top of the entrance ramp, creating a fantastic photo opportunity that those with the benefit of flash photography take advantage of.

 

“And now, from Mexico City, Mexico, weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds...” bellows Funyon, “EL LUCHADOOOOOOOOORE MAGNIFICOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

Upon hearing his name, Magnifico breaks his pose and quickly strides down the ramp, slapping the fans of the hands who shelled out their hard-earned hryvnia for lawn seats. At the bottom of the ramp, ELM suddenly breaks into a run and slides beneath the ring’s bottom rope, gliding on his belly into the middle of the square circle. Magnifico cranes his neck up and smiles at Sly, who stands above the luchadore, looking down on him with palpable disgust. Surprisingly, Austin lightens up and returns the smile...right before dropping an elbow on the luchadore’s neck! The fans immediately stop cheering, the music is cut, and the ref hasily signals for the bell in response to the pre-match attack, which took everyone in the building but Sly off guard.

 

DING DING DING

 

As soon as the bell rings, the timer on the makeshift electronic scoreboard/SWFTron begins to count down from 10:00. In the ring, Sly jumps back to his feet and immediately begins stomping away at Magnifico’s shoulders and neck, quickly drawing a wave of boos from the displeased audience.

 

“It looks like Sly is going to take advantage of one part of this stip and not the other.” LDP reports. “So long as he can pin Magnifico within ten minutes, it doesn’t matter how much he pisses off the live audience.”

 

“And with it being no DQ, he won’t even need all ten of those minutes.” King predicts. “I’m putting my money on a six minute match that ends with a So Cal through a flaming Ukrainian.”

 

LDP glances at him.

 

“Table.” King finishes, shifting his eyes suspiciously.

 

In the ring, ELM is struggling but failing to get to his feet beneath the barrage of stomps and kicks to his neck and shoulders. After a few seconds, Austin finally ends the attack, but that’s only because he’s caught sight of the Mexican flag Magnifico brought to the ring with him. Sly picks up the flagpole and takes a few practice swings with it, allowing ELM to scramble to his feet in the process. Once Magnifico is standing, he turns towards Austin...who swings the flagpole horizontally and right at ELM, looking it to smash it against the side of his head! Magnifico dodges out of the way just in time, and is forced to do so again when Sly drives the flagpole downwards, trying to break it over the luchadore’s skull this time!

 

9:22...9:21...9:20...

 

“Austin comes very close to taking a big early advantage,” LDP notes. “But Magnifico just manages to dodge the attacks from his own Mexican flag.”

 

ELM sidesteps the felonious flag and delivers a quick kick to Sly’s gut, doubling Austin over slightly and causing him to lose his grip on the flagpole. Magnifico immediately grabs Austin by the arm and whips him, sending him rushing towards the far ropes. Sly bounces off of said ropes and charges back at ELM to see the luchadore leaping into the air, looking to wrap his legs around Austin’s head for a Hurricanrana! However, Sly manages to duck beneath the leaping luchadore and stop dead in his tracks behind Magnifico, who is landing on his feet while Austin is grabbing the flag once more! As ELM turns around, Austin drives the stubby end of the pole forward and into Magnifico’s gut, causing him to fall to one knee and clench his gut in pain! Sly then raises the pole high above his head before driving the thick piece of wood downwards and onto the back of Magnifico’s shoulders, immediately knocking the luchadore to the ground as he does so! Boos pour in from every part of the Stadion as Sly tosses aside the flag, grinning contentedly.

 

8:52...8:51...8:50

 

“Hahaha, he dodged them for a little while anyway.” King laughs. “ELM makes the mistake of allowing Sly to get his hands back on the flagpole, and this time Austin takes full advantage of the weapon.”

 

ELM tries to stand, but Austin insists on giving him a hand, as he grabs the luchadore by the hair and pulls him to his feet. Keeping his grip on the back of his opponent’s head, Sly guides the luchadore over to the nearby corner and slams his head into the top turnbuckle. Dazed, ELM collapses back first into the corner, which allows Sly to get in a few good stomps at Magnifico’s gut. After about four or five of those, Austin grabs ELM by the arm and whips him across the ring, sending Magnifico rushing towards the opposite corner. Sly runs right after the luchadore, looking to trap him in the corner. However, his plan is shot when Magnifico runs up the corner’s turnbuckles and jumps off of the second one, leaping backwards and flipping over a running Austin! Sly manages to stop himself right before crashing into the corner, and turns to face the luchadore...who sidesteps towards him while driving his foot forward, slamming it directly into Austin’s chin with a Superkick! Sly is knocked backwards and into the corner by the force of the impact, leaning against its turnbuckles, dazed and disoriented.

 

8:27...8:26...8:25

 

“Scintilating Superkick from Magnifico, and Austin is literally up against the ropes!” LDP announces.

 

“Christ, could your announcing get any more clichèd?” King asks.

 

With Sly groggy, Magnifico is able to grab Austin by the legs, hoist him into the air, and sit him on the top turnbuckle. Magnifico quickly pulls Sly’s legs behind the top ropes and then climbs up after him, reaching the top turnbuckle within a couple seconds. As soon as he’s up there, ELM pulls Sly into a Suplex position, drawing an anticipatory pop from the capacity crowd! Magnifico begins lifting Austin off of the turnbuckle...when he wraps his legs around ELM’s, preventing him from lifting Sly any higher! Austin then begins driving his fist repeatedly into ELM’s gut, eventually forcing him to break his hold on Sly! As soon as he does, Austin reaches up and pops Magnifico in the face, only to receive a stiff right from the luchadore in return! The two men brawl carelessly on the top rope until Sly lands a particularly harsh blow, which causes ELM to teeter backwards and wave his arms desperately, trying his best to not fall off of the ropes! However, Sly doesn’t want him to fall off either, as he grabs the luchadore beneath the arms and hoists him into the air. Austin then throws him to the side and over the top rope, sending Magnifico hurtling to the outside! The fans, concerned and impressed at the same time, are already OHHH!ing as ELM’s fall ends with him crashing back-first into the hard, unforgiving floor!

 

7:47...7:46...7:45...

 

“Superb work from Sly!” King declares. “Not only did he prevent Magnifico from landing any kind of Suplex, he flat-out threw ELM to the outside from the top rope!”

 

“Magnifico definitely took a nasty fall there.” LDP agrees, concerned. “And he’s bound to be down for a while, which will give Austin more than enough time to plan his next move.”

 

Apprently, Sly’s next move involves him being on the outside, as he hops down from the turnbuckle onto the apron, and then again onto the floor. With Magnifico writing in pain on the ground, Austin has an opportunity to search beneath the ring, that magical place where objects of all kinds await you. Sly digs beneath the apron, tossing aside the things he has no use for.

 

A 2x4...nope, too boring...

 

A sledgehammer...nah, not my style...

 

A “Belarus Sucks” t-shirt...well, that’s just weird...

 

A steel chair...go with what works, I guess...

 

With the other objects scattered upon the floor, Sly pulls out the steel chair and turns back to Magnifico, who is slowly rising to his feet and facing away from Austin.

 

7:24...7:23...7:22...

 

“Sly’s finally decided on a weapon, and ELM is completely oblivious to the danger he’s in!” LDP remarks.

 

Sly slowly, stealthily sneaks up on the rising luchadore, the steel chair raised and ready to strike. Magnifico is finally on his feet and turns around, coming face to face with Austin. Sly takes that as his cue to use the chair, as he drives it downwards, aiming to drive it into ELM’s skull! Right before the chair can connect, though, Magnifico throws his hands up, catching it right above his head! Gritting his teeth in anger and frustration, Sly continues to press downwards with the chair, looking to break though Magnifico’s grip. However, he’s unsuccessful, as ELM suddenly yanks the chair out of Sly’s hands! In the next second, Magnifico throws the chair right at Austin, who instinctively catches it!

 

“What the hell?” thinks Sly, as he catches the chair.

 

As soon as Austin catches the chair, Magnifico leaps into the air and kicks his feet out, slamming them into the chair and, in turn, slamming the chair into Sly’s face!

 

CLANG!

 

“Ohhhhhh.” Comes Austin’s realization as he falls to the ground, stunned by the force of the Spanish Conquestor. Meanwhile, an impressed pop rises from the gigantic crowd, who are swaying in ELM’s favor as we speak.

 

6:49...6:48...6:47...

 

“Spanish Conquestor!” Pete cries, correctly indentifying the name of the move just used. “Sly waited just a moment too late to use that chair, and Magnifico was able to turn the tables on him!”

 

“You just had to use ‘turn the tables’ after a chair spot, didn’t you?” King questions.

 

ELM scrambles back to his feet after landing the Conquestor, and sees that Sly is going to be out for a minute. Magnifico looks down at him, thinking for a moment, before turning to the crowd and grabbing a fan’s large multi-colored piece of paper! ELM mutters a quick “lo siento” to the angered Ukrainian before taking the sign and rolling into the ring. Once ELM is in the ring, he lays the sign before him and digs in his waistband for a second, before producing a black magic marker. On his hands and knees, Magnifico begins to write on the paper, while eighty thousand Ukrainians wonder what the hell he’s doing. After a second, ELM stands up and proudly holds the paper above his head, which now reads...

 

I LOVE YOU,

UKRAINE!

 

Magnifico smiles broadly at the crowd, but it doesn’t exactly get the response he hoped for. A few Ukrainians cheer, but much less than the tens of thousands he hoped for.

 

6:19...6:18...6:17...

 

“That’s Magnifico for you.” King declares, disgusted. “Not only does he waste time trying to suck up to the audience, but he does so unsucessfully! Pathetic.”

 

ELM frowns, not sure where he went wrong. After a second, the proverbial light bulb goes off, and Magnifico sets to work again, as he flips the paper over, lies it on the mat, and begins to write on it once more. ELM takes a little longer to write this time, which only makes the crowd more curious as to what he’s writing. Finally, Magnifico grins to himself, stands up, and holds the sign above his head once again. This time, it reads the following in big, bold letters...

 

я тебе кохаю,

Україна!

 

“RAHHHHHHHHH!!”

 

ELM smiles broadly as he holds the sign high, his shameless pandering turning out to be more successful then he’d imagined. As he slowly turns, showing the sign to every fan in the audience, cheers and chants of “U-KRAY-I-NA! U-KRAY-I-NA!” pour in from every part of the Stadion.

 

5:54...5:53...5:52...

 

“What?! This is ridiculous!!” King shouts, outraged. “Where the hell did Magnifico learn Ukrainian?!”

 

“Regardless of where he learned the language, ELM’s making damn good use of it!” LDP announces, grinning despite himself. “If he can last the ten minutes with Sly, he’s a shoe-in to win with the crowd!”

 

Magnifico continues to turn with the sign, looking to suck every bit of heat he can out of this act.

 

CRACK!

 

But ELM is immediately forced to knock it off when Sly comes up behind him and slams the steel chair into Magnifico’s upper back! Surprised, ELM cries out in pain and falls to his knees, dropping his sign as he does so. Austin then steps in front of Magnifico and drives the chair downwards, slamming it into the top of ELM’s skull! The camera catches Magnifico’s neck actually compressing a tiny bit as his eyes roll up into his head and he falls lifelessly to the mat. The fans, who were already booing at not being pandered to any more, only grow louder as Austin tosses the chair aside and looks down on the luchadore, a satisfied grin painted on his face.

 

5:23...5:22...5:21...

 

“Yessssss!” exclaims King, jubilant. “Magnifico’s embarassing stunt backfires on him in dramatic fashion! He won’t even last five minutes, much less ten!”

 

After a second, Sly falls to his knees and casually lays back on Magnifico’s body, not even bother to hook the luchadore’s leg. Encouraging, hopeful cheers pour in from every part of the arena as the ref falls into position and begins counting...

 

ONE...

 

TWO...

 

THR-No! Magnifico gets a shoulder up right before three, drawing a relieved pop from the capacity crowd. Austin scowls and glares at Magnifico, annoyed that he wasn’t able to get a pinfall.

 

5:05...5:04...5:03...

 

“No!” Pete shouts, “It was a devastating chairshot to be sure, but it’s not quite enough to keep Magnifico down! And Sly seems really pissed off at that fact!”

 

Still looking incredibly displeased, Austin gets to his feet and walks over to the steel chair, doing so while Magnifico is shaking off the chairshot and struggling to his feet. Sly grabs the chair, picks it up, and sets it up near Magnifico, doing so as ELM reaches his hands and knees. Not wanting to wait for the luchadore, Austin grabs Magnifico by the arm and violently pulls him to his feet. Sly pulls ELM in front of the chair, hooks both of his arms, and pulls him into a Front Face Lock, setting the luchadore up for a Double Arm DDT! However, before Austin can execute the maneuver, Magnifico suddenly throws his knee upwards, slamming it into Sly’s gut! Austin’s grip weakens considerably, allowing Magnifico to break free of it! Once ELM is out of the hold, he grabs Sly and lifts him into the air as if for a Scoop Slam, but then puts Austin on his shoulder, revealing it to be the setup for La Dia de Los Muertos! However, Sly manages to wriggle out of Magnifico’s grip! Sly falls behind the luchadore, and on his way down, manages to wrap his arm around Magnifico’s head, capturing him in a Reverse Face Lock as he lands on his feet! As soon as Sly is on the mat, he falls backwards, pulling Magnifico down with him and driving the back of his head into the canvas with a Reverse DDT! The fans, who were having a hard time keeping up with the chain of events, now know to outright boo, and do so with vigor as Austin covers the luchadore! As the ref slides into position, Austin reaches over and hooks Magnifico’s leg...

 

ONE...

 

TWO...

 

THR-Nooo! Magnifico gets a shoulder up, instantly changing much of the boos to jubilant cheers!

 

4:10...4:09...4:08...

 

“No! Austin, after a series of quick reversals, lands the Reverse DDT, but Magnifico manages to kick out!” LDP announces. “ELM might just be lucky that he avoided the Double Arm DDT through the chair Sly was going for.”

 

“I wouldn’t call it lucky.” King counters. “That would have ended the match right then and there. As it is, ELM’s going to have to suffer quite a bit more now in the four and a half minutes left.”

 

Awash with feelings of frustration once more, Sly rolls off of Magnifico and pops to his feet, wondering what he can do to keep ELM down for the three count. Suddenly, he catches sight of Magnifico’s sign, and a mischevious grin comes across his face. Thinking that he might be going about this match the wrong way, Austin grabs the sign, turns the Ukrainian side towards the crowd, and hoists it high above his head, smiling cheerfully as he does so.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

The crowd sees right through Austin’s shallow attempt to pander to them, and the expression on Sly’s face quickly turns from a cheerful smile to one of “Fine, fuck you then!” Sly rips the sign in half and flips off the crowd, effectively abandoning his attempt at pleasing the crowd.

 

3:33...3:32...3:31...

 

“Well, now Austin doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.” LDP notes, amused. “Any chance he might have had with winning over the crowd is gone, and now Austin has gotta get a pinfall in the next four minutes to win this match.”

 

Sly storms back over to Magnifico, grabs him by the hair, and roughly pulls him to his feet. He then throws ELM into the corner, and as the luchadore lies prone against its turnbuckles, Sly begins stomping away wildly at his gut. Once Austin is done taking out his frustration, he grabs Magnifico by the arm and whips him across the ring, hard. ELM crashes into the opposite corner’s turnbuckles chest-first, and stumbles backwards from the sudden and sharp impact as Austin is running up behind him. Before Magnifico can get back to his senses, Sly traps him with a Rear Waistlock and lifts him into the air, looking to drive ELM into the mat with a German Suplex! However, in mid-air, ELM begins struggling mightily, not allowing Sly to lift the luchadore over his head! Suddenly, Magnifico dives forward and throws his legs backwards, grabs Sly by his legs, and then rolls forward, rolling Austin up with him and pinning him to the mat! The fans pop for the unexpcted reversal as the ref slides into position and begins counting...

 

ONE...

 

TWO...

 

THR-Nooo! Austin violently breaks free of the pin, quickly silencing much of the crowd’s cheering. Sly immediately jumps back to his feet, reaching them a second before Magnifico can reach his. Austin takes advantage of that second by throwing his arm forward as soon as ELM stands, driving it into the luchadore’s chest and immediately knocking him to the mat with an unbelievably stiff Clothesline! As the fans OHHH! in surprise, ELM stares up blankly at the light, his mouth agape from the pain suddenly emanating from his chest.

 

2:50...2:49...2:48...

 

“Goddamn, what a Clothesline!” LDP cries. “That’s unexpected from Austin, who’s not known for his strength.”

 

“Maybe not, but what can you expect?” King replies. “ELM’s really pissed him off, and he was looking to just decapitate him with the Clothesline. I speak from experience telling you how infuriating Magnifico can be.”

 

Sly stands over the luchadore for a second, his chest heaving and his nostrils flaring, as he thinks over his plan of attack. Suddenly, Austin seems to make up his mind, as he runs towards the nearby ropes and leaps into the middle one! Sly the springs off of it and flips backwards, looking to land the Sky Surfer on the lifeless luchadore! But while Austin is in mid-air, Magnifico suddenly rolls out of the way, leaving Sly without a target! However, Sly manages to complete the flip and land his feet, doing so as Magnifico is climbing to his hands and knees. ELM pushes himself to one knee, but as soon as he does so, Sly puts his foot on that knee, pushes off, and then slams the same foot into the side of Magnifico’s head! ELM falls lifelessly to the mat, his brains scrambled from the sudden jolt of the Shining Wizard! The fans OHHH! as one as Sly falls to his knees and covers the luchadore, causing the ref to slide into position and begin the count...

 

ONE...

 

TWO...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THRE-Nooooo! ELM gets a shoulder up mere milliseconds before the three count, drawing a relieved wave of cheers from the thankful crowd.

 

2:09...2:08...2:07...

 

“Damn! Sly absolutely blasts Magnifico with the Shining Wizard, but ELM still manages to kick out!” King announces, disappointed.

 

“And Austin is running out of time.” LDP notes, eyeing the clock. “If he doesn’t hurry, his plan of attack is going to backfire in a big way.”

 

Sly rolls off of Magnifico and pushes himself to his feet, trying his best to prevent his anger and exasperation from getting the better of him. Once he’s standing, Austin heads towards the steel chair and picks it up, apparently tired of screwing around with the luchadore. Sly then sets the chair up in the middle of the ring before heading back over to Magnifico and grabbing him by the hair, using the grip to painfully pull the luchadore to his feet. With the chair a couple feet behind Magnifico, Sly pulls the luchadore into a Front Face Lock! Austin then leaps into the air, apparently looking to twist Magnifico around and slam his head into the chair with a Tornado DDT! Howevever, as soon as Sly jumps, ELM reaches up, grabs Austin by the tights, and pulls him right back down to the mat! Magnifico then uses the same grip to throw Austin over his head while falling backwards, executing a Release Northern Lights Suplex to the delight of the crowd! Sly falls directly onto the chair, immediately crushing it as he does so! The fans release an impressive pop as the two men lay a couple feet from each other, completely drained.

 

1:29...1:28...1:27...

 

“Magnifico manages to reverse Sly’s Tornado DDT in a big way, driving him through the chair with a Release Northern Lights Suplex!” LDP shouts, excited.

 

“Goddamnit. ELM’s countered one move too many, and he might actually sneak out of here with an unbelievably cheap victory.” King remarks, disgusted.

 

Neither ELM nor Sly moves for several moments, allowing the crowd to organize and get a cheer going. A chant of “MAG! MAG! MAG!” starts quietly and quickly gains volume, until nearly all of the eighty thousand in attendance are cheering it. Finally, both ELM and Sly begin climbing to their feet, rising at nearly identical speeds. After a few seconds, Magnifico lunges to his feet and collapses against the ropes behind him, breathing heavily as he watches Sly reach his feet across the ring. Magnifico gathers his strength and pushes himself off of the ropes to head over to Austin, who’s facing away from the luchadore. ELM approaches Sly and reaches out to grab him...when Austin suddenly throws his leg backwards, driving it in between Magnifico’s legs and into his groin! A collective wince rises from the audience as ELM immediately doubles over in pain, completely caught off guard by the blow. The ref raises an eyebrow upon seeing this, but since he really didn’t get a good view of the strike, doesn’t do anything about it. Sly spins to face the luchadore and scowls angrily at him, right before grabbing Magnifico by the arm and whipping him hard into the nearby corner. ELM crashes back first into the corner and lays against its turnbuckles, dazed and in deep pain.

 

0:44...0:43...0:42...

 

“Nice! Sly suckered Magnifico in and took complete advantage of ELM’s idiocy!” King cries.

 

“Yeah, and he sure didn’t break any rules in the process or anything.” LDP replies, annoyed.

 

With Magnifico temporarily incapacitated, Sly’s attention turns to the flattened chair on the mat. A bloodthirsty grin creeping over his face, Austin slowly picks the chair up, grips it by the bottom, and hoists it over his head. Sly then turns to the luchadore and immediately drives the chair downwards, slamming it into ELM’s skull with untold force!

 

CRACK!

 

The fans OHHH! and boo as one as Magnifico, looking to be completely out of it, collapses lifelessly against the corner. Austin tosses the chair aside, grabs Magnifico by the waist, and lifts him into the air. Sly sits the languid luchadore on the top turnbuckle and climbs up after him, determined to end this once and for all.

 

0:20...0:19...0:18...

 

Once Sly is on the top turnbuckle, he pulls ELM into a Front Face Lock and stands him up, doing so as the crowd begins to boo in anticipation. Not wasting a moment, Austin leaps backwards off of the top turnbuckle, twisting his and Magnifico’s body as he does so for the So Cal! Sly makes perfect contact with the finisher, as he slams ELM’s neck into the canvas with a sickening thud!

 

0:09...0:08...0:07...

 

As eighty thousand Ukranians collectively boo, Sly lies on the mat right next to Magnifico, who is completely motionless save for the occasional spasmic jerk. Breathing heavily, Austin stares blankly up into the lights...then suddenly rolls over and covers the luchadore! Sly reaches over and hooks the luchadore’s leg, doing so as-

 

*BRZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!*

 

Austin gets off of the luchadore, wondering what that ungodly sound could be. His question is answered when he looks towards the SWFTron and sees that the timer has just run out! Sly cries out in frustration and pulls at his hair as Funyon enters the ring, ready to tell the audience what to do next.

 

“No! No!” LDP shouts. “Sly managed to land the So Cal, but a few seconds too late! It’s now up to the crowd to determine who the winner will be!”

 

Funyon, standing proudly in the middle of the ring, raises the microphone to his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen, ten minutes have elapsed without a pinfall. Please, vote now by holding up either the blue side for Magnifico, or the red side for Sly!”

 

The decision is obvious to the vast majority of the live audience. Cheering happily, approximately sixty thousand fans raise their red squares, greatly outnumbering the Ukrainians who realize Sly should of won the match.

 

Funyon quickly surveys the audience before speaking once more. “The winner, by crowd decision...EL LUCHADOOOOOOOOORE MAGNIFICOOOOOOOO!!”

 

“For Christ’s sake.” King grumbles, rubbing his temples.

 

“Well, it’s not the most conventional of victories.” LDP admits. “But ELM took advantage of the rules, and it paid off.”

 

Austin has already started making his way to back, completely digusted. He argues and curses at the fans at ringside, rightly blaming them for his loss.

 

“Well, that match pretty much turned out how I expected.” LDP comments. “Coming up next, Ejiro Fasaki defends his World Heavyweight Title against that young up and coming robot, Ghost Machine! Stay tuned!”

[chirs3 0]

“King, so far tonight has been what the people around the world expect of the SWF, and that is grand entertainment. Wouldn’t you say so?” Pete expresses and then asks…

 

“Of course.” King continues, “The SWF always delivers in th…”

 

“I’m Born…”

 

“I’m Alive…”

 

“I Breathe…”

 

The familiar words appear on the Smarktron as the fans rise to their feet and cheer as if they are getting something special.

 

“What is he doing out here???” King wonders.

 

The cheers soon get louder as the man himself walks out in front of the excited Ukraine crowd. Zyon dressed in green shorts and a black shirt with tribal symbols artistically drawn in random spots on the shirt. The “Unique Youth” also comes out wearing a black hat with the word “Element” wrote across it. The hat in particular is being wore backwards proving that Zyon in a way is really no different than most of the youth of today.

 

“You stare at me like I'm a vitamin.

On the surface you hate,

but you know you need me.

I'll come dressed as any pill you deem fit.

Whatever helps you swallow truth all the more easily.”

 

The chorus kicks in to “Vitamin” as Zyon makes his way down the ramp with the SWF hardcore title firmly around his waist. The hardcore champ takes the time to smack a few hands as he gets on to the apron and instead of doing his usual flashy entrance he simply enters the casual way and goes over to where Funyon is standing and asks for a mic as the music fades…

 

“Well King it seems we have been joined by Zyon the hardcore champ.” Pete announces.

 

“ZY~ON!!!”

 

The fans bring the markish chant as the rookie sensation takes his time before raising the mic to his mouth for the first time in his SWF tenure…

 

“Ya know one month ago I was just like each one of you; doing what I need to do to get by and anything extra would be pretty cool.” The youth says his fist words in the SWF ring and continues by raising five fingers into the air. “Five weeks later I find myself, now correct me if I’m wrong, but I find myself adored by millions across the world…”

 

“YEEEEAAAHHHHH!!!”

 

The fans approve, but King does not. “They are all sheep, I’m telling you Pete.”

 

Pete ignores King for the moment as he and everyone else is interested in the “Unique Youth.”

 

“I also find myself given catchy nicknames, and maybe the planets aligned or something but I most importantly find myself wearing this baby.” Zyon says as he points at the hardcore title around his waist before continuing. “To be honest this seems like one big fictional story that the critics hate, but you the people love. Now if this is a story, it is indeed MY story.” The youth states causing the crowd to cheer before settling back down to listen to the hardcore champion.

 

“Zyon letting the people know about his bid’ness.” Pete says.

 

“By the way a so called winning streak means absolutely nothing. Every night I come out here I expect my skill and my skill alone to bring me victory. So far my story has been a full on fairy tale where I have been living happily ever after. But please don’t get it twisted, I expect to win, but I am not afraid of losing.” Zyon points out before continuing, “Hell tonight is easily going to be my biggest challenge, and you know what…I expect to win.” Zyon says before being interrupted by the cheers from the crowd…

 

“Seems the rookie has let his winning ways go to his head.” King thinks.

 

Pete on the other hand scolds King, “Have you been listening to a thing he has said?”

 

Zyon continues, “Sure tonight I’m stepping in the ring with two of the best SWF performers tonight, oh and you don’t have to believe me but your eyes don’t lie and when they step through the curtain tonight you will see the proof in the form of a title similar to mine. If that doesn’t tell you that they are good then I don’t know what will. And yes I have also heard the critics saying that giving a “rookie” a chance at a world title would be bad for business…or whatever. Tonight I am telling everyone to forget what you have heard; the winner tonight straight up deserves what they will be getting and anyone who believes some bogus critic then you are just lost, man.” Zyon explains his thoughts on tonight’s match before continuing…

 

“Since some would describe my stay in the SWF up to this point as a story, well let me give you a preview of what I hope the next chapter will be.” Zyon stops before listening to the cheers as he adjusts his hat a bit before continuing. “After tonight I hope to be able to tell people that the next chapter in my story is titled “Zyon, new SWF world heavyweight champ.”

 

And with those words Zyon drops the mic and gives crowd a little grin followed by him exiting the ring as “Vitamin” hits the PA…

 

“Well Zyon just gave those at home even more reason to watch tonight’s number one contender match.” Pete adds before…

 

Commercial Break

[chirs3 0]

“This next contest is set for one fall and is for the Smarks Wrestling Federation Heavyweight CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WOORRRRRRRRRRRLD,” starts out Funyon as the crowd rises in interest. For they know that history is about to be made once again with a classic contest that will be unsurpassed anywhere in the entire universe.

 

BEEP! BEEP! I MAY BE A ROBOT!

 

Coming into the arena sans manager extraordinary JL Crunk, the masked Ghost Machine stomps into view of the crowd and starts to spit (oil?) all over them with big old goobers. The spit just hangs off the faces of many people, as they love the homosexual hater of bigotry but only in a spiritual way. This is the moment they have been waiting for, they have seen Ghost Machine beat Manson and Bryan Rodgers with the mighty power of a maybe robot. But will he be able to do the same to Ejiro Fasaki who I have under good terms… may be a dinosaur?

 

Stepping over the top rope, Ghost Machine walks into the ring and spits on the referee and Funyon who probably are racist but definitely aren’t robots. “Introducing first… he weighs in at 312 pounds and comes to us from the capital of professional wrestling PARTS UNKNOWNNNN. This is the GHOOOOOOST MACHINNNNNNNNNNNNNNE!”

 

POPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOP!

 

“And his opponent, hailing from Sarasota, Florida and weighs in tonight at 223 pounds. He is the current and reigning Smarks Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Champion of the World… this is the RULE of EJIROOOOOOOOOO FASAKEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

 

Coming down the aisle with no robot noises whatsoever and significantly less spitting, The World Champion strides down the aisle way while dropping his robe off on the way to the ring. Rolling underneath the bottom rope, Ejiro quickly scales the middle ropes and raises his belt high into the air as he thumps his own chest much to the delight of the crowd. Dropping off the ropes, Ejiro immediately hands the belt to referee Viktor Zangief who may be the same guy from Street Fighter II. Okay so he is the guy from Street Fighter II but that’s not all that important. Okay maybe it will be.

 

“This will be an interesting contest,” recalls Longdogger Pete. “The undefeated Ghost Machine has managed to walk through everyone in his way to this contest with what only can be described as complete and utter regard for the human condition.”

 

The Suicide King replies, “Well he could actually be a robot so… Wait… he might be a GOD DAMNED ROBOT!?!?! I need a drink. Or six.”

 

Giving both men their last-minute instructions, Zangief calls for the bell to begin this World Title contest. Jumping out with the sound of the bell, Ghost Machine wraps his hands around the throat of the World Champion and immediately pushes him backward into a corner. Charging ahead with an axe handle, The Ghost Machine finds no one at home as Ejiro ducks out of the path of the three hundred pound man machine. Immediately cracking Ghost under the jaw with a right hand, Ejiro peppers the big man repeatedly until Machine responds with a simple knee to the chest that sends the World Champion backward to the canvas. Plucking Ejiro off the mat by the throat, Ghost Machine ignores the referee’s orders as he uses one arm to hoist the champion off the canvas and to his feet. Keeping his grip, The Ghost Machine picks Fasaki off the canvas and over his head with a military press. Holding Fasaki up in the air, Machine walks about the ring while easily pushing the lighter Champion up and down again with scary ease before simply jus dropping him forward with a slam that causes Ejiro to bounce a full foot off the canvas before settling to the mat.

 

“Not just a robot… a 26-year old homosexual robot who dates a hip hop record executive. Where is my stinking drink?”

 

Grabbing Ejiro off the canvas once again, Ghost Machine moves in behind the Champion and clamps down on his shoulders with a nerve hold that immediately pushes Rule down to a knee before The Machine uses the hold to straiten Ejiro up on his vertical base. Getting the Champion where he wants him Ghost Machine cracks his forehead into the base of Fasaki’s skull with a head BUTT that crosses the champion’s eyes for a moment before Ghost Machine simply lets him collapse to the mat once again.

 

“You have to admit that Ghost knows how to use his size and power in order to dominate that action against a veteran Champion,” calls out Longdogger Pete as he desperately tries to keep King on point.

 

“Look he’s sweating! Do robots sweat? Do they sweat? NO! That’s because they’re robots!”

 

Leaning backward against the ropes, Machine comes back and looks to drop an elbow on the prone World Champion only to have Ejiro roll out of the way well in time to avoid the contact. Impacting against the mat though, Ghost sits back up almost immediately only to get kicked across the face with a dropkick as Fasaki tries to rally over the opening assault. Knocked back a few steps, Ghost Machine wipes the impact off his face for a moment before taking another dropkick across the chest that this time sends Machine to the canvas. Popping up immediately, The Machine stumbles a bit as Fasaki tries to keep the pressure on with a hammering series of elbows to the side of the head. Rattling Ghost Machine’s cage with the elbows, Fasaki sprints into the far ropes for a full head of steam before crushing the larger man under a running elbow that sends the convulsing Machine down to the canvas.

 

“See a robot,” continues The Suicide King, “does not have a brain that can be concussed up against the skull. They would just have a bunch of chips and stuff that wouldn’t be effected by a damn elbow.”

 

Getting up to a knee almost immediately, The Machine finds himself in the middle of a buzz saw as Ejiro Fasaki hammers him with punches and kicks before the big man get back up to his feet. But Fasaki cannot defend against the power as the big man puts a hand on his opponent’s chest and pushes the much smaller Fasaki across the ring. Getting to his feet in a flash, Ejiro tries to press his advantage but ends up on the wrong end of a double axe handles across the chest! Flopping to the canvas in a heap, Ejiro clutches at his chest for a moment before spraying out flat against the canvas as The Ghost Machine wanders into the ropes in order to clear the cobwebs out from the minor battering Ejiro dished out. Coming out of his haze, the big maybe robot comes out to snag the rising Ejiro around the head before chucking him into the ropes. Raising up a leg as Fasaki comes back into range, Ghost Machine puts a boot into the jaw of his opponent and sends the Rule tumbling to the canvas in a heap. Dropping down in one fluid motion, Ghost Machine wraps up a leg for…

 

ONNNNNNNNNNNNNE!

 

 

TWEOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

 

THRENOAHOOOOOOOO!

 

Getting a shoulder up and off the canvas, Ejiro keeps his World Title alive as The Ghost Machine looks to were his moral support JL Crunk would normally be stationed. But having been banned from ringside, the homosexual lover of the Ghost Machine is no where to be found and so the masked man sheds a small tear. But this contest is still well in hand as the dominant Ghost hauls Ejiro up to a knee before placing his head into a standing head scissors. Looking out to the crowd, Ghost Machine knows that this contest is almost over.

 

“Here comes the piledriver,” calls out LDP as Ghost continues to waist time pandering to the people. “You know if he hits this not only will we have the biggest upset in SWF history but we will be crowning a World Champion the likes of which we have never seen!”

 

“Because he thinks he MAY be a robot! This worse than the guy that thought he was the Norse god of thunder! Or the guy that thought he was actually Jack the Ripper! What’s next? I know that 12 foot tall vampire with laser beam eyeballs is just around the corner!”

 

But as The Ghost Machine holds Ejiro there, the World Champion drops down a little bit before rising right back up!

 

DING!

 

Using the back of his head as a weapon, Ejiro slams into the groin of his opponent with savage efficiency that folds Machine into a ball as referee Viktor Zangief rules the move accidental. Looking at the official, Ejiro shrugs as though he had no idea what he just did as Ghost Machine’s vocal octave finds a higher note than he could have ever thought possible. His eyes crossed through the mask, The Ghost Machine barely can see strait as he looks up just in time to catch an incoming kick and shuck it to one side…

 

KEEEEEEEEEEEERACK!

 

“DRAAAAAAAAAAGONNNNNNNNNN WHIPAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Rolling off the perfectly executed spin kick, Ejiro catches the big man under the chin with the heel of his boot. Rocked to his core, Ghost Machine flops backward into the canvas with a certain limpness that can only be shown off by the truly unconscious.

 

ONNNNNNNNNNNNNE!

 

 

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

 

“Ghost Machine was so crossed up by the low blow that he couldn’t defend against the dragon whip! The World Champion … well… he cheated his way to another victory! The big man simply got caught flat footed and paid the price!”

 

“And he’s NOT A ROBOT! NOT A ROBOT!”

 

Funyon calls out into his microphone, “The winner of this contest.., and STILLLLLLL SWF Heavyweight Champion of the WORRRRRRRRRLD EJIROOOOOOOO FASAKEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

 

Getting to his feet, Ejiro receives the World Championship belt from the referee and rolls to the outside as Ghost Machine slowly stumbles to his feet. Leaving his dejected challenger to deal whatever else might happen, Fasaki heads all the way to the back as Ghost Machine finally straitens up and staggers into a corner. But rather than deal with the realism of defeat, Machine takes umbrage with the official for not stopping the contest after the low blow. Shoving the official backward, Ghost Machine cocks back a fist as the crowd starts to murmur that something bad is about to happen to someone. Because this is not some normal piddling referee… this is VIKTOR FUCKING ZANGIEF!

 

SPINNING MOTHER F’N LARIAT!

 

Smashing Ghost Machine under the jaw, the spinning lariat knocks the big man right back on his ass with the power of a man who wrestles bears for fun. But that is not all as Zangief immediately pulls Ghost Machine up to his feet and tucks his head for THEE most devastating video fighting game maneuver in all of 2D HISTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORY.

 

360 PILEDROOOOOOOOVEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

 

Oh baby.

[chirs3 0]

"Ladies and gentlemen, your following contest is scheduled for on...what the?"

 

Funyon is cut off in mid-sentence as "All For You" by Janet Jackson hits. Mass confusion falls on the crowd who have obviously forgotten the brief Women's Division (then again, who can blame them), until Megan Skye walks through the curtains to a pop.

 

 

"What is this now?" questions Pete, as Megan walks solemnly to the ring. "We were ready for our next match, but unless I missed the memo, the Women's Division is dead."

 

"And good riddance!"

 

"Yeah...anyway, Megan Skye coming out here. I wonder why."

 

Megan climbs up the steps and it seems Funyon's been tampling in the evil rumours too as he hurries across and holds the ropes open for Megan, checking she's okay. Megan seems confused, but shrugs it off and takes the mic from the departing Funyon. The crowd are still cheering, as Megan stands in the centre of the ring.

 

"This has been waiting long enough. Landon...could you come out here please? We need to talk."

 

Some of the crowd (ie. the English speakers) 'oooooooooohhhhhh' as if in the audience of Friends, or some other such crap, as Megan turns to the entrance way...

 

 

"PREPARE...FOR...LANDON!"

 

...WAAAAAHHHHH...

 

*DUM DUM*

 

 

"YYYYYYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

And the crowd erupt, as Landon Maddix appears. Looking as confused as many in the crowd, Maddix walks to the ring, wondering why Megan can't seem to make eye contact with him.

 

"Ask and you shall recieve. I guess we're going to get some answers here, King."

 

"Did I ever tell you how much I hate sitcoms. And soap operas."

 

"No..."

 

"And Landon Maddix."

 

"Oh yeah. I seem to remember that one."

 

Maddix rolls into the ring and asks for a mic. Meanwhile, Megan turns slowly around to face Maddix. Off mic, Maddix asks his long-term manageress what's going on, but Megan holds her hand up to him.

 

"Landon..." Megan finally begins, waiting for the crowd to quieten down. "I've been sitting back on this secret for far too long and I can't sit on it anymore. It's been eating me apart to see what's happened to your confidence ever since Battleground and our...'celebration'. And I really should have told you before, I know. But please, when I tell you...don't be mad. And know that there's a reason behind this."

 

Maddix still looks completely beffudled.

 

"See, that 'special night' we shared after Battleground. Well...it wasn't as 'special' as I made it out to be. Infact, there...there was...no special night."

 

As if he couldn't look more confused, Maddix somehow manages it. Megan stops, running her hand through her hair, trying to find the right words.

 

"I lied to you. There was no night. Nothing...nothing...happened between you and me."

 

 

Maddix: "What!?!"

 

Pete: "What!?!"

 

King: "WHAT!?! $5 for nachos!?! Who do you think I am, Bill Gates? Get out of here...hey, Pete, what did I miss?"

 

Turning away from Maddix, Megan hangs her head shamefully. Obviously, she doesn't want to see Maddix's reaction. She certainly doesn't expect to hear it. Especially in the form of...laughter. Maddix is laughing. Megan looks up curiously, as Maddix is howling away in front of her, laughing away.

 

"Landon...I'm telling you the truth."

 

"No you're not. Look..."

 

"No...listen." Megan asserts, stopping Maddix. "There was a...'moment'. You were drunk and we did end up back in your room. But, when you came on to me, and it was you not me, I couldn't do anything with you. I just couldn't. We're more like brother and sister than 'guy and gal', Landon. I couldn't possibly do anything with you. So I made sure you got sleep okay and then I left. I took your key so I could check you were okay in the morning. That's how I let the camera guy in. Nothing happened."

 

Maddix holds his hand up, stopping Megan...and shakes his head.

 

"You expect me to believe that?"

 

"Yes."

 

"You're kidding me, right? Please...you've wanted me since day ONE! Ever since I arrived in the SJL, you've been flitting around me, one way or another, flirting like crazy. There's always been a...a...spark between us. Even when you were grabbing my leg, slapping me around the face, trying to cost me matches. Even then, there was a spark. Don't deny it Megs. All this time, something was destined to happen. And now it has...you deny it? I don't understand you. I thought I knew you but obviously I don't. So, please, let me in on the real secret. What's wrong with you exactly? Don't tell me you're one of those 'high school cult, born again virgins' people, please. Megs, the thing with those cults is, you can only be born again once. And you've already used up at least five that I know of..."

 

 

*SLAP~!*

 

"YEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

Maddix clutches his cheek as Megan holds her cheeks as well, only in shock at what she's just done. Trying to apologise, Megan tries to check if Maddix is okay, but Maddix brushes her off, storming across the opposite side of the ring.

 

"Please, don't be mad..."

 

"Mad? Mad? I'm not the mad one here toots!!" Maddix starts pacing a little, back and forth, back and forth. "I'm not the one in denial!!"

 

"Landon...this isn't helping anyone."

 

"So, please, help ME then. Tell me why it is you TOLD me you slept with me and now, you TELL me you DIDN'T?"

 

A couple of the fans shout out answers, but Maddix doesn't seem to hear them. Or understand them. The only answer he wants is from Megan.

 

"I never 'told' you anything La..."

 

"You let me assume though, didn't ya? Didn't ya? And why? Why would you do that?"

 

"I couldn't do anything with you...because...I'm...I'm..."

 

"Gay? A nun? Ridden with STDs? What is it!?!"

 

"I'm in...lovewithTodd."

 

.....

 

Megan cowers a little as Maddix...laughs again.

 

"So you DO know where he is!" smiles Maddix, clearly missing the point. "Why didn't you say so when I asked?"

 

"I'm not talking about 'Todd'. I'm talking about...Todd."

 

"..."

 

"Todd...Cortez."

 

"YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

Glancing to his left, Maddix seems confused still...until finally, everything sinks in. Head hanging, Maddix turns away from Megan and before he can do anything he would regret, begins to leave the ring. But he's stopped by Megan who grabs him by the arm, desperatly trying to explain. Maddix tries to pull away, but Megan hangs onto him, begging him not to leave...

 

 

 

...UNTIL MADDIX SHOVES HER TO THE MAT!!!

 

"OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

 

"Oh, my."

 

With a mixed expression of shock and sorrow over what he's done, Maddix looks over to where Megan has landed, sitting up and clutching her right knee. Maddix seems apologetic as he walks over to Megan. But she cowers, not knowing what to expect. Just as Maddix gets close though, the knight in shining armour himself arrives.

 

"YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

"IT'S TODD CORTEZ!!"

 

Cortez sprints down the aisle, sliding into the ring and positioning himself between Maddix and Megan! The crowd are on their feet now as Maddix and Cortez go face to face for a moment. Before Maddix sighs, looks down at his feet and throws his hands up.

 

"I don't think Maddix meant what he did, King. And I think Cortez knows that."

 

"He's taking no chance though, is he?"

 

Cortez can be seen mouthing the word 'GO' to Maddix, who nods slowly and turns to leave. Meanwhile, Cortez turns to Megan, checking she's okay.

 

 

 

*SMACK!*

 

 

...BUT SUDDENLY GETS SUPERKICKED FROM BEHIND!!!

 

"WHAT THE!!!"

 

"I told you Pete! I've been telling you for near six months now...this kid CANNOT be trusted. And you didn't listen."

 

Cortez slumps unconsciously to the mat, much to the shock of Megan, who crawls closer to him and checks he's okay. Watching all this is Landon Maddix, who doesn't look quite sure of what he's just done. Maddix takes a long look as Megan checks on Cortez...and finally leaves the ring, getting booed as he does so. The boos continue as Maddix walks up the ramp, head turned away from the not-so-happy couple.

 

"I don't believe this."

 

"Man, Sex And The City was never this good Pete!"

 

"Martial Law have fallen apart here. And what the hell is going through Landon Maddix's head? He just shoved down his manager...his...his friend for so long. And then, he superkicks Todd Cortez too? I understand why he's angry, that he's got so much on his mind. But there was no call for any of that!"

 

Maddix disappears through the curtains, getting one last torrent of boos as he disappears. Back in the ring meanwhile, Megan and Cortez are still on the mat. Megan tries to ease Cortez back into consciousness, taking one last glance towards Maddix...but he's gone.

 

"Uh, we'd best take a break."

 

"Please do. I need to chase up that damn nacho guy."

 

"Is that all you can think about at a time like this? Besides, the last thing you need with your figure is more nachos. Let's go to a break..."

[chirs3 0]

The roving eye of the SWF fan comes backstage to find the NEW and 4-TIME Smarks Wrestling Federation Tag Team Champions Wild and Dangerous. There Johnny Dangerous and Wildchild are undertaking a rather sedate championship celebration as they have been to the top of this mountain on more than one occasion.

 

"Four times," states Johnny as he lifts the symbol of the Four Horsemen into the air. "Man Dominic we are making one heck of a mark on the record books. Each and everytime people think we're done, we come right back to do what we do best. And in just a few weeks, I'm going to be World Champion once again and you're sure to get another shot at cruiserweight gold."

 

"Dat true brudda," replies The Human Hurricane as he pulls the straps down off his tights. "Pretty soon Wild n' Dangerous gonna have all da gold."

 

"And soon when I get that shot against Ejiro..."

 

"Speeking of which," comes a slightly higher voice from the doorway of the lockerroom. Standing there is the estranged sisiter of the current SWF World Champion Ejiro Fasaki, Melissa.

 

"Well helllllllllllo," smiles back the ladykiller Johnny Dangerous as he smiles brightly at a fresh piece of tail.

 

"Down boy," coos Melissa with a smile, "I was wondering if I could have a moment with your partner?"

 

"Sure thing baby," replies The Baracuda, "be careful with my boy though I still need him mobile."

 

Winking at the lady in question, Johnny heads to the door and out into the hallway leaving Wildchild and Melissa alone (except for the camera of course, but they don't count).

 

“I wanted to thank you, by the way,” Melissa says as she rubs Dominic’s shoulder.

 

“What was dat wit Ejiro all about, anyway?”

 

“I’m… I guess I’m just afraid of what’s been going on with Jerry lately.”

 

Dominic looks confused. “What d’you mean?”

 

“Well,” replies Melissa, “ever since Toxxic gave me a concussion, Jerry’s been… uncomfortable to be around; I can feel the anger radiating from him, you know? I’m sure you can remember what he’s like when he’s fired up?”

 

Dominic nods. “I remember well; he can be a mean little cuss when he’s angry.”

 

“Exactly!” continues Melissa. “And I’m afraid that Toxxic has brought that evilness back out of him, which scares me to death! I never liked to be around Ejiro when he got that way; it’s like he’s not in control of himself!”

 

“Well,” you don’ have t’worry about dat anymore,” Dominic says reassuringly. “He’s not gon’ t’do anyt’ing t’you while I’m around!”

 

“Aww, that’s so sweet!” says Melissa, smiling as she strokes Dominic’s cheek. “You know, when I used to travel with Jerry, I mostly only got to hang around guys like Bill and Tom; Jerry told me that I wouldn’t want to waste my time hanging out with guys like you… but now that I’m starting to get to know you, I can’t imagine why he’d want to keep me away from you; you’re such a great guy, Dominic! I feel so safe when I’m around you, I don’t know why Jerry would have thought that you’d be a bad influence on me?”

 

Dominic sniffs the air indignantly. “Bad influence?

 

Melissa waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, he used to say stuff like you would teach me bad habits, or something. Like, he was afraid that hanging around you would make me a bad wrestler, since I was still in training at the time.”

 

“The nerve of dat guy!” Dominic says angrily. “I can’t believe dat he would actually try t’keep you away from me; like he’s afraid dat you might actually like me!”

 

“Well, if he was, he was right,” replies Melissa, as she stands up. Listen, I need to go find Jerry and try to talk to him, but thanks for letting me babble on for a while; I had a lot of fun!”

 

“Hey, me too!” replies Dominic. “You don’ know how long it’s been since I’ve smiled dis much!” Dominic’s eyes then widen in shock as Melissa kisses him on the top of his head. “What was dat for?”

 

“For luck, silly!” replies Melissa. “After all, in this business, you need all the luck you can get."

 

 

 

 

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-

-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-

-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

 

 

 

 

“And we’re back,” says Longdogger Pete, “after what was certainly one hell of a world title match.”

 

“After that performance,” Suicide King admits, “I think it’s safe to say Ghost Machine will be taken seriously. He surprised a lot of people tonight, and rightfully so.”

 

“Moving on,” Pete continues, “it’s now time for a match that some people would say has no reason to happen. Toxxic won a hard-fought victory over his former teammate Scott Pretzler on Lockdown – Pretzler, unwilling to accept the loss, has asked for a rematch. And not just any match. This contest will be fought under hardcore rules, at least in theory. In practice, both men have agreed to adhere to the stipulations of regular competition – but you’ve got to wonder whether the bargain will hold up.”

 

“Why shouldn’t it?” King demands. “Toxxic and Pretzler are two of the most honest and rule-abiding performers in the SWF, and have been friends for quite some time. Your suspicions are unfounded and border on slander.”

 

“Geez, I was just trying to add excitement to the match. It’s my job, after all.”

 

“And I was just trying to insult you and make you feel uncomfortable. Which is my job.”

 

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” booms Funyon, cutting off the commentators’ allegedly witty banter. “The following contest is a HARDCORE MATCH scheduled for ONE FALL!”

 

As the rousing opening notes of Beethoven’s Ninth symphony begin to play, Scott Pretzler appears on the entryway with his new belt fastened tightly around his waist. He pauses and puts his hands on his hips, surveying the brutish Eastern European crowd with contempt.

 

“Introducing first, from Toronto, Ontario, weighing two hundred twenty-six pounds, he is the SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION… SCOTT PUUUUUH-REEEETZLEEER!”

 

Pretzler smiles smugly as the announcement is made and continues walking down the ramp, ignoring the boos, jeers, profanities, and power tools being hurled at him by the audience. He takes his time mounting the steps and stands proudly in the ring.

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

The Smarktron screen goes white as the opening chord of 'Rookie' by Boy Sets Fire crashes out over the arena. The screen darkens and as it hits black the familiar slogan flashes up one word at a time in jagged white letters:

 

'PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG'

 

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

 

*BAM-BAM-BAM-bap-BOOOM!!*

 

-that signifies the arrival of the SWF's premier straight-edger! Toxxic appears through the smoke and pyro after-image and tears down the ramp at top speed, sliding under the bottom rope before popping up to his feet. The shirt he is wearing, though black, is conspicuously not the trademark ‘Hardcore Punk’ shirt he usually has on during hardcore matches.

 

”And his opponent, from Nottingham, England, weighing two hundred eighteen pounds… ‘THE STRAIGHT-EDGE SENSATION’ TOXXXX-IIIIIIIIIIC!”

 

Toxxic in the centre of the ring for a moment or two, then just as the first verse is about to begin he throws his arms wide, palms down, and each turnbuckle explodes with more red pyro!

 

*bap-bap*

 

*BOOOM!!*

 

'I never thought this could be me,

I guess you never do until it's happening to you

Like all the fun turns into shame

And all the 'could-have-beens' rearrange...'

 

He takes off his shirt and throws it to the outside, then turns his back to the shrieking legions of overweight teenage girls who suddenly lower their hands toward dark places. He stands in the corner opposite Pretzler and regards him with a look that’s not quite a glare. Pretzler does likewise.

 

*DING DING DING!*

 

At the sound of the bell, Pretzler advances aggressively, his arms extended, hoping to initiate a collar-and-elbow tieup. Toxxic backs away but remains crouched and alert just like his opponent. They circle for a moment, then Pretzler darts forward and attempts to tackle Toxxic by the legs – the speedier Brit jumps back and Pretzler catches nothing but air, and for a moment is on his knees. Toxxic considers going for a dropkick to the face, but instead waits for Pretzler to stand and drops to the mat himself. As he did last time, he straightens his body out and goes for a baseball slide between the legs of Pretzler…

 

*WHAM!*

 

…who reacts by sitting down abruptly and dropping a leg across the back of Toxxic’s neck! As his former teammate lands face-first on the canvas, Pretzler hooks him in a crucifix position and rolls him forward onto his shoulder blades, pinning them to the mat.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

TW—No!

 

Toxxic kicks out forcibly, not wanting to fall victim to his own strategy early in the match – but it seems too late for that, as Pretzler swoops behind him while he’s only halfway to his feet and pulls him into a backslide.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

Kickout!

 

Using the force of the escape to carry him into a backward roll that puts him on his feet once more, Toxxic moves in with the intent of executing an arm drag. Pretzler catches him in a headlock and flips him onto his back quite violently. Once again, he finds himself pinned.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

No!

 

He gets his shoulders off the mat, but Pretzler still has him trapped in a grounded headlock. The Canadian’s hands are clasped together, making the hold airtight, and he leans forward again to make a cover.

 

ONE—No!

 

Toxxic is even more forceful this time, barely giving Pretzler a one-count before jerking his left shoulder off the mat and turning inward toward him. He reaches up and shoves his palm against Pretzler’s chin – not a strike, just a way of causing enough discomfort to force Pretzler to break the hold. Instinctively, the Cruiserweight Champion cranes his head backward to avoid further pain, which actually makes him stretch Toxxic’s neck even more.

 

“An interesting strategy from Pretzler,” Pete observes, “using a combination of flash pins and his typical headlocks to keep his opponent off-balance.”

 

“If you notice, though,” adds King, “he even milks the headlock for pinfalls. Toxxic used many quick pins early on in their last match, which made Pretzler more susceptible to the Oklahoma Roll that finished him. Could Pretzler have something similar in mind?”

 

“Well, it’s—“

 

“Don’t answer that. You’re not smart enough.”

 

Not at all enjoying having his neck turned into a slinky, Toxxic turns inward toward Pretzler and tries to heave himself up to a sitting position, only to have Pretzler push him back down with the still-snug headlock. Toxxic tries one more technique: he curls his legs back and manages to ensnare Pretzler in a headscissors. Straightening out his body, he uses his newly acquired hold on Pretzler’s vulnerable neck to drag him down onto his back and break the headlock. Pretzler kicks his legs out and escapes the headscissors before any damage can be done to him. Toxxic is free, though, and he kips up energetically.

 

“YEEEAAAHHH!”

 

The crowd pop is more for the move than for Toxxic himself, but it raises his spirits as he comes face-to-face with his opponent. As soon as he lands on his feet, Pretzler runs at him, trying to hook him in another side headlock, but Toxxic is ready. He wraps his arms around Pretzler’s waist and hits a back body drop.

 

*WHAM!*

 

Pretzler is momentarily stunned by the fall, and the momentum of his pinfall sequence comes to an abrupt halt. Bouncing up to his feet, Toxxic fires off a quick standing moonsault that dumps him on top of his downed opponent, then hooks the leg.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

No!

 

Pretzler isn’t staying down from that, but Toxxic has regained the momentum and now the Straight-Edge Sensation has a moment to play with. Scott Pretzler rolls over and starts to push himself up, but Toxxic takes the opportunity to grab a front facelock and then execute a quick swinging neckbreaker to bring the Critic back down to the mat. As Scott Pretzler grabs the back of his neck Toxxic is back up again, then goes to the ropes and steps out to the apron. Pretzler starts to get back to his feet again, clearly not registering where his opponent has got to…

 

…and Toxxic hops up, then springboards off the top rope to deliver a flipping neckbreaker to his former stablemate!

 

*BANG!*

 

Scott Pretzler hits the mat again, but now Toxxic is on a roll. Instead of waiting for Pretzler to stand up of his own accord Toxxic takes hold of his opponent’s head and rolls him back up to his feet, then grabs another front facelock. However, Pretzler is expecting this and abruptly twists out to the side, coming up behind Toxxic with a hammerlock that he then expertly transitions into a chickenwing before looking for the crossface with his left arm!

 

“Pretzler going for the Crossface Chickenwing, and it’s worth noting that both men seem to have a slightly more aggressive streak in this match!” Pete comments.

 

Meanwhile Toxxic is fighting the Double C, but then the straight-edger notices the proximity of the ropes and starts to force himself backwards, driving Pretzler into the corner. Both men touch the ropes and referee Brian Warner starts to step in, then remembers it’s a hardcore match…

 

…and Scott Pretzler releases his hold, allowing Toxxic to step away!

 

“See? See?” Suicide King laughs at Longdogger Pete. “Didn’t I tell you they’d honour their agreement? They’re men of their word!”

 

Toxxic shakes out his right arm and turns around to face his opponent, giving a nod to acknowledge the fact that Pretzler has kept his promise and honoured the ropebreak despite not needing to under the rules of the match. However, Scott Pretzler isn’t going to let his advantage diminish any further and so he lunges forwards at his former leader, managing to secure a collar-and-elbow tie-up as Toxxic instinctively raises his arms to engage him. The Critic then begins pushing, slowly forcing Toxxic backwards across the ring.

 

“So despite the ‘gentleman’s agreement’, is this Scott Pretzler using a little psychological warfare?” Longdogger Pete asks as the Canadian slowly muscles his opponent back towards the opposite corner. “After all, we know that Toxxic doesn’t like to be outdone in any way!”

 

“Psychological warfare can only be a good thing,” King answers. “For one thing, Toxxic used to be in it.”

 

“Yes, a tag team with Jimmy Liston. That’s certainly something to brag about.”

 

Despite the Straight-Edge Sensation’s best efforts he is forced back almost right across the ring to the opposite corner, where Scott Pretzler again breaks his hold despite no urging from the referee. Pretzler can’t help but smirk a little as he backs away… then suddenly lashes out!

 

*CRACK!*

 

“WHOOOOOOOOO!”

 

After the initial wince of pain, Toxxic looks down at his chest in shock. His pale, Nottingham-tanned (read: rain-soaked) chest is turning bright red from the force of the blow.

 

“He just struck him!” Pete shouts. “In both their matches so far neither man has swung a fist in anger, but now Scott Pretzler has opened hostilities!”

 

Toxxic looks back up at Pretzler, who seems half-surprised himself. He’s going to be even more surprised in a second.

 

*WHAM!*

 

“European uppercut!” the Longdogger hollers as Toxxic sends his forearm crashing into Scott Pretzler’s jaw.

 

*WHAM!*

 

“YEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHH!”

 

*WHAM!*

 

“YEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHH!”

 

Whether it’s because they appreciated his gesture of sportsmanship at the end of his match with Danny Williams, or whether it’s because they just like to see two arrogant assholes finally laying into each other properly, the crowd responds amazingly positive to this burst of Toxxic offence as the Straight-Edge Sensation sends Pretzler staggering back across the ring. Toxxic hears it but he doesn’t believe it: nonetheless, he continues to hammer away now the gloves are off with a

 

RIGHT!

 

 

LEFT!

 

 

RIGHT!

 

 

LEFT!

 

 

Windup…

 

 

DISCUS CLOTHESLINE!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Toxxic ends up on his front from the momentum of the move, but quickly rolls over onto his back and kips up again which draws a further cheer from the crowd! A disbelieving grin on his face, Toxxic hits the ropes and then comes back to somersault forwards and drop a running Hangover legdrop across Pretzler’s throat, then covers his man as Warner drops to count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Pretzler kicks out well before the referee’s hand approaches the mat for the third time. Unfazed, Toxxic rolls off his opponent and grabs Pretzler’s legs, then turns the Critic over onto his front and begins to lock them together…

 

“Regal Stretch coming up!” Pete shouts, but this time the play-by-play man is too hasty as Scott Pretzler wakes up to his predicament and pulls himself across the canvas to the ropes. Toxxic makes a half-hearted attempt to tug his opponent away… then releases his grip and steps back, allowing Pretzler to rise to his feet unchallenged.

 

“You see, despite the slightly less genteel manner of this match, their agreement holds,” King preaches at LDP. “Shame on you to question the morality of these men!”

 

“I’m surprised you can even pronounce ‘morality’,” Pete grumbles, “unless it’s preceded by ‘lack of’.”

 

“Don’t try and be clever Pete,” the former Commissioner warns his commentary partner, “you’ll only embarrass yourself on international television, and that does me out of a paycheck.”

 

With his opponent back on his feet again Toxxic charges, looking to try and catch Pretzler off-balance, but the Critic is quicker than he seems and he ducks at the last moment before straightening again to back bodydrop the onrushing straight-edger clean over the top rope to the floor!

 

“SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT…”

 

*WHAM!*

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

As the crowd chant in English to make their guests feel welcome, Scott Pretzler looks over the top rope down at the pained form of his friend(?). Granted, the Critic doesn’t seem quite as sorry for the result of his instinctive response as he might a couple of weeks ago, but nonetheless Scott Pretzler is quick to duck through the ropes and head out to the arena floor.

 

“Yes, he’s checking on him,” King tells Pete, “not exploiting an injury. And despite the no-countout rules, I rather doubt you’ll see Scott Pretzler stay out there for longer than the regular ten-count!”

 

“So this concern for his opponent would be why he’s picking Toxxic up and rolling him back in the ring?” Pete asks.

 

“He’s made sure Toxxic’s not seriously hurt, now he’s trying to win the match,” King replies easily. “There’s a balance between reasonable concern and Danny Williams-esque cissyness, after all.”

 

“King, two things,” LDP says as Pretzler hooks the leg…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THH-

-NO!

 

“One; I dare you to call Williams a cissy to his face,” the Miami Menace resumes as Toxxic gets a shoulder off the canvas, although not without considerable pain, “and two; that ‘cissy’ beat Toxxic on Smarkdown!”

 

“Fluke,” King responds immediately.

 

Before Pete can do much more than splutter a response, Scott Pretzler hauls his opponent up to a sitting position. From there the Critic applies a cravate, twisting Toxxic’s head painfully to one side between his forearms as he drops down to one knee. Whether the Critic is trapping his opponent in a wear-down hold in order to gain some more time for his aching head and neck or is actively doing it to piss off the fans, the Ukrainian fans are definitely feeling the latter.

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“You know, he really doesn’t,” Suicide King comments easily as the Critic simply smirks in the criticism of what he views as unwashed peasants. “If he did, I’m sure Riley would have told me.”

 

“King…”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

The chants are still going… but as the Cruiserweight Champion tries to add a little more torque to his hold and Toxxic begins to squirm in an attempt to free himself they start to change.

 

(“TOXXXXXX-IC…”)

 

(“TOXXXXXX-IC…”)

 

This does seem to throw Scott Pretzler somewhat, unable as he is to understand why people should be chanting for his former leader. While the Canadian looks around, wondering what’s going on, Toxxic suddenly fires an elbow sideways into his ribs. The unexpected impact knocks some of the air from Pretzler and his grip seems to loosen; regardless, Toxxic seems to take heart from something and tries again…

 

(“TOXXXXXXXX-IC…”)

 

Again the elbow thuds into Pretzler’s ribs, but the Critic has had enough of this and he releases the cravate only to drive his own elbow down hard into the back Toxxic’s neck, not once but twice! Despite this attack, Toxxic tries to scramble out of reach and manages to get to one knee before Pretzler clamps the cravate back on!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

Scott Pretzler smirks again, but Toxxic has had his taste of freedom and instantly starts trying to fight out again. More elbows smash into the Critic’s ribs to slacken his grip, and then Toxxic suddenly adjusts his own position. By twisting his own neck a little further he is able to stretch out a leg and hook the ropes…

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

…Scott Pretzler’s face twists into an agony of indecision…

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

…and with an angry shout, the Cruiserweight Champion lets go of his cravate and steps away! However, despite his adherence to their agreement the Canadian doesn’t hesitate to step back in and deliver a boot to Toxxic’s ribs before pulling his former leader upright and away from the cables, then twisting him around for a neckbreaker… but Toxxic lashes out with a back elbow to catch Pretzler on the temple, then reaches up to grab his opponent’s head himself before twisting back around to drive the Critic facefirst into his knee-

 

*CRUNCH-WHAM!*

 

-then dropping backwards to spike him on his head with a DDT and complete the Sobering Thought!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Pretzler flops onto his back and is motionless as Toxxic slides into the cover.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NO!

 

“Pretzler’s still down, but he’s not ready to quit,” says Pete. “And – this is amazing – the audience is actually cheering for Toxxic!”

 

“Maybe they’re not as stupid as I thought,” King replies cheerfully. “Although they did start the Cold War and everything.”

 

“That was the Russians. And our government bears just as much responsib—“

 

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

After kicking out, Pretzler rolls away from his assailant to avoid falling victim to a second cover. Toxxic crawls after him and tries to pick him up by the head, but Pretzler stands with the aid of the ropes and fires a low kick to the shin back in Toxxic’s direction. The Brit steps back warily… then runs forward and dropkicks him hard in the back of the head! Pretzler sags against the ropes and Toxxic drags him back into the center of the ring, still lying on his stomach. Instead of going for a cover, he crosses Pretzler’s and puts his own right leg between them as if to set up an Indian Deathlock before bridging back, catching the Canadian in an inside-out rear chinlock. Then, rolling sideways onto his stomach, he inverts the hold so Pretzler is looking up at the sky!

 

“TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!”

 

Pretzler has no intention of tapping, but his position is both painful and humiliating: his mastery of submission wrestling has been turned against him, and his lower extremities are bulging uncomfortably into the air for all to see. He shuts his eyes as a needle of pain shoots down his spine.

 

“TOXXXXXXXXX-IC!”

 

He reaches back and claws at his opponent’s hands, trying to separate them and break the hold. In response, Toxxic pulls even harder, causing Pretzler to inhale sharply. Desperately, the Critic whips his elbow down and feels it connect with his opponent’s kidney area. He repeats the strike, harder this time, and when Toxxic flinches he reaches up again and pries apart the handhold. Toxxic flops forward and Pretzler untangles his legs as quickly as possible, then flips over so he is on the straight-edger’s back. From here, he digs a knee into Toxxic’s chest and applies a crossface.

 

BOOOOOOOOO!

 

“Lightning-fast reversal from Pretzler,” gushes King, “turning the tide with lethal effectiveness.”

 

Realizing that he is still in a very vulnerable spot, Pretzler lowers his hands subtly so they are clamped around the neck instead of the face, then throws his legs out and presses himself flat against Toxxic’s back. The crossface has now been turned effectively into a chokehold. Pretzler squeezes fiercely.

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

As usual, this only serves to encourage Pretzler. He tightens the chokehold and Toxxic thrashes violently, an expression of shock and anger on his ever-reddening face. Pushing up on his forearms, he manages to roll over so he is on top of Pretzler, resulting in a brief pin—

 

ONE!

 

—But Pretzler holds on and carries him over onto his side. Toxxic, now much closer to the ropes, reaches for them.

 

“Toxxic must be feeling betrayed,” Pete says, “after the agreement he and Pretzler made prior to the match. Pretzler’s choking away like there’s no tomorrow.”

 

“So? It’s not even an illegal move in a normal match. And after those strikes Toxxic gave him, I think Pretzler is entitled to a chokehold or six.”

 

Feeling increasingly dizzy, Toxxic drags himself inch by inch toward the safety of the ropes. He reaches out… so close… just a foot away…

 

Six inches…

 

Three…

 

Two…

 

One…

 

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

 

Toxxic wraps his arm around the bottom rope and sighs with relief… until he remembers that no rope breaks are necessitated by a hardcore match. Indeed, Pretzler keeps his arms locked around the throat of his former teammate.

 

BOOOOOOOOO!

 

Seconds later, Pretzler voluntarily releases the hold and stands up, rubbing his neck as he waits for his opponent to recover. Toxxic pulls himself up to his feet while catching his breath and turns around to look at Pretzler. Their eyes meet, and for a moment they simply stand there, unmoving. Toxxic quivers with rage and stares as though demanding an answer. Pretzler’s response is to shrug his shoulders and ’tsk-tsk’ with the smarmiest of smirks. This causes Toxxic to lose control, and he rushes forward with both arms extended toward the Critic’s throat.

 

“YEEEAAAHHH!”

 

But Pretzler is expecting this and he catches Toxxic’s right arm, using it to perform an armbar takedown – Toxxic, however, immediately flips onto his back, then rolls to his feet and grabs Pretzler’s arm, securing it in a wristlock. In a rare moment of agility, Pretzler kips up and reverses the arm wringer, turning it into a hammerlock which he then uses to segue into the Crossface Chickenwing. Toxxic scrambles forward and hugs the top rope… and Pretzler shows great reluctance in letting go, releasing only the chickenwing portion of the hold. His patience exhausted, Toxxic snaps his free arm back and hits Pretzler with a STIFF elbow to the jaw, fully disentangling him from the submission move.

 

*CRACK!*

 

Pretzler staggers back, rubbing his jaw to make sure all of his teeth are in place. Toxxic grabs him by the hair and aims another European uppercut at the area.

 

*WHAM!*

 

To add further damage, he reaches around Pretzler’s neck and sits down, compressing the Cruiserweight Champion’s jaw against his shoulder.

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

The sit-out jawbreaker connects and Pretzler finally falls down to the mat where he flops about like a beached flounder. Toxxic stomps him once to keep him still, then hops to the second rope in the corner and leaps off, performing a twisting somersault into a leg drop across Pretzler’s throat.

 

“Corkscrew Hangover!” Pete exclaims. “It could be over!”

 

Feeling the same way, Toxxic leans over and hooks the leg of his opponent.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THR—No!

 

Toxxic is thrown onto his side by the force of the kickout. He stands up and considers ascending the turnbuckle a second time, then decides against it, turns around, and drops a standing fistdrop straight into the aching jaw of Pretzler. He covers with authority.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE—NO!!

 

As Pretzler kicks out again, Toxxic can be heard muttering something that sounds very much like ‘bloody twat!’ He gets up and hauls Pretzler to his feet, but is stopped by an elbow to the gut. Pretzler, still on his knees, drives in another elbow, then stands up and fires off a razor-sharp chop to the chest.

 

*SMACK!*

 

“WOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Toxxic is anticipating another chop and he tries to prevent it with an uppercut… but Pretzler ducks under and behind him and elbows him in the back of the neck. This catches him off-guard, and Pretzler follows it up by scooping him into a pendulum backbreaker. Toxxic cries out and reaches behind him reflexively, the pain in his back suddenly flaring up again. Sensing this, Pretzler shoves him over belligerently and drops a knee on his spine. Another knee drop follows. Pretzler locks on a grounded half nelson and hooks the leg, then, clenching tightly, rolls him into a pin.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THR—NO!

 

Toxxic uncurls his body and breaks out of the pin. He rolls away from Pretzler to keep from being pinned again, so the Canadian stands up and hits a sliding dropkick into the small of his back. This stops him, and Pretzler clamps on a rear waistlock, pulling him into a belly-to-back throw that dumps him on his stomach. He holds on and hauls the Straight-Edge Sensation to his feet, then attempts to heave him overhead in a high-angle German suplex.

 

*WHACK!*

 

But Toxxic blocks it with a back elbow to the head! Pretzler still doesn’t let go, and instead of suplexing Toxxic he simply drops down and plants him with a face-first takedown. This knocks the wind out of Toxxic, and Pretzler neatly crosses his legs before kneeling on his back and grabbing under his chin with the other hand. Rolling back, the Critic traps his opponent with a bow-and-arrow backbreaker.

 

“Do you submit?” asks referee Warner, since Toxxic is unable to physically tap out.

 

“NO!”

 

“Pretzler is now focusing all of his efforts on his opponent’s back,” Pete observes. “Which, as I recall, took heavy damage in their last encounter.”

 

The hold causes Toxxic’s spine to bend painfully, and his arms flail as he looks for an escape route. Pretzler digs both knees further into his back. He lies back contentedly, with no intention of releasing the submission… and suddenly becomes too comfortable, leaning back far enough for his shoulders to be pinned to the mat!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

NO!

 

He rocks forward, lifting his shoulder blades safely off the canvas. But he now faces another obstacle, as Toxxic reaches down with his left arm and slaps him across the face! He grunts, and Toxxic smacks him again. Pretzler still refuses to release the hold… but a quick eye rake would be enough to change that. Toxxic curls his fingers—NO! It’s not exactly cheating… but he won’t take the easy way out. He strikes Pretzler with his palm this time, hitting him in the jaw, and wrenches the Critic’s hand away from his chin. Slipping out of the hold, he retreats into the corner with his back to Pretzler. Pretzler stands up and follows him, hoping to finally hit the German suplex…

 

*CRACK!*

 

…And is caught out of nowhere with a superkick to the chin!

 

“YEEEEEAAAAAHHHH!”

 

He sways, still on his feet, so Toxxic shifts to the side and takes him out with a chop-block. He covers!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE—NO!!!

 

Pretzler kicks out at the very last millisecond. But he doesn’t have much left. Toxxic lifts him up and carries him over to the corner, then sits on the top rope. After a driving elbow to the throat, he puts Pretzler in a rear facelock and braces his feet against the second. The Final Shine is set up! But as Toxxic jumps, Pretzler hurls himself forward while at the same time using Toxxic’s momentum to throw the straight-edger overhead.

 

*WHAM!*

 

Toxxic lands hard on his back while Pretzler lays face-down.

 

“The Final Shine has been countered!” Pete hollers. “But who will be the first to capitalize?”

 

Still reeling from the impact of the superkick, Pretzler crawls over to Toxxic and picks him up. He stands behind the Brit and wraps both arms around his waist. He leans back, dropping Toxxic with a German suplex… and bridges for the pin!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE—NO!!!

 

Pretzler stares in disbelief, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He holds up three fingers for the referee, who shakes his head and shows only two. The Cruiserweight Champion smacks his forehead in frustration – but all is not lost. He hauls Toxxic to his feet once more.

 

“LET’S GO TOXXXXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXXXXX-IC!”

 

“Did you ever think you would hear those words, Pete?”

 

Pretzler reaches over Toxxic’s head and hooks him in a rear facelock. He signals to the audience with his left hand, then braces it against his opponent’s back.

 

“OOOOOOOOOH!”

 

“Here it comes,” says King, trembling with excitement. “Toxxic may be tough, but no one kicks out of the TILDEBANG~!”

 

But before Pretzler can lift him into the air, Toxxic reaches back and swings blindly with his right fist… and feels a satisfying crunch as it connects with the Critic’s jaw. Pretzler holds on and leans back anyway, trying to pull Toxxic off his feet—

 

*WHACK!*

 

—And Toxxic strikes him again! His hold loosens, and Toxxic ducks out of the facelock. Instead of turning around, he reaches up and grabs Pretzler’s head, then runs toward the corner post!

 

“YEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

 

He dashes to the first rope…

 

To the second…

 

To the third…

 

“INTOXXICATION!”

 

…And Pretzler pushes against his back with both hands, causing him to lose his grip and tumble over the top rope, past the apron…

 

Into a crumpled heap on the floor!

 

*WHUMP!*

 

“SWEET MOTHER OF MERCY!” King hollers.

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

Pretzler collapses onto his hands and knees, breathing heavily. Toxxic lies on the outside, twitching. Trying to boost his spirit, the audience begins to chant…

 

“TOXXXXXXXX-IC!”

 

“TOXXXXXXXX-IC!”

 

He begins to stir. Slowly, he rises to his feet.

 

“YEEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!”

 

But Pretzler is ready. He steps under the top rope and onto the apron, and when Toxxic is halfway up, he leaps outward and flips in the air…

 

…Ensnaring Toxxic in a flying Oklahoma Roll!

 

The referee slides out of the ring to make the cover:

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!

 

*DING DING DING!*

 

“Here is your winner… SCOTT PUUUUUH-REEEETZLEEER!”

 

Referee Warner helps Pretzler to his feet and raises his arm in victory. He walks over to the guardrail and leans against it, recovering his wind while he looks down at his opponent. Toxxic is still laying on his back, so Pretzler bends over and offers his hand. Toxxic accepts it and is assisted in standing… then shoves his teammate hard with both hands. Pretzler stumbles back, confused and indignant.

 

“What? I beat you. It was… perfectly fair!”

 

“You bloody… bloody wanker! No… no pins outside the ring. That’s what we said.”

 

Pretzler rolls his eyes and gestures vaguely with one hand on his hip.

 

“It was a hardcore match. You know, in the heat of the moment… Look, I just forgot—“

 

But Toxxic wants to hear none of it. He turns his back on Pretzler and walks away bitterly.

 

Pretzler shrugs.

Edited July 2, 2005 by chirs3

[chirs3 0]

FADE IN

 

“We’ve had a terrific night of action here on Storm,” says Longdogger Pete, “and it’s about to come to a head!”

 

“I’m strongly against this match, MacDougal!” snipes the Suicide King. “Neither Wildchild nor Zyon deserve to be competing for the Number One Contendership! First of all, Zyon is a rookie; sure, he’s been impressive in the handful of matches he’s had so far, but that shouldn’t shotgun him past the likes of Mak Francis and Spike Jenkins! And Wildchild is only just now starting to pull himself out of the worst slump of his career! Who has he beaten in the last month or so to merit this title shot?”

 

“King, I think that sustained excellence should count for something,” counters Pete. “Wildchild has shown, time and time again, that he has what it takes to compete at the World Championship level; the list of former World Champions that he’s beaten speaks for itself!”

 

“He never beat any of those guys when they were at the top of their game, so that stat shouldn’t count!” spits King. “Now, if you want to talk about deserving, let’s start with Jay Hawke! By all rights, Hawke should automatically be named the Number One Contender; he’s the International Champion, which should AUTOMATICIALLY make him the top contender! There shouldn’t even BE a match to decide this!”

 

“Well, if he’s really deserving of being the Number One contender,” says Pete, “he can prove it right now, as we send it up to Funyon in the ring!”

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” booms Funyon, “this… is the Main Event!”

 

 

RAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

Before Funyon can continue, the lights are cut out, leaving the stadium bathed in moonlight alone. Suddenly, the darkness is interrupted by the now-familiar words flashing across the SmarkTron:

 

 

“I’M BORN.”

 

 

 

 

“I’M ALIVE.”

 

 

 

 

“I BREATHE!”

 

 

 

“Vitamin” by Incubus begins to pump through the speakers as the rookie sensation Zyon bursts out onto the stage. The crowd begins to cheer for him as he runs down to the ring, leaping onto the apron to mug for the fans a little longer.

 

“The following contest is a Triple Threat match,” continues Funyon, “to determine the Number One contender to the SWF World Heavyweight Championship! Introducing first, from Elkhart, Indiana, weighing two hundred pounds, he is the SWF Hardcore Champion… ZYYYYYON!” Zyon grabs the top rope and, with a little hop, pulls himself over the top rope, flipping into the ring to earn a pop from the crowd. “Vitamin” fades out, but the stadium remains dim, as Zyon stretches out in the corner.

 

“This is Zyon’s first ever main event match here in the SWF,” says Pete, “and so far, the crowd seems to be behind him, as we await the arrival of the International Champion!” Suddenly, Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” begins to blast through the speakers, as a spotlight shines down on the top of the stage. Into this spotlight steps the International Champion himself, resplendent in a royal purple and black sequined robe. He extends his arms out to each side and slowly pirouettes while the fans let them know what they think of him:

 

 

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

 

“His opponent,” shouts Funyon, “making his way towards the ring, from the Hall of Fame city of Cleveland, Ohio… weighing two hundred fifteen pounds… here is the SWF International Champion… The Dean of Professional Wrestling… JAAAAAY HAAAAAWKE!” Hawke strolls deliberately down the aisle, pausing intermittently to argue with some fans at ringside, going so far as to rip a Wildchild poster out of a young fan’s hands, and tear it to pieces before his eyes!

 

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

 

“Can you believe the nerve of this guy?” asks Pete incredulously. “This is what the self-proclaimed ‘shooter’ of the SWF does to prove he’s a tough guy? Pick on a little kid? Give me a break!” The young fan bursts into tears as Hawke continues on down the aisle with a scowl on his face.

 

“What do you mean, ‘self-proclaimed,’ MacDougal?” asks King. “Jay Hawke IS the shooter of the SWF, and his shooter style has earned him a tremendous amount of success in just a short amount of time, all by himself! This is a guy who can go to the top, all on his own… He doesn’t want any friends; he doesn’t NEED any friends!”

 

This proclamation earns a snort of mirth from Pete. “He doesn’t HAVE any friends!”

 

“Yeah, and he’s happy that way,” counters King, pointing to the sneer on Hawke’s face. “Look at how happy he looks!” Stopping short of the ring, Hawke removes his robe, folding it neatly before handing it to a nearby ring attendant. The Dean then walks up the steel steps and stands on the apron, pointing proudly at the International Championship belt around his waist.

 

“These people are all idiots,” snaps King. “I can’t believe that they don’t know how to properly appreciate a great wrestler like Jay Hawke!” Hawke steps between the ropes to enter the ring, and then slowly removes the Championship belt from around his waist, holding it above his head as the fans continue to boo.

 

As the stadium continues to be left in the dark, “Learning to Fly” is abruptly cut off, and the fans erupt as the familiar sound of Reggie Noble’s voice reverberates throughout the arena! A solitary spotlight illuminates the stadium, flashing intermittently in time with the beat, as Wildchild bounds onto the stage, proudly displaying his half of the Tag Team Championship around his waist! Adorning his chest is his brand new, officially-licensed “Take a Walk on de Wild Side!” t-shirt.

 

 

“And their opponent!” booms Funyon. “From the Bahamas, weighing two hundred fourteen pounds, one-half of the NEW SWF World Tag Team Champions… the WIIIIILDCHIIIIILD!”

 

“Listen to these fans go crazy!” yelps Pete. “They love the Wildchild here in Kiev!” Wildchild slaps hands with the fans as he proceeds down the aisle. The Tropical Tumbler stops in front of the fan whose poster Hawke ripped up, and removes his shirt, presenting it to him! The youngster’s eyes light up like Christmas morning as Wildchild helps him put the shirt on, and then the two mug for the cameraman as the fans continue to chant:

 

 

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

 

 

“What a terrific gesture by the Wildchild!” praises LDP. “He just made that youngster’s day!”

 

“I think it’s disgusting!” spits King. “He’s trying to buy fans; he should be ashamed of himself!” Wildchild races on down the ramp and somersaults into the ring, quickly popping to his feet as he removes his title belt and holds it above his head with both hands.

 

“Of course, we have to remind our fans watching at home that there are no rules on Storm,” says Pete, “which means that anything goes… and, of course, that means that Wildchild’s shin guards are in play tonight!” Wildchild’s song fades out and each of the combatants position themselves in a different corner as referee Red Herrington orders the timekeeper to ring the bell, signifying the start of the match:

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

“Bell’s gone,” shouts Pete, “and we’re underway!”

 

Jay Hawke turns towards Zyon, pointing back and forth between the two, and then pantomimes a headlock before leaning forward, grinning as he offers Zyon a free headlock!

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” exclaims an exasperated Pete. “He’s going to try this again?”

 

“Well, he was successful with it last time,” replies King. “Evidently, he thinks that he can get Zyon the same way that he got Randy Myers!”

 

 

NOOOOOOOOOO!

 

 

Jay turns to look at the crowd with disdain as they shout at Zyon, begging him not to fall for Hawke’s trap. With a scowl, Hawke waves his hands dismissively at the crowd, as if to say, “Shut the hell up, people; I’m trying to work here!”

 

“Hawke trying to sucker Zyon in, but the kid’s not going for it,” says Pete. When Zyon seems unwilling to approach Hawke, the Dean puts both hands behind his back and drops to his knees.

 

 

NOOOOOOOOOO!

 

 

“Even with Jay Hawke in what appears to be a compromising position, Zyon still appears reluctant to take his bait,” notes LDP, “and I can’t say that I blame him!” Although still hesitant, Zyon walks over to Hawke and hooks him in a side headlock, which Hawke escapes immediately, grabbing Zyon by the arm and taking him to the mat from his kneeling position with a hammerlock, causing Zyon to scream out in pain! The Dean gets back to his feet, pulling Zyon up while maintaining control of the hammerlock…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… When Wildchild suddenly races across the ring and blasts Zyon in the chest with a running dropkick, knocking Zyon backwards into Hawke, and sending both men to the canvas! Wildchild pulls Hawke to his feet and grabs him by the back of the head, leading him across the ring and ramming him face-first into the top turnbuckle. The Caribbean Cruiser spins Hawke around and begins battering him in the face repeatedly with a barrage of right hands! As he sees Zyon get to his feet, he motions for him to join in, dropping down to all fours in front of Hawke. Zyon, realizing what Wildchild wants, races across the ring, leaping onto Wildchild’s back and using it as a platform as he propels himself into Hawke’s chest with a flying body splash!

 

“Zyon and Wildchild are working like a well-oiled machine in there,” says Pete. “It’s obvious that they’ve decided to isolate Jay Hawke to start off this match!” Zyon and Wildchild pull Hawke out of the corner and whip him across the ring, hooking him underneath the arms as he rebounds and taking him over with a double-hiptoss! The high-fliers both fall towards the canvas, drilling Hawke in the face with a pair of stereo elbow drops, and then nip back up to their feet simultaneously, earning a loud chorus of cheers from the crowd! Wildchild and Zyon continue to pose for the crowd…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… Until Zyon decides that he’s waited long enough to seize his opportunity, hitting Wildchild in the back of the head with a dropkick that sends him stumbling into the corner, and hooking him into a schoolboy cradle as he staggers back out:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THR— NO!

 

 

Wildchild kicks out of the cradle before three, but Zyon beats him to his feet, and immediately begins to assault him with a series of knee drops to the back of the head! Zyon pulls Wildchild to his feet and whips him into the ropes, lifting him into the air as he rebounds with a hiptoss, but as Zyon brings his other arm up near Wildchild’s head to deliver the Disconnect, the Caribbean Cruiser grabs him by his free arm as he twists through the air, taking Zyon over with a breathtaking armdrag! The rookie charges after Wildchild, but Wildchild bends down and lifts him up into a double-leg takedown, quickly slamming him to the canvas and then leaping into the air before Zyon can react…

 

 

SPLASH!

 

 

… Crashing back down into Zyon with a leaping senton splash! Wildchild pulls Zyon back his feet and whips him into the ropes, lowering his shoulder to deliver a back-body drop as he rebounds, only for Zyon to float through the air and land safely on his feet. Wildchild quickly swings around before Zyon can mount a counterattack, whipping his right leg through the air to deliver a roundhouse kick, which Zyon grabs out of the air…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… Which puts him squarely in Wildchild’s trap, as the Human Hurricane swings his left leg up off the canvas and blasts Zyon in the face with a sensational gamengiri!

 

“Gamengiri!” screeches LDP. “Looks like Zyon is out cold!”

 

“Of course he’s out cold!” snaps King. “What do you expect when somebody gets hit in the face with a foreign object?” Wildchild gets to his feet to admire his handiwork…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… And gets clobbered from the blind side by a Jay Hawke lariat!

 

“What brilliant strategy on the part of Jay Hawke,” praises King, “to let Wildchild and Zyon beat each other up while he sat and recuperated in the corner!”

 

“I don’t know how brilliant that was,” counters Pete. “If either of those men would have been able to pin the other, he would have wasted a tremendous opportunity!”

 

“Nah!” King says dismissively. “That was never going to happen; Hawke was way too close to the action that either of them was going to get a fluke pin!” Hawke pulls Zyon to his feet and leads him over to the edge of the ring, scooping him up off the canvas and heaving him out to the floor with a scoop slam! He then turns his attention back to Wildchild, only to end up on the receiving end of a back-body drop! Wildchild kicks Hawke stiffly in the face with his shin as he pulls him to his feet. The Bahaman then whips Jay into the ropes, but makes an uncharacteristic mistake and lowers his head before Hawke can bounce off the ropes, and the Dean takes advantage, trapping Wildchild in a front facelock and immediately twisting around, taking Wildchild to the mat with a swinging neckbreaker! Hawke drops down to cover Wildchild:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

But only gets two! Hawke beats Wildchild to his feet and hits him with a devastating legdrop, when he sees Zyon stirring on the ring apron from the corner of his eye. He heads towards the corner to keep Zyon from returning to the ring, but Zyon stuns him by thrusting his shoulder through the ropes and into Hawke’s midsection, driving the air out of Jay’s lungs! Zyon tries the move again, but this time the Dean is ready for him, leaping over Zyon’s inbound upper body and leveling him with a guillotine legdrop that knocks Zyon off the apron and back down to the floor! Jay turns his attention back to Wildchild, pulling him into an inverted front facelock, and locking in the Dragon Sleeper!

 

“I had my doubts as to whether or not Jay Hawke would be able to adapt to this style of match,” says Pete, “but I have to admit, he’s doing very well for himself right now!”

 

“He’s doing better than very well for himself,” replies King, “he’s handling Wildchild and Zyon at once!” Red Herrington bends down by Wildchild’s face to ask him if he’s ready to give up, but the Tropical Tumbler shakes his head in defiance.

 

“Wildchild’s going to have to find a way out of this hold, or else it could be lights out for him!” warns Pete. Wildchild’s eyes slowly close and his arms begin to droop, leading Herrington to pick one of them up and release it, watching as it slumps lifelessly to one side.

 

“That’s once,” says King, as Zyon pulls himself back onto the apron. “If it falls three times, this match is over!” Herrington picks Wildchild’s arm up a second time and holds it for a second before releasing it, watching it as it falls yet again to Wildchild’s side. Herrington lifts Wildchild’s arm up a third time, and suspends it in air for a moment before releasing it…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… But, before it can fall all the way to Wildchild’s side, Zyon leaps from the top turnbuckle, twisting in midair as he crashes into Jay Hawke with a corkscrew body attack that sends all three men to the canvas in a heap!

 

“Oh my!” shrieks Pete. “Zyon just leapt from the top rope, and crashed into Jay Hawke with No Regard!”

 

“This is an atrocity!” roars King. “Hawke had this match won! Wildchild was four inches away from submitting right there!” Furious, Hawke scrambles to his feet and kicks Zyon viciously in the side of the head! He drags the Hardcore Champion over to the corner and hammers him with a battery of stiff European uppercuts!

 

 

“Look at Hawke go to work with those European uppercuts!” praises King. “He’s trying to pop Zyon’s head clean off!” Hawke pulls Zyon out of the corner and appears to whip him across the ring, only to spin around on his heel and whip Zyon back into the same corner, blasting him with a kneelift to the kidneys as he staggers out of the corner! He then hooks both arms underneath Zyon’s leg and lifts up, tossing him over the top rope and out to the arena floor! Zyon’s head bounces off the apron with a sickening thud as he collapses to the floor, with Hawke following him outside the ring to inflict further damage.

 

“Hawke heads outside,” reports LDP, “but he has to be careful out there, because that kind of environment favors the Hardcore Champion!” Hawke scoops Zyon up in his arms, as if preparing to deliver a fallaway slam, only to ram Zyon back-first into the solid steel ringpost!

 

“Hawke’s dismantling of Zyon is a thing of beauty!” says King, as the Dean continues to ram Zyon in to the ringpost. “He’s already obliterated his neck with those uppercuts, and now he’s destroying the upper back outside the ring; you can look for him to target the shoulders next, as he continues to soften Zyon up for that Wing Span submission!” But Hawke isn’t quite done decimating Zyon’s back yet, as he traps him in a front waistlock and pushes him into the steel framework that makes up the edge of the ring apron! Jay then grabs Zyon by the wrist and twists his arm behind his back in a punishing hammerlock…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… Before pushing him shoulder-first into the ringpost!

 

“You were right, King,” concedes Pete, as Hawke continues to ram Zyon’s shoulder into the ringpost. “And I appear to have underestimated Jay Hawke’s ability to hold his own in a hardcore environment!”

 

“The great ones have the ability to overcome any kind of perceived disadvantage,” replies King, “and I can sense the potential for greatness in Jay Hawke; you can tell by the way that he turned the tables on Zyon in an environment that should favor the Hardcore Champion. Hawke has the ability to impose his will on a match; I think that’s the one characteristic that tends to separate the merely good wrestlers from the great ones, and it tends to be seen most often amongst those with a solid mat wrestling background. A lot of wrestlers can be pulled into their opponent’s style of match, but guys like Jay Hawke can always impose their will on the match, get it back to where things are working in their favor!” Hawke rams Zyon’s shoulder into the ringpost one more time before pulling him back towards the foot of the ramp, still maintaining control of the hammerlock. The Dean reaches across Zyon’s face with his free arm, and then scissors his legs around Zyon’s waist as he falls back towards the floor.

 

“Wing Span!” screeches Pete. “And submissions outside the ring are legal in this match! I think this could be it!” Red Herrington hops outside the ring too check on Zyon, asking him if he wants to submit.

 

“He’s gonna tap, MacDougal!” crows King. “Hawke is going to be named the Number One Contender!” Zyon, on the verge of unconsciousness, reaches towards the arena floor as he attempts to tap:

 

 

TA—

 

 

SPLASH!

 

 

… But the Human Hurricane comes flying from inside the ring, over the top rope, and down to the floor, crashing into Zyon and Hawke with a spectacular tope con hilo!

 

 

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

 

“What an unbelievable maneuver by Wildchild!” shrieks LDP. “Wildchild returning the favor to Zyon, as he breaks up the submission!”

 

“Don’t be stupid!” barks King. “Wildchild didn’t do that for Zyon; he did it for himself! Because, if he hadn’t, Zyon was definitely going to tap out!” Wildchild pulls Hawke to his feet and leads him by the back of the head to the ring barricade, where he rams the Dean face-first into the hard rubber barrier! He then traps Hawke in a double chickenwing and pushes him up the ramp to where the young fan is seated.

 

“What’s this all about?” bellows King. “Where’s he taking Jay Hawke?”

 

“It looks like he’s taking him up by that fan whose poster he ripped up!” replies Pete. “He’s going to let that youngster get a little payback!”

 

 

YEEEEEEEEEEAH!

 

The fans cheer in approval as the little tyke reaches across the apron to slap Jay Hawke in the face! Wildchild then suddenly releases Hawke, but before the Dean can take a step in any direction, Wildchild leaps up and quickly swings his leg through the air, blasting Jay with a gamengiri that knocks him flat on his back!

 

“Oh, that’s great!” growls King. “That’s just great! The fans don’t have the right to do that! They’re not supposed to put their hands on the wrestlers!”

 

“Well, maybe the wrestlers shouldn’t destroy the fans’ property!” retorts Pete. “That poster probably cost that youngster a month’s allowance!” Wildchild traps Hawke in a standing headscissors and wraps both arms around his waist, pulling him up to deliver a piledriver on the concrete, but Hawke fights back, flailing away with his legs until Wildchild is no longer able to hold him, and then snapping his back straight the moment his feet touch the floor, sending Wildchild flying with a back-body drop!

 

“Wildchild going for that piledriver, but I think he should have tried to soften him up a little more first,” says Pete. The Dean grabs some of the video cable lying near the edge of the ring barricade and wraps it around Wildchild’s throat, choking him out!

 

“There!” taunts King. “Jay Hawke is giving Wildchild a taste of his own medicine, choking the life out of him with that electrical cable; that’s just what he gets for wanting to take the fight outside the ring! I love the fact that you have two wrestlers who have extensive experience in hardcore wrestling, and yet Jay Hawke is beating them BOTH at their own game!”

 

CRACK!

 

As Jay continues to choke Wildchild, the Bahama Bomber swings his leg overhead, slamming the hard plastic of his shin guard into the Dean’s face!

 

CRACK!

 

 

After another blow, a dazed Hawke releases his grip on the cable, giving Wildchild the opening he needs to spin around and drop him with a double-leg takedown. The Caribbean Cruiserweight locks both hands underneath Hawke’s legs and falls backwards, launching Jay through the air with a slingshot that sends him crashing into Zyon! Wildchild scrambles to his feet and runs past both of them to slide back into the ring. He then immediately rolls to his feet and runs across the ring, picking up speed as he bounces off the ropes and rounding into a cartwheel, flipping over the top rope…

 

 

SPLASH!

 

 

… And crashing into both Jay and Zyon with a Space Flying Tiger Drop!

 

 

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

 

“Cartwheel into a splash!” exclaims Pete. “Wildchild’s in a groove right now; he’s pulling out all the stops! Wildchild gets back up and runs to the edge of the ring, reaching underneath the apron and pulling out a table!

 

 

YEEEEEEEEEEAH!

 

 

“Now he’s got a table!” cries King, as Wildchild slides the table into the ring. “What the hell is he planning to do?”

 

“Whatever it is,” replies Pete, “it can’t be good news for either Zyon or Jay Hawke!” Wildchild sets the table upright and positions it perpendicular to the ropes. Zyon, who has had the most recovery time recently, is the first to get up and makes his way over to the edge of the ring and, as he climbs up onto the apron…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… Wildchild races across the ring, sending both feet into the edge of the table with a front dropkick that sends the other end of the table through Zyon’s nose! The Hardcore Champion collapses to the arena floor, clutching his now-broken nose in pain!

 

“My god!” shouts Pete, “What a move by the Wildchild! Zyon’s nose looked like it exploded from that shot!” Wildchild spies Hawke getting to his feet on the arena floor and races back across the ring, leaping onto the table as he bounces off the ropes, running across the table and leaping over the top rope! Wildchild flips through the air and lands in a seated position on Hawke’s shoulders, where he locks his legs behind Jay’s head and arches his back as he swings around Hawke’s neck, taking him over with a death-defying satellite headscissors! Wildchild scrambles to his knees, pumping his fist jubilantly as the fans chant his name:

 

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

 

 

“Good God!” squeals LDP. “Somersault senton into a satellite headscissors! That was just about the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!” Wildchild drags Hawke back to the ring and rolls him underneath the bottom rope. He slides back into the ring himself and lines the table up with the corner. He then pulls Hawke to his feet, only to stun him with a kick to the midsection, and then leaps into the air…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… Draping his leg over the back of Jay’s neck as he drives him face-first into the canvas with his patented Caribbean Cutter!

 

 

“Cutter!” shouts Pete, as Wildchild picks Hawke up and lays him atop the table. “Wildchild just hit the Caribbean Cutter on Jay Hawke! And he just gave the sign for the Falling Star Bomb!”

 

 

YEEEEEEEEEEAH!

 

 

The raucous Russian fans erupt as Wildchild heads out onto the ring apron and climbs up to the top turnbuckle. He tucks his knees in close to his chest as he launches himself off the turnbuckle, turning two full flips in midair…

 

 

CRUNCH!

 

 

… And crashing into Hawke with a flying vertical splash that sends him through the table and down to the canvas! Wildchild reaches back and hooks the leg as Red Herrington slides into the ring to count the pinfall:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREEEEE—

 

 

 

No! Zyon pulls the referee out of the ring to stop the count at the last possible moment!

 

“Good gravy, was that close!” sighs LDP. “This match was fractions of an inch away from being over! Zyon slides back into the ring and quickly rolls to his feet, meeting Wildchild near the center of the ring as the two exchange punches back and forth! Wildchild takes control, surprising the rookie by wrestling him to the canvas with a double-leg takedown and then quickly rising to his feet, leaping across the length of Zyon’s body to crash down with an elbow drop!

 

“What a quick series of moves by the Wildchild; Zyon obviously wasn’t ready for that!” says Pete, as Wildchild makes a show out of reversing the shin guard on his right leg. “And what are we going to see here? A figure-four, perhaps? With that shin guard reversed, it could do double the damage!” Instead of attempting a submission, however, Wildchild pulls the Hardcore Champion to his feet and whips him across the ring, racing back to the ropes himself, and exploding off the canvas as he rebounds, whipping his right leg sharply through the air…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… And blasting Zyon in the throat with a flying leg lariat! Zyon flops on the canvas like a flounder as the Bahama Bomber rolls to his feet, admiring his handiwork.

 

“Leg lariat with the shin guard reversed!” barks King. “That could have crushed his larynx, MacDougal!” Wildchild pulls Zyon to his feet as he gives the crowd the sign for his patented pinball attack. He runs to the edge of the ring, leaping onto the top rope and curling into a ball as he springs back into the ring…

 

 

WHOOSH!

 

 

… But Zyon ducks out of the way of the Pinball, leaping into the air as a stunned Wildchild rolls back to his feet…

 

 

CRACK!

 

… His foot slicing through the air as he smashes Wildchild on the top of his melon with a Rolling Koppou Kick! Zyon rolls out of the ring to retrieve a folding chair from underneath the ring as a vocal portion of the crowd cheers in approval of Zyon’s show of speed.

 

“Holy cow!” yelps Pete, as Zyon slides back into the ring. “Zyon ducked the Pinball; I can’t remember the last time I saw THAT happen!”

 

“Are you kidding?” replies King. “I’ve been forced to watch this guy since he was in the JL, and I don’t think I’ve EVER seen anyone do it!” The Hardcore Champion lays the chair flat on the canvas as he gets back to his feet and drags Wildchild over to it, scooping him up off the mat…

 

WHAM!

 

 

… And kicks his legs out from underneath him, planting Wildchild’s head into the chair with a scoop piledriver! Zyon holds onto the legs as Red Herrington counts the pinfall…

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THR—

 

 

BUT WILDCHILD BARELY GETS THE SHOULDER UP!

 

 

“Wow!” gasps Pete. “I thought for sure it was over after that Aero Driver; boy, was that close!”

 

“That was close,” agrees King, as Zyon rolls out of the ring. “There appeared to be some hesitation on the part of Red Herrington. Even you had to see that, MacDougal!” Zyon pulls a table out from underneath the ring and sets it up near the foot of the ramp. He crawls back into the ring and drags Wildchild over to the edge of the ring, giving the sign for his patented cradle piledriver.

 

“Zyon’s going to try and hit his Final Hour piledriver through a table!” shrieks LDP. “If he hits this, I can’t see any way that Wildchild will be able to get up!” Zyon steps back onto the apron and reaches into the ring to pulls Wildchild towards him, but the Bahama Bomber stuns him with a punch to the midsection, and then follows it up with a headbutt to Zyon’s already-broken nose, which drops the Hardcore Champion to one knee on the apron. Without wasting any time, Wildchild scrambles to his feet and races across the ring, picking up speed as he bounces off the ropes and leaping into the air as he approaches the edge of the ring, grabbing Zyon by the head as he sails over the top rope…

 

CRUNCH!

 

 

… And planting him through the table and into the arena floor with a flying bulldog!

 

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

DUB CEE!

 

“Good God!” screams Pete. “Wildchild just planted Zyon with a bulldog through a table onto the arena floor!” Wildchild rolls Zyon onto his back and hooks the leg as Herrington rolls out of the ring to count the shoulders…

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THR—

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

BUT JAY HAWKE BREAKS UP THE COUNT WITH A SUICIDE HEADBUTT TO THE OUTSIDE!

 

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

 

“Oh my God!” screeches Pete. “Jay Hawke came back from the dead to hit that headbutt!” Hawke crawls over to the edge of the ring and uses the apron to pull himself to his feet. He walks over to Wildchild and kicks him repeatedly in the ribs before pulling him to his feet and rolling him into the ring.

 

“Jay Hawke has regained control of this match!” cheers King. “Now that he’s back in the driver’s seat, I can see him coasting to a victory!” Hawke pulls Wildchild to his feet and traps him in a hammerlock, pushing him shoulder-first into the turnbuckles!

 

“Hawke is softening Wildchild up for the Wing Span,” says Pete. “If he locks it in, I don’t think that, with all the punishment Wildchild’s taken tonight, that he’ll be able to get out of it!” Jay turns Wildchild towards the opposite corner and pushes him shoulder-first towards it, but the Bahama Bomber runs up the turnbuckles, wriggling out of Hawke’s grasp and landing on his feet behind the International Champion. Jay explodes out of the corner with a lariat, but Wildchild ducks underneath it easily…

 

CRACK!

 

… And knocks Hawke on his ass with a tremendous superkick! Wildchild pulls Hawke to his feet and traps him in a front facelock, grabbing him by the leg with his free hand and lifting him into the air, twisting around before dropping him back down to the canvas with a corkscrew suplex!

 

“There it is!” says Pete. “That patented corkscrew suplex of the Wildchild… and we know what comes after that!”

 

“Unfortunately,” adds King, as Wildchild steps out onto the apron. The Bahama Bomber climbs to the top turnbuckle and extends his arms as he leaps back into the ring, twisting around in midair as he crashes into Hawke with the Andros Drop! Wildchild hooks the leg and goes for the cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREEE—

 

 

 

NO! HAWKE JUST GETS THE SHOULDER UP!

 

 

“Incredible resilience by Jay Hawke, to be able to kick out with the kind of punishment he’s taken here tonight!” praises King. Wildchild slides out of the ring and walks over to the announce table, ripping the plastic covering off.

 

“Hey, wait just a second,” shouts Pete, as Wildchild removes the embedded video monitors from the announce table. “What do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Get the hell away from here!” growls King, as “Go and ruin someone else’s set!” Back inside the ring, Hawke is crawling towards the edge of the ring, but Wildchild rolls back inside the ring before he can get to it, stopping him in his tracks with a running elbow drop! The Bahama Bomber drags him across the ring and rolls him out onto the apron across from the announce table.

 

“Oh no,” moans Pete, “I think that Wildchild’s going to try another bulldog, King! He’s going to try and put Hawke through the announce table!”

 

“This guy’s a menace to society!” grumbles King. “How many more careers is he going to be allowed to ruin?” Wildchild races across the ring as Hawke begins to stand up on the apron, bouncing off the ropes…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… When Zyon nails him in the back with a steel chair from outside the ring! The Hardcore Champion climbs back onto the apron as Wildchild staggers towards the center of the ring and leaps onto the top rope, springing back into the ring and blasting the Tropical Tumbler in the back with a springboard dropkick, and then nips up to his feet!

 

“Zyon gets the Snap off against Wildchild,” says Pete. Zyon then drags Wildchild to the edge of the ring, draping him over the top rope as he steps out onto the ring apron.

 

“Now we’ve got Zyon and Jay Hawke out on the apron, with Wildchild inside the ring,” notes King, as Zyon and Jay exchange a glance. “What the hell’s going on here?” Suddenly, Zyon and Hawke trap Wildchild in a double front facelock, each reaching into the ring with their free arm to grab a leg.

 

“Oh my God!” shouts Pete, as they lift Wildchild into the air. “King, look out!”

 

 

CRUNCH!

 

 

ZYON AND HAWKE LIFT WILDCHILD OUT OF THE RING AND SUPLEX HIM INTO THE ANNOUNCE TABLE!

 

 

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

 

“OH MY GOD!” shouts Pete, as he fumbles to put his headset back on. “I can’t believe they just suplexed Wildchild into the announce table! That’s got to be it for Wildchild!” Zyon crawls over to cover Wildchild:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

But Hawke pulls him off! Zyon gets back to his feet and the two begin exchanging punches. Jay gets the better of it and traps Zyon in a hammerlock, pushing him towards the ringpost, but this time Zyon counters, slipping out of Hawke’s grasp and tripping him with a drop toehold that sends the International Champion headfirst into the post instead! Zyon pulls Hawke to his feet and rolls him into the ring. Zyon then climbs onto the apron and uses the top rope to vault into the ring, twisting in midair to land with his back to Hawke on the second rope, before springing back into the ring and crashing atop Hawke with a quebrada! It takes Herrington a few seconds to clamor into the ring to count the pinfall:

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THR—

 

 

Which gives Jay just enough recovery time to kick out! Zyon pulls Jay to his feet and traps him in a standing headscissors, pulling him up and then locking both hands around his leg…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… Before planting him with his patented cradle piledriver! The crowd erupts as Zyon pops to his feet and heads over to the apron.

 

“Final Hour!” shouts Pete, as Zyon climbs to the top rope. “And we know what’s coming next!” Zyon holds his arms to the side and leaps off…

 

 

SPLASH!

 

 

… Crashing into Hawke with the Final Flash!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

NO! WILDCHILD MAKES THE SAVE!

 

“Holy cow!” shouts Pete. “I can’t believe that Wildchild still has anything left after that suplex!” Zyon beats Wildchild to his feet and sets him up for an inverted Northern Lights suplex, but Wildchild fights back, hammering Zyon in the face with his free hand until he lets go. Wildchild spins around and grabs Zyon by the wrist, whipping him into the ropes, and thrusts his foot into the air to take Zyon out with a superkick, but Zyon ducks underneath, hammering Wildchild in the face with a battery of forearms before whipping him into the ropes, launching him into the air as he rebounds with a flapjack, and then leaping into the air to catch him with a hurricanrana as he comes down to complete the Cyclone…

 

 

CRUNCH!

 

… But Wildchild lands on his feet, and holds onto Zyon’s legs as he cranks back with a standing Boston Crab! The impact of landing on his neck, combined with the excruciating pain of the hold, proves to be too much for Zyon to bear…

 

 

TAP! TAP! TAP!

 

 

… And he taps out immediately!

 

 

 

YEEEEEEEEEEAH!

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

“Let’s Get Dirty” begins to play as Wildchild releases Zyon and falls to his BUTT in exhaustion! The fans erupt as Herrington raises his arm in victory.

 

“Here is your winner,” booms Funyon, “and the Number One Contender… the WIIIIILDCHIIIIILD!”

 

“What a match!” shouts Pete. “What an amazing win by the Wildchild! He win the match with one of the most spectacular counters I’ve ever seen, and now will go on to face Ejiro Fasaki for the World Heavyweight Title!”

 

“Ejiro and Wildchild have a tremendous history,” adds King. “When they meet for the richest prize in the game, it should be nothing short of spectacular!”

 

“Boy, you said it!” agrees LDP. “That’s one match everyone has to be looking forward to! For the Suicide King, this is the Doggah! We’ll see you all next week!”

 

Wildchild crawls to the ropes and pulls himself to his feet, holding one finger in the air…

 

 

As we:

FADE OUT

 

 

=====

SWF Storm

© 2005 – Riot Act Productions

All Rights Reserved

 

“The SWF: Raising Workrate by Typing Faster.”[/color]

Edited July 2, 2005 by chirs3