AWC Fresh!
"He's in meetings." - Liam
Fresh! 23 July 2010
BI-LO Center (capacity: 13,707) -- Greenville, SC
The Pressure Mounts
AUTHOR: Hyde
We open in Darcy Markson's office. The Live Events Coordinator is squeezed beneath his desk, hammering away at his keyboard, concentration etched all over his face. The white t-shirt clinging to his torso looks days old, as do the half-dozen empty Coke cans at his side.
Crisis stops typing, blinking at the screen, as if he can't believe what he's seeing. He's straight on the phone.
Markson: Yeah, I'm looking at tonight's check-in sheet right now, and Ellis isn't on it. What is this, like the third week in a row?
He pauses, listening to some yabbering from across the line.
Markson: Sure, but I look down the list and if I'm supposed to believe whatever newfangled electronic technology we've got in place here, half these guys aren't even turning up for their jobs. Jones? Natas? Hell - our Transatlantic Champion isn't even here tonight!
He waits, listening as patiently as he can.
Markson: What I'm saying is this is their job. And they're far from treating it as such. Pearl is too busy to care, and now that I'm running All Summer Long, this shit falls on me. What've we got, one match booked for the show? And Johnny not even here to hype it. This isn't even right.
He breathes out heavily, running a hand through his hair.
Markson: Look, we gotta get a little discipline up in here. I'm thinking...
He shakes his head as he says it. As if he knows the can of worms he's about to open up.
Markson: I'm thinking about talking to Murphy. Get the union in on this, you know. I mean... what harm can it do?
What harm. What harm indeed.
Introduction
AUTHORS: Hyde and Joe
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
We cut to an exterior shot of the BI-LO Center, which glimmers in the fading light of evening-time Greenville, before zooming in and through the arena walls, joining the indefatigable team of Truth Waters and The Illustrious Face-Eater at ringside. Well, we would -- except Facey isn't quiet there.
Waters: It's AWC Fresh! - live from the BI-LO Center here in Greenville, South Carolina! I'm Truth Waters, and -- it looks like my broadcast partner isn't --
Don't speak too soon, Truth! For here comes the Face-Eater himself, sprinting through the curtain and down the ramp.
Face-Eater: I'M HERE! I'M HERE! STOP CRYING! WHY ARE YOU CRYING!
Waters: What happened, Dick?
Face-Eater: I thought the show was cancelled! IMAGINE MY SURPRISE WHEN HARB CALLED ME!
Facey settles into his position at the desk, Truth Waters rolling his eyes.
Face-Eater: Now where are my goddamn pyrotechnics?
As if cued by the former Transatlantic Champion, orange blasts shatter the comfortable atmosphere, fireworks ensuring a literally explosive start to the show. The fans take this as their cue to ratchet up the noise levels, yelling their support for the nascent 2010 edition of the Atlantic Wrestling Club.
Waters: Last week on Fresh! we saw T.A. Giles, Diego Foster and Garbage Bag Johnny all delivering each other a triangle of messages in the ring. But Van Isaac Pryce and Steve Harrison got in each other's faces with a more visceral sort of message. Pryce and Harrison face off in tonight's main event!
Face-Eater: Yeah, you heard right - this place has slipped that low!
Waters: Also on the show, the Frontier Champion T.A. Giles takes on William Gwynn!
Face-Eater: Truth says "also on the show" to mask the fact that there're only two matches on the show...
Waters: This ain't oh-five, Dick. We only got an hour slot to play with.
Face-Eater: BOO FUCKING HOO. If the product was up to it, they'd find the time.
Waters: Why'n't ya step up and show them how it's done? Put up, shut up - do one of those, huh.
Face-Eater: Well ain't that the Truth.
The camera scans the crowd's signs: 2-ELITE-4-ELITE, I AM SHAKUR HEAR ME ROAR, and ROXIE > ELLIS.
Face-Eater: Not exactly very imaginative, these Greenville fans.
Waters: Why'n't ya get up and shake your cock at me like last week, that'll fire 'em up.
Face-Eater: UMMMM. Shall we, uh, do the show now?
United Front
AUTHOR: Hyde
“Hey... er... guys.”
There’s really no reason that Darcy “Crisis” Markson should be scared of the Furious Fists. He’s a former Transatlantic Champion, after all; not to mention his run with the Frontier Championship, which has passed around the waists of some of the biggest names in the game. Neither of them can say either of those things – their dominance of the Alliance division wasn’t exactly equivalent, given the cyclical competitiveness of AWC’s duo roster.
So he looks them in their eyes, trying not to notice that even in hoodies and jeans they put him to shame; he notices a ketchup stain on his t-shirt and dabs subtly at it.
T. Martin: Everything good, Darce?
Markson: Um, sure. Look, can I get with Jack on something real quick?
Liam and Tim exchange looks.
L. Martin: He’s in meetings.
The younger Martin jerks his head at the door to the Legends’ Lounge, as if the gesture should be self-explanatory.
Markson: Yeah, I got that impression. Why he can’t time those meetings for the other 167 hours of the week that we’re not live on TV, though, I can’t quite fathom.
Liam frowns and begins adding up in his head the number of hours in a week – Darcy swallows confidently, having prepared his spontaneous light-heartedness in advance.
T. Martin: You could see him in those other 167 hours too.
Markson: You serious? I’m out of the loop here. Soon’s they turned me all corporate, guys stopped telling me where the good places to drink are.
L. Martin: Corporate?
Markson: Uh, yeah, my suit is kinda being dry-cleaned.
L. Martin: But whaddya mean – they offered you a job?
Markson: I’m the Live Events Coordinator, damn it!
L. Martin: No need for the attitude, man.
He turns to his brother.
L. Martin: You knew this, Tim?
T. Martin: I guess Jack mighta mentioned it.
L. Martin: I never heard it.
T. Martin: I think he mighta done once, maybe.
L. Martin: I nev—
Markson: GUYS!
The Fists fall silent, but their faces quickly form into sneers.
L. Martin: Cool it, Mr. Corporate, we were only playin’ around. Like we said, you can’t see Jack right now, so—
Markson: No, that’s not the way this is gonna go. The lack of respect is bad enough, but this whole setup here? The Lounge, you guys guarding the door? What are you hiding in there? Maybe you’re gonna tell me Ellis Nash and Garbage Bag Johnny are sat in there sipping martinis with your boss. Maybe that’s why I’ve got this great big fucking headache over how to run the goddamn pay-per-view. Or maybe you’re gonna even tell me that Mike Wade has been in there all along, behind a SECRET FUCKING DOOR instead of taking two seconds to waltz on down to my office and do the old ‘Hi, Darcy, you can book me on the shows now’.
Crisis glares at the two Legends.
Markson: I don’t even care anymore, but it’s gonna STOP.
“What’s gonna stop?”
The measured voice is Jack Murphy’s, standing in the frame of the door, which now stands open.
Markson: Jack, we’ve really gotta talk about this.
Murphy spreads his arms.
Murphy: I wish I could, Darcy, but I’m tied up in m—
Crisis lunges forward, pinning Murphy against the door by his throat and twisting his near arm behind his back.
Markson: If I hear the word meeting one more time in the context of this fucking Lounge—
The Martins pull Markson off Murphy, the aggressor the clear odd one out in the company of three men built like tanks. Markson pulls his t-shirt back around his neck, ignoring the Fists and glaring up into the cold eyes of the UPW-AWC Secretary-General. Murphy takes his time, rubbing carefully at his neck.
Murphy: UPW business is a full-time job. Don’t let’s make this personal, Darcy.
Markson: You don’t want to make it personal? Then how about you stop using the Legends’ Lounge as your own personal play-pen?
Murphy: What concern’s that of yours, Darcy? I don’t see your name on the list...
He steps aside and points through the door at a gleaming golden plaque mounted on the far wall, on which the names of the AWC Legends are legible, Pierce Lavelle right through to Garbage Bag Johnny.
Markson: (calmer) Forget that, Jack. Look, I came here to ask for your help.
Murphy: What can I do?
Markson: That’s the exact question I’ve been asking myself all week. Pearl’s got me running All Summer Long, but let alone knowing where to get started – I don’t even know who I’ve got to play with. I haven’t seen Jason Natas, Peyote Jones, Ellis Nash around here in weeks. And don’t even talk to me about Aaron Nothings.
Murphy: There’s only so much I can say as their Secretary-General, Darcy.
Markson: I know, but I was hoping you might – hey. Their Secretary-General?
The Irishman nods.
Murphy: Dues have been coming in. For a new UPW branch, I’d say we’re making good strides this early in the game.
Markson narrows his eyes.
Markson: You don’t mean to say you are behind why these guys aren’t showing up?
Murphy smiles wanly.
Murphy: I don’t mean to say anything at all. Have a good evening, Darcy.
He closes the door.
Markson: Wait!
T. Martin: Step off, Darce. There’s only so much protection from these here Fists that “going corporate” will give you.
Crisis stares at the closed door, controlling his breathing. Then, with a heavy heart, he turns for the spiral staircase. There’s nothing more to be done.
Not tonight, anyway.
The Man With the Cell Phone-onica
AUTHOR: Kongo
SCREEEEEEEEEEECH!
The tire squeal came from outside. A cameraman hustles through the halls backstage, the live POV bobbing and rocking as he heads to the arena's employee entrance. The door is pushed open and the camera heads out into the parking lot. Most of the cars are neatly parked (more or less) in the designated spaces several yards away from the door.
The screech didn't come from any of those. Instead, it came from a sleek red sportscar that was parked conspicuously close to the door. A blond spike-haired man in an unbuttoned powder blue dress shirt and a white tee underneath steps out, skinny blue jeans, shades over his eyes, cell phone pressed against his ear and a smile on his face. He tosses his keys with causal accuracy at the cameraman and it appears that they've been caught.
Blond Man: Park the car, Chachi. There's two bits in the glove.
Cameraman: But I--
The shock-haired man breezes past the camera, heading straight into the building, chattering on the phone. The camera lingers on the door as it closes behind the strange newcomer.
Cameraman: Well, what in the hell?
The camera swings back to the car.
Cameraman: Guess I better park the damn thing...
The Ghost
AUTHORS: Kayin and Hyde
Darcy Markson's office would, if he had any choice in the matter, be a welcome sanctuary from the backstage politics he's having to school himself in every day. In reality, though, it's cold, clinical -- all glass walls and sparse furnishings. It's luxurious, certainly, but hardly designed to make him feel at home. Worse, there's a guy sitting in it.
Markson: This is going to have to wait, I have to see a man about a dog... oh, and I have to change.
Markson tugs at the once-white fabric clinging to his chest, giving it a disgusted sniff.
Markson: Sorry, you cool with this?
Without a further glance at the silent intruder, Crisis pulls the sweaty t-shirt off over his head, pulling open a cupboard at the back of the office. He turns back with a grin.
Markson: Secret stash, just for emergencies.
He selects a shirt and slips his arms into it, beginning to do the buttons from the bottom up.
Markson: Security job, right?
It is soon revealed that Crisis is talking to the man called Bone. His feelings are not hurt to hear him assuming that he has come to him to be hired for a work as security. Bone knows he does not give off much of an impression. He's not the social kind. He just crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in the seat, making himself more at home here.
Bone: No. You called me here, remember? I am Bone.
He can see Crisis has remembered now.
Bone: What business do you need from me? I usually spend this week recuperating after a match.
Markson: Wait... you're Bone? Wow. I guess I really do need to pay more attention around here. Hey, let me finish doing up... this... shirt...
He tails off as he looks down, finding the last few buttons. In fact he puts the last couple of buttons through the wrong buttonholes, but in his haste to make a better impression, he doesn't notice.
Markson: (taking his seat) Now, listen... Pearl's tasked me with running All Summer Long, so I sat down earlier today and took a look at what I've got to play with. Your name jumped out at me -- frankly, as I guess you can tell, I don't know who the hell you are. But you've gone two-and-oh, and considering we're only a few weeks in, that's the second best record here after Foster. Figured it'd make some sense to get you in here and see what makes you tick, no?
He doesn't get a reaction.
Markson: (drumming fingers on desk) Soooo, Bone. Tell me what you're looking for out of the AWC.
Bone: I know I have the second best record here. You do not have to tell me this. I fought and won those bouts, after all.
His face like stone, as it's clear that he wish this person would get to the point on the reason for being summoned here.
Bone: Nothing. There's nothing I seek here in AWC. I just come here to work. I do not care about championships or records. If that's all...
He begins to stand up from his seat, but he stops when noticing Crisis hold up his hand.
Markson: Hold it, Bonehead. You've been like a ghost around here. It's all very well winning your matches, but I can't build a show around a guy whose face nobody even knows. What's the good of me putting you on the marquee for All Summer Long if it's not going to put asses in seats? We live in the era of commodification. Like it or not -- you've gotta sell yourself. And I'm sitting here ready to help you do that. But work with me here. Show me something more than a couple of wins out in the ring. Show me some passion... desire... show me that star quality. Because I'm going to tell you plainly, I've got a wide-open card for the pay-per-view, and if ever there's an opportunity for you to realise everything you ever wanted, it is now.
Bonehead? Bone gives him a look that can turn any man's blood to ice. It looks like Crisis is close to being put through the wall behind him. His eyes soon eases a little, as he decides to hear him out.
Bone: (taking a seat) I'm listening.
Darcy's eyes open wide, almost incredulous.
Markson: Well, uh, that's a start. Let me put it this way. Imagine you're booking the show. Imagine the entire roster is open to you. Any kind of match you want, any belt, any stipulation. World's your oyster. What would you pick?
Bone: (crosses his arms) How many times do I have to say this? I am not interested in championships. And as for the roster? No one perks my interest. Besides, the majority roster have their own things to handle. You learn things when you are a...ghost.
Markson shifts restlessly in his seat.
Markson: So there's actually no one you want to face, and nothing you're interested in winning. You're not exactly giving me a whole lot of options here, Bone.
He consults his papers.
Markson: I see here you have a degree in Parkour from the University of Timbuktu.
Bone: What about it?
He leans up in his seat as he continues looking at him with serious eyes, Crisis stifling a chuckle.
Bone: Mr. Markson, it seems to me that can do nothing to change my mind. You can call this me being stubborn, but I am not like the others here. I have not been training for years to be a wrestler. I do not have a dream. Honestly, I want to be left alone.
He stands up from his seat, looking down at Crisis with emptiness now in his eyes.
Bone: I believe your time will be more useful for those like VIP, Giles, and even the winless Steve Harrison. Now, if that's all, then I'll take my leave.
He turns his back on Crisis and begins to make his way to the door.
Markson holds up his hands.
Markson: I guess all I can say is I tried. Sometimes, there's only so much you can do. Bone... live long and prosper.
Bone: (standing at the door) You said nothing that could change my mind, but that does not mean that I do not want to be booked at the PPV. You book the matches and I'll be there to fight. Isn't that all you can ask from a ghost like me?
Markson: I guess it is. See you again, Bone. Just, next time you haunt my office, at least bring a sense of humour with you.
He pauses.
Markson: Or cookies. Either will do.
William Gwynn vs T.A. Giles
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles
REFEREE: Don Porter
AUTHOR: Hyde
T.A. Giles takes to the ring for his first match since becoming Frontier Champion, proudly wearing the belt on his way to ringside before leaving it with the timekeeper. William Gwynn suffered a close loss to Van Isaac Pryce in his AWC debut, failing to shake off the rust after years out of the sport, and it is a tough ask to bounce back against the in-form Giles. Indeed, from the first bell, Gwynn is a touch slower, failing to anticipate the dodges and counters that have made Giles such a wily opponent.
For his part, though, Giles lacks the efficiency to put away the former cW Legacy Champion, and could perhaps be guilty of taking his eye off the ball, blinded by the gold at ringside. Psychologically, it’s not always easy to be made top dog, and at 35 Giles is a champion for the first time in his career – a role which he will have to grow into. His exchanges with Diego Foster may not be working to the cruiserweight’s advantage, as between the ropes one’s brain has to be 100% in the here and now. Giles just barely kicks out of a strong German suplex, and Gwynn might’ve been wiser to lock things up with a lateral press instead of the less reliable bridge pin, a hangover from the days in which everything he touched turned to gold.
It’s hard to say whether the sight of Zero to Hero winner Diego Foster strolling down to ringside is to become a decisive factor in the match, but it certainly throws T.A. Giles. William Gwynn is conclusively no longer the main thing on the Canadian’s mind, and though the Prodigy does no more than sit alongside The Illustrious Face-Eater and watch his future opponent in action, Giles is unnerved – again a product of his inexperience in the more pressured scenarios. This is a moment when Giles might accept the burden of the ring rust of a talent like William Gwynn if only to be blessed with his unrivalled ring knowledge.
Humiliatingly, it is a roll-up pin that is his downfall. Not immediately, though Don Porter so nearly seems to count three before Giles throws himself out of the predicament, but a moment later, as Giles’ belated spur to action comes in the form of his springboard thrust kick, the Nothing Personal – Gwynn dodges the flying boot, wraps the Frontier Champion up and tosses him overhead in a release cradle suplex, nailing the fall. Giles glares at Foster, who stands and applauds William Gwynn, a trace of amusement on his face. It's Something Personal.
Atavism
AUTHOR: Jaakko Oksa
A quiet, reserved piece of neo-classical music begins to play as the video package opens. A figure, clad in a dark robe with the hood pulled over its face, sits cross-legged in the middle of a large white circle. The circle has been painted on the floor of what seems to be a small wooden chapel, and is surrounded along its entire circumference with odd symbols, drawn in the same color. A calm, composed male voice speaks as a voice-over, as the robed figure in the picture slowly flips through a book resting in front of him.
Carcer: Cattle die, kinsmen die, likewise you will die; but the name will never die, of one who has done well...
The image fades suddenly as the string section pick up and the music gains pace, replaced with the inside of an athletics gym. A bald man is seen hitting a red punching bag, working it over and over again with his taped fists. Here and there, he lets loose with a kneestrike or an elbow, never missing a beat or taking his eyes away from the bag. Beads of sweat trickle steadily from his forehead and cleanly trimmed eyebrows, down his tanned face all the way to a neatly-kept goatee on his chin. An odd mark has been painted on his forehead, resembling a coarse diamond shape made out of six dots, four dots in the middle in a square and one resting both on top and underneath the square.
Carcer: Wealth is a source of discord among kin, and fire of the sea, and path of the serpent...
The music picks up pace as the man lets fly with a high roundhouse kick, sequencing the video into a short highlight reel of what seem like professional fights from a variety of sources. The same bald man is seen beating down on a variety of opponents, knocking down a taller fighter with a similar high kick to the face followed by him straddling the back of a downed African-American opponent, hitting him repeatedly in the back of the head. The man is shown grappling on the ground with his opponents, moving fluidly and lashing on painful-looking submission holds. As the music builds up to a rousing crescendo, a variety of more exotic submissions are showcased, including several which have the bald man jump up onto a standing opponent and lock their joints or neck almost in mid-air.
Carcer: And the Law shall be naught but Do What Thou Wilst.
As the violins grow quieter, we come back to the mystical circle, with the addition of sticks of incencse burning in the foreground. The man, Jonathan Carcer, has thrown back his hood, still sitting cross-legged in the middle of the circle. His lips move as he keeps repeating a prayer pattern, bringing his hands together in front of his closed eyes, extending his arms high above his head before bringing his arms around in a large circle and back together.
Carcer: Once, the shaman was king. The wise-man, the draught-maker, the ail-curer. They communicated with the gods and the nature, and with their rituals and spells they shaped their fellow men. It would be foolish to think of them as simple men. They were scientists, and this was their science. And it hasn't been forgotten by everyone.
The camera does a panning shot of Carcer in his robe, head bowed and eyes closed, with his arms spread out wide. Then Carcer inside a ring in a darkened building, light shining down hard on him, his hands on his hips and a confident smile on his face.
Carcer: O, Serpent and Lion! I invoke thee, as was done in years before! I come with the weight of mankind's past behind me. I bring you that which you have forgotten, that which you have blinded yourself to. To once again honor Wodan and Marduk, and bask in their glory. To celebrate the fey and the strange, and embrace that which they teach us with their nature. To once again guide and shape like the mightiest artists of our past. Return, I say. Return with me.
As the music begins to slow and quiet down, the final shot shows Carcer standing in front of a cup filled with what seems like paint, and dipping his right index and middle finger into it. As he reverently closes his eyes, he brings his right hand up and presses two dots onto his forehead, then pressing two identical dots beneath them to create a rough square. Finally, turning his hand, he presses two final dots so that one rests on top of the square and one below it, forming a diamond. His eyes open, and a fleeting smirk flashes by his face as the screen grows dark.
Fashion Crisis!
AUTHORS: Kongo and Nathan
The catering table. One place where the employees of Atlantic Wrestling Club can forget their troubles for the moment and indulge in various local delicacies like potato chips and pizza. Sure, for the wrestlers, there are more healthful options, but not everybody backstage is keeping themselves on a strict diet. In fact, there are quite a few that are just looking for a little comfort.
Like one Darcy Markson.
Markson: Deep dish again? Would it kill these guys to at least be aware of St. Louis style?
Markson looks particularly stressed tonight, which is a little odd seeing as there's only been the one match tonight. Yet Markson always seems to be busy, and the lack of action hasn't lessened his load that much. He's careful, even professional, in his manner, but he still loads his plate as he moves down the table.
Male Voice: Whoa there, mon frere, you tryin'a bloat up like a balloon? Slow down on how many carbs you consume!
Markson: Great, who invited my diet counselor?
Markson turns around and faces the blond man from before, sans cell phone but un-sans his broad, shit-eating grin. The man extends a hand to be shaken.
Blond Man: The King of Fashion.
Markson: Whaa?
Blond Man: The Swaggerin' Saladin.
Markson: Umm...
Blond Man: The Hot Topic.
Markson: Okay, I'm pretty sure that last one's trademarked.
The blond man scowls, brushing up his spikes though they don't need it at all.
Blond Man: Alright, you can quit that shit, dig? Dash MFN Springfield in the MFN flesh.
Markson squints, leans in, blinks.
Markson: Ohhhh, it's you! That designer jeans model, right?
Springfield curls his upper lip and gives a derisive horse-laugh. Markson ignores Springfield, turning back to important matters: food. Springfield grabs Markson by the shoulder.
Springfield: Listen, Tickle-Me-Emo, put down the pig slop and open your damn ears. I ain't here to compare waistlines with you, swine, I got an invite to be here tonight and to get what's mine.
Markson stands up straight, taking a deep breath to settle his mounting irritation. After a short recess, he continues to seek out food.
Markson: And what's that, praytell?
Springfield: Hey, hombre, LOOK AT ME.
Springfield pulls Markson around, causing about half the contents of his plate to spill off and onto the floor. Markson stares at what's just happened in disbelief and then fixes his rage on Springfield.
Markson: Alright, player, time to check yourself. You know who I—
Springfield: Do you know who I am!? I'm the Just Wrestling Champ! Now, the Pearl has told me he's got my Great Price, so hand it over, 'cause I'm through playin' nice. I been waitin' too long for some hobo-lookin' motherfucker to stand in my way.
Markson: What does Garbage Bag Johnny have to do with this?
Springfield: I'm talkin' about YOU, MFR.
Markson half-laughs, shaking his head. His demeanor flips back to anger in an instant and he jabs Springfield in the chest with a finger.
Markson: That shit might fly over in Calvin Kliechtenstein, but you better stuff that attitude right back in that tiny jeans pocket of yours. They used to call me “Crisis” around here, but YOU can call me the Live Events Coordinator. Ya dig?
Springfield: Well, that makes you just the guy to sort out returning to me what’s mine.
Markson: You walk in here with that sort of attitude and expect me to hand it to you on a plate, like these imported Austrian delicacies I’m handing you here?
Springfield: Uh, no thanks. Sat fats.
Markson returns the platter of sweets to the table.
Markson: Like I said. All that fucking hair gel must have seeped into your brain if you think the Atlantic Wrestling Club makes it that easy for you. You want your belt back?
Crisis jabs a finger at the nearest monitor, which is replaying the Jonathan Carcer promo from moments ago.
Markson: Now that guy looks pretty badass. You want to take the belt home, you’re going to have to beat him at All Summer Long.
Springfield stares, horrified and dumbfounded, slowly shaking his head in disbelief.
Markson: Yeah, you heard it. Better fashion yourself up a move set before August 13th.
Markson goes back to collecting his food. Springfield's mouth works, obviously searching for something to say, but soon enough he simply turns and storms off, shoving aside a stagehand in fury. Markson hums a tune to himself, pleased with his work. Now... he means business.
I am so worried (Sarcasm Exists)
AUTHOR: Jon
Steve Harrison stands tapping his foot impatiently outside his locker room. A mean glare emulates from his face just incase anyone looks at him he can scare them away. Suddenly Chase Harvey comes strolling up, a mic in his hand a smile on his face. Harrison shakes his head at him.
Harrison: I booked some time to talk and you slowly walk over to me?
Harvey: I am sorry...
Harrison: Just shut up, you are wasting my valuable time.
Harvey reluctantly gives Harrison the mic
Harrison: I asked for this time because I am very worried. Last week Peyote Jones was viciously assaulted by the Martins.
Harrison shakes his head like he is sad.
Harrison: Since this time I have not seen or heard from Peyote and I believe he may have overdosed or committed suicide because of the beating he took.
Harrison takes a moment to regain his composure.
Harrison: I...I...well goddammit I would like to shake the Martins hands.
Boos can be heard through the arena and Chase just sighs amazed at such words being said.
Harrison: Now settle down everyone because the suicide of some drugged out loser is nothing to be sad about. If you need to be sad about something be sad about the beating your hero, that Ebonics idiot VIP will receive tonight.
Harrison pauses.
Harrison: I have very patient in AWC, my degree of talent could have easily asked for a title shot already. I haven't though because peasants continue to try to get into my castle and some times it takes longer then it should to rid a nuisance. Van Isaac Pryce is nothing but a delusional fool. I am sick of hearing him talking to these idiotic fans. His 'homeboy,' are nothing but Steve Harrison want-to-bes. Now I don't blame them because everyone should aspire to be as great as me.
Harrison takes a deep breath the crowd in the arena continuing to boo every word he speaks.
Harrison: Tonight is when the fans finally shut up and start respecting the greatness that is in front of them. VIP did something last week he should have never done. I am not talking about sucker punching me.
Harrison smiles.
Harrison: I am talking about having the audacity to actually disrespect to me. To think that...that...that club hopping asshole actually felt he was on the same level as me grinds my gears. Listen VIP, tonight I will show you why you don't deserve to be in a ring with me. Tonight you will learn that Steve Harrison is more then just talk: Steve Harrison is your better---bow down and kiss the ring, bitch.
Harrison throws the mic at Chase and walks off.
Before You Hear Me...
AUTHOR: J.Christopher
Backstage. Just outside the locker room, Chase Harvey is standing there, preparing to head inside. He takes a moment, but that moment is all that's needed for Van Isaac Pryce to come sliding out of the locker room. The crowd pops for the fan favorite!
Harvey: VIP! Can I get a word?
Van stops his purposeful walk and turns to look back at Harvey. With an overdramatic sigh, he rolls his arm and extends his hand.
Harvey: But I was going to ask--
Van shakes his hand, trying to hurry Chase along.
Harvey: Gah! Here! Take it!
Chase throws the microphone into VIP's hand and the crowd pleaser grabs it tight. He holds it right up to his lips.
VIP: Fee Fi Fo Fam! South Carolina? HERE I AM!!
The crowd pops lightly for his rhythmic display.
VIP: Chase Harvey? You want a word with VIP? Let me guess, you wanna' find out just what I've got planned for Steve Harrison tonight? You wanna' know what I'm about to do to entertain every single one of my P1's out there right now, don't you?!
Chase crosses his arms over his chest and quietly fumes.
VIP: Well, Keitel, I can do you one better. I can give you the answer to all of those questions and more with two simple words: VIP. Treatment.
The crowd pops for Van's finisher. They love this guy.
VIP: That's right, baby. For someone with as much class as Harrison claims he has. It's only natural that I do the right thing and Spike Lee this fool with a little VIP Treatment. And then? Just for kicks? If my P1's are looking' for a little something' extra? If they really, really want me to shut this hater the hell up? I'ma' have to do an Encore!
The chanting begins: Encore! Encore! Encore!
VIP: Basically, it comes down to this. In about twenty seconds, I'm about to make Steve Harrison eat every word that came out of his mouth last week. He's about to answer for every syllable uttered about me, about the AWC, about fine ass Sarah, about that hot Russian chick I been seine' backstage. Hell, I might even make him apologize to you, Chase Meridian. Either way, it ain't no turnin' back now. Ya' time is up!
VIP brings the microphone up and pauses for his signature line.
VIP: HOLLA' AT 'CHA BOY!!!!!
VIP hurls the microphone back at Chase Harvey, spins on his heels and stomps out of the shot. It's go time.
Steve Harrison vs Van Isaac Pryce
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles
REFEREE: Lars Larsson
AUTHOR: Hyde
Steve Harrison is in the ring, James Brunt standing alongside him.
Brunt: The following contest is your MAIN EVENT! In the ring, from Alexandria, Virginia, weighing in at 235 pounds... STEEEEEVE! HAARRRRISSSOOOONNNN!!!
A resounding boo from the fans.
Waters: Since AWC relaunched, Steve Harrison has made himself one of the least popular wrestlers here.
Face-Eater: He DEFINITELY has a way with parrots. Yet to actually, um, win a match, though.
Waters: He clashed with VIP on last week’s show, culminating in Pryce challenging Harrison to this match here tonight – as head referee Lars Larsson now steps into the ring. Lars will want an even contest, no ugly stuff.
Face-Eater: I don’t know how well Harrison will deal with that. He came up in HOSTILITY, one of the indies – they don’t like to play by the rules over there.
With Harrison already in the ring, his opponent now begins to make his way out, showboating to the sounds of “Born to Win” by Papoose – until it’s almost entirely drowned out by his pop.
Waters: Here comes Philly the Kidd!
Face-Eater: Man, what a clown. NO DON’T YOU DARE LOOK AT MY SHOES.
Waters: VIP has fast made himself one of the most popular wrestlers in the Club. Funny how their fortunes have contrasted over so short a time.
Face-Eater: Funny how these might be our top face and top heel, yet neither even knows how to work the damn ring.
Waters: Face?! Heel?! No comprende!
Face-Eater: Eat a cactus, ass.
Pryce hits the ring and hops around, light on his feet for a heavyweight, as the bell goes.
Face-Eater: Hey, it was pretty cool how Chase Harvey was in two places at once. And that both guys threw the mic back at him. Neat symmetry with that, right Truth?
Harrison eyes his opponent shrewdly and moves in but only paws at the tights before stepping back away, looking to guide Pryce into opening his body. VIP does just that, but not to his disadvantage, throwing a straight punch into Harrison’s jaw. The technician is knocked back, and regains his balance with an ugly glare at Pryce.
Waters: VIP sends out a signal that he’s not gonna be going in for the tie-up or any of that pussy stuff. A straight sock to the jaw – bam – and Harrison’s gotta reconsider.
Harrison goes low, looking to take Pryce around the waist. He gets his arms around but Pryce shuffles out, cracking his elbow into Harrison’s skull. Harrison doesn’t fall though, instead grabbing VIP’s leg and doggedly forcing him to the mat. He athletically rolls across Pryce’s body and hyperextends the arm, using both boots to work the shoulder joint.
Face-Eater: The big right hand from Pryce is what Harrison has to shut down, and he’s straight on that. Gotta give him some credit, there’s a brain in there after all.
Harrison now pinches the arm between both his legs and wrenches at it, trying to loosen the joint. He pulls on the middle rope for some leverage, which the hawk-eyed Lars Larsson spots instantly. Harrison lets him get to the four count before letting go, earning some admonishment after the fact.
Face-Eater: Yeah, we all did that in the day – tried to take it close to the five to get whatever advantage we could – but with Larsson you soon learn that does more harm than good. Rest of this match, he’s gonna be watching Harrison close.
Pryce drags himself up, the happy-go-lucky smile gone from his face as he tests the flex of his arm, rolling it around with a little wince. Harrison arrives with a smart soccer kick to the back of the thigh, causing VIP’s leg to buckle. As soon as he’s on one knee Harrison brings the sleeper hold into play.
“BO-RING! BO-RING! BO-RING!”
Waters: The fans are less than impressed with Steve Harrison’s style here, and though it’s classic technical stuff, I gotta say it’s not pretty. I’m from a boxing background, so—
Face-Eater: ...you keep telling us. How about you ask the VETERAN of the AWC ring instead of referring back to the days gym shorts were creepy old men’s passport to a happy afternoon?
Waters: All right, Dick, tell us something interesting about this sleeper hold.
Face-Eater: It makes me SLEEPY.
Waters: Good insight.
Face-Eater: Thanks.
The announcers watch with long faces as Van Isaac Pryce now falls to both knees, his body crumpling slightly, Harrison bending down and keeping the pressure on.
Face-Eater: You mind if I make a quick call? Just to check on the sitter.
Waters: You could wait the ten minutes till we’re off air... or, I guess, you could call n—
Face-Eater: Mariella? Aren’t you supposed to be getting knocked up by some biker at an all-night rave?
Waters: Here we go.
Face-Eater: What do you MEAN you had homework?!!
Waters: Hey look, something happened! Just kidding.
Lars Larsson senses the crowd’s growing frustration, and though it’s only going to lead to a miraculous fightback, comes in to raise Pryce’s arm, watching with interest whether or not it will flop straight back down. It does – OH NO WAIT IT DOESN’T! Pryce flexes his arm, pumping juice back into it, and struggling to get his body back into an upright position.
Waters: A second wind for Van Isaac – oh, hell, I can’t even muster the enthusiasm.
Face-Eater: I DON’T CARE IF HE’S A PAKISTANI, YOU GET IN THAT CAB ALONE ON THE DARK DESERTED STREET AND LET THE MAN DRIVE YOU HIS SPECIAL SHORTCUT!
Waters: Problems, Dick?
Face-Eater: Sorry. It’s all right, I’m not RACIST, my best friend’s a Pakistani.
Waters: Really?
Face-Eater: Kinda; he’s from India.
Pause.
Face-Eater: OH COME ON, MY SKIN IS ORANGE!
Pryce steps up with his right leg, moving into a mirror now of the position he was in when the sleeper was first applied. Harrison feels his grip slipping, knowing that with every second this battle of strength is fought on a more level playing field – a battle he becomes less and less able to win. Glancing over both shoulders, as if checking if anyone’s watching despite the presence of live TV cameras, he cocks his boot and surreptitiously hooks Pryce between the legs.
Face-Eater: OH, WHAT A DICK MOVE!
Waters: Harrison has to be careful!
Face-Eater: What? Oh, sorry, no, I meant the cab driver. It’s lucky Mariella’s supercool dad gave her that mace for Christmas.
Lars Larsson grabs Harrison around the neck, losing his composure as he forces him back into the corner and yells in his face. Harrison protests his cause, but is taken aback somewhat at the forwardness of AWC’s head referee. The fans are loving it, raining down with Lars’ very own chant: “DOUBLE L! DOUBLE L!”
Waters: Steve Harrison feels victimised here by Lars Larsson, but really he’s got off lightly! That quite blatant regions shot could easily have seen him disqualified!
Larsson turns away to check on Pryce, who is clutching himself on the mat, and Harrison shoots a middle finger up behind the referee’s back, immediately drawing huge heat from the fans.
Waters: HEY! Now that just ain’t right.
Face-Eater: That’s disrespectful, honey.
Waters: I’m your honey now?!
Face-Eater: Oh – no, Mariella just tried to score a dime bag from some black dude.
Waters: Wow, that is disrespectful.
Face-Eater: Yeah – I mean, less than an eighth, it just ain’t worth dude’s while.
In the ring, Pryce is finally on his feet, and charges like a bull to knock down Harrison. The dastardly heel leaps back up but a big right hand lands him flat again, and the same happens the next time, Harrison on his back in ring centre as Pryce raises up his arms and asks who his bitch is. Harrison snarls and swings his fist for a regions shot, but draws his arm back just in time as he feels Lars Larsson’s eyes burning into the back of his head.
Waters: Harrison knows he’ll get a DQ if he tries any of that again!
Pryce takes advantage to clamp his two hands around Harrison’s neck and pull him slowly up and off the ground, a gritty smile on his face as Harrison’s eyes bulge, begging off. The crowd’s cheers crescendo as Harrison is tossed bodily backwards, landing like a rag doll towards the back corner of the ring.
Face-Eater: Unbelievable strength.
Waters: VIP’s arms are like two tanks working in tandem.
Face-Eater: Uh... yeah, that too. Mariella honey, you better pace yourself on that shit.
Waters: Would you get off the goddamn phone?!
Face-Eater: I HAVE UNLIMITED MINUTES!
Waters: Yeah, but not unlimited battery, and you were going to show me that cool app with the cat that – I MEAN, WE’RE LIVE ON AIR!
Harrison is up now and sans composure. Running at Pryce is probably a bad idea as he finds himself lifted up and spun around...
Waters: LAST CALL!
Face-Eater: This is all one call, Truth. Just a lengthy one is all – you know what daughters are like on the phone.
Waters: I give up.
Dismissing after a moment’s consideration that it might be too early, Pryce throws the ‘V’ sign to the crowd and sprints to the ropes, thriving on the excitement generated amongst the crowd. But as he hops over his opponent, Harrison sits up and grabs the ankle, tweaking it and causing VIP to land flat on his face!
Face-Eater: DOH!
Waters: Harrison turns the tide!
Face-Eater: Oh... yeah. And the reception in here is shitty.
Adam Dick finally puts his phone away as Harrison creeps onto Pryce, his hands still hooked on the ankle, looking to apply a lock. Pryce senses the danger and claws at the mat, looking to push himself closer to the ropes while he’s still got the chance. Harrison clasps Pryce’s boot against his shoulder and strains into the hold.
Waters: Ankle lock applied! Now this is no speciality of Steve Harrison’s, but the ankle lock is the ankle lock – once it’s in place, every passing moment without the tap, VIP will be risking having his ankle broken!
Harrison is settled a little far back though, and so VIP is able to get his hands under him, pushing away from the mat to try to minimise the angle at which the damage is being done, and simultaneously gaining leverage to edge his body forward. He briefly also uses his free left arm to swat out behind him, but can only catch Harrison weakly on the hip a couple of times.
Face-Eater: Ankle lock? LAME.
Waters: It hurts enough.
Face-Eater: The whole submissionist move set is so outdated, Truth. You get the occasional pioneer like, I dunno, THE ILLUSTRIOUS FACE-EATER – but these tools just don’t come out with anything like as great as the Fish Hooks. What do we get? A goddamn ankle lock.
Waters: Hey, maybe you should get down the gym, teach Harrison those Fish Hooks of yours. Strikes me as the type. Plus, there’s the entirely coincidental benefit of not having you tonguing yourself on air about it anymore.
In the ring, Pryce has edged himself to the bottom rope and clutches it gratefully with both hands, breathing heavily as he flexes his poor ankle. Harrison nonchalantly backs away before leaping onto Pryce, riding him on the shoulders to choke VIP’s neck against the rope.
Face-Eater: Yee-ha, Truth. Yee-ha.
Waters: That was very solemn of you.
Larsson pulls Harrison off Pryce before five seconds are up, prompting a furious volley from the 235-pounder. Pryce collapses onto his back, spluttering, still needing a few moments after the ankle lock. Moments Harrison does not want to give him, bringing him to his feet by the head and driving a fist into his face. Mistake. The brawl is VIP’s bread and butter. He thwacks a response into Harrison’s face almost as an afterthought, yet the taste is knocked straight out of the recipient’s mouth. A second right hand and Harrison is in a real daze. Then to the crowd’s delight, Pryce does a little spin before laying Harrison out for good with a falling clothesline!
Face-Eater: He nailed him!
Both men drop to the mat, but Pryce is on his feet in a second, burying his arms around Harrison in a waistlock. He drags his opponent back a few feet and then lifts him overhead in a high belly-to-back suplex!
Waters: Big suplex from VIP! This could be the chance!
Pryce motions for the crowd to get on their feet, before bowing to them, and converting the bow into a forward roll in which he snatches up Harrison’s leg for the pin:
ONE!
TWO!
But Harrison uses Pryce’s momentum to pull them both over one more twist and now it’s Harrison on top of Pryce!
Waters: Reversed!
Face-Eater: Has he got the –!
Waters: HE’S GOT THE TIGHTS!
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Brunt: Here is your winner... STEEEVE! HAAARRRISSSSSSOONNNNN!!!
Face-Eater: Harrison wins!
Waters: But he had the tights!
Face-Eater: Larsson didn’t see, Truth. And Lars Larsson sees everything. You must’ve been delusional.
Pryce slaps the mat in anger.
Face-Eater: Only himself to blame. He went for the flashy pinfall, playing to the fans, and it backfired on him. That’s a lesson VIP has got to learn.
Waters: Because of course, Adam Dick never played to the crowd in his day.
Face-Eater: I didn’t play to the crowd. I OWNED THE CROWD.
Steve Harrison celebrates in the ring, leaping up and down and sneering at his opponent.
Waters: A first AWC win for Steve Harrison... by fair means or foul, the man who promised to bring AWC some class is moving up the ladder! We’ll see you next week for Fresh! from St. Louis, Missouri – our last stop before All Summer Long!
Face-Eater: Night night, assholes of America!
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