AWC Zero To Hero III
"...when it's not your turn." - Murphy
Zero To Hero III 25 June 2010
USF Sun Dome (capacity 10,411) -- Tampa, FL
The Beginning of the New Beginning
AUTHORS: Hyde and Nate
Darkness.
"Four years, Darcy. Give or take."
Fade into colour. The first face we see in AWC's new era: the boss, appropriately. David "Pearl" Harber. Lines on his forehead, grey in his hair. But a deep pleasure evident in the way his eyes shine.
Pan out, and he's sprawled on a wide, low couch. Orange in colour, of course. Walls are white, floor is polished. Everything backstage at the Sun Dome is immaculate. The catering tables are behind him - platters stacked. Cauldrons filled with ice. Rows of bottled drinks. Untouched. The calm before the storm.
Opposite is Darcy "Crisis" Markson, perched on a black leather stool. Those who know him well might be puzzled by his own choice of attire. His trademark long black hair still sits atop his skull, except pulled back tightly into a ponytail. And with his wrestling days behind him, he feels slightly out of character to be lounging around backstage while not wearing his competition gear - rather, a pair of acid-washed jeans and a dark grey polo with AWC's logo in place of the horse and mallet, with "ZERO TO HERO 2010" emblazoned on the back.
But this is business, and no matter the dress code Markson is here to conduct it in his own uncanny way.
Markson: Yeah, it's a long time to go in between these tournaments... but that's probably for the best. The last one turned out a smelly homeless guy that ended up turning all of wrestling upside-down!
Pearl's brow flickers, and he smiles in acknowledgement of the truth Darcy's telling him.
Pearl: I don't mind admitting I didn't see Garbage Bag Johnny having that kind of an impact. I don't think any of us did. I mean, to some extent, Darcy, that's what you're here for. A closer ear to the ground than I was ever able to have. I love wrestling, I love this business. But I haven't been there, I haven't done it in the way you have.
Markson: You're too kind. This tournament can sell itself with or without me. I'm just glad to be involved! Only Sin City was knocking on my door to have my ass around, and I...
Markson takes a deep breath. Even now, months after he and his "darling" wife had become estranged, the wound cut too deep for him to mention.
Markson: ...simply have no business there. AWC is the place to be, and I'm glad to be home.
Harber laughs, leaning forward to clap Markson on the shoulder.
Pearl: That's right, Darcy. It's your home, and it's always going to be that.
He spreads his arm, gesturing vaguely at the sharp design of the catering lounge.
Pearl: You like what I did with the place?
Markson: You certainly spared no expense... this setup would make a foreign dignitary blush! When I walked in here I half expected Gordon Brown to be joining us. He's not in the tournament, is he?
Pearl: You didn't see the call sheet? No room for assholes.
Harber checks his watch, runs his hand through his hair.
Pearl: Five minutes, Darcy. You want a king prawn skewer?
Darcy returns Pearl's grin with one of his own as he twice slapped his stomach. T-minus five minutes to showtime, and the inside jokes were already flying.
Markson: No thanks, buddy... I filled up on a bunch of cake shaped like a jetpack before I got here.
Harber grins.
Pearl: I got a good feeling about this, Darcy.
He slaps his knees and stands up.
Pearl: Come on, I got one last thing to show you.
The two men walk out of the catering lounge, Harber unable to resist one last look back. He did this. He brought it back. And in five minutes’ time, it’s all for real.
Introduction
AUTHOR: Hyde
Fuzz.
Shake it
Like a ladder to the sun
It’s like we’re rolling the credits already, but in reverse. Semi-known names swim up the screen, grouped by theme. The medical team. The security men. The referees.
Makes me feel like a madman on the run
We see Matt Matthews, Taz Yorke, James Brunt. Those that never got the spotlight. We see new names – Don Porter, Chase Harvey.
Find me never, never far gone
The message fading into view is that THESE PEOPLE MADE IT POSSIBLE. We’re invited to sit, and think, and be thankful.
We don’t see heads trapped between legs. We don’t see bodies flying off cages.
So get your leather, leather, leather on!
In come the drums, and with them the backstage staff disappear, their moment of glory already gone, consumed. Now we see sculpted pectorals and bulging biceps. Now we see yells of fury and chilling war cries.
You’re a zeeeeerooooooooooooooooooo!
Five faces, some more familiar than others. Diego Foster, big in Japan, or a gaijin in disgrace? Steve Harrison, the Just Wrestling stalwart. Oliver Ranken, across the water to tear up the Yanks one more time. Van Isaac Pryce, the big and charismatic bouncer catapulted into the big leagues. And T.A. Giles, his barely tapped seam of natural talent awaiting an outlet.
What’s your name? – no one’s gonna ask you
Better find out where they want you to gooooooo!
Kicked off the screen by the iconic images of Zero To Hero events gone by. Who can have forgotten that first Whiplash, Pierce Lavelle hurling John Sektor’s body into the turnbuckle with unforgiving ferocity? Or that first chair shot, Alexander Strider cracking the steel over Lavelle’s skull? Which AWC fan doesn’t have Garbage Bag Johnny’s Dumpster Dive on Vince Jones etched into his memory? Or the image of Kip Brown taking the shock 3-count over Duke Williams?
Try and hit the spot
Get to know it in the dark
Get to know whether you’re crying, crying, crying
Can you climb, climb, climb higher?
Two men rise above the mass of images, Strider and GBJ ascending to the stars. Behind them emerge the words:
ZERO
TO
HERO
Then exploding like exclamation marks come the three slashes that signify it’s the third instalment of the iconic tournament, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs continue to blast over the top of awesome crowd noise as we pan away into the rocking USF Sun Dome.
Face-Eater: LADIES! AND! MOTHERFUCKERS!
Waters: I make that three words into our return broadcast that you tarnish it with an F-bomb, Dick!
Face-Eater: Oh fuck that noise and listen to this noise! Man! I mean, even a disillusioned old bastard like me can’t help but be a little bit excited!
The camera pans around the arena, catching on several signs: VARGA-FREE ZONE reads the first. A second, AWC: WE WRITE OUR OWN MAIN EVENTS. And the unendingly inventive DONNIE DIAMOND IS MY MOTHER.
Waters: We’re BACK! The AWC is back on your TV and bah gawd I almost cannot believe that this day has come! I’m Truth Waters, sitting here at the very epicentre of the EARTHQUAKE that has engulfed the Sun Dome here at the University of South Florida! Alongside me I have AWC Legend and former Transatlantic Champion, none other than “The Illustrious Face-Eater” Adam Dick!
Face-Eater: HEM HEM!
Waters: What?
Face-Eater: No, I just really wanted to do that! You know, Truth, it feels good to be sitting here able to say whatever the fuck I like to the entire nation.
Waters: Ladies and gentlemen, this may not end well.
The video screen shoots to life once more, now displaying the legend WELCOME TO ZERO TO HERO III, and drawing the obligatory roar of delight from the capacity crowd.
Face-Eater: This place is packed tighter than Paddy O’Shea’s ass – and he used to sharpen pencils with that thing!
Waters: We have a reeeediculous turnout here in Tampa, Florida. Not a spare seat to be had for the triumphant return of AWC. It’s been a long time coming, Dick.
Face-Eater: THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID! Oh. Man, I’m more on fire than Alex Strider in that Inferno match. That was, um, before he died.
Waters: As I’m sure every single one of you watching at home knows, David “Pearl” Harber bought back the AWC from Drakewerx last month, and ever since that moment, we have all been waiting for this one.
Face-Eater: Fuck GCW. Fuck SCCW. And most of all, fuck PRIME. The Club is open. And your asses have been warned.
Waters: Ain’t that the Truth. Harber’s lined up a SOLID roster for AWC’s return. We got us Garbage Bag Johnny. We got us Mike Wade. We got us Ellis Nash.
Face-Eater: And those three right there are the best in the WORLD at what they do. GBJ is the Dirtiest Dude in AWC, Wade is supremely unfuckable, and Ellis, uh—
Waters: Pretty “unfuckable” too judging from your success rate Dick? Ladies, gentlemen, pardon my language.
Face-Eater: Yeah, the language, not the flagrant misogyny. Whatever, Mr. Whiter-than-White.
Beat.
Waters: I’m BLACK!
Face-Eater: Oh, oh, oh. Play the race card. Whatcha gonna say now? Wait let me guess; “Ho snap”?
Waters: Eat dirt, boy. We got us a job to do here. Five men tonight. Diego Foster, ex-PRIME, but more importantly he took Snow to the WIRE in GTT7.
Face-Eater: Foster is the shit, Truth, what can I say.
Waters: Yet he won’t know his opponent until Oliver Ranken and Van Isaac Pryce come through a qualifying round.
Face-Eater: Ranken’s been everywhere, man. Crossed the deserts bare, man.
Waters: But Pryce?
Face-Eater: No fucking clue, Truth.
Waters: Then let me tell you. Former nightclub bouncer. Weights two seventy-five.
Face-Eater: Big black guy? Sounds like your thing.
Waters: If Pryce has got any of the raw power that’s up in these bad boys—
Face-Eater: Truth, if you start flexing at me, I will fucking strangle you, so help me Pierregus.
Waters: Alright alright. So we got Ranken or Pryce against Foster. Other match sees T.A. Giles of GCW and Steve Harrison of Just. You ever face Harrison in Just, Dick?
Face-Eater: Well, let’s just wait a moment for Hyde to consult the records.
Moments pass.
Face-Eater: Nope, after my time.
Waters: Fat lot of good your expert knowledge is.
Face-Eater: What can I say, Truth. Soon’s we get some real talent up in this bitch, I’m anybody’s girl.
Waters: Let’s cut backstage, I hear we have a line on Pearl and Crisis checking out the fixings.
The Legends' Lounge
AUTHOR: Hyde
“Downstairs in catering was pretty great, Pearl – the furnishings, the fixtures, you’ve pulled it out. Don’t mind saying I’m pretty psyched to see what you have lined up up here.”
Darcy Markson reaches the top of a circular staircase, David Harber several paces behind him. The Entertainment Manager rounds the banister and flicks a key from his pocket, slipping it into the first door on the left. Ornate golden lettering on its front reads Legends’ Lounge.
Pearl: I want these guys to feel valued, Darcy. There’s not many that can say they made the Roll of Legends. They didn’t always know they were worth it, but now they do. I invited them all tonight. I don’t know who’s going to show. But I want them to know this is theirs. No one but a Legend crosses this threshold.
With that laid down, Harber turns the key in the lock, and pushes the door proudly open. Crisis can’t help but look impressed. It’s more than just a corporate box. There’s a brushed metal bar, stocked with full bottles of a wide range of liquors, on whose surface sits a menu typed in confident copperface. There are armchairs crafted from the finest leather. The wall-to-ceiling window along one side cuts into a door in the glass that leads out onto a spacious balcony area that looks out over the arena, with seating for a dozen. Or if the noise and excitement of the arena isn’t what they fancy, the occupants can retreat back into the room and watch the action on the huge, flat, high-definition screen which takes up the entirety of the back wall.
Markson: You’re doing this... every place we go?
The Entertainment Manager smiles.
Pearl: Sure I am. So long as they keep showing up. If they show up.
He checks his watch anxiously. Crisis makes to step past him, wanting to explore the room more closely, but Pearl bars it with his arm, causing the former Transatlantic Champion to look up in surprise.
Pearl: This place isn’t for you and it isn’t for me, Darcy. It’s for the Legends. Let’s keep them knowing that.
Markson nods slowly, understanding. Pearl’s right-hand man he may be, but that doesn’t give him a free pass. In AWC, nothing does.
Markson: Looks great. It does. They’ll be setting up for the first match now, you want to go watch?
Pearl: Yes I do, Darcy. When you work this hard on bringing something back, you don’t want to miss the moment they cut the ribbon.
Oliver Ranken vs Van Isaac Pryce
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles - Preliminary Qualifier
REFEREE: Selena Sumner
AUTHOR: Peyote
James Brunt stands in the middle of the squared-circle, head hanging to the ground, his eyes closed. He is gathering up his focus, knowing that his voice will be the one which officially kicks off the return of the Atlantic Wrestling Club. The crowd can feel it too, the vibe is electric and the ball of energy is turning into a roar of hype as they watch him lift his head up and open his eyes, full of determination. Just as Brunt is about to open his mouth, the crowd lets off a long, ten second pop, bring a huge smile to his face. Finding a second of silence, the AWC Ring Announcer breathes in and lets everything go.
Brunt: Ladies and Gentlemen of South Florida, say hello to the ATLANTIC WRESTLING CLUB!!!
Brunt smiles, as the crowd begins to go nuts, chanting “Welcome Back” as the ring announcer soaks it in.
Brunt: The following contest is scheduled for one fall, introducing first...
“What's the matter? Has the cat got yo tongue?”
The opening lines of the song are slowly whispered by Stray, as all the lights dim except one focused on the entry way. The British Bully steps into that light, and for a moment the crowd is struck in awe...fans and followers of the federation who have not seen a match in nearly four years; it is finally here.
Brunt: From Los Angeles, California by way of Manchester, England, weighing in at 269 pounds... The British Bully... OLIVER....RAAAANKEN!!!!
Half the crowd stands with their jaws open in silence as Oliver Ranken walks past them, assuming it is his impressive gigantic arms that has half the crowd speachless. The other half of the crowd is giving a mixed reaction, as some love the Brit's superior wrestling ability, and others simply can't stand the man's cockiness. Ranken steps into the ring as Brunt gives him a tip of his trademark purple top hat, and Ranken walks past his and settles leaning against a set of turnbuckles.
“Everybody loves a WINNER!”
Brunt: And introducing his opponent, from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, weighing in at 275 pounds... Philly the Kidd... VIP... VAAANN..ISSAAAAC..PRYYYYYYYYYYYCCCEEE!!!!
Pryce steps into that same spotlight, but with a huge smile and both hands holding up the “V” sign to the crowd. They all go crazy, chanting “VIP” as he begins to sprint towards the ring. The super-athlete jumps onto the apron and lands solid with both feet, then springboards over the top and into the ring. He walks to the center and gives James Brunt a reaffirming pat on the back, so as to suggest that he'll take it from here. Brunt exits from the ring as referee Selena Sumner replaces him, gathering both contenders to the center for an inaudible discussion. Sumner then makes the signal, and the bell is rung.
Waters: I can't believe this is it folks! AWC is finally back, and this match has signified that!
Face-Eater: Yeah, it would be kind of hard to have a wrestling promotion without wrestling matches, Waters.
Waters: ...And Truth Waters sidesteps the Illustrious Face-Eater's half-assed attempt at sarcasm! Meanwhile in the ring, VIP and Ranken lock up. Though Pryce stands much taller, Ranken has massive forearms, and seems to match him in strength.
Face-Eater: Apparently both of these guys chose brawn over brains.
Waters: Neither seems to be getting the upper hand, so they break away and VIP smiles. He says something to Ranken and the two lock up again! I think Pryce is trying to make this into a strongman competition.
Face-Eater: Well, neither could lose a dumbbells competition.
Waters: This lock-up is also going nowhere, and they both break apart again. Pryce motions to the crowd and does a nice flex of his biceps, while Ranken takes advantage with a kick to the gut.. DDT! Ranken quickly takes control of this match thanks to VIP's pining to the crowd.
Face-Eater: VIP should just face the fact that the crowd is focused on me anyway, and keep his eyes on his opponent.
Waters: Ranken has Pryce up and backed into the corner, and now he is working over Pryce with STIFF forearm shots! Every one delivered sounds like dropping a pavestone on top of asphalt, grueling...
Face-Eater: Vicious work, I like it!
Waters: The British Bully now brings the dazed Philly out of the corner and locks him up again... THIS time he is able to lift him up, and nails a picture perfect vertical suplex, wow! I guess that's why he refers to them as Superiorplexes.
Face-Eater: It looks like we know now who is the stronger dumbbell, too.
Waters: Ranken looks rejuvenated after that delivery, like a kid in a candy shop.
Ranken brings Pryce back up to his feet, and traps him in a double underhook.
Waters: He nails the VIP with a trapping superiorplex - Pryce is writhing on the ground!
Face-Eater: It looks like Ranken isn't done either, how many superiorplexes are there?
Waters: Well Dick, Ranken is planning another one right now – German Superiorplex! And he bridges it, going for the pin.
Selena baseball slides next to the wrestlers, and begins the count.
ONE...
TWO...
Kickout!
Waters: No luck for Ranken there, he'll have to do a lot more work to the VIP if he wants to win this one.
Face-Eater: A LOT more work? Sounds like bad luck for me.
Ranken lets frustration show on his face for a moment after the kickout, and then lifts Pryce's head off the mat with those big forearms.
Waters: Ranken now has a sleeperhold locked in! Pryce immediately begins to react, flailing his arms around! It looks like the Brit has this hold on there solid.
Van Isaac Pryce continues to struggle, trying to spin out of it. The more he struggles, however, the tighter the hold becomes. He arms begin to slow down until eventually, they go limp.
Face-Eater: Haha, it looks like it's past Philly the Kidd's bedtime!
Waters: That may be true Dick, or perhaps he is just taking a powernap. We shall see, as Selena goes in to check on him.
Sumner raises his hand once, and it falls...
She raises it once more, and it falls...
She raises it a third time, and it fal-
Waters: WAIT! Signs of life from Pryce, he manages to keep his arm up just enough, and now it's raised high!
Face-Eater: Damn it, if he doesn't go to sleep soon, I will!
Pryce manages to lift one knee up and plant a foot, then his lifts up his upper body and stands, Ranken still holding the lock in place. Pryce continues his attempts to squirm out of it, and eventually turns his body 180° to where he is now face-to-face with Ranken.
Waters: Belly to belly suplex! But they are still locked together, is Pryce trying a bridge?
Face-Eater: No, it's actually Ranken's doing. That tough bastard still has the sleeperhold locked in!
Waters: Wow! VIP is still trying to break free!
Twisting over again, Pryce and Ranken both stand back to their feet, with Ranken holding the VIP in what is now a front-face lock. Pryce struggles to hold his footing, but manages a quick knee to the gut...
Waters: Jawbreaker! Ranken gets smashed and finally releases the hold!
Face-Eater: Wow, the Philly with a pretty nice counter there.
Both men lie resting on their backs on the mat, trying to suck in air. The crowd is loving it, and begins to chant “V-I-P! V-I-P!” This seems to bring Pryce to life, as he quickly does a kip up and drops it right into the robot.
Waters: Haha, he calls that the “Turn My Swag On” and it's got the crowd going wild!
Face-Eater: So they're making up names for taunts now? A little overkill I would say.
Waters: Well, Pryce is alive and well, as Ranken is also now slowly stirring to his feet.
VIP quickly shifts his focus back to his opponent, and sends Ranken back to the ground with an inverted neckbreaker. Pryce gets up and continues to strut his stuff around the ring, letting the fans know that he has officially arrived in the AWC. As Ranken once again tries to get up, while he is bent over gassed, Pryce comes in and drops an axe-kick.
Waters: Sent down to the ground once again!
Face-Eater: Pryce is not giving Ranken a second's chance to get back into this thing.
The VIP now rolls Ranken over and goes for the Red Carpet pin, stretching out and crossing his legs over Ranken's chest, and Selena goes down to count...
ON-
Waters: Kickout! Not even a one count, that was a classless pin.
Face-Eater: I liked it! You need to be able to knock opponents out like I use to though, in order for it to actually work.
Ranken gets to his feet, and Pryce Irish Whips him into the ropes. On his way back, Ranken ducks a superkick attempt from VIP.
Waters: That would've taken his head off!
Ranken keeps running and as he bounces back again he swoops under a spinning clothesline attempt by Pryce, then he stops on a dime and turns to Pryce, who slowly turns around...
Waters: CLUBBING Clothesline!
Face-Eater: I don't think it did take Pryce's head off, but it should have.
Now Ranken takes advantage of Pryce's exposed back and straddles him, applying the Cobra Clutch.
Face-Eater: Back to this? Ranken needs to give up on these holds and just knock Pryce out for the three count.
As if on cue, Ranken lifts him up while still having the Cobra Clutch locked in and drops the VIP with a superiorplex.
Waters: Wow! Looks like he listened to you Dick.
Ranken quickly pulls up Pryce's right leg and goes for the pin.
ONE...
TWO...
Kickout!
Waters: Pryce is not done yet!
Face-Eater: Ranken looks pretty done though, the up-tempo style of Pryce seems to be emptying the British Bully's energy tank faster than expected.
Waters: And you can see how that is mounting frustration for the great Brit.
Ranken shakes his head as he drags Pryce to his feet, and nails him across the chin with a European uppercut. Pryce falls back a little bit and receives another, staggering him into the corner. Ranken then begins to charge like a madman and dives at the turnbuckles...
Waters: Pryce jumps up and Ranken dives face-first into the steel post! VIP avoided the tackle by using his arm strength on the top rope to boost himself up and over, but now he locks his legs around Ranken and sunset flips him into a pin! What athleticism!
ONE...
TWO...
Kickout!
Waters: Still no dice for either man, but they are laying it all out here tonight!
Both men hop to their feet quickly, and Ranken quickly goes for a forearm shiver, but VIP ducks it and simultaneously scoops up Ranken, and twists him down with a forceful spinebuster into the center of the ring.
Waters: Last Call!! I think we all know what's coming next..
Face-Eater: A round of shots?
Van Isaac Pryce throws up the “V” for the crowd, then begins to run off the ropes. He jumps over Ranken and bounces off the other side, gaining momentum as he leaps again over Ranken on right onto the middle ropes, splashing down with a perfect Lionsault.
Waters: VIP TREATMENT! He covers!
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!
Waters: It's all over! VIP has won!
The bell rings and Pryce jumps up ecstatic. He begins jogging laps around the ring, then he grabs referee Selena Sumner out of nowhere and gives her a HUGE smooch on the lips. He then slides out of the ring and begins to jog around the ringside giving high fives to every fan with their hand out. Ranken, meanwhile, is slowly getting up, and pounds his fist against the mat in anger.
Waters: What a close contest! In the end, it is Philly the Kidd who will be moving on to the next round.
Face-Eater: He really needs to start relaxing though, this is only win #1. He still has two more to go before he can call himself a Hero.
The First Move
AUTHOR: Hyde
Seeing him from behind, you can’t quite be sure. The hair’s much shorter, for one thing; and pretty conclusively grey. But there’s something in the way those shoulders carry themselves. Something time can’t forget. Something special, something...
Bullish.
“Jack!”
The man turns – all 6’5” – all 280 pounds. The weather-beaten face comes into closer focus. At home, you swallow half your Coke, or you choke on your popcorn. You fall off the sofa.
Jack Murphy. The motherfucking Bull.
It’s David “Pearl” Harber hurrying his way, a huge smile on his face.
Pearl: I asked Sarah to send you up to the lounge, you should see it, it’s great...
Harber spreads his arms as he approaches, as if for a hug, but Murphy turns his body just slightly, and Harber reads the language, not missing a beat as he moderates his approach into a handshake. Murphy wears a black cotton top, tight to the skin, and light cargo pants. His eyes suggest tonight isn’t all sweetness and light.
Pearl: ...we’ve got a big screen, there’s champagne, there’s food, and of course a sky-box attached. I didn’t know you were coming! I mean, I wasn’t even sure you got my invite.
Murphy shakes his head, not meeting Pearl’s eye, and drums his fingers absent-mindedly against the notice-board affixed behind him.
Murphy: It’s good to see you, David. It’s been a long time.
Harber grins, wiping his weary eyes with his hand.
Pearl: It’s been a lot of hard work. A lot of fighting to get this to where we are. But now that this is in my name, it’s not only that we’re back. It’s that we’re free. For the first time, Jack, you and me and the rest of us can take AWC exactly where we want it to go.
Murphy smiles thinly, but genuinely. Looking at Harber now, mutual respect is thick in the air. And so it should be. If Pearl was the lifeblood of AWC from the start, Jack Murphy grew into that role as it came to an end. It was he who stood up for everything AWC meant when Dr. Kasidy Drake pulled the plug on the Club. That was the night of David Harber’s heart attack.
Murphy: Where have you been, David? A few of us were on tour here and there. I saw Butterfly not long back. Red Rock, too, and of course there’s some of the guys still in the big time. But no one’s seen you around the shows.
Harber nods.
Pearl: I got away from the business, I had to. I went back to LA, worked at Viacom for a couple years. Since then I’ve been in and out of jobs. The legal battle over AWC has been pretty much full time these last six months, maybe nine.
Murphy: Yeah. That can’t have been easy.
Pearl shrugs, then throws his arms wide.
Pearl: It wasn’t, but now it’s here! Use it! I meant what I said when I invited you, Jack. You’re an AWC Legend. The Club is here for you to use. I’m expecting Ellis and Johnny up in the Legends’ Lounge any min—
Murphy: I’m not here for no old boys’ club, David.
The Bull’s tone is stiff, measured, but not reactionary. He knows exactly what he’s saying because it’s the sort of thing he’s said before. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be friendly. He likes Pearl just fine, but.
Pearl recovers quickly.
Pearl: It’s not like that, Jack. I mean, sure, there’s perks up in the Lounge – God knows you earned them – but I’m sure some of the young guys I have backstage today, watching the show, ready to debut in a couple weeks – they’d love a word of advice from you if you can spare that. Or if you just want to watch the show, I can put you ringside in five minutes. Jack, I mean what I say – whatever you want.
Murphy: And I appreciate that, David, I do. But I’m not here for that.
Pearl: Look, Jack, I didn’t mean to offend you. Anyone would think that I was doing the very opposite of offering you the best that money can buy.
Murphy: It’s not about what you offer me, David. If you know me at all, you’d understand that it’s never been about me.
Harber looks flushed; this isn’t how tonight was supposed to go.
Pearl: Do you want to talk? Look, we can go to my office—
Murphy: Later. I have a meeting to convene.
Pearl: You have a meeting?
The Bull throws up his hands in frustration.
Murphy: I’m not here as your guest, David! As great as it is to see you again – and I mean that. I’m here on UPW business.
Pearl: UPW?
The smile that comes across the Bull’s face is a little patronising. He can’t help it. He adopts the tone one would take when explaining simple mathematics to a child.
Murphy: United Primetime Wrestlers. I run the AWC local.
He slips a card from his pocket and hands it to Harber, over whose shoulder the camera peers. We can read the text:
Jack Murphy
Secretary-General
UPW-AWC
Murphy: See, this is the reason I asked where you’d been the last four years.
Harber looks blankly at the former Transatlantic Champion.
Murphy: The industry unionised - at least, PTC did. You’re familiar with what that means, right?
Pearl: Oh come on, Jack, don’t patronise me.
Murphy: Right. I wouldn’t, except everybody kind of knows this stuff, David. Every promotion in the Primetime Central network has a UPW local now. A UPW representative is entitled to be present at all shows. Soon as you revived AWC, I had a call from central. I’d been working for them pro bono last year, sorting out some disputes here and there. I’m telling you, David, they do not miss a beat. Day after AWC existed again, UPW-AWC came into being. You can't do shit in a PTC fed without UPW on side. Everything's gotta be in order now, everything's gotta be right. You don't piss where they say don't piss. You don't speak when it's not your turn.
Taking some offence at being talked down to in his own shop, Harber smacks his teeth together and runs his tongue around them, animosity threatening to brew. But above all he needs time to think.
Pearl: So what are you telling me?
Murphy sighs.
Murphy: I’m telling you you’ve got to move with the business, David. Or you’ll find the business moves without you.
The Bull looks impassively down at Harber for a moment, then turns without a word. His footsteps grow ever quieter as Pearl studies the business card once more.
Pearl: A union, huh...
He shrugs, letting the tension out. He's always been a good boss. He's never had any problems with his staff. A union, huh.
Pearl: Why the hell not!
Winner
AUTHOR: J. Christopher
Fresh off the first win in his own personal history of the AWC, Van Isaac Pryce bops his way around backstage. As he slides around the corner, its obvious that he's bopping to some song on his iPod. That's why he practically runs right into Sarah Kennedy Lavelle.
VIP: Whoa! My bad!
Sarah: Van Isaac Pryce! What a great way to star off your career with a win here, early on in the Zero to Hero tournament.
VIP: Hell yeah! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout! Tryin' to make it happen!
Sarah: Well, you certainly showed us you're here for a reason, tonight.
VIP: Rewind that, Sarah. I ain't here just to show ya'll I got skills. That's obvious. No, I'm here to win this thing. This right here? Zero to Hero? This is my launchin' pad, mami. I'm 'bout to take off like a rocket up in the AWC. Whoosh!
Sarah: Well, you obviously think you have what it takes to be a big name here in the AWC. What of your opponents?
VIP: It is what it is. I ain't 'bout to stand up here and talk bad 'bout peoples I ain't even meet 'til tonight. We all here for the same thing, yknow? I'ma' do my thing. They gon' do theirs. And we gon' see who walks home with the W, right?
Sarah: Sportsmanship. I'm impressed. That's something that's been lacking from this profession for a long time.
VIP: I'm jus' tryin' to have a good time, Sarah. I want that W, but if my P1's ain't up on they feet when I'm doin' my thing, then I ain't doin' it right.
Sarah: P1's?
VIP: They know who they are.
Van smiles big and leans closer to Sarah's microphone, taking a deep breath.
VIP: HOLLA AT 'CHA BOY!
With the catch phrase intact, Van spins to get in his exit on, bopping around to the earbuds as he plugs them back into his ears. Sarah watches him go, with an amused smile on her face.
Face-Eater: That was dumb.
Waters: Dick...
Face-Eater: No. That was dumb. I actually demand that minute of my life back. I could've been doing something productive, like slitting my wrists, instead of listening to Urban Dictionary back there.
Waters: Well, I thought he gave a solid performance.
Face-Eater: So does Viagra.
Steve Harrison vs T.A. Giles
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles - Zero To Hero Qualifier
REFEREE: Don Porter
AUTHOR: Steve
Waters: Well, it's time for our second match of the evening, as the scrappy cruiserweight T.A. Giles will lock horns with the cocky technician Steve Harrison. Both of these men have established themselves in the undercards of major federations, but tonight they'll be looking to jump to the front of pack here in AWC.
Face-Eater: All I know is that both of these guys got a lucky draw. The winner of this match moves straight on to the finals, and they'll be enjoying a much-needed chance to rest during the second semi-final match-up.
Waters: Interesting point. All that remains to be seen, is which of these two men will be moving on. James Brunt is in the ring for introductions.
Brunt: The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a twenty minute time limit, and is a Zero to Hero qualifying match!
The fans let out a cheer as the lights in the arena turn down low. Strobe lights begin to flash near the top of the ramp.
Brunt: Introducing first....
“Surgical Gloves” by Raekwon kicks in, drawing immediate boos from all the JUST fans in the Sun Dome tonight.
Brunt: From Alexandria, Virginia, weighing in at 235 pounds.... STEEEEEEEVE HAAAARRISOOOOOON!!!!
Harrison comes out to stand at the top of the ramp with his arms held high above his head. He looks pumped and ready for this match, a confident expression on his face. He seems to be oblivious to the negative reaction he's getting, strutting to the ring like he's already won the tournament.
Waters: What do you think about Steve Harrison, Dick?
Face-Eater: He looks like a clown trapped in a dream that he's Adam Dick. There are worse things to be, though.
Brunt: And his opponent....
Harrison's music fades out, to be replaced with “The Wondersmith and His Sons” by Aeronautilus.
Brunt: From Brandon, Canada, weighing in at 195 pounds.... T! A! GIIIIIIIIIIIIILES!!!!
Giles gets a nice pop from the crowd, those who've seen him appreciative of his high octane, unpredictable offensive style. He raises an arm at the top of the ramp too, acknowledging the response, before walking to the ring with a look on his face more focused and intense than the one displayed by Harrison earlier.
Face-Eater: Giles isn't very big, is he?
Waters: Size is not one of his strong points, no. Harrison is not a huge wrestler, by any means, but he'll have a 40 pound weight advantage here tonight.
Face-Eater: Giles had better hope he doesn't get caught.
The lights come up as Giles jumps up on the apron and steps through the ropes into the ring. He rolls his neck, briefly loosening up as he stares across the ring at Harrison, who sneers right back at him. The two men approach each other slowly, the referee standing between them, and it's immediately noticeable that Harrison is packing a bit more muscle.
Waters: Referee Don Porter is our official tonight, and he's signaling for the bell. This match is underway!
DING! DING! DING!
The two men circle to start, feeling each other out. Giles is the first to strike, lashing out with a calf kick and then quickly another, making sure to stay out of Harrison's range. Harrison lunges forward, impatient, and eats a drop toe hold for his troubles. Giles blasts him in the face with a dropkick before he has the chance to get to his feet.
Waters: Giles may be lacking in size, but he more than makes up for it with speed.
Face-Eater: Harrison let himself get baited into that one. He should stay back and let Giles come to him, if he's smart. So in actuality, I guess he'll probably do the exact opposite.
Giles is off the ropes now, and he comes back with a flying headscissors that drives Harrison tumbling into the mat. He staggers to his feet, dazed, making a move at his opponent, but T.A. slides between his legs, makes a quick u-turn, and runs up Harrison to land a stiff looking shining wizard that sends him rolling to the outside.
Face-Eater: See, what did I tell you?
Waters: What a flurry from Giles! And Harrison heading to the outside for a breather and a chance to regroup.
The fans at ringside are on their feet, and Harrison is incensed, screaming at a couple of college kids in the front row to sit down. A baseball slide from behind nearly sends him over the guardrail to join them, as Giles connects feet first to the back of his head.
Waters: Harrison took his eyes off his opponent and he paid for it there.
Face-Eater: I call foul! Those drunken frat boys were distracting Harrison from the match! A shiny object could distract Harrison from the match, but regardless...
Harrison barely has time to get to his feet before he's completely wiped out with an Asai moonsault that ratchets up the decibel level in the Sun Dome even further.
Waters: What a move from Giles! He is in complete control of this match.
Face-Eater: The real question is, can he capitalize?
Giles rolls his opponent into the ring and jerks him just enough to position him for a suplex. Grabbing his tight, he does a quick 180 degree spin before executing a textbook snap suplex on Harrison. He follows up by running the ropes, coming back with a running Shooting Star Press which he holds for the pin.
Waters: COVER!!!
ONE...
TWO....
Face-Eater: No, it's not enough! Barely a two. Still too early.
Waters: Maybe not, but Giles has proven that he's one step ahead of Steve Harrison so far here tonight.
Giles doesn't hesitate at the kick-out, pulling Harrison to his feet and trying to lock in a full nelson, looking for a dragon suplex....but Harrison leans his weight forward, breaking the hold, and somersaults away, eventually rolling out under the bottom rope.
Face-Eater: Harrison sure likes hanging out at ringside.
Waters: He'll be a member of the ring crew before he knows it, if he keeps this up.
Face-Eater: Not funny, Waters. Leave the jokes to me, please.
The kids at ringside are heckling Harrison again, and this time he gets up in their faces, swatting a drink out of the hands of some fat slob. Harrison turns around, side-stepping at the last second to avoid another baseball slide from Giles. He quickly grabs onto Giles' leg and slams it into the turnbuckle post. He points at his head after the fact, as if he were the greatest genius in the world.
Face-Eater: Did....did Harrison just sucker Giles into a trap?
Waters: That is one possible interpretation.
Face-Eater: ….nice.
Referee Don Porter is red in the face, leaning over the ropes and pointing an angry finger in Harrison's direction, admonishing him over the use of the ring post. Harrison raises both his hands in an innocent gesture, before pointing in the direction behind Porter's back. As the referee turns his head to look, Harrison slams Giles' knee into the ring post again, even more viciously this time. And boy are the fans pissed.
Waters: Blatant disregard of the rules being shown by Harrison.
Face-Eater: Ah, the ol' “What's-that-behind-your-back?” gambit. That sure brings back memories.
Harrison rolls back into the ring, dusting off his hands. Getting to his feet, he immediately goes to work on Giles' leg, measuring it for a big elbow drop, then another, before twisting it to the side awkwardly and dropping a knee across it.
Face-Eater: It looks like Harrison's had enough of the aerial stylings of T.A. Giles. If he keeps up this attack, this match is going to stay on the ground.
Waters: And that's not good news for T.A. Giles. By grounding him, Harrison is not only taking away his primary weapon, but taking the match into territory he excels in.
After dropping a series of knees across the Giles' leg, Harrison transitions smoothly into a kneebar, wrenching back hard on the maneuver. Giles slaps the mat in pain, screaming out, but not giving up as he reaches for the ropes.
Waters: He's about a foot from the ropes. Can he make it?
Giles endures the pain long enough to inch the short distance to the ropes, barely grabbing onto them with his fingertips. It's enough to get the referee to the start the five count, though Harrison stares defiantly at Porter, waiting until the very last instant to release the hold.
Face-Eater: Harrison's playing fast and loose with the rules here. That was about a 4.999 repeating count. I think I may have been a little too quick to judge the guy earlier.
Waters: He's certainly turned this match around, if not in the most honorable way imaginable.
Harrison doesn't give Giles any room to relax, dragging him back to the center of the ring where he continues his attack. He grabs T.A. by the foot, lifting his leg high off the canvas before throwing it knee first into the mat. Even the fans in the back can hear Giles scream after that one. Harrison steps around and drops an elbow across Giles back, before rolling him over in a nonchalant pin.
ONE...
TWO...
Waters: Not even a two count on that one. He should have hooked the leg.
Face-Eater: It's alright. Harrison's in control, he's relaxed, he's taking his time with this one.
Indeed he is. Again he grabs Giles' leg, this time pausing briefly before somersaulting over his opponent's body, whipping the leg forward with all of his body weight.
Face-Eater: Harrison's really surprising me here. He's doing a lot better than I expected.
Waters: What did you expect him to do?
Face-Eater: Well, considering he's one of the list of nobodies on this card, I expected to be put to sleep pretty quick.
He follows this up by dragging T.A. near to the ropes, draping his leg across the bottom rope, first standing on the leg for a four count from Referee Don Porter, before dropping all his body weight on it, butt first.
Waters: It seems a long time ago that T.A. Giles was in control of this match.
Face-Eater: Think how long it must feel for Giles.
Now Harrison can smell blood. He swings his finger in the air, the universal sign for the figure four. Pulling Giles to the center of the ring, he entwines his leg, spinning it around and then....Giles pulls him to the mat with a small package.
Waters: A small package from out of nowhere!
ONE...
TWO....
THR-
Face-Eater: No, kick out!
Waters: Giles nearly shocked a over-confident Harrison right there.
Harrison is visibly upset, sitting up on the mat with his eyes open wide. He notices Giles trying to get to his feet, limping slightly as his leg refuses to support his weight. Not wanting to lose his momentum, Harrison stalks him for behind. Spinning him around, he goes for some sort of slam....only for Giles to wriggle out and come down hard out of the move with an Ace Crusher, sending Harrison flying up and back from the impact.
Waters: Neck Pain! And both men are down!
Face-Eater: Well Harrison fucked it up, just like I knew he would.
Waters: What? You were talking about how great you thought he was doing just a second ago.
Both men are slow to get to their feet, but Giles is first to strike with an elbow, and then another. Harrison swings wildly at him, looking for a lariat, but Giles ducks under and grabs his opponent by the back of the head, running him halfway across the ring and riding him to the mat with a bulldog. He rolls him over for the cover....but Harrison's foot is under the bottom rope.
Face-Eater: Classic rookie mistake.
Waters: If he had gone for the pin in the center of the ring, this match might be over.
Slapping his forehead, Giles pulls Harrison to his feet. He spins him around, looking for a back suplex....only this time it's Harrison who counters right back, twisting in mid-air, hooking a front face lock and dropping back to his feet. A second later, he drops Giles to the mat with a sick double-arm DDT.
Waters: Probation! He covers him!
ONE...
TWO...
THR-
Face-Eater: Aw man, I thought he had him.
Waters: Giles kicks out! There's no quit in him!
Harrison slaps the mat, sneering, before pulling Giles to the feet....only to eat a right hand to the face. He's rocked but not knocked down, while Giles, still on dream street, can't capitalize, and Harrison fires back with a right of his own.
Waters: Both of these men fighting with everything they've got, desperate to go onto the next round.
Face-Eater: It's like watching a couple of homeless people fight over a warm meal.
Giles comes back with a kick, and Harrison catches it, waving his finger no-no-no. T.A. swings his other foot up with an enziguri....but Harrison ducks it at the last second.
Face-Eater: Tricky, tricky.
But Giles manages to land the foot that missed the enziguri safely on the mat. Harrison is tapping his head again, too pleased with himself to notice that Giles caught the miss, and is bouncing back off the mat to connect a jumping back kick to his jaw.
Waters: Harrison is rocked! Can Giles capitalize?!
His opponent staggered now, Giles seizes the opportunity. Grimacing as he places his weight on his leg, he leaps off the mat, springboards off the second rope, and nearly takes Harrison's head off with a jumping thrust kick to the face.
Waters: Nothing Personal! That's his finisher!
Face-Eater: Harrison just got knocked the fuck out.
ONE....
TWO....
THREE!!!
DING! DING! DING!
Waters: I can't believe it! He got him!
Referee Don Porter helps T.A. Giles to his feet, where he raises his arm in the air to the roaring applause of the Florida crowd.
Brunt: The winner of the match.....TEEEEEEEEE! AAAAAAA! GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILES!!!
Waters: Giles showed incredible fortitude in the ring here tonight. Harrison was merciless in his attack, but he was able to weather the storm and come back with a beautiful springboard side kick for the win.
Face-Eater: I'm shocked he was able to pull that move off with a hurt leg. Impressive, yeah, but you have to imagine it's going to be a liability in the finals.
Waters: Well, Giles has earned a much needed rest. Will it be enough? We'll know the answer to that question and many more by the end of the night. We'll get a word with the winner in just a minute.
A Changed Man
AUTHOR: Josh
The glint of gold danced everywhere as the camera caught his reflection in the skybox window of the Legends' Lounge. Accompanying the double size AWC Transatlantic Championship around his waist, the PRIME 5 Star Title hung from his shoulder.
As Garbage Bag Johnny looks out over the USF Sun Dome at the very event that propelled his career to where it is today, he stands there a very different man than he was four years prior. His hair, still long, is better kept, and his beard trimmed, short and even.
He's a man saddled with responsibility now, and while still partaking in his various proclivities, his cunning is no longer hidden behind a layer of grime. His shrewdness is well known, now, and his ingenuity respected.
But tonight isn't about Garbage Bag Johnny, and the GCW Commissioner knows that. Despite the Legends' Lounge treatment and the tremendous reception back, he dares not command any attention away from tonight's true star. He doesn't know who it's about yet, but it's about someone, and whoever it's about, that person will be gunning for him.
But Garbage Bag's never much been one for enemies.
Waters: AWC Transatlantic Champion Garbage Bag Johnny is in the house tonight, and Dick, you know him just about as good as anybody. What do you think's going through his head tonight?
Face-Eater: This ain't the Johnny I knew. The Johnny I knew would be stoned off his freakin' rocker copping mustard from hot dog stands.
Waters: Well, four years ago, you were in Johnny's shoes. What would you be thinking?
Face-Eater: I tell you what. I wasn't thinking a guy like that would ever be a threat to my crown. Johnny better be thinking differently.
Waters: Lucky for him, that seems to be what he's good at.
Far From Overjoyed
AUTHOR: Trent
Waters: Well, now I'm told Sarah has T.A. Giles backstage.
Face-Eater: I'm already sick of these ridiculous, self-serving interviews. Who the Christ had the idea to interview every asshole that won a match? If they would have done that when I was wrestling, I would have been interviewed like a thousand times.
Waters: But you wouldn't actually, of course.
Face-Eater: Fuck no. You think I bow to that pussy Harber?
Waters: Careful. He's your boss now.
Face-Eater: And he was my boss then. No difference.
The big screen comes to life. Following the match between T.A. Giles and Steve Harrison, Chase Harvey is backstage, keeping it cool, talking to his co-worker Sarah Kennedy Lavelle. With his good looks and charm, Harvey is perhaps being a bit too flirtatious with the wife of AWC Legend Pierce Lavelle, but he soon turns his attention to the gorilla area, where Giles, the latest victor, has emerged from. Harvey straightens his tie and motions toward Giles, but Sarah promptly stops him.
Sarah: Did you not read tonight's itinerary, Chris? Or should I say, Mr. Harvey?
Harvey: Erm ... it might have slipped my mind. I was busy.
Sarah: Well, if you had read the itinerary as us interviewers are supposed to have done, then you would be aware that this match is mine to cover. Not yours.
Harvey: Well, I just thought --
Sarah: I appreciate the enthusiasm, Harvey, but if we are to get along in the future, I suggest you take a little more pride in this job.
Sarah has her mic ready and heads toward Travis Giles, who, for having just finished a match, is quite calm and together. He looks to have hardly broken a sweat. Sarah looks into the camera.
Sarah: I'm here with T.A. Giles who has just won our first “official” Zero to Hero qualifier match and will be moving on to the semi-finals. First off, Giles, I'm going to ask the question that everyone has been thinking but are afraid to ask. It's quite simple: Who are you?
Giles: ... Is that a question you ask to all wrestlers?
Sarah: Well, no.
Giles: Aren't you interviewers supposed to research that sort of stuff beforehand? I mean, kind of like I'm supposed to train for a match before I get out there so I have a clue what I'm doing? Not saying I do, but ...
Sarah: I assure you that if there was research to be found on you, Travis, I would have found it. And, of course, I have found some ... but a short stint in GCW that just began a couple months ago is sort of a tease ... pardon my judgement, but you're 35 years old and you haven't been heard about until now? That's sort of odd.
Giles: (shrugs) Some people take a while to find what they love to do. I'm not hurting anybody by being a late-bloomer, am I?
Sarah: Well, no. Of course not. But surely there's more to know about you ...
Giles: I assure you, Sarah, there isn't.
Sarah: (laughs) I have not met a single person that has no backstory. Nobody just falls into the wrestling business, Mr. Giles.
Giles: Suit yourself, Sarah, but gimmicks and backstories aren't my game. Here I am. If that's not good enough, I don't know what to tell you.
Sarah: Well, you sure have left a good impression out there tonight. Congratulations on your victory, Mr. Giles. I'll be sure you catch up with you soon.
Travis nods and gives a small smile to the camera, acknowledging the watchers, then walks off. The camera moves from him walking away to Sarah, who's standing there with a suspicious expression on her face.
Sarah: (to herself) ... something about that man.
And the screen fades to black.
Waters: Well, that was ... interesting. Soft-spoken guy, I guess.
Face-Eater: Boring, you mean?
Waters: Well ...
Face-Eater: What's up with all these wrestlers that don't have gimmicks? Isn't this supposed to be entertainment?
Waters: It's supposed to be about wrestling.
Face-Eater: Whatever.
Waters: Alright, then. Looks like we're ready to see Van Isaac Pryce in his second match of the night, taking on Diego Foster for the right to face T.A. Giles in the final.
Diego Foster vs Van Isaac Pryce
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles - Zero To Hero Qualifier
REFEREE: Richie Travis
AUTHOR: Hyde
In the ring, Richie Travis waits. Richie Travis doesn’t like waiting, and you know this because his fingers tap on the top of his thigh, hammering out a beat you can’t place. You know this because he chews on his bottom lip, having waited four long years to resume his trajectory through wrestling officialdom. The intervening years? Another rock band, another false start. His bangs hang low over his eyes. He’s ashamed.
Brunt: Ladies and gentlemen! The following match is a ZEEEEEEEEROOOOO TOOOOOOO HEEEERRRRRROOOOOOO qualifier match! Introducing first...
In Flames smashes the silence. Through the curtain stride all 245 of his pounds.
Brunt: ...from Santa Fe, New Mexico... weighing in at 245 pounds... DIEEEEEEEEEGOOOOOOO FOSSSSSSSSSSTEEEERRRRRRRR!!!
Face-Eater: MARK OUT MOMENT.
Waters: Well, hold up, Dick. He ain’t done nothing yet.
Face-Eater: Truth, this guy just turned 22 years old yet they already kicked him out of Japan. I had to wait till I was THIRTY to get kicked out of Japan.
Foster nods his head cautiously as he comes down to the AWC ring for the first time, taking in the moderate recognition that his name grants him. It’s all in perspective – tonight, the colour commentator is a bigger star than any of these guys.
Brunt: And his opponent...
Papoose. “Born To Win”. No, I don’t know either, but let’s assume it’s some kind of hip-hop, am I right?
Brunt: ...from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania... weighing in at 275 pounds... VAAAAAN! ISAAAAAAAC! PRYYYYYYYYYCE!!!
Waters: AWC’s very own VIP out for his second match of the night.
Face-Eater: He owned Ranken earlier, Truth. Owned that bitch.
Waters: I got to admit, Dick, I was impressed when he got his two seventy-five up and over for the VIP Treatment. Don’t think I got that sort of athleticism in me no more.
Face-Eater: Bitch, please, you never had it.
VIP struts down to the ring, flushed with his opening win in his pocket. He hops up the steps, ducks into the ring. Richie Travis keeps them separated, waiting for the house lights and then the bell. They come. VIP doesn’t waste a moment, coming in to knock Foster straight down. Indignantly, Foster throws himself back up, but Pryce knocks him right back to the mat.
Waters: Raw power and the element of surprise giving VIP a little queue-jump right here at the start.
Face-Eater: Oh, Truth. You spent these past four years on a stage, right? TELL ME YOU DID.
“Get up!” Pryce bellows, and Foster takes a little offence at being yelled at. He’s not a little kid after all, and for all his size and how he carries himself, Pryce is decidedly a rookie. Foster decides to show him exactly that, and brings him over his back in a fireman’s carry takedown, before following up with a tweak of the arm and boot to the head. Not done, Foster drags VIP to a standing position before pushing his leg off the ropes and carrying through to bring Pryce’s head down on Foster’s knee as they clatter to the canvas.
Face-Eater: VIP can’t swipe that goofy grin off his own face, and it’s gonna cost him if he doesn’t wake up and smell that Foster is right about smoking him.
Foster pushes distastefully away from Pryce and backs up, recalling his gameplan. When Pryce is up he finds himself cornered, Foster launching a few jabs here and there to back the Philly native into the corner before throwing a low shoulder.
Waters: Despite VIP getting in the early blows in this match, Diego Foster is quickly taking control.
Foster drives another shoulder into Pryce’s abdomen, but as he sinks in receives a clubbing blow to the back of his own head. Stunned, Foster can’t help his legs collapsing under him and he is powerless to prevent Pryce turning him around into the corner. VIP reaches back and brings a huge right hand to bear on Foster, the repeated strikes denting Foster’s pride as well as his face.
Face-Eater: He’s gotta resort back to those tricks of the street. He’s not trained for this, Truth – he’s trained for the back alley brawl.
Waters: And bah gawd, he can back alley brawl.
More thumping blows before Pryce whips Foster to the other turnbuckle. Foster can’t turn himself round, instead crashing straight into the turnbuckle and staggering backwards. Pryce comes up behind his opponent, bends low and spins him into a punishing belly-to-back powerbomb!
Waters: Oh, big move! And here we go!
Travis drops low and counts the fall.
ONE!
TWO!
Face-Eater: Kick-out at two, but Foster has to watch that. Pryce just dumped him out of nothing.
Suddenly, the feed jerks and cuts into grainy archive footage from the 1950s of a match entirely unrelated to this one, but with Diego Foster and Van Isaac Pryce digitally spliced onto the bodies of the two combatants.
Waters: Uh... sorry, I think we’ve had a technical hitch—
Face-Eater: Recyclegate, fuckas! HAHAHAHAHA!
When we return to your regular scheduled transmission, we find Foster and Pryce ring-centre, trading blows. Foster misses a return as a Pryce right hand knocks him back, and VIP wastes no time in whipping him to the ropes, hoisting his bulk high to leap landing in a Lou Thesz press on the return. Pryce lays into the grounded Foster with strikes from both arms.
Waters: And once again, Diego Foster is losing out to the raw power of this Philly brawler.
A noticeable chant of ”V-I-P! V-I-P!” is now belting around the packed Sun Dome.
Waters: Can Pryce go on to win this tournament, Dick?
Face-Eater: He’s gotta win this match first. And if you want my opinion... Can I be blunt?
Waters: Yeah.
Face-Eater: Thanks.
Dick fishes a blunt out of the inner pocket of his jacket.
Face-Eater: Light?
Waters: Umm...
Travis calls Pryce off the downed Foster, who pulls his hand away from his face, inspecting it for blood as he rises. Pryce surges up behind and looks to throw his man back in a Russian leg sweep, but Foster uses his elbows to nudge his way out of the hold and as he steps back slices a knife-edge chop across Pryce’s chest. The crowd responds as the crowd should respond.
Face-Eater: WOOOOO!
Hacking and spitting, VIP can’t straighten up before Foster is on him, firing repeated forearm shots. Pryce finds himself tumbling incrementally back until he’s against the ropes, still taking punishment. He throws an uppercut through Foster’s chin to stem the barrage, and grabs the man from Santa Fe by the side of his head, forcing him through the ropes. There’s not enough momentum to take Foster to the floor and the 245-pounder quickly rights himself.
Waters: VIP has turned away and Foster could surprise him here...
Foster springs off the second rope and launches his body back into the ring just as Pryce turns, landing a perfectly timed lariat! He doesn’t turn to watch VIP fall, instead carrying his momentum straight into a leap onto the turnbuckle at the second rope and springing straight off with a backward elbow!
Waters: OH! Without even looking, Foster nails Pryce with that elbow, deep in the sternum!
ONE!
TWO!
THR—
Face-Eater: Nearly had Pryce’s number there. That was good stuff from Diego Foster, now let’s see him follow it up.
Foster dusts himself off, looking somewhat distantly out at the crowd. They haven’t chosen sides, necessarily, but the Santa Fe athlete is probably losing out to the crowd-pleasing style of the Philadelphia showman. With an angry grunt, Foster brings up a leg into the midsection of Pryce as he rises, stopping the latter on one knee. He backs into the ropes and rushes him, clotheslining VIP to the mat.
Waters: A show of power from Foster.
Face-Eater: Pryce only has thirty pounds on him. Foster can throw his weight around too, he’s just reminding us of that.
Waters: The difference? Foster can flip off the ropes with a lariat, then fly off with the elbow like he just did.
Face-Eater: Yeah. Pryce tries that, he’s on the deck and laid out for three.
The two are brawling again, Foster in control. He brings Pryce’s head down onto his knee, then slaps his arms down on Pryce’s shoulders, forcing the bigger man between his legs. A stir among the crowd.
Face-Eater: Oh, Truth, you don’t wanna know where this is headed.
Waters: Tiger Driver?
Face-Eater: For real. He broke some poor asshole’s neck with that before.
Waters: I thought he broke somebody's neck attempting his Diamond Flash piledriver?
Face-Eater: Oh, he's breaking bitches' necks all over the place.
Foster hooks both Pryce’s arms, a contented smile slipping onto his face as he calmly prepares to finish VIP. Pryce tries to flex both arms, writhing in Foster’s grip, but he has him to rights. Foster lifts – and Pryce runs him straight into the ropes!
Waters: Reversal!
Face-Eater: VIP planted his legs and just PUSHED forward as Foster pulled him back!
Waters: The momentum taking both men into the ropes, and Diego Foster has fallen through them to the apron.
Face-Eater: We already saw Foster on that apron once tonight Truth...
Waters: True, the young man is a real danger from there.
Pryce reaches forward over the ropes, the top two bending low under the strain of his bulk. He wraps two thick arms around Foster’s head and drags him to his feet, facing out into the crowd. The fans see the moment of panic in Foster’s eyes, before VIP socks him in the small of the back with his knee, and Foster can do nothing but hurtle forward off the apron and to the arena floor!
Face-Eater: Takin’ a ride!
Richie Travis nods his head at Pryce, signalling for him to take the fight to the outside.
Waters: Well, it looks as if Richie Travis hasn’t changed one bit, Dick. He can’t be bothered to count them out.
Taking advantage of apparent carte blanche from the official, VIP slides to the outside and takes control of Foster, leaning him on the guardrail in front of the swooning fans, and smacking down on his chest with a chop from high.
Face-Eater: Big question for Pryce, Truth? It’s how far will this referee let this go. I mean, now he’s not counting, he’s opened himself a can. What if Pryce swings a chair or two? Rips the covers off the buckles?
Waters: I would hazard a guess that they would still result in disqualification. Richie is a laid back referee, but he’s not reckless.
VIP slaps at Foster’s chest once more, before appealing loudly to the fans.
VIP: MORE?
They respond enthusiastically, and Pryce brings the flat of his hand down on the chest a third time.
Face-Eater: He knows how to work ‘em. For sure. He’s just gotta make sure that doesn’t get in the way of him winning. That’s the boundary between being Unfuckable, and just being ANY OTHER GUY.
Pryce grabs the New Mexico man by the hair, pulling him backwards across the guardrail and inviting the fans to take shots at Diego Foster. Most shy away, though one fat guy limbers up and yells “DARCSYDE TO KILL YOU! Lol” in Foster’s ear, much to everyone’s confusion.
Waters: What was that about, Dick?
Face-Eater: You give a dog a bone, you gotta live with him gnawing at it a little.
VIP wrenches Foster back off the guardrail and looks to throw him into the ring steps. However, Foster is able to get his boot up onto the top step and halt himself, tapping his temple as he does so. The fans cheer.
Face-Eater: Zero To Hero is one of those times, you know, when what the fans think means something. Even Diego Foster now is seeing the importance of getting them on his side.
Pryce launches angrily at Foster, arms swinging, but Foster steps smartly aside and Pryce’s thick head bounces off the ringpost.
Waters: Ouch!
Face-Eater: Oh, man, we have to see that replay. WE BETTER HAVE SLOW MO.
Rejuvenated, Foster pulls VIP away from the ringpost and rolls the bigger man into the ring. Pryce lays there, still out, as Foster mounts the apron and then – dramatically – looks up at the top rope.
“RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Face-Eater: Wow, our fans scream like SCCW fans. How lame.
Waters: It’s death or glory time for Diego Foster!
He climbs the buckles quickly and doesn’t need to think twice. His athletic body flips over itself and lands, sprawled, over Pryce’s body. The impact causes Foster to bounce off to the side, but he knows this is his chance and pulls himself back over VIP, tugging his leg away from the ropes as he does.
Waters: Four-fifty from Foster! Clinical precision!
Face-Eater: He’s quick on the leg – this could be done!
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Face-Eater: It is done!
Waters: Back and forth, highly energetic, but just a little slip from Pryce handed Diego Foster all the invitation he needed!
Face-Eater: I told you, Truth, this guy is LETHAL. You give him that kind of an opening? He doesn’t miss.
Foster breaks into a smile as the purple-hatted James Brunt raises his arm, with a beaming smile of his own.
Brunt: Here is your winner... and progressing to the final of Zero To Hero... DIEEEEEEEGOOOOOOOOO FOSSSSSSSSSSTEEERRRRRRRRR!!!
Waters: VIP really is dejected. Wears his heart on his sleeve.
The camera shows Pryce coming regretfully to his feet, holding up his arms to applaud the crowd, but hanging his head as he processes having fallen short.
Face-Eater: He gave it his all. You gotta wonder whether the result would necessarily have been the same if VIP hadn’t already faced Oliver Ranken tonight.
Waters: Fair point, Foster came in fresh.
Face-Eater: I only said you gotta wonder. I still say Diego would’ve had him.
Waters: That sets up our final. It’s T.A. Giles and it’s Diego Foster, and from those two, we will have ourselves a winner of the third Zero To Hero!
Unaquainted Reunion of Unknown Proportions
AUTHORS: Harrison and Peyote
Steve Harrison is seen walking mumbling to himself, his brown hair wet from sweating flowing with his walk. He grimaces suddenly as he almost falls on the ground. He turns around to see Peyote Jones lying on the ground seemingly passed out, drool dripping from his hair lip. Harrison looks down angrily.
Harrison: (Kicks Peyote in the leg) Wake up you bum, the soup kitchen is down the street.
Peyote opens his eyes slowly and rubs his mouth.
Jones: GUFH...Soup?
Harrison: Oh god (Harrison realizes who it is) not you again.
Peyote flashes his rotten yellow teeth, his eyes now looking dilated because of any drug possible. He is known for being quite the drug addict.
Jones: RAGNAROK?
Harrison: No you moron, it's Harrison from JUST. I see you still dabble in…A LOT of drugs.
Jones: HAHAHA!!! Drugs.. Did you know the inside of Aaron Nothings mind is like a pool full of sharks reading War and Peace backwards with little one armed bats talking like parrots? They eat rainbows and spit skittles.
Harrison: Uh…
Jones: You must try bat-parrot skittles.
Harrison rolls his eyes still looking completely confused on where this conversation has been and where it is going. Peyote reaches his hand up as if to ask for Harrison to help lift him to his feet, but it looks like Peyote's hand is covered with something.
Harrison: I'm not going to help you up! And why does your hand look sticky?
Jones: It's honey mustard, it's not THAT sticky. And I'm not asking for help up, I'm offering to help you down!
Harrison: …wait why the hell am I even talking to you?
Jones: Fern gully told me that our destinies are intertwined, you will be play a big role in my journey.
Harrison shakes his head in disgust feverishly.
Harrison: No.
Jones: Yes.
Harrison: Uh---no.
Jones: Yea man, we are like Bill and Ted, or Chocolate and Pickles, or Linus and Blanket!
Harrison: I really don’t see it. I don’t have tracks all over my arms from heroine nor do I snort coke off the bare ass of a retired sumo wrestler.
Jones: You haven’t lived yet, then. I have much to teach you son.
Harrison: I have no idea why any wrestling federation would hire you but regardless if I trip over you again I will take your crack pipe and stick it where the sun don’t shine.
Harrison walks off shaking his head with a look of utter confusion on his face.
Jones: Well, now that Ragnarok is gone, it's back to preparing this metal so I can purify it into gold.
Peyote begins to lick the cement floor, as the camera quickly... and awkwardly... cuts.
Waters: There's our first appearance by former Just Wrestling Champion, Peyote Jones!
Face-Eater: It looks like he's only gone further down the toilet since last year.
Waters: You know Dick, he really does look an awful lot like you.
Face-Eater: No! He looks like if I had a siamese underdeveloped fetus who was mangled and then dumped by my mother in the gutter and mutated after years of living in the sewers and surviving off feces.
Waters: Yeah, like I said... a striking resemblance. He's taller though.
Potential
AUTHOR: Steve
Waters: Chase Harvey is backstage after that last match to have a word with the winner, Diego Foster.
Face-Eater: Oh, do tell! That sounds absolutely thrilling!
We see Chase Harvey waiting expectantly, somewhat awkwardly by himself for a few seconds, before Diego Foster enters from the right. He looks a little tired, his long dark hair wet with sweat, but otherwise none the worse for the wear. Harvey noticeably perks up at his moment to shine.
Harvey: Diego, you just had a fantastic match with Van Isaac Pryce that really impressed a lot of people here tonight. It was hard-fought, but you edged out the win. What are your thoughts?
Diego doesn't say anything at first, merely looking at Harvey considerately. Then he slowly reaches out his hand and takes the microphone away from him.
Foster: I don't mean to be rude, but you can just take a step back. Nothing personal, I just don't feel like answering questions right now, though I do have a lot on my mind.
Harvey looks crestfallen. He doesn't know what to say, so he merely nods his head and backs away from Foster. Diego nods to him in thanks, then turns to the camera with a more focused, serious expression on his face.
Foster: See, when people talk about Diego Foster, the word that always comes up is "potential". That kid has a lot of potential, they say. He has the potential to be a big star someday, a real franchise player, they say. Someday. Someday.
Foster: The thing about potential, though, is that it's never guaranteed. It's a two-edged sword, and it cuts both ways. If you've got the potential to succeed, then you've got the potential to fail. I've found that out the hard way, time and time again, just like Van Isaac Pryce, for all his potential, found that out tonight.
Foster: Because when you've got potential, people imagine that you don't need a learning curve. They throw you straight into the deep end of the pool to see if you sink or swim, and you know these waters are shark-infested.
Foster: GTT7. Jason Snow. GTT6 winner. Undefeated champion of PRIME for over a year. And I was the wild card slotted in to face this man in the first round. I trained like a mad man for nearly two months for this match, pushing myself harder than I had ever pushed myself before. Nobody thought I could win, and I showed up ready to shock the world. And shock them I did. But in the end, it wasn't enough.
Foster: I almost beat Jason Snow. Almost.
Foster: PRIME, Jewel in the Crown 2009. Second Round. Brandon Youngblood. A triple threat match with Youngblood and Elise Ares. My second match for the company and I'm in the main event, all eyes on me. Back and forth, back and forth, we fought for half an hour. And what happened? Youngblood gets the fall on Ares. I'm out of tournament without ever being beaten, while Youngblood goes on to win the whole thing.
Foster: I almost beat Brandon Youngblood. Almost.
Foster: So those are the facts. Potential kicked me in the ass, two nights in a row. I lost to Snow, I lost to Youngblood, but tonight....tonight is my night, and I'm not losing to anyone. T.A. Giles, you're standing in my way. I'm winning this tournament, and I will be the number one contender to the AWC Transatlantic Championship.
Foster: We're not talking about potential here anymore. We're talking about a guarantee.
Diego hands the microphone back to a still flabbergasted Chase Harvey, before walking off camera with a purpose.
Waters: Strong words from Diego Foster. Does he have what it takes to get past T.A. Giles and win Zero to Hero?
Face-Eater: I just hope he has what it takes not to bore me to death in the ring. Do either of these rookies have what it takes not to choke in the main event when the pressure's on? That's what I really want to know.
Waters: Well, we'll find out shortly. Diego Foster vs. T.A. Giles, coming up next!
Fuck a Tournament
AUTHOR: Andy
“Way I see it? There’s two kins’a man in this sport.”
Backstage, a man stands before an AWC backdrop with a lit cigarette in his mouth: no interviewer, just him and the camera. He’s dressed artlessly in black cotton and fraying denim, and if his gruff, tobacco-ravaged croak doesn’t give him away then the tattoo beneath his eye surely will. A star, no more than a centimetre wide: tiny, but unmistakable to anyone who’s watched PRIME programming since 2008.
Natas: There’s the “superstar,” the “poster boy”. The prancin’, preenin’ lil’ shit with the Hollywood looks an’ the flashy skillset. The guy you put on magazine covers; the guy hordes ‘a teenage girls’ll queue for hours t’see. The smug fuck with the silver spoon an’ the million dollar smile brown-noses an’ ass-kisses his way t’ the top ‘a the pile. This guy ain’t got no fight, he ain’t got no heart – yet he’s just the kin’a asshole that you, the deluded herd, take to yer hearts an’ stick on your bedroom wall.
The Anti-Superstar takes a long, cathartic drag on his cancer stick. He exhales through his nose.
Natas: Then there’s guys like me.
There’s a calm about Jason Natas that belies his rough exterior. Stormy grey eyes lurk beneath a permanently furrowed brow and a scruffy seven-day beard (the same colour as the shorn dirty blonde strands atop his head) lines his square jaw line. His is the face of a warrior, with blemished, leathery skin stretched across bones chiselled from granite.
Natas: So AWC’s back with Zero To Hero an’ the shit-suckers are comin’ outta the woodwork. Every jumped-up lil’ cunt in America’s fallin’ at Dave Harber’s feet, beggin’ for a spot in the tournament, beggin’ for a chance t’be that “Hero”. They say it’s a springboard: ya win this thing an’ yer a made man. Great opportunity, right? A guy comes int’ the company on his first night, wins a couple matches, an’ all o’ a sudden he’s sittin at the mountaintop. Well fuck that.
Jason’s dry, cracked lips spit indignation at the camera. He takes another puff.
Natas: Everyone’s sayin’ “Natas was in PRIME,” “Natas is the favourite,” “Natas is gon’ win,” an’ that’s exactly why I ain’t entered. I ain’t need a tournament. Fuck a tournament. My impact in AWC ain’t gon’ be felt by winnin’ Zero t’ fuckin’ Hero. Think I give a fuck ‘bout bein’ the next Garbage Bag Johnny or Alex Strider? Fuck that. One’s a goddamn hobo an’ the other’s worm food. If those are yer “heroes” then I’m quite happy stayin’ a “zero”.
He takes a moment to pluck the cigarette from his lips and stomp it beneath his heavy leather boot. Exhaling a final two lungfuls of smoke, Jason readjusts his posture and looks back at the camera.
Natas: I ain’t here t’see my name in stars – I’m here t’fight. I measure success by broken bones an’ shattered teeth, not title belts an’ tournament wins. Step in the ring with me an’ yer not gon’ get out-wrestled: yer gon’ get beaten the fuck up. Ask Jay Phoenix how it feels, ask Troy Douglas, ask fuckin’ Dusk. I ain’t like these other pricks. I ain’t gon’ prance an’ pose my way through the competition; I’m gon’ do it by breakin’ faces an’ bustin’ egos. Pay attention, fuckers - y’all are on notice.
A thick glob of saliva spits from Jason’s mouth and splatters down on the concrete floor. The feed dies.
T.A. Giles vs Diego Foster
CHAMPIONSHIP: None
STIPULATION: Singles - Zero To Hero Final
REFEREE: Lars Larsson
AUTHOR: Hyde
Waters: Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to tell you the night is young, but that would be misleading—
Face-Eater: Like that time you told Sarah Kennedy you pack ten inches on a good day.
Waters: That mouth is gonna get you in some trouble one of these days boy.
Face-Eater: OH! OH! Like the Illustrious fucking FACE-EATER hasn’t seen a little trouble here and there in his time!
Waters: One more reference to yourself in the third-person and you’re getting a smack, I don’t care who you think you are.
The purple-clad ring announcer steps importantly into the ring’s centre, and the crowd hushes.
Brunt: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is the FINAL of Zero To Hero 2010!
Ten thousand fans clap their hands, stamp their feet. Their signs flung up in the air one more time to catch the attention of the roving cameras.
Brunt: Introducing first...
His words are sliced clean through by the angry beginnings of “Trigger” by In Flames. Diego Foster is a little tousled, a little sweaty, but his face shows a singular focus.
Brunt: ...from Santa Fe, New Mexico... weighing in at 245 pounds... DIEEEEGOOOOOOO FOSSSSSSSSSSSSTEEEERRRRRRRR!!!
Foster receives an appreciative reception from the crowd, having particularly enjoyed the high-flying finish to his match with the popular Van Isaac Pryce.
Face-Eater: He’s gotta be the favourite, Truth. Look at him, he’s set! He knows EXACTLY what this is gonna take.
Waters: Diego Foster certainly does not look fazed by the occasion.
Face-Eater: If I didn’t know better I’d say he was ready to EAT SOME FACES.
T.A. Giles’ piano music contrasts starkly with the hard rock it replaces, and the cruiserweight slips through the curtain with appropriately laconic grace.
Brunt: And his opponent! From Brandon, Canada... weighing in at 195 pounds... TEE! AYY! GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLESSSSSS!!!
Waters: Once more Giles is going to find himself at a significant disadvantage in terms of poundage.
Face-Eater: I never let that stop me, Truth.
Waters: What did you weigh in at?
Face-Eater: UNWEIGHABLE pounds.
Waters: Well, that’s helpful.
Giles trots down the ramp, his affected passivism not quite masking the way he is clearly favouring one leg.
Waters: Looks like T.A. Giles is still feeling the after-effects of Steve Harrison’s work on that right leg.
Face-Eater: He will have popped a painkiller or six if he’s any sense. Because he’s gotta forget about that and win the goddamn tournament. And for a guy who relies on being such a squirmy little fucker in the ring, he CANNOT AFFORD to be slowed down.
The lights come up with the two finalists on opposite sides of the ring. Neither moves a muscle – neither even dares to blink.
DING DING DING!
Waters: We are underway in the final of Zero To Hero, and it’s going to be either T.A. Giles or Diego Foster that joins Strider and GBJ in the record books as winner.
Foster paces aggressively across the ring, but Giles mirrors the movements, keeping distance between them.
Face-Eater: Winning Zero To Hero isn’t everything, Truth. Take me – I never was even in a Zero To Hero, and I’m the biggest hero AWC ever had!
Foster reaches in and grabs Giles’ wrist, but the Canadian snatches his arm away and sidesteps out of the corner.
Waters: Hero to who exactly?
Face-Eater: Hero to EVERYBODY’S MOM.
The bigger man now looks to tie up, but Giles once more fends him off and skips away. Foster throws his arms up in frustration, giving his opponent a glare.
Face-Eater: Giles is playing chicken. This is a chicken and egg situation, Truth.
Waters: No, it isn’t.
Wanting to see some action, the fans get audibly behind Foster. New head referee Lars Larsson claps his hands, apparently equally keen on getting things underway. Foster grins and reaches low to grab Giles as if for a scoop slam. Predictably, Giles backs up, but this time Foster predicted it and comes straight up with a European uppercut. Giles throws a hand to his neck and reels back in pain. Foster thumps a boot into his gut and whips him across the ring.
Face-Eater: He couldn’t keep on running forever.
Giles hits the ropes and darts around Foster, who turns too slowly to stop Giles from throwing a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. Foster drops to a knee and Giles cradles his arm around the neck as he throws himself forward in a bulldog variation. Giles spins quickly off to one side and to his feet, rebounding himself off the ropes just as Foster rises. He throws himself into a spinning elbow attack, catching Foster in the head once more.
Waters: The elbow shot takes Foster back to the mat.
Face-Eater: Look at how quickly T.A. Giles gets up each time. He does not want Foster catching him on the canvas.
Giles backs away from his downed adversary into the corner, giving his injured leg a tentative shake. As Foster comes up to his feet, Giles grabs the ropes either side of him and hoists himself up onto the second turnbuckle, then leaps off with a cross-body block. Yet Foster doesn’t fall and holds onto Giles’ body, letting the momentum turn him before dropping the cruiserweight into a backbreaker.
Waters: Diego Foster demonstrating his strength. Even from the second rope, Giles couldn’t knock him down.
Face-Eater: He’s light as a feather, Truth, he’s got no poundage on those bones. Cross-body can’t do much damage when you weigh under 200 – it was risky and he paid for that.
With Foster now holding a lateral press, Lars Larsson counts the first attempted fall of the final.
ONE!
Waters: One is all for Foster. Too early?
Face-Eater: There’s a psychological aspect to it, Truth. Now, Giles knows he’s been the only one with his shoulders pressed to that mat.
Waters: But he knows he’s kicked out easily, too.
Face-Eater: ...PSYCHOLOGY IS NOT AN EXACT SCIENCE.
Giles comes back onto his feet, rubbing at his knee. Foster charges to clothesline him down, but Giles pulls to one side and trips his opponent, then quickly mounts the turnbuckle to a roar from the fans. Foster stands back up and looks around for Giles, disoriented, then catches a knee to the jaw from the leaping Canadian!
Waters: Great recovery!
Face-Eater: A little trickery from T.A., he knows that Foster is maybe all too aware of the damage he took to his leg earlier on, and used that to lure him into a trap.
Giles goes for a pinfall of his own.
ONE!
Foster easily throws him off.
Waters: A one-count each now chalked up. How’s that fit with your ring psychology, Dick?
Face-Eater: What do I look like, I have a Ph.D. or something?
Foster ties up with Giles, moving swiftly so that he can’t duck out of it this time, then ducks low and takes Giles across his shoulders. He begins to straighten up, holding Giles at the legs and the head in a torture rack position. A murmur becomes a roar.
Waters: Foster looking for the Diamond Flash! And if he nails this, it’s all history!
Giles has a free arm, though, and he scrambles to put it to use, jabbing little elbows at the back of Foster’s head to allay the stretching out of his back. Foster gnashes his teeth and straightens his back, toppling Giles in his grip so that the flailing free arm is no longer a danger. But the jerking around frees Giles’ legs and he slips quickly out of the hold, landing on his feet.
Face-Eater: Damn it, that boy is like a snake.
Giles bounces on his toes and ducks an angry swipe of Foster’s right arm before his own rainbow kick is equally dodged. Foster this time catches Giles with a chop, and the cruiserweight staggers back. Foster leaves him space, though, and Giles comes out roaring with a clothesline. But Foster ducks and slips his arm across Giles’ chest, lifting him high...
Waters: URANAGE BACKBREAKER! Oh, what a manoeuvre!
Face-Eater: Diego Foster purposely gave Giles a little extra room to swing a clothesline. Always a step ahead.
Giles writhes around on the floor, in agony at the point where his spine cracked against Foster’s planted knee. Foster drags him back to the centre of the mat.
Face-Eater: T.A. Giles has done his damnedest tonight not to get trapped grounded but that’s EXACTLY where Diego Foster has him now!
The 245-pounder confidently grabs hold of Giles’ hurt right leg and tugs it up, rolling into a watertight lock. Giles arches his back and cries out in pain.
Waters: Foster catches Giles in a leg lock and he really is taking control now.
Face-Eater: This is the furthest the pendulum has swung yet. Look.
Adam Dick brings out a gleaming silver pendulum which is swinging back and forth.
Waters: Yeah, I don’t think you needed to illustrate that point.
Face-Eater: Garbage Bag Johnny gave me this as a retirement present. To tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed. I hear he does a fine line in toothpick models.
The imperious Lars Larsson is keeping a firm grasp of proceedings in the ring, where Foster is still squeezing all the juice he can out of the grounded Giles.
Waters: This is smart. Giles was just about getting by after the damage from Harrison, but now Foster is taking that inherited advantage and exploiting it.
Face-Eater: T.A. has to contend the rest of this match on one leg, and I can’t see that he has the upper body to do it. He relies on pace, Truth. And Diego Foster is cutting off that exact supply.
Waters: Well, they call this young man “The Prodigy” in some circles, Dick. And I think we can see why.
Face-Eater: How old is he? 22? For that sort of age his ring intelligence is pretty hot, at least on tonight’s showing.
Growing restless, the fans begin to clap their hands in encouragement of the troubled Giles. His tousled hair masks the frustration etched in his features as he finds himself unable to contest the simple knee bar – a stalemate that ebbs his prospects moment by moment.
Waters: T.A. Giles just cannot get any kind of purchase here.
Face-Eater: It’s a crippling lack of defence that Diego Foster is uncovering here. It’s rare you get a man of his age only just breaking onto TV, Truth, and there’s usually a why not. With T.A. Giles, I think that’s the why not right there. Sure, give him space, give him time, and he’ll nail you with a few strikes. But take him to the mat? There’s nothing, Truth. Nothing.
Giles twists his body, braving the pain to at least force Foster to change his angle of approach. Larsson begins asking Giles whether it might be time to give in. Gritting his teeth, the Canadian shakes his head.
Waters: It would be a little anti-climactic for Zero To Hero to end with a straight knee bar.
Face-Eater: Truth, if Giles taps out to this, forget Zero To Hero, that’s the end of his fucking career. How could he take the embarrassment? Both my DAUGHTERS could last in this kind of a hold. They’d be out of it by now actually, they’re slippery little things.
“Come on, Travis!” sounds an isolated cry from within the mass. And though it’s a lone voice, perhaps it spurs Giles to know that someone out there cares enough to have found out his first name. Giles clenches both fists, and chews at his lip, and thrusts with his free leg. He gains several inches, at the cost of further hyperextending his right knee. Closing his eyes against the pain, he does it again, and tentatively holds out his hand.
Waters: A foot, maybe more from that bottom rope.
One more thrust from Giles, and his body shifts a few miserable inches. Laughing, Foster suddenly releases him and throws himself off the ropes behind him, dropping low with a double axe-handle across the face.
Waters: He’s let Giles go there, and why did he do that?
Face-Eater: Clever, Truth, that’s what it was. It was only a matter of seconds until Giles got to that rope. Foster wanted to keep the momentum, and was able to take Giles by surprise.
Waters: Foster still with the upper hand here as he pulls T.A. Giles to his feet... and he’s SMACKING him back with those hard right arms!
Giles finds himself rocked backwards by the shots from Foster, and putting weight onto his unsteady right leg he falls to the mat in an undignified heap. Foster places a hand under his chin and says something to Giles, before rearing back with his other hand and delivering an almighty SLAP across his cheek!
Waters: Oh, we heard that many times over!
Face-Eater: Diego Foster making T.A. Giles his bitch!
Foster tugs Giles back up by the collar and hoists the cruiserweight onto his back...
Waters: Diamond Flash imminent! Once more looking for the kill!
...but Giles this time slips straight out before Foster can get him up on the shoulders. A desperate dropkick sees Giles’ boots follow right through Foster’s face and the Santa Fe man is knocked right around into the turnbuckle. Knowing it’s too late in the game to miss even a beat, Giles gets Foster up and over into a tree of woe.
Waters: You don’t see this every day. Tree of woe, Foster hanging upside down on that turnbuckle.
Giles backs away, before sprinting at the corner and dropping into a baseball slide!
Face-Eater: OHHH! Lights out!
Waters: Baseball slide clocks Foster’s head right off the ring post!
Foster crumples to the mat, his limbs sprawled about him. Giles crawls wearily across his body and hooks a leg.
ONE!
TWO!
Waters: Just two! Foster kicks out!
Face-Eater: I thought he might’ve been out cold there, I really did. His head THUNKED against the turnbuckle there... sick, sick move by T.A. Giles.
Though he’s escaped the pin, Foster’s more than a little groggy, having taken the massive bump to the head. Giles by comparison is positively alert, but the problem is he can barely stand. Using the ropes to pick himself up, Giles looks down at his opponent, then out at the crowd, contemplating the situation he finds himself in.
“LET’S GO, T! A!”
Clap. Clap. Clap clap clap.
“LET’S GO, T! A!”
Clap. Clap. Clap clap clap.
He shakes his head resignedly. Puts weight on his right foot, draws it gingerly back. Puts weight on it again. Sucks it up. Drops an elbow into Foster’s sternum.
Waters: Elbow drop keeps Diego Foster grounded, but I don’t know how much longer T.A. Giles can last.
Face-Eater: You know what they say, Truth. No pain...
Waters: ...no gain.
Face-Eater: HEM HEM!
Waters: ?
Face-Eater: They say no pain, NO KING PRAWN. Man, what fucking hole did you live in the last time we ran this shit?
Giles drops another elbow, but the time it takes to drag himself back up means it almost isn’t worth it. Foster’s on hands and knees, and fends off a downward strike from Giles before rushing up with a European uppercut, mirroring how he started this match. Giles finds himself pinned back against the ropes, and Foster takes advantage of his opponent being wide open to bury a knee in his abdomen. He hooks both arms and swivels one-eighty before lifting Giles...
Waters: TIGER DRIVER!!
Face-Eater: Giles went head-first into the mat!
Landing in a sit-out position, Foster quickly separates the tangle of limbs that is T.A. Giles and finds a leg to hook.
Waters: This could be done! We may just have a new Hero!
ONE!
TWO!
THR-
Waters: NO!!
Face-Eater: Credit that man! He got dropped on his neck and he kicked the fuck out.
Foster rears up with fire in his eyes, kicking out at the back of Giles’ head. Larsson backs him up, warning him about his conduct.
Waters: Diego Foster can’t believe he hasn’t won the match there!
Face-Eater: He could’ve snapped T.A.’s neck, he needs to cool it or we could have a bad-tempered end to Zero To Hero tonight.
Waters: Those are surprisingly sensible words coming from yourself...
Face-Eater: Come on, Truth. I can play my role just like anybody can but when it comes to a worker’s career in the balance? I’m just saying. I like what we’ve seen of Diego Foster, for the most part. But that natural aggression has gotta be channelled right.
Giles rolls onto his front, both hands clasping his face. The crowd are now firmly behind him, sharing Adam Dick’s inference that Foster has taken things too far.
“LET’S GO, T! A!”
Clap. Clap. Clap clap clap.
“LET’S GO, T! A!”
Clap. Clap. Clap clap clap.
Waters: There are interesting parallels here, Dick. Once upon a time, a headstrong, hot-headed young individual came into Zero To Hero, threw around a couple dangerous moves, and didn’t make any friends among the fans. But that wasn’t the real him. That man was Pierce Lavelle.
Face-Eater: Yeah. Pierce was to all intents and purposes a little bitch, let’s face it. The first Zero To Hero was before my time, but he came out, cracked some no-name off the turnbuckle with his powerbomb finisher—
Waters: The Whiplash.
Face-Eater: That’s it. Diego has done exactly the same. He hasn’t WANTED to piss anybody off. He’s just wanted to win the tournament. But he’s taken things a bit too far.
Giles blinks frantically as he sits up, Lars Larsson bending low and paying close attention, ready to summon the medical team if necessary. Foster stalks the other side of the ring in frustration.
Waters: Well, if history is our guide, Diego Foster’s road may end here, as Pierce Lavelle lost that final to Alex Strider. But of course, Lavelle went on to join the Roll of Legends, and is still AWC’s only three-time Transatlantic Champion...
Face-Eater: ...despite having had a sense of humour bypass as a kid.
Giles is helped to his feet by Lars Larsson, much to the chagrin of Diego Foster, who protests.
Waters: I don’t think Diego Foster is too happy that his opponent is getting a helping hand from the referee.
Face-Eater: HA! Lars is as straight and narrow as they get, Truth. No way is this anything other than the referee looking out for BOTH competitors’ well-being.
With Giles now straightened up in one corner, there is a resounding cheer from the fans. Giles takes heart, and nods furiously when Larsson asks him if he’s OK to carry on.
Face-Eater: Big test is for Foster now, because his momentum is broken. If he’s clever, he used that minute to rest up, think about strategy. If he’s not, he got himself worked up over the fans not liking him any longer. Let’s see.
Waters: Well, he’s immediately on the defensive as Giles barrels towards him, still unable to put much weight on that right foot.
Giles spins into an off-balance attack with his elbows, catching Foster by surprise. Both men tumble into the turnbuckle.
Face-Eater: For T.A. it’s now do or die, and you saw that there. He’s on one leg. If Foster has the presence of mind to dodge that attack, Giles is WIDE OPEN. But he had to take that gamble.
Giles hoists himself up using the middle rope and fires his left boot at Foster, catching him on the side of the head. Foster falls halfway onto the apron, draped over the middle rope. Giles grabs the turnbuckle and swings over the top, coming down with his leg stretched out around Foster’s head, crunching it against the apron!
Face-Eater: MAN!! That is brutal!
Waters: Giles with an inventive leg drop variation SANDWICHING Foster’s head between his leg and the apron.
Having fallen to the ringside area with the follow through, Giles now rolls into the ring, preventing Lars Larsson from having to commence a count. Foster is laid out, unmoving, on the apron.
Face-Eater: Opportunity calls.
Limping heavily, Giles considers his options from mid-ring. With the crowd behind him, he plumps for the flashbulb option. With both hands on the turnbuckle, he hoists himself slowly up, only able to use his left foot to climb.
Waters: T.A. Giles is taking it up top!
Face-Eater: Are you thinking Nothing Personal? That’s what I’m thinking!
Foster begins to stir as Giles ascends, rolling back in under the bottom rope and pulling himself to his feet.
Waters: That’s looking like the plan Dick!
The noise in the Sun Dome reaches previously unfathomable levels as they urge T.A. Giles on. His progress is tortuously slow.
Face-Eater: He’s gonna need to watch himself, because as soon as Diego clocks what’s happening...
Giles straightens up on the top with his back to the ring, and takes just a moment before he turns around, to clap his hands together and smile out at the fans. They’ve been good to him; they deserve it. Except.
Face-Eater: OH HE’S CLOCKED!!!
That’s the one moment that will prove his downfall. Because Diego Foster is on his feet. And Foster looks wildly around him. And Foster spies T.A. Giles ready to fly. All he needs to do is turn. And if he’d turned that one moment earlier, and leapt with the thrust kick, Nothing Personal, 1-2-3... Hero.
But he didn’t.
And Foster launches himself like a man possessed. Clutches the top rope. Puts all his weight into jarring Giles. The Canadian loses his footing. He starts to topple. Foster rushes beneath him and as Giles falls, takes his body across his shoulders. Grabs his head and his feet. Stretches.
Waters: Counter!! Counter!!
Foster spins around, Giles helpless up on his shoulders. And this time, there will be no denying the Prodigy. He throws Giles off his back into a booming piledriver. The ring shakes.
Waters: DIAMOND FLASH!!!!
Face-Eater: He’s done! He’s done.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
We have a Hero.
DING DING DING!
Waters: Diego Foster wins!
Face-Eater: Giles would have had him, he really would. But just that split-second was the difference, Truth, just that split-second.
Brunt: Here is your WINNER of ZEEEEROOOO TOOO HEEEROOOO... DIEEEEEEEGOOOOOOOOOOO... FOSSSSSSSSTEEEERRRRRRRRR!!!
Waters: Diego Foster follows in the footsteps of Alex Strider and Garbage Bag Johnny! He takes Zero To Hero after planting T.A. Giles on his neck for the second time in a matter of minutes!
Face-Eater: And Giles is not getting up!
Waters: Harber is gonna have to lay down the law, Dick, because this man is gonna hurt someone fighting like this!
Face-Eater: If he hasn’t already!
The medical team arrives, flooding the ring to get Giles on a stretcher. Foster finds himself walking up the ramp alone, the sounds of boos ringing in his ears. His face creases up, and he runs a hand through his hair.
He’s won Zero To Hero, but it just doesn’t feel right.
Waters: We are out of time, ladies and gentlemen! This has been Truth Waters and The Illustrious Face-Eater presenting AWC’s return, and what a night it has been! We’ll see you one week from now for Fresh!
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