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SWF Lockdown 12-16-06

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Live, Friday, December 15th, from the Mississippi Coast Coliseum in Biloxi, Mississippi!
(7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings)
(Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3)



"The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu © vs. "The Barracuda" Johnny Dangerous
-> The former International Champion collects his rematch, and Akira Kaibatsu seeks to defend his championship against a man who's held just about every belt he's ever come in contact with! Watch as two of the SWF's most exciting competitors fight for the prize!
Rules: Standard

"Mr. Cold Front Classic" JJ Johnson vs. Devin Benson

-> This match never happened! Actually, it did, but unfortunately, we're not sure what happened to the tape. As a result, Devin Benson has sort of faded from the SWF fans' minds. Hopefully, the stage he's being offered tonight will remind them just why they cheered for him!
Rules: Pure.

"The Dean of Professional Wrestling" Jay Hawke vs. Jimmy the Doom ©

-> Can you say "out of your element?" I knew you could! Jay Hawke isn't interested in the Hardcore Championship, and apparently, neither is anybody else. Hawke's being forced to work outside his comfort zone for two reasons: One, we think it'll be interesting to watch, and two, he can't get himself disqualified! Have fun, Dean Hawke!
Rules: Anything goes


Zyon © vs. Alan Clark

-> Clark's been impressive of late. That's all the justification we need for this one!
Rules: Cruiserweight rules.

Tom Flesher vs. Nighthawk

-> Tom's not happy about this one, but Nighthawk sure is. After all, as far as he's concerned, he's just been given the opportunity to smack a cruiserweight around for ten minutes. Let's see what this one brings, and whether Tom comes out of it with a win, or merely a black eye.
Rules: Standard.

"Mister Swiss" Victor Herzog vs. Insane Luchador

-> Mister Swiss is neutral, but after the economic sanctions imposed against him by Tom Flesher last week, you have to believe he's interested in learning as much about Realpolitik as he can to show Tom that might makes right! Are we out of jurisprudence puns yet?
Rules: Anything goes!

Edited by chirs3

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"The next match is a HARDCORE MATCH O' DOOOOOOOOM and is scheduled for one fall!" Funyon bellows into the microphone to indicate the upcoming match's stipulations.







The crowd works itself into a frenzy as the familiar words echo across the loudspeaker. Confetti and smoke drift to the floor to reveal Victor Herzog at the top of the ramp. After standing for a minute to soak in the crowd's positive reaction, he slowly saunters down the ramp.


"Now making his way to the ring. From Geneva, Switzerland. Weighing 255 pounds, he is The Swiss Army Knife, VICTOOOOOR HERZOG!"


Francis: As you know King, Vic was challenged to a match by Tom Flesher and made a fool of on national television.


King: Don’t even give me that “he’s innocent” routine. He disrespected a SWF LEGEND, a man who has held all kinds of accomplishments. Who does he think he is? He hasn’t been here for a month and he thinks he’s better than everyone else! Must be a Swiss thing.


Victor grabs the bottom rope to hoist himself to the outside of the ring. He slips in between the ropes to enter the ring and walks over to Funyon to request the microphone. As Vic takes the microphone from his hand and presses it near his face he lets out a big




Even through his broken English the crowd lets out a big cheer for the big European. He waits for the reaction to die down a bit before continuing to speak, in a much more serious manner.


"Now. As many of you may know, Last week, "The Superior One" Tom Flesher, asked my opinion on a subject he felt very serious about. The Swiss, we have a very dedicated tradition of keeping Neutrality, but Herr Flesher obviously cares not. He challenged me to a bout that he obviously had no intention of wrestling in. He knocked me in the head with COMMON CENTS! The only reason I agreed to have this match tonight, is to let that coward know, that I am not intimidated by his cheap weapons and I WILL WIN IN ANY TYPE OF CONTEST!”


Victor, now agitated at the thought of the past week, slams the mic to the mat in a fit of anger. The mic feeds back the THUD caused by the impact of the mic meeting the mat as Herzog wanders to his corner to focus on his next opponent.


Francis: Victor seems very frustrated with the recent events that have happened.


King: I would too if I had just made as big of a mistake as he has.


The loudspeakers blare with the music of “Man In The Box” as Black and Red pyro goes off in every which direction, obscuring the entrance area. As the smoke dies off into the air, it unveils Insane Luchador standing still, hand raised above head, with a lightube clutched firmly in it. He slowly makes his way down the ramp with an unnerving smile plastered on his scarred face.




King: Victor should stop focusing on Flesher and start focusing on this guy. I wouldn’t be surprised if that ox got his pretty face smashed in here by IL. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have a weapon with you in a HARDCORE match. How stupid is this Victor guy, Mak?


IL makes his way to his corner, light tube still grasped in his right hand, eyeing his adversary with a watchful eye. Despite the fact that he is naked in the environment of a hardcore match, Victor has a look of calm confidence on his face.




Francis: And with that bell, this Hardcore Match of Doom has begun and you can’t help but think that, with Victor’s limited experience in anything goes style matches, and IL being a hardcore wizard, that things don’t look good for the boy from Geneva.


King: Oh no, he’ll be just FINE. Apparently he’s thinks he’s made out of titanium. That’s gotta be it.


IL wastes no time trying to dispose of Victor as he rushes to the opposite corner with his light tube in the air waving, like a baseball player swinging for the fences. Vic, still with a look of complete calm on his face, ducks the swinging madman’s attempts to rearrange his face, barely missing getting smacked in the head. IL, missing his target, smashes the light tube over the turnbuckle, spraying glass everywhere.


Victor, acting quickly, sneaks behind the glass scratched IL and rolls IL’s legs over his head.










King: WHAT? Did I just see that? Herzog came into this hardcore match without a wweapon again Insane Luchador and won in less than a minute?


Francis: I think I speak for everyone here when I say, I’m quite shocked.


Fade out

Edited by chirs3

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“You needed to see me?”


The figure of Alan Clark appears in the doorway of Joseph Peters, who seems to be in his usual foul mood.


“Yes, Clark. Get in here.”


“Are you having a magical—“


“Cut the crap.” Peters cuts off the cheerful ice-breaker as Alan and Walter Reynolds walk in, with the bodyguard staying by the door as Clark sits. “You know, Christmas is coming up, our last show of the year. From what I’ve seen, it seems you are itching to get your hands on the International Championship.”


“Well look who has it,” Clark’s look screams ‘unimpressed’, “That Ka-whatsits doesn’t look like he’s worthy of a championship that I’ve held seventy-five percent of over the course of my career.”


“Well he defeated Johnny Dangerous for it, and if my memory serves me correctly you have never beaten him. Not once.” Having this factoid thrown into his face, the viewing audience can see the anger brewing behind the Disney-sponsored eyes of Alan Clark.


“That was two years ago! Almost three! I’m not exactly the same person now that I was back then…”


“Well, while that might be true, your actions as of late have put me in quite the conundrum. What do you think I should do?”


“I want a shot at that belt, that’s what you should do!” Peters simply shakes his head, much to Clark’s dismay.


“What about Michael Cross?”


“Who cares about Michael Cross?”


“Akira does, and you should. I saw what happened on Storm and I don’t exactly think he’ll sit idly by and let you take a title shot that he has been fighting for. So I can’t just hand you an International Title shot.” Peters pauses, giving Alan a moment to let out some steam, “But what I can do, because I don’t want you just running in to the match and breaking it up again.”


“That’s wasn’t me---“


“I told you to cut the crap! Now here’s the deal, you want the title shot and Cross wants Akira. So that’s what we are going to do….” Peters pauses once again. “…if Akira can survive facing Johnny Dangerous tonight with the International Title on the line” Alan looks to be in shock.




“Sorry you had to hear it from me, Clark, but I always have a backup. Next week, it’ll be Alan Clark…taking on Akira Kaibatsu…AND Michael Cross, in a Triple Threat match.”


“Aren’t those matches usually no disqualifications? You know I can’t do those. It’s in my contract.”


“Oh, I know. You can be disqualified. They can’t.”


“That’s not fair! That’s not fair and you know it.” Alan is ready to explode, but Peters simply leans back in his chair.


“If you…or Bloodshed…or whatever…wants to ruin my matches and acts quite un-Disney-like when he’s in my ring—“… “I’M FOLLOWING MY CONTRACT!!”… “—you will have to abide by my rules.”


“What if Akira loses the title tonight? Then do I get to face Johnny at the Pay-Per-View instead?” The wheels in Alan’s head, and possibly Bloodshed’s, begin to turn, but once again Peters shakes his head.


“No, if Johnny wins tonight, then the match at the Pay-Per-View will be a contendership match and will face Johnny sometime after our New Years break. Take it or leave it, Clark. Take it or leave it. And don’t be getting any ideas. The only time I want to see you or anyone that looks like you is in your match tonight.”


“Fine, I’ll take it. If that’s what it takes to get my hands on that title, then so be it.” Alan stands to leave, and is almost out the door when Peters’ voice chimes…


“Think of it as an early Christmas present, okay?”


“Sure, whatever.” Clark grabs the door handle and pulls it shut “And really, have a MAGICAL day…”

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“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall! The first competitor...”


Tom Petty’s “Learning to Fly” kicks up on the speakers, and the Mississippi fans begin half-cheering and half-booing. Flames erupt on the stage, and as they die down, the figure of Nighthawk begins to show through them.


“Hailing from Hawk Mountain, Pennsylvania, accompanied by Falcon and weighing in at 285 pounds... this is NIGHTHAWK!”


The pair walks stoically to the ring, with Nighthawk entering first and Falcon remaining on the outside. As his music fades out, Nighthawk loosens up in his corner.


“And his opponent...”


“... is just about to show the world,” says James Matheson, “once again that size doesn’t matter. He’s been kicking ass on cruiserweights since he strutted onto the scene, and he’s embarrassed more than his fair share of heavyweights along the way. Tonight’s just another in the long line for the man who defined the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation, TOM FLESHER!”


As Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” begins with a percussive blast, many of the fans begin booing, but a significant amount cheer the former World Champion as he struts through the curtain in his warm-up suit. With a no-nonsense look on his face, he makes it to the ring before stripping off his entrance suit and settling into his corner. Referee Eddy Long, remembering last week’s assault of Victor Herzog, immediately demands to check him.


“Smart move by the SWF’s senior official, Eddy Long,” says “the Franchise” Mak Francis, as Long drops down to Flesher’s knees to begin checking his kickpads. As Flesher rolls his eyes, Long makes his way up to the singlet, then checks the tape on Flesher’s wrist carefully. Finding nothing, Long eyes Flesher suspiciously before turning to call for the bell.






With Long’s back turned, Flesher reaches back over the top rope, and James Matheson hands him a small object which Flesher promptly stuffs into the leg of his singlet.


“Oh, come on, what IS this crap?” asks Mak.


“What crap?”


“Matheson just passed him a chain, or brass knucks, or something!”


“I don’t know where you get these ideas, Makenzie,” says the Suicide King, “but I certainly didn’t see anything untoward happen. Eddy Long just checked him, for pete’s sake!”


As Flesher angles toward the center, Nighthawk decides to cut to the chase and hammers him with a stiff right hand! Flesher staggers backwards, caught by surprise, but Nighthawk hits him with another right, a left, and another right! Tom backs into a corner, only to have Nighthawk grab him by the neck. Nighthawk lifts the 231-pound Flesher off his feet, and with a deft turn, drives him to the mat with a standing chokeslam! Flesher arches his back as he hits the mat, but rolls to his knees.


“Nighthawk opens this one up with a bang,” says Francis. “He’s a big guy, but he knows what he’s doing. He watches films. He knows what Tom Flesher did against Frost and the Boston Strangler, so he knows how Flesher wrestles heavyweights. Tom can’t slip anything past either of the Predators.”


As Flesher starts to get to his feet, Nighthawk grabs him by the head and pulls him into a front facelock. He starts to lift Flesher off the mat, but the technical master blocks the suplex by hooking his leg around Nighthawk’s. Nighthawk starts the lift again, but once more, Flesher blocks it. This time, Tom reverses the motion and tries to lift his enormous adversary off the mat for a vertical suplex of his own, but Nighthawk merely stands his ground. Flesher backs away, grimacing and clutching his lower back. He turns around, trying to shake out the strained muscles, but Nighthawk takes the opening to slam a boot into Flesher’s back! Tom staggers forward onto the ropes. As he rebounds off them, Nighthawk grabs him by the stomach and nails him with a sidewalk slam! The THUD echoes through the Mississippi Coast Coliseum as Flesher nearly bounces off the mat from the impact!


“This can’t be good,” murmurs King.


“Why not? It looks like Nighthawk’s been studying and he’s about to get an A!”


Tom rolls to his stomach, trying to avoid giving up a quick pin. As soon as he does, Nighthawk grabs him bu the hips and lifts him into the air almost effortlessly. He drops to one knee, slamming Tom’s lower back across it and dropping the Superior One like a sack of potatoes onto the mat. With Flesher in visible pain, Nighthawk makes the cover.





but only one, as Flesher gets a shoulder up easily. He rolls over, but before he can move, Nighthawk grabs him by the singlet and pulls him into the center of the ring. Falcon hops up onto the apron, and Eddy Long immediately turns his attention to trying to shoo her away. Nighthawk, meanwhile, casually reaches into Flesher’s left singlet leg and pulls out a bunched-up old-school Memphis chain!


“Oh, come on, that’s not right!” says the Suicide King, as Nighthawk wraps his found foreign object around his fist.


“What’s wrong with it? Flesh introduced the object, now Nighthawk’s just using it against him. Turnabout’s fair play!”


With the referee thoroughly focused on Falcon, Nighthawk unloads with a right cross the puts Flesher on his back in the center. With Tom stunned, Nighthawk stands up, then drives down onto Tom’s head with a fistdrop! Flesher convulses on the mat as Nighthawk unwraps the chain and slings it into the corner, where a scowling James Matheson snaps it up.


“Goddam Pennsyltuckian hick,” Matheson fumes. “I don’t know where he gets off.”


With Flesher stunned, still clutching his back, Falcon finally jumps down off the apron. Nighthawk smells blood, and he pulls Flesher up into a standing headscissors. The Nighthawk contingent in the crowd begins to cheer as his jack-knife power bomb seems imminent!


“You know this is what he was hoping for,” says Francis. “He might not have expected it to work out this quickly, but Nighthawk went for Tom’s back as soon as they got in the ring together. He’s a methodical guy, he just tries to pick you apart like the Andersons, and he’s been working Tom over since the bell rang.”


“Hmm,” King muses. “Do you suppose in all that film he ever saw someone power bomb Flesher successfully?”


No, I reckon he didn’t.


As soon as Nighthawk gets Tom into the standing headscissors, Flesher drops to one knee and hooks Nighthawk by the ankle. Nighthawk tries to shake him free, but Flesher quickly stands up, pulling the tree trunk out from under his giant adversary! As Nighthawk struggles to balance, Flesher takes care of him by clipping his base leg out at the heel, sending the Predator to the mat! Rather than go for a spinning toehold, however, Flesher backs away.


“What a jerk,” says Francis. “The first offensive move Tom gets in the match, and he won’t even follow up on it.”


“Maybe you’ve forgotten what legs are like, Mak, but Nighthawk’s are enormous. If you’ve got a sore back, you don’t want to fight the biggest muscles on the body of a guy who outweighs you by fifty pounds.”


Pick your poison? Flesher appears to have opted for a stand-up game, as Nighthawk starts to his feet. Flesher grabs him by the wrist, trying to pull him back for an Irish whip. Nighthawk merely keeps his feet planted, then reverses into a short-arm clothesline. Flesher ducks the lariat, though, and comes out cleanly on the other side. With a smirk on his face, he waits for Nighthawk to turn around, then reaches out and drives his taped thumb straight into Nighthawk’s eye! As Nighthawk backs away, Flesher drives a knee into his stomach, doubling him over. He pauses, grabbing his sore lower back, but digs down and leaps into the air, hammering Nighthawk with a flying knee strike to the face! The one-man wrecking crew backs away, trying in vain to find his bearings, and turns around to lean on the ropes. Falcon points frantically, trying to get him to redirect his attention back to the ring. Seizing his opportunity, Flesher grabs Nighthawk by the tights and rolls backward, coming up on top of the 285-pound giant! Flesher holds onto the trunks for dear life as Eddy Long counts
















As soon as the bell rings, Flesher dives forward, sliding out through the ropes and landing outside on the floor! The enraged giant leaps to his feat, unwilling to accept that result, but regardless of what Nighthawk wants to think, Flesher throws his arms into the air in victory!


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


Flesher smirks, pointing to the ring as he backs up the aisle.


“A brilliant tactical maneuver by Tom Flesher wins him the match!” says the Suicide King. “Tom Flesher had some rough times coming into the match, but he ends it with a victory!”


“Sure, he stole it like he steals every match,” spits Francis. “I’m real impressed.”


“You heard it here first,” says King, “Mak Francis still appreciates his old tag team partner’s skill! We’ll be back!”



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“Fans, it was less than a month ago that Zyon did the unthinkable,” the voice of Mak Francis chimes in as Lockdown returns from its scheduled commercial break. “he went the distance against Michael Stephens in a ladder match and procured the Cruiserweight Championship for the third time in his career!” Highlights of the contest flash across the screen, but the Suicide King jumps in as the figure of Gabriel Drake appears with his sights set on the champ.


“Don’t be so grandiose, Francis. Gabriel Drake won Zyon that championship! You saw it!” and sure enough, with one long pendulum swing, Michael Stephens was dropped into position for the Unique Youth’s Final Flash and moments later, the pain of defeat – something Stephens had not felt for almost a year and half. As the video fades to the live shot of the ring, it seems pixie dust has begun to fall from the ceiling.




“What the hell?”


Oh, I just can’t wait to be kiiiiiing!


“Oh no…”


Everybody look left!


“Look left, King!”


Everybody look right!


“What a disgrace…”


Everywhere you look I’m…

…standing in the spotlight!!


“Not yet.”


Oh I just can’t wait to be Kiiiiiiing!!




A lone spotlight hits the entranceway as pyrotechnics surge; revealing none other than Alan Clark, smile on his face and his right hand in the air, dressed as though he just came off safari in a khaki shirt and shorts with Walter Reynolds behind him, shaking his head in bewilderment.


“Ladies and Gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL and is for the SWF Cruiserweight Championship!! Coming to the ring at this time is the CHALLENGER…representing Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida… weighing at two hundred and twenty five pounds…the self-proclaimed Happiest Guy On Earth…





“It seems the crowd is not happy with the actions of Alan Clark as of late, but when you look at the smile on his face it doesn’t exactly look like it” calls Francis as another video begins, the words “Storm – Last Week” at the bottom as Alan Clark shoves his tag team partner Michael Cross from the top rope and onto Akira Kaibatsu before interjecting himself into the match, pulling the tights for a victory against the double champion team of Wasted Youth before being attacked by Michael Cross. “Reports are that Clark is still feeling the effects of that Iron Bomb, and even though he might have lost in that tag match, you have to know Zyon will be ready to take any kind of advantage he can.”


“Well of course he would, the same way he took advantage of Gabriel Drake to win that championship in the first place!” laments the Suicide King as Alan Clark slides into the ring and to his feet, removing his drawstring hat and handing it off to Walter Reynolds as the cheerful soundtrack dies down, only to be replaced by….


I’m born…


…I’m alive…


…I breathe…




The sold-out crowd’s attention goes back to the entranceway, as “Vitamin” blares through the loudspeakers and from behind the curtain steps the champion, a small smile appearing on his face as the fans around the arena cheer and chant…





“And his opponent…he hails from Elkhart, Indiana and weighs in at two hundred pounds….representing the team of Wasted Youth…he is your SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD…”The Unique Youth”…







Alan can be seen watching intently in the ring as Zyon makes his way down the ramp, pulling his championship from his waist and holding it up for the entire arena to see. After a pause at the bottom of the ramp to take a second look at Walter Reynolds, Zyon climbs the stairs and through the ropes, handing his championship off to referee Nick Soapdish, who keeps himself between the two competitors as he holds the title in the air once again as the bell sounds…


Ding Ding Ding!







“This Biloxi crowd is ready for action, King! Both men are sizing each other up now as they pace around the ring.” As the two men circle each other, Alan can not seem to turn a deaf ear to the crowd as they chant for the champion across from him. His head darts back and forth as Zyon stays focused, the smile growing across his lips as the sold-out crowd grows louder and louder…





“Let’s Go Zyon!” one loud fan in the front row can be heard screaming above the rest, diverting the Unique Youth’s attention long enough to bring Alan Clark in like a shark attacking a hapless victim.




The forearm shot from Clark sounds off as it connects with Zyon’s left temple, sending him into the ropes.




Alan Clark shakes off the jeers and stays on his task, bringing his left knee toward Zyon’s stomach as the champion tries to get back to the center of the ring. A second knee sends the Unique Youth into the corner, and a third catches him right between the eyes, the whiplash effect putting him in a daze against the turnbuckles!!


“And after an accidental distraction from a no doubt now guilt-ridden fan, the challenger has taken the early advantage in this contest!” With the crowd continuing to cheer in support of the champion, Alan backs away from the corner and moves across the ring swiftly before pulling a quick turn and cartwheeling his way back to toward the champion.“Wreck Of The Miss—NO!” Francis calls as Zyon ducks out of the way before Alan can even leave his feet, leaving the back of his head exposed for another hard forearm. Zyon stumbles as Alan hits the ropes, using his momentum on the rebound to pull the Unique Youth toward the mat by his hair, slamming his face down with authority!




“If this keeps up, Alan might give that fan tickets for a cruise or something.”


“You think a Zyon fan would accept something like that?”


“It’s free!” replies King as Alan heads to the ropes once again, bounding off the second rope and flipping backwards through the air in a perfect arc, sending his body crashing atop the back of the champion.


“Alan calls it his Walk In The Park, and that’s what this match is starting to look like, and there’s a cover!”




Tw—No! “Quick kickout from Zyon there, but it doesn’t seem like Clark is too distraught over it.”


“Annoying as he is, he’s a veteran, Francis. He isn’t going to be expecting a win in the first two minutes of the match! Get your head in the game!” squawks the King as Clark pulls Zyon up and whips him into the ropes…




Zyon comes flying back toward the Happiest Guy On Earth, who looks for an armdrag…





“Beautiful front flip out of danger!” the Francis calls and the crowd cheers as Zyon leaps out of the way of Alan’s outstretched arm, landing on his feet and pivoting his body back around to catch his challenger right between the eyes with the top of his boot!





Clark’s body recoils from the shotgun-like toe kick, putting him down on his back with his hands holding his face and a low groan emanating from his lips. With Alan on his back, Zyon wastes no time in dropping to the canvas as well, his right leg and the rest of the two hundred pounds of the champion landing square across Clark’s throat.


“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh…” The groan dissipates as Alan’s throat contracts beneath the legdrop before Zyon rolls his body around and into a pin attempt…






“Alan wasted no time in getting his shoulder up, but Zyon is also wasting no time in keeping the pressure on the challenger!” The Unique Youth stays true to his moniker as he intertwines his right arm with Alan’s and lifts him up to his feet before first dragging and then tossing Clark into the corner. Two quick kicks to the midsection follow, and as Alan doubles over Zyon reaches out, locking in a front facelock and quickly rolling his body backwards, snapping Clark straight into the mat with a picture perfect suplex. “If he can keep the pressure on, Alan might have to spend his Christmas holiday showing off his bruises rather a championship.”


“I’m sure that idiot would be happy either way…” mutters the Suicide King as Alan rolls to his stomach, arching his back in pain as Zyon climbs up to the second rope in the corner and leaps off….





“What the hell was that?”


“That’s the sound a human body makes when a knee lands square on its spine, and the smile on the Unique Youth’s face on my screen does not exactly look to bode well for the so-called Happiest Guy On Earth!” The camera zooms back away from the Zyon to show his hands up as he stalks over Alan Clark, who is doing whatever he can to get back up to his feet after crawling to the corner. On the outside, Walter wishes he could warn Alan of the champion just behind him, but a stern look from Nick Soapdish keeps his mouth closed, but the expression in his eyes is all the viewing audience needs to see.


“Alan Clark is going to shake off the pain. He can’t be acting like such a baby now!”


“King, I don’t think almost having your skull caved in is “acting like a baby” at all.”


“It might be if you are, like, being babysat by Thugg. He’ll wreck yo sh(bleep), you know?” Francis can be heard sighing as, in the ring, Alan finally is able to get to his feet and the glaze in his eyes and the ringing in his ears begins to clear to the sights and sounds of the sold-out crowd chanting louder than ever…






“Zyon making his move!” calls the Franchise as Zyon rushes in, leaping onto the back of Alan Clark, the splash sandwiching the body of the Disney Sponsored Superstar between the champion and the turnbuckle. The referee calls for a separation and Zyon backs off, only to watch as Alan’s body simply collapses out of the corner and into a heap on the canvas.


“Alan Clark might have gotten knocked out there! He looks out! Is he knocked out? I think he’s out cold, Francis!” The crowd watches on as Soapdish looks down on the challenger, only for Zyon to quickly slide into position for a pin!








“OOOMPH!” Alan Clark’s body contracts and explodes with as much power as it can, pushing Zyon all the way off of him and to his knees before Alan rolls backwards to his shoulders and kicks his body up, landing on his feet and turning around to face the champion, a smile on his face and his right hand outstretched, fingers curling in as if to say…


“Come on…Zip A Dee Doo Dah, bi—“ SMACK!


“I think Alan was playing possum there, but he let his mouth get a little ahead of the game and paid for it with a vicious slap! What a shot that was!” Alan’s spit flies as his head snaps to the side, only for his gaze to return with a smile brooding, the two men staring each other down.


“…bi(bleep)?” Zyon asks, pointing at himself, to which Alan simply nods his head – SMACK! – before taking a second hard slap from the Unique Youth!


“What attitude! Can he say those things?”


“Well, technically he didn’t say the—and now the two men are trading punches in the middle of the ring!” Mak is cut off as both men begin to fire off closed fists, neither man gaining much ground on the other with the hard shots, “Nick Soapdish is trying to get in there and break it up, but that might be like trying to break up a wolverine and a Christmas ham. It’s not going to happen!”


“I know which one is the ham…” The Suicide King can be heard in the background as the referee finally pushes the two men apart, only for Alan to simply throw himself back-first against the ropes and spring forth with a burst of speed, his sights set squarely on those of the champion!


“Watch out!” Francis exclaims as Soapdish backs out of the way of the speeding cruiserweight just in time for Alan to go airborne. “Clothesline!” Whiff! “No! Zyon ducks just in the nick of time,” as Zyon stands, Alan hits the brakes behind him and hops up to the second rope and bounds backwards with a flip, “Asai moonsault from Clark AND ZYON DUCKS AGAIN!”





The crowd can be heard chanting once again as Alan flips through to his feet as Zyon himself goes to the same ropes Clark just propelled from, the champ looking for a clothesline of his own!







“ILLUMINATOR!” cries out the Franchise as Alan Clark catches Zyon around the waist before lifting him in the air and turning around toward the center of the ring, the body of the Unique Youth hanging almost upside down over the back of the Happiest Guy On Earth before being snapped back down with as much power as Alan can muster, the back of Zyon striking the canvas and leaving both men laying on the mat.


“Now both men are down! Whoever gets up first right here might very well have the advantage!” All the attention is on the ring now as both men begin moving at nearly the same moment, Nick Soapdish standing over champion and challenger, raising his arms high into the air with each count…




“Alan Clark needs to get up! Zyon needs to get up!”




“Well duh, Francis! This isn’t last man standing!”




Zyon rolls to his stomach and starts to push himself up to his knees, his right arm reaching around to rub at his back and neck as, no less than five feet away, Alan Clark is almost on his knees as well, his arms reaching out for the ropes that are too far away to be of any help.




“I think Zyon is going to be up first! His back must be throbbing after that spinebuster slam, but we’ve seen him take more punishment than that!”


“Oh, and that idiot Clark hasn’t had just as much punishment laid down on him over the years – if not more? Just because he runs around singing show tunes doesn’t mean he suddenly lost his spine.”




“Well I never said that, King. We all know what Alan Clark is capable ooo--Zyon’s up! Zyon is on his feet!!”


“…and so is Clark!!”




The crowd erupts as both men get to their feet at nearly the same moment, Soapdish breaking the count as Alan tries to keep the pressure on the champion with a quick blitz toward Zyon, only for Zyon to simply jump up and plant his feet into Clark’s stomach and wrap his hands around his neck as he completes a backward roll and release---




“Clark trying to jump the gun, and for his troubles he got monkey flipped straight into the turnbuckles!”


“…and now he’s trapped! Look!” the Suicide King points at his screen as Alan’s left leg latches around the top rope, holding Clark’s body in the corner upside down, the blood no doubt rushing to his head as the champion gets back to his feet and turns to see his luck…


“The tree of woe is never a place you want to be, King, Alan needs to get out of there as soon a—“ SMACK! “—possible! And a sliding dropkick almost took the head of Alan Clark clean off! I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone’s head snap backwards like that!”





“And this crowd is loving every second of it! If Alan Clark could think straight, I don’t think he’d be too appreciative over this Biloxi crowd cheering for the champion over him…”


“That’s the least of Alan’s worries, I think” replies the Franchise as Zyon stands back up and looks down at Clark, still hanging precariously from the corner, his arms hanging down past his head. “He might very well be out on his head, King. And it looks like Zyon is going to do it again!”






The chants intensify as Zyon backs up to the other side of the ring once again, his eyes locking with the vacant expression of Alan Clark…


…as Walter Reynolds jumps up to the apron?!


“What is he doing! What are you doing you big lug!” King asks as Soapdish tries to remove Alan’s bodyguard from the apron. “And now here comes Zyon!”


“He’s just protecting Alan Clark right now. I mean, look at the face of the challenger!” The camera zooms in on Alan’s upside-down image before going back to Reynolds, who works his way down the apron and removes Alan’s leg from it’s entrapment as Soapdish tries to keep Zyon from attacking the big man. “He might have got Alan out of the tree of woe, but Clark is definitely not out of the woods yet!”


“Yeah, Alan has yet to move since that dropkick and with the way his body is strewn about underneath the turnbuckles the only movement he might be doing any time soon is to the loser’s column.” As the Suicide King speaks, Zyon moves to wear Alan lies and pulls him out from the corner before rolling him over and covering him….















“Can you believe it! Alan Clark was able to kick out!!” calls Francis as the replay shows Alan’s shoulder moving off the canvas mere milliseconds before the referee’s hand can come down for the three count, “and the right call by the referee there. Say what you want about Alan Clark, but he could feel the end was near and got his shoulder up just before the three count!”


“He’s just delaying the inevitable, Francis. That’s all it is.”


“You might be right, King, you might be right. Look at the smile on Zyon’s face!”





The crowd’s chants grow louder once more as Zyon stands to his feet and looks out in the crowd, raising his hands high above his head and pumping his fists before leaning back down to pull the slowly recovering Alan Clark up. With Clark still in a daze, Zyon is easily able to lift him off his feet and onto his shoulders, his body positioned with his spine resting against the back of the Unique Youth’s head.


“I want to call that an inverted torture rack submission, but no matter what name you give it, it looks to be nothing more than pain for Alan Clark!” exclaims Mak as the camera zooms in on Alan’s contorted face, not even a sound coming out of his half-opened mouth as his body is wrapped backwards around Zyon’s head, the arms of the champion pushing in towards each other.


“Alan Clark might tap out here!”


“I don’t think he even knows where he is right now, but after taking that Iron Bomb from Michael Cross as well as the thrashing he has taken here tonight, he might not be long in this championship bout!” Francis tries to play up the drama, but with no screams of mercy from Alan to be heard, Zyon simply lifts him up over his head and drops him down…





…driving the back of Alan Clark straight into his knee!! “Did you hear that, King?!”


“I wish I wouldn’t have. I haven’t heard a sound like that since Chris Raynor got his neck broken!”




“Zyon looks to be going for a cooooOOH what the hell!” Francis’ call is cut off as Walter Reynolds jumps up to the apron in a panic after seeing Alan Clark’s body unnaturally folded across the champion’s knee, causing Nick Soapdish to do his duty to try and back the big man up.


“Talk about protecting your job. He isn’t about to let anything happen to his paycheck, and after that, you have to wonder what kind of condition Clark is even in! He’s not even moving in that ring right now!”


“But look at Zyon! The champ has had enough!” Zyon pushes his way past Soapdish and gets into the face of Reynolds! “I don’t think he wants any of the Unique Youth right now!” The two men appear to have words with Soapdish and the ropes between them, the arms of Reynolds slowly going up in innocence and concern…




“And a hard right hand by Zyon puts Reynolds on the floor!”



The crowd erupts as Walter falls back down to the floor, landing on his feet and then dropping into the barricade, his eyes flickering from the shock of the punch. Zyon turns to the ref and wipes his hands, only to snap back into the reality of the match, his head whipping around as he throws himself atop of Clark and yells out loud for the count…

















“He got his shoulder up! The distraction from Walter Reynolds gave Alan Clark just enough time to somehow, some way summon up the strength to kick out and keep his own championship dreams alive!”


“Well that’s about all he was able to do. He got his shoulder up all right, but his arm hasn’t moved since it flopped back down to the canvas.” Soapdish checks over Clark, and seems to give the referee the right answers to keep the match going. “He’s just prolonging the pain.”


“Well, pain isn’t exactly something Alan Clark is a stranger to. He’s made a living off of it and no amount of happy music and legal contracts are going to change the fact that he can take a licking and keep on ticking long after anyone expects him to.” Francis continues as Zyon tries to pull the body of Clark up, only for the challenger to deadweight and drop back down. After a few attempts, the Unique Youth is finally able to get Alan to his feet, only to keep lifting…







…and slamming Alan back down to the canvas!!


“He calls that the Aero Driver…”


“I call that just another infliction of agony on the back of Alan Clark!” Suicide King tries to jump in, only to have Mak just barge on through with his call…


“I call that a cover!”

















“Alan Clark has to be running on fumes now. You can see the tank is all but empty but he just isn’t going to go out of 2006 a loser!”


“Unless he can get back up and show us some offense, he might damn well be a loser come New Years Eve, same as EVERY year…”


“Well, actually King, Alan Clark is 2-0 in the WF and the Junior Leagues at the Christmas Pay-Per-Views….”


“That’s not for another week! This is Lockdown, SWF television, FREE television, the only thing that is being paid any time soon is going to be that cheery fool’s doctor bills. You understand?”


“Oh I do, and it looks like Zyon is setting Alan up to get this one done…” Francis points to his monitor as the Unique Youth drags Clark into the middle of the ring, lining up his body chest-down exactly where he wants him. With the crowd chanting once again, Zyon moves to the corner and begins his ascension…




Bottom rope.




Middle rope.




Top rope.


“Get out your cameras, ladies and gentlemen…here comes the FINAL FLASH!” exclaims the Franchise as Zyon spreads his arms out and dives from the top, his body flowing through the air as flashbulbs pop in the background…










“He might have hit it, but the force sent both men rolling in opposite directions! Alan Clark almost fell out of the ring!” The Suicide King calls as Zyon simply rolls to his knees and half-crawls/half-dives for the downed Clark, throwing himself over top of him as Walter Reynolds rushes around to get a closer look, keeping his hands in the air and in the sight of the ref as he makes the count…























“Look, King! Look at Alan Clark’s left foot! He got it on the ropes! Zyon’s over-anxious pin so close to the ropes just saved the challenger from defeat!” The replay shows Alan’s foot making the rope, unassisted, just before the three.


“Zyon is NOT happy!! He looks ready to snap in that ring right now!” the face of the champion is indeed brooding as he gets back to his feet and sends his foot into Alan’s ribcage in a fit of anger before turning his aggression to the outside of the ring, pointing an accusing finger at Walter Reynolds.


“It seems Zyon is placing the blame on Walter Reynolds, when we all saw that Alan was able to get his foot to the rope completely unassisted! For once, instead of being underhanded Alan Clark was…well…over-footed.” The Franchise’s joke seems to fall flat as Soapdish tries to regain control, turning the champion’s attention back to the challenger, who has only just begun to move near the turnbuckle.


“Don’t quit your day job, Francis. This isn’t the Chuckle Hut” replies the King as Zyon finally does go back to Clark, dragging him up to his feet and shoving him into the corner. After taking a second look over his shoulder at Reynolds, Zyon lifts Alan up to the top turnbuckle, sitting him there before climbing up the ropes himself, pulling Alan all the way up until both men are standing perched on the top turnbuckle, Zyon trying to hold the balance of both men as he stares his challenger in the eyes…


“What is he going to do up there!!? This kind of thing takes serious balance. One wrong move and one or both men could fall all the way to the floor! That’s a good eight to ten foot drop there! Folks, now would definitely be a good time to tell you that if you ever set up a ring in your backyard like Ash Ketchum, do NOT try this!”


“What a tool…”


“Yeah, but, King, what IS he going to do?” Mak repeats his question as Zyon adjusts his body and wraps his arm around Alan’s neck before looking down into the center of the ring below. More cameras flash around the arena as every fan watches on…





“The Big Shot!! He’s going to deliver a….”




HOLY (Bleep)! HOLY (Bleep)! HOLY (Bleep)!


“MY GOD!” Both announcers yell out as Zyon flies off the top rope and crashes into the canvas below, leaving Alan Clark standing alone on the top, his left arm still outstretched as he tries to keep balanced. “Clark blocked the Big Shot, and Zyon paid the price!!” The split screen shows the slow-motion fall of the champion as Alan is able to get his hands up to Zyon’s waist and push out, barely keeping his balance.


“That Clark must have nine lives to go with his billion nicknames! What’s he doing now?” questions the King as Alan shakes off the pain is body has endured over the course of the match and looks out into the shocked crowd, rolling his hands over his head as if to tell them all what he is about to do…






The crowd’s chants take Alan by surprise, as he seems to be taken aback by the bias the arena is showing toward the cruiserweight champion. With Zyon starting to stir, Alan takes a second to balance himself once again, crouching his body down to prepare for the leap…



“Look at that!”








“IT’S AKIRA KAIBATSU! He just cracked Alan Clark in the head with his championship belt!” Reynolds sees Akira first long before the referee, but his panicked rush around the ring drew the attention of Soapdish just long enough for Akira to get the shot in and get back over the barricade before Alan can even hit the canvas. “And now there’s a count!!”





“What the hell?”




“Alan Clark is on top of Zyon!! What is going on?!





Akira Kaibatsu turns around in the crowd as the arena chants along with the count, only for his smile to change to a look of shock as he sees Alan’s body atop Zyon’s as the bell rings and Funyon’s voice booms…



Ding Ding Ding!!


“Ladies and Gentlemen…the winner of this contest by PINFALL and YOOOUR NEEEEEW S-W-F CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD…..




“Seriously, what just happened?” More than just Akira seem to be in shock as the replay shows Alan Clark’s fall from the top rope after the attack from Akira, the slow-motion kicking to show the corner of Alan’s elbow striking Zyon square in the temple, the shot more than enough to knock even the toughest of champions out cold.


“I Just Can’t Wait To Be King” blares out through the PA for the second time as Walter Reynolds pulls Alan Clark out of the ring, the bodyguard with a champion in one arm and the championship in the other as Zyon awakens, the glazed over look in his eyes unaware of his loss as he tries to piece back the last few seconds of the match, finally striking the canvas with his fist as he looks past the referee to see Alan Clark disappearing through the curtain holding his championship belt.


“It was interference that gave Zyon that championship, and tonight it was interference by his own partner that lost it. Could this be a sign of Akira’s own future as he takes on Johnny Dangerous later on tonight in our main event? STAY TUNED!”



Edited by chirs3

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Lockdown returns with the House of Marvelous set ready to go in the middle of the ring. The luxurious suede couch and matching love seat are once again brand new, this time due to the importance of this re-debut and not some crazy in-ring confrontation, thankfully, for Sir Marvelous anyway. The one constant remains the arch, and the ever-present velvet rope.


“As you can see from the set-up in the ring, it’s time for the next installment of the SWF’s re-debuting hit,” Mak Francis pauses for effect, “the House of Marvelous!”


“Don’t forget the return of Sir Marvelous himself, Michael Anderson!”


“That’s the only negative.” Francis mumbles. “The positives are that with the House of Marvelous back, we have a platform for our talent to speak their peace in a—err, somewhat controlled environment…”


“The constantly destroyed suede coach and love seat say hi.”


The camera shifts from the booth and the commentary duo towards the middle of the ring where Funyon sits at the sets mic stand, ready to introduce the segment.


“Ladies and gentlemen,” Funyon booms, “please welcome: Sir… Marvelous!”


With that, Notorious BIG’s “I Love the Dough” heralds the arrival of Michael Anderson, who limps out onto the stage, leaning heavily on his cane, and dressed in a black button down under a slick pinstripe suit, the look completed by a solid silver tie. As always, Anderson is accompanied by the massive Tracey Bruner; the bodyguard is wearing a blood-red Armani suit over a white shirt and a matching fedora, his eyes obscured by fashionable sunglasses.


“‘Tis the season and all that, but that’s one BIG Santa…” King quips. “And isn’t it in your contract that you’re the only black guy who gets to wear sunglasses indoors, Francis?”


“Just like being an ass is in your contract,” Mak responds, “but I have to agree, Brian. That’s one guy I wouldn’t want coming down my chimney!”


“Obvious black jokes aside,” King begins, earning a warning look from his partner, “I have to agree with you there!” The Gambling man adds hastily.


Marvelous’ ridiculously insincere smile threatens to crack his face in half, as he makes his way to the ring. He limps up the steel steps, and then waits on Bruner to get up to the apron and hold open the ropes for him before he enters the ring. Once inside, he shoos the lanky Funyon out of the ring with disdain and then waits for Bruner to unhook the velvet rope before he passes through the arch. Picking the microphone up from the stand, Anderson gives a mock cough as his music fades out.


“Welcome,” drawls Anderson, “to the House of MAAAAARVELOUS! Once again after a slight hiatus, I am your host, Sir Marvelous, and I just want to thank each and every one of you people for tuning in because the House of Marvelous wouldn’t have become the highest-rated segment of SWF programming ever seen… without you!!”


While it has been awhile since the last House of Marvelous interview segment, the fans definitely remember Anderson’s condescending tone and shit-eating grin, so they react accordingly:








“They clearly remember him and that last statement of his might be stretching it a bit,” Mak adds, trying and failing to mimic Anderson’s drawl, “but the House of Marvelous was getting huge ratings in the lead up to Genesis. After that though, not so much…”


“People just don’t know good television when they see it, Francis.” King retorts. “Sir Marvelous is back and better than ever and his guest tonight is sure to bring in the big numbers, since he was hand picked by our favorite host for this re-debut! This isn’t some ham-and-egger Peters pushed to get on the show dragging down its marvellocity!” King pauses for effect. “It’s Gabriel-freakin’-Drake!”


“Marvellocity?” The Franchise repeats with a quizzical expression. “That’s not even a word!”


Anderson soaks in the reaction and waits for the crowd to settle down. “But you’ll still tune in to watch me because I get you earth shattering announcements and landmark guests and this man is no different! After having been screwed out of both the Elimination Chamber and the Cold Front Classic tournament and then being left to his own devices by the powers that be, he decided to get involved in his own special way…”



The crowd voices its displeasure…





“He also,” Anderson continues, “after all his hard work, is the man who will challenge for the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Championship of WOOOORLD!”



That doesn’t go over too well either…






“Ladies and gentlemen,” Anderson finishes, “give it up for Mister Gabriel Drake!”



What kind of response do you think that got?










Yup you guessed it… more boos.



The Smarktron flares to life, flashes from The Beasts debut vignettes splashing across the screen, as the deliberate strum of ‘The Devil’s Rejects’ begins to build to a crescendo. Suddenly, Drake’s two cold hazel eyes stare out from the Smarktron, framed by his black hair with white highlights. An amused sneer crosses his face for a second before one hand reaches out and grips presumably the camera. The picture shakes violently, then blurs and cuts to black as the camera is apparently thrown into a wall. Meanwhile, the slow melody continues and the atmosphere is even amplified by the eerie menacing blue light and the flickering of several bright white strobes until finally…








…Gabriel Drake himself appears through the curtain!


“I am the bad one…

Distant and cruel one…

I am the dream that, keeps you running down!”


Drake pauses only for a second, to give the crowd a double middle finger and then saunters down towards ringside.


“With distraction…

Violent reactions…

Scars of my actions, watch me running out!”


The Smarktron behind him continues to flash scenes from famous wars and bits of destruction while showing him hitting a Musclebuster on Michael Cross, twisting Akira’s broken body in the Spite and Malice and deforming Landon Maddix’s feature by tossing him into a Steel Cage interspersed…






…Until a final picture of an unsuspecting Michael Stephens getting Speared out of his boots!


“The Devil's Rejects…


The Devil’s Rejects…”


Now at ringside, Drake climbs the ring steps and moves onto the apron, wiping his feet before swinging his legs through the ropes. Inside the ring, Drake looks the huge bodyguard Mr. Bruner up and down, who after consulting his VIP list unlatches the velvet rope.


“Welcome, welcome, Mr. Drake!” Anderson exults. “First, I just want to let you know how much of a coup this is for the House of Marvelous!”


Drake steps through and nods his head in response. Realizing he won’t be getting anything else, Anderson continues about business.


“We all know the Main Event will be Michael Stephens versus Gabriel Drake at the Christmas Pay-per-view…” Anderson pauses, winking at the camera. “Speaking of the Christmas Pay-per-view and earth shattering announcements, I, Sir Marvelous am proud to unveil the name of our December telecast! The name of our Winter Extravaganza! If that’s the question on everyone’s minds then the answer is that the Smartmarks Wrestling Federation is proud to present SWF CRIMSON YULETIDE!”




“That is a huge announcement, Francis!” King crows. “I didn’t even know that one!”


“Sir Marvelous actually delivered this time…” Mak acquiesce, after hearing the crowds’ acknowledgement. “Though how this guy found out the name of our December Pay-per-view, I’ll never know.”


“To put it in words you might understand, he’s got the mad hook up, yo.”


“And you heard it here first on the House of Marvelous!” Anderson notes with a smarmy smile, “but back to discussing our Main Event—with a match of this magnitude the real question that should be on everyone’s minds is… what will the stipulation be: A Street Fight? Hell in a Cell? Or a match that has, shall we say, a rather infamous history here in the SWF? A Last Man Standing Match perhaps?”


With the mention of each match the crowd pops louder and louder, until a silent hush falls over them at the mention of Last Man Standing. While Hell in a Cell may be in more dangerous confines, there have been few Last Man Standing matches in the SWF that have ended without someone seriously injured, retired or both. Marvelous tilts the mic towards Drake, smiling larger than before if that’s possible while he awaits an answer.


“No, Peters felt that the more rules we had the less likely this match would get out of hand.” Gabriel Drake begins a wry smile on his face. “So no, it won’t be a Street Fight, Hell in a Cell, or even Last Man Standing. Just Standard Singles, but there’s a lot you can do in a singles match and I promise to do everything I can to hurt him within those rules.” Drake finishes, his voice low and menacing.




“Well, there it is!” Anderson spouts, after the crowd subsides pulling the mic back towards him. “At SWF Crimson Yuletide, it will be Michael Stephens versus Gabriel Drake in a standard singles match for the SWF World Title and once again, you heard it all here first on the House of Marvelous!” He couldn’t care less that the match was confirmed two shows ago, he got them the stip and the name of the Pay-per-view so that gives him exclusivity. “I’ll be candid Mr. Drake. With the way you were screwed: first out of the Elimination Chamber and then the Cold Front Classic tournament, did you think you’d ever get this shot at the belt?”


Sir Marvelous angles the mic back towards his guest. “I must admit that I was surprised, even though I shouldn’t be. I never thought I’d get a one on one shot at the World Title as long as Toxxic was holding the strap, but he always did try to prove everyone wrong. And I intend to make him pay for it!”


“To be honest, Gabe—can I call you Gabe,” not waiting for acknowledgement one way or the other, Anderson continues. “I feel as though I should just open to the floor to you now. Give you a chance to finally tell your story and let these people know what you think of Michael Stephens.”


With a slight bow Anderson hands over the mic and the crowd continues to be vocal about its dislike of the challenger to their World Champ, Michael Stephens.








“These people letting Gabe Drake know what they think of him.” The Franchise notes.


“Nope, they got it wrong, that’s Toxxic.”


King’s joke aside, the crowd finally quiets.


“Thank you, Sir Marvelous.” Even Anderson seems surprised by that and graciously gives Drake the stage. “I think I should explain to you people why I’m out here today. I love to wrestle. I’m the son of a wrestler. I have wrestling in my blood and I am good at what I do.”







“Heh,” Mak chortles, “this is a very vocal crowd tonight, King.”







“Actually, I fuckin’ am!” Drake snarls out, but then quickly calms down. “But I digress. When anyone starts out in this business they all have the same dream. And that dream is to one day make it to the big time. So that brings me to Atlanta, Georgia and four wrestlers! We were four people; a group of kids that had big dreams and even bigger egos-”




A monstrous cheer erupts from the fans forcing Gabe to turn towards the stage and spot Michael Stephens coming through the curtain san music!! Standing at the top of the ramp, Stephens, clad in his personalized England jersey and Tripp NYC pants stares down at the ring.


“This is my time—my time goddamnit!” Drake shouts over the mic. “What the hell are you doing here?!”


The World Champ, belt around his waist, tag strap on his shoulder turns in a half circle pointing to everyone in the arena and then flips Drake the British V-sign with the nails pointing towards him.


‘That means fuck you from everyone, Gabe.’ Stephens shouts without a mic, still getting a huge pop from the crowd who in turn, start flipping him the V-sign as well!!


“Well, ‘tis the season for giving!” Mak says getting a good one-liner.


“Do you know why he plays to you people?” Drake asks, as Stephens makes his way to the ring. “I’ll explain it for you. If we were to define Toxxic as a state he’d be… Arkansas. And to him all you fans out there would be Mississippi!”




The audience predictably cheers at the mention of their home state.


“You fans are the Mississippi to Toxxic’s Arkansas because if you weren’t around everyone would agree he’s the worst person humanly possible instead of you goobers. Just like Mississippi being the worst state in the union saves Arkansas from that distinguished honor!”


What you’re hearing now. That’d be what they call nuclear heat.


“Set ‘em up and knock ‘em down.” King says with a fist pump. “These fans are more gullible than the intern who thinks we hired her because of her wonderful resume.”


By this time Michael has made it down to the ring and after climbing the steps, then entering the ring Stephens is stopped by Mr. Bruner, who after consulting his clipboard, tells the World and Tag team champ he's and I quote 'not on the list'. Michael Stephens looks to Sir Marvelous with a warning glare and Anderson quickly motions for Bruner to remove the velvet rope, then scurries to get a mic for the champ. This couldn’t have turned out better if he’d planned it! Handing the microphone to his new guest, Anderson looks back and forth between the two in what can only be called giddy excitement…


Slowly bringing the mic to his lips, Stephens gives Drake a look like ‘is that the best you’ve got’.


“What would that make you then, mate?” Mike retorts with his crooked smile shinning through. “The prison colony, Georgia?”




Drake mutters out a ‘very funny’ as the crowd gets all over him. “You’re right, Gabe, this is your time. But I just thought ya’ might want the chance to run me down to my face, sunshine.”


“Good, I’ve wanted to say this to you for a long time.” Gabe responds. “Where was I—oh yeah, I was talking about big egos and we did have them… some of us still do.” Drake adds. “We ate together. We trained together. We paid our dues together and I wanted to take us all to the big show, but you couldn’t have that. How would you ever become a SWF Grand Slam Champion or a four time World Heavyweight Champion with us around? With me around… to do it first? Jay Hawke was definitely right about that.”


“Are you bloody-” Stephens starts incredulously…


“-Don’t interrupt me, you son-of-a-bitch! You sit there and you listen for once!” Drake screams and after a moment recomposes himself. “I could have gotten us there, together. I was going to make our dreams come true. It’s why I tried so hard to keep us a unit even after you betrayed me—another in a long line of broken promises!”


Gabe pauses to let what he said sink in.


“So now, here we are. Only it’s just you and me. Karl and Livvy had their dreams squashed, but I wouldn’t let you take my dream away, so now these people boo me for it.”


Mike’s brows furrow at the accusation, but he stays quiet seemingly intent to hear his former friend out.


“We were supposed to be your friends, right? If we were your friends why didn’t we even know your real name, Michael Stephens? You destroyed three lives, using us as stepping stones and then you stabbed us in the back. It’s who you are. It’s what you do you piece of shit!” Gabe spits at Stephens feet in disgust, who is clenching his mic much more forcefully now. “Spike Jenkins and Zyon are just the latest casualties on a long list of people you’ve screwed over. How can you cheer this man who tried to take my dream from me? Who purposefully and willfully ended wrestler’s careers? I admit I’m no saint, but you Michael Stephens; you’ve done terrible things too. Why? Just to keep your spot on top.”


Even most of the crowd murmurs at that one.


“Did you know that I never really liked you?” Gabe adds with an odd smile. Not quite sad. Almost rueful. “You were an average wrestler that I took pity on because Livvy and Karl, irony of ironies thought you were a nice guy.” He laughs. “Heh, you were my project, but you got so much better so fast it was amazing. It took just a little work after class; an hour here, an hour there and then you were better than most of the boys. But you still weren’t better than me. It was strange how suddenly it became all about you. How you became the golden boy because of the hard work and effort I put into you. Dave knew I was the best in the academy, but I guess having wrestling in my blood wasn’t enough to work with William Regal.”


“Drake of course, talking about Dave Taylor’s Blueblood Academy in Georgia…” The Franchise adds for posterity.


“It’s funny… when Regal came to the academy they saw something in you that I never quite understood until now. It was the reason he decided to work with you instead of me. Do you people want to know what it was?” Drake asks the audience. “I overhead him tell Dave that you would get to the top because you had too. And I realize now he said that because nothing was as important to you as proving to everyone that you were right and they were wrong.”


“WHY DON’T YOU CRY ABOUT IT!” shouts a rowdy fan causing half the audience to crack up laughing.


“I haven’t cried a day in my life and I won’t start now!” Drake says shouting down the heckler. “I know that somewhere deep down underneath all the preening, posing, spinning, rationalizing and bullshit wisecracks you know you did me wrong. Everything Michael Stephens said to that jury may have been right, but you were wrong for saying it and you know it!” Gabe turns away from the crowd and looks Stephens straight in the eyes. “So, the real question is during all that time did you ever think to apologize? Did you ever think to say you were sorry? Sorry, for when you slept with my girlfriend. Sorry, for when you tore three—not four, but three real friends apart? Sorry, for when you sent me to jail? Sorry perhaps, for when they tried and failed to rape me there? Or sorry maybe, for the time I spent locked up while my father died and was buried without his son…”


The crowd cares now. Sir Marvelous practically foams at the mouth. This will be a ratings HIT! Even Bruner is looking now, his attention fully on the scene in the ring…


“Jesus Christ, are you hearing this Francis?”


Mak just nods his head in reply. Everyone knows those things all weren’t Stephens fault, but it’s a lot to digest. Even the World Champ himself seems to be a little shocked by Drake’s story, and he might be sorry, but does that excuse him for everything else he’s done? Mike doesn’t think so and parts of the crowd agree with him. But what about the others?


“No, you’re not sorry, Stephens. You never even thought to apologize because you don’t know the meaning of the word.” The Double champ angles his head to the other side as if seeing Drake for the first time. “But you will.”


Gabriel Drake fixes his face with a sadistic smile.


“I’m going to break you; body, mind and soul. Your body bloody and broken, your mind shattered and tortured and your soul… when I’m finished your soul will be weeping. Tears streaming down your crimson-stained face in the middle of this goddamn ring as you realize that for once, for once, it isn’t all about you any more.”


He pauses to step closer to the champ, almost nose to nose, as he continues on his rant.


“I’m going to take the thing most precious to you. Not the World Heavyweight Title,” Drake pokes the belt on his waist, “or even the often underappreciated gift of being able to fuckin’ walk,” Gabe points at Stephens head and then shift his finger down right over Mike’s heart, “but your belief that you are the absolute best this business has to offer.”


“After this match, I’ll be the man. I’ll be the man on top because I have too. And then Michael Stephens… Michael-Fucking-Stephens, I’ll bask in your—no, my spotlight and it will finally, finally, be all about Gabriel Drake for once.”


Finished speaking, Drake pounds the mic into Marvelous’ chest so hard that he falls to his BUTT! Brushing by Stephens as he exits the ring, Gabe stalks up the ramp and looks up at the Smarktron, seeing the scene in the squared circle. Michael Stephens has turned towards the ramp and his face is shown as the camera gets a close-up. Stephens face is different now. Not quite sad, but almost rueful. Turning his head to glance back over his shoulder one last time, Gabriel Drake walks back through the curtain. As We:



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As the show returns, Jimmy the Doom is already in the ring, and Jay Hawke is making his way to the ring to the tune of Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly". However, as the crowd does its usual chant:






Mak Francis points out something obvious:


"Jay Hawke's wearing a suit? He's not dressed to compete here!"


King: "Maybe this was turned into a business suit match and they forgot to tell Jimmy."


Francis: "At any rate, we're back and getting ready for this hardcore match..."


Jay Hawke enters the ring and asks for Funyon's microphone, and since Funyon doesn't do well with pain, he's all too happy to oblige.


Francis: "And the Dean of Professional Wrestling has something to say."


Hawke: "Time and time again, whenever this company needs to go to somebody to pop a rating or a buyrate, they turn to me."





Hawke: "When they wanted somebody to elevate Zyon above midcard status, they turned to me, and we stole the show at Genesis VI! When they wanted somebody to fill out the Genesis VII undercard, they turned to me, and Bruce Blank left me bloodied, beaten, and once again, I was in the show stealing match! And when they wanted somebody to keep Michael Stephens busy, they came to me, and I came *that close* to winning the World Heavyweight Championship."


Francis: "Where is he going with this?"


King: "I have no idea."


Hawke: "So when they told me they wanted me to wrestle Jimmy the Doom in a hardcore match, no problem. Obviosuly they need somebody to help fans the hardcore championship seriously. But when I found out when I got here that this was a non-title match? Well, that ain't gonna fly with me. So Jimmy the Doom, consider this to be your lucky day. I will not fight you without that title on the line, so you're going to get a win by forfeit."






Jay Hawke tosses the microphone at Funyon and leaves the ring, as the crowd chants "Jay Hawke sucks".


Francis: "Well then."


King: "Well, I can't blame him. Why put your body on the line with no reward?"


Francis: "More action after this."

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The camera fades back into the arena to the grinding tones of Nevermore’s “Poison Godmachine”, red strobes going off at the entranceway and highlighting the silhouette of JJ Johnson in the ring, pacing as he awaits the man the progressive metal blaring from the sound system heralds. A brief instant later, Johnson’s wish comes true, as Devin Benson bursts through the curtain, throwing his hands up to a chorus of cheers!


“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Lockdown!” grins Mak as Benson begins making his way down the ramp, staring down the man in the ring. “This upcoming match is one we tried to present to you a week after Johnson made his return in the Cold Front Classic; it was a hell of a contest, but unfortunately, we suffered technical difficulties, and we were unable to bring it to you folks at home.”


“So, naturally, we simply try filming it again,” scoffs King, Devin sliding into the ring. “JJ Johnson vs. Devin Benson, Pure Rules, round 2.”






With no further ado, Benson rushes Mr. Cold Front Classic, hurling his arm out for a clothesline! JJ Johnson is not so easily caught off-guard, and nonchalantly drives his elbow into the pesky junior heavyweight’s jaw – well, as nonchalantly as one can do that.




Benson reels, but shakes the cobwebs out of his head and rushes back in; Johnson reacts accordingly, pasting him with another elbow smash!





Benson drops to one knee, clutching his jaw and swearing at his failure thus far; where there is a will, there is a way, however, and he explodes upward, charging the by now annoyed Mr. Cold Front Classic, who ducks under the lariat, secures a rear waistlock, and launches Benson backwards…







“DANGEROUSGERMAAAAAAAAN!!” screeches King as Benson bounces off of his neck onto his knees, where he takes a moment to shake the cobwebs out of his head – more than a moment, actually – before deciding that locating his opponent would be prudent. Devin glances around, and his eyes find Johnson in the corner, arms crossed, tapping his foot against the canvas, mouthing something that looks a good deal like “That shit isn’t going to fly.”


“Ladies and gentlemen, JJ Johnson has sent a message,” says The Franchise with half-serious look, half bemused grin on his face. “They are going to be wrestling this match Johnson’s way, and, at least for now, there is nothing Benson can do about it.”


“Or, more accurately, ‘Listen, monkey, I’m in no mood for your gung-ho nonsense’,” suggests King.


“Well, I wasn’t going to put it that way…” sighs The Franchise, but he leaves it at that as Mr. Cold Front Classic sticks his hand out, flexing his fingers in what is the universal signal for a knuckle lock. Knowing that this is the realm of cruiserweights, Benson smirks, and wastes no time in locking fingers with the Canadian.


The boot that rushes up very quickly to meet his head makes him regret his decision ever so slightly.




Benson staggers from the force of the roundhouse, and his grip on the knuckle lock understandably loosens; it is a moot point regardless, as Johnson immediately abandons his grip before his head under that arm, seizing Benson around the waist, and lifting the feisty cruiserweight before driving him into the mat with a backdrop! Devin bounces and clutches at the back of his head as Johnson rolls away from the point of impact, quickly ascending to his feet and stalking the masked junior. Benson rises quickly, and the Ultimate Fighter quickly moves in, wrapping his arms around Devin’s head as he applies a sleeper hold. Devin writhes in the hold, cursing his mask as he struggles for purchase to get blood to his head. Johnson overhears him, and abandons the grip that is trapping his arm before reaching and grabbing the back of Benson’s mask before pulling it back in a makeshift choke!




“Oh, come on!” snaps Mak as Johnson gets a cocky smirk on his face. Benson is not quite so confident, flailing his arms about most desperately, trying to nail even a glancing blow on the Canadian. Fortunately for the cruiserweight, referee Chris Bacon catches on quite quickly, and he orders Johnson to break the choke. Mr. Cold Front Classic complies immediately, releasing his grip on the mask… and trapping that arm in a half-nelson as the crowd goes silent.


“Sleeper suplex coming up, and this match is going to end very soon,” smirks King. Benson realizes exactly what’s coming, however, and he plants his feet and muscles backwards, backing himself and the Canadian into the ropes!


“Break it, Johnson! Benson, that’s one!” snaps Bacon, and Johnson releases immediately, throwing his arms wide in almost an “I didn’t do it” pose. Devin collapses to his knees, gasping for breath, but Johnson knocks whatever he manages to get in back out again with a Cowboy Kick!




Devin flops forward, but Johnson lunges forward with his right hand and snags the back of his mask before stepping around and launching his shins into Benson’s face with Kawada kicks!






With Benson suitably stunned, it is the work of a moment for Johnson to draw him upright, pop him with an elbow…




…and then Irish Whip him into the nearest corner, Benson going sternum-first into the pads, knocking even more breath out of him. He staggers backwards, clutching his chest and wheezing, but his progress – or regress, depending on one’s mood – is halted by Johnson, who tucks his head under the arm of Benson and lifts him up!


“Backdroppuh!” shouts King, but prematurely, as Johnson instead sits Benson on the top rope, hanging onto Devin’s waist just long enough to prompt Chris Bacon calling for a second rope break to be taxed against the high-flying cruiser before letting go, putting one foot on the second rope, stepping up, and driving his other foot into the side of Benson’s head!




Johnson steps back down and helps guide Devin into a Tree of Woe as the masked man’s head lolls back, then strides along the ropes to the next corner before turning, facing Benson, and clapping his hands in the air.


“It looks like Johnson is going for one of his Ole Kicks here,” notes Mak. “He normally does this outside the ring, into the guardrail, but JJ is in control here, and I don’t think he wants to risk relinquishing that.”


“Well, Mak, also consider that two weeks ago, Johnson beat Jimmy The Doom with a backdrop off of a ladder. He might be looking to nail an avalanche backdrop after this facewash and seal the deal,” the Gambling Man postulates. “Alternatively, JJ just wants to kick him in the face.”


The chant is not starting up as Mr. Cold Front Classic stands in the corner, still clapping. Finally, Johnson sticks his lower lip out in a mock pout before rushing across the ring and driving his foot into, across, and through Benson’s face with a good ol’ fashioned bootscrape! Benson’s head snaps violently, and one leg comes off of its grip around the turnbuckles; Mr. Cold Front Classic is sure to tuck that leg back in place before he sits Devin back upright.


“See? Backdrop,” says King with a smug look, but just like the last time he cried backdrop, he is wrong. Instead, Johnson turns and backs into the corner before pulling Benson into a Canadian Backbreaker Rack, wrapping one arm around the waist of the smaller man before stepping out of the corner.


The crowd goes very hushed indeed.


“This… this is what Johnson did to Jay Hawke last week!” cries Mak as Johnson cracks his neck from side to side, taking a moment to bask in the overall aura of fear pulsing throughout the arena.


“JJ calls this the Diamond Head,” nods King, not frightened in the slightest. “It’s, with no pun intended, a real pain in the neck to set up, but hit on a man as spindly as Benson, it might very well break him in half.”


And Johnson finishes his dawdling, and tugs Benson down…


… only for the masked man to roll off of the Canadian’s shoulder, seizing an arm as he continues spinning and taking Johnson over with a rolling armdrag!




Benson leaps to his feet and throws his fist up to more cheers as Johnson rolls through and approaches, only for Devin to throw a superkick! The Ultimate Fighter sees it and ducks under it, but Benson is unswayed, turning to face hiss opponent… who has done some turning himself, as the Canadian finishes his spin and sends both men – one from momentum, one from blunt force trauma – crashing to the mat with a rolling elbow smash!




“ROLLING ELBOOOOOOW!” whoops King as Johnson slides over and hooks a leg on the spread-eagled Benson. “And here’s the cover!”


Chris Bacon drops down and counts












And then Benson muscles his shoulder up to applause from the crowd. Johnson simply pops his neck again and rises to his feet, pulling Devin by the mask up with him and seizing a uranage with his left arm. Benson is, as he slowly recovers, mostly dead weight, and it is with great ease that Johnson, with his free arm, tucks Devin’s arm through his legs and seizing a wrist clutch, then lifting, throwing…





… and dropping the masked man on his head with a spine-compressing Exploder ’98! Johnson immediately floats over and draws Benson’s far arm into a top wristlock, not bothering to hook a leg as he covers.












Benson shoots his near shoulder off of the mat, putting his back to the Canadian! Johnson grunts, and attempts to force him back down, but Benson slides away, floating under Johnson’s arm and trapping him in a hammerlock before forcing him onto his face. Without thinking, the Canadian reaches out and snags the bottom rope.


“Break it! That’s one, JJ!” commands Chris Bacon, and if the camera were zoomed in on the Ultimate Fighter’s face, it would see his eyes bulged wide open with rage as Devin releases his arm and dances away as well as one can having just been dropped on their neck. Snarling, Mr. Cold Front Classic hauls himself to his feet, turns, and rushes Benson… only for the cruiser to pop him with an elbow!




Johnson’s head snaps to the side, and the arena goes deathly silent. Then, as the Canadian’s head sllllooooowwwlllyyy swivels back into place, a chant begins to rise, the censors fortunate enough to catch it in time.


“YOU F***ED UP!”



“YOU F***ED UP!”



“YOU F***ED UP!”



“I know I’m supposed to remain impartial, ladies and gentlemen,” begins The Franchise, “but I’m afraid I have to concur with the audience here.”



“YOU F***ED UP!” roars King, with a look on his face similar to a kid at Christmas getting a Nintendo 64. “YOU F***ED UP!”


And then the chants are cut short, as Johnson pops Benson with an elbow!




Benson reels as the Canadian looks on, waiting for Devin’s response. His response is an elbow, ignoring the warnings of the crowd!




Johnson rolls with the blow, but immediately whips back into place to plant his elbow in Benson’s jaw once more!




The force of the strike takes Devin down to one knee, but he explodes upwards and nails Johnson!




Much to the shock of everyone, Johnson’s head snaps back, and he staggers! Elated, Benson charges to the ropes… and the Canadian immediately stands at attention before following a few feet behind.


Devin rebounds off of the ropes, charging back towards the center of the ring with his arm ready to nail a roaring elbow!


… except Johnson isn’t there. Benson screeches to a halt, and turns… EATING A ROARING ELBOW FROM THE MASTER, MR. COLD FRONT CLASSIC EXPLODING INTO DEVIN WITH A GRUNT!




Johnson jogs through the cloud of sweat created by the impact as Benson collapses onto his shoulders, his legs over his head! He begins to roll through, but Mr. Cold Front Classic plants a hand on each leg, trapping him in a modified prawn hold!













THR-NO! Benson rolls just in time out of the half-hearted pin, clutching his skull and continuing his roll until he falls out of the ring, putting distance between he and the Ultimate Fighter.



“I know it’s been said before, but JJ Johnson is absolutely manhandling Devin Benson in this matchup, King,” says Mak, shaking his head as Benson rises to his hands and knees on the floor in front of the announce table, also shaking his head. “The pure rules haven’t mattered much up until now, where Benson has 20 counts to get back into the ring if Johnson doesn’t come after him.”


“I don’t see that happening, Mak,” the Heartbreaker shrugs. “Johnson’s not the type to let a man get his legs under him. Oops, sorry.”


And indeed, as Benson rises to his feet, doubled over, Mr. Cold Front Classic begins his run to the other side of the ring, bouncing off of the ropes before thundering back in Benson’s direction, threading himself through the strands, elbow extended, just as Devin rises to his full height…





“ELBOWSUICID- AAAAHHH!!” shouts one Brian Applewhite as Johnson sails clean over Benson, ramming elbow-first into the announce table!




“ONE!” shouts Chris Bacon as the Canadian recovers remarkably quickly, rolling up to a seated position and grabbing at the arm that hit the table, hissing.


“King!” gasps the Franchise with a look of sudden realization. “That’s the arm Jay Hawke hurt last week; Johnson must have aggravated the injury with that suicida!”


“Well,” says the Gambling Man, “I’d like to think that diving into an announce table would cause new injuries if it didn’t aggravate old ones, except that the person in question is JJ Johnson. However will he take his unprecedented second straight Cold Front Classic with a wounded arm?”


Whatever the answer is, Devin Benson doesn’t really care, as he strides over to the Canadian and tugs him to his feet by his beard, prompting Johnson to pop him with an elbow!






Benson’s head snaps back, but Johnson’s arm snaps back into his body and he clutches it once more, swearing under his breath as he slides into the ring and rolls to the far side.


“Dammit!” snaps King, bitterly. “What the hell is Johnson supposed to do without his trusty elbow smash?”


“I don’t know, King,” shrugs the Franchise. “It’ll certainly be easy to see how he adjusts his offense to maintain his advantage over Benson, if he can.”


Benson slides into the ring and hops to his feet, shaking the last of the butterflies out of his head as the Ultimate Fighter rises, glaring a hole through the cruiserweight. Unfortunately, that hole is merely figurative, and Benson pays it no mind as he sprints across the ring, smirking as he realizes the Canadian is short an arm.




Only for Devin to realize that he’s short a few teeth, Johnson stepping in with a snarl before destroying whatever semblance of structure Benson’s jaw had with a superkick! Devin falls flat onto his back, almost comically, as Johnson backs up and hoists himself up to the second rope, giving a classic Yuji Nagata salute before taking flight, tucking both knees to his chest before thrusting, driving both feet into Devin Benson’s ribs!


…’s former location, the cruiser quick to roll out of the way before his tummy gets terminated! Johnson simply keeps striding, wincing as he shakes the slight ache out of his knees. Realizing his opponent is, you know, behind him, Johnson whirls… and watches as Benson leaps high, wraps his legs around his skull, and sends the Canadian sailing with a hurricanrana! Both men scramble to their feet, Benson rushes in, AND JOHNSON MASSACRES HIM WITH A LEFT-ARMED ROLLING ELBOW!




Benson goes down hard, but pops right back up, not nearly as affected by this elbow as the last few. If there are any doubts as to how groggy he may be, Devin is quick to disprove them, leaping very high and nailing Johnson under the jaw with a dropkick! The Canadian goes down, and normally, he’d pop right back up as well.


However, he landed on his arm. The Ultimate Fighter snarls with pain and rolls onto his knees, tucking his arms close to keep Benson from getting at them.



Behind him, Benson, on the second rope, gives the ol’ Yuji Nagata salute before leaping.


And Johnson feels two feet force themselves very stiffly into his lower back! Johnson reaches back with his right arm to grab at the place, and Benson is quick to react, wrapping it around his leg as if for a Majistral cradle; instead of diving, however, he simply maintains the hold, almost as if it’s a leveraged hammerlock. Mr. Cold Front Classic grunts in a mix of pain and frustration, and he reaches for the ropes with his left arm, only to find that they’re far out of his reach. The Ultimate Fighter snarls, and begins to roll left… and then Benson tips over, and the Canadian realizes that’s not a viable option.


“Oh, now I see it,” says Mak, snapping his fingers. “If Johnson tries to roll, Benson will roll over him and pin him, and that’s not a risk Johnson wants to take.”


The Canadian growls again, and then scuttles slightly to the left on his knees. Devin arches his eyebrow, and then realizes what Johnson is doing… but it’s too late, as the Ultimate Fighter simply rolls forward, his body sailing past his right hand as he tumbles onto his back, dropping Benson with a single-leg, scrambling over and gripping his arm for a juji-gatame! It is all a shell-shocked Devin Benson’s reflexes can do to get a hand up to grip his own just in time to keep the bone-shattering hold from being applied!


“Incredible!” lauds King, as well as applauds, clapping politely for the Ultimate Fighter’s ingeniuity. “Johnson shifts just slightly out of the hammerlock, and he rolls through into a single-leg and then his signature hold, the juji-gatame! Benson has to tap here!”


“Not if Johnson doesn’t get it applied here, King,” sighs Mak, and indeed, both men are struggling viciously. Muscles bulge, veins pop out, teeth grit as the two men struggle for alternate causes, one trying to prevent his arm being torn out of its socket by a man who wants to tear the other’s arm out of its socket. Johnson jerks the arm forcefully, but Benson hangs tight, and a twinge of pain in his right arm reminds him that while he might have the leverage advantage, he does not have as much strength as he’d like, and it’s going to take more than brute force to apply the hold. However, while Johnson thinks this, Benson uses that time to reach his leg up hiiiiiigh and drive a kick right into the Canadian’s wounded right elbow, causing a scream and a freeing of Devin’s limb! Benson rolls to his feet quite quickly, Johnson doing the same as best he can with his arm. His best is not good enough, unfortunately, and Benson hammers him with a forearm!




Johnson drops back down to one knee, and Benson nails him with another forearm!




And another!




And an-And Johnson explodes upwards, ducking around Benson’s elbow before popping the cruiserweight with his left arm!





Benson staggers backwards, but he’s in a hurry to regain momentum, and he rushes back in AS JOHNSON LEAPS SKY-HIGH, BLASTING HIM IN THE FACE WITH A GAMENGIRI!




The Ultimate Fighter just barely lands on his feet as Devin tumbles backwards, rolling up to his knees with a very dazed look. Realizing he hasn’t much time, Johnson sprints past the cruiser to the ropes before bouncing off, once again passing him on the way to the opposite ropes as he begins to rise.



Devin Benson hauls himself up to one knee, panting heavily and staring at the canvas. He hears footsteps, and realizes that when in the ring with a man like Johnson, paying attention to your surroundings is imperative. And so he looks up.


This is when Johnson leaps, knees-first, with three ring-runs of momentum behind him, towards Devin.






“BUUSAAAAIIIKUUU KNEE KICK!!” screeches King, leaping out of his seat as Benson tumbles to his side, and subsequently onto his back, his eyes almost rolling up into his head! Johnson scrambles on top for the cover, and hooks a leg!
































”Slaves shall serve as the crowns are falling!

As the apocalypse is nearing!

Slaves shall serve as the inferior life force and as undead rivals!”


“Slaves Shall Serve” begins roaring out of the sound system as Johnson rolls off of his defeated rival, quickly making his way to the outside of the ring.


“Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner…” booms Funyon, “J! J! JOHNSON!”




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Lockdown fades in with Johnny Dangerous and Akira Kaibtasu already in the ring. Refreee Ced Ordonez checks both men for foreign objects, checking carefully in Akira’s kickpads. When that’s cleared he turns around to the time keeper and motions for the bell.




“Well, we’re off,” Mak says.


“Akira’s first defense, in hopefully a short line of them,”


Akira doesn’t waste anytime, putting a strategy into action right away, sprinting at The Barracuda. He baseball slides beneath the Secret Agents legs and jumps up swiftly, putting Dangerous in a rear waistlock quickly. Kaibatsu then rolls backwards and pins Dangerous with the rolling clutch!












“Oh thank god,” Mak sighs. “We’re going to get a real match out of Akira this time.”


“Well, I wouldn’t say that. It should go on longer than 30 seconds though,”


“Akira’s got the right idea though. No one’s been able to escape his flash pins of late…he’s picked up several victories with them. Going straight to those is a pretty good idea on his part.”


Akira is quick off the mat, getting to the balls of his feet. He stalks Johnny Dangerous, waiting for the Secret Agent to get up. When that happens, The Divine Wind leaps onto The Barracudas back sideways, and launches him backwards, putting Dangerous in yet another pinning predicament, this time a crucifix!














“Akira’s scaring the crap out of the sponsors,” Mak jokes.


Kaibatus gets up quickly, and Dangerous does the same. Akira though, runs at the ropes when he gets up, where Dangerous tries to balance himself. Kaibatsu bounces off the ropes and runs at The Secret Agent, flipping over him, bringing him down and rolling him up with a sunset flip!


“Another flash pin!”















“Alright, I think Akira’s going to have to try and get some real offense going now. It was a good idea, I guess, kinda, but it’s not workin out for him at all.”


Akira realizes this, likely before King even mentioned it, and slows down, waiting for Johnny to get up. He does so, but is immediately met with a big Eurpean Uppercut, knocking him back a few steps. Kaibatsu runs at him and knocks him into the ropes with a forearm, before sending him packing into the opposite ropes. Dangerous comes bouncing back, still a little shaken up from the European uppercut he took seconds ago. Akira catches him between his legs and flips him sideways for a powerslam! Quick cover!











“Just like that! Good offense, crazy flash pins,” King says.


“Look at you King…complimenting someone. Are we looking at a new Suicide King?”


“No. Shut up.”


Kaibatsu picks up The Barracuda by the hair and begins to wail away at Dangerous with left hands. He tosses his forearm at Dangerous’ throat for one more European Uppercut before he takes the arm of Dangerous and wraps it around his back. He then takes The Secret Agents other arm and places it between the hole created by the arms, locking in Shadows Over Hell! Akira drops to the ground to make it harder for Dangerous to escape.




“Akira’s got Shadows Over Hell in on Dangerous!”


“Oh, even when he uses real offense it’s short! Jesus, win a real match sometime soon!”


Dangerous sits on the ground screaming in pain, his arms seconds away from breaking. Ced Ordonez drops to the ground, and whole we cannot hear him, we know the question. Johnny shakes his head no emphatically. As he shakes his head he screams though, as Akira squeezes tighter around the arms.












“Oh Jesus CHRIST.” King says.


“Well, at the Christmas pay per view we’ll get to see Alan Clark, Michael Cross and Akira go at it triple threat FOR the title, I guess, but…oh well.”


“Here is your winner and STILL International Champion…THE DIVINE WIND…AKIRRAAAAA KAIIIBATTSUUUUU!”


Funyon puts the microphone down as Lockdown fades out.

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