SWF Storm!

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SWF
STORM

Live, Friday, October 6th, from the Rose Garden in Portland, Oregon!
(7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings)



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ZyKira (Zyon and Akira Kaibatsu) vs. Rainhawk, or Nighina, or however you'd like to combine their names (Nighthawk and Scotty Raina)
-> Zyon and AKira have tagged before, including in one of my favorite house rules matches, The May 31st Movement in Tienanman Square, and while they didn't quite succeed there, there's no denying these two have talent and chemistry. The wrestling kind, not the romantic kind. Looking to turn their recent luck around, tonight they pair up to take on the team of Nighthawk, fresh off a victory over Amy Stephens, and Scotty Raina!
Rules: Standard tag team match.

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Charlie "Grappler" Matthews vs. Disney Sponsored Alan Clark
-> Anyone worrying about Clark suffering from ring rust can breathe a sigh of relief, as he has been very impressive since his return. So impressive, in fact, that we're kicking him up the card, and putting him against GRAPPLAH~!!~!
Rules: Standard singles match.

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Ultimo Phantasmo vs. Scion of Light
-> The world's going to hell in a handbasket, what with all these plane delays and random power outages that plagued last weeks show. We have no idea who won what yet, so let's just ignore that. I think these two can put on a hell of a match, and that's all the justification I need.

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[chirs3 0]

“Please Stand Clear of the Ring. Por favor Soporte Claro del Anillo….

 

…For the Safety and Comfort of Others…No Smoking Please. Para la Seguridad Y la Comodidad de Otras... El Ningún Fumar Por favor….

 

 

“The Walt Disney Company and the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation are proud to present…”

 

Storm comes back from it’s commercial break with the speakers rumbling to the tune of “When You Wish Upon A Star”, the song once again drawing a sad sigh of annoyed tolerance from the Suicide King…

 

“Not this. WHY!?”

 

“He’s getting ready to square off against Charlie Matthews, that’s why, King!” Mak Francis pipes in, and at the sound of the opponent the King of Hearts seems to lighten up.

 

“That is perfect. I want to watch the Grappler squeeze him until his eyes pop out!” He laughs to himself as Alan Clark appears from behind the curtain, Walter Reynolds following a few footsteps behind.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL…introducing first, making his way to the ring…being accompanied by Walter Reynolds…weighing in at two hundred and twenty five pounds and representing Disneyland…he is the self-proclaimed and copyrighted Happiest Guy On Earth…

 

ALAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN CLAAAAAARK!”

 

“AL-AN! AL-AN! AL-AN!”

 

“The fans showing their appreciation for the cheerful Clark here in the Rose Garden tonight!” remarks Mak as Alan slaps a few hands and—

 

 

 

 

“What happened to my music??” Alan spins around, looking toward his wingman, only to find Reynolds with a shrug on his shoulders as the cheerful Disney melody is replaced by the riffs of Muddy Water’s “Mannish Boy” and the figure of Charlie Matthews standing at the top of the ramp!

 

“And introducing his opponent…being accompanied to the ring by James Matheson and weighing in at three hundred and six pounds….from Kansas City Missouri…

 

CHARLIE…

 

“THE GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPLAAAAAAH!!!”

 

 

…MAAAATTHEWS!!”

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

 

 

“Boring! Booooooooring! Boooooooooooooooring!”

 

“He hasn’t even made it to the ring yet!” The Suicide King laments, but Francis is quick to suggest other circumstances…

 

“I think there’s a bit of a roadblock, King” and sure enough, Alan Clark is standing inches from Charlie Matthews face, the size differential showcased on the entranceway stage as Walter tries to pull Alan away.

 

“What happened to my MUSIC!!” Clark screams, and Charlie can only laugh back in his face, spittle hitting Alan’s jaw.

 

“We don’t have time for this, Clark. Just go get in the ring.” The cooler, more boring, mindset of Charlie Matthews is echoed by referee Sexton Hardcastle, who has found himself between the two men on the stage, trying to split them apart. The Grappler himself is trying more to get around his angry opponent, but with every step he takes Alan is standing right in front of him.

 

“Haven’t you ever heard of something called MANNERS! You couldn’t wait thirty seconds for YOUR music to play?”

 

“It’s better than that wishful drivel you pipe through here” James Matheson can be heard over Charlie’s shoulder, drawing two pairs of eyes from the wrestlers.

 

“YOU STAY OUT OF THIS!” Clark screams, only to turn back and send his fist into Charlie’s chest.

 

 

 

 

Charlie laughs.

 

 

“I don’t think you want to do that again, Clark.”

 

 

 

SMACK!!

 

 

“Did he just…” the Suicide King starts, but if Mak Francis could walk he’d be jumping up and down…

 

“ALAN CLARK JUST SLAPPED CHARLIE MATTHEWS!!

 

“Over a musical cue…what the hell is wrong with that boy.”

 

 

 

 

 

THUUUUUD!!

 

Booooooooooooooooooooooo!!

 

“MY GOD! Alan Clark just got leveled with a right hand!” Mak continues his fit of anxiety and excitement as Alan Clark’s body flies backwards, rolling through on the ramp to bring Alan to a stop on his knees. Charlie rubs his hand and tries to walk forward, doing what he can to actually get to the ring…

 

 

SMAAAACK!!

 

“Superkick to the chest by Clark!”

 

 

Matthews recoils, but stays on his feet, rubbing his chest where the boot of Clark connected.

 

“I don’t know what has gotten into you, boy, but if you try anything like tha---

 

 

WHIIIIFF!

 

“OH NO!”

 

KEERRRAAAAANG!!

 

 

“Alan Clark was just slammed back-first on the steel ramp!!”

 

“He shouldn’t have tried to kick him again!!” King screams as Alan again gets to his feet, slower this time, as Charlie shakes his head at him.

 

“Are we going to have our match now or what?” He looks to Hardcastle, who looks to Clark…

 

 

…and both turn to see Alan coming straight for them…

 

 

 

THUUUUUUD!!

 

“VICIOUS CLOTHESLINE BY THE GRAPPLER!! Alan Clark might be out cold!” Walter Reynolds seems horrified as Charlie’s arm nearly decapitates the Happiest Guy On Earth, leaving him down on the floor. Charlie, unwavering, simply walks through the motion and around the ring, the referee trying to talk with him as they make their way around to the announce position.

 

“You still want the match? Sure…” Hardcastle’s voice can be picked up on a ringside camera as Matheson takes his normal place by the apron and Reynolds tries to help Clark back on his feet, only for Clark to take off toward the ring the moment he gets vertical!

 

“He’s coming again!!” King yells out as Alan jumps up to the apron and dives off towards Matthews, the referee diving out of the way as Clark’s right arm grazes the side of the Grappler’s chest, causing the big man to step back once to regain his balance as Alan’s body falls to the mat below.

 

“I’ve had enough of this. Seriously.” Matthews voice is low, but audible, as he turns and pushes past Sexton and a ringside timekeeper, pulling a chair up and closing it …

 

 

 

“Charlie Matthews has got a chair!! This isn’t going to be good for Alan Clark!”

 

“Come on ref! Let him go! That cheery fool deserves it!” King’s persuasion is unheard by Hardcastle, who is trying in vain to pull the chair from the larger arms of Matthews.

 

“Don’t do it, Charlie! You said you’d get in the ring and we could start this match. Put the chair down!”

 

“I’m not the one holding things up!! He is!!” Charlie rips the chair from Sexton’s hands and spins around to his fallen opponent…

 

 

 

KLLAAAAAANG!!

 

 

…and finds him NOT SO FALLEN!!

 

 

“SUPERKICK INTO THE CHAIR AND INTO THE SKULL OF CHARLIE MATTHEWS!!”

 

“He can’t use a WEAPON!! It’s against his stupid contract!!” The King and Mak Francis debate the actual intentions in the situation as Charlie drops to the floor, the chair he was just holding showing a lovely outline of his nose and chin…

 

“I think Alan’s kick was aiming for Charlie Matthews regardless of the chair being there. I don’t think anyone can hold him at fault for that. He wasn’t swinging the chair or using it him---“

 

“HE IS NOW!!”

 

Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!

 

The crowd lights up, regardless of whether or not the actual action of Alan Clark lifting the chair off the ground and over his head should be something the crowd cheers. Alan takes a look at the chair and towards both Sexton and James Matheson, who has made his way around the ring to try and get to his man. Behind Clark, Reynolds is running as fast as he can, yelling the whole way…

 

“Don’t do it!! DON’T DO IT!!”

 

“I don’t think he can hear anything right now, King” Mak, the Suicide King, and everyone in the Rose Gardens eyes are on Clark as he raises the chair above his head, looking to bring it down onto the skull of Charlie Matthews, his SWF career hanging in the balance if he chooses to do what his eyes are burning to do.

 

“WISH…UPON…THIS!”

 

 

 

…….

 

 

 

 

……..

 

 

 

Thud.

 

 

Walter Reynolds almost screams as the chair begins to move down in a vicious arc towards the Grappler, only to fall out of Alan’s grip and hit the floor unceremoniously with a weak thud. Alan turns back towards Walter, his trademark smile all but wiped from his face as he heads back around the ring toward the entrance ramp, leaving a recovered Charlie Matthews sitting on his knees with James Matheson above him, the entire Rose Garden watching on as “When You Wish Upon A Star” restarts with Alan walking back to the locker room, Walter Reynolds in pursuit. Just before he passes through the curtain he turns back to the crowd and looks up to the heavens, smiling once again, as if listening to the sweet sounds coming from all throughout the building….

 

 

 

…pixie dust falling from the ceiling as he heads through the curtain and Storm fades to another commercial break.

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“Well, we’re back from our commercial break here on Storm,” Mak Francis says, “and as you can see the ring is set up for the ‘House of Marvellous’ interview segment… I don’t have anything in my notes to show who he has as a guest this evening…”

 

“Shut up and he’ll tell you,” Suicide King advises his commentary partner, and sure enough Sir Marvellous himself has grabbed a microphone. Leaning heavily on his stick, the former road agent has a distinct smirk on his face.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce a first for the House of Marvellous,” he says, looking like a cat who just got the cream, “because while I have played host to the International Champion Bruce Blank, and stars like Wildchild, Johnny Dangerous and,” he pauses to smirk a little more, “Mike Van Siclen… I am proud to present, for the first time ever, the reigning World Heavyweight Champion!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Seriously?” Mak Francis says in surprise, and then-

 

“COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!”

“COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!”

 

“…well yeah, I guess he is serious then!” the Franchise concludes as the rolling soccer chant blasts out of the speakers, followed a moment later by the crashing opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire, “Michael Stephens is on his way to the ring, and this has to be considered a coup for the House of Marvellous!”

 

“Really? How so?” King asks sarcastically, “it’s not like Toxxic doesn’t like the sound of his own voice - I’m surprised it’s taken him this long…”

 

*BOOOM!!*

 

The red pyro goes off all along the soundstage, and through the flame and smoke…

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

…dressed as usual in his trenchcoat and England soccer shirt (and doubtless rueing their poor, poor showing against Macedonia on Saturday to get a 0-0 draw at home)…

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

…with Cruiserweight Title in his right hand, Tag Title in his left and the World Heavyweight Title around his waist…

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

…comes the man once known as Toxxic. The Triple Champion makes his way down the entrance ramp, looking serious but still exchanging a few words with fans near the guardrail, before rolling under the bottom rope into the ring where Sir Marvellous awaits. Sir Marvellous hands Stephens a microphone (which leads to momentary confusion as the Englishman juggles his belts into one hand), then raises his own to his mouth again.

 

“Welcome Mr Stephens, welcome,” the host oozes, “may I say what a pleasure it is to have you on the show, and if I may I’d like to lead with a question… Michael Stephens, given that since your return to the SWF - your undefeated return, I might add - you have been very careful to ensure that your wrestling style has not endangered your opponents’ health, how do you explain the positively dangerous manoeuvres you employed in your title matches against Tom Flesher at Genesis, and then against Spike Jenkins on Lockdown? Could it be that you’re perhaps a fraud, prepared to risk injury to an opponent if it suits you?”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Well, I think Sir Marvellous has set his stall out quite obviously here,” Mak Francis says with some disgust, “I guess this segment is going to be nothing more than a thinly-disguised attack on the World Champion.”

 

“Personally, I’m going to be interested to hear this,” King says smugly. For his part Michael Stephens is still trying to arrange his title belts so that he can comfortably hold them in one hand, but his head snaps up as Marvellous’s words sink in. The grey eyes narrow, and he drops the Tag and Cruiserweight Titles on the mat.

 

“I think the first question you should be asking is one to yourself, ‘Sir Marvellous’,” the Englishman says quietly. “Namely, if you truly believe that I’m as bloodthirsty as you claim, is it really smart to be saying something that might piss me off?”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Now, I know you’ve got Mr. Muscle standing over there,” Stephens continues evenly, jerking a black-nailed thumb over his shoulder at Tracey Bruner as Sir Marvellous’s smile falters a little, “and quite frankly I don’t care, because however much shit he’s pumped into his veins to achieve that physique, I’m not scared of him. However,” he says, smiling, “luckily for you I’m not the sort of man you seem to think I am.”

 

“He’s evading the question,” King sniffs.

 

“You see, there’s a difference in what I did in my match with Tom and what I did in my match with Spike,” Stephens informs his host. “Tom and I both went into that match with one intention; to win. We wanted to take both the World Title and the Cruiserweight Title home with us. It was all about the competition. Now I can’t stand Tom Flesher as a person, but as a wrestler he has my utmost respect. And yes, I dragged the Caffeine Bomb out of mothballs against him, because I needed it. I had to throw everything at him to stand a chance of winning, and that’s why he brought out the Logical Disconnect and the Burning Hammer as well. The Burning Hammer is a dangerous move,” the Englishman continues, “and if you don’t believe me… ask that man,” he finishes, pointing a finger at Mak Francis.

 

The Franchise is oddly quiet at ringside.

 

“Tom was doing everything he could to win. I understand that, and I understand why he was doing it.” Stephens’ voice suddenly changes and becomes harder. “Spike on the other hand… Spike went into the match wanting to hurt me. Spike thought that he could do to me what he’s done to other people and get away with it. It was not about the adrenaline rush of competition with Spike; he went into that match with a cold, hard plan for what he was doing. And sunshine, I’m not having that.”

 

“So you’re saying that you were trying to, er, ‘teach him a lesson’?” Marvellous hazards. Stephens regards him for a second, then nods.

 

“Pretty much, yeah.”

 

“So given that, how can you still claim that you’ve changed from-”

 

Michael Stephens casually reaches up and lifts the microphone from Sir Marvellous’s grasp. The fans, unsurprisingly, approve:

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“First of all, I don’t need someone like you who’s never stepped into a ring in anger to go questioning my decisions, my actions, or how I do things,” the Triple Champion says, fixing Marvellous with a glare. “Yeah, I’ve tried to make sure that I’m not doing anyone any permanent damage this time round, I don’t want things to get back to how they were where I felt I had blood on my hands, but the problem is people can easily mistake that for weakness. You see,” he continues, “if you step into the ring with me as an opponent, I’ll respect that. Throw everything you’ve got at me and see if it’s enough, that’s fine. But try and take the piss, and I will put you down.”

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

Stephens’ mouth twists slightly, but he raises his microphone and continues. “Zyon, I want to let you know that I have no plans to drop you on your head in our Cruiserweight Title match that’s been booked for Lockdown. I don’t think I need to worry about grudges from you; sure, we’ve had our differences in the past, but that was mainly just words. I’m going to wrestle this match with the intention of beating you, nothing more. But as for the rest of the federation,” he says, turning and looking towards the back, “no matter who you are - former partner, old enemy… old friend… I have a little piece of advice for you: Do not presume on my good nature. I don’t want to get nasty with anyone, but if you give me no choice, if you back me into a corner, if it comes down to me or you… it’s gonna be you.”

 

The Triple Champion tosses the confiscated microphone back to Sir Marvellous, who catches it and glowers at him, but doesn’t say anything. Stephens turns to leave, then seems to have a second thought.

 

“Oh, and if you don’t believe me… Prepare To Be Proved Wrong.”

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

“Strong words from Michael Stephens there,” Mak Francis says, still not quite sounding like himself, “we’ve got another commercial break coming up now, but more exciting action when we come back.”

 

As the show cuts to commercials, Suicide King can just be heard to mutter “told you he hadn’t changed…”

[chirs3 0]

The anticipation inside the Rose Garden begins to build amongst the local Portland, Oregon fans while they conclude their final awkward shuffles past other fans en route to their seats. Fading in, the camera catches smidgens of fans crowding down cement isles anxiously awaiting the official kick off of tonight’s Storm – a bout contested between two SWF newcomers, the Scion of Light and Ultimo Phantasmo. The camera crew completes the fade back from the last segment while the on-air broadcasting duo of Mak “The Franchise” Francis and The Suicide King welcome viewers back to ringside.

 

“We’re just about ready to get the action started, wrestling enthusiasts,” exclaims ‘The Franchise’ excitedly, “And what better way to shift Storm into full throttle than with two of the hottest upcoming rookie prospects!”

 

“I’ll say,” King mutters quickly, “Mmmmhm.” Behind the broadcast booth, Suicide King ogles several scandalous pictures of what appears to be the Scion of Light in scantly clad ensembles.

 

“Those can’t be real,” Mak questions, clearing his throat, “How many super heroines do you know willing to degrade themselves for the likes of scum bags like you?”

 

“Oh, they’re real,” King raises an eye brow as he tracks backwards to a specific photo, “Oh, yes.”

 

“Well,” Mak raises a brow and turns his attention back to the upcoming match, “I can assure you those are not pictures of the Scion of Light; I can also assure you that this contest will prove to be most interesting.”

 

“Interesting,” King echoes, still enthralled in the pictures, “I can’t wait to see this gal contort that body…”

 

Mak has nothing to say in response as an awkward on-air response follows before the silence is finally broken. “Regardless of how flexible the Scion of Light is, will her dexterity be able to withstand an accomplished striker and impressive former Lucha Libre prospect?”

 

“Oh, I have faith,” King quickly fires back, still skipping over the photos, ignoring his on-air duties.

 

“I see predictions have suddenly become a one man job,” Mak shrugs off his partner and fully averts his attention to the upcoming match just moments away. “It’s safe to say there’s more than one significant gap between these two. Ultimo Phantasmo is, as reported, on rigorous training regimen designed by a former boxing manager and trainer. He’s got significant experience in wrestling gained during tenure as a Luchadore in Mexico. He virtually every physical advantage…”

 

“Nope, not every single one,” King turns a new picture around a full 360 degrees as he attempts to unravel the pose the fake Scion is in, “I’m confident that Ultimate Fantastic, or whatever his name is, CANNOT do THIS!” King shoves the photo towards his broadcast partner, The Franchise, who shoves it away, continuing with his match over-view (or at least attempting to do so).

 

“Will the Suicide King be right,” mulls Mak Francis rhetorically, “Will the size and strength advantage of Ultimo Phantasmo prove to be enough to put away the Japanese-import, the Scion of Light? The answers are just moments away!”

 

The concluding words of former SWF wrestler, Mak Francis, precede the fading brightness of the large, stage lights hung and placed throughout the arena as a slow, moving, demon-like sounds creep from the speakers. The introduction, performed by the Gorillaz, slowly picks up a slight pace with several odd vocals in the background overshadowing the whining sounds of an ambulance. After a minute or so of the dark sounds, a grim begins the conclusion.

 

“Who put me at the bottom of the food chain? Who put me at the bottom of the food chain? Now entering the Harmonic Door.”

 

A second’s pause follows the vocals as the lights hit an absolute darkness – pitch black, as a couple of cameras flash, though lacking the full attention of many fans who seemingly could care less about the rookie. The pause draws the crowd in as figurative question marks appear over their heads. For a second, there’s a feeling of power-failure, until the exploding bass lines extracted from the bass guitar of Primus’ Les Claypool replace the silence. With the newly present bass comes a light change, several of them shooting out in blinding fashion towards the entrance area. Smoke, rising from the ramp, creates a mist-like fog as the lights begin to flicker in a strobe-like manor.

 

“There’s a time for lies, and a time for truth. I say, eye for an eye, eye for a tooth!”

 

“IT’S NICE!”

 

From the back steps out a tall, shadowy figure followed closely behind by smaller, more fashionably dressed man. The latter of the two, Miguel Mayorga, has his head protected from the light and vision by an average size white towel. The secrecy of the former boxing trainer and manager is matched only by his associate, Ultimo Phantasmo, who steps out into full view first – though, the term view is hardly appropriate as his body is cloaked in an odd, sleeveless hooded cloak, his hair the only visible physical characteristic of the surprisingly large Cruiserweight.

 

“When I was young, I scavenged around. Every nook and cranny, of our little town!”

 

“IT’S NICE!”

 

“SO NICE!”

 

“TO BE!”

 

“Impressive,” remarks Francis, intrigued by the newcomer, “If his in-ring performance is as stunning as his ability to make a fantastic entrance then this up-and-comer could be someone to watch out for.”

 

After a time consuming pause, Smartmarks Wrestling Federation ring announcer, Funyon, edges the long, overly-drawn out entrance of the rookie forward.

 

“PUFF TIJUANA SMALLS, SHAKE HANDS WITH BEEF!”

 

“Entering now, hailing from Boa Vista, Brazil,” his bellowing voice remarks, turning his body and holding a hand out to the rookie now approaching ringside, “Accompanied by Miguel Mayorga – weighing in at 220 pounds on the dot and standing at six feet two inches in height, HE-IS UUUL-TI-MO-PHAN-TAAAAS-MOOOO!”

 

A light cheer follows in respect to the rookie.

 

“Phantasmo, a rookie, looks incredibly calm and focused here tonight,” Mak remarks, impressed by the nerves of the former Luchadore, “His manager is jumping around, throwing punching motions and performing various air combinations!”

 

“Eh,” King shrugs off the rookie’s nerves of steel, “I just want to see this Japanese broad flex that body of hers!”

 

“We’re aware,” Mak echoes, “We’re aware.”

 

Another pause occurs and then the lights begin to set themselves in preparation of the second participant in tonight’s opening bout. Phantasmo stares down the stage, still in his cloak, face virtually undetectable. The lights glare, and after a moment, the sounds of “Knights of Cydonia” by Muse pick up in the middle, as a far more sincere, warm reaction greets the lesser of the two newcomers.

 

“NO ONE’S GOING’TA TAKE ME ALIVE, THE TIME HAS COME TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT, YOU AND I MUST FIGHT FOUR OUR RIGHTS, YOU AND I MUST FIGHT TO SURVIVE!”

 

The lights stop moving and an abrupt stop in the music substantially elevates the anticipation among the fans, although the reactions are still quite small.

 

B-B-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

 

“Wow,” shouts The Franchise excitedly, “An explosion of bright-white pyrotechnics, and there she is!”

 

At the top of the stage is an energetic, significantly smaller, masked, Japanese woman. Energetically, the Scion of Light hops around the stage, fans warmly welcoming her presence. After several moments of bobbing, she hops into her signature pose, one fist sticking out, the other directly above her head, clenched tightly. There’s an intense moment as the Japanese-import fixes her eyes, or what can be made out to be her eyes, on her opponent standing coldly in the ring. Following the glare, she jumps, and upon rebound back to the ramp, takes off with a full head of speed, gunning for the ring.

 

“Intense, determined,” Mak remarks rather impressed, “She won’t let her opponent’s advantages demoralize her!”

 

As her short and quick steps put her closer to ringside, she slows, and with as much speed as anyone else could, slides into the ring, quickly getting to her feet in front of the 6’2’’ cruiserweight who happens to be her opponent. After more bouncing around, Funyon resumes the opening.

 

“And tonight’s second competitor in our opening bout,” exhale the bellowing vocals soothingly smooth, “Direct from Kyoto Japan, she stands five feet five inches in height and weighing in at 160 pounds – S.O.L, the SUH-EYEEEE-ON of LLL-IGHT!” Behind Funyon several front row fans cheer loudly in appreciation to the S.O.L., who is still attempting to prove her keep to the fans, despite their slight approval.

 

Finally, after long moments of people entering an exiting the ring, the two wrestlers and tonight’s referee, Ced Ordonez, are all whom are left inside of the ever cliché squared-circle. The referee checks with both wrestlers as they both bob around, warming themselves up.

 

DING-!

 

DING-!

 

DING-!

 

“Oddly,” Mak makes note, “Ultimo Phantasmo has yet to disrobe that over-clock he’s wearing, the only physical features we can see are his arms, some hair, and a bit of mask. Under, briefly, we can see his insanely elaborate attire – a mix of purple, black, and faded white.”

 

Ordonez gives the former martial artist a glare, tilting his head in order to get a better look under the hood. Suddenly, in response to the look, Phantasmo swipes the hood off of his head, revealing the cartoon like mask under it portraying a smile and several of the unique emblems that are already scattered up and down his shiny pants and ribbed tank top.

 

“Woah,” King cuts his way back into existence, “That mask is incredibly creepy.”

 

Mak, leaning forward to get a better look nods to concur. “Unique to say the least,” Mak comments slowly, “Creepy nonetheless, as you said, King.”

 

The Bemani Cross Wizard stumbles back and then signals to the two wrestlers, whom instantly respond, tying up in the center of the ring before Ordonez could say, “Dance, Dance Revolution!” A power struggle is virtually non-existent, and thusly, the Scion is pushed back against the ropes and held there. Proceeding the early power defiance Ultimo tilts his head and stares blankly at his opponent and then lets her go, backing off. A few steps in reverse and then a spring in his step allows Phantasmo to dodge the Scion, attempting to fire back off her early failure to defend the strength of her opponent. Scion hits the ropes and then fires across the ring, but her trick doesn’t suck the former Lucha Libre prospect in. Instead, contrary to what the Scion had planned to happen, Phantasmo watches her as she speeds her way around the ring like Mighty Mouse. It takes a moment for the Scion of Light to register as her opponent glares at her gloomily, the hazy look and peculiar stance almost frightening.

 

“Scion not able to use her speed to draw this incredibly odd character into any sort of offensive trap,” replies Mak as the odd situation finally culminates in the ring. The Scion finally slows down to a dead stop right in front of her opponent, but stumbles right into a knee well placed in the gut, doubling her over for what appears to be gasps of air. But the struggle of his opponent to gain back her breath doesn’t hold off Ultimo Phantasmo, who immediately locks his right arm over the back of her nape, grabbing a handful of chin.

 

“What an impressive and quickly placed knee from the new-comer,” Mak exclaims in respect to the strike, “And now he’s got the Scion caught in a very, very tight looking Cravat!”

 

Phantasmo toys with his newly captured Scion of Light, pulling her around in circles. She has no choice but to follow or stand the risk of taking a serious injury. The crowd kicks a slight chuckle as the strangely creepy, yet goofy and lovable, physical mannerisms are portrayed by Ultimo. Now he’s through playing, however, as he gradually picks up speed, forcing the Scion of Light to do so as well, eventually escalating into a near run (rather a jog). This game continues for a few more moments until Phantasmo hits the peak speed and suddenly halts, turning towards the Scion who is still moving. He quickly reverses the hold, applying it in the opposite direction, not only jarring her neck suddenly, but pulling her inward. Following up, Phantasmo quickly and swiftly lifts his leg and directs his knee cap into the forehead of her mask, sending her blonde locks flailing forward and then suddenly back.

 

CLAAAA-UUUUUUD!

 

“OH!” The crowd looks on, almost concerned.

 

“What a shot,” Mak stands, scouring the mat with his eyes to check for any loose teeth that might have been forced from their gummy holders. “I can’t believe she’s not dead!”

 

“Jesus,” King mutters aloud, shocked, “I can’t either; even I have to say, that was both creative AND devastating!”

 

Standing tall, Ultimo looks down at the Scion. She holds her head, rolling to her stomach, the pain starting from the front and then working its way around to the back of her cranium like a spider web. She kicks her leg and then attempts to stumble up, but the former Luchadore will have none of it. He stops her, from a lazy and unmotivated attempt to get back to her feet and then hooks both of her legs in search of an early exit from the match. The referee, crowd, and ringside personnel have no trouble believing it, immediately acting is if this one was already in the bags.

 

 

ONE…!

 

 

 

 

 

TWO…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEE!

 

 

 

 

“Unbelievable,” shouts Mak Francis aloud, crowd practically speechless in the background, “At the last second, S.O.L. lifted her shoulder ever so slightly enough to deliver her from the jaws of defeat!”

 

“Bwaha,” cackles the Suicide King, “That chick knows how to handle herself on the bottom!”

 

“I thought you liked ‘em on top,” Mak cracks a slight smirk.

 

“I do,” explains King, “But if she can’t handle herself on the bottom, she can’t finish on top!”

 

“You’re despicable.”

 

Ced Ordonez signals a two count to the crowd from a kneeling position whilst Phantasmo, seated next to him, looks down at his opponent.

 

--THE SMART MARKS WRESTLING FEDERATION CONCUSION CAM—

 

The replay screen cuts in, taking half the screen for itself. The footage begins playing from a different angle, starting from the moment of the peak speed. In slow motion, the image of Phantasmo pulling the Scion of Light across the ring moves only a handful of frames per second. A sudden halt sends her hair flying forward as Ultimo turns to her and reverses the lock, applying it in the opposite direction, and jarring her neck back suddenly.

 

“Look at that,” Mak remarks both impressed and astonished, “Impressive set up, and – OH!”

 

The captured footage from just moments ago depicts the knee strike and the impact as Scion’s face seemingly becomes concave. The sickly image of the knee cap’s driving force into Scion’s face is replaced with that of her hair flowing forward and over the leg of the former martial artist. Phantasmo suddenly lets her go, and she goes limp, folding awkwardly to the mat in an almost disturbing way.

 

--THE SMART MARKS WRESTLING FEDERATION CONCUSION CAME—

 

Meanwhile, in the ring, Phantasmo makes headway on his opponent, the Scion of Light. With such a lack of energy expanded pertaining to the match thus far, Phantasmo quickly moves his opponent around the ring, snapping kicks into her stomach, legs, and upper body before finally settling in the corner nearest the entrance ramp. The Scion, still dazed, refuses to give up still yet, unable to offer up anything more than a lazy attempt at pushing the swarming Phantasmo and his stinging, chop-like, short kicks away from her. Ultimo, though, is able to brush away her attempt, pinning her back against the corner ropes and unleashing a sadistic high kick, uncharacteristically using his left leg to snap at S.O.L. just above her collar.

 

“Thus far a flawless game plan,” implies the Franchise, action presuming in the ring, “He’s caught the Scion of Light with two hard shots, cut her speed off, kept her tied up, and left her unable to regain any sort of breath or momentum.”

 

“Miguel Mayorga seems pleased,” King mutters aloofly.

 

The camera briefly pans to the side of the ring where Miguel Mayorga watches on, arms plicate. Another camera approaches as he smirks, pleased. However, in the ring, S.O.L. has managed to gain back her swagger, ducking a second shin kick, which narrowly missed beheading the smaller, Japanese woman. She throws her compact body towards the ropes parallel to the former site where she had been held less than seconds before. Her hips press into the second rope and she swings her head in the opposite direction, aiming directly at Phantasmo who looks more now like a deer in a pair of headlights. The Scion uses her momentum as means to run down her prey just steps from her. “S.O.L. ignoring any head trauma she might have suffered from the critical blow taken earlier,” remarks the Franchise on S.O.L.’s near fearlessness. However, the Scion of Light’s speed resembles of Phantasmo’s level of awareness, which is higher than presumed by the Scion of Light, who sees her opponent’s eyes and slides under his legs. Off balance and caught off guard, Phantasmo can only stagger and then drops to his stomach, immediately and instinctively flipping to his back. After a moment of embarrassment, he manages to kick free his foot, scrambling backward.

 

“Counter tactics from the Scion of Light indicate she may have an edge over her opponent,” Mak remarks, “In spite of Phantasmo’s undeniable goofiness, the Scion of Light appears to have a slight mental edge – crowd in her corner, she’s not going to lay down for this offense machine!”

 

Immediately following the liberation of Phantasmo’s foot from her meager grasp, the Scion of Light parades back to her feet to a warm crowd response. Almost mockingly, she gallops around incredibly proud of her efforts and certainly bubbly in spite of what’s sure to be a pounding head ache.

 

“If Phantasmo’s face was viewable, it would be a shade of rouge,” exclaims Mak, “He’s been majorly shown up by his much smaller foe!”

 

“Better not to wonder what’s underneath that thing,” mutters the Suicide King.

 

Phantasmo brushes himself off and then gets back to his feet, beckoning back the less happy-go-lucky personality of the Scion of Light who immediately gets her game pose on, fist clinched high above her head. Following an awkward moment, Phantasmo steps forward but is met with a swift spinning chop that manages to simply grace his covered chest. Ultimo tilts his head forward, glaring at the back of S.O.L.’s hand, seemingly glued to his tank top. Just a moment late, the Scion realizes her hand not only failed to affect her opponent, but never even left its point of impact. Scrambling to remove her appendage out of her opponent’s grasp, the Scion of Light stumbles back. It’s too late, however, as Ultimo Phantasmo takes an iron-like grip of her hand, clenching it tightly.

 

“Snared,” Mak exclaims aloud, “Ultimo Phantasmo has caught her, hand in the cookie jar!”

 

“That sounds so dirty,” eagerly responds King with a grin and a head nod.

 

“I don’t want to know whose hand was in whose cookie jar in your little fantasy there!”

 

Proceeding a futile moment of inefficient struggle, the Scion of Light simply goes limp, attempting to contort out of the hold. Turning her body away from the former Luchadore simply ties her up in what appears to be a hold similar to the Cobra Clutch. Stuck and kicking, the Scion is held at her opponent’s mercy, left useless for Phantasmo’s bidding. He toys with her just before he himself turns away, using both hands to keep her arm trapped around her neck.

 

“This isn’t looking good for the Japanese import!”

 

Her body hangs loosely, shoulder pinned against her taller opponent and feet dangling. Ultimo Phantasmo finds a reasonable starting point near one of the turnbuckles and then turns to face the center of the ring. A moment passes and then he charges to the center of the ring. “CRISTA DA LUA,” shouts Mayorga from the outside of the ring. Indeed, Phantasmo throws his opponent sloppily over his back and begins to drop her on what seems like will be her head as he squats and then plops to his caboose.

 

CLAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

 

“OH!”

 

“HOW IN THE HELL,” demands Mak excitedly, “SIMPLY AMAZING!”

 

A camera adjacent to Miguel Mayorga captures his disappointment as the sloppy throw allowed the Scion room enough to roll through and deliver an absolutely crushing dropkick to the center of the mush. What appears to be a lengthy pause (in actuality just a moment before the realization of the counter) precedes the unfolding of his seated posture, crumpling backwards under the impact of the kick. Quickly the Scion scampers from her lying position on the mat over the temporarily stunned Phantasmo. Ced Ordonez slides to his side just inches from the scene and hovers his hand anticipating the count on the pinfall.

 

 

ONE…!

 

 

 

TWO…!

 

 

“Quick kickout,” exclaims Mak after a short two-count.

 

The Scion of Light scurries back to her feet and escapes the grasping distance of her opponent, who quickly manages to pull himself back to his feet, embarrassed yet again. The crowd is now fully in support of the underdog-like Scion, who plays back, hopping around and calling for more of their support, pretending to use it as fuel. The crowd now seems to concern Mayorga who barks further orders at his associate who anxiously looks to him and then gets back on the prowl, despite looking slightly off his game.

 

“It looks like the mind games have indeed penetrated the strengths of the former native Brazilian,” exclaims Mak Francis, “The crowd is in S.O.L.’s corner, and it’s clearly flustered Ultimo Phantasmo.”

 

S.O.L. uses her new found advantage and steps up to Ultimo who merely looks down before tying her up in a Mui Thai hold, hands clasped around the back of her cranium. Not in the least intimidated, the Scion brushes off the Brazilian’s large hands with ease, not only flustering him, but discouraging him as well. She fires forward and locks up, and despite the ever present power and size advantage of Phantasmo, pushes him back into the ropes. Seemingly all he can do in response is hold back in a confused position, clearly not keeping his head in the game. Seizing the wide open opportunity, S.O.L. attempts to whip her opponent from his position against the ropes across the ring, but is turned in the process and sent on her way across the ring. Hitting the ropes, she fires back across stopping just inches from Phantasmo’s chest. She tenses her muscles and then with both fists, she thrusts a thunderous gut punch that, in spite of impact and power, knocks the wind from her opponent.

 

“A mounting effort to get some offense going,” declares the Franchise enthusiastically with a touch of optimism, “She’s doing her damndest to make this a match, and an exciting one at that!”

 

Now in a kneeling position and clinching his gut for a chance to reclaim any amount of air that was so rudely forced from his lungs, Phantasmo can do nothing but watch his opponent as she once again collides with the ropes opposite of him. In what seems like slow motion the cameras and the crowd watches as the Scion of Light rebounds and drives a thrusting knee directly to the back of the head, toppling her opponent back as she lands atop him, already in position for a pinfall as the crowd explodes for her underdog-like efforts.

 

“COVER!”

 

 

 

ONE……!

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO………….!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OH, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

 

“What a kickout,” Mak exclaims aloud, pants on the edge of his leather-clad rolling chair, “A last second instinct produces a photo-finish kickout that could’ve spelled out the demise of this Brazilian rookie!”

 

Ced raises his arm, two fingers peaking out of his white-knuckled fist as the crowd stands on their feet in full support of the Scion of Light. Using the crowd’s thirst for her victory, she continues on, getting back to her feet as she manages to cope with only a near-fall. For now, it’ll have to due en route to getting her arm raised.

 

On the outside, however, Miguel Mayorga is practically sweating bullets after watching the beginning of his client’s career nearly go up into flames after a series of strikes that so very nearly put him down for a count of three.

 

Back to the action, Phantasmo has reclaimed his balance and breath, but not the momentum. Instead, the Scion of Light hits the ropes and runs around the ring causing various blurs to appear around Phantasmo who simply can’t keep up. Stumbling forward and attempting to grab his opponent and slow her to his pace, Phantasmo finds himself in the center of the ring and in the line of fire of S.O.L.’s path. Despite Phantasmo being in her path she does not slow. Approaching, she bends her hip to an angle and lifts her right leg, thrusting out her foot in an attempt to put the finishing strokes on the Brazilian with her Cleansing Beam.

 

“LOOK OUT,” yells Mak aloud.

 

“CLEANSE MY BEAM, BABY!”

 

“GROSSE!”

 

WOAAAAAAAAH?

 

In spite of the high-speed strike, Phantasmo manages to grab a hold of the Scion’s leg, shin stuck under the armpit of the former Luchadore. Hobbling, the Scion of Light attempts to break free, but it’s incredibly clear that Ultimo is all business. He holds her leg and then puts a finger to his lips, signaling to be quiet as the crowd watches at a stand still. She hobbles for a second, and then cries out in pain after a driving elbow is stuck directly into the top of her knee, the crowd practically cringing at the sound of bone to bone colliding.

 

“OH!”

 

“SICK!”

 

S.O.L. simply falls on her other leg, the pain stinging. Ultimo drops down into her guard (or a position similar) and uses his arms to lock around her neck in a front headlock. The seated position allows Phantasmo’s legs to further constrict her body as the blood is practically squeezed from her head. Stretching, the vertebrae in her neck and back bone are stretched to the brink, the pain unavoidable as her entire body aches. There’s no where for her to go, she can’t move.

 

“He calls this the Boa Vista Clutch,” Mak remarks, looking down a stat-type sheet. “And she’s trapped!”

 

“What I wouldn’t give to be in that position!”

 

The Scion of Light, however, would give anything to be out of it. And after a moment of hesitation, probably the stubbornness of loss and the taste of defeat, she gives in, smacking her hand to the mat three consecutive times. Ced Ordonez calls for the bell and demands that Phantasmo breaks the hold, though he constricts tighter, squeezing the life out of her before throwing her limp to the mat.

 

DING!

 

DING!

 

DING!

 

“HERE’S YOUR WINNER, HE IS ULLLL-TEEEEE-MOOOO…PHAN-TAZZ-MOOOOOO!”

 

The crowd lies quiet as the fading image of Miguel Mayorga holding Phantasmo’s hand high in the air over the Scion of Light is indeed the last of this segment. The camera fades to darkness as Mak and King remark on the talent of Ultimo Phantasmo and his resilience here tonight.

[chirs3 0]

Storm fades in to see the team of Akira Kaibatsu and Zyon in one corner preparing for their upcoming match against Nighthawk and Scotty Raina, who are seen next as the camera pans to the right.

 

DING DING DING

 

“Alright, let’s get this tag team action underway!” King says.

 

Akira and The Crush start the match, and immediately lock up. Akira slides to the left of Raina and locks in a rear waistlock. Kaibatsu tries to lift up Scotty and go for an early German Suplex but Raina plants his legs firmly and doesn’t allow Akira to flip him backwards. Rains slides behind Akira and locks him in a rear waist lock. The Crush pushes Akira forward off of him, and Kaibatsu keeps his momentum going and runs into the ropes. He bounces off, and Raina prepares himself to catch Akira, but Kaibatsus is prepared as well and baseball slides beneath the Detroit native, and gets back to his feet right away. Raina turns around, only to be met with a European Uppercut to the chin!

 

“Those European Uppercuts have become a trademark of Akira Kaibatsu. He’ll use them anywhere he can,” Mak reminds the audience.

 

Raina falls to his ass after taking the uppercut, but he is soon dragged back to his feet when Akira picks him up, and walks him over to his turnbuckle. Akira and Zyon slaps hands and The Unique Youth makes his way into the ring. Zyon nails the rookie in the cheek with a forearm before whipping him into the ropes. The Crush comes running back and Zyon lifts him up into the air flapjack style. Akira – who is still in the ring - positions himself under Raina and nails him in the chin one more time with a European Uppercut!

 

“As I was saying,” Mak gloats, “Akira has mastered those European Uppercuts, and Zyon and Akira have a chemistry that allow them to utilize that,”

 

“Don’t forget, these two can also take it to the air like nobody’s business. Remember the series of matches these guys had against each other? Aw, man,”

 

Akira then rushes over towards Nighthawk and nails him in the head with a huge running forearm sending him off the apron and into the guardrail. As he does this, Zyon lifts up the ever unlucky Scotty Raina onto his shoulders electric chair style. Akira trots behind him, and stands on the apron. He then jumps up onto the rope, and springboards forward towards his partner, grabs Raina’s head in midair, and Zyon drops The Crush with an electric drop as Akira plants him with an Ace Crusher!

 

 

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

“Woah! Big move right there!”

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWOOOO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEE!

 

 

“An IMPRESSIVE official debut for, um…well, the nameless team of Akira and Zyon.” King says. “It’s one thing to tackle two rooks though. Let’s see how they do in their next tag experience.”

 

“I agree, King. The tag division is strong now, much stronger than it was earlier in the year when Akira was with Michael Cross and Zyon was with Spike. We’ll see how they do. But first, we’ve got the rest of THIS show to worry about!” Mak says, as Storm fades out.