SWF GROUND ZERO LONDON!!!!!

[Ace309 0]

It's the opening night of one of the SWF's premier Pay-Per-Views, Ground Zero, and most of the superstars have already arrived and are preparing for their matches, save for one. Toxxic sits casually in the lobby, that lopsided grin on his face, as he contemplates the night.

 

A shadow falls over him.

 

Toxxic's eyes travel over a pair of dark pink shoes, and a light pink tuxedo, complete with white shirt and bow tie. The seven foot figure of Janus looms over him, and the monster Australian has a scowl on his face. Leaning over just a little, he pokes the Straight-Edge Sensation on the nose.

 

"I knew it."

 

The pink-tuxedoed Australian strides past, and Toxxic turns to watch him go as he opens the door to the janitor's closet and steps inside. The Brit stands up and strides curiously over to the closet in question and pulls it open to find nothing but cleaning supplies. He turns around to the camera with a clearly confused look.

 

"What the bloody hell?"

 

As Toxxic looks quizzically at the camera, the opening montage for the London show fires up to the tune of “Anarchy in the U.K.!”

Edited August 1, 2005 by Ace309

[Ace309 0]

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says guest ring announcer Divefire, “please rise for the National Anthem.”

 

Divey clears his throat and, a moment later, begins to sing.

 

London calling to the faraway towns

Now war is declared, and battle come down

London calling to the underworld

Come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls

London calling, now don't look to us

Phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust

London calling, see we ain't got no swing

'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing

 

The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in

Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin

Engines stop running, but I have no fear

'Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river

 

London calling to the imitation zone

Forget it, brother, you can go it alone

London calling to the zombies of death

Quit holding out, and draw another breath

London calling, and I don't wanna shout

But when we were talking, I saw you nodding out

London calling, see we ain't got no high

Except for that one with the yellowy eyes

 

The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in

Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin

A nuclear era, but I have no fear

'Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river

 

The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in

Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin

A nuclear era, but I have no fear

'Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river

 

Now get this

 

London calling, yes, I was there, too

An' you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!

London calling at the top of the dial

After all this, won't you give me a smile?

London calling

 

I never felt so much alike … alike alike alike …

 

The London crowd applauds their national anthem, Divefire’s rendition of the Clash’s “London Calling,” as the show fades into it’s a video package describing the matches.

[Ace309 0]

THE LONDON CARD

 

Coming to you LIVE from the London Arena in London, England!

 

On Commentary: The Suicide King, Tom Flesher and Annie Onita!

 

Guest Ring Announcer: Divefire

 

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

 

London Main Event - Best of Five Final Match - Canadian Deathmatch

Toxxic vs. Scott Pretzler ©

 

--> The Best of Five series stands even at two apiece - it's time for the tiebreaker, Canadian Deathmatch style! Scott Pretzler goes into this match with the not-so-subtle backing of Tom Flesher - is this an added pressure to weigh him down, or an extra edge to help him out? Will he prove once and for all that he is the SWF's hottest commodity, or will Toxxic show the world that he's still got some fight in him?

 

Rules: No countouts, no disqualifications. The first man to score an accumulated 10-count on his opponent wins. You accumulate a count by scoring a pinfall of 3 or more. So you could win getting two 5 counts, four 3 counts, etc.

 

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

 

Wildchild vs. El Luchadore Magnifico III - This time it's personal!

 

--> Oh, Mags. Mags Mags Mags. Tsk tsk tsk.

 

Although, really, I can't argue with the evidence - Magnifico's return could charitably be referred to as lackluster, but ever since he stopped going out of his way to please the fans, things have turned around for him. Could this new attitude be just what Magnifico needs to return to the top?

 

Not if Wildchild has anything to say about! Magnifico's actions, as well as his comments, have been way out of line as of late, and as the target of both, Wildchild's not gonna take it anymore! Tonight is the rubber match - time to see which of these men truly belong at the top!

 

Rules: No Disqualifications!

 

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

 

SWF International Championship Match - Old School Rules

"The Dean of Professional Wrestling" Jay Hawke © vs. Manson

 

--> Jay Hawke, in a surprising show of decency, has offered to put up his International Title against Manson, after losing to him in a non-title match. But this is Jay Hawke's title, and thus, Jay Hawke's rules, especially stipulated to make sure a clear winner is decided. Can Mansonocity topple the Dean of Professional Wrestling for a second time, or will he just be another notch on the increasingly impressive belt of the International Champion?

 

Rules: Two out of three falls, with a one hour time limit. Three rope-break limit. Throwing an opponent over the top rope results in instant disqualification.

[Ace309 0]

"I'm Johnny Generic," he says, as he and his guest stand in front of a doorway, "and I’m here with Manson, prior to his SWF International Championship Match versus Champion Jay Hawke. But before we get to that, where's Arch Griffon and what's your relationship with him at the moment?"

 

Manson grunts, "Arch is back in the US takin' care of something with the head office, I don't really feel like getting into it. As far as our standing, nothing's changed on my end. Once he gets back… if he gets back, we'll go right back to chasin' Wild and Dangerous for those tag belts."

 

"As for Jay Hawke?" Johnny asks.

 

"I'm grateful he extended the invitation, but he's still a dirty, yellow bastard. I still remember Battleground when he took a pipe, whacked me with it, and won the match. Then he used the same trick at 13th Hour to take the title back from Arch. Even if he's lookin' to brush me off, even if he doesn't want it, I'm takin' it on myself to make this one personal."

 

"I'm sure as far as Hawke is concerned, you already made things personal during your match in Amsterdam. Regardless, Hawke came up with quite a match to settle things, but excuse me for saying this, don't you think it could be a… little out of your league?"

 

"Could be…" Manson glares at Generic, before conceding the point, "Hell, it definitely is, but I'll still go out there and do what I've always done, and that's take whatever he or anyone throws at me and come back stronger than ever. That son of a bitch and his match can't shake me, I ain't never scared of him or anyone! Simply, I'm fixin' to give him a good old fashioned ass kicking!"

 

"Well," Generic says, as Manson stomps away, "that's it from here, so let's go down to the ring!"

[Ace309 0]

Flesher: “And with Ground Zero officially underway after that tremendous matchup, we’re getting ready for our first championship match of the evening.”

 

King: “And this is one match I’m glad is on this leg of the show. It’s the International Champion Jay Hawke, ready to once again successfully defend his title against Manson.”

 

Onita: “And we all know Manson is going to take this one. He’s got a non-title win over Jay Hawke already, so he’s got all the momentum in his favor.”

 

King: “Oh please. Just because he got one victory in a hardcore match doesn’t prove anything. Now, this one is under Jay Hawke’s terms, so there’s no way he can lose this one.”

 

Flesher: “And I’m very interested in how these rules work. Who knows? Maybe I’ll begin using them on Smarkdown on a regular basis if these work like Hawke seems to think they will.”

 

King: “These are the greatest rules created since the bra and panties match was invented.”

 

Onita: “You’re a pig!”

 

King: “Oink oink baby!”

 

Flesher: “For an explanation of the rules and the introduction of the participants, let’s go up to Divefire for the opening introductions.”

 

Divefire: “Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is the Old School Rules Match for the SWF International Championship!”

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Divefire: “Here are the rules for this matchup. This contest is scheduled for the best two out of three falls with a one hour time limit, with a one minute rest period between falls. In each fall, the three rope break rules is in effect, meaning that a wrestler may only break a pin attempt or a submission move by reaching the ropes on three occasions.”

 

King: “Thank you, Master of the Obvious.”

 

Onita: “Hush.”

 

Divefire: “Any further attempt to use the ropes for a break will be ignored by the referee. In addition, throwing your opponent over the top rope is an automatic disqualification. Your referee for this contest is Scott Ryder.”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

As Divefire completes the reading of the rules, the house lights dim, Mastodon's "Crusher Destroyer" hits, complete with multi colored strobes flashing in time with the music. The fans rise to their feet, the buzz in the arena reaching a fever pitch, and Manson emerges moments later, throwing up the horns to a massive round of cheers. He heads straight down to the ring, focused on the task at hand. When he reaches the ring, he rolls in under the bottom rope. Then he pops up to his feet and goes to his corner, once again throwing up the horns to a massive pop. Just as suddenly, the strove lights fade out, and the opening strains of Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” come over the public address system. As a lone spotlight shines on the aisle way, Jay Hawke emerges, stepping into the light to allow it to illuminate his sequined purple and black robe. He then makes his way to the ring, focused on his opponent as the crowd begins its favorite chant:

 

 

“JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!”

 

 

For once, Hawke ignores the jeers of the crowd, and he walks to the ring. He steps onto the apron, wipes the soles of his boots on the apron, then steps through the ropes, removing his robe to show off his beautiful International Championship belt. As he folds his robe and hands it to the ring attendant, Divefire continues the introductions.

 

Divefire: “Introducing the challenger … wearing blue and black, and hailing from Denver, Colorado … he weighs in tonight at 245 pounds … he is ‘The Raging Bull’ … MAAAAAAAAAAAAANSONNNNNNNNNN!”

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Divefire: “And his opponent … wearing the purple and black … he hails from the Hall of Fame City of Cleveland, Ohio … he weighs in at 215 pounds … he is the two-time reigning and defending SWF International Champion … ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’ … JAAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKE!”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!”

 

 

King: “I can never understand why these fans boo Jay Hawke, Tom. This guy has done nothing but defend the International Title with pride, and all these fans can do is say he sucks.”

 

Flesher: “Jay Hawke is clearly one of the most-talented in-ring competitors we’ve got in this business, no doubt about that. But Manson’s no pushover either.”

 

Onita: “Maybe they’re booing him because of how he beat Todd Cortez back on Smarkdown.”

 

Flesher: “Maybe they’re booing him because they don’t like winners here in London. It’s not like Manchester United would admit to ever playing here, and this is a road game for them.”

 

King: “Mankind Who?”

 

While Suicide King tries to get an understanding of real football, both competitors are in the ring getting their instructions from referee Scott Ryder. Hawke slowly hands the belt to Ryder, but Manson grabs a hold of it. Hawke goes, “Prove you’re the better man tonight, and that’s yours.” Manson nods, says “With pleasure,” and releases his grip, enabling Ryder to hold it up over his head for the crowd to see.

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Flesher: “And this incredible matchup is about to get underway!”

 

King: “Come on Hawke! Put him away in two straight falls and let’s get the hell out of this country!”

 

 

*DING DING DING!*

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Onita: “Oh yeah, this crowd is ready for this one. Listen to that pop for the opening bell!”

 

Flesher: “They’re probably bored after sitting through the Spike Jenkins match.”

 

Onita: “At least he’s still out there wrestling more than once a year.”

 

The two combatants lock up collar-and-elbow in the center of the ring. It’s Manson who has the strength advantage in this one, and he is quick to toss Jay Hawke down to the mat. Hawke immediately gets to one knee, and he looks absolutely astonished that anybody could possibly throw him down that easily. Nevertheless, he is back to his feet, and they go right back into another collar-and-elbow tieup. Hawke tries to push Manson forward, but Manson again uses his superior strength to throw Jay Hawke down to the mat. Jay Hawke decides it’s time for a new gameplan, so he rolls to the arena floor to catch his breath and ponder his next move.

 

Onita: “Manson’s throwing Jay Hawke around like Ebony throws me around!”

 

Flesher: “Do we really have to hear about this the rest of the night, Brian?”

 

King: “Just relax, Tom. Try to ignore the lesbian bitch and watch Jay Hawke regain his focus and take care of Manson.”

 

Jay Hawke paces on the floor until the referee reaches the count of eight, then he rolls back into the ring. Jay Hawke goes right back to the lockup for some odd reason, but before Manson can throw Hawke down to the mat again, Hawke slips to his side and grabs his challenger into a side headlock. Hawke squeezes at Manson’s temples, trying to cut the flow of blood to the brain, then he rolls Manson over the hip to bring him down to the canvas.

 

Flesher: “Jay Hawke bringing Manson down to the mat with that side headlock, and that’s probably how he’s going to have to take care of Manson. Use the one hour time limit to his advantage and keep this one on the mat as much as possible.”

 

Onita: “I think Hawke should stay on his feet to use his speed.”

 

King: “I think you should shut up before I strangle you.”

 

Flesher: “And to think you’re sitting between us to keep us apart, Brian.”

 

King: “You know me, Tom. I don’t deal with stupidity very well.”

 

Jay Hawke maintains his grip on the side headlock, and Manson’s shoulders fall to the mat:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Manson quickly lifts the shoulder up. “You’re never going to beat Manson with a simple headlock,” Flesher says as Hawke tightens his grip again. Manson begins to make his way to his feet. As he stands, he gets a couple of right hands to the side of Hawke’s ribcage, then he pushes him into the ropes. Hawke rebounds off the ropes, but he runs into a shoulder block from Manson that knocks him down. Hawke quickly gets to his feet and runs off the ropes again. Manson ducks his head, but the Dean of Wrestling quickly grabs a front facelock. Hawke tries to get the leverage advantage, but Manson picks Hawke up and throws him down to the canvas. Hawke again rolls to the concrete floor, slamming his hand against the mat in frustration.

 

Flesher: “And whether you like Manson or not, you need to give him some credit there. A tremendous show of power, and Jay Hawke’s not sure what to do with this one.”

 

Onita: “Obviously he should be trying to use his speed and running away from him.”

 

King: “Nah, all Hawke needs to do is take advantage of a mistake. And trust me, if Manson makes that mistake, Hawke’s going to have the advantage all night long.”

 

Jay Hawke remains on the floor, milking the referee’s ten count for all he’s worth.

 

SIX!

 

 

SEVEN!

 

 

EIGHT!

 

 

NINE!

 

 

Jay Hawke rolls back into the ring, making sure to stay near the ropes and not get into another test of strength with his challenger.

 

Flesher: “And you’ve got a battle of wills right here. Manson wants Hawke in the middle of the ring, and Hawke doesn’t want Manson keeping the advantage.”

 

Onita: “Then why doesn’t Hawke actually do something besides stay away from him?”

 

King: “Because he’s smart and Manson’s an idiot?”

 

Flesher: “It’s all about wasting time.”

 

Onita: “A time limit draw favors the champion, as the title can’t change hands.”

 

King: “Wow, two matches and you’re already back in top form.”

 

Jay Hawke decides it’s time to change things up just a bit. Again they go into a collar-and-elbow tieup, but this time Hawke grabs Manson’s left arm and brings it behind him into a hammerlock. Manson pats the shoulder, making sure the circulation is still intact, then reaches back and grabs Jay Hawke’s head and neck. Hawke tightens the grip, and Manson is forced to relinquish his grip from Hawke’s head.

 

Flesher: “Manson apparently going for a flying mare there, but Hawke in control with that hammerlock.”

 

Manson tries to use his free elbow to catch Hawke in the side of the head, but Hawke ducks his head. Manson then reaches for the head and neck again, but Hawke ducks his head, avoiding the grasp of his challenger. Hawke picks his head up ever-so-slightly, and Manson grabs it. Hawke struggles to free his head from Manson’s grasp, finally doing so by tightening the grip on the hammerlock. Manson finally decides enough is enough and walks backwards until Hawke’s back is leaning against the ropes. Scott Ryder calls for the break and gets a clean one from the International Champion, then tells Manson “That’s one.”

 

Flesher: “And there’s the first rope break of the fall. Manson only has two more left.”

 

Onita: “Well, on the bright side, if this match ever begins to turn into a brawl, the punches won’t affect the rope breaks.”

 

Flesher: “I know. I really should have talked to Jay about making his a straight pure wrestling match to prevent that from happening.”

 

Following the break, Manson slowly walks away from the champion …

 

…

 

… then he quickly turns around and catches Jay Hawke in the face with a hard forearm smash. Hawke falls to the canvas, then looks up at the referee as if to say “What the hell was that?” Ryder claims it was a clean forearm, and Jay Hawke comes up to his feet, rubbing his jaw in an attempt to soothe the soreness out of it.

 

Flesher: “And that right there is why I can’t see Manson taking this match! He’s too apt to turn this one away from a wrestling match and into a fight.”

 

Onita: “Aren’t you the one who talks about doing whatever it takes to win?”

 

King: “That’s me.”

 

Onita: “Oh, that’s right. Had it been Tom, maybe he’d have won a few more matches in his career.”

 

Tom Flesher gets a “Damn you Peters” under his breath as the two participants lock up again. Again, Manson uses his strength advantage to push Hawke into the turnbuckle. Scott Ryder calls for the break, which he gets without any complaint from Manson, then turns to Jay Hawke and says “That’s one!” Hawke is livid, screaming at Ryder that Manson’s the one who pushed him into the ropes.

 

King: “What the hell was that?”

 

Onita: “Manson was in control of the match at that point, and Jay Hawke went back into the ropes.”

 

King: “Only because Manson pushed him back there!”

 

Flesher: “Definitely a controversial call from Scott Ryder in the early going of the match, and we’ll have to wait and see how this one comes into play!”

 

Divefire: “Five minutes have gone by in the match, 55 minutes remain in the time limit.”

 

Jay Hawke continues to argue to no avail, then turns around, only to get knocked down to the canvas with a Manson clothesline. Manson immediately drops, hoping to catch a quick pin:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THR -- kickout.

 

Onita: “Smart move by Manson. He was hoping to try to catch a fast fall there and put the pressure on Jay Hawke, but it’s still too early in the match.”

 

King: “There’s a rarity for you. Somebody using “smart” and “Manson” in the same sentence.

 

Jay Hawke gets to his feet, but Manson is waiting for him, catching Hawke with a series of hard forearm strikes that sound almost like fireworks going off inside the ring.

 

POPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOP!

 

Flesher: “Those are some of the tightest forearms I’ve ever seen.”

 

Onita: “If I didn’t know he was in Las Vegas, I’d have thought Ejiro Fasaki was coming to the ring.”

 

The series of forearms knocks Jay Hawke back into the corner, and Manson is right there to continue the assault, climbing onto the turnbuckles and raining down the punches as the crowd counts along:

 

“ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN!

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

With the champion staggered, the challenger whips Hawke into the opposite corner, following him in with a high knee right to the face. Hawke begins to fall forward, but Manson grabs his head to make sure he stays on his feet. Manson whips Jay Hawke into the opposite corner, then throws up the horns.

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Manson then leans forward and runs for the corner, making full use of his “Raging Bull” nickname…

 

THUNK!

 

“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

…but Jay Hawke conveniently moves out of the way, sending Manson crashing shoulder first into the ringpost.

 

King: “And can I call it or can I call it? Manson getting overzealous very early in this first fall, not having Jay Hawke in good enough shape to take him down with that, and the shoulder has got to be hurting him.”

 

Jay Hawke pounces on the shoulder, driving a series of knees into it almost before Manson collapses back into the ring.

 

Flesher: “And Jay Hawke begins to go right to work on the shoulder.”

 

King: “And it’s good strategy. Take the body part and weaken it.”

 

Onita: “But how did he get that advantage? He used his speed to get out of the way.”

 

King: “Suck a dick!”

 

Onita: “Not until you do!”

 

Flesher: “OK you two, knock it off. There might still be children watching whose parents aren’t waiting to sue after that exchange.”

 

Jay Hawke grabs Manson’s left arm and pulls back on it, driving a knee into the upper arm and shoulder for additional leverage. Manson grimaces from the pain but makes no indication that he’s anywhere near submitting.

 

King: “Come on, Manson, give up! If we stay here any longer, my subway back to the hotel might get bombed!”

 

Onita: “There go the other lawsuits, Tom.”

 

Flesher: “We finally agree on something.”

 

Jay Hawke gets up and drives the knee into the shoulder three more times, then goes back to the modified wristlock. As Manson begins losing feeling in the left arm, beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead as he tries to fight the pain.

 

Onita: “Manson needs to get out of the hold.”

 

Flesher: “I’m sure he will at this stage of the match.”

 

King: “Yeah. As soon as he taps out.”

 

Jay Hawke knows Manson is probably not going to tap out, but that doesn’t keep him from trying. He releases the hold, but he places Manson’s arm flat on the canvas and leaps, dropping a leg across the upper arm. Manson grabs at the arm instinctively, but Jay Hawke is right there to hook the arm and push downwards, pulling back on the arm and bending it from the shoulder.

 

Flesher: “Fujiwara armbar, and Hawke looks like he wants to take the arm home with him tonight, Brian.”

 

Onita: “Wait a second. Why do you always address King and not me?”

 

King: “Because we’re trying to ignore you.”

 

Manson begins crawling toward the ropes. Remembering the stipulations, he stops crawling, looking for an alternative way of releasing the hold. He tries to reach behind him and grabs something … anything … that might force Hawke to loosen his grip. Finding nothing, Manson resigns himself to having no choice but to continue crawling, reaching the ropes to force the break. Hawke maintains the hold until referee Scott Ryder hits the count of four, then he breaks clean. Ryder then looks down at the fallen challenger and goes “That’s two!”

 

Flesher: “Manson tried to keep a rope break in hiding for later, but he ended up being forced to reach the ropes to use his second rope break.”

 

Onita: “I wouldn’t worry too much about him. Give him a few minutes and he’ll turn the tide.”

 

King: “Do you want the time limit draw or something? Because there’s a pint of ale just calling my name at that bar down the street.”

 

Manson crawls away from the ropes, clutching at the left arm. Jay Hawke begins kicking at the upper arm and shoulder, with Manson screaming at every blow. Manson tries to pull himself to his feet, but Jay Hawke catches him with a roundhouse kick to the temple that sends Manson down to the mat and out of the ring.

 

Onita: “Ouch. That’s it.”

 

King: “Exactly. The Dean of Professional Wrestling has just knocked Manson out cold, and he can probably get a countout victory for the first fall right here.”

 

However, Jay Hawke wanted this match to set up a clear-cut winner, so he goes out of the ring after Manson.

 

Flesher: “And Jay Hawke is going out of the ring to follow Manson.”

 

Onita: “Why does that sound familiar?”

 

Jay Hawke pulls a limp Manson to his feet and locks him into a front facelock.

 

King: “And he’s going for that DDT that defeated the late Andrew Rickmen a few months ago!”

 

THREE!

 

Jay Hawke tightens his grip ever so slightly, but Manson feels it coming and counters…

 

THWACK!

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

Flesher: “Consequences on the floor!”

 

Onita: “Now that is going to do it!”

 

King: “I can’t believe it! I think Jay Hawke is out cold with nowhere else to go!”

 

SEVEN!

 

Divefire: “Ten minutes have gone by, 50 minutes remain in the time limit.”

 

Unsure of whether a first-fall countout would warrant a title change or not, Manson rolls into the ring, then quickly back out of the ring to restart Scott Ryder’s count. Manson then walks over to a prone Jay Hawke and tries to lift him, but has a lot of trouble with one arm in bad shape already.

 

King: “Ha! This is great! Manson can’t even pull Hawke up to get him into the ring to pin him!”

 

Onita: “Oh, he’s pulling him up!”

 

King: “But he’s pulling him up very slowly! He’s essentially giving the International Champion time to recover!”

 

Manson uses all the strength he can muster to roll Jay Hawke into the ring, then he crawls in underneath the bottom rope. He immediately goes for the cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THR -- Jay Hawke drapes a foot over the bottom rope, with Scott Ryder simultaneously showing it was a two count and declaring a rope break.

 

Flesher: “Somehow Hawke got the foot over the bottom rope, and now he’s only got one rope break left!”

 

Onita: “And that’s the only way he had any chance of getting out of the Consequences.”

 

King: “But it worked! That’s all that matters!”

 

Manson drags Jay Hawke toward the corner, then shakes the left arm at his side. He then climbs up onto the middle turnbuckle, flashing the fans the horns yet again.

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

With that cheer from the crowd, Manson leaps off of the turnbuckle and drops a leg across the chest of the Dean of Professional Wrestling. Sensing victory, Manson crawls over for the cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THR -- kickout.

 

Flesher: “Only a count of two off of that flying leg drop!”

 

Onita: “He’s one or two big moves away from winning the first fall!”

 

King: “Don’t worry about it. It’s Manson, he’s notorious for blowing his shot at the big time!”

 

Manson stands up and waits, motioning for Jay Hawke to get to his feet. Hawke pulls himself to his feet, and Manson is there to spin around and level Jay Hawke in the face with an elbow.

 

Flesher: “Rolling elbow, and Jay Hawke is flat on his back!”

 

Onita: “Cover him!”

 

He does!

 

 

ONE!

 

King: “Kick out!”

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

THR -- Jay Hawke just barely gets the left shoulder up!

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAA--BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Flesher: “And it doesn’t get much closer than that!”

 

Onita: “I thought he had him! It was literally inches away from three!”

 

King: “I have complete faith in Jay Hawke putting him away tonight, but he looks absolutely out on his feet!”

 

Jay Hawke rolls over into a seated position, and seeing Manson approach him, he does something he’s never done in nine years as a professional wrestler.

 

He begs off.

 

Flesher: “I can’t believe it! Jay Hawke is backing away from Manson!”

 

King: “I can’t believe it either!”

 

Onita: “I can!”

 

Flesher and King together: “Shut up!”

 

Manson moves in and reaches for Jay Hawke, but Hawke reaches up, grabs the front of Manson’s blue jeans, and pulls forward, sending Manson’s shoulder crashing into the turnbuckle. Manson struggles to make his way to his feet, but Hawke is standing behind him to put the finishing touches on his opponent…

 

Flesher: “Jay Hawke has locked in the Wing Span!”

 

King: “And when Hawke locks this hold on, there aren’t too many men that can get out of it!”

 

Onita: “Manson still has a rope break left! That might be the only way to counter it!”

 

Which is exactly what Manson is thinking, as he falls forward and lands along the middle rope to force the break. Hawke releases the hold, and Scott Ryder quickly informs Manson that he’s out of rope breaks.

 

King: “And that means Manson can’t stop a pin with a foot on the bottom rope. He can’t use the ropes to break a submission move. He either finds a way to break the hold on his own, or the fall is over!”

 

Jay Hawke tries to use that to his advantage and use the ropes to hammerlock the arm, but Manson catches Jay Hawke with an elbow to the face. Hawke staggers, then moves forward, only to be caught in the head with a stiff boot.

 

Flesher: “Yazuka kick!”

 

King: “Deep down, I think this guy wishes he was still Mafia!”

 

Onita: “As long as he doesn’t wish he were still Tommy Gunn.”

 

Manson shakes the arm to try to regain some feeling in it, then picks up Jay Hawke and locks in a front facelock. He then reaches for a leg, trying to cradle it, but Hawke begins kicking his leg back to keep Manson from getting a grip on it. Manson decides he’ll make Hawke give up on fighting the hold, so he drives a series of knees into the face that make the International Champion fall limp. He then cradles the leg and picks Hawke up, spinning him to the side and hanging on to the cradle.

 

Flesher: “Fisherman’s neck breaker, and that’s going to do it!”

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

TH -- Manson’s arm gives away, forcing him to lose the cradle and not get the pin.

 

Flesher: “And he couldn’t get him!”

 

King: “All the arm work kept Manson from maintaining that cradle position! I love it!”

 

Onita: “If that’s all you need to be happy in a wrestling match, you’re in urgent need of companionship.”

 

King: “I’ve got the Page Three Girls waiting in my room for me, thank you very much.”

 

Onita: “Are any of them single?”

 

Manson waits for Jay Hawke to get to his feet, then he peppers him with a series of quick forearm strikes that knock him into the ropes. Manson runs off the opposite side of the ropes and charges, but Hawke drops down and scissors Manson’s foot, sending him into the middle rope. Hawke falls to the mat and looks over.

 

Flesher: “A drop toehold sends Manson into the ropes, and the champion is trying to gain his bearings here.”

 

Seeing Manson’s position, he gets an adrenaline rush and runs over. He picks Manson up, keeping his upper body on the outside of the top rope as he locks in the crossface chickenwing, then jumps up, using his legs and the top rope to scissor the right arm.

 

King: “Wing Span, and look at the positioning!”

 

Flesher: “Half of Manson’s body is outside the ropes, and he’s out of rope breaks! He can’t survive this for long!”

 

Onita: “There’s got to be a way for him to break this hold!”

 

King: “It’s either break the hold or get your arm and neck broken, and there’s nowhere for him to go! He‘s trapped in the ropes!”

 

Manson tries to hang on, but realizes he’s trapped and decides he has no choice. He lightly taps his right hand on Hawke’s leg…

 

TAP TAP TAP TAP!

 

*DING DING DING!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Flesher: “He tried to hold on, but he simply had no choice!”

 

Divefire: “Ladies and gentlemen, in 14 minutes 44 seconds … the winner of the first fall by submission … JAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWKE!”

 

King: “And you see where these old school rules came into play there! Manson was out of rope breaks, and the Dean of Professional Wrestling found yet another way to lock his opponent in the Wing Span to gain the submission!”

 

Onita: “And the one fall advantage is huge for Jay Hawke, as I don’t know if anybody is capable of picking up two straight falls on him.”

 

Flesher: “Now if I understand the rules correctly, the rope breaks are reset, so both men have three rope breaks left now.”

 

King: “I think that’s what Divefire said during the introductions, but I don’t think it was ever made clear beforehand.”

 

Onita: “Even if they do reset, it’s usually at this point of the match where the rope break becomes more common anyway. So you’re likely to see someone use three rope breaks within just a few minutes anyway.”

 

*DING DING DING!*

 

Jay Hawke wastes no time, pulling Manson to the center of the ring and locking in a key lock armbar.

 

King: “Or you can see Jay Hawke work on the arm and get another submission victory just like that and finish this one off.”

 

Manson begins slapping his own arm, trying to regain the circulation as the crowd begins to rally for him to get out of the hold.

 

Divefire: “Fifteen minutes have gone by in the time limit, 45 minutes remain!”

 

 

“MAN-SON!

MAN-SON!

MAN-SON!”

 

 

Jay Hawke decides to try to shut the crowd up before Manson decides to become motivated by the cheers. He changes his position ever so slightly, bending the wrist and the elbow into almost a top wristlock position. He then places Manson’s arm down onto the mat in that awkward position, stands up, and drives his knee right into the arm. Manson yelps like a dog who has gotten his tail stepped on, and the crowd begins telling the champion what they think about him:

 

 

“JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!”

 

Jay Hawke simply smirks at the crowd as they vilify him, then he goes right back into the armbar.

 

King: “You can’t help but like this guy, Tom! Not only is he simply a terrific wrestler, but he knows just how to aggravate these peons without affecting the tide of the match.”

 

Onita: “Is that all you can think about? How to anger a crowd?”

 

Flesher: “As long as you can get some solid offense in on your opponent within the boundaries of the rules, it doesn’t matter what these people think about you.”

 

Manson makes his way to his feet as the crowd begins clapping to rally him. As he stands, he catches Jay Hawke with a couple of forearms to the head that send him rocking backwards. Manson breaks free from the grip and runs off the ropes, coming back with a shoulder tackle that knocks the Dean of Wrestling down. Manson runs off the ropes again and hits another shoulder tackle, and again Hawke goes down. Manson runs off the ropes again, but this time Jay Hawke takes one step to his side and gets a knee to Manson’s midsection to double him over. Jay Hawke takes advantage of the positioning and grabs Manson from around the side of the head, spinning him down to the canvas.

 

Flesher: “Swinging neck breaker by Hawke, and he might do that move better than anybody else in the SWF.”

 

Jay Hawke immediately goes down for the cover, being sure to grapevine a leg for additional leverage:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THR -- Manson pulls the left shoulder up.

 

Onita: “But Manson still with plenty of fight left in him!”

 

King: “He might be resilient enough to kick out, but I’m not sure how much fight he actually has left in him!”

 

With Manson still down, feeling the effects of over fifteen minutes of grueling action, Jay Hawke stands up and drops a short leg across his opponent’s head and neck. Jay Hawke immediately goes into another cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

THR -- Manson once again manages to lift the left shoulder. Increasingly frustrated, Jay Hawke stands up and strikes again, this time dropping a knee into the side of Manson’s head and going for another cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THRE -- Manson again just barely gets the left shoulder up.

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Fed up, Jay Hawke becomes frustrated and goes right into the chokehold, prompting Scott Ryder to begin his disqualification count:

 

 

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

 

Jay Hawke releases the chokehold, only to go right back into it:

 

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

 

Jay Hawke again releases the chokehold, only to go right back to it for a third time:

 

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

 

Flesher: “I was afraid this would happen. Jay Hawke has this habit of getting frustrated when he can’t put somebody away, and that’s when he starts going away from the rulebook.”

 

King: “Oh, he’s fine, Tom. He’s the Dean of Professional Wrestling. It’s just a calculated measure of weakening an opponent.”

 

Onita: “He can’t weaken an opponent within the confines of the rules?”

 

King: “Sure he could, but where’s the fun in that?”

 

Jay Hawke rolls Manson over onto his stomach. He drives a series of knees into the small of the back before standing over top of the Raging Bull. He then yanks Manson up by the chin, sitting down on his back and making sure Manson’s arms are over Hawke’s knees.

 

Flesher: “And Hawke going right into that camel clutch. Pressure mostly on the back and neck with this hold.”

 

King: “And even if Manson had designs of potentially countering this into an electric chair, how can he possibly lift Hawke with all the work that’s been done to his shoulder tonight?”

 

One thought is going through Manson’s mind right now: “Find a way out of the hold.” He begins crawling toward the ropes.

 

Onita: “See? Never count Manson out!”

 

King: “But it’s fun!”

 

Manson continues to crawl for the ropes, but Jay Hawke releases the hold on his own and drives the knee into the small of the back yet again. He then pulls Manson back to the center of the ring, then uses his arms to bar one arm and his legs to scissor the other arm.

 

Flesher: “Jay Hawke’s bringing out all of the submission moves tonight. Into the Rings of Saturn, and we’ve yet to see him use this one with any regularity.”

 

Onita: “And there aren’t too many ways to counter this hold.”

 

King: “I can only think of one. Don’t get caught in it.”

 

Onita: “Brilliant.”

 

King: “Thank you.”

 

Manson’s thought of another way to counter it. Stand up and fall backwards. The only question is “Can he actually do it?” He can if the crowd has their way.

 

 

“MAN-SON!

MAN-SON!

MAN-SON!”

 

 

Manson summons up pretty much every ounce of strength he has left in himself, and tries to stand up as much as he can. He does make his way to his feet, but as he tries to fall backwards, Jay Hawke uses the momentum to take Manson over into a crucifix pin:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

Kickout. The crowd pops as Manson survives the pin attempt, but the cheers quickly turn into jeers as the International Champion takes his challenger down with a leg lariat.

 

Onita: “Damn!”

 

Flesher: “Is somebody out here not being impartial?”

 

King: “Yeah, me. Pin him Jay!”

 

Jay Hawke doesn’t go for the pin right away though. Instead, he steps through the ropes onto the ring apron, waiting for the challenger to make his way to his feet. Manson does, and Jay Hawke immediately uses the top rope as a springboard, elevating himself into the ring for a lariat. However, he’s left himself wide open for Manson to catch him coming down…

 

 

BANG!

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Flesher: “Oh my God! Manson caught Jay Hawke coming into the ring with the Consequences!”

 

King: “NO!”

 

Onita: “YES!”

 

Manson uses pretty much every ounce of strength he has left to crawl into the cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THREE!

 

 

*DINGDINGDING!*

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

Flesher: “What a tremendous counter by Manson, and he’s found a way to even the match up with just one fall to go!”

 

King: “I can’t believe this!”

 

Divefire: “Ladies and gentlemen, the total match time: 19 minutes 51 seconds! The winner of the second fall, evening this contest at one fall apiece: MAAAAAAAAAAAAANSOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!”

 

Onita: “It’s like I said earlier, guys! You can never count a man like Manson out!”

 

King: “Yeah, OK, it was a beautiful counter into the Consequences, I’ll give him that! But at what cost? Jay Hawke has worked the arm over for most of the match, adding some neck work into it, and with one fall to go, it’s probably Manson who’s most likely to get beat right now!”

 

Flesher: “But this rest period favors both men equally. It favors Manson because he can shake off the effects of the work to the arm and neck, and it favors Hawke because he can recover from that hellacioud Diamond cutter that ended the second fall.”

 

*DINGDINGDING!*

 

King: “It’s not especially helpful when both men are completely out of it as the fall starts though.”

 

With both men still down, referee Scott Ryder begins exercising a ten count:

 

ONE!

 

Divefire: “Twenty minutes have gone by, 40 minutes remain in the time limit!”

 

TWO!

 

Flesher: “And with Scott Ryder exercising the ten count, we might end up getting a draw anyway even without the time limit expiring!”

 

THREE!

 

King: “Which would suit Jay Hawke just fine, as he retains the title on any kind of draw here!”

 

FOUR!

 

Onita: “And that would be a cheap way for Jay Hawke to retain that title too!”

 

FIVE!

 

 

“LET’S GO MAN-SON!” *clap clap clapclapclap*

 

SIX!

 

“LET’S GO MAN-SON!” *clap clap clapclapclap*

 

SEVEN!

 

“LET’S GO MAN-SON!” *clap clap clapclapclap*

 

EIGHT!

 

With the crowd rallying behind the Raging Bull, both combatants use the ropes to pull themselves to their feet.

 

Flesher: “Both men to their feet at about the same time, but which one is going to have the advantage here?”

 

Jay Hawke issues the first strike, using a knife edge chop against the chest of Manson.

 

“WHOO!”

 

Manson comes right back with a hard forearm smash against the chest of Hawke.

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

Jay Hawke retaliates with a forearm of his own.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Manson comes back with an even harder forearm that backs Jay Hawke up about three steps.

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

Jay Hawke steps forward, head butting Manson but nearly falling over backwards, holding his own head.

 

King: “What was that?”

 

Onita: “He hurt himself by executing the head BUTT!”

 

Flesher: “After more than twenty minutes of grueling action, it’s the champion growing desperate, going for a head BUTT instead of using his wrestling ability!”

 

Still groggy, Jay Hawke runs toward the ropes. Manson still has his bearings about him, and he musters what strength he has in his arms to lift the oncoming International Champion and drop him onto the top rope with a Hotshot.

 

Onita: “Manson got him with the Hotshot!”

 

King: “He won’t get him!”

 

Flesher: “I think you’re right, Brian! He could only lift him with the one arm, so he didn’t get as much of that move as he wanted!”

 

Onita: “But he’s already gotten to his feet, and I think he’s waiting on the champion to do the same!”

 

Jay Hawke pulls himself to his feet, but Manson is right there waiting for him. The challenger leaps up to catch the champion in the face with a judo kick.

 

Onita: “Gamengiri!”

 

Flesher: “Jay Hawke is down, and Manson’s going right for the pin!”

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THR -- Jay Hawke gets his foot on the bottom rope, and referee Scott Ryder signals “That’s one.”

 

King: “Well, there’s our answer. The rope breaks, at least under Scott Ryder’s interpretation of the rules, reset after each fall. Hawke’s still got two left, thank God!”

 

Sensing he still needs a big move or two to win the championship, Manson picks Jay Hawke up and pulls him to his feet. He drives a knee into the stomach of the Dean of Wrestling to double him over, then leans in to lock in a bear hug. Then, using his right side as much as possible, he lifts the Dean up and picks him up over the shoulder, dropping him on his back and maintaining the bridge.

 

Flesher: “Northern Lights suplex!”

 

ONE!

 

Onita: “A new champion right here!”

 

TWO!

 

King: “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

THR -- Jay Hawke just barely gets a foot over the bottom rope.

 

Flesher: “No! Jay Hawke has to use his second rope break to keep from getting pinned, but my God that was close!”

 

Onita: “And give Manson credit there! He kept Hawke on his right side to avoid using the shoulder Hawke’s spent most of the match working on.”

 

Manson once again waits for Jay Hawke to get to his feet. Just as Hawke starts standing upright, Manson runs into the ropes, and on the rebound…

 

 

SMACK!

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Flesher: “Western Lariat!”

 

Onita: “No way does Jay Hawke kick out of this one!”

 

Flesher: “Manson goes for the cover, and he’s won the championship here for sure!”

 

ONE!

 

King: “No way! Look where Hawke is!”

 

TWO!

 

 

THRE -- and Jay Hawke uses his final rope break of the fall and the match, once again getting just a portion of his boot over the bottom rope.

 

Onita: “Oh come on!”

 

King: “All you have to do is touch the rope, and that’s all Hawke did there!”

 

Flesher: “But now he is out of rope breaks! One more big move, and not even the ropes will be able to save the International Championship!”

 

Manson stands up and motions for Jay Hawke to get to his feet. This time, however, Jay Hawke doesn’t bite. Instead, he rolls out of the ring in an attempt to collect his bearings. “Brilliant move,” shouts the Suicide King, but Manson is quickly out of the ring after him. Jay Hawke sees that and starts running away from him as fast as he can after the last four or five minutes of action. Manson quickly follows, and we quickly have the makings of a footrace on the outside of the ring.

 

THREE!

 

Onita: “Hawke’s the quicker of the two, but I don’t know if he can outrun him after the hell Manson’s put him through the last couple of minutes!”

 

Flesher: “Or the entire third fall, for that matter!”

 

King: “Don’t worry. This is just a part of Jay Hawke’s master scheme. It has to be. It just has to, dammit!”

 

SEVEN!

 

Jay Hawke quickly slides into the ring. Manson slides in after him, but Jay Hawke has already gotten to his feet, and he drives a knee into the side of Manson’s head as he enters the ring.

 

King: “See? All he was trying to do was lure Manson in to level him!”

 

Onita: “You honestly believe your own excuses after a while, don’t you?”

 

Manson tries to pull himself to his feet, but the Dean of Professional Wrestling catches him with a knee lift. With Manson leaning against the ropes, Hawke fires back with a European uppercut that rocks Manson. The challenger is off-balance as Jay Hawke runs into the ropes on the opposite side of the ring. Hawke charges in, looking for a clothesline, but Manson sees him coming and ducks, backdropping the International Champion out of the ring and onto the hard concrete floor with a thud.

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

Manson begins to make a move to follow the champion outside, unaware of what Scott Ryder is doing behind him.

 

*DINGDINGDING!*

 

Onita: “What?”

 

Flesher: “Why is the bell ringing? We weren’t anywhere near the time limit.”

 

Scott Ryder heads over to explain the decision to Divefire as Manson looks over, a perplexed look on his face.

 

King: “I think I see what’s going on, and I might be the only person in the building who is going to like it!”

 

The referee, having made his decision, asks for the championship belt as Divefire grabs the house microphone.

 

Divefire: “Ladies and gentlemen. The total time of the match: 24 minutes 49 seconds. Referee Scott Ryder has disqualified Manson for intentionally throwing Jay Hawke over the top rope…

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Onita: “No!”

 

Divefire: “…and has awarded the third fall and the match to … still the SWF International Champion … ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’ … JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWWKE!”

 

Onita: “You have to be kidding me!”

 

The crowd has a similar opinion, but as Scott Ryder hands the title belt to the champion on the arena floor, they have chosen to express it in a different manner:

 

 

“BULL-SHIT!

BULL-SHIT!

BULL-SHIT!”

 

Flesher: “What a controversial finish to a fantastic International Championship match!”

 

King: “Hey! Manson knew the rules to this one before he ever set foot in the ring! These rules were designed to declare a clear-cut winner, and that winner was Jay Hawke!”

 

Onita: “You’ve got to be kidding! Manson wasn’t trying to throw Jay Hawke over the top rope, he was defending himself!”

 

King: “He still threw him over the top rope, and according to the rules of the match, Jay Hawke retains the title via disqualification! So choke on the facts, because they taste so sweet right now!”

 

Jay Hawke walks down the aisle, holding the title belt over his head as fans begin throwing various forms of garbage at him.

 

Flesher: “Well, whether you agree with the decision of the referee or not, the decision is going to stand. Jay Hawke will continue his International Championship reign here tonight in London!”

[Ace309 0]

Announcer (VO): “It’s time for the SWF Flashback, brought to you by ‘Enter the Filibuster,’ the political action movie starring Cyclone Comet!

 

 

Flashback to: SWF Lockdown. July 20, 2005

=====

 

Magnifico looks at the hand, and then back at Wildchild’s face. The Bahama Bomber wears an expression that says, “C’mon, Mag, let’s go. You did great, buddy.” Tears brim in ELM’s eyes, seemingly touched by Wildchild’s compassion and sympathy. Slowly, unsurely, Magnifico reaches out with both hands...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...and wraps them around Wildchild’s neck.

 

“...oh no.” Pete whispers.

 

Magnifico seems to suddenly come to life as he tightens his grip around Wildchild’s neck, pushing his thumbs into WC’s windpipe and choking every bit of breath out of his body! Surprised, Wildchild can offer little resistance as Magnifico thrusts him down to the mat, keeping his vice-like grip on WC’s throat! When it first happened, the crowd wasn't sure how to react, but now they’re absolutely convinced on what their response should be.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

The taunts and jeers pour in from every part of the arena as Magnifico stares coldly into Wildchild’s eyes, which are rolling into the back of his head. ELM’s face is a mask of unspeakable rage and frustration, every bit of his anger being expressed through his hands as he strangles Wildchild, whose darkening face speaks of the oxygen that his body so desperately needs. The referee shouts at Magnifico, practically begging him to release the hold, but ELM doesn’t seem to hear a word. He tries physically pulling Magnifico off of Wildchild, but the luchadore is like stone. He won’t move an inch.

 

“For God’s sake, get someone down here!” Pete shouts in anger and concern. “He’s killing him!!”

 

As if on cue, a calvacade of referees rush down the entrance ramp and dive into the ring. It takes the combined strength of the group of referees to pull Magnifico off of Wildchild, but finally, ELM’s grip is broken. Wildchild immediately begins coughing, his shocked body doing its best to get oxygen into the lungs. Slowly, with his arms and head hanging, Magnifico stands up. He looks down at Wildchild. He sees the man who reached out to him in friendship choking for breath, doing his best to fight off asphyxiation.

 

And he smiles.

 

 

Flash to: SWF Smarkdown. July 25, 2005

=====

 

Microphone in hand, ELM walks into the center of the ring, surrounded on all sides by irate Irishmen. As if suddenly becoming aware of the booing, Magnifico suddenly looks up and brings the microhpone to his lips.

 

“Shut the fuck up.” Magnifico suddenly snaps, which doesn’t really help matters any. The fans only grow louder and angrier than ever, but eventually quiet down to the point where ELM can continue speaking.

 

“Like I give a damn what you think.” ELM lectures. “You people will turn on someone at the drop of a hat. You’ve done it to me before, and you’re doing it to me right now.”

 

“The man’s got a point.” King concedes. LDP just scoffs.

 

“Every one of you is a goddamn hypocrite.” Magnifico accuses. “You all cheer for acts of unspeakable violence night in and night out. And I, being the fool I was, put my body on the line every night, trying to please you.”

 

ELM pauses for a moment before continuing. “But it wasn’t good enough for you, was it? None of you give a flying fuck about me unless I’m winning. Oh sure, you’ll show your support during the match, wanting to hedge your bets in case I should edge out a win, but once my shoulders are down on the mat, I’m worthless to you. You’ll just cheer for the guy who won and get on with your lives, not thinking for a second the hell I just went through trying to entertain you.”

 

“Well said!” King cries. “Thank God someone finally got the nerve to step up and say it.”

 

“This is no execuse for nearly killing Wildchild.” Pete counters, annoyed. “I can understand his frustration, but there’s no reason he couldn’t control his emotions.”

 

“I was sick and tired of being the good guy, of holding myself back just to please you.” Magnifico states. “And as I expected, the second I wrapped my hands around Wildchild’s neck, you all turned on me. You don’t give a damn about me. You want to cheer for the showmen, the acrobats, the people who pander to you.”

 

End Flashback

 

Announcer (VO): “Enter the Filibuster.’ Coming to theatres August 5th!

 

 

FADE TO

 

 

Backstage, in the makeshift Interview Center, Kevin Cole is standing by with Wildchild.

 

“With me at this time is one half of the SWF Tag Team Champions,” says Cole, “the Wildchild. Wildchild, as your partner tries to become a two-time World Heavyweight Champion in his home city of Las Vegas, you’ll try to get your revenge on El Luchadore Magnifico for what he did to you two weeks ago. Your thoughts?”

 

“First of all,” says Wildchild, “I wan’ t’say good luck t’my brother in arms. Johnny, I know you got it in ya, brudda, an’ it’s gon’ be your time in just a few moments… But right now, I’ve got El Luchadore Magnifico on my mind! Y’ know Mags, after you choked me out, I didn’ know what t’think about it. I was so shocked dat it took me a while t’process everyt’ing dat happened dat night, an’ everyt’ing dat you said last week on Smarkdown, but let me tell ya what I came up wit’:

 

“You talk about how de fans turned on you,” continues Wildchild, “when de fact of de matter is dat you turned your back on dem. You turned your back on all of us… You let me down, you let Todd Cortez down, you let Zyon down… you let down every Cruiserweight dat ever admired or looked up to you!

 

“Y’see, like I said before, you were an inspiration t’me, Mags,” continues Wildchild. “You let me see what a Cruiserweight’s potential really could be… you were de first t’really go all de way to de top as a Cruiserweight… You validated de Cruiserweight division. In de’ land of de giants, larger den life superstars like Mark Stevens an’ de Hville Thugg, you showed de world dat Cruiserweights belonged right dere along with dem… You broke open de glass ceiling for us, Mags. You showed de world dat Cruiserweights belonged at de top of de mountain wit everybody else. De men dat have worn de Worl’ Heavyweight Title here in recent months… an’ I’m talkin’ ‘bout my main main Johnny Dangerous, I’m talkin’ ‘bout Toxxic, I’m talkin’ ‘bout Landon Maddix… all men under two hundred twenty pounds dat have worn de Worl’ Title, and dey all owe you a debt of gratitude for breaking down dat door for them!

 

“Mags, I been t’inking long an’ hard about everyt’ing dat you’ve done for de good of all de Cruiserweights dat have come after you,” says Wildchild, the pitch of his voice rising, “an’ I came t’realize dat you couldn’t handle it. You spoke last week about de fans turning dere back on you, when in reality, de fact of de matter is dat de mantle of respect and admiration we had bestowed you was more den you could handle. I thought dat you were de strongest of all of us… but I was wrong!

 

Cole can do little but continue to hold the microphone, shocked into silence by the raw emotion coming from the Bahama Bomber. “Mags, de fact is dat you couldn’t be de man dat I thought you were. De man dat I, an’ Zyon, an’ all de other Cruiserweights, an’ all de fans wanted you t’be… You couldn’t handle de burden of being looked up to by so many other wrestlers!” says Wildchild, now practically yelling. “You couldn’t handle de pressure!

 

“An’ for you t’say what you said about high-fliers… HOW DARE YOU!” screams Wildchild, now shaking with anger. “How dare you turn your nose up at everyt’ing dat helped you to get t’de top of de mountain! You know an’ everybody else knows dat high risk attacks are what got you started; dey might not be what got you t’de top by demselves, but dere what got you in de door… an how dare you turn your back on your roots, Magnifico! Shame on you!

 

“But, you know what?” asks Wildchild, calming down a little. “I’m not gon’ t’go into dat ring mad, Mags. I’m gon’ t’go into de ring focused. I’m gon’ t’go into de ring determined. I’m gon’ t’go into de ring an teach you t’respect your Lucha roots. Because when my speed puts you down on your knees, you’re gon’ realize what a mistake you made! Mags, I hope dat you’re ready, an’ I hope dat you bring it, because I’m about to go out dere… an’ Kick. Your. BUTT!”

 

With that, Wildchild storms away from the Interview Center. “Whew!” sighs Cole. “Some very impassioned words by the Wildchild! King, Tom, Annie, let’s get back to you!”

Edited August 1, 2005 by Ace309

[Ace309 0]

“And welcome back to SWF Ground Zero, ladies and gentlemen!” Tom Flesher cries as the camera is pointed at him once more. “Once again, I’m Tom Flesher, here with my esteemed commentary partner The Suicide King...”

 

“Yo.” King helpfully adds.

 

“And bitchy lesbian Ann Onita.” Flesher grumbles.

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, darling.” Ann counters, unsucessfully hiding her sarcasm.

 

“Mmm hmm.” Tom replies, not hearing a word Ann’s said. “Anyway, we’ve been witness to one hell of a half of a Pay Per View. Care to fill us in, Brian?”

 

“Oh, if you insist.” King coyly complies. “Spike Jenkins, fairly fresh off of a much-deserved suspension handed down by none other than the Superior One himself, took on JJ Johnson in the evening’s opening contest. Following that was the match that made Flesher cry out in joy, the Old School Rules match between Jay Hawke and Manson.”

 

“I can’t deny it.” Flesher admits. “I was looking forward to the Old School Rules match nearly as much as seeing Scott Pretzler embarass Toxxic in the evening’s Canadian Deathmatch Main Event. And suffice to say, Hawke/Manson did not disappoint. A wrestling purist’s dream.”

 

“Meaning boring nosense that I could have seen in amateur wrestling.” Ann counters, annoyed. “I can’t believe Jay Hawke actually revels in being the most boring wrestler on the roster...save for your Golden Boy Pretzler, of course.”

 

“Ann, you wouldn’t know good wrestling if it bit you on the ass.” Tom snaps.

 

“Okay! Well.” King interrupts, playing the voice of reason for once. “In any case, coming up next is quite possible the most emotional match on the card. In their third and deciding contest, Wildchild and El Luchadore Magnifico will go at it in a No Disqualification match!”

 

“Now this is my kinda match!” Ann declares. “Wildchild’s one of the most entertaining wrestlers in the fed without exception. It’s going to be a pleasure watching him outsmart and outspeed that backstabbing bastard, Magnifico.”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Flesher counters, all too happy to do so. “If his contest with Zyon is any indication, ELM is going to be more than a match for Wildchild. He managed to garner a submission, which was a pleasant surprise as Magnifico is not known for garnering submissions.”

 

“What’s more, the Mexican has a win over Wildchild.” King adds. “Though some may argue that he just barely got the victory because of a lucky finisher-“

 

“Like you initially did.” Ann interrupts, smiling.

 

“-A WIN’S A WIN.” King snaps, annoyed. “And what’s more, we’re looking at a man who HATES Wildchild, a man who would do anything to beat him tonight.”

 

“And you don’t think Wildchild shares that contempt?” Onita counters, incredulous. “Magnifico was Wildchild’s IDOL. When ELM nearly choked him to death, WC was understandably pissed off and hurt. When he made light of Wildchild’s dead family, that was the last straw. Wildchild wants to beat Magnifico just as badly as Magnifico wants to beat him.”

 

“A good point for once, Ann.” Flesher adds. Onita sticks her tongue out in response. Tom rolls his eyes and continues. “We can talk about this all night, but we won’t find out if we’re right until this match gets underway. So, without any further ado...”

 

As if on cue, the camera quickly and jarringly shifts to the ring, where Divefire, looking uncomfortable in the required Tuxedo, stands. He’s surrounded by ten thousand anxious Brits, buzzing in anticipation as the Drunken British Ninja brings the microphone to his lips.

 

“The following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL, and there are NO disqualifications!” Divefire shouts.

 

ATTENTION!

 

ALL YOU NIGGAZ!

 

ALL YOU BITCHES!

 

TIME TO PUT DOWN THE CRISTAL, TIME TO TAKE OFF THE ICE FOR A MINUTE…

 

TIME TO THROW A LITTLE MUD IN THIS MOTHERFUCKA…

 

“RAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

 

The fans immediately explode into deafening cheers, easily drowning out Redman’s “Let’s Get Dirty”. A second later, they somehow grow louder when they catch sight of Wildchild striding out from behind the curtain, his Tag Title wrapped around his waist and an unusually serious expression painted on his face.

 

“Introducing first, from the Bahamas, weighing in at two hundred and fourteen pounds...” Divefire begins, “He is one half of the SWF Tag Team Champions...WIIIIIIIIIIILDCHIIIIIIIILD!”

 

Wildchild is surrounded on both sides by rabid fans as he makes his way towards the ring, but he doesn’t pay them a bit of attention. He’s got more important matters on his mind tonight.

 

“And that’s not a good sign for Magnifico.” Flesher notes. “Wildchild had the same expression before his match with Spike Jenkins, a match he won after completely brutalizing Spike in the beginning of the contest.”

 

“Maybe so, but keep in mind that Jenkins took control of the match shortly after Wildchild’s little temper tantrum.” King adds. “If he had taken proper advantage of Wildchild’s lack of concentration, Spike would have easily gotten the win.”

 

“Nonsense.” Ann pipes up. “Wildchild’s now coming face to face with the cause of his anger. The only thing in his mind right now is how and how badly he’ll beat Magnifico. I’m confident he’ll remain focused.”

 

During the debate, Wildchild had entered the ring and is now going through his pre-match routine. The Bahama Bomber executes a few cursory stretches, all the time keeping his eyes locked on the stage.

 

“HEY HEY!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

Before the second “HEY!” can even be uttered, the fans release a massive, booming boos, doing so as red, white, and green sparks explode upwards from the stage. Their expressed hatred only grows in volume when El Luchadore Magnifico pops out through the smoke, his Mexican flag billowing gracefully behind him. Magnifico’s eyes immediately lock onto Wildchild’s, and the two men stare coldly at each other from across the arena. Both men concentrate on each other and nothing else.

 

“And now, from Mexico City, Mexico...” Divefire booms, “Weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds...EL LUCHADOOOOOOOOORE MAGNIFICOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

ELM stops a few feet from the ring, surrounded by the curses and jeers that pour in from every part of the arena. He scowls as he stares as Wildchild, unable to hide his disgust any longer.

 

“I can’t understand what Magnifico has to be annoyed about.” Ann comments, annoyed. “He was the one who viciously attacked Wildchild without reason or motive.”

 

“Look at it from his point of view, Ann.” King patiently explains. “He’s one of the most highly-respected competitors in the history of the federation. When he made his return and couldn’t buy a win, the frustration began to build. It all came to a head when Wildchild, the only man he had gotten a decisive win over, beat him with his own aerial finisher.”

 

“In his own mind, that was the ultimate disrespect.” Flesher adds, happy to help prove Ann wrong. “It also didn’t help that the crowd backed Wildchild in the win, adding to his theory that they don’t give a damn about him.”

 

“None of that excuses his actions.” Ann defiantly counters. “Let him be angry at Wildchild. He’ll be even angrier when he loses to him again.”

 

As ELM stands outside of the ring, he’s suddenly distracted by a particularly nasty remark from a nearby audience member. Never one to pass up a chance to curse out a detractor, Magnifico takes his attention away from Wildchild and turns towards the offending fan, whereupon he and the drunken Englishman exchange vicious insults. Having had enough of the belligerent man, Magnifico turns back towards the ring...just in time to catch sight of Wildchild flipping over the top rope and diving right at him! As Wildchild nears the luchadore, he kicks out with both his feet, slamming them into Magnifico’s chest with a Shooting Star Dropkick! A mighty cheer rises from the fans as ELM hits the ground hard, his trademark flag knocked out of his hands and falling unceremoniously beside him.

 

“Amazing move from Wildchild!” Flesher announces, impressed. “He took advantage of Magnifico’s momentary distraction and just pummeled him with a Shooting Star Dropkick to the outside!”

 

“Great start to the match.” Ann adds. “That was just unbelievable, which is amazingly something we’ve come to expect from Wildchild.”

 

Wildchild recovers fairly quickly from the fall, as he rolls back to his feet and begins wildly stomping away at the luchadore. Magnifico struggles to get away from Wildchild, but the Bahama Bomber grabs him by the tights and the arm and gets him to his feet before he has a chance to get anywhere. Before ELM has a chance to react, WC throws Magnifico towards a guardrail flanking the entrance ramp! ELM manages to twist his body and avoid hitting it head first, but as such, takes the brunt of the sharp impact square on his back. Magnifico’s mouth opens in a soundless cry of pain, and it only gets worse when Wildchild hops into the air and kicks his legs out, slamming his feet into ELM’s chest with another Dropkick! The force of the kick not only punishes his chest but drives him into the guardrail once again, drawing an impressive pop from the capacity crowd.

 

“Goddamn Carribean spot monkey!” King cries. “He’s not giving the Mexican even the slightest chance to defend himself.”

 

“Which is the idea.” Ann replies. “Wildchild’s usually not this aggressive, and he’s catching Magnifico off guard.”

 

“Still.” Flesher interjects. “We need to remember that on the outside, Wildchild’s offensive arsenal is cut in half. He doesn’t have any ropes to spring off of out there. Not to mention the fact that the match hasn’t even started yet, as Magnifico never reached the ring.”

 

Magnifico arches his back in pain and slides to the floor, doing so as Wildchild sneaks in a few more stomps onto the luchadore’s back. Seeing that ELM’s going to be a second, WC strides over to the ring, throws up its curtain, and begins searching beneath the squared circle. As Magnifico gets the first chance to recover from WC’s assault, the Tropical Tumbler continues to dig under the ring for whatever he’s looking for. Finally, Wildchild emerges, brandishing the old standby, a steel chair! An anticipatory cheer rises from the crowd as WC strides back towards Magnifico, who’s on his hands and knees. As he walks, Wildchild pulls the chair high above his head, and is about to drive it downwards when the luchadore suddenly lunges forward and slams his fist into WC’s gut, desperate to prevent the chair strike! Wildchild’s stunned enough to lower the chair and double over slightly, giving Magnifico time to scramble to his feet. When he sees ELM standing, WC scowls and swings the chair horizontally, aiming it right at the side of Magnifico’s head! However, the luchadore just manages to duck beneath the fatal furniture, only to be forced to avoid it again when Wildchild quickly rears back and swings it downwards! ELM sidesteps the attack and delivers a stiff right to WC’s chin, right before following it up with two more and slowing Wildchild down for the first time during the match.

 

“Ooof.” King releases a sigh of relief. “That was close. Wildchild’s incessant cheating nearly overcame the Mexican.”

 

“Are you insane?!” Ann cries. “Besides the fact that there practically is no cheating in this match, Wildchild was just-“

 

“Tom, any chance you could shut up your girlfriend’s hot yet annoying twin sister?” King asks, annoyed at Ann’s outburst.

 

“Believe me Brian, I’ve tried.” Tom replies, rolling his eyes. Onita just fumes and returns her attention to the match.

 

The strikes back WC up a few steps and cause him to drop the chair, doing so right before Magnifico grabs him by the arm and whips him across the floor, towards a far guardrail. As Wildchild approaches the rail, he suddenly leaps into the air, landing perfectly on the thin steel structure! But before he leap off of it, Magnifico unexpectedly grabs his shins and pulls his feet off of the rail, causing Wildchild to fall chin-first onto the rail! The fans release a sympathetic OHHHH! as WC falls to the floor, his hands on his suddenly-sore chin.

 

“Ouch! Brilliant move from Magnifico!” King declares. “He remembered from their previous contests that Wildchild would Moonsault off of that rail if given the chance, so ELM made sure that he didn’t get it!”

 

Magnifico finally has a second to shake off Wildchild’s assualt, doing so as WC begins climbing to his feet, the pain still shooting through his jaw. Before he can stand, though, ELM grabs him by the arm and tights, roughly pulls him to his feet, and then throws Wildchild beneath the bottom rope and into the ring. Magnifico dives right in after him, spurring the referee to finally ring the bell.

 

DING DING DING

 

“Thank God. I was afraid they’d never get the match started.” Tom comments. “Let’s hope they’ve gotten the brawling out of their system.”

 

“I wouldn’t bet on it, Simple-Minded One.” Ann chides. “There’s no chance Wildchild got out all his anger with a couple Dropkicks and a few missed chair shots.”

 

ELM pops to his feet the second he’s in the ring and begins stomping away at Wildchild, who has to restart the trek to his feet under Magnifico’s kicks. Once again, ELM grabs Wildchild and gets him to his feet before he can get there himself, this time shoving WC in the corner as soon as he’s standing. Not wasting a moment, Magnifico immediately draws his arm back, drives it forward, and...

 

CHOP!

 

*SMACK*

 

“WHOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

The fans release the requisite cry despite themselves, before coming to their senses somewhat and booing as Wildchild gasps for breath, his chest stinging with the force of the Knife-Edge Chop. Grinning to himself, Magnifico pulls his arm back once more and...

 

CHOP!

 

*SMACK*

 

“WHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

“For a little guy, Magnifico sure has a stiff chop.” King notes.

 

“Well, it’s his only strong strike, so it would make sense that he work on it and make it as powerful as possible.” Tom expands. “’Course, it’s still nothing compared to Danny’s, which we learned in humorous fashion during their match.”

 

Another Chop, another mini-tribute to Flair, and Wildchild is reeling a bit. He takes a few stumbling steps out of the corner before having his arm grabbed by Magnifico and getting whipped across the ring and towards the far corner. ELM immediately runs after the Bahama Bomber, only a few feet away from him as Wildchild crashes into the corner back-first. The second WC hits the corner, Magnifico leaps into the air and extends his arms and legs, looking to slam his body into Wildchild’s with a Corner Splash! However, WC dives out of the corner just before impact, leaving ELM to crash chest-first into the top turnbuckle to the delight of the crowd! Before Magnifico can even turn around, Wildchild gets behind him and begins throwing his knee into his gut, repeatedly striking the luchadore’s kidneys and sending jolts of pain throughout his entire body! Wildchild’s strikes grow more rapid and wild and the crowd’s reaction more enthusiastic until WC suddenly grabs Magnifico’s head and begins to slam it into the top turnbuckle! ELM is completely helpless as Wildchild just goes beserk, driving the luchadore’s forehead into the turnbuckle over and over the the obvious delight of the live audience!

 

“See, what’d I tell ya?” Ann asks, obviously enjoying the beating Wildchild is handing out. “Wildchild is PISSED. He is not leaving this ring until he has gotten out every bit of aggression on Magnifico.”

 

“It may be helping him now.” Flesher sharply counters. “But remember his match with Maddix on Smarkdown. If Wildchild keeps this up, he’ll be out of gas in no time and Magnifico will be in a perfect position to take control of the match.”

 

After countless blows to Magnifico’s forehead, Wildchild finally lets the luchadore go, allowing him to fall into the corner and slump up against it, back first. As ELM struggles to figure out what the hell just happened, Wildchild sprints to the other side of the ring, stopping short of the corner and turning towards the luchadore. Wildchild barely stops before breaking into another sprint, this time charing right at the overwhelemed luchadore. Without warning, WC suddenly leaps into the air, twisting his body as he does so in hopes of landing the Blue Crush! Wildchild makes perfect contact with the Twisting Body Splash, his body slamming into Magnifico’s as the fans cheer wildly! Stunned, ELM stumbles a few steps out of the corner, pauses...and then falls face-first to the canvas, drawing another triumphant pop from the capacity crowd! Wildchild immediately falls to the mat, turns Magnifico onto his stomach, and covers him, hooking the luchadore’s leg as the ref slides into position and begins counting.

 

ONE!

 

TWO! No! ELM kicks out at two and a half, effectively ending much of the crowd’s cheering.

 

“A spirited attack from Wildchild, but not enough to keep Magnifico down.” Ann reports.

 

“Of course not.” King condescendingly adds. “This match means just as much to the Mexican as it does to Wildchild. It’s going to take more than a few turnbuckle strikes and a weak Stinger Splash to keep Magnifico down tonight.”

 

Undeterred by the kickout, Wildchild rolls off of Magnifico and gives him a few quick stomps. WC grabs him by the arm and pulls him ot his feet, but the second ELM’s standing, he reaches up and rakes Wildchild’s eyes! The fans release a wave of muchly-deserved boos as Wildchild turns and stumbles away from Magnifico, his hands over his face. ELM takes a second to shake off the impact of the Blue Crush before following Wildchild and grabbing him by the back of the head. Magnifico leads the Carribean Cruiser over to the nearby corner and smashes his head into the top turnbuckle, before letting Wildchild go and allowing him to fall back-first into the corner’s turnbuckles. Magnifico delivers a few quick stomps to WC’s gut before grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out of the corner. ELM begins to whip him, but halfway through the motion, he suddenly pulls Wildchild back towards him and lashes out with his arm, slamming it into WC’s chest with a Short-Arm Clothesline! Wildchild is snapped down to the mat and immediately covered by the luchadore, spurring the ref to slide into position as the fans begin to boo.

 

ONE!

 

TWO! No! Wildchild kicks out at two and a half, drawing a few pleased cheers from the crowd.

 

“Another smart move from Magnifico.” Flesher notes. “He tricked Wildchild into thinking that he would be whipped and have a chance to use the ropes offensively, and as such took WC completely by surprise when he was pulled into that Short-Arm Clothesline.”

 

“Agreed.” King adds. “The Mexican has finally learned to not try and match Wildchild’s speed. It’s in his best interest to outsmart WC and limit his offense as much as possible.”

 

Magnifico immediately rolls off of Wildchild, grabs him by the arm and the tights, and pulls him to his feet. Without any warning, ELM then runs towards the nearby ropes and throws Wildchild through them! The Bahama Bomber crashes back-first on the unforgiving floor, drawing a sympathetic OHHH! from the capacity crowd. Magnifico takes a moment to admire his handiwork before rolling to the outside and stepping out onto the floor, where WC writhes from the pain shooting through his back. ELM takes a step towards Wildchild before noticing the steel chair WC unsucessfully attempted to use earlier. An unsettling grin creeping across his face, Magnifico picks up said chair, and with it in hand heads back over to Wildchild, who’s starting to climb back to his feet. His trek is delayed somewhat, however, when ELM drops an elbow onto his back, immediately returning WC to the floor to the displeasure of the crowd. Magnifico then grabs one of his legs and threads it through the unfolded chair, so that the seat is on top of Wildchild’s knee and the seat below it. A few anicipatory boos are already floating in from the crowd when ELM hops into the air and stomps both feet on the chair’s seat, slamming the steel directly into Wildchild’s unprotected knee! WC cries out as his knee suddenly throbs in agony, and does so again when Magnifico jumps and stomps on the seat once more!

 

“As if having heard my esteemed advice, Magnifico takes the whole ‘limiting Wildchild’s offense’ idea to whole new level!” King happily reports. “With WC’s knee shattered, ELM will be able to easily keep control over him.”

 

“Which is ridiculous.” Ann spits. “If he truly felt the need to defeat Wildchild, he’d do it with both men on an even playing field.”

 

“There’s more to ‘defeating’ your opponent than getting a three count.” King smugly counters. “Magnifico wants WC to feel this loss. To suffer every bit of pain and agony he can dish out.”

 

Magnifico mercifully pulls the chair off of Wildchild’s leg and tosses it into the ring, doing so as WC begins the painful journey to his feet. ELM graciously lends a hand by stomping away at Wildchild’s damaged knee, which only opens himself up to further and angrier jeering from the nearby fans. Despite the stomps, WC manages to get to his hands and knees, which is where ELM grabs him by the arm and roughly pulls him to his feet. Once Wildchild is standing, Magnifico gets behind him and grabs him by the waist and the leg. ELM then lifts WC into the air as if for a Shinbreaker, but instead of dropping Wildchild’s shin on his knee, Magnifico lifts him over to the apron and drops the shin on the edge of it! ELM drops WC on the apron, leaving him to grab his leg and writhe in pain as the fans release a sympathetic OHHHH!

 

Flesher winces. “Very effective move from Magnifico, using the apron to execute that Shinbreaker.”

 

Magnifico dives into the ring and immediately pops to his feet. The second he’s standing, he grabs Wildchild by the legs and pulls him away from the ropes, into the center of the ring. Once there, ELM takes one of WC’s legs and behinds it sideways, behind one of Magnifico’s own legs and on top of Wildchild’s other leg, forming a “4” shape with the limbs. Magnifico holds the straight leg and pins both of WC’s legs in place, before applying pressure onto them and locking in the Estiramiento Vicioso! The fans, confused initially as to what was going on, now know to outright boo as Wildchild cries out in pain and claws at his hair, his damaged leg being torn apart by the deadly submission.

 

“Estiramiento Vicioso!” Flesher excitedly reports, displaying his impeccable Spanish accent in the process. “The Standing Figure Four, which Magnifico just added to his aresnal, is serving him extremely well right now!”

 

“You know, just because he gave the move a generic Spanish name doesn’t make it special.” Ann growls.

 

ELM looks down on the tortured tumbler with palpable delight, pleased at the obvious pain Wildchild is going through. WC twists his legs to the left and right, trying to throw Magnifico to the mat or even loosen his grip, but it’s no use! The luchadore’s grip only grows tighter and stronger as a bloodthirsty grin creeps across his face. Wildchild unashamedly cries out in agony as he racks his brain, trying his best to think of an escape route. After a second, the proverbial light bulb seems to go off, as Wildchild plants his hands on the mat and he pushes himself off of the canvas to the annoyance and confusion of Magnifico. WC’s suddenly uses his hands to push his entire body into the air! While in mid-air, Wildchild throws hands up and interlocks them behind ELM’s neck! WC’s still in the submission, but Magnifico is now bent over with Wildchild’s weight on his neck! WC releases one hand and bashing away at Magnifico’s forehead with it, spurred on by the cheers of the somewhat confused yet encouraging crowd!

 

“For God’s sake.” King grumbles, annoyed. “Is it impossible to keep this guy on the mat for even a couple seconds? You think he’s in a virtually escapable submission and then he pulls shit like this to just piss everyone off.”

 

“You just mean bitter bastards like you, dear.” Ann replies in a comforting tone. “Wildchild thought of a brilliant if unconventional counter to the Estiramiento Vicioso, and now Magnifico faces the choice of releasing the submission or having his face continually bashed in.”

 

After a few seconds and countless blows, ELM seems to decide on the latter. He releases Wildchild’s leg and untangles himself, right before shoving WC, breaking his one-hand grip around ELM’s neck and dropping him to the mat. As the fans cheer jubilantly for the escape, Wildchild scrambles back to his feet, hindered somewhat by his strained knee. But the second he’s on his feet, Magnifico captures his arm next to Wildchild’s head and wraps both arms around WC’s skull! ELM then falls backwards and throws Wildchild over him, slamming his skull into the canvas with a Head and Arm Capture Suplex! The crowd, which was so excited a moment again, immediately sobers up as ELM floats onto Wildchild and makes the cover. Boos pour in from every part of the arena as Magnifico hooks the leg, doing so as the ref slides into position and begins counting.

 

ONE!

 

TWO! No! Wildchild gets a shoulder up at two and a half, drawing a few hopeful cheers from the worried audience.

 

“Wildchild manages to escape the submission, only to walk right into a Capture Suplex!” King excitedly reports.

 

“And even though WC managed to escape the submission, it didn’t slow ELM down a bit.” Flesher notes. “Wildchild is in serious trouble here. After his initial assault, he’s barely managed any offense at all.”

 

Scowling, Magnifico rolls back to his feet and lands a few quick stomps on the knee of WC’s damaged leg. Once that’s done, he grabs said leg and drags him over to the nearby corner, where he strings the leg up on the bottom rope. He then hits the mat and rolls to the outside, where he grabs the leg once more. Before taking the predicted next step and slamming it into the corner post, ELM pauses, the same bloodthirsty grin creeping across his face once more...but it’s soon wiped off as Wildchild suddenly pulls his leg in, drawing Magnifico in with it and into the steel post! A mighty cheer rises from the audience as ELM’s face smacks into the post, causing him to release Wildchild’s leg and stumble away from the ringpost, his hands over his face.

 

“Hahaha, serves him right.” Ann jubilantly declares. “ELM got cocky and Wildchild made him pay for it. This is his chance to take control of the match.”

 

Magnifico eventually stumbles to the guardrail, leaning against it and trying his best to shake off the blow as the surrounding fans stop just short of assaulting him. After a second, he gathers himself and storms towards the squared circle, doing so as Wildchild tries his damndest to get to his feet before ELM gets back inside the ring. He manages to do just that, lunging to his feet as Magnifico slides into the ring and pops to his. Scowling, ELM immediately lashes out with his arm, looking to slam it into Wildchild’s chest with a Lariat! However, WC manages to just duck beneath ELM’s arm, and Magnifico’s momentum causes him to be carried a step or two forward. When he stops himself and turns back towards Wildchild, just in time to see the Bahama Bomber sidestep towards him and throw his foot into the air! WC slams said foot directly into ELM’s chin, knocking him into the air with the force of the Shuffling Sidekick as the delighted fans cheer wildly! Magnifico falls to the mat and Wildchild follows him, wincing at the pain shooting through his knee as he covers the luchadore. WC hooks the leg as the ref falls to his knees and begins counting.

 

ONE!

 

TWO! No! Magnifico kicks out at two and a half, effectively ending much of the crowd’s cheering.

 

“Very nice! ELM’s anger gets the better of him, allowing Wildchild to easily dodge the Lariat and deliever a scintilating Shuffling Sidekick!” Ann declares.

 

King just stares at her, mouth agape. “Did Longdogger put you up to saying that or something? I could not imagine a more cliched passage to describe that series of events.”

 

“Pete’s a sweetheart. And he’s twice the announcer you’ll ever be, darling.” Ann counters, emphasing her point by sticking her tongue out at the Suicide King.

 

Wildchild rolls off of Magnifico and begins working his way to his feet, slowed considerably by his injured leg. Once WC stands, he hobbles a few feet away from ELM as the luchadore begins struggling to his feet. Moving quickly, Wildchild takes off the shinguard on his undamaged leg before turning it around and reapplying it, to the delight of the live crowd! Wildchild waits patiently for ELM to rise, standing behind him as the fans grow louder and louder in anticipation. When Magnifico stands, he grimaces, wondering what all that goddamn racket is for. He turns around and receives his answer, as WC takes that as his cue to lash out with the loaded leg, driving it at Magnifico’s forehead with a Leg Lariat! Wildchild makes perfect contact with the lariat, slamming his reversed shinguard into Magnifico’s forehead and immediately knocking him back to the canvas! Ten thousand Brits shout and cheer as one as Wildchild falls to the mat and immediately covers the luchadore, drawing the ref down to the mat in the process.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

TH-Noo! Magnifico gets a shoulder up at two and three quarters, effectively ending much of the crowd’s cheering.

 

“No! Wildchild nails Magnifico with the shinguard-assissted Leg Lariat, but it’s not enough to keep ELM down!” Flesher reports.

 

“And thank goodness for that!” King cries, obviously offended. “If WC had won this otherwise sporting contest with such a blatantly illegal maneuver, I for one would have been outraged.”

 

Ann opens her mouth to say something, but thinks better of it.

 

WC rolls off of Magnifico and rests for a moment, breathing heavily and obviously feeling the damaged incurred to his knee throughout the match. After a second, he begins climbing to his feet, leaving ELM laying motionless beneath him. Wildchild struggles a bit, but eventually reaches his feet. Upon standing, WC seems to take a second to formulate a gameplan...until he catches sight of the steel chair Magnifico threw into the ring after using it to bash in his knee. He takes a deep breath and picks up said chair, holding it in his hands and examining as a hitter examines his Louisville Slugger. He turns to Magnifico, who is just now beginning to climb to his feet, and his face insantly turns cold and emotionless. Slowly, deliberately, he stands in front of the rising luchadore, gripping the chair tightly in anxious anticipation. His head hanging, ELM reaches one knee as Wildchild draws the chair above his head. When the luchadore looks up, the first thing he sees is WC bringing destruction down onto his head in the form of a swinging steel chair! Wildchild’s theatrics are all for naught, however, as Magnifico manages to dive out of the way of the chair, leaving WC to smash it harmlessly into the canvas with a resounding SMACK! Staring daggers into the luchadore, Wildchild raises the chair above his head once more...or would have, had Magnifico not leaped into the air mid-raise and kicked his feet out, driving them into the seat of the chair and the chair directly into WC’s face!

 

*CRACK*

 

“OHHHHHHHHHH!!”

 

“Whooo!” King cries, unable to contain himself. “Serves you right, ya goddamn Carribean Spot Monkey.”

 

“Wildchild once again simply cannot connect with the chair, and this time Magnifico counters with the Spanish Conquestor!” Flesher dilligently reports. “WC has got to learn to control his emotions and go with a safer plan of attack, because ELM is going to take advantage every time he doesn’t!”

 

“Safe plan of attack?” Ann scoffs. “The man’s entire offense revolves around high-risk maneuvers. It’s ridiculous to ask him to change it now, and I’m sure by match’s end he’ll end up victorious, high-risk offense and all.”

 

Wildchild crumples to the mat, stunned with the force of the Spanish Conquester as boos begin to pour in from every part of the corner. Meanwhie, ELM falls to the canvas after landing the desperation Dropkick, his chest heaving and sweat glistening on every part of his body. After a moment’s rest, he claws his way over to Wildchild and throws himself over WC’s chest, making the cover to the intense displeasure of the live audience. The ref drops to his knees and begins counting as Magnifico lays motionless over the Tropical Tumbler.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THR-Nooo! Wildchild gets a shoulder up just before the three count, drawing a wave of encouraging cheers from the crowd. ELM rolls off of WC, grimacing as he slaps at the mat, the familiar feelings of frustration rising to the surface once more.

 

“Talk about controlling your emotions.” Ann notes, grinning. “Magnifico’s had a hell of a time keeping his frustration in check, and it’ll boil over once more if he’s not careful.”

 

ELM slowly begins climbing to his feet, grabbing Wildchild by the arm as he does so and pulling WC to his feet as he stands. Magnifico then uses his grip to whip WC across the ring, sending the Carribean Cruiser towards the far ropes. As Wildchild falls into the ropes, he seems to suddenly come to life, springing off of the cables and sprinting back at Magnifico at top speed! Surprised, ELM’s only recourse is to lash out with a quick Lariat, which Wildchild deftly ducks under while still running! Immediately after dodging under the Lariat, WC leaps into the air and onto the middle rope behind Magnifico, drawing an anticipatory pop from the excited crowd! Wildchild bounces off of the ropes, curls his body into a ball, and ricochets back towards ELM just as the luchadore is turning towards him! Magnifico has absolutely no chance to counter as WC’s entire body slams into his chest, immediately and forcefully knocking him to the canvas with the Pinball! As Wildchild hits the mat, he immediately grips his knee, his leg completely overcome with pain after having overworked it with the running and the Pinball.

 

“Wildchild may have surprised Magnifico and landed a quick Pinball,” Flesher begins, “But he did so at the cost of further damaging his leg. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the last remotely acrobatic move we see all night.”

 

“Thank God.” King replies, smiling. “I was enjoying the match right up until that point. Now with WC’s leg practically useless, I can enjoy his severe beating without any further interruptions.”

 

WC isn’t even thinking about making the cover; his primary concern is to block the pain out of his mind and get back to his feet before Magnifico can get to his. Luckily for him, the luchadore was sufficently stunned by the Pinball, as Wildchild starts the climb to his feet while Magnifico remains motionless on the mat. His bum leg severely slows him down, though, allowing ELM to stir and begin pushing himself to his feet before Wildchild can even reach his hands and knees. When WC sees this, he grits his teeth and redoubles his efforts. His leg screams in pain, but Wildchild dutifully ignores it as he lunges to his feet and falls against the ropes, breathing deeply as he leans against them for support. He watches ELM rise to one knee before pushing himself to his feet, knowing he can’t let Magnifico stand under his own power. That’s exactly what he prevents, as he grabs ELM by the hair and pulls him the rest of the way to his feet, right before leading the luchadore over to the corner and sloppily driving his head into the top turnbuckle. Dazed, Magnifico falls into the corner back-first. That position incidentally provides a perfect target for Wildchild, who begins slamming his reversed shinguard into Magnifico’s chest with a series of quick kicks!

 

“Wildchild finds yet another use for that reversed shinguard, as he absolutely punishes Magnifico with those kicks!” Ann excitedly declares.

 

“I’m the play by play. Be quiet.” Flesher snaps.

 

“Aww, whatsamatter, don’t like lil’ ol’ Ann horning in on your territory?” Onita counters, teasing. Tom growls, but doesn’t say anything else.

 

ELM’s mouth grows a little more agape with each blow, his chest being absolutely pummeled by the shinguard-assisted kicks! Wildchild suddenly stops the assault and pulls Magnifico out of the corner, right before whipping the luchadore across the ring. ELM rushes across the ring and crashes into the corner’s turnbuckles back-first as Wildchild hobbles after him as fast as he can! Magnifico stumbles out of the corner as WC approaches, and looks like a perfect target for the Running Forearm Wildchild lashes out with as he nears the luchadore! However, Magnifico unexpectedly ducks beneath the arm and spins behind Wildchild, wrapping his arms around WC’s waist and trapping him in a Rear Waistlock! Before Wildchild even has a chance to react, ELM hoists him into the air and falls back, pulling WC over him and slamming his neck into the canvas with a German Suplex! Magnifico holds the bridge as ten thousand Brits boo and the ref slides into position to begin his count.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THR-Nooo! Wildchild breaks free of the bridge, leaving both men to fall unceremoniously to the mat as the anxious crowd cheers for the escape.

 

“And now we see where Wildchild’s reduced speed hurts him.” Tom notes. “In any other case, WC would be across that ring before you could blink, and Magnifico wouldn’t have nearly as good a chance of dodging that Forearm.”

 

“We can all thank Magnifico’s impeccable leg work for that.” King cheerfully adds. “His strategy is paying off in ways he didn’t even think of. I, of course, have thought of all the ways it could pay off, but I have neither the time nor the motivation to list them all.”

 

ELM takes a second to shake off of WC’s most recent assault before beginning the trek to his feet, leaving Wildchild lying motionless beneath him. The second Magnifico’s on his feet, he grabs WC’s damaged leg, lifts it into the air, and then throws it downwards, driving the knee directly into the unforgiving canvas! Wildchild grips his knee and cries out in pain, drowned out by the boos Magnifico receives for the unpopular action. Suitably unaffected by the crowd’s reaction, ELM grabs WC by the hair and painfully pulls him to his feet, right before unexpectedly slamming a knee right into Wildchild’s gut! WC doubles over and falls to one knee, but is immediately pulled back to both feet when Magnifico pulls him into a Standing Head-Scissors! ELM hooks both of Wildchild’s arms and completes the setup for the Cancun Crunch, much to the dismay of the live audience.

 

“Well, it’s crude, but it should get the job done.” King comments, shrugging his shoulders. “Nothing like dropping someone right on their fucking head to garner a pin.”

 

“He hasn’t even landed the damn thing yet.” Ann snaps. “I can see why you and Pete don’t get along; mainly, it’s because you’re an idiot.” In what’s becoming a trend, King glares at her and mutters something, but leaves it at that.

 

Magnifico pauses for a moment, greatly enjoying the crowd’s reaction...which suddenly shifts to positive when Wildchild, still in the Head Scisssors, breaks his arms free and wraps them around ELM’s waist! WC hoists Magnifico into the air and throws him backwards, and the luchadore ends up falling neck-first on the top rope! An impressive cheer raises from the crowd as Wildchild scrambles to his feet, desperate to stand before Magnifico can recover. Despite a bum leg, WC does just that, standing behind the luchadore as he stumbles backwards and away from the ropes! ELM drunkenly spins to face Wildchild, who greets the luchadore by kicking him in the stomach and doubling him over in the center of the ring! Wildchild then puts his good leg on ELM neck and hops into the air, using the force of the fall to slam Magnifico’s face into the canvas with the Carribean Cutter! Magnifico flops onto his back as the fans release a mighty roar, delighted to see this recent turn of events. Wildchild, still dazed somewhat by the German Suplex, takes a necessary moment to gather his thoughts and shake off his body’s various aches and pains before crawling over to the luchadore and flopping on top of him for the pin. The fans maintain their full-throated support of WC as the ref slides into position and begins counting...

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THRRRRNNNOOOOO!

 

“OHHHHHHH!”

 

Magnifico gets a shoulder up just in the nick of time, much to the dismay of the live audience.

 

“Terrific counter from Wildchild, who breaks free of the Cancun Crunch and lofts ELM neck-first into the ropes, right before mauling Magnifico with the Carribean Cutter!” Flesher excitedly reports.

 

“Another example of Magnifico waiting just a second too long before landing a move, and Wildchild taking advantage.” Ann cheerfully adds. “WC’s running speed may have been slowed down, but his countering abilities still appear to be second to none.”

 

Both men lay motionless to each other for a few moments, each trying to shake off their respective injuries before their opponent can beat them to it. Wildchild wins that particular race, beginning the climb to his feet as Magnifico lays motionless on the canvas. Unfortunately for WC, he’s slowed down considerably by his bum leg, which allows Magnifico not only time to start climbing to his feet but to catch up with Wildchild as both men rise. As it is, WC reaches his feet only a second before the luchadore. Snarling, Wildchild lashes out and slugs Magnifico in the face the second he reaches his feet! ELM is knocked back a step...but quickly recovers, popping Wildchild in the chin with a punch of his own! The two men begin to simply slug it out in the center of the ring as the cheering fans urge on Wildchild, the match having devolved to which competitor has the strongest punch. Unfortunately for WC, Magnifico holds the edge in that department, and he takes control of the exhange after a minute, backing Wildchild up into the ropes with three stiff rights. WC falls against the ropes but is immediately pulled off by Magnifico before he whips Wildchild across the ring and towards the far ropes. WC bounces off of said ropes and hobbles back towards ELM, who steps forward and grabs Wildchild, right before hoisting him into the air as if for a Scoop Slam! The fans immediately begin to boo in anticipation of La Dia de Los Muertos, but their reaction is quickly reversed when WC wriggles out of Magnifico’s grip and lands behind the luchadore, facing the same direction as him! However, the second Wildchild’s on his feet, ELM suddenly snaps his elbow back, slamming it into the side of WC’s skull! The fans OHHH! in surprise and sympathy as Wildchild stumbles away from the luchadore, his hand on his head.

 

“Ouch! Wildchild’s used that counter to La Dia de Los Muertos one time too many!” Flesher declares. “ELM saw that reversal coming a mile away and stopped it dead in it’s tracks.”

 

“That’s what he gets for being so damn uncreative.” King smugly comments.

 

“Uncreative?” Ann disbelievingly counters. “Wildchild has one of the most creative offenses in the entire federation.”

 

King scoffs. “A lot of good it does him. Believe it or not, Ann, adding a twist or two to a Splash doesn’t make it anything more than a Splash.”

 

Magnifico follows after WC and suddenly drives a knee into his back, causing Wildchild to arch his entire body as he releases a soundless cry of pain. With WC properly set up, ELM is able to turn away from him and hook both of Wildchild’s arms, right before turning towards the nearby corner and completing the setup for the Baja California Crusher! Another wave of anticpatory boos rises from the crowd as Magnifico runs towards the corner...before suddenly stopping, looking as though somewhat had just shot him in the stomach! The truth isn’t far from that, as Wildchild had thrown his good leg backwards and into Magnifico’s groin, immediately stopping his finisher attempt with a well-timed Low Blow!

 

“Boo! Foul!” King cries, dismayed. “How dare Wildchild do something so underhanded and blatantly illegal!”

 

“Illegal in most matches, King darling, not this one.” Ann cheerfully replies. “And though it’s rare to see Wildchild use such a maneuver, it’s certainly not out of place here.”

 

Wildchild is able to easily break his arms free of Magnifico’s grip as the luchadore drops to one knee, unable to deal with the agony emanating from his groin. Moving quickly, WC grabs ELM by the back of his tights, pulls him to his feet, and then leads him into the center of the ring. He then hops in front of the luchadore, hooks both of his arms, and without pausing for a moment, kicks his legs out, dropping to the mat and slamming Magnifico’s skull into the canvas with the Wild Driver! The fans release a deafening pop as ELM lays motionless and face-down on the canvas, dead to the world while Wildchild falls to the mat, his eyes closed and his chest heaving.

 

“Wild Driver! Wild Driver!” Flesher cries, “Wildchild hits his Reverse Double-Underhook Piledriver after countering the Baja California Crusher, and he could be mere seconds away from winning this match!”

 

“He’ll have to cover Magnifico first.” King growls. “And from the looks of it, he’s really not in much of a position to do that.”

 

King seems to be right, as it looks like Wildchild would have trouble even getting up at this point. All around him, ten thousand fans cheer and chant, trying their best to get Wildchild over to Magnifico to cover him.

 

“WI-ILD-CHI-ILD!”

 

*CLAP*

 

*CLAP*

 

*CLAPCLAPCLAP*

 

“WI-ILD-CHI-ILD!”

 

*CLAP*

 

*CLAP*

 

*CLAPCLAPCLAP*

 

Slowly, painfully, Wildchild turns onto his stomach and begins clawing his way towards the luchadore, which only increases the volume of the cheers and chants pouring in from every part of the arena. After what seems like an eternity, WC grabs Magnifico’s shoulder and sluggishly turns him onto his back, before collapsing onto the luchadore for the pin! The pop the fans release is ridiculous in its magnitude as the ref slides into position and begins counting, assisted by the capacity crowd.

 

ONNNNNNEE!

 

TWOOOOOOOOOO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEENNNOOOOOO!!

 

“OHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

 

Magnifico gets a shoulder up at the very last millisecond, disappointing the crowd beyond belief. WC rolls off of the luchadore and stares up at the lights, his chest heaving as he struggles to figure out what the hell he has to do to win this match.

 

“Dammit!” Ann shouts, crestfallen. “If Wildchild had gotten over there even a half second quicker, this match would have been over!”

 

“Yeah, but he didn’t so it’s not.” King jubilantly counters. “What’s more, that’s the only finisher Wildchild can execute at this point! His leg isn’t in good enough shape to land any of his aerial ones, and I seriously doubt it’d hold up long enough for him to land the Wild Ride!”

 

After a few moments rest, Wildchild begins the long, painful trek to his feet once more, gritting through the pain shooting through his damaged leg. He finally stands, but seems at a loss at what to do next. Suddenly, he catches sight of Flesher sitting at the announce table, which for some reason causes a thoughtful grin to slowly creep across his face. Without any indication as to what he has planned, Wildchild grabs Magnifico and slowly pulls him to his feet, receiving no help from the languid luchadore. Once ELM’s standing, WC, with some effort, hoists Magnifico into the air and dumps him into the corner. ELM lays upside down and against the corner’s turnbuckles, which allows Wildchild to easily maneuver him into a Tree of Woe position. WC then steps out to the apron, doing so as the curious fans look on, wondering where the hell Wildchild could be doing with this. Now to the side of Magnifico, Wildchild kneels on the apron and grabs ELM’s legs, as if to keep them in place. He then reaches down, wraps his hand around Magnifico’s face, and then begins pulling back, locking in the Tree of Woe Sangria Stretch! The fans immediately rise to their feet and cheer their little hearts out, half out of support of Wildchild, half out of recognition of the submission!

 

“Oh my, this certainly looks familiar.” Annie thoughtfully comments as Flesher sits silently next to him. “Ah yes! This is the very same submission that Magnifico used to defeat you and the Ladder and Submission match, isn’t it Flesher dear?”

 

“...yes, yes it is.” Flesher comments, outwardly calm but inwardly seething.

 

“Much like when Magnifico made you tap out like a little girl, Wildchild’s use of his legs is limited and he’s taking advantage of the no disqualification stip to hook ELM into a virtually escapable submission.” Ann cheerfully comments.

 

The ref drops to his knees and gets in Magnifico’s face, asking him if he wants to submit. ELM responds by cursing out the referee before crying out in pain, his neck being completely torn apart by the submission. Meanwhile, Wildchild’s face is like stone, appearing completely emotionless as Magnifico suffers through the Stretch. The fans grow louder and louder the longer the submission is applied, convinced that there’s no way for Magnifico to escape.

 

“This might be it.” King grimly notes. “Magnifico’s thought of such a powerful submission for no disqualification siuations that even he’s unable to escape it.”

 

But hell, it’s ELM’s submission. Of course he’s thought of a counter. Wildchild’s hand is over the luchadore’s mouth. Magnifico opens it wide so that a few of WC’s fingers are between his and teeth.

 

And then he bites down on them. Hard.

 

“GYAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

Wildchild cries out in pain and shock as ELM sinks his teeth into WC’s fingers! Taken off guard by the bite and the severe pain that accompanies it, Wildchild loosens his grip on Magnifico’s legs, which allows the luchadore to untangle them and fall to the mat! The boos begin pouring in from every corner of the arena, disappointed that Magnifico escaped and that he did so in such an underhanded way.

 

“Holy shit, why didn’t I think of that?” Flesher asks absentmindedly, before snapping back to attention. “Er, Magnifico manages to escape the Tree of Woe Sangria Stretch!”

 

“Whooo!” King cries, jubilant. “A brilliant counter if I’ve ever seen one!”

 

“Brilliant?! He bit him!” Annie snaps, frustrated.

 

“I know! Wasn’t it great?” King giddily replies.

 

ELM lays motionless on the canvas, his body still racked with pain, as Wildchild climbs back into the ring, shaking the sting out of his hand. Unbeknownst to WC, Magnifico grabbed the nearby steel chair right after falling to the mat, and is now hiding it under his body. A frustrated and angry scowl on his face, Wildchild grabs ELM by the hair and begins to pull him to his feet. Magnifico is facing away from WC, so he manages to keep view of the chair hidden from him...before suddenly spinning around and slamming it into Wildchild’s face!

 

*CRACK*

 

“OHHHHHHH!”

 

Magnifico’s position doesn’t allow him to get a very good swing off, but still, the chair shot manages to send Wildchild floundering backwards and into the ropes. WC bounces drunkenly off of said ropes and stumbles a step forward...before being grabbed by ELM and hoisted up into the air! Magnifico spins Wildchild’s body around and drives him downward while sitting out, slamming WC’s skull into the canvas with La Dia de Los Muertos!!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

The fans are as angry and disappointed as they’ve been all evening, and let their emotions known as Magnifico flops to the mat, his chest heaving as he lies motionless next to a deathly still Wildchild.

 

“La Dia de Los Muertos!!” Flesher cries. “ELM catches Wildchild completely by surprise with that steel chair right before landing his signature Fire Thunder Driver! This match might be over!”

 

“About time!” King adds. “It was nice of Magnifico to take it easy on WC for the first part of the match, but now fun and games time is over. Pin him and let’s move on.”

 

That might be easier said than done, as ELM still hasn’t moved since landing his finisher. After a few seconds, he stirs and begins crawling towards Wildchild at an agonizing pace while ten thousand Brits pray for both his wrists to break. As it is, that doesn’t happen, as Magnifico finally reaches WC and slowly turns him onto his back, right before falling lifelessly across his chest. The ref slides into position and begins counting, shouted down by the heartbroken cries of the live audience.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEENNNOOOOO!!

 

“RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

 

Wildchild gets a shoulder up with the ref’s hand literally millimeters from the canvas! ELM rolls off of WC, shouting in unintelligable Spanglish and clawing at his hair as he does so.

 

“He kicked out!! Wildchild kicked out!” Annie excitedly shouts. “He will not lose to Magnifico! Not today!”

 

Magnifico slowly climbs to his feet, not stopping his curse-laced rant for a second. When he stands he stares down at Wildchild, apparently trying to convey with his face as much hate as one person can have for another. Suddenly, he breaks his stare and hits the mat, rolling to the outside on the timekeeper/announce table side. Without a word, he strides over to the timekeeper’s desk and grabs his Mexican flag, instantly instigating a wave of boos from the irate audience. Pointedly ignoring them, ELM rolls back into the ring and pops back to his feet, just as Wildchild is beginning to stir. For a second, he just watches WC as he begins to climb to his feet, looking down at him with a mixture of disgust and loating. Slowly, methodically, Magnifico raises the flag high above his head with both hands. He stands in front of Wildchild as he reaches one knee, his head still bowed. Suddenly, WC looks up, and their eyes meet. Magnifico stares into the eyes of the man who idolized him. Who only wanted to be ELM’s friend and support him in his time of need. Who never wanted it to come to this.

 

Magnifico considers all of this.

 

And then brings the flagpole down, breaking it over Wildchild’s head.

 

*CRACK*

 

“OHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Wildchild’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he crumples to the mat, right next to the splintered half of the flagpole that still holds the Mexican flag.

 

“God...damn!” Flesher finally gets out, astounded. “ELM just took that thick wooden pole and broke it right over Wildchild’s head!”

 

King actually applauds a bit. “Bravissimo! Well done! Finish the contest with a little style and panache!”

 

“It’s not over.” Annie bitterly holds out. “Wildchild’s not done yet.”

 

“Gimme a break, Ann.” King rolls his eyes. “Wildchild will be lucky to get out of here without a concussion, much less a win.”

 

Magnifico tosses aside the half of the flagpole still in his hands before slowly dropping to his knees. He methodically lays across Wildchild’s body and hooks his leg, drawing the ref down to the mat to count. Once again, everyone in attendance shouts and cries, doing everything in their power to avert the three count.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEE!!

 

DING DING DING

 

“Your winner, by pinfall!” Divefire shouts, struggling to be heard over the crowd. “EL LUCHADOOOOOOOOOORE MAGNIFICOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

King pumps his fist into the air. “Yeah! Magnifico cracks Wildchild’s skull open and takes the victory!”

 

“It took a hell of a lot to keep Wildchild down.” Flesher notes in a businessman-like tone. “Even with a practically useless leg, he fought bitterly until the very end.”

 

Ann, heartbroken, remains silent.

 

Little pieces of garbage begin to wizz into the ring as ELM rolls off of Wildchild and slowly stands up. The ref tries to raise his arm in victory, but Magnifico snatches it away. He looks down intently on his motionless opponent, and goes to one knee to examine him more closely. Magnifico studies WC for a second in this position, not giving the observer a clue as to what he’s thinking...

 

...before spitting on Wildchild’s face.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

Magnifico quickly stands back up, cursing Wildchild out as he does so. Fearing further violence between ELM and WC, the ref gets between the two and orders Magnifico out of the ring. The luchadore reluctantly follows his command, still shouting at Wildchild on his way out.

 

“You son of a bitch.” Annie suddenly shouts. “You goddamned coward.”

 

Magnifico makes his way up the entrance ramp, looking straight ahead and paying no attention to the irate fans that surround him. Meanwhile, the ref tends to Wildchild, wiping the saliva off of his face and making sure that his injuries aren’t serious.

 

“A fantastic match, regardless of the situation.” Flesher announces. “And we’ve got more to come. Up next in our London Main Event, Toxxic will take on Pretzler in a Canadian Deatmatch, the best stipulation possible to finish their three out of five!”

 

“Couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you picked it, eh Tom?” King smiles.

 

“Nothing whatsoever, Brian.”

 

The final image shown before the cut is El Luchadore Magnifico, striding up the entrance ramp and smiling broadly...

Edited August 1, 2005 by Justice

[Ace309 0]

“Well fans, I’m here backstage with Toxxic,” David Blazenwing says, adjusting his bowtie and smiling into the camera like the braindead idiot that he might in fact be. Beside him, Toxxic rolls his eyes and mourns the fact that Ben Hardy is in Las Vegas.

 

“So Toxxic,” Blazenwing says, turning his the former World Champion, “what are your thoughts on your match tonight with Scott Pretzler?”

 

“Quite simple, David,” the Straight-Edge Sensation replies as in the distance behind him an apparently-lost hotdog vendor can be seen wheeling his cart down the corridor. “This is the final match between Scott an’ me, and I’m gonna be doing my damnedest to make sure I come out on top. I’ve never wrestled anyone in the SWF five times before-”

 

“-and it’s true, isn’t it, that if Scott Pretzler beats you here tonight he becomes the first person to ever beat you three times in any way, shape or form?” Blazenwing cuts him off.

 

“…yeah, that’s true,” Toxxic admits grudgingly, “and I won’t deny that Pretzler is bloody good. But y’see, I don’t think it’s over the top to say that beating me once in singles competition is something of a feat. Not many people have managed it. Only one other person apart from Scott has managed to beat me twice, and that was Janus, and neither match involved me getting pinned or tapping out. Scott’s good alright, but is he good enough to beat me three times…? Well,” Toxxic concludes, “I’ll guess we’ll find out.”

 

“So what tactics do you have, going into this match?” Blazenwing asks as the hotdog vendor in the background offers a sample of his wares to a passing cleaner, who apparently refuses.

 

“Winning,” Toxxic replies levelly, then laughs at Blazenwing’s face. “Oh come on, did you really think I was gonna tell you? Scott might be listening, and I’m sure not gonna give him any advantage! One thing I can tell you though,” Toxxic continues, sobering up slightly, “and that is that Scott Pretzler is gonna remember this match for a long time. That’s a promise… and I never break a promise.”

 

Blazenwing appears to be casting around for another question to ask in order to prolong his few minutes of fame, but at that exact moment a hand holding a hotdog wrapped in a paper napkin appears past Toxxic’s shoulder.

 

“Hotdog, sirrah? And one for your young lady, perhaps?” a cheerful voice says as another sausage-inna-bun is shoved at the startled Blazenwing. “One pound fifty apiece, guv’nor!”

 

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” Toxxic asks in amused bewilderment, staring down at the limp and bedraggled hot snack being waved under his nose, “Cut-Me-Own-Throat…”

 

Toxxic looks up into the face of the vendor, and stops dead. Steel grey eyes beneath spiky black hair lock with storm grey eyes beneath a shock of red.

 

“…Edwin?”

 

For a moment the Straight-Edge Sensation and the Crown Prince of Flash and Panache stare at each other. Then Edwin screams. Like a girl.

 

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

As Toxxic and Blazenwing recoil, the apparently horror-struck Mac Daddy points past them with eyes wide in terror.

 

“Look behind you! A three-headed monkey!”

 

Toxxic and Blazenwing instinctively look around and the camera follows them to reveal… no monkeys, three-headed or otherwise. Both men turn back around, only to see the hotdog barrow disappearing at speed down the corridor with the man who to all intents and purposes seems to be Edwin MacPhisto alternately pushing it and then hoisting himself up on it to ride as it careers unsteadily on its way.

 

“…you saw that, right?” Toxxic says, turning to the speechless Blazenwing. “I’m not going insane here, right?”

 

“Uhh… back to you guys at ringside,” is Blazenwing’s only comment.

 

“A lot of bloody use you are, sunshi-”

 

 

 

FADE OUT

[Ace309 0]

The rambunctious punk sneering of Johnny Rotten fills the London Arena as ‘Anarchy in the UK’ blasts out over the PA system. The English fans have seen great performances and massive wins and losses, but now their night is drawing to a close. They are welcome to stay and watch the rest of the show on the massive Smarktron, but this is their main event.

 

“Well everyone, this is where Tom Flesher’s Ground Zero ends,” Flesher says with only a hint of distaste in his voice. “Coming up later will be Joe Peters’ half, emanating of course from Las Vegas, Nevada, but first we have my main event. And if I may say so,” the Superior One adds, “mine blows his out of the water.”

 

“At least yours features one good wrestler,” the Suicide King agrees. “That in itself would make me glad to be here, quite apart from the fact that I can’t bear the idea of Johnny Dangerous getting a hometown pop in my city…”

 

“Geez, will you two stop whining?” Annie Onita chips in.

 

“I’ll stop whining when you disappear back to retirement,” Flesher snaps.

 

“Oh, so you admit you’re whining then?”

 

Before Tom Flesher can reply -either that or he just can’t think of a witty retort- the Smarktron suddenly lights up with a colourful graphic, pulling everyone’s attention to it. On one side is a plain but handsome blonde man with a smug smirk and the SWF Cruiserweight Title wrapped around his waist.

 

‘THE CRITIC’ SCOTT PRETZLER

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

The response of the British fans is understandable, partly because of the Canadian’s general offensiveness but mostly because of the man he’s facing. On the other side of the Smarktron is a graphic of a spiky-haired, eyeliner-wearing, pale-skinned youth with a lopsided grin and black nail varnish.

 

‘THE STRAIGHT-EDGE SENSATION’ TOXXIC

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Then some more words appear underneath:

 

‘CANADIAN DEATHMATCH’

 

“Well, that says it all really,” Tom Flesher declares as the buzz inside the arena heightens. “What better way to find out which man is better than have them wrestle a match where they have to gain a total of ten counts over their opponent?”

 

“I’m surprised you needed a match to work out that Scott Pretzler is the more talented,” Suicide King remarks.

 

“I don’t, Brian. It’s the people at home I was thinking of,” Flesher replies as Annie noisily pretends to be sick in the background.

 

Before King and Flesher can suck up to each other and Scott Pretzler anymore the lights start to dim. Finally a spotlight picks out a single man in tux and dress coat down by the entrance ramp. This man faces the crowd for a moment, then turns around and raises a baton.

 

“Only the best for Tom Flesher’s Ground Zero,” Flesher remarks in the sudden hush, as in the ring Divefire raises his microphone.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the London Symphony Orchestra!”

 

… and then the London Symphony Orchestra launch into Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The response is instant and, for the highly-talented members of this elite orchestra, somewhat unusual.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

The more delicate notes of the master composer’s work are lost as the British crowd gives their feelings full voice. This does not seem to faze the man whom the music announces however, as Scott Pretzler steps out into the London Arena with his trademark smirk on his face and the Cruiserweight Title wrapped snugly around his waist. The Critic looks around at the fans, simultaneously baying for his blood, then sighs and begins the long walk down the entrance ramp. As he perambulates the Canadian looks for signs of culture or appreciation in his surroundings, but finds none amidst the mass of Union Jacks, pro-Toxxic signs and beer bellies.

 

“Well, here comes one of the finest athletes in the SWF today,” Tom Flesher says approvingly.

 

“Because he beat Toxxic, unlike you?” Annie asks innocently.

 

“He is an excellent student of the game,” Flesher continues, trying to ignore the Japanese lesbian at his side, “and a Cruiserweight Champion who, unlike Spike Jenkins, is actually proud to represent the division.”

 

“And he’s beaten Toxxic, unlike you,” Annie says again.

 

“You lost to him too! In Britain, if I recall correctly!” Flesher snaps, his patience abruptly gone.

 

“Yeah… but you lost to him twice,” Annie replies smugly.

 

Scott Pretzler has reached the ring steps now and the Canadian walks up them in his usual measured fashion, then wipes his boots on the ring apron before stepping through the ropes and raising both arms in salute of the crowd who, let’s be honest, are in no mood to return the gesture.

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

Sighing again, Scott Pretzler removes his Cruiserweight Title and hands it to the officiating referee Brian Warner, then as the London Symphony Orchestra slowly start to fade their music out the Critic walks to the corner of the ring nearest the announce desk and turns to await his opponent. By now the music has completely gone and all that is left is the buzz of conversation and the occasional isolated cheer. Divefire raises his microphone once more…

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome BOY SETS FIRE!”

 

The spotlight picks out the hardcore quartet at the same moment as they launch into the crashing, rolling chord that opens the one song that is guaranteed to make every single person in the arena lose their fucking mind…

 

“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

 

‘Rookie’ continues to thunder out as the Smarktron whites out, and then quickly fades down to black. As it does so, jagged white letters flash up one word at a time to form a very familiar slogan:

 

‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG…’

 

The noise from the crowd is only increasing as the jagged guitar riff starts up. Then the bass drum begins pounding as clip after clip of the Straight-Edge Sensation’s matches begin to flash up on the Smarktron, finished off by the Toxxic Shock Syndrome that takes Mike Van Siclen off the balcony and through a table, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the-

 

*BOOOOM!!*

 

-stagewide eruption of red pyro that announces the arrival of the SWF’s premier straight-edger! For a few moments all that can be seen is smoke and pyro after-image… but the swirling smoke gusts aside to reveal not one but two familiar figures standing there! And if you thought the previous pop was loud, you ain’t heard nothing yet.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

 

Toxxic stands at the top of the entrance ramp, a wide, wide grin illuminating his face. The Straight-Edge Sensation is wearing his usual baggy pants, but tonight he has on an old, ripped and tattered T-shirt. The design is slashed, but can be recognised as the Autobot symbol; beneath it are the words ‘Lostprophets: Heroic Rockstars’. Beside the straight-edger stands Jet, her red-and-black dreadlocks swaying as she nods her head in time with her friend’s music.

 

“TOXXXXXX-IC…”

 

“TOXXXXXX-IC…”

 

“TOXXXXXX-IC…”

 

Suddenly, both Toxxic and Jet spring into action; the pair abruptly break into a flat-out sprint for the ring, tearing down the entrance ramp at top speed and sliding in under the bottom rope before popping back up to their feet. Toxxic takes his T-shirt off -the same T-shirt he wore for his first ever SWF Pay-Per-View appearance, the night of his first title win- with some care and hands it to Jet for safe-keeping, then takes up position in the middle of the ring and waits for Boy Sets Fire to hit the first verse… then throws his arms wide to send another blast of red pyro skywards from each corner post!

 

*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…’

 

With respect for the SWF’s time constraints, Boy Sets Fire begin to fade out their rendition of Toxxic’s theme music as the two men in the match start to weigh each other up. Referee Brian Warner gives the signal to Divefire, and the former Commissioner raises his microphone once more.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a Canadian Deathmatch, and will settle the Best of Five series!”

 

“TOXXXXX-IC…”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“TOXXXXX-IC…”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“In order to win this match, either man must score a total of ten pinfall counts over his opponent, with only counts of three or above applying,” Divefire continues, “and countouts and disqualifications will be in effect.” The martial arts expert finishes his explanation of the rules and raises one hand to point at the Canadian Critic as Flesher mutters something about Peters stacking the deck against Pretzler.

 

“Introducing first, on my left; he hails from Toronto, Ontario, Canada and weighs in tonight at 226lbs; he is the reigning SWF Cruiserweight Champion; ‘THE CRITIC’… SCOTT… PUH-RETZ-LERRRRRRRRR!!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“AND HIS OPPONENT!” Divefire bellows, doing his best to make himself heard over the raucous din. “From Nottingham, England!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Accompanied to the ring by Jet; he weighs in tonight at 218lbs and is a three-time SWF World Heavyweight Champion… he is the ‘Straight-Edge Sensation’… TOXXXXXXXXXX-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIC!!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!” *clap clap clap-clap-clap*

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!” *clap clap clap-clap-clap*

 

Toxxic continues to grin at the reception he’s getting, but doesn’t take his eyes from Scott Pretzler. For his part, the Canadian merely stares stony-faced at his former leader.

 

*DING-DING-DING!*

 

The two men begin to circle each other as the pro-Toxxic chants start up again inside the London Arena. Neither Toxxic nor Pretzler seem all that interested in making the first move… so Toxxic backs into a corner and hops up to lounge across the two ropes running from the top buckle!

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Scott Pretzler looks on with disdain at such blatant showboating, and after a few seconds Toxxic grins and swings back down to the mat again. This time both men show much more purpose in their circling, and after a few seconds the Critic darts forward and manages to surprise his opponent by shooting low for one leg, then straightening up again and sweeping the other from out underneath Toxxic. The Brit lands on his back but instantly kicks out with both feet and succeeds in shoving Pretzler away, then coils his legs up again before kipping up explosively. Scott Pretzler charges back in to try and reassert his advantage but Toxxic is ready for him this time, and sidesteps to take the onrushing Canadian down with a drop toehold.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Toxxic pops back up to his feet again, then aims a fistdrop at the back of Pretzler’s head. Unfortunately for him the Canadian knows that something is likely to be heading his way and has rolled aside, so Toxxic only succeeds in punching the canvas. Both men come to their feet more or less at the same time but it is Scott Pretzler who manages to act first, grabbing Toxxic’s right arm and twisting in an armwringer. Toxxic lets out a grunt of pain, but the former World Champion quickly rolls through the move and comes up to his feet again, then twists behind Pretzler to apply a hammerlock. Scott Pretzler won’t be bested that easily and reverses into a hammerlock of his own-

 

“Pretzler’s schooling him!” King crows.

 

-and the Canadian transitions it into a chickenwing before reaching round to try and secure the crossface part of one of his favoured holds. Toxxic has no intention of letting this happen and fires off one, two, three back elbows with his left arm to dizzy his opponent, then as Pretzler inadvertently releases his chickenwing Toxxic reaches up to grab the Critic’s head before snapmaring him over and firing a basement dropkick into the back of his neck!

 

“YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“You were saying?” Annie asks in an amused tone of voice, causing both male commentators to glare at her.

 

Toxxic grins lopsidedly and waves one black-nailed hand in salute of the crowd; meanwhile, Scott Pretzler has got back to his feet, his expression grim. This time the Critic raises both hands in the air, offering his opponent a Greco-Roman knucklelock. Toxxic seems to consider this for a moment or two, then steps forward and raises his own hands in response. Most of the crowd seem to be expecting Pretzler to fire off a kick to the stomach or some equally dirty trick, but the Canadian stands motionless as Toxxic cautiously links his fingers with those of his opponent…

 

…then immediately jumps up and plants his feet in Scott Pretzler’s chest before falling backwards and taking the Critic over with a modified monkey flip! Pretzler hits the mat backfirst and Toxxic wastes no time in rolling backwards himself, still with his hands locked with Scott’s, then ends up kneeling on Pretzler’s shoulders for the pin!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TW-

-but Scott Pretzler raises his legs and hooks them under Toxxic’s armpits before pulling downwards and countering into a sunset flip!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TW-

-Toxxic rolls out backwards however, before diving back at his opponent in an attempt to regain his advantage. Pretzler is ready and takes the Straight-Edge Sensation over into a side headlock, but Toxxic instantly wraps his arms around his opponent’s waist and rolls Pretzler over onto his shoulders…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but Scott Pretzler releases his hold and rolls away to prevent himself being counted down! This time it is Toxxic who is quicker off the mark after the pin, and the straight-edger snaps Pretzler over with an armdrag… then another armdrag, as the Critic scrambles back to his feet… then Toxxic simply grabs the Canadian’s wrist and Irish whips him towards the corner. Pretzler is quick to get his bearings though, and the Hot Commodity reverses the momentum to send Toxxic in instead. Toxxic is just as quick to react however, and he vaults to the top rope in one fluid motion before diving back with the Role Reversal…

 

…Scott Pretzler hits the deck as Toxxic sails harmlessly overhead…

 

…Toxxic compensates in midair and lands rolling, then comes back to his feet and charges on for the opposite turnbuckle…

 

…Scott Pretzler gets back to a vertical base and looks around for his opponent…

 

…and Toxxic comes off the top buckle with a Corkscrew Dropkick that catches the Critic flush in the chest!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Both men lie on their backs for a moment, but then Toxxic kips up again to a rapturous response from the British crowd!

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Scott Pretzler has rolled to the ropes after being hit with the Corkscrew Dropkick and Toxxic heads for him, bending down to grab his opponent - but the Critic abruptly reaches up to take hold of Toxxic, then dumps the surprised straight-edger out of the ring between the top and middle ropes!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“A tremendous example of ring presence,” Tom Flesher asserts. “I’ll admit Toxxic got the better of that opening exchange, but Scott Pretzler has managed to break his opponent’s momentum and regain the advantage.”

 

Brian Warner is arguing with Pretzler about his move, but the Critic isn’t listening. Toxxic is picking himself up out on the floor and dusting himself down, then turns to face the ring…

 

*WHAM!*

 

…AND GETS CAUGHT BY A SCOTT PRETZLER SUICIDE DIVE!

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“Scott Pretzler goes high risk!” Flesher shouts as the Canadian sends Toxxic crumpling to the ground. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Critic pull out something like that before!”

 

“Much better than Toxxic’s pointless flipping and flopping,” Suicide King agrees, “that was a dive with purpose.”

 

“The purpose of course being to surprise the so-called Straight-Edge Sensation,” Flesher declares, “who never expected something so out of character from the Cruiserweight Champion.” The Superior One finishes this statement by golf-clapping Pretzler; it is a sign of the Critic’s concentration that he doesn’t even turn around at the sound. Instead he grabs the dazed Toxxic and hauls him up to his feet before Irish whipping him towards the guardrail. Toxxic regains enough composure to jump up and balance on the top of the rail just like he did in the Submissions match, but this time Scott Pretzler follows him in and dropkicks the guardrail, knocking Toxxic’s footing from under him and causing the Straight-Edge Sensation to land backfirst across the steel!

 

*CRASH!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“Ouch!” Annie cries. “Toxxic could have broken his back there!”

 

“Stop over-dramatising,” King snaps in reply.

 

Toxxic ricocheted off the rail and lands facedown on the floor of the London Arena, clearly in severe pain. Scott Pretzler’s face shows no discernable emotion except steely determination as the Canadian picks Toxxic up and then rolls his spiky-haired opponent back into the ring under the bottom rope, clearly not wanting to stay on the outside where Toxxic’s superior brawling skills might turn the tide back in his favour. Once Toxxic is carefully positioned away from the ring ropes Pretzler makes a cover, forcing Brian Warner to drop and make the count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but Toxxic kicks out!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Even a kickout when a three-count wasn’t really threatening is enough to fire up the furiously partisan crowd, but Scott Pretzler doesn’t seem to be letting it get to him; instead the Critic brings Toxxic up to his feet before sweeping his opponent off them again to hold the Brit at his side, then drops to one knee and further punishes Toxxic’s spine with a pendulum backbreaker. Toxxic groans in pain but Pretzler takes hold of his head and manoeuvres the Straight-Edge Sensation back to his feet before twisting around and sitting out with a neckbreaker. As Toxxic grabs his neck as he lies on the canvas, Pretzler covers him and hooks the far leg to put as much weight onto the Brit’s shoulders as possible…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…it’s still not enough though, as Toxxic kicks out again!

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

The new chant is warring with the London Arena’s support for the Straight-Edge Sensation, but Scott Pretzler seems as immune to the abuse levelled at him as he has been to the cheers for his opponent. Instead the man from Toronto brings Toxxic up to his feet yet again, then threads the straight-edger’s left wrist between his legs and applies a ¾ nelson to the other arm. Bracing his legs wide apart to give himself a solid lifting base, Pretzler heaves his opponent up and then drops to one knee with a pumphandle backbreaker!

 

“Superb strategy by Pretzler here, taking advantage of that early injury suffered by Toxxic,” Flesher notes. “It remains to be seen whether Toxxic can mount an effective comeback, but his gameplan - if in fact he has one - must have been thrown by this Pretzler offensive.”

 

“Toxxic always has a gameplan,” Annie retorts. “If nothing else, no-one can be that flukey!”

 

Scott Pretzler doesn’t seem content to remain fully focused on the back though, perhaps realising that the Snowflake Clutch is not a high priority in a match that can only be won via pinfalls. With this in mind the Critic once more applies a loose front facelock on his opponent, then brings Toxxic back up to his feet again. However, this time Pretzler fires off three sharp elbows to the back of Toxxic’s neck before twisting around again and sitting out with another neckbreaker. The Canadian grabs both of Toxxic’s legs and jacknifes over for this pin attempt, hoping that it might keep the straight-edger down…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Toxxic kicks out, although Warner gets closer to three than before. This only seems to fire Pretzler up and the Critic literally drags Toxxic back to his feet before bending the pained Brit over and placing him in a standing headscissors.

 

“Scott Pretzler seems to be looking for the Wildbomb here, and this could easily put Toxxic away for three!” Tom Flesher says tensely as Pretzler lifts…

 

…but as Toxxic reaches the apex of the move the British wrestler seems to realise the precariousness of his position and begins firing off right hands to the unprotected face of the Critic. The blows cause Pretzler to stagger slightly and relax his grip and Toxxic takes this chance to fall backwards off his opponent’s shoulders, landing on his feet. Scott Pretzler takes a moment to adjust to the sudden shift of weight, and it is in this opening that Toxxic strikes with a European Uppercut!

 

*WHAM!*

 

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Pretzler staggers back and Toxxic presses forward, keen to keep his opponent on the back foot.

 

*WHAM!*

 

“YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Pretzler staggers back another step, and now Toxxic opens up with the punches…

 

RIGHT!

 

 

LEFT!

 

 

RIGHT!

 

 

LEFT!

 

 

Windup…

 

 

DISCUS CLOTHESLINE!

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“He’s knocked him over the top!” Annie shouts as Scott Pretzler, already backed up against the ropes, is sent tumbling to the floor by the spinning lariat, “just like Comet’s commentary!”

 

It is now Toxxic’s turn to be warned by Brian Warner, but the Straight-Edge Sensation seems just as uncaring about the reprimands as Scott Pretzler was earlier. As the Critic pulls himself to his feet on the outside and tries to clear his ringing head Toxxic seems to shake off at least some of his pain and sets off at a run past the protesting referee, heading for the ropes…

 

…Pretzler sees him coming and darts out of the way…

 

…and Toxxic balances on the top rope for a moment before backflipping and landing in the ring on one knee, whereupon the straight-edger examines an imaginary watch; then rises to his feet and points off into the distance with the other hand stroking an imaginary beard; then finally places both hands on his hips and gives the entire crowd a massive, cheesy grin!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Catalogue Poses!” Annie laughs while the London Arena pops big time as Toxxic brings the comedy, “I don’t think Toxxic’s done those in over a year!”

 

“Thank God,” King and Flesher mutter at exactly the same time.

 

Scott Pretzler doesn’t seem too impressed with his opponent’s crowd-pleasing antics either, as the Cruiserweight Champion has taken this opportunity to circle the ring and cautiously slides in behind Toxxic before charging at the unwary straight-edger… but Toxxic either hears him coming or responds to the warning roar of the crowd as he drops to the mat and allows Pretzler to barrel straight over him, then jumps back up to his feet and as the Critic rebounds off the ropes Toxxic dives feet first at his opponent’s shins with a soccer tackle!

 

*CRACK!*

 

Scott Pretzler flips head over heels and comes to rest on his back clutching his leg, but the determination of the Critic comes to the fore as he forces himself back up despite one dodgy wheel. Unfortunately for the Canadian this just makes him an easy target for Toxxic, who boots him in the stomach to double him over before underhooking both of his opponent’s arms in preparation for the Toxxic Shock Sndrome… but Pretzler manages to twist out of his opponent’s grip and slips behind the startled Brit to apply a rear waistlock!

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

Before Toxxic can react Scott Pretzler arches backwards, sending Toxxic flying through the air…

 

*whump*

 

…but the Straight-Edge Sensation flips through as he is wont to do and lands on his feet!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Scott Pretzler knows that the sound he heard was not the crash of a broken body splattering on canvas so he scrambles back to his feet and looks around - unfortunately just as Toxxic fires his boot towards the Canadian’s jaw with a superkick!

 

*WHAP!*

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Scott Pretzler falls backwards with his brains momentarily scrambled and Toxxic takes a precious second to wince at the pain in his back and neck. However, before Pretzler can recover Toxxic has grabbed his opponent and brought him up to his feet in a front facelock, then-

 

*CRUNCH-WHAM!*

 

-hits the facebuster/DDT combo known as the Sobering Thought! With Scott Pretzler on his back Toxxic hooks the far leg as Brian Warner drops to make his count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Scott Pretzler kicks out, much to the disappointment of the crowd! Toxxic seems to be of the opinion that he’s on to something now, and he hauls Pretzler up to his feet again before Irish whipping the Critic into the turnbuckles. Pretzler isn’t able to reverse the move this time and he hits home with a bang that knocks the breath from his lungs, a situation that isn’t helped as Toxxic follows him in with a leg lariat! The straight-edger ricochets off his opponent with a controlled backflip that sees him land on the apron; then as Pretzler staggers out of the corner Toxxic grabs the top rope and slingshots himself back into the ring, grabbing Pretzler by the shoulders as he does and taking him over with a flying Oklahoma Roll…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…and Scott Pretzler kicks out, but not quickly enough to stop Toxxic from notching up his first pin!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Divefire booms, “that pin was official and Toxxic now leads by three counts to zero!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“Let’s go Toxxic my ass!” King snarls. “He had the tights! Plain as you like, he had the tights!”

 

“Oh come off it,” Annie sighs, “this is Toxxic.”

 

“Skinny British asshole! Skinny cheating British asshole!”

 

Brian Warner certainly doesn’t think that the tights were an issue on the pin and not even Scott Pretzler is calling for the decision to be changed, although he certainly seems shell-shocked as he stares in disbelief first at the referee, and then at Toxxic who is saluting a row of fourteen fans with a TOXXXXXXXX-IC! sign. Abruptly the shock changes to fury and Pretzler explodes upwards from his kneeling position to hammer into Toxxic from behind and take the Straight-Edge Sensation down to the mat!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

With the straight-edger grounded Scott Pretzler begins to fire sharp elbows into the back of his opponent’s unprotected neck. Brian Warner is unhappy about this and tries to pull Pretzler away but the Critic shakes him off and keeps at it until he’s satisfied. As Toxxic tries to shield himself Pretzler ceases his assault, then scoots around to the front of his opponent and applies a front facelock with which he starts to bring Toxxic up to his feet. The straight-edger tries to fight it but Pretzler buries a knee into his opponent’s gut, then throws Toxxic’s right arm over his neck and hoists the Brit upwards…

 

*BANG!*

 

…and spikes Toxxic right on his head with a brainbuster!

 

“Ouch,” Tom Flesher laughs as Toxxic spasms briefly on the mat, “Scott Pretzler is certainly pulling out all the stops here tonight!”

 

Pretzler quickly covers his opponent as a few thousand British fans hold their collective breath in anticipation of what might happen to their hero…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-

-but Toxxic kicks out!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“Well… I suppose Toxxic hasn’t got much of a brain to bust,” Flesher remarks as the Cruiserweight Champion stares questioningly up at Brian Warner.

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Annie replies with feeling.

 

“That’s your sister’s job,” Tom replies without a pause.

 

“You leave my sister out of this!” Annie rages, but Tom merely laughs.

 

“I would, but she doesn’t seem too happy about being left out of anything… particularly my bed.”

 

As the possibly-future-in-laws bicker, Scott Pretzler has abandoned his chastisement of Warner’s refereeing skills and has instead returned his attention to the knotty problem of getting Toxxic to stay down for the three-count. Although he managed to escape Pretzler’s previous pin attempt Toxxic doesn’t seem in any condition to muster a fightback at the moment, so the Critic grabs him by the hair and pulls him back to his feet. Warner admonishes him of course, but Pretzler immediately releases his groggy opponent’s spikes before hooking him up as if for another brain buster; however, this time Pretzler turns Toxxic until the two men are chest-to-chest before sitting out and driving the straight-edger down on his back!

 

“Tom! Tom!” King says urgently, jabbing the Smarkdown Generalissimo in the ribs, “wasn’t that the Superiority Complex?”

 

“You know Brian, I do believe it was!” Flesher says in mild surprise. “Scott Pretzler has been to see me over the last few weeks for pointers on mat wrestling from an expert, but I didn’t realise that he’d taken me as so much of an example. I suppose,” Flesher continues with a smug chuckle, “the Superior Stretch Beta was so effective that he’s decided to borrow another move as well!”

 

“Sycophantic asswipe,” Annie mutters to the right, “if only I had a super-size dildo and a ferreasel…”

 

However, unlike his ‘example’ Scott Pretzler didn’t try to get a pin from the Superiority Complex. Instead he gets back to his feet as quickly as possibly and trots to the nearest turnbuckle, then takes a quick look round to make sure Toxxic is still where he left him before starting to climb.

 

“We’ve already seen Scott Pretzler fly once tonight,” Flesher remarks, “but I have to wonder whether twice is such a good idea…”

 

Pretzler reaches the top buckle and balances for a second, clearly out of his element. Then the Cruiserweight Champion takes a deep breath and leaps off, extending one leg…

 

*BANG!*

 

…which he lands square across Toxxic’s throat!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

The smug grin across Scott Pretzler’s face is only marginally marred by the surreptitious rubbing of his tailbone - not being an aerial wrestler he is unaccustomed to the sting of a hard landing - but he quickly reaches over to hook Toxxic’s leg and try again to get a legitimate pin…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

The crowd are back in full voice as Toxxic manages to just squeeze one shoulder off the mat, but the closeness of the count seems to merely serve to encourage Scott Pretzler. With a look of grim anticipation on his Canadian features the blonde-haired Cruiserweight Champion drags Toxxic back up to his feet, then places his opponent in rear headlock.

 

“The Tildebang will certainly do it,” Flesher says as Pretzler lifts, “…but Toxxic’s not playing along…”

 

Indeed he isn’t, as whether through grogginess or presence of mind, Toxxic is almost completely limp in Pretzler’s grasp and very difficult to lift. Pretzler prepares himself to try again, and in that one moment Toxxic seems to come alive as he manages to twist himself around, then wraps both arms around the startled Pretzler’s waist before bridging back into a Northern Lights suplex!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“-but he couldn’t hold the bridge!” Annie shouts in dismay as Toxxic slumps off to one side, the elbows, brainbuster and God knows what else taking their toll on his neck and leaving it unable to support his boyweight. Pretzler is winded but relieved at his escape; however, Toxxic’s burst of energy is still with him and despite his failed pin attempt the Straight-Edge Sensation clearly wants to prevent Pretzler from regaining any momentum. The Brit drags his opponent to his feet before Irish whipping Scott Pretzler towards the ropes, but Pretzler reverses it and it is Toxxic who hits the cables. On this occasion Pretzler follows him in with a knee-

 

“OOF!”

 

-that blasts the breath from Toxxic as he rebounds; then turns the Brit around and positions himself between Toxxic and the ropes before placing the wheezing straight-edger in a standing headscissors, hoisting him up and driving him down!

 

*BANG!*

 

“Wildbomb!” Flesher shouts as Pretzler jacknifes over to hold the pin. “Surely this will get him!”

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FO-

-but Toxxic kicks out at three-and-a-half - good enough to prevent Pretzler from taking the lead, but not good enough to prevent the Canadian from tying the score!

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, that pin was official,” Divefire announces, “and the score is now 3-3!”

 

Scott Pretzler isn’t content though, and he quickly goes for another pin on his opponent; a simple lateral press this time…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-

-but Toxxic kicks out, much to Pretzler’s frustration! Cursing himself for not hooking the leg, the Canadian tries again with that mistake rectified…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-

-but has no more luck this time around!

 

“Toxxic has paid the price for impatience there,” Flesher asserts. “He should have used that break he gained with the Northern Lights suplex to rest up; instead he chose to press his attack and Scott Pretzler made him pay for it.”

 

“You don’t win unless you take risks,” Annie shoots back.

 

“But they have to be risks worth betting on,” Suicide King replies lazily, “and right now my money’s on Scott Pretzler.”

 

“Is it?” Onita asks curiously. “Guess I’ll have to mug him then.”

 

Scott Pretzler’s already healthy confidence levels seem to have been redoubled by the pin, despite his subsequent failures to increase his score, and the Critic is smiling as he pulls Toxxic back up to his feet. He swiftly ducks behind the groggy straight-edger and then reaches around, ignoring the option of a German suplex in favour of the trickier but far more effective cross-armed version.

 

“Scott Pretzler’s setting up the Straight-Jacket Suplex, which he prefers to call the Snowflake Suplex,” Tom Flesher notes. “Having used this myself numerous times, I can tell you that it’s a tall order to escape from when properly applied!”

 

Toxxic is in no mood to have it properly applied to him though; as he realises that Pretzler is going for the same move that caused him to end up on his shoulders for at least three seconds in their submissions match the Straight-Edge Sensation jerks his head back sharply, catching Pretzler in the face! The Canadian’s grip loosens as the inverted headbutt strikes home, and Pretzler’s cause is not helped as Toxxic stamps on his foot, then turns around and nails Pretzler with a sit-out jawbreaker that drops the Critic like Todd Cortez with a spliff. This time Toxxic seems more inclined to heed Flesher’s advice about taking a breather as he walks slightly unsteadily to the ropes and steps out to the apron, but as the straight-edger takes hold of the top rope it becomes clear that he’s waiting for Pretzler to get back up again. The Cruiserweight Champion slowly obliges, holding his face but looking for Toxxic…

 

…who leaps to the top rope and springboards off before grabbing Pretzler around the neck and crashing to the mat with a blockbuster neckbreaker!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Toxxic sits up and rubs his back, his face clearly displaying thoughts along the lines of ‘I can’t believe I just did that’. Regardless, the Straight-Edge Sensation seems convinced that the way to go is to keep flying rather than give Pretzler a chance to grab him and start mat wrestling, as he gets back to his feet and heads for the nearest turnbuckle. Once there he grabs the top rope and pulls himself up more than climbs, before jumping off with a flying fistdrop aimed square at Pretzler’s forehead!

 

*BANG!*

 

The high-flying attack hits home and causes Pretzler considerable discomfort; the positive reaction seems to invigorate Toxxic and he gets back up to try it again. Once more the Brit heads to the top rope and once more he jumps off… and once more he drives his fist into Pretzler’s skull!

 

*BANG!*

 

Toxxic shakes his fist out in pain but his movements are quicker now as the adrenaline starts pumping properly again. He runs to the corner, glides up to the top buckle and prepares to jump… and pauses.

 

In their Submissions match Scott Pretzler knew a third fistdrop would follow the first two, and he moved at the last moment. Toxxic waits for a second… and just before the Brit would have come down with his third attack, Scott Pretzler rolls away from the impact zone. With a lopsided grin on his face, Toxxic hops down from the top buckle and waits for the confused Pretzler to rise to his feet and look around in search of the opponent who didn’t land where he was meant to… and Toxxic floors the Critic with a running spinning heelkick!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

This time Toxxic wastes no time at all in heading for the top rope; he vaults up straight from the ring floor, then jumps off backwards as if for a moonsault only to twist in midair and land with a leg across Scott Pretzler’s throat with a corkscrew Hangover!

 

*BANG!*

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Almost before the chants have left the throats of the London Arena crowd, Toxxic has hooked Scott Pretzler’s far leg and leans into the cover…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-

-but Scott Pretzler is playing hard to get, and the Critic kicks out!

 

“THAT WAS THREE!”

 

“THAT WAS THREE!”

 

“It certainly wasn’t!” Suicide King snaps. “If anything, it was a fast count!”

 

Toxxic looks appealingly at Brian Warner but the referee is no more inclined to favour him than he was Scott Pretzler earlier and he simply returns the Straight-Edge Sensation’s stare blankly. Shrugging resignedly, Toxxic grabs his opponent by the head and neck and drags Pretzler to his feet, then simply shoves the Cruiserweight Champion back into the corner. Before Pretzler can try to escape the Brit pastes him with a European Uppercut-

 

*WHAM!*

 

-and then another for luck!

 

*WHAM!*

 

With Scott Pretzler’s jaw as unhinged as Andrea Montgomery, Toxxic steps out through the ropes and climbs the turnbuckles from outside before grabbing a reverse headlock on his opponent. Pretzler reaches up to try and throw the Brit off, but Toxxic hangs on before swinging himself out and around to drive the back of Pretzler’s head into the mat with the Tornado Inverted DDT known as the Final Shine!

 

*BANG!*

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

With a weary but certain grin on his face, Toxxic hooks the leg…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“BULL-SHIT!”

 

“BULL-SHIT!”

 

The English fans are very unhappy about that particular call, but as King and Flesher release breaths they didn’t even know they were holding Brian Warner holds up the damning two fingers towards Toxxic. The Straight-Edge Sensation meanwhile shows a brief flash of his old temper as he replies with an inverted version of the two-finger salute and mouths something obscene at the referee.

 

“Disqualify him! That’s abuse of an official!” King shouts.

 

“And you on commentary is Cruel and Unusual Punishment,” Annie complains bitterly.

 

Toxxic certainly isn’t happy that he hasn’t increased his tally, and he hauls Pretzler to the centre of the ring before placing the Cruiserweight Champion in a standing headscissors and underhooking both his arms…

 

“THAT’S IT!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“‘That’s it’?” Flesher says in alarm, half standing up. “I warned him about this!”

 

Taking a deep breath, Toxxic hoists Scott Pretzler UP…

 

 

…AROUND…

 

 

…AND…

 

 

…DOWN!

 

*BANG!*

 

“Toxxic Shock Syndrome!” Annie shouts as Pretzler gets planted facefirst into the mat. Then the lesbian commentator turns to look at Flesher, who is sitting back down slightly shame-faced. “What, you expected something different from a double underhook?”

 

Tom Flesher merely mutters something about ‘Maddix’ and ‘Arizona’ as Brian Warner drops to count for the pin that Toxxic has rolled Pretzler over into…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…

 

 

 

“He got him!” Annie shouts.

 

 

 

…NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

 

 

“…nohedidn’t!” King and Flesher gabble at the exact same moment as Brian Warner raises two, just two fingers.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Toxxic just slumps backwards, looking up at the ceiling as he wonders what it’s going to take to put Scott Pretzler down. The first pin was a combination of surprise, leverage and luck, but the Critic is proving remarkably resilient to everything else. With a sigh of resignation, Toxxic decides that it’s time to pull out the big guns.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

The Straight-Edge Sensation sits up (not without a bit of effort) and grabs Scott Pretzler by the head. The Critic is still down on the mat, not having been able to muster any more movement than it took to kick out, but as Toxxic rises to his feet he drags Pretzler after him. The Canadian slowly comes upright, then Toxxic rests Scott’s chin on his shoulder in a ¾ facelock with one arm, and draws the thumb of his other hand across his throat.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“It could be time for Scott Pretzler to be Intoxxicated!” Annie shouts as Toxxic sets off at a run for the turnbuckles… but even semi-conscious, Scott Pretzler is still a wary and wily ring general. The Critic grabs his opponent’s torso in both hands and shoves as hard as he can, breaking the ¾ facelock and sending Toxxic careering chest-first into the ringpost!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Toxxic rebounds back out of the corner, all the breath blown from his lungs, and Scott Pretzler reaches around him to cross his arms over his chest. This time Toxxic isn’t quick enough to react.

 

*BANG!*

 

“Snowflake Suplex!” Tom shouts as Brian Warner drops to count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!

 

 

 

“YES!” King shouts as Pretzler registers another scoring pin.

 

 

 

 

FOUR!!!!

 

 

 

Toxxic desperately kicks his legs, but the straight-jacket suplex is holding him firm.

 

 

 

 

FIIIIIIIIIIIIIVVVVVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SSSSSSSSSSIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-

-Toxxic kicks out before Brian Warner can count to six, but the smile on Scott Pretzler’s face is as wide as yo mama.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, that pin was official” Divefire declares, “and Scott Pretzler now leads 8-3!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

[Ace309 0]

“One more pin, Scott!” Suicide King encourages his man. “One more and you’re home and dry!”

 

Scott Pretzler certainly seems to think that this advice is worth following; the Cruiserweight Champion quickly gets a back mount on Toxxic, who has rolled onto his front in an attempt to catch his breath after the Snowflake Suplex, and applies a hammerlock to the Straight-Edge Sensation’s right arm. Pretzler then scoots out to Toxxic’s front whilst keeping the hammerlock applied and threads his right arm under Toxxic’s left before starting to turn the straight-edger over onto his back…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Toxxic kicks out of the By The Numbers pin, which doesn’t prevent Flesher from golf-clapping the Critic again. Having realised that he isn’t going to be given time to recuperate Toxxic tries to get to his feet, but no sooner has he done so than Pretzler has grabbed him from behind and takes him over with a schoolboy…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

“He’s got the tights!” Annie shouts as Scott Pretzler’s hand can clearly be seen gripping the waist of Toxxic’s pants…

 

 

 

 

…but Toxxic kicks out before three again, even though Pretzler’s bending of the rules goes unnoticed by referee Brian Warner. This time as Toxxic tries to rise Pretzler lunges forward to jam a shoulder into the straight-edger’s stomach, then takes his own sweet time in getting back to his feet before taking Toxxic in a front facelock and raising one arm in the air.

 

“BRAINBUSTAAAAHHHH!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Needless to say, the London Arena is none too impressed with Scott Pretzler’s intentions and they let the Critic know it in no uncertain terms. Pretzler simply smirks as the derision pours down and throws Toxxic’s arm over his head again before grabbing his opponent’s pants and lifting, seeking to drop the former World Champion on his skull one more time…

 

…but Toxxic gives himself an extra boost off the ground and floats over, twisting in mid-air as he does so to come down behind Pretzler and pull him off his feet with the Underkill!

 

*BANG!*

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

The back of Pretzler’s skull hits the mat hard and Toxxic takes a moment to catch his breath, but after a couple of seconds the Straight-Edge Sensation is back on his feet and heading for the turnbuckles. He’s not moving as fast as usual admittedly, but as he raises two black-nailed index fingers over his head and twirls them backwards the crowd don’t seem to care…

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“Inglorious!” Flesher exclaims in what might be mild alarm as Toxxic begins to climb the turnbuckles in preparation for the Shooting Star Legdrop. “If he can hit it he might be able to come close to levelling the score…” the Superior One trails off, then begins speaking with renewed vigour, “…but Pretzler’s getting up!”

 

Indeed he is, albeit slowly. It takes an awful lot to keep Scott Pretzler down, certainly to keep him down long enough for a battered straight-edger to get to the top buckle. Toxxic straightens up… and Pretzler seems to wobble on his feet, staggering sideways into the referee and sending Brian Warner into the ropes!

 

“OOOOOOOoooohhhhhhh…”

 

A simultaneous wince runs through every male in the London Arena as Warner inadvertently crotches Toxxic on the top buckle! The referee turns and admonishes Pretzler but the Canadian merely protests that his legs were unsteady and gave way, and Warner knows very well that he’s unable to prove otherwise. However, Pretzler seems to be able to walk OK as he heads for the ringpost where Toxxic is so uncomfortably perched. The Straight-Edge Sensation is in no condition to do anything as Pretzler stares at him for a second…

 

…then shifts his gaze to Tom Flesher at ringside.

 

“Hi Scott,” Tom waves, “you keep on him!”

 

Whether Pretzler can hear Flesher or not doesn’t seem to matter; the Critic gives a curt nod, then bunches his legs underneath him and jumps…

 

…spins in midair…

 

…and slams a palmstrike into Toxxic’s jaw!

 

*CRACK!*

 

“A jumping, spinning palmstrike!?” Suicide King says in disbelief. “But Tom, that can only mean one thing!”

 

“I know,” Flesher replies smugly as Pretzler starts to climb the buckles. The Canadian pauses briefly to look out at the crowd, then bellows at the top of his lungs:

 

“BRAINBUSTAAAHHHH!”

 

“No!” Annie shouts.

 

“Oh yes,” Flesher smirks as Pretzler starts to hook up Toxxic as if for a vertical suplex. “The Boilermaker is on it’s way, and this match is over!”

 

Pretzler grabs a handful of Toxxic’s trousers and heaves…

 

 

…but the straight-edger remains firmly rooted on the top buckle, anchored there by his one free hand and both legs gripping as tight as he can. Pretzler pauses, heaves again…

 

 

…still nothing. But this time when his exertions cease, Toxxic acts.

 

“Yeah!” Annie shouts as Toxxic starts firing right hands into Pretzler’s ribs, “you show him, Toxx!”

 

The blows are definitely winding the Critic, and his grip on Toxxic’s neck weakens as a result. The Straight-Edge Sensation pulls Pretzler’s arm away, then takes his opponent’s head in both hands and-

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

-fires a headbutt right into his face. Pretzler sways alarmingly and for a moment it looks like Toxxic is going to just push his opponent off and execute some sort of high-flying move onto his prone body. But then Toxxic looks over at Flesher… and winks.

 

“Oh shit,” Flesher exclaims, matter-of-factly.

 

Toxxic grabs a front facelock on the dazed Pretzler, then reaches down to hook his opponent’s right leg from the inside. It takes a moment for the London Arena fans to realise what’s coming up… and in that moment, Toxxic acts.

 

It’s not crisp, and it’s not clean. But as Toxxic straightens up and jumps off the turnbuckles with 226lbs of Canadian Critic cradled in his arms, it does dump Scott Pretzler right on his head in the middle of the ring.

 

*BAM!*

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“SUPER CAFFEINE BOMB!” Annie yells at the top of her lungs as Toxxic manages to hold the pinning cradle and Brian Warner drops to count, “YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT HOLY SHIT!”

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOUR!!!!

 

 

 

 

“No, NO!” King shouts.

 

 

 

 

FIVE!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIX!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEEEVVVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

 

“BULL-SHIT!”

 

“BULL-SHIT!”

 

“BULL-SHIT!”

 

The London fans are livid. Each and every man, woman and child in the arena is convinced that Scott Pretzler’s shoulders stayed down for a match-winning seven count. But Brian Warner insists that it is only six, so Divefire raises his microphone.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, that was an official pin, meaning Toxxic now leads 9-8!”

 

“Well, I’ve only seen that move once before,” Tom Flesher comments in a slightly unsteady voice as Toxxic looks over pleadingly at Warner, “and that was…”

 

“…when Toxxic beat you,” Annie finishes for him. “Pretzler tries to beat him with your move, he hits Pretzler with the move that beat you. Kinda ironic, don’tcha think?”

 

“It’s clear that you don’t think,” Suicide King snaps.

 

“Hey, I’m not the one who took his name from a Marilyn Manson lyric.”

 

Toxxic seems simply unable to comprehend the fact that Pretzler kicked out. It is only after Brian Warner has explained the situation to him twice that the straight-edger seems to cotton on to the fact that he still needs to do more to win this match, and he reacts in the easiest way - by covering Scott Pretzler’s prone form again, although the lift doesn’t seem to have left him with the energy to hook the leg.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“Half a second away!” Annie shouts. “If that!”

 

“More than enough,” King fires back, “Scott Pretzler is still in this!”

 

Not for long, if Toxxic has anything to do with it. Gritting his teeth, the Straight-Edge Sensation reaches out to hook the far leg, then hooks Pretzler’s near leg with his own and rolls into the pin, trying to stack as much weight as possible onto the Canadian’s shoulders.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“How does he keep kicking out?” Flesher asks in amazement.

 

“I want him checked!” Annie protests, pointing at Pretzler, “I want him tested, and I want him anally violated!”

 

The other two commentators turn to look at her.

 

“OK, that one’s more for fun.”

 

Toxxic seems to have accepted that he’s not going to pick up another pin off Scott Pretzler without some further damage being inflicted on the annoying resilient Critic. According he grabs Pretzler by the head and uses this much-abused body part to drag Pretzler up, then quickly applies a front facelock and twists sideways to take his opponent down with a snap swinging neckbreaker! Almost before they have hit the mat together Toxxic is rolling back to his feet, dragging Pretzler with him. This time he twists around more slowly and makes sure that the Canadian’s head is at exactly the right angle over his shoulder before sitting out with another neckbreaker. He seems to consider going for a third, but every movement seems to be an effort now and the Straight-Edge Sensation settles for rolling onto his front and covering Pretzler…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-

-but the Critic kicks out again!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

Toxxic slams the palm of his hand into the mat in frustration, then winds his fingers through his opponent’s short blonde hair and uses this to drag Pretzler back to his feet. Brian Warner steps in to admonish the former World Champion but Toxxic releases Pretzler before the referee can begin a count, then boots his opponent in the stomach. As the winded Canadian doubles over, a lack of oxygen now adding to the ringing in his head and probably not doing much for the sharp pains in his neck, Toxxic mimes opening a can and then tilts his head back as he takes an imaginary swig…

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Toxxic’s calling for the Caffeine Bomb!” Annie shouts as the London Arena rises to its collective feet. “Even if it’s not off the top rope another one of this should finish the job; only one person has ever kicked out before the count of three, and that person-”

 

“-is currently running her mouth next to me, I know,” Tom Flesher grumbles.

 

Toxxic reaches out and pulls Pretzler into a front facelock, then bends down and starts to hook his opponent’s right leg from the inside, but Scott Pretzler has had a few vital seconds to recuperate and the Critic begins firing desperation right hands into Toxxic’s ribs. Although they’re not the most tender part of his body Toxxic has been hit with everything Scott Pretzler has brought to the table, as well as the draining frustration of not being able to get that final, elusive pin on his opponent. He tries to hold on, but Pretzler isn’t going to let up as long as he feels in danger… and Toxxic has to let go, staggering backwards and trying to breath. Pretzler won’t give him the chance though.

 

*CRACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Whoo!” King shouts as the knife-edge chop hits home, but he’s alone in the London Arena. Pretzler seems to be expecting a retaliation from Toxxic, but none is forthcoming and the Critic wades in again…

 

*CRACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

And again.

 

*CRACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

*CRACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Unbelievable!” Tom Flesher shouts as Scott Pretzler drives Toxxic back. “After all these matches in which Toxxic has held the advantage in any sort of brawl, Scott Pretzler is chopping him to shreds! And do you want to know why, Annie?”

 

*CRACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“No-” Onita begins, but Tom isn’t listening.

 

“Because of his conditioning! Because of his mental and physical toughness which not only allowed him to kick out of the avalanche Caffeine Bomb, but means that in a long-running match like this he has the stamina to take Toxxic!”

 

*CRACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Toxxic is on the ropes, wheezing and trying to cover up. A triumphant Pretzler, grinning with tired pride, grabs his opponent’s wrist and performs an Irish whip into the far cables before leaping into the air and-

 

*SMACK!*

 

-driving a patented Scott Pretzler ‘Best-In-The-Business’™ dropkick into Toxxic’s jaw! The straight-edger crumples to the mat and Pretzler sits up, dusting off his hands with satisfaction.

 

“See, this is why I booked this match,” Flesher expounds as Pretzler starts to get back to his feet. “Sure, Toxxic got the first three-count and can pull off some big move to fluke his way to a win over more talented competition, but over a longer period of time it will always be the better wrestler who comes out on top.”

 

Scott Pretzler has brought the groggy Toxxic to his feet again, and sends him into the ropes once more. This latest burst of Pretzler offence seems to have knocked most of the remaining fight out of the straight-edger, and he runs straight into a lariat from the Cruiserweight Champion that sends him right back down to the mat again. Instead of covering his opponent Pretzler seems to want to make quite sure, so he hauls Toxxic up to his feet again and whips the Brit into the cables once more. This time as Toxxic rebounds Pretzler readies both arms…

 

*BANG!*

 

-and takes him over and down with a quick-and-dirty powerslam! Brian Warner is already halfway down to count the fall…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“Slow count,” King says with conviction. “I’m ashamed of you Tom, I thought you’d have a competent referee officiating this match.”

 

Scott Pretzler is distinctly unimpressed by Warner’s refereeing, but the Critic knows better than to push his luck at this stage of the match. Instead he drags Toxxic back to his feet and raises one arm, clearly signalling for another lariat.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

With a grin on his face Scott Pretzler grabs Toxxic’s wrist and starts to Irish whip the Straight-Edge Sensation into the ropes, but this time Toxxic manages to reverse the momentum and swings around to fire Pretzler in instead! As the Critic rebounds with his right arm extended, looking for the lariat anyway, Toxxic sidesteps to his own right and wraps one arm around Pretzler’s neck to catch him in a reverse headlock. For a moment the two men stand there, but then Toxxic raises his left arm.

 

And brings it swinging around to crash into Pretzler’s body and send both men spiralling down to the mat.

 

*BANG!*

 

“CLEAN LIVING!” Annie shouts as a wracking cough shakes Pretzler’s body and Toxxic struggles to right himself. “Toxxic just stole the finisher of Spike Jenkins, his former stablemate!”

 

“So he’s pissing off Spike, but hurting Pretzler,” King says in an agony of indecision, “is that a good thing or a bad thing!?”

 

The explosive movement of the Clean Living added to the vaguely dizzying effect of it means that Toxxic takes a few seconds to sit back up and reach his opponent, then a second or so more to roll Pretzler onto his back and hook the leg…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

“Fast count!” King and Flesher bark at the same time…

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“Still a fast count,” King reaffirms, “and it’s lucky for Brian Warner that Scott Pretzler kicked out anyway.”

 

“Come on Toxx,” Annie says in disbelief, “you’ve already pinned this guy twice, why is the last time giving you so much difficulty?”

 

“Because Scott Pretzler knows that he cannot afford to lose this match,” Tom Flesher replies. “That sort of knowledge brings out hidden reserves in the best athletes.”

 

“Guess you thought you could afford to lose that Triple Threat for the World Title this time last year then, huh?” Annie shoots back, causing Flesher to grumble and curse Joe Peters under his breath.

 

Regardless of any hidden reserves that Scott Pretzler may or may not have, Toxxic knows why he didn’t get the win off that last pin; he took too long. The Clean Living is a match-ending move, but the Straight-Edge Sensation just couldn’t muster the energy to make the cover quick enough. Now he has to think of something else, and he has to think of it quickly.

 

Gradually, one limb at a time, Scott Pretzler is starting to push himself up.

 

“See? Conditioning,” Tom Flesher says with satisfaction. “Toxxic may have the advantage of youth, but when you’re bouncing around the ring all night you’re going to tire yourself out quickly. The mat wrestlers, like Scott or myself, will outlast you and bring you down.”

 

“But-”

 

“The fact he happened to beat me that night in Buffalo is irrelevant, Annie,” Flesher cuts her off, “I had a head cold.”

 

Toxxic has no intention of letting Pretzler get back to a vertical base; before the Cruiserweight Champion can do much more than get up to one knee the Straight-Edge Sensation has moved in and pulled his opponent into a double underhook, placing Pretzler’s head between his knees…

 

“He’s going for the Toxxic Shock Syndrome again,” Annie says, “but can he even lift Pretzler now?”

 

The turns out to be a moot point; Scott Pretzler yanks both arms down hard, breaking his exhausted opponent’s grip and then hooking Toxxic behind each knee. The Brit does his best to keep his balance but it only takes a second for the Critic to topple his opponent onto his back; Pretzler then hooks one of Toxxic’s legs under each arm and positions his legs under his opponent’s body before dropping backwards to slingshot the straight-edger into the turnbuckles behind him!

 

*BANG!*

 

Toxxic staggers back from the impact, but Pretzler has managed to get back to his feet and follows him in with a clubbing enzui-lariat that sends Toxxic crashing down to the canvas!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

“PRETZ-LER SUCKS!”

 

Even Scott Pretzler is taking time to suck in air right now, but not nearly as long as the fans would like. After a couple of seconds of leaning on the ropes and taking deep breaths the Critic reaches down to grab Toxxic by his spiky hair, then starts to drag his opponent towards the centre of the ring. At first at seems that he’s merely getting him out of the reach of any ropes in order to make a cover; however Pretzler then starts to pick his opponent up… and puts him in a rear facelock.

 

“Oh, this won’t just put an exclamation point on things,” Suicide King laughs, “this will put a Tildebang on it~!”

 

Sure enough, Scott Pretzler seems to have only one thing on his mind. The Critic reaches down and grabs a handful of Toxxic’s baggy pants, then strains to hoist his opponent into the air. However, Toxxic is virtually limp in the Cruiserweight Champion’s grasp; although Pretzler could have shifted him half an hour ago, the match has taken its toll on even the Canadian’s capabilities.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Scott Pretzler isn’t going to be defeated that easily, however. He has come through too much and come too close to a goal no-one else has ever achieved to give up now. He will become the first person to ever hand Toxxic three defeats in any competition, and in doing so step past his former leader and into the main event. From there, the World Heavyweight Title will be within his grasp… so Scott Pretzler widens his legs slightly, braces himself, takes a deep breath, and lifts again. Toxxic comes up easily.

 

Too easily.

 

“What the-”

 

The ring mics faintly pick up the beginnings of an exclamation of surprise from Pretzler, but by that time Toxxic is already up and over his head. With a final trick on his former stablemate, Toxxic has boosted himself up and flipped clean over the Critic, landing behind him on the mat…

 

…with a reverse headlock applied.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Toxxic doesn’t have time to mess around. Before Scott Pretzler can pull out any sort of innovative counter the Straight-Edge Sensation drops to one knee and drives the other into the back of his opponent’s neck. Then he straightens up again, hauling Pretzler up with him for the second stage of the Detoxx. However, instead of an inverted DDT Toxxic follows up with another neckbreaker of the same sort.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Toxxic drags Pretzler up once more, the effort showing on the Brit’s face as he rises to a standing position with his opponent still in a reverse headlock.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

Then Toxxic twists around so he’s facing the corner, and as he does so he pulls Scott Pretzler into a ¾ facelock.

 

“INTOXXICATION!” Annie shouts as the straight-edger runs for the turnbuckles, “come on!”

 

Toxxic pushes off the first buckle…

 

…the second buckle…

 

…the third buckle…

 

…he flips backwards over Scott Pretzler’s head as a couple of hundred flashbulbs go off all around the London Arena…

 

…and he comes down again to drive the back of Scott Pretzler’s skull into the canvas with the Intoxxication.

 

*WHAM!*

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“He got him!” Annie yells in delight as Suicide King bites off a curse, “cover him Toxx, COVER HIM!”

 

Toxxic suits his actions to Annie’s words, shuffling forward on the mat and reaching out to drape one arm over Scott Pretzler’s chest, hoping and praying that this will be enough. Brian Warner drops to the mat to make the count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“WHAT!?” Annie yelps. “What the hell is this?”

 

“That, Onita, was a kickout!!” King laughs in disbelief. “Call it guts, call it conditioning, call it a sheer unwillingness to lay down in defeat to this overpushed spotmonkey, Scott Pretzler is still in this match!”

 

He is. Brian Warner displays two fingers for all to see, and although the London crowd don’t like it, they are as powerless as Toxxic to change it. For his part the Straight-Edge Sensation just sits there, staring gormlessly at the referee, too stunned to even try another cover.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

The chants ring out, but Toxxic knows that there is nowhere left for him to go to. He has thrown everything he has at Scott Pretzler, some things more than once, and he just can’t get this final pin. There is nothing else he has - nothing else he’s prepared to use, anyway - that he can try. Pretzler has countered or kicked out of everything, and for the first time in his professional career, Toxxic finds himself at a loss.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

He’s been beaten before of course, but that was different. On those days he was too slow, or he made mistakes, or the opponent was just too good. He always went down fighting though, pulling out new and innovative tricks right to the end. Tonight, he’s drawn a blank. Tonight, it looks like Scott Pretzler is the better man.

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC…”

 

The chants are starting to die down as Toxxic does nothing. And slowly, agonisingly slowly, Scott Pretzler rolls off his back and plants both hands on the canvas. The Critic doesn’t seem to know that Toxxic is right next to him as he starts pushing, trying to find a way to his feet. Toxxic just stares at him… then looks over to ringside where Jet is standing, eyes fixed on the ring and apparently unable to believe what she is seeing.

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

These chants are even fainter, only a few of the hardcore fans still cheering their hero on. Toxxic turns his back on Pretzler, gets to his feet and staggers over to Jet, who clambers up on the apron for a quick discussion.

 

“You can chat all you want Toxxic, unless you have the mother of all tricks hidden in those baggy pants you’re not leaving here the winner,” King says.

 

“You’d love to know what he’s got hidden in his pants, wouldn’t you?” Annie asks.

 

“Riley’s in Las Vegas, so leave it out.”

 

Brian Warner is unhappy about Jet’s presence on the apron and he moves over to discuss the matter. Toxxic hurriedly says something to the dreadlocked beauty and moves away, leaving Warner to berate her. However, Jet proves unwilling to return to the arena floor and starts arguing with the referee about the perceived slowness of his previous count… and as Scott Pretzler gets up to one knee, Toxxic exhaustedly waves someone in from the crowd. For a moment nothing happens, but then a black-clad shape with a ponytail vaults the security rail and approaches the ring.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“That’s Chris Card!” Suicide King yells in alarm as the crowd cheer another Englishman. “You treacherous bastard Card, I couldn’t even trust you to hold Maddix down-”

 

Toxxic holds out his hands towards his trainer and Card throws something small and black to him. As the object lands in the straight-edger’s black-nailed hands Card throws something else, this one glinting brassily under the lights.

 

“What the hell…?” Flesher says in shock. “Warner! WARNER! Turn around!”

 

The referee is still arguing with Jet however, and the Philly Madgirl is growing more and more animated. Despite this, Warner starts to turn away…

 

…and Jet raises her shirt, treating the referee to a sight not seen since the SWF stopped off at a New Hampshire frat house.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

And in that moment, Toxxic raises his hand as Pretzler staggers to his feet. OK, this is his final trick.

 

“ARRGH!”

 

“AEROSOL EQUALIZER!” Flesher bellows in rage as Toxxic maces his Canadian opponent straight in the eyes, but both the Commissioner’s roar and Pretzler’s scream are masked by the crowd’s enormous reaction to the sight of Jet’s mammaries. Toxxic hurls the pepper spray over his shoulder, then slips something onto his hand and measures the staggering Pretzler.

 

*BAM!*

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“LET’S GO TOXX-IC!”

 

“BRASS KNUCKS!” Annie screams. “Turn around NOW, Warner!”

 

He does. And there, in the middle of the ring, is Toxxic covering Scott Pretzler. On the outside of the ring, Chris Card fields the brass knuckles that Toxxic sent skittering over the canvas to him a moment before and tucks them quietly in his suit pocket.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

“NO!” King yells.

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

“HE CHEATED!”

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

 

*DING-DING-DING*

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“YES!” Annie screams, “YES YES YESS!” The grinning Japanese lesbian turns to her two commentary partners, then laughs, “and that’s the first time a man’s ever made me say that!”

 

“YOU LITTLE LIMEY BASTARD!” Suicide King roars, leaning over the announce desk in rage, “YOU LITTLE CHEATING LIMEY BASTARD!”

 

Tom Flesher just sits between the two of them, apparently too stunned to speak.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Divefire announces with just the faintest hint of a grin, “the winner of this match by a total count of 12-9, he is the ‘Straight-Edge Sensation’… TOXXXXXXXXXX-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIC!!”

 

Brian Warner raises Toxxic’s right arm, but the straight-edger shakes him off. There is no evidence of jubilation or celebration on Toxxic’s face, just a numb dullness. Chris Card and Jet watch from the sidelines as the Straight-Edge Sensation rolls wearily out under the bottom rope.

 

“He knows Scott Pretzler should be the winner,” Tom Flesher states, finding his voice as Annie and King continues to bicker. “That… man knows that he should have lost here tonight, and no amount of home country support can change that.”

 

Toxxic is leaning on the ring apron, apparently too exhausted to move as Brian Warner checks on Pretzler. But then Toxxic does move… and he lifts up the ring apron, then starts to hunt under it.

 

“OK, what’s going on here?” King says nervously, “nothing good ever happens when people look under the ring.”

 

Not even Chris Card or Jet seem to be aware what Toxxic has in mind, and instead of a chair, table or other weapon the Straight-Edge Sensation seems to be satisfied as he pulls out something small, dark and vaguely cylindrical. With this object in hand Toxxic rolls back into the ring and approaches the prone form of Scott Pretzler.

 

“Tom,” King says with some concern, “I think we should maybe do something about this…”

 

Toxxic is now standing over Pretzler, and when Warner tries to convince him to turn around and leave the Straight-Edge Sensation just shoves the referee away, then raises his right hand in the air.

 

“What… they’re hair clippers!” Annie says in surprise. “He’s going to shave him!?”

 

The crowd certainly seem to think this is a good idea as Toxxic kneels down over his fallen adversary. However, as Toxxic flips the switch and a faint buzzing sound becomes audible the straight-edger makes no move towards Scott Pretzler; instead, he raises the implement to his own head.

 

“…the hell?” King says, completely dumbstruck.

 

Snippets of black hair start to rain gently down on Scott Pretzler, who still seems mostly unconscious in the middle of the ring. Toxxic continues on, the blades chewing through the heavily gelled spikes that made him such a recognisable figure for so long, until finally only a faint stubble still remains on his head. Slowly, Toxxic gets back to his feet before shutting the clippers off and dropping them to one side. He spends a moment more looking down at Pretzler before abruptly turning and striding away, then rolls under the bottom rope and begins to make his way up the entrance ramp. The entire London Arena is quiet as the fans watch these apparently inexplicable actions.

 

“Tom?” King says as Toxxic pauses to snatch a ‘Straight-Edge Sensation’ sign off a young fan by the ramp and tear it violently in two before hurling the halves away in different directions. “Tom… I don’t think he’s coming back.”

 

“TOXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

The chant has started up in the crowd again as Card and Jet also start to leave up the ramp, some way behind Toxxic. The man himself turns around on the soundstage to look out at the London Arena, at the fans, at the ring of the SWF where he has spent so much time and effort over the last eighteen months.

 

“TOXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

“TOXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

Then he turns on his heel one last time and steps through the curtain to the backstage area, away from it all.

 

“TOXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

“TOXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

The chants ring through the London Arena almost forlornly and the three commentators sit, seemingly too stunned to speak. Then Flesher finds his voice again.

 

“Well, that is the end of Tom Flesher’s Ground Zero,” the Smarkdown Commissioner says, sounding slightly forced. “We’ll transfer you over to Las Vegas for the second half of the show in just a few moments, in the meantime I’ll leave you with Annie Onita and the Suicide King to go over tonight’s events, because I have to make a phone call…”

 

 

 

FADE OUT

[Ace309 0]

There is a faint splashing of running water, then the noisier sound of water hitting water as two palms are cupped together to form a crude cup. The water collects, spilling through the fingers but still pooling, before it is brought upwards to the face... and then Toxxic straightens up, spluttering slightly, to look into the mirror.

 

The steel-grey eyes search his own reflection. The eyeliner is gone, now completely washed away. With a faint lopsided grin he runs one hand over his newly-shaved head, feeling the odd sensation of stubble beneath his fingers. Fingers with nails still blackened by nail polish... Toxxic looks at them for a second, then shrugs.

 

"Nah, I'll leave that..."

 

He looks again. He is dressed in the most nondescript clothing he has ever worn in an SWF arena - faded black jeans instead of his bulky Tripp NYC pants, walking boots instead of wrestling ones, an untucked black shirt hanging loose at collar and cuffs. Everything that was in the locker room is now in the black holdall that rests on the floor beside his foot and most of the things that made Michael Stephens into Toxxic, the Straight-Edge Sensation, have gone as well. He could walk right out of that door and probably no-one would know him... In fact, there's only one thing left. Slowly, Toxxic reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cellphone that contains all the numbers he needs for work.

 

And it starts ringing.

 

The familiar tune of the Clash's 'Rock The Kasbah' rings out around the dressing room for a few seconds, but Toxxic is more concerned by the caller ID that has flashed up. In a few moments of idleness he had gone through his phonebook and renamed most of the contents, meaning that the name on the screen of his phone now reads The Superior Arse.

 

“Flesher…”

 

Toxxic flips open his phone and raises it to his ear, grinning slightly as he does so.

 

“Eh up.”

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

“What?” Toxxic asks, turning the tap off. Flesher isn’t easily mollified, however.

 

“You know what I mean! That… stunt in the ring! Believe me Toxxic, I’ve seen enough people turn tail and run away from this business to recognise it, and I know exactly what you’re doing!”

 

“You do?” Toxxic asks. “Good. I’m glad for you Tom. Now bugger off and leave me in peace.”

 

“And where the hell are you going to go, might I ask?”

 

“Well, first of all I’m going to get in my car and drive until I get to the M25,” Toxxic tells his boss. “Then I’m going to head straight up the A1 until a few miles before Grantham, where I’m going to turn onto the A606 and stay on that through Oakham and Melton until I pick up the A52 just south of West Bridgeford-”

 

“What are you babbling about?”

 

“I’m going to Nottingham, Tom,” Toxxic says, looking in the mirror one last time as if to check that yes, he has done everything he remembers doing. “I’m going home.”

 

“…you can’t do that. You are under contract, you limey bastard!”

 

“Oh no I’m bloody not, sunshine!” Toxxic snarls back, suddenly animated. “Dunno if you checked recently Tom, but my contract expires as of midnight tonight! I am a free man on August 1st!”

 

“…what?”

 

“See Tom, I didn’t come in through the SJL,” Toxxic explains with a certain amount of grim satisfaction, “so I got the new deal, the deal that everyone gets now; six month provisional contract, can be terminated at any time. My contract started on Feburary 1st last year, which meant it was up for renewal on August 1st. Can you remember what I was doing on August 1st last year, Tom?”

 

There is no answer from the other end of the line.

 

“That’s right. I was beating your arse - and Janus - for my first World Title win. Needless to say, Head Office decided to keep me on. But they were only prepared to pay up on a one year contract seeing as how SWF careers tend to be… quite short.” Toxxic’s grin disappears at this point.

 

“Thing is, no-one’s ever approached me about renewing it, Tom. At first I thought it was an oversight. Then I thought that someone like you was behind it. But now… I don’t care, either way. I’m not resigning anything right now. I am leaving, and unlike that other notable Englishman Edwin, I’m doing it completely legally and as a free man.”

 

There is more silence from Tom Flesher. Then, finally, the Superior One finds his voice.

 

“I’ll overturn the decision in your match.”

 

“Sunshine, you can do what you bloody well please!” Toxxic laughs. “Weren’t you listening? I don’t care! You can threaten me, bribe me, have Spike Jenkins and Scott Pretzler fight for the right to anally rape effigies of me on-air if you want, I am done with this place.”

 

Toxxic smiles as the words leave his lips. He can only imagine what the face of Flesher is like at the moment, but the possibilities give him a few amusing seconds as he waits for the Smarkdown Commissioner to reply. When he does, the response is not exactly what Toxxic was expecting.

 

“Why?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I said, ‘why?’. I don’t think it’s a particularly hard word to understand. If you’re abandoning this company, leaving us without an established main-event star in the run-up to our biggest show of the year, then however justified your actions are in terms of contracts and law I think the least you can do is give me some explanation, you ungrateful son-of-a-bitch.”

 

…OK,” Toxxic replies. The Straight-Edge Sensation takes a couple of moments to try and marshal all the thoughts that have been going through his head for the last couple of months, attempting to condense them into words. Dislike Flesher as he might, he probably does owe the man that.

 

“I’m waiting.”

 

“I’ve had enough of conflict, Tom. I’m in a business where everyone you meet, everyone is someday going to be your opponent. You can have teammates, friends, people who you’ll trust to watch your back and you’ll watch theirs, but someday one of you isn’t gonna be there. Sometimes they’ll turn on you, like Sacred. Sometimes you turn on them, like Spike. And just sometimes Tom,” the straight-edger continues, absent-mindedly looking down at his black-nailed hand, “someone else turns them on you, like Scott. From the moment you signed Pretzler to be my mystery opponent back in Greece, I knew that the last person in this company with whom I had a good working relationship was going to end up my enemy. I tried to ignore that voice, but it turns out I should have listened to it after all.

 

“That’s our business, Tom. It’s a fucking paranoid minefield of backstabbing shit, and I don’t want it anymore. I don’t need it anymore. I think I came here to prove a point, and if I was to go down to the ring on Storm and call for someone out of the back to come give me a match… well, I might get Spike, or Scott, or maybe Ejiro; people who don’t like me. I might get someone looking to make a name for themselves. But there is no-one, no-one in this company right now who thinks that getting into the ring with Toxxic is gonna be easy. And that, sunshine, includes you.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“There’s a few things I want to work through in my own life,” Toxxic admits, “but that’s none of your business, Tom. In fact,” he continues, checking his watch, “as of about thirty seconds ago, I’m not any of your business anymore; I’m not in your company, at least.”

 

“Toxxic-”

 

“Happy August the First to you, Tom,” Toxxic says, and switches off his phone. Then before Flesher can ring back he hastily removes the cover - not without some muffled swearing - and prises out the SIM card. Everything is on here; all the numbers for the important SWF officials, fellow wrestlers, everyone.

 

Taking the small, shiny object between thumbs and forefingers, Toxxic snaps it in two and throws both pieces vaguely towards the room’s trashcan.

 

* * *

 

“Jesus Mike,” Jet exclaims as Toxxic jogs out of the London Arena into the car park where she and Card are waiting for him, “you don’t look like… you.”

 

“Nah, I look like me,” Toxxic says, giving the dreadlocked beauty a quick hug, “I just don’t look like Toxxic. And as of now, the two ain’t the same thing anymore.” He lets go of Jet and turns to Card, who grins and extends a hand.

 

“Just when you think you know someone, they go and surprise you,” the bigger man says as Toxxic clasps his hand. “Y’know Toxxic, with a couple of years more training and lots of hard work… I might have actually been able to make a wrestler out of you.”

 

“Hey, Chris?” Toxxic replies, grinning lopsidedly back, “fuck you.”

 

“Uh-uh,” Card replies, raising a finger mock-sternly, “no man love. We agreed that.”

 

“As far as you’re concerned, trust me, it ain’t a hardship,” Toxxic tells him good-naturedly. “Well guys, I’ll be seeing you around. Feel free to drop in anytime you’re in the area,” he continues, trying to ignore Card’s mutterings about ‘goddamn World Champions and their goddamn huge houses’.

 

“I will,” Jet tells him. “And y’know, if you ever happen to be anywhere near Philly at any point…”

 

“I know where to find you,” Toxxic nods. “OK. Right. I’m going. Catch you later.”

 

Jet and Chris Card watch the former Straight-Edge Sensation reverse out of his parking space and drive towards the exit. His route takes him quite a long way away from them, but then as he turns left onto the road his car swings back towards them. As he approaches again a faint whisper of music is carried to them both on the night breeze, growing louder and louder, and rising over and above the bawling of Sid Vicious comes a Nottingham accent raised in passable song:

 

“…I DID IT MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY WAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”