chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 13, 2006 FIVE… FOUR… THREE… TWO… ONE… *BANG! BANG! BANG! BOOOM! BUH-BUH-BUH-BOOOM!!* “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Welcome to SWF AftershoxXx!” Mak Francis yells over the roar of the crowd, “we’re coming to you LIVE~ from the Cow Palace in San Francisco, hard on the heels of Ashes 2 Ashes-” “Mak, it was nearly a week ago,” the Suicide King interrupts. “-and we’re still dealing with the aftermath!” the Franchise finishes, glaring at his commentary partner. “What aftermath?” King snorts, “Doom retained, Wild & Dangerous won as expected, Toxxic sneaked his way to another successful title defence in the Elimination Chamber… the only interesting thing that happened was Jay Hawke stepping up his game to defeat Tom - a result that I must admit surprised me, but I’ve always known Hawke had talent.” “Way to ruin the rest of the show,” Mak grumbles, “so much for the recaps, huh?” “Ruin it?” the Gambling Man asks incredulously, “we’ve got a seventeen-man Battle Royal as the show’s only match! You can’t make that any worse than it already is!” “A seventeen-man Battle Royal that’s the start of the now-legendary Cold Front Classic,” Mak Francis argues, “the most important event of the fall in the SWF!” “Eh,” King sniffs, “Landon Maddix won the inaugural one, that tells you all you need to know about it.” “Well King, as you accurately if scornfully pointed out, Michael Stephens did indeed win the first-ever Elimination Chamber in the SWF,” Francis says, “and as a result retained not only the World Heavyweight Title, but also the Cruiserweight Title-” “COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!” “COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!” “-can I finish a damn sentence around here?” Mak asks, slightly peeved, as the crashing opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire rings out around the Cow Palace to replace the rolling soccer chant that signifies arrival of one very well-known person. “YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” The Smarktron, which went pure white the moment every light in the building hit full, is now rapidly darkening down to black. As it does so jagged white letters flash up a familiar slogan, one word at a time: ‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG…’ The Smartron changes as the bass drum kicks in, showing highlights and clips; the infamous Glass Jawbreaker to Aecas, the All-Show Brawl with the Insane Luchador, the Caffeine Bomb to Nathaniel Kibagami and the Sunny In England on Tom Flesher at Genesis VII, finishing with footage of Mike Van Siclen being taken off a balcony and through a table with the Stephens Shock Syndrome, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the- *BOOOM!!* -stagewide explosion of red pyro that announces the arrival of the SWF’s most decorated Englishman! And through the flame and smoke… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …a title belt in each hand with a third buckled around his waist underneath the spiked, chained and zipped trenchcoat… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …black hair hanging down in curtains in front of his eyes, face hidden… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …comes the man once known as Toxxic. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the ring at this time,” Funyon booms, “one-half of the SWF Tag Team Champions, and STILL~ the SWF Cruiserweight and World Heavyweight Champion… MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-CHAEL… STEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-PHENS!!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Stephens reaches the bottom of the entrance ramp, then pauses for a moment and crosses his arms in the straight-edge ‘X’ pose for a moment before flinging them wide… *bap-bap* *BOOOM!* …and igniting another blast of red pyro from the top of each ringpost as the verse comes in! ‘I never thought this could be me I guess you never do until it’s happening to you Like all the fun turns into shame And all the “could-have-beens” rearrange…’ Stephens rolls in under the bottom rope and gets to his feet, then beckons Funyon over to get the microphone from the veteran ring announcer. This time the Triple Champion is prepared and takes both Cruiserweight and Tag belts into one hand before trying to take the mic, then turns around to look out at the crowd all around him as Funyon exits the ring. The crowd are still on their feet cheering, and a faint smile can be seen flickering over Stephens’ lips. Then he sweeps the hair back from his face and raises the mic to his mouth. “Hey up.” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Bloody hell,” Stephens says, apparently shocked by the positive reaction a simple Nottingham greeting gets, “what’s got into you lot? Anyone would think I was Jerry Rice or something!” “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Did Toxxic just get a cheap pop by naming a football player!?” King asks, gobsmacked. “Hey, don’t get too excited,” Stephens tells the crowd, “I used to watch when I was little but the only players I can remember are him and Dan Marino… luck of the draw, I guess. But anyway,” he continues, “I’m out here for a couple of reasons. First of all, to let any of you that didn’t know that the date for the next defence of my World Title has been set - it’s November 30th, and I’m going up against the man who continued the trend I started,” a faint smile here, “by beating Tom Flesher on a Pay-Per-View, Jay Hawke.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Yes, I’m going up against ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’, Stephens says, “which means I have to figure out a way to beat a loud-mouthed, brash and obnoxious mat-based cruiserweight with some decent wrestling skills and a complete lack of anything approaching a sense of humour.” A brief pause. “So I figured I’d just use the same gameplan I had against Scott Pretzler, and save myself some effort.” The crowd laughs at that sally, but Stephens raises a black-nailed hand (the one containing the title belts, but he only has a choice of two) to quiet them down. “No, listen, I’ve got to admit that beating Tom Flesher on a Pay-Per-View when he was pumped up for a win was one of the greatest achievements of my career,” he says, slightly more soberly, “and I have a great deal of respect for someone who can match that feat. So Jay Hawke, while I’m a little bewildered by your tendency to come down to the ring in a dressing gown, and you have quite frankly the worst catchphrase in the history of this business, I’m not going to underestimate you in the ring. But you need to remember something,” the Triple Champion continues, “which is that no matter how confident you feel coming into this match, that’s just as confident as Flesher was when he went up against me. You reckon you’ll teach me a wrestling lesson I’ll never forget, and there’s nothing I can do about it? Well sunshine…” Stephens pauses for a moment for a grin, and to let the crowd take a breath to join him in what comes next. “…PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG!” “I’ve got another candidate for ‘worst catchphrase’,” King mutters. “Yeah, that one about ‘a King beats a Jackass’ was lame,” Mak agrees cheerfully. “But see, that’s only half the reason I’m out here,” Stephens says as the crowd starts to quieten down again, “because I can look forward all I want… but what’s behind is still going to pop up, whether I like it or not. I’ve just come through a steel hell,” the Englishman says with a wince, “and in spite of everything I managed to retain both my title belts-” “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “-but I know the job’s only half done,” Stephens finishes forcefully over the cheering, “because winning a match just isn’t good enough sometimes! Y’see, no matter what happens between me and Spike there will still always be bad blood there, I think I can say that without fear of contradiction. The fact that I pinned him again, one-two-three, means nothing. That bastard will just keep coming back for more.” “That’s called ‘tenacity’,” King says. “Or ‘stupidity’,” Mak counters. “Then you’ve got Bruce Blank, who was probably so drunk he doesn’t even remember he got another World Title shot,” Stephens continues, “and Zyon… well, I think it’s safe to say he might feel hard done by.” [“YOU SCREWED ZY-ON!”] [“YOU SCREWED ZY-ON!”] The chant is faint but audible. Stephens turns around, eyebrows raised in surprise. “I screwed Zyon?” he asks. “Naah… fairly sure I’d have remembered that. I mean c’mon,” he continues, “give me some credit for taste, please!” Another ripple of amusement travels around the majority of the crowd as Stephens flashes them a grin and a wink, but then the World Champion raises the microphone again. “Thing is though, there were two more people in that Chamber,” the Englishman says, his face and voice losing their levity, “one was my tag team partner, and to dismay he got eliminated first. I never wanted to come face-to-face with Landon in there as an opponent, but I didn’t want him to get eliminated first either.” “Maybe you should have actually broken up the pin then!” King snorts. “He was only half-conscious at the time King,” Mak chides. “Yeah, that’s his story!” “The second man was the one who actually pinned Landon,” Stephens continues, “a man who I’ve known for longer than pretty much anyone else in this country, certainly longer than anyone else in this company except my sister… Gabriel Drake.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Gabe, I know you,” Stephens says simply, “just like you know me. I think we both showed that on Sunday, when despite the fact that we haven’t been on speaking terms for four years we pulled off that old drop toehold and running knee smash combo on Bruce like we were still training in Atlanta. And so right now,” he continues, turning and addressing the backstage area, “I know that you’re back there waiting for your moment. You’ve probably snatched a mic off some member of the tech crew, not because he wouldn’t give it to you but because it would never occur to you to ask, and you’re waiting for your moment to come out here and interrupt me in mid-flow. Well old friend,” he says, sweeping one black-nailed hand backwards to encompass the ring behind him, “now’s your chance. Let’s be having you.” There is a buzz of crowd anticipation, tinged with a few boos in anticipation of the arrival of The Beast. However, after a few long seconds no-one has emerged from the backstage area. “Come on Gabe, I know you’re back there,” Stephens repeats. “Don’t make me walk up this ramp and drag you out.” There’s a small cheer from the crowd at that prospect, which quickly fades away as Stephens shows no sign of suiting actions to words just yet. “Well, Gabriel Drake is booked to appear in the Cold Front Classic Battle Royale later,” Mak Francis confirms, looking at his notes, “but there’s not necessarily any reason why he should be waiting back-” “Alright Toxx, you win.” “Goddamnit!” Even as the Franchise swears in frustration at being interrupted again a familiar, heavy-shouldered figure is already making his way out. Drake is already in his ring gear, presumably in preparation for the Battle Royale, and does indeed have a microphone in his right hand. He saunters down the ramp, an ugly smirk on his face. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “So here we are,” The Beast sneers, “I was backstage after all, just like you said. What do you want, a medal for being psychic?” “Ladies and gentlemen, Gabriel Drake,” Stephens says in neutral tones, waving a hand towards his former friend, “no longer yet to be pinned in the SWF.” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Oh, cheap,” Drake snorts, now approaching the ring, “is that why you called me out here? So I can listen to you try and insult me? Is that meant to make me angry?” “Gabe, from what I remember getting ice in your Sprite when you didn’t want any is enough to make you flip your lid,” Stephens retorts, “as far as I can tell your first professional loss should have you chewing the walls. How many sedatives have you taken?” “Toxx, when you can’t wrestle anymore I advise against a career in stand-up,” Drake growls, stepping through the ring ropes, “I’m not here to be your straight man.” There is a moment’s silence. “I’m saying nothing,” Stephens says, deadpan. “So what were you expecting?” Drake demands, ignoring his old friend’s joke, “that I was going to come out here ranting and raving, smashing the place up and threatening your life?” “Well, that’s pretty much been par for the course so far,” Stephens shrugs, “why change a winning formula?” “Because much as I’d love to beat the shit out of you Toxx, there’s something more important at stake,” Drake spits. “There’s the little matter of a gross miscarriage of justice that took place on Sunday-” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “-a miscarriage of justice,” The Beast continues, raising his voice, “that cheated one man in the Elimination Chamber of a shot at the World Title that you guard so jealously!” he finishes, pointing an accusing finger at the belt strapped around Stephens’ waist. “DRAKE SUCKS COCK!” “DRAKE SUCKS COCK!” “Do you mind?” Stephens asks, looking slightly hurt at the crowd’s chant, then returns his attention to Drake. “Look sunshine,” the Englishman says, “what are you here to say? That Landon came back and interfered after you eliminated him? Shock, horror, Landon cheated? I hate to break it to you,” he says, “but Landon’s been cheating for the last three years solid! If you haven’t figured that out yet then I think you’d better hire Jay Hawke to get you a wrestling lesson!” “YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “Who the hell says I’m talking about me?” Drake demands over the cheers, which stop suddenly. Stephens cocks his head to one side, grey eyes watching, analysing, waiting to see where this one’s going. “…I’m talking about Zyon,” Gabriel Drake finishes, looking his old friend in the eyes. [“YOU SCREWED ZY-ON!”] [“YOU SCREWED ZY-ON!”] Stephens’ eyes narrow slightly, and his lips move faintly. A trained lip-reader might be able to discern the word ‘interesting’. “You see Toxx,” Drake says when the World Champion makes no immediate statement, “for once, you’re right - I should have expected Landon to shove his nose back into the match after I took him out of it, and with me distracted I can hardly blame Zyon for taking advantage and pinning me. After all,” The Beast says with a faint sadistic grin, “I was trying to break his leg a couple of seconds earlier. That sort of thing can really influence your opinion of someone in the short term. But you, on the other hand,” he continues, “you made an alliance with Zyon. You teamed up on Spike Jenkins to increase your own chances of winning the match… and then just when you’d got all the use you could out of him, you turned on him. You stabbed him in the back, and fed him to the lions.” Drake looks like he might be about to say more, but stops short as if restraining himself. However, from the twitch in his jaw it looks like he’s not succeeding by much of a margin. “Hey, Gabe,” Stephens says, “ever hear of a concept called ‘every man for himself’? I mean,” the World Champion continues, “it’s not like Zyon couldn’t have turned on me at any point in there. He was taking the same risk I was, that what he was doing was going to be for his own benefit. In the end, he miscalculated.” “‘Every man for himself’?” Drake sneers, “tell me Toxx, is that the sort of phrase that gets brought out by people who say things like ‘all’s fair in love and war’? Because I know you don’t play fair!” “Well now, this is starting to get interesting…” King murmurs. “What’s ‘fair’ about sleeping with your best friend’s girlfriend behind his back Toxx?” Drake demands, scarcely keeping a rein on his temper, “what’s ‘fair’ about then testifying against your best friend and sending him to jail!? For four damn years! Four-and-a-half years ago, you slimy English bastard, you stabbed me in the back and fed me to the lions!” A stunned silence drops over the Cow Palace. Everyone knows that there is bad blood between Michael Stephens and Gabriel Drake, and some few have a vague idea why. However, now they’ve had the situation laid out in front of them. “Toxx, you always were a bastard,” Drake says, controlling himself slightly, “but at least when you first came into this company you were honest about it. But when I come here to settle up old scores, I find you parading around with titles and having each and every one of these people,” here The Beast points around the arena, drawing a few boos, “taken in by that stupid grin, some flashy moves and a few bad jokes. They can cheer who they want, I really don’t give a shit what they think,” he continues, getting some more boos, “but if they’re going to cheer you I want them to know that they’re cheering for a backstabbing traitor who sells his friends out.” Drake pauses, then tosses one more comment out. “Oh, and I think you’ll find Spike Jenkins agrees with me.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Well, he possibly has a point there,” Mak Francis concurs, “it’s well-known how Stephens kicked Jenkins out of Revolution Zero to replace him with Scott Pretzler.” Meanwhile Michael Stephens has been watching his former friend closely, but now the World Champion raises the mic to his lips again. “Gabe, first of all believe me when I say that having Spike Jenkins agreeing with you lends no weight to your argument whatsoever. Trust me,” he continues over rising laughter in the Cow Palace, “I tried it for about six months, it just ends up getting embarrassing.” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC..” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” “…but that aside,” Stephens continues, casting a glance around at the crowd as they chant his old ring name, “if you want to bring up our personal history into the open, then don’t think I won’t throw it right back at you. Cos sunshine,” he carries on, voice rising and a much harsher edge creeping in, “don’t forget why you went to prison. You’re a bloody psycho, a fucking killer who smashed the shit out of some kid because you couldn’t deal with what was going on in your life!” “I was protecting you!” Drake snarls back, “you and the others! They jumped us Toxx, for Christ’s sake you were there! I protect you, and then you turn around and blame me for it and get me sent down!” “Protecting us!?” Stephens snaps, “protecting us from what, Gabe? From some drunken wannabe-tough-guy who picked a fight with a pro-wrestler and then got his skull smashed in? You’re right, I was there,” he continues, pointing a finger at Drake, “and that kid was damn near dead before we could pull you off him! Now you want to come out here and talk on Zyon’s behalf, but I don’t see him hanging around saying that you’re right! I don’t hear Zyon backing you up like Spike’s meant to be. So Gabe,” he says, slinging both title belts in his hand over his shoulder, “until you do, I suggest you stop trying to use other people’s names to fight your own battles. If you want another chance to get into the ring with me, all you’ve gotta do is make it to the last eight in the Battle Royale later - you haven’t even got to win. Win the Cold Front Classic, and I’ll be waiting for you.” Stephens turns and heads for the ropes nearest the entrance ramp; Gabriel Drake glares daggers at him, but seems to be restraining himself from physical violence for once. However, as Stephens steps through the ropes he stops on the apron and turns back to face his former friend. “Oh, Gabe… be careful in the Battle Royale. You see, it’s every man for himself.” And with that parting shot Stephens drops down to the arena floor and starts to walk towards the back, leaving Gabriel Drake standing alone in the middle of the ring and glaring up the entrance ramp after him. FADE OUT Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 13, 2006 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF AFTERSHOXXXxxxXXxXXx Live, Saturday, November 11th, from The Cow Palace in San Francisco, California! (7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) (Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3) Because I just love this place. The Cow Palace... hee hee! -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE MAIN EVENT - BATTLE ROYALE Cold Front Classic Seeding Battle Royale Akira "The Divine Wind" Kaibatsu vs. Jimmy the Doom vs. Devin Benson vs. Johnny Dangerous vs. "Hollywood" Spike Jenkins vs. "The Superior One" Tom Flesher vs. Charlie "Grappler" Matthews vs. Landon "La Cucaracha" Maddix vs. Bruce Blank vs. Nighthawk vs. "The Beast" Gabriel Drake vs. Nemesis vs. Michael Cross vs. JJ Johnson vs. Matt "Cosplay Master" Myers -> Another year, another winter season, and another chance for a young star to break out from the pack and earn a World title shot come this year's SWF Christmas PPV, which is coming from a very special location... that I am not a liberty to reveal! Forget that for a moment, however, and take a look at the diversity in this match: Four former World champions, three young gunnas, two old hands, a Doomtopian in a pear tree, and they're all currently in the running for #1 contendership to the World championship. Tonight, we eliminate seven of them from the tournament. Will YOUR number be called? Rules: Standard over-the-top battle royale. All fifteen men start in the ring. The first seven men eliminated are eliminated from the tournament altogether. The remaining eight men will be seeded in order of their eliminations; the last man standing will face the eighth person eliminated, the fourteenth man eliminated will face the ninth person eliminated, the thirteenth man eliminated will face the tenth man eliminated, and the twelfth man eliminated will face the eleventh man eliminated. ALSO ON AFTERSHOX: There is one man conspicuously missing from the Cold Front Classic battle royale who has a title shot lined up for November 30th. Will this superstar have words for Michael Stephens? And what exactly does Stephens have to say after besting five men in the Elimination Chamber? All of the aftershocks, all on Aftershox! Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 13, 2006 Ben Hardy turns the corner in the rather empty corridors of the Cow Palace with a heavy sigh. Why a sigh? Well, it could be for numerous reasons. Maybe it’s because the Cow Palace’s backstage smells vaguely of body odor, vomit, and a hint of urine, though that may be Bruce Blank passed out again, could be because how exhausting it is to deal with so many wrestlers that are caught up in their own world, or it could be a sigh of relief that he’s the hell out of North Korea. Or, perhaps, it’s a sigh because he sees the man standing in front of him with a small smirk to greet him. “Hey Rickmen,” Hardy says with a small gulp. The gulp could be explained by that damn dry steak he had earlier, a backup of saliva, or because the man in front of him has… some interesting tendencies. “What’s up Hardy? Got a minute?” Luchador asks with a happy tone, a rather friendly demeanor. “Not much, uh, sure, what’s up?” Now Ben Hardy is used, immune even, to a lot of Rickmen’s tendencies. Whether it is unexplained absences and returns, playing with blood (sometimes his own, other times it’s not), psychotic laughter, suicidal leaps, willingly sadistic, or masochistic, actions, and just subjecting himself and others to painful situations. But. Insane Luchador being amicable is not one of those tendencies, especially being confronted with a sincere grin instead of, well, a sadistic one. He awkwardly stands there as Luchador stares at him in confusion. “I was hoping for an interview, you know?” “Oh, oh. Okay, okay, I can do that,” Hardy says as he fumbles with his microphone. “I know you can,” IL replies. “So I’m standing here with…” Ben begins but gets cut off. “I’m sure they are aware of that,” IL says. “Right. Uh, what has brought you back once again?” Hardy asks. “Well, Hardy, there is something that I’ve discovered about myself,” Rickmen begins with a smirk, “I am a wrestler, plain and simple. Well, more of a fighter, but that is splitting hairs. I am back because this is what I do, it’s all I know, and it’s all that I have left.” Hardy slowly nods and asks, “Well, what are your intentions?” “Honestly? My intentions are to wrestle, see, there’s another thing I’ve realized. I’m not much of Crusader, Hardy, and it’s time that I just go back to how it should be. Simply stepping into that ring and inflict destruction, whether it’s my own or others,” he answers with a laugh. Hardy can’t help but to ask, “You seem very…” “Calm?” “It’s almost…” “More unnerving when I’m ‘normal?’” “Yeah. It’s even more…” “Unnerving when I finish your sentences?” “Yeah.” “That’s just because you’re very predictable.” “Oh.” “Don’t worry, I don’t hold it against you. But don’t get the wrong impression, Ben, I’m not suddenly tamed by any means. See, there’s something sincere that I am feeling right now, but underneath, underneath there’s a storm a-brewin’. I am not sure why, what, or when. This is simply…” “The calm before the storm?” IL cocks his head to the side with a smirk. “Now I’m the predictable one?” Hardy vigorously shakes his head. “IL, trust me, you’re far from a predictable person.” Insane Luchador gives a short, psychotic laugh before saying, “Good.” He pauses and then shakes his head with another laugh before turning around to walk away. Ben Hardy watches Insane Luchador turn down the corridor in mild confusion and he can’t help but to sigh. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 13, 2006 “-you five bucks we can get another one out here before they come back from…ah, shit.” “Are you a Gambling Man?” Mak Francis smirks at his commentary partner, “I think that’s five bucks you owe me, King.” “We didn’t shake on it!” the Heartbreaker protests. “Well, you shake sometimes,” he corrects himself, “but not voluntarily-” *BOOOM!* King is interrupted by a blast of blue pyro and the opening theme of ‘Kashmir’ by Led Zeppelin, and before either commentator can say anything else three figures - yes, three - emerge from the backstage area onto the entrance ramp. One of them, the smallest and skinniest, has a microphone. “Alright alright, everybody shut your lousy, pro-fag East Bay mouths-” James Matheson begins. Needless to say, he doesn’t get much further. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “I said be quiet!” the lawyer bellows, enraged. “You’re looking at not one but two of the finest athletes in the SWF today, both victims of ridiculous circumstances at the Pay-Per-View! Because while Jay Hawke may be the Dean of Professional Wrestling it doesn’t take an expensive education - and you’ll have to trust me on this, because it’s clear none of you have one - to realise that his win over Taamo was a downright fluke! And as for Akira Whatsyername, you’d better be grateful that you sneaked a win in ten seconds, because it’s clear that you wouldn’t last half a minute against Mr. Matthews! So without further ado, allow me to introduce at a weight of 231 and 306lbs respectively, holding a total of three World Titles and sundry other belts between them, ‘The Superior One’ Tom Flesher and Charlie ‘Grappler’ Matthews!” “YOU BOTH SUCK!” “YOU BOTH SUCK!” The crowd’s chants don’t seem to be having much effect on the Magnificent Two, as Charlie looks as grumpy as ever while Flesher still has his unshakeable aura of smugness. They stomp and saunter down to the ring where quite a few participants in tonight’s Battle Royale have already assembled. JJ Johnson has stripped off his track jacket and is standing in one corner stroking his beard; Akira Kaibatsu has his eyes shut and seems lost in some Eastern meditation ritual - either that or he’s desperately trying to remember whether he turned the gas off. Spike Jenkins is leaning over the ropes and jawing with some fans at ringside, not realising that Matt Myers is pulling faces behind him. Devin Benson’s hopping up and down slightly, presumably to keep himself limber, while Michael Cross’s jaw is grinding as he works through some poorly-realised neurosis. Gabriel Drake has some very well-realised psychoses, but The Beast seems to be keeping them in check for the moment, while across the ring the mysterious Nighthawk looks imposing while doing very little. In the corner, Nemesis and Bruce Blank loom menacingly. Finally, Jimmy the Doom is clutching a French loaf and looking suspiciously at the approaching Tom Flesher as if suspecting The Superior One of concealing butter about his person. “The rules of this match are very simple,” Mak Francis recaps, “the competitors in the match have to tip each other over the top rope in the manner of Battle Royales everywhere, but once the first seven men have been eliminated we start getting into the good stuff, as it were. The last eight men will be seeded in order depending on when they are eliminated from the ring and will then face off in knockout matches.” ”So, keep the worst guy in the match in the ring until he’s number eight, then win,” says King. “That… makes sense, actually,” says Mak. “Hey, you don’t get to be a World Champion without some smarts,” King smirks. "Tell me exactly, what am I supposed to do Now that I have allowed you, to beat me! Do you think that we could play another game Maybe I could win this ti-ime." “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “You were saying?” “Oh, shut up,” the Gambling Man sulks as ‘The Game’ by Disturbed announces the arrival of “La Cucaracha”. Megan Skye steps out to an approving reaction from the San Francisco crowd, followed a couple of seconds later by Landon Maddix. "I kinda like the misery you put me through Darling you can trust me, completely! If you even try to look the other way I think that I could kill this ti-ime!" “I hate the misery this guy puts me through,” King mutters. “Next, from Huron, South Dakota,” Funyon announces, “accompanied to the ring by Megan Skye, he is one-half of the SWF Tag Team Champions and weighs in tonight at 220lbs… LANDON… ‘LA CUCARRRRRRRRACHAAAAAA… MAAAAAAAAD-DIIIIIIIXXXXXX!!” “Let’s not forget that Landon Maddix won the first ever Cold Front Classic tournament in the fall of 2004,” Mak Francis reminds viewers, “and went on to defeat Michael Stephens at Slay Ride in December for the World Title! Now he has the chance to do the same thing again, and you can bet that Joe Peters only put Landon in this match to make life a little harder for the World Champion, given that in the Elimination Chamber Landon and Stephens worked as a team instead of going against each other.” “-which was part of Toxxic’s sneaky strategy, just like I said then and like Drake said earlier,” King cuts in. “Personally, I hope that Drake just takes Landon out of this match at the start.” “Well, don’t forget who eliminated who at Ashes 2 Ashes,” Mak reminds his partner, “I think Landon might want a bit of revenge himself!” However, it doesn’t look like La Cucaracha is quite as eager to get to grips with his newest enemy. Drake obviously recognized the music and has crossed the ring to glare over the top rope at the man whose good shot with a cup of PepsiMax caused the distraction that led to him getting pinned on Sunday. A bunch of referees crowd around on the floor, warning Drake not to leave the ring; meanwhile Landon has taken in the situation and instead chooses to play to the fans at ringside, perhaps deciding that he doesn’t need to get into the ring until just before the match starts… all of which only leaves one man to come out. Meanwhile Nick Soapdish has just realised that Jimmy the Doom is still holding his French loaf and sternly instructs the Doomtopian to discard it. Jimmy glares at the referee mistrustfully, but obeys. The Smarktron starts to show a fuse burning down towards a stick of dynamite, before the Mission Impossible theme kicks in (as performed by the James Taylor Quartet)! It cuts away to clips of Johnny in action as the Barracuda kicks, chops, throws and slams his way through various incarnations of the SWF roster. Moments later the man himself appears… “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “And finally,” Funyon booms, “from Las Vegas, Nevada, he weighs in tonight at 219lbs; he is the SWF International Champion, JOHNNY… ‘THE BARRACUDA’… DAAAAAAAAAAAAN-GEROUSSSSSSSS!!” “LET’S GO JOHN-NY!” “LET’S GO JOHN-NY!” Johnny Dangerous swaggers down the entrance ramp, looking sharp as ever with his sunglasses and trenchcoat. Meanwhile Landon glares at him, sure that his trenchcoat is better, while JJ Johnson sniffs at the inferiority of the Barracuda’s shades. “Well King, I think Johnny Dangerous has a good chance here,” Mak says, “with his martial arts reflexes and balance he should be able to do more than some to prevent himself getting eliminated, and once into the final eight this two-time World Champion should acquit himself well.” “If Nemesis throws him over the top rope in the first minute I’m going to rupture something laughing,” is King’s response. Johnny reaches the bottom of the ramp and strips off his coat, takes his sunglasses off (you need to see as much as possible in this sort of match) and divests himself of his title belt, which he hands to Matthew Kivell. Meanwhile Landon has taken his trenchcoat off and removed his title belt, which he gives to Red Herrington. Finally, with Landon keeping a wary eye on Drake, both Maddix and Dangerous enter the ring. “Alright!” shouts Kivell. “Here are the rules, so listen up. There are no rules, except for one: if you go over the top rope and both of your feet touch the floor, you’re eliminated.” Kivell turns and stares directly at Tom. “Period. Now let’s do this!” Akira Kaibatsu stares across the ring at Michael Cross. Landon Maddix eyes both Gabriel Drake and JJ Johnson warily. Tom Flesher looks bored. Bruce Blank belches. Everyone glances nervously at Nemesis. DING DING DING! And then, chaos. Every body in the ring begins flinging itself about, a massive bundle of humanity colliding in the center. “These idiots!” snorts the Gambling Man. “Don’t they know that the first thirty seconds of a multi-man battle royale is when some poor sap gets eliminated?” As if on cue, Nemesis seizes Akira Kaibatsu by the throat and leg and presses him above his head, elimination imment for the Divine Wind… before Michael Cross, Devin Benson, JJ Johnson and Matt “Phoenix Wright” Myers simultaneously slam basement dropkicks into his legs, wobbling the giant just enough for the man from Sendai to wriggle himself free. The nine foot fall back to the ring is not pretty, but it’s far superior to the fifteen foot flight awaiting him had the four men not interfered. Quickly, Kaibatsu puts as much space between Nemesis and himself as possible… *CRUNCH!* … and ends up putting space between Nemesis and himself right into one of Nighthawk’s meaty fists, dropping Akira like a stone. “Well, that ended well,” snorts King. “But why would Johnson, Cross, Benson, and Myers all save Kaispotsu?” “Well, that’s easy to explain, King,” replies Mak. “Johnson and Akira have never gotten along. We all know Cross and Akira’s backstory, and Benson is Cross’ tag team partner, so he’s going to go along with it.” “Okay,” nods the Heartbreaker. “But why Myers?” “I’m… not sure,” admits Mak. “Maybe he just wanted to get on their good side.” King nods as if to accept it, because it seems to make sense. After all, Johnson, Cross and Benson have all moved away, Johnson slamming a firm elbow into the jaw of Johnny Dangerous, Cross looking for Akira in the mass of humanity, and Benson leaping high and taking a charging Landon Maddix down with a dropkick. Yes, Myers does appear to be on their good sides, at least for now. Unfortunately, Matt “Phoenix Wright” Myers realizes as a meaty hand closes on the back of his suit jacket, he has gotten on Nemesis’ bad side. “Objection!” Myers shouts frantically, but one can assume that it is overruled, as Nemesis hurls the perennial suck-ass over the top rope to the floor! “And we have our first elimination!” shouts Mak. DING! “Eliminated first, Matt Myers,” says Funyon, as if bored, and not putting nearly as much gusto as usual into it. Tom Flesher and Charlie Matthews stand in the corner they haven’t moved from since the match begin and stare at Nemesis, their faces unchanging; Tom, however, noticeably steps behind the Grappler. Across the ring, Gabriel Drake decides to interject himself in the Benson-Maddix affair, brushing the Pennsylvanian aside in order to get at La Cucaracha, snarling; Benson does not take this well, though, and just as Landon begins a picture-perfect imitation of the Eddie Guerrero beg-off routine, Harrisburg’s native son casts himself high in the air and plants his feet into Drake’s back, sending him stumbling forward! Thinking fast, Landon puts his feet up, looking to plant them in The Beast’s stomach and use his momentum to hurl him out of the match – and his hair. Unfortunately for both of them, Landon’s feet don’t get up quite fast enough. Every man in the audience cringes. Drake whimpers, and collapses, and Maddix’ eyes bug out of his head as he realizes what he’s done. His next realization is that it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge, and so he climbs to his feet… and a very drunk Bruce Blank puts him back down on his ass with a lariat! Blank bounces off of the ropes past Landon and charges back towards the center of the ring, and takes Devin Benson down with a lariat! The lumbering Alabaman goes to rebound again, and an opportunistic JJ Johnson pops Johnny Dangerous in the jaw with another elbow before sending him into the wake of destruction the drunken lariat machine has left… only to snarl in disappointment as the secret agent, his reflexes ever quick, leaps and twists his body to catch Blank in the side of the head with a spinning wheel kick, knocking the inebriated giant against the ropes. Johnson doesn’t see the exchange that follows, as Nighthawk distracts him via short-arm lariat to the head, but Blank stands back up to fight the gnat-like Dangerous, launching a punch at him. Were he or his balance in top form, Johnny would have been smeared; unfortunately for Blank, his being overserved slows his punch down considerably, and Johnny seizes it, tucks himself against the body of the man he beat for the International Title, lifts… “EEEEEEM-IIIIIIIIII…” begins Mak… … spins, and drops Blank over the top rope to the floor! “SLAM!” finishes the Franchise as Blank lands on his feet and collapses. However, collapsing serves him no immunity from his elimination. “YEEEAAHHH!!” “ELIMINATED SECOND, BRUUUUCE! BLAAAAAAAANK!!” shouts Funyon, much more enthused than when Myers was eliminated as Wayne escorts Bruce to the back, deciding to break it to him when he sobers up. For what it’s worth, Myers is still laying there on the floor, in a puddle of either hair gel or tears. “Big-time elimination!” shouts the Franchise. “One of the favorites to succeed in this ‘small guys finish last’ environment goes over the top SECOND!” “It wouldn’t have happened sober,” pouts the Gambling Man. “And worse, it was to that damn Johnny Dangerous.” Nemesis swats Akira Kaibatsu, Jimmy the Doom, and Spike Jenkins aside, bodies flying across the ring as JJ Johnson does battle with Nighthawk, making very sure to put the big man between himself and the mythical beast, and Landon Maddix and Johnny Dangerous have it out for the ninth or tenth time, Landon eyeing Drake’s tormented form with caution no matter how many blows to the face from Johnny he has to take for his inattention. Quietly, Matthews and Flesher make their way over to Cross and Benson, making sure to stay out of Nemesis’ way. “Hey,” whispers Flesher to Cross. “Tell your buddy that we charge the big guy on three.” Cross eyes him suspiciously, but decides it’s worth a shot, and passes the word on to Benson. The four men ready themselves, and Flesher roars “ONE!” Nemesis lifts his head up from hitting Jimmy the Doom in the head – ineffectually, I might add – and turns. “TWO!” shouts Flesher, a little less confidently this time. Nemesis begins to stride towards the foursome. “THREE!” squeaks the Superior One, and all four men begin to run at the behemoth! Devin reaches the giant ahead of Cross and Matthews, and throws himself into the air, looking for a cross body on the big man! This works about as well as you’d expect, as Nemesis catches and throws him, quite effortlessly, over the top rope. Cross blanches, but his momentum is too much, and so he mans up and dives for a chop block on the giant! … Bouncing right off, but turning out much better than Benson did as Funyon announces his elimination. Matthews is next… and realizes that something is wrong. Tom is faster than he is. He turns his head around. Flesher, from his corner, waves jauntily. Nemesis seizes the Grappler by the throat before he can utter a swear, and The Hand of the Gods presses the veteran high over his head, impressing everybody in the arena… and then terrifying them as he launches the Grappler over the top rope to the floor. Their fear is unfounded, however, as even Nemesis is not strong enough to throw Grappler into the crowd. *SMAAACK!* The sound of Matthews on padding rings throughout the Cow Palace, and the entire arena grows hushed, knowing the Grappler’s neck problems; fortunately, with a little shaking, he rises back to his feet, and the crowd politely applauds as Matheson helps the slightly-hobbling Grappler up the ramp to the back. DING! “Eliminated fourth, CHARLIE! “GRAPPLER!” “MAAAAA-THEEEWWWSS!” roars Funyon as a quick headcount of the remaining eleven takes place: Drake has hauled himself back to his feet after his blunt force trauma to the testicles, and is standing in the corner, waiting for the pack to thin out a little before he charges back into the fray. Akira and Cross have met up, and Akira rocks the Suicide Machine with a European Uppercut, sending him stumbling back and almost into Spike Jenkins, who is pulling a Drake and a Flesher by standing in the corner instead of fighting. Nighthawk has turned his attentions to Jimmy the Doom after one too many elbows from Johnson, who is getting his breath back for a brief moment. Nemesis begins stalking, much to the Superior One’s chagrin, towards Tom. “And out goes Matthews!” shouts Mak. “Most of the big men are now out of the match!” “Yes, and that’s very bad,” scolds King. “Now who the hell is going to throw Nemesis out? Nighthawk is only one man.” “That’s a fair po-“ *CA-RACK!* It takes a leap, but Tom Flesher, utilizing his survival instinct, manages to nail Nemesis with a palm strike! Nemesis shakes his head, then starts back towards Tom… *CA-RACK!* … who once again rocks him with a leaping palm strike! Nemesis stumbles a little as everybody else in the match realizes what’s going on and, opportunists that they are, begin moving towards Tom’s aid as the monster recovers and starts back towards Flesher, backing the Superior One into the corner. Tom’s back is pressed against the turnbuckle, the Colossus is fast approaching, and all in all, it is a desperate time for the SWF’s most decorated superstar. You know what they say about desperate times. *CA-FUCKING-RAAACKK!!* And Tom takes a desperate measure, hoisting himself up to the second rope before launching himself at the Hand of the Gods and tearing his jaw clean off with a flying palm strike! “YEAAAAHH!!” “JESUS!” shouts Mak, wishing he could rise out of his seat. “Much like a pig, it is very rare that Tom flies, and even when he does, it’s only to huge effect. I think it’s safe to say sending Nemesis staggering” – which he is – “is a fairly huge effect.” To aid in this, Akira jogs and hoists himself over the top rope to the apron before springing up to the top rope and sending himself flying at the Colossus, nailing him in the chest with a nasty front dropkick! Nemesis still does not fall, but instead stumbles back against the ropes, leaning and attempting to regain some of his bearings. Thinking fast, JJ Johnson turns to Jimmy the Doom. “Jimmy!” barks the callous Canadian, “Do you know how to do a Cactus Clothesline?” “Verilies!” responds the Doomtopian. “Then go!” Johnson snaps, and much to everyone’s surprise, The Doom obliges, jogging in an odd, Walter-Payton-like knee-high gait to Nemesis before leaping, wrapping his arm around his throat, and hanging off of the Colossus for just a moment before momentum and imbalance win out, dragging both men to the floor, every person in the Cow Palace leaping to their feet! DING! DING! “Zombie Christ!” shouts King. “And here, I thought Nemesis was going to take it all!” “An impressive, but utterly pointless sacrifice by Jimmy the Doom,” notes Mak. “He’s far too impressionable for the battle royale environment.” “Eliminated fifth and sixth respectively, JIMMY THE DOOM! AND! NEEEMMEEEESSSIIIISS!!” bellows Funyon, struggling to be heard over the San Fransisco crowd. “And now we are down to nine,” says Mak. “This next elimination is quite crucial, as if you are not eliminated next, you have a chance to fight for a shot at the World Title! No doubt everybody’s going to be fighting hard!” And indeed, everyone looks ready for a fight. Nighthawk, the biggest man in the match, turns to look for a victim… and sees every other man staring back at him. The man from Pennsylvania swallows. And then they are upon him, every competitor in the match charging at the big man… and then Landon whips around and plants a kick right into the gut of Gabriel Drake, doubling The Beast over with a whoosh of air! Wasting no time as the other six collapse upon Nighthawk, struggling to tumble him over the top, Landon seizes Drake by the hair and rushes him towards the ropes, using momentum to send The Beast over the top! Too bad for Landon that Drake has excellent upper body strength, and he seizes a hold of the top rope, dangling with his back to the ring, both feet hovering a few inches above the floor, saving himself elimination, as Nighthawk relents to the mass of humanity shoving him and tumbles over the top rope! “YEEEEAAAAAHHH!!!” DING! Drake grins. He’s survived to the tournament, which means that he’ll get another chance to wring that damn cockroach’s neck, and then win the tournament. Winning the tournament means another chance at Mike, and another chance at Mi- DING! Drake’s grin immediately falls. Two dings? “Ladies and gentlemen, eliminated seventh and eighth respectively…” No. He couldn’t have. “’THE BEAST’ GABRIEL DRAKE, AND THE NUMBER EIGHT SEED, NIIIIGHHTTHAAAWWWKK!” “What?!” shouts King. “Drake?!” A replay flashes up on the Smarktron, and Drake’s worst fear is confirmed through the magic of instant replay. As Gabriel dangled mere inches from elimination, Nighthawk went over the top. Nighthawk’s weight was enough to sag the rope to where Drake’s feet touched the floor. “Oh, that’s such bull!” shouts King, but fair is fair, even to the Gambling Man, when you get caught. In the ring, Landon begins laughing as a horde of refs decide it would be prudent to remove Drake from ringside before he re-enters the ring and breaks La Cucaracha’s neck. With The Beast being dragged away, Landon allows himself a moment of relaxation, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. The danger is gone. If a person were to make a poster of one specific frame of this battle royale, amongst their top choices would probably be the image of a maliciously grinning JJ Johnson leaping, knee-first, towards an eyes-closed, smiling Landon Maddix. *CA-RAAACKK!!* Shockingly, La Cucaracha is unable to stay on his feet after taking a flying knee with 228 pounds of weight behind it, and so Maddix drops like a stone; Johnson, on the other hand, rolls through the landing and rises back to his feet, taking a brief moment before stepping back into the fray, firing an elbow into the temple of “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins. Unfortunately for the Canadian, he’s thrown one elbow too many at the Hollywood Superstar over the last several months, and Jenkins ducks low before planting his knee deep into the gut of the Ultimate Fighter. “It looks like Spike smartened up to JJ’s elbow smashes,” says Mak. “Spike doesn’t smarten up to anything,” scoffs King. “He was probably checking to make sure he remembers how to tie his shoes, and happened to have exceptional timing.” “How do you explain the knee to the stomach, then?” the Franchise inquires. “I don’t know, he saw a spider?” replies the Gambling Man with a grunt. “What am I, the answer man?” While Spike’s intelligence quotient may be in question, his intentions are not, as he traps the heaving-for-breath Johnson in a standing headscissors and underhooks both arms, taking a moment to let the realization sink into the crowd. “Aiee!” shrieks King. “He’s going to hit JJ with the… um… Shitty Metalcore Band!” “That’s the Endwell, King,” sighs Mak. And indeed that is the Endwell (and indeed they are a shitty metalcore band), and Spike bends at the knees, begins his leap… *SMACK!!* …and takes a firm superkick to the mouth for his trouble, courtesy of Akira Kaibatsu! Spike understandably abandons all thoughts of… well, anything, at least for the moment, releasing Johnson’s arms and stumbling backwards into the ropes with a dazed look in his eyes. Now free of Spike’s crotch, Johnson snaps to his full height with a fire in his eyes, fully prepared to exact revenge on the New Straight-Edge Sensation. In the work of a moment, the Ultimate Fighter has drawn his arm back, charging forward to lariat Spike over the ropes and eliminate him… throwing his arm forward… *SMACK!!* …and befalling a similar fate, as the Divine Wind decides it prudent to relieve possibly the most dangerous man in the match of higher brain function, and thus slams his boot straight into the Canadian’s heavily-bearded jaw; Johnson’s subsequent collapse is almost comical, the longest-reigning Cruiserweight Champion ever going stiff as a board before falling flat on his back and remaining quite still. Satisfied, Akira turns his attentions to Spike Jenkins, rocking him with a European Uppercut before pulling him forward by the hair, ignoring the ref’s ineffective admonishments, and trapping him in a cravate, pointing skyward! “YEEAAAHHH!!” “Divine Wind, coming up!” shouts Mak with glee as Akira begins his run-up, pushing off of the top turnbuckle and flipping skywards, his body almost completely vertical… when Spike lunges forwards, holding onto the corner with all of his might, determined to not receive head trauma for the third time in about forty-five seconds; this throws Kaibatsu’s balance off almost completely, and the Divine Wind abandons his Divine Wind, landing on his feet behind the Hollywood Superstar… who immediately lashes backwards with an elbow! *CRACK!* Akira’s head snaps rather far back, and Spike grabs Kaibatsu in a cravate before… he begins running up the ropes? “Huh,” says King. “I could have sworn he was too fat for this.” Apparently not, as Spike goes up the ropes, up into the air… and clean over the Divine Wind, landing on his feet with Kaibatsu in a Dragon Sleeper… before wrenching him over AND INTO HIS SILVER LINING DRAGON CLUTCH! “BOOOOOOO!!” Spike grins his Spike grin as he wrenches on the neck of the Divine Wind, moans of pain emerging from the man that is currently being bent in half in entirely the wrong direction. “Well, you can’t win this match by submission,” Mak frowns. “I don’t see the point of applying this Dragon Clutch.” “Must we go over this every time somebody applies a submission in a match that cannot be won by submission?” sighs the Heartbreaker. “Look. Eventually, Akira is going to pass out, and then Spike or somebody else can throw him over the top rope and eliminate him. Of course, Spike is probably trying to make him tap out.” Spike pulls back even harder on the hold, inadvertently giving King more fodder for belittling him, but also encouraging Akira to run out of oxygen more quickly. Realizing he’s vulnerable, Spike does a quick check of where the other men are in the ring. He sees that Landon has returned to hammering on Johnny, although Johnny fires a shotei right into his jaw. He also sees that Michael Cross is prowling around Dangerous and Maddix, apparently hoping to pick off the remains. He sees Tom is standing in the corner, lounging about; the two’s eyes meet, but Flesher shows no interest in wasting energy on Spike. Tom’s eyes do flick to a spot above Jenkins’ head, but he makes no move in the Hollywood Superstar’s direction. Spike sees Johnson… …no. No, Spike doesn’t see Johnson. He looks, maybe to see if he’s somewhere in the Landon-Dangerous (and now Cross, the Suicide Machine having interjected himself with a firm right hook) fray, but no. He glances back at Tom, and Flesher glances upwards again. And Spike gets it. *CRAAACKK!!* “OOOOHH!” Right in the back of the skull, as JJ Johnson takes flight from the middle rope and delivers a thunderous double stomp! Spike’s attentions are diverted rather quickly, as he releases Akira and proceeds to slump forward, presumably unconscious. Akira is not much better, but he’s still conscious, rolling out under the bottom rope to the floor to gasp for air. *CRACK!!* Across the ring, Tom slams a palm strike into an attacking Michael Cross’ jaw, staggering the Michigander! With no time to waste, Tom pounds the flat of his hand into Cross’ face once again, knowing full well that should Cross find a means of recovering, and it turns into a fight, the advantage shifts to the Suicide Machine, a bad thing for the Superior One. Fortunately, Cross is reeling, and so Tom launches one final palm strike to put his opponent down for a count that doesn’t apply to this match’s stipulation. Tom Flesher would do well to read The Art of War. In it, Sun-Tzu implores the reader to “if they are strong, show weakness,” meaning that one should feign incompetence in order to lure the enemy into your side of the battlefield. The thunderous uppercut that tears into Flesher’s jaw implies that Michael Cross has read The Art of War. *CA-RAACK!* All thoughts of palm strikes sail out of Tom’s head, along with what appears to be a tooth, as Flesher stumbles, but does not go down; undeterred, Cross simply punches him quite firmly in the face once more, this time staggering the Superior One but not bringing him down. With a determined snarl, Cross sprints off of the ropes before rebounding back, leaping high, and slamming his knee right into Tom’s face! *CRACK!!* Tom goes down, and a satisfied Cross turns his back on the prone Superior One, watching as Landon and Johnny, their blows less furious now, continue wailing on each other. Michael considers pitching himself into the fray now that they’re less enthusiastic, but decides that his original plan of waiting for them to finish, then picking up the pieces is much better. Then, he feels a firm double-arm grip around his legs, his feet leave the ground, and he realizes, quite horrified, that the mystery force that is currently defying gravity is propelling him towards the ropes. *SMA-AAACKK!!* Make that over the ropes. DING! “YEEEAAAAHHH!!” “Ladies and gentlemen, eliminated ninth, and the number seven seed… MIIII-CHAEL! CROOOOOSSS!!” booms Funyon almost immediately after the Suicide Machine lands flat on his back on the floor. Although dazed from his fall, and although the lights of the Cow Palace are in his face, he can still see the smiling face of Tom Flesher, and he realizes, quite furiously, that he’s been hoisted on his own petard. “Ha!” laughs King. “Apparently, Mike Cross hasn’t read The Art of War!” “What?” asks Mak, confused. “You see,” begins the Gambling Man, “in The Art of War, Sun-Tzu states that if one is strong, they should show weakness. You know, lure the opponent into a false sense of security. Cross was doing it when he was eating those palm strikes and then countered with that uppercut, and Tom turned it back on him, only MUCH more effectively!” *SMAAACKK!!* And then Landon Maddix pastes Johnny Dangerous with an open-handed slap, deciding that regular fisticuffs weren’t working. It doesn’t look like it affects the Secret Agent all that much, merely spins him around… and then Maddix leaps, plants his knees into Johnny’s back, and brings him down with Mount Crushmore! Dangerous bounces off of Landon’s legs in great anguish, clutching his spine while gritting his teeth. Tom notes that Johnny is on his knees, but rather than feed his own ego by pretending that Dangerous is genuflecting before him – well, not in his actions – he seizes the Secret Agent around the chest, hauls him to his feet, and then bridges and sends Johnny sailing with a railgun suplex! The Cow Palace leaps as Dangerous flies, fully aware that the Agent is headed for a Sacred Splash ™... *BANG!* “YEEAAAAAHHH!!” … but much to the glee of everybody in San Francisco, Dangerous falls short! Of course, he’s in no position - or condition - to wrestle right now, but at least he’s not eliminated. “SHIT!” Well, Dangerous not making it over the ropes is to the glee of ALMOST everybody in San Francisco, Flesher swearing quite loudly as he stomps towards Johnny to finish the job… only for Landon Maddix to leap and give HIM a Mount Crushmore! “YEEAAAHH!!” “Ah, how many times have we seen Tom use that inner focus, only to not be fully aware of his surroundings?” asks Mak, rhetorically. King, apparently, does not care that it’s a rhetorical question. “Never?” is the guess the Gambling Man puts forth. “Ah,” groans Mak, “how many times have we seen King fellate Tom in order to feed his and Flesher’s ego?” “Ah,” snaps King, “how many times have we seen you move your legs?” *SMACK!* “Ow!” whines the Gambling Man after Mak paintbrushes him. “That’s it, I’m taking your parking sp-“ *SMACK!* “Ow! What’s the problem, you can’t even dri-” *SMACK!* “Ow!” Landon secures Tom in a front facelock and hauls him to his feet, apparently looking to give him a suplex… but then he notices that Spike Jenkins has hauled himself to his feet, holding the back of his head. Maddix assumes that the Hollywood Superstar is up to no good, but Spike holds his hands up to show that he comes in peace, for lack of a less cliche term, and then points at the Superior One. “The fucker sandbags,” mouths Jenkins, and indeed, Tom’s knees are already going slack in preparation. Landon knows it as well, and so he beckons the New Straight-Edge Sensation over, and they both seize front facelocks and, with stereo grunts, lift Flesher up… and hold him there. “Wait,” says Spike. “What are we doing, a brainbuster?” “A brainbuster?” repeats Landon. “I dunno, I thought we were going for a Falcon Arrow, or maybe just a plain old suplex.” “A plain old suplex works,” nods Spike. “On three?” “On three,” agrees Landon. “One…” Akira Kaibatsu slides his way back into the ring. Johnny Dangerous gets to his feet. JJ Johnson realizes that both of these men are looking his way, and prepares himself for the oncoming storm. “Two…” Johnny glances over at Akira and gestures; as if he understands, Akira nods. Johnson’s eyes narrow. “Three!” *BANG!* While it may have been just a vertical suplex, Tom was up there for quite a while as Landon and Spike discussed strategy, and so the Superior One stays prone. Satisfied, Landon turns to Spike. “A job well do-“ begins Landon, but he never quite finishes his statement before a knee slams into his stomach, doubling him over. Wasting no time, Spike hauls La Cucaracha into a standing headscissors, underhooks both arms, and pauses for just a moment to make sure Akira is not going to kick him in the face before he leaps high and sends Landon’s face slamming into the canvas with an Endwell! *CRUNCH!* “BOOOOOOO!!” Spike really doesn’t care what the fans think of his actions as he rises to his feet, avoiding the Landon Maddix that isn’t going anywhere for a while as he heads towards Tom, looking to eliminate the man who oppressed him so much last year. Across the ring, Johnny Dangerous is the first to charge at JJ Johnson, but stops short and ducks backwards, Johnson’s reactionary roundhouse hissing right where his head would have been were his reflexes not so good. Fortunately for Johnny, while Johnson’s aim is frighteningly true when it comes to roundhouse kicks, the power JJ put behind it means that momentum works against the Canadian, spinning him so that his back is to the Secret Agent… and that typically means only one thing with Johnny. The head tucked under JJ’s arm confirms that. And then Dangerous is lifting, twisting… “EEEEEEEM-IIIIIIII…” begins Mak as Johnson begins to befall the same fate that befell Bruce Blank… but Johnson is made of more sober stuff than Bruce, and whirls, rolling down Johnny’s back before calculating and then shoving Johnny towards the Divine Wind. Akira sees Johnny coming, and knows that something has gone terribly wrong in the plan if Johnson is not eliminated. However, much to Kaibatsu’s horror, reflexes kick in… *SMAACKK!!* … and Akira’s torso twists before he lashes out with his arm and hammers the oncoming Dangerous with a European Uppercut, staggering Johnny backwards… …and then Johnson tucks his head under the arm of the Secret Agent, hoists him up, twists… “EEEEEM-IIIIII…?” says Mak, before he realizes what’s going on… …as the Canadian drops the International Champion over the top rope to the floor! DING! “BOOOOOOOO!” “Ladies and gentlemen, eliminated tenth, and the number six seed… JOHNNY! DAAAAAANGEROUUUUSS!!” roars Funyon as Akira glances across the ring at Spike struggling to lift Tom – who by this point is merely sandbagging – and at the barely-waking Landon Maddix, still recovering from the effects of the devastating Endwell, and realizes that he is alone on this side of the ring with a man who doesn’t like him very much. *CRACK!!* And as we all know, one of the signature ways JJ Johnson shows he doesn’t like you – or does like you, depending on his mood; he’s lost a lot of girlfriends this way – is with elbow smashes. Akira reels, and then fires back with a European Uppercut! *SMAACKK!!* Now it’s Johnson’s turn to reel; those European Uppercuts of Akira’s have power beyond the Divine Wind’s size. However, he’s taken far worse and stayed standing, so a European Uppercut is child’s play in comparison, and he fires another elbow at Kaibatsu… … and Akira ducks out of range, Johnson’s eyes going wide as he lunges aimlessly. It is at this juncture that Akira launches something that JJ has NOT taken and stayed standing, slamming his boot right into Johnson’s chin with a superkick! *SMACK!* This doesn’t look to change; Johnson goes right to the floor. Akira knows that Johnson is going to be belligerent when he recovers – well, Johnson’s probably going to be belligerent anyway – and so heads over to where Spike has almost gotten Tom up to one knee, in the time it has taken Landon to recover from the Endwell and rise to one knee. “And now we’re approaching the endgame!” says Mak with glee as Akira hammers Spike with a forearm, distracting him from Flesher, at least for now. “Look at who’s survived thus far: Akira Kaibatsu, a very strong competitor who’s on the rise; Tom Flesher, the most successful superstar the SWF has ever seen, bar none; Spike Jenkins, the second-longest Cruiserweight Champion ever; Landon Maddix, who is an SJL Grand Slam Champion, a multiple-time World Champion, and the winner of the original Cold Front Classic; and JJ Johnson, the longest reigning Cruiserweight Champion of all time and the winner of last year’s Cold Front Classic. This is where it gets heated, King!” “It is,” agrees King. “I suspect Spike will be eliminated any second now.” “That’s rather blunt, King,” frowns Mak. “Why would you throw Spike to the wolves like that, when Landon is likely still groggy from the Endwell, and JJ is just kind of laying there uselessly?” “Have you been listening to me at all this entire match?” asks the Gambling Man incredulously. Meanwhile, in, you know, the wrestling match, Spike has long since recovered from the European Uppercut and in fact made a comeback, slamming quite a few kicks into Akira’s ribs. The pain being just a little too much for Kaibatsu, he collapses to his knees, and Spike delivers a sharp kick to the sternum! *SMAACK!!* And, with Akira clutching his ribs now, Spike delivers another! *SMAACK!!* Two-thirds of his combo complete, Spike steps back, before charging forward and throwing a kick to the face of Kaibatsu! *SMAACK!!* Unfortunately for Spike, his kick never quite makes it, as Landon nails Jenkins with a superkick! Spike stumbles, and then a hand is placed on his shoulder, the Hollywood Superstar is spun around, and he faintly smells Unibroue before the Superior One has acted, gripping him around the chest and sending Jenkins over the top rope with a railgun suplex! *SAA-MAACK!!* *DING!* Funyon struggles to be heard over the “Holy shit” chants, but eventually manages to boom out an “eliminated eleventh, and the number five seed, Spike Jenkins!” before the crowd’s noise overtakes him again. “Called it,” smirks King. “Well, there’s the Sacred Splash we were looking for!” shouts Mak, not nearly as calm as the Gambling Man. “And now we are down to four!” Tom makes his way back up to his feet, but Landon “La Cucaracha” Maddix has other plans, slamming him with a forearm before seizing him in, much to everybody in the crowd’s dismay, a cravate. Johnson, meanwhile, has recovered, and is approaching Akira with a very, very unhappy look on his face. Kaibatsu rises to his feet after spending a bit of time gasping for breath, turns around… *CRACK!!* … and eats an elbow smash! Akira leans back against the ropes, but realizes that that’s a very bad place to be considering that we are now in the endgame, and so he decides to go for his trump card. “Here comes a superkick!” shouts Mak as Kaibatsu steps forward and launches his foot right into the jaw of the Canadian for a third time! *WHUMP!* “Not again,” snarls JJ, and Akira’s eyes widen as he hops on one foot, the other quite securely in Johnson’s hands. It soon leaves Johnson’s hands, though, as the Canadian throws it away, spinning Akira on the spot. Once Kaibatsu’s back is to the Ultimate Fighter, Johnson reacts, charging forward, seizing Akira around the waist, and lifting all in one smooth motion. Tom would applaud Johnson on his Greco-Roman technique if he were not busy pounding on Landon Maddix, and Akira is almost absolutely helpless as he’s dumped over the top! DING! “BOOOOOO!” “Eliminated twelfth, Akira Kaibatsu!” booms Funyon. Behind Johnson, who stares triumphantly down at Akira, Landon nails Tom with an elbow smash! *CRACK!* Tom reels, Landon reacts, launching another elbow smash… that Tom blocks, The Art of War coming into play again before he slams a brutal palm strike into the jaw of La Cucaracha! Maddix almost collapses, but manages to stay on a knee… a knee that Johnson has no trouble stepping up on as he runs, plants a foot on it, and drives HIS knee into the face of Maddix with a Shining Wizard! *CRACK!* Maddix goes down, and Johnson whirls to face the Superior One, who immediately shoots in for a double-leg takedown; no stranger to amateur wrestling from his time in UFC, Johnson immediately sprawls, his reflexes like lightning with pressure and adrenaline building. The two men spend a moment at a stalemate; Flesher struggles to maintain his leverage, Johnson struggles to gain some. Then, Johnson spins out of Tom’s grip, looking more like a football player than a mixed martial artist , and Flesher goes to the ground for just a moment before he hops back up to his feet. It’s too late now, though; Johnson is behind him. Before Flesher even has time to sandbag, Johnson has seized him in a waistlock, flexed his knees and does something that he hasn’t done in a very long time. He drops somebody on their goddamn skull. *CRUNCH!!* Tom’s lands right on his shoulders and neck as Johnson climbs to his feet to face Maddix… only to find that Tom is doing what he does best: not selling. Flesher rolls with the German’s momentum and stumbles forward, lashing his arm out for a lariat to press Johnson over the ropes. Johnson’s eyes widen… and then he notices that Flesher’s eyes are dull. He’s pure instinct at this point. The Canadian grins, seizes Tom’s arm, and lifts the Superior One into a fireman’s carry, hesitating for just a moment before turning and shoving Tom off of his shoulders and to the outside! Unfortunately for Johnson, in the moment he hesitated, Tom snapped out of his funk, and the Superior One lands on the apron and nails Johnson with a palm strike! *CRACK!* Johnson collapses, and Tom’s eyes go wide. Landon Maddix is in mid-dropkick, but his target has collapsed. Momentum is about to conspire against the Superior One. *CRACK!* DING! “Eliminated thirteenth! THE SUPERIOR ONE! TOOOOOM FLEEESHHEEERR!!” roars Funyon, and the crowd in the Cow Palace gets exponentially louder. “AND NOW…” shouts Mak, “WE ARE DOWN TO TWO! AND NOW WE ARE DOWN TO LANDON MADDIX, AND JJ JOHNSON!” “Oh, this is bad news for Landon,” smirks King. “JJ’s probably still pissed about losing to Landon for the World Title at Battleground.” JJ’s probably still groggy from the palm strike, and he staggers to his feet; his jaw has taken a whole lot of damage already in this match. Landon, meanwhile, hesitates. He knows Johnson very well: Johnson reacts violently under pressure; Johnson hates his guts; Johnson taught him most of what he knows. Landon has to stop him, and he has to stop him now. Johnson whirls on La Cucaracha, a hollow look in his eyes; whatever he does from this point until he snaps out of it, he does with no real thought for what might happen to himself. Whatever he does from this point, he does with no remorse. “Why is Landon just standing there?!” asks Mak. “Move, Madddix! Do SOMETHING!” “He’s scared, Mak,” smirks the Heartbreaker. “He’s going to wait until Johnson snaps out of it, and then it’s going to be too late.” But Landon shakes his head. There’s no possible way he heard the Suicide King; the Cow Palace is entirely too loud for that. Johnson staggers towards Maddix, staring unblinkingly at La Cucaracha, but no longer does he intimidate the tag team champion. In fact, Landon smiles. No more fear. Immediately, Maddix lunges, wedging one arm between the legs of the Canadian and securing his shoulder with the other, before lifting and throwing Johnson onto his shoulder. “He’s… he’s going for the Tombstone!” shouts Mak. “That’ll just make JJ dead weight!” says King, rolling his eyes. “What is Maddix thinking?” There’s something that Maddix isn’t thinking. “If you are strong, show weakness.” -Chapter 3, Sun Tzu’s The Art of War Immediately, Johnson springs into action, sliding backwards off of Landon’s shoulder. Maddix swears and tries to turn, but he feels two strong arms grip him around the waist. In the brief instant he has, he looks to find the nearest ropes, and realizes that they’re behind him. “Oh, fu-“ And then Johnson snaps backwards, releases, and Landon Maddix becomes the victim of a German Suplex to the outside, turning a complete flip and, fortunately, landing on his feet on the outside, preventing any serious injury. Except ego. DING DING DING!! “JJ did it!” screams Mak as the Cow Palace ERUPTS! “Three months on the shelf after a month of wrestling, which was after another three months for a serious neck injury, but to hell with that! JJ Johnson has entered the Cold Front Classic battle royal, and he has won it for the second year in a row!” “Ladies and gentlemen, eliminated fourteenth and the number two seed, Landon Maddix!” bellows Funyon. “And here is your winner, and the number one seed… J! J! JOOOOHNNSOOON!!” Johnson leaps up to the middle rope, throwing his arms wide and looking out over the crowd, a huge grin on his face, gleeful at his victory. “JJ Johnson is the number one seed! That’s all the time we have for tonight, folks,” says an out of breath Mak, “but JJ Johnson is number one! Good night everybody!” Number one is a very important status, but right now, there’s a number more important to JJ, one he’s holding on both hands in the air. Two. FADE OUT Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
