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[hi.welcome.to.hell]
Written by Ford

A time lapsed effect, fans, throughout the day, entering the St. Parish Center and filing into the seats they deem theirs. Sure, the first three rows are set to certain folk, but without any real crowd security, it's hard to make sure that someone who's bought a front row ticket can actually sit there. Then again, at independent wrestling shows, there seem to be some kind of code of ethics, one which is unspoken, where you don't pay for a general admission and then sneak down to the front.

You're supporting the small man, not the business tychoon's of Baseball of Football. You're supporting the wrestlers and the promotion you love, and the promotion needs you, specifically. Whereas with a baseball team, there are usually twenty five thousand other people all around and you'd get lost in the shuffle. Here? There's twenty five people around you, and you're apart of something.

At least, that's what Ford is trying to do.

GP: Fans, I'd like to cordially invite you…

JT: Greg, this isn't a wedding! This is HELL! You don't get cordially invited to hell!

GP: Then why do I have this invitiation with glitter and old English lettering?

JT lowers his jaw in shock.

JT: NIKKI GOT MARRIED?!? TO WHO!?!

JT opens the card. His jaw drops lower(although that's impossible).

JT: ….

GP: While JT has a heart attack, yes, we all cordily invite you to …

GP reads the card now, and he's stunned.

GP: …

JT: …

GP: When the hell did you go to Vegas!

JT: I don't know! I just don't know!

GP: How! What!??! HOW!

JT: Three very fine questions!

GP: YOU'RE MARRIED TO NIKKI!?!?

JT: Is that a statement or a question Parker!?!

GP: It has both punctuations, so I have no fkkn clue! How much did you drink?!?

JT: Let's put it this way, I don't remember going to Vegas. I don't remember even seeing Nikki in the past three weeks. And the last memory I have is being in an Irish pub.

GP sits there, slackjawed and yokeled, whatever that means. He's still just in shock, but the show must go on.

GP: I'm at a loss for words. Well, welcome everyone to the Seventh Layer of Hell. I'm here with the newly wed Mr…. T?

JT: I pity the fool.

GP: And we have one hell of a show instored for you tonight! Pun intended!

JT: …

GP: High Flyer battles Kory Storm, who has been rising in the rankings since his defeat and retirement of Jamal Wilson just last month at the Elks Lodge Tribute show!

JT: …

GP: Feel free to jump in here anytime and help me. Not only that, but the Deadlier Sins face Those Damned Mexicans, and it seems it's a pre-cursor to the special tag team spectacular in October that Ford has been totally hush hush about. Much like JT's wedding. So hush hush that even JT himself didn't know it happened.

JT: …

GP: Not only that, but we have a special appearance from the fWo's Downfall, taped on the 30th of last month before we were thrown out of the building by some crappy auto show. Which is why, folks, there was no show on the 30th, and we're doing the show now, on September 13th.

JT: I…

GP: Spit it out JT.

Pause.

GP: And finally, the main event. The saga that is Hardcore God and HardCase will FINALLY end, as they do battle over the richest prize in the IWO, the Heavyweight Championship!

JT: Oh God.

GP: What is it now

JT: I don't have an evil twin with the exact same name as me, do I?

GP: Not that I'm aware of.

JT: Crap. I really am married to her.

GP: Well, think about this. You probably got some action from her. Finally.

JT punches Parker.

JT: No one talks about my pseudo sort of women like that!

JT pauses.

JT: I am so confused.

[
high-stakes.hide-and-seek]
Written by : Matt

"God dammit! Take my money! What, you think you're fuckin' better than me!?"

Our scene opens on Jake Walker, working blue as always, cursing amicably at a helpless vending machine in one of the endless corridors of the backstage maze. Jake stands with a helpless, thirsty look on his face and with a fistful of crumpled-up dollar bills. With his free hand, he pounds on the machine, hoping to shake a bottle of soda free from the tyrannical grasp of its inner machinations. No luck so far, but it's still early and Jake really doesn't have the attention span required to get too frustrated.

Jake: Look here, devil robot! I have money! That's genuine American currency! All I want is a simple Dr. Pepper! Is that too much to ask?

The machine hums silently to itself, perhaps oblivious to the situation unfolding before it.

Jake: Oh, come on! Give it up, already. Don't make me get the broom. Because God help me, I'll make you wish you never ate my fuckin' quarter in the first place!

Suddenly, and thankfully, Aubrey Breaker saunters by at that exact moment.

Aubrey: ...I didn't eat your quarter, I swear.

Jake: No, not you. I was talking to this infernal contraption over here.

Aubrey: The soda machine?

Jake: Yeah.

Aubrey: You were talking... to the soda machine...?

Jake: Well, you have to understand. We have a history. It all started...

Aubrey: You know what? I think this is one of those times that I should just smile and nod and slowly edge away.

She does so. She is suddenly stopped, however, by the wall behind her.

Aubrey: Yeah. I probably should have looked behind me first.

Jake: Don't worry about it. That happens to me all the time.

Aubrey: Which is exactly why I'm worried. Anyway, have you seen Jack around?

Jake: Why would I have seen him? Last time I checked the scoreboard, I wasn't married to him.

Aubrey: Oh. I thought maybe you two were playing hide-and-seek again.

Jake: We've been over this before, Aubrey. Ford won't let us play anymore. Not after the... incident.

Aubrey: You mean that time in Raleigh?

Jake: Yeah. We still haven't found Bob Job. So, anyway. Keep me posted on the hunt. I have important work to do.

Jake turns to face the soda machine. He raises one fist in defiance.

Jake: It's round two, baby, and this time, it's personal.

Aubrey: You know, the trick is to put the dollar bills in face-up.

Jake: Wait, I'm supposed to use dollar bills?

Aubrey: I'll leave you to ponder that one for a while.

Aubrey wanders off, in search of Jack. Jake starts pounding his head on the machine and weeping to himself.


[
downfall vs. Phil Atken]
Written by : tOm

Trent Harrison looked up and down the white walls of the male dressing room. It had been weeks since he had laced up the boots hidden beneath the cuff of his jeans. He could hear the blurred, distorted conversation of the fans in their seats. They were anxious, anticipating something that Trent felt he could never deliver.

And then the music hit. The fans rose to their feet more so out of politeness than excitement. "Ender" by Finch played and Downfall stepped onto the small stage area. These indy shows were never too much of a show. The fans were plastered with disinterest and apathy as he climbed through the red ropes and entered the ring. The small gymnasium seemed modest when compared to what Trent was used to.

White, faux brick covering each wall, the equally deceptive wood paneling floor tiles, and the smell of thousands of teenage boys chasing girls from end to end. Downfall, for a moment, went back to his childhood, but in atmospheres such as these, there was no time for remembrance.

And that's when "Perfect Strangers" by Deep Purple hit. Phil Atken crawled onto the scene, contempt riddled across his face. Tonight was his shot to earn recognition. Defeat the falling star and take his place, one rung higher on the ladder of achievement. Tonight was his to hold, to cherish, and to own.

Both were dreaming, in a different place but were brought back when on the third toll. Atken shot out like a bullet, ripping through the air toward its target. Upon contact, this target swung back. Downfall ducked a fist and punched Atken in the side of the neck, causing him to reel back. Trent gathered himself and straightened the heap of bracelets around his wrist.

Methodically, with purpose, he walked forward. Atken smiles and readied himself as Downfall grabbed him. The two struggled for a moment before Atken dropped to one knee and ducked beneath Downfall's arm. Trent felt the back of his head slam against the canvas and a wave of sharp static fell through his body.

The belly-to-back suplex hit hard. Atken himself was shocked by the force, yet there was no time to worry. Success was singing its sweet tune waiting for those willing to listen. Atken crawled up to the top rope and smiled as he rolled off with a simple, elegant elbow drop that simply and elegantly hit the mat.

Downfall pushed himself up onto his elbows and knees. For a moment, the enormity and severity of what had just transpired overcame him. Almost losing mobility after a simple, stiff move? A rush of doubt filled his mind. There was no reason for any of this, any of it.

And then he remembered the unborn baby. These little spurts of contemplation and thought, though, would be the end of him. Atken came and rolled him around in a modified school boy.

1. 2. 3.

Sometimes, it's just as simple as it seems. Atken rolled out of the ring and thrust his arms into the air, toward those ceilings that would someday reach higher skies. No one gave a thought to the broken man in the ring.

And why should they?

[fixing.ones.problems]
Written by : John

The universe is truly remarkable. I mean, it's just so big and full of vastness. A man can travel his entire life and still never get to the end of the universe. There are so many different wonders in the universe as well. Space, stars, life... But none of these can compare to the wonder that is alcohol. Of course, when you have something as great as alcohol... You're bound to have something as not-so-great... AA.

A ways past Alpha-Centuri there is a small ball of life known simply to it's inhabitants as Earth. Earth it's most notably known for it's hipocracy and for it's alcohol. Unfortunatly for one man, alcohol became more then just a past-time or an excuse to have sex with your friend's mom... It became a way of life. As corny as that sounds, it's the only best way to put it. Right now, this individual is in a group meeting for Alcoholics Annonymous.

Swatz: Everything you know about life... Well, fuck it. Your life is *worthless*... It means nothing to you, and it most certainly means nothing to me. I want you to take your so-called life, wipe your ass with it, shove it in a hat, and forget about it.

Schitzo Tod: Can it be a silly hat?

Swatz: What?

Schitzo Tod: I said... Can it be a silly hat?

Swatz: What kind of stupid question is that?

Schitzo Tod: I'm just curious.

Swatz: Kid... Shove it in whatever kind of hat you like. Now, as I was saying... This won't be an easy process, but in the end... You *will* thank-

Schitzo Tod: What about a Dr. Sues hat?

Swatz: ...

Schitzo Tod: Kind of like Cat in the Hat. I mean, I'd shove it in a cowboy hat, but there isn't enough room for the gravey, you know?

Swatz: What the hell is your problem, son? Is this some kind of joke to you? Nobody's laughing here!

Schitzo Tod: That's because your delivery is off.

Swatz: My what?

Schitzo Tod: Your delivery... It's just not convincing enough for me. The punchline, everything... You need to rethink your approach, as well.

Swatz: ...What's wrong with my approach?

Schitzo Tod: Everything.

Swatz: Everything?

Schitzo Tod: Yes... Everything. I mean, you just seem so upset. I don't buy it. It's not funny to me.

Swatz: Look, kid... This isn't BET Comic View, alright? This is life. You're here because you're a moron... And it's MY job to fix it!

Nick The Walrus: Yeah Tod, stop being all dumb and stuff!

Nick The Walrus tries to stop a fan with his tongue.

Schitzo Tod: But you're a talking walrus... NAMED NICK~!

Swatz: Okay! That's enough! I'm sponsoring you myself kid. This time next month you won't be eating gravey out of a boat... You'll be eating it out of a train.

Schitzo Tod: ...What the hell is that supposed to mean?!

[refused]
Written by Ford

Flyer wanders around backstage, pacing through the concrete slabs behind the public ire. He seems to be on a mission, his green hair mismatched with his black denim jeans and Super Mario Bros. t-shirt. But then, his eyes lit up wide.

Flyer: Ford.

Flyer walks over to the President and CEO of the company, turning him around to grab his attention. Jax Stone, the head Road Agent and the man Ford was talking to, raises suspicion and follows Ford's changed stare.

Ford: What are you doing back here… and not dressed! You have a match to go out to in…

Ford checks his watch.

Ford: Two minutes ago! What's the matter with you!

Flyer: It's Dolby Ford. I'm worried about him. He's a screwloose man. I mean, I know I'm the Lunatic, but compared to that guy, I'm a wrongfully commited patient! I can't go out there, with my WIFE and my CHILD in the audience, and have to look over my shoulder at every turn to make sure they're alright. I have no clue WHAT he has in store.

Jax: Well Fly, if you knew you were going to have this problem, why'd you bring your wife and kids here tonight?

Flyer: Listen Jax. I put my body on the line for the entertainment of the fans out there, and I do it in these dank dark gymnasium's for squat because I love the IWO, and there's nothing that'll keep me away from this place.

Cheers.

Flyer: But the safety of those in the crowd should NEVER come into play, and my family should be able to see me when I come to these shows, and not have to worry about their lives being risked. There's that imaginary line you just don't cross Ford, and Dolby WILL cross it if he's allowed.

Ford: So what do you want me to do about it?

Flyer: Just, pay him and send him home. Hell, pay him my salary if you want as well, I just want to make sure my family's safe and they can watch the person they love in that ring. Money is not an issue. Life is.

Ford: I'll see what I can do.

[singles.match]
High Flyer vs. Kory Storm
Written by Ford

GP: Well, this should be interesting. A falling star battles a rising star. Make your decptions about which is which, and we'll just let you take it from there.

JT: Well, Kory Storm has taken the IWO by storm, whereas High Flyer has taken the IWO by… lying down a lot. Still, Flyer has victories over Arcade and Son and a pinfall over Keith Scott Zimmerman, something not a lot of people can say.

GP: Whereas Kory Storm has defeated Jamal Wilson in a career ending match, the biggest match of his career. A true definition of the word clutch.

JT: Although the bastard did lose the two previous times, no?

GP: Whatever the case, the winner of this match will truly rise up to the next level, or fall back down further than where they started. Let's head to Chris Astro.

Chris Astro stands in the ring with a black suit and tie. Meygon was nowhere to be found, probably given the night off since we were in a religious building. Whatever the case, he took a deep breath in to announce the next, and first technically, matchup of the evening.

Chris Astro: This next matchup, is scheduled for one fall, and has a twenty five minute time limit.

JT: DRAW! DRAW!

Greg Parker gets out a pen and some paper.

GP: Okay. Draw what?

JT: No you retard. I meant the match'll be a draw.

Greg Parker hangs his head in shame, and then shows JT the wedding invitation that he received. JT shrieks in horror and falls out of his chair.

GP: That's what I thought. Man up bitch, man up!

JT: Where?!? I can't see anyone!

“Jump da Fuck Up” by Soulfly, carefully bleeped, plays over the pa system, and out from the back walks Kory Storm, an arrogant smile adorning his face. He soaks in the boos thrown his way, and is wearing a “What would Jamal Wilson Do?” t-shirt, which has the words in fine print “For work,” underneath it. He slides into the ring, and raises his hands.

Chris Astro: He weighs in at two hundred and sixty seven pounds, and hails from San Diego, California… he is Perfection Personified… wait, wasn't that Gunnar Smith's tag line?

GP: And Dane Wilt's. Or something like.

Chris Astro: Interesting. Here is Kory Storm!

JT: Greg… how DID you communicate with the ring announcer just then?

GP: Uhmmm… the English language?

JT: … You must teach me this… the English language.

That's when the lights slowly dim, and “Idioteque” by Radiohead begins to play. And there's a lot of cheers.

Out from the back, in darkness, High Flyer walks, his green hair in his face as he does. The lights slowly return to full, as Flyer stands on the outside, looking in. He slaps the fans hands around the ring, stopping near his wife to give her a kiss on the lips. She seems a bit shy about it, a bit timid, but whatever the case. That's when he climbs up onto the ring apron, and enters the ring.

Kory is ready for him, attacking him with a double ax-handle as he enters.

GP: Kory, attacking as Flyer enters. That's not exactly kosher.

JT: Neither is my penis!

GP: Yeah, but Nikki probably ate that on your honey moon.

JT: When the hell did this group dynamic switch to YOU being the perverted maniac?

Kory sends Flyer into the ropes, and when he rebounds, Flyer baseball slides underneath Kory's legs. Flyer returns to his feet, rear waist lock, but Kory pounds out of it, reversing into one of his own. Once there, Kory lifts Flyer for a German, but Flyer lands on his feet. Kory lands hard, and recovers, showboating a small bit as Flyer stands there behind him. Just as Kory realizes, Flyer dropkicks him in the back of the head, sending him tumbling through the middle rope and to the outside.

Kory recovers slowly, right in front of Flyer's wife and son actually. Once there, he turns to her, and then back to the ring, where Flyer has sprang up to the top and shooting star presses off the top and to Kory Storm on the floor to massive cheers.

GP: HIGH FLYER! PROVING TO THE WORLD ONE PERSON AT A TIME THAT HE CAN FLY HIGH!

JT: OH! That's what that means? I thought it was an inside term of smoking the ganja! Boy is MY face red!

Flyer slowly recovers to his feet, cracking his head from side to side. He tosses Storm into the ring, and then high fives his son before climbing up to the apron. Storm recovers to his feet, just as Flyer springs back up and looks for a Lou Thesz Press, but Kory takes his momentum and tosses him in a vicious belly to belly suplex that takes the air completely out of the crowd, and turns them into boos.

Storm gets to his feet, and yells about the fans boos, before capitalizing with a cover.

1…

2…

Flyer gets a shoulder up.

GP: That hesitation to talk to the crowd probably cost Storm the match.

JT: It's still quite early Parker.

GP: But it doesn't matter. Bob Backlund, the most insane man in the business, was beat in EIGHT seconds for the World title.

JT: … He's STILL Bob Backlund Parker. He's not… God.

GP: No wonder my prayers never get answered.

Storm lifts Flyer up by his hair, and does a cutthroat. He lifts Flyer up onto his shoulders, looking for his running dvd. But Flyer drops behind him, rolls through for a sunset flip, but stands up, and looks to turn Storm over in the Peaceful Slumber. Kory immediately grabs the bottom rope, and Flyer reluctantly breaks. But once there, Kory kicks Flyer square in the downstairs region.

GP: CHEATER!

JT: You so almost said Chester.

GP: No, I said Cheater.

JT: I said you ALMOST.

GP: How can you ALMOST say something. You either say it or you don't.

JT: Uhmm…. EAT MY KOSHER ASS!

Flyer, doubled over, is taken up by Kory into a body rack position. Storm charges, and DRILLS Flyer face first into the middle of the ring.

GP: CALM BEFORE THE STORM! CALM BEFORE THE STORM!

JT: Shouldn't that move BE the Storm?

1…

2…

3!


GP: Kory Storm is victorious, and the fans here in Delaware are non-to-pleased!

[far.from.over]
Written by JoSo

Kory Storm stands in the ring, triumphantly. He had just done something that the dozens and dozens of wrestlers who had stepped into an IWO before him had wanted to say they had done: defeat High Flyer.

The brash, cocky upstart with enough money to buy the promotion fifteen times over defeated the IWO legend.

As Kory soaks in all of the crowd's cheers and sweat drips from his body, the lights dim to a bright shade of pink.

The fans explode.

“HE'S HARDCORE! HE'S HARDCORE! HE'S HARDCORE!”

The crowd chants as if it were Jamal Wilson, whom had just lost a loser Leaves IWO match for good just a few weeks earlier, instead of Jamal Wilson stepping through the curtains, a man dressed in all pink and a pink mask steps through them.

“YMCA” by the Village People blasts through the PA system as the man, dressed in a pink mask, pink wrestling singlet, pink boots, pink elbow pads, and pink kneepads, stands with a big beam. Through the mask you can see one thing: he's of African American descent.

The man reaches into the front of his wrestling singlet and he pulls out a pink microphone with the letters “TMF” engraved on it. Inside the ring, Kory Storm is livid. He's cussing a mile a minute and is screaming about how he'd “already killed that faggot” a few weeks earlier.

Masked Man: Heyzzies!

The crowd cheers loudly at the quote they had heard the exiled “Hardcore Homo” Jamal Wilson use on several occasions before.

Masked Man: That's right, I am the Masked Flamingo and I'm a good friend of Jamal Wilson's. He's gone, but not forgotten. I'm here to FIGHT FOR HIS HONOR! He would have wanted someone to come in here and tell you, Kory, how it REALLY is in the real world.
The crowd cheers some more as Kory Strom grabs the microphone from the hands of Chris Astro.

Kory Storm: You fucking faggot. I know it's you, Jamal. YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE TONIGHT! I don't care if I don't get paid for kicking High Flyer's ass anymore, if someone doesn't get you the hell out of IWO quick, I'm going to have to beat your ass like I did at the last show.

The crowd “oohed” at the brutal language Kory Storm was using. He was tired and angry at the fact that someone whom he detested and believed he had ridden of the IWO, was back.

The Masked Flamingo: You know, I think I know why you're angry, Mr. Rutherford.

Kory cusses quickly and quietly in anger at the fact that Jamal decided to use his real given last name.

The Masked Flamingo: That's right, Kory, you're angry because you're experiencing some… SEXUAL… FRUSTRATIONNNNN, BABY!

The crowd erupts in laughter at the way The Masked Flamingo sang the “Sexual Frustration” part as if he was singing the classic song “Sexual Healing.”

Kory Storm: You stupid bastard…

The Masked Flamingo cuts him off.

The Masked Flamingo: And the reason you're having so much trouble getting laid is because no MAN or WOMAN in his or her right mind would sleep with you… U-G-L-Y YOU AIN'T GOT NO ALIBI, YOU UGLY! HEY HEY, YOU UGLY! M-A-M-A HOW YOU THINK YOU GOT THAT WAY? YOU MAMA… HEY HEY… YOU MAMA!

The crowd explodes in laughter as Kory Storm fumes. He's so angry that his eyes have become bloodshot red.

Kory Storm: I'M GOING TO TALK TO FORD, AND WE'LL GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS. THIS ISN'T OVER, JAMAL!

The Masked Flamingo: You bet your sweet, supple, delectable tight ass it isn't, my man.

“YMCA” blasts over the PA system yet again as The Masked Flamingo waves to the fans of Wilmington, Delaware and it's surrounding area that had made the trip to the show.

Kory Storm had won the biggest match of his IWO career… but it had been tainted.

It was definitely far from over now.


[yer.blues]
Written By Matt

John Lennon's warbling voice from the Beatles' White Album echoes throughout the parking garage as our scene opens. We find Jack Breaker, half-asleep in the passenger's seat of his Chevy convertible. The radio is blaring and the left turn signal is blinking. Jack seems almost at peace, with his feet up on the dashboard and his eyes nearly closed.

His peace, however, is short-lived. From behind the car, the tired voice of Tom Ford snaps Jack abruptly back to reality.


Tom: Jack! Man, am I glad I found you.

Jack: Tommy! Wish I could say the same.

Tom: Yeah... er. Huh. You know, your wife's been looking for you.

Jack: Which one?

Tom pauses for a moment. He stares carefully into Jack's eyes, and furrows his brow. Something, it seems, is amis. Jack's normally sunny disposition seems somewhat strained; he almost seems depressed. Tom takes it in stride, however, and continues.

Tom: Anyway, I gotta talk to you about the next show. First of all, let me congratulate you on a great match last week. I really thought you had it that time...

Jack blinks, incredulous. All semblance of relaxation vanishes from his face as he tries to turn Ford's words over in his mind.

Jack: You thought? You thought?! That belt should be mine right now. Did you even see the fucking match?

Tom: Come on, Jack. Let's not dwell on the past. What's done is done. Now, I have a really great opportunity for you and Jake lined up for the next show. How's a shot at the tag team gold sound to you?

Jack: How does that sound? How do you fucking think it sounds? I just got completely screwed out of the only distinction that even matters to me, and now you're trying to buy me off with a pity shot at the fucking TAG TEAM titles? Since when have the tag team titles meant ANYTHING?

Tom: ...That coming from one of the most prolific tag champs in IWO history...

Jack: Most prolific tag champ... may I remind you that the fucking Suicide Kings held the belts three times? Not to mention Those Damn Mexicans... being the best tag champ is kind of like saying you're the least braindead Fox network executive.

Tom: Be that as it may, I think this could be a great opportunity for you, and for the federation as a whole.

Jack: You want to talk about great opportunities? Why not give me my fucking World title?

Tom: I'd really like to, but I don't think HardCase would be to happy abou...

Jack: I don't want another shot at HardCase. I want the belt that I fucking EARNED.

Tom: Jack, you can't honestly...

Jack sighs and turns the radio up louder, drowning Tom out completely. Tom raises his voice, but fails to catch Jack's attention as he rolls over to finish his nap. Tom reaches over and turns the radio off.

Tom: I really hope you'll consider this. It would be a great opportunity to get your career back on the right track.

Jack: I really hope you didn't just touch my radio. The last guy who did that hasn't been seen since.

Tom: Who, Bob Job?

Jack stares coldly at Tom, who turns his gaze downward to avoid catching Jack's laser-beam glare.

Tom: Anyway, you've got a match with Those Damn Mexicans coming up. Maybe you should be getting ready.

Jack doesn't dignify a response. He just turns the radio back up and sets his seat to a full recline. Tom shakes his head and wanders back inside.


[tag.team.contest]
Those Damned Mexicans vs. the Deadlier Sins
Written by Matt

MEXICANS MUSIC.

Edguardo and Diablo appear on the stage to a mix of frenzied heat and reluctant applause.


GP: As much as I hate to admit it, it looks like Those Damn Mexicans have a decent chance against the Sins, especially with Jack Breaker in his condition.

JT: Jack Breaker hasn't been in his right mind in years. Why would tonight be any different?

The Mexicans slowly make their way down ringside, riling up the crowd as they walk. They finally reach the ring and settle in as the music dies out.

Then, an eruption. Soap bubbles explode across the entrance ramp as "Cyclops Rock" by They Might be Giants takes over the arena. The crowd goes nuts for the arrival of everyone's favorite fish-wielding maniacs, the Deadly Sins.

But nothing happens. The bubbles slowly dissipate, the music abruptly fades. Still nothing.


GP: Where in the world are the Deadly Sins? Don't they realize that they have a match?

JT: How unprofessional. I'm surprised Tom Ford doesn't fire them on the spot.

GP: Well, I suppose we have a backstage crew trying to track them down...

Suddenly, and unceremoniously, Jake Walker appears on the stage. He waves a feeble thumbs-up to the crowd and jogs briskly down to the ring. A low murmur sets in among the ringside area as Jake pulls the ref aside and whispers something. After a moment's deliberation, the ref signals to the timekeeper, who rings the bell.


GP: This match is underway, and with no Jack Breaker in sight. Could this have anything to do with what we saw from Breaker earlier in the parking lot?

JT: My guess is that he accidentally locked himself in his car. Someone had better call a locksmith.

Jake hoists himself into the ring and steadies himself in the corner as Diablo slowly circles around him. Edguardo nondescriptly slips off the apron as Diablo attempts to lure Jake out with a tentative shoot. Jake backs up and drops into a defensive posture. Diablo shoots in again, and Jake quickly snaps him down to the mat. Diablo springs back up and pauses. Jake lets his guard down and Diablo rushes in with a forearm, sending Jake reeling into the ropes. Diablo closes in as Edguardo rushes around the ring to Jake's back. He hops up onto the apron and pulls Jake's head into the ropes as Diablo lands a few chops to his ribs. The ref quickly breaks Edguardo's hold and sends him back to his corner as Jake drops to his knees to catch his breath.

GP: Jake Walker, being quickly taken off-guard in what has now become a handicap match. You've got to admit, JT, that move by Edguardo was pretty low, even for TDM.

JT: I don't got to admit nothin'. You don't own me. You don't know nothin' bout nothin'.

GP: We really have to stop letting you drink on the job.

Diablo and Jake size each other up in the ring. Jake sidesteps absentmindedly, and Diablo scrambles to keep in front of him. Jake swings a wild right, which Diablo easily blocks and counters with a grapevine. Jake drops to his knees as Diablo tightens his grip on Jake's arm. He yanks down harder, then suddenly releases and hits a snap dropkick before Jake has a chance to react.

GP: Diablo's working very tight today. If this is any indication of things to come, I think Jake Walker is in serious trouble.

Jake rolls to his feet and quickly charges at Diablo with a spear, but Diablo sidesteps and sends Jake into the turnbuckle. Jake's head hits the ring post and he goes down. Edguardo slinks over to the corner and holds Jake up by the shoulders as Diablo sends a flurry of punches to his ribs and chest. The ref rushes in to break up the double-team, and catches an accidental back elbow for his troubles.

JT: And the ref goes down! Maybe now this match'll get interesting!

GP: But without the ref, who will enforce the rules?!

JT: ....that's the whole point, Captain Greg.

Fortunatley for Jake, the ref quickly revives and breaks Edguardo's hold. Jake collapses to the mat, and Diablo goes for a cover.

*ONE!*

*TWO!*


Jake gets a foot on the bottom rope. The ref breaks the count as Diablo releases Jake and allows him to slowly get to his feet. Diablo crouches down and waits to ambush Jake. Jake, however, will have none of that. He suddenly lets loose with a spinning crescent kick, sending Diablo reeling. Jake attempts to capitalize with a leg trip, but Diablo quickly regains his base and hops over Jake's leg. Jake springs up and sneaks in a Russian leg sweep.

GP: Jake Walker, getting in his first big offensive maneuver of the match. Diablo would be wise to tag out soon, or Jake could easily take the upper hand.

Jake pulls Diablo to his feet and whips him to the corner. Diablo hits the post and slumps down. Jake charges and hooks Diablo by the neck as he hops up onto the first rope. He bounces off and brings Diablo sprawling to the mat with a facecrusher. The fans pop as Jake hops up onto the top rope and waves to them. He crouches down, then sails off the top with a back elbow. He connects stiffly and rolls away. Diablo tries to get to his feet, but can't pull himself up.

GP: Just as I said. Diablo's in a lot of trouble now.

JT: You said nothing of the sort, you lying scoundrel!

Jake pulls Diablo to his feet and hooks his neck for a suplex. He pulls him up, but stumbles forward suddenly as he is struck from behind by Edguardo. The ref rushes over to force Edguardo out of the ring. Jake drops Diablo from his hold and he crushes the ref.

JT: The ref is out again!

GP: Which is exactly why I suggest we start using robots to officiate these matches.

Edguardo helps Diablo to his feet. The Mexicans turn to face Jake and walk right into a double power clothesline. They go down hard and stay down as Jake takes to the top rope once again. This time, the fans roar as he calls to them.

GP: If Jake's planning what I think he is, then... yes he is!

Jake leaps off the top, twists, then bends his knee and arcs perfectly in the air. Camera flashes go off throughout the arena as Jake lands the Dark Side of the Moonsault. A resounding *thud* is heard as he connects hard with Diablo's chest. Jake rolls to kill momentum, then hops to his feet to survey the scene.

GP: Jake's got this match all wrapped up... or he would, if there were still a ref... say, where's Edguardo?

As if on cue, Edguardo rushes into the ring with two chairs. He slides one to Diablo, then takes his to the unsuspecting skull of Jake Walker. Diablo slowly rolls out of the ring as Edguardo pulls Jake into a piledriver on the chair. Edguardo then pulls Jake up and holds him on his feet as Diablo rushes into the ring with Jake's signature giant trout. He swings at Jake's face and connects, sending both Jake and Edguardo to the mat. Diablo drops the trout and pulls Jake out of the pileup. Edguardo revives the ref as Diablo makes a cover.

The ref, however, notices the two chairs and trout in the ring, and turns to consult with the timekeeper. The ref waves his arms to signal a no contest as the bell rings.

*DING DING DING!*


JT: What the hell is going on? This match was just starting to get watchable!

Meygon: As a result of a double disqualification, this match is a no contest!

GP: What a terrible ending...

JT: ...to an even terrible...er... more terrible... match... more terribler...


[main.event.heavyweight.title]
Hardcore God vs. HardCase .c.
Written by Aaron Smith

“Sugar” by System of the Down blares over the PA as the Hardcore God, accompanied by a team of midgets, makes his way down to the ring to a mixed reaction from the crowd.

They don't particularly like this guy, but he's gonna be fighting HardCase—which they hate without question.  It's tough when life throws you these type of decisions.


GP: And first coming to the ring is the challenger Hardcore God.

JT:  Yea.  That's one mean bastard.

“Sugar” fades away and is replaced by the gunshots and clicks of a reloading semi-automatic signals the beginning of “Heat” by 50 Cent which simultaneously incites jeers from the fans.

HardCase saunters out to the ramp, a cocky smirk painted on his face, IWO Title around his waist, and a middle finger outstretched for all to see.

GP: And now we have our IWO Champion HardCase coming to the ring, as
arrogant as ever.  The fans are really giving him hell here.

JT:  They're just jealous.  They wish they were one half the person the
Innovator of Wrongness is.

The ref begins as if he was going to check both wrestlers for weapons…but he decided he rather not get pricked by any sharp object both men almost certainly had somewhere on their person.

*ding ding*

The bell sounds, and hell breaks loose.  Both men start tearing into each other with lefts and rights, opening this match with a flurry of fist.

GP:  So I gotta ask JT.  It can arguably be said that Hardcore God is as big a bastard as HardCase.  So who are you rooting for?

JT: Yea…you got a point.

GP:  Cheer for both?

JT: …I'm not dignifying that with a comment.

GP:  Then what are you gonna do?

JT:  When in doubt-*lapses into a mild coma*

GP: Uh…JT?

HardCase gets the upper hand ducking a H-God left hand, and flinging him over his head with a sloppy looking overhead suplex.  H-God begin to scramble to his feet, but HardCase put him back down with a boot to the back of the head.

HardCase then grabbed H-God by the back of the head and mashed his face repeatedly into the canvas.

GP: Wow, so far this is shaping up to be one of the more brutal matches we've seen in IWO since its days of yore.  Wouldn't u say so JT?

JT: …

GP: JT?

JT:  …

GP:  JT! You can't just put yourself in a coma every time you don't know who to root for.  That's just retarded!

JT: …

HardCase is really tearing into H-God now slamming fist after fist into his face, while H-God is still down.  He makes the mistake of stopping however to lift him by the hair and shit talk to his face.

H-God takes the opportunity to claw at HardCase's eyes, making HardCase get off of him.  H-God then leaps up from a crouching position and lands a vaulting clothesline on HardCase that turns him inside out.

H-God begins to lay in with boots to the face on HardCase unmercifully.

GP: Man these two really hate each other

JT: …

GP:  Still in a coma are ya?

JT:  …

GP:  Dude is that even safe?

HardCase struggles to stand, only to be laid out with a kick straight to the jaw when he reaches one knee. After this H-God lifts both of HardCase's legs, smiles viciously for the cameras, and delivers several well-placed stomps to a certain part of the champ's anatomy.

JT : OK, I think I know who to cheer for! Hardcore God all the way!

GP : I thought that might snap you out of your coma.

The Hardcore God lifts HardCase and shoves him roughly into the corner. He motions to one of his ringside midgets, who promptly tosses him a kendo stick. H-God rears back and cracks a few shots into HardCase's ribs. The IWO champ slumps down, holding his side.

JT : Yeah! Beat that honkey good!

H-God rears back to deliver a final shot to HardCase's head, but HC ducks out of the way at the last second. He hits the God with a quick shot to the throat, and as the challenger stumbles back while making a gurgling sound, HardCase charges with a hellacious headbutt that knocks the God flat on his back, and almost does the same to HardCase.

JT : Whoooooo! Teach that idiot some respect, HardCase!

GP : I thought you were just cheering for Hardcore God!

JT : Yeah, was. That was before HardCase just made H-God his bitch.

GP : So you're just going to be cheering for whoever's winning, then?

JT : Yep, seems like a can't-miss strategy.

The Hardcore God rises quickly back up, but is grabbed around his head and put down with an implant DDT by HardCase. HC gets back up and lifts the kendo stick from the corner where it was dropped. He leans up against the ropes and waits for H-God to get back up. When he does so HC dashes forward and swings for the fences, but H-God ducks and catches him with a superkick as he turns back around. The kick is delivered with enough power to send HardCase stumbling back and over the ropes to the outside.

JT : Yeah! He kicked that dumb bastard right in the teeth! I smell a new World champion!

GP : Oh, that's fucking it.

There's a loud THWACKing sound, and then the thump of someone collapsing on a desk.

GP : Good thing I always carry a hammer in my pocket for no apparent reason. Well, folks, looks like I'll be calling this one solo for the rest of the match, as JT has had a little accident.

On the outside, the God's midgets jump HardCase like a pack of ravenous, tiny wolves. The sadistic wrestler struggles under the biting, clawing little people before finally managing to throw them off as he struggles to his feet. He clears the four diminutive lackeys away with a bunch of kicks and shouting. As he turns back to the ring, he is greeted with a diving elbow through the ropes from H-God.

GP : A nice aerial attack by the Hardcore God! He's come to fight, and fight he will! … If JT was awake, this is the point where he'd be telling me how pointless and gay that comment was.

The Hardcore God raises his arms in arrogance and nods his head as he receives a mix of cheers and boos from the audience. He turns back around and attends to one of his fallen midgets, who received a nasty kick to the back of the head from HardCase. Instead of helping his follower, though, the God lifts him all the way up over his head in a military press. He then drops the midget directly onto HardCase's chest, sending both follower and foe rolling around in pain.

GP : One day somebody's going to mistake one of those midgets for a kid and call child services.

Instead of going for the cover, H-God lifts his opponent by his hair and starts dragging him towards the entrance ramp. When he gets there he tosses HardCase back first into one of the side barricades. The self-proclaimed Lord of Hardcore then grabs a chair from ringside and advances on the writhing HardCase. As he gets close and readies a swing, though, the IWO champ suddenly makes miraculous recovery and jumps forward, clamping his teeth onto the Hardcore God's divine nose.

GP : Oh, come on, that is not right! The Hardcore God is a wrestler, not a hooker! … I mean, um, what? I didn't say anything.

HardCase finally lets go when he's kneed in the testicles by H-God. They both fall back against opposite sides of the ramp, each holding different parts of their anatomies. After several moments of rest, both men dive forward and begin scrambling for the fallen chair. After a quick jab to the face that stuns HardCase, the God reaches down and picks up the chair; on the way up, HC lashes out with a kick that sends the chair right up into H-God's face, laying him out on his back. HardCase bends down as if to go for the cover, but then seems to think better of it and grabs the Hardcore God's face to begin laying in punches.

GP : HardCase knows he's not going to beat Hardcore God yet, even with a maneuver like that.

HardCase now puts the chair on top of the Hardcore God's prone form, stomps on it a few times for good measure, and slides into the ring. He measures the God's position before taking off running towards the other side of the ring. He bounces off the ropes and flips over them with an impressive somersault plancha for his size. Unfortunately, he is greeted on the way down with a flying chair to the back, thrown by the recovered Hardcore God. HardCase slams into the concrete, clutching his pain-wracked back.

GP : My God! HardCase may have just seriously injured his back! I'm not sure if he'll be able to compete any more in this match, and it's certainly not safe for him to continue in this grueling match type against an opponent like the Hardcore God.

Fighting through the pain, HardCase manages to struggle back to a standing position – only to be laid out with a chairshot so powerful that it bends the chair in on itself.

GP : Damn it, the Hardcore God is not only going to capitalize on HardCase's condition, he's going to try to kill the son of a bitch! I may not condone HardCase's actions, but he doesn't deserve to be killed … Well, he might, actually. I'm kinda torn on this one. At any rate, the champ has been busted open with that chairshot.

The Hardcore God drops the chair with a smirk on his face and covers HardCase. The referee rushes over from where he has been standing, a safe distance away.

Ref : 1 … 2 …3-

HardCase is able to kick out of the pin in time to save the match. Annoyed, the Hardcore God rakes him in the eyes before picking him up and leading him further up the entrance ramp.

GP : This match is now heading to the top of the ramp, and I don't like this one bit. The farther this one strays from the ring, the more someone's liable to get hurt – and knowing these two, hurt badly.

Reaching the top of the ramp, H-God rushes forward and slams HardCase's head into the steel entranceway structure. Instead of falling, however, the World champion merely stumbles back a little and then smiles. Dismayed, the God once again tries to ram the head into the steel, but HC blocks this time and elbows the God in the gut. This time he grabs H-God's head and slams it full-force into the metal. He repeats this several times before letting the Hardcore God collapse onto the platform.

GP : Well, it looks like HardCase's high tolerance for pain, bordering on love of it, has helped him turn the tides of this match.

The Hardcore God rises to his feet, shaking the cobwebs out. As HardCase approaches him, though, the God suddenly retaliates with a stiff European uppercut. He backs up and charges at HardCase with a spear, that would have driven HardCase's already tender back into the steel had HC not moved and sent the God crashing headfirst into the steel himself.

GP : These two are willing to do just about anything to themselves as long as it hurts the other one! I really don't know how much longer this match can continue with both contestants actively trying to kill the other one.

HardCase drags the Hardcore God away from the steel structure that he's slumped onto, and brings him over near the edge of the platform. He hooks his opponent's arms with both men still standing, and gives a grin to the crowd through his crimson mask. HardCase then proceeds to deliver headbutt after headbutt to Hardcore God's skull, until finally, when HardCase himself appears on the verge of collapsing, falls back and tosses H-God over his head in a butterfly suplex: one that carries the God's body off of the platform and crashing down to the tables set up below.

JT : HOLY CRACK ON A STICK!

GP : Oh, goody, JT's awake again.

JT : Man, it's weird, I didn't even try to bring on that last coma. It just happened all of a sudden. And my head really hurts.

GP : Um … yeah, that's perfectly normal.

JT : Oh, OK. YEAH HARDCASE! I HOPE YOU KILLED THE BASTARD!

GP : Damn it, JT, you've got to pick a person to cheer for and stick with them!

JT : OK, OK, I'll cheer for HardCase the rest of the match … except for when he's losing.

GP : JT!

JT : Alright! Just when he's winning, then!

HardCase drops down to the lower area where he just threw his opponent and walks over to his still form. He nudges the God over with his boot and drops down for the cover. The referee runs over and drops down for the count.

Ref : 1 … 2 … 3-

The God is saved at the last minute by one of his midgets, who dives and knocks HardCase off of his leader. The World champion stands up, looking extremely nonplussed. Or in other words, pissed the hell off. The midget whirls around and tries to make a hasty escape, but HardCase lunges and grabs him by the back of the head. He spins him around and begins driving his knee into the poor little guy's face, over and over.

GP : HardCase is performing the Retroactive Abortion on that midget! He's going to make him retarded!

JT : Heh heh, he's at the perfect height for it. HardCase doesn't even have to bend him down!

GP : (Sarcastically) Yeah, that's real funny, JT … Actually, it is a little.

Finally satisfied that he's just about completely broken the midget's face, HardCase turns around and walks into a low blow from the Hardcore God. H-God then pulls HardCase in and snaps him over with a side suplex, landing HC at an awkward angle on the cement floor.

JT : Awww, damn it! Can't I just cheer for him a little?

GP : No.

JT : It's not fair! I'll hate you forever! (Begins sobbing loudly)

H-God walks over and jerks HardCase up to his feet, booting him roughly in the gut. He pulls HardCase into a standing headscissors and lifts him into a stiff piledriver. Not through with his opponent yet, H-God once again lifts HardCase up and spins him around. He lifts one of his arms up and takes him over with a half-nelson suplex, driving HardCase once more to the ground.

GP : The Hardcore God is relentless! It looks like you might have picked the wrong guy to cheer for, JT.

JT : Son of a bitch!

Still not satisfied, the God drags a nearby table over and turns back to his opponent. He lifts HardCase and sticks his face right into his opponent's, glaring at him for several moments before spitting into his bloody mask. H-God then pulls HardCase's head under his arm and lifts him up for the Smiting, his brainbuster performed onto an open chair or table. Squirming out of the move, HardCase manages to slip out behind and drive H-God through the table with a diving inverted DDT.

JT : Whoo! HardCase is back on top!

GP : Yeah, he just barely avoided that move, which would surely have finished it.

Both men lie still for several moments before starting to struggle to their feet. The Hardcore God reaches his slightly before HardCase, and attempts a superkick on his wobbly opponent. HardCase ducks this and grabs Hardcore God from behind in a rear waistlock, trying to muscle him over in a German suplex. The God escapes this and spins into a go behind, grabbing HardCase and pulling back with a chickenwing submission hold. After fighting this for several seconds, HardCase mule kicks the God, causing him to break his grip and bend over in pain. HC takes this advantage to grab the God by his head and pound knee after knee into his face.

GP : Retroactive Abortion on Hardcore God! This looks like the end of the match!

JT : Yes! I knew all along that HardCase was the better man!

GP : Yeah, sure you did.

After about fifteen knees, HardCase finally lets the Hardcore God slump to the ground. He pins him and the ref rushes over.

Ref : 1 … 2 … 3!

“Heat” and the sounds of boos fill the arena as HardCase rises to his feet and raises his arms in victory, gloating over the win that the fans despise so much.

GP : HardCase wins his first title defense in a brutal match. I suppose this victory closes the book on the heated feud between HardCase and the Hardcore God.

H-God's remaining midgets rush over to where he is laying, holding his face. As they help him up and attempt to console him, one discreetly slips him an object, which the Lord of Hardcore hides underneath him. No one else seems to notice. HardCase finishes gloating his win to the fans and turns back around to laugh at the God. He walks up and points in H-God's face.

HardCase : Don't you ever get tired of getting your ass kicked by me, you stupid piece of-

HardCase's words turn into an “OOF!” as he suddenly finds a lead pipe planted into his chest. The Hardcore God forcefully swings the pipe downwards on top of HardCase's head, knocking him down and very likely giving him a concussion. One of the God's midgets now hands him a pair of handcuffs. Together the Hardcore God and his followers stand HardCase up against the stage, where H-God handcuffs HardCase's hands over his head to a piece of the stage's framework. As HardCase stands there, helpless and bloodied, the God begins taunting him.

H-God : You think you've won, mortal?

OOMPH! The God plants a hard shot to HardCase's ribs.

H-God : You think you've beaten Him?!

CRACK! Another shot to the ribs is accompanied by the distinct sound of cracking ribs. A few of the fans cheer at this assault on the hated World champion, but most are too shocked to do much of anything.

H-God : You can NEVER defeat Him! Do you hear the God, mortal? NEVER! THE GOD CAN NOT LOSE TO A PATHETIC HUMAN WRETCH!! HE WILL KILL YOU FIRST!

With that the God begins raining blow after blow on HardCase's frame. His chest, sides, arms, and face all take repeated shots from the God's now blood-covered pipe. And still he continues, with a crazed, zealous look in his eyes that show he has quite thoroughly lost it. A few officials from the back rush out to try to restrain the Hardcore God, but they are quickly laid out as well, and then attacked with midget bites. Not surprisingly, no wrestlers from the back are willing to come out and risk their necks for the SOB known as HardCase. Finally, after at least two full minutes of punishment, the God lets the pipe fall and brings his face close to HardCase's. The Innovator of Wrongness is tottering on the brink of unconsciousness, his face even more bruised and bloody than it was at the end of the match.

H-God : (Whispering) And on the eighth day He said, “Let there bloodshed!”

The God now simply turns and walks away, followed by his entourage of midgets. The camera returns now to HardCase, limply hanging from the framework of the stage.

GP : I- I don't know what to say here, folks. HardCase is a piece of human garbage, there's no doubt about that, but I don't know if anyone is justified in receiving an attack like that. I really thought the Hardcore God was going to kill him.

JT : Even I can't condone that. It looks like you might have been wrong about this feud being over, Greg.

GP : I really don't know what this means. We've got to go, folks. I'm sorry you had to witness that. For IWO, I'm Greg Parker, and this is JT. Good night.

[so.long,and.thanks.for.all.the.fish]
Written by Matt

*Click, click, click*


The sound of Aubrey Breaker pacing frantically around the entrance to the parking garage reverberates coldly on the plain stone walls of the building. She seems to be a wreck; her normally lively face is wraught with fear and agitation.

The entrance door slowly creaks open. Aubrey stops her pacing and bounds over to the door. A shirtless and bloody Jake Walker staggers in. He quickly braces himself against the wall to avoid collapsing. Aubrey rushes past him to the door, where she stands expectantly.

But nothing.


Aubrey: Where's Jack?!

Aubrey seems out-of-breath as she descends upon Jake. Jake, equally out-of-breath, brushes his hair back and leaves streaks of crimson across his face as he attempts to steady himself.

Jake: Damned if I know. He never came out for our match.

Aubrey: Oh, God.

Jake: What's the matter?

Aubrey: He never...

Aubrey is interrupted by the door. Tom Ford comes meandering into the scene, carrying a clipboard and seeming somewhat distracted.

Aubrey: Tom! Tom, have you seen Jack anywhere?

Tom: Last I saw him, he was sleeping in his car over there.

Tom points in the general direction of Jack's parking space.

Aubrey: He must've overslept, then.

Aubrey rushes to Jack's car, with Jake and Tom in tow. When they reach his parking spot, however, they find nothing.

Aubrey: Are you sure he was parked here?

Tom: Positive. He was right over here by the blue Astro van.

Aubrey steps into the empty parking spot and glances around. She notices a piece of paper taped to the wall. She pulls it off and begins to read.

Aubrey: Dear Aubrey... oh, God. Oh my God.

Aubrey's jaw drops as she reads. Her arm begins to shake.

Tom: Aubrey, are you all right?

Aubrey: Oh my God...

Aubrey suddenly starts gasping for breath. She drops the note and stumbles backward. Jake rushes over to catch her as she collapses to the ground.

Jake: What the hell is going on...?

Tom picks up the note and begins reading where Aubrey left off.

Tom: Dear Aubrey... I don't wanna live in a world where I have to be second to that son of a bitch Nuke anymore... so I'm sleeping with the fishes... sorry, Jack.

Tom's voice trails off as the note falls from his hands. Jake stares at him in disbelief as the scene fades to black.