Introduction
FEATURING: TRUTH WATERS, GEORGE CASSIDY
AUTHOR: PIERRE HYDE
Deathly silence.
An aura of resignation.
Slip, slide and CLANG. Something falls to the ground, somewhere. Nobody cares.
Except the birds – beating wings and warbling calls. They flee this town because they know what is to come.
In the distance, a catapult launches its first stone.
And then the warriors come.
In a matter of seconds, the ghostly quiet is replaced by screaming and shouting and crying as fires burn, axes swing, women run and men die. Rape and murder and pillage – the mantra of the invaders as they cut their way unopposed through this sorry village.
But someone, somewhere, is watching them.
Cut.
To the scales of wisdom, and truth, and damnation or glory.
Golden reflections of warmth; sinister echoes of evil.
White clouds and beautiful angels.
Burning fires and eternal torture.
Prepare to be judged.
BAM BAM... BAM... BAM...
The heavy drum beats its domineering path over this blackened theatre, silence and the holding of 18,776 breaths.
BAM BAM... BAM... BAM...
White strobes flicker, illuminating random lines of clarity over the Thomas & Mack Center.
BAM BAM... BAM... BAM...
A big spotlight begins to grow in intensity, focusing solely on the ring which becomes brighter and brighter in the centre of the arena.
BAM BAM... BAM... BAM...
Guitar. Feedback. Crescendo.
And now the scream of the riff, and “Cochise” by Audioslave gets into full flow, and the fans rock out like they’ve never rocked before.
Well I’ve been watching while you’ve been coughing
I’ve been drinking life while you’ve been nauseous
And so I drink to health while you kill yourself
And I’ve got just one thing that I can offer:
Go and save yourself
And take it out on me
Go and save yourself
Take it on me, yeah
George Cassidy: TESTICLES! No, wait...
Truth Waters: AWC! AWC! This is fucking GREAT!
George Cassidy: It never fails to amuse me that cranking up the volume on the music at the beginning is apparently sufficient to make Truth Waters believe he’s seen the second coming.
Truth Waters: Oh, go screw a... buffalo or something. Tonight is one of THOSE nights, Cassidy...
George Cassidy: Lube and a magazine?
Truth Waters: One of the nights that will shape AWC history! We have two of the BIGGEST matches ever scheduled in the Atlantic Wrestling Club, ladies and gentlemen! Not only will Pierce Lavelle defend his Transatlantic title against the mighty Hate, but he will do so with Paddy O’Shea as the guest referee... inside an enclosed cage!
George Cassidy: (That’s a cage with a roof.)
Truth Waters: Thanks for that, Mr. Parentheses.
George Cassidy: It was a pleasure. But Truth, you’ve forgotten to mention the 10-Count match between The Illustrious Face-Eater and Tim Shipley!
Truth Waters: I was getting to it. You, incidentally, have forgotten to mention that it’s Shipley’s last night with the AWC, and so Face-Eater won’t be putting his newly-won Frontier championship on the line.
George Cassidy: What else is on offer? Ah yes, we finally see Ian English defend the Relentless title, that’s against Mike Wade...
Truth Waters: We’ve been told that is going to be a “5 Star Rules” match, though it’s beyond me what one of those is. Of course, the reason for the stipulation is that the pair feuded over PRIME’s 5 Star title, but with that belt now focused on technical excellence, I fail to see how a no-holds-barred Relentless title match is quite going to fit that image.
George Cassidy: Never mind, Truth, never mind... you can focus instead on the Alliance title match between The Farmer and Paddy O’Shea, and the contenders hand-picked by O’Shea, T.T.S..
Truth Waters: Those Londoners don’t stand a chance.
George Cassidy: Also on the card, Red Rock and Bomber in a Table match, and before that it’s n00b central as Laura Winters and Patrick Mapleleaf have a rematch.
Truth Waters: But first up is the much-hyped Janitor’s Closet match between AWC’s very own janitor FREDROCK~!, and the opponents he chose: James Varga, of UWF, and, er, James Varga, of AWC.
George Cassidy: That second one is James Varga The Handler, don’t forget!
Truth Waters: Oh dear, I nearly did.
A Few HARD Words
FEATURING: RED ROCK & FRIENDS, SARAH KENNEDY
AUTHOR: JOSH YOUNG
The camera shot cuts to the parking lot area. The camera is focused on the entrance as we see three figures walking on to the scene. It is none other than AWC's anti-hero Red Rock he is wearing a smart blazer and is carrying his kitbag and his Livewire title over his shoulder. He is accompanied by his crew consisting of D'avid the Dutch sex pest who has his sex slave Greg who is dressed in leather and is on a leather lead.
Red Rock: We're going to get back at The British Bummer tonight!
D'avid and Greg nod and slap Red Rock across the back and offer words of support!
D'avid: Give him a good spanking that your mother will be proud of!
Red Rock and his band of merry men head towards the entrance when all of a sudden they hear a heavenly voice.
Sarah Kennedy: Hello!
Red Rock stops and notices Sarah Kennedy, knowing fully she is an interviewer. He turns to D'avid and Greg and enquires.
Red Rock: Is she talking to me?
Sarah Kennedy: Red Rock. Could I get a few moments?
Red Rock points at himself with a gleaming smile on his face.
Red Rock: You want to interview me? Oh wow! Go on then
Sarah Kennedy: Your match with The British Bomber tonight, a lot is riding on this for you?
D'avid: I'd like to have you riding on me... heh ooooh!
Red Rock punches D'avid in the head.
Sarah Kennedy: ANYWAY what must you be thinking? Your head must be all over the place.
Red Rock is still slightly in shock someone is wanting to interview him and equally as surprise the gorgeous Sarah Kennedy is talking to him.
Red Rock: Hehe wow!
Sarah Kennedy: Err... Red? Aren't you slightly worried about losing the match? You'll never see Boolie again and you'll lose your title.
Red Rock: ...
Greg: Stop lookin' at her tits mate!
Red Rock snaps out of his 16-year-old like frame of mind.
Red Rock: I'm not worried about losing at all! I may not get all the cool endorsements or merchandise deals and I might not be taken very seriously but you can count on me being there for my friends. I'm a proud man Sarah Kennedy and this match against British Bomber is about my pride. For weeks he kept me confined to my house with all those threatening letters and I'll admit I was scared but I'll never show that kind of weakness to that boner biting rasclart again! He's going to get a SPANKING tonight don't you worry!
Red Rock and his friends walk off as Red Rock holds his hands up to his chest and wobbles them up and down as he discusses Sarah Kennedy's breasts with his friends.
Janitor's Closet Match
FREDROCK~! VS JAMES VARGA THE HANDLER VS JAMES VARGA (UWF)
STIPULATION: MAKES-IT-UP-AS-HE-GOES-ALONG MATCH
GUEST REFEREE: FREDROCK~!
AUTHOR: PIERRE HYDE
FREDROCK~!: Welcome to... RAW! IS! FREDROCK~!
The camera begins to pan out slowly, revealing that along with a demented grin FREDROCK~! is attired in nothing but his royal blue wrestling trunks, the only form of design being a golden tilde painted on the back. His body is dripping with baby oil, accentuating his unseemly and plentiful rolls of fat.
FREDROCK~!: First, introducing our special guest announcer... FREDROCK~! And our special guest timekeeper... FREDROCK~! And our special guest –
James Varga: Let’s get this over with, shall we?
The camera spins to show the UWF’s own James Varga, tastefully attired in blue overalls and holding a MOP~! in his left hand. He stares AWC’s janitor in the eye, causing FREDROCK~! to raise both his index fingers at him. Varga’s eyes follow up to the ceiling, where FREDROCK~! appears to be pointing, but with a loud ”tut!” The Invincible One bitch-slaps him and realigns his head to look at him.
FREDROCK~!: FREDROCK~! 3:16 says I'm about to whoop your ass!
Varga’s eyes widen.
FREDROCK~!: Gimme a hell yeah!
James Varga: Hell, no.
Varga drops the MOP~! and punches FREDROCK~! in the face, but a loser in crappy clothes runs in, looking flustered, and shoos him away.
James Varga the Handler: No, no, that’s not in the script!
James Varga: Your scripts suck.
Varga punches the other Varga in the gut, and coughing and wheezing, the Handler falls to the floor.
Truth Waters: Folks, it looks like we’re underway in the world’s first Janitor’s Closet! It appears that this is going to take place backstage, and FREDROCK~! himself is going to referee it!
George Cassidy: The Invincible One will be making up the rules as he goes along.
Truth Waters: Dare I say he’ll need the help?
George Cassidy: No, you daren’t! Neither Varga can match the enduring greatness of THE FR’OCK!
Varga turns to FREDROCK~! and snapmares him – or so he thinks. In fact, FREDROCK~! simply allows his head to leave his neck, so really, Varga just falls to the floor with Fred’s head on his shoulder. Bemused at his opponent’s total stupidity, HEADLESS FREDROCK~! gives him a kick up the arse and moves on, with a falling headbutt on the Handler.
George Cassidy: A headbutt... with no head!
Truth Waters: Possibly the most interesting move I have ever seen.
HEADLESS FREDROCK~! now runs off in pursuit of his HEAD~!, which is swiftly rolling down the corridor. Varga tears after him and takes him down with a diving tackle, and there is a loud rip as his legs come off. TORSOROCK~! falls to the floor with a slap, but perseveres, jumping frantically towards HEADROCK~!.
HEADROCK~!: Help! Help!
Maddy Estelle comes through the door.
Maddy Estelle: Like, eww!
She gives the head a kick, sending it back the other way, but now with a stiletto-shaped hole through its temple.
HEADROCK~!: Aaarghh! I'm dying!
Estelle leaves and slams the door shut with a shriek, enclosing the three men – or two men, one torso, a head and a pair of legs – in this claustrophobic environment. Without hesitation, James Varga the Handler grabs the ladder and sets it up. A tinkle of glass is heard as he puts it through the skylight, and the entire pane falls twelve feet to the floor before smashing loudly. Varga grabs himself a handful and punches HEADROCK~! in the... HEAD~!.
Truth Waters: He’s hardcore!
TORSOROCK~! reaches HEADROCK~!, but with their necks too far apart they have no way of reattaching themselves – until LEGS~! gives HEADROCK~! a mighty kick. HEADROCK~! flies through the air, catching Varga in the forehead with a sickening thud. Varga, stunned, falls heavily into a seated position, landing right where the glass shattered, and screams in pain.
George Cassidy: Bleed, UWF bastard, bleed!
The head bounces back and lands perfectly on its torso with a squelching sound. Fully fused, HORSOROCK~! gives his neck a twist, sighing in satisfaction as a sequence of loud clicks tells him he’s probably rebroken his spine. LEGS~! knees him in the head.
HEADROCK~!: You bastard!
But there was a reason for it; LEGS~! now lays down for him and shunts himself up against the bottom half of HORSOROCK~!’s TORSOROCK~!. Unfortunately, this attachment isn’t so smooth, and repeated thrusting motions, accompanied by lashings of animalistic grunting, are required before FREDROCK~! is fully formed once more.
George Cassidy: Can kids really watch this?
Truth Waters: This is pay TV...
Varga the Handler is now up the ladder and halfway through the skylight, standing on one of the top rungs as he conducts a search. FREDROCK~! sees him and rushes over.
FREDROCK~!: Oh no! He will find the key to the janitor’s closet! I must stop him!
Thinking hard, FREDROCK~! thinks hard. And thinks harder.
James Varga: Are you going to actually do something, or...?
FREDROCK~! switches his attention to the UWF superstar, who has roused himself despite the small pieces of glass sticking haphazardly out of his legs.
FREDROCK~!: No, it’s cool, you go.
James Varga: And why should I do that?
FREDROCK~!’s jaw drops.
FREDROCK~!: But... THE KEY!
James Varga: I don’t know the rules, remember?
FREDROCK~!: You mean you didn’t read my detailed pamphlet explaining them?
James Varga: Oh, of course I did. Try me.
FREDROCK~!: You try me... and I’LL MAKE YOU FAMOUS!
Quick as a flash, FREDROCK~! flips James Varga onto his shoulders and lifts him high (there is a muffled thud and an “Ow, that really hurt!” as his head knocks the ceiling). Varga nimbly leaps from his shoulders to the ladder; it totters but doesn’t fall, and off-balance, Varga’s handler himself falls onto FREDROCK~!’s shoulders. Not noticing the difference, the janitor throws him down with The Last Ride through the floor. Varga the Handler plummets down into the depths of the basement. FREDROCK~! bends down to the hole in the floor and waves.
FREDROCK~!: Have a nice trip... ASSCLOWN!
Truth Waters: ...False floor?
George Cassidy: I’d assume so. FREDROCK~!’s probably booby-trapped the entire arena!
FREDROCK~! turns to face the ladder and Varga leaps off with a dropkick to the chest!
Truth Waters: Big dropkick off the ladder! And Varga landed just shy of that hole in the floor.
Remembering FREDROCK~!’s words about a key, James Varga goes back to the ladder and climbs it, going out onto the flat roof of this low section of the arena. In the half-light of post-dusk, it’s hard to make out much detail, but the huge red box right in front of him is helpfully labelled “Key”. Varga fumbles with the catch and opens it.
George Cassidy: It looks like James Varga has found the key to – well, what to?
Truth Waters: The Janitor’s Closet, I suppose.
Varga throws the box open. It’s empty – apart from a message in permanent black marker that reads “...is in FREDROCK~!’s pocket”.
James Varga: Damn!
The shot cuts back to the interior, where FREDROCK~! hops gleefully around the edge of the newly-created hole in the floor. Spotting the MOP~! Varga dropped earlier, he picks it up and clasps it gratefully.
George Cassidy: Friends reunited.
The Invincible One turns the handle of the nearby door and leaves the scene just as Varga drops back down from the ladder, looking, of course, perfectly normal in his overalls.
James Varga: Where’d he go?
We cut to a shot of what looks like an underground cavern. James Varga the Handler has pulled himself to his feet and is dusting his hands off on his jeans. He looks up at the light pouring in from the corridor above, but he isn’t fourteen-feet tall and can’t return to where he came from. However, his new situation looks intriguing, and it seems the Handler has infiltrated THE SECRET LABYRINTH~! underneath the Thomas & Mack Center.
Truth Waters: There’s too much tilde abuse in this match.
George Cassidy: There’s too much child abuse in the world. But what can you do?
Varga 2 pulls something out of his pocket and sighs with relief.
James Varga the Handler: It’s lucky my notebook survived the fall!
He pulls a pen from behind his ear and begins to write feverishly.
George Cassidy: This is no time for James Varga the Handler to be writing his memoirs.
The camera moves to an over-shoulder shot and we can now make out that Varga has written:
”The Horny Mathematician appears and isn’t horny anymore so is just clever.”
The Horny Mathematician appears.
Truth Waters: What the,,,
the
James Varga the Handler: No, that’s what the pirates say.
the
James Varga the Handler: I’ll give you one if you help me out. Can you channel the immense powers of your brain to help your writer in his quest?
Immediately, Varga turns to his notebook and writes ”Yes he can”.
Wide-eyed, the Mathematician replies.
the
James Varga the Handler: Then find me an underground passage to the Janitor’s Closet!
the
James Varga the Handler: No.
the
James Varga the Handler: No.
The Mathematician is silent for a moment, then pipes up again.
the
James Varga the Handler: In a hurry.
the
James Varga the Handler: JUST TELL ME WHERE TO GO!
the
The voice of the Mathematician fades out as we return to the bright lights and sprawling corridors of the Thomas & Mack Center, where FREDROCK~! is waddling along with his tongue out, hurrying as quickly as he can towards his own closet.
FREDROCK~!: (between gasps for breath) I... am... the Game...
Elsewhere, James Varga is hot on his trail, but going totally the wrong way – as evidenced by his brief foray into the car park.
James Varga: This doesn’t look like a Janitor’s Closet to me...
And back underneath the arena, the Handler is looking cross.
James Varga the Handler: Where the hell are we, Horny?
the
George Cassidy: I'm sure this isn’t allowed.
The Handler inclines his head slowly downwards, and the camera follows, showing that the two are standing on the edge of a precipice over a bubbling lake of white-hot magma.
Truth Waters: I'm sure... that’s... like... not here.
James Varga the Handler: You’re sure we didn’t take a wrong turn?
The formerly-Horny Mathematician opens his mouth to speak, but his writer thinks better of letting him answer. ”Mathematician develops throat infection...” A rasping noise begins issuing from the Mathematician’s mouth.
James Varga the Handler: Thanks for the help!
The Handler gives the Mathematician a kick in the backside, and the formerly-Horny one goes hurtling to his doom.
Truth Waters: Bastard!
Unperturbed, Varga the Handler licks his lips and writes a further sentence. ”The Mathematician is saved by the Porno Power Rangers, and Cave Hulk falls from the sky.”
James Varga the Handler: AAAARGHH!
”But not on top of me.”
Breathing heavily, the Handler emerges from underneath Cave Hulk.
Cave Hulk: GRUAAAHHH.
James Varga the Handler: That’s nice. Break through all that rock (Varga waves a careless hand overhead) and put me in the Janitor’s Closet, would you?
The Hulk grabs the Handler and punches through twenty feet of rock.
George Cassidy: Right, he REALLY wasn’t there a minute ago.
Momentarily, James Varga the Handler appears on a cardboard box in a small closet, covered in blood.
James Varga the Handler: You were meant to break through before putting me in here...
Luckily, the notebook survived, and the Handler writes himself a fresh new body – just as the door handle turns and FREDROCK~! appears in the doorway. He leaps in fright as he sees the Handler staring up at him.
FREDROCK~!: How did you get in here?
James Varga the Handler: Oh, I throw the book at you...
The Handler throws the book at FREDROCK~!, who takes offence.
FREDROCK~!: Why you little... right, it’s about time for... the almighty PROD~!
The Handler promptly vomits with fright.
James Varga the Handler: Not... the PROD~!?
FREDROCK~! nods maniacally.
FREDROCK~!: That’s right. And there’s NO escape for you.
Varga the Handler sniffs.
James Varga the Handler: Oh alright. But can I just, er... finish writing my story first?
FREDROCK~! considers.
FREDROCK~!: Hmm. I like stories. OK.
Truth Waters: FOOL!
FREDROCK~! tosses the notebook to the Handler. Varga retrieves it from the opposite corner of the Janitor’s Closet and, with a meaningful glance at FREDROCK~!, begins to write.
George Cassidy: Oh, this is looking like a blinding finish... a monumental moment in wrestling history...
”James Varga appears from nowhere and blindsides FREDROCK~! with a baseball bat before taking the closet key from his pocket, but then hits himself in the head by mistake, thus falling into the closet and inadvertently tossing the key to the Handler.”
James Varga appears from nowhere and blindsides FREDROCK~! with a baseball bat before taking the closet key from his pocket, but then hits himself in the head by mistake, thus falling into the closet and inadvertently tossing the key to the Handler.
The Handler thankfully steps out of the Janitor’s Closet and locks the door – but he’s made one fatal mistake.
He’s consigned one of his creations to life as AWC’s new janitor.
And set FREDROCK~! free.
Paddy Goes AWOL
FEATURING: DAVID "PEARL" HARBER, THE FARMER
AUTHOR: MICHAEL DOHERTY
The scene opens in the office of David “Pearl” Harber. Pearl himself is bent methodically over a small pile of paper, reading carefully then scribbling a side note every so often. Suddenly there’s a knock on the door and without looking up, Pearl calls the visitor in.
Pearl: The door’s open, come on in.
The door creaks open and The Farmer walks in, kitted out for the upcoming Alliance title match. However mixed emotions of anxiety and anger are plain to see. Pearl however still hasn’t looked up, yet acknowledges that it is indeed The Farmer by glancing at his attire.
Pearl: Ah, Mickey, I was just about to send for you, take a seat.
Mickey walks over to the chair and sits down. He waits impatiently for Pearl to finish his writing. When Harber does look up and sees the expression on Mickey’s face however, he keeps his gaze locked.
Pearl: Everything alright Mickey?
The Farmer: No it bloody well isn’t. Where the feck is Paddy fer a start?
Pearl looks at Mickey with a smile then clears his throat.
Pearl: Well Paddy phoned in about half an hour ago saying he missed his flight. He said he wouldn’t be able to do the Alliance match but he would definitely be here in time for the main event.
Mickey puts his hands to his face in annoyance.
Pearl: Then I got word about fifteen minutes ago that a famous AWC wrestler was spotted with Mike Wade in a downtown bar. Unfortunately we have been unable to get to Paddy yet so your match has been postponed until the next Fresh!.
Mickey suddenly jumps up with a jerk.
The Farmer: Mike Wade? That slimy bastard! Aye’m goin’ t’ kill him. And then aye’m goin’ t’ kill Paddy.
Pearl: I know how you feel Mickey. He’s putting my show in jeopardy with this stunt and if he was anyone else he’d be gone tomorrow. Only thing that this behaviour is uncharacteristic and could be accounted to the Hate situation... which of course can be accounted to the AWC. He’ll be getting a hefty fine and you can tell him that yourself.
Mickey snorts and slams his hand down on the desk hard.
The Farmer: Aye won’ tell him anything, aye won’ even look at the bastard. This be the final straw.
Mickey now exits the room, yet his shouts of anger are still heard a few seconds later. Pearl meanwhile has returned to his work as the scene closes.
Plans
FEATURING: RED ROCK & FRIENDS, RICO ELBAZ
AUTHOR: JOSH YOUNG
We now find ourselves in Red Rock's backstage locker room. He is preparing for his Livewire title defence with The British Bomber. He is sporting a rather fetching pair of sparking metallic blue wrestling tights with white trims and a pair of white boots. In true Red Rock fashion he is dressing up for the PPV occasion. With him still are his friends D'avid and D'avid’s sex slave Greg.
Red Rock: I got an idea of how we can piss British Bomber off chaps!
Red Rock rubs his hands together whilst giggling.
Greg: Are we gonna kick the shit out of him when he's not looking?
Red Rock: No Greg. We're not in Liverpool anymore!
Greg sits down and mutters to himself.
Red Rock: This is another prank me and Boolie used to pull on people! Especially people like British Bomber.
Red Rock reaches for his mobile phone and what looks like a small business card. He dials the number and holds the phone up to his ears.
Red Rock: Hello?
Rico Elbaz: Hello Rico Elbaz what’s up?
Red Rock: Yes, yes I was wondering if you could help me? You see my good friend Steven is having a little bit of a bash this evening. I was hoping you would be able to make it to the Thomas & Mack Center tonight?
Rico Elbaz: Well it's a bit short notice.
Red Rock: PLEASE RICO! He loves you he goes to ALL your shows he even has you Rico Elbaz 2006 calendar and it's not even 2006!
Rico Elbaz: Wow! He must be a big fan if he can't wait till 2006 to look at my calendar. I guesssss it'll be okay it is my night off though. But for a fan like your friend Steven I will do it!
Red Rock: You are a good man Rico Elbaz a true saint! I shall see you later Rico Elbaz!
Red Rock hangs up the phone and cackles with his friends
Red Rock: BUWAHHAHAHAHAHAHA! I'm SO funny!
This segment was brought to you by Rico Elbaz exotic dancer www.ricoelbaz.com NEW 2006 CALENDAR OUT NOW!
Laura Winters vs Patrick Mapleleaf
STIPULATION: SINGLES
REFEREE: AARON DAVIES
AUTHOR: DAVE LARKIN
Truth Waters: Bada bada bing! We’re here, we’re live, and this is Testimony! Who would have ever thought I’d say bada bada bing?
George Cassidy: Not me. Make sure it doesn’t stick, for the good of us all. Anyways, it’s singles competition. Laura Winters takes on Patrick Mapleleaf. Let’s talk about Mapleleaf first; he’s been more than just impressive recently.
Truth Waters: Indeed he has. Two straight wins and great performances on both occasions to cap it off. I’d fancy him to win this one, if I were a betting man. I’m not, though, so forget it.
George Cassidy: Well, I am, and I put twenty dollars on Mapleleaf to win. They say Canadians aren’t so bright, but I beg to differ.
Truth Waters: Personally, I think Canadians are given a hard time for no reason. I mean, calling them little America is bad…
George Cassidy: Whatever. Since when did you become such a Canada fan?
Truth Waters: Since never. USA! USA!
George Cassidy: That’s more like it, Truth.
Truth Waters: (under his breath) Ass…
George Cassidy: What was that? Repeat what you just said.
Truth Waters: I said it’s brass… this table.
George Cassidy: No it’s not! What drugs have you taken? Come on, hand them over.
Truth Waters: Match! Now! Focus!
James Brunt has assumed his usual position in the middle of the ring here at Testimony. The pay-per-view stage is visible, and many in the crowd have not yet recovered completely from the thrills the previous match provided. Nonetheless, Brunt goes on.
James Brunt: The following is a singles match!
The lights in the arena grow somehow brighter, tinted with a light blue hue. For a few moments, seeing anything is impossible. This blinding brightness corresponds with the opening of Within Temptation’s “Ice Queen”.
When leaves have fallen
And skies turned to grey.
The night keeps on closing in on the day
A nightingale sings his song of farewell
You better hide for her freezing hell
From behind the curtain emerges the self-proclaimed “Queen of Submission”, Laura Winters. The queen is clad in a long, purple robe as she walks up the aisle way, eyes focused intently on the ring.
On cold wings she's coming
You better keep moving
For warmth, you'll be longing. Nightingale
Come on just feel it
Don't you see it?
You better believe.
She shrugs out of the robe, handing it to an official at ringside. Wearing her usual pink and blue lycra singlet, she enters the ring, refusing James Brunt’s offer of help.
When she embraces
Your heart turns to stone
She comes at night when you are all alone
And when she whispers
Your blood shall run cold
You better hide before she finds you
Settling back into the corner, the former Primetime Central Tag Team Champion begins to stretch out as her music finishes, simply waiting for the bell to ring and the contest to commence.
Whenever she is raging
She takes all life away
Haven't you seen?
Haven't you seen?
The ruins of our world
Truth Waters: Brunty made the wrong call there. I guess she’s a woman not to be messed with.
George Cassidy: Ah, that Brunt has no idea how to handle women.
Truth Waters: Are you saying you do? As I recall, you’re divorced.
George Cassidy: Oh, shut up! Never mention that again. Ever. Okay?
Truth Waters: Yes sir, your majesty.
George Cassidy: Here comes my bet for tonight!
James Brunt: In the ring, from Newark, Delaware, weighing in at 137 pounds… LAURA WINTERS!
There is a moment of relative silence during which Winters warms up and does some final preparation for what will be a huge match for both her and her opponent.
The Canadian National Anthem plays in the arena and a huge chorus of boos erupts from every corner. One would think Mapleleaf would be intimidated by this reaction, but when the young man emerges, he has a huge beaming smile on his face. Mapleleaf takes in the reaction and heads down the ramp way, mockingly conducting the anthem as it plays.
James Brunt: And her opponent, from Toronto, Canada, weighing in at 254 pounds… PATRICK MAPLELEAF!
Mapleleaf enters the ring with a cocky grin on his face, pats Winters on the shoulder, and scales two turnbuckles. The boos reign down on Mapleleaf as he settles down and his music fades out.
George Cassidy: I see absolutely no reason for this hostile, and quite frankly, rude reaction.
Truth Waters: It’s the Canadian anthem, Cassidy. Kind of a no brainer, isn’t it?
George Cassidy: No, not really. That anthem is actually pretty cool, don’t you agree?
Truth Waters: No, not in the slightest. My bet’s on Winters tonight, by the way. It’s just to even things up a bit. I’m sure you understand.
Mapleleaf and Winters go straight into it, not wasting any time to get the contest underway. The crowd are right behind Winters, chanting her name from the off. Winters takes Mapleleaf down impressively with a side headlock takedown. Winters wrenches the headlock tight, then whips Mapleleaf off the ropes. Mapleleaf ducks the clothesline, then rolls out of the ring to rethink his strategy, already finding himself on the back foot.
Truth Waters: What do you make of him now, huh? Out of the ring and taking a rest after a few seconds?
George Cassidy: He’s biding his time, Truth. It’s a good strategy. Watch.
Winters doesn’t fall for the trap, not following Mapleleaf outside. Mapleleaf eventually re-enters the ring, but receives a stomp to the back from Winters. Winters lifts Mapleleaf up to his feet and whips him off the ropes. Winters takes Mapleleaf down with a drop toehold and instantly applies the deadly figure four leg lock. Winters manages to lock it in, and the Canadian screams out in pain. Fortunately for him, the ropes save him just in time. Winters lets go, but keeps the pressure on.
Truth Waters: I can see no threat whatsoever from Mapleleaf in the opening stages. Doesn’t exactly bode well for his chances of winning, eh?
George Cassidy: You are so impatient, Truth. Well, I’m sure you’re aware patience is a virtue. Mapleleaf can take it as well as he can give it.
Winters is suddenly blindsided by a thumb to the eye from Mapleleaf, who is booed for his actions. They prove to be effective, though, as he takes advantage and builds some momentum with a dropkick to the face and a cover.
ONE!
TWO!
Only a two count, as Winters kicks out without much difficulty. Mapleleaf pulls Winters rather roughly to her feet, and slams her down with a body slam. Mapleleaf runs off the ropes and jumps high, hitting a nice knee drop to the face of Winters. Mapleleaf again goes for the cover.
ONE!
Truth Waters: That thumb to the eye seems to have changed the match for Mapleleaf. He’s now heavily on the offensive, but it’s working well.
George Cassidy: Was there ever a doubt about it, Truth? This guy epitomises attitude and skill in the ring. Screw his nationality; it’s his ability that counts.
Mapleleaf gets perhaps a tad bit too cocky, though, and does a mock salute to the fans here in Las Vegas. Winters surprises Mapleleaf from behind with a sleeper hold, pulling him down to the mat quickly and increasing the pressure on the neck of Mapleleaf. The fans are delighted to be watching Winters making a comeback. Claps go up around the arena supporting Winters.
Truth Waters: Laura Winters is a woman well-versed in submission wrestling. If she wins tonight - and I have faith that she will - it will be by submission, in my opinion.
George Cassidy: Please, enough of that. Winters wins? Mapleleaf isn’t being beaten here. He’s just… taking a break.
Mapleleaf starts to come back to life, stirring a little and regaining his footing. Mapleleaf tosses Winters up and over his shoulder and slams her down face first onto the mat. Winters holds her face after the direct hit to it, but continues on. Mapleleaf battles Winters with right hands, with Mapleleaf getting the edge. Mapleleaf whips Winters in the corner and follows up with a powerful knee lift to the sternum.
Truth Waters: Winters is in trouble here. Once Mapleleaf starts, he’s difficult to stop. Like when he’s about to ejaculate, he just can’t control himself.
George Cassidy: You’re a sick freak, Truth. How do you know he’s prone to premature ejaculation? Huh?
Truth Waters: I don’t. Just wanted to share that with you, my friend.
George Cassidy: Umm, yeah. You do that. I’ll call the match.
The fans are really starting to get behind Winters now, just as Mapleleaf has taken her down with a hip toss. Winters bounds back to her feet, but Mapleleaf beats her to the punch with a big boot to the sternum. Mapleleaf lets loose with a power bomb in the middle of the ring to Winters, shaking the ring, as well as Winters’ fighting spirit. Mapleleaf cleverly makes the cover.
ONE!
TWO!
Showing great heart, Winters kicks out. Mapleleaf shows some signs of frustration as he pulls Winters back up to her feet quickly. Hoping to keep up his momentum, Mapleleaf whips Winters off the ropes, but Winters counters with a dropkick to the knee. Winters is right on top of Mapleleaf with a half Boston crab. Stranded in the middle of the ring, Mapleleaf panics. However, Winters isn’t strong enough to keep it locked in, and Mapleleaf escapes.
Truth Waters: Close call there for Mapleleaf. Perhaps he’s starting to become a little bit afraid?
George Cassidy: Stop playing this silly game with me, would you? It’s not gonna happen, okay? Mapleleaf was in control up to about a minute ago, and that’s going to resume very, very soon.
Mapleleaf gets back up to his knees, but is taken completely by surprise by a Shining Triangle from Winters. The triangle choke which follows prompts Mapleleaf to hold his throat and point at it, as if to say he is actually being choked. Winters is forced to break the hold by Aaron Davies, but she keeps the pressure on. Winters backs Mapleleaf into the ropes and chops him several times across the chest, lighting him up. Winters then delivers a vicious DDT to the Canadian in the centre of the ring. The cover by Winters…
ONE!
TWO!
Mapleleaf barely kicks out, but somehow gets his shoulder up. Mapleleaf holds his head rather gingerly and attempts to shake it off. Winters fires up the crowd and lifts Mapleleaf back to his feet. Mapleleaf shocks Winters by delivering an uppercut to the chin. Winters goes right down to the mat and looks to have been taken aback by the blow.
Truth Waters: Ouch! That one certainly hurt. Can Winters recover here and get back to her impressive beating of Mapleleaf?
George Cassidy: I’m not even going to come to Mapleleaf’s defense this time, you know. He’s a legend, and you know it.
Winters crawls into the corner to find some refuge from a Mapleleaf attack, but it is in vain. Mapleleaf surges forward and kicks Winters hard in the back. Mapleleaf picks the limp Winters up to her feet and delivers a punishing sidewalk slam. Winters favours her back as Mapleleaf continues to put on the pressure. The fans start to come to life in support of Winters.
Truth Waters: You can sense the fans here in Las Vegas are really rooting for Winters to pull a big move out of somewhere to get back into this thing.
George Cassidy: They’ll be waiting a long time. It’s not gonna happen anytime soon, Truth.
Mapleleaf continues to add insult to injury, demeaning Winters with a swift kick to the sternum. Winters holds her stomach and rolls out of the ring as the fans try to get behind her desperately. Mapleleaf backs away and looks to be going for a spectacular move over the top rope to catch Winters off guard.
Truth Waters: Whoa, what is on his mind? He can’t jump, surely.
George Cassidy: Looks like he is!
Mapleleaf dives over the top rope for a suicide dive, but completely misses Winters. Mapleleaf lands very awkwardly on his left leg, which he cradles as he shouts out in pain. Winters believes this is the time to strike Mapleleaf and possibly finish off this contest. Enduring a huge amount of pain as she gets back to her feet, she picks Mapleleaf up and rolls him into the ring. Winters delivers an impressive leg drop across the throat and makes the cover.
ONE!
TWO!
Truth Waters: Still not enough for Winters! I have to hand it to Mapleleaf. He’s one resilient son of a -
George Cassidy: Female dog! Don’t say that word. Anyway, Mapleleaf is certainly the dominant one here. He’s the man, after all.
Truth Waters: Oooh! Sexist pig!
George Cassidy: Umm…
Truth Waters: Now I see why you’re divorced.
George Cassidy: Shut up…
Winters pounds her fists in the air, urging the fans to support her. They respond with fervour as Winters picks Mapleleaf up. Mapleleaf can barely stand, but a shot to Winters face sends her reeling. Mapleleaf charges at Winters, looking for the kill. Winters turns around just in time, though, and takes him straight down into Winters’ Discontent.
Truth Waters: Winters’ Discontent! She’s got it locked in! That move is dreadfully painful…
George Cassidy: Surely not…
Mapleleaf quickly taps out of quite possibly one of the most painful submission moves in wrestling today. Winters’ hand is raised in victory as the arena erupts into cheers and chants for the victorious Winters. Winters herself can hardly believe her luck, but bows to the fans in appreciation of their support.
Truth Waters: Winters has done it! I was right, you were wrong.
George Cassidy: So childish, Truth. I never really thought Mapleleaf would win. I mean, come on. The guy’s Canadian.
Truth Waters: No use going back on what you said now! Mwahahaha!
George Cassidy: Grrr…
Truth Waters: It’s finished here with Winters the winner. Whoa, talk about alliteration on ‘w’.
George Cassidy: Yeah, yeah. Next match, please.
Lapdance Of A Different Kind
FEATURING: RICO ELBAZ, THE BRITISH BOMBER, RED ROCK
AUTHOR: NEIL PETERS
A man dressed in a red tiny g-string runs down the hallway along with a portable CD player and straight into a locker room… the locker room of The British Bomber. Bomber turns to the man, rather bemused, angry and really not impressed.
Bomber: Who the fuck are you?
Man In String: I am Rico Elbaz, I was sent here!
Bomber was staring at Rico Elbaz in disgust, and turned his seat round facing away from him.
Rico Elbaz: You not like what you see sir? I have some very nice friends if you don’t but I have been paid for this.
Rico Elbaz turned on the music, which turned out to be “Macho Man” by the Village People, and ran up to Bomber and started giving him a lapdance. Bomber pushed him away, pissed off.
Bomber: Listen you raging gay twat! I do not want this lapdance, I don’t want you in this locker room, and get some damn clothes on you cunt!
Rico grabbed the CD player, and ran out in disgust, almost in tears on how he was treated. On the other hand Bomber was steaming.
Bomber: RED ROCK! WHEN I GET YOU YOU’RE A DEAD MAN!
Bomber turned his attention to the door, and stood there was the man himself, Red Rock just laughing at Bomber.
Bomber: Think its funny eh?
Bomber starts to sprint at Red Rock, only to have the door slammed in his face, Bomber falling flat on his ass. Bomber had been shown up by Red Rock…. Was Bomber happy? Far from it.
Red Rock (C) vs The British Bomber
STIPULATION: TABLE
REFEREE: MICHAEL RYAN
AUTHOR: PIERRE HYDE
Truth Waters: Now this upcoming Table match has come about as part of one of the more... interestingly constructed feuds in AWC.
George Cassidy: Red Rock and The British Bomber have been engaged in the pettiest little war over whether or not our Livewire champion is homosexual.
Truth Waters: But things have gotten serious, Cassidy. The British Bomber means business and his kidnap of the 7’7” Boolie, who is of course Red Rock’s sidekick, has proven that.
George Cassidy: It’s still not clear what Bomber actually plans to do with Boolie though... anyway things took a turn for the worse tonight when Red Rock hired a lapdancer for Bomber.
Truth Waters: At least he has a sense of humour.
George Cassidy: Pah. I bet he watches South Park and still finds it funny.
The opening feedback of "Blame Thrower" by Reuben hits as the lights lower to darkness. The riff begins and the lights flicker red, and Red Rock's logo hits the big screen. The heavy riff kicks in...
We all have responsibilities,
we all have a social debt
and if there is a man free of guilt,
I haven't met him yet
... and Red Rock walks from behind the curtain, title belt around his waist, looking a little stressed but still making an effort for the cheering crowd.
Truth Waters: Last pay-per-view Red Rock had just joined AWC and been elevated immediately into the Streets Of London match.
George Cassidy: The Fresh!man award earned him that opportunity, of which he never really took advantage.
Truth Waters: But he does now have the Livewire strap around his waist.
So now you’re backed in a corner,
you’re under verbal attack
they’re pointing fingers like guns in your face and
nobody’s got your back
James Brunt: The following is a Table match and is for the AWC Livewire championship! To end this match, the victor must put his opponent through a table! Introducing first, from Aldershot, England, weighing in at 197 pounds... the Livewire champion, RED ROCK!
Red Rock reaches the ring, surveying the two stacks of folded table at ringside either side of the squared circle itself. He pulls up the ring apron, and is satisfied to see a plentiful stock of further tables underneath.
George Cassidy: It doesn’t look like we’ll be short of wood tonight.
Truth Waters: (spluttering) ...That’s – er – interesting.
Red doesn’t enter the ring yet, instead busying himself at ringside by pulling out a few tables and setting two up side by side, Senior Referee Michael Ryan with his beady eye on him all the while. The arena is filled with red, white and blue lights. "Enter Sandman" by Metallica begins to play and fill out the arena as the crowd starts to whistle.
James Brunt: And his opponent, from Birmingham, England, weighing in at 230 pounds... THE BRITISH BOMBER!
Truth Waters: It’s an all-Brit match-up tonight.
The main beat kicks in; out from behind the curtain comes The British Bomber, body jigging to the music. He raises his arms at the entrance but is roundly booed by the fans, who are firmly on the side of Red Rock and his absent friend Boolie. He starts to make his way towards the ring and climbs in, again raising his arms as the music fades. Red Rock doesn’t even turn to look at him, pre-occupied with putting a third table in place adjacent to the other two. The bell rings, and The British Bomber, eager to get things started, times his baseball slide perfectly. The 197-pounder is sent sprawling and Bomber quickly exits the ring.
George Cassidy: Red Rock hasn’t even gotten in the ring yet but it’s all go here! He wasn’t careful and Bomber surprised him with a baseball slide.
TBB grabs him by the scruff of his neck and slams his head down onto the ring steps. Red Rock takes the blow and swings round with a knife-edge chop across Bomber’s chest. Unfazed, Bomber chops him back, and his blow is followed with a loud ”WHOOOOO!” from the crowd.
Truth Waters: Knife-edge chop: cheap pop.
George Cassidy: You’re a poet, Truth!
Truth Waters: And don’t I know it.
Red Rock hooks his leg into Bomber’s sternum and sets him up for a suplex, but can’t quite lift the heavier man who is holding himself down well. Red Rock shifts left to try and use the steps to pivot, so making the suplex easier, but only manages to lift TBB halfway before the fastenings holding the ring steps to the side of the ring give way and both men fall to the floor in a heap.
Truth Waters: Red Rock was trying to use those steps as a pivot but they couldn’t withstand the weight...
George Cassidy: Sack the ring crew.
Red Rock looks winded, having had Bomber fall on top of him, and he rolls onto his side gasping for breath as TBB gets to his feet and gives him some kicks in the ribs.
Truth Waters: Savage kicks to the solar plexus.
George Cassidy: Bomber is pressing home the advantage while he can. You know, he really must hate gays.
Truth Waters: But Red Rock isn’t gay!
George Cassidy: Everyone sees it except The British Bomber himself.
Truth Waters: Ah well, he is from Alabama.
George Cassidy: ...No, he’s British.
Truth Waters: Yeah, but they stole Birmingham’s name so it must be a shitter of a town. If you’re gonna steal a name steal a good one, like Tucson, but only if the city’s worth it.
George Cassidy: You’re from Tucson, right, Truth?
Truth Waters: Yeah. Wanna make something of it, big boy?
George Cassidy: Er – incidentally, in Britain, Birmingham is pronounced “berr-ming-um”.
While Truth grapples with the logistics of this, Bomber has dragged Red Rock up and dropped him flapjack-style on the security barrier. Red Rock rocks back off it, dry-heaving, as Bomber clotheslines him down from behind.
George Cassidy: It’s The British Bomber with the power here. Red Rock is going to have to use some cruiserweight techniques to get the better of him, I think, though it isn’t his usual style.
Truth Waters: Alternatively he could just gain a little poundage.
Bomber pulls Red Rock over to where the tables are set up. With RR sluggish in getting himself up, Bomber lays him down on a table, but desperate not to lose, Red Rock hastily tries to get up and the table collapses to one side, causing Red Rock to fall into another which also turns on its side. Undeterred, The British Bomber places a hard kick in Red Rock’s chest and smiles as Rock inadvertently performs a half backward roll.
Truth Waters: Bomber has Red Rock right where he wants him.
George Cassidy: What, on the floor with his legs spread?
Truth Waters: Too easy, Cassidy! I would’ve thought better of you.
Bomber heads over to the rising Red Rock and takes his arm from behind, forcing the lighter man into an abdominal stretch. Michael Ryan is close by, despite there being no submissions in this match – but there are also no disqualifications, and before Bomber can really settle with the hold, Red Rock swings his boot into his REGIONS~! with a devilish grin. The fans cheer loudly.
Truth Waters: Nothing like a nice bit of flagrant cheating to liven things up!
George Cassidy: That was nothing short of common assault! But the referee can’t stop it and now Red Rock has a foothold. Such is the injustice of life...
Red Rock spins around and throws a right hand into Bomber’s face. TBB is too pre-occupied in trying to save his testicles and doesn’t respond, allowing Red Rock to engage in a little more punchy-punchy unchallenged. Seeing one table still standing, Red Rock looks once more for the suplex, but Bomber brings a knee up into his abdomen. Sweat beads trickling down his forehead, TBB hits a desperate DDT on the floor.
Truth Waters: DDT!
George Cassidy: And both men are down.
Bomber has rolled into a foetal position, clutching his private parts. The impact of the floor on Red Rock’s head with the DDT is keeping the popular Aldershot man down too.
Truth Waters: It’s been fast-paced action all the way, yet they still haven’t even entered the ring, save for Bomber right at the start before the baseball slide.
George Cassidy: Traditional ways are dying their slow death...
The fans urge Red Rock on, their chants providing the valuable mental boost that his friend Boolie can normally give him from ringside.
“RED ROCK! RED ROCK!”
“BOMBER SUCKS! BOMBER SUCKS!”
*clap clap clap-clap-clap, clap clap clap clap* “RED ROCK!”
Truth Waters: I don’t think there’s any question about fans’ allegiances here in Las Vegas.
Red Rock’s never had a reception as big as this 19,000-capacity Thomas & Mack Center provides, and it’s certainly a factor as he reaches his feet before The British Bomber despite the rising welt on his forehead. Bringing TBB to his feet, he rolls him into the ring and slides in after him.
George Cassidy: We have entry!
Referee Michael Ryan is looking a bit happier about proceedings as Red Rock slings The British Bomber into the far corner of the ring. He charges in after him, looking for some kind of body splash, but Bomber gets his leg up high and catches Red Rock in the face. Red Rock turns and stumbles, bending over as he holds his head, and The British Bomber runs in with the bulldog.
Truth Waters: Attempted running splash by Red Rock, but Bomber hit the big kick and then a nice bulldog takedown.
Bomber applies an armbar, but Red Rock jack-knifes out of it, his dynamism earning him a round of applause from the crowd, and hits a facebuster. Bomber takes a few forced steps back with the impact, his eyes betraying shock, and Red leaps into the air with a running cross body block. He comes straight off and stands his boot on Bomber’s face, cheers surrounding him as he executes his favoured “boot scrape” – i.e., standing on his opponent’s head and twisting round a bit.
George Cassidy: Why pay for cosmetic surgery when Red Rock can just do that for you?
Truth Waters: I don’t think Bomber’ll have had much choice about the final design, you know.
Red Rock hops out of the ring and goes over to the second, untouched, stack of four tables. He takes the top one and slides swiftly into the ring, pulling out the folded metal legs to set it up close to one turnbuckle. The British Bomber slowly rises, and Red Rock stands before him, legs wide apart, looking wide-eyed out at the crowd. They catch his drift.
”FUN-STI-GA-TOR! FUN-STI-GA-TOR!”
George Cassidy: Bomber’s about to experience a new level of hurt...
Red Rock lets loose with the Funstigator, his barrage of cruel kicks working his way up The British Bomber’s body. Bomber looks dazed and ready to fall, but it’s the kicks keeping him up, and as Red steps back before delivering the final swinging boot to the side of his head he nearly collapses backwards. As it is, the final momentum causes Bomber to fall to one side and lie still.
Truth Waters: Breathtaking!
George Cassidy: A devastating series of kicks that can make mincemeat of any opponent. And could Red Rock now look to end this?
Red Rock brings Bomber to his feet and sets him up face-up on the table, before grinning excitedly. The fans begin to cheer as Red ascends the turnbuckle.
Truth Waters: He is indeed looking to a finish! And we don’t often see Red Rock up on the ropes, for a sub-200-pounder...
Red Rock stands tall on the turnbuckle, the motionless Bomber on the table just in front of him. He raises both arms high, letting out a yell of joy, then leaps through the air with a Senton bomb – but Bomber galvanises his body back into motion and throws himself out the way! Red Rock goes crashing through the table in a hail of wood splinters!
George Cassidy: Oh my.
Truth Waters: Is that it then?
George Cassidy: No sir. Someone has to be physically put through a table. Red Rock fluffing a spot doesn’t count.
Red Rock lies prone in the wreckage as Bomber slowly comes to.
Truth Waters: Red Rock doesn’t look all too healthy after somersaulting through a table.
George Cassidy: Would you?
Spying the table still set up outside the ring, TBB pulls Red Rock up roughly as a grin forms on his face. Two uncontested knife-edge chops fail to get the crowd going; they’re a little hushed after seeing their idol not win the match after all. Sighing, Bomber decides now’s the time, and Irish-whips Red Rock against the ropes. He sets himself up, legs shoulder-width apart and hunching slightly, as Red Rock runs unwittingly towards his end. Back body drop... through the table... and it’s over.
No it isn’t!
Truth Waters: God Almighty! Red Rock just went through a second table! An enormous back body drop from The British Bomber and Red Rock went spinning through the air, well over the ropes, and clean through that table he himself set up!
George Cassidy: The British Bomber thinks he’s won it! But once more I repeat: you must physically put your opponent through a table to win this match.
Bomber begins to parade around the ring, looking out at all the booing fans with mild surprise. Michael Ryan eventually taps him on the shoulder and starts to explain looking very stern.
Truth Waters: Haha. That idiot’s in for a shock.
George Cassidy: He’s wasted a lot of time...
Truth Waters: But really it won’t make a difference. Red Rock is out cold. In fact, I’d prefer Ryan to have just ended this regardless. Red Rock won’t stand up to going through a third table.
George Cassidy: Ah, you can’t underestimate powers of recovery...
The British Bomber, looking scandalised, protests vehemently. After a time, though, Ryan points to Red Rock, who is still lying in the wreckage, and Bomber sees that his task is simple. He lopes over to the corner of the ring and exits.
Truth Waters: Uh-oh...
Fierce boos raining down on him, Bomber adjusts the two tables that fell on their sides earlier, seating them properly on the black arena floor. Red Rock now shifts, showing us he’s not completely unconscious, but there is no resistance as The British Bomber pulls him to his feet.
His mistake is leaving him there.
The British Bomber has the chance to humiliate his rival on pay-per-view, and who is going to pass up that chance? Not a pro wrestler, anyway. So he taunts, he points, he catcalls, as Red Rock staggers on the spot, trying his hardest just to stay on his feet.
George Cassidy: Oh come on! Just finish him.
Truth Waters: The British Bomber is being cruel now.
With an idea, Bomber moves behind Red Rock, and takes him in an inverted facelock. He moves backwards until he is right up close against the table.
Truth Waters: I think this is going to be a reverse DDT... but he’ll need some elevation.
“LET’S GO RED ROCK! LET’S GO RED ROCK!”
The fans are desperate, but it’s seemingly useless as TBB issues a broad smile before channelling his energy to his arms and elevating Red Rock’s body for the DDT – but Red Rock somehow, some way, pushes off from the floor and flips halfway over the Bomber’s back, hanging on his shoulders! Bomber staggers forwards and Red Rock slips down to the floor behind him.
Truth Waters: Hey!
Cheering resounds everywhere, but there’s more to come. Red Rock grabs Bomber in a sleeper hold. He half-turns towards the tables...
George Cassidy: Oh –
There is no way.
But...
WAY.
RDT through the table.
The bell rings.
And what’s done is done.
Truth Waters: Impossible!
George Cassidy: Just a minute before he’d been out cold!
Truth Waters: Either he’s got AMAZING powers of recovery... or the fans really lift him... or he was playing possum...
George Cassidy: Or all three! But regardless, Red Rock wins and retains his title!
The camera closes in on Red Rock and The British Bomber, both lying unmoving amongst pieces of broken table, as the bell rings, James Brunt announces the winner, and we leave the scene.
SEQUENCE//////start
FEATURING: DAVID "PEARL" HARBER, PIERCE LAVELLE, THE ILLUSTRIOUS FACE-EATER
AUTHORS: JOE SCHMIDT AND LARA CLARKE
The crowds turn silent when the screen zooms backstage and we are greeted by the familiar, yet gracefulness of AWC's Entertainment Manager, David Harber. He is seated behind a large desk, elbow-deep in paper work, hard at work. The silence is overwhelming as the clock ticks quietly in the background. The door opens and the camera lowers, a pair of boots and blue tights are seen. The camera soon pans up and we are greeted by the spikey hair of Pierce Lavelle. The fans now erupt into cheers as Lavelle has been absent from AWC's backstage area for quite a while now.
Pierce Lavelle: You wanted to see me?
David 'Pearl' Harber puts down his ball-point pen and straightens his posture in his chair, fixing his tie he addresses Pierce Lavelle and asks him to sit.
Pearl: Yes. I want to apologize for taking you out of your extensive training for this match tonight –
Pierce Lavelle: I see...
Pearl: I need your help on something of great importance.
Pierce Lavelle: And?
Pearl: You see...
David Harber's tone lowers in volume significantly. He motions for Lavelle to move in closer, ensuring their conversation will stay between the two of them.
Pearl: It involves... Adam Masters.
Pierce Lavelle: The Educator?
Pearl: Yeah, but it's a very touchy situation –
Pearl is interrupted by the sound of his office door slamming open, so he quickly jumps back in his seat. The Illustrious Face-Eater carries his Frontier title around his waist, and immediately excites sneers from both men in the room.
Pearl: I'm busy, Face-Eater.
Pierce turns from his chair and looks up at the Face-Eater, who jumps forward as if he was going to attack Lavelle in an attempt to make him flinch.
Pierce doesn't flinch.
Face-Eater: You'd better be busy trying to change my match! This shit is ridiculous!
Pearl: Excuse me?
Face-Eater: You and I both know that Tim ain't going anywhere after this! He may be 'Summer's Daughter,' but if he thinks such a short commitment will leave him happy and fulfilled, he's wrong. And this is just some cheap cop-out because you assholes can't get a champion that can actually keep his belt, right Lavelle?
Pierce Lavelle: Shut up.
Face-Eater: You shouldn't mumble.
Pierce Lavelle: I said, shut –
Face-Eater: YOU SHOULDN'T MUMBLE!!!!!!
Lavelle crosses his arms.
Face-Eater: Now just because every single bitch-boy you've put gold around has lost it the week after, doesn't mean I'm going to. I'm a fighting champion, and I don't want any excuses coming from Tim Shipley's mouth when I beat him. I want it to be for my title.
Pearl: The show is already on –
Face-Eater: CARD SUBJECT TO CHANGE!
Pearl: The refs already have their assignments –
Face-Eater: CARD SUBJECT TO CHANGE!!!!!!
Pearl: And your match is in, like, 30 minutes –
Face-Eater: CARD SUBJECT TO MO-FUCKING CHANGE!!!!!! AHHHH CHANGE THE FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKING MATCH!!!!!! SHITFUCK!!!!
Pearl: ALRIGHT ALREADY!!!! Get out of my office, your belt is on the line! Jesus Christ....
Face-Eater: Danky, Harb.
Facey looks to Lavelle, who keeps a disdainful look on his face yet doesn't stare at the masked superstar, who promises to reveal himself later on.
Face-Eater: Bye bye, Purse.
Face-Eater leaves the rooms and Pearl returns his attention to Lavelle.
Pearl: This is top secret, Pierce.
Pierce Lavelle: I understand.
Pearl: Last week we found out about a serum that allowed Adam Masters to win those three matches on the night one of our largest pay-per-views and now, it seems, the serum is selling and spreading and I have some leads.
Pierce Lavelle: Why do you need my help?
Pearl: I'm going to need you to follow up on these leads. Now, Pierce, you only report to me about the information you find. This can't be leaked out of this room, to anyone, understand.
Pierce Lavelle: Yes.
Pearl: I need you to go to Los Angeles, all the information is the brown folder.
Pearl slides a brown folder across the table and into Lavelle's lap. Lavelle just gazes at it.
Pearl: I'll have to end this meeting now. Your match is on soon, good luck, Pierce. I do hope you know what you are doing tonight.
Pierce Lavelle: You trust me, boss. It’s just something I need to do.
Outside Pearl's office, Face-Eater has a wicked grin on his face and is talking on his mobile.
Face-Eater: Yeah, I need a flight to LA, as soon as you can get me one.
Ian English (C) vs Mike Wade
STIPULATION: 5 STAR
REFEREE: AARON DAVIES
AUTHOR: MIKE WADE
Truth Waters: Well ladies and gentlemen there's only one way to describe our next match, personal.
George Cassidy: Mike Wade turned his back on Ian English to join his little Eire Og buddies and Ian is pissed off.
Truth Waters: I don't think that's quite the story Cassidy.
George Cassidy: Well that's the way I saw it.
Truth Waters: Mike Wade is trying to step out of Ian English's shadow and tonight it will hopefully happen for him in a special 5 Star match.
George Cassidy: What the hell is a 5 Star match anyway?
Truth Waters: A 5 Star match is the best match you can get.... but that accolade is usually given after the match has taken place, so I don't really know!
George Cassidy: And you call yourself a broadcast journalist.
Truth Waters: No I don't.
"Jump Around" by House of Pain hits and the crowd rise to their feet for the arrival of Mike Wade.
Truth Waters: Here we go!
George Cassidy: And look at these fans cheer for Mike Wade Truth.
Truth Waters: Mike Wade seems to have captured the hearts of these fans recently.
George Cassidy: Yeah if turning on your friends with a steel chair gets these fans to cheer you then that shows you what kinda people these fans are!
Wade arrives out through the curtain to a warm ovation from the Las Vegas crowd.
James Brunt: The following is a 5 Star Rules match for the AWC Relentless title! Introducing first, from Waterford, Ireland, weighing in at 209 and 3/4 pounds, accompanied by Mickey Moore... MIKE WADE!
Another pop for Wade as he climbs into the ring and poses on the second turnbuckle.
Truth Waters: The challenger in the ring.
George Cassidy: Let's see what kind of a representative he is for AWC when he can't even beat a man not contracted to AWC for an AWC title!
"Anarchy in the UK" by the Sex Pistols hits and the cheers turn to jeers as Ian English makes his way out to ringside with the Relentless title hanging out of his right hand.
Truth Waters: Here comes our Relentless champion.
George Cassidy: It's bad day in AWC when I'd rather see a good non-AWC guy like Ian English win then a no-good Irish bum like Wade take the title here tonight.
James Brunt: And his opponent, from –
Before James Brunt can finish his introduction for Ian English, Mike Wade has done a suicide dive over the top rope and down onto the entering Ian English sticking his and English's bodies right into the security railing.
Crowd: OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
Truth Waters: Oh my God! James Brunt didn't even get to introduce Ian English and Mike Wade has maybe just ended this match for both men before the bell can even ring!
George Cassidy: Whoa. Maybe Mike Wade does have a bit of a vendetta against English!
The referee Aaron Davies stands in the middle of the ring not really knowing what to do. He looks at the rubble that is the bodies of Wade and English wedged between the rail and the floor, then looks at the time keepers desk, he then looks back at the fallen bodies to see Mike Wade nip up like a shot and the crowd pops huge. Wade rolls English back in the ring and quickly follows him back in.
DING DING DING!
Wade then goes to work with his fists on Ian English's forehead.
Truth Waters: There'll be a lot of stiff shots in this match let me tell you.
George Cassidy: Mike Wade always mixes it up between risk taking, aggressive and his highly impressive technical style. But he's still a snake.
Truth Waters: Funny George you call these fans fickle for booing then cheering Wade but you're now doing the opposite.
George Cassidy: Oh look at what Wade's doing now!
Truth Waters: Yeah change the subject.
Wade now raises English to his feet only to be greeted with a low blow from the Limey.
Truth Waters: Apparently there's no DQ in this 5 Star match.
George Cassidy: All the better for English, he likes the fight dirty.
The now in control English is pounding away at Wades forehead with stiff right hands. He picks Wade up and whips him to the ropes and Wade receives a dropkick in the face for his troubles. Upon impact English is right back on Wade and is digging his fingers deep into the eye sockets of Wade. We can see the pain etched across the grimacing face of Wade.
Truth Waters: Oh come on!
George Cassidy: Hey it's no DQ.
Truth Waters: This guy is supposed to be a champion let's see him fight like one.
Wade is now fighting back with the crowd behind him. Both men get to their feet as English now has a reverse chinlock on Wade. Wade gives elbows to English’s mid section and whips him to the ropes. Wade ducks a clothesline and catches English’s cross body attempt on the way back. Wade then swings English around, he lands on his feet and Wade hits the Sidewinder!
Crowd: OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
Truth Waters: What a move!! Wade caught English in mid air then swung him around into his Sidewinder.
George Cassidy: Impressive... he's going for the pin!
ONE!
TWO!
Kick out!
Truth Waters: So unlucky there for Wade and it's the first near fall of the match.
George Cassidy: Look at Wade now throwing English to the outside.
Both men are now on the outside as Wade drives English's face into the steel steps and begins to grind his forehead along the rims of the steps. He lefts English's face up by his long ginger hair by reveal blood trickling down his face which gets a big pop from the crowd.
Truth Waters: We've got a bleeder.
George Cassidy: You're talking about wrestling like a champion. What do steel steps have to do with pro wrestling?
Truth Waters: About as much as a shot to the balls!
English is now whipped back first into the guardrail. His body droops down upon the hideous impact. As Ian is slouched over the rail Wade reaches in under the ring and pulls out a table, which he begins setting up on the outside of the ring. He finishes and starts to pick Ian’s lifeless body up off of the floor. English is playing possum though and instead sends Wade’s face crashing into the steel barrier, denting it in the process.
”HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”
Truth Waters: Oh English suckered Wade in.
George Cassidy: And now Wade’s got a taste of his own medicine... and blood!
The camera returns to the face of Mike Wade to reveal he too has been busted open. By the shot to the guardrail. English is over checking on the table that Wade has erected as Wade charges him down with a sharp clothesline under the chin. He quickly picks him back up and throws him into the ring. English is waiting for Wade with a big boot to his already opened up face as they get back in.
Truth Waters: The Tsar of 5 Star now was lying waiting again for Wade.
George Cassidy: That's twice now English has played on the gullible side of Mike Wade. The man is the Tsar of 5 Star, his name is written all over this match. English delivers a stiff northern lights suplex to Wade, less the bridge. English then points to the top rope which gets somewhat of a positive reaction from the crowd.
Truth Waters: English is going to fly. English fights dirty but he's also not afraid to take a risk.
English is perched high on the top rope awaiting Wade to stand up. As he finally does Wade staggers his body into the ropes causing Ian to crotch himself on the top rope. Wade himself then begins to ascend the same turnbuckle as English. The crowd begin to rise to their feet in anticipation of the sure-to-be big bump about to take place.
Truth Waters: Oh no. Somebody is going to get hurt here.
George Cassidy: I'm more likely to believe BOTH of them are going to get hurt.
Wade gets Ian in a superplex position. He then decides he isn't high enough and stand both feet on the top turnbuckle as well as English's. Perched as high as he can go Wade goes for it but English seems hesitant. The Tsar delivers some punches to Wade blocking the suplex. He then punches Wade low, very low and cinches his head underneath his right harm and then leaves the top rope...
Truth Waters: DDT FROM THE TOP ROPE AND MIKE WADE IS DEAD!
George Cassidy: Holy shit.
“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”
Truth Waters: Oh hell. Shouldn’t encourage them Cassidy.
Both men are down but English drapes an arm over the surely dead Wade.
ONE!
Truth Waters: This has to be it.
TWO!
THR-
Mike Wade somehow gets his shoulder up to the delight of the Las Vegas crowd, who are still on their feet. Ian English punches the mat with disbelief that he hasn't got the pin. He rolls to the outside and has got himself a chair and quickly comes back in. He stands over the fallen, bleeding Wade urging him to get up off the ground.
Truth Waters: How Mike Wade is still in this match is beyond me.
George Cassidy: Me too. But after this chair shot, he won't be!
Wade gets up and English swings the chair but only hits thin air, Wade ducks the chair and turns around... but only to be flattened by a massive chair shot by English which gets another "OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHUUUUUGGGGHHHH" from the crowd as the sickening sound of metal hitting skull echoes around the arena. English immediately goes for the pin.
Truth Waters: Mike Wades valiant attempt at beating Ian English finally will not be completed tonight.
ONE!
TWO!
THR-
NO!
Truth Waters: That's hideous. Ian English has picked Mike Wade up off of the canvas.
George Cassidy: Even I'm a bit surprised here. English has Wade beat, you don't pick someone back up off the mat. It's not good business.
Truth Waters: Especially a fighting Irishman like Mike Wade.
English then points to the table on the outside of the ring which has been erected earlier by Wade himself. The crowd rain heat on English as he brings Wades lifeless body towards the table. English steps through the ropes to the apron and drags Wade onto it too. English seems to be trash talking to the crowd as Wades body lies lifelessly out on the apron. He mouths the words "Christmas Comes Early".
Truth Waters: Here we go.
George Cassidy: Now I see why English picked him up. He wants to emphatically beat Wade with his finisher through the table!
Truth Waters: And from the ring to the outside!
George Cassidy: Oh yeah that too!
However as Ian is celebrating he receives a low blow from Wade and the crowd jump up with excitement. Wade has a second wind. Wade jumps up and double underhooks English and delivers a TFW from the ring through the table and the crowd are on their feet.
Truth Waters: MIKE WADE! Oh my God! TFW from the ring apron through a table from the outside from nowhere!
George Cassidy: Wade has to reduce to those dirty tactics to win. I don't believe it.
The referee stand with his hands above his head in disbelief at what he's seen. He doesn't know what to do. He makes his way to the outside where the body of Mike Wade lies on top of the body of Ian English in all this rubble. The referee shrugs his shoulders and goes to count the fall as the crowd shout along with him.
ONE!
TWO!
Truth Waters: We have a new Relentless champion here in AW –
KICK OUT!
Truth Waters: Ian English has kicked out of the TFW off the ring and through that table.
George Cassidy: This just shows you how much these two want to win this match. They both wanna prove who is better.
Somehow both men crawl back into the ring after what seems like an eternity on the outside. Somehow they both also get to their feet. Wade throws a right hand at English, English returns one to Wade. Wade then kicks English in the gut and goes for the double underhook but English slips out and...
George Cassidy: TEA MIST! TEA MIST!
Ian English has nailed Wade with a spray of tea to the eyes.
Truth Waters: Keiji Muto he is not.
Wade is blinded with the Tea Mist and is trying to regain his composure as English stands, begging him to get up. Wade finally does and English charges him. Wade though catches English with a kick to the gut, double underhook and... TFW! The crowd erupts as he hits it.
Truth Waters: TFW! Mike Wade hit the TFW!
George Cassidy: Shit.
Wade quickly jumps on the lifeless English and hooks both legs for good measure.
Aaron Davies makes the cover.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Truth Waters: Mike Wade, in the first ever one-on-one between him and Ian English, has won. In doing so he has just won the AWC Relentless title and shook the shadow of Ian English from over his career forever.
George Cassidy: Yeah well Mike Wade put the effort in. But he was lucky.
Back in the ring Mike Wade’s arm is raised by Aaron Davies. Blood trickles through his beaming smile as he is handed the AWC Relentless title as he receives a standing ovation from his newly adoring public.
James Brunt: The winner... and new Relentless champion... MIKE WADE!
Truth Waters: What a match and Mike Wade has proved his worth to AWC. It's back to the top for Mike Wade and back to obscurity for Ian English.
From Darkness Into Light
FEATURING: ALCAEUS
AUTHOR: JONATHAN
The screen moves onto a new scene. We are treated to a stretch of road, lifeless, almost abandoned. A ghost town eeriness spreads across it. However, cars are parked either side, flanking the tarmac-covered road, which leads to nowhere in particular, or perhaps somewhere…
Silent street lamps light the road, with a gentle gaze of white caressing the grey shadows of the pavement. One of these lamps does not work, and it is under this that a figure is present. The figure is dressed in what appears to be an old robe, slightly tattered by time. In contrast to this, under this, amidst the shadows cast by the perpetual darkness, with the added contours of the fragrant light, a suit of some extravagance coats the figure’s body. One can only assume this figure (due perhaps to his size, décor and stance) to be male, for the figure has his face hidden from the light by the hood over his face. Slight breaths of wind are seen, condensing in the air, creating what appears to be steam or smoke from this individual’s nostrils and mouth. He walks silently…slowly, as the camera follows in genial pursuit.
His footsteps are the only sound, as the figure moves gracefully forward, silk gloves covering his hands, but his face still hidden. The camera follows behind, as the individual begins his monologue.
Alcaeus: How rude of me to have not introduced myself thus far.
The words are said without effort, as if there is no mutual surprise that he has remained silent for so long, or that he has decided to speak after that seemingly perpetual silence.
Alcaeus: To those who would hear it, my name is Anacletus Alcaeus. Man by birth, Vampire by nature… wandering traveller and lonely soul by choice and regard.
His words are effortless over the silken air. He continues his walk through the street, passing under one of the lit streetlamps, momentarily giving lustre to his otherwise eerie figure in this fogged mist of abandoned stretch.
Alcaeus: That’s right. Vampire. Unfortunately, some time, well, much before any of you were born… I was inducted into the life of immortality by another wanderer… but that is not important. What, I must say, is important is my presence here. I do hope my English is OK for you. Not my first language by any means, but I like to muse that I have near enough perfected it as a communicatory device. Alas, my accent sometimes puts those with whom I converse on edge. I have been called French, Greek, Italian… even German by those indignant ignorant mortals who believe they can analyse any man from a single meeting. But I digress… this tangent, although pleasing, is not what I wish to convey.
Where is he going with his little monologue? Passing under another light, the camera almost catches a glimpse of his head, hidden in the darkness of his hood. However, the shadows prevail once more, to disenfranchise such views from the immediate vicinity.
Alcaeus: Take my point as this. I am Anacletus Alcaeus, and I am here. I am in the Atlantic Wrestling Club – such a petty name, but then, upon the work of mortal minds, one cannot expect masterpieces of terminology to fall like snowflakes from a proverbial sky of rhetoric. Yes, Alcaeus is here… and well, I plan on staying here for a while. That being said, I beg you all to prepare yourselves. My reasons for being here are not to compete, or to form crude alliances of word and flesh. My reasons for being here are for the recognition which has, for two and a half thousand years, eluded me. To stand in the shadows is an intolerable existence. And now, now I am here to set to the world the light… the true light of that which is shrouded in darkness, myth and legend. I am like nothing you have ever seen before kiddies… so get ready. Because when the Invoked Strength of Anacletus Alcaeus steps from the caves of fiction to the land of the real… there will be no reprieve.
He slowly moves his hood down, revealing his face, though still partially lost in the blanketed darkness. Prominent though, are his eyes, which shine in an almost ethereal state of green with tints of blue running through… as well as a pair of longer than normal canine teeth, which Alcaeus immediately hides by closing his mouth. He smiles momentarily, showing them off, before seeking to end this monologue.
Alcaeus: Thus, I bid myself welcome, as I’m sure none other will do so. And I promise attractions beyond that which you are accustomed to. Unfortunately for the roster here, my intentions are quite clear… and fortunately for the fans, my rise shall be meteoric, and my grandeur unmatched. So are the words of Alcaeus… and let he who believes differently, come try to challenge an immortal.
The smile is lost from his lips, as Alcaeus walks past the camera, and back into the darkness of the street, beyond the glare of the street lamps… to where they shine no more.
The Illustrious Face-Eater (C) vs Tim Shipley
STIPULATION: 10-COUNT
REFEREE: MICHAEL RYAN
AUTHOR: JAAKKO OKSA
George Cassidy: And up next, we have the SEMI-MAIN EVENT of the night, as Tim Shipley takes on The Illustrious Face-Eater in a 10-Count match.
Truth Waters: A what?
George Cassidy: I’ve gathered that it’s equivalent to a "Last Man Standing" match. Correct me if I’m wrong.
All the arena lighting suddenly goes out. The big screen flashes into life, with a piece of rapid video taking a first-person trip through a conceptual maze of light in space. The text "Astral Conversations With Toulouse Lautrec" buzzes repeatedly across the screen, as the song of the same name by Northern Irish rock group Ash starts up with a re-recorded robotic voice-over announcing: "Please welcome: Tim Shipley. Error. Does not compute. Does not compute..." The basic two-chord opening begins, with Tim Wheeler's melodic "Uh. Uh uh" leading the song into the slightly heavier section as the guitar joins in.
James Brunt: The following is the 10-Count Testimonial match for the Frontier championship! Making his way to the ring, from Milton Keynes, England, weighing in at 201 pounds... "Summer's Son" TIM SHIPLEY!
White spotlights dance around the arena, and now two blue spotlights, emitting light from the ringposts, slowly rotate down from the arena roof to focus on the stage, where Tim Shipley is now standing, his expression firm. The fans cheer loudly for the man who they have grown to like. The white lights dance more and more frantically before simultaneously all coming to a stop to also focus on the stage and Tim Shipley, just as another piece of robot-squawk ends to be replaced by the more simple "Uh. Uh uh" and the video feed changes to a shot of a conceptual spaceship racing through a tunnel. Shipley strides down to the ring, his face set and his clenced jaw well defined.
Truth Waters: And there’s Tim Shipley, the mathematician, the university guy, the…
George Cassidy: The man who has threatened to unmask The Illustrious Face-Eater right here tonight.
Truth Waters: Yeah, that too.
George Cassidy: But even if he can’t, the Face-Eater WILL reveal his true identity following the match! Mm, you can SMELL the anticipation... it could be one of the really LEGENDARY cruiserweights. Kid Wonder... The Flying Frenchie...
Truth Waters: Now you’re just being ridiculous.
Shipley paces around the ring, allowing referee Michael Ryan to check his gear for foreign objects while he waits for his opponent. And he doesn’t have to wait for long, as some random, chaotic-looking pyro goes off at the stage as Coheed & Cambria’s ”Welcome Home” starts to play. Shipley tenses up noticeably as The Illustrious Face-Eater appears at the entrance, bursting through the curtain. Face-Eater dances down to the ringside, happily ignoring the booing fans… But suddenly he stops and begins to stare at Tim Shipley, the bad blood between the two shining through.
Truth Waters: You think it’d be hard to get someone like Tim Shipley angry. Honestly, I thought all those college types were complete pussies.
George Cassidy: Well, I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who could do just that better than The Illustrious Face-Eater right there.
Face-Eater slides into the ring as the tones of Coheed & Cambria slowly die away. The momentary silence is soon filled up by some clapping from the crowd, as well as chants of "SHIP-LEY! SHIP-LEY! " Shipley acknowledges the cheering fans by waving at them, but The Illustrious Face-Eater seems to get even more ticked off. Face-Eater steps on the turnbuckle and tries to get a chant going for himself, only to fail miserably as the fans jeer at him. Well, actually, there IS a small bunch of Face-Eater fans in the front row, wearing similar masks and capes, but they’re silenced by the crowd around them.
Truth Waters: Look at THOSE poor SOB’s.
George Cassidy: They’re supporting their favorite AWC star, what’s so wrong with that?
Truth Waters: They’re supporting The Illustrious Face-Eater for crying out loud! I don’t see anyone out there in a Tim Shipley mask!
Just then, the camera zooms on a fan with what looks like a Tim Shipley mask on… Although it’s hard to tell as the mask looks like something cut off of the back of a cereal box.
Truth Waters: Err… I take that back, then, I suppose.
George Cassidy: That’s a Michael Jackson mask, actually.
Truth Waters: What’s the difference?
Michael Ryan has the bell rung, giving up as The Illustrious Face-Eater refuses to let him check his gear. Face-Eater immediately jumps forwards, calling for a test of strength with Tim Shipley. Shipley advances carefully, and then grabs one of Face-Eater’s hands in a Greco-Roman knucklelock… And the Face-Eater boots Shipley nastily straight in the shin! Shipley pulls back, hopping on one leg as The Illustrious Face-Eater stands his ground and laughs.
George Cassidy: A cheap shot from The Illustrious Face-Eater right there! Not the most damaging move, but certainly humiliating.
Truth Waters: Getting kicked to the shins HURTS, Cassidy. You want to test it out?
George Cassidy: No, no, I’m… fine.
Face-Eater calls for another test of strength, and Shipley eyes him suspiciously, his sportsman nature getting the best of him though. Tim Shipley once again locks up with the Face-Eater, and anticipates correctly as Face-Eater goes for the same shin. Shipley lifts his leg and avoids the kick, but The Illustrious Face-Eater is faster as he suddenly shifts his balance and kicks with his other leg, connecting with the other shin of Tim Shipley and sending him to the mat. Shipley quickly rolls to his feet, grimacing in pain as the Face-Eater laughs again laughs at him.
George Cassidy: What the hell is The Illustrious Face-Eater trying to accomplish here by kicking Shipley in the legs?
Truth Waters: I have absolutely no idea.
The Illustrious Face-Eater calls for Tim Shipley for the third time, but instead of hesitating, Shipley heads straight towards Face-Eater. The Illustrious Face-Eater gives his hand to Shipley for the lockup… and Shipley suddenly arm drags Face-Eater off of his feet! The Illustrious Face-Eater quickly rolls up and turns around, only to walk straight into another arm drag from Tim Shipley. Shipley goes for a third, but The Illustrious Face-Eater blocks it, so Shipley modifies the hold into an arm wringer and again flips Face-Eater to the mat. The Illustrious Face-Eater scrambles to the ropes, this time leaving Tim Shipley in the center of the ring to laugh.
George Cassidy: Nice technical wrestling skills shown there by Tim Shipley.
Truth Waters: He is known for his fluent knowledge of the different wrestling holds, so going for a mat wrestling contest with Tim Shipley might just cost The Illustrious Face-Eater the match.
The Illustrious Face-Eater advances towards Tim Shipley and puts out his hand, calling for Shipley to arm drag him again. Shipley stares at his obscure opponent for a moment before shrugging and doing just so, arm dragging Face-Eater to the mat. The Illustrious Face-Eater gets up and staggers straight towards Tim Shipley like the last time, and again Shipley goes for the second arm drag. This time, however, Face-Eater flips to his feet, and while still holding Shipley’s hand, he jumps and snaps his leg against Shipley’s head in a nasty Enziguiri, throwing Tim Shipley to the mat and making the crowd ooh symphatetically with the blow. The Illustrious Face-Eater doesn’t waste a second, jumping on Shipley and laying into his face with heavy punches, screaming that no-one will make a fool out of him.
George Cassidy: A nice strategy from the Face-Eater, as he duped Tim Shipley into the same sequence as before and modified it to his advantage. Talk about a strategic mind.
Truth Waters: I’m sure The Illustrious Face-Eater is a strategic wrestler, but he wrestles too much based on impulses and instincts. He doesn’t THINK about things like Tim Shipley does. By the way, where’s that title he’s so keen to defend? Perhaps he’s so scared to lose it that he left it behind?
Face-Eater gets off of Tim Shipley and leaves him lying in a heap in the middle of the ring, walking to the ropes as Michael Ryan checks on Shipley. As he doesn’t respond immediately to Ryan, Ryan gets up and starts to administer the first count-out of the match.
ONE!
TWO!
Tim Shipley moves and then gets up to his knees, holding the back of his head in pain. The Illustrious Face-Eater shrugs and flips over the ropes to the floor, heading towards the security barrier and the fans on the other side.
Truth Waters: What the hell is he going to do now?
The Illustrious Face-Eater reaches over the guardrail and shoves a little kid out of his seat, making the child cry. Without caring about the father’s objections, Face-Eater pulls the folding chair the kid was sitting on over the guard rail and folds it up, eyeing his new-found weapond critically. Face-Eater then nods and turns his back on the man, who’s yelling at Face-Eater to give his son’s chair back. Facey doesn’t seem to care, as he merely stares at the recovering Tim Shipley.
George Cassidy: Steel chairs are legal in this match where the purpose is to knock your opponent down for the ten count… I’m just afraid that it will be an one-sided advantage, as Tim Shipley is notoriously shy of weapons.
As Tim Shipley gets up in the ring, The Illustrious Face-Eater whistles at him. Without looking too carefully, the still groggy Shipley stumbles up and over to the ropes, where Face-Eater stands on the floor. As Shipley grabs the top rope to go to the outside, Face-Eater launches the chair towards him, catching Shipley with a glancing blow to the head. The blow is enough to make Tim Shipley stagger backwards though, and The Illustrious Face-Eater is quickly on the ring apron, grabbing the top rope in preparation for a high-risk maneuver. Face-Eater takes flight, springboarding off of the top rope and landing on Shipley’s shoulders, from where he pulls Tim Shipley into a hurricanrana.
Truth Waters: A high-risk move early on from the Face-Eater, but he connects nicely with that.
Shipley rolls up, holding his head again, and faces off with The Illustrious Face-Eater, who is pointing at Shipley and laughing. Shipley clears his head by shaking it and then looks back at the Face-Eater… Who is holding the steel chair in his hands. Shipley dodges quickly, and Face-Eater’s swing goes wide, but he turns around quickly and catches Tim Shipley in the back. Shipley stumbles forwards and bounces back from the ropes, and The Illustrious Face-Eater throws the chair towards him. Shipley catches the chair in front of his face, and the Face-Eater goes for a spinkick, which Shipley dodges. The two square off again, but this time with Tim Shipley holding the steel chair.
George Cassidy: A kick by The Illustrious Face-Eater goes wide, and now Tim Shipley is in control of the chair! Will he use it now that the stakes are as high as in this match?
Shipley seems to ponder the very same thing, his face a confused mess of expressions as he tries to decide whether or not to hit The Illustrious Face-Eater with the chair. Face-Eater, sensing the inner conflict as well, begins to taunt Shipley, calling him to swing the chair. After listening to Face-Eater’s mockery for a good half a minute, Tim Shipley seems to make his decision and raises the chair, making The Illustrious Face-Eater flinch… But then Shipley throws the chair to the mat and kicks it out of the ring, facing off with the Face-Eater for a nice pop from the crowd.
Truth Waters: Well, at least for now Shipley refrained from using the steel chair. Not really a smart choice, because you KNOW The Illustrious Face-Eater will use weapons and cheat if allowed to.
The Illustrious Face-Eater laughs at Tim Shipley, but Shipley shuts him up with a hard chop across the chest. Face-Eater fires back with an equally hard chop, only to receive a chop from Tim Shipley in return. Face-Eater swings again, but Tim Shipley grabs his hand and twists The Illustrious Face-Eater into a top wristlock. Using his physical advantage and Face-Eater’s hand as leverage, Shipley slowly forces Face-Eater down to the mat onto his back, before propping Face-Eater in a sitting position, also hooking his other arm in an abdominal stretch.
George Cassidy: Again some nice technical wrestling from Tim Shipley, who seems to be intent on making this as clean a wrestling match as possible.
Truth Waters: You have to wonder though, when the only way to win is to knock your opponent out, how will this technical wrestling pay off in the long run?
The Illustrious Face-Eater, obviously in pain, manages to free his arm from the abdominal stretch and then slowly begins to work his way up from his prone position. Tim Shipley slowly rises with The Illustrious Face-Eater, keeping the top wristlock still locked on from behind. Shipley and Face-Eater get up, and The Illustrious Face-Eater elbows Tim Shipley in the guts to give himself some more room before twisting out of the hold. Shipley, however, keeps a hold on Face-Eater’s hand, and as soon as the two are facing one another, Tim Shipley moves into an arm wringer… then suddenly wraps his legs around Face-Eater’s arm and rolls down to the mat into a grounded armbar!
Truth Waters: Whoa! A flipping armbar, something that would probably be more at home in The Illustrious Face-Eater’s arsenal. Just goes on to show that Tim Shipley can improvise, if the situation calls for it.
Face-Eater, realizing the damage being done to his arm, begins to furiously struggle to get out of the hold, slowly arching back into a bridge in the hold. Shipley tries to force The Illustrious Face-Eater to stay down, but can’t in the long run as the cruiserweight suddenly does a headstand and then rolls backwards onto his feet. Tim Shipley still hangs on to his arm, but is left vulnerable as The Illustrious Face-Eater soon proves by stomping Shipley’s guts hard with his right foot. Tim Shipley releases his hold and doubles over, allowing Face-Eater to swiftly kick him in the face to lay him out.
George Cassidy: And The Illustrious Face-Eater gets out of the hold… And what a kick to the face by the Face-Eater! Truth Waterrs: That’s surely something Tim Shipley will remember for a while.
Michael Ryan starts the count, but The Illustrious Face-Eater just shakes his head, knowing that it won’t keep Tim Shipley down. The Face-Eater rolls out of the ring, heading towards the steel chair that Tim Shipley abandoned earlier.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Again, Tim Shipley gets up on his knees, just as The Illustrious Face-Eater gets back into the ring with the chair. Face-Eater throws the chair into the corner and then pulls Tim Shipley up, stunning him with a few forearms to the face. The Illustrious Face-Eater doesn’t waste any time, as he pulls Shipley close and hooks him up, executing a regular Exploder suplex on Tim Shipley. The Illustrious Face-Eater chases him down, picks up from the mat and gives Shipley another Exploder, laying him out near the corner.
Truth Waters: Look at those suplexes, Cassidy! The Illustrious Face-Eater’s finishing move, the Eaterplex ’05, is a modified Exploder suplex, and he just might be setting Shipley up for it later down the road.
George Cassidy: Most certainly, I think it might be one of Face-Eater’s big moves to try and end this match eventually.
Referee Michael Ryan goes over to Tim Shipley, who is holding his head in pain, and starts to administer the count… But The Illustrious Face-Eater pulls him off and tells him not to do that yet. Face-Eater then grabs the chair and climbs to the middle rope, looking back on the prone Shipley. Face-Eater then shakes his head and climbs to the top rope, standing up for all the crowd to see. The Illustrious Face-Eater extends his arms to his sides, still holding the steel chair, and then clutches it tight in his hand next to his body. The Illustrious Face-Eater crouches down and suddenly takes flight, twisting in all known directions before sticking the chair under himself and landing a leg drop on the body of Tim Shipley, electing a “Holy shit!” chant from the crowd for the stunt.
George Cassidy: The Twilight Press! The Illustrious Face-Eater connects with a chair-assisted Twilight Press!
Truth Waters: That’s some serious momentum right there, I don’t think that the Face-Eater himself is completely unhurt from that.
And true enough, both men are down on the canvas as Michael Ryan starts the count.
ONE!
TWO!
The Illustrious Face-Eater moves and gets up, slumping in the corner and looking contently at Tim Shipley, who has a thin trickle of blood running on his forehead.
THREE!
FOUR!
FIVE!
Shipley’s legs start to twitch, and the Face-Eater stares furiously as he begins to move on the mat.
SIX!
SEVEN!
EIGHT!
Tim Shipley rolls back onto his knees, obviously dazed but still up, and Michael Ryan stops the count. The Illustrious Face-Eater stomps the canvas and yells obscenities, completely sure that the Twilight Press would have done the trick.
Truth Waters: Tim Shipley gets up from the Twilight Press! The Illustrious Face-Eater needs something new and fast before Shipley is fully recovered.
The Illustrious Face-Eater moves in on Tim Shipley, taking control with several heavy kicks to the chest. Face-Eater pulls Shipley up by his hair and spits in his face before bitch-slapping Tim Shipley hard. The Illustrious Face-Eater lets Shipley drop down to the mat and then grabs the steel chair again, unfolding it in the middle of the ring. Face-Eater fetches Shipley, propping him on the chair in a sitting position. The Illustrious Face-Eater mockingly sizes Tim Shipley up as if for a photograph and then runs to the ropes, garnering some big momentum for such a short sprint. The Illustrious Face-Eater races back to the sitting Tim Shipley, jumps onto his knee and aims a deadly Shining Wizard at his head… But Tim Shipley dodges it! Face-Eater goes through with his momentum, hitting his back on the seat part of the chair.
George Cassidy: Tim Shipley sees the Face-Eater coming and manages to dodge that blow that would have surely decapitated him otherwise!
Truth Waters: It is amazing what you can do even when you’re so beat up.
Tim Shipley, acting purely on instinct, goes over to The Illustrious Face-Eater and pulls him up. Without thinking, Shipley hooks the Face-Eater up and nails the Chaos Theory, sending Face-Eater head-first onto the chair! The crowd pops nicely as The Illustrious Face-Eater flops down to the mat, his head still resting on the chair and apparently completely out of it. Tim Shipley falls down in the corner, holding his forehead and wiping the little blood off.
George Cassidy: The Chaos Theory onto a chair! Tim Shipley just bounced The Illustrious Face-Eater’s head off of a steel chair!
Truth Waters: Absolutely devastating.
Tim Shipley turns around and sees The Illustrious Face-Eater still lying on the canvas on his knees, with his head lying on the chair. Shipley shakes his head and then leans against the ropes, pointing at the second turnbuckle. The fans start cheering him as Shipley groggily ascends the turnbuckle, turning around on uneasy feet. Shipley threatens to slip off, but manages to regain his footing enough to flip forward with the somersault leg drop, sandwiching The Illustrious Face-Eater’s head between his leg and the steel chair!
George Cassidy: THE CHI-SQUARED DROP! ONTO THE ILLUSTRIOUS FACE-EATER AND THE STEEL CHAIR!
Truth Waters: Nasty, and very un-Shipley-like!
Tim Shipley rolls to the ropes, screaming in pain and clutching his leg, finally realizing just what he did. The Illustrious Face-Eater lies on the mat, motionless, as Michael Ryan starts up the count. Tim Shipley gets up, favoring his other leg, and looks at The Illustrious Face-Eater, counting along with Ryan for every second.
Truth Waters: That might just have done the trick!
ONE!
TWO!
George Cassidy: Facey’s not moving...
THREE!
FOUR!
Truth Waters: He could be concussed.
FIVE!
SIX!
George Cassidy: No man is built to take the Chaos Theory and the Chi-Squared Drop, both onto a chair, in such quick succession.
SEVEN!
EIGHT!
Truth Waters: Stop it with the excuses Cassidy... just accept that Shipley is about to win!
NINE!
The roar in the arena is growing ever louder as Shipley stands tall, hardly daring to believe his luck.
And Michael Ryan reaches double-figures.
TEN!
The bell rings.
And after all that...
The trauma...
The tricks...
The defeats...
Tim Shipley has finally put The Illustrious Face-Eater in his place.
For ten seconds.
James Brunt: The winner... and new Frontier champion... TIM SHIPLEY!
George Cassidy: Kill me now, kill me now...
Truth Waters: How does it feel to be ON TOP OF THE WORLD!
And just as victory sinks in for Shipley, on his last night in wrestling, the Face-Eater rouses himself.
Too fucking late.
Reveal
FEATURING: TIM SHIPLEY, THE ILLUSTRIOUS FACE-EATER
AUTHOR: JOE SCHMIDT
It’s over.
For what seems to be the first time in two months, Shipley has emerged victorious over the man who had been tormenting him. He has won the decisive battle; he has won the war.
Truth Waters: Shipley can’t believe it! He’s defeated The Illustrious Face-Eater.
It’s a cry of joy that he hasn’t been able to achieve in a great while: winning for Tim Shipley. He takes the newly awarded Frontier championship (someone found it, we must assume) for the second time in his career, and holds it high.
Summer is over, and a hell of a summer it’s been.
George Cassidy: Totally effing lame, that was shit! Facey had him pinned more than once, I tells ya. He’s got some PPV conspiracy on his doorstep, I can smell it.
Truth Waters: Accept it Cassidy, Shipley has just kicked that asshole in his… well, his asshole! And now we should let the man celebrate.
It truly is a joyous occasion…
…for some.
The Illustrious Face-Eater, is not exactly happy.
He stays at his knees in one corner of the ring, consoling himself. Rationalizing. “Where did I go wrong?” The same thoughts you think when you lose the Super Bowl. Or when don’t get called to the podium. Or when you’re crucified.
Face-Eater: but I was destined for this……?
He cries. The grown man sobs in the depths of his palms like a gigantic ugly skinny baby. At first it is faint. But then they grow coarse and irritatingly loud. Shrieks that can rip every thread of glass. Until they aren’t even cries anymore; they’re cackles.
Face-Eater: Waaaahhhhwahhhhhwaaaahhhhhwahhhhhahahahahhhhahah! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAAAAHAHAHHOOOOOOOGOLLYHAHAHAHAH!
Maniacal, Face-Eater stands to his feet and turns to Tim Shipley, who is confidently holding the Frontier title over his shoulder. He doesn’t stop laughing, but he removes his hands and continues smiling.
Face-Eater: HAHAH YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD, AHEM, STEAL THIS MOMENT FROM ME, TIM SHIPLEY?!?
Tim just grins a little bit. He knows that this loss is digging a hole in the Face-Eater.
Face-Eater: You think that just because you won a friggin’ match you got the best of me?! Well think again, because that one match is nothing compared to the anguish I’ve put you through! A mere mortal that played my game like a dog in an obstacle course, I’ve put you through hoops and watched you dance like a monkey. So you tell me, Tim Shipley, WHO WON?
Tim Shipley: I’m pretty sure that I just did.
Face-Eater: SHUT THE FUCK IP!
Tim Shipley: Did you just say ‘shut the fuck IP’?
Face-Eater: Shut the – BE QUIET! I am the master of your demise, Tim Shipley! And you will not take anything away from me; I TAKE FROM YOU! For the past two months you have been my bitch. I’ve made your loved ones suffer, the memories of your loved ones. I’ve made you suffer. And what all for?
Truth Waters: Here we go…
Face-Eater: What possible wrong could you have done unto me, that would make me sacrifice all this time and all these resources in order to gain your attention?
Face-Eater: It’s simple; nothing. You see, I don’t even know you very well. I don’t think I’ve ever met Tony Aliso. Purse Lavelle is most likely gay but I still don’t mind him aside from his pussyism. But still, I have no reason to hurt these people.
Face-Eater: So why do it? Why go through all this trouble just to get you to shed a few tears, when truth be told I don’t even lose sleep over you? BECAUSE I CAN! Because you were weak and easy to prey on, until I molded you into a fine competitor. It’s true, Tim, I brought out the best in you. I brought out the person that you could never be but always strove for. I UNLEASHED IT.
Face-Eater: And you want to know who you have to thank? None other than…
Truth Waters: This is it! The big reveal we’ve all been waiting for… who is The Illustrious Face-Eater?!
The laces come undone. He lifts the vinyl. And everyone gasps.
Face-Eater: Moi.
. ………crickets chirp.
Truth Waters: Uh... who is that?
The fans’ reaction is mostly quiet. A few murmurs, no bursts of cheers and no boos. It is a dead reaction.
Face-Eater: ARE YOU PEOPLE FUCKING STUPID?
……..crickets chirp.
Face-Eater: It’s ADAM DICK! ADAM DICK! ADAM FUCKING DICK YOU SHITFUCKFUCKFUCKSHITTING COCKWHORE! GAH I AM THE WIND BENEATH YOUR WINGS AND THE ESSENCE OF YOUR BREATHING!
George Cassidy: AH! It is! I’m so stupid, I knew it all along! It IS Adam Dick!
Truth Waters: Again I must ask, who is that?
George Cassidy: Adam Dick! Former member of Core Wrestling and teamed with William Curr. The two lost a few bouts to The Pioneers for the Tag Team titles, it all makes sense! Adam even held the Classic title for a short time!
Truth Waters: How long?
George Cassidy: ...a week.
Truth Waters: Crap reign, and that doesn’t explain why he spent so much time attacking Tim Shipley.
George Cassidy: Uh… because he can?
The former Core superstar hasn’t changed much since we’d last seen him. He still has the bucket haircut, although it hasn’t been tended to in so long it is beginning to take form of a mullet. He still has a stupid grin on his face with his rose-red nose and big dumb eyes. And he still looks like a little shit that you just feel you have to beat up to contribute to society.
Adam Dick: Bow to me, Tim Shipley, for I have owned your ass for eons and ages and for time beyond! BOW TO ME, FOR I AM THE COLES OF DEATH WHICH PLAGUE YOUR –
Tim Shipley: Adam…
Adam Dick: YOUR BENIGN AND FICKLE LOINS LOST IN A SEA OF –
Tim Shipley: Adam!
Adam Dick: TESTOSTERONE AND WOMEN WITH MOUSTACHES AND ADAM’S APPLES AND –
Tim Shipley: AAAAADAM!!!
Adam shuts up for just a second.
Tim Shipley: GO AWAY! In case you haven’t realized, no one here recognizes you. Apparently the only ‘cool’ thing you’ve ever done is this plan you decided to hatch here. Which is just proof that you have and had no heat and had to gain it at the expense of others. You aren’t interesting. You were crap in Core. You’re crap here. No one likes you or wants to bother to try.
The crowd cheers.
Tim Shipley: So go away.
Adam’s lip quivers.
George Cassidy: Ah… I LIKE YOU, ADAM!
Tim Shipley: Wait a week and think about how stupid you look now, playing up your identity like it is something we will actually care about. Who are you, ANYWAY? You held the CLASSIC title? In CORE?! What are you, Veronica Paige’s understudy or something? Just… go away.
Adam Dick: Bu-
Tim Shipley: Good night.
Adam Dick: But I ne-
Tim Shipley: GOOD NIGHT!!!
The fans cheer at his use of the Face-Eater’s own defense mechanism. The night hasn’t worked out for The Illustrious Face-Eater so far, but if Adam Dick has his way, this pay-per-view will still end with a bang.
Adam Dick: Alright Tim, you’ve had your fun. But I’ll tell you what, I’m not exactly fuckable, if you catch my drift.
With those words, and a darker theme, a different song by Coheed & Cambria hits. A much heavier and depressing song.
This is no beginning, oh no.
This is the Final Cut. Open up.
Adam Dick gathers his mask and his cape, leaving a crowded arena very disappointed in a very lackluster reveal. Tim Shipley, however, couldn’t be any more satisfied.
Pierce Lavelle (C) vs Hate
STIPULATION: NO ESCAPE
GUEST REFEREE: PADDY O'SHEA
AUTHOR: PIERRE HYDE
From the arena roof, a huge metal structure begins to slowly descend on an elaborate pulley system. The gleaming steel reflects the glare of camera flashes as the attendance in the Thomas & Mack Center unanimously looks upwards, the buzz becoming a roar as they realise they are just moments away from tonight’s main event.
Truth Waters: Oh, man! Can you feel it, Cassidy? We’re about to see Pierce Lavelle and Hate go one on one inside that thing – with Paddy O’Shea as the guest referee!
George Cassidy: It evens the odds, at least. When Lavelle proposed locking himself up with that beast in a No Escape match, I thought he was finally classifiable as criminally insane. But with Hate’s sworn enemy Paddy O’Shea in on the action, the Transatlantic champion might come out of this one alive after all.
Truth Waters: A lot will depend on just how impartial O’Shea will be in that ring...
George Cassidy: And the beauty of it is, no one can control that. Once the cage is locked in place, it’s not coming up until we have a winner. Lavelle, Hate and O’Shea can do whatever the hell they want inside of there.
The call of the uilean pipes booms from the speakers and fills the arena in a short solo of beautiful intent. As the crowd look on in awe, the video screen slowly fades from black into the flag of Ireland - the green, white and gold of the tri-colour, rippling in the wind.
Truth Waters: Here’s our referee!
The arena absolutely explodes into a beautiful cacophony of full-blooded cheers for the most popular man in AWC. Irishman Paddy O’Shea, the years-ago winner of PCW Diamond In The Rough, has never been such hot property, as the spotlights suddenly pan down to the entrance, just as the uilean pipes are replaced by "Raggle Taggle Gypsy" by Christy Moore.
George Cassidy: Paddy O’Shea’s finally gracing us with his presence after no-showing his match tonight...
The roar of an engine is heard, just before a mobile home emerges, being driven by Paddy O'Shea, who has an uncharacteristically ugly expression affixed to his weather-torn face. O'Shea drives the mobile home down the gantry and parks it by the ring before hopping out to a cheer of admiration, a tight sleeveless referee shirt encasing his muscular torso.
Truth Waters: He’s pulled out all the stops for his caravan entrance tonight!
O'Shea raises his arms in triumph and plays to the crowd until his music cuts out. Looking up in awe at the slowly-descending cage, he rolls carefully under the ropes into the ring, where gold-suited James Brunt is standing. His booming voice resonates as he introduces the match.
James Brunt: The following is a NO ESCAPE MATCH, and is for the AWC Transatlantic championship! Introducing the special guest referee, PADDY O’SHEA!
O’Shea ignores this opportunity to play to the enraptured crowd, instead focusing his eyes on the entrance-way. He knows who’s due.
Right on cue, Agoraphobic Nosebleed's "North American Corpse Desecration" begins to grind away at the speakers, filling the audio system with utter aural chaos and drowning out the cheering in the Thomas & Mack Center, which is in any case quickly replaced by the most intense negative heat imaginable. Hate appears in the entrance-way, with a black gas mask covering his head and wearing a long, black trenchcoat.
George Cassidy: Makes you shiver, doesn’t it?
Truth Waters: Cassidy, you are the world’s biggest pussy.
George Cassidy: I think you’ll find that honour belongs to that of Madeleine Estelle.
James Brunt: Introducing the challenger, from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, weighing in at 225 pounds... “The Fifth Horseman” HATE!
O’Shea slams his arms down on the top rope and lets out a loud scream, unloading on The Fifth Horseman. Hate takes no notice, simply slinging his gas mask to the floor and dropping his trenchcoat as he paces to ringside, watching the ring, the cage, the fans – in fact, looking everywhere but at his rival.
Truth Waters: I must say, it already looks like any official impartiality is going to go out of the window.
George Cassidy: The feud between these two is so deep now. It could boil over at any moment. I must say, I can’t wait until the Hardcore Lumberjack match at Super Series.
Truth Waters: Me neither, Cassidy. Roll on... er... “early October”.
The descent of the cage now comes to a halt, with the lower end of its walls now hanging a tantalising twelve feet above the canvas. Hate walks right round to the other side of the ring before getting in, looking out at the booing crowd as he brushes himself down, knowing that Paddy O’Shea is staring a hole through the back of his head.
The powerful riff of “Stockholm Syndrome” is joined by loud drums and the shrill defiance of Matt Bellamy’s voice as Muse’s hit accompanies Pierce Lavelle through the curtain. His eyes set, he doesn’t seem to comprehend the wall of cheers that hits him. All he knows is the cage, Hate, and the Transatlantic title belt that is around his waist.
James Brunt: And his opponent, from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, weighing in at 245 pounds... the Transatlantic champion... PIERCE LAVELLE!
George Cassidy: I wonder if the paths of these two crossed in childhood. Both of Pennsylvania, you know.
Truth Waters: I'm sure Hate grew up a while before the young superstar Pierce Lavelle... though we have no official record of a birth date for The Nondivine Juggernaut.
Lavelle enters the ring, breathing the stale, stuffy, sweaty air that has circulated and festered all night. The Thomas & Mack Center awaits. The Thomas & Mack Center expects.
The champion stands aside to allow the cage to finish the last part of its descent, quickly sliding his title belt through the gap at the bottom to Brunt, who takes it and holds it up to show to the fans.
George Cassidy: Always playing to the crowd, James Brunt. He should stick to his job.
Truth Waters: Hey, it’s nice to have a ring announcer with personality for a change.
The enclosed cage finally locks into place, a couple of members of the ring crew turning locks to make sure there is no buckling on impact, and another wave of sound washes through the venue just on the ringing of the bell.
DING DING DING!
Truth Waters: We are underway!
George Cassidy: Pierce Lavelle defending his Transatlantic title against Hate in a No Escape match!
Truth Waters: Pinfall or submission... glory or another story?
George Cassidy: You have gotten so corny.
Lavelle and Hate stare each other down. Opposite corners of the ring, they’re in no hurry to get things started. Knowing what is expected of them, and knowing what they each expect of themselves and each other, the two men who have been with AWC since the beginning simply stand and breathe.
Truth Waters: This is the first time Hate and Pierce Lavelle have gone one-on-one.
George Cassidy: That is surprising, considering they’ve both been high-calibre performers right from the beginning, and Zero To Hero.
Truth Waters: Hate only a semi-finalist there, losing to the eventual winner Alex Strider, who beat Lavelle in that astonishing final.
George Cassidy: One thing Lavelle might have going for him is that he’s heavier than Hate, a man who relies on his powerhouse natures.
Truth Waters: I can negate that. Remember Kuff McSlade?
George Cassidy: Point taken...
Truth Waters: But what Lavelle really has to use is his head.
George Cassidy: Lavelle doesn’t headbutt, Truth.
Truth Waters: I mean strategy, moron.
Finally, the champion takes a step forward. Hate imitates him. Lavelle tenses. Hate tenses. Hate relaxes. Lavelle relaxes. Hate steps back.
George Cassidy: This is a little tiresome...
Truth Waters: You underestimate just how important the first move of the match can be. It could be over within a minute! You’ve got to get things right...
At least a minute has gone by since the bell rang, and still we don’t have contact between the competitors. Lavelle takes another step towards the centre of the ring, cautious and slow. There’s no hurry. Hate sidesteps out of his corner and moves to the middle of one side, grasping the cage over his shoulder to make sure of his bearings. Lavelle backs off opposite him, tapping the cage with an enclosed fist, presumably to test its strength. Hate sneers and slams a hard punch into his own cage wall, not even flinching at the impact. He stares at his own hand as blood starts to appear around the knuckles. One of the cuts is deep, and within just a few seconds the thick red liquid begins to drip to the mat. Hate lifts his left fist and slowly extends it towards Lavelle, not taking his eyes off the Transatlantic champion.
George Cassidy: Hate is showing Lavelle that nothing can hurt him.
Truth Waters: The mental games aren’t going too well for the champion.
Lavelle narrows his eyes. He takes a couple of steps to the side, then checks, making sure The Fifth Horseman isn’t about to launch a surprise attack. But Hate hasn’t moved – he’s standing still, grinning and watching Lavelle with interest. Lavelle strides to the turnbuckle, mounts it and looks out at the fans through the cage walls, raising his arms high. The crowd responds immediately, with powerful chants of ”LET’S GO LA-VELLE!” breaking the tense silence. The champion breaks into a smile and drops off the turnbuckle, turning to face Hate, from whose face the smile has gone. He lifts a finger to his forehead, and pauses before dragging it downwards, using his fingernail to rip right through the thick red paint that covers his entire head. Withdrawing the finger, he digs one more line of paint away, and an ‘X’ symbol is now visible in flesh, the paint removed.
George Cassidy: He’s indicating himself as a target. “Come and get me, Lavelle,” is the message from The Fifth Horseman.
Truth Waters: Trying to turn round tonight’s hierarchy, I guess, but Lavelle is the champion and he needs to remember that. He can’t give in to Hate’s games. He can’t feel inadequate. He’s got to be in charge.
Hate stares at Lavelle, his dark tongue flitting around his black lips as he relishes the contest. Lavelle, looking a little worried, gets up on the turnbuckle again to play to the fans, but this time the effect is much less noticeable, and when the Transatlantic champion steps down worry is etched across his face.
George Cassidy: Pierce Lavelle’s played his one card and now he’s got nowhere to go with it.
Sensing Hate’s mental upper hand, the fans do their best for Lavelle, with whistles and jeers providing a din of audio as The Fifth Horseman at last advances. But the grin is wiped clean off his face with a sudden and solid punch from Paddy O’Shea.
Truth Waters: O’Shea hit him square in the jaw! Hate down!
The Thomas & Mack Center is transformed. The fans egging him on, O’Shea bends over the fallen Hate and yells in his face, slamming his closed fist against his referee shirt. Lavelle comes over and O’Shea looks up at him, raising his hands in apology. But Lavelle gives him a guilty grin, appreciating the help, and sets into place an armbar.
George Cassidy: Lavelle needed Paddy O’Shea to give him a kick-start in the match! And I tell you, if this just turns into a handicap match...
Truth Waters: Lavelle won’t need him again, Cassidy. That atmosphere was surreal... Lavelle just needed a kick up the ass to snap himself out of it and let him focus on the job in hand.
George Cassidy: And he will need TOTAL focus if he’s to have a chance of leaving that enclosed cage with the belt still around his waist.
Hate fights the armbar, lifting his knee twice into Lavelle’s back as the champion struggles to lock him in tight, and the hard kidney shots force him to relent. Both get to their feet quickly and Hate fires a quick shot into the chest, following up with a kneelift and a headbutt, from whose impact Lavelle is sent to the canvas. Hate allows him to rise before taking his opponent by the head and leading him towards the corner of the ring. A slashing right hand blow across the face causes Hate to let go, but he’s back in control with a twisting elbow. Lavelle slumps front-first over the turnbuckle.
Truth Waters: Hate seems to have a spot in mind.
He grabs Lavelle by his long tights and lifts them up over the top rope, so that Lavelle’s body is now parallel to the floor. Mounting the second turnbuckle, Hate smashes a double axe-handle over the back of the 245-pounder. His second move is to drop back to the canvas while extending his elbow out over Lavelle’s neck, compressing it against the turnbuckle. Lavelle’s torso falls aside, leaning off the turnbuckle and towards the ring mat, but The Fifth Horseman slaps him upside the head.
George Cassidy: Oh! Ferocious strike.
The palm shot has Lavelle now leaning off the other side of the top turnbuckle, his head now resting against the cold steel of the cage. Hate now starts to ascend the adjacent wall.
Truth Waters: We’re getting some early excitement!
George Cassidy: I do not like the look of this.
O’Shea starts to yell a warning to Lavelle, but the impact of his head against the ringpost seems to have dazed the champion, who is a sitting duck as Hate moves to a third of the way up the cage wall. Thousands of fans look on as Hate claws his way up the side, seeing the rows and rows of paying spectators booing his every movement through the bars of the structure.
George Cassidy: What are we looking at, Truth? Spinning leg drop? Simple body splash?
Truth Waters: He could push off and drop the elbow...
Hate pushes off and drops the elbow... just as Lavelle pushes off the cage side and throws himself to the canvas! Hate’s ribs land across the top turnbuckle with a sickening crunch as Lavelle breathes a sigh of relief, feeling Hate’s pain as he looks up at The Fifth Horseman’s predicament. Hate topples over the side of the top rope, his head falling to the ring apron as his body piles up over it, inverted in the small gap between the ropes and the cage side.
George Cassidy: Not nice.
Truth Waters: That is the way to crack every single one of your ribs. An unnecessary risk by Hate! Could one say the occasion is getting to him tonight?
George Cassidy: Not a chance. The Fifth Horseman is as cold as ice; nothing affects him or what he wants to do.
Truth Waters: You say that, but that was a horrendous misjudgement. He could be out of this match before we’ve really got started.
George Cassidy: It’s a huge opportunity for Lavelle. I don’t doubt that.
Paddy O’Shea, hit by a sudden inspiration, offers Lavelle a hand and pulls him to his feet. Pierce starts to thank him, but before he can do so O’Shea suddenly slings him into the ropes!
Truth Waters: WHAT?
The crowd’s confused, and Lavelle must be, too, because he comes roaring off with a big clothesline. Fortunately for the (also confused-looking) O’Shea, the Irishman can duck, and Lavelle powers on into the opposite set of ropes – and now O’Shea’s intentions become apparent, as Lavelle’s body weight crushes Hate against the cage side.
George Cassidy: No turn, Truth, no turn! You can look now!
Truth Waters: That was a rather unorthodox definition of “help” by referee Paddy O’Shea.
Lavelle is knocked to his hands and knees by the impact, and immediately jumps to his feet. He walks over to O’Shea and shakes his head, still looking a little confused. O’Shea shrugs and points to Hate.
George Cassidy: He helped you, Lavelle! Accept it! If the referee is willing to cheat on your behalf –
Truth Waters: Pierce Lavelle does have some kind of honour to uphold, you know.
The fans are quiet as two of their favourites stage this silent argument. Eventually, Lavelle shrugs and turns his back, the issue going unresolved as the champion shoots a few boots at The Nondivine Juggernaut between the ropes. He then turns and raises his arms, posing for the crowd with a big smile as he does a slow swivel, taking in all the arena...
...until Hate grabs his ankle and trips him.
Pulling himself through between the bottom and middle ropes, Hate looks a little battered, a little bruised, and more than a little hot and bothered, but he’s still perfectly capable of beating the hell out of Pierce Lavelle. And that’s just what he proposes to do.
Truth Waters: Well, Hate took Lavelle by surprise there...
George Cassidy: That poser fell face-first. Good riddance.
Hate takes both legs of the grounded Lavelle, securing them either side of his body to lift Lavelle, his immense strength drawing the champion’s entire body of the mat and then slamming him straight back down on his front. Not missing a beat, he jogs into the ropes and returns with a falling headbutt, right onto the spine, causing Lavelle to shudder.
George Cassidy: Hate is using his power and targeting the weak points of Pierce Lavelle’s body.
Truth Waters: He can carry on like this ignoring the pain, but you have to wonder if he’s going to stop and think about how much damage he’s doing to those ribs! There’ve surely gotta be some breakages after that fall.
George Cassidy: I don’t doubt it, but Hate can take the pain. Hate ignores the pain.
Truth Waters: When comes the point when you sacrifice bravery for well-being, though?
George Cassidy: You think Hate cares about well-being?
Hate rolls over Lavelle’s body and makes the lateral press, looking up at O’Shea with a stoical expression on his face. The Irishman folds his arms over his chest, smiling through his small forest of facial hair. He’s not making that count.
Truth Waters: Paddy O’Shea is refusing to count the fall!
George Cassidy: But Hate already knew this would happen – as you can see. He’s not exactly looking too shocked.
Hate stands up, looking blankly at the referee – and then suddenly shoots out an arm to form a crippling choke hold around O’Shea’s neck. His face quickly turning purple and contorting, the Irishman flails but finds just air.
Truth Waters: Hate is choking O’Shea out!
George Cassidy: Amazing power just in that one hand!
Truth Waters: He can’t just attack the referee like that!
George Cassidy: Well he hasn’t exactly been a fair referee, and besides, there are no disqualifications! So anything goes.
Lavelle saves O’Shea, running off the ropes before leaping between the two with a crashing spear to bring Hate down. O’Shea crumples to the mat, massaging his throat, as Lavelle marches Hate across to the cage wall and slams his head into it.
Truth Waters: Pierce Lavelle trying to give Hate a facial wound to go with the one across his knuckles.
George Cassidy: Blood’s still dripping from that. It looks quite a serious cut.
Lavelle looks to slam Hate’s head against the cage again, but Hate lifts his left leg against the wall, blocking the attempt, and then scythes that leg sideways, eliminating the champion’s legs and causing him to fall with his neck across the top rope. Springing up off the bottom rope, Hate drapes a leg over Lavelle’s head and bounces into a backward roll with the subsequent momentum, coming to his feet just as Lavelle totters backwards on his.
George Cassidy: Effective improvisation by Hate. Put The Nondivine Juggernaut in just about any environment and he will find a way to come out on top.
Taking advantage of the opening, Hate propels himself off the ropes and rips his arm through across the collarbone of Pierce Lavelle!
George Cassidy: HATEBRED!
Truth Waters: He just took Lavelle’s head clean off!
George Cassidy: ...No he didn’t.
Truth Waters: Hmm. Well it was close.
Lavelle, motionless on the mat, coughs up a small spattering of blood just as Hate ascends the turnbuckle.
George Cassidy: Oh no...
Truth Waters: Doubling the punishment!
Death From Above!
George Cassidy: Devastating! Dropping both legs into Lavelle’s torso from the top rope!
Lavelle curls up into a foetal position as a great deal more blood begins to find its way up through his lungs.
Truth Waters: Hate is really targeting the torso.
George Cassidy: His brute strength is enough to take Lavelle out. Now he needs to find a way to win this match with an uncooperative Paddy O’Shea as referee...
Hate looks at O’Shea pointedly as he lies Lavelle flat and places an arm across his chest. The guest referee isn’t counting. Hate shrugs, lifts an elbow, and breaks Lavelle’s nose.
George Cassidy: God Almighty!
Blood starts to spurt everywhere as Hate, for a second time, places an arm across the writhing champion’s torso.
George Cassidy: Paddy?
Truth Waters: Nothing doing.
Hate doesn’t mind. It’s time to get ugly. He drags Lavelle to his feet and pushes him up against the ropes, so that his back is forced against the cage side. Hate rears back and headbutts Lavelle hard, sandwiching Lavelle’s own head between Hate’s and the cage.
Truth Waters: He could have just given him a concussion!
Paddy O’Shea is visibly a little disturbed by the proceedings, but he stands fast a few yards away with his arms crossed. Hate glances over, as if to say its his fault, and slams his arm savagely against Lavelle’s forehead. A yell is heard from the Transatlantic champion, who slumps forward into Hate’s arms, dark blood now starting to trickle from a new gash to the back of his head.
George Cassidy: Lavelle is bloodied and bruised.
Truth Waters: Hate’s just destroying him...
George Cassidy: He knew what he was letting himself in for.
The Fifth Horseman pushes him off and then grabs him by his hair, slamming his face against the cage wall. Looking pointedly at O’Shea, he does it again, and then wrenches Lavelle back, throwing him to the mat. Hate sees the wet blood on his palms and smiles, lifting his hand to show O’Shea.
Truth Waters: O’Shea can’t let this go on. Just count the pin!
George Cassidy: I think he will this time... which is a bit of a shame.
Truth Waters: He can’t let this sick assault go on.
George Cassidy: It’s his own fault for being so biased in the first place.
O’Shea nods wearily for The Fifth Horseman to make the cover – he’s ready to count.
But now, Hate isn’t...
With one arm, he shoves O’Shea roughly away, and the lightweight Irishman stumbles back into a corner. Hate pulls Lavelle to his feet, one kneelift causing a fresh upchuck of blood from the champion’s lungs but more importantly forcing him to bend. The Nondivine Juggernaut hooks both arms, and everyone knows what’s next.
Boos ring around the arena. Sledging and catcalls sound, the fans desperate to halt this man’s decimation of their champion. But with unerring certainty, Hate lifts Lavelle’s body slowly into the air and plants him down on his head in the piledriver variant known as Hate’s Eleventh Commandment.
George Cassidy: THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT!
Truth Waters: Not content with breaking his bones and spilling his blood, now he’s stolen his soul.
Nearly sobbing with fury, O’Shea drops to all fours as Hate greedily hooks the leg. Small sections of the crowd count with the angry Irishman as he slowly counts the fall.
ONE!
Anguished or angry?
TWO!
Despicable or desperate?
He’s not even looking. Blinded by his own rage, unsighted by the emotions inside him, Paddy O’Shea hits the mat for a third time.
THREE!
But then why is everyone cheering?
Truth Waters: L – Lavelle – I can’t even say it!
George Cassidy: He – he kicked out!
Truth Waters: I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it!
George Cassidy: But Paddy counted it! Paddy counted the fall! This one’s over, surely!
Truth Waters: He hasn’t called for the bell...
George Cassidy: But it’s only a matter of seconds until that happens...
Truth Waters: SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!
Hate’s standing tall, a beaming smile threatening to form on his face. Despite his inability to admit it to himself, this means a lot to him, this win – or what he assumes is one.
Lavelle’s getting to his feet – blood all over him, his nose out of joint, but a smile on his face. He knows he kicked out. He knows this is still going.
And Paddy O’Shea is just standing there, dumbstruck. He didn’t see Pierce kick out, but he’s aware something happened, and he doesn’t know what, and right now his brain is too scrambled to process it.
The claustrophobia of the cage is overwhelming.
Truth Waters: The three men are standing in such a small space, enclosed by that formidable steel structure, a mountain of conflicting emotions engulfing them all.
George Cassidy: But one emotion is riding over all the rest and that is confusion. What the hell is going on?
”RAISE THE FUCKING CAGE!”
Eh?
EH?
Truth Waters: I know that voice... it’s –
“Welcome Home” by Coheed & Cambria hits the speakers.
Truth Waters: ...oh, the Face-Eater... or Adam Dick, I suppose.
George Cassidy: And what in God’s name is he getting involved for?
As The Illustrious Face-Eater – who’s looking a little worn-down after his gruelling 10-Count match – ordered, the enclosed cage throws off its hinges and starts to rise. Hate watches it. O’Shea watches it. Lavelle, through bloody and sweaty eyes, watches it. And Dick sprints to the ring and rolls in under it.
Truth Waters: Would somebody tell me... something! Anything!
The attention of the crowd is locked on The Illustrious Face-Eater. People’s heads are starting to hurt. It was already confusing enough, but he has nothing to do with this.
Still in his old costume of mask and cape, The Illustrious Face-Eater stands in the centre of the ring, turning slowly to regard the other three, who are by now all guarding opposite corners. The steel cage stops rising as abruptly as it started – no doubt the head of the ring crew got back from his toilet break to overrule some intern kid who let the Face-Eater bully him into bringing it up – and now starts to move back down into place. Nothing happens in the ring, Dick still turning round and looking at each of Hate, Lavelle and O’Shea in turn.
A loud CLICK! stuns everyone into action as the cage locks into place. Hate flexes his muscles. Lavelle wipes the blood out of his eyes. O’Shea stares intently at the intruder – who suddenly makes towards him and slams a fist into his face.
O’Shea goes down, totally stunned. Dick bundles him into the corner and begins to stomp a mudhole into him.
George Cassidy: What is this?
Truth Waters: The Face-Eater just attacked O’Shea! Now what is the reason behind this?
Lavelle’s been through a hell of a lot tonight, but he knows all too well that Paddy’s helped him, and now the likeable Irishman is in trouble, so it’s only fair he should help out. Ignoring the ringing in his ears and the shooting pain in his head, he moves over and spins the Face-Eater around, throwing right hands at him. Taken by surprise, Dick takes the first two shots hard, but recovers sufficiently to block the third punch and kick the champion – or is he the former champion? – in the mid-section. Hate takes it from there, bustling in and delivering another Eleventh Commandment!
Truth Waters: Lavelle tries to help and – OH! The Eleventh Commandment again from Hate!
George Cassidy: And if this was still a match, this time it would be over for sure. Not many can kick out of The Eleventh Commandment – but nobody kicks out of that same move being performed twice.
No fight left in him, Pierce Lavelle lies prone face-down as Face-Eater continues to put the boots to Paddy O’Shea. But this isn’t his time, and Hate isn’t too happy about it. He grabs Adam Dick from behind and executes a huge German suplex, Face-Eater landing high on his neck and crumpling to the canvas.
Truth Waters: German suplex to eliminate the Face-Eater!
The Fifth Horseman then stands, looking testily at O’Shea who slouches against the turnbuckle. But before anything can happen...
”RAISE THE FUCKING CAGE!”
A different voice.
And Adam Dick begins to walk to the ring.
George Cassidy: It’s – what?
But Adam Dick is already in the ring.
Hate turns slowly and stares at the grounded Face-Eater. He then swivels on the spot and extends an arm to point at Adam Dick, who has broken into a jog on the ramp as the enclosed cage suddenly exits its restraints once more and moves a few feet vertically upward. Dick slides in.
Truth Waters: What is this? Do we have two Adam Dicks?
He ignores Lavelle – motionless.
He ignores O’Shea – struggling to his feet.
He ignores himself.
Instead, he goes for the one man standing tall inside the crowded cage – The Fifth Horseman – Hate. And he goes for him in style.
A running low dropkick takes out Hate’s legs, and the momentary drop to his hands and knees is all the opportunity this Adam Dick needs to mount his back in a surfboard manoeuvre and grab Hate’s cheeks with his hands – Atomic Fish Hooks.
Truth Waters: It’s his submission move...
George Cassidy: Atomic Fish Hooks! And now it all fits into place, Truth! Remember way back, when Face-Eater had Lavelle in an unorthodox hold before he turned it into the Breaking Point and Shipley froze? This was it!
Truth Waters: But if the Face-Eater is Adam Dick... and this is Adam Dick... then who is the Face-Eater?
George Cassidy: I'm sure on any other day that would make no sense but FUCK YEAH, Truth, that’s what we ALL want to know!
The cage slots back into place with another loud CLICK!. The Illustrious Face-Eater gets to his feet and meets Paddy O’Shea, who throws a wayward right hook. Dodging it, the Face-Eater knees him in the gut and grabs his arms, slamming him to the mat with a move not dissimilar to Hate’s Eleventh Commandment.
Truth Waters: That’s not in Facey’s arsenal...
George Cassidy: Truth, that isn’t The Illustrious Face-Eater!
Truth Waters: An impostor?
George Cassidy: Guilty as hell.
Truth Waters: Then why isn’t Dick going after him...?
We find that out soon enough, as Face-Eater strolls over and claps Dick on the back. Adam Dick relents with the Atomic Fish Hooks, leaving Hate in the rare situation of being down and out of it (along with Lavelle and O’Shea, who also adorn the canvas inside the cage).
George Cassidy: We’ve got five men in the cage... two of whom should by rights be the same person!
Truth Waters: And neither of those two should even be there!
Standing side by side, Adam Dick and his alter ego link hands and raise their arms high. Dick then turns to the man alongside him and grasps his mask.
George Cassidy: Oh, here we go...
He pulls it off and tosses it away; it hits the cage wall and drops into a corner of the ring. But that’s not important. What’s important is the identity of the man who was beneath it. And let me tell you, you wouldn’t have guessed it.
I’ll give you a clue... he’s already wrestled tonight.
Got it?
Hmm, OK, he’s as yet had very little to do with any of the men in the ring.
Nope?
Right, this is the telling one... he’s Irish.
The Farmer doesn’t like him.
Nor does Ian English.
It’s Mike Wade.
Truth Waters: Folks, I do not know what to say. That is Mike Wade standing up there with Adam Dick. It’s Mike Wade who invaded our main event and... and went after Paddy O’Shea! That’s not right, surely!
George Cassidy: Wade’s spent weeks assuring us and in particular The Farmer that he’s a true friend to O’Shea! Oh, it’s another swerve from His Swerviness...
”SWERVE! SWERVE! SWERVE!”
“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”
“WADE LIKES BUM!”
Dick pulls a microphone out of nowhere and holds it between them as he and Wade shout in unison:
”RAISE THE FUCKING CAGE!”
Someone does so, and Dick slides out, but Wade hesitates. And stops.
Dick yells to him, but Wade’s got just one last thing he needs to do. He walks over to Paddy O’Shea, stirring on one side of the ring, and hoists him up in a fireman’s carry. Then Mike Wade takes a deep breath and ascends the turnbuckle.
George Cassidy: What’s on his mind?
The crowd starts to go wild, but after a short pause, His Swerviness decides not to stop there... and climbs the inside of the cage wall.
Truth Waters: Is this motherfucker crazy?
Adam Dick is shaking his head like wild, not least because Wade is taking a huge risk by climbing an enclosed cage with a newly-revealed enemy on his back, but because the cage is still rising. Wade doesn’t know it – until his head hits the roof of the cage and he looks down to see he’s about ten feet higher than he wants to be. And rising.
George Cassidy: Jesus...
Below them, Hate and Lavelle have both staggered out of the ring, content to leave their difference to another time as this spectacle unfolds before them. Adam Dick is pacing frantically, not taking his eye off the action above, as the cage rises further and further above the squared circle.
Truth Waters: Mike Wade has to hold on for dear life...
Paddy O’Shea, now aware of the situation, frees himself from Wade’s grasp and clutches the roof tight, his body swinging as it slips away from His Swerviness’ shoulders. With an ugly grin, O’Shea kicks out and catches Wade, who is plastered to the inside of the cage wall with his face white with fear, in the kidneys.
Truth Waters: Oh no. Oh, no no no. Don’t even go there. This is bad enough without the two fighting.
The Thomas & Mack Center is in a state of panic. The feverish yells from the fans are offset by the worried eyes of the ring crew, who break cover completely to try and do something to make the impending drop for at least one of these men a little safer.
George Cassidy: Who’s on the controls? Somebody SWITCH this!
Up, up and away. To the roof they go – clinging on for dear life. The pain is evident in their faces, especially that of Paddy O’Shea, who dangles free, his fingers threatening to be cut through by the bars at the top of the cage. Wade, by contrast, has footholds too.
Surely there’s been some mistake.
Or perhaps not, as a blood-soaked young body falls through the curtain.
George Cassidy: Look! Dear God! What is going on NOW?
Truth Waters: It’s one of the interns!
George Cassidy: He was manning the controls!
Hate, now standing tall, moves into the ring and finds the microphone that Dick relinquished.
Hate: I trust this is the work of my faithful Azagtoth. Now we shall let the pigs fight it out. Which, I wonder, is weaker?
On these words, though, both Adam Dick and Pierce Lavelle are spurred into action. Despite his injuries, Lavelle manages to sprint up the ramp, with Dick close behind, both intent on saving – well, perhaps the lives of the men in limbo up in the arena rafters.
Truth Waters: Go on, Lavelle!
George Cassidy: It’s a race against time... or this will get ugly.
Truth Waters: Why do you say that with such pleasure?
The tension of this moment is unprecedented – by no one, nowhere. Two men who, up until the events of a couple of minutes ago, were friends, are stranded sixty feet in the air, close enough to hear each other’s breath.
And it’s not unrealistic to say that if something goes wrong, this could be it for the Atlantic Wrestling Club.
But suddenly, there’s a jerk.
The cage drops a good five feet, and O’Shea and Wade cling on as it shakes from side to side, Wade’s body coming loose and being battered against the wall.
George Cassidy: Someone’s got there... either Lavelle or Dick...
Truth Waters: But something’s not quite right...!
The cage suddenly plunges.
It’s not the slow, controlled descent of earlier.
It’s the work of someone who isn’t an experienced operator.
Someone who forgot to flick a lever before shunting the structure downwards.
Hate, in the centre of the ring, looks up in horror.
And now, Paddy O’Shea and Mike Wade are plummeting down, down, CRASH!
The cage heavily falls into place. One side collapses and folds in on itself. Two bodies retain the speed of descent and slam to the mat with two loud booms. The impact throws The Fifth Horseman, who stumbles and falls.
And the show ends.
Impossible Is Nothing
FEATURING: TIM SHIPLEY, ???
AUTHOR: PIERRE HYDE
Wait – no, it doesn’t. It seems we’re going to give Tim Shipley a proper send-off. In his three months here he’s given a lot to AWC, and now we’re going to have his last moments under contract on film, for posterity’s sake.
He’s become a two-time Frontier champion in his time, which isn’t bad going for a 20-year-old college sophomore. OK, so the first reign lasted nine days and this second one but a few hours, but all that matters is his name is in the records for two consecutive wins of the second most prestigious title belt AWC can offer.
Now, that very Frontier championship belt is in his hands, as the sweaty youngster makes his slow way down the corridor. A white shirt thrown over his shoulder and half-buttoned doesn’t work too well with his long white tights, striped orange down the sides, but it’s not important. Kitbag over his shoulder, emotion in his eyes, Shipley takes in every inch of this Thomas & Mack Center corridor. It’s just like any other – but he won’t be seeing any other for a while. Maybe he’ll never return to wrestling. Who knows?
So he’s got to make the most of it while it lasts, and this trip down the corridor to give Pearl back his title belt has taken on added significance for Timothy Shipley, desperate to notice every minute detail.
And there’s a detail that is definitely more than minute on the floor a few paces in front of him.
Dropping his kitbag by his side, he winces slightly as he goes to his knees to inspect the small sheet of notepaper that lies forgotten against the dirty grey linoleum. He picks it up – and a wave of dread runs through him and he wishes he hadn’t.
That’s all over now! he thinks desperately to himself. But he knows it isn’t. The mystery of “OMNISCIENT” was never resolved... and now it’s back to haunt him.
”Always lurking in secret, omniscient”, the notepaper reads, in extravagant red ink. There’s a postscript:
”Look up... buddy."
Shipley screws up the piece of paper into a small ball, squeezing his right fist tight. Tears threaten to glisten in his eyes. He doesn’t want this; he doesn’t need this. He’s ready to go... he’s going... he’s gone. But...
His heart in his mouth, Tim Shipley turns his head over his shoulder and looks up.
He chokes.
Emblazoned across the ceiling tiles, in familiar-looking red paint, is one surname he never thought he’d see again.
”ALISO”
The letters jump out at him, an angry escape from their lonely station. Shipley’s synapses are making connections too quickly for the young man to comprehend...
Always
Lurking
In
Secret
Omniscient...
Chilling. Too chilling.
Then he’s hit over the head with a wrench.
It’s the Face-Eater again.
So he was behind all this. So the Omniscient thing was the same man.
But... wait.
Which Face-Eater is this?
Mike Wade was last seen right after a fifty-foot fall.
Adam Dick rushed backstage to winch the cage down.
The cage fell... so someone got there.
But Pierce Lavelle had gone too.
Could Lavelle have winched the cage down, while Dick quickly adorned his costume again, painted the ceiling tiles and dropped the note?
Of course, that could have been prepared in advance, but someone would have noticed earlier, surely...?
Shipley struggles to his feet, but a second wrench shot levels him.
Face-Eater: Stay down... buddy.
His voice isn’t enough to help us. But his moving right into shot is.
It’s not Adam Dick and it’s not Mike Wade. This man is far too built to be either.
Face-Eater: It’s time for another little revelation...
The man in the Face-Eater costume brings his hand to his chin and starts to undo the straps of his mask as the camera closes in. His face fills the shot as the mask slips off...
This is not possible.
A muffled yell is heard from off-camera.
This is truly impossible.
But impossible... is nothing.
And Tony Aliso sniffs.