chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 (edited) With Madison Square Garden always an electrifying choice for an SWF show, especially after such a hugely successful pay-per-view event, Ben Hardy has finally gotten away from his duties of interviewing the stars, as he walks through the parking garage of the Garden, humming to himself, eating a ham sandwich, and just generally be jaunty. “Hello! What is this?!” Ben blurts out, causing some bits of sandwich to fall from his mouth to the ground, where a single, crisp, brand spanking new one dollar bill happens to be lying. Ben quickly wipes his face and begins rotating his head in every direction, even to the ceiling, and making sure the coast is clear. Satisfied, Hardy reaches down and swipes the bill from the floor and stuffs it into his pocket, a smile forming on his bread-encrusted jowls. He continues whistling and heads around the side of a production truck, until to bump into a rather large individual in a suit. The man stares down at Ben and runs his right hand through his short blond hair. Cold blue eyes cause the plump interviewer to swallow hard, and he stutters… ”W-w-who are you?” The man adjusts his tie. “My name is Matthew Walters, Mr. Hardy. And I was watching you.” Ben swallows again, something he is indeed used to doing. “Don’t you know about karma, Mr. Hardy? How one tiny action like you picking that one dollar bill…” Matthew reaches into Ben’s pocket and pulls it out slowly. Ben doesn’t move. “…can lead to catastrophic consequences. That might have been a small child’s milk money…” “In Madison Square…” “…or it could have been a winning lottery ticket, Mr. Hardy. It could have been someone’s chance at financial freedom and success. It could have been a savings account for a newborn, or a rent payment, anything. It could have been anything, and now….it is simply a napkin.” Ben pauses and looks at the bill, which has gotten somewhat crumbly from the interviewer’s eating habits. “Sorry?” Ben asks politely, and Matthew’s stare grows colder. “Sometimes, Mr. Hardy…sorry isn’t good enough. When you take it upon yourself to be greedy or self-centered, sometimes the only thing good enough is to walk ahead in your life and face what is waiting for you. Have you ever been to jail, Mr. Hardy? Have you ever looked into the faces of the accused, justly or unjustly, and seen the cries for help in their eyes? I have. I know what it’s like. Sorry isn’t good enough for them, for the people that they may have wronged. The only thing good enough is when it all comes back around to you. I’ve lived on the street. I live on the street. That is a cup of coffee on a cold morning to me, and you stand here in front of my face…eating and humming like you are some sort of king to me. I could break your neck and walk away with your sandwich, your wallet, your car keys, and your clothes, Mr. Hardy…but I won’t. Instead, I will just ask you….what would you do if you were in my place? What would you do if you were penniless and starving in an alleyway? If you were begging people for the same one dollar bill you found lying here today? What would you think when those that are more fortunate than you look down at your tattered rags and say “sorry”, Mr. Hardy…?” Matthew pauses and Ben swallows hard as he takes a step back and turns around, trying to flee, and bumps into the chest of an even larger figure…the seven foot three inch tall frame of Devon Walters. Ben backs up, caught between the two brothers. His hands twitch and his sandwich falls to the ground as Matthew walks around to his brother’s side. Both of them smile. “You will be thinking that whether you like or not…that is karma.” Ben takes a few steps back and takes off in the other direction, rounding a corner and disappearing out of sight. The only things left of the moment is bits of ham sandwich and the one dollar bill lying on the ground once more. Both brothers look down at it as Matthew picks it up, holding it gently. ”Coffee, bro?” Matthew asks, and Devon nods accordingly and the duo walks off camera as the scene fades out. Edited August 6, 2005 by chirs3 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents... SWF STORM! LIVE, FRIDAY, AUGUST 5th, FROM THE LEGENDARY MADISON SQUARE GARDEN IN NEW YORK, NEW YORK! (5PM PST, 8PM EST; check local listings) Opening Promo: SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION JOHNNY DANGEROUS! As always, after a pay-per-view, the SWF is allowing most of its athletes some time off. However, two matches are slated to take place. One features two exciting rookies who debuted on pay-per-view, and the other involves a pair of impressive athletes who didn't compete. The Card House Rules Match: Penn Station Brawl - SWF Hardcore Championship Marcus Ward © vs. Nick "the Hitlist" Blum ~ Ward won the Hardcore Title in his debut, defeating Zyon and tonight's challenger, Blum, in a match that was ... odd, to say the least. In order to keep things kosher, we're having the rookies face off in the obligatory hardcore title "House Rules" match! (Don't worry, guys - the way the shows rotate, you'll get a normal stip soon. We promise.) Rules: The match takes place in Penn Station, the historic subway station below Madison Square Garden. It's attached to the stadium, but the match will start inside the turnstiles. There are escalators, subway patrons, homeless folk, MTA officers performing random searches, and - yes! - running trains! Falls count anywhere in Manhattan and can be obtained by pin, submission, or forcing the opponent to leave the station. Hardcore Match Ghost Machine vs. JJ Johnson ~ Neither of these men competed on the pay-per-view, and so we're bringing them out to allow them to beat the crap out of each other in Manhattan! Will the notoriously "smart" crowd crap on Ghost Machine, or will JL Crunk's massive android protege show them how it's done by dismantling Johnson? Rules: None! It's hardcore, fools. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 Johnny Dangerous promo to be edited in ASAP. My apologies, Johnny - I would've waited, but something's come up, won't be around much for the rest of the night. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 And we are live in 5 4 3 2 1 Pfft. ... ... ... “THAT’S IT?!? PFFT?!? WHAT ARE WE PAYING THESE PYRO GUYS!?” screams the Suicide King, irate at the fact that STORM~! from MADISON SQUARE GARDEN~! hasn’t started with a BANG~! “Don’t worry about it, King. HELLO, ladies and gentlemen and WELCOME to SWF Storm, LIVE from Madison Square Garden!” says King’s broadcast associate, the infamous, but in a good way, Longdogger Pete. “To start us off, following that exciting-” At this, King snorts. “-Johnny Dangerous promo, we have two men that weren’t on the PPV facing off! It’s high-flying submission wrestler extraordinaire, JJ Johnson, against power wrestler and quasi-robot, Ghost Machine! And that’s right now!” finishes Pete as Ghost Machine’s music hits to a chorus of boos. EH! EH BOO! EH BOO BOO! “Ladies and gentlemen the following contest is a Hardcore Match, and it is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, being accompanied to the ring by JL Crunk and weighing in this evening at 318 pounds, from parts unknown, GHOST MACHINE!!!” As Ghost Machine and JL Crunk stride down the aisle of the legendary arena, throwing glares at the fans, a unique chant starts up from the notoriously smart audience packing the Garden tonight. WE WANT WORK-RATE! CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP! WE WANT WORK-RATE! CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP! WE WANT WORK-RATE! CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP! “Well, would you look at that, Pete? Since when are they chanting for WORK-RATE on STORM? Usually they’re chanting for tables, and ladders, and barbed wire and hand grenades and God knows what else.” says King. “Well, maybe this is their way of showing their distaste for Ghost Machine, King. Can YOU honestly say that he brings the work-rate?” asks Pete. “Well, no.” King admits. “I shudder to think what they might chant for Johnson, when he enters.” And almost as if on cue, “Make Me Bad” hits, the signature red and white sparks spraying skywards (and earthwards) as smoke seeps out of the stage, gathering around the curtain. The guitars hit, and they have the sight of a silhouette, highlighted by the sparks in the smoke, before Johnson emerges, his head down as the fans begin another unique chant. IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICEMMMMMAAAAAAANN... IIIIIIIIIICEMMMMMMAAAAAAANN... This stops Johnson dead in his tracks halfway down the ramp, and one can only imagine what thoughts are coursing through his head as the fans continue to drive the chant into his ears. IIIIIIIIIIIICEMMMMMMAAAAANN... IIIIIIIIIIIICEMMMMMMAAAAAANNN... “Whew! What a relief. I thought they were going to MOCK Johnson! Instead, they’ve given him a cool nickname! The Iceman! It fits him, doesn’t it?’ King says enthusiastically. “King, by “Iceman”, they mean “The Iceman” Chuck Liddell. The man who, with a stray kick to the throat, not only forced Johnson out of the sport of Ultimate Fighting, but as you saw from that promo, made speaking quite the chore. It’s possibly the worst thing they could chant.” corrects Pete. “Whoa. Awkward.” is all King can say as Johnson reaches the steps, pausing for a moment as the “Iceman” chants continue before throwing his hood back and striding up the steps. “And his opponent, weighing 219 pounds, from Windsor, Ontario, Canada...J...J...JOHNSON!” Ghost Machine looks on, unimpressed, as Johnson enters the ring and steps to the second rope, throwing his arms wide as the chorus hits. I feel the reason as it’s leaving me, no, not again It’s quite deceiving as I’m feeling the flesh Make me bad Johnson hops down, the fans momentarily silenced, no derogatory chants ringing out as referee Brian Warner goes to check both competitors for weapons, thinks better of it considering the stipulation, and calls for Gus the timekeeper/ring lackey/cameraman to ring the bell. DING DING DING! “And we’re underway! If you ask me, this’ll be an easy match for Johnson.” gloats King. “Ghost Machine has 99 pounds, and 7 inches on Johnson. Johnson might win, but it won’t be easy.” Pete speculates. Johnson doesn’t look quite as confident as King does, trying to keep the distance between Ghost Machine and himself at a maximum to start. JL Crunk screams at the Canadian in an attempt to free up an opening for his outpaced client to take advantage of, but much like the rappers he tries to recruit for his record label, Johnson ignores him, never taking his eyes off the monster in front of him. “Johnson quite obviously knows that in terms of size, he’s hopelessly outmatched. His only saving grace may be this no-holds-barred stipulation, which Johnson obviously has experience in, being a former Hardcore Gamer’s Champion. Which, might I add, is the only title Johnson has held.” Pete says, as Johnson continues to circle, the faintest signs of a “Boring” chant beginning to start up amongst the smarky crowd. “Ah, silly Longdogger, but if Pretzler accepts Johnson’s challenge, that might not be the case come Smarkdown.” prods King. “Wait. You’re actually admitting that it’s possible for Scott Pretzler to lose?” asks an incredulous Longdogger. “Hmmm. Good point. No. Pretzler will win.” King corrects, drawing eye-rolling from Pete as Johnson decides that the best course of action will be to rush the massive assumed robot. Ghost Machine’s mouth curls into an evil grin upon seeing his prey rushing to him... ...which explains why he’s so dismayed when his prey slides under him. His rough night doesn’t stop there as Johnson pops up and sends three kicks the back of his knee’s way, one after the other. This fazes the giant a little, but not enough to bring him to the ground, and certainly not enough to stop Ghost Machine from turning and around and throwing a clothesline. Johnson is too fast, however, ducking the brutish maneuver before it can succeed in it’s mission of removing his head from his shoulders. “Well, if Johnson continues at his current pace, Ghost Machine might not even touch him.” chuckles the Gambling Man. “It’s early, but I don’t know if Johnson can keep this up for too long. Fast or not, he’s only human.” Pete notes as Johnson dodges another strike, this one your average punch, before firing another short string of kicks at the knee of Ghost Machine. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! The sound of high-speed boot on bone, in this case a kneecap, rings throughout the Garden as Johnson’s assault on Ghost Machine’s massive vertical base proves only mildly effective, and the masked man lets him know surprisingly quickly for someone his size, grasping him by the throat. “Plenty of possibilities here, although I’m not sure if ‘this ends well for Johnson’ is one of them” says Pete as Ghost Machine, with his other hand, reaches down. An instant later, and Johnson is a good 10 feet above the ring, Ghost Machine’s firm grip holding him in gorilla press position as he strides towards the ropes. Fans, knowing what usually happens whenever a small man is military pressed by a large man that is now striding towards the crowd, clear out of their seats, wanting to avoid as many two hundred and nineteen pound Canadian projectiles as they can. However, Johnson slips out of Ghost Machine’s grip before any huck-a-fighter can be played, dropping down behind the Parts Unknown-native. “Johnson dodged a bullet there.” says King. “Johnson dodged BECOMING a bullet there.” corrects Pete. Just as soon as Johnson hits the ground, he’s airborne again, thrusting his legs out to dropkick Ghost Machine in the back, sending the JL Crunk-managed monstrosity stumbling into the ropes. He rebounds back into a School Boy from Johnson, Warner dropping down and counting. ONE! TWO! And two is as far as he gets, Ghost Machine getting his wits about him and thrusting his legs out to send Johnson sailing a short distance. “Now Johnson has the advantage, Pete, because Ghost Machine is like a turtle. Tough as nails, but get it on it’s back and it’s only a matter of time before it dies.” gloats King as Johnson takes a moment to check himself for any minor injuries, then slides out of the ring and begins looking under it for a weapon, anything that could be used to bring down the mammoth individual that opposes him. Machine, left unattended, has risen back to his feet, and is talking over the course of action to take against the infinitely faster Johnson. Johnson, meanwhile, has begun removing things from the apron and throwing them into the ring. A kendo stick, two steel chairs, and a garbage can make it before Johnson throws the apron down, slides into the ring, and grabs his weapon of choice, twirling the kendo stick in his hand as he waits for Ghost Machine to turn around. Ghost Machine turns, and upon seeing the kendo stick-wielding Johnson approach, throws his hands up in front of his face. SWISH! WHAP! That’s not where Johnson was aiming, though, and a stinging sensation courses down Ghost’s leg as the training weapon whips into his knee. Ghost Machine grabs at it for a moment, rubbing it furiously with his hand in an attempt to numb the pain. SWISH! WHAP! Johnson, not one for passing up opportunities, lets fly with another shot, this one cracking off the crown of the giant’s head. As is human nature, Machine goes to treat the area that is in the most pain... SWISH! WHAP! ...and is rewarded with a stiff shot to the fingers. Ghost Machine gives up trying to numb the stinging, and lunges for Johnson in an attempt to prevent more stinging from happening. SWISH! WHAP! Johnson sends another shot into Machine’s forehead that slows the giant, but breaks the stick, leaving the Canadian weaponless against an opponent that makes the fact that you have a weapon just a little more comforting. The super-heavyweight is quick to notice Johnson’s semi-vulnerability, and again showing surprising speed, bursts forward and takes Johnson off of his feet with a double axe handle. “Running double axe handle! Some may know it as the Polish Hammer, but the move’s been around forever.” says Pete, showing off some wrestling knowledge as Machine decides that it might be enough to put his opponent away and drops down for the pin. ONE! TWO! And Johnson bridges out of the cover. Ghost Machine doesn’t give up, however, as he scoots over for another lateral press, this time hooking the leg. ONE! TWO! But hooking the leg still isn’t sufficient, Johnson sliding out from under Machine just after 2. Ghost gets to his feet as fast as he can, which isn’t very, and looks around for a bit before spotting the two chairs and the garbage can that Johnson threw into the ring earlier. With one deft motion, he sweeps down and snatches a chair off the mat, holding it up for all the Garden to see before bringing it back down into a more swing-able position and turning back to his victim... CLANKCH! ...only to have said victim kip up and leap, turning 270 degrees in the air before lashing out with his right leg and sending the chair flying back into the massive man’s masked mug. For the first time since the match began, the crowd sits up and begins to take notice as the blow sends Ghost Machine stumbling back before coming to a stop, leaning on the ropes as red begins to seep into the green and purple. “And Ghost Machine is busted open here, King, although with a kick like that, that’s not surprising.” comments the Longdoggah. “I would have been surprised if that HADN’T busted him open, Pete. Although Johnson’s not going to be able to pull a stunt like that if he faces Pretzler. Cruiserweight rules strictly forbid the use of weapons.” says the King of Hearts as Johnson bends down and picks up the chair that recently ricocheted off his opponent’s head. “True, Cruiserweight rules DO forbid the use of weapons, but imagine what a kick like that could do to your neck if it hit high on your head, or do to your jaw if it hit low. That chair may have busted Ghost Machine open, but it’s entirely possible that the ramifications of taking that kick, and I use this term loosely, ‘unprotected’ would have been far greater than if the chair were there.” is the Miami Menace’s observation as Johnson unfolds the seating device and stands it upright on the canvas before running to the ropes behind him, gaining momentum as he rebounds and charges forward, using the chair as a springboard to propel himself into the air. Once in flight, Johnson extends an arm and swings his legs out to the side, looking for all the world like a bird with one wing as he slams into Ghost Machine, the momentum from his flying clothesline enough to bring his massive opponent over the top rope and to the floor with him! “Well, that’s one way to get Ghost Machine down! Johnson may very well get the deciding fall off of that maneuver if he can get the cover fast enough!” One section of the crowd tries to start up a “Holy shit” chant, but the rest of the notoriously hard to please audience isn’t going to blow its load over a flying clothesline. Johnson rolls to his knees and takes a breather, glancing over at his face-down opponent before practically diving over and, instead of wasting energy rolling his opponent over for a cover, attempting to lock in his signature hold. Ghost Machine is quick to realize the impending danger and starts spasming, twisting, doing everything in his considerable strength to make his arm hard to get a hold of. Johnson stops his attempts there, deciding to conserve his energy for when he needs it. “Johnson tried to end this one early by going for the Frostbite, but Ghost Machine saw it coming and blocked it.” says Pete. “And for you people at home, by ‘blocked’, my partner means ‘flopped around like a chicken with it’s head cut off until Johnson gave up.” corrects the Gambling Man as Johnson drops a quick leg across the back of Ghost Machine’s neck before hopping onto the announce table and crouching down, his eyes focused on his opponent before... “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? GET OFF THE TABLE!” ...his attention is diverted by a raving Suicide King. Johnson is too busy giving the Gambling Man a look that could intimidate Death himself to notice that Ghost Machine has reached under the apron. The King of Hearts finally calms down, and Johnson turns back to see his opponent rising to his feet. Johnson leaps just as Ghost Machine turns... PLONK! ...and becomes the second person this evening to be inducted into the “Have Steel Propelled into your Face” Club, Ghost Machine choosing the simple “throw it at them” method over the much more eye-catching “kick it into them” version. Both are equally effective, however, and as soon as Johnson hits the ground Ghost Machine is on top, hooking the leg as Brian Warner scrambles out of the ring to count the fall. ONE! TWO! THR-NO! The chair was effective, but it wasn’t enough to put the former ultimate fighter down for the count, and Ghost sits back on his haunches, taking a moment to wipe the blood out of his eyes before getting to his feet, grabbing Johnson by the head and shoulders and bringing him, too, to a standing position. Johnson shakes the cobwebs out of his head just in time to watch Ghost Machine’s fist ricochet off his forehead, followed by a brief pause before another fist is headed his way. Johnson ducks this one, however, and throws a punch of his own that cracks against his monstrous opponent’s jaw. This slows Machine, if only for a second, but a second is all Johnson needs as he lets fly with a flurry of fists that catches his adversary horribly off of his guard. Ghost staggers, and Johnson lays off the punches to dive around and take him over for a second School Boy. ONE! But Ghost Machine uses his momentum to roll out of the pinning predicament and gets to his feet at the same time Johnson does. Machine lunges forward and takes Johnson’s head off with a clothesline before taking a short break. “Well, a great time to take a breather is when your opponent is...wait...who’s that by the entrance?” Pete breaks off mid-commentary as a man strides out of the entranceway with both a folding chair and a clipboard. “Why, that’s Jay Hawke! He must be scouting potential challengers for his title.” King explains as the Dean of Professional Wrestling sets the chair upright and sits down, pulling a pen out of the top of the clipboard and and poising it over the paper, staring intently as Ghost Machine pulls Johnson to his feet. From there, the larger man doubles his opponent over with a knee before Irish Whipping him, back first and hard, into the steel steps, the thunk of flesh on steel sounding around the legendary arena. After deeming it safe to approach, JL Crunk comes up and whispers something in his client’s ear. “Oooh, let’s tell the fans what he could be telling him.” ponders King. “Let’s not, and keep this at least partially family-friendly.” mutters the Longdogger as Ghost Machine’s eyes light up. He then throws up the apron and reaches under, fumbling around for a moment before pulling out two thirds of a TLC match, leaving the ladder lying on the ground as he unfolds the table’s legs and sets it in front of him. NOW he turns his attention to the ladder, setting it up as well. His arsenal apparently complete, Ghost Machine goes around the table and grabs his opponent, laying him across the smooth wood. The decidedly not aerodynamic, and therefore has no business on a ladder, Ghost Machine then climbs the ladder anyway, only going up to about a foot above the table before stopping his ascent and looking down. “This is a definite Megan Skye’s face situation here, Pete” says the King, coining a rather bizarre name for a situation. “Why a Megan Skye’s face situation, King?” asks Pete. “Because. No matter what anyone does, it won’t be pretty!” As the Suicide King laughs wildly at his own joke, Johnson rolls off the table, delaying Ghost Machine’s flight, (if you could call it that) temporarily. Machine does the smart thing and climbs down, then kicks Johnson in the side before rolling him into the ring. He takes a moment to grab the chair from earlier, then slides into the ring himself, getting to his feet and stalking the Canadian. Johnson gets up and turns around, ducking the chair shot before throwing a hard hook kick that catches Ghost Machine on his right elbow. “Interesting place to aim a kick.” notes Pete as Johnson throws two more to the arm before grabbing the trash can that’s been in the ring since near the beginning and, in true only use of the garbage can fashion, shoving it onto Ghost Machine’s upper body. With Ghost unable to either see or use his arms, Johnson takes his time in grabbing the chair Machine dropped and taking careful aim, wanting to use as much finesse as possible in his next assault... CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! ...or maybe he just wanted to beat the shit out of Ghost Machine’s arm some more. Either way, it got the job done as Ghost finally shoves the trash can off of his torso, taking a moment to stop hyperventilating. CLANK! Johnson decides that his moment is up, and blasts Ghost Machine’s right arm with yet another chair shot. Machine clutches at the arm as it hangs feebly at his side, not wanting to try to use it. CLANK! Johnson refuses to let up, though, and the steel slams into Ghost’s arm a final time before Johnson decides the chair is too deformed to be used again. WHAP! So back to kicks. What were formerly yells of annoyance from Ghost Machine are now yells of pain, which is exactly what Johnson wants as he throws two more snapping kicks. WHAP! WHAP! Finally, Johnson drops back on the ropes and sprints forward, slamming a foot into Ghost Machine’s arm with a Yakuza kick. Ghost Machine grabs at it momentarily, and that’s when Johnson strikes, grabbing the arm and trying to bring Ghost Machine down with a Fujiwara armbar, trying to bend the arm at the shoulder and tet the submission victory. Ghost Machine buckles for a moment, but still has enough strength in his arm to throw Johnson off. Johnson hits the ground, rolls, and is right back on the arm, throwing another kick before another armbar attempt is made. “And Johnson is going after that arm like a man possessed! You know, King, it’s like Johnson realizes that that arm is the best chance he has at picking up the W tonight.” calls the Longdogger as Johnson is again thrown off, again rolls through, and again is right back, the kicks coming with more intensity than before. The armbar is blocked again, and Ghost Machine finally decides to go on the offensive. Johnson hits and rolls again, but this time Ghost Machine is waiting, grabbing Johnson around the shoulders with his left arm and swinging him around for a sidewalk slam... RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! ...but Johnson continues his momentum and manages to hook the right arm with his legs, pulling back on it as he wrenches on the left, and FINALLY the crowd reacts as Ghost Machine finds himself in the worst situation he’s been in all match, pain coursing through BOTH arms now as Johnson pulls with all his might. “And Ghost Machine in a VERY bad situation here! If he loses his balance and falls onto his stomach, the match is over. Johnson will just rip and tug and tear and pull until he gives up. If he loses his balance and falls onto his back, he might pin Johnson, but Johnson might roll him over and pin HIM, and with his arms controlled there’d be no escaping. Ghost Machine’s best chance for survival is stay upright, stay on his feet. Johnson can’t hold on forever...can he?” asks Pete, speaking as fast as he can as Ghost Machine looks around, gritting his teeth as he tries to find a way out of this dangerous predicament. “I give Ghost Machine, with a submission like this, 45 seconds to find a way out. If Johnson were switched around, and he was pulling on the right arm and controlling the left with his legs, Ghost Machine would have lost already. But yeah, Machine’s going to hyperextend his elbow if he stays in this hold too long, and if the elbow gets hyperextended, Johnson walks away with a three match unbeaten streak.” As King offers his opinion, Ghost Machine begins to get desperate, running and jumping, back first, into corners in an attempt to dislodge the opponent turned pit bull that has latched onto his arms, but Johnson refuses to let go, and indeed, seems to pull harder after every attempt to get him to let go. JL shouts encouragements from ringside, trying to will his client back into the fight. The fight may be beyond will, however, as Ghost Machine begins to tire out, his charges into the corner doing nothing to lessen the now burning pain in his arms, Johnson showing zero sign of letting up on the submission. Finally, exhaustion and the weight on his back forces Ghost Machine to his knees, where Warner gets in his face to check for any signs of submission. “Do you give up?” Ghost Machine shakes his head, sweat and blood flying off as Johnson wrenches back even further, if that’s at all possible, on the hold. “Ghost Machine can’t stay in this hold much longer, King! He has to submit! He would lose the match, but stay in this hold too long, and he might not have another match!” shouts Pete as Warner asks again. “Do you give up?” Ghost Machine hesitates this time. But after that short pause, he’s right back to shaking his head no... ...then he nods. DING DING DING! “Make Me Bad” kicks back in as Johnson finally releases the hold, rolling off of Ghost Machine’s back and staggering to his feet, Warner raising his hand in victory as Funyon does his thing. “Here is your winner, via submission, J...J...JOHNSON!” Johnson doesn’t stick around, climbing out of the ring and making his way up the ramp, past Hawke and to the back. “Ladies and gentlemen, Johnson toppled a giant here tonight. It just goes to show you, you CANNOT let your guard down, even for a second. If Pretzler accepts, he CANNOT let his guard down, or he won’t walk out of that match with the belt. Ladies and gentlemen, our next match is going to be great. New Hardcore Champion Marcus Ward defends his title against Nick Blum. Don’t miss it.” says Pete as we... FADE OUT Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 An unfamiliar guitar melody blasts over the louder speaker, the heroic fast classical melody is pleasing to the ear but who’s arrival is it announcing? The high opera worthy vocals of Edguy come screeching over the power chords, spewing out the incredibly cheesy lyrics of their thundering power metal epic “Babylon.” Puzzled by the alien song, all eyes curiously turn to the entrance ramp. Is this a new wrestler, perhaps a returning one? No, it’s new theme music for a familiar face. Soon, the wide muscular frame of Danny Williams comes storming out of the locker room. Erupting into deafening applause, the New Yorkers treat Williams like a conquering hero. Vocal, intelligent, and well informed, Garden fans are not only the best in the U.S. but possibly the greatest period. They’ve seen Williams dominate the competition during the world wide tour, eliminating all who stood before him with ease. And now after being M.I.A for over a year, the agile strong man has returned to the country that bore him. “DAN-E! DAN-E! DAN-E!” Such a grand welcoming is hard to fathom when one takes into account that Williams virtually disappeared unnoticed last summer, despite recently holding the World Title. He had his moment in the spot light but once he fell, he fell hard, dropping completely out of sight as the likes of Janus, Va’aiga, Dace Night, Toxxic, and others made their names off of him. As they flourished he was forgotten. But things are different now, this summer it has been Williams who has made a name for himself, gaining monestrous momentum by man handling some of the biggest names in the SWF. His time is now. Sliding into the ring, Williams busts out some quick poses, exhibiting his superhuman physique, after all 265 plus pounds of muscle compressed into a 5'10" frame is impressive to say the least. The fans are going berserk but once Williams asks for the mic, they respectively quiet down. Williams doesn’t run his mouth for the hell out of it, so chances are he’s got some sort of big announcement to make. Speaking a confident but relaxed voice that commands attention, Williams gets to the point: “I’m a man of few words and tonight won’t be any different. I like a good fight as much as the next wrestler but that’s not the only reason I came back. I came back with a goal and a purpose. I’ve been patient though, taking my time, shaking off the rust. This is the SWF, things are always changing, you can’t just come back and be where you was, you have to prove you can still hang with the elite. And that’s what I did on the road, I defeated Mak Francis three straight times and bested both Magnifico and Toxxic in the 3 time World Champion challenge. I no longer feel like I’m ready, I know that I’m ready. So now that the SWF has come home, I’ll make the big announcement. I’ve come for the World Title! ” Before the fans can react to this monumental declaration, a snarly voice cries out in rage.. “BULLSHIT!” Searching for the source of this disembodied voice, the fans groan with disgust when they look to the entrance ramp, finding none other than a psychotic Magnifico huffing and puffing like he’s swelling up with repressed anger. The fans are disgusted by the mere sight of him, first he brutalizes poor Wildchild on pay per view and now this. Now that he has Williams’ attention, Magnifico storms down the entrance ramp, running his mouth like it’s a machine gun. “What are you trying to pull, huh? This is bullshit and you know it, Danny! Bullshit!” Sliding into the ring, Magnfico marches right up to Williams and get’s in his face. Keeping his cool, Williams looks right into his fiery brown eyes as the deranged luchadore gets to the point. “I believe we have unfinished business, Danny. That’s right, you owe me a rematch you son of a bitch! ” Coming to the conclusion that he’s dealing with a nut job, Williams calmly inquires in perplexed but somber psychologist like tone ,” Interesting. What makes you think I owe you anything?” Even though he feels Williams should know the answer, Magnifico explains himself with clinched teeth,” The last time we faced, I didn’t have my head on straight. I was wrestling for the wrong reasons, I was try to please these ingrateful bastards instead of going for the kill. This time it will be different, this time I won’t hesitate to tear your damn arm off and stick it up your ass. So what to do you say, Williams, you want a piece of the new and improved Magnifico?” Understanding the situation, Williams takes only a second to ponder before giving Mags his answer,“ You want another match with me? Ha! I’d be delighted to entertain your request....after I win the World Title. The Title is the only thing that concerns me right now and now that it’s within my grasps I’m not back tracking for nobody.” This isn’t the answer that Magnfico wanted to hear, hoping to entice Williams, he rolls out the insults, “What’s wrong, steroids shrink your balls! Are you scared I’m gonna finish what I started with you arm? Huh, bitch!” A small shove punctuates the sentence, barely moving Williams but getting his attention. Letting out a growl, Williams sends Magnifico crashing into the canvas with a thunderous shove! Pounding his barrel chest like a primaeval caveman, Williams spits down at the cowering Magnifico with a demonic growl, “Get up! Get up!” Not responding Magnfico slithers into a nearby corner like snake, eyeing Williams with an usual but chilling combination of fear and hate. Unimpressed, Williams throws out his hands in disgust! “You want a match with me, you come to me like a man and show some respect. Your head isn’t on straight it’s ass backwards. A punk like you isn’t worth my time, I’m out of here.” With that, Williams drops out of the ropes and heads towards the entrance ramp. Embarrassed and enraged, Magnifico slides out of the ring. Grabbing a nearby chair, Magnifico runs up behind Williams with a blood curdling battle cry! The fans try to warn Danny but’s too late! Clank! The steel connects with the back of skull, dropping him to the floor in a daze! Now that he has a crutch to lean on, Magnifico rolls Williams over and tears into him with a series of hateful punches! In total defense mode, Williams shells up, struggling to block the punches. Frustrated with the accuracy of his punches, Magnifico snatches Danny by the hair and relentlessly pounds the back of his skull into the steel entrance ramp! The sound Williams’ bone slamming against the hard steel echoes through out the arena, revolting the fans who can only verbally vent their disapproval! “Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” Numerous officials rush to the scene as Magnifico continues to pound Williams’ skull with gruesome determination! It takes about four of them but they eventually restrain the mad luchadore, pulling him away from the scene. Blind with anger, Magnifico tries to get back to Williams but a wall of security personal and officials prevent him from inflicting further damage upon the helpless fan favorite. With his face contorted with malicious thoughts, Magnifico storms back to the locker room, he may be discouraged for now but it’s evident that he’s not through with Williams by a long shot. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 Backstage, Devon Walters has found a seat against the wall in one of the many hallways of the Garden, his back against the brickwork as he stares up at a television screen, replays of Ground Zero going past. As he watches images from the House Rules Match, his brother Matthew walks up to him and sits down next to him, handing over a small cup of coffee. Devon nods and takes a quick sip before passing it back to his brother. Matthew points at the screen. “Look at that, bro. Spinebuster on an official, destroying one man’s knee and another man’s back in such horrible fashion…for what? For that belt?” The image of Marcus Ward holding up the Hardcore Gamer’s Championship is shown before he kicks down the ladder holding the body of Nick Blum. “Pathetic. He wins the match, and still takes the time to add that little insult to injury. He could have paralyzed him…” Devon’s eyes widen slightly and he looks to his brother. “…yeah, I would know, right?” Devon’s eyes turn to small slits and he rocks his head back as more images continue, shots from the World Championship match are shown. “We have a new world champion, and he’s even worse than Mr. Ward. Look at that face, Devon. Look at him laughing as the body of another man lies on the floor. It could have been a mistake, it could have been planned, but either way that almost ended a career and all he can do is smile knowing he is one small step closer to that world championship…and he got it. He had to jam his feet down into a broken and battered man, but he got it. You’ve seen him these past few weeks. Greed and gold lust trigger his emotions. He doesn’t care about the fans and I doubt he cares about anything really…except himself. There is a certain honor people share in that ring, that win or lose we are there to entertain the fans and respect each other…but when the entertainment is overshadowed by violence and the complete lack of respect we saw from so many people at Ground Zero…well, there is where all the problems begin.” The images on the television fade out on all of the winners at Ground Zero, finishing with Johnny Dangerous holding the World Championship high above his head with his middle finger out in the face of every fan that has every cheered and chanted his name. Matthew sighs. “Blood for gold. Destruction for gold. Total lack of respect…for gold. They must not understand that what goes around comes around, and everything they do to be able to call themselves a champion will eventually come right to them and lead to their own downfall. You want to hit someone with a chair? You want to throw someone through a table? You want to attack a man after all is said and done and kick them when they are down? Greed does horrible things to people, and it makes me sick. Every place we go it is all we are faced with and I am tired of it!” Matthew’s hand is shaking as he sets the cup down onto the tile floor next to him. “These people in the SWF need to learn that no matter what the rules are, in the ring or out of the ring, that there are consequences for every action, and whether they like it or not…karma is coming to their doorstep, one way or another. Right, bro?” Devon’s head tilts back down and the camera catches his eyes, seemingly in a meditative state as he turns toward his brother and nods softly. Matthew can only smile to himself as the scene fades to darkness. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 Backstage, the one and the only (thankfully) Benjamin Hardy is backstage, standing with microphone in hand and presumably waiting for someone to interview. That someone, just happens to be Landon Maddix. Boos go up in the arena from those watching on the big screen, as Maddix limps into camera shot, standing beside Hardy. Still, he's clearly in pain from the brutal Casino Brawl at Ground Zero. A large bandaid is pressed across most of his forehead, covering the gruesome wound he picked up in the course of the match. Another other war wounds are covered by the long sleeved, Real Madrid shirt he's wearing...but he cannot mask the limp in his walk and the limpness of his right arm. "At Ground Zero, we saw truly gruelling battles on both sides of the pond...but perhaps none more so than the Casino Brawl, between Landon Maddix and Todd Cortez. Landon Maddix joins me now. And, Landon, it's clear that you're still feeling the effects of that match." Wiping some hair from his eyes, Maddix turns to Hardy, deadly serious. "Gruelling? Gruelling isn't the word, Ben. Look at me. I'm a mess. Do you realise the damage that Todd Cortez did to me, at Ground Zero? Do you have any earthly idea? Let me fill you in. Seventeen stitches in my forehead. Five stiches across my right bicep. Countless shards of glass pulled from my chest and arms, not under general anesthetic I should add. I can hardly walk, my back is killing me. My hair has been pulled and tugged so much that it's lost all it's shape and volume. To be honest, right now, I'm a wreck. A physical wreck. I haven't bled so heavily since Aecas decided it'd be a laugh to mash a handful of thumbtacks into my face back in the SJL. Yes, Todd Cortez destroyed me at Ground Zero." Head hung towards the floor, Maddix suddenly flicks his head back up, revealing a wide smile on his ravaged face. "But he didn't beat me. Even after breaking wooden stools across my back, slamming me on lobby floors, throwing me through glass doors...even after all he did to me, he STILL couldn't beat me! Without a shadow of a doubt, I proved at Ground Zero that Todd Cortez is NO match for me! I took his very best. I took his very worst. Over the course of that 'match', I took it all and still, when it was all said and done and the du... -- heh -- ...bubbles, had cleared...it was Landon Maddix, standing tall! The blood loss. The bad back. The injured arm. I overcame it all and I beat Todd Cortez, in the match HE requested, the match HE wanted! Me." "Well, you were victorious at Ground Zero." admits Hardy. "But, I suspect this issue isn't over..." "You suspect wrong then, Benny boy. See, I've proved all that I have to prove when it comes to facing 'The Urban Legend'. Even when losing pints of blood and suffering the equivalent pain of a double hernia, I'm still better than Todd Cortez. The entire point of facing Todd Cortez was to beat him and to begin the process of getting Megan back, where she belongs, by my side. I don't know if she's realised her mistakes fully yet...but now, she knows, that as long as she's with Todd Cortez, she'll never get back the glory days she had with me. The days where we would wine and dine and the most expensive of retaurants, lounge in the most exclusive of hotels, party in the most glamourous of locations, holiday in the most picturesque of resorts. The days, with me. As long as she's with Todd Cortez, the best she'll get is a Domino's Pizza and a fumble in the back of his Chevrolet. Now...notice, she's not back by my side yet. I've noticed that, don't worry. But the seeds of doubt have been planted in her pretty little mind. And now, she knows, deep down, that if she wants the grandest of lifestyles back then she needs me to provide her with it!" Smiling, Maddix flicks his hair back again. "Ground Zero was merely step 1. What I wanna talk about now, is Step 2. Namely, winning back the World Heavyweight Championship." "Owned now by Johnny Dangerous." reminds Hardy. "Johnny Dangerous, 2 time World Heavyweight Champion. Heh. The mind boggles, Benny boy...the mind truly boggles. Johnny Dangerous is holding the World Heavyweight Title again. The SWF is a laughing stock, again. I hoped that I'd finally gotten rid of Johnny Dangerous from my radar, but apparantly, I haven't. Because, now it's up to ME to save this company from going down the crapper." "You?" "Me." "Forgive my ignorance...but why you?" "Why me?" chuckles Maddix. "Didn't you see, Ben? Last time Johnny Dangerous was the World Heavyweight Champion, his reign was cut mercifully short by Toxxic. But now, Toxxic's gone. He's left. He's travelled back to Sherwood Forest to steal from the straight and give to the gay. And, with Toxxic gone, the future stars need to step up...and Ben, I AM the Future. So now, it's down to me to cut Johnny's second reign mercifully short. The way it should be. The way it's needed to be, ever since From The Fire. That's how long I've been waiting Ben. I've been waiting, unnoticed, unnappreciated, uncared about...and I've had enough." "You sound pretty bitter." "You're god-damn right I'm fucking bitter." growls Maddix, taking full advantage of Storm's relaxed policy on swearing. "When I won the World Heavyweight Title last Christmas, it was supposed to be the dawning of a new era. It was meant to be the beginning of the 'Landon Maddix Era'. 2005 was meant to be MY year!! But, something happened. I lost my respect. No matter how much I did, how much I won, I got crapped on day after day after day in this company. 2005, Clusterfuck Champion! That's ME! But, since From The Fire, I haven't had so much as a SNIFF of the World Heavyweight Title and that's bullshit! I EARNED every shot at the World Title I was given. I had to win a 9 man elimination tournament to get my first shot at Toxxic. I had to beat 18 men to get the second. Now, I'm not even getting the chance to earn my shot. And, why?" Maddix sneers. "Todd..Cortez. Martial Law held me back from what mattered. But, that's not a problem now. Todd Cortez is dealt with. Now, Johnny's going to need a challenger at Genesis. And from where I'm standing, there's only one choice. Toxxic has gone. Ejiro lost, he goes to the back of the queue. Pretzler...lost at GZ, back of the queue. ELM? Beat him. Danny Williams...not even good enough to get on the last Pay Per View. Wildchild shouldn't get shit until the committee sort out the Tag Title situation. Besides that, I beat him. You're looking at the rightful number one contender. And you're looking at the next World Heavyweight Champ..." Suddenly, Maddix stops, looking slightly confused as a figure walks into shot. A female figure. A female figure, storming right towards him. Maddix smiles as he figures out that it's Megan Skye storming towards him, opening his mouth ready to greet her... *SLAP!* "YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!" ...he needn't bother though, as Megan slaps the taste right out of his mouth, knocking him back against the wall behind. "YOU BASTARD!!" screams Megan, Hardy trying to restrain her as she tries to get at the shocked Next Generation. "YOU COULD HAVE BLINDED HIM, YOU SICK BASTARD!! I STUCK UP FOR YOU!! I DEFENDED YOU!! YOU BASTARD, YOU CAN ROT IN HELL!! I'LL NEVER MANAGE YOU AGAIN, NEVER!!" "Come on Megan." pleased Hardy, trying to hold the raging female back. "Come on, leave it." "YOU ARE SICK!!" "Megan, calm down!" "And you can forget about the World Title at Genesis!!" Megan screams, calming down slightly as she glares a hole through Maddix. "Because you'll be busy, getting your scrawny little ass kicked by Todd!! He's spoken to Joseph Peters and he's got it confirmed! It'll be Todd Cortez versus Landon Maddix, one on one at Genesis!! And guess what, Landon...I'm gonna be in Todd's corner, where I belong, to watch him tear you limb from FUCKING limb!!" Megan storms off, satisfied with the stunned silence coming from Landon Maddix. Turning a pale shade of white, eyes bugged wide open, Maddix looks down despairingly...muttering a curse under his breath, before promptly storming off in the opposite direction to his former manageress. Hardy just watches on, shrugging and motioning to cut as Maddix's stomping footsteps grow slowly softer and into the distance. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 A man in a tacky wool suit sits on a table backstage, rocking his legs back and forth. His name is Ben Hardy, and he has nothing to do. Nobody he’s scheduled to interview, and he’s apparently chosen to lay in wait in the one hallway in all of Madison Square Garden that nobody ever goes down. He lets a breath out, looks up at the ceiling, and begins knocking his feet together. Because, as we all know, interviewers find this wildly entertaining. Knock Knock Knock Knock Knockstep Knockstep Knockstep Ben Hardy stops. Footsteps? Step Step Step Yes! Yes, there is! Hardy shoves himself off the table, dusts himself off, readies his microphone, and looks at the corner as... ...a hooded figure comes around, light reflecting off the red and white leather of his ring attire as he strides towards Smarkdown...NUMBA ONE ANNOUNCA! Ben rolls his eyes. Great. The guy that doesn’t talk. Oh well, it’s worth a shot. “Excuse me...Mr. Johnson?” Johnson pauses, and looks up, giving Hardy a look some would deem a lethal weapon. The interviewer swallows involuntarily, but his nervousness is revealed to be unfounded as Johnson sighs, throws his hood back, and stares. Eventually, he turns to the table in the hall, grabs the bottle of water standing there, twists the top off, and takes a swig. “What?” The voice is gravelly, sounds like it took some serious effort, and belongs to Johnson. It takes a moment for Hardy to realize that third thing, and another moment to realize that he was talking to him, despite the fact that there are no others in the hall. A third moment is taken to think up a question, as he hadn’t expected JJ Johnson to be speaking to him. He hadn’t expected Johnson to be speaking to anybody. “Umm...weren’t you supposed to face Spike Jenkins last Sunday?”? Johnson’s initial reaction leads Ben to believe that he picked a bad question, but then his face softens. Another swig of water. “Yes. Unfotunately, Spike came down with some sort of illness, and the match was postponed until this coming Lockdown.” Hardy thinks for a moment, then realizes he doesn’t have another question. He’s already gotten Johnson to speak twice, which is more than anyone has gotten him to say since November 2004. The injury. “So...is there anything you’d like to say? Anything that’s been bugging you? ...shout-outs to relatives, perhaps?” A look of disgust comes over Johnson’s face at the term “shout-outs”, but he shakes it off quickly. He then pauses for a moment, thinking about what he wants to say, as if he doesn’t have words to waste. Finally... “Yes. One. A while back, my former teammate Scott Pretzler cut a promo, likely intended to rile up Wildchild. However, at the end of that promo, he also deemed Toxxic ‘washed up’. But then, he decided that I was ‘content to stay in the middle somewhere.’” Johnson pauses here, takes another drink from his bottle of water, and continues. “Well, he’s right. I am content to stay somewhere in the middle. However, in retrospect, perhaps he shouldn’t have made a statement that incited someone as, if you’ll pardon my self-promotion, dangerous as I am, to come after YOUR part of the middle.” Johnson stops, and Hardy considers this before speaking next. “So...are you challenging Pretzler?” At this, a bemused grin slowly winds it’s way onto Johnson’s face. “You’re not nearly as dumb as you look. Although...” And Johnson looks Hardy up and down, at the wool suit in particular. “...my heartfelt condolences go out to anyone as dumb as you look. Yes, I am challenging Pretzler. Largely because of the fact that he swore to ‘restore credibility to the division’. And since winning it, in the 39 days since winning it, he’s defended it once. And he’s had plenty of Best of’s in the last three months, hasn’t he? Best of three, best of five. Every best of but a DVD. Although, with his affinity for himself, that can’t be far behind. And they’ve all ended in some sort of odd stipulation. But one stipulation they didn’t have was to defend the belt. His belt. Well, Scott...” Johnson turns to look at the camera. “...I want my own best of. Best of one. Straight singles. For the Cruiserweight title. On Smarkdown. Let me know, Scott. I’ll be waiting.” And Johnson walks away, leaving Ben to stare for a moment. Then he sighs, and goes back to his table. Time to play the waiting game some more. FADE OUT Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 "Where the FUCK!is Marcus Ward!!!" Nick "the Hitlist" Blum is fuming in Penn Station, pacing around near the turnstile entrance to MSG upstairs. The announcers are in place, the referee is in place...but apparently there is no champion in the building. "Welcome back to Storm, fans around the world. We're all the way down here in Penn Station below MSG, the site of tonights Hardcore Title Match...but apparently Marcus Ward has decided not to show up for his scheduled title defense." Longdogger Pete explains. "Well why SHOULD he Petey! He succesfully defeated TWO opponents in a match where he couldn't even know the rules of going into it! That type of effort deserves a day off, but 5 days after his championship victory he's expected to defend his belt?...in a SUBWAY STATION!" cried King "You mean he wasn't SUPPOSED to know the rules. There were some fishy things going on at Ground Zero, and Ward has some things to answer for to Blum...and the curiously absent Zyon" retorts LP "Get the fuck out here Ward!" shouts The Hitlist, "You may have had the upper hand on sunday at Ground Zero, but I saw the tape! You had that match rigged in your favor, and used it to almost snap my spine!" Blum gestures to his taped and bandaged rib/back area from the agonizing human ladder rack he was forced to submit to at Ground Zero. "Well tonight the rules can't be manipulated, and I'm going to break your face with a Hitplant to the pavement!" Blum can be heard as he screams his ultimatum to the busy station, most passengers cutting a wide angle around NB, leaving a big open circle for his diatribe. Blum continues to swear and pace the station, slamming his fist into tile walls on several occasions. The Hitlist then begins arguing with the referee, clearly demanding some sort of decision/answer from senior official Eddy Long. "Well King, the fans are gonna be awful disappointed without this title defense tonight" King smirks, "Who knows Petey, but I know for one, Nick Blum is lucky Marcus decided not to show up, as he might not be as lucy next time he crosses paths with the Hardcore Champ!" Nick Blum continues to argue with the referee, at one point shouting rather loudly "What do you mean I don't get the title if he doesn't show up!" With all of his attention caught up in his bickering, Blum gets laid out with a vicious briefcase shot to the lower back by a passing businessman? Longdogger starts screaming, "Get security over here, some fan/businessman just laid out The Hitlist with his Briefcase, the guy with the sunglasses....wait, he just took his shades off...It's MARCUS WARD!" King cackles, "Blum isn't gonna like the way this one will probably end!" The Hardcore Champion flips his sunglasses to the ground and stares around the station cooly. Still in a snazzy double-breasted grey suit, though without a tie, he taps forefinger to temple in his now well-known taunt. Ward opens the briefcase he blasted Blum with and reveals the Hardcore Title, handing it to the referee. "Lets get this over with." His hard-edged voice echoing throughout the station as Marcus Ward begins delivering shiny-black kenneth cole dress shoe shots to the ladder-rack injured back of a helpless Nick Blum. MW drags the groaning challenger through a throng of metro-riders towards the lavatories. Pete wonders aloud, "My goodness, Marcus Ward is taking Nick Blum into the bathroom...holy shit he just took him into the LADIE'S RESTROOM?!? Can our camera follow them in there, is this even legal?" Apparently so, because the cameras show Ward shoving Blum into the distaff restroom, to the sound of several screaming women running for their lives and privacy. One in particular opens her stall to the site of The Hitlist coming right at her (having been pushed towards the occupied toilet by a crafty Marcus Ward) and screeches, reacting the only ways she knows how. WHAM! HISSSSSSSSSSSS!!! King chuckles, "Oh boy, Blum got kicked in the Plums! Then she sprayed him with mace for good measure. I bet Ward planted her, because he's always in control!!!" The Hitlist screams as he starts to rub his stinging eyes, blinded by the self-defense spray on the lady's keychain. Nick starts spinning in circles, his hands trying to find the walls or something to get his bearings. MW laughs out loud and launches a knee directly into the battered ribs of the defenseless opponent. Longdogger Pete laments, "This Marcus Ward, he's taking advantage of a blind and injured Nick Blum here. Why doesn't he just finish this man off already, it's flippin ridiculous!" Ward quickly slides behind the gasping, reeling Nick Blum and locks his arms behind his head in a full nelson. MW uses his leverage with the full nelson to push NB inside the vacated women's toilet. "Oh no King, he's gonna do what I think he's gonna do. This isn't wrestling, it's humiliation!" King snarls, "That's what you get when you call a man out, you get embarrassed!" Marcus Ward cackles as he buries The Hitlist's head in the toilet bowl, a loud clank echoing as he smashes BLum's forehead right off the ceramic. Nick starts writheing and wriggling in Marcus's full nelson, struggling to breath. Official Eddy Long comes over and warns Ward to let him go, counting to five before trying to separate the two forcibly, obviously attempting to just protect the life of Nick Blum. Marcus shakes his head and keeps the full nelson locked on, all his weight bearing down on Blum. The referee does the only thging he can think of and flushes the toilet, giving Nick Blum an "official" swirly...and time to breath. "This is terrible folks, what can Blum do, he's having himself suffocated in a toilet bowl in the lady's restroom at Penn Station. The ref is even raising his hand for the knockout submission!" comments LP The referee lifts Nick BLum's hand up for the knockout count after the flush, lifting it straight up and then letting go, watching it fall limp to his side. ONE! The water fills back up the toilet bowl even as the official lifts Blum's hand for the second count. Even with the water back up around his face, Blum doesn't move and his arm drops again, dead weight to all onlookers. TWO! Longdogger Pete moans in horror, "Did Marcus Ward KILL Nick Blum to retain his title?!?!" King laughs, "That sure would be hardcore!!!" The referee quickly lifts Nick Blum's hand for the third count, pausing just a moment at the apex before releasing, quickly readying to announce MArcus Ward the victor of this match...when Blum's hand pauses at the bottom of it's descent, wobbly but not without some sort of life! Ward snarls and starts applying pressure on the full nelson, trying to drown this rat for good. Nick flails his arms, searching for an escape, his lungs burning from the pissy water and lack of oxygen. His fingertips find the chrome handle and latch on in desperation, the self-swirly giving him just enough oxygen to realize where he is and lash out with the only move he can think of. WHAM! "Owwww, now that was a truly dirty move by that rotten Nick Blum!" King swears. Marcus Ward immediately lets go of his full-nelson and slumps to the ground, on the receiving end of a ball-busting desperation mule kick by the wet-headed Hitlist, who is also slumped to the ground gasping for some air after almost losing his match in a toilet-bowl. Longdogger Pete comments, "This match is truly the low end of The SWF. Our two competitors are now recovering from crotch shots and swirlies on the floor of a stall in the women's restroom!" Blum catches about half his breath before realizing he better take advantage of the prone ball-clutching Ward before he gets overpowered by the man again. Nick climbs up on the toilet tank and looks down at MW wondering how someone an inch shorter consistently manhandles him like a ragdoll. Nick shakes his head then leaps, performing an asai moonsault off the toilet tank right on to Marcus Ward!!! "Goodness King, I don't believe I've seen a moonsault off the toilet in quite awhile, if ever!" King grumbles, "That's ridiculous Pete, and Ward will make a comeback, this is all a part of his plan. He IS in TOTAL CONTROL!" Marcus Ward seems a bit out of control as he's dragged up by Nick Blum, and out of the stall into the main part of the women's lavatory. Blum lets Ward stand in the middle, bent over and wheezing as he climbs up onto the furthest sink in the bathroom from Marcus. "What is Nick Blum doing now, he's standing on top of the washbasin, what kind of wrestling move is performed from there!!?" Pete shouts! Blum lines up ward, who's still bent over in agony, and starts skipping from sink to sink. He quickly picks up speed as he reaches the end of the line of basins in the penn station ladys bathroom till he's almost running from one to the next then leaps off at Ward, grabbing his neck and twisting him into a leaping spinning neckbreaker onto the tile floor! The fans watching from the arena on the Smarktron start shouting so hard as if to rock MSG to it's foundation "HARDCORE! HARDCORE! HARDCORE!" Nick "The Hitlist" Blum kips up after the neckbreaker and poses for the cameras doing an arrogant little strut, knowing the whole wrestling world is cheering his name. He rolls Ward onto his back and casually presses his chest over MW's for the sure-victory cover as the referee pounds the counts on the tile. ONE! TWO! THRREEEEEEEEE... Eddy Long's hand is mere centimeters from a Nick Blum Hardcore Championship when Ward instinctively lifts his shoulder off the floor, which only serves to entice NB to push it back down for a second count. ONE! TWO! Up AGAIN! Ward gets his shoulder up after only two counts this time, causing Blum to swear furiously as he drags the champion to his feet and back over to the line of sinks. Longdogger Pete muses, "What can The Hitlist do to seal this victory away, he's already produced an amazing sink-running neckbreaker that didn't count out the champion, where will he go next!" King snarks back, "Home, probably. He can't hang with Marcus Ward." Nick Blum looks into one of the mirrors hanging on the wall above the sink of the public restroom and smiles to himself. NB grabs MW's head by the hair and rears it back... "Holy shit, he just smashed Marcus Ward's face right into the mirror!" Shards of glass spray the bathroom scene as Ward's face starts flowing with blood from the mirror-smash cuts. Blum shakes his head and goes to the next mirror down the line and repeats the process...as he starts counting the whole row of mirrors TWO! SMASH! THREE! SMASH! FOUR! SMASH! FIVE! SMASH! SIX! SMASH! SEVEN! SMASH! EIGHT! SMASH! NINE! SMASH! Nick Blum gets to the tenth window and pauses, Marcus Ward's face a bloody mess of cuts and gouges! Blum smiles and starts the fossett on the final sink on hot water, letting it run for a few moments and fill up the basin before dunking Ward's openly cut face into the scalding water. Pete shouts, "Blum is getting his revenge here, Ward won't be able to survive this punishment, and he may not ever want to wrestle again after the scarring!" The Hitlist tugs the sopping-wet head of Marcus Ward out of the water and rears it back again, giving him a good look at his sliced-open reflection before thrusting that face forward into the tenth mirror... TEN! SMAS...CLUNK?! Ward tilts his head as he's being thrown to the glass, and manages to give BLum a sickening thud of a headbutt propelled by his own arm, laying both of them out on the bathroom floor once again. LP cries, "Which one of these furious competitors will recover first from that head-conk and take the advantage in this match. The next person up could easily take that edge to the finish!" King shouts, "Come on Ward, YOU'RE IN CONTROL!" Several seconds pass before Marcus Ward begins to stir and climb to his feet, grabbing onto the hand-dryer above him for leverage. He pulls himself up and is leaning over face-to-face with said dryer when he reaches his finger to his temple and starts tapping it as he stands straight up, his finger covered in blood that's flowing over his face. King screams "That's it Ward, you're in control now!" LP comments, "What does he have planned, the sadistic bastard!" Ward suddenly starts bashing the hand-dryer off the wall with his forearm, taking only a few strikes to send it flying and skidding across the floor. MW pulls The Hitlist up to his feet by the hair and smiles before pressing his finger into the little actuator that starts up the hand-dryer from the inside. LP quries confusedly, "What the hell is he gonna do, dry his fancy clothing?" Blum's hair is clenched by Marcus Ward and he is pushes straight at the dryer, the heating element inside a red-hot beacon for Blum's face to be pressed into! King cackles, "You can't lose if he's on fire!" LP screams, "That's just sick King, this is no way to win a wrestling match, HARDCORE or NOT!!!!" Marcus Ward gets Nick Blum within an inch of scalding the skin of his face off before the heat or survival instinct allows him to come to life, Blum's hand getting leverage on the wall, and his off arm close to Ward sinking a abdomen-elbow to Ward, causing the release of Blum's hair. "Fortunately Nick Blum has made it out of that predictament with his life intact again," LP mentions in obvious relief. A Hip toss onto the tile floor from Nick Blum asserts his renewed control of this match. NB then quickly picks Ward up and drags him out of the bathroom, clearly relieved to be back into the open. Bystanders look oddly at the two bruised and battered men emerging from the women's restroom, but don't seem too surprised considering the location. LP comments, "At least we'll have no more bathroom shenanigans in this match, though who knows where these two will takes the action to next!" THWACK! Biting chops to the chest send Marcus Ward reeling backwards. Blum shakes his head and rips Ward's dress shirt open before he continues his knife-edged assault. THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! The WHOOOOOOS! echoing in the upstairs stadium, and even from a few metro-rider fans end at the fourth chop which sends MW to the ground. "Those chops sting Pete, and they leave a scar for days sometimes!" King reminisces LP replies, "But not as much as having a dryer element burning your flesh off would have!" Nick lands several stomps to the face of the prone Marcus Ward, before lifting him up again, this time having a sure destination in mind. The Hitlist grabs Ward by the arm and irish whips him straight at the turnstiles marking blocking off entrance to the subway trains! Marcus runs propelled across the station till he collides knee-first with one of the turnstile appartus. "Maybe they're going for a train ride today!," comments LP The Hitlist pulls Ward to his knees, then drags him underneath one of the turnstile rotating areas. He signals to himself, before attempting to rotate the turnstile to smash onto Ward's skull. Blum frowns as it won't move, then taps his temple in mocking of Ward, before grabbing Ward's wallet out of his back pocket! "What's he gonna do with that?" King questions Blum slides MW's MTA card allowing him to pass through the turnstiles, and begins turning them...right onto Ward's skull. ONE! CRASH TWO! CRASH THREE! CRASH FOUR! CRASH! Marcus Ward slumps to the ground, almost concussed from the brutal turnstile beating he just took! Nick blum goes to the apparatus at the other end of the station and climbs up top, lining Ward up once again. LP remarks, "This is just like the sink thing, only this time Ward is on the ground and The Hitlist is a bit higher up this time..." Blum slaps his elbow and struts a bit...and begins skipping from turnstile station to turnstile station, picking up speed exactly like on the washbasin. As he reaches Marcus Ward at almost a dead run, Ward is rising to his feet groggily, looking up towards the onrushing Hitlist. Blum smiles and leaps in the air with a twist spinning around twice into a three hundred and sixty degree body splash aimed right for Marcus Ward...who catches him in his arms. LP marvels, "How did he catch him and stay on his feet with all that momentum behind Blum...this man is truly powerful!" King snickers, "Just wait for the next part LP!" Ward is rocked by the force of NB's impact but holds his ground, arms clutched tightly around the horizontally elevated Nick Blum. Marcus Ward suddenly roars out loud, "I'm in TOTAL CONTROL!," and lifts blum up and over his head straight into a military press! King shouts, "It's a conspiracy collapse, and that will crash all of Blum's hopes and dreams!" Nick "The Hitlist" Blum struggles high above the subway station flat on his stomach in Ward's hands, trying to escape this situation; but he only plays into Ward's hands who lets go and drops Blum straight down onto his shoulder then slingshots him with the momentum right into a brutal standing spinebuster... "The Turnstile station. He just...Conspiracy COllapsed Nick Blum right onto the turnstile station. His spine could be shattered, disks dislodged. This match has to be over!!!" LP pronounces! Marcus Ward quickly rolls Nick Blum off the turnstile and onto the cement floor of Penn Station, falling on top of him for the pin as Official Eddy Long makes the count. ONE! TWO! THREE! "A bit anti-climatic after that brutal finish, but Marcus Ward has retained his hardcore championship in tremendous fashion..." LP comments King agrees, "Absolutely, this is a force to be reckoned with Longdogger...and one I personally love to watch work." Marcus Ward rises from the fallen opponent and walks all the way back to the place this match began to retrieve his briefcase, places the belt inside. Ward walks off with tattered shirt and freely bleeding face, leaving his opponent Nick Blum to await medical attention. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted August 6, 2005 Todd Cortez can be seen, alone, sitting on a loading dock at the outside of the Garden, staring off into the city-lit sky. He sighs to himself and rubs at his bandages and his eyes, that still burn just as much now as they did days ago. He kicks his feet in the air as, from behind, two giant visages appear from the shadows. ”Mr. Cortez?” Todd turns around, only to find the Walters brothers staring down at him. Devon hops down from the dock and lands on the pavement, leaning up against the concrete next to where Todd has been sitting. Matthew jumps down as well, only to catch himself on the dock a few feet from Cortez. The trio sit there for a moment as Todd looks back and forth between the men. ”Can I help you guys?” “We saw what you did at Ground Zero, Mr. Cortez.” Matthew answers, “And it seems to be that even though your heart was in the right place, you have Mr. Maddix to thank in the end.” “WHAT?!” “If it wasn’t for him, and Mr. Royal before him, you never would have even come into contact with Ms. Skye. You two became friends to help destroy a greater force, and you found something there that you didn’t expect. If you want to call it fate, then so be it, but Mr. Maddix helped you get to where you are right now inside that head and heart of yours. I don’t really know all the details, Mr. Cortez, and I do feel bad for any ill will this fighting has brought to you or to her, but whether you like it or not, this is Ms. Skye’s fault.” “WHAT?!” Cortez repeats, double-taking. “She was the one that came into this with Mr. Royal in the first place. She was the one that stuck around when he became injured. She stayed with Mr. Maddix, and then you came along. Sure, she had no idea that things would turn out the way they did, but…she was here long before you were, Mr. Cortez. You may have held a few titles and battled the best, but long before you were the Urban Legend around here, she was the Toddess. Whether she fell for you or you fell for her first isn’t the issue, it’s the fact that had she not followed Mr. Royal into the spotlight, she would just be another pretty face behind a cash register, or just another secretary. She came into this with expectations of fame with the House of Todd…and she ended up falling for a whole different one. The question you need to ask yourself now, Mr. Cortez…is what are you going to do to make sure that Ms. Skye knows that this Todd….” Matthew points at Cortez, “isn’t going to leave her hanging with someone like Mr. Maddix when he decides it’s his time to ride off into the sunset.” Todd Cortez seems to be in deep concentration, and his eyes move to Devon next to him. The big man smiles and nods his head, the two seem to communicate in the silence. “There is no chance in….” “Good, Mr. Cortez…” Matthew cuts him off, “You need to find the balance between doing things to help her, and doing things to spite Mr. Maddix. Right now, I know you have feelings for Ms. Skye, and I hope in the end you do what’s right for her, instead of what is wrong for Mr. Maddix. Find that balance, and he’ll get what is coming to him. That is karma…plain and simple…whether you like it or not.” With those words, Matthew hops down onto the pavement and walks off screen. Devon simply nods and follows his older brother, leaving Cortez there, stunned in silence. ===== SWF Storm, August 5th, 2005 © Riot Act Productions. All rights reserved. The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation: "Raising Workrate by Typing Faster." Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
