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SWF STORM! 8-15-2007

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…wait for it…






…wait for it…





“WELCOME TO SWF STORM!!” The voice of the venerable Mak Francis bellows as the cameras swirl and whirl around the Nassau Coliseum, catching signs, signs (everywhere signs!) as well as thousands of screaming and cheering fans.


“Please Stand Clear Of The…”




Well, that lasted all of about ten seconds, now didn’t it?


“I’m sure you’ve been dreading this all week, Francis!” calls the Suicide King as “To Die For” explodes from out of the PA speakers and spotlights shine on the entranceway, heralding the arrival of Alan Clark and Walter Reynolds.







“AL-AN SUCKS! AL-AN SUCKS!” the crowd is as merciless as always toward the champion as he stands at the top of the ramp, microphone in his right hand and his two championships around his waist.


“What’s the deal with him still carrying around the International Championship? It doesn’t mean anything!”


“Well here in a few minutes you can ask him yourself if you feel so inclined!” quips the King as Alan and Walter make their way to the ring, with Walter walking around to the announce position, greeting both commentators with a simple nod.


“I guess we are going to be getting a few words in the ring before…”


“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Alan Clark’s voice interrupts that of Francis, “How are we all doing tonight!?”




“That was not the answer I was looking for, but nonetheless, your night just got much, much better! I told everyone watching last week that I was looking for someone to prove themselves worthy to face me in this ring, and what better place to watch the action in the ring that right here at ringside!” Alan points off to the booth, drawing more jeers from the crowd, “We have four scheduled matches featuring eleven of our greatest superstars, five of which I’ve never faced! If they show me they have what it takes to fight for the biggest prize in the company – then maybe they’ll get a chance to face me sooner rather than later. So Jakey, Michael, Fulminatus, Danny – heck, Amy too – be on your best, because no offense to the Johnny’s and Landon’s coming out here tonight, but where’s the challenge?? Been there, done that! Either way, I’ll be watching everyone that comes out through that curtain. I think everyone knows that I am not one to play favorites, so maybe just maybe this will be Landon’s night, or Jakey’s night, or even Spike Jenkin’s night.




“…yeah, right.”




“Do you folks enjoy being disappointed?” asks Clark just before he steps through the ropes and to the floor. “You really need to show some respect to a real champion…” he adds before handing over his microphone to Funyon and takes his place at the announce booth.


“I don’t think they are going to give you that respect here tonight, especially after comments like that, Clark…”


“Mak, I respect your past, but just because you helped train someone doesn’t mean you have to blindly follow them.”


“He’s not blind, Alan, he’s handicapped!” this comment once again draws the ire of the Franchise to the Gambling Man, and even Alan can’t help but give the King a disappointed nod.


“Is this the kind of thing you say when I’m in the ring? I’m surprised I haven’t heard from Disney about that.”


“Keep your cellphone on, champ, we have a long show ahead of us…” adds the Suicide King, “…but before we get to our opening contest we have to take a quick commercial break.”


“Good, can I get a Pepsi-Max?”


…and the last sounds heard before Storm heads to commercial is that of the Suicide King letting out a Maddix-reminded groan and Alan letting out a small chuckle.





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The Smartmarks Wrestling Federation presents...

SWF Aftershox - Wednesday, August 15th from the Nassau Coliseum in (Ugh!) Long Island, New York!


Due Wednesday, August 15th, by 9:00 EST/6:00 PST. Send marked matches, promos, potato knishes, etc. to chirs3.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Alan Clark is, as he stated in his promo, looking to see if there's anyone who deserves a title shot. Where is a more convenient vantage point than in front of a monitor? Thus, Alan Clark will be a Special Guest Commentator on all matches this show.

"The Dean of Wrestling" Jay Hawke vs. "Hollywood" Spike Jenkins

~ Jay Hawke suffered a tough loss at Ground Zero, allowing tonight's special guest commentator to unify the International and World Championships. Spike Jenkins, another recent victim of Clark's, took umbrage at Hawke's demand for a rematch. Now, the two square off to try to sell management on giving them another shot!
Rules: Standard singles.

Michael Alexander vs. MANSON vs. Landon "La Cucaracha" Maddix ©

~ Maddix and MANSON clashed at Ground Zero on what are now unquestionably the New King of Hardcore's terms. Will the result remain the same in a Cruiserweight encounter, with the Professor of Pain to play the spoiler?
Rules: Standard cruiserweight rules (no over-the-top, 20 count on the outside). First pin or submission wins, but a wrestler can be disqualified or counted out and eliminated without ending the match. Quitcherbeefin. Maddix's title is not on the line.

The Winston Churchill Experience (Fulminatus and Jimmy the Doom) vs. Beauty And The Bint (Danny Dagda and Amy Stephens)

~ I think we all remember our first crush. That cute girl in the little plaid skirt sitting at the desk next to me, taking bets and outbelching a Jersey greaseball... why, I get a little tingly thinking about it to this day. But I prattle on. Fulminatus' heart skips a beat every time Amy Stephens comes round, and so what better way to press the issue than to put them in the ring together?

What can I say? I'm a sadist.
Rules: Standard tag.

The Fabulous Jakey © vs. Johnny Dangerous

~ Johnny isn't happy. He's not happy that he didn't make the main event of Ground Zero. He's not happy that Michael Stephens and Austin Sly stole the Tag Team Championships from Wild and Dangerous. He's not happy that the Fabulous Jakey's purse doesn't match his shoes. (Well, maybe not that last one.) Can Dangerous avenge at least one of these ills in this non-title match?
Rules: Standard cruiserweight rules.

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Amy Stephens sits in her dressing room, preparing for her match tonight.


It’s a match she has been looking forward to.


In the past week, she has had all manner of strange things delivered to her and done to her.


She’s had a Speak and Spell rewired to say only the words “EYE HEART EWE” left outside her door.


She’s had a small Filipino man deliver her a bottle of red wine vinegar, vintage 1959.


On the hood of her rental car was written “F + A = ∞” surrounded by a heart with a fishing pole through it. The drawing was done with spray cheese.


The last straw was when she was gifted a large and rather rusty box of undetermined contents. After having to secure a crowbar (Amy knows where to find these things, after all) she busted the box open. The items in the box had begun to smell a great deal as their contents had broken down considerably. Upon further inspection, the box was filled with several hundred copies of “E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial” the game for the Atari 2600.


Alongside all of the ridiculous gifts, Amy has begun to be teased by her fellow members of Revolution Zero about the unwanted courtship. Well… teased as much as anyone feels safe teasing Amy Stephens.


She’s fed up with this freak interfering in her day to day life.


All she wants to do is get her gear on, get out there, kick that freaks ass, and make him leave her the hell alone.




Then she hears a trumpet.




“Fuckin’ hell.”


She looks out the window and her worst fears are confirmed.


There is a mariachi band outside.


Upon seeing her they begin to play a song. The lyrics are in Spanish but the melody is familiar, even though it is now being played by a guitar, two trumpets, a violin, and a guitarrón.


Careful inspection would place the tune as Kelly Clarkston’s “Since You Been Gone.”


Regardless of the song being played, Amy is furious. She screams at the band.


“Get the fuck out of ‘ere, or I’ll chuck a fuckin’ telly at ya, ya get me?!”


The band ceases their musical tirade at the sight of the angry punk girl yelling from the window. Then a familiar high-pitched voice comes from the bushes, “No, keep playing! She absolutely adores the music!”


The mariachis begin to play again, prompting a scream of rage from Amy Stephens.


“Right, I fuckin’ warned you!”


And with that, she retreats back into her room and emerges a moment later with the television set held high above her head. The mariachis see the rampaging woman, but their reaction time is slow, as Stephens throws the TV crashing to the ground right in front of them. They scatter and move away, talking to themselves in Spanish, frightened. The band discusses the situation for a moment before Amy speaks again.


“And you in the bushes! If you’re going to try and hide, take off the bloody sombrero next time, prick!”


His hiding place compromised, Fulminatus, sporting an ENORMOUS sombrero, flees from the underbrush. As he runs, he flails his arms over his head and squeals like E.T. A blue, orange, and red blur across the grass.


The mariachis, seeing their employer fleeing the scene, decide to follow suit, hauling their instruments, mustaches, and beer bellies away with them at (almost) top speed.


“Oh, I’m gonna fuckin’ tear that twit apart,” she vows, going back into her room to finish preparing.




“Fuckin’ Kelly Clarkston…”

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“Welcome back to Storm, everyone,” greets Mak Francis. “It’s sure to be an interesting evening as the Suicide King and I will be joined on commentary for the evening by none other than the SWF World Heavyweight Champion; Alan Clark!”


“Interesting is right, Mak, my friend” says Clark. “I’d also like to point out that I am more than just the reigning World Heavyweight Champion – I am the SWF Undisputed World Heavyweight Champion! Tonight I’m going to not only provide an in depth analysis of tonight’s competition, I’m also going to be observing these so-called superstars to see who is worthy of the chance of a life time,” Clark raises the gold plated belt for the cameras. “Who will show me they have what it takes to challenge me for the World… Heavyweight… Championship.”


“Some would say that you’ve yet to prove yourself worthy of even holding that belt,” Francis adds. Alan shoots the Franchise an intimidating glare, before he finishes his comments. All though the last part comes across in a far less defiant tone.“… let alone judging who is umm… worthy of challenging… you for it?”


“Oh, why don’t you shut the h(bleep!)ll up, Francis!” King snarls, drawing his hand back. “He became worthy by winning the damn thing which is more than you ever did!”


“Thanks, King,” Clark beams.


“Don’t get too appreciative over there, Clark! When I was the World Champion I showed everyone they weren’t worthy by kicking their ass in the ring, like the great Champion I was,” King says. “Since you’ve won the belt I thought you might have changed your name to Houdini.”


“A-A-Alan, we’re just moments away from our first match of the evening,” Francis speaks up, trying to get things back on track, “which will feature none other than the Fabulous Jakey; the SWF World Cruiserweight Champion taking on a man who you know all too well, Johnny Dangerous. Any thoughts?”


“Sure. Jakey has proved himself to be a heck of a Cruiserweight Champion – after all he defeated the best cruiser for that belt. I see bright things in this kids future, though I think he might be hanging around the wrong type of people.”


“Anything to say about the Barracuda?”


“Washed up. Has been. Those are just a few of the things that I think of when you mention that man,” Clark replies. “He’s upset because he couldn’t get the job done at 13th Hour-”


“Which might be because you and Landon teamed up against him in what was a match where every man was for himself.”


“It’s not like he didn’t have Wildchild out there causing a ruckus,” Clark reminds the Franchise. “Now like I was saying; Johnny Dangerous is a man who has been on a constant downward spin since returning to the SWF almost a year ago. Just look at the past several pay per views; From the Fire, 13th Hour, Ground Zero… every single one of those shows is a show where Johnny Dangerous failed. He lost, and lost badly, and yes there was a time where it seemed like there was nothing I could ever do to beat Johnny Dangerous. However, those times are long gone and now I’m the Undisputed World Champion and he’s the man on the outside looking in without a prayer of ever getting back inside.”


“It sounds like you’re pretty confident that you could beat the Barracuda again.”


“Without a single, utter doubt in my mind,” Alan replies.


“Then it sounds like you’d have nothing to loose by defending against him.”


“S(bleep)it, I’d do it,” says King. “I’d beat his a(bleep!)s so hard and send him packing. That’d shut him up for good.”


“How about we just get to the match,” says Alan. “In fact, Funyon is standing by and it looks like he’s ready to go, so let’s kick it over to him!”




The ringing of the timekeepers bell draws all eyes to the ring. The announcer brings the microphone to his lips and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the first match of tonight’s show is scheduled for one fall and it will be contested under cruiserweight rules!”




“Making his entrance first…”


Suddenly, fast techno-themed music plays, with red and pink lights decorating the arena. The curtains part and out comes Jakey wearing a red trenchaot over his outfit. He slowly walks down the ramp, often giving dirty looks to catcalling fans. Jakey walks up the steps and enters the ring through the ropes, then stands in the center and undoes trenchcoat, then removes it with arms spread out. Jakey then flings the coat over his shoulder before parking it in the corner, then stands in the center of the ring and raises both arms, and the SWF Cruiserweight Championship.




“From Minneapolis, Minnesota, and weighing in at one hundred-sixty pounds! He is a proud member of Revolution Zero and is the CURRENT and REIGNING SWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION; THE FABULOOOUUUUSSSS JAAAAAAAAAAAAKEEEEEEEEEY!!”






“The fans in Long island sure don’t seem to be fans of Jakey,” notes Francis. King and Alan shake their heads as if to say ‘no s(bleep!)t’.


Jakey folds the belt up and lays it in a corner as it is not on the line in this match. His music fades out and a video begins on the Smarktron. It displays an image of a fuse fizzling down towards a stick of dynamite, and the Mission Impossible theme (as performed in a rockin’ style by the James Taylor Quartet) starts ringing out around the arena! The opening to the song sounding very much like a time-bomb alarm sounding off before exploding and then that popular groove that everyone knows… and just before the music swings into full gear to launch the crowd into a frenzy-




-a deep, sultry voice breathes the name of the SWF’s secret agent over the speakers-




-and only THEN does the music hit as an explosion of fireworks literally rocks the entrance stage! Finally, through all the vibrant lights and the cloud of smoke comes the Barracuda, silhouetted by the strobes with occasional flashes reflecting off his high-tech shades as he turns his head from side-to-side, looking out at his crowd.








Johnny strolls towards the ring, and as he draws closer he begins to discard articles of clothing. His coat falls to the floor and then his shirt comes off and goes into the stands of shrieking women, who flock to where his shirt landed to try and come up with it. Dangerous stops rather suddenly before making his way into the ring, takes two steps back, and turns to face a blond woman in the front row wearing a t-shirt that says “fuck you” (Don’t worry, the SWF broadcast truck blurs it out).


“Is that?”


“I think so,” replies King. “I think that’s Cynthia Rodriguez!”


“What?!” the World Champion blurts out. “How dare that woman wear a shirt like that to the show! We’re a family friendly program!”


Johnny finally heads off, but he doesn’t enter the ring. Instead Dangerous strolls the length of the ringside and comes to a stop at the broadcast table. He shoots a dagger of a stare at Clark and holds his hand out for a microphone. Of course, someone hands him one.


“Alan Clark,” the Barracuda bellows as he holds up his arm for the music to end and the crowd to quiet down. “Once again it looks like you’ve done everything you can to make sure you don’t actually have to work at an SWF show.”


“I’m the guest commentator for tonight!” Alan shouts back, though only the viewers at home here what he’s saying. “So shut up and get in the ring!”


“Don’t you worry, I’ll get in that ring in a moment,” Johnny answers back. “I have instructions from the commissioner to get these fans going, to pop the crowd so to speak, which is exactly what I plan on doing!”




“Just like that,” the Barracuda continues. “And just like this-”








Dangerous drops the microphone and quickly pivots and sends a roundhouse kick into the World Champion’s cranium! Clark is knocked out of his seat to the floor, and the Barracuda quickly jumps onto him and begins pounding his fist into Alan!




“Oh, my God!” Francis shouts as he frantically wheels himself to safety. “The Barracuda is attacking Alan Clark!”


“Somebody get security out here!” shouts King.


As if on cue, a platoon of rent-a-cops flood from backstage and race to Alan’s aide. They reach the struggle and quickly pull Johnny off of Alan, much to the dismay of the crowd.







The fans chant for the Barracuda as security hauls him away from ringside and up towards the curtains. When suddenly, Tom Flesher steps out from backstage. No music. No fan fare. Just the SWF commissioner himself.




“Hold up a second!” Flesher shouts, but the roaring crowd makes it hard for anything, much less a message from Tom Flesher to be heard.


“Johnny Dangerous,” Flesher begins, “you’ve crossed the line for the last time!”





“You think you can go around and do whatever you want just because you used to have a badge?”





“SHUT UP!” Flesher snarls at the crowd. Unfortunately, it only gets another response from them.







“That’s right, just keep egging him on! There will be no fight between Johnny Dangerous and Alan Clark tonight,” says Flesher, “because you’ve seen the last of the Barracuda for tonight!”







“That’s right. Johnny,” Tom turns towards the Barracuda, who is still has security holding every one of his limbs and then some. “You’re going to find out what it’s like to be on the opposite side of the law, because I’m having you placed under arrest for assault and battery! Johnny Dangerous is going to jail!”







“Enjoy your stay, secret agent!” Flesher motions for security to cuff Dangerous and they do. Johnny glares at Flesher as he willingly allows the guards to handcuff him and then lead him away, through the curtains, and to be seen no more for the evening.


“How about them apples?” Francis says as security heads backstage with Tom Flesher in tow. “Tom just had Johnny arrested for assaulting Alan Clark. I can’t say Clark deserved it, but he definitely had it coming!”


“Serves him right!” growls Clark, getting back to his seat while holding his head. Having just now put his headset back on Mak’s last comments never find their way to the World Champion’s ears. “He knows I can’t fight back outside of the ring. I hope the judge throws the book at him!”


“Just imagine if William Hearford is the one presiding,” adds King.


“Please, Brian. Hearford was a Judge in Michigan,” Mak replies. “Anyway, we’ll be back after a short commercial break. Hopefully we’ll get a match from our next bout as we are left to wonder the fate of Johnny Dangerous!”




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“Well fans, we’ve just seen Johnny Dangerous and the Fabulous Jakey,” Mak Francis greets viewers as we return from the commercial break, “and coming up next we have-”


-but whatever Mak is about to say is cut off as the Smarktron whites out and every light in the arena hits full.





The rolling, raucous soccer chant from the terraces a few thousand miles away is instantly supplanted by the oozing bassline of ‘The Gush’ by Raging Speedhorn. The Smarktron starts to fade quickly to black, and as it does so the jagged white letters flash up a familiar slogan, one word at a time:




Three chords ring out; on the first we see Michael Stephens knocked off the top buckle to the floor by a Nathaniel Kibagami springboard enzuigiri; on the second we see him taken off the top rope with the Mark of the Beast by Gabriel Drake; on the third we see him chokeslammed out of the Clusterfuck by Janus onto the floor below. Then, as the bass solo hits the shot changes to show him taking Mike Van Siclen off a balcony and through a table, the shot starting to strobe and intercut with an image of Toxxic’s grinning face, the devastating landing timed to coincide with-




-the moment the song kicks in, and the stagewide eruption of red pyro that announces the arrival of the SWF’s premier straight-edger! And through the flame and smoke…




…red-and-black trenchcoat flapping out behind him…




…a SWF title belt once more wrapped around his waist…




…mouth twisted up on one side into his trademark lopsided grin…




…comes the man known as Toxxic.


“You know what, this show just took a turn for the better,” King smiles, leaning back in his seat.


“No it didn’t,” Alan Clark and Mak Francis say at the same time, then turn and glare at each other.


Toxxic doesn’t pause at the bottom of the ramp but instead rolls into the ring and comes up to his feet. Funyon seems to be debating whether or not he should do any announcing, then sighs and hands his microphone over at Toxxic’s gesture and exits the ring.


"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Long Island, New York," Toxxic begins, "what is undeniably the arse end-"




"-the arse end of one of the dirtiest, most pompous, polluting and generally unpleasant cities on the planet," the Englishman continues in a rising chorus of jeers. "Now, since I'm not Jay Hawke you'll note that I don't bother insulting people's hometowns much, so believe me when I say," he carries on, leaning on the ropes, "that I really do mean it."






“But enough about our rather squalid surroundings,” Toxxic says, straightening up, “it’s time for me to address a couple of things. First of all,” he pats the title around his waist, “you’ll note that I’m sporting a rather attractive new fashion accessory, courtesy of Austin Sly and the Shooting Sly Press.”




“I noted that there were two slightly different attitudes from the former Tag Champions last week,” Toxxic points out, “Wildchild was so laid back he was virtually horizontal, and making sweeping statements about ‘keeping the belts warm’ and ‘being able to beat the Cruiserweight Champion any time he wants’. Which is fine but if you’ll excuse the phrase, I’ll believe it when I see it.”






“Johnny Dangerous on the other hand was rather more vehement,” Toxxic continues, “and this leads me to wonder exactly how much on the same page Wild & Dangerous are. Gee, I hope there’s no communication problems between them when they come back for this mysterious ‘rematch clause’ they apparently have. That would be, uh, tragic,” he grins. “But anyway, Johnny seems to have his own agenda for the moment… and agenda that concerns someone sitting down at the announce table right now,” the Straight-Edge Sensation points out, heading over to the ropes nearest the commentary trio and leaning on them. “Hello Alan.”


“Hi,” Clark says warily.


“…you cartoon-obsessed, psycho-hippy-turned-children’s-entertainer oxygen thief.”






“I knew it,” Clark sighs. “Why does everyone have to harp on about the Disney thing?”


“Because our World Champion’s sponsored by freaking Disney,” King shrugs, “get used to it.”


“You see, Alan Clark still holds the World Title,” Toxxic points out rather needlessly, “and this is a fact that does not sit well with me. Quite apart from the fact that it’s led to some of the worst entrance music, wrestling outfits and catchphrases ever witnessed, it also means that he has enough ‘clout’ to get himself polluting the commentary for every single bloody match this week.”


“Amen,” King and Mak say together, then turn and glare at each other.


“Now, the fact that Alan Clark is still World Champion is bad enough, and almost sufficient to shatter my manly exterior and make me break down and cry,” Toxxic continues, theatrically wiping at an eye (but being careful not to smudge his eyeliner), “but see, the trouble doesn’t end there.


“No, it’s when I look at the challengers that I start to really get depressed.”


“Oh here we go,” Mak grunts, “he’s on one now.”


“We had no fewer than three blowhards surfacing last week and making their claim on Alan Clark and his waist warmer,” the Englishman states, “let’s run down the candidates, shall we? First of all, Jay Hawke; 274 days with the International Title - my God, what a record,” he smirks. “Trouble is Jay, there’s something you’re forgetting. The International Title was the secondary title. It was the lower-tier title. It was the title you hold,” he continues with a grin, “that says ‘hey, I’m not good enough to be World Champion’, and boy, don’t you bear that one out!”






“Thank you, glad you agree,” Toxxic grins. “See Jay, I’m really struggling to see where you’re coming from now. You came after the World Title when I had it, you faced me and of course, you lost. Two weekends ago you came after the World Title again,” he continues, gesturing towards the announce table with one black-nailed hand, “you faced Clark and, stop me if I’m going too fast for you, you lost. You’ve tried twice, you’ve failed twice, and now your whining and bitching isn’t just annoying anymore, it’s downright embarrassing. You weren’t good enough, you’re not good enough, you’re never going to be good enough, and this is one lesson that you’re just not learning fast enough. So pack up the bathrobe you come down to the ring in, head back to Cleveland and quit wasting everyone’s time, please!




“You know, he’s got a point,” Alan Clark admits.


“Moving on, Jay Hawke’s opponent for tonight, Spike Jenkins-”




“-yes, Spike Jenkins!” Toxxic continues, “he’s not only still pulling that lame ‘New Straight-Edge Sensation’ thing, but… well, here’s a quick impression for you,” he grins, “GIVE ME A TITLE SHOT! GIVE ME A TITLE SHOT! GIVE ME A TITLE SHOT! TAP-TAP-TAP, FUCK, I SUCK!”




“That sort of language isn’t necessary,” Alan Clark says, although a faint smile crosses his lips. King just bursts out laughing.


“‘Heartless’? No,” Toxxic states. “Brainless? Possibly. Talentless? Almost certainly.”






“And this merry trip leads me to the final member of our Triumvirate of Suck, Johnny Dangerous,” Toxxic says, “the man without a Pay-Per-View win to his name this year. Clusterfuck? Uh-uh sunshine, you got dumped by Jay Hawke. From The Fire? Oops, I do believe you tapped out to Alan Clark with the International Title on the line! 13th Hour…” Toxxic pauses for a moment, then grins sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m losing track of all your losses, but I think that would be where you failed miserably to win the World Title by getting pinned first in the Triple Threat between you, Alan Clark and Landon Maddix, no?”




“And then you proved that your incompetence is in no way limited to Pay-Per-View by losing on free TV in the last ever International Title match to Jay Hawke,” Toxxic continues, “a man whose talents I have just explored at length, and whom you appear to be considerably inferior to. And to cap it all, just a couple of weeks ago you lost your precious Tag Titles… although you did lose them to myself and Sly, so I guess I can forgive you that one,” he smirks.






“Folks, you need to get out of the state of denial you’re in and face up to it, things are bad around here,” the Englishman states, addressing the crowd, “chanting stuff at me won’t help things… what we need is something new, something exciting and interesting, something that will make people sit up and take notice again, because the World Title certainly ain’t gonna do it! So everyone, pin your ears back and pay attention, because in the words of my dear sister, ‘everybodybetterlissenupcosIgotsomethingtosay, innit’!”


“I can’t wait,” Clark mutters, resting his chin in his hand.


“GENESIS IS COMING!” Toxxic roars, taking quite a few people by surprise. “It’s the greatest event of the year, the Alpha and Omega of the SWF, the anniversary, the end of the old year and the start of the new! It’s one of the greatest spectacles not just in the world of wrestling, but the world as a whole! Do you people really want to see Alan Clark vs. Jay Hawke in the main event!?”


The crowd reaction is mixed but, it has to be said, not overly positive. Probably because not many people like either man concerned.


“He’s playing to the crowd!” Clark complains, “he can’t do that! He’s not meant to do that!”


Toxxic is pacing up and down with a grin on his face and a glint in his eye, the Tag Title glittering at his waist and his trenchcoat flaring out behind him. He reaches one side of the ring, whirls around and starts walking back, all the time looking around at the crowd as if to judge their mood. Sure, he’s been unpopular for the majority of his career… but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to work an audience.


“People, you’re looking at a new power on the rise. Revolution Zero is back baby, and we’ve got the titles to prove it,” the Straight-Edge Sensation laughs. “Now, I’ll bet that at Genesis VII, the greatest stage of them all, you people would like nothing better than to see us beaten!”




“You’d like to see us humiliated!”




“You’d like to see us put, once and for all, firmly in our place!”




“WELL THEN!” Toxxic thunders, whirling round again so his coat billows out like wings, “I’ve got just the thing. An open challenge to five, any five members of the SWF roster! Past! Present! Hell, debutants!” He holds up his hand, black-nailed fingers spread. “Step up, sign up, put your names on the line and become the champions of these people,” he continues, spinning in a circle with finger outstretched, “but to do what, I hear you ask? Well…”


He slows. Stops. And slowly, the right hand side of his mouth quirks up again. His voice, when he speaks again, is soft and low.


“To compete in the grandest spectacle the SWF has ever presented. To provide a main event for Genesis that will be truly worth watching. To carve your name, once and for all, in the annals of history.”


He holds up two fingers.


“Two rings.”


He holds up five fingers.


“Ten men. Two teams of five.”


There is a faint stirring in the crowd.


“A steel cage- no, wait,” he corrects himself, “a steel cell.


The mutterings grow louder.


“On one side, Revolution Zero,” Toxxic states, then grins, “with, perhaps, one or two people who might wish to help us out. On the other side… five wrestlers, any five wrestlers who want to put their names down. Because you see,” the Englishman continues, “the gauntlet has been thrown down and the battle lines have been drawn…”


He lowers the mic, looks around, grins and raises the mic again.


“…all that’s left now… IS FOR THE WARGAMES TO BEGIN!




“WARGAMES!? ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?” Mak Francis explodes, “Toxxic has come out here and laid out a challenge for WarGames at Genesis!”


“That’s great!” King yells over the noise of the crowd, who seem quite pleased at the prospect of Toxxic, Sly and Jakey locked into a steel cell and being hammered on, “Toxxic truly is the saviour of this fed, Francis!”


“He’s an arrogant, self-serving… gah, I hate my contract!” Clark spits, unable to voice what he’s thinking. “He’s just doing this to try and upstage me, you realise that, right?”


“Yes, and I love it,” King smirks.


“The World Title is the most important thing in this company,” Mak Francis argues as Toxxic, who has been basking in the roars of the crowd, drops the mic and rolls under the bottom rope to start heading towards the back, “whoever holds it, but… WarGames? Damn. Toxxic’s laid the challenge out for Genesis, but we’ll just have to see if anyone takes him up on it. Hell, we’ll have to see if Revolution Zero can pull in two more people to take their side, otherwise they could go into a three-on-five!”


“Bah, are you forgetting that Amy Stephens is wrestling next?” King snorts, “sure she hasn’t been in the ring in a while, but she could fill in for them. And I’m sure they’d be able to get someone in who was willing to bask in the reflected glory of being on the same team as Toxx, Sly and Jakey. As long as they’ve got even numbers, they’ll win.”


“That remains to be seen,” Mak Francis says diplomatically as Alan Clark fumes, “but you’re right about one thing King; coming up next, Amy Stephens and Danny Dagda vs. Winston Churchill!”








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Backstage in the Nassau Coliseum and thanks to a lazy cameraman who for once didn't follow in a wrestler's shadows every step he made all night in the hopes of something remotely interesting happening (thank you kayfabe), we join Landon Maddix and Megan Skye in mid-conversation.


"I don't know, must be something in the water around here. Flesher and Allison, Wildchild and Melissa, Jimmy and Lois, you and me... Amy and that Fullmoneytoss guy. Seriously, what the heck's that all about?"


"She sure knows how to attract 'em, huh?"


"Yeah..." chuckles Landon, before remembering who Amy's last known love interest was and scowling. "...hey, wait a second."


Megan laughs at Landon's expence. Luckily, the Hardcore Champion is in a good enough mood to not take it as a huge dent to his ego.


"You know, that needless shot aside, I'm glad we're kosher again. After everything that happened with MANSON... I mean, I know I've got to face him again tonight. With his partner thrown in for good measure. But, we've got the plan to take care of that after all, plus I've got a feeling Ground Zero threw a nice big bucket of cold water over the MANSONOSITY fire. It's weird. Even knowing I'm basically in a handicap match tonight, I feel in a good place, have done since Ground Zero. All the crap with MANSON, the whole 'blood feud' thing... what's the point? Really. I've got my youth, my good looks..."


"Your modesty."


"...I set 'em up and you spike them. So proud. But seriously, I've got the OAOAST World Title, you, plenty of money in the bank. Life is good. I know that Flesher's just dying to see me twist in the wind for the rest of my SWF career but honestly, what's the use in letting it get to me?"


"You know, you're sounding a lot more... 'philosophical' than usual." Megan thinks aloud.


"Eh, I dunno. It's just, watching Aftershox, for some reason what Wildchild said really struck a chord with me. I think I should take a leaf out of his book."


Megan's eyes widen all of a sudden.


"Uhm... listen, Landon, we're doing... great and all. Real peachy. But, let's not get too ahead of ourselves, huh? We get on great don't get me wrong but I really don't think we get on... ya know, that great."


"Megan, babe, what in the hell are you talking about?"


"You're not..."


"Proposing!?" Landon scoffs, putting 2 and 2 together at long last and laughing. "God no! No offence but you only have to scan the entertainment channels, celebrity marriages just don't work. I love ya and all, but I really don't think you deserve half of my fortune should things go pear shaped."


Thinking about arguing that point briefly, Megan just settles for breathing a sigh of relief.


"No, I meant what he was talking about in general. You know. "I’m jus’ takin’ it easy, mon! Ser'ously eeeasy goin'!" I've got to lay back and relax a little bit. Take a chill pill, as the kids say."


"Do they still say that?"


Landon shrugs. "Probably. Point is, I don't need the pressure."


"Landon, what are you saying?"


"I dunno." admits Maddix, sighing. "Look, I'm 23 years old. I'm stuck with that Hardcore Title, I've got enough to be worried about without getting drawn into these drawn out grudges with people. And that includes Flesher. My life's too good to be bogged down in that kinda thing anymore. All it leads to is problems, like with MANSON, with Drake, with Cortez..." Landon pauses for a moment at that name. "From now on, I'm going to take the rough with the smooth. Flesher's going to keep throwing obstacles at me, especially with that damn belt weighing me down. But at the end of the day, I'm a three-time SWF World Champion, what have I got to lose?"


"That's one way of looking at it, I guess."


"It's the Landon Maddix way of looking at it!" Landon proclaims bouyantly, standing up. "Now, let's go kick some handicap ass!"


Landon marches off, Megan shaking her head sadly as he follows after him.


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The camera pops back into an overhead shot of the ring now at the center of the Nassau Coliseum in Long Island. Mak Francis breaks through the roar of the crowd, some still sporting Winston Churchill signs. “Welcome back to Storm, live from the Nassau Coliseum in Long Island! I’m still here with the Suicide King and our World Heavyweight Champion, Alan Clark, preparing for a truly unusual Triple Threat Match!”


“You’re right about that, Francis,” pipes in the Suicide King. “Unusual with its perfect booking! We have Michael Alexander and MANSON, hallowed be His Name, both in the ring against the little weasel Landon. His girlfriend won’t be able to save him this week, as MANSON has his partner to watch his back.”


“King, this is every man for himself. What makes you think there will be any cooperation? Anyway, what does our World Champ have to say about the competitors here?”


Alan Clark smiles, patting the World Championship belt lying on the table in front of him. “I have to say I’ve beaten two out of the three men in this match, one way or another. I’ll tell you this though, any of these guys would be better challengers for me than the two men who have tossed themselves into a main event to find out which of them should get to beg for another shot at me. Heck, the only person at the top of this week’s card I haven’t beaten is this new guy, Michael Alexander, and that’s only because we haven’t had a match yet.”


Referee Jack Black is sitting on one of the turnbuckles as Funyon enters the ring with his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the big man blares, “this match is a triple threat match that will be contested under cruiserweight rules!” He pauses semidramatically.


“Dread Rock” by Paul Oakenfold begins to play, and the a video montage of Alexander’s previous in-ring exploits interspersed with Da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man” highlighting the areas that the various moves depicted injure on his opponents. The lights in the arena flicker in time with the Smarktron.


“First, from Greenville, South Carolina…weighing in at 221 pounds…the ‘Mad Scientist of the Mat’ MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMIIIIIIIIICHAELLLLLLLLLLLL AAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEXXXXXXAAAAANDER!”




Alexander steps out onto the stage, and the flicker lighting stops dead. He gazes out over the crowd, smirks, and makes his way to the ring, trash-talking to the crowd. He rolls into the ring, taking up a position in his corner and stretch, adjusting his boots, apparently disinterested in his opponent or the crowd, while smirking to himself.


“Speak of the devil,” murmurs Mak. “You were talking about Alexander, Alan?”


“Hey, I was only mentioning that he hasn’t had the good fortune to be in the ring with me yet.” Clark smirks. “From what I’ve seen so far, the guy isn’t bad, but so far his biggest achievement was going over Spike Jenkins at Ground Zero. Not exactly a shining résumé, if you ask me.”


The arena lights drop, cueing a guttural, distorted warbling from the speakers, which brings the fans up to their feet, already unleashing a torrent of jeers.




Then a final growl kicks "Scientific Remote Viewing" by Cephalic Carnage into gear as flashing strobes begin to pulse and spotlights roam the arena, while smoke pours out over the stage. The curtain soon parts and out comes the cloaked, masked form of MANSON.


“Here comes trouble,” says Mak.


Funyon kicks back in with his intro. “Now entering the ring…from Denver, Colorado…weighing in at 230 pounds…the ‘Savage Messiah’ MMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNSSSSSSOOOOOOON!”


He strides down the aisle in silence, keeping his sight fixated on the ring, as the chains on his person give off an ominous rattle. He slides into the ring, pulling out the crooked bat from beneath his cloak, and is immediately confronted by the referee, who pleads with him to abandon the instrument. He stares into the eyes of the referee for a moment, looking to the bat, then back, finally discarding it over the top. He backs into his corner where he disrobes, placing the mask and cloak over the post and preparing for the match.


King bows over the announce table. “Thank you, MANSON, for gracing us once more and for the judgment you are about to dispense to Landon…”


“King, I really don’t think that’s an appropriate message.” Clark grimaces a little, maybe chafing a bit under the Disney restrictions.


“For once I think we agree on something,” Mak says to Clark. “He does this all the time.”


“It’s not too late for you, Francis. I know our World Champ is following the false god Disney…”


Alan smiles, but it looks forced. “It looks like we’ve got one more guy coming.”




The lights dim, alternating between complete blackout and really bright as "Personal Jesus" by Marilyn Manson hits. From behind the curtain steps Megan Skye, heralding the arrival of Landon who stops at the top of the ramp and thrusting his hands out to his side to cheers. The lights stop alternating but stay dimmed as he walks to the ring.


“Now entering the ring,” Funyon blares. “Accompanied by Megan Skye…the SWF Hardcore Gamers Champion…from Huron, South Dakota by way of Madrid, Spain…weighing in at 208 pounds… LLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAANDDDDOOOOOOOOON ‘La Cucaracha’ MMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAADDIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIXXXXXX!”


Landon leaps to the apron, looking out at the crowd as Megan climbs the steps. Megan holds open the ropes and Landon bounds into the ring, spinning himself into the centre of the ring HBK style and posing with Megan.




MANSON glares at Maddix and Megan, and then looks to Alexander with an evil smile, which he returns.


“I don’t like that look MANSON and Alexander just exchanged,” Mak warns.


“What did you expect, Francis?” King inquires. “Those two have tagged together recently, and the beating they gave Winston Churchill a couple of weeks ago showed that they’re on the same page. And we know that Landon has done nothing but incur the righteous wrath of MANSON.”


“Well, I don’t begrudge Landon a good beating,” Clark agrees. “I’m not surprised Maddix didn’t want his title on the line in this.”


Megan whispers to Landon as she exits the ring, and he nods.


“All the advice in the world isn’t going to help Landon now,” gloats King. “He’s about to feel the wrath of MANSON.”


Referee Black motions for the bell and the match gets underway!




Manson rushes at Landon, firing a series of hammering right hands into his head. Alexander joins in with forearms and kicks to Maddix. Megan groans audibly as she watches the beat-down commence. Landon buckles under the assault, crumpling to the mat.


“See, Francis, Landon might have escaped the judgment of MANSON at Ground Zero, but he’s not going to get away tonight!” King chirps happily.


Alan Clark cheerily pipes in, “Well, like you said, King, this was not unexpected. And it’s sure not undeserved.”


“Oh, come on,” Mak complains. “This isn’t a handicap match! !” Mak looks stunned. “Did I just get bleeped for trying to say the name ‘Jesus’?” He looks even more puzzled. “Why didn’t I get beeped then?”


“Expletives like that are not necessary, Mr. Francis,” Clark admonishes him. “It’s the use of Jesus’ name as an expletive that makes it too offensive for television.”


“Oh, for ’s sake!”


“Now, now, Francis,” King gloats. “Let’s not be rude. We should be paying attention to Landon’s well-deserved beating.”


The two heels smile at each other and lift him back to his feet, whipping him into the opposite ropes. They both duck for a double back body drop, but as Landon rebounds he rolls over them, hitting his feet and maintaining his momentum. He barrels on into the ropes and leaps back at the heels in a crossbody, as they are turning around to intercept him. Landon’s leap allows him to hit Manson with a snapping forearm smash to the face and catch Alexander with a brutal flying knee to the face! All three men collapse to the mat.




“Landon takes out both men with a nice elbow and knee combination!” Mak exclaims. “We can’t count him out yet!”


“He’s just postponing the inevitable,” King grumbles. “MANSON’s will can’t be denied.”


“Well,” Alan says grudgingly. “Landon is certainly no pushover or he would never have become World Champion. Pushovers never make it that far.” He pats the title belt again. “But some are of course better than others.”


Landon quickly returns to his feet, followed closely by Manson. The Savage Messiah charges him, and Landon kicks him squarely in the gut. He then grabs Manson’s head and begins firing snapping kicks into it! The Stampede grunts with each impact, his knees going wobbly and finally collapses with kick number five. Landon looks very pleased with himself, but misses Megan’s hiss of warning, as a rolling savate kick from Alexander doubles him over. The Evil Genius then cracks Maddix’s jaw with a quick running knee lift, sending him to the mat. Landon rolls out of the ring, but Alexander tracks him all the way with repeated stomps to the head and back. Black begins his count.


“Landon let himself get distracted by MANSON,” Mak warns. “He’s got to remember there are three men in this match. He’s certainly got reason enough to focus on MANSON, but ignoring a guy like Alexander will get him into trouble.”


“No disrespect to Alexander, but how could you help being focused on the greatness of MANSON? Even the dim bulb that fizzles in Landon’s skull can recognize the greater threat.” King says smugly.


“Well, I’d say that even the person that seems to be the least threatening can surprise you if you’re not paying attention. Let’s not forget the hero Tom Thumb, or the heroine Thumbelina, as seen in the Disney Classics™. Soon to be re-released in Special Editions, of course,” Clark plugs. Both King and Mak groan.









Outside the ring, Megan checks her man’s face and whispers some more advice and encouragement. Meanwhile, Manson has rolled out of the ring and is stalking Maddix and Megan. We see the Perfect 10 glance over in his direction surreptitiously and whisper to Landon. Manson goes for a lariat, but Megan dodges to the side as Landon ducks and drop toeholds him to the floor.




“MANSON was outsmarted by Landon again,” Mak says.


“WHAT?! That’s sacrilege! Anyway, it was obviously Megan Skye that was the brains behind that little tactic,” King snarks.


“You should never discount the abilities of any woman. I mean, just take the dedication of the Little Mermaid, or the steadfastness of Cinderella,” Clark turns to the announce cam. “Both available from the Disney Classics Library!”


“That’s getting absurd,” Mak murmurs, and King nods.







Ms. Skye intelligently moves to a non-MANSON side of the ring. Landon spreads his arms, basking in the adoration of the crowd. However, his preoccupation with the Savage Messiah has caused him to forget something, and that something, namely Michael Alexander, collides with him in a suicide plancha! Landon and Alexander lie outside along with Manson. The Evil Genius grins evilly as he pulls himself to his feet. Manson drags himself up as well, and the two heels again stomp away at Landon.




“Again with the double-team,” Mak laments.


“It’s great to watch a couple of artists at work,” King gloats.








Noticing the count, Manson and Alexander toss Landon back into the ring. Alexander rolls in as Manson hauls himself up and stomps into the ring. Landon is hoisted back to his feet. The Evil Genius hooks him in a full nelson hold, Manson hammers him with several body blows, and Alexander then whips him over with a brutal release dragon suplex. Landon flops lifelessly in the center of the ring.


“Alexander and MANSON are obviously looking to take out Landon here tonight,” Mak remarks. “I just hope this doesn’t get out of hand.”


“Me too, Francis,” King smiles. “They need to keep focused on beating the out of Landon-HEY!” King glares at Clark.


“This is a family show, King,” Clark shrugs.


Manson turns his attention to Megan, smirking and growling at her. Alexander steps over to cradle Landon in a quick Oklahoma roll! Black drops to count! Megan smiles as she points behind him, at the cradle.


“Oklahoma Roll by Alexander! This could be it!” Mak yells.








Manson breaks up the pin! Alexander pops up with an angry word for Manson, and the two argue for a moment before Manson shoves him away roughly to stomp away at Landon again. Alexander glares a hole in Manson’s back as he watches the Savage Messiah stomp Landon.


“Alexander was not happy with MANSON’s interference there,” Mak observes.


“Well, he was just making it clear that he wants to beat on Landon a bit more,” King replies. “Alexander was just a little overeager, and MANSON just had to correct his error.”


“I don’t think Alexander saw it that way,” Mak says.


“Those sorts of things are par for the course in triple threat matches,” Clark chimes in. “But I’m personally gratified that Landon’s beating—I mean, the match—isn’t over just yet.”


Manson lifts Landon up into a seated position and delivers a vicious kick to the base of his spine. His back arches in response as a hiss of pain escapes him. The Stampede drops a nasty elbow across the bridge of Landon’s nose. This time a hiss escapes from Megan Skye as Landon rolls on the mat in pain.


“MANSON continues to punish Landon with a kick to the spine and then an elbow to the face,” Mak says sadly. “It looks like Alexander is holding back a little, though.”


“He just doesn’t want to get in MANSON’s way,” King brushes aside the idea of any dissension. “Why not take a little breather while MANSON does what he does best?”


Manson smiles evilly at Megan, and says just loud enough for the ringside camera crew to catch, “How’s your neck?” Her reply is mercifully bleeped by the censors as Manson laughs. Meanwhile, Alexander positions Landon face down on the mat, and leaps up to drop a thunderous knee right to the back of his head, smashing his face into the mat!




“You know,” Clark remarks, “if they keep us this work on Landon’s face, I can probably work him out a gig as a Pirate extra once his wrestling career is cut mercifully short. Disney has great hours and benefits for its employees, Landon.”


“Once MANSON is done with him, I don’t think he’ll be in any shape to work at all,” King replies happily.


“Disney prides itself on being an inclusive employer,” Clark adds seamlessly. “Equal opportunity for everyone!” Clark beams a smile at the announcer cam.


The Mad Scientist smirks as Landon flails on the mat clutching his face. Alexander lifts the brutalized Landon and whips him roughly into the turnbuckle. At a growl from Manson, Alexander steps aside as the Raging Bull barrels into the corner, springing up to hit a high knee…but Landon ducks aside, and his foe crashes into the corner knee first, his elevated center of gravity and momentum carrying him over the top rope before he can stop himself!




“There’s something I was going to say about chickens and hatching, but I forget,” Mak snipes wryly.


“That sneaky little !” King snarls, then turns to Clark. “Stop that! How am I supposed to give Landon the verbal abuse he deserves if you keep doing that?!”


“Sorry, King, but that sort of language really is inappropriate.” Clark’s cheery demeanor is seemingly implacable.


Alexander, strangely smiling at his sometime partner’s predicament, approaches Maddix to continue his own assault as Black begins to count Manson out. Hoisting his opponent up, Alexander peppers Landon’s head with several forearms.


“It looked like Alexander wasn’t altogether unhappy with MANSON dropping himself over the top rope,” Mak notes. “This might give him a chance to take this match if he can capitalize.”


“Now that MANSON has done the damage, he’ll have it easy. HE has graciously given his partner the chance for a little bit of glory here, that’s all.” King reassures himself.


“Opportunity doesn’t knock twice,” Alan Clark pipes in. “He better make the most of it; rookies don’t get this kind of chance very often.”


He whips Landon off toward the opposite ropes, but Maddix holds on to Alexander’s wrist, yanking the Evil Genius forward and locking his arms around his opponent’s head and shoulder, and then snapping himself backwards and down, planting Alexander face first into the mat with the Complete Shot!




“Maddix with the Complete Shot! The tide may be turning again!” Mak shouts.


“The only thing turning is my stomach,” King groans.


“Even Landon can hit a good move every once and a while,” Clark admits grudgingly.








Megan yells her support for Landon and the crowd echoes her sentiment.




Manson is hauling himself up to a vertical base again. He raises his head and grins wickedly as he notices Megan distracted by the in-ring events. The God Machine stalks toward her, a terrible gleam in his eyes. Megan discovers Manson’s recovery too late, as he grabs a handful of her hair drawing a gasp of pain, anger, and fear.




“This is uncalled for! MANSON’s assaults on Megan are despicable!” Mak decries loudly.


“Landon’s the one who keeps putting her in harm’s way,” King replies. “She has no one to blame but Landon, really.”









Landon staggers back to his feet at the crowd’s jeer and Megan’s gasp, seeing Manson assaulting his girlfriend and manager. Alexander is still stunned by the shot, and Landon runs across the ring, diving through the ropes right into Manson! Both men crash to the ground, and Megan manages to scramble away.




“Thank God Landon was able to put a stop to MANSON’s disgusting attack on Megan!” Mak sighs. “Now Landon needs to press this advantage he’s got before one of his opponents recovers.”


“Advantage?! Landon has no advantage! MANSON is just luring him into making a mistake…it’s all a part of HIS plan!” King declares emphatically.


“I hate to admit it, but Landon has a chance here if he plays it right. Sure he’s an Underdog™, but just like in Disney’s latest hit, you can’t count even an Underdog™ out!” Clark shills once more.







Landon pulls himself back to his feet, with Manson still lying on the floor. Smiling to the crowd, Maddix leaps up and stomps Manson in the gut with both feet, then leaping up again and dropping onto the Savage Messiah with a Senton drop! Manson grunts in pain and gasps in a vain attempt the recover the oxygen that just vacated his lungs.


“Landon hits with his stomp/senton combo! It looks like MANSON’s had the wind knocked out of him!” Mak cries.


“Don’t blaspheme, Francis! MANSON’s only resting. Even HE has to rest once per week, you know!” King desperately declaims.


“MANSON does look hurt,” Clark remarks with satisfaction. “But Landon may get himself counted out if he doesn’t watch it.”






Noticing the count, Megan quickly suggests that her man reenter the ring. Knowing the brains of the operation, Maddix rolls into the ring. He looks over the ropes to observe as Manson tries in vain to beat the count. Landon smiles as the referee finishes the count.





“NO!” King howls in anguish.


“It looks like MANSON has been eliminated,” Mak observes. “But in this match, one of the stipulations is that a count-out can eliminate one competitor, but it won’t end the match.”


Black indicates with a cutting gesture that the Savage Messiah has been eliminated. Maddix yells down, gloating over the snarling Manson. Megan hisses at him, but he shrugs, “What?”


Alan Clark smiles. “I’m not sure Landon got that memo,” he says. King continues to moan in horror.


Then Michael Alexander fires a vicious spinning back elbow into the back of Landon’s somewhat overinflated head. He staggers forward into the ropes, and as he rebounds, Michael Alexander catches him in a backdrop suplex position, lifting him up and spinning to drop La Cucaracha into a Blue Thunder Bomb! Megan slaps her forehead in frustration as Black drops for the count!


“The Event Horizon!” Mak yells. “Alexander caught him with his pants down, and it may cost him!”


“Mr. Francis, that kind of imagery has no place on a family show,” Clark advises.












“Alexander got him!” Mak cries. “Landon let himself get distracted by his feud with MANSON, and it cost him!”


King recovers slightly from his despair. “Well, MANSON obviously wanted to allow his protégé a taste of greatness. At least Landon lost, and that’s really what’s important.”


Maddix holds the back of his head with a confused look on his face as Megan whispers an annoyed explanation. Manson fumes, slapping the mat in anger as he pulls himself back into the ring. Jack Black raises Alexander’s hand and Funyon howls, “Here is your winner of the Triple Threat Match…MMMMMMMMMIIIIIIIIICHAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEELLL AAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLEXAAAAAAAAAAANNDERRRRRRRR!”




Manson and Alexander then turn toward Landon, who is following Megan’s direction and leaving the ring. Manson growls something to Alexander, who shrugs.


“Are you sure about that King?” Mak asks pointedly. “It looks like MANSON is not very happy with his protégé’s win.”


“MANSON’s only disappointed that Landon has weaseled his way out of the pummeling he so richly deserves, Francis.”


“Interesting to see the rookie here picking up a win against Landon after beating Spike Jenkins at Ground Zero,” Clark remarks thoughtfully. “Not that either win was a great or unusual accomplishment, mind you. It just shows you that he’s got more of a reason to get a title shot than either of the two in tonight’s main event.”


“I think Jenkins and Hawke would disagree with you there, Alan,” Mak replies.


MANSON alternates glaring at Landon Maddix and Michael Alexander as we...




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Francis: “And it is just about time for our main event this evening. Last week, a confrontation in this very ring led to Jay Hawke challenging Spike Jenkins to see who is more worthy of another shot at the SWF World Heavyweight Championship.”


King: “I can answer that without the match even starting. Jay Hawke.”


Clark: “Well, let’s bear one thing in mind here. Number one, I’ve already beaten both of these guys. Number two, this is not an official number one contenders match. At this point, they’re fighting to impress me and the championship committee with no guarantee of a reward.”


Francis: “After the confrontation last week, I’m not expecting a wrestling match. I’m expecting a fight.”


King: “A fight that Jay Hawke is sure to win.”


Clark: “That remains to be seen.”


Francis: “At any rate, we need to get to Funyon for the introductions.”


Funyon: “This is the main event of the evening, scheduled for one fall with a one hour time limit! Introducing first….”


Hold the phone there, Funyon, and Jay Hawke and Spike Jenkins apparently began brawling backstage, as they come out through the curtain in Nassau exchanging forearm smashes.


Francis: “It’s getting chaotic out here!”


Clark: “Getting chaotic?”


King: “I just hope these two stayed out of my locker room!”


Jay Hawke attempts to lock Spike Jenkins into a front facelock, but Spike Jenkins backdrops him. Hawke rolls down the aisle ever so slightly, then pulls himself to his feet. Spike is waiting for him, catching him with a dropkick that sends him further down the aisle.


Francis: “And now they’re getting dangerously close to the ring.”


King: “Good. Better there than out here where they can hurt us.”


Jay Hawke begins to crawl away from Spike Jenkins and makes his way to the apron. Spike follows him right in, catching him with a couple of European uppercuts that send the Dean of Wrestling staggering backwards. He moves in, but Hawke grabs him by the tights and uses them to slam Spike shoulder-first into the ringpost.


Francis: “What a sickening thud.”


Clark: “That’s going to leave Spike vulnerable to the Wing Span.”


Jay Hawke grabs a steel chair from one of the ringside officials. As Spike turns around, Jay Hawke levels him in the head with it. Spike is unable to block, and he crumbles to the floor.


Francis: “Oh my God.”


Referee Nick Soapdish begins to chastise Hawke, but as Hawke rolls Spike into the ring, Hawke yells “You can’t disqualify me! The match hasn’t started yet!”


King: “He’s right! The match hasn’t started yet!”


Francis: “And now Jay Hawke is picking up the lifeless body of Spike Jenkins and rolling it into the ring. Nick Soapdish is going to have no choice but to ring the bell.”





Jay Hawke enters the ring and locks the limp carcass of Spike Jenkins into a front facelock. He pulls Spike to his feet, then points at Alan Clark at ringside before dropping Spike face-first to the canvas.


Francis: “DDT, and Hawke going into an arrogant cover…”















Francis: “And he picks up an easy victory.”




Jay Hawke looks down at Alan Clark, saying, “One more time just for you.”


Clark: “Now what is this?”


Jay Hawke pulls Spike to his feet again, then takes him down with another DDT. Officials immediately run out from the dressing room to check on Spike Jenkins as Jay Hawke looks down at Alan Clark, making the universal “I want the belt” pantomime.


Clark: “You haven’t proved anything to me yet, Jay. You haven’t proved anything.”


Francis: “And you can bet that Spike Jenkins isn’t going to take this one lying down.”


King: “Have you looked in the ring? That’s exactly how Spike’s taking it right now. Lying down.”


Francis: “But you can bet that once Spike comes to, revenge is going to be on his mind. For all of us here at Storm, have a good night, everybody.”


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