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SWF Stormcicles - 7-19-2007

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The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents...
Live, Thursday, July 19th, from the Stade de France in Saint-Denis, France!
(7pm PST, 10pm EST; check local listings)



Alan Clark vs. "Hollywood" Spike Jenkins

--> The final bump in the road before Ground Zero - one of these men will head into the Pay Per View, into the Unification match, with the World Heavyweight Championship!
Rules: Standard singles match.


Nathaniel Kibagami vs. Jay Hawke

--> Because.
Rules: Standard singles.


Revolution-0 (Toxxic and Austin Sly) vs. Michael Alexander and MANSON

--> Rev-0 suffered a close close loss to W&D a few shows ago, but they continue to fight the good fight! Witty and/or insulting team name for Doom/Manson shall come as soon as I think of one someone suggests one.
Rules: Standard tag.


"Big Bully" Bruner vs. Chris Raynor

--> Matcheez!
Rules: Singles.


Winston Churchill (Jimmy the Doom and Fulminatus) vs. The Holy Rollers ("The Paladin" Chance Silver and Matt "Level 42 Priest" Myers)

--> New tag team? Hell yes!
Rules: Standard tag.


CIA vs. Blue Leaf

--> Former Carnival member CIA takes on a guy who probably could've been a future Carnival member, were the MC still around. Wacky personalities collide!
Rules: Standard singles.


Danny Dagda vs. Saintly C. Killa

--> Danny Dagda, SWF Veteran of God knows how long, returns! There are a number of new faces to greet him this time around, the most disturbing of which belongs to Saintly C. Killa!
Rules: Singles.


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“WELCOME TO SWF STORM!” Mak Francis yells, “we’re here live in the Stade de France, and what a crowd King!”


“Yeah, a bunch of garlic-scoffing, floppy hat-wearing peacenik frogs,” King snorts, “ANYONE WANT SOME FREEDOM FRIES!?”


“King, hating on the French is soooo 2003.”


“So’s walking, in your case.”




“OUCH!” King bawls as Mak shows that his upper body still works just fine and catches the Gambling Man with a backhand to the ear.


“Fans, tonight’s mean event is going to be off the hook,” Mak informs viewers, adjusting his Oakleys and pretending that last exchange didn’t happen, “because we’re going to see Alan Clark take on ‘Hollywood’ Spike Jenkins for the World Title, just a week out from Ground Zero!”


“We’re going to watch Clark beat Spike Jenkins, you mean,” King replies tartly, “and then go on to Ground Zero where, I think, Jay Hawke may well be crowned as the best wrestler in the world today.”


“I think several SWF wrestlers would take issue with that claim,” Mak Francis replies hotly, “and-”






“-and here come a couple now,” the Franchise sighs as an epileptic guitar riff rings out around the Stade de France. The crowd are already booing as the ‘REV-0’ logo appears on the Smarktron and the lights steadily dim down… and then the main guitar riff kicks in.










…and as the pyro goes off and Zack de la Rocha’s voice roars out, out come Revolution Zero! Only in attire not quite the same as usual…


“King, why are they all wearing lab coats?” Mak Francis asks in complete bewilderment as Toxxic, Austin Sly, the Fabulous Jakey and Amy Stephens all make their way out dressed in knee length white cotton coats.


“…I have no idea,” the Gambling Man replies, at a loss for words for once. Toxxic leads the way into the ring, and as the others follow him it becomes clear that Amy still has her can of lager, and Jakey has found some white sequins from somewhere to sew on the back of his coat.


“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to SWF Storm!” Toxxic calls, having picked up a microphone.




“Yes yes, I’m English and you’re French,” the Straight-Edge Sensation grins, “let’s all get it out of our system, shall we? And then you can listen to what I have to say with whatever counts as politeness on this side of the Channel.”




“There we go,” Toxxic continues, completely unperturbed by the hostile reception as the other members of his stable equip themselves with microphones too. “Now, I suspect you’re all wondering why we’re dressed like this; well, it would be improper for scientists such as ourselves to dress in any other way.”


“Scientists?” Mak asks, completely nonplussed.


“See, a couple of weeks ago we had a most illuminating conversation with Spike Jenkins,” Toxxic carries on, “in which he tried to justify his World Title shot on the basis that Alan Clark was scared of him. I pointed out to Spike that Alan Clark might be scared of emus for all we know… but of course, we didn’t know.”


Toxxic grins.


“Until now!”


The leader of Revolution Zero whirls around and points dramatically at the Smarktron, which first blanks out, then comes up with what for all the world looks like a PowerPoint presentation.


“Yes ladies and gentlemen, Revolution Zero have been working feverishly the last two weeks to discover what Alan Clark is and is not scared of!” Toxxic declares. “Jakey!”


“Ahem,” the Fabulous Jakey steps forward and clears his throat, then unrolls a large piece of paper. “Well, intensive investigation has lead to the following discoveries. Alan Clark is not scared of… spiders.”


A picture of a tarantula comes up on the Smarktron.


“Moose,” Austin Sly says, and a picture of a moose (with a badly superimposed Mountie hat on) appears.


“Sand,” Toxxic reads, cuing a picture of Myrtle Beach.


“Digital Versatile Discs,” Amy says, and ‘SWF From The Fire 2007’ comes up on screen, causing Jakey and Toxxic to give a cheesy thumbs up to the camera while Sly looks faintly disdainful at such blatant product placement and Amy chugs some more lager.


“The Borg Collective,” Jakey reads.




“The planet Venus.”




“Monty Python’s Flying Circus.”


“The People’s Republic of China.”




“Fruit bats.”


“Pandas,” Jakey finishes, as a picture of Scott Pretzler breaking into the panda enclosure in Beijing Zoo fills the Smarktron. The crowd react with expressions of total puzzlement, and vague chatter.


“However,” Austin Sly picks up, “we have found that Alan Clark is scared of… snakes.”


Samuel L. Jackson appears on the Smarktron, prompting a brief cheer.




“People called Arnold,” Amy says, cuing a picture of The Governator.


“DVD players,” Jakey reads, prompting a mutter of ‘what tragic irony…’ from Sly.


“The constellation of Orion.”


“My Chemical Romance.”


“Anyone born in the year 1969.”


“Earthquakes above 5.2 on the Richter scale.”


“Imperial Scorpions.”


“Roofing slates.”


“Impressionist art.”


“Dreamworks,” Jakey declares, prompting a picture of Shrek to appear on the Smarktron.


“The Welsh language.”










“AAAAAND, EMUS!” Toxxic finishes, pointing to the Smarktron without looking at it. A sort of titter runs around the Stade de France and the Straight-Edge Sensation looks around to see Spike Jenkins’ face… transposed onto the body of an emu. “Oh very good,” the Englishman smirks, “who did that?”


The Fabulous Jakey raises his hand, grinning.


“Well, there you have it,” Toxxic says, starting to tug off his lab coat, “don’t say we never do anything for you! You’ve all just benefited from hours of gruelling scientific research conducted under strenuous conditions-”


Jakey nods, that time in the air conditioning unit with a rubber spider coming back to him.


“-and you didn’t even have to leave your seats!” Toxxic finishes. “However, there is something I’d like to address on a slightly more serious note…” he continues.


“Uh-oh, here we go,” Mak Francis mutters.


“…namely, Wild & Dangerous!” the Straight-Edge Sensation declares.




“Five-time Tag Team Champions, more reigns than any other team, more reigns that any other individual,” Toxxic goes on, “and a couple of complete and utter twazzocks.”




“Wildchild, it’s interesting that we’re been talking about things Alan Clark is scared of,” Toxxic continues as the other Revolutionaries divest themselves of their lab coats too, “because empirical evidence suggests that you shit your pants when you’re booked into a match with me, sunshine!”






“Oh, you think so?” the straight-edger grins, “I beg to differ! Jakey, please, the official SWF records.” The Fabulous Jakey steps forward with his microphone and opens a large book.


“SWF Tag Team Title match,” he reads, “The Galacticos (champions) versus Wild & Dangerous. Wildchild pins Michael Stephens following the Bahaman Destroyer.”




Toxxic nods his head sadly as the crowd pop. Jakey waits for the noise to die down, then speaks again.


“SWF Tag Team Title match. Wild & Dangerous (champions) versus Revolution Zero (comprising Toxxic and Austin Sly). Wildchild pins Austin Sly following the Bahaman Destroyer.”




Sly mimes dissolving into tears. Badly.


“See, Dub-Cee?” Toxxic asks rhetorically. “You had a couple of cracks against me and Landon, and nothing you could do could put us away. So the last two times you’ve stepped into the ring with me you’ve felt the need to bring out the big guns, bring out the biggest, baddest move in your repertoire and use it on either me or my partner to guarantee you the win… because you know damn well,” the straight-edger continues, “that you can’t win any other way.”




“But you see, therein lies the problem for you,” Toxxic states. “First time round, I could maybe see where you were coming from. I’d chokeslammed you off the top rope to the floor not that long before,” he says, idly inspecting the nail varnish on his right hand, “I can see that perhaps you were a bit… het up.”


“Het up!?” Mak hisses, “Wildchild was furious!”


“That doesn’t excuse using a dangerous move like the Bahaman Destroyer,” King chides his commentary partner.


“You heard Toxxic, he said he chokeslammed him off-”


“Shush, he’s speaking!”


“Last time though, last time you had no reason to use that move,” the Straight-Edge Sensation declares, “you had to use it on Sly because you knew, you knew that otherwise he was going to beat you and take your title. That’s all it was, a desire to keep your belt. So now we all know where we stand,” Toxxic says with a wide smile, “the kid gloves are off, and it’s open season. But here’s the thing, Dub-Cee…”


Suddenly the smile disappears.


“You do not want to get into a war of attrition with me. But two weeks ago, you opened hostilities in a fight you can’t win. Of course,” he adds, “that’s if Austin even leaves enough for me next time we face y-”




The shout, amplified over the PA system, rings around the Stade de France. Revolution Zero look around, trying to place it.




And a spotlight suddenly zeroes in on Johnny Dangerous, making his way through the crowd with a microphone in his hand.


“Ladies and gentlemen,” Austin Sly drawls, “making his way to the ring at this time, hailing from the cheap seats - where he belongs - Johnny Dangerous!”


“Sly, I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut while your betters are talking,” Johnny quips, now down to ground level and pushing his way through the crowd. “You see guys, I’ve been out wandering the streets of Paris - and saying hi to some of the lovely ladies of Paris I met there,” he adds, pausing to kiss the hand of a lovely young brunette who happens to be in his path, “and I’ve only just come to the stadium tonight. And what do I find when I get here, but the four of your running your collective mouths?”


“Right,” Toxxic says, leaning on the ropes, “you happened to be out wandering the streets of Paris… with a microphone in your pocket.”


“My friend, a secret agent always comes prepared,” Johnny grins.


“A secret agent always comes too soon,” Jakey cuts in, “or that’s what the lovely ladies of Paris say!”


“I really doubt we have a similar taste in women,” Johnny tells him, vaulting the guardrail that separates the crowd from the ringside area, “or, hell, much else really… However, I said a secret agent always comes prepared, and what I’m really prepared to do this evening, is tell you to SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTHS!”




“You know we have an open contract!” Johnny continues over the roar of the crowd, looking up into the ring where Revolution Zero are, “so really, if you have an issue with Nic and me all you’ve got to do is find yourselves a couple of pens, track down Tom Flesher and put your names on the dotted line. Oh Toxx?” he adds, “if you can’t fit your head through the door into Tom’s office, just get your sister to make an ‘X’ for you, we’ll know what you mean.”






“Is that so?” Toxxic asks, stepping out through the ropes and dropping to the floor where he places one hand in his pocket and sidles casually towards the Barracuda, “well, I guess if you don’t mind, we’ll find that contract and we’ll see how well you and Dub-Cee do against Sly and me next time around. Oh, and,” he adds as an afterthought, “…you did hear me say it was open season, right?”


And he pulls his hand out of his pocket.


Holding the Aerosol Equaliser.






“Pepper spray!” Mak shouts as Johnny staggers backwards clutching at his eyes, “that damn pepper spray Toxxic used in the streetfight he had with Johnny-”


“-when Wildchild tried to get involved!” King shouts back, “Toxxic was only using it in self-defence then, and as for now, you show me where in the wrestling rulebook it says you can’t mace an arrogant ladies man!”


“King, you just described yourself!”


Toxxic isn’t content with blinding Johnny though; the Straight-Edge Sensation puts the faithful pepper spray back in his pocket and grabs Dangerous, then rolls him into the ring where Sly, Jakey and Amy start putting the boots to him. The trio then drag the stricken Barracuda backwards across the mat into the middle of the ring, while Toxxic hops up to the apron and with a cheery wave to the fans on either side of him he grabs the top rope, ready to leap up and springboard off into the ring…




…but a blur suddenly rushes down the entrance ramp, and as Toxxic looks to leap upwards Wildchild materialises at his ankle and grabs, pulling the Englishman off the apron and down to hit his head on it!






“Wildchild’s here to help out his partner!” Mak shouts in joy.


Wildchild hops up to the apron; Jakey runs forward but the Bahaman Bomber ducks his head and rams his shoulder through the ropes into Jakey’s gut, then with the smaller man doubled over Wildchild slingshots in, rolls over Jakey’s back and lands on his feet only to leap upwards and floor the startled Austin Sly with a leg lariat!






Jakey turns around into a barrage of right hands that send him staggering backwards, but just as he’s about to follow up Wildchild finds himself brought up short as Amy Stephens grabs a double handful of braids!


“Don’t count her out of any fight!” King laughs, “you remember she beat Wildchild once, right Mak?”


However, Wildchild is in no mood to be hauled around by the hair; he fires one, two, three back elbows into Amy’s face, then the moment she releases her grip he performs a backflip and nails her in the face with a stinging kick!






Wildchild gets back to his feet… and Austin Sly takes him out from behind with a chopblock.




“It’s four-on-two!” Mak shouts as Toxxic rolls back into the ring holding a chair while Jakey, who has recovered from WC’s barrage of punches, lays more kicks onto Johnny.


“Hey, Johnny didn’t have to come down and talk smack!” King retorts, “Wildchild didn’t have to try and bail his reckless partner out! They made this mess!”


Toxxic sets the chair up as Sly grabs WC by the throat and hauls him up. He shoves the Bahaman towards Toxxic, who delivers a stunning headbutt-




-and then shoves Wildchild back towards Sly. The dazed Caribbean Cruiserweight is turned around and gripped across the chest, then-






“Sold Out onto a steel chair!” Mak yells as Austin falls back, driving Wildchild’s face into the seat of the chair, “damn it King, Revolution Zero can play around with lab coats and stupid jokes all they want, they’re still the same cold-hearted bastards they ever were, even if the personnel has changed!”


“I know,” King grins, “it’s great, isn’t it!”






Toxxic climbs onto the second buckle and starts conducting the crowd in time with their chanting while Amy recovers her beer, Jakey kicks Johnny again in a ‘for good measure’ way and Sly leans down to talk trash to Wildchild as we…









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“Welcome to Storm,” Mak says. “We have an interesting opening for this one because the one and only Danny Dagda makes his return to the SWF against the unnerving Saintly C. Killa!”


“That clown might be creepy but I’ve always thought Dagda never lived up to his potential.”


Suddenly “Aneurysm” by Nirvana kicks up, solely instrumental, and blue pyrotechnics shower the entrance ramp followed by a burst along the outside. Danny Dagda steps out to a loud chorus of jeers from the crowd to his approving smile, wearing his old black tights with Dagda written on the legs, his impressive upper body bare, and a cocky smirk plastered on his face. He sarcastically takes a bow and shouts that they’ll make him blush as he begins to walk down to the ringside.


“Introducing… a man returning from Newark, New Jersey- weighing in at 298 pounds… DDDDAANNNNYYY DDDAAAAGGGGDDDDAAAA!”


“Well, I can’t say it’s nice to have him back,” Mak muses.


“Now, now give Daddy Dagda a chance,” King insists.


He pauses at ringside to hit on an attractive female, promptly being rejected, and slides into the ring. He stands up and fakes enthusiasm for seeing his old self-proclaim protégé, “Lil’ Dag” Matthew Kivell, who simply sighs and rolls his eyes. He walks over, slapping him on the back, and tries to catch up but instead “Song 2” blasts with the SmarkTron highlighting some of Killa’s most psychotic moments. The creepy Saintly C. Killa comes back with his kendo stick in hand with his painted face, trench coat, suspenders, hoards of tattoos, and dickies with matching skate shoes. He pays no attention to the cheering crowd, trying to encourage him to destroy Dagda, and he pauses to stare at the cocky Danny Dagda, taunting him to come into the ring.


“Next, from Jersey City, New Jersey- weighing in at 342 pounds… SSSAAINNNTTTLLLYYY CEEE… KILLLAA’!”


He continues his walk down to ringside and pauses to drop his kendo stick, much to Dagda’s relief, and hands over his trench coat to a ringside employee. He climbs up the steel stairs and steps over the top rope while staring right at Dagda, heading to the center of the ring. Saintly C. Killa steps forward into Dagda’s face while psychotically smiling at him accompanied by an intimidating stare. He simply responds by shoving Saintly back with a laugh before sticking out his jaw, pointing to it, and encouraging him to take a shot. Killa gladly steps up to the challenge and cocks back his arm before lunging out with a hard right hook that hits nothing but air because Dagda quickly evades the blow with a laugh. He grunts as Danny Dagda insists he was just kidding and once again sticks out his jaw with his arms down to his side. This time Saintly doesn’t pull back but simply bulls forward with an elbow that hits square on his jaw, dropping Danny down to the canvas. He rolls back up to his feet, shocked by being floored, and slightly stumbling back in retreat while protesting about it being a cheap shot. Kivell simply sighs and signals for the bell-




“Danny Dagda has already paid for his antagonizing attitude towards Saintly C. Killa, perhaps the last guy he should take lightly,” he says.


“Surprisingly enough, he’s a juggalo that you actually don’t want to mess with,” King replies.


“Juggalo?” Mak asks before pausing. “I thought ICP and the juggalos died down years ago…”


“That’s what I thought too,” King mumbles.


Dagda leans against the ropes and watches Saintly come into striking distance as he swings at the self-proclaimed Good God with a wild hook that he dodges. He wildly swings again with a left that Dagda ducks underneath with a laugh as he straightens out, shaking his head at Killa as if he were pitiful, and gets caught with a hard jab. He goes stiff and leans against the ropes before bouncing back up like an inflatable clown, only to get nailed once again by Saintly. He steps in closely and begins to wail on his opponent with straight rights until Dagda ducks underneath to slip away. He gets behind Saintly to quickly stomp on the back of his knee, causing him to buckle, and he takes a step back before launching a high kick to the back of his opponent’s head. Saintly falls limp against the ropes and Dagda tries to capitalize by locking in the waistlock, only to be caught with two back elbows. Saintly slips away and locks in his own waistlock while Dagda struggles to shove down Killa’s arms in hopes to break the hold. After some more struggling he’s able to break free and spin around to lock in a sloppy full nelson that Saintly instantly escapes from. He spins around with an elbow that catches him and stands him stumbling backwards as Saintly rushes forward, only to get taken down by a drop toehold. Dagda scrambles back up to his feet, kicking his opponent once in the ribs, and backs away with a shake of his head, trying to recollect himself.


“Danny Dagda may have underestimated Saintly C. Killa and it’s only a matter of time before he can’t evade him,” Mak says.


“Well, I’m all for two New Jersey natives to wail on each other but you’re not giving Dagda enough credit- he’s trying to play it smart, be evasive until he can make his move,” King replies.


Saintly C. Killa gets back to his feet and Danny Dagda charges forward, only to get caught with a kick to the gut, sucking the wind out of him. He doubles over with a groan and Killa jumps on the opportunity by locking in a front facelock, gets a handful of black tights, and hoists Dagda vertically into the air. Despite Dagda’s weight, and his struggles to slip free, Saintly begins to walk towards center of the ring, showcasing his strength and impressing the fans.


“Real evasive, isn’t he, King?” Mak smugly asks to no reply.


ONE! The crowd chants along while Dagda’s blood rushes to his head.

TWO! Saintly C. Killa laughs at the ease of keeping his opponent up in the stalling suplex.

THREE! Saintly almost looks bored as he begins to walk in a small circle before finally dropping down to the canvas with the vertical suplex and floats over for a pin attempt but Kivell doesn’t even get a chance to start a count as Dagda lifts his shoulder up. Saintly stands up and grabs a handful of Dagda’s short hair to ever-so kindly lift him back up to his feet to lift him up for a scoop slam but instead heaves him far as he possibly can. Danny Dagda flies and hits the canvas with a bounce near the ropes, where he takes advantage of his position by sliding out of the ring.


“The New Jersey Toss sends Dagda retreating to the outside where he seems to be whimpering like a beaten puppy,” Mak delightfully comments.


King feigns a disgusted look and comments, “What a terrible thing to say, Mak, is animal abuse something you advocate?”


“No, of course not…” Mak begins until his partner cuts him off.


“God, I know you’re bitter for now being a four-wheeler creature but don’t take it out on the puppies,” King says to wrap up his diatribe that has his partner speechless.


Danny Dagda glances around the outside of the ring, a place he has come to feel very comfortable around, and looks up to see his massive opponent coming towards him. He weighs his options, seemingly visually all the ways that Saintly can hurt him on the outside, and accordingly slides back into the ring. Saintly C. Killa once again proves his ruthlessness as he bombards Dagda with stomps before he can even get back to his feet. Dagda tries to roll away but is followed by his opponent, loudly swearing while getting stomped on, and once again bails to the outside, only this time Saintly follows. Dagda stumbles back and leans against the guardrail, feeling random trash thrown at him, to recover but his opponent rushes him. Once again Saintly gets caught by a drop toehold but only this time instead of getting sent to the canvas he falls throat first against the steel. He stumbles back and Dagda stands up, loving the sight of his opponent holding his throat, to lunge out with a hard elbow strike to the face. Kivell futility asks them to return into the ring, mostly out of routine, before starting the count-out-


“ONE!” Dagda throws a front kick to double him over and he grabs him by his suspenders, facetiously complementing him on sense of fashion, and sends him crashing against the steel barricade.


“TWO!” Danny Dagda’s eyes scan around for anything he could conceivably get away with until he sees an employee clutching onto Killa’s trench coat. He steps over and simply gestures for the coat, which the employee readily hands over, and he whirls around to see Killa charging at him. Dagda proves himself a potentially competent matador since he side steps, whirling the trench coat to the side before taking a slight bow.


“THREE!” Killa fumes in anger and turns on the brakes to spin around but gets blinded by his own trench coat thrown over him. He tries to shake it off quickly but Danny Dagda is too quick to follow through as he begins to quickly nail him with various wild punches.


“FOUR!” Danny grabs the back of the trench coat, pulling his head forward, and throws a fierce elbow that shakes his opponent enough to send him to a knee. Dagda looks down with a hard laugh, removing the trench coat, and knees him straight in the face to floor him. He hands the coat to the employee and barks out simple directions before returning to stomp on his opponent.


“FIVE!” Dagda picks up his speed and shouts out a long, incoherent noise before beginning to slow down his stomps, only to pick them back up.


“SIX!” Danny Dagda looks over to an SWF employee and beckons them over while continuing to stomp down his opponent.


“SEVEN!” Danny Dagda takes a step back and oddly staggers forward, waving the employee over, whom reluctantly throws the coat onto his shoulders like a cape. He begins to stagger towards the ring while loudly singing-


Please, please don’t go-oh-oh


“You have got to be kidding me,” Mak says, stunned by Dagda’s routine.


“EIGHT!” Dagda suddenly stands tall and shakes the cape off to rush at Saintly, who begins to stand back up, and he continues the stomping. Finally he grabs Saintly and lifts him up to his feet while wiping fake sweat off his forehead, rolling Saintly into the ring.


Dagda turns around to the crowd and asks-


Can I get an AMEN?


“A-men,” King replies and glances at his partner. “Come on, Mak, isn’t this your thing?”


“Why’s that, King?” Mak sourly asks to King’s dismissive grunt.


Danny Dagda suddenly drops down to the floor with a split and smoothly stands back up, wincing from the split, and rolls back into the ring.


“Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy,” King facetiously pants while fanning himself with his hand.


“If Dagda wasn’t putting on that show there’s a good possibility he could’ve really beaten down Saintly,” Mak says.


Saintly C. Killa stands back up and Danny Dagda cautiously approaches him until he throws caution to the wind, lunging out with a huge clothesline to floor his opponent, except Saintly almost scrambles back up instantly. Dagda moves in but Killa stuns him with a straight and grabs him by the wrist, Irish whipping him into the ropes. He comes bouncing back and instinctively ducks underneath Killa’s clothesline attempt, hitting the ropes once again. This time Saintly begins to follow Dagda but gets surprised with a Lou Thesz Press by Danny that is followed by a series of mounted elbow strikes. Once his opponent seems to go limp he eases up, scrambling to his side to hook the leg for the cover-




Killa quickly kicks out and Dagda gives Kivell the evil eye with a growl due to the alleged slow count. He begins to guide Saintly back to his feet but instead gets caught with a punch in the gut, which he promptly treats as a low blow, except he picked the wrong opponent to care since he comes up with a vicious uppercut. Dagda reels backwards and Saintly follows through by grabbing him to lift him up for the Gorilla Press Slam, except the strain and consequential unbalance from Dagda’s weight allows him to simply slip free, landing on his feet behind him. Danny Dagda positions his head underneath Killa’s arm with an arm wrapped around his waist to lift him up and drop him with the basic backdrop suplex. Dagda stands back up and drops to the canvas with an elbow drop but his opponent rolls away, back onto his feet. Danny scrambles back up but is bombarded by an overhand right and suddenly gets lifted into the air with a rib-crushing bear hug. Only Dagda simply claps his hands against his opponent’s ears, throwing off his equilibrium, allowing him to escape, and shoves him back. He grabs an arm and grins at the painted face foe before tugging him straight into a short-arm lariat that sends him to the canvas. He keeps a hold on the arm and lifts him back up to his feet, only to hit yet another short-arm lariat, still grasping onto the arm. He lifts Saintly one last time and clutches his throat with one hand, the other on his back, looking for his chokeslam. Saintly C. Killa quickly reacts with two sharp elbows against Dagda to free himself and knees him into the gut. He gets the standing headscissors and slowly hoists him into the air for a powerbomb, slowly shifting him for the crucifix powerbomb! He looks ready to fall forward but Dagda once again slips free, back to back, and reaches back to hook Killa’s arms, pulling him down to the canvas with the back slide. Saintly C. Killa instantly kicks out of Dagda’s reversal and rolls right back to his feet, beating Dagda up. Danny stands up and tries to rush his opponent but instead eats boot from Saintly, who quickly leaps into the air with a standing legdrop.


“Dagda seemed to have a slight advantage but I have to think that 300-something pounds may just take the wind out of you,” Mak says.


“Don’t underestimate a God,” King sarcastically replies.


Danny Dagda wheezes and tries to roll away but Saintly grabs him, lifting him up, and grabbing his throat. He tries to escape but Killa is too quick as he lifts him up into the air before dropping down to deliver one vicious chokeslam to Dagda, which leads to him attempting a cover-




“TWO!” “This could be it,” Mak says. “Dagda may be put into check with this return.”


Dagda quickly gets a shoulder up and rolls to his side while Saintly gives an unnerving laugh at seeing his opponent trying to escape. He stands up and gives Dagda a taste of his own medicine with a kidney kick that sends him onto his back, wheezing for air, and staring up at the ceiling lights until they are eclipsed by Killa, who leapt into the air and comes down with a double stomp. Dagda instantly curls into a ball, desperately trying to catch his breath, and the fans begin to cheer while watching Killa run into the ropes, approach Danny, and yell out-


CLOWN LOVE! “Man, he isn’t really showing that much love,” Mak remarks as Killa drops a knee into Dagda’s face. He grabs Dagda, lifting him up, and takes a step back before launching a front kick forward that Danny miraculously catches, trapping it against the side of his chest, and he wraps his other arm around the back of Killa’s neck. The crowd’s reaction instantly changes into jeers as Dagda takes a deep breath before arching backwards to throw the large Killa over with a Capture Suplex! Danny Dagda rolls up to his feet and throws out his arms to fuel the crowd as he flexes his arm muscles before giving them a kiss. He turns around and watches Saintly C. Killa latch onto the ropes for support to begin to stand back up. He stalks over to his opponent who grabs the top rope, finally getting back up to his feet, and suddenly launches a side elbow to stun Dagda before hitting a left jab, left jab, and a right hook to drop his opponent to the canvas. But the resilient Danny Dagda rolls back up to his feet and Killa rushes forward, only to eat a series of elbows from Dagda for his efforts. The massive Killa stumbles backwards and Danny grabs a hold of his wrist, sending him whipping into the turnbuckle. He smacks against it back first and tries to use the precious time away from Dagda to recollect himself but instead he sees Danny break into a sprint. He begins to move out of the way but Dagda suddenly throws his leg into the air to connect with a brutal Yakuza Kick that incites booing from the crowd. He slouches against the corner and Dagda simply grins as he grabs his opponent, throwing him down to the canvas as he begins to ascend the turnbuckle.


“I really hope Dagda has Killa as stunned as he hopes because he’s not exactly the quickest,” Mak says.


Danny stands on the top turnbuckle and points out to the not-so adoring fans before giving pelvic thrusts to them while Saintly staggers up to his feet to a sudden wave of cheers. Dagda, who is rather full of himself but not –that- full of himself, realizes something has gone awry and before he can react his balance is thrown off, causing him to crash against the turnbuckle that causes him to squeal in a high pitch.


“Well,” King begins, “if nothing else- there probably won’t be another Dagda in this world.”


“The gene pool appreciates it, and I hope Saintly takes advantage here,” Mak dryly says.


Saintly climbs onto the second turnbuckle and begins to pound away with shots to Dagda’s face in hopes to keep him stunned. He tries to lock in a front facelock onto Danny but instead he gets shoved back down to the canvas. Killa rolls back up, though, and looks up to see Dagda making the best of a bad situation by leaping off to nearly decapitate him with a flying lariat! The crowd burst into jeers as Dagda rolls onto him and hooks the leg for the cover-


“ONE!” “That could have done it, Mak,” King says. “Maybe Daddy Dagda hasn’t lost it.”


“TWO!” “Don’t ever say ‘Daddy Dagda’ again.”


But Saintly C. Killa refuses to go down that easily as he gets the shoulder up, causing Dagda to abruptly stand up, and insist that Kivell is being racist, hence the slow count. He gives Kivell a slight shove, causing Kivell to nearly disqualify him on the spot, and that leads to a quick, insincere apology from Dagda that insists he only hits him because he cares. He turns around to see one angry Saintly who stumbles towards him, stunning him with an elbow followed by a headbutt before ducking underneath Dagda’s pathetic swing, standing behind him. Killa wraps his arms around Dagda with the waistlock until he throws two quick elbows to break free and spins around to face behind Saintly. He quickly hooks both of his arms and presses his hands flat against Killa’s back with a brief moment of hesitation and throws Killa over to drop him straight onto his head with the release Tiger Suplex. He flops over onto his back with a loud moan and Danny Dagda crawls over to Saintly with a grin to attempt the cover-


“ONE!” “That was one nasty release Tiger Suplex from Dagda,” Mak comments.


“TWO!” “Hell, it’s even more impressive he could throw Killa so easily,” King says.



“THREE!” Dagda shouts with a cocky smirk, only to realize that ring bell hasn’t rung and Kivell’s pointing two fingers in his face. He keeps his calm, however, and he grabs the back of his opponent’s head, lifting it up off the canvas, and nailing him with a hard right before standing up. He begins to debate the issue over with Kivell, kidney kicking Killa in-between syllables, and Dagda reminds Kivell of their history, only to see the referee roll his eyes. He practically pouts but spares the temper tantrum routine and instead opts to go pick up Killa, who’s amazingly staggering up to his feet. He pedals backwards in hopes to gain distance and Dagda moves forward, only to eat a big boot right in the face, sending him stumbling back. Saintly surges forward to level him with a clothesline before taking a few steps back to recollect. He doesn’t allow himself much time to spare for recovery since there’s business to be done, Dagda’s to be crushed, and so he lifts his opponent up onto his feet. Dagda quickly swipes his hands and rakes his opponent’s eyes and then, in alleged fatigue, dramatically drops to his knee on the canvas, his arm conveniently flailing up to deliver a low blow to his opponent. The skeptical Kivell, rightfully so, begins to lecture Dagda about it being his last warning to no avail since Danny just watches opponent squirm in pain. He scrambles back up to his feet and comes out swinging with a hard right that staggers the big man. Dagda stares right into his opponent’s eyes and reaches out a hand to grab him by the jaw, turning his face into a tremendous bitch slap that echoes in the arena.


“Oh man, that is perhaps one of the dumbest things Dagda could do,” Mak remarks to his partner laughing in agreement.


Dagda points and laughs at his opponent who slowly turns his face before lunging out with a knee to his gut that doubles him over. He grabs a hold of Dagda and takes a step back to launch a huge knee straight into his face, followed by another, another, and he finally takes a huge step back to the crowd’s ecstatic reaction before launching a deadly knee. He lets go of Dagda’s head, who crumbles down to the canvas, and he begins to stomp on his opponent in a fit of anger due to Dagda’s display of disrespect.


“Man,” King says with a wince, “that is one angry clown.”


Danny Dagda shields himself by curling into a ball with his arms tucked in close while he lets Saintly vent his anger, as well as tire himself out. Finally the stomping ceases and Danny Dagda rolls away to the ropes for salvation, beginning to pull himself back up. He gets up onto one knee and Killa charges forward to throw a nasty kick straight into the side of Dagda’s head, causing him to crumble against the ropes, head dangling out near the apron. Killa only sees opportunity and instead of tugging him back into the ring he steps over the top rope, standing on the apron. He ducks down and grabs Dagda’s head before simply dropping off of the canvas, cracking Dagda’s head against the ring apron to a thud that causes everybody to groan in sympathy. Danny Dagda groans with a loud swear as he remains knocked loopy and Killa gives a psychotic laughter while he sees his opponent’s eyes nearly glaze over in the pain. He slides back into the ring and, living up to his ruthless monstrous reputation, drops a knee against Dagda to begin to choke him with the ring cables. Kivell begins the five count and he reluctantly releases it at four, grabbing Dagda by the back of his tights to pull him into center of the ring. He cockily hooks one leg in hopes to put Dagda’s successful return hopes away-


“An absolutely vicious yet effective display by Killa,” Mak says.


“ONE!” The crowd also chants along while Dagda groans.








“THREE!” The crowd chants but Kivell contradicts them as he shoots up two fingers into the air because Dagda broke the pin at the last second. Saintly C. Killa shoots Kivell a cold look but doesn’t let it get to him and stands up, grabbing the dazed Dagda, and tugging him back up onto his feet. He stands by the side of Dagda and makes his move beginning to lift Dagda onto his shoulders for the Argentinean backbreaker, the prelude to his finisher, the Hero’s Blessing. Except Danny Dagda is able to slip away and stuns him with an elbow before throwing a front kick to wrap his arms around his waist. He grunts and hoists Saintly onto his shoulder with the Canadian backbreaker, looking for his own finisher, Decimation. He looks ready to throw him over with the drop but his knees slightly buckle and Killa takes full advantage, flipping his weight backwards and freeing himself, awkwardly falling onto the canvas (which definitely beats the alternative). Dagda desperately swings with a clothesline but Saintly is able to duck underneath the blow and snatches him up with the human torture rack until Dagda rains down blows.


“These two are going back and forth to catch the other with their finisher,” Mak excitedly says.


Danny Dagda once again escapes impending doom by freeing himself from the Towerhacker Powerbomb and he catches him with a knee to double him over. He strains but picks up Saintly C. Killa once again onto his shoulder and takes a step forward before letting his opponent slip forward while keeping a loose grasp while sitting out, spiking his head against the canvas!


“Dagda just caught Saintly C. Killa with the Decimation!” Mak exclaims.


“That clown isn’t laughing now,” King remarks while Dagda goes for the cover.



“ONE!” “This could do it,” Mak says.




“TWO!” “Creepy or not, that clown got dropped on his dome,” King replies.












“Danny Dagda is victorious in his return and it’ll be interesting to see where he goes from here,” Mak says.


“From here, phft, where can’t Dagda go?” King sarcastically asks. “He took down Saintly with ease…”


“That was far from with ease, King,” Mak corrects him.


“Either way, a win is a win,” King says.


The chant picks up and almost drowns out the ring bell as Dagda tiredly rolls up to his feet before facetiously wiping away sweat, acting like it was an easy victory. “Aneurysm” kicks up and Dagda holds one arm into the air in victory as the camera-



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The advertisement for “Frost Brand chewing Tobacco! Now with seventy-five percent more fiberglass insulation, for that real manly chew!” fades from the screen and is replaced by a shot of our intrepid announcers idly chatting away at their announcers table.


“Welcome back to SWF Storm!” a rather surprised Mak Francis says. “We’re coming to you more or less live from the sold out Stade de France in wonderful Saint-Denis in, you guessed it, France!”


“Don’t be such a kiss-ass, Francis,” comes the familiar grumble of the Suicide King. “These people hate us. Seriously, I’m shocked that they haven’t booed everyone who’s come out to the ring so far, heel or face!”


“Well we do happen to have a great many non-Americans on our roster,” Francis retorts. “We’ve got C.I.A. and Blue Leaf from Canada, who we already saw square off earlier tonight. Toxxic from just over the channel in England, who’ll be teaming with fellow Revolution-0 member Austin Sly tonight to take on the team of Michael Alexander and MANSON. And then there’s Jimmy the Doom from… Doomtopia…”


“Yeah, that proves a hell of a lot,” King scoffs. “The French hate everyone. I tried to go out and get a bite to eat today and I got hit with damn near a dozen eggs before I could step out on the sidewalk!”


“Don’t you think that might be because you’re… oh, I don’t know… one of the most hated men in wrestling?!” Mak bellows.


King is stunned. “What does that have to do with it? I have no idea what you’re referring to, colonel.”


“Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t…” Francis trails off.


In the ring, Funyon stands, dressed in the height (or depth) of French fashion. With a smug look, well belying his French ancestry, Funyon speaks. “Madames and monsieurs, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first…”


The lights dim slightly and a loud bell is heard ringing, to which the French fans immediately begin to cheer for, perhaps anticipating the arrival of the Undertaker. Their cheers are soon replaced with boos as a Gregorian chant is heard emanating from the speakers. From the back emerges “The Paladin” Chance Silver, and the crowd intensifies their boos. In his right hand, Silver is holding a chain which extends back through the curtain. He gives the chain a tug, but it is obvious that whatever is attached to the chain does not want to move.


“Now that the hell has Silver got this time?” King mutters.


Visibly a little annoyed, “The Paladin” finally gives a mighty tug on the chain, and from out of the back steps a figure cloaked all in brown, carrying something in it’s robe. With a surly look on his face, Chance Silver leads the hooded figure down the ramp. The hooded figure suddenly reveals what he is carrying. It is a flog. After a bit of instruction from Silver, the hooded figure removes it’s hood and exposes himself (no, not like that, you pervert) to be Matt Myers.


“Matt Myers is dressed like a monk! That’s great! I wonder what kind of wacky antics he’s gonna pull tonight.” Mak Francis says warmly.


The crowd begins to cheer when they see Myers, but they are instantly repulsed when after a stern nod from his apparent master, Matt begins to whip himself on the back furiously with the flog! The fans recoil in horror at seeing Myers abuse himself in such a manner.


Even Funyon is a little sick to his stomach. “They weigh in at a combined weight of four hundred and sixty-one pounds… ‘The Paladin’ Chance Silver and ugh… Matt ‘Level Forty-Two Priest’ Myers… The HOLY ROOLLERRRRS!!”


“I’m not certain that’s healthy, King.” Mak says. “I know Myers likes to make the most of his ‘Gimmick of the Week’ routine, but… my GOD!!”


“I’m sure he feels the same way, Mak.” King wittily replies.


The two wrestlers enter the ring, Myers having some difficulty getting through the ropes due to his cumbersome robe. Finally on the inside, at the behest of “The Paladin”, Myers continues whipping himself brutally on the back as a testament to his faith… or his gimmick. Meanwhile, Chance Silver holds up his wrists to the crowd, proudly displaying the symbols of which he believes so strongly in.


“I really hope these two don’t keep teaming up.” King wisely states.


“I’m with you there, King.” Francis agrees.


“And their opponents…” Funyon declares, making sure to keep a safe distance from the strange behavior of Matt Myers.


Suddenly the lights in the arena are cut and silence reigns on all. Shattering the quiet, loud bombastic orchestral music begins to play. A song so majestic it makes “O Fortuna” seem like elevator music. Bursts of black pyro erupt continuously from the ring posts throughout the song!










The SmarkTron is filled with images of everything imaginable: atomic bombs erupting, babies crying, emus attempting to fly, an Edsel, the Challenger explosion, a map of San Juan Capistrano, California, the Panama Canal, that video of the bulldog skateboarding, an old man drinking lager, amputees playing snooker, and many other things of a grandiose nature.


More black pyro erupts from the entrance ramp from the ring up to the stage.






“I still don’t understand how we can get black pyro…” Mak wonders.


“Don’t worry about it,” is King’s reply.


The crowd is very confused at this point, having no clue what this overly elaborate entrance is supposed to signify. There are explosions of black pyro everywhere on the stage as the music comes to it’s climax.










Then as the music fades out from it’s final triumphant note, the trapdoor on the stage opens up and a huge flock of white doves emerges and heads for the rafters, creating a beautiful spectacle. The French fans cheer wildly as the beautiful display comes to an end.


“Wow, that must have cost Flesher an ass-load of money,” the Suicide King sardonically replies.


“I bet you’re right,” Mak acquiesces. “It’s been nearly two minutes and we haven’t even seen the wrestlers.”


As the last few doves emerge from the trapdoor, a huge image fades to the screen of the SmarkTron. The huge grimacing feature of Winston Churchill looms over the Stade de France and the French crowd in attendance begin to boo the former prime minister of England. Suddenly, upon the image a large curly mustache begins to grow from his upper lip and a long pointy beard sprouts from his chin. The eyes also begin to glow bright red in a most eerie manner.


“Ok, now that’s a little weird…” Mak Francis weakly utters.


As the image remains, a spotlight illuminates the figure that has risen from beneath the stage. It is a creature the size of a large dog and is wearing a barbecue apron on it’s back.


“What the hell? Is that a giant rat?!” King exclaims.


In fact, he couldn’t be closer to the truth. It is of the largest species of rodent, the capybara. It’s name: C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A. (Computerized Automaton Processing Yield Benefit Analysis Rodent Abacist), and he looks majestic. Before the crowd has the time to react to the puzzling creature, a shower of gold sparks fall from the ceiling as Tiny Tim begins to sing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” From the back, out step Fulminatus and Jimmy the Doom.


“Well it’s about damn time,” King snarls. “We wait all this time and for what? Two weirdos coming out to Tiny Tim? I want my money back.”


“You didn’t pay anything to be here!” Mak spurts. “In fact, you’re getting paid to watch this!”


“Not enough,” replies the King.


The two wrestlers proudly, and slowly walk down to the ring, having to keep in step with C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A. who is in none to much of a hurry. Jimmy proudly sports the brand new officially licensed Winston Churchill t-shirt, beneath his signature, though little worn leather vest simply covered in fringe. On the back of said vest, there is also the official Winston Churchill logo, with the facial hair fashioned out of vest fringe. To his credit, Fulminatus is also showing team spirit, having the officially licensed Winston Churchill mousepad duct-taped to his chest.


On the SmarkTron, the screen is filled with images of both Jimmy the Doom and Fulminatus modeling the official merchandise for their tag team. In one shot they are sitting at a table both wearing the Winston Churchill t-shirts and drinking from the Winston Churchill coffee mugs. Another shot has them barbecuing, both sporting the Winston Churchill barbecue aprons, with C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A. also sporting his. There is even a shot of a clearly male ass wearing the Winston Churchill thong, but it is unclear who’s tuckus this might be.


“Ok, now that was just unnecessary,” shudders King. “Really, who the hell is gonna wear a Winston Churchill thong?”


“I have no idea,” Mak says, stunned. “Now I know the office was gonna put some money behind these two, but this is ludicrous. Doves?! They have doves? No one has doves for their entrance. That’s got to be like, five hundred dollars per entrance on wildlife alone!”


“You ain’t kidding.” King bemuses. “I had enough trouble getting that one damn blast of red pyro for my entrance. I had to take a cut in pay, for crying out loud…”


The three warriors finally make their way down to the ring and Funyon announces again from the ring. “And their opponents, at a combined weight of four hundred and twenty pounds, accompanied by C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A… Fulminatus and Jimmy the Doom… WINSTOOOON CHURRRRCHILLLL!!”


“Winston Churchill? What, like the politician?” Mak muses.


“Your guess is as good as mine, man. When was the last time anyone could make sense of these two?” King says.


The fans respond with a strange mixture of cheers for the individual wrestlers and boos for the name of their team. Before entering the ring, Fulminatus leads C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A. around by the announcers’ table and ties his leash to the guardrail, leaving him to lay down next to King. The Gambling Man, for his part, just looks down suspiciously at the large rodent.




The bell rings as the two wrestlers enter the ring. There is some confusion between Jimmy and Fulminatus as to who is to start the match. They decide to settle the dispute like men and they hold their hands out flat and strike their fists against it in traditional rock, paper, scissors formation.









They strike their heads against each other and Fulminatus staggers backward a bit. He then acquiesces and with a sweep of his hand, allows the Doom to fight first. On the other side of the ring, it is the flagellating Matt Myers, temporarily ceasing his self-mutilation. With caution, Myers steps forward, only to get popped in the chin with a shotei!




Matt tries to shake off the blow, but is distracted by Fulminatus placing his hands on the side of his head, in a position resembling antlers, and giving a bellowing moose call.




Puzzled, Myers stares at the odd figure but then gets kicked in the face for his blunder! Jimmy grabs the 'Level Forty-Two Priest' by the wrist and whips him into the Winston Churchill corner. As Myers comes to a halt, Fulminatus leans in close and blows gently in Matt's ear, causing Myers to spring from the turnbuckles out of terror, and directly into another head kick from Doom.




"Now, I know this match is against Myers and Silver, but these bizarre tactics are working pretty damn well," Mak says. "I'm curious to see how well they'll work to unnerve a more cohesive unit, though."


"What the hell are you talking about? You better not be suggesting that these... things... challenge Wild and Dangerous, or, hell, any tag team," King says.


Jimmy hooks his left arm under Matt's right and brings him to the mat with a hip toss. Doom yanks Myers to his knees and clambers on the priest's back. The Straight-Bread Sensation then hooks both index fingers in the corners of Matt's mouth, pulling them into a hideous grin. Like clockwork, Fulminatus then enters the ring. The New Blood champ forms his hands into a viewfinder, gets Myers into frame, and then charges in with a headbutt to the face of the once and future manatee. Large letters in puce pop onto the SmarkTron, spelling out the following:


*Say Cheese!*


"Did the SmarkTron just give us the name of one of their moves?" Mak asks.


"It would appear so. At least we don't have to decipher some insane pamphlet," King says.


At the behest of referee Philip Michael Thomas, Fulminatus exits the ring. However, Jimmy quickly tags his strange partner into the match. Instead of pressing the attack, though, Fulminatus simply walks past Matt and begins scrubbing the canvas with his wrist tape. The referee known to most as Tubbs from the hit T.V. show Miami Vice looks on in confusion as Fulminatus leans back to see if the mat has taken on a reflective sheen yet.


"Yeah, that'll really work against a legitimate tag team," King mumbles.


"Hey, Fulminatus’ strange tactics have worked well enough to secure him the New Blood title, King," Mak says.


"Ah, but your mother," King shoots back.


Behind him, Myers slowly pushes himself up, drawing the attention of Fulminatus. The Earl of Enigmas springs to his feet, grabs Matt by the cheeks, and shakes them vigorously and laughin all the way.


"Okay, did Fulminatus just morph into Myers' grandma?" King asks.


"I'm sure it doesn't feel good, especially after Jimmy just fish hooked him," Mak points out.


"Don't try to justify it, Francis," King says.


Despite his lack of size, Fulminatus forces Matt into the Winston Churchill corner and releases Myers. Doom quickly grabs Matt in a full nelson, leaving Fulminatus to kick the 'Level Forty-Two Priest' in the shins repeatedly. Tubbs gets to four and three-quarters before the Straight-Breader lets go of Myers. This time, words in bole flash on the SmarkTron.


*A Series of Tubes*


"Do you think they've got one called 'It's Not a Big Truck!'?" Mak asks.


"Knowing them, I wouldn’t be surprised," King says.


Perhaps making some sort of tactical error, Fulminatus then grabs his opponent by the wrist and whips him back to his own corner, where Myers, nearly tripping on his own monk’s robe, frantically tags in his master for the evening, Chance Silver. Slightly stunned by the swift change in the match, “The Paladin” steps into the ring. Unfortunately for him, in the Winston Churchill corner, Fulminatus tags in the longest reigning Hardcore Champion ever!


“As a certain big, fat, southern announcer would say:” Mak Francis spouts, “’Business is about to pick up!’”


“God, can’t you even come up with your own catchphrases?” King mocks.


Upon hearing the last comment, C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A. snaps awake from his nap and barks at King, revealing a rather fierce looking set of herbivore teeth. With King temporarily startled, C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A. lays down and continues his nap.


With a swift crack of his neck, Jimmy the Doom marches forward at “The Paladin” and quickly enters a tie-up, which the stronger Straight-Breader wins. He grabs his opponent around the head in a headlock and begins furiously pounding his fist into the top of the Holy Roller’s head!




The referee and former T.V. icon insists that Jimmy release the hold, to which he obliges, but not before a quick noogie to “The Paladin’s” silver hair.


“Nice… umm… noogie by Jimmy the Doom,” a baffled Mak Francis states.


“Oh, you’re just groping for compliments now, aren’t ya?” King sneers.


As Jimmy releases his mighty headlock, Chance Silver takes the advantage and throws a couple hard closed fist shots to Jimmy’s midsection, staggering the taller gentleman. “The Paladin” continues to throw left and right hands, back his opponent up. With his opponent momentarily staggered, Silver boots the Doom in the gut and doubles him over.


“What’s Chance Silver going for, here?” Mak asks.


Chance grabs his opponent and prepares to grab his head, but Jimmy suddenly springs to life and hits his dreaded double palm thrust squarely in the chest of “The Paladin”! The crowd cheers ferociously as Silver is sent stumbling backwards into the enemy corner, and the waiting Fulminatus takes the advantage given him and grabs both of Chance’s arms from behind. Holding his struggling opponent proves no easy feat though, as the clever Paladin manages to dislodge his opponent with a few sharp headbutts to his masked face.


“There you go, Silver!” King yells. “Smash his ugly face in!”


“You can’t even see his face, King. He’s wearing a mask.” Mak observantly notes.


Upon his release, Silver throws a couple of right hands at Fulminatus, but the staggered wrestler on the apron waves his hand in apparent surrender, taking Chance by surprise. Then Fulminatus simply points over “The Paladin’s” shoulder. The confused wrestler turns around, only to be met with a swift kick to the gut by an angry Doomtopian! The kick doubles Silver and Jimmy grabs him by his head, leaps in the air and brings the unlucky Chance’s face to the mat with his DOOM Factor!




“Jimmy hit the Doom Factor! This match is all over!” Mak excitedly bursts.


“What? That’s impossible!” a terrified King replies.


Quickly, Jimmy rolls over and makes the cover as the fans begin to build up their cheers. Philip Michael Thomas drops to the mat and quickly makes the count.




















And Tubbs’ count is cut off by a savage boot to Jimmy’s back by a raging Matt Myers! The Mad Monk begins to lay in severely heavy kicks to the Doom as he rolls off the now helpless Chance Silver. The powerless Paladin rolls to the relative safety of the outside as his opponent takes control of the match. His boots having done their fair share of damage to the stunned Doomtopian, Matt “Level Forty-Two Priest” Myers lifts his opponent to his feet and hooks Jimmy’s leg for his familiar Ki-Krusher ’99!


“If Myers can hit this, the match will end for sure!” the far too excited Mak Francis exclaims.


“You keep saying that the match is about to end,” King butts in. “That doesn’t make it any more true, you know.”


As Myers struggles to lift his awkwardly dimensioned opponent, he fails to notice the other half of Winston Churchill. Drawing to his full height on top of the turnbuckle, Fulminatus leaps off to a burst of cheers from the crowd and a cry of terror from Myers. The Cruiserweight Chaos Engine dives head-first, nailing Matt Myers with his senton Confusion Bomb! All three men come crashing to the ring, but both members of Winston Churchill get to their feet almost instantly. They look at one another and give each other a knowing nod, something resembling a smile spreading on both of their mouths.


“What the hell are these two doing now?” King asks suspiciously.


“It seems like we may get to see some sort of finishing maneuver from this odd team, King,” Francis says.


He is proven correct as Jimmy the Doom grabs his weakened opponent and lifts him high in the air. At the same time, Fulminatus leaps back up to the top turnbuckle and crouches, waiting. Using a good portion of his strength, Jimmy brings Myers’ back down over his knee in a devastating backbreaker. Before Matt even has time to realize just how much that move hurt, Fulminatus jumps from the top and lands both of his feet squarely across the chest of the Rotating Gimmick Man! The SmarkTron lights up with a very bright aquamarine expression:


*Sucks to Your Ass-Mar!*


“THAT’S what they call their finisher?” King questions. “That doesn’t sound like a wrestling move at all!”


The crowd explodes with cheers and Myers explodes with ululations of pain as Jimmy crouches down to cover his brutalized opponent.























Funyon pipes up from ringside, over the roar of the crowd. “Your winners of the match… WINSTOOOON CHURRRRCHILLLL!!”


“Wow. That didn’t make any sense,” King defeatedly replies.


“Well, it may not have been the most traditional of matches, but these two certainly got the job done.” Francis states. “Silver and Myers must feel like a huge confusing train with a lot of facial hair just ran them over. Those two just couldn’t cope with the unorthodox styles of both Jimmy the Doom AND Fulminatus! These two blended nicely tonight, King. I think they’ll go far in the tag team division here in the SWF.”


“Yeah, whatever.” King grumbles


The fans continue to cheer as Jimmy and Fulmy grab C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A. from ringside, rousing him from his nap. As he is awakened, though, he snaps at King, trying to bite leg of the King of Hearts. Winston Churchill then confiscate their capybara and walk him back up the ramp in triumph.


“That freaking rat…” King ponders.


“We’ll be back after this with more SWF Storm!” Mak declares. “Stick around!”


* FADE *

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Tom Flesher sits in his office, relishing the thought of his Disney-Sponsored World Champion and his least favorite Straight-Edge Sensation (as if he liked anything Straight-Edged) pounding the stuffing out of each other. He pours himself a glass of scotch on the rocks, taking the time to admire the aroma. Before he can partake, however, his door bangs open abruptly. Michael Alexander, an icy fury etched on his face, stomps in scowling.


Flesher is used to this sort of thing, and so he just sighs as he sits down. "Michael Alexander...what can I do for you, now?"


"What can you do, Flesher?" Alexander fumes. "You can reverse that ridiculous decision last week granting the New Blood title to that masked escapee from a mental ward! You and I both know that I should have that title!"


"Now just a minute, Alexander," Flesher raises his hand imperiously. "I sympathize with you, I do, but Fulminatus, crazy or not - oh, hell, we all know he is crazy - got that title by yanking it off its hook, which is the way you win titles in ladder matches. No question. It's on tape."


Alexander snarls. "Only after he had surrendered to me! Your tape also shows that. That freak tapped out! He forfeited the match as surely as if he had walked out! You can't win a title by tapping out!"


"You can in a ladder match," Flesher points out. "Look, I understand your frustration. Losing a gimmick match to an unstable spotmonger can be infuriating when you're a serious wrestler, especially a technical expert of your obvious caliber. I've been in such situations myself, believe me."


"You're making my points for me," Alexander replies. "This is a wrestling title, not a sideshow belt. The New Blood Title was supposed to represent the pinnacle wrestling acumen among the more recent additions to the roster, like myself. By putting it on the line in a ladder match, and then allowing the obviously inferior wrestler walk away with the belt, you've made the title a joke!"


"Ah," Flesher folds his hands, his brow furrowing with anger and perhaps a little amusement. "Look, part of my job is to get ratings and ticket sales. Whether I like it or not, part of that is putting on gimmick matches, even insane stuff that a real wrestler wouldn't want to be caught dead in, like that Badger on a Pole fiasco we had last week. The New Blood Title included a couple of those matches, as the tournament serves also as a ratings grabber, not merely an athletic contest. And let's be clear...as much as I am disturbed and disgusted by Fulminatus, I didn't let him walk away with anything. He pushed you off a ladder, plastered you with some sort of German-themed splash off that ladder, and climbed back up to snatch the title while you were on your back, staring at the ceiling." Tom leans back nonchalantly. "I take it then that since the title is a 'joke' that you wouldn't want a return match?"


Alexander frowns. "Don't misunderstand," he says quickly. "I can see that you comprehend my dilemma. I don't want the title to be left as it is, tainted by that fiasco of a ladder match and by that witless waste of a wrestler who's currently carrying it around. Give me a return match. An actual wrestling match. I proved that I am the superior wrestler already...now I just need to claim the belt he stole from me last week."


Tom smiles wickedly. "I'll tell you what, Mike," he answers wryly. "You show me something in your match this week and we'll see."


"Oh, you'll see something," Alexander promises as he walks out. "And so will Fulminatus. You saw that match, Flesher, and you know, better than anyone else could, that I was the superior wrestler. No question, no dispute, no debate. I have beaten him already, and I would be champion without the ridiculous stipulations that were thrown into that match." Alexander adds over his shoulder as he walks out, "I will redeem the respectability of the New Blood Title and the SWF. And I will do so over the crippled body of Fulminatus."


Flesher gulps down his scotch, relieved to finally get to drink it. He smirks. "Shaping up to be another stellar week. Actually, kid, I hope you can pull it off." He says to himself. Seriously, Flesher thought, shuddering, FULMINATUS as champion...ugh.



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“Well folks, coming up next we’ve got another tag team match,” Mak Francis declares as Storm returns from commercial break, “and it pits the team of Austin Sly and Toxxic who were unsuccessful in their bid to win Tag Team gold two weeks ago-”


“I hate Wild & Dangerous,” King mutters.


“-against the entirely new and quite possibly random pairing of Michael Alexander and MANSON,” Francis finishes, not quite able to keep the note of confusion out of his voice. “Well, I suppose Alexander is the Mad Scientist of the Mat, and MANSON’s certainly mad…”


“Sacrilege!” King splutters, “MANSON is not mad! He is just the bearer of the truth, and Francis, you can’t handle the truth!”


With that, the arena lights drop and a guttural, distorted warbling bursts forth from the speakers. A few people in the Stade de France rise to their feet and make the metal horns in praise of the Savage Messiah, but most of the audience are definitely not happy… and then with a final growl ‘Scientific Remote Viewing’ by Cephalic Carnage kicks into gear, causing the lights to pulse and smoke to billow up from the soundstage!


“Ladies and gentlemen,” Funyon booms, “the following tag team contest is scheduled for one fall; introducing first, from Denver, Colorado; he weighs in tonight at 230lbs, this is the ‘Raging Bull’… MANNNNNNNN-SONNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!”




“MANSON fell foul of my old pal, the returning CIA last week,” Mak Francis reminds viewers as the cloaked and hooded shape of the match’s first participant appears through the smoke, “although I must admit that the appearance of Landon Maddix on the Smarktron helped matters-”


“That treacherous, scheming little asshole!” King spits, “how dare he stick his nose into the Savage Messiah’s business and cause him to lose to that preposterous masked Canadian!? It’s just lucky that MANSON was able to restore balance later in the evening, Francis!”


“Yes, because we all know that MANSON is balanced,” Francis sighs as MANSON rolls under the bottom rope and stands upright, chains clanking. Referee Brian Warner steps in and warns him to dispose of his various garb and weaponry, and MANSON sheds his metal bat, then the chains, then the cloak and finally his metal mask. Before more than a couple of moments have passed the sounds of Cephalic Carnage are replaced by Paul Oakenfold’s ‘Dread Rock’, and Da Vinci’s Vetruvian Man appears on the Smarktron before a series of clips depicting the various moves employed by the Raging Bull’s tag partner for the evening.


“And his tag team partner,” Funyon declares, “weighing in tonight at 221lbs, he is ‘The Mad Scientist of the Mat’… MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-CHAEL… ALEX-AAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNN-DER!!”








Michael Alexander appears at the top of the ramp, his normal smirk absent from his face as he heads down towards the ring and the backchat he directs at the fans seems a little more heated than usual.


“Michael Alexander also lost last week, as his winning streak finally came to an end in the ladder match for the New Blood Title which he lost to Fulminatus,” The Franchise reminds viewers, “we’ll have to see how he bounces back from that first SWF loss, which can affect people so hard…”


“Michael Alexander is a seasoned campaigner, even if we haven’t seen him in the SWF before,” King replies, “he’s a gifted athlete Mak, and he’ll be back to take that belt from Fulminatus in no time, you wait and see. And what’s with the freaks in the masks winning when they shouldn’t!?” the Gambling Man spits with a sudden vehemence as Alexander enters the ring and doesn’t look at MANSON.


“MANSON wears a mask, King.”


“Not in the ring! And he’s allowed to, anyway!”


Brian Warner goes to check Alexander and gets a mouthful for his trouble, while MANSON and the Mad Scientist still seem to be ignoring each other… and then every light hits full, and the Smarktron whites out. For a few seconds all that can be heard is the faint *skritch-skritch* of a needle on vinyl. Then:




The epileptic opening guitar line of Rage Against The Machine’s ‘Know Your Enemy’ starts up, and the Smarktron flashes up the ‘REV-0’ logo, spinning and rotating and intercut with clips of all the members. The stadium lights start to dim down as a little smoke begins to rise from the soundstage, and the Smarktron starts to strobe… and then the main guitar riff hits, and the spinning logo abruptly stops still for a few seconds.










Zack de la Rocha’s voice roars out across the Stade de France, and through the aftermath of the pyro blasts come two figures; one with spiky hair and with his black-and-red canvas trenchcoat flapping behind him over an England soccer shirt, and the other larger and bulkier and wearing a Rancid tee.




“And their opponents,” Funyon booms, “at a combined weight of 458lbs, the team of Austin Sly and ‘The Straight-Edge Sensation’ Toxxic… REVOLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-TION… ZERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”






“Well, the crowd don’t seem to like anyone involved in this match,” Mak Francis comments as Revolution Zero approach the ring, “I think it’s worth pointing out that actually, every single man in this match is coming off a loss, as Sly lost to Jay Hawke last show and he and Toxxic lost to Wild & Dangerous the show before, which was Toxxic’s most recent match… someone’s going to break their losing streak tonight, we’ll just have to see who!”


“Losing one match is not a ‘losing streak’, Francis,” King snaps.


Sly climbs up the ring steps while Toxxic rolls under the bottom rope, then both men ascend a turnbuckle each and spread their arms wide; Sly with fists clenched, Toxxic with his palms flat to the floor. Having garnered another hostile reaction they drop down to the canvas and Toxxic takes off his coat and shirt while Sly glares over at the opposition. MANSON and Alexander seem to have had some sort of conversation, because the Raging Bull is standing in the ring and his partner is on the apron. Revolution Zero confer briefly, and then Austin Sly turns to start the match for them.




“Well here we go,” Mak Francis says, “this tag team contest is underway; MANSON the unquestioned veteran with nearly 6 years experience with the company is teaming up with Michael Alexander the SWF rookie, while Sly and Toxxic who have both been around for a bit over three years have the advantage of a couple of matches together as a team.”


MANSON strides forward and quickly lunges into a collar-and-elbow tie-up with Austin Sly, who holds his ground as the two men push at each other. MANSON lets out a growl and redoubles his efforts, starting to slowly force Sly back towards the ropes, but the Sly One slips to one side and takes MANSON’s arm with him, twisting it around into an armwringer. Sly then comes behind his opponent and forces the arm up into a chickenwing, before abandoning it and ducking down to pick his opponent’s leg before the Raging Bull can react. MANSON finds himself dumped forward onto his face and Sly reaches out to make the tag to Toxxic, then settles back into a single-leg crab. Brian Warner starts to count as Toxxic vaults into the ring and runs for the ropes, but he’s hardly got to ‘two’ by the time the Englishman has rebounded and sent a basement dropkick into the leg that Sly is wrenching backwards on!




MANSON rolls away clutching his leg while Sly exits the ring; meanwhile Toxxic boosts himself up into a sitting position on the turnbuckles in the Rev-0 corner and settles himself to wait. Brian Warner starts to administer the usual five-count, but Toxxic has MANSON in his sights and as the Savage Messiah gets back up to his feet the straight-edger comes off the second buckle with a flying European uppercut!


“Good technique there from Toxxic,” Francis admits, “he beat MANSON a few weeks ago in a singles match, but it was a close thing and he won’t want to give his opponent a chance to build momentum.”


Sure enough, Toxxic has grabbed hold of MANSON’s leg and is towing the Raging Bull back towards the Revolution’s corner, where he reaches out to tag Austin Sly and then extends MANSON’s leg to drape it over the second rope. Sly takes hold of the top rope and jumps up, then shows impressive agility for a 240lb man by springboarding off into a kneedrop to the vulnerable limb!


“I don’t care what sort of Messiah you are, that’s gonna hurt!” Francis exclaims as MANSON rolls away clutching his leg, “Revolution Zero seem to have targeted MANSON’s leg, and it’ll be difficult for him to launch any of his signature high-impact offence without a stable base to work from.”


Sly goes in pursuit of the Raging Bull and hauls him up to his feet, then ducks down and wraps both arms around his opponent’s waist as he looks for a Northern Lights suplex. However, MANSON is in no mood to be thrown over his opponent’s head and simply launches into a barrage of clubbing forearm blows that hammer down onto Sly’s back and knock any idea of suplexing out of him, then straightens Sly up and delivers a headbutt! Sly staggers back and MANSON heads in after him, grabbing the Missouri native around the torso and hoisting him off his feet to plant him back down with a belly-to-belly slam!




MANSON looks briefly over at his corner where Michael Alexander is calling for a tag, then snorts and goes into a mount position to rain down right hands on the Sly One. Sly covers up and most of them simply land on his arms, while Brian Warner makes his count…












MANSON breaks off and rises back to his feet, rounding on the referee and demanding to know what he thinks he’s doing-




-and Austin Sly slams both feet into MANSON’s weakened leg! The Raging Bull staggers sideways and in a half-circle, only just managing to remain on his feet, and Sly scrambles back up before launching himself into a chopblock that takes MANSON back down to the mat! Deciding that now is a good a time as any, Sly rolls his bearded opponent into a pin…











-but MANSON kicks out before two! Sly gets back to his feet and tags Toxxic back in, then turns back to MANSON and delivers a knee lift to the gut that prevents the Denver native from making it all the way back to his feet. Sly then bends down and folds MANSON’s leg up, hoists him off the ground…


…and Toxxic comes off the top buckle to help deliver a spike shinbreaker!




“Ouch!” Mak Francis yells, “I felt that!”


“How could you feel that?” King scoffs, “you can’t even feel your own legs!”




“All I’m saying is that empathic pain recognition must surely be reduced when-”






MANSON rolls away from the Rev-0 corner towards where Michael Alexander still has his hand outstretched, but Toxxic cuts him off with a couple of stomps to the midsection. The Straight-Edge Sensation then heads away from his opponent and steps out through the ring ropes to the apron, where he stands next to the ring post in one of the neutral corners. The Englishman grabs the top rope and jumps up to it…


…across to the top turnbuckle, facing out to the crowd…


…and backflips off for a moonsault!




“No-one home!” King calls as MANSON rolls away at the last moment, “MANSON’s telepathic powers allowed him to perfectly predict Toxxic’s strategy!”


“Toxxic bringing out the Radford Calling for the first time in a long time,” Mak notes, “and perhaps the lack of practice showed!”


“Pshaw!” King snorts, “the move was fine Francis, it’s just MANSON was better!”


The Savage Messiah is struggling back to his feet, no easy task when one of your legs is mutinying against you, but MANSON is nothing if not determined and he manages to get upright, then clings onto the ropes for support as he head towards Alexander. Toxxic is also getting up and the Englishman knows he doesn’t want the fresh man in the ring so he heads after MANSON…


…Michael Alexander points desperately behind his tag partner…


…and MANSON whirls around to nail Toxxic with a Roaring elbow!






Toxxic getting hit hard in the face brings out the first positive response from the crowd in this match, but MANSON only just manages to stay on his feet; with the Straight-Edge Sensation flat on his back the Raging Bull turns and hobbles along again, still using the ropes for support, then tags in Michael Alexander.


“Michael Alexander has acquitted himself well in the New Blood Division,” Mak notes, “but now he’s in the ring with the longest-reigning World Champion in history; will that be a step up too far, or will he be able to hang with Toxxic?”


Well, for the moment at least it seems that Alexander will be doing alright because he simply walks up to the dazed Englishman and treads on his throat, causing Warner to launch into a furious five count while Alexander raises one arm and starts declaiming loudly:




‘To be or not to be, that is the question-’




‘-whether ‘tis nobler in the mind-




‘-to bear the slings and arrows out outrageous fortune-’




‘-or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing-’




‘-end them.’ Alexander finishes smugly, stepped back off Toxxic’s throat a millisecond before the DQ point.




“That’s what you get for quoting Hamlet,” Francis informs Alexander sagely, as the Mad Scientist of the Mat looks shocked at his reception. “Besides, hasn’t he got something better to taunt an Englishman with than Shakespeare?”


“Apparently not,” King replies as Alexander takes a couple of steps towards Austin Sly, inviting the Sly One to step into the ring. Austin is too wily a competitor to fall for that trick and simply responds to the Mad Scientist’s taunts with some colourful verbiage of his own, with accompanying hand gestures. Alexander sighs and turns around… just in time to find that Toxxic really doesn’t like having his throat stood on.






The crowd likes to see a pompous ass get kicked in the head, and the kip-up enzuigiri is usually good for a pop anyway; the combination means that Toxxic now gets cheered for the first time in a little while. Alexander topples forwards and Toxxic gets back to his feet, rubbing his throat and glaring darkly at his opponent before heading over to his corner and tagging Austin Sly back in. Brian Warner starts making a five-count but Toxxic grabs Alexander as the Mad Scientist gets up off the mat, then shoves him towards Sly. The bigger Revolutionary drives a knee into Michael’s gut, then applies a double underhook. Toxxic picks up Alexander’s legs and-




-Sly drops down to spike his opponent’s head into the mat!


“Assisted double-arm DDT!” Mak calls, “and that looked nasty for Alexander!” Austin Sly rolls Alexander over into the cover as Toxxic exits the ring…


















…but Alexander kicks out! Sly sighs and pulls Alexander up from the mat, then takes hold of his head and starts to twist around for a neckbreaker, but the Mad Scientist fires a few back elbows into Sly’s head and causes him to release his grip. Sly rounds on his opponent but Alexander delivers a spinning back kick to the Sly One’s gut, then grabs Austin’s wrist and Irish whips him towards the ropes… which Sly reverses to send Alexander into them instead! The South Carolinan rebounds as Sly ducks his head for a back bodydrop, but Michael manages to kill his momentum and nails Sly with a facebuster, which he chains into a Russian Leg Sweep.




“Whiplash!” Mak shouts as Alexander rolls over into the pin…











-broken up by Toxxic!


“Is that Toxxic showing distrust of his partner’s abilities after that loss to Wild & Dangerous?” Francis asks.


“Hardly,” King snorts, “Sly would have kicked out anyway, but why let your partner waste the energy if you can break the pin yourself? That’s teamwork, Mak.”


Alexander is quickly back up to his feet to retaliate, but Warner has already taken the situation under control and forces Toxxic back out of the ring. Grabbing a chunk of his opponent’s hair, the Evil Genius looks posed to take control of the match -




- until he’s greeted with a low blow! Sly pushes himself back to his feet and takes off running for the ropes, bounces off, then grabs hold of Alexander’s head on the way by connecting with a picture perfect Tornado DDT! First delivering two kicks to Michael’s side, Austin grabs his opponent and pulls him back up to his feet. Sly continues to kick away at the midsection of the Evil Genius, backing him up into a neutral corner and forcing Warner to issue a five count.













Sly backs out of the corner before Warner can finish his count, not wanting to get his team disqualified.


“Sly shows a bit of his vicious side there,” Mak notes.


“I love it when Sly gets aggressive,” King smiles.




“Don’t you even dare make a gay joke.”


The Revolutionary makes his way back into the corner and grabs his opponent by the hand, looking to send him across the ring with an Irish Whip. It’s reversed, though, and Austin goes crashing back first into the turnbuckles! Alexander follows him in and connects with a dropkick to his knee, knocking Austin down, only being able to support himself using the ropes. The Professor of Pain grabs Sly by the hair and drags him over to his corner to tag in MANSON. Lifting his opponent’s arm and holding back his leg, Alexander exposes Austin’s side allowing MANSON to deliver a kick that sends him reeling. God Machine stalks his opponent, waiting for him to turn so that he can deliver a smashing headbutt that knocks Austin down to the mat! Austin tries to climb back to his feet, but he’s helped back up by MANSON. The Sly One swings with his right hand, but it’s ducked and he’s quickly put into a waistlock before being lifted up and over with a German Suplex!




“The MASONITES are going crazy,” King pauses, “listen, Mak! Isn’t it amazing?”


“I don’t hear anything…”


Austin isn’t so quick to get up this time, allowing MANSON to pull him up. When he does, however, Sly greets him with a kick to the midsection! Sly runs the ropes, receiving a slap on the back from Toxxic as he bounces off, before launching into the air and hitting a knee drop bulldog on MANSON!


“Blind tag by Toxxic, showing more distrust in his partner,” Mak states.


“Oh come on!” King retorts as Toxxic vaults to the top buckle in one easy motion, “that’s a slick team that knows how to work together!” Toxxic raises both arms above his head and come off the top with a somersault legdrop that lands across MANSON’s throat-




“Hangover from Toxxic!” Mak shouts, “will MANSON kick out?”



















-broken up by Michael Alexander!


“Now, is that Michael Alexander showing a lack of trust in MANSON?” King demands.




“Mak, how can anyone not trust MANSON!? You’re not making sense!”


Now it’s Toxxic’s turn to show some anger at Alexander as the Mad Scientist of the Mat is hustled back out of the ring by Brian Warner. It’s perhaps this distraction that causes Toxxic to not pay quite as much attention as he should do when pulling MANSON up off the mat, with the result that the Raging Bull is able to reach up and-




“-and MANSON goes to the eyes,” Mak notes clinically as the Englishman staggers backwards away from his probably-delusional opponent, “the sure sign of a Messiah.”


“It worked for Jesus.”


The Savage Messiah gets back to his feet and, with Toxxic blinded, launches into a spin to deliver a stunning kesagiri chop…


…but Toxxic ducks, his vision apparently clearing at the last moment! MANSON continues his spin, off-balance, and Toxxic pops back to his full height before unloading with punches!




















…ducked! Toxxic staggers past MANSON, who sets himself and waits for the unbalanced straight-edger to turn around again, then wraps his right arm across Toxxic’s chest and heaves backwards to send his opponent flying overhead with a Urinage suplex!




“What power from MANSON!” Mak gasps as Toxxic lands hard, “…but look at his leg King, that throw seems to have jarred it, maybe he put too much weight on it…” Sure enough, the Savage Messiah’s limp has returned as he gets up and clumps towards Toxxic. He rolls the winded Englishman over onto his front and starts trying to lock Toxxic’s legs in place against his own for the Imperial March, but he’s instinctively set it up against his injured leg and the pain evidently gives even MANSON some pause. As a result the Raging Bull stops and tries to set it up with Toxxic’s legs locked against his unhurt leg, but the Straight-Edge Sensation has got some of his breath back now and is able to struggle against it. With his opponent not co-operating MANSON gives it up as a bad job and takes a step to kick Toxxic in the side of the head, then bends down and starts bringing the former World Champion off the canvas.


“MANSON needs to stay on Toxxic here,” Mak says, “he’s a slippery customer, and MANSON will want revenge for their match a few weeks ago; he just needs to make sure that doesn’t make him do anything rash!”


“MANSON cannot do anything rash,” King argues, “he always does things exactly as he means to, he just assesses situations and reacts in ways far quicker than a normal human could!”


Toxxic gets dragged upwards into a standing position by the Savage Messiah, who places the Englishman in a front facelock, leans down and hooks his opponent’s leg and then snaps up and sideways to bring Toxxic over with a swinging Fisherman’s suplex!




“Three-handled-” Mak begins.




















“-doza-and-the-bridge-collapsed!” the Franchise gushes to a halt, unable to quite get the words out quick enough, “that knee gave way King!”


Sure enough, MANSON is now lying on his side holding his leg, unable to maintain his pinning bridge following the Three-Handled Moss-Covered Family Grendoza. The Savage Messiah seems to feel this disappointment bitterly, and takes it out by punching Toxxic in the face as the Englishman tries to recover his breath on the canvas. Brian Warner isn’t best happy about that, but since when did MANSON care about referees? He waves the official away and starts to get back to his feet, but he again begins to pull Toxxic up with him.


“King, I think Revolution Zero’s tactics really are making sense,” Mak admits, “MANSON is not a mat wrestler, he’s an explosive powerhouse. Without a stable base to lift and throw or to strike from, and no ability to run for the Zantetsuken, he’s reduced to either a poor man’s version of his usual game, or trying to adapt his style on the fly to accommodate his injury.”


“MANSON is never a poor man’s version of anything!” King snaps.


“…or he could tag in Michael Alexander,” Mak muses, “but he only seems to want to acknowledge his partner when he has no alternative…”


MANSON has brought Toxxic up with him, most of his moves relying on velocity and force that can’t be harnessed when his opponent is on the canvas, and ducks his head to cause the Englishman to slump across his shoulders. He sets himself and, with visible effort, powers back up to his full height with Toxxic in a Fireman’s carry!


“He’s fighting through the pain!” King shouts, “all hail MANSON!”


Toxxic realises that he’s not in a good position and starts trying to kick his legs to slip off his opponent’s shoulders, but MANSON is determined and shoves his opponent into the air, then drops backwards for the Piecemaker… but notably, only lifts one knee up.




“MANSON didn’t get all of that,” Francis notes as Toxxic bounces away, “only using one leg threw his balance, Toxxic more sort of bounced off than landed hard!”


“It’ll be enough,” King warns, “all MANSON needs to do is incapacitate Toxxic for a moment…”


The Savage Messiah has got back up to his feet and sets his sights on the man clutching his chest. Toxxic is also trying to rise, but he doesn’t seem to know where MANSON is (or care if he does, he’s clearly in some pain), and so MANSON raises his right arm, then turns and heads for the ropes. His limp is pronounced, but he’s still able to build up some momentum as he turns and rebounds, heading towards his opponent with his arm scything forwards for the Zantetsuken…


…some momentum, but not enough. Toxxic hears him approach, turns around and drops out of the way.




“Drop toehold!” Mak shouts, “…into the Regal Stretch! He’s got it locked in!”


Toxxic has quickly jammed one of MANSON’s legs into the crook of the other, secured the leg lace and reached forward to hook his right arm under MANSON’s left and grab a ¾ facelock. The Savage Messiah roars in pain and reaches out for the ropes, but they are a long way away and he only has one arm to drag himself across the mat with…


…but he does have Michael Alexander, who runs into the ring and delivers a boot to Toxxic’s back that breaks up the submission! Toxxic rolls off his opponent and looks like he’s about to head after the Mad Scientist, but Brian Warner gets in the way and reminds the Englishman of who he’s meant to be hurting rather than the annoying rookie on the outside. Toxxic consents with bad grace and turns around to find MANSON just getting back to his feet…




…and in a headbutting mood! Toxxic staggers back, shakes his head to clear it…




…and steps back in to nail the surprised Savage Messiah with a headbutt of his own!


“Those Stephens kids have hard heads, and MANSON’s just found that out!” Mak calls as MANSON staggers. However, the Denver native collects himself and steps forwards just as Toxxic rears back again…










“Both men down!” Francis cries as Toxxic and MANSON slump backwards to the mat having headbutted each other as hard as they can, “who can recover first? Who can make the first tag!”


MANSON may be a self-reliant Messiah, but even they have to know their limits. The bearded wrestler turns groggily towards his corner and starts crawling in the direction of Michael Alexander’s outstretched hand. On the other side of the ring Austin Sly waits impatiently for his partner to make his own painfully slow progress across the canvas…






“Alexander’s in, Sly’s in, and this match is hanging in the balance!” Mak shouts as Sly and Alexander step through the ropes and rush each other. Alexander leaves his feet to sail through the air and nail Sly with a flying forearm smash, then scrambles on top for a pin…










-but Sly kicks out! Alexander looks to bring him up, but Sly hooks his opponent’s head and leg and rolls backwards into a small package…











-but Alexander kicks out! He goes to the eyes as both men try and scramble upright, then heaves Sly up off the mat across his chest. For a moment it looks as though Alexander is wondering if he can pull this off, but then he swings Sly out and around into a backbreaker over one knee!


“Foucalt’s Pendulum!” Mak shouts, “I’m surprised he managed to hit it, but he hit it well!” And he covers well as well, hooking Sly’s leg and rolling into the pin…



















-but Sly kicks out again! Alexander slaps the mat in frustration, pulls Sly up and this time positions himself behind the man from Missouri. He starts to lift…


“Event Horizon!” King shouts.


…but Sly flips over backwards and lands behind the surprised Mad Scientist, then launches himself forwards into a chopblock! Alexander falls backwards with a cry, and Sly reaches across to tag Toxxic back into the match. The slightly groggy Englishman re-enters the ring and Sly drags Alexander up, then before his opponent can react he locks in a front facelock, drapes his arm across Alexander’s shoulders in a vertical suplex-esque position and lifts him up. However, instead of pulling him all the way up and over he simply puts Alexander’s legs back down onto Toxxic’s shoulders and, in one swift movement, Revolution Zero falls to the side hitting an impressive rolling neckbreaker!




“Michael Alexander, Welcome to the Revolution,” King smiles.


Toxxic rolls over onto Michael, pinning his shoulders while Austin takes off across the ring to block MANSON from interfering.


















“Here are your winners,” Funyon declares as ‘Know Your Enemy’ rings out, “Austin Sly and Toxxic, REVOLUUUUUUUUUUU-TION… ZEEEEEEERRRRRRRRR-OOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”


“MANSON and Alexander gave them a good fight, but it looks like the experience of Revolution Zero was just too much for them to overcome,” Mak says as Sly and Toxxic celebrate.


“As much as I respect MANSON and Alexander for what they’ve done individually in recent weeks,” King says, “they just didn’t have chemistry together that Sly and Toxxic do.”


“You mean blind tags?”


“Sure, that…”


Sly and Toxxic are seen backing up the ramp, not thinking about their win today, but with only one things on their minds.





Tag Team Gold.








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Tom Flesher leans back in his chair with a cigarette dangling from his lips, desperate to find a lighter, matches, or even a flint at this point to light a cigarette. He grunts in frustration while rummaging through the cluttered desk until he hears an annoying knock in the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”


Flesher looks up and interrupts the up-and-coming musician by saying, “Come in.”


Danny Dagda pokes his head in before protesting, “I wasn’t finished yet, can you name that tune?”


“Twinkle, twinkle?” Flesher dubiously answers, since Dagda lacks fundamental rhythm, while still searching for a lighter.


“Damn,” Dagda mutters while entering the room. “I was thinking Bohemian Rhapsody.” He watches Flesher’s quest for fire and laughs before pulling a lighter out of his pants, tossing it to him.


“Thanks,” Flesher says while trying to light it but to no avail. He brings the lighter near his ear and shakes it, confirming his theory that’s it’s-


“Empty,” Dagda points out before continuing, “I was hoping you could throw it away.”


Flesher narrows his eyes and says, “Well, I guess you got my memo…”


“No,” Dagda cuts him off. “It’s my Spidey Sense.”


“So why weren’t you in Germany, Danny? I had to endure the New Jersey Mass Transit system thanks to you,” Flesher cuts to the chase.


“I’m sure Cutthroat was crushed I couldn’t make it. But I had a legal problem getting out there,” Dagda begins to explain.


Flesher’s eyebrows raise in interest. “Legal?”


“Yeah,” Dagda awkwardly begins, rubbing at his neck. “I’m on probation, Tommy Boy.”


“Don’t call me…” Flesher begins but figures it’s useless. “What for, Dagda?”


“I was working the Indy circuits, makin’ those cash-moneys, you know?” Dagda says while walking over, sitting on the edge of Flesher’s desk.


“Okay, so what happened?”


“I dropped somebody on their head,” he replied.


Flesher fishes for an answer but just shoots a look of confusion since majority of the SWF has made a career of head-drops. “That’s not that unusual…”


“In a bar,” Dagda bluntly says.


“Oh, so you’re not supposed to leave the United States?”


“Probably not,” Danny answers before hurriedly adding, “I know we’re in, where ever we are… actually, I’m just hopin’ my probation officer isn’t an SWF fan.”


Flesher nods before replying, “So you’re done until the rest of the tour then?”


“Nah, I’m not worried… there aren’t too many SWF fans left now-a-days,” he says with a grin while messing with Flesher’s pen. “But I’ll be gone from the next show, probably should clear up those legal woes.”


Flesher stares at Dagda messing with his desk. “Because that’d be a shame if you got locked away.”


Dagda looks shocked before blurting, “Now, now you don’t want Daddy Dagda out of action, the fun has barely begun! Speaking of which, when the hell will I get my title shot?”


“What title shot?”


Dagda hops off the desk and slams his fist against it. “Damn it, Flesh-a-lesh, we signed a contract!”


“What contract?” Flesher immediately quips back as Dagda throws him a crumbled paper. He unfolds it before looking up at Dagda. “Danny… this is a blank piece of paper.”


“Yeah, better get started on that,” Dagda recommends as he turns around and nearly leaves Flesher’s office before throwing a book of matches behind him.


Flesher grumbles and grabs the match book, flipping it open, only to realize there aren’t any matches left. “Damn it, why the hell did I bring Dagda?”


To hear an echoing, “Because Daddy Dagda draws, Daddy Dagda draws, Fleshlight!”

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"Welcome back to Storm, where up next… Alan Clark… will…" says Mak, only to trail off, "What's going on up by the entrance?!"


"I have no idea, it's some kind of commotion," adds King as an array of personalities pour out from the back, all attempting to block off the entrance.


"I don't know what's going on, but I'll try and… wait!" shouts Francis as Manson emerges, swinging his trademark metal bat as he exits, clearing the way as everyone retreats. "What in the hell?! It's Manson!"


"My liege! Our Messiah!"


The shirtless Manson keeps swinging wildly at anyone who dares come near, as the crowd now begins to stand and look on in curiosity while murmuring amongst themselves.


"What is he doing back out here? He had his match earlier, teaming with Alexander, but what is he up to now?! Why is he fighting off SWF officials and staff?!"


"I'm for whatever gets him more much deserved time on Storm."


"I'm for whatever keeps him to his customary single appearance, he's been running wild and would have surely been suspended by now were it not for Tom's benevolence. Coming out here now, like this, it just can't be good!"


As everyone, from lowly production and tech workers to referees and officials, try to hold him back, he reaches behind the curtain and pulls out a chain, which is connected to…


"Wait," says Mak chillingly. "Who is THAT?! He just just pulled someone out from the back, but they're hidden under that ridiculous thing. We gotta find out who's under there!"


"It has to be Maddix!" shouts King. "We haven't seen him all night, it's gotta be him! He's gonna put an end to this right now!"


As he backs down the ramp, he shouts at the crowd gathering behind him, telling them all to stay back while holding his hostage close with one arm and his bat in the attack position in the other.


"It really scares me how much you're into him lately, you know," quips Mak, as Manson slides into the ring, dragging in his unknown prisoner with him.


Manson signals for a mic and a frightened valet rushes one over, cautiously placing it on the apron before she hurriedly retreats back.


"And I really don't have a good feeling about this," says Mak, rubbing his brow.


"I know all of my loyal followers, my subjects…. my Mansonites are wondering--"




"I'll have you know I went through a lot of trouble bringing this together! For two, let's call it three hours they've sat in the back, chained up and stashed away, just waiting… everything building up to this moment!"


"Three hours?! That's the length of Storm and then some, and apart from his match earlier, who knows what else he's been up to now that he's dragged this hapless individual out!"


"Now. My guest has been with us since the SJL! They're an integral part of the federation and a former SWF World Champion! In fact, my guest is truly an SWF icon!"


"I know it's Landon, he's gonna put him out of our misery for good! I can't tell you how long I've been waiting, Mak," King enthusiastically says.


"This right here is a WORLD exclusive which can only be brought to you by MANSONOSITY! And now, Ladies… Gentlemen…" he says, gripping the cloak.


"Just get on with it," begs Mak.


Yanking off the cloak. "MY guest! The one… and only… MEGAN SKYE!" He shouts, revealing Megan with her hands bound by the chain he holds in his hand with tape over her mouth.


"Megan?! MEGAN SKYE?! He's at this point, willing to go this far just to get at Landon?! He's truly sick to go after her!"


"Let's have a big round of applause for Megan!"




"I didn't lie to you and I don't think she appreciates that! She's an accomplished athlete, world renown icon of the SWF! I'm saying she's a true legend, as Landon, Todd Royal, Todd Cortez, and many others will be happy to tell you."






"This is low, never did I think he would stoop to this level. I'm asking if someone, anyone can put an end to this garbage already…" comments Mak, as the horde of officials surround the ring.


"That was a cheap shot, I admit it, but… Hey! HEY! For HER SAKE--" screams Manson, who drops the mic and charges at a would-be rescuer, chasing him away with a swing of the bat, before picking up the mic once more, "For Megan, if you take ONE STEP INTO MY RING… You never know what may happen!"


"Okay! Let's get down to some business here!" he says, dragging Megan along with him wherever he goes, as he paces the ring. "Landon Maddix! First of all, I don't know what you're thinking! You left this beauty alone at the hotel, but you shouldn't have done that! You just never know who might show up! I can get to you anytime you want… Frankly, I can get to her anytime I want! You… underestimate me, time and time again, thinking I wouldn't do it?! You shouldn't trust a liar and a cheater, a snake in the grass… but you think I'm playing a game here, Landon? You think I'm messing around or am here for your amusement?! Is it funny to you?!"


"Well, Landon. Buddy. If you're watching, and I know you probably are as you rush to the arena… Let me ask," he says, as he puts his arm around Megan, "How serious do you think I AM?!"


"How serious do you think I am now that Megan… is just feet away from me, in my grasp?! In my control?! I'm saying that right here and now, I'm having lots of fun! The things that I could do."


"Before anyone gets ideas, everyone tells me I'm sick… but I'm not that sick. However, I told you what was going on inside here, Landon!" he says, tapping the side of his head with the BUTT of the mic. "I told you there's lots of things happening in here! I said I didn't like it and didn't want to give in! But Landon… You pushed me into it! From now on I can't be held responsible! It's all on your hands now!"


"Landon. You. Wouldn't. Give. In! You could've taken the match weeks ago and saved us both the trouble, but now you're pushing me to this?! Even after I told you I didn't know what I was capable of?! You decided to make this into some type of game by screwing up my match, getting involved in my business with CIA?!"


"You… ha! You just didn't understand the severity until it was too late, did ya?! Huh?! Let me ask you something here, Megs," he says, ripping the tape away from her mouth. "Does Landon think we're playing tag here or something?! Does he think this is a game?! Does he think I'm only here for his amusement?! Answer!"


Putting the mic next to Megan's lips. "YOU SON OF A--"


"Whoa! That's enough," he says, pulling the mic away just as quickly. "I won't have that kind of talk on my time!"


"But you… just don't grasp the situation either, do you?! You're just as stubborn and prideful as that idiot! Even after Gabriel Drake you still put up a fight here?! Do I even need to remind you?! Yeah… I was pissed at Landon for ducking and avoiding me, but now I'm having plenty of fun, Megs! This is a whole lot of fucking fun for me! The most I ever had! I told and warned him not to underestimate me, not to play me for a fool and just accept, but now I'm kind of glad he did because it's… opened up… a little something. I said I didn't like what I was seeing, but now… imagining Landon in the middle of it… it just feels right!"


"Yeah, it feels really good to me, seeing Landon bleed and suffer! He's not just a sacrifice or a stepping stone anymore! This is more than just instinct or even a calling, fate or destiny! I didn't have fun erasing Silver and James from my kingdom, but I'm having lots of fun with this! The truth is I want Landon's blood on my hands! I want my conscience and heart to feel it, to weigh down on me… the brunt of having been the man to end Landon! I want to bash his head in, break his bones, disembowel and slit his goddamn throat! Do you understand the situation now, Megan?! Is it finally reaching you, getting through your skull?! IS IT?!!" he shouts in her face, as tears begin streaming down her face.


"I can't watch this anymore, but if he hasn't gone off the deep end before, it's all the more evident. He's beyond our help and compassion, King."


"It is disturbing… disturbing that Landon would push the situation this far instead of being a man and accepting."


"Would a man do this to a woman?!"


"There's… just small one hitch, though. Megs, you know as well as I do that the bastard hasn't accepted, he won't give me the opportunity… and doesn't even have the guts to face me in person and tell me so! Megan. I came to a conclusion and found my answer months ago and even now am I willing to throw myself into this, and now what I want is an answer from you," he says, placing the mic next to her face once more. "Megan. For Landon's sake… will you accept the match at Ground Zero in his place?!"


"I… I… can't do…" she manages to stutter out before lowering her head and giving a more direct answer.


"…go to hell," she says, in between sobs.


"I'm… I didn't hear you there! But… I don't… you know what, I don’t get it. I don’t get you and I sure don't get Landon! Are you that stubborn or is what's there between you that strong… do you love him that much and are willing to say no and tell me… that… just to protect his ego?! You're willing to do that much, do you really have that much conviction?!" he asks, as Megan simply nods.


"He finally got his answer… a direct one, at that… can he please let her go now?!"


"I can't believe she just told him that… it's just… wrong!"


"I see," says Manson, lowering his head, releasing the chain and allowing her to back out of the ring. "It looks like I can't do anything more here…"


"Finally," says Mak, breathing a sigh of relief.


"See, he's not a monster, Mak! You've misjudged him!"


"But you know, Megan… about hell… as I recall, I said… I was already there!" he shouts, dropping the mic and before Megan can move, grabbing her by the hair and wrapping an arm around her head with an inverted facelock.




"SAY WHAT?! MANSON!" screams Mak, but his and the pleas of those surrounding ringside fall on deaf ears, when suddenly…


"IT'S LANDON!" shouts Mak, as Maddix screams down the aisle. "HE'S FINALLY HERE!"




As quickly as Maddix rushes down the aisle, the Messiah lifts Megan up off her feet and spikes her with the inverted brainbuster!


"INSTANT HELL MURDER! I can't believe he just… what the hell, Manson?!"


As Landon Maddis slides into the ring, Manson disappears just as quickly, having disappeared into the crowd as he makes his way toward the exit.


"That bastard is gone just like that! Dammit, Maddix didn't even touch him!"


"It was too little, too late. Just a moment or two later and Maddix may have gotten to him, but this… I think Manson may have gone a little far."


"He MAY HAVE gone a little far?!"


"Hey, don't get angry at me, get angry at Manson! And Landon!"


Maddix storms about the ring, kicking and slapping the ropes, even ascending one turnbuckle where he screams at Manson who is soon out the door. But his and everyone else's concern soon turns to Megan, who lies on the mat holding the back of her skull. Kneeling down beside Megan, Landon locks hands with her as the show cuts to commercial.

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“The last we saw of Alan Clark a week ago, he was walking away from a tag team championship opportunity. That’s something I never thought I’d…”


“Look who his partner was, Mak!” the interruption from the Suicide King comes as video from the previous week shows on the screen, Spike Jenkins desperately reaching out for a tag before being left alone to deal with Wild & Dangerous, his partner for that evening and opponent for this evening leaving him and exiting to the back.


“I am not about to doubt the abilities of Spike Jenkins, you might be right, King. Alan Clark got put in the perfect situation to get Jenkins softened up for tonight and he used it. For all we know Jenkins might be as stiff as that cardboard cutout Alan found in his dressing room earlier tonight.”


“At least it wasn’t spiders again…” shivers the Gambling Man as the lights around ringside suddenly dim and a spotlight catches Funyon in the center of the ring.


“Ladies and Gentlemen…it is time for our MAIN EVENT!” the Stade de France explodes, needing not a single bit of translation to know that this is what they all came to see.



“Every time I hear that I get this suspicion that HVT is going to pop out from somewhere.” Francis’ remark comes underneath the psychotic riffs of “When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong” telling everyone that it is not a giant hulking African-american that is about to step through that curtain, but…


“Spike! Spike! Spike!”


This is…







And sure enough, as a few of the more vocal fans in the arena begin to chant and a crescendo hits, Spike Jenkins appears from the darkness and into the spotlight, stretching his body out just a bit more, arching his back as both a way to work out some of the knots he accumulated against Wildchild and Johnny Dangerous as well as to make himself look just that much taller on the stage as he raises his hands high into the air. Even with the hood of his sweatshirt over his eyes, you know he is concentrated on the ring.


“Introducing first, the challenger…representing Long Island, New York and weighing in at two-hundred-five pounds…he is the New Straight Edge Sensation…”HOLLYWOOD” SPIKE JENKINS!!!”


“He’s from Long Island but he calls himself Hollywood, what in the world is wrong with kid’s today…” mutters the Suicide King as Jenkins reaches ringside and throws his sweatshirt off and to the floor, only for it to be quickly retrieved by a waiting attendant as the championship challenger climbs the steel steps and enters the ring. As the sounds of Emmure fade away, referee Mathew Kivell gives Jenkins a once over before everyone’s attention turns back to the curtain.


“Please Stand Clear Of The…” the monotone voice fades away, only to be quickly replaced by the sounds of “To Die For”, the orchestral harpings bringing forth a chorus of boos from the fans around the arena.


“And his opponent…representing Disneyland Paris and being accompanied to the ring by Walter Reynolds... he weighs in at two-hundred-twenty-five pounds… he is the S-W-F HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WOOOORLD… ALAAAAN CLAAAARK!!!”




From behind the curtain steps Alan Clark with Walter Reynolds a mere three-and-a-half steps behind, the smaller man with the World Heavyweight Championship strapped tightly around his waist as the much larger bodyguard waits until the spotlight is perfect to set up what he himself is carrying…


…the cardboard cut-out of Spike Jenkins.


“ALAN SUCKS! ALAN SUCKS!” the chant brings a small smirk to the face of Clark, who gives the cardboard a pat on the back before non-chalantly pushing it over. The real Spike Jenkins looks none-too-pleased in the ring as Alan heads down to the ring, the two men’s eyes locked onto each other.


“Well, I guess Alan Clark is expecting his opponent tonight to be nothing more than a pushover…”


“Well Spike has lost some weight…” adds the Suicide King as Alan follows the path of his challenger and climbs the steps into the ring, leaving Walter to take his regular place on the outside before Kivell can get between the two men. But with the stare unbroken, Matt checks over the world champion and removes the belt from his waist, making sure to give a good look of it to Spike before raising it high into the air, showing all in attendance and watching at home exactly what this match is for.


“Alan Clark is no slouch, but he is not going to be able to come into this match and walk all over Spike Jenkins. He has shown himself to be a lot more focused since he came back a few weeks ago, and the focus has all been on tonight.”


“You talk to Spike all the time, Francis, and you say he is focused on this, but this isn’t the SJL! Everyone thought Spike would never amount to anything down there and just when you thought he would never amount to anything he wins their world title in a total shocker! Lightning doesn’t strike twice, Francis! It just doesn’t!”


“Well, we will just have to see about that, King. I never give anyone the benefit of the doubt, and I am definitely not about to give Alan Clark praise for walking out like he did last week. On any given day any guy in that locker room can beat any other guy and you know it!”


“But it’s SPIKE!”


Ding Ding Ding!


“And there goes the bell, and there goes Spike!” Francis chooses to ignore his partner as Jenkins wastes little time in getting on the offensive side of the match, dodging past the referee and straight into Alan Clark, the champion backpedaling immediately to keep some distance between himself and his fiery challenger. “Alan Clark barely got out of the way of that toe kick!” Jenkins strikes, but catches nothing but the air as Clark dodges back and forth, only to find himself trapped in the corner with Spike closing in.




“And Jenkins finally connects! Hard knee to the sternum!”


“It’s going to take a lot more than his right knee to win the title…” the obvious comes as Spike continues his assault, slamming his knee into Alan’s gut as Clark throws his hands in the air and tries to escape. With damage done, Spike backs away at Kivell’s request…




The chants come again, but Spike stays focused as Alan takes a step out of the corner and Kivell backs away. “There goes Spike again!!!”


“CAUGHT!” screams the Suicide King as Alan is able to catch Spike in his grasp and lift him into the air, almost into a throw as he falls backwards and drives Jenkins’ face square into the top turnbuckle! “Snake Eyes connects! He did that to Landon Maddix and it looks like he is going to keep working with that strategy…”


“That might not be the best of ideas…” comments Francis as Spike slumps down in the corner, his head sitting against the middle buckle as Alan regains his composure and backs away from the corner, looking to indeed follow-up on Jenkins the same way he did to Maddix at 13th Hour… “Here comes that kick…”




“Spike moved! Spike moved! But Clark caught himself!” Alan catches the ropes as Spike ducks away from the kick and does a quick pivot, sliding his arm under Alan’s raised right leg and pulling him down and away from ropes and into a schoolboy pin!







“He almost pulled out a big surprise on Alan Clark there, and Alan does not look happy about it!” Indeed, Clark’s normal smirk is soured as he rolls to his knees, only for his expression to get even sourer as both of Spike’s boots are planted into his chest! The dropkick impact sends Clark tumbling backwards and nearly outside of the ring!


“I would take the time to say that Spike Jenkins is no Landon Maddix, but come on…duh...”


“Alan Clark almost rolled completely out of the ring there, and maybe he should have!” calls Francis as Spike Jenkins dives over the top rope and toward the floor, sending his knee down and across Clark’s head! The whiplash causes Alan’s body to be bucked back inside the ring, curling into a slight fetal position from the shockwave through his neck as Spike stands back to his feet on the outside. “And high risk pays off big time! That kind of thing can really jar a man’s spine! Alan Clark is hurting and Spike Jenkins will do his best to exploit that for all it is worth! He wants that title!”


“Again, who wouldn’t want to be Heavyweight Champion? I’m not exactly giggling over the prospect of either of these guys walking out of here with the gold tonight, but even I would have to put my money on Alan Clark.”


“Well you are the Gambling Man, but you might want to hold on to that wad of cash a little tighter, cause Spike Jenkins is back in the ring and Alan has down little since taking that knee to the face!” Well, Alan has moved a little, crawling up to his knees and shaking his head back and forth, his eyes more focused on the canvas than the ‘heartless’ veteran just over his shoulder.


“He is probably just playing possum!”




“…or, well, not.” Mak adds as Clark’s head is driven into the canvas courtesy of a hard boot, the New Sensation taking a moment to pin Alan’s face to the mat with the bottom of his foot. Clark thrashes and Jenkins finally relents at the call of Kivell, only to reach back down and drag Alan right back up to his knees and pull him toward the center of the ring. “Would you say Spike Jenkins is already letting himself showboat a bit this early in the match? That kind of lapse in concentration could cost him dearly down the road.”


“Of course! For a man that has gotten so many chances at world championships in the past and only won ONE of them, he really needs to…”







“Two hard kicks connect but that third one missed by a mile! I couldn’t tell if Alan ducked or if he simply just collapsed!” On the outside of the ring, Walter looks on with a great deal of concern, his hands resting on the apron and his mouth moving slowly as though he is almost willing Alan Clark to stand back up. “And look at that, the stoic bodyguard has broken from his trance and is intently watching the ring now. Could it be that Alan Clark might not have been as prepared for this as his actions have made it seem?”


“That title brings quite a bonus with it, and you think that Walter doesn’t get a cut of that? He doesn’t want Clark to lose it anymore than Clark himself does!”


“You might actually have a point there, and Kivell is making sure that Reynolds doesn’t try to do anything unsportsmanlike.” But with the referee’s warning comes reassurance from Walter, who backs away a few steps from the side of the ring but continues to keep his eyes on Clark, who is being rolled over and into a pinfall attempt.














“Alan Clark BARELY got that shoulder up. I thought for sure we were going to see a new champion crowned here tonight! You have to know that Jay Hawke is backstage watching and just waiting to see who he will face at Ground Zero in just a few weeks time.”


“I think Alan has proven many times that you can’t count him down until he lets himself get counted down. And with what is at stake, he might never let himself stay down.” And indeed with those words it does seem as though Alan is trying to stand, but with Spike Jenkins standing over him he has found himself with very few options.


“Catch a glimpse of those eyes, they are almost glazed over.” The ringside camera moves in close and zooms in on the face of Alan Clark, whose eyes are indeed simply half-open with a sheen across them, only for them to suddenly snap wide open and his body to quickly slide backwards, just as Spike’s lower-half comes into frame and buckles knee-first into the canvas! “WHAT WAS THAT!? Alan Clark is up! Alan Clark is up!” The champion is standing, the glazed over look of only seconds ago replaced by his trademark grin as Spike clutches at his right knee on the mat. The close-up can see Alan mouthing three very simple words.




“You might be right, King! Alan Clark might have just possumed Spike Jenkins into jarring that knee out of place! Look at him!” Alan stands back as Kivell checks on Jenkins, taking the moment to stretch out his neck as Spike stands against the ropes, his right leg noticeably crooked from the hard landing.


“Spike Jenkins is not the fastest man on the roster by any stretch of the imagination, but taking away the legs takes away all those kicks and quite possibly any speed Jenkins might have had…” remarks the Franchise as Jenkins bats the referee away, only for Clark to come bouncing off the adjacent ropes and throwing all of his weight into both of Jenkins’ calves, the barrel roll dive sending Spike tripping backwards and down onto his back along the edge of the ring.


“He always has a plan! He knows that no matter what Spike Jenkins says that he is way too cocky to not relish an advantage. He might have gotten that advantage off that high risk maneuver, and it no doubt probably knocked loose a few electrons from Clark’s skull, but look at how the tables have turned now!” Alan is quickly back on his feet and immediately takes the chance to attack Spike’s right leg, giving the knee a stiff kick and following it up with knee from his own repertoire, putting even more pressure on the joint. Clark holds his knee there, using his left hand to pull Spike’s foot up and against it’s natural bend, causing not only one of Spike’s free hands to grab at the bottom rope but the other to slash through the air and strike the back of Alan’s right arm just as Kivell calls for some separation.


“Well, now we know Spike Jenkins has some good reflexes, must be all that Brazilian training.”


“Jiu-jitsu is known to create very good hand-eye coordination and enhanced reflexes.”


“I thought that Brazilian stuff had to do with post-op transsexuals.” The censor must have been asleep at the button, as the beep is heard not in conjunction with the possibly offensive phrase, but with Mak Francis’ gaping mouth in response to the possibly offensive phrase.


“Well, that was awkward.” Both commentators mutter to themselves a bit as Alan moves toward Spike and once more clutching at his right leg and dragging him down the middle of the ring. Jenkins tries to get his hands on the bottom rope, but they barely get out of range as his hands clasp on the open air. “And now Spike Jenkins is in big trouble!”


“Let’s see how far Mister Heartless can get with two hundred pounds on his back!” chimes Suicide King as Alan rolls Spike onto his stomach and wrenches his right leg backwards – all the while pushing all of weight down onto the small of his spine.


“He’s got Spike in what looks to be a slightly modified version of the Barracuda! He felt the MI Slam just a week ago and now he is being locked in to Johnny Dangerous’ signature submission hold! I’m sure he really does not enjoy the added pressure being put on the back in that position! He’s almost bent in a full “J” shape!”


“Johnny should be backstage taking notes if he knew how to read.” The Suicide King mocks openly, as usual, as Spike’s arms thrash and flail in the hold and Kivell tries to check for a submission.




“NO!!” Spike can be heard yelling above the now-chanting crowd around the arena, but whatever power the fans might have on the hold looks to be only from the side of Alan Clark, as he pulls backwards even harder on the right leg and adds an extra twist to the ankle with his right hand, doing even more tendon damage to the primary kicking and running leg of the challenger.




“CLARK SUCKS!” a few random fans can be heard bellowing from ringside, which only furthers to add to the pain for Spike Jenkins, as Alan makes a point to release the pressure from Jenkins’ back and then quickly hop up and back down, showing Spike exactly what good his right knee could be doing if it wasn’t being held captive.


“Do you give up, Spike?”


“I SAID NO!” the conversation between Kivell and Jenkins is picked up on the ringside camera, leading Spike to begin to swing his left leg up and down, driving his heel into Alan’s chest repeatedly. The kicks might not have a lot behind them, but after the third Alan throws the hold away, making sure to slam his right leg down to the canvas knee-first, an added insult to injury before he moves to pick Spike Jenkins back up.


“Spike Jenkins is hurting, and any pain that might have been on Alan Clark’s face has either been blocked out or he’s a heck of a good actor. He hasn’t stopped smiling since Spike started writhing about on the canvas a few minutes ago!”


“Well, smart as he might be, he’s also got a couple screws loose. We’ve seen that enough times over the years…” adds the Suicide King as the smiling Clark gets Spike to his one good foot, the other precariously been held a few inches from the mat, and then looks him straight into the eyes…


…gives his left cheek a little pat for the effort…



“CUTTING IN LINE!! NO!! Spike slipped out! Alan Clark thought it had it wrapped up and tried to embarrass Spike Jenkins right there!” calls Mak as Alan bounces off the canvas and rolls to his knees from the whiffed neckbreaker, only to see a hobbling and upset-to-say-the-least “Hollywood” Spike Jenkins staring down at him.


“Understatement of the year, Alan Clark might be (bleep)ed!”


“Jenkins is going to have to fight through the pain in his right leg if he is going to have a chance to capitalize here…” but Alan gives him no such chance as he begins to backpedal on his two good knees immediately, putting some canvas between himself and the approaching-as-fast-as-he-can Jenkins.


Alan throws his hands up and calls for Kivell to intervene, who does indeed try, distracting Spike long enough for Alan to strafe himself out and around Jenkins’ immediate line of sight and once again go back to a chop block!


“Mathew Kivell might have just won this match for Alan Clark! Who knew he was such a Clark Mark!”


“A what?” questions the Franchise, “And I thought Sensation Nation was corny…” but he does not really want to hear an answer as Clark pulls Jenkins up and moves him toward the corner, holding him by the hands as he ascends to the second rope…


“You know Alan Clark invented this move?”


“Maelstrom coming up, King, and no I did not!” But as Alan leaps from the second rope and completes his flip over Spike’s head, the veteran throws his arms forward, pulling them from Alan’s grasp and sending him down coccyx-first into the middle of the ring! Jenkins is quick to spin around and take advantage of the moment, leaping off his good leg and driving his knee into the back of Alan Clark’s skull!


Unfortunately for Spike Jenkins…it was his right knee.


“Dangerous Wizard connects!!”


“But it might have done more harm than good!”


“That is what happens when you don’t think through your actions. He’s probably done that move a thousand times with the right knee and just fell back into the routine the second he got a chance.”


“That’s what I have been trying to tell you for weeks, Francis! We need a champion that can adapt to the moment! Alan Clark does that! He’s a thinking man’s champion! Spike gets the chance to really take over and do some damage and he immediately screws up! We can’t have a screw-up at the top of this company. Why do you think I was so against Landon Maddix!?”


“Well there was that time…”


“Watch it, Wheels…” monotones the King as Mathew Kivell begins to make his count, the champion himself barely starting to stir as Jenkins himself reaches out toward the bottom rope just inches from his grasp.








Spike reaches the bottom rope as the chants start up once again, but he has yet to be off his back for more than a few thousands of a second at a time so far. A few feet from him, Alan Clark has also rolled his way to the same ropes, and the two men seemingly begin their climb back up.








“Alan is moving much quicker, even with the knot in the back of his head!” The Suicide King calls as Alan is indeed the first to get to his feet, his left hand clutching the back of his own head as he reaches out with his right to grab the back of the head of Jenkins, who had almost gotten his left foot underneath him.


“Spike Jenkins is starting to look a little desperate in that ring now, look at him just flailing and trying to get Alan to release the hold on his hair, which Kivell has been warning him for since he began dragging him toward the center of the ring.”


“Like you, me, or even Spike has never done that before!” but with Kivell playing good cop Alan is forced to let go, only to immediately hook on a three-quarter facelock as Spike tries to stand and get his balance…







…and pull him straight back down to the canvas face-first!


“And there is the Cutting In Line!! He’s got the cover!”














“NO!! Spike kicked out! Spike Jenkins kicked out!!” the face of Alan Clark shows pure shock as Jenkins rolls away from the pinning predicament and then up to his left knee. Alan stands, looking to keep the pressure on…





…only to be taken down by a spear! Jenkins lands atop Clark after the one-legged spear and begins firing off palm strikes one after the other, rattling the brain of the heavyweight champion with each stiff shot!


“Spike Jenkins might be only on one leg for the time being, but that doesn’t affect those shoteis he can dish out!”


“Well, you trained him didn’t you? You should have taught him how to act and react without the use of his lower body a little better!” the attentive viewer at home can almost hear the sound of Mak Francis’ glare to his broadcast partner as Kivell calls for separation, the feisty Jenkins standing up to his feet and though somewhat unbalanced he is seemingly at this moment doing better than his opponent who is still trying to find his bearings after they were knocked all over the canvas.


“If Alan Clark can’t think straight he might not be as effective as he has been in recent months. Clark might have a few losses under his belt since returning to the ring almost a year ago, but he also holds very decisive and definitive wins over guys like Landon, Johnny Dangerous, and even Toxxic!”


“Should I remind you that Spike Jenkins also defeated Toxxic two years ago at 13th Hour?”


“That was a Last Man Standing match! And anyways, how can a man who is supposedly be all Hollywood like Spike in there have moves called the Ratings Grabber and the Ratings Crash? It can only be one or the other – and Tom Flesher is hoping that no matter who wins here tonight that they can keep on grabbing those ratings between now and Genesis and beyond!”


“You would probably have to ask Spike that one, King, but he is a little bit busy right now in the ring…” Francis remarks as Spike does indeed begin to get busy (in the least of sexual senses) by ‘persuading’ Alan back to his knees and then immediately drops to the side of him, resting all of his weight on his good knee and taking the time to lock Alan into a half-nelson, using his free right arm to swing wildly into Clark’s face, the strikes no doubt sending a shockwave of pain through every pore. Jenkins can be heard grunting in aggression as every shot connects, putting as much force as he can behind every blow.


“And now things are starting to get quite un-Disney-like in the ring right now, as if they were Disney-like to begin with. Spike is just scrambling Alan’s brains with his forearm and keeping him in place with that half-nelson is no doubt whipping the neck in ways it is not meant to be whipped.”


“Is there any normal way your neck should be whipped, Mak? I mean, you would know…” this time, Mak’s clenched right hand comes from under the desk and raises into the air… “hey, I’m just kidding. Calm it down a tad…” adds King as Alan is finally able to get his right arm in front of his face to play defense, and after a few more stiff swings do not connect the way Jenkins would want, he releases Clark and pushes him down to the canvas, and then immediately rolls him into a pin!














“Clark kicks out, and I do not think Spike really expected to even come close to getting a three count there! I think he really wanted to show Alan that he was not going to go down so easily and that at any time it could be over just that quickly!” Spike’s half-wince/half-grin seem to aide this theory as Alan works to get back up, he is barely able to get one foot underneath him before a sharp pain burns through his jaw and reverberates around his skull…


“ROARING ELBOW! God lord!” Clark’s body is sent backwards and to a heap and even Spike can almost not believe his own strength as he rubs his left hand against his right elbow for a moment before lifting Alan back off the canvas and into the center of the ring. “I thought maybe he would go for the pin there, but Spike seems to have other ideas. He has been focused on winning this championship and things are beginning to look like they are not going to end well for Alan Clark…speaking of…” continues Francis as Alan suddenly finds his head trapped between Spike Jenkins’ legs and his arms being wrenched up and behind his back. “This could be the Endwell!”


“NO!!” The Suicide King elates as Alan pushes all his weight forward on his feet, sending Spike hobbling backwards on his bad foot and releasing him from what could have been his last experience as world heavyweight champion. Jenkins however seems to flush out the pain and takes a run back toward the kneeling Clark…


“Look out! Collision time!” but Alan dives out of the way, sending his left leg straight into Spike’s right and sending the challenger back down to the canvas! “I don’t know if he was actually trying to trip Spike up or if he just couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, but either way Spike Jenkins is down once again and Alan is back on his feet!”


“I think Spike might have rather had the collision!” calls the Suicide King as Alan places his feet on either side of Jenkins body and pulls him up by his head, wrapping his arm around his throat and with very little hesitation pulling straight back…


“LAND OF NOD! Alan Clark put Spike Jenkins in the Barracuda earlier and now he is stealing from the former world champion himself! Spike has been known to pull this same hold out from time to time, but I don’t think that is the message Clark is trying to send right here!”


“It has been said time and time again in this company that you can not just walk in and expect a heavyweight title shot! This isn’t the Junior Leagues and I do not care what Spike’s achievements are in the SWF, if a guy like Danny Williams or Nathaniel Kibagami can’t just walk in and get a title shot, Spike is way too far down that ladder to be trying to weasel his way in to the main event of Ground Zero! Johnny Dangerous and Landon Maddix might not be on that level either, but at least they earned what they were given!”


“Are you done ranting yet, I’m trying to pay attention!” Francis has a bit more focus on the match now than he did before as Spike Jenkins continues to try to fight his way out of the dragon clutch, his arms outstretched towards the ropes as he does anything he can to block out the pain coursing through his lower back and neck.


“Alan Clark has a sixty-billion dollar company behind him and he didn’t headline an SWF pay-per-view for THREE AND A HALF YEARS!” adds the Suicide King as Alan releases the hold, pushing Spike down onto his face and moving to his feet, taking his time to roll Jenkins over to his back and pull him up and into a very well known position….




“This sold-out crowd knows what is coming, and this is a trip Spike Jenkins took once before in the Junior Leagues you were just defaming, King! It’s time for Spike to go to…NO!!” Spike pushes away from the submission attempt with his left leg, kicking Alan back, but only for a moment, as Clark hits the brakes and tries to go back to the hold, only to be pulled straight down and into a small package!
























“YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!” the crowd explodes as Spike kicks Clark away and somersaults backwards to one knee. Clark himself does near the same, and the two men immediately rush each other once again…






“VICIOUS PALM STRIKE BY JENKINS! Alan Clark is dazed and confused!” The shot stumbles Clark, who falls to one knee and Spike immediately latches into a front facelock…


“This doesn’t look good!” even Walter Reynolds looks away from the ring as Spike tries to get himself into position…


“It’s the Fall of Rome!!” cries out Francis, but with both of Alan’s arms free, the champion swings both down into Jenkins unprotected legs, his left fist burying itself into the side of Jenkins right kneecap, the pain freeing Clark and sending Jenkins spinning out of pure reflex…




“Uh oh…”





“Clark’s Wild Ride!”


“That’s MISTER to you, Francis!” chimes in the Suicide King as Alan is able to hook his arms in position and throw Spike up and over and straight back down chest-first into the mat with a hard slam!


“A move of opportunity no doubt, but that kind of move will knock the wind straight out of you!”


“Opportunity or not, Mak, Spike thought he had this match won and that for the second time in his career lightning was going to strike and he was going to win world heavyweight gold!” but Alan Clark seems to have other ideas for the challenger, as Spike rolls to his stomach to try and get the air he needs into his lungs, he can feel both of his legs being pulled toward the center of the ring…


“This can not be good.”


“Speaking of lightning...” calls Suicide King as Alan pulls the injured leg up and through his own… “It could be time for some courtesy of Alan Clark!”


“Wait, Jenkins is trying to kick his way free!” but Alan’s hold on his right ankle is more than Spike bargained for and, with a quick twist of the right leg, the left leg spasms out and around Clark’s left, and it is almost like lightning that Clark locks the legs in place just where he needs them and rolls himself one-hundred-eighty-degrees and falls to the canvas…




“TOUCHSTONE LIGHTNING! The corporate-sponsored-and-formerly-known-as-Wrath of Clark will do more damage to that right knee and in less time than anything else Alan has done this match! I’ve felt that hold and I know the pain on Spike Jenkins’ face is real!” and sure enough, the ringside camera zooms in to see Spike’s face wincing and gritting from the pain as he tries in vain to reach toward the ropes, but with his legs off the ground and two hundred and twenty five pounds anchoring him to the middle of the ring, the chances of Spike doing anything more than slapping the canvas in defeat is as slim as, well…




…lightning striking twice.






“Ladies and Gentlemen…the winner of this contest by submission…and STILL S-W-F HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD…ALAAAAAAAN CLAAAARK!” by the time Funyon finishes calling out Clark’s name, the champion has pulled himself to the outside and is met by Walter Reynolds, the bodyguard raising Alan’s hand in victory as his championship is handed back to him. Kivell makes a quick exit of the ring to do his own job of raising Alan’s hand as Walter works to secure the belt back around Clark’s waist before the two men head back up the ramp, the deep sounds of “To Die For” pumping above the jeering crowd.


“I told you, Francis! Nobody just walks into the SWF and demands a title shot! Maybe next time he’ll spend more time trying to prove himself in the ring and less time trying to let his ego pick his fights for him!”


“Spike put forth a hard fought match, King, and I will say this much, it was some quick thinking and some luck that saved Alan Clark tonight. Let’s see if he can keep that going against Jay Hawke in a few weeks when the two men fight to see who becomes the undisputed heavyweight champion here in the SWF.” With Mathew Kivell back in the ring checking on Jenkins, the scene turns to the ramp as Alan is just about to disappear backstage, only to have someone stop him dead in his tracks.


“Speak of the devil! It’s Jay Hawke! He’s come to greet the champ!” The crowd’s attention turns to the stage as well and a spotlight strikes the three men, with Walter standing between the two as a precaution, but there is very little said that the camera can hear. Both men say their piece to one another as Jay raises his International Championship high into the air, a championship Alan Clark himself never officially lost. Alan does nothing but smirk once again, his stare settling deep into Jay Hawke’s eyes as he pats his hand on his freshly-defended championship and Storm fades away into darkness.

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