Smarkdown Losing Matches for July 19

[Ace309 0]

Here's my offering. I wasn't able to do everything I wanted with it; in particular, I didn't feel that the opening meshed well with the finish, as far as the story of the finish went. On paper it looked pretty good, and it was sort of a continuation of the story I tried to tell in the Maddix match about Flesher having to work outside his comfort zone, but I don't think I executed the changing moment very well. I also tried to write Flesher as the underdog in this one for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is that it was a change for the sake of change, and I'm not quite used to doing it. Also, the commentary felt pretty flat for me. Nonetheless, I always post my losing matches, and as always, feedback is appreciated.

 

===

 

DING DING!!!!

 

The Azerothian crowd roars as Funyon announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, the following cruiserweight contest is scheduled for one fall! The first competitor...”

 

“King?” asks Mak Francis.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Why are we in a collosseum, King?”

 

“It’s not a collosseum,” the Suicide King snaps. “It’s the Gurubashi Arena, where...” King sighs. “Eh, you lost me.”

 

“I have another question, King.”

 

“What now?”

 

Mak pauses, then clears his throat.

 

“WHY CAN’T WE GO ANYWHERE WITH A F**KING WHEELCHAIR RAMP?!”

 

With that, Mystikal’s “Bouncin Back” begins to blare over the speakers. With the left side of the arena cheering raucously, and the right side booing as loudly as they can, Melissa Fasaki steps through the curtain on the crowd favorites’ side of the arena. Wildchild follows her, his face-paint freshly applied and his shinguards showing.

 

“Wildchild has to be confident coming into this match,” Mak Francis says. “He’s met Flesher twice in singles action – once in a ladder match to decide the first Cruiserweight Champion, and once just a few weeks ago in the Taj Mahal when Taamo returned to the ring after a lengthy absence and some time as Ghost Machine 2.0. Both times, he’s walked out with the win, and King, very few people have one singles victory over Tom Flesher, much less two, or the elusive undefeated record.”

 

“Of course,” King says, “you said it yourself – one win was in a ladder match, and one was after Flesher took some time off. I do wish you’d quit accusing him of being Ghost Machine, though. That’s just insulting.”

 

As Mak rolls his eyes, Wildchild walks to the ring with Melissa, and quickly somersaults in between the middle and bottom ropes. He springs up one ringpost, and Funyon says, “Currently in the ring, hailing from the Bahamas and weighing in at 214 pounds... he is accompanied by Melissa Fasaki, and he is the one... the only... WIIIIIIIIIILDCHIIIIIIIIILD!”

 

Wildchild answers the cheers from the left side of the arena by backflipping off the ropes, then walks over to his corner. He unstraps his shinguards and awaits his opponent.

 

“And his...”

 

“Oh, for pete’s sake,” snaps the machine-gun voice of James Matheson, who holds his briefcase and the familiar piked styrofoam head with Grendel’s mask on it. “Week in, week out, you start the introduction and I finish it. For once would you just let me handle it?” Matheson shakes his head and sighs. “Because, dangit, we’re not talking about an ordinary wrestler here. Oh no. We’re talking about a man who’s spent more time with an SWF title belt around his waist than most of the so-called competition spent in grade school, and when you figure how many years Bruce Blank’s spent in fourth grade into that calculation, you’ll see that that’s a really impressive number. He just keeps racking up the days, like he is tonight. Not only is he one-half of YOUR SWF Tag Team Champions, but he’s the number-one contender to the Cruiserweight Championship, so let’s hear you put your hands together for the man who revolutionized the SWF... TOM FLESHER!”

 

With that, an explosion of blue smoke and pyro lights up the heel side of the Gurubashi Arena, and Tom Flesher steps through the velvet curtain clad in his trademark warm-up suit with his Tag Team Championship belt wrapped around his waist and his left thumb taped in an extended position. He walks to the ring, his eyes set on Wildchild.

 

“Normally you’d see a much more confident Tom Flesher here,” says Mak Francis, “but one thing we’ve seen about Taamo is that he’s once bitten, twice shy.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” King sneers. “What happened last week when Tom had to adjust his style for Landon Maddix? A three-count that ended with Landon on his back. Tom Flesher isn’t shy, he’s just tactical.”

 

“Of course,” Mak replies, “it’s hard to slowly, methodically tear someone apart when you can’t catch them, and that’s what’s proven so difficult for Flesher. Wildchild is just too fast, and Taamo can’t stop him once he gets on a roll.”

 

Flesher steps into the ring and unstraps his belt. He hands it to James Matheson, who sets it on the apron before taking Flesher’s warm-up suit. He opens up his briefcase, producing a marker and a whiteboard. Flesher leans out through the ropes as Matheson scribbles frantically, with Flesher looking on and nodding. Before the camera can zoom in, Matheson erases the whiteboard, and Flesher turns back to the center. Wildchild, meanwhile, shrugs his shoulders and shakes his limbs loose. Referee Sexton Hardcastle calls both wrestlers to the center. After patting Wildchild down, he checks Flesher’s kickpads, then his singlet, and finally his taped thumb. Shockingly pronouncing everything kosher, Hardcastle calls for the bell.

 

 

DING DING DING!!!!

 

 

“And we're underway,” says the Suicide King, as the Superior One and the Bahama Bomber square off in the center of the ring. Wildchild stands low, his body coiled up as if he were planning to spring into the air at any moment and set off an aerial assault. Flesher, meanwhile, maintains a square, broad stance, characteristic of the attitude he brings with him – it’s your turn to make a mistake.

 

Flesher reaches forward and claps a hand onto Wildchild's neck. He grabs WC at the triceps and pulls him into a lockup, then sends him to the ropes. Wildchild bounces off, and Flesher lunges at him with an arm cocked for a lariat. The Caribbean ducks the clothesline, though, and keeps running. As Flesher spins around, Wildchild launches himself off the ropes and springs at him, nailing a pinball attack! Flesher falls to the mat but quickly springs back up as Wildchild rolls through. Dub-Cee hits the ropes and rebounds, catching Tom again with a springboard leg lariat! Flesher hits the canvas a second time, prompting a cheer from the left side of the arena. Rattled, Taamo rolls out of the ring, trying to shake off the unexpected attack.

 

“That’s just what I expected,” says Francis, watching as his former partner tries to collect himself. “It looks like Wildchild’s already getting in Flesher's head."

 

“Do you ever get sick of being right?” King asks. “You’re so fired up that you’re already declaring things over. He rolled to the outside, for god’s sake. It’s not over till Amy Stephens sings!”

 

Without missing a beat, Wildchild leaps onto the second turnbuckle, and then to the top. He sprints across the cable toward the unsuspecting Flesher, then somersaults off, throwing himself at his adversary with a diving koppo kick! He whips Flesher in the head with his heels, and Tom collapses to the concrete. Wildchild kips up, sliding back into the ring and getting to his feet. He lies in wait as Flesher pulls himself up on the ring apron.

 

 

“ANDROS DIVE!” screams Francis. “Already, Flesher’s eating that high-potency offense, and King, I have to say, there’s no way he can withstand this for much longer.”

 

As the Superior One gets to his feet on the apron, he holds the top rope to keep his balance. With a slight smile on his face, the Human Hurricane jumps to the top strand and springs off, diving toward Flesher and grabbing him in a front facelock as he falls toward the concrete. He pulls Flesher down with him, slamming him into the thinly-padded floor with a springboard DDT! The crowd stands up, chanting "HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!"

 

“Hot Presumed Guilty to the outside from Wildchild,” shills Francis, “and it looks like Taamo’s out of it!”

 

Flesher sprawls out on the thin padding as Wildchild rolls through to his feet. Despite being in much better position than Flesher, Wildchild is clearly suffering from the move.

 

“Was that the brightest thing for Dub-Cee to do?” asks King rhetorically. “He does this kind of nonsense all the time,” King replies. “He's got to take a few lumps of his own to soften his opponents up for that flip-flopping crap he calls a moveset late in the match, and I’m just waiting for it to backfire.”

 

“Yeah, I’d much rather watch Flesh roll around on the mat,” Francis says, rolling his eyes. “Hell, at least Dub-Cee’s entertaining.”

 

Wildchild slides back into the ring, leaving Flesher stunned. Still trying to shake off the impact of the DDT, Wildchild leans against the ropes but maintains a constant state of readiness. Flesher, meanwhile, rolls over and starts trying impotently to get to his feet. Under Wildchild's careful watch, the former Heavyweight Champion stands up slowly and seems only barely aware of his surroundings. Using the apron, he pulls himself to his feet and rolls back into the ring. Still lying in wait, Wildchild holds back until Flesher stands all the way up. From there, the Machine from the Caribbean grabs him and whips him into a far corner, then starts chasing after him. Tom hits the corner, slumping down into it as it knocks the wind out of him. Only a second behind, Wildchild launches himself into the air and twists 360 degrees, slamming into Flesher with the Blue Crush! The force sends Wildchild slightly backward, and Flesher starts staggering out of the corner.

 

“Here it comes,” says Francis, feigning boredom.

 

Flesher staggers one step out of the corner.

He staggers a second step.

 

Finally, he flops down onto his face.

 

 

The crowd, simply put, explodes.

 

 

“I'll never quite understand that,” Francis muses as Wildchild grabs Flesher by the arm and rolls him onto his back. He makes the cover, and Sexton counts

 

 

ONE!!

 

 

Flesher kicks out! The fans on the right pop as Tom rolls to his stomach and starts to fight away. He looks up, his eyes clearer than would be expected for the amount of trouble he appears to be having. As he nears his feet, Wildchild runs behind him and bounces off the ropes. Flesher gets to his feet, wobbling, and takes a step backwards as his opponent sprints by him and leaps onto the bottom rope, then springs off! He arches his back and flips in mid-air, executing a picture-perfect Asai moonsault!

 

Unfortunately for the cruiserweight sensation, Flesher anticipated that he'd be flinging himself at him, and grabs the vulnerable Wildchild in his upside-down position. A few fans pop for Flesher's quick catch, and he quickly throws Wildchild to the mat with a side suplex! The Bahaman grabs his back, but Flesher aims for his sternum as he drops onto him with a headbutt. He stays on Wildchild for the cover.

 

 

ONE!!

 

 

NO! Wildchild kicks out. Flesher eases some of the pressure, allowing his foe to roll to his stomach. With a smirk, Flesher clamps on a front headlock, prompting a cheer from his more devoted fans and a collective groan from most of the rest of the crowd. He pulls Wildchild in close as he stands up, leaning on the slightly build gymnast's neck.

 

“Here we go,” says King. “Flesher's starting in on the serious work now. He knows this is where he’s going to win the match, not on his feet where Wildchild can bounce off the ropes and make him miserable.”

 

Flesher clamps down on the headlock. As Wildchild struggles, he grabs at Flesher's cocked elbow, attempting the pass-by counter learned in the ring against Scott Pretzler and Ejiro Fasaki. Flesher sees the counter coming and jerks his elbow back into position, smirking almost to the point of laughing out loud.

 

“Isn't that adorable?” asks King. “Wildchild thinks he can fight his way out of a Tom Flesher front headlock.”

 

“He did pick up a bunch on the mat from Pretz, Hawke and Ejiro,” says Francis. “I wouldn't put it past him.”

 

Francis' benefit of the doubt aside, Flesher is able to tighten up the headlock to the point where Wildchild's struggling is unproductive. As soon as he feels Wildchild stop actively fighting for escape, Flesher steps in and arches his back, throwing the Caribbean Cruiser through the air and onto his back with the Cement Mixer! Flesher floats over and comes up on top, pressing Wildchild's shoulders to the mat! Sexton Hardcastle dives down and counts

 

 

ONE!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!

 

 

 

 

NO! Wildchild gets a shoulder up, and Flesher cuts his losses by scooting out to the side and allowing him to roll back to his knees. “He knows he's still in control,” says King as Flesher stands up once again and pulls Wildchild in at an awkward angle. As Wildchild backs out, trying to escape, Flesher snakes an arm under his left shoulder and underhooks it. He drives forward, thrusting the underhook skyward and tossing Wildchild to the mat with the Cement Job! He holds his adversary down as Hardcastle makes another count:

 

 

ONE!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!

 

 

 

KICKOUT! Wildchild breaks the fall, getting his arm loose and rolling to his hip in order to relieve the pressure on his neck. Flesher stays on him, however, even as he allows him to get to a sitting position. As soon as Wildchild does, however, Flesher kicks his legs forward and applies bodyscissors, locking up the Wet Cement submission! Wildchild immediately stiffens, and the crowd shouts, "OOOOH!" as he attempts to escape the deadly lock!

 

“This could be it!” says King. “Flesher leaned on Wildchild, racking up near-falls until the Tropical Tumbler lost track of what was going on, and then took advantage of that disorientation by slapping on the Wet Cement! Wildchild's not going to be able to escape this one!”

 

Wildchild tries to scoot himself free but quickly finds that he can't move very far with the added 230 pounds hanging from his neck and ribs. He reaches out one arm, trying desperately for his only chance to escape, and finds it as he grabs the middle rope! As he hangs on for dear life, the crowd pops for the escape and Sexton Hardcastle begins his count.

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

FOUR!

 

Finally, Flesher releases his bodyscissors and kicks back, getting to his feet but holding onto the headlock. He jerks Dub-Cee away and steps to the center of the ring, still maintaining his headlock. Wildchild continues struggling even as the fans boo the passive hold loudly.

 

“Flesher was playing close to the edge there,” says Francis. “The ref could have hit him for keeping the hold late.”

 

“Oh, he was just trying to get balanced,” says King, rolling his eyes.

 

“He should have let Wildchild go,” says Mak, pressing the issue. King merely sighs in an Al Gore-like fashion.

 

Wildchild fights to extract himself from the front headlock. Once again, he clamps down on Flesher’s elbow. Tom responds, as he usually does, by tightening the lock. Instead of fighting the grip, however, Wildchild throws the wrist by his head, extending Flesher’s arm and pulling him off-balance. In a flash, Dub-Cee leaps off the mat and hammers Flesher to the mat with a Caribbean Cutter! The crowd goes wild, while Flesher merely flattens out on his stomach. Wildchild rolls him to his back, and Sexton counts

 

 

ONE!!!!

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

KICKOUT!

 

 

“That counter to the front headlock caught Taamo off-guard, and you know that’s going to rattle him,” Mak says. “You just don’t expect a guy like Wildchild to be able to counter out of that front headlock.”

 

Wildchild springs up to his feet, and as Tom starts to get up, Dub-Cee grabs him by the wrist and sends him to the ropes. Flesher rebounds, only to eat a massive leg lariat that sends him straight back to the sidelines! He tries to recoup, but as he staggers forward, Wildchild leaps up and plants both feet in his stomach before rolling back and throwing Tom through the air with the Freefall monkey flip! Rattled, Flesher looks up at his adversary, then rolls back out to the concrete again.

 

“Smart move by the Tag Team Champion,” says the Suicide King. “He’s getting hit with all this gymnastic crap. He needs a few seconds to collect himself.”

 

“It doesn’t look like he’s going to get it,” says Mak, as Wildchild bounces off the ropes and launches himself between the top two ropes, diving at Flesher with a picture-perfect tope con hilo!

 

... can it be picture-perfect if Flesher dodges it? Well, the image of Wildchild hitting the concrete is pretty sickening, but the capture of the agony of missing such a dangerous move is pretty perfectly captured. What we’re trying to get at, of course, is...

 

“HE MISSES THE PLANCHA!” cringes Mak, as Wildchild collapses onto the thin padding on the concrete. Flesher, his chest heaving from the exertion of trying to keep up with such an impressive athlete, takes an extra second to catch his breath before he lifts Dub-Cee up and rams him back-first into the ringpost. Wildchild winces in pain, and Flesher rolls him into the ring. He follows, then makes the cover.

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

KICKOUT!

 

 

The crowd mixes gasps and applause as Wildchild kicks out after the sickening fall he took. Flesher, meanwhile, looks dissatisfied. He grabs the lithe Bahaman by the waist and flips him upside down, then slams him across his bent knee with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker. As Wildchild arches his back in pain, the Suicide King says, “You have to appreciate Tom Flesher taking advantage of a situation given to him like this. He’s showing true ring awareness and pure grit.”

 

Flesher drops Wildchild off his knee and covers him, as Sexton Hardcastle counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!

 

 

 

 

 

NO!!!!!!!!

 

 

The crowd goes wild as the Caribbean Cruiser once again kicks out, throwing his shoulder off the mat with authority! Tom Flesher glowers at him, then reapplies his waistlock. This time, instead of tilt-a-whirling, Flesher gutwrenches Wildchild all the way up over one shoulder into a Canadian backbreaker. Tom stalls there for a moment, holding Dub-Cee in the backbreaker as the crowd awaits the final blow. He waits...

 

 

and waits......

 

 

 

 

and waaaiiits.........

 

 

 

 

 

 

until he finally drops to his knees, practically breaking Wildchild in half with a Derailleur! Dub-Cee cries out in pain as Flesher throws him forward, then stacks him up onto his shoulders for the cover! Hardcastle counts

 

 

ONE!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREENO!!!!!!!!

 

 

Wildchild kicks out one more time, to the cheers of the left side of the arena! Flesher stands up, staring at Sexton Hardcastle and insisting that he got a three-count!

 

“Tom Flesher’s really getting frustrated,” says Francis. “Those quick pin attempts come out when a wrestler’s trying to manufacture a fall out of something that shouldn’t be a three-count. He’s upset, and he’s trying to take every opportunity to get a pin, deserved or not.”

 

“What do you mean, deserved or not?” scoffs King. “Any pin you get is deserved. A three-count’s a three-count, for God’s sake. Besides, beating on Wildchild’s back is just going to set him up for the King Cobra.”

 

Frustrated, Flesher grabs the waistlock once more. This time, he scowls at the crowd, with his mind clearly focused on getting the win at all costs. He looks out to James Matheson, who nods and gives him a broad thumbs-down gesture.

 

“Oh god,” says Francis, as Flesher tightens the gutwrench. “You don’t think he’s going to...”

 

“Oh, I think he is,” grins King. “He’s going to bust Wildchild’s ego back down to size.”

 

As Flesher hoists Wildchild into the air, looking for his trademark sheer-drop gutwrench suplex, Wildchild panics. He knows that if he gets caught with the Ego Buster, the match probably won’t be the only thing he’ll lose. As Flesher turns him upside down, Wildchild swings his legs around Flesher’s neck and quickly arches backwards, flinging the Superior One head-over-heels with a hurricanrana! As he comes down, Wildchild hooks Flesher’s legs, cradling him in a flash pin!

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREENO!!!!!!!!

 

 

Flesher manages to kick his legs up and sit forward, throwing Wildchild back into a sunset flip pin! Hardcastle drops to the mat and counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREENO!!!!!!!!

 

 

Wildchild rolls free, breaking up the pin as Sexton Hardcastle’s hand is just a hair’s breadth from the mat! Knowing he doesn’t want to be on the mat, Wildchild does a backward somersault to the ropes, then rolls out under them and stands on the apron. In a flash, as Tom is still getting to his feet, Wildchild slingshots himself over the top rope and grabs Flesher by the head and leg, taking him to the mat with a flying Oklahoma roll! Hardcastle sees another fall and counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!!!!

 

 

NO!!!!!!!

 

 

“Tom Flesher breaks up that Oklahoma roll,” says Mak Francis, “and he’s still in the match.”

 

“Of course he’s still in the match,” King snaps. “He’s not going to let something that stupid take him out.”

 

Even if he won’t, though, there’s not much Tom can do about the effects he feels from having his momentum taken away. Disoriented from the roll, he tries to get to his feet, while Wildchild manages to kip back up. “This is where Dub-Cee’s acrobatics background makes the difference,” Mak notes as Wildchild whips Flesher back into the turnbuckles. Tom watches as Wildchild springs toward him and leaps into the air with a vicious gamengiri, unable to control the pace of the match.

 

... but able, nonetheless, to duck out of the way.

 

“Ouch!” says King gleefully, as Wildchild hits the turnbuckle full-speed! Flesher scoots around him, throwing a palm strike at the back of his head to make sure that Dub-Cee can’t take advantage of his acrobatic skill this time. Flesher ducks his head under the stunned Wildchild’s arm and waistlocks him, then arches back with a Greco-Roman backdrop! Flesher holds him in a bridge, and Hardcastle counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREENO!!!!!!!!

 

 

Wildchild wriggles free and rolls over to his stomach! Immediately, Tom slides around, reaching under Wildchild’s stomach and grasping desperately at the same gutwrench hold that he used to set up the Ego Buster.

 

“Taamo’s looking for the Hail Mary,” says Mak. “He knows he can’t make the first down, and all he can do is look for the head-dropping that he said he wasn’t doing anymore! Wildchild’s got him that jacked up.”

 

“Oh, come on, it’s a sound strategy,” King spits. “You know how devastating getting dropped on your head can be.”

 

WHACK

 

As King rubs the knot on his head, Flesher tries frantically to lift Wildchild into the Ego Buster to spike him on his head and finally neutralize him. As soon as he gets Wildchild off the mat, though, the Tropical Tumbler breaks the gutwrench lock and squirts free from Flesher’s grip! He sprints to the side of the ring and jumps onto the bottom rope, then springs back. Flesher turns around just in time to eat a flying leg lariat that takes him to the mat with authority! Desperate for the win, Flesher immediately starts to his feet, only to eat a stiff kick to the stomach that bends him over. In an instant, Wildchild spins around, standing in front of Flesher, and hooks his right arm. The fans begin to scream their approval!

 

“He’s setting up the Wild Ride,” shouts Mak. “Flesher’s not going to survive that, neck or not!”

 

Flesher seems to know that as well, and shoves Wildchild forward to shrug him free. Almost on fumes, Tom throws Dub-Cee into the corner and drops to his knees, grabbing feverishly for a schoolboy rollup. “Look at the desperation!” says Mak, as Wildchild grabs the arm and pivots back, waxing Flesher with a kick to the face! Tom drops to the mat, and Wildchild jumps up onto the second turnbuckle. As Tom looks up, the Bahama Bomber launches himself off the buckle and nails Tom with a flying back elbow! Flesher falls backwards, doing a back somersault and finally coming to rest on his stomach. Still, his wrestler’s instinct and fighting spirit force him on, and he pushes bravely to his feet.

 

“Wildchild caught Flesher looking for that last-grasp rollup,” says Mak, “and Wildchild knows he’s rattled. Tom’s been looking for this win for the past two years, and he wants it tonight... but you better believe that the Bomber’s not going to roll over that easy.”

 

Dub-Cee hammers Flesher with another lightning-fast kick to the stomach, and stands in front of him, once again trying to hook his arms for the Wild Ride. As he hooks the left arm, Flesher shrugs, pulling his right arm free. He snakes the arm around Wildchild’s waist and pulls his left arm out, then drives his head under the Human Hurricane’s left shoulder. Without even a thought, Flesher tightens his waistlock and lifts Wildchild off his feet. Then, with a pop of his hips and an arch of his spine, Flesher throws Wildchild backwards with a Greco-Roman backdrop...

 

 

(“Oh my god,” murmurs Mak.

 

“Oh my god,” grins King.)

 

 

right onto his skull.

 

 

The fans go silent as Wildchild hits on the crown of his head, then flops impotently onto his stomach. Melissa Fasaki covers her eyes, unable or at least unwilling to watch the sickeningly sheer drop. Flesher rabidly rolls over, making sure to stack Wildchild on his shoulders. Despite the severity of the move and the landing, Tom tightly hooks Dub-Cee’s leg and cradles him, staring frantically at Sexton Hardcastle. Sexton drops to the mat to count the fall.

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!!!!

 

 

DING DING DING!!!!

 

 

Flesher rolls off Wildchild, his chest heaving as adrenaline courses through his body. He stares up at the open sky, even as Funyon makes his announcement.

 

“The winner of the match,” says Funyon, “TOM FLESHER!!!!!”

 

Flesher shakes his head, as if unable to believe what just happened. James Matheson grabs him by the hand and helps lead him out of the ring, to the concrete floor. Tom, stunned by his own ability to spike a man on his skull as much as exhausted from the grueling match, takes his Tag Team Title belt from Matheson and slings it over his shoulder.

 

Then, almost as if a veil had been lifted, Flesher realizes that Wildchild is still in the ring, trying to recover from the vicious backdrop driver.

 

Tom’s eyes light up.

 

He finally beat the man from the Bahamas. That’s all that matters.

 

Like the child who’s finally conquered the neighborhood bully, Tom Flesher has earned a win over a man who has consistently bested him. He turned the tables.

 

Tom Flesher knows he’s King of the Mountain.