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SWF Lockdown 3-29-2006

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SWF Lockdown’s theme music plays as the show opens with a view of the dogmatic audience. The Biloxi natives refuse to take their seat as they scream, shout, and stomp their feet to the bland music in the background. With the camera spinning around radically, many fans get their faces pasted on LIVE TELEVISION…for about three seconds. Visually the camera’s journey ends at the announce table where SWF staple Suicide King is read to topple the action with his expertise, and he’s not alone.


“We are coming to you from the SOLD OUT Mississippi Coast Colliseum where tonight we will see Asian Underground defend their titles against the thrown together team of JJ Johnson and Manson. My man, Bruce Blank will also face off against his arch nemesis Insane Luchador in a BARBED WIRE STEEL CAGE!! But first…I guess I should introduce my non female, non lesbian partner…C…I…A!!!”


A small appreciative CIA chant breaks out as the SWF legend works his way into the fold.


“Thanks King. Yep tonight the Canadian Hero will be busting out verbal knowledge of this sport instead of killing my opponents with the Air Canada.”


King’s brow raised noticing that CIA is still CIA, “Good to see you haven’t changed any. Anyway up next we have…”


“I’M BORN!!!!”


The Gambling Man is rudely interrupted by the haunting sounds of “Vitamin” as the familiar words pop on to the Smarktron.






“I REALLY HATE THIS FUCKING GUY!!!” King screams drowned by the loud PA system.


Smoothly hopping out from behind the black curtain to the cheers of thousands upon thousands is the Unique Youth. Grinning from ear to ear, Zyon calmly walks down the ramp smacking the hands of the rabid audience. Swaying from side to side is the youth’s pale green shorts that hang a couple inches past his knees. Sporting a custom made Zyon jersey that will be on sale to the public in a matter of days, the anxious youth picks up the pace bounding down to the ring.

“I haven’t heard the people cheer this loud since I was active.” CIA has fond memories of the time where he was an active competitor, no doubt.


Whether or not the youth has street credentials has yet to be determined, but he does choose to wear a hot on top of his head, backward stereotypical skater boy style. Bobbing his head to the beats of Incubus, Zyon wanders around in the ring for a moment, soaking in the grand applause that he receives in every arena he participates in.


King is slightly jealous of the youth and his followers, “Oh c’mon this guy is barely a midcard competitor, and they cheer him like he is Wes Davenport or Wildchild. As much as Wes is a joke and Wildchild is nothing more than a poor sap, at least they have proven themselves. All Zyon has done is hold the hardcore title after Insane Luchador’s reign and before Blank’s. Oh and he held the cruiserweight title for what, like five seconds.”


“Actually King,” CIA proves his worth to the announce team, “He held the title for over thirty days, which isn’t fantastic, but much longer than five seconds.”


Humbled by the reaction, Zyon quietly asks for the mic while applauding the audience in their participation. “Vitamin” falls into silence, as the Unique Youth wants to get the show on the road as quick as possible.


“You know…” Zyon begins before being interrupted by this…




The overanxious crowd erupts into a chant that leaves the youth almost breathless. Holding up one hand signaling for the thankful audience to hush, Zyon tries again.


“You know the last couple weeks have been like a roller coaster ride for yours truly. In a matter of two months I have grown the biggest ego this side of that bird that squeals about his International title reign, which ironically ended during my ego growth.”


The crowd roars at the not so subtle shot at former International champ, Jay Hawke.


“Hey boy let’s not forget, that bird has beaten you twice.” King fires back.


Continuing, Zyon holds up two fingers, “In a matter of two months my foundation has been torn apart by greed, distrust, and a poor performance in this very ring. You see, greed isn’t always measured in money. When it pertains to me, greed measured in my stupidity to take on every challenge with the least bit concern. I defeated JJ Johnson and won the cruiserweight title…I should have been set on the road of glory.”


“I remember watching that bout. Too bad, El Luchadore Magnifico had to stick his nose in that battle and cost Johnson the title.” CIA points out.


Lowering his eyes, Zyon speaks with disappointing tone, “Less than a month in a half later, I was defeated by Akira Kaibatsu.”




Zyon agrees with the wild reaction for the Asian Underground member, “Yep that guy. Of course that punk couldn’t have beat me twice, right,” The youth sarcastically rumbles on, “Well guess what, I was beat again. I lost the title that I had worked my whole career for, and guess what? That was the least of my worries.”


“Do you want some cheese with that wine?”


“King, show a little respect will ya. Just because every time you spoke the crowd tore you to shreds doesn’t mean you have to complain about someone who has this audience in the palm in their hand. Kind of reminds me of well…me.” CIA laughs.


“Spike Jenkins…”


And the crowd goes mixture with a barrage of cheers and jeers.


Zyon continues adjusting his hat slightly, “Spike Jenkins is my best friend in the company. I met a guy who looked to have been destroyed both mentally and physically, but yet he continued. I not only respected that, but I wanted to know what kept a guy like that going. At the time I was on top of the world, and he was battling against the notorious Tom Flesher. Later I came to realize that he wasn’t completely decimated. He was wounded, but not destroyed. All Spike needed was a pat on the back and a helping hand…I was that pat on the back, I was that helping hand.”


“Does Zyon think he’s god now?” King’s interest is perked in this new religion.


“Spike was egotistical, selfish, and an all around asshole. I was naïve to a business full of back stabbing. We helped each other manifest into two stars who could have a good time while back it up in this very ring. I was no longer clueless about this business, and Spike was no longer an asshole…or so I thought,” Zyon shakes his head continuing his monologue, “Even after going undefeated in the Lethal Lottery tournament and barely losing to Asian Underground in the TLC final, it seems Spike has been regressing. Or maybe I’m the one regressing?”


CIA can see where this could be going, “Don’t do this to yourself kid…”


Pacing around the ring, visually expressing the weight that is on his mind, Zyon stops dead in his tacks, “Maybe I’m the one for blame? I never did anything that would hurt this company or it’s employees. Spike on the other hand has done everything for his selfish self, and has quite a stigma for it. But I changed things. He was no longer hated, and I was no longer innocent. Maybe everything is my fault?”




The crowd jeers Zyon’s confused conscience.


“You people have always been on my side, but tonight I have to face facts. Tonight I set things RIGHT!! I helped create this friendship, and damnit I’ll be the one to repair it. Tonight I have an announcement that will be bigger than Spike’s clusterfuck announcement. Tonight I make things right. So Spike will you please come out here, you need to hear this face to face.”


“YES! That’s exactly what I want; team SpYon in the ring to open the show up. CIA you wouldn’t have a gun or a noose on you?”


“No King, can’t say I do.”


“That’s too bad cause now you have to deal with this shit yourself. I’m out of here.” King attempts to walk away from the booth…


“SIT DOWN!!” CIA forces King back into his chair.


The whole arena turns their head in unison, looking down the entrance ramp waiting for the wily veteran to make his presence felt.




Cocking an eyebrow, Zyon taps his foot gently, “Spike would you please come out here…”




“Ha. This is great, Spike wants nothing to do with that spot monkey.” King loves the dissention.


Slightly embarrassed, Zyon holds the mic up, “Alright. The critics along with you Spike can say what they want. Everything that has happened to me could very well haven been my fault. I have failed in some areas, no doubt. But I will not fail at this. If you’re not going to come out here, then I’m going to go back there…”


Dropping the mic, Zyon exits the ring. Leaving the crowd in a confused silence, Zyon exits behind the curtain to begin his voyage for his best friend, Spike Jenkins.


“Thank god that’s over…”



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The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents...
Live, Wednesday, March 29th from the SOLD OUT Mississippi Coast Colliseum in Biloxi, Mississippi!
(6pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings)

The Hell or High Water deep fried, deep south tour continues, with a stop over in the hardest state to spell in the Union! Eat your heart out, Massachusetts. After Storm, the pieces are in place for a veeeeery interesting set of matches here on Lockdown, including the long awaited Bruce Blank/Insane Luchador matchup, and what promises to be one of the biggest and best television main events in a long, long time! Also, the tag team champions, Michael Cross and Akira Kaibatsu defend their belts, and will the holder of the second most pretigious belt in the SWF, Wildchild, make an appearance?

Plus, the Replacement Commentator contest continues, featuring alongside the Suicide King for this show, the Canadian Intelligence Agent himself, CIA!

Wes Davenport© vs Jay Hawke

->Is it possible that Wes Davenport is a better actor than anyone imagined? Although his Clusterfuck, and subsequent world title, victory remain among the greatest upsets of all time, an ominous interaction with Tom Flesher on Storm has alludes to the fact Wes may have been in control of his own destiny much more than anyone believed. If that's true, then he's going to have to show it here: Jay Hawke, coming off the most mammoth title reign in SWF history, has now been given the opportunity to reach the very top of the mountain. And aw, fuck it, both men's sly, cunning and skill will be pushed to the limit in the SWF's marquee stipulation.
Rules: The winner is the man who is unable to answer a 10 count when thrown to the ground. There are no conventional DQ or countout rules; anything is legal in order to keep your opponent down.
Word Limit: 6500

Bruce Blank© vs Insane Luchador

->Bruce Blank and Andrew Rickmen have been building up to this one for a while. At long last, they throw down in match of titanic proportions. It's the Unmoveable Object versus the Unstoppa... er... Irresis... Moderate Velocity Force. Dig it. Check the new stip out. Bad medicine.
Rules: A 15ft cage entierly wrapped in barbed wire will be present over the ring for this match. The winner, I guess, is whoever is brave or stupid enough to try to climb out.
Word Limit: 6000

The Asian Underground© vs JJ Johnson & Manson

->JJ Johnson, back in action, dropped a deuce on David Cross in his last outing, and now faces off in an unusual matchup: Against the Asian Underground, in their first defense of the tag team titles. But who, of all people, could JJ stand to tag with? Edward James comes to mind, but he was unavaliable, so the always avaliable, ever amicable Manson slides in, hoping to duplicate his tag team success alongside Jimmy the Doom with an equally random partner. And what of that whole security thing? Well, JJ's working on it. I'm sure.
Rules: Standard tag team match. Remeber the tag ropes.
Word Limit: 5000

Christian Fury vs Amy Stephens

->Christian Fury has been ice cold since the Lethal Lottery, yet to notch a win since the tournament. If he happened to have gotten one since then, I think it all goes to illustrate a point: I still don't pay any fucking attention. But it's likely nobody else noticed as well. Here he takes on Amy Stephens, who was nearly killed by a rogue meteorite on the last show during her tag team match. Stephens has looked good, occasionally even inside the ring, and both competitors look to build new momentum in singles competition.
Rules: Standard singles match.
Word Limit: 4500

David Cross vs Matt "The Cosplayer" Myers

->In his recent return to the SWF, David Cross has had to endure a two match slide. Against the SWF's official punching bag, Matt Myers, he seeks to turn it around. That shouldn't be hard. Beware the marker if it is.
Rules: Standard singles match.
Word Limit: 3500

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Backstage in front of the Lockdown backdrop, Jay Hawke is once again preparing for a promo.


Cameraman: “And we’re ready in 5, 4, 3...”


After a few seconds, Jay Hawke looks at the camera and begins:


“In less than two hours, Wes Davenport, you will be in the ring with yours truly. You will be defending that newly won World Heavyweight Championship against me. And you will lose. And the reason you will lose? It’s simple. I’m simply better than you. You did your own stunts in Hollywood, and you think that’s going to be enough to outlast me in a last man standing match? Not a chance, pal. Because…”


???: “Oh, he has a chance, alright. A damn good chance.”


And once again, the cloaked figure comes only slightly into view.


???: “What did I tell you about getting too cocky?”


Hawke: “What are you doing here?”


???: “I came here to see you win the World Title. I’m starting to think I’m going to end up disappointed.”


Hawke: “Look, you don’t think I’m going out there with a plan?”


???: “I know you’re going out there with a plan. I just don’t think you’re focused enough to execute it.”


Hawke: “Look, do me a favor. Why don’t you go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and stay away from me, alright? What is this all about? You want to get the band back together? Well, those days are gone.”


???: “You don’t get it, do you?”


Jay Hawke looks up angrily and cocks a fist back, but instead he turns and walks off, leaving the cloaked figure alone.


???: “I hope I’m wrong, but I doubt it.”

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“Welcome back to Biloxi, Mississippi,” CIA says as the camera sweeps the sold out Mississippi Coast Coliseum “We are live here for another fantastic edition of SWF Lockdown and we're starting off with a big opener as recent returnee David Cross takes on the young Matt Myers. Your thoughts, King?”


“I actually have to watch this match?” asks King. “I mean, look at these two. Myers is a freak who makes Mistress Sarah look mainstream while Cross has done exactly what I expected him to do when he came back...crash and burn.”


“It's not as if Cross has faced weak competition since his return. JJ Johnson was moments away from becoming World Champion -”

“Excuses, excuses. What's next, the lights got in his eyes?”

“Actually, I believed that was the excuse you used back in ninety -”

“Let's go to the ring.”


Funyon is resplendent as always in a dapper purple suit and waves to the crowd as they give him a respectful round of applause. “The following match is scheduled for one fall with a twenty minute time limit. Introducing first...”


'Theme from Sailor Moon' hits the PA to a confused pop as Matt Myers come to the ring, dressed in a Sailor Moon's outfit. Yes, as in Japanese schoolgirl. Yes, as in schoolgirl skirt.


“...at a weight of two hundred and twenty one pounds, from Honolulu, Hawaii, MATT “THE COSSSSPLAYER” MYYYYYYERS!”


Myers comes down to the ring, twirling around in his outfit as many of the fanss lowly back away from the security railing, while some come closer. Note that most of those that are coming closer are all geeky, fat, and creepier than a Micky James promo.


“What the hell...” begins King, speechless for the first time in the evening. “OK, this is too far. My eyes! Sweet Jesus, my eyes!”

“Well, nobody has ever said Matt Myers doesn't beat to a different drummer,” muses CIA.


Myer comes to the ring, raising his arms to a cheering crowd.


“His opponent...”


The lights go dim and a slight strobe effect begins as the crowd buzzes a bit.


“...he stands six foot five inches tall and weighs in at 269 pounds! Originally from Oil City, Pennsylvania, he now resides in Salem, Oregon, DAAAAAAVID CROSS~!”




'S*kt It Up' by (hed) PE screams over the PA as the crowd cheers for the returning former 'Fallen Angel.' As the song continues, Cross walks out on an SWF ramp for the first time in over a year to a big pop as he raises his black-gloved fist to the air as he comes to the ring. Cross looks much the same as he did when he last came was in the SWF. Same leather jacket, same black hair, same five o'clock shadow, and the same cross around his neck. He slaps a few hands as he comes down to the ring and rolls in the ring and raises his arms to another loud pop as he begins his pre-match ritual.


The two fan favorites circle each other for a moment, before Myers moves in on the larger Cross. The skirt-wearing crowd pleaser surprises David with a quick elbow, then takes him down to the mat with a big armdrag! The crowd pops as Cross rises quickly, only to rush into another armdrag. The sequence repeats itself, as Cross falls victim one more time to another armdrag and Myers locks in an armbar on his larger opponent as the crowd cheers!


“Matt Myers using his one advantage over David Cross,” CIA says as Myers locks in the armbar. “His speed.”

“He's...wearing...a...Sailor's...Moon....outfit,” King says, still a big in shock. “That...”




“Get your head back in the game,” says CIA calmly.

“Yeah, right. Gotcha. Sorry 'bout that folks. Small bout of PTSD. I once accidently walked into a live 'slash' Sailor Moon meeting at a ComicCon.”


Myers quickly bears down on Cross, but the former tag team champion adjusts his weight and pushes Myers over into a cradle, which Myers breaks out of quickly by letting go of the armbar. Both men get to their feet, but Myers strikes first with a big basement dropkick to the knee, followed by a quick dropkick right to the kisser of Cross! As David stumbles a bit, Myers take advantage and takes Cross to the mat with a big headscissors takedown as the crowd roars its approval!


“I almost feel sorry for Cross, having to deal with a guy in a thong headscissoring him” King says. “Then, I remember that he's David Cross and I am who I am. Then I laugh.”

“You are truly a despicable human being,” CIA retorts as both men get to their feet.

“Yes, and...”


As David gets to his feet and CIA just sighs, Myers runs in an delivers a quick kick to the breadbasket, followed by a huge spinwheel quick that takes Cross down to the mat! The schoolgirl outfit wearing Myers delivers a few quick kicks to sternum of Myers, then scrambles to the top rope. He waits for a moment for Cross to get to his feet and then flies off and pops the crowd as he dives into Cross with a flying cross body press! One small problem...


“...press! No, Cross catches him! POWERSLAM BY CROSS!” screams CIA as the crowd goes wild!

“That's one way to shift the momentum,” King says. “That's going to be Myers' problem in this match. All of the punishment he's given so far can be stopped and reversed in just a few moments thanks to the size differental.”

“King, that sounded shockingly like analyzation.”

“Hey, it's in my contract.”


Cross gets back to a vertical base and pulls Myers up with him. The former Fallen Angel then delivers a nasty elbow to the side of the head, followed directly by a series of three forearms to the forehead of Myers. The crowd cheers this move, as Cross kicks Myers in the gut, doubling him over and giving the people in the front row a good view of Myers and his pink thong covered ass. Cross then makes that portion of the crowd very happy by backing up, and delivering a nasty knee to the head and then as the glassy-eyed Myers twirls around, he sends him into the mat with a CRESCENT KICK!


“Nasty, nasty combination there by Cross and Myers has to wonder how he got into this mess,” CIA says as Cross plays to the crowd, raising his feet. “Just a few moments ago, he was in charge of this match and now, it's gone.”

“Much like the Canadian domination of the NHL.”

“Hey, that's a low blow King.”

“That's what I'm best at.”


The big man currently residing in Oregon doesn't waste any time, continuing on the attack. He picks Cross back up and sends him into the ropes and drills him with a nasty clothesline that sends Myers end-over-end flat on his face while the crowd cheers. David then continues the onslaught by gripping the Hawaii native in a gutwrench, then lifting him up and sending him into the mat with a vicious gutwrench suplex as the crowd goes wild! As Myers uses the ropes to rise to his feet, the nearly three hundred pound Pennsylvania native crouches down ad as Myers gets to his feet, he rushes him, twirling around and massacaring Myers with a huge...


“...ROAAAAAARING ELBOW~!” screams CIA as the crowd goes nuts and Myers is wiped on the mat, dead to the world. The big man hooks the leg and goes for the pin...










After the near fall, Cross pulls an out of it Myers to his feet. The big man raises his right hand to the crowd, and as they cheer...wraps the meaty glove around Myer's throat! He easily picks up the much smaller man, but Myers shows he isn't out of the mat quite yet, by effectively sandbagging his weight, making Cross drop him down to his feet, without finishing the choke slam. Myers takes the moment of peace to his advantage, and delivers a lightning quick kick right to the gut! As the crowd cheers this gutsy display, he wraps Cross in a bulldog, runs at the ropes and drives the former Fallen Angel into the mat with a Tornado DDT!


“What a counter by the Honolulu native,” CIA exclaims while the crowd voices its approval. “Matt Myers may not be completely out of this match yet.”


“He may not be out of the match, but he's not out of the woods either,” replies King. “He's had his ass kicked the last few minutes and it has had to take a toll.”


Cross gets up fairly quickly after the devestating manuever, but Myers is up fast as well and is ready for David, as he attacks him with a running dropkick that sets the big man off-kilter. As the crowd cheers his every move, Myers backs off for a moment and drills Cross with a superkick that sends the big man to his knees! Myers allows Cross to get back to his feet, then nails David with a big kick the gut and takes him down to the mat with a nasty Diamond Cutter as the crowd goes wild! With the crowd sensing an upset, he goes to the top rope and comes flying off into the mat with a...


“...COOOOORKSCREW MOONSAULT!” CIA cries while the crowd cheers. “What a comeback from Matt Myers.”

“He's still wearing a skirt,” King retorts. “Only one man can be scary in a skirt, and it's not Matt Myers.”

“Roddy Piper?”

“No, Sheldon. Former boxer, now crossdresses down at – um.”

“You were saying King?”

“Hey, I live in Vegas. I meet unusual people.”


Myer slaps the mat once in frustration, but goes to the corner and screams, 'KOOOOOOONICHIWA!” and rushes Cross as the big man gets to his feet. But, this time Cross is ready just a moment quicker and sees the small man in a skirt running at him. Cross calmly steps back to his own corner, then explodes out of the corner with a huge, headwrecking...


“...YAAAAAAZUKA~!” CIA screams while the crowd goes mad.

“While, so much for that comeback idea,” King exclaims.


Myers is out and as the crowd is on their feet, Cross pulls the skirt-wearing weirdo on to his shoulders and holds him for a moment in a fireman's carry position. Then, with no flash and all impact, drives him into the mat with the DVD into the Brainbuster, also called...


“...CROSS TO BEAR!” CIA yells, as Cross hooks the legs...














“David Cross with an impressive win tonight and he seems to be back on the right track here in the SWF,” CIA says while Cross raises his fist to the crowd.

“He's beaten Martin Hunt and Matt Myers. Let's give him the World Title,” King cracks.

“We'll be right back after the following words from PepsiMax!”

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Sean Davis sits on a bench in the locker room of the Mississippi Coast Coliseum in Biloxi. His body is sheen with sweat from a recently ended workout. Splatters of red dot Sean’s white t-shirt. He gingerly removes it, revealing the gashes from the Ultraviolent title match in Baton Rouge. Sean pulls out a small jar from his gym bag and unscrews the lid, dipping his fingers into the white gel. He extracts a small gob and begins working the stuff over his still-fresh wounds from the match last week.


He looks up as the door opens and none other than Marcus Washington steps through. “What’s up, big man?” greets Marc.


Davis just mutters a ‘hello’ under his breath. He seems hardly in the mood to chat.


Marc reclines in a folding chair, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Okay, spill it,” he orders Davis.


And the former footballer doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve been giving these people what they want to see, week in and week out. They wanted to see Jimmy win Calvinball, and I could have won it easy. They wanted to see Bruce Blank remain the Ultraviolent champion..”


Davis shakes his head as he continues to smooth a homemade salve over his torn flesh. He winces a bit as the infection-killer goes to work. Sean looks up at his (seemingly) only friend in this world, Marcus Washington.


“And so they got it.”


Marcus chips in, “But at what price, Sean? Look at you. You’re bending over backwards for a couple hundred thousand a year.. and you’re miserable!”


Sean screws the cap back on his jar of voodoo remedy. “What am I supposed to do? I’d love to become a free agent for the NFL.. but nobody will take the chance.”


“How do you know if you don’t try?”


Davis snorts, “Are you kidding me? You don’t remember what happened a couple years back? I was laughed at.”


Washington shakes his head, “And that was a couple years ago. People forget things.. “


“Did you happen to hear the crowd in Baton Rouge?”


“Sure I did, but I didn’t hear anything in Phoenix.. “


“Please,” Sean scoffs. “They get kids from all around. Somehow or another, they’ll know.”


Marcus settles further back in his chair. “I guess you’ll never know if you don’t try again.”


Sean stares dead at his former manager, and then shakes his head in disbelief. “David Cross is back.”


The lawyer nods, “I saw that. But I don’t know what you’re worried about. He was as much Angelo’s friend as you were. If he had any incriminating evidence, he would have come forward at the trial, and he didn’t. So, chill, big man. Focus on your wrestling career.”


Davis snorts again, “What career? SWF’s resident loser?”


Marcus smirks, “No. that’s Matt Myers’ title.” A short pause.. “Take matters into your own hands. To Hell with Joseph Peters and his ratings. Don’t give the people what they want to see. Give them what you’ve got. Everything you’ve got.”


“Honestly, I feel like nothing without Toxxic and Spike.. Revolution Zero made me a part of something that was.. popular, I guess. It’s like without that name, I’m nothing but a body in the ring.”


“Who’s stopping you from using the moniker?”


Sean pauses and furrows his brows in thought. He looks back up at Marcus, “A one man show? I don’t know.. “


Washington queries, “What about JJ Johnson? He was once part of Rev0.”


Davis just shakes his head.


“Put out the word. Revolution Zero was the best talent in the SWF last year.”


“Last year. With Toxxic.”


Marcus sighs and stands. “Fine. Fail. I’m gonna go watch the show.”

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“Where is he at? He’s never one to bow out of adversity. Hell he’d whether face it than run from it.”


One of the many highly paid SWF cameramen has been giving the specific order to follow the Unique Youth around wherever he may roam. The colossal backstage area is complete with doors, walls, and many SWF superstars that are either unbooked, or nervously awaiting their turn to go in front of a crowd and showcase their talents.


Working his way through the multiple corridors in the arena, Zyon halts his momentum, stopping at a wall. A wall that could be described as being constructed in the form of a triangle…a triad if you will.


Asian Underground


The pudgy, but brilliant manager of the SWF world tag team champs stares at Zyon. Cross who has no real problem with the youth mimics his mentor, and the Divine Wind holds his hand out…


…And Zyon takes it.


“So Mr. Zyon, what could I do for you?” Mr. Kobe asks with glee.


With the feeling of being uncomfortable floating away, and the extreme visions of Asian Underground pulling a Rodney King on Zyon, all but gone, the youth can get to the point.


“Well have any of you guys seen Spike since Storm, Akira…oh.” Zyon tries to stop himself realizing that the Divine Wind doesn’t know any English.


Titling his head to the side, the masked cruiserweight champion feels slightly disrespected. Raising his hand into the air, Akira performs an action that he has learned in the great country of American. Extending his middle finger, Akira proceeds to physically tell Zyon to “fuck off.” All three of the Asian Underground members chuckle to Zyon’s stunned form.


“Yeah, ok really funny. I see Akira’s been watching a lot of South Park. Seriously though, have any of you guys seen Spike?”


In perfect harmony the three individuals wrapped in gold, turn into a huddle reminiscent of pro football. Patiently, Zyon tries to sneak into the huddle, but it breaks before the youth can cheat his way into the play.




Breaking the unsettling silence, Michael Cross doesn’t say a word. Instead with a slight chuckle, the Suicide Machine points to the left. Relieved, Zyon looks for conformation.


“So he’s down the left hallway?”


Answering Zyon is the Divine Wind who points to the right…


“The right hallway???” Confused, Zyon gets a whiff that he is getting tricked.


And as Mr. Kobe points to the hallway behind Zyon, the youth would be correct. All three members of the triad point in a separate direction, leaving Zyon with his hand on his head. Unable to block out the childish laughter emanating from Japanese/American tri force, Zyon thanks the three for their time.


“Thanks guys…thanks a lot.”


Going to the right, Zyon leaves the triad to talk strategy on how to stop Manson and his tag partner JJ Johnson.


“Well they were lots of help…if I wanted to NOT find Spike. Oh well it’s good to know those three have somewhat of a sense of humor, with their biggest icon being Godzilla and some twat named Goku, I would probably drown myself. If I was extremely pissed off about losing a match that I earned where would I be? Pissed? Piss? The bathroom!”


Zyon smiles as he walks by a group of staff members who look at him…


“What is he smiling about?”

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“Welcome back to Biloxi, Mississippi!” CIA yells excitedly as the commercial break ends, “what a great match from David Cross and Matt Myers-”


“Easy Drew,” King warns, “that’s a breach of trade descriptions.”


“-and coming up we have yet more excitement, as Amy Stephens takes on David Cross’s one-time tag partner, Christian Fury!” the Canadian Intelligence Agent shills. “Fury hasn’t been in the best of form lately, and Amy Stephens got beaten by Ghost Machine 2.0 at From The Fire, then failed to compete last show; will either one fare better tonight?”


“Barring meteorites, I’d say at least one of them has to.”


With that rather depressing comment from the Suicide King the lights drop down somewhat and ‘Remember The Name’ by Fort Minor starts to ring out over the PA system. A few seconds later one of the federation’s two current stars from Cleveland makes his way out, Christian Fury idly twirling his kendo stick and nodding in acknowledgement of the few fans down the entranceway who respond positively to his arrival.


“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall,” Funyon booms. “Introducing first, from Cleveland, Ohio; he weighs in tonight at 222lbs… this is CHRRRRRRIIIIIISTIAN… FUUURRRRRRRYYYYYYYY!!”


Fury leaves his kendo stick by the ring and strips off his leather jacket, then rolls under the bottom rope and begins performing a few pre-match stretches as he eyes the entrance ramp.


“Christian Fury has seemed something of a disturbed soul of late,” CIA notes, “there was that bizarre attack on Ghost Machine 2.0, his well-publicised distaste at being teamed with Mistress Sarah, and then the very obvious friction with her replacement Sean Davis… overall, he’s had a rough ride since he’s come back!”


“Fury’s hardly the most professional guy in the sport,” King notes acidly, “or the most stable. If he loses to a girl tonight then hopefully he’ll just pack his bags and go home.”


“Do you think the fact that a fellow Clevelander is in the main event competing for the World Title may highlight to him his lowly position on the card?” CIA speculates.


“With any luck. Take a hint Chris; you can’t cut it in the SWF!”


However Fury shows no signs of departing just yet; just as well, as the crashing chords of ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ by the Ramones suddenly blast out of the PA system, signifying the arrival of someone who’s always ready for a fight!


“…and his opponent, from Nottingham, England; she weighs in tonight at 171lbs, this is AAAAAMMMMMMYYYYY… STEEEEEEEEEEE-PHENS!!”


The crowd rises in response and Amy Stephens appears on the soundstage with her can of Stella Artois in hand, then runs down to the ring (being careful not to spill any) and scrambles under the bottom rope. The Punk-Rock Princess then scales the turnbuckles to the second rope and raises her lager to lead the crowd in a chant:







Amy drops back down to the mat and takes a chug of beer, then sets the can on the apron and waits for referee Brian Warner to signal the start of the match, which he duly does.




The bell goes and Fury eyes his opponent with some caution. Christian went up against Amy’s older brother in a few tag matches towards the back end of 2004 and ended up being powerbombed on the hood of his own car by Sean Davis at Toxxic’s instructions in a backstage assault. With that in mind, it probably says a lot about Fury’s character that he offers a handshake.






Amy weighs it up for a second, then extends her own hand and briefly clasps Fury’s before backing off again. Fury nods once, seemingly satisfied about something, and the two wrestlers begin to circle each other.






The crowd definitely seem to have a favourite, but the man from Ohio has some supporters in the house as well. Chris steps forward and raises one arm, inviting Amy to participate in a classic test of strength, but seems somewhat surprised when Stephens steps in without any undue hesitation and reaches up to link fingers with him. Amy is some five inches shorter than Fury so she has to stretch to reach, Fury brings his other hand up as well and their fingers mesh… and it’s on, both wrestlers leaning into the contest as hard as they can!






Fury’s face registers surprise almost instantly; despite his extra height and weight, Amy Stephens isn’t budging. The grizzled veteran grits his teeth and redoubles his efforts and is rewarded with Amy starting to be forced backwards slightly. Christian grins and tries to hook one leg behind his opponent’s, ready to trip Amy and forcer her to the mat, but the lager lass shows no signs of waiting for her opponent to set himself and instead lashes out with a headbutt that catches the startled Fury flush in the face!




Needless to say, that shakes Fury’s composure a bit and he staggers, his grip and momentum lessening drastically. Amy takes advantage by booting her opponent in the stomach to double him over, then hooking both of his arms before twisting around so they’re back-to-back with what is effectively a full nelson applied. Fury struggles to free himself, but before he can do much more than wriggle a bit Amy drops onto her comfortably-padded backside with a Full Nelson Neckbreaker that causes Fury to grab at the back of his neck in pain!


“And Amy Stephens came out of that little encounter on top!” CIA notes.


“Only by breaking the spirit of the contest and suckerpunching him,” King retorts.


“I think you’re a fine one to talk about breaking the spirit of contests,” CIA replies, “and besides, it was a sucker-headbutt.”


“Well, you know all about suckers,” the Gambling Man jibes, at which point An Octopus appears from OUT OF NOWHERE~! and wraps all eight tentacles around his head, then headbutts him!




“What the hell was that!?” King wails, clutching at his face.


“That was a sucker-headbutt.”


Ignoring the Dynamic Duo on commentary (it’s probably best), Amy Stephens has grabbed Fury by his hair as he rises, then lands a right hand smack on the kisser! Christian still isn’t quite used to girls who hit this hard and staggers back a step, only for Amy to grab him by his arm and Irish whip him towards the opposite ropes. However Fury is ready for this and reverses the move, only to find that Amy ducks under his attempted clothesline as she rebounds. The junior Stephens bounces back off the near cables as well, then - somewhat gracelessly, but nevertheless effectively - leaps into the air and drives Fury down to the mat with a Lou Thesz press before hammering down a series of punches into his face as the Clevenlander tries to cover up!




Brian Warner starts warning Amy about the use of the closed fist and she looks up to argue with him… which proves to be her undoing as Fury, battered but still very much with it, leans up to grab her hair and haul her off him! Warner isn’t much happier about Fury’s breaking of the rules that he was with Amy’s, but the former Tag and Hardcore Champion has finished playing nicely (read: getting his ass handed to him by a girl) and grabs Amy’s leg, then begins firing kicks into it.


“Yeah right, like you’re going to make any impact on those thighs,” King snickers.


“Amy Stephens might not consist of a few pipecleaners in a bikini, but there’s nothing wrong with seeing a more normally-sized woman in the sport,” CIA protests at his commentary partner’s sizeist comment.


“Jesus, I thought we had Annie commentating [/i][/i]last[/i][/i] show?”


After his initial volley of kicks Fury changes tactics and forces Amy over onto her front, then takes her ankle in both hands and hauls her bodily off the canvas before driving her knee back down into the mat as hard as he can!




Amy rolls away… well, no, Amy tries to roll away but Fury still has hold of her leg, and the Clevelander twists to force her onto her back again before starting to wrap it around his own leg and apply a spinning toehold! Needless to say, Amy isn’t particularly happy with this development and voices her objections in a characteristic manner.


‘YAARRGH! Get off me, you bloody long-’aired ponce!’


Fury just grins as he torques the hold tighter, trying to immobilise his opponent to maximise his speed advantage. After a few seconds he evidently decides that it’s time to try it again… but this time as he twists Amy brings up her other foot, plants a pink-and-black Van in his ass and shoves him off into the turnbuckles!








The junior Stephens manages to get to her feet, despite her right leg evidently being a bit sore… but Fury was barely inconvenienced by his trip to Turnbuckleville, and he turns around to come charging back with a spinning heel kick that looks like it nearly decapitates Amy!






Fury grimaces as he gets back to his teeth, casting a quick glance at the crowd as if to imply that hey, he’s in a wrestling match here and he has to hit his opponent sometime… then thinks better of it. Amy isn’t wasting much time getting up either, which isn’t surprising to Fury really as he’s already had first-hand evidence of how hard her head is. However, his initial rush of aggression which stemmed from being hit in the face several times has now cooled slightly, and so instead of taking the match to his opponent with more strikes he opts to slip behind Amy and then apply a sleeper, looking to put his female adversary down without further need for violence.


“Christian Fury; Ratings Killer,” King remarks.


“A sleeperhold may not be the most visually exciting hold in Christian Fury’s repertoire, but it can get the job done,” CIA nods sagely.




“Until Amy sticks her fingers into his eyes, of course.”


Brian Warner isn’t happy about that (as if he would be) but Amy Stephens seems blissfully uncaring about the official’s preferences as she digs her digits as hard as she can into Fury’s face. The veteran is finally forced to release his hold and scrambles away across the mat, trying to put some distance between himself and his enemy while he swipes at his stinging eyes. Meanwhile Amy tries to gather her wits (not a very hard task, according to some critics; there are so few of them, you see) and takes a second to stop her head from spinning with the after-effects of Fury’s move, then pushes herself to her feet and advances on the Clevelander… only for Fury to spin around on the mat and take her feet from under her with a sweep!




Amy lands hard on her back and Fury capitalises by grabbing her right leg once more, then focusing on her foot and ankle and wrenching at it with both hands. In a second, Amy is trapped in an anklelock!


“Finisher!” CIA hollers.


“Not in this day and age,” King responds soberly. “What is it about you masked men that makes you so excitable?”


Amy scrambles to try and reach the ropes but Fury digs his feet in, rises to a vertical base and holds on grimly. However, before her opponent can grapevine his legs around hers to make the move a permanent fixture Amy pushes herself up onto her hands as far as she can go, then rolls through to bring Chris Fury’s leg within her reach. Fury staggers unsteadily but manages to remain standing even while Amy is trying to haul him off-balance… so Amy tries another tack and rolls the leg of his jeans up enough to sink her teeth into his leg!




Fury’s bellow is enough to split the ears of nearby spectators and he drops Amy’s leg like a scalded dog, then takes a few instinctive steps away from his opponent.


“She’s got rabies!” King bellows, “quarantine her!”


“King, please,” CIA scoffs, “the British mainland has had no incidents of rabies in domestic or farm animals since the early 20th Century! Amy is just displaying some unorthodox tactics to keep her opponent guessing.”


“Unorthodox!?” King says in disbelief, “it’s cheating, you stupid Canuck, however you want to paint it! Fury should just get his kendo stick and beat her with it.”


“And that wouldn’t be cheating?”


“Oh, it would,” King acknowledges as Fury points at Amy and treats the Punk-Rock Princess to some choice verbiage, “but it’d be Cheating With Intent To Injure, and that’s a noble aim in and of itself, whether or not it wins you the match.”


Christian Fury seems to have left behind any and all reservations he might have had about exchanging blows with a girl and is advancing on Amy Stephens, still spitting fire. Meanwhile Amy’s not going to let some ginger Yank talk trash to her and she marches towards him as well, givin’ it some lip in the best traditions of Radford. The two end up nose-to-nose…




…and Amy does her best to slap Fury’s lips off! The blow snaps the veteran’s head around, but it’s going to take more than that to put him down and he hits back with something of the same!




Amy staggers back a step, eyes momentarily unfocused, then comes back with a straight right hand!




Fury takes it on the jaw and wobbles, but recovers enough to lash out with a knife-edge chop-








-that catches Amy square on the tits! Her eyes widen in outrage and fury (no pun intended), but Chris Fury saw what happened to Laberinto when he did the same thing (actually that was Landon - what a way to start a relationship) and has no intention of being pummelled into oblivion, so he fires off a double nerve chop to the neck!




“STRIKE OF KINGS!” CIA bawls, having a Tenzan moment.


Amy nearly drops to her knees following that one but she still has one weapon left up her sleeve, and raises one pink-and-black Van before slamming it down onto Fury’s left foot! The unexpected attack catches the veteran off-guard and he yelps in pain, and as he bends down to grab the injured appendage Amy snares him in a front facelock and swings her leg back before kicking it forward to dump Fury on his skull with the Double D T.




Fury remains upright for a moment as his body imitates an exclamation point, then collapses to the mat. Amy, still having a little trouble moving her arms exactly as she’d like, rolls him over onto his back and hooks the leg…


















…but Fury kicks out moments after Brian Warner’s hand find the mat for the second time, meaning the match will continue! The veteran’s first instinct is to get off the canvas and Amy helps him to do this, then scoops the slightly dazed Clevelander up before sending him back down with a body slam. From there she simply falls forwards, driving her forehead into his with a falling headbutt that causes Fury to spasm in pain.


“How in the hell did you get this gig anyway?” King asks CIA, “out of all the goddamn Carnival, why couldn’t they have shoved Raynor or someone down here?”


“Hey, you had Annie last show,” CIA shrugs, “maybe they’re working through us and he’ll turn up eventually.”


“Oh, please. Annie’s had more stables than girlfriends,” the Gambling Man snorts, “I think the only one that wasn’t lame enough to include her was the Magnificent Seven.”


“Well, she did flip for Wilson once.”


“Oh yeah,” King remembers, “he wouldn’t shut up about that…”


With Fury down and possibly incapacitated Amy decides it’s time to step things up a gear, and the Punk-Rock Princess heads for the nearest turnbuckles. Once there she boosts herself up to the second buckle, then leaps off with a legdrop that lands right across Fury’s throat! She takes a moment to grab her leg and wince after she hits the move, but still manages to apply another cover to her opponent…



















-but Fury kicks out again! The Mississippi crowd express their disapproval at that, then start cheering Amy on.






Despite his kickout Chris Fury doesn’t appear to have the most active cognitive processes on the planet right now, and it might be this that encourages Amy to take an uncharacteristic risk. Leaving her opponent prostrate on the mat she heads for the turnbuckles again, then starts to climb once more… however, this time facing out towards the crowd.


“Amy Stephens is going high-risk!” CIA exclaims excitedly as the lager lass reaches the apex of her climb. She balances unsteadily for a second, takes another second to look over her shoulder and make sure Fury is still there - he is - before backflipping off the top buckle to plummet down towards her opponent!




Sadly, Fury got his knees up at the last moment and Amy’s landing is far from comfortable.








The majority of the crowd are disapproving as the Clevelander uses a veteran manoeuvre to outfox his opponent, but there is a small-yet-audible group of Fury supporters who are chanting away for all they’re worth in an effort to give the ex-Clannite some backing. Regardless, Fury wastes no time in scrambling over to where Amy is clutching her stomach and making the cover…


















…but Stephens kicks out shortly after two! Christian seems to decide that the leg work he was trying earlier was too low-gain given how surprisingly hard his opponent can hit when she gets a chance and instead of going back to work on Amy’s right leg he grabs the Punk-Rock Princess by the head and hauls her up, then Irish whips her into the nearest turnbuckles. Amy hits hard and has the breath blasted from her lungs, but Fury doesn’t help matters when he comes charging in with a shoulder to the gut!


“Don’t you just love to see violence towards women?” King says, “mind you, Chris Fury should know all about that.”


As King references the dim, distant and sinister past of the man known as Christian Fury, he himself is delivering a second and then a third shoulderthrust to Amy Stephens in the corner until Toxxic’s little sister is virtually gasping for air! With his opponent breathless and unresistant Fury grabs her in a headlock and leads her away from the turnbuckles, then turns himself around to point at the corner pads!


“Well, it looks like Amy could be about to take a Trip To The Dawg Pound,” CIA notes, “I hope Fury takes care because this bitch bites back!”


“‘Trip To The Dawg Pound’? That’s gotta be one of the stupidest names for a move ever,” King comments.


“What, and ‘Suicide Squeeze’ was a master of wordsmithery?” CIA scoffs.


“Ash Ketchum. Jumping Mew Driver. Pwns j00.”


As King effortlessly pronounces internet typos after quoting possibly the stupidest move name ever (and backstage Chris Raynor sulks, because he jobbed to it) Fury charges forwards and runs up the turnbuckles, then pushes himself off the top one to swing back around and drive Amy Stephens facefirst into the canvas!




Fury takes a second to roll Amy over onto her back, then makes another cover and takes care to hook the leg…




















-but Amy kicks out, showing that girls from Nottingham don’t go down easily (unfortunately…) Fury seems equally disappointed and grabs Amy before hauling her to her feet once more, then takes hold of her wrist and starts to Irish whip her. However, instead of releasing her Christian keeps hold of her wrist and hauls her back towards him, swinging a devastating short-arm clothesline at her skull…





…but Amy ducks and ends up behind Fury, wriggling her wrist out of his grip before reaching up to wrap her arms around his throat!


“Last Orders!” CIA bellows, but the Canadian is premature as Fury manages to grab Amy’s arms before they lock into position, then manages to twist behind his opponent.


“Crossface Chickenwing!” King hollers in return, before declaring, “Fury, Jay Hawke is gonna sue your ass!”


Hawke’s lawyers are saved the job however, as Chris Fury also fails to get his move locked in because Amy grabs his head, positions it above her own and then sits out with an improvised jawbreaker! Fury staggers back clutching his jaw and Amy gets back to her feet, orientates on her opponent and charges with arm outstretched for a clothesline…




“The speed of Christian Fury’s reactions there,” CIA gasps in amazement, “or was it just veteran know-how? Regardless, he expertly countered that clothesline into a Flatliner!”


Sure enough, Amy’s face has been reintroduced to the canvas at an unhealthy speed and the Nottingham lass seems momentarily stunned. Fury takes a quick second to massage his jaw, then rolls her over onto her back and makes another cover…



















-but Amy kicks out again!












The crowd are split (although there’s still a definite bias for the wrestler with breasts), but Fury doesn’t seem to care who’s chanting for who anymore; he’s on a roll now, and has gradually gained control of the match after an uncertain start. With an idea to end this soon he drags Amy back to a vertical base before placing her in a front facelock. With just a little showmanship he reaches his right arm out to the side, then twists his body around to deliver the swinging Diamond Cutter more usually known in this form as the Twist of Fate…


…and Amy reaches up, this time managing to grab her rear naked chokehold!




“LAST ORDERS!” CIA roars as Amy jumps up and wraps her legs around Fury’s torso, “Last Orders at the bar for Christian Fury!”


“WILL YOU PUT THAT BELL DOWN!” King screams at him, snatching the handbell that his Canadian announce partner has started furiously ringing for no good reason.


However, things aren’t quite over yet. Despite the fact that his body was in motion Fury had a moment’s warning before Amy locked the hold in tight, and the veteran was able to adjust his body positioning. As a result when Amy applied the bodyscissors it didn’t pull him down to the mat; admittedly Fury now has what is effectively a 170lb choking piggyback rider, but he still has the use of his legs for a vital few seconds before his oxygen gives out. And those few seconds are enough for him to stagger to the ropes and clasp them, causing Brian Warner to start the count!










Amy reluctantly releases her chokehold and backs off, giving Fury a chance to grab a valuable breath.


“What quick thinking by Christian Fury,” CIA says in admiration, “that’s a veteran move there, and he’s just become the first person to get caught in the Last Orders and not lose on the spot!”


“Hey, if you get in the ring often enough you have to do something right sooner or later,” King shrugs. Meanwhile Amy has decided she isn’t going to be too sporting about things, and steps in to lay a right hand on Fury before his vision has properly cleared. Brian Warner isn’t happy but hey, when is he? Amy starts to Irish whip Fury across the ring but oxygen deprivation or not the veteran still isn’t going to let her have it all her own way and he reverses the momentum to send her into the ropes instead. Amy rebounds and Fury ducks his head, looking for a back bodydrop - however, Amy just plants her hands on his back and leapfrogs over him, then as he rises and turns around to look for her she locks her hands together and spins back towards him-




-nailing him with a Polish Hammer! Fury drops to the mat like a sack of potatoes and Amy’s momentum brings her down as well. She takes advantage of this by making a quick cover…



















-but Fury still kicks out! Amy swears loudly, flips off Brian Warner when he protests, and hauls Fury back to his feet…


…but Fury kicks her in the gut…


…and Amy catches his foot!


“I think Fury was going for the Thunder & Lightning, but he’s in a world of trouble now!” CIA says. With her opponent hopping desperately to keep his balance Amy reaches out with her free hand, grabs him by the hair-




-and pulls him into a devastating headbutt that nearly drops him. With Fury now vulnerable she quickly applies a front facelock, then throws his arm over her shoulders and grabs him by the waist of his jeans. For a moment it seems that she won’t be able to get him up, but then the Punk-Rock Princess lets out a loud roar and hoists Chris Fury into the air…


…holds him vertical for a second…


…and twists to the side, driving him down to the mat with the momentum of her own body!






Amy has the leg hooked, and it only remains for Brian Warner to count the pin.






















“Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner,” Funyon booms, “AAAAAAA-MMMMYYYYY… STEEEEEEEEEEEE-PHENS!!”


‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ fires up over the PA system as Brian Warner raises Amy’s hand in victory, but the British lager lass doesn’t waste any time on celebrations; instead she heads straight for her tinnie on the apron and chugs down a healthy portion to the general approval of the crowd.


“Jackdanielshammer?” King says weakly, “what were we saying about stupid move names?”


“I have it on the best authority that you can blame JJ Johnson for that,” CIA says primly.


“Well, it’d have to be Canadian to be that stupid. All the same, I’m disappointed in him.”


Amy hasn’t finished her beer, but she deposits the can by Chris Fury’s head as the veteran starts to stir on the canvas, then rolls under the ropes and starts to head up the entrance ramp. The first thing Fury sees as he rolls over in some considerable but gradually fading pain is a half-full can of Stella Artois.


“Well, I guess that’s her version of saying ‘good match’…” CIA speculates.







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“C’mon Spike, where are you at? I was hoping I wouldn’t have to degrade myself by looking for you in a public stall. You’re straight edge, I know you like Pepsi. Why couldn’t you have just been by a pop machine or something? Of course, the Asian version of the three stooges weren’t of help, but hey it could be worse?”


Stalking down the corridor on his voyage to make things right, Zyon follows the directions to the nearest bathroom. On his way many SWF staff members, the same staff members who were taught to despise everything that is Spike Jenkins, greet him. After seeing both sides of the equations, Zyon can’t help, but want to help his friend. He did it one. He can do it again.


“What went wrong?”


Deep in thought, the youth is interrupted from himself…




Putting his hand on the bathroom door, Zyon turns giving the random name dropper a delightful wave. Pushing through the door, Zyon is immediately greeted by a straight edger…s….sister.


Amy Stephens


“Oh god no…” Zyon makes the mistake of looking down at the chest of the young, but rowdy Amy Stephens.




“Gah, hey what was that for!” Zyon screams at the prideful Amy Stephens, “Wait if your in here, then…oh god….”


“WHAT ARE YE DO’IN IN HERE, INIT! GET OUT!” The strong Nottingham accent confuses the educated youth.


Zyon is embarrassed and the deep red mark across his face isn’t helping things, but he needs answers.


Looking into the Princesses of Punks EYES, Zyon tries to have a subtle conversation in the woman’s bathroom, “Ok, Ok. Calm down, please. I just want to know one thing. Do you know where Spike Jenkins is?”


“Are you re’tarded? This is the ladies bathroom. Can’t ya read? Now I’m goin to give yer the count of th’ree, and then Im goin to kick yer ass, YA GET ME!!!” She is quite intense to say the least.


Zyon begins to trip over his own language, “Gelookimsorryjustasnwerthequestionplease! C’mon I just want you to answer the question and then I’ll be gone. You don’t have to kill me, and have that on your conscience. You know, I bet deep down you are a nice…”


“SHAT UP!!! IM not nice ‘ike any of those tramps that Landon used to hang around wid. I don kno where that innit Spike is. That lil’ emo fucker is probably off cryin somewhere.”


“Oh ok, thank you.” Zyon quickly turns into the door…smacking it with his face.




Rolling his eyes, Zyon exits the bathroom looking like the biggest pervert this side…of well the biggest pervert. Staggering down the hall in a daze from smacking his head against the door, Zyon is one again lost on answers.


“I’ve never met someone so bossy in my life. Somebody needs to teach that lady…errr…girl…err Mrs. Frankenstein some morals.”


Looking back, Zyon can’t help but smile.


“But she did give me a straight answer at least…aw man people are looking at me funny now.”

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Backstage at the Mississippi Coast Coliseum, an impatient Avery Duciel paces the length of the corridor, her red heels making klack-klack noises across the hard floor. She appears to be waiting for something. Her cell phone begins ringing, and as she flips it open and checks the number, her expression quickly turns from anticipation to one of disgust.


"Kevin?" she says. "Where the hell are you? I've been on the phone with Joe Peters three times in the last hour trying to get you a match for Lockdown, and you aren't even here!"


There is a pause as Avery listens to her boyfriend/client. "You're where?"


At this point she screams into the phone. "How the hell did you end up in Albuquerque?!"


"...your ticket... got switched?" Avery looks incredulous.


"Riiiight. So some freak accident caused your ticket to get switched, and you ended up on the wrong plane and at the wrong destination."


"...Whatever. No, I don't want to know the details. It doesn't even matter at this point -- you've just torpedoed any chance of an appearance on Lockdown and now you need to rebook your flight for the next show."


"...Yeah, well, I'm not too happy about it either. Don't worry, I'll try my best to salvage things with Peters here. Just make sure you get to the next show."


Avery hangs up her phone and rubs her forehead in frustration. "What the hell did I get myself into?"

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As the show returns from a brief commercial break, we home in on a press conference table. In the lower right-hand corner of the screen, the SWF logo is covered by a translucent BennerCorp logo, and the folding chairs are full of well-dressed reporters. In the center of the table behind a podium, in a rumpled SWF polo shirt, Chris Belcourt stands.


"Ladies and gentlemen," says Belcourt, "the SWF, in conjunction with BennerCorp, has arranged to present a recent BennerCorp press release. Now, without further ado, BennerCorp spokesman and - wow, this is bad - executive consultant nonpareil, Thomas Flesher."


With a sigh, Belcourt sits down at the table, muttering something about drawing the short straw, as Tom Flesher makes his way to the center of the table.


"Thank you for coming," he says. He pulls a folded piece of paper out of his blazer's inner pocket and begins to read.


"On behalf of BennerCorp, we would like to apologize for the numberous bugs and glitches that were evident during the brief appearance of Ghost Machine Version 2.0 in an on-camera capacity last Friday night. The Ghost Machine most well-known to the SWF, which bears serial number 3699, was unfortunately occupied during the main event by standard postmatch analysis, standard filter-cleaning and standard analysis of titleholders' recent performances, particularly that of SWF World Champion Wes Davenport. Because of particularly unorthodox methods used in the matches being analyzed, number 3699 was unavailable for longer than expected. As a result, a Ghost Machine 2.0 bearing serial number 3902 was wheeled out. Unfortunately, number 3902 was running an experimental Inane Chatter Protocol. For what we hope are obvious reasons, viz. that the chatter was in fact too inane, that protocol has been eliminated."


Flesher glares at the gaggle of road agents standing to the side of the stage, then goes back to reading. Rookie road agent Ted Polak sneers back at him defiantly, for some reason.


"Once again, we apologize for the failure of the ICP and for the unusually lanky chassis design displayed. This design was eliminated years ago due to the comparative lack of tensile strength involved.


Thank you."


Flesher stares out to the audience.


"Any questions?"


As numerous reporters stand, shouting "Mr. Flesher! MR. FLESHER!", Flesher glares, says, "Good," and turns to walk off. As he leaves the stage, he grabs Polak by the ear and pulls him along.


The BennerCorp logo fades, and the show goes to commercial.

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"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Lockdown, where we have what is happily becoming a more and more common occurrence here in the SWF: it's a tag title match!"


The cheerful voice belongs to the Canadian Intelligence Agent, the cheering in the background – even though they can't hear CIA's announcement – comes from the crowd, and the forthcoming sigh will be that of the Suicide King's.


"Except it's with the Asian Underground," sighs King, "so it will invariably suck."


"I hardly believe such a thing, King," counters CIA. "I haven't kept up with the fed as much, admittedly, but I've seen enough of those fine gentlemen to know that they're quite talented."


"Yeah, well, you're from Canada, so it doesn't count," replies the Gambling Man exceedingly childishly.


"I doubt that was necessary," says the Intelligence Agent.


"Aw, did I hurt oo feewings?" asks the Heartbreaker, again, childishly.


"I'm from Ottawa, King," notes CIA with a rigid face, "I don't have feelings."


King would offer a rebuttal, but two things stop him: one, CIA is right; two, the Smarktron springs to life, displaying not two, as is normal, but four competitors.


On the left side of the screen is two men, one bigger than the other, one more experienced than the other, but both battle-scarred and…for the sake of the children, 'unpleasant'. For one, this is one of many shots at tag gold previous to this; the other, their first. Neither man, however, plans on letting this opportunity slip by.







And on the right, two other men. One's face looks hardened by a lifetime of again, for the children's sake, unpleasantries, and the other's face would probably be in a lighter mood if one could see it. It is hidden by a mask, however, and both stand in their matching hoodies – one saying '28', one saying 'Fearless', but you only know that if you can read kanji – side-by-side, ready to take on the world. For now, they'll have to settle for their challengers.




"Ladies and gentlemen," begins Funyon, right on cue, "the following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL, and it is for the SWF Tag Team Championships!"




Mastodon's "Blood & Thunder" kicks up, the opening riff sliding smoothly as the lights flash red and white, very calmly, with smoke billowing out of the entranceway.


Five seconds later, the entrance is pandemonium as the song kicks into high gear with the lights accompanying it as the team of Johnson and Manson make their way out of the smoke, striding swiftly towards the title shot awaiting them.


I think that someone is trying to kill me

Infecting my blood and destroying my mind

No man of the flesh could ever stop me

Your fight for this fish is a fight to the death


"Introducing first, at a combined weight of 468 pounds…the team of JJ JOHNSON! AND! MMMAAAAAANNSSOOOOONNN!


Johnson keeps his eyes locked on the ring as his partner simply keeps walking, but both are grinning maliciously as Johnson jogs up the steps and into the ring.


What remorseless emperor commands me

I no longer govern my soul


And then Johnson is on the middle rope, his arms thrown wide as Manson rolls into the ring, glaring out over the crowd with a sneer…and yet there's still something positive about that sneer. When one has a title shot, one can't really stay angry.


I am completely immersed in darkness

As I turn my body away from the sun






Until your opponents come out, at which point it's probably a good idea to get angry. With no further ado, "Voodoo People (Pendulum Remix)" comes cruising out of the speakers, letting the audience know that the tag match they've been anticipating begins soon, a fact that becomes all the more affirmed as two sleeveless-hoodied figures begin their journey down the ramp, belts strapped around their waists as Manson and Johnson look on. And frankly, they aren't impressed.

"And their opponents!" booms Funyon over the now-roaring crowd, "At a combined weight of 418 pounds, the REIGNING AND DEFENDING TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD…THE ASIAN! UUUNNDEEEERGROOOUUNNDD!!"


On that announcement, eager to get the match started, Akira sprints down the ramp, leaving Cross to walk down behind him, and Mr. Kobe behind him, as the Divine Wind slides into the ring, sheds his hoodie and belt, and tosses them to timekeeper David Blazenwing before staring at the Johnson-Manson corner, challenging one of them to step to the center. As Cross sheds his own wear, it is Johnson that rises to the young Kaibatsu's challenge, referee Chris Bacon signallng for the bell as Cross and Manson snatch up the tag ropes.




"That's the bell!" announces CIA. "And we're underway!"


Akira immediately sends his hand out poised in the air, ready for a Greco-Roman knuckle lock to start the contest, as has become his tradition. Johnson eyes it for a moment, then lashes out with a roundhouse kick! Akira, with his lightning-fast reflexes, is able to Matrix back in time as the kick narrowly misses! The Divine Wind knows now that there will be no tests of strength today, and turns back upright…before having to bridge back again as Johnson continues his momentum and sends a high heel kick his way! Once again, Kaibatsu is fast enough to evade it, but seeing that Johnson is STILL continuing his spin, he stays Matrixed…and Johnson stops on a dime, kicking the Cruiserweight Champion's legs out from under him! Kaibatsu goes crashing hard to the mat…and the Canadian takes advantage by drawing his foot up…




…and stomping on the face of the Divine Wind!




"Well," says CIA. "That seems a tad harsh."


"No shit, Sherlock. That's kind of the point; beat your opponent until they cannot move a shoulder off of the mat for three counts, or place them in a painful hold until they tap out. That's how you win a wrestling match," points out King 'helpfully'.


"I know that, King," sighs the Agent.


"Oh, good, you've watched others do it. That wasn't necessary, then," smirks the Gambling Man as Akira sits upright, in searing pain mere seconds into the contest. His nose is probably broken, and will be bleeding profusely soon, but he hops to his feet, defiant towards the almost lackadaisical-looking Ultimate Fighter. Kaibatsu assumes a fighting stance, and Johnson steps out of the corner with a powerful left hook! Kaibatsu blocks it, but Johnson is more than happy to throw a right cross! Akira blocks that as well!




So Johnson drives his forehead straight into the bridge of the Cruiserweight Champion's nose! The Divine Wind squeals with pain, but he's tough enough to ignore it, run to the ropes, and bounce back for a roaring elbow!




But Johnson effortlessly flicks out a shotei straight to the face of Kaibatsu, and again any thoughts of offense are immediately derailed by blinding pain as it becomes readily apparent that, in his condition, he's not going to be able to charge headlong into battle without some thinking.


"What marvelous strategy by Johnson here, and you see why that stomp at the beginning of the match was such a good idea: he's rendered any offense by the monkey incredibly easy to shut down with a flick of his wrist," notes the Heartbreaker. "And just imagine how much fun it will be when Johnson starts throwing elbows."


As CIA shudders to think of it, Akira charges in for another roaring elbow! Johnson sighs, then flicks his arm out once more for another palm strike…and Akira drops down into a soccer tackle, driving his feet into the shins of the Canadian! Thoughts of palm strikes go whooshing right out of Johnson's head, to be replaced by nagging pain in his lower legs as he stumbles forward! Meanwhile, Akira pops to his feet behind him and charges off the ropes before bouncing back just as the Canadian turns…






…and landing as firm a shot as ever right into the Ultimate Fighter's jaw with a roaring elbow!




Johnson staggers, teetering back into the ropes…and he falls back into them before bouncing off, spinning, and blasting Akira straight in the orbital bone with a rolling elbow, the two hitting the ground at the same time; one from momentum and lack of orientation, the other from…well, taking an elbow strike to the eye socket.






"Akira had a fiery comeback going for a moment there," comments CIA, "and did a little pattern-exposing of his own. Johnson, however, had the wherewithal to fight back with a devastating elbow of his own, and now Akira is in worse shape now than before he got offense in!"


"Well, yeah," says King. "Look. Who's the most experienced man in the match? Manson. Who's the biggest man in the match? Manson. Who's the meanest man in the match? Johnson. Who's the fastest man in the match? Johnson. Which team doesn't have a member with leg or face injuries? Johnson and Manson. They have every advantage, and I'll be more than shocked if those two fail to pull this out."


"You know, King," begins CIA as Johnson springs to his feet, smirking slightly as Akira shakes his head, the first signs of a major nosebleed flinging their way out onto the canvas with every move, before climbing to his feet, "you mention this leg injury of Cross', and yet he seems to be masking it quite well. Don't tell me you're assuming that after a month, it still hasn't healed to the point of it not playing a factor?"


"Don't bet the farm that it's not going to start bothering him, that's all I'm saying," shrugs the Gambling Man, Akira being far more cautious with the Canadian , approaching him as he would a Punch-Me Clown – you know, the things that you hit and they bounce back, hit you harder, and then laugh at you. Finally he decides on a course of action, and steps forward, throwing a roundhouse to mirror the one Johnson threw at the beginning. The results are dissimilar, however, as Johnson merely ducks the blow before Akira stops in place and WHIPS HIS LEG BACK, DRIVING IT STRAIGHT INTO JOHNSON'S JAW WITH A BACK HEEL KICK!!




The kick is forceful enough to dump Johnson on his ass, drawing a few chuckles from the crowd. It's never a good idea to approach Johnson when he's being laughed at, but frankly, this is the most Kaibatsu has had to work with since the match started, and by Gumby he's going to take advantage of it. That is, until Johnson shoots his leg out and buries a kick into his face, once again sending blinding pain shooting into his eyes and stopping any advances he may want to make!




"And again," smirks King, "Johnson goes back to the face to shut down anything Kaibatsu does."


The Divine Wind reels for a moment, but shakes the pain off once again and turns back towards his opponent.




His opponent then proceeds to tag out to the indomitable Manson, who wastes no time stepping into the ring and charging Akira, looking for a roaring elbow that Kaibatsu has the wherewithal to reverse into a drop toehold!




With the Raging Bull stunned, Akira swiftly transfers around to something that's more in his league – a front facelock, drawing Manson into a situation that he has to wrestle himself out of, certainly a refreshing situation for the Divine Wind after all of the heavy blows to the face.


"Smart move by the Divine Wind here, making Manson exert himself to escape," notes the Canadian at the announce table, "because now, even if Manson gets himself out, he's going to have expended a lot of effort, and…well, that shut me up."


The shutting up in particular occurs when, with sheer power, Manson forces himself up to his hands and knees, and from there to his feet, Akira looking significantly less confident about the usefulness of his hold. However, he still has Manson cinched rather tightly in the hold, and that will almost certainly be enough to slow him down.


Or so it would seem as, once again through sheer power, Manson bridges himself backwards and dumps the Divine Wind on his back with a release Northern Lights suplex! Akira hits the mat hard, and Manson drops an elbow on his face before shifting his weight and hooking a leg, referee Chris Bacon on top of the cover instantly!








T-But a suplex and an elbow drop are not nearly enough to keep the tough-as-nails Divine Wind down, even if it does send still more excruciating pain into the neurotic receptors of the double champion. Manson tugs his bulky frame into an upright seated position, glaring down at the nettlesome Nihonjin…who quickly proves himself even more annoying by bringing his leg up and driving the toe straight into the back of the head of The Stampede! Manson grabs at his head for just a moment, but it's enough for Kaibatsu to roll to his feet and get the hell out of Dodge, dashing over to his corner to tag in Cross to thunderous applause!




Cross steps right through the ropes, wasting no time in charging the rising Raging Bull…who explodes upwards, catching him and hoisting him up for a powerful spinebuster!


…and the Suicide Machine continues his momentum upwards, taking advantage of the Stampede's loose grip by pushing off with his hands and rising HIIIIIGH above Manson before driving both of his feet into Manson's face with a front dropkick, staggering the massive Denver native!




"Modified Avalanche Head Trauma!" cries CIA as Cross lands hard on his back but pays it no mind, bouncing right up to his feet and charging the Raging Bull. "What an impressive counter to the spinebuster!"


Cross capitalizes swiftly on his team's newfound momentum, sending a running forearm into the Stampede's face before reaching down and grabbing Manson by his stunned legs, lifting, and dumping him most unceremoniously to the outside, the Raging Bull landing on his feet but losing his balance and collapsing back against the announce table! With no further ado except a slight glance at Johnson – who for the record, looks more interested than alarmed – Cross sprints to the opposite side of the ring and bounces off of the ropes, using the momentum boost to tear the 20 feet across the ring with the greatest of ease and send himself diving over the ropes, flipping forwards through the air before driving both of his feet directly into the chest of the seated Stampede, and Manson into the announce table behind him, nearly collapsing it into the laps of the Canadian Intelligence Agent and the Gambling Man!







"HEY!" cries the Heartbreaker. "We NEED this table to hold our mysterious papers and omnipresent bottles of water, and we don't get another one. Don't break it."


"King, I think you should be showing a little more concern for the safety of our competitors – I mean, Manson has the wind knocked out of him for sure, and Cross took a nasty flat-backed landing on those pads; he's not in the greatest of shape either," scolds CIA.


"But I'm thirsty," whines King.


CIA buries his head in his hands as Cross performs a slooow back roll, no doubt favoring what amounts to a ten-foot belly flop onto rubber and concrete as he rises to a standing

position, tugging the gasping-for-breath Manson to his feet before whipping him into the steps!





…Well, trying, anyway, as referee Chris Bacon continues his count. But even sans breath, Manson is far stronger than the Suicide Machine, and he uses his left arm to tug Cross right into a short-arm elbow smash!




Cross is predictably and momentarily dazed, and Manson swings his body around before planting his weight forward and whipping CROSS into the steps, the Suicide Machine hitting knees-first and completing a full front flip over the steel to another smack-landing against the pads!









As Cross' brain takes a moment to register the intense pain now coursing throughout his already-battered legs, Manson sucks in three gigantic breaths before rolling into the ring, reaching up, and tagging in JJ Johnson.






Being outside the ring behind the guy that just got tagged in is not a good idea, although by that point it's certainly not up to Cross, who is grabbing at his punished patellae and moaning as the Canadian strides down the slightly displaced steps and walks over to the Suicide Machine, dragging him up to his feet before whipping him into the ring.




Not whipping him into the ring as in rolling him under the ropes, whipping him into the ring as in sending him thighs-first into the steel bar that holds the decorative apron up. Now that we've got that out of the way, Cross is in an even rougher situation than he was before, which is saying a lot considering. Johnson grabs him on the rebound and rolls him into the ring, then follows in after him, reaching down to GET SNARED IN AN INSIDE CRADLE BY THE SUICIDE MACHINE!!


"INSIDE CRADLE!" cries CIA. "Johnson may be caught off-guard here!"


















THR-NO! Johnson may be shocked, but he's not THAT shocked, and he shoves his shoulders off of the mat with a quickness that belies his typical wrestling style before turning on the spot and delivering a brutal falling elbow to Cross' face!




Unfortunately for Johnson, Cross is long since gone, having rolled away from the merciless competitor as swiftly as his current state would allow him. Thus, Johnson ends up driving his elbow very hard into plywood and steel, sending a shiver up his arm that stuns him long enough for Cross to get to his feet, stride – hobbling – over to his side of the ring, and make a tag to the Divine Wind, who hoists himself over the top rope and sprints across the ring before stepping up on the rising Johnson's knee and blasting him in the face with a Shining Gamengiri!!






Johnson falls back onto his back and Akira pops up to his feet, taking a moment to pose triumphantly for the people of Biloxi, drawing even more cheers!


…That quickly die down when Manson reaches over the ropes and drives a sharp elbow into the back of the head of the tag team champion, then wrapping both hands under his chin and leaping backwards off the apron, reverse-hotshotting the unfortunate Divine Wind's neck across the taut strand!




Kaibatsu's neck whiplashes forward in grotesque fashion, whipping him to the ground at a rapid pace…straight onto the chest cavity of Johnson! It takes a moment for Bacon to realize the pin occurring, but once he does he immediately drops to the ground and counts















TH-NO! In what is perhaps very fortunate for Manson, the Canadian is not to be beaten by such a fluke pin, and rolls himself out from under the Divine Wind rather swiftly before reaching down and hoisting the Sendai native to his feet, delivering a string of rapid elbow smashes to his face before hoisting him up for a fisherman's suplex…and bringing him down in a fisherman's brainbuster!




Johnson bridges for the pin, and Bacon, who never really got up, simply slaps his hand against the mat still more!


"Fisherman's brainbuster could do it here," notes King.















NO! Kaibatsu, due to the punishment he's taken in the match being relatively minimal, kicks out somewhat easily, although that's not to say the fisherman's brainbuster was not painful.


"Kaibatsu is remarkably resilient in this matchup, King; you might want to rethink your prediction of Johnson and Manson," says CIA, taking a moment out of his normal banter to gloat.


"Well, yeah, he's resilient, because Manson and Johnson haven't actually DONE anything to him. Hell, Cross did more to himself with that flip-flop dropkick whatever-the-fuck than Johnson and Manson have done to him this whole match. It's like they aren't even trying, Drew," sighs King.


"Don't call me that!" hisses the Agent as Kaibatsu drags himself to his feet, ducking a Johnson elbow smash before popping back up and launching and elbow of his own!


…That Johnson catches in his left hand before throwing it down, spinning in place and blasting Akira right in the nose with a vicious rolling elbow, Kaibatsu going down in a cloud of blood and sweat as Johnson rolls on top of him for the cover!











NOO! The rolling elbow still isn't enough to put Kaibatsu down, and the resilient Divine Wind rolls himself out from behind the Canadian's back before dragging himself to his feet and waiting for the Ultimate Fighter to rise…before sprinting forward and cracking him in the jaw with a Yakuza Kick!




Much like the rolling elbow earlier, Johnson goes reeling back into the ropes, and much like the roaring elbow earlier, Johnson comes springing off the ropes with vengeance on his mind, lashing out with his boot for a Yakuza Kick of his own!




Is how it sounded in Johnson's mind, but you can't always get your way in this cruel world of ours, and Kaibatsu proves this by ducking under the rapidly cruising boot, sending the Canadian's momentum and inertia all out of whack as he plants his foot into the ground, attempting to slow himself down. It fails, and he ends up tumbling head over heels into the ropes, drawing more laughs out of the crowd – and more anger out of Johnson. However, Kaibatsu is pretty much oblivious to this as he stalks the Canadian before shooting in, snatching on a 3/4 facelock and running up the ropes…


"Divine Wind! Kaibatsu going for the Divine Wind, and nobody kicks out of this!" cries CIA as the Divine Wind climbs ever upward, looking to hit his namesake and retain his title…unfortunately, Johnson sees it coming, and shoves his opponent forward, driving him into the top rope with a powerful shove, crotching the Cruiserweight Champion on the top turnbuckle and leaving him in a very uncomfortable seated position! Referee Chris Bacon demands that he not utilize such tactics anymore, but Johnson dismisses him with a mere flick of his hand before climbing to the second rope, then to the top, and then tucking his head under Kaibatsu's arm as the arena grows very, very hushed.


"Johnson…" gasps CIA, not wanting to believe his eyes despite what they happen to be telling him, which is a very frightening message. "Johnson's looking for the backdrop driver…off the top rope. If he hits this, he wins, but at what cost to his opponent's health?"


"Like anybody besides Goody You-Shoes cares what happens to Kaispotsu," chuckes the Gambling Man. "If anything, the fans will rejoice."


It doesn't look like the fans will do much rejoicing as Johnson drags Kaibatsu to a standing position, and begins tensing himself up for the lift, then bends his knees, takes him up…and Michael Cross sprints across the apron as best as his battered legs allow before springing to the second rope and delivering a brutal forearm shot to the Canadian, causing him to drop the Divine Wind onto the top rope in that same uncomfortable position before tumbling over the top rope to the apron, where the Suicide Machine reaches his leg over and plants a firm boot into Johnson's face, causing him to lose his balance and topple to the floor!




"And the Suicide Machine saves his partner from certain neck trauma!" cheers the Agent as Cross helps Akira recover from his…unfortunate landing. "But at what cost? Look, again, the damage to Johnson is minimal – he's already getting back up – but Akira may have a groin injury, or damage to his hip; the list of potential wounds is almost endless, and while it certainly beats being dropped on your head from 7 feet in the air, it doesn't do so by much."


"Asian Underground as a whole has been performing quite sloppily," mentions King. "I'm not sure what's causing this, but they sure picked a shitty team to choke against."


"They're NOT choking!" insists CIA, but he doesn't look to sure of himself as Johnson leaps from the floor to the apron, and then from the apron to the second rope, where, with a motion befitting a cry of "SHORYUKEN!", he sends a brutal elbow uppercut slicing right through the Suicide Machine's jaw!




"What a shot!" cries the Agent, and it only looks to get worse as Cross teeters a moment on the middle rope, his head lolling about, before his grip on the top rope loosens and he falls all the way down to the floor, flat on his back!!






The crowd goes silent as Cross' grotesque momentum carries him all the way over onto his stomach, where he lies absolutely still apart from a low, sickening moan that emerges from the very depths of his prone form, causing Kaibatsu to glance over nervously at his partner…and, unfortunately for him, completely forget he's not alone on the turnbuckle.




Johnson is kind enough to remind him with a wicked elbow smash, knocking the already pretty out of it Divine Wind for an even further loop, then climbs to the very top rope and faces Kaibatsu before tugging him into a standing headscissors.


"Oh, damn," gasps CIA. "Johnson already tried to give the poor guy a backdrop driver off the top, now he's looking for a powerbomb."


"Well, at least he's focused," shrugs King as Johnson launches into some breathing, preparing himself for the lift, the leap, and that sudden stop at the end. With his ritual complete, the Canadian doubles over, takes a firm grip around the waist of the Divine Wind, lifts…and Kaibatsu swings his leg up and delivers a scorpion kick right to the crown of the Canadian's skull!




The crowd's mood improves, a few cheers ringing out, but they fade as the near-rabid Ultimate Fighter simply shrugs it off before taking a few more breaths, lifting…




"A second scorpion kick!" commends the Agent as Johnson looks less eager to powerbomb the feisty young Sendai native, shaking his head a little more fervently than he was last time a kick got him in the skull. And then, he gets a major surprise, as with an animalistic cry, the Divine Wind surges upwards, sending Johnson to the canvas with a HIGH back body drop!







The Canadian bounces to his feet out of instinct, but wanders around quite aimlessly, more than dazed by his rough landing. Still perched precariously on the top rope, Kaibatsu takes a look back and ponders his next move. He can't try a moonsault, Johnson will find a way to reverse that. A dropkick would only knock Johnson down for a second, and probably make him madder, which his face doesn't need, and he can't reach down and get him for the Divine Wind.



…or can he?



With that thought through his mind, Akira looks back out over the crowd, then peers back over his shoulder, timing his leap and aiming very carefully; the match likely rides on the success of this maneuver. Then, with Johnson in prime position, Akira leaps UP…


…bounces DOWN with a split legged moonsault…


…and carries himself OVER, just missing his target but reaching out far enough to salvage the move, snagging Johnson's head and pulling him to the mat – with not as much power as he would have liked – making the Canadian the first ever victim of a split-legged Divine Wind, although one of his legs swings back and nails Akira in the nose!






"DIVINE WIND! AKIRA GOT THE DIVINE WIND!" shrieks CIA, leaping out of his chair so fast he almost knocks the already unsteady table over.


"Yeah, but he didn't get ALL of it!" notes the Gambling Man. "In fact, that was pretty shoddy looking, not to mention that he got beaned in his broken nose, delaying his capitalization."


Kaibatsu grabs at his face, squeezing his eyes shut as if it'll cause all the pain to come leaking out of his head and onto his opponent to make this pin even easier. All that comes rolling out is blood, though, but the pain fades enough that he can pile on top of his opponent, hooking a leg DEEP as referee Chris Bacon slides in for the








































NO! NO! JOHNSON SHOVES HIS SHOULDER OFF OF THE MAT JUST IN TIME TO KEEP HIS AND MANSON'S TITLE HOPES ALIVE!! All of the air rushes out of the crowd as Mr. Kobe becomes LIVID, SHOUTING at Akira in Japanese! The language receives blank faces; the general message is clear: "What the hell made you think that was a good idea?"


"And it's just not enough! Had Akira not taken that fluke shot to his face, this match would be over! Asian Underground would still be champions!" bemoans CIA.


"I TOLD you, that move was so extremely sloppy it would have stunned the hell out of me had it gotten the win. I applaud Akira's creativity, and his ability to work with what he had, but what he had just wasn't enough," notes King.


Akira sits back and simply stares as Kobe derides him for his foolishness, but realizes that some things are more important than learning a lesson, and so he stands up and walks over to Johnson's prone form, AND LEARNS A LESSON ANYWAY AS JOHNSON ONCE AGAIN DRIVES HIS FOOT INTO AKIRA'S FACE!!






The Divine Wind vocalizes his pain again, this time in a shriek, and Johnson rolls to his feet before launching an elbow!




Akira reels, and Johnson throws another!




Akira staggers forward this time, and Johnson sees his opportunity, placing his foot on the back of Kaibatsu's knee and forcing him to his knees before stepping over his arm and trapping it between his legs, reaching down, and tucking Akira's face in the crook of an arm before clasping his hands and squeezing.


"Why…" begins CIA with a start as the unfamiliar hold quiets all but the most knowledgeable fans, "why, that's a stepover facelock! We haven't seen one of those in the SWF since Danny Williams applied it to Mak Francis at From the Fire 2003! SURELY, Johnson is mad if he thinks it's going to get the win HERE!"


"I wouldn't be so sure, Drew," notes King to more hisses from CIA, "I mean, no, in a normal situation this wouldn't be a very effective hold at all. But both Cross and Kaibatsu are exhausted, and Kaibatsu has so much damage to his face that the hold has to be EXCRUCIATING."


And it looks to be as Johnson bears down on the hold, nothing but Akira's eyes visible in the folds of Johnson's muscular limbs as he squeezes rather mercilessly on the face of Kaibatsu, and the eyes of the Divine Wind tell a story of intense pain. Akira wants to tap; the pain IS excruciating, King was right. But he can't give up on Cross, and can't give up on his title. He tries standing up in the hold; he's too tired, and Johnson has him pretty much trapped like a rat in the mundane-to-the-casual-observer hold. Fortunately, he can see past the sweaty skin and detailed tattoos to his corner, where Cross is entering the ring, coming to bail him out. Then, one side of his vision blacks out inexplicably.


Michael Cross is weary, but he enters the ring anyway, desperate to save his title and his partner. It doesn't look like a difficult hold to break, and he charges the Canadian with vigor, ignoring the shape that has appeared on the periphery of his left eye. It's probably just exhaus





"LARIATOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" bellows the Gambling Man as Manson's arm hits home, turning the Suicide Machine inside out and leaving Akira stranded, with absolutely nobody to save him now. Desperate, Akira reaches out for the ropes…



…and then Johnson bears down on the hold even further, and the choice goes sailing out of his hands. Well, out of one of them.









Johnson immediately releases the Divine Wind, although not before stopping to wipe the blood from Akira's nose off onto the mask of his defeated opponent, both he and Manson overjoyed at their victory, referee Chris Bacon quick to carry the belts over to their new holders.


"Dammit!" swears CIA as Johnson straps his belt around his waist, the Raging Bull tossing his casually over his shoulder. "That's really all I can say. Just, dammit."


"Then I'LL analyze the situation," says King, stepping in. "Cross and Akira made way too many mistakes. Most of their offense took a lot out of them, be it by being reversed or by being very high risk. Johnson and Manson weren't putting a whole lot of effort in at the beginning because they didn't have to. Asian Underground were beating themselves up, and when it came time, Johnson and Manson capitalized. Excellent work, gentlemen."


"Well, you have a point," sighs the Ottawa scum as Johnson and Manson leave the ring with grins on their faces. "It's Blank and Luchador in a barbed-wire cage next, folks. Don't miss it."






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Landon Maddix is WALKING~! That's the best intro I've got, people. Anyway, Landon is walking down a corridor, obviously in search of either something or someone. Reaching the door he's looking for, Landon stops and strains to listen inside. Muffled voices. One a man's. Presumably that of Joseph Peters. Another a woman's, strangely familiar yet indistinguishable.





"Uhm, I'm a little busy at the moment..." comes the muffled voice from the other side of the door. Interpreting that as (a) Joseph Peters and (b) No reason not to just enter the office anyway, Landon smiles to himself.





"Did you not hear me?" Peters' voice sounds out again, this time louder, though still muffled. "I'm busy, you'll have to wait!"


"You've got a hooker in there, haven't you?"


"Look, who is it!?!"


"It's...uh...an important package." lies Landon, hoping that if there is a hooker, he'll at least catch a peek. "Care of a Mr. Robert Frost."


"Well...okay then, come in."


Rubbing his hands with glee, Maddix eagerly opens the door and rushes in. His glee is short lived though, as he just now realises why the female voice was so strangely familiar. Sat at Peters' cluttered desk is the now very familiar Megan Skye, arms folded as she looks up at Landon with noted destain. Peters looks destained too as he realises that (a) There is no package and (b) He done got duped.


"I thought you said there was a package?"


"I thought you said weren't with a hooker." says Landon slyly, looking at Megan in the corner of his eye.


"Did you want something? Because if not, I'm in an importan..."


"What's the deal, Peters? Two shows in a row you've left me off the card now and you've got a Pay Per View rapidly coming up. I don't want to be stuck in some stupid gimmick match Thoth phoned you up with at 2:00am and pitched, slurring his words, with some robot and Matt Myers. I deserve better than that and you know it. I need ring time. I need Toxxic to know that I haven't disappeared off the face of the earth like he has. I need..."


"...to calm down?" interjects Peters, causing Landon to finally pause for breath.


"Look, all I'm asking for is some ring-time. Is that too much to ask?"


"At the moment, yes, it seems to be. Because Landon, I'm having trouble finding anything for you to do anymore. Making these cards isn't just some rush-job done at one in the morning and posted up right after the show ends so that the guys in the back don't riot because they've nothing to do, you know. They take careful planning. I take lots of things into consideration. Including your talk. Your lengthy talks. It's more and more hard to put you on these cards because you're making so many demands that are so awkward to get around. This 'titles mean nothing to me' routine you're doing to make me realise you want Toxxic is forcing my hand, Landon. I can't book you in title matches. I can't book you in number one contender matches. I can't put you against Champions in non-title matches, because that opportunity could be better spent elsewhere. To be honest, I'm not keen on giving you high-profile matches ever since the Laberinto scam you pulled on me. And your track record of attempting to injure opponents just makes it safer all round to leave you off the line-up altogether."


Running a hand over his head, Landon sighs deeply. Noticing a rather smug Megan Skye to the side of him, he quickly hides his frustration and attempts to look like he's in control.


"Fine. I'll stop all that then."


And fails.


"Stop what exactly?"


"The hiatus on the titles business. It hasn't got Toxxic back here, so consider it gone. Book me against whoever you want, give me all the title shots I can handle. Give me Bruce and I'll beat that talentless redneck faster than you can say *CHOPBLOCK!* Put me against Akira whatshisname, I'll beat him no problem. Hell, chuck me another tag partner and give me a shot at the tag straps. I'll win them with a fourth different partner and call myself Chris Raynor '06 if that's what you want. Shove me in with Wildchild, I've beaten him before and I can beat him again no sweat. And hey, if you ever run out of people who can't stop laughing at the prospect of facing an actor for your World Title, I'm sure I can keep a straight face while I kick his ass, take his belt and exit, stage left."


"Maybe being Champion will bring Toxxic back." smiles Megan.


"Not that anyone ASKED you...but, yeah, maybe it will."


"Glad I could help."


Maddix glares at Megan, who continues to smile up blankly at him.


"So, I can consider you for anything then?" Peters finally chimes in.




"And no more intentionally injuring people?"




"I can't book a loose cannon on the show, Landon."


"Why not? It's not like I'd be the first. Hell, you're employing one of them as security!"


"Look, if you're out there crippling my roster with intent, then I can't book you."


"He's got a point..."


Landon turns back to Megan and glares at her again.


"...alright, fine! No more dropping people on their heads to try and get Toxxic back. Are you happy now?"


"Eh...happy's a little strong." admits Peters. "Content would be a better word. I'll see what I can do for you next show Landon, now that I'm content with your attitude."


"Thank you."


Turning on his heels, Landon leaves and carelessly lets the door slam behind him, before coming to a screeching stop outside the office. What was Megan talking to Peters about? And better yet, why should Maddix even care? No, no. Why DOES he even care?

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SWF Lockdown fades in after a commercial for Danny Williams' Strong Style Ribs: "Try the new WildChild Bahaman-jerked chicken skewers!" to an image of Jimmy the Doom roaming the halls of the Mississippi Coast Colliseum.


"Suredness of almost rightings often soon?" Doom asks.


"Yes, that intern said whatever this mysterious package is, it's down this corridor, and then a right," Lois the Unethical explains.


They hang a right, and directly in front of them is a giant-ass crate, the Doomtopian flag painted on each side. A large tag hangs from the top, and Doom yanks it off.


Dear Jimmy the Doom,


I hope this gift arrives in decent condition, and if not, send it back, as it's easily replaceable. Also, feel free to use it as much as you want, as you can always get another one. I just thought that you would be deserving of this, seeing as how you're Doomtopia's most famous citizen in well over a century. Thanks to you, tourism is up by four people, and we get on average, an additional three hits a day on our website.


Anyway, thanks for all of the things you've done for Doomtopia, and I hope that you can find use of this.






Exalted Vizier and Executioner Elect of Doomtopia, Rusty Irons


"Rusty Irons? Open it, open it!" Lois exclaims, giddy as a small child pumped full of amphetamines (A common practice in Doomtopia).


"Much of wants, howevered, wooded with Doomtopian, several strengths," Jimmy replies.


"Well, maybe there's a crowbar or something laying around. This is a wrestling show, after all. There should be something you can use to break open that crate," Lois says.


The two search around the vicinity, but are unable to find anything. Resigned, Doom and Lois head back to the crate. Shrugging, Jimmy smashes his face into a wooden plank, cracking it.


From the halls of Montezuma


Lois helps out and kicks at another.


[bTo the shores of Tripoli;[/b]


Doom lands another ferocious headbutt on the crate, snapping a plank in half.


We fight our country's battles


Jimmy reaches in and pulls on the surrounding planks, breaking a few in the process.


In the air, on land, and sea;

First to fight for right and freedom


After a steady onslaught, Lois manages to break a plank of Doomtopian wood.


And to keep our honor clean;


The concerted effort is enough to smash an entire side of the crate open.


We are proud to claim the title of

United States Marine


A large figure, clad entirely in black, tumbles out of the crate, and into Doom's arms.


"Of from being Rusty Irons?" Doom inquires.


"Yes, I am one of his personal Doomtopian Destroyers," the big man says, his voice muffled from the black hood.


"A Doomstoyer...." Lois mutters, awestruck.


"Verily. I am to be Jimmy the Doom's personal bodyguard and personal assistant during his time in the SWF. Irons doesn't want you to be ambushed or attacked unawares," the Doomstroyer explains.


The three Doomtopians walk down a hallway as Lockdown heads to commercial by way of a mother fucking star wipe.

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“My face still hurts. So far I’ve been laughed at by those who I thought had no sense of humor, once so ever. And most recently, I was punked out by that rowdy Stephens chick. No wonder why Toxxic ran off, he probably would have been killed with a beer bottle by the age of thirty. However, nothing can ruin what I’m about to do tonight. I will prove the critics wrong, and I will repair what has been broken.”


Sauntering down the hallway that leads to god knows where is the Unique Youth. Battling the feeling of loneliness, Zyon searches frantically for his best friend. During his search for Spike, Zyon has encountered quite the characters to say the least. None were of any help, which gives the youth an empty feeling inside…


…A feeling that Spike probably felt his whole career.


Stopping to check in any random door he comes across, Zyon makes the mistake of choosing door number three. Inside door number three is two figures, a big one and a small one, both will little redeeming qualities. On the larger figures shoulder is the sparkle of gold, and surrounding this particular lockeroom are all sorts of house cleaning items.














Barbed Wire.


“Fuck this…” Zyon trails, but he NEEDS answers.


Blank Brothers Unite!


Stepping into the den of ultraviolence, Zyon faces the notorious Bruce Blank and his not so notorious little brother. The stench emanating from the two chokes the youth, but somehow he gets his question across.


“So you two, I’m sure you know my agenda.”


“Yer agenda. Wayne what is this little guy’s agenda.” Bruce arrogantly makes fun of Zyon’s cruiserweight size.


The rat like brother of the Ultraviolent champ is just as dickish as his older brother, “I couldn’t tell you. Maybe he wants to know how you got so big. Or maybe he wants to know how I got my handsomely good looks.” The Drunken Dragon wipes his face, gaining quite a bit of grease on his hand.


“Shit boy if you’re good looking, then I’m…who’s that one good looking actor. The one that played in the movie where the killer plays off people’s seven sins.”


“Ugh…the Sixth Sense?”


Zyon can’t believe what he is hearing, but decides to choose his words wisely, “Wayne there are seven of the seven sins, not six. And Bruce you are thinking of Brad Pitt.”


Bruce strokes his chin, “Yeah that’s the fella. Such a good movie that is, it’s a real inspiration to me, when I’m working in the ring.” Bruce ends with a sadistic chuckle.


“I always liked Rudy.” The tiny Blank brother points out.


Chuckling, Bruce smacks his brother in the back, almost sending him to the ground…


“Shit, in your dreams boy. Anyway…ugh…erm…who are you again?”


Zyon is slowly losing his patience with the hardcore behemoth.


“I’m Zyon, but that’s not important…”


“Zyon? That sounds like a luchadore’s name. Why aren’t you wearing a mask? Hey can you do a cartwheel for me. How about an arm drag. Wayne and I just love you guys. Well I’m sure Wayne may have some hard feelings for Insane Luchadore, but I’ll fix that.”


Wayne nods attempting to hide the beating that the hardcore luchadore gave him at From the Fire.


“Fellas!” Zyon raises his voice slightly, “I just want a simple answer. Where is Spike?”


The Blank brothers look at each other, clueless.


“Who do you think you are?” The Drunken Dragon asks.


“Yeah,” Bruce backs his brother up, “You come into my fine living quarters, surrounded by these nice toys, and you raise your voice to me. That’s just rude.” Bruce proves to be the bully he is characterized as.


Zyon has had enough as he slowly backs out, while Trailerpark Messiah continues.


“When a man walks into another man’s home, that man should show some common gosh darn courtesy. When a man just happens to wonder into MY home, they better pray to god that they can leave in one piece!!” Bruce shouts to the heavens.




Bruce goes all leatheface raising a blistering chainsaw above his head. Wayne immediately freaks out, attempting feverishly to calm his brother down.


“Hey! He’s gone. Calm down, please.”


The enraged Bruce looks around noticing that the cruiserweight is gone.


“Oh…er…did I step on the little fella.”


The Blank brothers have a hearty laugh as Zyon returns to his journey to the center of his ruined friendship.


“I’ve searched everywhere. He has to be somewhere around here. Man, what’s next?”

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The SWF Ring crew are putting the final touches on the Barbwire wrapped cage as Lockdown returns from yet another profitable commercial break and we head straight to ringside with the Suicide King and the maple leaf masked CIA.


“Welcomé back to Zé Lockdown fans of all ages, Ey am Ze CIA non?” CIA says in a very thick French accent that causes King to look at him suspiciously


“Are you alright? Did you have a drink while you were backstage during the break?”


“Oh oui Ey am fine”


The Suicide King shakes off the weird feeling he’s getting from CIA and turns his attention to the next match.


“We’ve got one HELL of a match coming up fans, Bruce Blank and the Insane Luchador has been at war ever since Insane Luchador returned to the SWF”


“Returnenened from ‘ell no less” CIA adds


“From where?”


“From ‘ell”


“The following match is a BARBWIRE CAGE MATCH!! And it is for the SWF Ultraviolent title” Funyon says from his position in the center of the ring. Then he quickly adds the introduction of the challenger before the music can kick in.


“Introducing first the challenger, a former 3 times Hardcore Gamer’s champion – the man who just won’t stay dead, the INSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNEEEE LUCHADOR!!!”




”I’m the man in the box

Buried in my shit

Won’t you come and save me, save me”









Insane Luchador steps through the curtains the moment the fireworks die down and begins to head to the ring with a sense of focus and impending destruction emanating from the young man.


“There he is! The 3 time Hardcore champion and potentially the most dangerous man in this entire federation” King says


“’e is looking well after the meteor ax-plosion last week”


”Feed my eyes, can you sew them shut?

Jesus christ, deny your maker

He who tries, will be wasted

Feed my eyes now you’ve sewn them shut”


IL!! IL!! IL!! IL!! IL!! IL!! IL!!


The Ill one stops on the ringsteps and then thrusts Excalibur high in the air like he was King Arthur and the bundle of light tubes was the legendary sword.




”I’m the dog who gets beat

Shove my nose in shit

Won’t you come and save me, save me”


“On zis will be a barn burnar!” CIA comments as IL steps into the cage to await his opponent.


From the crowd behind the commentator table someone suddenly “You French son of a bitch!!” and then leaps over the guardrail attacking CIA


“What the hell? Another maple leaf masked CIA? What’s this the Twilight Zone??”


The attacking CIA quickly gets the advantage and raises his fist to punch the other guy in the face when the guy yells “I Surrendair!!” and then runs off waving a white flag he pulled from his pocket. With a quick adjustment of his mask the remaining CIA sits down and puts on his headset.


“What the HELL?” King asks as indeed we ALL ask.


“Damn that French bastard! Trying to take my spot and make me look bad eh?” CIA says now in perfect “Canadeese”


“Are you saying that this guy was some French impostor?” King asks even more confused than before.


“Yes and he was aboot to make me look bad and make everyone out there think that Canadian Intelligence is inferior to French” CIA says obviously pissed off at his arch nemesis.”


The warbling guitar echo lead to “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” kicks in announcing the imminent arrival of the defending champion




“And his opponent, the reigning SWF Ultraviolent champion making his FIFTEENTH TITLE DEFENSE TONIGHT! This is “The King of Pain” BRUCEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE BLANK!!!”


Dreams Broken: 14


”I walk a lonely road

The only one that I have ever known

Don't know where it goes

But it's home to me and I walk alone”


“I’m glad they’ve put these two guys in a cage because they need to be reigned in like the animals they are” King says


“I dunno eh, I mean yes it protects everyone else from their path of destruction but the barbwire cage is guaranteed to cover both of them in blood like a pancake gets covered in gooey… delicious… sweet Maple syrup” CIA adds as he begins to dream of Maple syrup.




”I walk this empty street

On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Where the city sleeps

and I'm the only one and I walk alone”


By now Bruce has usually entered the arena but for some reason the Ultraviolent champion isn’t there yet and with the impatient crowd who all paid good money to see him get his ass kicked it’s not a good thing.


“I can’t believe Bruce wouldn’t show – he’s never not showed up for a match, much less a title defense” Says the Suicide King.


“Maybe he really IS afraid of Insane Luchador despite him claiming otherwise” CIA points out.


”I walk alone

I walk alone”




The entire crowd is chanting as Bruce still hasn’t showed himself.


“Is this how his historic title reign with end? That he’s stripped of the title for not showing up?” King says.


Before the referee can make any kind of decision in that regard the cameras pick up some movement by the entrance, it seems that Bruce is on his way after all.


”I walk alone

I walk a... ”


And yes Bruce IS on his way, but not on foot – instead he’s driving a huge black Ford T350 into the arena, gunning the engine to get everyone’s attention as he pulls into the aisle and points the car towards the ring.




“Maybe Bruce ran late because of a commercial shoot?” King ponders thinking back to a previous SWF show where Bruce did indeed advertise the Ford T 350


“It seems that Mr. Blank has a statement to make eh?” CIA adds as Bruce opens the door and steps out with a microphone in his hand.


"If you're anything like me," he says, "your number one rule is Safety First. I wouldn't trust my Ultraviolent title to just any truck. But safety reports have lots of big words, which frighten and confuse me. So I decided to perform my own safety test."


“What the hell is he talking aboot?”


“I’m not sure but it sounds like Bruce is on the train to shillville” King says


“They promise that this car will keep you safe on the road… but do they promise that it’ll keep me safe on MY road?” Bruce asks and then gets back into the car


“WHAT IS HE DOING???” King yells out as Bruce hits the gas




The Ford T 350 roars to life as Bruce drives it straight towards the ring and the cage, Luchador tries to run to the door but the barbwire prevents him from getting the door open in time as Bruce…




“Holy crap Bruce just crashed the truck into the side of the ring and the cage” King says in disbelief because well frankly he can’t believe it.


The impact of the huge Ford truck shifts the entire ring and cage about a foot off it’s original position as all four cell walls break loose and collapse in on the ring one of them trapping Insane Luchador underneath it as he’s pinned down between the barbwire and the canvas. Then slowly


Ever so slowly


The entire ring begins to shit to one side, it’s almost unnoticeable at first but after it’s tilted a few inches it suddenly picks up speed and just collapses from the impact of the truck and the force of the collapsing cage




“HOLY CANADIAN BACON!!” CIA Yells out as the entire structure comes crashing to the floor with Insane Luchador trapped somewhere inside all of it.


Bruce steps out of the truck and looks at the carnage he’s caused, first he looks a bit shocked – almost as if he didn’t expect the ring to collapse but then he break out into a huge, wide grin


"As you can see, Ford has pulled out all the stops when it comes to your safety. It's a dangerous world out there, so remember this...


...if you're not buying Ford, you're buying your grave..." Bruce says raises his cowboy hat in the air as if to thank the audience.


“That son of a bitch! That sick son of a Frenchman could have killed Insane Luchador with that stunt” CIA says showing all the classic signs of “Indignant face announcer”


“Alright I agree he went a bit overboard, but it was effective none the less CIA, you can’t argue with that” King adds.


As the ring crew and EMTs and other backstage staff rush to the ring Bruce just stands there with the Ultraviolent title in his hand, smiling at the carnage as we fade out.

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"This is Ben Hardy backstage," says Ben Hardy, conveniently located backstage, "and I'm here with the current number-one contender to the SWF Cruiserweight Championship, Ghost Machine 2.0! Ghost Machine, thank you for joining me."




Hardy blushes before continuing. "Ghost Machine, many people have been speculating on the possible outcome of your match with Akira Kaibatsu, the current Cruiserweight Champion. Since both of you have recently defeated 'Hollywood' Spike Jenkins, have you gone to the trouble of watching the films of both matches and looking for points of emphasis?"




"So, uh, have you analyzed the matches?"


"BEEP. ENDORSEMENT INTERVAL LAPSED." Ghost Machine turns toward the camera and assumes a warm, affected tone of voice. "EVER GET THAT NOT SO FRESH FEELING?"


"Uh, no."




"Ghost Machine, have you prepared at all for your upcoming match with Akira?"




Hardy looks genuinely confused.




"Er... fail?"


"GHOST MACHINE 2.0 IS A PRODUCT OF BENNERCORP." With that, Ghost Machine slumps over, his arms hanging limply down. Flustered, Hardy looks over his shoulder to see if Chris Belcourt is available. On seeing no staff, Hardy merely sprints away, muttering something about losing his job.

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“How can it be so hard to find one of the more notorious competitors in a company, which condones the type of action my friend has taken the last couple of days. Footsteps????”


Continuing his mission of hunting the Hollywood Superstar, Zyon has found himself to become extremely paranoid. Wondering through his peers like looking for a pair of white socks in a basket full of red shirts, the youth has gotten no information that would benefit him and his cause.


But that could all change?


Snapping his head around, the Unique Youth scans the hallway behind him for the previously heard footsteps. They were loud. They were menacing. They are gone? Slightly bug eyed, the radical youngster hears a voice in the distance. Not just any voice, but the voice of another could be witness to Spike’s whereabouts.


Enter Kevin Coyote….or not.


Ruining his constant pace with a shake of reality, Zyon immediately turns away from the cell phone using egomaniac. Hearing his fellow youngster speak to someone on the other line as if they were dirt…no fuck that. Speaking to them as if they were lower than dirt, and Zyon doesn’t need that type of help…and neither does Spike.


“I need answers, but not from someone like that. He has no honor. He has no pride. He’s an enigma that I care not to discover. How a guy could simply sneak attack his dad like he did, and think nothing of it. I guess not everyone was led down the right path…footsteps!!!”




…Just air. Inhaling the little positive energies surround him, the youth whips his head back around facing a familiar figure from his past, the past where he met his troubled best friend.


Tom motherfucking Flesher


Zyon keeps the emphasis on the man standing before him to himself, but it’s not everyday you are confronted by the Superior One. Even through his latest string of being retired, the Superior One looks as good as ever. Dressed casually (Well for Flesher anyway) in a tailor made slick blue business suit, with the slightly worn in dress shoes, Flesher stands before Zyon with a look of…concern?


“Zyon…you’re young. You’re not the best, toughest, most technically sound athlete around these parts. That used to be me, but that’s a story for another time,” Flesher has to boast a little even when trying to make a point, “But you see, you’re young. Guys like me, we have made mistakes that we regret over time. There are so many things I could have done better…not MUCH better mind you, but some of the decisions I have made aren’t always the right ones. You agree with that don’t you?”


Zyon carefully listens to the slightly melancholy retired star attempt to atone for his past actions.


Uninterrupted, the Superior One continues, “Then you do know that you’re buddy Spike, is the exact same way. Like I said you’re young. You’re blind to the deficiencies of this particular individual that even I couldn’t help.”


Zyon drops the respect thing pretty quick like, “Oh please. You suspended the guy and then harassed both mentally and physically. Is that your idea of help?”


“Like I said Zyon, I’ve made my mistakes. You see though, during the moments of my most masochistic combustible ideas, I had a thread holding me back. That crazy straight edger had that thread cut from his conscience long ago. How you have kept him in check, I don’t know.”


Taken back the youth retorts, “Kept him in check. He’s kept himself in check. I’m his friend not his guardian, DAMNIT!!”


Zyon screams pasting Flesher with misguided saliva. Shaking his head from side to side, the Superior One realizes that this is all futile.


“Sigh…ok. Zyon it’s good to see that thread is strongly knotted around your morality, but by the time you see that as a weakness…it will be too late. Good day sir…oh and congratulations on your victory over Ghost Machine the other night, that was quite the showing. Well, good day.”


Casually walking away from the Unique youth, Tom has burnt the facts that could save the youth from total disappointment.


“What does he know, that fool…”


Too bad those facts are nothing, but ash now. Swinging around a corridor heading toward a construction site inside the facilities, Zyon misses the footsteps behind him. Those footsteps belong to none other than the large and in charge African American who seems to have his own agenda…


Sean Davis!

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"And now, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, it's time once again for-"




"...You're determined to ruin this for me, aren't you?"


As King takes great delight in spoiling CIA's night, absolutely nothing could spoil the night of every fan in the arena as they jump up and cheer as Lockdown comes back from the break! The camera slowly pans through them all, capturing their joy as they feel the mammoth event approach. The camera finally settles on the centre of the ring where Funyon stands, ready to kick things off, beaming smile painted on his face as the mic is raised to his mouth and he roars-


"The following match is a LAST MAN STANDING MATCH..." Funyon pauses, letting the fans unload a boatful of cheers, before shouting, "and it is for the SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP!"


The crowd roars back in kind, the importance of a world title match lost on no one. Unfortunantly, the jubilant cheers are soon cut short as every light dims, signalling the start of Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly" to a torrent of venomous jeers from the capacity crowd! Despite the hostile reception, Hawke emerges from behind the black curtain, exuding confidence as he always does, smirking slightly as a spotlight shines down upon him.


"Introducing the challenger, from Cleveland, Ohio. He stands five foot nine, and weighs in at two hundred and fifteen pounds..." the crowd's boos continue unabated, but only intensify as they hear, "and is the LONGEST serving title holder in SWF history... he is the "Dean of Professional Wrestling"... he is, JAAAAAAAAAY HAAAAAAAWWWWWWKE!"


"Despite what all these moron's think of Hawke," King begins as Jay walks down the ramp, snubbing the crowd at every turn, "this is Hawke's time, his time to shine, and it's time to put the title around a man we can all respect."


"While Hawke may be a truly great technical wrestler-"


"AND record holder," King happily chimes in.


"-Yes, that too," CIA responds, "there are never any certainties in the SWF, and Wes Davenport proved exactly that at From the Fire! He's proved that ever since he won the Clusterfeck, and I wholeheartedly believe he can pull through again!"


"Hrm," grunts King, not impressed in the slightest, "he's been lucky all right, but if there is one thing I'm absolutely sure of, it's that Hawke will always have the edge over Wes, just like he proved when he defeated him comprehensively for the International title... did I mention it was a record breaking reign?"


"I believe you did," CIA replies as King really starts to try his patience, "but the setting has changed now. Sure, Hawke may think he's got this all wrapped up already, but Davenport has the title, and he has a favourable stip behind him..."


The Agent grins as King gulps, while Hawke climbs the steps to the apron, standing in the spotlight for a moment, taking in the atmosphere, hateful though it may be. It doesn't matter to Hawke though, who feels a surge of energy as the moment approaches. He takes off his robe, hands it to a ringside attendant, and steps into the ring, making sure to warm up and stretch for the momentous occasion...


... Until he hears hands start clapping, and feet stamping in unison. He raises an eyebrow as he glances towards the entranceway, watching Wes Davenport slowly walk out onto centre stage, World Title around his waist, glimmering under the bright lights. Hawke eyes it like... a hawk, as Wes steps onto centre stage, accepting a bouquet of flowers from an SWF employee as he paid them to do earlier. The sight of the big man clutching flowers and waving like a hysterical little girl just causes Hawke to shake his head... that is, until Davenport stops and looks at him, a sly smirk covering his face as the two stare at one another.


"And, his opponent," Funyon begins as Davenport saunters down the rampway, smiling broadly at the ear-piercing reaction he recieves from the Biloxi crowd, "From Hollywood, California. He stands six foot five, and weighs in at two hundred and fifty eight pounds... please welcome, YOUR SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION... WWWWEEEEESSSSS DAAAAAAAVVVEEEEEEENNNNNPOOOOOORRRRRRRRT!"


The joyous outpouring from the fans leaves a bitter taste in the mouth of a certain Kingly comentator. "That's right, enjoy success while it lasts Wes, because it's ALWAYS fleeting... unless your Hawke with his recording making-"


"SHUT IT, KING!" CIA furiously cries, making sure to calm himself before continuing. "You've been saying the same thing ever since Wes debuted here in the SWF, but time and time again he's proved you wrong. What does he have to do to prove himself to you?"


The man in question climbs the ring steps, showing the utmost class as he steps into the ring, carefully handing his belt to referee Placeholder, who holds it high aloft for all the fans to see, causing a wave of cheers to break out!


"Once he shows me some actual talent, wrestling... or otherwise," King answers with a chuckle.


"Whatever you may think of Davenport's abilities, this match caters to his strengths-"


"-what little he has-"


"-and if Hawke isn't careful, and can see past his ego for one second-"


"-his RECORD sized ego-"


"-he may just fall prey to Davenport's superior strength and quick thinking. Like it or not, King, but if Davenport can tap into that power he has but is yet to truly show, he'll shoot this bird down and mount him on his wall."


As the two men square off on opposite sides of the ring, the size difference soon becomes apparent, but King isn't worried, not too much at least, "but if there's one thing Hawke can do, it's control a match and his opponent at will. He outsmarted and outwrestled Davenport at Ramadomination, and I'm positive he'll find a way to put this talentless hack down for good!"


As Placeholder hands the title to an attendant, both Davenport and Hawke warm up, Hawke with some simple knee bends, and Davenport by blowing kisses to the crowd and milking the response for all it's worth, as any good actor would do, and Wes is good. The actor turns back to his opponent, his warm smile turning into a cocky grin as he studies his opponent while Placeholder points to ringside, calling for the bell-




-and for the match to officially begin! Much to everyone's surprise, Davenport is first out of the blocks, charging across the ring and almost taking Hawke's head clear off with a clothesline! "Whoa!" CIA excitedly cries as Hawke reels after the blow, pulling himself to his feet, "for once, Wes is the one to grab the moose by the antlers and look to take control!"


"We get it, you're Canadian," King grumpily responds as he watches on, cringing as Davenport slams his fist against Hawke's jaw with a right hand, and another, and ANOTHER! The crowd are set alight as Davenport's blows back Hawke towards the ropes where the Champion grabs ahold of his opponent, sending him hurtling towards the opposite strands. On his return, Davenport sends Hawke hurtling into the air and back down to the canvas with a Back Body Drop!


The impact shakes the ring but Hawke's resolve isn't shaken one bit as he whirls back to his feet, walking straight into a stiff toe kick from the champion. With Hawke doubled over, Wes casually backs into the ropes, charging back towards Jay and-




-connecting with a rising knee lift to the head! Hawke goes down immediately, now well and truly shaken up as Wes targets the head again with a diving elbow and the fans begin to cheer! "Davenport has set out with brutal efficiency thus far," CIA notes, "which is exactly what's required in this type of match, as well as the ability to stand."


"Wes couldn't stand if his life depended on it," argues King, despite the actor walking about freely in the ring. "Sure, Davenport has gotten off to a decent start, even I'll give him that, but he may make the same mistake his opponent's have made against him, and that's being careless."


The actor climbs back to his feet to a round of applause, but it soon dies down as the former International Champion climbs back to a vertical base, shaking out the cobwebs. Wes' assault continues as he leans over, picks Hawke up over his shoulder and throws him against the turnbuckles as Jay's head snaps back. Rearing back, Davenport unleashes a furious flurry of European Uppercuts, throwing Hawke's head back with every blow, before whipping him across the ring.


Jay hits the opposite turnbuckles, his vision blurred, but even he can see Davenport lumbering towards him and repells him with a boot to the face! Thwarted once, Davenport shakes off the blow and attacks, but Hawke thinks quickly and plays dirty as he kicks Davenport again, but this time, in the groin! "Absolutely blatant low blow!" CIA yells to no avail.


"...And It's all legal my Canadian friend," King smugly responds, "as you said, this match plays to Davenport's strengths, but also Hawke's great strength to cheat like a bitch." Referee Placeholder can only frown at Jay, who shrugs and smiles as he goes to work, taking Wes' arm and twisting it around. Hawke fires off a couple of hard right hand blows before whipping the larger Davenport into the ropes, ducking underneath a hasty clothesline from Davenport on his return. As Davenport puts on the breaks, Hawke quickly spins around and kicks Wes in the back of the knee! The sudden impact causes Davenport to groan and drop to one knee as Jay heads to the set ofropes in front of his opponent and bounces off-




-connecting with a seated Dropkick on his return! Davenport rubs his jaw as he retreats, much to King's satisfation, "I don't think Wes realises that holding the world title doesn't make him a capable wrestler. He started off in a hurry, but Hawke's now bringing him back down to earth, by going up top!"


Sure enough, Hawke has sprinted across to the turnbuckles, perched there ready to strike as Davenport gets to his feet, losing sight of his opponent. As Wes staggers, Hawke leaps, taking his foe around the neck and flipping over the top of him, planting him with a Blockbuster! "See," King begins to explain as CIA groans already, "that's why Hawke is a record holder, he can adapt to any opponent and any situation. Here, he's taking to the sky, taking advantage of his superior speed to do the most damage, where his usual technical game may be lacking, in this particular match at least. Did I mention Hawke is a record holder, and Davenport lacks in every area imaginable?"


"So when are you getting replaced?" CIA replies in all honesty as Davenport rolls about on the mat, surprised by Hawke's high-flying strategy, despite having the surname Hawke.


"ONE!" Placeholder cries as Hawke begins to stretch, infuriating the crowd! "TWO!" While Davenport may not be as in control as he thinks, he still have a lot of energy left and climbs back to his feet, but the Dean is there to school him with an array of forearm blows that stagger the Champion. The former International Champion mails Davenport to the ropes, and it's a case of return to sender as Davenport comes right back, only for Hawke to catch him with a Leg Lariat! Placeholder begins to count, but Hawke cuts him off as he brings Davenport to his feet, latching onto him with a Front Facelock as he does, wrenching Wes' neck under his tight grip. The Champion begins to fight, throwing wild punches towards Hawke's midsection, but none forcing the Dean to relinquish his hold. Fed up, Davenport rolls the dice and grabs a weak hold of Hawke's waist, lifting him into the air, facelock still applied! All of a sudden, Jay shifts all his weight back at the right moment, straining Davenport's neck and causing the Champion to lose his grip-




-and allow Hawke to nail him with a DDT to the hard canvas below! Placeholder rushes over to do his job, but he's not needed as Hawke manages to keep hold on Wes' neck and slink his legs around the Champion's waist in a grapevine! Muffled cries are heard from the Champion as the much smaller Hawke pincers the actor's waist and yanks back on his neck with all his might! "Excellent move from Hawke," gushes King, "not only is he compounding on that big, voidless head of Wes', he's slowing the match down to his pace."


"Well I guess it's about time for another amusing Midnight Carnival anecdote!" CIA replies, ready to launch into the story of another fivulous romp, but the sight of Davenport swinging wildly suddenly grabs his attention! Hawke tries to move his head out of the way, but a stray elbow catches him in the side of the head! It's not enough or him to release his hold, until another, and another forces the issue! Hawke rolls away as Davenport retreats, buying some time as he tries to regain his senses. The relentless record holder is back on the scene though, and charging at Davenport as he rests against the turnbuckles, but the actor thinks on his feet, and takes Hawke off his as he sidesteps and trips Jay up with a Drop Toe Hold! The Dean's face meets turnbuckle as the fans let out a cheer, but Wes won't be happy now until Hawke is down for good. "Look at that man," says CIA, "look how much he appreciates the crowd's support, now that's a man you can be proud of!"


The actor mutters obscenities, wishing the fans would just be quiet for one second as he turns around to meet Hawke, ready to blast him with more Uppercuts, but the Dean fights back, aiming his attack to Wes' ribs as he hits a rising knee lift, followed by one more! "Can't take your eyes off Hawke, Wes," King smugly reminds the actor as Davenport groans and stumbles backward, his ribs begining to ache, alllowing Hawke to effortlessly jump up onto the second rope and leap off, scoring with a Springboard Lariat that takes Wes down! "Hawke isn't going to give Davenport ANYTHING to exploit, absolutely no leway whatsoever, so the hack will have to rely on his own natural skill and talent..."


"... Jay has this one in the bag." As CIA looks at his cohort wish sheer contempt, Placeholder counts once again. "ONE!" he yells as Davenport crawls away. "TWO!" he shouts as Davenport uses the ropes to pull himself back onto his weary feet. Sensing a golden opportunity, Hawke charges at Wes once again, but Davenport angrily responds, thrusting his leg out and burying it into Hawke's chest! The Dean begins to gag and splutter, but Davenport grabs him and pulls him close, taking hold of his arm and tights and lifting him up...


...And OVER the top rope! "That's some hard floor Hawke's heading towards," CIA reminds his partner with a nudge, prompting a weird look from King, but Jay never reaches the floor as he skins the cat and lands safely on the ring apron! Davenport spins back around, but to his horror he finds Hawke's forearm heading directly for his head!






Spirited blows from the Dean stagger Davenport just a tad, allowing Hawke to shoot a knee between the second and third robe, catching Wes in the breadbasket! The actor wonders what his ribs did to ever deserve this threatment as Hawke places both hands on the top rope and flies over the top of his opponent! On his descent, Hawke grabs Davenport around the waist and pulls him down to the mat and continues to roll through as he gets to his feet with both of Davenport's legs well in hand. Davenport scowls at Hawke as he rears back, ready to push Hawke well into the fourth row, but the record holder just grins as he parts Davenport's legs and-






"...Yeah!" yells King, alone in his jubilation as Hawke stomps directly on the actor's twigs and berries! "Hawke is making the most of this stip, and doing a public service so that no little Davenport's will be running around in the near future."


"Humph," answers CIA, sulking, "it may be legal, but a nutshot won't keep a man down for lo... ah, damnit." The crowd continue to object, but Hawke now has Davenport right where he wants him as he pulls his legs tighter, leaning back and falling to the mat, catapulting Davenport onto the top rope stomach first! The actor is hung out to dry quite literally as his body hangs over the ropes precariously. Hawke cups his hand to his ear, revelling in the crowd's response, before heading through the ropes. The actor is helpless as Hawke runs over, leaps high into the air-




-and falls across the back of Wes' head with a leg drop!




The actor is flipped over from the impact, slaming into the side of the canvas, before-




-crashing to the concrete floor below! The crowd start to worry as King yells in delight, "just an awesome sight! You know the old saying, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and Davenport fell like a stack of extremely untalented bricks! "


"While his method's are questionable, and his attitude downright non-Carnival like," CIA replies as Hawke mocks Wes, accepting a bouquet of fake flowers for his efforts, "Hawke is definitely controlling Wes', using his size against him, and simply out maneurvering and out wrestling him."


"ONE!" Placeholder cries from inside the ring, watching the action unfold on the outside as Davenport lies flat on his back, pain shooting through his midsection, while Hawke simply lies in wait. "TWO!"






Finally, the actor hauls himself up, bending over as he cringes through the pain, giving Hawke the chance to run forward, take him around the neck and spin around, slamming him on the floor with a Swinging Neckbreaker! "Davenport's down again, and this time he should just stay down," gloats King as Placeholder counts, "ONE!"




"Hush, King, Davenport won't lie down so easily, and he wouldn't let all these people down," CIA defiantly answers.




"My friend, Wes would sell all these people down the river for a bit part in a Uwe Boll film. Think about it."






But Davenport picks himself up while fans at ringside pat him on the back, willing him on. The support of serves to distract Davenport as Hawke shuffles forward and connects with a Roundhouse Kick! Davenport is sent into the guard barrier, but the unforgiving surface sends him right back towards Hawke, who grabs him by the head and smacks his face against the ring canvas. Wes manages to shake Jay off long enough to seek sanctuary back in the ring, but Hawke is all too eager to follow as he eyes the coveted World Title in the hands of the timekeeper.


Placeholder can only look on as Hawke grabs Wes and chokes him on the bottom cable, driving a knee into his lower back as he does so. The actor wonders again what he's gotten himself into as Hawke lifts him on his feet and whips him across the ring. Davenport hits the ropes and comes running back, trying to counter the onslaught with a clothesline, but he mistimes it and Hawke ducks underneath with ease, reaching up to grab Davenport around the neck!


"Shi-" but before Wes can say but a word, the Dean drags him down, driving his back onto the point of his knee! "Oh my, nasty indeed!" shouts King, cearly loving every second of this. "Hawke's targetting that midsection with most of his offense, and why not, the pressure and agony created might just delay Davenport that vital few seconds needed to beat the ten count."


Sure enough, Placeholder yells, "ONE!" as he starts the count once again, watching Wes writhe about in pain on the mat, while Hawke rests his arm on Placeholder's shoulder, asking him to hurry the cound or he'll be forced to tear his arm off. "TWO!"


"THREE!" Placeholder realises Hawke's not kidding, but counts at the normal speed, secretely wishing Wes will get up...








..And he does! The crowd cheer on hopefully as Davenport hurries to his feet, paranoid as he hears the counts get longer every time. The smaller Hawke steps forward to meet his foe, going low and firing off some stinging jabs into his sides that cause the actor to whimper! The crowd can't believe their eyes as they watch Hawke go to town on Davenport with strikes, the bigger man recoiling under the assault. Davenport backs away, but Hawke catches him and takes him by the arm as if to whip him into the ropes, but Hawke doesn't let go. Instead, he doesn't let go and whips Wes back towards him, doubling him over with a knee lift, and latching onto his neck with another Facelock! Hawke doesn't waste time as he tries to drop Davenport on his head, but the actor... the actor...


...Counters! Hawke's eyes bulge as Wes throws one leg up and sweeps Hawke's feet out from underneath him! The challenger hits the mat but instantly somersaults backward and onto his feet, much to Davenport's dissapointment! Hawke sprints towards Wes with cruel intentions, but the he's swept off his feet once again by the dashing actor, who spins him around in a Tilt-a-whirl!


"This could be the Davenport equaliser... NO DICE!" CIA cries as Hawke slips free of Wes' grasp and lands back on his feet directly in front of the injured actor. Again, Davenport loses control and tries to dent Hawke's face with a big right hook, but Hawke dodges it easily, heading behind the actor and grabbing him by the waist, looking for a German Suplex! Even the Dean starts to feel the pressure as he tries to lift Davenport off his feet, but the actor holds fast, planting his weight firmly down to earth. Hawke doesn't fret as he reaches down and grabs Wes' ankles, tripping him up onto his face! With Wes down, Hawke heads to the ropes and bounces back, but Davenport climbs onto all fours and the Dean hops over him, contuining onto the opposite strands. Hawke's momentum has him going at a blistering pace as he returns to meet his foe...






... But he runs straight into a Standing Side Kick from the World Champion, which hits him right in the side of the jaw! "Das Boot!" CIA excitedly cries, "Hawke was just a second too late to turn and was caught with a glancing blow," he reports as Hawke is send hurtling back to the ropes from whence he came. This time, he doesn't come back under his own volition while Davenport almost growls as he sends a stiff, kidney-busting kick right at Hawke, doubling him over! The crowd now rise from their seats as Davenport grabs Hawke's arm and shoves it between his legs, while using his other arm to pull back on Hawke's free appendage, and when he has the right leverage, he hauls Hawke up into the air...


"Wait, what?" King suddenly says as he turns back to the action, having expecting a Hawke victory already, "He can't do this!" But King's cries are in vain as Wes throws Hawke onto his shoulder and them charges forward, throwing the challenger off and-






-planting him well and truly with a Pumphandle Powerslam! "If Hawke never got a chance to see Die Hard," begins CIA, grinning from ear to ear, "Davenport was kind enough to give him a personal screening! Hawke went down like Rickman off of Nakatomi tower, and Davenport has bought himself some time!"


"That's right, he's not out of the woods yet," reminds King, "Wes is no Bruce Willis, and in the end, he's not going to come out the victor!"




Placeholder's count can barely be heard over the roar of the fans as both men lie prone on the mat, breathing heavily.






An exhausted Davenport clutches at his ribs, grimacing at the pain coarsing through as Hawke begins to recover, his brains only scrambled a smidgen.




Hawke is first to his feet, a little worse for ware, his confidence dented slightly, but still feeling in control.




Wes stares up at the arena lights, but is suddenly brought to his feet by Hawke, knowing it were only a matter of time before Wes broke the count and looks to get a head start on his opponent's demise... but Davenport just won't lie down! A European Uppercut gives Hawke a hard dose of reality as Davenport hits another, and another! The strikes stun Jay momentarily as Davenport goes for the gusto and shoves the former Champion into a standing headscissors! Hawke wriggles and writhes, but Davenport is too determined and hoists Hawke up onto his shoulders, but as soon as Jay is up there, he moves his weight back and... flips Wes over with a Hurricanrana!




"Amazing!" King yells. "Tonight Hawke is pulling out all the stops, deviating from his usual style, and it's paying off!" Wes' fightback is stiffled for now as he skids across the mat and Jay props himself up on all fours, getting his breath back as Placeholder yells, "ONE!"






-But both men break the count at the same time as they pull themselves from the canvas, and immediately begin slugging it out! Just as it seems Davenport is winning the battle, Hawke throws a spanner in the works and rakes the big actor in the eyes! Wes howls and recoils in pain, backing himself into a corner as Hawke chuckles, speeding towards the actor and spearing him in the gut! Davenport instantly cries out, but Hawke hits him again, and again, and again! The constant barrage has Davenport reeling as Hawke grabs Wes' arm and yanks him towards the opposite corner... but Wes counters! Even Hawke is surprised as he is sent towards the opposite turnbuckles as Wes furiously charges after him, trying to bare through the pain so he can even the score.


... But as Hawke reaches the turnbuckles, he grabs onto the top rope and springs into the air, and flies over the top of Davenport as he nears! Wes puts on the breaks and spins back around, just in time to see Hawke shuffle forward with a Superkick! "Yes, here it... NO!" King cries suddenly as the Champion's reflexes kick in, grabbing Hawke's foot before it takes off his head! Hawke is left hopping on one foot as a sly grin finally breaks out on Davenport's face, the actor suddenly spinning Hawke 360 degrees, but Hawke uses the momentum to shoot a clothesline at Davenport!


...But again, the actor's hidden ring talent comes to the fore when he most needs it, ducking underneath the Dean's clothesline, grabbing him around the neck, pulling back on his right arm and...




-Nailing the challenger with a Scorpion Death Drop! "Now that is some Deep Hurting!" CIA shouts. "This match is hanging on tenterhooks right now, as neither man can put the other down for the count, but Wes may have a chance here!"


"Forget it my Canadian friend, this was a last gasp effort by Davenport," argues King as Placeholders count reaches two. "Wes hasn't been able to hit a move with any of his usual power, and that's solely because of Hawke. He's been nothing but headaches for the champion, constantly grounding Wes, going up top, reversing at will!"




Both men still lie flat on their backs, chests heaving as the fans let out a roar, never doubting their Champion...




...Although many are nervous.




"SEV-" Placeholder stops as he sees Davenport wearily climb to a vertical base, every little movement causing a twinge in his ribs. Hawke is close behind Wes, dragging himself up, but this time is on the back foot as Wes takes a big risk and charges towards the former International Champion, who catches the actor out of the corner of his eye...


...And as the actor approaches, head full of steam, Hawke uses Davenport's momentum against him, ducking so he can lift Davenport up and drop him face first on the canvas! A wild torrent of boos shower Hawke as he slowly climbs back to his feet, but the record holder ignores them, his eyes only for Davenport as he watches the Actor lie prone on the mat, wailing in pain. "This is the moment," King says triumphantly, "Hawke has Davenport right where he wants him!"


"I'm afraid you may be right," CIA responds grimly, "and it looks like Hawke has somethin diabolical in mind as he climbs to the top rope!" The Dean of Proffessional wreslting stands on the top rope, facing the crowd, looking out amongst the sea of angry fans, but he just shrugs as he suddenly leaps off the top as the crowd gasp...


"Oh MY-" BAM!


CIA is cut off by the sudden and tremendous impact as Hawke's drives his knee right into Davenport! "HAWKE SWOOP!" King cries with joy. "Hawke's least used finisher may be the move that crowns him the champion!"


The crowd roars upon impact, and then boos with spite! But no matter what they do, Davenport is still down as Placeholder counts. "ONE!"




Hawke crawls over to the ropes and climbs to his feet, cringing as he holds his knee, landing on it in precarious fashion.








A smile soon covers his face as he watches Davenport, not moving a solitary muscle.








...But to his horror, Davenport begins to stir! The actor thanks his lucky stars Hawke's knee didn't drive straight into his midsection like Jay obviously intended, and Wes slowly gets onto all fours, trying desperately to make it to the ropes!








Hawke shakes his head as he heads through the ropes and to the ringside area-




-taking a chair from a ringside attendant! The crowd boos even louder as Hawke slides back into the ring, already feeling the title around his waist.







Wes reaches up with one arm and grabs the top strand, using all his energy to pull himself up and...








...Break the count! Sheer delight is heard from the capacity crowd as Davenport holds his ribs, determined to not let his success slip aay so easily... but Hawke looks to put an exlimation point on this match by swinging the steel through the air, targetting the actor's cranium. "Darn it, it can't end for Wes like this! He's struggled valiantly, but a steel chair is going to end the fairytale... WAIT! I spoke too soon!" CIA cries. "Forgive me, King, I hope I didn't get your hopes up."


The crowd sighs in relief as Davenport manages to duck underneath one chair shot, but Hawke immediately turns around, ready to jab the point of the chair into Wes' midsection! But the actor grabs Hawke's arm before he can, spinning behind the record holder and twisting it behind his back, forcing him to drop the chair! "Simple, but effective veteran move from the Champion!" shouts CIA as Davenport reaches down, grunting through the pain coarsing through his midsection and lifting Hawke off his feet!


But Jay manages to flip out of the Back Drop Suplex attempt, and land on his feet, albeit shakily! Wes responds with a stiff back elbow that catches Hawke under the chin and spininig him around to face away from Davenport. The champion takes advantage, turning back to his opponent and grabbing him underneath each arm in a double chickenwing! "Six Degrees of Seperation!" CIA announces as the fans instantly pop for the Clusterfuck winning move.


"Hah, Wes can't apply it in his condition, he couldn't handle the strain of placing himself in a bridged position!" King replies, taking pride his his keen observation, but Davenport continues on anyway as Hawke tries to fight Wes off, running forward to break Davenport grip, but the Champion overpowers him! Hawke is spun around and pushed face first towards the canvas...


...Or make that Steel Chair! Davenport tightens his grip as he shoves Hawke down-




-and smashes the challengers face against the steel chair! King cringes, but is still confident, "He still has to apply the move, and I assure yo-"




... But Wes doesn't lock on the Cattle Mutilation, instead, he smashes Hawke's face against the steel again!








And AGAIN! "WHAT!?" King angrly screams, "That's despicable, reprehensible, an abomination!"


"Nothing Hawke wouldn't stoop to himself," CIA argues, enjoying the violent scene just a little too much, "and now the challenger has been cut open!"


Hawke finally manages to pry his arms free as Wes grabs his ribs, the strain nagging at him. "ONE!"






Placeholder shouts the count as loud as possible over the cheers of the fans as Hawke tries to get onto all fours, but falls back to the canvas, obviously light-headed!












"This doesn't look good for Jay Hawke, and neither does that trickle of blood from his forehead," CIA notes, again, enjoying his misfortune just a little too much.




"But Davenport isn't looking too hot himself," King fires back, "and his, rather extreme and unusual methods won't bring him victory!"








Both men are in opposite corners, clawing to their feet, desperate to break the count as the fans chant-








-trying to will the actor Champion to his feet!










Sure enough, Davenport is on his feet, looking over at Hawke, who-














-gets to his feet at the last possible second!






"NO TEN, NO TEN!" King utters over and over, delerious. "Hawke's still in this!"


Both men are exhausted as they take a second to rest, trying to summon up enough energy. Hawke looks dazed and confused as he looks up at the lights, feeling the warm trickle of blood run down his chin and fall, staining the canvas. He has no time to clear his head as Davenport charges across the ring, but stops dead as a Roundhouse Kick flies towards his head! But Wes ducks underneath, clobbering Hawke with an Uppercut or three, before pulling him in close and lifting him onto his shoulders with a Torture Rack! Desperately, the Dean flays about on the actors shoulders and managing to move himself free! The record holder falls behind Davenport and quickly grabs him around the neck, applying an inverted facelock! Hawke tries to apply a Dragon Sleeper, placing tremendous train on Davenport's midsection, but suddenly, the actor counters...








... reaching up and grabbing Hawke's arm, turning around with a pirouette and-








-smashing into Hawke's forehead with a roaring Elbow! Hawke is stunned as Davenport keeps hold of Hawke's arm and shoves it between his legs, grabbing Hawke's free arm as before, pulling it back! "He's already tried this!" King shouts, "why does he think it's going to work this time!?"


But Davenport takes a deep breath before lifting Hawke from the canvas, and instead of lifting him onto his shoulders, he turns him in mid-air, pointing his head directly towards the mat...







... and the steel chair below!











"OH MY!" CIA stutters as the back of Hawke's head smashes against the steel chair, "Wes drops Hawke on his head... with a VENGEANCE!" King stares in disbelief as CIA continues, "That was amazing, a Psycho Driver on a steel chair in the middle of the ring, but Hawke's come so far, will he be able to recover and save this match!?"












Hawke doesn't budge as Davenport clutches at his injured ribs, coughing and spluttering after the energy he had to exert to pull that move off.








Still, Hawke doesn't move as the crowd cheer!












Davenport drapes his arm over the top rope as he tries to pick his sorry carcass off the mat as Hawke begins to stir, but Placeholder's count continues...








Davenport finally gets to his feet, doubled over, just praying for the end...























And it does.

















Placeholder suddenly calls for the bell as Hawke falls back to the mat, defeated, as the fans rise form their seats and roar!


"He did it!" CIA shouts, "WES RETAINS!"


"You've got to be kidding me..." King responds, shaking his head, but Funyon climbs into the ring to confirm his worst fears.




Wes audibly shouts out, just relieved it's all over as Placeholder hands him his World Title and raises his arm into the air! The fans are ecstatic, cheering their hearts out for Davenport, but Wes just slides out of the ring, his arm held tightly against his ribs as he makes his way up the ramp, leaving Jay Hawke a beaten and bloodied mess in the centre of the ring.


"Perhaps Wes isn't the one trick pony you thought he was," CIA tells his partner, "as he emerges successful in his first title defense! But I have to take my hat off to Jay Hawke; he stepped into this match, against a much larger man, in a stip not to his liking, and almost smatched victory, now that's something special!"


"You're damn right, every one of these fans should take their hat off to Hawke-"


"I don't think everyone has a hat, though-"


"THAT DOESN'T MATTER!" shouts King, losing his cool. "Hawke was denied tonight, but he'll get another chance soon enough, and I promise you he'll become World Champion, but for now... we're stuck with giant Paul Walker here."


Davenport stumbles up the ramp, ignoring the crowd completely as he slings the World Title over his shoulder on his way out. In the ring, Hawke manages to find his feet, blood now pouring at a steady rate, but the Dean ignores it, staring at Davenport with a fire in his eyes.






Wes just thinks to himself:





"I'm better than Bruce Willis."













SWF Lockdown ©

March 29th, 2006

A Raynmaker Production ©


Edited by Justice

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“Dead end…”


Alone. Emotionally distraught, and in some cases straight up angry. The Unique Youth reads a bland construction sign plastered up on a random, meaningless white wall. Clenching his fists and grinding his teeth, Zyon emits a powerful right hand to the wall, ripping the sign away, revealing the rest of the white wall. The echo of his heavy breathing torments the youth who looks into the white wall, and sees exactly what he can do…


…Nothing. Searching the empty area that is sealed off to everyone, but those with a hardhat, the disruptive youth begins to throw random tools around.


“Give me a fucking break. Spike is not a coward. He is not hiding from me, but why can’t I FIND HIM!!!”


As the echo of the metal smacking the concrete floor buzzes through Zyon’s ears, the youth leans his head against one of the walls of nothingness. With his heart smacking against his chest at close to what feels like 300 mph, the youth is almost ready to call it a day.


“I asked everyone. People who knew Spike to people who thought that he was some black director. Better yet, one simpleton thought I was talking about a television channel. Hell, not even Tom Flesher, could help me. All I did was want to make things right, but look at me. I’m the one in need of help, not Spike.”


Pushing himself away from the wall, Zyon walks in an opposite direction of his eyes. Those beautiful mystical green eyes that get the ladies riled up are also good for focusing on the prize. Sensing the environment of random pipes and wire, the youth notices a lone figure kneeling down…alone.


And he doesn’t have a hardhat.


Jogging over toward the area of the mysterious figure, the goal slowly gets larger and larger. The mysterious figure is no longer mysterious. Scanning the man dressed in casual jeans, covered in a yellow and black hooded sweatshirt, Zyon is more than overjoyed.


It wasn’t all for nothing.


“Hey Spike where have you been man, I’ve got awesome news for you.”


Zyon’s cheerful tone can’t even get a reaction from the straight edger. Shadowed by the hood that covers half of his face, Spike makes no attempt to converse with his best friend. A feeling of uneasiness penetrates the air, and with Spike’s back turned to Zyon, the youth has no choice, but to try something.


“Hey man, what’s the big deal?”


The Unique Youth asks his crouching friend who once again remains cold and lifeless.




Zyon is admittingly caught off guard by Spike’s below freezing demeanor, even to the point where he takes a step back to collect his thoughts.


“Dude, I’ve got to tell you something. It’s really fantastic news. You thought you’re Clusterfuck announcement was big…it was nothing compared to this.” The joyous youth shouts to the only other guy in sight.


Jerking to the side, Spike shakes at the sound of the word Clusterfuck. Realizing he struck a nerve, the Unique youth retreats into an apologetic position.


“Ok, I know. You’ve had some major plans and they haven’t gone right for you, but c’mon. Be a man.”


As if on command, the Hollywood superstar rises from his crouched position, his back still to his best friend. Clinching his fist in triumph, Zyon is ready to break the news to his best friend.


“That’s the Spike I know. Look I know losing to Akira was hard, trust me I know…twice. However, tonight is the beginning of something more important than any title or any sort of meaningless power. Spike you are…”







“Was I just hit…”


Falling to the ground, Spike spins around, tossing his hood back. He reveals to all the horrified individuals watching that…absolutely nothing has changed. His wild blond hair waves to the side, and Spike’s affection for local bands is apparent by his apparel. With his eyes rolling into the back of his head, Zyon notices what he has come to fear. Skipping the meaningless style of his friend’s clothes, Zyon scans the grin across Spike’s contorted face.


Yeah…that grin.


The grin not seen since his days in Revolution Zero under the tutelage of the then misguided Toxxic. Out of nowhere a mass of security guards rush the area…




Obviously, they are not rushing fast enough as the homicidal Jenkins drops another sick pipe that he picked up from around the site somewhere, down on to Zyon’s head. Having the pipe reprimanded from his hand, the straight edger is carted off by half a dozen security guards. One stays with the youth who is entering a deranged form of shock, convulsing in a tiny puddle of his own red liquid that trickles from his forehead.


“My best friend. I was just annihilated by my best friend. He didn’t care. He just bashed my face in, caring for not my well being. I can’t even feel the lips I’m trying the lick. Everything is mute, and what is this black and white liquid around me? Everything is black and white. My best friend.”


Zyon begins to shake uncontrollable, phasing in and out of consciousness as a group of paramedics run his way.


“Spike Jenkins. Former Revolution Zero member. Formerly a deranged individual who along with his stablemates took delight in destroying those around him. Misguided since the moment he had the ability to be guided. Misguided since the beginning he could take suplexes and stiff kicks to the face. Corrupted by greed, he was a selfish man who knew no limits, disguised under the farce of arrogance; Spike Jenkins is a menace to society. Cold to the core, and heartless to the bone, he acted like he could be saved. He was nice. Decently considerate. A team player in a play that many would choose to sit the bench. He sacrificed everything for the bigger cause. That cause of course being his own selfish ambition. Hollywood Spike Jenkins was a man of character, hypnotized by the evils of the SWF. For a moment he was snapped out from the dream he was trapped in…he found a friend. He found me.”


“The nightmare is back. The evil, cruel, full of hate Spike is back, he’s just like before. I truly made things right…”

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