Official Unofficial Losing Match Thread

[Mad Scientist 0]

“Fans, we’re back for our main event!” Mak Francis exclaims as the cameras focus once again on the ringside area. “This one is shaping up to be a serious battle, King!”

 

“You’re damn right it’s serious, Francis!” the Suicide King gripes. “The SWF World Heavyweight Championship is going to be on the line against an escapee from a bargain-basement asylum! Michael Alexander, a legitimate wrestler and a paragon of championship caliber, is being dragged into a garbage match gutter by that wackjob Luchador! And to add insult to injury, they had to book the show in CANADA.” As King finishes his diatribe off with a snort of derision, the cameras pan around ringside, as some artistically adept and some artistically challenged fans hold aloft signboard proclaiming, “Insane Luchador for President! Can’t get any worse…!” and “Michael Alexander’s School of Tap: No legs required!”

 

“Well, King, you can’t argue that the Luchador didn’t earn this shot…in the last few months he’s clawed his way past Va’aiga and MANSON to earn his place as the number one contender. And because of that, he got to pick his own stipulation – a 2 out of 3 falls hardcore match.”

 

“Yes, Francis, Rickmen has admittedly fought his crazy head off to get here and to drag the SWF World Heavyweight Title down to the level of a midcard garbage match. Well, he knows he’s outmatched, so he’s tried to stack the deck in his favor. That much I understand, but it’s disgusting that the best damn wrestler in the SWF today has been reduced to a dumpster-diving brawl with the SWF’s resident psychotic.” King’s pouting expression is nearly audible in itself.

 

Funyon lumbers his way into the ring, microphone in hand. Referee Matt Kivell is leaning over the top rope talking to three other junior referees, reminding them that they are next up if he is incapacitated at any point in the match. The men nod somewhat nervously, obviously worried about being put in the line of fire in a hardcore match. Funyon smiles broadly as he once more takes his last remaining opportunity for tonight’s spotlight. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the following match is tonight’s MAIN EVENT!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“This match will be 2 out of 3 falls, contested under HARDCORE RULES!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“And it will be for the SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP!”

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

“First, the challenger…hailing from Easton, PA, USA, weighing in at 225 lbs…he is YOUR Psychotic Hero…THE IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANE LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

 

"Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains begins and a surge of red and black, yes black, pyrotechnics goes off. IL emerges from the lingering smoke and energetically throws his arms up into the air to rally the crowd.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

He sprints down the aisle while slapping fans’ hands until he hits ringside where he slides into the ring, rolls up, and then cracks his knuckles in anticipation, a disturbing smile on his scarred visage.

 

“Crazy or not, these people love IL here in Halifax!” Mak hoots.

 

“What can you expect, Francis? These halfwits and Molson-chuggers probably identify with Rickmen’s psychosis…and lack of any real talent…”

 

Funyon blares into his mike once again. “And the SWF World Heavyweight CHAMPION…”

 

“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.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Funyon continues as best he can over the din. “From Greenville, SC, USA…weighing in at 221 lbs….the Mad Scientist of the Mat…MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICHAEL AAAAAAAAAAAAAALEXAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDER!”

 

Alexander steps out onto the stage, and the flicker lighting stops dead. He gazes out over the crowd, and pats the SWF World Title Belt around his waist as he smirks at the crowd and the Insane Luchador. He then makes his way to the ring, trash-talking to the crowd. He rolls into the ring, taking up a position in his corner and stretching, adjusting his boots, apparently disinterested in his opponent or the crowd, while smirking to himself.

 

“Well, if Alexander is worried about this match, he’s certainly not showing it,” Mak observes. “He seems as arrogant as ever.”

 

“The word is ‘confident,’ Francis. And even if you are worried about a match, you never show that to your opponent.”

 

“Confident people recognize their limitations, King; arrogant people don’t believe they have any.”

 

“You’d know about limitations if anyone would, Francis…OW!” A solid thump is heard over the speakers as Mak’s quick smack causes King’s head to bounce of his table-mike.

 

“Looks like we’re about to get started,” Mak smoothly segues into commentary on the match once more as King grumbles something about his attorney. Matt Kivell glances at both men and calls for the bell…

 

DING! DING!

 

IL charges in his characteristic fashion, flinging up a forearm to take the champion down to the mat with deadly speed. Alexander tumbles to the mat, more from momentum and balance issues than anything. The Ill One attempts to drive a quick knee into the fallen champ’s head, but Michael is already rolling out of the way.

 

“IL starts things off in his own special way, charging dead ahead!” Mak pipes in. “If IL dictates the pace of this, it’s going to be fast and bloody.”

 

“And damned awful too, Francis. Don’t forget that part. Rickmen will drag us all down with him…” King moans.

 

The Mad Scientist rolls back to his feet quickly, but the Luchador is already in motion once again. He dashes forward, but this time Alexander catches him with a drop toehold, sending IL crashing to the mat. The Evil Genius floats over flawlessly into a front facelock, grinding it and forcing IL to support Michael’s weight as well as his own if he tries to rise.

 

“Ha!” King guffaws. “Now that nutty fake Mexican is going to get what’s coming to him! He’s in a wrestling hold, and we all know that Rickmen couldn’t wrestle his way out of a wet paper bag!”

 

“Fake Mexican?! What are you talking about?” Mak asks hesitantly.

 

“Well, if he’s a Luchador, doesn’t he have to be Mexican, Francis? Or is that where the Insane part comes in?”

 

“We’ve got a match to call…”

 

The Luchador manages to force himself back up to his feet, but Alexander keeps grinding on the facelock. IL fires off a series of short forearms into the ribs of his opponent, loosening the facelock and allowing him to slide free. The Ill One then fires another forearm into Alexander’s head, staggering the champion back into the ropes, from which IL promptly whips him. Breaking the normal format of such things, the Luchador charges right after his opponent, connecting with a flying forearm just as Alexander hits the opposite ropes, causing the Evil Genius to topple headfirst over the top rope.

 

“Well, it looks like the Ill One manages to get out of that predicament, even if he didn’t wrestle out of it,” Mak points out.

 

“Direct force can work for anyone, Francis. Simple solutions for a simple mind.”

 

“Simple works just as well as complex, King. Most of the time, it works better.”

 

Alexander tumbles to the floor, managing to land on his feet but still looking stunned, and he leans on the guardrail outside for support. The Psychotic Hero keeps moving, though, bouncing off the opposite ropes and charging back to spring over the ropes at his opponent in a huge Spaceman plancha! He connects, crushing Michael between his hurtling body and the guardrail. Both men collapse to the floor.

 

“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”

 

“I-L! I-L!”

 

“Good Lord! IL has officially commenced with his style of match, King! The first plancha!”

 

“It doesn’t really start until he pulls some random piece of junk out and starts swinging it, Francis.”

 

The Luchador gets back to his feet relatively quickly, drawing more cheers. He smiles as he points underneath the ring, and the crowd explodes!

 

“YYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“HARD-CORE! HARD-CORE! HARD-CORE!”

 

IL reaches under the ring, dragging out a 2x4.

 

“And there it is!” King spits. “The official signal of the worst thing to happen to the World Title scene since Landon Maddix was champion! It would figure that this fiasco would be booked on his watch!”

 

“Oh come on, King! You’re just being a drama queen now. You and I both know that the World Title has been contested in every type of match under the sun.”

 

“And that justifies repeating the same horrible mistakes over again how?”

 

The Luchador turns to swing the leftover construction material, but Alexander manages to grab his arm and drive a desperate knee into the Ill One’s gut. Another knee allows Alexander to wrench the 2x4 free. He tries a swing of his own, but as he swings, IL leaps up and dropkicks the board right into Alexander’s face!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“I-L! I-L!”

 

“Alexander tried to beat the Ill One at his own game, and he just learned why that’s a bad idea…” Mak grins.

 

“Oh, sure, Francis, relish this! In any sane environment, this nutball would be screaming from the inside of the pretzel Alexander had wrestled him into. Michael’s got to realize that you can’t beat this wackjob that way…he’s got to draw him out of his comfort zone.”

 

“Well, King, the only one uncomfortable right now is Michael Alexander, and he may be even more uncomfortable leaving the arena tonight without that SWF World Title!”

 

The Mad Scientist staggers back, dropping the weapon and falling against the ring apron. IL approaches him again, dragging Michael up to his feet…at which point Alexander pokes a thumb into the Ill One’s right eye. IL snarls in pain, and Michael takes the opportunity to grab his opponent by the hair and slam his head into the ring apron several times. Michael laughs at the crowd as he rolls the Luchador back into the ring.

 

“Michael makes a comeback! YES!” King almost squeals in glee. “That’s right, Mike, you’ve got to keep that rat away from his garbage heap!”

 

“Questionable tactics by Alexander, but I can’t argue with its effectiveness,” Mak admits grudgingly.

 

“Oh come on, Francis! IL just tried to use a 2x4 on Michael Alexander, and you’re whining about a little eye-poke? No disqualifications, remember?”

 

The Evil Genius smirks as he follows IL back into the ring, driving a series of cruel stomps into IL’s slowly rising form. He walks the stomps up IL’s right leg, beginning at the ankle proceeding to calf, knee, thigh, and the topping that off with a stomp to the back of the head.

 

“And here we have vintage Michael Alexander,” Mak states. “He’s methodically attacking IL’s leg…”

 

“Damn good tactics…not only is he taking the pins out from under this jumping bean, but he’s also setting Rickmen up for his trademark finisher. Now we’ll see how the Luchador stacks up without jumping around and weapons to fall back on!”

 

Rickmen grunts in pain at each stomp, but still struggles back up to his knees…at which point Michael Alexander cradles him with an Oklahoma roll!

 

“YES! Pin him now, Mike!” King yells.

 

ONE!

 

NO!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

“Not even close, but that doesn’t bode well that Michael Alexander was the first to put his opponent’s shoulders on the ground,” Mak pronounces.

 

“I disagree, Francis,” King chirps. “I think it bodes very well for all of us. It bodes that Michael Alexander is walking out of here with the championship, and the SWF will be saved…”

 

The Ill One kicks out furiously, scrambling back to his feet. He snaps off a series of kicks to Alexander’s legs and midsection, then feints a kick and uses the opening to crack Alexander’s head with an elbow. He follows that up with a kick to the gut and cinches in a front facelock, using his other arm to snap a couple of quick forearms shots to his foe’s back. Then, a wide smile on his face, he drives Michael Alexander’s head into the mat with crisp DDT.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“The Ill One came back with a flurry of offense, and he just planted the Champion with a nasty DDT!” Mak says.

 

“Bah…he’s just thrashing around before the end, Francis…he knows that Alexander will…OH NO…”

 

IL springs back up and leaps to the top turnbuckle, diving off with a guillotine leg drop…but Alexander manages to roll away at the last second! Rickmen grunts at the unexpected impact, but he still manages to get back to his feet before Alexander, who is shaking off the effects of that DDT.

 

“Michael Alexander managed to avoid that guillotine, but he’s still groggy from that DDT from the Luchador! IL’s the first to get back to his feet, and that’s bad news for Alexander.” Mak’s somber tone is belied by the smile on his face.

 

“Don’t look so smug, Francis,” King snarks. “IL’s going to get in a few shots, but we both know how this will end for him.” This time it’s King’s confident words that are robbed of their authority by the slight squeak in his voice.

 

Grabbing Michael’s head, the Ill One drags him back to his feet and pulls the Evil Genius into a Muay Thai clinch. He then drives a knee into the ribs of his opponent…once…twice…but on the third, Alexander clutches the knee to him, leaving IL hopping on one leg, which the Mad Scientist promptly clips as well, sending the Psychotic Hero to the mat. Alexander quickly takes the opportunity to apply a nasty step-over toehold, wrenching IL’s right ankle and knee at a painful angle. IL tries a couple of kicks, but he can’t really muster enough force from his back to make them matter. Alexander then changes position, sweeping his own leg over IL’s leg and dropping down into a sort of half figure four hold, pulling back and up on the Ill One’s foot, causing his knee to bend at an unnatural and presumably painful angle.

 

“The Ill One went for one knee too many there, and it cost him,” Mak laments. “If he can’t keep Alexander away from these kinds of positions, he can kiss his championship hopes goodbye.”

 

“He should pucker up then, Francis,” King laughs. “We both know how Alexander is once he’s latched on like this. After tonight, IL’s looney bin will have to add some physical rehabilitation to his headshrinking regime.”

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

The Psychotic Hero growls in pain and reaches up to grab Alexander’s hair…at which point the Evil Genius wrenches the leg again…but IL is nothing if not a glutton for punishment, so he holds onto Alexander’s hair, pulling the overlarge head back…and drives a vicious knee into the side of Michael’s head. One loosens the hold, and the second knee breaks it, with Alexander rolling away covering his head.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“IL with a couple of knees to Alexander’s skull! That will break any hold in a hurry!” Mak quips.

 

“It doesn’t really matter, Francis. The damage is done, and everyone knows it. Even the Looney Luchador out there.”

 

The Ill One struggles back to his feet, shaking his right leg gingerly to get the kinks out. Michael Alexander likewise gets back to his feet. This time it’s Michael that charges in, going for a single-leg pick-up, which IL manages to counter with a sharp elbow to the top of Alexander’s head, stunning him. The Ill One then cracks Alexander in the face with a quick knee, sending the Mad Scientist stumbling away, his back momentarily turned to IL. The Luchador seizes the moment, and Alexander’s head, plastering the Evil Genius with a bulldog! As Alexander rolls away holding his face, IL slides outside the ring.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“HARD-CORE! HARD-CORE! HARD-CORE!”

 

“The Ill One managed to counter another takedown by Alexander, and now he’s getting back into his own comfort zone!” Mak shouts over the din.

 

“Yes, Francis,” King jibes. “As long as he’s not in the ring, IL is comfortable. Makes me wonder why he’s a wrestler and doesn’t just work in some circus junkyard somewhere.”

 

IL stomps over to the announce table and grabs one of the extra chairs, snapping it shut and tossing it into the ring. He then grabs the discarded 2x4 and rolls into the ring. Alexander meanwhile, has noticed Rickmen’s intention and snatches up the chair.

 

“Take him down, Michael!” King shouts.

 

“I don’t think this is such a good idea for Alexander, King. He’s trying to outbrawl the Luchador…”

 

As IL comes at him with the 2x4, Alexander goes for an overhand swing with the chair, but the Ill One is just a little too quick and slams the end of the 2x4 into the Mad Scientist’s gut. Michael doubles over, the air punched from his lungs. The Luchador brandishes the board happily, then cracks it solidly across Alexander’s back, sending the Evil Genius to the mat. IL tries to bludgeon Michael once again, but Alexander rolls away just in time, escaping outside.

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

“And the Luchador comes out on top of the weapon exchange again,” Mak observes. “If Alexander wants to win this, he’s got to figure out some way to counter that expertise and the simple speed of the Luchador.”

 

“Thank MANSON that Michael managed to get out of there. He needs to take some time and break up that wackjob’s momentum. Then the Looney Luchador will get impatient and screw something up…”

 

Michael staggers around the ringside area leading up to the ramp. IL, impatient as always, charges toward the ropes, 2x4 in hand, leaping over the ropes…and Alexander promptly dives aside from the careening Luchador! But Rickmen holds on to the top rope, pulling himself back in to land on the ring apron! Before Alexander can react, he plunges at the Mad Scientist, clubbing him with the 2x4 right in the head. Michael staggers away, crumpling to the floor.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“Rickmen faked out the Champion! And he just nailed him right in the head with that 2x4! This could be the beginning of the end, King!”

 

“Oh, no,” King winces.

 

IL drops the 2x4 nonchalantly and rolls Alexander over, going for the pin!

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

NO!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Alexander kicks out, and as the camera focuses in, we see that a trickle of blood is quickly spreading across the forehead of the Evil Genius. With a look of frank amazement on his face, Rickmen glances at Kivell, who shrugs and holds up two explanatory fingers.

 

“I can’t believe it! After that shot, Alexander still kicked out! Say what you will about his attitude and tactics, Michael Alexander can take some punishment,” Mak says.

 

“Michael Alexander is the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, Francis,” King croaks as he slowly recovers from his horror. “Of course he can take punishment. And what’s wrong with his attitude and his tactics? He’s still the champion, right?”

 

“Right now he is,” Mak snipes.

 

IL leaps up and over the rising form of Michael Alexander, landing in a precarious balancing act on the rampside barricade, then springs back at Alexander! The Evil Genius has just made it back to his feet when the Luchador lands on his shoulders, scissoring his legs around Michael’s head and rolling backwards, carrying Alexander back down to the rampway in a hurricanrana! IL hooks the legs of his opponent, going for the surprise pin…!

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” shrieks King.

 

Kivell separates the two men as Funyon blares over the speaker system. “The winner of the first fall is…YOUR PSYCHOTIC HERO, THE INSANE LUUUUUUUUCHADOR!”

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“IL just got the first fall with that huricanrana roll-up! It’s 1-0 for the Luchador! Alexander’s on the defensive now. He’s got to win the next fall or it’s over, and Michael’s already bloodied…”

 

“Michael will win the next fall, Francis…that was just a…a fluke!” King swallows hard. “Just watch, Francis!”

 

IL does his best impression of a cheshire cat as Michael Alexander looks at him, seemingly stunned by the outcome, blood still trickling down his face. Matt Kivell calls for start of the next fall. IL braces himself to plunge once more into the breach…but Michael Alexander immediately makes a dash up the ramp! IL shakes off a stunned look of his own at this unexpected action, and charges after the champion. The crowd has its own interpretation.

 

“BAWK! BAWK! BAWK!”

 

“Did Alexander just turn and run?!” Mak chokes in disbelief.

 

Even King seems perplexed. “No, no, he must have just felt sick, that’s all!”

 

“Oh, please,” Mak snorts.

 

The extremely mobile and cross-trained SWF cameramen follow the two, as does Matt Kivell. IL is easily catching up to Michael Alexander as the Evil Genius tries to evade him. Rickmen springs at Alexander, tackling him to the ground. Alexander scrambles to get back to his feet, but IL manages to grab him by the hair and slam his bloody face into the floor a couple of times to slow things down. Smiling at his dazed opponent, the Ill One walks over to a nearby crate, pulling out a large duffle bag. He unzips it and unsheathes his trademark weapon, Excalibur! Watching this on the Smarktron screens, the audience booms!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” King groans. “What kind of psychopath comes up with that kind of abomination? What kind of sick bastards cheer for it?”

 

“You had to know that Excalibur was going to make an appearance tonight, especially after Alexander’s diatribe. Michael’s been trashing IL and his milieu, and now the Luchador’s going to deliver a little comeuppance, I think.”

 

“Francis, did you just say ‘milieu?’” King gawks. “You do realize this is a professional wrestling show, right?”

 

“It’s a perfectly normal use of the word.”

 

“Webster’s Online Dictionary just got an additional fifty thousand hits. Unfortunately, none of these idiots could spell the word correctly…”

 

Meanwhile, the Evil Genius has regained his senses and noticed this development. He immediately takes off again toward the concessions area. IL comes after him now, brandishing Excalibur wildly. As he rounds a corner we see him stagger back with a snarl as a cloud of white surrounds his head and upper body. We then see Michael Alexander smiling now, holding a ripped bag of flour from one of the pretzel vendors’ supply booths.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK!”

 

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” King gasps for breath. “Oh, that was awesome! IL asked for this, so it’s all legal!”

 

“Alexander just earned his ‘Evil Genius’ moniker right there. That was a dirty play, but it was a master stroke in this match. IL can’t see, and it’s tough for even him to fight blind.”

 

IL rubs at his eyes with one hand as he tries to swing Excalibur defensively. Michael methodically picks up a six foot bar of scaffolding material and takes careful aim…finally swinging the makeshift quarterstaff at IL’s right leg! The Luchador howls in pain and rage as his leg buckles underneath him, pitching him to the ground. IL loses his grip on Excalibur, dropping it. The Evil Genius then proceeds to crack the Ill One across the back and head with the scaffold-bar.

 

“Michael Alexander is finally able to take advantage of the hardcore stipulation after he’s blinded the Insane Luchador. That bag of flour and a bit of steel bar just brought the outcome of this match back into question.” Mak shakes his head.

 

“No, Francis, that flour and steel bar just reaffirmed the outcome of this match. Michael Alexander…still the Champion!”

 

IL continues to rub at his face while he curls into a more protected position. Michael then drives a brutal kick right into the side of IL’s head, and IL slumps face-down to the floor. A wicked grin twisting his bloody face, Alexander grabs IL’s legs and folds them into position around his own, pinioning IL’s right foot behind his calf, then he falls back to tie the Gordian Knot!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“The Gordian Knot!” Mak yells. “It’s cinched in, and there are no ropes to grab back there!”

 

“It wouldn’t matter if there were, Francis! No DQ, no rules but pinfall and submission. Even if the Looney Luchador found ropes to grab, it wouldn’t help! There’s only one thing that’s going to help him. For IL, relief is spelled T-A-P, Francis,” King hoots at his own bad joke, which would have been worse had most of the audience understood how anachronistic it really was.

 

IL’s eyes, still bloodshot and watering from the pretzel flour, snap open in surprise and pain. The Mad Scientist rocks his weight back and forth, wrenching and twisting the hold with either a zeal or a desperation altogether new to his time in the SWF. The Ill One groans in pain. The audience chants and stomps its feet, trying to come to his aid.

 

“PLEASE DON’T TAP!”

 

IL glares around furiously. There are no ropes to grab. He hears the audience…

 

“…DON’T TAP!”

 

He knows they can’t help, no matter how much they cheer and stomp. But he listens to them, and he knows there’s only one way out of this…

 

“…TAP!”

 

He knows he can’t stay in this hold long if he doesn’t want to have to try to win another fall one-legged.

 

TAP! TAP! TAP!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Take that, Rickmen! One down, one to go! Finish him off, Michael!” King claps his hands until Mak’s glare stops him.

 

“It’s 1-1 now, folks,” Mak pronounces. “And unfortunately, with the damage inevitably done by that hold, I have to say that it’s advantage Alexander.”

 

“Fortunately, you mean,” King corrects him.

 

Kivell seperates the two men once again, forcing Alexander to reluctantly break the hold. Funyon once again warbles the speakers. “The winner of the second fall…THE MAD SCIENTIST OF THE MAT…MICHAEL ALEXANDER!”

 

Kivell keeps the two men apart until the announcement is made, but the instant Funyon’s echo fades, Alexander charges at IL, peppering IL’s right leg with a series of vicious kicks. The Luchador stumbles to one knee, allowing the Mad Scientist to drive a quick knee right into the Ill One’s flour-paled visage. As IL crumples back to the floor, Alexander glances away for a moment, and his foreboding flash of a smile returns.

 

“Michael’s right back on the attack,” King smiles. “He smells the blood in the water from IL’s leg, and it’s only a matter of time!”

 

“I hate to agree, but IL took a serious beating there with that steel bar and then getting trapped in the Gordian Knot…I don’t know if he can fight back from that.”

 

He stalks away from IL, who is fighting to get back to his feet. Alexander reaches down under a nearby table and draws out…EXCALIBUR!

 

“Yes! Yes! YES! Do it, Michael, do it!” King’s eyes almost glow with anticipation.

 

“This is bad, very bad,” Mak bemoans. “But Rickmen brought that thing out…”

 

“You’re damned right he did, and it’s about time he got a taste of it!” King rubs his hands greedily.

 

Michael seems unaccustomed to the oddly-weighted visual cacophony of a weapon, but he quickly grasps the basics, smashing the fluorescent-light saber across the head of the newly risen Insane Luchador!

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

IL stumbles away, back toward the stage area. Michael follows him, a look of sadistic glee etched on his face. He swings Sword That Is Not a Sword again, cracking it across IL’s back, sending the Luchador tumbling forward, but still the Ill One is on his feet, instinct driving him forward. They reach the stage area again, with IL bumping into the spent pyro launchers as he breaks through the curtain. The Luchador turns back to Alexander as the Evil Genius bursts out, holding Excalibur high. IL tries to raise his hands to either catch or block the attack, but it doesn’t seem to work as the light bulbs shatter across his skull.

 

“Oh, how I love irony,” King gloats.

 

“I’m not sure that’s technically irony, King.”

 

“Well, I’m sure that steel bar was mostly iron, anyway, Francis.”

 

“Whatever,” Mak groans. “Alexander has bludgeoned IL bloody with Excalibur, and it doesn’t look like the Luchador can even defend himself anymore.”

 

“Good. That means that Michael can make this quick, and the Looney Luchador can get back to his dumpster or his asylum, whichever the ambulance drops him off at first.”

 

IL drops to the side of the stage like a felled ox, falling onto the auxiliary sound stage area. Michael tosses the spent weapon away, taking satisfaction as the shards crunch under his boots. He gleans extra gratification from the reddish tint some of the shards have acquired. He flourishes at the crowd and the camera, brushing his hands together in a motion that either indicates that he’s about to finish things, or that he still has some pretzel flour on his hands.

 

“Looks like Michael’s about ready to put an exclamation point on the night,” King chirps. “I think it’d be damn fitting to polish that loser off with the Event Horizon, myself.”

 

“I think that’s what he’s going for, King,” Mak replies. “This could be it for IL…after such a great roll, I hate to see it end like this for him.”

 

“As long as it ends with Michael Alexander still the champion, I don’t care, Francis.”

 

On the auxiliary sound stage ten feet above the arena floor, Alexander lifts the battered Luchador to his feet, moving into position behind him. IL’s face now matches the crimson mask of Alexander, with perhaps a little more pallor due in part to the remnants of his impromptu experience of flour power. Michael grabs IL from behind, lifting him into position for the Event Horizon…but just as the Mad Scientist begins to spin IL around, the Ill One kicks and wrenches his body out of Alexander’s grip, dropping to the ground on somewhat shaky legs. Before Alexander can react, IL snatches the surprised Mad Scientist’s head into an inverted facelock and drives said head into the stage with a reverse DDT! The impact from the move causes the stage to wobble slightly, but neither man is in a state of mind to notice such things.

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“Holy crap! IL just counter the Event Horizon with a reverse DDT on the sound stage! Alexander could be out!” Mak shouts over the howl of the masses.

 

“No, no, no! That’s not how it’s supposed to go!” King whines.

 

“IL need to end this now…he should pin him right now, while he can…” Mak warns.

 

As the Mad Scientist lies senseless on the stage, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the Psychotic Hero rises on unsteady legs…and looks up above him at the lighting booth’s scaffolding, some fifteen feet above where he stands…and he smiles maniacally.

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

“No, he’s not going to…” King trails off.

 

He hobbles over to the bottom of the scaffolding and begins to climb, his pace increasing along with his adrenaline as he reaches the top.

 

“He is, King! He swore that he was going to take Michael Alexander out, but I think this is a big mistake! The best way to beat a champion like Alexander is to take away his belt. IL’s going to take this too far…he could end both of their careers with this! Don’t do this, Rickmen!”

 

The crowd yells its approval as he gazes down on the supine form of the champion, still unmoving on the floor. When he turns his back to the edge of the scaffold, the audience’s yells crescendo into a full-throated roar that builds even more as he backflips off the scaffolding…

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH!”

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

Down…

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

 

Down…

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

 

…and finally he crashes onto Michael Alexander! The impact is incredible…so incredible that the supports for that sound stage can’t support it, and the small stage collapses, causing Michael Alexander and the Insane Luchador to tumble to the arena floor underneath the broken bits of the poorly constructed sound stage. Matt Kivell looks on in horror as the crowd chants alternately:

 

“HOLY SHIT!”

 

And…

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

“Oh, my God…we’ve got to get the EMT’s over there!” Mak gasps.

 

“I told you that man was a lunatic, Francis! I could care less if he ruins his own career, but it would be a travesty to rob the SWF of Michael Alexander!”

 

Kivell scrambles down to the floor from the main stage area. He moves the debris as best he can, trying to find the two men beneath. As he struggles to push a particular troublesome chunk of sound stage out of the way, the camera catches a look of disbelief on his face…and then he drops to count!

 

“What the Hell is Kivell doing?” Mak asks incredulously.

 

ONE!

 

“He’s COUNTING!” King shrieks.

 

TWO!

 

“I can’t believe this…” Mak says hoarsely.

 

THREE!

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

 

“MANSON, why have you forsaken us?!” King howls in lament.

 

The junior referees finally arrive to help clear away the rest of the sound stage. Neither Alexander nor IL are moving as the camera finally focuses on them…but the camera clearly shows that Michael Alexander’s left arm is lying across IL’s chest while IL’s back is undeniably on the ground. At the sight of this, the crowd begins a low growl.

 

“Wait a minute,” Mak says, his eyes wide. “Did I see that right?”

 

“Wha?” King says mid-sob, then glancing at his monitor, he marvels. “Is that right?”

 

Both men are being put on stretchers as Kivell whispers into Funyon’s ear. The big man looks surprised, but knows his role well enough. “Ladies and Gentlemen…” he begins. “Your winner…AND STILL SWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION, MICHAEL ALEXANDER!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“I-L! I-L! I-L!”

 

“YES! There is a God, Francis!” King’s manic glee almost squelches his microphone.

 

“I have to say that I did not expect that…” Mak says grudgingly. “It looks like Michael Alexander had a four-leaf clover, a rabbit’s foot, and a box of Lucky Charms cereal tonight, because he just managed to literally fall into that victory.”

 

“Ha! Luck had nothing to do with it, Francis!”

 

“Nothing to do with it?! King, he’s still out cold after that sound stage collapsed. They both are! How could it be anything but luck that they landed that way?”

 

“I call it divine intervention, Francis! God couldn’t let that sort of travesty occur, and He made His presence felt. MANSON must have put in a good word.”

 

“You’re incorrigible, you know that? A travesty did occur tonight, but luck or no, Michael Alexander has managed to keep his title. But mark my words, I don’t think it’s over between these two…not by a long shot. That presumes that either of these men will be in any shape to wrestle again after that ill-fated balcony sault.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure once the looney bin clears the Luchador to jump off things again, he’ll be back to make us all miserable,” King laments. “But Michael Alexander is still the champion, and that’s the important part…I just hope he’ll be alright after that.”

 

“You mean, they’ll be alright,” Mak corrects him.

 

“I thought I said ‘he,’” King replies. “Let me clarify…I hope Michael Alexander, the SWF World Heavyweight Champion, will be alright after that heinous assault by an escapee from a Tijuana madhouse.”

 

“Will you stop!” Mak groans. “Good night from Halifax, folks! Check out SWF.com for more details about this mess and what these two men’s recovery times are going to be…I just hope that no one’s been too badly injured.”

 

“Except for the Luchador, of course,” King adds.

 

“King, that’s just wrong. These two men gave us everything they had tonight.”

 

“What, Francis? You and I both know that IL doesn’t consider it a match unless he gets a new scar.”

 

Mak groans into his microphone. “We’ll keep you posted on the condition of both of these men. Good night, and God bless!”

 

The cameras focus on IL and Alexander being wheeled into waiting ambulances as we…

 

FADE OUT!

 

[King Cucaracha 0]

I'll try and add some thoughts soon, but I'll just re-iterate how damn close of a call it was for now. Both matches had plenty going for them. Certainly lived up to the hype you created between you two.

[Mad Scientist 0]

I'll try and add some thoughts soon, but I'll just re-iterate how damn close of a call it was for now. Both matches had plenty going for them. Certainly lived up to the hype you created between you two.

 

Hey, I'm not complaining. I think IL's match was ultimately better. But, darn it, this thing was seventeen pages long. I had to do something with it. Plus, I do love that flour power spot.

[King Cucaracha 0]

I'll try and add some thoughts soon, but I'll just re-iterate how damn close of a call it was for now. Both matches had plenty going for them. Certainly lived up to the hype you created between you two.

 

Hey, I'm not complaining. I think IL's match was ultimately better. But, darn it, this thing was seventeen pages long. I had to do something with it. Plus, I do love that flour power spot.

 

Oh no, I understand. I've been there before, many times.

 

For what it's worth...

 

Both matches were really enjoyable reads. If anything, I found your match a little easier on the eye, if only because your layout is closer to mine than IL's. Not that IL's is wrong, just that I can't do big blocks of text without needing to break it up. Anyway, your match was all entertaining and I liked the set-up in the early going with IL eager to get out and take the fight to the floor at the first opportunity. What probably swung it was the direction. The backstage brawl and highspot ending were all perfectly well done, but maybe didn't fit the World Title main-event spot the same way IL's match did. Had it been a Hardcore Gamers Title match the decision would have been even tougher I think.

 

Still, glad you posted it because it is well worth the read.

[Mad Scientist 0]

Oh no, I understand. I've been there before, many times.

 

For what it's worth...

 

Both matches were really enjoyable reads. If anything, I found your match a little easier on the eye, if only because your layout is closer to mine than IL's. Not that IL's is wrong, just that I can't do big blocks of text without needing to break it up. Anyway, your match was all entertaining and I liked the set-up in the early going with IL eager to get out and take the fight to the floor at the first opportunity. What probably swung it was the direction. The backstage brawl and highspot ending were all perfectly well done, but maybe didn't fit the World Title main-event spot the same way IL's match did. Had it been a Hardcore Gamers Title match the decision would have been even tougher I think.

 

Still, glad you posted it because it is well worth the read.

 

I see where you're coming from, but for me the high spot ending and backstage shenanigans were there to show just how unusual and unpredictable this type of match was. In my mind, it had to be different from a normal SWF World Title match, because that was IL's whole point in choosing the HRADKORE stip...I just couldn't see it ending in the ring, especially with the manic build we had done. And IL winning the world title without a moonsault off something insane? I couldn't conceive of it...until I read IL's match, anyway.

 

I wanted to do something that showed off how much the stip played into IL's hands and how desperate things got at the end...and I never could resist letting in some good old-fashioned irony into the ending of a word title match, especially one where the situation had become so personal between the contenders. IL had made it a point to take out Alexander, not just beat him...which I thought played into that sort of bait-and-switch ending. Unfortunately for me, IL wrote an awesome match, which my chaotic choreography couldn't beat when you laid them out side-by-side.