SWF Crimson Yuletide!

[chirs3 0]

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
SWF
CRIMSON YULETIDE~!

Live, Friday, December 22nd, from Santa's Village in Jefferson, New Hampshire!
(7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings)
(Send all promos/marked matches to chirs3)



-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

THE MAIN EVENT - SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP
Michael Stephens ©© vs. "The Beast" Gabriel Drake
-> A match with so much emotion behind it, the description was too scared to come out... UNTIL NOW.

(seriously, sorry about that)

After months of dancing around each other, after months of mind-games, and after months of false starts, Michael Stephens and Gabriel Drake will finally be going at it! The SWF closes out 2006 with one hell of a bang as one of the most dominant Champions in this Federation's history takes one a demon from the past... will Stephens be able to hold his head high heading into the new year? Or will 2007 be the the year... of The Beast?
Rules: Standard singles.
Send to: chirs3

-=-=-=-=-

COLD FRONT CLASSIC FINALS - 2/3 FALLS MATCH
"Mr. Cold Front Classic" JJ Johnson vs. Landon "La Cucaracha" Maddix ©
-> "Mr. Cold Front Classic" finally puts that moniker to the test, in the final match of the 2006 Cold Front Classic! If JJ wins, he'll be the first to man to take the CFC twice (in a row, even)... if Landon wins, HE'll be the first to take the CFC twice, and he might be earning a shot against the same guy he fought two years ago! Coincidence, or fate? Hell if I know, but it doesn't matter - one of these men will be headlining the Clusterfuck. The other... well, they'll just be fucked.
Rules: Best of three falls.
Send to: Ace309

-=-=-=-=-

SWF INTERNATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH
"The Divine Wind" Akira Kaibatsu © vs. Michael Cross vs. Alan Clark ©
-> Just when you think it's safe to go back to the Theme Park, Bloodshed sticks his... uh... bloody nose where it doesn't belong! Although I guess you could make a case that it does belong, since it's Clar- well, it's Bloodshed's, but it- damn it! You know what I mean!

In any event, this bizarre scenario has entanged the International Champion, Akira Kaibatsu, and International Contender Michael Cross! And since Mr. Disney isn't exactly the most popular guy in town, Joseph Peters is having a little fun at his expense, as Clark is the only one who can be disqualified!
Rules: Your standard triple threat, EXCEPT~! Clark can be disqualified, whereas his opponents cannot. Damn contract law.
Send to: HollywoodSpikeJenkins

-=-=-=-=-

SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP CONTENDERS MATCH
Zyon vs. Wildchild
-> That has to suck - one show away from the Year End Pay Per View, Alan Clark swoops in and snatches the Cruiserweight Title from around Zyon's waist! Now on the last show before we transition to the big 0-7, Zyon gets a chance to redeem himself, and earn another shot at the gold! But Wildchild, as impressive as ever, is getting his Christmas Bonus here as well (it's cheaper than just paying him)!
Rules: Standard cruiser, unless you guys would like to request something else. Feel free.
Send to: Ace309

-=-=-=-=-

SWF Hardcore Championship Match - Christmas Gift Match
Jimmy © the Doom vs. Jay Hawke vs. Devin Benson vs. Insane Luchador
-> Careful what you wish for, Jay Hawke - during the holiday season, Joseph Peters is more than happy to grant it! After forfeiting their non-title bout last show, we've learned our lesson and we're putting the title on the line, but we just couldn't let it be that easy! Jimmy's also going to be contending with the hardcore legend Insane Luchador and Devin Benson! And with one of the boxes containing the keys to a new Porsche, you don't even need to win the title to have a Merry Christmas here.

We should make the guest referee "Carless" Mark Jindrak, just to rub it in.
Rules: There are four gifts hanging above the ring (from poles, blank-on-a-pole-match style). During the course of the match, each wrestler is allowed to climb one pole and grab one giftwrapped box, then open it up. Whatever a wrestler opens is his Christmas present, and it's legal for him to use during the match! (One lucky wrestler will receive a brand-new Porsche 9-11. The rest of the gifts are for you to decide.)

-=-=-=-=-

OPENING BOUT - CANADIAN DEATHMATCH
"The Superior One" Tom Flesher vs. Mr. Swiss Victor Herzog
-> Why not a Swiss Deathmatch? Tom Flesher is a coward!
Rules: The winner is the first to record a combined ten-count pinfall, consisting only of pins of three counts or more. If a wrestler makes a cover, the referee begins counting as normal, but once he gets to three, he continues counting until the wrestler being pinned kicks out. The first wrestler to add up ten counts wins. (The ten could be 5 and 5, or 4 + 3 + 3, or 5 + 3 + 3, for example.) Really, it's simpler than it sounds.
Send to: JJ Johnson

-=-=-=-=-

[chirs3 0]

DING DING!!!!

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Funyon, “the following match is your opening contest, and it is a Canadian Deathmatch! The rules are simple: there are none! The first wrestler to accumulate a ten-count pin will be the winner of the match! And now...”

 

 

CHANGE MY PITCH UP! SMACK MY BITCH UP!

 

 

“And here we go,” says Mak Francis, as Prodigy’s “Smack My Bitch Up” lights up the electric New Hampshire crowd. A single red pyro lights up the Ferris wheel, and confetti scatters across the audience as “Mister Swiss” Victor Herzog steps through the curtain and walks down the ramp to the ring wearing a pair of grey slacks and a blue polo shirt in place of his standard plain red tights.

 

“It says here,” says Francis, “that Herzog is coming into this match in the traditional costume of Schwingen, the native form of wrestling in Switzerland. That sort of ringwear is a little more durable, and it has the added benefit of cushioning some of the striking you’re bound to eat in a death match like this.”

 

“Sure, say what you will,” says King, “but you and I both know that Herzog’s only wearing clothes with pockets so he can hide a damn Swiss army knife and stab Flesher for the pin. He’s a damn cheater, is what he is.”

 

As “Smack My Bitch Up” fades out, Herzog grabs the microphone and announces, “SALUTATIONS SANTA’S VILLAGE!”

 

The New Hampshire crowd pops for the rookie, who pauses before continuing his spiel. “A few weeks ago, my introduction to the SWF was a crabby old man who wants me to tell Joe Peters he’s an idiot. He’s so grumpy that he doesn’t even bother to find out that I’m neutral! It’s basic, Flesher’s acidic, and he’s about to get neutralized!”

 

“Mr. Swiss,” says Funyon, “the Canadian Deathmatch is one of the most dangerous contests that the SWF promotes. Do you have any messages you’d like to send before you take on the Superior One?”

 

Herzog shrugs. “If I don’t make it,” he says, “tell my wife ‘Hello.’”

 

“And there you have it,” says Funyon. And now, his opponent...”

 

BOOM!

 

The percussive opening of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” blasts throughout Santa’s Village, accompanied by a blast of blue pyro and smoke. As the smoke clears, the former World Heavyweight Champion, Light Heavyweight Champion, Cruiserweight Champion, Tag Team Champion, US Champion, ICTV Champion, and leader of the most destructive stable in the history of the SWF steps through the curtain. Instead of his usual warm-up, Tom Flesher wears a pair of dark jeans and a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Both wrists and both hands are heavily taped with black athletic tape, although as always his injured left thumb is more stiffly bundled than the right one. And, to top it all off, he wears a pair of steel-toed Doc Marten combat boots. Behind him is James Matheson, wearing a hooded sweatshirt reminiscent of Lou Duva’s and carrying his briefcase, trails behind.

 

“There you see a man who’s prepared for a death match,” says the Suicide King. “This isn’t a taped fist match, but what do you see on Flesher’s hands? Tape, to keep his palm strikes crisp through the whole contest. This isn’t a hardcore match, but he’s got the steel toed boots on to add that extra punch to his kicks. This is a serious, serious man.”

 

Flesher steps into the match and faces off against Herzog, glowering up at him. Accomplished SWF official Ced Ordonez motions for Flesher to hold his arms out to be checked for foreign objects.

 

“Fuck you,” says Flesher.

 

Ordonez shrugs. This being a death match, he calls for the bell.

 

 

DING DING DING!!!!

 

 

As Flesher and Herzog circle around each other, the Superior One snarls at his European counterpart. He grabs Herzog by the arm and pulls him in, trying to open the match with a short-arm palm strike, but Herzog avoids it by throwing a knee into Flesher’s gut! Caught off-guard, Flesher doubles over, and Herzog takes control with a gutwrench suplex that puts Flesher down onto his back! Flesher rolls onto his stomach instinctively to avoid the pin, but Herzog drops onto him with a knee to the back. Flesher immediately arches up, in obvious pain.

 

“And there you see the after-effects of Tom’s match with Nighthawk last week,” says Mak Francis. “Nighthawk spent the whole match hammering Flesher’s back, and Tom only managed to come up with the W by rolling him up with a handful of tights.”

 

“Oh, come on,” says King. “If he held the tights, they wouldn’t have counted the pin. Quit trying to take away from his victory.”

 

Herzog grabs Flesher by the head, pulling him into a front facelock and then smoothly throwing him off the mat and slamming him down with a snap suplex. Flesher arches up again, but as soon as Herzog releases him, he rolls to his stomach and gets up to his knees. The agile Schweizer gets back up and waits for Flesher to stand erect, only to hammer him with a European uppercut that sends him crashing backwards into the corner. Herzog pauses and turns to the crowd, shouting “SALUTATIONS!”

 

 

Thus violating rule number one of wrestling a veteran.

 

 

“OUCH!” shouts Mak Francis, as Herzog doubles over in pain from Flesher’s flagrant low blow. “That’s just not right!”

 

“Says who?” King snipes. “This is a Canadian Deathmatch. Anything goes!”

 

As Herzog doubles over, Flesher hooks his head and pulls him down into a small package! Ordonez counts

 

ONE!!!

 

 

but no more, as Herzog quickly rolls through. Flesher, for his part, maintains his position and stays on Herzog with an amateur-style crab ride, reaching down to try to bar the Swiss fighter’s arm out. Flesher spins around, trying to slap on a front headlock. Herzog, however, pulls back and spins out, freeing himself from the headlock! Flesher lunges toward him, but Herzog executes a quick bob and weave, and as Flesher slides by, Herzog applies a side headlock of his own!

 

“Herzog is looking to wear Tom Flesher down,” says the Suicide King. “Little does he know, it’s an exceptionally bad idea to try to wear Flesher down by wrestling him.”

 

Flesher reaches around Herzog’s waist, trying to peel his hands apart to free himself. He finds, though, that Herzog’s grip is too tight. Stymied, Flesher throws his body forward and tries to shoot Herzog off to the ropes. Expecting such chicanery from the veteran, Herzog manages to keep his feet planted. Flesher scowls, unable to get himself free as quickly as he’d anticipated.

 

“Herzog may not have the seasoning Flesher does,” says Francis, “but he’s a damn good wrestler. You know he had to expect most of Flesher’s counters for this, considering that Tom’s a master of it himself.”

 

Flesher drops to one knee, trying to throw Herzog off balance, but Herzog sags his hips, anticipating just such a counter. Frustrated, Tom reaches around and hooks Herzog by the thigh, then quickly lifts him off the mat. Surprised, Herzog shakes his leg and tries to rebalance, posting his hand on Flesher’s shoulder for stability. Flesher quickly drops him back onto the mat, following through with a low single-leg takedown that pulls him down to the canvas! Flesher hooks his head and makes the cover. Ordonez counts

 

 

ONE!

 

 

but again, Herzog frees himself before Ordonez can get to two.

 

“Flesher’s getting closer and closer to drawing first blood in this match,” says the Suicide King. “He’s clearly been in control of the tempo of the match, despite all of Herzog’s attempts to the contrary.”

 

As Herzog sits up, Flesher goes back to the arm bar. This time, he reaches down, clipping the side of Herzog’s face with a forearm blow. A few dedicated fans begin to cheer, recognizing the position as the setup for the Held Without Bail stretch plum!

 

Herzog, of course, recognizes the same thing, and immediately spins around to face Flesher. He jerks his arm back, pulling Flesher toward him. As Tom sprints, Herzog grabs him, scoops him off the mat and slams him back down! The crowd pops as Flesher arches his back in pain once again.

 

“This match isn’t going to be fun for Flesh,” says Francis. “Herzog knows he can just hammer away at that back, and eventually Tom won’t be able to bridge up.”

 

Herzog covers Flesher, and Ordonez counts

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!!!

 

 

 

but no more, as Tom gets his shoulder back up. Flesher rolls over, trying to force his way back up to his feet. Herzog, for his part, merely tries to control him with another side headlock.

 

“He hasn’t been paying attention,” King murmurs.

 

This time, Flesher doesn’t bother trying to peel open Herzog’s hands. He doesn’t try to shoot Herzog off to the ropes, or turn into a high-leg takedown. No, he’s outsmarted the Swiss guy this time. He drops his hips, loading Herzog up onto his lap for a split second before arching his back and slamming Mister Swiss to the mat on the crown of his head with a sickening backdrop driver! Herzog flips over onto his back, and Flesher quickly makes the cover.

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!

 

 

KICKOUT!!!!!!

 

 

The fans cheer as Herzog kicks out, holding Flesher to only a three-count. His chest heaves, but Herzog doesn’t move as the scoreboard lights up with “FLESHER 3 HERZOG 0.”

 

“And he draws first blood!” says King. “That puts Herzog back by a full three-count, and you know that’s a big disadvantage!”

 

Flesher kneels, then quickly drops back down onto Herzog when the Schussmeister doesn’t sit up. Ordonez counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!

 

 

 

NO! Herzog kicks out, and the crowd goes wild!

 

“He’s not hurt bad enough to give up more than one fall,” says Mak, “or even more than a three-count.”

 

Flesher, for his part, wanders over to his corner and crouches down. James Matheson scribbles on his clipboard, but Flesher’s eyes stay trained on Herzog. As soon as Mister Swiss starts to get to his feet, Flesher lunges at him, hammering him with a blast double leg takedown that slams Herzog into the corner!

 

“Tom’s trying to keep control,” says King, “and he’s doing a damn good job of it tonight. Herzog has to remember that against a longballer like Flesher, it only takes one home-run move like a backdrop driver or a Burning Hammer to get all ten counts. Plus more, right, Mak?”

 

Francis merely glares.

 

Flesher grabs Herzog and ducks down, trying to hook him up for a Logical Disconnect. Herzog, though, still has enough of his wits about him to hammer Flesher off him with another European uppercut! Flesher staggers backwards, and Herzog takes advantage to slam Flesher with another uppercut, and then another! Finally, Flesher drops to one knee in the corner, and the crowd gasps! Herzog reaches down to grab him around the waist for the Nestle Crunch! Despite his bes efforts, though, Flesher manages to evade the power bomb by standing up with Herzog’s leg and throwing it away. Herzog follows through, hammering Flesher in the face with a spinning leg lariat! Flesher staggers forward, but Herzog grabs him around the waist and quickly lifts him off the canvas. Then, with a back arch of his own, tosses Flesher backwards with a German suplex that sends him crashing into the turnbuckles!

 

“Not quite a Nestle Crunch,” cringes Mak, “since it’s impossible to power bomb Flesher, but Herzog managed to hit that German and do all of the damage and more.”

 

Flesher’s head slumps down onto his chest, and Herzog pulls him out to make the cover. Ordonez counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

TWO!!!!

 

 

THREE!!!!

 

 

 

FOUR!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

SHOULDER UP!!!!!

 

The fans begin to cheer as the scoreboard ticks to “FLESHER 3 HERZOG 4”, and Tom Flesher stares up at the lights with a glazed look over his face.

 

“This isn’t good for the home team,” groans King.

 

“Why’s Flesher the home team?”

 

“He’s from New York. That’s at least on the same continent, unlike that evil damn foreigner.”

 

Flesher sits up, operating mostly on instinct, and faces Herzog... who merely hammers him in the stomach with a knee, and then applies a front facelock. He lifts Flesher into the air, then falls forward, driving him to the mat with a Jackhammer!

 

“NEUTRAL ZONE INFRACTION!” shouts Mak Francis, as Flesher’s back arches up and he cries out in pain. “THIS COULD BE IT!”

 

Herzog lifts Flesher’s head, cradling him for the pin! Ordonez counts

 

ONE!!!

 

 

TWO!!!!!

 

 

 

THREE!!!!

 

 

“This is official,” says Mak!

 

 

FOUR!!!!!!

 

 

 

FIVE!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

SI – NO!!!!!! FLESHER KICKS OUT!

 

 

“And Tom narrowly escapes losing the match!” says Mak. “One more beat of Ordonez’s hand, and Victor Herzog would have had the win!”

 

“This is unbelievable!” shouts King. “Herzog’s even further in the lead!”

 

“How’s Tom going to come back from this one?” laughs the Franchise.

 

FLESHER 3, HERZOG 9

 

Herzog hooks Flesher’s leg, knowing that even at 9 points, he needs a full three-count to finish the match. Ordonez makes the count.

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!

 

 

 

NO! Flesher kicks out! Scowling, Herzog slams his shoulders back down to the mat and covers him again!

 

 

ONE!!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!

 

 

 

KICKOUT!!!!!!

 

 

“Herzog’s trying to get the pin,” says King, “but he’s not doing anything to finish Flesher off! He’s just trying to get him to stay down!”

 

Once more, Herzog makes a cover for

 

 

ONE!!!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

NO!!!!!!!

 

 

The fans are cheering as Flesher sits up. The much fresher Herzog beats him to a standing position, then grabs him by the wrist. Flesher fights the Irish whip, but Herzog manages to send him to the ropes. As Flesher rebounds, he jumps up, and before Herzog knows what hit him, he eats a knee strike to the mouth! The crowd pops as Flesher’s chest heaves, and he throws a palm strike to try to capitalize on the damage he’s done. He throws another, catching Herzog in the jaw with a big shotei, and sending him back into the corner! Herzog doubles over in pain, only to have Flesher grab him and pull him into a front facelock. Then, he hoists Herzog up, and with a grimace of pain, holds him upside down for a moment before falling to the mat and dumping Herzog straight onto his cranium! Flesher sits up, clutching his back, and holds that position for a second before rolling over onto Herzog. Ordonez counts

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

KICKOUT!!!!!!

 

“Herzog kicks out of that brainbuster, and Flesher can’t be too happy about that!” says Francis. “His back has got to be killing him, and he can’t expect much more out of his lower lumbar before it gives out for good!”

 

Flesher, though, grabs Herzog by the collar of his shirt and, with great effort, slams him back into the buckles. Then, Tom takes about five steps back, and sprints in to hammer Herzog with an avalanche! The crowd stands up, knowing what he’s going to try to do next!

 

“Could it be?” asks King.

 

From there, Flesher wraps his arms around Herzog’s hips. He lifts, straining, to set the stunned Herzog on the top turnbuckle.

 

And then, he climbs.

 

“He’s going for it! We haven’t seen the Boilermaker in over a year, but he’s going for it!” says King.

 

Standing on the top rope, Flesher grabs Herzog’s head in a front facelock. With the last ounce of strength in his battered lower back, Flesher lifts the stunned Swiss ambassador off the top turnbuckle and, for as long as he can, holds him upside down. The fans cheer as Flesher keeps him vertical, and then falls back off the top rope, hammering Herzog into the mat with an avalanche brainbuster! The crowd goes wild! Flashbulbs pop!

 

Herzog doesn’t move.

 

Flesher rolls over, knowing that the Boilermaker has always gotten a three-count when he needed one...

 

but will it get him seven?

 

“In an all-or-nothing gambit, Tom Flesher uses everything he has left in the tank and he goes for the ace in the hole!” shouts the Suicide King. “It’s no Jokers Wild, but dammit, it’s the Boilermaker!”

 

Ced Ordonez, himself a former victim, counts.

 

 

ONE!!!!

 

 

TWO!!!!

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!

 

 

“That’s what he needs!” says the King.

 

 

FOUR!!!!!!!

 

 

 

FIVE!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

SIX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

SEVEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

The crowd, simply put, explodes!

 

 

DING DING DING!!!!

 

 

Tom Flesher rolls over, in obvious pain, but the look on his face shows that he knows that he just pulled out the win. He looks up as the scoreboard ticks away.

 

 

FLESHER 10. HERZOG 9.

 

 

“The winner of the match,” announces Funyon, “is the one, the only, TOM FLESHER!!!!!”

 

 

“And talk about your rude awakenings for Herzog,” says King. “He fought gamely... he managed to take one of the most accomplished veterans in the SWF to the limit, and was only one second away from taking the match on numerous occasions, but Flesher came back and took the duke!”

 

“Credit where credit’s due,” says Francis. “Flesher came out on top, but you have to give Herzog the moral victory here. Against a guy with Flesher’s background... King, he pinned Tom Flesher, and he pinned him twice. Not many people can say that.”

 

Flesher rolls out of the ring, and with the help of James Matheson, he starts to hobble up the ramp. He stops to clutch his back, but keeps walking up the ramp. Herzog, stirring in the ring, rolls out to the floor, trying to shake off the effects of the Boilermaker, and leans on the guardrail.

 

At the top of the ramp, Tom Flesher stops. He looks out at the crowd, then pumps his fists with a smirk before stepping behind the curtain.

 

The crowd doesn’t stop cheering.

 

“I guess,” says King, “this is a curtain call.”

 

Finally, Flesher steps back out from behind the curtain. With a quick, though pained, bow, he acknowledges the crowd, and then pauses to point to Herzog. He claps his hands a few times, and the fans join him in cheering on the Swiss rookie.

 

And finally, at long last, Tom Flesher disappears behind the curtain.

 

~fin~

[chirs3 0]

Ace and Nighthawk are both getting lumps of Smoal for Christmas.

[chirs3 0]

Another toddler shrieks hysterically at the sight of Santa Claus, and as he's taken away from Kringle, cameraman Malik Kwanzaa pans around the packed Village. Kwanzaa quickly zooms in on the spiffy duo of Mak Francis and the Suicide King.

 

"SWF Crimson Yuletide is brought to you in part by Blend-Tec blenders, the most kick ass blenders on the face of the world! Check out all the things a Blend-Tec blender can do at www.willitblend.com. Coming soon: Can a Blend-Tec blender blend another Blend-Tec blender? Find out only at www.willitblend.com," the Franchise shills.

 

"You know, I wonder if one of those blenders can slice up a SWF title," King muses.

 

"Maybe that's the next test. And speaking of upcoming tests, Jimmy the Doom has a big one as he's been thrown in a Christmas Gift match against Jay Hawke, Devin Benson, and the Insane Luchador," Mak says.

 

"Finally, a Christmas miracle! Doom's not going to remain champion for much longer, Mak, so get your celebration hat ready," King says.

 

"I wouldn't be so confident, King. Jimmy the Doom has taken just about everything thrown at him and came back to retain his Hardcore belt. It might take Bruce Blank returning to get a new champion. Or maybe Amy Stephens," Mak says.

 

"Oh, God, if my choices are Doom or Stephens, I'll stick with the lanky idiot, but rest assured, that won't be the case as we'll have a new champion by tonight's end," King says.

 

The lights around the ring go out, but the rest of Santa's Village is illuminated enough to hold off pure darkness. Smoke pours from the stage as Nevermore's "Poison Godmachine" blares, red strobes flashing in time to the music.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, the following is a Christmas Gift match for the Hardcore title! Each of the four competitors is allowed to take one and only one package from a pole and use that item in the match. Introducing first, from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, standing six feet, two inches tall, and weighing one hundred, ninety pounds, DEVINNNN BENNNSOOOONN!" Funyon Claus shouts.

 

Benson walks down the ramp, slapping hands with some of the younger fans before rolling inside the ring. Devin stands up and backs into the corner with the largest package.

 

"We all know that a Porsche 9-11 is in one box, but the other three are unknown gifts. While winning the car would be nice, those keys aren't going to be too much help depending on the contents of those other gifts," Mak says.

 

"I heard your talent's in one of them, so we've got that tiny box covered," King says.

 

Nevermore fades out and is quickly replaced by Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly". Jay Hawke emerges on the ramp, a spotlight shining brightly on the former International champ.

 

"Introducing next, from the Hall of Fame city of Cleveland, Ohio, standing five feet, nine inches tall and weiging two hundred, fifteen pounds, the 'Dean of Professional Wrestling', JJAAAAAAYY HAAAWWKE!" Funyon exclaims.

 

The boos pour down on Hawke like a blizzard, but the Dean ignores the crowd completely. Jay slips out of his robe and passes it to referee Sexton Hardcastle. Hawke dips under the top rope and clambers up the turnbuckle holding possibly Mak Francis' talent in a small box. Pink Floyd is rudely cut off as Alice in Chains' "Man in the Box" takes over. Red and either black or, in a moment of hasty alteration, Christmas-y dark green pyrotechnics explode on the stage. Insane Luchador emerges from the smoke and tosses his hands in the air to a chorus of cheers.

 

"Introducing next, from Easton, Pennsylvania, he stands six feet, two inches tall, and weighs two hundred, twenty-three pounds, Your Psychotic Hero, IIINNNSSSAAAANE LUUUUCHAAAADORRRR!" Funyon booms.

 

The Ill One sprints down the ramp and slides into the ring. IL springs to his feet, inches from Hawke, causing the Dean to flinch. Grinning to himself, Luchador backs away as Hardcastle rushes over to keep things civil. Until the bell rings, that is.

 

"I don't blame Hawke for reacting that way. Insane Luchador's name doesn't lie. He's a bit unhinged," Mak says.

 

"I think it was just the smell, Mak. Remember, Jay Hawke battled with Bruce Blank, so I don't think he scares easily," King says.

 

"Well, I think Blank smells worse than Luchador, and don't forget about that vicious battle Bruce and the Ill One had. That was a lot worse than Hawke's scrap with the departed Blank," Mak reminds.

 

Alice in Chains fades out and the lights go down once more. A tiny red light sparks at the top of the stage as chanting voices can be heard.

 

DOOM!

 

DOOM!

 

DOOM!

 

DOOM!

 

The lights snap back on to reveal nine druids, dressed as reindeer standing in a line on the ramp. Boots Randolph's "Yakety Sax" strikes up, and out walks the current Hardcore champion, lime green Santa hat perched on his head, and giant bullwhip clutched in his left hand.

 

"Of Christmasings, with merried! To being ho, often with ho, yet several another ho!" Doom exclaims.

 

Jimmy begins whipping the reindruids ferociously as Lois the Unethical emerges behind her husband, title holding duties once again falling on the Panic Ogre.

 

"And their opponent! Being accompanied by Lois the Unethical, from Doomopolis, Doomtopia, he stands six feet, five inches tall and weighs two hundred, thirty pounds, the Hardcore champion, the Straight-Bread Sensation, JJIIIIMMMYY THE DOOOOOM!" Funyon roars.

 

"Can't we...this is sacrilegious, right? He shouldn't be allowed to do that, right?" King mutters.

 

"Sorry, King. 'Tis the season," Mak says.

 

"For what? 'Tis the season for some gangly idiot to be a jackass and ruin this show, not to mention Christmas?" King asks.

 

"How is he ruining Christmas?"

 

"His hat is fucking green! If we allow him to wear a fucking green Santa hat, the terrorists have won, Francis, the terrorists have won," King mumbles.

 

Jimmy drops his whip at the foot of the steps, yanks his hat off and climbs inside the ring. Lois hands the belt to Hardcastle, who holds it aloft as Doom tosses his hat into the crowd. Sexton passes the title over to Funyon and signals for the bell.

 

Ding! Ding! Ding!

 

The Straight-Bread Sensation, never one to be cautious, rushes Hawke and plants a shotei in the Dean's chest. This seems to be a catalyst for action, as Luchador rushes Benson and throws a wild right hook. Devin ducks under the punch and cracks the Ill One with a kick to the ribs. Benson nails Luchador with another kick to the body, then whips IL to the ropes. Devin charges the Psychotic Hero, leaps, and yanks IL to the mat with a hurricanrana. Devin springs up to his feet and bolts for the turnbuckles. Benson snags the box and pulls it down.

 

"And we have our first gift! Could it be the keys to the car?" Mak wonders.

 

"It better not be. Hawke deserves the car and the belt," King grumbles.

 

Benson tears into the wrapping paper as Jay Hawke hits Jimmy with an European uppercut, followed up with a second. The Dean cracks Doom with a third uppercut, then flips the Straight-Breader to the mat with a snap mare. Hawke drags Jimmy towards the corner, and Jay clambers to the second buckle while clamping on a rear chinlock.

 

"Nice strategy from Jay Hawke. The turnbuckles give him a bit of extra leverage, plus he can survey the entire ring, all while wearing down on Doom," King says.

 

"He's also got that one gift practically sealed off. I suppose Insane Luchador could go outside the ring to get it, but that opens him up to taking a big fall," Mak says.

 

After struggling with a particuarly resistant form of Scotch tape, Benson has opened his box, revealing a Wii, complete with Wiimote, Nunchuk, and copies of Excite Truck, Red Steel, and Zelda.

 

"That just might be the second-best gift in this match. Unless, of course, a PS3 is in another box," Mak says.

 

"Yeah, like Peters could get his hands on one, and even if he could, fat chance that he'd just give it away," King says.

 

Benson connects the Nunchuk to the Wiimote and begins twirling the controllers around as Insane Luchador picks himself off the mat. Devin rushes forward, popping the Ill One with the plastic. Luchador stumbles backwards, then reaches out and grabs hold of the Nunchuk. Devin and Luchador both tug at the device with one hand while assaulting each other with the other hand. With both men engaged, Sexton turns his back on them and focuses on Hawke and Doom. Hardcastle questions Jimmy's ability to continue, and is poked in the eye as response.

 

"That referee must be pretty new if he thinks Jimmy the Doom is going to submit this early in the match, to a chinlock, no less," Mak says.

 

"That's Sexton Hardcastle, and he's been with the company since day one. He's just an idiot, Mak. And besides, Hawke knows Doom won't give up right now, but that chinlock is softening Jimmy up so that he will submit to the Wing Span later on," King says.

 

Insane Luchador nails Benson with a left cross to the jaw then grabs hold of the Nunchuk with both hands and yanks. The strap around Devin's wrist breaks, and both parts fly towards Hawke.

 

EBULIENT!

 

"That had to hurt! Yes, look, Hawke is bleeding," Mak says.

 

"Fucking Nintendo! I'm coming to get you, Miyamoto!" King shouts.

 

Jimmy scrambles away from the dazed Hawke as Devin simply glares at Luchador for breaking his gift. Jay wipes the blood slowly dripping from his nose and forehead, but gets blasted with a kick from Doom. The Straight-Bread Sensation punts Jay a second time, then pulls Hawke to his feet. Jimmy looks to whip Hawke out of the turnbuckles, but the Dean drives his knee into Doom's stomach, stopping the attempt cold. Hawke glances at the canvas and snatches up the battered Wiimote. Jay nails the Straight-Breader with an European uppercut, then wraps the cord around Jimmy's neck and pulls Doom to the mat.

 

"Hey! That's not his present, he can't do that!" Mak exclaims.

 

"Oh, shut up, Mak. It's Christmas, this is a time of giving," King says.

 

As Doom gets choked, the Ill One, rather than apologize to Benson, nails the smaller man with an elbow to the skull. Luchador backs Devin up with another elbow before grabbing his fellow Pennsylvanian in a Muy Thai clinch. The Psychotic Hero drives a knee into Benson's face, then another, and a third. IL smashes Benson with yet another knee to the head, then lifts Devin up and drops him with an implant DDT. Luchador scrambles up to the top turnbuckle, considers the package hanging above, but apparently doesn't like the snowman wrapping paper, as the Ill One leaps off, slamming both legs into the mat with tremendous force. Benson rises to his feet after the narrow escape and blasts Luchador with a basement dropkick. Devin slides over and makes a lateral press. Hardcastle rushes over and after a moment to position himself to see both Benson's pin and Hawke's submission, begins the count.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tw-No!

 

"Luchador gets a shoulder up after one. He is going to be tough to put away. Not quite as tough as Jimmy the Doom, but pretty tough," Mak says.

 

"Why doesn't Hawke switch then? No need to exert too much effort just to win the Hardcore title and a Porsche," King says.

 

Sexton shuffles over to check on Jimmy, but the Doomtopian seems to have discovered an escape route. The Hardcore champion reaches up and unhooks the Nunchuck from the Wiimote and rolls away. Hawke scrabbles backwards and hurls both devices at Doom, missing him both times. Jimmy ignores the projectile attack, and makes his way towards Benson, nailing the smaller man with a shotei to the chest. Doom nails Devin with two quick elbows before whipping him towards the Dean. Hawke quickly ducks down, allowing Benson to leap onto the second, then top turnbuckle. Devin waits for Jay to rise, then drops down, planting the Dean with a DDT. Benson rolls Jay over and makes a lateral press.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

Jimmy sprints towards the pair on the ground and dives forward, knocking Benson off Hawke with a two handed palm thrust.

 

"Doom with the save, but let me guess, Hawke was just about to kick out anyway?" Mak asks.

 

"Absolutely, Mak. Jay Hawke doesn't go down to a simple DDT. If he did, there's no way he could have stayed International champion for so long," King says.

 

"Actually, half of his defenses ended with him getting disqualified on purpose to keep the title," Mak says.

 

"Half? Did you say half? Don't you dare short change the Dean of Professional Wrestling! Three-quarters, at least," King says.

 

Benson pulls himself off the mat and heads for Jimmy, but Hawke grabs Devin's foot, tripping the youngster right into a tilt-a-whirl inverted atomic drop. Doom nails Benson with a shotei, then whips the Harrisburger into the ropes. The Straight-Bread Sensation leaps at the oncoming Benson, dragging him to the ground with a bodyscissors takedown. With Doom currently hugging Benson, Hawke sees his opportunity to claim his gift. Too bad he forgot about the Ill One, as the Luchador flings himself at Jay, connecting with a vicious forearm. Luchador clambers on top of Hawke and slaps on a quick and dirty camel clutch, intent more on immediate pain than long term wear down. Hardcastle sees the submission attempt, and fully confident that nobody would tap to whatever Jimmy has Benson in, goes to check on Hawke. Just like in any other match, Jay ignores the referee and begins posturing up to escape the hold.

 

"Insane Luchador must be dumb if he thinks that Jay Hawke will get stuck in a camel clutch. Firstly, it's Jay Hawke, he can reverse or escape pretty much every hold ever. Hell, he's invented holds and reversals for them in his sleep. Secondly, it's Insane Luchador, a man the epithet 'technical wizard' has never been applicable. Well, unless used in a sentence like 'Could make a shrub look like a technical wizard', but that shouldn't count," King says.

 

"While that is true, King, Hawke's taken a bit of damage, especially when that controller smashed into his face. His nose is busted, and he's got some cuts on his forehead and around his right eye. Plus, a lot of unexpected things can happen inside a SWF ring. Hell, you're World title reign is evidence of that," Mak says.

 

"Thank you. I was starting to feel kind of bad about getting you tap shoes, but you just made it okay," King says.

 

"Oh, great. Now the box of condoms I give you is going to make it look like a theme of 'gifts the recipient has no use for'," Mak says.

 

Hawke begins to slip free of Luchador's grip, but the Psychotic Hero quickly transitions the camel clutch into a side headlock, allowing him to land some Nolan Ryan-esque punches to the top of Jay's head. As IL rains blows down on the Dean, Jimmy tries to tighten his hold on Benson, but Devin uses his slender frame to slide out of the Straight-Bread Sensation's grasp. Devin sprints to his Wii and games, and after a quick decision, picks up Red Steel. Doom charges after Benson, and knocks Devin flat with a snap kick.

 

ECLOGUE!

 

"Benson ate that. He fumbled with that game, and Jimmy the Doom was able to capitalize. However, I'm not sure what Devin could have done had he opened that game," Mak says.

 

"Probably chuck it at Doom's giant head," King says.

 

Doom contemplates the downed Benson, but decides to claim his present instead. Jimmy yanks down a medium-sized box covered with plain blue paper. The Straight-Bread Sensation rips the gift apart, and a small, wooden top tumbles to the mat.

 

"Can they do that? I mean, is it legal to have a dreidel in in a Christmas gift match?" Mak whispers.

 

"I'm sure none of the other competitors have a problem with it, so if either you or Jimmy do, then, well, that's just no cool, man, not cool at all," King says.

 

"You're only saying that because Jimmy got it and not Jay Hawke," Mak says.

 

"Dude, you are so insensitive! Lots of kickass people are Jewish, just listen to those Adam Sandler songs," King says.

 

"I really want to punch you square in the face, but that wouldn't be in the Holiday spirit, so I'll just hate you silently," Mak says.

 

A bit tired with punching Jay's head, Insane Luchador slides over to trap the Dean in a front facelock, allowing the Ill One to drive knees into the crown of Hawke's skull instead. Jimmy picks the dreidel off the mat and turns around to find Benson on his feet, holding the Red Steel disc in his hand. With laser-like accuracy, Devin hurls the game at Doom, hitting the Hardcore champion in the forehead. The disc bounces back to Benson with surprising rebound, and the Harrisburger launches Red Steel a second time, once again, hitting Jimmy in the face. The Straight-Breader takes a step back and spins his dreidel to the ground. Benson clutches his disc, unsure of Jimmy's intentions, when Doom springs forward, punting the top into Devin's crotch.

 

"Right in the Matzah balls!" Mak exclaims.

 

"That certainly isn't kosher," King grimaces.

 

"Is there any other Yiddish or Hebrew we could butcher and get completely wrong for this situation?" Mak asks.

 

"Not sure, but we could always make stuff up," King says.

 

Doom charges forward and sends Benson to the canvas with a flying front kick. Jimmy spins the dreidel again, and this time, hacky sacks it up to waist height before whipping it into Luchador's head with a spinning back kick.

 

GEVALT!

 

"I doubt Jay Hawke would ever thank Jimmy the Doom, but the Dean just got saved by the Hardcore champion," Mak says.

 

"Are you kidding? Saved? From a badly executed front facelock and some errant knees?" King asks.

 

"Well, considering Hawke is still on the canvas, I'd say that those knees weren't as errant as you think they were," Mak says.

 

"It's called acting, Francis! Hawke is luring the other competitors into a false sense of security by staying on the mat and bleeding," King says. "He's very convincing, but, it's no shock he's a great actor. Hawke's good at anything he does. Okay, he's going to strike right now! Now! Now!"

 

However, Hawke doesn't spring into action, but keeps up the 'act' on the canvas. Jimmy walks over to retrieve his dreidel, but gets hit with a copy of Excite Truck in the back of the head. Doom wheels around just as Red Steel smashes him in the face. Devin rushes the dazed champ and cracks Jimmy with the Excite Truck case. Benson drops the Red Steel case and drives Doom into it with a snap suplex. Devin rolls through, pulling Jimmy back to his feet. Benson snares the Straight-Bread Sensation in double belly-to-belly armbars, and begins slamming his head into Jimmy's face.

 

"That is not a wise move by Devin Benson. Jimmy the Doom's head can absorb a lot of punishment, and using your own skull to attack is it perhaps the worst choice," Mak says.

 

"Well, either that or your own crotch, but, yeah, only a moron would attempt headbutts on Jimmy the Doom. Then again, this is the same guy that's basically destroying his own gift, so who knows how the kid's mind works," King says.

 

"Well, so far, it's just games and controller. Those aren't that expensive, and he hasn't tried to bash anyone with the console itself, so maybe he's willing to sacrifice a little bit in the chance to win the title," Mak says.

 

"Yeah, but he won't win because he sucks, so he should just take his game and go home," King says.

 

Jimmy snakes his arms out of Benson's hold and cracks Devin with a headbutt of his own. Doom nails Benson with a second headbutt before shooting his fingertips into Devin's throat. Benson staggers backwards, sputtering, allowing the Straight-Bread Sensation to wrap both hands around Devin's neck and hoist him off the mat. Jimmy walks over to Insane Luchador and sits out, driving Benson into the Psychotic Hero. Jimmy pulls Devin off the Ill One and covers Benson.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thr-No!

 

"Shoulder up from Benson, and it looks like Jay Hawke is done acting, King," Mak says.

 

"Right when the other three aren't even paying attention to him. Pure brilliance," King says.

 

Jimmy crawls over and covers Luchador as the Dean of Professional Wrestling pulls himself up and slumps in the corner.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T-No!

 

"And Insane Luchador kicks out after two. I think I stand corrected, is Jay Hawke acting again?" Mak asks.

 

"Of course! You think he's actually hurt?" King shoots back. "And did you say you stand corrected?"

 

"Yes, I did. I'm not going to edit or alter common phrases just because Spike Jenkins is a dick," Mak says.

 

Hawke looks up to see a tiny box and decides to claim the contents for himself. As Jay climbs, Jimmy gets to his feet and hauls Luchador up as well. Doom pops IL with a shotei to the jaw then wraps the Ill One up with a two-handed choke lift. Doom walks over to find a clear patch of canvas, but the extra time allows the Psychotic Hero to hammer Jimmy's torso with punches and kicks, resulting in Doom lowering Luchador. Luchador smacks Doom with a right hook to the temple, then grabs the back of the Straight-Bread Sensation's head and launches him backwards with a monkey flip. Doom lands near Jay's corner, and the Dean plummets down, driving his gift into the Hardcore champion's chest: a single car key.

 

"Yes! Jay Hawke has a brand new Porsche 9-11! Half of my prediction is true, and the other half is about to come true in a matter of minutes," King says.

 

"Too bad he can't use the car itself in the ring," Mak says.

 

"What, and get Doom spots all over it? That'll put the depreciation into a nose dive. Besides, if a guy like The Boston Strangler can withstand getting hit by a big SUV, Jimmy probably won't be affected that much by a Porsche," King says.

 

Hawke pulls the key out of Jimmy's chest, then slams it into the Doomtopian's stomach. The Dean of Professional Wrestling twists the key, perhaps to check if he won some kind of skeleton key that operates anything it's jammed into, but that's not the case as Doom lashes out with a palm strike. Hawke snatches the key away from Jimmy and slashes it across the Straight-Breader's face, deeply scratching Doom's left cheek. Hawke slides onto Doom's torso and begins pummeling the Hardcore champion with both keyed and non-keyed fists.

 

"It's a good thing that's only a car key. I can't imagine what Jay Hawke would be able to do with a pocket knife," Mak says.

 

"We should find out. I think he should get a pocket knife for his next match," King says.

 

"And what should his opponent get?" Mak asks.

 

"No clue. A banana, maybe?"

 

"That's retarded," Mak says.

 

"That's what your mom said last night!" King exclaims.

 

"My mom said you were retarded? I completely agree with her opinion," Mak says.

 

"No, wait, she said that while I was having sex with her," King clarifies.

 

"You truly are King of the Idiots," Mak says.

 

"Well, if I have to be an idiot, I'd rather be the King of them than a regular one. Or the village idiot of the idiots, which is what you are," King says.

 

Hawke is suddenly struck by inspiration, and he slides off of the Doomtopian. Jay rolls Jimmy on his stomach and begins attacking the Straight-Bread Sensation's arms and shoulders. As the Dean of Professional wrestling tries to slice the Hardcore champion open with his key, the Ill One turns his attention on Benson. Luchador hauls Devin off the mat and launches him into the ropes. The Psychotic Hero charges forward, only to get knocked flat with a dropkick. Devin is about to follow up on the dropkick when he notices Hawke lacerating Jimmy. Worried that Jay might win the match in a few moments, Benson cracks open his copy of Zelda and hurls it at the Dean's head.

 

EDUCED!

 

Hawke rises to his feet and makes a mad dash for Benson. Devin launches himself into the air and slams into Jay with a flying cross body block. The two men become entangled, and Benson powers the Dean onto his back with a cradle.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T-No!

 

Hawke plants his legs and surges up to roll Devin's shoulders on the canvas.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Th-No!

 

Benson rocks back, putting Jay's back on the mat.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Th-No!

 

Devin lets go of Hawke and crawls away, clutching his ribs.

 

"I think that Jay Hawke jabbed or maybe stabbed Devin Benson in the torso with that key during those pinning exchanges," Mak says.

 

"That'll teach the kid not to waste the Dean of Professional Wrestling's time. Benson is lucky he didn't end up on probation," King says.

 

"Or super secret probation," Mak says.

 

"Don't be a smartass," King says.

 

Benson slowly rises to his feet, only to eat a knee to the gut courtesy of Hawke. Jay pops Devin with an European uppercut, grabs him by the mask and throws him over the top rope, where Benson collides with the lead 'Rudolph' druid. The Dean dusts his hands and gets nailed with a kick to the back of the knee. Hawke buckles, and another blow from IL takes Jay to one knee. Luchador latches on with an inverted facelock, pulls Hawke up and catches a key to the forehead, narrowly missing the Ill One's left eye. The Dean slips free, bounces off the ropes and knocks the Psychotic Hero down with a leg lariat. Hawke reaches down and locks on a Fujiwara armbar. Sexton Hardcastle rushes over to check on Luchador.

 

"Well, Devin Benson took a trip outside the ring, and Jimmy the Doom is creating an ever-expanding pool of his own blood, so Insane Luchador is on his own for the time being against Jay Hawke," Mak says.

 

"I was kind of hoping Hawke would defeat Doom himself to win the belt, but I don't see Luchador escaping that Fujiwara armbar or the Dean letting go for any reason, so the countdown to new Hardcore champion has already begun," King says.

 

Hardcastle asks Luchador if he wants to continue, but the Ill One doesn't answer, as he's too intent on trying to wriggle free. On the other side of the ring, Jimmy slowly pulls himself off the canvas, slick with his own blood. Doom spies Hawke cranking on Luchador's arm, and the Straight-Bread Sensation darts towards Jay. Jimmy leaps into the air and slams both feet into the Dean's head, knocking him off IL. Hawke climbs to his feet and cracks Jimmy in the face with a jab, then closes in and peppers the Doomtopian's belly with key-shots. Doom stumbles backwards, allowing the Dean to slip behind the Hardcore champ and slam him into the canvas with a German suplex. Hawke punts Doom in the head for good measure before climbing to the top rope. Jay leaps off, landing on top of Doom with both knees planted in Jimmy's chest.

 

"Hawke Swoop! It's rarely seen, but when Jay Hawke uses it, that almost never fails to get the job done. We might have a new champion in three seconds," Mak says.

 

"Since Luchador hasn't gotten his gift yet, does that mean I can have it?" King asks.

 

"No, it's his regardless of when the match ends," Mak says.

 

"Damn it!"

 

Hawke remains on top of Doom for the pin.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

Luchador rolls to a kneeling position.

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

The Psychotic Hero lunges forward, cracking the Dean of Professional Wrestling with a knee to the head.

 

ELECTROENCEPHALOGRAM!

 

"Damn it again! Insane Luchador ruins everything!" King shouts.

 

"Not that you care, since you're in a Hawke-centric universe, but it looks like Benson has finally untangled himself from that druid, so this match is about to become a fourway again," Mak says.

 

"You are correct sir, I don't care about Benson, unless he screws something up for Hawke, then he's at the top of my enemies list, which is pretty lengthy" King says.

 

"Wouldn't it be easier to just have a list of people that aren't your enemies?" Mak asks.

 

"Perhaps, but that's not as fun and evil," King says.

 

Luchador yanks Hawke roughly to his feet and slaps on a front facelock as Benson drags himself to the top turnbuckle. The Ill One hooks Jay's left leg and lifts the Dean. Luchador lets Hawke hang in the air, but it's a moment too long as Devin leaps, landing on the other side of Jay with a side headlock applied to the Psychotic Hero. Luchador releases Jay and instead wraps both arms around Devin's waist. IL picks Benson off the mat, shuffles towards the Wii, and begins to fall backwards, but Devin writhes out of Luchador's grasp, saving himself from a GoreGasm and his Wii from destruction. Benson boots Luchador in the stomach and slaps on a front headlock. Devin slams two quick punches into IL's head before hooking his leg and spinning the Psychotic Hero into the mat.

 

"Hevy Devy! Benson could very well be the new Hardcore champion!" Mak shouts.

 

"No! I was kind of happy when he saved Hawke from that Fisherman Buster, but now he might use that very move to steal the title away from the Dean of Professional Wrestling," King laments.

 

Benson bridges up creating a pinning predicament, one of the few wrestling-related situations Hardcastle instantly recognizes (Having been on the wrong end of so many in a short amount of time can get a person used to that), and Sexton dives to count it.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

Jay Hawke scrabbles up to his knees.

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

The Dean rocks forward and sprints towards Devin.

 

 

 

 

 

Three!

 

 

 

 

 

No!

 

"Amazing! Jay Hawke dove at Benson's legs, knocking out the bridge just in time to keep this match going," Mak says.

 

"Of course it was amazing, most everything Jay Hawke does is amazing," King says. "Him winning isn't amazing, though. It's expected, like it's expected of you to suck."

 

Hawke gets to his feet and pulls Benson up as well. Jay knees Devin in the stomach twice before latching on a front facelock and planting the Harrisburger with a DDT. The Dean thinks about making a cover, but instead makes his way towards the downed Doomtopian. Jay sits Jimmy up, slips behind the Straight-Bread Sensation and applies a chickenwing. The Dean of Professional Wrestling reaches up and adds a crossface to the hold, pulling the Hardcore champion down to the canvas. Hawke throws his legs out, but can't quite scissor Doom's left arm as it's slippery with blood. Jay tries again and manages to secure his ankles around Jimmy's arm. The Dean cranks back, trying to wrench the Straight-Breader's arms out of socket.

 

"Hawke's got the Wing Span cinched in tight. I think you might be right, King, Jay Hawke looks like he'll be the newest Hardcore champion, ending Jimmy the Doom's tremendous reign," Mak says.

 

"Of course he will, Mak. You need to trust me more often. Speaking of which, when are you going to give me power of attorney?" King asks.

 

"Whenever I lose ninety percent of my brain," Mak says.

 

Hardcastle gets in Jimmy's face, asking the champ if he wants to give it up, but only gets a garbled scream of agony as a reply. Jay cranks on the hold even further, eliciting another pained yelp from the Straight-Bread Sensation. Hawke pulls back again as Devin Benson pulls himself into a seated position. Benson climbs to his feet, and moments behind him is Insane Luchador, who happens to be directly behind him. The Psychotic Hero ducks his head and charges forward, wrapping Devin up in a waistlock. The Ill One lifts and plants Benson head-first into his own Wii console, shattering it.

 

EFFECTUATE!

 

Concerned that IL might break up the submission, Hawke demands Sexton check on Doom again, but Jimmy only shouts in agony. Luchador drags himself off the mat and notices he's under his gift. Hoping Doom can last for a few more minutes, Insane Luchador climbs up the turnbuckles and plucks the long, thin package off the pole. The Psychotic Hero rips the gift apart.

 

"Insane Luchador might put a stop to Hawke's plans, King. He took out Benson with that GoreGasm into the Wii, and now he's opening his gift. I wonder if it's a broomstick," Mak says.

 

"Broomstick? This isn't Harry Potter, fairy-England land, this is America, where the best gift is a gun," King says.

 

A gun is exactly what emerges from Luchador's box. A rifle to be exact.

 

"Holy shit, Luchador's got a gun," Mak says.

 

"Bullshit, that's a Red Ryder Air Rifle," King says.

 

"He'll put someone's eye out!" Mak shouts.

 

Grinning from ear to ear, Luchador fumbles with the pellets, and after a few moments, loads his gun. IL wheels around to get Hawke in his sights, and Jay, fearing even further facial damage, lets go of the chickenwing to shield himself. After several seconds with no impact, the Dean lowers his hands just enough to see the Psychotic Hero rushing forward, wielding the gun like a club.

 

EFFICACIOUS!

 

The blow completley dislodges Hawke from Doom, but IL is far from done.

 

EFFLUVIUM!

 

The Psychotic Hero holds the barrel above his head like an executioner with his axe, and Luchador looks to land the death blow on the Dean of Professional Wrestling.

 

EFFULGENCE!

 

Pop!

 

"Aaah! My eye!"

 

"I told you he'd shoot someone's eye out!" Francis yells.

 

"Eh, it's just his own eye, no big deal. However, he did batter Hawke, and for that, he doesn't deserve a gun," King says.

 

Luchador stumbles around, clutching both hands to his injured eye as Hawke, Benson, and Doom remain on the mat. Well, not Doom, as the Hardcore champion is slowly pulling himself up. The Straight-Breader boots Luchador in the gut, reaches out and places his hands on the back of IL's head. Jimmy drops to the mat, dragging the Psychotic Hero to the mat.

 

"Doom Factor, but that didn't have the impact it normally does. Jimmy's arms must really be in pain," Mak says.

 

"Hmm, they're practically covered in blood and he was in the Wing Span for several minutes, so, yes, I don't think they're one hundred percent," King says.

 

Rather than cover the Ill One, Jimmy pulls Hawke to his feet. Doom tries for an arm wringer, but stops midway through and lets go of the Dean's left arm. The Straight-Breader whips around, driving a spinning back kick into Hawke's gut, doubling him over, then Doom cracks Jay in the face with a knee. Doom puts his right leg behind Hawke's feet and pushes forward, tripping Jay and knocking him on his ass. Jimmy cracks the Dean of Professional Wrestling in the back of the head, then turns around to nail him with a roundhouse to the face, laying Jay flat on his back. The Hardcore champ takes a step back then leaps, landing with a double stomp on Hawke's chest, and remaining there for the pin.

 

One!

 

 

 

 

 

Benson picks his head from the parts of his Wii and rolls over.

 

 

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

 

 

 

Devin drags himself towards Doom, searching desperately for a game to throw.

 

 

 

 

 

Three!

 

 

 

 

 

Ding! Ding! Ding!

 

"It's over! Jimmy the Doom retains his title with a hands-free Doomsday! That was one of the most violent matches I've seen, especially on a Christmas show," Mak says.

 

"Fucking Doomtopians, ruining Christmas again!" King shouts.

 

"Hey, now, look, there's still a few things that would make it a good Christmas by your standards, I bet. Drake could pound Michael Stephens into a fine powder, or JJ Johnson could break all the bones in Landon Maddix's face," Mak says.

 

"Of course those things are going to happen, they're locks, but this, Jimmy winning the damn match, throws everything off," King says.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match, and still Hardcore champion, the Straight-Bread Sensation, JJJIIIIIMMMYYYY THE DOOOOOM!" Funyon roars.

 

Boots Randolph's "Yakety Sax" starts up as Lois takes the belt from Funyon, seeing as how the champion can't even lift his arms in celebration. Jimmy dips under the top rope and drops down to the ground. He barks a few orders and his reindruids form a human palanquin to transport the battered champ. Crimson Yuletide fades to a video for Stephens versus Drake as crew technicians try to clean up the ring

Edited December 24, 2006 by chirs3

[chirs3 0]

FADE IN

 

 

“We’ve got a tremendous match coming up,” says Mak Francis. “And it’s one that should go a long way towards determining the next top contender to Alan Clark’s World Cruiserweight Title, as Wildchild takes on the Unique Youth, Zyon! King, who do you think has more to prove in this match?”

 

“Believe it or not, I’m going to say Wildchild,” replies the Suicide King. “The last time these two faced each other in singles competition, Zyon came out on top. Not only that, but Wildchild has been considered by many people to be the top cruiserweight in the SWF, ever since the Cruiserweight Division was formed, but Zyon has recently stolen some of his thunder, by becoming the first-ever three-time World Cruiserweight Champion. I think that Wildchild wants to prove that he’s still in the mix, that he’s still belongs among the elite in the Cruiserweight Division!”

 

“It’s been over a year since the last time Wildchild held the Cruiserweight Title,” says Mak. “He can take a major step towards becoming a three-time champion tonight, as we send it up to Funyon in the ring!”

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

Within seconds, the lights illuminating Santa’s Village grows completely dark, save for a string of short sentences alternating across the SmarkTron:

 

I’m Born…

 

 

I’m Alive…

 

 

I Breathe…

 

 

Suddenly, “Vitamin” by Incubus begins playing, and the fans’ cheering begins anew as they wait for the Unique Youth to grace them with his presence.

 

 

“The following Cruiserweight Rules match is scheduled for one fall!” booms Funyon, as Zyon finally emerges from behind the curtain. “Making his way to the ring at this time, from Elkhart, Indiana, and weighing in at two hundred pounds… the Unique Youth… ZYYYYY-ON!” Zyon sprints down the ramp and leaps onto the apron before grabbing onto the top rope and flipping into the ring.

 

 

“These two have put on some very matches,” says Mak, as Zyon runs over to the corner, “They last met in tag team competition, that saw Wild and Dangerous get the better of Zyon and Akira Kaibatsu, but we’ve also seen Zyon come away victorious in their most recent singles encounter!”

 

“That’s right,” adds King. “Zyon actually defeated Wildchild in a contendership match a few months ago, and he ended up getting the opportunity to face Michael Stephens, and became the first three-time champion, an honor that I know Wildchild would have liked to have earned for himself!”

 

“Both these competitors work similar styles,” notes Mak, as the lights come back on. “And, although Wildchild has become much more adept at mat wrestling in the last few years, some would say that it’s cost him some of what made him special here in the SWF!”

 

“Positively,” affirms King. “I think that Wildchild comes into this match feeling like he has a lot to prove; he’s had to live with the sting of losing his last match in the Cruiserweight Division, something that he’s taken a lot of pride in, for the past four months now. Not only that, but he’s also had to live with people saying that Zyon has replaced him as the preeminent high-flier in the SWF.”

 

“We don’t agree often, King,” says Mak, “but you’re absolutely right; Wildchild wants to prove that he’s still got it, and I think that he’s going to come with a tremendous amount of energy to start this match!”

 

“The one question that there’s always been with Wildchild, though,” replies King, “is how long will he be able to sustain that attack?” Zyon climbs up to the second ropes and poses for the crowd, devouring their adulation, until his music finally fades out. Suddenly, the lights dim once again, pierced this time by an electric squeal, followed by Redman’s familiar cry:

 

 

ATTENTION!

 

 

ALL YOU NIGGAZ!

 

 

ALL YOU BITCHES!

 

 

TIME TO PUT DOWN THE ICE, TIME TO PUT DOWN THE CRISTAL FOR A MINUTE…

 

 

IT’S TIME TO THROWA LITTLE MUD IN THIS MUTHAFUCKAAAA…

 

 

The fans go crazy as “Let’s Get Dirty” begins to blast through the speakers! A solitary spotlight flashes off and on into the darkness, as the Bahama Bomber makes his way out onto the stage, alongside his girlfriend Melissa.

 

“His opponent,” continues Funyon, “is being accompanied to the ring by Melissa Fasaki! From the Bahamas, and weighing in at two hundred fourteen pounds… the WIIIIILDCHIIIIILD!” WC slaps hands with the fans at ringside as he dances his way down the ramp. He stops in front of the ring to remove his shin guards and hands them to Melissa; he then somersaults between the bottom and middle ropes to enter the ring. The lights barely have time to come on, however, before WC streaks across the ring and dives onto Zyon, tacking him to the canvas!

 

“Look at that!” exclaims King. “Wildchild’s not even waiting for the bell!” Referee Red Herrington signals to the timekeeper to ring the bell immediately:

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

After battering the Unique Youth with a series of hard right hands, WC pulls Zyon to his feet and grabs him by the wrist, whipping him across the ring; Wildchild then backs into the opposing ropes himself, using them to build momentum as he charges across the ring, leaping off the canvas and corkscrewing his body in midair to blast Zyon in the mouth with a flying back elbow! He pulls Zyon back to his feet, only to scoop him up into his arms and slam him back down! Wildchild rolls Zyon onto his stomach and quickly exits to the apron, where he leaps fluidly onto the top rope, before flying into the ring as the Zyon starts to push himself up on his knees, delivering a suicide headbutt the flattens the Unique Youth back against the canvas!

 

“Big start by the Wildchild!” shouts King. Wildchild pulls Zyon back to his feet and whips him into the ropes, locking his feet around Zyon’s ankle as he rebounds and taking him down with a drop-toehold that slams the Unique Youth’s face into the canvas! The Human Hurricane quickly gets back to his feet and runs towards the edge of the ring; he bounces off the ropes as Zyon starts to sit up on his knees, and leaps into the air, snaring Zyon by the head as he flies past, and driving him face-first into the canvas yet again, this time with a flipping neck snap!

 

“Whiplash!” shouts Mak, as Wildchild pulls Zyon to his feet and drives him back into the mat with a scoop slam in the center of the ring; this time the Tropical Tumbler runs away from Zyon and leaps onto the top rope, only to twist around as he springs back into the ring, to crash into Zyon’s chest cavity with a springboard Senton! Without missing a beat, WC rolls to his feet and runs to the opposing ropes; he leaps to the top rope and arches his back as he springs back into the ring…

 

 

SPLASH!

 

 

… Crashing into Zyon with a springboard moonsault! He remains atop the Unique Youth and applies a lateral press:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

Zyon kicks out at two! WC drags Zyon over towards the edge of the ring and slides his upper body underneath the bottom rope.

 

 

“Wildchild started this match at an unbelievable pace!” shouts Mak, as WC leaves half of Zyon’s body dangling outside the ring. “And his high-risk offense has been amazing! King, you weren’t kidding when you said that he has something to prove!” The Caribbean Cruiser runs to the corner and leaps onto the middle turnbuckle before leaping over the top rope and sailing out of the ring…

 

WHAM!

 

 

… To slam into Zyon with a flying double-axe handle to the collarbone! Zyon slides out of the ring and falls to the arena floor, while WC turns to face the crowd, raising his arms into the air to incite the fans to cheer for him:

 

 

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

DUB-CEE!

 

 

“Wildchild is on fire!” shrieks Mak. “He’s really got the high-risk working tonight!”

 

“He’s definitely on his game,” concedes King. “And even I have to admit, when Wildchild’s on his game, there’s nobody better in the Cruiserweight Division!” The referee works his count up to six, as Wildchild pulls Zyon to his feet; he grabs Zyon by the wrist and whips him across the arena floor towards the barricade, but the Unique Youth reverses, sending WC crashing into the barricade instead. Zyon charges towards Wildchild, but the Bahama Bomber lowers his shoulder and launches Zyon over the barricade and into the crowd with a back-body drop!

 

 

NINE!

 

 

TEN!

 

 

ELEVEN!

 

 

Herrington continues to count Zyon out as WC rolls back underneath the bottom rope; the Human Hurricane scrambles to his feet and races across the ring to leap up onto the top turnbuckle…

 

 

FOURTEEN!

 

 

FIFTEEN!

 

 

… WC begins to run across the top rope…

 

 

SIXTEEN!

 

 

… He leaps fearlessly out of the ring…

 

 

SEVENTEEN!

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

… And crashes into Zyon with a flying somersault Senton! Flabbergasted, the referee has no choice but to re-start his count:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

“This is incredible!” exclaims Mak. “Wildchild is in a zone right now!” WC pulls Zyon to his feet and dumps him over the barricade back onto the padded arena floor at ringside. Zyon flops over onto his stomach, as Wildchild climbs up onto the top of the barricade, only to drop down onto him with a knee to the back of the neck!

 

“That was a viscous assault by Wildchild,” says King. “I didn’t know that he had something like that in him!” WC pulls Zyon to his feet and finally rolls him into the ring; he then climbs up onto the apron and grabs onto the top rope before launching himself into the ring to crash down onto his chest with a slingshot senton! Wildchild rolls over and applies a lateral press:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THR—NO!

 

 

 

Zyon just gets the shoulder up! Wildchild pulls Zyon to his feet, and the Unique Youth repays him by raking his eyes! Zyon tries to capitalize, taking control with a side-headlock; Wildchild backs him against the ropes and pushes him across the ring. Zyon knocks him down as he rebounds and runs back towards the edge of the ring again, but this time, WC greets him as he bounces off the ropes with a Japanese-style armdrag! The Unique Youth stumbles back to his feet, only to get taken over in a hiptoss! Wildchild waits for Zyon to get back to his feet, before scooping him up off the canvas and planting him back down with a scoop slam! He immediately leaps off the canvas and extends his right leg to crash down into Zyon with a legdrop, and the rolls away from Zyon and onto his stomach, fluidly getting back to his feet as he hops back off the canvas, this time stretching out his left leg to hit a second straight legdrop! This time, Wildchild rolls atop Zyon and applies a lateral press, as Herrington dives into position to count:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

Zyon kicks out at two, and then rolls out to the arena floor, leaning against the ring barricade to gather himself. Fans surrounding the barricade give the Unique Youth encouraging pats on the back.

 

FOUR!

 

 

FIVE!

 

 

SIX!

 

 

 

“Zyon’s been on offense for all of six seconds in this match!” says Mak. “He needs to think of something to slow Wildchild down!”

 

 

TEN!

 

 

ELEVEN!

 

 

TWELVE!

 

 

“And he’d better do it fast,” adds King, “because he’s getting his ass handed to him!” Zyon uses nearly the full twenty-count to recover before he climbs back into the ring; he locks up with Wildchild, this time getting the better of it with a kneelift to the midsection. He tilts WC’s upper body upright, and then delivers a blistering open-hand slap to his chest!

 

 

SMACK! WHOOO!

 

“There you go!” cheers King approvingly. “Enough of this flip-flop garbage; I had a feeling that Zyon would be the first to resort to the rough stuff!” Zyon backs Wildchild into the ropes, keeping him off-balance with another couple of kneelifts, and then grabs him by the wrist to whip him across the ring. The Unique Youth lowers his shoulder to lift Wildchild into the air as he bounces off the ropes with a back-body drop, but the Bahama Bomber adjusts himself in midair and lands on his feet behind his opponent; Zyon turns around just in time to get taken off his feet with a beautiful deep armdrag!

 

“This doesn’t look like Zyon’s night,” notes Make. “Wildchild is moving on a whole different level right now!” Zyon negotiates his way back to his feet, and then backs Wildchild against the ropes; he then grabs Wildchild by the wrist and whips him across the ring. Zyon hooks his arm underneath Wildchild’s as he bounces off the ropes and sends him over in a hiptoss… but the Bahama Bomber lands on his feet and scoops the surprised Zyon into his arms! Wildchild slams Zyon down to the canvas, but the Unique Youth hooks his arm behind Wildchild’s legs as he comes down, and rolls him into an inside cradle!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

Wildchild kicks out at two! Zyon beats Wildchild to his feet and leaps into the air, locking his ankles behind WC’s head and taking him over with a standing rana! The Unique Youth beats his opponent to his feet a second time, and leaps into the air again, this time, to blast Wildchild in the chest with a standing dropkick that sends him through the ropes and out the arena floor! Zyon holds his arms skyward in his trademark pose, his elbows slightly bent, as the Bahama Bomber gets back to his feet outside the ring.

 

 

ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!

 

 

“Beautiful sequence by the Unique Youth,” says Mak. “That may have been just what the doctor ordered!”

 

“You don’t have to render false honorifics on me,” replies King. “Simply calling me the greatest is enough!” Herrington begins to administer a twenty-count, but the Unique Youth suddenly charges towards the edge of the ring, sliding feet-first underneath the bottom rope to Wildchild with a baseball slide…

 

… But the Bahama Bomber dives back into the ring through the second rope just as Zyon is diving out of the ring through the bottom rope! WC rolls quickly back to his feet and charges back towards the edge of the ring, diving feet-first through the ropes before the Unique Youth realizes what happened…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… And blasts him in the face with a baseball slide! Wildchild gets back to his feet and runs over to the nearby corner as Zyon stumbles backwards into the ring barricade! WC climbs up to the top turnbuckle and waits for Zyon to get back to his feet before leaping out of the ring, knocking the Unique Youth to the deck with a flying cross-body block!

 

“Zyon is in a world of hurt right now!” says Mak. “He can’t sustain any momentum against the Wildchild, and Wildchild looks like he’s going to run straight through him!” Wildchild rolls Zyon back into the ring, and then climbs onto the apron. He quickly runs over to the apron and leaps to the top rope, before diving back into the ring to deliver a massive suicide headbutt!

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

… But the Unique Youth rolls out of the way at the last possible second! Zyon quickly pops back to his feet and runs towards the edge of the ring, leaping onto the middle rope before springing backwards into the ring, flipping in midair to crash into his opponent with a Quebrada!

 

 

“Half Moon!” shouts Mak. “This could be a major upset!” Red Herrington dives into position to make the count:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

Wildchild kicks out at two! Zyon rolls to his feet and takes a step back as Wildchild gets to his knees, and then suddenly charges forward, blasting the Bahama Bomber in the side of the head with a stiff knee! He then runs to the ropes, springing into the air as he bounces off and drills Wildchild in between the eyes with a running knee!

 

“Shining Duo!” shouts Mak, as Zyon goes for another pinfall:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

WILDCHILD KICKS OUT AT TWO!

 

 

 

 

“Another near fall for Zyon,” says Mak. “And, give him credit: he’s come back from a hellacious beating to be able to exert some control here in this match!” Zyon pulls Wildchild to his feet and whips him across the ring, but the Bahama Bomber rebounds explosively, leaping into the air and blasting the Unique Youth between the eyes with a flying back elbow smash that knocks him to the canvas! Wildchild rolls onto his stomach to try and gather himself, while Zyon clutches his nose in pain.

 

“Zyon’s hopes of a comeback are going to continue to be a short as the ladies tell me you are,” quips King, “unless he can figure out a way to keep Wildchild off the ropes!” WC goes to pull Zyon back to his feet, who stuns him by punching him in the nose! Zyon scoops Wildchild into a slam position, but WC slips off his shoulders and grabs him by the back of the head, leading him over to the edge of the ring and leaping over the top rope as he brings Zyon’s neck down across it with the Macho Man Neck Snap!

 

“Quick thinking on the part of the Wildchild,” praises Mak, as Wildchild climbs back onto the apron. “And as far as your pathetic attempt to get under my skin, I’m not even going to dignify that… Besides, I’ve got more dragging that you’ve got hanging, anyway!!” Wildchild gives Zyon some time to recover as he settles upon his favorite perch; he leaps fearlessly into the ring…

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

But the Unique Youth springs into the air, trapping Wildchild’s head and arm before falling backwards, driving WC’s face into the canvas with a Flatliner out of mid-air!

 

 

ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!

ZY-ON!

 

 

“My God,” shrieks Mak, “what an amazing desperation maneuver by the Unique Youth! He just caught Wildchild out of the middle of the air and nailed him with the Decline; outstanding use of that move!”

 

“A phenomenal counter,” agrees King, as Zyon rolls around on the floor. “If he could just put himself in position for a cover, he could probably end this match right now!” Zyon finally rolls over to apply a lateral press:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THR— NO!

 

 

Zyon rolls to his feet and takes a step back as Wildchild gets to his knees, and then suddenly charges forward, blasting the Bahama Bomber in the side of the head with a stiff knee! He then runs to the ropes, springing into the air as he bounces off and drills Wildchild in between the eyes with a running knee!

 

“Another Shining Duo!” shouts Mak, as Zyon goes for another pinfall:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

BUT ONLY GETS TWO!

 

 

“And another near fall for Zyon,” says Mak, “as it appears that Zyon has found his stride in this match!” Zyon pulls Wildchild to his feet and delivers several crisp forearms to the chest, before running back towards the edge of the ring and leaping onto the second rope; the Unique Youth springs back into the ring to deliver a flying forearm smash, but WC still has presence of mind to duck out of the way! Wildchild meets Zyon as he gets to his feet with quick right hands!

 

 

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

BAP!

 

Wildchild backs Zyon into a corner and then whips him across the ring towards the other corner, but Zyon reverses, sending Wildchild rocketing into the corner…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… Where he crashes chest-first into the turnbuckles at an unbelievably high velocity! Wildchild bounces off the turnbuckles like a jet ball and collapses onto his back! Zyon staggers over to his opponent and falls atop him with a pinfall attempt:

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREE— NO!

 

 

“Two count only,” says Mak, “but Zyon seems to be getting stronger with each passing move, and those kickouts are becoming less and less forceful on the part of the Bahama Bomber!”

 

“I’ve got to tell you,” adds King. “The way Wildchild started this match off, I was sure that it’d be over in five minutes, but I have to give Zyon credit for reaching back and taking control of this match… Now, we’ll need to see whether or not Zyon has the killer instinct to extend this advantage.” Zyon pulls Wildchild back to his feet and whips him towards a nearby corner, racing to the ropes as Wildchild staggers backwards towards the center of the ring, and leaps into the air as he rebounds, reaching for Wildchild’s neck to hit him with a running neckbreaker, but the Bahama Bomber sidesteps him! Wildchild whips his leg through the air as Zyon turns around to deliver a roundhouse kick, but the Unique Youth catches his leg in mid-move…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… Only for the Bahama Bomber to whip his other leg through the air and blast Zyon in the face with a Gamengiri! Wildchild stands with his back to Zyon and springs off the canvas, crashing down onto his chest with a backflip splash!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

BUT ONLY GETS TWO!

 

 

“Boy, I thought that Wildchild had him after that Gamengiri!” says Mak. “These two continue to go back and forth, and you have to wonder who will be able to come away with the win!” Wildchild pulls Zyon back to his feet and whips him across the ring into a corner. He charges in after him, but Zyon lowers his shoulder and lifts him out of the ring, only for the Bahama Bomber to land on his feet on the apron. Wildchild turns Zyon around and grabs him by the back of the head, slamming him face-first into the top turnbuckle! He then leaps onto the top rope as Zyon staggers away, before springing back into the ring, body extended to crash into Zyon with a cross-body block!

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… But Zyon snatches him out of the air and spin towards the center of the ring as he sits out, driving Wildchild into the canvas head-first with an Aero Driver!

 

 

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

 

“Oh my word!” shouts Mak. “Zyon with a terrific counter into the Aero Driver! This ought to do it!!”

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREEE— NO!

 

 

“That was extremely close!” cries Mak. “Wildchild was about four inches away from getting beat there!” Zyon lifts Wildchild up off the canvas and plants him with a scoop slam. He then runs to the ropes, measuring Wildchild as he rebounds, before planting a kneedrop between his eyes.

 

“Zyon scoring with another big move here,” says Mak, “but he could be making a big mistake in not going for the cover here!” Zyon pulls Wildchild to his feet and places him in a Uranage position before spinning him around and slamming him to the canvas with a Sambo Suplex! He quickly scrambles to his feet and runs to the ropes, lifting his leg as he rebounds to nail Wildchild with a lunging Yakuza kick, but WC shows great resiliency of his own, as he ducks underneath…

 

 

SNAP!

 

 

… And cups his hands under Zyon’s neck from behind, leaping up and bringing the Unique Youth’s spine down across the knees with a Lungblower!

 

 

RAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

“Lungblower out of nowhere!” shouts Mak. “Wildchild still has some fight left in him!” Red Herrington begins to count both men down:

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THREE!

 

 

“This match looks like a pick-em at this stage, King,” notes Mak.

 

 

FOUR!

 

 

 

“Definitely,” agrees King. “The next person to score a big move will probably be the winner!”

 

 

FIVE!

 

 

SIX!

 

 

SEVEN!

 

 

Around the seven count, both men begin to stir. Wildchild crawls over to Zyon and applies a weak lateral press:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

That only gets two! Wildchild and Zyon then each roll to their knees, and begin to exchange blows as they fight to their feet, with the Bahama Bomber trading hard right fists with Zyon:

 

BAP!

BAM!

BAP!

BAM!

BAP!

BAM!

 

Zyon eventually takes control, backing Wildchild up against the ropes and whipping him across the ring. The Bahama Bomber ducks underneath a rolling elbow attempt as he bounces off the ropes, and then leaps into the air as he rebound a second time, crashing into Zyon with a cross-body block, only for the Unique Youth to roll through it and roll him into a cradle, as Herrington falls into position to count:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

NO!

 

 

“Man, was that close!” sighs Mak. Zyon beats Wildchild to his feet and stuns him with a kneelift to the midsection. He whips Wildchild into the ropes once more and lowers his shoulder to deliver a back-body drop, only for Wildchild to catch him in an inside cradle as he comes off the ropes!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THR— NO!

 

 

“And that was another close near-fall,” mentions King. “Zyon thought that he had firmly established control, but Wildchild’s lightning-fast reflexes were almost able to get him the victory!” Wildchild sidesteps a charging Zyon and leaps into the air as he bounces off the ropes, blasting him in the face with a flying back elbow!

 

“Another nice counter by the Bahama Bomber,” says Mak. “And it looks like he’s going up… that’s high-risk territory, King, but not for this guy!”

 

“And the thing about it is that you never know what he’s going to do up there!” adds King. Wildchild leaps from the top turnbuckle and dives into the ring to deliver a flying elbow smash…

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

… Only to get caught flush on the chin by Zyon’s patented Snap front dropkick!

 

 

“Snap!” shouts Mak. “He caught Wildchild out of the air with the Snap! What a brilliant, heads-up counter!”

 

“I gotta give Zyon credit on that one,” concedes King. “Now, we’ll have to see if he can put him away for good this time!”

 

“Well,” says Mak, “he just gave the sign for the Final Flash; if he can hit it, Wildchild will definitely be put away!” Zyon exits to the apron and climbs up to the top turnbuckle. He leaps down into the ring and flips forward, showing great form as he aims his body to crash into Wildchild with a senton swan dive…

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

… But WC rolls out of the way and the Unique Youth crashes into the canvas! Wildchild scrambles to his feet and runs towards the edge of the ring, picking up speed as he bounces off the ropes…

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

… But Zyon pops to his feet and levels WC with a lariat! The Unique Youth rolls Wildchild over and applies a cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

 

 

NO! Wildchild gets the shoulder up!

 

 

“One thing that has helped Zyon keep Wildchild at bay is the fact that he’s done a good job of neutralizing his strengths,” explains King. “Everybody knows that Wildchild loves to generate offense from off that top rope and coming off the ropes, but ever since he hit that Decline, he’s done an excellent job of taking that away from him!” Zyon pulls WC back to his feet and whips him across the ring; the Unique Youth raises his right arm to deliver another lariat, but Wildchild ducks underneath, locking his right arm with Zyon’s right, and then turning into the Unique Youth as he steps behind him, locking his left arm with Zyon’s left…

 

 

BANG!

 

 

AND SURPRISING HIM WITH THE WILD RIDE!

 

 

“Oh my God!” shrieks Mak. “He hit that out of nowhere!” WC rolls Zyon over and applies a lateral press.

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

“I don’t think he’s gonna get up from it!” says King.

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

“No way!” affirms Mak.

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

“Let’s Get Dirty begins to play again, and the fans go crazy! Wildchild sits up on his knees, breathing heavily as Herrington raises his hand in victory.

 

“Here is your winner,” booms Funyon, “The WIIIIILDCHIIIIILD!”

 

 

“Big win for the Wildchild,” says Mak, “as he keeps his Pay-Per-View winning streak alive; that’s eleven in a row now for him and, more importantly, he’s proven that he’s still among the Cruiserweight Elite!”

 

Depleted, Wildchild rolls out of the ring, into the waiting arms of a happy Melissa Fasaki…

 

 

As we:

FADE OUT

[chirs3 0]

SWF Smarkdown – 18 Days Ago

 

With Michael Cross waiting for his nemesis and International Champion Akira Kaibatsu, the man known as Bloodshed appeared from backstage, attacking both men and leaving them lying seconds after the bell, leaving the fans around the arena and watching at home in shock.

 

Over the next few days, Alan and Bloodshed both explained themselves en route to Alan being forced to team with Michael Cross in a bout against Kaibatsu and his partner Zyon, Wasted Youth.

 

SWF Storm – 13 Days Ago

 

Michael has Akira in his sights, the sound of his feet pounding against the canvas as he moves towards the ropes, looking to deliver his signature double stomp and destroy the International Champion…

 

Slap!!

 

With a slap across the back, Alan tags himself into the match with Michael poised on the top rope. Seconds later, Cross finds himself sailing through the air after a hard shove from his own partner.

 

A few moments and a handful of Akira’s tights later, Alan Clark has pinned the champion, but as he tries to escape the ring, Michael Cross is there waiting.

 

Thud!!

 

“IRON BOMB!”

 

The voice of Mak Francis shouts over the calamity as the crowd explodes in cheers at the sight of the Happiest Guy On Earth being drilled onto the knee of “Iron” Mike with a powerbomb. With Clark down and out, Cross turns his attention to Kaibatsu, only to simply walk away at the sight of Zyon standing alongside his partner.

 

 

SWF Lockdown – One Week Ago

 

“You needed to see me?”

 

Clark’s face pops onto the screen as he enters the office of Joseph Peters…

 

“…It seems you are itching to get your hands on the International Championship”

 

“Well look who has it…” Alan’s voice echoes around the Village as Akira appears on one side of the screen, championship in hand, “I want a shot at that belt!”

 

“What about Michael Cross?”

 

“Who cares about Michael Cross!?” Cross appears as well, the two former tag teammates staring at each other through the visage of Alan Clark in the center.

 

“…It’ll be Alan Clark taking on Akira Kaibatsu and Michael Cross in a triple threat match!”

 

“I can’t do those, it’s in my contract!” as the words “No Disqualifications” move across the Tron…

 

“Oh, you CAN be disqualified. They can’t.”

 

“THAT’S NOT FAIR!” Clark’s voice echoes as the images of the three men fade away, only to reveal the image that is no doubt burned into the thoughts of Akira Kaibatsu for the past week, as he slams his championship belt into Alan’s back, sending him falling from the top rope and onto the body of his partner Zyon, only for the resulting fall to knock “The Unique Youth” out, leaving Alan to seconds later capture the SWF Cruiserweight Championship…

 

 

 

“The following contest is a TRIPLE THREAT MATCH and is for the S-W-F INTERNAAAAATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP!!”

 

Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!

 

The crowd explodes as the scene on the SmarkTron fades and the lights around the ring return, revealing Funyon in all his jolly old glory.

 

“Introducing first…the challengers…”

 

“Colony” by In Flames begins to play over the park PA system, bringing Michael Cross out onto the stage area, his eyes stone cold in concentration as he makes his way to the ring…dragging a steel chair behind him.

 

“…making his way to the ring at this time…hailing from Elkhart, Indiana and weighing in at two hundred thirty seven pounds… “IRON” MICHAEL CROOOOOOSS!!”

 

“It’s been a wild ride to get here tonight, and it seems the man you are seeing on your television screens now, Michael Cross, is not taking this contest or it’s rules for granted! He’s already got himself a chair!” the voice of Mak Francis seems even more excited for the festivities than usual, while beside him the Suicide King is sitting with his eyes closed, probably wishing it was Kingmas Eve.

 

“Francis, if you had the chance to smack some punk in Mickey Mouse ears with a steel chair without any chance of him retaliating, wouldn’t you want to do it?”

 

“I can’t get a lot of power behind my swing in this chair, King” Mak points down at his wheelchair as Michael Cross steps into the ring and turns his attention back toward the curtain as the brooding music of In Flames is replaced by...

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

Booooooooooooooo!

 

“I would say that’s unexpected, but there are very few people out there right now that can justify Alan Clark’s actions as of late.” cites Mak as the medley of "When You Wish Upon A Star" begins to play throughout the area...

 

“He might be one of the most annoying people I have ever met, and I know Cyclone Comet, but even I know what desire is when I see it. Alan Clark is willing to go into this match an unarmed man just to get a chance to win the International Championship…”

 

“And his opponent…” Funyon continues as Alan Clark and Walter Reynolds appear from behind the curtain… “being accompanied to the ring by Walter Reynolds and representing Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida…he weighs in a two hundred and twenty seven pounds is YOUR S-W-F Cruiserweight Champion of the World….the Happiest Guy On Earth…ALAAAAAAAAAN CLAAAAAAAAARK!!”

 

“Geez, Funyon, take a breath.”

Boooooooooooooooooo!!

 

Alan’s smile is still as wide as ever in the face of the jeering crowd, but as he pauses at the top of the ramp to hold his newly won championship high over his head….

 

 

Smack!!

 

Raaaaaaaaaaah!!

 

“Did you see that, King! Akira Kaibatsu almost took Alan Clark’s head off with the International Championship!!” exclaims the Franchise as Walter Reynolds is brushed past by the “Divine Wind” en route to a skull-on-gold collision, the shot from the belt putting Alan down face-first on the ramp.

 

“Oh I saw it! Akira might be one lucky runt to hold that title, but I would say wiping the smile off Alan Clark’s face right there just might be the lesser of two evils!”

 

“Well, I don’t know about that, but it seems that the champ isn’t even waiting for his announcement! He’s still holding that title and is making his way down the ramp and right towards Michael Cross who has been standing there in wait, steel chair at the ready!” The camera goes to a split screen as referee Nick Soapdish tries to stand between the two superstars as Walter lifts Alan to his feet on the ramp, the fingertips of Clark a tinge of red as he pulls them from the back of his head. “And Alan Clark looks to be bleeding already, and this match hasn’t even…

 

Ding Ding Ding!

 

“…started yet!”

 

“You were saying?” chimes the Suicide King as Akira stands across the ring from Cross, the two men staring each other through as Soapdish tries to retrieve the belt-slash-recent weapon from the champion, but Akira pulls his arm away, keeping his title in his hands as his eyes dart from Cross’ pupils to the steel chair and back again. With a simple gesture of his right hand, Akira Kaibatsu invites Michael Cross to ‘just bring it’, eliciting a heavy roar from the crowd.

 

Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaah!

 

“Michael Cross does not look like he was expecting that kind of react—and a SWING!”

 

CLANK!

 

“No! Cross tried to flatten Akira with that steel chair but the champion moved out of the way! Akira looks to be on the attack now…” Michael shakes off the whiff, only to catch the back of the Divine Wind’s right foot heading straight for his midsection. “And a beautiful spin kick from Kaibatsu connects! I’d call that drawing first blood but Alan Clark has yet to even get into the ring after that attack from behind a few moments ago…” a replay pops on the screen to show the smiling Alan Clark’s head get busted open courtesy of the International Champion, and as the live shot continues the camera cuts to Clark on the outside, who seems to have shook off the pain as he lies in wait at the edge of the ringside area, watching intently as Akira keeps the pressure on Cross, whose grip will not relinquish the steel chair even as the champion begins firing off chops one after another into his chest!

 

Woooooooooo!!

 

“What is Alan Clark doing out there? He had best be glad this match doesn’t have any rules about count-outs or he would have been back in the locker room as a loser already!”

 

“Alan knows that the other two men in this ring have no love lost between them,” remarks Francis as Akira wraps his arm around Cross’ neck in a front facelock, only for Michael to wrap his chair around Akira’s back and push his shoulder forward, releasing the chair from his grasp and sending the back of the champion falling down on top of it, the sound of mat on metal on spine both causing a yelp of pain from the International Champion as the Cruiserweight Champion makes his entrance, sliding underneath the bottom rope and on top of Akira, trying to steal a pinfall…

 

One!

 

“Ooomph!”

 

“Quickly broken up by Cross there as Alan Clark almost snuck away with his second championship in two weeks! If I were him right now I’d be putting distance between myself and Michael Cross!” Francis’s excitement grows as Alan is quick to his feet and into a corner, holding his hands up in innocence as Michael approaches him, no longer armed but just as dangerous.

 

“If I were Alan Clark I’d (bleeeeeeeeeeep)…What the?”

 

“I don’t think the censors would like you advocating suicide, King.” The explanation comes as Soapdish tries to keep order, but for the moment the action has stalemated, with Akira recovering in the center of the ring as Alan wishes he could hide behind a turnbuckle pad instead of facing the wrath of his “Iron” opponent. “And Michael Cross has Clark cornered!! There’s no place to go!”

 

Thinking on his feet, Alan points over his opponent’s shoulder and can be seen to mouth the words “look out” toward Cross. “Oh that never works…” and sure enough, Michael just shakes his head before bee-lining into the corner, slamming his right knee into Alan Clark’s gut, eliciting a violent expulsion of air as Alan’s body falls down into the corner…

 

Smack!!

 

…only to catch a second knee, this time to the forehead!

 

“Ooooooooooooo…” The crowd winces in unison as Alan’s head whips backwards from the blow, but before Cross can add any more dents to the skull of the Happiest Guy On Earth, he feels a tug on his left arm that spins him around…

 

CLANG!!

 

“What a chairshot!! Michael Cross let his guard down and paid the price, getting a chair bent over his face by the same man he was, only moments ago, looking to do the same to!”

 

“I didn’t think the little guy had it in him!” The Suicide King apparently has forgotten or has chosen to forget Akira’s prior battles with Bruce Blank, but as the camera zooms in on Kaibatsu’s face and the vicious shot is replayed on screen, it is easy to see that the International Champion is anything but out of his element as he looks down upon his former tag team partner and Alan Clark…

 

…but where’s Alan Clark? The corner where he had just been lying is empty, and a quick look towards Walter Reynolds gets nothing but a shoulder shrug from the big man, who has been standing on the other side of the ring from the action after picking Clark up from off the ramp before the match began. Nick Soapdish is also confused, especially with a man less than five feet from him screaming in Japenese to presumably figure out exactly what happened to his other opponent.

 

“Akira does not seem like he wants to fall prey to any surprise attacks, regardless of his intentions from earlier.”

 

“All Akira wants is Michael Cross, and vice versa I’m sure. Alan is just sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong and now both of these men have to run around looking over their shoulder for that buffoon!” King continues ranting as the scene switches to outside the ring, where a camera has finally located Alan, crawling out from under the apron on the opposite side of the ring of his opponents and right next to Walter Reynolds, who is just as shocked as everyone else.

 

“THERE HE IS! THERE HE IS! THERE HE IS!” a large chunk of the crowd around ringside explodes in a loud chant, turning the International Champion towards them as Alan tries to rush back under the ring as he hears the crowd in front of him.

 

“Well, I guess we know whose side the fans are on…”

 

“Yeah, this isn’t hide and seek, Clark!” remarks the Suicide King as Akira moves toward the edge of the ring and looks down, noticing the apron moving from the disturbance behind it. “Now he’s got him…”

 

“Look! Now Cross has Akira!!” cries Mak as Michael Cross has gotten back to his knees and made his way across the ring, pulling Akira backwards and down to the canvas with a schoolboy!

 

One!

 

 

Two!

 

 

No!

 

“Akira gets the shoulder up just in time after a surprise he had been trying to prevent—but look at Michael Cross now!” The fans watching all around the world can see a small trickle of blood running down the forehead of Cross, but his eyes are fixated on Akira, who is hurrying to get back to his feet and keep himself up. “I don’t think he was really trying to win there, but I also don’t think he would have minded the shock victory either.”

 

“Victory or not, I’ve seen the kind of looks that Cross and Kaibatsu are throwing back and forth at each other, and I am beginning to wonder if the title means less to these two than the destruction of the other---“

 

“OOOMPH!”

 

“And it’s on!” shouts Francis as the two superstars collide, the smaller Akira trying to drive his shoulder into Cross’s chest as the challenger brings his knee up, trying to give the International Champion the same kind of attention he gave to the Cruiserweight champ that is only now just come out of hiding, his eyes peering over the edge of the apron as he watches Michael and Akira begin to fire off punches into the head and chest of each other, each closed fist from the Divine Wind bringing a bit more crimson pooling to the surface of Cross’ forehead, causing Alan’s hand to go to the back of his own head where there is no doubt still a bit of blood. “This might be smart on Clark’s part, as he seems content to simply watch these two men destroy each other.”

 

“He’d just better pray they don’t notice him.”

 

“They were a formidable tag team, King” adds Francis as Akira’s right hand goes low, catching Cross in the lower abdomen and giving him the opportunity to wrap his hand around Michael’s wrist and lean back, pivoting on his toes to try and irish whip his opponent into the turnbuckle… “and an irish whip now from Aki—Reversed!”

 

 

Thud!

 

“Oh my! Did you see that!” A few in the crowd can be heard gasping as Michael Cross follows through with the whip and plants his feet, pulling Akira through the whip before falling toward the mat, wrapping his ankles around Kaibatsu’s left leg, sending the champ face-first into the bottom turnbuckle!

 

“The neck isn’t meant to be snapped around like that. You more than anyone should know that, Francis” quips King, drawing a pitiful grumble from his broadcast partner as Akira rolls across the canvas with his hands around his neck, cradling and massaging the pain away as much as he can be Michael drags his toward the center of the ring by his feet and rolls him onto his stomach, moving as fast as he can to wrap his leg around the Divine Wind’s ankle and fall to the canvas, wrenching the knee backwards before clutching Akira around the neck in a headlock…

 

“And now Michael Cross with that modified STF, he’s really pulling back on Kaibatsu’s neck right now! If Alan Clark doesn’t get into the ring, the champ might not have nowhere to go!” and sure enough, as Francis sounds off from the sidelines, Alan slides under the bottom rope and into the ring behind Michael’s back, giving the “Iron” superstar a boot to the back of the head to get his attention as Akira squirms for freedom.

 

“He’s not breaking the hold! This is no disqualifications, Clark!” remarks the Suicide King as Cross turns to look at Clark, a smile on his face, but Clark too smiles as he jumps over the two men and grabs the steel chair that had been dropped in the ring. “You can’t use the chair either, you buffoon! You’ll be fired! Wait, use it! USE IT!”

 

“I don’t think he is the one that is going to use it, King…” Mak replies as Clark places the chair into the outstretched hands of Akira Kaibatsu, who swings it with as much force as he can muster over his head, clocking Cross on the forehead for the second time!

 

“Ooooooo!” the crowd gasps as the hold is released and Cross’s body slumps backwards, the shot no doubt drawing more blood as Akira rolls to his back, still holding the chair as he tries to recover, seemingly forgetting that Alan Clark is still standing above him…

 

 

…and Alan pulls the chair from his hands!!

 

“He’s got the chair again! Ref! Ref!” and sure enough, Nick Soapdish is quick to remind Alan of the rules, but Clark shoos him away, shaking his head ‘no’ and disposing over the chair over the top rope, much to the dismay of the audience.

 

Booooooooooo!

 

“I guess Alan thinks that if he can’t use steel chairs then neither should Akira or Cross…”

 

“But he just GAVE Akira that chair! You saw him! He’s a hypocrite! A hypocrite, I say!” interrupts King as Clark drives his right foot into Akira’s face before moving to Cross, kicking him toward the apron and out of the ring to the floor! “And what good is that going to do! He’s giving both men time to recover!”

 

“It’s also leaving Alan Clark alone in the ring with the International Champion, and I think that’s all he wants right now after how this match started!” Knowing he has not much time on his hands, Alan is quick to drag Akira up to his feet and get a headlock of his own, squeezing around the champion’s neck as he watches the outside of the ring to make sure Michael Cross will not be giving him any surprises. Keeping the hold applied, Alan shoves his body back toward the corner, sandwiching Akira in between himself and the turnbuckle before moving forward and leaping into the air, driving the Divine Wind’s face into the canvas with a bulldog.

 

Alan jumps up, and with minimal fanfare he hits the ropes, springboarding off the second and flipping his body backwards, bringing all of his weight down onto the upper-back of Akira with a perfectly-aimed moonsault!

 

“The Walk In The Park…That’s over two hundred pounds landing on your back and neck right there” Alan rolls Akira over and hooks his leg… “and there’s a cover!”

 

One!

 

 

Two!

 

“And a kickout from Kaibatsu, but Alan Clark is still in control!” continues Francis as Alan pulls Akira back up and shoves him back into the corner before moving across the ring. “It might be Tilly Time!”

 

“Tilly Time?” scoffs the King as Alan rushes back toward his opponent, cartwheeling through the center of the ring and leaping into the air, his right foot striking the side of Akira’s head!!

 

Smack!

 

“MY GOD!” Francis shouts as Alan Clark lands gingerly on his feet and turns back toward the middle of the ring, only to be met by Michael Cross, wielding the same chair Alan had thrown out of the ring earlier. The shot sends Alan recoiling back into the corner where Kaibatsu had just been, stars no doubt forming around his head as Cross winds up…

 

Smaaack!!

 

“And a second chairshot right between the eyes of Alan Clark! And now he’s busted open on both sides of his head!” The camera shows the blood starting to flow in the same way as Mike’s, but as a replay shows the shot once again, Cross turns his attention toward the recovering Akira before taking the hard spine of his steel-and-slightly-crimson beauty and driving it into the back of Kaibatsu’s neck, the shot putting the champion face-first on the canvas. A second shot follows, but before any more damage can be done Akira rolls beneath the ropes and to safety, or so he thinks.

 

“Michael Cross is using that chair like it’s his right hand, and he isn’t just going to let Akira sit on the outside and heal up like Alan just did! He wants Akira to suffer!” The Suicide King’s comments come as Cross slides to the outside, following the champ to the floor, keeping the chair by his side as he begins to drag the small mats away from their places, revealing the concrete underneath that usually serves as a park walkway. “And it looks like ‘suffer’ is exactly what Akira is about to do!”

 

“Akira Kaibatsu’s gift this Christmas might be a broken neck from Michael Cross, and I’m sure that would make him extremely happy.”

 

“Of course, Francis. He wants Akira to spend his holiday in a hospital. He wants Akira to spend his life in the hospital. That man thinks violence is the only answer, and he’s about to prove it!” With the crowd watching on, Cross moves toward Akira and drags him by the head until both are standing over the concrete. “Here we go!” King is almost giddy with excitement as Cross keeps Akira’s head down and pulls his arms behind his back, prompting Mak Francis to yell from the booth…

 

“NAIL IN THE CROSS! He’s going to spike Akira Kaibatsu’s head into the ground!!” but before Mike can get the champ into the air, Akira’s body goes limp and heavy, leaving Cross fighting to lift him back up. “He’s trying to escape now, he can look down and see the gray of that concrete looking back at him. And he’s out!” Akira drops to one knee as his arms snake free, only to pop up and drive his elbow and forearm into Cross’s chest and jaw! “European uppercut, and the champ is back in this---“

 

“LOOK OUT!”

 

The Suicide King interrupts Francis with a shout as Alan Clark comes flying over the top rope and down atop his two opponents, sending all three men crashing down onto the ground in a heap!

 

“Holy (bleep)! Holy (bleep)! Holy (bleep)!”

 

“Alan Clark just took a huge risk there, diving to the floor and taking out both Cross and Akira in one shot and now all three men are down on the outside!!”

 

“And Nick Soapdish can’t do anything but look on and wait, because there’s no count-outs! Not even for Alan Clark!”

 

“You are correct, King. Alan can take his time recovering and thank his lucky stars that Joseph Peters didn’t include count-outs in the contract of this match. After all, I don’t think the folks at Disney would care if Alan just sat on the outside of the ring for a while.” The crushing dive is replayed from a few angles, showing that none of the three men really came out of the fall better than anyone else, but having two cushions underneath him kept Clark’s body from taking the fall. His face was not as lucky though, as the third angle of the replay shows his forehead bouncing off the floor before he rolls off the pile and against the steel barricade. “Clark might be knocked out!”

 

“He’s still moving a little. (bleep).” King points out that, indeed, Alan’s arms are moving, clutching at his bleeding forehead as, around him, Cross and Akira are also both struggling to get to their feet, with Cross one step ahead of the champion as he uses the steel stairs to pull himself up.

 

“And Michael Cross is on his feet first!” shouts Mak as Nick Soapdish tries to check over the downed Clark as well as keep his eye on the action, with Michael grabbing the kneeling Akira by the back of his head and throwing him back toward the steps, the Divine Wind’s head and shoulder crashing into the steel with a loud thud! “…and Akira continues to feel the brunt of Cross’ aggression as this match continues. These men were former tag team champions, and now look at them!”

 

“I wish I didn’t have to,” adds King as Michael throws Akira back into the ring, but as he tries to follow him in, his right foot is being held to the ground by the grasp of Alan Clark, who has gotten to his knees and is staring up at Michael Cross with a very large and creepy smile on his face. “And someone needs to wipe that smile off that idiot’s face!” Mike looks to be willing to oblige, as he momentarily forgets about Akira in the ring and instead lifts his knee into Clark’s chin, jarring the cruiser champ and sending him stumbling backwards onto the ground. Michael wipes some blood away from his own forehead before picking Clark back up once more and pulling him down into a standing headscissors.

 

“He’s going to try and Iron Bomb Alan Clark right on the concrete! This man is out of his mind!”

 

“And Clark ain’t?” but as Alan’s body is lifted and flipped up and onto Cross’ shoulders, the other champion in the match has rolled back out to the floor behind the two men, and with Clark looking down Akira throws his entire body like a barrel into the back of Michael’s knees, tripping the challenger up and sending both he and Alan falling toward the ground…

 

 

Thud!!

 

“The back of Michael Cross’ head just slammed into the concrete! Alan Clark took quite the ride, but at least he landed on his feet!” The powerbomb position saved Clark in the end, with his feet over the back of Cross’ shoulders as he fell, allowing him to land on his feet and walk out of the hold, only to turn back around and right into a hard kick straight between the eyes from Akira Kaibatsu! “And a superkick on Clark! The champ is the only one left standing!” With Soapdish still in the ring pleading for some control, Akira picks up both men one after another and throws them into the ring, only to grab the steel chair from the ground as he too slides in, first crawling over Alan Clark and using the folded chair to aid in a pinfall!

 

One!

 

 

Two!

 

 

“Shoulder up! And now he’s trying Cross!” Akira wastes no time in argument, instead repeating the same pinfall on his other opponent…

 

One!

 

 

 

Two!

 

 

“…And a kickout from Cross now! Akira is not happy!”

 

“He thought he had a fifty-fifty shot there, but wasting your time on one gives the other time to recover!” Akira spouts off more intelligible phrases at Soapdish, who simply holds up two fingers to the champ. “Two! Only two!” he can be heard as Akira cradles his neck with one hand and pulls Cross up with the other, struggling at first but eventually getting the slightly bigger superstar up to his feet.

 

“He’s still in control, and is now working over Cross with a hammerlock!” Holding his opponent in front of him like a shield, Akira turns his body in time to see Alan standing to his feet, and decides to push forward, releasing Michael from the wristlock and throwing him into Clark, the momentum of the crash throwing Alan backwards and between the first and second ropes and all the way back down to the floor. Dazed from the collision, Mike barely has time to catch his breath as Akira attacks him from behind, locking in a double chickenwing submission and leaning back, heaving the larger Cross over his head and to the canvas, doing what he can to get his own body out from underneath Cross’ to protect his own neck from the impact of the suplex!

 

Thud!!

 

“A slightly modified Australian Suplex from Kaibatsu, not wanting to put any more pressure on his neck and head as he tries to wear down Michael Cross even more.” Francis continues as Akira stands to his feet and turns toward Cross, signaling for his opponent to get back up! “He’s stalking Michael Cross now, just begging to see him get up! Have you ever seen the champion like this!”

 

“He has a grudge that goes back months. This is what he’s been waiting for and he is going to take advantage of the lacking of rules. That’s what you are supposed to do in this environment!”

 

“Santa’s Village is never going to be the same! I’m still surprised they even let Clark in the gate with his affiliations!”

 

“Bruce Blank was only suspended, not banned, and that little kid was asking for it by jumping in line like that!” Francis is shocked, and tries to remind King of Clark’s Disney ties, only for a gunshot-like sound to come from inside the ring…

 

Smack!

 

“Black Magic from Kaibatsu! Michael Cross’ face could have been crushed from that kick!” Akira lands on his knees and throws his body backwards and over the chest of Cross for another cover…

 

One!

 

 

Two!

“Wait!” Almost before Soapdish’s hand can leave the canvas, Alan Clark’s body leans in from the outside, grabbing Akira’s right leg and dragging him off Cross’ body and to the outside, but the International Champ is just as quick with his hands, and is able to clutch at the bottom rope and hold himself on the apron. “Alan’s pulling with all his might but Akira will not budge!”

 

With no choice, Alan drops the leg and moves in, connecting with a closed fist, causing a warning from the referee before sliding into the ring. Akira pulls his legs back under the ropes and tries to stand, only to catch a forearm to the back of the neck that sends a wave of pain through his body and stuns his upward movement long enough for Clark to pull him into a front facelock and move him toward the middle of the ring, lifting the champ into the air and quickly falling back, dropping Kaibatsu with a picture perfect suplex!

 

“Suplex from Clark…it might be time for a parade!” calls Mak as Alan takes a moment on the mat to wrench at Akira’s neck before rolling through to his knees, keeping the facelock hooked in before lifting himself and his trapped opponent back up and repeating his movements, hitting the second suplex with relative ease. But as he picks himself and Akira up for a third…

 

 

CLANG!

 

“Well, that’s one way to stop a parade!” chimes King as Michael Cross delivers a steel chair to Alan Clark’s face…

 

 

CLAAAANG!

 

“And a second chair shot! This is disgusting!” Alan hits the ropes, dropping Akira as falls back and looks up at Michael Cross just in time to see the chair coming at him for the third time…

 

 

CLA-A-A-NG!!

 

The shot echoes around the entire ringside area as Alan’s body flips over the top rope and drops limply to the ground below, Walter Reynolds rushing around to check on his fallen man as Nick Soapdish warns of foul play. The third chairshot is replayed next to the live image of Alan’s bleeding face, showing how vicous the third shot really was as Cross turns his attention back to Akira…

 

 

Smack!!

 

…who connects with his second superkick of the night!

 

“Akira is up! Clark is down! Cross is against the ropes!” but not for long, as Akira connects with another European uppercut before pulling Cross away from the ropes and into a facelock of his own, his body shaking and a grunt escaping from his lips as he lifts Michael into the air and holds him as long as he can, stepping backwards before falling, dropping Cross down into the mat with a brainbuster!!

 

“That’ll make sugar plums dance in your head, right there.”

 

“That’s the spirit, King! And that’s a cover!”

 

One!

 

 

Two!

 

 

No! Shoulder up!

 

“Cross is barely able to get his shoulder off the mat before the three, leaving Akira to slam his fist down hard with anger, right into Michael’s chest. Even though he escaped the pinfall, Mike is slow to move from his prone position, but Akira is up and notices the steel chair lying off to the side of the ring. “And now he’s got that steel chair in his sights!” Kaibatsu picks up the chair and moves it toward the corner, placing it on the mat where he seems to want it before going back for Cross, lifting him to his feet and pulling him over to where the chair lies.

 

“What’s he doing now?” the King asks, but Akira is fairly quick to answer as he clutches Cross in a headlock and aims himself toward the corner…

 

“The Divine Wind! He’s going to drive Michael Cross’ head into that steel chair with the Divine Wind!” The crowd too is excited, as they all rise from their chairs and look on as Akira keeps the hold on and moves to the corner, lifting his feet up to the top turnbuckle and looking to float over…

 

 

…but Cross spins out!

 

 

Thud!!

 

“Cross counters and Akira goes flying across the ring as Michael pushes free of the Divine Wind!” The landing dazes Kaibatsu, giving Cross enough time to pull the champion up and into a dragon sleeper in the center of the ring! “And now it could be time for a little Silent Rage Syndrome!” Soapdish checks for a submission, but Francis’ prediction is correct as Michael lifts Akira upside down, holding him in the air…

 

“It’s Clark!! What the…”

 

PFFFFFFFFFFFFT!!

 

 

“BLOODMIST!!”

 

 

THUD!!

 

“DIVINE WIND!” Mak Francis’ exclamations grow louder and louder as Alan Clark turns Cross around in mid-Syndrome, spraying his eyes with the blood he gained from Mike’s chairshots, but as he fell to the canvas Akira squeezed out of his hold, driving Cross into the canvas with the Divine Wind! Kaibatsu stands, not even knowing Clark was responsible until he looks down to see the spray on Cross’ face, then looking up to see Alan’s boot coming straight at his face!

 

Smack!

 

“And a superkick from Alan Clark now! Akira’s out of the ring!”

 

“COVER!!” King screams as Akira backpedals and flips over the ropes to the outside, leaving Clark to fall across the prone Michael Cross…

 

One!

 

“Akira’s lands on his feet!!”

 

Two!!

 

“He’s gotta stop the pin!!

 

 

Three!!!

 

 

Ding Ding Ding!

 

Booooooooooooooooooooo!

 

The crowd explodes with jeers as Akira drops to his knees on the outside, looking up into the ring to see Alan Clark standing, rubbing the blood from his face as Walter Reynolds joins him, handing him over his two championship titles.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen…the winner of this match by PINFALL and NEEEEEW S-W-F INTERNATIONAL CHAMPION…. ALAAAAAN CLAAAARK!”

 

Booooooooooooooooo!!

“When You Wish Upon A Star” pipes out through the PA as Alan holds his titles to the sky, ignoring the booing of the crowd as he and Walter exit the ring, Akira on the ground and Cross in the ring, his head racked from the Divine Wind and his face still covered in Alan Clark’s blood.

 

“I don’t believe it! Alan Clark just stole a pin and a championship from Akira Kaibatsu! I mean, I would have done the same thing, but he’s Alan (bleep)ing Clark!”

 

“Believe it, King! Just as he said he would, he is walking out of Santa’s Village and 2006 a double champion, just as he did in the SJL years ago. Michael Cross was moments away from victory, but a bit of an accidental double-team left Michael on the mat and Akira on the outside to watch in horror as his title was pulled away from him!” Akira stands, shaking his head in disgust as the fans around ringside console him, the former champion locking eyes with the dazed Michael Cross in the ring.

 

“Yes, Akira, you weren’t pinned in that ring tonight, but you are still no longer the International Champion. Have a Merry Christmas!”

 

“King, cool it. You never liked to be kicked when you were down!” The crowd can be heard booing one last time as Alan Clark poses once more before stepping through the curtain, the smile on his face bright as ever. “The International Title has officially changed hands, and coming up we are going to see if the same thing can be said for the World Heavyweight Title as Michael Stephens is finally put one-on-one against “The Beast” Gabriel Drake! But coming up next we get to see who will square off against the Heavyweight Champion in 2007 as the Cold Front Classic comes to a climax, JJ Johnson and Landon Maddix, Two out of Three Falls, and it is NEXT!”

Edited December 24, 2006 by chirs3

[chirs3 0]

The crowd is hummin’ like a vibrator as the cameras pan back towards the ring at Santa’s Village, the Jefferson crowd ignoring the frigid cold for a night of awesome wrestling action. And indeed, awesome it ahs been, with the hardcore title being put on the line, the ever-exciting Zyon and Wildchild facing off, and, immediately prior to the forthcoming contest, an International Championship triple threat showdown. Then, an image pops up on the Smarktron, and the crowd that was hummin’ like a vibrator pops like a cherry, the noise level rising as high as the audience’s visible breath.

 

On the left, in the image, stands a man with blonde hair, designer stubble, and a cocky smirk. Beside him stands a remarkably attractive woman, one who has managed him to countless championships and accolades, and tonight looks to be a night where the man adds one more accolade to his extensive list. Unusually jaunty text flashes up below him, revealing his identity to the few on the planet not in the know.

 

 

LANDON “LA CUCARACHA” “MADDIX (2)

w/ Megan Skye

 

“YEEAAAAHH!!”

 

On the right, in stark contrast with the man on the left, stands a man with grayish-black stubble for hair, a contrast in and of itself with his thick black beard, and a look that, at its most excited, could be described as ‘unimpressed’. His glare is piercing, and were his eyes, say, gray or blue instead of hazel, it could probably kill a toddler, perhaps a kindergartener. In the right situation, if the glare wouldn’t do it, the man himself just might.

 

”MR. COLD FRONT CLASSIC” JJ JOHNSON (1)

DEFENDING CHAMPION

 

“BOOOOOOOO!”

 

 

The images hover on the screen, and then more text flashes up, and the final piece of the ‘what is going on here?’ puzzle falls into place.

 

COLD FRONT CLASSIC FINALS

 

It is at this point that the camera begins to pan, sweeping over the excited, chilly crowd before stopping at the announce table, occupied by none other than The Franchise, Mak Francis, and the Suicide King!

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is a match that is eight months in the making,” begins The Franchise. “Battleground 2006, these two men faced off in a Canadian Deathmatch for the World Heavyweight Championship, and it was La Cucaracha who came out on top. Do the tables turn tonight? One man will become the only man to ever win the Cold Front Classic twice, so tell me, King: does Landon take the win, or does the self-proclaimed ‘Mr. Cold Front Classic’ live up to his name?”

 

“Well, Mak, I’m actually going to remain impartial for this part here,” says the Gambling Man, much to everyone’s shock, “because here I have… fanfare… King’s Keys To Victory-Victory-Victory-victory-victory…”

 

“Was the echo really necessary?” asks Mak.

 

“Yes,” snorts King, “now listen. First, Landon Maddix.”

 

Upon the Smarktron doth flash KING’S KEYS TO VICTORY, with two columns, one marked Landon and one marked Johnson. Under the Landon column flashes:

 

STAY OUT OF RANGE

STRIKE FAST, STRIKE HARD

ROLL-UPS

 

“You see,” begins King, “Landon could try working the right arm, as Jay Hawke did, to neutralize the elbows, from which most of Johnson’s offense springs, but as we saw in that same Hawke match, Johnson will simply resort to kicks and beat you anyway. Landon could work the legs, but Johnson is extraordinarily good about protecting his lower limbs, and it’s a fight that Landon shouldn’t devote the energy to winning, so he should just keep away from JJ for most of the match. Second, Maddix definitely has to hit hard when he does get close enough to hit, or this match’ll go on forever, and JJ won’t let this match go on forever. Finally, Landon needs to keep Johnson off-balance; he beat him last time with an unorthodox move, and he needs to bust out more odd pinning combinations so JJ can’t get into a groove.”

 

Johnson’s column flashes up:

 

KEEP LANDON GROUNDED

STRIKE FAST, STRIKE HARD

SUBMISSIONS

 

“Now,” says King, “Landon is prone to flying, and to using absurd pinning combinations, but he can’t do that if Johnson takes him down and keeps him there. He might not be able to do it for three falls, but he’ll at least be able to wear out La Cucaracha. The second key is similar to Landon’s: hit Landon hard, and hit him early, and keep hitting him. Johnson has to be the aggressor in this match for it to go anywhere, because Landon is a master of defense. Finally, an excellent way to counter rollups is submissions, and I venture to say that Johnson knows more submissions than Landon does pinning combinations. It should be interesting to say the le-“

 

Before King can finish his statement, rising electronic beats begin pumping out of the speaker system over Santa’s Village, and David Draiman’s voice begins cascading forth, unusually soothing for Disturbed’s frontman.

 

Tell me exactly what am I supposed to do

Now that I have allowed you, to beat me!

Do you think that we could play another game?

Maybe I could win this ti-ime.

 

I kind of like the misery you put me through

Darling you can trust me, completely!

If you even try to look the other way

I think that I could kill this ti-ime!

 

And with that, power chords and rabid drumming begin crashing out of the speakers, Disturbed’s “The Game” in full gear as lights flash. Shortly, the curtain parts, and through it strides Megan Skye, followed shortly by Landon Maddix! His sleeveless robes billow behind him as he strides out onto the stage, spreading his arms and doing a whirl before continuing down to the ring, a cocky smirk on his face.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is the Cold Front Classic final match, and it is to be contested under best-of-three-falls rules! Introducing first, from Huron, South Dakota, being accompanied by Megan Skye, he is the number two seed, and the 2004 Cold Front Champion, LANDON! LA CUUU-CAA-RAAA-CHAAA! MAAAADIIIIXXXX!” roars Funyon as Landon pauses on the ramp leading directly to the ring apron, as if he’s making note of the entranceway’s potential use as a launch pad before he goes ahead and steps into the ring, completing another whirl… before the lights drop out, and a chanting starts up that would make the unsuspecting viewer think that Hell itself had come to Santa’s Village.

 

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!

 

*BOOOM!*

 

Behemoth’s “Slaves Shall Serve” roars to life as a tremendous blast of pyro goes off at the entranceway, the lights blazing red and white as through the smoke strides JJ Johnson. With Nergal launching into his first verse (Father of Terror! Abu Ol-Hol!) and the light reflecting in his sunglasses, the Canadian strides down to the ring. If Landon Maddix didn’t have those sunglasses between himself and the Ultimate Fighter’s eyes, he might be frightened by the rage dwelling within the number one seed.

 

“And his opponent!” shouts Funyon. “From Windsor, Ontario, Canada, he is the number one seed and the defending Cold Front Classic Champion, J! J! JOOOOOOOHNSSOOOOON!”

 

JJ wastes little time stepping into the ring, shedding his track jacket and hucking it into the crowd before whipping his sunglasses off and staring down the man across the ring, who does his best to ignore him as he consults with Megan Skye. The lights rise up, and referee Mark Hebner commands the two men to come to the center of the ring, and they comply.

 

“Alright, guys,” says Hebner. “I want a good, clean fight out of both of you.” Hebner said both of you, but he stares directly at Landon when he says it, and he keeps his eyes locked on the South Dakotan for a few more seconds. Behind Hebner, Johnson allows himself a malicious grin, but before Maddix can point it out, Hebner continues.

 

“No hair pulling, no low blows, no pulling the tights, and no closed fists, got it?” asks Hebner. Both men nod to the affirmative. “Good. Now shake hands.”

 

Without hesitation, Johnson thrusts out his hand, and Landon hesitates just a moment before he returns the favor, clasping hands with the Canadian and giving it a firm pump before both men retreat to their corners, and wait.

 

Hebner calls for the bell.

 

 

DING DING DING!

 

 

And just as quickly as they retreated, the two men close the gap between them, Maddix throwing his hand up and wagging his fingers, calling for a test of strength. Johnson stays immobile, eyeing the hand levitating in front of him… and then launching a hissing roundhouse towards the face of La Cucaracha! Landon’s eyes go wide, and he ducks his head; however, it never occurs to him to retract his arm, and thus he walks right into JJ’s trap, as Johnson floats over and brings Maddix to the mat, torquing his shoulder with a Fujiwara armbar! Landon lets out a low groan as the sting forces its way into his shoulder, but he manages to draw himself up to a knee, and then, with some struggle, roll through the armbar and then to his feet, where he wraps the arm he still has a hold of around his leg before diving over and stacking Johnson on his shoulders with La Majistral!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

And Johnson kicks out quite forcefully. Maddix takes a few steps away from Johnson before the Canadian has a chance to recover, and he gives Mr. Cold Front Classic a knowing smile. In response, Johnson snarls.

 

“See? There it is!” says King excitedly. “Submissions vs. pinning combinations, just like I said. Landon wasn’t careful and he got suckered into a painful hold, but he got out of it well enough.”

 

“Question is, how much of that will Johnson put up with?” asks the Franchise. “For JJ Johnson, tolerance is a non-renewable resource, and he’s bound to become frustrated soon enough.”

 

From the look on Johnson’s face, “soon enough” is “now”, as pure vitriol encompasses every inch of his face. Maddix notices, no doubt he notices, and although he looks slightly unnerved at first, it switches to a cool and confident look, and he strides up before Johnson before getting down on his hands and knees.

 

“It… that’s odd,” sas Mak, shaking his head as though something is amiss. “Landon Maddix is in the ref position. Landon Maddix is challenging JJ Johnson to wrestle him on the mat, and no doubt something is up. La Cucaracha is not stupid.”

 

Unfortunately for Maddix, neither is JJ Johnson, and instead of taking Landon’s bait, JJ buries a punting kick into La Cucaracha’s ribs!

 

*THUNK!*

 

“OOF!”

 

Maddix clutches at his stomach and rolls to a seated position, gasping for breath, but this only renders him susceptible to a firm Cowboy Kick to the spine!

 

*SMAAACK!!*

 

Landon groans and clutches at his back, but Johnson is merciless, casually guiding Maddix’s hand away from the afflicted area before not-so-casually guiding his boot into that same spot!

 

*SMAAACK!!*

 

La Cucaracha’s back arches involuntarily and his eyes go wide, but he no longer is given time to take a breath before the next crushing blow is delivered!

 

*SMAAACK!!*

 

Finally, JJ reaches down and directly violates Hebner’s orders by seizing a firm grip on a tuft of Maddix’s hair and pulling him up, Landon giving a cry between his back and his scalp. Hebner demands that Johnson break his grip on Maddix’ hair, and he complies, but not before snarling “Ain’t so cocky now, huh, pretty boy?”, and then tucking his head under Landon’s arm before hoisting him up high and dropping him on his punished back with, well, a backdrop!

 

*BANG!*

 

Maddix bounces up to sitting, and he clutches at his back; instantly, though, he feels burly arms wrapping themselves around his waist before he is hoisted to his feet, and the Canadian hurls him backwards with a German suplex!

 

No! Landon sticks his leg in between the legs of the Ultimate Fighter, preventing certain vertical death, at least momentarily. Behind him, Johnson growls, and then Maddix’s leg is bunched up against his chest, the Canadian’s head is under his arm again, and he’s being lifted up… up… back…

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

… and then Johnson drops him on his shoulders with a Regalplex, bridging for the pin!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TW-and then Maddix thrusts his legs out, escaping the pin before rolling far, far away, out onto the ramp to recover.

 

“And Johnson has come right back into this thing, and he’s done some damage to the back, which is no doubt going to make life difficult for La Cucaracha if he can’t regain some momentum here,” notes the Franchise, with a bit of a worried look in his eyes as Landon continues to groan.

 

“Johnson would be wise to follow up on what he’s set up here,” says King, but Johnson looks to be ignoring him; instead of giving chase after Maddix, he steps out to the apron before climbing up to the top rope, staring Landon down from his perch.

 

Landon Maddix has a nasty ache in his back, but invariably, Johnson will keep coming, and so La Cucaracha forces himself to his feet, staring at the ground as he works his way to a vertical base. Finally, after taking one more moment to rub his aching back, he looks up.

 

JJ Johnson, by this point, has taken flight, sailing towards La Cucaracha as though he were performing a cannonball into a pool. Maddix’s eyes go wide, and later he will almost swear that, with one hand, JJ did a five-year-old-esque “bye-bye” wave moments before what happened next. What happens next?

 

 

*POW!*

 

*THWACK!*

 

“OOOOOOOH!”

 

“AAGGHH!”

 

JJ JOHNSON THRUSTS HIS FEET INTO MADDIX’ CHEST, SENDING THE NUMBER TWO SEED SAILING OFF OF THE RAMP TO A NASTY FLAT-BACK LANDING ON THE FLOOR WITH A FRONT DROPKICK, THAT’S WHAT!

 

“SWEET JESUS!” cries the Franchise as Maddix rolls from his momentum onto his stomach, where a terrifying moan emerges from his face-down form. Johnson sits up on the ramp, popping his neck and hissing briefly from his own flat-backed landing. “Johnson goes for it all and gets it, and now Landon is in a very bad way!”

 

“ONE!”

 

Landon crawls about aimlessly, looking for some sort of purchase, and he finally finds it in the form of the guardrail, slowly pulling himself to his feet… and then he sees the people in front of him moving out of the way, staring behind him. He has time to say “Oh, shit,” before JJ Johnson completes his run down the apron and leaps, seizing Landon by the head AND BULLDOGGING HIM RIBS-FIRST INTO THE GUARDRAIL!

 

“TWO!”

 

*CRACK!*

 

“GAH!”

 

“BOOOOOOO!”

 

Landon is very much gasping for breath right now, checking himself to make sure nothing is broken. Deciding that he is in good working condition, at least compared to how he could be, Maddix flops backwards, attempting to work his way back into the ring before Johnson can catch him and wail on his midsection some more. It is at this point that Johnson seizes the guardrail and hoists himself over to chase after Maddix. The fact that his landing place is Landon’s ribs? Coincidence, honest.

 

“OOF!”

 

“THREE!”

 

Giving Maddix zero time to rest this time, Mr. Cold Front Classic seizes Landon in a front facelock and hauls him to his feet, draping an arm over his head before he lifts him up high for a suplex, and drops him across the rail!

 

*CRAASH!*

 

Landon lets out another yell, but he’s really in no condition to move by this point, and the Canadian nonchalantly plants a foot on the railing beside where he’s draped before looking out over the crowd and settling his eyes on a guy in the front row wearing a “Cheat 2 Win” shirt and, rather embarrassingly, what looks to be antennae.

 

“Excuse me, sir!” shouts Johnson at the Maddix fan. “I have an offer for you!”

 

The crowd grows quiet in order to hear the Ultimate Fighter, and the fan simply stares back at him, unresponsive.

 

“My offer,” begins Mr. Cold Front Classic, pointing at the gasping for air Cucaracha, “is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to, instead of figuratively, literally kiss Landon Maddix’s ass!”

 

“BOOOOO!”

 

The fan simply glares back at the Canadian.

 

“No?” asks Johnson, looking legitimately shocked. “Then kiss mine!”

 

And with that, the Canadian propels himself upwards, tucks his knees into his chest, and then drives his feet into Landon’s back and Landon’s ribs into the guardrail with a double stomp!

 

“BOOOOO!”

 

“FIVE!”

 

“JJ Johnson is slowly, methodically destroying Landon’s midsection,” says Mak with a grim look on his face as Maddix slumps to the floor, his cries now vocal over the jeering crowd. “Both the ribs and the back have been under pretty much constant assault since La Cucaracha got cocky, and Johnson has been merciless.”

 

“Well, of course,” snorts King as Mr. Cold Front Classic hauls Maddix up by his hair and rolls him into the ring before following him with a grin on his face but a blank look in his eyes; it is a terrifying sight. “Why would Johnson show any mercy to Landon Maddix? Landon Maddix embarrassed him in a World Title match in front of the world, Francis. I don’t think JJ’s the type to let that slide, and I’m being proven right with every move JJ makes.”

 

JJ rises to his feet and tugs Landon to his once more, and then latches on a uranage, jerking his free right thumb in an upwards direction before tucking Maddix’s free arm between his legs and securing a wrist-clutch, bending his knees, and eating an elbow to the back of the head, as wounded abdomen or not, Landon Maddix is not going to take an Exploder ’98 without a fight!

 

*CRACK!*

 

Johnson grunts, shakes his head, and tries once more to lift!

 

*CRACK!*

 

No dice this time either, as Maddix is once again quick to drive a stiff elbow smash into Johnson’s medulla oblongata! The Canadian’s uranage grip slackens slightly, and that’s all Maddix needs, as La Cucaracha turns the arm draped over the Ultimate Fighter’s head around, seizes a front facelock, and throws his legs out, driving Johnson’s head into the mat with a DDT!

 

*BANG!*

 

“YEEEAAAHH!!”

 

Both men roll away from the point of impact; one man ends up spread-eagled, the other ends up in intense pain.

 

Johnson sits right back up. Process of elimination dictates that Landon Maddix has made a poor strategic choice.

 

“Maddix counters the Exploder ’98 with a DDT!” shouts the Franchise. “He’s become very acquainted with JJ’s Exploder over the last calendar year, as he took a big Exploder ’98 in their pure rules Cruiserweight Title match, and then, at Battleground, Johnson gave him an Exploder into the ringpost! Landon had to set an example about the Exploders, or JJ may very well send him flying into the post again, and his back is bad enough as it is.”

 

“But look, Francis,” says King, pointing at the monitor. “Look at the pain on La Cuca’s face!”

 

“The Cock? That’s nice, King,” frowns Francis.

 

“Just look,” snaps the Heartbreaker. “Even the most elementary of moves hurts him! He might have done more damage to himself with that DDT than he did JJ; how is he supposed to gain any momentum this way, much less last two or three falls?”

 

Mak has no answer as Johnson climbs to his feet, swearing not-so-under his breath about “pretty boys” and “motherfuckers”. The two are quite possibly related to each other, but that’s a mystery left to the lip-readers watching at home as JJ seizes a firm hold on the rear of Maddix’s tights and hauls him to his feet… before smashing his elbow into La Cucaracha’s neck, sending him right back down to the mat!

 

*CRACK!*

 

“JJ’s working the neck now?” groans Mak, a look of dismay plastered across his face.

 

“He should,” smirks King. “It’s on the list.”

 

“The list?” The Franchise pulls down his blue Oakleys and arches an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah, I’ve got a list of body parts JJ should work right here,” says the Gambling Man excitedly, pulling out a piece of paper. “Here, JJ should work Landon’s milk, eggs, wheat bread, Cosmopolitan Ma- … God dammit.”

 

Mak chuckles about King’s embarrassment over buying Cosmo for his girlfriend, and then realizes with horror that King is single as Johnson once again latches onto Landon to pull him up, this time with a rear waistlock… only for Maddix to abandon his gripping of his neck and roll forward, wrapping his legs around Johnson’s waist, and sitting on his chest for a flash pin! Realizing JJ could just pull him back with the waistlock, Landon lunges for JJ’s legs as Hebner slides in, counting for

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

 

 

DING!

 

 

 

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHH!!!”

 

“WHAT?!” screeches King as Maddix abandons ship – er, opponent – and flees to the opposite side of the ring, throwing his arms up in victory. “How the fuck did he do that with a bad back?!”

 

“I think Landon was exaggerating to lure Johnson in, King!” shouts Francis over the din of the crowd. “And it worked! Maddix is up a fall!”

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the first fall… LANDON MADDIX!” roars Funyon. “There will now be a fifteen second rest period!”

 

Landon beckons for Megan to hop up onto the apron; she complies, and the two pose for a picture, Maddix demanding that one of the cameramen snap a photo. Across the ring, Hebner is doing his best to put his body between La Cucaracha and El Canadiense, the Ultimate Fighter almost literally foaming at the mouth, his eyes filled with an intense fire that looks like it will only be extinguished when Maddix is. The picture taken, Megan hops back down from the apron, and Landon turns and sends a trademark smirk Johnson’s way, the light reflecting in his te-

 

DING!

 

 

And then the rest period is over, and Maddix’s time to be a cocky prick is pretty much over. It is all Hebner can do to get out of the way before Johnson is charging across the ring, destroying Landon with a Yakuza Kick!

 

 

 

You didn’t honestly think that Maddix was going to stand there and take a Yakuza Kick when he had like four seconds to dodge, did you? Come on. Seriously?

 

 

It is a fairly easy dodge for La Cucaracha, and he performs it with great ease, ducking under the thunderous kick before turning, leaping high, and going for a Lungblower…

 

… but Johnson has enough momentum that Landon can’t just haul him to the ground, and so the Ultimate Fighter stumbles into the ropes, holding on as Maddix just kind of hangs there pointlessly. The Canadian snarls; this chinlock is very annoying, but he can’t just drop back and crush Landon like a bug, lest he receive a Lungblower. It’s a moot point, however, as Maddix simply hops off of JJ’s back… and gives him a firm boot to the ass before dancing away, quite content with the havoc he’s wreaking on Johnson’s ego.

 

“Why is Maddix doing this?” asks Mak. “Was he not satisfied with the thorough ass-kicking he received last time he got cocky?”

 

“I think it’s different this time, Francis,” postulates King. “Johnson is quite possibly too infuriated to think rationally.”

 

It looks that way, as Johnson whirls on the spot and sprints towards Landon with an inhuman roar, elbow cocked and ready to fire! He lunges!

 

 

 

*CA-RAAACK!*

 

 

 

And since JJ was so nice as to leave his chin right out in the open there, La Cucaracha drives his foot into Johnson’s jaw with some Sweet Cuca Music! The Canadian’s head snaps back at an ugly angle, but it’s only there briefly before Maddix reaches out… and snares him in a cravate. Landon hunches his shoulders and awaits the shower of boos that usually accompanies the very, very boring maneuver.

 

That shower of boos never comes. If anything, the crowd seems elated at Johnson appearing hapless in such an elementary maneuver. However, for the first time since he gave up that fluke rollup fall, JJ has a level head – well, not literally; the cravate has his head arched at an angle – and he simply rolls forward out of the cravate… prompting Landon to slide forward, seize a Dragon Sleeper, and begin twisting Johnson into the Land of Nod! He stops short, though, and the Canadian takes the hint, rolling himself back into the cravate.

 

“YEAAAHH!!”

 

“Clever strategy from La Cucaracha here,” says Mak, nodding with approval. “Now JJ knows that next time he tries to roll out of this cravate, he may very well get his head torn off.”

 

“Mak,” sighs King. “How many times do I have to tell you? ‘Strategy’ for Maddix is not losing; everything else he does is purely by accident.”

 

“That doesn’t look to be the case here, King,” shrugs The Franchise.

 

“Well, you walking doesn’t look to be the ca-oh, I don’t even care anymore,” snaps the Heartbreaker, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration.

 

Johnson begins worming his arm into Landon’s cravate; Maddix tries to stop it, but the only real way to do that is to release the cravate, and he could at least make JJ work for it. Landon tightens his grip accordingly, but the Canadian’s arm keeps coming, slithering, until its hand is pressing itself against La Cucaracha’s neck; a textbook half-nelson, once the arm is free. Landon locks his hands, refusing to let Johnson break the cravate. It’s hard – Johnson’s strength is animalistic in bursts, and the only way you can really break out of a cravate from a half-nelson is in bursts – but Maddix holds on, wrenching JJ’s neck even further. Mr. Cold Front Classic decides that a new course of action is in order, and he muscles his way up to one knee.

 

La Cucaracha blanches. Unlike the half nelson, getting up is something Landon can’t really stop without breaking his hold. However, with Megan Skye banging on the apron, inspiration strikes Maddix.

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

 

And then Johnson’s palm does, the Ultimate Fighter snarling before delivering a shotei into Maddix’s jaw! It’s not as effective as it could be, as JJ is having to punch across his body, but it’s still plenty painful, and thus, it prompts Landon to put his plan into action. Mr. Cold Front Classic snickers as Maddix shakes his head, getting cobwebs out, no doubt… and then his eyes go wide, and Johnson can barely keep up as Landon hops from one knee to his feet and begins sprinting towards the nearest corner…

 

 

Then sprinting up it…

 

 

Then flipping over JJ…

 

 

 

 

 

And then Johnson lunges forward and seizes a firm hold on the ropes, preventing himself from receiving the full brunt of Laberinto’s Revenge! Maddix lands on his feet behind him and lets out a “Shit!” of frustration before he hammers the Canadian in the back of the neck with a forearm AND THEN EATS A BRUTAL SCREAMING ELBOW!

 

*CA-RAAACK!!*

 

“BOOOOOO!!”

 

Maddix’s head lolls, La Cucaracha staggers, and Johnson scoops him up onto his shoulder before drawing his thumb over his throat, prompting the crowd’s jeers to increase even more.

 

“ADF II!” cries Mak. “ADF II coming up, and Maddix is going to get driven onto his skull to even the falls!”

 

“I don’t know,” says King, an eyebrow arched. “He’s not guiding Landon into position, he’s just kind of holding him there.”

 

And after another brief moment of holding him there, JJ backs up and sits La Cucaracha on the top rope. The crowd is confused, and then JJ hops backwards to sit on the top rope and pulls Maddix over his shoulder once more. And then he stands up, and grins.

 

The arena goes quiet.

 

 

And then erupts into cheers, as Landon slides backwards over JJ’s shoulder before leaping back atop the Canadian, sitting on his shoulders and winking before twisting his body around, falling backwards, and sending Johnson sailing across the ring with a super hurricanrana!

 

“YEEEEAAHHH!!”

 

Landon lands on his feet and has mere seconds to hop back onto the second rope before Johnson is rolling through his landing, turning… and EATING A CRASH LANDON, MADDIX CASTING HIMSELF INTO SPACE AND SEIZING JJ BEFORE DRIVING HIS FACE INTO THE MAT!

 

*BA-BANG!*

 

“CRASH LANDON! CRASH LANDON! CRASH LANDON!” screeches Mak, flailing his arms wildly in exchange for leaping out of his seat. “LANDON MADDIX HAS DEFEATED JJ JOHNSON TWO FALLS TO NONE! LANDON MADDIX IS A TWO-TIME CHAMPION!”

 

Johnson’s head ricochets off of the canvas, and he rolls onto his back with a glassy look in his eyes as Maddix dives on top of him, the crowd chanting along!

 

“ONE!”

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

“TWO!”

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“THREEEEEEEEEE!!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ONLY TWO! Much to the crowd and Maddix’s dismay, Johnson rockets his shoulder off of the mat; the Crash Landon is a potent move, but it is not enough to put down a man like JJ Johnson this early!

 

“BOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“THAT WAS THREE! THAT WAS THREE!”

 

Landon sits back on his knees, shaking his head and smirking an “Aw, shucks” smirk… and then Johnson sits up… and then flops back down, holding his head and rolling onto his knees. Reacting quickly, Landon practically dives onto Johnson, stuffing his head down under his body and rolling forward into a Gedo Clutch!

 

“GEDO CLUTCH!” bellows Francis! “This is what got JJ last time!”

 

 

“But it’s not going to get him this time!” roars King in return, not believing what he’s saying in the slightest.

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ONLY TWO, JOHNSON ROLLING FORWARD AND GETTING HIS SHOULDERS OFF OF THE MAT! Maddix quickly scrambles to his feet and punts JJ in the chest, putting him down on his back, before seizing his legs and flipping over in a jackknife!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

JOHNSON GRABS THE ROPES! Landon snarls and releases JJ’s legs – nonchalantly dropping his ass into the Canadian’s face – before he snatches the arm that was previously holding the ropes into a half-nelson, then positions his body behind JJ’s back before muscling Mr. Cold Front Classic over, stacking him on his shoulders!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

JJ PUTS A FOOT ON THE MIDDLE ROPE, HIS LEGS DANGLING FREELY IN THE PIN! La Cucaracha is once again quick to react, and he bodily shoves JJ’s body backwards as if trying to force Johnson to roll over his head. It doesn’t work, and all Johnson does is get to his feet; if steam could be shooting out of either man’s ears, it would be. JJ begins his trademark infuriated march towards Maddix, and much to the Canadian’s – and the crowd’s – surprise, Landon meets him midway, rocking him with an elbow smash!

 

*CRACK!*

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Mak. “I think that Landon Maddix has lost his temper with JJ finding his way so easily out of those rollups after his big move, the Crash Landon.”

 

“His temper or his mind, one or the other,” shrugs King.

 

*CRACK!*

 

Another potential option is a tooth, and Johnson exercises that option by firing an elbow smash of his own! No molars go sailing from the mouth of Maddix, but the blow is enough to stagger Landon and maybe make him think about what he’s gotten himself into. No backing down now, though, and so La Cucaracha fires two forearms!

 

*CRACK!*

*CRACK!*

 

Johnson’s head lolls, and he goes weak in the knees; unfortunately for him, Maddix doesn’t buy it, and before JJ can snap back to attention, Landon pops him with three forearms!

 

*CRACK!*

*CRACK!*

*CRA- *CRACK!*

 

Landon’s decision to put all three forearms in the same place will go in the books as a poor one, as JJ has the wherewithal to roll with the blow before snapping right back into place and nearly KOing Maddix with a shot!

 

“BOOOOO!”

 

The crowd simply doesn’t like it when JJ sends Landon’s facial features flying, but Johnson doesn’t care, and he steps in AS MADDIX WHIRLS BACK AROUND WITH A ROLLING FOREARM!

 

That Johnson ducks before wrapping his arms around Maddix’s waist, bridging back, and dropping him on his head with a Dangerous German suplex!

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

“DANGEROUSGERMAAAAN!!” screeches King, as he always does whenever Mr. Cold Front Classic tries to put someone in the hospital in one fluid movement; however, instead of Maddix bouncing away from the point of impact, he is being rolled, glassy eyes and all, as Johnson has done something entirely new. He has maintained his waistlock, and he eventually drags a barely conscious Maddix to his feet before he once again snaps back and delivers a second Dangerous German!

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

“ROLLING DANGEROUSGERMAAAAAN!” booms King over the jeers of the crowd, as once again, Johnson is hauling the now dead weight Cucaracha up to a vertical position… and then rolling backwards, trapping Maddix in the Japanese rolling clutch pin he calls Die Deutschefalle!

 

“Die Deutschefalle!” shouts The Franchise. “The German Trap, and chained with those Germans, this could be a fall for Johnson!”

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

DING!

 

“BOOOOOOO!!”

 

“And it IS a fall for Johnson!” grins the Gambling Man as the crowd boos relentlessly, Johnson merely striding to a corner and stretching.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the second fall, J! J! JOHNSON!” booms Funyon. “It is now 1-1, and there will be a fifteen-second rest period before THE FINAL FALL!”

 

The crowd’s mood brightens just enough to acknowledge their joy at this year’s Cold Front Champion, and then it is back to being dark thanks to the possibility of that champion being JJ Johnson for a second straight year.

 

“You know, it’s funny,” smirks King, amidst the boos. “This time last year, JJ Johnson won the Cold Front Classic and people were elated. Wrestling fans are so fickle.”

 

“Well, King,” says Mak, practically hissing it as Maddix just begins to make his way to his feet, “JJ has been insanely disrespectful of Maddix this entire match. Why should the crowd respect Johnson?”

 

“Because he demands it,” shrugs the Heartbreaker.

 

DING!

 

 

Landon Maddix is still regaining his bearings when the bell goes to start the third fall, and he’s probably not ready when JJ Johnson comes flying in with a high knee!

 

He ducks anyway, though, and the airborne Canadian goes sailing overhead, landing on the middle rope. As always, Johnson begins his Dragon Flip… but never gets to finish it, as Landon leaps high and dropkicks him in the back before Mr. Cold Front Classic can take flight, slumping him forward! Despite the fact that his brain lacks higher function, Maddix somehow finds it in him to run, leap to the middle rope…

 

 

… AND THEN LEAP OVER THE TOP ROPE TO THE FLOOR, PLANTING A HAND ON THE BACK OF JOHNSON’S HEAD AND DRIVING IT INTO THE RING POST!

 

 

“YEEAAAHH!!”

 

Johnson stands upright on the middle rope, all the light gone from his eyes as he falls lifelessly backwards, hitting the mat with a bang. Maddix rubs his legs on the outside, both of them aching from their unrecommended landing, but with a bit of encouragement from Megan Skye, he strides up the ropes before climbing up top and pausing a moment, drawing some cheers from the crowd, and taking flight, pumping his arms and legs and turning in mid-air as he descends on a prone Johnson to deliver his frog splash! The impact nearly doubles Johnson, and Landon almost bounces off, but JJ flattens back out and Maddix’s momentum ceases, leaving only the cover!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

And then Johnson, who is beginning to bleed from some torn skin on his forehead, kicks out!

 

“Only two on the frog splash,” notes Mak. “Johnson was busted open by that impact with the ring post, but he had enough lights on upstairs to not give up the title that he’s defending here tonight.”

 

“That’s something we haven’t really brought up, but it’s an important point,” the Heartbreaker points out. “Both of these men are fighting for the right to become the first ever two-time Cold Front Classic winner, and I think that that might be enough to keep these men going no matter how much damage they take.”

 

Meanwhile, in the ring, Maddix has drawn up the Canadian up to a sitting position, and he brings his leg back before bringing it into JJ’s back with a Dragon Kick!

 

*SMAACK!*

 

“YEEAAAAHH!!”

 

“Dragon Kick!” shouts Mak. “Landon Maddix is using those Dragon Kicks like JJ used those Cowboy Kicks on him earlier in the match. King, do you know what the difference is between a Dragon Kick and a Cowboy Kick? They look like the same move.”

 

“Dragons aren’t real,” says King. “And if Landon keeps this up without knocking JJ clean out, we’re going to have a hard time proving that he was real when JJ wipes him off of the face of the Earth. Johnson’s going to ugly him up something awful.”

 

King is about to say something about how, on the plus side, he’ll have a great Akira Kaibatsu disguise before Landon fires in another Dragon Kick, causing Johnson to involuntarily arch his back in pain!

 

*SMAACK!*

 

And then another Dragon Kick!

 

*SMAACK!*

 

And another!

 

*SMAACK!*

 

Another!

 

*SMAACK!*

 

 

The next one is fired… and hits JJ in the arm.

 

*SMAACK!*

 

 

Landon blanches as he draws back and hits another Dragon Kick, this one rebounding off of Johnson’s chest.

 

*SMAACK!*

 

 

Another belts JJ in the stomach.

 

 

*SMAACK!*

 

 

JJ Johnson, despite the visible pain on his face, is getting up, and not a Dragon Kick in the world is going to keep him down. Maddix takes a step back and refrains from railing on JJ, at least for now, and Johnson reaches up to where his forehead feels like it’s been ripped open… and then feels wetness.

 

JJ’s eyes narrow into slits, and Maddix decides that the best course of action would be a gamengiri, jumping high and driving his shinguard into Johnson’s face!

 

*THWOCK!*

 

Correction: driving his shinguard into Johnson’s crossed arms, JJ blocking the gamengiri! Maddix scrambles to his feet… and JJ rushes forward and massacres him with a roaring elbow!

 

*CA-RAAACK!!*

 

 

Maddix drops like a rock, and JJ dives on top of him, railing on him with elbow after elbow!

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

After elbow!

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

 

After elbow after elbow!

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

Maddix tries desperately to put his arms in front of his face, to protect his head somehow, but it doesn’t matter; the elbows keep coming, crushing his hands against his head, ricocheting off of his forearms, occasionally getting through to his forehead. Megan Skye is aghast on the outside. Mak Francis is aghast at the announce table.

 

“We saw JJ do this against Janus!” gasps Mak as Johnson just continues to destroy Landon. “JJ Johnson has snapped on La Cucaracha, and why won’t the ref stop him?”

 

“He can’t,” shrugs King. “It’s not illegal.”

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

“But if it knocked Janus out cold, what will it do to Landon?!” Mak screeches, getting more upset with each elbow.

 

“I, for one, don’t care,” the Heartbreaker shrugs again. “Besides, most of those aren’t hitting him in the head.”

 

Regardless, enough of them are to cause Hebner to worry.

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

He sees Landon slowly but surely growing faint under the assault.

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

He sees Megan Skye covering her face, peeking through the cracks only to close her fingers again.

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

 

And then he makes a decision.

 

“JJ!” shouts Hebner. “Get off of him!”

 

“Fuck you!” Johnson shouts back, not even looking at the ref as he continues hammering on La Cucaracha.

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

“I meant it, JJ!” bellows the ref. “He’s done! Get off!”

 

JJ doesn’t even dignify the referee with a response this time. He just keeps the elbows coming.

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

 

DING DING DING!

 

*CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*

 

 

And then Johnson halts. He heard a bell. Why would he hear a bell?

 

Then he looks and sees Hebner talking with Funyon, and then he sees the massive Oregonian raise the mic to his mouth.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner of the third fall via ref stoppage, and thus still Cold Front Classic Champion by a score of two to one, J! J! JOHNSON!”

 

“BOOOOOOO!”

 

Johnson looks down at Maddix in shock, and rises. Landon immediately begins rolling out of the ring towards Megan, still conscious after all of this, as “Slaves Shall Serve” once again begins roaring throughout Santa’s Village. Hebner goes and raises Johnson’s hand, but it seems like he’s once again in another world. However, while he was in the world of destroying his opponent, he’s now just in a world of shock.

 

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” spits Francis. “There you have it. Two times in a row, JJ Johnson has won the Cold Front Classic, but by what means? What drives a man to do something like that?”

 

“Victory,” says King. “JJ will do whatever it takes to win.”

 

“Then JJ Johnson can go to hell,” hisses Francis, before remembering he has to be impartial. “Ladies and gentlemen, up next is our World Title bout, determining who this man will be facing at the Clusterfuck. It’s sure to be a barnburner.”

 

JJ Johnson is shuffling down the ramp, blood running down his face, looking completely and utterly shellshocked as we

 

 

 

FADE OUT

Edited December 26, 2006 by Ace309

[chirs3 0]

Music: ‘Blood’ - The Editors

 

[bLACK SCREEN]

 

As the spiky guitar riff starts an image of the SWF World Heavyweight Title appears on the screen, then fades into a shot of a sign bearing the words ‘WELCOME TO ATLANTA’.

 

‘This wicked city has dragged you down…’

 

A photo of what appears to be a graduating class from a wrestling academy. On the right hand side are three young men and a young woman with a sultry pout; one man is noticeably bigger than the other two, one has an easy grin and one has spiky black hair and eyeliner.

 

You’re with the red lights, your side of town…

 

Images from the recent past in the SWF flash up as the riff rings out again; over four years later, Gabriel Drake walks out into the SWF to destroy Ced Ordonez in his debut match; Michael Stephens stands in the middle of the ring holding the World Title; Livvy Luscious makes her one and only SWF appearance by walking down the entrance ramp towards the ring with a referee’s shirt on.

 

‘Don’t say it’s easy to follow a process…’

 

This time the sign that appears on the screen reads ‘GEORGIA STATE PENITENTIARY’.

 

‘There’s nothing harder than keeping a promise…

 

The guitars start to cascade towards the chorus, and as they do the graduation photo appears again; this time however flames lick around it, starting to consume it…

 

‘Blood runs through your veins

That’s where our similarity ends…

 

Michael Stephens and Gabriel Drake are in the Elimination Chamber; The moment the big man is on his way Stephens slaps Drake on the shoulder and shouts ‘Go!’, pointing to the ropes at right angles from where they’ve sent Bruce, but The Beast is already running. The dazed Blank lumbers back on the rebound and Stephens goes to the mat, wrapping his legs around Bruce’s and taking the big man over with a drop toehold…

 

Blood runs through our veins…’

 

…and with split-second timing, Gabriel Drake comes back off the ropes in time to slam a kneelift into the side of Blank’s head as the big man is in mid-fall!

 

‘Blood runs through your veins

That’s where our similarity ends…’

 

Gabriel Drake has a dazed Michael Stephens on his feet; he shoves the World Champion towards Spike Jenkins, who uses the Cruiserweight Title in his grasp to level Stephens with a blow to the face.

 

Blood runs through our veins…’

 

As the camera zooms in, it shows blood running down the Englishman’s face. The guitar riff starts up again, this time accompanied by images of Gabriel Drake’s history in the SWF; The Mark of The Beast on Akira Kaibatsu at Ground Zero; attacking Landon Maddix and throwing him into the cage after their match at Genesis; pinning Landon following the Mark of The Beast in the Elimination Chamber.

 

‘There’s nothing believable in being honest…’

 

Michael Stephens stands in the ring with a microphone, addressing Gabriel Drake on AftershoxXx after the Elimination Chamber.

 

‘So cover your lies up with another promise…’

 

Michael Stephens is in the ring, Zyon is out the floor outside in their Cruiserweight Title match. As the guitars rise and creschendo Gabriel Drake slides into the ring behind Stephens…

 

‘Blood runs through your veins…’

 

…and low blows him. Stephens falls forward to the mat and Drake flees.

 

‘That’s where our similarity ends…’

 

Zyon, now recovered, balances for a moment on the top rope before coming off with the Final Flash onto the prone Stephens.

 

’Blood runs through our veins…’

 

Zyon unhooks the Cruiserweight Title from the top of the ladder, and the cameras pick out Gabriel Drake watching from the crowd where he disappeared to. Then the shot changes; Michael Stephens and Zyon are in the Elimination Chamber, and to their shock Spike Jenkins has just kicked out of the Extremely Bad Hangover. Zyon takes a step towards his old tag team partner….

 

‘Blood runs through your veins…’

 

…and Michael Stephens drops to his knees behind him and low blows the Unique Youth.

 

‘That’s where our similarity ends…’

 

Stephens shoves the doubled-over Zyon towards a startled Jenkins and makes a throat-cutting motion to signify that Spike should put Zyon down with the Endwell.

 

‘Blood runs through our veins…’

 

The guitar riff, starkly isolated as the rest of the song cuts out, plays on as other images flash up; Michael Stephens dropping Kibagami with the Dangerlust; then the same move used to take down Justin Bowers; turning on Spike Jenkins and nailing him with brass knuckles to help Scott Pretzler win the Cruiserweight Title and join Revolution Zero in the same night; using the same brass knuckles to smash Sacred’s face in after winning the World Title from his former - and traitorous - stablemate; and finally, the one and only act of cheating he ever committed on SWF cameras when he used the Aerosol Equaliser and his brass knuckles to score the final fall in the Canadian Deathmatch with Scott Pretzler.

 

’Blood runs through your veins,

That’s where our similarity ends…’

 

Gabriel Drake charges into the ring and spears Michael Stephens during his World Title match with Jay Hawke, sending the World Champion crashing to the mat.

 

‘Blood runs through our veins…’

 

The same match; Michael Stephens, wild-eyed, battered and thoroughly pissed off, hoists Jay Hawke up and dumps him on his head with the Caffeine Bomb.

 

‘There’s hope in your heart,

It will flow to every part…’

 

Michael Stephens and Gabriel Drake stand in the ring on the set of the House of Marvellous, each holding a microphone. Drake looks angry and Stephens looks slightly stunned at the force of his old friend’s rage.

 

‘Yes, there’s hope in your heart…’

 

As the closing riff rings out the screen flashes through a selection of images of the two men; Stephens with a variety of title belts, Drake with nothing but the aura of power and rage he carries with him. Finally the screen fades into a shot of the SWF World Heavyweight Title sitting on a timekeeper’s table before the whole thing fades to black…

 

 

 

[END]

[chirs3 0]

TALE OF THE TAPE

 

SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT TITLE

 

CHAMPION:

 

"The Sensation" MICHAEL STEPHENS

Age: 23

Height: 6’0”

Weight: 218 lbs

Bench: 265 lbs

Years Pro: 4

Move List: 28 practiced, 5 variable

Finisher(s): Sunny in England, RTF II

Accomplishments: Current SWF World Champion (4), Current SWF World Tag Team Champion (2), SWF Intercontinental-Television Champion (2), SWF Hardcore Gamers Champion, SWF Cruiserweight Champion. Has not been pinned or made to submit since June 2005.

 

SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT TITLE

 

CHALLENGER:

 

“The Beast” GABRIEL DRAKE

Age: 25

Height: 6’4"

Weight: 258 lbs

Bench: 350 lbs

Years Pro: 1

Move List: 29 practiced, 4 variable

Finisher(s): Mark of the Beast, Spite and Malice

Accomplishments: Three Month Undefeated Streak in SWF Debut.

 

MATCH FACTS:

 

POWER ADVANTAGE: Gabriel Drake

LEVERAGE ADVANTAGE: Michael Stephens

SPEED ADVANTAGE: Michael Stephens

EXPERIENCE ADVANTAGE: Michael Stephens

TECHNICAL ADVANTAGE: Gabriel Drake

OVERALL ADVANTAGE: Michael Stephens

[chirs3 0]

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for tonight’s MAIN EVENT~!” Funyon booms, prompting a cheer from the crowd. However, moments later this switches to booing as cold blue strobes blaze out through the December air and ‘The Devil’s Rejects’ by Rob Zombie starts to ring out over the PA system.

 

“Pay attention Mak, this man is your next World Champion,” Suicide King tells his commentary partner.

 

“That remains to be seen,” Mak Francis argues, “I’m not debating that Gabriel Drake is a highly dangerous individual, we know that well… but can he translate that into a winning a match against someone of the stature of Michael Stephens? We’ll see.”

 

‘I am the bad one… Distant and cruel one,

I am the dream that keeps you running down…’

 

There is movement on the soundstage and Gabriel Drake appears, prompting a fresh chorus of boos from the crowd. The big man pays no attention to the fans in attendance, simply making his way down the entrance ramp with his eyes fixed on the ring.

 

‘…with distraction… Violent reaction… Scars of my actions,

Watch me running out…

 

Hell doesn't want them.

Hell doesn't need them.

Hell doesn't love them.

 

The Devil's Rejects… Rejects…

 

The Devil’s Rejects… Rejects…’

 

The man known as ‘The Beast’ climbs slowly up the ring steps, then steps through the ropes into the squared circle and stares Funyon and referee Matthew Kivell in the eye in turn before going to a corner and turning to face the entranceway, his face never betraying more emotion than the occasional flash of contempt.

 

“Gabriel Drake was undefeated for three months after debuting,” Mak Francis says, “he has had one shot at the World Title before but that was in the Elimination Chamber at Ashes 2 Ashes; this is a one-on-one match, a totally different environment.”

 

“Yeah, there’s no fancy tricks to save Toxxic this time around,” King laughs, “he can’t count on Landon and Zyon to do his dirty work for him!”

 

It’s at this point that Rob Zombie cuts out and a new sound rolls out across Santa’s Village, a sound never heard here before because it comes straight from the soccer terraces of little old England…

 

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

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

 

…which in turn gives way to the crashing opening chord of ‘Rookie’ by Boy Sets Fire! The Smarktron whites out but quickly fades down to black, and as it does so jagged white letters flash up a familiar slogan one word at a time:

 

‘PREPARE TO BE PROVED WRONG…’

 

The Smartron changes to show clips of Michael Stephens’ most famous matches, and after Aecas has been given the Glass Jawbreaker, the Insane Luchador has been fought through the Wachovia Center in Philly, Nathaniel Kibagami has been dropped with the Caffeine Bomb and Tom Flesher has taken a springboard Sunny In England it changes one more time to show Mike Van Siclen being taken off a balcony and through a table with the Stephens Shock Syndrome, the devastating landing timed to coincide with the-

 

*BOOOM!!*

 

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

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

…with his Tag Title over one shoulder and the World Title around his waist, partially concealed by his canvas trenchcoat…

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

…blue-black hair hanging down over his eyes but not doing anything to disguise his unblinking stare towards the ring…

 

“TOXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-IC…”

 

…comes the man everyone in attendance tonight, and most particularly Gabriel Drake, once knew as Toxxic.

 

“By my reckoning Michael Stephens is less than two weeks short of equalling El Luchadore Magnifico’s record-breaking World Title run that went from Genesis VI to From The Fire 2006,” Mak Francis notes as the World Champion makes his way towards the ring, “his only loss since returning in May this year was the Cruiserweight Title to Zyon, which it can be argued was largely due to interference from his opponent tonight. He hasn’t been pinned or made to submit since the Best of Five series with Scott Pretzler in the summer of 2005; in fact, since his return Michael Stephens has been competing on a level like never before in his career. But, what will happen tonight, in this match against a man he has so much history with? Former friends, separated by a love triangle-”

 

“-sex triangle,” King puts in, “and not in the usual way thank God, I don’t want to imagine that.”

 

“-and a brutal crime committed by Gabriel Drake that led to Stephens testifying against his friend and contributing to getting The Beast sent to prison for manslaughter,” Mak finishes with a sideways glare at his commentary partner. “Stephens has said that won’t matter tonight where it will all come down to wrestling ability, but is that true? Will it simply be a case of ability against ability, strength against speed, aggression against experience? Or will the past continue to weigh on one or both men and have an influence on how things turn out? We shall have to see.”

 

Stephens pauses at the bottom of the ramp and looks up at the three men in the ring, then as the verse of ‘Rookie’ starts he crosses his arms for a second in the straight-edge ‘X’ symbol, then throws them wide, palms flat to ignite another blast of red pyro from each turnbuckle!

 

*BOOOM!!*

 

‘I never thought this could be me

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

Like all the fun turns into shame

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

 

Stephens shrugs off his trenchcoat as the music dies down, then takes off his personalised England soccer shirt and throws it into the crowd. The World Title and Tag Title belts are passed to Matthew Kivell; the SWF’s head referee passes the Tag Title onto the timekeeper, but takes the World Title and holds it up for display.

 

“The following contest is scheduled for one fall and is for the SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT TITLE!” Funyon booms. “Introducing first, in the corner to my left, the challenger; from Athens, Georgia, he weighs in tonight at 254lbs; he is ‘The Beast’, GAAAAAAAAAAAAAB-RRRRRRRIIIIIIII-EEEEEEELLLLLLLLL… DRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Drake throws both arms out explosively and grins nastily, pausing momentarily for a slight flex before relaxing into the corner again. His eyes never leaves Stephens’ face.

 

“And his opponent,” Funyon resumes, “from Nottingham, England; he weighs in tonight at 218lbs, he is one-half of the SWF Tag Team Champions and is the reigning and defending SWF World Heavyweight Champion…; this is MIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-CHAEL… STEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-PHENS!!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Stephens cracks his neck from side-to-side to loosen it up, then jumps up and down a couple of times. However, his attention is quickly focused as his opponent for tonight strides forwards.

 

“It looks like Gabriel Drake wants a handshake before this match,” Mak says in amazement as The Beast stands in the middle of the ring with his hand outstretched, his facial expression challenging Stephens to oblige, “I imagine this is some sort of psychological warfare…”

 

“Rubbish,” King snorts, “Drake is just an fine, upstanding young competitor who personifies the best in pro-wrestling today. The best that doesn’t involve Tom, anyway.”

 

Michael Stephens regards the bigger man with an mixture of distrust and distaste, but after a few seconds he steps forward and extends his own black-nailed fingers. The two former friends clasp hands, and for a second they lock gazes as Drake’s hazel eyes bore into Stephens’ steel-grey ones. Then the moment is past as each gives a final squeeze - perhaps harder than strictly necessary - and retreats to their respective corners while Matthew Kivell calls for the bell.

 

*DING-DING-DING!*

 

…but hardly has the sound reached the ears of the spectators than Gabriel Drake leaps into action, charging across the ring at Stephens with a roar! The World Champion ducks a wild swing from his opponent and waits for Drake to turn then fires off a right hand to the jaw, but Gabe shrugs it off and buries his knee into Stephens’ gut to double the Englishman over, then grabs his opponent in a Muay Thai clinch and fires off one, two, three knees to the head!

 

“DRAKE SUCKS!” *clap-clap-clap*

 

“DRAKE SUCKS!” *clap-clap-clap*

 

“DRAKE SUCKS!” *clap-clap-clap*

 

Stephens is visibly wobbling and Drake simply turns around to throw the World Champion into the corner of the ring before rushing in after him and crushing his opponent into the turnbuckles with an avalanche; The Beast backs off a step after impact, but only far enough to start laying in with rapid-fire knife-edge chops!

 

*SMACK!*

 

*SMACK!*

 

*SMACK!*

 

*SMACK!*

*SMACK!*

*SMACK!*

*SMACK!*

*SMACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Gabriel Drake is pummelling Michael Stephens here,” Mak Francis gasps.

 

“See? See?” King crows gleefully, “tonight is where this farce ends!”

 

The crowd are shitting all over Drake’s early run of offence but the Georgian cares little for their opinion, pausing briefly to let out a yell that is part-triumph, part-defiance, then scoops the battered Michael Stephens up over one shoulder. Drake’s strength is such that he only needs one arm to hold his opponent up there and he turns away from the corner; Stephens weakly tries to grab onto the top rope to save himself but to no avail, and Gabriel Drake’s path is clear to the centre of the ring… a path he follows by way of a running powerslam.

 

*BANG!*

 

With Michael Stephens on his back on the mat Gabe apparently decides that it’s time to try and make a cover…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but Stephens kicks out!

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“King, I don’t think I’ve seen Michael Stephens in this much trouble this early,” Mak Francis says, “Drake’s bull-rush of offence seems to have caught him flat-footed!”

 

“Well, Drake is nicknamed ‘The Beast’,” King remarks, “you’d expect him to fight like one.”

 

Stephens has turned over onto his stomach, presumably to avoid another pin attempt; all fine and dandy, but Gabriel Drake has no problem in getting back to his feet and dropping his knee onto the back of his opponent’s skull!

 

“YOU SUCK!”

 

“YOU SUCK!”

 

Drake simply laughs at the crowd’s impotent fury, and does it again.

 

“YOU SUCK!”

 

“YOU SUCK!”

 

Stephens is now protectively clutching his head; this places his arms in a handy position for Gabe to apply a double-underhook and start hauling Stephens up to his feet. The World Champion is in no mood to co-operate, but Gabriel Drake is a strong man and is not to be denied, certainly at this stage in the match when he’s fresh as a daisy. The Beast wrenches Stephens up through sheer raw musclepower, then adjusts his stance slightly and pops his hips to take the Englishman straight overhead with a butterfly suplex that dumps Mike down onto his back again. Drake floats over into a cover as Kivell dives to count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but no, Stephens kicks out again!

 

“Toxxic floated like a butterfly, but it was Drake that stung like a bee!” King exclaims.

 

“…what?”

 

“Butterfly? Butterfly suplex? Ah, forget it,” the Gambling Man sniffs.

 

Meanwhile Gabriel Drake, undeterred by Kivell’s two-count, is starting to haul Stephens up to his feet again. The World Champion seems to be half on dream street, the dizzying knees to the head and the winding blows to the body combining to make him unsteady and in no real condition to defend himself. Which suits Drake just fine, as he takes hold of his former friend’s wrist and wrenches his body backwards to Irish whip Stephens hard into the corner of the ring; the impact is so great that the Englishman actually rebounds out, and although he manages to stay on his feet his staggering footsteps only take him right back towards his tormentor… whereupon Drake casually sidesteps him and shoves him in the back of the head to send him facefirst down to the canvas.

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“Trust me folks, you’re chasing a lost cause,” the Suicide King informs the crowd, “might as well give up and go home.”

 

“King, that’s the audience!” Mak exclaims, annoyed despite the fact that he knows no-one in attendance can hear the Gambling Man.

 

“Eh, they’ve already paid us,” is King’s pragmatic take on the matter. However, the crowd are going to get even more riled up in a moment as Gabriel Drake takes a sneering look around at them, then deliberately stands on the back of Michael Stephens’ head!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Rarely before has such venom been heard in Santa’s Village. Drake doesn’t see anything wrong in helping these people let their feelings out though, and he contemptuously waves his arms to invite them to make more noise…

 

“YOU SUCK COCK!”

 

“YOU SUCK COCK!”

 

Drake’s expression sours, but he points distinctly downwards to indicate that no, it’s not him who performs that action. Meanwhile the SWF’s ongoing negotiations with Santa’s Village to hold next year’s Christmas PPV here take a sudden downturn as the new chant rings out through the December night. However, pleasing as it is to frustrate the SWF fans Gabriel Drake has a more important aim here tonight; he intends to take the SWF World Title, and he won’t win that by standing on people’s heads. So he reaches down and grabs Michael Stephens by his hair and starts pulling his opponent back to his feet again, then hauls the smaller man into a standing headscissors. Standing on his head won’t win the match, but powerbombing the shit out of an annoying straight-edger, that could be just the ticket.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-”

“-YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

…but not when said straight-edger proves how annoying he can be by bridging up with all his strength and back body-dropping his way out of his predicament, sending Gabe overhead and causing the fans to burst into rapturous cheering!

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Sadly for the crowd Michael Stephens collapses down to the mat moments afterwards, in no shape to follow up. Gabriel Drake meanwhile landed hard and takes a couple of seconds to sort himself out, but then rolls over onto his front and gets back to his feet. The Beast is still on the hunt, and as he grabs hold of Stephens again and drags the Englishman up it’s clear that it’ll take more than a back body-drop to slow him down.

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

Sit-out jawbreaker might help though.

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“Michael Stephens is trying to fight back here,” Mak shouts over the crowd, “but has Gabriel Drake’s offence left him too hurt? If he can’t mount some sort of comeback soon and start taking the fight to Drake instead of just reacting then I think we could see the World Title change hands in record time!”

 

Drake is still on his feet, albeit clutching his face in pain. Pain swiftly moves into anger for people like Drake though and the big man from Athens shakes his head like a wounded bear, then heads back onto the attack. Stephens is still down on the mat, he hasn’t got up since hitting the jawbreaker-

 

*whump-CRACK!*

 

-and that’s why.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Kip-up enzuigiri!” Mak shouts, “Stephens was playing possum, and he’s just taken Drake off his feet!”

 

Indeed, the challenger took a dazed half-step before falling forwards onto his face. Stephens himself landed on his front on the mat, but although a wince crosses his face at the sudden burst of movement he seems to gradually be recovering from his early battering. He also knows that he can’t afford to let Drake recover in the same way, and it’s possibly an instinctual wariness of his old sparring partner’s abilities on the mat that causes him to grab Drake and help the bigger man back to his feet. Once Drake is back on a vertical base Stephens grabs his wrist and starts to Irish whip the challenger towards the turnbuckles, but Drake is far from out of it and reverses the momentum to send Stephens in instead. Instinct kicks in once again for Stephens; he’s facing a larger, stronger opponent so it makes sense to jump to the top rope, then corkscrew back with his arm outstretched for the flying clothesline that he used to call the Role Reversal…

 

*BANG!*

 

…apart from the fact that Gabriel Drake knows it’s coming, and simply catches the World Champion in mid-air with a pie-face STO that drives him contemptuously down to the mat.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Goodbye momentum, hello new World Champion!” King crows.

 

“Come on King, Stephens isn’t beaten yet!” Mak snorts.

 

“Yet. Remember that word Mak, it’ll become very important later.”

 

In fact Drake seems willing to put this theory to the test, as he drops to his knees and applies a lateral press which Kivell dives to count for…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but Stephens kicks out one more time, refusing to drop his title so easily! Drake curls a lip at Kivell’s counting ability but the SWF’s Senior Official has been threatened by people much bigger and scarier than Drake before and stands his ground; Drake wasn’t expecting to change the official’s decision anyway, but what he is expecting to change is the amount of oxygen in Michael Stephens’ lungs. This is easily achieved by dragging the World Champion up to his knees, standing over him and repeatedly hammering forearm blows into his chest.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“YOU SUCK!”

 

“YOU SUCK!”

 

After a few blows hit home Drake seems to judge that his opponent is sufficiently winded and changes his point of attack; he allows Stephens to slump forwards to the canvas and instead grabs one of the Englishman’s legs by the ankle. From there The Beast simply hoists upwards with all his might… and drives Stephens’ knee down into the mat.

 

*BANG!*

 

Stephens yells out in pain and an ugly grin crosses the challenger’s face; figuring he’s onto a good thing Drake grabs Stephens under the shoulders and hoists the smaller man upright, then leans down and grabs his opponent’s leg. He bends it and lifts, picking Stephens up bodily, then drops down to one knee and lands Stephens knee across it with a shinbreaker! Stephens cries out again but Drake keeps hold of his leg and the Englishman is left hopping…

 

*CRACK!*

 

…but Mike turns it into another enzuigiri!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“Gabriel Drake isn’t having it all his own way here,” Mak exclaims tensely, “but it’s a close run thing! Michael Stephens has been able to land a few blows, but he’s yet to build any momentum of his own!”

 

“I’m telling you Mak, it’s going to take a large fat man in a red suit with a massive beard and a bulging sack to keep Toxxic as World Champion this Christmas,” King says happily.

 

“King, unless you want Bobby Riley to reappear and join us on commentary, don’t say the words ‘bulging sack’ again.”

 

Michael Stephens is pushing himself up from where he landed on the mat after delivering the enzuigiri; meanwhile Gabriel Drake is also rising, slightly slower and holding the back of his head again. Stephens moves to maintain his advantage, and despite the limp caused from Drake’s recent assault on his right leg the Englishman reaches his opponent before Drake has fully recovered his faculties and-

 

*WHAM!*

 

-pastes the bigger man with a European uppercut! Drake staggers but fires back with a right hand… that Stephens ducks!

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Drake is slightly off-balance; opportunity enough for Stephens to reach in and grab his opponent’s head in both hands, then-

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

-land a headbutt!

 

*CRUNCH!*

 

And another!

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Drake is rocking now, and Michael Stephens raises his fists to fire off with a

 

RIGHT!

 

 

LEFT!

 

 

RIGHT!

 

 

LEFT!

 

 

…he steps back for a second and flashes two black-nailed fingers at his former friend in an unmistakable ‘fuck you’ sign…

 

 

DISCUS CLOTHESLINE!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

The crowd leap up and cheer as Gabriel Drake goes down, and Stephens rolls into the cover and hooks the far leg!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but Drake kicks out, powering a shoulder off the mat moments after Matthew Kivell’s hand slaps canvas for the second time. Stephens moves with his opponent, seizing Drake’s right arm as it rises into the air and hopping over his opponent’s torso to come down on the other side and twisting the bigger man over onto his front to apply a Fujiwara armbar. It seems that Stephens reckons a few shots to the head will have evened the odds somewhat in their mat-wrestling abilities, and certainly Gabriel Drake doesn’t immediately pull out a devastating counter to put his opponent in trouble; however, the Georgian is still plenty strong enough and the ropes aren’t that far away, so without further ado Drake starts clawing his way towards them.

 

“The World Champion is in control of this match for the first time,” Mak Franics notes, “and now it really is anybody’s game! Has Drake’s initial offensive flurry now petered out allowing Stephens’ greater experience to tell, or has he done enough damage to capitalise and capture the World Title?”

 

“One day you’ll actually formulate an opinion on something,” King sniffs.

 

“I’ve got an opinion on your dress sense, but I’d get sacked for repeating it.”

 

Michael Stephens has been leaning back on his armbar to try and put as much pressure as possible on Drake, but the challenger has gritted his teeth and resisted the pain and is now merely inches from the bottom rope that his outstretched left hand is seeking. Stephens tries to dig his heels in but he can’t get much traction to slow his opponent down… and Drake makes the ropes, causing Kivell to call for the break! Stephens gives one last yank on Drake’s arm for good measure and then rolls away, leaving the challenger to pull himself up using his good arm. This Drake does and the bigger man lunges back towards Stephens, perhaps hoping to repeat the success of his initial mad rush, but Stephens slides to one side and grabs Drake’s arm again, then twists round as if for an armwringer but instead falls backwards as he does so and brings his opponent slamming down facefirst into the canvas!

 

*WHAM!*

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Mike still has his grip on Gabriel Drake’s arm and starts tugging on it to try and bring The Beast back upright again. He succeeds in doing this but any further plans are summarily curtailed; Drake doesn’t appreciate being led around and the bigger man manages to ignore the discomfort in his right arm for long enough to use it to haul the startled Stephens in towards him, then deliver a short-arm lariat with his other arm that nearly knocks the Englishman out of his boots!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Drake stops and shakes his arm out as Stephens heaves his chest on the mat, desperately trying to recover some oxygen, but the challenger doesn’t have long to plan his next move as Stephens is determined to get back up and get back into the match. The World Champion starts to sit up…

 

…and Drake runs past him to the ropes, then explodes back off and drives a Shining Black straight into Stephens’ face!

 

*CRACK!*

 

Drake practically falls into the cover anyway, but he does his best to make it a little more orthodox as Kivell dives to make his count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but Stephens kicks out!

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“Well Mak, I think Drake’s getting closer to that title,” King muses as Drake glares at referee Matthew Kivell for a moment before grabbing Stephens by the hair - not without a protest from Kivell, but who cares about him? - and starts pulling the champion back up to his feet,.

 

“Perhaps,” the Franchise concedes, “but don’t forget that Stephens has looked to be in worse situations than this before and still come out the winner.”

 

Stephens is now on his feet, although only really because Drake dragged him there. The bigger man sets up for another Irish whip and whiplashes backwards to send Stephens careering towards the corner of the ring where the cruiserweight hits backfirst with enough force to drive what little breath is left from his lungs. Drake winds up and heads in after him, perhaps looking for another avalanche, but we’ll never know as Stephens manages to get a boot up and catch his onrushing opponent in the face!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Ever heard of ‘delaying the inevitable’?” King shouts angrily.

 

“What is it that Michael Stephens used to say King?” Mak asks as the straight-edger heaves a couple of breaths into his lungs, then boosts himself up into a sitting position on the top buckle, “he used to say that you can never really beat him…”

 

As Gabriel Drake ceases holding his face and turns back towards his opponent Stephens leaps off the second rope with a flying European uppercut!

 

*WHAM!*

 

“…you can only put off losing for a little while longer!” Mak finishes with some satisfaction as Drake topples backwards. The fans yell in delight again but Stephens makes no attempt to cover his opponent, instead rolling from his prone position on the mat all the way under the ropes to the apron.

 

“Yeah right, that’s why he’s running away!” King says sarcastically. However Stephens gives the lie to the Gambling Man’s words as he gets up to his feet on the apron and takes hold of the top rope, apparently waiting for Drake to get back to his feet. He doesn’t have that long to wait as The Beast, rubbing his jaw, rises to a vertical base and looks around for his opponent… only to find Stephens flying through the air towards him and taking him over with a springboard hurricanrana!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Drake goes tumbling across the ring, ending up in a rather dizzied sitting position against the bottom turnbuckle in the far corner of the ring. There’s no escape though, as Stephens has got back upright and, with a certain lack of breath but a determination not to let up, has started running again. The World Champion launches himself into the air, seems to hang for a second…

 

…then comes down with a dropkick right to Drake’s face!

 

*WHAM!*

 

“Illegal!” King shouts, “he was in the ropes!”

 

“No he wasn’t, and even if he was, no-one cares!” Mak shouts back.

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Stephens seems to be regaining some strength now, as however exhausting it is to be jumping and dashing across the ring it’s not as bad as being pummelled by Drake. He even has enough energy to flash a quick grin at the crowd as he grabs the dazed challenger and manages to haul him up, only for Drake to swing a sudden right hand…

 

…which Stephens ducks! Drake is caught off-balance and staggers a step forwards; Stephens slips behind him and reaches up as if to catch his opponent with a Hangman’s neckbreaker, but instead he twists around and drops to one knee, driving Drake’s face into the other one for the Pressure Drop. The big man rears up automatically, grabbing at his face in pain, and the World Champion wraps both arms around his opponent’s torso before lifting and dropping Drake with a Sambo slam!

 

*BANG!*

 

“Pressure Drop chained into the Side Effect,” Mak says, “and now Stephens really does seem to be building some momentum!”

 

But Stephens doesn’t follow up with a cover. Instead the Englishman gets back to his feet, moving better all the time, and heads for the nearest set of turnbuckles. He steps out to the apron and quickly ascends to the top rope, then raises both arms above his head for a little extra ‘whip’ and somersaults off to land one leg across Drake’s throat with the Hangover!

 

*WHAM!*

 

Now Stephens makes the cover, and Kivell drops to count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but Gabriel Drake is still too tough to admit defeat, and the bigger man kicks out again!

 

“Not worried for a second,” King says, opening his eyes.

 

Stephens seems to be settling into his rhythm now, and no sooner has Drake kicked out than he takes hold of his opponent’s head and starts to bring the challenger to his feet; not for long admittedly as he grabs a front facelock as soon as Drake reaches a vertical base, then spins sideways to take his opponent down with a swinging neckbreaker. Drake lies on the mat clutching his neck and Stephens is straight back up and heading for the turnbuckles again, climbing to the top as before and somersaulting off again… but this time to land a double stomp right into Drake’s ribcage!

 

*BANG!*

 

Drake spasms up almost off the mat but Stephens has already slid off him and run on for the ropes; the World Champion rebounds at increased speed and launches himself into the air to perform one more somersault and land backfirst on his opponent with a senton, then rolls off into a standing position before backflipping to execute an inch-perfect standing moonsault and hook the leg for the cover!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Drake kicks out!

 

“And now Stephens is getting closer!” Mak shouts, “this match has shifted, and at the moment it looks like it’s the challenger hanging on to stay in contention!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Matthew Kivell only found two on that count but Stephens isn’t going to let that discourage him; the man from Nottingham is on a roll now and has his old friend on the ropes, so it’s time to try and finish this one off. He drags Drake up and places him into a vertical headscissors, then underhooks one arm… then the other…

 

“Stephens Shock Syndrome coming up!” Mak shouts.

 

…but no! Gabriel Drake wakes up to what’s going on and forces his arms downwards, still possessing enough strength to break his opponent’s grip. He then grabs Stephens behind the knees and bridges up and backwards, hoping that what he’s trying for will come off…

 

…and it does, as he hangs Stephens out to dry throat-first on the top rope with the move known as the Devil’s Reject!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Stephens falls to the mat clutching his throat, but Drake doesn’t stick around to try and capitalise; instead the bigger man rolls under the ropes and out to the floor where he bends double, breathing deeply and intermittently shaking his head.

 

“King, we’ve seen Gabriel Drake in the SWF for close on six months now,” Mak Francis notes, “and this is the first time I’ve seen him have to take a breather during a match. His early rush of offence took Michael Stephens off-guard but I think the World Champion’s fightback has thrown Drake; normally if he gets into a dominant position he can finish his opponent off in short order, but Stephens has refused to lay down and die!”

 

“It’s the mark of a true champion that when faced with an unfamiliar situation he overcomes it, and Drake will overcome Toxxic here tonight,” the Suicide King replies stubbornly. However, Michael Stephens seems to have his own idea about that. Despite the Devil’s Reject across the top rope the World Champion is back up onto his feet - admittedly rubbing his throat - and has focused on his opponent on the outside. Matthew Kivell’s count has gone up to four, but Stephens intends to prevent it from going any further and breaks into a sprint across the ring. There is a sudden rise in anticipatory crowd noise and Drake, who’s no fool, looks around to see what’s causing it…

 

…just in time to see 218lbs of English straight-edger hurtle over the top rope at him with a somersault senton!

 

*WHAM!*

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

Edited December 24, 2006 by chirs3

[chirs3 0]

“No rest for the wicked,” Mak shouts, “Michael Stephens is taking the fight to Gabriel Drake even on the outside!”

 

‘ONE!’ Kivell shouts, annoyed at having his count broken.

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

The crowd’s chants are echoing around Santa’s Village and Stephens staggers up to his feet, then punches the air with one black-nailed hand in celebration. The World Champion’s steel-grey eyes then light on the nearby steel ringpost, and with a wince he turns and grabs Drake to try and hoist the bigger man to his feet.

 

‘TWO!’

 

Drake isn’t in the mood to co-operate much with a grunt of effort Stephens manages to get him upright, then grabs the challenger’s arm and leans backwards to whip him towards the ringpost… but Drake reverses the momentum and sends Stephens in instead!

 

*CHUNK!*

 

The World Champion ricochets off, blood starting to trickle from his forehead, but he manages to remain standing-

 

*WHAM!*

 

-until Drake lowers his head and charges, spearing the Englishman into the guardrail around the ring!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

‘THREE!’ Matthew Kivell bellows, ‘get him in here, Drake!’

 

Gabriel Drake seems only too happy to oblige; he grabs the bleeding and battered World Champion and rolls him under the ropes, then crawls in after him to make a cover…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Stephens kicks out!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Drake glowers at Matthew Kivell, who shrugs. The Beast seems to recognise that he’s not going to get anywhere by arguing with the referee on this, so he contents himself with slamming one hand hard into the mat, then grabbing Stephens and starting to haul the champion upright once more. This doesn’t go as quickly as before, partially due to Stephens not being in much of a state to stand and partially due to the fact that Drake is nowhere near as fresh as he was, but after a few seconds of struggling the man from Athens has managed to get Michael Stephens into a standing headscissors. Stephens seems to realise where he is and make an attempt to bridge up and out again, but Drake simply drops a clubbing forearm across his opponent’s back to stop him in his track, then wraps both arms around his former friend’s waists and lifts…

 

“Demonbomb coming up!” King shouts.

 

…and drives Stephens back down to the mat!

 

*BANG!!*

 

The force of impact shakes the ring and Drake leans into the pin…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Michael Stephens just manages to fire a shoulder off the canvas! The crowd cheer again but less enthusiastically than before, seemingly sensing that their favourite is rapidly losing energy while Drake seems to be getting his second wind. The Beast roars in anger and grabs his enemy by the throat then starts hauling him up, but once Stephens is halfway upright Drake bends his knees and takes the smaller man up onto his shoulders in a Fireman’s carry. From there Drake carefully swings Stephens off behind him, reaching backwards to trap one of his opponent’s legs and catch him in a piggyback position…

 

“He’s going for the Mark of the Beast!” Mak shouts, “that could end it right here!”

 

…and yes, it could. However, for all Drake’s strength, resilience and hatred for the World Champion, he’s still a rookie. Prepared as he is for this match, he’s still capable of making rookie mistakes. The Mark of the Beast is a potent move, but you have to be very careful when setting it up because if your opponent is just that little bit too alert…

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

…suddenly Drake finds that instead of having a limp body on his back Stephens’ legs have locked around his waist and his opponent’s left arm has snaked around his throat. He desperately reaches back but that arm is now locked in place by Stephens’ right arm, and his airway is being constricted…

 

“LAST ORDERS!” Mak yells, “Stephens reversed into the Last Orders, his sister Amy’s signature rear naked choke! Gabriel Drake could have just dug his own grave here!”

 

Stephens jerks around on Drake’s back, trying to overbalance his opponent and cause him to fall backwards; such a landing would be painful for the World Champion but ultimately worth it, as once on his back with 218lbs holding him down the challenger will have about as much chance of getting up again as an upturned tortoise.

 

“He’s not going down!” King shouts, “he’s not going to be beaten like this Mak!”

 

Try as Stephens might he can’t topple his opponent; Drake stubbornly resists and stands on two feet, then extends one hand towards the ropes. They’re out of reach but he takes a step… then another… each time he does so Stephens tries to overbalance him backwards or at least counter the forward momentum so the bigger man makes no progress, but step by agonising step Drake is making progress. Which is just as well because his vision is starting to blur around the edges…

 

“He’s made it!” Mak shouts.

 

Sure enough, Drake’s right hand has clasped the top rope and Matthew Kivell is calling for the break. Stephens reluctantly releases his grip and slides off to the mat, then as oxygen hits Drake’s lungs in a dizzying rush the World Champion grabs his opponent’s wrist and Irish whips him towards the far cables. Drake manages to reverse the momentum again and sends the smaller Stephens into the ropes, but the clothesline attempt he makes at the rebounding cruiserweight is sloppy and off-target, easy for Stephens to duck. The Englishman comes to an abrupt halt behind Drake and waits for his opponent to turn, then lashes backwards with his right boot to land a Stephenskick right on the bigger man’s jaw!

 

*SMACK!*

 

Drake wobbles, but does not go down! Frowning, Stephens adjusts his feet and leaps into the air looking for an enzuigiri but Gabe manages to duck it, and as the World Champion lands on his feet and spins back around to try and maintain his momentum the challenger lashes out with something that is part palm strike, part open-hand slap and fully effective at derailing his opponent for long enough to reach out and wrap his right arm across Stephens chest for the Brute-Force Trauma…

 

*WHAM!*

 

*WHAM!*

 

*WHAM!*

 

…but you don’t hold down an eighteen-month feud and then a successful tag team with Landon Maddix without getting wise to that move, and Stephens fires off three side elbows to the temple that rattle Drake’s brains hard enough to make the bigger man release his hold! Drake stumbles away clutching his head… and Stephens sees his chance. He runs forward, overtaking the staggering Beast and reaching up as he does so to grab a ¾ headlock. Drake is snared and jerked along after the World Champion as he heads for the nearest turnbuckles…

 

“Time for a weather report!” Mak shouts, “and news just in, it’s…”

 

Michael Stephens runs up the turnbuckles with Gabriel Drake’s head clasped over his right shoulder, then kicks back off the top. For a moment it seems that he hasn’t got enough momentum to complete the move; then gravity starts to do its work, and the straight-edger starts to plummet down towards the canvas, dragging Gabriel Drake down backwards.

 

“…SUNNY IN ENGLAND!”

 

*WHAM!*

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

The back of Gabriel Drake’s skull bounces off the mat, but Michael Stephens doesn’t wait for his former friend to stop moving before he scrambles on top for the cover and hooks the far leg with his arm, the near leg with his own leg. Matthew Kivell dives to make the count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“THAT WAS THREE!”

 

“THAT WAS THREE!”

 

“He kicked out!” Mak yells.

 

“Hallelujah!” King responds, getting into the festive spirit.

 

Michael Stephens doesn’t bother to waste time by even glancing at Matty Kivell; what he wants to do now is grab Drake in some sort of easy-to-apply hold and just grind his old friend down. The match has been too back-and-forth to take another high risk for now, it’s time for a slow and steady approach. So he sits Drake up and starts to lace his legs underneath his opponent’s arms for a double-leg nelson… but Drake manages to twist around on the mat and hook one leg over each shoulder, then groggily bears down on Stephens for a pin!

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

“He’s got him!” King shouts.

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Stephens kicks out!

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

But although Mike managed to get a shoulder off the mat his legs are still trapped over Drake’s shoulders. The bigger man is still groggy from the Sunny In England and Stephens tries to help matters out by leaning up and delivering a right hands to the face, but this simply seems to jerk Drake alert and The Beast tightens his grip, then hauls Stephens clean up off the mat and into the air before driving him back down in a powerbomb!

 

*BANG!*

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but no sooner has Matthew Kivell’s hand hit the mat than Gabriel Drake lets out a roar of effort and wrenches his opponent up once more, then slams him down a second and very definitely final time!

 

*BANG!*

 

Kivell is on hand to count again…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“HE KICKED OUT!” Mak yells above the crowd noise, “Michael Stephens kicked out of the double powerbomb!”

 

“Slow count!” King bawls, “slow count! My granny could have counted faster than that!”

 

Gabriel Drake regards Kivell in stunned disbelief for a moment, then slams both hands into the mat in frustration before dragging one thumb across his throat in the universal signal for the end. He regains a hold on one of Stephens’ legs and starts twisting it up over his head…

 

“Spite and Malice coming up Mak,” King says gleefully, “he’s just going to break him in half!”

 

…but Stephens has other ideas, and the Englishman uses his free leg to kick Drake in the face! The bigger man wobbles and Stephens does it again… and again, and now Drake stumbles backwards holding his jaw, releasing his hold on the champion’s foot. Stephens ends up on his back and, not even sure if he’s still capable of doing it, coils his legs up under his chin and then explodes off the mat in a kip-up!

 

*whump-*

 

-but Gabriel Drake darts in during the half-second that Stephens takes to regain his bearings, then scoops the World Champion up onto his shoulders in a Fireman’s carry! Stephens struggles but Drake isn’t going to waste time with a fancy setup this time around and swings his opponent off, holding onto the smaller man’s head to drop him down with a TKO-like manoeuvre!

 

*BANG!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“MARK OF THE BEAST, VERSION TWO!” Mak almost screams, and Drake rolls over to cover his opponent… only to see Stephens rolling out of the ring from the momentum of his landing! The Beast makes a grab for his disappearing enemy, but whether by accident or half-conscious design Stephens continues his roll under the bottom rope and vanishes from Drake’s view by falling out to the floor!

 

“Coward! Coward! Come back and lose like a man!” Suicide King yells.

 

“Gabriel Drake could probably win this on a count-out now,” Mak Francis points out, “but as we all know, the belt can’t change hands on a count-out! He needs to get Stephens back into the ring and either pin him or make him submit!”

 

Drake has realised just that, and with frustration visible on his face the challenger wearily follows his opponent underneath the bottom rope and out to the floor. Stephens hasn’t moved from where he landed and Drake bends down to pick the Englishman up, but it’s hard going.

 

‘ONE!’

 

Stephens is practically deadweight now, and Gabe is only getting more exhausted. The big man grabs what is effectively a rear waistlock on his old training partner and heaves, veins standing out in his neck, and finally manages to haul Stephens upright.

 

‘TWO!’

 

It takes another rearrangement of grip and leverage to get the champion’s legs up high enough to roll him under the bottom rope and into the ring, but once there Gabe scrambles in after him and makes the cover, hooking the leg as he does so…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEE-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

‘WHAT!?’

 

Gabriel Drake is not a happy man. His shout is easily audible over the ring mics and he jerks his head up to stare questioningly at Matthew Kivell. The referee firmly holds up two fingers to signal that Stephens got his shoulder up in time… and Drake simply loses it. The Beast explodes up to his full height and shoves Kivell in the chest, knocking the referee backwards and causing him to start threatening a disqualification, but Drake isn’t listening because he’s roaring in rage and slamming kicks into the second turnbuckle.

 

“Yes, he kicked out!” Mak Francis says, disapproving, “now you’d better get a grip if you still want to win this match, because throwing a tantrum won’t help you!”

 

That’s easy for Mak to say, but Kivell’s trying to impart the same information without success. Drake snarls at the referee and then turns to tear at the top turnbuckle pad, ripping at the strings with his fingers. Kivell tries to stop him but too late; Drake tears the pad away to expose the steel beneath. The referee makes a grab for the pad and manages to snatch it off the rampaging Drake to try and put it back on, but the moment he does so Drake shoves him away again and grabs the pad, then beats Kivell in the head with it!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Gabriel Drake is walking a tightrope here,” Mak exclaims, “Kivell could choose to disqualifiy him at any time!”

 

“Matthew Kivell wants to see a winner, not someone get disqualified!” Suicide King fires back, “this isn’t bad temper from Drake, it’s fighting spirit!”

 

Luckily for Drake the turnbuckle pad by its very nature doesn’t hurt, and Kivell manages to snatch if off The Beast before any damage is done. The referee orders Drake to back away, then throws the pad to a ring technician and instructs him to reattach it while he attends to the match. Drake turns back towards his prone opponent… then spins around and charges at the corner again and Yakuza kicks the ring technician off the apron!

 

*CRACK!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“He’s lost it!” Mak Francis shouts, “he’s completely lost it! Gabriel Drake is out of control, and somebody needs to do something about it!”

 

“That ring technician had no business going onto the apron while a match was in progress!” King snaps back, “his presence could have distracted Drake and it’s right that he was removed!”

 

The turnbuckle pad now lies forlornly on the floor next to the hapless member of the ring crew; Matty Kivell is yelling at Drake but what he just did was not technically against the rules of the match, even if it might cost the SWF something in a lawsuit. Drake doesn’t seem concerned though; the big man reaches down and grabs Stephens by the hair - he’s been shouted at so much by Kivell now he barely notices this latest item on the agenda - and hauls the World Champion back to his feet, then simply grabs Stephens under each arm and spins around to throw him into the exposed steel in the corner!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Stephens hits hard and arches his back away in pain; he doesn’t have long to recuperate though as Gabriel Drake charges at him, leaping into the air for a high knee to the face…

 

*BANG!*

 

…but Stephens dodges at the last second (even if it’s more like just falling out of the way) and Drake hits knee-first!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Gabriel Drake tumbles backwards clutching at his leg, face screwed up in agony. He rises back to his feet, determined not to let up on his opponent, but Stephens staggers up to him and simply grabs Drake by his hair, then tows the heavily limping Beast to the corner and slams his head into the exposed turnbuckle!

 

*WHAM!*

 

“DISQUALIFY HIM!” King shouts.

 

“Drake took the pad away, now he has to pay for it!” Mak shouts back. Sure enough, Michael Stephens hasn’t finished and winds his fingers firmly through his former friend’s hair, then drives Drake’s face down again…

 

*WHAM!*

 

Now Stephens releases Drake, and as the bigger man stumbles away from the corner the camera shows that he too is now bleeding from his forehead, just like the World Champion. Stephens wipes his own blood away as it’s now threatening to get into his eyes, then measures the stumbling Beast. He doesn’t have the energy to run to the ropes for added momentum anymore, but as he launches himself into the air it proves to be enough to take Drake down with a spinning heelkick!

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Drake lands flat on his back, blood spattered across his face. Michael Stephens staggers back up to his feet, points wearily towards the turnbuckles and staggers back towards them, then steps through the ropes to the apron and starts to climb. It takes him a couple of seconds to reach the top rope, but once there he raises both arms above his head and twirls his two index fingers…

 

…backwards.

 

“Wait a minute,” Mak begins, “did he just signal for-?”

 

Stephens doesn’t wait any longer. It’s time to throw the dice and see who they come up favouring. He leaps forward into the air, backflipping as he goes and comes down…

 

…to land a leg across the throat of Gabriel Drake…

 

…with a Shooting Star Legdrop.

 

*BANG!*

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“INGLORIOUS!” Mak shouts, “that’s gotta be it!”

 

Stephens scrambles into the cover. He reaches out, hooks the leg and rolls sideways to stack as much of his 218lbs onto Drake’s shoulders as he can. Matthew Kivell dives down to the mat and starts the count…

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“THAT WAS THREE!”

 

“THAT WAS THREE!”

 

The crowd are incensed. Stephens is amazed. Mak Francis is struck dumb.

 

“No it wasn’t you morons, it was two! Two, dammit!”

 

The Suicide King isn’t, clearly.

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

“LET’S GO STE-PHENS!”

 

Michael Stephens looks over at referee Matthew Kivell, who shrugs. He can’t count it any faster than it should be. Stephens has felt this feeling before; in the Canadian Deathmatch with Scott Pretzler in the summer of 2005, where he simply could not get that final three-count. The Critic kicked out of everything Mike threw at him towards the end of the match, and in the end Stephens had to resort to the one thing left to him, the one thing he always prided himself on not doing. He cheated.

 

Not tonight. Tonight, this gets settled fair and square. So he grabs Gabriel Drake and slowly, painstakingly starts to lever The Beast up off the canvas.

 

“It’s going down to the wire,” Mak Francis says tensely, “some people predicted that Stephens would easily defeat the rookie Gabriel Drake, and they were wrong. Some people said that Drake had got into the head of his opponent and would be able to take him down quickly, and they were wrong too. No matter who wins this match it has been a demonstration of courage, guts and wrestling ability on the part of both men… but it does matter who wins this match, and that’s why they’ve given so much.”

 

Michael Stephens grabs Drake’s hand and hauls on it, Irish whipping the bigger man across the ring. Drake lumbers into the ropes and rebounds, still only half with-it, and Stephens dives to the canvas and scythes his opponent’s legs out from under him with a soccer tackle.

 

*CRACK!*

 

Drake topples to the mat again clutching his right knee and Stephens manages to get back up to his feet. Then he holds out one hand in front of him, curved as if holding something invisible. Then the other hand comes forward and cracks open an imaginary can of Coke.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Stephens just signalled for the Caffeine Bomb!” Mak Francis says.

 

“No! You head-dropping spotmonkey, can’t you do anything else!?” King yells in return.

 

Slowly, Gabriel Drake pushes himself up. The big man is heavily favouring his right leg after its unanticipated trip into the turnbuckles followed by the soccer tackle, and as he stumbles around he’s an easy target for a boot to the midsection. Stephens hooks Drake as if for a vertical suplex and reaches down to hook the left leg from the inside. Then, with a yell of effort, Michael Stephens hoists Gabriel Drake off the mat.

 

For about a foot. Then he drops him again, too tired and battered to bring his opponent to the vertical.

 

“Ha! Get him Drake, get him!” King shouts… and Drake obliges. The big man fires one, two, three right hands into Stephens’ ribs and forces the straight-edger to releases his hold, then as he gets back to a two-footed vertical base he-

 

‘Yaargh!’

 

-goes to the eyes.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Stephens swipes at his face, trying to clear his vision, but not in time; Drake grabs him and Irish whips the temporarily-blinded Englishman into the turnbuckles. This set does at least have their top pad, but that’s not a great deal of comfort to Stephens as he still hits hard enough to shake the ring. Drake lets out a yell and charges, hoping that Stephens’ vision is still too blurry to see him coming-

 

*SMACK!*

 

-which it might be, but that doesn’t mean that Mike can’t feel the ring vibrate from his opponent’s footsteps that are only going to be heading in one direction, so he lifts his boot up again and Drake runs headfirst into it!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Michael Stephens takes a grip on the rope on either side of him and heaves. He might be too tired to get Drake off the ground but he can still lift his own bodyweight up into a sitting position on the top buckle ready to leap off and deliver another flying European uppercut… but as his vision finally does clear, he realises that he’s miscalculated. He took too long this time.

 

*WHAP!*

 

“Right Hand of Gabe!” King shouts gleefully as the leaping palmstrike catches Stephens on the jaw and sets the World Champion swaying, threatening to destabilise him enough to send him toppling to the floor outside the ring. Gabriel Drake isn’t having that though; he wants Stephens where he can get to him. Accordingly The Beast grabs his opponent to steady him… then starts to climb.

 

First buckle.

 

Second buckle, and now instead of staying face-to-face with his old enemy as if to deliver a superplex Drake starts to twist around. He turns his back on the dazed Stephens, reaches back to cradle the World Champion’s head on his shoulder… and traps the Englishman’s left leg under his left arm.

 

“Oh my God, he’s not…” Mak begins.

 

Oh my God, he is. Gabriel Drake lets out one final roar of effort, anger and impending victory, then leaps forward off the turnbuckle with Michael Stephens on his back. It’s not crisp, it’s not clean, it’s not picture-perfect by any means.

 

*BANG!!*[/b][/b]

 

But it’ll get the job done.

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“HO-LY SHIT!”

 

“MARK OF THE BEAST OFF THE SECOND ROPE!!” Mak screams, “you’re damn right Holy Shit!”

 

The beauty of the cradle stunner? All Gabriel Drake has to do is lie backwards and sprawl an arm across Michael Stephens’ chest to make the pin. Matthew Kivell stops staring in open-mouthed shock at what he’s just witnessed and dives to count.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

It’s been so long since Kivell - or any SWF referee - has made a winning count against Michael Stephens that somewhere deep in the back of his mind, the referee thinks that his fellow Englishman will kick out of even this.

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

Does his hand hesitate slightly on the way down, a purely involuntary reaction to something that he’s in total shock about? Perhaps.

 

 

 

 

THREE!!!

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter anyway.

 

 

 

 

*DING-DING-DING!*

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Funyon booms, trying to drown out the crowd reaction as ‘The Devil’s Rejects’ starts up over the PA system, “here is your winner and NEW~ SWF World Heavyweight Champion… ‘THE BEAST’ GAAAAAAAAAAAAAB-RRRRRRRRIIIIIIII-EEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLL… DRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!!”

 

Matthew Kivell beckons to the timekeeper and receives the SWF World Heavyweight Title, a belt that’s adorned the waist of one Michael Stephens since 13th Hour back in June. Then he turns and hands it to Gabriel Drake, a man known as ‘The Beast’, a man who came into the SWF with one target in mind; to take out the man formerly known as Toxxic. Now Drake has not only beaten his old enemy and older friend, he has done something more. He has proved himself to be more than just a nemesis, more than just a dangerous thug with an agenda.

 

Right now, at this time, in this place, he has proved himself to be the best wrestler in the SWF today.

 

“Fans, I… what a match,” Mak Francis says, interrupting himself. “You may not like him, and I for one do not, but you’ve got to respect what Gabriel Drake has done here tonight. For all his past, his attitude and his viciousness, he’s just taken the World Title from one of the most dominant World Champions this company has ever seen, and in the process has pinned a man who hasn’t been pinned or made to submit in over six months.”

 

“Oh yeah baby!” Suicide King cuts in, “it’s over! Toxxic’s Reign of Terror with the World Title has finally come to an end! That’s what I call festive! This is going to be one of the best Christmases and New Year’s EVER Mak! I’m calling it, 2007 is the Year of the Beast!”

 

The last shot of Crimson Yuletide is of Gabriel Drake holding the World Title aloft in both hands, while behind him on the mat Matthew Kivell checks on Michael Stephens. The new World Champion doesn’t seem to notice the blood that has drizzled down his face and which gives him a disturbing, perhaps even demonic appearance. It’s doubtful that he cares.

 

The World Title is his. Everyone else can go to Hell. And they will.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FADE OUT

 

©Smartmarks Wrestling Federation, 2006

‘Raising Workrate By Typing Faster’