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King Cucaracha


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The pyro ignites as the SWF makes its presence felt in the Disneo-Christian compound of Orlando, Florida, at the home studio of...


"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Orlando, Florida, for SWF AftershoxXx! This is Mak Francis and the Suicide King, and we're looking at a great show tonight!"


"Damn, this is creepy, Francis. We're sitting at the same table as..."


"That's right, King!" Mak cuts in quickly to avoid naming the Elephant in the Arena, so to speak. "While we may not have a card to match Genesis, we will have some incredible action and we're certain to hear from some of the biggest names in the SWF!"


"I wonder if these poor bastards here will even know how to react to wrestling show? It's not like these Floridiots have seen one in...what, 20 years, Francis?"


"King, please, we're here to try and win people over, not talk down to them!"


"How can I avoid talking down to them, Francis? I can't speak 'Hooting Idiot.'"


Suddenly, the studio's lights drop into a dark flicker as a lonely bell tolls, being followed by the opening crescendo of rock that is Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls." The lights strobe with blues and whites as the Smarktron's video display heralds the entrance of the Mad Scientist of the Mat, Michael Alexander! As he steps out onto the stage, he shakes his head dismissively to the crowd. Even the audience in Orlando can understand this universal gesture of heeldom and they are not so far gone that they can't react accordingly.




"Michael Alexander is here! Maybe tonight won't be such a waste, Francis!"


"The Evil Genius is here, and I for one am going be really interested in what he's got to say about his performance at Genesis, King."


Michael Alexander rolls into the ring and calls for the microphone. "As you may have guessed, I've got something to say tonight. I spell that out for you because I know that you are all accustomed to having things verbally bludgeoned into your heads, given the normal inhabitants of this studio..."




"Looks like Alexander is still able to ingratiate himself to the crowd, King," Mak says sarcastically.


"He doesn't need to get these people on his side, Francis. Why would he? These people probably can't even read his T-shirt (available now at SWF.com) with a dictionary and a tutor."


The Evil Genius continues his lecture. "Now, I'm sure at least some of you have attention spans longer than 2 weeks, so you know the result of the Main Event at Genesis."




"And that result was a loss for Michael Alexander - Va'aiga is still the SWF World Champion! That's got to drive him crazy, King!"


"A man like Michael Alexander doesn't let one setback get to him like that, Francis. All Va'aiga did was avoid the complete humiliation of losing a belt that he had only just won."


Michael Alexander smirks to the hooting crowd. "Va'aiga, I've got to congratulate you. You managed to beat me. It galls me to admit it. But you know as well as I do that one match isn't the end of this project I've begun. You see, I want to show you something. You all might call this a breakthrough...I know I do. Roll the tape."


The Smarktron lights up to display footage from Genesis. The footage shows Va'aiga applying a figure four leglock to Alexander, clipped into the Maori's second attempt at the figure four, which Alexander countered with a small package.




Alexander nods indulgently and condescendingly to the crowd. "Yes, you should cheer for that. Unfortunately, you really have no idea why you should - but don't worry, I'm going to enlighten you. You see, VA'AIGA ACTUALLY APPLIED A WRESTLING HOLD. He didn't just stomp, punch or lariat. He WRESTLED. An amazing breakthrough for the Maori. The first step in the Maori's redemption has been achieved and now we just..."


Suddenly, the loud shouts of Pacifika Hip Hop star Savage ring out across the arena, cutting off the Mad Scientist's pedantry...



It ain't good, it ain't good 'cos you'll get jumped in my hood!


It ain't good, it ain't good 'cos you'll get jumped in my hood!


I'm hearin' you still talkin' that shit but none of your actions here are speakin' to me,

I'm talkin' it, walkin' it, my stompin' style will stop your movements,

Hold up who's this? Still leavin' you with cuts and bruises,

So stop your bullshit before I rock your face with a pool stick


The Maori Badass stomps out onto the stage with the SWF World Heavyweight Title draped over his shoulder. He tosses the Shaka sign to the crowd with a resounding "BOO-YAH!" for accompaniment.




"Cut my music!"


The Maori begins to stalk his way to the ring as he brings up his own mike. "That was pretty good editing, chump. How about we play a little Lariat...followed by me spiking your fat head into the mat and pinning your unconscious carcass? Or maybe the part where you stagger around like a drunken frat boy after I damn near kicked your f*cking head off?"


Michael Alexander's face shows a flash of anger, but he manages to force his smirk back into place as the Maori clambers into the ring. "I'm glad you were paying attention, Va'aiga. Unfortunately, you seem to have missed the point, just like all these simpletons. You see, Va'aiga, you couldn't get the job done with your blandly banal brawling. You did hit me with your lariat, one of the most feared strikes in professional wrestling. Twice. And it didn't work for you. As a matter of fact, it got you into the Gordian Knot more than once."




The massive Maori gets in Alexander's face, shouting into the microphone. "You know, you keep talking like I'm not standing here with this belt over my shoulder! There's your proof right there...I got the job done, and that job I did was beating the sh*t out of you until you couldn't get those shoulders off the mat! Who left in a bloody mess that night? Why don't you roll THAT tape, KEFE?!"


Alexander's smirk widens into his Cheshire grin. "There you go again, Va'aiga. You keep talking like you think this is over. I assure you, it's not. If you'll recall, I promised to teach you to wrestle. So far, I've think you've learned that your lariat crutch won't let you limp to victory every time. You've learned to apply one classic wrestling submission hold. Now, we can move past the preliminaries of your matriculation and start your true education..."


"EDUCATION?" The Maori snarls into Alexander's face. "Next time you watch that tape, check the full version. 'Cuz as far as education goes I just got an A+ in 'Beating Michael Alexander's Miserable Ass 101'. And you're welcome to find out that I got the skills to pass an advanced class."


The Mad Scientist snorts derisively. "I can see we might have farther to go with your instruction than I thought, Va'aiga..."


"Maybe I need to give YOU some more lessons in BLEEDING, *SSHOLE!" Va'aiga growls.


Before things can descend into violence, everyone is suddenly subjected to a 1980s flashback as Stan Bush's "The Touch" rolls out of the speakers.


You've got the touch!




After all is said and done

You never walk you never run



You got the moves, you know the streets

Break the rules, take the heat



You're at your best when when the goin' gets rough

You've been put to the test, but it's never enough...


Both men in the ring look toward the ramp, clearly irritated with being interrupted. Thoth steps out onto the stage, with Nathaniel Kibagami in tow. Thoth is carrying a microphone, because Kibagami's hands are occupied with a cigarette and a flask of something of uncertain, yet clearly potent, alcoholic content. "Hey. Hey. You two," he starts to stammer. “Hey. Hey. Hey. You're idiots.”




Michael Alexander speaks. “Who the hell do you-”


Thoth cuts in. "-Shut up idiots." Pause. Beat. “I don't mean to interrupt your tee-hee tickle party, but when I see giant talking penis #1 and giant talking penis #2 interrupt my breathing time, I get a little on edge.” Kibagami nods in agreement, and takes another swig from his flask of questionable provenance. “Look at Nathaniel here. Jackhole is on his... what is that, your fifth Adios Motherfucker? Va'aiga, have you ever had an Adios Motherfucker?”




Va'aiga points violently at Thoth. "Let me throw a couple of things out here Thoth. Point one - The Maori don't drink. Point two - Maybe you ought to ask your accomplice about the time I broke his f*cking neck and put him on the shelf for TWO YEARS before you flap your gums in my direction. I entered wrestling for one reason only. To kick people's a*sses. And this piece of gold here shows I've been doing my job, yet all I'm hearing is disrespect. Disrespect from someone you need to find an ancient history textbook to find when he was badass. Disrespect from a walking whiskey still. Disrespect from someone who tried to take my title away on his home turf and came up short. Alexander," the Maori turns back to stab his finger toward the Evil Genius. "You consider me an 'experiment'? The only experiment going on is how many times your head can get driven to the canvas without leaving you paralyzed."


"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Kibagami cheers mindlessly too, possibly... unaware that the man in the ring did terrible things to him?


Michael raises his microphone to speak.


“Hey buttslut, I wasn't done with you.” The voice coming out the microphone is not his, but Thoth's. “I asked you a question. Now you are going to answer it. And since I know your ooka-ooka-aka-aka brain can't even remember the last time you drank out of the toilet, I won't bother asking you again. Suffice it to say, maybe alcohol would somehow IMPROVE your brain function.”


Va'aiga rushes up towards the ropes and leans on them, fire in his eyes. “You are god-damn lucky that I'm not willing to turn my back on this punk-ass, or I would tear your shit apart!” He turns back to Michael. “Any time you want to get hurt, my man... come on.”


Michael Alexander snarls back. "Va'aiga, I can see this is going to be a long, tortuous process. Rest assured, this experiment has only begun..." He points then to Thoth. "Thoth, I know you've got history and apparently need an escort, but I'd advise you not to get in my way. It would be a shame for your return to end unceremoniously with a long-term schedule of physical therapy."


Thoth blinks. He raises his microphone, slowly, cautiously. “Michael Alexander, have you ever measured the length of your own cock?”


The crowd is dumbfounded. “King... what in the hell is Thoth trying to do here?” asks Mak Francis.


Alexander blinks in surprise, but his arrogance is sheer instinct. “I'll leave such things to those insecure enough to need affirmation. If that was a proposition, Thoth, if you swing that way, and that's your business if you do-”


“Look, Michael, I'm gonna cut you off right there,” interjects Thoth. “If you're trying to insinuate that I have sex with men, I'm afraid that's just not true. I mean, every time I might even think about it, Kibagami has already nailed a guy in the ass. I mean, on the way to the arena here, he fucked, like... eight guys. I mean, eight... hundred guys.” Thoth takes a moment to look at his partner; Kibagami laughs into his drink, possibly completely oblivious to anything that anyone has said out here. “But look, Michael, if you had ever measured your cock, you would know something. That something is that your cock is nowhere near long enough for you to beat me in the ring.” His jovial tone starts to lower. “Let me be serious for a moment, Michael Alexander. I have wrecked many, many lives in the course of my career. You're no different than any other human being that ever breathed air. When the time comes, neither you-” then, pointing to Va'aiga, “or you, can stop me. Maybe I want the World Title again. Maybe... I don't. But gentlemen, for the love of god, stop embarassing yourselves. Another fight between you two? The last thing our paying fans want to see is a rematch of two dorks trying to dork around in the ring. I'm off to find something... a little more interesting.” Thoth turns to leave as both Michael Alexander and Va'aiga start to come out the ring, shouting at him and Kibagami.


"Well, that was certainly interesting, King. Obviously, Michael Alexander still believes he's got something to settle with Va'aiga."


"Of course he has something to settle. He told you he was going to teach the Maori to wrestle. But Thoth's involvement adds a pretty interesting wrinkle to things. And what is Thoth talking about? He doesn't want the world title? What could possibly be more important that the World Championship, Francis?"


"I don't know, King. Thoth's been away a long time. Nobody knows why he's back or what his agenda is, and he didn't clear anything up tonight, other than that he might be really gay or something, some kind of creepy."


"What I want to know is, what bet did he lose to end up with that music?"


"Music is the least of what's coming involving these three, King."


"I mean, did he bet on the Patriots or something?"


"Enough, King! We've got a match to get to..."

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The house lights dim while the crackle of lightning and rumble of thunder interspersed with murmurs and incantations soon give way to distorted warbling, bringing the crowd to their feet.


“Welcome back to SWF AftershoxXx from Universal Studios, Florida, where Legs Flamingo will be facing a newly revived Manson,” begins Mak, as Flamingo awaits in the ring.


“Some sort of beast reawakened at Genesis and its name is Manson He’s taken care of Pete MacDougal and now Legs will be the next to face his wrath!”


The madness soon segues into ‘God is God’ by Juno Reactor as strobes pulse and spotlights roam the arena, while smoke billows out over the stage. The shrouded Manson soon steps onto the scene heralding his arrival, a deluge of jeers and insults greeting him as he then makes down the ramp.


“And now, hailing from Denver, Colorado, and weighing in tonight at two hundred and twenty pounds… MMMAAAANNNNNSOOONNNNN!”


His eyes dart left and right, frantically scanning the arena, before arriving ringside. He heads up the steps and enters through the ropes when the aluminum bat emerges from the open end of his cloak. Everyone inside retreats as Manson stomps about the ring with malicious intent and after surveying his surroundings, drops to his knees and crawls back toward his corner. He first discards the bat, letting it drop through the ropes and to the floor, then brushes back his hood as he stands, removes his mask and disrobes. He drops everything to the ground below, then crouches back down, ready to attack at any time. He anxiously rocks back and forth on his heels, waiting for the opening bell, when Flamingo steps back inside.




Kivell calls for the bell, and as soon as it sounds, the Messiah exits from his corner and heads straight for Flamingo! Legs avoids his brisk pursuit, dancing out of every attempt to grab him, but is soon roped into a tie up. Manson lands a short headbutt, breaking up the collar and elbow, then latches onto one of his arms to send him across the ring with an Irish whip. He goes for a high roundhouse on the rebound, ducked by Flamingo, but with his back to his foe, he comes back with a twisting enzuigiri to the side of the head!


“Twisting kick to the side of the head, taking Flamingo down!”


“Even this early on you can see he’s baiting Flamingo into everything he wants.”


The Savage Messiah brings Flamingo up to his feet, immediately unleashing a chop to the chest, knocking him back a step. He follows with an elbow smash to the jaw, and with a grip on Flamingo’s shoulder-length hair, lands repeat shots to the face until Kivell manages to break his hold. With Manson distracted, Flamingo leaps and lands a single-leg dropkick to the face! However, while Legs closes in, he stands, lands a roundhouse to the ribs, spins and extends his arm, cracking Legs with a spinning backfist!


“God Hand by Manson!” shouts Mak, as Flamingo again goes down.


“His newly refined offense is giving Legs an answer to everything. You could say Flamingo doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”


Manson heads for the ropes, bounces off and comes back with a wild Flashing Elbow, however, Flamingo rolls aside and avoids. He stands and jumps into the air, coming down with a single-leg stomp, driving the air out of the Raging Demon! Manson comes up, trying to catch his breath, as Flamingo locks in a facelock and drops him with a One Legged DDT!


“Well, let’s not speak too soon, because he just dropped your boy!”


“Hmph. It means nothing.”


The Messiah comes up dazed, as Flamingo follows with a kick to the stomach. As Legs closes in, however, this sets Manson off, as he unleashes a closed fist to the jaw, rocking Flamingo. He follows with more closed rights and lefts, soon dropping Flamingo to the mat. He then mounts Flamingo, continuing his barrage, until Kivell has enough and manages to drag him off. Flamingo stands and Manson shoots in, sliding in underneath his arm, hooking him around the chest, then lifts and throws onto the back of his head with a uranage suplex!


“Uranage suplex after an aggressive rush by Manson!”


“There really aren’t many who can match up to him when he gets fired up like this.”


“You’ve said he’s much calmer and less calmitous than before, and I guess it shows in some areas, but as they say, it’s those types you need to watch out for.”


“Those angry, spur of the moment spurts will spell trouble for anyone, to be sure, as Flamingo just found out.”


Flamingo comes up slow, and is met by Manson, who sends him into the aisle-side ropes. Meanwhile, Manson dashes toward the opposite side, comes back, and looks for the Iron Cutting Sword, which Flamingo ducks. However, as Flamingo runs through and hits the ropes, the Messiah follows and blasts him with the Killer Driller! He tumbles back, finding himself on the mat, as Manson goes for a cover.


“The leaping knee finds its mark! This one may be over!”










“It wasn’t quite enough,” muses Francis, “as Flamingo kicks out of it.”


“I’m surprised, maybe that attack of his isn’t up to snuff yet, if even he can kick out of it, but Flamingo is on the ropes.”


Manson stands and hovers over Flamingo, before bringing him up by his hair, and driving a knee into his stomach, causing him to stumble back toward the top right corner of the ring. The Messiah closes in, but catches a counter kick to the face, dazing him for a moment and allowing Flamingo to reverse position. Flamingo begins landing kicks and knees to the legs and mid-section to a trapped Manson. He then attempts a whip to the opposite corner, which is reversed. As Manson follows behind, Flamingo hits the turnbuckle, but catches a heel to the face, as his opponent somersaults and lands a koppou kick!


“Rolling Koppou into the corner by Manson!”


As Flamingo barely hangs on to the top rope with the tips of his fingers, Manson heads to the apron with a handful of Flamingo’s hair in hand. He ascends the turnbuckle, keeping his hold on Legs, and gives and crowd a chilling slice of the throat with his thumb, then dives off the top, driving his knee into the back of Flamingo’s head as he lands!




“Now it’s OVER!” shouts Suicide King, while Manson goes into a cover.













“Your winner,” booms Funyon, as Kivell raises Manson’s hand, “by pinfall… MMMAAAANNNNNSOOOONNNN!”


‘God is God’ begins, as Manson exits the ring and heads up the ramp, to the boos of the crowd, while Kivell checks on Flamingo in the center of the ring.


“Another win in the books for Manson! He gets the job done with the Calf Branding. Rather, the Dream Killer, as he calls it, just as he did at Genesis!”


“As if there was any doubt. I wonder if Flamingo had any idea he was being fed to the wolves tonight, but even a minor victory only serves as another chapter in his resurgence.”


“And so Manson comes up with the victory, but up next is Tod James Stewart and Daniel Smith versus Panic and Danny Meadows, so stay tuned!”

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A Day in the Life: Taiga Star.



10:30 AM

The alarm goes off in Taiga's room. The radio, tuned into the local news station. A hand reaches out from under a pile of blankets on the floor. It reaches up onto the milk crate, not to turn it off, but to turn it up. More movement from the blankets reveals a bleary eyed and tangled-hair Taiga Star.


She sits up wincing. Like most wrestlers, Taiga is in pain when she wakes up. It takes her some minutes before she sits up again. Stretching and grunting, she makes it to her feet. She bends forward and touches her toes. She bends as far back as she can. A strip of ghastly white flab is seen between her shirt and pink Care Bear pajama pants.


A pile of clean clothes on the floor is picked through and items are chosen; underwears, dark jeans, and t-shirt cut into a tanktop, bearing the logo of some random indy beer company no longer in business.


She unlocks the door and it is then we notice how small the room is, jail cell sized, holding a thin futon matress on the floor, the milk crate, a small school desk with an attached chair, and a pile of clothes on the floor.


She walks down the hall just to discover that there's already a line at the bathroom. Ugh, she says to herself, I've got to get a new place.




12:00 NOON

Inside Taiga's real home, her beloved pickup truck, Taiga is driving while eating. Technically her breakfast, consisting of trashy Krystal hamburgers and an extra-large, extra-strong coffee.



"Yeah, I know these things are horrible. And they totally don't help my ulcer. I usually get something decent to eat at the arena." Taiga is talking to the camera, but if the camera was not there, she would be talking to herself. Like uaual. "Yes, I talk to myself a lot. But at least I know what I'm talking about." She swerves to avoid a little old lady pulling out of a side street. "Usually, anyway."


Taking a turn leads her down a bumpy country road. Eventually she comes upon a house, a little run-down house tucked away in the corner of a long-overgrown wheat field. She parks the truck and jumps out, taking her coffee with her. She knocks on the door, and it is answered by an older black man, long dark grey dreads spill from a colourful rasta hat. "Hello Missus Star! It alway' nice to see you!" he greets her in a musical, Jamaican-tinged accent, inviting her into the house.


The camera goes to follow her but she stops him. "No, sorry. You're going to have to wait in the truck."




1:00 PM

The door of the house opens, releasing a billowing purple cloud of smoke. Several people emerge; the older dreadlocked man, an equally as dark order woman, wearing an African-style caftan and hat. Taiga follows suit. Behind her are others, people of all sorts of shades of Caribbean sun-kissed skin. All are laughing and smiling, all have bloodshot squinty eyes.


Hugs are exchanged between Taiga and all the members of the household before skipping back to her truck. Opening the door, the bright green and burnt smell reach the camera boy. He sighs, slightly concerned about his safety as Taiga turns the truck around and heads back toward civilization.




2:30 PM

After a safe trip, the truck pulls into the parking lot of the {censored} arena, parking in the back. Taiga emerges, stretching after the long drive. She grabs her purple and black Hello Kitty duffel bag with her, locks the doors, and makes her way to the arena. The large overhead door is open, letting in the cool autumn air. Taiga walks to her locker room, unlocks the door, dumps her bag, and locks the door again.


Next she is in the cafeteria, eating the decent meal she promised earlier. White meat chicken, rice, green beans, carrots, a salad, three meatballs, vegetable and barely stew, a slice of olive and mushroom pizza, and a brownie; washed down with a large amount of tap water.




4:00 PM

Taiga is standing, facing a tall, rather large man. Fat, okay, a rather fat man. Fatter than Taiga by at least three times. And did we mention taller? Tall enough that his face is off camera.


"So, you got that?"


An answer is heard in a Mexican-accented voice. "What about the tacos?"


"You'll get your tacos, after the match. After you do what we agreed on." Taiga thinks for a moment. "Are you sure you don't just want the money? You can buy whatever you want then. Burritos, fajitas, guacamole..."




"Okay, okay. You will have them after the match. Oh, and one more thing..." Taiga reaches into her pocket, producing a generic, dark green satin wrestling mask. "Keep this. You'll need it later."




"No, not tonight. But I plan on needing your help again, and when I do, you'll need this."




6:30 PM

"I should probably just live in my locker room." Taiga muses to herself, sitting on the floor, her laptop on the bench in front of her. "Here, at least, I have my own bathroom. And shower." Indeed, her hair is wrapped in a towel, and she is wearing a purple fuzzy robe.


Checking emails, Spaces, journals and boards, Taiga taps away at the keys. She sighs. "Damn smarks."




8:30 PM

After a brisk workout, consisting of stretching, weight lifting, and dancing like a spaz to thrash metal, Taiga is back in her locker room. She is somewhat in her gear, black singlet over a somewhat lacy black bra, and cut off camouflage pants. Rainbow striped toe socks adorn her feet. Reaching into her bag, she removes a black tank top and slips it on over her head. The camera catches a glimpse of the scars on her forehead. They are almost as bad as the scars on her knuckles.


She smiles. "I'm getting paid to let you guys follow me around all day... and... I'm getting paid to beat the shit out of someone I don't like." She turns to the camera. "It's a good day."




9:30 PM

Standing behind the curtain, Taiga is in all her gear. Big boots, kneepads, wrist guards. She is whispering, not wanting to be heard by the surrounding workers, or her opponent, who stands not too far away. The only thing separating them is a stack of crates and a handful of security guys.


"See, I'm up for the {censored} Undisputed title. But honestly? I could give a shit less. I'm out here for a fight. You all know how much I hate X-Punk. Our hate runs deep, and it runs far. Not a surprise for anyone."


A wrestler and a lady come through the curtain, followed by another wrestler whose back is pricked with thumbtacks, being assisted by a referee. A man wearing a headset comes over to Taiga and tells her that she has two minutes.


"One more thing... X-Punk is going to be in for a surprise tonight. In fact, the entire {censored} is going to be in for a shock. Just wait and see."


She starts running in place, warming up for the match that lies ahead of her. "Oh, you have to go. You can't follow me out there. You know, legal bullshit. Buh-bye!" She waves to the camera for effect.





Taiga is smiling wide, obviously extremely happy after her match. "See, it all went off perfectly, without a hitch." She unfastens her wrist guards. "And I was right, everyone was shocked. Including Pat. He made a match for the next {censored} pay per view. Me versus X-Punk versus some other jobbers that I'm not going to bother to mention. With a special enforcer."


Taiga unties and unlaces her boots, making quick work of the labyrinth of laces. Next off come the kneepads, deep red lines show where the Neoprene and plastic dug into her skin.


"This special enforcer is someone who I've hated, since way before I started in this fed. He also hates me, but that should be obvious. That..." she gets quiet, "that might be a problem."


"Now, get out of here while I get dressed."





After getting her pay, discussing future bookings, gathering her things, and locking her locker room, Taiga exits the arena into the black of night. A few fans are waiting, autograph seekers, wanting a fleeing moment with one of their favourite wrestlers. Lately, the crowd has been quite the bit smaller than in the past. Thus is how it is, when one turns against the fed. The camera and herself climb into the truck and drive off into the night.




12:30 AM

Down a bumpy back road brings us to the little house in the field. Again she is greeted by musical, tropical voices and again the camera man stays in the truck.




1:30 AM

Taiga walks down the hall at the boarding house, ready to get some much-needed sleep. She reaches her door to find the lock removed and replaced with a bright red padlock. Outside the door sits two big green garbage bags, filled with what appears to be all her belongings.


"Fuck!" she shouts, kicking the wall. "I paid that old Chinese fucker two days ago!" She looks at her watch and stomps the ground in frustration. "Too late to go talk to him now. FUCK! Here, carry this." She hands one of the bags to the camera guy and she carries the other. Both bags are tossed into the bed of the truck. Taiga climbs into the driver's seat, but is stopped before she can close the door.


"Are you going to be alright? Do you need a place to stay tonight?" This is the first time the camera man is heard speaking all day.


Taiga stops for a second, perhaps surprised that someone gives a shit about her situation. "Nah, I'll be okay. Not the first time... not the last time. Another night in the truck, another morning at a truck stop, another day on the road." She closes the door and leans her head out of the window. "Story of my life."


With that, the truck pulls off into the night. Thus ends A Day in the Life.

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"We are coming to you from Soundstage number 21 in Universal Studios!" declares Mak Francis. "From deep in the heart of the Sunshine State of Florida, this is AfterShoxXx! He's King, I'm Mak, and partner, we're still feeling the after-effects of Genesis IX. The World champion Va'aiga holds onto his title against Michael Alexander; we've got NEW Tag Team champions in the form of the Breslin Brothers and we saw the return of none other than Thoth!"


"Bienvenido a Orlando, Makaroni!" replies Suicide King, doing a masterful job of ignoring everything that his colleague has just said. "We're in sunny Florida, the weather is awesome and I saw more white bikinis and lower back tattoos than I can count! I got my case of Coronita by my side, and I see you've pimped out your wheelchair with flowers. While that couldn't be any GAYER, I'm still PUMPED about the outcome of Genesis Number 9, Number 9, Number 9, little Beatles reference there, considering who's about to come out... Tonight we're gonna hear from everybody who's anybody, and I can't wait!"


"That and more, plus some scheduled matches tonight." adds Mak. "The next of which, like you said, is just about to get underway. It's The Sensational Academy going up against the Wrestling Clinic!"




"Ladies and gentlemen, this is AftershoxXx and this is the opening contest. A tag team bout, set for ONE fall!" begins Funyon, who despite the warm southern weather, will not be seen without his swank three-piece suit with a name that's Italian for "You can't afford me".


'Don't Believe The Hype' begins thumping out through the sound system as the tourist masses begin to lightly cheer, just like they've been instructed to do by the tour guides. The spotlights eventually dance around and light up the main entrance way.


"Introducing first," begins Funyon. "Hailing from England, at a total combined weight of 554 lbs: the team of Panic and Danny Meadows: The Sensationaaaaaalllll Academyyyyyy!"


The large man known as Panic marches out to the ring while his smaller partner known as Danny Meadows saunters out a few feet behind him; definitely happy to get some time in front of the cameras. In the worst display of chemistry since bacon bits and paint remover, the two can't even agree on who gets to use the ring steps first. Danny Meadows manages to bully his way up first, clambering up the steps and into the ring. This allows Panic to throw out one last "YYYEAAAH!" to the crowd before following suit and rejoining his partner in the ring. The Public Enemy anthem fades out, which allows another recognizable yet entirely different classic in the form of 'Helter Skelter' by The Beatles.


"And their opponents." pursues the announcer. "From Toronto, Ontario, Canada; at a total combined weight of 522 lbs: Daniel Smith, and Tod James Stuart: The G! T! A! Fight Team!!"


"It hasn't been a great month for Smith and Stuart, King." observes Mak Francis. "Unfortunately coming out on the losing end back at Genesis IX. Ben Hardy actually caught up with them just a little while ago..."


We flash back to Moments Earlier, as so helpfully pointed out by the small graphic in the corner. The pair of Canadians stand alongside Ben Hardy back at the interview area.


"Tod Stuart, Dan Smith." begins Hardy. "I would be remiss if I didn't mention your luck not exactly being what you'd hope for-..."


"Just say it." interrupts Tod Stuart, with a moreless annoyed demeanor painting his face.


"...What?" asks Hardy.


"I know it's on your mind and you're just dying to tell the world, Ben! Remind them of what is so fairly obvious!"


"...Erm. I'd rather not."


"That's okay. It's not the first time I've gotten this type of comment, if you will. I'm used to it!" says Stuart.


"Well--," begins Hardy.


"We're not exactly making our countrymen proud, are we?" interrupts Stuart once again. "We suck!!"


"...I-I didn't want to say it out loud." stammers Hardy. "Because he's, like, standing three feet behind me."


We pan the camera over a few feet to see Daniel Smith pacing around. A ticking timebomb ready to go off at a moment's notice. The glare he sends Ben Hardy's way is more than enough to make the interviewer squirm in his Doc Martens.


"That's the smartest decision you've made today, Benjamin. Our record hasn't been exactly lighting the SWF on fire, has it?" continues Stuart. "We had the chance of a lifetime, a shot at those tag team titles within our grasp. All we had to do was get past SIN and Tracey Bruner. Unfortunately, our NYC opponents had the advantage of SIN being just a little stronger and Bruner being TOO GODDAMN FAT! Therefore, we lost." he says, massaging a pain shooting through his ribs at the thought of the team that got the best of them. "And we're pissed. Not because they beat us. Because we took them for granted. So instead of dwelling, we're gonna go forward. Maybe even skip a few steps. Go on guys. Get your shot at the belts. Just know that we're not far behind. Whether it's you guys, or the Breslins. Doesn't matter. We want our shot. And we'll get our shot. In the meantime... I think Dan's ready to go beat up a fat guy."




Back to present, and the GTA Fight Team have already made their way into the ring. Judging from their demeanor, they seem to have forgone their usual routine of stopping to acknowledge the cheering crowd that greets them; opting for a more direct march to the ring. Referee Brian Warner even has to restrain them from their overzealous attempt to get this match started early. For their part, Panic and Meadows can't even come to an agreement as to who will get to start the match. Warner comes over in order to remind them that he needs one on the apron, but this proves no more successful than his earlier attempt at enforcing his authority. The Academy's decision is soon made for them as Daniel Smith arrives from seemingly nowhere and PLOWS into Panic with a clothesline that propulses the large wrestler out to the floor! Before Danny Meadows can react, Tod Stuart is immediately on him with a series of hard forearms to the side of the head! Smith quickly follows Panic to the outside in order to further neutralize him by tossing him into the nearby guard rail. Left with no other options, Brian Warner orders the opening bell to be rung.


"The Fight Team's coming out strong in the opening seconds of this bout!" notes Mak. "Like they said, they're not too happy about their defeat at Genesis and one would think that they're planning to take it out on the Sensational Academy."


"Yes." concurs King. "One being you and ONLY you, genius. I see a team doing their best not only to climb their way back up the ladder, but they want to rocket back up there and step on a few heads along the way if that's possible. It's true that we don't have the deepest tag team division around, but the Fight Team will be damned if they'll be left at the bottom of the rankings."


Before Danny Meadows can realize what hit him, Stuart already has him Irish whipped to the opposite set of ropes. Rearing back, he immediately knocks him down with a hard clothesline! Wasting no time, Stuart brings the Englishman up to his feet, only to reintroduce him to the canvas with a snapmare takedown. Quickly sensing the theme for the evening, Danny Meadows realize that he's about to have a long night, as barely two seconds go by before he can enjoy his seated comfort. Tod Stuart has leapt off his feet and blasts Meadows with a low dropkick to the back of the head! Rather than opt for a pincover, Stuart brings Meadows up to his feet once again. He traps him in a controlling front facelock and backs away to his corner, where Daniel Smith awaits with a slap to the back. Brian Warner confirms it as a tag as the larger Canadian enters the fray. Both men now back Meadows into their corner, making sure to spot Panic still on the mat crawling to his own corner. Using a powerful double Irish whip, Meadows is forcefully introduced to his corner, colliding hard back first. Dan gets ready to charge after him, but first waits for Tod to hop on his back. Once he's secured in position, Dan dashes forward and crashes into Danny Meadows with a corner splash with extra weight! Stuart then clambers down from his partner in order to peel off Meadows with a short Irish whip, right into a hard Smith clothesline! Completing the sequence they've dubbed the McSorley Special; Smith grabs hold of his partner and easily lifts him up in an atomic drop. After positionning himself, he drops Stuart into an elevated back splash onto Danny Meadows! Stuart retreats to his corner while Smith applies a lateral press. Brian Warner swoops into position.








Try as he might, Danny Meadows manages to will his shoulder up to the skies. The display of courage soon amounts to nothing as Smith easily lifts him back to his feet with another controlling head hold. He reaches his arm behind him, allowing Tod James Stuart to tag back in. Making full use of their alloted time together in the ring, the Canadians proceed with a double Irish whip to the ropes. They bend down in unison in hopes of a double high back body drop, but Meadows has the move well-scouted. He quickly puts on the brakes and sends a sweeping kick to the shoulder that briefly stuns Daniel Smith! He throws a mighty swing of the fist towards Stuart's head, but the Canadian ducks and traps the Englishman in a rear waistlock. Giving him no time to combat the hold, Stuart drives the back of Meadows' head into the mat with a German suplex! Maintaining the hold, he rolls to his side and back up to his feet; adding a SECOND suplex to his opponent. Still holding onto the quivering English mass, Tod has Meadows up to his feet once again and lifts him up for a THIRD German, this time Daniel Smith appears behind him and catches Meadows' head in a neckbreaker!


"Just as Danny Meadows Rides The Rocket, I know I'm repeating myself." says Mak. "But I look at Toxxic's guys and I don't really like their chances tonight."


"Sure, this appears to be a cakewalk for them right now," adds King. "but under no circumstances can a team like these guys get overconfident. This is what happened and the result was Tracey Bruner sitting on top of Tod Stuart's ribs for the 1-2-3 in under 10 minutes."


While Smith has gone back to his corner, Stuart quickly regains his feet and opts for waiting for his opponent to do the same rather than attempt a pinfall, somewhat going against Suicide King's advice.


"This is what I'm saying!" continues King. "They got their man down on the mat, and he's there counting the hairs on Danny's back. He needs to be extremely careful if he doesn't want this to bite him and the team in the ass."


Waiting with hands on knee and adding the international 'Come on, get up' gesture. After a few long seconds, Meadows is finally up... and will quickly go back down. Locking him in a Burning Hammer hold and cradling his head, Stuart sweeps Meadows' legs out from under him and RAMS the back of his skull into the mat!


"I love saying it because it gets on your nerves," declares Mak Francis. "But Danny Meadows is experiencing a little Brain Go Splat! That's Tod's signature move and I don't think Meadows is getting up from this one! The cover!"











Amazingly, the three count does NOT occur. Because Brian Warner barely has time to get out of the way of Panic and his lunging forearm blow on Stuart's back, breaking the pin! While Panic gets warned back to his corner, Stuart quickly walks over to tag his partner Daniel back in. The larger Canadian picks up the severely dazed Danny Meadows and contemplates just what he can do to him next. And just when it looks like he's made up his mind, he casually shoves Danny's carcass back into his own corner, having only eyes for the 300 lbs man that awaits. Panic initially looks on in puzzlement, but eventually takes the hint that he has to tag his semi-conscious partner. But his waffling and inexperience are his biggest detriments; because just as soon as there is enough physical contact to constitute a legal tag between the Academy guys, Daniel Smith has both of his hands around Panic's neck. In an impressive display of strength, Smith biels the larger man over the ropes and introduces him by force to the canvas! Panic doesn't have time to reel from the attack as Smith quickly strains to get him back up to his feet, capture him by the head and legs... and toss him down to the mat with a bodyslam! Panic, a man not used to being knocked down like this, does his best to instinctively regain his footing. But this is for naught as he suddenly feels Daniel Smith wrap his arms around his chest and near-leg. The end result is an impressive T-Bone suplex on the 312 lbs man! Smith can't help but unleash a deep mighty roar to the Orlando crowd, who returns the gesture with an impressed cheer.


"If I were the Breslins, or the NYC, or TKO; I would definitely take notice of this." begins Mak calmly. "Daniel Smith is usually a calm and reserved individual." begins Mak Francis. "He doesn't take kindly to things not going his way for him or his team. At Genesis, things did NOT go as planned for the Fight Team! And this is the end result: Daniel Smith, at 6'5", 285, IS THROWING AROUND A 300 LBS MAN LIKE HE WAS A CHILD!"


"Well, THAT analysis was about five seconds too long." scoffs Suicide King. "Despite your taking your sweet time getting to the point, I have to agree. We've only just begun to witness Dan Smith's potential, and I feel bad for the poor son of a bitch that'll stand in his way when he finds out just how good he truly is."


Like the proverbial turtle on its back, Panic can do no more than stumble around and try to regain his footing; obviously not used to being manhandled in such a manner. To follow this up, Dan Smith can only do one thing... and that is tag his partner back in. Tod Stuart does a quick hop over the top rope and into the ring, landing behind the form of Panic. And he immediately goes into his arms out pose, signaling only one thing.


"The GTA Fight Team have dominated this entire match, and now Tod James Stuart looks to finish things off with the Silent Scream!" notes Mak.


While Smith patiently looks on in a corner, Panic has managed to regain a knee. But this proves too little too late, as Stuart has crept up behind him; and locks in the Silent Scream! While not quite able to wrap the larger man in a body scissors, Stuart collapses to the canvas anyway all while furiously squeezing at the hold. In a last ditch effort, Danny Meadows staggers in for the save; but a heavy forearm shot to the jaw courtesy of Daniel Smith puts an end to his evening. With the blood flow being interrupted and the air rapidly leaving his lungs; lest he risk passing out, Panic has no choice but to finally tap out.


"Ring the bell!! orders Brian Warner.


As 'Helter Skelter' fires up in triumphant fashion, Stuart holds onto the Scream a second longer and finally releases the hold while Funyon makes it official.


"The winners of this contest, by submission: The G! T! A! Fight Team!!"


Tod Stuart and Dan Smith have no problems getting their hands raised by the referee, but they can't help but feeling a little upset that they couldn't have demonstrated the same kind of fire and determination back at Genesis. Such are the hardships of life in this crazy business we call professional wrestling. The team now looks forward, to the future. Uncertain for most, but both men have their own idea. Which Stuart is only too happy to explain to the ringside camera that catches a shot of the victors.


"Luke! Leo!" says a slightly out of breath Tod, over the crowd noise and his team's music playing. "Nothing but respect for you guys... But enjoy those belts... And good luck against SIN and Bruner. You're gonna need it! Just know, that we won't be too far... Let's go." concludes Tod, to his partner.


"If the slaughter we just witnessed wasn't enough, Tod Stuart has just basically spelled it out for us: they want the Tag Team titles! And they'll do whatever they have to do to get another shot at them!" clarifies Mak Francis.


"The search for glory can be a cruel endeavor, Perry Mason." warns Suicide King. "Tod James Stuart has admitted being on a quest for some self-respect after his stint in 2003. But if anything can corrupt the noblest soul, it's the chase for the gold. I hope he taught this to his partner and student because sometimes, championship gold can shine so bright that you miss out on so many things. These two need to be careful in the coming months..."


"We got so much more coming up." adds Mak, seamlessly moving onto a segue. "This is the aftermath of Genesis IX! This is AfterShoxXx!"




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“Knights of Cydonia” by Muse hits the speakers and the crowd lets out a strong burst of cheering. Luke and Leo Breslin emerge from behind curtains and take long, confident strides towards the ring.


“Ladies and gentlemen… welcome to the ring at this time,” Funyon says, “they are your SWF Tag Team Champions… LUKE and LEO… THE BREEEESSSSLLIIIIINNSSS!!”


Luke has his gold strapped around his waist. It’s snug around the bottom of his graphic t-shirt, a tight-fitting dark green color with brown and gold designs across it. Leo is a few steps ahead of him, his belt in one hand, held high above his head. His Philadelphia Phillies jersey is open, a red plain red t-shirt underneath. They reach the ring and walk up the steel stairs, climbing through the ropes and meeting the waiting Ben Hardy, microphone in hand. The music fades and the crowd continues screaming. Leo is more obliged to entertain them, climbing a turnbuckle and holding his strap up for the crowd to see.


“First and foremost,” Ben begins as Leo returns to the center of the ring, “I’d like to congratulate you on your victory at Genesis and your winning of the Tag Team Titles.” The crowd cheers again. “Luke… first thoughts after your first Genesis, your first title, and the biggest win of your young career?”


“Thanks for the congratulations… from you and the fans. And well, Ben… I haven’t been so much of a talker since my debut. That was intentional. I’m not the kind of person who assumes everyone wants to hear what I have to say. I know that your average fan isn’t going to listen to your typical rookie. But after a few months of gaining your attention and earning your cheers… after defeating TKO and taking their Tag Titles in their first defense… and after making the biggest impact at Genesis… I think we’ve earned our time to talk,” Luke says, glancing at his brother. Leo nods in approval. “And I think we earned these titles in an earnest fashion that more people on this roster need to take note of. I’m proud of this accomplishment, and we’re ready to continue taking this federation by storm and taking this gold to new heights.”


Ben nods, agreeing with Luke’s assessment. The interviewer turns to Leo. “What’s it feel like to come in and support your brother, and after just a few short months, capture the Tag Titles from one of the most dominant teams in SWF history?”


“This is one of those questions that everyone already knows the answer to,” Leo says with a smirk. “But besides the obvious response of it being wonderful, exhilarating, and a testament to our tenacity and skills… I’m going to add that doing what we had to do… was quite sad…”


Leo trails off and listens to the confusion coming from the crowd. Ben pulls his microphone away from Leo and asks, “Sad? What’re you getting at?” Ben jolts when Leo grabs the microphone before it gets to his face.


“It’s not sad for us, Ben,” Leo says, turning away from him and his brother and looking out over the crowd. “My brother and I are ecstatic. It’s sad for the fans. Years ago, when I was winning championships in the now defunct Junior League, I was fighting to get to something big. As large and competitive as the Junior League was, it wasn’t the place to be. This was the place to be.”


Leo stops and leans against a turnbuckle, still facing the crowd. His brother and Ben Hardy watch him thoughtfully. “Then I left. I settled down, I started a family, and I told myself it would be years until I came back and took this place by storm.” Leo’s calmness has brought to crowd to near silence. “However… as a fan, instead of watching this company flourish, I watched it buckle underneath itself. We have a General Manager and Commissioner who just so happen to be two of the most decorated competitors to ever wrestle in this ring. I respect the hell out of both of them, and they’ve kept this place afloat… but it seems to me like their own one-upmanship and personality clashes are preventing them from performing some pretty essential and simple duties.”


Luke walks over and puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder, turning him around. He says something to him, but Leo shakes his head and passes him, back to the center of the ring.


“When my brother was beaten in an unprovoked, violent attack, what was done? Nothing! That’s when I came to this federation to make sure my baby brother had someone to back him up. But still… TKO’s strength in numbers and malicious behavior was too much. After more attacks, injured arms, and a tiger driver onto a car that could have been career-ending… what was done? NOTHING!” Leo’s tone is angry now. He’s pacing back and forth.


“The men who run this company would have let TKO get away with murder if my brother didn’t turn his World Title shot into a Tag Title shot at Genesis. I know this is a wrestling company, and there’s not the kind of swift justice you’d see in other places. But God damn, a line has to be drawn! So we drew it with a little bit of help. We quite literally put Natasha into custody. We swiftly ended TKO’s title reign, and I doubt they’ll be in our hair anytime soon.”


The crowd finally lets out a loud cheer after these last few sentences. “I feel bad for you fans that had to suffer through the likes of TKO. I know you’ve seen too many people beaten for no good reason. There are rookies that probably don’t want the opportunity to prove themselves in the ring because, as my brother and I experienced firsthand, there’s too much that goes on outside the ring. And I apologize if my training didn’t involve beating people with weapons and using cars or cement in place of a wrestling ring. My brother and I are pure athletes. Hell, we’re pure champions.


Leo lifts his belt in the air and the crowd cheers louder. “And I’ll be damned if you fans have to suffer through more of the same… more TKOs. I don’t know much about the guys who won a shot at our titles, but I want them to be worthy. I don’t want another TKO. I want to be CHALLENGED… in a RING… by WRESTLERS.”


Leo stops and turns to look at Ben. He stands a few feet away, staring at him. “So that’s how I feel about our victory, Ben. I feel that The Breslins are now established in this federation. I feel that people are going to take us seriously because they know that if they push, we’ll push back harder. I feel that at least the tag team division of this federation has taken a much needed turn for the better. And I feel that the other divisions will be ready and waiting for us.”


Eliciting another cheer from the crowd, Leo tosses the microphone towards Ben. He catches it against his chest, some muffled noises coming from the speakers as he fumbles it. Leo moves to a corner and leans against it casually. Once the microphone is back in the right place, Ben turns towards Luke. “That was convincing,” he says, pausing. “This help that your brother mentioned… the knock on your locker room door at Genesis… the ace you seem to have up your sleeve… who’s in The Breslins’ corner?”


Luke grins as Ben slides the microphone close to his mouth. “You didn’t recognize that voice at Genesis, Ben?” Ben looks confused, his eyebrows furrowed. “How about you, Funyon?” Luke turns and looks down at the ring announcer. Funyon shakes his head and bends the corners of his lips downward. “Suicide King? Mak Francis?” They look at one another and shake their heads at different tempos. “Funny… you should all know him.”


“Who is it?” Ben asks eagerly.


“Now I don’t want to take all the fun out of it, Ben,” Luke replies. “Don’t worry though. When it’s necessary, you’ll all find out. And you won’t be disappointed. And these…” Luke trails off as he points at the title around his waist. Leo pulls away from the corner, holding his title up in the same fashion as before. “…These are thanks to him.”


Luke turns from Ben Hardy and walks towards the ropes, his brother close behind. They step onto the apron as “Knights of Cydonia” starts again. The crowd cheers enthusiastically as their new champions walk up the ramp, signaling their thanks and finally exiting.

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