chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF SMARKDOWN? Live, Monday, November 20th, from The Thomas & Mack Center in Las Vegas, Nevada! (7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) (Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE MAIN EVENT - SWF INTERNATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH Johnny Dangerous © vs. Akira Kaibatsu -> Akira Kaibatsu may be eliminated from the Cold Front Classic after a hell of a match with Spike Jenkins, but it only took him thirty seconds to beat Charlie Matthews! Yeah, I feel sorry for Grappler too. REGARDLESS. Johnny Dangerous comes HOME tonight, and you can be damn sure he's not going to relinquish his hard-earned title in front of his people. Or is he? Rules: Standard singles. Word Limit: 6000 Send to: Chuck Woolery -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- COLD FRONT CLASSIC - FIRST ROUND MATCH JJ Johnson (1) vs. Nighthawk (8) -> Nighthawk may have been ousted rather quickly from the Cold Front Classic battle royale, but with seven guys shoving at you - well, five, Landon Maddix and Gabriel Drake abstaining - you'd go over the top rope too. Anyway, tonight he gets the opportunity to redeem himself. On the other side of the ring? JJ Johnson, the self-proclaimed "Mr. Cold Front Classic," and one bad mother- SHUT YO MOUTH! Just talkin' about JJ Johnson! Well, we can dig it! But I digress. JJ Johnson. Nighthawk. Cold Front Classic round 1. Don't miss it. Rules: Standard singles match. Word Limit: 5000 Send to: chirs3 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH Michael Stephens ©©© vs. Zyon -> Michael Stephens has more belts than a Celine Dion album. Before leaving, Zyon's win-loss record was also a lot like a Celine Dion album: painful. Both men are riding high off of recent victories, and although the last time these two met, Zyon was unsuccessful, will the infamous Comeback Momentum come into play? Or will Zyon be just another 5-year-old that gets shoved off the jungle gym by the King of the Mountain? Rules: Standard singles match. Word Limit: 5000 Send to: Mr. S£im Citrus -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- COLD FRONT CLASSIC - FIRST ROUND MATCH Landon Maddix (2) vs. Michael Cross (7) -> These two men faced long, long ago, and Michael Cross ended up squashed by a man nicknamed 'The Cockroach'. Iron Mike is stronger now, but is he strong enough? Or will the 2004 Cold Front Classic winner roll on to the next round? Rules: Standard singles. Word Limit: 5000 Send to: Ace309 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- HARDCORE MATCH (non title) "The Beast" Gabriel Drake vs. Jimmy the Doom © ->The people at the networks really, really hate to lose at electric football. Unfortunately, Joseph Peters is quite skilled, and in their rage at having been defeated so handily, The Network cut off their connection just before Drake vs. Doom was set to get underway. Several apologies were given out, and they turned it back on just in time for Akira vs. Spike, but the damage was done. Here's the replay! Rules: HRADCROE Word Limit: 5000 Send to: chirs3 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Opening Promo: Monsieur 'awke. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 Cue the pyro! Cue the signs! Cue the apathetic crowd that is only here because they got complimentary tickets for winning tons of money at the tables! Well, maybe not, but you know that’s how WCW used to draw 10,000 to Halloween Havoc every year. Francis: “Hello, wrestling fans, and welcome to SWF Lockdown! We are live tonight from the sold out Thomas & Mack Center in Las Vegas, Nevada! Mak Francis here along with the Suicide King, and tonight, two huge title matches! Michael Stephens defends the Cruiserweight Title against Zyon, and Johnny Dangerous defends the International Championship against Charlie Matthews!” King: “And Don’t forget! Landon Maddix’s World Title aspirations go up in smoke tonight during one of our two cold front classic matches!” As the opening theme music dies down, we hear some children with British accents shout “We don’t need no education…” before the opening strains of Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” comes on the PA. Funyon: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the number one contender to the SWF World Heavyweight Championship…JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY HAWWWWWWWWWWWWWKE!” Jay Hawke emerges from the curtain, wearing a blue pinstripe suit. Snazzy. As he walks to the ring, the crowd begins its familiar chant: “JAY HAWKE SUCKS! JAY HAWKE SUCKS! JAY HAWKE SUCKS!” King: “Is that any way to show respect for the future World Heavyweight Champion?” Francis: “He hasn’t won anything yet, King!” King: “It’s only a matter of ten days, Mak.” Francis: “Indeed, Jay Hawke will get his chance at the World Heavyweight Championship on Smarkdown coming up on November 30. But this past Thursday, he and Nighthawk fell short in their bid to win the World Tag Team Championship from Landon Maddix and Michael Stephens.” King: “A fluke, Mak. Plain and simple.” The music dies down as Jay Hawke grabs the ring microphone from Funyon. However, the crowd continues to disrespect the Dean of Professional Wrestling: “JAY HAWKE SUCKS! JAY HAWKE SUCKS! JAY HAWKE SUCKS!” Hawke: “You know, if you want that sort of service provided to you, just go down to the strip and drop a little bit of that casino money on some cheap prostitute!” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Hawke: “But you see, I should expect that from a bunch of people who cheer at a fruity Englishman saying “Hey up.” You’d think being cheered by you morons was actually something worth happening. But all of your applause … all of your chants … all of your catcalls mean absolutely nothing. See, in less than two weeks, your hero, the man you used to call Toxxic, will lose his World Heavyweight Championship to me!” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Hawke: “See, unlike some of the men that have been granted title shots as of late, I am not some Johnny Come Lately that can’t wrestle his way out of a paper bag. I am the Dean of Professional Wrestling. And as the Dean of Professional Wrestling, I can say without a doubt that Michael Stephens isn’t even in my league.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Hawke: “That belt he has around his waist is the most important piece of gold in this company. By wearing it, it signifies that you are the very best in the sport of professional wrestling. And so, I have to admit -- reluctantly -- that yes, Michael Stephens is largely considered the best wrestler in the world today!” “TOXXXXX-IC! TOXXXXX-IC! TOXXXXX-IC!” Hawke: “But that’s only because he hasn’t wrestled me yet.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Hawke: “Everything I have ever done in this business is legendary, right down to my record-breaking International Championship reign. A reign nobody has even come close to since I chose to move on to bigger and better things. And a reign I plan to top when I meet Michael Stephens next Friday night with the gold on the line.” Francis: “He’s got to win the championship in order for that to happen.” King: “Not a problem. It won’t even take him the full hour.” Hawke: “Because you see, you don’t get to be called the Dean of Professional Wrestling because it sells T-shirts. You don’t get to be called the best in the world because it’s a desperate marketing ploy to make people think you’re a big time promo--well, OK, bad example. But no matter what I’ve accomplished in this business, I’ve still got that one monkey on my back. I still have people that come up to me and say, “All your accolades over the last ten years are impressive, but you’ve never been the SWF World Heavyweight Champion.” To some, my legacy isn’t complete until I win that championship belt. Well, Michael Stephens, the only thing standing between me and my legacy is you. So good luck against Zyon tonight. Sleep well the next ten days. Because on November 30...I’m going to teach you a wrestling lesson you’ll never forget, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” Jay Hawke drops the mic and leaves the ring, the fans still showering him with boos as he does so. Francis: “A lot of confidence emanating from the number one contender here tonight, King.” King: “He is ten days away from the biggest match of his life, Mak. And his track record speaks for itself. As long as he comes in fully-prepared, I think we will see a new champion.” Francis: “Only time will tell. And only time will tell who will win these fantastic matches we have on tap tonight. We’ll be right back!” Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 "Benjamin Hardy, here backstage," opens the SWF's trusty reporter from his trusty post in the halls of the Thomas & Mack Center, "where the buzz here is firmly fixed on the Cold Front Classic. In it's third year, tonight we're going to be seeing it's two former winners in action and the money is flying around from the boys in the back. Rumour is a lot of the money, aside from the $1000 Tom Flesher apparantly placed on himself, is going on the man being called 'Mr Cold Front Classic' by some experts, JJ Johnson, who returned to form with his battl..." "Hey Benny boy, can I BUTT in for a moment?" Sure enough, the slight (veeery slight) Spanish twang in the off-screen voice is from who you would expect. Landon "La Cucaracha" Maddix, chugging down a Pepsi Max which he makes sure gets it's product placement as he steps into camera shot, has acquired an impromptu interview. "Sure you can BUTT in... like I could ever stop you." "Hehehe... yeeeaahh. Not a chance." chuckles Landon, patting Benjamin on the shoulder. A little too forcefully. "Now, what was that you were saying a second ago?" "About the Cold Front Classic? And how JJ Johnson is the favourite with the boys in the back?" Landon resumes his rather forceful patting. "Yeah. That part. That and the whole 'Mr Cold Front Classic' moniker. You know, I've been hearing that very same buzz and if you don't mind, maybe I can give you my opinion, what with me being the only other former Cold Front Classic winner in SWF history and all. The first winner, by the way. Something which no-one else can say, ever, no matter how many time machine prototypes they draw up, because let's face it that's nothing but science fiction mumbo-jumbo." "You can't prove that." Hardy snaps defensively, apparantly ignored. "Now, as a former Cold Front Classic Champion in my own right, it does catch my attention when I hear this 'Mr Cold Front Classic' tag getting thrown around. And it's everywhere. From the ring crew to the refs, to the boys in the back, to the commentators, to the announcers... to my own tag team partner, although I get the feeling he's doing it just to mess with me. Everybody's picked up on this nickname and it does bug me. Just a little." "Evidently." "I mean, it's no big deal or anything. It's just, I'm unbeaten in this Cold Front Classic format. Aside from the battle royal, but lets be fair, we can't really count that as a defeat now can we? The only thing that seperates me and JJ Johnson is that battle royal. One seeding. So, everybody's going on past history and because JJ won last year, it's all 'Oh, he's Mr Cold Front'. People seem to forget that winning the Cold Front Classic earns you a World Title shot. How many times has 'Mr Cold Front Classic' won the SWF World Title, Ben?" It doesn't seem Benjamin wants to be drawn into this arguement. Especially because of the likelihood of it getting JJ's back up. But, still... "Well... none." "And, when I won the Cold Front Classic, I won the World Title, right?" "Right." "So, who's Mr Cold Front Classic on that information?" Landon toasts himself with his Pepsi Max bottle. "Mmm, gassy..." smiles Landon, before realising he's digressing. "That would be me, Benny boy. Infact, you might even say the only reason he won it last year was because I wasn't even entered into the tournament! We'll never know, I guess. But what I do know is, tonight, the real Mr Cold Front is going to do what he does best. That being win in the Cold Front Classic. Michael Cross will go by the wayside, leaving me Tom Flesher to go through. And then, fingers crossed, that'll leave me and JJ to decide who's really King Of The Cold Front Classic. Cheers!" Landon takes another blatant swig of the Pepsi Max and walks off, as Benjy just sighs. "Don't worry Ben. When you get that time machine working, that will never have happened." Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 (edited) Smarkdown returns from a commercial for Memphis Eel's "Hunka, Hunka, Burnin' Love" Home Syphillis Test, and either the Eel himself or some random Fat Elvis impersonator pans around the Thomas & Mack Center before stopping in front of Mak Francis and the Suicide King. "Welcome back to Smarkdown, live, from Las Vegas. Coming up is a replay from Lockdown. Jimmy the Doom and Gabriel Drake went toe to toe in a nontitle hardcore match, but sadly, technical difficulties prevented anyone but the fans in attendance from viewing the bout," Mak says. "Couldn't...couldn't I just say what happens so we can move on to something good, like Michael Cross thumping Landon Maddix in the Coldfront Classic?" King asks. "Sorry, King, but people were pissed, and we don't want upset fans, so the replay must be shown," Francis says. "Then explain why you're still in the broadcast booth? I mean, is there anyone that actually delights in hearing your inane comments night after night?" King questions. "Well, your mom has always been a big fan," Mak shoots back. "Hey, can we do the Mystery Science Theater Three Thousand thing with the replay? I'd like to mock some of the stuff you said," King says. "Sure, you've had plenty of time to think of quips, I suppose," Mak replies. With that, the Smarktron crackles to life, showing the inside of the Arco Arena. The lights shift to a deep blue as Rob Zombie's "The Devil's Rejects" plays. White lights strobe in time with the beat as Drake appears at the top of the stage, dragging a chair behind him. "Ladies and gentlemen, the following match is scheduled for one fall and will take place under hardcore rules! Introducing first, from Athens, Georgia, he weighs two hundred, fifty-eight pounds, the Beast, Gabriel Drake!" Funyon shouts. "Doesn't that useless lump of flesh, Bob Sapp, hold claim to that name?" King asks. "Considering Drake's spent time in the joint and Sapp hasn't, I think Gabe gets it," Mak says. Drake saunters down the ramp, shoves the chair inside the ring, and rolls in after it. Gabe props the chair up in the middle of the ring and takes a seat, staring at the stage. "Gabriel Drake looks very focused, King. He's got to be upset that his time in the Cold Front Classic battle royal didn't last very long, and let's not forget that his bid to become World champion at Ashes to Ashes fell short in the Elimination Chamber," Mak says. "Nice run-on sentence, Francis. Have you ever taken an English class?" King asks. "Very true, Mak, but now Gabriel gets to vent his frustrations on Jimmy the Doom. Granted, he won't be able to walk out with the belt, but the beating we're about to see should make an impression on Joe Peters," King says. The lights go out completley, and the sound of marching feet and chanting voices fills the arena. "Doom!" "Doom!" "Doom!" "Doom!" The lights return to reveal a gaggle of druids surrounding the ring, when suddenly, Boots Randolph's "Yakety Sax" blares over the speakers. Jimmy the Doom walks out, Lois the Unethical directly behind and carrying the Hardcore title. "And his opponent, being accompanied by Lois the Unethical. From Doomopolis, Doomtopia, he weighs two hundred, thirty pounds, the current Hardcore champion, the Straight-Bread Sensation, Jimmy the Doom!" Funyon yells. The Doomtopians head down the aisle, and Jimmy slides inside the ring while Lois walks around to sit next to Funyon. Doom rises and makes his way towards Drake and referee Matt Kivell. In a flash, the Beast explodes forward, driving a knee into Doom's groin. Gabriel snaps the chair up and belts Jimmy in the head with it. DESIDERATUM! The Straight-Bread Sensation drops to his knees and Drake blasts him with the chair a second time. ULSTER! Due to the hardcore nature of the match, Kivell can only officially signal the start of the match. Ding! Ding! Ding! "And this match is underway with Drake gaining an early upperhand," Mak says. "Well, a prematch nutshot and a chair will do that," King says. "Wow, I'm impressed, King. That one came to you pretty quickly," Mak says." Drake hefts the chair once more, but decides to simply punt Jimmy in the head. The Beast tosses his weapon aside and kicks Doom in the skull a second time before reaching down and grabbing hold of the Straight-Breader's shirt. Drake hauls Doom off the mat, only to knock Jimmy back down with a right cross. Gabe pulls Doom up again, but once more smacks him back to the canvas. "Drake is really going to town on Jimmy the Doom. I know it's not uncommon for Doom to take a hellacious beating, but come back thanks to his unmatched toughness, but Gabriel Drake doesn't look to be interested in winning this match as much as simply inflicting a lot of pain on Jimmy," Mak says. "Well, Nemesis was looking to do the same thing, but Doom doesn't have his idiotic Doomopolis Street Fight rules to save him this time," King says. Just as Drake was about to exert his utter dominance, A SOMETHING HAPPENED BECAUSE THERE IS PRECIOUS LITTLE TIME LEFT! HAMBURGEROLOGY! "Holy shit! A sandbag fell from the rafters and totally wanged Drake on the head!" shouts Mak. "Why the hell are there sandbags? This isn't some high school auditorium, is it?" King asks. Luckily for Drake's brain parts, the sandbag wasn't all that heavy, but still, it probably hurt like a motherfucker. Doom clambers to his feet, hits Gabe with the Hand of Doom and whips him into the corner. Jimmy kicks Drake into a seated position, wedges the chair between the middle and top ropes so it's flush against Drake's head, and Doom backs away to the opposite corner. Doom runs full tilt towards Gabriel and mashes the chair into the Beast's head with a flying front kick. "FRONT KICK!" screams Bas Rutten. He's allowed to do this because he's awesome and possibly Dutch, maybe. Norweegish? Anyway, it was screamed by Bas. He then delivered a "LIVER SHOT!" to everyone in the front row, free of charge. Doom pulls Drake away from the turnbuckles and makes a lateral press. One! Two! Three! Ding! Ding! Ding! "Winner, Jimmy the Doom!" Funyon shouts. The Smarktron fades out as the replay is super over (Well, Jimmy and Lois might have done a super run away, but that's not super important). "We had to waste time showing that?" King asks. "And I never got an answer about that damn sand bag." "I think it was actually a bag of pudding in case one of the wrestlers gets peckish during a rant," Mak explains. "Next up, stuff!" Smarkdown fades to black, yay! Edited November 22, 2006 by chirs3 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 “Mike,” Joseph Peters says, opening the door of Michael Stephens’ dressing room without bothering to knock. “Joe,” Stephens nods in acknowledgement without looking up, tugging on one of his boots. “I sent you a message, oh…” Peters looks at his watch, “…half an hour ago that I wanted to see you in my office.” “Yup,” Stephens agrees, pulling on his other boot. “As you might have noticed, I ignored it.” “I had noticed, as a matter of fact,” the SWF’s Generalissimo replies, taking a few more steps into the room and positioning himself in front of the World, Cruiserweight and Tag Team Champion, “which is why I’m here now. Why did you ignore it, Mike?” “Cos I can’t be arsed to come running every time you snap your fingers,” Stephens tells him, attending to the laces on the first boot. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say, Joe. Not until you tell me when I can have that one-on-one match with Gabe, and as soon as that’s common knowledge I know that Gabe will find a way to let me know himself.” He finishes the laces on one boot and turns to the second. “So really, I don’t care. Got some news about the match with Hawke? Not interested. Want to bawl me out for not smiling wide enough in the promo shots for the new SWF video game? Not interested. Got some tips on which slot machines are paying out in the MGM Grand? Not interested.” “How about if I tell you you’re getting suspended without pay?” Peters bites out. Stephens looks up at him for the first time, then in a second is on his feet and glaring down his nose at his boss. “Then I’d say you’re a remarkably stupid man Joe,” he growls, “because you know damn well that I’ll be taking these title belts with me onto my suspension, which leaves you with the International and Hardcore Titles for you to build the company around. I mean, you can try making Johnny Dangerous the centrepiece for the SWF if you want,” he shrugs, “but it’s been tried before and it failed both times.” He narrows his eyes. “And if you wanted to strip me of the titles, well, you know as well as I do that would devalue them immensely in the eyes of the average fan. Not to mention the fact that I hear my merchandise is shifting quite well at the moment.” He rubs two fingers and his thumb together. “Bling-bling, Joe. You ain’t getting rid of me sunshine, not while I’m making you this much money. Not quiet like that. No, you’d throw me into some sort of overblown match to end all matches, stack the odds against me and make as much money as you could on one last hurrah. So to continue,” he says, tilting his head to one side, “since you and I both know damn well that even if you were suspending me for not coming to your office you wouldn’t have the balls to say it to my face, d’you wanna get on with what you were actually gonna say and stop wasting my time?” Peters glowers at the Englishman. The fact that Stephens retained in the Elimination Chamber meant that not only did they make good money from Ashes 2 Ashes but the SWF still has a strong, marketable champion to get butts in seats. The only problem is, Peters can’t stand him and he seems to overcome every obstacle put in his way. And right now, he’s right; there’s no way Peters can fire, suspend or do anything to limit the appearances of someone who holds three of his championship belts. So the only thing to do is to try and remove some of those belts… which brings him around to the real reason why he’d wanted to see Stephens in the first place. “Your Cruiserweight defence against Zyon tonight has changed,” he informs Stephens shortly. “It’s now a ladder match. I’d wish you good luck, but that’d be a lie.” He turns his back to leave. “A ladder match?” Stephens chuckles, his aggressive manner gone, “why the hell did you do that?” “Because my statisticians inform me that you have never won a ladder match,” Peters answers, turning back around and glaring at Stephens again, “and I’m hoping that trend will continue tonight.” “Yeah, well that’s true enough as far as it goes,” Mike admits, “but did your statisticians tell you that I’ve only ever been in one ladder match? And that the main reason I lost it was because Kibagami half-killed me beforehand by throwing me through the plate glass doors of the General Motors Place?” It’s clear from the look on Joe Peters face that no, he was not aware of that. The light catches the faint scars from that very incident as Stephens shakes his head in mild amusement. “One match ain’t really enough to call a ‘trend’, not in my book,” the Triple Champion informs him. “Now, Zyon’s nippy enough I’ll grant you, but he’s not really a hardcore type of guy, is he? So while he might be quicker up that ladder, I’ll bet you he hasn’t got half as many ideas as I have of how to hit people with one.” The straight-edger grins at Peters. “But hey, you might have actually done something positive for the quality of the show, so there you are. There’s a first time for everything.” Joe Peters turns on his heel and stalks out, pursued by the mocking laughter of the SWF World Champion. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 "Coming up next here on Lockdown, the Cold Front Classic continues with match number three of four in the first round. And we're going to see one of the two former winners in action, as the inaugural Cold Front Champion Landon Maddix takes on the number 7 seed Michael Cross, looking to become the first-ever two time winner of our Winter tradition tournament. And I'm sure King has plenty of reasons why he's 'wasting his time', so I'll just let him get on with it." "Mighty kind of you, Mak!" "Well, it's easier this way." sighs Mak, fluffing up his pillow. "Wake me when you're done." "Mak, there's four simple reasons why Landon isn't going to become Cold Front Classic 2006 Winner. Number one is Michael Cross. Assuming he makes it past tonight, reason number two is Tom Flesher waiting for him in the semis. Heaven forbid he makes it past that, but reason number three would then be JJ Johnson, who's also aiming to become two-time Cold Front Classic winner... or Spike Jenkins, who's got plenty of motive to go all the way. And reason number four, most importantly, is why the hell would Landon WANT to win anyway?" "Isn't that obvious?" "I thought you were supposed to be sleeping?" snipes King, before continuing. "If Landon wins the Cold Front, his reward is a World Title shot at Clusterfuck, unless they've changed the format again while I wasn't looking. And the World Champion right now is his new, bestest buddy Michael Stephens. So, either Landon is expecting him to lose the belt in the meantime, or he's planning on wrestling his tag partner." "Nothing wrong with that. A nice, fair, friendly match..." "Between those two!? No chance! It'd be the end of the ceasefire and the continuation of Battle Of The Spot Monkeys and NOBODY wants that!" No disagreement is forthcoming from Mak, even with the cueing up of "The Show Must Go On" by Queen to signal the entrance of the number seven seed. Stoicly as you would expect, "Iron" Mike Cross emerges through the flickering red lights, head down as he blatantly ignores the reaction of the crowd. He's all business. "Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall and it is a Quarter Final Match in the 2006 Cold Front Classic Tournament, with the winner to face Tom Flesher in the next round." clears up Funyon. "Introducing first. Hailing from Detroit, Michigan and weighing in at two hundred, twenty eight pounds. He is the former SWF Cruiserweight Champion and the number seven seed in the Cold Front Classic... "IIRRROOON!"... MMIIIKKEE... CCCRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!" "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Cross slides into the ring and disposes of the hoodie sweatshirt, referee Sexton Hardcastle putting him through the traditional inspection for weapons. All with little reaction from Cross, as he coldly looks past the official and down the aisleway. "Now here's a guy I like." King notes, without a hint of anything BUT bias. "I'd like to see him and Tom go at it, that'd be a good match-up of two similar workers. Cross has got a lot of the qualities Tom has." "Except, he dropped the annoying manager." "Somebody like James Matheson is exactly what Cross needs to go to the next level." "I agree. Having to climb out of the ring and walk ALL the way over to the timekeeper's table to grab a weapon is such a drag. But with Matheson around, no problem!" says Mak, sarcastically. Which, of course, doesn't fly with his partner. "Smartest thing you've said all night." "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." "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!" The roaring nu-metal stylings of "The Game" by Disturbed penetrate through the Thomas & Mack Center, begging two very important questions. One, who are Thomas and Mack anyway (:cue canned laughter:)? And more importantly, why is Landon "La Cucaracha" Maddix cheered so warmly as he glides out through the entrance way in all his trenchcoat coated glory? Despite not knowing the answer to either of these questions, Landon doesn't seem to mind, extending his hands sideways to soak up the crowd reaction. "And his opponent! Accompanied to the ring by his 'Perfect 10' MEGAN SKYE! He hails from Huron, South Dakota by way of Madrid, Spain... weighing in tonight at two hundred and twenty four pounds. The former two-time SWF World Heavyweight Champion and one half of the current SWF World Tag Team Champions... the number TWO seed in the Cold Front Classic... LANDON... "LA CUCARACHA"... MMMMAAAAAAADDIIIIIIIIIXXXXXXXXXXXXXX!!!" "YYEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" Maddix warmly smiles away as he walks down to the ring, flanked by Megan Skye, who's also smiling warmly. "Somebody must have hit it big at the casinos." presumes Mak. "The men's room at the casino, at least." The number two seed makes full mention of that on the apron, indicating that he would eventually become number one. Maddix then spins into the ring with arms outstretched and trenchcoat wide open to show off his half of the Tag Titles. *DINGDINGDING!* The bell sounds and Cross comes out of his corner, low and looking for an opening. Landon's reaction to this is to simply duck his head out through the top and middle ropes, telling referee Hardcastle to 'give me a second', which Cross patiently complies with. "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" "Why are they chanting!?" snaps King angrily. "He hasn't done anything yet!" "He's charismatic." "Baloney." Ducking back inside, Landon maintains his air of caution as he approaches the powerhouse that is 'Iron' Mike. And after ensuring that his opponent isn't going to do anything too hasty, Landon offers up a greco-roman knucklelock. Understandably Cross doesn't look like he's buying it, even with Maddix's crossing of the heart and flashing of the old-fashioned peace sign. Landon continues to offer it up though, until Cross eventually bites... ...and gets jabbed in the eyes! "YYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!" "Oh come ON!" "Who the hell does he think he is, Tom Flesher?" Mak slyly asks over the grumbles of his grumpy partner. As Cross blindly stumbles backwards, Maddix goes on the attack with his strike of choice, the forearm. A quick succession of four back Cross into the ropes and set up an irish whip, sending Iron Mike shooting across the ring and back into a high, spinning back elbow! Sneer, pose, soak up Megan's applause, all patented Landon. Eventually, Landon then makes the patent of any wrestler worth their salt, the pin... ONE! Not a chance. Looking to take the focus off of his measly one count, Landon quickly applies a side headlock as Cross pulls himself up and looks to keep the pocket powerhouse under control. Going to the gut with an elbow, Cross simply powers Maddix off into the ropes though. Building up a head of steam, the confident Champion barrels right back with a shoulderblock...and goes down! Hard! Up clambers Landon with a hold of the back of his head, turning to meet Cross as he comes off the ropes, connecting with his own shoulderblock, which again sees Landon bounced off the canvas like a rubber ball! Maddix is already hoping for a timeout now, but Cross is having none of it. Pulling Maddix up by the arm, Cross sends The Next Generation shooting across the ring and into the turnbuckles in one corner with a hard irish whip! "No match in the power stakes tonight." notes Mak. And sure enough he's right, as when Landon stumbles out of the corner and tries to deadweight on a follow-up whip from Cross, he only blocks momentarily and ends up being pulled upright... *SLAP!* "WHOOOOOOOO!" ...and hit with a knifedge chop from Cross' free arm. A wring of the arm from Cross resets the whip again and sends Landon flying, finding his way into the opposite corner anyway. Cross then lines Landon up and charges him in the corner... ...but up goes the foot from Landon! "Speed advantage, however, lies in Landon's corner." "Boy, you're full of insightful information tonight Mak." Stumbling away from the corner, Cross quickly shakes off the effects of the boot and charges in again. Which makes his last move utterly pointless, as he eats a boot to the face. Shaking off the effects of the boot to the face again, Cross charges in again. And eats another boot, giving him a sense of dejá vu (which by the way would make a GREAT idea for a movie script. I hope nobody steals it after this gets out there.) that can only be erased... *SLAP!* "WHOOOOOOOO!" ...with a knifedge chop, giving him a sense of REALLY HOT CHEST! *SLAP!* "WHOOOOOOOO!" ...and a second! *SLAP!* "WHOOOOOOOO!" ...make it three! Picking up the pace, Landon looks to send Cross off the ropes with an irish whip, only to find it reversed and himself the one on the run. As Landon rebounds off the other side, Cross brushes off his chest and crouches low, setting for a counter. Maddix puts pay to that however as he shoots out with his feet, twisting with his back to Cross. Cross catches Landon in a wheelbarrow and hoists him back up, but Landon falls from his grasp and catches Iron Mike on the way down with a modified armdrag! "Quesadora, lucha armdrag variation from Landon!" cheers Mak. "He's Spanish, remember!" "He IS!?" "Si!" Cross rolls through some of the landing and as such is right back to his feet, waiting on Maddix as he charges. A swing and a miss is all the answer Cross has for the charge however as Landon sweeps underneath, using Cross' body as a makeshift jungle gym, before pulling said jungle gym down with a crucifix pin... ONE! TWO! Kickout! Both men scramble back to their feet and Cross stupidly tries the same tactic as last time. This time the crucifix is expected and in turn not going to work. Maddix has other ideas though and just as Cross is preparing to block the crucifix, he finds himself pulled down into a sunset flip by the twisting and turning La Cucaracha... ONE! TWO! Kickout again! It's another scramble to the feet and this time, Iron Mike isn't losing his head. Neither is Landon though and he drops down onto all fours, crawling through the legs of Cross and coming up the other side. Maddix threads the arms under those of the bemused Cross, looking for a backslide. He has neither the leverage or the power to muscle Mike over though and a quick squat from Cross flips Landon up and over the front. Landon struggles to keep his balance as he lands on his feet. And his momentary stumbling allows Cross to capitalise, ducking low and cutting Landon down with a desperation Spear! "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Landon's head whiplashes off the canvas on impact as Cross takes advantage of his well-earned breathing time, by... breathing. "And that may just turn the tide in the number seven seed's favour," predicts Francis, "at least momentarily. Michael Cross is 2-0 against his opponent tonight and just hasn't been able to figure out a way to vanquish him." "You said the same thing about Tom with Johnny and look what happened there." "Technically not the exact same. And why do we have to keep mentioning Tom Flesher?" "Eh. Makes it all tolerable." Not wanting another run around, Cross looks to slow the pace of the match down, wrapping Landon up in a front facelock. *Inappropriately placed commercial break!* "Since when did we have commericals?" Back from the commercial and in the best TV wrestling tradition, the resthold is firmly applied, still! Clamping onto the front facelock, Cross rolls over onto his knees, bringing Landon around with him onto all fours in front. Cross then begins to bottom out to force Landon's chest against the canvas. Sensing trouble, Maddix starts to squirm and struggle. Cross' priority is now just to hang onto the headlock (someone should tell him the commercial is over) rather than go to the mat with it and that allows Maddix to get his feet underneath him, forcing up with every ounce of strength that he's got...and get kneed in the chest for his trouble! Maintaining the headlock, Mike drags the re-subdued La Cucaracha across to the ropes now, throwing the arm overhead and lifting him as if for a simple vertical suplex. But as Cross holds Landon in the air for a few seconds, it's clear his ideas have changed, as he takes a step forward and throws Landon off, dropping him gut first across the top rope!! "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" "That outta keep him quiet." King smirks. Leaving his opponent hanging over the ropes, Cross takes a brief walk to show his disinterest with the warning Sexton Hardcastle is trying to give him. "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" By the time Cross goes back on the offense, the slightly-less-winded than a second ago Landon is in a position to shock him. Reaching out, Landon snatches hold of Cross' head and traps him in his own front headlock, wrapping his legs through the ropes and around Iron Mike's waist with a variation of the Wet Cement!! "YYEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" "ILLEGAL! ILLEGAL!" cries King, as Hardcastle agrees and rushes over... "ONE!" "TWO!" "THREE!" "FOUR!" "FI..." Landon breaks the hanging front guillotine before the dreaded five, falling to the apron as the choking Cross stumbles away searching for air. Pulling himself up on the apron, Landon holds a hand to his ribs and one to his neck as he waits. Cross turns around and suddenly the hands transfer to the top rope, Maddix springboarding off the top and soars in... ...forearm cocked and loaded... ...but Cross sidesteps, guiding Landon down across his knee with a gutbuster!! "OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" "Dip anyone?" smiles King. "I smell guacamole, I don't know about anyone else." "High-risk move from Landon and it doesn't pay off." Mak calls, trying to steer the conversation back to the wrestling. Pushing Landon from off his knee, Cross makes a lateral press... ONE! TWO! KICKOUT! Not bothering to question the count, the focused Cross brings Maddix back up to his feet by the hair. Cross then drills the knee into the gut to double Landon up, re-applying the front facelock from earlier and quickly sweeping La Cucaracha overhead with a crisp snap suplex! With his trademark tenacity, Cross hangs onto the head and twists onto his front, bringing Landon up with him as he comes back to his feet, executing a second snap suplex. Megan watches on despairingly, knowing she can do little more to come to her man's aid than simply pound the canvas in support, while Cross executes a third straight snap suplex, this time rolling onto a cover... ONE! TWO! KICKOUT... ...but Cross stays on Maddix and pins him down onto his front, rearing back with the leg... *WHAM!* ...and landing a knee strike across the ear! *WHAM!* ...and another, with the left leg! *WHAM!* ...before alternating back onto the right! "Look at the intensity from Iron Mike, raining down with those knees!" gasps Mak. "The referee needs to get in there..." "Why!?" "For Landon's safety!" "Oh. That. Ah well, I'm sure the paramedics are well trained, don't sweat it Mak." The kneedrops have weakened Landon up, but Mike's focus remains split between neck and ribs. So, he decides to kill two birds with one stone and switches the other side of Landon's prone body, locking up the leg and grabbing a headlock, applying the SDS! "Entrapment!" "Something I'm very familiar with." blurts King from out of nowhere. "The crazy chicks dig the King, that's for sure." Cross wrenches back with gritted teeth as Hardcastle moves in to check on Landon, having to lean in close to hear over the rallying crowd and the rallier, Megan Skye. Landon's head is arched back in as awkward of an angle as Cross can manipulate it into, thing looking very bleak for the number two seed. Which prompts the Vegas crowd, under Megan's continuing encouragement, to increase in voice. Fueled on by this, Maddix plants his hands and crawls... ...and crawls... ...Cross unable to keep Maddix pinned down as he follows the voice of his trusty manager like the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, starts reaching out and... ...GRABS THE ROPES!! "YYYEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" "He got the ropes!" cheers Mak, going with the commentary mantra of 'when in doubt, state the obvious'. Under duress, Cross relinquishes the hold. "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" "LAN - DON!" "Nope." shrugs King, shaking his head. "Still don't get it." Iron Mike has decided to strike while the iron is still hot, or some other such pun, as he hauls Maddix up by his fancy red and yellow shorts. Oh, and a handful of hair. Hardcastle makes a complaint about that but it falls on deaf ears as Cross is in a zone, zoning in on the neck as he wraps on an inverted front facelock. "Uh-oh, Landon could be about to experience a bout of Silent Rage Syndrome!" "I've got a bad feeling about this..." Obviously homework and scouting is Megan's fortay and as soon as she sees the facelock go on, she freaks out and starts to motion something to Landon. Pity he can't see her. His head is tilted for a perfect view of the lights and he's heading further that way in a second as Cross grabs the waistband of the shorts, lifting Landon up and... ...losing control, as Maddix's frantic kicking of the legs ends with one foot pushing off the top rope, allowing him to float over the top... ...AND BRING CROSS DOWN WITH A LUNGBLOWER!! "YYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" It isn't textbook by any stretch of the imagination but it does culminate in two knees driven into Cross' kidneys. And that's no pleasurable experience. "I told you I had a bad feeling." King groans. "Maddix has always been a slippery little basta..." "UhmWHATACOUNTER!" interjects Mak quickly, covering up King's little freudian slip as best possible. "I don't think Landon got all of it though, because Cross is getting back up." Albeit by the ropes, Cross is indeed getting back up. Back stiffened, Iron Mike cringes a little as he tries to straighten back out. Across the ring Landon seems oddly prone on one knee, to the frustration of Megan who is willing her man to get back to his feet. Especially with Cross approaching, unable to run with the discomfort in his back but able to advance looking for an attack... ...but Landon ducks, catching him under the arm and pulling Cross down with the Complete Shot!! "YYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" "Like I said, slippery." Still dazed in his own right, Maddix takes a moment to roll Iron Mike's dazed frame over, hooking the leg on the pin... ONE! TWO! NO! Megan yells at her man not to panic as he climbs back up, cracking his neck in a movement not too dissimilar to one his tag team partner regularly uses and stalking behind Cross waiting for him to get back up. "I'm not sure what Landon's waiting for here," muses Mak, "he can't give Cross this sort of time to recover." Slowly Cross starts to clamber back up. But he's still dazed. And as he gets halfway up he has to stop to try and collect his thought, unfortunately having fed one knee out and enticing Landon in to spring off the leg... "SHINING WIZAAA..." ...NO, BLOCKED!! Cross defensively throws up his forearms and sheilds his face, Landon's knee bouncing harmlessly off the arms and leaving him to crash back to the canvas. Scrambling back up, Landon tries to make up for the failure with a forearm strike. Cross ducks underneath though, grabbing a full nelson and preparing to throw the Tag Team Champion over with an instictive Devil's Soul Snare... ...NO! Maddix wraps the legs around the waist with a body-scissors and manages to tumble forward, bringing Cross over with a rolling prawn hold... ONE! ...Maddix reaches forward and crosses the legs like a Cloverleaf, giving him an easier handle on which to pull the legs... TWO! ...thus keeping Cross stacked on his shoulders... THREEEEE!!! "YYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" ...AND EARNING HIM THE WIN!! "Wha...WHA!?" "Maddix got him!" cries Mak, his surprise matched by the crowd who erupt in a sudden cheer. "He got him, out of nowhere!" *DINGDINGDING!* Landon quickly scrambles out of the ring and into the arms of Megan, for the first time able to relax as her man has pulled the win out of the bag. "Your winner of the match, advancing to the Semi Finals... LANDON... "LA CUCARACHA"... MMMMAAAAAAADDIIIIIIXXXXXXXXXXXXX!!" "YYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" "And that means Landon Maddix advances on to face Tom Flesher, a man he's become pretty familiar with in the past few months, in the semi-finals of this Cold Front Classic Tournament!" Mak again clarifies, for anyone dumb enough not to know how the seedings work. Cough. "That should be one to remember, that's for sure!" "Hopefully it's more satisfying than this match was." grumbles King. "I'd say these fans are satisfied King. Pity about that commercial in the middle though." "Yeah. I fancy a Burger King." "Me too." "Okay, but you're buying." "You're pushing." "Deal." "But first, more wrestling!!" Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re back in Las Vegas a month after we last visited,” Mak Francis declares as the camera comes back from the break, “which means that my broadcast partner the Suicide King has been even more obnoxious than usual-” “I resent that remark,” King says without rancour, turning around from fleecing the three fans closest behind him at Texas Hold’em. “-however, what it also means is that we have a title match coming up,” Mak Francis continues. “Michael Stephens is still our Cruiserweight Champion, but tonight he has a stern test against a man he has some history with of late; the Unique Youth, Zyon!” “Oh please,” King scoffs, “don’t make me use the ‘beatable tool’ line yet again, Francis! Toxxic retained the World Title against Zyon on that ridiculous Fictional Worlds Tour, he retained the Cruiserweight Title against him between Genesis and Ashes 2 Ashes, and at Ashes 2 Ashes itself he ensured that he left with the World Title and Cruiserweight Titles, preventing Zyon from winning either of them! The fact is,” the Gambling Man continues, “that Zyon has about as much chance of taking the Cruiserweight Title tonight as you have of replacing Michael Flatley.” “And why are you singing Stephens’ praises so hard?” Mak asks archly. “I didn’t think you liked the man.” “I don’t, but if it comes to a choice between him and Zyon, well,” King chuckles, “at least Toxxic has the potential to be a suitably sneaky, underhanded bastard. His antics in the Elimination Chamber showed that.” “It’s true that Michael Stephens did seem to betray Zyon’s trust in the main event of Ashes 2 Ashes,” the Franchise admits, frowning as an SWF official hurries out from backstage towards the ring where Funyon is waiting to begin his ring announcements, “but despite that, and the accusations levelled at Stephens by Gabriel Drake on AftershoxXx, it was every man for himself in there. In addition to which,” he continues, “I have yet to hear Zyon make any critical remark of the champion… what’s going on here?” The official in the ring has spoken quietly to Funyon; the ring announcer’s face shows surprise for a moment, then he nods and straightens up before raising his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a change to the scheduled match in this position on the card,” Funyon announces, “which was due to be Zyon challenging Michael Stephens for the SWF Cruiserweight Title under Cruiserweight Rules.” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “Ladies and gentlemen, please remember that on your program and on your tickets it says that the card is subject to change,” the veteran ring announcer declares. “THIS IS BULL-SHIT!” “THIS IS BULL-SHIT!” “Peters is pushing his luck by announcing a change this late,” Francis grumbles, “what the hell’s he putting on instead? And why was this cancelled?” “Who cares?” King asks, “no spotmonkeys!” “In place of this match,” Funyon says, the faintest hint of a smile starting to creep around his mouth, “Michael Stephens will be defending the Cruiserweight Title against Zyon…” “Huh?” Mak says, confused. “…in a ladder match.” “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “NO!” King protests as more SWF employees appear, carrying a selection of ladders which they start to distribute around the ringside area, “Lord have mercy, no! It’s bad enough I have to watch those two in a normal match, let alone some crazy stipulation like this! What happened to good ol’ wrestling?” “Yes King, we all know your speciality was Pure Rules,” Mak says sarcastically, “I swear, if they ever invent a Ironman Nutshot match you’ll be in the ring before it’s finished being announced.” ‘I’m born… I’m alive… I breathe…’ “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” The familiar words flash up onto the screen as ‘Vitamin’ by Incubus kicks up over the PA system and the Las Vegas crowd responds by rising to their feet in support of the long-haired youth who makes his way out onto the soundstage. The familiar grin is absent from Zyon’s face, and the Unique Youth looks nothing but serious and focused as he stares down at the ring. “This is Zyon’s third one-on-one match with Michael Stephens,” Mak Francis notes, “will he go down fighting again, or will the third time be the charm? His great speed and agility could conceivably give him the edge in a match such as this, but Stephens has shown great adaptability and innovation in no-disqualification environments and he’s no slouch around the ring himself!” “The rubes will think that this match gives Zyon a better chance of winning,” King sighs as Zyon suddenly breaks into a run and sprints down to the ring, “but it’s clear that Toxxic will still come out on top. It’s just Peters’ way of spicing up a match with a certain outcome. Now, if JJ Johnson had been in this match…” “It’s entirely possible that Johnson and Stephens could go head-to-head again before too long,” Mak concedes as Zyon hops up to the apron, then vaults lightly over the top rope, “the Canadian Deathmachine is seeded first in the Cold Front Classic and has his first round match next; should he win the tournament he gets a shot at the World Title at Clusterfuck, and on the form he’s been in recently I wouldn’t necessarily bet against Stephens retaining the World Title until then!” “Are you a gambling man?” Zyon faces out towards the crowd, arms spread as he soaks in the support, but his face seems tense. The Unique Youth looks more than focused now; there is a hint of anger around the eyes, and the tight lips. The look is one of pure determination. “Introducing first, the challenger,” Funyon says, continuing on from his earlier announcement, “from Elkhart, Indiana, he weighs in at 200lbs; this is ‘The Unique Youth’… ZYYYYYYYYYYY-ONNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” Referee Anthony Michael Hall speaks with Zyon, making sure the young man is aware of the rules of the upcoming ladder match. The Unique Youth nods tersely, indicating that he’s well aware of what’s about to transpire. “COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!” “COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YER ‘ARD ENOUGH!” The rolling soccer chant crashes out of the speakers moments before the opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire rings around the arena and every light hits full. Moments later the Smarktron, which had gone to a pure white screen, darkens quickly down to black and as it does so jagged white letters appear, flashing up a familiar slogan one word at a time: ‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG…’ The Smarktron changes again, now showing notable clips from famous matches; the All-Show Brawl with the Insane Luchador; the infamous Glass Jawbreaker on Aecas; the Caffeine Bomb on Nathaniel Kibagami; the Sunny In England on Tom Flesher at Genesis VII that won the Cruiserweight Title in the first place. Finally the shot changes one last time to a clip of Mike Van Siclen being taken off a balcony and through a table with the Stephens Shock Syndrome, the devastating landing time to coincide with the- *BOOOM!!* -explosion of red pyro that announces the arrival of the SWF’s most decorated Englishman! And through the flame and smoke… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …blue-black hair hanging down and hiding his face, with the World Title in his right hand, a Tag Title in his left and the Cruiserweight Title around his waist… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …his usual customised England shirt forsaken for an old design; a black T-shirt with barbed wire font on the front reading ‘HARDCORE PUNK’… “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …comes the man formerly known as Toxxic. “AND HIS OPPONENT,” Funyon bellows over the crowd reaction, “from Nottingham, England! He weighs in tonight at 218lbs and is the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, one-half of the World Tag Team Champions and is the reigning and defending SWF Cruiserweight Champion; he is MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-CHAEL… STEEEEEEEEEEEEE-PHENS!!” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” (“YOU SCREWED ZY-ON!”) “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” (“YOU SCREWED ZY-ON!”) The other chants are there, faint but audible. Most of the crowd in attendance are happy to cheer for the Englishman, although they might well cheer for Zyon as well depending on who looks the more impressive. However, as on AftershoxXx there is a small but vocal minority who seem determined to make their voices heard. Stephens looks around at the sound and a faint flicker of a grin crosses his lips while he walks down the ramp. Then he reaches the bottom and, looking Zyon straight in the eyes, crosses his arms briefly in the straight-edge ‘X’ sign before throwing them wide- *bap-bap* *BOOM!* -to ignite another blast of red pyro from the top of each turnbuckle! ‘I never thought this could be me I guess you never do until it’s happening to you Like all the fun turned into shame And all the “could-have-beens” rearrange…’ As the first verse of ‘Rookie’ rings out Stephens hands all three title belts to referee Hall, who passes the World and Tag Titles to the timekeeper before attaching the Cruiserweight Title to the halter that has descended from the rafters. Stephens strips off his trenchcoat but keeps his shirt on for the moment (to the disappointment of two girls in the second row). Hall turns and calls for the bell… *DING-DING-DING!* …and Zyon advances directly across the ring, getting into Stephens’ face! “Well, it looks like Zyon might have some critical remarks to make after all,” Mak admits as the two men square off; Zyon is keeping his anger under control but the Unique Youth is certainly not kindly disposed towards his opponent; Stephens seems prepared to laugh it off at first, but as the inaudible conversation between the two continues his eyes narrow and his head tilts to one side as he regards the young man in front of him. Then he extends one hand and shoves Zyon firmly in the chest. “YOU SCREWED ZY-ON!” “YOU SCREWED ZY-ON!” Zyon is knocked back a couple of steps and raises his fists, but Stephens simply starts circling, preparing for a lock-up or similar opening exchange. The Triple Champion beckons Zyon towards him before flapping one hand in imitation of a mouth, the message clear; stop talking and start wrestling. “Stephens inviting Zyon to try and work things out with actions rather than words,” Mak Francis noting, “he’s got a point, but I can’t help but feel that this encounter is not going to be contested under the same spirit as their previous ones.” “Yup, a clash of the egos alright. With any luck one of them might end up injured,” King says, sounding far too happy at the prospect. Zyon suddenly charges forward; Stephens shoots low, looking to sweep his opponent’s legs out from under him, but Zyon leapfrogs the Englishman at the last moment and leaves him clutching at thin air. He lands on his feet and takes two more steps, then jumps into the air again and lands on the second rope before moonsaulting off it to Stephens just as the champion straightens up and turns around! “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” Zyon lands on top of Stephens but hops straight back up again, then leaps high into the air from a standing start and brings a leg down across his opponent’s throat! *BANG!* “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” Stephens tries to roll away but Zyon grabs him by the head and brings him up to his feet, then hooks him up as if for a vertical suplex before rolling sideways with a snap swinging neckbreaker. Once more Stephens tries to roll away from his enemy to regroup and this time Zyon is obliging… to the extent that he puts the boots to the Triple Champion and forces him out under the bottom rope! “It’s been all Zyon in these opening seconds!” Mak Francis exclaims in some surprise, “whether he finally has the measure of Michael Stephens I don’t know, but the Unique Youth has just thrown an offensive flurry Stephens’ way and all of it has hit home!” Stephens is up on the outside, but he’s holding his head and not looking to be in the greatest shape. Zyon watches his opponent come to his feet from inside the ring, then jumps up and down a couple of times to limber up before turning and running for the far ropes. He rebounds and charges back across the ring towards Stephens… …who sees him coming and ducks… …and Zyon slows his momentum, jumping and grabbing the top rope but twisting to land on the apron facing away from his opponent. Stephens realises something is amiss when there isn’t a loud splatting sound from beyond him, and as he looks up to see Zyon on the apron he makes a grab for the Unique Youth’s leg only to get a kick in the head for his troubles. With the Englishman staggering backwards to an acceptable launch distance Zyon leaps up to the second rope and performs an Asai moonsault towards his opponent… …who leaps up and dropkicks him in the gut in midair! “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” “What reactions!” Mak shouts, “and just like that Zyon’s momentum comes to a crashing halt!” The chants in the arena are changing as some of the crowd start to align themselves with the defending champion in deference to his quick-thinking. Stephens didn’t land well on the outside, but he landed better than Zyon who is clutching his stomach and lying in a foetal position. “Brains will win out over jumping ability every time,” King tells his commentary partner. “Granted Toxxic doesn’t have that many brains, but he’s got more than Zyon. One stupid leap, and Toxxic’s back in control.” Stephens starts to push himself back to his feet, then his eyes focus on Zyon and he grabs the Unique Youth and hauls him up to his feet. His eyes flicker around the arena and his eyes light on a ladder set up on the entranceway, and a moment later he jerks backwards to Irish whip Zyon into it! *CRASH!* The Unique Youth and the ladder go clattering to the floor in a chaotic mess of limbs and metal and Stephens punches the air in satisfaction. He then climbs over the guardrail into the crowd for a moment, causing several jovial and possibly inebriated fans in attendance to slap him on the back. However, their time in the exalted presence of the Triple Champion is short-lived as Stephens hops back up onto the top of the guardrail (facing the right way this time), balances precariously for a moment, then somersaults off to land the Hangover onto the unfortunate Zyon! “YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Stephens managed to avoid landing on the ladder that lies on the floor near Zyon, and moments after the Hangover hits home he grabs the ladder and starts dragging it to the ring. The Triple Champion shoves it under the bottom rope and rolls in after it, then has to bring it upright and start to set it up underneath the title belt. “King, Stephens is looking for the early victory here after turning the tables on Zyon, but I’m not sure if his opponent is incapacitated enough for him to have a chance yet,” Francis observes. “Also, is that ladder tall enough?” “If he stands at the top and jumps, maybe,” the Gambling Man replies, “which would be kind of hazardous, but potentially amusing to watch if he misses.” Stephens begins to climb the ladder, but he looks to his left and sees Zyon back up on his feet and staggering down the ramp towards the ring. The champion realises that he doesn’t have the time to safely climb and retrieve the belt before the challenger reaches him, so he hops back down to the mat and starts to patrol the ring ropes, aiming a kick at Zyon the moment the younger man looks like he’s about to enter the squared circle. “Stephens can’t win the match unless he discombobulates Zyon for long enough to climb the ladder,” Mak observes. “Yeah, but right now he holds the high ground, and I’d be prepared to bet that he’s got more patience than Zyon,” Suicide King replies, “sometime soon the Unique Poof is going to lose his nerve and try to rush the ring, and then Toxxic can stomp seven kinds of crap out of him.” The Gambling Man’s prediction seems to hold some weight, as Zyon seems to be growing increasingly frustrated with his inability to re-enter the ring and come to grips with his opponent. He tries to grab one of Stephens’ feet as the Englishman kicks at him again, but as his hands close around Mike’s foot the champion places that foot firmly on the mat and grabs the ring ropes, then kicks at Zyon’s hands with his other boot to send the youth backing away and clutching his fingers. Finally Zyon can take no more and backs off, preparing himself for a rush… “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” …and charges forwards to dive down at the last moment and disappear under the ring! “What the hell!?” Mak asks in astonishment. However, this is not necessarily as bizarre a tactic as it first appears. Michael Stephens is left confused, turning around to try and keep a watch on all four sides of the ring at once. Then suddenly he shrugs, turns and makes for the ladder with no-one around to stop him! “Zyon might have outwitted himself here!” Francis calls. “Not difficult!” King shoots back. …but just as Stephens’ feet leave the mat and he starts to climb the apron lifts up on one side of the ring and Zyon emerges, then the Unique Youth rolls into the ring and charges for the ladder! Stephens is caught in mid-step and is a split-second too late to jump down as before - Zyon launches himself into the air with a front dropkick and kicks one side of the ladder with each boot, overbalancing it and sending Stephens crashing down to the mat as the ladder falls! *BANG!* “Lucky for Michael Stephens that he hadn’t climbed further, or he may have ended up tangled in the ropes or even falling to the arena floor!” Mak exclaims. “Tragic,” King replies. Zyon picks the ladder up and closes it again, then leans it against a turnbuckle to form a sloping surface at roughly 45 degrees to the vertical. With that done he grabs Stephens by the hair and starts to haul the defending champion upright, then grabs a front facelock and drags Stephens around until Zyon’s back is towards the ladder. He throws Stephens’ arm over his own shoulders and grabs the straight-edger’s baggy pants… “Suplex onto the ladder?” Mak asks, wincing. …but no, as Stephens suddenly hooks Zyon’s leg and rolls backwards into a small package! The pinning move is obviously useless in this match but it enables Stephens to escape the potential danger, and he immediately breaks it and rolls back to his feet. Zyon comes up a moment later and the Unique Youth charges at Stephens, but the champion ducks his head and grabs at Zyon’s legs at the last moment, straightening up to elevate the Indianan into the air and send him flying towards the ladder… …but in an amazing display of poise and balance Zyon lands on all fours on the tilted ladder and clings on! The ladder shifts a little but maintains its slope, and as Stephens turns around to view the results of his handiwork Zyon gets back to his feet on the ladder and runs up it to the point where it’s balanced against the top turnbuckle, then backflips off with a corkscrew and crashes into Stephens to send the Englishman down to the mat! “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “No Regard!” Mak shouts, “what athleticism from the challenger! He was able to turn defence into attack in an instant, and Michael Stephens ended up paying for it!” But Zyon isn’t done. The young man rolls out of the ring to the floor, then approaches the nearest crowd member and holds out his hands to implore the man to lend him his seating implement. A steel chair is quickly handed to Zyon, who re-enters the ring with the weapon but drops it on the mat before he gets back to Stephens. He hauls the World Champion up and scoops him up as if to slam him down, but instead carries Stephens towards the balanced ladder. He doesn’t slam him down on the ladder either, instead placing him almost delicately on it upside down, but makes sure to wedge one of Stephens’ legs firmly between two rungs of the ladder so the winded Englishman is trapped in his upside-down position. “Typical cowardly cruiserweight,” King snorts, “can’t face his opponent one-on-one.” “King, first of all both men in this match are cruiserweights,” Mak says, “secondly, the only reason you’re over the limit now is all the retirement weight you’ve put on. Beer and pizza do not a wrestling physique make.” “Shut up. At least I don’t get bedsores on my ass.” Zyon picks up the chair again and steps out to the apron. Stephens still seems to lack enough breath to sit up and try to start freeing his leg, and Zyon pauses for a moment to prepare and give the crowd a hint of what might be coming, then leaps to the top rope… “WHOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” …AND LEAPS ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE RING TO DROPKICK THE CHAIR INTO MICHAEL STEPHENS’ FACE! *CRACK!* “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” “HO-LY SHIT!” “HO-LY SHIT!” “ZYON JUST WENT COAST TO COAST ON MICHAEL STEPHENS!” Mak Francis roars, “King, have you EVER seen anything like that done in an SWF ring?” “I’m not sure I have!” the Suicide King shouts back over the crowd noise, “Zyon is insane! I mean, he is legitimately nutso! He needs to be arrested right now for his own safety, and the safety of all those around him!” What with a chair coming at his head from one side and sandwiching it against the ladder currently positioned on the other, not the mention the fact that he’s already upside down and hanging by one leg, it’s fair to say that the defending champion is not in a very good way. Zyon landed hard after his little jaunt and as he gets to his feet it’s clear that he’s hurt his hip in some way; maybe not a long-term injury, but certainly something that’s giving him a little trouble at the moment. He seems to be thinking about trying to rescue the ladder that’s currently serving to imprison Stephens, but then decides against it and heads to the outside where he grabs another ladder, this one possibly slightly longer, and re-enters the ring with it. He progress is slowed by his newly-dodgy hip and it takes him several seconds to find enough balance to get the ladder back into the ring. Once there he starts to set it up underneath the suspended title belt before, rather slower than might normally be expected, starting to climb up towards the gold and towards victory. “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” The Unique Youth is climbing as fast as he can without rocking the ladder too much but he can only go one step a time as his hip is still paining him… and suddenly he’s aware of movement from the corner of the ring. Michael Stephens has managed to disentangle his leg from the ladder and has rolled gently away from the ladder onto the canvas of the ring. The World Champion turns his attention towards the ladder which Zyon is currently occupying, and an agony of indecision grips the man from Elkhart. Should he continue climbing and hope to get to the top? Maybe he can grab the loop the belt hangs from and unhook it there even if Stephens takes the ladder out from under him. Or should he drop back down, throwing away this chance of glory to ensure a later victory? He takes too long to decide. Stephens doesn’t need to climb up the ladder after him; he just staggers to his feet to brace his shoulders against it, then pushes. Zyon suddenly finds the freedom of choice taken away from him as he plummets down towards the ropes; he jumps off the ladder to try and engineer and more controlled fall, but he lands on and in the ropes, loses his footing and crashes backfirst to the mat! *BANG!* Michael Stephens is bleeding from the forehead after that flying dropkick by Zyon, and now he’s the right way up again it’s starting to run down his face instead of into his hair. He puts one black-nailed hand up to wipe away what he presumably assumes is sweat, then stares at it for a moment as it comes away streaked with red. Then two steel-grey eyes focus on the Unique Youth as Zyon struggles to pull himself up on the ring ropes, and Michael Stephens strides forwards. “Oh man, I don’t think the champion is in a very good mood now,” Mak Francis ventures. “No shit Sherlock,” King sniffs, then laughs, “actually, you’re not good enough to be Sherlock. You might be Ironside though.” *SMACK!* “Ooowwwww!” Zyon finds himself picked up and turned around, then headbutted in the face. Once the stunning force of that blow has subsided the Unique Youth realises that his right arm has been twisted into the ring ropes by his opponent, who has now stepped around him and is working on his left. Zyon tries to struggle free or at least to stop his imprisonment from being completed, but to no avail; Stephens traps the other arm as well, then suddenly rolls out of the ring. Zyon cranes his neck around to see what the Englishman is doing and finds that the champion is taking a leaf out of his book by approaching the crowd for help. Someone is only too happy to give the SWF World Champion a chair to use and Stephens re-enters the ring with it clutched in his grasp. “What does he need a chair for?” Mak Francis asks in confusion, “there’s one already in the ring!” “Watch and learn Francis,” King chuckles, “watch and learn…” Stephens sets up the chair he has just acquired in the ring, the back facing towards Zyon. Then he goes over to the chair that split his forehead open and picks that up, before starting to beat a familiar rhythm on it. It’s a rhythm that the champion knows from the soccer terraces at home, but it has a definite international ring to it and the crowd picks it up… “OLE, OLE OLE OLE! OLEEEEE! OO-OOLEEEEEEEEE!” “OLE, OLE OLE OLE! OLEEEEE! OO-OOLEEEEEEEEE!” With the chant in full swing Stephens backs off to the ropes opposite the increasingly nervous Zyon and starts to prepare himself… “Get ready for take-off Mak,” King advises, “British Airways is about to go airborne!” Stephens starts to run forward, then vaults up off the chair… “And Zyon’s about to sample-” …the defending champion swings his feet forward, holding the chair in front of them as he flies on a direct collision course with Zyon’s head… *CRACK!* “-THE IN-FLIGHT MEAL!” King finishes with considerable satisfaction as Stephens drives the steel chair into his opponent’s head with a dropkick! “HO-LY SHIT!” “HO-LY SHIT!” Zyon’s head snaps backwards, and as the groggy cruiserweight’s neck returns it to a more normal position a trickle of blood can be seen emerging from the Unique Youth’s forehead, mirroring that on Stephens’. The Triple Champion drops the chair with a satisfied expression on his face, then turns and grabs the ladder that Zyon was climbing up a minute before. Stephens quickly starts setting it up, pleased to note that it was not damaged by its fall, then begins to climb. He’s still a bit dizzy from Zyon’s attack and it was probably more by luck than judgement that he hit the In-Flight Meal at all, but he’s able to start climbing towards the prize. Not as fast as he would normally, be he’s on his way. “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” Stephens looks up, still several feet below the Cruiserweight Title, but then realises that something is wrong. The impact of the In-Flight Meal may have busted Zyon open, but it also knocked his arms nearly clear of the trapping ropes, something Stephens didn’t notice until now. Zyon is wrenching backwards and forwards to try and free himself and finally does so, then lurches to his feet. Stephens scurries upwards as quickly as possible even as Zyon sets his shoulder against the ladder and pushes, trying to return the favour on Stephens… …the ladder starts to fall away… …and Stephens remains suspended in mid-air, hanging from the loop that also holds the Cruiserweight Title! “YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “He’s there! He’s there!” Mak yells, “all he’s got to do is unhook the belt!” But Zyon isn’t beaten yet. The Unique Youth grabs the ladder as it bounces on the top rope on the other side of the ring and hoists the entire thing up, then aims the top of it at Michael Stephens and swings! As a weapon it’s slow and cumbersome. *WHUMP!* But when you’re hanging fifteen feet or so above the ring, it’s also damn effective. *WHUMP!* Zyon swings again and catches Stephens another blow, and suddenly the defending champion has gone from lifting himself up to tear the belt off to clinging desperately to the loop, trying to keep enough strength to prevent himself from falling to the ring below. Zyon tries to make another swing with the ladder but it’s proving an incredibly tiring weapon to use. He has another idea and sets the ladder up again; not beneath the belt, but a few feet to one side. Stephens tries to swing himself over to get a foot on it but has no success. Zyon, on the other hand, is quickly able to scale the ladder until he’s more or less on a level with his opponent. “This could get ugly…” Mak Francis predicts. …and Zyon launches himself into the air, pasting Stephens in the head with what can only be described as a Super-Superman Forearm! “YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Mike isn’t holding on after that; he and Zyon tumble towards the ring together. *BANG!* “HO-LY SHIT!” “HO-LY SHIT!” “What dedication to the match and to his cause!” Mak Francis yells, “Zyon just sacrificed himself to stop Michael Stephens from winning!” “He’s desperate, he knows he can’t win!” King shoots back, “face it Mak, Toxxic’s got two other belts to look after and be content with, and he’s still come closer to winning this match than Zyon - Zyon’s got nothing to lose and it looks like he’s going to lose it anyway!” Anthony Michael Hall can only look on in horror at the scene of carnage in front of him, and not the big masked monster that used to be managed by Frisco. Neither Zyon or Michael Stephens seem able to move under their own power, and even without a double count-out being available to him Hall considers calling the match off with neither man being able to continue to compete. However, then Zyon emits a groan and rolls over onto his front! “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” Wearily, the two-time former Cruiserweight Champion starts to push himself up. It takes him several seconds but he gradually becomes vertical, then staggers sideways into the ring ropes. “YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” Michael Stephens is still down on his back, not moving. Zyon stares at him for a moment… then something seems to click inside his head, and he steps out to the apron before starting to slowly, oh so slowly climb towards the top rope… “Come on Zyon, haven’t you had enough of high places for one night?” Mak asks, “you can go and take the belt now!” “I think Mr. Owens here wants to put an exclamation point on things,” King surmises. “The only problem with that is…” Suddenly Michael Stephens moves; the World Champion’s legs coil up almost under his chin, then he explodes up off the mat and kips up to his feet! Zyon is caught unawares and unprepared, unbalanced halfway between the middle and top ropes. Stephens takes a step towards the corner and jumps into the air, lands on the second rope and springboards up… …Zyon desperately raises his arms to try and protect himself… *KER-RACK!* “…we all know his punctuation’s SHIT!” King finishes his bad joke as Stephens lands a springboard enzuigiri to the back of Zyon’s head and sends the Unique Youth toppling from his lofty perch! Zyon tries to grab at the ring ropes to break his fall and succeeds in that he lands on the ring apron before crashing off onto the floor rather than taking the ten-foot fall straight down to the thinly-padded concrete. *WHUMP!* “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” Michael Stephens lands hard on his front on the ring, knocking the breath from his body again. He really, really regrets that kip-up. Worth it to surprise Zyon, but he should have known better. He’s going to hurt like hell in the morning from this match anyway, let alone trying to get his body to do things it shouldn’t be doing at this stage. “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” The chants still ring out around the arena, and very slowly Michael Stephens starts to force himself up. All he needs to do is set that bloody ladder up, then he can climb it, grab his belt and leave. Zyon shouldn’t be around to bother him now, and if he is he won’t be able to walk straight. “King, I think we might just see the champion retain here,” Mak speculates, “it’s been a long hard haul for both men, but that last surprise move from Stephens may just have tipped the balance!” The Suicide King opens his mouth to reply… and shuts it again as a figure suddenly appears at ringside in jeans and a T-shirt, vaulting the guardrail to land in the ringside area! A nearby cameraman shies back in shock and the figure slides into the ring behind Michael Stephens, entering across the ring from where Zyon lies on the outside. The crowd’s reaction is instantaneous, not to mention predictable. “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” You see, the man is Gabriel Drake. “What the- get him out of there!” Mak yells, “Drake’s going to interfere!” King’s earlier comparison of his partner to famous detectives was essentially accurate, as is Mak’s call. Stephens hears the boos and works out something must be wrong; he starts to turn to look- *CHING!* -and Gabriel Drake drops to one knee before slamming his arm up between the straight-edger’s legs. Stephens doubles over and drops to the mat, motionless. “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” Drake pays no mind to the crowd. He studies his long-time enemy for a couple of seconds with a weird smile on his face, then turns and exits the ring the way he came before hopping over the guardrail again. A few nearby fans shout some disapproving comments, but everyone knows better than to actually get in the way of The Beast. “What the hell is going on here?” Mak asks in bewilderment, “Gabriel Drake just turned up to attack Michael Stephens, but now he’s gone again! It wasn’t that long ago that Drake and Spike Jenkins teamed up to beat Stephens and Zyon down after a Cruiserweight Title match, and now- wait, Zyon’s up! Zyon’s up!” Zyon is indeed up. The Unique Youth is on his feet and pulling himself up onto the apron. He looks wearily into the ring, surely expecting to see Stephens holding the Cruiserweight belt, or just in the process of unhooking it from the top… …but no. There his opponent is, on his back on the mat. Lying, as far as he can tell, more or less where he would have landed after that springboard enzuigiri. “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…” The confusion is plain to see on Zyon’s face. Stephens kicked him off the top, but did he maybe knock himself out on the landing? Has he hurt himself in some other way, ruptured something perhaps? Why is the crowd buzzing so much? Is it his imagination that he heard a massive boo just now, or was that simply a result of being kicked very hard in the head? In the end, speculation is pointless. Zyon can see what the situation is, and he knows what he has to do. He turns, takes hold of the top rope, and starts climbing. “King, who are you cheering for now?” Mak asks quickly, “the man you consider to be the smarter of these two, or the man you consider a moron who’s just been aided, presumably inadvertently, by a wrestler you’re a big fan of?” “Mak, I am totally confused,” the Gambling Man admits, “I just hope Zyon falls off and breaks something and I’ll be happy.” Zyon’s not going to do that, and this time Stephens makes no sudden moves. The Unique Youth straightens atop the top turnbuckle and stretches his arms out to the side. He’s waited for this moment for months. Then he leaps off. It’s not as high as sometimes, maybe. Not quite as picture-perfect. *CRUNCH!* But the important point is, this time it hits. “ZYON! ZYON! ZYON! ZYON! ZYON!” “FINAL FLASH!” Mak yells, “Zyon hit it on Michael Stephens! All he has to do now is climb the ladder, surely!” Zyon forces himself up to his feet, running on adrenaline fumes. Over to the side of the ring is the ladder that he flew off a few minutes previously to hit Stephens in the face with a forearm smash. He grabs it and tugs it, towing it to the middle of the ring, then starts to climb. One step, two steps, three steps towards the title belt. “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” Four steps, five steps, six steps towards victory. “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” Seven steps, eight steps, nine steps towards becoming the SWF’s first ever three-time Cruiserweight Champion… “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” Ten steps and he stretches upwards… “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” On the canvas, Michael Stephens finally starts to move. The Englishman opens his steel-grey eyes and stares up to see Zyon far, far above him, one hand reaching out towards the belt. Zyon looks down for a second and locks eyes with his opponent, then reaches back up again. He knows Stephens can’t stop him now. …but as his eyes raise he sees something else. In among the crowd a figure stands watching, stood apart not just by the presence of SWF Security on each side to keep the crowd at a safe distance, but also by his height and build. Zyon frowns as he recognises Gabriel Drake. It’s hard to tell from here, but The Beast seems to be grinning at him. “LET’S GO ZYON…” Zyon looks up once more, reaches up and grips the Cruiserweight Title. Then he pulls on it. It comes away in his hand. *DING-DING-DING!* “YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Funyon booms as ‘Vitamin’ kicks up around the arena, “here is your winner, AND NEEEEEEWWWWWWWWW SWF Cruiserweight Champion, the first three-time Cruiserweight Champion in SWF history… the ‘Unique Youth’, ZYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY-ONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “LET’S GO ZY-ON!” “King, do you realise what’s just happened!?” Mak Francis asks, incredulous, “not only has Zyon won the title, not only has he become the first-ever three-time Cruiserweight Champion, but he’s just beaten Michael Stephens! Stephens hasn’t been beaten in about eighteen months! He hasn’t lost since the Submission Match against Scott Pretzler back in the summer of 2005 where the Critic made him give up in the Snowflake Clutch!” “He couldn’t have done it without Drake!” King shoots back, “Drake has shown that neither one of these men are anything compared to him!” “Bullshit!” the Franchise declares, “Stephens didn’t have Zyon beat with that enzuigiri! Zyon could still have got up in time to prevent him climbing the ladder! I can’t deny that The Beast had an impact on the match, but although Stephens had the stronger position it was far from being a forgone conclusion when Drake interfered!” Zyon slowly descends the ladder back to the mat, where Anthony Michael Hall raises his arm in victory. The Unique Youth looks over at Michael Stephens who hasn’t yet got up off the mat. Then he turns away and raises his belt in the air, facing out towards the crowd. Finally, he’s beaten Stephens. Finally, he has his belt back again. However, in amongst the frenzied cheers that echo around as Smarkdown careers towards a commercial break, there is one faint murmur of discontent. Far off in a distant corner of the building there’s a small but vocal minority of fans who are determined to make themselves heard. (“YOU SCREWED TOXX-IC…”) (“YOU SCREWED TOXX-IC…”) FADE OUT Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 (edited) The camera pans back into the Thomas & Mack Center, sweeping over such signs as “THIS IS JOHNNY’S HOUSE – AND THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS,” “JJ’S STARE CAN SET YOUR SOUL ON FIRE,” and “LARRY JOHNSON IS THE ONLY NOTABLE ATHLETE TO COME OUT OF THIS SCHOOL, HOW SAD” letter-by-letter across the entire upper deck before coming down to the announce table, occupied by none other than The Franchise, Mak Francis, and the Suicide King! “Hello, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome back to Smarkdown!” beams The Franchise. “The match we have coming up next holds grand implications indeed; it’s our fourth and final Cold Front Classic first round match, between number one seed JJ Johnson and number eight seed Nighthawk! Let’s see if the self-proclaimed ‘Mr. Cold Front Classic’ can live up to his name, in the face of such a large size advantage.” “I can think of two things wrong with that statement immediately, Mak,” says King with his usual air of disdain. “First, JJ Johnson being ‘Mr. Cold Front Classic’ is not self-proclamatory, it is a mandate of heaven.” “Proclamatory?” asks the Franchise. “Don’t interrupt!” scolds the Gambling Man. “Why is size an advantage? JJ Johnson is a superior wrestler, and he’s going to prove it right now.” Right as King finishes his statement, the lights drop out, and Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” kicks up, the gentle tones soaring over the crowd – with no pun intended – and providing a sharp contrast… *BA-BOOM!!* … to the massive wall of fire that erupts from the stage, a harbinger of Nighthawk’s arrival, striding through the last sparks of the grand conflagration. “Ladies and gentlemen,” roars Funyon from his position in the center of the ring, “the following contest is a Cold Front Classic first round match, and it is scheduled for ONE FALL! Introducing first, from Hawk Mountain, Pennsylvania, weighing in at 285 pounds, the number eight seed… NIIIIIIIGHT-HAAAAWK!!” The towering Pennsylvanian continues his long trudge to the ring, refusing to acknowledge the crowd’s heckling and occasional cheer as he strides up the steps, stepping over the ropes and into the ring. “See, I’ve never understood sacrificing your testicles to reinforce the fact that you’re tall,” ponders the Gambling Man aloud. “Well, King, if you’re tall enough, you don’t sacrifice your testicles,” sighs Mak. “Well, you can sacrifice your testicles at any height,” shrugs the Heartbreaker. “Isn’t that right, Wheels?” Mak draws his arm back; while his legs may be useless, his pimp hand remains strong. Fortunately for King, before the Franchise can line up his aim for maximum pain, the lights drop out again. Nergal begins his incomprehensible chant, and the volume in the arena begins to swell in expectation. *BOOM!* And then, chaos. Red-and-white pyro erupts from the stage, and through the smoke comes JJ Johnson, to a more than substantial ovation! “And his opponent!” shouts Funyon, forced to raise his voice, “From Toronto, Ontario, Canada, weighing 228 pounds... he is the number ONE seed in the Cold Front Classic… J! J! JOOOOOHNSOOOON!!” “Funyon, you tool!” snaps the Gambling Man. “You forgot ‘Mr. Cold Front Classic’!” Mak sighs as Johnson climbs up the steps. He pauses at the apron, only momentarily, and although one cannot see his eyes through his sunglasses, said sunglasses are pointed directly at Nighthawk. (Johnson is also scowling, but Johnson is always scowling.) Then, with no further ado, Johnson steps into the ring, not even bothering to do his typical corner taunt. The sunglasses go flying at David Blazenwing, the track jacket follows shortly after, and then the Canadian Murder Machine is in action, leaping high into the air and aiming his knee directly at the skull of the man from Hawk Mountain! *WHUMP!* Nighthawk reacts quickly, planting two hands on the Canadian’s leg and shoving him back down to Earth! Johnson is rolling back to his feet before Kivell can signal for the bell, and he wastes no time in charging back towards Nighthawk, elbow cocked and ready to fire! DING DING DING! *THWAP!* “OOF!” Unfortunately, doing so does nothing to prevent Nighthawk from burying a knee into Johnson’s stomach, and the big man wastes no time in doing so, doubling the Canadian over. Nighthawk gives himself just a moment to chuckle as the Ultimate Fighter gasps for breath before seizing Mr. Cold Front Classic’s throat, hauling him to full height, and then planting a hand on his back and lifting him for a chokeslam… *CRACK!* … but the Canadian is not willing to be driven through the mat quite so easily, and he slams his elbow right into the Pennsylvanian’s jaw! Something white goes sailing out of Nighthawk’s mouth, and he wisely drops Johnson and turns his body so that his face is well out of the Canadian’s reach. This deters elbows, but does nothing to deter Johnson from tucking his head beneath Nighthawk’s non-face-anguish-arm and planting his feet, taking a deep breath before lifting! “Backdrop coming up!” shouts Mak. But no! Nighthawk reaches out with one of his lengthy arms and grabs a firm hold of the top rope, having to literally pull himself back down to the ground against the force of the tenacious Canadian but preventing a very uncomfortable landing. That particular threat dealt with, Nighthawk clamps down his grip on Johnson’s head, tucks it a little lower, and then brings his knee up into the cranium of the Canadian! *CRUNCH!* “Coconut Crush!” says King. “What an appropriate move to counter a backdrop with, if I do say so myself.” “Nobody on this side of the Pacific will get that, King,” sighs Francis. Johnson stumbles away from Nighthawk, clutching his nose. However, he decides it would likely be prudent not to turn his back to the big man, and he whirls to face the Pennsylvanian… just as said Pennsylvanian rebounds off of the ropes and sends the Canadian Murder Machine spiraling through the air with a lariat! *THWOCK!* “That’s it?” asks King. “Just, ‘with a lariat’?” Mak groans as Nighthawk drops to his knees in the shattered pieces of the fourth wall and drapes himself across the prone form of the Ultimate Fighter for the first pin of the match! Kivell drops to count! ONE! T-Johnson muscles his shoulder up! Nighthawk cracks his neck before rising to his feet and taking a few steps back, waiting against the ropes for Johnson to rise. The Canadian Murder Machine does so quickly, shaking the cobwebs out of his head, and turns around to face his opponent… just in time to catch a second lariat! *WHIFF!* … in his line of sight, and duck under the arm before turning around, grabbing Nighthawk’s waist, and tugging the big man back into his body before tucking his head under the Pennsylvanian’s arm, lifting, leaping, and slamming Nighthawk right on his back with a thunderous backdrop suplex! *BANG!* “OOOHH!!” shouts the crowd, as if the entire audience is 20,000 Speed Racer cosplayers. “BAAAAACKDROPPUH!” shouts Mak. “What an incredible feat, Johnson lifting Nighthawk for that suplex!” “Not really,” shrugs King. “One has to take into account that while Nighthawk is very tall, he’s not particularly heavy; if Johnson can hurl Aecas clean over his head, I think a backdrop on Nighthawk is not a particularly tall order. If you’ll pardon the pun.” The booing from the crowd immediately behind the announce table suggests that they refuse, but they’re quickly silenced, as in the ring, Nighthawk pulls himself up into a sitting position, holding onto the back of his head. Unfortunately for him, he has minimized the effort needed for Johnson to seize a firm hold of his neck and pinion his arm behind his head, allowing the Canadian Murder Machine to sink in the dreaded Buffalo Sleeper, prompting the simultaneous seat-leap of the entire crowd! “YEEAAAAHH!!” “Buffalo Sleeper!” shouts King with glee. “This match is over early; the Buffalo Sleeper is a little out of even Nighthawk’s league.” The Buffalo Sleeper may very well be out of Nighthawk’s league; however, one must remind the reader at this juncture that Nighthawk is very tall. Thus, the ropes are not well out of Nighthawk’s reach, and he slumps just a little in order to get close enough to drape his foot across the bottom rope. “Break it, Johnson!” snaps Kivell, and JJ does so, begrudgingly, backing away from the big man and allowing him to get up. Nighthawk does so, rolling onto his stomach and rising to one knee… *CA-RAACK!!* … and eating a knee at the same time, as Johnson charges forward, steps up onto the Pennsylvanian’s outstretched knee, and swings his other leg around, driving it into the side of the big man’s head! Nighthawk’s eyes cross a little, and he decides it would probably be best to roll out of the ring, where he collapses onto the mats below, clutching his skull. “Shining Wizard!” says King gleefully. “See, Mak? Johnson’s handling himself just fine, regardless of size.” Nighthawk crawls towards the ramp, slightly unaware of the building crowd noise as he begins to shove himself to his feet. Once he rises, the roars are deafening, and the big man decides it would be a good idea to see what has everyone so excited, quickly whirling to face the ring. JJ Johnson dives between the middle and top ropes. The crowd is excited because it’s been too long. *CA-FUCKING-RAAAACKK!!* “ELBOW SUICIDAAAAAA!!” screeches King as Johnson sails the distance swiftly and drives his elbow cleanly into the jaw of Nighthawk. The Pennsylvanian goes down hard, and Johnson lands quite agilely on his feet. The Predator has barely hit the ground before JJ Johnson has a firm hold of his hair and is dragging him back to his feet. It takes a moment, but Nighthawk eventually stops resisting and Johnson is able to roll him back into the ring. Johnson slides in soon afterwards, and he tugs Nighthawk into a standing headscissors before bending over and grabbing him around the waist! “You’ve got to be shitting me,” says King, a blank look in his eyes. “I’m the biggest JJ Johnson fan ever, but a powerbomb?” “It doesn’t do much good for your size doesn’t matter theory to do a move you can’t lift the guy for, JJ,” smirks Mak. And indeed, Johnson doesn’t even get the chance to lift before Nighthawk rises to his full height, flipping Johnson over him! … and the agile Canadian Murder Machine turns himself in mid-air, landing behind The Predator before tucking his head under his arm, lifting, and jumping, hitting him with a second backdrop! *BANG!* “BAAAAAACKDROPPUH!” cries Mak again as Nighthawk’s head rebounds off of the canvas, the flat-backed landing not turning out too well for him. Johnson immediately rolls to his feet as Nighthawk grips at his skull and steps between the ropes before hauling himself to the top and waiting. “This is unlike Johnson,” frowns King. “A high-risk move isn’t usually on the menu for him.” Nighthawk recovers quickly from the backdrop and rises to his feet, shaking his head. Whereupon JJ puts his plan into action, taking flight from the top, sailing through the air… *CA-RAACK!* …and taking the big man off of his feet with a diving elbow! “Diving elbow!” shouts King. “Here’s the cover!” And indeed here is the cover, JJ hooking a leg as Matt Kivell slides in to count… ONE! T-NIGHTHAWK KICKS OUT, HARD! Johnson goes flying off of the Pennsylvanian, but rolls through and charges back at the big man that is up to one knee, probably looking for another Shining Wizard! *BA-BOOOM!!* Unfortunately for Johnson, Nighthawk explodes to his full height, taking the Canadian Murder Machine with him, spinning, and making him the Canadian Murdered Machine with a spinebuster! Johnson twitches, and Nighthawk is quick to flow from the spinebuster into a pin, hooking the leg as he floats over! ONE! T-Johnson kicks out! Undeterred, knowing full well his offense thus far has been insufficient to keep Johnson down, The Predator rises to his feet before tugging Mr. Cold Front Classic to his… and then shoving him into a standing headscissors! “Oh, man,” says Mak. “Big-time powerbomb, coming up. Johnson’s about to get flattened.” “Nonsense!” scoffs King. “It’ll be a jackknife powerbomb, so Johnson will merely flip through it and rock Nighthawk with an elbow.” “That’s oddly specific,” frowns Mak, but he has no further time to say anything, as Nighthawk reaches down, wraps his arms around the Canadian’s waist, and lifts him high before sending him sailing with a jackknife powerbomb! …but the Canadian flips through, just barely landing on his feet before charging Nighthawk and launching an elbow… …that the big man ducks before seizing Johnson by the throat, lifting him high, and driving him into the mat with a chokeslam! “Dammit!” swears King. “I forgot to mention the chokeslam.” Mak can only give him a slightly reverent look as Nighthawk hooks the leg of the yet-again-prone Ultimate Fighter. ONE! TWO! T-Johnson shoves his shoulder up! “It’s impressive for Johnson to be able to survive both that spinebuster and that chokeslam from Nighthawk,” says Mak, impressed. “Are you kidding?” asks the Gambling Man with a look of horror. “At last year’s Christmas PPV, TORU kneed JJ in the face for about a half an hour, and JJ still came out on top. I don’t think two big moves from Nighthawk are going to cut it.” This is fairly obvious from the fact that two big moves from Nighthawk have not cut it, but then again, the Suicide King is not one for allowing statements to be turned against him. Regardless, Nighthawk did not watch last year’s Christmas PPV, and thus is not used to such a relatively small person being quite so resilient; therefore, he is not happy when he hauls Johnson to his feet yet again, and he expresses his rage via a series of shots to the face! *BAM!* *BAM!* *THWAP!* JJ Johnson has had quite enough shots to the face for one day, and as soon as he recovers from the combined trauma of a vicious chokeslam and two solid haymakers to the face, he is very quick to put his arm in the way of the next one. Then, in a motion made unbelievably fluid by about 12 years of practice, Johnson turns, seizes the offending arm, and thrusts his hip into Nighthawk’s stomach while at the same time pulling very hard on the arm he has a solid grip on, hurling the big man to the ground with an ippon seoi! *BANG!* Nighthawk rolls to one knee swiftly, a look of shock in his eyes… that Johnson swiftly knocks out, charging forward and nailing him with a Yakuza Kick! *THWOCK!* Looks of shock can be deceiving; Nighthawk quickly gets his hands up and stymies the boot’s momentum, then uses his considerable might to muscle both the boot and the man laced into it backwards, sending the callous Canadian rolling! Where there is rolling with JJ Johnson, however, there is getting to his feet and charging the man who made him roll, and indeed, the Canadian Murder Machine is back on his feet in an instant, rushing the rapidly rising Nighthawk, who lashes out with a lariat! *WHOOSH!* Johnson ducks clean under it as King remarks something about Nighthawk probably having to swing harder, and as he has done thrice before, he whirls and sets up a backdrop, popping his hips as he lifts the heavy weight high and drops him clean on his shoulders! *CRACK!!* That’s how it turned out in Johnson’s head, anyway. Unfortunately for the Canadian, he is in fact not wrestling in his head but in real life, and in real life, Nighthawk doubles him over and nails him with another Coconut Crush, the knee slamming into his forehead with alarming velocity! “Ouch,” winces Mak. “That’s the second knee Johnson’s taken this match; surely, SURELY that could have some sort of effect?” “I once again direct you to Ramadomination,” sniffs King, but it seems that the Heartbreaker does not have as fair a point this time. Johnson is decidedly more wobbly than the last time he received a Coconut Crush from the Pennsylvanian, and don’t think that Nighthawk doesn’t notice. Indeed, he wastes little time striding across the ring and seizing a firm hold of the Canadian Murder Machine’s skull, doubling him over before pulling him… *CRACK!* … into another knee, THEN pulling him into a standing headscissors! Instead of wasting time, much as he did last time, Nighthawk instead doubles over quite quickly, seizing a firm hold of Johnson’s waist and flipping him up… before sending him crashing back down to the mat on his shoulders with a jackknife powerbomb! *BOOM!* Johnson bounces rather high before coming to a rest on his shoulders… … then rolling backwards… … up to his feet… … running… … in Nighthawk’s face before The Predator can see the whites of his glassy eyes… *CA-RAACKK!!* … and slamming his elbow clean into the big man’s jaw, two men collapsing as one as the crowd flies out of its seat! “Haha!” laughs the Gambling Man as Nighthawk lies spread-eagle, staring up at the lights with brief breaks to blink; a few feet away, JJ Johnson is face-down, not making any noticeable movements. “Foolish Nighthawk, there can only be ONE Highlander! Mere powerbombs cannot stop him!” “But how much did that take out of Johnson to take that powerbomb, and then defy his body’s natural instinct to stay down so he could hit that elbow?” asks Mak, fearing slightly for King’s sanity. “Nighthawk may get the pin yet.” “Haha!” laughs the Suicide King again, and Mak grows increasingly more uncomfortable. Meanwhile, in the ring, Matt Kivell has begun his double countout, neither man showing much that points to them getting up soon. “ONE!” Nighthawk spasms a little, and his arms begin to move some. JJ Johnson may or may not have coughed. “In all seriousness,” says King, much to Mak’s relief, “what Johnson did there was make it to where even if Nighthawk DID hit him with a big move, he wouldn’t be able to take the opportunity to shift the momentum firmly in his favor.” “TWO!” “I get it,” realizes Mak. “Johnson may be a bit slower to get up, but at least Nighthawk can’t capitalize on that!” “Exactly!” shouts the Gambling Man. “And then Johnson can slay The Kurgan and defend the honor of the MacLeod clan!” “THREE!” “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” asks The Franchise. “THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!” roars the Heartbreaker in response as Nighthawk sits up, but is spending most of his time rubbing his jaw. JJ Johnson has stuck his head up, but he has wisely not rolled over onto his back; he’s conscious enough to realize that he could put himself in position to make an early exit from the tournament. “FOUR!” Nighthawk has recovered, however, and much to Johnson’s chagrin, the big man takes matters out of his hands, rolling him onto his back and going for a pin… only for Mr. Cold Front Classic to keep rolling, seizing a firm hold of The Predator’s head and tugging him over into a small package! “Small package!” shouts Mak. “Johnson could snatch victory right here!” “You can either talk about small packages or you can talk about snatches, Mak,” says King, rolling his eyes. “They’re completely different organs.” Mak can only roll his eyes again as Matt Kivell drops down to count. ONE! TWO! THR-But while Johnson rocked him with an elbow, and caught him by surprise, Nighthawk is too powerful for a half-assed rollup, and he muscles the Canadian off of him before the fatal third count can be delivered. Deciding that now the big man is more than a little angry, Johnson rolls to his stomach and begins pushing himself to his feet. Of course, if Johnson were thinking straight, he’d realize that this was a damn good opportunity for Nighthawk to punt him in the ribs. *WHOMP!* “OOOF!” Johnson is not thinking nearly as straight as Nighthawk’s boot, which jabs straight into the Canadian Murder Machine’s underbelly and sends him rolling into the ropes, hacking and wheezing for breath. Nighthawk, for what it’s worth, doesn’t really care how well Johnson is breathing, and he strides right up to the Ultimate Fighter. *WHOMP!* “OOOF!” Whereupon he boots him in the ribs a second time, Johnson struggling very hard to not fall out of the ring. Fortunately, Nighthawk helps him back into the squared circle, even pulling him to his feet. Unfortunately, Nighthawk helps him back into the squared circle, pulling him to his feet. Wasting no time, The Predator shoves him bodily into the ropes and, upon Johnson’s rebound, drives an elbow into his abdomen. Johnson doubles over again, but Nighthawk straightens him back up… and repeats the maneuver, Johnson beginning to turn an odd mix between green from being hit in the stomach so much and blue from lack of oxygen. Once again, Nighthawk could care less, and so he does it AGAIN! The Canadian Murder Machine drops to his knees and looks as if he’s about to vomit, but The Predator refuses to let Johnson off of the hook. Back up to his feet Mr. Cold Front Classic goes, but this time, instead of being shoved into the ropes, he’s whipped across the ring. JJ would almost be relieved, if not for the fact that almost as soon as he’s thrown he’s bouncing back, and as soon as he’s bouncing back, Nighthawk is charging forward, burying his knee into the Canadian’s stomach with a Kitchen Sink, sending JJ flipping to the ground and clutching his abdomen! “Good strategy on Nighthawk’s part, here,” says the Franchise, nodding in approval. “You can’t wrestle if you can’t breathe, and if your core muscles are wounded, you can’t do any heavy lifting. Say, another one of those backdrops, which have to be pissing Nighthawk off by now.” “Ah,” rebuts the Gambling Man, “but what move does Nighthawk have to capitalize on this weakened stomach? All of his moves are very much focused on the head and neck area.” “That’s a fair point,” Francis concedes, “but weakened core muscles also makes it harder to kick out.” “Know what else makes it hard to kick out?” snaps the Heartbreaker bitterly. “IF YOUR LEGS DON’T WORK.” *SMACK!!* “Ow!” Meanwhile, in the ring, Nighthawk has dragged Johnson back to his feet and whipped him into the ropes once more, and Johnson predictably rebounds… and eats another Kitchen Sink! This one hits a little lower, and the Canadian Murder Machine lets out the low moan every guy can associate with a man who has had a knee driven into his testicles. Matthew Kivell has apparently never been hit in the testicles, or perhaps he doesn’t have testicles. The more likely theory is that he was not looking very closely, and he doesn’t even admonish The Predator, who grins and waits a second before grabbing Johnson by the back of his tights, pulling him up, and sending him into the ropes! The Ultimate Fighter bounces back, Nighthawk charges forward… … and Johnson dives over the outstretched knee, turning and seizing a firm hold of Nighthawk’s legs, dragging him into a modified sunset flip! Kivell drops to count! “YEEAAAHH!!” “Nighthawk went to the well one time too many!” shouts Mak. ONE! TWO! THREE! NO! Nighthawk juts his shoulder up JUST BEFORE the count of three, recovering from his shock in time to prevent a loss! Johnson rolls backwards out of the pin up to his feet and takes a few steps back before crouching, favoring his groin while muttering what must be countless profanities as he waits for Nighthawk to get up. Nighthawk does so quickly, shaking his head as though trying to shake off what he can’t believe just happened. Still, he realizes that the match is not over, and so he turns around… JUST AS JOHNSON CHARGES FORWARD AND JACKS HIS JAW WITH A YAKUZA KICK! *CLUNK!* Now, let’s do some basic math. JJ Johnson stands 6’1”. Nighthawk stands 6’8”. A full-force Yakuza Kick typically hits around the orbital bone, about five inches up on the average face. Skilled as JJ Johnson is, he simply does not have the flexibility to throw his leg five inches above his head on a whim, and so the kick instead grazes Nighthawk’s jaw, enough to turn The Predator’s head but not enough to bring him down. Fortunately, the Pennsylvanian’s jaw is a bit of a sore spot from the roaring elbow earlier. Unfortunately, this only serves to piss him off, and Nighthawk snarls before running off the ropes, no doubt looking to score a lariat that NEVER MAKES IT, JJ JOHNSON LEAPING WITH EVERY MUSCLE IN HIS LEGS AND BLASTING HIM WITH A GAMENGIRI!! *CA-RAAACK!!* Sweat and a small stream of blood go sailing into the air as both men go crashing to the ground! Nighthawk stares at the lights once again, a dribble of plasma leaking out of his right nostril, while Johnson grabs at his stomach and winces. “YEEEAAAAHH!!” “What a leap!” shouts Mak. “If Johnson is going to make a comeback, this would be a great place to begin!” “Wah wah wah wah stomach blah blah let me play basketball oh right no legs mope mope mope,” says King in a very mocking voice. “What happened to your big core muscle rant? SOMEBODY is flip-flopping, although obviously not literally.” It looks as though Mak’s core muscle rant still applies, as Johnson moans and clutches at his stomach before struggling to his feet, where he does his best to drag the very dazed Nighthawk up to his feet, where he pops him with an elbow before turning him around and ducking down, looking for a backdrop! He bends at the knees, and he LIFTS! And then releases Nighthawk with one arm, using it to clutch at his stomach. Nighthawk begins to wriggle, so Johnson sucks the pain up and slams an elbow into his back before tucking his head under the arm once more. Johnson hesitates, but he sucks in a deep breath, jumps, slams his feet into the ground and uses that to LIFT… … taking Nighthawk up… … WAY up… … and then it becomes too much for JJ to keep his balance, and he topples backwards, dropping Nighthawk right on his neck! *CRUNCH!* “YEEEEAHH!!” “DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANGEROUS BACKDROPPUH!!” roars King as Nighthawk bounces, rolling up to his knees for just a moment with a glazed look in his eyes before he topples forward again, likely dead to the world. Acting quickly, Johnson tugs him up to where it looks as though he’s crawling, then wraps one arm around his leg before he dives over with La Majistral, stacking the unconscious Predator on his shoulders! ONE! TWO! THREE! DING DING DING! “It’s over!” shouts Mak. “Dangerous Backdrop followed by a roll-up, and JJ Johnson advances!” “Ladies and gentlemen,” booms Funyon, “here is your winner, J! J! JOHNSON!” “Slaves Shall Serve” begins roaring out of the loudspeakers as Matt Kivell raises the arm of the number one seed. The other one Johnson devotes to squeezing his abdomen, attempting to crush the pain away. “I think that was a very wise strategy on Johnson’s part,” says King. “I’m willing to bet he simply overlifted, and didn’t mean to drop Nighthawk that high. However, if you’ve got the man KOed, and you’re hurt, you might as well just wrap the match up, and so JJ locked him in a pretty secure rollup to take the W here tonight.” “Jesus,” says Mak as Johnson rolls out of the ring, stalking back towards the entrance. “You sound like John Madden.” “Well, I don’t think that’s how the comment was drawn up, Pat!” says King, having suddenly developed jowls. “You know, I don’t even care,” says the Franchise, shaking his head. “It’s our main event next, ladies and gentlemen. International Champion and hometown hero Johnny Dangerous” – at mention of Johnny, the people behind the announce table cheer - ”defending his belt against Akira Kaibatsu. Don’t miss it.” FADE OUT Edited November 22, 2006 by chirs3 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
chirs3 0 Report post Posted November 21, 2006 The Mission Impossible theme plays over the PA in The Thomas And Mack Center, and the Las Vegas crowd erupts. Their hometown hero, and International Champion, Johnny Dangerous bursts through the curtain boasting his shiny gold belt as he walks down the aisle. YEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHH! “Boy, they love Johnny here, King.” “Yeah…almost as if he was born here,” King rolls his eyes. Dangerous slides into the ring, climbing the turnbuckle as Funyon shouts into his microphone, “And weighing in at Two Hundred Twnety Five pounds, the international champion from LAAASSS VEGAASSSS NEVADA,” Even Funyon deserves some cheap heat, “JOOHNNNYYYY DAAANGEERROOOUUUUSSS!!!!!!!” YEEEAAAHHHHHH WU-TANG CLAN COMIN’ ATCHA! “Protect Ya Neck” by Wu-Tang Clan, a slightly more urban song than the Mission Impossible Theme, blasts over the PA and out comes the young Akira Kaibatsu. “Now this kid just can’t catch a break,” Mak says. “He can’t catch anything. Have you ever seen a Japanese football player?” King laughs. “And his opponent, weighing in at one hundred ninety five pounds, from Sendai Japan…THE DIVIINEEE WIIINDDD…AKIRRAAAAAAA KAIIIBAAATSUUUUUUUUUU!!” The Divine Wind slides into the ring, and walks up to The Barracuda, staring him right in the eye, making motions towards his waist. The two mouth off, but nothing can be picked up by a microphone. Referee Ced Ordonez tells them to back off and sends them into their own corners. DING DING DING Johnny Dangerous and Akira Kaibatsu grapple collar and elbow style in the center of the ring, and begin to push each other all about, bouncing off ropes and spinning around the ring, eventually leading to Johnny shoving Akira into the turnbuckle. Referee Ced Ordonez makes Johnny let go of Akira, and Johnny breaks clean. They lock up one more time in the center of the ring, but this time Johnny gets the better of The Divine Wind, putting him in a side headlock. Kaibatsu shoves The Secret Agent off his head, into the ropes, and The Barracuda comes bouncing right back, skipping over Akira, who drops to the ground. Johnny comes flying into the adjacent ropes and bounces back as Akira rises to his feet, carrying his momentum with him as he leaps and nails Johnny in the head with a dropkick, sending The Barracuda out of the ring! “Good news for Akira,” Mak says, “45 seconds into this match and Johnny’s on his heels,” The International Champion slowly climbs into the ring, taking his time, before he meets Akira in the center of the ring once again with another collar and elbow tie up, leading to The Secret Agent locking Akira up in an arm bar. Dangerous spins the arm around, wrenching it, so he can thrust it down, applying a multitude of pressure on the arm. He wrenches it around one more time, but Akira flips over to his back, un-wrenching it. He kips up and throws The International Champion into the ropes, going once again to the air with a missile dropkick, but Dangerous clings onto the ropes and Akira dives into an empty pool, giving Johnny the opportunity to run up to Akira and sneak in a cradle! ONE! TWO! NO! “There certainly is a feeling out process in this one,” Mak says. “Or maybe it’s more along the lines of Akira not knowing how to actually hurt someone. What the hell is he doing? I did somersaults when I was six years old, Francis.” Both men get up at the same time, but Johnny is the first one to get back on offense, quickly grabbing Kaibatsu’s arm and heading right back to the arm wringing, putting Kaibatsu in another arm bar. Johnny continues to spin away, adding more pressure to the hold, but as soon as Akira gets a moment to work with, he slips behind Dangerous and locks him in a rear-waist lock, and takes him face-down by sweeping his feet. The Divine Wind leaps forward, diving on top of Dangerous and grabs a hold of his head for a grounded side headlock. Johnny gets to his feet in the side headlock, and pushes The Divine Wind to the side, spinning him around, only coming to a stop when The Barracuda locks him in a front facelock. Akira tries to take out Johnny’s legs from underneath him, but The Barracuda keeps his ground, so instead Akira spins out, grabs a hold of The International Champions arm and locks him in a grounded arm bar. Dangerous pushes his way to his feet, but Akira keeps the arm bar in, though not for long as The Secret Agent comes up throwing elbows at the chin of The Divine Wind. Johnny grabs Akira’s arm and whips him into the ropes, and bends down as Akira bounces off them, attempting a back body drop, but Kaibatsu rolls over his back. Dangerous turns around right away but is met with a toe kick to the gut, setting up It Came From Sendai, but Dangerous flips Kaibatsu over his back. “Wayyy to early for that move, King!” “Sometimes it’s sad to think that these two are the ones headlining our international division. Have we come to that point in the SWF?” Dangerous goes right on the offensive, picking up Kaibatsu by his long black hair. He doesn’t get to actually pick him up though, as Akira grabs The Barracudas head, tucks it in close to him, wraps his legs around, and rolls backwards for an inside cradle! ONEE! TWOOO! THREE! “What?!” King screams. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! “Johnny Dangerous was just upset in his own hometown in three minutes for the International Championship!” Mak says. “Oh my god…Akira really is the master of that flash pin. He won contendership with it…and now the title. Wow.” “It almost…cheapens the title…” “Here is your winner, and NEWWWWWWW ES DOUBLE YOU EFF INTERNATIONAL CHAMPION…THE DIVINE WIIINNND…AKIRRAAA KAIIIBATSUUUUUUU!” Funyon shouts into the microphone. Johnny sits in his corner stunned as Ced Ordonez hands Akira the international championship. Akira gives the belt a kiss, and holds it up in the air for a shocked Las Vegas crowd to see, as Smarkdown fades out. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
