Cut to an unknown and heavily shadowed part of the arena, to an even more heavily shadowed corner. The room appears to be unused by any known SCCW staff, wrestler, or fan, empty and devoid of... well... anything. What has brought the cameras back here? Obviously we don't know, but the wonderful thing about the wrestling business is that all things are, eventually, explained.

Gibson: What the hell is this?

Ware: Dunno, but it reminds me of a scene from a porno I saw last week.

For a long moment, silence reigns, then...

Voice: Ah, I thought eventually, my calls for a camera crew would be answered.

Into view steps a lone man. His head is bowed, shadows hiding his face and the long black coat he wears hiding his body, save the taped hands that are currently wrapped around the hilt of a sword with its handle in the shape of a cross. The head remains bowed as he speaks.

Man: For too long, I 'ave been without honor, without pride.

His hands clench upon the hilt of the blade, as if he could take his frustration out on it.

Man: It 'as been as if 'ze very soul of me 'as been torn out, and replaced with a void that I cannot fill. I've been an empty vessel, a shell of a man, and I've drifted like a ship lost on an endless sea. But... strangely enough, I feel as though I've found my place.

Ware: What the hell? Who is this guy?

Man: I feel as though the ship 'as righted itself and returned to it's proper course. I am speaking, of course, about my return to 'ze company known as Sin City Championship Wrestling.

The crowd stirs a little, perhaps from a vague remembrance from the not so distant past. A slight cheer breaks out, yet the man shows no reaction if he does hear it.

Man: You may ask why, and I'm sure some of 'ze so-called wrestling "insiders" will 'ave false answers for 'ze masses to feed on. So hear me, from 'ze horse's mouth, and you'll know why I 'ave come back to SCCW.

He steps forward, out of the cloak of shadow, and the instant his cobalt blue eyes raise and look into the camera, the crowd reacts, hesitantly indeed but definitely a reaction to the enigmatic Joaquin Pierre.

Pierre: I've bounced around since recovering from my knee injury, suffered in 'zis very company while I defended my Gateway Championship against Mayhem. A match that, had I not been injured, I believe I would have won, but that is neither here nor 'zere. Mayhem beat me, and I am not one to complain about a loss. I went to EPW, seeking to start fresh, as a manager at first and 'zen as a competitor... and I failed.

A deep frown creases his face.

Pierre: I went to Ringside Wrestling, again looking to begin fresh... and I failed. And then, it was on to Global Championship Wrestling. Many of my former GLOBAL cohorts 'ad found their way there, and I thought perhaps I could regain my form there. And the final blow to my honor was struck... I aligned myself with men with no honor, and expected to keep my own. I became like them, callous and jaded. I became a man who cared for nothing other than himself... and once more, I failed. So... what was I to do? Where was I to go?

A small "BORING" chant breaks out, interspersed with small pockets of the crowd that keep cheering and chanting "WELCOME BACK, FRENCHIE."

Ware: Damn it, I thought we were rid of this useless French bastard!

Gibson: For those of you unfamiliar with him, this man is a former Gateway Champion, the first man to ever successfully defend that title. Sounds like some of our fans haven't forgotten his accomplishments here and in GLOBAL, because they are making noise!

Pierre: As you can see, I am very clearly back here, 'ze closest thing to a home company I 'ave known since GLOBAL. At a crossroads, it would appear.

Ware: This has to be a nightmare... please let this be a nightmare....

Pierre: I'm not asking for forgiveness for my failure, for it deserves no forgiveness. I am not asking for a chance to regain 'ze honor I once 'ad, and 'ze respect of 'ze people, for I do not deserve them. I am not asking for a second chance, no I am DEMANDING IT! I will regain my honor. For too long I 'ave lived without it, and it will not continue!

The boring chants start to die away, and the cheering gets louder.

Pierre: I will fight against those who do wrong, I will fight for 'ze people and what they want. I will fight for everything that is good about this business and about this world. I. Will. Fight.

Gibson: Pierre laying it out plain here, Eugene, and he sounds dead serious.

Ware: He sounded serious when Mayhem slammed him through our table.

Pierre: I am Joaquin Pierre. I hope that you, 'ze fans, can forgive me my transgressions, 'zat you can allow me to, once more, be the one who stands against all that is poisoning this business. I hope that, once more, you will come to stand beside me as I fight, because I will sweat and BLEED until I can bleed no more, and I will do it gladly.

He pulls the sword from its sheath and holds it aloft, a gleaming foot and a half of polished steel that reflects the room's dim lighting.

Pierre: You 'ave been put on notice, SCCW. I am back, and this time? This time I will give no mercy to any who step on 'ze wrong side. Rest assured, this time, things will go differently for me. Au Revoir, and bonne nuit to you all.

As his face fades from the big screen, the pockets of the crowd that were cheering for him cheer just a little louder, and Eugene Ware can be heard muttering anti-French remarks under his breath.

Gibson: You heard it from the horse's mouth, ladies and gentlemen, former Gateway Champion Joaquin Pierre has returned, and he's on a definite mission here. Anybody who remembers the wars he fought with Christian Darke in GLOBAL and with Corvus here in our very own SCCW ring will know that this guy is as dangerous as they come when he's on, and we look forward to seeing what the future holds for him.

Ware: And we're back, folks...and let us just remind you that tonight's episode of Temptation will be followed by the world cable premiere of Real Sex 47: Fuckin' A. Seeing as I have all six seasons on DVD, you can rest assured your ol' pal Eugene Ware will be watching. If you just joined us, you may want to change the channel...because my colleague Dave Gibson is in the ring with a bunch of Thanksgiving kitsch, which means something dumb is about to happen. Take it away, old timer!

Camera view shifts to inside the ring, where the usual bodyslam haven has been redecorated with a fancy green canvas cover. There is a long Last Supper-style table in the middle covered by a large full-length red tablecloth, ends overlapping like a skirt. On the table is a GIANT covered dish brought in by four members of the ring crew. It serves as the centerpiece, and surrounding it are piping hot/not so hot serving pans heated by Sterno, containing all sorts of goodies found at a traditional Thanksgiving meal. Dave Gibson holds a microphone close, and the Rochester crowd dully roars as he makes his introduction.

Gibson: Ladies and gentlemen, and fans worldwide...it is my pleasure to introduce my next two guests. The first is a face you know very well from his in-depth interviews and camaraderie with SCCW's finest talent...and the second is YOUR current LiveWire and one-half...

Oh yeah. Pop building already, bitches.

Gibson: ...of the Strength in Numbers championship holders...please welcome...

Your stereotypical Dirty South beat hits the PA...handclap cymbals, periodic low bass thump, and bleeps/blips of electronic synth...

Yeeeeeeee, ho.
Whaddup...ha!
It's ya boy wid dem chips, gettin' baked in this moafoa...
COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOKIE Crisp, uh-hum...
Naw bue! NAW BUE! Black Sheep in the pasture...
Kings of Pop...2K8...
Get thankful in dis bitch...

Yep, it's crunk...yep, it's atypical...yep, it's Cookie and Jared Sykes providing the rap...

Gibson: ETHAN PETERS...and CHARRRRRRRRRRLEY CRISP-AH!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Fireworks of brown and darker brown form a really poor attempt at chocolate chip cookie pyro as the beat kicks in just a little harder, and coming through the entrance curtain...

GET DAT DRESSIN' (ho)
SAY DAT BLESSIN' (yuh)
PO DAT GRAVY
SMITH AND WESSON (bang)
SO CAL LIVIN (yee!)
STRAIGHT OUT THA KITCHEN (mmm)
BREAK DAT BREAD NUKKA
IT'S THANKSGIVIN' (ho)

...and out comes the dangerously festive duo, sending a nice little chuckle rippling across the arena. Both are in sync with some bow-throwing...however, Peters' "bow" isn't his elbow, it's an actual bow. The Cookie Crunk is clad exquisitely in a solid black Amish-style suit in appreciation of the standard American pilgrim--but the most cheers are directed toward Big Eth, who wears nothing but a few feathers, decorative war paint, and a snug-fitting loin cloth. A quiver of arrows rests on his elephant-like back, and the two make their way down the entrance ramp toward the ring.

CHARLEY: Kings of Pop straight rep and presentin'
Pumpkin pie, my my my, gimme dat squish mitten
Haters ain't sharin' shit, they ain't gon' get nuttin'
Girl get up dat Stove Top 'cause you know I be stuffin'.
I go back fo seconds like Charter, I'm on demand
Bitch yo gravy can't be stirred by no Dead Man's Hand!
We got tha goods for tha feast, so I spit this ballad
I chompin' pie, eatin schrimps, and dat mushroom salad!

Charley soaks up the hand-slaps as usual, occasionally busting the move or two with a few dancing fans. Peters, meanwhile, is preoccupied trying to shoot fake arrows into the audience.

GET DAT DRESSIN' (ho)
SAY DAT BLESSIN' (yuh)
PO DAT GRAVY
SMITH AND WESSON (bang)
SO CAL LIVIN (yee!)
STRAIGHT OUT THA KITCHEN (mmm)
BREAK DAT BREAD NUKKA
IT'S THANKSGIVIN' (ho)

Crisp, now inside the ring, gives Dave Gibson a giant hug, and the two laughingly observe the display that is Ethan Peters, who is doing his best Tatanka impersonation by skipping and war-crying around the ring.

Ware: I can't tell if he's asking the gods for rain or a lightning bolt suicide. Hopefully the latter.

JARED: Get in my ride (WHAT?) we're goin' out to eat!
I get my three vegetables and a meat!
I can cook, girl...but you can't digest my rhymes.
I cook dem turkey legs and ah’ crunchin’ chicken feet
'Cause like Balki I flow so ridi-cool-us-ly
Now where's my guest spot on BET?
Open that purse, baby, fill it to the top
'Cause you know them rolls is mothafuckin' free!

GET DAT DRESSIN' (ho)
SAY DAT BLESSIN' (yuh)
PO DAT GRAVY
SMITH AND WESSON (bang)
SO CAL LIVIN (yee!)
STRAIGHT OUT THA KITCHEN (mmm)
BREAK DAT BREAD NUKKA
IT'S THANKSGIVIN' (ho)

Exeunt music. Enter the promo.

Gibson: Well, Charley...Ethan...you two are certainly into the Thanksgiving spirit. But I have to ask you...where's the other half of the new champs for this feast?

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Charley smiles, taking the mic away.

Charley Crisp: Truth is, Dave...we got started a lil' prematurely on the vittles...and let's just say the Black Sheep had to retreat to the pasture...but don't worry, he'll be joining up wid us shortly. But Dave, I gotta ask YOU...doesn't this feel a little empty?

Gibson: Well...I'm not sure what you mean...

Charley Crisp: Uh...well...let's look what we got...

Charley turns around to face the table, scratching his chin as he examines the feast before his eyes. Pointing a finger to each item, he runs down the list.

Charley Crisp: We got rolls. We got collard greens. We got dressin'. We got...whatever's under that dish...we got sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet potaters...we got giblet gravy...we got cranberry sauce...and we got na-kins. But...there's just somethin missing from the picture...

DEH NEH NEH NEH
DEH NEH NEH NEH
DEH NEH NEH NEH
DEH NEH NEH BOM BEM BOM...
DEH NEH NEH NEH
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRE YOU REAAAAAAAAAAADDY??

Korn - "Blind".

Corn - Violent Jesus, Mervin Humperdink, and a man we've never seen before.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Yes, the two best buddies of the boisterous blueberry battalion. Dressed from head to toe as walking ears of corn, making their way down the entrance ramp. With them is an individual we've never seen before, whose face pokes out of a hole near the top of the stalk. The look on his face is stern, whereas Jesus and Mervin's wear smiles as they come down to a rousing ovation, giving the hand-slaps and all that goodness gracious. The music roars on and the three roll inside the ring...rather difficultly and rather comically. Charley and Ethan help VJ and Mr. Humperdink to their feet, and when Cookie goes to help the third individual, he shakes off his hand and proceeds to rise to his feet alone. Charley shrugs and Gibson continues with a grin.

Gibson: Well, it appears we now have ourselves a REAL Thanksgiving, now that the corn has arrived! I prefer creamed corn myself, but I suppose it's a matter of preference. Anyhow, now that we're all here, I guess it's appropriate before we start chowing down to go around and let everyone know what exactly we're thankful for! Let's start with you, Corn Ear #1...

Gibson hands the microphone to Violent Jesus, and it's painfully obvious that he wasn't prepared for any sort of communication. He stammers into the piece, and finally comes up with some semblance of an answer.

Violent Jesus: Eugene is thankful for pie!!!

All of the guests at the dinner table shoot him a confused look. He nervously pushes the microphone into Mervin's hands, who is more than ready to speak.

Mervin Humperdink: I'm thankful that I no longer have to dress as something blueberry-related! I mean, I was starting to lose my self-respect, forcryinoutloud!

A knowing nod from Violent Jesus, and a few chuckles omitted from the Rochester crowd. Gibson is handed the microphone once again, and he gives a glance toward the third ear...still a stranger amongst the friends.

Gibson: How about you...um...whoever you are...

Unknown Corn: I'm Dean Koleman, Cameraman Extrordinaire, and I'll tell you what I'm NOT thankful for...

A pause. For buildup purposes. I stink at writing actions.

Dean Koleman: Black.......................Friday.

Don't worry. Eventually, you'll start to get it. Koleman shoots an icy look at the Great Brownnecked Hope in Charles Crisp. Gibson shrugs, now turning his attention to the Apache Warrior in disguise, who has not moved a muscle the entire time...standing at atypical folded-arms Indian stance.

Gibson: And, what about you, Chief? What are you thankful for?

Ethan Peters: CHIEF'UM ROLLING ETHAN THANKFUL FOR...

Peters turns abruptly, flipping the covered dish open to reveal...

Ethan Peters: TURKEY!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Various turkey sounds mixed in with comical Benny Hill-style music kicks on the PA, as whoever is in the giant turkey outfit comes alive, doing a moonsault directly off the table and landing flat on his padded belly. Rolling over with stride, the turkey stands up and begins to strut his stuff while flapping his arms like a chicken, moving across all corners of the ring. He moves to Dave Gibson and tries to coax him into dancing with him, but Dave isn't quite that comfortable. When this attempt doesn't work, the turkey runs directly after Ethan Peters...who is a bit startled, as he yelps in fear and rolls underneath the ring, running to the backstage area as fast as his stubby legs can carry him!

Ware: You know, this didn't work in the 80's. Guess what...it's STILL not funny.

The turkey grabs the microphone, and miraculously, we can hear him through the mask...

Turkey: Know what I is thankful for? MANEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE BELTZ!

Jumping back onto the table, the turkey squats on the edge...and out of his tailfeathers drops one of the SIN belts, the LiveWire championship...

Ware: Oh, NO WONDER...

...the Infinite Gauntlet belt, and the other SIN title! The turkey then pulls off his hood to reveal none other than Jared Sykes! The crowd roars in approval as Jared jumps back to the mat and examines his work of defecating out the "many belts" from his birdish rectum. Smiling, he retrives a microphone from inside his breast pocket (funny, the costume has pockets).

Jared Sykes: Sorry I'm late, fellas...but man...I sure was STUFFED! Wokka wokka wokka!

Crisp, meanwhile, has retrieved both of his titles. In disgust, he drops both of them on the table and begins to wipe his hands off on Jared's turkey outfit. He shanks the mic away from him and stares at him with a faux-stern impression.

Charley Crisp: Brah...you got BASTE on my bling.

Jared Sykes: That's not baste...

Crisp grabs his stomach in sickness, and the rest of the party appears almost ready to throw up from the remark.

Jared Sykes: What? I got lonely!

Charley Crisp: Alright, Wyatt Connors' dick...if yer done ruining our appetites for like...ever...maybe we can tell the Moonwalkers out there just exactly what the Kings of Pop are thankful for?

Jared Sykes: Dude...I told you...calling them 'Moonwalkers' is not only totally cliché, but totally forgettable.

Charley Crisp: Oh, and like your suggestion wasn't the fuckin' creepiest thing going? Shoutin' to the enemies that we're gonna 'take 'em on the Ferris wheel ride at Neverland Ranch?'

Jared Sykes: What's wrong with that?

Charley Crisp: I'll tell you what's wrong with that...backstage, Amy Campbell has already thought of seventy-four witty things to say about us by even mentioning that line.

Jared Sykes: C'mon...everyone knows they don't have Ferris wheels in Canada. Or pop music. Or fun.

Charley ignores the plight, immediately changing gears by pulling out a piece of notebook paper, eager to change the subject back to the matter at hand.

Charley Crisp: WHAT WE'RE THANKFUL FOR BY JARED AND CHARLEY. Did you have to write this in yellow crayon? I can barely read this shit.

Jared Sykes: Gimme...

Jared snatches the paper away, and begins to list the things that the KOP are apparently glad to have. This is a precursor to nonsense.

Jared Sykes: What we're thankful for! The International House of Pancakes. Mountain Dew Code Red. Puzzles. Chicks' butts. Chicks' boobs. Chicks. Our careers not yet reaching the point of going on Hollywood Squares. Not having the nickname Philly-Bear.

Charley Crisp: Successfully conducting interviews without the use of the latest YouTube phenomenon for humor purposes. The phrase 'googly-moogly'. Girls' bathrooms not really being bathrooms, but rather a room of mirrors and makeup because they don't poop. Our careers not yet reaching the point of going on Maury. Being able to fully answer Malice's question of 'how does my ass taste?'

Jared Sykes: Um...successfully guessing correctly that Wyatt Connors was circumcised, therein making my costume more realistic. Unsuccessfully guessing Wyatt Connors' circumcised thingy was over six feet long. I don't know why I'm thankful for that, but I am.

Charley Crisp: Knowing that we would not have to use up up down down left right left right B A B A start in order to bring Katsidy to orgasm. Knowing that we would not have to use a Game Genie in order to bring Katsidy to nudity.

Jared Sykes: Charley Crisp's amazing ability to go from ghetto fabulous to nerdy well-spoken gentleman...

Charley Crisp: Jared Sykes' amazing ability to go from butt-hole to whole butt...

Jared Sykes: Nice comeback...

Charley Crisp: I hate you.

Jared Sykes: Knowing that syphilis does not have the capability to fly...

Charley Crisp: Or come out of a computer screen...

Jared Sykes: Or be any less repulsive than anytime Ethan Hawke speaks...

Charley Crisp: Or be any less repulsive than Savant's 'my parents don't give me allowance, let's dress in all black' hairdo...

Jared Sykes: Or be any less repulsive than a Eugene Ware one-liner...

Charley Crisp: Or be any less repulsive than...

Jared Sykes: ...our endless repetition...

Charley Crisp: But the thing we are MOST thankful for, besides the legion of fandom that surrounds this very ring and gazes upon us via television broadcast...

Jared Sykes: ...and those on the Interwebs who praise our undoubtedly awesome chemistry as we subdue our enemies...

Charley Crisp: ...and everyone in the locker room who hasn't tried to kill us...

Jared Sykes: ...which will undoubtedly be about one other person after tonight...

Jared Sykes/Charley Crisp: ...is the...JIMMY...BONAFIDE...DAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNCERRRRRRRRSSSSS!

The lights dim, and pink and green lasers shoot all across the arena.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Hypnotized Minds Productions presents...
New Project Pat...Project Pat...
It's goin' down.

Lights back on and the corns, the Kings, and the Gibson have cleared the ring. The Thanksgiving table has been flipped over, spilling all of the food off and revealing eight scantily-clad women...all beautiful, all bouncy, and all booty-licious. Shaking their asses to the beat, the girls clumsily move in all corners of the ring, ready to put on a show for the SCCW crowd. They are the Jimmy Bonafide Dancers, and they are what Thanksgiving is all about...

Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.

The camera pans to reveal all eight women bent over in three-point stances. Clad in fall-colored hotpants, the view scrolls across their butts to give close ups of the words written on them. “SAUCY”, “GRAVY”, “BASTY”, “FOOD”, “THANKS”, “GIVING”, “MEAL”, and last but certainly not least…”CORNY.” “Basty” is high-stepping near a puddle of spilled giblet gravy, and proceeds to slip on it, crashing right into “Food” who in turn goes careening into the far turnbuckle. “Giving” is hit in the face by a hair swish of “Gravy”, setting her off something fierce. “Gravy” picks up a handful of dressing and piefaces her, which results in the two catfighting one another on the ground.

Ware: Now THAT’S what I’m thankful for!

She got a bubblegum cap with a coochie that's slappin'
With some rhino legs and a booty that's flappin'
Whistle by yo head 'cause you know we love cappin'
Got her toes done up with her fingernails matchin'
Girl dat big ol' butt that you walkin' cross the street wid
Peep dis, for a Happy Meal can I squeeze it?
Silicone pop make the juice start to runnin out
Greasy lips thick like a moose what I'm talkin' bout.
The freaky freaks I heard on the loose let yo pockets out
Got trick niggas watchin' yo caboose with dey wallets out
You so stout, lil' somethin' somethin' bad to the bone
That ain't a monkey hangin' off yo back, that's Donkey Kong!

Little did you know that this was “Saucy’s” big break on television, and she’s going to be damned if these two attention-whores steal her spotlight! Obviously opting for the cranberry sauce, she begins to rub it sensually all over her body. “Meal” is reluctant to oblige, but eventually attempts to one up her fellow dancer by sticking rolls in her cleavage and strutting around as if she were on a catwalk. “Saucy” removes one of the rolls and shoves it into “Meal’s” mouth, choking her with the yeasty treat. Now they too are at it on the ring, with “Thanks” and “Corny” trying to dance around the chaos as Project Pat continues to bump.

Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.
Good googly moogly, that thang is juicy.

The buxom young Asian beauty known as “Corny” has made her way to the arena floor, and proceeds to booty-pop an unsuspecting Dean Koleman. He looks at her with confusion before pushing her away…in which Charley Crisp is happy to take his place. A visible groan can be seen omitting from the Cameraman Extrordinaire’s mouth. Jared Sykes has now made it a point to get involved, rolling in the ring and club-dancing with “Giving” by doing moves made famous in the motion picture Night At The Roxbury. Things are looking FABULOUS until he is tripped up by a still-fighting tornado of “Saucy” and “Meal”, knocking him and “Thanks” over into the sweet potatoes.

How you gon' prance around with all that, sayin' you ain't all that
Everybody at ya wanna hit ya like a ball bat
That thang make ya look back, be like man who is that
You can see a hiny on a hiny I'm pursuin' that
A dirty south hoody rat tryin' to hold goodies back
Waist like a wasp, butt cheeks pokin' really fat
I'm Crown Vic old school, squeezin' on her boo-boo
Hugged up, pokin' in her brains so what ya wanna do
Nice tats on ya body, liquor comin' out ya pores
Weed stench ya ain't right, G-string for some drawers
You can call me Mr. Whipple, I won't do no harmin'
Never to the Charmin, come holla at me woman

Dave has rejoined his colleague at ringside. The music stops as the ring crew, who now officially hate the Kings of Pop, examines the chaos. The Jimmy Bonafide Dancers, Jared Sykes-in-a-turkey-outfit, Charley Crisp, and the many corns have hightailed it backstage to a particularly satisfied crowd.

Gibson: Welp…happy Thanksgiving to all of our loyal SCCW fans! Hope you enjoyed that piece.

Ware: ‘Corny’? Are you serious?

Gibson: Let's go backstage, where Barry Kitna is standing by with a very special guest.

Ware: I hate special guests.

Gibson: You do not.

Ware: I hate you. I hate everything. The cranberry sauce I had was that canned crap! Hatred!

Backstage, Barry Kitna is looking... not dapper, but young. Way young.

Kitna: Please welcome my guest at this time, Rochester's own, Madison Sinclair!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Okay, that's not really fair, but she does live in the area, so the crowd is kind of loud for the woman with the strawberry blond hair that the camera pans slightly to the left to encompass. Madison has always been classically beautiful, the kind of sculpted face more likely to appear on the cover of a magazine than in a wrestling ring. Even with that hair held back by a blue and white headband and her makeup subtler than we've seen before, she's still a striking woman.

Madi: Thanks so much for having me, Barry.

Kitna: No problem at all. How have you been? It's been some time since fans have seen you or your ex-husband, Hunter Sabuani.

There's a mixed reaction for the Raja of Roguishness' name; he's kind of a jerk, but he was their jerk.

Madi: I've been... I've been well, I suppose.

Kitna: The last time you appeared on SCCW television, you accused Lance Marshall of having something to do with the attack on Hunter.

Her lips twist into a regretful smirk, briefly looking down as she straightens the hem of her white blouse.

Madi: Yeah. I was kind of pissed at Hunter's injury and lashing out at whoever I can find. I really do apologize to Lance and Alanna for those accusations -- you should've heard what I said to Dr. Kensington before they got there!

Kitna: And how is the Raja doing? Any update as to his condition.

Madi: Well, whoever attacked him certainly knew what they were doing. He's got a broken collarbone and a separated shoulder -- the same one that's bothered him back since we were in Georgia. They also say he's had a minor concussion, which, coupled with the post-concussion syndrome he's been suffering from since Ed Lambert dropped him on his head... it's slow going.

Kitna: Wow.

Madi: Yeah, you know... certain things get harder when you get older, Barry. He'll be thirty-nine next year and the old body doesn't work the way it used to when you get up there in years.

Kitna: So no surprise appearances for Hunter anytime soon?

Her laugh is rich, like the sound of brandy being poured into a glass.

Madi: Just for the twins' Christmas party as Santa's helper. I'm not going to make any promises -- you know how he is about wanting to show up, even when he probably shouldn't -- but right now, probably not. They're saying he shouldn't wrestle -- we'll see, though.

Kitna: You were sitting right there next to him when the attack took place. You have any idea who could have done this to him?

Madi: Not really. I feel kind of ridiculous saying this, but I was too focused on the bit we were going to start it with. I'm not naturally witty like he is, so I had to write all his ideas down on little index cards. So I was looking down at the index cards and I heard a sharp bang and a quiet snapping sound and I looked up just as the lights came on and he was... he was lying there.

She looks down, breathing out a long sigh.

Madi: But I know this. I may not be as skilled a fighter as Desade or Aimz, but I'm going to find out who tried to make their career on the back of the father of my children, and I am going to make them pay. Hunter Sabuani was not a great man, but he didn't deserve to be the victim of some cheapshot because someone didn't like what he was saying about them.

When she looks up, it's right dead ahead on the camera, blue-gray eyes as steely as if it was Alexandra Pierce.

Madi: You know who you are. Don't think you're going to get away with it.

Barry turns back to the camera, leading the microphone away.

Kitna: There you have it, fans! Madison Sinclair --

Madi: I used to be Madison Justice, and I mean to take that name literally.

Kitna: Madison Justice with some strong words for whomever attacked Hunter Sabuani last month! Back to you guys at ringside.

Gibson: You know, I may not have liked what Hunter Sabuani's been since the Dead Man's Hand came to SCCW --

Ware: I did!

Gibson: But he was a legend in this sport, and he did NOT deserve to have his career cut short like that.

Ware: I'll kick 'em in the shins, Madi!

There are days, thinks Nigel Kensington with a sigh, when he finds it hard to remember that he hasn’t actually been at the head of SCCW for all that long. That, despite the weight of years that seem to rest upon his shoulders, he has only been corralling our merry band for a few months. True, there are days where Nigel feels as though he’s actually starting to get a handle on things, that he’s starting to get a good feel for just what the men and women under his employ will do and how far they will go…and then Jared Sykes goes and dresses up as a giant phallus, sending everything back to square one.

There is one lesson that Nigel Kensington had learned rather quickly, as much for his physical safety as his piece of mind. Said lesson is this: everybody wants something. Whenever a member of SCCW crossed the threshold of his office, it was inevitably for one reason and one reason only: to procure something from him, whether by means fair or foul.

No one ever came just to socialize or make small talk. No one ever really bothered to even pick up their checks anymore, not since most of the roster had signed up for direct deposit. No, these days, if any of his employees came to see him these days, it was because they had something they wanted.

Which is why, Nigel wondered, he was finding it slightly confusing that he was now sitting across from these particular members of his roster. Lance Marshall was, in simple terms, a goliath of a man: all densely muscled frame and sculpted features. He has managed to ease his frame into one of the heavy wooden chairs in front of Nigel’s desk, his massive frame seemingly barely contained by the T-shirt and jeans that he was favoring this evening.

Seated next to her husband was Alanna, as exotically beautiful as her husband was handsome. Her long black hair was done up in a ponytail, her silk blouse and slim trousers creating a look of casual elegance. She, thought Nigel, was easy to read: calm, poised, seemingly locked into that mode of civility that most people find themselves using when speaking to their employer.

Her husband, however, was another matter entirely. Impassive, emotionless, stone faced…his expression gave anything regarding the state of his mind. He could, thought Nigel, be furious, pleased or utterly bored at the prospect of what might happen this evening…and no one would be any the wiser.

Though he would never admit it publicly, this rather worried Nigel Kensington.

It is Nigel who is the first to break the silence.

Nigel: Lance, Alanna…it is good to see the both of you. May I ask if everything is in place for the contract signing later this evening?

Alanna: Actually, Dr. Kensington, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about.

Nigel finds himself letting out a sigh before he even realizes he’s done so.

Nigel: Oh, dear.

Alanna: What?

Nigel: One of the things I have learned about this business, Mrs. Marshall, is that there is a certain degree of informality inherent in it. I am rarely, if ever, called by my proper name. Usually, it is either Nigel or some diminutive thereof…most of which I have learned to live with. All, except, for the “Nige-inator”. That one could not be allowed to continue.

Alanna allows herself a small smile at this.

Alanna: I can imagine who came up with that one.

Nigel: Indeed, I consider myself lucky if I’m not addressed as “hey, you”. So, Mrs. Marshall, for you to call me Dr. Kensington…well, whatever you may have in mind, it certainly cannot be good.

Alanna: My apologies, Nigel. We just wanted to talk to you about the scheduling at the PPV.

Nigel: Is this in regards to the Elite Championship title shot given to Miss Campbell? I do apologize if that’s caused you any offense. You do understand, Mr. Marshall, you had already received a shot at the Championship during its inaugural tournament…

Lance waves his hand quickly, shooing away the very idea. A look of mild irritation crosses his features.

Lance: Trust me, it’s not about that. You’re free to name whoever you choose to go after the Championship.

Nigel: I appreciate that, Mr. Marshall. Not all of my employees would be so…magnanimous.

Alanna: It’s actually about the Universal title match.

Nigel: You have no cause to worry on that front. The match will go on as scheduled.

Lance: I’m starting to think that it shouldn’t.

Of all the things Nigel Kensington expected to hear coming out of Lance Marshall’s mouth when the Marshalls stepped into his office…this was not one of them.

Nigel: Excuse me?

Lance: I’m not really fond of any situation which gives Aimz such a readymade out.

Now Nigel is really surprised.

Nigel: Do you somehow believe that my scheduling Miss Campbell twice in one evening is my way of being nice to her?!

Lance: Giving her an advantage, not being nice. There’s a difference.

Nigel: Elaborate, please.

Lance: Connors is a conniving, duplicitous sociopath who will do anything to come out on top of a situation…and that’s only gotten worse since he’s hooked up with whatever cult he’s joined up with.

Nigel: You doubt Mr. Connors’s claim to have “found G-d”?

Lance: Even the Devil can quote Scripture to suit his purposes.

Nigel: I will admit, the effect he has had on certain members of the roster is…worrying.

Alanna: You’ve seen what’s happened to Jimmy Dawes. That is some major league reprogramming right there.

Nigel: But if I’m not mistaken, you and your colleagues have also made the contention that Connors would be useless inside the ring without his army around him…and done so repeatedly.

Lance: All of that’s true. And yeah, Wyatt soils himself at even the mention of Desade’s name…which, given how Aimz and Desade have snuggled up together lately, works to her advantage…

Oh, if only he knew…

Lance: …but Wyatt’s need to come out on top is greater than all of that.

Nigel: And what if Ms. Campbell were to fail against Mr. Connors? I would have believed you to be pleased with that outcome.

Lance: Nothing about that match would make me “happy”. But if Aimz were to fail, she immediately grabs an excuse to use when I take the belt away from her.

Alanna: “Of course Aimz was gonna lose, they booked her twice. Marshall talked to the boss, got him to screw her over.”

Nigel lets out a laugh at this; a proper, hearty laugh.

Nigel: And who, exactly, would say this? Miss Campbell? Her associates in the Dead Man’s Hand, who make a habit of claiming the sky is green and water is dry?

Not literally, you note, but you get the drift.

Nigel: Anyone whose opinion can be said to truly matter knows what kind of man you are, Lance. They know that you are a good, honest, decent man who has made his career off his strength, his skill and his integrity. They will know that, if you win the belt at the pay-per-view, that you did so because you deserved to…not because of some grand conspiracy.

Let the rest say what they wish.

As if at some unspoken cue, the Marshalls rise up from their chairs, Nigel following suit. As they stand, Lance offers his hand to Nigel and Nigel takes it gratefully.

Nigel: I hope I have allayed your concerns?

Lance nods emphatically.

Lance: You have. Thank you.

Nigel: My pleasure. Now, I suggest the two of you prepare for later. This evening promises to be…eventful.

Gibson: Well, we're about halfway through this special Thanksgiving edition of Temptation, fans, and we're hoping that you've enjoyed dinner with your family and now you all can spend an evening with us.

Ware: Not me! I hope your day has been rotten.

Gibson: You're just saying that because you haven't had your turkey yet.

Ware: I'm going through tryptophan withdrawals!

Gibson: In our main event tonight, we'll see --

"Good evening."

There isn't any pyro, no dramatic lighting, and, alas, no Within Temptation. Just a woman in white with an SCCW microphone clutched in a shiny gloved hand.

Oh, and a chorus of boos, because that's freakin' Desade.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Gibson: We're being joined here by the Director of the Dead Man's Hand, scheduled to team with Phillip Kennedy in our main event.

Ware: But where are the hot bitches?

Pierce is dressed as she is always dressed -- brilliant white, tailored pantsuit contrasting with black leather, flat-heeled boots and shiny black gloves. Her face is wreathed in shadows cast by the bangs that hang in her face. Her pace to the ring is speedy; after those first two words, she doesn't say anything until she's in the ring.

Desade: My name is Alexandra Pierce.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Ware: They're booing her name.

Desade: It has come to my attention that some misconceptions have been bandied about as if they are true. That I have become weak. A stepping stone. Beholden to Amelia Campbell. By the end of this night, I hope to alleviate your concern, but I do appreciate your kind thoughts.

Gibson: I think she's talking about you.

Ware: I didn't say anything! I still love you! You complete me!

Desade: I do not make many errors, but when I do, I will admit them. And I have overlooked a great many gnats circling my empire. People like Jay Draven -- I will not lower myself to using your other name -- and Craig Maloof.

There's a sweeping, modicum of cheers throughout the arena.

Desade: Dusk felt a taste, just a hint, of what flexing the fingers of my Hand feels like. For one moment, one split second, Dusk looked up and saw there was no one to rescue him and that I always have one more trick up my sleeve. Jay Draven walked away, he had made his case. He does not care about you, Craig.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


The Director flicks her hair out of her face, exposing her raw stare to the crowd.

Desade: Draven does not care about any of you! Jay Draven is interested in one thing and one thing only -- he wants to be the one to bring me down.

A small chant of "Preacher! Preacher!" rings in the Blue Cross Arena.

Desade: Make no mistake, Jason. I am aware of your existence. I am expecting your onrush, your vicious fight through every obstacle I put in front of you. You will crawl up to the top of the mountain, you will draw yourself tall, and you will look across and see Alexandra Pierce. And you may beat me, you may try to hurt me, but Edward Lambert tried and Edward Lambert failed. And the only thing people will ever remember about you, Jason, is that one time, six years ago, you put Edward's face into a chair, grabbed a heaping handful of tights, and pinned him at Devil's Due. At the end of the day, Jason, they will remember far... far more about me.

The smile that sneaks across her face is positively bone-chilling.

Desade: They will remember so much that the horrible, broken heap of a man I toss back to the bottom of that mountain will go forgotten even among the crimes I have committed. I dealt with you for five long months... and you had your Devil's Due. I will have mine. And Dusk? If the talent of an entire federation cannot stop me, do you not think it is time for you to swim back into the shallow end of the pool with the rest of them?

There is a pause here, a moment where those cold, emotionless gray eyes simply stare into the crowd. And then her smile stretches across her face, slowly slithering.

Desade: Which brings me to another gentleman Jared Sykes.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Desade: No, by all means, cheer him. Yes, Jared. I have not forgotten you, either. It occurred to me, as I was gathering my family for a holiday meal, that I have not completed our business. That you and I were interrupted in our lovely evening by something that... honestly slips my mind entirely. It is another error, one I would very much like to rectify before the evening is over and his impending battle with Amelia keeps us from being... civil.

She wheels towards the SinScreen, briefly showing her own image over the entrance.

Desade: So I would invite you here, to this ring, so that we might clear the air, as two old friends who shared a lovely bite to eat.

Gibson: After that diatribe, Jared would have to be stupid to come to the ring.

Ware: This is Jared Sykes. 'Nuff said.

Sure enough...

This is where the synthesizers kick in, and the crowd goes…

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


…before the guitars explode and a Swedish guy named Bjorn starts to sing.

Already this evening Jared Sykes has appeared in a turkey costume, engaged in an awkward food fight with the Jimmy Bonafide Dancers, and "tried to make friends" with Amy Campbell, however his appearance on the stage at present may well end up being the dumbest thing that he has done this evening.

For someone who's spent more time than any one man probably should with Alex Pierce, he does not appear too phased as he makes his way to the ring. More remarkably perhaps is that he shows no signs of the turkey-related catastrophe from earlier in the evening.

Stepping through the ropes and removing a microphone from the pocket in his shorts, the nonsense begins.

Sykes: One Black Sheep as you requested.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


They're not cheering the statement, no. What they are cheering is that is was accompanied with a low bow and a curtsy.

The smile on her face is... not warm, but pleasant.

Desade: Good evening. I think we both know that "Black Sheep" is an epithet that means quite the opposite of Jared Sykes, but... forgive me my trespasses. It is oftentimes difficult for me to comprehend a man who does not wish me harm or pain, no matter how I may seem to deserve them.

It's a fact, look it up -- Alexandra Pierce gets MORE verbose when she's either irritated or flummoxed. Bet you didn't think that was possible.

Desade: We have come quite far since our initial encounter at All-In, have we not? You, the resigned hero, ready to restore the honor of a federation, should Lance Marshall fall at Defiance and fail at defiance. Me, a... well, I have not changed overmuch since that original encounter. These same eyes that watch you now were behind the mask, but I did not realize something then that I have little doubt of now. The depth of your principle may go further than Jonathan Rhine, who merely took a gentle nudge to become a depraved philanderer. You have not only taken everything this business has to deal you, you have done so with an unwavering dedication to your honorbound ways. Truly, you are to be applauded for your nobility.

In that moment he makes a mental note: watch the replay with thesaurus and notebook in hand.

Sykes: Well…

He hangs on the syllable briefly, bobbing his head to the side as he does.

Sykes: That's not entirely accurate, but I suppose you'd have to know a little bit more about me and where I started to appreciate where that name came from, and why it stuck. That is cute though, what you did there, with the fall and the fail, the fail and the fall.

Gibson: Is he…? Is he teasing her?

Indeed he is, albeit somewhat playfully. If there's any malice the intent is kept hidden.

Gibson: I'm not sure that's the smartest thing to do.

Ware: Are you nuts? The man wore a turkey suit and pooped title belts!

Gibson: Still it's…

Ware: TURKEY SUIT!

Oblivious to the debate at the ringside broadcast table, Jared continues.

Sykes: Strange thing, though… you'd be surprised just how hard it is, and in some cases what you have to go through, in order to stay… hell, I don't want to say noble. Makes me sound all regal. I start talking like that and before you know it I'm calling people "sunshine".

Whatever the case, it seems that the Director is amused by it as well.

Desade: I do, and my most sincere apologies if I have in any way made it moreso. I do not date, Jared. In my position, in my world... such a thing would be frowned upon. Those relationships that I have fostered are based upon respect and my willingness to allow very bad people to do very bad things.

She turns away slightly, tipping her head down. It would be coy if it were anyone else.

Desade: Which is why I have strangely regretted the way our evening in Quebec City was cut so dramatically short. Amelia's regret is not something she would voice, as I am sure you know, but I assure you, it is there. Ever since that moment in the concessions area, though, I have felt this odd connection to you. As though we are yin and yang, two sides of a continuum the rest of the world is only faintly aware of.

Sykes: I think, to a certain degree, that some people - even the ones that I know, have a… skewed idea of what my intentions were. This was a never a "Boy howdy, that Alex sure is hot" kind of thing, even though, well… oh, just look in a mirror.

Apparently not chosen well enough. Translation: You are a very attractive woman, however that has no bearing on the perceived interest I may or may not have in you.

Also, the slapping sound that the viewers at home will hear is not from the ring, it's from Eugene Ware. In a word: facepalm.

Sykes: Here's the thing… you mention "very bad people". What I'm trying to figure out is whether you're actually one of them. Admittedly, you seem to have something of a reputation.

Gibson: That's an understatement.

Sykes: What I want to know is where the omnipresent 'this' ends and where the 'you' begins. I'll admit I had my doubts about whether I was wrong about all of 'Charlotte Ramone' being some magnificent acting job, good enough to get you at least a Golden Globe, but…

Dangerous grounds, ahoy!

Sykes: I've seen you talk about your daughter.

Whether it's deliberate or involuntary remains up for debate, however Jared does take a step back.

Sykes: And what I saw then, what I think I saw then… You. Don't. Fake. That. There, I said it.

Desade: My daughter.

Some of the pleasantness is smoothed away by the mention.

Desade: I have heard what they say. That my daughter is a chink.

Ware: SO called that. Bruce Lee's sperm lives on!

Desade: That she exposes me as a human being. That she softens my mystique. That because they see me with Quinn, this means that all the words and all the posturing are false and that Desade is just a shell I climb into. Like... to use terminology you may be more familiar with, that this pantsuit are some kind of mech I climb into. Tell me, Jared; that is what you see me as, yes? A fraud? A good person who is a touch... I will say "misguided"?

Sykes: I see someone who is obviously intelligent, even if she does Shakespeare it up from time to time, who is resourceful, who knows what she wants, and knows how to get it. I see someone who's found a way to take all that and amplify it. Since we're speaking my language, you bring that shit to eleven.

Ware: Christopher Guest must be rolling in his grave.

Gibson: Christopher Guest isn't dead.

Sykes: But at the same time I get the distinct impression that you'd do just as well without having to wield the, I dunno, we'll call it "the megaphone of RAR!"

She steps forward with an easy stride, a touch more of the pleasantness reaching onto her face and into her voice.

Desade: I think that is why, unlike Amelia, I think I like you. You are a fascinating ball of paradox, Mr. Sykes. And whether you believe me or not, I do regret that our date ended abruptly with reports of her "abducting" the Marshall child.

The corner of his mouth curls into a half-smile.

Sykes: It's not a problem. Everyone's got their responsibilities, and, you know, what happened happened. No sense in holding it against anyone.

It's a lie, and though he does his best to conceal it, this is Desade standing a foot and a half away from him, watching facial tics, noting changes in inflection, and reading body language.

Desade: Perhaps. The least I could do would be to make it up to you. I am no longer beholden to our wager, and these words are likely to draw me a heaping helping of ire from those that believe my future may lie elsewhere, but I fill strangely... unfulfilled... by the way we left things at the restaurant. Perhaps here, on this holiday, you would allow me to make it up to you.

Sykes: I…

A hard swallow, a sudden flush, and his bluff is called. While he tries to sound un-phased, that too fails horribly.

Sykes: I suppose, you know… if you insist. Uhh… sure. Let's rock.

The Director smiles, just a touch hard around the eyes, and lays the hand that does not wield a microphone on the shoulder of one of the Kings of Pop. Hint: the one with the normal hair.

Predictably, this makes him flinch a little and almost back away, but Desade is fast, letting her microphone drop to the mat as she lays a hand on the side of his face.

Her thin, pale lips lead her face to his, brushing gently. Sykes' eyes go wide -- he was not expecting this.

Mary Howitt wrote: "Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly.

This web has caught fast a Black Sheep, and it's because of his surprise at her first action that he misses the second. Her hands, lazily twined behind him, snatch up tight at the back of his head as she leaps up and falls backwards, her knees coming up into the space between them. Jared's jaw connects with them solidly, cartilage cracking into a smile.

Dave Gibson knows what this is called -- do you?

Gibson: Spider's Kiss! Spider's Kiss by Desade!

The crowd has a different name for it.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Sykes recoils off the woman's knees, rolling backwards off the mat and ending up face down. When he pushes himself up, it's just enough space for Pierce to use Sykes' own shoulder as a stepping stool, the point of her boot completing the circuit of the glimmering warlock-style step-up enzugiri against the back of his head.

Gibson: Dammit, dammit all to hell! Does this woman have any morals?

Ware: I'm going to go with yes.

Pierce snatches her microphone off the mat, not even breathing hard from the burst of movement as she sneers downward.

Desade: Your moral center makes you a fool, Jared. A weak and arrogant fool.

She raises a gloved hand, and that's all the signal that is necessary for the other redhead to make her presence known -- the one in the red hoodie with a skeletal ribcage across it. (It is worth noting that said depiction of a ribcage has a skeletal title belt around its waist.)

Gibson: And here's Aimz! Aimz in the ring with Desade, and she slaps the Director high-five! Pierce grabs Campbell's hand and whips her at Sykes -- hesitation dropkick by the SCCW Universal Champion on the fallen Sykes knocks him back into the corner!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Gibson: Charley! Charley Crisp was leveled by Jadian Bridden earlier and missed Desade's underlings assaulting Dusk and Paul Searle! And now the other half of the Strength in Numbers champions is coming to stop this!

Ware: I do not foresee it going well.

Gibson: Crisp in the ring, Chocolate Chip roaring -- no! Aimz drops low goes lower! Pierce slides in beside the Cookie Monster and -- BOOM! Double STO! Down goes Charley! Aimz gestures to the top rope and Pierce climbs up! Campbell maneuvers Crisp up and around into the Kudo Driver!

Ware: Death Knell Above!

Gibson: Desade leaps! Double stomp and she rides Crisp down into the vertebreaker! Sweet Lordy Lou! Charley Crisp just got folded in half! Now Aimz casually tosses the microphone to the Director and -- BOOM! Facewash kick to Sykes!

The Spider stalks over to the fallen Black Sheep, knotting a gloved hand in his spiky hair.

Desade: (sneering) You are a brave fool, Sykes. Even what we did to you today will likely not push you over the edge against us next week. But next week, Jared, you will hit me. You will break your precious vows and you will strike a woman. I believe I have just the recipe.

When she turns to the SinScreen, it's another signal, although the flying body of one Merv Humperdink is not likely what people think she'd be calling for. The big man who rumbles out behind the nerd, putting a size 16E combat boot into his ribcage? That would be more what the doctor ordered.

Gibson: Now Black Ops has Mervin! He's not a wrestler! The Dead Man's Hand coming out here en masse!

Ware: Oh, I'm sure that'll stop them.

DNA hold Sykes in place, keeping his barely conscious, somewhat unfocused eyes pointed at the stage as Mr. Ashe rips Mervin into the standing headscissors and yanks him up into a powerbomb position. He flails there for a long moment --

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Never has a crowd been so happy to see a man named Violent Jesus before.

Gibson: Violent Jesus! VJ out here to save Mervin! Jesus with an elbow to Jadian Bridden, knocking the LiveWire challenger down the rampway! Jesus with a clubbing blow to the back of Ashe! The big bull turns around and he chest bumps VJ, but Jesus isn't going anywhere!

Ware: Except to Dream Street!

Gibson: That masked man! The same masked man that attacked Dusk earlier and tipped the scales towards the Dead Man's Hand comes from out of nowhere! Out of nowhere and leaps onto Violent Jesus' back, slapping on a chokehold!

Violent Jesus is just a man -- a big man, sure, and definitely a crazy man, but even he needs to breathe.

Gibson: Violent Jesus getting choked out here! Ashe pulls up Mervin again! Double hand chokelift! Hawke with a running --

Ware: Really, would you call it running?

Gibson: A start and he jumps --

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Gibson: Cane to the face propels Mervin --

CRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAASSSSSSSSHHHHHHH!!

It's like watching it in slow motion. Violent Jesus' hands flail uselessly outward, eyes wide and bulging from the masked attacker's chokehold as the impact of the cane jars Merv loose of Ashe's grip. The attacker's eyes -- dark pits in the mask, really -- lock down briefly at the fallen stuffed animal at Jesus' feet. In the ring, Sykes nearly propels himself perpendicular to the mat as he tries to buck free of DNA's grip -- Aimz drives the hard part of her forehead into his nose, drawing blood from both. Mervin is momentarily weightless, hands grasping for anything, before the back of his head catches the side of the ramp and the rest of him catches the floor.

Gibson: Off the stage! Off the stage goes Mervin Humperdink!

Jadian Bridden picks himself up, dusts himself off and climbs into the ring.

Gibson: Good God get some help out here! Get some help out here!

Bridden steps to the DNA pairing, prodding Sykes with his foot negligibly, then holds out a hand for Aimz.

She ignores him entirely, getting to her feet. Bridden busies himself with a few boots for Charley Crisp.

Gibson: This is disgusting! I thought Alex Pierce had a heart!

Ware: Robots don't have hearts unless they're androids.

Pierce and Campbell raise their arms (well, it's more like Aimz raises Alex's arm, but who's counting -- they're excited).

Amy glances to the carnage on the stage --

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


-- and then those wolfen eyes go wide.

Gibson: Lance Marshall! Marshall has seen just about enough tonight! Marshall with a clothesline for the -- missed! The masked man backbends out of the way of the Lion's lariat! But Marshall keeps on going!

DNA are out of the ring by the time the #1 contender slides in and gets across the ring -- he makes a largely ineffectual grab for Aimz as she drops off the apron.

Jadian Bridden isn't so lucky.

Gibson: Bridden not out of the ring! Bridden tries to run -- Marshall grabs him around the waist and spins him around -- SPINEBUSTER!

As "Supermassive Black Hole" plays, Lance is left with no other easy targets; he drops to a knee beside his tagteam partner next week.

Gibson: DNA and the Dead Man's Hand have destroyed the Kings of Pop and Jared Sykes' --

Ware: Idiot parade.

Gibson: Next week, they'll face Marshall and Sykes in our main event, but right now, I'm worried about Mervin's condition -- he hasn't moved since that fall off the stage, and medical personnel are out here to check on him now. Fans, we still have the Marshall-Aimz contract signing and Desade teaming with Phillip Kennedy against BloodAngel and Sean Sterling, here on this Thanksgiving Temptation!

Back at ringside, our diligent ring crew has decorated the ring. The mat is a deep, velvety crimson, a podium and a table (both draped in SCCW colors) in the center.

Ware: ...who's going to set up my jokes? Where'd Dave go? I'm scared!

In the center of the ring is a man in a suit who is not Jason Myers. Bet you can't guess who it is.

Gibson: Hello, Rochester!

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


That was way too easy.

Gibson: In just a few short weeks, we are going to see a dynamic match-up for the SCCW Universal Championship, as Lance Marshall --

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Ware: If you don't let him talk, he'll never come back to me!

Gibson: Lance Marshall will take on the reigning SCCW champion, Aimz!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Ware: You take that back right now!

Gibson: These two have been at odds for several months now, fans, with Lance's physicality on display in nearly every confrontation between them. But you didn't come here to hear from me, did you?

Ware: I did! Give me a wacky word that I can define!

Gibson: Without further ado, allow me to introduce to you, accompanied to the ringside area by his wife Alanna, the former Sin City Championship Wrestling Universal Champion and the NUMBER-ONE CONTENDER!

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 now 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 once again

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

Quickly followed by

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 he'd 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 workmanlike blue jeans and a black t-shirt with a gold lion's head emblem imprinted on it, he makes his way down the aisle with a grace one would not expect from a man of his size.

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 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 "Amazon", 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 swinging his gaze down the aisle.

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

Gibson: And his opponent at Defiance II, the two-time and REIGNING Sin City Championship Wrestling UUUUUNI--

''That's it! I have HAD it with these motherfuckin' snakes on this motherfuckin' plane!''

For the first few seconds, the music that fills the arena to interrupt sounds almost like a campy Batman theme. Samuel L. Jackson's classic line overdubbed doesn't exactly lessen the corn factor.

Times are strange
We've got a free upgrade for snakes on a plane
Fuck 'em, I don't care
Pop the cheap champagne, we're goin' down in flames, hey!

If anybody else had crossed the curtain just now, the song choice might have seemed odd. For Amy Campbell, leaping out onto the stage in pink and gold Nikes (Sometimes you've gotta trade DC for some old Air Force Ones) with the tongues stuck out over the cuffs of kneeless jeans, upper body adorned in what could be voted the most obnoxiously colored t-shirt/hoodie combination of all time (Pale neon green, yellow and pink is a good look for NO ONE), marching to the painfully catchy theme song of a painfully cheesy movie with a ridiculously bright grin doesn't seem so outlandish.

Oh, I'm ready for it -- come on, bring it!
Oh, I'm ready for it -- come on, bring it!
Oh, I'm ready for it -- come on, bring it!
Oh, I'm ready for it...

In case you were one of the many people who never cared about that movie or the songs that went with it, its official title is "Snakes On A Plane (Bring It!)" and it's by Cobra Starship via a mixture of The Sounds, Gym Class Heroes and The Academy Is. No, you're not expected to know who any of them are -- but the little redhead hopping down towards the ring, shouting along with the energy of the song's bridge chant probably does. Or at least pretends to, because it makes her look cool.

So kiss me goodbye
Honey, I'm gonna make it out alive!
So kiss me goodbye
I can see the venom in your eyes...
Goodbye!

Despite the apparent sugar high, she's taking her sweet time getting to that ring. More than likely, it's because the champion knows the value of every moment she can stare down Lance Marshall and still have that shiny belt slung over her shoulder.

It's time to fly
Tonight the sky's alive with the turpentine, loungin' in their suits and ties.
Watch the whores parade for the price of fame!

The boos only grow when she tries to slap hands with fans at ringside. One teenaged boy who takes her up on a high five promptly gets smacked by his younger brother, whose moral compass apparently has yet to be swayed by hormones. That, and the kid's wearing a t-shirt with Lance's face on it.

Only after a ridiculously drawn-out minute of her new theme and a solid circling of the ring, eyes dancing around the red carpet and ceremony of it all, does Aimz actually hop onto the apron. She's handed a microphone by Dave Gibson, who still hasn't bothered to pick up where he left off in her announcement.

Gibson: As I was saying -- Amy Campbell, ladies and gentlemen!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Campbell shrugs that reaction off, while Gibson plants a clipboard on the table that separates the Lion from the champion.

Gibson: Are you as excited as I am, Rochester?

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Gibson: Fans, we are just over a month away from the SCCW extravaganza of the season, Defiance II! Last year, Jonathan Rhine soared to international recognition as he won the Universal Championship from Clinton Sage! This year, Lance Marshall will attempt to become a three-time Universal Champion, as he faces the most dominant Sinner of 2008! I hold in my hand the contract for this match, which I'll ask our champion to sign fir--

Of course, just as he offers her the pen, Amy snatches Dave's microphone.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


She simply beams at the ridiculously negative reaction, because attention is attention.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Aimz: Come on, did you really think I'd sign that without a friendly chat first? Jesus, there's more amicable conversation in a divorce court! How's it going tonight, Lance? I heard you were talking to the boss. And Alanna, how's it?! You're looking...

The Red Raver cocks an eyebrow and looks Mrs. Marshall up and down quickly.

Aimz: ...handsome. And since I'm holding this incredibly fancy pen that likely cost the company more than I paid for these jeans, I think we should be giving them their money's worth. That doesn't really gel with your big conspiracy theory, sadly.

Alanna Marshall scowls just a little, striding across the ring and extending a hand down to the ringside area. Jason Myers hands her his microphone.

Alanna Marshall: You know, there is literally so much that I want to say to you. Like, a book of them. I add a little every night. But this isn't about me, and it's not about your match with Wyatt. This is about this man... who I will happily cede the floor to.

The Hawaiian Lioness hands the microphone to the big man, whose smile is easy and not terribly unkind. Not that it's kind, mind.

Lance Marshall: No conspiracy theory. Call it my own version of the No Excuses match Sean Sterling is going to have with Philip Kennedy.

Aimz: And you honestly think I'm even considering a loss? I don't operate with back-ups, because my only plan is to get it right the first time. You're smart enough to realize that -- you've seen my matches.

Lance Marshall: You're the one citing a conspiracy. You who uses conspiracies as a blanket. I've never claimed to be an angel, Amy. I've never tried to make anyone think I'm a saint. But if you honestly think I'm just gonna let you stand there and take cheap shots at me while I stand here with a dumb little smile on my face... you've got another thing coming, at least tonight.

Campbell is chuckling on the other side of the table. Her head shakes from side to side, that smartass grin present as ever.

Aimz: No, no, no. The dumb little smile's the best move you have, I wouldn't take that from you. Here's what I think; *I* think you're trying to play me with this! Cheapening my inevitable victory, simply because you'll have the chance to say 'Oh, I wasn't trying because I figured she'd use an excuse and make any win I could pull out of my ass not count in the public's eye'. Maybe you're afraid of it.

She shrugs.

Aimz: Or maybe you're just looking for an easy way out of the match. Don't worry, I won't be offended if you wanna hand the shot over to Austin King or anyone a little more deserving.

Lance Marshall: Not on your life.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Lance Marshall: You want to get down and dirty? That's fine by me. When we step into that ring, I'm aiming to show people that you can either talk shit...

He gestures towards the preening champion.

Lance Marshall: Or you can do shit. When you sign that piece of paper, you're signing over your championship. Which is fine, because you already signed over your dignity a while back.

Aimz: Lance, be realistic. You're bigger than me, you're stronger than me, you're probably a better, more experienced wrestler than I am.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Well, they cheer what they agree with.

Aimz: ... But you're not smarter, and that's saying something, considering I've got the attention span of a hamster. I'm smaller, faster, smarter and a better fighter. I've beat you before, and I can do it again without the need of any excuses. But look at you -- you've got no backup when you lose. No excuse. Isn't that gonna suck? And is it just me, or are you the corniest motherfucker walking the planet right now?

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Lance Marshall: Your win at All In only proves that you can climb a ladder better than I can, and every time we've been in the ring together since -- every single time -- I have put you on your back with the Code Red, no matter how "smart" or "fast" you think you are.

With a snarl that borders on a sneer, Lance grabs the end of the table, tipping it out of the way. Dave Gibson scurries out of its path and the table ends upright in the ring.

Lance Marshall: So do the world a favor and sign that paper, so Sin City can have a champion it can be proud of again.

With wide eyes, Aimz jumps up and down and points at the overturned furniture.

Aimz: Z'oh my God, you totally flipped that table over! That's scary, right? Now I've got no choice but to sign the contract or face you with your... your table-flinging ways. Well, this is a perdicament, especially since I was gonna write on that thing. Jesus, Lance -- a little consideration would be nice.

The Lion chuckles, a deep rumbling sound, now face-to-face with the Red Raver.

Lance Marshall: This is what you do. You bait people. You want me to lose my temper. Alex probably told you what a problem it's been in my career. But I don't have to lose my temper here. The moment you get over your stage fright and put that pen to that paper, the clock starts to tick. Will you be able to beat me after you have to deal with Wyatt? Maybe, but for once in the last year, you're going to have to earn it.

Aimz: While I'm sure you losing your temper would be hilarious to watch, all I actually needed was for you to get close, because I really wanted to do... this.

The sound of an open palm against Marshall's cheek resounds through the Blue Cross Arena.

Gibson: OH! Dave Gibson rejoining you at ringside, fans, as Amy Campbell has slapped the taste out of the mouth of the number-one contender to the Universal Title!

In high-definition, you can see the pores on Lance's nose flex as his nostrils flare. But he doesn't swing.

Gibson: Lance holding firm! Lance holding -- kick to the knee from Aimz! Lance staggers, but he smirks! Campbell trying to bait Marshall here!

Lance Marshall just shakes his head.

So Aimz turns towards his wife with her grin serenely in place. Let's not fool ourselves; Lance didn't marry what you'd call a shrinking violet. For starters, the Hawaiian Lioness is nearly ten inches taller than the Superversal Champion, with the arms and the legs to prove it.

Yeah, like that's ever stopped Aimz before.

Gibson: Aimz approaching Alanna!

Ware: Alliteration out of control!

Gibson: Alanna ready to fight, though! Alanna! Alanna takes the first swing at Aimz!

It's a wild one, but it scores a glancing blow, as surprise delays Campbell's duck.

Gibson: Aimz shoots out of the crouch and puts both hands to Alanna's throat!

That did it. Lance approaches Aimz, grabbing her by the shoulder and whipping her around. But Amy was ready for that.

Gibson: Aimz! Aimz spins into a closed fist to the jaw! Marshall answers!

Here's a hint: his hurt more.

Gibson: Campbell staggers back but comes back with a high elbow! Marshall with a half-step back! Marshall and Campbell! Marshall and Campbell in the middle of the ring!

Ware: She doesn't want to duke it out with him!

Gibson: Marshall slowly but surely drives the champion into the corner!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Ware: That's right, boo him!

Gibson: They're booing the Dead Man's Hand! Desade ushering her goons out of the ring! Ashe and Hawke into the ring -- Ashe with a clubbing blow to the back of the head of Marshall! Savant in the ring! She cuts off Alanna from saving Lance! Hawke follows and --

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Gibson: Cane! That damn club Hawke claims is a cane across the back! Aimz yanks the cane away and --

THHHHHWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCK!


Gibson: Right to the face! Aimz using Hawke's cane as a weapon! Aimz busts open Lance Marshall with a straight shot from that cane! The Red Raver trying to damage Marshall's leg before the match at Defiance!

There's a brief cheer as Alanna Marshall's right hand collides with the pierced face of Lauren Fox.

Ware: Wa!

Gibson: Alanna drops Savant! Alanna drops Savant with one shot!

There are many lessons that Lance and Alanna will probably teach young Zach Marshall as they raise him. One of them should be: Never Turn Your Back on Alexandra Pierce.

Gibson: Desade into the ring! High kick to the back of the head of Alanna! Pierce slips in and -- BOOM! BOOM! Spider's Kiss! Spider's Kiss on Alanna Marshall! Amy's just wailing away on Lance's leg with that hard stone cane as Ashe steps on Marshall's throat!

Desade gestures to Savant, pulling herself up by the ropes, and Hawke, who's leaning on them.

Gibson: Savant and Hawke setting up that table! They're setting up that table! Now Ashe pulls Marshall up! They're setting Lance up on the table! The Dead Man's Hand setting Lance on the table! They've gone through Dusk, Charley Crisp, and Jared Sykes tonight!

Ware: Don't forget the little dweeb.

Gibson: Now they're trying to cap off the night by taking out the Lion!

Black Ops and Savant hold Marshall in place as Aimz climbs to the middle rope, microphone in hand. Desade hands her the clipboard while Campbell grins to the barely-conscious Lion, pointing to herself.

Aimz: What'd I tell you just a few seconds ago? Smar-ter. And when you wake up, remember to thank me for giving you a good excuse to cling to when you lose at Defiance.

She scrawls her name on the paper in its proper place, then steps blindly up to the top rope.

Gibson: No! No! Don't do this! Don't do --

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


That's the sound of Lance Marshall wrenching his arm free from the Man-Mountain's grip and drives a ham-sized fist into the larger Black Ops member's face.

Gibson: Marshall up to his feet! Lariat to Ashe! SWEET MOTHER MARY! Ashe turned inside out by that clothesline! Blood dripping down his face, barely able to stand, Lance Marshall just dropped Mr. Ashe like Eugene Ware drops a Chicken McNugget!

Ware: Nugnut!

Gibson: Aimz hopping off the top rope! She doesn't know what to make of this! Aimz is running!

Ware: Nonsense! She's clearly just walking fast!

What Lance Marshall doesn't see is Savant behind him.

But Alanna's staggered up to her feet and she does.

Gibson: Alanna with an axehandle to the back of Savant! Lance yanks Hawke onto his shoulders in the torture rack! Alanna pulls Savant into the standing headscissors!

Two things happen at the same time. Alanna Marshall whips the much smaller Savant up and then down to the mat in a powerbomb while her husband shifts Mr. Hawke's weight and tips the smaller half of the Black Ops in an inverted Death Valley Driver, which shatters the table.

Gibson: BOOM! BOOM! Powerbomb from Alanna! Modified Code Red from Lance through the table! The Marshalls are standing tall!

Alanna turns, snatching the clipboard from the mat (just before Aimz is able to grab it), and hands it to her husband. Blood drips from Lance's forehead onto the paper as he signs his name.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


Gibson: Marshall signs! Marshall signed the contract and we're official! Nothing Amy Campbell has been able to do since All In has even slowed Lance down, and after the Dead Man's Hand has destroyed everyone tonight, they could not destroy Lance Marshall!

Lingering shot on Desade and Aimz on the ramp, with Lance Marshall standing on the middle rope on the SinScreen behind them. His finger points at Aimz again. She lifts the SCCW Universal Championship overhead.

Gibson: It's official for Defiance now, fans! Marshall and Aimz will meet -- but we won't have to wait until the pay-per-view to see them get it on, fans! Next week, DNA will face Lance Marshall and Jared Sykes!

The shot zooms in and in and in until the SCCW Universal Championship fills the screen.

Gibson: But that's what it'll be about at Defiance! Tune in next week from UConn, fans! For Eugene Ware and everyone here at SCCW, good night and Happy Thanksgiving!

Fade... to the SCCW logo.