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SWF Smarkdown 12-04-06

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“Fans, welcome to Smarkdown!” Mak Francis shouts as the generic rock music pounds out through the arena, “we’re due to open with a newcomer to the SWF, ‘Mr Swiss-’”





The Smarktron whites out as the crashing opening chord of ‘Rookie’ rings out and every light in the arena hits full, then drops sharply down to black. At the same time jagged white letters flash up on the Smarktron, spelling out a familiar phrase one word at a time:




“Well, we were due to open with him,” King snorts, “but instead we get this jerk.”


“A ‘jerk’ who happened to beat Jay Hawke to retain the World Title on Lockdown, despite interference from Gabriel Drake,” Mak reminds viewers.


“Still a jerk. You just said so yourself.”


The Smarktron is flickering with images of a famous career now, and it finally comes to Mike Van Siclen being taken off a balcony and through a table with the Stephens Shock Syndrome, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the-




-blast of red pyro that announces the arrival of the SWF’s most decorated Englishman! And through the flame and smoke…




…World Title around his waist and Tag Title slung over his right shoulder…




…blue-black hair hanging down in front of his eyes and trenchcoat partially hiding his personalised England shirt…




…comes the man once known as Toxxic.


“Ladies and gentlemen, making his way to the ring at this time,” Funyon booms, “he is one-half of the SWF Tag Team Champions and STILL~ the SWF World Heavyweight Champion… MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-CHAEL… STEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-PHENS!!”




Stephens pauses at the bottom of the ramp, then throws his arms wide, palms flat, to ignite a blast of red pyro from each ringpost as the verse of ‘Rookie’ hits!






“I never thought this could be me

I guess you never do until it’s happening to you

Like all the fun turns into shame

And all the “could-have-beens” rearrange…’


Stephens rolls into the ring and waits until the flames have died down, then beckons to Funyon for the microphone. The veteran ring announcer hands it over and exits the ring, leaving Michael Stephens alone in the ring with the chants of the fans.






The steel-grey eyes flicker around the arena, seemingly on the lookout. Stephens has been jumped twice in the last couple of weeks by an "old friend" coming through the crowd, and isn't taking any chances. After a few seconds he raises his microphone.


"I've come out here to address three people," the Englishman begins, then corrects himself, "no, wait, make that four. First of all, Jay Hawke-"




"Exactly," Stephens says with a slight grin. "Jay, I hope you're listening to me, and I hope you listen very carefully sunshine. See, at the end of our match I got a bit carried away. I broke out the Caffeine Bomb, which is a potentially dangerous move that I try not to resort to using because I've come to the conclusion that being a good wrestler is not about who can drop people on their heads at the most acute angle."


"Took you long enough," King snorts.


"So you see Jay, under normal circumstances I might even apologise to you," Stephens says, "I mean sure, I used it on Tom, but everyone knows that you can drop Tom on his head from the top of the Empire State Building and he'll still probably get up and lariat you, the man's inhuman. But for someone like you or me, a match shouldn't be about who can hit who with the nastiest headdrop first. It should be about wrestling, and I'll admit you're damn good at that. So under normal circumstances, I might apologise to you."


Stephens pauses for a second.


"However, my definition of 'normal circumstances' don't include inviting my old friend Gabe to interfere with the promise of a title shot as reward. See," Stephens continues, "just as being a good wrestler ain't about dropping people on their heads all the time, being World Champion shouldn't be about who can hire the most muscle to do their dirty work for them. In my opinion, if that's the way you want to play it you deserve everything you got an' more, sunshine!"




"Fighting words from the World Champion there," Mak Francis notes, "and words I agree with. Gabriel Drake had no place in that title match, and Jay Hawke had no place inviting him there!"


"Hawke only offered Drake the title shot to show his appreciation of the man's talent," Suicide King snaps, "not to get him to interfere! That's a malign slur on Hawke!"


"Oh, shut up."


Michael Stephens is pacing about the ring now. Having got his broadside at Jay Hawke out of the way it seems the Englishman is a little more conflicted about how to go about his next statement.




There is a mixed reaction from the Dallas crowd; some cheer, others boo. All in all the Unique Youth definitely gets a response, but you'd be hard-pressed to tell what sort.


"Zyon, since the new James Bond film is doing the rounds I'm gonna borrow a line from Ian Fleming," Stephens says, "namely, 'the first time is happenstance, the second time is coincidence, but the third time it's enemy action'." The World Champion looks back at the entranceway for a moment, then continues.


"In our Cruiserweight Title match you took advantage of Gabe's interference to give me the Final Flash and then climb the ladder to get the title. Fair enough," Stephens says, "no blame on you there, I'd have done the same thing. I mean, it didn't even look like you knew Drake had been in at all.


"But see, recent events have caused me to rethink that."


There is a muttering in the crowd. Some of the Texans in attendance think Stephens may be right in his suspicions, others clearly feel that he's looking to pin blame on someone. The muttering quietens as Mike raises the microphone again.


"Now, on Storm you came down to the ring where I was involved in my World Title match, a match where you had no place, a match that you had no business with. You were saying something to me but I'll be honest, I couldn't hear you. The only thing I understood was when you pointed behind me and I turned around to see Gabe coming at me a moment before the bastard near enough speared me out of my boots. So now I've got to wonder," Stephens declares, "what were you doing? Did you just want a ringside seat? Did you feel you still had unfinished business with me, and for whatever reason that was an appropriate time to bring it up? Did you point past me to warn me when you saw Gabe, or," the World Champion carries on as the crowd noise starts to pick up a little, "OR, were you there to distract me while he got into the ring? Were you there to set me up?"




The crowd doesn't have one mind on this subject, but each person certainly has an opinion they want to express. Some cheer, some jeer; some shout approval and support for the World Champion, others are outraged at the finger of blame being pointed at the Unique Youth. In the middle of it all stands Michael Stephens, World Title around his waist and Tag Title over one shoulder, head tilted slightly to one side as he listens to the crowd. Then he raises the hand that doesn't hold the microphone and extends a black-nailed index finger.


"The first time, you took the Cruiserweight Title."


Another finger goes up.


"The second time, you might have cost me the World Title."


Stephens pauses.


"Should I be on the lookout for the third time, Zyon? Are you an innocent bystander, or an enemy? Believe me sunshine, you don't want to go to war with me."


"Michael Stephens is certainly being very confrontational about this," Mak Francis says, "I for one might be inclined to give Zyon the benefit of the doubt!"


"He's flipped," King says happily, "he's gone completely paranoid! Of course," the Gambling Man adds, "that doesn't mean that Zyon isn't a treacherous backstabber who'll try anything to make up for his own lack of talent."


"It still amazes me how you can spin things to think the worst of everyone," Mak grumbles.


"Don't knock it kid, it's a gift."


Michael Stephens is looking around at the crowd; they’re certainly fired up now. All in all, it feels like a good time for the World Champion to make his play. Get people into the right frame of mind and they’ll cheer anything that’s pitched to them in the right way. So here goes nothing…


“The last two people I want to speak to,” Stephens begins again, “are my old friend Gabriel Drake-”




“-and the SWF’s CEO, Joseph Peters!


Hark, can you hear the indifference?


“Gabe, you’re on a mission, I realise that,” Stephens declares, “you want to do everything in your power to make my life difficult, make me lose matches, make me lose titles and generally be the biggest bloody jackmonkey you can. Now,” he continues, “whether you’re doing this because you hold me responsible for events four years ago, because you’re mentally unstable or simply because you’re jealous of my astounding good looks and unrivalled popularity” here he pauses for a moment with a slight grin to hint that maybe he’s not quite serious about that last one “I’m not gonna take it anymore sunshine! See, I don’t even know if you want to get into the ring with me one-on-one anymore, cos you seem to be happy hanging around and interfering in my matches, but I don’t intend to give you an option now. Playtime is over, now we’re gonna get serious. As a result, if I could impose upon Our Glorious Leader Joseph Peters to haul his backside out here…”


There is a pause for a few seconds. Then ‘Ghetto Goggles’ by the Filthy Four hits, and after a few more seconds the Generalissimo of the SWF comes out, followed by a technician who hands him a microphone and runs.


“Stephens, what the hell do you think you’re doing, standing in my ring at the top of my show and spouting garbage?” Peters demands.


“I’m selling our next Pay-Per-View,” the World Champion replies, grinning.


“What are you talking about?” Peters snaps, continuing his walk down to the ring, “there are currently no matches finalised for that show!”


“Well, see that’s where I’m going to help you out,” Stephens says, eyeing Peters as the head honcho starts to climb the ring steps, “because I’ve come up with this fantastic idea.”


“If it involves naked guys and green jello, we’re not interested.”


“How’d you guess!?” Stephens chuckles, but the eyes are telling Peters not to try a joke like that again. “No, actually I’ve come up with an idea for your main event,” he explains, “and seeing as how we’ve got a representative sample of the SWF audience here with us tonight, I thought I’d suggest it in front of them so you could gauge the reaction.”


Joe Peters crosses his arms and looks at him. Stephens’ grin goes lopsided.


“Gabriel Drake…”




“…versus Michael Stephens…”








“…for the World Title!”








“C’mon Peters, whaddya say?” Stephens demands, sweeping a hand around to take in the crowd and struggling to make himself heard over the universal roar of approval, “you’ve got a guy who’s made an impact on the fed like few others since his debut, he only got eliminated at Ashes 2 Ashes when someone already eliminated from the match came back and interfered, he’s got personal history with your World Champion, and all these people want to see it, ain’t that right!?”




“An’ if that sort of reaction don’t sway you, well then here’s something else to think on,” Stephens informs the CEO, “just bear in mind that despite my legendary patience and forbearance, I have my limits. I’ve had about all I can take of Gabe shoving his nose into my business, and I’m gonna start taking action soon. So sooner or later Stephens vs. Drake is going to go down,” he informs Peters, “so it’s your call whether it’s gonna happen in the back, in someone’s locker room, in the parking lot, or in the middle of the ring where you can wheel out some cameras, sell some tickets and make a bloody killing out of it!”






“Personally I’m hoping we get to see this in the ring,” Mak Francis says, “Michael Stephens vs. Gabriel Drake would be big in many ways… but I wouldn’t be surprised if Peters said no just to spite the World Champion!”


“Gabriel Drake winning the World Title on Pay-Per-View?” King asks, “I couldn’t imagine a better Christmas present, and so I’m hoping for exactly the same result you are!”


“Will wonders ever cease?”


Joe Peters still stands in the ring, watching Michael Stephens. The CEO appears to be considering… but he’s also coming to a decision. The idea of approving an suggestion that comes from Stephens is a distasteful one, even more so under these circumstances where it will look like he’s been muscled into it by the reaction of the crowd…


…but at the end of the day, it is a good idea. The hastily-aborted Stephens/Drake singles match on free TV drew high ratings, and the Elimination Chamber got a good buyrate. Stephens is shifting merchandise like there’s no tomorrow, and Peters knows that the SWF fans are clamouring to see Drake finally be on the end of a convincing defeat; not a fluke roll-up in a multi-man match, not a cage match technicality, but finally a loss where it can be said that the other man was a better wrestler. If anyone can give him that defeat, it’s Michael Stephens. Peters knows the fans will pay to see that possibility. And should Gabriel Drake truly justify his place in the main event and take the World Title from Stephens… well, that won’t be a bad thing. That won’t be a bad thing at all.


Peters look at Stephens for a second more, then raises the mic.






The fans erupt into what has to be the biggest ovation that a statement made by Joseph Peters has ever got, and the SWF’s Generalissimo simply turns and walks away, unwilling to be in the same ring with Stephens for any longer than he has to. However, the World Champion isn’t going to let him go without making his point.


“You hear that Gabe?” Stephens yells, “no more shadows for you, sunshine! No more sidling in when my back’s turned, now you’ve gotta come at me from the front when I’m ready for you! And if you think I’ve underestimated you… if you think you’ve got what it takes to come and take my title… if, above all, you think that The Beast can defeat The Sensation, then sunshine…”


The crowd knows the words, and they know the tune. It’s time to sing along.




Stephens drops his microphone with a grin and rolls out of the ring. The die, as they say, is cast. Now it’s just a case of waiting until the 18th to see whose number comes up.









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Live, Monday, December 4th, from The Reunion Arena in Dallas, Texas!
(7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings)
(Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3)



JJ Johnson vs. Landon Maddix ©

-> After the dust and metal settled (rhyme intended) on Smarkdown, it was JJ Johnson who triumphed against Jimmy the Doom, and in some small way, against referee Landon Maddix! With Tom Flesher and Spike Jenkins mysteriously absent last show, I guess this match is for all the marbles! The winner tonight will face the World Champeen at the Clusterfuck!
Rules: First to score two pinfalls or submissions wins!


"The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu © vs. Michael Cross

-> Smarkdown's tag match was 2 hawt 4 TV!!11!1!1!111! But in it, Michael Cross said and did some unflattering things involving his fists and Akira's face. The match was stopped due to manatee interference, but these two still want to settle the score, and Akira has agreed to put his gold on the line!
Rules: Standard singles.


Jimmy the Doom © vs. Nighthawk

-> See? I told you you'd get something - I bet Trent Hawk is feeling pretty silly right now. Just one show after his partner went for the World Title (no clue if he won it yet), Nighthawk gets a crack a title of his own - the Hardcore title! But Jimmy the Doom, arguably the most dominant Hardcore Champ since Bruce Blank, has shown no signs of slowing down! Will Nighthawk be the one to finally pry the title from Jimmy's cold, dead, Doomtopian hands?
Rules: Match begins outside the arena, and is not allowed inside the building. Don't worry, there's plenty to see and do around town:

Reunion Arena is uniquely located in vibrant downtown Dallas next to the landmark Reunion Tower/Hyatt Regency Hotel and the newly expanded Dallas Convention Center. This high profile location is easily accessible from two major interstate highways and visible to 250,000 cars per day that pass the complex. In addition, two major light rail stations service the arena providing unmatched convenience for attendees. The "West End" historic district is just a few blocks away and provides multiple options for nearby shopping and entertainment.

No disqualification, no countouts (duh), first pinfall or submission wins!

chirs3's note: Please bring back Manny Ramirez for commentary.

Alan Clark vs. "The Ace" Pierre Donette

-> Return #1000109845-AB44-A1. The Ace returns after a long hiatus, and he's set to go up against everyones (least) favorite Disney character, Alan Clark!
Rules: Standard singles match.


"Mister Swiss" Victor Herzog vs. Ced Ordonez

-> At one time, Joseph Peters might have thought a "Mister Swiss" to be odd, but considering we've got a Doomtopian running around with the Hardcore title, Swiss lineage hardly seems noteworthy. You hear that, Victor? Joseph Peters SCOFFS at your heritage! Let's see if Herzog can stick it to the man in his debut against everyone's favorite JTTS, Ced Ordonez!
Rules: Standard singles match.


Next week: Hopefully a Cruiser and/or Tag Title Defense!

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“Mister Swiss” Victor Herzog vs. Ced Ordonez


Francis: The first match is the debut of a new superstar in the SWF, the much very highly touted Victor Herzog straight from the mountains of Switzerland!


King: You know, I lost my house to a swiss guy.


Francis: He will be taking on the SWF mainstay Ced Ordonez in his first match here, it should be a good one. The syles of the two seem to be very different, Ced being a Crusierweight/High flyer while Herzog is a technical big man. In fact, here comes Ced now to start the match




The lights go out and




A burst of flames fills the arena while the Eurobeat pulses through the crowd. The fire goes out to reveal Ced standing there, and then he runs to the ring and poses for the crowd on the turnbuckle for a minute.


Francis: Ced has been on a bit of a losing streak lately and he’s hoping to dash the dreams of the up and coming Swiss grappler tonight making his debut.


King: I doubt it. Plus, I have 500 bucks riding on this new guy. Ced is a vanilla midget.


Francis: Ugh.


Ced’s music fades and all of a sudden….








A shot of red pyro goes up to the top of the arena and showers the stage with confetti. The pyro clears and the big swissman Herzog stands proudly on the stage and slowly walks to the ring eyeing Ordonez up. Before he jumps onto the apron and enters the ring, he then asks for a mic. He takes the mic and says:




The crowd pops and starts chanting “HER-ZOG” “HER-ZOG”


King: What an asskiss. LET’S HOPE HE’S AN ASSKICK TOO.


He puts the mic down outside the ring and jumps into the ring to his corner. The official calls him and Ordonez to the middle of the ring. The bell rings.


Francis: The match is starting as they begin to lock up.


Herzog and Ced lock up arms and the bigger Victor pushes Ced to the ground. Ced gets up and pushes Vic. Vic pushes him back. Ced chops him in the chest. Vic returns the favor. They get into a chopping battle until Vic gives Ced a European Uppercut. While Ced is stunned, Herzog attempts a vertical suplex, but Ced slips out behind him and delivers a dropkick to the back of Victor.


Francis: A beautiful counter into a dropkick by Ordonez who is not gonna lay down easily for the noticeably larger Swiss bigman.


King: Lucky shot, it’s only a matter of time before he gets killed.


Ced goes to the top rope while Victor is stunned on the floor, he jumps off the rope and attempts to give him an elbow drop to put his momentum at a high, but Victor rolls away and Ced falls to the mat, missing his target. Victor rises to his feet and picks up the dazed Ordonez, puts his arm across his chest, into a uranage and picks Ced up and SLAMS him over his knee for a wicked backbreaker.


Francis: That’s GOTTA hurt.


King: Almost as much as being in Dallas.


Victor picks up Ced again and irish whips him into the corner, Vic runs full force at his dazed opponent, but Ced moves out of the way at the last minute and jumps to the top rope swiftly, while Vic turns around, Ced leaps from the ropes feet first and nails a flying leg scissors on the European bigman. He scrambles on the canvas for a pin




Francis: NO! He kicks out after a one count! This looks to be an uphill battle for Ordonez against this opponent. Ced has shown a lot of resilience so far, maybe I smell an upset?


King: That’s just the crowd.


Victor rises to his feet and slaps Ced in the chest repeatedly, then, backing up hits a short clothesline on Ordonez and knocks him to the canvas. Then, picking up Ced, facing his back, he wraps his arms around Ced’s and raises them above his head, stretching out his arms and back.


Francis: Impressive display of power from Herzog, standing in at 6’6”, 255 pounds.


King: Almost as big as my ex-wife.


Victor then throws Ced to the floor face first and props him up in the sitting position, then wrapping his arms around Ced’s head, applies a headlock. Ced squirms and flails his arms around while screaming, trying to break the hold, to no avail.


Francis: That headlock looks painful from here, we could see a tap out here from Ordonez, which would certainly be an impressive display of ability from Victor.


Ced then stops struggling. The ref pulls his arm up and it drops limply to his body. ONE! The ref picks the arm up and drops it again, it falls with no resistance. 2! He picks it up once more and it dro- NO! Ced keeps his arm up and rises to his feet, he elbows Herzog in the gut over and over until the hold is released, he bounces off the ropes and lays a gorgeous cross body on Victor. Ced with a full head of steam jumps to the top rope yet again.


Francis: It looks like Ced is going to attempt his signature double stomp on Herzog! The tide of this match changes yet again!


Ced leaps from the turnbuckle, legs perpendicular to the ring but VICTOR LEAPS UP AND GRABS CED’S FEET YANKING HIM TO THE FLOOR! Ced falls face first and Herzog twists his legs and applies the Swiss Crab! Ced grabs out for the bottom rope but only grabs air, he pulls himself towards the rope and after a struggle grabs it, mercifully breaking the hold. Herzog sets up in the middle of the ring waiting for Ced to rise to his feet. A woozy Ced finally regains his composure and rises to his feet, but all in vain. Victor boots him in the stomach and takes the doubled over Ced into a vertical suplex position. Holding the suplex for a good half minute, forcing the blood to rush to Ced’s head, he finally slams him to the canvas hitting the Neutral Zone Infraction!




King: This looks like it could be it for Ceddy.


Victor drags Ordonez limp body to the middle of the ring and flips him on his stomach, then pulls Ced’s arm between his legs. Then he places his arms into the reverse cravate, locking in his patented ‘Ficken Schloss’ hold. After little struggle and time, Ced forcefully slams his hand to the mat, brutally ending the contest.






Francis: And the Swiss Mister wins his debut match in an impressive fashion going over the veteran Ordonez showing no mercy with that devastating Neutral Zone Infraction jackhammer move and making Ced tap with that cravate crossface. I think this victory lets the rest of the locker room that while he is playful outside of the ring, Victor is all business inside of that squared circle.


King: Plus, I won an extra $100 by betting he’d win by submission, so I’m already off to a good night.


Herzog celebrates his debut win in the ring posing for the crowd before leaving backstage to the roar of the Dallas fans.



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“From one kind of cheese to another, now we have to deal with that annoying Alan Clark again!” The voice of the Suicide King brings the world of fans watching at home back to Smarkdown, where the sounds of the French National Anthem are blaring louder than they ever should in a place like Dallas, Texas.


“But this is a return, too, King! The return of the Ace, Pierre Donette” as the Franchise speaks; blasts of pyrotechnics explode from the entranceway to heed the arrival of the Frenchman. Pierre, flag in hand, steps through the curtain to a resounding chorus of boos with a bit of an accent for emphasis.




“Well, that’s exactly the response I think everyone was expecting. Too bad he looks to be more sophisticated that any of these backwater hicks.” King is his usual passionate self about the farmlands and their people as Funyon stands at the ready in the ring, microphone to his lips.


“Ladies and Gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL. Introducing first, from Marseille, France…weighing in at two hundred twenty pounds… he is “THE ACE”…PIERRE DONNEEEEETTE!!”




Pierre slinks to the ring and climbs the steps to the apron, a constant wave of his flag flanked by the constant rounds of jeers from one side of the arena to the other. Entering the ring carefully, Pierre continues his flag waving festivities as his music fades down. Pierre hands off his flag and turns back to the entrance just as…


“Please Stand Clear Of The Ring. Svp Stand Dégagé De l'Anneau…


…For The Safety And Comfort Of Others, No Smoking Please. Anneau Pour La Sûreté Et Le Confort De D'autres, Aucun Tabagisme Svp.”


“And introducing his opponent, being accompanied by Walter Reynolds…representing the France Pavillion of Epcot in Walt Disney World, Florida….”




“…weighing in at two hundred twenty five pounds…he is the “Happiest Guy On Earth”…ALAAAAAAAAN CLARK!!”


The music of Epcot’s ‘Impressions de France’ begins to play as Alan Clark appears from behind the curtain, dressing in Disney’s own brand of French garb with Walter Reynolds following behind him.





“Oh boy, King, Not since the days of the Junior League European Championship have we seen something like this, and you can tell by the look on the face of the Ace that he is not happy one bit.” Francis continues as Donette stands in the ring, clutching his hands together with rage as Alan slaps a few hands, poses for a few photos, and finally hits ringside, taking a second to wave toward his opponent in the ring, causing his eyes to dart from Clark to referee Sexton Hardcastle, who can seen to be mouthing ‘get used to it’ as Walter Reynolds takes his place next to the ring and Alan slides into the ring and to his feet, quickly moving to Pierre and sticking his hand out for a shake.


“Bonjour!!” Alan shouts as loud as he can, so much so that the close cameras are able to pick it up as Clark smiles his widest…




“And a slap to the mush by the Ace!! I might actually end up liking this guy after all!”




After a quick warning, Hardcastle calls for the bell to start the match as Pierre stays on the attack with a flurry of right hands, keeping Clark reeling backwards and towards the ropes.


“He might be rethinking the idea of coming out dressed that way!”


“That nutcase can barely think, let alone RE-think, Mak.” The King is, as always, full of his little quips as Donette pulls Clark out from the ropes and spins his body, wiping Alan across the ring with a hard shove.


“Irish whip, Pierre trying to keep his advantage with a clothesline, NO! Alan Clark ducks out of the way!” Clark ducks beneath the outstretched arm of the Ace and hits the ropes once more, coming back to find his opponent dropping to his stomach in the center of the ring. Alan leapfrogs the ducking Frenchman, only for Pierre to pop off the mat and roll his body into the legs of the Happiest Guy on Earth, sending him falling down to the canvas face-first!!




“If aiming for the face doesn’t work, go for the legs! Simple, but effective. You take anyone’s legs out from under them and they won’t be able to do much of anything in that ring!”


Alan rolls to his back and clutches at his face in anguish as Pierre stands over top of him, a small hint of smug coming across his lips before he reaches down and pulls Clark up by his hair, getting a second warning from Hardcastle before he locks on a facelock and chokes down on it, holding Clark in place on his knees and wrenching the body of the WF veteran as much as he can as Alan’s legs flail toward the ropes, his left foot finally catching the second rope, leaving him in a bit of an awkward position as the break is called for. Pierre follows orders, but not before pulling back and kicking the right leg out from under Alan’s body, sending him down into the canvas face-first for the second time in less than a minute.


“I’d probably mention plastic surgery or something at this point, King, but we both know that Alan Clark would never pay someone to cut him open when he used to do it himself on a nightly basis in the very ring he is lying in right now!” calls Mak as Sexton tries to keep the two men separated and check on the downed Clark, only for Donette to push past him and pull Alan into the center of the ring and up to his feet, staring him in the face before reapplying his facelock and lifting Alan off his feet…





…and driving him straight down into the mat!!


“He calls that the 22 Year Old, which is something I wouldn’t mind having myself right about now, so long as it’s not some dude looking like that…” The Suicide King is not Bobby Riley, at least.


“And I call this a cover and a count!”







“Pierre Donette can NOT let Alan Clark get to him the way he seems to be already. The outfit, the music, all of it, Alan Clark is one of only a handful of people to step foot in this company that has such a passion for completely throwing you off your game and keeping you off it as long as he needs to in order to win the match. We’ve seen him do it before and I can tell by the look on the Ace’s face that he is looking to do whatever it takes to show the Happiest Guy On Earth that France is more than a piece of a theme park.” Francis and the King watch on as Alan tries to get back to his feet, holding his head…




“..DDT!” King cries out, but instead of going for the cover, the Ace rolls to his back and begins to thread his leg through the arms of Clark, and begins to lift his leg off the mat, pulling Alan’s body up and into a modified full nelson, the bending knee of Donette pushing the neck of Clark forward with tremendous force.


“Look at the pain on Alan Clark’s face!! He is doing whatever he can to get to those ropes!” Alan’s body is indeed thrashing against the force of the Acelock, and after a few seconds of trying to keep the hold in, Pierre simply pushes his weight back down, giving Alan no way to block the mat from once again mashing into his nose and forehead.


“He’s going to have a Picasso above the neck by the end of this if his face keeps taking that kind of beating. I love it. I’ve never seen a Picasso in person before…”












The King is cut off by the cheering crowd as Alan once again is able to get his shoulder up before the three, and before Pierre can get back to his feet Alan is rolling away from him, heading toward the ropes and to the floor for a breather.


“Alan Clark on the outside now, looking to get a second wi—oh what the…” Mak is puzzled as Walter moves to Alan, who simply brushes him off and begins signing an autograph for a fan at ringside. The camera moves in as Clark takes a few deep breathes in between his conversation.


“I saw you from in the ring with your little book, so I thought I’d come say hi. Are you from around here?”


“Yeah, in town.”


“Great, great. Ever been to Disney World or Disneyland? It’s wonderful this time of year you know with the Christmas decorations and everything.”


“No, I haven’t. I would like to go though.”


“You would? Well wouldn’t you know it, I have in my possession four passes to Walt Disney World! It’s the Year Of A Million Dreams, and I want to make your dream come true!” Alan signals for Walter to come over and hands over a small envelope to the young fan.


“An unexpected development outside the ring from Alan Clark! He’s made a dream come true!”


“He needs to get back in the ring, Francis, as he’s about to get counted out.”


“EIGHT!!” Hardcastle yells as Clark turns back around, only to see nothing but the body of Pierre Donette spinning down towards him from inside the ring…






“HE MISSED!! MY GOD!!” Mak Francis hollers out as Donnette crashes into the floor as Clark, at the last possible moment, is able to throw his body out of the way, saving himself from being French toast. Replays play on the screen, showing the space between the two bodies is less than six inches before Clark is able to sneak away.


“Unbelievable! That lucky creep might have just evened up the score a little right there. His face might be swollen but the Ace just got royally flushed!”


“Always with the playing card references, Mr. Gamblin’ Man?” Mak chuckles a bit and the King can be heard groaning as Alan slides back into the ring and to his feet, posing in the center of the ring by himself as Pierre tries to get to his feet on the outside.





Alan looks out into the crowd and begins a slow spin, posing his body with his arms up. Sexton and even Walter Reynolds look on shaking their heads.


“I guess it’s just a small world after all, King.”


“I’m going to be sick, I *hate* those dolls. HATE.” King groans once again as Alan completes his full spin just as the Ace rolls back into the ring, giving Clark the chance to return to his regular stance and irregular demeanor before the Frenchman can get back to his feet.


“You and most of this hemisphere, King” replies Mak as the two superstars clash in the center of the ring once again, going in to a tie-up. Each begins to push back on the other, but Alan has been in a state of recovery for the last few moments, and as each second passes the tide seems to be flowing his way and against the Ace, the rookie’s feet sliding backwards towards the corner. He does his best to fight back, but one last hard shove sends him flying into the corner….






“…and a clothesline from Clark!! The feet of Pierre Donnette left the ground from the sheer velocity of that shot!” Alan steps back from the corner and the camera shows his face looking toward his opponent with a bit of rage that the SWF fans have not seen in quite a while…






“Uncalled for!”


“AND A SLAP!! Payback for the start of the match!”


“Ref! Where’s the warning?” Sure enough, as the spit from Pierre’s mouth flies towards the floor, Sexton sends a warning to Clark, but the smile that was on the Happiest Guy on Earth’s face moments ago has turned south, and Alan raises his hand once again…








“…and ANOTHER!”


A second warning comes from the ref, only for Alan to brush it aside and attack with a flurry of chops into the Ace’s chest, a crimson red shine forming as each shot blisters the skin.






“AAAAAAAAAAAH!!” Alan screams as he turns a full circle and leaps into the air, sending his foot SCORCHING into the side of Pierre’s head!!


“Usually a cartwheel precedes the Wreck of the Miss Tilly, but either way the end result is the same!” Mak calls as Alan is finally persuaded away from his opponent, only for Pierre to simply fall to his knees in the corner, the crook of his right elbow holding his upper body off the mat.


“I don’t think I like it when I see that look in anyone’s eyes, especially that nutjob right there.” The camera is zoomed on Clark’s face as he looks on, with Sexton checking on Donette. From the outside, Walter can be seen trying to talk with Clark, but Alan’s eyes stay focused on the Ace.


“MOVE!” Alan begins to yell toward the referee, and as Hardcastle steps aside Alan comes in, sending his forearm down across Donette’s back repeatedly and with rapid-fire.


“What is the deal? Someone explain this!” King yells as Alan backs away once more and throws his hands in the air, looking for some love from the crowd around him as a small smile shows through.




Donnette falls to the corner and Alan turns back toward him and moves in once again, throwing his body sideways and his right leg up in a crescent swing…







The Ace slides out of the corner, Alan’s leg flying over his head and over the top turnbuckle, trapping Clark for just long enough so that Pierre can get his hands around Alan’s neck and pull him out of the corner and back-first toward the canvas with a neckbreaker!!


“Beautiful counter! I could not have done it better…well, yeah I could.” The Suicide King basks in his own ego as Donette shies away from a quick pin attempt and instead pulls Alan up to his feet.


“This can’t be good, he’s sizing him up!” The Ace locks eyes with his opponent and raises his hand… “Another slap!”




“NO!” Mak calls as Alan’s right hand moves to Donette’s face and his fingers rake across the Frenchman’s eyes, momentarily blinding the rookie.


“I don’t think Disney would approve of that!” King yells as Pierre recoils, turning his back to his opponent, leaving himself free to be lifted into the air from behind and spun around like a dervish.


“A Whole New Whirl!! Don’t you care close your eyes, Mr. Donette! Or you just might be in for a surprise when you open them back up!”


“Do you need a music bed for your commentary now, Francis?” King scoffs at his partner’s vocal abilities, which Mak ignores as Pierre is dropped down from his perilous pivoting perch and onto his feet, his body (and his world) still spinning as he tries to gain back his balance before Alan catches him once again around the waist and lifts him into the air…



…over the shoulder…





“The Backlot Suplex! The accordion is a fairly common instrument in France, and that’s what the Ace’s body just turned into after that huge suplex…and a cover!!”










“Pierre Donette is able to get his shoulder up, and Alan Clark is not looking happy about that.” Alan argues about the three count with the referee as Pierre rolls across the mat with his arm around his neck, his face in visible pain as Alan gives chase, sending his foot into the Ace’s neck and head with as much force as he can.


“There is an aggression here that I don’t think any of us have seen out of Alan Clark in years. Not since his days going against Landon Maddix, and now he and Maddix are a team over in the OAOAST, as odd as that is. Can you believe that, King?”


“I don’t think Alan Clark is teaming with anyone over there. There’s a guy that looks like him and hell, he even sort of acts like him, but if Bloodshed saw the way Alan Clark comes out here all cheery and smiling and dancing and everything else, I think he’d rip Alan Clark’s damn face off!” The Suicide King and the Franchise watch on along with the millions at home and the thousands in attendance as Alan has pulled Pierre toward a corner after dropping two successive elbows to the head of the European rookie.


After a quick signal of his hands spinning above his head for the crowd, Alan jumps up to the top rope and faces into the ring, looking as though he is about to finish off the Ace…


“Alan Clark is looking for that oddly-named Fauntleroy…that 450 Splash…if he connects with this…” Alan steadies himself and crouches down….he springs to the sky…


“Pierre’s got his knees tucked!”


“Alan Clark over shoots it!!”





“He saw the counter coming and did what he could as he left the top rope to keep himself from eating those knees, and instead ate the middle of the ring! Did you see the way he bounced off the mat like that?”


“He rotated probably two and half times between when he left the top rope and where he lays now writhing after landing on his face and chest. That’s why they call that stuff high-risk, Francis. You won’t see me going to the top rope because of that one reason right there.


“And cause you’re old, right?”


“At least I could climb the ropes if I really wanted to, Wheels!” The King’s verbal low-blow strikes hard, and one can hear Francis telling the King what he thinks of it away from his microphone as, in the ring, the Ace quickly moves to make a cover on the wreckage that is Alan Clark…



















“The Ref didn’t see it!!”





With a shocked Walter Reynolds watching on, Alan releases his grip from the second rope just in time for Sexton Hardcastle to look up and call for the bell. On the outside, the Suicide King has spit his PepsiMax all over his broadcast partner and the monitors in front of him.




“Yes, and I felt it too, thanks. Can I get a towel, please?” Francis is wiped down by a helpful ringside attendant as Funyon makes the announcement from his position on the outside.


“Ladies and Gentlemen…here is your winner…ALAAAAAAN CLAAAAAARK!”


As “When You Wish Upon A Star” explodes throughout the arena, Alan rolls out of the ring and makes his way up the entranceway, holding his hands high in victory as he walks backwards up the ramp, waiting for a panicked and questioning Walter Reynolds to catch up to him. Alan can be seen shaking his head and giving him a thumbs up as Pierre Donette sits in the ring, just as shocked as the Suicide King, slamming his hand down across the same ropes Alan Clark just used to secure a victory.


“I can’t believe that. No. Alan Clark did not just do that.” The King continues to mutter to himself as Mak tries to clean up and Alan Clark disappears through the curtain, the last quick glimpse of his face shows his eerily creepy and cheerful smile back in full force.


“Well, Alan Clark is back folks, and if what we saw tonight is any indication, we are going to have to stay tuned to see what happens next. Speaking of, on the other side of the break we have a match that Alan Clark can’t even compete in – a street fight for the Hardcore Championship and Akira Kaibatsu looks to hold on to his International Championship a little while longer as he takes on the man known as Michael Cross and you definitely do not want to miss our Cold Front Classic Main Event – Keep It Here!!”

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Smarkdown returns from a commercial to the packed Reunion Arena, and a camera man turns on the audience and rips two fans to shreds. Wait, that was a Chimera man.


Chimera man? This script is lousy. Did Glen Furbman write this trash?


Damn it, Charlie, we're broadcasting right now! I know Furbman did a hack job, but just read the copy, okay?


Okay, but I want hazard pay, this stuff's worse than toxic waste.


A camera man pans around the remaining fans, then swings over to focus on Mak Francis and the Suicide King.


"Welcome back to Dallas, folks. We're at the midpoint of tonight's show, but this next match should be far from average. After a few non-title matches, Jimmy the Doom defends his Hardcore strap against Nighthawk, but this is no ordinary hardcore affair. This bout will take place on the streets of Dallas, that's right, a good old fashioned street fight!" Mak exclaims.


"While Nighthawk isn't my first choice, I'm sure he'll make a fine champion," King says.


"Don't be too hasty there, King. While Nighthawk is very tough, Jimmy the Doom has dealt with his fair share of strong wrestlers and bested them. Besides, you can't overlook how incredibly tough Doom is. At the risk of being mocked, this street fight is right up Doom's alley," Mak says.


The Smarktron crackles to life, showing Sports Street. A relatively nondescript black sedan pulls up to the front of the arena and Nighthawk emerges from the backseat.


"Ladies and gentlemen, the following is a street fight for the Hardcore championship! Introducing first, the challenger! Hailing from Hawk Mountain, Pennsylvania, he weighs two hundred, eighty-five pounds, NIGHTHAWK!" Funyon roars.


The massive Hawk stretches out his steel talon gloves while referee Matt Kivell waits on nervously.




The sound of metal grinding on asphalt causes Kivell and Nighthawk to grimace in pain as Jimmy the Doom rounds the corner on a Ghetto Scooter. Despite the scooter having distinctly non-round metal 'wheels', the Straight-Breader is enjoying his ride to the fullest.


"And his opponent, the champion! From Doomopolis, Doomtopia, he weighs two hundred, thirty pounds, the Straight-Bread Sensation, JIMMY THE DOOM!" Funyon shouts.


Doom pulls the belt from around his waist and gives it to Kivell. Matt takes the strap, bends down, and turns on a giant ghetto blaster stereo. Michael Jackson's "Beat It" strikes up, and Kivell signalls for the match to begin.


Ding! Ding! Ding!


"Why the hell is Michael Jackson playing? Neither man is about to molest a young boy, is he?" King asks.


"Allegedly!" Mak shouts. "Jackson has never been convicted, and until he is, to insinuate that he's done such a thing is a surefire way to getting sued, so shut your dirty mouth. Besides, 'Beat It' is a great street fighting song."


"What about 'Street Fighting Man'? Or the theme from 'Street Fighter'?" King asks.


"Because shut up."


Doom lunges forward, cracking Nighthawk with a shotei to the chest. The big man takes a step back, only to nail Jimmy with a vicious right cross. Doom stumbles, but quickly recovers and whips Nighthawk into a Geo Metro. The big Pennsylvanian slams into the car, knocking it over.




Nighthawk clambers to his feet, only to eat a flying front kick that sends him over the car.


"Well, there goes our lawyer fund for the night," Mak mutters.


"That was pretty quick. We are going to end up owing so much," King laments.


Jimmy walks around the car to Nighthawk, but gets nailed with a forearm to the groin. Nighthawk climbs to his feet and yanks Doom to the ground with a DDT. Hawk stands and smashes out the passenger side window of the Geo. The big guy unlocks and opens the door, then completely rips it from its hinges. Nighthawk lifts his weapon and bashes the Straight-Breader across the back with it.




Nighthawk measures up for another blow, but Jimmy rolls out of the way. As metal collides with asphalt, the reverberations cause Hawk to drop the car door. Jimmy pops up and laces two quick kicks into Nighthawk's left leg before clambering over the car. Doom snatches up his Ghetto Scooter, and in a move that completely voids the warranty, shatters the wooden frame over Nighthawk's head.




"The property damage just keeps going up in this match. I feel like I'm watching that Rampage game where you destroy a city," Mak says.


"Except with people instead of giant apes and dinosaurs?" King asks.


"Yes, except with people instead of giant apes and dinosaurs," Francis clarifies.


Nighthawk shakes off the blow as the wood was termite-riddled to begin with, and he slams a shoulder into Doom's gut. Hawk stands up, carrying the Hardcore champion like a sack of dirt. The big man walks down the street and rams Doom's back into a lamppost before continuing. Hawk rounds a corner, shifts Jimmy into a military press, and launches the Hardcore champ. The Straight-Breader picks himself up and tries to cross the street, but is blocked by a constant stream of traffic. Doom turns around to find Hawk charging. The challenger blasts the champ to the ground with a stiff lariat and drops to make a lateral press. Kivell hustles over and makes the count.









"Kick out from the champ, and that's his unrivaled toughness showing through," Mak says.


"We really need to get his blood and urine tested a lot more frequently," King mumbles.


"King, are you trying to imply that Jimmy the Doom's vitality comes from a source other than his natural genetics?" Francis asks.


"Well, look at it this way. The last man that was as tough as Doom was Nathaniel Kibagami, in fact, he was probably tougher, and the Slaughterer was a known pill-popper. I'm just covering all bases," King says.


Nighthawk stands up, pulling Doom to his feet as well, and then the big guy slams Jimmy into a brick wall. Nighthawk shoves the Straight-Bread Sensation away and begins to plot his next move. The Hardcore champ staggers up and faces his opponent. Jimmy adopts his Warring Monkey School stance and shuffles towards Hawk, who faces up the Straight-Breader. Hawk paws out with a jab, but Doom blocks and responds with a low kick. Nighthawk takes a step backward, and Doom chases after him, tripping the big man with a leg sweep.


"What a cheap move! Jimmy is such a scrub," King says.


"Hey, they didn't agree to not using sweeps, so Jimmy's just taking full advantage," Mak says.


"They didn't agree because neither man should be using sweeps! Do we have to agree to not punch each other in the face? No, because that's a cheap, scrub thing to do!" King shouts.


"Perhaps, but you might be forgetting that this is a wrestling match, not a video game, even if the camera angle makes it look like a two dimensional fighter," Mak says.


Hawk pops to his feet, enraged, and charges Doom. Jimmy covers up as Nighthawk unleashes a barrage of punches, but Doom manages to cover his head and torso up with his arms. The Straight-Breader sees an opening and slams a knee into Hawk's ribs, causing the challenger to stumble backwards. Jimmy presses forward, lashing out with a flurry of palmstrikes. Hawk turns tail and runs, and the champion is right on his heels. Nighthawk suddenly turns around and snares the rushing Doomtopian. Hawk spins and launches Jimmy overhead with an exploder suplex.


"Excellent throw by Nighthawk! He caught Doom completely off guard and he's got a shot to really take advantage," King says.


"It's still early, though, King. Jimmy the Doom has no doubt weathered fiercer storms," Mak says.


"Hey, speaking of storms, what happened to Chris Storm? There's like a ton of dudes that just vanished it seems," King says.


"MADRAC!" Mak shouts.


Doom picks himself up off the sidewalk, only to get smashed with a knee to the face. Jimmy staggers backwards, clears his head with a quick shake, and sprints towards Nighthawk. Hawk begins jogging forward as well, then sticks out his right arm, but Jimmy vaults over the Pennsylvanian with a leap frog. Doom turns on a dime and rockets back towards Hawk. The Hardcore champ leaps in the air again just as Hawk turns around, and the big man gets smacked with an elbow right in the nose.


"Picture perfect corkscrew elbow from the champion, and that should pay dividends as this match progresses," Mak says.


"A little elbow to the schnoz? Maybe from Danny Williams or JJ Johnson, but even then, it's just one blow. You've gotta be shitting me, Francis," King says.


"No defecation, King. If that elbow causes some bleeding, it'll get harder and harder for Nighthawk to breathe, and it's pretty damn tough to win a wrestling match if you can't breathe," Mak explains.


"No fair, you've got a Star Trek computer in your chair that feeds you answers," King says.


Doom clambers to his feet, walks to the end of the sidewalk, and pulls down the stairs for the fire escape. Jimmy heads back to Nighthawk, and assists the big man to his feet. The Straight-Bread Sensation stops being friendly with a shotei to the chest, then whips Hawk into the stairs.




The Doomtopian runs over to the downed Nighthawk and leaps, dropping a knee across his head. Jimmy remains on the ground as he makes a lateral press.









"Nighthawk showing some toughness as well with that kick out, but Jimmy is still in control of this match," Mak says.


"Not for long, Francis, not for long," King says.


Doom stands up and climbs the stairs. Jimmy clambers on top of the railing on the landing and leaps, colliding spectacularly with the concrete below.




"You shut your dirty mouth," Mak says preemptively.


Nighthawk slowly gets to his feet and pulls Jimmy off the ground. Hawk rams Doom's head into the door of a parked truck, and then tosses him into the vehicle's bed. Nighthawk clambers up, slaps a chokehold on Doom, and clambers to the roof of the cab. Nighthawk lifts the Straight-Bread Sensation high in the cold Dallas air, and leaps, driving the Hardcore champion into the asphalt.




"What a devastating chokeslam from Nighthawk! That just might win him the Hardcore title!" Mak exclaims.


"About damn time someone else had that belt," King says.


Nighthawk makes a lateral press and Kivell drops to count.














"Shoulder up from the champion! Jimmy the Doom is still champion, at least for a few moments longer," Mak says.


"That's all, Mak, just a few more moments," King says.


***OnlineHost*** MannyTheTorpedoes has entered the room


MannyTheTorpedoes: ok bak


"What the hell is he doing here?!" King screams.


"I'm not sure, King. What's up, Manny?" Mak inquires.


MannyTheTorpedoes: i wanna watch wrestle

already watch all muppet babies


"I take it that you escaped your doppleganger from last time, right?" Mak asks.


MannyTheTorpedoes: yeah but i break him outta jail


"Why the hell would you do that? He tried to kill you, remember?" King asks.


MannyTheTorpedoes: manny freeing manny


Nighthawk yanks Doom off the ground and drags him down the street. Hawk crosses an intersection, and finds himself in front of a train station. Nighthawk nails Doom with an uppercut then launches Jimmy through a glass window.




MannyTheTorpedoes: owie

jimee need my blankie


"Manny, that thing's covered with small pox!" Mak warns.


"Give it to him, then," King says.


MannyTheTorpedoes: manny cherokeeing manny


Hawk enters the station and kicks Jimmy across the marble floor. Hawk pulls the Straight-Breader up and drags him outside to the platforms. Nighthawk buries a knee in Jimmy's gut, but Doom replies with a lunging Hand of Doom. The Hardcore champ whips the bigger man into a stationary train and follows in with a corkscrew elbow.




Across the station, a train begins moving, and Jimmy takes off for the locomotive. Doom leaps into a car just as it picks up speed and thunders down the track, leaving a dazed Nighthawk wonder where his opponent is.


"Son of a bitch! That train could be going anywhere, and this match has been reduced to a standstill," Mak laments.


MannyTheTorpedoes: i stan still in outfield an see butterflies

i like eatta whole stick butter


"Speaking of that, you had some health problems this season, and I hear you've gone on a more heart-healthy diet. Anything you reall miss eating?" Mak asks.


MannyTheTorpedoes: i like sof geez

manny brieing manny


"The fact that this imbecile makes more than both of us combined sickens me, Mak. Absolutely sickens me," King says.


MannyTheTorpedoes: you should take peptoes bibsmall

i fix you problems like i fix my computer

manny ITing manny


Nighthawk peels himself off the train and looks around for his opponent. Finding no sign of the Doomtopian, Hawk simply begins walking down the tracks. The Straight-Bread Sensation rolls from underneath a train behind Nighthawk and pastes him with a dropkick to the head. Hawk goes tumbling and Jimmy gives chase.


"Doom must have gotten off the train the instant it started moving. Jimmy pulled the old switcheroo and it worked flawlessly," Mak says.


MannyTheTorpedoes: i pull switchers in airplang an it almost go down


"Pity it didn't," King says.


Nighthawk recovers before Doom reaches him, and the Pennsylvanian whips around, catching the incoming Doomtopian with a superkick. Hawk sweeps Jimmy up and drives him into the turf with a brainbuster. Kivell rushes over and makes the count.














"Shoulder up from Doom! That wasn't quite the Power Dive, but it still looked rough," Mak says.


"Nighthawk should go for another brainbuster. That should put Doom away," King says.


Hawk yanks Jimmy up and heeds King's advice, lifting the Hardcore champion for another brainbuster. Nighthawk plants the Straight-Bread Sensation into the ground a second time and makes a lateral press.














"Another kick out from Doom! Nighthawk must be doubting his abilities right now," Mak says.


"You honestly believe that, Mak? Nighthawk is in firm control of this match and nothing is changing that," King says.


MannyTheTorpedoes: bob saget was in control on full house

he was a good tv dad

danny being danny


Nighthawk yanks Jimmy to his feet once more and prepares for a third brainbuster. Hawk lifts, but the Hardcore champion slips behind him. Nighthawk spins around, only to eat a massive roundhouse to the head.




Doom boots Hawk in the gut and grabs hold of the big guy's hair. Jimmy drags Nighthawk to the railroad tracks and jumps, slamming Hawk's face into the metal.




Jimmy flips Hawk over and makes a cover.














Kivell springs to his feet and waves three fingers to the camera.


Ding! Ding! Ding!


"Ladies and gentlemen, the winner and still Hardcore champion, the Straight-Bread Sensation, JIMMY THE DOOM!" Funyon shouts.


"An unexpected and out of nowhere Doomfactor seals the match for Jimmy! That was a brutal contest, King," Mak says.


"Fuckin' Doomtopians," King grumbles.


MannyTheTorpedoes: jimmy bein jimmy


***OnlineHost*** MannyTheTorpedoes has left the room


With that, Smarkdown fades to a commercial for the color orange.


Told you that script was lousy.

Edited by chirs3

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“The show must go on” by Queen roars throughout The Reunion Arena, letting everyone know that Iron Mike Cross is about to make his way down the ramp. The Suicide Machine makes no expression as the fans boo his name.


“This is a big opportunity for Cross,” Mak says. “He’s tried more than once to topple not only Akira but the International Title,”


“Why the hell is he even getting this title shot?” King asks. “Isn’t he 0-2 since returning?”


“That may be true, but these two have a score to settle, and an injury to Akira never quite let them.”


“May be true? No, Mak, that’s true. Cross hasn’t done shit. We could have at least made this a non-title match,”


“Making his way down to the ring, from Detroit Michigan…IRON….MIKE….CROSSSSSSSSS!”





“King, Akira has never been one to turn down a title defense. He crammed a ton of defenses into his Cruiserweight title reign”


“And, what was it, zero into his Tag team title reign with CROSS? What are these two doing sub-main eventing?”




“Watch ya step kid!” Mak sings along, earning a sigh from his broadcast partner. As Mak raps, Kaibatsu comes out of the curtain bearing the International Gold around his waist.


“It’s been 15 days now for The Divine Wind as International Championship, and this is his first defense. Prediction, King?”


“Ugh, I’m hoping for a double dq or something…anythin….just not 15 minutes of mindless spot monkey drivel.”


“Really? Interesting. I’m leaning more towards Akira.”




Cross and Akira circle each other around the ring before locking up collar and elbow style. Cross, easily the stronger of the two, over powers The Divine Wind and shoves him into the ropes, letting go, and following up with a big knife edged chop to the chest, before whipping The Divine Wind into the opposite ropes. Akira bounces off the ropes, but stops suddenly, as a noise surprised the whole arena. “When you wish upon a star” blasts through the pa system, and The Disney Sponsored Alan Clark runs down the ramp.


“What the hell?” Mak asks. “Clark’s tight contract won’t allow this. He’ll get canned.”


“Not that anyone’ll be disappointed”


Clark runs into the ring, and sprints towards the International Champion, nailing him with the clothesline. The act startles Cross, and he stands motionless in the center of the ring. Clark runs towards him to and dropkicks him out of the ring.




“Ladies and Gentleman this contest has gone to a no-contest!”





“Thank god” King sighs.


Alan Clark flees the scene, running back up the ramp, as the segement fades, with a lot of fans scratching their heads.

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The Reunion Arena is alive and well – well, not the actual arena. That would be pretty weird – a living arena. Although they’ve done a living house, before, so I guess it’s not TOTALLY out of the question…


Anyway, the FANS in the Reunion Arena are alive and well (thank God for that, or we’d have a hell of a lawsuit on our hands), screaming as loud as they can as the next match’s marquee appears on the Smarktron:




JJ Johnson vs. Landon Maddix








That last one may or may not have been King.


“Did you just say ‘yippee’?”


“Er, no, it was this chick behind me.”


“Oh,” Mak says, turning towards the camera with a knowing grin. “You mean the topless chick?”


“YIPPEE-“ King whirls around…





“I hate you, Mak.”


“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please?” All eyes turn to Funyon, standing dead center of the ring, holding an index card that was just passed to him.


“Who here is ready to see Landon Maddix battle JJ Johnson?”




“Who here is ready to see the final match of the Cold Front Classic?”




“Who here is willing to shell out 35 bucks for it?”




Funyon looks just as confused as that word I just wrote up there, doing a double take at the card. He jogs over to the… guy… and shouts something that sounds suspiciously like “What, the duck is his?”


Suddenly, the Smarktron whites out, and a few moments later everyone’s favori-




Don’t interrupt. Everyone’s favorite CEO, Joseph Peters, appears on the screen, sporting an all-too-familiar scowl.


“Damn it Funyon,” he growls, “can’t you do anything right? You were supposed to – never mind. Listen up, Dallasi… Dallasins… Da… Dallasians? What ever, who cares. Am I correct in assuming that you guys came tonight to see this Main Event?”




“Well, I regret to inform you – actually, no I don’t. I’m pleased to inform you that this match will no longer be taking place.”


“WHAT?!” King and Mak and, well, everyone, all shout in unison, before engaging in generic “rabblerabblerabbblerabble” crowd noise.


“Well if the thousands in attendance could pool their collective brainpower, you might just barely be able to make sense to the little line at the bottom of the programme we charged you 10 bucks for… ha! 10 bucks. That kills me.”


A disgruntled murmur, as a few people in the audience seem to be catching on faster than others.


“That’s right – this line right here,” Peters says, pointing at his own copy of the program. “Down at the bottom – right- right, there you go. The one that says:


Card is subject to change.




“Seriously, did you really think we’d put the FINALS of the Cold Front Classic on free-TV? Some of you people bought tickets just for this match – that tells me people would be willing to order PAY PER VIEWS for this match. Do the math- wait, right, Texans. Hire a tutor to do the math for you. You’ll get it, eventually. Landon Maddix and JJ Johnson won’t be fighting here tonight – the Cold Front Classic finals will be fought on a stage worthy of their name – at the Name Not Yet Determined SWF Christmas Pay Per View!”


Most of the time people would cheer, but this group of fans in particular just got shafted out of an awesome main event, so they seem pretty indifferent to the announcement.


“See, Funyon?” Peters continues. “That’s how you deliver an announcement.”


Funyon, now just about as angry as everyone else in attendance, rips up the card and storms out of the ring, back up the ramp.


“Well, uh… I guess… that’s our show?” Mak laments. “I… I guess we’ll see you on Storm. Good night, everybody!”

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Backstage, Benjamin Hardy has found himself face to face with Alan Clark, who is himself sitting on an anvil case eating a chicken sandwich.


“Alan Clark, what was your reasoning behind running out and attacking the competitors in the International Title match tonight?”


Alan pauses from his chewing and looks over at Walter Reynolds, who sits next to him with, the larger man’s eyes almost pleading with the Happiest Guy On Earth to explain himself the way that Reynolds will probably have to explain Alan to his bosses in the morning.


“I have no idea what you are talking about.”


“Don’t play stupid, Clark. We all saw you out there.”


“I’m not allowed to do those things, Benjamin. It’s in my contract.” Alan reaches behind himself and pulls a briefcase up into view. After fumbling with he latches he opens it and holds up a few sheets of paper, each with the SWF and Disney logos all over them. “If Alan Clark does anything like that, he’ll be fired. On the other hand…” Alan again reaches behind himself, except this time he pulls up a small folder. From it he removes a sheet of paper, the Disney logo noticeably absent. “…if someone like Bloodshed, who just signed this contract, would want to do something like interfere in a title match – then I guess that’s perfectly acceptable. Now if you don’t mind, I want to finish my sandwich and watch the main event. Thank you.”


The scene fades out on a befuddled Benjamin Hardy and a shocked Walter Reynolds, who snatches the folder from Alan’s hands, motioning to various things with his mouth full as Alan assures him that everything is just fine.

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