Demands and Ultimatums
Starring:Dusk and Dr. Nigel Kensington
Twelve days ago, Dusk had come to the rescue of a man he thought he could save; Seymour Almasy. He was wrong. Twelve days ago, Dusk thought he could come face to face with Desade and Aimz, and come out the winner. He was wrong. Twelve days ago, Desade had put a bounty on his head and was very confident that Dusk wouldn't last very long in the No Limit Tournament.

She was wrong.

Dr. Nigel Kensington had sat inside of Dusk's locker room for the past twenty minutes in stone cold silence. The sunken face of the Lost Soul looked a little lose and a little worse for wear as a result of being brutally assaulted by the Hand and then double superkicked in the face by the team of DnA. To say that the mindset in Dusk's mind was a little off would be the understatement of the year. So would asking if he was still pissed about last week's abhorrent attack against him. As a matter of fact, any such questions about his attack would probably be a bad idea if you valued your health.

Apparently Kensington hadn't gotten the memo passed amongst the various SCCW Staff Members.

Dr. Kensington: How're you feeling tonight, Craig?

The look in Dusk's eyes as he flashes them towards Nigel is one full of pure venom.

Dusk: You really want to ask me that question, Doc? Do you really?

Dr. Kensington: Trust me, Craig, there are many questions I have for you on this particular evening. Questions that make me question the contract that I've put out for you, the trust I've put in you, and the impact that having you around is ultimately going to have on me and SCCW.

Dusk: This would explain why you've ensured there are no cameras in my locker room for this particular conversation.

Kensington simply shook his head.

Dusk: So, let's start with how I'm feeling tonight. Let me tell you something Doc, I'm past the point of furious and enraged. For the past couple of weeks, in a way, Alexandra and me have been playing mind games, and I guess now that the gloves are off it's going to feel really good to get my hands bloody.

Dr. Kensington: As great as that sounds, Master Maloof, I'm going to have some serious reservations to Alexandra and you basically turning the backstage area of SCCW into your own personal playground.

Dusk: You're not going to have to worry about that, Doc. Trust me.

Dr. Kensington: I would hope not.

Dusk sighs as he looks inside of his bag, hoping to find whatever it is that he's looking for in this moment, but finds nothing. His eyes flicker back towards Kensington who is just sitting there, as calm as can be.

Dusk: Doc, I can see that you have more questions to ask me as it's all written over your face. I've known this conversation is coming for the last twelve days, because when it pertains to Alexandra and I, people are going to have many questions about it all. Continue on.

Dr. Kensington: Very well, Master Maloof. She made a mention of an agreement that you two had--

Dusk: Believe me when I tell you this, that part of my plan was to break that agreement.

Dr. Kensington: That agreement though, it had to do with My Lady, Quinn? Because if you purposefully went to her in West Virginia, then I'm going to have to voice my displeasure in you bringing outsiders into this highly volatile and personal feud that Alexandra and you have with one another.

Dusk: You don't have to worry about Quinn. Nothing is going to happen to her, and I can promise you that much Doc. I care about Quinn just as much as Alexandra does, trust me.

The look in Nigel's eyes give Dusk a pause, contemplating the question that is clearly running across the good Doctor's mind.

Dr. Kensington: You're not her--

Dusk: Let's not enter crazy talk around here, alright Doc? That's how rumors started. Anyways, I needed to push her buttons. Quinn, while not part of the plan, apparently got the job done. I told you I was going to push her hand to do things that she doesn't normally do. One of which was her attack against me last week. Another was putting a bounty on my head. Things are going to get out of control, Doc, and that's actually a good thing for you and me.

Dr. Kensington: How so?

Dusk: Because Alexandra doesn't do very well in mayhem. It's why everything is so steady about her, so calm, and planned out to a capital T. I need her out of her element, and now I've done just that.

The Lost Soul then rose to his feet as he tossed his bag into the locker door and shut it.

Dr. Kensington: At the end of the day, Master Maloof, you're my only hope in stopping the Hand. I think you've done an effective job, but getting Ms. Campbell and you in the same ring is my ultimate endgame. I need that title out of her hands and thus far, you've done a pretty good job of getting in their heads. That needs to continue. So you'll understand my position as I ban you from having any interaction tonight with the Hand.

Dusk looks over at Kensington with this perplexed look on his face before his eyes turn towards the metallic blue locker door right in front of him. His right hand then slams into the locker room door repeatedly before he turns his attention and aggression back towards Nigel.

Dusk: What the hell do you think you're doing, Doc? You don't ban me from anyone! Do you not understand that?! She put a bount on my head, you're damn straight that I'm going to get retaliation on her and the Hand! Do not tell me what I'm going to do, Doc! Just don't!

Dr. Kensington: I shall not repeat myself, Craig. Do not go looking for trouble tonight. Your mind is not in the right state of mind. Trust me.

Dusk takes a long hard look at Dr. Kensington before he swears under his breath a few times and then he walks towards the door to his locker room, not even thinking twice about taking another look at his boss. As he opens the door though, he's met with the bright light from the camera, and a microphone shoved in his face courtesy of one Mary Jackson.

Mary Jackson: Now, I'm outside of the locker room of the Lost Soul himself, Dusk, who is about to face off in a first round match of the No Limit Tournament against the mysterious man, Starks. Dusk, I can only imagine the state of mind that you must be in after last week's assault courtesy of the Hand and Desade. Your thoughts on that as we go into this upcoming match?

Dusk: Mary... the Hand are worthless leeches that have sucked the life out of PRIME. My mission and job is to take them out once and for all. By any means necessary. Alexandra, last week, you put a bounty on my head, and I'm going to show you what happens when you do that. Starks tonight is going to be a prime example of the sort of intensity and fight that I plan on putting up week in and out until I get your beloved and cherished Amy in the same ring with me for that Universal Championship. On that night, you will see what a bounty means to me Alexandra, and you will feel the pain that I felt last week, but tenfold.

Mary Jackson: What about her saying that this is the end of chapter one? Any feelings about that?

Dusk: Alex... sure, last week was the end of Chapter One. You might have put the perfect ending on that chapter, but I've got the perfect opening. Then, in weeks time, it will be me who puts an end to Chapter Two. As I stand over your lifeless body. The tides are a'changin' Alexandra, and you're about to have a destiny with fate. Best get ready. Bitch.

With that, the Lost Soul walks off, anger taking over his body as he gets ready for his upcoming match against the mysterious man, Starks.

Mary Jackson: Well, that was Dusk, and after these commercial breaks, we'll see the Lost Soul take on Starks, here on SIN on SPIKE!
Brother, Can You Spare A Red Potion?
Starring:Seymour Almasy and Wyatt Connors
While not scheduled to compete, Seymour Almasy was nonetheless on site. After all, he prided himself on being a tournament specialist, and as such, scouting one's potential opponents was high on his to do list.

As he rounded a corner, he came upon a soda machine. His face lit up as a result, especially upon seeing the button for Mountain Dew.

Hey, once a nerd, always a nerd.

Reaching into his pocket, Seymour came up with a crisp dollar bill and inserted it into the machine. With a happy grin on his all too often recently dour face, he pushed the button, only to see the dreaded red light.

Disappointing, but there was still cola. Or not. Orange soda? Nope. Water? Not a chance.

Almasy: The ENTIRE soda machine's empty? The show's barely started...

Shrugging, the Protagonist continued to walk along. At the end of a hallway, however, the down-a-dollar Almasy ran into what could best be described a an unusual sight.

How unusual? Well, it involved a pair of masked wrestlers, a pushcart, and a large metal coffee urn. Angel Verde and Illuminado, Los Luchadors For Jesus, are supplying the forward motion for the transport, which now serves as a mobile drinks tray.

Just a few steps behind them is their leader, "The False Prophet" Wyatt Connors, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Connors: Come one, come all! Quench your thirst and the fires of hell, all at once!

Seymour Almasy had seen, well, a lot of strange things in his time. This was probably up there with most of them, including a chimpanzee as a world champion and a wrestler named "Big" Dick N. Uranus.

Almasy: O...kay?

He approaches cautiously, the entire situation not seeming quite...right, in any of the senses of the word. As he arrives in front of the pushcart, recognition dawns on Almasy. He knows precious little about the competitor before him, save that he is the #3 seed in the No Limit Tournament.

Oh, and one other bit.

Almasy: Hey, you're the PTC Elite Champion, aren't you? Whatcha got going on here with the Mexicans and the pushcart?

Wyatt Connors points his eyes in the general direction of Almasy--focus seems to be a problem at the moment--and smiles.

Connors: Ah. Brother Seymour. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. As for your first question...I suppose they call me that, yes. I prefer to think of myself as a humble servant of the Lord, who happens to have a rather eye-catching bauble. As for the second...well, I suppose you may have noticed that there is no water in the building tonight. Rather unfortunate state of affairs.

Almasy: Aye...I did. I got here all intent on taking a shower...my hair's shorter than it used to be, but it still takes a lot of conditioner to keep it in shape.

Seymour looks at the two masked wrestlers, faithfully standing behind the push cart. Between them, the cart, and the preacher...something strange is going on. A blind man could see that. The question, of course, is what.

Almasy: There's no soda in the machine over there either. Pity. I was looking forward to a Mountain Dew. Though...it seems as if you gentlemen have something to drink...

Connors: Indeed it seems we do. Thanks to divine providence, we just happen to have a more than adequate supply of liquid refreshment tonight. It tastes like the water that flows in the rivers of heaven, cleansing not only the palate, but the spirit as well. Would you care for some?

He grabs a cup from the cart, which has already been filled for the sake of convenience, and offers it to Seymour.

Almasy takes the cup from the False Prophet, tipping it slightly towards himself to look inside.

Almasy: The rivers of Heaven flow with red Kool-Aid?

Indeed, that's what it looks like. Red Kool-Aid. Suddenly, Almasy's face contorts in a combination of mirth and disbelief.

Almasy: Let me get this straight, Mr. Connors. You're offering me Red Kool-Aid, when the soda machines and water in the arena don't work. In short, a guy who nicknames himself "The False Prophet" is asking me to drink the Kool-Aid. I know how this story ends up. Still...you get points for style, I have to give you that. Nice to see someone with a sense of humor around here as opposed to the Hand.

Connors: I didn't give myself that nickname. Also, I don't know what you're talking about.

Seymour offers a shrug. There's no way in Hell he's going to drink the cup, but there's no need for Connors to know that.

Almasy: No? Alrighty then...I suppose you have an honest face. I guess I've got refreshments for the Starks/Dusk match coming up. Thank you. And, uh...good luck with spreading the gospel of the powdery drink.

Cradling the beverage in his right hand, Seymour sketches a sort of half-bow, before retreating, stage left.

Connors: Excellent. Make sure to watch that one, brothers. He may come back for more later. I've got to go check in with the others, so I trust you can get along without me?

Illuminado and Angel Verde nod, then continue to push the cart down the hall.

Connors: Only the beginning, my friends. This is only the beginning...

Myers: The following match is one fall and is a first round match in the No Limit Tournament! Introducing firstÖ

Inside of the ring stands the man that no one has ever seen or heard about before. However, as he stands there, he wears a bulky floor length jacket with a hood on it that through a concoction of straps and buckles is wrapped around his face so no one can see who he truly is.

Myers: Standing at 6 feet 1 inches tall, and weighing in at 217 pounds, he is the mystery man known as STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARSK!

There is no reaction to him as he just stands there and stares straight ahead with his mind completely focused on his upcoming match. He shows no emotion as he waits for his opponent.

Gibson: Not going to lie to you, but this guy has kind of got me scared over here.

Myers: Oh, whatíre you freaking out about?

Gibson: This man just walked out here with no entrance music, we canít see his face, and heís wearing a jacket reminiscent to that dominatrix that you told me about one time. What was his name?

Myers: His? Why I should stab you in the face right here and now!

Gibson: Oh come on, donít lie to the fans!

Myers: Whatever. This man has a chance at a hundred thousand dollars if he takes Dusk out here tonight, as per the bounty put on his head courtesy of Alexandra Pierce last week. Iím thinking I might take him out!

Gibson: Dude, Dusk would so shoot out fire from his eyes and burn you alive.

Myers: Will my Baby Dusk save me?

Gibson: The Baby Dusk saves no one, much less you.

Myers: Damn.

Myers: And his opponentÖ

Over the PA system, a few piano notes are heard at first as the arena goes completely dark. Then, spoken words.

FELLOW AMERICANS, IT IS WITH THE UTMOST PRIDE AND SINCERITY
THAT I PRESENT THIS RECORDING, AS A LIVING TESTIMENT AND RECOLLECTION
OF HISTORY IN THE MAKING DURING OUR GENERATION.

Then, the voice of one of the greatest rappers of our generation explodes over the PA system as a spotlight lands upon the center of the stage. A man appears from the backstage area and stands firmly in the spotlight with his head down as he wears a white jacket with the hood covering his hood.

ALLOW ME TO RE-INTRODUCE MYSELF
MY NAME IS HOV', OH, H-TO-THE-O-V

Without warning, the voice of Jay-Z disappears, and is instantly replaced by a thumping bass line as fireworks explode all around the arena as the fans are eager to let it rip.

WORK IT. MAKE IT. DO IT. MAKES USÖ
HARDER BETTER FASTER STRONGER.

As ìStrongerî by Kanye West explodes into the arena another set of fireworks go off all around the arena.

[RAH!]

With the sound of the fans cheering, the man underneath the jacket roars to life as the hood falls backwards and it reveals the man, the legend, and the fan favorite known as Dusk! The fans begin to chant his name as he stands there, wearing a pair of blue jeans and no longer his trench coat, but a white fleece jacket that says Dusk on the back of it.

Myers: Weighing in at 250 pounds and standing at six feet and four inches tall, he is the LOST SOUL! DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSK!

As his name echoes throughout the arena, Dusk explodes from his spot, and races down the ramp before sliding into the ring. His red eyes immediately lock upon his opponent as the fans continue to chant his name as the lights come back on in the arena and ìStrongerî starts to fade out while anticipation for the upcoming match grows hotter. Dusk then sheds his jacket as he prepares himself for the upcoming match.

Gibson: And this is a man with a mission on his plate.

Ware: Well, I think it would be damaging to his ego if he was taken out and Desade was able to be proven right.

Gibson: As he vowed earlier though, tonight is just the beginning of Chapter Two and heís pledged that he will make it to the very end and hopefully meet Aimz for the Universal Title at the upcoming SCCW PPV!

Ware: Fat chance. And thatís the Superversal title!

Gibson: Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight

In the ring, Starks and Dusk are standing in the center of the ring, glaring at one another. As the fans chant Duskís name, itís evident that the Lost Soul has home court advantage on this particular night, and with the sakes higher than ever, heís looking to perform on a completely different level tonight. Starks though doesnít seem to back down and takes a deep breath in before slamming his fist into Dusk's jaw!

Gibson: Okay, that might not have been the smartest thing to do here when dealing with a man like Dusk!

Ware: Looks like Starks is the kind of man not to back down for a challenge.

Gibson: Well, heís going to bring his game if he hopes to take down Dusk tonight. Not certain I would want to be the first person in the ring with Dusk after his brutal beatdown last week.

DING! DING! DING!

With the bell having rung now, Dusk recoils from the fist with a fist of his own! Starks, not a small man on the scale of SCCW wrestlers, is sent back a few inches from the powerful strike from Dusk. Starks shakes his head after the shot, clearing his head, and then looks at Dusk as he does his best to burn a hole through the Lost Soul! Most people wouldnít get into a physical match with a pissed off man like Dusk, but Starks shrugs his shoulder before running right at Dusk and leaping onto him with a number of punches to his forehead, hoping to wear down the Lost Soul! However, Dusk headbutts Starks which sends the mysterious man to the ground before Dusk stomps him in the chest!

Ware: And Dusk isnít going to take this lying down as heís looking to dish his own form of punishment against the mysterious man.

Gibson: Seriously, who is this guy?

Ware: Thatís the question weíve all been wondering since he stepped out here tonight and I donít think weíre about to get any answers.

Starks gets back to his feet and narrowly misses a clothesline from the running Dusk! As Dusk bounces off the ropes though, he's met with a knee to the midsection from Starks! With Dusk doubled over, Starks bounces off the ropes and punts Dusk in the face! The Lost Soul crumples to the mat as he clutches his face in an obvious amount of pain! Starks then bounces off the ropes, leaps into the air, and slams his knee across Dusk's chest, causing him to grab at his chest before rolling over onto his knees. Starks doesn't relent in the least bit though as he grabs Dusk by the neck and pulls him up onto his feet before whipping him into the corner and watches as Duskís back collides hard into the turnbuckles.

Gibson: Well, okay. Looks like Starks is more than just a mysterious guy as he has Dusk on the ropes over here!

Ware: You have to wonder if Desade and the Hand are weighing heavily on his mind this week. His breakneck pace since joining SCCW has to be a concern as well.

Gibson: Are you actually standing up for Dusk?

Ware: Hell no. I want to see Desade lay him out again this week!

Gibson: Iím not certain Desade is the kind of person to really poke the hornetís nest when itís furious.

Ware: That would also be a very good idea. Just leave him alone for a week.

With Dusk in the corner, dazed from the last few maneuvers courtesy of Starks, the outside contender sizes him up before slamming his elbow into his throat creating a whole new world of problems! He follows it up with a European Uppercut that nearly takes off Dusk's head! The Lost Soul stumbles out of his corner, trying to create some space, but Starks is ruthless as he follows up behind him and connects with a shin kick that almost topples Dusk! Starks then bounces off the ropes and connects with a clothesline that once again almost knocks Dusk! Amazed at the strength of Dusk, he connects with a low roundhouse kick to Dusk's left knee sending him to the ground grabbing at his left knee. Sensing an opening, he grabs Dusk's left leg and begins slamming his knee repeatedly into Dusk's left knee.

Ware: And Starks is going to be cashing in a cool hundred grand at this rate as well as a huge upset on top of that!

Gibson: I wouldnít count Dusk out! Not yet!

The pain on Dusk's face is evident with Starks relentless in his attack. He backs up a few steps before slamming the heel of his boot into Dusk's now-injured left knee! He grimaces in pain while Starks drags Dusk into the center of the ring before grabbing both of Dusk's legs and putting him into a figure-four leglock! It proves to be difficult though due to the slight size difference between Starks and Dusk, but Starks refuses to give up and finally manages to lock it in! You can see the pain in Dusk's face, but he grits his teeth as the referee asks him if he wants to give up. The fans in the arena though are pure Dusk fans and they let it be known.

DUSK! DUSK! DUSK! DUSK! DUSK!

Gibson: And these fans are starting to try and get Dusk back into this match!

Ware: Heíll need to do something fast before that knee bothers him to the point of not being able to be effective on it. Thatís some smart thinking there by Starks!

The tension is all over Starks's face as he yells at Dusk to just give up! Not known for being a submission artist, or much of anything really, Starks is showing some skill here as he applies pounds upon pounds of pressure upon Dusk's injured knee! Dusk begins to start moving with his elbows, but Starks keeps his weight grounded as he digs in deep knowing that he has to keep Dusk slowed down! Dusk though shows his resilience as he keeps inching closer and closer to the ropes as the referee checks on him while the fans stared at the face of pain painted across Duskís face! The crowd is behind Dusk as they keep showering him with chants and cheers, hoping that they can make a difference in the momentum of this match. The adrenaline runs through him and he can feel the momentum on his side even as he finds himself in a horrible predicament! He slides again, but as he does, Starks sits up and slams his fist into Dusk's injured knee causing Dusk to yell out in pain and lands flat on his back! The referee asks if he gives up, but Dusk shakes his head, knowing he can't give up. Not now, not ever. He digs down deep before sliding once again and grabbing the bottom rope with the tips of his fingers.

Ware: And somehow Dusk managed to get to the rope!

Gibson: And now Starks is going to have to break the hold though it would seem to me that he has no intention of doing that in the least bit!

Ware: Well, heís controlled this match thus far, no reason to get DQíed over it, right?

Gibson: That would be a fair assessment.

Even with the referee yelling out Starks, Starks is slow to move or break the hold, blatantly disrespecting the referee! Eventually though, he breaks the hold as the referee begins to count towards Starks being disqualified from the match and the tournament. He rolls up to his feet as Dusk is holding onto the middle rope now, trying to pull himself up! Starks glares over at Dusk before bouncing off the ropes and slamming his boot into the side of Dusk's head! The Lost Soul though closes his eyes after the blow and powers through the pain to get back up to his feet. Starks glares at Dusk before bouncing off the ropes again and connects with a chop block to the left knee of Dusk which sends Dusk down to both of his knees while he winces through the pain. The heart is on his sleeve though as he pushes through the pain and muscles back up to his feet. Starks once again bounces off the ropes and runs full speed at Dusk only to be slammed down to the ground with a huge spinebuster that shakes the entire ring!

Gibson: Good morning Starky!

Ware: A shot like that will make your spine, kidneys, and liver up no matter what time in the day it is!

Gibson: Honestly there are few in the business as good as Dusk is when it comes to pulling out a big move when he needs it the most!

Dusk rips up to his feet in a hurry as Starks is slow up to his feet! As he begins to stand up, he's met with the large arms of Dusk who wraps up Starks and sends him crashing to the mat with a German Suplex! Starks grabs the back of his neck in a world of pain, but the mysterious Starks muscles his way to his feet and walks right into a sidewalk slam that shakes the ring once again! The crowd can feel the seismic change in the momentum as Dusk gets back up to his feet, bounces off the ropes, and connects with an elbow to the sternum of Starks, causing even more pain for him! Dusk rolls right back up to his feet as he taunts Starks to get back up to his feet, ready to unleash a world of hurt on Starks! Starks slowly gets back up to his feet using the ropes to his advantage and as he does, Dusk runs right at him and goes for a clothesline! However, Starks manages to duck underneath the bottom rope and dodge the attack as he rolls to the outside of the ring!

Gibson: And Starks is apparently very much aware of his position in the ring.

Ware: Well, I guess Mama Starks ainít raise no fooí!

Gibson: Donít ever do that again.

Ware: Word.

With Starks thinking he's got the better of Dusk, he turns around only to be met with the image of Dusk diving through the middle rope and connects with a suicide dive that sends both crashing to the ground! The crowd chants Dusk's name as he climbs back up to his feet and begins stomping away at Starks who is doing everything in his power to push away the Lost Soul to no avail! Even as Starks pulls himself up using the ring apron, Dusk continues to bear down upon Starks as he rips him up off the floor and nails him with a Sambo Suplex that makes Starks want to go back and not sign-up for the NLT! The fans love it though as Dusk gets back up to his feet, no sign of the knee injury that had been bothering him before rolling Starks back into the ring! Starks beings crawling away from Dusk as Dusk climbs back into the ring, but Dusk wraps his arm around Starks and puts him into a Cobra Clutch!

Ware: And just like that, the Lost Soul finds himself back on top in this match.

Gibson: Heís one of those guys who just refuse to give up or back down from a fight. Something that Starks is finding out fairly quickly here in SCCW.

Ware: Not the kind of person you wanna go against and find out about that later I would imagine.

As Starks moans and grimaces in pain from the Cobra Clutch, Dusk continues to wrench back as much as possible before Starks manages to stretch his arm out, and grabs the middle rope which causes Dusk to break the hold! Dusk quickly breaks the hold as he gives Starks a chance to breathe as he holds onto the rope as if it's his lifesaver and he's out in the middle of the sea! As he gets up to his feet, Starks turns around and lets go of the rope, only to be met with Dusk right back on top of him as he connects with a Football tackle takedown before sitting up and slamming his fist into Starks's jaw time after time! Starks though isn't a man to not fight back as he slams his fist into Dusk's jaw and manages to give himself a little bit of a break! Dusk beings to climb up to his feet as Starks grabs the middle rope and begins to pull himself up to his feet once again! Dusk walks up to Starks though and kicks him squarely in the midsection before setting him up for a pumphandle slam! As he lifts Starks up though, Starks manages to slip from his grasp and lands behind him before he nails Dusk with a stiff kick to the left knee and causes Dusk to crumple to the ground!

Gibson: And Starks right back on the attack!

Ware: Thatís probably the best way to win this match.

Even with Starks quickly regaining the upper hand in the match, he is slow to his feet, exhausted from the beating he took. He glares at Dusk who is clutching at the ropes to help him up. Starks backs up a little bit and just waits patiently as Dusk gets back up to his feet and turns to Starks only to be met with a forearm to the face! He then wraps his arm around Duskís neck and appears to be going for a DDT when Dusk slams his wrist into Starkís stomach and nails him with a belly-to-belly suplex that gets a huge roar from the crowd as Dusk lays flat on his back, trying his best to clear his mind as he knows he has to put this match away as soon possible.

Ware: And Dusk manages to turn the tables upon Starks!

Gibson: Dusk isnít one of those guys that you can put down for a long time unless youíre ruthless in your attacks and give no quarter to him. If good men have issues doing it, then Iím not surprised that Starks couldnít keep him down that long.

Slowly, both competitors get back up to their feet, but it's apparent to everyone that they're both dazed after the hard-fought match they've been through thus far! As Dusk comes to his sense and sees Starks still trying to make out where he's at after that suplex, he takes advantage of the situation, and digs his knee into Starks midsection before he wraps his arms around Starkís waist and swings his leg forward before connecting with the Ranhei square in the middle of the ring!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Gibson: This should be over! The Ranhei on Starks and these fans are going crazy!

Ware: If Dusk can pull out the victory here tonight, I can only imagine how upset Desade is going to be from these turn of events!

Dusk is slow to Starks, still exhausted, but manages to drape an arm across Starks's chest!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

...

...

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

...

...

...

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

DING! DING! DING!

Gibson: And Dusk has pulled it off! Heís advanced from the first round of the No Limit Tournament and Starks isnít going to be happy in the least bit from letting this match out of his reach!

Myers: Your winner and moving onto the second round of the No Limit TournamentÖ DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSK!

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

As ìStrongerî by Kanye West explodes into the arena, Dusk wastes no time as he slides out of the ring and starts to walk up to the very top as the fans around him chant his name. From the look in his eyes though, he could care less. He had bigger fish to fry than Starks tonight.

Ware: And Dusk is obviously not interested in sticking around out here as heís heading to the backstage area for Lord knows what reason!

Gibson: From what weíve seen, anything is possible as it pertains to the Lost Soul!

Ware: So true, but our sponsors here at SPIKE TV have asked for some ad time, so weíll be back after these commercial breaks.
Middle Pair
Starring:Phillip Kennedy, Savant
Backstage at Temptation, there are dozens of hiding places for those so inclined to avoid the prying eyes of their fellow competitors. In fact, one of the first things the Dead Man's Hand does is try to find them.

Of course, they wouldn't conduct any business they don't want cameras to see, because SCCW has some damn tenacious cameramen.

One of those intrepid souls has located a pair of Handites, seemingly locked in a discussion. You know one of them by the Gateway Championship he has slung over his shoulder, and by the cowboy hat on top of his head. Phillip Kennedy seems intent this evening, focused on the tasks at hand.

With him isn't quite the obvious suspect. Kathryn Shaw is nowhere to be found. Instead, Kennedy converses with the Dreadlocked Deceiver, his other manager, Lauren Fox.

Kennedy: Look, you know Alexandra far better than I do. I need to know this, honestly. What's she going to do if it's Kennedy vs. Aimz for the Universal Title in the semifinals?

Fox shrugs as she adjusts her athletic sock (it's got green stripes and extends under her jeans halfway up her calf.

Savant: I don't pretend to be your Daily Accu-Desade Forecast Department, Phil. Alexandra does what she's going to do, and I'm not going to tell you what will happen. "It depends," I guess I'm saying.

Phillip swears under his breath, and shakes his head.

Kennedy: You know, for someone supposedly so calm and collected and logical, she is a difficult human being to predict.

The Big Stack stops fooling around with the roll of athletic tape in his hands, instead beginning to wrap some of the white tape around his left wrist.

Kennedy: This is big for me. This tournament. Kensington's brought in people from the four corners of the world, and I am going to stand above them all when it's all said and done.

The tone of his voice would be shocking to the raw rookie who started in SCCW last May. Phillip Kennedy was a confident wrestler now, the SCCW Gateway Champion, and arguably one of the promotion's top talent.

Savant: I know it is, Phil. We all do. But... you can't rely on Alexandra, not in this. If you're going to win, you've gotta do it yourself. She'll come around, but you need to do this like they say. One week at a time. Wombat first, then the three-way. Don't start worrying about a match with Amy until you have a match with Amy.

It's rare that Lauren Fox gets a chance to recline, but there, on a spot of floor in the bowels of the AT&T Center, she sits down, back against the wall, feet crossed at the ankle.

Savant: Chickens, hatched, blahblahblah. How... uh, how is my sister? That was a nasty fall she took.

Maybe she was right. In fact, she probably was, but Alexandra Pierce was the one constant worry in Kennedy's life. He was a bit overconfident, perhaps, but Pierce fucking him over in favor of her beloved Aimz was his greatest fear.

Kennedy: Oh...actually, she's better than I'd expected. No permanent damage, not even anything especially cosmetic, which made her happy, of course. She was up and about the next day. Sort of uneventful few days for us, really.

Lauren waggles her eyebrows, the metal on her left brow glinting.

Savant: No one has an "uneventful" few days with my sister, Phillip.

Her grin is small, but it's growing.

Savant: Kathi is Kathi, though. She's always up for something and she's always up to something, you know.

Kennedy: Yeah.

Surprisingly, his usual enthusiasm for the Sex Kitten's libido isn't quite there. It's the second half of Sav's statement that worries him.

Kennedy: I worry about that sometimes. She and Alex...didn't seem on the same page for a while. That whole bit with Desade dressing me down for listening to her...I still don't quite get it. There was something unsaid that night that no one is telling me.

Her dimples are one of those things that make her role so deceiving – she's adorable if you take the metal out of her face and deal with the mess in her hair.

Savant: And you think I'm going to tell you? I'm her sister and Alexandra's prize pupil. That's their business. There's some... tension there, though, yeah.

She rests her elbows on her knees, but the shrug is small.

Savant: It's none of my business. They've been friends for fifteen years. It would take an act of God to split them up.

Phillip sighs, as he begins wrapping the tape around his right wrist.

Kennedy: Alex doesn't trust me, that much is reasonably obvious. Sometimes, I don't even know what Kathi really thinks. I mean, we get along great. I love her to death...but she's got a lot of secrets, you know?

At first, all Lauren gives in response is a quiet chuckle.

Savant: I hate to be the downer, but... you have no idea. I'm her sister, and I still think I don't know her sometimes. But like I said, one thing at a time. Start with Austin. Be careful of Misery – and Peters now that he's managing King. I can't afford to have you tripped up in the first round.

Phillip nods his head to the Orchid, quiet focus slowly consuming his facial features -- as if he is transforming from Phillip Benjamin Kennedy into the Big Stack.

Kennedy: I am prepared, I promise you. I haven't even been able to play poker online for the past few weeks -- ever since a week before that match with Alex.

Savant: You're dedicated to the cause, and you don't know what it is.

Her grin is a little lopsided, a cross between amused and impressed.

Savant: Have to say I like that, even if I doubt you do.

Kennedy: I keep telling myself the cause is winning. That makes things a lot easier. But shucks, you know how to make a guy blush.

Really, Phillip couldn't worry about what he couldn't control. Action inside the four ropes of SCCW he could control.

The Dreadlocked Deceiver slid up to her feet, slapping the Gateway Champion on the upper arm encouragingly.

Savant: It's a gift I picked up from my sister. C'mon, let's get a drink and figure out where she is, anyway.

The Big Stack stands, nodding down at the shorter woman.

Kennedy: Cola for me. No alcohol pre-match.

Lauren grins, shaking her head.

Savant: Too many people I've known in this sport never learned that lesson. Hey, Stack?

His brow lifts slightly in silent question.

Savant: Thanks for being here.


Time for a Nite Owl Moment
Starring:Legion and Dusk
(Hey look itÆs Legion again, Livewire title over his shoulder however next to him is the lovely and delectable Luci4 as they walk down the At&T center.)

Luci: So, Thirsty, why did you have to be so stubborn and just break a few vending machines to get some Pepsi? This is getting ridiculous, we're not even required to be here today!

(Legion turns to Luci with a slight grin.)

Legion: Don't be such a Dante! All we need to do is continue finding out about Alexandra so I can make an easier decision, besides I have this (points to Livewire title) as an advantage and don't forget we're going to the Rock Bottom bar after this with some friends remember?

Luci: (she says with a sigh) Of course! (She suddenly perks up) Least she'll be there!

Legion: See, I just *Knew* that would cheer you up but we just need to find--

(Suddenly he sees Dusk approach himà)

Dusk: First off, congrats on your title. So, I guess the million dollar question that everyone has to be asking is... who're you going to side with? I could tell you about the awesome health benefits that we've got going on if you join me, but honestly, something tells me you've already made up your mind.

(Legion suddenly chuckles at DuskÆs suggestionà not how he planned this to go off but he needs to get the info he wantsà)

Legion: Cheers for that- maybe I should dress you up in a Nite Owl costume, I'd be Rorshach and Luci can be Silk Spectre but I'm glad you showed up.

Luci: You may have some very important info that we need about a certain woman, word on the grapevine tells me thereÆs a reason why you're "stalking" Desade to an extent and who knows maybe it'll convince us to choose the right way?

Dusk: You might have missed the last show where Alexandra sort of put a bounty on my head. So, I wouldnÆt quite call it stalking as a rather bloody rivalry we have for each other. But, at the end of the day, it's time for you to make a stand. I personally don't have the energy on this day to talk you into it, so how about you look inside of yourself and decide what the hell you want to do. You want to join them and be part of the problem, or try and be part of the solution.

(Legion gets a sour expression on his faceà this speech seems familiar, itÆs been done by so many "anti heroes" he's come across)

Legion: Mind you Dusk, you tried to be mainstream with that reality show, I guess that was a scene left for the DVD cut for ære-enactment purposesÆ and you obviously donÆt know us well. You might like to skulk in the shadows but we like to don the occasional mask- remember NFW?

Luci: So by your logic we may have already made our choice, there *was* a masked member of the Dead Man's Hand at Defiance II and Legion may still have a bit of bitterness towards his loss a few weeks ago.

(Legion glares at Duskà)

Dusk: I'm done. Got bigger things to worry about. Time to make a choice. Better make the right one or otherwise the next time I see you, there wonÆt be as much talking as there will be punches to your face.

(Dusk then walks off.)
If You Had a Day Like His...
Starring:Kelly Masters, Wyatt Connors, Charlotte Ramone
Kelly Masters, clad in light blue jeans, a black button-up, and black undershirt, finds himself wandering aimlessly backstage. Although he has the night off, he can't help but think about next week's matchup with "Charlotte Ramone" and Victor Ambrose. His thought is broken, however, by a large, long-haired blonde man, well known to the SCCW faithful as the False Prophet's top lapdog, Jeremiah. The Crusader for Decency stands near the catering table, which is occupied by a large coffee hopper.

Most nights, at least when he was scheduled to wrestle, Kelly would have ignored curiosity. Tonight is a different story. Cautiously, he approaches the table, doing his best to assess the situation. Jeremiah looks at the newcomer and sighs. He doesn't like what he has to do, but orders is orders.

Jeremiah: Sir or madam, you are looking parched this evening. Would you care for some cool, refreshing salvation?

He speaks in a monotone, as if he were reading it off a cue card, and half-heartedly offers a cup full of red Kool-Aid to Masters.

Masters: What the hell's this?

Jeremiah: Elixir of the Gods. Well, a God. *The* God. Go on, try some. It's good for you.

Masters: You're an odd shit, yanno that? Who's this God you are referring to?

Jeremiah: Big guy, huge beard. Lives in heaven. Created the universe. Ring any bells?

Kelly steps closer to the punch peddler.

Masters: I've rung many bells, how would you like to join the club?

Jeremiah, for his part, doesn't back down. After all, he's damn near seven feet tall, and is fairly skilled at hitting things.

Jeremiah: Listen, you turd. Do you want to drink the stuff or not?

"Tut tut, Jeremiah. That's no way to speak to those who might join our flock."

Both men turn to see the speaker, and neither of them seem particularly pleased with who it is. "The False Prophet" Wyatt Connors enters the scene, fresh from his meeting with Dr Kensington. His grin still wide, his hair still immaculate, his robes still sporting a small red stain on the front.

Connors: I apologize for my friend's rudeness. Walking in the light of the Lord might cure many ills, but not all of them. Now, how may I help you?

Masters: I'm not sure I need the help. Your punch peddler over here says this shit [points at the cup in Jeremiah's hand] is the Elixir of God. Now, I've got you talking about flocks. What is it, exactly, that you two goons up to?

Connors: Why, my dear Brother Kelly, we are hard at work in His name. As you no doubt have learned, there is nary a drop of water to be found on the premeses. That is why the Decency Crusade is providing liquid refreshment to the public, absolutely one hundred percent free of charge. It's as delicious as it is nutritious, and best of all, there's a free ticket to heaven inside every glass. Care for some?

Masters: What exactly is this elixir going to do for me? I'm supposed to believe you two are handing out free tickets to heaven? Sounds like a cult offering up a crock of shit to unsuspecting people.

Wyatt frowns, but only for a moment. After all, part of leading a cult--er, religioius movement, is knowing how to deal with disappointment.

Connors: I had hoped not to encounter so much sarcasm, for indeed it is the last refuge of the unenlightened. If you were to open your mind and your heart, you would understand the full benefits of what I offer. Peace of mind, tranquility of soul, and the full recommended daily allowance of good old Vitamin J. Now I ask you, how could you possibly refuse such a gift?

Masters: It helps when a weasel, such as yourself, is offering. Hell, I'd be more than willing to give both you pricks a gift, how does that sound bub?

Connors: I have the gift of everlasting life, which is far greater than anything you might have to offer. It pains me to say it, Brother Kelly, but if you are not ready to open your heart, then perhaps you are not able to receive His holy influence. Perhaps you should leave us, so that we may deliver enlightenment to those who are prepared to accept it.

With a sneer, Masters turns his back to "The False Prophet" and heads, well anywhere, but there. Last week, Charlotte Ramone tells him to avoid Desade at all costs, and then he finds out she might be Desade. This week, some swindler is trying to drug him. What's next? Unknowingly, he'd walked into a gigantic web of lies and deceit, otherwise known as SCCW. He charges past several backstage workers, who quickly dodge him, all the while mumbling and cussing to himself.

Perched on a storage crate is an explosion of rainbows in lime green pants and a blue half-shirt, biting at her thumbnail. This woman ends up in Kelly's field of vision, but only because people with pink hair tend to stand out against the drably colored walls.

The reaction from the crowd inside the AT&T Center to the appearance of the Pixie is... muted and mixed. For one, she's spunky, and the crowd kind of likes spunky. On the other hand, this is Alex Pierce, right?

Ramone: Coulda told you about that guy, too. Ran from me once – true story. What you need, Kell—

Kelly halts, both his stride and Charlotte Ramone's next words.

Masters: What I need is you SCCW fucks to stop dicking around with me, it's getting old ... quick. How does that sound Charlotte, or Alex, or whatever your name is.

Ramone: Hey, man. I'm only trying to help. You're not playin' the MMA game, you're dealing with people who play for real and play for keeps. The quicker you get a sense of that, the quicker you'll duck being the next Jono Rhine.

Masters: Lady, I've dealt with people that "play for keeps" before. If you think smackin' around pissant MMA fighters is the worst I've been in, you're sadly mistaken. The quicker you learn I'm not amused by these games, the better. As far as your Rhine comparison goes, Jonathan Rhine is a Catholic schoolgirl compared to me.

Charlie's chuckle, like her voice, is a rough thing made rougher by her bad habit and hard lifestyle.

Ramone: The sooner you realize this isn't a game, the better. I've seen folk like you come in here, all high on themselves and lovin' the ladies, and what happens is they put you on a gurney and they take you to the ER. Some cities, I hear they reserve a bed just for people like you.

She inspects her Martian-green left thumbnail through the eyeholes of the athletic mask she wears, but all of her focus is on the Machine.

Ramone: But feel free to keep flyin' around here like you'll be able to suss out all the interplay on your own when you got a pink lighthouse to light your way. Especially one who's got real, firsthand experience at what these bastards are capable of.

Kelly's muscles tighten; shortly after he finds himself edging closer and closer toward Charlie.

Masters: People like me? You, nor anybody else around, knows anything about me. Bunch me in with the rest of the crowd, but I guarantee that won't last. I've always depended on myself, and guess what? I've never betrayed, lied, or cheated myself. Seems pretty goddamn logical if you ask me.

He shakes his head.

Masters: And what, you're going to lead me around by my hand? Isn't that a conflict of interest? Last week you told me to avoid Alex Pierce. Now, apparently people think you are Pierce. Lets say I overlooked those details, which I'm not, but why would I trust you, when in a week we'll be battling for an opportunity to win the Universal Title.

Ramone: You may be wrestling for a shot at the Universal Title. I'm wrestling for the chance to cripple Amy Campbell and knock the legs out from under Penny Marshall's little Scoobie-Doo gang. That would be sweet, to see her face.

It's not clear whose face Charlie's looking to see.

Ramone: Not that whipping out the good old-fashioned judo chop on you won't be fun, too. But it won't have the same oomph to it. Hope you understand.

Masters: That'll be the day, when some fucking girl scout beats me. So go ahead and put all your little fantasies on hold, because you sure as hell aren't getting in the ring with Campbell. That'll be my pleasure. Maybe, just maybe, while you're lying in a hospital bed, regretting the day you ever crossed my path, you'll get your wish of seeing a crippled Campbell. It won't be because of you though, toots, not a chance.

Ramone: "Toots"? "Girl Scout"? Honeychild, you need to brush up on your "Grr! Me man!" language. Or check some of that videotape – which, I, y'know, also would've recommended. You can watch me win the Infinite Gauntlet. You can watch me pin Philly Kenz, you can watch me spike Mayhem down from twenty feet in the air. Good times, great memories. You can find it all on YouTube, I'm sure. I'll give you a week to write your essay about how killer-great I am.

She slides up off the crate, stepping over to the Machine, eyes raised up high. (In part because he's taller than she is.)

Ramone: An' if I am Penny under this mask, then you got a cornucopia of problems, because, really, once Amy-bear stomps the shit out of Reed Gamble tonight, you don't think she'd want easy competition for her golden child or nothin', doya?

Kelly licks his lips (not like that, probably because he rarely talks this much).

Masters: I won't be doing any writing, sweetheart. But I'll be more than honored to set your career's ending in stone next week. I'll make this clear; Whoever you are, under that mask, I don't give a damn what Alex Pierce and gang might plan on doing to assure Campbell retains her precious belt. I may not travel in a pack, and I may not outnumber my prey, but darlin', I'm the fucking Lone Wolf you just don't want to run into.

Charlie just shrugs, her grin blooming again.

Ramone: Now there's the kind of attitude you'll need to breathe in and out without a machine around here. Next week, that's not personal. I look forward to you an' Hunter S. Thompson. If – an' I'll be honest, I'm not makin' any promises – I can get past, I will be happy to bitchslap the shit outta Amy-bear. If not, hey, you or Ambien can do it. Either way's fine by me.

For the second time this evening, Kelly walks away without a word.

Charlie goes back down to her thumbnail, tugging the hangnail with her teeth.

Ramone: You're a good kid, kid. Don't go and screw that up by buying into half-hearted rumors, or I might have to kick the wolfy piss out of you.
Gibson: Well, looks like Masters didn't want anything to do with the "The False Prophet" Wyatt Connors and his elixir of the Gods ... erm, God.

Ware: He clearly wasn't a "Man of God".

Gibson: Sure. How about Masters and Ramone butting heads? Last week they were pals, now, Masters hears that she's Desade along the grapevine, and the pair were about ready to throw down. That's just a small sampling at what No Limit is causing between people, and factions alike.

Ware: You better not be insinuating there could be trouble with Dead Man's Hand!

Gibson: It's not out of the question, is it?

Ware: Absolutely, "The Director" has them running as a well-oiled machine.

Gibson: Speaking of trouble and Dead Man's Hand, besides the possibility of them tearing themselves apart, a man involved in our next No Limit open round match would love to get his powerful grip around their necks.

Ware: Oh God, no. Please not another match with -

Gibson: "The Lion" Lance Marshall, SCCW'S Strongest Man, both physically and morally.

Ware: Yeah, yeah, he's strong; we get it.

The lights dim and the sound of an old movie projector starting up can clearly be heard over the arena's PA system. As the projector whirs into life, video begins to flicker on the SinScreen. It blurs out of a focus for a moment before resolving into clarity. The footage has been cleaned up as best as possible but it still shows its age. It is the opening for The Incredible Hulk and it begins like so:

Voiceover: "Dr. David Banner -- physician, scientist -- searching for a way to tap into the hidden strengths that all humans have. Then an accidental overdose of gamma radiation alters his body chemistry."

The music playing behind the video begins to pick up speed slightly as our narrator continues.

Voiceover: "And now when David Banner grows angry or outraged, a startling metamorphosis occurs."

Onscreen, David's eyes turn a sudden, violent shade of green. His body locks rigid and begins to expand, erupting with muscle while turning a deep shade of green. The scene cuts and the creature stands at the top of a hill, growling at the universe. The narrator continues.

Voiceover: "The creature is driven by rage..."

The video begins to shake and stutter, the same sequence repeating several times. Finally, the film appears to burn out leaving the screen black. The audio, however, is still coming through. We hear again:

Voiceover: "The creature is driven by rage..."

Quickly followed by the most famous phrase û which the crowd speaks along with.

Voiceover: "Mister McGee, don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."


"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


The driving guitars of Muse's "Supermassive Black Hole" blast out over the PA system as the Marshalls make their presence known at the top of the aisle.

Oh baby don't you know I suffer?
Oh baby can't you hear me moan?
You caught me under false pretenses
How long before you let me go?

Lance prowls his way down the aisle, each step being made with deliberate precision. Even in a sport known for impressively developed individuals, Lance Marshall can still manage to give an audience pause. He is heavily muscled and incredibly defined, to the point where heÆd make your average comic book powerhouse look small... and the sense of power radiating from him leaves no doubt that the muscles are not just for show. Clad in a pair of black wrestling trunks with a gold lion's head emblem imprinted on them and a pair of black wrestling boots with the same lion's head emblem on each, he makes his way down the aisle with a grace one would not expect from a man of his size.

Myers: Introducing first! Wrestling in the black and gold trunks! Accompanied to the ringside area by his wife Alanna, he stands six feet, three inches tall and weighed in tonight at three hundred and eighteen and one half pounds! He is a two-time former NATIONAL Wrestling Council WORLD Heavyweight Champion! Hailing from New York City, New York --

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Myers: This is "The Lion!" LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE! MAAAAAAAAAAARSHALL!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Oooh...You set my soul alight
Oooh...You set my soul alight

(oooh...You set my soul alight)
Glaciers melting in the dead of night
And the superstars sucked into the supermassive

Lance slaps at the hands at the hands lining the aisle, his gaze never straying from his opponent inside the ring. His eyes seem to almost burn with energy. As he approaches the ring, a smile slowly starts to creep along his mouth.

I thought I was a fool for no-one
Oh baby I'm a fool for you
You're the queen of the superficial
And how long before you tell the truth

By his side, as always, is Alanna. She steps forward with a height and strength that almost screams ôAmazonö, an impression only heightened by her impressively athletic build. Long black hair tumbles lazily down her back, spilling down the back of the black tank top she has on. Jeans that look almost spray painted on do everything to heighten the fact that Alanna's legs are both incredibly well developed and almost absurdly long. The smile on her face is bewitching, full of joy and life, ruby red lips and dazzling teeth standing out against her olive complexion.

Oooh...You set my soul alight
Oooh...You set my soul alight

(oooh...You set my soul alight)
Glaciers melting in the dead of night
And the superstars sucked into the supermassive

As she makes her way down the aisle, Alanna stops to slap some hands and, making someone's year, gives one college age male fan a quick kiss on the cheek.

Supermassive black hole
Supermassive black hole
Supermassive black hole
Supermassive black hole

Alanna smiles at her man as she parts the ropes, allowing him entrance into the ring. In return, he gives her a kiss before returning his attention to the ramp, as he wants for his opponent.

"MAR-SHALL" "MAR-SHALL" "MAR-SHALL"

Gibson: The fans clearly love "The Lion" Lance Marshall, and why not.

Ware: I'll give you a couple good reasons, Davey-boy.

Gibson: First off, don't call me Davey-boy. Second, keep it to yourself.

"Supermassive Black Hole" fades away.

Yeah, check it out, see
The only thing you need to do right here
is nod your fuckin' head, yeah, yeah
break ya fuckin' neck, bitches
yeah, yeah, here we go now

Where we goin' now? Where we goin' now?
Give it away, give it away, give it away, now
Give it away, give it away, give it away, now
Just give it away, nigga, yeah, here we go, now

With "Break Ya Neck" by Busta Rhymes [feat. Twista] playing through the arena, Brock Alyas bursts through the black curtains. He seems as grumpy as usual, his disdain toward the fans quite evident.

Tell me wat'chu really wanna do?
(Come here, ma)
Talk to a nigga, talk with me
You look like you could really give it to a nigga
From the way you talk and the way ya try to walk

Myers: And his opponent, standing 6'2 and weighing in at 268 lbs, he hails from Detroit, Michigan .... HE ISSS BROOOCCCCKKKK ALLLLYYYAAASS.

Alyas nearly strikes a fan, but refrains himself. His intense focus locked on Marshall during his entire entrance, he quickly slides into the ring. Malik Jackson orders him to a neutral corner, which he does, albeit with hostility. Alyas cracks his knuckles, an evil smirk directed toward "The Lion" Lance Marshall.

Malik Jackson orders for the bell.

Gibson: Time to get this one underway!

Ware: Get'im ALYAS!

*DING* *DING* *DING*


Marshall and Alyas briefly circle one another, taking the opportunity to size one another up. Of course for Alyas, this means looking at the mountain of muscle that is Lance Marshall, well, maybe not a mountain, but he's at least a big hill of muscle. Alyas doesn't seem intimidated by the former SCCW Champion, as he lunges in for a collar and elbow tie. Marshall meets him head on, and quickly shows his strength by backing Alyas into the turnbuckles.

Gibson: You can't expect to outpower Marshall in a situation like that, Ware.

Ware: Alyas isn't the sharpest, but neither is Marshall! Ha!

Gibson: I'll make sure to mention that next time I see him.

Ware: [clears his throat uncomfortably] G-go ahead.

The official for the evening, Malik Jackson, interjects, which prompts Marshall to break clean from the corner. Alyas, however, is not bound by such rules and throws a sucker punch that stumbles "The Lion". Jackson tells Alyas something, but he shows no interest as he merely walks past him, and drills Marshall with a pair of right hands. Marshall answers back with a right of his own, only to be overtaken with a knee to midsection (closer to the groin). Once again, the official reprimands Alyas.

Gibson: It appears that Lance will be forced to contend with questionable tactics, Ware.

Ware: Gotta love it!

Gibson: Well, if anybody can handle such actions, we know it's Lance Marshall.

Ware: Well, he's soooo strong Gibson.

Gibson: [ignoring Ware's sarcasm] Indeed, Ware. Although, at 268 pounds, Alyas is no tiny tot himself. He looks to have a raw, prison yard-like power.

Ware: That sounds about right.

With a simple headlock takedown, Alyas grounds the powerful Marshall. "The Brick Shithouse" pounds bare knuckled fists into Marshall forehead, but quickly finds himself in a struggle to hold Marshall down. Marshall struggles to his base, and then powers up to his feet despite Alyas' best efforts. Marshall pushes Alyas agains the ropes, breaking his headlock, and sending him toward the opposing cables in one burst of strength.

SHOULDER BLOCK!

Alyas is dropped on his return, but instantly returns to his feet. Of course, Marshall, who was unaffected by the shoulder block, immediately grabs his counterpart and lifts him up into a full-body press. As if no weight was pressed over his head, Marshall takes a few steps then drops Alyas, moving away and allowing for a free fall.

Gibson: See that, Ware? Two hundred-sixty eight pounds over his head like nothing!

Ware: Ahh ... actually, I missed that Gibson. Busy reading some lame sign by ringside. So, uhh, what happened?

Gibson: Shut up Ware.

Ware: Wow, somebody is a bit moody.

Gibson: Quit jabberin' and call the match.

After letting Alyas roll around in pain, "The Lion" finally sees fit to yank him back to his feet. He returns an earlier favor (plus one), slamming his own trifecta of knees into Alyas' gut (none of that shady activity). With ease, he scoops up his opponent, and slams him down with a thunderous scoop slam. With Alyas grounded, Marshall picks him back up and hoists him into a cross body variety.

BACKBREAKER!

Gibson: Look at Marshall go to work on Alyas' back, good thinking.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOO!

Ware: All braun, no brains. His wife is probably instructing him.

Gibson: You know that's not true, Ware. Marshall is an excellent ring general.

Looking to keep the pressure up, Marshall locks on a back mounted chinlock, his powerful arms pulling Alyas' chin while his immense thigh muscles dig in for maximum effectiveness. Despite his street tough attitude, Brock Alyas lets out a groan; which is understandable, considering 320 pounds of man is trying snap him in half.

Gibson: Marshall once again focusing his attacks. Could even get a submission here.

Ware: Doubtful, Alyas can handle pain, whether that's because he's drunk is another discussion.

Gibson: While on the subject, his press conference was quite an ordeal, and garnered serious attention, although it may have been a negative reaction.

Ware: Any publicity is good publicity, Gibson.

Gibson: That's one school of though, Ware, but I think Alyas' counterpart would disagree. As we all know by now, Marshall has a strict code of honor, and must have been sickened by Alyas' brash and disorderly style.

Ware: Look where his code of honor has gotten him. Nowhere!

Gibson: I'd say a contender to the SCCW Universal Title isn't nowhere.

Ware: Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

Gibson: Wait, what did you just say?

Ware: What? I just watched 27 Dresses.

Gibson: [shakes his head]

Alyas manages to crawl to the ropes, which prompts Malik Jackson to demand the hold is broken. Of course, Marshall has already done so without being ordered. Clearly, he's affected by the torque being applied to his lower back. With his wife, Alanna, cheering him on from the outside, Marshall again pulls the weakened Alyas to his feet. What "The Lion" doesn't expect, is the cheap shot, a low blow, he receives. Lance crumbles to his knees; meanwhile, Malik Jackson is warning Brock Alyas yet again. Warning or not, Alyas now sees an opportunity.

Gibson: Another cheap shot from Alyas, Malik Jackson needs to control the action better.

Ware: Marshall is faking it. he's not only one of the biggest men in SCCW, he's also among the biggest whiners.

Gibson: Not true, how many times has he been cheated by Dead Man's Hand? Yet he goes about his business without a peep. "The Lion" Lance Marshall is a class act if I've ever seen one.

The class act takes a barrage of stomps from Alyas, who despite back pain, seems to have picked up a second wind. Marshall struggles to his feet, with slight assistance from Alyas, but is promptly delivered back into the canvas with a snap suplex. "The Brick Shithouse" floats over for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOO!


Gibson: Marshall knows exactly what's at stake here, and won't be finished easily.

Ware: Just give Brock a bit more time; he's picking up steam!

Brock Alyas, who's never been complimented on his temper, mounts Marshall and begins reigning down a series of rights and lefts, which Marshall does his best to avoid. With a snarl, Alyas gets back to his feet and brings Marshall along with him. He sends "The Lion" into the ring cables, who is on the offensive as he returns.

CLOTHESLINE! DUCKED!

NECKBREAKER!

Gibson: Marshall misses a big clothesline there, and pays for it.

Ware: Yeah, Alyas snapped his meaty neck! Good riddance!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Ware: Alyas did it! He beat him!

Gibson: Get your eyes checked, Ward. Malik Jackson is signaling only a two count!

Ware: No, no. I saw it! We need an impartial referee!

Gibson: Not really, but we could use another impartial announcer.

Ware: [looks sullenly at Gibson] That really hurts Gibs. Right here, bro. [patting his chest]

Frustration and temper rising, Alyas stands and drops a quick elbow into Marshall's throat.

"MAR-SHALL" "MAR-SHALL" "MAR-SHALL"

Gibson: The fans are urging Marshall on, really getting behind him here.

Ware: Better than being in front of him.

Gibson: Exactly.

Ware: Damn!

Brock Alyas stops momentarily, glancing at the crowd. What he does next is vintage Alyas, he extends the one finger salute to all those in attendance at SIN on SPIKE.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


He turns his focus back to Marshall, bringing him up to his feet. Consecutive forearm shivers coax Marshall into bending at the waist, perfectly setting up a running knee lift from the Suplex Machine, Brock Alyas. Marshall pushes himself to his base, and then is helped up by Alyas from there. Alyas, who proves his suplex nickname fits, fling Lance's arm over his neck for a vertical suplex.

Gibson: Suplex blocked by Lance Marshall.

Alyas responds with two quick hitting punches into Marshall's gut. Once again, he goes for the lift.

Gibson: Again, he blocks it.

Marshall, instead, decides that Alyas should be the one going for the ride. He powers Brock off his feet, and suspends him in the air.

Gibson: What power, look at him just holding Alyas there. Simply amazing.

Ware: [mumbles to himself]

Just as quickly as Alyas was countered, he finds himself plummeting toward the canvas.

SUSPENDED VERTICAL SUPLEX!

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


ONE!

TWO!

NO!!

Ware: He kicked out! He kicked out!

Gibson: Ahh I see, now its not a three count?

Ware: That was clearly two, Gibson. I'm still not so sure about that count on Marshall from earlier.

Marshall, feeding off the crowd's emotion, seems to be rejuvenated. His hammer-like hands grip around Alyas neck, and drag him to his feet. With unmatched authority, he rams Alyas into a standing headscissors and lifts him high over his head.

JACKKNIFE POWERBOMB!

Gibson: He just broke Alyas in two!

Ware: No! Don't let Marshall win!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Ware: YES! Ha! Alyas kicked out again!

Gibson: That he did, Eugene. Its only a matter of time now though; Marshall's high impact moves are starting to take a legitimate toll on "The Brickshit House".

Ware: He can come back, he's prison tough, remember?

Alyas struggled to his feet, his arm rubbing his back. Marshall, smelling blood, approaches the wounded Alyas, and sends him into the ropes with an Irish whip. Alyas attempts a clothesline on the return, only to have it ducked by "The Lion". Alyas spins around, but is greeted with a boot to the midsection. With surprising speed for such a big man, Marshall rotates around Alyas for the ...

CODE RED! CODE RED!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Gibson: That's it. He's doomed!

Ware: C'mon Alyas, do something! You're killing me!

Gibson: Marshall is too strong, has too much determination to lose this match.

Ware: We know he's strong, quit saying it!

Gibson: Alyas has verbally quit here, Malik Jackson is calling for the bell!

DING DING DING

"MAR-SHALL" "MAR-SHALL" "MAR-SHALL"

Marshall drops Alyas like a ton of bricks, leaving him to suffer the agony of defeat and his injured back. Alanna Marshall slips into the ring, her arms wrap around her victorious husband, who is busy acknowledging his fans.

Myers: Your winner by submission ... "The Lion!" LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE! MAAAAAAAAAAARSHALL!

Gibson: There you have it, "The Lion" Lance Marshall moves on, and finds himself one step closer to gaining the Univeral Championship. He'll face either Seymour Almasy or Jay Phoenix in two weeks, both of whom are excellent competitors.

Ware: It doesn't matter how far Marshall gets, Gibson. You and I both know that when he runs into Dead Man's Hand, it's game over.

Gibson: We'll see, Eugene. We'll see.
Join us, Ash. We're just Normal Guys.
Starring:Ash Plato
Backstage, Ash Plato is getting ready by warming up in the hallway when a large man with blonde hair and is wearing a suit. He is flanked by another man with short blonde hair who is also in a suit. They walk over to him, smiling as they stop in front of him. Ash just gives them a look. No expression on his face whatsoever.

He does recognize the larger man. His name is Biff Busey and he’s a wrestler from NFW. Apparently he is related to the actor Gary Busey. The man behind him is unknown to Ash but is looking him over. Biff smiles.

Biff: Hello Ash. We know who you are and we’d like for you to join our team.

Ash raises an eyebrow.

Ash: And what team is that?

Biff: Well it’s top secret.

Ash: A top secret team, eh? What? Do you guys work for the government or something?

Biff starts to answer but then the other man comes over. He looks at Ash and has a disgusted look on his face.

Man: We’re a team of normal people. We’re honest men who tell it like it is. We don’t pander to these Neanderthals and parasites in this audience and we’re not freaks like the ones that infest the rings of wrestling federations all over this world. We’re normal human beings who are stuck living in an insane world filled with liars and hypocrites like the fans.

Ash: Really? I was not aware of that.

The Man has a really slimy smile on his face now.

Man: We’re just normal guys that you would see walking down the street everyday, not costumed hypocrites like the ones you see on television every week. Delusional nutcases whose only joy in life is pleasing the liars and parasites that make up the viewing audience.

Biff: In other words, we keep it real because we’re keeping it real.

Ash is completely disinterested at this point.

Ash: Riiiiiiggghhhhttttt…

Biff looks angry.

Biff: FINE! BE A LITTLE SHIT! I DON’T CARE! I thought you were a normal guy like us, BUT NOOOOO!

The other man looks even angrier.

Man: YOU’RE JUST ANOTHER HYPOCRITE!

They turn and leave as Ash shrugs his shoulders and continues warming up like nothing ever happened.
...You Wouldn't Be Happy, Either
Starring:Kelly Masters, Victor Ambrose
In a particularly secluded corner of the arena, nestled away in the labryrinth of hallways and locker rooms, the camera fades in to find Victor Ambrose, peeking around a corner. He seems nervous, maybe even a little paranoid, his eyes bulging out of his head and sweat seeming to pour down his face. With heavy breaths, he licks his lips, looking around nervously before nodding his head, a thin smirk forming on his lips as he reaches his hand into his jacket, pulling out a small vial of what appears to be... well, we'll just say white powder. Probably just medication. You know, for a cold. Nothing out of the ordinary. He mutters to himself as he fumbles with the cap, a certain sort of desperation on his face.

Victor Ambrose: C'mon, c'mon, baby... I'm dying here... c'mon, c'mon, c'mon...

When the cap finally pops off, his eyes seem to sparkle with glee, a small 'squee' of excitement escaping from between his lips. Without a pause, he shoves the vial up one of his nostrils while he holds the other closed, snorting up it's contents in one massive inhale. As the last of the medication disappears up his nose, he lets the vial fall to the ground, his whole face contorting and twitching, that smile on his face seeming to only grow wider... just as Kelly Masters rounds the corner, fists balled, his eyes full of rage. As soon as Ambrose sees him, his jaw drops and his eyes go wide, his voice coming out in a stutter, his hands quickly beginning to wipe at his nose just to make sure he was in the clear. What follows is one of the most ass backwards explanations any man could possibly conjure up, spoken fast and holding very little sense.

Victor Ambrose: H-h-hey, buddy! Nice day, eh? I'm just... eh... strollin' the perimeter, y'know, making sure we don't have any riff-raffs in the arena. Queers, commies, and crackfiends, you know the typed. Bastards, all of 'em... Trying to bring this great country down, y'know? If I had my way, I'd have all of them shot! Fuckin' right! Bag 'em and tag 'em! Hellfire and brimstone, goddammit! Love it or leave it! ...wait, do I know you?

Despite not being in the greatest of moods, Masters stops, unable to avoid the man or his fumbling explanation. His glare screams uninterested, or perhaps that's the look of "I'd like to kill something". Either way, he's not skipping around joyfully.

Masters: No, and I think you'd like to keep it that way.

As he finishes, he begins walking again, but he's quickly stopped once again as Ambrose squeezes by him, standing in his path, an almost psychotic grin overtaking his face as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his glasses and sliding them on.

Victor Ambrose: Now, just wait a goddamn second, I know that I know you! You're Kelly fuckin' Masters, eh? Eh? (In his best angry growl...) The Masheeeeen, right? Fuckin' right! What a small world! I'm Victor Ambrose! Y'know, the guy you're fighting next week along with that homicidal shewolf psychobitch cumdumpster; I can't remember her name. Listen, it's great to meet you, real pleasure, you seem like a real classy fella', but I think we need to have a talk, eh? Get our ducks in a row, make sure we know where all the pieces fit. I like to know a person before I kick his ass. Sound good? Want some coke? How about some ether?

Ambrose seems to be gritting his teeth, his eyebrows wiggling as though he's trying to be friendly, even though he's failing miserably as the less than enthused Kelly Masters stares a hole through his forehead, cracking his knuckles.

Masters: Here we go again.

He shakes his head, his teeth gritting together.

Masters: You're not the first person to say you're going to beat my ass, and you won't be the last. Next week, you and I are involved in a match along with Charlotte Ramone or Desade, whoever she is. However, lets set the record straight, you blabbering fuck. I don't want any coke, ether, or anything else your rotting mind can muster to think of. Unless you're looking for a fight, right here and now, I suggest that you get outta my goddamn way.

Ambrose stops, seemingly taken aback. He looks at Masters, long and hard, his face gone stern, his eyes squinting, his hand raising up to scratch his chin.

Victor Ambrose: So... you don't want any ether? Eh, should've known. You're an acid man, right? My fault, should've guessed, this is why I never made a very good dealer. Never knew how to pick 'em. Fuck it! The more for me, right? Right? ...right?

Suddenly, he seems to be struck by a realization, some grand awareness that wasn't there until now. Real anger forms on his face, his lip curling up into a snarl.

Victor Ambrose: Now just wait a goddamn second! ...who the hell are you calling a blabbering fuck, you scumsucking pigfucker?!

Ambrose moves in close to Masters, staring him directly in the eyes, gritting his teeth and balling his fists.

Victor Ambrose: ...are you a goddamn communist?

What happened next was a rarity in SCCW, a promotion that well well-known for trash talking backstage (c'mon Aimz is champ).

THWAP!

Masters hauls off and drills Victor Ambrose right on the chin. Ambrose stumbles back, eventually stops when his back meets the wall behind him. He can't seem to believe what happened, while Masters, fists locked and loaded, takes a step toward Ambrose. With a snarl, he spins on his front foot and walks away from Ambrose, who rubs his jaw with a look of bewilderment.

Victor Ambrose: You fucking cunt! What the hell was that for?! I'm going to fucking murder you next week! I'll rip out your fucking jugular with my goddamn teeth, you son of a bitch! Go die in a fucking fire! Jesus fucking Christ, you asshole!

As Ambrose continues to unleash a barrage of insults, meaningless and unwarranted, Masters rounds the corner and disappears. As soon as he's gone, the camera pans back in on Ambrose, shaking his head and rubbing his chin as he lets out a heavy sigh and seems to automatically calm down, shrugging it off.

Victor Ambrose: Hm. I think that went well. Good guy. I liked him. Punches like a freight train, but that's not always a bad thing. Oh well... Hey, camera guy, you want to go get drunk at the bar across the street and let a random chick give you a blowjob? Yeah? Good man, let's go!

With a newly found spring in his step, Ambrose walks off, the camera fading out in his wake, leaving the audience to wonder... what the hell just happened?
Dusk Likes Food... Charlotte Ramone Apparently Doesn't
Starring:Dusk and Charlotte Ramone
Some would have to wonder if the angriest man in SCCW (Dusk, keep up with us) was at all a normal man. They would just settle for normal though because asking him to be human a majority of the time was something they weren't quite prepared to do at this time. On this particular evening, when his rage was clear for all to see, the people in the catering area quickly moved out of the way when he arrived there. Most figured he was there to issue a mission statement to the food, but in a shocking move, the Lost Soul instead grabbed a plate and started hitting the buffet line as he started to pour the food on there.

What, the man's gotta eat!

As he puts a few rolls on his plate and grabs a nearby Propel water, the Lost Soul turns around when he runs smack into a woman surprisingly even crazier (and mysterious) as he is.

Charlotte Ramone.

Dusk: Um... anything I could help you out with? Because, you're kind of in my way, and I'm sort of, kind of, really seriously, so hungry that I could kill you with my plastic Spork right here and now. Don't tempt me.

Ramone: Dude. It's called "decaf". They've got it over there.

She points, a fire-engine red nail (chewed to the nub) glimmering in the overhead fluorescents.

Ramone: Make sure you get the pot with the orange lid. I think it's Sanka, though, but... you'd better enjoy it while it lasts û it's the only liquid around here other than Wy-Wy Connors' Kool-Aid.

Dusk looks down at his bottle of Propel water and has to wonder to himself if it's spiked by the False Prophet. He glances towards the eccentric Ramone once again before he tosses the bottle back onto the plastic table and tries to move around Charlotte when she stops him again.

Dusk: Okay, apparently you don't approve of my choice of drink, but could you approve of me putting food in my stomach? It's always dangerous to get between a man and his food.

Ramone: Aren't you gonna quiz me? Be all, "I know it is you Alexandra. When last we met, I was the student, but now I am the master." Of disaster. Or whatever it is you're actually master of.

Dusk: You might have missed the story from last week's show. Maybe you should've caught the end of it. Alexandra nailed me with a superkick and then put a bounty on my head. Am I supposed to believe that Alexandra would just approach me in the catering area before uttering the silliest nickname in the world that IÆve ever heard? Since you like to pretend you're Alexandra, you would do well to know that she would never say something like Wy-Wy.

Dusk then tries to move around Charlotte again, but is blocked by her once again as she stays right in the face of the Lost Soul. Having started to lose his cool, Dusk tosses his tray back onto the catering table as it's clear to him that he's not going to be able to have his dinner for the evening.

Dusk: Okay, now this has really been fun and all, but I've got my hands full with the real Desade. Don't have much time for impostors or worshippers.

Ramone: Dude. Seriously. Dude, do you not pay attention? Does anything outside your little world go buh-bye like you live in a cubicle and the rest of the world is totally outside, but "Oh, no, can't peek!" Ask anyone around here û they'll totally tell you I'm Penny Marshall her-rigoddamndiculous-self. I'm not a worshiper or an imposter, I'm totally a fraud. There is no Charlotte Ramone. I'm smoke and mirrors and û wow, this sounds pretty crazy when you say it out loud.

The Punk Rock Pixie adjusts the plastic athletic mask she wears û it's supposed to be designed to protect your nose or eyesockets. It's not supposed to be graffiti-covered. But this is the Fantastic Plastic we're talking about here, peoples.

Ramone: I thought of all the people in the arena, you'd be the one shoving me up against a wall demanding answers like you're Jack Bauer or something.

Dusk: Well, while I'm not paying attention it would seem like you need to be the center of it. But, I guess you haven't been paying attention very well. You see my hands?

His calloused hands are flashed in front of Ramone's face.

Dusk: They're kind of full right now. While you're being a complete fraud, my attention is focused on the real deal and her red-headed bitch. So, while I could yell at you repeatedly, slam you against the wall, and try to torture answers out of you Jack Bauer style, I just don't have that time and patience. So how about we doing something you like to do a lot? Pretend. We pretend we did that and then you just start telling me what you think that I want to hear. Does that sounds?

Ramone: I'm not Alex Pierce. Buuuuuut, I'm guessing you knew that, even though all the monkeys around here are convinced this is some bullshit game, and that after I whip up on Ambien and Masts, I'm gonna be Fingerpoke-of-Doomed.

Dusk closes his eyes for a moment and tilts his head from side to side as the vibrant lights above him shine brightly upon him. His left hand taps his left leg for an unknown reason before he opens his eyes once again and takes a long, hard look at the Pixie Queen.

Dusk: Sorry, I'm just trying to figure out my reason for caring one way or another your affiliation with Alexandra. So, can you give me a reason? A compelling reason? You want me to care about who you are or why you're here? Convince me. If you do a good job, you might get your wish, and I'll let the Jack Bauer in me out for you to take pleasure in.

Charlie just sort of blinks too-large blue eyes behind that mask.

Ramone: I... don't get it. You're Dusk. You're gonna tear down Penny Marshall's empire, dethrone the champion, wear her skin for a bathrobe, all that stuff. Maybe that last one was Jay-Jay, but... yeah.

She jams her hands into her pockets, shoulders curling in a shrug.

Ramone: I don't care that you don't care that I don't care that people think I'm Desade. They've been conditioned to think that. Told lies to keep them in their place. I just figured now would be a better time for you to pull the "try to beat me bloody" rather than later. Works into my schedule more.

The Lost Soul simply rolls his eyes at Ramone, seeing that she's a little more than surprised at Dusk's attitude towards her.

Dusk: Well, sorry to break your bloody bubble over there. You want to get a blip on my radar? Then do something worthwhile instead of thinking that being Desade would get me all worked up. That's not the case. But, I don't have the time or energy to beat you bloody so find someone else to do it. Now move out of my way, because I'm done having this conversation with you.

Ramone: Huh.

She reaches out with one hand, touching Dusk's face briefly; an angry glare causes her hand to snap back like she was afraid his eyes would bite her.

Ramone: You're being... remarkably more chill than most of the locker room. I had a bag of fiery dog-doo left in my locker. For reals.

Dusk: I guess at the end of the day, you're just not that important to me. Sucks, doesn't it?

Ramone: Naw, 'scool, man. I'm gonna have enough of a hard time reclaiming my good name without worrying that you're going to be all, "Baseball bat~!" when I'm not looking. Because I've had those things shoved up my û ah, I shouldn't say that on basic cable, should I? Anyway, so we're cool?



Yes, Virginia, there is a person more na?ve than anyone else in Sin City. Or so it would appear.

Dusk: We're nothing. Plain and simple.

Ramone: So, uh, that means that the next time Penny and the Jets are pulling the whole gang-rape-the-Dusker card, I should chill out backstage and not help? Because I'd totally be willing to. Well, I'd be willing to do either û I have a helluva stash of salsas in my little nook. But I really want to whip out the "HWAAA!" at Piercey an' Friends.

Dusk pauses for a moment as he looks over Ramone and takes a moment to consider her words before responding to Charlotte.

Dusk: You want to back me up? Feel free to do so. If you want to get back at Pierce, then have my back when it matters the most. Dealing with someone like you though, I'm not going to believe it until I see it though. You get in my way, you cross me though Charlotte, then we're going to have some issues, and you're going to see some baseball bats going places you'd rather them not go. You decided to stab me in the back and you're going to see the Dusk that you've been waiting to see out here. We understand each other?

Ramone: Yeah. Totally. Except... I stopped listening after you started in on the "I'll believe it when I believe it" part. So maybe again from the top? I've come over here in my quest for something that won't make me thirsty to find out you û for some reason û aren't gonna give me the business about being Pen-Pen, I offer to help you and then you blow up like you're all hard? Shouldn't it have totally been the reverse?

Dusk chuckles.

Dusk: I'm a complicated person, Charlotte. I don't play by any rules, especially not Desade's or even your's. I was actually trying to be nice as I really wanted my food, but you didn't help your case out by not letting me eat. Now, you're in my way, and it's a little frustrating. So, word of advice. Stop thinking you know me.

Ramone: I watch the tee-vee. Whatev, dude. You know where to find me when shit's gone cockeyed. An' it's "Chuck", not Charlotte. "Char" if you gotta push it. You start callin' me "Charlotte" an' people will think I'm all girly.

Dusk: Char, maybe I want you to be girly. Maybe I want something new in my life. Ever think about that?

His words are different, unique, and not like Dusk in the least bit, but as he looks at Charlotte, he can see that they cause her to look at him a little differently.

Ramone: Dude, I, uh... I don't swing that way. I bat for the home team.

Dusk smiles.

Dusk: Gotta keep you on your toes... Char. Gotta keep you on your toes. Now, if you'll excuse me...

Dusk starts to walk away from Ramone, leaving her standing there with this odd look on her face.

Ramone: (mutter) What a strange [bleep]in' dude. Oooh, he left French Fries behind!
Gibson: And here we go, folks. The Kennedy bracket has seen business proceed as usual, albeit with tough fights put up by Ash Plato and the mysterious Starks.

Ware: It's Phillip Kennedy, Gateway Champion, taking on Austin King. Yawn.

Gibson: For King to advance, he has to beat a man who hasn't lost a match in Sin City by pinfall or submission in quite some time. Can the Wombat get his second win and shock the world?

Ware: I highly doubt it.

"Indestructible" by Disturbed.

Myers: The following non-title contest is scheduled for ONE FALL and it is a first-round bout in the No Limit Tournament! Introducing first!

Wombats
Is
Too Stupid
To Know Fear


Myers: To be accompanied to the ringside area by E. Allen Peters and Misery! From Humpty Doo in the Northern Territory of Australia!

The words are replaced with a cartoon marsupial, as the empty rampway is filled by... a man who might as well be. Spiked hair. Bright colors. Brighter smile. Austin King may have only won a single match, but you'd never know that from looking at him.

Ware: How did this guy get in the tournament? Seriously, I have more wins than he does.

Gibson: Austin King has been impressive, and these fans have taken to the charming young man from Australia!

Ware: Charming? If you spell "charming" as "d-u-m-b," sure.

Myers: He is "The Wombat!" AUUUUUUUSTIN! KIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

Wombat doesn't look fazed by, well, anything. Part of that could be that he has no idea who he's facing (well, he probably doesn't). Part of it could be because of the mammoth woman following him out of the entranceway. Misery is bigger than Austin is, let's get that out of the way. But she's expecting a sneak attack at every moment.

His manager, not so much.

Ware: And he has a manager and a bodyguard?

Gibson: He's a star!

King slaps hands with the fans – with every one of them wearing a "(This is Not) The New Austin King T-Shirt" t-shirt, sliding into the ring. Misery and Peters stay down at the ringside area and Rose looks... tense.

But Austin doesn't care! He gets the --

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Loud pop from the crowd. And that's all he's in it for, right?

Right?br />

Ladies, gentlemen, "Minus Human."

Give it a bit, won't you?
The introduction to the song winds towards the first spoken words, and perhaps the most dangerous trio in Sin City appears on the entryway.

Don't you leave me Father Time
Take me with you
Tell me does your sun still shine
Come squeeze the world and drip it down my throat...oh yeah
Down my throat again....woooah

White cowboy hat on his head, Phillip Kennedy stands at the center of the line, flanked to either side by the Sex Kitten and the Orchid, Kathryn Shaw and Lauren Fox. He looks all manners of confident; quite possibly because his opponent has one win to his name.

Ware: Kennedy's smart beyond his years, Dave. He could have come out to Big & Rich, but this is the more spectacular entrance. He's going for a psych-out job on the Wombat. He's got Kathryn and Lauren by his side. I can't imagine it'll be difficult to psych out Austin King.

Gibson: Which is why if you're King, you've got to block this all out. You've got to stick to your gameplan if you want to shock the world. This is March, Eugene. Funny things happen in March.

Ware: In basketball, maybe, but this is wrestling!

You got to breathe man, breathe!
Coming up for air
Breathe man, breathe!
Coming up for air

Neither Kathryn nor Lauren takes Kennedy's arm as he marches down the aisle. Today, there is less pomp and circumstance than usual, Stack's eyes focusing on the Wombat in the ring. Kathryn and Lauren walk to opposite sides of the ring, Kennedy using the ring apron to pull himself up. He places his hat on the ringpost, and steps between the ropes. No more fanfare.

It's go time.

Gibson: It's #4 versus #16! King vs. Kennedy, and here we go!

*DING DING DING!*

Perhaps justifiably, the Wombat is watching the two women at ringside. As such, he doesn't see Kennedy until it's too late, the tall cowboy striking him down with a quick lariat to the chest. Wasting no time, he hooks the leg deep, and it takes the referee a moment to get into position so soon in the contest.

ONE!

TWO!

TH--NO!

Ware: Half a count away, already!

Gibson: Kennedy connected with the lariat almost at the opening bell, because King was worried about Katsidy and Savant at ringside!

Ware: He shouldn't be, he's got Peters and Misery at ringside with him, and Misery's about twice Savant's size!

Gibson: He's still a young man, and let's face it, the Dead Man's Hand has the reputation it has for a reason!

Kennedy picks Austin up by the hair, and fires a straight left hand to the face. Refusing to let the other man fall, Kennedy uses the hair to hold him in place for a second and third blow. As King crumples, Kennedy is on him again for another cover, seemingly looking for a short night.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Ware: Kid should just lay down and get it over with at this rate.

Gibson: I doubt the Wombat's going to do that!

Peters and Misery shout encouragement from the floor...while keeping close eyes on Katsidy and Savant, who make no move to interfere as of yet. Phillip picks up the downed Wombat, shooting him into the ropes. On the rebound, Kennedy elevates him high into the air, letting the Wombat come crashing down, stomach first, to the canvas.

Ware: Huge air on that, the Wombat might have been able to play in the NCAAs if he had ups like that.

The look on Kennedy's face is measured disdain. Every second he is out here is one more second that he is being tired out for future tournament rounds. He wants this over.

Measuring the Wombat carefully, Kennedy drives a hard elbow into the back of King's neck. With almost a snarl, he rolls King over, and hooks the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Gibson: Only two again! Kennedy's going to have to do more than this if he wants to put away Austin King!

Ware: So he'll have to try a legdrop, big deal.

Scowling though he is, the Stack doesn't appear frustrated. Yet. King manages to pull himself back up with the ropes, and Kennedy is there to greet him with a right jab. Hamill warns Kennedy about the repeated use of the closed fist, and Kennedy turns to give him the what for.

Gibson: Kennedy's got to keep his eye on the ball here...

Almost as if on cue, Kennedy's attention turns back to the Wombat, who retaliates with a hard forearm shiver to the face. Phillip's head snaps back, and the Wombat is in motion, dropping down to chop block Kennedy's knee. Phillip drops to the canvas, allowing the Wombat to capitalize, grabbing hold of the blocked leg and twisting Kennedy over into a half crab.

Ware: Phillip Kennedy has to be careful. I don't think King can beat him, but the Wombat's young and hungry, and he can do damage to the Stack's longterm chances.

Gibson: I think you're underestimating the Wombat.

Kennedy pushes up on his hands, in the process forcing the break through his superior power. King is back on Kennedy in an instant, but Phillip replies with a lunging headbutt a few inches away from being disqualified.

With King doubled over, Kennedy is on his feet in an instant, double-underhooking the Wombat's arms. Kennedy fires off a knee strike to the exposed chest of Austin King, followed quickly by another, before elevating Austin in the air and dropping him across his knee with a double-underhook backbreaker.

Ware: Underestimating the Wombat or not, Phillip Kennedy's come to fight tonight.

Another cover.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Gibson: Another kickout!

Ware: Four covers by the Big Stack already. King should just fold his tent and go home.

With momentum in his corner, Kennedy backs up several steps. He raises his left arm, poised to crush Austin King with another powerful lariat. Three steps and he was up to speed, arm aimed to cut King down to size.

To the Wombat's credit, though, Austin King sidesteps, grabbing Kennedy's arm by the wrist as it swings by. He steps inside, bracing his elbow over Kennedy's, snapping downwards to hook a Fujiwara armbar on a suddenly frantic Big Stack.

Gibson: King trying to take the lariat arm away from Phillip Kennedy!

Kennedy's long legs mean that a rope break doesn't take long to achieve, but Kennedy is nonetheless pissed. His lariat arm is vital to his chances at winning the No Limit Tournament, and Austin King will NOT be responsible for an injury that dooms him so long as Phillip Kennedy lives and breathes.

Phil gets up, and chases after the Wombat, walking right into a kneel-down jawbreaker from the Australian. Kennedy recoils, and King bounces back off the ropes, spearing the Stack to the mat.

Ware: The Wombat's on a roll, particularly for him!

As a budding technician, Austin King knew what he had to do to have his best chance to take down the number four seed.

Pinning Kennedy's arm to the side, King dropped a pinpoint kneedrop, trying to knot up the bicep of the Big Stack. He followed with a second, as Kennedy screamed, and Savant and Katsidy eyed Austin King's help at ringside.

Gibson: King knows his strategy, and that is to take out the dominant weapon of his opponent!

Austin leans down, presumbly to apply some sort of joint lock to Kennedy's arm, but the Stack is taking no chances. With a firm handful of hair, Kennedy yanks and off balances King, sending Austin sprawling to the canvas. Hamill issues a warning to the Big Stack, who cradles his arm and shoots the ref a withering look.

Ware: Attaboy, champ!

Kennedy is in no mood for technicalities. He easily scoops the smaller King up over his shoulders, cradling the head and one of the Wombat's legs. The Big Stack elevates Austin, driving him on the back of his shoulders and neck with a Death Valley Driver, holding onto one leg to create a makeshift cover.

Gibson: He calls that Viva Las Vegas!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE--NO! KICKOUT!

Ware: That was three, damnit!

Gibson: No way, Jose! Austin slipped out the back door at the last second!

Persistant, the Wombat was. A sneer was permanently etched on Kennedy's face, it seemed, as he picked King back up one more time. Hooking a waistlock, he darted his head to avoid King's attempts at back elbows to block. Popping his hips, Kennedy snapped King overhead, the Wombat's body flying head over heels to crash stomach-first to the canvas, courtesy of the Big Stack's finesse-less take on the German Suplex.

Ware: Looks like Austin King just saw the Flop, and it was a doozy!

King is game, pushing himself to hands and knees. Kennedy, though, jogs over, and hooks the head and a leg one more time, rolling over with, of all things, an Oklahoma roll!

ONE!

TWO!

THR--ANOTHER KICKOUT!

Gibson: King showing heart, guts, and determination!

Ware: And masochistic tendencies.

Austin King squirms free of the cradle, pulling himself up with the ropes. He spots Kennedy advancing on him, the other man's arrogant grin galling the Wombat to his soul.

The Big Stack is mere feet away, ready to put this thing away.

One problem. His hands are down.

And when Cinderella has a shot in March, she's going to take off the glass slipper and swing for the fences.

*WHAM!*

Ware: No WAY!

Gibson: King was on the ropes, and he came off with that knockout shot! He caught Phillip Kennedy flush on the button with the--

Ware: DON'T EVEN SAY IT!

Gibson: -- THE WOMBLASTER!

At ringside, it is Peters' and Misery's turn to be elated, as the crowd roars. Austin King falls gracelessly atop the Big Stack, hooking one of Kennedy's legs, the Sin City faithful practically able to smell the upset.

Ware: ....COME ON, KICK OUT!

Gibson: Kennedy, in control this entire match, is about to drown on the river!

ONE!


TWO!


THR--KICKOUT!

Ware: Kennedy's alive!

Gibson: Half a count away! Austin King just dimmed Kennedy's lights with that huge shot, and the Big Stack is still on dream street!

Austin King's time, he knows, is now. If he wants to pull the biggest upset of the tournament, he has to pull the trigger.

On wobbly legs, the Wombat makes his way out to the ring apron. Katsidy is half way to the ring apron when Misery shoots the Sex Kitten a murderous look that makes Katsidy rethink her options.

Ware: He's going up top!

Poising himself up top, Austin King takes aim at the rising Phillip Kennedy.

The Wombat leaps, legs extended for a missile dropkick. His careful aim brings him on a perfect trajectory with the Big Stack, that elusive second win in sight.

Kennedy, however, reaches up with both arms, darting his head to the side to avoid possible contact. The arms wrap around the upper legs of Austin King, and Kennedy snaps him to the canvas with a brute-force powerbomb, driving Austin's back hard into the canvas.

Ware: Kennedy caught him!

Gibson: At an unusual angle, no less, and he spiked him with the powerbomb!

The Big Stack wastes no time, forcing the Australian's legs into a four shape, and turning the smaller man over. Kennedy sits down with his move, cranking back on it as hard as he can.

Ware: It's that Texas Cloverleaf Kennedy tried to use two weeks ago on the Director!

Gibson: Yeah, and this week, he didn't waste any time with it! He spiked King with the powerbomb, and twisted him over with it immediately! He's got the Wombat in the middle of the ring!

Austin King lets out a yell of pain, trying to crawl in search of the ropes or some other saving grace, but Kennedy's significant weight advantage means that the Wombat is going nowhere.

And so, with a heavy heart, Austin King taps away his No Limit dreams.

*DING DING DING!*

Ware: Kennedy gets the submission with the Texas Cloverleaf, and moves on in the No Limit Tournament!

Hamill calls for Phillip to break the hold, and he does, looking down with contempt at the Wombat. King had proven tougher to crack than the Stack expected.

Gibson: Say what I will and do, but he's working on his game. He's got multiple lariat variations. He's now got the Texas Cloverleaf. Make no mistake about it, Phillip Kennedy is preparing for war, and he's one more victory away from a shot at the Universal Championship!

Savant and Katsidy climb into the ring from opposite sides. The latter places his cowboy hat back on his head, his title over his shoulder, and favors him with a kiss. The former places a hand on his shoulder, and manages to capture his attention back from the Sex Kitten.

"One more," the Orchid whispered to him, letting a smile curve her mouth. He didn't need to be told what "one more" meant.

Savant raises his right arm. Katsidy raises his left.

With one more victory, so long as Amy Campbell held up her end of the bargain, it would be the Red Raver versus the Big Stack in the semi-finals of the No Limit Tournament.

For tonight, though, the Stack was content with his performance.

In his own mind, Phillip Kennedy had check-raised the field.
Souls of the Soulless
Starring:Legion and Wyatt Connors
We see Legion walking down the AT&T Center’s corridor trying to find something to drink after The Decency Crusade’s hijacking of the water supply. Even though he isn’t booked tonight he thought to gather more information before he made his choice that could change his career. He has his shiny Livewire belt in hand--look at the glow!

Legion: Damn bible-bashers... this is why I gave up organised religion when I was a kid. Besides, Kool-Aid’s too... ‘cliché.’ I would have preferred Iced Tea!

Suddenly he sees the ringleader of the Decency Crusade, Wyatt Connors himself, standing near a vending machine...

Legion: Ah look who it is… the ‘saviour’ himself, tell me isn’t trying to be a member of Jesus camp not enough for you or do you think it’s fun deciding to turn this place into another Jonestown?

Wyatt, for his part, puts on his trademark creepy-wide grin. Seriously, he's starting to approach Jack Nicholson territory.

Connors: I sense your derision, friend. Just remember that in hell, no one can hear you mock.

Legion: It’s sad really, from what I heard you could have given me very good information about Alex and the Dead Man’s Hand since you’ve worked with them in the past but look at you... where is the man who put fear into men, where is the man that was always ALWAYS one step ahead of everyone else? A man I idolised whilst starting out has now become a man that is a former shell of himself!

Wyatt's right eye twitches for a moment, and his eyes dart around nervously. He gets that way whenever someone mentions a certain Director. Soon, though, the fear is swallowed in a sea of righteousness.

Connors: My dear brother Legion. You've got it all wrong. My former self *was* the shell. I cast him aside long ago, and now my spirit is unbound by the concerns of the worldly. Pride and greed, the symbols of what I was, have no hold on me. And although my great sense of compassion demands that I assist you, I'm afraid that I cannot. The man you are looking for, the man I once was...no longer exists.

Legion suddenly lets out a groan of frustration, it saddens him to see an idol like this be brainwashed, granted he tried to do this himself in other places to other people... he doesn’t know whether to pity him or be angry with him for letting someone else take control. He suddenly does something very risky to any human being... he gets right up in Connors’ face...

Legion: Go and spout your Jesus freak BS to someone that cares, sure my name’s associated with the devil, so is Luci’s but that’s because where is God when you need him the most, where was God when I was down on my luck, in fact ask certain wrestlers that were in the NWC back in February 2004 where was God then? Nowhere! Jim Jones tried to convince a bunch of people the same way you did... next thing you’ll be telling the wrestlers to lay down for their ‘children’ then I’ll be hearing about a mass suicide in the news again.

The sooner you snap out of it the better, maybe I’ll be the one to do it.

Wyatt shakes his head in disappointment. No one understands.

Connors: My poor, confused child. I ask no one to die in His name, for indeed suicide is a sin...just like incest, or bowling. My will is His will, and His will is for all of us to live and do His work. After all, He is infallible and omnipotent. He has never failed you, or anyone else. During our darkest hours, He has His hand outstretched to us, offering to deliver us from the bowels of hell. If you did not accept such a wondrous gift...then the failing is yours, not His.

Legion: There’s no gift... if there was a gift I wouldn’t have these scars, I wouldn’t have had Luci kidnapped a few weeks ago by a psychotic woman that like you claims to be a prophet, your gift is just nothing more than a curse, a curse that will lead to chaos. The saddest thing is I know somewhere there’s a part of the Connors I remember in there somewhere screaming... and he’s screaming ‘Let these people go’. Let me make one thing clear, no matter if I choose the side of the heroes or Desade I’ll be keeping a eye on your crusade, there’s another crusade I remember going wrong... it ended in the compound burning down! I’d stay clear of Luci if I were you, she likes to start them...

Again, Wyatt manages to stifle the impulse to run for the hills at the mere mention of You-Know-Who.

Connors: So, I take it you don't want anything to drink then. That's fine. Such is the burden born by the righteous--we want to save everyone, but some people think they're better off in hell. Brother Legion, you may continue to blame Him for the evils of man. But if you will not go with God, then I advise you to at least be careful about which demon you choose to associate with...for some hells are worse than others.

Legion starts to back off and replies with a snarl.

Legion: No, thank you. It’s better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven… you’ll do well to remember that. Now if you excuse me I have a show to watch. Our paths WILL cross again Connors, that I promise.

Legion turns around and walks off still feeling disgust at what he’s just witnessed. Wyatt turns to watch him leave, but makes no further attempt to stop him, or regain his attention. As soon as Legion rounds the corner, Connors pulls a small walkie-talkie from a pocket in his robes.

Connors: Brother James? Progress report, if you please...

Keeping Options Open
Starring:Desade, Seymour Almasy
Backstage, learn the language of a woman's steps.

Every stride someone like Kathryn Shaw takes says something about her: she likes to think of herself as sexy, one foot in front of the other. Every one of Lauren Fox's strides gives away her somewhat shy nature, sneakers scuffing the ground. Amy Campbell walks like she owns a place, arms swinging, head held high.

Alexandra Pierce is usually a shadow, and, in this, is as difficult to read as in anything else. Tonight, an SCCW intern, short hair, short, chopping strides attempting to keep up with Pierce, a clipboard in hand, attempts to keep up with the scuttles of the Spider, and if there was any one word to describe Alex's body language, it would be: determined. Doesn't change the crowd's opinion.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Intern: But, Miss Pierce, Dr. Kensington... he, uh, he asked me if I would very nicely ask you who was under the mask.

Desade provides no answer to the girl, her strides snapping across the tiled floor backstage here in San Antonio with a purpose in mind.

But into every life, a little rain must fall. In this case, in the form of someone Alex is probably not looking to speak with – one Seymour Almasy, whose own crowd reaction is noticeable...

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


...albeit somewhat muted after he abandoned Dusk last week.

The Protagonist stands directly in the Director's path, hands reaching up to pull the earphone buds from his ears. Apparently he forgot to pause his I-pod, the sounds of what seems to be Japanese pop music can be heard faintly in the background.

Almasy: You.

As the earbuds dangle, Seymour's facial expression is neutral, blank. He ponders what to say for a few, brief moments, before just coming straight out with it.

Almasy: I got the message.

Pierce pauses, and the intern is not foolish enough not to slip away while the slipping is good. The smile that creeps across her lips is just as slow as the one she gave Darcy Markson last week. And just as fake.

Desade: If you meant the message that would lead to you putting that kneecap of yours between Craig Maloof's eyes, then I am all for it. If you do not, I am certain I do not know what you are talking about.

Almasy: Actually, I saw it as the message that said "if you're foolish enough to listen to the British man who runs this company,this is what I can marshal against you."

In spite of everything, he seems...good natured, almost. Not at all the quietly angry man that let Craig Maloof dress him down last week.

Almasy: Let's see, there was you, Amy, Bridden, Bridden's girlfriend, Ashe, Katsidy, Savant...and that's not even counting Phillip. That makes, what, eight people? Nine if we count the guy with the cane? I've got to admit, I'm impressed. I've been quietly and not so quietly threatened by a lot of people, Ms. Pierce. This is the first time I've had someone who can boast an army of nine to send against me.

Desade: My message is embraced by quite a few like-minded individuals. But do not trouble yourself with them, as I would not dare...

She pauses, her head dropping slowly. When she glances back up, the coldness in her eyes has been multiplied.

Desade: I cannot play the obsequious waif nearly as well as my protégée, forgive me. Yes, Seymour, that message was for you, just as much as it was for anyone else. I have simply found it takes some... significant acts to garner Craig's attention. But you need not worry about a repeat performance, not now at least. You did me a favor by running away.

The smile she shares with him has no warmth in it at all.

Desade: Made things easier when you sacrificed the man who had come to your aid.

Seymour's only immediate response is a scowl.

Almasy: I did not ask for his help. When I come down to the ring alone, I fully expect to be exactly that. I could have spoken to Lance Marshall; I did not.

The expression on her face is unnerving, even to a man who has stared down many of the sport's most notorious figures. It is doubtful that Seymour Almasy has met anyone quite like Alexandra Pierce.

Almasy: Undoubtedly he will come for me now...such is his way. Not that it matters. If he wishes to try to create a war, he must be well aware that he will find it in places he does not expect...

Really, somewhere, in the pits of his mind, Seymour doesn't see as much of a difference between Craig and Alexandra as one might expect.

Desade: As with many of our competitors, I am certain he watches the program, and I would never ask that he come for someone who abandoned him, who left him standing alone in the ring with an army against him.

That smile curves a few degrees.

Desade: But you did me what I believe some of my colleagues would refer to as "a solid" last week. If you want me to repay the favor, simply ask.

The once-Final Fantasy nods his head. Such a thing would be tempting indeed...but to the best of his ability, Seymour Almasy wishes to play Switzerland. The power of darkness can lead to the swallowing of one's own heart, if used to excess.

Almasy: I appreciate it, but that will not be necessary. Craig Maloof is many things. He may insult me and my capabilities all he likes, but he knows full well that in a one on one fight, he cannot best me.

His own smile widens a bit, somewhere between genuine and wicked. Looking into the Director's eyes, he knows that the day will come when his path crosses again with the Hand's. Maybe in the finals of the No Limit Tournament. Maybe if he goes after Phillip Kennedy's Gateway Championship.

Ambition for greatness is, and has always been, Seymour Almasy's greatest driving force.

Desade: Perhaps. But my offer extends past simply Dusk. Jay Phoenix, Lance Marshall... whomever. Perhaps they cannot beat you one-on-one, and perhaps they can. Eventually, you will learn not to take that chance.

The gaze of the self-professed Protagonist skips a beat. He is, if nothing else, caught off guard. Off balance. And yet, he knows that at the end of his road lies Amy Campbell and the Universal Championship.

He is no more willing to dance for Alexandra Pierce than he is for Kensington or Maloof...but her offer is considerably more tempting.

Almasy: I will keep that in mind. My apologies for taking up your time.

Desade: Accepted. You learn your lessons well, Seymour. Have a good evening, and good luck next week.

Another difference between the Spider and the rest of her web is that when she steps past Almasy, they do not touch, inadvertent or otherwise. She drifts down the hallway, and, somehow, the intern falls in behind her again. She never looks back.

Seymour Almasy, meanwhile, slides his earbuds back into his ears. Years ago, this conversation would have never happened.

But years ago, he wasn't a broken man.

And, perhaps even more importantly, years ago, he never had to deal with Alexandra Pierce.
Payback Is Sweeter Than Kool-Aid
Starring:Wyatt Connors and Steve Knox
The main event is all upon us. We know you're all very excited, but we have to take one small detour before we get there. So, while we are heading out to ringside, we'll be heading there by way of the catering area.

It's been a very busy night for "The False Prophet" Wyatt Connors. He's spent all night taking full advantage of the water shortage in the AT&T Center. His henchmen have been roving all over, peddling the specially mixed Kool-Aid that Has No Adverse Affects Whatsoever. Wyatt's been on the move too, but he's spent most of the evening here at the main distribution site...which just happened to be in the same place where the wrestlers ate. At this moment, he is coordinating the team effort with the use of a walkie-talkie.

Connors: Excellent news, Brother James. And you passed along the message?

"With every cup, Master. They'll be with us in Knoxville."

Connors: Good. You and Brother Colt should pack up and depart for the parking lot. We'll meet you soon.

"Of course, Master."

Wyatt smiles. Thus far, the plan has worked remarkably well. Sure, not many of the wrestlers had partaken of the refreshment...but the fans? They were another matter entirely.

Connors activates the transmitter again, this time to check on his other team.

Connors: Brother Jorge? Status?

He releases the button, and before long the receiver crackles to life with the sounds of unintelligible squawking in a foreign language.

Connors: How very unfortunate. We shall discuss your failures when we return home. For now--

Jeremiah: Company, your Holiness.

The False Prophet casts an eye toward the hallway, where indeed there is a man approaching. Wyatt presses the button on the communication device again.

Connors: One moment, Brother.

Man: I knew that if I followed the smell of holiness long enough, I'd cross paths with you again.

This man is easily recognizable. How could Wyatt Connors forget the man he robbed of the Elite Championship at NFW Supercrash II... Steve Knox? The man who called himself "Captain Awesome" approaches the man who was known as the "False Prophet", though he makes sure to keep all of Connors' goons within his eyesight.

Steve looks at the so-called "Kool-Aid" that Connors and his disciples had been trying to give to the rest of the roster for the whole night, before he looks at Connors and snaps his fingers in mock disappointment.

Knox: Damn, did I miss a party?

Connors: Not at all, Brother Steven. For indeed, the kingdom of heaven is like a college bar during homecoming, in that it is never empty, nor is it ever full. Might I offer some liquid nourishment for your parched throat and shriveled soul?

Quick as a wink, Connors has a Dixie cup in hand, and offers the contents to Knox.

Steve waves his hand in front of Connors' offer.

Knox: No thanks, I got a good feeling that I know what'd happen if I drank that stuff, and it probably won't involve heaven and enlightenment.

Connors: Only one way to find out!

Knox: Yup. There is.

Steve takes the cup from Connors' hand, looks at it for a moment... and then promptly turns around and gives it to one of the stagehands who happened to be walking by the "party". He's maybe 5'6", and yet he's overweight and a bit pimply.

Knox: Here you go. Drink up and see the light that this guy preaches.

Stagehand: Huh?

Steve pats the stagehand on his head, and turns to Connors.

Knox: Hey, maybe you should market this stuff for a weight loss program. That'd bring in the disciples, right?

Connors: It's quite possible. Bringing in the sinners by appealing to their vanity, and thereby using the devil's own tricks against him? I like the way you think, Brother Steven. You'll be a wonderful asset to the Crusade.

Knox: Nah, not only am I more of a leader than a follower, I got my own disciples to worry about. They can be a handful. Hell. One wears a mask all the time. I think he even showers in it.

It's at this point that Steve smells the air and turns to the stagehand, who's already put down half of the Kool-Aid, with a disgusted look on his face.

Knox: Hey. You. Billy.

Stagehand: My name's Fra--

Knox: Doesn't matter. You should go shower. Seriously.

Connors frowns in disappointment at "Captain Awesome." You'd think it would be hard to be disappointed at someone called "Captain Awesome," but Wyatt Connors finds a way.

Connors: Still unable to overcome your own pride, Brother Steven? That is unfortunate. You know, that could be why I was able to take your prized title belt from you.

Knox: Or it could be the British guy who thinks he's a Lord who stuck his nose where it didn't belong.

Steve frowns. The time for playing games is over.

Knox: Anyway, Wyatt, I came here to tell you that your little reprieve is over. I'm coming to get my belt back. If I have to tear a hole through Jerry over there...

Steve points at Jeremiah.

Knox: ...then that's what I'll do. Bring your disciples. Bring anyone you want. I'll bring mine. It'll be more of a party then your little lemonade stand over here.

He gestures at Wyatt's "Kool-Aid" stand.


Connors narrows his eyes at the man standing opposite to him. There's something a little...off...about the man, but Wyatt can't quite seem to place it.

Connors: Bring all that you have, and more besides. I've got the Lord in my corner. None can stand against me and expect to be victorious.


Knox: If you bring the Lord, then I'll just have to bring a full can of Raid Deicide.


A low rumble escapes from Wyatt's throat. Jeremiah--knowing how his master gets--places a hand on Connors' shoulder in an effort to calm him...but some things just can't be forgiven, and one of them is...

Connors: Blasphemy.

His face twists into a visage of righteous anger. He points an accusatory finger at Steve Knox.

Connors: BLASPHEMY!!

Steve smirks, his actor's blood that he inherited from his father takes over, and his voice becomes like that of a television announcer.

Knox: Who knows what kind of evil deities pop up in your household these days? One day, you, Wyatt Connors, may find your home under attack from a rampaging storm god. The entirety of your house becomes nothing but a wind tunnel. Then what? Then, the only thing you can turn to... is a nice can of Raid Deicide.

He holds his hands up as if he's actually holding the can in his hands like he's presenting it and showing it to people.

Connors, as you might expect, blows a gasket.

Connors: Cease your blasphemy, you thrice-damned son of a manure demon! You would dare to invoke advertising--the eighth deadly sin--to use at expense of the Almighty? Oh, the shame of it! The palpable, palpable shame! Once I might have been content to humiliate you once more, to subjugate your pride so that you may enter His kingdom--but no more! You will be cast down into the darkest, foulest depths of hell, where you shall spend eternity alongside murderers, thieves, and Rupert Holmes! For all time, your throat will choke on the stench of fire and brimstone and...ocean breeze?


Steve Knox takes a moment to reflect upon Connors' words, and then offers up his response.

Knox: After what happened to me in Pasadena, I can honestly say that Hell sounds like a much nicer place.

The stagehand, who had long finished his Kool-Aid and was tempted to ask for another, seems swayed by this conversation.

Stagehand: What happened in Pasadena?

Knox: You don't want to know what happened in Pasadena, man. You don't want to know.

Stagehand: ...I don't want to know what happened in Pasadena.

Such witty repartee is lost on the False Prophet, however. For even in the midst of his most fervent rantings, Wyatt Connors has to come up for air. This time, it seems he caught a whiff of something.

Connors: Something is wrong. Where is that confounded smell coming from?

Knox: What, you mean the "holiness" I was smelling to find you? I would've thought you'd have grown used to that smell by now.

Connors: Not that, you fool! It's...

He takes another cursory sniff of the air.

Connors: It's you.

You remember the last few seconds, when we got a reprieve from the Wild-Eyed Crazy version of Wyatt Connors? Those were good times.

Connors: YOU! Why do you smell like a soft but pleasant gust of wind coming in from the Pacific and lightly blowing over the sand of a pristine beach, unspoiled by human presence? I DEMAND TO KNOW!


Knox: Well, first I took some soap... Zest, by the way, and I applied it vigorously to my skin. Then I took some shampoo... also Zest, by the way, and I applied it to my hair. You know, the trick behind getting my hair as awesome as it looks i--

The angry vein that throbs over Connors' vow was only half as scary as his God-fearing look of anger, and it was enough to make Knox stop his little tangent.

Knox: I just took a shower, dude.


Connors: A...shower? Impossible! That would mean--

But we never find out directly what it means, because even with all the Kool-Aid he's drank over the last several months, Wyatt Connors' brain still works a little faster than his mouth. He turns away from Knox, and speaks into his walkie-talkie.

Connors: Brother Macarthur! Report!

There is no answer at first, prompting the False Prophet to bark into the speaker again.

Connors: Macarthur! Answer, or I'll make sure you spend the next life cleaning all the chamberpots in heaven!

Knox: You know, I don't get what the big deal is. Personal hygiene is an important part of professional wrestling. Is it the soap that bothers you? I mean, I always go for Zest, but my ex-girlfriend was big into that Dial stuff. I get that people have differing tastes in the brand of soap they use, but I can't really find the attraction in the smell of Dial. You get what I'm saying?

Connors is just about to shoot a nasty remark back, when a voice comes from the radio. It is not the voice of the Decency Crusade member Caravan...instead, it's one that is much more familiar to SCCW viewers.

"Evenin', shit-eyes. Ya miss me?"

The color drains from Wyatt's face. He knows the voice.

Connors: It can't be...

"Bet yer ass it is, Connors. Sorry I didn't call you an' let you know I was comin'...but I had business to take care of first. Seems some jackass turned off the water in the building. I head down here, and who do I find? Your pet lumbering doofus, that's who. By the way, you may not want to wait around on his account--I busted his head up pretty good for him before I turned the water back on."

Knox: Hello? Come on, I was just getting warmed up for our tête à tête over here.

Sadly, Steve Knox might as well be talking to an oil painting, for all the response he gets.

Connors: Lambert...I thought I'd destroyed you.

"No such luck. I ain't done with you yet, Connors. Not by a longshot. Now, I bet you're sad 'cause I didn't come right out and see you tonight, ain'tcha?"

"Well...next time, you won't have to worry about that."

Nearly paralyzed with fear, Wyatt makes no attempt to keep the radio from slipping out of his hand, landing on the floor with a loud clatter.

Steve Knox knew EXACTLY what to do. He walked up to Connors' side, put his hand on his shoulder, and smiled with all of the kindness of Josef Stalin before he sent somebody to their death.

Knox: Man, you're really screwed, now.

Connors: Jeremiah? We're leaving.

Admit it, you forgot he was still here. So did we.

Jeremiah: But what about--

Connors; Later. Time is suddenly of the essence. Our work here is done.

Jeremiah: Okay, but I'll need some help loading this thing back in the truck.

Connors: Leave it. We can always get another.

Jeremiah shrugs, and walks away from the table and toward the nearest exit. Connors twists away from Knox's hand and follows...but not before turning back toward his adversary.

Connors: And as for you, Brother Steven...the next time we meet, I am going to beat every last drop of sin out of you. I'll save you yet...I'll save you all...

Knox: Not if I beat the Jesus out of you, first.

Connors: Just so we understand each other.

And with that...he is gone.

Steve Knox chuckles.

Knox: No, sorry, I don't think I'll ever understand you, "Brother" Wyatt.

And with that...he is gone as well.

Leaving the stagehand all by himself.

Stagehand: So...I can have some more Kool-Aid, then?
Gibson: Time for the main event, folks!

Ware: This is bull... crap, I can't say that on cable TV.

Gibson: This is the No Limit Tournament!

Ware: But... in what world does some slob – some green kid off the street who's wrestled in, like, Ringside Wrestling, deserve a shot at the most prestigious title in all of the land?

Gibson: He drew the low seed, so he gets this opportunity.

Ware: I still don't understand why Connors or Marshall didn't take it, instead of putting themselves waaaaaay on the other side of the bracket.

Gibson: Where they have to win only one match to be the SCCW champion.

Ware: But three matches to get there.

Gibson: Agree to disagree. Jason, take it away.

Ware: You're only agreeing because you know I'm right.

Gibson: Jason?

Ware: Stop ignoring me!

In the ring, there is Jason Myers, all shiny and bright in his new suit – how many $11.00 payoffs do you have to have a suit that cool? This is the question.

Myers: The following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL with a thirty-minute time limit and is for the SCCW Universal Championship!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Myers: Introducing first...

Guitars – lots of guitars. The rapidly-building-to-a-Zack-de-la-Rocha-"UHHH!" song "Testify."

Myers: From Atlantic City, New Jersey and weighing in at two hundred and fifteen pounds...

When he appears at the top of the entranceway, it's with a grin that says, "Look at me, this is kind of awesome". He's cute, ladies – with a kind of brash, young charm that says... well, that says he doesn't really know what he's getting into tonight. Or, if he does, he doesn't care very much.

Myers: He is REEEEEED! GAAAAAMMMMMMMBLLLLLLE!

It's not quite a "RAH" – but it's kind of close.

Gibson: From what we've heard, Reed Gamble wrestles on the indie circles with his partner Casino Young as "The All-Ins," and... well...

Ware: And that's about all you know.

Gibson: (sigh) Yes, Eugene.

Ware: I bet he likes to gamble. I also bet he's not related to Tony Gamble.

Reed pulls himself up to the apron and springs into the ring, testing the springiness of the ropes. Hint: They're very springy.

Gibson: And now we're waiting for the Uni—

Ware: Super—

Gibson: —Versal Champion.

And she makes Reed wait. Fifteen seconds go by. Then twenty.

Gibson: Is she going to even show up for this?

Ware: What happens if she doesn't?

Gibson: I... don't know.

Dave never has to figure it out – slow-building guitars of Machine Head's "Imperium" rip through the AT&T Coliseum.

Ware: Here we go!

As the drums kick in, the lights in the arena dim, floodlights pouring in gold from the SinScreen.

Myers: And HIS opponent!

HEAR ME NOW

AIMZ


Myers: To be accompanied to the ringside area by the Spider in the Web, Alexandra Pierce!

Gibson: Oh, come on! Campbell is completely trying to psych-out this newcomer to SCCW!

Bearing down upon a path we choose
Chosen from the start, living different rules
Existence something to cherish true
Will not succumb to doubts that I hold onto

Myers: From Halifax, Nova Scotia! The longest-reigning and DEFENDING SCCW UUUUUNNNNIIIIIVERSAL CHAMPION!

Two silhouettes step through the smoking entranceway, outlined in red. On the SinScreen above, scenes of the champion's greatest moments play – the chair assault to Jonathan Rhine, to Katie Malick. A fall over Chandler Tsonda in the moment that made the SCCW championship "Superversal". A beautiful Freetekno to Lance Marshall. All of them intercut with close-ups of THAT smirk. Of those eyes. Of that title belt.

Release the fear of my pain
In so much pain – give me the will to fight
Every obstacle that I have inside

The first thing that comes into focus is the eight pounds of gold, metal, and leather held in the champion's hand. Held over her head. The source of her power; the source of these fans' derision. The Universal Championship.

Gibson: She's certainly making a show of this.

Ware: She's the Superversal Champion – she's allowed.

Myers: I give you the 2008 SCCW WRESTLER OF THE YEAR! I give you "The Red Raver"!

Release my fear and

She follows the title belt out – which is good, because it's in her hand. It'd be weird otherwise.

Myers: I give you Amy Campbell – AAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMMZZZZZ!!

Hear me now, words I vow
No fucking regrets
Fuck these chains, no goddamn slave
I will be different

Despite the supposed level of her challenger, despite the title she's holding proudly overhead, despite the massive nature of this moment, Campbell's jaw is set as those mismatched, wolfen eyes focus dead ahead on the ring and the lone man standing in its confines. If anything, her red hair is even more red at this moment, those green-tinted pants shining in the light. Her tanktop is a deep shade of black with a golden crown of thorns on the front.

Stand here defiantly, my middle finger raised
Fuck your prejudice

The Queen of Sin has arrived to defend her throne, and her subjects let her know how she makes them feel.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


It's possibly the loudest negative reaction of the night, and she lowers that championship not a whit until she stops at the top of the entranceway. The corners of her lips curl into a grin because she can't help it.

Gibson: This capacity crowd in San Antonio letting Campbell know exactly how they feel about her.

Ware: They should respect her! Without her, there'd be no "No Limit!"

All my life – always I've felt alone
Conditioned to believe that I'm always wrong
Only truth will help to set me free
Every weakness I must turn into strength

The negativity only gets louder as Campbell's partner-in-crime follows in her wake. Desade's white pantsuit is even whiter than normal, even whiter than it has been all night. It faintly gleams, but Pierce doesn't show even the most minimal expression as the Blueprint of Greatness begins their path to the ring. She is always a step behind, always watching.

Every rage, every tear
Hate – in so much hate, never that pain will bind me
Ask of myself if I've the will to unwind
Every rage and tear

Their walk to the ring is slower than normal, but not because Amy is distracted, not even by the negative signs in the crowd. No, she's drawing this out, staring down Reed Gamble in the ring, who bounces nervously from foot-to-foot. If he's scared, he's not showing it – but why would he? These are girls.

Gibson: They're going out of their way to toy with Reed here – but I have to wonder if this will psych him up, not out.

Ware: Dude, I have chills.

Amy climbs up onto the apron and up the turnbuckles; Pierce stays on the floor. For the first time, she turns away from the kid in the ring, lifting that title again for the benefit of those with flash photography.

Hear me now, words I vow
No fucking regrets

The Machine Head dies down as Campbell steps to the top rope and over onto the mat. She hands David Hamill the Universal Championship, which is thrust overhead by our senior official.

That entrance might have been all about psyching out her opponent, the liberties she takes as Hamill heads over to hand over the title belt are about securing a quick advantage.

Gibson: Aimz! Aimz sneaks a cheapshot in on Reed Gamble – thumb to the eye! And a kick that's borderline low! Reed staggers backwards as Hamill calls for the bell!

*DING* *DING* *DING*


Gibson: And Amy hooks on the inverted facelock! She's going for Freetekno early, trying to make a statement!

Ware: She's the Universal Effin' Champion, Dave. These asshats around here forget that.

Gibson: I think... Reed is too close to the ropes! Reed Gamble reaches out and he's able to walk up the ropes and spring over – into an inverted DDT! It's Gamble that hooks the leg!



ONE!!



Gibson: Only a one count!

Ware: That might have been a mistake.

Gibson: Aimz flies up to her feet, waiting for –

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Gibson: Leg-lariat! Aimz just threw herself at Reed Gamble!

Ware: You don't embarrass the champ!

Gibson: Gamble rolls over to his stomach and pushes himself up to his – WHAM! Campbell! Campbell drives both feet into the face of her challenger! What brutal snap to that dropki—

There's a man hopping over the security barrier and settling himself in at ringside; if you look real hard on the right side of your screen you can see him.

Gibson: That's Kelly Masters! Kelly Masters out here to scout the Universal Champion!

Ware: We'd ask him to sit with us, but, hey, let's be honest, he's kind of boring.

Gibson: Aimz out to the apron – she grasps the top rope and pulls – slingshot! Springboard! Asai moonsault! Red! Raver! Revolution! Down across the chest cavity of Reed Gamble! Campbell hooks the leg!





ONE!!









TWO!!!!






Ware: Three!

Gibson: No! No! Hamill is waving it off! Gamble kicked out! Gamble kicked out of Red Raver Revolution!

Ware: No!

Gibson: Amy can't believe it either! She's arguing with Hamill as she pulls Gamble back up to his –

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Gibson: Reed knocks Aimz' arms free! Kick to the midsection and – BOOM! Twist of fate!



ONE!!











TWO!!!







THR—AWWWWWW!


Gibson: Gamble almost pulled off the upset of the century!

Ware: This cannot be allowed to happen.

Gibson: Aimz up to her feet and – roundhouse! Roundhouse kick from Reed Gamble puts the SCCW champion back down to the mat!

Ware: When did he become freaking Jonathan Freaking Rhine?

Gibson: Reed's on a roll here! Can he capitalize? Can Reed Gamble become SCCW Champion overnight?

Ware: He'd better not – I've almost made up for all the jokes I used to tell about Aimz!

Gibson: Gamble's going upstairs! I've been told he has a ridiculous phoenix splash he calls Let It Ride!

Ware: Blah-blah-blah. Just pin him already so we can go out for cheese fries.

Gibson: Reed Gamble perched like an eagle on the top turnbuckle as the stunned Universal Champion pulls herself up!

Ware: She's playing possum, Dave. Just luring him in and—

Gibson: And dammit!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Gibson: Dammit, Pierce! Desade grabs Reed Gamble's ankle and – that's all it takes! One hesitation and Aimz runs up the turnbuckle and leaps – BOOM! Hurricanrana! Again the presence of the Spider at ringside pays dividends for the self-proclaimed Superversal Champion!

Near Dave & Eugene at ringside, Kelly Masters' lips curl downwards in the only sign of his displeasure.

Ware: He looks constipated.

Gibson: He looks "pissed off" is what he looks! Reed Gamble is already playing with house money here on SIN on SPIKE, but DNA keep dealing from the bottom of the deck!

Ware: Okay, first – stop it with the gambling references. They're not funny. Second, oh, call the wahhhh-mbulance. It's not like he didn't know what he was getting into.

Gibson: Aimz slips out to the apron – looks like it's Dead Aim time!

Ware: Thanks for playing, kid. Your parting gift is at the door – and by that, I mean a kick in the ass.

Campbell tests her grip on the top rope – her springboard 450° splash has won her many a match.

It won't win her this one.

If she wants to dance and drink all night
Well, there's no one that can stop her

It's Against Me! It's "Thrash Unreal". And it heralds the pink-haired woman brushing her way through the curtain.

Ware: Who IS that woman?

Gibson: That's Charlotte Ramone!

Ware: But Pierce is Ramone! So this is just some scheme, right? She'll "accidentally" cost Gamble the match...

Gibson: Well, we saw her bust open Alexandra Pierce last week in West Virginia, so it doesn't appear to be as clean as that.

Ware: Please. Like Desade wouldn't take a chairshot to sell a scheme.

Masters appears to be on the same page as Eugene (don't worry, this will probably never happen again), sliding up out of his perch at ringside to get a better vantage point. Ramone simply lurks on the ramp, but even that earns her a point from Aimz as the Red Raver launches herself into the air.

Gibson: Aimz! Springboard—

Wrestling is a sport of inches; it's a battle of moments. The tide can turn with the smallest of actions. It was one gloved hand on Reed Gamble's foot that started this.

It's a single jab of a pointer finger that ends it.

Aimz' leap takes her onto the top strand of cable, but she only stays there for a moment, tucking her head like an Olympic diver as she whips into an airborne somersault. It's one and a quarter revolutions and it's designed to plant her small frame across the torso of her opponent with maximum velocity.

It's amazing how much harder a man's knees are than his chest, though.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Gibson: KNEES! Gamble got his knees up! Reed kips up! C'mon, kid!

Ware: No!

Gibson: You can do it, kid! Gamble to the top rope in a single bound!

Ware: Seriously, No!

Gibson: He's gonna flllllyyyyyy!

Ware: NO!

Gibson: LET! IT!! RRRRRRIIIIIIIIIDE!!

Ware: NO – STOP THIS NOW!

Gibson: Picture-perfect phoenix splash by Reed Gamble! Can miracles happen? Is tonight his night? Hook that leg! Hook the goddamned leg!

Ware: I want to wake up now!









ONE!!!!!!! "OOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNE!!!"






















TWO!!!!!!! "TTTWWWWWWWWWWWWOOOOO!!!















THR--! "TTTHHHHHHHREEEEEEE-AWWWWWW!"

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Gibson: Gaaaah! Damn her! Damn that woman! Desade pulls David Hamill out of the ring!

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Gibson: Savate kick! Blatant savate kick by the Spider to the referee's jaw! Hamill's out! Reed Gamble had this! He had the biggest upset in SCCW history in his grasp!

Ware: No, he didn't! I DISBELIEVE!

Gideon: And here comes Malik! Malik Jackson racing down to ringside! Disqualify Aimz!

Ware: No, don't do—waaaaait! If she gets disqualified, she doesn't lose the title, but she's forced out of the tournament! No Limit would have no meaning!

Gibson: I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I think you're right!

Ware: Brilliant!

Gibson: Reed Gamble knows you're right, too! Gamble pleading with Malik Jackson not to ring the bell! Malik's calling Jason Myers over!

Ware: So much for Nigel Kensington's brilliant idea! Nobody puts Aimzsy in a corner!

Gibson: Jason has Malik's decision!

Myers: Ladies and gentlemen, referee Malik Jackson has ruled... that this match MUST CONTINUE!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Myers: And further, it will be contested under no-disqualification, no-countout rules!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Ware: NO! NO YOU CAN'T DO THAT! You cheating referee!

Gibson: Oh hell yes! Malik Jackson with the right call! He's not going to let Desade and Aimz steal the entire tournament away!

Ware: But it's in the rules!

Gibson: Reed Gamble with a basement dropkick! Can he recapture the magic?

Ware: Magic is fake!

Gibson: Pierce circling around the ring again – I don't remember her being so active in a match before!

Pablo the timekeeper once famously told Drusilla Devonshire, "Joo are a berry bad lady." He said the opposite of Alanna Marshall back at Defiance. But when Alexandra Pierce comes calling, Pablo is silent, ceding his seat to the Spider and fleeing over the security railing.

Gibson: Desade's got a chair – and Gamble hits a spiral legdrop! Make her put the chair away!

Ware: It's no disqualification! It's no-DQ! She can do whatever she – hey, get Amy out of the ropes! Back him up! Back him up, Jackson!

Gibson: It's no DQ! You just said – Masters!

Ware: I did not!

Kelly Masters didn't intend to get involved in this bout. He wanted to scout Aimz (well, Gamble, too, but he couldn't have expected the youth to enjoy such success) and let the champ and her... we're gonna go with "associate"... know that he fully intended to stand opposite her when SCCW came to Kansas University's Allen Fieldhouse.

But he couldn't just stand by and watch this happen.

Gibson: Masters spins Desade around!

The Machine hadn't encountered the Spider yet (unless she WAS under that mask during one of their conversations – in which case, who was standing on the ramp?). But, as Pierce stumbles backwards, using that hand that held the chair to brace herself against the apron, Kelly's first question is immediate.

"Did I push her that hard?"

Gibson: Desade is backing away from Kelly Masters!

Ware: Don't you hurt her!

Gibson: Masters is a mite upset here, but Pierce is expressionless as she backs away. Reed Gamble, in the ring, nudges Malik Jackson out of the way! Running start... rolling—

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Ware: HAH!

Gibson: The chair! Campbell got that chair up and Gamble goes backfirst into the chair! I think momentum just swung the other way!

Ware: Swung? It just came home to the sweet, sweet embrace of Momma.

Gibson: Ramone down the rampway and Pierce is trapped between them! Campbell using the chair as a crutch – and, oh, the comments I could make about that – as Desade backs up towards Charlie Ramone!

Kelly Masters might have come out here for scouting purposes, but Charlie Ramone is dressed for a fight. Now, we know some of you viewers are new, but Charlotte Ramone used to be one of the flashiest wrestlers in the federation, all ninja-walking and karate-kicking all the time.

Which is why it might be a surprise that her first reaction here is just to haul off with a right-handed hook. Which Pierce smoothly ducks to allow it to connect with Kelly Masters' jaw.

Convenient, eh?

That's what Kelly thinks, too. Because Desade is forgotten (she's backing away from the pair, focused briefly on the ring), and now – well, David?

Gibson: Masters! Masters and Ramone! Masters and Ramone trading blows out on the rampway!

The reason there hasn't been any in-ring action in the last, oh, hundred and eighty words isn't because Campbell is a sideshow to the Hand-related activities or even to next week's triple-threat.

It's because she was watching, too. Sitting up there on the turnbuckle and everything.

Once she was satisfied, she turned and stood up on the middle rope and...

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Gibson: Dammit, Aimz with that chair! He's just a kid!

Ware: That's right! Get rid of that punk kid!

Gibson: Campbell sets up that chair in the ring and now Malik Jackson's own ruling is preventing him from stopping her!

Ware: Frying Pan to Fire Technique... Prana... Method...

Gibson: Masters with a hard lariat over the rail! Masters steps up to the top of the barricade and throws his fist up into the air!

In the ring, Aimz has just dragged Reed Gamble onto the standing chair, and she glances up at the ovation.

Masters and Aimz lock eyes, just as Victor Ambrose wanders out through curtain, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand and a glazed look in his eyes.

Ware: Great, someone else?

Gibson: Victor Ambrose! He's the third of the three people who'd be facing the winner of this match in Lawrence, Kansas in just two weeks! And what's he got there?

Ware: I think that's bologna.

Gibson: Aimz to the apron again...

When it happens, Masters is still watching. When it happens, Ramone is pulling herself up on the outside, adjusting a mask that doesn't seem to fit so great. When it happens, Ambrose is... offering Alexandra Pierce a bite of his sandwich (she declines).

What happens is this: Aimz springs to the top rope again and flips ass-over-teakettle into the Dead Aim again. This time, Gamble is facedown, so it doesn't miss. This time, flashbulbs pop. This time, Reed Gamble is squashed between the we-won't-ask-because-she'll-punch-us-pound Red Raver and a steel chair.

The result isn't pretty.

Gibson: Gamble! The Dead Aim! The Dead Aim from Amy Campbell and Reed Gamble just might have broken his back!

Amy stands, stomping that chair flat before she rolls Gamble over.

Gibson: That might have been the most...

Ware: Awesome? Spectacular?

Gibson: Brutal 450° splash I have ever seen! Malik Jackson in position, Amy glares down her three possible opponents!




ONE!!!









TWO!!!



Ware: He kicked out!

Gibson: Aimz pulled him up! Aimz pulled Reed up! Come on! Come on, just pin him!

Ware: He embarrassed the champ!

Gibson: Aimz dragging Reed up to his feet! Aimz points at the three of them and—

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Gibson: ON THE CHAIR! FREETEKNO ON THE CHAIR! Campbell with one foot on the chest of Reed Gamble!

Ware: You could count to a hundred.


ONE!!












TWO!!!!!










THREE!!!

*DING* *DING* *DING*


"Imperium" hits the speakers.

Myers: The winner of this bout and STILL SCCW Universal Champion—AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMZZZZZZZ!

Gibson: Aimz with an impressive victory over Reed Gamble, though the kid was an eyelash away from winning that title! How many more close calls does the Red Raver have before she loses that title?

The shot is over Amy's shoulder at the three competitors – Ramone, Ambrose, and Masters – one of whom she will be facing in just two weeks.

Masters' attention is split between the pink-haired woman in the crowd and the redhead in the ring. Ramone's glare is unblinking. And Ambrose? Ambrose has a sandwich.

Gibson: Fans, thank you so much for joining us here for SIN on SPIKE – don't forget to tune in to Temptation on Cinemax for the rest of the first-round of the No Limit tournament and beyond! For Eugene Ware and all of us here at SCCW, good night from San Antonio!

Ambrose finally notices the activity in the ring and his eyes widen. Masters hops down from the barrier, staring impassively at the lady standing on the middle rope with eight pounds of leather, steel, and gold. Charlotte Ramone... seems to have disappeared. And Desade watches her companion in the ring, a slight smile playing on her lips.

But this moment, it's her who's triumphant.

Amy Campbell.

Superversal Champion.

Fade to the SCCW logo.
SIN on SPIKE II
[ End Transmission ]