SWF Smarkdown, 8-15-05!

[Chuck Woolery 0]

*BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!*

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Pete: “Welcome to a sold-out Wachovia Center in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania! Over 18,000 fans are on hand tonight to witness another tremendous edition of Smarkdown! I’m Longdogger Pete…”

 

King: “And I’m the reason you tune in, the Suicide King!”

 

Pete: “And tonight, we have that huge main event where El Luchadore Magnifico takes on Todd Cortez!”

 

King: “And don’t forget that potentially classic Cruiserweight Championship match coming up later tonight with Scott Pretzler defending against his former Revolution Zero stablemate, JJ Johnson!”

 

Before our broadcast team can continue hyping tonight’s show, Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” comes over the public address system.

 

Funyon: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the SWF International Champion … ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’ … JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWWWWKE!”

 

Jay Hawke emerges from the curtain, wearing a beige three-piece suit as he walks to the ring, carrying the International Championship belt over his left shoulder. The crowd begins its familiar chant:

 

 

“JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!”

 

 

Jay Hawke ignores the chant until he walks by one fan who is flipping him the bird. Hawke stops and glares at him, then begins to throw a backhand. The fan ducks, but Hawke stops short, pointing and laughing at the fan for being so damn gullible. Jay Hawke then finishes the walk to the ring as he continues to be showered with jeers.

 

King: “Bah! Can’t these fans just accept that Jay Hawke is just that much better than absolutely everybody else? They‘re just jealous of all the success he’s had lately!”

 

Pete: “I don’t think they’re upset about Hawke’s success as much as they are about how he achieves victory.”

 

King: “What’s wrong with how he achieves victory? He wins, doesn’t he?”

 

Pete: “Well, I just hope he tells us what he’s been doing the past two weeks. He has come out and taken notes during a couple of different matches over the last two weeks, and I hope to hear an explanation.”

 

Just as Pete has finished telling us exactly what his wishes were, Jay Hawke grabs the microphone off of Funyon. As the veteran ring announcer leaves the ring, Jay Hawke brings the microphone up to his lips, only for the crowd to once again pick up its chant:

 

 

“JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!”

 

 

The crowd finally dies down just that extra little bit, and Jay Hawke begins to speak.

 

Hawke: “Well, I would love to say how much I enjoy being in the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia!”

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Hawke: “But I can assure you that I’d be lying out my ass!”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Hawke: “Hey, it’s not my fault you all live here!”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Hawke: “But I got into town yesterday and decided to see the sights, and I went and saw that statue of Rocky Balboa you have out here. You people do realize that Rocky’s a fictional character, right? What a role model! But then it occurred to me. You have to have a statue of Rocky Balboa since that’s the last World Champion this city is ever going to have!”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Hawke: “But I will say one thing about the citizens of Philadelphia. These are some of the most determined people I have ever seen!”

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Hawke: “Why, I was driving down state route 611 from Willow Grove earlier today, and I saw a guy stealing a hubcap. And when I came back an hour later, the guy was trying to take another hubcap off of the same car! I mean, stealing a car piece by piece? That’s determination!”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Pete: “Is he going to do anything but insult the fine people of Philadelphia?”

 

King: “I hope so. This is the most entertaining opening promo in months.”

 

Hawke: “So you should all consider it an honor that somebody like me would even grace you with his presence. Take a look at this belt on my shoulder. Fifteen pounds of gold. This title is worth more than all the money in each of your wallets put together! And not just literally, but figuratively as well. And why? Because of me, that’s why!”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

King: “Why must these people boo the truth?”

 

Hawke: “Hey, it’s not my fault your heroes can’t hang on to this championship! It’s not my fault that I beat Arch Griffon so badly that he took a sabbatical and hasn’t been back since!”

 

Pete: “That’s not what happened!”

 

King: “Shut up. This is getting good!”

 

Hawke: “Hey, this title has been in existence just four and a half months, and yours truly has held it over three months already with only the bogus loss to Griffon blemishing my reign. This title was a hot potato until I got my hands on it! But now? Well… I might just hang onto this until I win the World Heavyweight Championship, because there’s nobody that can take it off of me. There’s nobody in the back who can take it, there’s nobody in the crowd who can take it, there’s nobody in any of the local bingo hall feds that can take it … nobody!”

 

As soon as Jay Hawke gets that last “nobody” in, the arena goes black as the words “I’m Born”, “I’m Alive”, and “I Breathe” alternate on the Smarktron. “Vitamin” by Incubus kicks in as Zyon walks on to the ramp looking over the arena at the fans who are looking at him.

 

King: “Hey! Who dares interrupt the greatest opening promo in the history of opening promos?”

 

Pete: “That’s Zyon coming to the ring, and he was wrestling Marcus Ward last week on Lockdown when Jay Hawke came out to scout! Maybe he’ll ask for the answer to the question of why Hawke was out there!”

 

As the song picks up Zyon runs down to the ring and leaps on to the ropes. He grabs the top rope and with a little hop pulls himself over the ropes performing a flip to “pop” the crowd a little.

 

King: “I know why he’s here! He’s going to ask Hawke for an autograph. How nice of him to do so in public like this!”

 

You stare at me like I'm a vitamin.

On the surface you hate,

but you know you need me.

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

Whatever helps you swallow truth all the more easily.

 

Zyon then performs a minor head bang and raises his arms in the air showing a little intensity. The song fades out as Jay Hawke glares at him. Zyon then asks for a microphone, which he is promptly given by a ringside technician.

 

Hawke: “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Zarquon.”

 

Zyon: “Zyon.”

 

Hawke: “That’s right. Zyon. My bad. You’ll forgive me. I’m good with faces but terrible with names. So Zoltron…

 

Zyon: “Zyon.”

 

Hawke: “Zyon, sorry. What can I do for you tonight? Sign some autographs? Take some pictures? Maybe you’d like a tour of my training facility in Cleveland, huh?”

 

Zyon: “Not exactly. See, I heard you out here talking about how nobody in that locker room can beat you for that International Title belt you’re wearing around your waist. That’s a pretty bold statement to make with the guys we have in that locker room, isn’t it?”

 

Hawke: “I’ve said nothing tonight that’s not true, and you know that.”

 

Zyon: “Really? You’d have to pardon me cause I try to tune out bullshit. I mean dude your good, but every time you open your mouth its like static. Do you know I can name numerous superstars that could stand toe to toe with you?

 

Hawke: “Really, Zirconium? Name one!”

 

The challenge seems to stump Zyon for a brief moment. He starts to open his mouth, then stops, putting his finger on his chin before giving his answer:

 

“Oh I don’t know how about…ME!”

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Zyon: “That’s right. The people want to see it. Me and you at Genesis for that piece of gold draped across your shoulder.”

 

Jay Hawke looks at Zyon in shock as the crowd begins to break into a chant:

 

 

“ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!”

 

 

Hawke: “Oh, really? You want to challenge me for this title at the biggest event of the year? Wait a second, it’s coming to me! Jay Hawke vs. Zyon! International Title! Genesis! Think of the buyrates! Why, there’s only one thing I can say to that!”

 

 

…

 

 

NO!”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Pete: “No? Did he say ‘no’?

 

King: “He didn’t stutter, Pete!”

 

Hawke: “See, I’ve had it with defending against people who simply aren’t worthy of my time. I mean, as if four matches with Arch Griffon wasn’t bad enough. As if wrestling a wannabe robot wasn’t even worse. Now you want a shot too? Listen pal, I saw your match on Lockdown. And quite frankly…yeah, you picked up a win. Congratulations. You beat a guy who was bagging groceries a month ago. But let’s be honest. How old are you?”

 

Zyon: “Twenty-one.”

 

Hawke: “Exactly. See, I’ve been in this business for nine years, pal. When you were in sixth grade drilling holes in the locker room on the off-chance you could see what a naked breast looked like, I was in the Northeast winning championships. When you were trying to figure out why you were getting an erection every time Baby Spice came on TV, I was working pay-per-view shows in 50,000 seat stadiums. You’ve been out of wrestling school for three months, lucked into a hardcore title reign, and now you think you’re ready to take on the big boys?”

 

Zyon: “Jay I’m sure I didn’t stutter.”

 

Hawke: “Look, since I do see a little bit of potential in the greenhorn body of yours, let me give you some advice. You’re not ready yet. Sure, you’ve got some wins under your belt. You’ve even been the Hardcore Gamer’s Champion. But you’re still green. You’re still what these so-called smart marks in Philadelphia call a ’spot monkey’. Hey, you’re quick. You’ve got a lot of flashy moves. And hey, that style might get you into upper midcard status one day. But face it. I’m main event material. I’ve got more technical skill in my little finger than you have in your entire body. You’ve got a long way to go until you’re in my league. So no, you’re not getting the shot.”

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!”

 

 

Hawke: “Genesis is designed for bigtime wrestlers in bigtime matchups, and you’re not bigtime.”

 

Zyon: “Your kidding me? Man I came out here wanting to confront the man who defended his International title with pride. I came out here to meet the man who would make you tap out and then tell your mother about it in the morning. Hell I came out here to challenge the technical masterpiece Jay Hawke. But instead I find a man afraid of a challenge.”

 

Hawke: “CHALLENGE? What challenge?”

 

Zyon: “You do remember when we were in a three way dance on Storm a while back, don’t you?”

 

Hawke: “Yes, I do, and as I recall, you gave up. You quit.”

 

Zyon: “Sure did. It simply wasn’t my night, but then again I don’t remember you having your arm raised.”

 

 

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

Zyon: “Hawke you can watch the tapes and brag about your so called achievements, but at the end of the day you have not faced me man to man. Dude, you want a shot at the big time yet you won’t even take the time to face a green rookie who can only perform spots. I get it now. You’re not above me. You, Jay Hawke, are a coward. But in this one solitary moment you can change my opinion. You can change their opinion. All you have to do is to accept the match. Zyon vs. Jay Hawke for the International Title at Genesis."

 

Jay Hawke begins to brings the microphone to his lips, but he gets interrupted by the chant of the crowd:

 

 

“ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!”

 

 

Jay Hawke looks at the crowd as they chant, and the faintest outline of a smile begins to form over his lip.

 

Hawke: “You know something? There’s one thing I did write down in my notes that I kept thinking about. It was ‘too young to be afraid’. And you’ve shown me here tonight that you’re one persistent son of a bitch. So you want a shot at this championship coming up at Genesis?”

 

Zyon: “You bet your life I do.”

 

Hawke: “You’re on!”

 

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

 

Hawke: “May the best man win.”

 

Jay Hawke extends his right arm for a handshake.

 

Pete: “How about that, King? We have another match signed for Genesis!”

 

King: “I can’t believe Hawke caved in like that!”

 

Zyon extends his arm to return the handshake, but Jay Hawke pulls him forward and nearly decapitates him with a short-arm left-handed lariat.

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Pete: “What is that?”

 

King: “He’s showing exactly why Zyon isn’t ready for a shot! He fell for the oldest trick in the book!”

 

Before Zyon can even figure out what happened, Jay Hawke immediately rolls Zyon onto his stomach and locks in a crossface chickenwing, scissoring the right arm for added leverage.

 

Pete: “Wing Span! Somebody get out here and stop this!”

 

King: “Why? This is entertaining!”

 

Zyon begins tapping out to the hold, all the while screaming in agony.

 

King: “See that? He’s a quitter! Just like Hawke said!”

 

Pete: “Jay Hawke just can’t handle the fact that somebody had the nerve to challenge him!”

 

Jay Hawke releases the hold, then grabs the microphone. Jay Hawke leans in toward his opponent, saying only one thing:

 

“You’ve got it all wrong, Zyon. When you asked me for this title shot, you were the one betting your life!”

 

Jay Hawke tosses the microphone to the mat and begins to leave the ring as “Learning to Fly” once again comes over the loudspeaker.

 

Pete: “The International Champion has stepped over the line here, King. All Zyon wanted was a chance to prove himself, and he gets a cheap shot and a Wing Span for his troubles.”

 

King: “And what does this do for Zyon’s chances later tonight? He’s got a match with Spike Jenkins coming up later tonight, and he might not even make it back to the ring!”

 

Pete: “Well…we’ll just have to find out later on. But when we return, we’ll see the debut of The Crimson Skull. That’s next on Smarkdown!”

[Chuck Woolery 0]

*Click.*

 

"Welcome to Survivor, where we pit..."

 

*Click.*

 

 

 

 

"Up next, we have a match between the South's dignitary to the SWF, Martin Hunt, and our only resident super villain, The Crimson Skull." Longdogger Pete welcomes back everyone that didn't switch to Survivor during the commercial break. "Or at least I think he's supposed to be a super villain."

 

"He didn't seem too super to me, Pete. From the impression I got, he didn't seem too familiar with the idea of hand soap either." King grimaces, "the way I look at it, we have a match between a whino and a man on something much stronger if he envisions himself to be anything more than your average Joe. I can say whino on the air, can't I?"

 

"I think so. This isn't Lockdown, after all."

 

"Whino!"

 

"Now that we've got that out of our system..." Pete tries to stay on task, "anyway you look at it tonight, bid'ness is about to pick up!"

 

 

*Bang!*

 

 

An eruption of sparks launches from the front of the entrance stage. The smoke from the pyro floats out over the crowd causing people with asthma in the Wachovia Center to reach for the sweet relief found within their inhalers. Out from the back runs six women wearing matching gold shorts and tank tops. Their outfits glitter in the light of the arena.

 

"How embarrassing for us to start before the opening pyro," Pete says, shyly.

 

Everybody dance now!!!

 

The girls begin to shake and gyrate in ways pubescent teens could only previously dream were possible as "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)" by C & C Music Factory blares out over the arena p.a. system. Two of the girls begin to grind on each other, but The Crimson Skull emerges from the back flanked by his skinny, awkward looking evil assistant Heff. The dance squad heads back to the back while our duo makes their way down to the ring.

 

"I think it's safe to say that wasn't the opening pyro, Pete," King corrects his partner. "And it looks like the dancing girls have been sent to the back, and replaced by two men. Damn, I was starting to get an er"

 

"It's safe to say that this is not a popular move with the crowd on hand. Just listen to them boo these two."

 

 

"Boooooo!"

"Go back to Canada!"

 

 

"Not a very smart crowd on hand," King notes.

 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the following match is scheduled for one fall." Funyon booms out over the audience, "Introducing first, weighing in at two hundred and eighty-five pounds... from parts unknown, now residing in Kiev, Ukraine... he is... The Crimson Skull!"

 

The Crimson Skull climbs the rings steps and enters into the ring through the ropes. His cape flows behind him with every move he makes. He stands near a corner turnbuckle and strikes an epic pose while waiting on Martin Hunt. Heff stands on the outside, awaiting Skull's beckon call.

 

"Is he going to wrestle in a cape?" ponders Pete.

 

"He'd look silly without it, don't you think?"

 

"A Countryboy Can Survive" by Hank Williams Jr. filters into the arena as Martin "Big Country" Hunt stumbles out from the back of the arena with a bottle of Southern Comfort in hand. Martin almost falls on his face as he turns the corner to make his way down the ring, but he gets a decent reaction from the crowd due to his drunken antics. He's careful not to spill his drink as he walks down the ramp.

 

"An his opponent, weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds... from Boone, North Carolina... he is Martin 'Big Country' Hunt!" Funyon makes his announcement and quickly exits the ring as Martin enters, leaving only referee Sexton Hardcastle with the two competitors. He draws both men in close to him, and begins to lay out the rules for the match.

 

"I want a good clean fight, no eye pokes, closed fist punches..."

 

"Why'd you make the dancin' girls go away? I was about to tap me some of that!" Martin slurs.

 

"I assure you that you would have no chance with any of the Dance Squad. They hold themselves to much higher standards than your standard frat boy."

 

"I'll show you what this southern boy can do!"

 

*Pffffft!*

 

"Hunt just blew some of his Southern Comfort right into the eyes of The Crimson Skull, catching him completely off guard!" Pete announces.

 

"I guess he's going to have some red eyes to match now, too. Ha!" King says, annoyingly.

 

 

*Ding ding ding.*

 

 

Martin starts out the match in control, dropping his bottle and sending The Crimson Skull's head spinning with a clubbing blow to the side of his head. Skull stumbles backwards and tries to wipe the liquor out of his eyes while Referee Sexton Hardcastle scoops up the bottle and moves it to the corner of the ring. He doesn't have any time to recover though, as Hunt keeps the pressure on him with repeated blows to his head and back and sends him reeling into the corner. Hunt wraps his hands around the massive neck of The Crimson Skull and begins to choke him. Referee Hardcastle has to step in to break up the hold and remind Martin of what exactly is allowed. Hunt doesn't seem to care though, he just yells at his opponent.

 

"I've drank liquor stronger than you!"

 

"You have no idea who you're dealing with."

 

Skull rubs his eyes again and shoves himself back up to his feet, only to be greeted with a scissor kick that knocks the big man down! Hunt goes down as well, apparently not taking into account just how much coordination it takes to land such a maneuver. Martin rolls over onto Skull to try and make a quick cover, but they're too close to the ropes and Referee Hardcastle is forced to break the cover. Martin grabs The Crimson Skull by his hair and pulls him back to his feet before locking on a headlock and sending a couple of punches to his opponent's face. Skull tries to fight his way out of the hold, but he only succeeds in knocking Martin's legs out from under him and getting bulldogged down to the canvas.

 

"Not a very smart move there by The Crimson Skull, practically hitting the bulldog on himself," Pete notes.

 

"I don't think he's ever been trained to be a wrestler, Petey. After all, he's a super villain." King says, mockingly.

 

Hunt staggers back to his feet, and then sends a quick kick to the side of Skull's head, then drops down for a cover. Hardcastle slides in to make the count, but The Crimson Skull powers his way out and launches Hunt a couple feet into the air and off of him! Both men climb back to their feet, Skull staggers a little though a gives Martin Hunt the chance to send a couple more clubbing blows to the side of his head, keeping him unbalanced. Hunt tries to clothesline his opponent over the top rope, but he just doesn't seem to be big enough to do it. Hunt backs up some, and tries again to clothesline Skull out of the ring... failing again.

 

"If there's one thing Hunt is, it's persistent. Persistent, and drunk." Pete chuckles.

 

"That's two things, Pete."

 

With Skull against the ropes, Martin lines up next to him and bounces himself off the ropes towards the other side of the ring.

 

*Boing.*

 

He bounces off of the ropes and heads back towards The Crimson Skull with a...

 

*Boing.*

 

... another bounce off the ropes? A look of joy is on Martin's face as he heads back across the ring and...

 

*Boing.*

 

... bounces off the ropes once again. He comes running across the ring right into The Crimson Skull!

 

 

 

BAM~!

Thud...

 

Who spikes him down to the canvas with a thunderous spinebuster! The Crimson Skull's chest pumps in and out, nostrils flaring, heart pounding! He looks fired up for the first time in the match! For the first time, he has control.

 

"My God! It looks like Hunt has just been in a car crash!"

 

"Don't worry, Pete, I hear that alcohol helps to loosen the body up in a crash. Hunt will be fine."

 

Martin crawls his way over to the ropes and pulls himself back up to his feet. Groggy, head spinning, aching pains... just like waking up any morning after a big night out for Big Country! He tries to gather his senses back about him, but before he has a chance The Crimson Skull comes charging in and...

 

WAM~!

 

... nails him with a spear that carries both himself and Martin Hunt out of the ring between the middle ropes and to the floor outside of the ring! The fans show their appreciation for the action.

 

"Ho-lee shit!"

"Ho-lee shit!"

"Ho-lee shit!"

 

"Lets go Hunt!"

 

Referee Sexton Hardcastle is quickly on the scene, and almost instantly starts his ten count.

 

"One!"

 

The Crimson Skull climbs to his feet and pulls Martin to a sitting up position while he's at it. Skull cracks his knuckles, then reels back his right hand and sending it crashing into Martin's forehead! One, two, three, four!

 

"Two!"

 

Five, six, seven quick punches! Skull pulls Martin up to his feet, and quickly whips him over into the crowd barrier! Skull follows him over and clotheslines him over the barrier and into the crowd! The sea of humanity is quickly split as security guards run in to protect the stars.

 

"Three!"

 

Skull begins to climb over the barrier, but as he does he's met with a quick drop kick that sends him stumbling backwards! As Martin comes climbing back over the wall, Skull grabs him by the neck and flings him through the air into the ring steps!

 

"Four!"

 

"I told you! You have no idea what I am capable of! I'm The Crimson Skull!!!"

 

Martin looks around for help, and then turns his head back to the ring where he sees his trusty old bottle of Southern Comfort! As Skull closes in, Martin takes a random swing and connects! Skull's head jerks to the side as the bottle shatters! Referee Sexton Hardcastle has no choice but to call for the bell!

 

*Ding ding ding!*

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, your winner by disqualification... The Crimson Skull!" Funyon's voice booms out once again.

 

"Martin Hunt takes the easiest way out and gets himself disqualified," King sneers, "what a pussy!"

 

"He was like a caged animal, and had to fight his way out somehow!" Pete defends the Pi Kappa Phi member.

 

"No excuse... but it doesn't look like The Crimson Skull is done!"

 

Not done, indeed. Skull turns his head back towards Martin with an evil sneer, a slight bit of blood dripping down the side of his face and past his mask. In one smooth movement, Skull grabs Hunt and hoists him up behind his head in a gorilla press before launching him over the ropes and back into the ring. The Crimson Skull soars (or jumps) onto the ring apron before climbing back into the ring. Heff follows him in soon after. Hunt tries to steer clear of the super villain and his assistant... but he's quickly leveled with a thunderous clothesline. Skull points to the top rope, as Heff steps in and stands on the shoulders of Big Country. Skull slowly ascends the ropes...

 

"What are they doing here? Can't somebody stop this?" Pete squeals.

 

Skull lines himself up with Hunt...

 

"This is barbaric! A massacre, even!"

 

... before launching himself off the top rope! All two hundred and eighty-five pounds come crashing down on Martin Hunt! Oh my, the horror! Heff and The Crimson Skull climb up to their feet as Martin Hunt gasps for air, still lying on the mat. The fans at ringside rain down jeers as the duo raise their arms in celebration.

 

"My God, the carnage! Can anybody stop these two?"

 

 

 

 

 

To Be... Continued...

[Chuck Woolery 0]

Ghost enters the arena, then Nick.

 

Running clothesline from Nick. Nick hits a bulldog off the ropes. 1 - 2 - kick out. Ghost Machine powers out of a Nick headlock. Nick gets slammed. Second rope flying axe handle, Nick goes down. 1 - 2 - kick out. Brutal suplex on Nick. 1 - 2 - almost a 3. Rude Awakening on Nick by Ghost. Nick reverses a waistlock. Nick DDTs Ghost. 1 - 2 - kick out. Nick turns Ghost inside-out with a clothesline. 1 - 2 - almost a 3. Ghost gets squashed in the corner with an arm to the face. Lame kick from Nick. Ghost Machine, like so many teenage boys, uses a right hand. Except in this case, it's for a punch. Legsweep. There's probably a Japanese name for that....like Golden Dragon Nuclear Spike....that'll do, i'll call it that from now on. Weird neckbreaker thing out of the corner from Ghost Machine...that was so brutal it should be outlawed. Nick can barely stand. Here it comes - Piledriver. 1....2...3, it's finished. Nick goes nuts, screaming and yelling at everyone within earshot.

 

“Wow,” comments King. “What a match! And we have more coming up after these messages!”

[Chuck Woolery 0]

The camera pans to the SWF backstage area, which is full of boxes, crates, buckets, and just about anything that can sustain weight. Even though the show is live there are many crew members working hard to keep things moving smoothly. They seem to be doing a good job since half of them is sitting around playing cards and drinking coffee. Laughter echoes from the LIVE audience as they notice that the cameraman must not be doing his job either to get such a terrible shot of the crew doing absolutely nothing…

 

This folks is what it takes to run a multi million dollar show.

 

But lets forget about the faceless crew for a little bit. Cause the camera actually begins to shoot where it needs to be…right on a trainer. The trainer is one of the few backstage doing their job as he examines a former hardcore champ. The former champ in question…non other than the Unique Youth, Zyon! The youth received an old school beatdown courtesy the technical genius, Jay Hawke.

 

“Well I’d say you will be ok to compete tonight. Who is your opponent again?”

 

Zyon answers the question off handily, “That Spike Jenkins guy…”

 

Suddenly the unbiased medical trainer grins from ear to ear before sneaking something into Zyon’s hand.

 

“Really? Tonight if you get the chance throw this in that punk’s face. Hell if you’d like throw it right in front of the referee I’m sure he won’t even notice.”

 

Zyon still green to the professional world takes the ball of powder before realizing that the “referee wouldn’t notice” translates into the “referee won’t care.” The mysterious trainer walks off leaving Zyon to think about tonight WHEN SUDDENLY a shadow walks passed the camera…did we just see another backstage screw up!!

 

No.

 

Zyon non-chalantly tosses the foreign object in the nearest trashcan before walking up to the figure…

 

”Hey, aren’t you that Spike Jenkins guy??”

 

Zyon questions getting an answer in the form of a stare. The youth grinning from ear to ear extends his hands like any good babyface would…

 

“I’m Zyon, how’s it going.”

 

Instead of a happy go lucky greeting “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins continues to stare leaving the youth to retract his hand before scratching his head nervously…

 

“Ok then…well…”

 

“What do you want!”

 

Suddenly the controversial Jenkins speaks with the tone of an angry…straight edger.

 

“Oh nothing I guess…just kina saying hi.”

 

Zyon quickly notices that he picked a horrible time to try a meet and greet. Before he can try and lighten the mood the straight edge lone wolf speaks again…

 

“Do you even know who I am?”

 

Jenkins says…

 

“Your that straight edge guy. Yeah you fought with your best friend over a girl. I must say it was quite the battle and I…”

 

“WHAT! I’m SPIKE JENKINS, not fucking Landon Maddix or Todd Cortez.”

 

Spike yells leaving Zyon in a stupor…

 

“Oh…yeah. I got it. You’re that weirdo that walks around here talking about karma and consequences. Yeah that has to be it. You kinda look like you would be into that stuff so you know…”

 

Wrong again…

 

“NO! Those are two people for crying out loud. Here I’ll let you in on something the whole fed knows. I’m “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins…”

 

Before Spike can continue the crowd erupts…

 

YEAAHHHH!!!

 

Continuing, “And I have been deemed a black sheep by Tom Flesher. According to CC I deserve anything negative that gets thrown my way. You see those bastards sitting over there drinking their coffee. They could care less rather I come to work tomorrow. Hell they care less rather I get up tomorrow. All because of the label Tom Flesher placed on me.”

 

Spike explains to the youth about the gigantic ego of CC and the poor cards he’s been dealt with. And Zyon finally understands…

 

“Oh ok…so who is Tom Flesher??”

 

No way. Spike’s eyes bulge out as he looks to be ready to kill his opponent before their official match…

 

“Dude lighten up I was just kidding. He’s that guy that walks around here like he has a stick up his ass.”

 

Spike can’t help, but smile at that description of his hated rival. Zyon notices the time and turns around, but not before trailing off with…

 

“Well it was nice meeting you. Good luck tonight.”

 

And with that the youth is out of sight leaving Spike to remain on his island alone, but some light shines through the dark moment…

 

“Hmph…good luck to you too I guess.”

 

And with that the lone wolf walks off as SWF goes to commercial.

[Chuck Woolery 0]

“Ladies and Gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL…and is a NON-TITLE MATCH!” Funyon welcomes the viewing audience back to Smarkdown as Devon and Matthew Walters make their way to the ring, one lone spotlight shining down on them just as it did on Lockdown.

 

“Welcome back, everybody!” Longdogger Pete chimes in, just as Funyon continues his announcement.

 

”Introducing first, coming to the ring at this time…being accompanied by Matthew Walters, he weighs in at three hundred and thirty five pounds… DEEEEVON WALTERS!!” The crowd around the arena sends a couple of cheers out for one of the newest superstars of the SWF, but the two men barely acknowledge it.

 

“This is going to be a car wreck, as the recently crowned Hardcore Champion faces off against the man you are seeing on your screen right now.”

 

”Just keep that guy away from me, alright?” King mutters, causing a small guffaw from his broadcast partner.

 

“Scared, King?”

 

“Not on your life, Petey. I just don’t need either of them two coming over here and acting all high and mighty in my presence. What a waste of space!” King continues to ramble as Matthew moves around the side of the ring and Devon turns in the aisle, still a good ten feet from the ring as he stares coldly up at the entranceway.

 

“Devon Walters has stopped and is looking directly at that curtain!”

 

“What the hell is the matter with him! Last week he won’t hit a guy until he hits him, now he isn’t even getting in the ring? This is more confusing than a Paul Thomas Anderson flick!” As King throws his hands up in confusion, the lights in the arena return to normal and the slow thumping of “Between the Wheels” brings Marcus Ward through the curtain, his rather steady strut thrown off guard by the presence at the bottom of the ramp.

 

“I don’t think the Hardcore Champion was ready for this, King.”

 

”Bah! He’s ready for everything! He’s in total control, remember?”

 

Ward is not completely thrown off though, as he continues at his normal pace until he is standing almost on top of the giant roadblock in front of him.

 

“And introducing his opponent…he hails from Bavaria and is the CURRENT S-W-F HARDCORE GAMER’S CHAMPION OF THE WOOOOORLD…weighing in at two hundred and forty nine pounds… MAAAARCUS WAAAAAARD!!!!!”

 

“Boooooooooooo!!”

 

“These fans are really showing the champion what they think of him, but I doubt his mind is on that at all right now!” Pete remarks as the champion looks up into the eyes of Devon Walters, whose cold unbroken stare has turned to that of thin slits, his brow furrowing and his lip curling ever so slightly. Ward pulls the championship belt from his waist and holds it up.

 

“I’M IN TOTAL CON---“

 

WHAAAM!

 

“DID YOU SEE THAT!! Devon Walters just CLOCKED the Hardcore Champion with that big right hand!” Pete yells as Marcus Ward’s ego is suddenly whiplashed, sending the champion reeling and his belt falling to the floor. Devon pauses as referee Mathew Kivell yells from the ring, turning to face the authority before turning back around to the recovering Ward, putting his large foot down square on the hardcore championship before stepping over and looking to attack once more!

 

“He stepped on the belt! That’s destruction of property! Do you know who’s held that thing!” The Suicide King screams into his headset and flails wildly, Pete just sits there, calm.

 

“Of course I do, King.” He smiles and brushes his knuckles against his chest as Devon winds up with another hard shot, this one again connecting to the side of Marcus Ward’s skull.

 

“Another vicious shot there, and I don’t believe what I am seeing! Only a few days ago, Devon Walters stood across the ring from Martin Hunt, barely moving for the opening moments of the contest…and now look at him! This match hasn’t even officially begun!”

 

Kivell rolls to the outside just as Devon grabs Marcus by the head, dragging him toward the ring by the hair.

 

“In the ring, now!” Kivell yells, trying as hard as he can to look threatening to the over three hundred pounder standing over him. Devon pauses, giving the referee a solemn look, and also giving Marcus Ward enough time to push his arms forward, shoving Devon abdomen first into the apron!

 

“Yeah! That’s what he deserves for attacking like that! Do it again!”

 

Ward shakes off the cobwebs and moves in, aiming a kick at the back of Devon Walter’s knee. The big man stumbles and rolls into the ring, followed by Ward who stops to stare at Matthew Walters for a moment, putting his finger on his temple and smiling brightly. Matthew shakes his head and mouths something inaudible toward Ward, who apparently heard every word of it as his demeanor quickly changes and another kick sails into the right knee of the recovering giant just as Kivell calls for the opening bell…

 

 

*DING DING DING*

 

 

“One little mistake like that…like stopping to look at that ant of a referee Matty Kivell, and look at what happens!” King exclaims as Devon steadies himself on the ropes as Ward rushes in again, looking for another stiff kick…

 

 

SMACK!!

 

OOOOOOOOH!

 

The crowd cringes as the right foot of the champ again catches its target, sending Devon into the corner and momentarily out of harm’s way. Ward is not done yet however, as he takes his time moving to the center of the ring, raising his hands in victory before turning and bursting forth like a cannon toward the corner, leaping into the air and aiming to drive his knee right into the chest of…

 

 

GRUUUUUUUUHHH….

 

 

“DEVON WALTERS DODGES THE BIG KNEE!” Pete yells as Marcus Ward’s right knee catches nothing but the top turnbuckle, sending the hardcore champion straight to his back on the canvas. On the outside, Matthew looks up toward his brother, speaking with him as Devon rubs his knee for a moment, nodding his head as he turns back around.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

“I think Matthew was worried about his brother’s knee, but everything seems to be oooo-“ Pete pauses as Devon drops to the canvas, his closed fist driving straight into the skull of Marcus Ward!

 

“Watch the fist!” Kivell screams above the noise in the arena as Devon stands to his feet, once again eying the ref and shaking his head in disgust. With a grunt, Walters pulls Ward to his feet and clutches at his wrist, pulling with all his might and sending him across the ring, his back jarring against the opposite turnbuckle. Ward stumbles forward as Devon moves in with a vengeance…

 

 

WHIIIIFFF!!!

 

 

“BIG KICK MISSED!” Pete calls out as the sole of Devon’s left boot sails over the head of Ward just as the hardcore champion slides down, sending his shoulder violently into the right knee of Walters, causing him to groan as he collapses to the canvas.

 

“The big man is down!! Get him!” King yells out toward the ring as Devon once more clutches at his knee, rolling toward the corner as Marcus Ward stands to his feet, rubbing his forehead and staring a hole through the giant before grabbing at the hurting leg of Walters.

 

With a hard tug, Devon Walters finds himself in the center of the ring, Marcus Ward throwing limbs around in all directions, trying to lock on a kneebar on the big man!

 

“It’s the Bavarian Bone Breaker!!” King cheers as Ward nearly locks it on, only for Devon to get his left foot in the air, catching Marcus in the chest and sending him flying backwards towards the ropes.

 

”He was barely able to escape there, and he isn’t out of harms way yet!” cries the Doggah as Devon rolls to his stomach and gets to his hands and knees, only for Ward to flip over top of him and latch onto his body, rolling him straight into a La Majistral Cradle pin!

 

”COVER!”

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

Th-NOOOO!!

 

 

 

 

”Devon Walters was nearly defeated early on with that quick pin attempt by Ward!” Pete continues as Devon rolls backwards to his knees and fires off the mat just as the Hardcore Champion gets to his feet…

 

 

WHAAAAM!!

 

 

“NO!”

 

”Big lariat out of nowhere!! Unbelievable!”

 

Ward is caught dead in the chest by the massive arm of Walters, causing him to nearly flip out of his boots. With a hard smack, he lands on his shoulders and falls loosely to his back, the surprise almost taking more out of him than the attack itself.

 

“You’re damn right unbelievable! Marcus Ward was in total control and now he is laying on his back trying to suck the air back into his body!” King huffs to himself as Ward begins to pull himself up, only to find Devon standing over him, rubbing at his knee and pushing the hair out of his eyes to get a good look at his opponent beneath him.

 

“That has to be creepy for the champ right there…” Pete remarks as Devon’s eyes get closer and closer to those of Marcus Ward…

 

 

…poke.

 

 

“HA!” King points and laughs as Devon’s head fires backwards and his hands go to his eyes, leaving Marcus Ward to roll to his feet and turn to the crowd, putting his finger up to his temple once more and…

 

 

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWL!!

 

 

“Uh oh.”

 

“What?!”

 

Marcus’s moment is stopped dead as his arms are quickly pulled behind his body, the massive strength of Devon Walter’s holding him in place as the hardcore champion kicks his legs wildly, doing anything he can to escape…

 

…but there’s a call to be made…

 

 

 

 

THUUUUUUUUD!!

 

“THE CALL OF KALI!! Marcus Ward has gone hells over head from that huge dragon suplex from Walters!!” Pete yells out, as Ward’s body is sent flipping through the air, putting him flat on his face as Devon stands back up, rubbing his eye once more as the crowd in the arena begins to cheer loudly.

 

“KAR-MA! KAR-MA! KAR-MA!”

 

”These fans heard the words spoken by Matthew Walters a few days ago, and now it seems like they want to see a little bit of karma dished out on one Marcus Ward!”

 

“Car-Max? What?” the Suicide King tries to play stupid as Devon turns his attention to the sold-out Wachovia Center crowd, amazed at the amount of cheers he is receiving. With a wave of his hand he calms them, shaking his head to tell them to quiet down. On the outside, Matthew Walters can be heard yelling to various ringside fans that what they are doing is not necessary; drawing a few boos from those in the lower rows.

 

“It was said days ago that Marcus Ward was going to pay for what he did at the Pay Per View, and now we just might be seeing it unfold before our very eyes!”

 

“What right does he have coming out here and attacking someone before the bell like he did! This is ridiculous!”

 

“Devon Walters seemed quite upset over the actions of Marcus Ward, King. Remember when he kicked that ladder over? Nearly broke Nick Blum in half!”

 

“Yeah! Of course I remember! That was GREAT!” King laughs as Devon pulls Marcus Ward up and moves him to the middle of the ring, grunting and lifting him high into a military press, the pain shooting through his right knee before he drops all two hundred and fifty pounds of the champion down eight feet toward the mat, only for Ward to be stopped short by the left knee of Walters catching him square in the gut!

 

“The Moksha Breaker Number Two, driving all of the air right out of Marcus Ward once more!” Pete calls as Ward clutches at his stomach and Walters goes for the cover…

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

KICKOUT!!

 

“Marcus Ward kicks out there, and you can tell by the look on his face that he is really needing to take a breather!” Pete continues to call the action as the hardcore champion rolls to the outside, leaving Devon on his knees in the ring, staring out at him.

 

“Good! Take a break! He won’t come after you out the…” King begins, only for Devon to hit his back and follow his opponent to the outside, landing on his feet and continuing to stalk Ward around the corner of the ring.

 

“What the hell is this! Last week that creep sat in the ring and took a nap, but now he’s hot on the trail on the outside!”

 

…1…

 

Kivell begins his count as Pete interjects, “Well I assume Devon Walters doesn’t want to give Marcus Ward the same kind of leeway that he gave to Martin Hunt….”

 

”Why the hell not!”

 

…2…

 

“Martin Hunt didn’t try to end anyone’s careers lately…” Pete points out as Ward stops to rest, still clutching his chest as Devon finally catches up to him, spinning the Hardcore Champion around and throwing an elbow straight into Marcus’ temple.

 

…3…

 

”That could have crushed his skull! Ref! Stop this!” but the King’s words go unheard as Walters pulls Ward from the apron and whips him straight into the steel barricade stomach first! Ward hits hard, his body flipping straight into the seats! “NO! Now he’s in with the common folk!”

 

Kivell climbs to the outside, yelling for Devon to step away, but the big man simply reaches over the railing, pulling Ward up and back over, slamming him down to the padding on the floor.

 

”Come on! In the ring!” Kivell screams again, and Devon turns back, smiling, and heads toward the ring, rolling in and up to his feet as Kivell stays on the outside, checking over the body of Marcus Ward, who appears to be moving slowly toward the steps.

 

“KAR-MA! KAR-MA! KAR-MA!”

 

The fans chant comes again, leaving Devon and Matthew both scratching their heads as they turn in circles, looking in all directions.

 

“I don’t think either of the two brothers was looking for this kind of response from the Philly crowd!” LDP exclaims as Devon tries to wave them quiet, only for the cheer to grow louder as Ward gets up the ring steps. Kivell follows, calling for Devon to stay back as Ward climbs through the ropes, steadying himself on the turnbuckle.

 

“Whomever though Mathew Kivell would make a good bodyguard?” King groans sarcastically as Devon waits, albeit a little impatiently, as Ward finally takes a few steps away from the corner and holds up his hands, one in a fist, the other resting against his chest. Devon smiles and steps around Kivell, then takes off toward Marcus Ward like a shot…

 

 

OOOOOOPPPHHHMMMM…

 

 

SMACK!

 

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

 

 

“I’m In Total…(GASP)…CONTROL!”

 

“I don’t believe what I just saw, King! Devon Walters made a beeline for Marcus Ward, only for the Hardcore Champ to move out of the way, dropping the big man face-first into the bottom turnbuckle with a toehold! While his body is still hurting, it seems his acting is quite impressive!” Pete calls as Marcus continues to hold at his chest as his left finger goes to his temple, the smile growing on his face through the grimace of pain as Matthew Walters looks on from the outside, scowling. Marcus laughs in the face of the older Walters as he tries to drag Devon into the middle of the ring, but Devon holds on to the bottom rope, his large hands holding fast as Marcus tries to muscle him free.

 

“What the hell is this? Tug of war?” the Suicide King ponders as Devon’s body is stretched and Marcus finally gives up, dropping Devon down to the mat and falling backwards onto his backside, breathing heavily.

 

“He didn’t have the strength in him to get him off the ropes, and now Devon Walters is BACK UP!” LDP points as Devon pulls himself up in the corner, still slightly hobbling as he turns around to face Ward, who is also nearing his feet. With as much speed as he can muster, Devon fires across the ring…

 

 

WHIIIIFFFFF!!!

 

 

 

GAAAAH!!

 

Devon Walters lets out a groan of pain as his big kick misses, giving Ward the perfect opportunity to throw his shoulder straight into the hurting right leg of the big man! Devon hits the canvas like a lump and rolls toward the ropes, his brother coming around the ring to his aide.

 

“Yo! Step Off!” Ward yells towards Matthew, only to get a few unkind words in return. Kivell pulls Ward back, offering his own warning to the older Walters brother. Matthew says a few words to Devon and backs away, holding his hands up in innocence, trying to plead a case as he makes an exit. Kivell follows Matthew with his eyes, allowing Marcus Ward to attack the downed giant, sending hard kicks to the back of Devon’s right knee!

 

Hurting, Devon tries to block out the pain and pull himself out of the ring. Before he can manage, Ward pulls the big man’s right leg up, entwining it around the ropes and locking it into place, pulling the top rope under the middle rope, lodging the big man upside down and toward the outside of the ring!

 

“He’s trapped! Devon Walters is trapped!” Pete calls out as Matthew Walters bursts around the side of the ring once more, hoping up on the apron and pointing toward Marcus Ward as Kivell holds him back, warning of the disqualification consequences as Matthew tries his best to remove his brother, finally succeeding as the ropes spring back to normal and Devon falls toward the outside.

 

“KAR-MA! KAR-MA! KAR-MA!”

 

“Had this been Storm, that could have been a career-ender for Devon Walters right there!” Pete continues as Marcus Ward argues the call, then turns to face the chanting fans, his yelling inaudible over the noise from the crowd. On the outside, Matthew continues to be befuddled by the support as he helps Devon to his feet. Kivell also hangs between the ropes before Devon raises his hand, smacking the referee’s outstretched arm away from him and pointing for his brother to move.

 

“That can’t be good…”

 

“Uh Oh. Devon Walters, with not so much as a smile or a frown on his face, still looks to be one upset giant.” Pete responds to the Suicide King as Devon climbs up to the apron and over the top rope just as Marcus Ward turns back around, surprised to find his opponent standing, a bit crooked, a few feet from him.

 

“That can’t be too good either…”

 

“Both these men have shown the other what they are capable of so far, with Devon Walters looking a bit worse for the wear up to this point in the contest. But now it seems they are on equal footing once more.”

 

“Not exactly, I mean, it can’t exactly be equal when that big idiot is sloping somewhat to the right.”

 

“Shut it, King.” Pete responds coldly as the two men stare across the ring at each other, with Devon making the first move, taking a short step toward Ward, who steps forward as well. Again, Devon steps, and Marcus follows suit, and soon they are toe-to-toe, Ward looking up at his opponent. The crowds random popping grows to one long sustained cheer as Devon’s hand shoots from his side and around Ward’s neck, who is caught off guard by the surprise action. Devon holds him there, his eyes burning through the Hardcore Champion, who struggles for a moment before once more kicking Devon in the knee. The shot breaks the choke from his neck and doubles the big man over, only for Ward to bring his own right knee up and to the kisser of Walters, sending him reeling backwards into the ropes…

 

“What a beautiful count---“

 

 

WHAAAAAAAM!!!

 

 

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

 

“Nirvana! Total Nirvana!!!” Pete yells loudly as Devon Walters fires back off the ropes, connecting with a massive clothesline to Marcus Ward, who flips completely inside out, landing flat on his chest in the center of the ring!

 

“I don’t believe that! He nearly took the head off of the Hardcore Champion!” King exclaims, watching as Devon turns around, limping, and pulls Ward to his feet, once more wrapping his hand around the neck of the big man and throwing him forcefully into the corner….

 

“Uh oh, King…we’ve seen this before…”

 

…and even with a bad wheel, Devon follows, leaping into Marcus’ chest with his left knee looking to crush some vital organs before releasing his rage with a fury of palm strikes and elbows, connecting with every part of Marcus Ward’s face that he can as Kivell tries to separate the two, yelling toward Walters to break it up…

 

“One!”

 

“Two!”

 

“Three!”

 

“Four!”

 

Devon backs away, giving the referee room to check on the condition of Ward…who, after a moment, steps out of the corner and heads straight for Walters, only to be caught on the shoulders of the giant!

 

“Here comes the Karma!” Pete calls as Ward is lifted up in the air. Devon holds him there, stunned by the flashbulbs beginning to pop around the arena as the hardcore champion fights for freedom.

 

 

“He can’t move!”

 

 

”His leg went out!” King yells as Devon’s right knee buckles and he slopes back down, freeing Ward from his predicament and putting him back on his feet, where he quickly fires off another hard kick to the hurting knee of the big man. Devon drops to one knee and Ward throws out one more stiff kick, this one to the back of Walters’ head!

 

”And Ward continues to attack with those ferocious kicks!” Pete exclaims as the Hardcore Champion once again screams out over the Philadelphia crowd…

 

“I’M IN TOTAL CONTROL!”

 

With a grunt, Ward rolls the big man to his back and begins to once more try to apply his signature submission!

 

“He’s going for that Bone Breaker once more! He’s almost got it!” Pete continues as Devon fights through the pain, pulling himself on his back toward the ropes…

 

 

…inching closer and flailing his legs wildly…

 

“COME ON!”

 

Ward yells again and gives the knee another kick, causing Devon to react, rolling up into a ball in pain. Marcus laughs and again tries to lock it on, but the big man can sense the danger and again goes for the ropes…

 

 

…and gets them!

 

“Break it up! Break it up!” Kivell screams just as Ward finally gets the kneebar locked in, only to see Devon’s right hand spotwelded to the bottom rope.

 

“SO CLOSE!” King calls as Ward reluctantly breaks the hold, getting to his feet and yelling toward the referee as he tries to pull the hurting Walters up.

 

“Look at Marcus Ward’s face! He is devastated!”

 

 

With Devon on his feet, Marcus goes for a whip across the ring…

 

 

REVERSED!!!!

 

 

 

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHAAAAAAAAAM!!

 

 

“OH MY GAAAAAAAAAAAAWD!!”

 

The arena, and the Longdogger, erupts as Devon Walters counters the whip and drops his shoulders down, catching Marcus Ward in perfect position, pulling him up…over…and BACK DOWN TO THE HARD CANVAS in almost one completely fluid motion!

 

“NOOOOOOO!”

 

“IT’S KARMA! MARCUS WARD JUST GOT A HARD DOSE OF KARMA!” Pete yells out once more as Devon rolls Ward over for the cover…

 

One!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three!!!

 

 

 

*DING DING DING*

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen…the winner of this match by pinfall… DEVON WAAAAALTERS!!” Funyon makes the announcement as Walters stands, leaving Ward on the canvas as Kivell raises the hand of the big man.

 

“Marcus Ward thought he was in total control, only to fall victim to karma from out of nowhere! You have to believe Tom Flesher is paying attention to this guy!”

 

“Doubtful.” King replies as Devon rolls out of the ring and heads up the ramp with his brother, leaving Marcus Ward down in the ring, Kivell draping the Hardcore Championship next to the defeated man’s body as he checks over him.

[Chuck Woolery 0]

A logo appears in the right corner reading "EARLIER IN THE WEEK", as we see Landon Maddix sat alone, in front of a lone camera in SWF Headquarters. With head hanging, Maddix sits motionless for the first few seconds...before finally looking up.

 

"I guess you're all wondering why I didn't show up tonight." Maddix begins solemnly. "After what happened on Lockdown, I'm sure everyone is assuming that I'm...ashamed to show up. That I'm staying away to avoid any embarrasment. Well, that's not true. Fact is, the only reason I'm here and not in the arena is because I actually want to speak tonight. I've been shown disrespect all around the country and all around the world in recent weeks. And, considering that Philidelphia wrestling fans are the most disrespectful wrestling fans in the world..."

 

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

 

"...I realised that I wouldn't be given a chance to explain myself. You people have already made your minds up about me. That's your problem. Not just that you don't understand, but that you don't WANT to understand. It's easier for you to just boo me than try to understand what's going through my mind. It's easier for you to laugh at me and throw your usual insults, your usual snide comments, your usual childish chants...than to actually show some human compassion or, heaven forbid, some respect."

 

Maddix wipes the hair from his eyes.

 

"Last time you saw me, I was in the middle of that Lockdown ring and...I'll admit it, I...got a little emotional."

 

"CRY - BABY!"

"CRY - BABY!"

"CRY - BABY!"

"CRY - BABY!"

 

"Crying in the middle of that ring." continues Maddix, thankfully unable to hear the chant in the arena. "It's not exactly a proud moment in my career. But, am I ashamed? Am I embarrassed? NO! See, I've got nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. Lockdown was a huge, extremely important night in my career. Had I beaten Ejiro Fasaki, there's not a doubt about it, I would have been the rightful Number One Contender to the World Heavyweight Title. There would have been no denying it. And nothing Tom Flesher and Joseph Peters could have done to brush it off. I would have been right in line to get my shot at Johnny Dangerous! A shot that, let's face it, I'd have no problem taking advantage of, because in a big match situation I can't remember a time that Johnny's even been in my league. Beating Johnny...would have been no problem. Ejiro, I will give credit to. Beating him was the big test. Had I got past that, it would have been academic."

 

Stopping, Maddix sighs deeply.

 

"I was one 3 count or one tapout away. One pinfall. One submission. THAT CLOSE...to finally getting back in the hunt. And I got SCREWED!! Royally screwed! I had Ejiro BEAT! He was DONE! But, because of rules designed to cater to the families watching, I 'lost'. Call it a draw, call it a tie, whatever. I call it a loss, because I was seconds from winning and that's not in doubt.

 

Maddix pauses.

 

"You know, it's ironic really. It's rules catering to you people that screwed me over."

 

A smile suddenly creeps across Maddix's face.

 

"Well, not you specifically. I doubt there's a single child in Philidelphia that isn't on crack or on the game, but that's..."

 

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

 

"...besides the point. It's rules drawn up for you people that screwed me over. And like me, the ironic thing is, those rules are WASTED on your people! You don't appreciate them. You don't appreciate the sacrifices people had to make on Lockdown to cater to you fans, because you don't understand...and you don't WANT to understand!! You don't understand the sacrifices I made in that match with Ejiro. Not one of you people understands what's it's like to BE a success, to have it RIPPED away from you and to have to RE-WORK for everything you had! You don't understand what it's like to lose excessive amounts of blood. To have blood oozing out of your forehead, your vision going cloudy. Knowing that any moment, you could suddenly blackout. Or worse! You get a papercut at work, you take a day off. Got a hangover? You take a day off work. You don't understand sacrifice."

 

Getting fired up, Maddix leans closer into the camera.

 

"And most of all...you don't understand...that on Lockdown, I invested my HEART, my BODY and my SOUL on the line into that match with Ejiro, just as I have done on every single night of my career!! I bled. I fought. I went through extreme pain. And after overcoming every obstacle, everything Ejiro could throw at me, I had him beat...and I had it unfairly stolen from me. Not one fan watching this program right now or watching Lockdown understands how that feels. Not one."

 

Leaning back, Maddix wipes the hair from his eyes again.

 

"You people want to laugh...at me? To call me a 'Crybaby'? To tell me that I'm just a spoilt brat...a whiney little kid. Go right ahead. I'd gladly explain why you're wrong...

 

 

 

...but you wouldn't understand."

[Chuck Woolery 0]

“Tonight, Smarkdown has been a fantastic show for a variety of reasons.” Pete says with a knowing smile.

 

Suicide King mutters, “Is it fantastic because of the horrible fact that your are still employed.”

 

Longdogger wishes he could forget Lockdown, “Of course not. Well I mean it’s good to still be employed and all…can we just talk about the show, damn! Anyway so far tonight the Crimson Skull has made his interesting debut and now we have a fantastic match up featuring one of the SWF’s up and coming stars…”

 

“Did I come out of retirement?” King egotistically wonders.

 

“God no. Like I was saying tonight Zyon will face off against the controversial Hollywood Spike Jenkins. I’m quite excited for this one tonight.” Pete sounds genuinely excited.

 

“Oh I agree. I’m overly anxious for this next match, but it’s for a totally different reason. Tonight we will be joined by the man, the myth, the legend…”

 

“The boss…”

 

“Yeah that too. Tom Flesher is going to grace us with his presence tonight…”

 

When I was back in seminary school

There was a person there who put forth the proposition

That you can petition the Lord with prayer.

 

Petition the Lord with prayer?

 

Petition the Lord with prayer?!

 

 

 

 

YOU CANNOT PETITION THE LORD WITH PRAYER!

 

And on cue the crowd leaps to their feet preparing to jeer the hated controller of Smarkdown. To…Mr. Flesher struts passed the black curtain separating backstage and the biggest stage of them all. The commissioner is without pyro tonight since his job is to simply commentate on the match…that is all. I’ll bet the eighteen-story mansion that I don’t have on it. Most of Philadelphia boos the boss, but there are a few Tom Flesher purists who worship the very ground he walks on. Styling in one of his many expensively unreal suits the commissioner walks around the ring and to the announce table, joining Suicide King and Longdogger Pete.

 

“Pete stand up and bow your head. It is great to have you here sir.” King is more like a court jester.

 

“Yes it is good to see you Mr. Flesher.” Pete shows his respect without the bowing.

 

“Thank you. Always good to know that I am welcomed out here…” Flesher nods.

 

BOOO!

 

The crowd erupts as Flesher gets comfortable at the announce table.

 

“So this next match should be great. I mean we have Zyon facing off against the one and thank god only Spike Jenkins.” Flesher repeats the match up.

 

“I’m Born”

 

“I’m Alive”

 

“I Breathe”

 

The not so haunting words appear on the Holy Grail known as the Smarktron followed by new videos of Zyon’s past matches. The crowd switches their tone from jeering Tom Flesher to absolutely going insane to the sound of Incubus’s “Vitamin.”

 

YEAHHHHH!

 

The crowd freaks as Zyon makes his way out from behind the curtain. The youth dressed in his usual baggy shorts and black T-shirt energetically skips down the ramp. On his way down to the ring the Unique Youth gladly smacks a few hands before hopping on to the ring apron and saluting the crowd.

 

“Coming to the ring hailing from Elkhart, Indiana, and weighing in at 200 lbs the Unique Youth…ZYYYON!!!!”

 

Funyon does his thing as the youngster launches himself into the ring by flipping over the top rope and landing on his feet. Zyon shuffles toward the center of the ring before excitedly dropping his head into a rhythm headbang followed by the raising of the arms, which “pops” the crowd even more. The grinning former hardcore champ hops backward into a random corner waiting patiently for his opponent…

 

“Zyon looking as lively as ever. Coming off a big win over hardcore champ Marcus Ward could do that to a man.” Pete points out last week’s victory.

 

“The spot monkey…” King stops realizing that Mr. Flesher is cheering for said spot monkey.

 

“Pete I agree Zyon has racked up some big victories in his time. Yet he continues to use the ugly flippy floppy garbage that a former employee used before he departed.” Flesher has his opinions on Zyon’s style.

 

King though actually backs the youth up, “Stupid style or not a win against Jenkins tonight would be Zyon’s biggest win to date.”

 

Flesher nods in agreement, but before he can respond the whole arena is engulfed by a bright white light. The only sound in the arena is that of a needle scratching over vinyl…

 

“I hate this…” Flesher mutters…

 

And then…

 

 

 

 

 

*BAM*

 

The crashing guitars of Lamb of God’s “Black Label” sends a bolt through the crowd. The drumming sends a jolt throughout the arena as the song begins to come to a head…

 

AHHHHHHHHH!!!

 

The high pitched scream of Randy Blythe breaks through the speakers as the bright white lights flash at the entrance way. The scream shocks the excited crowd who cheer at the sight of the man in a black hoodie. A face covered Spike Jenkins drops to one knee before saluting the crowd the “X” symbolizing the conveyed straight edge life style. Spike rises back to his feet ready to make his way to the squared circle.

 

And Funyon is ready to finish his announcing duties, “His opponent, hailing from Hollywood, California, weighing in at 220 lbs. He is HOLLYWOOOOOD SPIKE JENKKKKINS!!!!!”

 

The crowd erupts at the drawn out Funyon announcement. Spike makes his way completely around the ring and instead of rolling into the ring; he stares into the eyes of his boss and rival Tom Flesher. The Philadelphia crowd could cut the tension with a spoon…yes a spoon. Spike finally turns away from his true enemy and rolls into the ring and directly into a one knee crouching position. Zyon can only looks on bewildered as Spike pops to his feet and pushes his hood back showing his dirty blond hair free. The premiere straight edger once again raises his arms in an “X” promoting his lifestyle to the thousands in attendance. Spike doesn’t take his eyes off the Smarkdown commissioner while he awaits the start of the match.

 

“Jenkins is coming off a victory over the talented JJ Johnson….” Pete wants to continue, but it interrupted by the Suicide Jester.

 

“Yeah he won. But he had to win by using one of the greatest moves ever…the Ego Trip.” King points out.

 

Flesher agrees, “That’s right. I don’t care if Spike is drug free or not cause in my eyes he is nothing more than a cancer.”

 

Back in the ring referee Frank Bowinkle notices the majority of the crowds standing on their feet so he does what is best…

 

Ding, Ding, DING!!!

 

He sounds the bell. The crowd cheers as both men circle the ring waiting for the other to make the wrong action. However, Zyon’s patience has come to an end as the youth quickly charges Hollywood Spike Jenkins. The straight edge crouches down, lowering his body to the mat, which in turn causes Zyon to change his strategy in mid movement. The change has no effect though as Jenkins takes Zyon over with an arm drag. The youngster though immediately pops back to his feet, stunning Spike with a weak forearm. Zyon though makes up for the weak shot by adding more and more of them until leaping into the air with a clothesline…that misses! Spike attempts to recover, but Zyon has landed on his feet and grappled his opponent in a reverse waist lock. The younger cruiser attempts a suplex of some kind from behind, but the former cruiserweight champion places his foot behind Zyon’s blocking the attempt out right. The straight edger comes back with a standing switch and then forcing Zyon into the air with a back drop. The former hardcore champ flips backwards and lands on his feet crisply before rolling Spike up with a school boy…

 

ONE…quick kickout.

 

“Wow…that was great. Nice work by both men on that exchange.” Pete openly applauds.

 

Even King has to agree, “Yeah it wasn’t bad. Everything is looking good so far. Both men have been limited to counters and strikes.”

 

“Boys are we watching the same match. Sure it was fun, but Spike was anything but crisp in that situation. He was sloppy and got caught off guard by a simple roll up. Hmph, he should know better.” The always critical Tom Flesher speaks.

 

“Hollywood” makes it back to his feet only to be hounded by Zyon who follows up with a flurry of forearms. The youth then attempts an Irish Whip, but his straight edge opponent shows of HIS athleticism by cart wheeling out of the whip. Zyon caught off guard stumbles forward into a snapmare. Jenkins disallows Zyon to reach his feet by latching on to a brutal chin lock where Spike grinds his opponent’s face between his arms and wrists. Zyon though mostly harmless on the ground powers upward in a vertical motion before sitting down in a jaw breaker attempt. Jenkins though a season veteran simply releases Zyon allowing himself to stand straight up and look down on his challenger. Before the youth can scatter to his feet Spike pulls his leg forward and kicks Zyon in the back…

 

SMACK!!!

 

OOOOOOOhhhhhh

 

The former hardcore champ clutches his back while trying to get back to his feet. Jenkins actually allows Zyon back to his feet before whipping off a slicing kick to his opponent’s chest. Again the crowd echoes as a look of pain shadows the Unique Youth’s face as Spike whips Zyon against the opposite ropes. Zyon comes bouncing back, but a stroke of luck touches his cheek. Spike lowers his head a little early giving Zyon the opening he needs. The youth comes to an abrupt halt and locks Spike in a front face lock before floating his opponent over with a snap suplex.

 

“Zyon looking to pick up the biggest win of his career tonight. And so far he’s doing a pretty good job.” Pete nods.

 

“Well of course. Spike being the fool that he is lowered his head way too early. Whoever booked this match must have realized that coming off a suspension Spike would be pretty rusty…heh.” Tom Flesher is a genius…just ask him he’ll tell you.

 

Zyon unknowingly doing the work of the devil lifts Jenkins back to his feet before launching him toward the ropes. Spike bounces off the ropes into a Zyon hip toss, which is followed by a front flip leg drop to the face! The high flyer rolls away from the straight edger and exits on to the apron via under the bottom rope. The crowd cheers the evenly match up while the Unique Youth patiently waits for Jenkins to get back to his feet. “Hollywood” makes it back to his feet just in time to be caught by Zyon who spring boards into the air and drops his opponent with a flying wheel kick!

 

YEAAAH!

 

The crowd cheers as Zyon covers Jenkins hoping for the best…

 

ONE…

 

TW…kickout.

 

But only gets a “Well it was decent.” Unfazed by the two count Zyon again forces Spike back to his feet before scooping his opponent up into a body slam attempt. Spike however freaks the crowd out by floating over locking Zyon in a reverse front face lock!!!

 

“He’s going for the Roll The Joint!!!” King refuses to acknowledge the moves current name.

 

For all the crowd could care the move could be called “Roll The Pizza Pocket” cause weird name or not the move is still a match ender. Zyon realizes this and blindly jabs Spike in the face catching everything from eye to cheekbone. The courageous cruiserweight pulls his right leg over forcing himself into a front face lock before lifting Jenkins up into a northern lights suplex position. Spike just as courageous fights out and pushes off of the smaller opponent. Both men stand on their feet ready to go to war while the crowd brings the excitement.

 

“Let’s Go Zyon!!”

 

“Let’s Go Jenkins!!”

 

DUELING CHANTS, HUZZZZA!

 

The arena is rocking as Jenkins in the aggressor this time around. The controversial competitor charges and attempts a running Shotei palm strike that is caught. Zyon swipes the palm blow away before kicking Jenkins in the gut and locking in a double under hook which is followed by a not so elevated butterfly suplex. The energetic youth cautiously rises to his feet and lifts Spike back to his feet. Zyon ready to pick the pace back up whips the man hailing from Hollywood into the ropes and attempts a dropkick that absolutely KILLS…the air. Spike simply stopped his momentum by holding on to the ropes allowing Zyon to crash to the mat. Jenkins quite the aggressor lately powers Zyon to his feet before locking HIM in a double under hook and flipping the youth into a paralyzing back breaker!

 

“Now that is how you use a flippy without the floppy.” King’s English is perfect, no.

 

The youth rolls off of Jenkins knee. Spike who is no old man himself drops a knee across the back of his opponent adding to the effect of the back breaker. Spike seemingly studied Lockdown’s tape where in which Zyon had his back pulverized all night. Jenkins grabs Zyon by the waist and launches him to his feet and lifting him directly off the ground and down on to his knee with another back breaker.

 

“Ya know this would be a good strategy for somebody like Marcus Ward. But for Jenkins it is just somebody lost in the woods.” Flesher making Jenkins look like a simpleton.

 

“I agree…” King mutters proudly.

 

Again Zyon rolls off clutching his back, as it is Jenkins who exits the ring and waits on the ring apron. Spike showing off his known cruiserweight abilities spring boards into the air just as Zyon wonders to his feet. With his back turned to the former cruiserweight champion, Zyon finds himself lost and defenseless while Jenkins finds himself overjoyed. Spike maneuvers himself horizontally shooting his shoulder right for Zyon’s back turned target and connects! The straight edger bounces away from Zyon holding his shoulder for a moment before smiling as he watches his opponent’s back arch and neck snap back in a SICK fashion. The former hardcore champ’s arms flail as he falls to the ground wincing in pain. Jenkins finds this the perfect moment for a lateral press…

 

ONE…

 

TWO…kickout.

 

The youth proving he still has feelings in most of his limbs by kicking out. Spike knowing he’ll never have an easy night with Tom Flesher as an enemy continues without a wink of aggravation.

 

“It seems Spike has pin pointed a spot on Zyon. Sounds like something you would do Mr. Flesher.” Pete says with a grin.

 

“You better wipe that grin off your face before you anger Mr. Flesher.” King begs.

 

Tom Flesher can only grin back, “King don’t worry. People like Pete and Spike Jenkins are simple peasants who either need to be dealt with or aren’t even worth my time.”

 

Back in the ring “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins lifts the hurt cruiser back to his feet. Jenkins clubs his opponent in the back before whipping him against the ropes with a definite plan in place. Zyon quickly turning into a pawn in Jenkins plan runs into the clutches of Spike who delivers a fluid railgun suplex. After the Unique Youth flies through the air landing crucially on his back Jenkins sits up and points at his mortal enemy.

 

“What a fool. He can copy all my moves it only makes him look like a poser.” Flesher growing aggravated at his rival.

 

Zyon was never able to face off against Flesher, but non the less is feeling the aftermath of a “superior” offense. Zyon pulls himself up with help from the ropes noticing Jenkins charging from the corner of his eye. The tired former hardcore champ falls back to the mat pulling down the top rope in his fall. Jenkins notices the minor detail, but isn’t able to put on the brakes in time before falling over the rope and to the floor. The youth quickly rises back to his feet as he exits out to the apron.

 

“Shouldn’t that be a DQ on Zyon, Mr. Flesher?” Pete wonders.

 

“Of course not. That was obviously a defensive move on Zyon’s part so the ruling is accidental.”

 

In that moment Flesher visibly orders the referee to NOT call for the bell. Am I the only one smelling mischief? Anyway Jenkins rises back to his feet shocked that the match wasn’t called right there. He however has more important things to worry about like a flying cruiserweight. Jenkins though showing off a total lack of ring rust catches Zyon who attempted a cross body of some sort. Spike is definitely not one of the stronger wrestlers so instead of holding Zyon up like a trophy he immediately spins around and swings Zyon back first into the steel ring post!!!

 

OHHHHHH!

 

The crowd chants as Zyon clutches his back. Referee Bowinkle looks start the twenty count, but before he can Spike rolls back into the ring trying to catch some rest. Straight edge or not a match at this kind of pace is tiring…

 

One

 

Two

 

Three

 

Four

 

Five

 

Six

 

Seven

 

Eight

 

Nine

 

Zyon rises to his feet at the count of nine before staggering back into the ring unknowing he still had eleven more seconds to spare. The lightweight as quickly as possible gets back to his feet in time to be met by a Jenkins kick to the gut. Spike wraps both hands around the wrist of his opponent and attempts another Irish whip. Zyon though doesn’t comply as he grabs the top rope with his free hand. His straight edge opponent continues to try and force Zyon away from the near ropes, but is instantly caught off guard by a clothesline with the free arm. Once again though the youth’s strike catches nothing but oxygen as Spike ducks the on coming blow. Zyon the flashy high flyer instead of stopping and turning simply strides forward and grabs on to the top rope before spring boarding off the middle rope. The youngster doesn’t catch much air cause of numerous pains in his back, but gets enough velocity to turn in a 180 degree fashion and delivers a dropkick to his shocked opponent!!

 

YEAHHHH!!!

 

The crowd cheers the mostly fast paced match up.

 

“I must admit Mr. Flesher you honestly thought things through when booking this match up. JJ Johnson and Zyon are two completely different opponents and having Jenkins face them in back to back weeks would be a real test.” Pete begins to understand the matches purpose.

 

“Blasphemy, Pete you should watch your mouth.” King sucking up to his boss.

 

Flesher is still all smiles, “Pete that is a grand observation, but this match is for the fans. I’ve faced off against spot machines before and even though I usually won I must admit they were quite entertaining. Zyon is entertaining. The only difference is that I…the fans expect him to pull out the win over a rusty Mr. Jenkins. By the way that was a perfect little counter by Zyon even though Jenkins should have been able to dodge it.”

 

Zyon still hurting from the back work slowly pulls himself up and doesn’t bother to continue his offensive phase. The youth had plenty taken out of him after being thrown back first into the steel ring post. The straight edge remains on the mat after being drilled by a spring board dropkick and looks marginally defenseless. Zyon sees this and decides it is time to continue his quest for victory, which starts with lifting Jenkins back to his feet. The Unique Youth fires off closed right hands to the face of Spike after realizing the forearms haven’t been cutting it. Spike staggers back after each blow until he is trapped in the turnbuckle. The youth slowly turns his hand sideways before leveling Spike with a LOOOOUD knife edge chop!

 

SMMMMACK!

 

WHOOOO!

 

Spike clutches his chest as Tom Flesher looks grinning from ear to ear. The grin quickly spins upside down though when Zyon takes a step back and attempts a monkey flip of the spotty nature! Everyone in the Wachovia Center gasps as Jenkins grabs the feet of Zyon and launches him into the air. The cruiserweight lands feet first after performing a beautiful back flip. However he is bewildered to the situation he finds himself in, which leads to a crucial opening…

 

SMAAAAACCCCKKK!!!

 

Y…A…K…U….Z….A…K…I…C…K!!!!

 

“My gawd what a boot to the face.” Pete expresses.

 

“You’re not kidding. Spike may need to wipe Zyon’s flesh from his boot!” King agrees that the kick was mighty effective.

 

Zyon’s body twists as his head bobbles up and down. Needless to say the youngster falls to the mat in a heap allowing Spike to go for the cover…

 

ONE…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kickout!

 

“Just a near fall. See Spike can’t even win a match with the world renowned yakuza kick.” Flesher’s not biased or anything.

 

The crowd continues to cheer both men as Spike shovels Zyon back to his wobbly feet. The youth out of basic instinct throws a blind clothesline, which Spike counters by ducking and placing his arm across his opponent’s chest. Zyon finds himself in a “rock bottom” position!

 

“He’s going for the Minor Threat!!” Pete yells.

 

The crowd anticipates Zyon’s throat caving into Spike’s shoulder, but they get something totally different instead. The Unique Youth with the energy of a caged animal releases elbow after elbow to the ear of his opponent. The straight edger is forced to release Zyon from his prison. His hearing momentarily damaged Spike staggers into Zyon who lifts him up and drops his opponent with a quick front slam. The risky competitor clutches his back for a moment before exiting out to the ring apron where referee Frank Bowinkle can only plead for Zyon to take the fight back in the ring. The youth though refuses to even acknowledge the non competitor by once again leaping into the air via spring board and dropping a harsh guillotine leg drop on the FACE of the premiere straight edger!!

 

“Well Mr. Flesher that sure wasn’t pretty…” King starts.

 

“But it was effective, good show I say.” Flesher cheers on the possible loss for Jenkins.

 

Zyon drags his leg off of the face of his opponent before going for the cover…

 

ONE…

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kickout!!!

 

YEAHHHHHH!!!!

 

The crowd explodes cheering for “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins. Zyon is unfazed by the crowd reacting kindly to Spike Jenkins. He knows that his opponent is currently raging against the machine, but he also realizes that the cheers and chants are for Spike’s fighting spirit not his political sense. The youth carefully lifts Spike to his feet before forcing his arm across his opponent and locking his leg behind Spike’s. Jenkins finds himself in a bad position as Zyon tries the Decline!!! “Hollywood” though imitates Zyon’s wild animal strikes by throwing elbow after elbow. The patron wrestler of Athens staggers away from the malevolent Jenkins who like a rabid animal charges and throws the BIG LARIATTTTOOOOOO….THAT MISSSESSSSSOOOOO!

 

Zyon ducks the decapitating strike and even turns the defense into an offense by once again locking Jenkins in the Decline…and nailing it!!!!!

 

YEAHHHHHH!!!

 

The crowd cheers for Zyon to pick up the hard fought victory…

 

ONE…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shoulder up…

 

“WHAT!” Flesher exclaims…

 

YEAHHHHH!!!

 

The crowd cheers on “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins while Zyon is left wondering what to do. The youth acknowledges that his back is throbbing so ending the match NOW would be best for his health. The overly aggressive Unique Youth lifts Spike to his feet before locking him in a standing head scissor, which is the beginning of the Final Hour!!!! The crowd flashes their cameras and stomp their feet as Zyon begins to lift Jenkins off the ground…

 

“Hurt back and all, Zyon almost has Jenkins completely vertical!!!” Pete shills.

 

The youth showing the heart of a champion is about to win the match…or not. Spike surprises everyone by tripping Zyon with a double leg takedown and then locking on a familiar Texas cloverleaf!!!!!

 

“Hey that’s the…” King once again starts

 

“That’s MY SUPERIOR STRETCH!!!” Flesher again ends, pissed.

 

The crowd makes a bunch of noise as they watch Zyon grind his teeth and wince in unbearable pain. Jenkins is hurting there is no question in that, but it is always wonderful to see a plan come into fruitation.

 

“That is why Spike worked on Zyon’s back…” Pete trails off.

 

The Unique Youth quickly tries to claw his way toward the ropes, but he isn’t making up too much ground. Of course a little can go a long way as sweat and fatigue is making it difficult for Spike to keep the hold intact. The youth’s back throbs and bends while his legs slowly become untangled. The superior stretch has turned into a sloppy mess that is still capable of breaking his opponent’s back!!!! The crowd cheers on both men, but they turns the volume up a notch when Zyon REACHES THE ROPES!!!!!!

 

YYYYYYYYYYYEAHHHH!

 

Jenkins falls to all fours staring at the moist canvas. Behind the straight edger is the former hardcore champ trying to pull himself up with major help from the ropes. Spike continues to stare at the mat looking as if he has lost all hope…

 

“Look at that, Spike is giving up…HA!” Flesher laughs.

 

Zyon reaches his feet and staggers toward the depressed Jenkins WHO SHOCKS THE WORLD…LAST DANCE SUPERKICK…FOOL!!!!

 

“WHATTTTT!!!” All three announcers shout.

 

YEAHHHH!!!

 

The crowd cheers Spike who arrogantly pops up pointing at his head and then pointing at Mr. Flesher. Zyon motionlessly falls to the mat after taking a WICKED shot like that. Spike is not done though as he ascends the top rope…

 

“Oh hell no…” Flesher says before leaving the table.

 

Back in the ring Zyon slowly rises to his feet back turned to Spike who…gets distracted by Tom Flesher!? Spike and Flesher scream at each other allowing Zyon to run up on to the second rope and throw Spike off with a sloppy hip toss!! The crowd is irate as Zyon perches himself on the top rope and glances at a smiling Flesher…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FINAL FLASH!!!!

 

Zyon floats through the air with the grace of a meteor before crashing down on to Spike knocking the air out of his sails. The youth clutches his back before falling back into the cover…

 

ONE…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO…

 

 

“NOT LIKE THIS!!!”

 

 

 

 

THREEE!!!!

 

Yeah like that…

 

“Your winner, ZYYYON!!!”

 

Funyon announces through the loud cheering and jeering. The playing of “Vitamin” is a mute point as is Zyon’s tainted victory. The Unique Youth makes his exits tired and fatigue after a HARD FOUGHT match…and sadly nobody cares. All the attention is devoted to the smiling Smarkdown commissioner who receives all the jeering he deserves.

 

It may sound clichéd, but Spike was SCREWED~!!!

 

Has Flesher won?????

 

FADE TO BLACK….

[Chuck Woolery 0]

The crowd continues to jeer Tom Flesher as numerous chants of obscenities are sent his way. Suddenly the disrespectful commissioner leaps on to the ring apron and walks into what he would call “his” ring. Spike Jenkins lies on the mat still feeling the effect of a Final Hour swanton bomb. The Smarkdown commissioner calmly removes the jacket to his suit before placing a harsh boot to his hated rival.

 

BOOOOO!!!!

 

“King what is this? Spike just got done with a grueling match and now Flesher is picking at the pieces.” Pete despairingly says.

 

King laughs, “Ha. You want to know what this is Pete? This is genius.”

 

The “Superior One” crouches down looming over the head of his rival before raising his hand and…

 

BITCH SLAP!!!!

 

Yeah Flesher still thinks he’s better than you. The commissioner raises his hands and fires off another hated slap…that gets caught!!!!

 

Uh Oh…

 

Jenkins rises to his feet with Flesher firmly in his grasp…

 

YEAAAHHHH…BOOO?????

 

The cheering quickly retracts back to jeers as two figures run from the back and quickly tackle the fatigued straight edger…

 

“Oh my god. King that’s Jay Hawke and the other is…”

 

“Scott fricken Pretzler, baby. Feel the swankness.”

 

The International champ and Cruiserweight champ proving to be loyal henchmen lay into Jenkins with boot after boot. The usual technical wrestlers have lowered themselves to petty brawling and advantage by numbers. All directed at one obligatory goal…

 

Hurt Spike Jenkins.

 

The two men proudly go to work on the straight edger before lifting Spike to his unsure feet. Jay Hawke whips Jenkins against the opposite ropes and when the lone wolf comes bouncing back…BAM “Best dropkick in the business.” The two men return to the thug like beating of Spike Jenkins…

 

“This is wrong…please somebody…” Longdogger pleads…

 

On cue…

 

YEAHHHHHH!!!

 

The crowd explodes as suddenly the Unique Youth, Zyon returns to the ring. Zyon sporting an ice pack wrapped around his back once again glances at a frowning Flesher just like he did at the match’s conclusion…

 

And this time he does the right thing…

 

Zyon springs into the air placing both feet into the back of the man who put him in the Wing Span earlier…SNAP! Hawke shoots forward and tumbles out of the ring. Zyon pulls himself off the mat clutching his back giving the cruiserweight champion to lay the youth out with a gorgeous dropkick. However, the courageous Jenkins staggers back to his feet and makes Pretzler eat LARIAT!!!!!

 

YEAHHHHH!!!!

 

The crowd erupts as Pretzler spins inside out before rolling out of the ring to join Jay Hawke and Mr. Flesher. The two champions are ready to go round two with Zyon and Jenkins, but Flesher stops them realizing that his rival has the upper hand.

 

“This is insane…Zyon. What the hell?”

 

Pete couldn’t be happier, “King its obvious. The youth did what everyone should have done…the ring thing.”

 

Flesher, Hawke, and Pretzler stare down Zyon and Jenkins while the crowd is buzzing with the excitement of a hyperactive child on acid…

 

And that’s all you get.

 

COMMERCIAL!

[Chuck Woolery 0]

There’s something in the air as we fade into the Wachovia Center, the camera panning around the crowd, picking up various signs, including three in a row that say “I WANT TO HIT PRETZLER”, “BECAUSE HE BORES ME”, and “GET IN LINE”, respectively. That certain something that’s in the air whenever a large group of people either knows or thinks that something big is about to go down. A title match, for instance. Then, for the people who didn’t know it, something flashes on the Titantron to confirm it.

 

On one side, with his mid-neck length black hair slicked back, and his arms crossed over his chest, giving the camera a look that could kill a small animal (A squirrel would probably be easiest, or perhaps a rabbit. They’re very skittish.), is JJ Johnson, glaring out at the city that has less championships than he does un-tattooed skin on his arms. Which is quite a feat. The sleek official font of Smarkdown flashes up under him, showing his name to those who haven’t heard of him.

 

JJ JOHNSON

 

On the other is a man whose build is slightly thicker, but not by much, the light reflecting off his blonde hair, what little teeth show in his smug grin, and most importantly, the gold and leather that is strapped tightly around his waist. The crowd grows hateful at the mere sight of him, even if not in person, as a considerably larger amount of text flashes up under him.

 

‘THE CRITIC’ SCOTT PRETZLER

 

SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION

 

Then, the third and final line of text flashes up between both of them, improving the crowd’s mood slightly, as this text usually precedes a match filled with plenty of action.

 

 

CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this could be a classic. JJ Johnson and Scott Pretzler, former associates, going at it for a belt Pretzler has held for almost 50 days.”

 

Longdogger Pete earns the right to be called the first person to speak during the semi-main event, and the play-by-play man is correct. Almost fifty days.

 

“Actually, Pete, when Scott retains the belt tonight, tomorrow it’ll be the 50 day anniversary of when he won the Cruiserweight title!” gloats an excited Suicide King, as he always is whenever Pretzler is about to wrestle.

 

“Awarded, King. Pretzler was awarded the Cruiserweight title by Tom Flesher following the unfortunate passing of Andrew Rickmen, the Insane Luchador. Pretzler did nothing to earn the belt, and so far, he hasn’t done much to keep the belt.” says Pete.

 

“Whasa...He did...hoo! Ahahaha! Oh, good one, Pete! ‘Did nothing to earn the belt, and so far, hasn’t done much to keep it’. That’s RICH! But seriously, he has.” the Gambling Man laughs. “I mean, he beat Wildchild in that number one contender Ironman match!”

 

“Well, you have a point on earning it,” the Miami Menace begrudgingly admits, “but my point on not doing much to keep it goes unscathed. He’s only defended the belt once in fifty days, which SHOULD BE grounds for stripping him of the championship.”

 

 

King’s retort is pre-empted by a soft, yet high-pitched, tone that is the beginning of Korn’s “Make Me Bad” oozing out of the speakers, soon followed by grinding guitars as sparks being spraying from the soundstage and smoke billows from the entranceway. The red and white sparks are bright, but not quite bright enough to fully illuminate the hooded figure striding through the smoke, his head down, before he bursts into view to a somewhat unexpected reaction.

 

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!

 

If Johnson is confused, he doesn’t show it, but he shouldn’t be confused anyway. The fans’ positive reaction is easily explained. The man in the red-and-white robes walking down the aisle is violent, ill-mannered, short-tempered, and generally not pleasant to be around. He’ll pummel you at the drop of the hat, and he has a poor record in title matches.

 

In other words, he’s Philadelphia personified.

 

Johnson reaches the steps, and, as he has so many times before, throws his hood back, whipping his hair back as he jogs up the steps and steps between the ropes. Here, he breaks routine, doing some stretches instead of his traditional crucifix pose as the chorus to his theme plays.

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

 

He throws a leg up onto the top rope and grabs his foot, one word running through his mind as he stares at the floor.

 

Focus.

 

DUN-dun! DUN-dun! Dun dun dun!

 

BOOOOOOOOOO!!

 

And so the stirring opening notes of Beethoven’s Eleventh go. The negative reaction is instantaneous, as it has been in every SWF venue in the last couple of months (excluding France), and it only gets worse as the man himself strides out, Pretzler’s shiny SWF Cruiserweight Championship glimmering in the spotlight as he pauses at the top of the ramp, hands on hips, looking out over the crowd with the smug look that is almost constantly on his face.

 

“There he is! Oooooh! Scott! Over here! Over here!” King shouts, waving frantically in an attempt to get The Critic’s attention.

 

“Keep your pants on.” scolds Pete as Pretzler strides down the ramp, not taking his eyes off the man in the ring, and still not taking that arrogant smirk off of his face. A quick jaunt up the steps later, and Pretzler is in the ring, where he unstraps his title and hands it to senior official Eddie Long.

 

DING DING DING!

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall, and it is for the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP!”

 

RAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!

 

 

“Introducing first, on my right, the challenger. In the red shorts, with the white trim, standing six feet, one inch, and weighing in at 219 pounds, from Windsor, Ontario, Canada, J...J...JOHNSON!!”

 

RAAAAAAH!!!

 

Funyon clears his throat, then continues.

 

 

“And his opponent, on my left, the champion. In the navy blue tights, with the gold trim. Standing five feet, eleven inches, and weighing in at 226 pounds, from Toronto, Ontario, Canada. He is the reigning AND DEFENDING Smartmarks Wrestling Federation Cruiserweight Champion, the CRITIC...SCOTT...PRETZLER!”

 

BOOOOOOO!

 

DING DING DING!

 

“And we’re underway!” shouts Pete. Pretzler makes the first move, although not an offensive or defensive one. Instead, he steps to the center of the ring and extends his hand, offering a handshake to the challenger. Johnson stares at it for a moment, then takes Pretzler up on the offer.

 

BOOOOOOOOOO! SPORTSMANSHIP SUCKS! GO FLYERS!

 

The Critic and the ultimate fighter lock up, both men jockeying for position for a moment before Pretzler transitions into a side headlock, Johnson trapped only momentarily as he pulls his head out of the crook of the champion’s arm, taking his wrist with it and pulling up into a hammerlock. Pretzler arches his back a little, and slaps his shoulder, trying to keep the blood flowing before he pulls his arm out from behind him and steps backwards, ducking under he and Johnson’s arms and cinching up a hammerlock of his own. Johnson isn’t in the hold for long, however, as Pretzler sticks his head up under the trapped arm, releasing it before hoisting Johnson up and dropping him on his back, and the arm, with a hammerlock suplex. He goes for the cover...

 

ONE!

 

...but that’s all he gets, Johnson kicking out immediately. Johnson swings his legs and gets to his feet at the same time Pretzler does, and the two lock up again, Pretzler dropping down and taking Johnson over with an armdrag. Johnson lands and rolls through, and rushes Pretzler, who catches him with another armdrag. Pretzler then lunges towards Johnson, but it’s his turn to get caught with an armdrag, and then another. Johnson goes for another armdrag, but in that same instant, Pretzler does as well, and it results in them looking rather silly as they armdrag air. Neither competitor misses a beat, however, as they get back to their feet and lock horns a third time. This time Johnson gets the better of the champion, as he goes behind The Critic and tries for a German suplex. Pretzler blocks, sticking his foot between Johnson’s legs to serve as an anchor, and then performs a standing switch and a German attempt of his own. The challenger blocks the same way, and fires off a few elbows. One catches The Critic just behind the ear, rattling him. NOW Johnson switches, grabbing Pretzler around the waist and hoisting him up and over his head, stacking him on his shoulders as he holds on for the bridging pin.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

And Pretzler breaks Johnson’s grip on his waist, allowing him to roll off of his shoulders and avoid losing the belt, at least for now.

 

“Some scientific wrestling to begin with, and I’m sure Pretzler will do everything in his power to keep the match along this same vein.” says Pete.

 

“What are you trying to say?” inquires the King of Hearts, almost aghast at the thought that the Longdogger could be suggesting that The Critic would be unable to win ANY kind of match.

 

“What I’m trying to say is simple. This match degenerates into a fight, and Pretzler loses.” Pete says flatly as Johnson performs a unique maneuver, swinging his legs up over his head and hooking Pretzler’s arms, then rolling to the side, pinning The Critic’s shoulders to the mat.

 

ONE!

 

T-

 

But Pretzler is quick to kick out, rolling off to the side and getting to his feet. Johnson’s a little slower, and The Critic makes him pay, ensnaring him in a side headlock before a hipblock takeover takes him to the mat, where Pretzler leans into Johnson and creates a pinning predicament.

 

ONE!

 

Johnson rolls to his side, which doesn’t do much to help his current situation, but gets his other shoulder off the mat, and if his shoulders aren’t on the mat, he’ll have a hard time losing to a headlock. Pretzler responds by shifting his weight so that he’s laying more on top of Johnson than next to him, and shifts his grip up, pulling back on Johnson’s head.

 

“Almost a modified crossface by Pretzler here, working the neck for the Snowflake Clutch, and he’s got that pretty well cinched in. He’s not putting as much torque on it as he could, but slow and steady is usually The Critic’s game.” Pete comments.

 

“And he’s won a hell of a lot of races, Pete. And it’s with this strategy. Using low risk, high percentage maneuvers to wear down your opponent, which opens up your moveset and makes some of your more risky moves less risky. Pretzler could hold onto this crossface all match, because the only way I see Johnson getting out is if Pretzler lets him out.” says King as Pretzler wrenches back on the hold a little harder, Johnson slapping at his neck, trying to numb the pain as much as possible before swinging his legs around, using the momentum to turn on his back, taking Pretzler with him and pinning his shoulders to the mat.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

But The Critic releases the hold before the third count, Johnson quick to roll to the ropes and pull himself up. Pretzler is up quickly as well, and Johnson moves in...

 

BANG!

 

...only for Pretzler to catch him with an armdrag! Johnson pops up quickly and goes back on the attack...

 

BANG!

 

...and falls victim to the armdrag again! Johnson up quickly again...

 

BANG!

 

...and is armdragged again!

 

BANG!

 

And again!

 

BANG!

 

BANG!

 

BANG!

 

And again and again and again, Johnson rolling to the outside to regain his composure.

 

BOOONNGGGG!!!!

 

Or go apeshit on anything unfortunate enough to be at ringside. Whichever.

 

“And Johnson kicking those steel stairs out of alignment! They don’t weigh a ton, but they’re relatively heavy, and Pretzler might want to take heed...” Pete begins.

 

“...or that could be his head!! Ahuh kuh kuh kuh! Good thing you ain’t usin’ none o’ them clee-shays! That could get agger-vatin’!” shouts King, his reason for using a ridiculously overplayed Southern accent uncertain at this moment.

 

Meanwhile, in the ring, Pretzler is having a hearty chuckle at Johnson’s chair-throwing, stair-kicking, cameraman’s face in-getting antics as Long approaches 7 in his cruiserweight-addenda’d 20 count. Finally, Johnson takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Rolls into the ring. Takes another deep breath. Lets it out.

 

 

 

 

And rushes Pretzler again, throwing more fists than the Broad Street Bullies themselves, most of them landing hard in the general area of The Critic’s head and shoulders as the flurry of blows forces him back into the corner! Johnson continues throwing punches as Long counts, halting his assault at four, only to get right back on the attack as soon as Long seems satisfied that the break was clean. Finally, Long is forced to squeeze his way between the two, forcing Johnson back as Pretzler drops down and rolls out of the ring, checking his nose for bleeding. A roar of the crowd indicates something is amiss, and he turns to see Johnson sprinting towards the ropes in his direction. He has this scouted, however, as he looks up and throws up his hands so that he’s fully prepared when Johnson comes down with that somersault senton of his.

 

 

CRACK!

 

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!

 

And as prepared as he was for the somersault senton over the ropes, he was in no way prepared for Johnson’s suicide dive through the ropes, and the challenger’s elbow cracks into his chin at a rather high velocity as both men tumble to the thin padding that puts little effort towards becoming any more comfortable to fall on than concrete.

 

“High-impact suicide dive from Johnson! Pretzler was looking for that ever-popular senton, as was the rest of the arena, but Johnson knew The Critic had that scouted, and pulled something else out of his bag of tricks! All I can say after that is, good thing cruiserweight matches have a 20 count!” shouts Pete.

 

“Actually, Johnson only gets a five count. It’s here in the rule book.” corrects King, holding up a tome that does indeed say ‘SWF Rule Book’ on the cover. Pete grabs at it, and turns to the cruiserweight section, skimming the page before his face falls and he glances, blankly, back at the Gambling Man.

 

“You just now wrote that in here. And in crayon. Where did you get a crayon, King?” asks the Longdogger.

 

Before King can explain himself, a little girl seated behind the announce table tugs on her father’s sleeve, distracting him from the action so that she can ask him a question.

 

“Daddy, where’s my crayon?”

 

“KING!”

 

“WHAT?! She wasn’t using it!”

 

Meanwhile, a very groggy Johnson has staggered to his feet, pulling Pretzler to a vertical base as well, before grabbing him in a front facelock, throwing the arm over, and WHIPPING The Critic back down to Earth with a snap suplex!

 

POP!

 

The sound of back on thin mat echoes throughout the arena as Pretzler bridges up, rolling to his side and grabbing at his back. Before he can get too much rest in, Johnson is back on the attack, lifting Pretzler again, this time Irish whipping him as hard as he can, back-first into the steel steps!

 

CLONNGG!!!

 

Pretzler lies propped up against the cold steel, blinking and shaking his head, trying to make all the blurry shapes turn into discernable objects. Then, out of the fog, comes one object he didn’t particularly care to discern.

 

WHAP!

 

“Running kick from Johnson, right to the skull of The Critic! And did you see the whiplash, King? Did you see the way his neck bent back? That was sick!” Pete shouts!

 

“That was unfair! Johnson knows Pretzler has a bad neck!” complains the King of Hearts, drawing a look from Pete.

 

“Pretzler has a bad neck?” inquires the Miami Menace.

 

“Please. If YOU took a Caffeine Bomb off the top rope, would YOUR neck be in tip-top, fully functional shape two weeks later? D’ja ever wonder why Pretzler hasn’t wrestled the last two shows?” King reminds the Longdogger as The Critic does, indeed, look to be grabbing at the base of his skull in pain. Johnson doesn’t particularly seem to care, snatching Pretzler off the thin mats and rolling him into the ring. He doesn’t slide in after him, but instead strides up the steps and stops at the apron, holding on to the top rope as he waits for the master of the Snowflake Clutch to rise to his feet.

 

“Johnson might be looking for some sort of springboard maneuver here.” comments the Longdogger.

 

“So, Mr. Obvious, how long did it take you to get promoted to Captain?” asks the Gambling Man.

 

However, perhaps it was not as obvious as King thinks, as Johnson hoists himself over the the top rope, notably not taking a pit stop at the top to fly at The Critic. Instead, he slaps on a rear waistlock and lifts, trying a German, much like earlier in the match. And just like earlier in the match, Pretzler blocks, but instead of a standing switch, he cracks Johnson in the forehead with a reverse headbutt!

 

“Pretzler pulling out something that’s not traditionally in his arsenal there. Probably wanted to avoid taking another one of those Germans with his neck bothering him the way it is.” hypothesizes Pete as Johnson staggers back, shaking the cobwebs out of his head. Pretzler does the same, the blow doing plenty of damage to himself as well. However, having delivered the blow, Pretzler is quicker in recovery, and as Johnson stumbles out of the corner, he grabs him and swings him up before dropping down with a pendulum backbreaker, Johnson’s spine bending around the champion’s knee before tumbling to the mat.

 

“That signature back work of Pretzler coming into play for the first time this match, setting up for that Snowflake Clutch. Cover!” announces LDP as Long slides in to count the fall.

 

ONE!

 

T-BRIDGE OUT!

 

This doesn’t deter Pretzler, who simply re-mounts the challenger, hooking the leg this time.

 

ONE!

 

T-FOOT ON THE ROPES!

 

“Johnson not wasting energy on a second kickout there, very wise.” commends Pete as Pretzler gets up, dragging Johnson with him, and...

 

BAM!

 

...hits him with a European uppercut before whipping him to the ropes, catching on the rebound with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker...

 

...that Johnson turns into a hurricanrana in midair...

 

...but Pretzler catches him and pummels him into the canvas with a Wildbomb, jacknifing over for the pin...

 

...but Johnson shoves Pretzler as hard as he can before grabbing him around the waist, dropping him on his neck for a pin of his own!

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THR-NO!

 

Johnson’s reversal was quick, but not quick enough to catch the champion so unawares as to not be able to kick out. It was enough, however, to make The Critic grab at his neck again, having been stacked rather forcefully on his upper shoulders only moments ago. However much it hurts, Pretzler only shows it for a second, knowing that any sign of weakness will immediately be targeted almost exclusively by his opponent, an opponent whose entire moveset revolves around one particular body part. And if that particular body part is injured already, well...

 

CRACK!

 

...Pretzler manages to shake any negative thoughts out of his head, leaving the end of that sentence up to the imagination of those watching by leaping into the air and delivering a high-angle dropkick that some (especially Pretzler) would say is the best in the business, his two feet bouncing off the challenger’s chin. Johnson lands hard on his back, and Pretzler floats over for the cover.

 

ONE!

 

But Johnson hurls his arm up just after the one count, Pretzler not at all surprised that Johnson kicked out of a dropkick (as best in the business-y as it may be). Instead, The Critic lifts Johnson, then turns him perpendicular to himself before dropping down with a second pendulum backbreaker! However, instead of letting go of the challenger, Pretzler lifts him up again, and then brings him down for a second backbreaker, this time letting him bounce off before hooking the leg closest to the ropes for the pin.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

TH-KICKOUT!

 

Pretzler wastes no time in going for a second cover, this time hooking the leg even tighter, as well as driving his forearm across the bridge of Johnson’s nose as the ref counts.

 

ONE!

 

TW-KICKOUT!

 

But the price is great, Johnson’s sudden turn not agreeing well with the location of Pretzler’s forearm, and his nose begins to bleed almost immediately.

 

 

“And Pretzler just crossed Johnson’s face with that forearm! Completely uncalled for!” cries Pretzler.

 

“And perfectly legal!” adds King. “Sure, he just broke his nose, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do. And if you have to break a man’s nose to keep your belt, so be it.”

 

Broken nose or not, Johnson is on his feet, but Pretzler is right behind him and lashes out with a move that was only semi-effective earlier.

 

BAM!

 

But circumstances have changed, and the pain from the European uppercut is increased at least three-fold by the loose bones jolting about in what can now best be described as the lump of cartilage formerly known as a nose on the challenger’s face. The former ultimate fighter winces, but recovers quickly and doubles The Critic over with a kick to the stomach before going back to what he does best.

 

BAM!

 

BAM!

 

BAM!

 

BAM!

 

BAM!

 

That is, pummeling the shit out of anything he so chooses, and his choice is quite simple as he brings the point of his elbow down on the champion’s neck repeatedly.

 

“DOWNWARD ELBOW STRIKES! DOWNWARD ELBOWS! THAT’S ILLEGAL IN ULTIMATE FIGHTING!” cries King, his hypocrisy as thinly veiled as the weaknesses in the 76ers starting lineup.

 

“Yeah, but we ain’t in the cage anymore, King!” gloats Pete.

 

“What have I told you about using southern colloquialisms?” scolds the Gambling Man.

 

“You said never use southern colloquialisms.” replies the Longdogger.

 

“AND WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT SPLITTING INFINITIVES!?”

 

Grammatical demands aside, the crowd’s cheers begin rising with each blow, ending up in quite the fervor by the time the last of the quintet has rained down upon the weakened neck of The Critic, and it’s only increased by Johnson hooking him in a front facelock and taking him up...and down, dropping him with a brainbuster!

 

“Brainbuster! One of Pretzler’s signature moves used against him by Johnson, and he floats over for the pin!” shouts the SWF’s standard play-by-play man as Johnson does indeed pin the champion’s shoulders to the mat, grasping his hands with a Greco-Roman knuckle lock to help control the arms.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

TH-

 

...but to the shock of everyone in the arena, perhaps even Pretzler, the champion bridges up out of the cover, pulling on his opponent’s hands to help prop himself up...

 

 

 

 

 

...and his neck gives out, The Critic falling back onto his back as Johnson maintains the knuckle lock for the pin once more.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THR-

 

But the champ learns from recent mistakes and muscles his shoulder off the mat, not wanting to take his chances on another bridge. Johnson releases the knuckle lock and drags Pretzler up before securing a front facelock, and taking him up with a vertical suplex...

 

 

...but The Critic floats over, standing back to back with his opponent before turning around just as Johnson does...

 

 

 

BANG!

 

RAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

 

 

...only to be snatched off the canvas and dropped on his shoulders with a high-angle Exploder! Also known as the...

 

 

“UDV! UDV FROM JOHNSON! Pretzler landed hard on his neck, and his 49 day reign may well be over!” booms LDP, almost giddy with excitement as Johnson hooks the leg...

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NO!

 

Even though Johnson hooked a leg, the leg he chose was not the correct one, and Pretzler still had enough consciousness about him to drape a foot over the bottom rope, stopping Eddie Long’s count yet again and prolonging his title reign just a jot longer. Johnson leans down to grab Pretzler...

 

 

 

BAM!

 

 

 

...and is rewarded with a straight right hand right to his nose, sending the challenger stumbling away and grabbing at his face, which is a mask of agony as Pretzler takes a moment to regain himself before pulling himself up on the ropes, not even trying to pass off his neck as unhurt at this point, fully favoring the wounded area as he bounces off the tightened cables surrounding the ring and taking Johnson off of his feet with a lariat, before going for a cover.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

 

THREE! NO!

 

 

The lariat caught the ultimate fighter by surprise, but he got over the shock in time to kick out.

 

“And Johnson kicks out of what may very well have been a last-ditch effort from the champion!” calls Pete.

 

“Please. Even if his neck is bothering him a little, you think that the one move he would pull out if he needed to get the pin would be a LARIAT?” scoffs the Gambling Man as Pretzler drops a leg across Johnson’s face, more importantly his nose, before hopping back up and pulling Johnson to his feet, whipping him to the ropes. He catches him on the way back and gets him with a tilt-a-whirl...

 

 

 

...put on his feet? Pretzler spins Johnson up, only to set him down, gently on his boots. Johnson stumbles for a moment, trying to regain his equilibrium after all that spinning, before...

 

 

BAM!

 

 

...The Critic shoves an elbow into his lower spine! Johnson bends back upon impact, reaching down to grab at the afflicted area, but he is soon distracted by a matter of copious more amounts of importance: namely, Pretzler has him in a rear facelock.

 

“See, now if Pretzler were really going for one last knockout blow, he wouldn’t do some girly lariat! He’d go for the TILDEBANG~!, and that’s exactly what we’re seeing now.” gloats King as Pretzler takes a deep breath and lifts, swinging Johnson’s body until his body and that of his victim’s form a straight line in the air...

 

 

 

...and Johnson continues to swing, bringing his legs up over his head and backflipping out of the deadly head drop, landing on his feet and latching on a full nelson! Pretzler blocks the upcoming Dragon suplex, and tries to throw a few strategically placed kicks to the unmentionables as the ref’s view is blocked.

 

“Look at that! Pretzler is so desperate to not get dropped on his neck again, he’s blatantly trying to low-blow the man!” an outraged Longdogger yells as...

 

CRACK!

 

CRACK!

 

CRACK!

 

...Johnson drives his forehead into The Critic’s neck three times, which is enough of a distraction to halt Pretzler’s illicit efforts. Another lift attempt, but the champion grapevines his legs around the leg of Johnson, once more cancelling out the dangerous momentum. Johnson gives up, releasing the full nelson...

 

 

...only to shove Pretzler into the ropes, catching him with a forearm to the neck as he staggers back before throwing his arms up and latching on a full nelson, taking the champion up, over and down onto his neck with a release Dragon suplex!

 

RAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

 

“Johnson could take the title right here! If only JJ would pin him!” shouts Pete, King not saying anything at all for once.

 

But Johnson doesn’t cover. Instead, he looks at Eddie Long...

 

 

Past Eddie Long...

 

 

At the top rope. With Pretzler laying on his stomach, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath, Johnson walks with purpose past the referee, swinging his foot out through the ropes and onto the apron, the rest of his body following him before he takes a step up to the middle turnbuckle, then the top, poising on the top rope as he sizes up the distance between he and The Critic.

 

 

Takes a deep breath.

 

 

 

And he is airborne, his arms spread wide to the side as he glides like a Patriot missile towards his target, flashbulbs around the Wachovia Center going off as his momentum runs out, and he begins falling...

 

 

...falling...

 

 

...falling...

 

 

BANG!

 

 

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!

 

“DIVING HEADBUTT! DIVING HEADBUTT TO THE BASE OF THE NECK! PIN HIM, JJ! YOU’VE GOT IT!”

 

Those words practically explode out of the Miami Menace’s mouth upon impact, the King of Hearts only covering his eyes. Instead of pinning him, Johnson grabs The Critic’s limp right arm, lifting it up to about waist level before swinging his right leg around it, grapevining the limb. Another leg movement, and Johnson is on his back, his other leg helping bar the leg now crossed in a figure-four over the champion’s elbow. Johnson then extends with the barring leg and, as his boot stops in front of Pretzler’s face, the Wachovia Center explodes, even more so as he throws the leg right, torquing back The Critic’s neck.

 

“FROSTBITE! FROSTBITE LOCKED IN! PRETZLER HAS NOWHERE TO GO! HE’S GOT NOTHING HE CAN DO!” shouts Pete as the formerly limp Critic is snapped into animation by the pain coursing down his spinal column, his hand scrabbling around looking for some sort of purchase, some sort of way to escape the torturous maneuver.

 

“Nonsense! Scott always has something he can do! He’s always got at least one way out!” says King, although whom he’s trying to convince is uncertain. He has a point though, as a split second after he says that, Pretzler does find a way out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP!

 

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!!

 

 

DING DING DING!

 

Johnson breaks the hold instantly, rolling off of the as of three seconds ago former champion as “Make Me Bad” strikes up, Funyon lifting the mic to his mouth to say the sweetest words the former ultimate fighter has heard all night.

 

“Here is your winner via submission, AND THE NEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWW...SMARTMARKS WRESTLING FEDERATION CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION...J...J...JOHNSON!!”

 

“Pretzler said he couldn’t! Thousands hoped he would! And tonight, JJ Johnson has done it! JJ has dethroned The Critic! And stick around, because Todd Cortez takes on El Luchadore Magnifico...NEXT!” says Pete as Johnson rises to his feet, blood gushing from his nose, throwing his arms wide as Long straps the belt around his waist, the chorus of Johnson’s theme hitting for a second time...

 

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

 

...as we...

 

 

FADE OUT

[Chuck Woolery 0]

“After a long and eventful night, which is par for the course in the SWF, we’ve reached our main event of the evening. One former fan favorite who has done his best to erase his past popularity, and one of the SWF’s most popular superstars, currently caught in a battle over the woman who loves him, and the ex-partner who feels scorned by them both.”

 

“Women. Pssh.”

 

“The issues between both Landon Maddix and Todd Cortez, as well as El Luchadore Magnifico and Danny Williams are on the minds of everyone in the SWF, as well as it’s fans. They are two highly volatile situations, and tonight on Smarkdown, we’re going to give you a bit of a mix n’ match match, as the popular Todd Cortez, still reeling from a loss at the Casino Brawl, takes on a man who is enjoying everyone’s newfound disdain for him, perhaps a little too much.”

 

As soon as Pete finishes his pre-match diatribe, the lights cut out, drawing the anxious, somewhat overzealous fans to wonder what’s coming next.

 

“HEY HEY!”

 

BOOM

 

Blinded by the pyro bursts of the Mexican colors, fans turn away from the now heavily lit entrance, only to turn back and witness an unpopular figure storming through the smoke and sparks, waving his trademark Mexican flag proudly.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest, scheduled for one fall, is your main event of the evening!” bellows the ever-loved Funyon from his place in the ring, as El Luchadore Magnifico comes down the aisleway.

 

“First, hailing from Mexico City, and weighing in tonight at two hundred, twenty eight pounds, this is ELLLLLL LUCHADORE MAAAAAAAAAAAGNIIIIFIIIIICOOOOOOOO!”

 

Thunderous boos follow the announcement of ELM, who simply thrusts his flag in the air and shouts out a war cry proudly. ELM then takes the flag and hands it over the ropes to an SWF ring girl, then loosens up in the corner, as his music fades out.

 

The opening beat of “Oh No” (the edited version, since it contains some non-family friendly vocabulary, you know) booms over the sound system, and the sounds of that song bring sounds of excitement out of the crowd, as the popular Todd Cortez comes racing out of the back, looking both motivated and menacing!

 

“His opponent, hailing from Hollywood Boulevard, and weighing in tonight at two hundred, twenty six pounds, this is the Urban Legend, TODDDD CORRRTEZZZZZ!”

 

The popular superstar slaps some hands and then races down the aisle, looking extremely eager to mix it up tonight and vent some of his recent frustrations. Cortez slides into the ring and comes up in the center of the squared circle, pumping his fists and then turning, eyeing ELM over the rim of his sunglasses. Cortez removes his shades, as well as his trademark bulletproof vest, handing them over to the ring girl, while ELM just rests in the corner and scowls.

 

”What a contest this should be.”

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

The two men of Hispanic descent come to center ring as referee Nick Soapdish calls for the bell, and immediately begin circling each other. The two lock up, and Cortez grabs a headlock, but Magnifico easily slips out, then spins Cortez around and shoves him away, scowling at him just as he did the fans upon his entrance. Cortez, never one to take any b.s. from another competitor, shoves right back, showing Magnifico that he's in no mood for his ego tonight!

 

"Why do I get a bad feeling that the strict enforcement of the rules is not on the minds of either of these men tonight?"

 

"You're dealing with a bonafide psychopath when it comes to Cortez lately. I'm surprised when I don't see weaponry in his possession."

 

"He's weapon free right now, though."

 

"Oh yeah, did you frisk him? He might be strapped."

 

"He might be WHAT?"

 

"Strapped. You know, he might have a gat on him, in case anyone throws down with his set tonight."

 

"King, for the love of God, give your nephew back his G-Unit CD's."

 

Cortez waves Magnifico on, daring him to try and lock up. The two men move towards each other, tying up, with Magnifico swinging around into a rear waistlock. Cortez squirms, then fires his elbow back into the side of Magnifico's face before breaking free and charging towards the ropes. Magnifico drops down as Cortez rebounds, forcing the street fighter to leap over his body. After doing so, Cortez changes his path and runs to the ropes Magnifico is facing, and as the Luchadore comes up off the canvas, he's met with a basement dropkick to the chin that stuns him and sends him rolling out of the ring to avoid further assault!

 

"A shot to the jaw is enough to send him packing! Magnifico isn't so confident right now, is he King?"

 

"All part of his strategy, Peter m'lad."

 

Magnifico storms around ringside, angered by the heckling fans so much that he raises his arm up like he's going to strike one them. Security nearly pounces on the SWF superstar, until the possible lawsuit is halted by Cortez drilling him with a baseball slide!

 

Security settles down, while Magnifico shakes the cobwebs loose. Soapdish stands by the ropes and has Cortez back away, knowing that if Cortez gets out on the floor with ELM, it could spell disaster. Soapdish then begins issuing the count, as Magnifico cirlces ringside, taking a breather before engaging in battle yet again with the Urban Legend.

 

"Magnifico doesn't want to get back in the ring with Cortez, and given his state of mind lately, who can blame him?"

 

"Landon Maddix has done a marvelous job of getting into Cortez's head, something that only Toxxic was able to do before. However, Maddix has made Cortez into a liability for this company, because he's made this a personal vendetta against his former partner."

 

Magnifico hops up on the apron, and as soon as he does, Cortez goes for him, but catches a shoulderblock through the ropes. Magnifico slingshots over with a sunset flip, but before Soapdish can slap the mat even once, Cortez rolls backwards, coming up to his feet and pulling his foe up with a front facelock. Cortez lifts ELM for a suplex, but it's countered, as the Luchadore slides out and lands behind Cortez, hooking a rear waistlock and running towards the ropes, pulling Cortez down into another pinning predicament!

 

ONE!

 

T-NO!

 

Cortez kicks ELM off, breaking the pin and rolling backwards to his feet, while Luchadore uses the momentum from the kickout to hit the ropes. Cortez sidesteps the rebound and sends ELM to the opposite side, but we he rebounds this time, Cortez presses him up into the air with a flapjack, then steps to the side, delivering a soccer kick to the ribs as ELM falls through the air back down to the canvas!

 

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!"

 

The fans seemingly feel the Luchadore's pain, as ELM crashes to the mat, clutching his rib. Cortez immediately hops over his back, hooking the former fan favorite and pulling him into an Oklahmoa Roll!

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

NO!

 

ELM kicks out, and as Cortez goes to pull him up to his feet, ELM lunges forward, striking Cortez with a desperation clothesline. Both men lay on the canvas, Cortez the least weary, but it's Magnifico who pulls himself to his feet first. Cortez slowly recovers, but it's halted by a running knee to the stomach from ELM, who then strikes Cortez with a knife edge chop, followed by another, and another! The trifecta sends Cortez staggering backwards to the ropes, and Magnifico grabs him by the wrist, pulling him away and sending him across the ring with a whip...or at least that was the intention, as Cortez counters, and sends Magnifico across the ring! Cortez leaps up, trying a dropkick, but Magnifico stops short and swats it away, then hooks Cortez by the waist as he's coming up and hurls him overhead with a release belly to belly suplex!

 

“Nice work by Magnifico there, trying to control the pace of the contest and letting Cortez get ahead of himself.”

 

“I wouldn’t say that Todd was getting ahead of himself, but I’d agree, he’s been well scouted.”

 

Cortez rolls to his feet, and Luchadore approaches him, striking him with a European uppercut that sends Cortez stumbling into the corner. ELM drops down, grabbing the middle ropes and driving his shoulder into Todd’s ribs several times, over and over, then takes him by the head and pulls him out of the corner. Looking out to the fans while Todd is in his clutches, Magnifico thinks twice, then scowls at the crowd before dropping down and grabbing a front waistlock, ramming Cortez back into the corner! More shoulderblocks follow, then a snapmare which brings Cortez out of the corner and puts him on his a-er, rear end (hey, so I almost forgot it’s the family show, sue me!). Magnifico then props himself up on the middle rope and springs off, floating over Cortez and snapping his neck forward!

 

“For the first time this contest, El Luchadore Magnifico takes to the skies!”

 

“Not true. Cortez sent him airborne just a few moments ago.”

 

“I meant on his own accord, Peter. Jeez. Details, details.”

 

Magnifico takes the fallen Cortez by the leg and drags him away from the ropes, then drops a leg across the throat of the prone Urban Legend. Magnifico then tries for a quick cover, but almost as soon as Soapdish is in position, Cortez throws his shoulder up, preventing the count.

 

“These two guys are fighters, survivors. We could be in for a long night.”

 

Cortez gets yanked to his feet again, this time with Magnifico positioned behind him. ELM grabs the waist, lifting Cortez up for a back suplex, but the agile superstar manages to float over, and quickly attemps a back suplex of his own! Magnifico is pulled off his feet, but like Cortez, floats over and lands on his feet. Another back suplex attempt by Magnifico, only this time he shifts Cortez’s position, dropping him with La Bomba Fan-NO! Cortez manages to counter with a quick rana!

 

“GREAT escape by Todd Cortez!”

 

ELM rolls onto his stomach and slams his hands on the canvas, angered that his shift in offense did not go undetected. Cortez comes over and stuns him with a pair of forearms as he’s getting up. Noticing they’re close to the ropes, ELM drops low, lifting Cortez up and backdropping him over the ropes, but Todd lands on the apron! Cortez then reaches over the ropes and grabs ELM by the head, yanking him violently to the canvas! With ELM down, Cortez leaps up, springing off the top rope and crashing down on ELM’s forehead with his patented springboard kneedr…NO! ELM lifts his upper body up, so Cortez thinks fast and rolls through with the move! Cortez braces himself, waiting on ELM’s rise off the canvas, then charges forward with a YAKUZA KICK~!, only to have ELM tuck and roll under it! Luchadore comes up behind Cortez and grabs a rear waistlock, but Cortez drops himself to a seated position and fires his leg up, cracking the crown of Magnifico’s cranium with the instep of his foot! Cortez then hits the ropes at top speed, coming towards a groggy ELM…but Magnifico manages to grab Cortez on the rebound and put him across his shoulders, dropping to the canvas with a Samoan Drop that drives the air from the Urban Legend’s body!

 

“Such impact! I think I can actually feel the tremors!”

 

“How does it feel? Like one of those Magic Fingers beds at a seedy motel? I love those things. One time when I was going to give some girl a fac…”

 

”coughKingfamilyshowremembercough.”

 

“What? I was just saying that I was giving her a face to face talk about her goals in life. I mean, not many high schoolers are sure where they want to go with their lives when they’re only 16.”

 

“…”

 

Back in the ring, Magnifico continues to stay in control of the contest, trapping Cortez in a chinlock and keeping him worn out. Magnifico rests his knee between Cortez’s shoulder blades, and on occasion will yank back on his rival’s head, forcing the point of the knee into Todd’s upper back and adding to the wear and tear of the hold.

 

“We’ve seen a totally different Magnifico as of late, both in attitude as well as ring style. Chinlocks don’t scream excitement now, do they?”

 

“They may not be as exciting as a super deluxe 450 springboard corkscrew brainbuster-sault through a table, but they get the job done.”

 

“…I’d just like to take this time out to tell the kids at home that the move just spoken of by Suicide King should not be practiced at all. Remember, we’re professionals!”

 

“Some of us moreso than others, eh Pete?”

 

The fans boo loudly, a mixture of disdain for ELM and their growing restless as the Urban Legend is caught in the chinlock. Cortez starts to come back to life, slowly trying to get on his feet, and the crowd starts clapping and rallying behind him as he pushes himself up. Magnifico won’t release his grip, keeping his arm wrenched around Todd’s head even as the young streetfighter powers up, segueing the chinlock into a side headlock before breaking the hold on his own accord, slamming a forearm across Todd’s back, and then drilling him with a back suplex! With Cortez down, ELM grabs him by the head and goes right back to the chinlock, and the fans who were happy to see Cortez coming alive are now deflated, as ELM brings the in-ring action back to the basics.

 

“These fans are getting antsy, and ELM is purposely torturing them.”

 

”Torturing THEM? He’s trying to win a match. He’s not going to go out of his way just to spite the fans…the man has better things to worry about these days.”

 

“Like Danny Williams, huh?”

 

“OK, well maybe “better” wasn’t the right word to use.”

 

Once again, Cortez powers up to his feet, and this time he shoves ELM away, towards the ropes. ELM rebounds, tucking his head, and the weary Cortez manages to jump up, leapfrogging over his foe…but ELM’s head is not low enough, and Cortez winds up unable to clear him, catching a headbutt low in the process!

 

“That’s an icepack moment!”

 

Referee Soapdish immediately tends to the fallen Cortez, who lays curled up in a ball on the mat, clutching…himself. An irate Soapdish then approaches ELM, who pledges his innocence, telling him it wasn’t intentional. Soapdish warily backs away, then turns back to Cortez, all while El Luchadore Magnifico smirks in the background, drawing the ire of the Philly fans.

 

“You know, I don’t know if it was the inteded effect or not, but you can’t tell me Magnifico isn’t loving it right now!”

 

“If you caught a lucky break, wouldn’t you be smiling?”

 

Soapdish helps Cortez to his feet, making sure he’s OK, but as soon as he’s up, ELM comes over and pulls Cortez in close, dropping him on his knee with an inverted atomic drop! Cortez drops to the canvas in stunned discomfort, and ELM dives down to cover him, hooking a leg and calling for Nick Soapdish.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

KICKOUT!

 

Seemingly unphased by his opponent’s persistence this time, ELM pulls Cortez up, and again rocks him with an inverted atomic drop! This time however, he doesn’t let Todd fall to the mat, as he continues to hold him by the waist, and drops him with several more inverted atomic drops!

 

“Now where have I seen this before?”

 

ELM continues using one of Cortez’s trademarks against him, dropping him with a total of five inverted atomic drops before swinging around to his rear and pulling him into the air, sending him crashing on the back of his head and neck with a German Suplex! ELM bridges, and Soapdish dives to the canvas for the count…

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THR…NO! Cortez reaches out and grabs the bottom rope to break the cover!

 

“Alright! Quick thinking by Cortez paid off!”

 

ELM, wondering why Soapdish stopped the count, gets up and confronts the referee, who warns him not to get any ideas. Soapdish points out the rope break, which angers ELM. He grabs Cortez, who at this point is trying to pull himself up by the ropes, but as soon as he swings Cortez around to face him, Cortez quickly lifts and plants HIM with an inverted atomic drop before falling back in the corner!

 

“I swear, every time I see this happen in a Cortez match I half-expect Bob Barker to do that “spay your pets” speech from ringside.”

 

ELM is kicking and screaming on the canvas, while Cortez, a bit worse off, attempts to regain his bearings while resting in the corner. As Cortez comes out of the corner, approaching ELM, the fans are abuzz again…but it’s because of who is jogging down the aisleway!

 

“What the…what’s he doing here!?”

 

Pete is referring to (who else?) Landon Maddix, who has made it to ringside and yanked Cortez out of the ring under the bottom rope and starts working him over, pounding on his back!

 

“Why that lowdown son of…”

 

”Pete, family show!”

 

“Nice save. Thanks, King!”

 

Soapdish immediately calls for the bell, and the fans boo loudly, as Philadelphia is not impressed with Landon Maddix ruining their main event. Maddix takes Cortez by the wrist and whips him hard into the steel stairs, and when referee Soapdish slides out of the ring to prevent him from going after Cortez again, Maddix nudges right past the small offical and hits a kick to the ribs on his arch nemesis.

 

“I have no doubt in my mind we would have seen a classic contest tonight, but we get robbed of that now, thanks to this jealous, egotistical scoundrel!”

 

“Scoundrel! Oooh, nice word! What are you going to call him next, a hooligan? Just because it’s a family show doesn’t mean you need to talk like my grandfather!”

 

Maddix takes the wounded Cortez and rolls him into the ring, while ELM rolls out of it at the same time, escaping while he can. El Luchadore Magnifico looks on and throws his hands down in disgust as he backs up the aisle, not wanting to get involved in the ongoing feud between Maddix and Cortez. He continues retreating back to the dressing room with his back to the entranceway, but turns around at the wrong time, as DANNY WILLIAMS comes darting out from the back and nails him with an Axe Bomber!

 

“What the!?”

 

“What is this, two for the price of one night?”

 

The crowd is split in its reactions, as many cheer Danny Williams trying to get ahold of ELM, although SWF security is on the scene and separate them. Meanwhile in the ring, Maddix is toying with Cortez, pulling him up to his knees and slapping him across the face. Two security guards hit the ring to break that up, but Landon levels one with a running lariat just as the man is getting to his feet, and then coldcocks the other one with a stiff right hand to dispose of him! With security down, and the rest of them dealing with the Williams/ELM situation in the aisle, Landon sees this as the perfect opportunity to lay waste to his foe. Landon drags Cortez near the corner, then props himself up on the second rope. He hooks Coretz by the head and pushes his feet off the turnbuckles to deliver a CRASH LANDON to Cortez…but Todd throws Landon off just before impact! Maddix, angered, charges Todd, who drops low and scissors Landon’s ankle…and the drop toehold sends Maddix crashing face first into the middle rope! He gets up reeling, and now an angered Cortez grabs him by the head and places him in a standing headscissors…but before the Riot Act Plus can be given, Maddix pulls away and rolls out of the ring, racing around ringside and up the aisleway.

 

“What a coward. He attacks when Cortez is in the middle of a contest, worn and distracted, but shies away from face to face confrontation!”

 

“Speaking of face to face, I think we need more security out here for Danny and ELM.”

 

“I hope the censors have their fingers on the button, because lord only knows what kind of trash talk is going on at the ringside area tonight.”

 

Maddix scurries up the aisle holding his cheek, looking back at an angry Cortez, who doesn’t play into Landon’s games and stays in the ring, watching on. Meanwhile security does their best to hold Danny Williams back as ELM eggs him on, trying to goad him into another fight.

 

“Fans, it’s probably best that we end this show on a high note, before we anger the network anymore than we have in the past. For Suicide King, I’m Longdogger Pete, saying we’ll see you at the next show!”

 

FADE OUT.