No Brand Wrestling Presents: SLAM! Episode III on Hulu.Com!
Live from The Epic II Arena in St. Louis, Missouri
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| Remy Leroux | Versus |
Austin Advent |
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There was usually a logo flashing in then a shot of the arena. This is where we’d usually show the rabid nbW fans that’d packed the arena, all in good time…
| How it All Began |
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'The picture returned to focus, inside the Epic II where in the middle of
the ring stood Remy Leroux. He was dressed in his usual Cajun Thug
attire. The main camera hadn’t gone live yet so the roving members of the camera crew were caught off guard when the PA fired up.
“Ah see all cha’ll ain’t in cho’ seats yet soh Ah’ma make dis one quick. Las’ week Ole Remy were taken fir ah ride by someone dat was ‘posed mah partnah…” Leroux stated very matter of factly, “Where did dat git Ole Remy, Ah’ll tell cha’ll where it got meh, pinned, Ah got pinned!”
About half the nbW’s fans agreed with him, maybe a little more disagreed.
“Dat’s cha’ll’s right… chu can go round an’ beliee dat Aweston really care bout cha’ll.. fact bes Ole Aweston only care ‘bout Aweston.” Leroux’s strategy didn’t seem to be winning over any new fans, “Ah’ve already said chu can t’ink Aweston is here tah earn som’ ole brownie points, aw nah. He here fa’ mo’ den dat.”
Cue Up: Dimension by WolfMother
Tonight Advent meant all business, he strutted out from behind those double doors. The EpiCenter lit up with highlights of Austin’s vast nbW career. Inside the ring stood one unconvinced Cajun, he watched closely again as Advent circled the ringside area slapping hands with all the fans.
Then in typical Advent fashion he slid into the ring under the bottom rope. Leroux wasted little time in making his presence felt by towering over his rival…
“Chu screwed meh!” Leroux shouted.
Advent responded adamantly, “Fuck You! I carried that damned match last week! And low and behold the ONE time you were involved you were throwing your hand back looking for some MORE damn help. Now I’ve shown these fans, maybe not every fan, BUT these fans here in the nbW know what Austin Advent is all about…”
A uproar started in around the mezzanine deck, the EpiCenter went hot again with shots of those cheering on Austin Advent. Camera Twelve lit up from the back of the arena scanning around showing still around half the arena, maybe a little more backing The Awesome One.
With a solid wave of the nbW fans behind him Austin readdressed his opponent, “So Remy Leroux, you can Shut The Fuc…”
| The Conclusion |
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“Folks that is exactly how this match kicked things off, I mean who cares I sat up all night formatting the start of the show…” the visibly upset Marc Gordon explained as he tossed back what looked to be the show’s format, “we don’t need that anyway.”
“Come on Markie, this is how the pro’s work baby!” Rents responded with a large grin.
“Well I think Tal Nedrick and the time keeper Oliver Crestmore have come to a conclusion…” Gordo thoughtfully added.
Camera Eight was outside the ring where Remy Leroux was still trying to pull himself together following his epic collision through the ringside barrier. Back in the ring Camera Seven sat fixated on Austin Advent, the blood dried to his forehead looked like barren streams, he stood assisted by the ropes when the screen spilt to show both men.
From completely off screen the voice of Brent Williams filled the arena, “Ladies and Gentlemen, as the final second was being counted off by the referee the time limit expired. Soo the officials decision is a DRAW.”
Winner: Time Limit Expired
Camera Eight took the whole shot of Leroux’s face looking up at the face of Austin Advent.
“You can just see this one is just getting started.” Gordo bragged.
We couldn’t have said it better ourselves.
| Outcome: | Match Ruled a Draw |
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| Earlier in the Day |
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"Fans, what we just saw---well as you can tell by my colleague Gordon, who is quite speechless, things are still running rampant here. Normally I would be the one rooting for our savior to come out amongst the masses, and I will; just not right now. Earlier tonight before the show went on the air our camera crew caught sight of a un-plated stretch Limo arriving into the parking garage." commented Renton before the EpiCenter lit up with a 'Earlier tonight' letterbox.
A black limo with very dark windows arrives at the arena. Gino Di Maggio and Don Toto Corleone come out of it accompanied by six security guards. They enter the arena and go directly to their designated office space. The question is why are they back in the nbW's Epic II Arena?
The EpiCenter faded back out as Renton continued. "Questions arose over their arrival, and we do have more information for you regarding their presence here tonight, but all in due time."
| a.m.p.ed Up |
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His arrival to the arena practically went unnoticed, there he was strolling up past some of the larger draws. The guys who’ve paid their dues many times over basically attracted all the fanfare allowing the greendicks like him to breeze past like a member of the ring crew. nbW could be his first, last and only shot. He’d applied to another prominent, current promotion which quickly sent him away.
He didn’t blame them, he understood their money was better spent on those who could actually fill arenas. Wrestling wasn’t about competition anymore… if it had ever been. Not like where his heart still lied, inside the octagon. Alexandre Michelle Pierre had started paying his dues in Unleashed where they wiped his blood off the canvas more than a couple times.
From there he toured trying as hard as he could trying to get picked up by any fighting promotion with a deal. Whatever the reason maybe those dreams went unanswered.
“Name,” demanded the elderly guard from last week.
“Pierre,” replied a.m.p. very unassuming.
“Oh here it is…” he said with a snicker, “Mister Nobody Pierre with the chicks name…”
a.m.p. nodded. This was one of those situations that could have surely turned bad. He just really needed the money.
“Ok, Pierre,” he laughed, “You’re down the hall off the left in the common lockeroom.”
The French Canadian nodded again, “Thank you.”
“All the manners in the world ain’t gonna help that kid.” The guard again chuckled as the cameras switched to another location.
| Bella Italia |
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Gino Di Maggio and Don Toto Corleone had got into an agreement with the owner of Bella Italia restaurant in New York to give them the restaurant all for themselves. Whilst Gino and Don Toto were waiting for someone in the restaurant, there were around six different security guards fully armed around the restaurant.
Around half an hour later someone came and knocked on the restaurant. One of the security guards opened the door and Mr. Thaddeus Boyle came in the restaurant. He sat on the same table with Gino and Don Toto.
“Mr. Boyle, we are proud that you accepted our offer for this meeting”, said Gino Di Maggio.
“The pleasure is mine. I wanted to meet you since the day I heard of your return to the United States. First of all let me congratulate both of you for your release. I always believed in your innocence”, replied Thaddeus.
“Thanks Mr. Boyle. During the last couple of days we have watched the last two editions of Slam. And some thing got our interest. First there was that huge match inside The Zone and then the following week there was the empty building match.
We enjoyed what we were seeing, and it got us nostalgic about the past. This made us think, and we think we should work something together on it”, continued Don Toto Corleone.
“I like where this is going on. We have been experiment a bit lately and the ratings during both The Zone and the empty building match have been quite high”, replied Thaddeus Boyle.
“We have been thinking about resurrect the best fighting federation in the whole United States. And after what we have seen in the last two editions, we think that it would be a good business venture if we do it in conjunction with no brand Wrestling. Off course we would be willing to help out no brand Wrestling financially for letting us resurrecting the fighting world inside”, replied Gino Di Maggio.
As Gino was talking was talking, Don Toto Corleone wrote two different cheques and presented it to Thaddeus Boyle.
“Mr. Boyle, the first cheque is just a small token for you for all your help you will give us in this venture, whilst the other cheque is for no brand Wrestling to start preparing for the return”, continued Don Toto Corleone.
As Thaddeus Boyle saw the cheques his eyes almost popped out; “It’s my pleasure to do business with yours truly”.
Then the first plate of antipasto was delivered and all three decided to stop talking and start eating.
| Voss, Where Art Thou? |
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‘Spike-It-UP!’ exploded over the sound system to announce the arrival of the seven foot three Colossus of the nbW, Spike Saunders. He stepped through the double doors and stood before the fans in attendance. His trademarked shades resting on the bridge of his nose while peering out at the audience.
The giant took his sweet time walking down to the ring as he stopped and posed with the fans, and even signed some autographs as well.
Once it seemed like everybody in the reaching distance were taken care of he continued down the ramp before stepping over the top rope and on inside. He pulled the microphone out from his back pocket while resting his shades in its’ place.
“I gotta say, this is an amazing turnout. When Boyle told us he was taking nbW back to the Midwest rather than PA, I was a bit shocked. But looking around at all of you loyal fans, your supportive posterboards and merchandise. I think we made the right decision in setting up shop in good ol’ St. Louis, Missouri.” Cheap pop from the fans. “You know, we really should give Napoli some credit after all these years. He took this company from the deathbed that Styles left it in, and put life back into it; only to turn around and suck it all away, of course.”
The cheers continued, while the boos flew in towards Napoli’s mention.
“Then there are those decisions that Boyle has made that makes even myself question his sanity and direction. One such decision would be re-awarding J. Leslie Voss the Keystone Championship, just days after I won it from him, in a rather grueling match that we both still feel from.”
The uproar chants starts for Saunders as every single individual in the arena respected both competitors for that one hour feat.
“Yet, he was absent last week. Called in to alert the boss that he was,” Saunders held up his fingers in an air quote, “delayed due to the Volcano eruption.” He shook his head. “Really Voss? Last I knew you grew up in Australia, which is far south from any interruptions in air space. And you lived in Louisiana, as in the state southeast of Missouri. Could someone explain geography to me?” He looked to the fans for an answer which resulted in a few standing to offer up their opinions and facts but sat back down realizing it wasn’t a real question.
“The air traffic has been cleared for a week now. Yet, he’s not here. Now I am not the type of guy that walks around declaring his opponents are afraid of him. I’m not. Really. But two weeks straight now he has avoided our destined rematch. Fear? Maybe. But why not sneak attack me in a match? Or on the way to the building? Honestly guys, I hadn’t the foggiest idea what is going on right now.”
He turned and pointed up at the nbW tron. “Thus, I decided to seek him out myself in a spectacular art piece I like to call ‘Where in the World is J. Leslie Voss’. The resulting footage can be seen above you on the EpiCenter. Enjoy.”
The EpiCenter lit up with the flashy logo as Spike left the ring only to see himself walking around a farm in Louisiana above him. He had stopped in front of an elderly couple. The owners of said farm.
“Excuse me, do either of you know where I can find Mr. JLV?”
The woman looked to her husband and shrugged.
“Ima’ sorry mister, but we no know any JLV ‘round here. But dat fellah ovah dere jus’ might ‘noe sumpthin,” she answered extending out her wrinkly old finger.
The camera followed the direction slowly revealing a little old shack just on the edge of the woods before the swamp. The camera returned to the face shot of the woman who smiled her three toothed grin. The camera cut…
“Are you sure?” questioned the voice of the Double Dragon before the picture was returned.
“Would Ah lie tah ‘chu?” the all too familiar voice of nbW’s resident Cajun answered. “Wit’ all dah hors’ hacky Ah keeps on mah plate do’chu t’ink Ah’d eben try an’ lie tah dah face ah en bee Dubyah?”
The camera zoomed in tightly catching the wink of the eye from the brown eyed devil himself, Remy Leroux. The picture backed off revealing the Colossus nodding with his hand, packed full of cash, extended. Remy smiled his toothy grin when he accepted the handshake.
Hey even a Cajun Thug has to earn a living right?
Spike unfolded the piece of paper, the examination took only a couple of seconds. He slowly looked up with a very puzzled look on his face, “Are you sure?”
His reply came in the form of a nod… at least it looked like a nod. It was a nod right? Shit where’d he go?!
The footage faded out and back in to somewhere in a club in Kansas City. Standing next to Saunders was a smaller young woman dressed in an all red suit with a large red hat.
“Excuse me mam,” spoke Saunders. “Have you seen this man?” he held out a photo of JLV grinning behind his Religious Rasslin’ Championship.
“Of course. You kicked his ass around the arena a few weeks ago.” Spike chuckled at the response.
“Sorry, I mean recently. I am looking for him.”
The woman leaned forward whispering in his ear before pulling back. “Can not say that I have. Sorry.”
She turned and walked towards the bar counter while Spike shook his head at another lost clue. The footage again faded out and in, this time to a busy street somewhere in St. Louis. Saunders was going back and forth asking people if they had spotted JLV anywhere nearby. All questions leading to the same result of no.
The scene faded out again, this time returning to the arena; parking lot area where Saunders was talking with a group of fans.
“Alright, thanks guys. I’ll keep looking.”
Fade. This time with the giant standing in the middle of the outback all the way down in Australia. Next to him stood the same young woman from earlier, donned with the red suit and hat.
“You so owe me…”
The two turned to look behind them and started running towards the camera while a pack of wild animals charged at them; on the EpiCenter three words appeared below them while the EpiCenter faded to black.
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| Alexandre Michelle Pierre | Versus |
Elijah Buster |
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| 4CW Exhibition Match | ||
The picture faded back into the arena where two men already stood inside the ring decked out in their 4CW jackets. In the center stood the usual ring announcer Brent Williams who opened with…
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this next contest is one fall with an eight minute time limit and is brought to you by Four Corners Wrestling. Introducing first wrestling out of Montreal Quebec Canada, he stands five feet ten inches tall and weighs in at a lean two hundred and eleven pounds… this is Alexandre Michelle Pierre.”
The nbW fans offered little more than a casual cheer. Inside the ring a.m.p. bounced around in the center displaying just how light he stepped. The Canadian quickly fell to his knees in his corner where he bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“And his opponent,” Williams’ voice carried over the PA again, “standing six foot even and weighing in at two hundred and twenty-seven pounds… he is Elijah Buster.”
nbW official Ed Gates called both young competitors into the center of the ring as we cut to Camera Four up which as usual was aimed right at Marc Gordon and Terry Renton.
“Here we go with another Four Corners Wrestling showcase.” Marc said behind a forced smile.
Terry Renton wasn’t as disingenuous, “When are we gonna stop with the promoting these local wrestling outfits?”
“It’s the same group everytime,” Gordo answered.
“And this is what they wanna showcase? I mean really these guys aren’t big enough to ride most roller coasters how in the hell are they in the ring?” Rents laughed then stopped and added, “You know what screw it, when these yokals are in the ring I ain’t saying shit! Nothing you hear me?”
Ding, DING
Both youngsters collide in the center of the ring in a collar and elbow tie-up. Pierre successfully backed Buster into a near-by corner. Each man fought diligently for position with a.m.p. coming out on top. The Canadian grabbed two handfuls of Buster’s wrist and tried to send him across the ring.
“Reversal!” popped Gordon.
Elijah planted his feet and shot Pierre into the diagonal corner. The impact shook the ringpost noticeably. Buster exploded out of the corner and leapt into the air before smashing his body into a.m.p.. Buster looks to back off only Pierre dives around Elijah’s left leg and grabbed the right ankle. With his knees he spilt Buster almost in two.
“Bow and Arrow!” Marc added really seeming to enjoy the action.
Buster reached back only to find empty canvas. Pierre sunk the hold in deeper by getting his feet under the feet of his exposed opponent.
“Buster tapped out!” Marc announced.
“To a friggin high school move!” Rents countered.
“Still counts!” Gordo replied.
“You have to like these 4CW matches… they’ve lasted all of what thirty-five seconds?” he joked again at the local promotion’s expense.
Inside the ring stood the proud Canadian, both arms raised in victory, finally for him something was going right. While it might not have been headlining a PPV a.m.p. sent a very straight message…
Victory doesn’t have to be pretty to be effective.
| Outcome: | Alexandre Michelle Pierre by way of Submission |
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| Are You Good Enough? |
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Backstage, there was a bit of a situation unfolding right outside a locker-room with the inititals 'BS' plastered on the door.
What was the situation? Oh, about close to twenty men and women loitering about anxiously. Most of whom looked rather youngish, but there were a few that appeared to be in their mid-30s or thereabouts. At any rate, the collective murmuring and discussing amongst everybody was creating quite a ruckus.
Until the aforementioned locker-room door swung opened. Everybody suddenly shushed at the sight of a tanned individual dressed smartly stepping out with a thick black folder in his possession. The man, with a perfectly-maintained beared and snazzy horn-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, glared at the crowd that had gathered in front of him.
"Alright, you miscreants. Get in line. Hurry up!" the man abruptly ordered, his voice cutting through the sudden silence like glass. Instantly, the group of men and women huddled together and got themselves organised mere inches away from the mysterious man that was looking them over with his judging eyes.
Once he was satisfied with what he had seen, the man cleared his throat. "Okay. Now, my name is Biron Sexton. I am phenomenal at what I do. Then again, there are very few of my kind left in this business, so bragging about that isn't as noteworthy as it used to be. Nonetheless, I assure all of you that you've made the right choice by coming here today.
I am what you call an agent. In our industry, agents fulfil a very important role for up-and-coming wrestlers such as all of you here standing in front of me. But in case none of you can quite grasp what my exact role is, allow me to make with the exposition.
As an agent, I secure contracts for my clients. Contracts that ensure proper remuneration in accordance with your level of talent and skills, of course.
I also secure merchandising deals for all contracted clients. You can't get by with just a monthly salary, you need supplementary income and that's where merchandising come in. That takes time, though. You need to be exposed.
Which nicely leads in to one of the most important things I do -- I work hard to make sure all my contracted clients get the breaks they deserve and earn the opportunities to rise up the ladder. Wrestling in dark matches every week or being on television once a month doesn't cut in. It's up to me and my wonderful gift of the gab to persuade your employers to put you in that ring every single week.
With that, I make arrangements for you to have suitable trainers and travel schedules that don't burn you out. There are a lot of other nitty gritty tasks I undertake, but you get the gist of it."
Biron Sexton, as he'd addressed himself, paused to look down at the black folder in his hands. Everybody else, riveted thus far by what he had to say, instinctively looked at the folder. With a smirk, Biron tapped the folder lightly with his left hand, before extending the index finger of said hand out at the crowd in front of him.
Now, let's get to why all of you are here tonight, in St. Louis!" Biron began again, the smirk on his face growing wider by the second. "All of you want to ascend to the next step of your careers. And it turns out that NBW is the place to be. Why shouldn't it? NBW has quietly become one of those sleeper wrestling companies you always hear about, and this year it appears that NBW is going to work hard to elevate itself even higher than ever before. Which can only mean excellent things for everybody on its roster. Which also means NBW will only consider a handful of you.
As of this moment, I have secured temporary contracts for each and every one of you. Yes, I am that good. Some of you had doubts. Be warned; doubt me again, and I'll replace you with somebody else that wants this shot at greatness badly enough. I have no tolerance for individuals who think that some things can't be done. When there's a will, there's a way.
Tonight, all of you will embark on a journey. I shall not reveal any more than I have to, but suffice to say it will be a true test of how much you want to be a professional wrestler in one of the fastest-rising companies in the industry today.
NBW is looking to beef up its roster with individuals that can make a difference.
The question each and every one of you have to ask yourself is:
Are you good enough?"
Powerful words. Everybody stole a shifty glance at each other, fully realising what was at stake for them now. Biron's smirk evaporated as he took a gander at the expensive watch wrapped around his right wrist.
"... That is all for the current moment. I will contact all of you separately with further details. There shall not be anything else for you for tonight, but be prepared. Next week, the journey begins in earnest!" Sexton finished up, before dismissing everybody with a wave of his right hand.
Almost immediately, the crowd dispersed and within a matter of moments, Biron Sexton was left alone in the hallway.
Smirking once more, Biron turned and walked back into his locker-room. "This should be fun."
| Saturday Night at the Movies |
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Keegan had been summoned to the boss’s office like a naughty schoolboy. He figured Thaddeus wanted to speak about the abandoned apartments and what happened in them between him, Ali, John C. Willis and WAR. He knocked and waited to be let in. When Boyle shouted ‘come in’ Special K did as he was told and folded his arms. He was on the defensive.
Thaddeus didn’t smile. He pointed to the chair directly opposite: “Take a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.”
Boyle didn’t bat an eyelid: “Okay. As you please. I want to talk about your so-called match, which I think resembled a fight, with WAR and John C. Willis. We’ve had some complaints from viewers and Hulu.Com for screening it. What on earth were you all thinking?”
Keegan stepped forward, hands behind his back, and then approached the promoter’s table, almost eyeballing him and now with his palms firmly planted on the desktop: “One… They asked for the fight. Willis betrayed me and Ali, and then he and WAR decided to take off to some brothel and goad us into a fight. Two… Yes, it was a fight. What did you expect? This sport is the most physical there is at the best of times and when you’ve got four guys in there who don’t give a monkey’s hole about one another, hey presto, people get hurt. Thirdly, the slash you see on my cheek has marked my handsome face, which I didn’t ask for nor did I know anything about. So, don’t ask me what I was thinking… but I’ll tell you what I’m thinking now. I want to get even. Plain and simply, that means I will get even.”
Thaddeus held his hand up: “Not tonight, you won’t. You see, I’m sick of all this backstabbing…”
“And face-stabbing.”
Boyle continued: “What disappoints me the most is that you put your best friend, the student you’re so proud of, at risk…
Special K chuckled: “No, what disappoints you the most is that I put your champion at risk, potentially costing you dollars.”
“We may have different agendas…”
“We DO have different agendas.”
Thaddeus is used to getting what he wants. J.Leslie Voss had challenged him in ways no one else had ever dared to. Now, he was seeing that if he crossed Keegan, what his future could hold: “Regardless, he was in danger.”
Keegan put his hands out by his side, almost apologetically: “Come on. He asked to go in there. You know it; I know it and anyone who knows Ali will say the same. Plus, you’re fully aware I didn’t want him to go in, nor did I ever want him to step foot into The Zone. He insisted.”
The Greek changed tact: “Tonight, he’s defending the championship against RaVage. Ali has defended the championship with honour and dignity. I want that to continue. Tonight, this will strictly be a one-on-one affair…”
Keegan smirked and stroked his top lip: “Erm… Excuse me. Have you SEEN RaVage wrestle before? The closest thing to fair he’s ever come to is pulling my hair. He cheated to get here and, believe me, I should know. After all, he hired someone, WAR or my brother I don’t know, to take me out.”
Thaddeus sympathised: “Yes. It was very unfortunate but there is nothing we can do about that now but what we can do is make sure this is fair. Do you agree?”
Begrudgingly, the Briton nodded: “Yeah, Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Good. The two seats either side of me have been reserved for a reason. I have company this evening. On my left, I will be joined by William Arthur Reagan. On my right, I will be joined by… you, Keegan.”
The camera closed in on the Englishman’s face. He had his arms folded again and he didn’t look too pleased. Thaddeus had lured him in and was determined to maintain the advantage: “Neither of you will be able to interfere. This is an important moment. It’ll be the first time a world title match is featured on Slam! I want it to be a memorable occasion.”
“Oh, I think it will be,” the Geordie Genius joked. It was all he could do.
“Anything else to add before you go?”
The Yardstick looked scorned, like a woman who’d been stood up on a date wearing her favourite outfit: “Yes. I’ll stay in here and babysit WAR – but only on one condition.”
Boyle’s eyes widened: “What condition?”
“I get to sit on the left.”
Thaddeus shook his head in disbelief and then extended his hand: “Very well. We have a deal?”
Keegan snubbed the handshake, walking away before he closed the office door behind him.
It appeared Thaddeus would have to play nanny…
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| Andrew Martin | Versus |
Johannes Antonius de Castronovo |
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Following the hulu dot com ‘extended-advertisement’ the footage returned to the Epic II arena where two men were already midway in action in the squared circle.
“Thank you for joining us tonight fans. We have had quite the show so far, and it is only going to get better.” Welcomed Gordon to the adoring public watching at home.
“Now in case you all are dumb, or just can not see with your own two eyes. For the last five minutes we have been schooled in the art of wrestling. Those two individuals in the ring are specialists at what they do. Okay, well one man is, the other guy—green. That is the best way to describe him.” Remarked Renton as one of the wrestlers went for a stalling suplex on the other.
“Green, Terry?” As he spoke the suplex was reversed by the suspended wrestler.
“Very. Just look at how he avoided that suplex with his shifting of his weight. That is not technical, that is Green. Martin has been in control for most of this match after all.”
“Okay then. Well folks, what my broadcast partner is trying to say is that we have a exhibition on our hands right now. And his opponent is none other than the veteran and a former nbW World Heavyweight Champion, ‘The Definition of Perfection’ Andrew Martin.”
In the ring Martin held the rookie against the corner driving in a round of smacks to the chest. After the seventh one he whipped him out of the corner into the ropes to catch him with a fisherman’s suplex for a near two count.
"Green or not, Johannes is six foot seven according to our stats sheet. This rookie towers over Martin."
"Towering or not. Six foot one billion, does not matter. He is a rookie and does NOT deserve to be in the ring with a veteran like Andrew Martin." quipped Renton.
Martin then went to work on the arms, stretching and applying pressure to all the right joints, warming him up for one of his signature maneuvers no doubt.
“The expert of submissions.” Remarked Renton as Martin wrenched in a cobra clutch, which he followed by dropping their weight back to the mat. “And executions.”
Martin held the rookie on the mat for another two count, but this time it was kicked out of with intense fury. The rookie rolled to his belly and snap-stood up just as Martin had planned to him with a leg drop. The rookie caught Martin in his grasp and after a few shots to the gut; he scooped him up and slammed him back to the mat.
“Great move by the rookie, Johannes Antonius de Castronovo. If I am saying that correctly, if not I do apologize to Mr. Boyle and Castronovo himself.”
Johannes took control of the match with a repeated offense of shoulder tackles, keeping Martin from standing for longer than a few seconds. Soon as he was up again, he was driven down by the shoulders. This went on for five times, where the fifth saw Martin flung into the ropes, caught with yet another scoop, spun about above his head before being driven down skull first to the mat.
“That will do it.” Remarked Gordon as the referee delivered a two and half count. “So close, such an amazing upset for Castronovo if he can cinch this victory tonight.”
Johannes looked to finish things off but upon rebounding from the ropes with a high-angle fistdrop, Martin maneuvered perfectly to grab the rookie by the trucks and roll him up with the small package.
“Haha the wily veteran just pulled the glass ceiling down over Johans head!” exclaimed Renton in delight as the referee signaled the bell for the three count and raised the arm of the victor, Andrew Martin.
“He came close. That was an excellent showcase by both men, but Martin’s experience in the ring allowed him the better in the openings that Johannes’s unknowingly provided.”
Andrew Martin nodded in respect to Johannes as he exited the ring and made his way up the ramp to the cheers and boos from the fans. Castronovo was already standing back in the center of the ring speaking with the official whom then rushed to the side of the ring and got him a microphone.
“Hu-hu-“ he gasped as his lungs filled with clean air. “Era vicino. Non ho preveduto mai un rullo in su come quello.” He stopped and looked around the ring and at the fans whom were clueless. “English, right.” He smiled while wiping the sweat from his forehead. “It was close. I never expected a roll up like that. Having watched the Canadian Bacon during my early years, I knew what to expect. Or thought I knew. I had planned for his PerfectPlex. Delusione. But this is a wrestling ring, not the underground circuit I came up from. You people cheer for the high impact moves, rather than the blood driven out of the flesh. You cheer for the victors finishing maneuvers, rather than the fighter's knockout punch. You love the safety of the ropes.”
He chuckled at the mix of cheers and jeers.
“I understand the mixed reception. I do. You people are used to the Lottatori performing in the ring for you. Not so used to the idea of a Combattente in this ring. I assure you, you will.”
Despite the confusing words from Johannes the fans continued to respond with mixed response as he laid the mic down and rolled under the ropes. He may have lost, but in the same light; he gained some new fans.
While Johannes walked back up the aisle the footage swapped to another location where two well dressed men sat back watching the television screen. “He has the look.” Spoke one while the other added, “Think we seen him before. Did he fight under O’Cannaly’s joint in Venice a few years back as the Adriatic Gargoyle?”
The second individual shrugged. “He does look familiar.” To which they both were in agreement. “The potential is there.”
The footage cut back to the stage area where Johannes Antonius de Castronovo soaked in the last few seconds of cheers before walking to the back.
| Outcome: | Andrew Martin by way of Pinfall |
|---|
| YOUR THOUGHTS PRESENTED |
|---|
The voice of Trent McKnight is heard as the EpiCenter lights up to the nbW logo.
"No Brand Wrestling put the question towards you, the fans, when we asked Who you would like to see Jason Kain wrestle if he returned to the nbW Ring. 44 percent of you would like to see the Hall of Famer go up against our resident religious spewer J. Leslie Voss. 30 precent of you would like to see how he fares against the Cajun Remy Leroux. And 22 percent of you want to see Kain go up against Spike Saunders like the early years.
nbW Thanks you for your participation and would like to add a new question to the mix for you all. "
The screen lights up once more.
What nbW Legend would you like to see face the World Champion, Ali Amore?
"Who do you think will be on the top of this poll? We'll find out when we announce the results to the public on SLAM Episode IV."
| The Old Fighting Federation |
|---|
Backstage Don Toto Corleone and Gino Di Maggio went to WAR’s locker room and knocked on his door. WAR opened the door and he was surprised to see his old friends. He hugged both of them and invited them in.
“Gino, Don Toto, it’s great to see you back here in America. It must have been some really difficult months lately for you, but I’m glad you are both here again”, said WAR.
“Thanks William. Getting into business, we have watched the last two Slam editions of nbW and we saw you in two extremely entertaining fights. How do you feel after them”, asked him Gino Di Maggio.
“Not that good to say the truth. My back is hurting like crazy and I have spent the last two weeks getting loads of pain killers. I shouldn’t even be wrestling, where everything is planned and so on, so let alone fighting especially against someone unpredictable as Keegan. I think it would have been best if I refused to take part in the fights”, said WAR.
“I’m sorry to hear William. During the week we have been meeting with Thaddeus Boyle and we have been talking about reviving and old fighting federation here in no brand Wrestling. But for it to be successful, we need you to defend The Championship on its return. The history of The Championship is one of the richest in every sport in America. Our plan for you was to face Keegan”, said Don Toto.
“I’m glad that you will be reopening the old fighting federation, and I couldn’t be happier to say the truth. You know how much I care about The Championship and how much I respect both of you. But I really can’t fight Keegan. My back is hurting a lot, and another fight against him and it will be over for me. What I can offer you is to vacate the Championship and then you can put it on someone else”, replied WAR.
“That’s not what we will do William. Our friendship is very important for us. We know what you went through with your back. So we have a solution for you. You should defend the Championship against a rookie fighter. Someone who has never fought before and someone that won’t trouble your back and will get you an easy victory. We continue like that for a couple of weeks, even months, so your back will get better and then we can do the showdown against Keegan. What do you say about that William”, continued Gino.
“I think I can do that. Having easy fights will help me to rest my back and I am sure that in a couple of months I will be able to have another real and proper fight with Keegan”, finished WAR.
With that all three of them hugged each other and Gino and Don Toto went out of WAR’s locker room.
| Caught in the Headlights |
|---|
The bright fluorescent lighting in the back of the Epic II was no different than that of any other arena, well until they passed through it. There are scientists who would rationalize that Harley Grimm or Azhrarn… or both, yeah both, carry such a magnetic, almost pulse to their very essence. That would be the reason the lighting seemed to dim when they passed under.
Ask any old Creole off the Bayou and they’d tell you it was the “debil in dem”.
Whatever the reason, when Grimm and Az are prowling there’s no one more spooked than anyone in their path. Unfortunately for nbW veteran, and loveable loser, Matt Haddon he was caught in their crosshairs on this evening. Poor sap didn’t even see it coming either.
“So you’re sure…” Haddon questioned in that half country accent of his, “I mean hell why ain’t I on the show? I’m just as good as Proteus… or Magnus…”
“There isn’t a Magnus,” replied the booking agent.
“So you mean I lost my spot to someone who’s not even here!” Haddon gasped angrily.
The agent didn’t get a chance to reply as the hall suddenly dimmed. From around Haddon’s wrestling jacket a slender ghostly white arm slid around Matt’s shoulder. Each of the sparkly black fingernails were tipped in blood red, we didn’t even need to see her face to know who it was.
“Did’ yall miss us, Sugah?” she mused playfully in her Southern Belle version of her accent. “I mean s’holy yoo didn’t get all done up like this jus’ tah talk a big game. Yall wouldn’t do that, would yoo?”
Haddon was frozen, not soo much taken back by Az’s striking beauty as most are. No he was stuck directly in the mountainous shadow of her monster.
“Now look Harley, he’s jus’ bein’ rude,” she smiled licking her fangs.
“Grrrrr…” growled Grimm as he peered through his sunglasses.
Haddon still couldn’t force a response.
“See Harley, I don’ think he likes you very much, Sugah. Honestly though who could blame him?” asked Azhrarn almost rhetorically, “I think this fine gentleman here has quite a few choice words fo’ yoo Harley… an’ he jus’ wants to get lil’ ole yoo in that ring away from the virgin ears of a true Southern Belle, ain’t that right Missta Haddon?”
Matt stood there staring at Grimm.
Her smile got wider as she continued, “See Harley he’s jus’ too much of a gentleman to say, in mah presence, what he really wants to do to yoo.”
The glasses dropped, those all white eyes of Grimm served their purpose.
“So it’s settled then…” Azhrarn smiled, “Harley Grimm versus Matt Haddon, it’ll be, to die fo’.”
As the picture fades Marc Gordon added, “That witch is gonna let Grimm kill Haddon!”
“The ratings will be through the roof!” Rents added his usual spin.
“When we come back Harley Grimm versus Matt Haddon!”
| Where in The World is J. Leslie Voss - Pt. II |
|---|
The EpiCenter lights up once more, this time with a darkened screen and a voice accompanying it.
“Last time on Where in the World is J. Leslie Voss, our heroes circled the globe for answers and found themselves in the outback being chased by the local wildlife. That is where we pick up.”
The screen fades into a shot of Saunders and the woman sitting in the back of a military cargo jet.
“Are you sure about this.” Hollered the woman as the back door started sliding open.
“Yes. I was told that Voss was spotted in this area.” Saunders straps on his helmet while the woman does the same. The two slowly walk towards the opening. “Remember; don’t pull the cord until you clear the jet completely.”
She nods then glances back as Spike is already gone having jumped out of the back. She tightens her straps and takes a running start before she too disappears from sight, but not before the camera gains closer with the cameraman following along for the ride.
The woman pulls the camera in towards her, “When we get back, he’s dead. Understand?” The cameraman nodded in agreement likely as the view shifted up and down momentarily before the scene faded out.
The clip then faded in to the inner sanctum of some chapel. A mess of broken glass surrounding the podium.
“Excuse me, have any of you see this man?” He holds the photo up and most shake their head, a few others point behind him where a man stands waiting to be wed. “Voss? Is that you man?” Saunders walks up to him and examines him. “You got the look… and even his interests it seems… but not my guy, sorry.”
He turns and heads towards the exit before stopping and calling back to the cameraman and his friend along for the ride. “You two better hurry. I hear it’s mating season.” The door swings open and Saunders exits the chapel while the camera pans around to show the man and his newly beloved wife in her white glistening fur. Yes folks, they busted into a wedding of man and sheep.
Once more it faded out only to fade back in with the woman in red standing next to Saunders, at the St Louis airport.
“Okay, that’s it!” The red hat flies off of her head at the camera as she walks straight up to Saunders. “This bullshit has gone on long enough, Spike. If I were still the Keystone champion there would be none of this tomfoolery. There would be weeping and gnashing of teeth and rending of clothes over how AWESOME I am.”
“Aww come on Cal, you look good in red,” replies Saunders with a smirk. “Besides, it ain’t my fault that our source thought Voss was marrying some sheep. Honest mistake.”
The woman turns and pulls the coat open, revealing her face and hair as it normally would be if not cloaked with such a tall coat. Standing next to the Colossus was a former Keystone, and Dynasty Champion. The first person to hold both championships: Callie Urban.
“For the last week you've dragged us around globe to godforsaken Deliverance country looking for this Voss hosebeast. You owe me Spike. You OWE me BIG time. We’re talking dim sum. Chinese restaurant all I can eat. Sushi, Mongolian barbeque, the works. And I eat a LOT.”
He shrugged and turned back to the camera. “So, it seems this episode of Where in the World is J. Leslie Voss is over. Sorry Trent, you can head home now. I have a wallet to empty.”
Fade out once more.
|
|
|
| Harley Grimm | Versus |
Matt Haddon |
|---|
The double doors exploded open with their usual flare for the dramatic. Through them what usually happened was some disillusioned wrestler would pop out, strut and try to make you believe for three minutes that how he walked to that ring should show his dominance over his opponent. Not this time, no.
Cue: Smells like Teenspirit by Nirvana
This time Matt Haddon, still wearing his white silky signature ring jacket and matching trunks with boots, appeared walking as though he were in a trance. The usually pretty upbeat Haddon walked straight from the stage to the ramp. The fans tried to urge him out of his shell. He paused, he looked over the packed Epic II, he looked up at the EpiCenter.
| Put Up a Smile |
|---|
Trent McKnight stood in front of the interviewing stage. He stared blankly into the camera while he said, “Fans, I’m standing by with someone that we haven’t heard very much from over the past few weeks.” The camera’s focus zoomed off of Trent’s face.
“Lunatic,” he said when the white-faced, brightly smiling bizarre character had been revealed. His mere appearance brought on a slight chorus of boos to the fans in the arena. “The question on everyone’s mind is,” Trent said, “Where have you been?”
As Trent placed the microphone in front of Lunatic’s mouth, a slight scoff was heard. All the while, the loony one’s smile wasn’t deterred. Lunatic breathed heavily. Trent tried backing away from the stench that was Lunatic’s breath. However, the one thing that hadn’t exited from the man’s smile was an answer.
“L-Lunatic, no one has heard a word from you since our last Pay-Per-View, Ghosts.” Trent attempted to force an answer out of Lunatic. “Were your demands ever met?”
“Demands?” Lunatic’s monotone voice asked
“Yes,” Trent acknowledged, “you said multiple times that you had some demands for Thaddeus Boyle. Did he ever meet those demands?”
Lunatic chuckled.
“Oh those things,” he sighed in relief. “I don’t care about those anymore. You see, at Ghosts, I found a new reason to stick around. Max Hopper wanted to get involved with something that had nothing to do with him. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that he is well-deserved for some of my comic relief.”
“W-what do you mean by that?” Trent asked.
Lunatic smiled.
The smile resulted in another scoff. Apparently, in the loony one’s mind, the interview was over. He backed away from the microphone. Slowly, he turned around. When he took the slightest step forward, he found his body colliding with the massive figure that is Spike Saunders.
Spike looked down at the clown. His eyebrows were lowered in anger. His mouth was perched in a bit of a frown. Though they were clouded by his trademark sunglasses, his eyes were on fire.
Lunatic looked up at the dragon. Calmly and a bit sarcastically, he said, “Put up a smile.” Lunatic patted Spike Saunders’ shoulder.
The only budging that Spike Saunders showed was when he slowly looked at the shoulder that Lunatic had touched. That moment didn’t last long. Before you knew it, he was once again looking at the former dumb ass.
“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten what you’ve done, Lunatic.” Spike said. “On the last Full Effect, I was one of your ‘victims,’ remember?”
“Oh… right…” Lunatic said, “that.” In the same manner as Spike, Lunatic would budge at all. His smile hadn’t disappeared. He was still calm and relaxed. “C’mon Spikerific, there’s no need to get bent out of shape. That was ages ago. Bygones and all that, right?”
Swiftly, Spike grabbed a hold of Lunatic’s bright green tie. He pulled the loony one off of the ground, bringing the both of them eye-to-eye.
“I don’t think so.” Spike said firmly.
Lunatic struggled a bit, but there wasn’t much that he could do.
“You… me… ring… TONIGHT!” Spike demanded.
Lunatic tried his best to get enough breath in and out of his lungs to utter the words, “You’ve got it.”
“Good.” Spike said whilst staring into Lunatic’s eyes. He held on to the tie for a moment while he said, “I mean, sure I would love to get Voss in the ring. But since he is still gone you’ll do just…”
Apparently, it was a moment too long.
With all of his strength, Lunatic gave a field goal worthy kick between Spike’s legs. Saunders keeled over as he dropped Lunatic back to the floor. And there it had returned.
Lunatic’s smile.
He walked behind Spike’s stunned body and raised both arms up into the air.
“IT’S GOOD!” Lunatic rejoiced.
He ran down the corridor with his eerie laugh echoing throughout the rest of the backstage area.
| The Finishing Touches |
|---|
Gino Di Maggio and Don Toto Corleone went to Thaddeus Boyle’s office. They knocked on his door and Thaddeus Boyle’s slutty secretary Melony Vice opened the door. She was wearing a revealing top, short mini skirt and high heels. As soon as Don Toto and Gino entered the room she kissed both of them on the cheeks and then took her place near Thaddeus Boyle.
“Mr. Boyle”, started Gino
Thaddeus Boyle interrupted him and told him; “It’s Thaddeus for you”.
“Ok Thaddeus, we have just been with William and told him about our plan to reopen the old fighting federation. We also told him that we would like him to defend the Championship against Keegan. But we have a problem. His back is in a really bad shape after those two last fights, so if he fights Keegan he will end up losing easily and it will be a mockery of fighting”, said Gino.
“Therefore we decided to come to a compromise with him. We feed him some fighting newbies where William will be able to rest his back and won’t have any problems in defending The Championship. Then when his back will be ready, he will be able to have the epic fight against Keegan”, continued Don Toto.
Thaddeus Boyle nodded in agreement and told them “I agree with both of you and I already have a good person in mind. He will challenge WAR for the Championship but he won’t even stand a chance. And we continue like that for a couple of weeks or even months, until WAR will be ready to go against Keegan”.
Meanwhile Melony Vice has spent all the time flirting underneath the table with Gino Di Maggio.
“Thaddeus, you should lend me Melony Vice for the rest of the evening, and I can do the nasties to her”, smiled Gino.
“Off course Gino. You can take her and do as you please with her. I don’t think she will mind at all”, replied Thaddeus.
Then Gino Di Maggio and Melony Vice left the office and Thaddeus poured a drink for him and Don Toto and they continued talking together.
| The Sunset... |
|---|
Trent McKnight, the company’s number one interviewer, was waiting for the countdown from his cameraman. Standing alongside him was RaVage, fittingly the number one contender to the world crown. He would face Ali Amore in a short-short.
“I’m here with RaVage, an ex-world champion who never lost his crown inside the ring. RaVage, how do you feel as you head into the ring just one match away from reclaiming what you’ve always said is rightfully yours?”
The Human Steam Engine stared at the ground for a second, smirked and then looked up at the camera with a determined expression etched on his face: “Trent, Rocky Marciano is considered by many to be the best boxer of all time because he did what no one else could or has ever managed to do since… He went out on top. He never lost a fight. He never lost his title. He was – and is - number one.
“Many have tried in our great business but, to my knowledge, we’ve never had a man who has gone out in that way. Not one individual has worn the heavyweight championship, carried it and retired with it, having not lost it at least once along the way.
“I have the chance to make history. I’ve taken a second chance at glory. Most people thought I was done, especially when I lost to Son of Malta back on Memorial Day last year. Hell, they probably thought that was my career’s funeral.
“Yet, here we are not even one year later and I’ve scraped, scratched and clawed my way here. I outfought and outthought Keegan. Not that it was too difficult. I’ve alsooutsmarted the peasant he hangs around with.
“NbW is in a state of transition. We have a new owner. But what we need is a new champion. A new champion from the old guard. A champion who comes from the golden era, a champion who will carry the title with prestige and a champion who lives, breathes and eats being the best in this business.
“I will make history by winning tonight and then I’ll make history by becoming the first man to walk off into the sunset with the gold. Nothing can stop the Human Steam Engine,” RaVage rounded off before throwing the microphone back at a surprised Trent McKnight.
 |
|
 |
| Lunatic | Versus |
Spike Saunders |
|---|
Out of nowhere, “Babylon’s Burning” by W.A.S.P. began playing throughout the arena. Those that remembered the significance of this song began to boo. Those that weren’t jeering, they were about to be.
Lunatic pushed through the curtains. To no surprise, a louder chorus of boos was heard. The white and blue, sloppily applied face paint seemed to chip away before our very eyes.
He slouched downward with his steps down the aisle. The only time when his posture evolved was when made his way on the steel ring steps and entered the ring. As soon as he entered the squared circle, his music was cut off.
It wasn’t long before the ever familiar “Spike-It-UP!” replaced Lunatic’s theme. Instantly, the crowd’s disappointing boos were transformed into the cheers that follow Spike Saunders wherever he seems to go.
Spike was walking down the aisle at a much faster pace than normal. He was calm and confident. This match was more than likely going to be a walk in the park. Spike entered the ring after stepping over the top rope.
The official stepped into the center of the ring as Spike walked towards his designated corner. Lunatic smiled. The referee called for the tolling of the bell.
DING~!
DING~!
DING~!
The bell had been rung and if Spike Saunders were to have his way, Lunatic’s metaphoric bell would be rung in just a few moments.
As the two approached each other, things started off quite badly for the dragon. Straight away, Lunatic picked up his leg as high as he could and drove his foot into Spike’s abdomen. Spike bent forward.
Moving with speed that would have the fastest of lightning strikes filled with jealousy, Lunatic maneuvered his body behind Spike’s and drove a few forearms between his shoulder blades.
Displaying some more amazing agility and quickness, Lunatic ran to the ropes located just behind Spike Saunders. Upon his return, he leaped into the air and extended his legs. A missile styled dropkick connected against Spike’s back.
Spike stumbled his way across the ring, where his throat and chest landed on the second rope. Staying with his speed advantage, Lunatic darted towards Spike. However, his path was slightly to the right of Spike rather than a direct approach. As Lunatic neared the ropes, he leaped over them while extending his left elbow. The back of the loony one’s arm collided with Spike’s head.
After bouncing about for a moment, Spike did find himself with his back against the canvas.
Lunatic jumped up to the ring’s apron. He grabbed a hold of the top rope before looking at the crowd. Needless to say, they weren’t exactly in approval of what they had seen thus far in the bout. However, Lunatic returned in kind with the now, very familiar smile.
In another single bound, Lunatic placed his feet on the top rope and spring-boarded off of it, looking for a leg drop. Low and behold, Spike Saunders moved out of the way.
While Lunatic was recovering from the impact, Spike stood up as quickly as he could. He bent over and picked up the pieces that was Lunatic’s prone body. When the loony one was back to a vertical basis, Spike lifted him up above his head in a military press. He walked about the ring for a while to the delight of the crowd.
Suddenly, his arms dropped down to his sides. Lunatic’s body bounced off of the canvas. Spike’s arms were extended at the sides to show the audience the ease of the maneuver. By the time he turned around, Lunatic had rolled onto his back. Spike went down on the canvas and went for a lateral press.
ONE!
TWO!
Lunatic placed his boot on the rope.
One offensive maneuver was no longer enough to put away the man known as Lunatic. During his last stint in nbW, that probably would have done it. However, no one in nbW had battled Lunatic since his transformation. This was a completely different man in the same, strange body.
Spike Saunders stood up. All the while, he kept a grip on Lunatic’s wrist while he pealed him off of the mat and onto his feet. When they were both standing, Spike tucked Lunatic’s head between his legs. Once more the colossus had lifted Lunatic into the air. This time, he had been thinking of a power bomb. However, again, Spike wanted to demonstrate his strength. He kept Lunatic lifted in position, but he walked around the ring a bit.
While he was seated on Spike’s shoulder, Lunatic drove his right fist into Spike’s temple a number of times. Each shot came in quicker and stiffer than the last. Spike eventually started to back petal. When he couldn’t move any more, he found himself in a corner.
Lunatic continued the fury of punches but he stepped off from Spike’s shoulders and onto the middle rope. He wouldn’t relent. The fists wouldn’t stop connecting. He took a moment to grab a hold of Spike’s hair with both of his hands. He looked around at the crowd and showed them his yellow, decaying teeth with his trademark smile.
That was all the time that Spike needed to recuperate. Once again, Lunatic found himself in a power bomb predicament. Spike shot out of the corner and drove Lunatic into the ring’s floor with all of his strength.
Quickly, Spike followed up with a pin.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!...NO!
Lunatic shot up a shoulder at 2¾!
Spike nodded his head towards the crowd. He knew it was time to put this match away. Once more, Spike stood up and brought Lunatic with him. Yet again, Lunatic was held in a military press.
“SPIKED!” Saunders yelled out to his adoring public.
Just as he was about to twist Lunatic’s body to perform his finishing move, someone had entered the ring gave Spike a chop block. As the dragon fell forwards, Lunatic was practically gently set back on his feet.
The official tried storming this guy out of the ring. He couldn’t call for the bell. No wrestler had interfered. Apparently, a fan had hopped the guard rail. This fan was clothed with a T-shirt dedicated to J. Leslie Voss.
It must’ve been a devote follower of Voss’ ‘Rasslin’ Religion.
Security stormed the ring and the commotion was eventually settled.
Unsure of what had hit him, Spike stood up. He watched on as the security officers rushed the fan out of the arena. When he turned around to find his opponent, he wasn’t sure of how to react with what was facing him.
Lunatic leaped from the top rope in a seated position. He grabbed a hold of the back of Saunders’ head and drove the massive man downward.
FORCING A SMILE~!
After his face collided with the canvas of the ring’s mat, his body bounced onto his back. Lunatic lay atop of the dragon and hooked a leg. For even extra measure, he placed his boots on the bottom rope as the official was heading down to make the cover.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Lunatic stormed out of the ring as the bell rang. “Babylon’s Burning” began playing throughout the arena for the second time of the evening. Lunatic held his hands up in victory as he headed to the backstage area.
The ring announcer was informing everyone of Lunatic’s victory. Spike sat up in the ring even more upset and in more disbelief than he had been at the beginning of the night.
| Outcome: | Lunatic by way of Pinfall |
|---|
| Pop goes the Corn |
|---|
The scene was set. In a few moments, the first world title match in the history of Slam would take place between reigning champion Ali Amore and ex-titleholder RaVage. It was the future against the past, coming together in the present for what could prove to be a fascinating tussle over the strap.
Meanwhile, Thaddeus Prometheus Boyle was all suited and booted, adjusting his cufflinks and then his tie. His office was guarded by four bodyguards, two outside and two inside. He took a sip from his glass of water and then the camera showed WAR, sitting on the right side of the promoter’s chair. Thaddeus looked at the hall of famer, who stared straight ahead, motionless and apparently with thoughts elsewhere, though where, nobody knew but everyone wanted to find out.
A bodyguard at the main entrance could be heard saying: “He’s here.” The two inside took their position, just behind the door, and one called Boyle over for one final briefing though their dialogue was inaudible. After the security member had finished, Boyle adjusted his collar one final time and prepared to welcome Keegan into his office, where he knew the two egos could erupt at any given moment. He wanted that to happen, though not in his workplace, but rather in the ring or a cage where they could hurt each other to their heart’s content and he’d be the major beneficiary as promoter.
He looked out of the doorway, where he could see Special K spreading his arms in order to be searched. Boyle took a deep breath and smiled as the Englishman walked in. Keegan actually appeared to be in good spirits until he saw WAR, who didn’t look at anyone during the whole exchange. The sheer sight of him actually provoked the Briton to lose his temper and he was about to lay one on his long-term rival but two security guards restrained him before he could. They struggled to hold him back, Keegan inching further towards WAR, who never flinched, though he was staring directly at Special K now. Thaddeus shouted for his two external bodyguards to come in, which they did as soon as they heard him call, and the additional muscle was more than sufficient to stop Keegan from gaining revenge for the slash attack that ended his evening at Slam 2!
Keegan finally gave up and held his hands up, apologetically, telling them they no longer had anything to fear and that they could let go. They did slowly, but didn’t step more than 3 yards away from him, fearful that he would still try to assault WAR there and then. Eventually, they relinquished their grip on him and were still ready to pounce when he raised his index finger, not to poke William in the eye: “You’re lucky they’re here because if they weren’t, I’d have your arse in this office quicker than Boris Becker in a broom cupboard.”
WAR looked sideways at Keegan: “Really? I think it’s the total opposite. You’re the lucky one, not me.”
“Aw, you think so, do you bonny lad? Well, why don’t you grow a set of bollocks, a proper beard to go along with it, come out of retirement properly and stop hiding yourself away in these tag matches? Eh? Let’s say… Me and you inside the Zone, one on one, no weapons, no submissions, no knives, no partners, no wendy houses… Knockout or get the fuck out?”
The crowd cheered the Englishman’s invitation and intensity in delivering the challenge. WAR decided not to answer it. Keegan took his place on the left side of Thaddeus Boyle, momentarily, and then got up again: “Excuse me, I left something outside with your heavy-handed bouncer before getting strip-searched. You wouldn’t mind if I collect it from him?”
Boyle was surprised but willing to go along with the Newcastle’s native, nodding to indicate his acceptance. Keegan was gone for five seconds or so, but when he returned, he had a large box of salted popcorn with him. While chewing, Keegan turned to Thaddeus: “Would you like some?”
“No, no thank you. I’ve just eaten.”
Keegan then appeared to offer WAR some, but William didn’t rise to the bait and Special K muttered to himself: “No, didn’t think so.”
Ali Amore’s trainer leaned back in his chair and placed the popcorn on the arm. He then moved forward again, suddenly, and glared at WAR, pointing at him in the process, but talking to Thaddeus: “I bet he didn’t get strip-searched like me, did he? I hope you did do it properly. You never know what William’s carrying with him. In the last month or so, it’s been a knife. Next week, it could be a fork or a chopstick. After that, a spoon or maybe even a wok…”
“He received exactly the same treatment,” stated the Greek.
Special K settled in his chair as all three were shown in the same shot, Thaddeus sporting a smile that he was able to pull this off and about to enjoy the upcoming encounter. That grin soon disappeared as a small piece of popcorn whistled past him and hit WAR square on the nose
| Clue |
|---|
Clop. Clop. Clop.
The sound of super expensive dress shoes stepping on the cement echoed throughout the parking structure. Running late, Max Hopper walked to the back of the black 1982 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am and opened the trunk.
"I don't think this is a good idea, Michael," the voice from inside the car sounded its concern.
"Everything will be fine, Guy, and QUIT CALLING ME MICHAEL!"
He was just reaching for his bag when the sound of metal dragging on the cement caused his ears to perk up.
BANG!
He was further startled by the sound of the blunt, metal object colliding with a steel trash drum. His eyes scanned the parking ramp and found it void of any lifeform except himself. He turned back to his bags.
BANG!
There it was again, but closer and louder than before. His head swiveled around, searching the parking ramp again. Still nothing.
BANG! Closer still.
He shouted out into the darkness, "Who's there?"
No answer, until...
THUNK!
Hopper's body went limp and he slouched half into the trunk of his car. The weapon, a lead pipe, fell to the ground next to him. Blood streamed from the back of his skull. The perpetrator grabbed Hopper's ankles and helped the unconscious body into the trunk before slamming it shut. The shadowy figure hopped into the driver's seat and pealed out of the spot where the car was once parked. As the tail lights faded into the distance, all that could be heard was a maniacal laugh...
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
 |
|
 |
| RaVage | Versus |
Ali Amore |
|---|---|---|
| World Championship Match | ||
For the first time in Slam! history, the world title was about to be defended.
Last year, Memorial Day proved to be a memorable one for Ali Amore. The 4th Emergency Service returned from out of nowhere and took out Torment, who had just become the man after making short work of ex-promoter Xander Napoli. The comeback kid, immensely popular in his first stint with the company, had captured the big belt at the tender age of 23 years old.
Meanwhile, the same show proved to be one for RaVage to forget. He was demolished by impressive newcomer, Son of Malta, within a matter of seconds. At that moment, it was hard to see a way back for the Human Steam Engine, at least in terms of the top level. It appeared that the only way was down.
While Amore has gone from strength to strength and been incredibly consistent, proving himself to be a worthy world champion, RaVage has also reproduced the type of form that saw him NEVER lose his coveted strap inside the ring. Now, he is rejuvenated and back from the brink, back from the dead and the number one contender to the throne.
The commercial break saw Ali standing on the ring apron and facing RaVage, who was a matter of inches away from him and daring the foreign import to enter.
As Ali prepared to perform his usual somersault over the top rope routine, RaVage rushed towards him, impatient for the bell and eager to attack Amore. However, the Colombian, despite the false start, still wowed the fans by merely doing it over the number one contender, making himself look stupid in the process. While RaVage was left wondering where Amore was, the champion was removing his belt, handing it to the referee and let Randy know exactly where he was with a right hand that rocked the tough customer’s noggin’ back. A second one subsequently followed and a third didn’t do his cause any harm either. That’s when the bell sounded and we were underway. An Irish whip by the titleholder sent Viscel into the ropes, only for him to rebound into the Superstar of Bogota’s path, where he scored with a spinning heel kick.
We’d already seen one somersault in the match-up already. Ali didn’t let his fans down by going to the well a second time in less than sixty seconds. From the second strand, he scored with a somersault legdrop…
1…
He wasn’t going to see off the Human Steam Engine like that.
Amore backed his opponent up into the corner and wailed away with five body shots, a flurry of fists bombarding RaVage’s ribcage, before the South Dakota Dynamo took a cheap way out and put his head in between the top and middle ropes, looking for the referee to cause separation. Reluctantly, Ali broke as the official began a count, stopping at 2. Amore held his hands up, apologetically, but he had more to be sorry for momentarily…
Bellclap.
It stung. However, more than usual this time. As the titleholder tended to his neck, RaVage exploded out of the corner and mowed him down with a clubbing forearm to the back of the head. While he was down, nursing his neck, RaVage struck three times with the point of the elbow to inflict further agony on that particular body part. Thereafter, he came off the ropes and kicked Ali in the head, nothing more or less, rather like the Ayatollah in The Wrestler and extracting the same type of reaction as the Iron Sheik imitation – boos all round.
Taking a similar page from the critically-acclaimed movie, he tossed the titleholder over with a sweet snap mare and applied a camel clutch. Once again, more stress agony and pressure being poured on Amore’s neck, which had already fallen down some 72 stairs courtesy of WAR. His protective brace was barely keeping his head attached to his shoulders yet the Colombian found the courage to say ‘no’ every time the official asked him if he wanted to surrender his championship. Instead, the audience rallied behind him and gave him their support, which in turn brought out the fire of the youngster, the will to win and remain a winner, and he started to fight back. Just as he was about to get to his knees and take the stocky pretender to his throne for a rid, RaVage got off the ride and used all of his frame to cut the kingpin off, jumping south, all across the back of the Bogotá-born wrestler.
RaVage picked up where he had left off and went to the well for a second time. The Sheik’s signature move was getting an airing here, unfortunately for Amore. Ali’s fans, they were aplenty, cheered and clapped the good-looking kid, appreciative of his character, ability, quality and class. He was in debt to them too, summoning strength from their roar, gaining energy and confidence in abundance, while the South Dakota Dynamo snarled at them, ordering them to stop, but they would not. However, yet again, the South American would be stopped by his challenger, who repeated the feat and out of frustration thereafter, he jarred his forearm into the kid’s neck three times in total and then removed the protection. Rents applauded at the commentary desk: “This didn’t take long at all. Suddenly, things have got an awful lot more interesting.”
Backstage, the words seemed to be ringing in Keegan’s mind as he stared at the screen, clearly worried, his hand in his mouth and wearing a pensive expression. WAR was cool and calm. Special K started to wince, not in a queasy way, but as a concerned trainer may when his student is taking a hiding, which Ali was. In the left corner of the screen, viewers at home could see RaVage sitting as he did before in a dominant position but the camel clutch had been replaced by vicious crosses, all landing without reply to anywhere and everywhere in the champ’s upper echelons. After eight overall, RaVage stood up and posed with his arms outstretched. He was owning Amore. It truly was man against boy here.
RaVage’s punches seemed to be getting stronger, each one stiffer than its predecessor, and with Ali on the way down, the stocky former world champion stomped a mud hole and set about walking it dry.
RaVage, already in cruise control, kicked the immigrant towards the ropes, away from the corner, and attempted another Irish Whip into the opposing set but Amore reversed. Unfortunately, Ali was still feeling the ill effects of the early assault here and put his head down, which he promptly paid for. RaVage,who could smell blood, particularly where the neck was concerned, punished Ali’s moment of weakness. Lowering your head or guard at this level is potentially fatal and RaVage almost beheaded the Bogota-born superstar a devastating double arm DDT…
1
2
It was just a two count but RaVage was making inroads. The neck was such an obvious target that even Stevie Wonder could see it. As a result, the champion was a sitting duck and the aggressive challenger, so determined to reclaim what he never lost inside the squared circle, wasn’t going to stray from his strategy. Plus, it was also custom-made for a whole multitude of his signature moves, later on in the contest. I wonder if that was discussed before WAR pushed Ali down four flights of stairs or if it was mere coincidence.
RaVage took his time and a few steps back prior to blast-off. He kicked the Colombian into touch with the so-called dropkick of shame, which subsequently sent the South American between the bottom two ropes and down to the concrete floor. Once again, Ali’s equilibrium bore the brunt of Randy’s rage.
There, he followed suit and was keen to continue the punishment. He did so by taking control of Amore’s head and ramming it into the ring steps. Afterwards, he lifted the ring steps and brought them down on his opponent’s cranium. The crowd gasped upon hearing the sickening sound of steel crashing against a human skull. RaVage was unceasingly concentrated, chilling and ruthlessly efficient in his approach. He didn’t care about the audience or Amore one bit. Not even an iota. In his world, he was number one and now he wanted to numero uno in ours too by taking the title away from the current holder.
Viscel followed suit by leaving the ring, albeit against the official’s request, to pay his victim with the ultimate insult and injury at the same time. He hooked the champion’s arms up and seemed poised to put the foreigner through the floor with a high-impact move. What it was, we never found out as Amore, through instinct or desperation depending on your perspective, showed it was too early in the day for him to be subjected to that. Amore avoided the career-ending intention, which it may well have been by negotiating a backbody drop. Disaster averted.
Perched on the apron, just a few inches in front of the ringpost, from a standing position, he landed on Ali with an elbow which sent the South American careering off the apron and onto the floor. Everything was about the neck.
RaVage changed tact, probably just to piss the narrator off for accusing him of being predictable, helping Amore up only to elevate him into the air with a gorilla-press, quickly converting it into a slam that brought the superstar’s throat down across the steel security barrier. Ali spluttered, coughing violently and requiring oxygen. RaVage stood on his throat, the referee went beyond five as the challenger refused to break, and then held his arms up, almost apologising but nobody in St. Louis bought that at all. The South Dakota Dynamo was taking liberties and everyone could see it, including the referee, but no one could do anything about it.
Following that, Ali fought back with a blow to the breadbasket as Son of Malta stood close to him, poised to pour on more pain and misery. It startled the newcomer, no question, but he responded with a right of his own.
He then tried to ram Amore’s head into the ring steps but the Bogotá-born prodigy blocked it with his foot. A second attempt went the same way of the first, the babyface refusing to budge before he stole RaVage’s idea, which did work, much to the relief of his dedicated following.
Mind you, reinvigorated and maybe feeding off the audience, pumped full of adrenaline, Ali still wasn’t sure where he was at. That was clear as he jumped up onto the apron in a flash and took a step or two forward prior to lift-off…
CANNONBALL!
A la Mick Foley.
Like Foley, he missed.
RaVage had been faster than the notoriously quick Colombian on that exchange. The number one contender couldn’t pick the precocious prospect up. He was dead to the world. Following a second attempt, he managed to do so and set the South American starlet up…
Snap suplex on the floor!
He rolled Amore back in approximately a few seconds later, with the referee’s count at 8, and then covered the champion…
1…
2….
That’s all he got. He queried it with the official but it was a straight two count in anyone’s eyes. Nonetheless, he decided he wanted to do it again, except this time inside the ring and in this form, he could clearly do what he wanted, when he wanted…
Until Amore had the audacity to block the attempt.
The crowd popped.
RaVage ushered in a sly fist downstairs to the abdomen and tried again.
Another pop. Ali still wasn’t budging.
And again, he dug his heels in.
‘Greatness’ slugged the twenty-something with a couple of really hard rights to the back of the neck, which caused the Colombian to fall over. Then, RaVage succeeded in lifting Ali up into the air, albeit at the fourth time of asking, only for Amore to slip out of the back door…
1
2
Near-fall. Ali had negotiated a schoolboy, apt considering he still looked like one, but RaVage was too smart and strong for that, particularly at this time of the day. Notwithstanding, he wasn’t speedy enough to live with the 212-pound livewire, who ducked underneath a clothesline attempt, and countered with a superb standing dropkick for a two count.
Ali went for a snap mare of his own, which he negotiated with no problem, and then took off in a flash, taking a few steps back before smacking the South Dakota Dynamo with a headache-inducing dropkick to the back of the head. Before he knew where he was, Amore, travelling faster than your average athlete, gave Viscel another worry in the form of his facial features as he almost took his nose off with an equally-tasty sequel from the opposite side…
1
2
2 and a half.
The Superstar of Bogota backed Randy up into the corner and was starting to build momentum, much to the pleasure and joy of his fans, encouraging and imploring him to come forward, to which Ali responded by laying in with three lacerating chops to the chest, turning Viscel’s chest into a shade of Elmo, and was poised to pick away at the pectoral muscles too, connecting with two body shots before being caught cold with another bell clap.
Unsurprisingly, the official’s warning fell on deaf ears as RaVage concentrated on whipping Amore into the buckle. He may have been 100% focused but Ali saw him coming in from miles away and brought the runaway train to a halt with an elbow smash to the chops. It staggered RaVage for a second or two but still didn’t send ‘Savage’ to the ground. The subsequent scoop slam did, though, but while the audience exploded, it almost appeared Ali’s fragile neck did too as he nursed his neck, which looked like it was in serious danger of falling off.
Nonetheless, Ali was in the risk-taking business and despite being bothered by his injury, it still wasn’t enough to stop him from flying first-class. Uncharacteristically, the Colombian was slow on boarding the top rope and that proved to be decisive as it permitted the ex-champ enough time to regain his bearings and he ascended the ropes to meet the new champ at the top of the mountain, a place they both wanted to be, figuratively and literally.
RaVage got the first – and only – shot in on this exchange and clearly hadn’t learned his lesson from the four unsuccessful suplex attempts. In his mind, he remembered the one from before, which had worked and would again. Everyone got up as RaVage took an extra step, the one that always tells spectators that the participants are heading for a great fall, as he and Ali were joined on the top rope, their collective 450-pounds certainly testing the top strand’s capacity.
Meanwhile, we could see a mini-screen of Thaddeus in the middle of a bickering WAR and Keegan, verbally fortunately for the boss, debating what the outcome was going to be.
WAR, while still collected, was offering more in the way of trash-talk: “If he hits this, you can say goodbye to your little meal ticket. He’ll be on the next boat back to Colombia, selling coke by the morning and offering his banged-up body to rich businessmen by midnight.”
Special K stared straight at WAR: “Are you for real?”
More importantly, what was real…?
SUPERPLEX!
The canvas took a battering, but had dished it out to both combatants, bravely fighting for what they believed rightfully belonged to them. Keegan was as white as a sheet and repeatedly mouthed ‘Get up Ali. Get up son. Come on,” daring to believe the Superstar of Bogota was not out of it. The clear winner in all of this was Thaddeus Prometheus Boyle, who seemed to be enjoying the first-ever title defence in Slam! history. The referee had already started the count and was up to seven when RaVage, crawling along the canvas like a limp slug, just barely managed to drape his left arm over Ali’s lifeless anatomy…
1…
2….
3!?!?!?
NO!
By far and away, the biggest near-fall of the bout thus far. Somehow, Amore had denied RaVage by raising a fraction of his shoulder off the floor in the nick of time, the last-possible moment.
Keegan was going through the wringer, the sweat dripping off his forehead and he wasn’t even competing. He applauded Amore’s refusal to lose and shouted encouragement to him, which WAR mocked: “He can’t hear you. It won’t help him anyway. You’re both dead.”
Special K scowled: “Piss off, you. COME ON ALI. You can do it.”
“He can’t.”
The Briton barked back, giving his arch-enemy daggers: “He can and he bloody well will.”
Randy was now up. Evidently pissed off, hands on head, he again asked the referee if he was sure. It had been close but the man in the middle nodded. He couldn’t believe Ali had kicked out. While he had dominated the contest, he was beginning to realise he was in there with a tough cookie in the shape of a slender South American, whose heart beat bigger than Buenos Aires, Rio De Janeiro and his native Bogotá combined. But his heart was close to stopping if RaVage’s best Winston Churchill impression was to be believed. His V-sign meant only one thing…
V stood for Victory.
RaVage could smell, taste and sense it too. He was yards away from regaining what he’d never lost, not fairly or inside the ring at least, while Amore seemed oblivious to it all…
1…
2….
Well, he had done until Randy completely missed his cue and Ali effortlessly ducked underneath the onrushing RaVage, who was subjected to a cheeky backslide, falling once again to a crafty and basic manoeuvre, only to figure it out before it was too late.
Then he again, he turned the tables back in his favour with a ‘how dare you?’ lariat. Apparently coming to the conclusion that he could no longer play with the so-called peasant, RaVage looked to ensure he was heading down the home straight as he picked Ali up and set him up, electing to whip him into the opposite corner. Ali was having none of it though and reversed. When RaVage came out of the corner, Amore cinched in a sleeper. The South Dakota Dynamo was struggling and nearly fading until he sidestepped and cleverly deposited Ali, also causing separation in the process, with a back suplex and a pinning predicament that yielded another 2 from the official.
RaVage smacked the canvas in frustration with his fist. Ali was showing great resilience and this match had already gone the distance. Now, he wanted to put it to bed once and for all, stalking the foreign import and waiting for him to recuperate. He urged Amore to get up but that plea fell on deaf ears. Ali couldn’t hear him, not properly, but moments later, he was in fact stumbling to his feet, lamb to the slaughter, ironically also the name of John C. Willis’s finisher.
Ali was up but saw RaVage sprinting towards him and improvised with a swift and deft drop toe hold. Quicker than a camera flash, Amore was on the offensive with an excellent running senton splash. On the downside, he had hurt his neck even more and was now clutching it. The official began to count both men, who were unable to move and exhausted. This title bout was taking its toll but they knew it would be worth it in the end if they were to emerge victorious. Why else would they put themselves through it?
The referee reached 6 when RaVage regained his vertical base. Less than two seconds later, through sheer will and determination, Ali was up as well. RaVage rocked him with a right that nearly sent the 4th Emergency Service sprawling but AA retaliated twice as hard. RaVage tried again, his second attempt sloppy but harder than the initial effort, but Ali not only withstood it, he brayed the bully in return. RaVage, all over the place like a drunken bastard, but he got off another shot and the St. Louis crowd were getting into this...
Ali responded to make it 3-all. Then, he went into overdrive. He struck with a 4th, a 5th and a 6th to the head, RaVage unable to answer, Amore growing in confidence, each hit harder than the last and he started to find his rage as he backed the stocky challenger into the corner. There, he wanted to go downstairs, softening up the ribs with four perfectly-placed punches to the abdomen.
Special K could be seen backstage, throwing imaginary punches at thin air, imitating Ali’s offence: “That’s it Ali. Left, right, left, right. See that Willy. You can’t hit like that.”
“Who can’t?”
“You can’t. You’re twice the size of him but you’ve got half the power. You’re a steroid freak yet you can’t lift a bag of crisps, you soft puff.”
WAR was beginning to bite: “Would you like to see whether I can hit or not?”
Keegan told him to stand up, constantly moving his right hand to indicate: “Get up then. Mind you, I’ll warn you know. I’ll hit you back ten times harder. Nobody here can hit like Ali – except me. Stand up and I’ll put you back down, you fucken’ twat. “
Thaddeus was now sandwiched between the two men and security was closing in on the two. Special K shouted at Reagan: “You don’t fancy it, do you? You don’t want any of this,” the Brit brashly stated pointing towards his left bicep and fist. “I’ll hit you so hard and often, you’ll scream for my right and you don’t want to meet him. Believe me.”
Amore was poised to go to town on his opposition but the man in the middle got between them. Ever so slowly and calmly, the Colombian raised his arms in accordance with the rules and then took one step forward, nothing major and struck RaVage with a bell clap.
The fans lapped it up.
Two men didn’t.
RaVage and the referee.
As the official was about to admonish Ali, the champion displayed some of that Latin spirit and passion he inherited from his mother by wildly punching the ropes and staring back at him: “When he did it, you said nothing. What do you want? Why are you breaking my balls?”
Volume increased.
Special K stood up and applauded him in Thad’s office: “Well-said son. You fucken’ tell him.”
RaVage was telling the referee to sort it out properly but Ali caught him off guard with two kicks to the gut and then mounted him…
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE.
Amore had beaten his challenger to a pulp, a dozen shots crushing the challenger’s cranium.
Ali didn’t lose sight of his other objective and as he came back down to earth with a flashy jump, substance soon substituted style as he buried six shoulders into RaVage’s ribcage. Amazingly, Ali wasn’t able to whip RaVage into the opposite turnbuckle as the number one contender repelled it. Three knife edge chops later, he had no say in the matter as the youngster fired him in and then, with full steam ahead, stung the Human Steam Engine with an emphatic…
STINGER SPLASH!
RaVage was pissed – drunk, not angry…
BULLDOG!
Now, he was unconscious.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
NO! NO! NO!
2.99
That’s what you call a hot near-fall, my friends.
Ali had almost done it with a sensation chain of moves, amazing, considering he’d been on the receiving end for the most part. He’d nearly done it but not quite.
Unlike his opposite number, Amore didn’t question the count. Yes, he’d argued with the referee already this evening but out of frustration, in the heat of battle but now, he was not only in it but dominating and very few performers had the explosiveness of Ali Amore.
He elected to hoist RaVage up onto the top rope. Maybe his logic was an eye for an eye. The ex-champion had almost ended his title reign with a daring superplex. Perhaps Ali thought he could continue his reign with something similar.
Everyone was on their feet…
Except Ali.
He had missed with a headscissors attempt. RaVage hadn’t played ball and was now perched on the tope rope himself, waiting for Ali to get up again, further injuring his neck by landing on his head, though adrenaline was rushing through his body and he could not, would not, stay down. RaVage wanted to put him down with a clothesline…
POWERSLAM!
1…
2…
DENIED!
Another close call but RaVage raised his shoulder sharply just prior to the referee grazing the mat for a third and final time.
Even Terry Renton, usually sarcastic, was amazed. All he could say was: “How does he do it?”
“He is the world champion and you’ll move the world to stay champion. He’s a fighting champion with a fighting spirit and a credit to our sport.”
Keegan was up on his feet and while not known to be a religious man, he looked like he was praying. He looked up at the sky, ironically Ali was in the air as well, primed to deliver another…
FROGSPLASH!!!
You bet. It was academic from here on in wasn’t it?
Just as Ali signalled that he was going to complete a marvellous comeback, the internet streaming ended and the television signal in Thaddeus’s office was now acting the goat. Keegan, who had the carpet ripped up from underneath him metaphorically speaking, looked at Boyle, who was also stunned. He speedily told security to get the show back online as soon as possible, fearing a backlash and obviously embarrassed.
While Boyle called someone and demanded that they got the show back on the air, WAR leaned over and spoke to Special K: “In a few minutes, you’ll have lost your meal ticket.”
Inside the arena, everyone could see that Ali had, in fact, not connected with his spectacular finish because, at the last moment, John C. Willis had emerged from Parts Unknown and pulled the precocious talent’s leg, preventing him from taking off.
The referee told Willis to get down from the apron, which the beast did, but Ali was distracted. He still wanted to attack John, who was encouraging him to do so, confident that he would paste the Colombian with ease. By this time, RaVage was back up…
CROSSBODY!
ONE…
TWO…
RaVage rolled through and pulled the tights…
ONE…
TWO…
Both men had registered near-falls….
CRASH!
That was Ali succeeding with a spinning heel kick, which was followed up by another near-fall.
Ali got ahead of himself and sprinted toward the ropes, using them for leverage, except he used the opposing set…
Bad move.
John C. Willis was standing there and tripped him up.
It was merely a slight trip, but it was all it needed to stop the South American in his quest. He turned round and confronted Willis, whose disgusting, toothless smile was enough to goad Ali into wanting to confront him again. The referee, who hadn’t seen the trip because he was out of position, was trying to play peacemaker as Willis finally stood up on the apron and dwarfed Amore. Ali took two steps forward but the official reminded him there was a match to be won. After hearing that, he watched Willis stand back down, not taking his eyes off him for a slight second until he was convinced the Kokomo Colossus was no longer a threat.
Unfortunately, he had taken his eye off the ball instead…
V FOR VICTORY!
From somewhere down in South Dakota, Randy Viscel had hit the jackpot…
1…
2…
Or so he’d thought?
3!
YES!
HE HAD!
RaVage stared into space, possibly in disbelief as the camera zoomed in on him. While the diminutive dynamo had talked a good game in the lead-up to the battle, his expression betrayed his confidence, especially when the official presented him with the prize he knew from what seemed to be a previous lifetime – the world championship belt.
Backstage, nobody had a clue. Keegan and WAR were uncharacteristically silent until they, along with everyone behind the curtain, heard the ring announcer: “The winner of this match and NEW NBW WORLD CHAMPION… RAVAGE!”
Special K felt sick. He was stunned. WAR could only manage a smirk.
The nbW had a new man at the top…
But most fans were oblivious to it.
The Stream was already dead...
| Outcome: | RaVage by way of Pinfall. NEW Champion |
|---|
CREDITS
Remy Versus Advent - Dan
How it all began - Dan
Conclusion - Dan
Earlier in the day - Keith
a.m.p.ed up - Dan
Bella Italia - Keith
Voss, where art thou? - Spike/Dan
Alexandre Michelle Pierre Versus Elijah Buster - Dan
Are you good enough? - K
Saturday night at the movies - Keegan
From Italy, Part One - Keith
Andrew Martin versus Johannes Antonius de Castronovo - Spike
Your thoughts presented - Spike
The old fighting federation - Kieth
Caught in the headlights - Dan
Where in the world is Voss: II - Spike/Kori/Dan
Harley Grimm versus Matt Haddon - Dan
Put up a smile - Ryan
The Finishing touches - Kieth
The Sunset - Keegan
Lunatic versus Spike Saunders - Ryan
Pop goes the Corn - Keegan
Clue - Ernie
RaVage versus Ali Amore - Keegan
The Keystone Championship was defended as a part of the NA Championship in an interpromotional match at F.A.T.E?
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