All Part of An Elaborate Plan, I.

"I still don't understand what the hell is going on!"

That was William Laguna, grumbling angrily, as he scratched relentlessly at his growing beard, with his weary eyes locked on the organisation's Television Champion. Truth be told, Laguna wasn't in the best of moods lately due to the stress of running ACW mounting and spiralling out of control.

Somehow, by some grace of God, ACW had managed to stumble along to its second PPV of this 'revival version'. Of course, comparisions would be made with last year's GLORY show, which was -- simply put -- off the motherfucking hook. Totally.

And it seemed early on, things were already looking a little rocky for Laguna. "Believe me, Laguna, I wish *I* understood what has been happening. It's all quite scary for me, knowing that my life is under attack by someone who looks like me!"

Ah, yes. That thing. Need a refresher?

It all started last week, on Courage (not the cowardly dog, you fool!). Quinton May had stumbled into the arena, drunk off his arse, and promptly passed out. Having been tended to by some officials, the Canadian Gladiator suddenly lashed out at one of the officials, Kellog Anderson, who'd been doing a little investigative work on May. In any event, the night's proceedings culminated rather strangely.

While being chased by officials, Quinton May was blindsided by an outside intruder. Who just so happened to bear a striking resembelance to Quinton himself. This was a case that was also unravelling in another organisation May worked for - tSC.

"That itself isn't the problem, Quinton." Laguna snapped, his eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, indicative of a nervous breakdown on the horizon. "The issue is, you *attacked* and severely bashed up Kellog. The man can't even move his legs, and he's set to be confined to that hospital bed for five more weeks.

I still haven't overlooked the fact that you showed up last week, under the influence!"

The Canadian Gladiator -- decked out in a black t-shirt, dark blue denim jeans, and black boots -- ran a hand through his hair, nodding his head. He remembered what he had done the last week, and now knew that he had consequences to pay. With every choice you make, there are consequences you will have to look forward to.

However unsavoury they may be.

Clearing his throat, Quinton looked back at Laguna. "Listen, as I've said over the last seven days, I did not decide to get myself all drunk before showing up for work. I'm not stupid. Hell, I'm not... errr, unable to hold my liquor. I'm not some weakling like that. And even if I was, I wouldn't be so daft.

I am a professional, Laguna. I'm aware of the fact that I'm not supposed to show up for work drunk. And as far as Kellog Anderson goes; well, I don't have any excuse for that, other than that I wasn't thinking straight when I did what I did. Must have been the alcohol high thing, which I did not inflict on myself.

It's as simple as that, Laguna."

William wasn't convinced, however. Remaining in his seat, his eyes scanned downwards, settling on the heap of documents on his desk pertaining to the case of Quinton May and his dead-ringer of an attacker. Several of those documents were transcripts of e-mail correspondence with tSC officials, since the Canadian Gladiator was contracted to both companies.

The majority of the other documents were reports of what transpired last week. Apparently, the assailant who attacked Quinton was caught and arrested, but just the day before, he had been bailed out. Law enforcement officials refused to disclose the important details revolving around the assailant, though, and this just made William Laguna more furious.

"Okay, then, care to explain what happened if you didn't drink yourself silly?" William posed to the Canadian Gladiator.

May bit down on his lower lip, as he paced about the office. "Okay, I think I know what happened!" Quincy snapped his fingers, his eyes suddenly twinkling. "If you watched ACW last year, you'd know that during my rivalry with Dane Rivers, I went out and found people who looked like me, to play a trick on Dane Rivers.

In fact, I found like six or seven look-a-likes, and one of them even wrestled a match under my guise. I think the intruder could be one of them. Would explain the reports stating that he and I look almost identical. I'm not sure of the motive, but hell, does that really matter at this point? What's more important is that he doesn't cause anymore trouble.

He's still in lock-up, right?"

The ponytailed Italian shook his head grimly, which drew an understandably shocked flicker of the eyes from the Rising Star. Laguna sighed, breaking down Quinton's explanation and trying to formulate if it was even possible. What Quinton had said about the look-a-likes was true, no doubt. All Laguna would need to do was take a look at the archives and the tapes.

The answer to the burning question of why, though, would prove tricky to digest.

Just as the Rising Star looked to open his mouth, a loud beeping sound resonated around Laguna's office, the echoes bouncing off the walls within a matter of seconds. Digging into the right side-pocket of his jeans, May produced his mobile phone, and upon pressing several keys, his eyes widened. Laguna noticed this. He also noticed how quickly Quincy regained his composure.

Not quick enough, Laguna thought.

Quinton put the phone back into his pocket and looked at Laguna as he started to backpedal out of the office. "I, uh, have something to attend to. We'll carry on this chat later. Once again, I apologise for my actions last week, and I'll face up to whatever consequences you may wish for me to come up against."

Then, gone he was, scooting off like the Roadrunner. Just like that. William Laguna rubbed his temples and grunted, a bit miffed that he wasn't able to dispense more 'fierce talky' to May. Arranging the documents on his table, Laguna was uncertain of how he was going to resolve this mess surrounding Quincy, but there was one thing he was definitely sure of.

This was going to be a long night for him.

All Part of An Elaborate Plan, II.

Outside the arena, a black van pulled over on a street just directly opposite the compounds of the building. The backdoors of the van opened, and within seconds, two sets of feet touched down on the dirty gravel. Two sets of female feet.

The two women walked with a purpose down the street, towards a black car that had presumably been parked there for ages. At the wheel was a man. An unidentifiable man, with his long bangs covering his face. Made him look like a deranged lunatic. So thought one of the women who was approaching the car. Granted, she couldn't get a clear enough look at him with the dark of the night.

Not to mention, the hood she was wearing.

But over the months, she'd learned how to live hiding under a mask. And it wasn't hiding in the cowardly sense of the word. It was meant to be a facade. Concealment, for the greater good. It was difficult, but she had to do it nonetheless. She didn't have much of a choice, to be honest.

The other woman didn't need a mask. Just a sexy arse and a breathtaking smile.

Approaching the car, the two shapely women suddenly stopped and waited. The man in the car turned off the ignition and slowly exited his vehicle, his breathing very audible. It was almost as if he was having an asthma attack right then & there. Either that, or he was just really happy to see the two women.

"I can believe it's really you!" the woman sans the hood remarked, a smile forming on her face.

The man nodded his head, remaining in the shadows, watching as the two women stepped into the circle of light provided by the tall street lamp.

And suddenly, the identity of the un-concealed woman was made very clear.

F E J O N A   M I N.

The Cambodian Femme Fatale, as she's often referred to. Also once a fighter of theAsylum, which she she was the (undefeated and invincible) Women's Champion of. Since the disappearance of Joseph Campbell, Fejona Min and her aide, Natalie Quinston, decided to flee. They'd given up on their attempt on prying the Team Titles away from Splink, but supposedly, Fejona and her assistant had a falling out shortly after.

And, oh yeah, Fejona had also competed in a couple of matches on ACW turf.

Flicking strands of her ethereal hair away from her eyes, Fejona began to speak. "Well, anyways, I-I think everything is pretty much set in motion. As you can see, I've acquired someone to help us. Don't be deceived by her appearance, I found her at a pitfighting club tearing into a man double her size.

She's tough, and she doesn't want any money for this mission. I'd say it's a bargain.

The only question remaining is...

... are you ready, Quinton?"

The man whom Fejona referred to as 'Quinton' nodded his head again, following which he too stepped into the spectrum of light. And with a relieved smile, he leaned in to embrace Fejona, who also grinned. Breaking the embrace, the man cleared his throat and took a glance at his wristwatch.

Security would be tight, considering what he'd done last week. But that's why he had hired Fejona Min. And without anymore hestitation, he began his march, Fejona Min and the other lady in tow close behind.

"It's time to take back *MY* life."

Lancett Vs. Ecks

“The Only” blared over the PA system to notify that Lancett was coming out. The curtains shuffled to their sides as Lancett came between them and walked forward. This was his second ACW PPV match and he (in a way) is undefeated. He walked down the isle with the same smirk on his face that is almost pasted on his face at all times. He did his everyday taunts, but was cut short by “Inside Out.”

The curtains again where moved out of place as Ecks walked from the backstage. Ecks’ eyes never left the ring as he gave some high fives, but it wasn’t anything special because Ecks wasn’t here to get over with the fans; he jolted towards the ring and slide in baseball style. 

Lancett wasn’t too fond of the interruption or The Darkside of Wrestling so he decided that the bell was to slow and laid down Ecks with a nice right jab to the face. The referee pushed back Lancett to get Ecks some room. Ecks held his jaw as he stood back up looking at Lancett. 

The bell rang and officially the match has started. The referee got between them as then they meted in the middle of the ring. Face to face they trashed each other, but Lancett having a shorter fuse went for the punch. Ecks had other intentions and quickly side stepped his attack and used his momentum against the Megastar. Ecks floored Kid Frost with a trip and wrenched his arm backwards in an arm bar. Lancett quickly grabbed the bottom rope in an escape.

One…

Ecks was putting as much pressure as he could on this greenhorn.

Two…

Ecks let go before anything was going to happen as Lancett slid to the outside for a breather.

Lancett went to the barricade for some support and the fans just bashed on him with verbal abuses. Ecks stood in the middle of the ring not even broken a sweat now. Lancett shook his head and started to walk away from the match and to the isle. 

One… The referee started the ten count.

Lancett reached the mouth of the isle and keep walking towards the backstage.

Two…

Ecks slide under the ropes and ran at Lancett. The fans cheered stopping Lancett in his tracks. The Rising Demon stalked up to Lancett as he turned around. Ecks tried to kick him in the midsection but Lancet caught it and quickly dragon whipped his leg and him to the concert floor. Rook’ stood up and stood over Ecks spreading his arms.

The fans replied in Ecks’ favor.

Lancett rolled his eyes and headed to the ring, and climbed the stairs to the apron slowly getting in step-by-step.

One…

Two…

Three…

Ecks was down for the count.

Four…

Five…

Ecks started to reach his feet with the help of the barricade.

Six…

Seven…
He was heading to the ring.

Eight…

Nine…

Ecks rolled inside the ring and was greeted by boots from Lancett. After a couple of stomps Lancett pulled Ecks to his feet by his hair just to give him some swift punches to the body and the face. Ecks tumbled backwards to the turnbuckle and Lancett followed. Lancett got on the second rope with his feet and started to punch Ecks.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Five…

Six…

OWWW~!

Ecks countered with a brutal palm strike. Ecks pulled himself to a sitting position on the top rope and they traded punches back and forth, but Lancett again got the upper hand. Lancett turned around putting his back to Ecks, but still staying on the second rope. Rook’ hooked Eck’s arms in an awkward way kind of a reverse double under hook. Seemed that he was going to try to hit Lancett-ation.

Ecks had different ideas and pushed Lancett off the ropes, but he landed on his feet. Soon after Lancett landed he was dropkicked in the back to send him to go flying forward to the floor outside.

Ecks jolted to his feet more ready than ever, the crowd loved it. Lancett was pissed, he didn’t expect Ecks to be this difficult. Lancett walked around outside.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Ecks was sick of this counting shit and ran towards him shooting his body though the ropes going for a suicidal dive. Lancett sidestepped and baseballs swung a steel chair right into the skull of Ecks.

Ding Ding Ding~!

Ecks was the winner by DQ. Lancett didn’t want to go though this shit; he just wanted to come back to ACW nicely with an easy win. Lancett pulled Ecks up and into the ring as he followed. The referee got into Lancett’s face and got a nice jab to the face. Ecks was starting to get up letting the crowd get a nice look at his bleeding face. 

Lancett folded the chair out and made Ecks stand next to it. Lancett ran at the ropes and did a picture perfect moonsault off catching Ecks’ head on his way down as he then did a beautify off a fall forward DDT into the chair folding it backward around Eck’s spine. Ecks recoiled from the pain and shook off the chair. Lancett stood up and ignore the boos grabbed the chair and started to beat Ecks with it.

The crowd’s boos changed into cheers as a man from backstage came running out. Lancett looked to the curtain and saw Simian Kade running to Ecks’ rescue. Lancett retreats under the ropes and over the barricade. Kade slide into the ring and kicked the chair as he looked at Lancett retreat. “GET BACK HERE YOU YELLOW BASTARD!”

Winner > ECKS

Angry Italian + Four Antagonists = MURDER! 

So, there William Laguna was, propped up in his chair, looking at a piece of paper. That piece of paper detailed the specifics on Laguna's penis -- length, girth, head size. Okay, maybe not. The paper was actually a roster sheet. With the revolving door problem still very much rampant in ACW, the Italian decided that he was going to start tracking and monitoring every single roster member.

Laguna was sick and tired of people bailing on the product after giving them a chance to be part of the company to begin with. Now, the man was going to play hard ball. Whoever screwed him and ACW over would incur his wrath, and never ever set foot in another wrestling company... AGAIN!

Or at least, that's the way William Laguna saw it. Weird man, he was.

As he picked up a green highlighter and began to scroll down the list of roster members, a dark shadow suddenly fell over Laguna. Make that FOUR dark shadows. Of course, shadows can only ever be dark, so I'll just say 'shadow(s)' from now on.

"Good evening, Mr Laguna." one of the four men remarked with slight sarcasm in his tone.

Laguna looked up and squinted. He'd never seen the four men before in his life, but as he took a longer look at each of them, the Italian suddenly realised that he had indeed heard of them. Four men, tall and gangly. Clad in all-black ninja outfits, as well as different-coloured bandanas.

Red, blue, orange, purple. Ahh, sound familiar? No, not the TNMT. Close enough, though.

William cleared his throat and put the highlighter back down on the table. "Evening. I see that I find myself in the company of the Feared Ninja Assassins, then. The four gentlemen who interrupted *MY* show a few weeks ago to beat up some retarded Irish insurance agent, so that they could warn everyone of the impending apocalypse or whatever.

I've seen something like this in that fWo brand, you know. The four Biker Mice from Mars, or something. What makes you idiots any different? And, more importantly, what makes you think you can do anything in *MY* company without contracts?"

Wow, Laguna was really in a foul mood, eh?

Got to give him props for so quickly establishing his authority and power, though. Laguna now leaned back in the chair, smirking but still wary that he could so easily become a victim of a gang beatdown. Donatello -- the proverbial mouthpiece for the group and the man who'd greeted Laguna earlier on -- simply chuckled at the Italian's response.

"Indeed, we are the Feared Ninja Assassins." Donatello spoke up again, as he signalled his betheren to step back a few inches. "And believe me, we are not carbon copies of any faction you might have ever seen in this industry. We are, in fact, the trendsetters.

Always have, and always will be. Yet, we are unknown.

We take pride in our guises, and we take pride in the fact that we have managed to remain concealed for this long. We also take pride in pointing out, Mr Laguna, that the show we interrupted a few weeks ago was not technically your show. It was, in fact, the production of one Phoenix Rose.

Another thing we also take pride in is the fact that although you have had your esteemed staff fill you in on who we are, they failed to mention that we do INDEED have contracts binding us to this company. And there's only one man you can thank for that occurance.

He's your current Scorpion Fighting Champion, actually."

William Laguna blinked, then growled. Within a matter of seconds, his sky-high confidence had plummeted. Especially with the knowledge that Chris Messiah, apparently, had given the Feared Ninja Asssasins contracts to compete in ACW. Locking eyes with Donatello, Laguna knew that Messiah must have done so when he was in charge for that one night back on May 27.

Now Laguna was really wishing that he hadn't come up with the idea of allowing the talent to be in charge of shows. In retrospect, it hadn't really worked all that well.

Shaking his head, the Italian now had a problem on his hands. "Well, it seems you boys have all done your homework. That's splendid, and all, but since you say you DO have contracts, I guess I can't really do anything about it. Except, of course, for the obvious.

Booking you in matches."

Laguna smiled. Donatello kept his mouth shut, curious to know where this was heading.

"And since this *is* a PPV, there's only one thing to do!" the Italian continued on. "You and the chap in the blue bandana will take on the other two monkeys of your gang. Oh yes, let's see how well you pissants hold up in the face of some internal strife. I've had the hankering of watching a tag team match, to be honest.

Thank you for coming into my office. Your match will be up soon. Good day!"

Dontaello turned around slightly to glare at his gang members, who were murmuring lowly at each other regarding this latest revelation. A single fierce hiss from Donatello quietened them, and the leader of the FNAs turned to face Laguna again, as calm and collected as can be.

Laguna, meanwhile, had a Cheshire grin on his face.

"Your wish is our command, Mr Laguna." Donatello simply said, before he and the rest of the FNAs filed out of the office without another word. Laguna chuckled, pleased at his handiwork, before he went back to doing what he was doing. Work.

Suddenly wondering if he'd done the right thing, for some reason.

Accession to Perfection - Part Two

A sniff of the air. 

A tilt of the head. 

And the message that we would assuredly hear again. 

“It’s a great day to be me,” the tall Alaskan, Kelly Flawless said with utmost confidence, as he flashed a smile. 

“Jimmy!” Flawless called to the man who was walking next to him. 

“It’s… Jeremy, sir,” the young intern-type man said with anxiety. 

“Jeremy. Right, right,” the Diva of Masculinity corrected himself. 

“Jimmy, I was thinking,” Flawless again began out of ignorance, “I’ve been in these lower states now for about a week, and seeing as how I just met you yesterday, I’m going to let you off the hook for this one.”

“Off the hook for what?” Jeremy asked, a little dumbfounded by Flawless’ statement. 

“The bitches,” he said with a stern tone, as he came to a halt in the hallway. 

“The bitches?” Jeremy asked a little stunned. 

“Yes, the bitches, the booty, the puss-ay!” The Blonde Warrior of the North shouted. 

“Um…” Jeremy began, not knowing how to respond. 

“I’m God’s Gift to Women, damnit. So Jimmy, go fetch me a hooker!” Flawless said flashing his patented smile. 

“I’ll, uh… get right on that,” the much smaller man said with confusion as he turned around and began to slowly walk the other way, shrugging to himself as he went along. 

“Good, now that he’s gone, me, myself, and I shall go laday-huntang!” He said confidently, adding a musical note or two at the end.

Kelly walked assuredly, every stride he took signified importance. He was on the top of the World. He was the poster boy for perfection, and he didn’t need anybody to him that. 

“You, there!” He called down the hallway to a man in freshly-pressed suit who was looking over some papers with another man who was wearing a headset and a shirt that was worn by many of the ACW staff members. 

The man slowly turned around, wondering if it was he who Kelly Flawless was addressing. As he turned, it was revealed that it was Adam Kent who was reviewing the papers. And it was also Adam Kent who was feeling a little disrespected by this new face to the locker room. 

“Yes, you,” Flawless said making sure Kent knew who he was talking to. 

“Have you seen a woman around here. I believe she is in management, I think she’s second in power next to Langunal- … What is his name?” Flawless said trying to recall the information he had seemingly… misplaced. 

“Languna,” Kent said, correcting him with a hint of jealousy in his voice. 

“Right, right,” Flawless said, remembering the name vividly… well, at least as vividly as someone who believes they are bigger then Jesus can remember someone else’s name. 

“And she’s not second in command to William. I am,” Kent said, staring a hole right through the Diva of Masculinity. 

“Gotcha chief,” Flawless began, sarcastically. “Now, where can I find her?” 

“You mean Hillary?” Kent questioned with a slight smirk. 

“Yes! That was her name! Hillary!” Flawless said clapping his hands together out of joy. “Where is she?” He said excitedly. 

“She’s in room 12, I believe it is. Yeah, 12, that sounds right,” Kent said, smiling. 

“Thanks chief!” Flawless called as he made his way down the hallway towards the locker room Adam had suggested. As Kelly walked out of view, Kent was left standing in the corridor. 

“So naive,” he smiled. 

Leonardo & Donatello Vs Michaelengo & Raphael.

So, this match came about as a result of Laguna's powerplay.

The crowd certainly weren't expecting to experience a tag team encounter on the night, although thoughts did flash back to GLORY 2003 and the infamous Homicidal Tendencies Match. In any event, without any sort of build-up, it appeared as if there was very little interest in the match from the audience. The two teams of the FNAs -- Michelangelo & Raphael, and Leonardo & Donatello -- were already in the ring, warming up.

To them, this was just something they had to do. As Donatello told Laguna earlier on, the Italian's wish was their command. Perhaps revealing that they were legally contracted to ACW wasn't the smartest thing to do, but unlike the rest of his brethren, Donatello wasn't sweating the match. He instead looked at the positive side of things, and accepted it like a man's man.

Of course, the crowd weren't that enthused. To add to the lack of build-up, the FNAs were not exactly established superstars and the fact that they were fighting each other kinda dampened the mood of the match. Surely, the fans thought, this would be nothing more than a glorified filler.

Perhaps, but in Donatello's mind, this match was absolutely crucial.

To what?

* DING DING DING *

Let's find out, shall we?

Michelangelo and Leonardo had stepped out for their respective teams, leaving Donatello -- the DL half of the FNAs -- to square off against Raphael -- the MR tandem of the FNAs -- in the opening minutes. A small pocket of fans applauded appreciatively, obviously more interested in Alias/SilverHAWK and Atken/Messiah later on in the night.

Raphael and Donatello began to circle each other, trying to get a feel of the other although one suspects all of the FNAs know each other's strengths and weaknesses by hard. Donatello got the ball rolling and rushed towards Raphal, but the latter ducked under the tie-up attempt and immediately dispatched a flurry of right hands to the leader of the FNAs.

Donatello was reeling, and was about to be welcomed into a world of hurt as Raphael whipped him into the ropes, and scored with a drop toe hold takedown.

Following which, Raphael immediately tried to slap on a side headlock. He actually succeeded in cinching it in, but it didn't take long for Donatello to climb back to his feet. Donatello's attempt at breaking out of the hold via reverse elbow shots didn't work out too well, so Dona resorting to dragging himself & Raphael into the ropes, and using the ropes to shove Raphael across the ring. Raph used his momentum to take him across, but as he came scuttling back, DOnatello was waiting.

And let loose with a spinning heel kick.

Raph, however, rolled underneath Donatello's leg and as he came off the ropes, cartwheeled towards the leader of the FNAs. Yes, you read correctly. He *cartwheeled* across the ring, jumped up onto Donatello's shoulders, and took him down with a beautiful hurricarranna.

Only problem was, Donatello somehow landed on his feet. Watching as Raphael got up to his feet, thinking he was 'da man' for pulling off the hurricarranna, Donatello bounced himself off the ropes and connected with a dropkick to Raph's ribs, which caused the ninja donning the red bandana to double over in agony. Donatello, on the canvas, didn't plan on staying there.

SO what he did was, kip up to his feet and drill Raphael with a stiff-as-fuck DDT.

And yes, it looked as fancy as it sounded.

Instead of going for the pin, Donatello pulled Raphael up to his feet and punished him with an overhand Mongolian chop, before making a quick tag to Leonardo. Leonardo jumped up to the top of the turnbuckle as Donatello had Raph trapped in an arm wrench, and Leonardo academically dropped an elbow down onto the right shoulder of Raph, knocking him back a few inches.

This enabled Leonardo to quickly spring back up to his feet and advance on Raphael, wrapping his arms around Raph's waist. Seemed as if Leonardo aimed to connect with a release belly-to-back suplex.

The suplex was a go, but somehow, Raphael landed on his feet and looked to retaliate with a snap roundhouse kick. Leonardo ducked, however, and shoved Raphael into the ropes, following up with a powerful armdrag as Raph -- who'd more or less frustrated at having been dominated so far in the match -- came off the ropes. This prompted Michelangelo to shout something in a foreign language at Raphael. Encouragement, maybe?

Didn't matter, for Raph was pulled up by Leo and shoved into the DL corner, where Leo made the tag to Donatello.

Leo takes a parting shot at Raph in the form of a kick to the ribs, before Donatello takes over with a barrage of forearm shots. Raph was in a bad way, but as Donatello grabbed hold of Raph's left arm and dragged him out of the corner, with the intention of whipping him into the opposite corner, Raphael managed to hold on halfway and Donatello Howard towards him, planting him with an excellent double-underhook overhead belly suplex!

This got the crowd's attention, who'd been rather muted so far in the match,and they watched as Raphael piled on the offense, taking Donatello down with a standing dropkick as the two men returned to their vertical bases.

Then, the tag was made from Raphael to Michelangelo.

Michelangelo jumped over the ropes and into the ring, pleased that he finally got the chance to stamp his authority in the match, and displayed his eagerness by effortlessly hoisting himself onto the top of the turnbuckle, jumping off seconds later & connecting with a wonderful flying dropkick! Perhaps he should have gone to the turnbuckle right after getting the tag, but, hey, different strokes.

Donatello once again collapsed to the canvas, but he didn't stay there long, as Michelangelo pulled Donatello up, firing away with forearm shots to his spine as Leonardo watched on, concerned. Michelangelo noticed this and just as he got Donatello in position, Michelangelo glanced at Leonardo with some contempt swirling around in the air. Before, of course, planting Donatello with a side russian leg-sweep.

Seconds later, Michelangelo hooked the legs for the first pin of the match;

ONE.

TWO.

TH -- KICK-OUT!

Shaking his head, Michelangelo clenched his right fist and hammered it into Donatello's head a few times, before getting to his feet and biding his time, waiting for Donatello to do the same. Once the leader of the Feared Ninja Assassins was 3/4 of his way up, Michelangelo smiled and ran into the ropes, showing off by performing a capoiera-esque tactical move that could be described as a handspring/cartwheel combination. Donatello rolled out of the way of the resultant sidekick, though, showing how well he knew his gang member.

Michelangelo proved he too knew his fellow teammate's tricks as Donatello sneaked up behind Michelangelo and lifted him up for a german suplex; Michelangelo clocked Dona with a reverse elbow, before rolling towards the ropes and bouncing off of them with a flying headbutt, which almost *decapitated* Donatello.

Raphael clapped his hands, as Michelangelo hooked the legs for another pin;

ONE.

TWO.

THR -- ANOTHER KICK-OUT!

Donatello had to actually dig deep this time, and once assured that he hadn't pinned, the leader of the FNAs found himself being dragged towards the MR corner of the ring, where Raphael was tagged in. Having gotten a good amount of rest time, Raphael promptly climbed into the ring and waited until his tag partner got to the outside, before he began a round of very merciless mudhole stomping.

The referee actually tried to get Raphael to take the fight out of the corner but the demands fell on deaf ears, until Raphael pulled Donatello up and planted him with a punishing hiptoss. Donatello grunted as he crashed down onto the canvas, and returning to his feet, he found Raphael rushing at him, looking to score with a clothesline.

So. What did Donatello do in this predicament?

He ducked, waited for Raphael to bounce off the ropes, and retaliated with a jumping lariat! The crowd actually cheered, believe it or not, somewhat in awe of the action that was unfolding in the ring. DOnatello was a house of fire now, pulling Raphael up and ramming his fist into the 'red bandana-ed ninja' before kicking him in the gut and executing a quick swinging neckbreaker! Raphael rolled about on the canvas for a bit, while Donatello made the much needed tag to Leonardo.

Fresh, rested, and hell-bent on proving his worth, evidently.

Raphael stumbled to his feet and found himself back down within an instant, as the lanky 'blue bandana-ed ninja' speared the life out of him. As the mounted punches began to rain down on Raphael's face, the match disintegrated into sudden chaos, as Michelangelo threw himself into the ring and dropped a double axe-handle smash down onto Leonardo's spine. The assault of Raphael had ceased, and Michelengelo took the initiative to jump to his feet... as he raced towards the corner and knocked Donatello off the apron with a running elbow smash, despite the referee's protesting.

Looked like camaraderie was going to be abandoned for now, eh?

So much for 'this is going to be boring because they are all friends with each other'. Heh.

In the ring, Leonardo and Raphael helped themselves up, their bodies aching. Raphael made the first move, running at Leonardo and attempting to connect with a simple clothesline. Leonardo ducked and grabbed Raphael by the throat as the latter turned around, making the crowd quite curious as to what Leonardo was going to do.

However, that was pretty much shortlived as Raphael kicked Leo in the lower abdominals, following up with an utterly wicked and vile double-arm DDT. The impact of which almost squashed Leo's head, and saw him roll out of the ring and tumble onto the ground. Rising to his feet, Raphael heaved and wiped the sweat off his head, before he slid to the outside and began to stalk Leonardo, who was crawling around the ring in an attempt to catch his breath.

Michelangelo, in the meantime, was unloading with overhand knife-edged chops on Donatello on the outside, with the referee still trying to get the two to return to their respective corners. Both ninjas ignored him, though, as Michelangelo attempted to whip Donatello into the steel steps. Problem was, Donatello wasn't quite out of it, and hung on, looking as if he could reverse it.

Instead, though, Dona yanked Michelangelo towards him, and...

... HURRICANRANA TIME~!

Well, no. Michelangelo had a good three pounds or so on his leader and managed to counter the hurricarana into a sitdown powerbomb down onto the concrete! Sure, it was protected by paddinhg, but it was a very thin layer of protection. Donatello writhing around in pain is a picture worth a thousand words, innit?

On the other side of the ring, Raphael had caught up with Leonardo on the ramp and had been rabidly kicking away at his lower spinal area for the last minute or so. Tired of the routine he'd gotten himself into, Raphael picked Leonardo up and fired several stinging hooks to Leo's face, before pulling out a snap suplex completely out of nowhere!

Leonardo's body writhed around on the ground, spasming from the pain, while the fans in the front row showed their appreciation for Raphael's sense of innovativity. Raph cracked his neck, bouncing it from shoulder to shoulder as he watched Michelangelo cockily strut back to his place on the apron. A glance across the ring enabled Raph to smile slightly, at Donatello struggling to do the same.

All of this only gave Leonardo time to recover.

And Leo was determined to make good use of it. But when Raph dragged Leo up to his feet, the latter didn't put his dukes up. Playing possum? Most likely, but Raph didn't know, as he lashed out with three knife-edged chops to Leonardo's chest, before rolling him into the ring. Climbing onto the apron, Raphael and Michelangelo congregrated for a short discussion, before the former hoisted himself onto the top of the turnbuckle.

His eyes were dead set on Leonardo, who was motionless in the middle of the ring. Donatello shouted something at his tag partner, hoping to rouse him out of his stupor, but Leo still remained immobilised. With that in mind, Raphael took flight.

His attempt at a frog splash, however, bombed.

Leonardo had rolled out of the way at the last possible second, and Raphael tasted canvas! The crowd, who'd really gotten into the match over the last couple of minutes, 'ooh-ed' and 'aah-ed' at the high risk move going bad, before they quietened down, with both Leo and Raph getting back to their feet. Raph, growling, threw a right hand at Leonardo but the latter blocked the punch and kicked Raphael in the ribs.

Before flooring him with a spinning Northern Lights suplex. With the bridge;

ONE.

TWO.

THR -- AHHH, NO.

Leonardo shook his head as the referee confirmed to the crowd that it wasn't a 3-count. Leonardo, winded, wisely crawled to his corner, making the tag to partner Donatello, who was looking for a flashy re-entry to the ring... despite having been owned on the outside. He was better off than Raphael at the moment, though, so the leader of the FNAs hoisted himself onto the top of the turnbuckle and instantly took flight, scoring with a snazzy-looking flying legdrop, sending the crowd into another round of appreciative cheering and applauding.

And then, Donatello hooked the legs, with Michelangelo looking on worringly;

ONE.

TWO.

THRE -- NO WAY!

A combination of Raphael getting the shoulder up and Michelangelo dropping an elbow to break up the count ensured that the match didn't end then and there. The referee admonished Michelangelo for his interference, but the 'orange bandana-ed ninja' was already back on the apron, calling for the tag. Donatello, on the other hand, simply picked Raphael up and got back to work, not bothering about Michel's interjection. You gotta do what you gotta do, right?

Anyways, Donatello connected with a series of Mongolian overhand chops to Raphael, who flinched with each strike, before he was whipped into the ropes. Upon returning, Raphael found that the Donatello had lowered his body... most definitely, to attempt a back body-drop. Raphael had it scouted, however, stopping in his tracks expertly and sending a vicious kick into Dona's face!

Donatello staggered backwards into the ropes, and as he stumbled back towards Raphael, the latter slapped on a single-arm front-face chinlock. Donatello was aware of what was in store, though, and an elbow shot to the back of the head broke up the move. Raphael dropped to his knees and held the back of his head, wincing, as the energy in his tank began to dwindle.

The gang leader didn't seem to care; he waited for Raphael to regain his footing, before he shot himself into the ropes and advanced on Raphael with something of a high-leg clothesline!

But, Raphael had caught Donatello in mid-air, and promptly retaliated with a brilliant backbreaker! That appeared to have knocked the stuffing out of Dona, and both men remained on the canvas, spent. Leonardo and Michelangelo were now yelling encouragement to their respective partners in a foreign tongue, but it was Raphael who got up to his feet first, and he quickly made the tag to Michelangelo. Vital, that.

Meanwhile, Donatello himself was looking to tag out to Leonardo, but just as he was about to do so, Michelangelo grabbed his leg and dragged him away from the corner. Agitated, Donatello spun around, looking to score with a crescent roundhouse kick. Michelangelo ducked it, but had no answer to the outside crescent kick that Donatello dished out immediately after with the very same leg.

Michelangelo was down, but within a blink of an eye, he was up on his feet. As was Donatello, who was finally able to make the tag to Leonardo. Leo rushed into the ring with urgency, swinging a wild arm at Michelangelo. Michel, however, ducked and slapped on a single-arm front-face chinlock of his own, before he raised Leonardo in the air and...

... almost murdered Leo with a sit-out urinagi suplex!

The crowd liked how that one panned out, and watched as Michelangelo rolled over for the cover;

ONE.

TWO.

THRE -- SO CLOSE!

Donatello had sneaked in and dropped an elbow down on Michelangelo's head to stop the count, which didn't sit down well with Raphael. The referee ordered Dona back into his corner, which the latter duly adhered to, while Michelangelo picked Leonardo up and sent him into the MR corner with a single discus punch, before he turned and rushed at Donatello, knocking him senseless with a forearm smash.

Needless to say, Donatello jumped back into the ring, eager to get him some of Michelangelo. The referee stepped in, though, which then allowed Raphael to choke out Leonardo in the corner... with Michelangelo coming back and adding to the pain with kicks to the lower abdomen of Leonardo.

Donatello's protesting only allowed the double teaming to continue, until finally the referee got Donatello to go back to his corner. Michelangelo and Raphael decided to pull the plug on their double teaming, just in time for the referee to turn around. At which time, Michelangelo took Leonardo down with a classy-looking snap-mare takedown, following up with a vicious snap sidekick to the back of Leo's hard.

Brain cells, scrambled, coming right up.

Leonardo groaned in agony just as Michelangelo made the tag to Raphael. Smiling, Raphael swiftly hoisted himself to the top of the turnbuckle, displaying cat-like agility in the process. The fans stood to their feet, anticipating something special from Raphael. Leo being parked in the middle of the ring wasn't posing a problem for Raph, who went airborne.

And duly pulled off a stunning 720º splash.

"HOLY SHIT!" 
"HOLY SHIT!"
"HOLY SHIT!"

Somewhat faint, but they could still be heard. Raphael rolled around for a couple of seconds, the move having taken quite a bit out of him too, but he pulled himself together and threw his body on top of Leonardo's for the academic cover;

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

Ahhh, not quite. Donatello made the save.

Just in time, too, for the referee's hand was just an inch away from slapping the mat for the third time. Donatello's interference set Michelangelo off, and he rushed into the ring, looking to inflict pain on his leader for the costly interference, but Donatello was aware of what awaited and ducked Michelangelo's clothesline, dropkicking him in the back of the head in response to send Michel tumbling out of the ring.

But as Donatello got back up, he found himself being attacked from behind. No, not rear entry. Raphael had locked in a full nelson of sorts, and with some effort, tossed Donatello across the ring in a release dragon suplex! By this time, though, Leonardo had recovered and took advantage of the chaotic situation in the ring, gouging Raphael in the eyes when the referee was checking on the woozy Donatello.

Following which, Leonardo KEEL-ed Raphael with a cradle spinning brainbuster.

Believe me, it was quite the sight.

Before Leonardo could even make the cover, though, Michelangelo had decided to crash the party. He'd climbed back onto the apron and upon realising that his tag partner was in serious trouble, reacted by hoisting himself onto the top rope and launching himself at Leonardo with a cross body block. Leonardo, though, caught Michelangelo in his arms, and held him there. Why? I don't know.

Oh, maybe it was because he was pausing for dramatic effect, and dropped Michelangelo down onto his right knee in a backbreaker of sorts. Which coincided with Donatello magically recovering and jumping up onto the top of the turnbuckle, before letting fly with a split-legged moonsault!

Prognosis; Michelangelo was as done as dinner.

Raphael was still there, though, and he was slowly recovering.

Leonardo and Donatello looked at each other and smiled, before advancing on Raphael. Leonardo kicked Raph in the ribs before lifting him up in a gutwrench suplex. Instead of driving Raphael back down to the canvas, though, Leonardo help Raph up on his shoulder. This was because Donatello was meant to put the finishing touche on this tandem move, and that finishing touch was a falling neckbreaker off the ropes!

It was fluid, methodical, and brilliantly executed. Leonardo made the cover;

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

And it was over!

The fans stood to their feet and provided a warm appreciation of the match they'd just witnessed. For a match that had zero build-up and participants of the same gang, it had turned out to be quite entertaining. Leonardo and Donatello high-fived each other, just as Michelangelo and Raphael recovered, staring at the victors of the match. Suddenly, some internal tension was present in the air.

It quickly dissipated, though. All four men high-fived each other, knowing they'd done good.

Donatello broke away from the rest of his ninja betheren and requested for a microphone, while the crowd were still applauding and cheering for the ninjas, who just a few weeks ago had more or less declared war on ACW. So, sure, the crowd response was quite strange. Not was weird as what Donatello was going to say, however.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen." Donatello emphasised, nodding his head. "Thank you all for your warm reception. It was an honour entertaining each and every one of you. Mr Laguna, I hope that what you've seen has impressed you and lived up to your expectations. Because this is the one and only time that we shall be civil.

Expect nothing less than chaos to erupt in the weeks to come, Mr Laguna."

With those ominous words, the audience were muted, shocked. Donatello and the Feared Ninja Assassins bowed to the crowd, for whatever reason, before taking their leave.

They'd shown the world that they were more substance than talk. Now, they wanted to go one step further.

What lay ahead? Stay tuned. 

Winner > Leonardo and Donatello

All Part of An Elaborate Plan, III.

So, hey. William Laguna was in his office, performing a pole dance.

Yeah, let that image sink in. Come on, open your mind and allow yourself to picture the bald Italian with the sexy goatee, rubbing his dick against the cold steel of a pole. Mmmm, delicious. I'm getting so god-damn hard.

Well, okay, I was lying. Laguna was at his table, now examining paperwork of a different kind. The KOA brackets had been drawn up a week ago, but William was still pondering over whether to mess with them any further. He absolutely needed the next arc of programming and events to go really smoothly, while pumping out entertainment and drama of the highest level.

After all, KOA 2004 would end up being compared with KOA 2003 -- and KOA 2003 was a smashing success.

In any event, Laguna was certain that the tournament would open windows of limitless opportunities for the eventual winner. Not just in ACW, but in the world of wrestling. Granted, Laguna thought, Khristian Keller (KOA 2003 Winner) was now supposedly sniffing coke on the streets of Havana, but for a while there, Keller was the hottest property in the industry.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, which jarred Laguna out of his thoughts.

"Yeah, come in." the ponytailed Italian mumbled, as he cleared up his table, half-expecting the person on the other side of the door to be an official. Maybe Kent, or Duncan.

Instead, it was a member of the roster. Technically, at least.

Laguna himself was quite stunned. "Fejona Min? Heh, this is certainly a surprise. Haven't seen you in ages. You've decided to come back and fulfil the remainder of your short-term contract, then? Or are you looking for a new one? I heard Asylum's more dead than Jim Morrison, haw!"

Geez, when he yaks, he just doesn't stop, eh? Fejona Min raised an eyebrow at the Italian's comments but soon pushed them to the back of her mind. There was more important business to be tended to.

"Stop talking for a while and listen." Fejona commanded, which obviously didn't sit down well with Laguna. "There's a problem that I think you should take note of. It's about Quinton Ma-"

Laguna decided to butt in. "--Yeah, I know. The guy's gone off his rocker."

"No, not that. Well, yes, that." Min swiftly responded, annoyed that William would cut her off. "See, the Quinton May that's in the building now and that has been showing up for ACW events since July 17 isn't the *real* Quinton May. I mean, he does LOOK like him, but it's not.

It's a clone, as unbelievable as that sounds."

Hmm. Want to guess just exactly how William Laguna reacted to that bit of information?

He laughed his arse off.

That was, until the same man that was seen attacking Quinton May on last week's edition of Courage and TNW 17 just two days prior (which ended in the revelation of him saying *he* was Quinton May -- a fact that was NOT included in the reports given to Laguna by tSC officials; what's up with that, eh) walked into the room, looking like one surly motherfucker.

You would be pissed too if you have a clone running about, claiming to be you and having people believing him because you aren't there to prove otherwise. Well, I guess that's going to change now, innit? Confused? So am I, actually, but, meh!

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?! WHY IS THIS MANIAC HERE?!" Laguna shouted, jumping out of his chair and opening a drawer, reaching for a gun. Or a tennis racket -- Laguna liked tennis.

"Calm down!" Fejona shouted back as she turned to close the door. "Take a good look at his face. This man is the real Quinton May. You *have* to believe me on this, Mr Laguna."

Yeah, sure, that's going to convince him.

But even in the midst of panicking, Laguna decided to heed Fejona Min's advice and stared at 'Quinton'. Locking eyes with the man, which was sheltered by his long bangs. Slowly but surely, Laguna's grip on the gun in the drawer loosened. To the point where he pulled his hand out of the drawer (not THAT drawer, you pervert) and muttered an obscenity in Italian.

Laguna couldn't believe it, but on the same token, he did. It was perplexing, see.

"Quinton?" the Italian queried a tad bit fearfully.

And the man responded. "Yeah. It's me. The real me. I know it's hard to explain and believe, but it's really me. I understand that there's a lot of confusion going on, but I have proof that it's really me.

Just ask Kellog Anderson. He knows."

Well, what do you know? Quinton May... had a clone running about.

Just as the words registered in Laguna's mind, the office door swung open again and in walked Quinton May. The other one. The clone, who up to this point, was considered the normal Quinton May, despite his odd behaviour over the course of the last couple of weeks.

"Hey, Laguna. I just wante -- OH FUCKSHITARSECUNTINGHELL."

You got it. The clone and the actual Quinton May locked eyes, and suddenly, the clone bolted from the scene. The *real* Quinton May (the one with the long bangs) growled and instantly gave chase, hoping to pick up where he left off two nights ago on tSC's Tuesday Night Wrestling. Fejona Min and William Laguna, meanwhile, just stood there. Dumbfounded. Stunned.

Until Fejona too joined the chase, and Laguna blinked, slowly seating himself back down on his chair. Needless to say, he'd seen his fair share of surprises in his life, but this was just too much for him.

What kind of crazy world do we live in, eh?

Like a tiny freakin' chihuahua that you just want to punt across the living room.

“We’re even,” Ecks said in a quiet tone as he pressed the towel against his bloody forehead. 

Kade smiled a little as he watched his friend lick his wounds… wounds that were inflicted by the hands of Joshua Gary. 

“It’s what friends do,” Kade said staring off into space. 

“Well, I appreciate it,” Ecks responded, “let’s just not make it a weekly thing. I can handle myself, and I know you can handle yourself.”

“I know that,” Simian said assuredly. “Your ass just looked like it needed a bit of help.” 

They both shared a laugh and sank back into their steel folding chairs. 

“As I said before,” Kade began, “this is going to turn into a shit storm. I just hope you’re prepared for it.”

“I’m ready,” Ecks said with confidence. “If it’s a fight he wants, it’s a fight he’ll get.” 

“Good,” Kade said. “The bastard is like a retarded dog… he just doesn’t know when to lay down and die.” 

Ecks looked up towards Kade. 

“So we’ll just have to kick the dog a few extra times for good measure,” Kade said smiling. 

Ecks chuckled a little. 

He knew the fight; he knew the territory. And he wasn’t afraid of either one. 

El Gato Negro vs. Azrael Asesino

“Bury Me With It" by Modest Mouse

El Gato Negro stepped out from the back, a devilish grin etched across his face as he familiarly grabbed his junk and yelled obscenities that no one could ever understand. As he started to reach the ring he blew a kiss to one of the ‘fine honeys’ at the show, before sliding into the ring. Once he reached his corner he started to do a series of stretches, waiting for his opponent to arrive.

"Crossbearer" by Cave In prompted the entrance of Azrael Asesino and his annoying manager Torres. The two walked towards the ring. Azrael was seemingly in a state of mediation, as he continued to step silently towards the ring.

On the other hand Torres was screaming, 'Nobody messes with my man, Azrael'. Torres continued to yell at the top of his lungs as Azrael slid into the ring. His eyes met with EGN, as a staredown ensued.

The only reason EGN and Azrael were in the ring right now was because of the man standing on the outside. Last week on Courage Torres made a verbal attack prompting the Escape Artist to step into the ring with Azrael. The two now were face to face, and things were now ready to go.

Ding Ding DING!

As the bell rung Azrael attacked first with a standing drop kick, sending EGN straight to the mat and in a hurry! El Gato Negro rolled painfully to his feet, but Azrael acted fast hittinga hurracanrana with extreme impact! The Cat slowly reached his feet, but Azrael continued the assault as he kicked El Gato Negro’s legs straight out from under him. Azrael quickly ascended to the top turnbuckle…

And connected with a huge moonsault! Asesino wasted no time, and went for the early pin. 

One..
Two..
Kickout!

EGN kicked out with authority, as Torres screamed at the referee from the outside. El Gato eventually made it to his feet, and Azrael continued to be the aggressor as he launched a spinning heel kick at EGN. But, the Escape Artist dodged the kick by ducking, only to spring up and catch Azrael with a belly to back suplex, planting him squarely in the center of the ring.

EGN rolls Azrael back up to his feet, and hits another. The crowd continued to show their displeasure, although Azrael wasn't exactly a very liked man because of his annoying manager, Torres. 

El Gato Negro viciously locked on an ankle lock submission in the center of the ring. Azrael Asesino had nowhere to go, as he screamed in pain and fear of his ankle being snapped. El Gato Negro yelled at Torres, "Look a' what I'm'a gonna' do because of you, mang!"

EGN wrenched harder and harder on the ankle, but Azrael simply would not give up as he inched closer and closer to the ropes. Some fans even started to get behind this quiet man. EGN couldn't bare to hear the fans supporting Asesino, and ultimately Torres. 

EGN locked on the hold with more ferocity and pulled Azrael back into the center of the ring. With a last ditch effort Azrael maneuvers his body, spinning a full 360 degrees and then dealing out a boot to EGN's nose. EGN fell backwards and Azrael managed to get out of the hold.

The Submission expert looked disturbed as he got up and stalked over towards Azrael. EGN dealt out a series of hard kicks to the stomach and head of Asesino, yelling at the crowd something they apparently didn’t like. Finally he pulled Azrael up to his feet, but dropped him down hard with a hard DDT. EGN jumped up with joy, but only to find the arena booing him passionately.

EGN took in the heat with great pride as he flashed a smile, put his hands on his waist and let out a hearty laugh. Azrael Asesino got to his feet as Torres was dealing out annoying orders at him. EGN came running at Azrael with a clothesline but Asesino ducked underneath it, and came flying back with something of his own: The Roaring Elbow!

Torres screamed in pleasure, nearly orgasming. Asesino then positioned EGN on the mat, and quickly went to the top rope. And came crashing down with a magnificent elbow drop to the face! EGN was rocked, and Azrael went for the cover.

One...

But, El Gato Negro immediately kicked out. Azrael grabbed at his own mask in disgust and then lifted EGN back to his feet, sending him off the ropes. On the return EGN knocked Azrael flat with a shoulder block, but quickly jumped up, to only find EGN coming at him again with a clothesline, but Azrael this time ducked underneath it. EGN then came off the far ropes, yet Azrael simply leapfrogged the attacker. Azrael then used this momentum and came off the set of ropes and finally connected with a running splash, falling into a pin.

One...
Two..
EGN reversed it!
One...
Two...

Asesino kicked out with authority and fought up to his feet. EGN bounced up to his feet as well. The crowd around them actually showed some respect as they clapped for the two wrestlers.

El Gato Negro and Asesino met face to fro, talking trash in the center of the ring. Torres was yelling at EGN too, but it was Asesino that the Black Cat’s eyes stayed transfixed on. The Escape Artist eventually chopped Asesino across the chest, and Azrael returned it. This cycle went on for quite a few moments, the crowd pulling a Flair every minute of it!

WOO~!
WOO~!
WOO~!
WOO~!
WOO~!
WOO~!

Finally the chops stopped as EGN sent a knee into Azrael’s gut, and planted him with a running bulldog! Torres yelped in horror as EGN finally started an offense, rolling Azrael over and methodically locking in the figure four leg lock! Asesino screamed in pain as he reached in every direction, realizing he was hopelessly laying in the center of the ring. He fought for ground, pulling and clawing in whatever direction he could to get to the ropes! The Black Cat stayed firm though, every time Asesino started to get close he’d pull back to the center and squeeze the lock even tighter.

Azrael did not tap out, not unless he absolutely had to. And thus his last ditch effort was to start rolling over for a reversal, and boy did that send EGN into a frenzy! In classic heel style his hand reached out, his hand shaking wildly as he yelled: “NO! NO!”

The crowd started pulling behind Azrael in full swing, chanting: “AZ-RA-EL! AZ-RA-EL! AZ-RA-EL!” Which drove Azrael further, sending all of his power into the roll as EGN screamed, his advantage now gone as the pain swelled up in his back and legs. El Gato Negro desperately reached out in vain for the ropes, agonizingly pulling himself in the direction of sanctuary. Of course, Asesino played a game of tit for tat, pulling back to the center of the ring as EGN did to him…

It was then that EGN had no other choice, and craned his head slowly around to meet Azrael square in the eyes…

FLASHBANGSPITINHISEYES~!

The crowd yelled in malice, and the referee warned EGN not to do this again. Torres jumped up and down outside, yelling all sorts of vulgarities at the referee. El Gato and Azrael met their feet at the same time, but EGN being the shy bit quicker moonsault dropkicked Asesino right across his chest. Azrael reached his feet and planted a dropkick into EGN himself. The Escape Artist scrambled to his feet, and whipped Azrael’s out from under him! 

During this moment EGN vaulted himself to the top rope, and started to jump for a moonsault… but just as he was about to launch, Torres grabbed hold of EGN’s ankle, pulling desperately at him.

“I’VE GOT YOU NOW, MANG!! YOU CANNOT STOP THE MEXICAN REVOLUTION!!! I THOUGHT YOU WOULD EHVE BEEN PROUD OF YOUR COUNTRY, YOU DIRTY SANCHEZ!!! IT IS NOW OBVIOUS THAT I WILL NOT MAKE THIS MISTAKE AGAIN, FOR YOU ARE HISTORY!!! I WILL END YOUR CAREER, DO YOU UNDER--”

“Joo really need to shut deh fuck up, mang.” EGN kicked him off his boot, and Torres fell to the ground in a heap. But just as El Gato was about to jump off the ropes and onto the manager, Azrael sent a punch straight to the back of the head!

EGN turned around and Azrael climbed to the top, both now balancing on a literal thread, it seemed. The two sent wild punches into each other, as the two’s legs wobbled for balance… EGN tried to lock on a superplex to the outside, but Azrael held on and tried one of his own. This time El Gato held on, and pushed Azrael off the top, barreling to the outside!!

EGN jumped down and began throwing punches at Azrael, who had just started climbing to his feet once again. Torres yelled angrily at Azrael to do something, who in turn started swinging back. Asesino grabbed the advantage, but not for long, as EGN took off running around the ring.

Azrael gave chase.

EGN grinned, grabbing a chair as he ran and throwing it into the ring. Azrael took note, but was focused on the now it seemed. After a lap and a half El Gato Negro slid underneath the ropes, and as Azrael followed he lined up a brilliant futbol kick straight into his fellow mexican’s head.

The crowd yelled bloody murder as EGN started running with his arms spread:

“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL~!!”

EGN grabbed for the chair shortly after, and the referee immediately started to grab for it himself… El Gato revolted, pushing the referee off and sending him to the mat. Torres immediately climbed in the ring and stepped in between EGN and his wrestler, who was now starting to reach his feet.

Torres warned El Gato Negro to back off… who smiled, lifted the chair…

*THWACK!* right across Torres, no, Azrael’s skull. Torres had ducked, and the referee immediately called for the bell, for multiple offenses.

EGN turned and screamed at the referee, who started to explain the rules to him just as he too fell victim to El Gato Negro’s chair. The announcer called the winner as EGN continued his assault on the ref.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the WINNERRRRRR AS RESULT OF DISQUALIFICATION… AZRAELLLL… ASESIIIIIIIIIINOOOOOOOOO!!!”

*THWACK!* The chair yelled as it continued its assault on the referee, as Torres and Azrael slowly slid out of the ring…

The angry EGN threw the chair at Torres, who deflected it with a shoulder. As the PPV cut to the next segment, Torres and EGN were yelling back and forth and Azrael was nursing his wound.

Winner > AZRAEL ASESINO

You're a Funny Lookin' Woman

It was like he was a woman mopping the kitchen floor, as he walked he whistled…

Do-do-do-do-do-do-doo-doo-doo… 

He ran his fingers across the concrete walls of the arena, he seemed quite happy. The tall Alaskan smiled to himself as he went in search of the locker room that Adam Kent had directed him to. 

Down the hall he went, on his merry way. He passed stagehands and wrestlers alike, they did not look as happy as he – and why should they? He was on top of the World; after all, he was the Diva of Masculinity. 

He turned the handle to enter the locker room where he was instructed to go. He pushed the door open with a rather large smile on his face. 

“Hillllllary…” he called in to the locker room. 

“What the fuck?” A rather surprised Simian Kade questioned. 

The shock made Kelly Flawless jump back. This wasn’t Hillary Duncan! Hell, it wasn’t even a woman! 

“Who the…” Flawless began, quite bewildered. 

“You’re not Hillary Duncan,” he said with suspicion in his voice. 

“Really?” Kade said sarcastically, “because I had myself believing I was.”

“You’re a funny guy…”

… Kelly can be sarcastic too. 

“I was told she’d be in this room!” He exclaimed. 

“And you aren’t her… so where is she?” 

“You sure you’ve got the right room?” The Fallen Angle asked. 

Flawless stared at Kade for a few moments before stepping back outside and looking hard at the room number. 

Hmm…

He had the right room. 

“This is the right room,” he said rather confused, “this is the room that Adam Kent told me I’d find her in!” 

He looked disappointed… Simian looked amused. 

“You’ve been duped, my friend,” he said to Flawless. 

Indeed he had. 

The search continues. 

Old School Promo's RawK \m/

"Challenge…that's all I've ever wanted…"

A forceful kick blazes through a black background, smashing violently into the jaw of a shaded outline of a man, the voice-over continuing in the background.

"So many warriors, all of different styles. Kung fu, pro wrestling, Tae Kwon Do, street-fighting…"

Two shadows surround a man we can clearly make out now, an ebony warrior standing tall and proud adorned in a set of blue fighting gloves and a matching pair of shimmering parachute-style pants. His chest and arms are well-sculpted, pulsating with energy as he throws himself to the left, completely catching his shady assailant with a savate kick to the face. His other opponent rushes in to dispatch him, but the warrior throws himself into a handstand, catching his would-be dispatcher with his ankles. Smiling, he spins to the side, throwing him away from him forcefully.

"I am a man well off. The average person works a lifetime to accumulate a 4th of what I've already attained…but I yearn for more. I yearn to be the ABSOLUTE BEST…"

The camera quickly cuts to this warrior leaping up, catching his victim's arm with a 6 second magic cross-armbreaker, wrenching back on it with all his might as his chosen victim slaps the black void as if it were a mat, submitting for dear life.

"Pick your style, and style, I could care less. Why?"

The violence finally ends as it shows this man standing with fists as sides, sweat dripping from his brow and his eyes reflecting desire…a burning desire. But not the type for something material like money or trinkets, but something almost insatiable on the inside.

"Get ready to bow to the master…"

The video segues into the man performing a kata, ripping through the wind with punches and kicks as he puts his physical prowess on display. His style shows erratic variety, his movements changing from stoic and methodical, to cat-like and flexible; his mind completely immersed into each strike and movement.

"The Master…of ALL STYLES! Also known as…the GREATEST fighter that ever lived. Who's first to get knocked down?"

The video came to a slow close as the man now with a name, Jamar Gordo, sat in meditation pose, staring through the screen and into the soul of whoever watched him, a smile on his face as he awaited his next would-be challenger….who would be within the walls of ACW. 

Gabriel vs. Malik Roland

”Respect” by fabulous could be heard playing through the speakers in the sold out Alumni Hall, in Queens New York. Faint traces of Red strobe lights could be seen showing through the dark black arena. The fans were on there feet, waiting for the arrival of both men, to start this match. The red light, fixated on the entrance ramp, as a shadowy figure stood still in what has become known as the gorilla position. As fabulous continued to belt out multi’s and metaphors, the figure began to move forward, pushing the curtain to the side. Beads of sweat could be seen dripping off his forehead as he posed on the entrance ramp, then began to move forward. As he made his way to the ring, the fans jeered him with a chorus of mixed chants. Approaching the ring with a bit of boastfulness in his stride his name was announced. As he climbed the steps to enter the ring, “Why” by 777 took over the public announce system.

The lights once again dimmed but this time, they were flooded with color, in and out sparks of white light, in almost a blinking manner. The man standing on the entrance ramp was a virtual unknown to the business, and defiantly a fresh face here in ACW. His physique rippled of muscle, as he made his way down the entrance ramp and towards the ring apron. Once, he was close enough, Gabriel Malik Walczak crouched down ever so slightly and hurdled himself up to the side of the apron, in one swift jump. Climbing through the ropes, Walczak and Roland were now face to face. Towering over Roland by almost five full inches, Walczak looked down, before landing the first shot of the match.

SMACK!

The bell sounded, to begin the contest, and Walczak had already begun to take the offensive. With a sharp and swift back forehand the tide in the match had already been determined, and Walczak wasn’t about to let up yet. Coming off the far ropes, Roland was caught with a flying forearm to the face, and was instantly taken down to the mat. Walczak was quick to react though and made it back up to his feet in now time, prepared to make another move.

With a quick elbow drop, it looked as if Walczak couldn’t be denied of his talent, but that notion was just a bit to soon. Roland rolled out of the way, and Walczak landed hard on the mat and nearly dislocated his shoulder. Lying prone in pain Walczak was holding his arm, as Roland tried to make it to his feet, so see what he could do with his first set of offensive moves. As he pulled himself up to his knees, then eventually into the standing position, Roland backed away from Walczak just far enough to land a perfectly executed leg drop.

With a thud Roland came down across the chest of Walczak, and was back to his feet, for the attack. This time Roland didn’t leave the ground, instead he was putting the boots to the chest of Walczak as the flat of his foot, was connecting with the bare sensitive skin of Walczak. The sounds of hard rubber and skin echoed throughout the arena as the fans eww’ed and aww’ed. 

Roland knelt down to lift Walczak to his feet, and in doing so grabbed an illegal handful of hair to pull him up. Lifting the battered and bruised Walczak to his feet, Roland took him back down to the ground with a dropkick to the knees. Knocking not only his feet, but also his stability out from under him, Walczak came crashing down to the mat being it was the only place to go. Roland was on his feet again, and ready to attack his prey.

SMACK!

Malik Roland dropped down to the canvas with a hard shot to the chest of Walczak. With an open fist, he landed a hard chop on his way down that nearly sent shivers down the spines of the audience. The only thing for Walczak to do was groan in pain as he was losing his grip on this match, and possibly looking at his first defeat here in ACW. All the hesitation on Walczak’s part didn’t stop Roland though as he was again up to his feet, and pulling Walczak up to the standing position with him.

This time both men tied up, with Roland having the upper hand. As the collar and elbow tie up ensued Roland used his advantage and pushed the head of Walczak under his arm, as if to signal for his finisher the “Street Dreams”.

SMACK!

Both men hand been laid out on the canvas, both gasping for every breathe of air they could possibly hold in their lungs. Luck this time wasn’t on the side of Roland; while in the ddt position Walczak over powered his small opponent and lifted him up in the air, arching his back and crashing down to the mat in an overhead suplex maneuver. The referee moved closer to both men and began his count.

1…
2…
3…

Both men still were motionless, though the match had only begun it was clear that they both had a lot taken out of them thus far. The referee, checked on both men, then again raised his arms above his head to continue the count.

4…
5…
6…

Finally after reaching a count of six, both men began to move but one had to wonder if they were going to be able to make it to their feet. They both were in the midst of an attempt at getting to their knees, and the referee had already begun to count to seven.

7…

Walczak was able to pull himself up to his knees and eventually so did Roland, but that was only half the struggle. The referee had reached the count of seven and ten was the final limit. One man had to make to his feet in order not to lose, and both men had to make it to their feet for the match to continue, that seemed to be easier said then done, as the referee’s counting increased with every passing second.

8…
9…

Walczak was the first man to his feet just after the count of eight, and Roland was up to his at the count of nice exactly. The match was going to continue still, but both men were groggy already and it was going to be nothing more then a brawl now. Walczak stumbled over to Roland, and lifted his boot to the stomach of Roland with a weak kick. Roland felt the effects no matter how week and buckled down to the ground holding his stomach gasping for air. Walczak still feeling the effects of his suplex earlier in the match feel flat to the mat as well and the referee looked on puzzled.

1…
2…
3…

The count had once again started and both men were down once more. The fans were shocked that what little action they had seen thus far could have taken this much out of both men, but being in the ring and watching is a whole different aspect of the business, and both Walczak and Roland were taking part in the most grueling part of that very business. With his hands above his head for what seemed like the one-hundredth time the referee again continued to count.

4…
5…

Walczak was up to his knees then swiftly to his feet as Roland simply twitched. The referee had manditoriarly stopped his count when Walczak shoved his foot onto the throat of Roland, in an illegal blatant choke hold. The referee counted once more but this time it wasn’t about who could make it to their feet, it was centered on the desperate tactics that Walczak had begun to use.

1…
2…
3…
4…

Walczak lifted his foot from the neck of Roland, as the referee neared the count of five. Desperately hoping to take clear advantage in this match Walczak lifted Roland to his feet and whipped him into the ropes. As Roland came darting back, Walczak lifted his arm and took his opponent down with a stiff clothesline. Then hoping that he had done enough for a win, Walczak knelt down over Roland’s body to attempt a pin fall.

1…

Kick out! He had not done near enough damage to his opponent, and Roland lifted not only his shoulders from the mat, but kicked his feet in the air pushing Walczak off of him in the process. Both men wearily dragged up to their feet and tangled in a tie-up. Jocking for position both Roland and Walczak stood in a test of strength, neither man budging, just seeing who could win out over the other. Walczak won, and tossed Roland towards the padding in the corner.

As Roland’s body hit the corner, he turned and slouched down using both top ropes to prop his body up; Walczak was on the move. Nearing both the ropes and his opponent, Walczak lifted his hand and connected with a closed fist to the side of Roland’s face. Then ducking down, he grabbed both of Roland’s legs and hoisted him up to the top ropes, positioning him in the sitting position. Climbing the ropes after Roland, Walczak looked as if he was prepared to hit a suplex off the top ropes; tides would turn though.

Roland realizing this could be his last chance, or it could be his demise put up his defenses and landed three hard fists to the gut of Walczak. Then turning the move on the ropes, Roland was now perched in the offensive position on the ropes with Walczak sitting prone. Pushing the head of Walczak under his arm, Roland leapt from the corner pulling Walczak with him.

STREET DREAMS!

A crack echoed though the arena as Walczak’s head bounced off the mat. With one devastating even flow ddt off the top rope, the match had not only shifted but had been taken as far away as possible from walczak, all that was left was three taps on the canvas. Roland positioned his beaten and battered body over Walczak’s as the referee dropped to his knees for the count.

1…
2…
3…

The match had ended but both men stayed exactly where they were. Walczak flat on the ring, and Roland draped over him. The referee moved over to raise the hand of Malik Roland, but just holding his own arm in the air seemed to be too much of a task for Roland. Instead he merely rolled off Walczak and lay still in the center of the ring. As the fans rose to their feet, both men gasped for what air they could get, and the referee signaled for help from the back. Roland finally made it to his feet, and eventually climbed up the corner post with one hand “half way” raised in victory, but the story of the other man was much more eventful.

Seven paramedics rushed to ring side with a stretcher, as a few road agents and general staff hands for ACW followed. Roland had made his way out of the ring, and half way up the ramp, but Walczak couldn’t begin to do that, in fact he couldn't move. As the paramedics entered the ring, two road agents conversed with the commentators for the event as if to notify the fans in attendance and those at home as to what had happened.

With the help of the three staff members, and two of the paramedics, they managed to push and shove the still body of Walczak towards the apron and near the stretcher that had been set up. Moving his body towards the straight board, he was strapped down to the stretcher and eventually wheeled out onto the entrance ramp. The fans rose to their feet, all chanting his name yet anticipating the next match.

Winner > MALIK ROLAND

All Part of An Elaborate Plan, IV.

This entire situation was just incredibly and inexplicably meandering & abstruse to every single observer. But therein lay the great irony. One of the participants in this tangled mess also had little idea as to the web he'd found himself stuck in. Yet, he did have the presence of mind to act on his instinct.

Being left to fend for your life on an island in the middle of the Pacific will do that to you.

Quinton May heaved, pushing the fringes of his hair out of his eyes, as he continued to run down the hallway in search of his clone. Due to the help of one Fejona Min, former tA fighter and still somewhat a member of the ACW roster, Quinton was able to escape the clutches of law-enforcement officials and confront the man who'd stolen his identity and his life.

This culminated in a bold attempt to convince one of the only men May could trust -- and that man was William Laguna, as puzzling as it may sound -- about his true identity and the severity of the situation. Just as Quincy had done so, however, the clone walked in and basically threw weeks of work out of the window. Exposing himself in one moment of weakness and fear. Now, he was on the run.

And the Canadian Gladiator was aiming to track him down to get some answers.

WHOOOOSH!

That was the sound of a pipe being aimed for Quinton May's head, by the Quinton-clone. Quincy Mama, however, relied on his raw instinct to duck it at the very last second and at the same time, he drove his right fist into the clone's ribs with intense power, knocking the clone back a reasonable distance.

And also dropping the pipe right at Quinton's feet.

The Rising Star ignored the pipe, however, and leaned in.

Not a wise move. The clone had wrestled a few matches in the time that he was impersonating Quinton May and more than proved that he could do quite a lot in the ring. This made him more than adequate in a brawl, and he promptly cracked May in the jaw with a fierce right hook, before charging at Quincy and lifting him up with both of his hands.

And running towards a wall, with May still in his grasp. The whole time, Quinton was punching away at his clone in the head, but the clone didn't flinch for a second, and threw the Canadian Gladiator into the wall, almost breaking it. Almost. Sure, the plast had all but cracked, leaving a rather big hole in the wall, but it wasn't completely demolished.

Quinton, however, was another story altogether. He slumped down to the ground, holding the back of his head in pure agony. It also didn't help as the clone took his liberties with the Canadian, with stiff and merciless kicks to May's sternum.

Until, of course, Quinton caught one of the kicks and more or less twisted the clone's ankle sideways. Which was followed by a lunging uppercut to the groin. The clone collapsed to the groin, his face turning a bright shade of blue, while Quinton May struggled to his feet, a smile on his face.

This is what he'd been waiting for.

"Finally, you motherfucker." Quincy spat out at the clone. "Finally, it's just you and me. You had the cheek to take over MY life and live it as yours? Not anymore, you bastard. I want answers, now. I want to know the WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, and WHY. Simple enough, I think.

If you fail to comply, I'll just continue beating the shit out of you."

It was understandable for May to be hungry, but right about that, he was frighteningly menancing. Quinton's eyes had almost seemingly transformed, spawning into an entity of its own. He'd gone through so much the last couple of weeks, and all he wanted were answers. All he craved for was closure, in the face of never-ending mystery to his life.

At that instant, where the clone remained silent and unwilling to co-operate, Fejona Min and her clad-in-black assistant with the hood showed up on the scene, panting but eager to help May with this rather curious situation, as per their agreement. Fejona was especially relieved to find that Quincy hadn't killed the clone yet.

"Quinton, let us take over from here. You need to rest your body!" the Cambodian Femme Fatale advised Quinton, grabbing the Canadian by the arm as she did so.

Now, the rumours were there when Fejona was in the midst of her short-term contract fulfillment in ACW and Quinton May wasn't plagued by this clone problem. The two had hit it off immediately, and after one night where Fejona had 'sent Quinton back to the hotel', everybody thought that they had gotten intimate. Quincy never denied it, but he didn't exactly own up to it either.

Nonetheless, Quinton was slightly taken aback. As he tried to open his mouth, though...

... Min's hand tightened its grip on May's arm, before the Enchanting Delinquent yanked the Canadian Gladiator forward. The female assistant of Fejona Min's too suddenly sprung into action, striking Quinton with a jumping roundhouse kick that almost beheaded him.

Quincy crumpled to the ground, as his head bounced off the concrete floor, and he almost passed out. There was enough in him to keep him conscious, which suited Fejona Min just fine, as she rolled May over and straddled him, while the clone was helped up to his feet by the woman in black. Soon, the two of them cowered over Quinton May.

"You're really gullible, you know that?" Fejona taunted, as Quincy tried to slap her. No chance. She caught his hand and twisted it out of shape. "Please. You're barely able to stay conscious. Natalie here has perfected her kick to the point where it could knock out a lion.

Oh yeah, the name's familiar to you, isn't it? Face should be, too."

Quinton May gulped, and as he looked up, the face of one NATALIE QUINSTON greeted him. She was the woman in black. SO, she and Fejona didn't have that big of a tiff after all. Of course, Quinton didn't know that Natalie and Fejona were in cahoots to begin with, but he sure as hell remembered Natalie Q from his past.

The vixen who posed as a therapist while undercover for the CIA. With a skanky twist in there, somewhere; let's just say the CIA wasn't that appealing to her anymore, considering that they end up finding out everything about everyone. Natalie had secrets to hide, you see, as well as a personal agenda of her own. But, back to the main story -- the now, if you will.

Now, all of a sudden, Quinton's heart started to freeze up. The pieces of the puzzle came together.

Fejona had the final piece. "All part of an elaborate plan, baby. I'm sorry to break it to you, but I was never interested in you. You're just a pawn for me and Natalie here. And within time, you'll find out just what it is we have in store for you. Until then, though, you are powerless to try and fight us.

Just like you're powerless to stop this."

POW.

Quinton drifted into La La Land, the combined laughter of Fejona Min & Natalie Quinston & the clone being the last thing he heard. With an evil femme fatale, a clone, and a person who knew his inner psyche so well now apparently in cahoots with each other and with a mission to make live a living hell for Quincy Mama... what was in store for him next?

Simple. A whole world of hurt, that's what.

ACW Scorpion Fighting Championship/thReat International Championship
Chris Messiah (c) Vs. Phil Atken

So this was it. Judgment Day had arrived for Phil Atken or Chris Messiah. Both men had enjoyed illustrious careers, but one light would be extinguished tonight. All scores would be settled. One man would walk away victorious, and with his job. One man would leave and never come back. Who would it be? It is anybody’s guess. One thing is for sure: if Messiah fails to win, he is out of a job; and if Atken fails to win, he too would be out of a job. All this would come to a head inside a 15-foot high steel cage, no less.

A video package rolled on the big screen inside the arena, depicting the great moments which had led each man to this collision course tonight: Messiah in his early days under the guise of 'The Cluck,' defeating Genie Gonzalez in a 30-minute Iron man match in GPW; celebrating championship victories in IWC with his C-Team compatriots; winning the IWA heavyweight championship in a gruelling 6-man battle; clinching the thReat International championship against blind almost a year ago, and most recently, picking up the ACW Scorpion Fighting championship six weeks previously at Revival. Pictures of Phil Atken formed the second part of the footage, showing Phil winning the Television championship in cWo, triumphing in the ladder match in IOW for the Cruiserweight championship against Tyler Davison and Vertigo, and his coronation in A!W when he was granted the heavyweight championship.

As the pictures stopped, a curious thing occurred inside the arena. These two men, who had grown to become two of the most hated superstars in ACW and elsewhere, were being cheered. The sense of occasion was certainly not lost on the crowd; they knew what was at stake here tonight and were looking forward to the action.

The lights dimmed inside the arena and the cage was lowered slowly. A wall of silence echoed around the building as the structure was fashioned into place by the ring crew. Once it was securely around the ring, the lights quickly came back up with the ring announcer standing inside.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is now time for the ACW Scorpion Fighting championship match! The first competitor to have both their feet touch the floor will be declared the winner. Competitors can only leave the cage by exiting through the door, or by climbing over the cage and dropping down to ring-side. Firstly, making his way to the ring, the special guest referee for this contest, Colin Gear!”

The former thReat Commissioner brushed aside the curtain and entered the arena. The appointment of him as special referee was obviously a new arrangement that neither Messiah nor Atken had mentioned previously. Perhaps he was appointed by William Laguna to have an impartial head at the centre of it all. Messiah and Gear had become good friends over the last year or so, but Gear had trained Phil Atken too. It was perhaps fitting that Gear should be the man in the middle for this contest; or at least one of the two men outside of the ring.

Colin walked straight round to the side of the cage that had the door, and waited. The other referee would govern the rest of the cage, if either competitor decided to climb out.

“The challenger, from Glasgow, Scotland, weighing 220 lbs, Phil Atken!”

Perfect Stranger by Deep Purple kicked in, and out strolled Sir Sexyalot. Could this be his last appearance in a wrestling match? Who knows? He certainly didn’t look like he felt it would be. He calmly made his way to ring-side, paying no heed to the fans on either side of the aisle. He walked straight up to the cage and touched it carefully, as if it might burn him. He held it firmly and shook it hard. It barely budged. The cage wasn’t going to give much. The pain and suffering these two men would have to endure was going to be ultimate. Phil gazed up the side of the cage, and began to climb, instead of opting for the door. Once at the summit, he sat with one leg inside and one leg outside of the cage, and looked around the arena. This match was going to be something that neither man would forget, ever. Phil dropped down into the ring, and waited silently for the champion.

“His opponent! From Belfast, Northern Ireland, weighing 229 lbs, the ACW Scorpion Fighting Champion, Chris Messiah!!!”

The Last Time by the Andrew Loog Oldham Orchestra slowly started. Thirty seconds played and there was no sign of Chris. After a further thirty seconds, the curtain rippled and out stepped the champion into the dark arena. It was a surreal experience for everybody. These two men who were bitter enemies and loathed by the fans, were about to rise above all that and put on one hell of a spectacle. Future generations would watch this match and they would know that this was the cage match.

Messiah slowly dandered down to ring-side. He didn’t pause like Atken did; instead he walked the whole way around the cage; circling his opponent. Once he was back round to the side with the door, he stepped inside. Messiah gazed at Gear. Gear gazed at Messiah. Atken gazed at Messiah, and Messiah gazed at Atken. Chris removed his thReat International championship belt and handed it to the ring announcer, who promptly left the ring. Colin Gear called for the bell. It was on.

Phil immediately charged at Chris with arms flailing. Chris backed-up into the corner to get away from the tempest, but Phil grabbed Chris by the head and rammed it into the top turnbuckle. Phil then mounted the second rope and proceeded to punch Chris right in the head. Since none of the crowd would do it for him, Phil counted out the numbers himself, “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”

Phil jumped down to the mat as Chris slumped into the corner. Chris crawled towards Atken’s feet, but Phil simply began to stomp on his fingers, no doubt to put any idea of Messiah attempting a Reality Check out of the latter’s mind.

Phil dragged Chris to his feet and walked him towards the side of the cage, where he attempted to slam the champion’s head into it. But Chris blocked Phil, and nailed a DDT, surprising Atken.

Phil popped almost straight back up to his feet, but so did Chris, and the two of them traded punches again, but this time it was Chris who got the upper hand, knocking Phil down on his ass. Chris quickly moved towards the side of the cage and started to climb, but his progress was halted by Phil who just dragged Chris off, and then clobbered him with a spin kick.

Phil leapt onto the cage and started to climb, but just as he reached the top, Chris got up and grabbed Phil’s left ankle. Atken tried kicking out at Messiah but Chris dodged the shots and he himself climbed too. Chris wrapped his arm around Phil’s waist, hooked his leg, and toppled backwards, sending them both to the mat via a belly-to-back suplex.

Phil held the back of his head as Chris turned and began to crawl towards the door. As Chris got to within a few feet of the exit, Phil got to his feet and grabbed Chris by the boot and pulled him back into the centre of the ring. A few forearms knocked Chris goofy and Phil then whipped Messiah into the corner furthest from the door, but Chris put a foot up to stop himself ramming into the turnbuckles, and he turned round and violently bulldogged Atken to the canvas.

Chris then went for the door again on his hands and knees, and Colin Gear opened it for him, but Phil grabbed him by the ankle and dove over him, going for the door himself. Phil’s arms were out through the door, but Chris had a good grip on Atken’s feet and dragged the Scot back into the ring. Chris then dove over Phil and the whole process repeated again.

Phil grabbed Chris by the ankle and tried to drive his knee into the mat, but Chris managed to roll over and kick Atken in the gut. Atken stumbled down to one knee and Chris jumped onto the side of the cage and tried to climb, but Atken wasn’t going to lose that easily and simply scoop-slammed Chris off.

As Chris was gathering his thoughts in the centre of the ring, Phil was already halfway up the side of the cage, so Chris quickly followed his opponent. At Chris reached the top, Phil was already halfway over the top of the cage, so Chris grabbed his foe by the hair. Phil screamed out in anguish as Chris pulled the challenger back to the top of the cage by his flowing locks.

The pair of them were sitting straddling the cage as they began exchanging lefts and rights. A vile uppercut from Phil sent Chris reeling, and Phil nudged Chris off-balance with his foot, sending Messiah toppling to the canvas below.

Instead of climbing out like any wise person would have done, Phil climbed back into the cage. Standing with both feet in the middle of the top rope, Phil waited until Chris had gotten back to his feet before leaping off and catching the champion square in the jaw with a dropkick.

Phil got back to his feet and attempted the climb again, but as usual Chris was able to recover in time to clamber up the cage too and stop Phil before he got out. But Phil was still in pole-position and kicked Chris in the jaw. As Chris fell backwards towards the mat again, he stuck out an arm and wrapped it around Phil’s thigh, dragging Atken down to the mat with him.

As the two of them lay hurting on the mat, Phil slowly returned to his feet and dragged Chris up by the t-shirt, setting him up for a pile-driver. Phil wrapped his arms around Chris’ gut to pull him up, but Chris blocked it and hit a back body drop.

Phil’s back arched in pain as Chris grabbed him by his blonde hair and pulled him up to a vertical base. A Northern Irish whip sent Phil towards the ropes, but both men thought of the same idea and one double clothesline later saw the pair of them once again lying on their backs.

Phil was closest to the door and began dragging himself towards it. Colin Gear, being the ultimate professional that he is, opened it for Phil, but Chris stopped his progress with a stomp to the lower back and a leg-drop to the back of the neck.

Chris turned and ran towards the opposite corner, after yelling at Gear to close the door. Chris began the climb with renewed vigour, but Phil was on hand again to grab Chris by the foot just as he swung a leg over the top. Chris brought his leg back inside the cage and tried kicking Phil away with his free foot, but Phil yanked him off the cage and Chris plummeted down to crotch himself on the top rope. He toppled over in a heap into the ring clutching his personal belongings as Phil stood above him and laughed.

Phil then turned his attention towards the door and arrogantly swaggered towards it, telling Colin Gear to open it. On hearing Phil’s order, Chris managed to stumbled on his hands and knees towards Atken, and as Phil was stepping through the ropes, Chris returned the genitalia gesture with a low blow. Atken crumpled to the mat, as Messiah began to climb again. For some reason, Chris turned to look back at the fallen Atken, and changed his mind about the climb; instead opting to drop an elbow from up on high.

Atken was wise Chris’ plans and simply rolled out of the way, as the Northern Irishman crashed to the mat. It was Phil’s turn to climb, so he did so. As he reached the top, he glanced back to check on his opponent, and was utterly shocked to see Chris about to start climbing the cage himself. Phil speeded-up his attempt but Chris was too quick, and grabbed Phil by the hair again, pulling him back into the cage.

Chris picked Phil up and scoop-slammed him, and once again tried to climb out. But Phil checked him and hooked Chris’ leg and sent Chris smashing down into the ring with a Samoan drop. Chris stumbled back to his feet at the same time Atken did, and the two of them began trading shots to the head and body. A kick to the gut gave Chris the advantage, and he dragged Phil by the ear towards the side of the cage, where he proceeded to ram the Scotsman’s forehead into it with pleasure, opening up a gash in Phil’s hairline a few inches long. As the blood flowed down Phil’s face, marring his sight, Chris began climbing.

Phil wiped the crimson mess out of his eyes, and followed the champion. Chris was over to the other side of the cage as Phil reached the top and put an arm down to grab Chris’ hair and drag him up and back down into the ring.

The crowd were going ape-shit as Phil kneed Chris in the belly and this time successfully nailed a pile-driver. Phil took a moment to catch a breather, all the while gazing at Chris, who seemed to be out-cold. Phil once again began to climb, but it looked like the strength was evaporating from his body as he could barely pull himself up.

The lack of haste gave Chris enough time to regain his senses and chase after Phil. Both men soon stood on the middle of the top rope, slugging it out with one hand, and clutching to the cage with the other. They both caught each other with a knock-out worthy shot at exactly the same time, which sent Chris collapsing to the centre of the ring, and Phil straight down to crotch himself on the top rope.

Chris was lying on his back and gazed backwards to see where the door was. He rolled over onto his stomach as Phil struggled to untie himself from the ropes where his legs were caught. Chris slowly put one hand in front of the other, but it was no use as Phil finally freed himself and lunged after Chris, grabbing him by the leg. Atken went for the door himself, but Chris pulled on Phil’s tights, preventing him from moving. Chris got up to his feet just as Atken turned round to fight Chris off, but Chris was too quick and hooked Phil’s legs, sending him face-first into the side of the cage with a slingshot.

A disoriented Chris began to crawl for the wrong corner before realising his mistake. He staggered up to his feet and went for the door in a hunched-over manner. Colin Gear kindly obliged and opened it, but as Chris poked his head out between the ropes, Colin slammed the door shut, sending Chris flying backwards.

“Scots stick together!” was Colin’s cry as he yelled at the collapsed and bloody Phil to get up and get out. The crowd began cheering madly as somebody came sprinting down the aisle. Colin turned to see who it was too late, as 'The Biggest Joke' Joe Soap came haring towards him and sent him down with a powerful clothesline. Joe grabbed Colin by the head and rammed him into the guard rail, with both competitors lying stationary inside the cage. Colin collapsed at ring-side, leaving Joe to go around to the opposite side of the cage closest to where Chris was lying, where he offered up some words of encouragement – “C-Team for life!!!” as he pointed to his now very old C-Team t-shirt.

His rallies of support soon turned to cries of warning as Phil was the first to show signs of getting up. Phil put one hand on the cage and dragged himself up, more than climbed. As he reached halfway up the one side, he lost his grip and collapsed back into the ring. Now it was Chris’ turn to get up, but instead of climbing he went to the door. But Colin Gear wasn’t there to open it, so Chris couldn’t get out. He turned too late to see an approaching Phil, but he ducked and rammed Phil head-first into the side of the steel.

Chris turned his attention to the climb and began doing that very thing, but his energy was spent. Chris slumped against the cage, barely able to hold himself on, as Phil clambered back to his feet and began to climb towards Chris. Phil tried to pull Chris back down, but Chris had other ideas and fought back. Phil climbed up to the same height as Chris, but Chris rammed Phil’s head into the cage yet again, sending the flying Scotsman to the mat.

Phil wasn’t to be denied however and got almost straight back to his feet, the throbbing pain in his head unimportant. Phil reached Chris again who hadn’t made any progress from his previous position, and Phil got a good hold of both of his legs and yanked him straight down.

Phil pulled Chris up and Irish whipped him into the ropes, but the pair of them once again had the same idea and bent over to go for a back body drop, but instead they ran head-first into each other.

The blow impacted Chris more than Phil, who got up first, and went to the door. But Colin Gear was still collecting his wits outside so Phil couldn’t escape through it. He turned his attention to climbing, which he promptly did in the corner where the door was. Chris pulled himself together and staggered after Phil, climbing up just behind him. Phil sat in the corner to try and swing one leg over, and was shocked to see Chris coming after him. It was too late to kick Chris away, and Chris knew it, so he applied a front face lock to Phil and the crowd noise level increased dramatically as they all guessed what was to happen next.

Five seconds later both men were lying on their backs again thanks to an outrageous superplex from the top of the cage. Minutes passed as the two of them lay motionless. Colin Gear finally got back to his feet and glared across the ring at Joe Soap on the other side, who returned the look. Colin began shouting encouragement to his man, so Joe did the same.

Amazingly, it was Phil who moved first. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. Standing over Chris who was also showing signs of life, Phil sneered as a great idea entered his head. He grabbed both of Chris’ feet and crossed his legs over. Then he turned Chris over and shoved his knee into the nape of Chris’ neck. The ultimate irony – Phil was using Chris’ Reality Check against him.

The pain brought Chris back to his senses. He obviously knew this hold inside out, as he reached back and grabbed one of Phil’s heels. Using all the strength he could muster, Chris pulled on Phil’s foot, and Phil fell over and released the hold. Using the moment of surprise, Chris applied a makeshift version of the move himself, but couldn’t keep it on for very long.

He dropped to his knees and went to the door, but changed his mind when he remembered Colin Gear was manning it. He went to climb the cage, but Phil returned to his feet and knocked Chris down from behind, into the corner with the door. Colin Gear reached through the cage and grabbed both of Chris’ arms, holding him down. Phil ran as quickly as he could towards the opposite side of the cage and began to climb. He reached the top as Chris shouted obscenities at both him and Colin Gear. Phil swung both legs over and instead of climbing down, he let go.

The crowd roared in approval as Phil Atken landed. But he didn’t land on the floor – he landed on Joe Soap’s shoulders. As Phil fought to get off Joe, Joe held on to his legs and kept him in place beside the cage. Colin Gear didn’t know what to do so let go of Chris and went for the steel folding chair the ring announcer was sitting on at ring-side. Chris went straight up the side of the cage and grabbed a handful of Phil’s hair, and pulled him back into the ring, off of Joe’s shoulders.

Joe turned round to take some praise from the crowd, but the only thing he got to soak up was a chair-shot to the skull from his old IWC nemesis, Colin Gear. Colin welted Joe with it again, and then threw it up over the side of the cage and into the ring.

Much to Colin’s dismay, it fell at the feet of Chris Messiah who had been standing glaring at Phil Atken, who was returning the look. Chris reached down and grabbed the chair. He swung back, and the impact of steel on head occurred. On a side note, it didn’t occur thanks to Chris hitting Phil, it happened thanks to Phil super-kicking the chair into Chris’ face, and opening up a major gash. Chris crumbled to the mat and the chair went flying over his head and landed to the side of him. Phil went to run for the door which was once again manned by Colin Gear, but in his haste he tripped over Chris’ outstretched foot, and landed head-first onto the chair.

Both men pushed themselves up at the same time. Phil slowly made his way towards the door, inch by inch, as Chris dragged himself up the side of the cage, inch by inch. Colin Gear opened the door and reached in to grab Phil just as Chris reached the summit. Colin took a hold of Phil’s arms and pulled him straight out and onto the floor, as Chris decided that 15 feet wasn’t a very big drop after all, and threw himself off the top of the cage.

The bell rang and the arena erupted. What a match! But who had won?

Colin Gear pushed the near-unconscious Atken off of him and sprinted towards the ring announcer before the other referee got there. He whispered in the ring announcer’s ear, who began to declare the winner.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the winner of this match…

“And NEW thReat International champion, Phil Atken!!! Chris Messiah must retire from wrestling with immediate effect!”

Atken’s music began to play, as Colin snatched the belt from the timekeeper and took it over to Phil. However, the other referee chased after Colin and began arguing with him. Colin kept shaking his head as the other referee nodded his. Joe Soap pulled the fallen Messiah back to his feet and helped him round to where all the commotion was occurring. The second referee stopped arguing with Gear and walked over to the ring announcer, shouting something to him.

The ring announcer shrugged his shoulders and put the microphone to his lips again.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the winner of this match…

“And STILL thReat International champion, Chris Messiah!!! Phil Atken must retire from wrestling with immediate effect!”

Now it was Colin’s turn to throw a fit as Chris’ music played, and the messy Atken joined in, holding on to the championship belt. A brawl almost erupted with Phil and Colin screaming at Chris, Joe, and the other referee. The crowd had no idea what was going on but they loved every second of it.

The noise was broken by the sound of music. No, not the movie - William Laguna with a troubled look on his face emerged from the back. He walked briskly up to the throng of people and told them all to stop shouting at one another. He took the microphone from the ring announcer and addressed everybody in the building.

“This is quite the pickle we have ourselves here. Hopefully the following replays will clear up who has won this match, and who has lost their career…”

The ACW big screen showed a wide shot of both competitors. There was Phil, being dragged out the door, and there was Chris, falling from the top of the cage. The angle was too far away however to be conclusive. Another shot was shown of just Phil’s feet touching the ground wasn’t much help. A third of Chris landing back-first didn’t reveal anything other than a nasty bump. Fourthly and finally however, a good picture was shown. After the clip showed, Laguna gazed at the screen as it turned black and continued to do so for a few seconds afterwards.

He turned back to Phil and Chris, and began to speak.

“I think that it’s very clear from that last image who is the champion, and who has lost their job tonight…”

Half of the crowd began cheering for Atken; the other half for Messiah. It didn’t matter that the two of them hadn’t been the most fan-favourite of wrestlers in the past, because that was one hell of a match.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this match has ended in a DRAW, therefore here are your new thReat International champions, Chris Messiah AND Phil Atken!”

The crowd went ballistic, but the ACW owner was not finished.

“However, due to the contracts signed by both competitors prior to tonight’s match – which stated that if either man failed to win, that man would have to retire with immediate effect – both men must now retire from active professional wrestling!”

That didn’t go down too well with anybody. Even Laguna looked upset. Perhaps the most exciting match in wrestling history had just occurred and this was a terrible way in which to conclude it.

Atken’s mouth gaped open, as Messiah stood in stunned silence. Was it really over? Surely not?

Joe asked Laguna if he was being serious, and a nod of the head indicated that he was deadly serious. Laguna turned and slowly trudged away, leaving Atken and Messiah looking at each other, dejectedly.

The crowd were booing the decision, but the contract was binding. Both men were finished. It was all over.

Messiah moved closer to Atken, who did the same. Both men were looking into each other’s eyes with an intensity unseen before in this or any other wrestling ring. Then, perhaps the most unexpected thing anybody could ever imagine happened, as both men kissed for what seemed like an age. I’m lying. Actually, they both held out their hand to the other at the same time. They paused momentarily to judge if the other was being serious, and then they did it. They shook hands, and the crowd lifted the roof right off of the arena. They released their grips and the two of them began walking towards the aisle, as the cage began to rise from the ring.

Joe Soap walked beside Chris, and Colin Gear walked beside Phil. The crowd chanted their names as they slowly reached the top of the aisle. Colin and Joe went through first, but before Atken and Messiah passed through the curtain, they both turned around and gazed thoughtfully at the fans. Phil offered one strap of the title belt to Chris, which he took, and the two of them simultaneously raised the belt above their heads, and their other arms up in the air.

The moment soon passed, and they both turned and walked together through the curtain, disappearing from the squared circle forevermore. After their greatest performances in a match ever, they would never again step foot inside a wrestling ring. The curtain came down on two of the most colourful careers ever in fake professional wrestling. They would be missed, that’s for sure.

So long. 

Winner > DRAW - BOTH MEN MUST NOW LEAVE ACW

Three men stood in William Laguna's office.

William Laguna.

The ACW Champion, Alias.

The Former ACW Champion, SilverHAWK.

Some would say the three most powerful men in the federation itself...

Laguna stood between Alias and HAWK. He didn't believe that they would explode, and if they did he wouldn't be able to do anything, but this was a sign that he was ready to do what he had to.

"I am going to do something different here, and give you both a chance to enter a stipulation into the equation..."

Laguna waited for one of the two to give their points forward, but glances were the only thing that were exchanged between the two.

"I know mine," said HAWK. "I want the match in that."

He pointed to the ring, through Laguna's box seat window.

"I want it in that cage."

Laguna turned around to look out at the cage which had just been used in the scorpion title match between Atken and Messiah, to which both had subsequently been fired.

"We just used that for another match HAWK."

"I don't care."

"Give him the cage, Laguna."

The Champion finally spoke.

"What I want, is this..."

Alias took a step forward, pushing Laguna out of the way with very little resistance.

"When I win...it will go in your contract that you will never be able to challenge for the ACW title ever again, you hear me? Never. Again."

The odds had been stacked again SilverHAWK...this match meant more than a broken friendship.

The possible future of ACWs two top stars was on the line.

CAGE MATCH
Alias (c) Vs. SilverHAWK

Same old story?

Far from it.

Revival; ACWs first major PPV TV event since coming back from liquidation was marred as the main event ended with a clash of heads, and the reluctant champion dropping his belt to the worthy former owner, but the repercussions of that clash were so severe, that for the upcoming weeks, SilverHAWK was in complete darkness, under temporary blindness.

Once again, it was deemed that his career was over. Such a career which had been littered with belt runs, memorable feuds, and the admiration of a federations fan base, however, once again, it seemed that SilverHAWK had other things in mind.

Last week, SilverHAWK turned his fans against him, once again, as he tricked Alias into believing that he still had his condition, and subsequently, left Alias in a heap on the Courage canvas after a brutal breakDOWN.

And now...the final battle will commence.

This is it.

No rematches.

No draws.

The winner, is the first one to touch the floor.

"Come on, although ya try to discredit
Ya still never read it
The needle, I'll thread it
Radically poetic
Standin' with the fury that they had in '66
And like E-Double I'm mad"

W A K E   U P

R A G E   A G A I N S T   T H E   M A C H I N E

S  I  L  V  E  R  H  A  W  K

"Still knee-deep in the system's shit
Hoover, he was a body remover
I'll give ya a dose
But it can never come close
To the rage built up inside of me
Fist in the air, in the land of hypocrisy"

It was really a fitting song title, as the fans had literally woken up to SilverHAWK's antics and were telling him so, as the whole arena burst into spurs of booing and jeering.

They had had enough of him.

Bottles, posters, garbage and even a lighter was thrown at SilverHAWK, which changed his slow and cocky walk down the isle to a jog, as he tried to get to safety, in the ring of all places, as he looked up at the cage above.

It was exactly what he wanted.

Nothing fancy.

Old School to the core.

A single cage.

Four steel walls would decide the fate of two men.

“Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and faith”

The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil”.

“And I was 'round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate”

An image, silhouetted as it was, faded into view on the Tron. What could be made out from the black silhouetted frame was sharply spiked hair, still long enough to awkwardly jut out here and there. Of course, the easiest thing to pick out from the black silhouette was the bright orange burning ember that hung, smoldering, from the man’s cigarette. For a moment the shot was of this image, a quick drag before…

The video feed skipped forward, to the rhythm of the music, and the burning embers of the man’s cigarette had already been flicked away to hit the ground behind him. With that the entire concrete ground work on the video is lit up in an arching letter, an anarchy A, that filled up the screen. While at the same moment…

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

“Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game”

Pyros exploded on either side of the ramp, three times, simultaneously… as the man who all this was for, quickly made his entrance as he ran down the ramp and slid forward into the ring.

“The Original Pulp Hero” Alias.

The Champion.

Both men now stood face to face.

Noise Level: ^^^^^^^^^^

Alias ripped the belt off of his waist and tossed it to the referee, without taking his eyes off the "challenger", and then it came down. The lights flickered as moody music played softly in the background, all to breate the atmosphere.

Two men standing in the center of the ring nose to nose.

A cage slowly lowering from the ceiling.

10,000 strong begging for blood.

"So how is the neck Alias?"

"Better than your fucked up knees."

Alias was in no mood for chit chat it seemed.

"Ah...low blow, so are we gonna give these cunts a Kodak moment then."

"Seems like it."

"Not talking much tonight Tin?"

"Don't fancy talking."

"Ahh...always the superstar eh."

The cage was just above their heads when SilverHAWK called over to one of the referees.

"GET TWO CHAIRS IN HERE."

His order was obeyed.

"Can't have a match without some weapons Chris."

"Totally agree."

The cage was now clamped into the ring posts, as SilverHAWK and Alias still stood in the middle of the ring, talking trash.

"So how's life Chris? Mine has brightened up recently."

"It's about to get very dark."

strong right hand by alias.

the bell rings.

Showtime.

SilverHAWK staggered back from the shot by Alias and before he could even think about retaliation the champion laid into him with another which sent him reeling back into the ropes, with the cage wall behind him. Alias tugged the arm of his long time friend and whipped him to the opposite side, before launching himself into the air for a dropkick which connected with HAWKs temple.

Noise Level: ^ x INFINITY.

The cage slowly rose as Alias stood on the outside of the ring looking in at his challenger, as SilverHAWK rolled himself into the corner of the ring, his back still breaking.

Alias slid in as the cage kept going to the skylights...as he looked down at HAWK, they both knew this chapter in ACWs history was now over, and it was a young Chris Sheffield who had come out on top of the most heated friendship gone wrong in ACW history.

SilverHAWK kept still as he watched the champion loft the belt in the air to his fans.

He was now the rightful champion.

No matter where else he figured.

Alias was ACW.

Winner > ALIAS

Ghosts Revealed

'Sympathy For The Devil' by the Rolling Stones once again filled the ears of the fans in attendance as the ACW World Champion, Alias fended off his arch nemesis, SilverHAWK. The champ stood tall and proudly in the ring holding his ACW World Heavyweight Title high for the fans to see. They cheered their champion with all there might for the person he was and for the performance he put on in that ring.

This was his night, wasn’t it? 

All the shit with Ravnos, with the past, with… SilverHAWK, it was done.

Even with the weight of the world and his past surrounding him, life was good.

But all good things must come to an end.

DARKNESS

The fans in attendance, Alias and even SilverHAWK wondered what was going on, it was the same song and dance as last week’s Courage… though Alias expected Hawk to disappear behind those curtains on his own, though begrudgingly, and not with… well… this. The ACW-tron lit up with a graveyard. You saw the boots of a man walking through the graves trying to reach his destination. Suddenly a voice boomed from the tron.

“Alias, did you think it would be that easy last week. With all the hell that you and I have been through, did you think I was going to let you one up me. No, Chris it doesn’t work that way.”

The figure kept walking toward an unmarked headstone as Alias, Chris Sheffield… the Original Pulp Hero and the fans watched intently.

“This headstone is for you Chris. This will mark an end to your legacy. A place where you soul will rest. Ravnos owns your Chris and today is the beginning of your downfall.”

The camera panned up to the man’s masked face.

“The many battles and wars we have been through will pale in comparison to what I have planned for you Chris. I’m not the rider on the pale horse, I’m not Death… oh no, you aren’t tuning into the mutha fuckin’ greatest, though some may argue that point… that and the fact that I’m not the 21st century ratings draw… but I am… the reason you’re here tonight Chris…

And I’ll be your end.”

The lights slowly turned back on, and the masked man’s face on the ACWtron went to static, but now… the figure with a mask was standing behind Alias with a steel chair in hand. Still, he did notice… and even the raucous crowd trying to warn there Pulp Hero was drowned out by the images now flicking on the screen. Alias was lost in the moment. This past… his past, now oh so prevalent. 

Footage, on the ACWtron, of Ravnos diving from the ring and through a table… onto Alias, but then a which flash of a redish-brown haired man shoving a chair down across another man’s skull.

Flickering images… past, raging battles against Ravnos… everything from the Alias shoving Ravnos’s bald head through the side window of a limo, to the tiger suplex off the top rope that ended the best of seven, with the win for Ravnos. However… they came to a stop, a corner starting to fade… and then quickly burning the rest of it away. As if a projector had been responsible for this little show for ol’ Alias before breaking down. What was left after this burn though… was one image… three initials… and no doubt.

Alias’s eyes went wide with shock, anger and surprise… before he turned around only to be nailed with a vicious chair shot to the forehead. The man stood overtop of Alias with the bloodied chair raised high in the air.

This man was definitely not the same build as Ravnos, though not small… he was more Alias’s size as compared to the pale WWRPG heavyweight. He was smaller but the fans didn’t care because he was jeered anyway for disgracing their champion, and doing so, so underhandedly. The man grabbed a microphone from the ring announcer and stood over the bloodied and dazed Alias.

He tore off his mask…

Ladies and Gentlemen, again for the first time.



…



…


‘SUPERSTAR’ VINCE JACOBS

The boos were deafening now as Jacobs dropped the chair to the mat and picked up the ACW World Title and held it high in the air.

"Did you think you could duck me forever? Pounded and Fused only proved that we’d always be joined… until one fell… and didn’t get the fuck up. I told you I would come to ACW if need be, to fuck you up. Guess what Chris, the nightmare continues. THE RATINGS GRABBER IS BACK IN THE ACW, MOTHERFUCKERS!!”

Well shit, there goes the neighborhood. Worried about that brave new ACW anymore, Chris?

“Chris, Chris, Chris….. You are getting easier and easier to manipulate. I mean I dug up information about your past with Ravnos and then hired some nobody to play him just to get under your skin. And to my surprise it worked. You where always to fucking haunted, old friend. Smart people would learn not to make so many damn enemies. I am tired of you ducking me in fWo, too. This is how much I care to <I>end</I> you though… I know it’s a big place and you have other commitments to tSC and ACW, so I decided to come here, back where it all fuckin’ began, to see if I could get your attention.”

Jacobs raised Alias’ bloodied head off the mat and looked into his face.

“I hope I got your attention now.”

Jacobs dropped Alias’ head back to the mat and slammed the ACW World Title on his chest as he rolled out of the ring flipping of the fans in the process. 

One thing’s for sure this heated rivalry between these two men will never end until someone was dead.

… and damnit, it’d likely be televised too.

You’ll enjoy this too, ya blood hungry sons of bitches… cause so will Chris and Vince.

ACW is in for another long ride.

fin