SWF GENESIS X: The Last Laugh

[Toxxic 0]

CHEEKARA PRESENTS...
SWF GENESIS X

9pm EST Sunday 11th September
from the Asylum Arena, Philadelphia




Since late 2008, the SWF has been a spent force in the world of professional wrestling. The company went under despite the best efforts and savvy business sense of Commissioner Landon Maddix...

Oh, wait.

Yeah, I think we found the problem, guys.

Anyway, what no-one realised was that legendary former world champion El Luchador Magnifico bought the rights to the company – the name, the tape history, everything. Now he's brokered a deal with small Philly company Cheekara, famous for masked wrestlers and comedy, to stage a one-off reunion show in exchange for using his wide-ranging contacts in Mexico to get them DVD release south of the border. Why? Who knows. Maybe because we needed to come up with some sort of rationale for this insanity.

MAIN EVENT – OLD SCHOOL RULES MATCH
'THE MAD SCIENTIST OF THE MAT' MICHAEL ALEXANDER vs 'THE DEAN OF PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING' JAY HAWKE
Phew. We've only got through the nicknames and I'm already exhausted. But anyway, this is our main event. Two egotistical, self-important technical masters going toe-to-toe in a contest of old-school wrestling mastery, which if I'm any judge will also consist of who can cheat most without getting caught. So, the former New Blood and World Heavyweight Champion against arguably the greatest International Champion of all time (the argument being that Jimmy The Doom held it longer, but don't remind Hawke of that).

Rules: Standard, but each competitor has three rope breaks that can be used to escape a submission or pin by getting to the ropes. They can also be lost by using a closed fist or going to the eyes (and yes, the ref will be harsh in this environment). Once a competitor's rope breaks are gone the ropes are in play, and any closed fists, hair pulls, eye gouges etc will result in a DQ.

TAG TEAM MATCH OF AWESOMENESS
VDN (VA'AIGA & DACE NIGHT) vs THE GALACTICOS (King Landon Maddix & Toxxic)
When Va'aiga and Dace were in the Unholy Trinity, they unseated the mighty Justice & Rule as Tag Team Champions before cast his sights higher and started LARIATOOOing people on his way to the World Title. Wind time forward by some five years and they were tag team champions again. In the interim, Toxxic and Landon Maddix had feuded over the World Title, each other's necks and Toxxic's sister (not like that. Well, not for Toxxic), then joined forces to become the longest-reigning Tag Team Champions in the history of the company, a record that stands to this day.

Something has to give. Probably someone's neck, if the Violence Distribution Network have their way.

Rules: Standard tag. For the love of God, remember the tag ropes.



ANOTHER EGO CLASH MATCH
'THE SUPERIOR ONE' TOM FLESHER vs 'THE CRITIC' SCOTT PRETZLER
Pretz asked for this. No, he really did. The Critic, possibly the best wrestler in the SWF to never win the World Title, specifically requested a match against the SWF's own living legend, Tom Flesher. They're presumably either going to put on a wrestling clinic or join forces and proceed to rule the Earth. The main question really is how much Tom weighs now.

Rules: Standard singles.



HEAVYWEIGHT HISTORY CLASH
FROST vs CHARLIE 'GRAPPLER' MATTHEWS
Way back in the day, there was this stable called the Magnificent Seven, and it kicked arse. Two of its members were Charlie Matthews and Frost, before Frost decided that this sort of thing wasn't his bag and he left them behind to go be cheered by the fans and start selling as much branded merchandise as physically possible. Now he takes on former World and Tag Team champion Charlie Matthews to see who really was the best of the Mag7 hosses.

Rules: Standard Singles



HARDCORE MAYHEM
DIVEFIRE vs ANNIE 'ICHIBAN' ONITA
Divefire is a former World Champion, former Commissioner, and general all-round ninja type who can hit you in ways that make Anderson Silva look like a limp-wristed bitch. Annie Eclectic is the Hardcore Queen, notorious choker (first one to mention Chris Wilson gets a kendo stick to the head) when it comes to World Title shots but on her day, a match for anyone in the fed.

Rules: Hardcore. No-DQ, falls count anywhere.



BATTLE OF THE FORMER CHAMPIONS
WES DAVENPORT vs THOTH
Thoth, the Clan’s showpiece and one of the most decorated superstars ever to step into an SWF ring, has been out of action for a few years. ‘Action’, however, has characterized Wes Davenport’s out-of-ring career; despite being developed by one of the most prolific trainers in SWF history, Davenport has chosen to continue his career as an entertainer. Can Davenport outdo Thoth to maintain his stellar in-ring record, or will Thoth be the one thanking the academy?

Rules: Standard singles.



NOT-QUITE CRUISERWEIGHT TITLE MATCH
AIR RAID MATCH
Z vs ALAN CLARK vs WILDCHILD
You all remember the Air Raid match, right?

Right?

Okay, a little aide memoire:



Take away that stupid hexagon and replace it with our revolutionary four-sided ring, and you're looking at the Air Raid match. Four metal scaffolds, one in each corner, connected by steel wire (or more scaffolds. Whatever works best for your match) to form an 'X' shape with the object of the match hanging from it. That object is, on this occasion, the old SWF Cruiserweight Title belt. The actual title died with the fed (don't ask us who held it last. Please. It took us long enough to remember that Tod James Stewart was the final World Champion), but the belt itself is there to give the match the right sort of 'feel'.

Competing for that bit of leather and metal are three of the fed's most famous/notorious cruiserweights. Alan Clarke, famous for being quite thoroughly mad and cheerful and beating Thugg in a Last Man Standing match (and didn't he get to be World Heavyweight Champion, too?); Wildchild, famous for being one of the greatest tag team wrestlers in SWF history and the true shining light of its Cruiserweight division; and Z, famous for never really making the smart decisions, becoming Commissioner, and losing a Last Man Standing match to a punch from Kibagami.

Rules: Get to the Cruiserweight Title belt. No ladders (except to hit other competitors with). Try not to die (although really, it's a one-off, so we don't really care).




PERSONAL GRUDGE MATCH
'THE DIVINE WIND' AKIRA KAIBATSU vs 'IRON' MIKE CROSS
Windy and Cross don't like each other. I'm not sure any of us remember why, but they certainly do, and so they're using this chance to revive that rivalry and, hopefully, settle it once and for all.

Rules: Standard singles


NOTES FOR ALL WRITERS:
Word Limits: We haven't gone for standard word limits. We weren't really sure what to suggest. We're working on the basis that most people should turn in somewhere between 3500-5000 words. You want to write more, you do that, the more content the better. Unless your name is Alan Clark and you want to write 60k again, don't do that.

Referees: The standard fed refs are in attendance, coaxed out of retirement at the 7-11: Nick Soapdish, Brian Warner, David Blazenwing, Ced Ordonez, Anthony Michael Hall, Eddy Long and of course the Head Referee, Matt Kivell.

Commentators: Sadly, Cyclone Comet is busy filming Comet Strikes VII – When Martians Attack in India, so the planned reunion of he and Bobby Riley couldn't go ahead. Instead commentary roles fall to THE SUICIDE KING and 'THE FRANCHISE' MAK FRANCIS. Mak is play-by-play (and in a wheelchair followed a disagreement with 'Hollywood' Spike Jenkins, for those of you who weren't around at the time), while King is of course the heel colour commentator. Please note that despite this, he doesn't like Landon.

[Toxxic 0]

FADE IN

 

 

 

"We're going to keep the party going," exclaims an excited Mak Francis, "as we continue on here tonight at Genesis X. And, next up, we have the return of the Air Raid match, as Z, Alan Clark and the Wildchild get ready to compete in a triple threat!"

 

 

 

"It's going to be an interesting contrast in styles," notes the Suicide King, "as well as eras: Z represents the first half of the SWF's run, while Wildchild and Alan Clark represent the second half... The lesser half, as far as I'm concerned!"

 

 

 

"And they'll be competing high above the crowd," ignores Mak. "Trying to get the better of their opponents, and navigate the treacherous scaffold, in order to retrieve the old World Cruiserweight Championship belt. This is going to be the most exciting match of the night, as you're going to see some spectacular maneuvers and daredevil feats... Most especially from the Wildchild!"

 

 

 

"I tell you what," says King, "the main reason that I'm looking forward to this match is so that I can see Wildchild fail. You know, since Wildchild is notoriously bad at multi-man matches, and I'm definitely going to enjoy watching him kill himself for nothing!"

 

 

 

"Aw, come on, King," chides Mak. "That may have been true in the past, but a lot of years have gone by since the last time anyone in America has seen Wildchild, so there's no telling how well he's going to do. Plus, this is, most likely, going to be the last ever event under the SWF banner, and I'm sure that Wildchild is going to be on his game tonight!"

 

 

 

"By that token, we haven't seen Z or Alan Clark wrestle, either," responds King. "They could just as easily have a few new wrinkles up their sleeves, as well!"

 

 

 

"True," replies Mak, "but at least we know that Wildchild has been wrestling the last three years. Alan Clark has been frightening children down in Orlando, and Og only knows what Z has been up to..."

 

 

 

"Bah! He's been wrestling against guys in the Bahamas," dismisses King. "He might as well have been wrestling Candace."

 

 

 

"Ouch," cringes Mak. "That was kind of a low blow... And, anyway, can't you put aside whatever grievance you have with Wildchild's wrestling style for one night? This is supposed to be a celebration, for Og's sake!"

 

 

 

"Alright," concedes King, "I'll give you that... And I'll give credit where credit is due: Wildchild was never my favorite in the ring, but I'll admit that he was damned good at what he did!"

 

 

 

"And, on that note," concludes Mak, "let's send it back down to our favorite ring announcer, Funyon!"

 

 

 

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

 

 

 

"The following contest," booms Funyon "is a triple threat, AIR RAID Match!"

 

 

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

 

 

With that, the cheery pop sounds of Faith No More's 'Epic' funk over the stereo system. Fans begin to cheer as the One Letter Wonder makes his way through the curtain:

 

 

 

"Introducing first," calls Funyon, "from Trenton, New Jersey, weighing two hundred five pounds.... ZEEEEE!" The crowds’ cheering intensifies as Z thrusts out the heavily worn Midnight Carnival shirt that he is wearing down to the ring, apparently in place of his traditional smiley face one. He high-fives all of the fans on the east side of the aisle as he makes his way down to ringside.

 

 

 

"Z's looking better than I've ever seen him, King!" praises Mak.

 

 

 

"Oh yeah," agrees King. "He didn't look this good when he was rolling with the Carnival!" Z rolls into the ring and pops to his feet, removing the Carnival jersey to reveal his traditional smiley face jersey, before tossing the Carnival jersey into the crowd. Referee Ronald "Red" Herrington inspects Z's ring attire as "Epic" slowly fades out, as do the arena lights:

 

 

 

 

 

"Please Stand Clear of the Ring.... Por favor Soporte Claro del Anillo…."

 

 

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

 

 

"…For the Safety and Comfort of Others…No Smoking Please. Para la Seguridad Y la Comodidad de Otras... El Ningún Fumar Por favor…."

 

 

 

 

 

With that, a modified version of "To Die For," from the Lion King, begins to play, as a light fog covers the stage. Fans cheer nostalgically for the ostensibly Happiest Man on Earth, until he greets them with a sarcastic smirk, at which they remember how much they loathe him.

 

 

 

 

 

BOOOOOOOOOO!

 

 

 

 

 

"Introducing," continues Funyon, "From “the Happiest Place on Earth” Las Vegas, Nevada, weighing two hundred twenty eight pounds... ….he is the self-proclaimed "Happiest Man on Earth"... ALAAAAAAAAAN CLAAAAAAAAAARK!!" The lights come back on, and the Apostle laughs to himself at the remembrance of the old nickname as he approaches the ring, climbing onto the apron and then to the second turnbuckle, gesturing to the crowd with two fingers separated in the victory pose, followed by a "most muscular" pose, and finished by thumbing his nose at the crowd.

 

 

 

"I see that Alan Clark hasn't learned any class in the last few years," notes Mak.

 

 

 

"He seems fine to me," dismisses King. "I'm digging the goatee."

 

 

 

"You would," snipes Mak. "Between the goatee, that greasy ponytail, and the dusty tights, he looks like he hasn't taken a bath in three years!" Clark sneers at the impassive Z, as "To Die For" comes to its merciful close. As both men glare towards the stage, the lights shut off again:

 

 

 

"There's one more competitor left," shouts Mak, "And we all know who it is!" Suddenly, an electric squelch sends the crowd into frenzy:

 

 

 

 

 

ATTENTION!

 

 

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

 

 

ALL YOU NIGGAZ!

 

 

 

ALL YOU BITCHES!

 

 

 

TIME TO PUT DOWN THE CRISTAL, TIME TO PUT DOWN THE ICE FOR A MINUTE...

 

 

 

 

 

TIME TO THROW A LITTLE MUD IN THIS MOTHAFUCKAAAAA...

 

 

 

 

 

With that, Redman's "Let's Get Dirty" gets into full swing, and the crowd practically looks like a mosh pit as the Bahama Bomber steps out onto the apron.

 

 

 

 

 

"I can't believe that these people are showing this much support for a guy who never won the Heavyweight Title," grumbles King, as Wildchild runs from one end of the stage to the other, soaking up the fans' adulation like a sponge. "I can't respect a guy who never won the big one!"

 

 

 

"Spoken like a true champion, teases Mak, as Wildchild makes his way down the ring, slapping hands with the fans clamoring around the aisle as he runs by. He stops short as he reaches the ringside area, heading over to greet his wife, Melissa, and their son.

 

 

 

"What a heartwarming story," gushes Mak, as Wildchild holds his son overhead, displaying him to the fans, "Wildchild met, and subsequently married the former Melissa Fasaki and, as you can see now, they have a healthy young son!"

 

 

 

"He married Ejiro's little sister," spits King, as the lights come back on. "Worst. Brother in-law. Ever! How can you not be disgusted by this display, Francis? This is the worst example of glad-handing since Steamboat retired!" Wildchild hands his son back to Melissa and turns to his longtime tag team partner, Johnny Dangerous, sitting right next to them. "And what's HE doing here? He's not on the card... As far as I'm concerned, he's not welcome here!"

 

 

 

"Relax, King," replies Mak. "He bought a ticket, just like everybody else. “He’s entitled to be in the crowd."

 

 

 

"Then why does it look like he's in wrestling gear," barks King. "Does he think he's going to be able to politic himself onto the show?"

 

 

"You never know with Dangerous," sighs Mak, as Dub Cee rolls into the ring, between the bottom and middle ropes, and somersaults to his feet. He nods his head to his two competitors before heading back to the apron and hopping onto the middle rope to salute the crowd. He hops down from the ropes to allow his attire to be inspected as well, as "Lets Get Dirty" fades out. Dub Cee then looks up towards the scaffolding skeptically.

 

 

 

"And with that, Red Herrington is pretty much done with his officiating responsibilities for this match," explains Mak. "The only thing he has left to do now is ring the bell, and verify who gets to the belt first."

 

 

 

"I can't believe this guy is still working here," gripes King. "I could have sworn he was the first one fired when we went under." Red Herrington signals to the timekeeper to ring the bell, signifying the start of the match:

 

 

 

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

 

 

 

"Bell's gone," calls Mak, "and we're underway!" All three competitors approach the center of the ring, and Dub Cee points towards the scaffolding. As both of his rivals look up, he suddenly dashes in the opposite direction, leaping deftly up to the top turnbuckle and launching himself towards the scaffold.

 

 

 

 

 

"WHAT THE HELL?" King and Mak are both perplexed as Wildchild shimmies up onto the scaffolding and dashes towards the center. Z recovers first and races to the nearest turnbuckle, but by the time he reaches the top rope, Wildchild already has his hand on the belt!

 

 

 

"Is this some kind of joke," King roars as Dub Cee unclips the cruiserweight title. Herrington, who hadn't even been looking in the ring this early in the match, looks up dumbfounded at the sight. He confusedly motions to the timekeeper to ring the bell:

 

 

 

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

 

 

 

"What the hell just happened here," Mak asks to whomever he thinks will answer. The crowd has been stunned into silence, with the exception of some who begin to boo.

 

 

 

"For this, we paid for this guy to come up, first class from the Bahamas!" King's eyes bulge in rage, and he appears to have a vein throbbing on his forehead.

 

 

 

"Here is your winner," Funyon says unsurely, "... The Wildchild?" Dub Cee hangs off the scaffolding and drops down to the canvas, heading over to the edge of the ring to ask Funyon for the microphone.

 

 

 

"I have to admit, King, I am both surprised and extremely disappointed," sighs Mak. "He's never been one to cheat the fans out of a show; perhaps these years really have changed him!"

 

 

 

"You know, I've never really liked this guy," says King, as Wildchild checks the status of the microphone, "but I never saw him as the type to just show up and collect a paycheck. I always thought he was better than that."

 

 

 

"I'd like to clear up a few things," begins Dub Cee. "First of all, I want each and every one of you out t'ere, dat I love you all. Your cheers have motivated me to do everyt'ing dat I have done in dis business. And I wanted t' t'ank you all in person, from de bottom of my heart."

 

 

 

As the crowd seems reluctant to react, unsurprising given the end of the 'match,' Wildchild recognizes his need to elaborate. "I had de most ever title reigns, an' I had de most ever days as de Worl' Cruiserweight Champion. I don' need t' compete in an Air Raid match t' prove dat I'm de bes' cruiserweight in de SWF: I already knew dat."

 

 

 

Pointing to the crowd, "You all knew dat." At Clark, "An' you knew dat." At Z, "An' you knew dat. I didn' come here t' try an' prove somet'in' dat de whole worl' already knew." The crowd remains uneasy, wondering if the Bahama Bomber is going anywhere with all this.

 

 

 

"He's lost it," says King. "He's a few bananas short of a split!"

 

 

 

"What I DID come here t' do," continues Wildchild, "Is give de best dat I have t' give t' de SWF fans! I came here give dem a show dat dey deserve... A show dat I've been dyin' t' give dem for three years now... Not wit' anyt'in at stake, but jus' t' entertain my peoples!" With that, the fans are now firmly back on Dub Cee' side:

 

 

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

 

 

"Not so fast, King," says Mak. "It looks like Wildchild was going somewhere with this after all!"

 

 

 

 

 

"What I wan' t' do here tonight, is give you all one last show," says Wildchild. "So, what do you two say t' dat? How about, instead of makin' dis an Air Raid match to retrieve a belt, how 'bout we make dis a... Three Way Dance?"

 

 

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

 

 

"Who does this guy think he is," barks King. "I don't recall seeing him at any of the booking meetings. He thinks he can just change his match on the fly?"

 

 

 

 

 

"In case you forgot, King," counters Mak, as Z and Clark appear to consider his offer, "TECHNICALLY, his match is already officially over: Wildchild wants to make sure that the fans get what they came to Philly to see, just on his terms!"

 

 

 

Herrington looks back and forth between all three wrestlers, advising them that he will start a new match if all three consent to it. Zenon looks to Clark as if to say, "Might as well," to which Clark replies with a shrug, as if to say, "What the hell, why not?"

 

 

 

"It looks like we're going to get another match here, King," says Mak happily. Herrington looks to all three competitors again, just to confirm that they all agree, and then motions to the timekeeper to get it going again...

 

 

 

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

 

 

BAM!

 

 

 

 

 

And, with the sound of the bell, both Z and Clark charge Wildchild, leveling him with a double clothesline! The pull him to his feet and whip him across the ring flooring him as he bounces off the ropes with a double elbow!

 

 

 

"Well, we're definitely underway with what is now a triple threat," says King, as Z steps out onto the ring apron, "and it looks like Z and Alan Clark are giving Wildchild a receipt for embarrassing him in the Air Raid match!" The Apostle pulls Wildchild to his feet, only to lace his right leg with Wildchild's left, and reach his right arm behind Wildchild's neck, gripping his neck as he drives Dub Cee back to the canvas with a Russian legsweep! Z quickly follows up by using the top rope to propel himself into the ring, flipping through the air and crashing onto Wildchild's chest with a slingshot senton!

 

 

 

"Well, either way, we've still got some great action, King," says Mak, as Z pulls Wildchild to his feet, only to throw him over the top rope and out to the arena floor!

 

 

 

"Look at Johnny Dangerous sitting out there impotently, watching his tag team partner writhe on the floor," crows King. "There's no tags in this match, Johnny! Ha-ha!" As Z looks out to the floor to make sure that WC is incapacitated, Clark suddenly creeps up from behind and wraps his arms around Z's waist, lifting him overhead and driving him backwards, head-first, into the canvas with a modified backdrop driver!

 

 

 

"Backlot suplex!" shouts Mak. "And Clark is going for an early cover:"

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TW-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Z kicks out at two! Clark pulls him to his feet, grabs him by the forearm and whips him back-first into the corner, rushing in after him and leaping into the air to deliver a dropkick, flipping backwards after connecting, and landing on his feet.

 

 

 

"Beautiful Kodak Moment!" praises King. Clark waits for Z to stumble out of the corner and lifts him onto his shoulders and begins twirling around with his patented Whole New Whirl airplane spin. He spies Wildchild getting to his feet as he dumps Z unceremoniously to the canvas, and rushes across the ring, diving feet first towards the ropes, and knocking Wildchild back down with a basement dropkick1

 

 

 

"Give credit to Clark," says King as the Apostle turns his attentions back to his in-ring opponent, "He's done an excellent job of taking control of this match; Wildchild's outsmarted himself by asking for a new match!"

 

 

 

"I don't know about that," replies Mak, as Clark knocks Z back down with a textbook back heel kick. "I mean, it really remains to be seen whether Wildchild has indeed outsmarted himself, this match is far from over, but I give Alan Clark a great deal of credit here!" Clark traps Z in a front facelock and quickly twists around, holding onto Z's neck, and driving him facefirst to the canvas with a neckbreaker!

 

 

 

"There's no Cutting In Line, Z," crows King, as the Apostle steps out onto the apron and begins to climb the turnbuckles. He steadies himself on the top turnbuckles, preparing to descend down onto Z...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

... But he's so focused on the One Letter Wonder, that he doesn't notice the relatively recovered Wildchild climb up onto the apron and race over to him, knocking him off the turnbuckles and to the floor!

 

 

 

"Where did he come from?" asks King, as Wildchild glides up to the top turnbuckle. "I thought that baseball slide from Clark had taken care of him!" Dub Cee walks across the top rope, until he his halfway between the two turnbuckles, facing the ramp.

 

 

 

"Very high risk area," remarks Francis, "but not for this guy!" WC lets his feet go out from under him to land, posterior-first, on the top rope, using its momentum to spring back to a standing position. He then turns around to face the ring, and drops to his seat again.

 

 

 

"Okay, so he can still balance on the ropes," grumbles King, as Wildchild again springs back to his feet, "big deal. Stop showing off!" Suddenly, Wildchild takes off, springing backwards out of the ring, twisting in midair as floats the air, before crashing into Clark with a corkscrew moonsault! The Human Hurricane gets to his feet...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

... When his is caught unaware with a diving cross-body block from Z, courtesy of the top turnbuckle!

 

 

 

 

 

"High cross body!" exclaims Mak. "It looks like Z is back in the action!" Z pulls Wildchild to his feet and grabs him by the wrist, whipping him into the nearby barricade! He then whips WC towards the ring, driving him backwards into the steel edge of the ring apron!

 

 

 

"Smart move by Z to try to keep Wildchild grounded," notes King. "The longer you can keep this guy off the ropes, the better chance you have of beating him!" Z runs in to deliver a clothesline against the ring apron, but the Bahama Bomber lowers his shoulder and lifts Z into the air with what would have been a back body drop, except for the ring being right behind him. Z has enough presence of mind to plant his hands on the apron, and use the ropes to bounce backwards to the floor, looking to catch Wildchild on the way back down with a DDT...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CRACK!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

... But the Caribbean Cruiser is too fast for him, and springs into action, leaping off the arena floor and whipping his feet sharply through the air, cracking Z in the face with a flying enzugiri! Wildchild quickly scoots back into the ring and scrambles to the top turnbuckle, waiting for Z to get back to his feet before leaping off, twisting in the air to crash into Z with a shooting star press!

 

 

 

 

 

DUB CEE!

 

DUB CEE!

 

DUB CEE!

 

 

 

 

 

"Boy, it's always great to see that lightning-fast offense from the Wildchild!" praises Mak, as WC slaps hands with the fans at ringside. "He can really put together a string of offensive moves in nothing flat!"

 

 

 

"Speak for yourself," growls King, as Wildchild moves to pull Z to his feet. "I've never liked watching this spot monkey fly around!" Wildchild leads Z over to the ring and rolls him in underneath the bottom rope. He then deftly leaps onto the apron and springs to the top rope, facing the floor, and once again taking a seat on the top rope, this time using its momentum to spring into the ring, flipping backwards as he crashes into Z chest-first with a springboard moonsault! Herrington slides into position for a cover:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KICKOUT!

 

 

 

 

 

"Kickout at one," notes Mak. "You've gotta believe that Z has a lot of fight left in him!"

 

 

 

"Well, Z's taken a lot more punishment than that," adds King, as Wildchild pulls Z to his feet. He whips Z across the ring, but the One Letter Wonder reverses, sending WC in instead. Wildchild dives headfirst towards the ropes, planting his hands on the canvas and bouncing backwards off the ropes, flying through the air into a handspring elbow smash...

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

... But Z ducks at the last minute, causing Wildchild's cross body attempt to crash and burn! He beats Wildchild to his feet, and leaves him clutching his nads with a Galatea special!

 

 

 

"Ouch!" cries Mak, as Z races across the ring. "Nobody deserves that!"

 

 

 

"Nobody except Cutthroat, maybe," replies King. Z picks up speed as he bounces off the ropes and raises his arm as he reaches WC, knocking him back to the canvas with a running lariat!

 

 

 

"Arm Grenade!" calls Mak, as Z makes his way out to the apron. "Well executed!"

 

 

 

"If you don't count the fact that he almost fell out of the ring doing that," King responds snidely, as Z makes his way to the top turnbuckle. He briefly considers trying to guess how quick Wildchild's reaction time is, before electing to leap down as soon as Wildchild gets to a knee, knocking him to the canvas with a double axe-handle!

 

 

 

"Z's doing a pretty good job of chaining moves together, too," praises Mak, as Z pulls Wildchild’s arms behind his knees. "Not quite as fluid, but just as effective." Z rolls Wildchild over onto his knees into the Nelbina, and begins posing, to the crowd's delight.

 

 

 

 

 

ZEEEEEEEEEE!

 

 

 

 

 

"What is it with these idiots and playing to the crowd?" barks King. "Don't any of them know how to go for the win?" Z pulls Wildchild to his feet and grabs him by the wrist, whipping him across the ring, leaping into the air as he bounces off the ropes, and locks his legs behind Wildchild's neck, taking him over with a hurricanrana... but the Bahama Bomber rotates through it and lands on his feet, leaping to the opposing top rope in one fluid motion...

 

 

 

 

 

BAM!

 

 

 

 

 

... And curling into a ball as he springs off the ropes, knocking Z down with his patented Pinball attack! He bounces back to his feet and races to the ropes as Z gets to his feet, leaping into the air and whipping his leg sharply through the air, knocking him back down with a leg lariat. Before Z can get up again, the Human Hurricane runs across the ring, leaping onto the top rope, and springs backwards, rotating in a clockwise motion as he does so, crashing into Z with a--

 

 

 

"Falling Star Press!" shouts Mak, as Red Herrington goes to count the shoulders. "But, again, Z kicks out at one. I tell you, King, this guy can take a ton of punishment!"

 

"He took a Demonstar Drive onto a chair," replies King. "Did you really think that a glorified splash was going to beat him?" Wildchild pulls Z to his feet and grabs him by the forearm to whip him across the ropes, but the One Letter Wonder reverses on him, catching him off the ropes with a standing dropkick! He then pulls Wildchild to his feet and leads him to the corner, where he situates himself on the top rope, and traps Wildchild in a front facelock.

 

 

 

"Looks like he's going for a Tornado DDT," says Mak. "If he hits this, it could be over for the Wildchild!" Z leaps off the ropes, rotating in the air to drive Wildchild into the canvas, but Dub Cee holds onto the top rope with one hand, and Z flies off aimlessly to the center of the ring. Wildchild runs across the ring, picking up speed as he bounces off the ropes. Z intends to meet him with a clothesline, but the Human Hurricane hooks his right arm with Zenon's right, twisting around behind him, and escaping to stun Z with a back kick to the midsection! Before Z can recover, Wildchild leaps into the air, draping his leg over the back of Zenon's neck...

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

And driving him face-first in to the canvas with a Caribbean Cutter! Without pause, WC pulls Z to his feet and stands in front of him, reaching back to lock arms. He turns over, lifting Z overhead with him...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BANG!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

... And drives him headfirst into the canvas with the Wild Ride!

 

 

 

 

 

"Wild Ride!" shouts Mak, as Wildchild goes to cover. "I don't know if even Z can kick out of that!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

Suddenly, the forgotten Alan Clark dives into the ring, crashing into Wildchild with a double axe handle to break up the count! He pulls WC to his feet and sends him flying across the ring, scooping him in his arms as he bounces off the ropes, and throwing him overhead with a railgun suplex! He then runs over to WC and clotheslines him over the top rope and out of the ring!

 

 

 

"There he is," King proclaims proudly, as Clark pulls Z to his feet. "He was playing possum!" Clark bends Z over at the waist and hooks both his arms with a double underhook. He then lifts Z off the canvas...

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

... Only to drive him down face-first into the mat with his patented modified Dominator!

 

 

 

 

 

"The Vacation's Over!" shouts King, as Clark hooks the leg, as well as a handful of tights. Herrington gets into position to count...

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

... And puts Z out of the match!

 

 

 

 

 

"ZEEEEE has been eliminated," proclaims Funyon, as Clark dives out of the ring, to focus his attentions on Wildchild.

 

 

 

 

 

"Brilliant maneuver on the part of Alan Clark," praises King. "Let those other two idiots kill each other, and then pick up the pieces. Now that's smart wrestling! Not even Z can with stand what was essential three impact finishers so close together!" Clark reaches WC and begins delivering a series of punishing kicks to the midsection.

 

 

 

"Well, I guess it's a good thing for Wildchild that he asked for a three way dance after all, " notes Mak. "Because otherwise, this would be over already!" The Apostle pulls Wildchild to his feet and grabs him by the head, rolling him into the ring. He then climbs onto the apron and approaches the corner, climbing to the top turnbuckle and diving down, pumping his arms and legs as he crashes into WC with a frog splash!

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wildchild kicks out at two! Clark pulls him to his feet and traps him in a rear waistlock, lifting him backwards overhead and driving him into the canvas with a release German suplex! Instead of going for another cover, however, Clark situates Wildchild near the turnbuckles, and once again ascends the turnbuckles. He steadies himself, and leaps off, flipping forwards into the ring to deliver a 450 splash...

 

 

 

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

 

 

 

... But the Bahama Bomber rolls out of the way at the last minute, and Clark crashes to the canvas!

 

 

 

 

 

"Clark went for the Fauntleroy splash, but came up empty!" exclaims Mak. Clark recovers first and pulls Wildchild to his feet, backing him into the corner, and stunning him with an aggressive series of forearms and chops. He takes a few steps back and then launches himself at the corner, executing a textbook cartwheel before leaping into the air to deliver an enzugiri... but Wildchild ducks away at the last second, stunning the Apostle with a back elbow! Wildchild races to the ropes as Clark staggers out to the corner, and leaps into the air as he bounces off the ropes, locking his legs behind Clark's head, and sending him reeling with a satellite headscissors takeover!

 

 

 

"Wildchild is picking up speed again," shouts Mak, as both men get to their feet. Clark swings at WC with a wild chop, but the Bahama Bomber easily ducks underneath, positioning himself behind Clark, and taking him off his feet with a waistlock takeover. In an instant, WC is back to his feet, leaping into the air and crashing down onto Clark's back with a senton splash! He wastes no time in getting back to his feet and racing across the ring, leaping into the air feet first as he bounces off the ropes, and smashes into the side of Clark's face with a basement dropkick! He takes a second to salute the fans as he makes his way to the apron:

 

 

 

 

 

DUB CEE!

 

DUB CEE!

 

DUB CEE!

 

 

 

 

 

"Wildchild is on a roll!" shouts Mak, as WC scales the turnbuckles. "Alan Clark doesn't know whether he's coming or going!" Wildchild waits for Clark to get to his feet before leaping off the turnbuckles, rotating his body in midair to position his feet in the direction of the Apostle's face, before nailing him with a Shooting Star dropkick that sends him tumbling all the way to the opposite corner!

 

 

 

"Big dropkick from the Wildchild," concedes King, "and Alan Clark is in trouble right now!" WC races across the ring, leaping into the air and twisting him body to deliver the Blue Crush...

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

... But the Apostle snatches Wildchild out of the air, hooking both his legs and spiking him onto the canvas with the Illuminator!

 

 

 

 

 

"Beautiful counter by Alan Clark!" crows King. "That'll definitely turn the tide!" Clark pulls Wildchild to his feet, trapping him in a front facelock with one arm, while grabbing him by the tights with the other arm, and lifting him overhead with an vertical suplex! Clark rolls over onto his front and stands both men back up, before lifting WC with another suplex! He then does it one more time, to complete the set!

 

 

 

"Three O'clock parade by Alan Clark," reports Mak, as Clark quickly gets to his feet and follows up with a standing elbow drop.

 

 

 

"And look at who's chaining maneuvers, now," chortles King, as Clark rolls to his feet and transitions into a standing legdrop. He then pulls WC to his feet, only to knock him back down with a hard clothesline. The Apostle then hooks one of Wildchild's legs, and pulls it nearly behind his head before turning Wildchild over, to trap him in a high angle single-leg Boston crab!

 

 

 

"Muddlefoot!" shouts Mak. "He got Wildchild in the Muddlefoot, a modified version of the Barracuda, right in front of Melissa and Johnny Dangerous!"

 

 

 

"I love it!" crows King. "Now that is how you show off the crowd. And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving guy!"

 

 

 

"You have to wonder how much this hold is actually hurting him, though," Mak ponders, as WC begins crawling towards the ropes. "We've seen how agile that Wildchild still is, so you have to also wonder if his back is still as flexible?"

 

 

 

"I’ll tell you exactly how much this hold is hurting him," replies King. "Even if his spine is made out of jello, Alan Clark is practically sitting on his back right now: with all that weight on his back, Wildchild can't expand or contract his chest, therefore his muscles can't get the oxygen he needs!" Wildchild draws nearer to the edge of the ring, near enough to reach out and grab the bottom rope, but the Apostle pulls him back towards the center of the ring, and releases the hold, only to immediately follow up with an elbow drop to the back! Clark then steps out onto the apron and signals for the Talespin Crash!

 

 

 

"Uh-oh," moans Mak. "That's a little bit of high risk; Wildchild's a little too far out there, I think!"

 

 

 

"Clark knows what he's doing," dismisses King, as Clark grabs onto the top rope. "And, plus, once he hit's this, he'll be easy pickings for The Vacation’s Over!" The Apostle leaps onto the top rope and launches himself into the ring, flipping forward into a senton position...

 

 

 

 

 

CRASH!

 

 

 

 

 

... But Wildchild rolls out of the way at the last second, causing Clark to crash into the canvas!

 

 

 

"Looks like he didn't know what he was doing, after all!" mocks Francis. Referee Red Herrington begins assessing a ten count to both men, and the fresher Clark answers first. He pulls Wildchild to his feet, and begins backing him against the edge of the ring with a series of vicious kicks and chops. He then grabs Wildchild by the wrist and whips him across the ring, waiting to deliver a superkick as he rebounds, but the Bahama Bomber ducks underneath the thrusting foot as he rebounds, plants his hands on the canvas...

 

 

 

 

 

SMACK!

 

 

 

 

 

... And returns with a handspring elbow that catches Clark flush on the jaw!

 

 

 

"Wildchild looks like he may have gotten his second wind!" shouts Mak, as WC pulls Clark to his feet, only for the Apostle to stun him with a knee to the midsection!

 

 

 

"Ha-ha!" laughs King, as Clark maneuvers them towards a nearby corner. "So much for that second wind!" Clark doubles Wildchild over at the waist and traps him in a standing headscissors, reaching over to grab him in a waistlock.

 

 

 

"It could be Splash Mountain time," says Mak, as Clark rushes out of the corner... but the Human Hurricane slips out of Clark's grasp, and arches backwards, locking his legs behind Alan's head as he takes him over with a rana, that sends him fumbling and stumbling to the opposite corner! WC then backs up before taking off towards the corner at full speed, leaping off of the canvas, and spinning in midair...

 

 

 

 

 

BAM!

 

 

 

 

 

... To smash Clark into the corner with his patented Blue Crush dive! Clark staggers out of the corner and falls to the canvas, as WC leaps to the top turnbuckle with the greatest of ease, standing to full height, and cupping his hands to his mouth as he looks out to the crowd:

 

 

 

 

 

WC: CAW-CAW!

 

Crowd: CAW-CAW!

 

 

 

With that, Wildchild leaps down into the ring, and crashes into Clark's chest with the Bird Dropping! Herrington runs over to count the pin:

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clark kicks out at two! Wildchild pulls Clark to his feet, only for the Apostle to stun him with a thumb to the eyes! He traps Wildchild in a front facelock, and quickly spins around to deliver his patented Cutting in Line neckbreaker, but WC pushes him off at the last second, leaping into the air as he bounces off the ropes and knocking Clark to the ground with a leg lariat!

 

 

 

"Nice counter to the Cutting in Line," says Mak. Wildchild pulls Clark to his feet and doubles him over at the waist reaching down to hook the arms in preparation for the Wild Ride, but the Apostle lifts WC over his head, grabbing both legs and hoping to change the tide with another Illuminator. This time, however, Wildchild is near enough to the edge of the ring to grab onto the top rope and pull himself out of Clark's grasp and out to the apron. Alan turns around and moves towards the apron to grab his opponent, but the Bahama Bomber stuns him with a shoulder thrust into the midsection, which sends Clark staggering towards the center of the ring. He then leaps onto the top rope and springs into the ring, grabbing onto Clark's head as he flies past...

 

 

 

 

 

BANG!

 

 

 

 

 

... And planting him into the canvas with a springboard tornado DDT!

 

 

 

 

 

"Presumed Guilty!" shouts Mak, as Wildchild hooks the leg. "Alan Clark is Presumed Guilty!" Herrington gets into position to count:

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DING! DING! DING!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"HEEEEERE is your winner," booms Funyon, "the WIIIIILDCHIIIIILD!"

 

 

"What a tremendous comeback for the Wildchild!" praises Mak, as "Let's Get Dirty" begins to play. "He looked to be in big trouble after that Muddlefoot, but he fought his way back to take this match!"

 

 

"Well, he surprised me," concedes King. "I had Alan Clark winning this match. I mean, I can't really call it an upset, with all that he's accomplished but, still, Alan Clark has gone toe to toe with Thugg. I didn't think that there was any chance he'd lose in a straight match!" A weary Wildchild climbs the ropes to salute his fans...

[Toxxic 0]

WHAM!

 

 

 

"What is that!" shouts Mak, as Wildchild is knocked off of the turnbuckles from behind. The fans suddenly see that Ejiro Fasaki is hammering his longtime rival with a series of heavy forearms to the back.

 

 

 

"Hey!" cheers King. "It's Ejiro! That'll up the entertainment value of this show!" Ejiro pulls Wildchild to his feet and whips him across the ring, spinning around as he bounces off the ropes, and leveling him with a Screaming Elbow! He then proceeds to deliver a series of ferocious kicks to Wildchild's back and midsection!

 

 

 

"We haven't seen Ejiro in years!" exclaims Mak.

 

 

 

"I know!" replies King, as Fasaki pulls Wildchild back to his feet. It's totally a treat, right?" Ejiro pulls WC over with a snapmare. He runs over to deliver a Hennig necksnap, but WC rolls backwards, thrusting he leg up and kicking Fasaki square on his dome piece!

 

 

 

"Looks like Wildchild isn't out of it yet!" shouts Mak, as WC and Ejiro both get to their feet at the same time, and begin trading right hands and forearms, respectively:

 

 

 

BAP! CRACK!

 

BAP! CRACK!

 

BAP! CRACK!

 

BAP! CRACK!

 

BAP! CRACK!

 

BAP!

 

BAP!

 

BAP!

 

 

 

Wildchild gets the better of it, and begins to back Ejiro against the ropes, but Fasaki stops his momentum cold with that good ol' thumb to the eyes. He grabs WC by the wrist to hip him across the ring, but the Caribbean Cruiser reverses, sending Fasaki in instead, and leaping into the air as he bounces off the ropes to deliver a devastating dropkick!

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

"Beautiful maneuver by the Wildchild!" praises Mak, as WC backs Ejiro into a corner. "He looks like he's got a lot of fight left!" Wildchild straddles the middle ropes, and begins to rain down punches on his longtime rival, and brother in-law:

 

 

 

 

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

 

 

"Melissa Fasaki is looking a little distraught out there," notes King, as Johnny cheers on beside her.

 

 

 

FOUR!

 

FIVE!

 

SIX!

 

 

 

"Well, can you blame her?" counters Mak. "Her husband and her brother are fighting right in front of her eyes!"

 

 

 

SEVEN!

 

EIGHT!

 

NINE!

 

TEN!

 

 

 

 

 

Wildchild takes a moment to admire his handiwork, but isn't aware of what's going on behind him...

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

... As Ejiro's longtime partner, Judge William Hearford, sneaks in from behind and grabs Wildchild, dropping him to the canvas with a high-angle back suplex! The camera pans to Johnny looking flustered, but essentially helpless to the assault.

 

 

 

"It's Judge Mental!" exclaims Mak, as Justice and Rule begin laying the boots to the Wildchild. Ejiro and Judge are both back!"

 

 

 

"I'm beginning to think that I'm really going to like this show after all!" says King. Ejiro positions himself at WC's head and reaches down to grab Wildchild's arm as he sets up to apply a triangle choke. On the other end, Judge grabs Wildchild legs and spins around to cinch in the figure four...

 

 

 

"Figure seven!" crows King. "All right! It's been so long since I've seen this move!"

 

 

 

"Wildchild's going to need some help to get out of this," adds Mak, as Wildchild begins pounding the canvas with his free hand... Finally, Johnny can take no more, and jumps the rail! The Barracuda dives into the ring and lunges at Judge to break up the hold!

 

 

 

"Look at this!" shouts Mak, as Johnny then gets Ejiro off of Wildchild as well. "Johnny Dangerous has come in make the save... At least now we know why he was in wrestling gear, King: he came to have Wildchild's back!" Johnny pulls Judge to his feet and backs him into a corner as WC backs Ejiro into the opposite corner.

 

 

 

"We're getting double our money's worth!" shouts King. "We're getting Wild and Dangerous versus Justice and Rule!" Judge and Ejiro thumb both their respective rivals' eyes in order to regain control. They each grab their opponent by the wrist, and whip him towards the center of the ring...

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

... But Wild and Dangerous, their timing forged by years of teaming together, avoid each other, WC leaping over Johnny and knocking Judge down with a flying dropkick, and Johnny ducking underneath Wildchild, taking down Ejiro with a spear!

 

 

 

 

 

YEAAAAAAAAAAH!

 

 

 

 

 

"There you see that tag team specialty, that teamwork, that made Wild and Dangerous five time tag champions!" exclaims Mak. Johnny rushes across the ring to assist WC in pulling Judge to his feet, and they both whip him across the ring, sending him crashing into Fasaki! Ejiro falls down, and Judge staggers back towards the center of the ring:

 

 

 

 

 

WHAM!

 

 

 

 

 

... Where he is met by a double dropkick from Wild and Dangerous, which sends him tumbling out of the ring! Johnny rushes over to Ejiro, pulling him to his feet as WC exits to the ring apron. Johnny whips Ejiro across the ring, lifting him into the air as he rebounds with a high back body drop, and WC leaps onto the top rope, springing into the ring to blast his brother in-law with a flying forearm!

 

 

 

 

 

"Silver Bullet," reports Mak, as Wild and Dangerous signal to the crowd. "And now their giving the sign for the Dangerous Drop!" Wildchild heads back out to the apron, but before Johnny can pick up Ejiro, Judge Hearford rushes around the outside of the ring, and grabs Fasaki by the leg, pulling him out to the floor.

 

 

 

"Brilliant maneuver on the part of Judge Hearford to save his partner," praises King. "At least Ejiro will live to fight another day!"

 

 

 

"I guess it means that interlude's over, though," notes Mak, as Redman and Method Man's 'Y.O.U.' begins to play. "Too bad, I was looking forward to a full tag match between these two!"

 

 

 

 

 

Johnny holds Wildchild's hand aloft in victory, helping him enjoy the adulation of the fans...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As we:

 

FADE OUT

[Toxxic 0]

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Funyon booms, "the following contest is an OVER THE TOP ROPE BATTLE ROYALE featuring all the participants who couldn't be bothered to have a match of their own this evening!"

 

"Well," King says, "this should be interesting. And crowded."

 

"Introducing, in no particular order," Funyon continues, "DIVEFIRE!"

 

"YEEEAAAAHHHHH!"

 

"ANNIE ECLECTIC!"

 

"YEEEAAAAAHHHH!"

 

"CHARLIE MATTHEWS!"

 

"BOOOOOO!"

 

"FROST!"

 

"YEEEAAAAHHHH!"

 

"MIKE CROSS!"

 

"..."

 

"AKIRA KAIBATSU!"

 

"..."

 

"...AND GHOST MACHINE 4.1!"

 

"...?"

 

The seven competitors stand in the ring looking at each other. Many of them looking at Ghost Machine, who appears to be a tall, scrawny model wearing a stovepipe hat over its mask.

 

*DING-DING-DING*

 

"And we're off!" Mak Francis shouts, "...and straight away, The Divine Wind has swept Mike Cross over the top rope!"

 

Cross shakes his fist in anger from the floor, reflecting that perhaps if he'd remembered to show up for his scheduled match with Kaibatsu then he might not have been blindsided by his rival. However, things aren't going well for Kaibatsu either, as Frost seizes him by his pants, checks to see if they're Frost branded and, when it turns out they're not, hurls the smaller wrestler over the top onto Cross.

 

"And that, Francis, is why cruiserweights never amounted to anything in the SWF," King says smugly. "Unless they were Tom Flesher, of course."

 

"Flesher was only ever a cruiserweight thanks to some manipulation of the scales, and you know it."

 

"Tom had so much influence he could hold his own weight down, I'll have you know."

 

Charlie Matthews grabs Frost in headlock!

 

"BOOOOOOOOO!"

 

"Headlocks: not a great deal of good in a match where the purpose is to get your opponent over the top rope," Mak comments. "Why do you suppose Matthews has forgotten the stipulation, King?"

 

"Hey, he forgot about his own match. It's only to be expected."

 

Grappler's resthold is broken up by Divefire and Annie Eclectic who deliver a series of kicks, that would probably have names if anyone could be bothered to look them up. Grappler grabs the two cruisers by their throats, seeking to deliver a double chokeslam, but the erstwhile opponents kick him in the balls, then bumrush him backwards and over the top!

 

"Why are they working together?" Mak queries. "Weren't they supposed to be having a hardcore match against each other tonight?"

 

"Guess they forgot."

 

Annie and Divefire celebrate for a moment, but then-

 

*WHAM!*

 

Ghost Machine fires what looks like a crane kick into Annie's face, sending her tumbling over the top rope! Divefire adopts a kung-fu pose-

 

*WHAM!*

 

-which does him absolutely no good at all, as Ghost Machine's crane kick sends him over the top as well! The crowd start to catch on to the masked figure's possible identity as Frost charges from behind...

 

...but Ghost Machine (if that is his real name) drops down and pulls the rope as well, sending Frost tripping to the outside! The big Icelander grabs onto the top rope and somehow manages to stay on the apron, but-

 

*WHAM!*

 

"Yak Kick!" Mak yells as the boot crashes into Frost's chest. Frost forgets to hold on (odd that) and falls to the floor of the arena.

 

*DING-DING-DING!*

 

"Ladies and gentlemen," Funyon booms, "the winner of the battle royale..." He pulls of Ghost Machine's mask (and hat, which is quickly replaced), "...JIMMY THE DOOM!"

 

"YEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

 

The crowd salute the previously-hated Doomtopian, the greatest International Champion of all time, as he climbs the turnbuckles and shouts "YOUR DOOM WILL COME SWIFT AND STRONG, LIKE A RIVER. A RIVER OF DOOM!" and Lois The Unethical appears to dance in the aisle as we

 

 

 

FADE OUT

[Toxxic 0]

“Ladies and gentlemen, this next contest is scheduled for one fall!”

 

Drum. Clap. Drum-clap. Drum. Clap. Drum-clap. The most primal of beats heralds the entry of Wes Davenport. The tall, well-formed man brushes the curtain aside and stomps proudly into the gaze of the cameras and lights. He lifts his gaze and raises his arm proudly to the crowd. His popularity -*SMACK*-

 

The Suicide King stands up and cheers as Thoth has run out from behind the curtain, blindsiding Davenport with a clubbing blow to the shoulder. The force knocks Davenport down to his knees. “Surprise attack!” shouts King as Thoth drops down and brings blows to bear on the back of Davenport’s head. Mak Francis would also stand up and voice is his disapproval, if he could. I’m sorry, that was low. Like Mak’s vertical height. Sorry about that one too.

 

The music quickly fades out as Thoth continues his assault. Davenport rolls over onto his back to try and face the onslaught; potentially guard it.

 

“Now that’s how you make an impact! Take an opponent by surprise!” exclaims King. Francis, suller, shakes his head. “This is how you want to make your big re-debut? Your big splash is a sucker punch? That’s not wrestling and that’s not skill. I’m not impressed and neither are these fans.”

 

Thoth continues to flail away, the knuckles of each blow driving stinging reminders into Davenport’s flesh. The larger man eventually recovers his bearings and gets a leg up, driving a knee into Thoth’s tailbone. The smaller, wiry man is pushed forward off of Davenport, who regains his composure and gets to his feet. Thoth turns to meet him, but instead meets fist to face. Davenport grabs a tuft of hair, and starts to heave his foe back into the ring, but stops, and in one single fluid motion, turns to his side and flings Thoth into the barricade instead. Mak Francis questions whether the match has even begun, as Thoth’s legs betray him. He sinks down to the arena floor as Davenport bites his lower lip and shakes his head. The battle has yet to begin... until he rolls Thoth in the ring, under the bottom rope, and climbs up onto the apron. As he himself steps through the ropes, Referee Soapdish immediately calls for the bell, answering Mak Francis’s earlier query.

 

Thoth gets to his feet before Davenport can fully enter the ring. He focuses his attack, once again, on the shoulder he assaulted at the very beginning. He punches it a few times before putting all his energy into a shot with his elbow. Unfortunately, it connects flush with Wes Davenport’s shoulder blade. He winces, grimacing as he clutches at his arm. Unconsciously, he has taken a few steps away from his foe. He dashes in, ready to close the distance, but Wes Davenport brings his larger frame to bear, pressing his lowered torso below Thoth’s center of mass, and straightening up to lift him out of the ring.

 

“So far, we’ve seen more of a brawl than a techincal wrestling match,” muses Mak Francis. “Is this match no-DQ, or is the referee going to get some control over this matchup?”

 

Davenport starts to exit the ring, but the referee gets in his way, telling him to back up. Wes glares at both the referee and Thoth on the outside before stomping away, turning to face the crowd and raising his arms in premature triumph. The crowd roars its approval as the referee begins a ten count. Thoth is already up to his knees when the referee counts 4, a blank look in his countenance. He climbs the steps and enters the ring as if he were making his first entrance, and starts circling its inside perimeter. Wes Davenport merely smirks, and drops into a low crouch, circling at the same time as his opponent.

 

Energy, stored in the ankles, releases as they both spring forth, locking collar-and-elbow. They strain, shifting weight against each other, but Davenport’s size and mass advantage prevail. He snatches on a side headlock, and... seems to wait. In a rhythmic cue, Thoth begins to run against the pressure, finding the ring ropes out of desperation, and using the momentum to push Davenport off, but as he is flung back, Wes Davenport sticks a big leg out and plants his foot with an stamping, loud authority, absorbing the momentum. He goes down to a knee, whereas Thoth is less lucky; instead of falling to his knees, he is twisted onto his side, his neck firmly ensconced. Wes Davenport brings his weight to bear, shifting all of it onto the back of the Balancer.

 

“Wes Davenport is demonstrating Amateur Wrestling 101. Inside the ring, Thoth is outclassed so far. Shaking off the ring rust is proving harder than he had anticipated,” remarks Mak Francis matter-of-factly, as Thoth tries to use any free limb to escape his predicament. Weakly, each lifts, and no result. Finally, Thoth hits upon using multiple limbs in concert, and eventually starts to roll over. Wes starts to go with him, and decides to release the hold. Thoth finds his back, and then gets to his feet quickly. A bit too quickly; his blood flow does not follow him. He is off balance, and Wes Davenport is on it quickly, snaking in a low approach.

 

Thoth’s balance tilts forward, and he takes advantage of it by popping Davenport square in the face with his boot. The recipient of the boot reels, holding both hands over his nose in pain/shock. A scowling Thoth approaches and whips Davenport off the far ropes. Too stunned to react, Davenport doubles over as Thoth aims a leg lariat at his gut. Gritting his teeth, Thoth brings his knee up and his elbow down, connecting at two points on Wes Davenport’s head. He crumples to the mat, and Thoth immediately slides in for a cover. The referee counts two, but Wes kicks out at two point five. Thoth looks down and picks his quarry up, lifting him off of his heel with a pinpoint uppercut. He steps in for more offense, but Davenport shows signs of life, firing back with an elbow shot to the jaw. Thoth wastes no time in firing back, matching his elbow shot with an elbow of his own. And elbow for elbow is traded... and elbow for elbow. And elbow for elbow.

 

“A brouhaha at center ring, here,” says King. “My favorite type of haha!”

 

The referee tries to step in and restore order, but there is no separating the two men! Each tries to make the other back down with a right elbow, and neither man is budging. The referee has no choice but to ring the bell and call for an immediate no contest. The crowd voices its disapproval, albeit... briefly. The two men in the center of the ring are not giving quarter or territory. Blow after blow after blow after blow after blow is traded, until the violence of each knocks one man out of the ring. The other follows, and the blows are continuing. The crowd cheers now, watching the brutality of each man come forth. Instead of elbows, they are clawing and gripping at one another, trying to bring each other down, and in the failing, redoubling their efforts. Wes Davenport brings a big knee to bear, doubling Thoth over. Like throwing a bag of trash out to a dumpster, Thoth is heaved into the guardrail, buckling it with his mass. Davenport pulls Thoth to his feet, but has his jaw pulled down onto the crown of Thoth’s head, sending him reeling.

 

Mak Francis is coolly livid. “This match has turned into an ineffectual donnybrook.” Suicide Kings interrupts, “My favorite kind of brook!”

 

The two unyielding fighters continue to brawl to the back, and then are fully obscured by the curtain.

[Toxxic 0]

DING DING!!

 

“The following contest is scheduled for one fall, with a twenty-minute time limit,” announces Funyon, as the crowd turns its attention back to the ring. “Making his way to the ring…”

 

Rush’s Force Ten begins to play over the speakers. The aggressive drums open, followed by a hard guitar riff by Canada’s favorite rock band. A few fans reach out to high-five Scott Pretzler as he walks through the curtain.

 

“From Toronto, Ontario, Canada… weighing in tonight at 234 pounds, he is the Critic… SCOTT… PRETZLER!!!!!!!”

 

Pretzler walks to the ring, focused on the match for the night. “It’s been a long time since Scott Pretzler was in the ring,” says the Suicide King. “He’s back between the ropes tonight for the first time in years, after his rotator cuff injury took him out of action. He’s been active on the political commentary circuit, but you can tell how much he’s been training for this match. Pretzler doesn’t look like Glenn Beck or Bill O’Reilly. He’s been in the gym, working hard to kick his comeback off on the right foot. Too bad he picked Tom Flesher as his first opponent.”

 

Pretzler slides into the ring and begins stretching out in the corner. His music fades, and for a moment, there is silence. Eddy Long takes the opportunity to check him for foreign objects, and Pretzler looks annoyed but complies. Unfortunately, the serenity is broken by the high-speed southern staccato of James Matheson.

 

“That’s great, that’s great,” says Matheson, as he strolls through the curtain and begins making his way down the aisle. “I’m so happy that Scott Pretzler is back in the ring. But Scott, I have to ask you,” Matheson says as he climbs the stairs and steps through the ropes, “what were you thinking? What makes you think it’s a good idea to return to the ring against one of the most decorated athletes in the history of the SWF? You’re supposed to be SMART, kid! You’re going to put that rotator cuff on the line against this man? He held every title there is to hold. He can tie anyone in knots at a moment’s notice. You think you can hang? This isn’t just anyone, Scotty. This is…

 

TOM FLESHER!”

 

With that, “Kashmir” blares out over the PA and Tom Flesher shoves the curtain aside. He struts to the ring, already in his singlet and kickpads. Quickly, he rolls into the ring as James Matheson exits. Eddy Long steps over to check Flesher for foreign objects. At first, Flesher refuses, but Long admonishes him that he won’t be allowed to compete. With an exasperated sigh, Flesher allows Long to check his kickpads and singlet. Miraculously, Long finds him clean, and calls for the bell.

 

 

DING DING!!

 

 

“And with that, we’re underway,” says the King, as Flesher and Pretzler begin circling around each other. quickly, but responds by slapping Flesher’s chest with a knife-edge chop meant to remind him that the Critic is the one who’s been training for this match, and not to mess with him. Flesher reaches out, tapping Pretzler warily on the hand to judge his reaction time; Pretzler pulls back Undeterred, Flesher quickly drops to one knee, telegraphing a leg shot; Pretzler sees the move coming and quickly sprawls back, but the veteran Flesher quickly reaches back up, slapping a headlock on Pretzler’s extended neck. With a smirk, Flesher pivots his hips and takes his hold.

 

“Classic Flesher,” King says, as Tom grinds the hold. “He knew that Scott Pretzler was counting on him being out of shape, but Tom doesn’t seem to have lost a step. He baits Pretzler into bad position and then locks him up in a side headlock.”

 

Pretzler locks his arms around Tom’s hips and shoots forward. Flesher takes a step, but plants his feet, stopping Pretzler from driving him into the ropes. Tom steps forward and pops to the side, taking Pretz to the mat with a side headlock takeover, but the wiley Critic rolls through to keep from being caught on his back. As Flesher realizes he’s being rolled through, he balls up, but not before Pretzler presses his back to the mat and starts to bridge. Quickly, Flesher kicks out and releases his headlock, then rolls to his knees and glowers at his foe.

 

“A little reminder for Taamo that he’s not getting off that easy,” laughs Mak as the crowd applauds Pretzler’s move. “The Critic turns the tables on Flesher and gets the first near-fall of the match, and the former World Champion is NOT happy about that one.”

 

“You know why they call it a near-fall, Wheels? Because it’s not a fall,” King shoots back. “Pretzler can get all the near-falls he wants, but the only one that counts is the one that lasts three seconds.”

 

Flesher gets up and, still glaring, gives Pretzler a sarcastic golf clap, as if to say, “Yeah, you did it once. Now run along.” He reaches down to adjust his kick pad, then steps back in against Pretzler. This time, the Critic takes the initiative, clubbing Flesher on the back of the head and pulling him into a classic collar-elbow tie. He pulls Flesher down into a front headlock, quickly shucking him to the side and spinning behind him to take the Superior One to the mat. Flesher, visibly agitated at being taken down, sprawls flat on the mat to recover. Pretzler takes the opportunity to grasp Flesher’s left arm and pulls it back into an armbar, then quickly dives forward to drive an elbow into the back of Flesher’s neck! Flesher winces and tries to pull away, but Pretzler continues his assault. Finally realizing he needs to change his plan, Flesher scoots forward and reaches out to grab the ropes. Referee Eddy Long quickly steps in and Pretzler releases his armbar, with Flesher once again slow to get back up.

 

“Tom is PISSED,” Mak laughs. “This is not the sort of thing that he’s used to and Pretzler’s not showing him any mercy tonight.”

 

Once again, Flesher gets back to his feet slowly. He stays in his stance, making sure Pretzler will not get another chance to make the first move. This time, Flesher grabs him by the wrist and jerks Pretzler’s arm, pulling close and then hammering him with a blast double leg takedown! Flesher keeps his arms around Pretzler’s waist and keeps him on the mat, then quickly headbutts him in the jaw before releasing his grip and standing up. With a smirk, he moves back to the center of the mat, and the fans begin to show their displeasure. James Matheson, predictably, applauds from the outside.

 

“Short-arm blast double,” King says, “and remember, that rotator cuff of Pretzler’s isn’t exactly stable. He’s been out of the ring for years due to that botched surgery, but if he’s going to get into the ring, he’s got to expect that a consummate athlete like Tom Flesher is going to hit him where it hurts.”

 

The fans don’t necessarily agree, and Flesher probably doesn’t need to be quite as derisive with Pretzler as he shrugs his shoulder to make sure it’s in place and then steps back to the center. Eddy Long admonishes both men that they need to bring the offense, and with that, Flesher quickly shoots in for a low single-leg takedown. Pretzler sprawls and dives in to drop another elbow on Flesher’s neck. With Flesher stunned, Pretzler spins behind him and, this time, instead of continuing to strike, he simply lifts Flesher off the mat and throws him back in a German suplex! The crowd cheers as Flesher grabs his hands to try to break his grip, but Pretzler rolls through and starts to lift him again! Again, Tom goes for a ride as Pretzler throws him over his head, then bridges and rolls through! One more time, Pretzler hosts Flesher into the air and slams him down onto his back, but this time, the Critic holds his high bridge as Eddy Long starts his count!

 

ONE!

 

but no more as Flesher finally manages to break the grip and kick out. He sits out, grabbing Pretzler’s left wrist, but Pretz follows him over and reaches across Flesher’s face with his right arm. Quickly, the crowd breaks into cheers as Pretzler kicks both legs around Flesher’s waist and slaps on a body scissors hold! “Crossface chicken wing!” shouts Mak, but it’s a little premature as Flesher reaches up to peel off the crossface. He grimaces as Pretzler clamps down on the scissors grip, but he quickly reaches up and grabs Pretzler by the head and rolls forward. He stops himself in a bridge, with Pretzler’s head and shoulders on the mat! Eddy Long counts

 

ONE!

 

Panicking, Pretzler releases his scissors and attempts to roll through. Flesher keeps his grip on Pretzler’s head and quickly transitions it into a reverse chinlock. He quickly stands up, holding Pretzler by the head, and then dives forward to slam his knee into Pretzler’s left shoulder! Again, the crowd boos loudly, but Pretzler merely winces as Flesher resumes his chinlock. He reverses the facelock and extend Pretzler’s arm, quickly causing a gasp from the crowd!

 

“HELD WITHOUT BAIL!” shouts the Suicide King! “Bill Hearford’s stretch plum is in!”

 

Fortunately for Pretzler, it’s not. Flesher can’t quite manage to step through between his thighs, and so Pretzler continues spinning away from him to escape. Flesher keeps his grip on Pretzler’s left arm but loses his head, and Pretzler immediately turns to face him. Flesher quickly jerks Pretz’s arm again and goes in for another short-arm blast double, but this time he dives straight into Pretzler’s knee! The crowd winces in sympathy for the former World Champion as he staggers back from the reeling blow. He stands straight up, staggers forward, spins to his left, and then takes one more step forward before flopping down directly on his face.

 

“Not a smart move by Flesher,” Mak says. “He might be a smart technical wrestler, but he can’t make sloppy mistakes like that. That’s going to cost him against a guy who’s just as smart.”

 

Pretzler measures Flesher, then takes a step back. As Flesher starts to get back to his feet, Pretzler shuts him back down with a standing dropkick that knocks the stuffing right back out of him! The crowd gives him a quick round of applause as he quickly drops down onto Flesher to grab him in a reverse body lock. He lifts Flesher up, gutwrenches him through the air, and then drops him across one knee in a picture-perfect pendulum backbreaker! Flesher cringes as he lands, and Pretzler quickly covers him for

 

ONE!!

 

Again, though, Flesher kicks out and bellies down. Pretzler stays on him like white on rice as he clamps down a front facelock and spins around to the front. “Don’t let him get that on you!” shouts James Matheson from the outside, as Flesher struggles to break free. He attempts to comply, but Pretzler quickly jumps up to his feet. Before Flesher can react, Pretzler jacks him up and then pulls him over in a snap suplex! Flesher’s back arches in pain as he lands, but he doesn’t have much time to react as Pretzler rolls through and jacks him up again and follows through with a second snap suplex. Flesher, shaken by the hard slams, is easy pickings for Pretzler’s final maneuver: another roll through, followed by lifting Tom up again. Instead of snapping him over one more time, though, Pretzler lifts Flesher until he’s almost vertical, and then…

 

BAM!!!

 

… he drops him down directly on the back of his head! Flesher flops down on the mat as King shouts “BRAINBUSTER!!!!” and Pretzler rolls across him, hooking his head. Eddy Long counts

 

ONE!!

 

 

TWO!!!

 

 

NO! Flesher kicks out, but is clearly still shaken. He rolls out of the ring, watching Pretzler out of the corner of his eye as he quickly converses with James Matheson.

 

“We knew Tom hadn’t been in the ring for a while,” Mak Francis says, “but this isn’t all ring rust. Scott Pretzler is on his game tonight, and he’s not an easy guy to get the better of. If Tom isn’t absolutely perfect, it’s going to be a short night.”

 

“Says you, Mary,” King shoots back. “I don’t recall you being on par with either of these guys. It’s not going to be easy, but I can’t see Pretzler winning this one. Tom Flesher just has too much going for him, whether he’s in top condition or not.”

 

Flesher finishes his chat with Matheson, then rolls back into the ring. Pretzler meets him at the ropes with a quick elbowdrop, and takes him back to the center of the ring. Matheson can be seen on the outside shaking his head in frustration, but Pretzler ignores him entirely. He whips Flesher into the corner, then quickly follows him in by slamming him with a European uppercut! Flesher reels from the blow, but Pretzler lets up and pulls him out of the corner to whip him across the ring. With his presence of returning, Flesher quickly plants his feet and reverses the whip, slamming Pretzler back into the corner! He follows up the whip with a stepping palm strike, momentarily stunning The Critic and giving Flesher time to step back and catch his breath.

 

Matheson jumps up onto the apron and begins shouting instructions at Flesher, who nods. “Stay on the shoulder but wear him down,” Matheson instructs him, as Flesher quickly steps back and slams his kickpad into Pretzler’s knee to knock him to the mat. “You don’t need to pull that indy crap where every move hits the same place. If he’s too tired to shake off the stretch plum it’ll win you the match whether his shoulder’s sore or not!” As Matheson continues coaching, Flesher buys himself a moment by grabbing the top rope and planting his shoe across Pretzler’s neck. He leans back, listening to Matheson as Eddy Long admonishes him to step off. Since Flesher doesn’t stop choking Pretzler, Long begins his count:

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

FOUR!

 

FI- no, Flesher removes his boot from Pretzler’s neck and steps back, looking a bit more confident and focused. He appears to think about choking Pretzler again, but instead merely kicks him across the jaw and grabs his left arm to pull him back up to his feet.

 

“Smart move by Flesher,” says King, “and smart coaching by James Matheson,” as Long orders Matheson down off the apron. Flesher appears deep in thought for a moment, then jerks Pretzler’s arm again and pulls him into a short-arm…

 

… thumb to the eye.

 

 

BOOO!!!!!!!!!

 

 

Flesher smirks as Pretzler spins around, trying to regain his senses. James Matheson applauds and Eddy Long steps in front of Flesher and gestures at him, shouting for him to maintain his decorum in the ring. Flesher shrugs, saying, “It’s a ligament injury.”

 

“You know, King, whether or not he has an injury, thumbing a guy in the eye is still illegal.”

 

“Oh, he didn’t thumb him in the eye. It was just a collision. Incidental contact.”

 

Pretzler turns around and walks toward Flesher, who promptly grabs him around the ribs, arches his back, and throws the Critic overhead in a railgun suplex! The exciting move draws a pop from the crowd, but Flesher doesn’t stop there. He rolls Pretzler onto his stomach, then lifts him off the mat for a German suplex. As he reaches the apex of the lift, he pops his hips and arches his back, releasing Pretzler to fly across the ring before landing hard on his neck and shoulders! Flesher rolls to his stomach and arrogantly stands up, watching Pretzler try to recover. He almost imperceptibly clutches his back and his stroll over to his fallen opponent is slower than it was a moment ago, but he quickly grabs Pretzler in a front headlock and pulls him back to the center.

 

“Not a bad decision,” says King. “Flesher can’t exactly work the way he used to, so he’s following up a big move with more hard, grinding work. His job is to wear down Pretzler, not to rip his neck to shreds. A submission that comes out of nowhere gets the win just the same.”

 

Flesher doesn’t have a submission in mind, though. Instead, he pulls Pretzler up off the mat and lifts him up, until the Critic is hanging upside down. Flesher holds him…

 

… and holds him….

 

 

…. and HOLDS HIM…..

 

 

 

“The blood rushing to Pretzler’s head isn’t doing him any favors,” Mak Francis notes. “That delayed suplex hold is one of the most disorienting moves in wrestling. You’re hanging upside down, and then all of a sudden you get slammed right onto your back….”

 

BAM!!!

 

Unfortunately for Pretzler, the slam doesn’t put him straight on his back. Instead, he lands firmly on the crown of his head, as Flesher drops him in a straight-down brainbuster! Pretzler flattens on the mat as Flesher rolls onto him.

 

“That’ll be it,” says King, as Eddy Long makes the count.

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

NO! Pretzler kicks out, leaving Flesher looking a little surprised but trying to maintain his control.

 

“Two different approaches to the brainbuster, but the same result,” says Francis. “Neither one ends the match, although at the moment I’d say Pretzler’s worse off. That’ll change, though.”

 

“What makes you so sure?” snorts King.

 

“Good stuff, good stuff,” Matheson shouts to Flesher. “Now don’t let up! Keep him on the mat! Position! Position!”

 

Matheson’s shouting keeps Flesher on task. He gets to his feet as Pretzler starts to come around. As he does, he turns his back on Flesher, who stomps him on the spine. Another stiff kick to the left shoulder causes Pretzler’s face to screw up in pain, and he drops back down onto his seat. Flesher follows that up with a hard kick to the spine, then another, and a third. He steps back, adjusts his kickpad, and then takes a running start before throwing a hard dropkick into Preztler’s back! As Pretzler lurches forward, Tom rolls over, stands back up, and starts a golf clap for himself while leaning on the ropes.

 

The crowd, predictably, does not join in.

 

“Well, Jimmy Math is going along with it,” shrugs Francis.

 

“And why not? Flesher’s doing everything Pretzler’s done, but he’s doing it better!”

 

“Come on,” Francis retorts. “That was the worst dropkick I’ve seen since Ghost Machine, and Pretzler is, without a doubt, the best in the business when it comes to that standing dropkick. Just ask Flesher. He ate one earlier.”

 

“Look at who’s on his feet and who’s on the mat,” King says, “and then tell me that again.”

 

Shaken up by the hard dropkick, Pretzler can’t resist as Flesher grabs his left arm and pulls it out to the side. Once again, he presses his right arm against Pretz’s face and starts to force it back, setting up the stretch plum! He shoves Pretzler forward, trying to spread his legs far enough to step through and hook his thigh. Pretzler, though a bit stunned, is aware of his surroundings and quickly reaches out with his right arm for the very ropes Flesher was just leaning on. Flesher, obviously angry that Pretzler is about to keep him from sinking in Held Without Bail again, grinds the crossface and armbar as long as he can. Eddy Long’s count begins…

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

FOUR!

 

FI- and once again, before Long can hit ‘Five,’ Flesher disgustedly breaks the hold. He steps back, measures Pretzler up, and slams his shoe into the left shoulder once more before Long shoves him backward.

 

“Come on,” shouts Matheson, “you can’t do that! Keep your hands off the wrestlers!”

 

“He’s got a point,” King says. “If you have to touch the wrestlers, you’re not managing the ring very well.”

 

“Tom’s not exactly an innocent flower here, Kingy. He knows Eddy Long’s limits and he’s trying to push them. He should really be focused more on outwrestling his opponent than outthinking the referee.”

 

Flesher grabs Pretzler’s wrist again and yanks him to his feet. He quickly whips Pretzler to the ropes. As the Critic bounces off, Flesher charges toward him and hammers his face with a Yakuza kick! In spite of itself, the crowd pops for Flesher’s signature attack, and Pretzler collapses in the center of the ring.

 

“There’ll be no rope break here,” says King, as Flesher makes the cover.

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

THR- NO! Pretzler manages to kick out, even as Flesher stays on him. He reaches down, grabbing Pretzler’s arm and using it to transition into a waistlock. Flesher uses the waistlock to lift Pretzler to his feet, looking for another German suplex! The crowd watches as Flesher starts the arch, but Scott Pretzler quickly hooks both of his legs around Flesher’s thigh to block the throw! Flesher, frustrated, tries to pull him back and force the throw, but Pretzler refuses to release his lock! Finally, Flesher shoves Pretzler forward, letting him fall flatly on his face onto the mat! The crowd boos loudly as Flesher shakes Pretzler off and steps onto his back to collect his thoughts.

 

“Just total disrespect for Pretzler,” says Mak Francis, as Flesher mulls over his options. Pretzler starts to push himself up, but finds his left shoulder wanting and stays on the mat. “Tom Flesher needs to remember that Pretzler came into this match looking for a challenge. If he thinks Pretzler’s such a fish, he should just pin his shoulders to the mat instead of trying to embarrass him like this. I’ll tell you, though, he’s going to be in trouble if he doesn’t stay a little more focused.”

 

“Come on, are you telling me this guy can really wrestle with one shoulder? Don’t worry about it. Tom’s just trying to put on a good show and make the guy submit.”

 

Having thought about his options, Flesher steps off Pretz’s back and quickly drops down with a knee onto the left shoulder. Again, Pretzler winces, but tries to stay in the game. Flesher reaches for the chinlock again, but Pretzler grabs Flesher’s arm and quickly spins out, facing Flesher and backing out as he tries to regain his neutral position. Flesher steps toward him, throwing a shotei, but Pretzler deftly grabs the right arm and spins Flesher down into a Fujiwara armbar! The crowd pops for Pretzler as Flesher struggles to free himself!

 

“Nice armbar from the Critic,” says Francis. “It’s very rare that you see the right arm attacked. It’s usually the left side. But Flesher gave him that armbar and he’d be a fool not to take it.”

 

Flesher tries to free his arm the simplest way he can think of, simply by wrenching it free, but Pretzler isn’t about to let him off that easy. He locks his hands, adding the strength that he can by using both arms and forcing Flesher to try a different strategy. He reaches out with his free arm to try to find the ropes, but can’t reach any of them. He kicks each leg out, but finds himself stranded too close to the center of the ring for that strategy to be viable.

 

“Flesher’s in trouble here, King,” Francis says. “He’s right there in the center of the ring, and Scott Pretzler has that Fujiwara armbar sunk straight in!”

 

Flesher realizes he’s in trouble, of course, and immediately cranks his elbow bent to try to force Pretzler to focus on straightening it back out. Then, he begins scooting toward Pretzler, trying to make his body as close to parallel as possible. Pretzler realizes what’s going on and tries to scoot away to open up the angle, but Flesher manages to step over his leg to hold him in place. Finally, Flesher switches from cranking his arm and bending it to letting it go completely limp. As Pretzler loses his grip on the rubber arm, Flesher pulls it free and steps over further into a cover! Pretzler catches on and manages to avoid a cover by scooting backward, even as Flesher stays on him! Finally, Pretzler grabs Flesher’s head and pushes back to try to free himself. Flesher flops down onto him, trying to prevent him from freeing himself, but Pretzler snags him in a front headlock and immediately slaps a bodyscissors grip on Flesher once again! The crowd bursts into cheers as Pretzler adjusts his position, seating himself quite comfortably into a bodyscissors front headlock. The move, of course, is better known as…

 

“WET CEMENT!” shouts Francis. “Flesher counters, and Pretzler re-counters by using one of Flesher’s own moves! The crowd is loving this!”

 

Flesher, panicking, reaches through and tries to free himself by peeling Pretzler’s hands free. That doesn’t work.

 

(“That never works,” shouts Matheson.)

 

He then starts to reach down to attack the bodyscissors, but Matheson advocates a different strategy from the outside.

 

“Look at your position! LOOK AT YOUR POSITION! TOES DOWN HIPS UP! TOES DOWN HIPS UP!”

 

With that, Flesher quickly adopts a classic amateur position, pushing Pretzler away from his prime position in the center of the ring. Even as he starts to feel the effect of the blood choke, he adjusts himself into a tripod, with the crown of his head on the mat and his hips pointed up. Pretzler tries to keep the hold on, but he doesn’t seem to notice that….

 

 

ONE!!!

 

 

 

TWO!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

THREno! Pretzler releases the hold and shoots a shoulder off the mat to keep himself alive in the match, and the crowd cheers as the match continues! Flesher, though, isn’t about to let him go that easily. Even as Pretzler tries to scoot away, Flesher keeps his right leg, quickly popping it into the air and following through with a spinning toehold. Before Pretzler can counter, Flesher sinks the spinning toehold in and drops to the mat, locking in a figure-four leglock! The crowd pops for Flesher’s rarely-used weardown move, but Pretzler quickly regains his senses and reaches out to break the hold by grabbing the bottom rope! The crowd sighs with relief as the frustrated Flesher keeps the figure-four sunk in for

 

ONE!

 

TWO!

 

THREE!

 

FOUR!

 

and then releases it, keeping his hold on Pretzler’s left leg. He stands up, then drags Pretzler back to the center as the crowd tenses up.

 

“He’s not going to make that same mistake again,” says King. “Neither of these guys is in top condition and you know that with a properly sunk submission hold you’re not going to see them hold on. Once Flesher gets the figure-four leglock on, this match is over.”

 

Flesher quickly reapplies the spinning toehold, but before he can get the leglock cinched, he finds himself rolling across his back as Pretzler grabs his head and pulls him to the mat with a small package! Eddy Long counts

 

ONE!!

 

 

TWO!!!!

 

 

 

THREE!!!!!

 

 

DING DING!!!!

 

 

 

The crowd bursts into cheers as Scott Pretzler rolls away from Tom Flesher and stands up in the center. The referee grabs his arm and raises it into the air as Funyon announces, “The winner of this match… The Critic, SCOTT PRETZLER!”

 

Pretzler pumps his good arm in the air to the strains of “Force Ten” as James Matheson jumps onto the apron and begins screaming at Eddy Long.

 

“You stupid SOB!” shouts Matheson. “His shoulder was up! That was a fast count! You don’t know what you’re doing and I’ll have your dadgummed job over this!”

 

“What a shocker!” muses the Suicide King. “In all his years in the SWF, you never saw mistakes like that. You never saw Tom Flesher messing up like he did tonight. Nine times out of ten, Tom Flesher wins this match, and he wins it by submission!”

 

Flesher kneels, staring at Eddy Long and Scott Pretzler in livid disbelief. Pretzler returns his glare, nodding confidently and letting his trademark smirk spread across his face. Matheson throws his briefcase across the ring in disgust and begins kicking the ropes.

 

“Give Scott Pretzler some credit, King,” admonishes Mak Francis. “You’re acting like Flesher lost this match, but if you were watching the same match I was, you’d have seen Flesher doing his damnedest to blow Pretzler out of the water and the Critic going move for move with him. Flesher didn’t screw up. Pretzler forced him into an error and capitalized.”

 

Slowly, Flesher rises to his feet, and Pretzler takes a step back. The music begins fading out as Flesher slowly takes a step toward him, shortening the distance between the two competitors. Slowly, Flesher extends his hand.

 

“And a nice show of respect for the Critic, who showed tonight that he still has the chops to hang with the best,” says Francis. Flesher raises Pretzler’s arm high into the air, even as Matheson continues his tantrum on the way to the dressing rooms, and the two fighters make their way to the back with mutual respect.

 

[Toxxic 0]

“Welcome back to the Asylum Arena!”

 

“We're on DVD Francis, there are no commercial breaks,” the Suicide King says.

 

“Old habits die hard, King.”

 

“True. And quite frankly, a few commercial breaks in the middle of the matches would have improved this show no end, so far.”

 

“Quiet, Mr. Grinch,” The Franchise reprimands his commentary partner. “Well SWF fans, up next we have what has to be one of the most exciting matches this company has put on in recent years shutupKingIknowwe'vebeenoutofbusinessit'scalledhyperbole. Two former title-winning tag teams collide in a classic battle of big vs small and power vs technique!”

 

“And idiocy vs egos.”

 

The stomping electronic beats of the Juno Reactor remix of 'Guilty' by Gravity Kills rings out across the Asylum, and the crowd come to their feet in a universal reaction of approval! Two looming figures appear through the dry ice in the entrance way, the larger in a bulky warm-up rope throwing shadow punches, the smaller walking to the ring with no other movement except to hold out his hand and tag some fans as he goes.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the following tag team contest is scheduled for one fall,” Funyon booms. “Introducing first, at a combined weight of 660lbs, the team of 'The Maori Badass' Va'aiga and Dace-”

 

“FUCKING!”

 

“-Night,” Funyon continues, smiling as he sees the crowd haven't lost a step, “they are the Violence Distribution Network... VEEEEE! DEEEE! ENNNNN!!”

 

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Dace and Va'aiga climb into the ring, the Maori throwing back his hood and firing off some more punches at unfortunate imaginary opponents, then throwing up the Shaka sign.

 

“BOOYAH!”

 

For his part Dace Night raises the metal horns, turning in the ring to take in the massed approval from the fans who still remember the devastation these two monsters wrought on the SWF's tag division.

 

“Mak, has Va'aiga actually eaten Landon or something?” King says in a mix of awe and disgust. “He's 370lbs now? That's... just not right.”

 

“I'm informed that you don't diss a Maori's puku, King,” the Franchise reprimands his commentary partner. “However, I will concede that the Maori Badass has gained weight as he's gained age. I suppose only time will tell whether that will work to his advantage against a pair of fast-moving cardio machines.”

 

“Yeah, but what are the odds of Landon and Toxxic not hitting like little cruiserweight bitches?” King frowns. “Mak, can you remember what Two Skinny White Guys' entrance music was?”

 

“As I recall, King, they couldn't agree and so used whatever Joe Peters' iPod Shuffle stopped on. I suspect that tradition will be continued tonight, although I think Jose in the back may be using Spotify instead.”

 

The Asylum Arena goes quiet... for a moment. Then the brassy horns of 'Propane Nightmares' by Pendulum start up, and every DJ in the building performs a facepalm. Moments later former SWF Commissioner Landon Maddix appears, twirling in slow circles with his entrance robe splaying out around him and playing the air trombone for all he's worth.

 

“Oh God,” King groans. “Not this drum 'n bass shit, please.”

 

“...set your sights for the suuuuuunnnnnn...”

 

The main synth riff and drumbeat hits and Toxxic strides out, slapping hands with the fans who offer theirs and grinning his familiar lopsided grin. The pairing advance on the ring, Landon still spinning while Toxxic vaults over the ropes onto the second buckle and throws his arms wide, palms flat, then strips off his England shirt and throws it into the crowd where two teenage girls in heavy eyeliner fight over it. Landon, meanwhile, has now removed his crown and is busy fussing with his hair.

 

“And their opponents!” Funyon declares. “At a combined weight of 430lbs, they are the team of 'King' Landon Maddix and 'The Straight-Edge Sensation' Toxxic, the longest-reigning SWF Tag Team Champions of all time... THEEEEEEEEE GALACTICOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSS!”

 

Some crowd members boo, some cheer, but they all make a lot of noise. Landon ignores the boos and soaks up the cheers; Toxxic just seems to revel in getting a reaction. It's been a while, after all.

 

“It's time to see how these competitors have been faring since the demise of the SWF,” Mak says. “Va'aiga has still been active and was wrestling for the PAW World Title at the beginning of the year, while Landon has been competing in the OAOAST-”

 

“Shithole!”

 

“...excuse me, King?”

 

“Sorry, I sneezed,” the Gambling Man replies airily. “Continue.”

 

“As I was saying,” Francis continues with a suspicious sideways glance at his colleague, “Va'aiga and Landon have both been wrestling but Dace Night and Toxxic haven't been in any active competition that I know of, although I know Toxxic's been training students at his Sensational Academy in Nottingham, England. We'll have to see whether ring rust catches up to one or both of them.”

 

“And whether Va'aiga could actually weigh as much as both his opponents with just one more roast dinner.”

 

*DING-DING-DING!*

 

The bell goes and referee Brian Warner signals for the match to start. Dace Night and Va'aiga have a quick conference and then the Maori steps out to the apron. Meanwhile Toxxic has already exited the ring and Landon finds himself left alone in the squared circle after he's finished removing his robe. Toxxic just grins and shrugs, and Maddix turns to come face-to-face with the man from Birmingham.

 

The two men circle each other for a few moments, then Dace comes in and goes for a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Delusions of grandeur though he may have Landon is smart enough not to go strength-for-strength against Night, so he ducks under Dace's lunges, pops back up to his feet and kicks Night in the back of the leg. Dace glowers and Landon grins, spreading his arms wide and soaking in the adulation of the crowd... which doesn't really come.

 

Dace doesn't like that, so he moves in again. This time Landon rolls aside, jumps back up and dropkicks Dace in the back, sending the Brummie staggering forward into the ropes. However, instead of following up in his opponent's moment of disorientation, Landon once more spreads his arms for the crowd.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

“Stop pissing about!” Toxxic shouts from the apron, but his facial expression indicates that he's already fighting a slightly amused resignation to his partner's antics.

 

Dace isn't happy now, but unless he closes with La Cucaracha he can't set to work cracking the insect, so he goes back to the well. This time, however, as Landon tries to duck aside Dace is fast enough to catch him by the hair, then grabs Landon's head in both hands and hold him still to drive a knee strike into his gut. The former Commissioner bends double as the breath is blasted from his lungs, which puts him in a perfect position for Dace to wrap two powerful arms around his waist and heave him up and over in a gutwrench suplex.

 

“YEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

 

Landon springs up from the mat holding his back, turns to Dace with an expression of pain on his face and waves a hand to say “hold on a moment!”. Then he turns, walks to his corner, and tags in Toxxic.

 

“Oh, for...” King grumbles.

 

Toxxic takes the rope in both hands and vaults lightly over it, then circles his arms for a second or so. He nods to Dace and extends one clenched fist towards him. Dace regards him steadily for a second, then returns the gesture. They touch knuckles, back off from each other and start circling.

 

“Think Toxxic's been watching some MMA?” Francis asks.

 

“He'd have offered a handshake I'm sure, but Dace would have just pulled him into an elbow smash,” King opines, “cheating bastard that he is.”

 

“I see a couple of years away has done nothing for your delusions.”

 

Dace and Toxxic circle until they both have their backs to their own corners. Then Dace stops, holds one finger up as though an idea has just occurred to him, and turns around to tag Va'aiga in, to the crowd's obvious approval. Toxxic grimaces, but beckons the big man towards him with nail-varnished fingers. Va'aiga obliges, flicking out a couple of jabs at Toxxic's face that the English cruiserweight respectfully backs off from.

 

“We all know that Toxxic's good, but can his speed really make up for the enormous size and strength difference here?” Mak Francis questions.

 

Toxxic apparently intends to find out. The Straight-Edge Sensation has been watching Va'aiga's jabbing left hand carefully, and suddenly darts in to leap up and fire two feet into the Maori's midsection with a running dropkick! The impact knocks Va'aiga back a step but no more; Toxxic scrambles back up off the mat and is back into his circling crouch before the Maori can move in on him.

 

“It's going to take more than that to even hurt Va'aiga,” Mak comments.

 

“Yeah, but Toxxic can do this all day while the Maori Fatass chases shadows,” King replies.

 

Va'aiga didn't like that; the big Maori starts to pursue the Englishman in earnest, backing him up into the ropes, but Toxxic ducks the haymaker right coming at him and fires a snap kick into the back of Va'aiga's right knee. The Maori grunts in pain and turns to come after him, but Toxxic's backpedalling again. Va'aiga roars and charges... and now Toxxic changes direction, darting in to plant a basement dropkick into the same knee. Va'aiga staggers, uttering curses that make everyone glad the SWF doesn't have a primetime TV deal anymore. Toxxic follows up by leaping into the air to deliver a gamengiri...

 

*CRACK!*

 

...that has absolutely no effect on the Maori! Va'aiga just shakes his head as though to clear water from his eyes, then delivers a forearm smash to a startled Toxxic that sends the straight-edger staggering backwards into the turnbuckles!

 

“YEEEEEAAAAHHHHH!”

 

The crowd liked that, and they like it even more when Va'aiga charges in to crush his English opponent into a mushy sandwich... except that Toxxic darts out of the way once more, and the Maori eats nothing but turnbuckle. Which needs more salt, judging by the displeasure on his face. Va'aiga turns to follow and sets off at a lumbering run but Toxxic has already darted to the far turnbuckles where he takes a running jump to the top, then leaps back off with a flying clothesline! It doesn't knock the Maori down – not even two hundred pounds of flying Englishman can achieve that, it seems – but it does send him staggering back into the ropes where he somehow gets tangled up, arms trapped between the cables in a manner reminiscent of a certain French giant.

 

“That's not a good place for Va'aiga to be!” Mak shouts.

 

“Hell no. Landon's just there,” King points out.

 

Sure enough, Maddix is advancing down the apron towards the trapped Maori, but Toxxic leaps into action first – literally, delivering another running dropkick to his huge opponent's chest. Va'aiga sucks in air desperately, but as Warner moves in to try and help free him Landon wraps his arm around the Maori's neck and hangs down behind with a chokehold!

 

“Referee! Get him off!” Mak roars.

 

“Eh, it's Landon. He hasn't got the technique to choke out An Octopus when it's out of water,” King mutters.

 

Warner's count reaches four before Landon releases his grip, dropping down to the arena floor to bask in the adulation of his fans, who are presumably somewhere, but not noticeably in the immediate vicinity.

 

“Landon! Get your arse up here!” Toxxic yells from the ring.

 

“That's 'King Landon!'” Maddix retorts, turning to face the ring.

 

“Get your 'king arse up here!”

 

Toxxic might be humouring his tag partner, or simply omitting a syllable. The smart money would be on the latter. However, Landon seems mollified and jumps up to the ring apron where Toxxic tags him in. Maddix spins in through the ropes and ducks under a half-hearted right hand thrown by the breathless Va'aiga, then pops up behind the Maori and jumps up, planting his knees in Va'aiga's back and grabbing him by the shoulders to bring him down in the Lungblower.

 

Well...

 

...that's the plan, anyway. As it is, Va'aiga flails his arms and keeps his feet, looking for all the world like he's just bought a bizarre Landon Maddix backpack from the merchandise stall. Maddix looks over at his tag parter appealingly.

 

“A little help here?”

 

Toxxic shrugs, as if to say “well, it's your legs”, then jumps to the top rope and springboards in with another dropkick to Va'aiga's chest. This tips the balance on the Maori who topples backwards to the mat with Landon's legs and knees beneath him... which is where the flaw in Maddix's plan apparently lay. The Maori Badass can't breathe, sure enough, but Landon cries out in pain and rolls around for a couple of seconds clutching his kneecaps. Once the pain's died down he scrambles on top of Va'aiga and makes the match's first cover.

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TW-

-but Va'aiga powers out before Kivell's hand can even strike the mat for the second time, throwing Landon clear off him as though he was bench-pressing a pillow! Landon lands on all fours, winces at the pain in his knees again, then sights on his opponent as the Maori starts to rise.

 

“Look out!” Dace shouts from the apron, but it's too late as Landon delivers the Low-Flying Superkick.

 

*SMACK!*

 

The impact's probably not going to do much to a Polynesian skull, but Va'aiga hasn't got his vertical base back yet and the Maori falls backwards to the mat. Landon follows up by jumping on him with a double stomp, then dropping directly into a back senton to knock even more air from Va'aiga's lungs. Maddix gets back to his feet, dives for his corner and tags in Toxxic, then runs for a neutral corner. Referee Warner tries to keep an eye on La Cucaracha as Toxxic leaps from the apron...

 

...to the tope rope...

 

...to the top buckle...

 

...MOONSAULT!

 

“Radford Calling!” Francis shouts. “And wait for it...”

 

Landon waits for his partner to clear the landing area, then comes off the neutral corner with a Frog Splash! Not to be outdone, Toxxic has already jumped back up to the top buckle of the Galactico's corner and somersaults off to land the Hangover directly across Va'aiga's throat! With the breathless Maori thrashing on the mat like a landed fish, Toxxic makes a cover and does his best to hook Va'aiga's tree trunk-like leg...

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...but Va'aiga kicks out! He doesn't have quite the authority of before though, and the old lopsided grin is back on Toxxic's face.

 

“The Straight-Edge Sensation smells blood!” King shouts. “It's only a matter of time now, Mak!”

 

“Don't be so sure King,” Francis disagrees, “Va'aiga is never more dangerous than when he's wounded, and Dace Night is fresh!”

 

“Your first statement is illogical, and Night is a non-factor in this match unless the Maori Fatass can tag him in. Which he won't.”

 

Va'aiga's getting back up to his feet, but Toxxic latches on a front facelock. Which doesn't seem like a good plan, as Va'aiga lets out a roar and drives the straight-edger back into a neutral corner, crushing him against the buckles! Toxxic groans in pain, but starts firing knees into Va'aiga's midsection to traumatise the Maori's solar plexus some more. The lack of breath slows Va'aiga down long enough for Toxxic to hop up to the second buckle, still with his front facelock, then swing out and down, spinning on the way into an elbow drive bulldog!

 

“Tornado Unfinished Business!” Mak shouts in amazement, “we've never seen that one before!”

 

Toxxic gets up holding his ribs, staggers to his corner and tags in Landon. Maddix heads up to the top rope, sights on Va'aiga as the Maori starts to rise and leaps off to grab his opponent in another front facelock for the flying DDT!

 

...but Va'aiga saw him coming and catches La Cucaracha in midair, throws him up into a torture rack with a roar of effort as his midsection protests at him, then launches Maddix up further to spin him out into the Sulphur City Drop!

 

*BANG!*

 

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

The Philly crowd are on their feet, and Va'aiga is trying to get there too; the Maori Badass staggers up as Landon spasms on the mat, but he seems disoriented and unable to place himself. Dace hammers on the turnbuckle with his hand and roars out his tag partner's name, trying to get the big Maori to move in the right direction. Va'aiga seems to focus on Night and moves with more purpose, and reaches out to make the tag that Dace and the entire crowd have been waiting for...

 

...but Landon has got up to his knees despite the slightly glazed look in his eyes and has latched onto Kivell's trousers, complaining loudly and demanding that the referee check to see if he's bleeding from the back of his head! Kivell looks down in frustration, and misses the tag!

 

“Okay, that was nicely done,” King admits grudgingly as Dace Night storms into the ring like an avenging Brummie angel, only to find Kivell shepherding him back out again.

 

“I can't help but agree with Toxxic here,” Francis comments as the Straight-Edge Sensation performs a facepalm in his corner, then looks at Landon over the top of his fingers with a “did you really just do that?” expression on his face. For his part Landon just taps one finger to the side of his nose, then gets back to his feet and launches himself into a basement dropkick that impacts into the side of Va'aiga's knee as he argues with Kivell.

 

“See, that's just idiocy on Va'aiga's part,” King says, “he should have either put a beatdown on Landon before he'd recovered properly, or just made sure Kivell was watching and simply tagged Dace in again. But as ever the Maori can't control his temper, and he's paid for it.”

 

Landon grabs Va'aiga by his ears and starts tugging him along; the Maori has little choice but to follow until he's in the centre of the ring, where Landon takes hold of the back of his head and starts kicking him repeatedly in the face.

 

“Yes!” King shouts. “Kiss the royal feet, Va'aiga!”

 

Except of course that this is Va'aiga, and hitting him in the head is going to be roughly as effective as trying to grate concrete. The Maori rears up with a roar, draws back his fist...

 

...and Landon goes to the eyes.

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Still, Landon clearly decides that it's time to get the hell out of Dodge, and heads over to tag in Toxxic. The Englishman advances on Va'aiga, but gets caught as he comes in with a left jab and the crowd start chanting along!

 

Left!

 

“BOO!”

 

Left!

 

“BOO!”

 

Left!”

 

“BOO!”

 

Va'aiga roars again, throws up the Shaka sign and swings with his right fist...

 

“YAAAAAAAAA-ooooohhhhhhhh...”

 

...that Toxxic ducks! His momentum carries the Maori past Toxxic and right around, and he turns around into a RIGHT!

 

LEFT!

 

RIGHT!

 

LEFT!

 

Toxxic takes a step back, flips the v-sign at Va'aiga, then spins into the discus clothesline... and eats the right hook!

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

Va'aiga raises a foot to stomp right down through the dazed straight-edger's ribcage, but the tone of the crowd's roar changes pitch and he turns around to see Landon running in. La Cucaracha simply catches a boot to the midsection, then Va'aiga pulls him into a standing headscissors and wraps two powerful arms around his opponent's waist.

 

“One powerbomb coming up!” Mak yells.

 

Va'aiga hauls Landon up...

 

...Maddix waves his arms fruitlessly...

 

...and Toxxic soccer tackles Va'aiga from behind, taking his legs out and causing him to fall backwards with Maddix landing on his chest!

 

*BANG!*

 

“Professional Foul!” King shouts in delight. “Card him, ref! Oh wait, you can't!”

 

Maddix reaches behind him, grabs one of Va'aiga's legs and sits forward into a cover while Toxxic gets up, ready to run interference if Dace tries to break it up...

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TH-

-but Va'aiga kicks out again!

 

"The Galacticos have put a lot of offense together on Va'aiga," Francis points out, "but not enough to expect Landon to be able to force him down for a pinfall like that."

 

Having managed to get Va'aiga off his feet at least, both Toxxic and Maddix have the same idea and move in to capitalise. Problem is, only one of them is legal. And both seem to think it's them. Annoyed, Toxxic tells Landon to "'op it", flippancy which the supposed 'King' doesn't appreciate.

 

"Now's not the time for the lovers' spat, guys." smirks King.

 

As Toxxic and Landon start to bicker, they take their eyes off of Va'aiga, who slowly rises to his feet.

 

"Just get out, Landon..."

 

"How many times do I have to tell you!? It's KING Landon!" Landon... erm, 'King' Landon protests.

 

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Get your awkward arse out of my way, KING Landon."

 

"You know, I don't appreciate you talking to me like tha..."

 

"Alright, fine. You stay in." Toxxic finally relents, glancing over Landon's shoulder as he does so. Landon rolls his eyes and throws his arms up, as if to say "finally!" and turns around...

 

 

 

...to find Va'aiga standing.

 

"Uh oh." Francis frets.

 

Suddenly having a change of heart, Landon is all too happy to hand over proceedings to his tag team partner now. All too late, however, as Va'aiga grabs Landon by his straggly blond hair as he goes to tag out, then headbutts the fearful Maddix right in the back of the skull! Landon grabs the back of his head instinctively and starts to stagger about, seeing stars. Wandering aimlessly, he circles around, before eventually walking into an outstretched hand, soon clasped against his throat. Maddix's eyes bug out, as he's then lifted clean off his feet and SLAMMED down into the canvas, much to Toxxic's disdain.

 

"Polynesian Chokeslam from the mammoth Maori!" gasps Francis. "He just picked Maddix up like he was nothing!"

 

"Quite fitting, if you ask me." King retorts.

 

Va'aiga continues to press his death grip against Landon's throat, leaving him flailing and flapping in a vain attempt to do... something. Who knows what. Thankfully for Landon, Toxxic has come to his rescue, booting Va'aiga in the back of the head to break it up. As Va'aiga stands, grumpily rubbing his cranium, Toxxic goes on the move. Hitting the ropes, he runs headlong at Va'aiga. Perhaps not the wisest move, as Va'aiga has enough speed to cope with oncoming targets and DEMOLISHES the one coming towards him with a double leg Rubgy Tackle!!

 

"YYYYEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!"

 

"Now that's how people tackle in a real man's sport!" exclaims King. "None of that namby-pamby sliding about, going after people's shins, not where Va'aiga comes from!"

 

"Uhm, I'm fairly certain they play rugby in England as well, King."

 

"Obviously not well enough!" laughs King.

 

Able to fend both Galacticos off for the moment, Va'aiga's attentions turn back to the all elusive tag to his partner. Dace urges his teammate to get over and bring him in, as Toxxic and Landon start to stir. Mostly Toxxic, to be fair. As Va'aiga crawls over towards his corner, a winded Toxxic spots the danger. And not wanting to let the fresh man in, he makes a despairing lunge for Va'aiga's trailing ankle...

 

 

 

...which isn't enough to stop Va'aiga from dragging himself those final inches and MAKING THE TAG!!!

 

"YYYYEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

"Here comes trouble!" cries Mak, over the roar of the crowd.

 

Toxxic attempts to meet Dace coming in, to try and quell some of his fire quickly. However, all he meets is Dace's elbow, right to the face! Toxxic hits the deck, but bounces right back up and tries again. Dace smashes him with another elbow just as quickly, to knock Toxxic down again. Over on the other side of the ring, Landon just lays clutching his throat, no help at all to Toxxic right now. Grabbing him by the wrist, Dace sends Toxxic into the cables with an irish whip and then throws him high overhead with a big back bodydrop!

 

"Dace has been stewing on that apron for some time. And all of that frustration building up inside him is coming out, in painful fashion if you're Toxxic."

 

As Toxxic climbs back to his feet, Dace waits on him...

 

 

*SLAP*

 

"WHOOOOOOOO!"

 

...and dishes out a knifedge chop, which rocks his fellow Englishman.

 

 

*SLAP*

 

"WHOOOOOOOO!"

 

A second knifedge chop rocks Toxxic even more, right back against the turnbuckles infact. Dace grabs a hold of Toxxic's arm again and sends him across the ring, into the opposite corner. Night then attempts to follow Toxxic in with a move in the corner, only for Toxxic to defensively throw his knee up and catch Dace coming in unawares. With Dace seemingly dazed, Toxxic tries to capitalise with a slam to set him up near the corner. A tactic which doesn't pay off. Dace refuses to be lifted and fights Toxxic off with elbows to the side of the head. After fighting the slam off, Dace spins Toxxic around and shoves him in the back, sending him chest first into the corner. The turnbuckles spit The Straight Edge Sensation back out, into the arms of Night, who waistlocks Toxxic and throws him back with a German Suplex!

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

NO!

 

Watching as Toxxic stands, Dace takes aim and knocks Toxxic over with a clothesline.

 

"Toxxic could do with a little... well, assistance here." Mak points out. "And he's not getting any."

 

"As the saying goes, a friend in need is probably regretting knowing Landon Maddix."

 

With Landon still laying prone under the bottom rope, Toxxic is left to fight alone and has to fight off a suplex attempt from Dace. Able to wrap his leg around Dace's to prevent being taken over, Toxxic bats at Dace's ribcage with some punches in an effort to fend him off. Luckily for Toxxic, Landon chooses this point to pick himself up and offer some form of help. Stumbling over, Maddix hooks onto Dace and tries to set up a double suplex. However, Dace has enough strength to not only block the suplex, but to arch back and throw BOTH Galacticos over with a 'double' suplex of his own!!

 

"YYYYEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!"

 

"Hrm. Maybe Toxxic was better off on his own after all." theorises King.

 

With both Galacticos picking themselves up, Va'aiga re-enters the scene, having had a chance to regroup. The VDN size up their opposition, then nod to each other...

 

 

 

*CRACK*

 

*CRACK*

 

...and run through them with stereo Yakuza Kicks!!

 

"BOO - YAH!!"

 

"The Galacticos really need to regroup here." Mak wisely notes.

 

Landon evidently agrees and rolls outside to do just that. Which leaves Toxxic all alone in the ring again, but some things are more important, like checking your face is in one piece. Va'aiga follows Landon outside to make sure he's a non-factor. Leaving Dace to deal with Toxxic. With The Straight Edge Sensation left looking punch drunk, Dace comes up from behind and proceeds to dump Toxxic on his neck and shoulders with a Backdrop Suplex! Cover by Dace...

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

NO!

 

"Come on Dace, you're going to need a little more than that." King critiques.

 

Grabbing a firm hold of Toxxic's trademark spiked hair, Dace drags him off the mat and to his feet. Dace then stuffs Toxxic into a standing headscissors and prepares to deliver a powerbomb. The preparation is maybe a little too deliberate though. And on the way up it's clear Toxxic is more in control than Dace was anticipating. Able to get a little extra momentum on the way up, Toxxic pushes off of Dace's head at the peak of the move, allowing him to flip down the back and surprise Night with a sunset flip counter!

 

"That was too much!" King, not so helpfully, critiques.

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

DACE ESCAPES!

 

First to his feet, Toxxic catches Dace with a quick thrust kick to the midsection, which is enough to slow Dace up for a second. Doubling Dace up, Toxxic blasts him with a European uppercut. A second one. And then a third, not enough to put Dace down but plenty to leave him short of breath. Toxxic takes advantage of this by turning and hitting the ropes, building up a head of steam on a running dropkick. The force of which knocks Night back, through the ropes, landing safely on the arena floor but looking stunned.

 

"I've got them!" Landon cries out to his partner, as he grabs both Va'aiga and Dace behind the head, in an ambitious attempt to hold them in place for a Toxxic dive.

 

A second later, Landon is swatted away by the big Maori.

 

"Gee, thanks for that." sighs Toxxic.

 

Va'aiga attempts to climb back into the ring, but is blocked off by another running dropkick from Toxxic. As Va'aiga falls back outside, Toxxic then gets a big run up and settles for wiping Dace out with a big flip dive!!

 

"TOXX - IC!"

"TOXX - IC!"

"TOXX - IC!"

"TOXX - IC!"

 

Sneaking back into the ring, Landon then follows suit by flinging himself through the bottom and middle ropes at Va'aiga with the TOPÉ ESPECIAL!!!

 

"LAN - DON!"

"LAN - DON!"

"LAN - DON!"

"LAN - DON!"

 

"Show-offs." King mutters under his breath.

 

Despite only knocking Va'aiga back into the barricade and not off his feet, Landon seems proud that his chant was slightly louder than Toxxic's. Not hanging around to measure metaphorical dicks with his tag partner, Toxxic throws Night back inside the ring and tries to concentrate on winning the match. Something which Landon regrets not doing, when Va'aiga grabs him and throws him against the barricade.

 

"I think Landon succeeded in bouncing off of Va'aiga and not much else." points out King.

 

Meanwhile, Toxxic stands on the apron, waiting for Dace to get up so he can attempt a springboard move. Va'aiga has other ideas though and grabs Toxxic's foot.

 

 

 

*CRACK*

 

Unfortunately for Va'aiga, Toxxic has two feet, the other one volleying The Maori Badass right in the side of the head!

 

"That's a good way to bust an eardrum." remarks Mak.

 

"It's also a good way to encourage Va'aiga to come back and bust your eardrum later." King argues.

 

With Va'aiga out of his way, Toxxic is finally able to springboard to the top rope...

 

 

 

 

 

...and into the waiting arms of Dace Night, who counters Toxxic's intentions by turning his springboard move into a POWERSLAM IN MID-AIR!!!!

 

"OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

"What a counter!" yells Mak.

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KICKOUT!

 

"Boy, Toxxic almost got caught right there!" Francis exclaims. "But the former World Champion still had enough wherewithal to kick out!"

 

As Dace attempts to pick Toxxic back up again, he suddenly sees a figure dart past him. And coming off the ropes in front of Night, Maddix flings himself at the Englishman, hooking Dace around the neck with his left arm and swinging himself around, to drive Dace into the mat with an inverted bulldog using the right!

 

"He calls that the King's Guillotine and I guess that means it's off with Dace's head!" quips Mak.

 

"I call it impressive, but begrudgingly and through gritted teeth."

 

"No quite as catchy that, though, is it King?"

 

Landon pats Toxxic on the back, essentially saying "you're welcome for the help". Toxxic doesn't seem all that grateful, to be honest. But The Galacticos are at least back on the same page and try to stay that way, long enough to set up a double team. Together, both Landon and Toxxic hook Dace by the head and aim themselves towards the corner.

 

"Crowning... uhh... Sunny In... uhm... they're both going for sliced bread!" Mak finally blurts out.

 

In tandem, Toxxic and Landon run for the turnbuckles, looking for the mashed up Crowning Sunny Glory In England...

 

 

 

 

 

 

...NO! Dace manages to shove them BOTH off, short of the ropes. Both Toxxic and Landon are sent into the corner and end up in an awkward pile-up against the turnbuckles. Maddix gets the best of this and quickly breaks away, surprising Dace with a go behind and holding him in place for Toxxic.

 

Toxxic turns around and immediately looks unsure. But on Landon's urging, he decides he'd best waste no more time...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*SMACK!*

 

 

...IN STEPHENSKICKING HIS OWN PARTNER!!!

 

"OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

"Brilliant!" cheers King. "Best thing Toxxic could have done!"

 

"I don't think he meant to do it, King."

 

"Either way. The end result is still just as beautiful."

 

Looking down at Landon with his hands on his hips, Toxxic sees his partner sprawled out and not moving. Leaving him with only one reaction.

 

"Meh."

 

Toxxic shrugs his shoulders, summising it wasn't his fault Landon came up with a dumb idea and failed to hold up his end of it. Toxxic then turns around, just in time to see Dace charging at him with a clothesline... which he narrowly DUCKS! Presented with the turnbuckles in front of him, Toxxic quickly scales the corner like a cat and throws himself back, twisting to take Dace out with the clothesline which couldn't fell Va'aiga earlier!

 

"Role Reversal!" calls Mak. "Successful this time!"

 

"You alright, mate?" Toxxic asks inquistively to Landon, finally showing some compassion to his partner, as he starts to stir next to him.

 

"Guh?"

 

"...alright, let's just roll you out the way, eh?"

 

Setting his delirious teammate aside, Toxxic turns his attentions back to Dace. Night gets to his feet...

 

 

 

 

*SMACK!*

 

 

 

...and gets BLASTED WITH A STEPHENSKICK!!

 

"Remember what I said about Toxxic being better off without Landon's help?" King inquires.

 

Rocked by the kick but still on his feet, Dace is taken by Toxxic and brought sharply towards the corner by the neck. Scaling the turnbuckles, Toxxic then kicks off, looking for a solo Sunny In England... but doesn't connect! Dace manages to get his arms under Toxxic, flipping him over his head to counter the move! Toxxic is able to land on his feet though. And as Dace runs towards him, Toxxic's instincts kick in, helping him to get Dace up on his shoulder in a fireman's carry! Unable to hold him there for long, Toxxic does capitalise though, flipping Night over and sitting out, driving him into the canvas!!

 

"The Caffeine Bomb Mk. II!"

 

Reaching up, Toxxic crosses the legs up and pulls back, stacking Dace on his shoulders...

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THR-

 

 

KICKOUT!!!

 

Toxxic looks up at the referee, with a certain amount of disbelief that he didn't get a three count.

 

"Dace had enough to kick out! And I don't think Toxxic, much as he respects Dace, was expecting that!" calls Mak.

 

Climbing back to his feet, Toxxic looks back at the turnbuckles, clearly seeing what his best chance to putting Dace away entails. Once Dace is back up, Toxxic tries to put that plan into action, catching Dace in the 3/4 headlock again. But Dace knows what's coming and drops to a knee, going deadweight and refusing to be taken anywhere near anything Toxxic can vault off of.

 

"Dace has got it scouted." Francis points out.

 

"Yeah, but I think Toxxic's got an idea." King responds.

 

Toxxic sees Landon starting to recover and waves him over, clearly with something in mind. Keeping hold of Dace's head, Toxxic delivers a couple of headbutts in an attempt to break his resistance. Which works, allowing him to bring Dace up off of one knee. Rather than run towards the ropes, Toxxic then sticks his foot out, asking Landon to give him a leg up. Still a little groggy, Landon seems to get the message regardless and throws Toxxic up, Toxxic pushing off and floating over...

 

 

 

 

...onto his feet, again! Pushed off by Dace, Toxxic stumbles a little as he lands...

 

 

 

 

 

 

*WHAM!*

 

 

...and gets blasted in the head, from behind, with a SKULL RATTLING, BRAIN BLITZING OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTAIRAL (WHICH IS LARIATOOOOOOO BACKWARDS OF COURSE!!!!!!)!!!!!

 

"YYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

 

"OH!" cringes Francis. "Va'aiga, from the blindside, with the LARIAT!"

 

Looking shocked for a second, Landon finally snaps back to life and instinctively runs at Va'aiga...

 

 

 

 

 

 

*WHAM!*

 

 

...AND ALMOST GETS DECAPITATED WITH A SICK, TWISTED, NASTY, UGLY, BRUTAL, FUCKING DEADLY LAAAAAARRRRIIIIAAAAATTOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, WHICH TURNS HIM HALFWAY INSIDE OUT!!!!!!!

 

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

 

"MARVELLOUS!" shouts a clearly delighted Suicide King.

 

Landon lays in dead man's position, completely motionless. Toxxic meanwhile has some motion, but not much. Enough to get him to his feet. Which isn't nearly enough, as it leads him right into more trouble. Dace hooks The Straight Edge Sensation up and with Va'aiga watching on, DRIVES Toxxic into the mat with the Double Underhook Vertical BRAINBUSTER!!!

 

"DEFENESTRATION!"

 

Rolling Toxxic over, Dace hooks both legs, as Va'aiga places a foot on Landon's carcass and throws up the Shaka sign...

 

 

 

ONE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREEEE!!!

 

"YYYYEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

 

*DINGDINGDING!*

 

"It's over!" cries Francis. "Dace Night pins Toxxic and the VDN beat the highly-decorated Galacticos! What a win!"

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, your winners of the match... the team of VA'AIGA and DACE F'N NIGHT... THE V... D... N!!!!!"

 

"YYYYYYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

 

Dace and Va'aiga bump knuckles in a sign of appreciation for each other's efforts in winning the match. They then both look down, at the fallen former SWF management team members and nod their heads in satisfaction.

 

"Yeah! You guys had it coming!" King cheerleads, getting a little caught up in the moment.

 

"You got another payday. Get over it." Mak snaps back, before going into professionalism mode, since somebody has to. "Good to see that the Lariat is still as evil, wicked and whatever other adjective you want to throw out along those lines as it ever was. And thanks to that Lariat, plus some lack tag team cohesion from Landon and Toxxic, Dace and Va'aiga the VDN are victorious, here tonight. Although, I don't think Landon and Toxxic can really blame lack of cohesion, since... well, they never really got on to begin with. So, maybe don't hold your breath for that big Galacticos comeback tour."

 

"If anything good comes out of tonight, please let it be that."

[Toxxic 0]

Francis: “And we are now just about ready for our main event of the evening. Arguably the two greatest pure technical wrestlers in the history of the SWF are going to face each other. It is the old school rules match as Michael Alexander takes on Jay Hawke. King, your thoughts. I have to admit, I initially questioned this being announced as the main event of a one-time reunion show, but that’s only because Jay Hawke never held the big prize, the World Heavyweight Championship. But from an in-ring standpoint, I can’t think of a better way to close this show.”

 

King: “I heard a lot of complaints from a lot of people that the main event should be a rematch from some hot program. Or that it should be a match between former World Champions. But you have two great competitors. Two fantastic wrestlers. And while Hawke never won the World Title, he was the greatest International Champion of all time.”

 

Francis: “I’d argue Jimmy the Doom held that honor being the longest reigning champion.”

 

King: “He only defended it twice!”

 

Francis: “At any rate, Michael Alexander did hold the big prize. He calls himself the Mad Scientist. The Professor of Pain. Any other number of adjectives can describe him. Such a formidable opponent for anybody in the business.”

 

King: “He’s out of the old school cloth. He knows how to work a body part to perfection. Take away one of the limbs and the others have to work that much harder to compensate, and there’s only so much they are able to do.”

 

Francis: “Alexander normally works the legs to set up his Gordian Knot submission hold. Jay Hawke is also of that mentality as well. He calls himself “The Dean of Professional Wrestling”, and he likes to work the arms and neck to set up his Wing Span submission hold.”

 

King: “They could have easily done this as a submission match or an “I Quit” Match as well, and that’s what makes this such a great match for the main event. This could go any number of ways and directions, and there could be any number of ways for guys to scream. This is going to be fun.”

 

Francis: “Funyon will be making the introductions once both men have made their way to ringside. With that, let’s go up to ringside!”

 

 

"Learning to Fly" by Pink Floyd comes on the PA as the lights dim. A spotlight shines on Jay Hawke as he makes his way to the ring. Despite it being close to five years since being in an SWF ring, the crowd remembers Hawke and greets him with a loud chant of “Jay Hawke Sucks!” as he smirks, pretending to ignore the crowd. As Hawke makes his way onto the ring apron, he takes off his robe, folds it, and hands it to the ring attendant. Then he stands up on the turnbuckle with both arms in the air as the crowd continues its chant.

 

Francis: “So much for absence making the heart grow fonder. They hate this guy after all these years.”

 

Hawke hops off the turnbuckle, then turns toward Funyon and asks for the microphone.

 

Francis: “And apparently he has something to say.”

 

King: “Shut up and let the man talk.”

 

The crowd continues to boo, and Jay Hawke patiently waits for them to quiet down.

 

 

Hawke: “God, I’d never thought I’d say this, but God damn I missed you people.”

 

[surprised to hear Jay Hawke of all people say that, the crowd gives a nice pop.]

 

Hawke: “I even missed the Jay Hawke Sucks chants!”

 

[The crowd takes the cue, chanting “Jay Hawke sucks”, and Hawke can’t keep the smirk off his face.]

 

Hawke: “You know, tomorrow night, I celebrate fifteen glorious years of being in the greatest sport in the world. I traveled the world, I wrestled in nearly a dozen promotions, I won championships in most of them…and a lot of people say that a couple of them were built around me. But I can honestly say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I cherish my time in the SWF more than any of the others.”

 

[Nice pop for that one, with some people trying to start an SWF chant.]

 

Hawke: “So when I got the call offering me a spot on this show, I jumped at it. When I was told I’d get to take part in an old school rules match…the match that I invented…well, that was icing on the cake. But then I found out that this is only a one fall match when the match I designed was two out of three falls.”

 

[some boos for this.]

 

Hawke: “I was told they were worried the show would run long, but I did some digging. It turns out the Powers that Be have seen some of those other reunion shows where guys show up out of shape, are expected to be as good as they used to be, then have a match that goes about 15 minutes too long and puts people to sleep. But enough about this past Thursday’s episode of Impact Wrestling!”

 

[“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”]

 

Hawke: “Michael Alexander, this is all I ask of you. I want to prove the critics who say we’re too old for this wrong. I want to prove to the critics that we are worthy of main eventing this show. I want to prove to the critics that wrestling…REAL wrestling…has it’s place in this business. And I want to prove to these people that we are, in fact, professors in the classroom of professional wrestling. And when it’s all said and done, I want to give all these people in this building, and all the people watching at home, a wrestling lesson they will never forget.”

 

[Huge pop by the crowd for that one.]

 

Hawke: “By the way, fans, I still hate all you motherfuckers.”

 

[boos, followed the standard “Jay Hawke sucks” chants. Jay Hawke begins laughing as he hands the microphone back to Funyon.]

 

King: “That was great. He reminds me of me!”

 

A resounding bell heralds the beginning of “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica, and a video montage of Alexander’s previous in-ring exploits interwoven with a new branching double-helix fractal graphic. The montage has been updated to include bits that feature Toxxic, MANSON, and Insane Luchador. Blue and white strobes flicker in the arena, and as the guitar kicks in...

 

 

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

 

DING!

 

DING!

 

DING!

 

Funyon: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event of the evening! It is scheduled for one fall with a one hour time limit, and it is an old school rules match! In this contest, each competitor will be limited to three rope breaks. If they throw a closed fist punch, they will lose a rope break. Once all three rope breaks are used up, the ropes will no longer break a pin or submission attempt, and a closed fist will result in an automatic disqualification. When the bell rings, the man in charge of the action will be senior referee Matt Kivell.”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Funyon: “Introducing first in the corner to my left. He hails from the Hall of Fame City of Cleveland, Ohio. He weighs in tonight at 215 pounds. He is arguably the greatest SWF International Champion of all-time, and as he asked me to describe him, he is ‘Oh Lord Have Mercy, One Damn Handsome Man‘. He is the ‘Dean of Professional Wrestling‘…JAY HAWKE!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Funyon: “And his opponent. He hails from Greenville, South Carolina. He weighs in tonight at 221 pounds. He is a former SWF Heavyweight Champion of the World! He is. ‘The Mad Scientist of the Mat’. ‘The Professor of Pain’. ‘The Evil Genius’. ‘The Most Scientifically Scintillating Superstar Ever to Enter the Squared Circle‘. And ‘The Eidolon of Excellence’. He is MICHAEL ALEXANDER!”

 

[The crowd gives a mixture of cheers and boos.]

 

King: “How many nicknames does this guy have, anyway?”

 

Francis: “The nicknames don’t matter. The words don’t matter. All that matters is what happens inside the square circle at this point.”

 

DING DING DING!

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

Francis: “And we are underway!”

 

King: “And it’s going to be interesting to see how this match plays out in the early going. Do they pace themselves, or do they go for broke?”

 

Both men circle the ring, each man eyeing their opponent, hoping for an opportunity to gain an advantage. Michael Alexander moves in for a lock up, but Jay Hawke takes a step back. Alexander then moves in for a single-leg takedown, but once again Hawke steps back to avoid contact. Alexander attempts to slide forward into a drop toehold, but Hawke steps forward to avoid it. As Alexander scrambles back to his feet, the Dean of Professional Wrestling attempts to wrap his arms around Alexander’s waist. Out of instinct, Alexander moves forward and grabs hold of the top rope. Hawke releases, and Alexander turns around with fists clenched, but the signal from referee Matt Kivell can only mean…

 

Funyon: “Michael Alexander has used his first rope break!”

 

Francis: “And that was an unfortunate sequence there.”

 

King: “I can’t fault Alexander there. It’s a wrestler’s instinct to make a move for the ropes when someone tries to lock you up like that. But two more of those and he’ll be unable to use the ropes to his advantage to break a hold.”

 

The two combatants circle each other again. This time they lock up collar-and-elbow. The Mad Scientist of the Mat uses his slight strength advantage to push Hawke’s back against the ropes. He releases as Kivell moves in. Hawke takes a step forward, but as he does so…

 

Funyon: “Jay Hawke has used his first rope break!”

 

[“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”]

 

Jay Hawke immediately turns to argue with Kivell, which gives Alexander a chance to take him down with a school boy cradle:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Hawke immediately gets a shoulder up and gets to his feet. Frustrated, he kicks the bottom rope while simultaneously shooting a dirty look at the referee.

 

Francis: “Now that is going to be a controversial ruling there! Michael Alexander pushed Jay Hawke into the ropes, and Kivell counted that as one of Hawke’s rope breaks!”

 

King: “That was a brilliant move! Technically it was Hawke being in the ropes that forced the break in that situation, thus it counts against him! Like the Guinness commercials used to say, brilliant!”

 

They lock up again. Hawke immediately grabs a hold of Alexander’s head and clamps on a side headlock. Alexander tries to slip his head out, but Hawke’s grip is a proverbial C-clamp keeping the block of wood in place for a bandsaw to do its dirty work. Hawke continues to wrench on Alexander’s head, looking to cause a cauliflower ear or two. Alexander uses his right forearm and pushes at the side of Hawke’s head, then slips his left arm between himself and Hawke’s body, causing just a little bit of much needed separation. Hawke is able to tighten his grip, maintaining his hold of the headlock. Sensing that a different approach might be needed, Alexander decides to bend down and grab a hold of Hawke’s left ankle. He lifts it off the mat, forcing Hawke to balance himself on one foot while maintaining the hold. Realizing he simply doesn’t have the leverage, Hawke releases his grip, but he instantly jumps up with free leg and surprises Alexander by taking him down with a monkey flip. Like a shot both men get to their feet, but Hawke immediately hooks another headlock and takes the Professor of Pain down to the mat. Just as quickly, Alexander turns it into a head scissors. Hawke kicks out of the hold and gets to his feet, and before Alexander has completely reached his vertical base, Hawke takes his opponent down to the mat with another headlock. The crowd claps in approval as Hawke keeps his opponent grounded.

 

Francis: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sequence quite like that, King!”

 

King: “These two are masters, there’s no doubt about that. Michael Alexander attempting a couple of different techniques to counter out of the headlock. Hawke pulls out the monkey flip seemingly out of nowhere, and the end result is going right back to that headlock.”

 

Francis: “Human chess at its finest right there.”

 

Alexander turns Hawke onto his shoudlers:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Hawke gets his shoulder up and rolls back into position with the headlock.

 

Francis: “Counter after counter after counter within the first five minutes or so of this contest.”

 

King: “And all with just the absolute basics. Jay Hawke has a simple side headlock on, one of the easiest holds to learn, but also one of the best to wear an opponent down with.”

 

Michael Alexander pushes Jay Hawke’s chin to try to loosen the grip of the headlock.

 

Francis: “You can probably count on one hand how many matches have actually ended with this hold in the post-Strangler Lewis era, but you can also count on one hand how many people know as many ways to be effective with this hold as these two men in the ring.”

 

Alexander is able to roll his body so that he is on his knees, and he reaches for Hawke’s leg and pulls it toward him. He gives himself enough leverage to work his way up to his feet. The Dean keeps his tight hold of his opponent’s head as Alexander tries to think of another way to get himself out of this jam. He eventually hooks Hawke’s tights and uses them for leverage to shove him into the ropes. On the rebound, Hawke leapfrogs over top of him, goes into a dead stop, then turns and catches his opponent with a dropkick. Alexander has barely hit the ground when Hawke immediately falls on top of him:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

Kickout.

 

Francis: “Unbelievable! Michael Alexander seemingly has no answer for Jay Hawke at this stage!”

 

King: “So far that seems to be the case, but we are very early in this match!”

 

Hawke immediately decides it’s probably best to keep this on the mat and locks in another side headlock. Alexander is briefly unaware of his surroundings:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Shoulder up.

 

Francis: “And right back to the side headlock here. This hold has been incredibly effective in the first five or six minutes of this contest.”

 

King: “But in a way, it may be too effective this early. If Hawke begins to over-rely on the headlock, that could lead to an opening for Alexander later on.”

 

Francis: “Similar to a football team relying on a run up the middle on third and one.”

 

King: “But enough about the Cleveland Browns.”

 

Funyon: “Five minutes have gone by, five minutes.”

 

Hawke again tightens up on the headlock, and Alexander’s shoulder slowly falls back to the mat.

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Shoulder up. Alexander is able to counter the hold into a headscissors, but Hawke quickly kicks out of it and gets to his feet. Hawke takes Alexander down with another headlock, which quickly turns into another head scissors, and Hawke again kicks out and gets to his feet. Another headlock takedown, another head scissors, another kickout, but this time when they get to their feet, Alexander finally decides to change up his offense just a little bit and drives a knee to the midsection of his opponent. Hawke doubles over and collapses to the mat.

 

Francis: “And Jay Hawke never saw that knee coming!”

 

King: “And look at the placement of that knee! Right into the gut, taking the air out of the lungs of The Dean! If you can’t breathe, you’re going to have a hell of a time competing!”

 

Alexander grabs a hold of Hawke’s feet, appearing that he wants to begin focusing on the legs, but instead he jumps over the legs and drives a knee to the gut again. Hawke gasps for breath as Alexander goes for the cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Hawke instinctively kicks out, but he’s holding his stomach, obviously in pain. As he pulls himself to his feet, Alexander drives his elbow into the top of the head, following that up with a knee into the ribs. A hard forearm smash drops the Dean to his knees, and the Professor of Pain kicks him in the ribs for good measure.

 

King: “This is interesting. Normally you’d think Alexander would focus on the legs to set up a submission, but he seems content to work over the midsection here.”

 

Francis: “Well you said it yourself King. If you can’t breathe, you’re going to have a hard time winning.”

 

Alexander pulls Hawke to his feet and drives the knee into the ribs again, then takes his opponent over with a hiptoss. Another knee goes straight into the short ribs, and Alexander goes into the cover:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Hawke quickly kicks out, but Alexander straddles Hawke and tries to force him back down to the mat. Get your minds out of the gutter, people! He is trying to use his leverage to force Hawke’s shoulders to the mat and he pushes down on both of his arms! Better now? Let’s continue! Just when it looks like Hawke’s shoulders will hit the mat, Hawke bridges up, showing incredible neck strength. Realizing he’s not going to win this battle within the battle, Alexander stomps on Hawke’s belly to drive him down, then drives yet another knee to the ribcage. Hawke tries to pull himself to his feet, but Alexander continues this methodical pace by throwing a couple of solid forearms into the ribs. Out of nowhere and seemingly out of desperation, Hawke throws an elbow that catches Alexander in the ear.

 

King: “Ow!”

 

Francis: “What are you saying ‘ow’ for?”

 

King: “My back’s starting to hurt after three hours of sitting in this chair!”

 

Jay Hawke moves forward and catches Alexander with a shoulder block to the midsection as well. Alexander stumbles back into the corner, and Hawke once again grabs a headlock and takes Alexander down to the mat. The shoulders are, in fact, down:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

Michael Alexander counters by rolling Jay Hawke over onto his shoulders:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

Hawke gets his shoulder up, maintaining the headlock and getting himself back into position.

 

Francis: “And again, back into the headlock.”

 

King: “This is a wrestling clinic so far and we’re not ten minutes into this yet.”

 

Francis: “Quite frankly, I think I saw more wrestling in the first six minutes or so here than I’ve seen on Spike TV in six years!”

 

Jay Hawke maintains his control of the headlock, but Alexander, the former World Heavyweight Champion, makes his way to the feet. He pushes Hawke forward, sending him into the turnbuckle. He charges, but Hawke side steps, which causes Alexander to hit the corner with a thud. As he turns around, Hawke leaves his feet for a dropkick, but as if he can sense what Hawke is planning to do, the Mad Scientist of the Mat takes a step back, causing Hawke to hit the mat harder than Chris Brown hit Rihanna. Yes, I went there.

 

Francis: “Hawke missing the dropkick, and you have to wonder if that might be a turning point.”

 

King: “Quite possibly, but in all honesty, I have no idea how missing a dropkick hurts more than connecting with the dropkick. Same length, same fall.”

 

With Hawke down, Alexander drops an elbow to the back of the head. Hawke rolls onto his stomach, seemingly to push himself to his feet, but Alexander drops an elbow to the lower back. Alexander then decides the time is right to work on Hawke’s legs, crossing them before pulling back on one foot with the other essentially trapped behind it.

 

Francis: “Now this is what we’re usually more familiar with as far as Alexander’s offense goes. He is attempting to work the leg here, which could set up any number of different submission holds.”

 

King: “It’s the old Minnesota Wrecking Crew mentality of work a body part. It’s an old school rules match with an old school technique being used.”

 

Francis: “And in this case, it’s the leg that he essentially has in a form of a hammerlock here.”

 

Hawke begins to push himself off the mat, but one forearm to the ribs sends him back down to the mat.

 

Francis: “And notice that Francis is using the forearm and not the fist to bring Hawke back down. If he throws a punch, he loses one of his three allowed rope breaks, and he’s already lost one at this point.”

 

Still maintaining the hold on the legs, Alexander maneuvers himself to where he can grab a hold of Hawke’s wrist as well. He drives his knee into Hawke back, then yanks back on the arm.

 

Francis: “And almost a surfboard here!”

 

King: “Or a bow-and-arrow! Or a crossbow! Or a wristlock/leglock/knee combination! What else do you want me to make up? Dipsy Doo Dunkaroo!”

 

Alexander stands up for a brief moment, only because he has to in order to drop another knee to Hawke’s back. He leaves it there, keeping hold of the unique but effective submission hold. The referee checks on The Dean, but if we could hear what he was saying to the question “Do you want to quit”, his response probably would not be fit for human ears anyway.

 

Funyon: “Ten minutes have gone by, ten minutes!”

 

Soon Hawke begins to twist his body, showing he is surprisingly wiry, and Alexander is forced to release the hold. Hawke then rolls onto his back and kicks Alexander off. Alexander immediately comes forward and goes for an elbow drop, but Hawke rolls out of the way. Can you guess what happens next?

 

Can you?

 

If you said “Kelly Kelly hits the ring and starts stripping,” you’ve probably got an old tape of ECW on Sci-Fi in your VCR. No, in fact…

 

Francis: “Jay Hawke takes Michael Alexander back down with the headlock, and Alexander better be mindful of where his shoulders are!”

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Shoulder up.

 

King: “The last time I saw somebody use a headlock this much, Andre the Giant fell asleep in the middle of a Philadelphia ring. And people think Randy Orton overuses this move!”

 

Hawke seems determined to actually win the hold on a side headlock. He positions himself in such a way that two-thirds of his weight is over Alexander’s shoulders, which soon fall to the mat:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

Shoulder up. As the perspiration begins to pour down their bodies, Alexander is able to make his way back to his feet. He sends Hawke into the ropes on the far side of the hard camera, then drives yet another knee into the ribs of the former International Champion.

 

Francis: “The knee has been the favorite weapon of Alexander so far.”

 

King: “I would not be shocked if I found out tomorrow that Jay Hawke is suffering from some cracked ribs. These knees have been right on target tonight.”

 

Michael Alexander drives an elbow to the back of the head, then he slips behind Jay Hawke and locks him into a full nelson. The fingers are locked, providing the maximum amount of leverage possible, and Hawke attempts to bring his hands together in an attempt to make it easier to break the hold. Unable to do so, his arms begin to go limp.

 

King: “Good! Now go into the half nelson! Follow that up with the Willie Nelson! Then follow it up with the band Nelson!”

 

Jay Hawke once again looks into bringing his hands together, but he realizes the grip on the hold is simply too tight. Then he gets another idea. He simply brings his ass backwards and catches Alexander in the gut with it. It catches him by surprise more than anything, but is enough for Hawke to float behind and lock in a full nelson on his own.

 

Francis: “Nice counter by Jay Hawke here! Why do I get the feeling they’ll be playing this tape at wrestling schools all around the country a year from now?”

 

King: “Because Hawke has a wrestling school and wants to show it off to satisfy his ego?”

 

Francis: “Like you’re one to talk with your ego!”

 

King: “Hey, I never said I didn’t like the fact he had an ego. Hell, I think you need to have an ego to survive in the wrestling business for 15 years!”

 

Alexander drops down into a seated position to release the hold, then rolls backwards as if to cradle Hawke forward. Hawke, showing strength rarely seen from him, grabs hold of Alexander’s legs and lifts him off the mat. He struggles, but he is able to turn Alexander’s body so he drops him to the mat feet-first before reapplying the full nelson. The crowd gives an appreciative applause to what is slowly becoming a classic.

 

King: “Now how in the hell did he do that?!”

 

Francis: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that! Incredible move!”

 

Undaunted, Alexander rams his buttocks into Hawke’s midsection to release the hold, similar to how Hawke did just moments ago. He floats behind to lock the full nelson in again, but before he can lock the fingers, Hawke bends forward and sends Alexander crashing to the mat.

 

Francis: “Each man seems to know what the other is going to do before he even does it. It’s amazing the know how these two men have.”

 

King: “NAPA Know How?”

 

Francis: “I think you’ve been watching too much TV lately King.”

 

Frustrated, Alexander steps through the ropes and stands on the apron, trying to compose himself as Hawke stands in the ring with a smirk on his face.

 

Francis: “So what do you do now if you’re Michael Alexander?”

 

King: “I think he needs to start focusing solely on the legs. Hawke has the adrenaline flowing and is stronger than we’ve probably ever seen him tonight. Taking out the legs would take a lot of that strength away from him.”

 

Michael Alexander steps back into the ring, but he clearly struggling to come up with his next move. He circles around the ring, trying to gather his composure. Finally they lock up again. Jay Hawke once again locks in a side headlock. Alexander quickly slips out of it, then takes Hawke down with a drop toehold. The Mad Scientist of the Mat then grabs the foot of The Dean of Professional Wrestling and turns into a spinning toehold. He leans forward, looking to put on some additional pressure, but Jay Hawke hooks him by the head and takes him over into a small package:

 

 

ONE!

 

 

TWO!

 

 

THREE!

 

 

DING DING DING!

 

The crowd gives off a mixed reaction as Alexander sits on the mat, a combined look of disappointment and disgust on his face.

 

Francis: “And just like that, it’s all over!”

 

King: “What a tremendous main event! One of the best pure matches I’ve seen in years!”

 

Funyon: “In thirteen minutes, 47 seconds, the winner of this bout. ‘The Dean of Professional Wrestling’. JAY HAWKE!”

 

Francis: “That, my friend, is what professional wrestling is all about!”

 

King: “Exactly right. Both of these men went back and forth, counter after counter, providing us with a wrestling match rarely seen on this continent!”

 

Jay Hawke walks toward Michael Alexander and extends his hand. Alexander looks at it untrustingly, but he does put his out for a handshake. Then they move in and give each other a manly hug as the crowd begins to applaud. At that, the remainder of the roster begins to come out toward the ring.

 

Francis: “What an incredible night this was! For one last night, we got to celebrate the SWF. We got to relive some of the greatest years of my life!”

 

King: “And as this ring fills up, I think about all the great matches involving these superstars. It almost makes me want to shake Landon Maddix’s hand.

 

Francis: “Really?”

 

King: “Almost.”

 

Francis: “With that, we want to thank you for joining us one last time for SWF Genesis X.”

 

As the copyright notice comes up the entire ring shakes hands and exchanges hugs in the ring to chants from the crowd of “SWF! SWF!”

 

Francis: “THE SWF LIVES!”

 

[Fade to black]