Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 HSBC Arena Buffalo, New York Shortly before Storm Gabriel Drake pauses in front of the door, looking at it appreciatively. Sure, the door itself is nothing special, but the nameplate on it, well... that's someting entirely different. With a smile on his lips The Beast fits his key to the lock and opens it, stepping into his personal locker. The door swings shut again leaving the nameplate to proudly shout to the world: GABRIEL DRAKE SWF WORLD CHAMPION *snik* Drake walks in and flicks the light on, puts his bag down and- *snik* -the lights go off. "What the-?" "You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" a familiar voice says from behind him. Drake spins around and as he does so the lights come on again, revealing a man with one black-nailed finger on the switch, a man Drake instantly recognises. "Toxxic!" he snarls, "what the hell- how did you get in here?" he demands, one question overtaking the other. "What's that?" Michael Stephens asks, grinning at him, "no blood-curdling roar, no frenzied rush? I almost didn't recognise you Gabe. Don't tell me you've gone soft over Christmas." "How. Did. You. Get. In?" Drake bites out, pointing a finger at his former friend. Stephens just laughs. "You know Gabe, in a building like this there's always at least one man with a skeleton key," he informs the World Champion, "and guess what? For some perverse reason they so rarely get a chance to socialise with an attractive blonde like Megan Skye. Can't blame the guy for being a bit distracted." Stephens spins the keyring around on his finger. "Don't worry, I'll give it back." "Megan hates you," Drake retorts, "even I know that." "True," Stephens concedes, "but she pretty much does what Landon tells her, and Landon doesn't like you much more than I do, sunshine. A five minute chat with a janitor wasn't too much of a burden for her." "What do you want, Toxxic?" Drake demands, "or did you just sneak in here hoping you could steal the World Title back?" "Ah, the World Title," Stephens smiles, "yeah, about that... what with you practically knocking me out and everything I never got the chance to congratulate you." "What?" Drake says, head tilting to one side, uncertain if he heard correctly. "Yeah, congratulations," Mike continues, "well done mate. You wrestled the match of your life." Drake looks at him. Stephens holds his gaze, with none of the hesitation he's shown before. Almost as if, Gabe thinks, that Stephens now knows where they stand when he didn't before, and has adjusted himself. Slowly, the Beast shakes his head. "No. You didn't come here to congratulate me Toxx. Last chance. What do you want?" "Heavy, isn't it?" the Englishman replies. Gabe's brow wrinkles. "What?" "The title," Stephens says. "Heavier than you think. You'll find that out. You're the man now Gabe, the one to beat." He grin widens and he spreads his arms expansively. "Welcome to the world where everyone's gunning for you." "Will it be harder than four years in prison?" Drake snorts. "Get out of here Toxx. You're washed up now, you're nothing special," he pauses to savour the word, "anymore." "So what's your plan?" Stephens persists, "what are you going to do now? What's the next trick?" "What?" Drake demands, "hey, I beat you! I don't need to do anything else! I took your title, the World Title! I did what no-one else has been able to do this year, I pinned you! This is my world now, it's all about me!" He's nearly shouting as he finishes... but Michael Stephens still holds his gaze, and that goddamn grin is still there. "Newsflash sunshine, the world hasn't stopped," Stephens tells him. "I'm still here, and just like I've always said; you can never really beat me, you can only put off losing a while longer. See, there's this thing called the Clusterfuck, the winner gets a World Title shot at From The Fire?" He places one fist into his other hand and squeezes until the knuckles crack. "In 2004 I missed it by one show. In 2005 I was wrestling Dace Night, and in 2006 I was in," he pauses for a moment and screws his face up in recollection, "Thailand, I think. I'm here this year, and I've got a very free calendar." "You're trying to tell me you're going to win the Clusterfuck?" Drake snorts, "that's good Toxx. And it doesn't matter even if you do, because-" "-ah, but don't forget JJ," Stephens cuts him off, "he's first in line for a title shot. He's not like me, Gabe. He won't bother talking to you, he'll just hit you." "You beat Johnson, I beat you," Drake says, "end of story." "Yeah?" Stephens asks, raising his eyebrows. "Well, think on this; Landon beat you... and JJ beat Landon." He grins again. "Nothing's certain when you get to this level Gabe, except that if you go into the ring with JJ you'll be lucky if you can move your jaw enough to eat for a week after. I swear that guy's elbows are tipped with titanium." "So that's it?" Drake asks when Stephens doesn't say anything else, "that's why you snuck in here? To tell me you plan on winning the Clusterfuck, and warn me about how hard one of your old sidekicks hits? Pathetic." He flips one hand in a shooing motion. "Go on, run back to your Tag Title, run back to your best buddy Landon and your alcoholic sister. Get used to life in the midcard, because it's where you belong and it's where you're staying." He deliberately turns his back on the other man and opens his bag. He knows Stephens won't jump him, and if he does, well that's an armour-plated excuse for a little more- *click* Drake looks around, brow furrowing. The door has opened and swung shut again, and of Michael Stephens there is no sign. No smart remark, no parting shot, no catchphrase forced unnaturally into the conversation; just absence. For someone who spent as long as he did training and socialising with the man, enduring his insistence on always having the last word, it's... odd. "Should've just punched him," Drake mutters, and starts unpacking his stuff. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SWF STORM Live, Wednesday, January 3, from the HSBC ARENA in BUFFALO, NEW YORK! (7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings) (Send all promos/marked matches to Ace309) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Pre-intermission Promo: Tom Flesher -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Opening Promo: SWF WORLD HEAVWEIGHT CHAMPION GABRIEL DRAKE! -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- That's right, it's a promo show! After Crimson Yuletide, the SWF superstars have a lot of business to cover, so Joe Peters has gone ahead and given everyone the option of coming to the ring and saying his piece! If, of course, some rivals still have scores to settle, then the ring will be available. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 FADE IN… No big explosions tonight, as the disembodied voice of ‘The Franchise’ Mak Francis rings in the SWF New Year! “Fans we are live in the sold out HSBC Arena, here in Buffalo, New York and welcome to SWF Storm!” Mak Francis announces. “I’m Mak Francis, here alongside the Suicide King and we’ve got a hell of a show in store for our first of the New Year!” “Tom Flesher speaks out in his return to his hometown of Buffalo, New York, at the top of our second hour!” King proclaims. “And I’m sure the Superior One will give some new years resolutions to shrive for, even though we mere mortals can’t hope to achieve our own meager pledges!” “Right.” Is the Franchise’s clipped response to that one. “We’ve also got the new number one contender to the SWF World Title in action and on the mic… ‘Mr. Cold Front Classic’ himself, JJ Johnson!” “Speaking of the World Title, Francis, we’re going to open 2007 with a celebration that’ll put New Years in Times Square to shame!” “And with that eloquent segue, it’s now time to…” Francis begins, seemingly disgusted with what he has to say next, “pay our respects to the new World Heavyweight Champ, who in something of a shocker dethroned Michael Stephens in the last SWF match of 2006.” “Shocker my ass! You people are all fools, because I made more money on that match than betting against those Boomer Sooners in the Fiesta Bowl!” King declares. “And I’m sure the champ loved watching the Capital One bowl just as much as I did! Georgia kicked ass and took names… Puppy Power!” While Mak ponders on if this King has been replaced by another, more ‘puppy’ friendly one, the camera cuts to the ring where everyone’s favorite lanky snack treat sits at the ready… “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” Funyon booms, having to shout to make himself heard over the deafening jeers in the enclosed area, “please welcome your NEEEEEEWWWWWWWW SWF World Heavyweight Champion… the ‘BEAST’, GAAAAAAB-RI-EELLLLLL… DRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKKEEEEEEEE!” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOO!” Suddenly, the Smarktron flares to life, flashes from The Beasts debut vignettes splashing across the screen, as the deliberate strum of ‘The Devil’s Rejects’ begins to build to a crescendo. Gabriel Drake’s two cold hazel eyes stare out from the Smarktron, an amused sneer crossing his face for a second before one hand reaches out and grips presumably the camera. The picture shakes violently, then blurs and cuts to black as the camera is apparently thrown into a wall. Meanwhile, the slow melody continues and the atmosphere is even amplified by the eerie menacing blue light and the flickering of several white strobes cutting across the darkened arena, until finally… “JAAAAAIIIIIL-BIIIIIRD!” …through all the bright lights, glitz and glammer; face framed by his black hair with white highlights… “JAAAAAIIIIIL-BIIIIIRD!” …with the newly won SWF World Title wrapped around his waist… “JAAAAAIIIIIL-BIIIIIRD!” …Gabriel Drake himself appears through the curtain. “I am the bad one… Distant and cruel one… I am the dream that, keeps you running down!” Hearing the opening lyrics of the Rob Zombie song, Drake pauses on the stage for a moment, looking around the arena spotting each and every single fan attempting to taunt him as mercilessly as they can! Gabe smiles wide and then proceeds to saunter down towards ringside. “His music claims he’s a bad guy and I’d tend to agree.” Mak Francis starts. “He’s violent and cruel, but hell has officially frozen over because he is the SWF World Heavyweight Champion…” “With distraction… Violent reactions… Scars of my actions, watch me running out!” The Smarktron behind him continues to flash scenes from famous wars and bits of destruction while showing him hitting a Musclebuster on Michael Cross, twisting Akira’s broken body in the Spite and Malice and deforming Landon Maddix’s feature by tossing him into a Steel Cage interspersed… “HELL DOESN’T WANT THEM! HELL DOESN’T NEED THEM! HELL DOESN’T LOVE THEM!” …Until a final picture of the newly infamous leap off the second rope with Michael Stephens in tow, compacting his jaw with a sickening Mark of the Beast! Now at ringside, Drake gets to the ring steps and bounces on his toes before high stepping up the stairs and onto the apron! Walking to the center, he brings his hands down to frame the World Title on his waist and leans back, living in the moment! “The Devil's Rejects… The Devil’s Rejects…” The music slowly begins to fade, as Gabe wipes his feet before swinging his legs through the ropes. Standing center ring, he takes the microphone from Funyon who beats a hasty retreat! Shaking out his arm with the mic, the crowd continues to boo while Gabe shakes his head and waggles his finger then waits for a second, letting the crowd settle somewhat before pointing up… …Cue the big explosions that were missing earlier… *BANG! BANG! BOOM!* *BUH-BUH-BUH-BUH-BOOOOOOMMM!!* *FWISH-BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!* *FWISH-BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!* *FWISH-BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!* *KAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!* “HAPPY NEW YEARS!” Gabe shouts his smile larger than life. “Come on—sing along people!” Auld Lang Syne by Robert Burns bellows out of the PA system, causing the crowd to boo even more heavily! Then suddenly, as Drake seems to be warming up his voice, a torrent of confetti falls from the rafters floating down over the audience and covering them with the celebratory paper!! “What the hell is this… a ticker-tape parade?” “This is freakin’ BRILLANT!” Bringing the mic up to his lips Gabe and King (and Gabe and King only) begin to sing- “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne?” “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO !” -and as you would expect the crowd will have no part of it! Drake, probably because no one knows the rest of the lyrics to the song, stops his dulcet tones and signals for the music to be cut. “Check out the name plate boys and girls, cause it’s official…” Drake starts pointing to the plaque on the World Title. Slowly dragging his finger underneath the brand new nameplate with his name “Gabriel Drake is the man!” Buffalo didn’t enjoy his little parade too much so- “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” -he is bombarded with a new wave of vicious chants meant to shut him up!! Drake looks mock affronted as he acts as if he’s brushing away a single tear and then goes to speak again- “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” -only to get it louder and harder than before if that was possible!!! “Heh, these fans won’t even let the new champ get a word in edgewise!” “Don’t think you can get to me tonight!” Gabe shouts over the crowd. “I’m your World Heavyweight Champion and as such I can just sit here until you decide to shut the hell up because I run this joint!” …And then Drake literally sits in the middle of the ring! “You’ve GOT to be kidding me?!” The crowd would tend to agree with the incredulous Mak Francis: “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “YOU SUCK!” “Why?” King asks. “If these peons can’t respect their World Champ then they should be taught a lesson!” “He’s basically decided to hold the arena hostage, King!” “And your point is…?” The fans continue to jeer for a good minute and thirty second, but as Gabe begins to check his fingernails and nobody is doing anything to stop him most of them start to quiet down. The rowdy remnants of the audience that won’t give up just keep on booing as best the can. Finally, after another full minute of nothing but Gabe drawing in the confetti, all but a lone voice quiet down. “NOBODY CARES WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY!” “Oh, you’ll care!” Drake says shouting down the lone heckler. “And you’ll listen to every word and like it, because I’m the man around this joint! I’m the NEW World Heavyweight Champ and I’ll sit right here until I have my say!” Finally, the crowd quiets as completely as it’s gonna’ get. “Thank you.” Gabe starts. “As I was saying it’s been a long time coming, but I finally made my dreams come true! I don’t even need a New Years Resolution because I’ve accomplished the one thing I set out to do. Prove that Toxxic is not the best this business has to offer!” “When I grabbed him from that top rope and drove his jaw into my shoulder it was nearly five years in the making! Five years worth of broken promises and backstabbing were finally paid back in full and even though Livvy and Karl couldn’t be there to see I know their thoughts and prayers were with me!” “This from the guy that attacked Livvy Luscious in her only referee appearance here in the SWF and many people believe broke Karl Winter’s leg…” Mak’s comment seems to be on the button, as the disingenuous tone from Drake would indicate. “I had a little run-in with the former World Champ earlier today and he had the nerve to say that the world doesn’t stop when I say so… well I think I just proved him wrong!” Drake says, laughing at his show of power over the crowd. “I heard that cripple at the announce table coined the phrase that this is the Year of the Beast. I like that. I like it a lot, because I’m finally through chasing Toxxic and it’s finally all about m-” “RRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” The crowd quite simply explodes at the thought of somebody out here to shut Drake up!! And that man they’re heralding is none other than JJ Johnson!!! “Uh-oh!” Drake says simpering. “Oh no, here comes Mr. Number one contender himself. So what, you won that joke of a tournament the Cold Front Classic! The only reason you won was because I was too busy winning the World Title to actually bother with it!” “A little bit of revisionist’s history.” Mak notes as JJ continues to walk down the ramp with a purpose, his eyes pointing straight ahead on the World Title belt and only the World Title. “Haven’t you ever heard the term history is written by the winners?” King retorts. “Well, who won and who lost, Francis?” “You think you can intimidate me you vanilla midget!” Gabriel shouts out as the crowd all applaud Johnson’s attempt to stop this hostile takeover. “I’ve had this happen before.” JJ slides into the ring and pops to his feet, not a motion wasted or a word said. Standing face to face with the Beast, Johnson tilts his head to the side and raises an eyebrow at the World Champ’s taunts. “I’ve had people try to come out and interrupt me and it didn’t work out so well for them at the Pay-per-view,” Gabe relays, sticking a finger in Johnson’s face, “so I suggest you go get ready for your match and think up some scary speech for the House of Marvelous cause I don’t sweat you one bit!” The crowd decides to voice their opinions on the matter: “JOHNSON’S GONNA KILL YOU!” “JOHNSON’S GONNA KILL YOU!” “JOHNSON’S GONNA KILL YOU!” “Yeah,” Drake sneers, lowering his eyes to the belt JJ’s eyeing up. Gabe laughs, polishing the nameplate while scoffing in the face of that threat, “I’m sure he’ll really kil-” *CEEEEEE-RACK!* “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” Down goes Drake, falling to the canvas like a ton of bricks, while JJ just stands over him! Looking down, Johnson shakes head and then immediately turns his back on Gabe, walking out of the ring! “He can’t do that!” King screams, as JJ steadily walks up the ramp, his eyes still staring straight ahead. “HE CAN’T DO THAT!” “I think he just did, King!” Mak crows. “With one elbow the new number one contender has done what everyone in this arena wanted to do. Knock Gabriel Drake the fu-*bleep* out!” As JJ walks through the curtain the only thing Gabe can hear is the crowd: “JOHNSON’S GONNA KILL YOU!” “JOHNSON’S GONNA KILL YOU!” “JOHNSON’S GONNA KILL YOU!” But they got it wrong. Sitting up red faced, from embarrassment or anger no bodies quite sure, Gabe slowly massages his jaw and is the only one who looks like he’s going to kill someone as we: FADE… Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 Cut backstage to some locker room, where Nighthawk, Jay Hawke, and Falcon are all seated. None of them look like they're happy a very happy New Year so far, but what the hell, it's early yet. At any rate, it looks as though Hawke is going to do most of the talking. Hawke: "2006 has come and gone, and we move into a new year. A new era. See, 2006 had its share of positives. The Predators were finally reunited after a long hiatus and set the tag team division on fire. Yours truly single-handedly help give this company some of the best TV rating and buyrates it has ever seen. But 2006 also had its negatives. It had me losing the International Championship. It had this company push us both down the tag team ladder as soon as it decided it wanted to cast us aside. And that is all going to end here. "See, at this time of year, everybody makes 'resolutions' for the new year. Things they claim they are going to do to better themselves. Well, The Predators don't make resolutions. We set goals. And when we set goals, we achieve them. And we're here to set two goals right now. Our goal as a team in 2007 is to win the SWF World Tag Team Championship, and let's face it. We are by far the best tag team the SWF has seen since WIld & Dangerous broke up, so there's nobody here who can really touch us. Isn't that right, Nighthawk?" Nighthawk says nothing, instead just looking straight at the camera and nodding. Hawke: "And my personal goal for 2007? I am guaranteeing right here in this city of non-champions, Buffalo, New York..." "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Hawke: "I am guaranteeing that before the year is out, I will do something that the Buffalo Bills will never be able to achieve ... I will become the World Champion." "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Hawke: "I don't care if it's Gabriel Drake. I don't care if it's my former partner, JJ Johnson. I plan on winning the Clusterfuck in four weeks and earning that World Title shot at From the Fire. And while I hope that I don't have to take out my partner here to do it, if it comes down to that, so be it." Nighthawk: "I'd expect nothing less. No worries." Hawke: "So consider this a notice. 2007 is going to be the Year of the Predators. You can take that to the bank." Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 “Hello, fans across the globe and welcome back to Storm! As always I’m your host, Mak Francis alongside Suicide King and we’ve got a treat in store for you today.” “Mak, don’t give the people at home misconceptions. This upcoming match isn’t a treat, it’s a travesty that we’ve got sit through and call.” “This match was announced during the SWF’s Preeshow, as we’ve got the Bermani Cross Wizard up against the newest rookie of the SWF, Ricky Barbosa!” “He’s so just stealing the name from that captain in that pirates movie of that company that sponsor’s you know who.” “You obviously haven’t done your homework, King. As that’s Ricky’s real last name. Oh and his favorite wrestler is the Happiest Man On Earth.” “…that’s a joke, right?” “Nope. If you caught the Pree Show, you would’ve seen it all first hand. Although, you could’ve also read his stats and bio beforehand; which states that he’s the president of the Alan Clark Fan Club.” “I knew that feeling of calling in sick today and not following through would come back to haunt me.” Night of fire!!! The Niko composed theme blares throughout the HSBC arena. Fans get charged up as they realize who’s about to make his way down to the ring. FIRE! BOOM! Pillars of flames light up the entrance way and just as swiftly disappear. With the disappearance of the flames, out trots the one and only Ced Ordonez. Not wasting any time, he immediately jogs to the ring . “The following singles match is scheduled for one fall!” Ced slides into the ring and heads for the far turnbuckle.. “Hailing from Sacramento, California…” He riles the crowd up by raising a fist upwards to the sky… “At 5’9 and weighing in at 209 lbs…” Before hoping down and starts stretching… “He is the Bermani Cross Wizard!” While waiting for his opponent for the night. “CED ORDONEZ! There is a slight pause as the lights return to normal and Funyon gathers his breath for the next introduction. The crowd waits in anticipation for the second participant of this contest. Carry on my wayward son… There will be peace when you are done… Don’t you cry no more! ”Great, he really is a Clark mark.” Everyone within the HSBC Arena are confused with this turn of events and as the rifts of “Carry On My Wayward Son” play on, they wonder who would be using this as the Happiest Man on Earth is not. “Introducing the newest member of the SWF!” Soon that person steps out from the entrance way, and upon exiting he pauses for a moment as if to take in the site of the packed crowd. “Hailing from the City of Champions…” Wearing the same styled clothes that Clark wore in his days as a Wayward Son, it just simply doesn’t seem to fit the rookie’s own body frame which is pretty skinny but athletically toned. Interestingly, his long red hair is tied into a ponytail with a purple ribbon and his blue eyes seemed to express his absolute sheer horror at being in the ring in front of the sold out crowd, but also the inner fire of having some fun. All of which gives him a distinctly cute and girlish look. ”You can’t tell me that’s a guy.” ”Yes he is, King. ”At 5’11 and weighing in at 180lbs…” ”That’s a girl pretending to be a man. The young man jerks back suddenly, just realizing he isn’t even anywhere near the ring with the announcing almost finished. He makes a beeline for the ring, sliding in and whipping off his cowboy hat and leather trench coat over the top rope and onto the floor. ”Seems like Ricky forgot that there was a match to be had. ”There is no way that this freak is a guy. ”He is Ricky Barbosa! Each combatant steps away from their respective corner and begin to draw closer. As both approach the middle of the ring, referee Nick Soapdish goes to motion for the bell, but a quick wave of the hand from Ricky makes him hold up. “And this rookie already is terrified at the lowly presence of Ced Ordonez. Ha!” “I don’t think he’s intimidated by Ced at all, King.” Puzzled by this hesitation, Ced warily studies the youth as he continues to approach. With nothing but an honest smile, Ricky extends his hand in order to old veteran before the bout actually begins. The crowd cheers as Ced slowly makes a move to take it and finally does. “Looks like he just wanted to show his respect.” “Would you want to have this kid’s respect when his idol is Alan Clark?” “Well…” “My point exactly.” DING! DING! DING! At the sound of the bell, each rival circles the other. Both trying to gain or seize an opportunity of a different kind. Ricky looks to see a slight lapse in athletic ability as he has the advantage in that category, while Ced tries to gain a psychological advantage as he has more experience in the ring. “Just from this I can say I wish Ced would go back to being a ref because he’s a has been and frankly this kid should be going to some special college to help him with his mental problems.” “I would say both men are sizing each other up and looking for a show of weakness. However, even I agree that something has to give.”[/b] The veteran finally tires of the circling as well, as he stops and raises both hands skywards while telling Ricky to come on. As Ced holds his hands up high, Ricky shakes his head slightly while frowning slightly. The teenager knows that he’s not as strong as Ced and that this would likely backfire and almost turns him down. But the crowd begins to jeer at him to do it. “Will we see a test of strength? The crowd’s practically begging him to do so.” “If this kid’s as stupid and annoying as he’s proving to be: yes.” With the throng of the HSBC Arena beckoning him onward, Ricky grudgingly locks up with Ced. At the very beginning both men seem to be equal, but the expert grins at the kid and adds an extra force of strength that soon has Ricky wincing in pain. “Not a very smart move by Ricky and now Ced has the advantage!” “Why would a toothpick like him even think he should attempt that?” “Because he respects the man that taught his idol a lot?” Releasing Ricky’s right hand, Ced grabs ahold of Ricky’s left with both hands and whips him towards the ropes. On the ensuing rebound, Ricky leaps off the ground and spins around in mid-air. WHACK! ”Spinning wheel kick by Ricky! Using his speed he’s managed to quickly turn it around!” ”Well, he’s quick, I’ll give him that. Not anywhere near Wildchild’s speed. Ricky watches as his opponent tries clearing the cob webs out of his head. He bids his time and doesn’t strike right away. Clearly looking for the perfect moment to do whatever it is he has planned next. “Hey, rook. He’s right there just asking to be hit. Go over and pummel him to death.” “Perhaps he’s got something else in mind King?” “Hopefully suicidal, because if this was anyone else in the federation, he’d be eaten alive by now.” That perfect moment occurs as Ced finally gets to a seated position. With his opponent where he wants him, Ricky makes a mad dash for the opposing ropes. Rebounding off, he takes about three steps before taking huge leap and letting his airborne feet connect directly with Ced’s face. “And there’s an impressive diving front dropkick from I’d have to say a good six feet away, folks.” “It was only three at best Mak. Don’t inflate the kid’s ego.” “I doubt he even knows what one is.” Ricky quickly gets back up onto his feet and is off and running towards the ropes once more. Bouncing off of them, he tumbles forward into a few short rolls before launching himself up and into the air. Only to land back first onto the chest cavity of the Bermani Cross Wizard. ”So early into the match, but we’ve already got Ricky busting out the Tumbleweed!” ”What kind of name is that for a Rolling Senton?” ”And there’s Ricky with a pin attempt!” ONE! KICKOUT! Ricky immediately gets up and takes the prone body of Ordonez with him. Ricky wraps his arm around Ced’s neck and places the veteran into a front face lock. Raising one hand up and outward, he gives a thumb up signal to the crowd, before turning it down. As soon as his thumb hits the bottom, he falls backwards. This allows gravity do its nifty thing of dragging things to the ground, as well as make Ced’s head go splat against the mat. “DDT by Ricky and now another pin attempt!” “That won’t put someone like Ced away, especially just after the previous pin.” ONE! T-KICKOUT! “This kid is should be trying to do more.” “I think it’s a fairly well thought out strategy, to be honest.” “Thought out what? Hit Ced with a move and go for repeated covers?” “Yes, because you never know when you’ll win a match.” During King and Mak’s banter, Ricky starts complaining to Soapdish that the count was too slow. Bewilderness clearly shows on Nick’s face as he has a rookie complaining not about a three count missed, but a two count of all things. “He’s arguing about a one count not being a two count. Wanna defend that?” “I’m kinda scratching my head on that one myself, King.” Using the insane complaint as a time to recover, the veteran manages to stagger to his feet. During the middle of his argument with Nick, it dawns upon Ricky that he has been letting his opponent get a second wind. With that in mind he quickly goes back over to Ced and Irish whips him across the ring. “And with that, looks like Ricky’s going for the speed again!” “If he continually goes for the gas, he’s gonna crash and burn-” As soon as he sees Ced’s about to hit the ropes, the youngster takes flight to land yet another front dropkick However, Ced wraps both of his arms around the top rope and watches the impending car wreck unfold. THUD! “-just like that! Time for Ced to take this brat to the woodshed!” “I think you’re right about the world of hurt that’s about to happen.” Reaching around to his aching back, Ricky grimaces at the awkward landing of his own doing. With his focus clearly on the pain and getting up, he doesn’t see Ced before him. Or the incoming roundhouse kick. KERWACK! “If I hadn’t seen it, I would’ve sworn that Ced’s roundhouse was a gunshot.” “Did you see the way the punk dropped as if it was? I loved it!” “And Ced’s going for a pin!” ONE! The right arm of Ricky’s comes soaring off the mat in a hurry, even though his eyes look a little hazy. Ced looks a little impressed at the dazed youngster for realizing he was at least on the mat. “After a shot like that, I though it would be over, King.” “I was hoping it had, Mak. Then we can move onto something worthy of my time. Like our new World Champion!” With his opponent lying prone, Ced climbs the turnbuckle and heads for the top. Perched above, he waits as Ricky slowly starts getting to his feet. Clutching at his throbbing head, Ricky’s back is turned towards Ced as he rights himself. “Now it seems its Ced’s turn to go in full flight! And Ricky’s got no idea of what’s coming!” “I almost feel sorry for the poor freak, but at least I won’t have to worry about the bad taste in my mouth I’m getting from calling this.” CED! CED! CED! The horde of fans at the HSBC Arena cheer on the Bermani Cross Wizard as Ricky starts to turn around to where Ced is waiting for him. The moment the kid’s face can even be slightly seen from the turnbuckle, Ced leaps off of the top turnbuckle and towards Ricky. But as soon as Ced leaps, he realizes that Ricky’s blue eyes aren’t dazed at all but instead focused and very aware of what’s going on. It becomes even more painfully obvious as Ricky dodges away and returns the favor to the veteran that was originally done to him. WHAM! “The rookie dodges the missile dropkick!” “He just got lucky… He couldn’t’ve have realized where Ced was.” Not wasting any time to capitalize, Ricky lifts Ced back up into a standing position. Taking his right arm and hooking it across his opponent’s chest and clasping his hand at the base of the neck, Ricky tosses Ced’s left arm over his own shoulder. Taking but a brief moment to make the positioning is secured, the rookie lifts Ced up and falls forward driving his opponent to the mat. THUD! “The Rife Assault! Ricky just hit the Rife Assault! Pin attempt!” ONE! “That seriously better not be his finisher or the lame… I mean name.” TWO! “KICK OUT, YOU STUPID REF!” THREE!!! “Carry On My Wayward Son” starts playing over the PA. “And with that, it looks like the newest rookie of the SWF is off on the right foot. We’re heading to commecerial break, but stay tuned folks as there’s more exciting action coming your way!” Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 BOOM! As Storm returns from commercial break, the fans are greeted by an explosion of blue pyro and a cloud of smoke as Led Zeppelin's “Kashmir” begins to blare over the speaker system. Immediately, the fans in the HSBC Arena leap to their feet, cheering the man from their hometown. After teasing the crowd for a moment, Tom Flesher steps through the velvet curtain, and the flashbulbs start popping. With a smirk on his face, Flesher struts to the ring, James Matheson in tow, as the Buffalo crowd continues cheering. “And what a reaction for the Buffalo native,” says Mak Francis. “Tom Flesher is almost as popular here as hot wings and beef on weck.” “What the hell is weck?” asks the Suicide King. “No one really knows,” shrugs Francis. “But I'll tell you what – this Labatt Blue stuff's not half bad.” Flesher enters the ring, clad in a button-down light blue shirt, a pair of dark jeans and his standard Doc Marten wingtips. Matheson, briefcase on hand as always, stands off in a neutral corner as the lights come back on. Tom grabs a microphone and begins addressing the crowd. “That's very kind of you, but I'm sorry – no matter what they told you, I'm not really Maxim Afinogenov.” Predictably, the crowd pops like a cherry on prom night for the gratuitous mention of one of the hometown Sabres' power forwards. Flesher smirks, and then continues. “It's great to be back in Buffalo. It's been too long since the SWF came back to the place where I grew up. I'd been leaning on them for some time to bring a tour by here, but we never seemed to broadcast from here, and since the SJL folded, we haven't been back to the Flickinger Center down the street, or UB's Alumni Arena, either. I guess that I didn't have enough stroke backstage to get us back to the Queen City more often.” “So then,” he continues, “you might be wondering if maybe the SWF finally started listening to me... or maybe the suits in the back finally decided to throw me a bone.” Flesher takes a deep breath. “Well... you're half right. You see, Joe Peters is a fan, but he didn't start up in the wrestling business. He made his fortune dealing in vegetables, which... fine. He's a farmer and a businessman, but that doesn't mean he knows how to run a wrestling promotion. He does, however, know that one of the important things is to take care of the wrestlers, and what better way to handle that than to use one of them as a liaison? And... my back, it just isn't what it used to be. You've all seen that.” “Wait a minute,” says Francis. “What's he about to say?” “I guess,” Flesher say, “what I'm trying to say is that the suits in the back are listening to me because now I'm one of them. I'm NOT done in the ring – not by a long shot. I'm just taking some time off to heal up. In the mean time, I guess Joe was just so impressed with how things worked last year that he's willing to put me in charge again. So... ladies and gentlemen... welcome to Tom Flesher's SWF Storm!” With that, the crowd pops again. Flesher drops the mic and takes a sardonic bow. “How do you like that?” asks Francis. “Tom Flesher's in charge again!” “But... Matheson certainly doesn't look happy,” says King. “That's odd. You'd think he'd be happy that his protege is doing so well.” “I guess we'll have to find out later,” says Francis. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 SWF Storm returns with a shot of Ben Hardy, standing in front of the SWF backdrop with a very special guest. “Ladies and gentlemen, Ben Hardy, alongside ‘Cadillac’ Calvin Szechstein, and Calvin, how does it feel to be a member of the SWF?” “Feels good, Ben. Feels good.” Calvin looks at Hardy. “Aren’t you going to list off my accomplishments?” Ben smiles. “Right. You’re the longest-reigning OAOAST Champion of all time, in addition to serving as general manager of that company for nearly a year. However, you haven’t wrestled in two years; why make a return to the ring now?” “Well, Ben, I’m here for a variety of reasons. The competitor in me wanted to come show the world what I’ve got one more time, and the businessman in me wanted to come make some more money, and the person in me wanted to show the fans some love. As a matter of fact, the company I represent, Island in the Sun Marketing, has a very special gift for those of you sitting in Section Three. Check under your chairs and see what we’ve got for you!” The camera inside the arena whips around to section three, where already people are holding up various boxes of Trojan-brand condoms. “That’s right!” Calvin oversmiles as he continues, “Trojan brand condoms would like to make sure that everybody in section three has the Pleasure You Want with the Protection You Trust!” Section three lets out a big cheer, and Ben Hardy can’t help but snicker. “Calvin…” “Yeah, I know, I said that they probably wouldn’t need them, but Trojan is all about being safe. Pleasure You Want, Protection You Trust – that’s Trojan!” Ben smiles. “Well, Calvin, what are some of your goals here in the SWF?” “Well, Ben, as you know, I haven’t wrestled in two years. As a result of that, I’m going to bring in a very special guest to tag-team with me here in the SWF, and we’re making the Milwaukee’s Best Challenge – any team in the SWF who thinks they can beat us, meet us in the ring next Wednesday night, and we’ll see who the better team truly is.” Ben Hardy turns back to the camera. “There you have it, folks – Calvin Szechstein and a mystery partner…” “Calvin Szechstein.” Calvin and Hardy both turn their attention to the left, where Ricky Barbosa has just stepped into the picture! “You aren’t even a wrestler.” Barbosa’s antics from earlier in the night are gone now, replaced with an acidic tone that conceals real resentment. “Your OAOAST title run was a joke, your run as general manager was a joke, and to be perfectly honest, your run in the SWF is going to be more of the same.” The fans begin to boo a little bit, but Barbosa is not finished. “You’re nothing more than a sell out. You’re not here to wrestle, you’re not here to win titles, you’re here to make money and sell products and as soon as that gravy train runs out you’re getting the hell out of here.” Nobody is quite sure of what to make of this situation in the crowd; both of these men are unfamiliar, but those who have followed the OAOAST and know Szechstein side with Barbosa, cheering his statements and apparently fueling his fire. “So you know what, Calvin? Me and Alan will accept your tag team challenge, and after we beat the hell out of you next Wednesday in New York, maybe you’ll get the hint and get the hell out of this federation, so that the real wrestlers can get back to their job.” Barbosa stalks away, and Hardy turns to Calvin, who forces a weak smile. “Somebody must’ve put sawdust in the tank of his Escalade.” Calvin walks away, leaving Ben Hardy to close out the segment. “You heard it here first – next week in the Milwaukee’s Best Challenge, Calvin Szechstein and his partner take on Alan Clark and Ricky Barbosa! We’ve got more Storm coming up, right after this word from Trojan-brand condoms – Pleasure You Want, Protection You Trust!” Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 “So, James, what's the problem?” says Flesher. “When did you talk to Peters?” Matheson snaps. “All along,” Tom says. “When Raynor decided to retire again, he was on the lookout for a replacement booker, and he noticed my back was starting to bother me again. I can't stay in the ring full time forever, James... look at what happens to people who do that. Ann Onita's ribs are still shot, and Kibagami's neck is never going to be the same. I've been on the road full time since I was 19, except that stint as Commissioner a few years back. Even when I was Commissioner, I was training guys like Wes Davenport. I just... need the time.” “You don't even care, do you?” Matheson shouts. “What the heck did you think I was planning to do? Charlie's off in the old folks' home, the JL's closed, I can't go run that place, and that other league down south doesn't need another figurehead! Are you trying to give me an aneurysm? Or are you just trying to force me out?” Flesher's face falls. “Oh, god, Jim, I didn't realize....” “Don't give me that kind of hooey,” says Matheson. “You bring me in to do your talking, use me to get a world title shot when you're well past your prime...” “I'm twenty-four!” Flesher spits. “You heard what I said.” Flesher glares. “You want to come in here, you can make all the money you want wrestling one match a month and jabbering in the mic for the rest of it! They can trot you out for Genesis and you make your whole year's salary there! You're not an administrator, you're a rassler, and you're taking away my job!” “Seriously, James, I'm not trying to force you out.” “You're damn right you're not, because I have a contract with the SWF and a manager's license!” “Come on, Math,” says Flesher, trying to calm the situation. “There's no one around here who deserves the kind of expertise you have to offer.” “It's always about you, isn't it? Well Tom, I'll tell you what... you can kiss my ass!” With that, Matheson storms out of the locker room. Flesher sighs. “Half an hour as commissioner and already the talent hates me.” Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Ace309 0 Report post Posted January 4, 2007 The sight of Funyon is what greets the viewers of SWF Storm as it comes back from commercial break, to show the announcer standing in the middle of the ring. It is the first show of the new year, after the astonishing events of SWF Crimson Yuletide, the biggest of which is the defeat of the former reigning champion Michael Stephens. Words have been thrown back and forth most of the night, and Funyon announcing someone's entrance is nothing new. But the ring announcer's words are a little different this time around, as he pulls a cue card from his sleeve and studies it to ensure he gets everything correct. All the lights drop down as he speaks, illuminating Funyon with a single white spotlight. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, a moment of your time. If you could all turn your attention to the Smarktron, please." "I wonder who's showing a video this time, King." the Franchise inquires of his announcing partner. "We've had plenty of talk already here tonight..." "I'm not sure." the Gambling Man answers with a shrug. "I wouldn't bet on anyone particularly interesting though..." Above the Smarktron, a set of red lights begin to flash, along with the wailing sound of a siren that echoes throughout the arena. While there is no music, explosions bust from the sides of the great screen, sending a great shower of blue pyrotechnics down onto the stage. As the siren blares and the lights flash, blurry green text begins to light up on the Smarktron, a familiar entrance video to many of the SWF's older fans, who alternate between whoops and cheers. The text is marginally changed though, not quite the same as what is remembered, but that is not the point. [HEIGHT: 7'2"] [WEIGHT: 360lbs] The last words are a flashing red, and are the only truly different part of the video. [sTATUS: SATELLITE FEED.] The sirens stop. "Hello." The deep Australian voice rumbles out of the speakers, calm and vaguely ominous as the words are swept away to be replaced by a familiar titanic figure. Dressed in their ring gear, the long white trenchcoat fluttering behind them, Janus sits in a simple chair in what seems to be a locker room. The Hell Machine folds their arms on their knees and leans forward, dyed white hair drifting about their face and their red eyes seeming to glow as they looks into a camera that is positioned seemingly just below head height, giving the viewers the impression they are looking up at the titanic Australian. After a moment they smile, seemingly pleased with the situation, and speak once more. "We're sure plenty of you remember us. Whether you are fans in the crowd, or one of the many superstars in the back, watching this on their monitors. We are also sure that some of you may not be impressed by us, such as the memorable striker Mr Johnson, our long-time tag nemesi Wild and Dangerous, or former champion Michael Stephens, who we believe needs lessons in how to handle unwanted appearances from entities of the past." "Well he can certainly talk." the Franchise says, looking up at the big screen as the Hell Machine takes a breath. "The Hell Machine and Nathaniel Kibagami have met several times one-on-one during their tenures, as everyone knows, and each time the man we used to call Silent came out on the bottom." "The nutjobs aren't exactly perfect either." King mutters in response. "They've been beaten by plenty of people in their various appearances, and last we saw of them was jobber elimination with their British buddy. How the mighty have fallen!" On the Smarktron, the Hell Machine's lips twist into an amused smile. It is a frightful thing to look upon, this seven foot behemoth smiling into the camera, and they touch gloved fingers to their bare chest and reach down. The camera angle tilts and then rights itself as the seven footer lifts the camera up to eye level, still smiling and apparently amused. But the smile fades away a moment later, leaving only a slight turn of the lips and narrowed red eyes in an expression that shows the familiar fire that burns in the depths of the Hell Machine's mind. "We have watched the federation during our time off. We have kept ourself fit, kept ourself strong, and watched as the SWF headed into a decline. At the moment, however, we have noticed that things seem to have picked up. There are old faces, new faces, interesting faces. Which is why we arranged this airtime to get a simple fact across to all the viewers, and primarily those watching on their monitors backstage. And that is that we are watching. And waiting." With unusual gentleness, the big man lowers the camera down to its original level, tilted up to look at them. Seemingly finished with their message, the seven footer folds up the chair and places it very calmly on the ground, before turning and starting to walk offscreen. They pauses briefly and then turn back, looking down into the camera with those bright red eyes. For the second time, that smile works its way across their face, but the Hell Machine says nothing more and the camera feed cuts to complete static. The blue pyrotechnics cease to flow and all the lights come back up at once, leaving the crowd abustle, whispering and chattering to each other. "Well, that was an interesting development, regardless of its peculiarity." Francis comments, tapping fingers on the announce table and sounding speculative. "What do you think of the Hell Machine's words, King?" "I think they're out of their mind, of course." the Suicide King responds dryly. "Whatever they're doing, hopefully they get trussed up and put in a home before some poor bastard around here like me gets hurt." "Well, ladies and gentlemen, you've just seen a very interesting video clip from one of our former superstars who has promised to make a comeback, and..." The siren erupts again, bringing silence across the arena as the red lights flash along the Smarktron. Again there is no music, just a simple flashing line of text, embedded in the Smarktron as we fade to commercial once more, the camera settled on those two words. [sTATUS: RELEASED!] === SWF Storm, January 3, 2007 © 2007 Superiority Complex Promotions. All rights reserved. "The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation: Raising workrate by typing faster." Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
