C2W OUTCAST Dark Matches: INTERNET! d. Notso Bright/Blake Deveraux: Blake held his own in the ring against the massive Yiffstar and the smaller Fappity. He tagged in Notso, which allowed Fappity enough time to reach into his pants, which his eyes wide. Notso, someone who is very innocent in the ways of the world, stopped and stared, wondering exactly what the heck Fappity was doing. Then the lights go out, and when we come back on, Notso is cream-covered. While he doesn't seem to quite know what to make of it, Blake leans over into a nearby bucket and pukes. That distraction is enough for Fappity to take advantage. They trap Notso in the corner and work him over, finishing him with the Terrence Harris d. The Big Sauce Man: The losing streak continues for the leader of the Foreign Fanatics, as Terrence Harris dominated the match from bell to bell. BSM got some token offense in, but by and large, this match was all Harris, to a pretty good reaction. Harris used some Herculean-like strength to lift up BSM and hit him with the Final Destination (modified inverted powerbomb) for the pinfall win. Ninja Hare d. Mark Adkins: In contrast to the BSM, Hare continues to take some big-time wins home with him. Adkins did not come prepared for this match, and that ended up costing him, as he let Hare hang around all match, not finishing him off. In the end, Adkins attempted The Best Thing Since Sliced Bread (jumping cradle piledriver) but Ninja Hare backdropped out of it. He quickly went to the top rope, and hit the Silent Assassination for the pinfall win. [We see a black screen, and as we see the green C2W logo rush up to the screen, the sounds of a cut from Linkin Park's "Faint" is audible.] #NOW!
HEAR ME OUT NOW [The shape behind the letters rotates quickly, giving the impression that the logo is flying, hovering in front of the screen.] #RIGHT
NOW! HEAR ME OUT NOW [As the word "Not" is said, the logo fades into the background and stops spinning. Over the logo, in white lettering, we see the words: Pick His Poison: "The Shooter" #RIGHT NOW! [The music fades, and the logo and title melt away, leaving us with the cheering fans of the C2W. Their cheers die down a little, and now we're ready to begin.] Pennyweather: Hello, everyone, and welcome back to C2W's Flagship show, Outcast! Costello: Live and in livin' color from the Mustang Ranch! Act like you know, biotch! Pennyweather: Jesus, man, you're white, _shut up_. [Our first live image of the night comes in the form of a scaffold hanging above the ring here at the Ranch.] Pennyweather: I have no earthly idea what that device is doing above the ring, folks. Costello: Yo, dawg, someone’s got some ‘splainin’ to do! [And explain he will.] [Fear Factory’s “Edgecrusher,” and Brian Fisher steps through the curtain to a chorus of boos. Fisher is attired in an old school, black CeWF tee-shirt and faded blue jeans with holes in the knees and those slick, white Nike Shox. He drags a ladder behind him.] [Throughout his entire walk down the aisle, Fisher holds up the middle finger on his left hand, a gesture signifying his thoughts on tonight’s crowd. When he gets to the ring, we see that it’s surrounded on all sides by four nicely-sized boxes—all covered by a black sheet. He slides the ladder in underneath the bottom rope. He slides in himself, picks the ladder up, sets it up in the center of the ring underneath the scaffold. He demands a mic and is obliged. He holds up his middle finger again.] Fisher: This is what I think of you fuckin’ tools. [Massive boos.] Fisher: I’m gonna cut right to the chase. On February 27th, I step into this ring with The Wolverine Michael Lennox. [Cheers. Fisher scoffs.] Fisher: In that match, we’re both puttin’ up five hundred thousand dollars. The winner walks out with a cool half a mil of the other’s money. [Mild crowd reaction from the few in attendance that understand the value of $500,000.] Fisher: I’m a gambling man, which is why I’m puttin’ my money where my mouth is. Granted, I was fronted the cash by one Eric Dane… [The crowd boos the fuck out of that name.] Fisher: …but that’s neither here nor there. [Pause.] Fisher: When I gamble, I obviously don’t like to lose. But at the same time, I like a challenge. I play a lot of poker, and when I have something up my sleeve, I like to raise people who bet before me. [Pause.] Fisher: So far, you and I, Lennox, have gone back and forth in this Pick Your Poison series. Rowell, Diablo, Lockhart, etcetera. And if I’m not mistaken, it was your idea to put the money on the line. But Mike, what you don’t know is that I’m raising you yet again. [Fisher exits the ring and starts walking around it.] Fisher: What I’ve done, Lennox, is devise a match so brutal, so sadistic that Satan himself called me up and said, “Damn, Brian Fisher!” [Pause.] Fisher: The first thing, Mike, is that these ropes… [Pointing to them.] Fisher: …they’re not gonna be there. The second thing—these boxes. [Fisher stops next to one…] Fisher: All ten feet in width, ten feet in length and full of fun little toys. […removes the sheet.] Fisher: Bed of barbed wire. [Ooos and ahhs.] [A shot of the bed, literally littered with clumps and clumps of barbed wire.] [Fisher keeps walking, comes to a second box and removes the sheet.] Fisher: Bed of thumbtacks. [More ooos and ahhs.] [A shot of the bed, which is, again, littered with thousands and thousands of nails.] [Fisher makes his way to the third box and removes the sheet.] Fisher: Bed of light tubes. [Yeah, ooos and ahhs and a shot of the bed—fifteen or twenty light tubes in this one.] [Fisher makes his way to the fourth and final bed, but doesn’t remove the sheet just yet.] Fisher: This one—this is my favorite. [Fisher removes the sheet. Underneath is a cage, good sized, roughly four by four by two, with a small animal inside of it and a black bag with something visibly inside of it. Fisher picks up the cage and the bag and climbs into the ring with both. He sets the cage down on the canvas, keeps the bag in his hand.] Fisher: This… [Pointing to the cage.] Fisher: …this is one rabid baby wolverine. Caged, yes. Taken out of its natural environment. And when you do this, even the most rabid of wolverines can be killed. [Fisher looks at the bag in his hands.] Fisher: This thing hasn’t been fed for weeks. [Fisher opens up the cage from the top and dumps the contents of the bag into the cage. The contents? An eight foot long boa constrictor. The wolverine immediately starts to defend itself but the boa is too fast and too strong. It wraps itself quickly around the body of the animal. You can hear the yelps of the defenseless wolverine as the life is slowly squeezed out of its body. Fisher, the entire time, has a sick smile on his face and even chuckles to himself. A group of security guards and doctors, perhaps veterinarians, run down to the ring and quickly take the cage to the back.] Fisher: Lennox, take notice. The fourth and final bed surrounding the ring is a pit of snakes. [Oh yeah—massive ooos and ahhs.] Fisher (nodding): That’s right—that big fucker will have friends come February 27th. The best part about this match, though, is that I haven’t even gotten to the best part. [Fisher reaches into one of his back pockets and pulls out a stick of dynamite.] Fisher: As if there aren’t enough obstacles to overcome, as if there aren’t enough hurdles to jump, well—what’s one more, right? [Pause.] Fisher: So after thirty minutes, if you and I are still standing and the match isn’t over yet, a timer will go off. Now—during the match, we’ll be notified every so often of how much time is left on that timer, but when it hits quadruple zeros, get the fuck down. Make use of those fire and tornado drills we all did in high school. [Pause.] Fisher: Don’t get me wrong—we’re not gonna blow this place up, although it surely needs to be, but there’ll be just enough explosives around the ring to scare the kiddies and for you and I, providing we’re able, to have to take cover. [Fisher climbs the ladder he set up earlier and sits on the top of it.] Fisher: Actually, Mike, all you really have to do is climb up this ladder, get on this scaffold… [Pointing.] Fisher: …and grab a briefcase that will have one million dollars in cash inside of it. But getting there is half the battle. [Fisher climbs up onto the scaffold.] Fisher: One questions remains, Lennox. [Pause.] Fisher: Do you call my raise, or do you fold your hand? Because I’ll tell ya this much—I’m…not…bluffing. [Fisher smiles.] Fisher: Welcome, Michael Lennox, to my shining moment. In the vain of… [Fisher looks down at this shirt.] Fisher: In the vain of the see-dubbya-eff, this, my friends, is Brian Fisher’s House of Horrors. _SOON_ Webcast
Exclusive Greer - Chris, yo, we gotta talk. Light - Steve, good to see you up and about. What's up? Greer - It's time for you to give us the Brats. [Light drops his clipboard onto the folding press table he calls a desk and firmly plants his palms on either side of the packet.] Light - Steve, you know I can't do that, not until you're cleared by a physician. It's an insurance risk, it's a public safety risk and not to mention the fact that you and I go back, the same blood in our veins, and I'm not just going to put you out there and end your career because you guys have a grudge. Greer - A grudge? The only reason I'm not cleared to wrestle is because of those fuckers! My leg is wrecked and you're telling em you're not going to let me get some back?! Light - Unfortunately, I can't help you. At least not until you're cleared by a physician. Greer - That's what I thought... [And almost as if it were cued, a man wearing green surgical scrubs, a white apron, surgical mask, cap and mirrored sunglasses enters the room with a file tucked under his arm. Greer pulls the file out and drops it open onto Light's desk.] Greer - Here you go, I am cleared by a physician to wrestle. Light - You're kidding me. Steve, I know better than this... DR. CRIME?? [The good doctor cocks his head towards Greer. The KoP nods and points down at the papers.] Greer - No, no, see, it's not pronounced "Crime", like a bad thing. It's "Cree-may"... it's French. Say it with me.. "Cree-may". [Greer continues repeating the word.] Light - Steve, Steve, enough. You are not going to get me to approve a medical clearance from Dr. Crime! Seriously, he's holding a scalpel right now! [The doc turns his head away and motions towards the door with the scalpel.] Greer - Yeah, um, he's an emergency physician... you never know when you'll need to perform surgery. Light - Like on your opponents, perhaps? Greer - No, no, you got it all wrong. Are you a doctor, Chris? Light - Of course not. Greer - Well he is, and if you'd take the time to read through that file, you'd see that he is licensed in the State of Nevada and is approved by the Nevada State Athletic Commission. Light - Look, just give me a few days to make some calls. Not that I don't trust you, just that I know you. Now, go relax, you'd think time off was a bad thing. Greer - Alright. Just one more thing though. I've got an ask. Light - What's up? Greer - I've got someone I want to bring in, hoping we could work something out. Light - Sure, what's his name? Greer - He's a new kid. Jo.... [Oh c'mon, you know we're going to fade this out. Webcast buffering. Buffering. Buffering.] John Henry vs. Dan Pollaski In a match that looked like quite a bit of fun for the large newcomer, John Henry practically had his way with the Pollaskinator for a solid ten minutes before getting a running start and plastering him with the Double Axe-Handle Smash that he calls The Sledgehammer. _SOON_ Webcast
Exclusive Fred: Hey. [One half of the Billionaire Brats stands clad in his dark green suit.] Kelly: Hey. [The femme fatal of Team Danger stands directly in front of a soda machine.] Fred: I bought you these. [Fred reaches out and gives Kelly a bouquet of roses.] Kelly: Uhm. Thanks, but what is the baseball bat for? [Fred looks down to his other hand.] Fred: Well me and Will are looking for revenge. Kelly: Are you just trying to get me to tell you where they are? Fred: While I know your friends are like storm troopers or some such. I'm not really sure cause I kinda lost my train of thought when Will went on about it, but I do know they don't treat you like the lady you are. Now I'm not going to put you in between me and your friends, but over there is a closet. Kelly: Sounds good. ["Release the Dogs" by BoySetsFire hits and the curtains part. Tyrone Walker jumps out into the arena to a huge ovation, holding his half of the C2W Tag Team Titles in the air with one hand and slapping the hands of fans on the aisle with the other. Dressed in gray dress pants and a black polo shirt, his hair tamed into cornrolls, Walker stops and waits for his crippled partner to follow. Stephen Greer, also wearing gray dress pants and a black polo shirt, enters the arena on crutches, his title belt securely fastened around his waist. Greer is being assisted down the aisle by a young man dressed in all black, a hooded Team Danger track jacket hiding his face. Conspicuous by her absence is Kelly Evans.] "TEE DEE! TEE DEE! TEE DEE!" [The small crowd roars on as Walker enters the ring and acquires the microphone from the timekeeper's table. With the help of Greer's assistant, Walker holds the ropes open for the KoP to enter. Smiling, Walker bows his head down and presents the mic to Greer, who can't help but laugh as Walker lets out a joking "Massah!" Greer motions for the crowd to quiet and slowly, they finally heed his call.] Greer - It is no surprise at all that Devon Slayton and Ricky Nova try to gloss over the truth and hide their horrible failures. It is no surprise at all that Will Sates and Fred Kurner try to gloss over the truth and hide their horrible failures. It is no surprise at all that Team Danger are YOUR Carson City Wrestling Tag Team Champions! [Pop. Face time for TD. Pop.] Greer - The Natural Born Sinners couldn't get the job done. Best of Seven? Provided six more opportunities to humiliate you and expose your glaring inferiority. It was a shame too, that the seventh match was marred with controversy and ended in a no contest, for it allowed us to humiliate you one more time. Sinners, these belts are OURS. They, as much as Carson City Wrestling itself, belong to Team Danger. [Pop. Chant. Pop.] Greer - The Billionaire Brats. I was wondering when you two would crawl out from under that giant rock of disappointment. It's been what, five years since Florida? You boys picked the wrong time to come back. This isn't the Misfits, the Regulators or even the faggot Nighthawks, this right here is the new shit. This is Team Danger and, as these people love to let you know, we're going to kill you. ["Ooh-ah, Team Danger's gonna kill you! Ooh-ah, Team Danger's gonna kill you!"] Greer - Mike Bell. Mikey, it's been quite a while for us too, hasn't it? I know you're not here tonight, but there's a little business to attend to. I thought you were one of the good guys, Mike? You're offering to side with the Brats against us? I'm confused. You hate us enough to plunge into that dark side once again? I know you're still upset about what we did with Sherry, but trust me man, she had a great time and hell, it was four years ago, let it go already. But if you want to hang on to those old grudges, you go right ahead. Just bring that belt with you and we'll be happy to relieve you of it. [Greer hands the mic off to Walker and moves backward, leaning into one of the corners. Walker takes the mic in hand and begins to pace, stopping, looking over his digs, the nice and neat look kind of weirding him out.] Walker - This preppy shit don't work for me... [He rips off the black polo, the handful of females in the crowd ooh and aah for the Black Jesus as he tosses it out to the crowd, a mob of fans begin fighting over it. Underneath the shirt however is something of complete RIDICULOUSNESS... A plain white tee shirt with a comical picture of Dragon Jones' face with the words "DRAGON JONES IS PRO WRESTLING!" encircled around the imagery of the one known as "Deej."] Walker - Aah, much better... $19.95 on Team Danger Online dot com, get 'em while they're hot! And it's for a good, god damned cause people, the Help Dragon Jones Learn How to Read fund...help a nigga out, would ya please? [He turns directly to the camera and gives the obligatory thumbs up and wink, the KoP laughing at this idiocy. Walker proceeds with the regularly scheduled business at hand.] Walker - So yeah, where was I again? Oh, yeah, the Brats. My boy over here pretty much covered it and I hit that nail on the head last week, kiddies. Is fucking Kelly supposed to be some way of getting a one up on us? [Ty's face shows the skepticism.] Walker - Maybe if she was Mother Theresa or something, but Kelly? That's like proclaiming you just took a shit...who hasn't done that before either? And to think, the violence hasn't even begun to get out of hand. You boys have done a good job of at least making us care about you enough to warrant coming out here and spitting some words out about you. Well done, well done, but there are bigger things than you and they call themselves... [Trailing.] Walker - Tower and Future, the Boys... What is this mess about these guys calling themselves the 'Best Tag Team Ever'? Seriously all, am I the only one hearing this jibber jabber? Anybody...anybody? [Silence. Ty shrugs.] Walker - Must be, maybe it's the mountain air that's fuckin' with your heads, I dunno. What I do know though, is that Team Danger is circling you two Tee Dee wannabe jokers like a couple of vultures, waiting until we can swoop down and snatch those pretty gold belts from your dying carcasses. [He snorts, maybe a twitch.] Walker - This is your official notice, it's time to pack your shit and get the hell outta our office. Y'all got two weeks left with our property, and the clock is ticking as of right now. So you both better get all the mileage that you can out of them. 'Cause once the 12th comes and goes, the Boys won't be defending anymore, they'll be just another pair of hardluck suckers that ran into the Tee Dee Machine! [Walker drops the mic and Team Danger exit to a huge ovation from the small crowd.] Eric Dane vs. Phoenix "THE FOLLOWING MATCH IS SCHEDULED FOR ONEFALL…" As the rapidly-plucked guitarline by the lead guitar-player of Thousand-foot Krutch echoed through the arena, cheers began to erupt for the man about to come to the ring and face down the former WWA champ, former… well, listing his accomplishments would take all day and tire out any writer's fingers. But the man poised to try and steal the throne out from under this decorated figure was the man currently stepping out from the back. Accompanied by the buxom black-haired blushing bride Amaris, the man currently walking out onto the steel ring entryway ramp was known simply as Phoenix, the mythical firebird who would die, and then rise again from its own ashes. The man stepped out onto the steel stage, slowly looking through the arena's grandstands, and lifted his arms towards the sky. "COMING OUT FIRST, STANDING AT SIX FOOT, FOUR INCHES, WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED SEVENTEEN POUNDS, HE IS THE FORMER C2W/AWA INTERPROMOTIONAL CHAMPION, A FORMER CATACLYSMIC CHAMPION, AND THE 2005 RULER OF THE RING, HE… IS… PHOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEENIIIIIIIIIX!" The man launched forward from the steel stage, pumping his arms to his sides as he jogged down the ramp. Phoenix slowed at the ringside area, eyes wide, as his lovely wide, Amaris, pointed both hands towards him. He leapt up onto the apron, and ROLLED over the top rope, spinning as he did so, to land in the ring, on both feet, amidst the riotous cheers of his fans. He threw both arms up, Thousand Foot Krutch's "Move" blasting through the house speakers… but all was not well in Carson City. Pennyweather: Phoenix looks ready for tonight, my friend, but against a man like Eric Dane, you have to be ready for the fight of your life… Costello: He may think he's ready, yo, but my man Eric's the most hardcore man on the planet! He screams untapped potential, and he's already a 6 time WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMP. He's won the biggest title on the planet more times than you've gotten laid, dude! And he's probably done that more, too! Pennyweather: Shut up before I shut you up. Thrash Metalcore blasted through the house speakers, flattening the musical might of Thousand Foot Krutch, and blasting every last echo of that theme song from the arena. The champ, or the former champ, was here. The boos chorused down, the hatred for this man, who had been on a virtual rampage of destruction to those in his path, palpable. These fans didn't like he who had fucked his way to getting everything he could possibly need in life much. The curtains were thrown wide for "The Only Star", who slowly stepped out from the back, already treating these fans with the respect they deserved. Double kickstands, the double deuce, flipping a pair of birds, telling fans "Fuck You" twice over… Dane had both arms outstretched, his fingers (Note: These fingers would be the middle fingers, not the pinky, ring, index, or thumb. Middle finger.) standing skywards, his arms pointing to both sides of him. He smirked, chewing on a piece of gum as he stepped out onto the stage. Dane lifted an eyebrow as he looked down to Phoenix, who was pacing back and forth in the ring, staring up at the entryway ramp as he did so. Dane smirked, and brought both of his arms forward, aiming them at the man standing in the middle of the ring, and began the long walk down to the ring. "NOW COMING TO THE RING… WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED AND FOURTY POUNDS… STANDING AT SIX FEET, FOUR INCHES… HE IS THE FORMER FOUR-TIME WORLD WRESTLING ALLIANCE CHAMPION, FORMER TWO-TIME NATIONAL WRESTLING ALLIANCE CHAMPION, THE WINNER OF MORE INDIVIDUAL TITLES THAN ONE CAN COUNT, AND A TWO-TIME WINNER OF THE WWA SUMMER GAMES… HE IS THE ONLY STAR… ERIIIIIIIIIIIIIC… DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANE!" Before he could get there, however, Phoenix launched himself from the ring, tucking his arms to his stomach, legs together, his body pivoting and rotating in the most acrobatic of ways, spinning downwards to collide with the Only Star as only someone with wings (internal or external) could. The Sky Twister Press took Dane down before he even got into the ring. The ref signaled for the starting bell frantically. DING DING DING And they were starting. Phoenix forced himself to his feet as Eric tried to make his eyes uncross. He hadn't counted on Phoenix taking the fight to him so quickly. Phoenix grabbed the apron, pulling the elastic roughly as he forced himself to his feet, and glared down at Eric. The high-flying wrestler stepped forward, and began to hammer boots into Eric's back, trying to keep the Only Star down, so he could pluck this match from the tantalizing branch of the tree of promise. Unfortunately, Phoenix made the fatal mistake of rolling Eric into the ring. He smiled, and glanced to his wife, who pointed into the ring with a stony look on her face. Phoenix rolled in after Dane, but it was too late. Dane's arm, coming to life with the blitzkrieg quickness of a cobra, lashed out, fangs extended, and plunged those toothy weapons deep into Phoenix's soft, yielding flesh. In other words, the vintage eye-poke, stabbing the quick wrestler in the eyes before he even knew what hit him. The ref didn't notice it, as he was busy telling Amaris not to come into the ring. When he turned, Eric was forcing himself to his feet, and Phoenix was down like a clown in Chinatown. Dane quickly took the advantage, launching Phoenix across the ring in a strong Irish Whip. Upon the return of the quicker man, Dane ducked behind Phoenix's arm, one arm snaking between Phoenix's legs to grab his thigh, the other slipping in front of Phoenix's face, and catching on his shoulder. Dane popped the back, and lifted Phoenix skyward, then tossed him over, the smaller man being thrown about like a ragdoll by a reverse T-bone suplex. Dane, firmly in control, came to his feet, and with a slow look to Amaris, blew an extravagant kiss to the lovely Egyptian. He bent down, grabbing Phoenix by the ears, and pulling him to his knees. Dane then leapt forward, a la Guile, from Street Fighter 2, in the move that so many buttonmashers knew and loved, the Knee Bazooka. The knee cracked squarely into Phoenix's forehead, dropping him to the mat like a sack of potatoes. Dane came over, kneeling next to Phoenix's face, and began to hammer weak, quick punches into Phoenix's face and jaw, more just for looks than anything. It was a series of punches meant to humiliate, not to do damage. Dane smirked, and stood, slowly turning a circle in the center of the ring, arms extended to both sides, hands beckoning inward. Phoenix, not one to stay down once he actually had the chance due to showboating, grabbed the ring ropes, pulling himself upwards. Phoenix gritted his teeth, and dug deep. He needed to come up with some way to stop Dane's momentum, or else he'd never be able to pull out a win. He came to his feet, grabbing the top rope as he did so. Dane finally turned back to his foe, and an eyebrow lifted, seeing Phoenix standing. Dane charged, his elbow already moving towards strike position. If you listened, you could vaguely hear the scream of "LOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLIIIIIIIIING EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELBOOOOOOW" all the way from Japan. Unfortunately for Dane, Phoenix had the presence of mind to duck, Dane being caught at the waist by a pair of outstretching arms. Phoenix straightened, throwing Dane up and over his body, sending Dane tumbling over the top rope. Unfortunately for Phoenix, Dane landed on his feet on the apron. Unfortunately for Dane, Phoenix figured he would. Phoenix turned, going low, ramming a shoulder into Dane's stomach, doubling the Only Star over before he had the chance to attack back. The air wheezed from Dane's stomach like a fat man on a hot day, as Phoenix backed up. Pennyweather: Phoenix may have Dane's momentum reversed, here! Costello: I think Dane came into this thinking Phoenix was a chump, yo! He's paying for it now! Phoenix rushed forward, leaping over the top rope, his thighs cinching around Dane's neck. Phoenix then threw all of his bodyweight into a forward flip, pulling Dane off his feet, and throwing him clear off of the apron, actually to the floor, and INTO the steel guardrail! Dane never knew what hit him, as he collapsed numbly to the protective mats, Phoenix already pressing his cheek into the cool canvas. Pennyweather: JESUS CHRIST, DANE AND PHOENIX JUST WENT FLYING IN A HEAP OFF OF THE APRON! Costello: DAMN, MAN! DANE COULD HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT, AND PHOENIX COULDA BROKEN HIS BACK! Dane wasn't knocked out, and Phoenix's back was fine. The two men were sore, but they were alive still. And hell, Phoenix was forcing himself up to his feet. He groaned, as he came to all fours, the ref coming over to begin his characteristic fast 10-count. By the time he reached 5, the human race MAY very well have destroyed itself with atomic weapons. Phoenix grabbed the apron's skirt again, pulling himself slowly up, Dane lying in a heap against the steel guardrail. Phoenix kept climbing, forcing himself up, and onto the apron, then slowly crawling into the ring. He rolled back out, to sit up on the apron, head still spinning a bit. He needed to press his attack, though, or he'd never be able to win this. So, Phoenix turned around, coming to his knees, and kept climbing, until he was on his feet, facing away from Dane. Phoenix glanced behind him, and leapt up onto the bottom rope… then springboarded off, onto the middle rope… then springboarded up, to stand completely unassisted on the top rope, and Phoenix LEAPT off, an absolutely insane Asai Moonsault, that would have been picture-perfect, if not for the sad, sad fact that Dane moved. Phoenix landed on the hard, unyielding floor, and Dane had rolled against the wonderful ring apron. He smiled, and came to his feet, sticking his tongue out at Phoenix. "Graceful move, hotshot. Too bad you missed…" Dane smirked, and walked to the fallen man, grabbing him by a fistful of hair. Dane muscled Phoenix to his feet, and virtually threw the man into the ring, following like a bat out of hell. The following is really quite graphic, and dangerous, as it involves a list of about ten different suplexes, all of which hurt. A lot. An original-flavor suplex, a release German, a Fisherman's Buster, a Cobra Clutch suplex, an Aztec suplex, and quite a few others. By the end of it, Phoenix was virtually out on his feet, not that bouncing your skull off of concrete was truly conducive to a healthy state of mind. Dane helped Phoenix up, and walked Phoenix to the corner like a good buddy helping his drunken friend to a cab, and Dane sat Phoenix down in the corner like any good drunkard should sit. Dane backed up, and plastered Phoenix in the face with as much bootleather as one man can eat in a lifetime, his leg actually going through the ring ropes, hanging over the apron. Phoenix was pretty much out on his feet, at this point. There was little to no opposition to Dane setting Phoenix up, nor was there any when Phoenix's vertebrae were smashed by the Stardriver. Phoenix should have checked to make sure Dane was truly out before going for something as time consuming as a triple jump Asai Moonsault. As Phoenix lay groggily on the ground, Dane put one foot on top of Phoenix for the pin. The ref slid in, slapping the canvas mat with his hand. ONE! TWO! TH- And Dane took his foot away. With a biiiiiig shit-eating grin, Dane went to his knees, holding his hands skyward… and brought one finger down, pressing it to Phoenix's sternum. The ref moved in for the pin again. ONE! TWO! TH- And Dane pulled the finger away again. The boos were echoing through the halls like popcorn at the screen during Gigli. Dane reached down, grabbing Phoenix's hand, and lifting the limp arm upwards. He hooked the arm, and rolled Phoenix through, upending Phoenix onto his shoulders, for a La Majistral pin. The ref slid in a third time. ONE! TWO! TH- And Dane would have none of it, breaking the pin and clapping his hands to his cheeks, gasping. "I CAN'T BELIEVE HE KICKED OUT! THIS MAN WON'T STAY PINNED, REF!" The ref wasn't buying it. As he began to lecture Dane on not being a douche and pinning a beaten man, Dane grabbed Phoenix by the legs, lifting them skyward. He began to interlace and lock Phoenix's legs in a veeeerry familiar pattern, the fans booing as soon as they recognized it. Dane turned Phoenix, and had The Natural Lock locked in tight as spandex, sweet as sin, and as hard as a rock. There was no way Phoenix was getting out, and no way Dane was letting go. Phoenix retained just enough state of mind to tap his hand weakly on the mat three times before the ref's wondering eyes. DING DING DING _SOON_ After the match Dane wouldn't release the Natural Lock. He held it on for long enough for security to hit the ring, longer even, as just as security got there so did the rest of Team Danger. Team Danger cleared the ring and allowed the message to be sent. Webcast
Exclusive Voice: Hey Greer! [Crack!] [Suddenly Will Sates smashes a baseball bat into the injured knee of Greer. Greer crumples to the ground.] Sates: Fuck with the Hand bitch and you get slapped. [Sates kicks the down Greer and hurries off. Greer starts to pull himself up as Kelly and Will come out of the closet.] Kelly: Oh shit, Steve! [Fred looks around as he grabs the baseball bat.] Fred: Stay back. [He pushes ahead of Kelly and smacks Greer in the wrong knee.] Fred: Wait... sorry. [Crack. This time he hits the right one.] Kelly: FRED! Fred: What? [Looks down at Greer.] Fred: Oh. [Fred starts to back away.] Fred: See you next week. [Fred runs away as Kelly goes to help Greer.] The Billionaire Brats vs. The Natural Born Sinners Team Danger came out mid-match, interrupting things as usual. Greer, Walker and Kelly Evans all took seats at ringside. Later on, as things got heated Kelly Evans had gotten up and seemed miss her cue, tripping Devon Slayton and allowing Fred Kurner to score a pinfall win. Xtreme Limits vs. .eyedentity. _NOW!_ In a quick, fast paced match, XL took it to .eyedentity. quickly. However, .eyedentity. being a very smart grappler turned the tables, and won the match after multiple knee-strikes to the head. Webcast
Exclusive Bell: Well, well... [Pause] Bell: I thought I saw a Travis Cage lackey in the house. [He is still calling Eric Dane by the name of Travis Cage, the lackey of course is eyedentity.] Bell: How does it feel to be a history whore eyedentity? [A smile] Bell: Nothing more, nothing less. In a matter of moments, you were taken from the greatest moment of your life, all the way back to 1999. There were those who had the highest of hopes for you, only to see it washed away by the not so great Travis Cage. [Eric Dane is going to grow tired of this. But, that is what Bell is counting on] Bell: How did it feel to be pimped out eyedentity? [The world champion shakes his head] Bell: Yes sir, pimped out like an ugly ass three dollar whore. Just like those that Dane...err, Cage was used to in New Orleans. But that's alright eyedentity, you decided that you wanted to throw yourself into my match, well as soon as business is taken care of here on the Mountain, we'll make things right again... [Pause] Bell: That I promise [He then switches gears] Bell: So Travis Cage is meeting Phoenix later on tonight? It's too bad that I'm not going to be there to watch the match first hand. You see, I have a world title to defend on the Mountain... [antagonist] Bell: You remember that championship don't you Cage? Or has it been too long since you were able to call yourself a world champion? No bother though, I'm sure that you'll have Team Danger close by, so if Phoenix gets the upper hand, you'll have 50 members come out to save you. That is the difference between you and me... [Pause] Bell: You need Team Danger in order to survive. I need Team Danger to prove that you aren't shit. But of course, I've already proven that at Global haven't I? [That draws a reaction from the fans. Too bad the world champion can't hear them.] Bell: The next time you want to prove a point Cage, why don't you catch me in the ring... [He smiles and holds up his index finger] Bell: Oh wait, I'm sorry, you tried that already. That's the reason why I'm the world champion now. But I will say this much... [A different look comes over his face. He is now totally serious] Bell: You may have fired the next shot, but this is far from over. All anyone has to do is just tell me that they've got a problem with Team Danger, and the world champion will be there. Michael Lennox, Diablo, Billionaire Brats... [The smile comes back] Bell: Oh yes Travis Cage, the world champion will be there. [Pause] Bell: Count on it. [Shift back to the announcers] Webcast
Exclusive "Lockhart." [Lennox just looks to a card in his hand. The insignia of the Olympics upon it.] "I know who you are and I know where you are from. Your pedigree is without question in my eyes." [Lennox holds the card aloft before making it disappear in front of his very eyes.] "You may be wondering what my intentions are towards you? Am I looking for vengeance upon you?" "Yes." "Am I looking to destroy you because you jumped me from behind?" "You have no idea." "Do I want to inflict some pain towards Fisher through you?" "Very, very tempting." "I'm here to beat you, Lockhart in the middle of the ring. Whether or not, you are ready for me, I can not answer." [Lennox looks to the edge and the people milling about.] "What I can tell you is this. What are you going to do when the Legend Killer gets left broken by the Dark Angel?" "Nothing..." C2W
Heavyweight Title "THE FOLLOWING MATCH IS A TRIPLE THREAT MATCH, AND IT IS SCHEDULED FOR ONE FALL!" The house speakers began to pound, a heavy, HEAVY bassline slamming through them. Scratchy audio began to issue forth, behind the bassline of the oldschool gangsta rap. The house lights dimmed, a misty white light shining onto the ring entrance. The cheers were rather loud for this man, The Blockbuster, the first of two challengers. "THIS MATCH IS FOR THE CARSON CITY WRESTLING HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPEEEEEEEEEEEYUNSHIP! COMING FIRST TO THE RING…" "Ghost" pounded heavy over the speakers, as silhouetted in the entryway ramp, looking every bit the spirit come back after the grave to haunt the living, stood CJ Rowell. Hands on his hips, he slowly looked around the arena, before he threw his arms upward, eyes widening. "WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED FOURTY POUNDS, STANDING SIX FEET, FOUR INCHES…" Rowell began to walk down the ramp, cracking out the sore spots in his neck, working his arms in slow circles. He dove under the bottom rope, and came to his feet, walking to the ropes, and bounding up them to stand atop the second rope, one hand grasping the top, the other thrusting skyward. He extended a thumb, jabbing it fiercely towards himself. "HE IS THE FORMER WWA WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION, A HALL OF FAMER, AND ONE OF THE MOST DECORATED WRESTLERS IN THE BUSINESS… SEEEEEEEEE JAAAAAAAAAY ROOOOOOOOWEEEEEEEEELL!" CJ hopped backwards, landing on the mat. He slapped himself on the cheeks, wobbling his head back and forth, before snapping his intense stare up the entryway ramp, glaring a hole in the gorilla position curtains. Ba-da-da! Ba-da-da-bum-bum-budabudabum! Courtesy of Zakk Wylde, the heart and soul of the Black Label Society, the arena began to shake with sonic volleys of power, "Mass Murder Machine" squealing through the speakers in the laid-back yet full-of-power way that only BLS could. "WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED, NINETY-EIGHT POUNDS… STANDING SIX FOOT, EIGHT INCHES…" The Hollowman slunk out from the back, his hands dangling at his side. As the house lights focused on him on the ramp, and the boos chorused down, London Freemantle straightened up, eyes slowly sliding over the arena. He lifted an eyebrow, and smirked, stroking a lock of hair back over his head, letting it fall limply to the back of his neck. Freemantle began to stalk down towards the ring, his eyes fixated upon the smaller man. Rowell took a step back, crouching down a bit as he focused his gaze on the Hollowman. "HE IS LONDON…. FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEMAAAAAAAAAAAANTLE!" Freemantle stepped up onto the steel ring steps, then right onto the apron. Hands curled around the top rope, as CJ Rowell stared a hole in Freemantle's forehead. Freemantle quirked an eyebrow as he was glared at, and so Freemantle decided to step things up. So, over the top rope Freemantle went, striding confidently right up to Rowell, getting in his face. Or getting his chin in Rowell's face. Either way. Ticka-ticka. Ticka-ticka. Ticka-ticka. The electric guitar slowly screamed in, before the power, the raw meat of the song, began in earnest. Lemmy, also known as Lord and Master, The Dark One, or God, depending upon who you asked, began to growl out the lyrics to the esteemed "Line in the Sand", the custom song, built like a West Coast Chopper, for the man about to come to the ring, cheers blasting from the stands, as the Heavyweight champion of the whole damn C2W began to stride out from the back. "STANDING AT SIX FOOT, TWO INCHES… WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED, FIFTY POUNDS…" "AH SEE THA LAHN… IN THA SAND…" The Heavyweight champ unbuckled that gleaming gold belt from his waist, and thrust it upwards, eyes widening as he did so. Flashbulbs exploded, the cameras in the arena going crazy for the man known throughout the entire country, as one of the top dogs in the Alliance. "HE IS THE CARSON CITY WRESTLING HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION… HE IS THE PUNISHER… MAAAAAAAATT… HUUUUUUUUUUUNTEEEEEEER!" Hunter threw the title up high, as he began the long walk down towards the ring. Curiously, neither Freemantle nor Rowell were looking at Hunter. They were focused on each other. As Hunter tossed the belt onto his shoulder, and went up the steel ring steps, the two slowly backed up, mostly due to the referee stepping between them to keep the two apart for the moment. Freemantle stepped back, backing into the ring corner, hands resting on each top rope, fingers wrapping around. Hunter climbed into the ring under the top rope, and went to the closest turnbuckle, throwing the hand grasping the leather strap of the belt skyward. He grinned widely, as the cameras flashed and popped, taking pictures of the Heavyweight champ. With a man like Freemantle AND a man like CJ Rowell in the ring, your chances of walking out of here a federation champion were reduced by a great deal. The fans made sure to take pictures of Matt. He could walk out of here with nothing, without even being pinned. The champ hopped down from the ropes, and handed the belt to the ref. The ref threw that strap up, holding it outstretched between both hands. The bell rang thrice, like a funeral bell. And with that, this struggle was underway. Freemantle showed no signs of wanting to get into things immediately, so Rowell and Hunter stepped forward, locking up. With only 10 pounds and 1 inch of difference between the two, they were quite evenly matched, the two trying various tactics. Going to a knee, trying to lunge forward and press a man into the corner, turning, but the lockup held firm. Being a Titleholder, Hunter knew he had to break this stalemate. So, a boot came up, into Rowell's belly, and Hunter ducked forward, wrapping his arms around Rowell's waist. He lifted Rowell up, and flapjacked him down with a face-first flapjack slam on the challenger. Hunter immediately came to his feet, and slammed a boot into the small of Rowell's back, grabbing Rowell by the face, and cranking backwards, with a modified camel clutch… thingy. As Hunter went for these highly technical termed moves, Freemantle scratched his chin, watching Hunter work. Once he tried for the submission/weakening move, Freemantle moved in. He dropped Hunter with a Yakuza Kick to the face, sending the champ down like a sack of potatoes, picked Rowell up, and tossed him RIGHT over the top rope. Freemantle then turned his attention to the lone man in the ring. Hunter was picked up, and irish whipped to the ropes. As Hunter moved, he tried to shake the dust bunnies and cobwebs from his mind. The champ regained his senses just in time to see the biggest man currently around slashing an arm at him like a scythe, and Hunter was the grain about to be reaped. Hunter threw himself flat on the ground, and Freemantle stumbled forward, Hunter forcing himself back to his feet. Freemantle turned, Hunter leaping forward, his OWN arm cutting through the air like a katana whipped at an opponent's face, and Freemantle was knocked for a loop, Hunter nearly decapitating him with the Burning Lariat! Rowell, however, was not to be counted out. Hunter grabbed Freemantle by the hair, and knelt, pounding fists into his forehead. Rowell snuck up from behind, hooked his arms around Hunter's waist, and lifted Hunter bodily up. Tailbone impacted knee, Rowell slamming the champ with the Atomic Drop, and as Hunter tried to stagger away to soothe his hurting ass, Rowell bodily lifted Hunter up, nearly throwing the smaller man over him with a German Suplex that shook the ring. Rowell arched his back, bridging for the pin, as the ref dove in. ONE! TWO! TH- And Freemantle slammed a boot into Rowell's stomach, breaking the pin. Freemantle reached down, slapping his hands around Rowell's neck, and yanking the smaller man to his feet. Still holding CJ by the next, Freemantle lunged his head forward, slamming it into Rowell's face. He snapped his head into Rowell's face another time, and a third! Rowell, dizzy, could barely stand straight, and Freemantle picked Rowell up, hoisting him into a shoulder. Turning, Freemantle began to walk, and picked up speed, until he was running! Rowell was SLAMMED spine-first into the turnbuckles, all the air whooshing from Rowell's body in one huge breath. Rowell slumped in the corner, and Freemantle grabbed his head, bending Rowell double and stuffing his head between Freemantle's legs. Freemantle bent down, and lifted Rowell up with a flip, dropping Rowell more or less shoulders-first onto the turnbuckle with a vicious powerbomb! Hunter began to pull himself together, as Freemantle turned, and as the champ came to his knees, Freemantle rushed over, a vicious boot spiking into Hunter's temple, actually sending Hunter rolling almost entirely out of the ring, onto the apron. Freemantle went over the top, to the floor, and as Hunter tried to get his bearings, he rolled onto his back. Freemantle rushed hunter, slamming an elbow into his sternum, staggering the champ. The Hollowman grabbed Hunter by the arms, and more or less toss-dragged the champion out of the ring. Rowell was lucky. He got a breather. Hunter's head was bounced off of the steel ring steps, was thrown shoulder-first into the guardrail, and then, Freemantle picked Hunter up, and threw him headfirst into the steel ring pole. Then Freemantle turned. He looked into the ring, and grinned toothily. Hunter was tossed to the floor, and Freemantle went back into the ring. It was now effectively one-on-one. Rowell forced himself up as Freemantle came over, Freemantle grabbing a handful of Rowell's hair. Rowell grabbed a handful of Freemantle's shirt, and forced himself to his feet, then shot upwards, an elbow cracking into Freemantle's jaw. Then again. And again! Freemantle staggered back, and Rowell dashed forward, leaping upward to secure his arms around the Hollowman's neck, bringing Freemantle down neck-first onto Rowell's shoulder. With a head of steam, Rowell forced himself back to his feet, and grabbed a handful of Freemantle's shirt. The Hollowman was pulled to a sitting position, and Rowell hauled off and soccer-kicked the big man in the back, Freemantle's head snapping back, as he growled in pain. This did not sit well with the Hollowman. Using sheer brute force, Freemantle forced himself to his feet, Rowell raining down fists and knees all the way. Before Freemantle was fully in control of his body once more, Rowell grabbed him by the arm, and irish whipped Freemantle across the ring. Rowell turned, dashing to the ropes, and jumping onto the bottom. As Freemantle returned, Rowell launched off of the rope, elbow extended, hoping for the best. The best wasn't good enough. Freemantle caught Rowell as he flew, securing an arm around Rowell's neck, a hand grabbing Rowell by the tights. Freemantle lifted Rowell skywards, nearly inverted suplexing Rowell, but Freemantle dropped to his back, spiking Rowell headfirst into the mat with a big inverted DDT. The leg was hooked, and the ref slid in. ONE! TWO! TH- NO! Rowell managed to kick out at the very last possible second. Freemantle sat up, lip curling in a snarl. He slit a thumb quickly across his throat, and bent down, grabbing Rowell by the hair. Rowell was pulled to his feet, and Freemantle slammed a boot viciously into Rowell's stomach. Freemantle scooped Rowell up, and shouldered the smaller man, grasping first the left arm, and then the right. The Fear Effect would end the match here and now, if not for Rowell knowing it was coming. Legs flailed, as did arms, Rowell trying to fight through the barbaric finisher, and he somehow managed to break free and slide down Freemantle's back. Rowell landed in a squat, and as Freemantle turned, Rowell turned as well, lunging forward, to cinch his arms around Freemantle's waist. Up… and down. Freemantle was spiked into the mat with a spinebuster that shook the ring, the ringside area, the front row seats, and the echo was heard all the way back in the cheap seats. This was Rowell's only chance. He turned, going to the nearest turnbuckle, and climbing skyward. As Freemantle groaned, a hand pressing to his back, slightly on his side, Rowell was coming to the top rope. Perched there like a hawk, within moments, Rowell would fly. Unfortunately, nobody had taken the Champ into account. Hunter came out of nowhere, throwing his whole body into the ropes. This shook them just enough for the belts to worm out from under Rowell's feet. With a loud thud, Rowell slammed crotchfirst into the top turnbuckle, his eyes squeezing shut in pain. Hunter climbed onto the second rope, hooking Rowell's head, and the arm. Hunter grunted, and Rowell was lifted skyward. The two then suddenly pivoted, Rowell's plane being shifted with the kind of speed one can only attribute to a Jackhammer, in this case the End Result. Hunter bounced upon impact, coming to his feet, only intended for a moment. He was already going for a pin, when Freemantle, the Hollowman, appeared behind Hunter. The Champ's forehead was spiked into the top turnbuckle, the force enough to shift the ring slightly in the same direction as the momentum of the hit. Hunter was actually busted open slightly, as those protective turnbuckle pads don't do much when a huge man like London Freemantle hit you into one of them. It's a good thing he was mostly out, as Freemantle tucked the head, lifted the body, and hooked the arms. Hunter hit in the center of the ring like a meteor screaming from the murky skies above, hitting with a force that could rival the K-T Extinction Event. And for the species of animal known as Matt Hunter's Heavyweight Title Reign, this WAS an Extinction Level Event. The ref dove in. ONE! TWO! THREE! The arena came alive with boos, as the announcers went absolutely wild. Out of nowhere, there was a… well, the announcer tells it best. "THE WIIIIIIINAAAAAAAH…. AND NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO… C2W HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION…. LONDON….. FREEEEEEEEMANTLE!" As the Black Label Society blasted to life once more, London Freemantle was presented with that glittering gold strap, the Hollowman throwing his hands skyward as the boos chorused in. Pick
His Poison, Round 3 The Match: Lennox rolls out of the ring, stalking Lockhart from behind. Lennox catches up to Lockhart, grabs his shoulder and spins him around. Lockhart, though, throws a right hand and connects with the side of Lennox’s head. He throws a couple more rights and grabs Lennox by his hair. He bounces The Wolverine’s face off the mat and rolls him back into the ring. Both men now back in the ring and Lockhart is on Lennox with a couple forearms to the back. He backs him into a far corner and delivers a couple stiff chops to Lennox’s chest. Bad idea. It seems to motivate The Wolverine, as he grabs Lockhart and trades places with him. Three stiff chops later and Lockhart is clutching his reddened chest. Lennox Irish whips Lockhart to the opposite corner. Lockhart hits it hard, staggers out and walks into a well-played belly-to-belly release suplex from Lennox for a near fall. Lennox is quickly back on the offensive with a rear chinlock, placing his knee into the back of The Legend Killer. Lockhart isn’t about to give up, as he makes it to his feet, Lennox still applying the hold, elbows Lennox in the stomach once, twice and breaks the hold. Lockhart bounces off the ropes and hits a shoulder block off Lennox, who pops back up quickly. Lockhart again bouncing off the ropes, Lennox trying a clothesline and missing. Lennox turns around and Lockhart returns the belly-to-belly suplex from moments ago. After a near fall, Lockhart slaps on an STF, trying to weaken the neck of The Wolverine. Lennox makes it to the ropes, forcing Lockhart to break the hold, but he doesn’t do it until a count of four from the referee. Lockhart kicks Lennox a couple of times while he’s down and then pulls Lennox back to his feet. He Irish whips Lennox off the ropes and hits a nice powerslam for a near fall. Lockhart doesn’t get frustrated. Calmly, he pulls Lennox back to his feet again and body slams him in the middle of the ring. Lockhart wants to go up top and he does. Perching himself, he waits for Lennox to get back to his feet. When he does, Lockhart flies, looking for a flying cross body. He hits it perfectly but has just a little too much momentum behind himself. Lennox rolls through and almost steals one from The Shooter. Back to their feet and both men exchange right hands for a good ten seconds. Lennox gets the upper hand with a series of chops, the last of which sends Lockhart to the mat. Jason gets back to his feet quickly, though, but gets Irish whipped by Lennox. Lennox goes for a clothesline and misses for the second time in the match. He turns around and gets kicked in the stomach by Lockhart, who then sets Michael up for a DDT. Lennox counters—while still in the DDT position, he pushes Lockhart back into a near corner. Lennox tries for a big right hand, but Lockhart ducks and The Wolverine misses. Lockhart goes for a quick schoolboy and gets a two count. Both men again quickly back to their feet and Lockhart again with a quick pin attempt in the form of a backslide. Again, he only gets a two count. The Finish Lockhart complains to the ref about the count. Lennox now with a schoolboy and gets a near fall. After the two count, Lennox is to his feet first, followed by Lockhart. Lennox kicks Lockhart in the stomach, looks for the Bayou Stunner. Lockhart counters by pushing him away. Lennox bounces off the ropes and walks into a kick into the stomach from Lockhart, who looks to hit Lennox with his own Bayou Stunner. Lennox counters this time, sending Lockhart off the ropes. Lockhart looks for a clothesline, but Lennox ducks, jumps up, hooks his feet underneath the armpits of Lockhart, looks for a rolling clutch pin and gets a three count for the victory. Costello: Peace out, my homies! End Feed Credits: |