Introduction - No introductory godliness needed. You know what this is...this is ACW.

Another Unoriginal Jobber-Based Comedy Segment

A man known only as ‘him’ sits at the utmost peak of the utmost mountain, somewhere in Tibet. Choosing to adorn himself with a merely a rough moose-skin cloak, and surviving on only what nature presents to him (which is, primarily, berries and small fruits); he has shed himself of worldly possessions and has sworn to remain as such until he has found the answer to his sole question.

His question: What is a jobber?

A million gazillion miles away, deep underground, near the Earth’s core lies a place called ‘Mom’s basement’. In this place, infront of a computer monitor sits Smart-Mark-Wrestling-Nerd #20568 (And, yes, he is a LoC fan). He can confirm that, in the world of professional wrestling, a jobber is as follows: Someone who’s sole purpose is that of making other wrestlers look good. They’re usually of small stature. They usually have either no personality at all or – in contrast – are saddled with ridiculous and colourful characteristics. They are ignored by their management and outcasted by their colleagues …. Oh, and they’re usually foreign, too.

Back on the Earth’s surface, The Britton Brothers – two lightweight, British cockney-rhyming-kleptomaniac-cheeky-chappy-conmen – ponder what separates them from the jobbers of ACW.

“I mean, seriously, Billy. We aint no better than them losers back in that ‘Jobber town’, bruv. Everyone ignores us like we aint even there, and Lowell ‘as us doin’ all sortsa nonsense, just to give ‘is ego a rub. It’s bloody ridicoolus, is what it is.”

Brian was the older of the two brothers. He was sensible and worried a lot. Billy-Boy, his younger and more outgoing brother, gave him the ‘trust me’ look.

“But c’mon, Billy. Tell me. What’s makes us any better than them jobbers?”

Billy pondered his siblings query. He would’ve answered ‘Lowell’, but the truth was that their affiliation with the Lord hadn’t benefited them in the slightest. He thought some more… Then “Ping~!” – a lightbulb popped above his head, and he delved into his bag and produced a small book.

“This”

“…A book? A bloody book - that’s what’s keepin’ us on the right side of the ‘to be fired’ list?”

The book in question was a nifty little burgundy number. Very majestic looking. A sticker spread across the front cover, with the word “AUDITION NOTES” scrawled in the haywire and juvenile calligraphy of ACW’s owner – Lord Lowell. All block capitols, of course… It was written in gold pen, though, so that made it allright.

“See, my worryingful older brother, we have gotten ourselves a job round these parts. We have a title. From this second onwards, The Britton bothers are ACW’s official ‘jobber ordishners’” Proclaimed Billy-Boy Britton; his proud statement causing his older brother to cock his eyebrow in intrigue. “See, tonight all of them jobbers - something which we aint ” He added. ”get the chance to no longer be considered a jobber. There’s gonna be this big ladder match thing, which means that one of ‘em is movin’ up in the rankings… But that also means they’re gonna leave a space behind”

“Okay…” Mumbled Brian; nodding his head and struggling to keep up with his brother’s cockney ramblings.

“So Lowell’s got us doin’ auditions, aint he” The rhetorical question – no East-London conversation would be complete without one.

“He has?”

“He has.

Throughaht tonight, us two are gonna be auditionin’ a bunch’a prosp… prospect…” His forehead crinkled into the frown of a thinking man “…prospective jobbers. An’ best of all, we get to pick the winner!” exclaimed the youngest brother; rising out of his lockerroom bench and rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm. “Old Mum would be dead proud of us, Brian. ‘Coz The Britton boys are starting to get some power round this place.”

Mile-wide grins on their faces, the two cockney rogues glared into the distance as the scene faded to bla...

…WAIT! There’s still one more question to be answered.

“Oh, but what’s the book for, Billy?”

“This thing? Well Lowell gave it me, didn’t he.”

“He did?”

“He did.

It’s a notebook… Don’t worry, we don’t ‘ave to do any writing or anything. He said we just gotta pretend to be writing stuff, ‘coz it makes us look all important and that. He said he does it all the time.”

“Oh” Brian seemed satisfied. And so the scene faded to black (for real this time)

Denny Singleton

Denny Singleton had only been with ACW for a few weeks and already he’d taken on the attitude. You know the one; that slack, at ease attitude… that ACW attitude.

The show was rolling forth behind him through the single steel door. Holocaust marked the return of federation that had stood atop the wrestling industry for so long. Sure, it hadn’t gone anywhere, but it was no secret that ACW hadn’t been at its finest as of late. But this would change that all.

The cigarette that was pressed between Denny’s lips illuminated the night outside the arena. Hardly feet away cars raced by, one after another. The young dirty blonde haired Minnesota native had never had dreams of the squared circle – he had hoop dreams, in fact, as it were. He’d been wrangled into the promotion by his father, who worked for one of ACW’s marketing partners.

He didn’t mind however; the money was decent, especially for a 19-year-old kid with no more than a high school diploma. Moreover, he got to travel the country for free. He had no real obligations at home, being single and whatnot, not to mention the fact that he’d always been a bit of an outcast.

He ran with very few friends throughout his high school tenure. An artist of sorts, he hoped to one day attend art school, but he was here for the moment and he was happy.

He’d barely tossed the cigarette to the ground, watching it fade away into the concrete, had he felt a strong hand placed upon his shoulder.

He turned his head abruptly to see a shadowy figure step forth into the light.

He was well aware of Kelly Flawless, but he’d never been formerly introduced to the man.

“Hey kid,” the Blonde Bomber began, “got a smoke?”

"No Money in the Bank" Ladder Match
Iceman versus Lolicon  versus Mr. Wrestling Pi 
versus The Loser versus Mac McDeezy versus Preston Baxter

                              

I'd like to be the first to welcome you to the realm of Legends. At this PPV, a lot of shit is about to go down. And we're starting with the very crowning of a brand new title in the realm of ACW.

Winner >  A

Geritol Hard Style?

"The House of Lords is off doing what they do best: enforcing my rule, making sure the Lowell name is out there," Lord Lowell said. "And tonight, everyone of those wretched piles of human waste are going to shave years off their careers for my amusement!"

Conrad Ramsey blinked. He was sitting across from Lowell, his chair a foot or so from Lowell's desk. Behind the Scourge of the Yanks there was a cabinet with a bunch of Nazi memorabilia, like in the movie American Beauty. There were plates, pistols, photographs. Lowell had spent a lot of money to acquire these rare items. They helped to establish the 'authenticity' of the pay per view. And authenticity it needed, damnit!

"There are gonna' be TABLES, THUMBTACKS, FIRE! And ya know something? When it's all said and done, and the clouds of smoke from C4 explosives have cleared, there's going to be clarity." Lowell gave a nod as he leaned back in his chair and tucked his arms behind his head. "Everyone -- from Almasy, to...whoever else I have in this damned fed of mine! --they're all gonna know where it is they stand! And that is *below* me! Below the greatest Scorpio Champion of all-time! Below the best fed owner any fed has ever had!

Heck! I'm in the freakin' Tournament of Champion's right now fighting to gain ACW an inkling more of respect! And let me tell you something: I am going to WIN that tournament and I'm going to bring home the trophy they give me because I am, above all else, a wrestler. An intelligent wrestler! One of a rare few! One who knows that to cement his legacy -- to be the best there is -- you've gotta FIRST win the tournaments and the titles! Then, and only then, can you stuff down hundred dollar bills down everyone's throat! You've gotta do that!

And tonight, I'm going to make an example! Three of this promotion's TOP STARS will be AXED -- all for different reasons, but also for one umbrella reason that they all share...they defied me.

I gave them chance after chance after chance and still they stuck up the proverbial middle finger and disregarded my authoritah!"

That little flub there, where Lowell kinda' sorta' sounded like Cartman, was completely accidental. Lowell, who use to watch South Park when he was still an American citizen and watched shows with such vulgar subject matter, paused and narrowed his eyes.

"...Yes...WELL, the reason I asked you here was so--"

"So you could go off on a five minute tangent about how you're going to make this individual and that individual pay now that you've got all the power?" Ramsey piped up, trying not to sound too disrespectful.

Lowell took a second to think about that. "Yeah, that's exactly what I called you in here for.

That and nothing else."

"To be perfectly honest, I came to see you under my own volition. I need to talk to you about a certain someone," the 63-year-old former Action! Bantam Champion and the first taker of Jeff Garvin's Memphis Death Certificate piledriver said as he uncrossed his arm and sat up in his seat a bit more. "Jimmy Cain."

Like nails on a chalkboard, the name sent tremors down Lowell's spine. You could see him physically begin to quiver with rage. That name. The Crown Prince of England nodded and replied, "That piece of SHIT! ...what about him?"

"Well, Sir..." Ramsey began. It felt weird calling someone forty years his junior "Sir" but that's the way Lowell likes it. Ramsey took a moment to collect his thoughts and continued, "I don't know if he's what you'd call...mentally stable.

I mean, during the fall he had that whole "Jimmy Cain Jobber Slaughter Tour" thing going on where he'd beat up one of our undercard workers every week and leave them a bloody mess. No one wants to work with him!

And just last week- what he did to Salvaje- that wasn't right.

I know Salvaje. I knew him when he played straightman to Chris Chambers in Action!...I know he doesn't mean anyone any harm, he just wants to make a name for himself here in the U.S. Over in Mexico, you better believe that guy wouldn't be getting fed to a psycho like Cain- over there people show one another respect. You win, you lose, but you don't get your face torn up by goddamn barbed-wire! I...I just have a problem with seeing that sorta thing, especially when the guy it's happening to doesn't have a damn clue about the "hardcore" or "ultraviolent" styles of wrestling."

Ramsey was going to need his puffer if he didn't calm down. Shaking his head, he stared at Lowell, who has his lips pursed up as if pondering something.

"You know something, you're RIGHT!"

Lowell stood up, pushing back his chair. I forgot to mention: Lowell was dressed in full German Nazi fatigues, complete with trenchcoat (which didn't match the rest of the uniforn as it was overly colorful and gaudy, and looked to be of the same exact design of his Lordly robe.)

Lowell marched back and forth in his office, swatch in hand. "Jimmy Cain is a huge douche...and I'm pretty sure he's gay...he most definitely has some sort of psychosexual disfunction. When we use to be chums he'd always make me watch these ridiculously violent rape tapes where the girls appear to be raped and murdered at the end...and not always in that order. Weeeird stuff. Never quite understood what the appeal of it was, but meh- to each his own. One man's garbage is another man's treasure, I guess. But let me tell you something, Conrad, my treasure will never be YOUR garbage! I won't have it! I bought an incinerator for that very purpose! Anything I get tired of: I burn. Got tired of my horse the other day: burned it."

"You burned your HORSE?" Conrad said in sheer disbelief.

"You better believe it! She burned up NICE! The whole house smelled of oats for days!

In fact, I'm looking into buying in bulk...purchase like an entire stable of well-fed trotters and just --" Lowell mimed opening the hatch of the incinerater and pushing a horse, from behind, to its unpleasant, firey demise. "G'yeah!"

'Mentally unstable...if anyone's mentally unstable it's THIS GUY,' Ramsey thought to himself.

"But I get what you're saying- Jimmy Cain deserves an ass kicking! And tonight he'll get one! Joe Mescalero -- my pasty white Hulk -- will club him with those T-Rex arms of his! He's assured me he's going to law waste to him with a sack of D batteries tonight in a first eeeever match...

GLASS, TACKS, SACKS OH MY~!"

Lowell smiled, while Ramsey scratched his head.

A GTS match? Submission Hell? Battle Arena? Hardware Holocaust? A match that Ramsey couldn't remember, but ended with "deathmatch", which is never good. Never. Why put those to words together if you don't plan on meting out copious amounts of bodily harm? If it were going to be a regular match, it'd just be called "a match". No "death" would be entangled in its name. This whole PPV concept didn't sit well with Ramsey. The possibility of serious injury was far too great to justify it--even if the concept were to spike the number of buys the PPV would bring in.

Finally, Ramsey cleared his throat and replied, sarcastically, "That sounds wonderful."

"Oh it will be...but if by some unforeseen event the result is anything less than satisfactory...like say if Jimmy *isn't* permanently crippled...then you will be my contingency plan."

Lowell, all of a sudden, threw up his arms and shouted, as if to the gods above: "WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, GO TO RAMSEY!"

"Contingency plan? You want *me* to fight him?" Ramsey shook his head in the negative. "Ooooh no no nooo...that wouldn't be a very smart idea on my part. I've been retired for almost three years. The last time I stepped foot in the ring was against Jeff Garvin and that match nearly cost me my life! Back then, when my cardio was good -- or as good as it could be at my age, heh -- well, let's just say I hard time keepin' up. I wouldn't know where to begin as far as training."

Lowell hadn't heard any of this. In one ear; out the other. He had never seen Conrad Ramsey wrestle, but he was already a fan. Since there first meeting he liked Conrad. He liked his crazy old man hair that stood on end and looked to be as fluffy as the whitest, fluffiest cloud he'd ever seen. (March 12, 1989, while on a family road trip to Cincinnati. Years later it would remind him of actor/comedian George Lopez and he wouldn't quite view it as foundly as he had when he first caught a glimpse of it.)

"Coooonrad, picture this!" Lowell walked around and stood behind Ramsey. He then called the match as he imagined it in his head: "You. Jimmy Cain. Jimmy beats on you for ten or fifteen minutes- you get all banged up, but you weather his offensive flurries, using that head of yours as a catcher's mit..."

Ramsey cut in, "But I'm concussed VERY EASILY! My skull is incredibly soft!

No no no no no no! I'm OLD. I'm an OLD MAN," he pleaded, his head turning from side to side, frantically.

"Noooonesence! You're only as old as you feel! I feel NINE. How old do YOU feel?"

"Sixty-three, that's the problem!

"Pssh! What-ev! You feel twenty-nine! You feel like your life is just starting to settle in to a nice routine of work and sex with a woman you've dated for the past three or four years! BUT OH NO! SHE'S DEVELOPING THIS KIND OF ICKY FUNGUS!

HER CUNT IS OOZING A GREEN FLUID!

It looks like a...like a ham wallet stuffed to capacity with bills!

BUT YOU SOLDIER ON! YOU GET DOWN, NIGHT IN, NIGHT OUT, AND YOU LICK THAT SAPPY, TANGY SHIT LIKE IT'S A FINE AND DELICIOUS PASTE! A PASTE YOU LOOOOVE! SOME FRENCH CUISINE SORTA' SHIT!"

Lowell settled down and continued calling the match as he saw it as if the whole fungus tirade never happened. "And after he's adequately worn down, you start in with the chops! You spank his chest RAW! And then you finish him off with a top rope WHATEVER or a submission WHATEVER! And you take the W and you pocket it and you come back here and the Royal Guard will hoist you up onto their shoulders and we'll party like we're The Who! You, me, Reynolds, Klaasen and Myers, possibly Joe but something tells me he's not the partying type! We'll all go buy expensive Roadsters and crash them! Then we'll get drunk off champagne and smoke a J or two!"

Ramsey, for whatever reason, nodded, thinking back to his glory days when he fought his step son, Max Danger, in a ****¾ match at Juggernaut II and took every one of the King of Submission's signature moves, causing him to have to resort to using a move that had only been seen ONCE before: Dangerous IV. The Chickenwing Piledriver.

He opened his mouth and gave the answer, "Yeah. If it means ordering him up a piece of humble pie, I guess I can dust off my wrestling boots one last time."

"DOOOOOD." Lowell was so hyped for this match now that he was using the word "dood", which I have to mispell to properly convey Lowell's enthusiasm. "You're gonna lay an old man thrashing on him! Geritol Hard Style~!"

The closet door opened and someone called out: "WHUT!?"

Lowell, as if on cue, replied, "I SAYZ GERITOL HARD STYLE, MUTHAFUCKA!"

The closet door slid shut without anyone knowing who it was that was hiding inside waiting for his cue to say the word "WHUT?", prompting Lowell to repeat himself with a tad more gusto.

"YOU'RE GONNA DEEPFRY HIM, CONRAD! MMMMHMMM! ON THE 'RILL, BABY, TANIGHT!"

"Tonight!?"

"Err, uh...no, not tonight- Joe's already got Cain. But eventually, yes! You'll deepfry him on the 'rill sometime soon!"

The closet door opened again. "WHUT!?"

"DAMMIT! I SAID *ONCE* A SEGMENT! IT'S GONNA LOSE IT'S CACHE!"

Omega

A dark room. The voices can be heard, the faces can't be seen. The only thing that can be seen is a lit doorway.

"Alright, here's the plan. We may get into a little trouble out there tonight. The enemy is bloodthirsty and relentless."

"Right sir."

"So here's the plan. The eaglets... they've landed, right?"

"Right sir. Their bus came in just now. Got held up in customs."

"As long as they're here, they could have been in Abu Dhabi. Anyway, I'll have the comlink in my tights. If I get into some trouble, I'll pull it out and yell the codeword."

"Did you decide on a codeword, sir?"

"Yes... Omega."

"Omega?"

"Omega. I'll say it at least twice. Now, everything's square, I need you to brief the eaglets."

"Right sir."

"I have to go."

A little rustling, as one of the men leaves. As the figure heads out the lit doorway, all that can be seen is the back. A suit and a red mask... 

JOBBER TOURNAMENT FINALS
Avis Flyfield versus Nookie Monster

Winner >  C

Another Unoriginal Jobber-Based Comedy Segment II

The world of professional wrestling can (and often has been) be compared to the jungles of wild, complete with a food chain. At the apex of the pyramidal chain sits the king – The lion, or in ACW’s case, Lord Lowell. Below him sits the various other big cats (the likes of Almasy, Andrew Sharp and so forth).

Venture further down the chain, past the apes and zebra, and through the dark road that ultimately leads to ‘Jobber City’. It is here that you find hyenas – The lions lowliest of henchman, for whom he reserves his most filthiest and unpleasant tasks.

Every so often the lion grows weary. His nature is such that he’ll occasionally want some new prey to hunt, eat and toy with. And so it came to pass that Billy Boy and Brian Britton found themselves in a small office room, judging ‘Jobber auditions’.

“What’s ya name, mate?”

“Don’t ask him that. It obviously doesn’t matter!” Cut in Billy Boy, the younger of the two. Power had a way of easily infiltrating his senses and getting to his head. “You’ve gotta remember that we’re The Britton Brothers, bruv. We’re better than the jobbers in this comp’ny. These lot aint even jobbers yet, so they bloody well don’t deserve to have us know their names.” Continued the British grappler, who had now began scribbling frantically in his notebook.

If the prospective jobber had had a chance to introduce himself, he would’ve informed the brothers that his name was Nick Innovative. His bottom half was clad in a tights/kickpad ensemble, whilst his top was covered in an ECW T-shirt… Wait, maybe that says ACW… Nope, definitely ECW. If Nick had been allowed the chance to talk about his history, he would’ve told of how he’d been in a comma since 1999.

“Right, you lot, I want you all to show us your fav’rite move” Said Brian, addressing the row of prospective-jobbers before him.

Nick Innovative was sooo innovative that he could make Nova blush. He was soooo innovative that he could kill RVD’s dog, just by looking at it. He was soooo innovative that he elicted an “OH MY GOD!” from Joey Styles, at just the mention of his name. He was so innovative that he wore kickpads, but didn’t even kick!... Yeah, he was that innovative.

He immediately launched into acting out the complex sequential move that he had spent his life perfecting. It was a whole two minutes later that he eventually registered the resounding THUD sound. Looking around him to investigate, he noticed that all his counterparts were flat on their back, on the floor.

See, Nick hadn’t realised that jobbers don’t have moves. And even if they were allowed to have a favourite move, that move would be simply bumping straight onto their back. Because a jobbers job is simply to lie down for others.

Nick sighed. “…I’m fired, aren’t I?”

*Nod*

It was around this time that the scene faded to black. 

HARDWARE HOLOCAUST
Dean Matthews versus Rory Hayes

"And now we check in on the Dean Matthews-Rory Hayes match, a 'Hardware Holocaust' match. The first of its kind. The object is simple: the two combatants are locked alone inside a small hardware store, given free reign over anything and everything they can get their hands on, and the first one to make it out is declared winner. Of course, this would be pointless without someone to observe it, so we've mounted several cameras throughout the store so that you, the ACW fans, can enjoy the.. pure bloodlust and horror that's inevitable going to occur."

With an eyeroll, Reid added "I can't get over how clever the name is."

And so the inside of the store was shown.

Apparently, Dean didn't even bother with the introductions as in the initial shot, Rory Hayes (poor soul) was simply seen crash-diving into a rack of wares, sending sharp little screws and accessories clanking across the floor. Dean apparently wants to get back to reading comic books or watching Fletch or doing whatever it was he was doing before he was coaxed into showing up tonight.

This was, of course, followed by violent stomping and taunting little kicks to the head.

Based on an assessment of Dean's personality, it's unlikely that there will be any actual wrestling moves or holds applied during the tenure of this match.

Hayes started to get up and gave a swift forearm to the gut of Dean Matthews, following up with a quick European Uppercut. He decided to seize the day and grabbed a big, heavy ladder and clunked it over to Matthews. Of course, he hadn't established enough of a hold over the match to afford that kind of time, so by the time he got over to Dean, the attack was expected. Dean humored Hayes and let him get a little bit closer to him before responding with a swift superkick, one of the rungs splattering his nose all over his face and, of course, knocking him completely to the ground.

At this point, Matthews was apparently subscribing to the idea that if you kill your opponent, you'll pretty much secure your position as dictator of the match. Can't really argue with that philosophy. As such, he took a rake, you know, with the big, thick handle and heavy iron teeth.. and *thwup* swung the handle down, cracking it across Hayes' collarbone. Of course. What else would you do with a rake?

Hayes, understandably writhing in pain, was then picked up by the head and dragged to the back of the store. He attempted to fight off Matthews, but the devastating rake shot had impaired his mobility and Dean laughed off his punches.

No, he literally laughed. And then responded with a stiff kick to the gut, following up with a hard shot to the ribs.

Matthews noticed a 3 foot-high stack of plywood and quickly snapmared Hayes on top. He grabbed a huge sack of fertilizer (or wood chips or whatever, really) and set it down on the ground next to the stack. Next, he took a small step ladder and set that up a few feet away.

Boy, this was getting elaborate.

He walked back a few feet and meanwhile Hayes wriggled off the stack just a bit, his head hanging off ever-so-slightly. This was playing right into Dean's hand, as it turns out.

Matthews ran up the ladder and leaped into the air, legdropping Hayes across the chest, wrenching his neck and landing on the fertilizer in order to prevent a broken tailbone on the hard concrete floor. Always thinkin', that Matthews.

But was that enough?

Do you know Dean at all?

Dean picked up the sack with a smirk, hoisted it over his shoulder, and slammed it down across Hayes' chest, as he let out a natural cry of pain.

"..And with that, we return to the arena. We'll be checking in with Matthews and Hayes throughout the course of the night."

"Assuming there is a Hayes to check in on."

Love Not Sex

I've been spendin' years on years supportin' the fans and listen t'what they've gotta say. Because, you know...the fans make this business...I truly believe that. And I think that when you've got thousands of screaming fans supportin' every turn of phrase on the microphone, every fist you drill into your opponent's skull...you can't be stopped. You've got a thousand prayers and wishes pourin' on ya and you just feel invincible.

This time though, I don't got the marks behind me because they see me as some sissified fagfucker. Or maybe it's the other side, sayin' I hate fags and that's why I drug Calypso out in his birthday suit and beat 'em bloody. Or wait, maybe I'm just in the closet...maybe I really do want a relationship with a man and maybe that's why I fell so easily for Calypso's mindfuck. Maybe that's why my wife left me, maybe that why my father never treated me with respect...because he...like everyone else in my life never saw me as a man.

What you people don't understand is...

I never had sex with "Alissa".

I was in love with her.

It's love, not sex. And if someone is going to say that I'm a weak man...they're gonna say it because I thought with m'heart. Not with my crotch.

There's a part of me that's always gonna love Alissa, even knowing what I know now because...

Man...y'all just don't understand. I was close to not only givin' up on wrestlin'...but I was close to givin' up on life. Some part of me almost wants to thank Calypso, because he made me realize how strong I am without relying on wrestling and physical sport as proof of that strength.

A year ago, a scandal like this would've crippled me...

...but now?

I think I left alot of that anger in the pills and booze.

I can stand pain.

Pain is all I'll ever know.

And it is this constant suffering that's proof of my manhood, t'me.

Damn what the rest of y'all think.

I am an individual.

I used to be a child, ya'see...I used t'think that I could rage against my own temper. Sort out my problems by beatin' in heads and then laughin' about it over shots of JD. That shit ain't happenin' no more. I ain't comin' out here to please somethin' inside myself anymore...because that person ain't there no more.

I ain't coming out here tonight to retain my title and my pride as a man. I got that back when I dropped those steps on Calypso's head.

I ain't coming out here tonight to prove I'm some role model to all them cheerin' people. I ain't comin' out here so that y'all can live vicariously through me and then get mad when I don't do things the way you think they should be done. I'm done listening to people who are so caught up in their own bullshit that they don't even realize that their own lives are empty and meaningless.

I'm comin' out here tonight because this is what I fucking do.

Period.

I'm a wrestler.

Somebody fucks with me the wrong way, then a match becomes a "fued".

Two men step into a ring or a cage, one is standin' and the other ain't.

After tonight, win or lose, I ain't wrestlin' NO MORE for the people who were so quick to turn on me because they can't understand the way love works or how a man can be easily decieved and how that deception, however evil, shocking or malcontented it may seem- can change your life for the better.

You people call me a wrestling-hack, a faggot, a fornicator, a closet freak and all this?

I say you people just don't understand the nature of God. How he throw shit your way so that you live better in his light.

You're kids.

You don't know love.

You don't know life.

You don't know pain.

So you don't know Brandon Youngblood.

CFO Miles Sprout

Chief Financial Officer Miles Sprout had decided to pay Lowell a visit in hopes of speaking to him about the poor financial state of ACW. You see, after Lowell's "falling out" with such companies as Nike, Honda, BandAid, and Pepsi--among others--...and by "falling out" I, of course, mean to say they ratted him out for making up lies and calling himself their official spokesperson when he'd never even met an exec before. Seriously, though- it's not like it was believable that several multi-million dollar corporations would all use the same guy as the face of their company.

And LOWELL for that matter.

"Lowell, we're in deep, deep doo-doo," Miles said. Miles reminded most who knew him of the Simpsons character, Gil...he was always sweating...panicky and nervous- his shirt untucked in and his tie crooked- he was never quite capable of wording things as lithely as he would have liked. And the suttering- the sutter was DAMN annoying.

"Doo-doo?" Lowell furrowed his brow. "What are you- six?

OH GREAT. MY CFO IS SIX-YEARS-OLD." Lowell ran his hand over his face and sat back down in his chair. He always hated when Miles showed up. It was never good. Never, ever good. He always had some shitty little tidbit of information that equated to him losing money. "I'm kidding, Miles! You're a very good CFO. The best! If ACW were All-Star Championship Financial Officer-ing you'd be Scorpio Champ! You just need to relaaaax! Sit down, take a loud off-

Cigar? Adult magazine?

Do you get hiiiigh? Hmmmmm?" Lowell's eyebrow raised.

Sprout sat in the chair and leaned in over Lowell's desk- not in a threatening way, but more out of pure desperation. He *needed* for Lowell to stop being a complete idiot whose existence, mired by a probably coke addiction as well as unequivocally the worst case of ADHD anyone's ever had, is actually DETREMENTAL to society!

Sprout, reaching into the inside pocket on his jacket, produced sheet of paper with a bar graph on it, sat it down on Lowell's desk and watched as Lowell picked it up and "perused" it.

Lowell cracked a grin and went "Psssh!", before balling the piece of paper up and sinking a three-pointer from across the room. "Miles, *WHY* must you do this? Y'think I know how to read a bar graph? Did I go to Success College? Do I have my Associate of Arts degree? NO. My name is Lord Lowell and I scoff at education!"

"Lowell, please! That is a very important piece of documentation that you just threw in the trash! ACW has been losing money like...like I've never seen a company lose money before! In six months, TNA will have better financial footing than us! You need to start putting comercials in your shows; we need the advertising money!" Sprout implored with great fervor.

"No way, no how! I can't trust 'em! They went ahead and they just..." He brandished an imaginary knife, staring at it intensely. "They took that knife and they JAMMED it in my backside!" The Owner of ACW turned and picked up a Nazi plate off the shelf behind him. He examined it, searching for any markings or imperfections, and meticulously thumb cleaning any miniature speck of dust on the surface of the plate. "I won't do that again! I won't! I won't give those them the satisfaction!

#I CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION!#

You like Stones?" Lowell asked, the question coming out of left field.

"'Cause I don't. I think they SUCK and they make shitty music."

Miles scratched the tip of his nose. "Lowell, how much money do you have left to spend? The house, the excursions, the private jet...not to mention your many addictions, which almost got you indicted for writing 8 balls of coke off as "business expenses"...all I'm say is that it must be adding up."

Logic, meet Lowell's distorted view of reality.

Logic just got PWN3D.

"Miles, don't you even CONCERN yourself with that! I've got enough! Oh yes! I've got so much money that I'm actually planning to convert it all to Canadian coins and fill a giant 50-floor monolith with it! LIKE SCROOGE McDUCK, I WILL SWIM IN MY RICHES, DAMMIT!"

There was an awkward moment of silence followed by Lowell pulling out his wallet and examining its contents.

"Hey Miles...you couldn't spot me, say, a crisp fifter could'ja?"

Miles blinked.

"I spent all my cash on HOOKERS AND DRUGS!"

Lowell made the pouty face. "I won't do it again... :("

He shrugged his shoulders, smiling.

"Don't make me fire you. I don't want to; I filled my quota for today! But insolence I will not stand for!

Actually, just leave it on my desk, I've gotta go out there and announce who it is I'm firing! This should be exciting!"

ABU GHRAIB DEATH MATCH
Captain Suleimon versus The Phantom Republican

There it was. Beautifully twisted in its design. A chicken wire cage, reaching all the way up to the ceiling of the Air Canada Centre. Tables, stockpiled around each side of the ring. Bins filled with weapons. In one bin, there was the booty of the Republican. He had a battery-powered belt sander, ten-pound sledgehammer, steel-plated 2x4s, several Louisville Sluggers (because what's more American than baseball, or specifically, using baseball bats in savage beatings?). And of course, the big daddy... the ultimate ender...

C-4 explosive.

Suleimon's bin included barbed wire, economy sized crates of thumbtacks, throwing stars, a board with sewing needles jammed into them, pointy end out.

The weapons stored reflect a lot about the men who stockpiled them. Of course, generic weapons were there too. Chairs, regular and barbed-wire laden 2x4s, stop signs... everything you could imagine. And if it weren't blatantly ripping off a Road Warriors spot from WrestleMania 13, the kitchen sink would have been there too.

The time for fake Powells, burning flags... it was over. Now was the time for war.

It was time for the Abu Ghraib Death Match!

"Republican March"

Gordon Oliver Powell

Massive heel heat.

The Masked Menace of Middle America marched to the ring, proud, head held high, knowing that this wasn't a wrestling match that awaited him. It was much more. As he got to the threshhold of the chicken wire cage, he turned to Jeffords and whispered something in his ear. The hulking blonde bodyguard nodded and headed back towards the back. GOP entered the ring, stood in the middle of the ring, and waited.

"The Turkish March"

Tariq Abdul Wahad Suleimon

Massiver (is that even a word?) heel heat.

Suleimon didn't even wait for his flag-bearer to lead him out. He came out running to the ring like his ass were on fire or something (and who knows, maybe before this night was over, his ass WOULD be on fire at some point). If Jesse Ventura, circa WrestleMania VI, were calling this match, he'd be calling Suleimon a fool for running to the ring and expending energy. But since two men, slightly less retarded were calling the match, they were just screaming for GOP to grab a weapon to defend himself.

(In a side note, please forgive me for the two WrestleMania references. I'm suffering through a chronic bout of Hulkamania, and I'm between prescriptions for my meds.)

GOP was taken aback by the burst of energy Suleimon was showing en route to the ring, so surprised that he was momentarily paralyzed by his own mind. What was he going to do? Suleimon sped in the cage, looking as if he was going to slide in under the bottom rope. A-ha, thought Powell... classic mistake.

Only Suleimon didn't slide in through the bottom. He planted his hands on the apron, flipping up in a handstand, and in one fluid motion, leapt over the top rope onto his feet. GOP was caught off-guard again, just like the good Captain had anticipated. Suleimon stuck the landing. And your scores...

USA 9.5
Russia 9
Turkey 10
Italy 9.5
France 5.5

Five point fucking five? No wonder why everyone hates the French. Yeah. But after sticking said landing, Suleimon vaulted forwards, leaping up and wrangling the Republican in a tornado DDT.

The crowd that was booing Suleimon just five seconds ago just popped for him like he was Hulk Hogan slamming Andre the Giant... dammit, I did it again. Anyway, yeah, while this crowd may hate Suleimon's guts for being a West-hating doucheturkey, they respect it when they see some shit they can enjoy.

And so early on, it was advantage, Sultan of Smackdown. Wasting no time, Suleimon popped to his feet and went right to the top ropes. Steadying himself for takeoff, he waited for his potential victim to get back to his feet. As GOP got up a little wobbly, Suleimon took his leap...

...and fanned. Because the Battlin' Booster hit the deck faster than you could say "Howard Dean kicks puppies."

Both men got back to their feet pretty quickly, but GOP was just one moment quicker, as his boot said hello to the gut of the Pride of the Ottoman Empire. As the Captain doubled over, Powell quickly grabbed him by the head and hoisted him up. GOP thought he was going to land a Unilateral Strike, but Suleimon had other ideas, breaking free at the height and landing on his feet. Before the escape fully registered with The Phantom Republican, Suleimon was bouncing back off the ropes and leaping forward with a flying cross chop, sending the Battlin' Booster to the canvas.

The Republican had no answer for Suleimon's attack very early, yet he hadn't suffered any real damage. He still needed to regroup though, so he rolled out of the ring before Suleimon could follow up. But the Captain smelled blood... or to put it better, he smelled that he was in a good position to spill some of the Republican's red conservative blood. Suleimon looked over to the Republican, apparently retreating. Suleimon licked his chops. He saw Powell, back turned to him. Figurative blood that would lead to literal blood. He bounced back off the ropes and took a leap outside of the ring, but just as Suleimon leapt over the top, GOP turned around, but it wasn't in a regular turn-around mode.

CRACK~!

He was swinging a baseball bat. With a swing that would make Babe Ruth proud, the Phantom Republican picked Captain Suleimon off, midair, with a shot with his Louisville Slugger that would have sent any ball flying 400 feet. And to add injury on top of even more injury, Suleimon crashed head-first into the bin. Red liquid trickled out of his nose. Turns out the blood Suleimon was smelling was his own.

Now it was time for the Phantom Republican to wage war, American style. He tossed his Slugger, the belt sander, a sledgehammer and the Ottoman flag that Suleimon had in his bin into the ring. This took a few minutes, but Suleimon was still pretty much motionless at this point, now with blood trickling out of his mouth too.

Finally, Suleimon got his ass tossed into the ring like an insurgent down in Gitmo. And now, GOP was going to play the Col. Jessep to Suleimon's Willie Santiago.

It was Code Red time, bitches.

GOP stalked into the ring, licking his chops like a fat guy at a buffet. What was he going to do first... it was so tempting, but he was mystically drawn to one thing...

The battery powered belt sander.

He picked up the tool and turned it on. He held it aloft as it hummed, smiling sadistically. He leaned over, looking to shear off a few levels of Suleimon's skin on his forehead, as well as open a huge gash and begin the blood-letting. But a funny thing happened on the way to Suleimon's brow.

The Captain wasn't dead. He intercepted the belt sander coming in by arresting GOP's wrists, struggling as valiantly as he could. GOP struggled to lift his knee up and planted it right in Suleimon's gut. The impact broke the Captain's grip on GOP's wrists.

And now it was funtime!

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! FFFFFFFFFFTTTTTT!

The blood sprayed up like a fine mist. The middle of that squared circle was now engulfed in red fog. The crowd was aghast at the display first, but then their bloodthirstiness kicked in, and they popped like they just saw Hulk Hogan defeat Sergeant Slaughter at WrestleMania VII (The readers say, "Enough with the WrestleMania references!")

To say GOP smelled blood was only a partial truth, because now EVERYONE smelled blood. Suleimon's. And Powell wasn't done yet. He grabbed Suleimon by his hair and dragged him to the ropes. Suleimon's arms instinctively covered his bleeding head and face, but the Masked Menace of Middle America wasn't gonna have any of that shit. He clubbed the Pride of the Ottoman Empire in the back of his head to get it free of his wussy baby protective stance and then gave him a serious case of ropeburn on an already gushing forehead.

Meanwhile, backstage, Sonny Silver and his secretary were discussing what they wanted to have for dinner after the PPV. Silver said they should just make hamburgers out of Suleimon's forehead and save a little money.

With his hands stained with Turkish blood and smile on his face, Powell knew he had something going. Suleimon balled up in the fetal position, losing blood like your dad loses money at the racetrack every payday. The Red State Renegade put the boots to Suleimon. The sight, the feared Immolator of Istanbul, cowering for his life, physically wrenched with pain. But physical wasn't enough. Powell had to break his spirit too. Unlike most people, Gordon Oliver Powell could both stomp and think at the same time. And then, he caught something out of the corner of his eye...

The Turkish flag that he threw into the ring. He stopped stomping, went over to the pole... ripped the flag right off the pole and then...

He wiped his ass with the Turkish flag.

James Reid questioned whether this counted as an international incident. Greg Lipton said it was tit for the tat of the burning of the American flag. But whatever it was, Powell sure had a hell of a time with that flag as toilet paper.

Ahh... so fresh and so clean now... and now, the real reason he wanted the flagpole. To choke the living daylights out of Suleimon with it. By way of a camel clutch with an object.

In other words... the Terror Alert has just been upped to AMBER~!

In Powell's mind, if Suleimon wouldn't tap out from the pain of being choked with his own country's flagpole, he was going to pass out due to blood loss from not being able to put pressure on his wound AND the pressure on his carotid artery forcing more blood out the gaping wound on his forehead. But pride dictated that Suleimon had to tap out.

Suleimon was wearing the literal crimson mask.... seriously, his face was drenched. But he wouldn't tap out. The ref asked him if he'd give up. Suleimon shook his head, which only made the Phantom Republican pull back harder. The ref asked again, and again, Suleimon shook his head.

This shit was getting b-a-n-a-n-a-s bananas now. GOP started to gnash his teeth, and barked "Tap the fuck out, you God-damned raghead!" Nota bene: Never demand anything from someone while calling them an ethnic or racial slur. Because they won't do what you asked, and they'll scream "NEVER!" like Suleimon did at the Republican.

Powell knew he wasn't going to make the Great Captain tap, so he just let the flagpole go. Suleimon gasped for air, and GOP grabbed his trusty, ten pound sledge. Gripping it both at the bottom and the top below the head, he lifted it up and then drove it, right into the Captain's head, much like Triple H would do... you know, causing damage, but at the same time, not killing the guy? Because as much as GOP wants to kill Suleimon, he doesn't want to do it in such an obvious way that he'd be carted off to jail for voluntary manslaughter.

Anyway, upon impact, Suleimon convulsed like a fish, until a boot from GOP to his chest flattened him so that the Battlin' Booster could cover...

One

Two

But no three. You'd think Suleimon would have been dead by now, but apparently not. This really, really incensed the Phantom Republican. Since the hardcore crap wasn't putting the dumb raghead away, he thought, it was time to bust out the WRESTLING MOVES~!~!~!

GOP yanked Suleimon up to his feet and got behind him, grabbing Suleimon's right arm with his left and then locking his own right arm in a waistlock. Then, snapping back in the way you snap back for a back-style suplex, GOP almost made Suleimon's neck snap clean off his spine. To some this move is called the half-straightjacket suplex. To Republicans the country over, it was called...

The Bald Eagle Suplex

Powell was sure of it. Suleimon was dead. Sure, the match hadn't dragged on to epic proportions, but the violence doled out... it was a lot. Yep, he was pretty sure he just killed Tariq Suleimon. And so he did what any caring, compassionate American would have done in this situation.

He made the cover.

One

Two

Th... no.

Much to his dismay, Suleimon was not dead. Damn it all to hell.

Powell had done everything short of shooting Suleimon in the back of his head and throwing him into a shallow grave. So he'd do the next best thing.

He got his Louisville Slugger and started to go yard.

WHACK! A shot across the ribs.

WHACK! Another one across the gut.

WHACK! Suleimon started to bleed from his mouth... and it wasn't because he bit down on his tongue too hard either.

GOP looked on, and he still had that sinking feeling in his gut that Suleimon was going to squirm out of a pin attempt like a cockroach after those shots. So he went to the top.

With his baseball bat. Roidhead Bonds, eat your heart out.

FLYING BASEBALL BAT TO THE GUT WITH AUTHORITAAAAAAAHHH~!

And now, time for another pin attempt. Because if Suleimon wasn't dead after this one, he's a fucking zombie.

One

Two

Nope... it was true then. Suleimon's a fucking zombie. But I guess that explains why GOP wasn't able to kill him. He didn't aim for the head. Man, he should have watched Shaun of the Dead, although much like Shaun, GOP had a little red on him.

You could almost see the frustration in Powell's eyes. What was it going to take to put this slimy, cameljockey cockroach out of commission? He thought back to the beginning of the match and got a brainstorm. Grabbing the steel chair, he placed it, still folded and laying flat, in the middle of the ring. He then yanked the almost dead weight of Suleimon to his feet and raised him up to the height of a suplex...

...before crashing him down, ribs first, on the chair with a Unilateral Strike.

But wait, there's MORE~!

The Battlin' Booster, instead of trying to pin Suleimon again, dashed to the corner and climbed the ropes. When he came down off the ropes, it wasn't with an elbow drop or something girly like that. Nope, it was all business. It was the Stealth Bomber hitting its mark. GOP covered again, this time, hoping, praying that the fucking raghead wouldn't kick out.

One

Two

Th... SO CLOSE! Yet so far.

Christ... it was time to stop fucking around in GOP's eyes. It was time for the MOAB.

Only it wasn't. As GOP got Suleimon on his shoulders, the slippery Turk somehow slid off, landed on his feet, and by some act of God (Allah?), was able to get a flash backslide on the Phantom Republican, which of course, he kicked out of before "Average" Joe Hill was able to get in place. When the Red State Renegade got up, he was PISSED!

I mean, how dare this imp even attempt to mount a counteroffensive, let alone survive? He was going to teach Suleimon, still laying on the canvas, a lesson. He charged in...

...only to be greeted with a steel chair thrown right in his masked grill. It didn't hurt that much, seeing that Suleimon threw it laying on his back, but it was still enough to knock GOP down. GOP got up a little slowly, and he saw Suleimon in the ropes, using them to get himself to his own feet. Oh, that wasn't going to be the case for long, thought Powell, hate burning in his eyes. He grabbed the chair that was flung at him and stormed over to Suleimon. Raising the chair behind his head, he was going for the big, fat kill, and I don't mean that belly-to-belly superplex that one-eyed fairy Alias does. Nope, he was going to murderdeathkill Suleimon with the chair, once and for all (although after everything else... what the hell COULD murderdeathkill Suleimon?)

Well, he was, except before the steel impacted the already bloodied cranium, Suleimon, after quickly wiping blood from his eyes, intercepted the shot by grabbing the chair. Now, it was a good old-fashioned tug of war over a steel chair. By all rights, GOP should have won this, but he didn't count on Suleimon's ingenuity. And by ingenuity, I mean "kick in the balls." And it wasn't dirty either, because everything was legal in the match.

The Republican doubled over, and now, Suleimon had the chair. It was time to play.

CRACK~!

GOP went from doubled over to laid out on the mat.

CRACK~!

That one was for good measure.

CRACK~!

That one... well, that one busted GOP's forehead open. How could you tell, because his face was covered by the mask? Well, blood started seeping out of the eyeholes.

Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. It's not just for Jews anymore!

Suleimon dropped the chair, because he saw something that would be alot more fun to use... the American's own weapon, from his own national laughingstock of a pasttime.

The Louisville Slugger.

He picked it up... WHACK! Right across GOP's ribs. But somehow, it just didn't feel right. Nope, not at all. Something was missing. He clutched the bat close to him as he rolled out of the ring. Into his bin he rummaged, ripping the spool of barbed wire out. He stuck the end of it into the bat and then wrapped it around the bat liberally. Yes, now this was a bat fit for a Turkish warlord!

He rolled back into the ring and saw GOP writhing in pain. Lining up his shot... he salivated... waiting until GOP turned over on his side facing him... and when he did...

CRACK-DIG~!

This is the sound of agony. This is the sound of Gordon Oliver Powell screaming like a little girl...

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU" *sob*

Yep... barbed wire + baseball bat = grown man crying.

And just because Suleimon doesn't think too highly of GOP, he thwacked him like two or three more times. GOP was CRYING tears of blood by this time. Shit, you would be too, pussy. Now, it was Suleimon's turn to get in on the pinfall parade...

One

Two

Nope. Although two was impressive for having just gotten his ass kicked not five minutes ago. But it wasn't anywhere near being finished. Suleimon knew this. That's why he was going to make GOP's back look like a freshly tilled field. Grabbing the barbed-wire bat he thudded it on GOP's back... not the hardest hit, but he wasn't going for impact. That wasn't clear until he started raking that bat across Powell's back. The Great Captain was shredding GOP's back. Hill cringed. The fans cringed. Even kiss-ass Greg Lipton cringed. Once GOP was torn up sufficiently, Suleimon put another hard shot down on GOP's ribs and covered again.

One

Two

Not quite.

Suleimon knew that he didn't mince up Powell's back enough to his liking, but the baseball bat... it was getting old to him. He raced out of the ring and went into his bin, pulling out... the Needle Board.

He slid back into the ring and set the Board up in the middle of the ring. The Sultan of Smackdown grabbed GOP to his feet and into a front face lock, driving him back to the canvas with a vertical suplex. Now, vertical suplexes normally don't hurt that bad. But they do when they land on the Needle Board. Once again, The Phantom Republican cried like Al Gore after the 2000 election.

Then, what Suleimon would do was inexplicable at the time. He took the spool of barbed wire... and wrapped it around his head. To the naked eye, it was dumb, but really, his head was already torn up enough. But everything became clear as he dug his barbed-wire wrapped head into GOP's back, hooking his arms.

Turkish Tiger Tamer... WITH THE PAIN AMPED UP TO ELEVEN~!

The way the Phantom Republican was shrieking, you'd think he was getting his nads cut off. But no, he was just being stretched and dug. Fortunately for him though, Suleimon still didn't have the balance on the move perfected, so he crapped out after a relatively short time. Still, the damage was done. Suleimon ripped the "crown of thorns" off his head, and for good measure, he picked the bat up and cracked it across GOP's back once more before another pin attempt...

One

Two

Th... nope. Not a chance. Suleimon, starting to get a bit frantic himself, looked around frenetically for a weapon, any weapon. He saw the chair first and snatched it up. He then whisked to the ropes and climbed up with said chair. Waiting, stalking like a tiger, Suleimon watched as GOP struggled to his feet. When he got his vertical base back, Suleimon leaped for the kill.

Flying chair shot...

WE HAVE A CONNECTION~!

GOP was knocked silly. Suleimon covered.

One

Two

Th... still no. Man, these guys were sponges, although neither of them lived in pineapples under the sea.

Suleimon wanted to go for the kill. He grabbed the chair and laid it across GOP's prone chest. Running to the top rope, hopped on, back facing the ring. He leapt back for the...

...Leap Across Continents...

...but if this were a real leap across the continents, Suleimon would have landed straight in the Bosporus.

CRASH! BANG! No one home! GOP rolled out of the way with the chair and got to one knee, resting, leaning on the chair. Suleimon got to his feet and approached GOP, but the Masked Menace of Middle America was ready for him...

CRACK~!

Suleimon stumbled back, punch drunk. Not acceptable. GOP needed to go in for the kill.

CRACK~!

That did it. Suleimon plopped to the canvas. GOP stalked over, partially winded, and scooped up Suleimon over his shoulder. One shoulderbreaker... two shoulderbreakers... three shoulderbreakers... four shoulderbreakers...

This had all the makings of Trickle Down Thuganomics except for one thing.

GOP ended the sequence with a tombstone piledriver instead of a powerslam. Goodnight Irene. Suleimon lay on the canvas motionless. GOP covered...

One

Two

Three. Three. He should have had a three count. Should have had a fucking three count, but that raghead rat bastard stuck his foot on the bottom rope.

GOP screamed out in primal rage. What the hell would finish Captain Suleimon? He knew. He had to break out the heavy guns. So he rolled out of the ring. And he got a table. And he flipped over said table and reached into his bin of goodies, pulling out pink, plasticy blocks.

C-4, bitches.

He positioned the explosive on the bottom of the table and slid it into the ring. Setting up the table right in the middle, right over the Board of Needles. He got Suleimon in a standing headscissors... presumably to hit a MOAB... presumably because The Sultan of Smackdown blocked the move... by headbutting GOP in the nads.

Man, Powell's little Republicans are taking a beating. I guess they won't be swimming so well for awhile.

Suleimon stood up slowly and grabbed GOP in an inverted full-nelson, right into the...

Sultanbreaker!

GOP flew back stunned as Suleimon came up upon him. Instead of trying to defense up or stand up, he reached into his pants. Only it wasn't to check on his Grand Ol' Penis. He pulled something out and put it up to his mouth.

"OMEGA! OMEGA!" he screamed into it. Suleimon grabbed him by his mask and he dropped it, but the message was sent. Suleimon scooped GOP up over his shoulder. The Pride of the Ottoman Empire deposited GOP over in the corner, in the Tree of Woe. And that's when it started.

First it was Jeffords bursting out of the back. Following him out... one young lad in a blazer that had the Republican elephant. Then another, and another... a steady stream of Young Republicans poured out of the back. Suleimon caught them out of hte corner of his eye and quickly, he snapped up the barbed wire Slugger.

Jeffords opened the door, and the first Young Republican swooped in, hopping on the apron and going over the ropes. He charged at Suleimon...

THWACK!

Right in the stomach, and the first one went down. One by one, they came in, and one by one, Suleimon destroyed them with his Slugger from Hell. Finally, it was Jeffords' turn. He charged in the ring, but Suleimon clocked him in the gut with the bat. Jeffords only doubled over. Suleimon then cracked the butt of the bat over Jeffords' head. Lights out, big blonde. With the bodies scattered in the ring, Suleimon had a thought. It was an Abu Ghraib Death Match, and what happened at Abu Ghraib?

Suleimon stacked each of the Young Republicans on top of each other, with Jeffords as the keystone. After a minute or so, they were all piled in apexing form.

Human Pyramid. Of Republicans.

Somewhere, Lynndie England is smiling and cursing at the same time.

However, the Sultan of Smackdown didn't have the time to bask in his creation. In the meantime, GOP had freed himself from his tree and regained his bearings. Seeing the pyramid filled Powell with rage, and he charged into Suleimon's blindside with a hard elbow right to Suleimon's temple.

Suleimon stumbled to the canvas. GOP barked orders at the Young Republicans to get the hell out of dodge. Shooing them out of the way, he set the table back up in the middle of the ring. You know, that C-4ed table. Suleimon staggered to his feet, but Powell intercepted him with a hard DDT, spiking him back down to the canvas. This shit was about to end.

It was MOAB time. Third time was the charm... right?

Right?

GOP grabbed Suleimon and forcefully put him in the standing headscissors. With the speed and force of John Henry swinging his hammer, GOP jackknifed Suleimon up, almost giving him whiplash on the way to the apogee of the hold. But before he could impact him down on the table, something happened.

Third time the charm, right?

Right?

Wrong. Suleimon somehow was thrown out of GOP's grip by the force of him going up, and now Suleimon was catching his breath in the ropes. GOP was livid. He turned around and charged right at Suleimon, who caught him with another Sultanbreaker. GOP was stunned. Suleimon grabbed him in a rear facelock, taking him to the nearest corner, hitting him with...

The Whirling Dervish!

Was this the end? No, Suleimon thought. It couldn't be. He felt too much life left in Powell. Too much to pin for three seconds. He had to make one last major strike. And there, he saw it.

The table.

Still groggy from the Dervish, GOP wasn't about ready to move. Suleimon was more than happy to do it for him, picking up the Ragin' Right Winger and laying him down on the table. Almost as if it was second instinct, Suleimon grabbed the steel chair and ascended the ropes. He raised his arms in the air, holding the chair for everyone to see. Then, he leapt.

It seemed like forever between the time he jumped and the time of impact. The crowd gasped. The announcers went uncharacteristically silent. Powell swallowed, knowing that was the only movement he could make.

And Suleimon sailed through the air...

Chair under his buttocks...

And there it was...

Arabian Facebuster

The table broke.

A momentary pause... and then...

KA-FUCKING-BOOM!

Suleimon recoiled back, thrown back by the explosion. GOP shot three feet into the air and landed with a sick thud, motionless except for the twitching. Suleimon leaned his head up, knowing that if he could just make it over and cover, he'd have the match.

Crawling in a time that almost seemed like it was forever. Each inch seemed like a mile. Over debris, weapons... the crowd was chanting "HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!" in the background, but they even seemed like they were a million miles away.

Suleimon reached his hand over... put it on GOP's chest. That's all he'd need to pin...

One

Two

...

...

Three.

Three.

The war was over. Unbelievably, Captain Suleimon had survived, victorious. But he paid an awesome price. His head was sanded open. He probably had blood squirting out of his stomach, liver, kidneys.

The Phantom Republican might have been worse off. His back looked like downtown Sarajevo, circa 1994. His mask looked almost black from the blood that stained it.

They both paid awesome prices in this war. And the crowd knew it. That's why they cheered. They cheered for the bigoted Republican and the hate-filled Turk. They cheered as if they were Hulk Hogan, or Bret Hart, or any other WrestleMania legend (Alright, alright, I'll stop, I'll stop).

The EMTs rushed out to the ring to give them each special attention. But they didn't care. For Suleimon, ultimate victory had been attained.

For the Republican though... well, he had a whole new task ahead of him. Spinning this after he was so sure he'd win this mini-War on Terror.

But that would take a backseat to recovery right about now.

Winner >  Captain Suleimon

Killers Are Quiet, Usually

Somewhere in New York City.

The 6th floor had been one mans home for a number of months now, without him even knowing it, but the 6th floor was a totally new environment to the man whom finished the final couple of steps before opening the door. Dressed in a long, and rather manky gray coat, his long hair and bear covered most of his features.

He looked in through the barb wired windows with a twinkle in his eye, it had been around seven months since he had seen him. Seven long months in which a lot of things had happened, in both of their life's. The smell of the place flamed his nostrils, that clean smell which was anything but, it's stench put a shiver down his crooked spine. Placing one hand on the handle of the door, he pushed down but was challenged with an immediate resistance from the handle, as the door it would seem, was locked.

"Excuse me sir, but you cannot be here without permission!"

The man sharply turned around to see the fraying nurse jogging towards him, with a large security guard behind her, the man clenched his fists, but knew that it was probably not the best idea to go toe-to-toe with such a beast of a man, given his own condition. He stood perfectly still until the duo come closer, before they engaged.

"But I'm an old friend...I'm sure he would love to see me."

The nurse shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but only family, or people who have been given permission by ACW can visit him, we have a legally binding contract as a hospital that we have to keep for Mr. Jones, due to the severity of his work, and also due to the fact that he has various enemies."

The man fingered the penknife in his pocket, as the ran through the murder in his head...the murder that he would no longer he allowed to accomplish due to the two fuckheads in his way.

"So...if I get permission from someone in ACW, I'm allowed to see him?"

"That's correct...but I'm afraid now I'll have to ask you to leave sir..."

With that, the man left, followed by the bulky security guard at his rear, and at that exact moment...the plan began to fall into place in his mind.

Killers are quiet, normally...but this is killer, is anything but normal. 

HARDWARE HOLOCAUST
Dean Matthews versus Rory Hayes

"We'll take this opportunity to go back to the Hardware Holocaust match and see what's let of the scene."

And it was a bizarre scene, at that.

Six paint cans were heinously dented, two cracked open and spilled all over the floor. Hayes' forehead was split open, enough blood already spent that he should by now be passed out. Three racks of merchandise were completely destroyed, their contents scattered about the store.

But here's the best part: Matthews, stretching electrical tape and wire out, was not only binding Hayes' spread arms to a ladder, but was talking to him. No, not in a taunting manner. It was quite the friendly conversation.

"It was outside my middle school during the summer carnival. I ended up dating her for the rest of my adolescence, right up on-and-off until she went to college in Delaware. But I doubt I'll have any days quite as good as that one. I'll never forget it: rides, friends, first kiss." He finished tying his arms. "And then I went home and watched the Disney Channel."

He wasn't speaking like this out of insanity, he just finds stuff like that amusing. And who doesn't? It's pretty good.

As Dean stood up, it was obvious that he hadn't just bound him to the ladder, he'd tied the ladder, again with electrical wire, duct tape, and staples, into an intricate suspension system involving one of those movable platform ladders. With all of his might, Dean grabbed and pulled, hoisting Hayes and his ladder crucifix to the top of the 10-15 foot ladder. In order to prevent him from moving, Dean secured the other end of the wire under a bag of cement on the shelf.

Well, this was nice.

"All right, folks. I'm getting ill at what we're being subjected to. So at this point, we're switching back to the in-house show. Thank God."

"You're such a pussy." 

Understanding the Enemy

The back of the Air Canada Centre was where the ambulances parked. The nature of Holocaust demanded that an entire fleet be put on call, since more than one person might be carted out.

More than one person per match, that is.

That wasn't any clearer than after the Abu Ghraib Death Match. Captain Suleimon hadn't been loaded onto his ambulance yet, but he was there at the back. His driver and EMTs were on a smoke break. Suleimon didn't mind that the filthy, imperialist pigs left him there; he was oddly euphoric.

By some cosmic coincidence, however, a familiar face... or should I say mask, rolled to the ambulance next to him. Suleimon glanced over, but then shot his line of vision straight ahead of him. The Phantom Republican tried to keep his eyes away from the man who vanquished him, but he couldn't. Something burned inside of him. He leaned his head over to face the Great Captain.

"For a dirty terrorist... you're one tough fighter. I... I don't feel too much shame losing..."

Suleimon still kept his gaze in front of him. The words came to him slowly and no doubt, if they did come out, they'd come out as difficultly as they did for his foe. Finally, his lips moved.

"Thanks. You know, if you weren't a filthy, capitalist pig, we might have made good allies."

And there, in those words, lay bare the barrier between most men. Not who they were inside, but what color they were out. Suleimon knew it, Powell knew it. But they both knew they were too proud to accept any semblance of tolerance.

The pregnant silence that followed was broken when Suleimon's EMT team came back from their break. They loaded a still staring Suleimon into the back of the ambulance. Gordon Oliver Powell didn't see much after that. He fell asleep. 

Rewriting History

Holocaust went backstage where Jimmy Cain stood in front of an ACW backdrop with a microphone in his hand. The tattered remains of El Coyote Salvaje's mask hung from his neck via a string of dental floss.

Jimmy held El Coyote Salvaje's pride as if he were a rapper and it was his 'bling'. He mugged for the camera a bit, puffing up his lower lip and narrowing his eyes. All of a sudden, his eyes became scarily wide and he let out a high-pitched "Bling bling, muthafuuucka!"

The camera panned down to reveal the Ginsu Shredder; the reinforced kneepad wrapped in barbed-wire that had assisted in the destruction of the veteran luchadore on Courage 96. The blood was still caked on his mask.

"Tonight- Glass, Tacks, & Sacks...Mescalero, you piece of shit motherfucker cockface nigger! I'm gonna eat cha alive ta'night! You have no idea the mistake you made in agreeing to this match! I have so much repressed rage inside of me- it's been building for weeks now, and tonight, I unleash it on YOU."

Jimmy rocketed his knee up and threw a combination of elbows as he stared into the camera. "I am going to fucking reach inside of you and help myself to your vital organs. I am going to pound on your face until your face turns to dust and floats off into the crowd like dandelion spores! I am going to stomp your kidneys in! Make ya bleed on the inside! Make ya bleed on the outside! Your significant other will bleed from her rotten cunt as she will feel ever tremor of pain and agony I inflict upon you! She'll find your teeth in her shit! I will bend time...the sky will open up...the ground will shake, and you will know-! You will know that the Extreme Asian Shock Genre Superstar is God's wet dream! I am the perfect being! Physically...mentally...I am without flaw.

And I don't say that to establish a gimmick, like that limp-wrist fag Kelly Flawless with the cock-whack welts on his left cheek...I say that because it is the GOSPEL.

U.B. Reynolds- don't think I've forgotten about you. If you think you can hide behind Lowell forever, you're wrong. You took something of mine; I'll take something of yours." Jimmy smirked. "I'll take your fucking spleen! I was going to say pride, but if I take your spleen -- I mean REALLY take your spleen, like saw you open and pull it out without any care to the surrounding tissue -- you won't be too concerned with that trivial human emotion, now will you?

The answer? Fawk naw!

The reason I'm here tonight is because I don't give a damn about "good taste". I've made a living out've it. Where Lowell's 'Fonz Factor' ends and his we-tawd-id-ness begins, I grow and I flourish.

I hold a black belt in BJJ under Gracie -- at any point I can submit any one of the "fake" mullet-having shitheads in this federation. I was a K1 prospect before I became a pro wrestler -- I can knockout any one of the "supposed" heavyhitters in this federation. I can..." He smirked, cutting himself off, before merely stating the next two words: "I can.

I can do it all.

They call me the American Psycho, but that couldn't be any farther from the truth...what I am is the American Realist. I understand what it takes to be a champion. Do you really think I'm some moronic killer who steps into the ring and automatically sees red? The brutality I cause is systematic and it is beautiful. I will cut out the tongues of every single person to ever lace a pair of wrestling boots -- from Lou Thez, to Ricky Steamboat, to the Boston Strangler, to Mitch Wilson, to Joey Malone, to "Golden" Glenn Miller...one by one I will hold their severed tongue to my ear and their idiom will funnel in.

Mescalero, you are merely a pawn- an insignificant cog...actually, you're not even that. A cog if disposed of, can cause severe disarray and possibly halt production. If I dispose of you tonight, Joe, your exodus will not cause alarm and disarray, as much as I would like it to. Your stretcher-ridden departure from ACW will be like one man's cry in the midst of a sea of deaf ears.

Lowell will find someone else. Someone more roided than yourself. Someone who can actually put a sentence together so it doesn't feel as though I'm taunting the retarded kid in class. And you know what, Joe? You'll be forgotten.

Just like the Commie. Just like that annoying little bastard Kenjamin.

It either happens tonight at my hands or when Lowell grows tired of your same ol' song and dance.

One thing's for certain: you're not beating me.

You saw what the Ginsu Shredder did to that Mexican fuck last week..." Jimmy glanced down at it in all its barbaric glory. "I was just testing the waters, breaking it in...now I'm fixin' to run through you. The calm, articulate Jimmy Cain presented in this interview is packing his bags and heading back to the hotel."

Jimmy's eyes opened wide. The throng of fans seated in the Air Canada Centre began to chant "Jimmy". This was the first truly audible chant Jimmy had recieved thus far in his ACW tenure. He had been cheered before on occasion, but usually when "Cain" was chanted the word "sucks" was usually ticked on.

Not tonight. Jimmy Cain's cult following was never more evident than it was here tonight. And how fitting- what with the show being called Holocaust et all.

Jimmy concluded by saying, with a sinister smile, "The Jimmy Cain you all know and love will be walking through that curtain later tonight.

Years from now, footage of our match will be part of middle school curriculum nation-wide. They will show the horrific beating I gave you here tonight and declare it the worst act ever perpetrated in the history of our species.

Welcome to your deathcamp."

GRUDGE MATCH
LLB versus Ken Kaze
GUEST REFEREE: Christopher Fox

The crowd was ready. They expected LLB to come out first. Instead, however, they got Ken Kaze.

And some of them booed. Only some, but he came out, with the Legend of Zelda theme in the background. He was bloody-well angry, too, much like ‘The Law’. He had his ass kicked a couple of weeks ago and now he wanted revenge. This was a big match for both ACW superstars. Kaze had already beaten LLB at the last pay-per-view…and another win could mean he’d shoot up in the rankings. ACW was losing a lot of wrestlers these days. Now was no better time at all, than to cash in on all the chances you have.

Kaze rolled into the ring, as his theme music came to a close. It was replaced by…

“Courage”, Alien Ant Farm.

And some of the crowd booed. Again, only some. These people were far and few between. Nevertheless it was a little odd.

Chris Fox jumped out. He wore a striped black and white referee shirt and his trademark multicolored wrestling tights. He slapped some hands down the pathway before rolling under the ring and checking Ken Kaze for any foreign objects.

Fox’s theme song quieted down. It wasn’t replaced by Kanye West either. It wasn’t replaced by Static-X or The Clash.

Instead.

Rage Against the Machine.

“Testify”.

And some of the fans cheered. LLB walked out, right hand in the air… and once he slammed it down like a judge with a mallet, tons of pyro went off behind him. Boos filled the arena while ‘The Law’ steadily made his way down to the ring. He still wore his navy blue suit and showed no intentions of taking it off either.

He slipped into the ring and instantly clotheslined Ken Kaze to the canvas.

Fox called for the bell.

“GET UP!” LLB cried, as Kaze did and kicked ‘The Law’ right in the balls.

Christopher Fox didn’t see it.

Kaze threw LLB off the ropes and lowered his head. A power slam later and the first pinfall attempt was made. Only getting a one count, Kaze lifted LLB to his feet and hammered him all the way into the corner. Kaze Irish whipped the “lawyer” across the way, as he met the buckle sternum-first and backtracked to the middle of the ring.

Atomic drop.

Kaze hit the ropes.

And this time it was a power-slam by LLB!

Only a one count himself, but that didn’t matter. LLB lifted Kaze to his feet and looked over at Chris Fox. Fox giggled and waved to him, while the former five time PIW Champion took off his tie and tossed Ken Kaze into the ropes.

LLB clotheslined himself and Kaze over the top rope. ‘The Law’ bounced right back up too, pulling back the apron and taking hold of a steel chair.

SMACK.

One problem.

Fox took the chair right out of LLB’s hands.

‘The Law’ looked up to his cousin. “Obj-”

Kaze kneed him in the gut.

WHAM.

And then threw him right into the ring post.

Ken rolled back into the ring while Christopher told him what he had done wrong. “Aye don’t hear ya mate!” Kaze shouted back. He didn’t speak preschool.

“It’s otay.” Fox replied. “Just don’t do it aga-” But before Fox could finish, Kaze baseball slid and hit LLB square in the face!

‘The Law’ fell into the guardrail, before scampering around to try and gain a veridical base. He thought he saw Ken Kaze coming for him -- a few times -- but each time he swung he only connected with air.

“Aye’m behind ya!” Kaze said, and LLB turned.

An atomic drop connected, after LLB missed with another left hand. Kaze jumped up on the apron and grinned. He didn’t waste another second and connected with a huge bulldog! LLB’s head was driven right through the cement (not literally of course), while Fox bounced about in the ring. He was having fun!

Ken grabbed LLB by his suit and began to rip it off… leaving ‘The Law’ in his dress pants. Kaze hurled LLB to the guard rail, then to the ring post, and then to the guard rail again. He dragged LLB to his feet. Kaze peered into the ring and wondered, “is there no count?”. But Ken didn’t think of asking this question out loud. Maybe Chris couldn’t count to ten.

Kaze walked ‘The Law’ over to the announce table. The Spanish announce table first.

He rolled LLB on top. Then he jumped on the apron and climbed to the top rope.

“Uh… Mr. Kaze…?” Christopher said unsurely.

Kaze shrugged. Then jumped.

CRASH! LLB moved.

“That’s TWICE!” The Spanish announcers shouted. Of course this was in Spanish and just translated for easier reading. In the meantime, LLB pulled himself together and got on his feet. He grabbed Ken by his short hair and rolled him into the ring. This match was not about taking chances… not yet. First LLB needed to gain some much needed momentum. He was not living up to his promise in the segment beforehand, that was for sure.

LLB locked Kaze into a suplex position. He snapped him back to the mat.

‘The Law’ nodded to himself and then took hold of Kaze’s right knee. He threw it down hard to the canvas. He then did it again. Kaze was reeling. His right knee had already been shaken up when he crashed through the table. But there was no way LLB could’ve known this. He must have gotten lucky in picking the right knee to work on.

Kaze scurried to get to the ropes. Eventually he would get there, but LLB just peeled him back to the center of the ring and hammer down on his right knee some more.

“Are you gonna do the ‘Testify’?” Asked Christopher.

LLB laughed. He had a whole new moveset now.

‘The Law’ placed Kaze’s right leg on the apron and then jumped down on it. Kaze shouted out (and mixed in a few swear words as well), but Christopher didn’t stop LLB either. Sure, he read the referee handbook… the first sentence in every paragraph. Because let’s face it, Fox really wanted to read those Garfield comics instead. Besides, Christopher was pretty sure all of this was legal, anyway.

LLB wrapped Kaze’s knee around the ropes and then pulled on it. Ken tried desperately to poke LLB in the eyes but ‘The Law’ was purposely keeping his head back. He tugged at Ken’s knee a little more and then stood up, hammering the boots to it again.

Fox danced around in the middle of the ring while the crowd grew restless. They wanted to see some action… not an over-drawn methodical approach. LLB matches were not known for that.

The former PIW Champion stretched Kaze’s knee around the bottom rope again. It was LLB who jammed his thumb into Ken’s eyes this time, before the ‘Hero of Hardcore’ would be able to do it to him instead.

LLB got to his feet and stomped on the knee twice more. He then lifted Kaze to his feet and whipped him into a back breaker. Kaze’s spine could be heard cracking in the process, as LLB dropped his opponent to the floor and yelled into the stands. A few people cheered, but that was all. Most of them just watched silently as ‘The Law’ lifted Ken to his feet and tossed him into the ropes.

Kaze fell over once he bounced off them. He could barely stand on his right leg right now, and it was evident LLB was locked on this target. He dragged Kaze into the corner and then rested Ken’s right leg on top of the second rope.

Swift kick.

Kaze cried out. A replay image was shown, and it looked as though Ken’s knee had popped out of place for a moment. But maybe that was just the camera angle… as Ken struggled to get out of the ropes and wobble back to the middle of the ring.

LLB chop blocked him.

Ken fell again.

This time ‘The Law’ drove three good elbows straight into the knee. Kaze did all he could to try and fight the “lawyer” off him, but he could barely put his hands on LLB. Following this up, ‘The Law’ Irish whipped Kaze back into the corner. It’s safe to say Ken barely made it there.

LLB waited for Kaze to come back to him, and then he hip tossed him into the center of the ring. LLB smiled at Fox, who smiled back. LLB then took firm hold of Kaze’s right leg.

A half Boston crab was going to be applied.

LLB turned Kaze around and sat as far back as he could. Meanwhile Ken’s left leg was kicking about, hoping to get a piece of LLB so the hold could be broken. Fox moved into a referee’s position, right in front of Ken’s head, to see if he was going to tap or not.

The Irish wrestler’s face just grew beet red. He was swearing very softly and trying to talk himself into holding on for as long as he could. His hand was up, ready to tap, but in his mind he was still some intense pain away from giving up just yet.

He was not close to the ropes. LLB was on his game this time. Unlike during his ACW losing streak, attention to detail was there tonight. ‘The Law’ made sure Ken was placed in the middle of the ring. In fact, LLB was closer to the ropes than Kaze was… so that only made things that much harder on the ‘Hero of Hardcore’.

LLB seethed back. His eyes were like those of a psychopath. His mouth was beginning to water. He could hear the ligaments of Ken Kaze’s knee stretch inside his own head. He could feel himself getting closer and closer to victory.

Kaze couldn’t power out by now. His left leg was done swinging around… and although he was trying to move to the ropes, he just didn’t have the energy.

Until the crowd got to their feet.

Until the crowd stomped on the pavement.

Ken Kaze still had life.

He struggled to move across the canvas, as LLB only had one of his legs. It was not the hardest hold to break out of. Kaze inched closer… and as the crowd began to chant his name, the ropes were coming within reach.

LLB looked back at Christopher as if to say “why the hell don’t you stop this!?” with his eyes.

Fox just giggled.

By now, Kaze was almost there. The crowd was on his side, and getting louder by the minute. Finally, in his last adrenaline rush, Ken Kaze reached out and grazed the bottom rope.

LLB smiled and pulled Ken back just a little.

The volume did not lower though. LLB didn’t move Kaze that far back. In fact, in another split second Ken had already gained back the ground he had lost.

He reached out. He took hold of the ropes.

The crowd cheered! But somehow LLB had to have known this half-Boston crab wasn’t going to get the job done. It did, however, cripple Ken as we went deeper into this battle.

LLB waited for his opponent to get on his feet. And this took a while. The announcers questioned weather this was a good idea. ‘The Law’ was in control, and by giving Ken Kaze a chance to recover might not have been the smartest thing. In reality, though, LLB knew what he was doing. He ran at Kaze and chop blocked his knee out from under him again.

‘The Law’ was just waiting for the right opportunity.

Kaze was a mess in the middle of the ring. LLB stood above him and smiled. He grabbed Ken’s right leg and turned him around. He then took hold of Ken’s other leg and was planning to work him into the ‘Cross-Examination’.

One problem.

Kaze finally hit LLB with his left leg.

It caught the “lawyer” under the jaw. He stumbled back and spat out some blood. It just so happened Roland clipped his own tongue when Kaze nailed him in the mouth. LLB was bleeding pretty badly, too, and because of this he finally lost his cool.

He went right after Kaze, who used the ropes to get on his feet. LLB didn’t notice Kaze knew he was coming. And he didn’t notice Kaze pulled down the top rope.

LLB fell to the outside.

“OBJECTION!” He shouted, blood flowing out of his mouth. He could possibly need stitches after this was over.

LLB turned to a few people in the front row. He gave them the finger and looked back towards the ring.

One problem.

Where the hell was Ken Kaze?

LLB looked up. He saw him in mid-air.

CRASH.

“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”

The move didn’t even have to be that fantastic. (And compared to some of the stuff that’s happened earlier in this pay-per-view, it wasn’t). But the fans lived in the moment… and the moment told them this was a good time to mark-out.

A suicide dive on LLB was a good way to start.

And like he wasn’t injured, Ken Kaze shot right back up. In a sense of mocking LLB, he tilted his head and screamed into the rafters before falling over and clutching his knee. He was in a wicked amount of pain.

LLB was out. Ken Kaze was trying to recover. And Christopher Fox was counting to ten on his fingers. He repeated the number “three” a few times before moving on to the number “four”.

Ken Kaze was the first one to move. He was rolling about the entire time, but when he rested his arms on the apron and pulled himself up, the crowd gave out a cheer. He limped over to the fallen “lawyer”. Grabbing his own keen with one hand, Ken pulled ‘The Law’ up by his short spiky hair with the other. He slammed LLB’s head into the guardrail once before he pulled him back and Irish whipped LLB into the ring post!

Fox was at a count of “nine”, but Ken told him he thought he forgot a number, so Fox started the ten count all over again.

Kaze limped towards LLB. He grabbed him by his head and tossed him into the guardrail for a second time. A kid in the front row lifted his hand as Kaze tried to high-five him, but stumbled and landed against the guardrail instead. Ken grumbled a little before he kicked LLB with his left leg (while balancing against the rail) and then diving at ‘The Law’ with a clothesline.

Kaze used the apron to get to his feet. He looked at the time keeper’s table across the way. And then he noticed the steel stairs.

Kaze nodded. He took hold of LLB’s arm and tossed him in the direction of the steel steps.

WHAM.

LLB reversed it. Kaze went knee-fight.

Ken cried out. He swore. He waved his hands around in the air. Anything he could do to try and take his mind off the pain. LLB slowly rolled back into the ring. He was beaten up pretty bad as well. And although the blood from his mouth was starting to dry, he could barely speak when he looked up at Christopher Fox.

‘The Kid’ looked back down at LLB and raised his eyebrows. “Exciting!” He said putting a fist in the air. Meanwhile Ken Kaze tried to get back into the ring. But every time he moved his right knee, he’d swear out loud and almost fall over. Another count of nine, and Ken got back into the ring. He was reeling in pain when LLB got to his feet and slowly walked over to him.

Kaze was desperate. He pointed at Fox and then pointed to the stands. Once Fox turned his head, he dove and nailed LLB with a low blow.

Time: bought.

LLB stumbled back and rested in the corner of the ring. When Fox turned back around he just giggled. “That was a good one, Kenny!”.

Kaze slammed his hands down on the mat a number of times. He was having a hard time letting go of the pain in his head. But that’s what it was, right now. He convinced himself there was no structural damage… and all of the pain was buried deep inside his head.

Ken rose. He called LLB on.

‘The Law’ put up his fists and walked towards him. He shot a left hand out, but it was blocked by Kaze.

Belly to belly suplex.

Kaze jumped right back on his feet. He realized LLB had a rush of adrenaline too… as ‘The Law’ came right at him.

A thumb to the eyes by Kaze. Then he followed it up with a three knee combo. He used his left knee, of course, but that meant putting a major strain on his right. Even the ‘Hero of Hardcore’ didn’t know how he did it, but Kaze bounced off the ropes and connected with a back elbow smash.

Kaze landed on top of LLB and then let him have it with numerous mounted punches. Fox asked for Kaze to stop. He did, and then Ken whipped LLB into the ropes and lowered his head.

Running knee hit: LLB.

Atomic drop: LLB.

Cross body block: LLB.

But ‘The Law’ was caught.

Fall away slam: Ken Kaze.

LLB fell right out of the ring.

Kaze’s knee buckled when he had all of LLB’s weight in his arms. Red faced and all he fought to pull himself up by the ropes. Then in a split second, he slingshot himself over the top rope and into another suicide dive. The crowd cheered while Kaze’s voice was muffled throughout the loudness in the arena. He crawled back up the steel stairs and rolled into the ring.

A good minute or so passed before LLB realized where he was. He sat up and stumbled back towards the apron.

Kaze limped over to him, but he didn’t see LLB pull the ring apron up and grab the nearest weapon.

A garbage can lid.

Whack. Kaze was hit right across the head with it. He fell backwards, while Fox just checked on him, completely oblivious as to what just happened. LLB grinned evilly and threw the lid back under the apron. He rolled into the ring and got to his feet.

Spitting some more blood out of his mouth, he pulled Kaze to his knees and locked him in a sleeper hold. LLB wrenched the hold down across Ken’s neck as hard as he could. Sleeper holds never worked in the big leagues. At least they didn’t earn you victories. LLB knew this. But it was a great chance to recover… and in the meantime wear out Ken Kaze just a little more.

Kaze was fighting back, though. As the crowd cheered he drew some momentum. He fought his way to one leg… but once he put weight on his right knee, he fell over.

LLB was surprised. He just continued to twist his arm around Kaze’s neck as hard as he could. The crowd was losing their belief… and the cheers were being drown out.

In a flash Kaze picked LLB up and back dropped him to the mat.

Pop!

In another split second, Kaze shot to his feet and bounced off the ropes. He connected with a spinebuster slam.

Pop!

We had our third pinfall attempt of the night. The first one in over ten minutes.

One!

Two!

Kickout!

LLB was forceful, although he was very shocked by the sudden rush of adrenaline that Ken Kaze possessed. It was clear Kaze was only going through the motions because of a strong mental block. It was evident he could barely walk. But Ken wanted this match. He was going to do whatever it took.

Kaze jumped. A standing hurracanrana put LLB in another pinning predicament!

One!

Two!

Barely a kickout.

Once Kaze got to his feet this time, though, LLB dove forward and smashed his shoulder into the back of Kaze’s right knee. This gave the “lawyer” plenty of time to recover right now. Fox was standing in the middle of the ring… with Ken down and out to his right… and LLB just beginning to stir on his left.

That’s when it came.

LLB hulked up.

He jumped to his feet. He shook his fists in the air… while he screamed into the rafters as loud as he could.

Some of the fans were even cheering him. Some of them were cheering him pretty loudly as well.

‘The Law’ looked down at his opponent… who could only look back up at LLB… practically helpless.

‘Cross Examination’.

The modified Texas cloverleaf was about to be applied. Kaze did his best to battle out of it… but once LLB twisted his right knee around… he could hardly do much more than struggle. LLB flipped Ken over and sat back. Kaze screamed out while Fox positioned himself for a possible tap-out.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

But it wasn’t Kaze’s hand.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was the fans in attendance… and it was more like a loud pounding right now.

“KAZE. KAZE. KAZE.” They chanted.

He was about to give up, but Ken noticed he was pretty close to the ropes after all. In LLB’s rush, he failed to realize where he locked the move in. They were over on the right side of the ring… and all Ken had to do was nudge a little bit forward… and he’d be there.

He moved slightly. He stuck out his hand.

He grabbed the bottom rope.

Fox told LLB to break the hold… but he didn’t. ‘The Law’ kept the move locked in! He tilted his head back and yelled as loud as he could for Ken to submit… even though if Kaze tapped now there would be no victory.

“LL… please!” Fox cried out, as he stood in front of the “lawyer”.

‘The Law’ just tugged back harder.

“LL break the hold or… or…” Fox turned towards the ring bell. “I’ll disqualify you LL! I don’t want to do that… big time!”

LLB’s eyes locked into Chris’. He knew Fox didn’t have the balls to call an end to this match. He knew Christopher was too scared to do so. Fox was just going to plead with LLB as much as he could… and ‘The Law’ was going to squeeze every last drop out of it.

“LL.” Fox was getting a little distraught. “LL break the hold!!!”

“OBJECTION!” LLB yelled back, while a few people in the crowd shouted it out after him.

Fox nodded. Then he looked down at Ken Kaze.

He was almost to the point of passing out. He still had the ropes, but he could do no more.

Fox shot back.

“BREAK THE HOLD LL. I- I DON’T WANT TO CALL FOR THE BEL-”

“OBJECTION!”

Fox frowned. “LL. Ple-”

“OBJECTION!”

“P-”

“OBJECTION!”

And Christopher just stood there. Now he was getting booed, too, as he seemingly gave into LLB’s demands… and the ‘Cross Examination’ was still locked in.

Another ten seconds or so passed, and finally LLB dropped the hold. He looked over at Chris Fox and patted him on the back. He then turned down and stared at his work.

AN INSIDE CRADLE BY KEN KAZE.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE!

It was over! The crowd went crazy!!!

But Christopher Fox made sure everyone knew it was NOT an actual three count.

As the replays showed, Chris Fox was right. LLB kicked out just a second before Fox’s hand hit the mat (although it did, tricking the crowd into thinking the match was over).

LLB got right back up and stomped the hell out of Ken Kaze. That was all the ‘Hero of Hardcore’ had up his sleeve. It was the only thing he could put together.

STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.

LLB grinned.

STOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMP.
STOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMP.
STOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMP.

LLB whipped Kaze into a quick scoop slam and then walked up to the second rope-- make that the top rope.

He posed for the cameras… then he connected with a big splash. At one time, his old finishing move.

LLB hooked Ken’s legs.

This was all but academic now.

One.

Two.

Kickout.

…Maybe not.

“WHAT!?” LLB shot up and grabbed Fox by the collar. “That was a three count!”

Fox shook his head no. But LLB was not accepting that as an answer. He was obsessed now. Just like before with the Texas cloverleaf… now LLB was hell bent on yelling at Chris Fox.

“You’re supposed to count at an EVEN pace, Fox!!” Christopher tried to answer back, but he was cut off. “OBJECTION! You’re not doing that! Do you even know how to count to three!?!?”

‘The Law’ paced around the ring. He looked down at Ken just to make sure. He wasn’t moving. Not even close.

LLB then got right in Fox’s face. “Why are you even HERE!? What the hell brings you to ACW!? This is MY place… you’re nothing more than an annoying twenty year old with the brain of a TWO year old…”

Fox stood there and took it all in. “But LL… but…”

“OBJECTION!”

Then Fox pushed LLB.

The crowd went wild!

LLB bounced off the ropes and clotheslined Christopher right in the face! He fled the ring and quickly grabbed a steel chair.

He spotted Ken Kaze, finally moving.

LLB ran towards him with the chair.

SWOOSH.

…

WHACK.

The chair bounced right off the ropes and smacked LLB in the side of the head! He fell over, losing the chair as it flew out of the ring.

All three men were down. But since Fox was a wrestler… a simple clothesline would not knock him down for long. He was the first one on his feet. He got up and looked into the crowd. Most of the people were calling for a disqualification… and any other referee might just do so. But Fox wasn’t sure. He stood there in the middle of the ring. In reality, he came back to ACW to see his friend, LLB… and hopefully take part in wrestling once again. But as he looked down at ‘The Law’… he remembered that things in their friendship didn’t go so smoothly as he thought. They were hardly friends to begin with. Fox and LLB had many battles in the past.

“Objection!” Fox said with his high-pitched, yet-to-hit-puberty scream.

He came to a decision. He wasn’t going to disqualify LLB.

But he wasn’t going to let him get away with hitting him either.

Fox picked the “lawyer” up.

‘FOX 5’.

The crowd exploded with cheers.

And just like that, Christopher whipped off his referee shirt and threw it into the crowd. He exited the ring and walked to the back, the entire time screaming out words like “objection” and “I rest my case” before vanishing behind the Holocaust “H”.

Square one.

The match was back to square one.

No ref. Both men were down. It was anyone’s game. The crowd was on their feet. And Reid and Lipton were throwing fits into their headsets.

Lipton: “I DON’T BELIEVE THIS! Chris Fox JUST. WALKED. OUT!”

Reid: “Unbelievable! I thought he and LLB had something up their sleeves… or maybe Fox and Kaze did! But clearly this was NOT the case!”

Lipton: “You owe me ten bucks.”

Reid: “Oh… yeah… right…”

Kaze barely moved. But he was still the first to do so. In a groggy fashion he stumbled towards the ropes… drool dripping down his face… a gaze in his eyes that two weeks of drinking couldn’t even impersonate. He pulled himself up and then fell right overtop of LLB.

The crowd counted to at least five or six before Doug Whitmore ran down the pathway.

He slid in and quickly checked LLB’s shoulders.

ONE.

TWO.

K.I.C.K.O.U.T.

Everyone sighed, but they all stayed on their feet. They all believed. And dammit, they all cheered too.

Whitmore jumped up and yelled a “only two!” to the time keeper’s table. He then turned back and waited like a hawk for the match to continue.

It took a while… and a hell of a lot of cheering… but both wrestlers were gaining their senses… if not just a little.

Finally it was LLB who got up first. He picked Kaze up and tossed him into the ropes. The limping Kaze shot off the ropes with a flying back elbow smash… but LLB ducked and bounced off the ropes himself.

Spinning heel kick.

Momentum: LLB.

‘The Law’ whipped Ken into the ropes once more.

He lifted Kaze up on his shoulders.

He paused.

Samoan drop.

PINFALL ATTEMPT.

One.

Two.

KICKOUT.

The arena went wild again! LLB sat up in disbelief. Was he EVER going to win again!? He stared down at his hands and held up three fingers to Christopher Fox.

“THREE, FOX. LEARN HOW TO COUNT TO FUCKING THREE!”

Then he realized it was Doug Whitmore.

“…What?”

Whitmore was about to reply, but Kaze hooked LLB’s arms back and rolled him into a pin!

One!

Two!

KICKOUT.

‘The Law’ was still the fresh one, though. He shook off the thought of almost losing again… and dragged his opponent up with him.

Left. Left. Left.

The fans booed.

LEFT. LEFT. LEFT.

The fans booed!

LEFT. LEFT. WTF?

…

BLOOOCKED.

Kaze grinned.

A fist of his own knocked LLB back! He jumped up, hooking his legs around ‘The Law’ for another hurracanrana…

Objection.

LLB drove him spine-first into the mat, countering the move with a quick power bomb. He wasn’t going to pin… not yet anyway. Instead he pulled Kaze up and threw him into the powerbomb position.

Pedigree.

LLB laughed as he glanced down at Kaze’s twitching right knee. It was time to do more damage. It was time to take the match.

Making sure he was in the middle of the ring, LLB applied the ‘Cross Examination’.

He leaned back as hard as he could… while everyone in the crowd stood on their feet. A few of them tossed some garbage in the ring, but they were quickly escorted out of the arena. LLB screamed into the stands. He then yelled some advice to Ken Kaze… that is if he could even hear him.

“TAP OUT. TAP OUT OR I’LL END YOUR FUCKING CAREER!!!!!”

Kaze was awake. Barely. But he was not going to give up.

“AYE! FUCK YOU LAWBOY!” He shouted back, trying to move towards the ropes… but he was unable to.

“TAP OUT!! TAP OUT!!” LLB seethed back as hard as possible. “TAPOUTTAPOUTTAPOUTTAPOUTTAPOUT!!!”

LLB screamed more… but Ken Kaze’s arm wouldn’t budge. Doug Whitmore stayed in position. He even made sure LLB wasn’t cheating… although being dead in the middle of the ring… it was almost impossible for LLB to use the ropes.

Kaze shouted out a few more times, before dropping his head to the canvas and passing out.

Whitmore didn’t know this at first. He asked Ken Kaze if he was going to submit, but nothing came of it.

“TAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPP. YOU. ARE. GUILTY.” LLB’s eyes were red now, his mouth still crusted in dried-up blood from his tongue. “GUILTY. GUILTY. GUILTY.”

Kaze didn’t respond.

“GUILTY. GUILTY. GUILTY.”

Doug Whitmore called for the bell. Everyone booed, but most of them understood.

“The winner of this match… by submission… LLB!”

‘The Law’ dropped the hold. He boiled a little more as the anger in him seemingly rose. ‘The Law’ exited the ring and snatched a mic from the time keeper’s table.

Turning to look dead into the camera, LLB pulled the mic to his face. “Who wants to TESTIFY!?” He seethed. “Who wants to testify!?!?”

LLB threw the mic to the floor and walked like a zombie towards the back… leaving an utterly shocked crowd behind him.

LLB had his first win in ACW. And clearly not his last.

Winner >  LLB

Preparation H

Kelly Flawless had always been fond of the pay-per-view atmosphere. He loved the lights, the anticipation, the glamour. He enjoyed how focused each of the competitors was, and he enjoyed the spotlight of entering the squared circle with the entire arena reacting to your every move.

And Holocaust was no different. Regardless of what the critics were saying about ACW’s product recently, Kelly had seen no change. The atmosphere aside, the golden boy was back, and better than ever.

A haircut, a leather jacket, and a purple silk shirt reflected the new Kelly. He walked with a bit more of an edge, as he turned the corner and cracked the door that stood before him. ‘Lord Lowell’ was etched into the wood; Kelly smirked as his eyes scanned across the heading.

“Lord?” Kelly questioned sarcastically, muttering under his breath.

He pushed through the entrance, peering into the room.

“Lowell?” Kelly called out, looking past the desk made of dark mahogany.

Nothing.

“Lowell?” Kelly called again.

He walked toward Lowell’s desk, checking over his shoulder. Walking around the corner he dropped back into the leather chair, and kicked his feet up. He let out a large sigh and checked the door one more time.

“Jesus Christ… what happened to this place? I leave for a few months and it falls fuck face into the dirt. Lord Lowell? This is a bigger disaster than that time I tried to hit on Ellen DeGeneres,” he said with a hint of contempt. “What the hell comes next? Before I know it it’ll be taken over by those cunts at LoC. That place is like a reoccurring case of hemorrhoids, with less wrestling ability.”

A smile came over his face, one that Kelly hadn’t felt in a long time. There was a certain amount of confidence he possessed when he was within the confines of these walls.

“LOWELL!” Kelly yelled out sarcastically, chuckling to himself.

“Fuck you, marketing boy…” Kelly got up from the chair, “You’ve got a private bathroom?”

He walked over toward the door adjacent to the entrance.

“I can’t believe this clown has his own personal bathroom - I don’t even get that kind of treatment,” Kelly scoffed. “Schmuck.”

He opened the door innocently, peering inside.

“What the fuck?” Kelly began, a little taken aback by the marble finishing and the abundance of (creepy) hygiene products.

“Lowell – dude… scented soaps? Foot cleansers? Acne cream?” Kelly laughed, “Lowell’s a 14-year-old girl. ”

He pushed the acne cream to the floor and chuckled to himself, as he reached for the toilet paper sitting by the sink.

“Oh…” the Golden Boy exclaimed. “Quilted.”

It came as quite the surprise to Kelly as he wipes with sandpaper. He’s tough like that. Once, he fought a bear.

“What other kind of shit do you have in here, Mr. Owner of ACW?”

He reached for the medicine cabinet (I have no idea why a private bathroom in an arena would have a medicine cabinet).

“I… wonder if they’re contagious?” Kelly said curiously as he pulled out a bottle of Preparation H.

“Do… do they pus?” Kelly asked, examining the bottle closely.

“HEY LOWELL!” Flawless yelled. “I FOUND YOUR BUTTCREAM!”

"I don't use it on my butt, stupid," came a voice from behind. Kelly spun around to find Lowell standing in the doorway, a look of annoyance etched across his face. "It's for the bags under my eyes!"

Lowell entered the bathroom, walking toward Kelly and swiping the bottle of Preparation H from his hands. He placed it back in the medicine cabinet (which was organized in alphabetical order) and turned to face Flawless once again. "You know...you've gotta lotta nerve entering my private bathroom without permission.

Do you know what happened to the last guy who entered my bathroom without permission?"

Lowell gave a sinister smile. "I kindly asked him to leave."

Kelly's eyebrow rose. "Ahhh huh..."

"Then I had him beaten to a bloody pulp! I mean- you shoulda' seen what Joe did to that poor sap! He turned him upside down by his ankles and literally mopped the floor with him! He was dunking his head in a bucket of soapy water and wringing it out in that little wringer-out'er thing that comes attached to it! I'll tell you one thing: he'll think twice before coming in 'hurr and chuckling about my assortment of facial products!"

“Whatever you and your butt doctor do is your business, bro.” Kelly stepped back a bit, chuckling sarcastically, as the fans got a bit of a rise from the comment.

Lowell scoffed, “he’s not my butt doctor, ass. Does he look like somebody who is professionally qualified to practice medicine? Does he looks like somebody who took seven plus years of schooling? Fuck no. Maybe you need to see a butt doctor? Get your head removed from… up there.”

Kelly shook his head, trying not to respond to what Lowell had just said.

“Whatever – listen,” he began. “Since I’ve been gone things have changed a little.”

Lowell nodded, although he was completely unaware of where Kelly was going with this.

“I’ve noticed that you aren’t exactly “in tune” with the fans - with your fans,” he stared at Lord Lowell convincingly, “so I’m here to lend my services.”

Lowell smiled a little, although this didn’t mean all that much to him.

“Think of it as… a public relations type idea.”

“Yeah?” Lowell asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kelly smirked a little… “Yeah.”

“Anyway, I’ve got some business to attend to, but I will talk to you later,” Kelly said, stepping past the boss of ACW, “oh by the way, that jacket looks great.”

Lowell smiled confidently as Kelly stepped through the door.

HARDWARE HOLOCAUST
Dean Matthews versus Rory Hayes

"Unfortunately, we have to cut back to the Hardware Holocaust, which seems to be living up to its name."

"Violence, psychosis, religious iconography. I love Dean Matthews. Where would we be without him?"

Oh, Reid. You're such a sweetheart.

"Probably someplace a whole lot more decent."

So we're back to Matthews, who decided to sit on the ground and idlely toss random objects at Hayes' poor head. You know, nothing all that harmful: rolls of tape, boxes of screws, metal painting rollers. Shit like that.

And then he had some fun. He wandered back over to the fertilizer section and grabbed a spray can of weed-killer. None of that organic, non-harmful, all-natural, humane crap, either. This was the fuck-all, kill-everything, burn-the-hair-off-your-skin Agent Orange DDT shit. So, naturally, he sprayed him down in a nice, thick coat of it.

As a lovely follow-up, Dean grabbed a big box of small screws, some nails and thumbtacks, and dumped them all over the floor in front of the makeshift cross.

Dean Matthews, on his way behind the ladder platform, first grabbed a nice sledgehammer, swung it around gleefully for a bit, and then suddenly, casually kicked the bag of cement that was holding up the ladder.

And there it went, a bit of a hum coming from the wire's friction against the metal platform.

CRASH

So, here's what we've got: a puddle of sharp shards of metal beneath a 200lb. man, inevitably puncturing his already-bruised, -bloodied, -poison-doused skin, the man, in turn, bound-to and pinned-beneather a large, heavy metal ladder. And Dean Matthews, calmly and casually wandering, toward the door with a sledgehammer. That's about what I expected from a Dean Matthews match at a show called "Holocaust," how about you?

With one good home-run swing of that sledge, the lock (and entire handle) of the door clunked right off and hit the floor with a clank. The 20-lb. sledge thudded to the ground, and Matthews hit the road with a smirk.

"Good God! I suppose that sick bastard Lowell got his money's worth with that match."

"And so did everyone who bought the Pay-Per-View! That was incredible!"

"I'm just glad it's finally over."

Immoral Support

Lord Lowell's golden boy, U.B. Reynolds, had flown in from the U.K., where he'd been training full-time with some of the great wrestlers from across the pond. Men of class, Lowell said.

The reason U.B. had taken Lowell's private jet back to the U.S. to attend Holocaust was so that he could -- in the small amount of time he was given before the show began and the fans filed in -- pass on the techniques he'd learned to the Guns of Brixton, Joe Mescalero.

Needless to say, Lowell was not being very realistic.

In the centre of a vacant arena, the House of Lords convened. U.B. instructed on counter wrestling and the Royal Guard of Klaasen and Myers taught submissions.

Each pitched in to help make Joe Mescalero a more complete wrestler. In the end, however, if Joe were a talker, he probably would have said something to the effect of, "Fuck wrestling. I'm just gonna' beat his ass!"

That was the plan, anyway.

In a private dressing room reserved exclusively for Lowell's men, the HoL gathered around Joe as he sat on the wooden bend in front of a row of blue lockers, having his hands wrapped with athletic tape as Reynolds talked him up.

Reynolds, of course, was adorned in Jimmy's custom blazer. The one he had stolen.

"You're the best, Joe! Jimmy...he doesn't have half the ability you do! You're going to make short work of him, tonight! I just KNOW it! I want you to picture it in your head! Picture yourself hitting him!

It feels good, don't it?" U.B. nodded.

Joe was hunched forward, his shoulders rounded. His hair was wet from U.B. sponging his head with water. Joe looked up and stared into Reynold's eyes, giving a nod.

Reynolds smiled.

"Yeah, I bet it does. And in just a few short minutes it all becomes a reality.

Look at it this way: Lowell doesn't ask us for much. I haven't wrestled a single match yet I'm getting paid more than LLB! Avalon, Danger, and KSZ all got axed tonight, but we're still here!

Don't disappoint.

Make the House proud. Make us strong. Do it for the Lord, Joe."

Lord Lowell's words coming out of U.B.'s mouth- the insanity filtered out, composed articulately, and delivered to pacify.

Nerves were no longer a problem.

Klaasen and Myers flanked Reynolds on both sides. They looked stoic and complacent with their "bodyguard"-ish roles within the promotion. They were here to serve Lowell and that was it.

The first word Myers ever spoke on camera: "Fuck him up, Joey." as Mescalero stood up and marched past them on his way to the door. The door opened and he stepped out into the hall. The door then closed with a click.

U.B. turned to the Royal Guard. "What's the verdict?"

Myers replied, "What do you mean?"

"Well, you've fought Cain before, do you think he's got what it takes?"

Myers response was delayed this time. He and his tag team partner exchanged a glance.

"I guess we'll just have to wait to find out." 

Another Unoriginal Jobber-Based Comedy Segment III

And now the search for new jobbers brings us to…

Ready, Set, Cookckney!

“’Allo there ladies ‘n’ gents, Billy and Brian Britton here” opened Billy-boy
“With the first ever episode of Ready, Set, Cockney” added Brian
“Usually we’d introduce our contestants about now”
“But we don’t really give a Barry White about that because they’re jobbers anyway”

For those less acquainted with the poetics of the East-end of London, a Barry White is infact, known as rhyming slang. It means shite basically.

One of the arena back-rooms had been shabbily made up to look like the television set of “Ready, Set, Cook”, complete with two make-shift workstations and a “Ready, Set, Cookckney” marquee that looked as though an infant made it in playschool. Billy-boy and Brian strolled over to two potential jobbers, who seemed eager to impress the likely-London-lads.

“Nah then. This is a very special edition of Ready, Set, Cockney ‘cos we don’t give a monkeys what ingredients you brought along wiv you” explained Brian as Billy-boy threw away a rump steak, champignons, truffles, a writhing lobster and the rest of the contestants food.

“’Cos this is the Cheeky-Chappies-Chippy-Challenge”
“What that basically means” started Billy-boy “is you ‘ave to run to the chippy-“
“That’s a fish and chip shop” assured Brian
“And buy us a cod and chips. When you’ve done that you have to bring us a nice cup of tea an’ all. If you follow Brian ovah to the chalkboard we’ll show you just how scoring works”

Sure enough Brian was stood as a blackboard with a pointer, “You score points for ‘ow warm the food is, ‘ow salty it is and ‘ow vinegary it is”

“We’re looking for heart-attack salty and super-saturated vinegar levels”

“The tea is very important, and an art in itself”

At that moment one of the jobbers had the audacity to pipe up, “What’s cooking got to with being a jobber?”

Billy-boy and Brian gave each other a knowing look and grin before bellowing a synchronised, “You’re fired”

“Go on” said Billy-boy “Get out” finished Brian.

“Every jobber ‘as to be able to make a good cuppa. Dead milky, sickly sweet, and hotter than the sun” Clarified Billy-boy as Brian walked around the remaining jobbers giving them each a Five-Pound-Sterling note.

“Now we want change from a fiver – Ready, Set, Cockney!” the Britton’s said in stereo.

GLASS, TACKS, & SACKS
Jimmy Cain versus Joe Mescalero

The lights went down inside the arena. The venue ignited in a firey explosion of verbal abhoration. Every man, woman, and child was doing their part, booing until throats and lungs, exhausted, aching from overuse, they had to momentarilly stop.

It was at that precise moment--in the calm...the eye of the storm, so to speak--that the curtain parted, and Jimmy Cain emerged, attired in his usual ring garb sans the charcoal gray blazer; which, at the present time, was in U.B. Reynold's possession. And U.B. was in England somewhere, so...yeah.

He'd get it back, and then some...U.B.'s torn open stomach would be buffet, and Jimmy would pluck whatever delightful little item he desired--like a bad mechanic pulling wires and other necessary things out of their rightful place.

Jimmy was inside the ring, now, lifting his knees and drawing them into his chest. Camera 7 gave the PPV audience a good look at what appeared to be a reinforced kneepad wrapped in barbed wire. Yup. That's exactly what it was. Charmingly dubbed the "Ginsu Shredder" by its creator--the American Psycho, himself--it was quite possibly the most barbaric, yet creative, gimmick weapon ever conceived in wrestling.

Jimmy shadow boxed a little. Turned his head, and stared off into space, as "New Noise" ended. There were chants of "Fuck You Jimmy" and "Die Jimmy Die". However, through all the booing, faint cheers could be heard. And in seconds, the greater of the two evils--an associate (and bodyguard) of the tyrant, himself, Lord Lowell--would arrive, stealing most of Jimmy's heel heat.

The fans could respect the Jimmy...to an extent. Align with Lowell, however, and you're T shirt sales are fucked. No way was a member of the House of Lords getting cheered. No fucking way.

I guess now is as good time as any to do an inventory check.

Weapons. Everywhere.

Specifically the three the match is named after: Glass, Tacks, and Sacks.

Glass and Tacks are pretty self-explanatory. Panes of glass propped up in all corners of the ring. Bags containing thousands of razor-sharp, extra long thumbtacks wait on the floor surrounding the ring. Finally, the Sacks...filled with either doorknobs or D batteries. Lots of carnage to play around with. Plunder, as Dusty Rhodes would call it.

Jimmy couldn't help but smile. He felt right at home.

Reid: "That thing on his knee...Joe's gonna have to watch out for that."

Lipton: "No kidding. It'll eat his face off! THE ILLUSTRIOUS FACE-EATER! That's what I'm gonna call it. *nod*"

Reid: "Ahhh...Lip?"

Lipton: "Yes?"

Reid: "You do know that's already the name of a wrestler, right? Adam Dick. AWC whatever-the-hell-it's-called champion? They could sue us."

Lipton: "So? We'll win. We're better than them. ACW is sooooo the better combination of those three letters."

Reid: "*towing the company line* OH, for sure! But just in case...let's stick to calling it by its proper name, the Ginsu Shredder. We don't want Jimmy Cain to have sex with our wives, while punching our sons in the face repeatedly, do we?"

Lipton: "*pouts* ...No..."

Reid: "Okay...well, I hear the Clash, so that obviously means Joe Mescalero is about to enter the arena--and yes, there he is, standing atop the ramp, flanked by the Royal Guard of Michael Klaasen and James Myers...I'm sure they're still nursing a few bruises from that handicap they had with Jimmy Cain a couple of weeks ago."

Lipton: "What I wanna know is how Joe gets off using --- instead of 'Princes of the Universe'. I mean, shoot! It's only the greatest Queen song ever written! *singing* HEEEERE WE ARE...BOOORN TO BE KINGS...WE'RE THE PRINCES OF THE---

OW! HEY! WHY'D YOU HIT ME!?"

Reid: "Cause you're annoying?"

Lipton: "Oh...okay."

Mescalero marched to the ring. His eyes darting from the Glass, to the Tacks, to the Sacks, OH MY~! He gestured for Klaasen and Myers to return to the lockerroom. The complied, and soon enough Joe was standing alone, a knot in his throat. He was a bit nervous. Just a bit. But he knew enough not to let a little fear hinder his performance in a match, so he swallowed that knot in his throat and climbed inside the ring.

This was going to get very violent very quickly. The question was: Who would come out on top? Who would be the victor?

We'd find out soon enough...no way was this going to be a marathon match...it would be short and brutal.

Violence is the only answer.

"I want him to be in so much pain, so much agony...that he never...EVER thinks of fucking around with the House of Lords again! I want you take one of those doorknobs and insert it into his mouth like he's a pig on a platter! I want his HEAD, Joe! Give me his head!" -- the final words spoken to Joe Mescalero before walking through the curtain.

As for Jimmy;

"Seriously. DON'T kill him. This isn't the Asylum. Lowell isn't Joe Campbell, and we can't get away with murder on our shows! I know, I know, 'fuck Lowell', but there are a lot of people employed with ACW who rely on this job to provide for their family. Put him in the hospital...break a leg, an arm, his neck if you must! Just...make sure he's still breathing in the end."

Fuck what a road agent wants. Road agents are inherently gay, anyhow. Jimmy promises nothing to noone.

Cain and Mescalero stood a couple feet apart, the referee separating them. He quickly ran down the list of rules...which took, well...no time at all since there aren't any, and backed away slowly. The heat inside the ring was nuclear.

Cain jammed a finger in Joe's chest, and said, "I'm gonna break your back, make you humbllle, and then FUCK your ass!"

Joe's brow furrowed as if to ask, 'What the fuck are you talking about?', before he receded into his corner. It was there he stood completely still, boring a hole through Jimmy Cain. Jimmy, too, was standing in his respective corner. He was hopping up and down, trying to get the blood flowing throughout his body.

In the midst of all of this, the bell had rung. The match was underway.

Jimmy took two steps forward and gave Joe the middle finger.

Cheers

Jimmy's head whipped sharply to the right, as an eyebrow rose, and he gave a quizzical look.

Joe power-walked walked toward him, his thighs pumping vigourously. He shoved Cain, hard, back into his own corner...Jimmy stutter-stepped to stop himself from going through the pane of glass, and looked to the crowd, then to Joe, in sheer disbelief. He was STRONG.

Jimmy shoved him, and Joe barely moved an inch.

SLAP~!

A vicious slap to the ear.

Joe turned 90 degrees, bent over at the waist. Jimmy executed a Flying Knee, and Mescalero fell over, crashing down into the canvas and popping over onto his stomach.

He was quick to his feet for a big man, shrugging off Jimmy's punches, and dishing out a douple of his own. Rocked, Jimmy staggered back against the ropes. He connected with a roundhouse kick with his shin to Joe's chest, creating a loud SMACK. He delivered several more in rapid-fire succession, before hitting the ropes, and...ELBOW STRIKE.

Joe stumbled a bit...then fell to the canvas under his own volition and rolled out to the floor. He circled the ring, stepping over bags of tacks, until he came across the second set of stairs on the opposite side. Upon ascending them, he stood on the ring apron, his arms resting on the top rope. He stared across the ring at Jimmy the Ginsu Shredder. He'd been lucky; when Jimmy had executed the flying knee, it had been with his other knee--the one NOT covered in barbed wire.

Joe, upon entering the ring, quickly found himself subjected to a barrage of palm strikes, his back against the ropes. Jimmy clinched, and rocketed the Ginsu Shredder up into Joe's face. Fortunately, Joe managed to block the barbed wire-assisted knee strike with his hand. His hand, bloody and torn, was balled into a fist and hurled at the Jimmy, splitting open his bottom lip.

Spinning Back Kick!

The bottom of Jimmy's foot driven deep into the Clash's midsection. Joe doubled over and was elbowed directly in the spine. Jimmy placed him in a standing head scissors. Joe, sensing that his opponent had a piledriver in store for him, braced his hands on Jimmy's thighs and dumped him to the floor with a back body drop.

Cain landed with a thud on the concrete. He held his hip as he got back to his feet. The fans were still dishing out the backlash from Joe's retaliation when Cain, in a rage, picked up a bag of thumbtacks, pulling at the draw string to open the bag, and hurled its contents into the ring.

A woman in the crowd screamed out loud.

The ring gleamed beneath the rafter lights. The metallic shine warmed Jimmy's vengeful little heart.

Rooting around underneath the ring, Jimmy pulled out a chair. He entered the ring, cautious of the thumbtacks littering the canvas. He dropped the chair as Joe charged in with a Yakuza Kick, sidestepping the attack. He grabbed Joe, applying a Half-Nelson...backswitch--German Suplex!

Joe rolled Jimmy onto his stomach, his hands still tightly clasp around his waist, and dragged him back to his feet.

German!

German!

German!

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!

German w/ bridge!

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER!

Jimmy got to his feet. His neck pained as he turned his head, in the midst of retreating to the outside, and saw Joe running at him, arm extended. Joe clotheslined the back of his skull. The fans groaned. The smacking sound was unbelievably loud. The force was so much that Jimmy didn't even stumble--he fell directly onto his face. Somehow he had avoided the tacks and was not yet a pincushion.

Jimmy's pain ravaged face--in the background, Joe, advancing, holding a chair.

Mescalero ran, wielding the chair...SMACK!

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

He dropped the chair and stood over Cain, who was lying face down on the canvas. He grabbed him by his perfectly quaffed jet black hair, drawing his head off of the mat. He crossfaced him once, twice, three-times...Jimmy's head hit the canvas. Joe, moving at a snail's pace, walked around Jimmy's body until he came to his head, which he then stomped the back of. Cain's two front teeth were driven into the canvas.

Cain, nevertheless, started to get to his feet. His back covered in welts. Face marked up from closed-fist punches thrown and landed. Jimmy's gums were coated with blood, his bottom lip torn. When he face came into view, there was a look of annoyance etched across it.

"You fucking shithead!" Jimmy's head lifted quickly. He was on his feet. He chopped Joe. He punched Joe. He kicked Joe (your standard toe kick followed by a roundhouse kick to the chest). A series of stiff forearm smashes to the side of the face. Jimmy turned, preparing to hit the ropes, but Joe was clever enough to grab a hold of his hair and pull, causing Jimmy's whole body to whip back, his spine landing on Joe's bent knee.

He covered him.

One!

Two!

Jimmy kicked out of the lateral press with ease. Joe grabbed him and walked him to the side of the ring where most of the tacks were. He scooped him up...

Body Slam on the Tacks!

Joe grabbed the steel chair...placed it over Jimmy's face--which was twisted in a state of pure agony--and dropped a big ol' leg on it!

Jeers

Joe covered him, hooking the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

THHHR--SHOULDER!

As Joe stood up, Jimmy rolled over onto his stomach, revealing his back, which was quite literally COVERED in thumbtacks. Jimmy punched the canvas repeatedly, pain shooting throughout his body. The tacks, coupled with the force of the Body Slam, reaaally did a lot of damage. The scar tissue would be caked on after this match.

Suddenly, the ACWTron sparked to life to reveal: Lord Lowell.

"JOE!"

Joe nodded and rose a fist in the direction of the ACWTron.

"JOE! SEND HIM TO HELL, JOE! DO IT FOR ME, JOE!"

The Lord's maniacal laughter was music to his ears.

Joe grabbed Cain by the neck and pulled him to his feet. He placed in a front facelock and made the cut throat motion.

STRAIGHT...TO...

"NO! BEHIND YOU!"

Half-Nelson Suplex. Total headdrop.

Joe landed stomach-first on a bunch of tacks. Lowell grimaced, and screamed, "NO!"

Jimmy grabbed Joe by the ear, pulling him to a standing position. He let Joe stand there, wobbling from side to side, while he quickly took hold of the chair lying by his feet. He created some distance between them--about five-feet--then threw the chair in Joe's face. The clatter of the chair ricocheting off Joe's face reverberated throughout the arena. Joe fell to a knee, and Jimmy kicked him in the head.

Cain locked his fingers around the back of Joe's neck, pulling him to his feet, and gave the Ginsu Shredder its first reale taste of blood, shooting his knee up into Joe's midsection. Jimmy's knee rose and fell, the barbed wire puncturing and ripping at Mescalero's flesh.

Joe wrapped his arms around his torso, mouth open wide. The Champaign Supernova, as he was known on the Chicago indies, pumped jab after jab into Joe's face with Chuck Liddell-like speed and power. "FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK---"

Mescalero drove a knee into Cain's stomach, and almost collapsed directly afterward. Joe hooked his arm underneath Cain's armpit and hiptossed him onto an area of the canvas where the ratio of tack-to-non-tack was particullarly high.

Cain looked like a fish out've water as he flopped around on the bed of tacks, screaming in pain. "MOOOOOTHERFUCKERRRR!"

The sacks of doorknobs and D batteries, located in the aisleway, caught Joe's eye. He left the ring and grabbed one of the several there were, before returning to the ring. The sack was heavy and awkward. He threw it over his shoulder like he was Santa Clause and waited until Jimmy had got on his hands and knees.

Jimmy extended his leg and kicked Joe in the crotch!

The bag fell. Jimmy grabbed it and stood up. Now, Joe was on the one on his hands and knees.

Jimmy swung the sack of--well, it sounded like doorknobs.

"OOOOOOOOOOOOH!"

With Joe's back nearly destroyed, Jimmy mounted him, locking in a Camel Clutch.

"BREAK YOUR BACK! MAKE YOU HUMBLLLE! THEN FUCK YOUR ASS!"

Jimmy wrenched back, eliciting a stifled moan of severe physical anguish.

Joe, showcasing his power, and his high threshold of pain, as well, stood up with Jimmy on his back, piggyback-style.

Jimmy shook his head "no".

Joe stumbled forward, his legs nearly giving out on him, then reversed direction, charging back into the corner, driving Cain through the pane of glass!

Reid: "OH MAH GAAAWD!"

Lipton: "YES! WAIT--NO! WAIT--YES! ...WAIT--OK. WHO AM I ROOTING FOR AGAIN?"

Cain and Mescalero lay beneath the broken glass, cuts all over their bodies. Jimmy was half-conscious and smiling a crimson smile.

Joe turned, grabbing Jimmy by the hair...pulling him to his feet...ducks underneath his right arm. Full Nelson applied...RELEASE DRAGON SUPLEX!

Reid: "Jimmy landed directly on the back of his neck there! He could have a damn broken neck! But does Joe Mescalero care? No! Do either of these two men care if the other is seriously injured here tonight? No! This is just a down and dirty fight! ...And we have a cover! ONE! TWO! JIMMY KICKS OUT!"

The fans are in stunned disbelief. How could Jimmy kick out of a release Dragon Suplex after all of the punishment he's sustained thus far in the match? It's inhuman.

Both men, lying prone on the canvas, trying to recuperate.

Joe, on his feet, crouched, waiting for Jimmy to find his bearings.

Jimmy, on his feet, as well, dizzy and confused as to his surroundings.

Joe hit the ropes...IRISH DIVIDENDS!

Clothesline from Hell.

Jimmy rolled around on the mat, grasping his throat. Mescalero's T-Rex arm had hit him directly in the Adam's Apple. Jimmy wheezed, his eyes welling up with tears as he crawled back to his feet.

THWACK!

That last punch had momentarily stunned the American Psycho, and Mescalero took advantage by attempting an Irish whip. However, Cain was quick to reverse, and prepared a Spinebuster.

Mescalero was stuck mid-move in a Bearhug, not allowing Cain to pick him up off his feet and drive him to the canvas with the Spinebuster. Mescalero elbowed Cain in the side of the head repeatedly, and bit his ear. Jimmy released him from the Bearhug, and shouted, "You fucking stupid retard fuck! Who bites?"

Mescalero ran into Jimmy, striking him in the side of the head with his forearm. Jimmy stumbled back and bent over at the waist. He shook the cobwebs. Back up, he was dealt a mean kick to the mid-section and lifted, so that he was turned upside down. Jimmy was dropped down onto his head with a Brainbuster, a move Mescalero had not used before in his career.

Joe grabbed Cain, his hand grasping the back of his head, and walked him to the corner where there was broken glass and blood spilt all over the canvas. Joe threw Cain into the corner; Jimmy impacted the top turnbuckle pad with his shoulder and turned, falling to a seated position in the corner. Mescalero braced his foot against Jimmy's throat and clapped his hands together. He was going to use the the Boot Scrapes. The fans immediately started booing. Joe smiled, scraping the side of his boot against the side of Jimmy's face. Jimmy's eyes were clenched tightly shut with a look of annoyance and pain etched across his face. Joe turned and took off into the ropes, and came running back at full speed, looking to hit one final boot scrape; a huge off-centre boot across the face.

Jimmy grabbed the top rope and pulled himself up just in the nick of time, and shin kicked Joe in the chest. Jimmy followed up with a 1-2 combination and an elbow across the jaw line, staggering the big man. Jimmy grabbed a hold of Joe and threw him to the outside through the top and middle rope, then collapsed to his knees in the middle of the ring.

Joe collected himself on the outside. He stood up. He turned, throwing up his fist and threatening a teenage fan at ringside. Jimmy was standing again by the time Joe had made his way around the ring and up the steps. The two exchanged a look, both covered in tacks and tiny lacerations from the bump through the pane of glass earlier on in the match. Joe's arm was in especially bad shape. Three deep, vertical gashes ran down the limb.

Stepping back inside the ring, Joe got his hand up to deflect the incoming chair that near crahsed into the side of his head. Joe let his guard down with a single wince and Jimmy pounced, sprinting across the ring with an A.J. Styles-like diving forearm smash in the corner. Jimmy hooked him...

Jimmy seated him on the top rope. Jimmy climbed up. He once again hooked him, suplex-style, and turned his head to see if the area below had any tacks covering it. Which there was.
Jimmy was shoved off the top rope and crashed down on to the thumbtacks. His back arched, his mouth opened wide, and he just generally looked as though he was in a hell of a lot of pain. Which he was. No doubt about it. I mean, how could he NOT? If you just fell however-high-those-turnbuckles-are on to a bed of razor-sharp, extra-long thumbtacks you'd be crying like a bitch!

Jimmy, however, wasn't crying. Jimmy doesn't cry. Jimmy gets even. Jimmy gets revenge. And the first step in any revenge plot is to get up, brush yourself off of any excess dirt (or thumbtacks), and brainstorm various methods of wreaking havok on he who has done you wrong.

Sweat flew off Jimmy's head. Mescalero, the big tank of a man with the T-Rex arms, slammed a running forearm into the side of Jimmy's head after climbing down off the top. The strikes were so stiff some fans had begun to look away whenever it looked as if someone was going to get hit with one. Neither man was taking it easy on the other.

Jimmy's hair was straggily now, hanging down over his eyes as he once again bent at the waist, his hand made into a fist and his elbow resting on his thigh in preparation for a jaw-rattling forearm smash.

THWACK!

Jimmy reached down and grabbed a handful of thumbtacks. Joe, seeing this, stepped forward and kicked his hand. Jimmy's hand flew up and thumbtacks hailed upon his face.

Jimmy ran his forearms over his face to remove any tacks that might have stuck in. He jumped up and swung his leg, his barbed-wire wrapped knee getting aquainted with Joe Mescalero's face momentarily, before Jimmy fell awkwardly to the canvas and quickly scrambled back to his feet to capitalized. Jimmy alternated elbows, hitting Joe in the face with three consecutive shots.

Thwack-Thwack-Thwack!

CRACK!

Jimmy finished the sequence with a Cro-Cop-style Left High Kick that left the fans stunned over the fact that Joe, who was knocked to one knee, was still conscious.

Reid: "I don't know how Mescalero is still conscious, that was one of the hardest head kicks I've ever seen! He's gotta' be out on his feet!"

Jimmy walked over and grabbed a sack of D-batteries and returned to where Joe was kneeling. Jimmy heaved the bag over onto his shoulder, its contents clunking together inside as he swung it into Joe's mid-section when he attempted to stand up.

Broken ribs...he had to have broken ribs.

With an open sack, Jimmy fished around inside, his tonge stuck up and twisted to the side...he pulled out one of the D-batteries contained inside the bag and stood like a pitcher on the mound. He threw the thing at Joe's temple, but Joe turned and it hit him in the nose, instantly break it. Mescalero collapsed through the ropes and landed on the floor outside the ring.

Jimmy dropped to his back, no-selling the thumbtacks that instantly stuck in his back, and rolled out to the floor. He pulled up the ring skirt and pulled out a table. He then grabbed the guardrail and pulled it in closer to the ring. The table was set up so that one end was propped up on the ring apron and the other was propped up on the guardrail. The fans cheered while Jimmy Cain pulled Mescalero to his feet and viciously slammed him on the floor.

Jimmy turned and fell so that his arms were draped over the guardrail and his head hung forward. He took a second to recuperate, then laid Joe on the table and climbed onto the ring apron. Next came the corner. He climbed that and stood at the top, having trouble balancing. He eventually balanced himself well enough that he could get his footing right and jumped off the top and dropped a BEAST KNEE on Joe, splitting the table at three points. Jimmy's face bounced off the concrete, as did the back of Mescalero's face as the table gave way (it hit the guardrail first).

A good minute had passed and neither man had moved. Finally, Jimmy stood up with Joe in his arms and rolled him into the ring.

Jimmy Cain reached underneath the ring apron and pulled out a spoil of barbed-wire. As if barbed-wire wasn't represented enough already in this match with the Ginsu Shredder making its presence felt with every knee strike delivered by the American Psycho. Jimmy held up the spoil of barbed-wire as one arm hung limp at his side. The crowd went batshit.

Jimmy climbed up onto the ring apron and walked over to the corner opposite the one occupied by Joe Mescalero. Joe watched from a far as Jimmy began unfurling the barbed-wire around the top turnbuckle. Jimmy whistled merrily as he went, crossing to the adjacent corner and doing the same to it as he'd done to the previous one; before returning to the former. Back and forth he went, stringing barbed-wire along, in and out and around the ropes on that one side of the ring until the spoil was bare. He entered the ring, using the metal spoil as a weapon to level Mescalero after a short exchange of big lumbering punches and retaliatory kick by Cain. The lip of the spoil struck Joe in the mouth and then the temple as he instinctfully turned away from the blow, his legs buckled and he collapsed.

Mescalero was then DDTed onto the corrugated steel object, brownish-red rust flayed from its surface, he crumbled down onto his shoulder and lay there on his side, blood beginning to trickle from the contemporary orifice- a three-inch gash directly above his right eye. Rabid ringside fans, meanwhile, beat on the steel guardrail fervently, further intensifying the chaotic undertones of this evenings festivities. Blood ran cold, and thicker than an oil spill.

Jimmy brought Joe to his feet and backed him into the ropes, holding onto his rest...he then leaned in, his mouth to Joe's ear, and whispered: "This is going to hurt

a lot."

Jimmy Irished whipped Joe into the ropes with barbed-wire strewn throughout. Mescalero sunk into the ropes as his mout went agape and pain etched itself across his face. His arms were tied up in the top and middle cables, and the barbes were working their way in and out of his flesh, puncturing and tearing ugly holes in his massive appendages. The tightly compacted muscular was being dammaged significantly. Joe screamed, shaking his head from left to right as he tried to struggle free, showing that, yes, he was human.

"FUCKING HELL GET ME OUTTA THIS!!" he screamed.

Reid: "This is just sick to watch! The more he struggles, the more dammage he does to his already dammaged arms! --And Jimmy now, plugging away with stinging left jabs! AND A BRUUUTAL LEFT HIGH KICK TO THE SIDE OF THE HEAD!!"

Lipton: "I've spoken to people over these last few days who said that Jimmy Cain was going to mow through Joe Mescalero, and you know something- that hasn't happened. Joe has dished out just as much punishment as Jimmy has here tonight."

Jimmy rolled to the outside, he grabbed something from underneath the ring, then climbed back into the ring and stalked across to where Joe was tied in the ropes.

In his hands: a sickle

On his mind: pain, agony, disfigurement

Joe screamed and hollered and kicked his foot into Jimmy's mid-section repeatedly. Jimmy, however, shrugged it off. Joe then *SPAT* in the Jimmy's eye and swung his foot into his crotch!

Reid: "LOW BLOW!

THE CROWD IS BOOING!

A man just saves himself from getting a limb possibly cut off and these people are BOOING?!"

Lipton: "These people are sick! Joe Mescalero is our Lord's prized Enforcer! He took out KENJAMIN."

crickets.

Lipton: "Ahhh, come on now, Reid! Put Kenjamin over! It's FUN!"

A member of the camera crew (obviously instructed via ear-piece by Lowell to aid Joe Mescalero) hopped up onto the apron and began to unty his arms from the barbed-wire wrapped ropes.

Joe turned around and WHAM! Dropped the cameraless camera operator to the floor with a haymaker.

Iliciting the response: "KILL REID NEXT! KILL REID NEXT!"

This was a bizare crowd. Reid, afterall, was the FACE play-by-play man. Lipton, on the other hand, supports the Lowell Administration. Soooo...oh yeah, we're in CANADA and this is a PPV aptly named HOLOCAUST.

Makes perfect sense now.

Joe gripped the barbed-wire with both hands, shutting out the pain, and TORE one end of it from its joined point at one turnbuckle post...and then giving it another sharp pull to free the other end. Joe started walking towards Jimmy and when he got close enough, he whipped him across the face with the barbed-wire.

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!"

He whipped him again.

The Passion of the Jimmy.

Joe stepped behind him and wrapped the barbed-wire around his torso a couple of times. He pulled it tight, then held each end and pulled in opposite directions, constricting the barbed-wire lasoing Jimmy's waist. Mescalero yanked him back, causing him to fall to his ass. He then dragged him across the ring as Jimmy clutched at the mat, trying to hang on to it.

Joe scooped him up and slammed him mid-ring. Jimmy's body was like a Bingo marker blotching the canvas red.

He picked him up again.

POWERBOMB.

He held on.

Strain. Lift. POWERBOMB.

Strain. Lift. POWERBOMB.

The Champaign Supernova's head violently bounced off the canvas each time, insync with the groaning of the crowd.

Joe, holding onto Jimmy's thighs, turned Jimmy over onto his stomach.

Elevated Boston Crab!

Let the power struggle commence!

Jimmy planted both hands on the mat and pushed up, while Joe continued to sit back deeper and deeper, hoping to find that point in Jimmy's back where the leverage would be great enough to SNAP his spine.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH~!!"

Not a cubic inch of bare skin was exposed. From head to toe- Jimmy Cain was covered in blood. The majority of which was his own, but atleast some had to be Joe's.

Joe let go out of sheer fustruation. Jimmy wasn't going to tap out. He'd been in Gimmick Hell and his body had only ceased to function once he was thrown off the top of a 20 ft. cage, through a pyramid of tables, onto concrete. Chances were, he wasn't going to be passing out either.

Joe staggered away from Cain. The Jackpot SOMEHOW was finding the strength to get to his feet.

Reid: "HOW IS HE STANDING!? HOW. IS. HE. STANDING?"

Lipton: "I. don't. know. but. talking. like. this. is. fun. :-)"

Jimmy may have lost a ton of blood- more blood than any human being should...but you better believe he still found his SMILEZ.

He did his best Sexxxy Eddy impression.

*THIS* is what it looked like.

Yes. He's licking the blood from his arm...while flexing.

The fans were all "EWWWWWWWWW!"

Joe stared across the ring at Jimmy. Usually stalling (or downtime) in a match like this could cause the fans to become restless. But no. They were frantic. They were making a helluva lot of noise. Not really cheering; not really booing, but the crowd heat was unquestionably the hottest of the night thus far.

Jimmy turned and pointed into the crowd. He shouted, "HOW 'BOUT A CHAIR MOAT? CAN WE DO A CHAIR MOAT?"

"Yes. Yes we can." says the crowd

Then: HUNDREDS OF CHAIRS WERE BEING PITCHED OVER THE BARRICADE ONTO THE FLOOR SURROUNDING THE RING!!

Not into the ring, as to disrupt the other funnery already about (like the tacks), but OUTSIDE the ring. Imagine falling out of the squared circle onto about a 4 inch thick blankey of unbending STEEL.

That shit would HURT.

But then again, those two guys are probably so numb to pain right now that they'd misinterpret it as PLEASURE.

Jimmy held up his hands to signal for "time-out" and went outside the ring, walking over the chairs, to the aisle, and grabbing two sacks (there was one remaining now, but that'll most likely be forgotten by the end of the match anyway). Cain dragged the two sacks back to the ring and chucked them inside. He scrambled into the ring, himself, and grabbed a hold of one.

"Pick it up," he said, nodding to the one he'd thrown at Joe's feet.

Joe shrugged and took hold of it.

"You ready?"

"..."

"I'll take that as 'yes.'"

The Corporate Executioner and the Guns of Brixton charged at one another, guns ablazing. And by guns I mean sacks of doorknobs and D batteries. They each swung and connected at approximately the same time.

SMASH! SMASH!

Down they went...

...to their knees.

They reeled back...

SMASH! SMASH!

Lipton: "Blunt object jousting!"

The clatter of the contents of two sacks were not audible over the crowd response- an elongated "AW" sound.

Jimmy was near-hyperventilation. He could feel the pressure build in his face, but everything was so numb...agh. It was the absense of pain that truly left him mentally scathed after the sack-swinging exchange.

Joe was in the same boat. He started to think about the hospital precedure; the IVs, the gauge, the smiley nurses with the pert breasts, the "bad news"..."not medically cleared to wrestle." Permanent injuries. Brain dammage. Truth be told, it scared him.

They dropped the sacks. Their leg muscles trembled and their knees shook but they managed to stand.

RIGHT HAND. Cain.

LEFT HAND. Mescalero.

RIGHT HAND. Cain.

LEFT HAND. Mescalero.

OFF THE ROPES. FLYYYING KNO.

Mescalero caught Cain in flight and dropped him back first down across his knee with a sort of Cradle Backbreaker!

Riding a wave of adrenaline, Mescalero dragged him to his feet and grappled him around the waist from behind. He ran Jimmy into the corner- through a pane of glass!!!

The sheet of glass seemed to crystalized upon impact. Pieces fell to the canvas and lay there, sparkling beneath the house lights. Jimmy hadn't even been cut this time, but it had jarred him. It was, however, the impact of his sternum colliding with the turnbuckle pad that did the most dammage. Joe performed a sloppy backward roll to his feet and threw Jimmy onto his neck with a sick-looking German Suplex.

And still Jimmy got to his feet...

...and walked stumbled directly into a Steve Williams esque BACKDROP DRIVAH. ("DAAANGEROOOUUUSSS!")

And STILL Jimmy got to his feet...? WTF?

Lipton: "OK. This is getting a little ridiculous. I like watching guys try to get up after getting dropped on their head as much as the next person but even *I* have my limits! Usually they reach the halfway point and realize "Hey! This isn't a good idea!"

Jimmy saw what a ten year old might see after a dozen shots of tequila...

And no, the answer is not Max Danger.

Though that is a good guess!

What Jimmy saw was a blur of streams and smudges. It was as if he was stuck in a Monet. He could barely make anything out.

KICK.

...(it takes a little longer than your usual Stunner as it's set-up with a vertical suplex)

Jimmy kicked his feet wildly. Straight To Hell was what Joe Mescalero was looking to hit and he knew it. After much effort his feet returned safely to the mat.

Jimmy broke free and threw up the SHOCKER.

MAKE THAT *TWO* SHOCKERS AND A BOOT TO THE GUT.

KICK. WHAM. NUMBER ONE STUNNAH.

In the end the simpler maneuver won out.

Joe's head whipped and he stumbled on his feet.

Jimmy once again had the advantage.

He hoisted Joe up onto his shoulders.

WARJIMMY!!!

The fireman's carry rising knee strike to the face with use of the Ginsu Shredder!

Joe remained standing but he was obviously out on his feet.

Jimmy kicked out Joe's right left with his left and gave him a few Mauy Thai knees to head. Jimmy picked up Joe and gingerly walked him over to the corner, setting him on the top. After connecting with an open hand palm strike to the face and turning Joe so that his feet hung above the apron on the outside and he partially faced the crowd, Jimmy stepped through the ropes and climbed up the side, hooking Joe for the Muscle Buster or The Market Crash as Jimmy likes to call it. He was going to deliver the move from his current position, standing on the second rope, onto the chair covered floor. And knowing how Jimmy likes to drop people with the move- that being on their head- this didn't bode well for Mescalero.

Reid: "Mescalero trying desperately to struggle free! Jimmy can't hold him up there much- HE DROPS JOE!!

Joe, however, lands on the apron and climbs back up!! We've got an all out war on our hands!

These guys are pelting each other with rights and lefts while standing on the turnbuckle!

...Jimmy drops to the canvas, I guess he's backing out -- and WHAT A KICK BY MESCALERO!

Joe to my recollection has NO martial arts training whatsoever and he just knocked Jimmy out with the shin kick from that awkward position on the second rope! Jimmy now wilting over the top rope, his upper body just draped over the thing.....

LEG DROOOPP!"

Jimmy takes the Nestea Plunge onto the chairs outside the ring!

"OOOOOOOOOHHHH!!"

Joe had guillotine Jimmy's throat on the top rope by dropping a leg down across the back of his neck as it hung over the top rope, causing him to go careening back onto the chair covered floor.

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

Joe exited the ring, wasting no time bringing Jimmy back inside and grabbing a chair to carry with him as he climbed into the ring. He walked over and casually smashed Jimmy over the back with it!

Joe unfolded the chair and sat it mid-ring...he then dragged Cain back to his feet and hooked him for a suplex.

CUT THROAT: STRAIGHT TO HELL

The Vertical Suplex turned Ace Crusher onto the lip of the chair!

COVER!!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

...

...

Not really.

TWWWOOOOO~!

The ACWTron flickered on for the second time during the course of this match and once again Lowell graced the fans with his presence.

"JOE!

JOE!

JOE!"

He was clapping his hands together, trying to rally the fans behind Mescalero.

It wasn't working.

"BAH! FORGET IT! JOE, BEAT HIM! ONE MORE TIME! ONE MORE OF THOSE! FINISH THE JOB!"

Jimmy was dragged to his feet by Mescalero. Although glassy eyed, he could see Lowell's smirk in the background, his face mounted on the video wall at the other end of the arena. He was doubled over, blood coming from his mouth. He looked down at his legs- their were hundres of tacks stuck in his thighs. Hundreds. His legs burned so fucking bad, and they felt so weak and fatigued. Jimmy, himself, felt weak and fatigued, which never happened in training nor any other match thus far in his career...well, except for maybe Gimmick Hell- but he was allowed to rest throughout that match while Lowell and Coral beat on each other, so it definitely wasn't the same type of situation.

Joe drew Jimmy's head back and stared into his eyes. His cold, hollow eyes. Joe pulled back his hand, which was tightly balled up into a fist, and let Jimmy have it. Thwaaack! A solid shot right across the face. The crowd groaned. Joe slugged him in the face, again, unleashing a heavy-handed haymaker to the corner of the eye. And look at that- *another* cut.

Jimmy dropped low, pushing Mescalero back with a double leg...Joe managed to block it, sprawled on the canvas, tacks digging into his kneecaps as he dropped to them. Joe, having studied tapes of Ultimate Fighting and other MMA competitions, retaliated with a flurry of sharp uppercuts to the face! Jimmy dropped to a knee as well...but it seemed as though it was planned because a half a second later he was lifting all three hundred plus pounds of Joe Mescalero up onto his right shoulder and running across the ring, Matt Hughes style, before SLAMMING JOE THROUGH A PANE OF GLASS IN THE CORNER!!

(One pane of glass remained)

Joe's head rested on the bottom turnbuckle pad. He was only half conscious. Cain, too, was in bad shape, burying his head Joe's stomach, his blood pooling in the Guns of Brixton's belly button. Cain repeated the phrase, "Aw fuck" over and over, his breathing eratic, causing him to gasp for air between words.

Jimmy got on his knees, and gradually, his feet. He began stomping Joe in the corner, like they do in PRIDE FC. Connecting with the sternum and mid-section and occasionally the face.

He pulled Joe to his feet. Stepped behind him and wrapped his arm around his throat. Next came his thumb, which he would jam in Mescalero's Adam's Apple to block his breathing. Before Cain's digit could be driven into his throat, Joe grabbed a hold of Cain's arm tightly, as if to *hold* it there where it could potentionally choke him out, and rolled forward to break the hold.

Cain was on his back, the rear naked choke still partially locked in. Joe powerfully spun his hips and turned over into Cain's guard. Jimmy, not wanting to get punched in the face by a man of Joe's size, double-underhooked Joe's arms, preventing any sort of strike from behind thrown. Well, not quite. Y'see, Joe...he likes to use his HEAD. And that's what he did. He headbutted Jimmy Cain in the face!

Jimmy, still not letting go of Joe's arms, was then lifted up and SLAMMED to the canvas...where there was a bunch of sparsely laid tacks and broken glass and probably a blood stain or two.

Perhaps Joe Mescalero should have brushed up on his Brazillian Jui-Jitsu because anyone with any sort of experience in that martial arts discipline would have detected Jimmy Cain's guard getting higher up on their torso until his legs were firmly clamped around their throat. Triangle Choke. In the center of the ring.

Reid: "This match has been nothing but hardcore brawling for the first fifteen minutes and now we have a Jui-Jitsu exchange! I don't think Joe knows what he's doing, either, as he's just kind of letting Jimmy Cain further synch in that Triangle! Jimmy's foot is now firmly secured underneath his left leg and he's throwing elbows to the top of Joe's head! I don't know how much force they'll have at this point in the contest but they're likely doing SOME dammage!"

POWWWWERBOMB!

Joe lifted him up and drove him to the canvas on his shoulders to break the hold.

Jimmy Cain rolled out of the ring. He began HURLING chairs into the ring. Two at a time. They were hitting the mat, opening, and some were even landing propped up on their legs! The crowd was buzzing. Jimmy was stumbling around the ring post, pitching chairs like a mad man, bleeding all over the place. After what Jimmy would call an "adequate" number of chairs had been thrown into the squared circle, he reentered the ring.

They locked up. How weird does that sound after all that has gone down in this match? An old collar-n'-elbow tie up. Grappling. Sweat flew from Joe's head- Jimmy had hit two consecutive forearms and a foot stomp. Joe turned and Jimmy hooked his arm behind Mescalero's head.

HALF-NELSON SUPLEX.

Joe...landed on his feet.

It didn't make any sense, but let's suspend disbelief some more. The big lumbering monster of a man had just narrowly escaped without having his neck jammed up via headroppage on the mat. He'd really landed on his knees, before popping to his feet and charging toward Cain, arm extended.

Jimmy at the same ideas, and their arms cracked together. Jimmy clinched with him. KNEE (to the mid-section x 2). KNEE (to the face). Jimmy hooked him....SUPLEX TURNED BACKBREAKER!

Joe popped up onto his feet and lurched forward, holding his back. Stepping behind him, Cain applied a sleeper.

POP!

Lipton: "Ooooh my goood! Was that the crowd, or Joe's neck!?"

Joe was immediately picked up and snapmared over into a seated position on the mat.

BACK KICK!

BACK KICK!

BACK KICK!

Three hard roundhouse kicks to the spiiiine. Ouch.

Then:

REAR NAKE CHOKE.

Joe grabbed Jimmy by the wrist as Jimmy's thumb swooped in to complete the Asiatic Spike---a move that can literally kill a man.

The test of strength brought the fans to their feet. Joe's teeth gnashed together as he watched Jimmy's thumb close in on his throat. "AHHHHHHHHH!" he cried! Joe got on his feet- Jimmy was still kneeling on the mat, so that meant Joe's back created unnatural angle- a backbreaking arch that trembled and threatened to give out at any minute!

Jimmy stood up---then fell backward...pointing his knees up at Mescalero's kidneys.

LUNGBLOWER.

This gave Jimmy the opening he needed to lock in the ASIATIC SPIKE.

"TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!"

Joe's eyes closed but his arms began to shake wildly. He looked like a man possessed as he fought to his feet. There was no way any man -- especially after having lost as much blood as he had -- should have been able to escape a move like the Asiatic Spike...but Joe was doing a damn good job of it. He planted a pair of elbows to the mid-section and dropped to his ass, hitting a Chinbreaker!

Jimmy looked dazed.

He let go of the hold.

"AHHHHHHHH!!!!"

Then reapplied it...tighter.

"SONUVA--"

Joe reached over, grabbing an already set-up chair...he swung it back over his head---CRAAAACK!

CRACK CRACK CRACK!

Reid: "JOE HITS THE ROPES.

RUNNING PALM STRIKE!!!!"

The only thing holding Jimmy up was the ropes. He was slumped through the top and middle, his upper half hanging to the outside.

Joe did the unthinkable. He gingerly (and very slowly, as one would expect from a man his size) ascended the corner adjacent to where Jimmy was hung in the ropes in a 619 position. He measured him. Then:

*GASP~!*

TOP ROPE DOUBLE STOMP!!!!!

Joe face planted the apron but managed to stay on with only one leg and one arm hanging off.

Jimmy...was dead.

Or atleast he should have been.

Mescalero rolled underneath the bottom tope, back inside the ring, and got to his feet. He stood up Jimmy and moved him to a corner where there was no glass (he has his choice of 3). Joe then unloaded with the Magnificent Seven; a flurry of seven European Uppercuts in direct succession. He shot Cain into the ropes with an Irish whip.

OVERHEAD BELLY TO BELLY SUPLEX.

Cain's feet hit the ropes and he crumbled down into a heap on his head.

Cain was pulled to his feet.

Joe unloaded on the American Psycho with vicious forearm strikes. Just one after another. Blood splattered about. The fans were ready to riot. Joe continued the assault. He wouldn't let Cain fall, holding him up with his other arm. The fans were waiting for Jimmy's head to be knocked twenty rows back. Once he was finished, he drove a knee into Cain's stomach to double him over. He was about to bust out a favourite of Lord Lowell's.

One by one, Jimmy's arms were hooked. He was then hoisted upside down in the air.

LORD'S EDICTDENIED!

Not wanting to be driven to the mat on his head, Jimmy snapped off a quick-strike knee to the top of the head from the inverted position in which he was being held. Two more followed. Several fans' eyes had widened at that. Jimmy was fighting back for all he was worth. Jimmy's feet landed back on the mat safely. Stepping palm strike- deflected off of Cain's forearm.

Jimmy hit Joe with a forearm and tried to whip him into the opposite turnbuckles. Joe planted his feet and put on the brakes. He jammed two fingers in Jimmy's eyes. He whipped him into the ropes. NO. Jimmy reversed the Irish whip. He could hardly see as his eyes had quickly welled up with tears. He side-stepped high knee; and, reaching down and scooping up a handful of tacks, threw them in Joe's eyes, blinding him momentarily.

Jimmy clinched with the Clash. The Ginsu Shredder worked like a piston, firing up into Mescalero's mid-section, lowering, then firing up, again. The barbed-wire tore into Joe's already bloodied stomach. Between gutwrenching knee strikes, Jimmy was actually headbutting Joe in the temple, though it was suble and hardly noticable, so not many caught it. Gradually, Jimmy's knee strikes became weaker due to exhaustion. Jimmy took a step back, sucking in air. "YOU THINK I'M THROUGH?" Jimmy went to the well, again, utilizing the clinch and Mauy Thai offense. Jimmy pumped his knee up into Joe's face as he pulled his head downward. Joe fought back, however, and slammed his elbow into Jimmy's skull. Jimmy's sweat-covered hair thrashed about.

Jimmy did a go-behind, and attempted to strike with a Half-Nelson Suplex. Holding onto Jimmy's wrist, Joe took one step back, turned and crouched, powering Jimmy up into a fireman's carry. The fans' erupted with boos as Joe DEATH VALLEY DRIVERED him onto a sack of doorknobs!!!

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

Jimmy's body was going into shock. He was actually convulsing. It looked as though someone had unscrewed the cork on Jimmy's head and poured a thick, red liquid onto the sack- which Jimmy was lying across, sprawled out. His chest rose, then sank, slowly, his breathing shallow. Joe, at this present time, was picking thumbtacks from his arm. He was digressing back to his adolescence it seemed. Seated on the canvas, rocking back and forth, sobbing. This was unreal. This had reached King of the Deathmatch levels of ultraviolence and most likely surpassed it! Actually, it's even more evil...because in KOTDM they're nowhere near as stiff.

Before coming to ACW, Joe was an alright guy. He had never really been in a hardcore match of this magnitude. He had never really felt as though his career was in jeopardy or that there might be long-term ramifications for what he did to his body in any given match. Tonight, however, he discovered a side of himself he never knew existed. One that could only have been brought out by Jimmy Cain, the Extreme Asian Shock Genre Superstar. The most violent individual on the North American wrestling scene. Jimmy had pushed Joe to the limit. Joe had transformed into something his old self would have looked down upon. A killer.

Joe exited the ring and walked over to the timekeeper's table. Joe grabbed the timekeeper by the collar and pitched him violently to the floor. He gave the timekeeper's table a hard kick, knocking it over. He bent down and picked up the ringbell, before returning to the ring. As he walked, limping, his body near unresponsive, he heard the fans chant, "JOE'S A FAG!" He stopped and turned his head...then ran and-

Reid: "Joe just dropped a knee to Jimmy's face! And you can see him now having a hard time getting to his feet!"

Lipton: "These two need to get to a hospital. FAST."

With the ringbell in one hand, and Jimmy's head in the other, he dragged the American Psycho to a vertical base, and rebounded off the ropes. Jimmy snatched up a chair and flung it from its turned-over position on the mat, directly into Joe Mescalero's face, causing him to drop the ring bell and continue his forward movement into a SNAP POWERSLAM.

The referee slid into position to check Joe's shoulders.

ONE!

TWO!

THRE--

SHOULDER.

Not a good idea.

Jimmy secured Joe's arm and transitioned to the otherside of Mescalero's body, locking in a Jujigatame!!

The crowd. went. APESHIT.

Joe sprand to his feet almost instantly, his arm still held rigid between Jimmy's legs. Joe tried firstly to just yank his arm from Jimmy's grasp but it became painfully clear that Jimmy wasn't going to let go. Both hands firmly gripped Joe's wrist. With Joe standing and Jimmy rolled up onto his shoulders (one was about a quarter of an inch off the mat, so no pin count could be made), Joe attempted a stomp to Jimmy's face. Jimmy, at the same time, relaxed the edge of his boot against the side of the Clash's face and somehow found the wherewithal to hit a series of facewashes while at an 80 degree angle on the mat with his legs in the air. Jimmy braced the bottom of his foot on Mescalero's nose and used both of his hands to clap his knee, providing just enough force to do significant dammage to that part of the face and cause Mescalero to lose his footing and fall back to the mat.

The Jujigatame saw Joe's arm bend sickeningly at the joint. At any second it would surely snap. Joe didn't care. There was no way he was giving up. Not after all he had been through. To have to face Lord Lowell and his fellow HoL members...he couldn't do it. He wouldn't disgrace them. He was going to continue to fight- claw towards that victory. He needed this victory.

Joe once again made a go at standing up. He stacked his body ontop of Jimmy's, pushing his arm further through the vice created by Jimmy's legs, until it was his bicep that was being constricted. He then joined his hands together and straightened his back up.

The fans didn't like this one bit.

Texas Cloverleaf.

Joe couldn't find the leverage he needed to turn Jimmy Cain over onto his stomach. He leaned forward and lifted his right leg.

STAB STAB STAB STAB STAAAAAB~!!!!

Reid: "OH-MY-GAWD!"

Joe pissed blood from the puncture holes in his cheeks.

Jimmy had stabbed him repeatedly in the face with a shard of glass he found by his head.

Then he LAUGHED. "LOOK AT YOU NOW, JOE! YOU LOOK LIKE AN ACNE SCARRED TEENAGE PIECE OF TRASH! OOOOOOO! THE CLEARSIL NOT WORKIN' FOR YA BUDDY!?"

In the midst of Jimmy's verbal barrage, Joe was SHRIEKING. He was bawling. He had, however, managed to pull his arm free in a mad fit of pure horror as to what had just happened to him. He lay there on the mat, grasping at his arm, clutching it to his mid-section. His face had holes in it.

Jimmy stood up.

He gave Joe a cocky nudge with his boot.

"What's the matter? HAHA. COME ON JOE! SOMETHING'S GOTTA BE THA MATTAH! HAHA.

DOOOOOOD. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?"

All the fight left Joe's body. He trembled, his arms held T-Rex style, hovering over his face as he whimpered.

Joe was like a child taking a fit in the middle of Toys'R'Us. He just lay there on his back, screaming as loud as he possibly could. His whole body seemingly catatonic.

Joe came into this match a proud man, a fighter. He looked like a tough guy and everyone, be it backstage or in the audience, fucking KNEW that he was FOR. REAL.

But now, they saw him reduced to what everyone is at the core. A child. Scared for his face that might be disfigured for life. Scared for his career that might be over. Scared that Jimmy Cain, the fucking psycho that had just taken this match to new lows by stabbing him in the cheeks, would take it even further.

Scared for his life.

The fans sat in stunned disbelief. Was that planned?

They were now concerned for Joe's safety, while at the same time feeling compelled to cheer on their cult favorite.

Jimmy might have been hurting -- and he was -- but he was doing his best not to show it to anyone...of course, he did a pretty shitty job. He was hobbling around, bloody, battered, in credible pain.

Jimmy had an idea. He went a grabbed the bellhammer. He placed the ringbell over Joe's face and tried to hit it with the hammer from way up above. But the ring bell fell off.

Joe took the bellhammer to the face.

What would have normally knocked a man out, woke Joe Mescalero. Helped by Jimmy Cain, he could to his feet. He stumbled back away from the man that had just whacked him in the face with a bellhammer, and stabbed him five times in the cheeks with a piece of glass before that. He stared at Jimmy- his ran his hand over his mutilated profile, his hand shaking.

"You."
Jimmy smirked. "Me."

"You...you sick, sick fucking BASTARD."

Joe began taking off his elbow pads and kneepads, slowly. He threw them out of the ring, prompting Jimmy Cain to do the same. (He left the Ginsu Shredder kneepad on, however. No foolin' with that!)

It was at this time that they both just said, "Let's just kill each other."

It was straight out of Forrest Griffen versus Stephan Bonnar. Two guys just swinging for the fences. They weren't concerned with punching themselves out or conserving energy. This was the final stretch. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen NOW.

Fists collided with mouths. Elbows with eyebrows and cheekbones. Knees with sternums and mid-sections. Towards the end all they were doing was throwing crazy-ass haymakers at each other -- most of which were deflected or missed altogether -- until a clubbing overhand right caught Joe in the back of the head and he staggered backward into the turnbuckles.

Jimmy grabbed a sack of D batteries. Like he had before, he hoisted them up onto his shoulder and marched around like Santa Clause.

He then swung- and nearly DESTROYED Joe's face with a single blow!!

His eye swelled up.

SMASH!

SMASH!

SMASH!

SMAAAASH!!

SMASH SMASH SMASH!!!!

Joe collapsed to his knees, and Jimmy threw the sack aside.

Like a true MMA fighter, Jimmy scrambled around and caught Joe's back. He sunk his arm DEEP and dragged Joe to his feet..

Rear Naked Choke.

He jammed his thumb in Mescalero's throat.

Reid: "THERE IT IS! HE'S GOT IT LOCKED IN!

AND HE FALLS TO HIS BACK! HE'S GOT HIS HOOKS IN!! THERE'S NOWHERE FOR JOE TO GO!!

THE ASIATIC SPIKE.

It was academic.

Several seconds passed- the referee gave Joe Mescalero as much time as he could to snap back into consciousness, but it simply wasn't going to happen. Joe was out. He had been even before the Spike had been applied.

The bell rang.

***DING DING DING***

Joe hit the mat face first.

Jimmy fell to his knees.

What had to have been the most violent match since Gimmick Hell had finally reached its conclusion some 40+ minutes later.

The ring was scattered with chairs, thumbtacks, broken glass, its canvas stained blood red. Outside on the floor, hundreds of chairs blanketed the concrete from the riotous expulsion of chairs early in the match when Jimmy Cain had called for it. It was pure carnage. State-of-the-art ultraviolence.

Jimmy had given the performance of a lifetime. As too had Joe Mescalero.

EMTs rushed to the scene, filing out from the back. Stagehands passed the chairs back over the railing and sweeped the ring clean. Joe was being helped onto a stretcher. Jimmy pulled away from the EMTs tending to him and went over to check on Joe.

He tipped over the stretcher!

He began dropping random people with right hands, barely able to stay on his feet.

Once the ring was cleared of bodies, and only he and Joe Mescalero were left, he grabbed a mic and shouted, to the delight of the blood-thirsty ACW fans, "I'M NOT THROUGH YET!!"

Winner >   Jimmy Cain

Another Unoriginal Jobber-Based Comedy Segment IV

We rejoin The Britton Brothers in their search for ACW’s newest enhancement talent

The Britton boys were stuffed. Feet up on the desk and toothpicks in hand they were proud of their potential jobbers as they flicked cod from their tooth crevices. That is proud of all but one; potential jobber #8 was at the chalkboard on his twelfth line of a hundred of the phrase “Dead milky, sickly sweet, hotter than the sun”. The rest of the jobbers stood in a semi-circle around the desk, hands behind backs, waiting patiently.

“You all done good lads” assured Brian Britton, taking his feet off the desk and sitting up straight.

“Yeah” seconded Billy-Boy, as he also sat up straight, “You must be cream crackered from all that running around, I bet you lot could go for a Blackpool Tower”

The jobber-wannabes stared, bewildered by Billy-Boy’s babble.

“You look knackered… tired. I bet you could do with a shower” Brian cleared up the confusion.

A tall man in a smart, cream suit, accessorised with a cowboy hat and bootlace tie and buckle entered the room grinning.

“This is Shadbraw Liefold” Brian introduced

“He’ll be taking care of you boys during the competition. His first job is to show you lads where the showers are because you pen and ink”

There are those veterans who make a point of testing new wrestlers. Often new wrestlers will be victim to an incessant amount of strikes to test their intestinal fortitude. There are those who will allow their thumb to accidentally-on-purpose find its way bum-wards, this is a little psychological test. Then there was Shadbraw Liefold.

“Didn’t he deaf and dumb The Greenie?”
“Who?”
”You know, Green World Order? The Greenie?”

The Brittons were steeped in a highly intellectual conversation as the jobbers came waddling back in the room followed by a smug Liefold who was adjusting his trousers.

“You on the end. Are you smiling?” accused Brian Britton

“YOU’RE FIRED!”

Rage Against The Machine

Joe Mescalero had been rendered unconscious by the Asiatic Spike. Jimmy removed his thumb from Mescalero's throat and let go of the rear naked choke.

Jimmy sat a midst of theatre of war. Broken glass, thumbtacks, dented chairs, a sack that's bottom was sodden with blood. Absolutely saturated. Jimmy grabbed the aforementioned sack -- the one he had used to literally "beat Joe's face in" -- and emptied its contents of doorknobs onto the mat.

He held it up over his head with both hands.

He then did something very, very nauseating.

He wrung it out.

Joe's blood washed over his body and Jimmy responded by whipping his perfectly quaffed jet black hair from side to side as if he were in a shampoo comercial.

In the centre of the ring Jimmy stood, his torso transformed pink. He dropped the sack to the mat and gave it a kick, sending it out to the floor.

Stalking around the ring aimlessly, he demanded a microphone, and you better believe he was given one.

Not that that was a smart idea, by any means. In fact, the stagehand will probably be fired directly following the PPV.

"LOOOOOOOOWELL!"

Jimmy laughed uncontrollably.

"What happened, Lowell? Please, tell me! 'Cause from the looks of things," he glanced over at Joe, who still hadn't moved, "I just nearly killed your boy there. You're lucky I didn't, I was so, so close."

The smile subsided and Cain continued.

"Joe, I'm gonna address you for a minute, because I will say this- if you weren't such a fucking retard, if you hadn't got all mixed up with that fucking tyrant, whose entire life is make-believe, you might have been an OK opponent.

For the first time in my career, I might've been able to say, truthfully, that I respected another human being. You put me through glass, you slammed me on tacks, you hit me with some of the most painful moves I've ever been hit with, and-and I did the same to you...

We both got up. Over and over, again.

Toughness is an admirable quality. People call it heart; I call it having balls. And Joe- you got some fucking BALLS.

Unfortunately," Jimmy's head drooped forward momentarily, conveying his displeasure for the way things had to turn out, "you made yourself a puppet to the worst kind of puppeteer. I can forgive my own mistakes, but I can't forgive yours.

That's why I had to smash you in the face with a bag of doorknobs until your eye popped out of its socket and your nose was flattened against your face.

I can only imagine what you'll look once they get you on the operating table. You'll look like Frankenstein all sewed up, ravaged with scars and patches of discoloration. You'll be a hideous FREAK!

Oooooooh boy!

Rematch of the century?

No.

Decade?

Nope.

Year?

Don't think so.

MONTH?

Never.

No athletic commission in the country will agree to it!

Ha! I came *this* close to a 187 on a PPV! Oh shit, son!

Joe, it's been real.

But now I'm going to have to do something, and it can really go either way. Pray that it goes the way that keeps you a living, breathing human fuckwad."

Jimmy walked over, bending down and taking hold of a piece of glass. He held it in his hand. There were a few gasps as he dragged Mescalero to his feet and stood behind him, resting the jagged shard against his throat.

"LOWELL! YOU EITHER GIVE ME WHAT I WANT OR I TURN THE CLASH HERE INTO A PEZ DESPENSER!"

Seconds later, Lord Lowell made his way out onto the stage, sans entrance music.

He brough 7 gun-drawn cops with him.

The Hitler attired Zero One Three gazed from the ramp to the ring.

"Jimmy, you're...you're sooo

niave."

Jimmy's eye twitched. It fucking twitched. That's not good.

"Before I say no to whatever it is you want, I'll humor you. What is it that Jimmy Cain desires?" Lowell smiled. He didn't have a care in the world. Joe had a piece of glass against his throat and Lowell was cracking jokes. That's friendship.

"What I want is a match with U.B. Reynolds.

Doesn't have to be an ultraviolent affair. I'll fight your cockboy in a kiddie's pool filled with chocolate syrup if it means getting my hands on him.

Actually," the American Psycho's eyebrow rose, "that's not a bad idea.

I'll drown him in chocolate."

Lowell instantly began screaming: "NO! NO CHOCOLATE POOL MATCHES! NO DROWNING!

UUUUUU. BBBBBBBBB." He clutched at his heart (that's where he kept Reynolds. He was his golden boy, after all.) "NO! YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM!

CUT THE FUCKER FOR ALL I CARE!

I'LL EVEN SEND YOU THE ADDRESS SO YOU CAN SEND HIS HEAD TO HIS FAMILY! BUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Jimmy shrugged. A trickle of blood ran down Mescalero's throat, and still he remained out cold.

The cops rested their index fingers on the trigger of their weapon.

Lowell saw this and immediately began scurrying around, demanding that they lower their guns.

"OKAY!

You want U.B.?" Lowell gritted his teeth together. "FINE! You've got him! But at an unspecified date! The HoL and I will need some time to get him ready! He'll need to step up his training! Sometime soon, though, in the next few weeks, you'll get him! You'll fucking get him, OK? Now let Joe go!"

Lowell's panicked state brought joy to Jimmy Cain.

Jimmy shoved Mescalero to the canvas and pointed the shard of glass directly at Lowell, still smiling, sadistically. "That's all I wanted."

Lowell's demeanor quickly changed. "Buuuuut...it'll be under House of Lords Rules."

Jimmy scratched his head with the tip of the piece of glass. "I'm not going to having a "who can fuck who first" match with him, Lowell."

"Of course not, Jimmy, U.B.'s asshole is whorshipped as a minor diety in some underdeveloped countries! We can't have you defiling him!

No, House of Lords Rules is...well, we'll keep you guessing for now!

We'll just see how you fare when you actually have to wrestle someone of U.B.'s skill and in-ring prowess!"

"Princes of the Universe" hit and Lord Lowell and half the precinct of cops he came out with receded through the curtain.

Joe was being dragged from the ring by EMTs.

Jimmy stood, mid-ring.

After his showing tonight, one could only wonder how long it would be until he recieved a title shot whether it be at the Scorpion Fighting, Spirit, or World.

SUBMISSION HELL
Brandon Youngblood versus Calypso

I'd like to be the first to welcome you to the realm of Legends. At this PPV, a lot of shit is about to go down. And we're starting with the very crowning of a brand new title in the realm of ACW.

Winner >  A

Another Unoriginal Jobber-Based Comedy Segment V

Word on the street is that ACW sux0rs. Didn’t they just lose Max Danger, KSZ and Coral Avalon? Word on the stockmarket is that ACW is bombing. Aren’t they losing money at a steady rate, because their new CEO is an uneducated moron?

Lord Lowell’s financial advisor was named Miles Sprout, and he definitely looked and acted like a ‘Miles’. Somewhere far away he pulled out his hair, steamed up his spectacles and grumbled to himself, as the numbers in ACW’s bank account continued their steady to decent to zero.

Meanwhile, The Britton Brothers examined Lord Lowell’s latest unnecessary expenditure.

“This whole set-up is pretty swank”

“Well Lowell’s swarmin’ in bees an’ honey, aint he” Replied Billy Boy, in the rhyming tongue of a true cockney geezer. ‘Bees and honey’ was a longer, round-about way of saying ‘money’.

His older brother, Brian, nodded whilst admiring his surroundings. For the final stage of the brothers’ jobber auditions, Lowell had fitted one of the backstage rooms to appear identical to the set of ‘American Idol’. Billy Boy and Brian ranted for a while about how the show originated in Britain under the name ‘Pop Idol’… But you don’t really want to read all of that.

On the stage stood two nameless, faceless, identityless prospective jobbers. The American Idol theme-tune began to play, as somewhere lawyers began drawing up plans for a lawsuit that would see Lowell force ACW to lose even more money unnecessarily. Finally one of the jobber-hopefuls had the courage to question this lunacy.

“…But on the show you’re trying to imitate, this is the time when you’d get the viewing audience to make the decision. You guys obviously don’t have any phone lines set up… Hell, I doubt anybody’s even watching this anyway”

‘You’re fired!’ Were the words poised on Brian’s tounge, until his younger brother halted him.

“Act’ully, Bruv, he’s got a point”

“Uh… Then what do we do now?”

Stumped, Billy referred to his notebook for Lowell’s instructions (Yeah I know that the notebook was originally for them to take notes, but we all know that ACW has no sense on continuity. Remember that time that the jobber got killed but then reappeared in the next segment fresh as a daisy!?)

“It says ‘ere that we’ve got to make the decision, bruv. We get to make the choice”

“Uhhh, ok. Well le’s getta better look at you two, then” Was Brian’s order directed to the two hopefuls.

“Jobbers ‘ave gotta be skinny and weedy, right? Let’s see your bodies... Get those tops off” Seconded Billy Boy.

The jobber-hopefuls peeled off their respective sweaters; then suddenly, before their chests were even fully bare, the winner became stunningly evident. For under his sweater, one jobber wore a T-Shirt… A Legacy Of Champions T-Shirt, no less. The Britton Brothers grinned.

“You, with the T-Shirt.”

“You ‘ave all the qualities that we’re lookin’ for, mate”

“YOU’RE HIRED!”

And so ends a series of silly segments. I thank you and good night.

ACW WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH
Seymour Almasy versus Andrew Sharp

It’s been a couple months.

A year in the making, depending on how long you’ve been a fan of All-star Championship Wrestling.

It all started with two people who were considered by many to be the future of ACW and the future of the business itself.

Seymour Almasy is the epitome of the word ‘underdog.’ Not even 200 pounds and not even 5’8” and the champion has held onto the title since the beginning of January. A whole ‘who’s who’ of people have fallen at the hands of Seymour. Max Danger. Coral Avalon. Brandon Youngblood. Calypso/Sars the Clown. The list goes on.

But as of now, there has been one person within the entire confines of ACW that he has never been able to beat in one-on-one competition.

Andrew Sharp. Then known as Andy, a bright young rookie with a penchant for diving off the highest places and incredible athleticism that hasn’t been seen in ACW in a long time. His charisma and his attitude towards the villains of ACW led him to be a huge fan favorite over time and his friendship with Seymour spurned a great team that had one another’s backs.

Then along came Courage 91.

Sonny Silver made a battle royale to determine a #1 Contender to the ACW World Heavyweight Championship. Twelve men entered and when it was all said and done, Andrew Sharp stood tall.

HOWEVER…

It was revealed that a pact between Andrew Sharp and the Blue Rogues had been formed. They were looking for somebody to represent them and their ideals of fighting oppression and generally being a whole group of assholes. It turned out that the once-pure Andrew Sharp whose mind had been left soured by previous battles with his former mentor and betrayer, Hound, as well as Max Danger, Alias and Khristain Keller had led up to this.

Now, Andrew Sharp turned to the proverbial dark side, fully convinced that Seymour Almasy turned on him for gold and ignored him at every turn. Call it BS. Call it jealousy. Whatever the case, the feud continued for several weeks. More beatings by both Andrew and the Rogues were dealt out and no matter what Seymour had tried in the past few weeks, he’d been a victim of the numbers game leading up to Courage 96.

Andrew Sharp had a replacement defend his Spirit Title for him. Unfortunately, Scott Falk picked stupid Avis Flyfield. But again, those numbers caught up to Seymour in a big way and the Rogues cost him a victory.

TO AVIS FLYFIELD.

You read that right.

Andrew Sharp was on a tear these last few months…sort of. He’d gotten huge wins over Coral Avalon, Max Danger, the Phantom Republican, and in a way, Seymour Almasy. He was in the Champion’s head with all his talk. And now, Almasy was consumed with hatred. He sought nothing more than to use the Battle Arena to rip open what Andrew felt was his greatest asset: his face.

Talk was over.

The Battle Arena was readied overhead.

Now, the gladiators were to come forth.

The lights faded to black.

The fog kicked in.

The eerie blue hue came forth.

A…red carpet was rolled out?

Yup.

“Inertia Creeps” by Massive Attack.

The first to make their way out was the goofy-ass film crew called Mega Job. Beef, El Janito, and Steven came forth and readied their cameras for something huge. Coming out next would be Scott Falk, who was decked out for the occasion in a black Armani suit with a black undershirt, white tie, and dark sunglasses that some people were jealous of. For once, Scott Falk looked decent and everything.

“All y’all bitches ain’t got the style of the Bad Motherfalker! Ya heard! Guys, bend over so I can kick all your asses, Girls, bend over so I can fuck all your asses! Ye-ah!”

He paraded down the carpet and took a position in front of the ring.

Next up was both the Codemaster and Trish Grayson. The Image Consultant was decked out a very beautiful black knee-length gown and VERY low-cut. A pearl necklace was wrapped around her neck and a smile on her beautiful face. Some groups of men that caught the scene up close got up. They had to go to the uh…bathroom. For…stuff.

The Codemaster, leader of the Rogues, was dressed for the occasion in his own special way. A suit identical to Scott Falks, only with numerous emblems of video games ranging from Mario to Pikachu to Zidane and Vivi from Final Fantasy Nine.

Robert Falk was next, just decked out in his usual suit when he didn’t wrestle. He wasn’t really one for flashy stuff or going all out. Simple and effective.

And now, the star of the show…

Now, a red spotlight shined its way on the curtain and out came the Spirit of ACW, Andrew Sharp. Decked out in some red leather pants, a red leather sleeveless trenchcoat, and blue-tinted sunglasses, the #1 Contender was looking as fabulous as ever. The fans BOOED the daylights out of the young Canadian, but he just smiled. He had to remain cocky and confident in the face of the match, despite the fact that the very match he was going into could very well shave time off his career and skin…off his face.

That worried Andrew for a moment. Then he told himself he’d get a lot more bitches once that ended and he ended up with two Championships. Yeah, that brought the smile back.

He gazed up at the demonic structure that was the Battle Arena. He wondered how Seymour could actually go through with a crazy fucking plan like this. But he told himself what he’d believe all along: Seymour was jealous. He was the one man that Seymour could not beat and he was the one being in ACW that would lead it into a new era as the champion, no matter the damage that Lord Lowell had brought around him.

Doing a model-esque walk, the Spirit of ACW came to a halt and entered the ring at long last. He took off his coat and handed it to the Rogues, who would be forced to retreat from the area as long as the match went on thanks to another Sonny Silver ruling. Andrew didn’t like that fucking commissioner getting in his business lately. Seemed like a vendetta against him was there, but that wasn’t the issue right now.

The ACW Championship was.

Finally, the music came to a halt.

Okay….we’ve just seen one really, really silly ring entrance.

It can’t get any worse now, can it?

"WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?"

….Oh, wait, it can.

For, standing in the middle of the ring were three cosplayers, playing the roles of Yuna, Rikku, and Paine from Final Fantasy X-2, beginning to sing "Real Emotion" from the game’s opening sequence.

Spotlights shined as the song was sung, eventually focusing on the entryway, and the man dancing there to the beat of the catchy tune.

A man known as Seymour Almasy, ACW World Champion.

Yes, with the world title around his waist and on a PPV called Holocaust, Seymour was dancing to catchy RPG music. For his part, Andrew Sharp looked like he wanted to die due to the embarrassment of having to wrestle this moron.

As the women continued to sing, Seymour slapped hands with fans, looking above the ring at the ominous cell. It was a dangerous structure, Seymour knew. An abominable one.

One that might well mean the end of the line.

The cage lowered.

Seymour glared up at Andrew.

Andrew sneered down at Seymour.

“Ready, paper champ?” Andrew spoke.

“Readier than I’ve ever been, asshole.” Seymour fired back, ready to go.

Referee Monet Samuel called for the bell.

A slugfest ensued.

Almasy was the first to strike a blow, connecting right between the eyes of the vainglorious #1 contender to his championship. Almasy rocked the forearms a few more times, but Andrew cut him off quickly with a sharp thumb to the eye. While Almasy staggered backwards, The Spirit of ACW was quick to fire off some right hands directly into Almasy’s face. He rocked the champ back to the ropes and went for a clothesline. Almasy ducked and sprung himself off the second rope, flying back at Andrew, who was quick to move.

Fortunately, Seymour adjusted his trajectory in mid-air and landed on his feet, but Sharp came back into the picture and had already sought to take his head off with a Yakuza Kick, but Seymour ducked!

CRACK!

A sharp right kick to the hamstring of the Spirit of ACW stunned him.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK

Three incredibly stiff blows came to contact with Andrew’s left leg, stunning him and bringing him to a knee. Almasy, with the thousands of Canadians behind him, let loose a mighty flurry of more forearm shots to the head.

“This one’s for turning on me, you ass!”

WHACK!

“This one’s for spreading all those bullshit lies in the Mark column!”

WHACK!

“This one’s for making me job to Avis Fuckfield!”

WHACK!

“And this one’s for just being a metrosexual piece of trash!”

JECHT SHOT!

One mighty spin into the Jecht Shot sent Andrew sailing backwards onto the mat. He rolled out of the ring to try and regroup after the angry onslaught of the underdog champion, who was waving for Andrew to get back into the ring.

“Screw this,” the Final Fantasy muttered. There was some leeway between the ring and the mighty Battle Arena cage. He could chance it. The Spirit of ACW had his jaw rocked by the striking assault from Seymour, but the beatings would continue very closely. Seymour got a running start, bounced off some ropes, then flew OVER the ropes, sailing directly on top of Andrew with a Cross Body Suicida!

“SEYMOUR! SEYMOUR! SEYMOUR! SEYMOUR!”

The chants grew louder in volume as The Final Fantasy quickly recovered from his first crazy dive of the match. Barely two minutes in and the Jecht Shot and a high-risk move told Andrew that Seymour wasn’t gonna fuck around tonight like Sharp had been the past few weeks. He kept himself fresh by having replacements wrestle for him in title defenses, but now there was no Robert Falk. No Scott Falk. No Rogues. Just two men battling it out for the most important prize in All-Star Championship Wrestling.

Andrew turned tail and snuck away from the angry little champion, but Seymour stayed on him, delivering more hard kicks to the leg of Sharp. If he couldn’t walk he couldn’t run. And if he couldn’t run, he’d be at Andrew’s mercy.

It seemed to Seymour that this incarnation of the Sharp he once knew was the exact opposite. Once a man proud to fight, he’d become a cowering pretty boy. Maybe if he beat Andrew’s brains in frequently against the cage, he’d wake up and be the same Andy that once called him a friend.

The Canadian was using the apron to pull himself up, but that left him wide open for Seymour to run forward and bury both feet straight into the nose of Sharp! He grabbed his face and panicked, turning away from Seymour and scurrying back into the ring where he thought he’d be safe.

Well, Mr. Sharp thought wrong.

Seymour only climbed onto the apron, then executed a well-timed springboard move, colliding with both feet across the face of Andrew once again! A few more blows like that and this match would be over very quick.

The Spirit of ACW scurried to the nearest corner, pretty out of it from the many kicks to the face that Seymour had used. He tried to actually call a time-out the more Seymour advanced on him. The look on the face of the Champion did not change. He had a job to do and a title to retain tonight. Andrew had been allowed to get away with too much. He had to be stopped here and now.

While Seymour continued, Andrew snapped his head up and extended a hand.

“SEYMOUR, WAIT.”

The first words halted Almasy for a moment. This was the first time that Andrew had uttered words on any ACW broadcast since his smear campaign of a promo way back on Courage 91.

“This…all this…we don’t need this…” he muttered. “Let’s do this the way it should be. Make them raise the cage!”

“Too late, Andrew.”

Andrew stared at Seymour as he advanced on him and looked to open up with another attack.

“My name is Andy!” Sharp shouted, making Seymour stop for real this time. Seymour couldn’t help but think. No fucking way Andy could be in there somewhere. Maybe he had come to his senses. This all was crazy. Maybe he’d woken up from his bad drEUROPEAN UPPERCUT!

One HUGE blow from Sharp sent the stunned Almasy into a low orbit before hitting the mat. Andrew dusted off his fist as he slowly came back around again, smiling while the fans continued to jeer the Spirit of ACW. He looked down at his opponent and laughed.

“You know, Seymour…” Now in the driver’s seat, Andrew delivered some hard boots to the chest of the Champion, each blow ebbing some wind out of his lungs. “If they were to write a book about you, they’d call it Gullible’s Travels. Retard.”

He measured up Seymour who was quickly trying to get back to his feet, but a hard running toe kick to the jaw knocked him right back down to the canvas. Andrew smiled and wiped the sweat off his forehead before throwing it down on Almasy’s body as a sign of total disrespect. Following that, he dragged Almasy to his feet and pushed him to the ropes. Off the rebound, he powered the 180-pound Champion over his shoulder, spun him around, and sent him CRASHING hard on the turnbuckle with a modified Stun Gun!

“YOU WANT TO TOUCH MY BEAUTIFUL FACE, YOU SCUM OF THE EARTH?!” Andrew screamed as he hit the mat. “YOU’RE GONNA PAY! YOU’RE GONNA PAY WITH YOUR BLOOD AND MY CHAMPIONSHIP!”

Almasy was out of it, barely struggling to get up now after the high-impact slam into the buckles. Andrew picked him up and let him have it with another European Uppercut. Then another. And finally, a third one with some STANK on it, sending Almasy back into the corner. On spaghetti legs, the champion staggered forward, only to eat a very high Pumping Dropkick right to the jaw! The vertical leap of Andrew was very impressive to say the least as he gracefully came down on the mat before throwing all his weight on Seymour for the first pinfall of the match.

ONE!

TWO…NO!

Not even a two. Seymour really DID come to fight.

Andrew ignored the bravado shown by Seymour and picked him up in a fireman’s carry, holding him there. He spun him around looking for some sort of facebuster maneuver, but Seymour landed right out of the move behind Andrew. As Sharp turned, Seymour caught him in the face with a dropkick of his own, sending Sharp back onto the mat. The Final Fantasy measured up Andrew one more time, then BLASTED him across the head with a Tajiri-esque blow that might have knocked Sharp out.

Down at the mat and back in control, Seymour threw his body weight on top of Andrew and hooked the leg.

ONE!

TWO…NO!

Somehow, Andrew barely kicked out after two. It seemed that Sharp’s will to win hadn’t died like Almasy originally anticipated. He also figured that in this newfound aura of arrogance, Andrew hadn’t learned much on the mat. Something that Seymour counted on. He grabbed the knee of Andrew and SLAMMED it into the mat, educing a scream from the #1 Contender. Again, he grabbed the knee and drove it right into the mat.

One last shot did it for him. After three, Andrew’s knee would be in some pretty bad shape. Seymour then applied pressure to the leg, locking in a sort of modified leglock with a knee placed firmly in the hamstring as he torqued the lower leg to bend in a way it shouldn’t be. Monet checked on the Spirit of ACW Champion for a tapout, but neither of these men seemed to be willing to give the other guy that kind of bragging rights.

Pinned in the center of the ring and looking slightly groggy from Seymour’s attacks to the head, Andrew started to wriggle for the ropes, but Monet wasn’t gonna do shit. This was THE BATTLE ARENA. Ropes aren’t gonna save you here.

Once Andrew made a little mental note about that, he decided the best course of action would be to use his height to get at Seymour. Slowly, he raised his upper body to greet Seymour with a hard right hand to the face. A couple more would stun the Champion just enough to finally shake the little RPG-loving bastard right off him.

As Sharp tried to shake the pain out of his leg, he headed in Seymour’s general direction to exact some metrosexual violence of some kind, but Almasy beat him to the punch with ANOTHER dropkick aimed right at the knee.

Sharp collapsed to the mat, holding his leg in agony while Seymour rubbed his hands together. Next up, a half-boston crab would be pulled out from Seymour’s repertoire. Snapped on tightly, Andrew was now screaming once again, looking worse for wear as the Champion continued to pick apart the challenger. He added a couple kicks to the hamstring just as a receipt for all the beatdowns that he’d been a victim of over the past two months.

Andrew screamed out as Monet checked for the submission, but Andrew wasn’t going to tap that easily. He’d worked too hard and come too far in ACW to get this title shot. The very first title shot he’d ever gotten at the ACW Championship, mind you.

Sharp tried as best he could to pry himself free from the hold, pushing himself towards the ropes. However, The Final Fantasy thought fast and turned that half-Boston Crab into an even tighter situation with the STF!

This was a move that one Andrew Sharp fucking HATED with all his might. He’d tapped to the submission once a while back during his six-month feud with Max Danger last year. He wasn’t about to do it again, but Seymour had his legs wrapped around Andrew’s own leg, increasing the pain while wrapping both arms around the neck.

“Do you give?” Monet asked of Sharp.

The Spirit of ACW nodded his head “no” in the face of the deadly submission. Almasy had a very good gameplan going into this match: taking the legs out from underneath Andrew. This way, he’ll have no way to fight back and he can win this thing once and for all.

Running out of time in this hold, Seymour continued to apply the pressure to the 6’5” Canadian, but Andrew pulled his arm back and swatted Seymour as hard as he could in the face. He peppered Seymour a few more times, but didn’t pay off too well. Almasy was STILL holding onto him.

Finally, Andrew had one last resort. It wasn’t something very fitting of his stature and his grace, but damn it, it was all he had.

He grabbed Seymour’s arm and he bit him. Hard.

“OOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW! I GOT FAG RABIES!” Almasy shouted as he finally released the STF, holding his arm in pain. Andrew let go and this was enough time to free himself from the hold. His neck wasn’t feeling so good right now and his knee was pretty banged up from the technical onslaught of the Champion.

As Seymour finally got to his feet, Andrew came running in and FLOORED the Final Fantasy with a brutal boot to the head, sending him skittering halfway across the ring. Biding his time now, Andrew grabbed his knee. It really didn’t look too good right now. After taking a reprieve from the beatdown, he grabbed Seymour by the head.

“YAAAAAAAAAY!”

The reaction of some fans when Seymour continued to fight back relentlessly, slamming more forearms into the skull of the Spirit of ACW. Seymour continued to back Andrew up a step or two before bouncing off the ropes, looking immediately for some sort of move, but Andrew caught the underdog champion, pivoted him high and SLAMMED him hard into the mat with a vicious spinebuster! Not a move really seen in the facebuster-filled playbook of the vainglorious Sharp, but a very effective one nonetheless. After going right back to that slighty tweaked knee, he knelt over went for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

THR….NO!

Seymour was still very much alive in this and the only way he wanted to leave this cage was with the World Title in his possession. However, Mr. Sharp wanted that exact same thing, only he’d be leaving with two belts around his waist. The Spirit of ACW Title wasn’t on the line in this contest, which made Andrew feel better.

That was when Sharp decided to scoop Almasy back up and drive him into the mat with a big slam before looking at the turnbuckles. It seemed that in an effort to show off Seymour Almasy, Andrew was gonna dust off some of his old high-flying arsenal.

Of course, he stood in the middle of the ring with a boot over Seymour’s chest.

“PHOTO-OP!”

Andrew posed for the crowd and received a HUGE ovation full of booing and shittalking. Nevermind the fans then, Andrew decided. He hopped over to the nearest turnbuckle and positioned himself on the second rope. What the hell was he gonna go for here?

With a very amazing display of athleticism, Andrew HOPPED 180 degrees and landed on the top rope before backflipping and trying to land a picture-perfect moonsault. Very beautiful and everything.

However, the fans jumped as Seymour rolled out of harm’s way. Andrew barely had any time to correct his landing, but somehow found himself back on his two legs…

…but not for long.

“AAAAAAAAHHHH!”

A huge scream broke free from Andrew’s lips as he immediately grabbed his left leg again, the one Seymour had previously worked over. He fell to the mat and rolled frantically to the outside of the ring, still clutching that leg. A look of concern crossed the face of Monet Samuel as Andrew started to bite frantically into his elbow pad to block out the pain.

A hush went over the arena as the injury had taken its toll on Andrew. The expression on Seymour’s face – once filled with hatred for his sworn enemy now – was replaced with concern. No way was this gonna happen. Not now. He’d waited this long to put a hurt on Andrew, but this? Maybe this match had been too much. He could still stop it before any more harm was done.

Seymour and Monet both went to the outside of the ring to check on Almasy immediately.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

The Champion and Monet exchanged glances as Andrew started telling Seymour something about the leg. It appeared that the very bone may have indeed snapped inside and this injury seemed all too real fro the many spectators viewing it. Almasy nodded and he told Monet.

She threw up an “X” sign immediately as the fans were now half-concerned, half-pissed.

Their main event had been fucked up by a completely botched injury.

It was BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

…Psych, motherfuckers.

Andrew got up and threw Seymour HARD face-firs into the cage…with BARBED-WIRE.

A massive cut burst right out of Seymour’s head as he wobbled around, still in total shock of just what happened. Had Andrew hated Almasy so much that he would actually take advantage of him while injured?

No.

He’d do it while he faked the leg injury. >=)

Andrew got up and started to dance a little jig with the leg. Truth be told, it was still in pain from what Almasy did earlier, as he still flinched. But the bottom line was that his leg was just fine. All the better to kick the shit out of Seymour Almasy with.

In fact, Sharp showed him just how well that leg worked when he ran full-speed ahead and caught him right upside the head with a vicious Yakuza Kick, known to Andrew Sharp as the PRIDE BEFORE THE FALL!

Seymour rolled backwards before hitting the padding outside. His own idea had been turned against him and the fans weren’t liking it at all. Andrew lured him into a trap and in one fell swoop, this match and the title may very well have been his.

To do some extra damage, he towered over Almasy before kneeling down. Looking at his fist, he kissed his Five Beautiful Avengers (hey, he named it not me…sort of. I mean, I am the handler, but still.) and rained every last blow down right into the open wound of Seymour Almasy. Each blow covered Sharp’s own knuckles in Almasy’s blood, but for tonight, it was very well worth it. After deciding about thirty or so punches was enough, Andrew threw Seymour back into the ring, getting blood all over the canvas.

He picked Almasy up and delievered a very hard set of alternating knees to the head, each blow looking more stiff than the last. Finally, Andrew scooped Almasy on his shoulders, spun him around, and floored him with a spinning facebuster across his knee! Seymour bounced around on the mat as Andrew smiled like the Cheshire cat. The fans booed the living fuck out of him as he ran to the ropes, posed for another photo-op with pouting lips, then planted a huge fist drop right into the head of the Champion. After that, Andrew threw all his body weight into a cover.

ONE!

TWO!

THR…KICKOUT!

Seymour was still in this match, but his hopes of winning had been severely diminished in the last few moments. Sharp decided to slide out of the ring and reach underneath the ring skirt to find some goodies. Among these were a chair, a kendo stick, a…uh…cheese grater, and a pair of wire cutters.

PERFECT.

Andrew took the wire cutters and snapped himself a lengthy piece of barbed wire right off the cage before hanging it off the ropes. This was gonna be very fun.

Crawling into the ring, Andrew brandished the kendo stick first. He snapped it HARD across the back of Seymour, making him arch his back as he let out a yelp. One more brutal shot to the head stunned Seymour, then Andrew dropped he stick. Wrapping the barbed wire around his own arm carefully so as not to pierce his beautiful skin, he measured up a woozy Almasy.

He positioned his arms like he was making a snapshot, then bounced off the ropes.

Seymour stood up and didn’t like what was coming his way…

FLYING CORKSCREW ELBOW WITH THE BARBED WIRE!

With very incredible hangtime, Andrew connected squarely with the barbed wire. Seymour was out of it. There was no way he was going to survive all this punishment. Sharp tossed the barbed wire aside and out of the ring before making another cover.

ONE!

TWO!

THR…KICK OUT!

“NO!” Andrew shouted. There was no fucking way he kicked out of that move. It hit dead on! Sharp grew a little more frustrated, but was forced to stop. Worrying presents wrinkles, you know. And with Sharp’s million-dollar face, there was no way he could afford wrinkles at the young age of 23.

He had Seymour at his mercy. He was going to fall and The Spirit of ACW was going to make sure of that. Snapping him up by the hair once again, Sharp sneered out to the fans. He hoisted Seymour Almasy over his shoulders in a Canadian Backbreaker position before taking several steps forward, then throwing Almasy up and over into a VERY high-impact facebuster across the knee once again! Almasy bounced off his knee and fell to the mat, rolling over onto his stomach. Now back in control once again, Andrew smiled and laughed like a maniac. He knew that move would have enough to put Seymour away again.

ONE!

TWO!

THR…NO!

Okay, now Andrew was a little bit pissed. He decided that enough had been enough and picked Almasy up once more before jettisoning him through the ropes and back out onto the floor once again. Maybe Mr. Almasy would like a taste of the very fucking creation that he intended to destroy him with.

After rubbing his hands together after the proverbial taking out of the trash, he crawled outside the ring and grabbed a handful of Almasy’s now-bloody hair.

“THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, YOU WRETCHED UGGO!” Andrew shouted in his face. “YOU ARE GONNA PAY FOR PUTTING ME THROUGH THESE LAST WEEKS OF HELL!”

…Yeah, whatever.

He whipped.

Seymour reversed.

Andrew damn near ATE the steel steps!

Fans let out a loud ovation for the Champion as Seymour Almasy used a last reserve of strength to heave Andrew face-first into the steel steps! Sharp had no idea where the fuck he was right now and was in a real daze . Seymour, trying to fight his way through the pain of having his face turned into dog meat. Through his crimson mask, he took note of the steel chair that Andrew tossed in and brandished it for himself.

“Get up!”

Andrew turned around and had a fucking steel chair DROPKICKED right into his head, sandwiching his head between the steel steps and the chair in the process. Steel met flesh and steel won with a one-hit knockout as Sharp toppled to the floor. Seymour used the chair to pull himself back to his feet and stood on wobbly legs, but still was gonna go through with this.

Fool Seymour once, shame on him.

Fool Seymour twice, YOU GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD KICKED IN!

He rolled his former best friend back into the ring and climbed in after him. This time, Seymour was measuring him up, waiting for Sharp to come around. The Crown Jewel of the Blue Rogues picked himself up on his knees and turned to his opponent, only to be greeted with 181 pounds of a Axe Bomber called the…

AXEM BEAM!

The most hard-hitting strike in Seymour’s arsenal had Sharp looking like he’d just been forced to watch an LoC broadcast. Namely, a Wippit Guud segment. Almasy threw himself on top of Andrew and hooked both legs.

ONE!

TWO!

THR…SHOULDER!

Almasy thought that’d be enough to put down the challenger. Come on, this was Seymour Almasy! At Honor and Glory a few months back, he put down five men! But this was a much more personal battle than five very able title contenders.

This was a best friend turning his back on you because he was greedy.

The Final Fantasy continued to make him pay for this greed as he hopped off the top rope, flying back…

SPRINGBOARD MOONSAULT!

He crashed across the chest of the Spirit of ACW and rolled away. Finally, the wind came back into Seymour’s body as he hooked the leg once again.

ONE!

TWO!

TH…KICK OUT!

Yet again, Seymour was beside himself as Sharp got another kickout. It was getting close. Almasy then rolled to the outside to find another weapon of mass destruction to do away with his ex-best friend. He reached under and somewhere, Team 3D were beside themselves…

THE TABLE had come into play. Seymour set it up on the outside carefully before grabbing Andrew by his pretty boy-hair. He pounded said head once again with some hard forearm shots before placing his woozy form onto the table. A few more shots to make sure he stayed there followed next, then Seymour looked up. The fans rose to their feet, wondering what was gonna happen next.

He climbed onto the apron, then made his way to the top rope with little difficulty. He looked down below at the form of Andrew stretched out on the table. Then up. And he sighed.

“Well, another death spot can’t hurt…” he muttered.

With a leap of faith and a twist of the body, Jason Seymour Wilson brought the entire arena of Canadians to their feet.

NIBELUNG VALESTI THROUGH THE TABLE!

With the picture-perfect corkscrew senton through Andrew and the table, the entire table disintegrated underneath the combined weight of the two men vying for the ACW World Heavyweight Championship!

“A-C-W!

A-C-W!

A-C-W!

A-C-W!

A-C-W!”
While Jim Reid was on the outside announcing the spectacle that the fans just witnessed, Greg Lipton was shouting his head off, praying for Seymour to have broken his neck during the fall.

Seymour rolled off Andrew’s body and clutched his back just as Andrew held his rib cage in severe pain. Neither man then move for a few seconds.

Then several minutes.

Then Seymour was finally the first person to make a move, rolling around and using the apron to pull himself up. He was very shaky after the dive to the outside, but he was going to make the best of the situation. Sharp was down and out. He had to take advantage of this in a huge way.

He pulled himself into the ring just as Andrew pulled himself from the wreckage of pine and miscellaneous table parts. Dragging himself very slowly back into the ring, he fell onto his back only for Almasy to go for a last-ditch pinfall attempt.

ONE!

TWO!

THRE…KICKOUT!

NO.

FUCKING.

WAY.

Andrew Sharp had kicked out. Now, Seymour buried his face into both hands and shouted. Which one of these two was finally going to keel over and die for the three seconds long enough to do so?

Seymour got back to his feet and crawled out to the apron. He was gonna try one more high-risk move, he figured. He snapped to the top rope…Leapt…

ULTIM-NO!

Andrew had moved, sending Seymour crashing rib-first into the mat below him! He grabbed at them and kicked around the mat, still smearing the bloody face of his all over the canvas. Andrew finally took the chance to get back to his feet, albeit very groggily. Almasy popped back to his feet…

BURBERRY BOMBER!

That was it. This match was done. Andrew fell to the mat, feeling himself low on energy, but he’d thrown every last bit of speed and force off the ropes to strike Almasy down with one of his most damaging maneuvers. While he tried to recover, Almasy looked like he’d been shot in the fucking face with a rifle. His face was an extremely bloody smear where a normal-looking face once stood. And now, control of the match had gone back to Sharp.

Sharp picked up the kendo stick again and used it to help with his slight limp, but then started to brandish the weapon close to him like a bat. Seymour only now started to move and it seemed that the Spirit of ACW had decided to fully draw out his antagonizing of the Champion before he took what he felt belonged to him.

Seymour rose, only to find himself being reintroduced to the Kendo Stick, only upside the head this time. The underdog champion took the stick and wrapped it around Almasy’s throat, only to sweep him forward, face-first into the mat!

A sickening “OOOOOOOOH!” ran out through the arena as Seymour’s skull bounced off the mat and Sharp tossed away the Kendo Stick again. He then threw the champion over and hooked both legs. This would HAVE to be the finish.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

YES!

NEW CHAMPI…okay, fine, he kicked out at two.

This was just getting absolutely batty. This was surreal. Andrew heard of underdog stories, but this: This was just fucking ridiculous. No way could this boy kick out of everything he’d thrown at him and more. Sharp wasn’t going to give in this easily. Not by a goddamn long shot. He dragged Almasy’s unconscious body to the center of the ring and pointed to the turnbuckles…he was gonna fly once again.

Sharp climbed the apron slowly and smiled to the booing sea of people he once called fans. He measured up Seymour and positioned his hands like a video camera. It was all here. Just one big move and he was gonna go ¾ of the way across the ring.

He leapt like the most majestic of eagles…

RUNWAY LEAP….NO!

Somehow…Seymour had the energy to pull himself out of the way of the very spectacularly-done Guillotine legdrop!

Somehow, Andrew Sharp wasn’t talking as much shit lying on his back and clutching his tailbone.

For his part, Seymour Almasy was lying on the mat bleeding all over himself. He’d taken a rather good shitkicking so far from the man so vapid his wrestling style was dubbed I’m Prettier Than You, but he was still alive.

And if he wanted to retain his title, he’d need to go on the offensive.

Crawling desperately, Seymour reached the length of barbed wire that lay in the ring. Wincing, he wrapped it around his left palm, again and again and again, until his hand was wrapped in the sharp pointy wire.

Andrew Sharp, of course, saw none of this. He was too busy checking to make sure he hadn’t split himself open somehow. Judging himself safe, he continued the assault. Why, his missed Runway Leap hadn’t changed a--

"OWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!"

And so it was that Andrew Justin Sharp screamed like a little girl on PPV.

Considering Seymour had him in a BARBED WIRE TESTICULAR CLAW, you couldn’t really blame him too much.

Sharp screamed in agony, only for Seymour to finally release the claw. It took Andrew two seconds to realize what Almasy had in mind, but his testicles were in too much pain for him to react quickly enough.

BARBED. WIRE. DEATHTOUCH

Hol-ee shit.

Andrew fell to the canvas, hands over his face, trying to hide from the world. Seymour, though, was relentless, mounting Sharp and prying the hands away to reveal what had to be there: puncture wounds from the wire.

And Seymour wasn’t done yet, as he began throwing rapid-fire left-palm thrusts to the open face of Andrew, who swore loudly, finally managing to throw Almasy off of him. But the damage had been done.

Down Andrew Sharp’s once perfect face trickled rivulets of blood. Not as much as Seymour was bleeding, to be sure. But it didn’t matter.

Someone had busted him open. Someone had RUINED his perfect face. No more modeling work for Mr. Sharp. No more runways.

To put it mildly, he was PISSED.

Sharp FLEW at the ACW World Champion, grabbing him by the back of the head and SPIKING him face-first to the canvas. The Spirit of ACW took the opportunity to quite literally rub Seymour’s face in it, grinding Almasy’s face back and forth into the canvas.

Not enough, though. Sharp rolled to the outside, careful to avoid the barbs, and unearthed a steel chair from under the ring. It wasn’t sharp, but it still would do a lot of damage and make a really cool sound.

Back inside Sharp went, as Seymour pulled himself back up. Women gasped in the crowd as Seymour’s bloodied face was revealed to them once more…

About a split-second before Sharp PASTED him with the damndest chairshot ACW had seen in some time. Almasy fell like a tree, while Sharp raised his weapon, a bloody imprint of the Final Fantasy’s face on the striking surface.

Cover?

No. Y’see, Sharp was pissed. REALLY REALLY pissed.

So he did what came naturally.

Drop the steel chair, pick Seymour Almasy back up, and try to kill the son of a bitch.

HEART OF VALMAR
ON THE CHAIR.

RIP Seymour.

COVER!

ONE!

TWO!

THR--SHOULDER?

The crowd let out a cheer. Clearly, Seymour had some fight left in him. Sharp, of course, was less pleased than they were. He’d thrown his best at Seymour in this hellish fucking environment, and Seymour was still holding on like he always did: by a thread.

An increasingly frustrated Sharp just waited for Seymour to rise, and smacked him in the face with a super kick when he did. Andrew fell down, hooking the leg, and waiting for the official to name him the prettiest world champion ever.

ONE! TWO! THR--NO!

Sharp grimaced, but kept the pressure on.

EXPLODER POWERSLAM!

AIN’T NO STOPPIN’ HIM, NOOOOOO!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE--KICKOUT!

"SEY-MOUR! SEY-MOUR! SEY-MOUR!"

Andrew Sharp had rarely been more full of bile and hatred. This was HIS NIGHT! HIS CHANCE TO BE CHAMPION.

And Seymour was willfully denying it with every kickout, with every lift of his shoulder off the canvas.

Okay then. No more Mr. Nice Egotist.

Sneering, Sharp rolled Seymour outside, to the floor. The blonde man ripped at the protective mats at ringside, pulling them up to reveal cold, hard concrete.

This, then, was it.

Sharp picked up the limp Final Fantasy, double-underhooking him over the exposed concrete. He released one arm, though, to reach up, and run a hand over his cuts. Lowering it, he saw the blood there, and gasped in disdain.

It was time for the FACE OFF.

Unfortunately, Sharp’s momentary lapse of concentration had cost him. Seymour had, with one arm free, managed to get out of the predicament, sweep Sharp’s legs, and…

Oh boy, Andrew’s not going to like this one…

CATAPULT INTO THE BARBED WIRE MESH!

Worryingly for Sharp, he was stuck to the steel cell, the barbed wire holding him tight.

Even more worryingly, after all Andrew had done to Seymour, after all of the beatdowns and humiliations and forced jobs to AVIS FUCKING FLYFIELD, Seymour’s mercy well was dry.

Groaning with the effort, Seymour Almasy lifted up the ring stairs, shouldering them. With a loud, piercing cry, he charged.

Holy friggin’ shit.

*CRASH!!*

LAUNCHING the steps at Sharp, the entire panel gave way from the impact, sending Sharp tumbling forward, and the panel of barbed wire mesh fell forward. Sharp screamed out in pain, trying to recover from the steps as Seymour stepped out of the cell.

Almasy grabbed Sharp by the shoulders, forceably yanking him free from the barbed wire. Before Seymour could do anything, though, a thumb to the eye from the resilient (if dickish) Sharp halted his momentum.

"THIS IS MY NIGHT, SEYMOUR! MY TITLE!"

The thumb to the eye was enough time for Sharp to then go low on Almasy. Instinct took over as he double-underhooked both arms, and planted Seymour on the canvas.

FACE-OFF!

Andrew Sharp pumped a bloody fist in the air, as he rolled Almasy over, and made the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

…

FOUR!

FIVE!

In short, no count.

"THIS ISN’T THE ‘E, ANDREW," Monet called. "You’ve got to pin him in the ring!"

Under his breath, Andrew swore. Of course. How could he not have remembered that? It seemed that full-tilt psycho brawls made one forget the basics. But the bottom line was Seymour was in deep shit. Moving a bit by now, but still screwed.

One more move would end it. One more move to make sure that the Seymour Almasy title reign was well and truly dead.

And so, rolling Almasy onto the commentator’s table, he had the audacity to strut down the runway that was the main event of Holocaust.

Hop up onto the commentator’s table.

Really, it didn’t take a genius to see what was coming next. It was the end of the match.
Depending, it was the end of Seymour’s illustrious career. Sharp underhooked one arm, and posed. This was it.

Unfortunately for Andrew Justin Sharp, his former best friend had one gambit left. Grabbing a monitor with a free hand, he BASHED the mini-TV into the knee of Sharp, causing Andrew to release Seymour. Sharp reached down to try and get the monitor away, but an uppercutting blow to the chin left Andrew flat on his back on the table.

And in that moment, that infinite moment, Seymour knew what he had to do.

Crawling away from the nearly unconscious Andrew, Seymour looked up at the barbed wire cell. The crowd began to buzz, growing even louder as Seymour tugged experimentally at the cell, wincing as the barbs stuck in his flesh.

Yet, as he began his ascent, adrenaline kicked in. The wire yanked and tore, but Almasy barely noticed until he had ascended sixteen feet in the air, standing atop the structure. It was then that he looked at his hands, torn and battered from the climb.

Seymour smiled. It was all about to be worth it.

Crossing himself, the Final Fantasy flew, tumbling head over heels before an awestruck and picture snapping crowd.

This was the ultimate.

U L T I M A

*CRASH!*

"ACW! ACW! ACW! ACW!"

One champion, Seymour Almasy.

One challenger, Andrew Sharp.

One table.

All shattered, lying on the concrete.

A minute passed, with no motion. Another was nearly gone by the time Seymour rose to hands and knees, and, dragging the larger Sharp by the arm, pulled him back through the massive hole in the cell.

He tried once to lift Sharp up to the apron, and failed. A stock-still crowd watched as his second attempt was successful, and Seymour crawled in after the destroyed Andrew, draping an arm across the battered challenger.

Another successful defense down.

ONE!

TWO!

THR--SHOULDER?!?!?

Andrew Justin Sharp had kicked out of a Shooting Star Press off of a barbed wire cell through a commentary table. Seymour was shocked, but not too shocked to not pick Andrew back up, double him over, and underhook both arms.

Sitout spinning double-underhook face buster.

THE WINGS OF VALMAR.

ON THE BARBED WIRE COIL!

The fans went fucking crazy. Sharp was dead.

Very dead.

Seymour used very last ounce of strength to turn the twitching body of Andrew Sharp over for one last-ditch effort.

Another cover. This time, Seymour hooked both legs.

Damn it, for all this bullshit that he’d had to put up with, the Gods up there owed him one. HUGE.

ONE.

…

TWO.

…

THREE.

And that was that.

Two former friends had met in a true war, of blood, sweat, and tears.

The Spirit of ACW had collided with its World Champion, and on this night, the champion of the world had reigned victorious.

“Terra in Black” by Ailseen played to signify the champion’s victory.

Fan watched the cage being raised and the massacre that had ensued. Monet Samuel handed his title to the fallen body of Almasy, who was too weak right now to even stand. Andrew’s once-beautiful body had been reduced into nothing more than a quivering, bloody wreck. All his promises of entering ACW’s new era had been shattered into dust and scattered into the winds by Seymour Almasy who would be the champion at least for one more night.

The question that remained, though, was simple.

Would either man be the same ever again?

Until then, this is the end of ACW’s Holocaust.

And this would be us, saying ‘Good fight, good night.”

Winner >  Seymour Almasy