SWF Lockdown - Not April 12th!

[the.weej 0]

* FWOOOOSSSHHHHHH!*FWOOOOSSSHHHHHH!*FWOOOOSSSHHHHHH!*

 

* BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*BAP!*

 

*BOOM!!*BOOM!!* BOOM!!*BOOM!!*BOOM!!*

 

"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELCOME TO SWF LOCKDOWN!!" The Suicide King announces as the Lockdown intro fades over to a shot of the arena where Joseph Peters is already in the ring with Insane Luchador on one side of him and Bruce Blank (accompanied by his doctor Dr. Ramoray) on the other side of it.

 

"Well Peters doesn’t believe in wasting time tonight" King states.

 

"No he doesn’t so let’s just go to the ring" Ebony says curtly.

 

Joseph Peters looks at Bruce with annoyance as the big man is wearing a surgical mask and Dr. Ramoray seems to be busy taking his blood pressure and totally ignoring Peters. Luchador on the other hand looks a little annoyed with the whole situation.

 

"If you please?" Peters asks Dr. Ramoray

 

"I’m sorry sir but the public health is important, I haven’t released Bruce from his quarantine" Dr. Ramoray explains as he points to the surgical mask that covers most Bruce’s face.

 

*Sigh* "Alright I’ve asked for both Mr. Rickmen and Mr. Blank to come out here tonight because this needs to be settled." Peters says trying his best to look strong and authoritative (just like his books on tape told him to)

 

"I smell a rat" King says, then he looks at Ebony turns a little pale "Metaphorically speaking of course"

 

"Of course" Ebony casually replies as she runs her hand over the handle of her knife in full view of the Suicide King.

 

"It’s my duty to ensure that this federation runs as smoothly as possible and frankly YOU are not helping it" Peters says as he points to Bruce

 

"Oh no I've done made you mad, whatever shall I do" Bruce says jokingly.

 

Peters doesn’t flinch, but he does smile - which kinda bothers Bruce a little.

 

"Three times we’ve tried to have a 1 on 1 match between you two, and THREE times you’ve sabotaged it Bruce" Peters states as he pulls out a contract from his briefcase "But the buck stops here"

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!

 

"You see Bruce the first contract you found a loophole and had someone else take your place in the match. But the contract that you both signed after "From the Fire" has a little clause in it... a clause that states that if you do not fulfill the contractual obligation then I can fire you"

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!

 

FIRE HIM!! FIRE HIM!! FIRE HIM!! FIRE HIM!!

 

"Oh come on now Joe, you wouldn’t fire me for a few practical jokes now would ya" Bruce says as he takes off the surgical mask and pushes Dr. Ramoray away.

 

"There’d be a lot less trouble with you gone Bruce" Peters says

 

Luchador doesn’t seem to like that announcement, it’s obvious that he’d rather take care of Bruce on his own instead of having the big man fired before he can get his hands on him.

 

"However..." Peters says, that comments brings a smile to both Bruce’s and Rickmen’s face

 

"I will tell you that you’ve got ONE chance, one last chance to do this. At Battleground!!"

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!

 

IL nods his head in approval as a demented look crawls into his eyes, a sickening demented look that spooks Bruce a little.

 

"1 on 1 with the Insane Luchador and if that match doesn’t happen then YOU ARE FIRED!!" Peters says in no uncertain terms.

 

"Alright, alright I’ll do the stupid match" Bruce says trying his best to sound like it’s no big deal to him. "How about we make it a . . . "

 

"No" Peters cuts him off "Rickmen picks the stipulation!"

 

BRUCE IS DEAD!! BRUCE IS DEAD!! BRUCE IS DEAD!! BRUCE IS DEAD!!

 

IL grins from ear to ear with that announcement while Bruce turns decidedly pale (maybe he does indeed have a touch of the bird flu after all)

 

"Take your time Andrew, think about it - then tell us what you’ve come up with on Smarkdown" Peters says and then leaves the ring with the Insane Luchador while Bruce remains behind looking both shocked and worried at the recent developments.

 

"This is awesome! Bruce Blank and the Insane Luchador at Battleground!!" King states as he turns his hype mode on.

 

"They couldn’t have come up with a more fitting name" Ebony replies

 

"They could have called it "Oh Holy Shit!" instead" King fires back at his temporary co-commentator as they fade out.

[the.weej 0]

Card:

 

Non-Title Main Event

Wes Davenport© vs Wildchild©

 

Description: These two have clashed before, at least two months ago in the Kingdome! That time Wes trumped the plucky Wildchild, but now both men have gold and both men have more pride than ever before, which leads to Wes vs WC round two! Neither man's title is on the line, but that doesn't mean neither of them is a fighting champion, not in the least!

 

Rules: Straight singles match.

 

Ultraviolent Title Match

Boiler Room Brawl

Amy Stephens© vs Bruce Blank

 

Description: Amy trumped Blank in the Crimson Tide match. Zyon trumped Amy last show. Amy isn't a happy little Nottinghammer. Blank on the other hand got to have the night off, and is well rested and no doubt exceedingly happy to get his automatic rematch. So what happens when you take both these people and stick them in a closed Boiler Room to beat the hell out of each other? You get this match, that's what.

 

Rules: Match starts in the Boiler Room. It is dingy and not well lit. The exits are chained shut. Room contains standard boiler room apparati and other things, along with a referee. Match does not leave the Boiler Room.

 

Tag Title Match

The New Doomtopians vs JJ Johnson©/Manson©

 

Description: The ??? duo trumped their opponents last show, and the tag champs demanded a match against them when they did! Which brings us to this show where all four of them get to go at it at the same time! That's right, we're doing away with the silly stand on the apron thing and doing this tornado style! Let the carrrrrrrnage begin!

 

Rules: Tornado tag match. Because all four people in the ring is ratings.

 

Submissions Match

"Hollywood" Spike Jenkins vs Jay Hawke

 

Description: Spike is insane and got his ass kicked by Landon's submission hold. Jay is sane and a master of the technical wrestling skills. By this logic, Spike wants to kick Jay's ass and prove to the world that he doesn't just tap out like a pussy. That's the soundest reasoning I can come up for this match, anyway.

 

Rules: No pinfalls. Make your opponent tap out for the victory.

 

Michael Cross vs David Cross

 

Description: These men have absolutely nothing in common that I can remember, but they have the same last name. That's a good enough reason for me to throw them both together into a singles match, don't you think?

 

Rules: Straight singles match.

 

Hardcore Four Way

The Crimson Skull vs Insane Luchador vs Stryke vs Zyon.

 

Description: I was running out of match ideas. So have a clusterfuck, and not of the furry variety.

 

Rules: Hardcore match. Elimination style, just for fun.

 

Cruiserweight Rules Match

Grendel vs Ghost Machine 2.0

 

Description: Grendel beats Matt Myers convincingly in his debut and looks to move up the ladder. But what happens when his next opponent isn't a simple flesh and blood man like Myers, but a (possible) robot? Can the newcomer go 2 and 0 in his SWF career or will Ghost Machine tell him that it DOES NOT COMPUTE?

 

Rules: Standard with cruiserweight addenda (no throwing over the ropes, 20 count on the outside etc.)

Edited April 13, 2006 by realitycheck

[the.weej 0]

“Its man vs. machine, tonight, as SWF Lockdown continues!” Ebony excitedly shouts, warmly welcoming the viewers back to the program. “Who’d have ever thought that we’d be seeing a wrestling matching akin to a multimillion dollar movie franchise?”

 

“It’s not too hard to believe,” adds the Suicide King. “I mean, when you’re forced to call the show next to a living, breathing, lesbian ferret-weasel not much else will surprise you.”

 

“I’d watch your tongue, Mongrel!” the Furry hisses just before sexily licking her lips, much to the King’s disgusts.

 

“Anyway,” King continues, trying to control his shuddering. “Grendel won his first match against Matt Myers rather decisively, but we all know that the Cosplay Master is about as useless in the wrestling ring as tits on a boar hog. Ghost Machine Version 2.0, however, is certainly no pushover – this is the real test for Grendel!”

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following match is a cruiserweight rules match,” says Funyon. “Count-outs on the outside of the ring will be twenty, and throwing an opponent over the top rope will be grounds for immediate disqualification.”

 

A weird robot song starts playing, and the velvet curtain parts to reveal Chris Belcourt pushing Ghost Machine 2.0 out on his dolly! When he gets to the ring, Belcourt unstraps Ghost Machine, who walks up the steps and enters the ring then steps toward Funyon. He produces the usual index card, sending it out through his output port, and Funyon takes it.

 

“Introducing to you first, from ‘parts unknown’ and weighing in at a mere 229.99lbs; Bendercorp’s™ GHOST MACHINE TWO-POINT-OH!”

 

A new song begins to play. Evanescence’s ‘Bring me to life’. It begins just as the lights dim and a set of strobe lights set up alongside the stage start firing off. Slowly, the song builds to a peak, rocking out with a set of explosions as it hits!

 

BOOM!

 

Finally, the newest face to the SWF steps out from behind the curtains, and though it probably won’t see any action tonight, he comes armed with his trademark weapon in hand.

 

“From Manhattan, New York,” Funyon continues, “and weighing in at 220 pounds; he is ‘The Spirit of Aggression’…GRENDEL!”

 

Grendel raises the fork--his weapon of redemption--above head level, out to the fans, and the serrated metal blades gleam as the lights pass over them. The sight is good for a decent pop from the South Carolina crowd, and Hunter Rose acknowledges them with a simple nod before spinning the weapon around and jamming the blade into the outside padding. Leaving the now vertical weapon behind, Grendel leaps from the floor to the outside ring apron, and then just stops…

 

“Obviously, Hunter Rose was never informed of the types of spectacles he’d be facing, or in my case sitting next to, in the SWF,” remarks Suicide King.

 

Ebony just glares while drumming her fingers against the ten inch hunting knife lying on the announce table. “That’s two,” she snarls. You want to try and go for three?”

 

“Hey, look, I think the match is about to start,” King says, trembling, as Grendel leaps into the ring then steps forward, standing nose-to-nose with the wrestling droid. His mind is now clear of any reservations he may have had about competing against such an abomination. After all, this ‘robot’ is what stands in the way of him and victory right now. Unfortunately, for Hunter Rose, the seriousness of the situation isn’t shared by his opponent. Ghost Machine 2.0 brings his arms out, apparently wanting to open this match with a friendly lockup, but it wouldn’t be complete without a loud “WHIIIIIIIIIIR” emulating from Ghost Machine’s ‘oral cavity’.

 

“It would appear that a little too much oil was drained from Ghost Machine’s crank case in an attempt to get him down to the 229.99 lbs for Cruiserweight action,” suggests King. Ghost Machine waits silently; his hands open to accept the tie up, and although it’s not quite possible to see the perplexing expression on Grendel’s face, it’s not hard to read into his confused state of mind. Finally, though somewhat hesitant, Rose accepts! The man and machine lock up in a classic collar-and-elbow to start the match as the referee jumps back to avoid getting caught in the middle as well as to quickly signal for the opening bell!

 

DING DING DING!!

 

“Here we go!” Ebony excitedly shouts, as Grendel and Ghost Machine jockey for ultimate control of the opening seconds! This only continues for a few beats before ‘Version Two’ comes out of the power struggle on top! The robot quickly whips Grendel across the ring, towards the ropes, the sets himself up for the eventual return. As Rose comes back off the ropes Ghost Machine steps forward with a lariat, which proves to be just a little high as Grendel ducks under the swinging arm then continues to the opposite side of the ring. Surprised, Ghost Machine is forced to suddenly pivot and spin around towards his opponent, which sends buzzers and alarms off when he sees Grendel flying towards him with a body press!

 

“NO!” King shouts, as the droid quickly bellies out to save itself from certain disaster, and Hunter Rose sails overhead, missing his target, before hitting the mat rolling. “Its times like these that being a wrestling robot with a Pentium 4 hyper-threading processor really comes in handy; a normal human could never react like that!”

 

Grendel hits the mat rolling, and pops back up to his feet. Like his opponent before him, Rose is forced to quickly pivot and spin back around before fully gaining control of his footing. Unfortunately for the rookie, Version Two has already assessed the situation and implemented a plan of ‘catching the rookie off guard’. The only thing Grendel sees when he turns around is an elbow rocketing towards his cranium like a guided missile!

 

*CRACK!*

 

Ghost Machine’s elbow shot to the ‘Assassin’ sends Hunter Rose staggering backwards, back into the ropes. Grendel is thrust forward from the ropes, and considering that the prior elbow shot left him seeing a few stars, it becomes quite easy for Ghost Machine to snatch the ‘Assassin’ up off his feet before sending him overhead with a quick belly to belly! Ghost machine plants a knee in his opponent’s back, then facetiously wipes his brow. He then reaches down around Grendel’s waist and pulls back, trying already to go for one of his signature lifts from the mat! Grendel, though, has seen this kind of maneuvering before and mule-kicks, finally getting ‘Version Two’ to release him. As the ‘Spirit of Agression’ takes a moment on the mat to breathe, though, the machine takes advantage of the situation and spins to Hunter Rose’s head, then clamps down with a front headlock! Ghost Machine uses the headlock to yank Grendel to his feet, then leans forward, reaching out for one of his opponent’s ankles.

 

“Ghost Machine’s going for a standing inside cradle,” Ebony says, “but Grendel avoids it.”

 

As Grendel deftly slides his ankle out of ‘Version Two’s’ reach, he repositions himself to attack the opening Ghost Machine left by overextending himself. Hunter lunges forward, grabbing Ghost’s right foot for a low single-leg takedown… only to have ‘Version Two’ lunge backwards and grasp Grendel around the waist! He shakes his foot loose and lifts Hunter Rose up into a gutwrench position, and the crowd gasps!

 

“Could Ghost Machine be ready to hit the Interface Bug?!” asks Ebony. “This match could be over!”

 

Grendel flails wildly, trying to avoid being dumped unceremoniously on his head in with Ghost Machine’s gutwrench. He shoots one leg between ‘Version Two’s’ knees, grapevines it and then sweeps it out from under him! Ghost Machine spills to the mat on his posterior, with Grendel blanketing him! Instinctively, Version Two scoots backwards, trying to keep from getting taken to his back, and the crowd goes wild to see the wrestling robot put on the defensive by a rook!

 

“And Grendel takes control!” shouts Ebony, as Ghost Machine scrambles away. The Spirit of Aggression grabs him by the ankle, though, and holds tightly as he slides his body up around the leg and locks on a crucifix kneebar! Ghost Machine’s electronic devices cry out in pain as he immediately reaches out, grabbing the bottom rope. The referee begins his count, and Grendel keeps on the hold as long as possible.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

FOUR!

 

Finally, he releases it, and Ghost, being very careful to keep one hand on the ropes, stands up slowly. He glares at Grendel, his hard disk a-spinnin’!

 

“Ghost Machine’s not happy with this,” King says. “This rookies trying to make an upset here but Ghost machine is nobody’s stepping stone!”

 

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a match if he just rolled over,” Ebony says sarcastically.

 

Grendel moves toward the robot, getting ready to attack again as Ghost Machine tries to shake his leg out. As Hunter Rose moves in on him, Ghost quickly drops down and shoots into him, hitting a picture-perfect blast double that sends him spilling to the mat! Ghost Machine stays on top, and as Grendel tries to regain his senses, the machine lets loose with a perfectly-placed palm strike to the chin! Proudly, he stands up, backs away and dusts off his hands.

 

“I think that looks a little bit better,” says King. “Now Ghost Machine has the rookie reeling!”

 

Grendel, still somewhat stunned, climbs to his feet… only to be nailed by another blast double! He collapses to the mat, and once again the Machine backs away with a look of smug satisfaction.

 

“Could he possibly be taking Grendel less seriously?” asks Ebony, an air of incredulity about her. “I wasn’t aware that Bendercorp programmed this kind of behavior into their prototype droid.”

 

As he gets up, Grendel takes a moment to check his ribs. Satisfied, he moves toward Ghost, signaling for a collar-and-elbow tie.

 

“And it seems like Grendel is suffering from an impaired judgment now,” suggests King as Hunter moves back towards his opponent, ostensibly reaching for another lock up. Ghost graciously reaches to accept the offer when the rookie suddenly ducks down, wrapping one arm around Ghost Machine’s waist while swinging his back leg up and over…

 

*CRACK!*

 

…and nails the wrestling droid square in the face with a Kick!

 

“Finally!” exclaims Ebony as Version Two comes flying back into a corner post, knocked senseless! Grendel closes the gap, knowing he only has seconds to make good on this, and fires off a stiff round of right hands into Ghost Machine’s sure-to-be-titanium cranium! The referee tries to push himself in between the two men while calling for a break, but the Spirit of Aggression isn’t about to concede to it just yet! He shoves the referee back out of his way before quickly spinning completely around and hammering Ghost in the face with a spinning back fist to floor the Bendercorp’s creation!

 

*CRACK!*

 

The crowd goes completely wild as Ghost Machine falls limp onto the mat, and those cheers start to really get the rookie fired up! Even with the referee following alongside him, admonishing Grendel for shoving him back, all the rookie hears is the cheers of all those gathered in the arena. Ghost Machine reaches for the top rope to pull himself up. The shots have left him a little dazed, but more angered than anything. He gets all the way up to a vertical base and Grendel is stopped half way across the ring, beckoning the droid nearer.

 

“Grendel better be careful,” Ebony warns. “You don’t know what kind of machine Ghost Machine will become if this gets any more heated!”

 

Ghost Machine carefully steps forward, off the ropes, making sure his dazed spell has left and once more the two starts to circle each other! Suddenly, Hunter Rose feigns closing in on his opponent, but Ghost Machine isn’t buying. He stands still, readying himself for whatever hair-brained scheme this rookie has cooked up this time.

 

*CRACK!*

 

But apparently he still doesn’t see Grendel coming with his faithful right knuckles! Ghost Machine wobbles a step back, and then finds himself completely on his back when the Spirit of Agression floors the droid with a springing side kick! Grendel doesn’t even attempt a pin, instead he rushes across the ring and vaults over the top rope, his feet coming to rest on the apron.

 

“Grendel must be looking to nail Ghost Machine with the Curse!” Ebony shills.

 

“Unfortunately,” King mockingly says, “that move requires his opponent to be in a standing position, which Ghost machine clearly is not.”

 

“He’s stalling!”

 

“Stalling from standing up!?”

 

Oddly enough, Ghost Machine is doing just that! You see, Grendel’s first match was downloaded by the robot earlier today. He knows what the rookie is going for and he’s not going to let himself be subjected to such a move. Grendel finally tires of waiting for his opponent and decides to go an alternative route. Grendel springs himself off of the top rope, back-flipping into the ring towards the fallen Ghost Machine…

 

*CRACK!*

 

…and connects with a top rope shooting star press to an enormous pop from the Carolina fans!

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!

 

 

 

DING DING DING!!!

 

“The winner of this match, GRENDEL!”

 

“Well that was rather unspectacular,” notes King. “Ghost Machine thought he could just lie on the mat all day and force Grendel back inside the ring. He wasn’t counting on the rookie to come flying at him!”

 

“For the stupidity he is rewarded with a loss,” says Ebony. “Fitting is all I will say.”

 

Grendel exits the ring and snatches his fork out of the outside padding, and then heads back up the walkway, backstage

[the.weej 0]

SWF Lockdown returns to the SOLD RIGHT DA FUCK OUT I BET YOU’RE JEALOUS YOU’RE NOT HERE Carolina Center. The Columbia, South Carolina audience continues to show signs of maturity by refusing to start throwing drinks at the massive Funyon. Of course, it is rumored that Funyon is wanted in three states for assault with a deadly weapon (his fists) and Lockdown is only coming up on their second match of the night. How much alcohol could one person actually consume in that short amount of time?

 

“MY gARaaaage is OwNeD by THHHHHHWWWWW combined POWERS of SUPERDORK and BATGUY, WHOOOOOOO!!!”

 

I guess the answer would be a lot.

 

“Welcome back. For those of you who have just started tuning in to tonight’s broadcast, you need to know only two things. I am unarguably the most professional man in this company. And two, I am this close to flat out walking out. I’ve had to put up with lesbians, constant non-sequiters, and Axis…yes Axis gets his own category. I watched Mak Francis get paralyzed by that psycho Spike Jenkins. But tonight, I have to take a stand against the SWF. Tonight I…

 

“Would you shut up you gutless coward? I would threaten to castrate three generations of your family, but it seems like god did that for me.”

 

“That for those of you just now tuning in is the luscious voice that belongs to a hybrid ferret and weasel. Seriously, folks I can’t make this up even if I wanted to.” The sarcastic Gambling Man scoots away from his special broadcast partner.

 

“It seems King here is also yellow toward the fact that I am indeed a lesbian. So all of you men out there should just commit mass suicides because you really never have what I can give.” Ebony selfishly demands while teasing whatever audience finds a half weasel, half ferret attractive.

 

“The next match is the fatal four way HARDCORE match. The rules tonight fit under the regular hardcore and four way rules except tonight it shall be done under ELIMINATION RULES!!!”

 

Funyon hollers gaining the cheers from the crowd with the announcement of the favored elimination rules.

 

With the Carolina Center rocking, “How I Could Just Kill A Man” blares over the PA system. Exploding with the energy derived from the mad beats of Cypress Hill is the Australian Stryke. Slapping the crowd’s hands, Stryke wonders down the entrance ramp soaking in the above mild reaction.

 

“First…hailing from Sydney, Australia…and weighing in at 230 lbs…he is STRYKE!!!”

 

Following up Funyon’s always-generous introductions, is the not so generous Suicide King, “Stryke, similar to Christian Fury hasn’t had the comeback that he wanted. They may still cheer his name, but the lack of victories has got to be getting to this guy.”

 

“It’s probably the lack of balls, King. Which would be why you can so easily sympathize with Stryke.” The weasel-ferret hybrid with a NASTY shot at the Gambling Man.

 

Rolling into the ring, Stryke searches the audience who continue to adore him. Finding that rough patch, the young veteran retreats back into the corner where the people chant his name.

 

BANG!!!

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!

 

Following the golden explosion is a slue of scantily clad women who run out and begin to dance uncontrollably. Bumping and grinding, the girls give the men in the audience a true show…along with Ebony as well.

 

“Hmmm…I’ll be back.” Ebony shoots out of her chair, but is quickly restricted back to her seat by security, “FINE THEN! JUST WAIT UNTIL I FIND MY MACHETE AND A PAIR OF TWEEZERS!” The lesbian threatens the whole security staff.

 

“Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now!)” continue to thump as the arch villain and his plodding assistant saunter out from behind the curtain.

 

“And his opponent…hailing from parts UNKNOWN…and weighing in at 285 lbs, accompanied to the ring by his assistant Heff…THE CRIMSON SKULL!!!”

 

Funyon comes THIS close to busting a move, but opts to step to the side as the Crimson Skull wobbles over to a random turnbuckle, giving the crowd a slight flex that rips open part of his spandex on his right arm.

 

And that was a slight flex.

 

Soon the madness clears leaving the ultra, mega; super expensive Smarktron to tell the story.

 

“I’M BORN!”

 

“I’M ALIVE!”

 

“I BREATHE!!!”

 

The recognizable words appear on the Smarktron, announcing the arrival of the fan favorite. “Vitamin” continues to play as the Unique Youth fires through the curtain with the energy of a F4 tornado. Slapping the hands along with pumping the crowd up, Zyon runs down the ramp, showing little cuts and scraps from last week’s war with the hardcore champion.

 

“And their opponent…hailing from Elkhart, Indiana…and weighing in at 200 lbs even, the UNIQUE YOUTH…ZYYYYYYYYYON!!!”

 

Funyon explodes with his “Y” stretching vocals as the youth somersaults into the ring, going right into his ritual like headbang/arm raise combo. Noticing the excited crowd cheering and chanting, Zyon can’t help but smile, even after having a terrible week due to the psycho that stalks him.

 

“If I wasn’t a lesbian, I would find that youngster quite the looker. But since I am what I am, and he is a weak male, he should burn with the rest.” The female openly discriminates against the males.

 

Which makes up over 75% of the SWF’s audience.

 

That vast 75% would also be huge fans of Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box” which is the last song to blare over the PA system. Indicating the appearance of the masochist of hardcore, red and black pyro bursts from the side enlisting the audience in a sparkling sideshow as the main attraction saunters down the aisle.

 

“Insane Luchador must be the happiest man on the planet.” King proclaims.

 

“A happy male. Pffttt…” The sociopath be bringing the hate I tell ya.

 

King scoots even farther away from his partner, “Anyway, what I meant was that the Ill One should be thankful that Bruce hasn’t gotten the chance to rip him apart. Bruce might be a redneck with horrible luck, but darnit unless a death in the family forces him to take a break, there will most definitely be a death in the ring. Bruce would KILL Insane Luchador.”

 

“And…”

 

“…Then he’d die.”

 

“And…”

 

“Oh…he’d probably just no sell it…again.”

BREAKING KAYFABE!

 

“Finally…their opponent…hailing from Easton, Pennsylvania…weighing in tonight at 221 lbs. He (should be dead) is YOUR Psychopathic Hero. He is theeeeeee INSANE LUCHADOR!!”

 

With fatigue choking his vocal chords, Funyon exits the ring as the Ill One sprints down the ramp, rolls into the ring, and IMMEDIATELY BEGINS BRAWLING WITH STRYKE!

 

Oh shit…DING DING DING!

 

Slamming his fists into the face of the veteran cruiserweight, Insane Luchador takes the time to smirk, but doesn’t use any opportunity to see the arch villain standing behind him! Halting the hardcore veteran’s momentum, the massive Crimson Skull latches a reverse waist lock on the Ill One. Energetic and with a spice of fury, IL stomps his feet, grinds his teeth…

 

…And gets effortlessly tossed backward with a release German Suplex!

 

Effortlessly couldn’t describe the next move, but an expert in skill could. Floating through the atmosphere, IL somersaults backward, landing on his feet. Bursting forward, the Unique Youth places both of his hands on the shoulder of the maskless Luchadore, and launches himself through the air with a leapfrog. Morphing from the ball curling position he was in, Zyon springs outward, extending his feet into a Snap dropkick that lands FLUSH in the chest cavity of the Crimson Skull.

 

“YEAAAHAHHH!!”

 

The audience showers the youth with the casual cheers that comes after the energetic kip up. Neither Insane Luchador nor Stryke make an attempt to decimate the arrogant youth…

 

…Must be intimidated…by a 5’11…200 lb…oh fuck.

 

Twisting around at a nippy rate, Zyon’s eyes would bulge out of his head, but the gigantic palm that belongs to the Crimson Skull is currently shadowing them.

 

“Look at that Ebony. Tell me men aren’t strong when the Crimson Skull just took a KENTA style (lacks springboard, but King doesn’t know any better) dropkick to the chest, and he shook it off.” The Gambling Man comments on a rank of toughness that he couldn’t even touch in his prime.

 

“That is no man…that is glorious. But he has balls…he must be disposed of. Just like the rest of YOU!” The furious ferret stares at her partner with disgust.

 

Shaking under the horrifying power applied to his face, Zyon’s multiple attempts to break the pie face leaves him a broken man. Wrapping his other hand around his opponent’s head, the evvvvviiiiillllll villain snaps backward, tossing the Unique Youth CLEAR OVER THE TOP ROPE with your standard two handed toss.

 

“CRASH!”

 

With the slightest opening, Stryke attains the villain’s head in a reverse cravate as he struggles to hold the creepy Crimson Skull in place. Dropping down on to his ass, the veteran cruiserweight takes the villain down. Displeased with the course of action that involves his client on the mat, Heff pounds on the mat, rooting his master on. Advancing forward, the veteran cruiserweight leaps into the air, catching the Insane Luchador off guard with an Enziguri. Stopping his collision with the mat, Stryke places his palm on the mat after MISSING the enziguri that DID catch IL off guard, but that doesn’t change the fact that he ducked the strike. Continuing to catch the hardcore Luchadore off tilter, Stryke spins around slicing his leg into where IL’s shins should be before spinning back up to his feet…

 

…Agitated. Rolling his eyes to the top of his head, IL studies the Ill One who hangs in the air from using his athleticism to dodge the sweep. Rummaging through his demented mind, the Insane Luchadore touches the mat, and immediately launches himself in the direction of Stryke with an unbalanced Yakuza Kick! Fully aware of the decapitating ability in that type of rushed kick, Stryke lowers himself before rolling under the boot. Planting his foot, IL looks to continue his onslaught on the defensive Stryke, and his body does turn to make the attack…but his eyes see something else…

 

…ZYON ON THE APRON…WITH KENDO STICK IN HAND!

 

“I’m guessing he must have found that under the ring while he was on the ground due to the Crimson Skull.”

 

“He must be compensating for something.”

 

Springing off the top rope, the Unique Youth swims through the air before dropping a Kendo stick shot right down on to the noggin of the Ill One!

 

“CRACK!!!”

 

“oooooOOOOOOOO!”

 

The crowd echoes as the tough as nail luchador drops to one knee. Elevating the cane once more, the youth feels the presence of another behind him. Uncontrollably, the Kendo stick seemingly jumps on of Zyon’s grip, and into the Crimson Skull’s. Shrugging his shoulders, Zyon drops to the canvas, dodging a horizontal blow from the evil villain WHILE PLANTING BOTH FEET INTO THE FACE OF THE KNEELING IL!!! Looking up at the lights, the youth intelligently rolls out of harms way, giving himself time to regroup.

 

Which leaves Stryke to face off against the massive Crimson Skull.

 

“Crack…”

 

The veteran cruiserweight strikes the villain down with a right hand that has no effect at all. Without a shadow of a doubt, Stryke is miffed about his right hand that did nothing, but jam on of his fingers. Refusing to stick around for the punishment that is to come, Stryke takes off in the opposite direction. With the crowd unmoving, Stryke bounces off the ropes, and draws his arm back…

 

…And it stays back as he finds himself spun around in a tantalizing tilt a whirl. Wrapping his other arm around the Crimson Skull’s head, Stryke flips out of the arch villain’s grasp, and tries to take him down with a bulldog. Grunting under his devilish mask, the awkward character maintains a center of balance. Spectacularly, the Crimson Skull unleashes a surge of strength that lifts Stryke backward for a back drop suplex. The veteran speedster flips out triumphantly…before tripping backward onto his bottom.

 

“Hahahahah!” Ebony gets a good chuckle out of the (at least in her mind) inferior performer.

 

Turning his back to the rest of the match, the arch villain spins around with a surge of pain flowing up his back after receiving a knee to the spine. Staggering forward, the powerful villain leans into the turnbuckle chest first. Physically communicating with one of his fellow cruiserweights, Zyon is able to get through to the miffed individual. Across the ring, IL exits leaving the other two to do the dirty work…

 

…While he starts to toss in the standard sort of weapons.

 

Trash Can.

 

Speed Limit signs.

 

Cookie sheet.

 

Chair.

 

Rushing across the ring, Zyon leaps off of Stryke’s back, collapsing the right side of his body with the unaware Crimson Skull. Staggering back from the modified splash, the youth finds himself unable to move…at all. Noticing the moist hands locking him down, Zyon’s first instinct is to struggle. The second is to get THROWN ON TO HIS FACE WITH A RELEASE GERMAN SUPLEX, COMPLETE WITH SOMERSAULT FACE PLANT LANDING!

 

“Yeahahahaheahaha!!”

 

The audience cries out, forcing the excited veteran to pump his fist a few times. Grinning from ear to ear, the veteran cruiserweight transforms into a state of shock and horror as the Crimson Skull delivers a shot to his head with the metallic trash can lid. Immediately the legs of the crushed individual give out forcing Stryke to trample to a kneeling position. Heaving his leg backward, the arch villain lets out a ferocious shill, frightening many in the audience…

 

…And that’s only the beginning. Launching his log like leg forward, the Crimson Skull has to of crush something once his powerful leg blasts Stryke in the chest cavity. Feeling the air from his lungs elevate and leave him, to never return again, the veteran cruiserweight begins to choke, gag, and crumble to a flay lying position. Looking down at his opponent, the Crimson Skull steps over him, and proceeds to flex his gigantean muscles. Injured from the release German suplex, Zyon ascends the top rope behind the Crimson Skull…

 

“Yeaaaaahhhhh!”

 

…The roaring of the crowd warns the arch villain of what’s to come, but it’s far too late as the youth grazes him with a spinning wheelbarrow kick! Lacking the burn in his crash to the mat, Zyon latches on to a speed limit sign as he rises back to his feet. Lunging at the off balanced villain, Zyon raises the sign above his head and blasts the Crimson Skull with it!!!

 

“YEAHHHHH!”

 

The crowd rallies behind the cruiserweight that looks on in awe, as the arch villain remains standing. Turning away from the wounded Heff assisted individual, Zyon runs face first into a right forearm delivered by the Ill One! Dropping the speed limit sign, the youth lunges forward with a clothesline, but the Insane Luchadore easily ducks. Playing the human chess game that is professional wrestling, Zyon leaps on to the middle rope spring boarding backward with a Half Moon attacking moonsault!!! Playing into tricking the naïve youth, the hardcore cruiserweight steps forward and catches his lighter opponent!!! Swinging the youth down on to his feet, IL applies a reverse face lock, and drops back with a reverse DDT! IL floats on to Zyon for the cover…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO…kickout.

 

Picking himself up, IL looks at the proceeding Crimson Skull with the look of excitement?

 

“Why is he smiling? Does he have a death wish…oh wait, yeah he probably does.” King corrects himself.

 

Carefully bending over, IL picks up the dreaded steel chair, and charges at the injured Crimson Skull. Lifting the chair above his head, the Ill One looks to take the beastly evildoer down with one fatal shot…

 

“CCCCCCCRRRRRRAAAAACCCCCCK!”

 

“OOOOOOOOOOO…GAWD!”

 

Some in the audience turn away, but can’t keep themselves from watching the mysteriously athletic Crimson Skull bash his foot into the chair.

 

Not a big deal.

 

But that very same chair slams backward in the face of the Insane Luchador, busting him open like a river of blood.

 

“These men. Does anyone find the irony in someone named the Crimson Skull, causing someone to wear the Crimson Mask? Hahahahahaha!” Ebony laughs heartily at her own joke, while everyone else fears for their lives.

 

Bleeding profusely from the head, IL staggers back into the safety of the ropes, until he is lifted over those ropes and to the floor due to a powerful clothesline!! Reemerging from the shadows in the wounded Stryke, with trash can in hand the veteran cruiserweight sneaks up on the Crimson Skull…

 

“LOOK OUT!”

 

The evil assistant warns his client who turns around just in time to foil Stryke’s sinister plan. Under the mask you know that the Crimson Skull is smiling…if he knows how. If he knows what smiling is. Stryke on the other hand fears for his well being, and turns to run away.

 

“COWARD!!” Ebony roars.

 

The crowd looks to be on the verge on turning against the cowardly veteran, until everything becomes clear. Quickening his pace to catch the veteran cruiserweight, Skull actually develops a slow jog. Planting his foot in the mat, Stryke wills himself to thwart the evil villain with a simple toss of the trash can.

 

Heh…yeah he’s fucked.

Thrusting his arm outward, the Crimson Skull slaps the lethal weapon like it’s a fricken mosquito. However, Stryke looks as determined as ever while on the other side of the ring, the bloody Insane Luchador slides a table into the ring!!!

 

“Oh boy, things just got interesting.”

 

Leaping off of his previously planted foot, Stryke swings his leg toward the back of his startling opponent’s head catching him FLUSH with the leaping enziguri!

 

“Let’s go Stryke!!”

 

The crowd starts as the SHOT actually has enough spark behind it to drop the dominating villain to one knee. Reaching into the favorite of the cruiserweights, the junior steps up into the atmosphere with help from Skull’s elevated knee before slamming his knee into the masked face of his opponent.

 

SHINING WIZARD…CRUISERWEIGHT PRIDE!

 

Flailing to the mat, the Crimson Skull finds himself defenseless as Stryke quickly ascends the turnbuckle with chair in hand.

 

“Is he going to do what I think? OH GOD HE IS.” King is freaking out…

 

…While Ebony could care less, “Can we get the female dancers back out here? LIKE RIGHT NOW!”

 

Perched on the top rope, Stryke looks out into the ballistic audience. Taking a deep breath, the cruiserweight springs off the rope with a chair assisted ALL TIME HIGH!!!!

 

…

 

…

 

That misses.

 

“CRASH…CLANK!!”

 

Crushing himself against the canvas and the chair, Stryke would usually spasm after missing the move…but he has nothing left. Rolling back to his feet, the Crimson Skull look at the table, and then at Insane Luchador who pulls a ladder out of the ring!!! Realizing that one of the participants has gone unnoticed; the villain spins around with a lack of fear due to his numbness. Zyon though springs to life literally with a springboard missile dropkick attempt…that gets swatted away. Pushing himself back to his feet, Zyon feels the gigantic hands of the super villain slither through his hair as he is manually catapulted over the top rope by the Crimson Skull!

 

“CRACK!!!”

 

Switching his flight into auto, Zyon takes control of his body, looking to drop on to IL with a dive. Nonchalantly, the sadistic luchador tosses the STEEL LADDER into the face of the youth who crashes to the floor in a ball, clutching his face. Back in the ring, the Crimson Skull has the table centered in the squared circle. Scrapping the all but dead veteran off the canvas, the evildoer spreads the motionless cruiserweight on to the table.

 

…

 

…

 

Ascending the top rope…slowly…Skull finally makes it to the top. Rising to their feet is the audience that deep down fears for Stryke…

 

…But table spots ARE AWESOME!

 

Accidentally, the Crimson Skull doesn’t let the audience down as he leaps off and KILLS STRYKE…KILLS STRYKE…ABSOLUTELY ANNHILATES STRYKE with the CRIMSON SPLASH THAT SHATTERS THE TABLE!!!

 

“Holy Shit!!!”

 

The audience shouts at the top of their lungs as the Crimson Skull lies on Stryke.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

…He’s not moving.

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

…Still not moving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEE!!!

“Good that’s one weak man down. What a loser, all that destruction isn’t suited for Stryke.” Ebony scoffs.

 

“Well we are down to three individuals.” King is starting to get used to playing the straight man.

 

Sliding half the ladder into the ring, IL bates the reigning dominator of the match, counting on the opinion that he isn’t very intelligent. Skull proves IL’s theory correct as he actually reaches down at the ladder. Smartly IL pushes on the other end of the ladder causing a seesaw effect…

 

“CRACK!”

 

The ladder props upward into the face of the Crimson Skull who opts to clutch his face. Pulling himself on to the ring apron, IL slingshots himself over the top rope, catching the staggering villain with a headlock before spinning him to the canvas with a sensational tornado DDT!

 

“WHOOOOO!”

 

The audience whooo’s at something that isn’t described as the hand slapping the opponent’s chest. Rolling on to Skull, the energetic hardcore icon bobs his head to the count.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

…He’s not moving.

 

 

 

TWO…Kickout

 

…He’s not Stryke!

 

Rising back to his feet, the Ill One notices the Kendo stick on the ground, lying there innocently. Grasping the power of the cane in his hands, IL patiently waits for the evillllll Crimson Skull to rise to his feet. Lifting his body off the mat, Skull slowly lumbers toward the desperate cruiserweight.

 

“CRACK!”

 

Swinging for the fences, IL connects with a homerun…yet Skull remains on his feet. Lunging forward, IL prepares another deadly strike with the cane, but Skull lowers himself from the attack, and snatches IL into a RING SHAKING SPINE BUSTER!!!

“What a counter!”

 

Pain pulsing throughout his back, IL is defenseless to stop the pin attempt.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

TH…KICKOUT!

 

“YEAH!!!”

 

Attempting to blow the roof off the Carolina Center, the audience wills IL on. On the outside, Zyon once again pulls himself up on to the ring apron. Springboarding off the top rope, the Unique Youth finds the ability to perform a somersault. Bracing himself for the impact of such an attack, the Crimson Skull is brutally shocked when Zyon latches his legs around his head, taking him to the mat with a DRAGONRANA! Reaching back, Zyon grasps his opponent’s leg, trapping him with a pin.

 

ONE!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEENOOOOOOOOO!

 

Staggering back to his feet, Zyon directions himself to the ladder. Setting it up near on it’s fifteen foot frame, the youth ascends the steel until he is ten feet off the ground. Turning to look at the now standing Crimson Skull, Zyon leaps backward with a modified Half Moon moonsault!

Modified…by it’s off a damned ladder!

 

Watching the spectacle through his bloody face, IL waits for an opening while Skull meets the suicidal moonsault head on!

 

…And loses.

 

Collapsing on to the beast of unknown origins, Zyon lands perfectly with a lateral press.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEENOAGAIN!

 

Rolling away from his opponent, Zyon ascends the top rope…again.

 

“That spot monkey is actually being quite…smart. He’s using his strengths to not only attack that monster, but he’s also staying FAR away from a guy that could easily crush him.” King calls what little psychology this type of match has.

 

Unable to stop the extra 221 lbs of accompanying him to the top, Zyon finds himself thrown off the ropes due to a SUPER BELLY TO BELLY SUPLEX by the bleeding one! Clutching his back, Zyon pulls himself back to his feet along with the giver of the move. Lunging forward, IL extends his arm and sends the youth packing with a strong lariat COMPLETE WITH SOMERSAULT BUMP! Sneaking up…kind of…is the Crimson Skull who NAILS the unexpecting Ill One with a big boot to the face…COMPLETE WITH SOMERSAULT…ok not complete with somersault back bump. Staggering backward from the massive boot, IL uses the ropes as a place for sanctuary.

 

Is he a robot…oh wrong comedy character.

 

Is he…indestructible…yeah that works.

 

Lumbering toward the fatigued Insane Luchador, Crimson Skull is forced to stop dead in his tracks due to a Zyon low blow that actually saves the Insane Luchador. Not only that, but now IL has the opening to spring into action and SPIKE Skull into the mat with the EVENFLOW D…D…T!!!

 

“CRUNCH!”

 

In an incredibly weird moment for an all against all match, both competitors leap on to Skull for the cover.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEE!

 

YES!

 

“We have two left…and I hate them both.”

 

“I hate all of them…but that fine lady in the front row.”

 

Both cruiserweights rise back to their feet for a stare down…

 

“CRACK!”

 

…Followed by a forearm by Zyon. The youth sends the hardcore competitor backward, even dropping him to the mat, and out of the ring. Surprising the audience and himself, Zyon weakly shrugs at his own power…until everything becomes clear. Emerging from the ground…the chosen one is the one to wield the Excalibur!

 

“Ooooo…that’s pretty.” Ebony…yeah.

 

“It’s the Excalibur. IL’s chosen weapon, which as you can see is light tubes galore.”

 

Rolling into the ring with weapon in hand, IL lives up to his first name (no not Andrew) and looks to make Zyon bleed. The horizontal swing misses Zyon back an inch due to the youth’s ability to leap backward…and come back with a kick to the gut. IL rebounds with a wild swing with the Excalibur. Once again, Zyon dodges with a retreating leap, only to come back and kick IL lower than the gut.

 

“OOOOOO!”

 

The crowd echoes as the Insane Luchador bends over…dropping the Excalibur. The fatigued youth latches on to the mighty sword…and swings wildly…missing wildly. IL looks to take advantage with a kick to the gut followed by a front face lock EVENFLOW D…D…ZYON SWINGS OUT! With one hand clamped on to the Excalibur, Zyon crosses his own body and catches IL in the face…

…And off with his head like they used to say in roman times.

 

The shattering of the glass will haunt those for years, but IL is in fucking sane…he’ll bounce back…Zyon goes for the cover…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

…Can he bounce back in one second?

 

THREE!

 

“That’s it.”

 

DING DING DING!

 

“The winner…the UNIQUE YOUTH ZYON!!”

 

Funyon announces attempting to ignore the madness inside the ring. EMT’s come down to check on the Ill One who may have a little bit of glass in his eyes, but it’s mostly precautionary. “Vitamin” continues to play as Zyon exits the ring and wonders to the back…

 

FADE TO SOMETHING BETTER THAN THIS!

[the.weej 0]

Guy named Cross times two

Enter the ring and they fight.

The Michael guy wins

[the.weej 0]

As we return to Lockdown, with a Star Wipe if you want, we have been graced by Mr Joseph Peters, who judging from his serious face is here to conduct some serious business.

 

"Coming up in 11 days time, the SWF presents Battleground live on Pay Per View. And right now, we need to pay the bills...which means naming the man who will earn himself the honour of becoming Wes Davenport's first PPV World Title opponent. Now, I've looked long and hard, up and down the list of SWF competitors for a man, or woman, deserving of the shot. It's been a tough decision. In the end, I was aided somewhat in my choice, but regardless, a number one contender has been named."

 

A buzz is beginning to build in the arena, as Peters pauses for dramatic purposes.

 

"So, without further ado, let me introduce you to the official number one contender to the SWF World Hevayweight Championship. The man who will challenge for the title, regardless of title developments. And, pending results to come, the man who will face Wes Davenport in his most high profile match to date as Champion..."

 

Oh yeah.

 

"...himself, a former SWF World Heavyweight Champion..."

 

Oh boy, here it comes.

 

"...ladies and gentlemen..."

 

Wait for it...

 

 

 

 

 

 

"LANDON 'LA CUCARACHA' MMMAAAAAAADDIIIIIIIIXXXXXXXXX!!!"

 

...

 

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

 

...WAAAAAHHHHH...

 

*DUM DUM*

 

 

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

 

"WHAT!?!" howls King, as "Megalomaniac" hits and a chorus of very loud and very unsatisfied boos ring out through the arena.

 

Emerging through the curtains, Landon Maddix grins from ear to ear with hands out-stretched, accepting the boos with a simple shrug and a defiant brandishing of his index finger. Number One. Number One Contender. Maddix strolls down the aisle with the same grin on his face and climbs the ring steps slowly and deliberately, stopping on the top step to glance into the crowd and flash them a smile. With a merry little leap Landon then jumps to the apron and glides into the ring, spinning into the centre of the ring with his arms open, triumphant as he comes to a stop in the centre.

 

"You have got to be kidding me." is all King can mumble, as Maddix leans through the ropes and accepts a microphone from ringside. "Number One Contender? Has Peters lost his mind!?! This idiot...this unreliable, psychopathic, lunatic, untalented schmo doesn't deserve a shot at the Hardcore Gamers Title, let alone the World Heavyweight Championship!"

 

Maddix glides back to the centre of the ring, gliding on the crest of a wave you could say, flashing a thumbs up to Joseph Peters before turning to the hard camera.

 

"LAN - DON SUCKS!"

"LAN - DON SUCKS!"

"LAN - DON SUCKS!"

"LAN - DON SUCKS!"

 

"SURPRIIIIIIIIIISE!!"

 

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

 

"Jo', thank you for that fantastic introduction. Much obliged. See, it's been a long time since I've been in this position, too long infact. Now's the point where I cry, moan and bitch about my lack of opportunities and tell you all when my last World Heavyweight Title shot was...but to be honest, I barely remember when it was. Suffice to say, it was a long time past. Now, some of that lies on my shoulders and I'll admit that right now. Times have been hard and I've made some bad choices. I've neglected the World Title because of stupid feuds with the likes of Todd Cortez, the likes of Max King and more than anything else, because of the likes of Toxxic."

 

"YYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

 

"Go ahead, cheer all you want!" implores Landon. "If he walks through those curtains, you won't be the only ones jumping off your feet and crying tears of joy.

 

The crowd stop, unsure whether to actually cheer to spite Landon or to cease cheering to spite Landon.

 

"Now, as I was saying. I've neglected the World Heavyweight Championship and championships as a whole just recently with all this Toxxic nonsense that's been swimming around in my head. I basically gave up on my ambitions. I neglected my ambitions. Damn near three years of reputation building, down the virtual toilet. Even through that though, I've been aware of what's been going on around me. And although I haven't shown it, I'm as embarrassed as anyone in the back by the fact that the SWF World Title is being held by an ACTOR. An actor. Wes Davenport, you are everything that's wrong with this sport. You're a joke and you make everyone around you look equally pathetic. You holding the most prestigious title we have is a crime. Well guess what Wes...your luck just ran out. See, you can claim to be many things. And somehow, you can claim to be a World Heavyweight Champion AND a Clusterfuck Winner. Newsflash, Wes...so can I, and I'm a REAL wrestler! And the shocking plot-twist for you is, I'm through neglecting the belts, I'm through neglecting my ambitions and I'm through neglecting ME!!"

 

"And yet, everyone else seems willing to continue doing so." smirks King.

 

"It's been fifteen long months since I held the SWF World Heavyweight Championship and life has hardly been a bed of roses for me since then. I've been pre-occupied enough with Toxxic that I haven't done anything about that up to this point, but times have changed. Somebody got in my ear and found the logical part of my brain and they explained things out to me. You're tarnishing my legacy and hell, I've been giving you free reign this past few weeks and months. I should have dealt with you as soon as you won the Clusterfuck. Now, you're bastardising the World Title too. Well Wes, no longer! I'm gonna take that title from you at 13th Hour. I'm gonna do it for Pimp Daddy Sarp, for "Grand Slam" Mark Stevens, for TNT and I'm gonna do it for Charlie "Grappler" Matthews! And, above all else, I'm gonna do it for ME!!"

 

Soaking up the boos, Landon glances over at Joseph Peters. A half smirk is all Maddix can manage to hide as he raises an eyebrow to the SWF's head honcho.

 

"Now now, I know what you're all thinking. I know what you're thinking. Why? Why in the hell would Joseph Peters name me the Number One Contender, after all I've done and said in the past few months. After I beat up a poor, defenceless referee after the Clusterfuck. After I duped him into thinking Laberinto and Landon Maddix were seperate entities. After nearly crippling Ced Ordonez. After shunning the titles of this company. The weeks and weeks of disrupting SWF programming to call out somebody who doesn't even work here anymore. Why?"

 

"That's a damn good question!" protests King.

 

"Well..."

 

Landon looks briefly taken aback, but motions for Peters to continue.

 

"See, it's fair to say that I had my hand forced a teeny little bit. You're a former World Champion so obviously, you're always going to jump places in queues, but you are right. Your conduct recently hasn't endeared yourself to me. I probably wouldn't have given you this shot, without some convincing...so, how about we bring out the person responsible for convincing me to give you the match? Ladies and gentlemen, MEGAN SKYE!"

 

"WHAT!?!" howls King again...

 

 

 

...as eventually, a musicless Megan Skye emerges through the curtains and walks to the ring with her head down. Some of the crowd let Megan have it for her apparant actions so she keeps her head down, entering the ring to Landon's confusion.

 

"Okay, I'm completely lost." admits King.

 

"Who cares. Finally, somebody out here without a penis. It's about damn time." hisses Ebony.

 

"..."

 

"So, maybe you should explain Megan?" shrugs Peters, passing the microphone to Megan. After a little convincing Megan takes it and turns to Landon, who lounges in the corner across the ring.

 

"KICK HIS ASS MEGAN!" screams one clearly drunk mullet wearing wierdo in the fourth row, breaking the rest of the arena's anticipated silence.

 

"Okay. Well...see, the thing is...recently, I've seen what's been going on with you...the Toxxic thing. Look, you and me haven't gotten along recently. There's bad blood between us. I know all that. Stuff's happened and basically, Todd's...well...I don't think it needs saying. He's not around. I talked to Joseph about a new contract that time you barged into his office. We talked over terms and conditions and stuff. I dunno, I guess I felt guilty about what happened. I asked Joseph to give you a title shot, because you were too...stubborn to admit you wanted one. I just hoped that maybe, me asking for the match would maybe make up for...I mean, it'd...maybe...you know, maybe I could........ AH, FUCK IT, COME HERE!"

 

Suddenly and without warning (apart from the f bomb), Megan tosses the microphone down and as Landon walks out of the ring, SHE GRABS HIM IN AN EMBRACE!!

 

 

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

 

Landon laughs long and loud as a sinister smile begins to creep over Megan's face, to the embarrassment of the cross armed Joseph Peters, although his face seems to say he expected it all along.

 

"Okay, WHAT!?!" screams King again, as shocked as everyone in the crowd.

 

"SEE! SEE! WE CAN ACT TOO, WES!" Landon gleefully announces. "Guess what folks...IT WAS A SETUP ALL ALONG!"

 

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

 

"Did you really think I was so clueless that I assumed I'd been given a title shot out of the goodness of Joseph Peters' heart? Give me some credit, people! Me and Megan settled our differences three weeks ago now, we knew exactly what we were doing! I mean, come on...who else but Megan could have organised all this, huh? Who else but Megan Skye could have gotten into the sensible part of my brain and come up with this plan? She was always the plan maker! She was always the brains of the team!"

 

"Aw, that's so sweet Landon." Megan says not all too sincerely. "And you know...he IS right. I'm the thinker of the team. Landon won't mind me saying, he gets a little over-emotional at times, he over-reacts to different things. He's never been the same since we parted company. And see Jo', while you've been worrying and fretting over what to do about Landon, the solution was sitting under your nose the whole time. I know Landon better than anyone and I knew that all he needed was a kind word in his ear..."

 

"MEG - AN SUCKS!"

"MEG - AN SUCKS!"

"MEG - AN SUCKS!"

"MEG - AN SUCKS!"

 

Curiously, Landon grins and nods at this crowd assessment.

 

"Oh, how quickly the worm turns. All I got was nice, kind words from you all when I was Todd's 'manager'. And that was a rare occurence, because let's face it, Todd didn't have me around ringside too much. Infact, Todd took me for granted! I'm the best manager this company has seen in years and Todd used me as nothing more than a baggage carrier! But I couldn't complain. I had to just smile sweetly, pose for some publicity photos, do an interview on the website maybe. Well I'm SICK of being the nice girl! I'm sick of playing sweet, innocent, boring valley girl Megan. I'm sick of being some P.R machine for this company. They say blondes have more fun but as far as I'm concerned, it's bitches who have more fun. And Megan Skye the bitch...is back!"

 

"See, the band is back together!" continues Landon. "A few months ago, I vowed to get back everything I'd lost since From The Fire 2005. It started tonight, with Megan...and it'll include Battleground and me re-capturing the SWF World Heavyweight Championship! Because with Megan back by my side, it's a whole different prospect facing Landon Maddix. The scatty, insecure Landon you've seen for too long is gone. In the past. A footnote in the history of the SWF. Wes Davenport, when you step into that ring with me at Battleground...providing you MAKE it that far, that is...you're gonna be stepping into the ring with the time tested, mother approved, 2003 Landon Maddix..."

 

 

"...and he ALWAYS has a plan!"

 

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

 

Megan and Maddix embrace once again and are hit with a barrage of boos from the fans, many still shocked at the fact that these two are even acknowledging each others' presence, let alone hugging each other in the middle of the ring. Flipping the microphone to Peters, who only just manages to catch the expensive piece of equipment, Landon continues to beam a massive smile as he holds the ropes open for Megan. Megan gets halfway through before holding the ropes for Landon and it's all a big ol' sickfest as they play a game of 'after you, no after YOU' before eventually leaving the ring.

 

"So...let me get this straight. Megan left Landon's side to manage Todd Cortez, but now Todd isn't here Megan goes back to Landon, who welcomes her back even after their less than acrimonious split. Landon Maddix is the #1 Contender because of Megan. So, Megan's managing Landon, but Landon's with Amy, who understandably hates Megan...unless Landon and Amy aren't together anymore, in which case what happens with Landon going after Toxxic?" King pauses. "Well, congratulations Landon, now my head hurts thanks to your over-complicated, melodramatic life! Can we get a commercial please?"

[the.weej 0]

Funyon: "Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a submission match! The only way to win this match is to make your opponent submit!"

 

As Funyon's voice dies down, "Learning to Fly" by Pink Floyd comes on the PA.

 

Funyon: "Introducing first ... from the Hall of Fame City of Cleveland, Ohio ... weighing in at 215 pounds ... he is 'The Dean of Professional Wrestling' ... JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWWWKE!"

 

A spotlight shines down at the top of the entryway as Jay Hawke emerges from the curtain. As Hawke makes his way to the ring, we hear the familiar chants from the crowd:

 

 

"JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!

JAY HAWKE SUCKS!"

 

Ebony: "Welcome back to Lockdown, and as Jay Hawke makes his way to the ring, we are awaiting his submission match with Hollywood Spike Jenkins. King, I know you've got your thoughts and ideas about how this one is going to go."

 

King: "I do, as a matter of fact. Last week, Spike Jenkins submitted to Landon Maddix. Landon freaking Maddix, of all people. Spike doesn't stand a chance tonight."

 

Ebony: "I'll agree that Hawke is definitely the favorite in a match with these kinds of stipulations, but don't count Spike Jenkins out of a match before it starts."

 

The music fades out, and the lights come up from their previously dimmed state. When every light in the arena goes to full power as the Smarktron whites out. For a moment the only sound is that of a needle scratching over vinyl...

 

 

And then *BAM*

 

The crashing guitars of Lamb of God’s “Black Label” send a bolt through the crowd. The drumming sends a jolt throughout the arena, as the pace of the intro begins to pick up. Finally…

 

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

 

The high-pitched scream of Randy Blythe breaks through the speakers as the bright white lights begin flashing at the entranceway. As the scream hits the crowd, Spike walks out wearing a black hoodie on, the hood covering most of his face. Spike drops down to one knee, leaving one arm to hang to the ground, while the other is firmly placed on his knee. After a few moments, Spike raises both arms into an “X”, symbolizing his Straight Edge life style. Spike rises to his feet and begins to make his way down the isle towards the ring.

 

Funyon: "And his opponent ... from Hollywood, California ... weighing in at 223 pounds ... 'Hollywood' ... SPIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE JENNNNNNNNNNNNNNKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!"

 

Spike makes his way completely around the ring and rolls underneath the bottom rope. He continues rolling until he hits dead center in the middle of the ring. Spike rises to one knee and resumes the position he was in at the top of the entranceway. One arm hanging to the ground, the other placed on his knee. Finally, Spike rises to his feet. He quickly peels off the hood, releasing his blonde, dyed hair free. He puts his arms together, forming an “X” across his chest, again promoting his Straight Edge life style.

 

King: "What good did the straight edge lifestyle ever do anybody?"

 

Ebony: "Besides keeping people from dying? Not much."

 

The music dies down, and referee Scott Ryder calls both men into the center of the ring. He immediately calls for the bell:

 

 

DING DING DING!

 

 

King: "OK, Jay, now it's legal! Rip his arm out of the socket!"

 

Ebony: "So much for a broadcaster being impartial."

 

King: "Oh, you just hate me because I have male genitalia."

 

Ebony: "You do? That's not what I heard."

 

Jay Hawke begins to taunt Spike Jenkins, with "your arm breaking in half" clearly being picked up by the ringside microphones. Spike smirks in amusement, and then...

 

 

King: "Has he gone insane?"

 

 

...Spike Jenkins extends his hand for a handshake. Jay Hawke shoots a look of half smirking, half confusion.

 

Ebony: "I'd say Spike Jenkins just wants this to be a sportsmanlike affair, but you'd think he'd be smart enough to know Hawke's not going to go for that."

 

King: "I think you're giving Spike too much credit."

 

Hawke, figuring he can turn this into a short clothesline or something, decides "what the hell" and reaches forward for the handshake. No sooner does he touch Spike's hand that Spike yells out "I quit!" and drops to the canvas, rolling out of the ring as a bewildered Scott Ryder calls for the bell.

 

 

DING DING DING!

 

 

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

 

Ebony: "What the...?"

 

King: "Did he just quit on the prematch handshake?"

 

Funyon: "Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner ... JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKE!"

 

As a bewildered Jay Hawke stares at Spike Jenkins in total confusion, Spike walks down the aisle toward the locker room, pointing at his head and saying "I'm not risking injury this close to Battleground."

 

Ebony: "I think Spike intentionally lost the match to avoid getting injured."

 

King: "Maybe he is smarter than I gave him credit for after all, but he's probably not getting paid for that."

 

Ebony: "Well, Jay Hawke gets a victory without breaking a sweat, and we'll have more action coming up in just a few minutes."

[the.weej 0]

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!”

 

The question goes unanswered. Staring back at the asker, Joseph Peters, is JJ Johnson. Deciding he wasn’t heard the first time, Peters repeats himself.

 

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?! 36 ELBOWS?!”

 

Johnson smirks at this, but Peters isn’t that happy, as evidenced by the fact that he’s swearing, he’s spitting, and he’s raising his voice to JJ Johnson – never a good idea.

 

“I’M NOT EVEN JOKING, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” shouts Peters, and not even the iciest glare in the history of the facial expression in question changes his tone. “YOU COULD HAVE KILLED HIM! YOU COULD HAVE KILLED MY HEAD OF SECURITY BECAUSE YOU DECIDED THE WORLD TITLE IS MORE FUCKING IMPORTANT THAN KEEPING FUCKING FANS FROM JUMPING THE FUCKING RAILING!”

 

“Well, yeah,” shrugs JJ. This only serves to piss Peters off more, not a good idea at this juncture.

 

“Well then, smart guy,” says the commish, calming down enough to keep from blowing a blood vessel in his neck. “I suppose the World Title is more important than defending your title.”

 

“Don’t follow,” snaps JJ, his smarmy attitude becoming more and more aggravating to the commissioner.

 

“Follow this,” snaps Peters back. “You’re not defending tonight. Shit, you’re lucky I’m still letting you wrestle for the World Title at Battleground. SHIT, you’re lucky I’m not having you fucking ARRESTED.”

 

JJ is livid; he’s never one to sit on a belt. However, he realizes there’s nothing he can do, and so simply strides out of the office.

 

“Wow, that was actually pretty easy,” notes Peters. “He didn’t get nearly as mad as I expe-“

 

Muffled by the door of his office, something shatters.

 

“Shit!”

 

FADE OUT

[the.weej 0]

We’re backstage as we spot Wayne Blank heading for his brother’s locker room, but the little fellar just doesn’t look his usual happy self. Insane Luchador has put a thought in his head and he doesn’t like it, he didn’t like it last time he had a thought 5 years ago and he doesn’t like it now, damn that Rickmen.

 

*CRASH!* *CRACK!* *BOOM!* *THUMP!* *WHACK!* *CLANG!*

 

“What the?”

 

The sounds are coming from Bruce’s dressing room and it sounds like a rhino is running wild in a china shop or something and well Wayne is a bit worried because there isn’t a single piece of china in the room at all. So he rushes up to the door and throws it open and finds

 

A blindfolded Bruce Blank!!

 

Wait, wait a standing blindfolded Bruce Blank holding the equalizer in his hand. . . looking totally unharmed while the room around him is semi trashed

 

“What the hell Bruce?” Wayne asks as he closes the door behind him.

 

Bruce pulls down the blindfold to see who entered the room

 

“Ah Wayne, great timing you can help me practice” Bruce says before pulling the blindfold up over his eyes again

 

“Listen Bruce I wanted to ask you something” Wayne starts out rather quietly but Bruce doesn’t seem to hear him as he begins to swing the board around again hitting the side of a locker

 

*CLANG!!*

 

“What the hell are you doing Bruce?”

 

“Practicing for the Boiler room brawl little brother, what does it look like” Bruce says as he grips the board and then motions for Wayne to be quiet as he listens for something

 

“Innit! Innit! Innit! Innit! Innit!”

 

The voice was very faint but it was Amy Stephens’ voice which confused Wayne no end, cause he didn’t see her in the room. Then Bruce suddenly turns and strikes at the source of the voice

 

*THUNK!!*

 

The nails are driven right into a straw dummy

 

“What the heck is that?” Wayne asks as he stares at the weird straw dummy contraption

 

“It’s a straw dummy with a tape recorder shoved up it’s ass Wayne, what does it look like?” Bruce replies as he pries the weapon loose from the straws once more.

 

“A straw dummy?”

 

“Yup”

 

“With a tape recorder up it’s ass?”

 

“Yes to simulate Amy in the dark, come on now keep up” Bruce says. a little annoyed that his brother isn’t keeping up with the plot

 

“Come on now that’s got to be one of the top 25 stupidest things I’ve EVER heard”

 

“Stupid? It’s brilliant is what it is!” Bruce says and starts to circle the room once more, trying to tap into his inner force for guidance.

 

Bruce hears something

 

Twirls around and

 

*WHAM!!*

 

Strikes the concrete an inch over Wayne’s head

 

“So what did you want little brother?”

 

“It’ll keep”

 

Fade out.

[the.weej 0]

“Welcome back from the break everyone,” the silky tones of Ebony greet the SWF viewers as Lockdown returns from commercials, “coming up next we have the match that I’ve been looking forward to aaaaallllllll evening… because it features Amy Stephens.”

 

“Good God, is there anything in a skirt you won’t hit on?” Suicide King asks in despair, “I swear, not even Annie was this bad!”

 

“She’d better not have been,” Ebony states flatly, “or I’d have to discipline her very thoroughly. She’s not allowed to stray, and she knows it.”

 

“Stray?” King asks. “As in, like a stray cat?”

 

“…why?”

 

“Well, I was going to say that no-one likes a stray pussy-”

 

*WHAP!*

 

“I’m so glad you decided against it,” Ebony smirks sweetly as the Gambling Man pulls himself back into his seat, jamming his headset back onto his head and muttering to himself. “Anyway, coming up next we have the Boiler Room Brawl where Amy Stephens will defend her Ultraviolent Title against the sweaty, testosterone-soaked lump of pathetic masculinity that calls itself Bruce Blank,” the ferreasel shudders delicately at the thought. “We’ve been informed that the doors *hnkh*, excuse me, the doors will be chained shu-*hnkh-hnkh*…”

 

“What are you doing now?” Suicide King asks in exasperated tones, but Ebony waves a paw irritably.

 

“I’ll be fine… yes, the doors will be chained shut and *hnkh-hnkh* no-one *hnkh-hnkh*… will be… *HNKH! HNKH! HUUUUUURRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!! HUUUUUUURRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!*”

 

“Don’t look at me!” King protests to the camera pointing in their faces as Ebony doubles over in her seat next to him, retching, “I didn’t touch her! I wouldn’t want to touch her!”

 

*HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!*

*HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!*

 

“WHAT IS IT!?” King bellows in frustration, “I don’t care if you die, you mustelidic half-breed, but at least tell me how you’re planning to expire!”

 

*HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!*

“…hairball…”

*HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!*

 

“Oh for goodness sake,” King throws his arms up in frustration, “you’re not only the product of someone’s fevered imagination, but you’re not even good at what you are!” The Heartbreaker stands up and waves to the back. “Someone come and get her out of here! And for God’s sake, get me a replacement announcer - AND NOT BEN HARDY!!”

 

EMTs carrying breathing equipment come running down the ramp and grab hold of the choking ferreasel who, still weakly protesting that she’ll be OK, is led to the back as the crowd looks on in bemused indifference. Meanwhile King sits at the announce table, waiting for someone to be sent out to replace Ebony.

 

And no-one comes out.

 

“OK, fine,” he says into his headset, “I’ll work with Hardy. But just this show, right?”

 

…

 

“What do you mean, you can’t find him? There must be someone else!”

 

…

 

“Look, we’re the SWF! We’ve got God knows how many backstage interviewers kicking around! One of them must be available to call this match!”

 

…

 

“…for Christ’s sake. OK, OK… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… is Edwin still knocking around after last show?”

 

…

 

“I don’t care how many strawberry daquiris he’s had, he’s got to be better than no-one at all!”

 

…

 

“Seriously?”

 

…

 

“No, no, we’d get sued. OK, forget Edwin. And I mean that on all possible levels. But come on, I’m dying out here! Somebody help me!”

 

“DID SOMEONE SAY THEY NEEDED HELP!?”

 

“Oh God…” King places his head in his hands, well aware that his evening has gone from bad to worse, “not him… anyone but him…”

 

“CYYYYYYYYYYYYYCLOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE COMET!!”

 

“Where the hell did you spring from, you delusional spandex-clad freak?” King demands as a familiar masked figure vaults (flies~!) over the guardrail and lands in the empty announcer’s chair beside him.

 

“Cyclone Comet is always on hand to help the helpless and lend his aid where it is needed,” Comet replies theatrically, “and if that involves calling a match or two for the SWF then Sweet Zombie Jesus, it shall be done!”

 

“Given that I haven’t got many alternatives, you’ll have to do,” King growls, “but the minute the lesbian comes back you’re out of here, understand?”

 

“You would scorn my help so easily?” Comet asks, looking hurt (or as hurt as he can in his mask), “surely we could all join forces for a-”

 

“The moment the word ‘three-way’ leaves your lips I’m taking the Ace of Clubs to your head!” King snaps, pulling his black baseball bat out from underneath the announce table.

 

“You wouldn’t, scoundrel!”

 

“Are you a gambling man?”

 

The two former wrestlers glare at each other for a moment, then seem to come to some sort of understanding; King replaces the Ace of Clubs, picks up a sheet of paper and passes it to Comet, no longer looking at him. Comet hastily scans it through, then looks up and smiles for the camera with extra ZING~!

 

“Greetings, SWF fans! It is I, Cyclone Comet, back to save the day and call the match! The match in question is a Boiler Room Brawl where the plucky, nay, valiant Amy Stephens will be defending her Ultraviolent Title against the very man who renamed the belt and held it for a record-breaking 213 days, Bruce Blank!”

 

“The doors will be chained shut, one pinfall or submission to a win, blah blah blah,” King butts in, trying to get his new partner off screen as soon as possible, “here’s Funyon with the intros, take it away, etc.” The camera shot abruptly shifts to backstage, where Funyon is standing outside a dimly-lit room into which a cameraman and referee Brian Warner can be seen disappearing. The veteran ring announcer raises his microphone as a large figure wearing a cowboy hat walks up behind him.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following match is a Boiler Room Brawl for the SWF Ultraviolent Title, and is scheduled for one fall,” Funyon states. “Introducing first, the challenger; from the Dirty Tornado Trailerpark in Mobile, Alabama, he weighs in tonight at 297lbs; this is the longest-reigning Ultraviolent Champion of AAAALLLLLLLL TIIIIIIIIIIIIME… ‘The King of Pain’, BRRRRRUUUUUUUCCCCCCEEEEEEEEE… BLAAAAAAAAAAAAANK!!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

The jeers of the fans in the arena can be heard as Bruce smirks into the camera while removing his cowboy hat. He then turns to enter the boiler room… but stops, turns back again and addresses the audience.

 

“Now see here y’all, ah have come here tonight to take back what’s mine. That no-good bitch Amy Stephens done cheated me outta mah title, and ah’m gonna get it back, ya hear?”

 

“You ain’t getting fuckin’ nuthin’ back, ya get me!?”

 

The shout comes from Amy Stephens, approaching down the corridor with a can of lager in her hand, the Ultraviolent Title over her shoulder and an odd ‘crown’ apparently made of barbed wire but padded on the inside on her head. The Punk-Rock Princess takes a final swig of lager, belches, crumples the can up and hurls it at Bruce’s head causing the former champion to duck.

 

“I won this belt fair an’ fuckin’ square, right? I dumped you over the side of yer bloody battleship in yer own bloody hometown, an’ I won it, right? So don’t you go talkin’ that shit to me, ya get me?”

 

“Gal,” Bruce drawls, “you need to show a bit more respect to a man.”

 

“An’ why’s ‘at? Cos yer bruvver’s sneakin’ up behind me?” Bruce’s face registers shock a moment before Amy snatches the title off her shoulder into a two-handed grip and whirls around to plant it hard into the weaselly face of Wayne Blank, who was indeed creeping up on Amy whilst in a janitor’s uniform!

 

*THUNK!*

 

The smaller Blank brother hits the deck and stays down, causing Bruce to lunge forward with an angry yell. However, Amy dodges the big man and darts past him into the boiler room with a shout of “catch me if yer can, lardarse!” Bruce growls in anger, but takes a moment to rest his cowboy hat on his brother’s body. Wayne stirs slightly and starts to speak, but Bruce shushes him.

 

“Save your strength mah brother,” he says, “Ah’ll git that sneakin’ Limey bitch!”

 

“Ah’m sorry, Bruce,” Wayne whispers, “Ah tried… Ah tried…”

 

“Ah know ya did,” Bruce says, a tear glistening at the corner of his eye. “You jus’ lie still, Ah’m gonna go lay a beatin’ on a gal!”

 

“Jus’ like the old days…” Wayne murmurs… but Bruce has straightened up, turned away from him and plunged through the boiler room door! The moment the former champion has gone through senior SWF official Matthew Kivell (who has far more sense than to actually referee the match, hence why he sent Brian Warner in to do it) shackles the door closed with a heavy chain and padlock.

 

“It’s on,” Comet shills, “let’s go to inside the Boiler Room and see what mayhem unfolds when the plucky champion takes on the brutal, monstrous challenger!”

 

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

The camera shot abruptly cuts to something much darker, as the SWF cameraman stands in the corner and tries to find some decent lighting for the ‘match’ that is about to take place. Instead what he finds is a dimly-lit area with various hanging pipes and assorted almost industrial-looking bits of wall and ceiling, with a selection of items lying around on the floor that look like they could be used as convenient objects to hit people with.

 

“So, King,” Comet says, “although your friendly neighbourhood superhero is always ready to spring into action on commentary, I’m a little confused; why are these two competitors being made to fight in a boiler room when neither of them have any particular affinity with the location?”

 

“For the precise same reason as I had a lesbian ferreasel sitting next to me a moment ago,” Suicide King explains with a grimace.

 

“…anything can happen in the SWF?”

 

“Exactly!”

 

Bruce Blank steps forward cautiously into the gloom, looking around him to try and catch a sight of his opponent before she can attack him. However, Amy appears to have used her head-start to its full advantage and is evidently concealed somewhere in the room, waiting in ambush. The former Ultraviolent Champion takes one step forward… then another… and another… and sees that odd barbed wire ‘crown’ laying on the floor on the other side of the central furnace, the dim room lights glinting almost dirtily off the many points and barbs. Bruce doesn’t immediately assume that Amy will be near where the crown is, but it attracts his attention for a second.

 

And in that one second, when he is momentarily less aware and therefore less likely to react to his other surroundings, Amy darts out from the shadows of a large section of piping and swings a wrench at the back of Bruce’s left knee.

 

*CRACK!!*

 

“AARRGGGHHH!”

 

The King of Pain swings around, lashing out wildly with his fists as he crumples down to one knee, but Amy has clearly opted for a hit and run approach and has disappeared into the shadows again. Bruce is breathing hard, the sudden attack having taken him off-guard despite his precautions, and his knee is in a considerable amount of pain. All the same, he pushes himself back to a vertical base on the basis that at least up there Amy won’t be able to hit him in the head very easily, and then starts limping around to try and track his enemy down.

 

“Come on out gal, an’ Ah’ll make this quick…”

 

However, Amy doesn’t seem to be in the mood to accept mercy, or indeed to open her trap and talk back (for once). The Punk-Rock Princess stays notably quiet as Bruce glowers around at the shadows, daring her to appear. When the Ultraviolent Champion elects not to show herself Blank laughs… although not without it sounding a little forced.

 

“Ah’m telling ya gal, you ain’t no champion! You ain’t comin’ out ta fight me! Yer just cowerin’ away an’ hidin’!”

 

[“How many matches has he ducked out of with the Insane Luchador now?” Cyclone Comet asks Suicide King.

 

“Quiet!”]

 

Still no Amy. Bruce thinks he knows where she went, but the last thing he wants to do is leave himself open to another attack from a blindside. As a result the King of Pain edges forward in a manner that might be described as nervous if it wasn’t referring to the self-confident, egotistical and of course totally fearless Bruce Blank…

 

…and the wrench comes flying out of the shadows and hits him straight in the fucking face.

 

*KAR-RRACK!!*

 

Bruce takes one step back and drops like an oak tree…

 

“RRRAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!”

 

…then sits back up with an animalistic snarl crossing his face! The former Ultraviolent Champion’s nose has clearly been broken and blood is streaming out of it, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing himself back to his feet, dodgy knee and all. No-one takes his title simply by toppling him over the side of a ship. No-one lays out his brother in front of him. And no-one, no-one hurts him and gets away with it, especially not on national TV. He had a brief glimpse of the direction that missile came from, and despite the agonising pain in his nose and the ringing in his skull he knows where Amy has to be. He’s going to end this quickly, messily and with a great deal of pain for the stupid bitch who thought she could step into a locked room with him and survive…

 

“Bruce!” King shouts, well aware that his chosen protagonist can’t hear him but trying anyway, “look up! Look up!”

 

The camera shot shows, dangling from the ceiling above Bruce’s head as he advances, a pair of pink-and-black Vans. The cameraman pans up to show Amy Stephens, face contorted with effort, as she supports herself from the pipes in the roof high above even Bruce Blank’s head. In the dim light Bruce doesn’t see the Punk-Rock Princess, who must have climbed up there and swung out hand over hand immediately after she hurled the wrench at him. Bruce, oblivious, forges on…

 

*whump*

 

…and Amy drops down onto his shoulders. For a moment it looks like the Ultraviolent Champion is going to try and take her opponent over with a reverse hurricanrana, but then Amy does something rather simpler and certainly more like her. She reaches down and slams a fist as hard as she can into Bruce’s nose.

 

“ARRRGGGHHHH!”

 

Bruce staggers sideways, searing white pain suddenly overloading even such simple elements as balance as Amy Stephens attacks his broken proboscis. Amy tries as best she can to balance atop the lurching monster but seems more concerned with inflicting damage as she fires off more punches, and when Bruce desperately tries to cover his nose she resorts to digging her fingers into his eyes instead. The big man staggers again and reaches up to grab her to throw her off but Amy somehow slips down behind him, snaking one arm around his neck on the way down and trying to lock in her rightly feared rear naked choke, the Last Orders.

 

“What strategy from Miss Stephens!” Comet says in approval.

 

“Strategy? All I see is GBH!” King fumes.

 

“I was referring to that chokehold - even the mightiest villain will succumb when he is denied oxygen!” the superhero retorts.

 

However, Bruce Blank may not be a mastermind of the criminal underworld but he knows a thing or two about fighting, and he has a rough layout of the room in his mind. As a result he tenses his throat muscles as much as he can to try and give himself a few extra seconds, then as he feels Amy wrap her legs around him in a bodyscissors - probably not that effective due to their disparate sizes, but worth a try nonetheless - he lurches backwards. His left knee is certainly not in the greatest shape, but it holds up enough to get the job done.

 

He rams all of his 297lbs backwards, and sandwiches Amy against the room’s main furnace.

 

“SWEET ZOMBIE JESUS!” Comet yells in horror as the Punk-Rock Princess literally screams in pain as her back (and some exposed flesh) is slammed into the roasting metal surface. Bruce tries his best to hold her there, but Amy grabs at his face again in desperation and succeeds in mashing her hand into his nose, causing him to lose all thoughts of a gameplan and lurch away, swatting her arm away as he tries to put some distance between them. Bruce recovers quickly, turns to face his opponent and drives forward while swinging a big boot up to kick her in the head, but Amy ducks and he hits the furnace instead. The massive structure doesn’t even take a dent, but Amy manages to launch a kick at Bruce’s left knee (which happens to be the one he’s standing on) and the big man’s leg gives out, dumping him onto his back again. From there Amy takes hold of the big cowboy boot and starts firing kicks into the knee. Kick after kick…

 

…after kick…

 

…after kick…

 

…after kick…

 

…after kick…

 

…after kick!

 

Bruce is yelling out in pain now, and despite all his attempts to get away Amy is able to hold him firm simply because he can’t put enough strain on his knee to tear it from her grasp. With that method of escape failing him Bruce reaches out, trying to grab Amy’s hands and break her hold, but the Punk-Rock Princess evades him by actually jumping forwards and landing square with a double stomp to his face!

 

*KRRRACK!*

 

‘YAARRRRRGGGHHHH! BITCH!’

 

Bruce is almost howling now as Amy stumbles away from him, but he remains in place on the floor of the boiler room as Amy disappears into the shadows. The Ultraviolent Champion returns a few seconds later with a wooden ladder - not very tall, but tall enough for what she has in mind. That is, to set it up, scale it to a couple of rungs below the top and then come off with an elbow to Bruce’s chest!

 

*WHUMP!*

 

Even 170lbs is going to wind you when it’s dropping from ten feet up, but the landing on hard concrete seems to momentarily paralyse Amy as well; the Punk-Rock Princess yells out in pain and it takes her a couple of seconds to attempt to make a cover on her opponent as Bruce gasps like a fish out of water. Brian Warner, who has been hiding in the corner away from the violence, now makes himself known by dropping to make a count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…however Bruce kicks out with some force!

 

“This is where the difference in size could prove critical,” Comet explains, “as Blank is so much bigger than Amy, she is going to struggle to keep his shoulders pinned to the floor!”

 

“No,” Suicide King argues, “she’s going to struggle keeping his shoulders pinned to the floor because Blank’s about to get up and kill her!”

 

Indeed, the King of Pain is far from down and out, and Bruce is already struggling to rise off the floor as Amy looks around to try and decide what to hit him with next. Stephens is forced into a quick decision as Bruce manages to sit up and, in lieu of any more devastating options, elects to topple the wooden ladder over on top of him.

 

*THUMP!*

 

However, Bruce angrily swats the ladder aside and continues trying to rise, clearly struggling as he refuses to put any weight on his left knee, but still getting up. Amy steps in and tries to kick him in the head but one big Alabaman left hand comes up and catches her ankle, then Bruce rises off the floor like some monstrous leviathan of the deep and slaps the other around her throat to lift her clean off the floor!

 

“Oh my,” Comet says weakly, “this doesn’t look good.”

 

Bruce transfers the grip of his left hand to the back of Amy’s pants, but instead of slamming his opponent down to the floor as is customary he instead lurches forward, growling as he does so, and manages to make it across the floor to the wall where he rams Amy against it as hard as he can!

 

*WHAM!*

 

*WHAM!*

 

After two skull-shattering trips Bruce plucks his opponent off the wall and brings her face close to his own…

 

“That belt is MINE, gawddammit!”

 

Amy, eyes only partially focused, finds herself staring into the face of a big, bad, violent man who has finally been pushed too far. Any element of humour or amusement has gone; Bruce Blank has snapped, and the eyes that bore into her own are devoid of any trace of sanity or humanity.

 

 

So Amy spits in them. Needless to say, Bruce doesn’t take kindly to this.

 

 

“GRRRRRRRAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!”

 

The former Ultraviolent Champion hoists Amy up higher, higher, until he is able to transfer his grip and get both hands on her waist. From there he hauls Amy onto his shoulders, her legs dangling down his back as though he were about to perform an act of elevated oral sexual gratification on her. However, this position is about pain; nothing else.

 

Bruce Blank turns around, wobbling as he does so, and starts to run across the floor to deliver a Sweet Home Alabama onto the concrete…

 

 

“HE’S GOING TO KILL HER!” Cyclone Comet shouts in horror.

 

“The censors are going to kill us…” King says in hushed tones at the exact same time.

 

 

…but although full of anger, rage and the desire to inflict suffering, Bruce Blank cannot deny the physical battering that his body has taken. His left knee can’t take the pressure that his quick, careless steps are putting on it, and it gives. Bruce topples in mid-run and Amy slips from his grasp; the devastating running powerbomb that would have cracked her skull and shattered her spine against the concrete floor ends up being a hard, sliding landing at speed rather than the crushing, high-angle impact Blank was aiming for. Nonetheless, Amy Stephens, SWF Ultraviolent Champion, skids across the dusty, grimy floor of the boiler room… and lies still.

 

“I’ve got to get back there!” Comet declares, standing up with purpose, “a lady could be seriously hurt!”

 

“There’s no ladies in that room,” King snaps, “just an alcoho- wait, make that two alcoholic louts. The fact that one is female is neither here nor there.”

 

“Where’s your sense of chivalry? Of basic common decency!?” the superhero demands, but King just shrugs.

 

“I dunno, but I think I traded them for baseball cards when I was seven.”

 

Bruce Blank looks up, face twisted with hatred as he glares at the crumpled form of his opponent. Even when he was about to crush her, to remove from his life this infuriating former tag partner who seems to think that she can take his title and get away with it, she still finds some way to escape. Growling, the King of Pain pushes himself up onto two arms and one leg before crawling awkwardly over to where Amy Stephens lies on the floor. Then he gingerly lowers himself to avoid knocking his left knee against the concrete and makes a cover…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“WHAT!?” King bellows in shock, “how did she kick out from the Sweet Home Alambama? Comet, am I dreaming? Please, tell me I’m dreaming!”

 

“Your eyes do not deceive you Brian,” the superhero gravely informs his commentary partner, “Miss Stephens did indeed get her shoulder up before Referee Warner managed to make the third and final count; however, I suspect this is only because Bruce Blank didn’t manage to get the full impact on his running powerbomb!”

 

Bruce Blank certainly doesn’t seem happy with this development, and makes this clear in no uncertain terms to Brian Warner; in fact he grabs the ref by the shirt and hauls him over to him. However Warner is no coward, and stubbornly refuses to be swayed on the matter of an alleged slow count, sticking to his original decision. Bruce swears under his breath and looks down at Amy, wondering what to do next…

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

…and Amy takes the decision out of his hands by reaching up, grabbing his greasy mullet in both hands and pulling him into a headbutt right to the nose!

 

“SONOVABITCH!!”

 

Bruce recoils in sudden, agonising pain as the aching throb of his broken nose is antagonised once more; meanwhile Amy slumps back down to the floor, that one offensive move having apparently drained her of all ability to move or fight. However, she knows that she can’t just wait here, even if she wanted to. Bruce Blank is mad; he’s absolutely furious. He’s been hurt and embarrassed, and it’s happened on international TV. He’s not going to take an easy win even if it presents itself; he’s out for blood now, her blood.

 

For Amy, the SWF has ceased to be about competition, about money, about the Ultraviolent Title. Right now, above and beyond anything else, it’s about survival.

 

Just like it was for her brother, so many times.

 

“Amy Stephens has a few precious seconds to regroup,” Comet says urgently, “but she needs to make some move, either to follow up on Bruce Blank or to retreat!”

 

“Retreat to where?” Suicide King snorts, “I don’t know if you noticed Comet, but they’re locked inside that room! There’s nowhere to run and very limited places to hide, and Amy can only delay the inevitable for so long - Bruce is going to win this match, and it’s not going to be pretty. Nor is she, afterwards,” the Gambling Man adds as an afterthought.

 

In those few seconds, lying on the floor of a boiler room in Columbia, Ohio, Amy suddenly gains an insight into what life was life for Toxxic. Every decision he made, every action he performed seemed to make him a new enemy, and one by one they tried their best to take him down and destroy him. By defeating one, he simply paved the way for the next. Maybe, now, Amy understands why after eighteen months of that, even after leaving the SWF far behind him, Michael Stephens felt the need to disappear off the map entirely to the point that even his family didn’t know where he was.

 

Of course, that doesn’t change her situation. But central to the nature, the personality and the very being of Amy Stephens is that deep down she doesn’t just believe but she knows that anything her brother can do, she can do. And that explains why, after being rammed into and held against the roasting metal of a furnace, slammed into a wall several times and taking most of a running powerbomb onto concrete she is able to roll over, grab her discarded crown of barbed wire and then start crawling towards Bruce Blank.

 

“Amy’s up!” Comet shouts.

 

“Well, she’s moving,” King sniffs, “there’s not much up to speak of.”

 

“…so Amy Craven told me.”

 

“Dammit, that’s Edwin’s gimmick! And it’s not even true!” the Heartbreaker denies vehemently.

 

Bruce is sitting up again, starting to push himself back towards his feet but keeping one hand clamped onto his face in the futile hope that it’ll ease the pain. As a result he isn’t best positioned to defend himself as Amy appears to his right, screams an incoherent warcry and lashes out with her odd barbed wire crown held in both hands.

 

Amy was only on her knees and the lunge overbalances her and sends her sprawling onto the floor, but the myriad of points and barbs on her idiosyncratic head adornment tear through the flesh of Bruce Blank’s forehead and send him rolling away in an instinctive evasive manoeuvre. Amy isn’t satisfied and gets up again, this time placing the crown on her head and managing to rise to her feet before simply falling forwards, driving a barbed wire-wrapped falling headbutt into Bruce’s head.

 

“Come on Bruce, get up and kick her ass!” King shouts.

 

However, it seems that the King of Pain is just at too great a disadvantage; he can’t move easily due to one busted knee, and now an uneven sheet of red is coursing down his head and getting into his eyes, partially blinding him and obscuring his opponent’s movements. With Bruce seemingly defenceless Amy, her barbed wire crown now having rolled away, clambers on top of her opponent and, from a mounted position, begins firing punches down at his head.

 

In the grand scheme of things, a 171lb girl is never going to be able to punch that hard. Harder than you might think, probably. Hard enough to hurt, certainly. But when your face is torn open by barbed wire, your nose has been broken and you’ve probably got a couple of teeth loose from being struck head-on by a flying wrench, she can hit plenty hard enough.

 

*WHAM!*

 

*WHAM!*

 

*WHAM!*

 

*WHAM!*

 

*WHAM!*

 

*whap*

 

*whap*

 

Unfortunately, when said girl is sitting on top of you and you’re a 6’7 man, you can reach a lot further than she can. And when you’re that much bigger, over 100lbs heavier and a lot stronger, you can catch her hands easily enough, if you can see them or even make a lucky guess. And from there she is, basically, yours to do with as you please.

 

She’s certainly not going to be to able to stop you from, say, turning onto your side and toppling her off while holding onto her wrists.

 

She’s going to struggle to stop you from wrapping one of your massive hands around both of her reasonably delicate wrists, and even once you’ve done that she’s going to struggle to get them free again.

 

And if you can do that, as Bruce Blank now has, there’s no way in the world for her to stop you from balling up one of your fists, one of your fists which is nearly the size of her head, and putting that fist straight through her fucking face.

 

*WHAM!!*

 

Amy Stephens slumps back to the concrete. She’s tough; probably tougher than someone her size with very limited wrestling training has any right to be.

 

But after everything else she’s been hit with tonight, she’s not going to get up from that.

 

“Oh God…” Comet whispers in horror.

 

She’s not going to get up from that. Unless of course, Bruce Blank is to grab her T-shirt like this… and haul her into a vague, slumping sitting position like this…

 

*WHAM!!*

 

…and hit her again.

 

Amy Stephens is down. Down and out. She certainly isn’t conscious; from here, it’s hard to tell if she’s alive. As the cameraman focuses on her only the slightest up-and-down motion of her impressive chest gives anyone a clue as to her status. Bruce Blank, still perched in an unnatural half-kneeling position where his left knee is held off the floor and with a minimum of weight placed on it is bleeding and battered, but ultimately triumphant. The SWF has a new Ultraviolent Champion. There can be no doubt of that.

 

 

 

It’s when he doesn’t pin her and starts laughing that people need to worry.

 

“That’s enough! THAT’S ENOUGH!” Comet roars above the boos and jeers of the live crowd, watching the action on the huge Smarktron. However, Bruce Blank can’t hear the superhero and it seems very unlikely that he’d pay him any attention even if he could.

 

“Can anyone hear me!?” the masked man yells in desperation, “someone, anyone! If anyone in the back can hear me, get to the boiler room! I’m coming as fast as I can!” And with that, despite King’s startled protests, the SWF’s resident superhero takes off his headset and starts sprinting up the entrance ramp, hoping against hope that he will be able to get there in time.

 

“Amateurs,” King sighs.

 

Meanwhile, Bruce Blank has got into an argument with Brian Warner. The referee is insisting that the King of Pain pin his opponent and end the match, but Bruce doesn’t seem too enamoured of this plan. Instead he shoves Warner away and turns back to his opponent with a sadistic smile on his face…

 

…and is brought up short by a rather odd noise.

 

*CRACK!*

 

If someone was to have taken a pair of long-handled bolt cutters to the thick padlock securing the thick chain that is currently holding the boiler room’s thick doors shut, it might sound exactly like that. Of course, even with a pair of long-handled bolt cutters, you’d have to be pretty strong to get through that lock…

 

…and just as these thoughts are running through Bruce’s brain, the doors are pushed open. The figure that stands in the doorway is silhouetted by the bright light from the corridor behind, light far more brilliant than the dusky illumination that fills the boiler room, and as the camera struggles to adjust it looks like the figure is all shadow, all black. As he strides into the room, two things become clear.

 

One, he was blocking out a lot of that light behind him.

 

And two, he is all black.

 

*WHAM!*

 

Almost casually, Sean Davis brings the bolt cutters in his hand around in a deceptively slow arm that ends up with them impacting on the side of Bruce Blank’s head. The King of Pain drops like a stone, but Davis flings his tool away and bends down to grab Blank, then hauls the massive redneck back to his feet. Despite Bruce’s impressive resilience, high-speed impact of metal to the skull is always going to dull your response time a bit, and he just slumps in Sean’s arms as the Perfect Storm leans close to him.

 

“Beating on women?” Davis growls. “No. I’ll take you on.”

 

With that, the former Hardcore, USJL and Tag Team Champion braces his two massive arms and lifts Bruce Blank clean off the ground. For a moment he holds the King of Pain over his head in a military press, then releases him and drops Blank into the Death Valley Driver known as the Maelstrom.

 

*THUD!*

 

Top doctors suggest that being spiked onto your head on concrete is not good for your health. When he wakes up, it is likely that Bruce Blank will concur.

 

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, DAVIS!?” Suicide King screams at the top of his lungs, “this isn’t your match, you half-wit!”

 

Davis doesn’t care. With considerable care and delicacy he reaches Amy Stephens and, supporting her head as best he can, shuffles her over until she lies next to Bruce Blank. From there he quickly places her into the internationally-recognised Recovery Position… and as he rolls her over onto her side, it just so happens that her arm ends up across Bruce Blank’s chest.

 

Sean Davis looks up at Brian Warner and nods significantly at the two bodies on the floor. Warner, after taking a moment to try and work out what the Perfect Storm means, drops to make one of the most academic counts he’ll ever be called on to perform.

 

One.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three.

 

“…that’s it?” King says in astonishment, “Sean Davis just broke into the boiler room and took out Bruce Blank so that Amy Stephens could retain her title? I… I mean, I knew the guy was stupid - he followed Toxxic, after all - but I had no idea he was this dumb.”

 

A concerned SWF official has arrived at the door of the boiler room, but he doesn’t get in; Sean Davis cuts him off and directs him in low tones to find someone with some medical knowledge. Cyclone Comet, arriving on the scene, is fielded by a massive dark brown arm and ‘encouraged’ to return to the commentary position, or to the back, or to wherever the hell else he pleases, but he’s not getting in that room.

 

Wayne Blank, now fully upright and active again, just slinks off without even trying.

 

“This is too much for me,” King says in tones of despair, “let’s go to commercials. It says something that I’m hoping that afterwards, I’ll once more have a psychotic lesbian ferreasel sitting to my left.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FADE OUT

[the.weej 0]

“Welcome back to SWF-“

 

“-LOCKDOWN!”

 

Suicide King grumbles, but after seeing Ebony twirl a dagger in her fingers, he decides not to object. The crowd is literally buzzing, knowing the Main Event is close! Signs are held high and cheers ring out as the camera pans through them all, before finally settling on our two announcers, Ebony sitting in her place, while King sits 10 feet away, wearing a cup.

 

“Welcome back Ladies and Gentleman, and you’re just in time for our Main Event of the evening,” Ebony announces as the fans at ringside look upon the giant ferret with a mix of astonishment, disgust, and in some cases, lust.

 

“Right you are, Ebony,” replies King, trying to remain in the good graces of the femme ferretale, “and I must say, it’s been an absolute pleasure sharing this experience with a giant Ferret, and such a beautiful one at that.”

 

“Thanks, King, your manhood shall be spared for now. My interest in destroying genitalia has been put on the backburner for once, as I eagerly look forward to this match, which pits Wes Davenport versus Wildchild in a battle of pride, and-“

 

“Lot of knots, lot of snags!”

 

“Wait a minute…“ The giant ferret says, caught off guard, as is anyone tuning in and hearing a ferret on commentary, “That’s Davenport’s music!”

 

”Lot of holes! Lot of cracks, lot of crags!”

 

“But surely it’s customary for the World Champion to come out last?”

 

”Lot of naggin’ old hags! Lot of fools, lot of fool scumbags!”

 

“Hey, this is Wes Davenport we’re talking about, I’m not surprised he knows nothing about this business.”

 

”Oh it’s such a drag! What a chore! Oh your wounds are full of salt…”

 

“King, Davenport is one of the few males I can actually tolerate and not have the urge to mutilate, so you be nice.”

 

”Everything’s a stress…”

 

“But,” King suddenly stops as the dagger is raised and glimmers under the lights, “… fine.”

 

”And what’s more, well it’s all somebody’s fault!”

 

The crowd goes absolutely bananas for Davenport as he walks out from behind the curtain, World Title slung over his shoulder, but his trademark beaming smile is absent, replaced instead by a sly smirk as he walks down the ramp, peering at the crowd from side to side.

 

“Bare with us folks, I’m sure all will be revealed momentarily,” Ebony says in reassurance, of course no one can get past the fact that a giant fucking ferret is announcing.

 

“Hey, as long as I don’t have to see a Wildchild/Davenport circle jerk, I’m all for this.”

 

“WHERE’S THE CIRCLE JERK,” Ebony shouts in anger, pushing over the desk.

 

The crowd’s cheers continue unabated as Davenport climbs the steps to the ring, not taking the time to pander to the crowd for once. Instead, he heads through the ropes and takes the mic off a ve

 

 

 

ry befuddled Funyon. “I hope this is a Poochie kind of situation,” King remarks as Davenport circles the ring, looking out at the crowd as they roar. Davenport doesn’t even acknowledge them, taking everything in his stride as he raises the microphone to his lips.

 

“Unfortunately, the aforementioned contest between Wildchild versus Wes Davenport, greatest World Champion ever, will NOT be happening this evening.”

 

The crowd’s cheers slowly die upon hearing this news as they watch Wes pace around the ring, a smirk breaking out across his face, as if he can barely wait to announce his huge news. He manages to keep a straight face, though, staying in-character.

 

“Wildchild, after persuasion from yours truly, let me have this time instead to address you all, my adoring public.”

 

Despite the disappointing news, the fans cheer, knowing Wes will make up for it as he always does. “You know, it wasn’t all that long ago that I joined this federation. I first defeated Matt Myers, and from there, I went on to defeat some of the best this federation as to offer.”

 

“Quite easily, in fact.”

 

Some half-hearted cheers are heard, the fans still not knowing what is with Wes. Usually he’d be gushing over the crowd’s support, but this Wes, he doesn’t seem to care.

 

“My rollercoaster ride, my noble crusade has led me to this, the SWF World Heavyweight Championship. The holy grail in this business and it’s mine.”

 

“To get it, I won the Clusterfuck. I defeated 28 other men and 1 slant-eyed Asian woman single handedly. To get it, I defeated El Luchadore Magnifico, built up as some kind of god amongst men in this business, but I confiscated his title and deported him back to Mexico where he belongs.”

 

Now, the crowd’s confusion only grows. They don’t catch on too quickly, hoping Wes is just having them on.

 

“I’ll be honest, this title has brought me a lot,” Wes continues, looking down at the hold over his shoulder, and grinning from ear to ear. “It’s brought me fame, recognition, money, and most importantly… a second chance.”

 

“What’s he talking about?” The giant Ferret wonders as everyone’s eyes look on Wes, just waiting. “This isn’t like the Davenport we’ve come to know…”

 

“Yeah, he hasn’t screwed up in the ring yet.” A dagger is soon thrust in the Suicide King’s direction as Davenport pauses, feeling the climax approaching.

 

“And all this time, you’ve supported me, my loyal fans. Without you, it may not have happened.” Finally, the crowd breathes a sigh of relief as they break into deafening cheers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“… Wait, who am I kidding, this all happened because I’m just that fucking awesome.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“… And I played you all like a fiddle.”

 

The cheers suddenly stop dead.

 

Ebony’s eyes fix on Davenport as she clutches the dagger.

 

King just sits there, mouth agape.

 

“You’re all surprised?” Wes asks, unable to control his smile, the tingling sensation in his body as he begins to reveal it all. “Don’t be. You see, the SWF was just a tool. Joseph Peters… tool. Tom Flesher… tool. And finally, you, the fans… all tools.”

 

The crowd is dumbstruck, but Davenport gives them no time to ponder. “I must say, this was truly my greatest performance to date. I left this shithole business over ten years ago now, vowing never to return. I had real talent, a talent for the stage and screen, and I wasp pretty fucking successful.”

 

“But, then the parts dried up… studio’s stopped returning my calls. I found the parts just weren’t there for me anymore… but not now. Winning this title, it’s given me more exposure than I could ever have dreamed of, and that was my plan all along.”

 

“I came, I saw, I conquered, and now it’s time to exit, stage left.”

 

… BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

“WHAT THE HELL!?” The giant Ferret screams as everyone in the arena looks ready to grab flaming torches and pitchforks. “I can’t believe this!”

 

“Oh my god…” King utters, before admitting… “I love Wes Davenport.”

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

“No need to be hostile,” Wes says, expecting this exact reaction, and loving every single second of it. “Judging from your reaction, my performance must have been perfect, as I knew it would be. The fact that I strung you all along, made you believe I was fighting for you, that I owed anything to you is just amazing. Joining the SWF…”

 

“It’s the best thing to ever happen to my career.”

 

ASS-HOLE!

 

ASS-HOLE!

 

ASS-HOLE!

 

“That bastard!” Ebony shouts, waving her dagger madly. “Everyone put their faith in him, cheered him on, and for what!? To be double-crossed by the biggest prick ever to grace this federation.”

 

“… This is magical.”

 

As King swoons, Wes continues, the relentless chanting from the fans just causing his smirk to grow. “As a result of my joining, tearing through the ranks and winning this title, I’ve been offered more roles than I know what to do with. Steven fucking Spielberg wants me to star in his next movie!”

 

ASS-HOLE!

 

ASS-HOLE!

 

ASS-HOLE!

 

“Now, I know you all may be a tad bitter,” Wes says as he ducks out of the way of a bottle, “but it’s just business, that’s all. I needed a stunt to boost my career, you needed a hero to get behind, and it works out for all of us. Sure, I’ll now be leaving to pursue my Hollywood career, leaving you nerds behind, watching second-rate ‘stars’ in a wrestling ring, but… actually, I’ve forgotten my point, but let me just remind you again… Steven Fucking Spielberg.”

 

“But, there’s also the little matter of this thing,” Wes says, patting the gold, “I actually owe a lot to this thing, and I hate to see it go, but it must be done, for the sake of my career. I would also hate to see it land in the hands of any of the talent less morons backstage, but I’m sure they’ll find two of them that aren’t entirely terrible.”

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

“So, my friends, I bid you all adieu, and be sure to check out my next movie, coming soon to a theatre near you!”

 

And with that, Wes Davenport takes a bow.

 

He drops the title to the mat.

 

And he leaves the ring, leaving the audience in awe, and angered beyond belief.

 

“This is an outrage…” Ebony grunts in a low, guttural tone. “The World Title is now vacant, relinquished by Wes Davenport…”

 

“And I absolutely LOVE it!”

 

“… King, come here, you have a date with my dagger.”

 

Lockdown ends on a shot of Wes Davenport, standing on centre stage, taking another bow as rubbish and debris is thrown at him…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…and then the World Title, lying in the centre of the ring, just ready for the taking…

 

 

 

 

 

SWF Lockdown © 3-08-2006

A Frost Bankrolled Production

Smartmarks Wrestling Federation, 2006

Edited April 13, 2006 by realitycheck

[the.weej 0]

Well. Somebody hand me my booking napkin.

 

I'm not quite sure what to think. Bizarre show. Card will be up right quick, as soon as I make some descriptions...

 

-Z