Previously - Just read the damn show.

SRON RECAP :: ON THE ROAD TO LEGENDS
ACW UNITED STATES CHAMPIONSHIP
Alias © versus Violence Jack

Ladies and Gentlemen, on the Road to Legends, a Ready or Not Recap…

Those first three days after Courage 79, was when it began…

The last thing I see, the night of Courage 79, was the grinning face of Violence Jack.

The first three days, after that, are a blur.

Which is to be expected, I suppose.

My eyes are hazy, and there’s a copper taste lasing my mouth. Even with all of this, though, I still have the urge to just scream out at the top of my lungs. “FUCK YOU!” Why?

Because I know they’re there.

Why else would I be suspended in god-damned chains like this. Crucified in metal and air. Lapsing in and out of consciousness. They aren’t letting me sleep, though. Nah, that’d be to easy. If I look like I’m about sleep… Tully comes from the corner of my eye, book of the Black Wisdom in hand, and cracks me in the head with it. Well the head, or the ribs. He doesn’t want me out of it completely, after all.

It feels like a god-damned phonebook, that book of Black Wisdom, by the way.

They won’t let me sleep.

On the third day, Violence Jack came out of the shadows. Bald head shrouded under a hood, and his scarred and tattooed body covered by a cloak. He held one of those symbols, those symbols of ‘the Old Ones’ or whomever the hell they where. I couldn’t quite see his face… by I knew it was him. I knew it was him, from that grin.

“They aren’t looking for you, you know?”

That fuckin’ grin.

“And why should they? You’re not even supposed to be around for the next few weeks. It’s a wonderful opportunity for the Sect, that lies there in. You realize, Sheffield… Alias… that this has been planned for weeks?”

We weren’t even quite sure if you where still as ‘advertised’, not after your little tryst with Keller and Jacobs. End Game proved otherwise, though, didn’t it? The storied warrior of ACW, makes his return and the screaming masses cheer. Then the clincher came when you confronted Hemlocke and Hound. You remember that, don’t you? Showed your true colors… you aren’t like this new breed of faces in your fed, oh no, you still believe that ACW means more then you do. That you’ll be proven better… if IT succeeds.

You are… symbolic, Mr. Sheffield. A pillar for ACW.

Which will make you’re allegiance to MY cause… that much more detrimental to ACW.”

I’d rather not…

Screaming.

And not a sound was made… because the thing that was screaming… was the mind of the Pulp Original.

He was being electrocuted.

Talk about what happened after that…

Alias had been broken down. Finally. So on the fifth day… it was time to rebuild.

“You represent ACW, Sheffield.” Violence Jack’s voice could once again be heard. “Open your eyes and look at me, what I am about to say is entirely important to you… especially you.”

Alias’s eyes cracked open, tired but not pained by any harsh lights… no, he was surrounded by candle-light. He tried to shift his arms… his legs, but found they where shackled down. More specifically they where locked down, onto the steel table to currently found himself lying down across.

Alias opened his eyes completely, and took in the full scope of the room now. Not so much the scope, even, as it was the décor that you might expect from the Sect of Black Wisdom… but the notable thing about the room… was who in the room.

Everyone.

It was no longer just Violence Jack and his right hand man, Horance Tully. Now Hemlocke was there… even Ethan Knight was there for this special occasion… and then there was Hound. Alias wondered why exactly Hound wasn’t the only one watching him. Father Shannahan, as they called him, started to speak once again.

“You represent ACW. More then anyone.

It’s past.

It’s glory.” VJ curled his lip in disgust. “It’s hubris.”

But if I didn’t talk about why we find ourselves here, with this match, this war to come… then hell… we wouldn’t have this war on our hands, would we?

People surrounded Alias’s prone body.

The air in the small, but still expansive room, set for a moment… all was as quiet as it had been before. Except for the rasp for Alias’s breathing. Then as VJ raised his hand, eyes still set on the words inside the book, Hound reached to a table beside him and grabbed a device, sliding it over Alias’s head as a way to forcibly keep his eyes open.

Then the chanting began. Tully and Knight read from the parchment, words unknown in any national or dead languages, the words of the Old Ones. That’s when VJ began to speak, and while he speak he procured an object from the deep sleeves of his black cloak. Little was Alias fully aware, as he wasn’t fully aware of many things at the moment even, but Violence Jack… was set to do some very harsh hypnosis on him.

“Betrothed in the darkness, blessed are we, the damned…”

Chris Sheffield convulsed, the start of his world collapsing on itself, his imagination and memories coming to life… dancing. Blacking in and out of reality, he finally came back to the world he knew for the last five days. Violence Jack’s face.

“Her name is Issabella Sheffield… and his name is Kelly Sheffield…”

I know he’s going to try and fuck with me again… because as much as I know, the names that I… that I know. The family he took away from me, well you know what that’s like… he’ll have the Sect. Not to far away.

“You ‘re all that ACW represents and all that can be taken from it, because though you’re a powerful symbol… you’re at a very weak point in your life, aren’t you? Left wanting, left searching for who you are. After all these mind games you’ve been put through recently, and all the abuse you’ve taken… even more then usual for you… you’re… easy to be taken advantage of. You’ve been searching for a new identity, I know, I’ve been watching… and instead of watching you drift back into some sort of Pulp Hero life, once again… the Sect…

Will give you the world.” Alias wanted to thrash around, show some fight, but the fight wasn’t there anymore. It was evident from his bloodied and burnt white shirt… that he had been through to much since the night of Courage 79, to fight. Violence Jack continued… with that grin.

“You will be but a weapon of mine, and of the Old Ones, and you… will be content.”

He’ll try whatever he tried the first time. Man, he’ll try it again. And I’ll let him. Let him try.

Everything… everything burnt away, burnt down. Jack’s face contorting into something wholly unfamiliar… yet in another second, familiar. Charles Dunn? Nothing was right, nothing was right… and then everything… everything felt perfect.

Alias no longer felt pain.

No longer felt grief for the actions he had done. Because… they had never happened.

His past no longer haunted him.

Violence Jack rose his other hand to the height of the first. Hound removed the contraption from over Alias head, and Alias’s eyes flittered, blinking so as to wet his dry eyes. A tear rolled down the side of his face.

“… and Great Cthulhu rose from his undersea temple to revel again.”

Violence Jack swept the book up from Hemlocke’s hands and slammed it shut. Alias flinched, blinking at those around him, this scene, at first hazed until his eyes set… on that one man. Shannahan. Hemlocke took the book from VJ once more, and stepped back along with everyone else… leaving the Pariah Saint with Alias.

Jack leaned forward… and whispered only one word to the man he held capture for what seems like ages, but was in reality less then a week.

“Azathoth.”

… and Alias’s world went white, with a giant flash.

“And that‘s where I come in, Sheffield? War?”

“From what I learnt seeing you at End Game first hand… for the first time in a while, you aren’t entirely against war. Now we didn’t get to get at each other, like we talked about earlier that night… but it looked like VJ got to you.” Alias continued, flatly, as if he where straight business at that moment. Which made sense… with the business the man he was talking to, had behind him.

This man, unseen by anyone else, replied. He sounded monolithic, if not in size, then in scope. The scope of this man’s personality was huge. “You’ll get to me if you start that. Then you’ll have more then just Jacko’s cult there to worry about.” The man shifted the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Nice piece of tin you got on your shoulder there, though.”

Alias looked over at ACW’s US title that rested on his shoulder… “You know… it’s the last thing, let alone good thing, that I remember out of this fuckin’ month. I gotta say I admire it too. Hate having to beat the piss out of the generation I taught, to get it…”

“We all have to.”

Alias glanced back at the man in shadows beneath the Gorilla position. And paused.

“I suppose so.” He then heard the bongos play. “And that’s my cue…” Alias glanced once more to the man in the shadows. “I would have mentioned something about your belt too… but you decided not to bring it. Must have made you stand out a bit to much.”

A distant amused chuckle was heard, knowing just why that last comment sounded so… absurd.

“Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones

“The Original Pulp Hero”… yeah, Hero, Alias came out to the Staples Center crowd. His arms weren’t stretched out high, his chin wasn’t high. He was set in his own spirit. Eyes blazing towards the ring.

Violence Jack awaited… alone.

For now.

The Pariah Saint had made his entrance as Alias had caught up with… a very bad man, in his own right.

Bad man, but a good friend. When it came to facing the Sect, you needed good friends to watch out for you. Alias was low on good friends. Since breakOUT, he was still recovering the effects. Violence Jack had almost ruined his rebuilding, and recovering. Kicked it all to shit.

Alias strode confidently towards the ring. Fans cheering the United States Champion, and even the legacy and the former Champion of the belt, the man who had defeated God’s Forgotten Son earlier in the night, just as much as they cheered the idea of Alias… a reformed Alias. Alright, so they didn’t just cheer… they roared. This was Cali, by the by. South Cali, but still Alias’s home state… the west was how Alias was won, and they loved him in kind.

Though again, it almost wasn’t like that.

If Violence Jack had had things differently. Well, it wouldn’t have been like that.

A week prior to the Alias and Kelly Flawless United States Championship match… retrofitting Alias’s mind to that of a content follower, had been blown to hell. Straight to hell, because of one Kelly Flawless.

And not to save his United States title from a “mind controlled” Tin Angel, oh no, Jack thought as he sneered and the fans cheered, Alias entering the ring… Kelly had freed Alias… used the word. He had to have heard the word to free Alias… because Alias, was a friend.

Friendship. Fuck it. Friends aren’t obedient. Friends aren’t followers.

For Violence Jack the, as it where, still confident and set “Bringer of the Black Gospel”… wasn’t done with Alias.

He wasn’t done with ACW.

This was the FIRST step. Not the last. He wouldn’t have been funded, supplied by all the information needed, by a certain someone… to not fully follow through with what was set for the Sect.

He would rule. And if Alias wasn’t set to hand that United States title to him, he’d now have to take it.

One word at a time.

Alias stepped towards Violence Jack the title belt still on his shoulder, and Violence Jack stepped towards Alias, an unsurprising air of holier then thou around him. The ref held his hand out for the US title, and as he did, Violence Jack leaned forward towards Alias… and whispered…

“Azath--”

Before, of course, being punched in the throat by The Original Pulp.

The referee took a few steps back, surprised. The crowd was surprised too for a well, though then again, this was Jack… so it was certainly excepted… and veeery much enjoyed. The US title had fallen to the mat, so the ref scooped it up as Alias pounced forward at VJ, as Violence Jack clutched at his throat.

No words left said tonight, I suppose. Except from the ref, who through the belt to the outside as he called for the bell.

DING. DING. DING.

Alias immediately fired a stiff backhand to Violence Jack’s face. The Pariah Saint staggered back a step coughing from the punch prior, then charged, tackling Alias to the mat with a strength that belied his size disadvantage. Firing away lefts and rights, he has the upper hand for a few moments before Alias rolled them over, his hands firmly around Father Shannahan’s throat. Ignoring warnings from the referee, Alias picked VJ up by the neck, roughly standing him to his feet, and tossing him backwards into the corner, coming in immediately with a knee to the midsection. He then whipped VJ to the opposite corner, charging almost immediately.

Jack wasn’t there when he got there. Not how Alias was expecting him, atleast. He had caught himself before hitting the top turnbuckle chest first, and instinct told him where Alias was coming from. He grabbed hold and jumped, blindly kicking back, catching Alias with a powerful dropkick to the face. Alias’s head jerked back, but he didn’t go down. VJ, turning, ran at him with a powerful flying clothesline, dropping the infamous tough as nails bastard to the mat.

Violence Jack wasted no time in climbing to his feet and dropping an elbow on Alias’s chest. And another. And a third. He picked Alias up and hit a harsh and heavy sambo drop, crunching his head and upper back into the mat. Hooking the leg, VJ tried for a pinfall.

ONE!

TWO!

NO! Jack stood up once again, and stood up Alias, before slingshotting himself off the far ropes. On his way back, however, Alias dropped to the mat and caught him in a drop toe hold. Barely getting his hands up to protect his face from the impact, VJ was momentarily stunned. Alias wasted no time in grabbing his foot in both hands and applying an ankle lock submission move.

AL-I-AS!

AL-I-AS!

AL-I-AS!

The fans were on their feet, chanting Alias on… raring for there reborn Pulp Hero to rip off Jack‘s ankle. Father Shannahan followed a different bible though evidently, as he was able to catch his free foot squarely in Alias’s groin. Obviously stunned, Alias released the hold and was vulnerable to VJ hooking his head and dropping him with a DDT. Jack then bent down to pick Alias up once more but was once again on the receiving end of yet another punch to the throat.

Evidently, he was NOT talking tonight.

The Tin Angel rolled to his feet and then rolled Violence Jack down to the ground with a swinging neck breaker. If he was lucky, Alias thought, he would break VJ’s neck. If not, atleast he’d be in a bad enough place to go down like a brick shithouse to the A-BOMB… as most as want to do. Alias then grabbed the Violence One by the leg and synched in a bitch of a submission. After stepping over, and locking the face that is. Yes, that’s right, Alias now had VJ in an STF. And he wasn’t exactly locking his face as much as… well…

As much as Alias was using this time to choke the life out of Violence Jack.

The referee of the match, Monet Samuel, though giving him more then enough time, afterall, soon forced him to break the hold or pay the consequences. Alias obliged and Violence Jack rolled to the outside and rolled his neck due to the deadly grip that clenched around his neck. With Alias bent over in an athletic stance and waving for VJ to come into the ring. VJ rolled his neck once more and popped back up to the ring apron.

Alias stood there and waited for him to step on into the ring. So… Violence Jack did what any ever-loving sadist would. He hopped back down to the floor and ushered to the entrance way. VJ wanted to take this fight to the big wide open area of steel and cement.

It was Pulp Rules afterall… so there wasn’t any rules.

Alias looked at the entrance, then at Violence Jack.

He knew what VJ had possibly around the bend, with the Sect.

Alias nodded and smiled, as Jack walked down the aisle way and back towards the entrance.

Did VJ know what Alias had around the next bend though?

Monet sighed, and followed both the masochistic warriors to the entrance area. Where chaos would inevitably ensue. But first… they’d start things up with a collar and elbow.

Go figure, so much violence up till now… and Alias and Violence Jack decide to go civil in an inevitable bloodbath.

Violence Jack turned around, his neck throbbing and his eyes sunk in, staring at Alias. Alias stepped into VJ, pain on the mind. All kinds o’ pain.

Alias quickly snuck out of the lock up and kicked VJ in the back of the knee cap which caused him to clasp his knee but he managed to stay on his feet. Alias than quickly caught VJ’s head and slammed him hard to the steelramp with a DDT, causing a cut to open on the top of his bald head. With VJ on his stomach, Alias dug both of his knees into the back of the Pariah Saint.

With one arm wrapped around the neck of Violence Jack and the other around his legs, Alias simply rolled on to his back and slightly lifted VJ off the unforgiving steel and held him there. With Violence Jack having that slight strength advantage, something that few men his size had over Alias, he was able to remove the arm of the Pulp Hero from around the waist and than kick his legs to squirm free before any real damage could be done.

Past the body parts being smashed into steel and cement juuuust before the submission attempt.

VJ made some circular motions with his shoulders as he waited for Alias to move in. Alias moved in quickly, but was met with a front kick to the gut and than was thrown into the makeshift ACW video wall with an Irish whip. Father Shannahan, however, used this as a breather so Alias was allowed to stand back to his own two feet under his own power after slumping haggardly against the video screens.

As Alias made his way back over to Violence Jack, he was hit with a drop toe hold and VJ pounced to his feet and connected with a double foot stomp to his back, Alias was yanked to his feet and pushed back into the video wall with a shove, where VJ then whipped him 360 back into the wall, causing the structure to crack.

Peeling the US Champion off the video screen, VJ looked to give him a short-armed cloth line. However he telegraphed it as Alias was able to slip underneath VJ’s rocketing forearm and thrust up with a European uppercut. Alias then went right into a single leg takedown to the Pariah Saint’s left knee. Alias immediately went into a figure-four position but remained standing, a variation of the figure four.

VJ screamed in pain and Monet Samuel was there to ask if Violence Jack was ready to submit. VJ shook his head and mouthed, “Not while the Old Ones supply me with the power to prevail.” Yeah… he was freaky all the time like that. With the pain really starting to end and VJ fighting to both try and get out of the hold and keep his shoulders off the ground, in this falls count anywhere enviornment, which just so happened to be both on the ground.

One.

That was all, just a one count. But anyways as VJ easily powered back up, the Tin Angel leaned back and fell to the mat, now with the figure four completely locked in. VJ had already had enough fun in the manoeuvre for long enough while Alias was standing, so he decided to turn the move over, just so what the man he tried to make his Pulp Puppet, if you will, could see exactly what he was missing. Alias punched at VJ’s leg, which now sat at the top of this entanglement, as the Pulp Hero groaned in pain.

*STATIC*

First the picture came back on, black and white, the match had skipped forward to what looked to be near the end. Both men where looking tired as all hell. Battered and bruised. They had put each other through hell. They had travelled to the ring once more, before brawling back up the steel ramp.

Alias had almost toppled off the side of the entrance. Twice.

Blood had been shed from both men. No question of that fact after the color came back to the picture. A lot of blood had been shed.

*CRACKLE*

The sound was back. VJ’s voice screaming into the audible rang of the camera, and with it was also brought the roar of the Staples Center crowd.

“It was a VERY untimely mistake that you made, Alias! You could have been part of a GREAT thing, in the Sect. Part of the sum of all parts which I control for the Great Cthulhu!” Violence Jack was straddling Alias and banging his head into the steel grate with his hands wrapped firmly around his throat, almost what looked like a bloody halo lay atop Jack’s head.

Alias rolled back and kicked his feet up, trying to free himself of Jack’s current rage on, and succeeding in at least toppling head over heels off of the Pulp Hero as both men then rolled to there feet. Honestly Alias’s was more like a roll to one knee, then to both feet, but who’s keeping score on details. Though the detail to be noted was the blood dripping down from between Alias’s eyes. The Pulp Hero wiped away the trickle before it obscured his vision and wiped it on his pants.

Violence Jack didn’t lung forward towards Alias though, continuing the battle. No instead he stood there almost in front of the entrance. The raspy breath heaving his bruised chest up and down, while the rest of his body kept relatively still. Until his lip started to curl up into a grin…

Fore onto the Pariah Saint came a couple o’ angels.

Actually scratch that.

Horance Tully and… Hound.

Are. Not. Angels.

See how adamant I am about that last part, with the separating words with punctuation and all.

Almost immediately after the other two-thirds of VJ’s ‘entourage’ entered from backstage, save for Hemlocke, The Sect rushed Alias. Sweeping his legs out from under him and reigning fists into his head and chest. This had almost become a routine situation between Alias and the men of the Black Wisdom… and he suuuure wasn’t liking that shit.

Alias shot up his feet towards Tully and Hound, catching both bigger men in the stomach, which gave the Pulp Hero time to roll to his feet. He’d think about the pain he was in later. Now he had to worry about survival.

Speaking of which… chances of THAT where cut down when Violence Jack quickly followed Alias to his feet and recoiled a hard knee into his stomach. He then spit in his face before shoving his back down. Alias rolled to his feet though, the son of a bitch that he was… he HAD just gotten spit in the face, so he had came back to his feet with an extra fire in his eye. The two-time World Champion and current US Champion lunged towards Jack and rushed him forward, pushing him into Tully.

Bouncing VJ into Tully left Alias open to Hound, however, which more or less gave the big bastard of a Dog of War the opportunity to German suplex the Original Pulp back and into the steel entrance way with a roaring thud. To a collective groan and then thunderous jears from the Staples Center crowd.

Violence Jack sauntered over to Alias… who now lay semi-conscious on the stage, on his back. Kneeling beside the war torn Pulp Original, Jack grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head off the ground, so to better hear what he had to say.

“Something you never learnt, Alias, was the strength in numbers… when HE told me all the things I needed to know, when giving you your perfect world… he told me one thing that I already knew about you. You’re never going to be able to keep an ally, are you? To much of a self-made martyr, loner and nomad… Jacobs, Sharp, even that Randalls fellow hate you. Almasy and Rook Black can’t trust. Even the fans don’t know what to make of you. Everyone ends up carrying a certain distain for you… don’t th--” Hound and Tully where slowly advancing on Alias as VJ spoke to him, ready to tear into him again when Jack let them. ACW’s United States Championship was as good as Violence Jack’s.

Love live the King of the Indies.

Except with a rasp, gritting through his teeth, Alias cut off VJ’s last word. “You might have your Sect, your lackeys, but you underestimated me on one thing, fucker. I DO have one thing you’ll never have. Friends.”

Alias let out a harsh chuckle. “And they’re right behind you.”

Kelly Flawless rushed in from the back, eliciting booming cheers, getting past Tully and Hound before they could react… and grabbing VJ off of the Pulp Hero before planting him INTO the video screens. Flawless was here… because Alias taught him everything he knew… including the most important lesson of all when he took the US title from him on the Courage before this Ready or Not PPV. Flawless… was not about to let VJ walk away with that US title, when he’d much rather have a rematch with a man he still respects.

Tully stepped forward to grab Flawless, but his head was grabbed from behind and bulldogged down into the steel entrance grates by none other then…

Firebrand.

The Pulp Hero had lent him a helping hand against SVJ and the Darkness when no one else would, and they had even WON that match. Alias’s first tag match win within ACW. Now, with Firebrand’s beef with SVJ and Darkness settled with his win earlier tonight… he was helping Alias even the score. Returning the favour.

As the ex-US Champion, Flawless, fought the current challenger, Violence Jack, and Firebrand continued with advantage, wailing away on Horance Tully… Hound stood there surveying the chaos, wondering if he should join in.

Then he looked down at Alias’s still prone and semi-lurid state. And decided instead, to take advantage of that. Bringing Alias to his feet, he sent him down to his knees with a stiff forearm shot to the back of his neck. Bringing him back up to standing he did it again. Hound, by all appearances, was enjoying him. By all appearances. He then grasped Alias around his chest with both arms, tucking his head between his legs.

Firebrand took his attention off of Tully to keep Hound from, you know, breaking the Pulp Hero. Horance used this break in concentration however to grab Firebrand by the arm and whip him through the curtains and backstage. Tully looked around to check the current situations, and then chased after Firebrand.

Was Hound going to power bomb the Pulp Hero into the steel of the entrance way?

The crowd let out an excited roar mixed with a worried gasp. Sorry, did I say worried? I meant shocked. Shocked gasp.

Why shock?

The shock came from the big and meaty arm that was now choking Hound from behind, a big and meaty arm that was even bigger and meatier then Hound’s. It appeared that Alias did in fact even have an even number for the Sect’s Dog of War to watch his back.

KODIAK VIC CREED

KVC had returned with ACW.

As he chocked out Hound, who had been hella caught off guard and wasn’t enjoying it one bit, KVC looked down at Alias. Another fWo Hardcore title match was around the bend, so this was definitely getting him into that Creed ‘Tear Arms Off’, kind of mood. Which also could be a nod to the roids, yes, sure. "Now, I'm either getting paid for this... or you owe me a round or two in the ring, Sheffield. Hopefully those black lunges of yours can hold your chest together."

"That'll all come down to how rich I'm feeling in the morning, ya black hearted bastard." Alias replied with a cough and a grin.

"The blackest, don‘t you forget." Creed was saying back to the now kneeling Pulp Hero, before Hound started elbowing away at KVC’s side to release himself from the chokehold. Five heavy turns into the ribs, and Creed actually let go. Though after letting go the Alaskan Kodiak was ready with a right hand to the back of Hound’s skull.

Speaking of Alaskans… Kelly Flawless gave one more boot to the side of VJ, who now was lying against the video wall, he had over powered the extremely fatigued Sect leader, and Flawless looked over at KVC. Kind words where not traded the last time these two… ‘chatted’.

Luckily before Kodiak locked eyes with Flawless, Hound punched him back in the head, with a left across his cheek. The Kodiak smiled at the heavy handed reply from the Dog of War. It was go time. After thunderous blows back and forth, and two eventually tumbled into the backstage entrance that now lay behind Hound. KVC forcing him back, back, back… and out of sight.

As KVC disappeared from sight, Flawless broke his stare in his direction and looked over at Alias who was down on one knee. Kelly walked over to the Pulp Hero.

“You going to stand up, or are you going to make me help you stand up, Chris.”

“You can help me stand… when I help you stand.” Alias grunted back, though the grimace that lay upon his face turned into a genuine smile for a moment. “Alright, Kelly?”

Flawless grinned. Looked away from Alias and started walking to the back, leaving Alias with Violence Jack. The playing field level once again. “Deal.”

Alias finally made it onto two legs, and stumbled over to Violence Jack. He stood the Bishop of Brutality up to his feet, but was quickly pushed away. Taking a few steps away from, Violence Jack in the process, so when the Pariah Saint tried to follow up this push with a punch, all he got was air. Squinting through the blood, Jack knew he had to get closer, and end this son of a bitch.

Right here… right now.

"Azathoth."

The Pariah Saint smiled, blood caked onto his face, and for a moment Alias's world stood still.

...

Then Alias smiled back at Violence Jack. "You know how something like a joke can be killed with over use, motherfucker? Well, I'm about to kill violence, Jack."

Shocked and furious, Violence Jack closed the gap. Alias was waiting, however. The United States Champ grabbed the overly eager challenger, the man that tried to turn him into a one man army for the Sect, and spun him up and over in a tilt-a-whirl. PILEDRIVER.

A-BOMB

Emphatic. Cathartic. Ready or Not, Alias was walking out of here with a Championship still around his waist.

And Los Angeles didn’t just like it, they loved it.

ONE!

TWO!

That’s when Kelly Flawless stumbled back into view, from backstage, slowing Monet Samuel’s count with the interruption, but not entirely disrupting it.

THREE!

And Kelly Flawless fell to the entrance steel ramp, with the third count. Alias was STILL US Champion… but what had happened to Flawless? Alias stumbled up over to him, forgoing having his hand raised or his title handed to him. He didn’t need to do any of that just yet.

“Kelly… Kelly.”

“Kelly is in the same place you’re about to be. The black, Chris.”

Alias looked up and he saw Vince Jacobs step out from the entrance.

Already in mid-swing with a Louisville Slugger.

…

The last thing Alias’d see would be Monet holding the US title in shock and horror.

The last thing he’d hear would be Vince’s footsteps beside his head, almost echoing inside the roaring boos of the crowd.

Alias and SVJ wouldn’t be seen in the two weeks after Ready or Not. Why, was about to be explained… right now.

Legends… where coming to an end, and it looked like it was going to happen… at Legends.

If they made it through the rest of Courage 84, that is.

And it was all going… so well.

Winner > Alias via pinfall; STILL ACW United States Champion

High Tension.

Could that be because said magestic quality does not exist? ... Ah, that's not for me or anyone else to say. What matters though is that Lowell cares about the championship belt he holds. He's added a great deal of prestige to it, winning several key matches over the last three or four months. Would anyone ever forget his war with Craig Miles? Lowell surely would not. He has a permanent scar, that looks like a Madonna beauty mark, in the upper-left corner of his mouth. At first he was horrified to look in the mirror, but he has since grown on him. What's good enough for Madonna, is good enough for Lowell.

Did I mention that back in the late-80s Lowell regularly fucked Madonna in the ass? He did. No lube either. Bitch liked it that way. Lowell, not so much. Hurt his dick muchly. But what're you gonna do? Complain? It's Madonna- fuck! Lowell wasn't the Shillin' Villain yet and he wasn't as handsome as he is now. You know how awkward adolesence is. Pimples and whatnot. Lowell has his fair share. His schoolmates used to call him "Fucky McZitface" and throw erasers at him as he sat in on choir practice.

Bastards.

Still, to this day, whenever he comes in contact with chalk dust, he breaks out. Thankfully makeup tends to do the trick. Concealor is the bestest thing since frozen yogurt, and LDC, well... he would have sex with frozen yogurt if it was considered socially acceptable, and/or if he knew for certain no one would ever find out.

That kind of thing can ruin a person.

Max Danger? Yeah, he bounced back, but for a while there he was quite the social pariah. Now the whole "donut on his dick" obsession has been replaced by an unhealthy affinity for kids. The skeletons in his closet are many, and chances are... between the ages of three and eleven.

*Shakes head*

Backstage, the Czar of Cashflow wore a mile-wide smile on his face, carrying on his shoulder the Pepsi endorsed Scorpio Championship. Last week he'd defended it successfully against God's Forgotten Son. No wonder God forgot about him, he's a loser. He can't win. It's like: "Whoops! Lost again! I tried to win this time -- like everytime -- but I didn't. Why? Well! I must be a bare-backing faggot dick-licker. I heart cum on my lip. It gives me a warm sensation in my loins. Like Christmas morning when daddy would set the bottomless stocking on his lap and I would fondle his penis! Yes yes! I am THAT gay!"

Oh well. Where's Coral Avalon when you need him? Is he still laying down for every piece of male ass that sports a pair of tights? No? He's racking up a load of victories, is he? Weird. Maybe there is hope for you, GFS... Okay, maybe not, but keep dreaming! -- Take a swing by your local park or public gardens and toss a couple pennies in the fountain, then wish- wish that you were as successful as Lowell Dot Com!

Okay now stop being a fag and go slit your wrists! You'll never be Lowell! Lowell is Lowell and Lowell isn't going to stop being Lowell anytime soon, ya dig?'

Enter Jimmy Cain, fresh out of the shower, Patrick Bateman hairdo sopping wet and hanging down in straggily clumps over his eyes and ears. He looked rather psychotic, wired on, like, ten Red Eyes with double shots of espresso, and heroin -- heroin was a big part of the equation.

He had a syringe stuck in his ar--Okaaay, it fell out, good! The FCC wouldn't like that one bit, and neither would, you know, the police.

The Jimmy was clad in black kahkis and a black "I FUCKING HATE INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA!" t-shirt. He crossed his arms and stood, blocking the Champ's path.

Lowell hiked up the belt and patted Cain on the chest, smiling, looking very friendly and happy to see him, which he wasn't, and hadn't been at all lately with how Jimmy had been acting. He was always... eyeing... the Scorpio Title, like he wanted it or something. Heh, whatever!

"Lowell," the Jimmy said. He scratched the side of his head, near his temple, thinking. "You know, I've been thinking... You've been defending that belt against everyone whether they desvere it or not, so why not defend it against someone who has been there for you every step of the way in your championship reign? Why not defend it against... me?"

The Webmaster looked like Steve Carrell, who plays Michael on The Office, as he scrunched up his face, clasped his jaw shut, started to nod but quickly switch to shaking his head in a "no" fashion. "Yeaaaahnooo... I can't do it, man, I can't wrestle you. -- You and I, we're friends, best friends even! I don't think it'd be right for us to just throw that away over a title! You don't want this ol' thing anyways do ya? You'd much rather have that worthless pile of crap US Championship or the WORLD! Stomping Keller's ugly mug in sound like fun to you? I can set it up! I've got "connections" around here."

Jimmy stared a hole through Lowell. He looked as though he was going to say something, but instead turned, and marched off down the hall.

SINGLES MATCH
"The Aviator" Avis Flyfield versus Rory Hayes

“Jerk it Out” by The Caesars played and Rory Hayes came out to a mixed reaction from the crowd. He rolled into the ring, stared down the ref, and stretched in the corner as he waited for his opponent. Hayes tried to do his best to make transitions between both entrances happen as fast as possible. He loved to fight… and any showboating would just take more time away from that.

“Learn to Fly” by the Foo Fighters hit, which meant Avis Flyfield was coming out. The crowd cheered. Flyfield’s highflying abilities gave him face status over Rory Hayes… who was just a prototypical brawler. Flyfield jumped out from behind the curtain as he caught Rory Hayes staring right at him. Flyfield wasted no time as he walked down the ramp, rolled into the ring, and was instantly attacked with an axe handle smash to the side of his ribs.

The bell rang. Hayes picked Flyfield up and whipped him across the ring and into the ropes. Flyfield shot off the ropes quickly. Even in a defensive position he was very fast… maybe a little too fast for Hayes’ right hand as Flyfield ducked it, turned Hayes around, and kicked him square in the gut. Rory stumbled backwards… into the corner as he collected his breath. Flyfield made sure Hayes was not able to completely recover as he walked over to him and whipped him into the turnbuckle across the way. Whack. Hayes’ body met the top buckle with a lot of velocity. He shot back out to the middle of the ring… catching a spinning heel kick from Flyfield.

Hayes hit the mat hard. Avis looked at the referee. And he went for a quick pin.

One.

T-

Kickout.

It was worth a shot, anyway, thought Flyfield. A wrestler like Hayes never went for quick covers… so it was a good idea to try and catch him off guard. Flyfield lifted Hayes off the matting, and whipped him back down with a snap neck takeover. He then applied a sleeper hold. Not really Avis’ game, here… but figuring Hayes would fight out of it (and he did), Rory whipped Flyfield into the ropes and looked for knee to the gut.

Flyfield locked his arms around the top rope, stopping his momentum as Hayes looked stunned. Then ‘The Aviator’ took off.

He jumped off the second rope, and nailed Rory Hayes with a flying clothesline. The crowd cheered as Flyfield shot to his feet, picked up Hayes and whipped him into a snap suplex.

Flyfield held on.

Another snap suplex.

With the crowd cheering… Avis Flyfield went for one more.

Three snap suplexes. And a quick pin.

One…

Two…

Kickout.

Flyfield nodded. He looked at the referee (for no other reason than just to make eye contact with him)… as he went back to Hayes, and sent him off the ropes. Whack. A dropkick. Nicely executed… and Avis Flyfield was in complete control of this one. Rory Hayes was not out of it, though, but as he struggled to get to his feet… he looked pretty frustrated. He was a brawler. He was looking forward to beating Avis Flyfield up. Instead he wasn’t doing that. Instead he was getting beat, by quick, finesse moves. That was not his style.

Flyfield ran at him.

WHAM.

Shoulder block.

That was Rory Hayes’ style.

Hayes smiled as he lifted Flyfield up on his feet. He measured him out, and then gave him three quick Kurt Angle-like uppercuts that backed Flyfield in the corner. Hayes took Avis’ arm… and hurled him with all of his might into the turnbuckle across the way.

Thud.

Hayes smiled. “Feels good doesn’t it?”

He went back to Flyfield… who wasn’t moving a muscle on the mat. Hayes picked him up and scoop slammed him back down for good measure.

Now he was going to work Avis Flyfield.

Whack. A kick to his back.

Slam. A boot to his face.

Thud. A knee to his balls.

The ref yelled at Hayes. He warned him of being disqualified next time he tried to pull something like that off again.

Hayes just nodded, as he rested Avis’ right leg on the bottom rope… and crashed his weight down upon it.

Taking the legs right out of Flyfield’s arsenal… was pretty much crippling all the moves Avis’ talent had to offer.

Another pounding to the right leg of Flyfield. And he was just screaming in pain now. The ref continued to plead with Hayes to get him away from the ropes… but Hayes only listened after he did it a few more times.

Flyfield curled up into a ball when Rory stopped. Clutching his right knee for all it was worth… it was like Hayes had already won. Even if ‘The Aviator’ was going to recover, he was going to have to beat Rory Hayes at his game now.

Hayes looked down at his muscles.

That was not going to happen.

Hayes lifted Flyfield to his feet. It was time to play Avis’ game for a minute. He whipped him into a suplex position… but instead of hitting a snap suplex, Rory hung Flyfield’s limp body out in the air for a good ten seconds before slamming him back down to the mat. Hayes was a few inches shorter than Avis… but a hell of a lot stronger and bigger. The move had taken nothing out of Rory. If anything… it made him feel that much more powerful. He grabbed Flyfield’s body again… and whipped him up into another slow motion suplex.

Wham.

Hayes smiled. He’d do it one more time.

Wham.

Hayes looked at the referee. He wasn’t too sure what to do next. Flyfield wasn’t a terrific wrestler. This match was more than likely over if Hayes was to pin him… but where was the fun in that? The match was scheduled for fifteen minutes… and it had only been five… maybe six or seven minutes by now.

Hayes waited for Flyfield to get up… even if it was at a very slow pace.

Hayes hit the ropes.

Avis saw him coming, but there was really nothing he could do. Flyfield tried to jump… but he could hardly put any weight on his right knee. He tried to move… but it was like his body was jetlagged. He couldn’t do a thing… except stand there and hope the punishment wouldn’t feel as bad as it looked.

Hayes’ arm went red, from the impact that sent Flyfield into the ropes and out of the ring. A clothesline from hell was kind of an understatement… although sending his opponent back five feet and over the top rope… well… what else could you really call it?

Flyfield didn’t move. The referee counted to the projected number of ten… but that wasn’t good enough for Rory Hayes. He slipped out of the ring at the seven count, and picked up Flyfield as he rolled him back into the ring.

Hayes followed suit, turning Flyfield on his back and dropping down for the three count.

One.

Two.

Reversed!

One.

Two.

Kickout.

But only a short two was reached. Avis’ legs were too weak to keep Hayes’ feet locked within his… although a much stronger Flyfield would have had this match won, since Rory had no idea what the hell just happened. He was still trying to figure it out on the mat afterwards.

Flyfield did nothing. This gave him some time to recover… but time was at a minimum, and Rory Hayes knew it.

Brushing off the shock of almost losing this match, Hayes picked Flyfield up, and hung him up to dry in a diving DDT. Flyfield was right out of it again. And this match was over.

Hayes signaled for the ‘Purple Hayes’… picking up Avis one final time and looking to connect with the brain buster. He moved to the middle of the ring… but Flyfield somehow slipped right out of it. A stunned Hayes yet again turned around to find him… but Avis shot off the ropes with a dropkick straight into Hayes’ knee.

Hayes fell, and Flyfield screamed in pain as he clutched his right leg. It was still bothering him immensely. But he knew he had to get it together right now if he wanted to fight back. Flyfield fought to get to the bottom of the ropes. He then used all three sets as a third leg… while trying to get back to a vertical position.

He saw Hayes laying there, about to get up too… but with no need for the ropes. Flyfield nodded to himself. He sucked back the pain, and went for it.

SMACK.

A dropkick straight into Rory Hayes’ face.

It was all Avis could do. Hayes was in the right position, at the right height… because there was no way Flyfield could elevate himself any higher than that.

Flyfield limped over to the corner of the ring. Hayes was down and Flyfield knew he only had one chance at keeping him there. It was all or nothing now. Using the power in his arms, Flyfield lifted himself up on the top rope. He sat there, first, struggling with his mind to build up enough courage to try and balance himself on top.

Using everything Avis had left, Flyfield stood… ready to take off.

He had to hurry, since he could feel his right knee giving out from under him.

He went for his finisher.

He went for the frog splash.

SMACK.

Hayes rolled out of the way.

Flyfield was out now. All Hayes had to do was pick himself up off the mat… and cover Avis for the victory. And Rory didn’t even have to go that fast. ‘The Aviator’ had used everything he had left, to try and connect with his finisher titled ‘Birds of Prey’.

Hayes made sure he knew where he was before he stood, as he looked into the crowd, and signaled the end.

He slowly picked up Flyfield.

He nailed him with the brain buster, ‘Purple Hayes’.

One.

Two.

Three.

And “Jerk it Out” played on the airwaves, as Hayes took his time before rolling onto his back. The ref checked on both men, pointing towards Hayes as the announcer declared him the winner… and Courage faded away from the ring… and into the backstage area.

Winner > Rory Hayes via pinfall

Call-Ups.

It was a pretty big office… at least bigger than the rooms Silver Hawk normally got at each weekly event. However it was rather bare, and Hawk’s dark black leather chair currently wasn’t occupied. This gave the man time to unwind, as he seemed really tense. His hands were wrapped up inside the base of his coat, as the arms of his teal and white Columbia jacket dangled in a circular motion towards the bottom of the floor.

Just then the door opened up and in walked the ACW Owner Silver Hawk, completely unaware of his surroundings yet. Hawk was talking to another employee as he walked backwards into his office and closed the door behind him.

“Uh, hi sir.” Said the man, which startled Hawk, but he was in too much of a relaxed state to actually show any emotion. Hawk turned and narrowed his eyes on the rather tall man standing in the very left-hand corner of his room.

“Um hello.” He said, walking over to his desk, placing his marketing books on top of it and taking a seat in his squeaking leather chair. “Do you mind coming over here?”

The man nodded, and walked slowly in front of the owner, almost as if he was being pushed from behind to do so.

Hawk stuck out his hand, as normal newcomers, regardless if Silver Hawk liked them or not, would get to properly meet the owner upon arrival.

The man struggled to put his hands back through the sleeves of his coat, as he seemingly shook with fright at the sight of Silver Hawk’s hand.

Unsuccessful at putting his hands through his sleeves, did the man undo the zipper and just slip the coat off as it fell on the floor. Hawk raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t the cleanest floor in the world and a white coat like that could get awfully dirty just sitting there. But it wasn’t his problem anyway.

“I know you.” He stated, looking down at his binder and opening it up.

“Um yes.” Said Iceman, as the camera focused a little better on him and the former PIW superstar (he was no true superstar actually, more like the PIW jobber) finally stuck out his hand to meet Silver Hawk’s.

“I’ve already met you.” Hawk said, withdrawing his hand as Iceman pulled his hand back too, only to hope Silver Hawk never saw it there in the first place.

“What brings you here?” Hawk said. “Did my minor league crew send you back up to me?”

Iceman nodded. “I learned a few good moves. I started performing a lot better. I think I am ready for the big-time.” Iceman was hesitant of each word he spoke, as it was evident Silver Hawk had better things to do. Iceman just stood there, his eyes locked on Hawk as he made some calculations and then looked back up from his desk.

“Okay.” He replied. “I just want you to know that we’re trying our best to expand our roster right now.” Iceman nodded. “So the chance for some real success is there.” Iceman nodded. “But it’s going to take hard work and you do understand where your roots are, right? So that might not really help you…” Iceman nodded. “But listen, we have a few… um… what I like to say… ‘losers’ kicking around that definitely aren’t going anywhere in this business so you can start with them.”

Iceman was clearly nervous and knew he was in a position where he shouldn’t say anything. But the thought of fighting another jobber was not what he wanted to do.

“The Loser?” Iceman asked, in a more distinctive tone.

“Yes, the Loser.” Silver Hawk replied sharply. “I know you’ve fought him before… but you’ve also lost to him. In fact I don’t think you’ve beat him yet.“ Hawk paused. “But I don’t really remember and I don’t really care either.” He said, looking up at Iceman, as his emphasis on the word “care” made sure of no rebuttal from the former PIW wrestler. “You were here three months ago, kid…” Silver Hawk went on. “So take this as a new start. You fight The Loser tonight, you beat The Loser tonight, and then we’ll find you someone else.”

Iceman nodded.

“Also we’re in the market for viewers. We wand to expand our audience. That said, I know you two aren’t the most insightful wrestlers out there.” Hawk took a bite of his pen. “So to cover-up any poor wrestling abilities you guys have, I’m going to make this a no holds barred grudge match. A spot-fest. You know, help you out as much as I can.”

Iceman nodded.

“But you’ve got a long way to go, kid. I’m telling you, you’ve got a long way to go.” Hawk went back to his paperwork. “Your past isn’t really the most inviting thing in the world. You’re going to have to prove you’re a real wrestler now.”

Iceman nodded.

Hawk scribbled some thoughts down on his papers.

Meanwhile Iceman just stood there, not knowing what to do.

Hawk continued to write, before finishing with another sheet of paper as he looked back up at Iceman, very slowly. “You can go now.” He almost demanded.

Iceman’s body jolted. “Yes. Oh. Right. Sorry. Okay. Yes.” He turned around and quickly scampered out of Silver Hawk’s office… leaving his coat still sitting there on the floor.

Hawk leaned over his desk to take a look. He shrugged. He went back to his papers. “Not my problem"

GRUDGE MATCH
Scott Rojas versus Calypso

'Shadow Stabbing' by Cake

Enter: Scott Rojas.

Ried: "Schelduled Match coming up here folks. Scott Rojas once against take on Calypso. Last time he faced this very same man as Sars the Clown....will the result be different?"

Lipton: "I certainly hope so."

"Unlikelihood" by Luna Sea

Ried: "And out comes Calypso...foregoing his usually tom-foolery and jumping right into the mix with Scott Rojas. He's all business."

Lipton: " And now they're looking to lock up here."

The men circled each other, Rojas particularly on the defensive seeing as how he once faced and was defeated by this very man. Taking inititive- Rojas goes for the lock up but Calypso slithers behind and counters with a simple hammerlock. With hammerlock still in place Calypso kicks Roja in the wrist and back- Rojas stumbles forward and turns around right in three rapid kicks to the thigh- a thumb to the eye- a boot to the midsection- and Calypso hits the ropes and comes back looking to drop a leg across the back of Rojas' neck.

But Scott stood up at the last second, grabbing Calypso's leg and locking him in an Argentine Leg Lock. Calypso flails, panics and tries to squirm his way out through Rojas's legs. Rojas smiles and sits on Calypso's back synching in a half crab. Calypso pounded the mat in agony, struggling now that the brunt of Rojas's weight was in the small of his back.

Reid: "Looks like Calypso is in biiiig trouble."

Lipton: "If he was smart he'd quit now."

Calypso- his face red from strain- somehow crawled across the ring to the ropes. Rojas let go and turned around to grab at the downed gypsy's legs- Calypso desperately kicked out and got Rojas in the knee. Calypso thought this would be his chance to get back to a vertical base- but Rojas smashed the fuck out of those plans with a clubbing blow to the top of his head.

Reid: "Oh, o-ouch!"

Lipton: "Roja's follows up with several knees to the chest....hard whip into the ropes."

Calypso is sent charging across the ring, hits the ropes, then charges back towards Rojas...

Lipton: "Oh, here we go....!!!"

Reid: "SINGLE LEG SPINE BUSTER!!!"

Rojas vaults back up, the roar of the crowd in his ears. He was confident now that he could handle the ex-clown.

"Get up!" Rojas yells. Calypso struggles to his feet....boot to the midsection...

Lipton: "He's going for a powerbomb....."

....but the moment Calypso was lifted above the bigger man's head, he began raining punches onto the top of Rojas' head and the side of his neck.

Ried: "Now he focusing on his shoulders. He's really laying into him."

Lipton: "He's trying to reinjure Scott's torn clavicle!! Just drop him on his head, Scott!"

But Scott couldn't take the brunt of the assault and started tetering back towards the ropes....

Ried: "Calypso is going to attempt an huricanrana....no wait~~!!"

Instead the gypsy wraps himself around Roja's left arm and dangles over the ropes, locking in an hanging armbar.

Lipton: "Normally, I prefer to hate on Calypso. But he set up that armbar with the punches to the neck. Wise move on his part."

Ried: "Well, that's what happens. You come in too confident and then you start making mistakes. Calypso is either very smart or very lucky."

Eventually the ref started bitching and Calypso let go of the hold, but made sure to keep a firm grasp on Scott's wrist. Through the ropes the gypsy kneed Rojas in the ribs and set him for a suplex.

"He's gonna suplex him to the outside!"

"There's no way...Rojas is too big."

For a moment it seemed that Calypso would send Rojas crashing to the outside...but of course Rojas' weight started to factor in....and Calypso was well on his way to a counter-suplex. Rojas grunted and suddenly Calypso was lifted over his head.

"Rojas looking for a brainbuster......NO!"

Calypso flips the rest of the over his back and immediately charges for the ropes and slingshots himself back towards Rojas.

"Rojas better turn around..."

"...leaping head scissors..."

Calypso's legs land on Rojas' shoulders and the gypsy using the momentuam to huricanrana Rojas' out of the ring! The crowd suddenly on their feet- winced when back of his neck grazed the apron and his body hit the floor with a sick thud. The mindless fans started to chant, but Calypso was already moving into another offensive sequence. Suddenly he was perching like a swan on the top rope.

The gypsy then leapt off, his body completely horizontal, twisting, twisting, 360, 540, crash

Reid: "OH! Twisting cross body...right on top of Rojas' head!"

Once again: Rojas was flat on his back and Calypso was up on the apron- poised for another attack.

Scott Rojas got to his feet in a daze- the moment he turned around Calypso was running along the apron. Rojas threw his guard up but it was too late: SHINING GYPSY FROM THE APRON

His knee left a crater in Rojas' temple.

Lipton: "Oh man! Rojas looks like his eyes are rolling back into his head!"

After hovering in punchdrunk limbo, Rojas finally collapsed to the ground. Calypso quickly rolled into the ring and back out again- breaking the 20 count. Rojas- against his own better judgement- started to struggle to his feet.

Reid: "Wow! Rojas is just out of it. He should not be on his feet right now."

...and Rojas walks right into a CALYPSO DDT

Lipton: "Oh, shit!"

Rojas's head slammed into the floor, the impact sounding like something heavy and dead being dropped onto something hard and unforgiving.

And now he was bleeding.

Reid: "Rojas is dead!! This match should be stopped! Look at him!"

Lipton: "Why doesn't the ref DO SOMETHING!?"

The best the ref could do was speed up his 20 count. But Calypso was already rolling the flaccid, lifeless corpse of Scott Rojas back into the ring. Rojas lay on his stomach, not breathing, not moving, but still bleeding. The crowd was near silent, wondering if this was a part of some elaborate act. The ref ran over to Rojas and checked his pulse. Meanwhile Calypso climbed up onto the apron, his hands testing the top rope.

Lipton: "I think Rojas probably has a concussion. Looks like the ref is going to stop this match. Thank God. "

Reid: "Not if Calypso has any say........"

Calypso turned to the camera and motioned a belt across his waist: No doubt the ACW world championship and no doubt a threat to Almasy and Keller.

Lipton: "He isn't....."

Calypso jumped from the top rope and flawlessly contorted his body into a shooting star press.

Reid: "HE USED ALMASY'S ULTIMA!!"

The ref rolled out of the way and Calypso slammed down onto Rojas' back.

Rolled over, leg hooked, pinned.

The ref gave a quick 3 three count and pushed Calypso off of Rojas- who still did not stir.

Lipton: "Oh man...Rojas looks dead in there."

Reid: "A pre-mature and bloody ending for a hell of a match."

Calypso laughed and mumbled something about competition...

...then he kicked the ref in the chest.

Lipton: "What the hell is he doing!? The match is over!"

Calypso, as if led by logic, waltzed right up to Rojas and hovered over him slapping his bloody face.

Then he began kicking him in the face and head.

...and eventually this assualt morphed into his trademark CALYPSO STOMPS

Lipton: "Oh COME ON!!! This is overkill!!!"

Reid: "Totally uncalled for! Rojas already looks like he's suffering from a concussion and now Calypso is following it up with those damn stomps."

The gypsy's bloodlust was curbed by the tackle of a particularly brave EMT. Calypso squirmed out of the man's grasp and rolled out of the ring- a satisfied smile on his face. He turned to the nearest camera and wiped Rojas' blood on his chest. "That's right! Fucking concussions! Don't fuck with me, Hawk. These are career ending moves, right here motherfucker!"

Calypso then swatted away a flying cup and repeated the phrase: "CAREER ENDING MOVES, MOTHERFUCKER!!"

The gypsy headed up the ramp quite pleased with the mess he left in the ring...

"WAKE UP" by Rage Against the Machine

And out came SilverHawk flanked by 3 EMTs. The four of them flew past Calypso- immediatly sliding into the ring and began working on getting Rojas to a stretcher. SilverHawk- on the other hand- demanded a microphone.

"Oh shit. This should be good." Calypso said.

Winner > Calypso via pinfall

You Lose, You Leave.

"Is this what you call competition, Jules?" SilverHawk screamed. "This is competition? Beating on a defenseless man with a concussion!?"

Calypso shrugged.

"What about Jill?" Hawk continued. "You call backhanding a nice girl like Jill- competition?"

Calypso smiled and nodded.

"Get him a microphone!" SilverHawk yelled. "Answer me, Jules! You didn't come back here for competition and you definately didn't come back to ACW to "just wrestle"...if this is your idea of vengence then you can just get ready to back your bags, son. I will not stand for it."

Even Calypso's sneer was beautiful. "You must be literally the dumbest dicklick this side of gaytown. It's obvious that I'm here for revenge. Why else would I come back? Because I love ACW sooo much? Because I want to please these fans sooo badly?

Fuck these fans.

I hate them and I hate you.

I hate your crusty little beard- frosted over with layers of dried semen. I hate your pathetic "I beat alcoholism, so I'm a tough guy" attitude. I hate your misguided notions of morality and fairness. You're a living turd & menses cocktail. Know what you are, Hawk?

A walking tampon."

The fans were shocked by this verbal bombardment. SilverHawk just grinned. "Is that all you got?"

Calypso put his hand on his chest- the physical gesture of: "How dare you?". The gypsy put the microphone back to his lips. "Yeah it is. This isn't one of your gay bathhouse orgies where you get all the abuse your faggotity submissive heart desires. If I continue raping you with words, you'll end up in the shower at the end of the night sitting in a fetal position and crying...

...like Max Danger did when he accidently choked his girlfriend and had to spend his prom night in prison with 'Cody the Stabby Rapist'."

Calypso began to pace. "Alright, Hawk...

How about we cut a deal? How about this: You stop gaying off and I'll get back to pissing all over your promotion. OK? Cool! That's more than fair."

The crowd responded with an angry jeer. SilverHawk held up a hand to silence them. "No, Calypso, how about this for a deal: From now on, every match you have is a 'you lose, you leave' match.

Which is exactly what it is. If you lose: You leave."

The heads of everyone in the arena collectively turned towards Calypso. The gypsy looked at the people the chuckled. "Ok, and? You think I don't know that I'm not being paid? You think I'm here for the money? I'm here to do exactly what I'm doing now: Make everyone on the roster look like a fucking joke by gaining clinical victory after clinical victory. I'm here to terrorize and demoralize ACW and everything ACW supposedly stands for. But go ahead old man....tell me more...

...if I agree to your little deal...

...what do I get in return?"

SilverHawk smiled. "You've been complaining about Seymour Almasy's and Khristian Keller's main event- then I'll tell you what. You beat everyone I throw at you and you can take Seymour's place at Legends."

Backstage was a very pissed of Almasy. Ringside- shocked fans and in the ring- a slightly less bored Calypso.

"Deal." he snapped. "It sucks: You just lost your main event."

"I sincerely doubt that." Hawk retorted. "Oh...by the way...

Later tonight you're facing Hound."

"So what?" Calypso began to say...but SilverHawk held up a finger.

"...No Disqualification........but not for you."

Calypso scoffed. "Ooooohhh, WOW. No DQ...and only for Hound, right? You're really reaching for that buy-rate aren't you, Hawk? I guess that's why you make the big bucks."

Silverhawk smiled. "Just lace up your boots, junior. And clear out. We've got a *real* wrestler to take care of."

Calypso looked down and sure enough his boots were unlaced. The crowd: Laughing and jeering.

"You'll see, Hawk. You'll get yours." The gypsy spat.

NO HOLDS BARRED
The Loser versus Iceman

Winner > Iceman via pinfall

Reality

Right off the commercial break there was a knock at Silver Hawk’s door. Before he could say anything the door opened. It was Iceman. He stood tall, proud… even a little excited. A drastic change from the Iceman that was in Silver Hawk’s office an hour ago.

“Did you see that?” Iceman asked, pointing to inside the arena. “Did you!?”

Silver Hawk nodded, yet to look up from his papers.

“I just took out The Loser!” Iceman stated again.

“I’m sorry?” Hawk questioned, as if to say he didn’t hear Iceman.

“I just beat The Loser!” Iceman hollered. He was clearly excited now. This meant big things for his career, and he was willing to show just how proud he was.

Hawk looked up. He wasn’t impressed. “Yes you did. Congratulations Iceman, you beat one of our worst jobbers.”

Iceman’s smile slowly faded away, as his body began to slump into a deliberate state.

“You beat a guy who doesn’t even have a dropkick in his arsenal.” Hawk continued, going back to his paperwork as Iceman just stood there.

“But- but I pulled off some great moves!” Iceman argued, standing upright again. “Did you see me reverse that pile driver!!! I bet I broke his neck!!!”

Hawk continued to write. He wasn’t interested in anything Iceman was saying.

“I fought from behind too. Heck… he made me bleed and I still kicked his ass!” Iceman stated. “So can I get a title shot now? Maybe fight Lowell Dot Com at Legends or have a non-title match with Khristen Keller next week on Courage?”

Hawk dropped his pen and looked up. “Listen, kid…” He started, clearly not impressed. “It doesn’t work like that.” Iceman took a step back. “You beat someone I expect anyone to beat. You’re not even close to touching any of these other guys on the roster. You have to prove yourself. Fighting a jobber is NOT proving yourself.”

Iceman nodded. Suddenly he was back in his lethargic state.

“You’ve gotta get more wins under your belt. You have to fight wrestlers that aren’t replicas of you in your PIW days.” Hawk said grudgingly, trying to overemphasize every word to Iceman would get it.

Iceman nodded. “So…” He started up, as he nervously brushed back his short spiky hair. He didn’t need to brush his hair back though. It stood upright and never moved at all. “Just making sure then…” He stuttered, fighting for the words to get out of his mouth. “No title shot right?”

Iceman was hoping for the best.

Silver Hawk didn’t even bother to reply.

Iceman nodded again, as he looked down on the floor and spotted his jacket. What was once a nice white and teal Columbia coat, was now almost black and gray… covered in dirt from those who had entered Silver Hawk’s locker room while Iceman was not there.

“Okay…” He said. “I’ll just pick this up and get out of your way, then.”

Iceman grabbed his jacket quickly, turned around and ran out of the room as fast as he could.

Hawk shook his head as he looked up from his paperwork… and then went back to it.

The Death Of The Spirit... In So Many Words.

SPRING 1995

RIP looked to the mat, Funneral wasn't moving.

"What have I done?"

...

...

"Pin him RIP, quickly."

RIP slowly hovered over Funneral as the referee made the quickest three count in ACW history as EMTs rushed to the scene. RIP stood in the centre of the ring, as the chaos continued as they tried to check on the former Spirit of ACW.

And in the centre of the ring, sat the Spirit of ACW title...gleaming in the lights of the arena and twinkling in the eye of it's beholder.

RIP. Wallace.

Johnny Funneral wasn’t going to die.

That’s what they told Wallace, as the stringy African-american, still stood there wide eyed back stage. Staring at the Spirit, but more importantly staring to nowhere. In shock complete shock. The red and gold mask feeling tight and almost suffocating against his face. The news was, that instead of death, John had the life long use of a catheter to piss to look forward to, as a damn vegetable. The compacting of his neck had paralyzed him. Fully. He couldn’t even breath under his own power.

With life as a vegetable ahead of him, ACW wouldn’t be paying his medical bills either… not that Wallace knew anything about that yet. Not that it affected him. The accident, it hadn’t been his fault. Not fully. He was an under talented comedy character, that had used his good nature and general mellow attitude to become somewhat of a sidekick to Ironsides over the last few years. Unofficial sidekick, friend.

When… the Spirit was given to Funneral… heat was used on camera to set up the match between John and RIP. Though even with actual heat behind the match, the first of any possible heat in Funneral‘s reign, this was inevitably a junk match. Wallace was a supporting character.

“Supplementary talent“ was a nice way of putting how he had been used in the ring. For good reason too. He was sloppy.

That added to Funeral’s problem… more or less made the accident inevitable.

Ethan Winter’s should have known better. Maybe he did.

Funneral was a coke head, and some say that Ethan had joined the party a couple of times even. The fact was that John had thrown away a lot of potential and big push years earlier with drug problems in general, still mostly cocaine, but it had pushed him into more of a journey man status.

ACW had just rehired him in fact. For the second time. An act of good will by Charles Dunn.

John Funneral had snorted up before this Spirit of ACW defence against RIP Wallace.

Which didn’t make RIP feel any better in his current situation. Still, if it where anyones fault… it was both of there’s.

Weeks passed, and RIP “Red Eye” Wallace hadn’t even defended the Spirit of ACW. Several months now. It was March. The “Red Eye” nickname had started floating around the locker room, mostly for the fact that RIP’s formerly goofy-ass was now using weed to mellow himself out. Heeeeavy amounts of hash. The stress of ending a man’s career still boor heavily on his shoulders.

Which explained why he hadn’t even tried fighting anyone since. Dunn and Boyd looked to vacate the title, lighten RIP’s situation. Give him some down time, some help. Winters wouldn’t have any of that though, and used his waiting… pushing more and more. Pressuring RIP to stay Spirit of ACW.

Afterall… his good friend Ironsides had done so much good with it, Winters said, so Wallace must have wanted to follow in his footsteps. Winters had taken to guiding RIP Wallace around with one hand, in fact… and with the other hand, Ethan Winters was keeping Ironsides away from Wallace, and more importantly the Spirit of ACW. The lukewarm reception continued for the Spirit, but less the Spirit and more… it’s champion. Just like Funneral, Wallace was below expectations.

Below hope.

Below reason, for being anything close to a relevant Spirit of ACW.

Spirit indeed.

No, Funneral wouldn’t die.

The Spirit WAS on it’s though… and not just the title itself, but the spirit of all of ACW. It seemed… like it just might.

And RIP Wallace.

The man sat in his New York apartment, memorabilia of days gone by all around him, the traces of the black and red mask in his hand. His lips curled in an angry grimace. He felt like he could scream, and cry even… but no, he had already cried enough about RIP Wallace.

Henry Irwonsen. Ironsides…

He could remember his words to SilverHAWK on New Years Eve. 1994. Eleven years ago. “Somebody has to do something.”

Ironsides would never forget that night. When the Spirit of ACW took it’s second life.

SilverHAWK looked at his old friend, Ironsides. The several years they had spent together building ACW from a regional into something much more… felt like a lifetime as soldiers in war. This meeting was different however, thanks to the group that had joined them backstage. The show wasn’t for another two hours, but SilverHAWK and Ironsides had been joined by a reformed goon, the original ACW alumn, the future of the business (as everyone suspected) and a second generation protégé.

Joe Bishop, Jimmy Gonz, Vince Jacobs and Chris Phoenix, respectively.

Friends, rivals, old enemies, new friends.

They where hear to talk about Ethan Winters… and what he was doing to ACW.

Little did they know that any actual leeway on that front… would take another eight years, all because of the other talk that was happening in the arena. Between one Ethan Winters, and the dying Spirit of ACW; RIP Wallace.

“Do you REALIZE what you’ve done to this title, Rip?” Winters face was one of anger and disgust. He poked at the Spirit of ACW that lay on Hamilton’s shoulder.

Stoned, steeped in paranoia and guilt, RIP was helpless to reply.

The conversation about Winters continued, Phoenix eager for action… though then again, the kid was always ready for a fight. Ironsides quelled his fire with well chosen words, though that wasn’t even to not calm Gonz who had been riled up by the Tin Angel’s words of war. Hawk joined in with Gonz. The fire was burning. Bishop stayed silent though, the former muscle of “The One” Jimmy Reid was waiting for the word from Ironsides.

“I realize what he’s done to the Spirit of ACW, how he’s taken any and all power away from Dunn and Boyd, believe me… I know what’s happened. Still. We can’t put the final nail in this fed, turn it into another CWL after Robbie the fourth got his fingers into something that was at one time a great place. We have to be patient, gentlemen, because if we act now… who knows what might happen.”

If only Ironsides knew… then he might have led the charge.

“Do you have ANY idea what was planned for the Spirit after Ironsides gave it so much prestige, boy? Can that little fried mind of yours even comprehend?! We could have changed the world with Funneral! With others! Instead… it falls into your hands, you steal it away. And… AND I still get asked about that night, stupid questions from stupid people. The Spirit and ACW, this fed that has kept you on the roster as a fucking FAVOR, are getting bad press. Because of YOU! YOU!” Hamilton started to weep, he didn’t know what to do… all these words hit him and hit him and hit him… and eventually, he heard the truth.

Which is exactly what Winters wanted him to hear. A grin slipped across his enraged, and reddened face, but only for a second. Then it disappeared, and Winters turned to leave RIP Hamilton’s locker room. “This is all your fault. That’s all I can say. Just kill yourself and get it over with, why don’t you.”

Those blunt words where the ones that stayed with Hamilton. Which is exactly what Winters wanted him to hear…

Ironsides words quieted the mob mentality that had been growing, and yet ‘The Superstar’ shook his head slightly and smiled to himself. He couldn’t believe how small this situation was in the grand scope of things. How much it didn’t effect HIM… and therefore how much it didn’t interest him. At all. He had come to this clan destine meeting because of Chris, but… if he wasn’t going to get anything out of it, he might as well leave. He was going to rule the world, after all, and he wanted to do it before he turned thirty.

Vince Jacobs, fully disinterested and all together unaffected by this situation (what was so important about the Spirit when he had to World to think about), turned from the group and walked away. Chris turned to follow, but Aaron Jones put a hand on his shoulder. For whatever reason, the Tin Angel had to stay. He just knew it.

There was a slight break in the conversation as they watched SVJ walk in one direction, not seeing the slightly rotund looking backstage tech run towards them from the other, in the hallway they had all situated themselves in. His words where quick and sharp, as he gasped for breath, having ran around the arena’s corridors looking for these men. Ironsides, most of all.

“You’ve gotta get to Hamilton’s locker room quick. Winters said that he was acting, that he was acting violently. Now the rooms locked and we’ve been yelling at him to open it up-- but, but we haven’t gotten any reply.

Something is definitely wrong, Henry.”

Everyone’s eyes went to Ironsides, and he was off like a shot with SilverHAWK soon to follow him and Bishop and Chris soon to follow after.

Ironsides ran. Fast. Something was wrong.

Hamilton. Winters. The Spirit. Alone.

It was the worst combination.

An arena attendant was fumbling with keys at RIP’s locker room door. Having finally been called down to open it when no response came from the Spirit of ACW to open the door.

The door clicked open, finally unlocked, and Ironsides didn’t even break stride as he burst into the room. Only to see…

Blue lips, and tired, bulging eyes… that belonged to RIP Hamilton.

As he hung from the belt around his neck, that was attached to the rafter in the middle of the room.

He had hung himself.

Ironsides stood there in shock at the cusp of the room. SilverHAWK turned away in shock as he made it to the edge of the doorway. Chris Phoenix threw up, the last dead body he had seen… was his mothers. Bishop was comforting Phoenix, more then allowing the situation sink in. Gonz could only be angry. All memories where tragic.

The Spirit of ACW lay six inches from RIP’s feet, as they floated in the air, the title glistened in the locker room light.

The Spirit of ACW had taken it’s second life.

ACW would never be the same. The spring had proven to be the fall of the spirit.

Lowell Meets Coral. Hilarity Ensues.

Good. Not gonna come off just out of the blue. What about you, Mr. Right Wrist? Ah, excellent. Alias would need a crowbar to get you off, huh?

Mind you, that wasn't Coral Avalon's mentality. He's not gonna talk to his body parts like they had minds of their own. His mind and body were both a universal being, capable of ripping out backbreakers and gutbusters quicker than you can say "merciful mother of crap!".

Coral was in his ring gear, but his hooded vest had temporarilly been exchanged with an old black T-shirt that read "Team CGI", which should give you an idea of how dated Coral Avalon's fashion sense really was. I mean, come on, Team CGI was SO five years ago.

Coral was content on keeping his mind focused on his match with Alias later tonight, but unfortunately for him, he was about to cross paths with the most obnoxious human being walking Heat Man's Green Earth.

Lowell Dot Com stood infront of Coral, Scorpio Title around his waist. Not his shoulder, his waist. Having the snaps done up makes it harder for theives to theive his precious Scorpio gold. There were many about, he was sure of it. Gypsies, and I'm not talking about Calypso, I'm talking about REAL gypsies. Gypsies that put voodoo spells on you and dance around all crazy-like!

Lowell didn't want none o' that. He was ALL ABOUT the "keeping his title out of the dirty, grubby hands of wandering miscreants". He hates nomadic people. Why not just buy a house? No belongings? Why the hell not, huh? Got something to hide? Maybe you're in the same boat as Danger and don't want to hold down permanent residence incase the FBI come looking for your computer harddrive. That atleast he could understand.

"Coral," the Notorious LDC began, sizing him up, "you look alot shorter in person. Less of a threat to that which is mine." He gave a nod and continued "sizing him up". "I could definitely beat you in an arm wrestling match. My arms are bigger than yours. Not by much, but enough so that I'm confident I could slam your goddamn fist down to the goddamn table. Hehehe. Makes me infinitely better than you at all aspects of life."

"Lowell," Coral began, himself, not really sizing up Lowell because that would require looking at his face, which Coral found to be ugly beyond all comprehensions of telling it, "I was wrong about your hair before. I thought it was as bad as Garvin's, but now that I see it in person, it looks far worse."

Yeah, Coral wasn't in the mood to deal with Lowell. At all.

Lowell made the "I'm not quite sure who that is, nor do I care" face, and replied, "If by bad you mean good, then yes. My hair is quite bad, and is most definitely worse than whoever-the-hell-that-is."

"Yeah, sure, if you live in Bizarro World," Coral replied with a roll of his eyes, before he added, "And when I said your hair was 'bad', I mean it's the uglier than sin."

"Listen, listen, Coral... BUD! You really, really need to think before you speak. You're talking nonsense. Seriously. All I just heard was random "blah-blah-blah". WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!" he shouted into Coral's ear. "I'm sorry, but if you want me to continue carrying on this conversation you're going to have to a) give me that shirt, because I was an original member of Team CGI in college -- won every damn Unreal Tournament match we ever played, and were ranked number one in the WORLD -- or b) give me the Pepsi I know you just bought from that vending machine over there."

Lowell pointed to a vending machine down the hall. The vending machine happened to sell condoms. WTF?

Coral looked at that vending machine for a few seconds, before he sighed and said to Lowell, "How about we settle for option C... you go away?"

"Option D, I punchesize your FACE!" Lowell snapped back.

Coral blinked, "You'll punche-WHAT my face? Are you making up lame words now?"

"Coral," the Shillin' Villain said, shaking his head, placing his hand on Coral's shoulder, and staring down at his feet. "Your shoes? They're lame. Anything that comes out of my mouth? Not lame. Can't be lame. Can't! You see, I'm what the French call... "tres cool"."

Coral brushed Lowell's hand off of his shoulder, "This is coming from a guy with a dead blue rat on his head."

"This coming from a guy who sleeps in an easily ignitable log cabin, built from broken dreams and lost title matches!

Earth to Lowell: You're not the grandpa off Three Ninjas. It's ain't cool that you shack up with three adolescents and teach them how to "kungfu fight" aka give oral sex. YOU'RE GAY."

Lowell scratched his chin, "Perhaps...", and squinted a little, "Even...", and pondered some more, "Moreso than Danger!"

:-O

"I don't believe anything you say EVER makes sense." Coral said, before he saw a chance and started to walk away, "I dunno why you're imagining scenarios involving people having oral sex with children. Must be a personal problem. I'd look into it if I were you."

"I've got news for you, Coral, the only personal problem I have is knowing how truly great I am! And that's not a problem! So, like, shut up! Or I'll give you a "personal problem" to think about! I'll sic the Commie on you, or KENJAMIN! Kenjamin fights with a rare fury. He's on that Xyience shit! He can run in the desert with a stuffed bag on his shoulder! Deal with THAT!"

Coral, who was some distance from Lowell now, stopped and turned around, "Great. The loser surrounds himself with people who are bigger losers. How come you don't hang out with Flyfield or Nookie Monster, again?"

Coral went back to walking away.

"I surround myself with winners, minus Commie, but he won that essay writing contest fair and square and I'm not going to be the one to tell him how truly ugly and repulsive he is. So he stays, so what? Like you "roll" with Cruise or Pitt or something! You date a fucking dyke! A fucking violin playing dyke! Jimmy told me. Word has it she asked him to do coke lines off his penis, or something, and Jimmy was all "No way, bitch, I ain't sharin'!!" and then woke up, all sweaty... and uuuuuuh--" Lowell blinked. Had he just... exposed his lie?

"You suck at lying." Coral shouted in Lowell's direction, before he had finally gotten to a corner and disappeared behind it, leaving Lowell by himself.

"You suck at living," Lowell shouted in Coral's direction. He took two steps, cupped his mouth, and shouted again, "YOU SUCK AT L-I-V-I-N!"

Lowell hiked up the Scorpio Title. "OoooooooooooFACED...scratchmoded."

Revelations

That was the last time Max Danger felt gold -- or in the case of the Action! Wrestling Bantam Championship, silver -- around his waist. On that night, he stepped inside the steel cage against Keith Scott Zimmerman. And as was the case nearly every time he stepped into the ropes against KSZ -- he lost.

The King of Submission had failed in the three attempts to win a championship in the last two years. So, yeah, he was a might desperate to recapture the feeling of being a champion.

That's why he formed a partnership with Hound.

"Born of a Broken Man" by Rage Against the Machine.

Enter Max Danger.

He strolled to the ring in a pair of nice black dress slacks, a long-sleeve (although the sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms) blue button-up dress shirt, black dress shoes, and sunglasses.

He wasn't dressed for action, to say the least. A first for the Danger Man. He was usually smart, or paranoid whichever way you wanna look at it, enough to appropriately dress just in case things got out of hand.

And things were likely to considering the so-shiny-it-looks-brand-spanking-new piece of metal laying across Max's left shoulder.

The Television Title.

Andy's TV Title.

Smirking, Danger stood in the middle of the ring, looking out at the jeering masses. They weren't too fond of Max walking around with a belt he didn't win.

A microphone was brought to Max. He just stood there soaking in the boos for nearly a minute, before he finally opened his mouth.

"There are a great number of guidelines a Champion must follow, like defending the belt against any and all challengers, always wearing the belt around your waist... everyone knows those. But one little known rule, one of the most important in fact, is one that Andy Sharp completely ignored: a Champion must not take his eyes off his belt under ANY circumstances. Even if he's being lured out of his lockerroom by a three-hundred pound monster in a mask who wants to maim him. You just never know who might steal it."

SMIRK~!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Boo all you'd like, but I'm not the man walking around making a mockery of being the Television Champion. This, taking the belt from Sharp's possession, had to be done to teach the kid a lesson.

"You have to uphold the honor and integrity of the Championship mantel. A Champion is the face of the company he respresents, no matter if he's the World Champion, Tag Team Champion, or the Lion-Fighting Midget Champion of Cambodia!

"And Andy Sharp had to realize this. He needed someone, anyone, to teach him the proper way to respect his role of being a Champion. But since even our World Champion doesn't seem to care one iota about his belt or his company, I took it upon myself to teach him."

Danger adjusted the Television Title on his shoulder before speaking once more.

"I see you sitting there shaking your heads in disgust thinking, 'hey, this guy talks about honor and respect, yet he formed an alliance with Hound to eliminated Andy before Legends, stole the boy's belt, and is proudly walking around with it' and to that I say, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Max walked up to the ropes and looked down at several of the college-aged guys in the front row booing and giving him the finger.

"I formed a partnership with Hound, you're right, and we fully intend to weaken Sharp for Legends. And my motivations may seem simple and selfish on the surface. Let me assure you, this his hardly the case. This is for the good of both Andy and this company. Someone has to step up and take charge. Someone besides Lowell FRICKIN' Dot Com needs to actually seem like they are honored to be a Champion.

"And I've nominated myself to bring this company back to a level of respectability. And it all starts with taking pride in being a gorram Champion!"

Danger threw off his sunglasses and backed away from the ropes. He faced the entrance, bringing the microphone back to his lips.

"That's why, right here and right now, I'm throwing out a challenge. Something I've wanted since he won the belt. But I know I won't get an answer from him directly, so, SilverHAWK, I'm asking you... no, hell, I'm demanding that you not only give me a match with Khristain Keller but you make it for the ACW World Championship!"

But what he was getting was neither Keller to blow him off nor HAWK to agree to his demands. Nope, he was getting, instead,one mighty pissed off Television Champion.

"Bust" by OutKast.

So, was Andy pissed as he made his way out, dressed to compete? Yeah, a little.

The fans went BATSHIT~! and the dyslexic fans went SHITBAT~! as the youngest Television Champion in ACW history (as far as this writer knows, anyway) glared a dagger at Danger. He whipped out a mic.

"CUT THE DAMN MUSIC!" Andy shouted as the monkeys of the production truck did so. This was an Andy not seen in a while fans were witness to. He stared Max up and down before addressing the situation with the tact and grace that the young rookie prodigy had displayed throughout his time in ACW.

“GIMME BACK MY BELT, BITCH!”

…Okay, so he was pissed. He had his belt stolen, can you blame him?

The King of Submission only smiled at young Andy’s plight before he looked at the stolen TV Title belt over his shoulder.

“Finders keepers, kid. Losers…well…you.” Max said with a chuckle that garnered him many boos. “Besides, you don’t deserve this belt, Andy. You don’t have what it takes to hold this belt…heck, last I remember, the ONLY reason you won this belt in the first place was because the RPG retard had a dizzy spell.”

Sure, Sharp was angry. But Danger was right, after all. And when he tried to redeem himself, interference from Khristain Keller had marred what had been an exciting match-up between the two at the last PPV. He paced about before glaring a hole so deep through one of his challengers to the TV Title that if it were possible, Max would have a big burn hole where his black heart was.

“And you think that what you’re doing is any better, Max?” Andy asked him as he started to approach the ring slowly. “I had no control over those events and I’m going to make up for them at Legends. You, you have a choice. You don’t have to do this, but you ARE.

I remember you two years ago. The place was Action! Wrestling. The time was 2003. The world was talking about how a great wrestler named Max Danger helped to usher in an age where wrestling at its finest was pulled up from the primordial ooze of sports entertainment.

I heard the stories of a legend in the making that not only won tag title gold, but held one title for almost two hundred days AND garnered a second one over his shoulder at the same time, defending them both.

He fought the assholeish forces of Wrestling 101, but ended up losing his most prestigious Bantam Title to a guy that couldn’t sell snow to an Eskimo, let alone against bigger people.”

BURN.

“But now look at you, Max.

This isn’t a joke. It’s a damn shame. You’ve gone from King of Submission to King of Backstabbing Whiners! You’re with Hound because you heard he could show you the meaning of Doggy Style!”

Fans laughed and cheered for that blow, but Danger remained undaunted and quite frankly, bored with what this punkass kid had to say as he stood in front of the ring.

“You don’t have to pull this shit, Max. I saw glimpses of that old Max Danger when you took two jackasses in Sonny Silver and Kenjiro Ito in near-consecutive matches…both of them not known for submitting…and you made them both tap so much, they joined the Riverdance troupe. I don’t want to face that Max Danger at Legends. I want THAT one. I want to make the belt that you stole from me into something that people are going to remember, but it’s NOT going to happen because you and dogface are a couple of jerk-offs.”

The tone in Andy’s voice had raised intensely, especially as stared Danger down.

“I don’t care how many people you got in on this little ‘truce,’ Danger. One, ten, a thousand, Osama Bin Laden, The frozen head of Adolf Hitler, You are NOT going to piss on what I worked so hard to achieve in my time here.”

Danged held up a hand to signify that he was quite fed up with this little diatribe of Andy’s, a rapid talking motion. Sharp, however, was not amused.

“Oh, so you think I talk a lot, eh, Max? Well, I agree. We’re DONE talking!”

With a legion of fans in attendance cheering on the young Canadian, he spike the mic to the ground and slid into the ring, but Danger was there to cut him off at the pass as he put the boots to his Legends opponent. He grabbed two handfuls of hair and drove a huge volley of elbow smashes into his face.

Max, in a huff, threw another boot into his gut and whipped him into the ropes, looking for some other move. However, Andy recovered from the assault and drove a HUGE clothesline into his chest, mowing right through the King of Submission. Max sold it like a champion, rolling around on the mat before Andy picked him up. Sharp backed him into the corner and balled up his hand into a fist, smashing it right into Max’s face several times.

“Come on!” Andy screamed as Danger staggered out. He leapt into the air, smacking him in the face with a big leaping sidekick to the jaw. Max fell to the mat, but Andy was there to pull him right back up, holding him in a fireman’s carry, looking for the Sharper Image. The fans were begging for it.

They wanted to see it happen.

They were about to see him get smashed into the mat.

They would boo their collective asses off and—wait, what?

HOUND made his gigantic presence felt when he drove a BIG forearm into the back of Andy’s head, making him drop Max right away. Danger, shaking off the earlier volley, muttered something that sounded like, “took you long enough.”

Hemlocke appeared right behind her charge, leading the proverbial traffic as the arena went up in arms over this clear sneak attack. Danger motioned for Hound to lift Andy up, to which he did. He held him up by the arms, which allowed Max to grin at his target before SMASHING him across the face with the DANGEROUS III!

Andy hit the mat like a ton of bricks, but he wouldn’t stay down for long, as Hound motioned for him to pick himself up. Sharp, who probably still had no idea what was going on, was now nursing a bloody lip from the impact of Danger’s Roaring Elbow while climbing to his feet in a daze.

He waved his arms for the kid to get up and it would be a decision Andy would regret as Hound picked him up and SPIKED him into the mat with his modified Spinebuster he’d entitled BLACKENED.

“Damn,” Max muttered underneath his breath as his gigantic partner-in-crime stood tall over the Television Champion, staring at his broken body before Max handed the TV Title over to him.

Danger grabbed the taller Canadian and dragged his dead weight upward before Hound ran forward with the title belt, driving it right into the skull of its owner, opening up a huge gash in his forehead before he toppled to the mat in what would become a pool of his own blood.

Hound took hold of the title belt, staring at it as if it were calling to him. All he saw was his first taste of gold, but Danger told him to wake up and focus on their goal.

The Dog of War stood there, glaring at his fallen enemy while Hemlocke patted him on the back. Finally, after letting out some labored breathing, the beast spoke. Something he wasn’t particularly known for until lately.

“Andrew Sharp…” his low, gravelly voice echoed throughout a jeering arena. He paced around the ring as Hemlocke and Max looked down at Andy’s prone form, practically unconscious and bleeding on the mat.

“For months now, I’ve left you wondering just who the hell I am. Why do I know so much about you? Why do I happen to know a lot about the boy that made a meteoric rise to fame here in ACW, huh? Ever thought about it? It’s been a question that burns in the back of your mind. But you know what’s great about it?

YOU HAVE ME TO THANK FOR EVEN GETTING INTO ACW, YOU LITTLE PISSANT.”

Hound reached for his mask as fans gasped. Who was this big man? Would anybody recognize him at all?

The answer would be an emphatic ‘NO’ as, for the very first time in his ACW tenure, The Dog of War brought in by Violence Jack had peeled away his mask to reveal that of a massive, balding man. His scalp was devoid of any hair whatsoever, which appeared to have been shaved off. A set of cold, gray eyes fired a stare throughout the entire arena and a scraggly beard adorned his face like he hadn’t shaved in the longest time.

Max could only look on at what was developing with an interested, “huh.”

A smile crept across Hemlocke’s face.

The boos kept coming, but who the fuck WAS this guy in the first place? Something nobody had figured out yet. Hound knelt forward and stared down at the bloodied TV Champion before laughing.

“When you wake up, Andrew, ask somebody to watch the tape of what happened.” The man told Andy as he patted him on the back.

“As for those of you wanting to know just who the hell this weirdo is that peeled of his mask and goes by the name of Hound…allow me to tell you who the fuck I am…

Call me an outcast.

A vagabond.

One hungry motherfucker simply looking to get what should’ve been his all along.

But if you really want to call me anything…call me one of the people that TRAINED this boy currently sucking my boot!”

For the very first time, a sick laugh erupted from Hound as Danger continued to look at Andy with the TV Title over his shoulder.

“My name is Marcus Brown. Some people may recognize the fact that I had a piece of shit brother called Gabriel Brown that ran out on PRIME and NFW. See, the Brown family has been in professional wrestling for two generations. Daddy decided to try and make us all the cream of the crop. The eldest of us, Eli, is one of the most decorated wrestlers in the industry before he retired fairly young. 38 titles to be precise.

Gabriel still has his life ahead of him. He’s only 20 and still a former World Champion, multi-time tag champion, and still continues to grow, despite what people tell him.

Me?

Turns out that I made a better ‘trainer’ than I ever did a wrestler.”

Marcus pointed at Andy and spoke with a much harsher, abrasive tone.

“THIS boy already has champion written all over him. And he’s only 22, I do believe. BUT…he has GOT to be one of the most ungrateful pieces of shit that I’ve EVER trained. I sweat, I bleed, I break this little bitch into the world of professional wrestling and do I even get so much as one goddamn thank you.

FUCK NO.

Then a great prophet named Violence Jack came along. He taught me something so valuable that I now carry it with me as my credo. The moral of the story is: people hate you. They take and they take and they take without giving anything in return.

Me, I’m better than that. I give. I give to this business and for what? A few measly-ass indy fed championships? FUCK THAT. ACW is watched worldwide and *I* should be at the top of its mountain already. But do I get any shots at the title instead of Seymour Almasy? NO. So from now on, I’m tired of giving. I’ll be just like each and every person here. Take, take, take from EVERYBODY and it’s going to start with the boy that wouldn’t be worth HALF the shit that he is now if it weren’t for me.”

Hound and Max walked over to one another in order to stare down at the child they had just laid out as the jeering turned full-force.

“We formed a pact. This kid isn’t going to make it to Legends alive. And to make sure we go through with our little arrangement, here’s Max with the details.”

Finally, Max was given the mic once again as he laughed at the misery he’d just inflicted. This truly was a changed man, all for the sake of a little gold. He turned Andy over, almost impressed with what he’d done as he placed the Television Title belt and draped it over his waist.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Danger rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, buuuuuuuuu-rrrrns, you dumbasses. So, Andy, just so myself and the big fella behind me can finish the job, let’s make a little deal.

Next week. Courage 85.

It’s gonna be myself and Hound over here against you…

UNLESS…you can find yourself somebody to team up with.

Yeah, you should probably get started on that, now.”

And with one more snide chuckle, Max dropped the mic as “Born of a Broken Man” blasted over the speakers. The song, however, was almost drowned out with the sounds of many jeers as Hound, Hemlocke, and Max simply made their way out of the ring and back up the ramp without even so much as a backwards glance to the damage they’d done on this night.

The challenge was laid down. Would Andy, however, be in any real condition to even compete next week?

SINGLES MATCH
Hound versus Calypso

Hound waited in the ring.

"Unlikelihood" by Luna Sea

Lipton: "And once again...here comes Calypso."

The gypsy seemed to float above the crowd's jeering. His eyes were dead set on the man in the ring.

Ried: "He seems really focused."

Lipton: "He better be. Hound can do whatever he want and Calypso can't. He loses this and he's out of ACW. And not a moment too soon if you ask me."

Ried: "I didn't. I don't get it. Why do you hate Calypso anyway?"

Lipton said "Just look at him! He's a snake!" and the action returned to the ringside where Calypso entered the ring in typical gypsy fashion.

"So let me get this straight..." Calypso started as he walked up to the Brute. "Everyone in your family is "successful" except for you?"

Hound did not reply.

"Well, I got some good news...and some bad news." Calypso said with a smile. Hound just stood there staring blankly. The silence kinda made Calypso uncomfortable so he coughed. "Right....good news first: Your family isn't even successful. Even the Ultimate Warrior had a wrestling school and I think we all know he was pretty much the greatest wrestler of all time. ---And as for your little brother: Well, he ain't in Prime anymore- so it's pretty much safe to say that his career is over. Prime is where you go for glory if your career has pretty much been a fucking crapshoot.

Now the bad news:

That basically places you at the bottom rung of the industry food chain.

Somewhere between Brutus Beefcake and Nathan Jones without the lactating nipples."

Then in a show of dominance; Calypso flashed his teeth like animal.

Then Hound punched his face in and kept pounding away until he was sure that Calypso wouldn't utter another word.

Ried: "Whip to the ropes...."

Calypso was bounced back towards Hound and attempted a flying clothesline. Too bad Hound took a step forward- the gypsy's chest hit his shoulder and suddenly he was in a bear hug. Hound held on tight and charged for the nearest turnbuckle- burying Calypso's lower back in the padding and nearly throwing him out of the ring. From here Hound started to hammer away at the gypsy with ham-fists. Each blow felt like it was raining billard balls. Hound followed that up with boots to the chest, tree trunk hooves that drilled the gypsy into the lowest turnbuckle.

His rage still not fed, Hound hit the ropes across from the gypsy and....

Ried: "...OH NO...."

Lipton: "YAKUZA KICK!"

Half of Calypso's body hung out of the ring like refuse and he eventually fell to the floor in a sweaty heap.

Ried: "Looks like Hound's going to play it fair, as a long as Calypso does. But he better be careful...the gypsy is dangerous on the outside. He proved that only moments ago with Rojas."

Lipton: "Hound better be careful, indeed. I'm pretty sure Calypso has AIDS."

Ried chuckled and Hound didn't seem to be worried about much as he used to the steps to exit the ring.

Then he picked up the steps.

Calypso had barely managed to pull himself to his feet when Hound flat out drove the steel steps into the back of Calypso's head. The gypsy then fell forwards and Hound pulled him right back to his feet...following that up with a couple of purposefully disrespectful slaps to the back of the neck. Hound then grabbed his arm and whipped him hard into the nearest barrier.

Lipton: "Oh no.....looks like he gearing up for another yakuza kick...."

Hound's leg was like a spear. If Calypso hadn't moved, it would've taken his head clean off. The nimble gypsy rolled out of the way and was on his feet instantly. Calypso then delivered a back-brain kick to the front of Hound's face. The kick did little to phase the Brute, but gave Calypso enough time to roll back into the ring. Hound just stared at Calypso (who was still rubbing the back of head) and once again used the steps to enter the ring.

Reid: "I'm liking what I'm seeing here. Hound seems very determined to beat Calypso here and now."

Calypso and Hound walked up face to face, basically butting heads, or as much as could be done with Hound being much bigger. Calypso pushed Hound and then lit him up with a series of chops. They no doubt stung- but the brute just stood there and countered with a hook punch. Calypso ducked, hit the ropes and returned with flying forearm smash.

Nothing.

Calypso hit the ropes and did it again- this time getting more of a reaction. Calypso hit the ropes again and this time used a back elbow. That one caught Hound right in the teeth. Hound was staggering now and Calypso bounced off the rope again...but this time: AXE BOMBER.

The gypsy turned inside out and flipped over onto his face. Hound ignored the "holy shit" chants, turned him over and went for the pin.

1....

2....

Kickout.

PoundPoundPoundPoundPoundPoundCHOKE

Ried: "Whoa, shit! Machine gun forearm blasts from the Hound-followed a blatant choke....he goes for the pin again...."

1...

2...

Kickout at 2 and a half.

Hound grunted and pulled the gypsy to his feet only to whip him into the ropes. Hound attempted another clothesline and Calypso ducked it. The gypsy hit the ropes again and this time caught the brute completely off-guard with running torpedo of a drop kick. Hound's right knee buckled and you could see pain jolt up to his brain.

This was Calypso's opening.

And in turn the gypsy lit up his right leg with shin kicks. Hound threw an errant punch- Calypso slid under it and nearly knocked Hound down with an Ultimo Dragon-style footsweep.

As Calypso returned to a vertical base Hound reached down and grabbed Calypso hair.

Reid: "Uh oh! Looks like Hound got him again."

It certainly looked that way until Calypso double-stomped his right foot. Then he began working the brute over with closed-fist shots to the mid-section and followed that with several clubbing elbows to the head. The gypsy then backed off and yelled: "Come on, you shit-steak!" ---Calypso couldn't believe that Hound went for the bait. In an effort to shut up the ex-clown the brute attacked. Calypso then ducked the far too telegraphed response-clothesline and used the ropes to slingshot himself into the Hound's leg with a spear.

And Hound fell.

Just like in Shadow of the Colossus, bitch.

Calypso then went to work on the brute with a full leg lock. Hound didn't spend long in the hold and quickly scrambled to the ropes. With a grunt the gypsy pulled Hound back to the center of the ring by his bad leg- then he started dropping knees on it.

Ried: "Calypso's really focusing on that right leg. He could have the big man down for the rest of the match."

Not quite.

Calypso attempted another submission and was kicked all the way into a turnbuckle. The gypsy charged Hound, but the brute suddenly popped up and caught him with a snap-powerslam. Hound pulled Calypso right up and scooped up his body horizontally. One- two- three rib-breakers. Each time the gypsy's ribs slammed into Hound's left knee he lost more and more of his breath.

Hound turned this into a fallaway slam- throwing Calypso over his shoulders into and through the ropes. The ex-clown ended up on the apron shaking the cobwebbs out of his head---CRASH. Hound's body goes slamming into Calypso with enough force to knock him off the apron onto the floor! Hound, now limping on his right leg, dropped under the third rope and slid out of the ring.

Reid: "On the outside again- I really don't think this going to be good for the Hound"

Lipton: "...Or Calypso!"

Calypso gets to his feet and charges the brute- who just whips him right into the apron.

Chop-Chop-Left Punch-Right Punch-Headbutt.

Headbutt. Headbutt. Headbutt.

Then Hound basically threw the gypsy into the steel steps. Calypso was on his ass, the pain in his back worse due to the lack of give in the steel steps and now his head became an easy target for one of Hound's yakuza kicks.

Ried: "Talking about career ending moves! If Hound hits what I think he's going to hit- he could take Calypso's head right off!"

Hound padded his left leg as a taunt and charged....

...and missed.

Hound good leg sat directly on top of the steps.

And Calypso?

The gypsy stood on top of the steps as well.

On the Hound's leg.

Calypso quickly hopped off backwards and dropkicked the steps into Hound's bad leg!!! The only thing could be heard was the crowd sympathetic moans. Hound clawed at this right leg as if that could somehow expell some of the pain he was feeling now. Calypso chuckled to himself and rolled back into the ring- leaving the ref to hopefully count Hound out.

Lipton: "What a cheap way to victory. Calypso has no respect for this sport!"

Hound slowly got to his feet. His right leg = totally useless.

Ried: "No wait! He's doing this on purpose. He's making Hound walk on that injured leg."

The brute winced as he had to muster enough strength roll into ring. And sure enough the moment he rolled under those ropes- Calypso was on him- kicking away at his leg. With a headlock wrapped around Hound's bald head- he pulled him to his feet and whipped him into the nearest turnbuckle. The gypsy opened the brute up with some stomps to his midsection and then rounded it off with some Flair-style chops. When he was sure Hound was nearly out of breath he propped his right leg on the second rope...

...and then stood on it.

His other foot?

On Hound's face.

It was this moment that the gypsy chose to taunt the already angry crowd.

And it was this moment that Hound had enough and grabbed Calypso's just under his adam's apple. The gypsy didn't even have time to gag before Hound stepped out from the turnbuckle and sent him hurdling into the canvas with a chokeslam.

Ried: "This could be it!!!"

1.

2.

KICKOUT.

Lipton: "Damn it!!!"

Hound- without missing a beat pulled Calypso up and whipped him into the ropes....

ROTTWEILER.

The spin stung Hound's leg and he rubbed it before pinning Calypso again. Lipton leapt into the air, making a joyful noise...

...and then Calypso got up at 2 and three fourths.

The announcers were livid at this point, but Hound just keep chugging along...he got to his feet (still limping)...and motioned for his finisher.

Lipton: "Good. Great. Hound is FINALLY going to wrap this up. Woo~ kiss your ass good bye, Calypso!"

Ried: "Not a moment too soon, either. The Hound looks tired."

Calypso- apparently still in a daze- turned around right into Hound's face claw.

Lipton: "He's got it! He's got the face claw!! You know what comes next...."

Ried: "BLACKENED!!"

...the lift...!!!

Ried: "What the hell!?"

The moment Hound went to lift, Calypso held onto this arm and jumped up onto his shoulders. His legs wrapped around Hound's neck and his arm was locked up completely: SHINING TRIANGLE CHOKE (Sans the 'shining')

Lipton: "Oh no...no no no!!"

Ried: "Without a verticle base Hound has gone down!!"

The brute tried to resist as much as possible- but he simply lacked the lower body strength to mount a counter. Calypso had been setting him up for this the entire time. Hound had to pretty much face facts: This was checkmate.

tap tap tap

Lipton: "He's tapping out!! He's tapping out!!"

The ref called for the bell- but Calypso was in a tra,ce and he would not let go. Finally after a great deal of coaxing- the gypsy released Hound and was rewarded with jeers and boos. His music started up again over the PA....

...and then the ACWtron began to flash.

"What now..." Calypso said- barely able to catch his breath.

Winner > Calypso via tapout

Not Over Yet.

"Nice work, nice work. " SilverHawk said. "I didn't expect a clean victory from the likes of you, Calypso...well done. Well done indeed."

SilverHawk slowly clapped again and no one was handing Calypso a microphone. He simply had to stand there suffer the indignity of being talked down to by SilverHawk.

"Obviously, the fun isn't over yet though, son. You make our fans suffer, then I'm going to make you suffer. Might as well hit the showers and prepare because next up you got to face...

...Violence Jack.

And I don't think he'll be too happy that you beat his dog."

The fans cheered on Calypso next match and with another pretty sneer, he mouthed "fuck you" to the ACW tron.

SilverHawk reached for something but then stopped. "Oh wait, I almost forgot.

It's a cage match.

Just in case you had any delusions of escaping.

And it's also a hardcore match.

Just in case you had any delusions of surviving"

SilverHawk pulled back a pear and took a bite."When you leave that cage, hopefully it'll be the last any of us here at ACW see of you."

Sparkle Sparkle.

The nerve of the Jimmy.

Making eyes at him like that.

Like he was some kind of...

Guy you "makes the eyes at".

It incensed him.

It boiled his blood.

Really.

He was angry.

Spitting angry.

He wanted to walk right up to him and knock elbows, and scream in his face: "Who the fuck are you!?"

Who the fuck is he anyway?

A queer. A fucking queer, is what he is.

Fucking dick-in-his-ass, fucking alpha male, ungrateful motherfucker!

Who... is he?

He's no one. No one.

Lowell stopped.

His face was blood red.

He was tired -- tired of being disrespect; tired of being treated like he doesn't matter; tired of being... lost his train of thought.

The Czar of Cashflow glanced down to the Scorpio Title.

"Scorpio Title, what should I do?"

Scorpio Title: *sparkle sparkle*

"But... I can't!

I won't!"

Scorpio Title: *sparkle sparkle*

"You're crazy, Scorpio Title! You're crazy! That's craziness!"

Scorpio Title: *sparkle sparkle*

"But it's a suicide mission!"

Scorpio Title: *sparkle sparkle!*

Lowell nodded, and stared blankly. "I see. You're right."

Scorpio Title: *sparkle sparkle*

"Let's go find SilverHAWK.

We'll get our respect but yet!"

THE JIMMY CAIN JOBBER SLAUGHTER TOUR ROLLS ON
Jimmy Cain versus Douglas Burgess

"New Noise" by Refused.

Jimmy Cain marched out through the curtain, and paused just long enough to turn and sneer at the fans. Jimmy walked over to the side of the stage, slipped his hand into his shorts, and gave his dick a few pumps. He brought his hand out and flicked the imaginary jiz in the fans' direction.

The sicko then turned, walked back to the center of the stage, and continued on down the ramp, soaking up the chorus of boos. Jimmy slipped underneath the bottom rope, not bothering with the stairs, and got to his feet. He was adorned in black MMA shorts patterned with a blood splatter design.

Actually it was not design at all. It was Nookie Monster's. Jimmy left him a bloody mess. Nookie Monster's nose looked as if Kenny Rock had risen from the dead, snuck in the ring, and blasted him with Almighty one final time before returning to hell. If that doesn't paint an accurate picture, this undoubtedly will: Jimmy fucked him the hell up.

Jimmy lifted an arm, causing pyro to explode from the ring posts. Jimmy smirked. His powers ammused him. He wondered... What if he didn't waste the pyro before the match and instead, after KOing an opponent, placed their face where the pyro shoots out? Would that work?

An eyebrow raised.

Across the ring, Douglas Burgess stood. Douglas was testing the flexability of the top cable to his right. Douglas was a twenty year veteran of the sport. He had thinning gray hair, a sagging gut, and man boobs. His forehead was littered with scars. His legs were flabby and covered with graying hair.

Douglas was a sorry sight to behold indeed. Like a Ric Flair who failed to move up from the indies or something, he was ghostly in a way. His thick mustash and gray eyes stood out from the rest of his face, and were his only distinguishable qualities. For ring attire he wore maroon trunks and black knee pads and boots. Both fists happened to be taped. Maybe because he liked to 'throw'? Shrug. We'll find out soon enough I guess.

In stark comparison, Jimmy was a genetic freak of nature. Not to the extent of Scott Steiner or KVC, but he was very muscular and cut. Jimmy looked closer to 300-pounds than 250.

Jimmy cracked his neck twice, and jumped up and down on the spot to get the blood pumping his heart. What heart, you say? Let me rephrase that. Jimmy cracked his neck twice, and jumped up and down on the spot to get the blood pumping to the huge, gaping hole where a heart ought to be. Better?

Burgess heard the bell ring and turned his head out of instinct. Jimmy came charging in with a flying knee.

Douglas ducked to avoid it. He turned and shoved Jimmy back into the corner with one hand and unloaded on his chest with the other. Three knife-edged chops found their mark, and I guess appearances can be deceiving, because they sounded like they had quite a bit of power and strength behind them.

The Corporate Executioner shook it off, however, and unloaded with three knife-edged chops of his own. Strangely, they seemed very meh in comparison to the old man's standing infront of him.

The expression on Douglas' face hardly changed, though a normal human being probably would have been hiding in the back at this point. Douglas had three pinkish streaks running diagonally across his chest.

The Tin Man, as he is called on the indies, hit Jimmy with a Dusty Rhodes bionic elbow ontop of the head. Jimmy staggered back but was stopped by the ropes. Douglas cuffed him three times in the jaw and Irish whipped him off the ropes.

Douglas back body dropped Cain high in the air, sending him crashing to the mat. The fans popped. Their cheers gave the old man the strength to pull Cain off the mat again and blast him in the mouth with a closed fist. The strength this man possessed was more than impressive, it was downright scary!

Jimmy dropped down and rolled out to the floor to regroup. Turning the corner, Jimmy could be seen testing his jaw. The Tin Man hit hard.

Not one to be humiliated on live TV, Jimmy threatened to knockout an old woman in the front row. "You fucking toothless old bitch, 'll feed you my 12-inch dick and YOU WILL LIKE IT."

Meanwhile, Douglas had rolled to the floor as well, and was sneaking up from behind. Douglas clubbed Jimmy between the shoulder blades and walked him away from the old woman, so not to give her a fucking heartattack when he smashed Jimmy's face into the guardrail.

Jimmy turned, arms down and chest open. Douglas unleashed the freaky-ass old man power and burst some blood vessels in Jimmy's chest. "Motherfucker!" was Jimmy's profane response.

Burgess grabbed Jimmy by the back of the head and shorts and pitched him back inside the ring, then crawled in after him. Douglas dropped an elbow to the back of the Jimmy's head, and pulled him to his feet in preparation for a vertical suplex.

The fans were cheering so loud that Reid and Lipton could barely be heard by the fans watching at home.

Douglas hoisted Jimmy in the air and dropped him kidney-first to the canvas, shaking the ring.

Cover and;

One.

Two.

Nada.

Jimmy, again, rolled from the ring. He held the back of his head as he limped along the floor.

Jimmy hopped up onto the apron. He gestured for the Tin Man to come to him, and spat in Douglas' face as he walked toward him. Jimmy jerked his hand Shane McMahon style, and shouted, "I fucked your daughter, then I piledrove her cunt-first on some AIDs victim's rotten dick!"

"What daughter? I don't have any kids, dipshit," Douglas replied, sharply.

"Dipshit? I'm a dipshit?" Jimmy said, pointing to himself, almost laughing he found it so hysterical. "Listen up fuckface, I'll rip out your liver and pickle in burbon, then I'll pay some doctor on the black market to sew it back inside of you, and watch as you die a slow, agonizing death! And boy will it be somethin' sweet to--"

Right hand!

Douglas cuffed Jimmy with an open hand, grabbed him by the back of the head, and brought him into the ring the hardway.

Jimmy was quick to his feet. He staggered a bit, but quickly regained his footing. Jimmy got into a boxer's stance and began shadow boxing. Then he clubbed his chest, pointed to the mat, strained his neck so his veins showed, and screamed, "COME OOOOOON!!"

Douglas threw a right; Jimmy feinted, hit him with a left, then a right hood, then a left uppercut, then knocked him on his ass with a rising knee.

The crowd suddenly deflated. The old guy was not invincible, and he was not as quick as the Jackpot.

Douglas sat up. He dabbed the blood seeping from his cut lip. He got to his feet, and Jimmy nearly took his head off with an jumping enziguiri.

SMACK!

The Tin Man crumbled.

Jimmy grabbed Douglas and ripped him from the mat. Jimmy then clinched, locking his fingers behind Douglas' head, and pulling Douglas' head down into a knee strike. He repeated this three or four times in rapid succession before the old man fell to his knees and put up his hands defensively.

Jimmy stood infront of him, throwing stiff kicks, trying to bust through Douglas' forearms to get to his head.

When at last he did it wasn't hard to tell. The American Psycho kicked Douglas in the side of the head with all of his might, and instantly, Burgess' hands fell, leaving him open for more lethal head kicks.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!!

Roundhouse kicks with alternatingly legs.

Douglas' head drooped forward and rested on the mat.

Jimmy grabbed a handful of his hair and delivered 16 step kicks to the temple one after the other after the other, in true Low Ki fashion.

"I'LL FUCKING CAVE IN YOUR WOOORLD!" Jimmy roared.

Then Jimmy used his impressive vertical leap to jump in the air and GHETTO STOMP the back of Douglas' skull.

Jimmy frantically grabbed Douglas and pulled him to a standing him. He didn't even bother seating him on the top turnbuckle. Instead, Jimmy simply bent the Tin Man over, rested the back of Douglas' neck on his shoulder, hooked Douglas' legs, and POWERED him up onto his shoulder.

Freakish strength? Yeah. Jimmy's got that. Douglas who? Burgess what? Tin Man's a fag?

Jimmy parade him around the ring a bit, then picked up a little speed, and dropped him.

MARKET CRAAAAAAAAASH!!

Right. On his. Head.

Fuuuck.

Cover, and Jimmy does not hook the leg.

One.

Two.

Three.

Like it makes a fucking difference.

"New Noise" by Refused started up again.

Winner > Jimmy Cain by knockin' a bitch out

The ACW Production Team Goes To Work.

The arena lights went down in the Conseco Fieldhouse, and the JumboTron started flashing red and white. All eyes in the arena turned to it, not knowing what in the blue hell was going on.

Then, the dulcid tones of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's music brought to life began to play over the public announce system; "The Turkish March" to be more specific. A highlight reel began to show a man with brownish skin, curly but matted down black hair and a thick moustache fly around the ring.

Flying cross chop on one unsuspecting soul.

Tornado reverse DDT on another.

Shooting star press on yet another.

Then, the motion on the screen went slow, as if to say to the audience, "Hey, look at this move. This shit rocks!"

It was the man, on the top turnbuckle, back facing the ring. He lept back, tumbling clockwise as he jumped back, finishing in a sort of senton bomb position as he crashed upon his unsuspecting foe.

The move is called the Leap Across Continents.

The screen then faded into the man's headshot, with his name slowly fading in in big block letters.

That name again... Captain Suleimon.

When 'Keeping It Real' Goes Wrong.

"NO MORE!"

A smile grew across HAWK's face, and he replied, cheerfully, "You're quitting!?"

"Heeeeeeeeellz no, BITCH! NO MORE DISRESPECT. THE CHAMP IS HURR AND THE CHAMP IS PISSED- ACCOMODATE ME!"

HAWK responded, "OOO, SIR, YES, SIR. Coffee? Tea? Or would you just like me to get to the part where I jerk you off under the table?"

Again, the Notorious LDC's hands slammed down upon HAWK's desk, and he shouted out, "I knewwwwww it! I knew you were giving out handjobs! You...... SICKO."

HAWK scratched at his baldspot and sighed. "Are you fucking retarded, Lowell? -- Seriously now, that'd explain an awful lot."

"Stop accusing me of things, HAWK! I'm not Danger! I don't have a track record of luring kids into my Chevy Nova and playing with their genitals! You stick that accusatory index back up your fucking ASS." LDC hiked up the championship belt resting on his shoulder.

Scorpio Title: *sparkle sparkle*

"I'm getting to that, fuuuuuuuck!"

HAWK was confused, but HAWK's always confused- so what else is new? HAWK has the IQ of a limp dick.

"HAWK, I want me somma'dat... WHATCHAMACALLIT!? -- And I wants it RIGHT. NOW."

"Errrrrgghhh, listen, Lowell, the 'jerking you off' thing? I wasn't serious, OK? It's not going to happen," HAWK replied.

"No no! I'm talking about R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

FIND OUT WHAT IT MEANS TO ME!"

"Lowell, the drug tests--I'm going to include all the recreational shit you and the Jimmy are on everytime you enter my office. Obviously you need help."

Lowell shook his head, and said, "No, HAWK, the only help I need is you getting out your little faggoty astronaut pen that writes upside down- so that you can write gay poetry on your boyfriends forehead as he's plowing you in the ass... and once you've got that piece of filth out, I'm going to need you to sign a Scorpio Title defense for Courage 85.

A Four-Way Elimination Match! And don't skimp on the 'elimination'. HEHEHE!"

HAWK nearly shit his pants. Infact, he did. He *did* shit his pants.

HAWK you fucking goof, shitting your pants like your 2 or something. FUCK.

"You.....want that?

You do know that if I sign everyone to that match, when you come back down to reality and realize what a terrible, terrible mistake you've made, that I won't be able to call this off, right?"

"Gotcha."

..."YOU'RE SURE?"

"Yes."

"...Fine then. Have it your way.

Goddamnit Lowell, you thought process is like that painting with the upside-down stairs leading to no where, and all that other fucked up labyrynth shit."

Lowell burst out in laughter- "BUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Yeah. O-K." The Shillin' Villain rolled his eyes and laughed again, unable to NOT smile. "You, in an art gallery? HAWK are you sure you're not just talking about the fucking dark corridors and endless miles of gloom and despair that is your old lady's ugly snatch?"

HAWK was not impressed, but he quite relatively calm. "Lowell?" he said.

"Yes?"

"Your opponents?"

"Yeeeeeeees? Hehehe."

"Newly signed Jason Deline."

Lowell shrugged. He sounds like this guy he once knew that worked at Radio Shack, and that guy sucked at life. Period. He went from Radio Shack to a box company. Now he works the factory circuit. They call him Jason "The Factory Phenom" Delmaine. HEY, IT'S CLOSE.

"I'll snaps him in the teeth with my backhand! What-ev, Hawk, what-ev. Keep 'em coming."

"OK," HAWK said, smiling. "JIMMY CAAAAIN."

Ooooooooooooooooooooh stiff. Now *THAT'S* a whammy!

"Fuck." Lowell frowned.

"And last but certainly not least...

CORAL AVALON."

Double whammy! Fuck fuck fuck!!

Lowell was nearly in tears. What did he get himself into?!

"FINE. WHAT-EV.

DELINE, JIMMY, CORAL? SOUNDS LIKE AN EARLY NIGHT FOR ME! HA!"

"Lowell, get out, you're giving me a headache."

"I'm leaving, don't worry. I've got places to be."

"No you don't."

"Yes I--SHUT THE FUCK UP! GAAAAAHHH!" Lowell shouted as he started to exit HAWK's office.

SLAM~!

New & Old

"Hey...

...hey you!" an unfamiliar voice was ringing throughout the corridor of the Conseco Fieldhouse. Well, an unfamiliar voice to fans of All-Star Championship Wrestling. Any fan of the indy circuit knew the voice in a heartbeat...

...the self-proclaimed "Underground Hero" CJ Newfield was now a member of ACW.

CJ had his eyes fixated on a ring-rat across the hall from him, slumming around some extra ring equipment. The crew member, looking to be in his late teens, appeared to be quite bored. CJ, being the fine citizen that he is, wouldn't have wanted a fine young worker to be without something to occupy himself, so he figured he'd give the young man a chance to prove himself.

Newfield cleared his throat and finally got the attention of the boy, who now seemed quite antsy around the ACW newcomer. Motioning for him to come over, CJ pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket.

"Want something to do?" questioned Newfield, garnering a nerve-filled nod from the boy. Newfield handed him the bill.

"Go grab me a drink. I don't care what kind, just get me something to hydrate me, bro." With that, the young boy ran off in search of a drink for the Underground Hero.

CJ, pleased with the prompt service in his short stay, found himself a seat upon some equipment casings, peering around to check out the surroundings. The stagehand walked off meekly.

Cue Canaan Riley. After the impressive debut against Lowell Dot Com fighting for the Scorpio Title, the youngster had yet to do much of note in ACW. He was just a-walkin’, mindin’ his own beeswax. He passed CJ, who didn’t even look up. In fact, if not for a mere fact of random chance, this encounter and this segment never would have happened. But the stagehand ambled back onto the scene, with CJ’s drink.

“Sir, Mr. Newfield-I’ve got your drink here.”

Riley stopped walking. By gum, there was something familiar about that name.

“Wait, Newfield you said?”

Riley had turned and was staring right at Newfield, whose head was still down, ignoring everything around him, generally disinterested in the backstage workings of ACW.

"Are you deaf?" questioned CJ, with an obviously sarcastic tone. He glanced at the stagehand, swiped his drink away, and was about to take a drink before he slowly peered up towards Canaan Riley.

"Keep...the change, boy," CJ slowly whispered out. There was obviously some connection between these two, but that was apparently unknown to anybody in ACW.

"So management brought lackeys up just for me to 'shake the rust off' with? How nice of them. I guess they must've seen how I whipped the canvas with your ass last time, eh Riley? You made me look like more of a star than I already am!" mocked CJ, now sporting his usual cocky grin.

Riley took a moment, looking more puzzled then anything. He put a hand up to his chin, stroking the nonexistent stubble. He looked sexy, just a little FYI. Mad sexy.

“So it is you, Newfield..” Riley lets that simmer for a second. Newfield’s smile grows a bit. Not noticeably, but he knows that almost everyone in this fed knows his name; it’s invaluable. This Canaan Riley guy; he’s a nobody to Newfield. “Even after the first time I saw you, I thought the prima donna thing was a myth. Sorry to find out it’s all true, superstar.”

Newfield looked indifferent to the words from Riley. There was no love lost between these two men, polar opposites other then their history in the indy circuits of America. Even in that, Newfield was a hot commodity and Riley had been scraping the bottom.

“Kid, I don’t care what you think of me or the way I do things. Just know that there’s a reason you know my name and I don’t know yours.”

Riley immediately fired back, undaunted by the celebrity of CJ Newfield.

“Canaan Riley. Pleased to meet you once again, CJ.” There was no fear in the journeyman’s voice; he had seen and met far worse in this industry then the likes of CJ Newfield. However, rarely had he seen someone with such a lack of respect for it. His words were now full of passion that the ACW fans hadn’t seen yet. A few of them were compelled into cheers as he spoke, despite the fact that they didn’t know the kid.

“I saw the way you treated the indies. Call me small-town, but that’s the only reason you and I are here. CJ, you don’t give a damn about the sanctity of that ring or the competitors who put their health and pride on the line in it!” A damning accusation, for sure, but how would Newfield take it? He just smiled again.

“Guilty as charged, little guy. I don’t need respect for the ring because I happen to know I’m the best. When you can make that claim, come find me. Until then, I’ll be on my way.” He started to walk but Riley put his hand to Newfield’s chest. Immediately, Newfield slapped it away and snarled, but held his ground. “Off, filth!”

There wasn’t enough room in this here doghouse for the both of ‘em.

“If you’re so great, why don’t you face me at Legends? We’ll put on a show to open the greatest Pay Per View known to man; you and me one-on-one.”

What was that?

A cheer from the crowd despite the fact that a former indy fed cancer and a no-name too-old-to-be-a-rookie rookie were getting air time?

You bet all the Grape Nuts at Grandma’s house.

It was pretty darn loud, considering.

“No.”

Well, that would quell those uppity fans quickly. Riley looked at Newfield, almost shocked at the answer. Surely, Newfield couldn’t resist the bait; here was this young buck calling him out, testing his manhood.

“I could curtain jerk at Legends against anyone in this fed and still steal the show. I’m not interested in making your career.”

And just like mama said, them’s fightin’ words.

“You’re a coward.”

“You’re a wannabe.”

“You’re just afraid that I’ll beat you.”

Newfield paused because he knew exactly what he was going to say next, but he wanted Riley to take this in very carefully.

“I’m afraid that I have other things to be doing. See ya out there, tiger.”

And with that, Newfield was off to go flaunt his own importance. Riley, for the moment, was left by his lonesome, unsure of exactly what to do about the problem of the Underground Phenom.

Open Challenge

A little "Money" hit the airwaves, signaling the arrival of the ACW Scorpio Champ, himself, Lowell... Dot... FUCKING Com.

The curtains were thrown apart, and the Shillin' Villain marched from the back, directly to the ring.

He rolled inside, and stood up, demanding a mic by brought to him. A lowly stagehand lurched over to the Czar of Cashflow, handing him one.

"OK, I'm going to make this short! Next week, I've pretty much booked myself into my toughest title defense to date- that being the Four Corners Match for my SCORPIO CHAMPIONSHIP!"

BEAM~!

"But ya know, I'm still not satisfied... no, I want respect and I want it right the fuck now! So- so thaaaat means I throw down an open challenge! Anyone of you stupid bastards standing around back there taking up space can C-Walk your way down to THIS RING and try-TRY and make the scene!

The thing is... no one's been able to put me down for the three in, like, FOREVER, so I highly doubt some "off the streets" wrestler slash bum(no, I'm not talking about you, SilverHAWK) will be the one to do it!

I've got an arsenal of moves that Middle Eastern rebels have been trying to get a hold of for YEARS. -- The Selling Point? 250K on the black market. 300 if you pay CASH. You know, paper trail on the black market can be a bitch what with those pesky FBI faggots running around, trying to keep me from overthrowing the government everytime I hop on the stick! Nah nah, I kid, I kid... Bush and I? Good friends. BEST friends. So just incase you want a War in Indianapolis with soldiers running around taking naked pictures of you and your families, then you best treat me with RESPECT.

So let's get on with it- SHOW ME THA MONEEEEEEEEEEY! I LOVE BLACK PEOPLE!

Actually, no... no I don't. I don't have anything against them- I find Martin Lawrence's comedy to be LAUGH OUT LOUD hiiiiiilarious! And I even shopped at Roots once! -- Didn't buy anything, of course, but I did try on this hat that said "Roots". So anytime a member of the black community tries to tell me I don't know a damn thing about THIS and about THAT... like slavery was so bad- I've got news for you, Tyrone, I have a white man who scrubs the blood and sweat from my clothes and I don't see him crying... except for when I shove him down flights of stairs and yell for him to "STOP MASTURBATING ON THE JOB~!" HO HOOOOOOOOO...

I mean, really! Shoot! I could be half black! IN FACT.... I guess you could consider me half black, because this one time a person of color refered to me as his "brotha"... I don't know if he knows something I don't- like maybe my mom was the whore everyone said she was... BUUUT what I do know is that while running in the opposite direction, scared that he may try and "stick me up with his 9" or "ghetto fork"... I thought... "Hey now, that felt good. Being someone's "brotha" feels GOOD." But by that time I was already home- Panic Room locked.

..."

The crowd sat in stunned silence.

These asides of his were starting to get out of hand. It's not even the topic, really, it's the fact that he's taking up valuable airtime.

"Anywhoo- come on dooooown!"

And with that, some music hit, music that made the fans jump out of their seats on go "YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Seymour Almasy power-walked to the ring.

"Ah, gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... Triple whammy. FUCK."

NON-TITLE MATCH
Seymour Almasy versus Lowell Dot Com

Tonight didn’t seem to be one of them, though, as after months of cheating and whining and being a general Lowell, Lowell Dot Com was face to face with the #1 contender for the ACW World Championship.

Sure, the Scorpio title wasn’t on the line, but the crowd didn’t seem to care too much.

“KILL THE SHILL! KILL THE SHILL! KILL THE SHILL!”

Ah yes, hostile crowd tonight.

LDC backed up as Seymour advanced, looking for the opening as the Czar of Cashflow went to slip a thumb to the eye, but Seymour caught the hand, and shook his head.

Some days, it didn’t pay to get your Lowell on.

Seymour opened up with a hard right hand that rocked the larger Lowell, following with a second and third before trying to whip Lowell into the ropes. LDC shook his head, and said “NUH-UH!”

No really, he did. It’s not just a metaphor.

And then Lowell reversed the Irish whip. He attempted a clothesline, but Seymour ducked underneath, bounced off the far ropes, and clocked Lowell across the bridge of the nose with the AXEM BEAM!

Dot Com dropped to the mat, and began rolling for the safety of the floor. He saw Almasy preparing an aerial move, and promptly crawled for the safety of the aisle way.

“WHAT-EV, SEYMOUR!” the Shillin Villain called over his shoulder, clearly having had enough of this contest in about a minute. “WHAT-EV!”

In the ring, Almasy sighed. He didn’t especially like Lowell (not that anyone did, really), and he had come to fight tonight. So he did the logical thing, and went to the outside, pursuing the retreating Scorpio champion.

As he reached the aisle way, though, the damnedest thing happened. A chair reached out from the crowd, clocking Seymour in the back of the head while official “Average” Joe Hill was distracted by a catfight in the third row.

Rowl.

Seymour went down, while the overweight man in the crowd who swung the chair was as pleased as piss in snow.

Who was it?

A. Kodiak Vic Creed
B. Kellen Kinkade
C. The Dot Commie
D. Keith Scott Zimmerman

Want a 50/50? Ask the audience? Phone a friend?

No?

Good, so you all know it’s THAT FUCKING DOT COMMIE.

He jumped up in down in the crowd a few times, while the surrounding fans let him have it with cheers and half empty popcorn tubs. Meanwhile, Lowell Dot Com let out a typically snerky laugh, before going back over to the fallen Final Fantasy.

“TEXT LIFE, BITCHES!”

BAND-AID BRAND BRAINBUSTER!

…yeah, he just dropped Seymour on his head on steel. He’s a cock like that.

Seymour was very much not getting up anytime soon. For a moment, Lowell pondered dragging Seymour back down and into the ring to cover, but then he realized there was another way he could win the match.

The oft-teased and rarely utilized COUNTOUT.

Lowell rolled back in the ring, skipping happily, before tapping Joe Hill on the shoulder.

“Yo, striped guy! My opponent’s taking a nap out there! Count him out! I’ve got better places to be, sponsorship meetings for new moves! Victoria’s Secret waits for NO MAN!”

“Average” Joe gazed out in the aisle way, and yup, there was Seymour Almasy, lying semi-conscious.

“1!”

“2!”

“3!”

“4!”

“5!”

“6!”

“DOUBLE U-TEE-EFF?!”

Seymour Almasy had risen from the ashes. Sure, he was clutching his neck in obvious pain, and staggering to get back to the squared circle, but he was still in the match.

“7!”

“8!”

“9!”

SEYMOUR ROLLS BACK IN!

For a few moments, Lowell looked like he wanted to strangle the ref. But then, he realized that Almasy was still in trouble.

So he pounced, raining down hard right hands on Seymour’s dome, before popping up to strut.

Yes, he was getting his Lowell on.

Even so, he kept his eyes on the Final Fantasy. Behind the idiotic, shilling exterior of Lowell Dot Com beat the heart of a CHAMPION!

A Scorpio Champion, yes, but a champion nonetheless.

Seymour wobbled to his feet, wondering exactly what else could happen to him on the road to Legends.

He soon found out, as Lowell wrapped both arms around his neck, and drove forward.

THE AXE EFFECT!

Rolling to a sitting position, Lowell made a “cha-CHING!” motion, for another sponsored move meant more money in the Lowell bank account which, at last count, held five gajillion dollars.

That’s right, FIVE GAJILLION. If Lowell really wanted, he could buy the United States and rename it the Dot Com States of Lowell Rules.

…

Damn right, bitches.

Anyway, Lowell wasn’t content with the Axe Effect. Oh no. He wanted to end this match, like, doublespeed.

So, ACW, I totally fooled Seth with this in an IM last night. He never saw it coming. Just like he’s blind to the greatness of Chris Masters.

Seriously, Seth, your hatred for Masters is bad news.

I’ve got some good news though.

I just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance by SWITCHING TO GEICO!

ONE!

TWO!

THR--NO!!

Lowell Dot Com was not pleased. One flunkie interfering for him and a brain buster on steel weren’t enough. Nor were two of his coolest sponsored moves.

So, what was there left?

IRISH WHIP~!

Lowell hit the ropes himself, getting ready for a cross body. Sadly, Seymour was also getting ready for a cross body. Even more sadly, Joe Hill was caught in the middle.

*CRUNCH!*

All three men fell to the canvas, laid out a few feet apart from one another. The disguised Dot Commie looked on in distress from his vantage point in the aisle way, hoping something would happen.

Thankfully, it did, as a figure emerged from the entryway, power-walking on down to the ring. But first, he jumped up onto the guardrail, and did a 360 spin off of it back to the ground.

Yes, freestyling his way to the ring was none other than OTHER Lowell hanger on, KENJAMIN.

And, as he grabbed a steel chair out from under the timekeeper, it seemed that he was ready to lay down some heavy duty hurt on one Seymour Almasy.

Of course, with Kenjamin, things were never easy. He couldn’t just go up to Seymour and beat the crap out of his prone form with the steel chair. Oh no.

He had to go up top with the chair and use it in the course of some stupid high-flying spot fu move.

MOONSAULT!

DOUBLE MOONSAULT!

And then, he over-rotated, yet again failing to properly do the double moonsault.

“SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!”

TRIPLE MOONSAULT!

But sadly, when the chair and Kenjamin crashed onto a competitor’s face, it wasn’t Seymour’s.

It was Lowell’s.

“Oh, damnit man! That’s not cool!”

Kenjamin groaned weakly, knowing that he’d be in major league trouble when Lowell got up. Of course, it wasn’t Lowell he should have worried about right away.

It was Seymour.

Kenjamin held the chair in front of his head, meaning for it to be a shield, but really, it was a target. Almasy leaped with a dropkick, sending the chair flying and Kenjamin sailing over the top rope to the floor.

Still no referee. The chair was in the ring. Lowell was down.

Sure, what Seymour was about to do was technically cheating, but it’s not like anyone would cry for Lowell or anything.

Oh, except for the Dot Commie, who was currently wetting himself in the crowd.

Seymour placed the chair firmly on the ground, picking Lowell Dot Com up from the ground and locking in a front facelock.

“KILL THE SHILL! KILL THE SHILL! KILL THE SHILL!”

Sure, Lowell was a fair bit heavier than Seymour. It wouldn’t be the most impressive execution of this particular move, but it would hopefully appease the crowd.

LEVEL
FIVE
BRAINBUSTER!

Lowell’s head cracked against the steel chair with a similarly unpleasant sound as to that Seymour’s head made on the ramp way. Almasy threw the chair out under the bottom rope and made the cover, just as “Average” Joe Hill came around.

Although, Seymour could have likely done it with even a fair referee like Hill watching and not gotten DQed.

Moral of the story? NO ONE LIKES LOWELL DOT COM.

Lowell: >=(

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

And with that, the bell sounded, and we had a winner! Joe Hill raised Seymour Almasy’s hand, victorious again.

But there to ruin on his parade?

Khristain Keller.

But for once, Your Favorite Wrestler’s Favorite Wrestler wasn’t bum-rushing the ring. Instead, he stood on the top of the stage, World Title over his shoulder…clapping.

Mockingly, at that.

The message was clear. Sure, Seymour could beat Lowell Dot Com and his two bumbling associates, but Lowell wasn’t Keller.

The Scorpio Champion wasn’t the World Champion.

And come Legends, all of Seymour Almasy’s hopes and dreams?

TRANQUILIZED.

Winner > Seymour Almasy via pinfall

Mastery of the Pre-Match Promo.

"Calypso! Calypso! Quickly before you go out there can the fans get a word from you?"

Calypso's face basically lit up when he saw Steve Lisham, another one of ACW backstage announcers. Without giving Steve a chance to get so much as ask a question- the gypsy quickly jammed his face into mircophone.

"Yeah, I just want the ACW fans to know that I consider them to be a bunch of sub-human gaylords. You dumb cunts can jeer and boo all you want, but the #1 fact is that I make this federation worth watching. It seems that ACW Management's sole goal is to have each of you leaving the arena unsatisfied every night. Your Legends Main Event is Keller vs. Almasy, for fucks sake.

A match zero-relevence, zero-reason, zero-emotion and NO BUILD UP.

Does anyone even want to see them wheel Keller back out here for another drunken-shitstorm of a match with America's shittiest cruiseweight?

NO.

But does ACW say: "Hey, you guys are right- Keller is the fuck-baby of Goldberg and Pete Borst. And Almasy is about as useful as a mountian of dead babies. So you know what? We're going to go back to the drawing board with this one."

NO.

Instead they parade the same sad unambitious, undisciplined faggots out here night after night in an effort to insult your integrity. This company serves you diarehea dumplings in a bowl of piss and you insignificant dicklicks eat it up! I'm sick of coming out here having to face people who I wouldn't spit on in real life. I'm sick of having to come out here and fight people who I know are vastly inferior to me in talent and ability. I'm tired of paying lip service to you ignorant fans and to my fuckbrain roster mates."

The gypsy paused for only a second and the jeers were deafening. Calypso was setting shit off like it was his last day on earth.

"Now you might ask yourself: 'If Calypso doesn't like it here, why doesn't he just leave?'

To you I would ask:

Why leave when you can destroy?

Why coexist when you can kill?

Why help others when you can survive?

Why let it go when you can make them pay?

Why should I...someone light years ahead of my time, placate to anyone who isn't on my level? I've done all the soul searching a man is capable of and I see no reason that I shouldn't clinically and systematically demantle anyone who stands in my way. SilverHawk can throw anyone he wants at me. If he keeps it up- his entire roster is going end up in the hospital "doing the shiavo" before Legends.

Case in point: Violence Jack

A severely unpopular and pathetic human being who spends his nights beating off to Japanese cartoons and then falling asleep to Three Doors Down. He's the gay offspring of Danzig and Bruce Campbell...two men who have made their careers off failure. But all the old fans from tSc and from Action! seem to think he's good- so he must be good...he's been doing this for sooooo long...................

...Yeah.

With shitty results.

He suffers from a little thing I call: "Max Danger Syndrome"

But that aside- apparently he has the ability to survive these matches. And me? I'm not exactly spring-time fresh.

So sure, maybe tonight will be my last night here...maybe I don't have anymore tricks up my sleeves."

Calypso snickered, lowered his head and let out a snide little. "...Heh.

But I shit you not- tonight Violence Jack will not leave that ring standing. He will lay there broken and bleeding a victim of the even-handed brutality that I throw into the mix everytime I'm in that fucking. ring.

So says The Great Calypso."

HARDCORE CAGE MATCH
Calypso versus Violence Jack

The fans hoped that this man would be the one to stop Calypso dead in his tracks.

"Unlikelihood" by Luna Sea

Ried: "And for the third time tonight- Here's Calypso. And man does he look a wreck."

Lipton: "Fuck him. I hope that pretty face of his looks worse by the end of the night."

Ried: "Alright, alright we get it JR...you don't like Calypso."

Both men said nothing to each other as the cage was lowered around them. Violence Jack cracked his neck and slapped himself in the face a couple of times. Calypso just casually stretched- and then began cracked his knuckles. All the joints on his fingers and then his elbows.

He was tried.

Jack could smell that.

Calypso took a deep breath and then charged in, going for Jack's legs.

Bruce hopped back and then the two began to circle each other.

Strong lock-up with Jack eventually forcing Calypso into the turnbuckles. The ex-clown caught several knees to midsection and then outright punches to the side of the face. Violence improved on the tactics of Calypso'a last two opponents and instead of whipping him into the ropes...he simply pulled him out of the turnbuckle. Jack used Calypso's hair to control him with a front face lock.

European uppercut- quick kick to the midsection- back to the fronthead lock and then clubbing forearm shots to the back. Calypso's arm drapes over his shoulder- snap suplex. Jack pops his legs and rolls right into another. Pops his legs again but this time Violence Jack throws Calypso's off and let's go.

SLAP!

A palm to the side of the face!

Ried: "Damn! Violence Jack just left his hand imprint on Calypso's cheek!"

Just as Shanahan predicted Calypso tried to retaliate with a short-arm lariat. Jack ducked it- slipped around behind Calypso and dumped him directly on the back of his neck with a snap German Suplex. The crowd was somewhat shocked and pleased by the wreslting display.

With Calpyso now on the ground- this was just the opportunity Jack needed. It would buy him enough time to fish under the ring for weapons. There was just enough space in between the cage wall and the apron for him to pull out a steel chair. The logistics of this match made it impossible tables to be involved.

And that was just fine by Bruce.

The gypsy crawled to the nearest turnbuckle and used it as a crutch...and Violence Jack slipped two steel chairs under the ropes. Following that up with a baseball bat wrapped in a spool of barbedwire, then a chain. In an instant Jack was back in the ring- steel chair in hand.

He approached Calypso gingerly at first....

Ried: "Jack better be careful, Calypso has been known to play possum."

SMACK.

Not this time.

All Calypso saw a flash of light- and then: Pain. With Calypso down on one knee- Violence Jack carelessly put his foot on the gypsy's face and pinned his head to the 2nd turnbuckle...

Ried: "Oh! Face wash!"

Lipton: "Oh ouch! And again! This match is over. Calypso never stood a chance."

Violence Jack threw the chair over his shoulder and kicked it into the center of the ring with his foot. Pulling Calypso up by his hair- he walked him over to the chair and locked him in a full nelson.

"Is he....?"

He did.

Full nelson face buster. Onto the chair.

Ried: "Violence Jack doesn't seem to have a strategy in this case. He's just out to cause Calypso pain."

Lipton: "You don't need a plan in this case. Calypso is too tired to fight back."

Ried: "Well, going into the ring without a plan didn't seem to work for Rojas or Hound...."

Violence Jack was now bored. Calypso lay sprawled out before him, not bleeding, but unstirring. Taunting the audience, Violence Jack called for his finisher.

Ried: "This is it....."

Jack hooked a leg and an arm.........R'lyeh Anthem!!!!!

Lipton: "It's over! It's over! Calypso is gone!!!!! All Violence Jack has to do now is climb the cage."

And climb Jack did. He was simply going climb the cage wall- jump down and walk right out.

But as he got to the top.......

Ried: "Wait a mintue....who is that...?"

Lipton: "That's...."

A rather large dark-skinned man in a mask.

Accompanied by another man.....

Lipton: "Is that?"

Ried: "It is! That's Cabbot Wilson!"

Lipton: "What's the manager of Kodiak Vic Creed doing here!?"

He was giving out orders.

"Ragnorak!" Cabbot yelled as he pointed at Violence Jack who sat at the top of the cage. The giant masked man charged for the cage and began to climb.

Ried: "Holy shit, that man is quick for his size."

Lipton: "That looks like....he looks like Nick Brandish. But why Nick Brandish would be wearing a mask is beyond me."

Ried: "Didn't Shawn Stewart rack his ass up in the hospital? Why's he even here?"

Ragnorak got the top of the cage and was met with kicks to the face from Violence Jack- the beast took a number of them but shrugged them off and kept climbing. Bruce pelted him with punches, but they might as well have been pebbles. When everything started to gel- the crowd started to boo. This was Calypso's back up plan- maybe the gypsy took the brunt of VJ's attacks to simply buy time for *this*.

With one arm on top of the cage- Ragnorak began to light VJ up with these gargantuan left fists.

Lipton: "Uh oh...."

Ried: "VJ better start defending himself or...."

Too late.

Two punches later Violence Jack flew off of the top of the cage and fell to the canvas in a broken heap.

Ragnorak soon followed.

A twisted smile formed on Calypso's face as he sat up on one knee- recovering from VJ's earlier assualt.

The man formerly known as Nick Brandish pulled Violence Jack to his feet and whipped him into the ropes- VJ expected a lariat on the re-bound and ducked....right into a solid boot in the head. Ragnorak pulled Violence Jack up into a reverse-DVD position and with a scream and a heave he parted VJ's back like the red sea across his knee!

Ried: "OH MAN!! He nearly broke VJ in half!"

Lipton: "WHY ISN'T THE REF DOING ANYTHING!?"

Ried: "What can he do? It's no DQ!!"

"Finish him! Finish him!" Cabbot screamed over and over from outside the cage. The man was drunk on power- Stewart had beaten the intelligence out of the brute, but not his bloodlust. Nor his proliclivity for violence. This pleased Cabbot. Pleased him muchly.

Ragnorak snared Violence Jack in a half-nelson and with a grunt he drove his neck into the mat with his finisher: TERMINATOR.

Ried: "Oh god! I don't think the neck is supposed to bend like that."

Lipton: "No it's fucking not! I can't believe this shit! Calypso is stealing another victory!"

Ragnorak didn't even look back as he started to climb his way out of the cage. Calypso nodded to himself- very much satisfied with his plan B. And you would think that he'd be sated by this and simply claim his victory. But no- the gypsy turned to Cabbot and said. "Your check is in the mail."

Then he turned to the weapons.

Ried: "Oh man, Calypso is rubbing his hands together...I don't like this."

Lipton: "Neither do I. Violence Jack can barely move as it it. He should just go ahead and take the win. He's gaining nothing by destroying Violence Jack."

Ried: "Oh man, he means business! The gypsy is wrapping the entire length of that chain around his fist..."

Calypso spat some blood out of his mouth and stood over VJ.

"You thought you had be beaten, didn't you?" -Calypso dropped down onto Bruce's chest- one leg outstretched to pin one of his arms down. "You couldn't beat me if I was your own dick, you lame fuck."

The chain rattled and Calypso plowed his link-coated fist into VJ's forehead- instantly causing a river of blood to flow down to the mat.

Again-again-again-and again Over and Over- a fierce grin stretching across his handsome face.

"Come on baby, give it up. Give it up for Calypso." he murmured as he continued dropping chained-fists into VJ's forehead.

The gypsy wanted that blood, that pain.

Ried: "What? OH MY GOD! He's biting Jack's forehead wound! He's biting away at his flesh!"

Those screams of agony.

And Violence Jack did scream. Those cries being choked off the moment the ex-clown wrapped the chain around his neck and used it to pull Bruce Shanahan up.

Lipton: "He's choking him~! He fucking killing him! For the love of God, somebody stop this!"

Using the chains Calypso whipped VJ into the nearest turnbuckle and began chopping away at this chest. No one gave the typical Ric Flair response. There was nothing entertaining or beautful about this.

"Come on, pretty boy." Calypso mocked.

Ried: "Calypso is setting him up in the tree of woe."

Lipton: "NOW WHAT."

Ried: "He going for the barbedwire bat!"

The gypsy set the bat up against Violence Jacks' crotch so that the barbed end was right in front of his face.

With his foot he slowly pinned the barbed wire against Jack's face- milking more tortured moans from VJ's already strained voice. Calypso slowly applied more pressure until his foot slid off. Crimson poured down from Jack's head onto the mat.

Ried: "Barbwire Bat Face Wash!? Oh my god!!"

Soon officals came running down the ramp. They couldn't DQ the gypsy, but they could at least plead for Calypso to stop.

"Can't stop. Won't stop." said the determined Calypso. "Jack's just not pretty enough yet. YOU HEAR ME, JACK!?"

Barbed Face Wash.

"CONSIDER THIS YOUR EXTREME MAKEOVER." Calypso yelled.

Sated by the complete and utter destruction of Jack's mug- Calypso pulled him down from the turnbuckle and dragged him into the center of the ring.

Right where Calypso said he would be by the end of the night.

But was the gypsy done?

Of course not.

Ried: "He's going for the steel chair. Why is he doing this?"

Lipton: "Because he hates ACW. He hates Silverhawk. And he's just a sick bastard."

Steel chair in hand- Calypso climbed to the top of the turnbuckle....

...and then the top of the cage.

Calypso held the chair close to his body and looked down on his masterpiece.

Any delusions of Jack having a career were son going to be just that.

Delusions.

Ried: "Steel chair body splash? Am I seeing this?"

And Calypso jumped.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Ried and Lipton: "OH MY GOD!!!!"

Violence Jack moved.

Ried: "I can't believe this!!! HE MOVED!! HE MOVED!!!"

Lipton: "Come VJ, GET UP!!"

The crowd began chant those very same words. "GET UP, GET UP!"

Violence Jack got up swinging, falling all over the place trying to recover his presence of mind. He'll never know how he found the will to move out of the way- for now he had to settle for the victory.

He had to climb.

Ried: "VJ's climbing! VJ's climbing!"

Lipton: "Climb faster! Climb faster!"

SMACK.

Half-way.

Half-way up.

Half-way to victory.

That's how far Calypso let him get before he decided to dash his hopes against the rocks.

SMACK.

And Violence Jack fell backwards- landing with a thud. Bruce was tough- but he wasn't invincible.

"Enough of this." Calypso said- tossing the chair into the center of the ring. Pulling VJ up again- he signaled for his finisher.

EYE OF CALYPSO.

Ried: "EYE OF CALYPSO ONTO THE CHAIR. IT'S OVER!!"

Lipton: "...asshole."

Calypso quickly scrambled up the cage and jumped down.

He walked up the ramp being pelted by trash and the re-newed frothing hate of the ACW fans.

His job- still intact.

Winner > Calypso by escaping the cage

SINGLES MATCH
Alias versus Coral Avalon

The last time the two men faced one another, it was at the Squared Circle's "Unprovoked" pay-per-view, eighteen months ago. It was a match that also involved Brandon Youngblood, and it was for the Squared Circle's Championship. Coral lost the match, however, tapping out to Alias' "Anarchy's Lullaby" finishing hold.

Coral didn't like losing by submission.

That's why he learned how to manipulate submissions during his stay in Japan.

Now, Coral Avalon was back in America, and ready to apply that knowledge on his opposition. Tonight, he would face a man that he had met twice before, but had never once defeated.

Tonight, Coral Avalon would face Alias for a third time, and the first occasion in ACW.

Tonight, we'd be treated to an ample dosage of a rare substance known only as "pwnage".

We'll start tonight's festivities with Fuel's "Won't Back Down".

Coral Avalon, dressed in his usual ring gear as well as his hooded vest, stepped out from behind the ACW curtains and was showered with cheers and adoration of the crowd. He was, as usual, focused on the match and not on the fans, but that didn't stop him from looking out in the crowd and pointing at a few signs that halfway amused him.

Coral hopped up onto the apron, and then hopped over the top rope and into the ring. He threw off the hood of his vest, held his arms in the air, and got some more cheers from the crowd.

But while the response to Coral was positive, there were some differences between Coral Avalon and his opponent.

Alias was quite possibly more popular.

Alias had likely been kicked out of hell at some point.

And most important of all:

Alias WAS ACW.

So please allow him to introduce himself.

"Sympathy For The Devil". Rolling Stones.

Roof? You just went on a fantastic voyage, being forcibly ripped off of the roof of the building through sound waves and sent towards the moon, whereupon you became the first arena roof to ever land on the moon. Moon people, particularly the Mooninites, will desecrate your corpse through urine and giving you the finger, but it's all for a worthy cause.

I think.

Regardless, Alias stepped out to the ovation, and quietly wondered to himself why the roof was missing.

Okay, no he didn't. Shut up.

Alias walked down the aisleway, immersing himself in the fan reaction and response to him being out here. He tagged hands, he made friends, and he didn't really mind the fact that his opponent, in the ring, was simply watching him do this. Alias hopped up the steel steps, and entered the ring by stepping through the ropes.

And now, the two men were set to square off.

Greg Lipton, however, sat with his arms crossed at the announcers' booth, calling for both men to be publicly hung upside-down and set on fire. But let's just ignore him, he's an idiot.

The bell rang.

Game on.

Coral and Alias circled one another, each wary of what the other could do. Finally, they locked up in the center of the ring, with a collar-and-elbow tieup. The two men jockeyed for positioning briefly, but Alias was bigger and stronger, and had soon pushed Avalon into the corner. The referee in charge of the match, "Average" Joe Hill, called for the break.

The lockup was broken cleanly, to the admiration of the crowd.

Alias backed out of the corner, while Avalon cautiously left that same corner. He now remembered that Alias would have a power advantage over him, but wasn't afraid to go back into the collar-and-elbow tieup once the two men were ready.

This time, however, Coral managed to shake off Alias' arms and perform a quick go-behind, into the waistlock on the former two-time ACW World Heavyweight Champion. Alias, however, reversed with his own go-behind, hooking in his own waistlock. This prompted Coral to shift his weight, place both legs between one of Alias' legs, and catch him with a drop toe hold.

Alias hit the canvas chest-first, and Coral slid along the canvas until he latched in a side headlock on the Original Pulp Hero. Coral held on the hold tenaciously, but Alias was powerful enough to rise to his feet and try to back suplex Coral out of the hold.

However, what Coral Avalon lacked in strength, he made up for in spades with his speed and agility. This was highlighted when he flipped over Alias' shoulder and back, landing on his feet. Alias turned, and almost literally walked right back into the side headlock that he had just tried to counter out of. Coral added to Alias's pains by catching him with a side headlock takedown.

Alias was held in the side headlock for a few seconds, but he managed to once again find a way out of the hold. He took his legs and wrapped them around Coral's head, placing the Kleptomaniac in a headscissors. However, Coral managed a kip up, putting him back on his feet. Coral dashed into the ropes, and Alias turned over onto his stomach and let Coral pass over him. Alias tried a clothesline, but Coral managed to duck it and dart into the other ropes.

When Coral came back, he attempted a cross body block. Alias, however, showed great power by catching Coral in midair and fluidly took him over with a fallaway slam. Coral hit the canvas back-first and slid to the outside to regroup a bit.

However, Alias wasn't in the mood to wait around. He slid to the floor himself and caught Avalon with a harsh knee strike in the gut, before he tossed the twenty-three year old Kleptomaniac into the ring post. The fans roared from Alias' offensive flurry on the floor, and watched as Coral was tossed back into the ring by the Original Pulp Hero.

Alias wandered back into the ring, determined to deal some damage to his opponent for the evening.

Alias grabbed Coral from behind and hooked in a tight hammerlock. Coral tried to break out of the hammerlock, but Alias was going nowhere, and after the five count, Alias obliterated Coral from behind with a harsh clothesline that would make Bobby Roode cry.

That was Alias' way of saying, "Welcome to ACW, motherfucker."

Coral was on the mat, holding the back of his head. The fans were behind Alias at this time as Coral crawled to the neutral corner, trying to regain his bearings. Alias stood at the center of the ring, daring the Kleptomaniac to make a move.

Even though Coral was smarter and more seasoned than he's been in months, he idiotically moved in on Alias.

He ate a Thai-style roundhouse kick for his troubles.

Coral fell to the canvas, holding his face in pain, wondering when the hell those little birds would stop circling around his head. Mainly because those birds annoyed the crap out of him. All of that frickin' chirping and whatnot.

Alias didn't wait for Coral to get up. He pulled the Klepto to his feet and shoved him into the corner, before driving repeated knee strikes into Coral's ribs, forcing all of Coral's air out of his body. When Alias was done with the knee strikes, he pulled Coral in by the head and caught him with a quick snap suplex. Alias then floated over for the cover.

One.

Two.

Nada.

Coral managed to kick out before the three, and Alias was quick to grab Coral by his head and pull him to his feet. He pulled Coral into a waistlock, preparing a German suplex, but Coral blocked the move by wrapping one of his legs in one of Alias' legs. Alias tried twice to land the suplex, but Coral blocked twice, forcing Alias to release the waistlock long enough to pound on Coral's back to weaken his resistance to the suplex.

Alias latched on the waistlock again, but this time he managed to get off the throw.

Unfortunately, the move didn't connect.

Why?

Coral was too goddamn agile for his own goddamn good.

The Kleptomaniac had flipped over and landed on his feet. He staggered slightly from the landing, but recovered faster than Alias did and managed to catch him from behind.

LUNGBLOWER.

A jumping double knee backbreaker... lifted from John Walters, delivered perfectly by Coral Avalon, put Alias on the mat. Coral had put the points of both knees into Alias' back, and now Alias' injured body had found a new reason to hate itself.

Coral collected himself up off of the mat, slightly dazed from Alias' pinpoint striking offense. The fans were ecstatic from Coral's counter of the German suplex, and were interested in seeing Coral's impressive array of back-oriented offense.

Take for example what Coral was about to do with Alias. Alias had rolled to his stomach, holding his back so he could relieve the pressure laying on his injured body part would have given him. Unfortunately, that was exactly the sort of thing Coral wanted out of Alias.

Senton.

Coral had taken a head of steam and leapt into the air, landing back-first on Alias' back. Alias was in an entire planet full of trouble, where dangerous things kept jumping on his back until they made him cry. Except that Alias wasn't crying in the moment.

He simply was in some pain.

Coral got to his feet again and rolled Alias onto his back, before making with the cover.

One.

Two.

Nope.

It'd take more than a backbreaker and a senton to put down Alias. Hell, you may need a lighter, some kerosene, a chainsaw, and a duck to put down Alias long enough for a three count, and even then it was only if you were lucky enough.

Coral pulled Alias up by his spiky hair, and landed a quick knee to the gut.

Meanwhile, the fans were currently behind Alias.

"A-LI-AS!"

"A-LI-AS!"

"A-LI-AS!"

See? Bastards. They'll turn on you in the blink of an eye. They should be set on FIRE.

>.>

<.<

Well, I think they should, anyway.

Anyway, Coral doubled Alias over with a boot in the gut, before he hooked Alias' arms. Alias tried to block what was coming, but that simply prompted Coral to release one of the arms and smash him in the back with a forearm. Coral reapplied the double underhook, and added a few knees to Alias' face, which prompted the fans to cheer wildly. Once Coral was done killing Alias' pretty face with his right knee, Coral managed to lift him up.

DOUBLE UNDERHOOK BACKBREAKER.

Once again, Alias' back was invited to Coral's knee for a not-so-lovely tea party. Alias bounced off of the impact of the knee and landed on the canvas. He held his back in pain, faced with the grim reality that Coral Avalon was not the same man he beat twice in the Squared Circle eighteen months ago.

Alias used the ropes to try and get to his feet, but Coral was on him before he could get completely there. He caught Alias with a harsh European uppercut that nearly knocked Alias out of his boots, over the top rope, and to the floor. Then Alias was hit with one that was even harder, that even echoed in the building. Coral then whipped Alias into the ropes and attempted to hit something resembling a back body drop.

Rule of Renner-Written Matches #32: If I'm nonspecific, it means it never happened.

Alias caught Coral in the face with a boot as Coral ducked down prematurely. Hoping to finish Coral off before he could do anything else that damaged him further in this contest, Alias attempted to tilt-a-whirl into the A-Bomb.

However, it didn't happen. Coral spun in the direction that Alias was sending him in. As a result, Coral slipped out of Alias' grip and he landed on his feet in front of Alias, with Alias somewhat confused on what happened.

Coral, likewise, attempted to end the match early. He stepped forward and hooked Alias for the flatliner that usually led into the Koji Clutch that Coral used as a finishing move these days. However, Alias wasn't stupid and knew what was coming. He caught Coral with a harsh elbow to break up the move. Coral didn't release the positioning even after Alias caught him again.

A third shot, however, caused Coral to back away. This allowed Alias the chance he had been looking for. He charged.

Tilt a whirl backbreaker.

Coral might have been dazed, but he still saw Alias coming and caught him with a third backbreaker that put the Original Pulp Hero on the canvas. Coral immediately went for the cover after stopping Alias's momentum.

One.

Two.

TH-NO!

The closest near fall of the contest, but Alias had gotten his shoulder up before the three count could be registered. Coral looked at "Average" Joe Hill for a moment, but didn't say anything about the counting. Instead, he rolled Alias over onto his back and proceeded to apply a bow-and-arrow backbreaker.

This was not an impact backbreaker, either. This was a submission hold, and Alias was trapped right in the center of the ring. Coral was grappling Alias' chin and crossed legs, putting the points of his legs in Alias' back.

Alias screamed in pain, but refused to give up.

Not here.

And certainly not now.

He struggled in the hold, making Coral's job of maintaining the hold even harder. Finally, however, Alias managed to break the hold, landing on top of Coral for the pin.

One.

Two.

Kickout by Coral.

Coral got to his feet just as Alias did, and Alias attempted to commit to another Thai roundhouse. However, Alias' back bothered him too much to get the proper momentum he had when he first decked the Kleptomaniac with the move.

Coral caught the foot.

ANKLELOCK.

Coral had caught Alias' boot and twisted the ankle into Kurt Angle's anklelock. It wasn't precisely the area of damage Coral was interested in at the moment, but GOD HELP you if you're in this hold anyway, because Coral wasn't about to let go of the advantage he now had over Alias.

Alias winced in pain, both from the damage to his back that had been inflicted on him so far, and from the damage that the Kleptomaniac was now inflicting on him now. He hadn't been able to get much out from the starting block since the match started. He had expected something else entirely out of Avalon, and certainly not this aggressive approach that Coral had brought to the table tonight.

Alias tried to reach the ropes, but Coral was grounded and wasn't going anywhere. So, Alias tried a gambit. If it didn't work, he'd be REALLY fucked and put in a position where all he could do from there would be to tap out. If it DID work, he could finally regroup and get some momentum going and hopefully end the match.

Alias got up on one leg, hopping around while Coral still held on to the anklelock. From there, Alias rolled forward.

Coral, not expected that, was flung forward through the top and second ropes and crashed unceremoniously onto the floor to the roar of the crowd.

Again with the chanting!

"A-LI-AS!"

"A-LI-AS!"

"A-LI-AS!"

"Average" Joe Hill attempted to keep Alias from joining Coral on the floor, but you weren't gonna get in the Original Pulp Hero's way tonight. Alias went out to the floor, where he pulled Coral up by his hair. Alias hammered on Coral's face and upper chest with alternating punches and chops, before he lifted Coral up and dropped him neck-first along the guardrail.

Paaaaaaain.

Coral seemingly bounced from the guardrails and to the floor, holding his head and heck in pain. Alias grabbed Coral and, almost as if it were an afterthought, shoved Coral straight into the nearby ringpost.

The New Orleans native hit the floor again, and Alias was able to shove him back into the ring to break the ten count long enough for Alias to also hop into the ring. Alias pulled Coral to his feet, and pulled him into a waistlock.

Earlier, when Alias attempted this, Coral had countered out of the move and into a Lungblower that gave Coral an open invitation to pound Alias' back. But this time, Alias snapped off the released German suplex, dumping Coral brutally on the back of his neck.

Fans in the building let out an audible gasp.

I don't think people are meant to land that way. =o

Alias didn't see how Coral landed, he merely saw the result he had intended: Coral on his back, unmoving. He crawled on top of Coral for the cover.

One.

TWO.

THRENO.

The crowd was surprised. Coral was still on the mortal coil. Alias, however, was soon getting to his feet. He still held his back in pain from Coral's earlier offense, but the pain had been dulled by the adrenaline that was flowing throughout Alias' body.

This was what Alias seemingly lived for, after all.

Alias pulled Coral to his feet, and drilled a few knees into the Kleptomaniac's abdomen, while pushing him towards the ropes. Once there, Alias whipped Coral into the ropes. When Coral came back, Alias lifted Coral up high and drove him face and chest first to the canvas with a flapjack.

Alias held on to the leg of the Kleptomaniac and rolled through, somehow, into a half boston crab. However, Alias' intention was not this. He put the leg between his own legs and managed to grab Coral's chin.

STF.

Or, as Sean has been calling it lately, the STFU. Depends on if you want to be funny or not, or if you want to bear in mind that Sean's only calling it that because he saw that douchebag, John Cena, do it.

Yeah, I just called John Cena a douchebag. What of it?

Anyway, Alias had the STF on tight, putting Coral in the position of being on the receiving end of a submission hold, rather than the attacking end. Coral struggled in the hold, but wasn't about to give up. He slowly crawled in the direction of the ropes and away from the hold that was applied on him.

Alias couldn't keep the hold applied for very long because it was hurting his back, so that made Coral's journey to the ropes far easier than it could have been if he hadn't worked over Alias' back earlier in the contest.

Alias got to his feet first, however, and grabbed Coral by his long hair. He pulled him to a vertical base and attempted to put him in the full nelson that would be necessary to apply a Dragon suplex. However, Coral held on to the top rope and wouldn't let go, prompting Alias to release one of the arms to create a half nelson. He used the free arm to smash Coral in the upper back and the back of the head a few times, forcing Coral to break from the ropes.

Alias did not change his positioning.

He simply threw Coral back.

PULPED.

It's been said once, and it'll be said again since I invented the quote. Getting hit with Pulped is like being PUNK'D, except without the crappiness of Ashton Kutcher invading one's screen.

Coral landed on the back of his head, but momentum carried his legs over and Coral ended up on his stomach as a result of the maneuver. The fans were now on their feet as Alias crawled over to where Coral's body fell and made the cover.

One.

Two.

THRE-SHOULDER!

"OH!" went the crowd. Most of them thought that would be it after the brutality of the Pulped, which came after a preceding German suplex of such brutality that all other German suplexes would have bowed before it and cried out that it was the Lord of All That Was German Suplex.

As Alias looked at "Average" Joe Hill, idly wondering why that wasn't three, the fans had a different chant from the one that had been unleashed earlier in the match.

"AV-A-LON!"

"AV-A-LON!"

"AV-A-LON!"

Fickle fucking fans, I swear to HEAT MAN...

Alias pulled Coral to his feet, ignoring the changed demeanor of the fans who were previously chanting for him. Once he was back up, Alias picked Coral up over his shoulder and charged him into the corner before smashing him into the turnbuckles with authority. With his shoulder still firmly planted in Coral's gut, he took the opportunity to push Coral into a seated position on the top rope.

Climbing up, Alias hooked a head and threw Coral's arm over his head, looking for a superplex.

But Coral blocked.

He used his free arm to smack Alias in the back, which caused Alias' momentum to hit a speedbump. Coral kept pounding on Alias' back until Alias was forced to get off of the turnbuckles and hold his back in pain.

This gave Coral a golden opportunity to climb up to the top rope and...

...get crotched there because Alias staggered into the ropes, knocking Coral off balance.

Ouch.

Alias, with his back stopping its pain again, managed to catch Coral in the jaw with a right hand, stopping any thought Coral might have had of getting out of his position again. From there, Alias climbed up to join Coral again. He hooked Coral's head and ascended to the top rope, before landing a vicious superplex from the top rope that snapped Coral to the canvas.

One problem.

Alias not only hit as hard as Avalon, but landed right in a spot he did NOT need to land on: His back.

So, from that point, there was a double knockout count going on. By the count of six, it was Avalon, not Alias, who was up first. However, Alias was up a half a second later, and he managed to launch a right elbow to Coral. Coral staggered back a bit, but as Alias moved in on Coral for another strike, Coral smashed him with a European uppercut.

Alias staggered, but wouldn't go down. He launched another elbow.

Coral, likewise, would not go down. He launched another European uppercut.

Elbow by Alias.

European uppercut by Avalon.

Elbow.

European uppercut.

Elbow.

European uppercut.

KNEE.

In the end, it was Alias who changed up the offense, catching Coral in the gut with a knee strike. This allowed Alias to attempt another suplex. Unfortunately, it was here that Alias' back, which had taken a devastating blow from the superplex, wouldn't allow him any more strength.

Coral, realizing this too, suddenly shoved Alias' arm off of him and hooked him.

STO backbreaker.

Alias' fortunes just turned from bad to worse.

He rolled around the canvas, holding his back in obvious pain, and tried his best not to sob like a little school girl who's in the same room with Michael Jackson.

Coral, meanwhile, was on his hands and knees. He had taken an absurd amount of punishment in his own right in these last few minutes, but he was working with a body that hadn't been run down and broken through more than a decade of service to the wrestling industry. His body was still young, and hadn't even touched the ravages of half of the things Alias had been through.

Which was why, in spite of holding his neck in pain, Avalon was getting up again. He wandered over to the ropes and leaned against them in order to maintain a vertical base long enough for his feet to remember that they like standing.

The Kleptomaniac, as he was known, watched Alias pick himself back up. He charged on Alias, but Alias, who was near the ropes, suddenly ducked his head and launched Coral over the top rope with a back body drop.

But not to the floor.

Coral's natural agility, coupled with the lucky break of grabbing onto the ropes as he was being lifted, allowed him to land on his feet on the apron. Coral surprised Alias with a European Uppercut that staggered Alias backwards, long enough for Coral to leap over the top rope, land on the second ropes, and catch Alias with yet another backbreaker.

SPRINGBOARD MOONSAULT DRAGON BACKBREAKER.

The fans exploded. Not literally, of course, because that'd be plain messy. And let's face it, Jack Bauer would cry if that were the case. But they exploded in sheer orgasmic joy. I mean it, you could see the amount of spooge simultaneously ejaculated by the crowd from SPACE. Which was amazing since this was an indoor arena.

Ahem.

The move, which took a page out of the AJ Styles playbook and modified it a bit, had once again impacted the much-abused back of Christopher Sheffield, and put him to the mat. Coral was down from the sudden burst of offensive energy he just brought to the table, but he quickly crawled over and made the lateral press.

One.

Two.

THRE-NO.

Not yet.

Alias won't goddamn die just yet.

Coral was beginning to realize the very element that's kept Alias alive and winning for so long... the fact that the only way to defeat the Alias seemed to be to stab him in the heart with the Bone Saber of Zoomakalis.

Coral got back to his feet, and pulled Alias up with him. Coral caught Alias with a knee to the gut, simply to make him stop thinking that he should be among the living if only for a moment. Coral then caught Alias with a scoop slam, before Coral went to the ropes. At this point, Coral needed an end blow that could finish Alias off but good. That's why he ascended to the top rope.

Coral stood there, measured, and leapt off for the frog splash.

The same frog splash that won the fWo World Tag Team Titles for Coral Avalon and the Codemaster back at fWo's version of Legends.

The same frog splash that Coral used on Ruben Ross weeks later.

The same frog splash... that missed.

Coral slammed chest-first on the canvas, as Alias rolled out of the way.

The fans roared and were on their feet, as dueling chants began to echo.

"A-LI-AS!"

"AV-A-LON!"

"A-LI-AS!"

"AV-A-LON!"

Coral and Alias were slow to get to their feet, but it was Coral who was up first, surprisingly. Alias, still holding his back, was in quite a lot of pain and was slow to get up. However, he still showed fight, as when Coral approached, Alias had one last-ditch effort saved up.

Headbutt. To the nose.

CLICK.

Knee. To the gut.

BOOM.

And, for the coup de gras...

Jumping knee strike. To the face.

TIGER CRUSH.

Coral fell to the mat like a sack of bricks that were, themselves, weighted down by ten other sacks of bricks. Alias, hurting from his very own flurry of offensive goodness, fell to the mat holding his back, landing on top of Coral for the cover.

One.

TWO.

THREE-SHOULDER.

The crowd were stunned, but none as stunned as Alias was. Alias, who rolled over to his back (probably a bad move in retrospect), could only look up at "Average" Joe Hill with a disappointed look on his face. He had thought he had scored the knockout shot on the Kleptomaniac. Hell, if I had a jumping knee strike that hit like a shotgun blast to the goddamn face, I'd be more worried about why my opponent's head was still attached to his damn shoulders.

But, alas, Coral Avalon had now revealed himself to be some type of uber zombie or something. He was still alive. And Alias was almost out of options. Coral had gone out of his way to make Alias suffer many backbreakers, which, as you might have noticed from the prior literature, had taken its toll on the former two-time ACW World Heavyweight Champion.

As a result, Alias was still slow in getting up, holding his back all the way. His body felt thirty years older than it was, and yet Alias wasn't willing to give up. Not by a long shot. He grabbed the Kleptomaniac by his hair and pulled him to his feet.

One more move, Alias thought, One more, and I'll have him.

With that thought freshly in his mind, Alias pulled Coral in and hooked him up for the A-Bomb. His finishing pinfall move. A move that had won him many matches in the past, and if it connected tonight, would ensure his victory.

Unfortunately, his back was bothering him, and Coral showed more fight in his own body than Alias had anticipated. As a result, Coral managed to flip over Alias' shoulder and land on his feet behind Alias. Coral hooked Alias' head from his position. However, Coral switched grips so that he was in reverse bulldog position.

From there, the fate of the man who personified ACW was sealed.

SECOND IMPACT.

Shellshock, right in the center of the ring.

There were two reasons why Coral had liked incorporating this move into his moveset. The first was the fact that move was so similar in execution to his Ratings Spike.

The second?

It was very easy to move right into the KOJI CLUTCH.

Like Jimmy Cain before him, Christopher Declan Sheffield had fallen prey to the one-two punch of the Second Impact and the Koji Clutch. Coral had wrapped his arms around the back of Alias' neck, while his left leg had maneuvered itself into Alias' face. Coral was now pulling back with the arms while pushing forward with his leg, creating the choking pressure of the Koji Clutch that he employed as his finishing submission hold.

Complicating Alias's problems in breaking the hold? He was in the center of the ring, for starters. Almost as important was the fact that his back had become so torn up that he had no way of really moving. And because his back was so torn up, his breathing had become SEVERELY hampered.

Alias had one option, and even though he didn't like it, he had to go with it unless he wanted to risk some type of permanent injury.

He tapped.

Coral Avalon generally wasn't the type of guy to linger on a submission hold well after the bell rang. As soon as he heard the bell, he released the hold.

Coral simply laid there on his back, absorbing the cheers of the crowd.

He had his eyes closed, but knew Alias could hear him, "Good match."

"Yeah." was Alias' muffled response. Alias still held his back in pain, but soon simply rolled out underneath the bottom rope, holding his back.

This left Coral in the ring to get up on both knees. Hill went over and raised his arm in victory, and Coral savored that moment.

One demon was defeated. He had beaten a man he had never beaten after two prior attempts, and he felt elated. Like a weight was off his shoulders.

What would Coral Avalon do next?

Time would only tell.

Coral knelt in the middle of the ring. He had just beaten Alias to continue his streak of high-profile victories since entering ACW, and to tell you the truth, he was feeling pretty darn good. He smiled and brushed the hair out of his face. He then turned his head toward the entrance, wary that someone(Jimmy Cain) might come rushing down to beat his head in with a chair or something.

Assholes like him tend to do that sort of thing, and Coral would know, he had put it with the biggest asshole of them all for nearly two years straight. Jeff Garvin, where ever you are, please, please stay out of ACW. Coral's so much happier now without you there to make his life a living hell.

And somewhere Jeff Garvin, forking the hell out of his TV Dinner, smiled. Why? I don't know why. Maybe Julie was blowing him. Maybe he just drank some really good iced tea. Could've been alot of things. But what it was, was the overwhelming feeling that Coral Avalon was about to get his brains scrambled.

CRACK!

Jimmy Cain doesn't know a thing about honor. Why stand infront of someone and prompt a knife fight when you can sneak up from behind and stab them in the back, numerous times, in succession, with a rusty, HIV tainted blade? Jimmy stood holding a chair by one of its legs, shirtless and screaming profanity.

"WHAT UP NOOOW, COCKSUCKER! DOES IT FEEL GOOD? DOES MY TAPPING GIVE YOU THE TIGHTNESS IN YOUR PANTS! ANSWEEER ME YOU FUCK!" screamed the Jackpot as he stood over Coral threatening to blast him with a second chairshot to the body.

CRAAACKKK!!

"NOW YOU TAP! YOU, YOU YOU YOU! NEVER ME! NEVER THE JIMMY!"

Tossing the chair aisde like it was a used condom in a back alley rape, Jimmy mounted Coral and immediately hit him with two consecutive forearms to roll him over onto his stomach. Defence mechanism. You get hit in the face repeatedly and sooner or later you're going to think to yourself, "Protect the face!" So Coral basically offered up his back, and Jimmy, of course, took advantage of this.

REAR NAKED CHOKE!

Jimmy got his hooks it, spreading Coral's legs and flattening him out on his stomach entirely. With his bicept and forearm acting as vice on Coral's neck, the airway closed and Avalon's brain was left to wonder, "Heeeey, where ma' oxy-" but he couldn't finish before Avalon slipped into unconsciousness. All the while, half a dozen officials and backstage workers were trying desperately to pull Jimmy off of Avalon. Jimmy: "NO! NO!! HE'S GOTTA PAY! JUST LET ME KILL HIM AND WE'LL BE SQUARE, KAY!?!" Jimmy ='s one pyschotic motherfucker, and that's why you don't make with the screwy Japanese submissions. He *MIGHT* tap out and then you have this whole "Jimmy wants to murder your ass" situation on your hands. And that's not a good thing; that's a bad thing. A potentially hazardous to your health thing.

When Jimmy finally let go, he stood up, dusted off his hands, and coolly flipped. that. collar. Oh yeah, baby, he did it. He made with the collar flippage. Jimmy then turned and punched a ref in the face. Hard. The ref crumbled to the mat, his nose literally EXPLODING on impact. He did the Homer Simpson "running in circles while laying on your side" thing- only his was more frantic and scary than when Homer did it. Maybe cause Homer did it out of happiness, and the ref did it out of pure agony. Shrug. Either way it made for a semi-funny visual.

Jimmy stepped over of the ref, through the ropes, and hopped down out of the ring. He adjusted his head so that he was looking down at the floor with a sadistic smirk carved out on his profile. It didn't matter to him how many brain cells of Coral's he killed with the chairshot and subsequent RNC. All that mattered was that he got his revenge. Only he hadn't -- not yet -- not from a simple choke out. He wanted to really hurt Coral. Make him scream and cry and contemplate suicide. He wanted to attack him mentally as well as physically. Then and only then would they be "square" as he put it.

CAN I SCREAAAM!?

"New Noise" by Refused hit and Jimmy turned around and backed slowly up the ramp, never taking his eyes off of Coral, who was still laying unconscious in the ring being tended to by the EMTs. The Champaign Supernova pointed to him and made the "cut throat" gesture with his fist clenched and thumb extended, before disappearing into the shadows, the curtain instantly righting itself, veiling the gorilla position, as he walked to the back.

Winner > Coral Avalon by tapout