AWC Fresh!
"Two out of three ain't bad." - GBJ
Fresh! 16 July 2010
Cincinnati Gardens (capacity: 10,326) -- Cincinnati, OH
Introduction
AUTHORS: Hyde
The repeated piano line of “All My Friends” by LCD Soundsystem underlies a montage of some of the most famous AWC moments, pay-per-view by pay-per-view.
That’s how it starts
Pierce Lavelle taps out to the Life Support, trapped uselessly in Alexander Strider’s arms, and the bell is rung to declare Strider winner of the original Zero To Hero.
We go back to your house
Paddy O’Shea and Crimson O’Malec mounting opposite turnbuckles either side of the ladder they just mounted to become the inaugural Alliance Champions at Solarized.
You check the charts
The red-painted head of Hate at the wheel of a double-decker London bus, smashing full on into the outer wall of Earl’s Court to conclude The Battle of Britain.
And start to figure it out
The Illustrious Face-Eater pulls off his mask at Testimony. And when no one really knows who Adam Dick is, he begins to yell, and stamp his feet, and then gathers up his mask and cape and leaves.
And if it’s crowded, all the better
The first Triangles match, with nine competitors crammed into the unique triangular structure. We see Jack Murphy’s Bull Charge on Alcaeus, while Adam Dick and Tim Martin team up on Pierce Lavelle.
Because we know we’re gonna be up late
Mike Wade slashes desperately at Chainz’s chest with a jagged shard of glass, but Chainz pulls out a tazer and sends Wade into unstoppable convulsions in the sick Cup of Blood match that stole the show at Winter Warfare.
But if you’re worried about the weather
Red Rock shuts Captain Suleimon in the Iron Maiden to win the Ottoman Torture Chamber match at Bloodlust, burning Suleimon’s desperate hand with a red-hot poker to clinch victory.
Then you picked the wrong place to stay
“I’m sorry,” Chainz mutters to Tracy Stanton, “I’ll always love you.” And he hurls himself off the hotel room balcony, hitting the concrete with a slap, the rain pouring down in the shocking finale to Twilight of the Gods.
That’s how it starts
Mike Wade rips the crown off Adam Dick’s head, clocks him in the face with it at the Zero 2 Hero Fan Festival, marking the end to the reign of the Unfuckables.
And so it starts
Garbage Bag Johnny’s Tragically Hipbuster on Kip Brown, securing him Hero status for 2006 and a Transatlantic title shot for Coast To Coast.
You switch the engine on
Adam Dick hits Mike Wade with the Finger Poke of Doom and Wade drops for the three, signalling one last Unfuckable swerve before Wade’s retirement and induction as a Legend at Divide & Conquer.
We set controls for the heart of the sun
Paddy O’Shea with a giant spin barrelling Ellis Nash into the swimming pool. Gabriel Afeaki bearing down on Johnny Lexicon. Nash with her own springboard frog splash off the diving board to catch Colby Korver. Josh Marquez with the Full House off the top of the climbing wall, crashing right through the deck of the Jewel of the Seas.
One of the ways that we show our age
Adam Dick, Garbage Bag Johnny and Pierce Lavelle drinking in a bar. Dick and Lavelle on scooters, charging down the Segway-bound GBJ. Lavelle and GBJ in a pool of marinara sauce, Dick arriving wearing only his boxers. The madness of Coast To Coast.
And if the sun comes up, if the sun comes up
If the sun comes up and we still don’t wanna stagger home
Aimz with the Darcinator on Darcy Crisis in the main event of Untouchable, right before Crisis proposes to her, to receive a kick in the groin that in their twisted world meant “yes”.
Then it’s the memory of our betters
That are keeping us on our feet
Triangles 2006: elevated Decree off the cage wall by Ellis Nash on Seymour Almasy; AgentDash with a huge bulldog on Johnny Lexicon; Jack Murphy’s Fall From Grace driving Darcy Crisis headfirst onto Pierce Lavelle’s body; Garbage Bag Johnny with the ENORMOUS Tragically Hipbuster off the top of the structure and driving Crisis through the announcers’ table... and then Juggernaut Kintu dismantling the cage bracket by bracket, with the competitors still fighting inside... and then Smiley is held firm by half the roster for Mike Wade to TFW him one last time... and then Dr. Kasidy Drake:
“I want to KILL this pathetic little promotion... As of now, AWC is CLOSED!”
You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan
And the next five years trying to be with your friends again
Shots of the reunion show, to this day untelevised, AgentDash winning two belts from Jack Murphy, GBJ regaining the Transatlantic Championship from Darcy Crisis.
But then where are your friends tonight?
Where are your friends tonight?
Where are your friends tonight?
And now shots from backstage, before the show, on the orange couches and leather seats, roster and staff alike, sharing drinks, listening to music, telling jokes, hugging old friends.
If I could see all my friends tonight
If I could see all my friends tonight
If I could see all my friends tonight
If I could see all my friends tonight
Face-Eater: Cincinnati, baby!
Waters: Fresh! is on the air! Oh, man, listen to this crowd!
Face-Eater: This is for me, Truth, this is all for me! This is my home state!
Waters: I thought you were... unlivable, or something.
Face-Eater: ERRRR I may be an unweighable son of a bitch but I'm from Salt Lake City.
Waters: Salt Lake City, huh?
Face-Eater: Almost definitely.
The cameras pan around the Cincinnati Gardens, swerving around the curved corner seats and up to the backs of the high banks before settling on the stage at the distant end of the long, narrow indoor arena. At either side of the stage, fireworks shoot up, orange colours lighting up the arena before the noises end and the house lights come up. We take a second sweep around the fans, whose signs this week read TRICK R TREAT—WHO CARES?, WE ONLY CAME TO SEE KONGOBI, and DOLLAR TREE: BIG RESPONSIBILITIES FOR BIG MEN.
Face-Eater: We've got a tricky little son of a bitch of a card for you tonight. The VIP swans in against some guy called William Gwynn, who totally didn't outshine me in Core; Bone is all set to bone the fuck out of Julian Fiasco, and—
Waters: Hey. Dick.
Face-Eater: You really gotta stop making offensive remarks, man. Yeah, what?
Waters: Why you doing my job?!
Face-Eater: Hey, someone’s got to.
Waters: Yeah – I got to!
Face-Eater: In this world of casualised labour and flexible employment, you gotta be careful. Harbs took me aside and he said you gotta start adding value, Truth. True story. Stop undercutting your enlightened, world-wise colour commentator, and start appealing to a wider audience.
Waters: But—
Face-Eater: No buts!
Waters: But when—
Face-Eater: No whens!
Waters: But how—
Face-Eater: No hows!
Waters: There, look, you just insulted our entire hobo audience. Now who’s gotta be careful.
A Modest Proposal
AUTHOR: Trent
Face-Eater: I HEARD THAT THE SHOW IS STARTING WITH AN IN-RING.
Waters: You heard right, but why are you shouting?
Face-Eater: BECAUSE THAT’S HOW I TALK.
Waters: Excuse my “partner,” everyone, as he hasn’t taken his Ritalin today.
Face-Eater: Ritalin? That shit’s weak.
Piano. Austronautalis. “The Wondersmith and His Sons” fills the arena, and the response is mixed. The crowd is starting to recognize themes, now, and they know that this song means that new Frontier Champion T.A. Giles is coming out. And he does, suited up in a ¾ tee and jeans, and he lacks the symbol of his only achievement.
Waters: Well, here is our Frontier champ, who, apparently, doesn’t wear his belt.
Face-Eater: Because he knows that it’s a b-side belt.
Waters: I wouldn’t go quite that far, Face ...
Face-Eater: Did I ever have it?
Waters: I actually don’t know. Shouldn’t you know that?
Face-Eater: There’s your answer. It’s not prestigious unless I’ve held it.
Giles steps into the ring and picks up the mic. His theme dies out and he looks around.
Giles: I know what you’re expecting. You’re expecting me to come out here and yak about how proud I am to be the Frontier champ, about how hard I work and about how much I deserve it. But you know as well as I do that all that is just smoke and mirrors for what’s really going on here.
Waters: Hear that, Face? Smoke and mirrors. Sounds like when you were around. Well … smoke, at least.
Face-Eater: What was that? Sorry, I was busy knitting. Can this guy be any more monotone?
Giles: What do I really think of last week’s win? Of course, I’m thrilled. Everyone wants to win and I’m no exception. But successes are a little less glamorous when you consider all the failures that it takes to be successful in the first place. And my opponents? Dash? A CIA agent? Do people actually fall for this stuff?
There’s a murmur in the crowd – some feel insulted while others laugh along with Giles as if he is playing with them.
Giles: What I don’t want is for my title belt to take away from something else that’s been nagging me – that something, of course, being Diego Foster. He’s got his eyes on Garbage Bag Johnny and the Transatlantic title at the moment, but I’m here to politely inform him, and everyone, that Foster is about as likely to beat Johnny AgentDash ever was. In other words: not a chance in hell.
The crowd, being GBJ fans, responds with a pop.
Giles: You gotta give it to Foster, though. He acts pretty tough for a guy who won a tournament with a move that’s now banned from competition. And David Harber? I have to sincerely hand it to him for keeping a tight hold around this place, especially when you have rogues like Foster running around. He acts calm and collected and uses phrases like “killer instinct” but he’s really just a loose cannon.
Waters: Kind of like you, Facey, eh?
Face-Eater: What? No one is like me.
Waters: I don’t know …
Face-Eater: I HAD A CROWN, TRUTH. A CROWN!
Waters: So you transgressed boundaries, just like Diego Foster has been doing.
Giles: But Diego had more to say than what I’m leading on. He accepted my challenge to a grudge match, and I gotta say that I was more pleased to hear that than I was to win my match. Titles are sweet – revenge is sweeter. Foster might think I’m some sort of nice guy, but he knows as much about judging character as he does about being respectful and having class.
Waters: I’m guessing he means “not very much.”
Face-Eater: Subtext, Truth. It’s a killer.
Giles: After “All Summer Long,” there’s going to be hell to pay for Diego Foster. For the time being? I have a little request for Mr. Harber.
Waters: … This is unexpected.
Face-Eater: SNORE.
Giles: We have a couple more shows before the PPV, and here’s how it should be: anybody that gets a win over Diego automatically gets a shot at the Frontier title. Why? So I can prove how much better I am than him before the fact.
The crowd murmurs with excitement.
Giles: See you next week, Foster.
He drops the mic. “The Wondersmith” comes back on and Giles exits.
Face-Eater: … Did he just put a bounty on Diego Foster’s head?
Waters: Your guess is as good as mine, Face. We’ll have to see what Pearl says later on, but something tells me that if he accepts the proposal there’s going to be some people looking for a shot at Diego Foster.
The Message - Part 1
AUTHOR: Hyde
“When I was here last week, Jack, I was having the distinct impression that I was not welcome in your— in the Lounge.”
Sasha Volkyeva pierces the skin of her sea bass and expertly runs her knife up inside, paring the flesh away from the bone. The lighting of the Legends’ Lounge has been dimmed, and the soundproof skybox window sealed, allowing Jack Murphy and his guest at least the illusion of some intimacy over dinner. Murphy spears a boiled potato and chews comfortably on it. He wears a light grey shirt, open at the collar, a small UPW insignia stitched on the front pocket.
Murphy: Au contraire, Sasha. Like I said to David, we really were busy.
Sasha nods, a strand of platinum hair escaping from behind her ear, but looks fixedly at her fish.
Murphy: I’m sorry. It was awkward, with David there, but I could’ve handled it better.
She looks up at the wizened former multiple champion and smiles gratefully.
Sasha: Never mind. I had travelled a long way; I was tired.
Murphy: And so you have again tonight, Sasha. Might I ask why? Did David have any more communist regimes for you to infiltrate on the pretext of a spurious errand?
The Ice Queen dabs at her pursed lips with a hand-stitched white napkin.
Sasha: I did not come here tonight to see David. And while I am most grateful for your dinner invitation, I am not here to see you either, Jack.
Murphy: I was hoping to tell you a little about the body I’m representing now, Sasha – the UPW. We look out for the wrestlers, and with all the recent furore over—
Sasha: A union, Jack. I know what a union is.
Murphy: Can I just tell you a little about what we’re trying to get done?
Ms. Volkyeva shakes her head sadly.
Sasha: I have no interest, Jack. I applaud your efforts, and if I know anything of Jack Murphy, I am sure you will have great success with it.
She takes a small bite of her fish, letting the buttered flesh melt on her tongue.
Murphy: Good?
He nods at the plate. Sasha smiles.
Sasha: Very good.
The two gaze at their plates, trying not to think about the silence that ticks slowly by. Returning to Sasha’s earlier words, the Bull realises he still has something to ask.
Murphy: If you’re not here to see David, and you’re not here to see me... Who are you here to see, Sasha?
Unhurried, Sasha finishes her mouthful before answering, her eyes flashing at Murphy as she does.
Sasha: I have a message for Garbage Bag Johnny, Jack.
Murphy: For Johnny?
Sasha: Yes. I do not know its significance, but since this is the second consecutive week that I have been flown to your country and put up in a marvellous hotel, I imagine it will mean more to Garbage Bag Johnny than it does to me.
Murphy is shaking his head.
Murphy: This isn’t my country, Sasha.
Sasha: (gravely) Is it really anybody’s, Jack?
Murphy slices a potato in half, saying nothing. Then, not for the first time this evening, he realises he hasn’t asked the obvious question.
Murphy: Who’s the message from?
Sasha smiles.
Sasha: You’ll have to promise not to breathe a word of this to anybody.
Murphy looks immediately at the cameraman.
Murphy: Shut it down.
He shuts it down.
Show Something
AUTHORS: Jon and J Chris
We cut backstage where the beautiful Sarah Kennedy Lavelle is standing next to a clean shaven Steve Harrison. He puts his right hand through his flowing hair and then wipes down his freshly pressed suit, a smile covering his face.
Sarah: I am standing here with Steve Harrison, the man who will supposedly bring class to this crass organization…his words.
Harrison: It is lovely to see you, Sarah on this humid night. I can just imagine the AC helping us get a peak at those…well those tits.
Sarah: Excuse me, I thought you were classy?
Harrison: Why would I waste my time on being classy to an object, pfft.
Sarah looks astonished at what Steve just said, her mouth opens and she shakes her head angrily.
Sarah: Look you asked for this time, so what the hell do you want?
Steve smiles and then points down the hall as he holds his nose.
Harrison: I believe…and I am speaking for the whole roster that the smell coming from Garbage Bag Johnny’s locker room needs to be looked into. Look I know he beat me---by sheer luck mind you…
Sarah interrupts Steve.
Sarah: He is the Transatlantic Champion. I don’t think it was luck.
Harrison stares a hole through Sarah.
Harrison: Now where was I? Hmm…ok well I know Johnny despises showers, deodorant, and cologne but I swear that smell might be a dead body. Has anyone seen Aaron Nothings? That is a rhetorical question because the answer is no, I bet you that Nothings is rotting in Johnny’s bag, cut up into little pieces.
Sarah rolls her eyes.
Sarah: That is absurd.
Van Isaac Pryce walks by and looks at Steve and shakes his head with disdain at Steve. Steve pushes the microphone away from his face and takes a step towards VIP.
Harrison: What are you shaking your head at you Philadelphia degenerate. You choke worse then the Eagles do in big games. How about you keep walking and keep your stares for people who don’t outclass you by leaps and bounds.
VIP actually takes the time to look behind him. Then to the left. Then to the right. Before he looks at Sarah, stepping a little bit closer to the Interviewer and the Wrestler. VIP then points at himself, as if wondering if this dude is talking to him.
VIP: Sarah? Beautiful name, by the way. Do you mind if I…?
VIP motions towards the microphone.
Sarah: Be my guest.
Sarah hands the microphone over to VIP. Van clears his throat for a moment, holding the microphone and taps his chin. His body has turned to the side, not really facing Harrison, but making sure he's still within vocal range.
Harrison takes another step, opening his mouth to say something, but VIP holds up a finger.
VIP: Hoooooold Uuuup!
Crowd: WAIT A MINUTE!
Harrison stops. But only because the finger + crowd combo caught him by surprise. VIP brings the microphone back up to his lips.
VIP: Before I get to you, ‘Never Will Be,’ let me address the more important people here in CINCINNATI, OHIO!
The crowd pops. City love.
VIP: Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls! Pimps, Playas and Hustlas! Introducing! The single worst wrestler I've EVER SEEN. EVER! STEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVE HARRISSSSOOOOOOOOON!
VIP cracks a big ol' smile as he finally turns to look in Harrison's direction.
VIP: So let me get this straight. Out of the wild blue yonder, you're gonna' stand here and try to talk shit to me? VIP? The man that, within a few weeks of professional wrestling, just had a shot at the AWC Frontier Championship? Granted, I didn't win. But my main man, Notorious T.A.G. took it home, so it's all good.
VIP pauses for a moment to raise a fist in Respect to Giles.
VIP: But you. You've done absolutely. Positively. Undoubtedly. Nothing. You don't make waves like I do. You don't… get the crowd HYPE, like I do. You don't…
VIP does a quick Pop-N-Lock move.
VIP: Get down! Like I do. And you got the nerve to think I'm gonna' just stand here and let you talk about this beautiful woman right here…
VIP motions to Sarah.
VIP: About me? About my city? About anybody else in the AWC that's actually doin' what they came here to do? You really think I'm gonna' stand for that?
Harrison looks as though he's had about enough of VIP's yammering at this point.
Harrison: Well, pardon me, ‘playa’ but I'm in a class all by myself. You, her, the whole damn locker room. None of you are ready for the STORM that I'm about to bring. The world's not going to know what hit it!
VIP: Uh huh. So, I should see you kicking some ass tonight, then, right?
Harrison: Someone as talented as I, does not need to wrestle every week to make money, you fake hustler. I will bide my time and when I see my chance I will strike upon it like lightning and burn this damn place down.
VIP: Riiiight. Well, how 'bout this? How about… next week… live on Fresh! We see how your "lightning" stands up to the THUNDERous applause of my P1s!
Harrison looks at Sarah who smiles. He then looks back at VIP and grunts.
Harrison: You better not make this a ‘who can do the Dougie,’ better contest you 106 and Park…
BAM!
VIP punches Harrison, who staggers back and falls to the floor.
VIP: No, this is going to be a fight…and I hate the Dougie!
Van Isaac Pryce vs William Gwynn
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles
REFEREE: Selena Summer
AUTHOR: Steve
William Gwynn comes down the ring first to the sounds of “Starseed” by Our Lady Peace. He gets a rather mixed reaction, some fans knowing him from his tenure in cW and rW, others seeing him for the very first time and withholding judgment. “Born to Win” by Papoose kicks in, as Van Isaac Pryce comes out to a much more enthusiastic reaction, playing to the crowd and slapping hands with fans at ringside as he comes to the ring.
Pryce enters the ring and mounts the turnbuckle, raising his arms in the air to draw another cheer from the fans, but Gwynn wastes no time in attacking VIP from behind with a double ax-handle. The bell rings and the match is underway, William unleashing a flurry of right hands and then stomps as Pryce slumps in the corner from the assault. The Cincinnati crowd is not happy, and they let Gwynn know it.
Not letting the crowd phase him, Gwynn drags Van to center of the ring, firing off an elbow to his gut, followed by a Russian leg sweep. He makes the pin, but only for the two count. Undaunted, William drops a series of knees across his opponent’s sternum, before pulling him up and whipping him into the ropes. Pryce, having had enough, explodes back with a flying shoulder tackle that wipes Gwynn out. Van immediately follows up with a gutwrench, flipping his opponent into the air and slamming him back to the mat with a brutal tilt-a-whirl powerbomb, sending the crowd into a frenzy of cheers.
Pryce waits for Gwynn to get to his feet, waiting behind him, and when he does, locks in a full-nelson. Lifting him up off the mat, VIP spins around twice and drops him with his Crowd Control full-nelson slam. He goes for the pin, but Gwynn kicks out at two.?Van slaps the mat, but is right to his feet again, trying to lifting his opponent to deal more damage, but William comes back with a jawbreaker that puts a stop to his plans.
?
It takes Gwynn a few seconds to catch his breath, but then he’s right back on the attack again. He picks VIP up and drops him with an inverted atomic drop, then comes off the ropes with a clothesline that takes him to the mat. Lifting him up, he attempts a piledriver, but Pryce blocks it, holding back. Gwynn won’t allow him to reverse it, though, striking with a European uppercut and switching instead to a DDT, which he nails. He makes the cover. One...two…kickout!
Gwynn keeps the pressure on, applying a tight sleeperhold on VIP. It looks like Pryce may be out when he suddenly fights to his feet, depositing William with a back drop the breaks the hold. Both men get to their feet, VIP taunting Gwynn into rushing at him…but Van is ready, and he catches him with his stiff looking Last Call spinning spinebuster. Pryce comes off the ropes with the VIP Treatment lionsault and it's good enough for the three count and the hard-earned win.
Apocrypha #1: The War to Settle the Score
AUTHOR: Nathan
Waters: We're about to see the start of what might become a new series here on AWC Fresh! - long lost segments from AWC history that, for whatever reason, did not make it onto the air. And tonight we have a real highlight from Coast to Coast in 2006.
Face-Eater: I can't believe these sons of bitches haven't seen this, Truth.
Waters: Well, I hear we did include it as a DVD extra on the three-year anniversary edition deluxe boxed set. But that only sold a couple of dozen copies and, er, wasn't available outside of Malaysia.
Face-Eater: It's the War to Settle the Score... and it's TIGHT.
We move to the big screen, which begins to play the lost hype package that was due to air before the Darcy Crisis/Anton Assault showdown at Coast to Coast on 1 September 2006.
TRUTH.
A clip runs of Tony Little introducing his Fitness Quest ® Gazelle.
Little: Hey there, everybody! I’m Tony Little, and you won’t believe what my Gazelle can do for you…
JUSTICE.
The next clip features the long-lost footage of Darcy Crisis capturing the PSW Heavyweight Championship atop the triple cage.
(PSW Announcer) Colin Wilson: He’s done it! He’s survived three cages, he’s survived thirty men, and Darcy Crisis’s greatest dream has come true!
THE EUROPEAN WAY…..?
The sound of a record player's needle being lifted from the album stops everything abruptly.
FOR YEARS, TONY LITTLE HAS BEEN HELPING AMERICA STAY IN SHAPE WITH THE TONY LITTLE GAZELLE. CHANCES ARE YOU’VE SEEN ONE OF HIS COMMERCIALS…
Tony Little is shown sitting in a movie-director style chair, appearing as if he were being interviewed by someone off-screen. He is, of course, outfitted in the all-too-familiar black workout shorts partnered with the skin-tight black tank top, and black baseball cap from which his blond ponytail pours out from underneath.
Little: I’ve been selling my fitness philosophy for over twenty years now…There have been so many success stories, so many lives changed. I hear words tossed around about me, like “Godsend” and “Legend,” and it’s hard not to smile.
Tony lurches forward, cracking up at his own (apparent?) joke.
BUT THE LATE NIGHT TV PERSONALITY HAD A DREAM UNREALIZED…
Little: We’ve had so much success with the Gazelle here in America. But I’ve always felt that I could do more…so I thought to myself, “Why not Europe?” A tall order, to say the least, for me to become Europe’s Personal Trainer (pending) in addition to “America's Personal Trainer ™” I knew it would take a true pioneering spirit to take the power of good personal health across the Atlantic Ocean. That’s when I heard that the AWC was on a pioneer mission of their own – to take a tour of their show through Europe, bringing wrestling to the starving communist fans. That’s when it hit me: it would be a match made in heaven! Tony Little and the AWC, working together to promote our respective products, entertain the commies, and ultimately leave them better and more fulfilled! And before I knew it, the deal was done…thanks to the help of a good friend of mine, one of the millions of Tony Little Gazelle success stories.
Tony is now replaced by one Darcy Crisis, who receives an audible pop from the Jersey crowd as he confirms Tony’s story of his arrival in AWC.
Crisis: As many of you know, I took a pretty nasty tumble from thirty feet above the ring, forcing me into early retirement. It was a miracle I could even get back into the ring in the first place, but I found that there way no way I could get myself anywhere near back to ring shape without the workout taking a heavy toll on my back. I could never work out for more than ten minutes. But Tony Little changed all of that…
A clip is shown of Darcy working tirelessly (re: like an idiot) on the Gazelle, huffing and puffing the whole way.
Crisis: The Gazelle changed my life. I got back into shape, got back into the ring, and I’ve never felt better. I owe Tony everything, and I was more than happy to help him climb on board the Fresh!east tour.
BUT TRAGEDY INTERVENED…
A slow motion clip plays of the vicious in-ring assault of Tony Little at the hands of Luis Ferrara and Billy Mays.
Little: For whatever reason, a little Mexican piece of crap named Luis Ferrara had a problem with me promoting my Gazelle over in Europe. I guess my equipment isn’t affordable south of the border…
Crisis: I didn’t really consider it my business…until Billy Mays stepped in. I hate Billy Mays! That OxyCrap doesn’t work for shit. But I respect Billy Mays, and I respect Tony Little, legends of late-night infomercials that nobody wants to watch. And that’s when I got an idea of my own…
THE MOST MONUMENTAL MATCH IN WRESTLING HISTORY!
Little: A “War to Settle the Score!” Me and Crisis, that piece of crap Mays and the African behemoth he’s taken a liking to. ..
Crisis: It worked in the 80s, and this Friday at Coast to Coast, it’s going change the face of the industry all over again. A wrestling machine and the undisputed late-night Info King will be crowned victorious…
Together, the separate images of the two talking are crammed into one , as they both point into the camera and vociferiously shout…
Darcy/Tony: AND IT’S GONNA BE US!
THE TRAINING…
Darcy and Tony can now be seen hard at work on a twin pair of Tony Little Gazelles, endlessly striding toward the perfect physique.
Little: Come on, big man! You’ve only got it on the first setting!
Crisis: Look, Tony…all we’ve been doing is Gazelle strides for the past 3 days. I should really be studying some tapes of Assault matches, or something more technically related…
Little: Nonnnnnnnsense! Once you reach the inner Zen of the Tony Little Gazelle workout, that’s when you can achieve anything. I’m already there, I’ve got a nice cottage set up there, in fact…but you still need to make the journey, Darcy! I can’t FEEL you there yet!
Crisis: ...did you eat a bowl of stupid for breakfast?
Little: Stride, Darcy! STRIDE TOWARD NIRVANA!
THE PREPARATION…
Tony and Darcy are now standing in a kitchen, standing across from each other with a kitchen top separating them. Tony has some sort of strange energy-boosting concoction housed in a glass, which he is hoisting in Darcy’s direction.
Little: Drink up, buddy. You’re going to need this.
Crisis: I’m not drinking any motherfucking eggs, Tony.
Little: DO IT! It’s good for you!
Crisis: Eggs in milk? And olive oil? And refried beans? No way, brother. Not doing it. Nuh-uh.
Little: DAMMIT Darcy! Do not give me this shit! Do you want to win this match? Don’t you want to be the Frontier Champion? And don’t you give a DAMN about your good friend TONY LITTLE, whose REPUTATION is on the LINE, here? Now drink the Tony Little Wonder Drink!
Tony dives over the counter, spilling mystery concoction everywhere as he attempts to force feed it to Darcy.
THE GAMEPLAN…
Crisis and Little are now shown in a living room, presumably Darcy’s. Tony is standing in the foreground, and can be seen clutching tightly to a steel chair. Darcy stands in the background, next to a strikingly detailed wooden bust of Billy Mays’ gargatuan head.
Crisis: Now remember, Tony…if Billy Fat Fat Fat steps anywhere near you or me, you grab a chair and you level his ass, just like I showed you. But you gotta feel it, you know what I’m saying? You’ve got to take it to a higher level. He wants to sell you Punches-To-Face, but you’ve got a much better product in store – the Tony Little Extreme Chair Shot! Now give it a shot…
Tony rears back, and comes forward with all his might on the faux-Mays head. However, his aim his well off the mark, and he whiffs mightily. The subsequent follow through carries Tony careening to the left, where he smashes a nearby lamp instead.
Crisis: …………okay, that’s better. We’re getting closer.
The scene cuts back to Tony Little, sitting in the interviewing chair.
Little: It took awhile to sort of mesh our training styles together, as you can see. But I think we work well as a team. We both bring different philosophies to the table, and we’ve got the most important key in common – the overwhelming desire to be the best at what we do.
A short montage now plays, reviewing repeated attempts at their aborted workout plan. Slowly but surely, and after many tries, they pull it off correctly. Darcy is striding on the Gazelle, breathing as if he were on the verge of collapse before his eyes shoot open, almost as if he’d reached a new plane of enlightenment. He is then shown throwing back Tony’s energy drink, grimacing as he does. But he manages to keep it down, and beats his chest a la the King of the Apes as Tony shouts in joy. And Tony, after several failed attempts, finally hits the Billy bust square in the face, where it careens end over end into a potted plant, destroying the fired clay.
Tony and Darcy are now shown standing together in a studio, their arms around each other’s backs.
Little: There’s no stopping us now!
Crisis: You’re looking at the next Frontier Champion, and the soon to be crowned King of 3:00 AM! Coast to Coast, baby…
Little: The WAR! To SETTLE! The SCOOOOOOOOOORE!!!!
CRISIS.
LITTLE.
ASSAULT.
MAYS.
COAST TO COAST.
…..WRESTLING AND INFOMERCIALS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME.
Waters: And when it came down to it...
Face-Eater: Well, wrestling and informercials never WERE the same again, Truth. That match marked the beginning of the now famous Infomercials 'n Wrestling era.
Waters: Let's look back at how it ended...
Darcy Crisis w/ Tony Little vs Anton Assault (c) w/ Billy Mays
(Replay from Coast to Coast, 1 September 2006)
CHAMPIONSHIP: Frontier
STIPULATION: Singles
REFEREE: Michael Ryan
AUTHORS: Nate and Obi
Cassidy: Anton had hardly broken a sweat before that spinebuster, and Crisis CONTINUES to lose blood! There’s no way he can keep this up… and speaking of up, look who’s finally back! Ha ha!
Cassidy’s delight is directed at the sight of Billy Mays, who has finally recovered from Tony Little’s chair shot. Shaking off the blurred vision, he turns to see Darcy and Anton each slowly climbing back to their feet. Billy shouts something at Anton that suggests he can take care of the rest. Billy reaches into the pocket of his all-too-famous jean shirt, pulling out a small sphere.
Cassidy: It’s Oxiclean, Truth! Billy Mays is going to put Darcy away with Oxiclean!
Waters: Weren’t you just complaining about a late Oxiclean order? I bet that’s it right there.
Cassidy: Believe me, I just wanted it so I could jam it straight into Darcy’s face. If Billy wants to do the honors himself, we might as well cut out the middleman!
Assault sees what Mays has in mind, and steps out of the line of fire to leave Darcy solely exposed to the forthcoming attack. But Darcy can see by the look in the Lion’s eyes that something isn’t quite right about the situation, and turns around just in time to see Mays doing his best Nolan Ryan impression. With no time to even think, Darcy ducks the fastball let loose from Mays with mere nanoseconds to spare. The rocketing ball of sodium percarbonate flies past both the challenger as well as the champion… and pegs Luis Ferrara square in the middle of the forehead. Ferrara, who was looking for revenge from the fire extinguisher attack from Crisis earlier, indeed had the same fire extinguisher in tow, and was just about to pull the trigger before he was nailed by Mays’ ball of Oxiclean. It sends him reeling, and it adjusts his intended aim… but Ferrara still fires the extinguisher regardless.
FSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!
Waters: Ferrara just hit Assault with the fire extinguisher! Ferrara spraying his own client in the face!
Cassidy: NO! How could this happen?
Waters: Ferrara came out of nowhere with that fire extinguisher, but an errant throw by Billy Mays changed whatever plan he had in store for Darcy Crisis!
Ferrara is once again down on the outside, and Anton is stumbling around the ring, blinded by the extinguisher attack. Billy Mays looks incredibly shocked at what he’s done… and it would appear the only man with any wits about him is the crimson-soaked challenger. Crisis springs forward, nailing Mays with a ferocious clothesline that takes him over the top rope to join Ferrara on the outside.
Waters: And Crisis takes care of Mays!
His vision effectively removed, Anton is frantically searching for the edge of the ring to get to the outside and regroup. But unfortunately for him, he is stumbling well in the center of the ring, as far removed from an escape route as his vision by the perilous dioxide. With Mays out of the picture, Darcy speeds toward the unaware Lion with everything he’s got, leaping into the air and spiraling over into a textbook spinning wheel kick.
Waters: Spinning wheel kick! The champion is down!
Cassidy: Not like THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSS!
The crowd is in a frenzy now, as Darcy is once again back in control and appears to be only moments from winning the match, as well as the Frontier Title. Taking control of the Lion’s limp arm, he once again executes the leg drop…
Waters: Here it comes! It’s DARCINATOR time!
… but Lion doesn’t need his vision to feel that Darcy just left his leg very, very prone. With a sudden burst of strength, Assault manages to flip Darcy over after he nails the leg drop and grabs control of the aforementioned leg, bending it over as he maneuvers around to face the Darcinator.
Cassidy: Think again, Truth! Anton is about to lock in the Tiger Trap Leg Scissors!
But as Assault jockeys for better position, the Darcinator follows suit. He manages to flip himself again just before Anton can lock him into position, bending his legs before pushing forward with all his might, sending the champion flying back.
Waters: Crisis escapes the predicament! This is INSANE!
Darcy rears back again, and executes a perfect kip-up to once again reach his feet. Seizing the opportunity, Darcy runs full-speed at the Lion… but Assault has it scouted, and drops into an almost-crouch as he poised to counter just about anything Darcy can think of. The challenger senses this at almost the last possible moment, and does something Anton wasn’t quite expecting… dropping into a slide and skimming underneath the Lion’s outstretched legs. Anton attempts to turn around to face him, but suddenly finds his left leg locked in place…
Cassidy: What the-- Tony Little is somehow awake, and he’s holding onto Anton!
Growling, Anton kicks the still-lying Tony Little in the face, removing himself from the fitness trainer’s grasp. But in the brief moment of distraction, Anton was unable to turn around, and instantly knew a mistake was made as he feels the Kata-Hajime locked in from behind… SLAM!
Waters: MIND CRISIS!
Cassidy: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!
Not bothering with the leg drop, and not bothering with working the crowd, all of whom have leapt to their feet by now anyway, Darcy locks in his signature finishing maneuver. Anton howls in pain as he desperately reaches for a way out of the predicament; the ropes, the referee, a miraculously recovered Mays or Ferrara… but finds nothing. But after several seconds of fighting the practically unbearable pain, a fat forearm appears at the bottom of the ropes.
Cassidy: Mays is up! Billy Mays is up! Get in there, God dammit!
Slowly but surely, Mays pulls himself to his feet and shakes his head, groggily. The crowd, which is still feverishly screaming for Crisis, changes their sound from cheering in delight to an almost shriek of desperation as Mays pulls himself underneath the bottom rope and back into the ring. He can see Assault locked in the terrible predicament on the other side of the ring, and puts everything he has into making it over for the save.
Waters: Here comes Billy!
Cassidy: He’s going to make it!
Billy leaps to cover the remaining distance…
… he’s in the air…
… Anton is holding on…
… Michael Ryan is watching with baited breath…
… Crisis grits his teeth…
… just a matter of inches…
It’s too little, too late. Unable to see that Billy is only half a second from breaking the hold, Anton can’t take the pain any longer, and slaps the canvas with his free arm like his life depended on it. The noise is now deafening as Mays flies in after the fact to break up the hold. But winded, he collapses near the defeated champion as Michael Ryan helps Darcy to his feet, raising his arm in victory as Darcy screams in joy along with the sold out Jersey crowd.
Waters: IT’S OVER! CRISIS DEFEATS ASSAULT! DARCY CRISIS IS THE NEW FRONTIER CHAMPION!!!
Brunt: Your winner, and NEW Frontier champion… DARCY CRISIS!!!
“Superunknown” by Soundgarden hits the PA again as Michael Ryan hands the Frontier Title belt to the shell-shocked Darcy Crisis. He falls to his knees, clutching the belt as the waves of emotion overtake both him and the New Jersey fans, roaring in delight at the match’s outcome.
Waters: What a journey for Darcy Crisis! Forced into early retirement until December of last year, when he made his return to wrestling here in the AWC, and at the biggest show of the year he captures his first piece of gold since coming back, in perhaps the most hellacious Frontier title match we’ve ever seen!
Cassidy: Tragedy here in New Jersey, Truth. You can see it on everyone’s faces… thanks to some dastardly tactics on the part of Crisis and his pal Tony Little, the Lion is upended.
Waters: I’m not sure what match Cass was watching, folks… but we just witnessed a five-star classic from the two competitors here tonight. And we’re not even done! A major grudge match between Chainz and Aimz, the girlfriend of the new AWC Frontier champion is coming up next, and we still have a Transatlantic championship to decide! We’ll be back with those in just a bit, but first… listen to this crowd!
Crisis helps the fallen Tony Little to his feet, who is trying to shake off the various punishment he received over the course of the battle. With one hand he holds Tony’s arm high in the air in victory… and in the other, Darcy Crisis proudly holds his new prize in the air, as the light of the flashbulbs gleam off the golden belt as he soaks in the moment.
Until Further Notice, the Challenger is Still the Challenger, and the Champion is Still the Champion
AUTHORS: Josh and Steve
The fans are buzzing in anticipation of what's to come when the opening notes of “Colony” by In Flames bring them to their feet. Third week in and the theme music is starting to click in their minds. If they need a reminder, though, the name on the big screen tells them all they need to know: Diego Foster.
Waters: Here he comes! Zero to Hero winner and the number one contender to the Transatlantic Championship....
Face-Eater: ...and perennial crybaby....
Waters: …Diego Foster. And contrary to what my broadcast partner may think, the man is no crybaby. He's a serious competitor who has looked near to perfection in his run so far here in AWC.
Face-Eater: In three matches? Against Gimpy Giles and company? That's not not exactly anything worth bragging about.
Waters: Experience may not be on his side, but I can't remember the last time I saw a rookie with such overwhelming, raw talent. He has all the potential in the world, and when he steps in the ring with Garbage Bag Johnny, he'll have a shot at bona fide superstardom.
In the ring, Foster has perched on the turnbuckle, arms raised in the air drawing another swell of cheers from the Cincinnati fans. Jumping back to the mat, he signals to James Brunt at ringside, who promptly hands over the microphone without protest.
Waters: Foster was not scheduled to be here tonight, which leads me to wonder what exactly is on his mind.
Face-Eater: He's probably looking to cry and apologize to someone. Hopefully to me, for wasting my time.
Foster has a serious look on his face, running his hand across his mouth and chin before he deigns to speak.
Foster: Ever since I won Zero to Hero, people have been asking me the same question. Over and over again. Everyone wants to know: Diego, what do you think about Garbage Bag Johnny?
Face-Eater: That he's unhygienic? Overrated? Psychotic? Slovenly? A likely virgin? Borderline retarded?
Waters: Says the man who dropped the title to him.
Face-Eater: Hey, me and him are still tight. I'm just giving him a little razz.
Foster: Well, I could tell all of you what I think about GBJ or I can say it to his face. So if you're in the back right now, Johnny, I've put it off long enough, but tonight we need to talk.
Waters: Diego Foster just called out Garbage Bag Johnny!
The crowd goes ballistic. Diego turns to face the back, crossing his arms in an impatient gesture. It seems like Cincinnati Gardens can't get any louder, but when “Garbage Bag Johnny Will Win Zero 2 Hero” hits, the fans manage to kick it up another notch.
Waters: And the champion wastes no time in answering! He's been sparse, but Johnny's role as GCW Commissioner has been keeping him busy.
Face-Eater: There goes the neighborhood.
He takes his time walking out from the back, the Transatlantic Championship displayed prominently over his shoulder--the PRIME 5 Star Championship purposefully absent from the AWC taping. His mouth is set, as if he doesn't know what to expect, but he doesn't hesitate in the least as he makes his way to the ring. This is his territory, these are his people, and he is their champion.
Waters: What an incredible reaction! I tell you, I've never seen anything like this in all my years in this sport!
Face-Eater: Truth, your hyperbole is giving me the runs.
Stepping through the ropes, GBJ stands face to face with Diego Foster for the first time. Like two gunslingers standing off in the old west, the tension hangs heavily in the air, with neither man appearing eager to make the first move. And then Diego places his hand in front of him in a calming gesture, lifting the mic to speak again. Johnny nods, but doesn't take his eyes off him for a second.
Foster: Johnny, like I said, everyone's been asking me what I think about you. And I want you to know, the first word that comes to my mind is...respect.
Woooooooooooooooooooooo!
Face-Eater: Argh, I knew it! Another sappy Diego Foster love-fest.
Waters: Just because the notion of respect is alien to you doesn't mean it is to the rest of the human race.
Foster nods to the crowd, waiting for them to quiet down before continuing.
Foster: In the past four years, you've done it all. PRIME Dual Halo winner. GTT finalist. Two-time AWC Transatlantic Champion. Just listen to these fans, how they love you. You're a fucking legend, man. And for me, it's an honor to be facing you for the title.
Face-Eater: Just undo his belt and fellate him already.
Waters: Oh, stop it!
Foster: But forgive me, Johnny, if I tell you that I'm worried. Not about me, but about you.
GBJ says nothing, merely raising an eyebrow in question. The crowd drops into a hushed murmur now, the mood in the air noticeably shifting.
Foster: Because it seems to me that whenever I turn on the TV to catch up with wrestling, I find GBJ staring me in the face. On GCW's card one night, PRIME's the next, and AWC's on the third. See, that's a lot of commitments for one man, and even though you are a legend, you are still one man.
Face-Eater: Unlike myself.
Waters: What do you mean?
Face-Eater: As the second coming of Christ, I'm three in one, baby.
Waters: Oh brother...
Foster is pacing back and forth slightly, but now stops to shake his head, looking Johnny in the eye.
Foster: Now I didn't come out here to criticize your career choices. You're a grown man and able to make your own decisions. But it needs to be said... I saw your match with Steve Harrison last week, and I was not impressed. You looked a little run-down. But then, stretching yourself out over three companies will do that to a man.
Booooooooooooooooooooo!
Face-Eater: Ah, how quickly the fans turn on a man.
GBJ seems like he can't believe what he's hearing, his forehead creased as if listening to Diego has given him a headache. Foster turns to look the crowd, motioning for them to settle down.
Foster: Hey, hey! Quiet!
Of course this only make them boo him more loudly.
Waters: The Cincinnati fans are solidly behind Garbage Bag Johnny. Diego Foster looks to have gotten himself in over his head.
Foster: You people have got me all wrong. It wasn't my idea to come out here and say these things to try and come off like some big bad ass. No, I'm not trying to intimidate you, GBJ. I'm trying to focus you. Because if you thought Steve Harrison was a tough match, well, I'm on a completely different level. And because I respect you, I'm warning you, if you take me lightly I am going to tear you in half.
Booooooooooooooooooooo!
Foster: These fans may not like to hear it, but it's the truth. When I step in the ring with you, and that title's on the line, I want you to be at your best. Anything less simply isn't going to be good enough. You owe it to the fans, you owe it to the company, and you owe it to me.
Garbage Bag Johnny can't help but chuckle at the booing crowd and the defensive youngster who means no harm. But Garbage Bag knows all about digging himself into holes, so he chooses his words a bit more carefully in his first real public address in front of an AWC audience in years. He takes the microphone from his heroic successor.
GBJ: Look, kid. I appreciate you coming out here and saying that you respect me and all that, and I'm glad you're amped up for your shot, but let's clear the air on a few things here. First of all, you're right that I owe the company, and you're definitely right that I owe it to the fans.
A huge pop from the crowd.
GBJ: But I don't remember you doing anything for me, so even though I commend you for winning Zero to Hero this year, even though you only had to face two opponents--the first of which had already fought a match while you were fresh out the gates--and even though I think you've got tremendous potential--hell, I saw you take it to Jason Snow in GTT7--I don't think I owe you anything...but two out of three ain't bad.
Waters: I think Diego Foster is a little surprised, and I am, too. I don't remember Garbage Bag Johnny having this much bite...or clarity.
Face-Eater: I've known this SOB for a long time, and playing aloof was all part of his act...you can't pretend to be an idiot forever without people catching on, but I think this guy holds the record. The key is that he actually convinced himself that he was an idiot!
GBJ: But don't worry about me being at my best. Just worry about yourself. Because you're right about another thing, too. I am spread pretty thin, but when Pearl announced he was reopening AWC, I had two choices. I could either hand him over the title and wish him the best, or hop back in and make sure that the next person who wore this bad boy won it proper...and that means beating me. So put me opposite the Steve Harrisons and the Aaron Nothings of AWC and I'll sleepwalk through the matches and still come out on top. I don't need to make a name for myself here. I AM the man.
Garbage Bag Johnny holds the title out, showing it off to Foster in all its abundant goldness.
GBJ: If I'm out there defending this belt, though, you can rest assured that I'm not giving it up easy. I beat three men in one night for a mere chance at this thing, and it was half a year before I even got a sniff at this gold. I want you to remember that you got it easy up until you step in the ring with me. You've got some skills, man, but if you want to take this belt home with you...I assure you, it'll be the hardest thing you've ever done in your career.
GBJ hoists the belt back on his shoulder as the crowd cheers him.
GBJ: Good luck.
Garbage Bag Johnny drops the mic, answering Foster's plea, but leaving him somewhat dumbstruck in the center of the ring. Based on Johnny's recent performance, it's hard to blame Foster for expecting less from the AWC Champion.
Waters: Garbage Bag Johnny claims that he's back with a vengeance, but can he put his money where his mouth is?
Face-Eater: I assume so, Truth. Back in the day, he used to eat money any time I dared him to.
An Invitation... or a Summons?
AUTHORS: Hyde and Brandon
The heavy footsteps of a tired man slowly ascend the spiral staircase. William Gwynn has already had his fill of action for the night, defeated on his return to the ring, but he's been summoned. The interest in his arrival had been muted, but had not been missed by all. As he reaches the top step, he surveys the scene. Unfamiliar with his surroundings, he notes the nicely furnished corridor. Finally he sees the sign that he has been looking for, it says “Legends Lounge.”
"Something you're lookin' for?"
Liam Martin turns to face the new arrival, hands on his hips. Wearing a dark UPW hoodie, the skinhead would look menacing to most, but Gwynn's had his return to the ring and he squares his shoulders defensively. Liam's brother Tim scowls from behind him, stepping out.
T. Martin: At least let the guy talk, no wonder it's been quiet.
He turns to scrutinise Gwynn.
T. Martin: Well? What do you want?
Gwynn: I’ve been invited.
William pauses for a moment, pulling out his wallet and pulling out a scrap piece of paper that he’s jotted something down on – showing for a moment his business acumen.
Gwynn: Jack.
William analyzes the situation, seeing if the word registers with them.
Gwynn: I’m here to see Jack Murphy.
Tim Martin squints at Gwynn, trying to ascertain whether the AWC newcomer is being sarcastic. His brother is more forthcoming.
L. Martin: He summon you?
While Gwynn has been out of the business for a long time, he has to scowl and furrow his brows at such a condescending remark.
Gwynn: Summon? I don’t get summoned. I was invited. Is he in there?
William Gwynn points through the door. Before Gwynn can advance any further, Tim Martin throws out an arm, while the second of the Furious Fists pulls him back roughly by the shoulder.
L. Martin: That's a Legends' Lounge, dickbrain. You a Legend? Nah. I didn't think so.
With that, William Gwynn glares, shreds the piece of paper in his hand, and turns on his heels. He has to get rested up after his match, after all. He begins walking back toward the spiral staircase, each step making the same, tired echo as his arrival.
T. Martin: HEY HEY HEY!
L. Martin: Hold it, Kate!
Gwynn stops, but Tim breaks off, looking quizzically at his brother.
L. Martin: You know. Kate from LOST.
Blank stare.
L. Martin: Because she's always running away. This guy's running away.
Blank stare.
Gwynn: Right, er, I'll be leaving--
T. Martin: No, don't do that.
L. Martin: Jack summoned you.
Gwynn sighs.
Gwynn: Invited. He invited me.
Gwynn says that under his breath, and finally walks between the Martin brothers and knocks on the door.
Murphy: (OSV) Tim? That you?
The elder Martin puts his face to the door, yelling into the wood.
T. Martin: We got someone to see you, says he was invited.
L. Martin: Summoned.
Gwynn: Invited!
Murphy: (OSV) Send him in. We have to talk business.
Liam Martin turns to William Gwynn, who is already turning the door handle.
L. Martin: Don't get comfortable in there, pal. It's not for people like you.
With that, William Gwynn flashes a smile that’s been lost for years.
Gwynn: I’m comfortable already, Mr. Martin.
With that, he’s gone through the doorway, leaving the Fists to wonder who exactly they had just dealt with.
The Message - Part 2
AUTHORS: Hyde and Josh
We find ourselves backstage in Garbage Bag Johnny's locker room. We know this because the room resembles a jungle given the large number of fichus plants couriered in overnight, because GBJ's favoured means of transport is hooked up to a huge canister in the corner to take on more gas for his return flight, and because the walls are decorated floor-to-ceiling with signed Trashcan Man promo shots. Despite the unconventional surroundings, Sasha Volkyeva sits at consummate ease in the room's single chair, admiring the half-finished toothpick model of the Triangles structure that awaits GBJ's return from his sojourn in the ring with Diego Foster -- which, conveniently, comes now.
GBJ: Alright! My mail order bride is here!
GBJ puts the AWC Transatlantic Title down as he enters his own locker room, exhaling a deep breath.
GBJ: Whew! Still surprises me how heavy that belt is, but if you want to build waist muscles like I got, there really is no better way.
Sasha raises her eyebrows. Perhaps this would be easier than expected.
Sasha: That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about, Johnny.
GBJ: You wanted to talk to me about my sweet waist muscles?
Sasha has already started nodding, so she has to stop, clicking her tongue.
Sasha: It's lovely to see you too, by the way, Johnny. No, the belt.
She points.
Sasha: Why do you think it's so heavy?
GBJ: Uh, because it's two belts melded together?
Garbage Bag Johnny scratches his head.
GBJ: Now if you don't mind me asking YOU a question, Miss Volkswagen, why so curious all of the sudden about my belt?
Sasha: You say it's two belts melded together, Johnny; or indeed, the original Transatlantic Championship belt, and the Transatlantic Crown. But -- would you hand me the belt?
She stretches out a beckoning hand, still sitting.
GBJ: Semantics, Sash. The Transatlantic Crown was just a repurposed belt.
Sasha: Are you going to pass the belt to me, or not?
As Garbage Bag battles wits with Sasha Volkyeva, he lifts the belt with the knees. He hesitates, considering the weight of the object, but Sasha takes it firmly from him, not showing any strain as she spreads the belt out across her lap.
Sasha: If it's two belts melded together, Johnny, where are the joins?
GBJ: Beats the shit out of me... but I mean, if the original belt had joins, and then someone made a replica without joins, I'd call that pretty lackluster work.
Sasha stares.
Sasha: You already know it's a replica?!
GBJ: Wait, what? No. This one's the real deal.
Garbage Bag knocks on the belt as it sits on Sasha's lap.
GBJ: Sounds like 100% pure gold to me.
Sasha: When did you last listen to gold, Johnny?
Ms. Volkyeva adjusts in her seat as the Transatlantic Champion squats down next to her.
Sasha: I came here to give you a message.
GBJ: Well, get on with it. You're sitting in my chair.
Sasha: The message is that the belt is not the, ah, "real deal".
She clears her throat, wondering whether to explain this chronologically or via another more arbitrary ordering sequence so as best to avoid blowing Johnny's mind.
Sasha: Ever since Darcy Crisis won the belt at Triangles in 2006... the belt he took away from AWC with him when Dr. Drake closed the company, the same belt you won from him at the Reunion Show, the belt that you showed off on competitors' television shows, the belt that is sitting in front of us here today... it is not the real belt.
GBJ: What do you mean it's not real?
Sasha laces the fingers of her hands together, aligning her face to "regretful."
Sasha: I don't know any more than that, Johnny. It is not the real belt. I can't tell you any more.
We close in on GBJ’s confused face, as he stares at his reflection in the gold of what may not, after all, represent all that he stands for.
Waters: What was that all about, Dick? I figure you’re the expert on the multitude of Transatlantic Championship belts we seem to have collected.
Face-Eater: It’s bullshit. We had two for a time, but when Garbage Bag fused the Transatlantic Crown together with the Transatlantic Belt after Coast to Coast, that created the UNIQUE belt you see there. Sasha doesn’t know what she’s talking about – but that’s not exactly a surprise. She spent her whole time in AWC out of the loop.
Waters: She seemed to think this belt looks different to the real one, though, something about the joins—
Face-Eater: This is the real one, Truth. Why would anyone create a second Transatlantic Championship belt? And could anyone even copy it? It’s a crown fused to a belt, damn it.
Waters: I don’t know, Dick. One thing’s for certain. Sasha Volkyeva has given Garbage Bag Johnny something to think about.
Bone vs Julian Fiasco
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles
REFEREE: Richie Travis
AUTHOR: Jon
The second match of the night will have Julian Fiasco’s debut against the undefeated Bone. This match will show an array of styles with Bone being an agile high flyer and Fiasco mainly relying on his strength to bully his opponent. Not much fanfare for either competitor as neither has tried embracing the AWC fans yet.
Right off the bat Bone uses his speed to drop kick Fiasco’s legs. Fiasco falls to his knees and Bone follows it up quickly with a flipping leg drop that send Fiasco face first into the mat. Bone goes for a quick cover but Fiasco powers him off and tosses Bone towards the ropes. Bone is up and runs at Fiasco but Fiasco finally remembers where he is and clotheslines Bone to the mat and then drags him back up. He gets a headlock on him and grinds his arm into Bone’s temple. Bone gets him on the ropes and whips Fiasco to the other side. Fiasco stops dead in his tracks and turns out but BAM, Bone jumps off the side rope and hits Fiasco with a kick to the head. Fiasco is having a tough time dealing with Bone’s odd array of moves. Fiasco is very groggy and when he gets to his feet looks up to see Bone about to his the Bone Buzzsaw, but Fiasco moves just in time. He grabs Bone back up and DDT’s him back down to the mat.
Minutes have gone by and Fiasco is still in control by grounding Bone’s speed. He picks Bone back up again and neck whips him to set up a loud sounding kick to the lower back of Bone. The fans are beginning to get behind the small high flyer as Fiasco continues to brutalize Bone with a five second standing suplex following a kick to the shin. The crowd sees Fiasco as the Netherlands right now as the flashy Spain is being brought down with angry moves. Fiasco looks out at the crowd as they boo him and he shrugs his shoulder but that was just enough time for Bone to get to his feet and line Fiasco up for a quick super kick that drops both men to the ground. Fiasco holds his face as Bone continues to get his breath back from earlier in the match.
They both stand up at the same time and Fiasco runs at Bone but Bone seems it coming and whips out a nasty hurrincanranna and then motions to the crowd and they begin cheering for one of the more beautiful high risk moves there is at the Club and Bone hits Fiasco with 187. Richie Travis goes down for the count and Bone has defeated Julian Fiasco and continued his short but impressive undefeated streak.
The Hard Way
AUTHOR: Hyde
L. Martin: Tim?
T. Martin: What is it, Liam.
The Furious Fists of God are still at their posts either side of the door to the Legends’ Lounge. It would be fair to say that Liam is getting a little bored with the assignment.
L. Martin: Guy that Jack summons earlier, the gnome-looking fucker.
T. Martin: Gwynn?
L. Martin: Yeah. Gwynn. I was thinkin’. How’s he know our names?
T. Martin: What?
L. Martin: When he leaves, yeah, he says “I’m comfortable already, Mr. Martin”, in that sorta holier-than-thou voice.
T. Martin: As if you can get holier than The Furious Fists of God.
L. Martin: Sure. But how’s he know our names? We didn't tell him.
T. Martin: I told you, Liam. Since the time that we actually didn’t die, we’re kind of a big deal.
L. Martin: A big deal. Right. So why we standin’ here guarding this fuckin’ – hey hey Jack what’s up!
Liam Martin grins at Jack Murphy as he stands in the doorframe, his hand angled up on the top of the door, resting his weary head on his shoulder.
Murphy: Everything good?
T. Martin: We’re good, Jack.
Murphy: Any sign of that Peyote Jones?
Liam turns to Tim, mouthing “who?”, but his brother is already shaking his head.
T. Martin: Not a peep.
The Irishman sighs.
Murphy: He was supposed to come and see me last week.
L. Martin: I say we teach the little fucker a lesson. What ya say, Tim?
Liam massages his knuckles together, but Tim shakes his head.
T. Martin: I don’t think so, remember what I—
Murphy: No, Tim, that might actually be the way to play this.
Tim raises his eyebrows.
T. Martin: You sure?
Murphy sighs.
Murphy: Yeah, I’m sure.
Liam Martin chuckles, mashing his fist into his palm.
L. Martin: Alright! Come on, Tim, let’s go school the cunt in God’s word.
The Fists pull up their hoods and depart, leaving Jack Murphy’s wrinkled brow reflecting on the call he’s made.
Murphy: I guess not everybody wants to do things the easy way.
Ladders, Belts, Forests and Trees
AUTHORS: Hyde and Nathan
The camera fades in as the two-headed impresario of AWC, the men called "Pearl" and "Crisis" brainstorm another night of award-winning television. Not technically sharing the same body, the two sit across from each other; the former, David Harber, frantically scribbles something onto a pad of paper as Darcy Markson stares in his direction. The faraway look in his eyes suggests he is looking past AWC's Entertainment Manager, rather than at him, as if lost in thought.
Suddenly found, Markson speaks up.
Markson: Are we ever going to book a ladder match one of these days? I'm not really one for pointless gimmick matches, but I also don't see why we put so much in the budget for a bunch of ladders that we just leave lying under the ring. Wasted money if you ask me.
Pearl shakes his head, clicking his teeth.
Pearl: I was going to say "Patience, grasshopper", but then I thought you'd probably shoot me.
Markson: You have chosen wisely... David Carradine, you are not.
Pearl: I don't know about the ladder matches, Darcy. It takes a certain level of skill to run one of those matches without breaking an ankle or two. If we ever give AgentDash a return match with Giles, now those are two guys we could throw a ladder under.
Darcy's gaze again wanders away from Harber as he sinks back into the couch, this time drawn towards a shimmering gleam of gold emanating from atop the seat cushion of a chair against the corner of the room. Just as the Transatlantic title sat uncomfortably idle in Markson's living room for some time, the role of dust collector seemed unfitting for the top prize Just Wrestling had to offer. His eyes return to Pearl's as he nods toward the JW Championship.
Markson: How long do you plan to keep that thing lying around in here?
Harber looks back at the belt, as if noticing it for the first time.
Pearl: Oh, "that thing"? Well, Shipley was back in the States this week and I thought he was going to come collect, but I guess not.
Markson: Well I fail to see why we're stuck babysitting other people's title belts. If Shipley can't be bothered to collect the most important thing is company owns, why should we?
Harber leans back in his seat, abandoning his pad of paper for the moment. He stretches out his arms and clicks his knuckles one by one as he thinks out loud.
Pearl: I guess that's one way to look at it.
He catches his Live Events Coordinator's eye.
Pearl: What're you thinking?
Darcy outstretches his arms, taking a deep breath as he collects his thoughts. Since it definitely looked as if Pearl was simply waiting for someone else to show up and take this item off his plate, he knew it would be up to him to ensure this distraction was taken care of, one way or another.
Markson: Well the way I see it, while the strap is technically property of JW—
Pearl: Actually, it’s property of AWC. We bought it from the Chinese.
Markson: Well, either way. The true owner is the last guy who won it. The Transatlantic title sat on my mantle for over a year, so I should know better than anybody. If we can't track down Shipley, why don't we get it back to the rightful champion?
Pearl: And who's that?
Markson blinks.
Markson: How the fuck should I know? I've got my hands full trying to keep things running smoothly around here, I don't really keep tabs on our... *ahem* ... inferior competition.
Harber nods, depressing the intercom button built into his desk.
Pearl: Fred, would you step in here a moment.
Presently the glass door slides open and Fredrock dives inside, throwing his mop inside as he gasps for breath.
Fredrock: Those... stairs...
Pearl: We're getting you in shape, Fred. Now, we need to know who's the Just Wrestling Champion, can you tell me that?
Fredrock straightens up immediately.
Fredrock: Dash Springfield was the last person to win the belt, defeating Sean Edmunds in Kingston, Ontario on June 1st. However, the promotion went on a hiatus that night, and Springfield was never presented with the belt he won.
Markson: Wow, a human Wikipedia right there. Thanks Fredrock... say hi to Emo Kid for me on the way out, wouldya?
Fredrock goes quiet and bolts from the room. Pearl sighs.
Pearl: That was dark, Darcy. You did hear about Emo?
Darcy frowns.
Markson: You're kidding. I always thought he was too stupid to know how to properly slit his wrists.
Although greatly tempted to delve into another classic AWC inside-joke non sequitor, he elects to return to business at hand.
Markson: But nevermind about that. Even though it's none of our business, that's cold. If he's the champion and never even got a chance to hold the belt, I think we need to right that wrong. Even FUSE gave me the chance to hold my belt in the air, I think we at least owe Springfield that.
Pearl: Is this about Springfield, or is this about you?
Markson: Don't be ridiculous. Yeah, I could get mad at you for that, but to be honest I might as well have retired on the spot the second Garbage Bag Johnny threw me off those Triangles. It was never going to be a long run for me... in a way, you closing down AWC ensured the longest possible title reign I could have hoped for.
Darcy runs his hands through his hair, tugging at his ponytail.
Markson: I just want this distraction taken care of so we can focus on matters far more worth our attention. If we happen to do something nice for someone in the process, so much the better. You feel me?
Pearl: What is this, The Wire? Sure, I “feel” you. Go ahead, invite the guy to Fresh! next week. Give him the grand tour, let him at the catering for a little while, and let him have his shining moment with the belt.
Harber reaches back and grabs the gleaming belt, tossing it over to Crisis, who catches it.
Pearl: You’ll take care of that, right?
Crisis frowns, because just for a moment this feels like being delegated a menial task. But it was his idea, after all, and he brushes it off.
Markson: Sure. Figure that’ll be one less little thing we have to worry about, and then we can start to see the forest for the trees.
Harber gnaws on his thumb.
Pearl: And what do you mean by that?
The former Transatlantic Champion shrugs.
Markson: I’m just saying, one week you’ve got me dealing with AgentDash, the next week we’re repossessing another promotion’s title belt. We’ve got All Summer Long three shows away and we haven’t booked a single match. It’s like the actual AWC stuff has been on the backburner for you.
Pearl: That’s because I’m expecting you to deal with it?
Markson: You’re expecting me to deal with it?
Pearl: You’re Live Events Coordinator, aren’t you?
Crisis stares at his superior.
Markson: So I can go off and book All Summer Long whatever way I like, and you’re not going to say a word? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to do it, but I’m not exactly experienced in putting a pay-per-view together out of nothing.
Harber waves a tired hand.
Pearl: You’ll learn on the job. It’s how we all did it, Darcy. I’m not saying I’m not here for you, but I’ve just got a lot of stuff to deal with right now.
Crisis nods, getting to his feet.
Markson: That’s good with me. I’ll start thinking about setting people up. I was thinking—
Pearl: Great.
Harber turns wearily back to his papers before Markson has even finished. The Live Events Coordinator waits for a moment, giving Pearl the chance to look back up, but it’s clear that more of the Entertainment Manager’s time isn’t forthcoming. Darcy shrugs, sliding the door quietly shut on his way out.
The Pitch
AUTHORS: Kongo and Steve
White pinstriped suit, cocked white fedora, tanned skin, powder pink shirt unbuttoned to show off some sparse chest hair, yup, it's that rat Luis Ferrara strolling down the halls, handing out business cards to every camera jockey or catering bitch he passes, giving everybody a few quick words, a pat on the back, insisting that they call him if they ever need some representation. The show's almost over, so it seems that everybody's packing their shit up to get out of dodge. Ferrara seems somewhat disappointed, though he wears his smile as well as he can. He had been expecting to find a big name player tonight. So far, he had come up empty.
Up ahead, someone turns into the corner and Luis's eyes light up. He quickly breaks into a little jogging half-run, arms pumping at his sides.
Ferrara: Ey! Ey you!
The man doesn't turn. Ferrara is undeterred, running until he catches up with the person. He slaps the mystery man on the back, turning around to face him.
Ferrara: Heyyy, I thought it was you, man! Nice to see ya!
The mystery man? A slightly confused Diego Foster. Ferrara grabs Diego Foster's hand, shaking it against Foster's will.
Ferrara: Us Latinos gotta stick together, man! You got a white boy last name, true, but I know you got that south-of-the-border blood in ya!
Foster: I guess you can thank my mom for my name. Not that it's any of your damn business.
Foster tries to move around Ferrara, but Ferrara nimbly keeps right in Foster's way, chuckling good-naturedly.
Ferrara: Ey, that's alright, didn't mean nothing by it, brotha! I saw your win at Zero Three Hero or whateva, congrats! Movin' up in the world!
Ferrara slaps Foster on the back encouragingly.
Foster: Thanks... Sorry for snapping at you, but I'm not really in the mood to take a joke tonight.
Ferrara: No problem, D. So I'm thinkin'... ey, you heard of the Cartel?
Foster raises an eyebrow skeptically.
Foster: Something to do with you, I take it?
Ferrara: Yeah, it's my group, my unit, I'm tryin' to put together the best of the best, ya know? Now we need a little leg up, and you, you got all the ability in the world, but lemme tell you... every wrestler could do better with a manager, am I right?
Foster opens his mouth, but Ferrara cuts him off--
Ferrara: 'Course I'm right! I handle the business, you handle the wrestling, the ring work. Keep your mind on winning, and I'll keep mine on gettin' you the title shots, the main events, the big money, ha haaa! Hear what I'm sayin' to you, Diego?
Foster: No offense, but I think I'm doing alright on my own as far as title shots are concerned.
Ferrara: Listen, listen, hear me out, alright? You wanna reach heights that ain't never been reached before. I can help you do that. I can make you a star! Trust me, Diego, you can't do it alone. I seen how you handled yourself. Apologizin' to the fans and shit. Ridiculous! Ain't a shame to admit you don't got the business mind that I do! No, sir, ain't a shame to admit there's things you don't know, things you ain't never gonna know! I ain't tryin' to come down on you, brotha! I'm just tryin' to let you know that I'm here for you, I'm here to help you get to that next level!
Foster screws up his mouth, unsure of how to respond. He exhales, halfway between a breath and sigh.
Foster: Look, I'm going to be honest with you. I've got a match for the Transatlantic Championship coming up and it's a big fucking deal for me. I came close to glory before, but I fell short. I've worked hard, learned from my mistakes, got stronger. Now I've got another shot. I've got to see what I'm capable of.
Ferrara: Well I'm gonna be honest with you, too. You're 22 years old and this here is a dirty business. No sense in goin' in alone. Here, take my card, you think it over.
Ferrara hands Foster a business card. Foster takes a look at it and hands it back.
Foster: Like I said, I've gotta do this by myself.
Foster brushes past Ferrara, heading off down the hall. Ferrara scowls a moment, then his jovial smile reappears. He waves the business card as if it can get Foster's attention.
Ferrara: Hey, c'mon, Diego! Us Latin brothas gotta stick together! Diego!
Foster keeps walking until he's out of sight. Ferrara sighs, looking at the card again. He shakes his head and makes to put it back into his pocket when he receives a tap on the shoulder. He turns and comes face to face with Fredrock.
Fredrock: Hey, man, spare a card?
Ferrara's upper lip curls in disgust.
Ferrara: Th'hell d'you need Cartel management for?
Fredrock: Maybe I wanna lace up some boots!
Ferrara: Outta my way, puto, or I'll shine mines on your face.
Obviously irritated, Ferrara shoves past Fredrock and storms down the hall. Fredrock looks dejected after his rejection, especially as he sees pretty much everybody else walking around with Cartel business cards.
Jason Natas vs Peyote Jones
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles
REFEREE: Lars Larsson
AUTHOR: Hyde
Lars Larsson doesn’t want any funny business, which puts him on the same page as “The Anti-Superstar” Jason Natas, but from the start it looks like Peyote Jones didn’t get that memo, borne to the ring within a giant inflatable shark. As he exits from within the bowels of the beast, Natas cuts him off with some punishing downward blows to the head, and by the time he’s tossed into the ring and the bell is rung, Jones is already considerably the worse for wear.
Before Natas can really take advantage, however, Liam and Tim Martin stalk menacingly down the ramp in their UPW hoodies. Natas is distracted for a moment, and Jones takes the opportunity to spear him to the mat and rain down blows. But the Martins don’t even break stride as they hit the ring, separating the two combatants. Lars Larsson gets in their faces, but the referee is calmly held at arm’s length by Tim Martin as his brother tosses Natas out to ringside.
The Furious Fists then focus on the target of their ire, Peyote Jones, first throwing him into the turnbuckle front-first and pummelling him from behind before lifting him together in a high-angle back suplex which shakes the ring. Referee Larsson once more gets involved, this time grabbing hold of Liam Martin, but the Legend shakes him off and Larsson stumbles off balance. As he hits the canvas, he angrily calls off the contest.
Peyote’s punishment isn’t done, however, as Liam Martin Irish whips Jones directly into the Fist of God brutally delivered by Tim Martin on the turn. Leaving Jones bloodied in the ring, the Fists exit to a chorus of boos. Natas yells at them as they go, but they ignore the Anti-Superstar, having performed their task with ruthless efficiency.
- back to top -
